We had a Rutgers grade calibration day and we found several essays that seem to have sections written by AI, probably ChatGPT . . . and this is more difficult to prove than old-school plagiarism-- you have to guess what the student typed into the prompt to get the chatbot to spit back out the weird stuff in the essay-- but you can tell the sections that are written by a computer . . . Stacey made an astute comparison to the idea of the "uncanny valley" in digital animation.
Early Morning Date with a Dead Dog
You never know where the adventure of parenthood is going to take you . . . this morning I woke up my son Ian at 5:45 AM and we drove over to Carolyn's house-- Ian does odd jobs, outdoor work, and dog sitting for her-- and Carolyn's dogs are old, one is deaf and blind and the other had severe problems with his back legs and needed to be put down yesterday . . . poor Huckleberry . . . anyway, the vet came to her house and put the dog down last night and Carolyn needed a couple of people to carry the dog to her car this morning so she could drive the dog to the crematorium . . . so Ian and I started our day by lugging a seventy-pound carcass out of Carolyn's living room and wresting it into the back of her Subaru and then Ian went back to bed and I got ready for work . . . dogs-- they just don't live long enough.
Adrift in the Digital Doldrums
New episode of We Defy Augury is up and streaming: "Adrift in the Digital Doldrums" . . . in this one I describe how to become a digital minimalist, how to solve all of America's problems, and how NOT to clean out a lint duct; cameo appearances from Bill Maher, Tristan Harris, and Alexander Supertramp.
Meta Action is Still Action, Right?
The Unbearable Weight of Massive Talent, starring Nicolas Cage as a gonzo-version of himself, is entertaining, fun, and meta . . . and Pedro Pascal's understated emotion is the perfect foil to Cage's wild manic swings; this is the lighter version of JCVD . . . a similar premise, but Jean-Claude Van Damme plays a very dark version of himself . . . if you're going to watch one meta-action movie where the star plays himself, I would go with the Nicolas Cage one.
Let There Be Lint
I cleaned my dryer vent duct today, using a shop-vac and a kit that contained a bunch of flexible plastic sticks that you screw together and then you put an augur lint brush on one end of the long flexible stick and you attach the other end to a drill-- you insert that thing into the duct outside your house (after removing the louvres) while you have the shop-vac attached to the hose in the basement (you've detached the hose from the back of your dryer) and when you're done you have cleaned the lint from the hose, there's a bunch of lint in the shop-vac and there's also an unlimited amount of lint all over the washroom-- I'm not sure why this happened (because I was outside spinning the augur brush) but there certainly was a lot of lint.
Peanut Butter Hustle
I was preparing to go to early morning basketball-- it was 5:30 AM-- and I had to walk the dog in the sideways rain (I've got a special jacket for this-- I'll put up a picture) and Lola will sleep as late as you let her and is often fairly reluctant to come down the stairs early in the morning, she's content to wait up on the landing until everyone wakes up-- but I had just finished a jar of peanut butter, and her favorite hobby is to lick the remaining peanut butter out of the jar and even though she was warm and in her bed in Ian's room, all I had to whisper up the stairs was "peanut butter" and she came racing down, no hesitation about bounding down a dark staircase.
At Least It Was Short
Once again, I got sucked into another ridiculous Blake Crouch sci-fi thriller: this one is the first in a trilogy and it's called Pines . . . it's pretty much Twin Peaks plus Winesburg,Ohio inserted into The Matrix.
I Need To Try Chick-fil-A
My Public Speaking students are giving informational speeches and I have learned I don't know anything: today I learned about Abby Lee Miller-- the crazy abusive dance teacher who hid assets and survived spinal cancer; I learned about the YouTube phenomenon called Sidemen Sundays; and I learned I am really bad at eating fast food . . . I've never had Popeyes or Chick-fil-A.
Croatia: All Feet on Deck
Croatia, with a population of 3.9 million, makes it to the finals of the World Cup in 2018 and the semi-finals of the World Cup in 2022 . . . very impressive . . . and they'll probably bury Luka Modric in the basement of a castle in Transylvania and then resurrect him for the 2026 World Cup.
Carrie Soto Is Wack
On my podcast We Defy Augury, I usually try to convince you to read a particular book-- or at least to enjoy my thoughts on the book-- but this episode is different: I try to convince you NOT to read a particular book, Taylor Jenkins Reid's inane tennis novel Carrie Soto Is Back . . . which, oddly, got excellent reviews and-- even more absurd-- won the GoodReads reader's choice historical fiction novel of the year . . . anyway, join me, Clubber Lang, Helen Keller and John McEnroe as we try to unravel the idiocy of this book.
Sometimes You Win When You Don't Watch
Good week of sports for me: I managed to get to school early for both badminton and basketball, made it to the gym Saturday morning and played indoor soccer Sunday morning-- so now I'm pretty much immobile and very sore-- which will be perfect, since the Giants are on at 1 PM . . . and the World Cup games were fantastic, especially Croatia/Brazil and Argentina/Netherlands and the best sporting move that I made all week was that I completely forgot to watch the Rutgers/Ohio State basketball game on Thursday night, just blanked out and forgot about it . . . which was great because it ended with this debacle and if I would have committed to watching the entire game and then saw that ending, I probably would have had an aneurysm.
World Cup Woes
It's kind of nice when your country is eliminated from the World Cup because you can watch the games in a state of curiosity, awe, and general relaxation-- not that I told my British friends this nugget of wisdom after the disaster of the England/France game this afternoon . . . nothing worse than when your team totally dominates and your most overrated player-- according to these Brits-- skies a PK into the thirtieth row and you miss a chance to play Morocco to get into the finals . . . brutal stuff (and I feel quite bad for Harry Kane, but you've got to get that on goal and then if the keeper makes the play, good for him).
It's a Miracle . . . Now Shut Up and Do Your Work
We were brainstorming topics for an informational presentation in my Public Speaking class and some boys wanted to do a speech about how "Helen Keller isn't real" and I was like "what?" and they told me they just didn't buy it-- how could someone who couldn't see or hear write books and I told them the one thing I remembered about Helen Keller-- that the teacher poured some water on her hand and spelled out "water" and they were like "what about 'the'? how did she learn the word 'the'?" and I was like, "I don't know! go do some research" and this class is split in two by the lunch period, so I brought this up in the English Office and Cunningham was like "yeah! how did she do all that? how could she learn all those words?" and I was like "you need to go sit with the stupid boys in my Public Speaking class" and Cunningham was like "how could she learn all the words?" and I said, "they put stuff in her hand and spelled it" but now I was starting to doubt myself because that sounded absurd . . . and she was like "how did she learn abstract concepts?" and I said, "you pour water over her hand and spell 'water' for a couple days, and then one day you pour hot water on her hand and spell 'betrayal'" and then I spent the rest of my lunch period researching Helen Keller and apparently her teacher spelled millions of words on her hand, and she used a braille typewriter, and she felt cheeks and mouths and lips for vibrations to learn what words sounded like and there were always doubters of her abilities but she repeatedly proved them wrong and rode a bike and flew a plane and went to college . . . and I'm not exactly sure how she did all this, but I'm pretty sure she is real-- but I'm still hard-pressed to explain how it all happened.
BADminton
I debuted my new (and fairly cheap . . . under fifty dollars) badminton racket today at 6:30 AM-- it was certainly an upgrade from the gym class equipment I've been using-- much lighter because it's made of graphite . . . but I saw no marked improvement in my game, perhaps because we couldn't get the basketball hoops up and so we had to tape out a court in the center of the gym-- which made judging things quite difficult (and while my play was, as usual, erratic and profanity laced, my arm doesn't hurt as much as it usually does after one of these sessions).
Liberation Daze
I just put up a new episode of my podcast, We Defy Augury . . . this episode, "Liberation Daze," examines the writing of George Saunders; Festivus makes a cameo appearance, as does Lloyd Dobler from Say Anything.
Too Many Sports . . .
Big Rutgers win over Indiana Friday night, then I settled in at the bar with some friends to watch the Giants, Jets, and World Cup game Sunday afternoon-- Giants should have won but tied-- nothing like watching an entire football game and it ending in a tie-- Jets fell apart on the one-yard line, and England crushed Senegal . . . in the end I don't know how to feel (although I was excited that Argentina moved on, I love that little Lionel Messi chap) but there might be too many sporting events on TV right now for me to handle.
USA? USA!
Here we go . . . should be fun, despite the anxiety and undue concern about the state of Christian Pulisic's nether regions-- there's nothing that can make a guy feel sympathy pain like another guy with a sore groin.
I Cook on Thursdays
No time to write, as I'm about to start cooking . . . yesterday was Catherine's birthday and instead of the usual present: two weeks of cooking dinner, I've decided on something more ambitious-- I'm going to cook dinner every Tuesday and Thursday until her next birthday (and maybe beyond that, we'll see how it goes) and while I won't be able to pull this off during tennis season, the rest of the time it should be fine-- the two weeks of cooking every meal was a mistake-- I would get stressed out, drink too much, run out of things I know how to make-- but this way I can stick to stuff in my wheelhouse and it won't get repetitive and she'll always know when I'm cooking-- on her meeting day and on Thursday, a good night to have a beer while you cook (unless you just had the flu) so I've got to get on with it: blackened mahi-mahi, Brussels sprouts and bacon, and roasted potatoes.
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