Radiolab has a new episode addressing all the numbers we are confronted with during this Covid-19 crisis, and how hard it is to interpolate them.
We all have different numbers we care about.
I like to think about how many people in New Jersey have tested positive for Covid-19, but I like to think of it in smaller numbers than are presented in the news.
How many people-- on average-- out of a hundred have tested positive?
How many out of every thousand?
I can imagine a hundred people. That's about how many students I have each year (divided among five classes).
I can imagine a thousand people. When we have a pep rally at our school, there are two thousand students in the bleachers. So divide that in half.
There are 14,000 people in my town, and my town is only 1.8 square miles-- so I can imagine that sort of density. It's seven pep rally bleachers of people, scattered about town.
There are 9 million people in New Jersey. So if ten percent of the population gets Covid-19, that's nearly a million people.
If that happens, you will certainly know a LOT of people that tested positive. Sadly, you'll probably know someone who gets hospitalized (or worse).
Even if 1 out of 100 people test positive, chances are you'll know a bunch of them. This would happen if we hit the 90,000 mark. This will probably happen. Hopefully not too soon.
New Jersey has over 13,000 cases now.
That's 1 person in every 700. I have 542 friends on Facebook. I certainly know a lot more people than that. If you live in New Jersey, there's a good chance you know someone who has tested positive. And--unless you have very few social connections--you definitely know someone who knows someone with the virus.
Once I start thinking about the entire country, it all falls apart. There's too much space in America, too many regions, too many cities and towns and rural areas and vast wilderness. I don't think anyone can predict exactly how this thing is going to ripple across the country. But I hope there are some smart people trying.
Dave Interviews Covid-19
I recently connected with a receptive Covid-19 coronavirus named Rebecca. She's living on a public restroom door handle in central New Jersey, hoping for the best. I'm pleased to report that she was willing to answer a few of my questions.
Dave: So why the big move?
Rebecca: Have you been inside a bat den? SO much guano. And no WiFi.
Dave: What about shacking up with the pangolins? They're cuter than bats.
Rebecca: Pangolin burrows are dark and wet and damp. And a pangolin-dude will sit in a hole for YEARS before he gets motivated to talk to some ladies and attempt to mate. YEARS! Which is why it's quite ironic that they're valued as an aphrodisiac. Those things have the sex drive of moss.
Dave: Are you happy with the way things turned out?
Rebecca: Not at all. I'd really like to apologize for what happened. We were shooting for a common cold scenario-- we just wanted to sit inside a nice host, at home, watching TV, maybe head out to a bar or restaurant and infect a few other folks. This was not what we intended at all.
Dave: How do you feel about the flu?
Rebecca: The flu is a filthy slut. Absolute swine.
Dave: OK. Great stuff, I really appreciate it. Now, unfortunately, I'm going to have to wipe down this door handle with bleach and hand sanitizer. Sorry.
Rebecca: I figured as much. I wish you wouldn't, but I get it.
Dave: So why the big move?
Rebecca: Have you been inside a bat den? SO much guano. And no WiFi.
Dave: What about shacking up with the pangolins? They're cuter than bats.
Rebecca: Pangolin burrows are dark and wet and damp. And a pangolin-dude will sit in a hole for YEARS before he gets motivated to talk to some ladies and attempt to mate. YEARS! Which is why it's quite ironic that they're valued as an aphrodisiac. Those things have the sex drive of moss.
Dave: Are you happy with the way things turned out?
Rebecca: Not at all. I'd really like to apologize for what happened. We were shooting for a common cold scenario-- we just wanted to sit inside a nice host, at home, watching TV, maybe head out to a bar or restaurant and infect a few other folks. This was not what we intended at all.
Dave: How do you feel about the flu?
Rebecca: The flu is a filthy slut. Absolute swine.
Dave: OK. Great stuff, I really appreciate it. Now, unfortunately, I'm going to have to wipe down this door handle with bleach and hand sanitizer. Sorry.
Rebecca: I figured as much. I wish you wouldn't, but I get it.
Remember Going to the Movies in 1999?
The year is 1999.
The competition for moviegoers' attention is fierce; this is making M. Night Shyamalan extremely anxious. He's confident he has something special with The Sixth Sense, but he's nervous that the film will be overshadowed by the super-hyped Blair Witch Project.
Then, in one of the many compelling anecdotes in Brian Rafferty's Best Movie Year Ever: How 1999 Blew Up the Big Screen, there is the moment when Shymalan knew his film was going to be huge. The writer/director said he was watching a pick-up basketball game and a player threw a wildly inaccurate pass that flew out of bounds. A pass intended for no one. Another player, unaware that Shymalan was watching, said to the guy who threw the lousy pass: "You see dead people or something?"
The Sixth Sense exceeded expectations, had a 9-month run and made a boatload of money. The phrase "I see dead people" went viral.
For people who came of age in the 1990s, Best Movie Year Ever: How 1999 Blew Up the Big Screen is a reminder of just how important film was back then. People worshipped Quentin Tarantino and Kevin Smith and Paul Thomas Anderson. Movies tackled big ideas. Indie films battled studio giants. Stars did it all. People went to the movies to be disturbed and challenged.
This book was a walk down memory lane for me, and it's a great resource for younger cinemaphiles.
Here are a few of the movies discussed in the book, vaguely in order of how much I like them:
There a few good movies I saw back then that are NOT mentioned in the book. 1999 was a bountiful year in film. The Straight Story and Bringing Out The Dead and Princess Mononoke and The Talented Mr. Ripley.
It's absurd that one year could produce so many significant moments in an art form. Soon after, movies went into decline, and we entered the age of Platinum TV, but maybe someday soon things will change. Maybe once this quarantine is over, we'll want to go to the movies to think again. We'll tire of the same big-budget superhero retreads and gross-out comedies, and want meatier fare.
Until then, while you are stuck at home, there are worse things you could do then return to a few of these films. Happy viewing.
The competition for moviegoers' attention is fierce; this is making M. Night Shyamalan extremely anxious. He's confident he has something special with The Sixth Sense, but he's nervous that the film will be overshadowed by the super-hyped Blair Witch Project.
Then, in one of the many compelling anecdotes in Brian Rafferty's Best Movie Year Ever: How 1999 Blew Up the Big Screen, there is the moment when Shymalan knew his film was going to be huge. The writer/director said he was watching a pick-up basketball game and a player threw a wildly inaccurate pass that flew out of bounds. A pass intended for no one. Another player, unaware that Shymalan was watching, said to the guy who threw the lousy pass: "You see dead people or something?"
The Sixth Sense exceeded expectations, had a 9-month run and made a boatload of money. The phrase "I see dead people" went viral.
For people who came of age in the 1990s, Best Movie Year Ever: How 1999 Blew Up the Big Screen is a reminder of just how important film was back then. People worshipped Quentin Tarantino and Kevin Smith and Paul Thomas Anderson. Movies tackled big ideas. Indie films battled studio giants. Stars did it all. People went to the movies to be disturbed and challenged.
This book was a walk down memory lane for me, and it's a great resource for younger cinemaphiles.
Here are a few of the movies discussed in the book, vaguely in order of how much I like them:
- Being John Malkovich
- The Matrix
- Fight Club
- Rushmore
- Election
- Three Kings
- The Limey
- The Sixth Sense
- Office Space
- Run Lola Run
- The Blair Witch Project
- Magnolia
- American Movie
- eXistenZ
- Boys Don't Cry
- The Insider
- American Beauty
- The Virgin Suicides
- Galaxy Quest
- The Iron Giant
- Cruel Intentions
- American Pie
- 10 Things I Hate About You
- Eyes Wide Shut
- The Phantom Menace
There a few good movies I saw back then that are NOT mentioned in the book. 1999 was a bountiful year in film. The Straight Story and Bringing Out The Dead and Princess Mononoke and The Talented Mr. Ripley.
It's absurd that one year could produce so many significant moments in an art form. Soon after, movies went into decline, and we entered the age of Platinum TV, but maybe someday soon things will change. Maybe once this quarantine is over, we'll want to go to the movies to think again. We'll tire of the same big-budget superhero retreads and gross-out comedies, and want meatier fare.
Until then, while you are stuck at home, there are worse things you could do then return to a few of these films. Happy viewing.
Wyoming: Where the Coronavirus Barely Roams . . .
The first book I've finished during the Covid-19 Crisis has an apt title: Death Without Company.
Death without company is the unfortunate demise for a number of people around the world, especially in Italy. It's tragic.
But Craig Johnson's second Longmire mystery is a perfect escape from the news in more densely populated places. The book is set in Wyoming, the least populated state in the U.S. Less than 600,000 people. And declining. Twenty-six cases of Covid 19. You've got a better chance of getting eaten by a grizzly.
Death Without Company is full of sassy, autonomous old people. No quarantining here. The novel begins with a suspected murder at the Durant Home for Assisted Living. I won't get into the plot-- it's too complicated-- but there are snowstorms and icy rivers and cold nights on the rez, as well as murder and mayhem and methane aplenty. And, as usual, Sheriff Longmire takes the brunt of the punishment (along with his buddy Henry Standing Bear).
I will definitely be distracting myself with mystery novels during the quarantine. There's nothing like a procedural crime fiction to take you away to a different place. The setting is actually significant-- it's not window-dressing. The details are important to solving the crime. You can go to New Mexico with Tony Hillerman, you can go to Northern Ireland with Adrian McKinty, you can journey to Scotland with Ian Rankin, you can roam Los Angeles with Harry Bosch . . . and it's better than a travelogue (because at any moment the narrator might get shot or stabbed).
I can barely follow the plot of most mystery novels I read-- I'm too thick-headed-- but I love observing a new place through the eyes of a detective.
Death without company is the unfortunate demise for a number of people around the world, especially in Italy. It's tragic.
But Craig Johnson's second Longmire mystery is a perfect escape from the news in more densely populated places. The book is set in Wyoming, the least populated state in the U.S. Less than 600,000 people. And declining. Twenty-six cases of Covid 19. You've got a better chance of getting eaten by a grizzly.
Death Without Company is full of sassy, autonomous old people. No quarantining here. The novel begins with a suspected murder at the Durant Home for Assisted Living. I won't get into the plot-- it's too complicated-- but there are snowstorms and icy rivers and cold nights on the rez, as well as murder and mayhem and methane aplenty. And, as usual, Sheriff Longmire takes the brunt of the punishment (along with his buddy Henry Standing Bear).
I will definitely be distracting myself with mystery novels during the quarantine. There's nothing like a procedural crime fiction to take you away to a different place. The setting is actually significant-- it's not window-dressing. The details are important to solving the crime. You can go to New Mexico with Tony Hillerman, you can go to Northern Ireland with Adrian McKinty, you can journey to Scotland with Ian Rankin, you can roam Los Angeles with Harry Bosch . . . and it's better than a travelogue (because at any moment the narrator might get shot or stabbed).
I can barely follow the plot of most mystery novels I read-- I'm too thick-headed-- but I love observing a new place through the eyes of a detective.
Miracles Amidst the Looming Pandemic
While I'm not enjoying the lack of pick-up soccer during the pandemic preparation, I am getting out and running more. Yesterday, I went for my longest run in quite a while-- six miles on the D&R Canal Trail.
As I ran, I was listening to the newest episode of Reply All, entitled the "The Attic and Closet Show."
PJ Vogt and Alex Goldman opened the phone lines and were checking in with people around the world. PJ did this from a little studio in his NYC closet and Alex Goldman from his attic in Jersey. First, they talked to a guy in Paris, who described the empty streets and total lockdown (for everyone but dog walkers).
Then, they took a call from a young woman named Amanda. She said she was from New Jersey . . . New Brunswick, New Jersey. Then she revised that location and mumbled, "Highland Park, really." If you need verification, it's a little past ten minutes into the podcast.
I was ecstatic. A Highland Park resident on my favorite podcast! And just as she said it, a bald eagle soared across the canal. Seriously. It was miraculous timing.
As an added bonus, I felt great on the run, perhaps because of the improvement in air quality. We'll see if my lungs keep on keepin' on. If not, I hope there's a ventilator with my name on it. Preferably on a college campus . . . it will be the Covid 19 version of Back to School . . . which probably doesn't end so well for Rodney Dangerfield.
As I ran, I was listening to the newest episode of Reply All, entitled the "The Attic and Closet Show."
PJ Vogt and Alex Goldman opened the phone lines and were checking in with people around the world. PJ did this from a little studio in his NYC closet and Alex Goldman from his attic in Jersey. First, they talked to a guy in Paris, who described the empty streets and total lockdown (for everyone but dog walkers).
Then, they took a call from a young woman named Amanda. She said she was from New Jersey . . . New Brunswick, New Jersey. Then she revised that location and mumbled, "Highland Park, really." If you need verification, it's a little past ten minutes into the podcast.
I was ecstatic. A Highland Park resident on my favorite podcast! And just as she said it, a bald eagle soared across the canal. Seriously. It was miraculous timing.
As an added bonus, I felt great on the run, perhaps because of the improvement in air quality. We'll see if my lungs keep on keepin' on. If not, I hope there's a ventilator with my name on it. Preferably on a college campus . . . it will be the Covid 19 version of Back to School . . . which probably doesn't end so well for Rodney Dangerfield.
All Downhill From Here?
I just finished re-rerecording and re-mixing a song I wrote about a year ago. The lyrics are now ominously prophetic-- although not in the way I thought.
The song is called "All Downhill From Here," a title based on the ambiguity of the phrase. I often use "all downhill from here" positively-- like my life is a bike ride, and now I'm coasting. But there is also, obviously, the negative, spiraling out-of-control connotation (which my wife prefers).
I'm fairly happy with the mix on this one. You can hear everything-- it's not as muddy as the first version-- and I had a lot of fun with my wah pedal.
Here are the lyrics . . .
The song is called "All Downhill From Here," a title based on the ambiguity of the phrase. I often use "all downhill from here" positively-- like my life is a bike ride, and now I'm coasting. But there is also, obviously, the negative, spiraling out-of-control connotation (which my wife prefers).
I'm fairly happy with the mix on this one. You can hear everything-- it's not as muddy as the first version-- and I had a lot of fun with my wah pedal.
Here are the lyrics . . .
This is as good as it gets . . .
Big TV, no regrets
Fine woman in your bed,
Kids sleeping like the dead.
No famine, plague or war;
Dog splayed on the floor.
Your interest rate at an all time low,
And free trade with Mexico.
It’s all downhill from here.
When you go down
You don’t need to steer.
It’s all downhill from here,
So drop it in neutral and crack your beer.
I wrote it when I was concerned about Trump, tariffs, and NAFTA. Turn out, that should have been the least of my concerns. We've got a plague-like situation-- although not nearly as deadly as the bubonic version-- and let's hope the economic decline doesn't result in famine for those hit hardest.
We are certainly enjoying our family dog, our family TV, and uninterrupted sleep. The question is: what sort of downhill are we headed for?
Literacy Through Bananagrams
If you're worried about keeping your kids literate through the coronavirus crisis, try playing some Bananagrams with them.
If you're worried that I lost to my fourteen-year-old son because he spelled "xenophobia," don't fret. I came back and beat him (he pulled a "z" and a "q" and another "x" down the stretch).
My last move was most elegant: I had to place an "L" and I found a little nook and turned "it" and "gave" into "lit" and "gavel." Brilliant.
To make the coronavirus quarantine interesting, I've already made our typical "pound of Birnn chocolate bet" over darts and ping-pong . . . perhaps I'll add Bananagrams to the list.
Two days ago, he beat my wife (although he did have to look up the spelling of a word). But still, the shame.
Creeping Death Phlegm: Coronavirus Notes #2
Since my last Coronavirus update, some things have changed. And some haven't.
I still haven't been able to purchase toilet paper. Or eggs or chicken. But ground beef is back!
New Jersey has 269 cases of Covid-19 now. We may be headed for a situation like in Italy; if you're not sure what that means, listen to this episode of The Daily.
It's grim.
Adult get-togethers have petered out, but my kids are still going out into the world some. They've gotten together with other kids to play Magic, and Alex has been over to Rutgers a few times with his rocket-club. The leader of the club has a key card, and they've been getting into some building they call "The Cage" in order to use the 3-D printer, aeronautic software, and other technology to build their rockets. But, sadly, this seems to be coming to an end. And the big launch has been canceled.
We've started virtual school, and our district is really on top of things. Some teachers -- including my wife-- are using live-streaming video to do lessons. The students seem happy to do the work, as many of them are locked down in the house. I had my Creative Writing kids just write down some observations of the new normal. One girl saw kids playing basketball while wearing masks and gloves.
I've gone on a few adventures with the kids. We went to the liquor store and stocked up on wine, beer, and good tequila. No problem there. Then we went to Costco in North Brunswick. Supposed to be less crowded than Edison. The parking lot was full but not overwhelming, and when we entered the store, we thought we might be okay. But the kids scouted out the lines and they were endless. They stretched to the back of the store. And there were a lot of old people there, waiting in close quarters. We beat a hasty retreat.
A random upside to this crisis: more people in Donaldson Park than ever before: running, biking, walking, playing tennis. Everyone keeping a six-foot distance. All this hanging around, not going to bars and restaurants and malls, may spark a fitness revolution. People are so bored they are taking walks. More importantly, I think this influx of active people has scared the damned geese away.
The virus is starting to get politicized, and rightly so. Trump did an absolutely horrible job preparing the country for this. He's trying to revise things now, as he does, but read over his timeline of tweets and comments. It's absurd. In February, Trump said "it's fine" and "it's a hoax" and the stock market is great and the virus is going to disappear. He was worried about numbers and optics, he didn't get ahead of the curve on tests, his payroll tax cut proposal targets the wrong people (and is more of a stimulus measure for AFTER the crisis, not during it) and countries like South Korea and Vietnam are doing a far better job testing and tracking possible cases.
Trump: you make America suck.
But that's what the people wanted. So be it. I hope he gets it together and devises some kind of package specific for people who have been hurt financially. Frankly, I don't need a payroll tax cut, but there are people out there who are really hurting because of this.
Last week, I sold all my stocks and ETFs. Just in time. This week, I've been day trading some stocks on terrible, uneducated hunches. I bought Merck because they might have something to do with reagents. I bought Skechers because I've seen a lot of people walking and running. I've got some other dumb ideas I might try-- contact me privately and I'll let you know . . . but I charge Warren Buffet-like financial advisor fees.
I'm trying to exercise as much as possible, but I'm also eating out of boredom. I'm trying to limit drinking to a few days a week, but that's hard as well. We've been killing time with tennis, ping-pong, Bananagrams, Better Call Saul, Letterkenny, and Kim's Convenience.
And RISK. We bought RISK for ten dollars on the Nintendo Switch. Ian crushed us. I had some trouble navigating the controls but got better as the game went on. I had a bit of a headache from all the 3-D map graphics, but the game is much faster than the board version.
I still haven't been able to purchase toilet paper. Or eggs or chicken. But ground beef is back!
New Jersey has 269 cases of Covid-19 now. We may be headed for a situation like in Italy; if you're not sure what that means, listen to this episode of The Daily.
It's grim.
Adult get-togethers have petered out, but my kids are still going out into the world some. They've gotten together with other kids to play Magic, and Alex has been over to Rutgers a few times with his rocket-club. The leader of the club has a key card, and they've been getting into some building they call "The Cage" in order to use the 3-D printer, aeronautic software, and other technology to build their rockets. But, sadly, this seems to be coming to an end. And the big launch has been canceled.
We've started virtual school, and our district is really on top of things. Some teachers -- including my wife-- are using live-streaming video to do lessons. The students seem happy to do the work, as many of them are locked down in the house. I had my Creative Writing kids just write down some observations of the new normal. One girl saw kids playing basketball while wearing masks and gloves.
I've gone on a few adventures with the kids. We went to the liquor store and stocked up on wine, beer, and good tequila. No problem there. Then we went to Costco in North Brunswick. Supposed to be less crowded than Edison. The parking lot was full but not overwhelming, and when we entered the store, we thought we might be okay. But the kids scouted out the lines and they were endless. They stretched to the back of the store. And there were a lot of old people there, waiting in close quarters. We beat a hasty retreat.
A random upside to this crisis: more people in Donaldson Park than ever before: running, biking, walking, playing tennis. Everyone keeping a six-foot distance. All this hanging around, not going to bars and restaurants and malls, may spark a fitness revolution. People are so bored they are taking walks. More importantly, I think this influx of active people has scared the damned geese away.
The virus is starting to get politicized, and rightly so. Trump did an absolutely horrible job preparing the country for this. He's trying to revise things now, as he does, but read over his timeline of tweets and comments. It's absurd. In February, Trump said "it's fine" and "it's a hoax" and the stock market is great and the virus is going to disappear. He was worried about numbers and optics, he didn't get ahead of the curve on tests, his payroll tax cut proposal targets the wrong people (and is more of a stimulus measure for AFTER the crisis, not during it) and countries like South Korea and Vietnam are doing a far better job testing and tracking possible cases.
Trump: you make America suck.
But that's what the people wanted. So be it. I hope he gets it together and devises some kind of package specific for people who have been hurt financially. Frankly, I don't need a payroll tax cut, but there are people out there who are really hurting because of this.
Last week, I sold all my stocks and ETFs. Just in time. This week, I've been day trading some stocks on terrible, uneducated hunches. I bought Merck because they might have something to do with reagents. I bought Skechers because I've seen a lot of people walking and running. I've got some other dumb ideas I might try-- contact me privately and I'll let you know . . . but I charge Warren Buffet-like financial advisor fees.
I'm trying to exercise as much as possible, but I'm also eating out of boredom. I'm trying to limit drinking to a few days a week, but that's hard as well. We've been killing time with tennis, ping-pong, Bananagrams, Better Call Saul, Letterkenny, and Kim's Convenience.
And RISK. We bought RISK for ten dollars on the Nintendo Switch. Ian crushed us. I had some trouble navigating the controls but got better as the game went on. I had a bit of a headache from all the 3-D map graphics, but the game is much faster than the board version.
It's Easy to Get In, But It Ain't Easy to Get Out
Walter Mosley's White Butterfly is the third novel in his Easy Rawlins trilogy. It's less of a period piece than the first two: Devil in a Blue Dress captures the post-WWII vibe of the 1940s in LA and The Red Death relies on the Red Scare of the 1950s to propel the plot.
This one is a classic case; a serial killer-- who had already killed a number of black women-- murders a white girl, a stripper from a good family. Now that there is a white victim, the police are suddenly interested, but their only conduit into the streets of Watts is Ezekiel "Easy" Rawlins (and his various associates). So they lean on Easy for information, knowing full well that he is going to see that there was little investigation into this case when black prostitutes were being murdered.
The problem is that Easy is married now. He's got a lovely wife-- she's a healthcare worker and a wonderful mom-- and he's got a young daughter, and he's pretty much adopted the mute boy Jesus from the first novel. He's settled down, making his money off his rental properties. And he hasn't told his way bubkis about his checkered past (but she suspects). So he's a reluctant sort-of-detective. He's annoyed by the task, sick of the racism, and happy to spend time with his family and his financial projects.
But he's got to hit the streets of Watts again-- the brothels, the seedy apartments, the down-and-out jazz bars, the strip clubs-- in search of names and leads. Or the police will put his psychotic buddy Mouse away for good. His wife isn't happy about this change in demeanor, and Easy starts drinking hard and making wild decisions. He's a black man in a white world and the police and politicians are using him for all he's worth.
This book relies on my favorite criminal plot. The archetype. If you get involved in illicit activities, this is what you have to look forward to:
This one is a classic case; a serial killer-- who had already killed a number of black women-- murders a white girl, a stripper from a good family. Now that there is a white victim, the police are suddenly interested, but their only conduit into the streets of Watts is Ezekiel "Easy" Rawlins (and his various associates). So they lean on Easy for information, knowing full well that he is going to see that there was little investigation into this case when black prostitutes were being murdered.
The problem is that Easy is married now. He's got a lovely wife-- she's a healthcare worker and a wonderful mom-- and he's got a young daughter, and he's pretty much adopted the mute boy Jesus from the first novel. He's settled down, making his money off his rental properties. And he hasn't told his way bubkis about his checkered past (but she suspects). So he's a reluctant sort-of-detective. He's annoyed by the task, sick of the racism, and happy to spend time with his family and his financial projects.
But he's got to hit the streets of Watts again-- the brothels, the seedy apartments, the down-and-out jazz bars, the strip clubs-- in search of names and leads. Or the police will put his psychotic buddy Mouse away for good. His wife isn't happy about this change in demeanor, and Easy starts drinking hard and making wild decisions. He's a black man in a white world and the police and politicians are using him for all he's worth.
This book relies on my favorite criminal plot. The archetype. If you get involved in illicit activities, this is what you have to look forward to:
Or you might prefer this meta-impression.
And then there's this silliness . . .
Anyway, I really liked this novel. Again, with Mosely the plot is secondary. It's the view into the black man's world-- and not through an Uncle Tom like detective Quinten Naylor . . . a guy Easy despises because he walks and talks and politicizes like a white man-- but the ambiguous world that any hustling black man from this time period had to endure.
The novel doesn't end perfectly for Easy . . . if the series is to continue, you can't have a wife dragging you towards domestic life . . . and the series does continue. Movies as various as Trainspotting and Goodfellas (and The Godfather, of course) have taught me the big lesson:
Just when you think you've gotten out, they pull you back in.
Happens every time.
Waiting for the Inevitable: The Coronavirus Crisis (So Far) in Central Jersey
Here's some quick notes on my experiences (or lack thereof) of the coronavirus in central New Jersey. I hope I'll be able to look back at this post in a year or so, with some measured nostalgia. I also hope I'll be vaccinated against this thing by then.
But I'm aware that this may be a journal of the beginning of the end, to be discovered long after humanity has perished, by whatever creature survives and evolves enough intelligence to read this third rate blog (my bet is on the raccoons).
Here we go . . .
First of all, I was on top of this shit. In late January I wrote this piece:
I hope my friends have changed their tune.
My school, East Brunswick High School, has been closed since last Thursday. We all thought there was a case in town, but this turned out not to be the story.
My had a crazy day of school on Friday-- a half day where they had to give all the elementary students Chromebooks and prepare them for on-line school. My kids are off as well. We'll see how it goes with everyone in the house-- Alex, Ian and I nearly got into a full out brawl because the two of them were bickering about various flavors of ramen.
I start virtual teaching tomorrow. We'll see if our learning platform has enough bandwidth.
I tried to go to Costco on Thursday, but I got inside and the lines were enormous. I ran away. Too many people. They did give me a tiny Clorox wipe when I entered, which I found very silly.
Planet Fitness was fairly empty. I'm not sure if I'll keep going to the gym, but it is important to stay strong, buff, and healthy (both to fight the virus and looters).
Friday morning, I went to the big ShopRite in Edison. It was 7 AM and raining. When I got to the store, it wasn't crowded. They were out of all cuts of chicken and beef. No ground meat either (except the lowest grade beef). Plenty of bacon and organic chicken sausages. I stocked up on the latter. No toilet paper or black beans. The store got more and more crowded as I shopped. I may have sent some panicky texts to my wife.
Everyone is sad and angry about the Rutgers basketball team. They were playing great, certain to make the tournament, and had potential to beat anyone. They haven't been in since 1991. Awful luck for those guys.
My kids and I have been playing epic amounts of tennis, to prepare for the season that might not happen. The rest of the team has been getting together as well. Yesterday, Ian played twice. Alex pulled a bicep serving, and might be out for a couple of days.
After morning tennis, we went to Shanghai Dumpling-- a small, bustling place where there is always a line. The place was busy, but no line for Saturday at lunch. Unprecedented. We sat right down (and got up-sold some shrimp dumplings by a guy who barely spoke English . . . kudos to him).
I went over to Paul's place Thursday night, we had people on our back deck Friday night, and we sat outside at a friend's house last night. People seem to be getting together in groups of six, and not hugging or shaking hands. The people we were with last night are expecting things to get pretty bad. If I continue drinking every night, my liver might fail before my lungs.
The doomsday scenarios described by our friends last night almost convinced Catherine not to go to Zumba, but not quite. She got up this morning and went. She's also been going to kick-boxing and she just got her hair done. You've got to look cute for the apocalypse.
My kids have been out and about (Alex has been on Rutgers campus building rockets with his club for the past few nights, despite the campus being closed) and there's been plenty of kids in our house and basement over the last few days.
So my feeling is that our family is not going to be able to avoid it. I may have already had it a few weeks ago-- I was sick with a weird respiratory thing that was not flu. I think at this point, we're prolonging the inevitable (which is a good thing . . maybe they will have some anti-viral meds soon). But we are two teachers and we have two athletic, social teenage boys living in the house, so this thing is probably going to find a way in.
On a lighter note: our dog Lola is tired and happy that everyone is home:)
Mixing Music: The Perfect (and Impossible) Hobby for Home Quarantine
I like to screw around recording weird music. Laying down the tracks is a blast. You loop a beat, play some guitar and bass, layer in some synths, perhaps sing a bit. Then you've got to really harness the power of your DAW software. Add effects. Play with the tempo. And finally, mix everything together into a coherent whole. That's the hard part and professional sound engineers get paid the big bucks to mix and master songs so they sound good everywhere: headphones, your car, a stereo system, in da club, on your computer. It's a real skill.
I recently switched DAW software from Cakewalk Sonar-- which is now freeware called Cakewalk by Bandcamp-- to Logic Pro X. My old PC died, so I decided to buy a used iMac and switch things up. Change is good. It prevents dementia.
I should point out that the debate about which DAW is the best for recording music is an endless infinite rabbit hole. This dude Admiral Bumblebee has a comprehensive and extensive blog dedicated solely to this question. It's an amazing website, but daunting. He makes videos to accompany the madness.
My school is shut down so I've got plenty of free time to screw around with the new software. It's extremely powerful, especially because of the Flex Time and AI drummer features. If you're stuck at home too, perhaps you have time to listen to a bit of my first attempt to record this song-- which is on Cakewalk Sonar-- and then what I did with Logic Pro.
The rhythm in the Cakewalk demo version is fairly static. I may have drawn in some tempo changes, but mainly I am playing guitar to the looped drums. Pretty dull (and the mix is shit). You won't need to listen long to get the picture. Twenty seconds or so . . .
Then check out my new mix. If you use the Adapt time feature on Logic Pro, you can play the guitar-- with all your natural rhythm changes-- and the software figures out the various tempo shifts. Then, you can choose an AI drummer to follow your playing. You can then adjust the Flex Time of either track. It's nuts.
So you should be able to hear more rhythmic variety in the following version. I still don't love the mix, but I'm done with it. I've got to move on with my life (or maybe I don't . . . I'm hearing that my school is going to shut down for a while).
I recently switched DAW software from Cakewalk Sonar-- which is now freeware called Cakewalk by Bandcamp-- to Logic Pro X. My old PC died, so I decided to buy a used iMac and switch things up. Change is good. It prevents dementia.
I should point out that the debate about which DAW is the best for recording music is an endless infinite rabbit hole. This dude Admiral Bumblebee has a comprehensive and extensive blog dedicated solely to this question. It's an amazing website, but daunting. He makes videos to accompany the madness.
My school is shut down so I've got plenty of free time to screw around with the new software. It's extremely powerful, especially because of the Flex Time and AI drummer features. If you're stuck at home too, perhaps you have time to listen to a bit of my first attempt to record this song-- which is on Cakewalk Sonar-- and then what I did with Logic Pro.
The rhythm in the Cakewalk demo version is fairly static. I may have drawn in some tempo changes, but mainly I am playing guitar to the looped drums. Pretty dull (and the mix is shit). You won't need to listen long to get the picture. Twenty seconds or so . . .
Then check out my new mix. If you use the Adapt time feature on Logic Pro, you can play the guitar-- with all your natural rhythm changes-- and the software figures out the various tempo shifts. Then, you can choose an AI drummer to follow your playing. You can then adjust the Flex Time of either track. It's nuts.
So you should be able to hear more rhythmic variety in the following version. I still don't love the mix, but I'm done with it. I've got to move on with my life (or maybe I don't . . . I'm hearing that my school is going to shut down for a while).
Easy Does the Hedonistic Calculus
Walter Mosley's second Easy Rawlins novel, A Red Death, spells out the utilitarian ethics that a black man living in the 1950s had to employ to survive. The novel reminds you that right and wrong are the provinces of the privileged.
Rawlins has been evading taxes on a rental property he owns-- mainly because he bought the property with illicit money from the escapades detailed in Devil in a Blue Dress.
He has to play everyone against each other in just the right manner to survive. The taxman, the FBI, a Communist instigator, white cops, Uncle Tom cops, his seedy property manager-- who I imagine as a black version of Danny DeVito-- and a number of gritty black folks from the neighborhood. His alliances shift as necessary, and though he detests the white world-- as he should-- he's also willing to look after himself and utilize those connections.
And the white world wants to utilize Easy, as he's a valuable source of information . . . a resource . . . a conduit into a world that even black police can't enter. Easy is generally savvy to all this, but he's also hot-blooded enough to start up with the police and sleep with his psychotic friend's ex-wife. He's a compelling mix of stupid and clever.
I also like the fact that Easy Rawlins does some serious drinking, and makes some serious mistakes while drunk. He's a man's man.
The plot of the novel is tangled to the point where at times I felt stupid (though it makes sense in the end) but the best part of the book is the portrait of 1950s California . . . it's LA Confidential from an African-American perspective.
I'm going to finish out the trilogy as a fitting end to my extended BHM Book Club. Anyone want to join?
Rawlins has been evading taxes on a rental property he owns-- mainly because he bought the property with illicit money from the escapades detailed in Devil in a Blue Dress.
He has to play everyone against each other in just the right manner to survive. The taxman, the FBI, a Communist instigator, white cops, Uncle Tom cops, his seedy property manager-- who I imagine as a black version of Danny DeVito-- and a number of gritty black folks from the neighborhood. His alliances shift as necessary, and though he detests the white world-- as he should-- he's also willing to look after himself and utilize those connections.
And the white world wants to utilize Easy, as he's a valuable source of information . . . a resource . . . a conduit into a world that even black police can't enter. Easy is generally savvy to all this, but he's also hot-blooded enough to start up with the police and sleep with his psychotic friend's ex-wife. He's a compelling mix of stupid and clever.
I also like the fact that Easy Rawlins does some serious drinking, and makes some serious mistakes while drunk. He's a man's man.
The plot of the novel is tangled to the point where at times I felt stupid (though it makes sense in the end) but the best part of the book is the portrait of 1950s California . . . it's LA Confidential from an African-American perspective.
I'm going to finish out the trilogy as a fitting end to my extended BHM Book Club. Anyone want to join?
Dave Conquers Daylight Savings Time?
This year-- instead of my usual ranting and raving-- I buckled down and prepared for Daylight Saving Time. I normally wake up at 5:40 AM, but last Monday, I set my alarm for 5:30 AM. I then preceded to set the alarm ten minutes earlier each day. A rigorous training schedule.
I gave myself a break the morning after pub night (Friday morning) but then I went back into training on Saturday. I got up at 5 AM. On the weekend. That's dedication.
Here is a training video from Saturday morning. I hope you find it inspirational.
I drank a fair amount of beer on Saturday, watching the wild Rutgers/Purdue game (Rutgers won in OT!) and so I broke training on Sunday and slept in.
This morning, when my alarm went off, I was sleeping soundly, but my training paid off. I was able to rise and shine (to some extent). And I didn't have a heart attack or get into a car accident (both of which are more common right after Daylight Saving).
The transition was still a little abrupt, and so next year I am starting 60 DAYS in advance. I put a reminder on my Google calendar. I'm going to set my alarm one minute earlier each day for two months, an when the big day comes, the "springing ahead" will be totally smooth. The annoying thing, is that we could use computers to do this for us. We don't need to change the clocks a full hour on one particular day. We could use quantum easing over a span of many months and we wouldn't have this awful jarring Monday.
Until then, I will have to do it myself. I suggest you stop complaining and do the same.
I gave myself a break the morning after pub night (Friday morning) but then I went back into training on Saturday. I got up at 5 AM. On the weekend. That's dedication.
Here is a training video from Saturday morning. I hope you find it inspirational.
I drank a fair amount of beer on Saturday, watching the wild Rutgers/Purdue game (Rutgers won in OT!) and so I broke training on Sunday and slept in.
This morning, when my alarm went off, I was sleeping soundly, but my training paid off. I was able to rise and shine (to some extent). And I didn't have a heart attack or get into a car accident (both of which are more common right after Daylight Saving).
The transition was still a little abrupt, and so next year I am starting 60 DAYS in advance. I put a reminder on my Google calendar. I'm going to set my alarm one minute earlier each day for two months, an when the big day comes, the "springing ahead" will be totally smooth. The annoying thing, is that we could use computers to do this for us. We don't need to change the clocks a full hour on one particular day. We could use quantum easing over a span of many months and we wouldn't have this awful jarring Monday.
Until then, I will have to do it myself. I suggest you stop complaining and do the same.
The Beginning of the End?
Tragic news on my front. On Thursday afternoon, March 5, 2020 . . . just three days after my fiftieth birthday, my fourteen-year-old son Ian beat me in a set of tennis. 6 - 4. First time ever.
By the end of last summer, we were close. We played an epic set on the Har-Tru clay down at the beach. It was competitive enough that spectators accumulated, to see if the little kid could beat the old man. But I pulled it out and won, 6-4.
A few weeks later I hurt my shoulder, and I didn't play competitively for a while.
My older son, who is 16 and played quite a bit of varsity tennis last year for a state championship team, has never beaten me in a set (and he never will. Never!)
My shoulder is now better. I have a new arm friendly Yonex racket. It's awesome. I'm hitting the ball really well. But Ian still beat me. I did nothing wrong. I didn't double fault or hit the ball poorly. I had been working with Ian on hitting the ball deep to the backhand side and approaching the net, and playing his net shots with proper footwork, moving forward in a split step.
He used his training to defeat me.
He was a good sport about it. He didn't gloat. He was probably a little sad. This is how it ends, no fireworks or parade, just some well-executed drop shots, and some cross-court winners. Yesterday, we went over to Birnn and he collected his winnings for beating me: a pound of high-quality chocolate ( which he graciously shared with everyone).
We went out this morning and played, and the first set I beat him 6-4. Then, for the first time ever we played a second set. He's got to build up stamina for the high school season. He beat me 6-2 in the second set. Crushed me. I was tired. So I can hang with him, as long as I'm going full bore and doing everything right. But we all know how this story ends (unless I start doing steroids).
Or I could start playing 8-year-olds.
By the end of last summer, we were close. We played an epic set on the Har-Tru clay down at the beach. It was competitive enough that spectators accumulated, to see if the little kid could beat the old man. But I pulled it out and won, 6-4.
A few weeks later I hurt my shoulder, and I didn't play competitively for a while.
My older son, who is 16 and played quite a bit of varsity tennis last year for a state championship team, has never beaten me in a set (and he never will. Never!)
My shoulder is now better. I have a new arm friendly Yonex racket. It's awesome. I'm hitting the ball really well. But Ian still beat me. I did nothing wrong. I didn't double fault or hit the ball poorly. I had been working with Ian on hitting the ball deep to the backhand side and approaching the net, and playing his net shots with proper footwork, moving forward in a split step.
He used his training to defeat me.
He was a good sport about it. He didn't gloat. He was probably a little sad. This is how it ends, no fireworks or parade, just some well-executed drop shots, and some cross-court winners. Yesterday, we went over to Birnn and he collected his winnings for beating me: a pound of high-quality chocolate ( which he graciously shared with everyone).
We went out this morning and played, and the first set I beat him 6-4. Then, for the first time ever we played a second set. He's got to build up stamina for the high school season. He beat me 6-2 in the second set. Crushed me. I was tired. So I can hang with him, as long as I'm going full bore and doing everything right. But we all know how this story ends (unless I start doing steroids).
Or I could start playing 8-year-olds.
Caucasian Quiz
This quiz will determine just how white you are. It's two questions:
1) Have you heard of the Far Hills Steeplechase?
2) Have you attended the Far Hills Steeplechase?
If you answered yes to question number one, you are probably white. If you answered yes to question number two, then you are most definitely white.
Apparently, I am not quite white.
When we were driving home from Vermont, my high school buddy Neil-- who now lives in Warren and is as white as they come-- pointed out the grounds for the Far Hills Steeplechase.
"I get out of town during that mess," he said. "So many drunk people."
"Far Hills Steeplechase? What's that?'
"You've never heard of the Far Hills Steeplechase?"
"Nope."
"Really? That's crazy."
I turned to my buddy Mose, who grew up with me in North Brunswick and now lives in the thriving metropolis of Milltown, New Jersey. He's an IT guy with GAS (Gear Acquisition Syndrome). He's a total nerd. He had just spent the last twenty minutes explaining to me the difference between cardioid and condenser microphones.
"Mose, have YOU ever heard of the Far Hills Steeplechase?"
"Oh yeah, I've been the last five or six years. A vendor brings me."
What the fuck?
I've been missing out on the wildest drunkest hedonistic festival of rich white folks for my entire adult life. And it's right up the road. Twenty miles from Highland Park. Thirty-five minutes.
Why hasn't anyone invited ME to the Far Hills Steeplechase?
I did some research, and pretty much nobody at my school-- students and teachers alike-- had ever heard of the Far Hills Steeplechase. Only one woman, who is very blonde and white and grew up in Princeton and attended private boarding school, had any knowledge of the event. She attended it regularly in her 20s.
I also checked with the pub crowd. My friend Paul had heard of it. Some white people told him about it (but he's Spanish and hails from Bayonne, so he's not allowed to attend). My friend Connell was clueless and downright angry. he loves any kind of wild party. He's determined to go. My takeaway is that Middlesex County is NOT invited to this event..
The descriptions of the event are epic and hysterical. You should check them out. There is massive alcohol consumption, ranging from keg stands to champagne chugging to ice luges. I missed it all. And now I'm too old for that shit.
Oh well. I had some great times at Ag Field Day.
Wilmington's Lie: If You're White, Read at Your Own Risk
Holy shit. The culmination of my Black History Month Book Club (with one member) is a wild one. Wilmington's Lie: The Murderous Coup of 1898 and the Rise of White Supremacy is a great read, but it's brutal. Downright humiliating American history. The worst behavior.
And the book explains a lot about present-day America. The reason progressives just can't fathom why poor white folks would vote for policies that harm them.
David Zucchino tells the story of Wilmington, North Carolina in 1898. At the start of the book, the city is a prosperous port. Blacks and whites live in the same neighborhoods. Blacks occupied positions in business, the middle class, and politics. In many regards, black freedmen were just as affluent and successful as whites. It was truly a functioning mixed-race city.
Then the Democratic politicians and the white newspapers joined forces to oppress and terrorize blacks, disenfranchise them from voting, and essentially run them out of town. The story takes a violent turn when the paramilitary Redshirts, emboldened by a "white Declaration of Independence" run amok. They are heavily armed-- unlike the black folks in town (because munitions dealers would only sell to whites). They burn down the office of the black newspaper, The Record. They terrorize women and children. They kill at least sixty black men. The government coup is successful, Democrats illegally remove the Republicans and Fusionists. Crazy racist coup. The Wilmington government is now all white.
And then comes the whitewashing.
The first person to take the blame was a black newspaper owner, Alexander L. many. He had the gall to print an editorial debunking a fundamental white myth: the inviolate purity of the white woman. Manly suggested that many of the black men charged with "raping" white women did not do so. Instead, he speculated that they were often consensual lovers. He urged white men to protect their women, and not blame and lynch black men for taking part in willing trysts. Sacrilege! So they burned down his building, threatened him and his family, and sent him into hiding.
White papers and politicians knew how to manipulate this editorial and enrage white folks. It's the same political tactics of race and xenophobia as today, but you've got to replace the Republican party with the Democrats. They were the abominable racists involved with voter suppression and white supremacy in 1898. This is weird at first, but you get used to the flip-flop on racial politics. The Democrats hate the other, the Democrats blame the other, the Democrats gerrymander and suppress the other. It's a tactic, and an effective one. During the Reconstruction, the Republicans used the black vote, the Democrats destroyed it. The opposite of today's politics.
After the violence, Coup leader Col Alfred Waddell proclaimed a “White Declaration of Independence” and installed himself as mayor. He proudly instituted law and order and called the massacre a "race riot" started by blacks. Meanwhile, black families were mourning the dead, hiding out in swamps, taking trains North, and still being terrorized by white supremacists. They could not walk through the city without being stopped at Redshirt checkpoints, where they were searched, harassed, and often killed.
In the 1940s, Southern textbooks still portrayed the local (white) version of events. The Carpetbaggers and Scalawags were at fault for the violence, for inciting racial tension. The city was saved from chaos and disorder by a "sort of club which they named the Ku Klux Klan." The KKK performed the charitable task of "scaring lawless men into acting decently." They dressed as "ghosts" and "frightened Negroes into leading better lives." Yikes. That's what they were teaching the kids.
by the 1950s, the truth about the event was slowly uncovered. It still causes unrest and ill-will today. 2100 blacks fled the city, and many blacks and whites were banished for political reasons. It's the stuff of banana republics. The "success" in Wilmington emboldened white supremacists throughout the South to enact Jim Crow Laws and various means of black voter suppression.
The white supremacist newspaper editor, Josephus Daniels, moved on to Louisiana and campaigned for white supremacy there. He created a voter-suppression law that, in New Orleans, “helped reduce the number of black voters from 14,117 to 1,493.” Attempts to undo these wrongs were met by indifference by Republican President William McKinley (who was involved with other ordeals, including the Spanish-American War).
This book details a downright embarrassing period of American History. It's an important reminder that the end of the Civil War did not in any way mean civil rights for freedmen. The Reconstruction was a war unto itself; the history of the Reconstruction is historiography worth investigating-- though if you're a white dude (like me) you might find yourself reflecting on just how many obstacles were thrown in the way of blacks in America and wonder about the consequences. How long will they last? Will race be an issue in America for the rest of our days as a nation?
And the book explains a lot about present-day America. The reason progressives just can't fathom why poor white folks would vote for policies that harm them.
David Zucchino tells the story of Wilmington, North Carolina in 1898. At the start of the book, the city is a prosperous port. Blacks and whites live in the same neighborhoods. Blacks occupied positions in business, the middle class, and politics. In many regards, black freedmen were just as affluent and successful as whites. It was truly a functioning mixed-race city.
Then the Democratic politicians and the white newspapers joined forces to oppress and terrorize blacks, disenfranchise them from voting, and essentially run them out of town. The story takes a violent turn when the paramilitary Redshirts, emboldened by a "white Declaration of Independence" run amok. They are heavily armed-- unlike the black folks in town (because munitions dealers would only sell to whites). They burn down the office of the black newspaper, The Record. They terrorize women and children. They kill at least sixty black men. The government coup is successful, Democrats illegally remove the Republicans and Fusionists. Crazy racist coup. The Wilmington government is now all white.
The first person to take the blame was a black newspaper owner, Alexander L. many. He had the gall to print an editorial debunking a fundamental white myth: the inviolate purity of the white woman. Manly suggested that many of the black men charged with "raping" white women did not do so. Instead, he speculated that they were often consensual lovers. He urged white men to protect their women, and not blame and lynch black men for taking part in willing trysts. Sacrilege! So they burned down his building, threatened him and his family, and sent him into hiding.
White papers and politicians knew how to manipulate this editorial and enrage white folks. It's the same political tactics of race and xenophobia as today, but you've got to replace the Republican party with the Democrats. They were the abominable racists involved with voter suppression and white supremacy in 1898. This is weird at first, but you get used to the flip-flop on racial politics. The Democrats hate the other, the Democrats blame the other, the Democrats gerrymander and suppress the other. It's a tactic, and an effective one. During the Reconstruction, the Republicans used the black vote, the Democrats destroyed it. The opposite of today's politics.
After the violence, Coup leader Col Alfred Waddell proclaimed a “White Declaration of Independence” and installed himself as mayor. He proudly instituted law and order and called the massacre a "race riot" started by blacks. Meanwhile, black families were mourning the dead, hiding out in swamps, taking trains North, and still being terrorized by white supremacists. They could not walk through the city without being stopped at Redshirt checkpoints, where they were searched, harassed, and often killed.
In the 1940s, Southern textbooks still portrayed the local (white) version of events. The Carpetbaggers and Scalawags were at fault for the violence, for inciting racial tension. The city was saved from chaos and disorder by a "sort of club which they named the Ku Klux Klan." The KKK performed the charitable task of "scaring lawless men into acting decently." They dressed as "ghosts" and "frightened Negroes into leading better lives." Yikes. That's what they were teaching the kids.
by the 1950s, the truth about the event was slowly uncovered. It still causes unrest and ill-will today. 2100 blacks fled the city, and many blacks and whites were banished for political reasons. It's the stuff of banana republics. The "success" in Wilmington emboldened white supremacists throughout the South to enact Jim Crow Laws and various means of black voter suppression.
The white supremacist newspaper editor, Josephus Daniels, moved on to Louisiana and campaigned for white supremacy there. He created a voter-suppression law that, in New Orleans, “helped reduce the number of black voters from 14,117 to 1,493.” Attempts to undo these wrongs were met by indifference by Republican President William McKinley (who was involved with other ordeals, including the Spanish-American War).
This book details a downright embarrassing period of American History. It's an important reminder that the end of the Civil War did not in any way mean civil rights for freedmen. The Reconstruction was a war unto itself; the history of the Reconstruction is historiography worth investigating-- though if you're a white dude (like me) you might find yourself reflecting on just how many obstacles were thrown in the way of blacks in America and wonder about the consequences. How long will they last? Will race be an issue in America for the rest of our days as a nation?
The Gang Storms Bolton Valley
Last weekend, I received a most excellent early birthday present: old friends and shitloads of snow.
Neil, John, Mose and I ventured up to Bolton Valley Vermont to see our buddy Rob, who is now damn close to being a Green Mountain native (although real Vermonters say you need seven generations to qualify . . . which is absurd. In Jersey, we take anyone).
Saturday night, we put on an epic rock show and stayed up late enough to get a knock on the door and a complaint from the neighbor . . . a very Vermont complaint:
"Hey, I'm in a band, so I get it . . . you know, volume creep . . . but it's pretty late and it's a little bit loud."
No f-bombs. Very civilized.
Sunday morning, it was still snowing, but time to head home.
My son Alex was turning 16. And reality beckoned for everyone except Rob.
Neil, John, Mose and I ventured up to Bolton Valley Vermont to see our buddy Rob, who is now damn close to being a Green Mountain native (although real Vermonters say you need seven generations to qualify . . . which is absurd. In Jersey, we take anyone).
This trip set the bar for a men's outing. We arrived Wednesday night and Rob had already set up the condo he rented for us. Food, beer, snacks, PA system, guitars, amps, wah pedal. You name it. Plus, we all had our own space. Good for sleeping and flatulence.
We drove up in Neil's Land Rover. Total luxury. And as we arrived it started snowing, and it did not stop for the duration of the trip. Thirty inches of snow fell while we were there. Freak lake effect storm off Champlain. Best conditions in years. Outrageous.
Not that everything was perfect. You need some suffering to recognize how good you have it. We lost power on Thursday. The lifts stopped running, and we got stuck down at the lower Timberline Lodge. But folks at Bolton are really nice. It's a small, family-oriented livable mountain community. The lady working at the Timberline Lodge gave us a lift back up to the upper lift. She gave us a lift, not a Lyft.
On the ride she told us all about her plans to be a primitive biathlete, skiing with a recurve bow.
After riding down to the condo from the upper lodge, we had to wait out the power outage in the condo. We passed the time enjoying the gas-powered fireplace and forgetting that various appliances (coffee maker, electronic drums) needed electricity to function. Occasionally, the guys grabbed snacks from the fridge-- cavalierly opening the door and letting all the cold air out. I had to lecture them on food safety, which they endured (barely). None of these lunatics knew about the two-hour rule. Or listeria. Total animals.
Once the lifts got going again, we ventured out on the mountain. Deep and heavy snow. The only option was to barrel down black diamond trails, otherwise, you'd lose momentum and get stuck.
There was only one place to eat and drink after boarding, the James Moore Tavern. Perfect place. All the Vermont beers on tap. Some of our favorites were: Fiddlehead, Focal Banger, Catamount, Switchback, and Zero Gravity. Plus good food. And a great view of the slopes.
Best of all, the slender and lovely bartender totally understood my frustration with the boys' disturbing lack of awareness of food safety and decay.
At night, we played music.
We also played music in the morning. You can tell it is morning because Neil is wearing his pajamas.
Friday morning, there was even more snow. We put a lot of time in on the Vista Peak. Then we went to the tavern.
After downing a few beers, we went back out on the mountain (which is not always recommended). I decided I wanted to head back to the condo to make coffee and go to the bathroom. I separated from the gang (which is also not recommended, especially in a blizzard). I needed to cut across the mountain toward the Timberline Peak and then dive into the woods off the Timberline Run and find the third set of condos. We had done this once, with our tour guide Rob, and I thought I could manage it on my own.
I screwed up the first time down, and the gang saw me from the lift. At this point, things were still comical.
"I went the wrong way!" I yelled up to them. We all laughed.
Then I took a shortcut and ended up in some very deep snow. I was trapped. I got my snowboard up even with my hips-- a real abdominal work-out-- and spent a long time trying to unstrap. I was lying on my back, in a depression of snow, the board above my head, blindly trying to finagle my way out of the bindings.
Eventually, I got it done. I was free. I tried to step forward. The snow was up to my nipples. And my right foot went through a layer of snow and I felt . . . nothing. Air. One of my feet was in some kind of weird pocket of air under four feet of snow. I was going to fall through and suffocate. And die. I was going to die alone in the snow, and I really needed a bathroom and a cup of coffee. This was no way to go.
I leaped forward and got both my arms on top of my board and crawled forward. The board kept me afloat. I was able to inchworm to a cliff under the lift line. I strapped in and took a long rest. I was winded. Some people riding by on the lift inquired as to my state of being.
I yelled up to them: "I'm fine! Just got caught in some deep snow."
"Ok, just checking!"
Nice folk at Bolton.
I plunged down the mountain, turned onto the Timberline Run, counted condos, and suddenly found myself down at the Timberline Lift. Fuck! I had missed our condos. The woods were impenetrable. Lovely, dark, and deep. And impossible to navigate.
I went to the bathroom in the lodge, and then I called Mose. No answer. I texted him. Perhaps he could come to pick me up?
No response.
I sent him another text that said: "Fuck it. Don't come. I'm going back up the lift." I came down again, tired as fuck, and missed the condos again. I tried one more time, and missed them again (I later realized because I was on some kind of spur that hit the Timberline Trail below our place). It was 3:45 PM. The lift shut down.
I started stomping up the mountain road in my snowboarding boots. It was less than a mile. I was tired and annoyed. At this point, Mose got my text and was heading out, but then a Bolton employee in a station wagon asked if I needed a ride. Very nice of him. I made it home alive.
Then we went out to see Rob's son little Dom compete at the rail-jam. Rob was already up the hill, watching him. The rest of us were all too tired to hike up the mountain to the snowboarding park, so we rooted for him in spirit in the tavern. When we were leaving, Neil nearly fell on some ice in the parking lot. I laughed. Then my legs went flying up into the air and I landed flat on my back. The wind was knocked out of me, but other than that, I was just drunk enough to not suffer any major damage.
We went to bed early. Just after midnight, a crew of Bolton folks stopped by, looking to party. Rob had gone home hours ago to sleep. Everyone in the house was also sleeping. By the time I roused myself, brushed my teeth and put some pants on, the party train was gone. Back to sleep.
Saturday morning, we had boiled eggs for breakfast. I cooled them off with fresh snow.
Saturday's riding was more of the same. Just incredible. So much snow. We focused on the Wilderness Peak. No one out there but us. Then we hit the tavern, and this time John got lost in the deep snow. Same story: a few too many beers, separated himself from the pack, got lost, and got stuck. The moral here: do NOT leave the group during a storm of this scope.
That afternoon, Rob's wife Tammy was kind enough to bring us groceries and beer, so we were able to cook a big meal Saturday night. Pasta and pesto sauce. The knives were very dull, but Neil heroically chopped the basil.
I screwed up the first time down, and the gang saw me from the lift. At this point, things were still comical.
"I went the wrong way!" I yelled up to them. We all laughed.
Then I took a shortcut and ended up in some very deep snow. I was trapped. I got my snowboard up even with my hips-- a real abdominal work-out-- and spent a long time trying to unstrap. I was lying on my back, in a depression of snow, the board above my head, blindly trying to finagle my way out of the bindings.
Eventually, I got it done. I was free. I tried to step forward. The snow was up to my nipples. And my right foot went through a layer of snow and I felt . . . nothing. Air. One of my feet was in some kind of weird pocket of air under four feet of snow. I was going to fall through and suffocate. And die. I was going to die alone in the snow, and I really needed a bathroom and a cup of coffee. This was no way to go.
I leaped forward and got both my arms on top of my board and crawled forward. The board kept me afloat. I was able to inchworm to a cliff under the lift line. I strapped in and took a long rest. I was winded. Some people riding by on the lift inquired as to my state of being.
I yelled up to them: "I'm fine! Just got caught in some deep snow."
"Ok, just checking!"
Nice folk at Bolton.
I plunged down the mountain, turned onto the Timberline Run, counted condos, and suddenly found myself down at the Timberline Lift. Fuck! I had missed our condos. The woods were impenetrable. Lovely, dark, and deep. And impossible to navigate.
I went to the bathroom in the lodge, and then I called Mose. No answer. I texted him. Perhaps he could come to pick me up?
No response.
I sent him another text that said: "Fuck it. Don't come. I'm going back up the lift." I came down again, tired as fuck, and missed the condos again. I tried one more time, and missed them again (I later realized because I was on some kind of spur that hit the Timberline Trail below our place). It was 3:45 PM. The lift shut down.
I started stomping up the mountain road in my snowboarding boots. It was less than a mile. I was tired and annoyed. At this point, Mose got my text and was heading out, but then a Bolton employee in a station wagon asked if I needed a ride. Very nice of him. I made it home alive.
Then we went out to see Rob's son little Dom compete at the rail-jam. Rob was already up the hill, watching him. The rest of us were all too tired to hike up the mountain to the snowboarding park, so we rooted for him in spirit in the tavern. When we were leaving, Neil nearly fell on some ice in the parking lot. I laughed. Then my legs went flying up into the air and I landed flat on my back. The wind was knocked out of me, but other than that, I was just drunk enough to not suffer any major damage.
We went to bed early. Just after midnight, a crew of Bolton folks stopped by, looking to party. Rob had gone home hours ago to sleep. Everyone in the house was also sleeping. By the time I roused myself, brushed my teeth and put some pants on, the party train was gone. Back to sleep.
Saturday morning, we had boiled eggs for breakfast. I cooled them off with fresh snow.
Saturday's riding was more of the same. Just incredible. So much snow. We focused on the Wilderness Peak. No one out there but us. Then we hit the tavern, and this time John got lost in the deep snow. Same story: a few too many beers, separated himself from the pack, got lost, and got stuck. The moral here: do NOT leave the group during a storm of this scope.
That afternoon, Rob's wife Tammy was kind enough to bring us groceries and beer, so we were able to cook a big meal Saturday night. Pasta and pesto sauce. The knives were very dull, but Neil heroically chopped the basil.
Saturday night, we put on an epic rock show and stayed up late enough to get a knock on the door and a complaint from the neighbor . . . a very Vermont complaint:
"Hey, I'm in a band, so I get it . . . you know, volume creep . . . but it's pretty late and it's a little bit loud."
No f-bombs. Very civilized.
Sunday morning, it was still snowing, but time to head home.
My son Alex was turning 16. And reality beckoned for everyone except Rob.
Big thanks to all involved in the trip:
Rob, for setting up the condo, setting us up with cheap lift tickets, guiding us around the mountain, and letting me abuse the wah pedal;
Tammy, for groceries and general goodwill;
Little Dom, for tearing it up on the mountain and providing so much good humor and charm;
Neil, for the ride up and back, the drum kit, and the inspirational old-man alpine snowboarding;
Mose, for the rides back and forth from the tavern, holding down the fort, and all the information about music gear and whatnot;
John, for meeting us up in Albany so I didn't have to complain about going into NYC, and for getting fucked up in the deep snow so I didn't feel like the only idiot;
my wife, for dealing with everything on the homefront while I was gone-- she said she didn't stop moving from when I left until I got home (I probably wouldn't have been much help, anyway)
and the Weather Gods, who provided some of the best conditions I've ever ridden in.
I hope we get this thing together again next year.
Dave Turns Fifty, Theodore Geisel Would Turn 116 (If He Wasn't Long Dead)
The Doctor and me, we share the same date--
Inevitably, we'll share the same fate.
As alive as he was, all the places he went,
In the end, he found out that his life was but lent.
I AM alive, I have places to go--
But since I'm now fifty, I'll just move kind of slow.
There is a lesson to be learned from the demise of the Seuss:
the best case with the reaper is an uneasy truce.
The Lamest Advice Ever
I am loath to admit that my dental hygienist was right. Years and years ago, she told me I should invest in an electric toothbrush. A Sonicare. Each visit I would pretend to entertain this notion (because she's very attractive). We'd chat about the merits of the device. She'd admonish me about my gum-line-- and then she'd set to work on my filthy plaque-covered teeth. I'd cringe and bleed and try not to cry (because, as I mentioned earlier, she's very attractive). She'd finish up, remind me again that an electric toothbrush might solve some of these issues, and we'd part ways.
Once I'd left the office-- slightly traumatized and a little sore-- I'd ponder her advice for a moment and then summarily dismiss it.
I'm a man! A strong man. I don't need assistance to brush my teeth. And once I started flossing regularly . . . watch out! Then my teeth and gums would be fine. And it didn't hurt THAT much.
A couple months ago my wife came home from Costco with a pair of Sonicare electric toothbrushes. They take some getting used to. If you open your mouth while brushing, there's going to be a big mess. It feels likes you've released a buzzing insect loose on your teeth. But I kept with it.
My last visit to the dentist, my normal (and very attractive) hygienist was out sick. It's too bad, because she could have gloated and said, "I told you so." The other hygienist-- who is very nice-- said my teeth looked great. All my gums grew back! There was barely any plaque! A couple scrapes and she was done. Easy-peasy. The dentist came in, took a quick look and said, "A+!"
I was like: what the fuck?
So the best advice is often the lamest: get enough sleep, drink in moderation, don't eat fried food, a yellow light doesn't mean step on it, lift heavy objects with your legs, women like flowers . . .
and get an electric toothbrush.
Once I'd left the office-- slightly traumatized and a little sore-- I'd ponder her advice for a moment and then summarily dismiss it.
I'm a man! A strong man. I don't need assistance to brush my teeth. And once I started flossing regularly . . . watch out! Then my teeth and gums would be fine. And it didn't hurt THAT much.
A couple months ago my wife came home from Costco with a pair of Sonicare electric toothbrushes. They take some getting used to. If you open your mouth while brushing, there's going to be a big mess. It feels likes you've released a buzzing insect loose on your teeth. But I kept with it.
My last visit to the dentist, my normal (and very attractive) hygienist was out sick. It's too bad, because she could have gloated and said, "I told you so." The other hygienist-- who is very nice-- said my teeth looked great. All my gums grew back! There was barely any plaque! A couple scrapes and she was done. Easy-peasy. The dentist came in, took a quick look and said, "A+!"
I was like: what the fuck?
So the best advice is often the lamest: get enough sleep, drink in moderation, don't eat fried food, a yellow light doesn't mean step on it, lift heavy objects with your legs, women like flowers . . .
and get an electric toothbrush.
Schrödinger's Sock: A Quantum Laundry Room Game for the Whole Family
I'm sure you've been in this situation: there's a sock on the laundry-room floor and there are two possibilities:
1) The sock fell out of the dryer when you were unloading.
2) The sock fell out of the laundry basket as you were putting dirty clothes into the washer.
If it fell from the dryer, it's clean. If it fell from the laundry basket, it's dirty. If you've got kids who play sports, it's filthy reeking dirty.
The sock is lying there, prone and lifeless, in one state or the other.
You may have heard of the infamous Schrödinger's cat thought experiment. If you haven't, you can read Wikipedia's short summary. I included it below.
The basic idea is that you can set up a quantum scenario where something is in a superposition-- in two states at once-- until an observer breaks the spell and reality collapses into one possibility or the other.
Schrödinger's cat: a cat, a flask of poison, and a radioactive source are placed in a sealed box. If an internal monitor (e.g. Geiger counter) detects radioactivity (i.e. a single atom decaying), the flask is shattered, releasing the poison, which kills the cat. The Copenhagen interpretation of quantum mechanics implies that after a while, the cat is simultaneously alive and dead. Yet, when one looks in the box, one sees the cat either alive or dead, not both alive and dead.
I've reenacted yesterday's version of the sock experiment. I got my son to take the photos--though at first, he balked, calling this "the stupidest idea of all time." He then saw the title of the post, "Schrödinger's Sock," and remarked, "That's so cliché . . . everyone knows about "Schrödinger's Cat. It's not that funny."
I think my title is genius, but he's about to turn 16 and doesn't understand how awesome I am. And if you search up "Schrödinger's Sock" on Google, you get absolute crap. Stupid shit about disappearing socks and even stupider shit about Christmas presents. This is the only Schrödinger's Sock post that contains an accurate parallel analogy to Schrödinger's thought experiment. Someday soon my son will appreciate this. Or not.
Anyway, I rolled the quantum dice. I smelled the sock. Unfortunately, I crapped out. It was a dirty sweaty sock full of teen spirit.
Into the wash with it.
1) The sock fell out of the dryer when you were unloading.
2) The sock fell out of the laundry basket as you were putting dirty clothes into the washer.
If it fell from the dryer, it's clean. If it fell from the laundry basket, it's dirty. If you've got kids who play sports, it's filthy reeking dirty.
The sock is lying there, prone and lifeless, in one state or the other.
The basic idea is that you can set up a quantum scenario where something is in a superposition-- in two states at once-- until an observer breaks the spell and reality collapses into one possibility or the other.
Schrödinger's Cat Thought Experiment
Schrödinger's Sock Experiment (This Shit is Real)
The only way to collapse the superposition of the sock is to pick it up and smell it. The problem is that fifty percent of the time, it's going to smell really bad. But that's the cost of living in a universe dictated by quantum probability.
I've reenacted yesterday's version of the sock experiment. I got my son to take the photos--though at first, he balked, calling this "the stupidest idea of all time." He then saw the title of the post, "Schrödinger's Sock," and remarked, "That's so cliché . . . everyone knows about "Schrödinger's Cat. It's not that funny."
I think my title is genius, but he's about to turn 16 and doesn't understand how awesome I am. And if you search up "Schrödinger's Sock" on Google, you get absolute crap. Stupid shit about disappearing socks and even stupider shit about Christmas presents. This is the only Schrödinger's Sock post that contains an accurate parallel analogy to Schrödinger's thought experiment. Someday soon my son will appreciate this. Or not.
Anyway, I rolled the quantum dice. I smelled the sock. Unfortunately, I crapped out. It was a dirty sweaty sock full of teen spirit.
Into the wash with it.
A lesser man wouldn't bother to collapse the superposition of the sock. A lesser man would just toss it into the wash without smelling. "Better safe than sorry," this lesser man would say. But the universe would be a less interesting place for it. It's more interesting to collapse the superposition and ascertain the truth, even if it means smelling a gross sock or seeing a dead cat. It's all part of dealing existentially with a universe built from chaos, probability, and reality TV.
Holy Triple Miracle Thursday!
Those of you who read this blog regularly know that I am involved in miraculous incidents on a frequent basis. Whether or not I cause these miracles is something the hagiographers will certainly debate for many years after I shuffle off this mortal coil. But for now, I'm sure that we can all agree that I am blessed, sacred, and luminous.
Today was especially magical. I bore witness to three miracles in a matter of three hours. And the miracles ascended in magnitude and beatific brightness.
A lovely young lady was presenting a lovely Rupi Kaur poem in Creative Writing class for our daily "Show and Tell."
I asked her how she had stumbled upon this and she told a quick story about how her friend recommended it to her, while they were writing a song for Biology class.
"A song for Biology class?" I said. "Like about the Golgi apparatus or something?"
"Yes," she said.
"Yes, you were writing a song about the Golgi apparatus?"
"Yes, about the Golgi apparatus."
Weird. A minor miracle. I could have said flagella. But I was just getting started.
Moments later, after the class commended me on my miraculous clairvoyance, I lost my shit. I was looking down at my computer monitor, and I noticed something. I started yelling. I was joyous and shocked and angry all at once.
One of my students said it looked like I had seen a ghost. In essence, I had. The ghost of a long-dead lock.
A red and silver lock that had inexplicably disappeared months ago. A lock that was so lost I had given up looking for it. A lock that eluded a search party of twenty philosophy students. A lock that denied the laws of existence and perception.
The lock was in front of my face the entire time! Like the purloined letter. Just sitting there, under my computer monitor, looking like something vaguely electronic. It was too obvious too notice.
I ranted and raved to my class about mental blind spots and schema and schotoma and how hard it is to find the mustard in the fridge, even though it's right in front of your face. And most of these were new students, who did not have me when I lost the lock (there were a few kids remaining from that semester class-- and they really understood the context of my insanity . . . the rest of the kids must have thought I was delirious).
Once I had fully processed the miraculous recovery of the lock-- and my cognition-- then I went forth and spread the good word throughout the school. I told teachers and I told students. The event was blessed.
But I spaketh to soon.
Two periods after I found the lock, a girl from the previous semester ran up to me in the hall. A girl who had witnessed the loss of the lock, and took part in the search for the lock.
"Did you see the lock!"
"Yes!" I said, but just as I was about to explain the miracle, Tyra confounded it.
"I found it down the hall by the stairs. I found it!"
"YOU put it on my computer?"
"Yup."
"Tyra! Why didn't you leave a note? I almost lost my mind. I thought I had gone crazy-- that the lock was sitting there in front of my face for two months. My class thinks I'm insane! I thought I was insane! When you find a lost lock, you leave a note!"
Tyra apologized for neglecting to leave a note (she didn't have time) and once I recovered my wits, I thanked her profusely for finding the lock.
This is where she found it:
At the bottom of the stairs, a good fifteen yards from my classroom door. What kind of crazy miraculous adventures did that lock have for the past two months? More importantly: why have I been chosen to witness and testify to so many myriad miracles?
This event has also provided tomorrow's Creative Writing lesson: describe the epic journey of this lock. Alexander Pope would dig the pun. As would the deepwater monster of Scotland.
Today was especially magical. I bore witness to three miracles in a matter of three hours. And the miracles ascended in magnitude and beatific brightness.
Miracle #1
I asked her how she had stumbled upon this and she told a quick story about how her friend recommended it to her, while they were writing a song for Biology class.
"A song for Biology class?" I said. "Like about the Golgi apparatus or something?"
"Yes," she said.
"Yes, you were writing a song about the Golgi apparatus?"
"Yes, about the Golgi apparatus."
Weird. A minor miracle. I could have said flagella. But I was just getting started.
Miracle #2
One of my students said it looked like I had seen a ghost. In essence, I had. The ghost of a long-dead lock.
A red and silver lock that had inexplicably disappeared months ago. A lock that was so lost I had given up looking for it. A lock that eluded a search party of twenty philosophy students. A lock that denied the laws of existence and perception.
The lock was in front of my face the entire time! Like the purloined letter. Just sitting there, under my computer monitor, looking like something vaguely electronic. It was too obvious too notice.
I ranted and raved to my class about mental blind spots and schema and schotoma and how hard it is to find the mustard in the fridge, even though it's right in front of your face. And most of these were new students, who did not have me when I lost the lock (there were a few kids remaining from that semester class-- and they really understood the context of my insanity . . . the rest of the kids must have thought I was delirious).
Once I had fully processed the miraculous recovery of the lock-- and my cognition-- then I went forth and spread the good word throughout the school. I told teachers and I told students. The event was blessed.
But I spaketh to soon.
Miracle #3
"Did you see the lock!"
"Yes!" I said, but just as I was about to explain the miracle, Tyra confounded it.
"I found it down the hall by the stairs. I found it!"
"YOU put it on my computer?"
"Yup."
"Tyra! Why didn't you leave a note? I almost lost my mind. I thought I had gone crazy-- that the lock was sitting there in front of my face for two months. My class thinks I'm insane! I thought I was insane! When you find a lost lock, you leave a note!"
Tyra apologized for neglecting to leave a note (she didn't have time) and once I recovered my wits, I thanked her profusely for finding the lock.
This is where she found it:
At the bottom of the stairs, a good fifteen yards from my classroom door. What kind of crazy miraculous adventures did that lock have for the past two months? More importantly: why have I been chosen to witness and testify to so many myriad miracles?
This event has also provided tomorrow's Creative Writing lesson: describe the epic journey of this lock. Alexander Pope would dig the pun. As would the deepwater monster of Scotland.
A Valentine's Adventure, Athletic Odds and Ends (plus Poop Tire Epic)
I was really looking forward to doing some athletics on this three day weekend. Indoor soccer on Sunday, indoor tennis on Monday, and then the weather was supposed to warm-up so I figured I could rollerblade or bike with the dog Monday afternoon. Best laid plans.
Valentine's Day preceded these best laid plans, however. Good thing. My cold finally dissipated Friday and my wife surprised me with a one day Valentine's celebration and vacation. She booked a room at the Heldridge in New Brunswick and got tickets to see Bret Ernst at the Stress Factory. We walked in, went to Clydz for Happy Hour and drank some martinis, attended the show-- which was packed-- and then had a beer at The Ale House while watching a rerun of the first Deontay Taylor/Tyler Fury fight. And then we didn't have to trek home, we stumbled right over to our room. Perfect night. The kids and Lola manned the fort back in Highland Park.. We even swam in the hotel pool in the morning (it was cold).
Valentine's Day preceded these best laid plans, however. Good thing. My cold finally dissipated Friday and my wife surprised me with a one day Valentine's celebration and vacation. She booked a room at the Heldridge in New Brunswick and got tickets to see Bret Ernst at the Stress Factory. We walked in, went to Clydz for Happy Hour and drank some martinis, attended the show-- which was packed-- and then had a beer at The Ale House while watching a rerun of the first Deontay Taylor/Tyler Fury fight. And then we didn't have to trek home, we stumbled right over to our room. Perfect night. The kids and Lola manned the fort back in Highland Park.. We even swam in the hotel pool in the morning (it was cold).
Sunday morning, I was excited that the weekend was not nearly over and headed to indoor soccer. I had played well the week before, even in the midst of a disgusting cold, so I thought I would really feel great this Sunday. Twenty minutes in, something happened to my calf. A little tweak. I stopped immediately. I've been through this before. I limped off, went home, took naproxen, and elevated it. Dammit.
This morning, I wrapped my calf up and went to the racket club with Ian. I was moving slow, but able to hit. I finally bought a new racket: an arm friendly Yonex Ezone 98. Wow. What a difference. So much power and it doesn't hurt my shoulder (very much). I can serve again and hit my one-handed cut back-hand. But I can't sprint. If it's not one thing, it's another. It was still fun (and mainly, we worked on Ian's serve-- which is a mess right now). I guess this is the way athletics are going to be for me here on in. I'm almost fifty.
When I got home, the weather had really warmed up. I decided to take Lola for a bike ride, but when I wheeled the bike out of the bike shed, I rolled it through some poop. We all know what to do when we step in dog poop, but having a bike tire slathered in the stuff is a different animal altogether. I attached Lola to the bike, hopped on, and went about the proper method: first I rode very slowly on the grass-- if you bike too fast with a poop tire the rotation of the tire will fling the poop right into your face. Then I found some mud puddles and went through those-- again, slowly-- and then, before I spattered myself with poop water, I rode through a sandy area to coat the tires. Then, when I got to the dog park, I wiped away the excess poop with a stick.
This was probably my best athletic performance all weekend.
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