Trust Exercise

I just finished Susan Choi's Trust Exercise, which I encountered in the used section of Epilogue Books (cleverly known as Prologue Books) last Saturday when I was between grabbing some sushi with mom and going to get a long-delayed professional haircut from Ashlyn, something that I should really do more often. Ashlyn was running a little behind when I got there, so I started in reading the book, which ended up being another excellent excuse to not keep banging my head against the brick that is Doris Kearn Goodwin's Team of Rivals.

I had hesitated before buying it. Choi was a couple of years behind me at Yale and was someone I saw around and at parties, someone I knew tangentially but not really. When I'm reading books by people I went to college with -- be it Claire Messued whom I did know or Choi or Amor Towles whom I kinda almost knew -- there's always a vague hint of envy and the path not taken for me, I am envious of some glamorous writer's life I project onto them, of Yaddo and MacDowell and other verdant writerly retreats. I know in fact their lives are substantially grinds of giving readings and signing books to crowds of 20, 30, 50 people if they're lucky sometimes, that it's not all as fancy as it seems. But still I wonder.

But then again I've never really had much of a knack for fiction and certainly never began to hone the craft. 

In any case, it's a fine book. Unexpected twists and turns and all of that. I had initially thought it was an analog to Normal People and there's an element of truth to that, but much of that ends up being a sidebar if not an outright red herring to where the book ends up. In some ways, Choi gives us two plots (and a half?) for the price of one. I'll be back for more.

Return to Zeno

I was talking to a Tesla driver the other day, an engineer who had bought his well before Elon went full on through the looking glass and who seems enamored more than anything by the technology of his car. I asked him his opinion of the thesis that plug-in hybrids were ultimately a better societal allocation of the scarce battery-making materials to reduce our carbon footprint (forgetting for one blissful moment how we've jettisoned carbon concerns in favor of our headling dash for AI). The engineer responded with a version of the old argument that it's fallacious/delusional to think that individual action can make a meaningful impact on the world's big problems.

It occurred to me that, yet again, he had escorted me back to the realm of Zeno's paradoxes, specifically, the one which denies the possibility of motion since, to go a certain distance, you first need to go half the distance. To go that half distance, you first need to go half of it, or a quarter distance. To go a quarter, first an eighth. And so on. The infinite logical divisibility of space thus demonstrates the impossibility of motion. And so (it occurs to me), we are all Oblomovs.

Indeed, why try anything? It just doesn't matter. That's the logical conclusion from this mindset.

Unless, perhaps, one acts as part of a team, a group, a corporation.

Catching up with me

I recent weeks my weight has been creeping up, recently topping out at 189 for a brief moment. This is not an all-time high -- I think I tipped the scales as high as 193 maybe early in grad school and probably also when I was transitioning into the private sector around 2000. But we are getting on up there.

I'm sure a bunch of things are at work. For one thing, with Adam injured, it's harder to get tennis on the calendar because it all involves complex scheduling as opposed to just having it on the calendar. But there's also the problem of holiday parties and my humanities-PhD-program engraved sense of scarcity: if there is free food, my body tells me I should eat it. And then my alcoholic inner voice whispers that since I don't drink alcohol it's OK for me to eat it. So I sense that I must simultaneously keep my exercise program up and my calorie consumption an ever duller roar.

What's more, I need to do this while bearing down on the looming 6-0 just around the corner in April. Anecdotally -- and that's all I've got -- my body seems to be pushing back a little. I went running yesterday afternoon and -- as I was trying to extend the 3-mile lake loop by adding a mile or so via the Rolling Road to Oxford Hills extension -- a calf started to threaten a cramp going up Rolling, so I had to slow to a walk. It could well have been dehydration, probably I hadn't focused on water enough through the afternoon of coffee and sitting and chatting with Ashlyn while getting a rare professional cut. I'd like to think that's the case. But part of me suspects it's aging. Everything takes a little more focus and discipline.

But maybe I'm sick of focus and discipline and want to chill out. Is that the siren song of senescence? Arghh, it's all so maddening. Certainly many naked eyes would observe me and my laptop-staring, YouTube-gorging ways and fail to see in me an exemplar of anything other than a very muddy middle. And who's to say they would be mistaken?

The Story of Music

Not long ago it occurred to me that not only did I have the most threadbare sense of the history of music, what with never having studied it much (save for one class on jazz I took the spring of my senior year), but that this problem was in principle quite easily redressed with the help of YouTube. It just took a quick query and I was off and running with Howard Goodall's 2013 six-part The Story of Music.

To be clear, I had never heard of Goodall and did not pause to check his credentials, but he seems to know a lot about music. He narrates. He plays the piano. He even sings. It's all very BBC, to be sure, and his focus for the most part is very much on what we refer to as "classical music," orchestras, violins, oboes, all that whatnot, though he does address popular music and music in the age of mechanical reproduction.

There were some surprises.

First, from the perspective of musical form, he doesn't seem to think of either Mozart or Beethoven as huge innovators. Bach, yes, to be sure, but not the two that we most often think of as the big boys. He gives them credit for changing the status of the composer in the world and how composers could earn a living, making them more self-sustaining than vassals of this or that court or patron, but not much else. Maybe he's right.

There's barely any mention of Schubert, Haydn, Chopin. I guess six hours just isn't a lot when you've got a lot of ground to cover.

Also, he spends a good chunk of time talking about how Liszt was really the innovative one and that so much of what Wagner did just derives from innovation done by Liszt. To which I'm like, OK, don't really have a dog in that fight. But Goodall clearly does.

Anyhoo, it was six hours well spent. I learned a lot. I have more of a timeline in mind now for the history of music, which is what I was after. I did snooze a little on my couch while listening/watching, but then again that's what couches are for. Onward.

Megabroods

Today there's a story in the Journal about Chinese billionnaires trying to build massive families for themselves using American surrogates. Of course there are a wide range of reactions about how morally regugnant it is, whether it's illegal, immoral, etc. My reaction tends to be more in the range of ick/good luck with that and, ultimately, sadness for the children of these colossal, raging assholes. Raising children should be the most engaging, engrossing and rewarding things one ever does, really the most if not the only meaningful thing many of us do, not some volume play.

It merits noting in passing some of the variants of the schemes these guys have in mind. One wants to create a corps of sons who can take over his businesses. Another wants a bunch of daughters who carry intermarry with other rich people. Each of these variants has its own ick factor, but at least the second guy has some imagination and sees the value in cross-fertilization and combining with others.

At the end of the day (i.e. the end of the post), I can only wish the best for these poor little rich children, and hope that they find love and fulfillment somewhere along the way on this often harsh planet. And I hope that those born here in the USA are not denied their birthright American citizenship and that it will provide them opportunities for edification and growth, lest they all be subjected to the ruthless discipline of the gaokao, on top of the demands of an asshole father who will most likely smoulder just outside the ashbin of history before being ingested by worms.

A new tune

We have had an issue of Christmas music staleness over the years. We've tried to refresh, with some limited success, so as not to overplay our household classics (many of which I've posted here over the years).

One thing we've had around for years is this CD of Mary's, which we've never listened to consistently. I put it on the other night when we were putting up the tree, and somewhere in there this song comes in. First I recognized Jackson Browne's voice and I thought, "Oh, Jackson Browne," which I might have realized was coming up had I looked at the cover. As the song went on it dawned on my that it was a rather lovely tune. 

Last night I was listening to it after Mary got home and I just started crying, from whatever, joy, relief, holiday spirit. In general I am not good at processing joy. I can have fun, I can joke around, whatever. But mostly I am just grinding a lot, knocking things out, getting things done, pushing myself to do more, trying not to impose too much on those around me, especially my kids.

But it is hard for me to just be and be happy and sometimes to insist on the things I need to do to be happy.

I had my last meeting with a doctor yesterday. He is retiring at 71, taking counsel from a mentor who worked till he was 92 before dying at 95, who told my doctor not to make that mistake.

I am a good ways from that point, but I will be mindful of it as we roll forward.

Fresh keds

Coincident with the demise of my longtime office loafers -- about which I have already reported in these pages -- I got the clogs shown below. This morning it occurred to me that I had refreshed almost every element in my shoe portfolio over the last year or so -- walking shoes (shown below with the clogs), running shoes, tennis shoes, flip flops, hiking boots, pretty much everything except for dress shoes, where I continue to sport the the Alfred Sargent* boots I bought in 1995 right when Mary and I started going out and in which I was married. Also some mid-cut Blundstones I wear many days that are maybe 2 years old. 

I am very pleased with this state of affairs. It has been some time since I have been enthusiastic for each pair of shoes I own, with the caveat that the ASICS tennis shoes I picked up this summer seem to be contributing to my jumper's knee/insertional tendonitis, which implies I should order another pair of the cushier K-Swiss for actual tennis playing and downgrade the ASICS into walking around sneakers. Which is fine because I honestly bought them to be more for their after-tennis life anyway.

It is a fine thing to have a quiver of fetching footwear. It takes me back to 8th grade and all of its associated joys. 

* I was saddened to learn just now, from the so-called internet, that Alfred Sargent filed for liquidation in 2021. Somebody has evidently bought the brand name and is selling shoes under it, but it is far from the same thing, which was readily apparent by the low prices they're asking for the shoes. Also they're not very nice looking.

Union College

I finally got the gumption to pull from my shelf the copy of Doris Kearns Goodwin's Team of Rivals that had been taking up space there for some time, since whenever I paid $9 for it at some lucky used bookstore.

Reading about William Seward, who will later in the book become Lincoln's Secretary of State, I was pleased to learn that he was a graduate of Union College in Schenectady. Over the years I visited many colleges and universities with Graham and Natalie, maybe thirty of them all told. Union's experience for prospective students was far and away the best. I can't believe I failed to memorialized it here on the blog, but I will do so now.

It was the summer of 2021. The tail end of the most restrictive portion of the pandemic. Most of the schools we visited with Graham didn't bother to actually offer tours and most of them wouldn't let visiting students into buildings.

Union was not like that. Being situated up in Schenectady, just north of Albany, Union understood full well that it was outside of the mainstream of small colleges geographically and that it lacked the brand power of the Wesleyans, Williamses, and Bowdoins of the world. We went inside buildings. Wearing masks, to be sure.

So there we are sitting in a little auditorium on Union's picturesque campus, getting a little welcome talk from the Director of Admissions. Up behind him on a screen was a screen with a scrolling presentation: "Welcome Graham, from Chapel Hill, NC" it said, and it cycled through all the kids in the room (maybe 12-15 plus parents) before going back to the beginning of the list. A warm glow descended over me. This was good marketing.  

The tour of the buildings was solid, led by a rising senior who was a big fan of her alma mater. Pretty much par for the course, but no complaints. When the tour was done we went back to the admissions building where we had started. It was hot out and we needed to hit the head and refill our water bottles. When we passed through building's front room where the receptionist was she asked us, very earnestly and positively: "Did you guys enjoy the tour?" She may even have asked if we had any other questions. 

It was all just perfect pitch. Super welcoming. Good salesmanship. I am glad Graham ended up at UNC but if Union had been 45 minutes away I would have been delighted for him to have gone there. Though Schenectady is a freaking hike to get to from here, so it's all for the best

For the weak

"Patents are for the weak." Elon Musk says a lot of stupid stuff, but this one is interesting. Patents, in his mind, stifle creativity and hinder the flow of ideas. A good company or productive scientist should be able to come up with new ideas to keep getting better. It's an extreme position but an interesting thought experiment.

What then shall we say of tariffs? Who are they for? What would be the fate of Tesla, for example, if we let BYD sell cars in America? Things would get interesting fast.

Similarly, borders and immigration controls. If there was a free flow of people and products across them, would chaos really ensue? Or would we just end up with markets and pricing governing a lot more things. Yes, it would be messy at first. A lot of people would come to places perceived as attractive. But pretty soon an equilibrium would be established. As labor costs got dragged down and workforce housing bid up in the developed world, and as wages were sent home to family members, the advantages of leaving home would diminish. If border enforcement could just concentrate on stopping drugs and other contraband rather than people, they might even get better at it.

I'm dramatically oversimplifying things and my time allocated for blogging draws to a close, but it's worth pondering.

The perils of attention at the highest level

One gets the sense these days that the Big Men of the world are playing for posterity, in the worst possible way. Globally the network economies of attention and the ability of social networks to concentrate it at scale have contributed to a general rash of them breaking out all over: Trump, Putin, Xi Jinping, MBS, Modi, Erdogan and so on down to the Mileis, Maduros, Musevenis and Bukeles of the world. Everybody jockying for position on the big board and trying to siphon eyeballs away from the Zuckerbergs, Bezos, Elons, etc. 

An article in The Economist this week noted that Ayatollah Khamenei of Iran is now 86 and that he probably wants to cement his legacy in a big way. Hell, they all do. Right now I think in their respective minds they are all playing chess with Hitler, Stalin, Mao etc and trying to figure out how to inscribe themselves into history indelibly. While they are also competing for eyeballs with Mr Beast and Sydney Sweeney's breasts.

Not a good situation. On the flip side, I continue to be impressed by people working hard to build low level connectivity across domains. My former client at the University of Georgia who works building relations with other universities globally. YouTubers traveling the world (and the US) on foot, on bicycle, on motorcycle to the deepest nooks and crannies of places insanely far off the beaten track and posting testimonials to the hospitality and ingenuity of others everywhere. It gives me hope.

Things fall apart. But which things fall apart most quickly, that's the question.

One last time

Up at the UNC Surgical Hospital for one last cosmetic little touch-up procedure* which will hopefully bring Mary's little cancer journey to a full and final conclusion. When did we start down this road? 20 months ago? Hard to say. It's all a bit of a blur.

To be sure sure we have thrust into a whole new level of adulting and have been offered fresh perspective on things in general. It is much harder to get bent out of shape over little things, though, as our kids can attest, it's not like we're fully immune from all of our historical petty squabbles. Rather, our immunity has been boosted to a level not likely to cause severe illness, as with a COVID vaccine, for example.

In the autumn the '83 Tigers had a collective 60th birthday party out at the Farm. I found out when this grey-haired guy greeted me as I was getting in my car after tennis. It was Doug Rose, who told me to stop by the party. "We're in the 4th quarter," he told me. I am not a fan of that metaphor. I prefer to think of the years after 60 as the third trimester. For one, with life expectancy for American 60-year olds hovering around 86, with a higher skew yet for the affluent, the trimester metaphor is more mathematically accurate. Cosmologically I think it is perhaps less accurate than the sports analogy, as I have not yet gone to church enough times to have bought into the whole rebirth in Jesus/New Life construct. 

Keep reading. We'll see which way it goes.

*The surgeon just came out and gave two thumbs up