The crowd seemed to be comprised mainly of aging Gen Xers-- mainly male-- and so our contingent fit right in. Lecky, Whitney, Zman, Gormley, McWhinney, Carles were all in attendance (as was TR for the pregame). Much beer was drank.
Lecky made Herculean drive from New Brunswick to the Wellmont in Montclair, and the traffic-- just as I predicted-- was abysmal. Complaining about traffic is not very rock-n-roll (and neither am I) but I told Lecky and Whitney we had better get a move on or we were going to be crawling up the Parkway, and I was right! This did give us time to listen to some of Lecky and Whitney's original music, and while I enjoyed this, I still would have rather been out of the car. I can't stand being in traffic. It makes me claustrophobic.
The Cult were energetic and in good spirits, despite the fact that Ian Astbury and Billy Duffy are both pushing sixty. They have slight guts. Gentleman's guts. They played the entire Sonic Temple album and a number of old tunes from Electric, Love and Dreamtime. Nostalgic of the times I went to see them in high school and college (aside from the fact that they didn't play "Bad Fun," which would usually result in dangerously violent moshing).
Lecky, Whitney and I squeezed our way near the front and engaged some (rather tame) moshing with people that looked to be our age. The Millennials in front of us, holding their phones up and filming the show, wanted none of it. Lecky remembered to wear his earplugs. I did not.
After the show, we made an epic hike to a bar atop Gormley's hotel. Between that and the moshing, it was a lot of time on our feet.
I have a giant metal storage cabinet in my classroom that I keep secure with a red and silver combination lock. The cabinet contains many very very valuable items. DVDs and photocopied materials and last years exams and my annotated copies of various texts.
These things may not sound valuable to you-- or to most people on the planet-- but they are worth a lot to me. Plus, I store my workbag and Lenovo Thinkpad in there at night. And there's detention in my room after school. All kinds of people wandering in and out. I don't need them perusing my Henry IV part 1 marginalia. So I like that lock.
More often than not, at the start of the day-- which is very early in the morning-- I take the lock off the cabinet and put it down somewhere weird (often inside the cabinet) and "lose" it for a few minutes. Then, inevitably, I find it and lock up the cabinet again.
Except for last Wednesday. I lost the lock, and even with the help of the sixteen kids in my Philosophy class, we could not find it. Sixteen kids searching the room! It seemed like a philosophical thought experiment, but it wasn't.
Is existence real? Can we trust our perception? Are we living in a simulation? Have I gone mad?
No. No. Yes. Yes.
I wish there was some kind of resolution to the story, other than I've descended into madness. The lock was in my pocket! The lock had fallen into the cuff of my pants! The lock was hidden in plain sight!
No such lock.
Where in Sam-fucking-Hill is that lock? It's got to turn up . . . and it's not behind the two (very heavy) filing cabinets next to the giant metal cabinet. I looked.
I was in denial for a couple of day-- my cabinet lockless-- but I'm bringing a new lock to school on Monday.
I'm back! while I'm glad I made an attempt to have a real website of my own, with independent hosting, I now know it's not for me.
It turns out Wordpress is incredibly powerful and customizable. It's also rather annoying. It loads really slow, and while I think there are some tweaks to make things faster, I don't feel like messing with it. The problem might also be Bluehost, which is really cheap but might also be really slow. It was easy enough to migrate posts back and forth, and while now I don't own my content, I can back it up when necessary. And I've given up on the privacy thing. I just got a real phone-- a Nokia 6.2!-- and I clicked bunch of things during the set up and I think all my information is everywhere. Why fight it?
Not only that, there are a bunch of footie blogs called "Park the Bus."
So I've added an "S" and this has given me the freedom to write multiple sentences. The power of the written word! The pen is mightier than the sword!
Hopefully Google will keep blogger updated. It loads and works so much faster than Wordpress, and now I know that's all I want out of a blog: convenience and easy posting. Tomorrow I'll write something more entertaining-- I still need to screw around with the layout and themes.
I have jury duty today in New Brunswick. Coincidentally, my wife had it yesterday, and she reported that it was hot and crowded. At one point, she had to sit on the floor in a small crowded room for two hours, before -- luckily-- she was released without having to serve on a trial.
My kids had an early dismissal from school yesterday, and so they went out to lunch with their friends. This would have been fine, except that my wife had made them both delicious sandwiches. Bacon and cheese on a bagel.
BOTH Alex and Ian conveniently "forgot" that their loving mother had prepared them lunch in the morning, and not only that-- they were too stupid to dispose of the evidence. So both of them had untouched lunches in their book bag when they returned home. Catherine was rightfully indignant. Spoiled ingrates. And not even considerate enough to at least pretend they had eaten their sandwiches. So she told from here on out, they could make their own lunch.
Ian just walked in from school, and I asked him what he packed. At first he refused to tell me-- he's annoyed that I'm making him look bad-- but I read him the post and he couldn't deny a word of it. He brought pasta and a green apple for his lunch and he's now eating a snack because he's hungry. I'll keep you posted on how long Catherine sticks to her guns-- if I know her it's going to be a while-- and if my kids start getting more creative with their lunches. Hopefully it will make them appreciate dinner more.
This cold but lovely (Black) Friday morning, I took our dog Lola to the Rutgers Ecological Preserve for a run. Unfortunately, the Preserve was closed. The parking lot had signs and some plastic blockades barring entrance and the side entrance had a blockade in front of it as well. I assumed this was because of the recent coyote attacks (and I was right). But I also assumed that the attacks were over, because the aggressive coyote had been euthanized by some Rutgers police. And the coyote was tested and came up negative for rabies. So I figured it was safe to head into the preserve, despite the signs and blockades. There were rumors that there was entire coyote den on the premises, but coyotes were nocturnal-- plus, Lola is a tank. She would run them off.
After running for about twenty minutes, I stumbled over a root obscured by fallen leaves and went flying face-forward into the mud. Luckily, I was wearing gloves, so I was able to somewhat break my fall. My bad shoulder held up, I didn't sprain my wrists, and I didn't cut my hands. The only thing to suffer was my left knee.
I really did hit the ground hard, and I must admit-- and this appropriately dates me-- that just after I hit, this is what I thought to myself:
This is just what you deserve, sneaking into the preserve when it's obviously closed to the public-- now you've broken your neck and no one is coming to help you, no one is going to stumble across you and save you-- because the preserve is closed-- and for good reason!-- and you ignored the signs and now you're going to be eaten by coyotes, ironically less than a mile from the technologically miraculous Bridge Evaluation and Accelerated Structural Testing lab-- which is affectionately known by the acronym The BEAST®-- maybe Lola will protect me, but for how long? and the nights will be cold . . . I'll have to drag my way down the trail to the road . . . etc. etc.
It totally skipped my mind that I was listening to my podcast (Flash Forward: Time After Time) on my cellphone, a device which enabled me to communicate and interact by various means with the world outside of the Rutgers Preserve. I got up, dusted myself off, and started running again-- thinking that I had just evaded certain death . . . and it didn't dawn on me until twenty-five minutes later, when I got back to the parking lot next to The BEAST®, that I had not evaded certain death-- that I owned a cellphone -- mainly because my mother called just as I was loading the dog into the back of the car and this reminded me that my podcast and music player also had communication capabilities.
As a side note, there's still some weird coyote stuff going on in the vicinity of the preserve. A small dog was mauled a couple days ago, after the original aggressive coyote was euthanized. So maybe I was in some danger. If a pack of coyotes got to me before I remembered that I had a cellphone, I might have been eaten alive (while listening to my podcast).
This morning, my wife insisted I taste her mashed turnips. She always makes a batch on Thanksgiving, in honor of her mom. So-- for fear of offending the dead-- I couldn't refuse to take a bite.
I told her that I found the turnips bland and mushy, two food characteristics that don't sit well with me. My wife was shocked. She thought they were tasty and delicious. But she also likes mashed potatoes, and I think that removing the skin and then smooshing a potato to mush (with some milk! yuck!) is sinful.
Mashed turnips taste and look the kind of food you'd eat if you were voyaging to Mars, to start a new colony. The kind of food they might give you a dollop of in the big house. The kind of food you'd eat if you'd broken free from The Matrix and were riding around on with the crew of the Nebuchadnezzar.
So apparently Catherine would fare better than me in space. And in jail. And as an American colonist in the 1600's. I'm thankful for many things, but Thanksgiving food isn't one of them.
Cave crickets (otherwise known as camel crickets, spider crickets, and sprickets) are an invasive species from China that may now outnumber people in the United States. They love basements and sheds and other dank places. They're fairly big and kind of scary, but they do not have fangs and can't bite humans. Despite their lack of biological weaponry, they are more dangerous than you might think.
Most of the camel crickets I encounter live in my bike shed. They are scavengers and provide a valuable service, eating all kinds of gross debris, so most of the time I ignore the giant herd of them that lives on the walls and ceiling of the shed. But I occasionally clean out the bike shed with our leaf blower, and during those rare occasions, I relish blowing the crickets to the four corners of the earth (though I know they'll be back soon enough). It's fun to show them who the boss is. No one can withstand my might wind! The problem is, if I flush them out of the bike shed, then they're going to migrate to my basement.
This is probably what happened Friday morning. I went down into the basement to throw in a load of wash, and saw two crickets by the stereo. I grabbed a manila folder, swatted one of them cleanly and then took aim at the other. I was in a weird position and when I swatted this one, a sharp pain rocketed through my shoulder.
So this camel cricket was the symbolic straw that broke the camel's back. Or the swatting at the camel cricket was the symbolic straw. And I broke the camel cricket's back, but the camel cricket broke my shoulder. Or something like that.
My shoulder has been injured since August, when I tried to resurrect my one-handed backhand. I've been in denial about it. Avoiding the doctor, trying to rehab it myself, and generally screwing it up. I finally recognized that this was the end of the line. I was done in by a harmless insect. Or I was done in playing tennis, and swatting at this stupid creature revealed just how screwed up my shoulder is.
I called my doctor but I couldn't get an appointment right away with the sports medicine guy. So I did some self-diagnosis.
These Bob and Brad guys seem really friendly and credible, and according to them, I probably do not have a rotator cuff tear.
Judging by this video, it seems to be an impingement.
They've even suggested exercises.
I can't wait to see if my self-diagnosis is correct. I go to the doctor on the 20th, and I'm going to be chock full of information.Thanks Bob and Brad!
I covered a Drivers Ed class this morning, but there was a student-teacher so I didn't have to do anything but sit there (legally there has to be a licensed teacher in the room).
I ate my snacks and read the new issue of The Atlantic.
Drivers Ed class offers really specific and useful information about how to obtain a driver's license. Keep both hands on the steering wheel. Bring six points of ID to the road test. Do NOT laminate your permit!
Perhaps there should be some discussion and debate about this during Drivers Ed class. Why save the controversy for Environmental Science? There's certainly enough time to produce well-informed possible drivers and bring up the possibility of NOT driving. The course is a part of Health class, and there are few things less healthy for all parties involved than driving a car. They advise the kids not to do drugs, not to have unprotected sex, and not to do things generally bad for your body and mind, but when it comes to cars, we put on the blinders.
I'm a fan of Malcolm Gladwell, but even if you're not, his newest book is a good one. It's called Talking to Strangers: What We Should Know About The People We Don't Know and it begins and ends with the Sandra Bland/Brain Encinia West Texas traffic stop and ensuing tragedy.
The book then barrels through various interactions with strangers that go awry: Cuban double agents, diplomatic meetings with Hitler, SEC investigations of Bernie Madoff, the Jerry Sandusky and Amanda Knox trials, Brock Turner's rapey encounter at Stanford, the interrogation of Khalid Sheikh Mohammed, the motives and methods behind Sylvia Plath's suicide, and the Michael Brown/Ferguson MO debacle.
As usual, Gladwell is as good at narrative as he is at research. And the examples hang together particularly well (which doesn't always happen in his books).
It turns out that humans are ill equipped to deal with strangers, often at a systemic level. We default to believing we are being told the truth, and when the default doesn't work, we struggle. We either get things wrong, or we design systems that don't help matter.
We might not understand how much place and environment have to do with suicide and crime. Sylvia Plath might have killed herself because of the easy access to poisonous "town gas." We might overvalue getting answers, to the point that we destroy and distort a person's memories. We might be in a drunken haze, thus making the possibility of understanding a stranger's intentions even more difficult than it already is. We might be fooled by appearances. Madoff fit the bill as a savvy investor, so he passed muster. All parties involved had trouble indicting Sandusky. And they had trouble trusting Amanda Knox, because she was goofy and weird. Many nervous and anxious folks always appear as if they are lying, even when they are telling the truth. And even folks trained in reading people's emotions can get it very wrong, e.g. Neville Chamberlain. Whoops!
So what should we do?
We should try to have patience and humility and empathy when dealing with people we don't know. We should realize that environment is more important than what we judge as "character." We should realize that it's really easy to judge emotions when we are watching Friends, but that's because those folks are professional actors, trained in making incredibly emotive and easy to read facial expressions. The real world is more difficult to read.
Once we realize all this, we should carry on using truth as the default. We should design our systems in this way as well, except under the most extreme circumstances (and then we should train the hell out of people that are going to implement an aggressive system that does not default to trust).
Gladwell summarizes his argument in the last chapter:
Those occasions when our trusting nature gets violated are tragic. But the alternative-- to abandon trust as a defense against predation and deception-- is worse.
This past weekend, I was up at 3 AM three nights in a row. Each night was a different adventure. While it makes for good content, this is not a streak I want to continue.
3 am Adventure #1 -- Friday Night
Friday night, my son Alex was over on Busch Campus at Rutgers with his fellow members of the Highland Park Rocket Propulsion Lab. They got some kind of a grant and use the Rutgers facilities: the 3-D printer and the modeling software and the soldering equipment. These are really smart kids (who also play tennis-- that's how Alex met them). And something went wrong with Arduino mini (a piece of electronic equipment). The wires weren't grounded and they fried the circuit board.
So when Catherine and I got home from dinner with friends at 11 PM, Alex wasn't home yet. We texted and he said that they were trying to fix the circuit board and needed to stay later.
I reminded him that he had Model UN at 8 am at Franklin High School. He had to be up at 7 am. Then I fell asleep on the couch. I woke up at 2:30 am. Alex had not come in. I texted him. Things were not going well. He said they might not get done until 4 or 5 in the morning.
This was absurd. I told him he needed some sleep before his Model UN event and drove over to Busch Campus to find him. It wasn't easy. He had to run down the road to flag down the van. And-- though we didn't know it at the time-- we were near the spot where a Rutgers employee had been bitten by a coyote! Just one night previous (at 4 am).
I was so sleepy I missed the exit for Highland Park. Alex managed to get up and put on his coat and tie for Model UN the next morning. Impressive.
3 am Adventure #2 -- Saturday Night
Saturday afternoon, I attended the Rutgers/Ohio State game with my buddy Alec. We drank some beer before the game and then we drank some beer during the game. Then when I got home from the game I ate some of my wife's delicious Thai coconut curry chicken soup (and drank another beer). A little bit later I made a rash decision and decided to have ice cream, with a healthy dollop of whipped cream on top. This is not a combination of food my stomach can handle.
So this one was my fault. I was up at 3 am Saturday night with gas. I fell back to sleep, but couldn't really sleep late because of my son's Model UN event.
3 am Adventure 3# -- Sunday Night
Sunday afternoon, I took my son Alex to the Edison skate park. I brought the dog, so I could walk her while Alex skated. The adjacent fields were covered with goose poop and Lola ingested some. Yuck.
At three in the morning Sunday night (Monday morning?) we heard that distinctive retching sound of a vomiting dog. Lola was puking on the landing at the top of the stairs. Pretty minimal. Probably because of the goose poop. I got her outside and Catherine cleaned up the mess. We put down a towel in case she threw up again.
Thirty minutes later, she did just that. It was just a tiny bit, and she did it on the towel. I waited for a moment, to see if she was going to throw up more (since she was doing it on the towel). Catherine rushed by me, her thought being "get the dog outside." In her mad rush in the darkness, she flung her arm at my face. Her fingernail cut the inside of my nostril. Ouch! She drew blood!
Ian and Alex slept through all of this.
The next morning, I tried to find the spot where Lola defecated in the yard at 3 am. I hate leaving dog poop in the yard, because it always comes back to haunt you. I couldn't find the poop-- because I had stepped in it. I took off my clogs and left them outside.
Then, on the way back from walking her to the park, I tried to find the remainder of the poop and I stepped in it again. Luckily, we got some rain so it was easy to wipe my shoes clean on the wet grass.
During the school day, I learned that a cut inside your nostril really hurts. It hurts when you sniffle, it hurts when you rub your nose, and it especially hurts when you eat spicy food (like the leftover Thai coconut chicken soup that I had for lunch).
Anyway, I am hoping to end this streak tonight. Wish me luck.
My friend Alec got a hold of some tickets to the Rutgers/Ohio State game yesterday. His neighbor couldn't attend. The tickets were handicap accessible so we got preferred parking and a pair of seats surrounded by space at the top of the mezzanine (although the stadium was relatively empty-- you could sit wherever).
Ohio State was favored by 53 points. The largest amount for any away team ever. I wanted to be the game-- take Rutgers and see if they could cover-- so I signed up for the FanDuel Sports Book. Apparently if this app verifies that you are from a state where sports gambling is legal, then you can place bets. It took a while-- I couldn't get my computer to verify that it was in New Jersey, so I used my phone. It takes some doing to download the app-- you can't directly download it from Google so you have to change settings and find the file and install it manually. The app is terrible. Slow and glitchy and impossible to find anything.
Before the site tried to verify my location, I loaded one hundred dollars into my account while I was on the computer-- they'll take your money THEN tell you they can't verify your location, so you can't bet your money. Very annoying.
Once I got on my phone, I was able to navigate the site a bit. There's no search bar, so you have to scroll through everything-- super-annoying-- and I couldn't find the Rutgers game. I searched and searched, but no luck. I decided they weren't taking bets because the spread was so huge. So I put my hundred dollars on William and Mary, my alma mater, and closed the stupid app. Even if I lost the bet, FanDuel was supposed to refund me the money-- they do this for your first bet up to $500 dollars-- so you can bet it again.
I placed a bet with my friend Alec-- he was willing to take Ohio State and give me 52.5-- and we drove over. We had a few drinks in the parking lot and then went in. Ohio State capitalized on two quick Rutgers turn-overs and scored fourteen points in the first three minutes. It looked like they were going to cover. But then Rutgers fought back and actually played some football. Unlike Willaim and Mary, who got clobbered. And we met a mutual friend (Sleepy Dan) who informed us they now serve beer at the stadium. Fabulous! He also informed me that the reason I couldn't find the game on FanDuel is that you're not allowed to bet on amateur contests happening in state. So no betting on Rutgers and Princeton. Makes sense, I suppose, but I wish the site had some information about that.
We got some beers. Dan claimed that someone stole his extra beer, which he put on a chair behind us for safekeeping. Then it got real cold. Dan left. Alec and I asked some nice ladies in an apparel stand where the warmest place in the stadium was. They only had a tiny space heater. The older lady put her hand on my face and said, "I'm freezing honey." Then she told us to go upstairs and try to get into the stadium club.
"Walk in like you own the place!" she advised us.
We walked up the ramp, saw the enormous bouncer turn his back to the entrance, and walked through with lots of confidence. We nearly made it to the bar when he caught us. "You can't come in here! You don't have the credentials!"
Alec showed him his ticket. While it got us preferred parking and handicapped seating, it did not get us into the club. As fast as we were in, we were out. Back out in the cold. We made it to the end of the third quarter and then headed to my house for some of Cat's homemade Thai coconut curry chicken soup.
And Rutgers beat the spread!
Today, FanDuel refunded my first bet, plus five dollars. I'm eager to be done with this sports gambling stuff, so I bet it all on the Patriots. I figure Brady and Bellichick wouldn't lose two in a row. I was right. My son was angry with me for betting $100 dollars until I explained to him that getting two bets for the price of one is something you have to exploit, but then you have to take the money and run. I've already cleaned out my account-- so if you add together the $25 I won on Rutgers and the $105 I made on my bet refund, I'm up $130. And I'm retiring from sports gambling (aside from March Madness pools). I don't need that kind of stress.
If I could tell you one thing, it would be this: go see Bong Joon Ho's new movie. It's called Parasite. The title is both literal and metaphorical (unlike the time I had giant intestinal roundworms . . . that parasite story is completely literal).
My wife and I took the kids Wednesday night. A weeknight movie! I was worried it would stop playing in the theater by my house. The movie began and we didn't breathe for two hours and twelve minutes. Then it ended, we all exhaled, and said-- in unison-- "Wow! That was so good."
Best movie I've seen since Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind.
I'm not going to say much about the movie, other than you should see it on the big screen, for the colors. My wife was watching This Is Us the day after we saw Parasite, and it looked so cheesy-- because of the lighting and the color palette (I'm pretty sure the show is cheesy . . . if my wife is watching something like that, I leave the room before I say something offensive).
The only clue I'll give you about the content of Parasite is that it is the ultimate, most epic upstairs/downstairs story ever told. Like Downtown Abbey, without the sucking.
You should also watch Snowpiercerand The Host, two other movies directed by Bong Joon Ho.
And speaking of movies starting with the letter "P", Platoon is streaming on Amazon for free (if you've got Prime) and it's a great one to watch to celebrate Veterans Day. It's grim-- and like Parasite-- it's got a class element . . . but unlike Ho's twisted vision of class mobility in Korea, there seems to be some kind of cathartic camaraderie between Chris (Charlie Sheen) and the lower class gang (King and Big Harold and Rhah). So American. Fist bumps and sing-alongs and communal drug use and such. Despite this, things don't turn out so well for the "crusaders," especially Willem Dafoe's character (Sgt. Elias).
My son Alex said the greatest Vietnam movie ever would be a mash-up; it would start with the basic training in Full Metal Jacket and then move to the Vietnam action in Platoon.
I agree . . . although my kids haven't seen The Deer Hunter yet.
I'm turning 50 in March, and I'm trying to preempt the stereotypical mid-life crisis-- so I've been running more in an attempt to improve my mile time. This might be an exercise in futility. I'm certainly building up my endurance, and also, by running more, I'm playing basketball less, so preventing injury. But it might not matter.
I'm still heavy. I ran an 8 minute mile in the summer, and I weighed 195+. Now I'm down to 192 or so, but I'm still too heavy to really move around the track. So I've got to shed a few pounds, but I refuse to diet. I do too much exercise. I'm hungry all the time. And I love food. And beer. I try to drink less beer, but it never lasts. Tequila and seltzer is light and less caloric and it tastes great, but it's not beer.
Then, yesterday, my friend and colleague Stacey pointed out that the worst food to eat was potato chips. I did not realize this. I knew they weren't good, but I didn't know just how bad they were. And, if you exercise a lot, they can be useful. They contain potassium. But when you get old, there are better ways to obtain this mineral. And you probably only need a few chips. That's not how I eat chips.
Because I am addicted to potato chips. I eat them all the time. Almost every day. If they are in the house, I eat them. Inhale them. If I stop for coffee at Wawa, I get a pack. I eat them without realizing it. I eat them all, the whole bag, no matter the size.
I got up Thursday morning with the best intentions. I had been up late at the local open mic the night before (there was a guy proficient at beat-boxing) and had drank too many beers and eaten some late-night quesadillas.
No school on Thursday, and my wife was away at the convention: working it. So I was living it up.
Thursday morning, the house was quiet. The kids were sleeping, and I wanted to run off the beer. I loaded Lola into the car, and we headed to the Rutgers Ecological Preserve. There's rarely anyone there, so I can let Lola off the leash (once it gets cold and the ticks hibernate) so she can chase deer and squirrels while I run the maze of trails.
But when we got to the bottom of the hill, at the intersection of Cleveland Avenue and River Road, traffic was at a standstill. I just needed to get over to Cedar Lane, but I wasn't going to do it in my van. So I drove back up the hill and parked near the Birnn Chocolate Factory. Back in the old days, when I could really run, I used to cut through the woods, cross the railroad tracks, and make my way through a playground behind the Cedar Lane Apartments, and this would lead me to Cedar Lane. From there I could make my way into the Ecological Preserve.
Lola and I managed to find our way across the railroad tracks without getting hit by a train (and a number of them passed through) but then we ran out of luck. We tramped through some tick and briar filled brush, but could not find a gap in the Cedar Lane Apartment fence. There was no good way to the playground that didn't involve bushwhacking and a machete. We followed some other unused railroad track, wandered by a hobo tent, and then took a long run alongside what I later learned was the Middlesex County Water Plant. There was lots of construction going on, and a giant fence.
Lola was sort of freaking out, due to the construction vehicles on our left and the occasional passing trains on our right. Though I was listening to music on my phone, I never thought to actually look at a Google map of where I was. I figured if I just kept going there would be a gap in the fence. But then the Water Company fence abutted against another fence and I admitted defeat.
We ran back to the car-- which involved more brush and trail blazing-- and drove home. We ran for another 30 minutes in Donaldson Park, the lovely park right next to my house, which I will appreciate a great deal more in the future.
George Orwell wrote what is arguably the best narrative essay in the English language. "Shooting an Elephant" was published in 1936, and its profundity-- both politically and psychologically-- in addition to its vivid subject matter and subtle symbolism make it something special. It's certainly the best thing ever written about an elephant.
Orwell knew all along that he didn't have to shoot the titular elephant. This recently rampaging creature had just experienced the hormonal surge of musth-- the elephant version of heat-- but was now calm. The elephant needed to sow his wild oats, but he couldn't find a female elephant to sow oats with, so he trampled a coolie and wrecked some bamboo huts. It's understandable. But shooting a working elephant is a big deal. Orwell only did it to preserve some semblance of colonial rule.
Eighty years later, Jacob Shell has updated Orwell's piece. His new book Giants of the Monsoon Forest is the definitive and comprehensive guide to "living and working with elephants." The setting is still Burma, which is now known as Myanmar. Elephants still work in tandem with mahouts, mainly in the teak industry (although elephants are also employed as transportation during the flood and monsoon season, and used by paramilitary forces deep in the forests and jungles of politically ambiguous territories).
But the mahouts have learned their lesson about musth. Working elephants are allowed to roam the forest at night, in search of fodder and possible mates. They often interact with wild herds. The working elephants have loose chains on their forelegs, so they can't run away, but they have a certain measure of freedom.
This keeps them happy enough, although they sometimes engage in high jinks to avoid coming to work on time. They double back and hide-- which is absurd for such large critters-- and they stuff their neck bells with leaves to muffle the ringing.
While the dying elephant in Orwell's essay represents the ugly end of the British Empire, the loosely chained elephant in Shell's book symbolizes the difficult and ethically tangled plight of the Asian pachyderm. It's painful to even detail it. Basically, working elephants have a somewhat rough road. The capturing and training period is brutal. The work is hard. They are generally treated well, because they are valuable, but they are not free.
There are only 40,000 Asian elephants left on the planet (there are 500,000 African elephants). Many of these Asian elephants are working elephants. If working elephants were not allowed, the population would drop to precipitous levels.
Animal rights purists would prefer for all Asian elephants to be free and wild, there doesn't seem to be enough forest left to support a thriving population. Ironically, the working elephants may actually be cooperating with humans in order to survive. These are VERY smart animals.
One of the things I realized while reading this book is probably pretty obvious, but I had never thought about it. Elephants are NOT domesticated. They're not like horses and dogs. We haven't bred the wildness out of them. When an elephant cooperates with his mahout, the elephant is doing it because it wants to cooperate. They can kill their mahouts or anyone else in the vicinity anytime they like. These are creatures who mourn their dead, have distinct personalities, do medical procedures with their trunks, show empathy towards other elephants and humans, understand up to 100 human commands, and have a language of their own.
Jacob Shell's book is a tough read. It's WAY too much for a layman to learn about Asian elephants, the history of elephant domestication, elephant and human relationships, Burmese politics, the teak industry, monsoons and floods, and political unrest. It's another world, an entirely different universe. And this is just a human perspective of a place on our planet where elephants and humans interact.
Slough House is not in Slough (but-- the joke is-- it might as well be). Slough is something a of laughingstock location. It's the Scranton of England (and the setting of the original Office). In Mick Herron's fictional spy series, Slough House is where the misfits of the MI5 are warehoused.
I recently read Slow Horses and Real Tigers and enjoyed both of them. I'm not sure I got all the jokes and satire, and I certainly didn't understand the London geography, but it didn't matter. When there's a band of screw-ups, led by a jaded fat man (who might have a heart of gold, if he could stop farting) and they just might show the powers that be what's what, you know who to root for.
Warning: these books are dense. They are not fast reads. You've got to pay attention to Byzantine plots; machinations and and manipulation;, a bevy of characters-- all with secrets-- and a plethora of perspectives. There are seven books in the series, and I'm not tackling another one for a couple months, being an operative takes a lot of skill, memory, and thinking.
We've had a dog in our house since January 2012. First was our beloved black lab and Weimaraner Sirius. He was a great dog, and he died too young (of tick diseases).
Then in May of 2018, we rescued Lola. She was billed as a lab/Rhodesian Ridgeback mix, but once we saw a real Rhodesian Ridgeback we realized she might be a faux-desian pitbull. She's a little nuts, but I treat her like the daughter I never had. And she's been vaccinated against Lyme's disease, so hopefully the ticks won't do her in.
Lola turned two today, and she's enjoying something Sirius never had: outdoor lighting. A few months ago, I strung some Sunthin outdoor patio lights on our back porch. Two 48 foot strands. There's even a remote control. All those years of taking the dog out back before bed, and I never did it with any kind of lighting. Sometimes I would take a flashlight. But now we do it in style.
I was doing a big clean out down in my study-- otherwise known as Greasetruck Studios-- and I decided I would take a crack at solving the mystery of the phantom reeking toolbox.
The haunted article looks like your typical yellow plastic snap-it-shut tool chest.
Aside from the fact that it's inhabited by a spirit . . . a nasty smelling vinegary spirit. It's been that way for many many years. At least a decade. So, inspired by last week's successfully delayed genius, I forged ahead with my exorcism . . . or, if I liked puns, I would call it a stenchorcism.
I emptied the tool chest on the porch table, hoping sunlight would be the best antiseptic. It was not. The smell was pervasive, pungent, and did not dissipate.
I had my son Ian confirm this.
I started smelling stuff. Wrenches and pliers and wire-cutters and box-cutters and tape measures and vises and screwdrivers. I finally located the source of the stink. It was the screwdriver handles. I had my son Ian confirm this.
I decided it must be the little rubber strips on the handles. They must have decayed. So I removed them.
And the smell is coming from inside the house. It's not the rubber strips, it's the material the handles are made of: cellulose acetate butyrate. Apparently, if screwdrivers with handles like this sit in an enclosed space, and there is the right humidity and bacteria levels, the handles decay and outgas. And it smells bad.
It's not so easy to get rid of the film of butyric acid. I washed the handles with some soapy water and sprayed them with 409, but I think the smell might linger for eternity. My older son, sensing the reek, added two items of his own which have the phantasmagoric funk of teen spirit to the tableau-- his cleats and shin guards.
Here is a table full of stuff which will never give up the ghost, and all of it will head back into the house later in the day. Yuck.
Every year at the end of October, there is a hellish week of school that combines two things that do not belong together: parent conferences and "spirit week."
For some godforsaken contractual reason we have four days of parent conferences in a row at East Brunswick. Two of these are night sessions, which run from 5:30 PM to 8:30 PM. So teachers either stay at school for 14 hours straight, or-- as I do-- run home to other events and that head back to school for a second time to chat with parents. It's exhausting.
In the midst of this awful week of conferences are the events and preparation for the Homecoming football game and dance. Every day at school is some absurd spirit day, Hippie Day, Hall Decorating Day, Hawaiian Day, Twin Day, etc.
The end of this silly and taxing week culminates with the pep rally. The pep rally is very very loud. Only people who are full of pep enjoy it. Football coaches, cheerleaders, and student council folk.. Soccer coaches are generally not full of pep.
Some teachers have drawn the unlucky duty of having to supervise the students in the bleachers of the stadium, where the amplification of pep is at it's loudest. For the last decade, I have been blessed with a quieter duty, what is known as "flagpole duty." Year after year, the same four teachers and I convene at the flagpole, and I rarely see these teachers during the school year, so "flagpole duty" has the feel of a reunion.
The flagpole is at the entrance to the stadium, far from the pep. The other "flagpole duty" teachers and I have the very important job of directing the sophomores to the left and the juniors to the right. The seniors are already seated in the stadium, as they arrived early for their senior class picture.
East Brunswick High School has over 2000 students (and we don't have any freshman in our building) so this means we need to direct 1400 kids in the right direction. We've always done this by shouting and pointing.
"Sophomores! This way!"
"Juniors! This way!"
We get the herds moving in the right direction, the juniors across the turf to the far section of the bleachers, and the sophomores on the perimeter path, to the near section.
But after ten years of this, my brain said, "Enough!" I was taking a walk around the school-- getting prepared for the pep-- and my brain gifted me with an epiphany. This flagpole session, we didn't need to yell, or even talk at all. I went back to my room and wrote the words "Sophomores" and "Juniors" on a large sheet of paper. I then put a marker in my pocket, and carried my half-completed sign out to the flagpole. Once I had confirmed which grade needed to go which way needed, I drew the arrows. And then I sat on the concrete planter, holding my sign, and everyone walked in the correct direction (except one sophomore, who asked me what a "sophomore" was . . . I told him a 10th grader, and he walked in the proper direction . . . and learned some vocabulary to boot).
