The first time I went out on Zappo's, I was overwhelmed by the variety of shoes there, thought there were many great ones, and went away. That was months ago. Today I came back, determined to fill the gaps in my footwear portfolio, and went through all the contenders in the categories in question (brown shoes, man clogs/slip ons), and found that there wasn't all that much. Perhaps it is just fear of making a commitment that is striking me.
Tuesday, November 24, 2015
Natalie had her first behind the wheel driving lesson yesterday, and when I picked her up at the high school at 7:30, she got in the car and burst into tears immediately: "I hate driving, I don't want to learn how to drive." Unfortunately, it had been her first time behind the wheel. It had crept up on us, I hadn't realized that we were supposed to acclimate her a little, she had made zero effort to prioritize it over all of her activities (debate, mock trial, service hours, ultimate frisbee) or over the well-earned time she spends watching TV shows on her phone, relaxing.
So the first time she was behind the wheel was with a total stranger and another kid in the car. Not good. She was not confident steering, couldn't reach the brake properly, etc.
She is so self-possessed, so confident, so hard-working, so self-tending, we tend to forget she is vulnerable and needs guidance. On the one hand, I don't want to be controlling and helicoptering. All we have really needed to do has been to facilitate with Natalie.
Which exposes us to blind spots like this one where perhaps we should have been more attentive. In the end, having a child is one of the ultimate lessons in powerlessness. There is only so much one can do.
One thing. It is clear that she is infected to some extent by the zeitgeist of college goal determinism, which is to say viewing getting into a prestigious college as her ultimate end. And how could she not be, as the daughter of Joe Yale Columbia PhD and Josephine Michigan Yale MFA, growing up in a place like Chapel Hill. If she didn't have a million things to read, I would give her Frank Bruni's Where You Go Is Not Who You'll Be for Christmas. I should probably read it and digest it and look for ways to convey its meaning to her. Though I've read enough excerpts to get the gist of it.
In any case, after I picked her up last night, I took her to her favorite pizza place and got her a couple of slices, one of which she took for lunch today.
Sunday, November 22, 2015
When talking to Charlie Rose Knausgaard mentioned shame as one of the core experiences he was confronting and seeking to work through as a writer, and that struck a chord in me.
The interior of our 2001 Volvo has some issues: one of the seats has a split seam, as it has for maybe 5 years now, and the header fabric on the sun roof has been hanging down for some months. None of this should be surprising in a 15-year old car. Likewise, retractable, solar-powered shades on one of our skylights has been messed up for over a year now. These things bother me, but not Mary.
But when we are having people over for this or that, other things bother Mary. For example, places on the armchair in the living room where the cats have gone to town with their claws, and similar spots on the well-aged couch in our rec room. To say nothing of the cleanliness of our bathrooms. When it is just us in the house, this stuff just rolls right off of us, but when people are coming over we whip into a frenzy of cleaning, hiding, minimizing, remediating.
I had often thought that this behavior was shame-driven on her part, without stopping to consider that I have the same feelings, just with regard to other objects (car, skylight). I am fully on board with the desire to have clean toilets for guests, mind you. At any case, my obsession with the specific instances of decay that bug me vs. the ones that bug her really gets down to basic power struggle and resentments within the marriage and the fact that we don't find time enough between the two of us to talk things through, as we are caught up in our own shit all the time and taking care of the kids.
And yet, what is the shame all about? It is natural that things fall apart, that's just entropy. As good members of the bourgeoisie, deep within ourselves, we feel that we should not let our things fall apart, or that we should not be seen to be letting them fall apart. So you replace things when they display decay. If you don't, the fear is that you are seen to not have enough money to keep your stuff in shape. Hence shame.
So there is a fear of the perception of poverty, but just behind it is the fear of death.
It will be interesting to read more about what Knausgaard has to say. I have purposefully held off on reading more of his thinking while I did my own.
Yes, as concerns the furniture, one could argue that we should just declaw the cats. But that's another discussion.
Saturday, November 21, 2015
Graham and I wrapped up watching the original Star Trek tonight, and I will confess to being deeply saddened to come to the end. Particularly since there was no sense that it was the end, Kirk, Spock and McCoy just ended an episode, not even indicating that they were wrapping up a season, and that was it. They had really grown on me, and the last episode was rather special, since Kirk's soul is switched into the body of a cunning ex-girlfriend mad scientist type, who had always wanted to be a starship captain but had never had what it took.
The impostor Kirk (his girlfriend's soul in Shatner's body) kept trying to keep the real Kirk (in the female body) down, but eventually they figure it out. Spock's steadfastness in asserting that it is indeed Kirk in a woman's body -- even as he is court-martialled and threatened with death -- was particularly touching. I need me some friends like that!
So, anyway, I guess we will move on to The Next Generation. Everybody says it's awesome. We shall see.
My mom and I went to see Natalie appear in a play at the high school last night. It was called DNA. I forget who wrote it. That kind of thing seemed significant at one point in time, now I don't really care. We had planned for Graham to go see it, but Mary had seen it the night before, so Graham stayed home with my mom's husband David and watched Sponge Bob, which I think was more to both of their tastes.
Thursday, November 19, 2015
I had, in all honestly, never heard of Karl-Ove Knausgaard until a couple of months back, or whenever it was the Times magazine published a piece by him about coming to America, getting stuck somewhere in the maritime provinces waiting on some bureaucratic nonsense, and then somehow making his way to Cleveland or wherever. I read some of it and thought, "who is this guy and what's it all about?"
Then, little by little, I became aware that Knausgaard was a literary sensation, writer of an acclaimed series of autobiographical works in which a first-person protagonist writes in considerable detail about the course of his life, including raising children, etc. It sounded, in short, like a much more serious and fictionalized version of a certain blog. Which made me even more resentful of him.
And so, when I saw that he had published a review of Houllebecq's Submission in the Times Book Review, I thought I would give him a chance. I read it. The guy is serious, thoughful. Unlike me, he has managed to attend to the craft of writing, which only makes sense, given that he writes for a living and has done quite well by it, or so it would seem. It would appear that I am going to need to read it.
I was impressed by his diligence, I must confess. He starts reading Houllebecq and discovers that the book revolves around Huysmans, so he goes back and reads Huysmans.
For some reason, it makes me want to read Chekhov stories, in Russian, but I can't find what I believe to be the one volume I have. Oddly, after selling most of my Russian library in Princeton back in 2003 I seem to have retained only things that were core to my major research projects: Mayakovsky, from my senior essay, and Turgenev, Goncharov, Belinskii, Dobroliubov, Pisarev, and Annenkov, from my dissertation. Plus Pushkin. Curious, how I pick things.
Tuesday, November 17, 2015
The news about Charlie Sheen being HIV-positive this morning was a bit of a shock. Not because of his disease status, when you think what he has been known for in recent years, it shouldn't have been a big surprise, and indeed in most ways it really wasn't.
Instead, it was disruptive news because HIV and AIDS seem to have receded so much as an existential threat, even as the behavior which gives rise to them -- people running around having unprotected sex -- has gotten so much worse as the omnipresence of internet pornography has rippled out through popular culture into the sexual behavior of teenagers, college students, and twenty somethings.
And it took me back to my own college and post-college years, when I was promiscuous as hell so that I could get ongoing ego validation from a range attractive women, and really wasn't as careful as I should have been. And I was afraid to get HIV tested because my fear was so great, so I didn't, for a long time. Which fed snowballing anxiety, and the underlying, somatic sense that everything would soon go off the rails, which I recently alluded to.
How happy I was, then, to get a negative test, and then to settle down into a life of married monogamy. Really. Likewise, how happy I am to have a daughter who does not appear to get inclined to get herself into situations where she could be in trouble.
But I think back to how quickly I flipped a switch from being a kid who didn't get in trouble to one who did, and it makes me really wish I would be home for dinner tonight.
Sunday, November 15, 2015
A busy day of driving around here in suburbia. To AA and back. Natalie and friend to Durham for mock trial, now I've still got to go get them. Graham and friend to the library, then to the friend's house, then home (fortunately that is all rather close by).
In the middle, I ran around the lake. While doing so, as I pushed through the pain of a little groin pull from soccer yesterday (Z -- compression shorts are indeed good, but not a cure all, sadly), I first fixated on some recent unpleasantries around politics associated with a board on which I serve. I realized that, in doing so, I was going back to a pattern of letting myself get hung up on struggles with boss-like figures, and that this whole pattern of perseveration goes back to a core belief, somewhere deep in myself, that things will turn out for the worst, and that I am somehow responsible.
Which is just silly. So Graham and I watched Star Trek, and everything turned out OK.
Saturday, November 14, 2015
I was just coming back to the house and I saw a guy in a Red VW Scirocco, probably from '85 or so. Then I got a view of the driver, who appeared to be 80ish. I could not help but smile, because I figure he's probably the original owner.
I feel the guy. As for myself, I am wrestling with whether or not I should put $600 into the interior of our 2001 Volvo S40. Rationally, it's probably stupid to do so, and especially from an emissions perspective. But it is the cheapest way to hold onto a car we know works, and with Natalie coming up on getting her license soon, it's probably smart to do so. We may have to become a 3-car family.
But I know that's not what it's really about. I like holding onto old things. The cassette deck in the car pleases me, and the broken cupholder doesn't break my heart either. There is a perverse pride associated with having things forever, like the stupid futon just behind me here in the office that Mary got when she went off to grad school in '89 or so. It does a great job of holding my briefcase when I come home from work, or the bass guitar that Lor gave me when I was up at his house sometime last year. So what if nobody ever sits on it.
Yes, in my heart of hearts I'd rather replace it with a comfie couch on which I could take naps.
But back to the Volvo. There's just something about holding onto it, making it last. It is part of the fundamental, underlying conservatism in my nature that just gets more pronounced as time goes on.
Wednesday, November 11, 2015
Monday, November 09, 2015
Just started reading a piece by Liesl Schillinger about Karl Ove Knausgaard, partially envious of how cool it was for her to go and hang out with him, even though I am manifestly unswayed by what little I have read of his work. Then I realized that, just as I must resist the temptation to watch sports on TV when I could in fact be out exercising or even doing sports, I must fight the tendency to read, and particularly to read about writers, when I know I should be writing. For what is reading about riders if not fantasizing about being one. And all one really needs to do to be a writer is to write.
Or, it is rather to have something to write about. I just got off the phone with a fellow board member, with who I had spoken for an hour about the dysfunction of our HOA board, which was so very manifest behind the scenes at our annual meeting for the general membership. It was the second longish phone call of the day, and, as such, was rather exhausting. I know, I know what you're thinking. Whatever the hell was I going through my mind when I put myself forward to be on such a thing.
I suppose I was trying to be a grown up and good upstanding member of the bourgeoisie. Being on boards is very responsible sounding. I'll bet even Clark W. Griswold served his community in this fashion.
This after a day of mostly obsessing about figuring out how to be a good fiduciary and make a well-informed and considered recommendation of a 401k platform for a new client.
It is all just as exciting as it sounds.
Sunday, November 08, 2015
Much to do today, a difficult instance of time allocation, on a freaking Sunday, of all days
- I'd like to finish my book on the neurobiology of markets
- Need to get leaves managed down, especially those on the roof. This has been quite difficult this year, with all the rain. But the ones on the roof really need to come down, because they trap water in corners and a big dump of rain is expected early in the week
- Memorial service for Scott Clarke
- Already did load of shirts so I'd have a clean white one for that
- Go pick up Russell beforehand, since he can't drive since he had a stroke
- Lake Forest Association annual open meeting at 7:30, where I need to present on the dam and my efforts to get to know it and take care of it, and to fulfill the state mandate to put in place an Emergency Action Plan
- Watch Star Trek with Graham, share a few words in the hallway with Natalie
Saturday, November 07, 2015
Graham and I were at the library today. He's pretty well picked through a lot of the stuff in the kids' section, and I've been trying to get him to look at some of the adult sci-fi and mystery stuff. As we left the library, we were walking past the teen room, and I was like "hey, maybe you should look in there, you're almost a teenager yourself."
And Graham goes: "Yeah, I'm in my late tweens."
Monday, November 02, 2015
I made my way through Richard Ford's Let Me Be Frank With You. I was going to say that I had finally made my way through it, but then again it actually didn't take me all that long to read it. It just seemed like it took longer than it did. Which is to say I didn't enjoy it much.
It's difficult to say why. I really loved the first three Frank Bascombe books. Independence Day in particular really hit home, and I cried at the end of The Lay of the Land when it became apparent that Bascombe was going to be OK.
But now I'm ready to let him go. Ford can just kill him off. Maybe it's because the most recent book is so ham-handedly organized around the topic of Hurricane Sandy, or maybe because somehow the wry neo-Holden Caulfield voice of Bascombe is so incongrous in the brain of a man as old as he is. Maybe it's my fear of my own aging: am I going to sound like that.
Whatever it is, the book's just not as good as its predecessors. Of course, it is a durned site better than any book I have ever written, I'm well aware of that.
On to the next. Mouse brought me some very nice books from McIntyre's today at lunch. I'll dig into one of those soon.
Sunday, November 01, 2015
The NY Times week in review today had a piece on how Silicon Valley -- in its ultimate wisdom and arrogance -- thinks it has reinvented philanthropy. We can see it in the Gates Foundation's emphasis on metrics, Mark Zuckerberg's attempt to reengineer Newark's schools with a huge dump of cash. There's even a deeply ironic quote from Marc Andreesen saying the Airbnb lets people with spare rooms rent them out, thereby combating unequal distribution of wealth. Which is crazy talk.
Now, I am not entirely disbelieving of this thesis. I think that Gates, in particular, has really put his back and brain into trying to figure out how to best use his riches. But overall, the technorati are definitely patting themselves on the back with selfie sticks. It's hard to give money away effectively, it's hard in general to determine what is the right way to allocate resources.
That is, in general, what we have government for, and why we elect representatives -- so we can delegate the resource allocation function to people who have made a profession of thinking about it. Now, it is understandable and understood that government doesn't always do this well, that government institutions develop their own inertia and instincts for self-preservation, and that corruption is a real and difficult problem.
But that doesn't mean that the right solution is to have technorati aggregating huge sums and then running out and solving our problems for us. I think it is reasonable that there should be a healthy tension between non-profits and government agencies. The former can move more quickly than the latter, and are more likely to innovate. Government can learn from the non-profit sector, for sure. But the idea that key governmental functions should be ceded to young geniuses just because they made a lot of money and want to feel like they are doing good is silly.