Persepolis

I snapped up this serialized Iranian graphic novel, which was made into a movie in 2007 and nominated for an Oscar.  It's well worth reading, offered considerable insight into "normal" people living through the Iranian revolution, the Iran-Iraq war, and afterwards.

I bracket "normal" because of course we like our first-person narrator and her parents, they are just like us, or rather, like self-respecting intelligentsia of a European capital.  Smart, left-leaning, decent, hard-working folks.  They are the people we are supposed to like. The heroine goes through some ups and downs, away from her parents in Vienna for a few years, does some drugs, scandalized her Catholic school, lives on the streets for a few months.  She doesn't have an easy time of it.

But she can go home to her parents and her feisty grandma and find some comfort in the repressive landscape of fundamentalist Iran, but they're always running away from the revolutionary guard in one way or another, and eventually her parents and grandmother put her on a plane again back to the West.  She is a grown young woman.  The End.

And so, the West and our values win, of course they do.

My question is this, why is it that nobody tries to make the movie or write the book from the perspective of Islam or some other traditionalist culture, under threat from the cosmopolitan West?  Probably there are more than I know of, they just don't bubble up through the Western culture industry because nobody would want to read or watch them.  Or is the form of the first-person or single-character focused third-person novel or novelistic film somehow inherently western and aligned with individualism per se.  Without going back and reading Ian Watt's Rise of the Novel and some of the other stuff that grows out of it (Raymond Williams, etc.), I think this logic is embedded there.  The novel is the very form of the individual.

The White Ribbon

I finished up this Michael Haneke movie last night.  It's the kind of film I haven't been watching much of lately.  Will Farrell did not make an appearance.  Black and white, starkly beautiful, the story of a small German town in the lead-up to WWI and the elemental violence simmering constantly just below the surface, breaking out with surprising frequency.

Makes a nice contrast with Downton Abbey, the early seasons of which chronicle much the same era. Downton is still a favorite, to be sure, but it's a lot of wish-fulfillment about how we would like to believe things were back in the day.  Yes, there's some violence there, a pretty nasty rape, a little murder, perhaps, but not so much.  Mostly lush greens, nice diction, and human kindness.

All in all, The White Ribbon is a strong film, well worth watching.  Haneke has the courage to hold fast to the mysteries, to not cave in to the temptation to wrap everything up nicely at the end with, well, a white ribbon.  There's lots of violence going on, none of it onscreen. (anti-spoiler alert) None of the films major mysteries is resolved.  WWI comes, and it is all washed away. Haneke could not dispense with the comfort of a moral center.  Our narrator, the village teacher, marries his rosy-cheeked sweetheart at the end, they move away and live happily ever after.  Which is fine.  I'm glad they moved away.

Conversation in a small town

Mom and I were up in her hometown a couple of days ago talking to a guy we'll call Jimmy, who's a local contractor, about maybe selling him some land of ours that abuts his.  Good guy.

He told us a long story about how his nonagenarian father had starved himself to death, somewhere in the middle of his mother's 7-year descent into Alzheimer's.  She passed away somewhere north of 100.  Starving yourself to death sounds bad, but when he went back and told the story it became clear that it was in fact the tale of a guy who had been around for a long time, saw that there was nothing stretching forth on the road before him, and decided to determine his own fate.  At some point in time the staff of the rest home where the dad and his wife resided informed Jimmy that they were going to put in an IV drip because his dad was getting dehydrated, and he informed them that if they did that he would go up there and give them a proper asswhuppin, because his dad had made his call, and they needed to respect it.

Somewhere later in the conversation, we started talking about Jimmy's brother who lived in one of the more urban parts of the state.  He told us that his brother had, after raising several kids with his wife, gotten a divorce, come out, and had a succession of live-in boyfriends.  And he sounded at peace with this.

And this from a small-town guy who, a few years back, had clearly signaled his distaste for the Obama administration.  So, it seems, that even as a court decision has begun to drive a nail into the heart of NC's noxious Amendment One to allow gay couples to marry, the more important war is being slowly one on the most important battlefield, the hearts and minds of people.  Because, as we know all too well, the South in particular has ways of subverting the Rule of Law when it doesn't like it.

More on Caro

I'm making my way through volume 3 of Caro's bio of LBJ.  With about 1600 pages of this opus under my belt, I can tell you that I'm getting a little tired of LBJ, and I'll be damned if I don't think Caro is too.  He really gets to swinging when he is writing about Johnson's allies and antagonists.  The section of Coke Stephenson -- Governor of Texas, Mr. Texas -- was brilliant, and the 40 page introduction to Richard Russell, the Senator from Georgia, was also great.  Same with the portrait of Sam Rayburn.  The same thing, honestly, was true of the book on Robert Moses.  You could feel Caro growing tired of his protagonist, a little, while getting excited about the other guys:  Fiorello LaGuardia, even FDR got interesting treatment.

Or maybe it's just me and I'm projecting.  Certainly one can learn a lot about US history in general by reading Caro, even if you have to put up with a lot of detail on the sociopaths that make it chug.

Zipless travel

A piece in the Wall Street Journal today informs us that Hilton has developed apps to let travelers perform many key travel functions on their smartphones:  check-in, check-out, open door, etc.  Sounds pretty cool, and you know it will hold appeal to the jeunesse doree of the corporate world, ever-focused on expediting processes on the road.  I know, I used to be one of them, and sometimes still am.  Automation and process streamlining has done wonders for things like checking in at airports and picking up and dropping off rental cars, etc.

But doing the same thing at hotels would just remove another piece of human contact when traveling to a region, and cut jobs from one of the few sectors that has been experiencing job growth in the post-Great Recession world.  Which could be good or bad.

The canonical argument is that automating lower-value-adding functions frees up productive capacity to things that add more value.  In principle, in down with that.  I believe that anybody who is working in less remunerative positions has the potential within themselves to grow into someone who can do something better and more valuable.

At the same time, we as a society haven't shown a dedication to putting the pieces in place to facilitate that growth.  It's not just public schools.  For-profit companies are not incented to develop talent broadly when labor is treated as an entirely fungible commodity, when labor is plentiful, not scarce.

On the other hand, there is the specific possibility that Hilton will take the money it saves and focus on providing better and more differentiated services.  Hampton Inns usually have halfway decent cookies available at check-in, and the ones at DoubleTree are even better. The guidance we got from the Mexican-American concierge at the DoubleTree in San Antonio was superb. He directed us to the best and cheapest breakfast taco place nearby.  Yum!

We will see if markets help us reallocate the savings gleaned from this level of automation to everyone's ultimate benefit.  In 2014 America, I'm not holding my breath.

the delicate balance

After a lengthy spell of reading this morning, which included a lot of NY Times and even a little Pushkin, I came upstairs intending to bang out a quick blog post.  But then I heard the rarest of sounds -- Natalie, home for less than 48 hours after 3 weeks at Duke's TIP, on her way to a Spanish immersion camp up at New Hope on the way to Hillsborough -- had emerged from her room and intended to eat lunch.  During her brief stay at home, she has not surprisingly reverted to her traditional ways of cocooning in her room, mostly on her beanbag chair with her earbuds on, texting with her friends, and reading.

So I had no real choice but to go downstairs and observe her eating the leftover rice and beans that she claimed as her own, and to try to get her to talk.  But I didn't try too hard, better to let her chill and enjoy this brief spate at home.

She loved her time at Duke.  She made a number or new BFFs, from Texas, New Mexico, and -- just as if not more exciting -- from across town, girls who will go to (go Tigers!) Chapel Hill High School as opposed to East Chapel Hill High School.

In any case, any shards of deep insight I might have had, inspired by this morning's reading, have been dissipated by the prosaics of parenting.  But, honestly, I think that's what you, my readers, seem to prefer anyway.

Hmmmm

While we were "hiking" on the Appalachian trail the other day, I remarked at some point in time that one of the concerns with riding bicycles long distances was culture conflict between bikers and people in pick-up trucks.  Mary remarked that she didn't really believe that anyone on the road really meant to hurt bikers.  Not long thereafter we passed a solitary hiker in full through hiker regalia, including some pretty funky rigging to keep his pack dry, and I made a comment about how the long-distance hikers looked with disdain upon those of us who were out on the trail for short jaunts.  Mary, again, noted that I had no way of knowing that.

And, indeed, I had to admit that she had me, and that maybe it is some quirk in me that imputes aggressive and other ill motives to others.  Is it maybe just a guy thing, or does it have to do with being extremely and continuously competitive (even though I'm not all that obsessed with winning and conquest)?  Is it tied, indeed, with the same quantitative focus that makes me ever-attuned to the mileage my car is getting?

Hard to say. 

In any case, I need to go mow the lawn before going for a swim.  Natalie is home between summer camp/school sessions, and there will be family dinner to be grilled and eaten before long.

Ghost parks

Mary and I hiked down from the Blue Ridge Parkway to Crabtree Falls today.  Good hike, lovely falls.  Up near the Parkway there were port-a-potties, but the visitor's center was closed.  Meanwhile, the camping sites -- conveniently next to individual parking spaces and with little level platforms to pitch your tent comfortably -- were all seemingly derelict, as was an "amphitheater" used for god knows what back in the day.  There was a "store" back up there by the parking lot which presumably used to sell stuff to people at the 100-odd camping sites that now sit empty.  Hard to figure if it was ever feasible business-wise.  A water fountain down down near the trail head no longer worked.

It's hard to figure if one should be sad about all this decay.  On the one hand, it's nicer to see things not falling apart, once money has been spent on them.  On the other hand, is a modest decline in car camping really such a bad thing?  Are people actually being more rugged and camping out in the woods?

Not in these woods, I don't think.

In any case, I know I ain't no camper.

Up on Roan Mountain the day before, the visitor's center was also closed.  Maybe because it was a weekday, or is this reflective of a general de-funding of the National Parks?  Hard to say.

They had surely spent some money sending a bunch of heavy-set lads up on the balds of the roan to rev up some weed-eaters and keep the bald closest to the road nice and bald.  I can't help but think it would be better for all concerned if they'd shut off those 2-stroke engines and give those dudes some freaking scythes.  It would be much quieter, much gentler on the air, and those fellas would get some much-needed exercise.  Have them all read the chapter from Anna Karenina in which Levin learns to mow with a scythe from the peasants so they could catch the groove.

Brain extensions

So I got a new smart phone a few weeks back, and haven't really had a chance to play with it and grow into it much.  One thing I'm happy to have begun doing is merging the address books of a couple of gmail accounts I have.  I could explain why I have two, but it would be oh so boring.

And it is good that Google and the interweb and even the phone itself (is it Android, or the phone's instantiation of it?  I don't know and don't care) have tools in there to help me with this process. But the synch up hasn't been perfect and I've delayed fixing it till I took my exam, which is done.  And I could tell you about that, but that would be even more boring.

So today I'm reading in the paper and see there's a start-up called Humin as well as others -- including so Google platform -- that are trying to take this to the next level and integrate all of our social networks and think ahead of us.  So, do things like keep track of who I know across my address book, LinkedIn, Facebook, etc. in a given area, and when I'm there (say, I'm in Boston) give me a heads up and say "why don't you call Jimmy and Johnny?"  Which is interesting.  The kind of feature I've thought about myself.

But to me it raises and interesting question:  when we automate these processes, mnemonic associations, ways of navigating in the world, and we grow dependent on our devices, do the old habits we had before we had the devices atrophy, and does that make us less able to think for ourselves?  Or does it free our minds up to do other work?

Certainly, I can tell you that the more I've grown dependent on navigation devices on my phone or on my dashboard, the less I pay attention to learning and remembering where I'm going.  After I graduated from college, I began developing a science of what I called at the time "semi-idiotics", the science of road signs and road signifieds.  I was kind of joking, but kind of not.  I in fact became rather adept at getting around, and developed a light science.  So, for example, when driving in the country, a road named after a man-made thing "Merritt Mill Road" or "Fayetteville Road" is likely to be a through road, while one named after a natural thing "Springbrook Road" or "Green Meadow Drive" is more likely to be lead into a crazy subdivision which will get me nowhere.

I also know that I'm less good at remembering people's names and the names of their kids now than I once was. Could just be aging.

We know there are natural constraints on what we can hold in memory. The Dunbar Number tells us that the number of people anyone can know reasonably well at any point in time is about 150.  Research.  David Laibson of Harvard did research which shows that people's ability to make financial decisions declines from somewhere around the age of 53.  And so on.

So, how much does it behoove us to extend our cognitive capacity using tools like social networks, CRM platforms, and new layers we will see continue to built on them over time?  And how much will it hurt us, make us lazy? 

And so

Tomorrow I sally forth for day 1 of this big test, and then we will dine on rice noodles with ground pork and thai basil, upon which Graham will douse considerable amounts of soy sauce, his favorite food.  And then, day 2.

At that point in time, I will be done with this ordeal for now, and it will be none too soon.  I am about ready to get out of this anchoritic mode here in my study, looking at a full wall of Mary's crap.  Having ground through some 5,000-odd pages of text about financial this and risk management that, and worked through many thousands of individual test items, I'm about done.  And ready to spend my brain looking into things that are intrinsically interesting, as opposed to just useful, maybe.

I'm ready to hit the streets and talk to some damned people.  Much like I was after finishing my dissertation.

Just read through an article about Nick Cave, who's always been a guy I've liked to listen to, from the days of rats in paradise forward, and it portrays a guy with manic energy and discipline to range across genres and basically do whatever felt right.  Sounds good.

Where I'm at

In wind-down mode prepping for the CFP exam on Friday and Saturday.  I don't know how much I've blogged about this.  In some sense, there's not that much to write about.

I have been working in this room, on this hard wooden chair, for most of the last year.  Working through a boring, dreadfully detailed curriculum, building towards this two-day exam.  There is much to complain about, but to do so would be so dreadfully boring.

In recent weeks, I have integrated a bit of a standing desk into the mix, which has been good for my back and my body overall, why didn't I ever think of that.

And now, the exam itself looms, and it's not gonna be easy.  Mostly, I have to make peace with the fact that, though I'm a damned fine test-taker and I've worked hard, it is conceivable that I might fail it, simply due to the vastness and aridness of the subject matter, not unlike the steppes of Siberia or, dare I say it, the Serengeti.  And yes, it is populated by numerous beasts of prey, from the hyenas of trust law to the rhinos of retirement plan selection, to say nothing of the leopards of the miscellaneous itemized deduction phaseouts.

One thing that has kept me more or less sane throughout it all has been 30 Rock, and so it is to them that I now turn for a few yux.

The triple package and the double winner

Reviews of the recent book by Tiger Mom Amy Chua and her husband Jed Rubenfeld The Triple Package.  The authors argue that the success in America of certain immigrant groups (including the ones to which they conveniently belong) can be explained by 3 shared traits:

1. A superiority complex
2. Insecurity
3. Impulse control

Without going into the merits of her argument -- which has been convincingly savaged elsewhere, it got me thinking a little bit about my own background, which is shared with a lot of other alcoholics and children of alcoholics, known fondly as "double winners."  From growing up in alcoholic households, we inherit a healthy dose of insecurity, because it is, after all, very difficult to compete for parental attention with an addiction.  So you start off feeling very small indeed.

But then, when you get your own bottle and/or other substance of choice, you quite often inherit (and seek to emulate) the grandiosity of your parent, and come to believe that laws of nature don't apply to you.  So smoking, drinking, junk food, not flossing, these things do not touch you.  You are too large.

But, because of your insecurity, you will try hard to charm.  And often you will.

But impulse control, one would think, is a problem for substance abusers, and in some sense it is.  However, impulse and compulsion are very different things.  A pothead does not seek out marijuana in an impulsive manner, but a compulsive one.  And because compulsion is such a strong driver, it crowds out other desires, so one learns to budget.  That $18 entree?  No thank you.  I'll have two $1 slices of pizza, so I'll have money left over for what I really need.

And so, perversely, a double winner can easily develop a surprising discipline which, when combined with the other traits, makes us pretty kick-ass.  The trick is to figure out which ass to kick. Or, rather, not.

Havana Blue

This book by Leonardo Padura has been languishing around my study for weeks now, waiting to be reflected upon.  I don't know where I heard about this Cuban mystery writer, probably the New Yorker or the Times.  Wherever it was, I think the praise was overexuberant.

That said, now that it has stewed a bit, I won't say that I won't keep reading the series.  The guy has a gift for writing about pork with garlic, memories of high school rivalries, and long-simmering lust.  Which are important things.

In fact, it made me reflect upon the fact that these root pleasures are ones that are difficult to take away from people, even in dire circumstances.  We see that as well in Alan Furst's novels of WWII and the period preceding it, where European resistence fighters eat and fuck and snuggle in cold drafty rooms all around the continent, ever mindful of the fact that the next day could be their last.

That said, it would be interesting to see novels analogous to Padura's coming out of North Korea or Rumania in the peak of the Ceausescu era, would we see similar stories?  Now that I think about it, the Rumanian New Wave, from Lucian Pintilie's The Oak forward, which looks backwards at the Ceausescu times, suggests that it is in fact may be possible to squelch even these carnal pleasures. And the literature and films of the concentration camps (with the perhaps singular exception of the must-see The Night Porter) certainly does not trend towards the celebration of food and sex as ways of maintaining a sense of presence in the face of pain.

At any rate, back to Padura, the guy has a gift for conjuring, if not "the real Cuba" -- and even years of detox from literary theory have not made me begin to believe in that -- then certainly a Cuba he knows, loves, and values.  And that's worthwhile.

The mystery part of the book was surprisingly wooden.  But, after all, the mystery novel has long since been a favored way to move a narrator around an environment to let the author write about the latter.

Einstein's Happiest Thought

I took Natalie to see this piece by Adele Myers and Dancers last night at the American Dance Festival.  I remember mom taking me and Leslie to see stuff at the ADF:  Pilobulus, Chuck Davis and the African-American Ensemble, maybe Alvin Ailey, back when we were young.  Sometimes I was like:  WTF?  But I remembered it.  It was different from the other cultural production we were exposed to.  It wasn't on MTV, that's for sure, or American Bandstand.

So Adele Myers and Dancers.  It was a fine introduction to modern dance.  Abstract, but not too abstract.  Pretty at times, but certainly not all the time.  Strong women, not pretending to be happy.  It was great that there were long stretches that were unaccompanied by music, and you could really hear the women breathing hard when they hit resting poses after expending a lot of energy.  They were working hard, and they wanted you to know it. You could see them sweat.

And they had those awesome modern dancer bodies.  Graceful but strong.  Serious.  That was the overall message.  Strong, serious, women, sweating, doing mysterious and abstract things.  What was it about?  That.

Rooting for the favorites

As wonderful as it is to see underdogs play above their heads and challenge favorites (see Algeria-Germany, Switzerland-Argentina etc), if I don't have a bias I am often rooting for the favorite, in my heart of hearts.  Why is this, I wonder?

At first glance you could say that it's a conservative impulse, that I want the established order to triumph, because it provides certainty in an uncertain world.  And maybe there's some of that.

But what I really think/feel is this.  If I like the player, and, for example, in the absence of a lot of negative stories I find it hard not to like Lionel Messi (he's cute, he celebrates goals and victories in a seemingly genuine way), then I want them to succeed.  Or, rather, I want them not to fail, because I identify with them and the burden of expectations that they carry.  I feel bad for them when they fail.

For sure, when someone is eliminated from a major tournament, be it March Madness, Champions League or the World Cup (and those are the only ones I really think of as major), there is a finality to a loss that makes it poignant to watch anyone once they have been eliminated -- excepting those teams and players one can genuinely dislike (Duke, Louisville, Italy, or the Dutch playing the way they played against Spain in 2010).  When you watch a UAB or a or an Algeria or a Ghana get knocked out, it's sad, but you know they played hard and it's a genuine achievement to have been there.

But at the end of the day, I have a mild bias towards the favorite, because I hate to see people fail, because I identify with them too strongly.

Herons getting territorial

Yesterday, while out swimming around dusk, I saw herons chilling on the shore.  This is nothing new, though lovely, and I will say that I don't remember them there back in the 80s. 

 However, for the first time, I saw one swoop in on another and drive it away from the shore. That was something, swimming along, watching one prehistoric looking thing chasing after another with its great loping flight.

A couple of weeks ago, one of the lifeguards down at the lake said that he has observed the herons taking target practice at the floating docks with their mighty heron poop.  That was news.  I had thought that was all goose guano.

This week's Facebook kerfuffle

Everyone is up in arm's about Facebook messing with their emotional lives this week.  As those of you who know me will not be shocked, I am of two minds about this, but really not all that much.

On the one hand, yes, it is not nice of Facebook to deliberately play around with people's emotions.  I get that.  Had someone gone and killed themselves or somebody else while being subject to their feed manipulation, there would have been some kinda lawsuits landing on Zuckie's doorstep.

On the other hand, I suspect that the real issue here is people realizing the extent to which they leave themselves open to emotional influence by Facebook, or by the people we see on Facebook, which is the mirror of ourselves we have constructed there.  Some people look at it a lot, others not so much.  Some people have lots of friends on there, and therefore almost by definition (see Dunbar's Number) , are connected to people they don't know well at all.  Facebook has gained an unprecedented power in people's lives.  Which can be both very very good and very very bad.

There was a great piece in the Wall Street Journal this morning on the "Distraction-Industrial Complex."  In short, the author talks about how not having a broadband connection at home is the greatest boon to his productivity at work and his life at home because he's not being drawn back to his computer screen all the time to do some task he could've gotten done at work or, alternately, to see how the rest of the world is reacting to his most recent wisecrack, or how his high school girlfriend or nemesis is spending vacation.

I think there's a lot of truth to this.  I have to really try to limit my time on Facebook.  I try not to pay too much attention to my blog traffic, though I totally know what it is.

I recently read about a mutual fund manager who models himself on Buffett who has built a no-distraction room at his office.  No phone, internet, what have you, where he can go in and read and think.  We all need and crave that.  Everybody who exercises cites as a benefit to be unconnected from all the hullabaloo to be calm and think about stuff.

But it's hard to get there, because connection and attention are like crack.

In the end, re Facebook, I gotta quote Gogol:  don't blame the mirror if your mug is crooked.

But now, back to the coalmine.

Hard travelin

 Apologies for the radio silence, I've been working hard.  Just spent 4 days camped out at the Westin by the Atlanta airport, doing a review course for my upcoming CFP exam in July.  Friday thru Monday, in class from 8 to 6 or so, getting lectured by an old dude who, truth be told, did a pretty amazing job bringing dry material to life.

At the hotel, there was an anime convention.  Lots of kids roaming the halls with pink, green, grey, blue hair, in costumes.  One time I came out of a toilet stall and did a double take.  There was a person in a little blue dress at the sink, and a 4-year old girl right there too.  And I thought, "am I in the wrong bathroom?"  I needn't have worried, just a little innocent cross-dressing/role-playing.

It was kind of nice, all these kids who must have been pretty much wierdos at their own high schools, but here very much in with peers.  And excited they were.  I have never been in a louder hotel.  Until 2 in the morning on Saturday night, a bunch of misfits roaming the halls making noise.  Which is kind of nice indeed, except when you're trying to sleep.  I had the misfortune of being near the elevator, quite near to the atrium, which was like bedlam.  When I went back to my room around 10 or so, a bunch of them were sitting in a little semi-circle over in the area near the soda machines.  I kid you not.

And so last night, when it was all done, I got in my car and drove the hell on back to Chapel Hill.  Almost 400 miles it was.  Starting at 4:45.  Towards the tail end of it I was pretty freaking tired, and the only thing to do was to have a little singalong.

Now, I'm not usually a fan of live albums mixed through the sound board.  And Neko Case's "Live from Austin" is very much that.  You can barely hear the drums, the base is pretty  distant.  It's pretty much a little strumming, electric guitar, and her voice.  But since her voice is something I am coming to regard as a national treasure, that ain't bad.  I made it home.

I-85 to Atlanta

Awaits me.  Oh, the thrill of it.  Hopefully interesting details will emerge.

Gone surfin...

Sorry to have been so slow to post of late.  Have been deep in the bowels of studying for an upcoming milestone, getting ready for CFP Board exam in mid-July.

As for this weekend... we'll see.  Headed to the beach.  First time in 5 years.  Must protect my fair-skinned family.

Phillips graduation

Natalie had her "promotion" ceremony at Phillips today, and while it was lovely, and she got a nice little honor, I must say that my overall reaction was thumbs down to the whole concept of such a ceremony.  There is high school to come yet, plenty of time for anxiety and strutting and competition and the like.

Mostly it called up all kinds of insane competitive instincts in me.  So much so that when one of the people I was sitting next to found out I went to Phillips and CHHS, she asked me:  "do you know Jimmy Smith (not his real name)?" and I said "yes, in fact, he's the last person I got into an actual fight with, here at Phillips.  I whacked him in the head for no good reason at all when we were in 7th grade just because he was skinnier than me and I knew he couldn't beat me up."

Now, all of that is 100% true, and it is something that I have discussed with "Jimmy" subsequently, when I was apologizing to him about it many years later.  But why is that the first thing that comes out of my mouth?  I could have said, "yeah, Jimmy, he's a great guy."  Which is just as true.

I was just in that zone again.  Middle school. The zone of puberty, deep insecurity, acne, and letting the burdens of the elementary school years of unmediated geekdom rise out of me by sometimes violent means.

Gotta go.  Sitting in this chair too much.  My butt hurts.

Loving the character

After lunch yesterday at Foster's I passed by the window at Flyleaf Books and saw a big blown up cover of Claire Messud's most recent book, which I have reviewed already. And it took me back to that book and, indeed, The Emperor's Children.  While each of them is a tour de force in its own way, somehow they seem hollower to me then the first of Claire's two novellas in her earlier book, The Hunters.  "A Simple Tale" tells the story of a Maria, a Ukrainian immigrant to Canada who works her ass off and has a son whom she loves, only to be gravely disappointed when he turns into a lout and marries a nitwit.

What's the difference between them, in my recollection?  The fact that I sensed that she actively loved Maria, whereas the characters in her more recent books are more technical achievements.  She may identify with them, and seek to make the reader do the same (and do a good job of it), but I didn't feel like she cared about the character in the same way.  For someone who spent years of his life studying literary criticism and theory, it's funny to me to find myself falling back on this way of assessing things, but that's where I'm at.  Almost certainly I need to go back and reread the earlier book, but then there are so many other good ones clamoring for my attention.

This, combined with the fact that I had to turn off Tarantino's Django Unchained the other night because I was just repulsed by the gratuitous violence, is yet another indication that I am either aging or maturing, depending on your point of view.  The worst thing about sticking that movie back in its little envelope was having to admit that Mary had been right all along and we probably shouldn't have started watching it at all, but one of the difficult things about being married is having to admit that your spouse is right, all too often.  Sigh.

On the subject of aging and its impact on apprehension, I remember Edward Said, already sick with cancer, lecturing on the concept of "lateness" in art and drawing in Beethoven's later work as an example.  I remember him doing it, but I have zero recollection of what he said. I recently checked some of Beethoven's late piano sonatas out of the library and I must admit, they are quite distinct from his earlier ones. Proto-modern, moving away from lush melodiousness towards analytical coldness.  Moving in the opposite direction to where I'm going as I age, as I progressively reject the dissonance and abstraction of modernism and move towards stuff that makes me feel good and/or laugh.

For example, Talladega Nights.

Dreaming of cars

The other night, just before waking, I had an anxiety dream that I had gone and made an impulse purchase of a sporty compact, maybe a VW or something like a Honda Civic tricked out for performance, but I hadn't told Mary.  And then, being impatient with the slow delivery of my order, I went into some other store (and in the universe of this dream, I could basically snap up a car on my credit card) and was buying another, wondering if I was going to end up with two of them.

And, in the back of my mind, I knew that I didn't really need a new car at all, because the Volvo was still fine, although there is a small issue with the fabric on the underside of the sunroof hanging down and looking crappy.  I really need to get to Ace or Lowe's to get a fabric adhesive to help with that.

So yeah, I was nervous that I was blowing $ on car(s) I didn't need, without telling Mary, which is exactly the kind of crap my dad pulled all the time.  He'd just show up with a 240Z or a custom Toyota convertible or an Alpha Romeo Spider and say to my mom: "Check this out."

And then, yesterday, towards the end of my run yesterday, I saw this little British racing green sports car being sold by the owner for $5500.  I though it was a mid-60s Triumph of some sort, but really it was a Datsun 510.  It was pretty badassed.  I kept running.

More bragging on my daughter -- and reflections thereupon (you knew there had to be more)

So I chanced to open a bulk email from the middle school principal, as I rarely do, and there I saw results of some competition.  Without bragging too hard, it turns out that Natalie has overachieved in another domain, doing something that is in line with the 90th percentile of high school juniors and seniors nationwide.  While she was in 7th grade.  And coming in the top 3% of a competitive hoard of kids her age.

And we perhaps didn't recognize quite how exceptional her results were when she achieved them. Though we did praise her, to be sure.

Then again, there is a danger that we overfocus on praising her academic results.  We certainly do not want her thinking that our love is dependent on them.  Finding time and means to communicate well with ones teenagers is not simple, it's a universal problem, and it's compounded in households like our own where one of the kids has a technical "special need," whereas the other is just special in the same way that all of us are.

And, as I've posted here recently, I'm well aware that Natalie works really hard, sometimes verging on too hard, to excel, at times I fear to the detriment of her social life.  But even there, I have to be careful not to project my own insecurity onto her.  I think that when I was younger, I somehow perceived that "popularity" was important, so I worked hard on that front as well, to have bunches of friends. And sometimes I'd do stupid shit to be friends with lots of folx, just to outperform in that domain as well.  Whatevs.  It's all good.

Memorial Day from a college town kid

As most of you know, I grew up in Chapel Hill from the early 70s forward.  Being a college town at that time, it was a pretty anti-war, pro-peace place, and this sentiment permeated the culture pretty thoroughly, including our schools.  I don't remember specifics, but I know we weren't humming no Star-Spangled Banner etc. a whole lot. Very little flag-waving. The general attitude towards the armed services was one of suspicion.  It was like they were a foreign country, and there values were, if not quite inimical, then very distant from our own.

If they ever told us what Memorial Day was about, they certainly didn't get their back into it.  It's possible I may have spaced it out once or twice, but 13 years, K-12?  Same deal in college.

So I literally think I got through to adulthood not knowing what Memorial Day was about. Which is a shame, if not downright pathetic. Although I am not a hawk at this point in my life, and may often question specific uses of our military, I tend to do so from a recognition that my perspective on things is far from complete:  if I had wanted to be part of that world and have a more active say in it, I would have made it my career. And I understand much better what the armed services do for us, particularly after having an immersion in things military via Graham's special interest in them, especially World War II.

Here's an anecdote of how far I am from the mindset of members of the armed services.

On September 11, I was at Midtown Manhattan.  I've probably recounted some of this before, so I'll keep it spare. I was up on the 16th floor of my firm's offices, which had windows facing north, east, and west, but not south, towards the towers.  At some point in time, maybe 9:45, I went down to the street and looked down 5th Avenue, and you could see all the way down to the towers.  I could see them burning, obscured in smoke, and as I looked around me and saw people crying and freaking out (as I was), I realized that if I stayed down there watching, I would start smoking again, and I had quit 3 years before.  So I went back upstairs. And my colleagues and I kept touch with goings on around the country by radio.

So we were in shock, in denial.  Since there weren't confirmed reports of death tolls, we kept trying to convince ourselves that maybe few people had died.  At around 4, being hungry, we decided to go out and get food and drinks, and we ended up at a TGI Fridays.  Whatever.  We had some nachos.

And on a TV screen there, they flashed the faces of a couple of firemen, who had died.  And my first thought was, I'm ashamed to say it but it must be said:  "But it's those guys' jobs to go into danger, what about the other people who died?"

There were lots of people, including a family friend who is a NYPD guy, who when they heard of the attacks got on whatever truck they could and got downtown, put themselves at risk.  The First Responders.

I was not amongst them. It didn't cross my mind to do that.  I am not trained to do that, I am not wired to do that.  Is it a fault of my upbringing?  Is it a "social skills deficit" in line with the fact that I've got a kid on the autism spectrum and maybe I've got a little bit of that going on myself?  Or am I just a (insert derogatory epithet here). I don't know.

But there are those that did, who have that wiring, that training, those belief systems, that character.  Many of them lost their lives that day, and on others in far-flung places before and since. We, and I,  owe them a immense debt, and it is meet and right that they should be commemorated with reverence and respect.

Champions

I haven't been watching much soccer this season -- no matter what Mary tells you.  I basically missed all of the Champions League matches, so I was astounded to see the progression as Atletico Madrid made its way to the final, even as it sneaked through and won La Liga.

So I had to watch the final against cross-town rivals Real Madrid.  And it was a freaking classic, with Atletico muscling its way to a 1-0 goal, only to have victory snatched from it in the 93rd minute by Sergio Ramos' header.  And then get pummeled.

I don't have much to say, but I will say this.  There was no reason to give Christiano Ronaldo that penalty as the 2nd overtime was drawing to a close with Real. The game was done.  Atletico had been humiliated enough by Marcelo's effortless goal to make it 3-1.  The guy who was guarding Ronaldo was basically playing on a sprained ankle.  Yeah, he fouled him, but they shoulda let it go.

And Ronaldo ripping off his shirt and showing off his big bad muscles?  Please.  He squandered the good will he had built up with me over the last year or so.  It's not like he was the player who made the difference.  That was first Angel di Maria and then Gareth Bale, who had created opportunities all game, and then at long last finished.

Back from Gotham

Had a fine week in the NY/NJ/Philly region, featuring lots of good meals with friends.  Some highlights:

• After dinner on Monday in SoHo, Kevin and I walked back down Greene St.  I repeat, it was Monday, over in the Design Within Reach store, there was what looked very much like an art opening, only it was in a furniture store.  And so on down Greene St, which is now entirely taken over by furnishings purveyors.  There were openings, parties.  In the front window of one, a buff model ran on a treadmill.  That's one way to get attention.
• Spent an unseemly amount of time in Bryant Park, owing to the very pleasant weather
• This evening, after my 3 o'clock coffee got cancelled because of my date's illness, I realized I should get to the airport before the predicted storms hit and try to get on an earlier flight standby.  So I hopped in the subway, then took the M60 bus at 125th St, and made it from Tribeca to LGA in 55 minutes or so, all for the cost of a subway ride.  Gotta love MTA!
• Today after lunch with Ted, he took me in the new Goldman Sachs building on West St.  While sitting in the "Sky Lobby" on the 11th floor, I saw no fewer than 3 former colleagues rush past, intent on their next respective meetings.  Coulda said hello, but was talking to my boy.  Man, I don't miss that place.
• Saw too many good friends to list, and ate a lot of good food.

Competition

Out on the field today, we lost two players -- two of the young guys who score the goals for us -- with about 20 minutes left.  They had to go ref a game.

So were were one man down, playing with 10, but we were leading pretty handily.  So when the ball went out and our people were running to get it, I called out to them to walk, to use the clock to our advantage.  This did not endear me to the other team.  "Cmon, it's the last game of the season, we just want to play soccer."  Which was an entirely fair point.  Though they had been eating into our lead a little bit, and we didn't want them coming back all the way..

The main thing for me was, I am continually surprised to find out how competitive I am (Mary would flat out guffaw at that statement.  She thinks I am obviously ridiculously competitive).  I generally perceive myself as, well maybe a little competitive, but someone who is not obsessed with winning.  And yet I see myself on the soccer field at times instinctively calling out for strategies that occasionally shade over close to rules arbitrage.

Certainly it is made much worse by the presence of refs.  If it's just a pick-up game, I legitimately don't care, don't even try to keep score.  Though I do hate a lopsided game, no matter who's crushing whom.

My greying anarchism

At "business meetings" after a couple of separate 12th-step meetings I found myself in very mild disharmony with a specific woman who moved down here recently from Boston.  On each occasion, she advocates adhering to the recommendations of and best practices derived by World Service Organizations, whereas I am guided by an impulse that, as autonomous bodies, each individual 12th-step meeting can do whatever it likes.

I talked to her about it yesterday.  I've talked to her about specific instances of this several times, because it's always a worthwhile discussion.

Thinking about it, I realize that what bubbles up in me in these situations -- aside from wanting to move on with my day and not get involved in lengthy discussions of small matters (except, of course, on my blog) -- is a deep-seated bias towards anarchism. That's where my thinking/feeling about governance begins.

But then I have to admit that I live in a society, and in a place where the population density continues to rise.  And that I choose to live here, and reap the benefits of doing so.  And that means that I am always in a state of interdependency and compromise, working together with others.

I remember around the time of the Occupy Wall Street movement, when they were talking about anarchism and its role in the OWS modus operandi, they mentioned that 12th-step groups were a model for how they ran.  Hadn't really thought about that before.



(I do hope the blog is not getting too boring for yall.  Will be in NYC/NJ/PA next week.  Hopefully I'll see some funny/crazy shit on the streets)

Working too hard?

Natalie is always coming home and telling us that she got a 99 on this or a hundred on that, and she gets straight As, and we are always pleased as punch and happy etc.  So when she told us that she was in the 99th percentile on the National Spanish Exam, we were a little jaded, I suppose.  And then the principal sends around an email to the whole school community talking about how well the school had done, with a bunch of kids doing well, etc.  But there was Natalie at the top, the only one with a 99, and the only one with a couple of exclamation points next to her name.

She is rather clever, and she works really hard.  She had me read a complete draft today of a 4-page book report, that is the 3rd part of a project that is due on Friday.  When I picked her up from the Battle of the Books end of year party today, she had another draft of it marked up in red ink.  I asked if it was the teacher who had marked it up, and she says no, it was a friend.  Two readers, two days before it is due.

Inconceivable.

I worry, if anything, that she works too hard, doesn't have enough fun.  Gotta work on that. As it were.

A zit on my boy

Every morning I walk with Graham up over the hill and down the other side, to the bus stop.  He's 10 and a half, I don't need to, really, but it's a nice part of my day, and it's generally a nice part of the day to be outside.

We get there a couple of minutes before the bus comes, and that gives me time to review him.  Invariably, his hair is standing up a little, his shoes a little too loosely tied.

Today, there was a reasonable-sized zit on his nose, and it was a little wake-up call.  Oh no, I thought.  My darling little boy.  I know that puberty is coming on, I can smell it forebodings of it when we wrestle or snuggle at night.  Pubic hair will be a total shock.

Zits.  I had forgotten about them.  This sweet little guy with pretty serious social challenges, at least has the protection of a generally kind and bouncy manner, an infectious laugh, an encyclopedic command of military history, modern weaponry, and Star Wars trivia, and a cherubic face.  I think even the girls think he's cute, if goofy.  But zits!  Oh no!

The Food Truck is Dead

The moment of the food truck has passed.  You go to a food truck rodeo and there are taco trucks staffed by gringos, selling decent if commoditized Mexican food.  You have to stand in line for a long time, and then there's no place to sit.  Even the community component of it doesn't happen, because people are just staring at their phones or burnishing their flannel.

And it has been a long time since I saw anything new from a truck.  Korean BBQ is one of the few legitimately interesting things spread by them, but it too has become watered down as it has spread.

I think there needs to be a new kind of food court, ideally outdoors.  One where the vendors rotate.  Pizza place A is there Mondays, Thursdays, and Saturdays, pizza place B the other days.  Or whatever.  The point is some variety.  And vendors could go between them over the course of a week or month.  And then space for a burger place/grill or two and other food types. With toilets, picnic tables, playground, etc.

It might be difficult to optimize the infrastructure (i.e. the right kind of food prep and short-term storage areas, etc., for different types of food).  But I think it's by no means an insurmountable problem.  Somebody has probably already done it.

I think food trucks still have legitimate uses, for example bringing the sad occupants of office park glass boxes some variety over the course of a week.  But they are no longer engines of innovation.

Flash Boys

With Michael Lewis, you never really know who's going to show up.  Will it be the Michael Lewis who is one of the best non-fiction writers in the English language, or the Michael Lewis who's all too aware that he is just that?

I saw the latter guy give a talk at a Sungard conference sometime back in 2010 or so, not so long after The Big Short came out.  I was excited, as I was hoping the first guy would show up and give us something we hadn't heard before.  But Lewis preferred to slouch back in his comfy chair on stage, wave his arms around a little, and give sort of a condensed version of the book, adding not even a fresh anecdote. I was, truth be told, rather disappointed, I felt like I hadn't gotten my money's worth, even though it was free.

The curious thing was that, when I talked later to my colleagues from an industry analyst firm dedicated to financial services and the technology that undergirds it, nobody had read the book.  Not a single person.  I was a little shocked by that, as The Big Short was, by consensus -- including me -- one of the more important and best books about the financial crisis, so this was our home turf.  What's more, there's really no good reason not to read one of Lewis's good books, because when he's clicking, he's the most readable guy in the world. They're the kind of books that the only reason not to read them in bed is that they'll keep you up late, wanting to turn pages to see what happens next.

At the end of that conference, in front of 300-400 members of the slightly tawdry demimonde that is financial technology, one of my colleague's faces was shown up on an enormous screen.  He said something like "high-frequency trading is good for markets because it provides liquidity."  The party line.  Somewhere inside I nodded, because really it was words on a page to me, I knew nothing.

Fast forward a few years to a month ago. I was on vacation in Texas when Lewis released his most recent book Flash Boys, on the subject of high-frequency trading (HFT) and what it's doing to the markets. There was a lot of press coverage, no little hue and cry, and the New York State Attorney General and the SEC both hustled up to the microphone to tout their own efforts to curb the excesses of the HFT crowd.  On the one hand, it's unseemly to see our regulators whipsawed by the publishing industry.  On the other, that's what a free press is for, and we should maybe be proud to see this kind of thing happen.

It took me a few weeks to get my hands on a copy of the book.  I was too cheap to buy it at an independent bookstore at full price, but I also didn't want to stick it on my iPad Kindle, because I hate for Bezos to have all my money.  I compromised and bought it at 30% off of cover price at B&N, because they too are hurting and the book ecosystem needs more than one big player so it is not entirely captive to Amazon.  But I digress.  Imagine that.

So now I have read the book.  I will confess that I was initially inclined to think Lewis was overblowing things in his focus on how the HFT players are racing in and skimming pennies off of each trade, seeing orders pop up on one exchange and racing off to the next or a convenient dark pool, microseconds in front of the order, to buy the stocks cheaper and then fulfill the order.  How, I asked myself, could this happen in the wake of Reg NMS, which was supposed to fix this problem?  Lewis bats that one down, showing how Reg NMS paradoxically made things worse in its ham-handed attempt to create a national best price for each security.

Flash Boys is a traditional story of good and evil.  The evil is obviously the high-frequency traders, and the good is no less evidently Brad Katsuyama and the motley crew he assembles first at the Royal Bank of Canada, and then at the new exchange they opened to level the field against HFT.  Part of me hesitates to fully embrace these guys, perhaps because I know them only from this one book, and Lewis is so very breathless in support of them.  I'll learn more, time will tell.  He paints a pretty convincing picture, but then so do trompe l'oeil painters, now don't they?

And, on the one hand, I'm not really sure that HFT is worse in aggregate than other forms of mediation.  Trading costs are lower now than they were in the days of open outcry in the pits, and in the days before prices were decimalized, right?  Then again, if HFT isn't serving a useful purpose in the markets and there's a chance to root it out, we might as well.

Lewis has written a number of important books:  Liar's Poker, Moneyball, The Big Short, and now this one.  Having read it, I can at least have a semi-intelligent conversation on the topic of high-frequency trading.  The key for most of us is, as always, to know ourselves, and trade less.

The old dance

This past Saturday was as perfect an instance of the oft-noted dance of entropy and flux as can be imagined. For starters, it must be owned, the weather was lovely.  And after ferrying Natalie to field hockey and then Graham to martial arts, where he tussled with a neighbor boy who's a year older than him and I worked up the strength to approach his seemingly ultra-shy mom, we settled back into the homestead.

There, I did battle.  First, with pollen on the screen porch.  For the second time this year, I took the big-assed push broom out there and nudged the yellow stuff around.  That helped a little, made me a big old pile of pollen.  Then I brought the hose in there, put it on the "jet" setting, and tried to wash the stuff through the cracks of the deck.  That seemed to help, but upon closer inspection, mostly it got everything wet.  When it dried an hour or so later -- and the cats were practically clawing at the door to get out there on the porch, but I didn't want them all drippy -- there were the little yellow dots again.  Pollen. So I swept again.

And then some light composting, and the collection of kindling and the making of small piles, in squirrel-like preparation for winter.  Next, a little basement organizing.

At last it was time to sit in the chair I found on the street a year and change ago that Mary really doesn't like much, to drink iced coffee and scroll through my phone looking for friends I hadn't talked to in a while, and then to actually make those calls that I am always saying I should make.

Meanwhile, Graham was having a friend over and they -- and this was maybe an all-time historic first -- did not go in the house at all.  They were over in the ravine, then did a little excavating in the back yard, then went all the way down to the creek.

Textbook, I tell ya.

Family viewing

First, a word about Natalie.  We were most annoyed when NPR decided to show the most recent season of Sherlock immediately after Downton Abbey earlier this year.  Natalie was, if anything, more excited for the former than the latter.  Being too cheap to have a DVR, we did the only natural thing:  we had my mom record it. However, mom accidentally recorded over it.  I feared that Natalie would be pissed, but no.  She was entirely satisfied that I bumped the Sherlock discs up to the top of our Netflix disc list.

Problem was, so many people wanted to see it that it was months before they could get the discs to us.  No problem.  Natalie, unflappable as ever, was cool with waiting.  She expressed it like this: "I figured that if we didn't get it by my birthday, I could ask for the discs as a birthday presents."  How the ever so slightly neurotic Mary and I (OK, I'll just speak for myself) could raise such an emotionally balanced young lady, I struggle to explain.

Act II.  The Discs Arrive

So this week, we got both the Season IV discs in the mail. Graham, who has by now heard a lot about this version of the show, and has of course read all the original Arthur Conan Doyle stories, was game to watch them.  So we settled down and watched the first one we hadn't seen.  Very good indeed, and Graham was into it.

So I suggested that he and I go back to the beginning of the series and watch from there.  And last night, we did just that, going back to the first episode:  "A Study in Pink."  Now, I forget plots pretty easily, but it turned out this one was pretty disconcerting, involving a series of connected apparent suicides.  I won't say more, but I do recall that of all instances of death, suicide was the most disconcerting to me as a child.  It was very hard to wrap my brain around it.  Still is, frankly. Graham's word for things of this sort is "creepy," and he found last night's episode creepy.

So, despite the fact that it was well after his bed time, he asked if we could read a little before turning out the light.  I said sure, and we did.

Now, while all of this was going on, Natalie and her two best friends had returned from a shopping trip to a distant mall to buy graduation dresses.  After eating some pasta with butter and parm (I like it too!), they settled in to watch Frozen.  Regular readers will recall my initial assessment of this film, which, when I look at it again, was rather gentle and politic. But I watched a little of it again with them, and found myself much more forgiving of it.  It's a nice little movie, even the songs are pleasant and well-crafted. Natalie sang along.  How happy we should be that she is into this and not obsessed with some nasty movies about supernatural bloodsuckers and meth dealers.

And, in the morning, Graham asked if the girls had been watching Frozen.  I inquired if it had kept him up, and he said that, quite the contrary, it had helped him go to sleep, because he was still creeped out by the Sherlock, but when he heard the song "The First Time in Forever," it calmed him.

Score another for Disney.




As an aside, we really do need to read Ron Suskind's recent book Life, Animated, about how Disney provided a common language for communicating with his profoundly autistic son and helped him learn to function in the world.  The outtake in the Times Magazine was amazing.

Getting psyched

For the new Sharon Van Etten record.  In fact, I meant to buy it today when I was uptown with Niklaus, but got to running late and forgot to.  I had to drop the 3 kid bikes jammed into the back of the car off at Clean Machine so they could pass it to some guy who'll clean em up and give them to some lower income kids. So much easier than driving out on 15-501 to Goodwill or Re Store or whoever would've taken them.

Yes, I could order it from Amazon, I just like to patronize the local record store with appropriately haughty and surly bastards at the register.

And, yes, I could just have it delivered via the so-called "internet" to my phone.  But I have no way of plugging that into my stereo at home, so old and cheap is it, and I don't like the way the think skitters around in the car and skips.

Oh, I could listen to it on my phone using headphones, but I've never liked listening to music that way.  I can drift off into the nether regions of my own mind easily enough without any headphones, thank you very much.  And how then would I hear the world around me?  So many nice birds this time of year, or the gentle lulling of this fan off behind me.

Mostly, what good is music if you're not imposing it on your teenager?

Memorial

I went with mom to the memorial service of Dan Gelbert, a friend of dad's today.  I don't remember the guy all that well, but I remember running around with his son a fair amount, setting off firecrackers and riding on this old school enormous skateboard ramp he built in his driveway.

There's no reason to delve into a ton of detail, but I can say that it was really lovely.  There is something very beautiful about a group of friends and family coming together to honor and celebrate someone in stories.  In fact, you cannot but wish that you had known the person better.  And it is lovely as well to see how communities of people are bound together in these shared narratives.

This is the 3rd memorial I've been to now in the last few months.  First my uncle Ballard's, then Stephen's, now Dan's, on top of dad's and Sophie's last year.  I would rue this fact, but it is what it is.  This is where I've gotten to in life. The funeral to wedding ratio is gonna ramp up, offset for a spell at least by graduations.  Gotta celebrate em all.


*I realize that stylistically this is a little blech.  Some of you who have been with me for a while may be going, like, "where is the badassed and incisive Grouse of yore?"  Fact is, as the blog soldiers on through the years, it serves different purposes for me.  Where once it was a place for me to practice writing as a craft, as time has moved on I view it more as a place to practice writing as a practice, craft be -- if not quite damned -- in any case back burnered. I don't think they'll be putting this URL on my gravestone.  That would be a bit wierd.

Dine4Autism

Busy busy day with the Triangle Autism Society's Dine4Autism fundraiser.

First, breakfast at Neal's Deli in Carrboro.  A home-cured pastrami and egg biscuit (yum!) and a quick conversation with Matt and Sheila Neal. Thanks to mom for a fine idea.

Then a run, and followed by a jaunt up to Raleigh to talk to a nice guy from Fidelity.

This evening, dinner at Venable in Carrboro with a substantial posse, followed by drinks at the West End Wine Bar, where we will hope for a sighting of the right honorable Jared.

If you are reading this here in the Triangle, here's a complete list of restaurants who have committed 10-15% of their gross for the day.  Get out, spend and eat!

Apex:

• Tylers Taproom in Beaver Crossings

Carrboro:

• Carrburritos
• Hickory Tavern
• Looking Glass Cafe & Boutique
• Neal’s Deli
• Oasis in Carr Mill
• Open Eye Cafe
• Southern Rail
• Tyler’s Taproom
• Venable

Cary:

• Abbey Road: W. Chatham and Old Apex Rd
• Doherty’s Pub: Davis Drive and High House behind Goodberry’s
• Patrick-Jane’s Gourmet Pizza Bar: Kildare Farm Rd, next to Trader Joes
• Rally Point Sports Pub: Harrison Ave at 40
• West Park Tavern: Hwy 54 and High House Road in the Wallmart Food shopping center

Chapel Hill:

• Bagel Bar: Near the Corner of Sunrise Road
  
• Elaine’s On Franklin
• Hummus Cafe: Franklin Street
• Il Palio in the Sienna Hotel
• Kitchen: Near Flyleaf Books
  
• Linda’s Bar & Grill
• The Pig: Near the Corner of Sunrise Road
• Twisted Noodle: East Gate Shopping Center
  
• Vespa Ristorante: Franklin Street
• West End Wine Bar: Franklin Street

Downtown Raleigh

• Ciago’s
  
• Lilly’s Pizza: Glenwood Ave at 5 Points
  
• Sunfower Cafe & Catering: Glenwood South
• Tyler’s Taproom: Seaboard Station at Peace University
  

Durham:

• Another Broken Egg
• DaisyCakes
• Lilly’s Pizza: Peabody and Duke St
• Pop’s Backdoor: Shannon Road
  
• Rise Biscuits & Donuts: Renaissance Parkway
  
• Tutti Fruitti Frozen Yogurt
• Tyler’s Taproom: American Tobacco
  

Morrisville:

• Another Broken Egg: Chapel Hill Rd & Cary Parkway in the Target Shopping Center

N. Raleigh/Wake Forest:

• Another Broken Egg: North Hills Stadium — across from N. Hills Mall
  
• Il Bacio
• Main Street Grille
• Main Street Grille & Pizzeria
• Milton’s Pizza & Pasta
• Over the Falls
• Simply Crepes
• Spring Rolls: North Hills Mall
• Wake Forest Coffee Company

Fun Home

I just read Alison Bechdel's Fun Home.  There has been much good press about it, and I must say it has been earned.

As I got started, and saw that it was about a dad who didn't fit in and kind of maybe killed himself, I almost turned away, just as I had decided to defer reading Daniel Wallace's Big Fish when I saw how much that book was about the death of his, or his narrator's, father. Still kinda close to home.

But I kept reading.  At times, it felt like she was overworking the parallels to Proust, to Joyce, to literary history generally, in the story of her, her father, and the homosexuality that they shared, which she grew into, but he never quite did.  Not surprisingly, since he lived in a small town with wife and kids.  Hard situation in which to be gay.

And so much of the the book focused on his unreachability, his self-imposed withdrawal from others, that it was hard to perceive the deep undercurrents of the author's love for him, and her sense of his for her.  But, at the end, such as it is, it all comes together.  A good book.

Out for a jog

Just went out running to get out in front of thunderstorms threatening this afternoon.  Decided to run up through Cedar Falls Park to check out the new astroturf field.  Looks real nice, though, as the latest ex-officio non-voting member of the Lake Forest Association board (cannot be full voting member, because we are Associate Members by virtue of our house's location in Clark Hills [and I'm not making that subdivision name up]), I wonder about the run-off issues associated with astroturf.

I also noticed that, where there had been an actual brick and mortar bathroom before, there are now only Port-a-Potties.  I would be interested in seeing the numbers they ran to make the decision to tear that bad boy down.  Then again, I'm not interested enough to go look it up.  It is good to be able to delegate that kind of decision-making to public servants.


Now, it has been some time since I have had a musical component to the Grouse, but these guys rock so hard that I've just got to tack this on for those of you who may not have seen me touting it on Facebook.  So good.  Joy.

Tricks on tourists

When we got to the airport in Austin a few week back, we went to the Alamo desk to get our rental car.  I had ordered, if not the cheapest category of car, one that was pretty low down there:  "Mid-Size", which in their mind was like a Corolla.  I was banking on a free upgrade.

"Would you like to buy an upgrade?" Asked the woman at the desk, pleasantly enough.  "Nah, I'm good," I responded. Then, when we got up to where the cars actually were, the guy says to me:  "Pick out whatever you want, except for an SUV."  So we got a nice Nissan Altima.  I could have had a Dodge Challenger or something like that, with a Hemi in it, but I thought that would be a bad temptation in Texas, and a bad mileage example for the kids.

Reminded me of a time we were in Florida in the early 80s, and were going onto Sanibel Island.  At the bridge onto the island, you could pay for one way or round trip, which was cheaper than two one ways.  So we bought it.  Then, when we were leaving the island, we saw there was no charge to leave.  Dad thought this was admirably slick.

Things I have said but not written

Last night I saw a post on Facebook from a friend from college who is apparently working through some deep depression.  Having lost a couple of people dear to me over the last year in ways that were clearly contributed to if not outright caused by alcoholism and mental illness, and with another friend floating out there somewhere, having disconnected his cell phone and evincing increasingly erratic behavior, I feel I should write some things that I have said many times, but have never written.

When I quit drinking 22 years ago -- and I hope to make it through till midnight tonight without a drink -- I was seized by a profound sense of gratitude.  Having drank and smoked pot for years and having sporadically but with no success tried to manage or cut it back, I felt that my situation was hopeless, that I would never be able to stop.  So, when I found that, with the help of AA, I could, I was overwhelmingly grateful.  At a profound, cellular level.

And, after experiencing this gratitude for a while, I realized that it didn't make sense for me to be grateful to nothing.  Which is to say, that the very fact of my gratitude presupposed something on the other side of it.  There had to be something that I was grateful to. This is what I called my "Higher Power", in 12-step terms.  But it only makes sense when I really take it to heart, it can't be a box-checking exercise for me to fit within the framework of the 12-step paradigm.

For much of my life I have realized I was fortunate.  To have been born into a family that values education in a place that values education, relatively wealthy within a historically wealthy society during a time of great technological progress, the list goes on and on. Honestly, I have to include on the list being white and male. So many attributes have conspired to make my life easier* than those of others. And also to have realized I needed help at a young age, and that I was willing to accept that. But, as I've thought about it, idea of "fortune" or "being fortunate" implies that these attributes have attached to me randomly, within a vision of the world that views things as just happening.

It makes better sense for me to conceive myself as being blessed.  This is a more challenging rhetoric to swallow, because the idea of "blessing" is so wrapped up in the Christian worldview where God is (at least here in the US of A) another while male with a very nice white beard.  But I don't have a better term for it just now, and my days flow better when I basically view myself as being blessed, and try to roll with it.  And if I can communicate that, and try to bear it in mind in my behavior, so much the better.




*And, to be clear, the issue here is the ease conferred on me by being a member of these groups, not that these attributes make us or me in any way intrinsically better

A Separation

Over the weekend we watched "A Separation," an Iranian movie from 2011 which I remember had a super-dramatic trailer, really an impressive one, and which I snuck into our Netflix list while Mary wasn't looking.  I have had a hard time selling Mary on movies from Iran, ever since I dragged her and some other hapless victim (Eric Schwab) to Lincoln Plaza in 1995 to see Abbas Kiorastami's "The White Balloon."  This was a very slow movie.  Very "atmospheric," as they say.  That we are now married and have two fine and healthy children is a tribute to her good nature.

And so, "A Separation."   Also not a plot-driven movie.  No car chases.  But a very rich picture of the complexities of living, of living in Iran, to a certain extent, but really not so much. There are no saints in this movie, and no villains, really, just people trying to get by and deal with complicated shit. Getting the hell out of the country.  Being the only child of a dad that has Alzheimer's.  Being poor and having a hotheaded husband.  Having a little more money and privilege.  Being torn between two parents, each with a compelling need to do things that tear them apart.

In short, it's a good movie.  Watch it.

Spooky!

Interesting article in the Times sports section this morning about a the old Hilton in Oklahoma City, which is reputedly haunted.  This spooks out the opposing players who stay there, meaning they get less sleep, and play less well the next day.  So they call it the "6th man" for the OKC Thunder.

This caused a few reflections.  First off, you can see how this place might need to be Ghostbusted.  Pretty spooky.

But why would a bunch of NBA players be particularly freaked out.  For one, it was build in 1911, and you can imagine how old buildings from back in the day from slave areas (Oklahoma was not admitted to the Union till 1907, but it was a "slave territory") might not elicit the warmest of fuzzies from a predominantly African-American cohort.

You might also think that these black guys, many of whom cut their college careers short so they could assure themselves of big paydays before they messed up their knees or ankles, and so are perhaps on average less-educated than the typical wealthy clientele of high-end hotels like this, are easily spooked.  Compounded by the persistence of Christian faith in the African-American population, which leaves the door open to thinking about the dark side of things.  I thought this stuff for a minute or two, and there may be something there.  But that's 10% of it, if that.

But I will say this. Me, with my Ivy League PhD and all that, I don't really believe in ghosts.  But scary movies freak me the fuck out.  The end of "The Blair Witch Movie"? I prefer not to think of it, too real.  I still have scary associations from "The Sixth Sense." None of this stops me from getting up to go to the bathroom in the middle of the night.  But I will tell you honestly that I prefer not to sleep in the house alone. Not because I'm really afraid ghosts are gonna get me, not because I think somebody's gonna break in, and certainly I don't think Graham would protect me in either of those cases. But still.  Would rather not be alone.

And hotel rooms?  I don't like em when I'm alone.  Particularly the first night I'm in one.  That is when I am most likely to have recourse to the sleeping pills I make sure I take with me when I'm on the road.

So I feel for these guys.  The fact that they are able to perform at a high level going from hotel room to hotel room night after night is impressive.  As for Oklahoma City my suggestion is this:  go down the road to another hotel. I'm sure that OKC/NBA has a special deal worked out with this hotel, but they should cut another deal with another one. Let the guys sleep.

Cleaning my All Clad stainless steel pans

Now, I'm sure you really give a flying hoot about this.  However, I Googled it once before but couldn't remember it exactly, so I'm putting it here on my blog so I'll know where to find it next time.

Barkeeper's Helper is nice if you really want to work out your arms.  This is easier and works better. 

Fill your pan as high as possible/necessary with water mixed with baking soda.  Boil it.  Put a top on it if you have one (I guess.  I do.  Maybe not necessary but I think it helps get the edges up where you can't quite get the water).  Let it sit there.  Drain it.  Now scrub it.  Burnt on crap comes off pretty easy.  You'll still have to apply a little elbow grease, but not too much.  I find that, honestly, fingernails are the most helpful in getting the crap off.  It's a little gross, but rewarding.

The sadness of one

I try not to immerse myself in the tragedies of the headlines of any given moment, probably because if I do, I am susceptible to overidentification.  I just get too sad, so I have to wall myself off a little.  But as the story of the Korean ferry unfolds -- to the extent that there is any unfolding, as opposed to a ship at the bottom of the sea with 270-odd people aboard it, almost certainly with us no more -- I can't help but to think back to the Economist's survey of Korea some months back.

Thing is, the birth rate in Korea is about 1.25.  Most families have only one kid, and they pour their heart and sole into that kid.  Everything depends upon the big college entrance exam, because you have to go to one of the top universities to get a job at one of the few chaebols, the big conglomerates -- Samsung, Hyundai, or LG.  Otherwise, the perception is, you have failed.  So the day of the big exam is a day of pressure unlike anything we know.  It's like our Ivy League focus cubed. So these families have lost not only a child, they've lost their only lifeline to the future.

In general, these birthrate issues are a big big problem.  Was just reading how Japan's had gone up froom 1.25 to 1.41 as more women entered the workplace.  Better, but still not great.  It is difficult to imagine how Japan and Korea will not look a whole lot different in 30-40 years.  Not just greyer, but different.  They need to open up to immigration, or the societies will die.  Western Europe has the same problem, but the societies there are marginally more open, have had to be, because of all the land borders down through time.

But we know that, this is getting boring, so I'll quit here.

Resistance

You would think that Graham would want to go and see the new Captain America movie, now wouldn't you.  But no, he doesn't.  And why, you may ask? Because he has read the plot summary on Wikipedia, and therefore doesn't see the need. Ridiculous. I may be able to get him to go see the new Muppet movie, we shall see. 

He like to had ripped my eyeball out wrestling earlier.  I kid you not.  And tomorrow he starts a new level at his martial arts studio.

Cinema in Graham

While waiting to witness a neighbor executing some documents, I was talking to a couple of paralegals who had come out from his attorney's office.  One was from Graham, one from Apex (which tells you something already about the affordability of Chapel Hill real estate and its perverse impact on sustainability -- they have to drive in to their jobs).

I started talking to the one from Graham about their awesome downtown, and asked in particular the movie theater there.  She said it was nice, and I like it's business model:  $4 tickets, $6 all you can eat soda and popcorn, self-serve ("as much butter as you want.")  She also said the movie theater has a balcony.  That is kicking it old school indeed. (picture below slightly dated)

I asked if it did good business, and she said that right now it was showing "God's Not Dead" and that it had lines around the corner.

Having not heard of the movie, I looked it up.  "God's Not Dead" is a typical story of the culture wars:  it narrates the tale of a Christian kid in college who is being oppressed by radical secularism, and then debates his leftist professor on the existence of God and wins. Some people die, but are born again beforehand, etc.  Panned by the mainstream press, it's been a big box office smash, raking in $41 mln in 4 weeks on a budget of $2 mln.  Certainly it speaks to the hunger of small-town, Christian America for cultural production that speaks to them.

The theater also shows other stuff, so I'm gonna keep my eye out for something I'd like.

The Woman Upstairs

Just finished Claire Messud's most recent book, titled just like this post.  I was excited to read it, though not excited enough to buy it hardcover.  I am one cheap bastard.

But the book got me back. I was reading it while flying to Austin for spring break, having just heard the news about Akin.  As I got rolling, I was getting really into it, was kind of in an emotional place, understandably.  Then, in the hustle and bustle of getting off the plane, I left it in the seat pocket, just like I left a copy of You Can't Go Home Again on a plane 5 years ago when we were considering moving home to Chapel Hill.

So I had to have a copy delivered to my iPad.  Which negated the money I saved waiting for the trade paperback. Talk about poetic justice.

The book is entirely character-driven, not plot-driven.  There's a 40-ish woman who teaches school, wanted to be an artist but got nudged away from her dreams.  She becomes obsessed with a kind of glamorous Euro-intellectual family living there in Cambridge, mother artist, father scholar, son precocious and sweet.  She gets her groove on, and then she gets got.  As it were. You wouldn't think it would be a page-turner, but in its own way it was.  You want the character to do well, break out of her rut, keep going.  And she kind of does...

I will say that I read it with some mixed feelings, as I have the same sort of envy of Claire's glittering success as the narrator does of her seeming BFF.  I knew her pretty well in college, she was a writer then, talented, and she kept at it, and now look at her.  I, by contrast, dabbled at writing, and now all I have is this blog. I'm sure that this is part of the book's considerable success. Most everybody can identify with the theme of compromise and diminished expectations, and the sometimes crushing envy of those who didn't compromise and rocked. And knowing how ridiculous it is to feel that envy, and wishing them well at the same time. More than any book I can think of, this one is optimized for the book club market.  Why sell 1 book at a time when you can market to groups of 8 or 12?

One last thing.  Early on, our narrator says outright that she is not The Underground Man (from Dostoevsky's Notes from Underground).  And in truth, she ain't him, but she has no closer literary cousin, as the book's very title hints.  And, as I remember like it was yesterday reading the Dostoevsky for the first time maybe 31 years ago, sweaty, sitting up in bed in my room directly downstairs from this where I sit now, now the guest room, it's no wonder it resonates with me so.  I am the Reader Upstairs.

The day after

Akin's service yesterday was beautiful, but intense.  So many people, reaching so far back, so many memories, some good, some hard.  John Howie's Clash cover at the end of the service was hauntingly beautiful.  But then, when the Veldt came on, I dunno, I lost it.  I guess I had been holding back.  Glad Jared was sitting there next to me to calm me a little.

Today, just recovering mostly, trying to enjoy my birthday a little while getting back into my coursework, where I've fallen behind a little.  Breakfast with the Liners, Drake, Tim Brower, that was awesome, then a nice birthday feast and a delish coconut cake made by the ever-talented Natalie.

And then I got started watching these My Brightest Diamond videos, more listening than watching I guess.  Shara Worden is an epic talent.


And, an update to yesterday's post.  It appears that I have reinjured my left big toenail and will likely lose it again.  The astute readers amongst you will recognize that this is in fact a bad omen, owing to this toenail's prior history as a marker of recessions.  It is in fact painful.  However, it is not painful enough to make me not want to go out and play again tomorrow, weather permitting.  Because it is game on time.