Saturday, October 31, 2020, Los Angeles, California


Notes From My Journal

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“By prevailing over all obstacles and distractions, one may unfailingly arrive at his chosen goal or destination.” – Christopher Columbus

 

Against All Odds: Denver to LA in a Vintage RV, Part III

I woke up feeling conflicted about the luxurious meal we had at Lakeside, a top-rated restaurant in Wynn, a top-rated hotel.

The ambiance was what I had expected: plush and expensive in that over-the-top but still amazing Las Vegas/Dubai sort of way. (Did I mention that the Wynn cost $2.7 billion to build?) And the food was very good.

But it wasn’t any better than the meal we had at that diner in Green River at one-fifth the cost. It’s yet another reminder of something I’ve known for many years but keep forgetting: Paying more for luxury is seldom worth it. Spender beware.

Instead of beating myself up about it, I employed a simple but powerful trick I somehow figured out just last year in my 69th year on the planet: I forgave myself.

I had several hours before my 10:30 meeting. I looked for my laptop. It wasn’t on the desk. It wasn’t in my luggage. It was nowhere to be found. Yikes! I can’t live without it – not even for a single day. I called Lost & Found. It was closed until 9:30. I called the front desk and said that it was an emergency. They switched me to someone that said, yes, they had it.

I had left it at the bar I was sitting at after dinner. How could I have done that? Was this yet another symptom of early onset dementia? Or was it the wine and tequilas and fatigue? I don’t know. I forgave myself for the second time.

I got busy. At 10:30, we had the meeting. We were talking to our publishers, one by one, asking them how their businesses were doing. We actually know how they are doing, but we wanted to know if they are preparing for what could be a challenging year. I had asked for what I always ask for in such situations: three one-year business plans. One that is realistic, one that is optimistic, and one that is pessimistic. I’ve been doing this for 40 years. More often than not, the outcome is halfway between realistic and pessimistic. Rarely does the optimistic scenario turn out to be the reality, but it does happen. This year, it is happening with four of our 11 operating divisions. Still, I showed concern. I wanted to convey urgency. The Second Law of Thermodynamics mandates it. Even if it ain’t broken, I reminded our leaders, you should always be fixing it.

We left at noon, as planned. It was a glorious day – sunny and 70 degrees. Betty the Beast (an appellation I had given the Dodge) moved out on the highway proud and strong. Michael’s tape of 70s music was pumping. It looked like we would be in LA at 4:30 or 5:00. If all went well.

Forty minutes into this last stage of our adventure, Liam announced that the heat gauge was over 200.

“What’s the optimum?” I asked.

“About 200, plus or minus 10 degrees,” Liam said.

“So why are you concerned?”

“The margin is narrow. At 220, you could be in trouble. At 230, you definitely are.”

We pulled off to the side of the road, far away from the left lane where cars and trucks were whizzing by at 85 mph, to let the engine cool down.

I scolded myself for our optimism. We should have considered a worst-case situation before we left. But I’m a Ready-Fire-Aim sort of person. Apparently, Liam and Michael are too. I decided not to fuss about it. I forgave myself. I forgave us all.

Liam and Michael got to work consulting the manual and making phone calls. I found a shaded place nearby to sit and work. What would be the worst-case scenario? Betty the Beast would be too ill to carry on. If so, we’d tow her to a repair shop and then Uber to LA and retrieve her the next day.

After an hour, the engine had cooled down to 185. It was now safe to check the radiator. Liam did and found that the coolant had all but evaporated. That was actually good news. It meant that the overheating was due to a paucity of coolant. Liam filled it up. We climbed in. He started the engine. Betty roared to life.

“If things go well,” I told myself, “we’ll get to LA at 6:30 or 7:00. 6:30 is optimistic. 7:00 is realistic. 7:30 is pessimistic.” But that wasn’t true. Pessimistic would be another breakdown and missing our 8:00 dinner with our extended California family. We sent them a group text, letting them know the new ETA and promising to keep them updated every hour.

Driving through the desert, Betty struggled a bit on the inclines, the temperature gauge rising to 200 and even 210. But on the downhill, she cooled to a comfortable 190. Michael checked our altitude. We were at 4000 feet.

“I guess that’s good news,” I said. (LA is more or less at sea level.) “It’s mostly downhill from here!”

We arrived at Liam’s house at 7:45. Joanna, his wife, to our surprise, was delighted by the look of Betty the Beast. And the twins, Penelope and Fiona, were thrilled too. They called it the House Truck.

We arrived at the restaurant at 8:15. Number Two Son Patrick and his wife Jenny, Brother Chris and his son Vinnie, and Nephew Colin, the movie star, were there to greet us. We had a wonderful meal… all of us together and happy and with so much to talk about.

Mission complete!

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It’s Halloween! I’m going trick or treating today with my four grandkids. We don’t know if any of their neighbors will be opening doors or setting out candy on their porches, but the kids want to observe the ritual, so we have a Plan B in place in case they don’t. (I’ll be leaving little bags of treats along the way.)

I will also be reading “The Raven,” as I do every Halloween. This is the poem that made Edgar Allan Poe famous. Interesting fact: On the anniversary of Poe’s birthday, every year from 1949 to 2009, a mysterious stranger left three roses and a bottle of cognac at his gravesite… then suddenly stopped. Someone should get back to it!

 

The Raven

by Edgar Allan Poe

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,

Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore—

While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,

As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.

“’Tis some visitor,” I muttered, “tapping at my chamber door—

Only this and nothing more.”

 

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December;

And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.

Eagerly I wished the morrow;—vainly I had sought to borrow

From my books surcease of sorrow—sorrow for the lost Lenore—

For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore—

Nameless here for evermore.

 

And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain

Thrilled me—filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;

So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating

“’Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door—

Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;—

This it is and nothing more.”

 

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,

“Sir,” said I, “or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;

But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,

And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,

That I scarce was sure I heard you”—here I opened wide the door;—

Darkness there and nothing more.

 

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,

Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;

But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,

And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, “Lenore?”

This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, “Lenore!”—

Merely this and nothing more.

 

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,

Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.

“Surely,” said I, “surely that is something at my window lattice;

Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore—

Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;—

’Tis the wind and nothing more!”

 

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,

In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore;

Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;

But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door—

Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door—

Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

 

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,

By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,

“Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,” I said, “art sure no craven,

Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly shore—

Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night’s Plutonian shore!”

Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

 

Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,

Though its answer little meaning—little relevancy bore;

For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being

Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door—

Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,

With such name as “Nevermore.”

 

But the Raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only

That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.

Nothing farther then he uttered—not a feather then he fluttered—

Till I scarcely more than muttered “Other friends have flown before—

On the morrow he will leave me, as my Hopes have flown before.”

Then the bird said “Nevermore.”

 

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,

“Doubtless,” said I, “what it utters is its only stock and store

Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster

Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore—

Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore

Of ‘Never—nevermore’.”

 

But the Raven still beguiling all my fancy into smiling,

Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door;

Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking

Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore—

What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore

Meant in croaking “Nevermore.”

 

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing

To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom’s core;

This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining

On the cushion’s velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o’er,

But whose velvet-violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o’er,

She shall press, ah, nevermore!

 

Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer

Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.

“Wretch,” I cried, “thy God hath lent thee—by these angels he hath sent thee

Respite—respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore;

Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!”

Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

 

“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!—

Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,

Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted—

On this home by Horror haunted—tell me truly, I implore—

Is there—is there balm in Gilead?—tell me—tell me, I implore!”

Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

 

“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!

By that Heaven that bends above us—by that God we both adore—

Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,

It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore—

Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore.”

Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

 

“Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!” I shrieked, upstarting—

“Get thee back into the tempest and the Night’s Plutonian shore!

Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!

Leave my loneliness unbroken!—quit the bust above my door!

Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!”

Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

 

And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting

On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;

And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon’s that is dreaming,

And the lamp-light o’er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;

And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor

Shall be lifted—nevermore!

Friday, October 30, 2020. Las Vegas, Nevada


Notes From My Journal

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“When you go on a road trip, the trip itself is part of the story.” – Steve Rushin

 

Against All Odds: Denver to LA in a Vintage RV, Part II

6:30: A clear and sunny morning. 29 degrees. Praise the Lord! It’s about 400 miles from Green River to Las Vegas. In a conventional vehicle, it would take less than 6 hours. In the Dodge Travco, whose average speed is about 55 mph, it should take us closer to 8. Assuming no surprises.

The breakfast room is closed due to the COVID Crush Down. But you can order at the hostess stand and they deliver it to you a few minutes later in a Styrofoam container. I once spent a week in jail eating breakfast that was delivered in Styrofoam containers. The eggs were cold. The bacon was greasy. I promised myself I’d never again eat breakfast from a Styrofoam container. There’s some macaroni salad in a plastic container left from yesterday. I have that instead.

We’re off and running at 8:00 am. Liam is driving again. Michael and I have been switching in the shotgun seat, but neither of us has drummed up the courage to relieve Liam at the wheel. The countryside is beautiful. High, dry desert interrupted with dramatic hills and flat-headed mesas that face Route 70, like Sphinxes against azure blue skies. The road is straight ahead of us. Deserted. The Dodge is running nicely.

I’m in the back and I’m working, happy I’m able to type given the way this vehicle moves. It lists right and left slightly – just enough to make you feel nauseated. And its thin, maximally inflated tires vibrate annoyingly, except on the smoothest stretches of road. Thirty years of working in planes, trains, and automobiles has trained me to type under these conditions. I’m grateful for that because I have about a half-dozen urgencies I have to finish by the end of the day.

We stop for gas – as we must do every two hours. The reason, Liam explains, is that the original gas tank, which holds 50 gallons, is rusted out and so he had a considerably smaller tank put in temporarily to get us to LA. That, and the fact that this behemoth gets only 7 miles per gallon. Liam fills the tank while Michael and I chat with K, who is tracking our progress as if she suspects more obstacles lie in our way. Pulling out of the gas station, Liam complains about the cost of gas here: $2.85 per gallon.

It’s my time to sit shotgun. As I walk to the seat at the front, the RV hits a pothole and I’m suddenly clobbered by a sheet of plywood, a roll of carpet, and various other junk that tumbles out of the closet, whose original door has been replaced with a bath curtain. Struggling to climb out of the avalanche of detritus, I stand and fall again as the Dodge rumbles down the highway. Michael looks back on me, trying to suppress a smile. I feel old. Michael hops off his perch and assists me to the shotgun seat. I feel older still.

“So,” I ask Liam in the most neutral tone I can muster, “What’s all that crap doing in there, anyway?”

“Oh, it’s just stuff we haven’t yet thrown away.”

I nod.

“Sorry about that, Dad.”

We are listening to a taped selection of 70s rock and roll.

“What’s with the music?” I want to know.

“It’s Michael’s idea. To match the RV.”

At noonish, we pull off the highway and take a local road that brings us to a stretch of fast food restaurants. We debate the options and opt for McDonald’s. I order my favorite lunch in the world: a double cheeseburger, small fries, and a large Diet Coke. We had hoped to eat inside, but it’s been roped off. So we have our meal on the curb, which is fun.

A couple of hours later, the Dodge is sputtering. Liam is concerned. We take the next exit and find an auto repair shop. I check Google Maps. We are in St. George, Utah. Again, as with yesterday’s repairs, the mechanic is super nice. He checks the engine and tells us we are missing the oil cap, which explains the need to put motor oil in the engine so frequently. The hot oil that’s been spilling out splattered on the spark plugs that were improperly insulated, causing two of them to arc and burn out. He sends a helper to drive to a nearby auto parts store and get replacement spark plugs, along with another air filter, which has gotten dirty since we put in a new one yesterday. The repair takes about 90 minutes. The charge is $160 – three times what yesterday’s cost, but it still seems crazily cheap to me. I’m so happy that we can get going again and possibly reach Las Vegas today that I give the guy a $100 tip.

For the next three hours, the Dodge runs beautifully. We arrive in Las Vegas at about seven o’clock. As we pull in front of the Wynn Hotel, we are greeted by onlookers with grins and thumbs up. There are probably a dozen amazingly and garishly impressive hotels in Las Vegas.  The Wynn, I was told, was one of the best. Our rooms, on the 39th floor, are clean, commodious and luxurious, with floor-to-ceiling windows that provide spectacular views of the now nighttime cityscape of this impossible town.

After showering, we have dinner at the Lakeside Restaurant, which specializes in seafood, some caught this very day in Hawaii and jetted to Las Vegas in time for dinner guests to enjoy. I order a risotto. The boys share a steak. Across from our table is a huge artificial waterfall against which a series of spectacular light shows heightens our enjoyment of the meal. The bill comes to $369 – exactly three times the cost of our dinner last night.

Afterwards, we hit the casino. Liam and Michael go to the roulette table. I sit at a nearby bar that has a poker console in front of every barstool. I order a tequila and club soda and stare at this game in front of me. I feel I should play it, but I realize I don’t want to. Instead, I sip my drink and smoke a really fine Rocky Patel. I’m in bed at 11:00, feeling tired but completely happy to be on this adventure with two of my boys. Tomorrow is the final leg, from Las Vegas to LA. We will leave at noon, after my 10:30 meeting, and should arrive, Lord willing, at around 5:00 – unless… who knows what?

 

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Thursday, October 29, 2020, Denver, Colorado


Notes From My Journal

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“An inconvenience is an adventure wrongly considered.” – Gilbert K. Chesterton

 

Against All Odds: Denver to LA in a Vintage RV

The alarm wakes me at 6:30. I check my weather app. It’s 18 degrees – 8 degrees with wind chill. I get up, shout a good morning to Liam and Michael in the adjacent room, take a hot shower, and dress. Long johns, layers, and flannels. And the ski jacket Alec gave me yesterday morning in Cleveland, after he checked the weather and saw that a cold front was moving through Denver.

It arrived yesterday – a blizzard of ice and snow. You couldn’t see beyond a car’s length in front of you. It would have been challenging for a 2020 four-wheel SUV. For what we are driving, it was a no-go.

I look out the window. The sky is clear. As we leave the hotel, the doorman grins at us.

“Where’re you heading?”

“LA.”

“In that?”

We nod.

Now he’s laughing.

It’s a 1973 Dodge Travco. All 12,000 pounds of it waits for us snowbound in front of the hotel.

 

I kick away the snow bank in front of the vehicle. Michael scrapes the ice from the windshield and Liam checks the engine and then jumps in and cranks it. It starts right up. A good omen.

The engine should be good. Liam had it rebuilt in Missouri before he took delivery. The brakes are new, too, having been replaced when the mechanic took it on a test drive and was almost killed when the old brakes failed while he was going down a steep hill.

On the drive from Missouri to Denver, the temperature began dropping. That’s when the boys discovered that the heater system didn’t work. After stopping every 10 minutes to clean the windshield, they stopped at a Walmart and bought a small space heater, which Liam propped up on the dashboard in front of him. That cleared up just enough space to take them through two days of driving.

“All aboard!” Liam calls after the engine was humming. I climb inside, the first time I’ve seen the interior.

“Wow!” I said.

“Nice, huh?” Liam says with a laugh.

The interior looks like it hasn’t been touched in 47 years. Touched or cleaned, for that matter.  Whatever image that brings to your mind, I promise you: It is worse.

 

 

Liam and Michael climb into the front seats. I take one in the back. I notice it doesn’t have a seat belt. (I wonder: Did they have rear seatbelts in 1973?)

Driving through town, I quickly discover that the lack of a seat belt is not the real problem.  The real problem is that the seat itself is not bolted to the frame. I know that because it slides as we change lanes.

And now another problem: The door next to me swings wide open on left-hand turns. My unbolted seat slides scarily towards the opening. I scream. The vehicle stops.

We have a little discussion about this. Yes, the boys were aware of the problem. But no, it didn’t particularly bother them because they were securely strapped into the front seats.

“Don’t worry, Dad,” Liam says.

He fishes through several boxes of what look to be stuff that should have been thrown out by the original owner and finds a length of wire that he ties to the door handle and then again to another handle.

“All set!” he says. And off we go.

As we continue through downtown Denver, pedestrians gawk and grin at us as we pass them. Several give us a thumbs up. That cheers me. I don’t know why.

At the first stoplight, the engine stalls.

“What the heck?” Liam says.

He turns off the ignition, puts the transmission in neutral, and restarts the engine. At the next stoplight, it happens again.

“What’s wrong?” Michael asks.

“I don’t know. Maybe the engine is cold.”

It occurs to me that this is exactly what it must be. It’s been so long since I’ve been in a car with a motor that needs warming up that I’d forgot how common stalling out at a stoplight was back in the day.

It stalls again at the next light, but starts right back up again.

 “It’s warming up,” we agree.

Our destination is Liam’s house in LA. The goal is to get this antique curiosity there in one piece. This is day four for Liam and Michael. Day two for me. Today’s plan is to drive west along I-70 for three hours, and then find someplace to stop that has WiFi. I have a Zoom business meeting at 11:30. When that’s over, we’ll drive on and have lunch in Grand Junction, and then try to reach Green River where we’ll find lodging for the night.

A light snow begins. Liam switches on the windshield wipers. They are vintage. Like skinny teenagers, they move awkwardly over the wind- and snow-battered glass, cleaning with one stroke and smearing with another.

At about 11:00 am, we pull into a rest stop in Eagle, Colorado, that features a Starbucks. Good news. They have socially distanced seating. I find a table in the corner and prepare for my Zoom meeting. Meanwhile, the boys go looking for more engine oil (it needs refilling every 100 miles) at a local auto parts store that also sells power tools and firearms. Two hours later, we are on our way again.

I forgot to mention: The speedometer cable broke some time before the boys arrived in Denver. It’s been rattling ever since, but now the rattle has morphed into an ear-piercing, demonic howl. Liam and Michael make a dozen calls to auto shops in Grand Junction and find only one that has the time to remove the damned thing. They are very kind and accommodating. They remove the cable, change the gas filter, check the tires, and put in oil. The total bill: $50.

 We arrive in Green River at 7:00 and book two rooms in what an online app described as “the finest motel in town,” the River Terrace Inn. I can describe its level of luxury this way: The porte cochere was twice the size of the motel itself.

Dinner is at a diner next door. Social distancing in the foyer. Less than that in the dining room. The menu is vast – like a Greek diner in New York. The staff are friendly and professional. Liam orders ribs. Michael orders pork chops. I order an Asian chicken salad. The food, to our delight, is excellent.

After dinner, we walk down the bank and look at the Green River, smoking and talking about tomorrow’s objective: Las Vegas.

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Wednesday, October 28, 2020, Denver, Colorado


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Why Americans Must Fight Antisemitism 

Earlier this month, New York Governor Andrew Cuomo told CNN that COVID-19 spike clusters were “predominantly ultra-Orthodox.” This was in response to protests by the Orthodox Jewish community against social gathering restrictions they viewed as violations of their religious freedom. “They have never complied with the rules,” Cuomo said in a conference call. He went on to say “Maybe money works,” when discussing withholding funds from non-compliant Orthodox communities.

Antisemitism represents a threat not just to Jews, but to all minorities, and to American civilization itself, says Dennis Prager, the founder of Prager University, a conservative advocacy group.

“The moment civilization begins to disintegrate,” he says, “the Jews are the first victims – never the only, but always the first.

“Six million Jews were killed by the Nazis. But tens of millions of non-Jews were also killed. Many of these people believed, incorrectly, that Hitler had a Jewish problem. But that was not the end of it.

“It is often asked how the most culturally advanced country in Europe… the country that gave us Bach, Beethoven, Heine, and Schiller, [could] give us Auschwitz.

“One answer is that advanced culture and advanced morality are not the same. The Nazis loved classical music.

“The other, more important answer is that civilization is fragile.”

Civilization is fragile, Prager says, because it is composed of humans, and human nature is profoundly flawed. “It takes a great deal of effort and a great deal of time to make a decent society. But it takes little effort and little time to destroy a society.”

What is going on in America, he says, is the willful destruction of our culture. It’s being done in the name of social justice, but the goal is political. And politics is never about justice. It is about power.

History tells us that there is a recognizable progression to cultural revolution. It begins with an attack on traditional ideas in universities. This builds until those traditional ideas are accepted as not just wrong but evil. This then morphs quickly into an attack on free speech. You have a choice: Embrace the new ideology and become part of the virtuous avant-garde. Or reject it and announce yourself as the enemy.

Once free speech is gone, the culture, which has been holding the society together, disintegrates, along with the diversity of thought and cultural expression that created it.

“Why, then,” Prager asks, “does this [current radical left-wing effort to destroy our culture] not frighten America’s Jews? Do they not know how much Black Lives Matter, Antifa, and the rest of the left loathe Israel? Or do they not care?”

Tuesday, October 27, 2020, Denver, Colorado


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“Any fool can make a rule. And any fool will mind it.” – Henry David Thoreau

 

California’s Happy Holiday Agenda

 

Hospitalizations and deaths from COVID-19 in California are at their lowest levels in six months. That’s good news for residents of our most populous state. And at a good time – weeks before the holiday season begins.

Perhaps encouraged by this, Governor Gavin Newsom recently issued a revised set of rules to let Californians know how to enjoy their Thanksgiving and Christmas festivities. The rules are so bizarre, I wondered if Newsom was joking.

I asked Amaru to check it out. He did and confirmed. Here are the new rules…

 

  1. Don’t Light That Fireplace

No more Thanksgiving and Christmas gathering around the hearth. This year, California families will be outside in their backyards, front yards, or driveways. And if a party-goer needs to take a leak, no problem. California’s Dept. of Health has that covered: Holiday party-goers can go inside to use the bathroom when they need to – so long as those bathrooms are “frequently sanitized.”

Need protection from the rain or smog or cold? No problem! Governor Newsom and his team have opened their hearts and written in a provision that lets families take shelter under canopies, awnings, and other shade structures – so long as “at least three sides of the space (or 75%) are open to the outdoors.”

 

  1. More Than Three’s a [Prohibited] Crowd

Forget Aunt Suzie and your nogoodnik brother and his family. Thanks to Governor Newsom, this year’s holiday parties are going to be VIP family members only. Gatherings are restricted to “no more than three households.”

And if the party happens to be in a public park, don’t even think about trying to book two groups of three next to one another. As the Dept. of Health put it: “Multiple gatherings of three households cannot be jointly organized or coordinated to occur in the same public park or other outdoor space at the same time – this would constitute a gathering exceeding the permitted size.”

 

  1. Take Names, Kick Asses

Hosts are required to “gather the names and contact information for all attendees” for the totally noble and sensible purpose of gathering contact information. This is actually a great idea because it’s so easy to forget the names and addresses of your family members.

 

  1. Plenty of Elbow Room at the Table

How large is your dining room table?

The California health patrol reminds celebrants to set the table to allow for six feet of distancing “in all directions front-to-back and side-to-side between different households.” Sharing is forbidden. And leave those holiday plates in the cupboard. “All food and beverage items are to be in single-serve, disposable containers.”

 

  1. Forget the Ugly Christmas Sweater, Bring Your Ugly Christmas Mask

All party attendees are reminded to wear face masks “in compliance with the California Dept. of Health’s face covering guidelines” at all times, except when drinking or chewing or swallowing meds or using inhalers.

 

  1. Make It a Short – and Silent – Night

Good news for those that are always angling for excuses to leave the party early. The new guidelines limit gatherings to two hours or less.

As for singing: In order to “reduce respiratory droplets and fine aerosols into the air,” party-goers are advised to keep the volume to a minimum – preferably “at or below the volume of a normal speaking voice.” And if you want to play an instrument, it better not have a spit valve. Playing wind instruments is “strongly discouraged.”

 

P.S. Apropos of the above, I just got the following from my old friend JM:

Friends – I have been told that only 6 are allowed for Thanksgiving but 30 are allowed for a funeral. I will be holding a funeral for our pet turkey who will pass away on November 26th.

Refreshments provided.

 

 

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Monday, October 26, 2020, Denver, Colorado


From My Work-in-Progress Basket

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“There are only two lasting bequests we can hope to give to our children. One of these is roots, the other, wings.” – Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

 

The 7 Best Gifts We Gave Our Children

There is a view of parenting that advocates giving our children every advantage possible in order to accelerate their development and increase their chances of having happy and successful lives.

There is another view that is about protecting our children from hardship and danger. 

There is still another view about giving our children the privileges and luxuries that we didn’t enjoy as children.

And there are parenting professionals out there supporting one or several of these notions. The secret to raising wonderful children, they aver, is to protect them from adversity and to give them everything possible to make their lives fuller, easier, richer, and happier. 

And by “everything,” they are talking not just about material possessions but also about such things as freedom, friendship, dignity, comfort, security, and the all-time favorite: unconditional love.

These were not the ideas that K and I embraced in our parenting. 

Our childrearing was based on a different philosophy: leaving the road before them pot-holed and bumpy, and allowing them to experience all the difficulties and challenges we ourselves had faced. 

Judging by the results of our experiment and those of our coevals that embraced the more widely held parenting philosophies, I’m glad we did what we did. Because our boys turned out to be people we both like and admire.

Here are the ”advantages” we gave to our children:

1. The Experience of Relative Poverty

K and I grew up in working-class neighborhoods. The low end. We felt the usual level of embarrassment that working-class kids feel about all the things they don’t have. Like new clothes. And lunchboxes (vs. paper bags). And spending money. When our children were young, we provided them with those same embarrassments. And when they were old enough to drive, we didn’t buy them cars, as some parents did. If they wanted a car, they could pay for it with the money they earned after school. So they drove the sort of cars we drove when we were in high school: junkers. (I still fondly remember watching Number One Son scrubbing the torn plastic seating of his 20-year-old pickup truck before his first date.) 

2. Second-Class Status

We grew up in families that had double standards. And we imposed those double standards on our boys. Parents had privileges that children were denied. Children had rules that parents were exempt from. Until our boys were old enough to leave home and fend for themselves, they had to accept their position as second-class family members. We could eat what we wanted. They could not. We could go to bed when we wanted to. They went to bed when we told them to. As they got older, we gradually gave them more autonomy – but only if they earned it by acting like responsible adults. The bottom line was always an absolute: We were the parents. They were the kids. Our family was not a democracy. And they were not our equals.

3. Insecurity

When you grow up as K and I did, you become instinctively insecure. You recognize that sometimes things roll your way. Sometimes the world eats you for lunch. C’est la vie, we explained to our kids. We did not then and do not now view insecurity as a bad thing. We saw it as necessary for survival in the real world. We made sure our boys understood that they were guaranteed nothing. That anything they got must be earned. And that there were dangers lurking that we could not protect them from – some of them inescapable. They needed to understand that life is tough, and if they wanted to succeed, they had to learn to overcome obstacles. Again and again.

4. Deprivations

Our children were not free to do what they wanted. We (mostly K, to her credit) put restrictions on just about everything they enjoyed – from watching TV to playing video games to hanging out with their friends to going out on weekends when they were in high school. We knew that they would push whatever boundaries we set, and so we made those boundaries very firm.

5. Disapproval

Like most parents, we wanted our children to succeed in their work – as students and in their extracurricular activities. We never made them feel that we expected them to excel at anything in particular, but we made it clear that we expected them to approach everything they did in earnest. When they did, we rewarded them with well-earned praise. When they did not, they got what they knew they deserved: our disapproval.

6. Punishment

K was a big believer in reasonable but consistent sanctions for undesirable behavior, which included speaking disrespectfully to adults and treating their peers unkindly. Our boys’ behavior mattered to us. Their manners mattered, too. So we used punishment for the bad as well as praise for the good to raise our children. 

7. Conditional Love

Where did it come from – the idea that unconditional love is a good thing? The meaning is patently bad. How does it do either party – the lover or the beloved – any good? It makes a masochist of the one and a solipsist of the other. 

Parental love that is unconditional is irresponsible. It is the act of yielding when withholding is called for. It says: You can do whatever you want. When people say they love their children unconditionally, they actually mean that they refuse to take on the responsibility of doing the tough things that a parent must do to raise a responsible, affable, and admirable human being.

 

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Friday, October 23, 2020, Myrtle Beach, South Carolina


Worth Watching

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 “My Octopus Teacher” on Netflix

If you are looking for something to divert you from the ugliness of US politics and inspire you to… well, not hang yourself, this little documentary is worth watching.

Directed by Pippa Ehrlich and James Reed, it presents a year in the life of Craig Foster, an amateur free diver in South Africa.

In 2010, exploring a cold-water kelp forest near his beachside home, Foster came across a young octopus that exhibited what seemed to be an interest in Foster himself. Very gradually, the two formed a relationship of trust and curiosity that led to a surprising number of intimate connections.

This unpretentious little film will astound you and make you reconsider the interconnectedness of all living creatures. Foster’s work takes Jane Goodall’s experience with gorillas to an even more amazing level.

Watch the trailer here.

Worth Reading

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Book of the Week

The Wave: In Pursuit of the Rogues, Freaks, and Giants of the Ocean, by Susan Casey

I’m sure I would not have ordered this book had I not just finished watching “Octopus Teacher.” (See above.) I was deep in the beautiful mysteries of the oceans and didn’t want to come out of the water.

The Wave, I’d read, was a NYT bestseller. How could that be?

One reason, I discovered, was that Susan Casey is a very good writer. Another is that she writes about very exciting topics – in this case, giant waves. The 70- to 80-foot waves that extreme surfers like Laird Hamilton ride, but also the even bigger rogue waves and tsunamis that exceed 100 feet and can actually break an 800-foot ship in two like snapping a pencil.

The Wave is chock full of exciting stories about disappearing ships, as well as the history of giant waves, the new science behind them, and such fascinating miscellany as how Lloyd’s of London insures against them.

I’m only a third of the way into it, at this point, but I can already feel the excitement of the ride.

Click here to watch a talk that Casey gave about the book at a bookstore in California.

And click here to watch a TED Talk – “ Dispatches from the Dark Heart of the Ocean” – that she gave in Maui.

 

 About the Author 

Susan Casey, author of the NYT bestseller The Devil’s Teeth: A True Story of Obsession and Survival Among America’s Great White Sharks, is editor-in-chief of O, The Oprah Magazine. She is a National Magazine Award-winning journalist whose work has been featured in the Best American Science and Nature Writing, Best American Sports Writing, and Best American Magazine Writing anthologies. Her work has also appeared in Esquire, Sports Illustrated, Fortune, Outside, and National Geographic. Casey lives in New York City and Maui.

 

 Reviews of The Wave 

 “Immensely powerful, beautiful, addictive, and, yes, incredibly thrilling…. Like a surfer who is happily hooked, the reader simply won’t be able to get enough of it.” – San Francisco Chronicle 

“[An] adrenaline rush of a book…. As terrifying as it is awe inspiring.” 
– People

“Casey’s descriptions of these monsters are as gripping in their own way as any mountaineering saga from the frozen peaks of Everest or K2.” – The Washington Post Book World 
 

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Fun and/or Interesting

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One of the social media rabbit holes I occasionally go into might be called “Amazing amateur piano players surprise others in shopping centers and malls!”

I know. Can this really be a class of entertainment? Yes. On YouTube it is. There are literally hundreds of them.

Here’s a good one: The amateur player tricks two young classically trained pianists into helping him play a rudimentary song.

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