For Whom?

My wife shared with me last night that our neighbors are in a panic because their grandson is at risk of not graduating high school for academic reasons. I didn’t think too much about it.

Fast forward a couple hours and my youngest starts yelling in the middle of the night so I head downstairs in the dark and when I get to his room, he just says I want to lie down. So I cover him up and zombie back up the stairs to try to get back to sleep.

But I can’t.

I start thinking about the kid at risk of not graduating and start thinking about how I will stress the importance of academics and studying and critical thinking to my children.

And I envision working with my oldest on reading his history books in high school and I envision talking about: breaking down the chapters, writing down key words, knowing definitions, and making connections between ideas, dates, and important figures.

I have no idea what time this was: it could have been midnight it could have been 3am.

And I envision talking to him about the humanity in our history and not shying away from the ugly facts but addressing them and trying to think about ultimate and proximate causes.

And I remembered reading Howard Zinn’s A People’s History of The U.S.

 

And I envision talking to him about how they rolled slaves into the bottom of the ships like they were logs and that many of them died in the bottom of the ship during the voyage from the sheer madness, the claustrophobic madness of being on their backs unable to move or get up, all the way from Africa to the United States…on a sailing ship -6 to 8 weeks.

I couldn’t get back to sleep.

EPILOGUE

I recently reviewed yet another student loan bill of mine and will wince and feel my stomach drop every time I have the gumption to even look at one.

However, as the culture wars rage and as I view from afar and sit quietly as a certain ilk refuses to look at our country’s history with unbiased, honest, authentic eyes, I value, supremely, such a small thing I learned raking up student loan debt.

When someone is telling you this or that is great and even better, this or that is the greatest. Like: This is the greatest country on earth.

You, yes you, are always permitted to ask: For whom?

Me and My Me Machine

I can't say enough good things about Joshua Ferris' To Rise Again At A Decent Hour.

Actually I can say enough good things.

At one point in the novel he writes:

"I could go on. I will go on."

How can you not like that? You like it, you know you do.

Besides the great writing and the great characters and the Coen brothers-style dark comedy there is the fact that the protagonist is an atheist.

So for this guy with two thumbs who doesn't believe this was a nice welcome mat.

Pretty good interview here.

But, by far, the best thing about reading this book was Ferris calling cell phones Me Machines.

Perfect, just perfect.

Commute, Cornell

My daily two-hour commute is just a fucking drag.

But let us add some key ingredients to, oh I don’t know, build character. 

        1.  Record heat in New England on Thursday 

By BOB SALSBERG, Associated Press

BOSTON (AP) — Heat records were burning up Thursday in cities in the Northeast as the region gets a summer preview.

The mercury reached 92 degrees in Boston shortly after noon Thursday, breaking the old record of 91 degrees for May 18 set in 1936, according to the National Weather Service.

2.  The AC in my near-200k-mileage car decided to just blow air sans all of that, oh I don’t know, cool, along with it. So I had to sweat like I was in a sauna for two hours yesterday and probably went closer to deaf from driving with the windows down.

Builds character, remember?

But, as I drove through the Bay state this morning up and onto the Braga Bridge where the sound of the pavement roared over the radio that was already up to 11, a beautiful thing happened: the very cool air from the water below filled the car along with the faintest whiff of salt, and for a minute I was one content commuter.

I’ll take a minute.

I don’t know a lot about Chris Cornell and I wasn’t a huge grunge fan from back in the day but I read some stuff about him over the years and knew that he suffered from depression and addiction. I also knew that he had talent, unadulterated, from-the-womb talent. 

So while not a huge fan and while it was hard to hear (please see above for reasons why windows were down), when the Providence rock station played a portion of his isolated vocal track to Black Hole Sun, I cried.

Build character, right?

Behold! The First Metatoon!

Tell Dr. Flicker!

I just figured it out.

I am reading To Rise Again At A Decent Hour by Joshua Ferris and the main character, one Paul O'Rourke, is a combination of Holden Caulfield and Alvy Singer.

Whew.

You may return to your regularly scheduled program.

I Think It Was Van Morison Who Said La La La La, La La La

La La Land

Watched La La Land Saturday Night. I know I know, a little late to the party. Don’t yell at me, I’ve got two kids and a two hour commute.

It is a great movie. And while the ending is harshly bittersweet, the overarching reaction I had to the movie was laughing.

I thought it was very funny.

Ryan Gosling’s comedic timing is superb. It’s really kind of annoying how talented he is what with the singing and the dancing and the acting but, humor too! Not exactly fair.

He and Emma Stone are terrific actors. Her scene where her audition is interrupted when she is crying is beyond good. 

The home run for me was the explanation of jazz scene. As a, I wouldn’t call myself a musician, person who gained some facility on the guitar (enough to be considered a pro-am playing some larger venues in smaller towns) who gained an appreciation for jazz, this scene was, while written very concisely yet powerfully, acted such that one can’t help appreciate both at once – acting and jazz. 

Our tots love to watch movies in Mom's Honda Pilot and have commandeered the vehicle's sound system. On sunday morning drives to swim lessons though, they have succumbed, been won over, and have come to expect their little hearts and minds to be filled...by jazz.

Mr. Jones And Me

People that get paid to talk into a microphone should be better.

Are we asking too much of people that get paid to talk into a microphone?

Look, I can't afford the Amazon Audible app and I can't get books on CD because my toddler shoved a nickel in the CD player and the dealer wants a gazillion dollars to take the whole stereo out, retreive the nickel, and put the whole stereo back in, so I am stuck listening to the radio for my two hour daily commute. Don't judge me.

Ergo, sports talk radio is a part of my commute.



As soon as I heard it I asked Siri to send me a text:

Bomani Jones said "...there's literally, not a soul on the planet who can guard him."

I rolled my eyes harder than they've ever been rolled and then said something to the effect of:

"Jesus fucking christ!" then immediately turned the station.

A fucking polka station would be better than this!

Literally? LITERALLY?!?!?   Literally? LITERALLY?!?!?

OK Mr. Literally, how the fuck would a soul (a non-extended, immaterial, thinking substance) guard an extended, material substance?

It's the classic problem of parallelism you fuck!

Why would a soul even contemplate guarding an NBA player at all, let alone in the goddamn playoffs!

A soul can't even foul, even if he/she/it/god/monad/angel wanted to!


Just stop saying literally. This word must be banned.

Censorship is a last resort but this is a safety issue.

My safety issue.

Because if I hear another goddamn person who gets paid to talk into a microphone misuse it I am going to drive off a fucking bridge.

Safety first.

Please, give the mic to someone that knows how to use it:

Putting the Gem in Simple-Minded Strategem

Started Moonglow by Michael Chabon and I think I am going to like it:

They lived on the thirteenth floor, though it was styled the fourteenth because, my grandfather explained, the world was full of dummies who believed in lucky charms. My grandmother also scoffed. Though she personally had no particular fear of the number thirteen, she knew luck could never be fooled by such a simple-minded stratagem.