Monday. February. Groundhog’s Day and all of that. Still snow and ice on the ground. Hasn’t budged a micro, hasn’t melted a gram. In a group chat the other day I pointed out that none of my friends back home could say anything to me about their weather until we’d been above freezing for two days in a row. As it happens, tomorrow might be the second day. It did hit 32 today. We are promised 35 for tomorrow. And so, now, another post about how the weather has impacted everything. (This snow fell 10 days ago. I’ve not had too many snows in my life where the stuff just … stayed around. I can think of two. And, quite frankly, it has lost its appeal.
Saturday around midday I was out trying to widen the driveway a bit. We’d carved out a path last week just wide enough for a vehicle and, somehow, it was only just wide enough. Well, finally I got tired of that and so I gripped the shovel firmly and determinedly, and went to work. In that time I dug out the spot behind where my car is parked in the garage, and what I estimate the space necessary behind it to do the back and turn maneuver. I also tried to chip away at a few other places that were troubling. Working up a sweat in a long-sleeved t-shirt, I used our biggest shovel to bend the ice to my will for an hour. Until, that is, my back was bent against my will.
About that time my lovely bride returned home from her morning activities and midday grocery run. We did the grocery system. She carries in an arm full of groceries and I try to carry everything else in, so she can pretend to fuss at me. In the kitchen, with all of the bags on the island, I hand her things for the refrigerator. And then I hand her the things going into the freezer. And then I hand her the things going in the pantry. Finally, I stack up the bags and put them back out in the garage for her car. There’s nothing to it, but we do this every week and it’s also important.
Speaking of the kitchen island, I happened to be in just the right place to catch this bit of anarchistic artistry.
It was how Poseidon brought the spatula to the floor, looked around and walked off. Usually, when he does cat stuff like this, he owns it. He will sit by the thing he has knocked over or broken and wait until you see it, and him with it. It’s admirable, even as it is frustrating. But, here, he just walked off. Maybe it was because a rubber spatula can’t shatter, and there’s nothing to leak.
Somehow, we both managed to stifle our laughter until he’d left the scene of the his vandalism. We wouldn’t want him to feel he was being praised for all of this, after all.
To get away from the snow and the ice — snowcrete they are calling it — I went to Tokyo for an hour or so. Saturday night, I renamed the basement “Tokyo.”
The thing about Rouvy I haven’t figured out yet is everything. This was a flat route, according to the ride profile I saw before I started pedaling. There were was a tiny bit of climbing, but nothing to write home about. The profile I saw after the ride was … lumpy.
It was 26 miles through the various parts of Tokyo. Whoever recorded this most have done so in the very early morning. There was almost no one on the roads, as you can see from that image. Also, there were a lot of red lights, and the video seemed to catch them all. It is not at all demoralizing to be pedaling your little heart out, to see your avatar pedaling his little digital heart out, but you’re not going anywhere.
Anyway, it was a good sweat. I just have to do it more. Someone motivate me.
The weather is absolutely not motivating me. It is not motivating me precisely when it should be. One day this weather will not be our weather. One day we’ll emerge from the ice age. It will not be this day, for we are still solidly, firmly, in the Pleistocene Epoch.
Right in the middle, I would assume.
Here’s the view of yesterday’s sunset from my office window.
I think I spent all day at my desk. I’m not sure what I did with all of that time. Some work was done. But there was more work to be done today. We’ll get into that tomorrow, though.
Rowan / Thursday / video — Comments Off on There’s no pattern like migratory patterns 29 Jan 26
I recorded this video, then forgot about this video. Then the platform wouldn’t let me upload the video. Then it did let me upload this video. So this Monday video is now a Thursday video. But it could just as well be from today.
These geese hang out in some fields a mile or two to the south. And they’re heading back there in this shot. They’re flying back from the sloughs a few miles to the north of here. I’m not sure their schedule, but lately they’ve been flying the other direction in the early evening.
I love the geese, and the honking. I love them because I hear them passing by, and because I don’t hear them constantly.
Let’s talk about work. That’s what that image just above is about. That’s on campus … somewhere. I do not work in that building. I haven’t seen that building.
One day, when it isn’t 5 degrees out, I’ll have to take a shot of our building to use as another banner.
I was dreading class today because I felt the need to try to cram in two days worth of material in one. Going slower is better, but owing to the weather, I feel behind, hence the urge to overfill one day. Also, these were designed as two important days.
Fortunately, I’d asked the students in my Rituals and Traditions class to write a brief paper about this topic in advance, and that told me exactly where we all are, so I can tailor the presentation and cut the superfluous. I also had a colleague stop by and talk to the class for a few minutes, just to help set the table. And so, somehow, the class moved along nicely.
Later in the afternoon I had to complete the stage setting for the Criticism class, and there’s a lot to establish at this point for the rest of the term. I prepared one slide deck out of two, and had to work through varying pages of notes all out of order, hoping to make it flow, determined to make sure it made sense.
We made it through. A lot of what we discussed, in both classes, will come up a lot throughout the term, of course. And in Criticism, at least, there aren’t a lot of lectures. As I joke, they don’t want me to lecture, and today they found out why. That class becomes more conversational and Socratic, and I’m glad for it. I just need to figure out a way to make Rits and Trads something like that, too.
Happily, it was still daylight when we left campus at 5 p.m., and a bracing 6 degrees, having warmed a full 20 percent from several hours earlier. It was dark by the time we got home, however, but the days are growing longer. In just two more weeks nautical twilight will be at 6:30, and that’s the second sign that there’s seasonal hope.
There’s eight inches of packed ice outside my window right now, so it feels like a bit of false hope, but nevertheless. The sun is telling us that winter is on its way out. We’re gonna win.
Here’s the update from high noon. At least the sun was out, which was an improvement over yesterday. Also, there was no precipitation today, which was a glorious change of pace after yesterday.
We went back out in the late afternoon to chip away at more of the drive, thinking the sunlight might help, though it still felt like it was 10 degrees. Maybe it did. This is the system we adapted today. It is pretty good, if only because we had a lot of driveway in which to experiment.
I took the larger snow shovel and, standing in the middle of the drive, I would ram it underneath the frozen solid slab of ice that covered all of the earth. After two or four big pushes a few feet were carved out. My lovely bride, standing in front of me, and with a slightly smaller shovel, and one designed with a much better angle for, ya know, shoveling, would scoop those chunks into the yard. I worked around her, scooping up and chopping the left and right sides. This shovel is large enough that three rounds would just about clear the width of the drive. I figured that attacking the middle intimidated the flanks, because those were always a bit easier to bust up. In the places the ice got stubborn, I turned the shovel onto its corner and give a little axe-like tap. Working like this, we made our way down the drive, clearing off about 990 square feet in an hour.
Then we helped dig out the new neighbors. They have two little kids, and it was still ridiculously cold, never mind that I ditched my jacket. So mom and dad were taking turns with the kids inside, and the drive outside. Welcome to the neighborhood, nice to finally meet you.
Our other neighbor, Joe the Elder, was out on his tractor trying to plow the three neighborhoods for which he is responsible. No one gave him this job. He took it on himself. And it’s a good thing, despite the many taxes we pay, we are not the recipients of any road cleaning services. During last weekend’s snow was the first time in three winters I’ve seen a snowplow go down the road that wasn’t Joe the Elder. He must have been lost.
My lovely bride walked out of the neighborhood to see the big road, by which we mean a two-lane county highway. It is not in great shape. The local school districts have all canceled classes again tomorrow. I have just uploaded some reading materials for my students. There are a lot of country roads between our house and campus and I’d already heard from about 15 percent of my students that they weren’t going to risk it, anyway. I do not blame them. I commend the wisdom of the safe decision. We’ll catch up Thursday and next Tuesday, if necessary. (It’ll be necessary, but we’ll do it.)
As it says in the video, above, we dug out Sunday. You see why that’s necessary, but you also realize it is a Sisyphean task. I believe it snowed and sleeted and iced after that dig-out as it had before hand.
We got eight inches, easy. But even more on the leeward side of the house, where the sidewalk sits, blown off the roof no doubt.
That was Sunday. We were contemplating how to handle the drive today and I said, Are you expecting any deliveries this week? No? We’re not shoveling the sidewalk.
Saturday, before the storm blew in, we went out to celebrate my god-parents-in-law (just go with it) 50th anniversary. It was partially a surprise. It was supposed to be last weekend, on their actual anniversary, but that got snowed out. Their daughters hustled to get it in today, else we might have just celebrated in the summer.
It went like this. They’d rented a room at the happy couple’s favorite Italian restaurant. Much of their family came, some old work friends came, and so on. They just expected the immediate family for dinner, so the surprise was this full room. My godfather-in-law is a retired teacher, and I sat next to two of his former colleagues. The easiest way to say it is that the stories your teachers have about their lives away from school will really make you second-guess every opinion you had of these people. These two guys were no different.
Dinner was served. Vows were renewed, as officiated by one of their daughters. Photographs were taken. Cake was distributed. This was the cake topper.
Their actual wedding cake topper. (The groom was not wearing a black tux in 1976. It was a much better tuxedo.) One of their son-in-laws pulled it from safe storage when they weren’t looking so it could be used again Saturday. They’d asked all of the guests to prepare pages of a scrapbook, memories of family and friends for half a century. It was lovely.
My father-in-law, the best man at their wedding, gave a toast Saturday, much as he did so long ago. He did a great job. My mother-in-law gave a little speech. These two wouldn’t have been together if not for my in-laws. The two men were childhood best friends. They’ve known each other 70 years. The two women went to nursing school together, and were roommates there. They met at my in-laws’ wedding. My in-laws had the one daughter, and they are her godparents. They had two daughters, and my in-laws are their godparents.
Not the whole of the dinner party, but that immediate family — the happy couple, their daughters’ families, my in-laws, us — returned to their house for a few minutes after dinner. The still-blushing bride pulled out her wedding album. I saw photos of both of their parents — two of which I had the chance to meet a few times. She pulled out her wedding dress, which has been carefully sealed in a cardboard picture box all of these years.
Fifty years.
Fifty years, and one week. Count the weeks. That’s 2,601 weeks. Count the days. That’s 18,269 days, as of Saturday. Lovely people; they built a fine life and a wonderful family. They said it was about this cold that day, too.
Got in some quality work today. I all but locked down two syllabi. I decided to give myself an extra day or two to meditate on whether I made any big errors there. Sunday. I have started the final polish on the first two days of lectures. Monday. I thought about laundry. Tomorrow. It was a great afternoon.
And sunny. Suuuuuuunny. Spring is on the way, sunny. We made it, sunny. The world is full of possibilities again, sunny. When I finally went outside it was 25 degrees.
There was some mild discussion about a jacket. As in, You need a jacket and, “Nah, it’ll be fine.” It was, you see, an evening with brief moments of outdoors.
It was not my birthday, but it was the day of my present. So we took a ride to the train station, and took a train to Penn Station, and took a subway up to 72nd. And this is where my jacket risk became a consideration. It was sunny and 25 when I climbed into the car. Now it is dark. And I have no idea how far we are walking from station to venue.
Fortunately, it was just two blocks. And there was a line. But it moved quickly enough that the cold didn’t set in.
And so we went inside the Beacon Theater, which will celebrate its centennial in a few years. The Beacon opened in 1929, it was to be part of a chain of elaborate movie theaters. But then, right after this incredible place opened The Great Depression sank in. This was one of the last things to go up in that older world. There was a hotel attached to the project, and an airway beacon placed on the roof of the hotel, hence the name.
It was a daily movie theater, which ran 12 hours a day. And then they added radio broadcasts. (Your live podcasts aren’t that novel.) They stumped for bonds during World War 2. In the 1960s, plays became a part of the rotation. In the 70s, it became a concert hall, and also got a renovation. It almost became a night club and disco in the 1980s. That plan got tied up in court and plans changed. It became an IMAX, then got renovated again in the ‘oughts.
Today, it’s a popular live event venue, having entertained Manhattan for almost 100 years now.
I said this in the venue. I know people in New York aren’t mean. People from elsewhere might think so, but that’s not the case. It has been argued to me that the people in New York just aren’t concerned about you. But under that, there’s a kindness there, as you will find in any decent person. A decent one, anyway. Sometimes you get the random person who will try to help if you look lost. You will also get the person who will walk by you or cut you off if you’re not moving. They’re just focused on what their focused on, and not you.
The people outside the venue were all in the usual mode of evening happiness. They were going to see a show they’d been looking forward to. On a date. Out with friends. Faking a birthday. Whatever. And we got up to the woman who scanned tickets, who had a small talk conversation with you, which I don’t know that’s ever happened to me in the city. It stood out enough that I considered asking if she was originally from there, but if not, then I run the risk of insulting her. So I let it slide. The security people were security people. Inside, someone was handing long-stemmed roses to the ladies.
I went to the restroom. In the restroom there is a man who has the job of standing there and making sure everything is clean and orderly. I walked in and he welcomed me to the theater. This man is on bathroom duty. He’s drying countertops. “Welcome to the Beacon, sir.” After I washed my hands, shaking them brusquely in the sink so as not to mar his dry workspace, he handed me a custom, artisanally torn stretch of paper towel and said “Enjoy the show,” with a sort of sincerity that you don’t often occur in a men’s room, or in the liminal space between that room and the rest of your life.
And, you know what, I was going to enjoy that show. It was my part of my birthday present, after all.
Mandal was the opening act. Here’s a guy who is cleverly pretending to be foolish. Not that it is clever to do so, but that he is clever at it. Online, I found a set he did for a Netflix comedy fest eight months ago. Here’s his debut on The Tonight Show six months ago. And, so, between these two points and what we saw tonight, I’ve gotten a little sense of how his set was evolving, which is fun.
He did about 20 minutes, I guess, but I wish he had more. I was ready to settle in, in that way that you do when someone has brought a really funny person over to your party and you sit around the kitchen and listen to them go on and on until the evening ends.
But the evening wasn’t ending. Josh Johnson was the headliner. He’s one of the most prolific — and topical and timely — comedy writers of his generation. Just has to be. He’s produced almost five hours of material on YouTube just this month, plus his day job working (and now occasionally hosting) at The Daily Show. I wonder if this set will go online in the next few days. I’d watch it again.
When the show was over — and the bathroom gentleman was right, we did enjoy it very much — we went across the street for dinner. Because it is Manhattan we had a host of nearby things. Mediterranean, two cheesy American places, Italian, something else that didn’t really get a lot of consideration, and Thai. So we chose that, and it was right across the street.
The woman working up front at Sala Thai asked if we had reservations. We did not. She said it would be 15 minutes, and asked for a number to text us at. There was nowhere to stay inside, so we ducked back out to the street and I said, “Let’s walk the block. Keep us warm, see a bit more, and we’ll be close.”
We rounded the corner and got buzzed to come back inside. It is a tight, crowded, hopping little place. It reminded me of home.
I’m from Thailand.
No, there’s an incredible — incredible to me, anyway — Thai place in my hometown and I miss it a great deal. This place I was excited to try because they also offered a coconut soup, just as my favorite place does. And, being a cold night, it was perfect for coconut soup. (I’d eat coconut soup in the middle of summer, and have.)
Theirs was a bit sweeter, compared to what I recall, and had some odd little mushrooms, compared to what I prefer, but it was tasty. Also on the menu was this.
Kao Soy (a northern style curry noodle soup, the menu said) looked very similar to my beloved Chicken Noodle Bowl. And it was close.
This is egg noodles, onion, bean sprouts, pickled mustard greens in a red coconut broth. I immediately scooped the pickled mustard greens out of the way. I wish it had just a bit less of the broth, and had some plump long grain rice. Then it would be my beloved Chicken Noodle Bowl. Not quite the same, but very, flavorful and filling.
The tables in this place are so on top of us that, to my right, there was an acrylic divider between us and the next table. An older couple sat there. The table to my left was so close that we couldn’t leave without interrupting their meal. Two younger people sat there, still very much in an early phase of dating. She was still talking about her school work.
So my lovely bride and, being between them in the phases of relationships, alternated between sounding like an old couple and acting like two young people just finding one another.
We left, walked the two blocks to the subway, and talked about the merits and challenges of living in a big city. She, who grew up in a suitcase town and lived a few times in Atlanta, regrets never having done it. Me, having lived in suburbs and exurbs most of my life, am set in my ways and glad I don’t live in a big city. But I do appreciate being so close to world class cities. It was something I reflect on the reverse trip. Five quick subway stops. A late train out of town, and then a quick ride on an empty late night freeway. A couple of easy moves and I can be up there for the 100th anniversary of the Beacon, or celebrating other events, or enjoying some of the other fabulous looking things on that Thai menu. And, most importantly, it is even easier to get back out again.
I’ll be back for more of that menu.
And the Chicken Noodle Bowl? I’m going to have that again, this spring. That will also not be my birthday, but I might celebrate it just the same.
This is the third time I’ve tried to write this. It goes like this. I’m trying a new pattern, where I catch up on some reading of a particular author I like, and think of that as a primer for what to put here, and what not to put here. I am well behind. Months behind. I am reading July of 2025. It is a five-day-a-week proposition over there, so you can see I’m well behind. The guy has just retired and we’re all wondering what comes next. Well, people that are behind are wondering. Many people know, because they aren’t behind. I am behind.
Anyway, read a week, and peck away. Only, as I read, one cat climbed up into my arms. Very well. I can enjoy a purr-filled cuddle and scroll to my heart’s content. That cat got down. But I was on, like, a Wednesday or something. So I must finish the week. This is when what we call call the shift change took place. Out of my office went one cat, and in came the second. This time it was a sit on the desktop and rest the head and neck across the forearm move. Well, let me just tell you, any domestic animal that uses me as a pillow has the right of way in every arrangement. As happens with cats, though, there was a sudden recollection of a meeting that must be attended to in another room, and down and off we go. Only I’m reading a Tuesday or what not. And wouldn’t you know it, before that week’s worth of catch up reading was done, the cat was back. When he finally got down, I was reading in August. Mid-August. The author has been retired for a month and is making lists to give structure to his day.
I am, sadly, a long way from retirement, but I find this interesting. Do I need structure in the event of my eventual retirement? Would that just be productivity for the sake of productivity? Will I read less? Putter about the house 15 percent less? I should go out more. I should go out more now. Maybe I’ll get to that this spring. Definitely by next fall. Who needs a productivity list when you’re already trying to envision the events of next fall in January?
I have completed the outline structure of my new class, Rituals and Traditions, or Rits and Trads as we’re calling it, to save 11 letters and to sound hip. Several of my friends are kind enough to think it sounds interesting. I have, this week, consulted with a few of them to see what I might be overlooking. I have talked with an architect professor friend to see what from his world would apply here. He sent along a reading. And I have consulted with my in-house colleague and on-campus office mate, who is really quite good at this professoring thing. She has helped me cinch up the last two or three days of ideas. So, if the syllabus is the brain, and the outline is the skeleton, we now have the outline and the skeleton in place. I’m guessing the classes and lectures are the hearts and blood and muscle in this metaphor some sort of way. The first, call it 10 classes are all in my head or notes, and ready to be put in slides. That gets us through the third week of February. I’d like to come up with one more working component for the students to do. And maybe that’ll come to mind soon. I’m sure they won’t mind if it doesn’t.
Today is the 15th anniversary of the day Representative Gabrielle Giffords was shot, in Arizona. It seemed a good day to watch this again, a sequence which, for my money, is just about the best seven minutes of television ever produced about television. I don’t know how many times I’ve seen this now, if I say half-a-dozen I’m low. I’m still finding little layers, both within this series of events, but also how it contributes to the show. This is four episodes in, and written with the privilege of hindsight, but still.
No matter how many times I’ve seen it, it still pulls at the emotions, every time. And this was no different.
So I had a little sob today. This, Minnesota, just a general lousy few days of other stuff besides.
For the best part of three seasons — I didn’t care for the way The Newsroom ended — they really brought something, but none of it, the fictional stuff, or the almost-this-reality stuff that Aaron Sorkin pulled from would bring it all together quite like that. And if I don’t watch it with the timer on the screen I — a person who, in his first career, made his living by the dispassionately cruel, unrelenting tick of a broadcast clock — am absolutely boggled that that is seven minutes.
Here was the former congresswoman today, talking of those she was with on that horrible day in the desert.
Today marks 15 years since a gunman tried to assassinate me. He shot 19 people and killed six.
I almost died, and think of those who did every day.
Well, the cat has come back in. He’s looking for a little ziploc bag that he was chewing on. Inside of it was a small bottle of hand sanitizer. Both had been in my backpack. Since he is not allowed plastic, I hid the bag. He is looking for it. He’s getting quite close.
