If you'd like to see my top seven books for 2019, head over to Gheorghe:The Blog . . . I think I've been doing this particular Gheorghemas post for nearly a decade-- which is a lot of book recommendations-- at this point, I should probably compile a meta-list of the top books of the decade . . . perhaps I will do that at the end of 2020.
Today I present you with the miraculously serendipitous sequel to "The Scarlet Sweater." The blessed event happened on the same day as my revelation that Ugly Xmas Sweaters are the spawn of the Satanic Mill. Coincidental? I think not.
A senior girl walked into my 4th period College Writing class and she was wearing a shirt with a fantastic reptilian pattern.
"You're a lizard!" I said, excited. I love lizards
"It's not a lizard, it's a diamondback rattlesnake pattern," she said. "I got it from SHEIN for five dollars!"
"Five dollars?"
"FIVE dollars!"
"You need to listen to this."
This was the best set-up for a clip in my entire teaching career. Just perfect. I told the class the good news about the five dollar shirt and then I played this Maria Bamford bit for them (I transcribed it as well).
Joy Whack-a-mole
This is a little game you can play with your friends and family-- if you don't already play it-- in my family we call it Joy Whack-a Mole . . ..somebody brings up something they're really happy about and the other person tries to SLAM IT DOWN!
I was playing with my dad and I was like:
"Dad check out this new top!"
"Ooh that's very nice."
"Guess how much?"
"I don't know, fifty bucks?"
"No, Five!"
"Jesus, that's a good deal."
"You got that right, it's like 'five bucks,' how do they do it?"
"Ooh, I was reading about that . . . slavery! You put the manufacturing out in these countries and there's no labor laws, human rights violations, no environmental protection, and then that they pass that saving on to you."
I try to keep my Xmas Ranting at a minimum (except in Philosophy class, where we always read my favorite Dave-Xmas-Rant themed short story "The Ones That Walk Away From Omelas" and discuss child labor laws and pathological First World consumption and Third World environmental devastation in a utilitarian framework).
But Friday something I heard in the English Office set me off. It was officially "ugly Christmas sweater day" and lots of folks were participating in this administratively sanctioned event (it might have been called "ugly Holiday sweater day" to preserve the separation of Church and State . . . I'm not sure).
Anyway, at first my attitude was "whatever." If people like this kind of thing, who am I to criticize? I haven't worn a sweater since the 90s because they're itchy and hot and the sleeves are stupid. But maybe some people like being itchy and hot and dipping their sleeves covered into their lunch while they're eating it.
Then I saw something that piqued my interest. A couple of people were wearing ugly Xmas hoodies, and this was something new. Kristyna, a fellow English teacher, was wearing an incredibly ugly hoody. Just hideous. It was covered in very detailed, photographic quality Xmas ornaments. It was busy and loud and had that plastic sheen of a new hoodie made of some fabric that was more fossil-fuel than cotton.
I asked her how she acquired it and she said her dad had bought it, possibly as a joke, but it didn't fit him. We chatted about sizes and the ugliness of the hoody and then it struck me:
He bought it as a joke?
All of these ugly sweaters were bought as jokes. To be worn once. Yuck.
Yikes.
In America, we're so rich and entitled and wasteful and profligate and materialistic that we buy things as jokes. Instead of making jokes, with words-- and by the way, words don't consume any fossil fuels-- we buy jokes. Silly mugs and tchotchkes and ugly sweaters. It's bad enough that we buy all the stuff that we "need." But we also buy stuff that we don't need. And then-- in a final spasm of determination to consume every resource on this planet-- we buy jokes.
I had just watched this episode of Patriot Act, so I was a bit wound up about American clothing consumption.
We buy so so many clothes in America it's actually disgusting. They're made in Asia, and it's an environmental nightmare. Clothes take a lot of water to make. They pollute the water. They release toxic fumes in the air. The dyes are damaging to the environment. The workers toil in windowless rooms full of these fumes. They are often young and underpaid. But we're addicted to fast fashion and cheap clothes. So be it. I understand the motivation, to look good, and to look various. I'm always appreciative when my wife or the ladies in the English office are well-dressed. I wear the same clothes over and over again and it's boring. I get it. Not everyone wants to be boring. For some people, fashion is a hobby, an expression of who they are. Fine.
But do we need to buy clothing as a joke?
I think that "ugly sweater day" is a place to draw the line in the sand. If your workplace has one, rant a bit, indignantly. Tell people to watch Patriot Act "The Ugly Truth of Fast Fashion." And tell them to start wearing that scarlet sweater-- that shameful symbol of First World materialism run rampant-- more than one day a year. Own it and appreciate it for exactly what it is.
Taffy Brodesser-Akner's popular new novel Fleishman is in Trouble has been splendidly reviewed across the internet, so I will be brief. The book begins as a compelling divorce tale, told by a third party-- Libby, the ex-magazine writer.
If you continue there will be spoilers, as the book has a mystery element to it.
Libby is Toby's old friend, and she sympathetic to his plight. We learn that Toby is taking care of his two kids, saving lives as a hepatologist, navigating the on-line dating scene, and wondering where the hell his uber-successful agent wife has gotten to. He adopts a puppy. He's a divorced, horny Mr. Mom, who also has a difficult job. Despite his flaws, we are on his side. His wife is absent and cold and callous and overly ambitious.
But it seems that Libby (and the reader) has been taken in with Toby's story. While Toby's not in any way malevolent, his perspective might be limited. And stupidly masculine. Perhaps this is because he's quite short. It's not until Libby runs into Toby's wife Rachel that the story gets more fleshed out. Things are not exactly as they seem. But the story doesn't get fully fleshed out, because perhaps a third party can never understand a marriage from the outside.
So the paradox that Brodesser-Akner-Akner writes about is that it takes an outside view to describe a marriage, to get both perspectives, but it's like Nagel's essay about the mind of a bat-- you have to be inside a marriage to truly understand it. It's hard enough to unravel the motivations, voice, and point-of-view of one person, but once you bind their life inextricably to another, then both of their perspectives and characters are so intertwined, but also striving for autonomy, and there's no seeing it all at once.
While this sounds like serious stuff, the book is also satirical and funny and rambles through a wild world of NYC entitlement and wealth. Definitely worth reading.
I try to avoid walking through the hallways at the giant, overcrowded high school where I work. It's airless and oppressive and SLOW-- and I hate walking slow. The only positive thing is that you get to hear what the kids are talking about in the wild.
During hallway excursions, I typically overhear three types of conversation:
1) Things too filthy to transcribe.
2) Emotions ranging from anxiety to fuck-it about upcoming tests, quizzes, projects, and presentations.
3) References to memes,YouTubers,video games, school clubs, inside jokes, and other allusions are incomprehensible to me.
But yesterday, I heard something behind me that is exactly what I imagine high school kids should be talking about. Something that sounded like it was out of a John Hughes movie. It was wonderful. It was a pair of girls and they were walking behind me. One said to the other, with all sincerity:
"There's this boy in my lunch? He sits right at the the table next to mine, and he does not even know I exist. He's never even looked at me, but he's soooo cute!"
Last week, my wife had jury duty on Wednesday and I had jury duty on Thursday. This week, my wife had her administrative observation on Tuesday and I had my administrative observation on Wednesday.
Weird.
I hope my wife doesn't get bitten by a rabid animal (probably a coyote) next Monday . . . because it's going to happen to me on Tuesday. These things come in threes.
Stupid Advice People Give You So You Can Get Out of Jury Duty
"Tell the judge you're racist!"
"Tell the judge you can tell people are guilty just by looking into their eyes!"
"Act crazy!"
The Real Deal with "Voir Dire"
If you've ever been interviewed for a spot on a jury-- the process known in legal parlance as "voir dire"-- then you know this advice is absurd. You're in front of the general public, in a formal situation, talking to someone wearing robes, in a court of law.
You don't want to present yourself as racist clairvoyant lunatic.
You might run into these people in the future.
My wife sat in a room for a while and then got released early.
I was not as lucky as my wife.
I arrived at 8 AM, and snagged a choice seat at the one large table by the TV (advice from my wife) so I could get some grading done. The presiding judge came down and spoke to us about the importance of jury duty and the system. He explained the difference between an inconvenience and a hardship. Then we watched a video, which gave us some instructions on how to behave if we were on a jury. We instructed to not only listen to the witnesses, but to observe their body language and tone of voice as well. I had a problem with this, which I tucked away in the recess of my brain. Then I got back to reading quizzes.
I was called upstairs at 9:30 AM, with a hundred other citizens. One of the elevators was broken so we had to stuff ourselves into the good one, in shifts. We were crammed into a courtroom. I was sitting in between a tall white guy from Texas and an older African American gentleman with one earring who was working on an adult coloring book with some markers. The judge told us they needed 12 jurors for a criminal case, and then he told us a bit about the case. I can't reveal this information, or I might get fined $1000. The prosecutor and the defendant and the defendant's lawyer were all there. The defendant was accused of a violent crime. He was African-American and looked like a tough hombre. You'll understand why I mention his race soon enough.
We filled out two questionnaires and then the judge, prosecutor and lawyer interviewed possible jurors. This went on for hours. We finally got to break for lunch at 12:30 and I went to Tavern of George (a.k.a. Tumulty's) and inhaled a burger. The beer looked was tempting, but I didn't want to be found in contempt of court.
I went back, finished my grading, and added some information to my questionnaire. Quite a bit of information. There was nothing else to do. And I decided if I got called up that I wasn't going to repeat what I did last time I went through "voir dire." No pathetic pleading. I would not throw myself prostate upon the mercy of the court. My kids were older now, and more responsible. If I got called to be on a trial, so be it.
So I would be myself. I would explain that it was a rough time of year for me to miss-- because of the College Writing curriculum-- but that this was more of an inconvenience than a hardship.
At 2 PM, I got called up for some "voir dire." I took a deep breath and walked over to the table with the judge, the prosecutor, and the defendant's attorney. I sat down. I told the judge my school situation, but very plainly, without drama or histrionics, and he said he would consider it. Then we got into my questionnaire.
First he wanted to know why I said I wouldn't be able to convict someone just on testimony alone. I told him about the new Malcolm Gladwell book Talking to Strangers and just how difficult it was to determine whether a stranger was telling the truth or lying. I told him I had a problem with the instructional video, because its very difficult to determine anything credible from tone and body language. Some people always seem like they are telling the truth and other people always seem nervous or anxious or sketchy. And it doesn't mean much. I talked about the fallibility of human memory and the ambiguity of eyewitness accounts.
Then we went through the people my interactions with the legal world. My brother worked in the building. My dad was director of corrections. I had a few run-ins with the law, but mainly college shenanigans.
Then he asked me why I wasn't sure if the legal system was fair. I told him I had read and listened to a lot about Ferguson and the shooting of Michael Brown, and I had listened to Serial Season 3 in its entirety, which delved into the corruption int he Cleveland court system. I told him I had learned that sometimes the court system is designed to shake down and oppress people of color.
Then we took a look at the free response questions. We were upstairs for a long time and I had answered the questions comprehensively. For example, there was a question about how you get your news. I had listed every podcast I to which I subscribed-- this is a long list.
The judge saw this scrawling mess and said, "I don't think we've ever had anyone run out of room on the sheet."
We talked my favorite books and movies (the judge enjoyed The Irishman) and the prosecutor pursued the list of magazines I often read: The New Yorker and Harper's and Mother Jones and The Atlantic and Wired and The Week.
The judge took a look at the people I'd like to meet. I had listed The Wu-Tang Clan, Dave Chappelle, and Howard Stern. I forgot Larry David.
The judge thought about all this for a long moment and then said, "I'm going to have you take a seat over there."
He pointed at the jury box.
"Over there?" I said, in slight disbelief. I was headed toward the jury box! I quickly accepted it. It was my civic duty, it was only a six day trial, and my family would figure it out. It wasn't the end of the world. My students would be fine.
I took three steps, and then I heard the judge again. I turned. The prosecutor had just finished speaking to the judge. Telling the judge to dismiss me. No way the prosecutor wanted some liberal bombastic blowhard all full of random and useless information on his jury.
So I was dismissed. And I didn't have to act like a racist or a lunatic or a mind-reader.
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.
