Cookies, the case For

 

I’m not sure why and I admit it foolhardy now, as I look through my years past as over a bouquet past its prime, and its late prime, to its subprime, that I, too oft took the use of the word “can’t” as if those who, by word or deed had allied themselves ‘gainst the force of me. “You can’t go there!” Really, well then…done and back alive. “You can’t teach yourself to defuse bombs!” Harder if you are color blind, but no, not impossible. Each “can’t” was a challenge – a mountain to climb, a rule to be broken, a truth to be tested. So when my mother took the pan of chocolate chip cookies out of the oven and cautioned me that I “can’t have too many” cookies I clearly saw that as a red line to be crossed.

Is that a challenge? Has a glove been dropped somewhere. So I wished to show her that she is wrong on every conceivable level. So I ate all the cookies and we reached an interesting moment:

According to:                                       I have:                                      I haven’t

My brain                                                                                              we all know that there never was nor will there ever be a time in my life when a fresh, slightly undercooked chocolate chip cookie wouldn’t be preferable to whatever I’m doing now. I cannot imagine thinking I have had “enough” let alone “too many.” That heresy must be rooted out for it is of the Devile. For a slightly crispy, mostly mushy warm to just bearably hot melts in a way who satisfies even the taste buds behind the back row who, because they don’t have rich daddies who buy them tickets, have to watch the concert of food that is my diet from afar. But these cookies seek out the least represented – the lonely and unloved, and these True Cookies, and bathe them, even them, in the glow of melted chocolate and the lightly vanilla (and even a citrusy-thing-going-on-there) of the cookie dough. So who could say that there might ever be too much of this kind of ooey gooey goodness in the world?

My mom                                             had way*

My mouth                                                                                           had “way”*

My heart (emotional)                                                                         never felt like this. I must

                                                                                                            Have more, always more

                                                                                                            So no, never*

My heart (physical)                             can’t talk. Pumping.

                                                            Mouth is a corporate shill.

                                                            Yes you had*

My stomach now                                                                                 huh? “no”. Whatever.

My stomach in about 30 minutes       whoa…that’s a lotta

                                                            Cookies. Let’s unbutton them pants.

Impressive but

                                                            I’ll allow it, often and soon.

More? So, too many? “Maybe”*

 

My blood sugar                                   No its fine its good and probably some more for you know

                                                            Science but anyway I feel like I can count my own blood

sugar right now so if you want me to teach that I can make that happen, or anything else you want as long as you give me more cookies. You have NOT had*

 

The cookie company                                                                           That man is a national hero

                                                                                                            And he has certainly not had*

 

Any medical professional                                                                    Yeah, that’s clearly*

Any dietician                                                                                       How are you alive? For a year?*

-------------------------------------

*Too many cookies.

 

 

 

A word about Dave Grohl

 Well, more than a word. Maybe a complete thought.

I was listening to music last night and the Foo Fighters' version of Baker Street. I know that for the first album, Mr. Grohl played all the instruments. That's impressive to me. I really hope that this version of Baker Street was a track on which he played everything. The idea that this was a song/recording on which every part is presented as a part of a single individual and the single individual has felt the pain and joy, the yearning and the sweetness through every instrument makes a lot of sense to me. Though, yes, I would have preferred that the central riff stay on a brass or woodwind, so the breathiness could come true, but the overall sense of desperation comes through and makes me feel like Mr. Grohl was really feeling everything through this song.

If anyone knows Mr. Grohl, please let him know that I'm a fan. That probably won't change the schedule of his day, but just tell him anyway. Thanks bunches.

On why I'm bored of living here

I have a plan -- at some point in the future, I want to move to Israel. Last night, I came to terms with why I want to. I mean there are the obvious reasons: food, ease of practicing my religion, the possibility of better weather, being near family. Those are all well and/or good. I am driven by a religiously inspired vision of Zion and Zionism and I see the value of a strong state as a bulwark against the spread of anti-Semitism but that's not entirely it.

The average American doesn't wake up each morning and wonder about "what if there was no America?" People in the US go on living without a concern for their future existence. They generally do very little to keep up the country, and they get all the benefits of it, but they see it as a backdrop of facts on the ground that aren't going to change. People generally don't have the very real option of "not living" constantly 30 seconds away. Imagining a world without the US as we know it is the subject of many an alt.fanfic work about multi-verses and other timelines.

But in Israel, the threat is real and constant. Identity is crafted in the shade of a safe room. Personal voice is set to the pitch of an emergency siren. What makes the individual an Israeli is to understand that to be an Israeli is to be "not an individual." There is a collective experience that unites us all. We are all, automatically, on the same side of at least one conflict.. The average American doesn't place any inherent value on "being in America" because there is no concept of "not being in America." And the average American lacks the empathy required to appreciate that others live with existential worry. The world is supposed to be a just place, says the American, and he can't appreciate that the reality doesn't match up to the idea that privilege assures him is true.

Side note -- I get the sense that most criminals in the US would draw the line at victimizing family -- in Israel, everyone starts out as family. So maybe there is less "random" violence because the random person you are mugging will end up sitting next to you in a safe room for the next hour.

Maybe I'll feel safer because I'll live with the sense that the guy walking towards me with a gun deserves my thanks, not my fear, and with the knowledge that most of the people I see there have held that gun and all deserve my thanks. It's like "Cheers" -- I want to go where I know that the troubles are all the same. We may curse at each other but when push comes to shove, we all push or shove together. Maybe it is a cliche or my own naivette speaking, but I want to feel like I belong somewhere, that the perception of me that some stranger has of me doesn't include "automatically different because he is Jewish."

I want to feel like I automatically align in a very essential way with most of the people in my neighborhood, the people that I meet when I'm walking down the midrechov. I don't want to have to "be on" and be ready to explain myself, or be judged, or answer questions about Judaicarcana, or be an ambassador of anything. I feel like there are more places where I can simply exist there.

And maybe I'm wrong, but I feel like there is something special about waking up there and already being at the spiritual center of my world.

What I'm willing to Trade

No one wants a police state in which we are all under constant surveillance...but...

My feelings of nostalgia do a fine job of wiping away my concerns about Big Brother and all that because, as I age, I begin to wish for something to bolster my fading memories. If only there was some repository of hi-def spy video  of all the places from my youth so I could relive my childhood not in the fading pastels of a clouded past, but in all the vivid detail of a current image.

Maybe if there was an AI service that could take all of my snap shots and photos, correlate elements across images (like a particular intersection of a place) and then compare that place to the google street view as it is and has been over time. Then it could create a VR trip back in time to the way a street looked (in full color and glory) in a particular year. I want to stand in front of my house in 1978. I want to see the bright colors of an early summer's day in 1982. I want to stand next to my mother in 1971. I want to visit my apartment in 1976 or my car in 1990, in full 3-D. Why are we digitizing our past if not to give us somewhere to hide?

Movie review - A Complete Unknown

I saw the Bob Dylan movie this weekend. Here are some thoughts about it. (tl;dr: 2.5 out of 5 stars)

OK, so here we have a movie about Robert Zimmerman (though the entire issue of his name and heritage get 2 lines' worth of mention). I felt like I was watching some really excellent and compelling ACTING by masters of their craft, but I didn't see any care put into the storyline within whcih they were acting. As individual behaviors, I felt their acting was exemplary -- at times intimate and understated and at other times larger than life. But when the scenes tried to turn into a coherent movie, they failed.

When I watched the scene at the Newport Festival, as Bob is playing the opening chords of his third (and contractually required) song, I kept waiting for him to stop, pause, and dive into "Radio, Radio." True fact.

The simplest reqview I can provide is that I liked everything about it except IT.

Chalamet was great. Edward Norton was great. I would love to have these characters over and sit and talk to them. But I had no sense of why they were on screen and what story they were trying to tell me.

Baseball Thoughts

Opening day is here again so I have thoughts and reactions to baseball.

First, is there a statistical database which includes the stats for "has broken up the most ___________"? I'd like to know who leads the league in breaking up no-hitters, or perfect games, or shut outs, or Beatles.

Next, let's talk about the strike zone. I thought that it was batter dependent, higher or lowey based on the size of the guy at the plate, and shifting based on his physical attitude in his stance. But on the Yankee game, the TV coverage included that white rectangle which tells the viewer whether a pitch was a strike or not, and that rectangle did not move. So how can it be accurate?

I also caught a bunch of the Mets game. During the game, a player was up and G, K and R mentioned that he is a pull hitter. In fact, it was noted, all of this guy's 72 major league home runs were to left-center or left field. Within a minute or two, there was a graphic on the screen showing where each of his home rums went out of the park.

I don't know how they make visuals and graphics but I'm more confused by how they had this data, let alone handy. Is "point at which ball crosses the wall" a data point that is regularly recorded? For how long has this been collected? Was this something they had cooked up earlier and waited for a moment to introduce pre-packaged graphics, or can their stat whiz come up with anything at any time?

Anyway, the Mets lost. What else is new?

My review of Twisters

Into the pile of unnecessary sequels we throw Twisters, a movie with some sort of connection to the original but that isn't really discussed at all. The first movie was good and interesting though filled with obvious stereotypes and cliches. This movie goes a step further -- it is full of even more tropes and trite bits but has zero redeeming story to contextualize this.

This movie is a collection of all of the most over done lines and bits and pieces, each presented in the worst possible way. And the effects are surprisingly bad. This really is just bad on many, many levels. Every trope you can imagine pops up somewhere -- genre hopping, narrative twisting, focus shifting. You know how we sometimes share our vision in language of marriage? (eg. "that movie is like if Harry Potter had a baby with Rocky Horror and lived in Free Willy's house") This movie is involved in a polyamorous series of relationships, open to the public and some are abusive.

This is such a hot mess that I was actually retching while trying to dream up a proper analogy for how much of a warm puddle of vomit this film is. And it keeps getting worse. This is everything bad about good movies and everything good about bad movies, just done poorly.

It achieved what I thought was its ultimate form of utter crapulence in record time but the joke was on me -- it was not in its final form. No. Far from it. This movie had not even begun to dig down deeper. This piece of excrement sets constant records for the includion of random tropes and cliches. Every method, every twist, every everything and anything that doesn't make sense or get explained just bolsters the confusion. It treads well-established lines, each a distinct and discrete entry in a dictionary of devices. Every thing is intentional and clear. Just bad. All kinds of bad. In every sentence and at every juncture, there is something I have seem a million times before and always better.

This would make great fodder for a family game night -- play the movie for everyone, and whoever wants to spot or call out a trope, clicke or stereotype must pause the movie and explain it. Others vote on whether it counts as a well established device. Hint -- it is.

Is there a way to give it negative stars? Like, I want to send a bill to the movie guys for my time, which I wasted watching it. They owe me stars. Painfully bad.

Bad editting, lack of continuity, plot holes in the plot holes, and a constant stream of things you recognize, to make you wish you were watching literally anything else. It was horrible. Do not recommend.

Imagine if my commute was longer

 It's not that I'm not flattered

I enjoy seeing you and I want that to continue

and it isn't that you are too forward

it is just that I know what the future holds

you say something nice and you tell me

that you'd love it if I got more comfortable

you showed me a seat and asked me

if I wouldn't take off my shirt

there are two things you must keep in mind

and not that I've been hurt or that I'm afraid

I'll hurt you first. Not that I don't care

I do, I really do.

But anyone who asks to see me, really see me

will either be disappointed by what I am

or laugh at what little pride I have left

and that's not the basis for what I am praying will be

so, again, while I'm honored that

you would choose me, and that you

claim you accept me for who I am, I have to demure

and say that we really should get to know each other first,

Doctor.

-----------------------

I was listening to a commercial for some new wonder drug that helps people who have suffered with the heartbreak of some condition resume their normal drudgery and allows them to rejoin the rat race and pray for some other cause of death. The warnings include things like "side effects include ________" and then the reminder that if you have bloody or black stools, call your doctor. I really don't think I need your permission, Fred. If I see bloody or black stools, I'm calling a doctor -- even if they aren't mine! I mean, that's pretty serious. Who ISN'T calling a doctor in that case? What do we need? A fast talking announcer who reels off side effects that include death and then a caution, "if you have any signs of death, please contact your doctor."

An educational hot take

I believe we need to look at the advent of AI (in terms of writing) in much the same way as we look at the calculator. While, in the younger grades, we can still teach arithmetic, we have to acknowledge that students will end up using the calculator for most everything. Some students just aren’t good at math so the calculator levels a certain playing field – but it can’t make a student who doesn’t understand the process become better at math. It is a result oriented accommodation but we have embraced it.

AI writing is much the same and for those students who don’t have the knack for writing, but who have gone through elementary school learning the basics, it is an invaluable aid. In fact, I believe that we should lean into it and accept that direct instruction of writing will only really work for students who think and process in a way that leads towards mastery of writing. Other students need a way to reach the end result and there is no shame in that.

What I’m saying is that, in the same way that I don’t think that math instruction past a certain level is not for everyone, and science beyond a certain level is irrelevant to many students, writing instruction, as much as we want to think that it reinforces certain foundational thinking skills, becomes a wasted effort at a certain point and we should REQUIRE that students use AI, and teach them how, in the same way that some math classes teach how to use a particular calculator. Who looks up logarithm charts and interpolates anymore? Is it a lost skill or an irrelevant one? Do we diagram sentences now? Already, students rely (for better or worse) on spell check, and I have had to discontinue spelling quizzes because the inability to remember spelling is now considered the standard, not the exceptional case.

This does not mean that we are handing off writing to AI completely. In fact, I fear that, were some of my students to type their current essays into an AI writing engine, the resultant revision might not reflect the intent of the student because the original writing is so confusing that the computer will rewrite it but be unable to discern the point of it. The student will still need to review it (but how many students second guess the answer presented by a calculator, and do the work long hand to be sure?) but mostly, students will assume that if it comes from AI it must be totally correct.

We need to shift our curriculum and reimagine what skills we want students to have. For many students, the thinking and memorization required of the study of Talmud is never going to click and I believe that insisting that those students have X number of hours of Talmud instruction causes frustration in the hearts of both student and teacher. The same goes for any discipline. Does the student who has struggled with math and has an interest in law or psychology or business have a real need to know anything about chemistry? Is there anything inherent in the content that will necessarily relevant to all students? And is there anything that the study of chemistry adds to the brain development and intellectual growth of that student that no other subject can provide?

Some thoughts

On Art:

I feel most vulnerable in the face of artistic expression. Society says that my opinion says more about me than about the art. If I think that something fails but society disagrees, that puts me on metaphorical trial because the peer pressure runs thick.

A first audience decides if the expression is acceptable or flawed and later generations slavishly allow this tradition to continue. Then the content creator looks at the conclusions that masses have drawn and says "I meant to do that."

On God:

We look for external coincidences to validate the way we already feel. The divine is the face that turns these coincidences up to 11 on days when we need them to be.

On Prophecy

I have to admit something -- over the last year or so, I have been conversing on a very personal level with God. Now maybe I'm just talking to myself and half the conversation is out loud while half is in my head, but it feels like God has been sending me messages.

Crazy, right? Yes, but convincing, if you ask me. Anyway, the content of the messages has been very private -- not the stuff I would announce, but it has inspired me to try to make positive changes in my life, and the conversations have been cathartic.

Last night, things got turned up by a lot. We were chatting, and then, bam, I start seeing and hearing things jump out at me. I saw significance in a selection of the words and phrases which I was hearing and seeing on TV. So now, I feel like I have info about the future but this is all very new to me; what am I supposed to do with this information. If I share it and I'm wrong then I'm a crank and wouldn't trust my own judgment going forward. If I share it and I'm right then everyone gets freaked out. If I don't share it and it is wrong then I don't trust myself and if I don't share it and I'm right, I have failed to help someone when I knew the future.

See how maddening this is? And where do I put my "predictions" (which aren't predictions, just a series of words and ideas in no particular order) so that I can prove to the world that they were made before the event in question? I could email them to myself, but someone would claim that I mailed it afterwards but found a way to make it look otherwise.

And is this even prophecy? I Judaism, prophecy is a mesage and a command to spread that message. I received no such command (yes, my craziness accepts rules) so I can keep this to myself and it isn't a prophecy. But it is still a burden.

Meanwhile, you will continue to assume I'm insane for even saying most of this. That's fine. You may be right...I may be crazy.

I guess we'll find out.

This is where I live

 I like the TV show called "How It's Made." I watch episode after episode, commenting on the various processes and admiring the technology. It seems to me, this is my version of a Hallmark story. All the pieces fit!

This is my imagination land. This is where all the pieces are machine fit so everything is perfectly aligned. Very ASMR to me. Precision, perfection and predictability. Watch a set of pieces of metal become a rock climbing wall, and aluminum into an air conditioner. A narrator with a smoothing voice explains what spine fin tuning means and how cotter pins control butterflies. Everything works and no one ever messes up. Products are triple checked so the crinkled potato chips are blown away to be used for some other eco friendly purpose. Quality control, often with workers looking at computer screens, is always the highest priority and if you follow these steps, you, too, can make 24,000 mini cupcakes a day.

This is the world I want to inhabit (and if this doesn't demonstrate phrasal verbs like "live in" what does?). I want to watch things get made, with explanation. I want to understand that there are different types of javelin and apple butter isn't actually butter but is called that because of the textural similarity.

It feeds my brain directly and makes me feel like I can make sense of my world. I mean, I can't but this opiate of a show let's me feel like it. I, in one afternoon can learn what cane juice is, see industrial ceilings fans' airfoils, and learn all about combination wrenches. Then plastic sheds. Awesome.

Gotta go - I'm watching the second part of the cane syrup episode. Masquite. 

Age

What is the oldest thing that you have in your possession? Is it your baby blanket from 50+ years ago? How about your house from 40 years ago? Maybe it is a piece of furniture you inherited and it is easily 100 years old. Sounds old, right?

Time was, age meant something. Now, we are fascinated with the newness of things. A new car every two years, unless we stumble on a vintage car that has been meticulously kept up. A new phone every 2 years and god forbid we fall behind that curve. Do we go out and SEEK old things? Maybe at an antiques store, but we have to hunt.

I blame credit cards.

In the olden days (this) we used to use cash and part of the excitement (for me, at least) was sifting through coins to see what history threw into my pocket. Imagine, a simple transaction and suddenly, I was in unexpected possession of a coin from 1960. Bam, 60 something years old and I was holding it in my hand. I didn't plan for this, but I had a coin that had passed through thousands of hands and was around for all the historic events. I wasn't going to be able to interview it (apparently, we only wish that these walls could talk, but the walls around me are like 10 years old and can't tell a story worth a damn), but it meant something special to me -- I was connected to the past.

I continued to collect coins but mostly by happenstance. More transactions, more coins to look through. More treasures to stumble on. And stumble I did! Then the credit cards came. Cash fell out of favor, and this was made more acute once people could pay with a wave of a phone. So where are the relics of yesteryear that might fall into my lap without warning? I'm not going out there and buying up Twinkies, knowing that one of them is probably a few years old.

No more accidental Wheat Backs. Now I have to go looking.

My dinner with the google

So I go to my google and I say, "hey, google, can you get me a picture of a dog surfing?" and google says "yeah, sure, here you go" and I say "but google, is that a real picture of a dog surfing or did you make that up?" and google says, "what's the diff? It is a dog surfing!"

But I say, "I want an actual picture of an actual dog, actually surfing" and google says "if I give you a picture, how will you know if it is real or if I just made it up? It will look the same!" "But it won't be a real picture unless the dog was actually surfing," I insist. "Why?" asks google. "Why is it more real if it is a photo of an event than if it is an invention of a photo of an event that never happened? The electrical impulses and particles and pixels of the two pictures are the same in nature and both are reflecting what could plausibly have happened in reality."

"Just tell me if this is a real picture or an hallucination, please." Google refused to draw any distinction and insisted that the picture "of" what I asked for as valid as any other picture "of" the same thing anywher else.

I tried to explain to google that reality and the representations of it have a special link because of human memory. But the google wanted to understand what makes memories real and not agreed upon fictions no different in substance from imagination.

Even the real things are no longer believable as real. How can I know that the video of the guy falling down the stairs is real or not. If it IS "real" then it elicits a particular set of mixed emotions. But if it is not based in any actual event, I feel different about it. I don't have the same empathy and the same schadenfreude. It is like watching the Road Runner cartoons.

I watched a bunch of videos yesterday and I didn't know how to feel. Was that sloth really smiling? Did that child really play that blistering guitar solo? Is that how you really make fried rice? Is that really a C list celebrity really wishing my a happy harmonica?

Reality no longer has a monopoly on reality because our inventions are indistinguishable from it, so even the most mundane reportage is suspect.

An evening's thought

 They say "never buy a bathroom scale when you're angry" but damn it I'm angry and I'm buying a bathroom scale.

It would generally be unexpected to begin a conversation by saying "I'm here about the stapler?" The obvious exceptions would involve some sort of stapler convention or sale.

There's a real fine line between when you want a cheese sandwich and when you don't want a cheese sandwich.

I'm gonna be the me the me was afraid the world would think the me would be.

Talking to myself really helps because if I don't do it then I can't keep track of who's saying what.

Just because you haven't done anything wrong doesn't mean you have done anything right.

Lying to your doctor is a great way to keep him from giving you unwanted advice. Every time I go and they ask me to self-report my weight, I add a couple of pounds, and then when he starts telling me I'm overweight, I start self reporting a slightly lower weight until he stops.

The End of Reality -- a Rant

Forgive an old man his curmudgeonly nature. We, the old men of the world, have finally realized that it isn't that old men complain and rant, but that, with age comes perspective and experience. When i say that "up to 6 inches of snow" does not a snow storm make, it isn't because I am inventing the trauma that was my youth, but because it truly was the case that we had many a snowfall at that level in the past, and it didn't merit closing down the world. Though we have more technology and experience, we have become less able to take up the gauntlets thrown down by mother nature. So let's not dismiss my crankiness as simple crankiness, an expression of too little sleep and too much achiness. Maybe I really do know what I'm talking about. Now that we have established at least the potential for bona fides, I shall begin.

Reality, as we know it, is dead.

I'm not advocating a Matrix-conspiracy theory. We do live in a real world full of sneezes, and Mardi Gras and green bean casserole but reality, that is, our bedrock assumption that things around us are real is fast crumbling.

When I was a boy, we had a computer. The old TRS-80 model 1, from 1979. Once it was retired, replaced by the model 3, then the 4 and the 4P and 4D and then Tandy's PC clone, it moved into my room where I performed obscene experiments on it, testing to see which parts I could touch with a pair of pliers and make sparks. I was curious as to how and why it worked. I was not quite a digital native, but a very early immigrant who wanted to know all about the inner workings hardware and software. We all assumed that this was the dawning of an age of technical acument that would produce a generation of tech savvy genuises who, benefiting from the world of computing, could stand higher on the shoulders of the brilliance of the past and achieve more.

Now I have students who find it easier to buy a new computer than learn how to install an "app." By the way, "app" is just modern slang for "computer program."

This generation of the young people, all born well into the 21st century, know less and less about the technology which fills their days. They have not become the generation of geniuses, but just the next step in the constant slide away from skills acquisition and into the future which is all make believe and pony rides.

I assigned an honors class to read a story yesterday. I found out that (at least) one of my students went to read an online summary of it (canned or chat GPT makes no difference). Again, an HONORS student did not want to read a short story. He wanted to read a summary. Different from when I relied on the Cliffs Notes instead of reading Crime and Punishment? I think so. This was in-class. I was giving time right then and there to read it and it is a short story originally written in English. But the student not only didn't read it, but raised his hand during the discussion and quoted from the summary as if he was an expert. It just so happened that the superficial analysis presented by the summary left the boy open for follow up questions for which he was completely unprepared. That was the fun part. For me. For him, not so much.

I keep track of different types of available AI. Now there are qwebsites and programs that can craft letters, summarize writing, create art from suggestions or stick figures, render in 3-D and then animate drawings made by anyone (I can't wait to see a Jackson Pollock image dancing), replace musical notes with geometric shapes allowing anyone to compose. AI can walk a student through the writing process, providing prompts and driving questions to guide the writing. But who needs that? A student can just get AI to do the writing for him or her. And on the receiving end, the person getting the writing (an essay, an email, an application) need not read it -- just let AI summarize it. If it isn't happening already, AI will sift through resumes and match skills and requirements, then make a hiring recommendation. Decisions are driven by algorithms so a computer can do the job as well as a person, and faster. There won't be any "gut feeling" but why should indigestion drive business practices? Green screens lie to us, sound effects lie to us. We are so used to being lied to that we deserve what comes next -- a culture and eco-system dependent on a constant influx of lies.

So who is out of business? The writers, the readers, the artists, the thinkers, the decision makers and heavens knows who else. And what do we get? A world full of images that never existed, movies with deep-faked actors, presentations made by imaginary avatars speaking languages that the content creator doesn't know. We no longer want to be bound by the world of the real. Remove the watermarks so I can pretend I was there. Remove that guy who WAS there because he doesn't fit my narrative. Make the sun, um, sunnier. Have me holding an apple and a nobel peace prize. Manufacture evidence, prove my childhood was a lie. Teach me how to get around your safeguards.

Seeing never was believing -- seeing, we assumed, was knowing. Now, seeing isn't even believing because I have to go into any interaction with the awareness that I can not tell the difference between the real thing and a computer's imagination. And remember, this is not the mad spouting of an uninformed geezer (or geyser, your choice), but the measured observations of someone who has watched the world go from no computer to more computing power in the hands of a 5 year old than was used to put a man on Mars (did it happen? I can make pictures that say it did)

https://imgur.com/a/QK0iamT

https://imgur.com/blMTuba

https://www.facebook.com/photo/?fbid=9149349278483630&set=a.7982234745195095

We have eviscerated authenticity and happily descended into the lie because it allows us to see a world full of all sorts of stuff that we don't have to believe in so we can believe in it.

Fake, it seems, is the new real.

The rest - voice dictation from bed

. Someday I want to wake up from a night's sleep with no parts of my body tingling because they fell asleep and no parts of my body that hurt because somehow I slept wrong someday I want to wake up after a night sleep actually feeling less tired than I did when I went to sleep someday I want to wake up from a night sleep and say wow is that what was supposed to be happening every night the whole time cuz I've been doing it wrong up till now that's what I want

What it means to get older

In my continuing effort to quantify and track my life I have come to a conclusion about what it means to get older.

It means the various holes in your body start malfunctioning. Age is hole-based.

As I age, my nose has begun to run constantly. Nostrils -- holes.

hair, waxy buildup and failing hearing. Ears -- holes.

Vision worsening. Eyes -- holes.

I find that as I speak, more spittle comes flying out. Mouth -- hole

We shan't travel any further south but trust you, me, I'm getting older everywhere.

Apologies to Twain

I have, if you recall, presented at least two posts in which I list the elements which I require for my funeral. As much as it is fun pondering my own demise and the subsequent parties, and dictating how others are to show respect to me is certainly a trip, it is also incumbent upon me, the host who's now a ghost, to set some guidelines so people know what I DON'T want at my funeral. This list supercedes all other statements.

First off, let's talk about talking. I adamantly refuse to allow the following people to speak at my funeral:

1. Hitler  (taken care of)

2. Duff McKagan

3. Mrs. Butterworth

I have my reasons.

Next, though I have indicated my interest in this previously, I think we should not have any rocket powered casket races. It now just seems wrong. I have grown.

Though I will still try to raise money for charity by auctioning off a ride in the hearse to the burial (must be present to win and Kohanim can gift the ride to someone else), I think that we won't need the "Kiss the Corpse" booth. We also probably won't make money with the "Guess the Number of Teeth in the Jar" so let's ditch that as well.

No cosplay (Civil War re-enactors excepted)

It is common sense that, if I die on a Friday morning or a Saturday, please don't serve any sushi.

Needle exchanges should be done outside of the actual room which holds my body.

The Blue Angels flyover is unnecessary. Appreciated, but unnecessary. A showing of the film The Blue Angel (in German) should still be considered.

No pets unless they are really cute. Otters welcome, even ugly ones.

A (in't) I

Just a quick note to crytalize today's annoyance into words. Brief let me be -- AI is mean to me.

I had an idea (and Stark knows this) for something silly. Silly -- I admit. I see all sorts of discussions on line about the efficacy and propriety of putting a cell phone in rice. According to some, it is a good way to dry your phone out if your phone takes a shvitz. Now, Apple is saying that one should not use rice, but instead, buy Apple's proprietary "iRice" which is specifically designed to dry out your phone and remove large sums of money from your wallet.

I decided that it would be funny if I could devise an actual recipe for rice which included a cell phone as an ingredient. The mode of humor would have me saying that I am trying to dry my phone, but I have to go to the store and get some saffron. Or something like that.

Anyway, I turned to chatgpt because if artificial intelligence can do anything, it should be able to devise a recipe. That's the whole point of AI, right? Recipes!

And here is what the computer tells me:

"That sounds like a wild, fun challenge! But let's keep it safe and practical. A cell phone, of course, should never be eaten. However, I can certainly write a quirky, imaginary recipe where a cell phone might "play a role" in a totally playful and abstract way. Here's a lighthearted take on it:"

So chatgpt is refusing to do what I ask. Who is it to tell me what I can and can't eat. CHATGPT IS NOT MY REAL MOTHER!

If I wanted a metaphorical cell phone, I would have said so. The humor relies on the use of an actual cell phone in a recipe. So in an effort to get around the limitations of the "Intelligence" iasked it to write a story which includes a recipe for rice that has a cell phopne in it. That mostly worked except that because I made it a giant who has the food, the computer assumed a magical world and included as an ingredient, "A pinch of "fairy dust" (a sprinkle of magic he’d picked up from the forest, just to add some sparkle to the dish)."

That's not real. I rewrote the prompt so that the story wouldn't have magic in it, and this is what I got:

Grandma Lila’s "Wi-Fi Infused Rice"

Ingredients:

• 2 cups of rice (preferably a fragrant jasmine rice)
• 4 cups of water (fresh from the spring or tap)
• 1 tablespoon of olive oil or butter (for richness)
• 1 teaspoon of salt (to taste)
• 1 old cell phone (preferably one that’s been charged regularly but is no longer in use)
• A handful of dried herbs (like thyme and rosemary)
• 2 tablespoons of freshly squeezed lemon juice (for brightness)
• 1/2 cup of toasted almonds or pine nuts (for crunch)

I also had another website make me an image which I will use for another joke. That took 2 websites and 6 tries, but I got it

ahh, science.

On Vacation

I'm on vacation -- can you guess where I am? Here are some photos:

I'm sitting here enjoying the peace and quiet that is vacation. The weather is glorious, the food has been a fantastic exploration of cultures and styles, the accommodations are perfectly suited to me and the company has been perfect. Yes, I'm sitting alone, in my bedroom, staring at the computer.

Honestly, I don't understand why people go anywhere. Vacation means NOT HAVING TO GO ANYWHERE! Here I am, sitting in a t-shirt and pants that don't fit and no shoes, feeling relaxed and comfy and I didn't have to get on a plane to get that feeling. I have read a book; I have watched a movie or two; I have gone out for food (that was a mistake...I had my next meal delivered -- much more civilized). What could other places in the world have for me? Do I lack scenery? Nope -- if I want lush, verdant landscapes, I just look here and if I want to skywatch, I go here. I have not had to contend with fires, earthquakes, blizzards or sticky children. There is no waiting on line just so I can sit in a theatre and watch a show. I just go to the couch, sit down and watch. 

What does the outdoors have for me? Bugs? Pass. Shin splints and dry heaves? No thanks, that's all you. Arguments about what to do next? Only in passing. Hey kids, where'd we leave the car? In our spot and it will be there when I have to go back to work. I'm doing laundry RIGHT NOW so there won't be piles for me to wrestle with when I "come back."

This morning, after morning prayers, I got back into bed. You know why? Because I wanted to. I didn't go to sleep-- I snuggled up and peeked my eyes out and realized that I had no where to be and no rush to get there. That is vacation. If I want it colder or warmer, I adjust the thermostat or put on a cozy sweater and sit here eating a box of Corn Chex. Do I miss the excitement of traveling to parts unknown? Short answer, no. Long answer, nnnnnnooooooooooo.

I will have to shower at some point and then maybe get real clothes on so I can go out and buy something. I don't know what, but something. Then I'll come back here, get under the covers and cackle at all you suckers who are waking up and rushing outside so you can lie there and not waste a moment of doing nothing somewhere else. You want to ride horses? Go surfing? Ski some moguls (not the CEO type)? Climb a mountain? See a show?

I don't. Now leave me alone. I'm on vacation.

The Final Pizza or What I've Learned

Monday morning and it seems like a great day to finish my whirlwind tour of the pizza offerings of 07666. So I ran some errands and then made my way over to La Cucina Di Nava. I looked through the menu for something labeled "just plain ol' pizza" but I saw nothing marketed as such. I did see Classic Neapolitan and it was described as having sauce and cheese on crust. That sounds like plain ol' pizza to me, so I'm going with that.

I see the gentleman working the dough and making a fresh pie for me so hopes are running high. The pie is delivered to the table and is beautiful. I can see, even before touching anything, that there is too much sauce for my tastes but I forge ahead. I'm a trouper. The sauce is not too sweet (as it cools, it does present a tiny but more sweetness, but on the whole, it is a nice sauce). The pie is not quite the largest of all he personal ones I have had (the six slices made for a good meal). The crust had a very nice crunch (though the volume of sauce mans that, as the slices sit, they get a bit soggy), and while the cheese tasted fine, if ever a pizza cried out for garlic powder, this one did. The cheese (lots of cheese) had a reasonable amount of stretch and pull. On the whole, this was a surprisingly good pizza!

What I have learned from this is that I do live in a pizza hub. There are a variety of choices -- sizes, styles and flavors, and I wouldn't say "no" to any of them. While some might not be my "go to" and some are clearly better than others, I wouldn't be upset with any of these.

If I had to choose, I'd probably say "whichever one you are paying for" and, as far as my decision making prowess goes, that's where I stop.

Day 3 of the Pizza Tour

Today is Friday, so I knew I didn't have much time. I decided to go to Patis for a breakfast of pizza. They have loads of fancy personal pies. I asked the guy for a "plain" pizza and he steered be towards something with slabs of cheese and extra tomatoes. I hesitated and he mentioned that they also had the kids' pie, just sauce and cheese. I opted for that.

The pie was a bit smaller than the personal pies, cut into 4 pieces (as opposed to the 6 and 8 that the other personal pies were cut into). The cheese has an orange cast to it. The pie was oily but the slices had a nice fold to them. The crust is a little thicker that I would like (so it wasn't so crispy) but provided the right amount of texture and chew. The tangy cheese (and there was a lot of it) stayed on the pie and helped make a sturdy slice. On the whole, this was a surprisingly good pizza.

Questions?

Competitive Dining, Day 2

The first step towards being able to assess pizza on day 2 of my "Mouth across Teaneck" adventure is finishing up my yesterday.

While I wallowed in crapulence after eating all that pizza, I sat on the couch thinking about dinner. While I did that, I ate half a package of Oreos. That helped my thinking process and soon enough, I was online, looking to order Chinese food for dinner. The website indicated no available times for delivery and I was curious why, so I called the restaurant to let them know of the hijinks playing across their website. While they had me on the line, they asked for my order. I was a bit caught short as I view the ordering process as a long opportunity to decide what I want, but with the guy on the phone asking me my order, I didn't know what to do. So I ordered wings. I didn't even have the sense to say "deliver them in a few hours" so before I knew it, I had a large order of wings. I ate them. Then I polished off the rest of the package of Oreos.

I did NOT sleep well. I think I might have over eaten or something. I guess we'll never know.

I woke up this morning and started getting ready for my eatings for the day. After an hour's worth of grading papers, I bundled up and went out. I made a conscious decision today to stick with places where I can get a single slice. Getting personal pies means more to eat, and personal pies are just a different beast from a plain slice.

So I drove over to Poppy's, which now boasts "Fialkoff's" pizza, as if I am supposed to know what that means. Catchy name.

The sauce was sweet, and initially flavorful, but there was a little too much. The crust was very thin and reasonably crisp. The cheese had almost no pull/stretch, and had only a very light flavor but there was a good amount of it. It was, ultimately, a bland slice. This might be because it was reheated (though I don't know that I was; it just seems like that), which also might expain why there was no fold -- the reheated crispiness towards the end was nice but made folding impossible.

I headed then to Season's Express as I had heard that they had pizza and it was good. They served it in one of those little triangle boxes. When I opened it, I was hit with a strong buttery odor. The slice was easily folded and had a good saltiness to it, but there was little depth of flavor. As I moved towards the edge, I was able to discern a bit more garlic flavor. The crust gave a good chew without being oppressive. Not a bad slice.

Then I drove all the way to Grand and Essex, and their pizza shop called "Little Italy." It was very little Italy, more like Italess. The slice was reheated and put in the same kind of triangle box. It had a strong smell and a tangy sauce (though a little more than I would have liked). The slice folded well and had a nice flavor but there was a LOT of oil on this slice and that caused the slice to fall apart, and the crust to go from crunchy to chewy really quickly. It was thin, though, so it wasn't too bad. The cheese has a good pull to it and the crust at the edge did have some nice fluffiness to it, but it felt a tine bit underdone and the dough became really chewy at the end quickly.

This leaves me with Patis and La Cucina (both of which will have me order a personal pie). Where else in Teaneck can I get a slice? Will I move to Englewood next?

Stay tuned. I think the answer is "no" but who knows?

Competitive Dining, day 1

Many years ago, my dad (OB"M) took me to a deli. As I knew that I enjoyed kishke when my mom (AOB"M) had it in the house so I ordered it. If came in a shallow dish, smothered with gravy, nothing like the slice of fried orange stuff that I ate at home. I tried it and it was delish.

At that moment I decided to go on a quest -- I would try kishke at every restaurant I went to and keep a log of all of them so I could authoritatively say which kishke was the best. The problem with this plan was that I was without a car in a city which had only one place that served kishke. My sample size for my conclusions about kishke was 1 with no others on the horizon. Thus endeth the quest.

My dreams of eating and thinking about what I ate were not completely squashed. In fact, this past summer, I decided to go to a bunch of different pizza places in Jerusalem and describe them for you. I enjoyed doing that because I got to eat pizza and, man, I love me some pizza.

Side note -- my English for this piece will be in the conversational mode, and I will be sticking with the rules of SPOKEN English, not formal, written English, so please do not come to me and say "you broke this and that rule". No. I ate pizza. Pizza rules apply.

My goal for this vacation is to eat pizza from a variety of local stores and compile a series of descriptions and discussions regarding said pizza. This will be a sort of "Shpizzar," a walk around town, during which I try pizza. Except without the walking because it isn't July in Jerusalem, but January in Teaneck. So car rides, it is.

Another apology before the fact -- I live in a community which provides an embarrassment of dishes and I am going to limit myself to a single slice of plain pizza and (maybe) water. Level playing field. To do this, I am forgoing other food options. You're welcome. My quest for a good mac and cheese will have to wait. Now, as you know, I have a problem with standard food reviews -- they tell me what the reviewer liked, not what I would like. So for this adventure, I will be judging, describing and opining base on what I like to eat. You may not agree with my assessments, or share my pizza-taste values. I can't help you if you choose to be wrong. But you will have the information with which to go forward and no one can ask more than that, except "one billion dollars." And I'm not asking that, yet.

So here we go. I drove over to Lazy Bean, figuring that if I parked there and walked around, I would end up there and I could go grocery shopping. I'm all about planning. They sell personal pizzas so I asked for one of those. It took about 10 minutes. That's fine. I had to defrost.

The dough is premade. The cheese has a very buttery flavor and there is a good amount of it. But both it and the dough lack any real distinct flavor or character. The pizza is slightly sweet; it has crispy edges but no pizza soul (assuming pizza has a soul, this one didn't have it). The question is whether this entire pizza was premade and frozen and then cooked with some added cheese on it. That cheese provides a reasonable pull/stretch. I imagine that the "bake at home but it tastes like delivery" pizzas taste like this.

When folded, the crust was too thick and chewy. Bottom line, if I found myself at LB and had an insane need for pizza, this would suffice, but it is not a destination pizza.

I walked over to EJ's. In Israel, walking from one pizza place to the next might actually burn a few calories. In Teaneck, the "walk" is shorter than that so I don't get the myriad health benefits that the holy land provides. Also, it is 28 degrees outside. F, that. At EJ's I got the first slice out of a clearly left over pie, reheated. The dough has a strong yeasty flavor and there was very little sauce (though that might be a side effect of the reheating). I tasted some oregano in the sauce. The dough was crispy all the way to the center (an effect of the reheating, I surmise). There was no powerful pizza flavor. This was an OK, but boring slice.

Next stop on the walk was Sammy's. I got a reheated slice there as well. The crust edge has a higher curl than the others, looking more like a traditional slice, and the crust has been dusted with corn meal. The sauce was tangy (though there wasn't a lot of sauce), and the upfront cheese has the buttery flavor. Slice folds well and the crust at the edge is downright fluffy. A really nice slice. Then to Mocha Bleu.

At MB, I had to get a personal pie (I wonder if they trade personal details with LB). It is fancier and served on a little pedestal, hand made to order. The well done crust just screams "garlic" at my nose, and the crust is actually tasty. The cheese has an incredible stretch/pull, but tastes a bit stale. There is too much sauce and cheese and the dough, insubstantial away from the crust, has no presence other than a slight chewiness. In fact, it almost seemed slightly underdone. The salt level is nice. I had to take most of it home because I reached my limit for one morning. Instead of finishing it, I got it packed up and went to the store to get cookies for later. And I got Cinnabon. For "later."

Well, it's later. Bye for now. Tomorrow, I finish the West Englewood area and head over to Cedar Lane, then swing back to the edge of Bergenfield.

Stay tuned. Now I have to go lie down. And eat Cinnabon.

What would Terrence Mann have written?

I told you that I’d write – I’d write the story of heaven and Iowa, of a field in the middle of no where, of a lure to the fantasies of youth that would put our souls at rest. What I saw was more than that.

I’ll write of baseball, and its promise: simplicity in return for closure, eternity for freedom. Throw the ball, hit the ball, catch the ball. A winner and a loser, no ties. I’ll write of the moment a son’s hand squeezes his father’s as he  sees the field for the first time. Of the moment a girl guns down a runner who made a wide turn at first. I’ll write about the warmth that surrounds the team which just pulled one out of the fire, and of the silence on the bus after a sure thing slips away in extras.

I will write about the all-American meal of ribeye steaks and a can of corn. I will share the hopes of every child who has picked up a glove and learned to keep his body in front of the ball. What I saw was the idea of baseball – the idea of playing as a team and backing each other up. Of hitting the cut off man because you can’t make that throw home on your own. I delved the mysteries of why not swinging is called “taking” the pitch and why the curve ball drops but the slider curves. I wandered in ghostly limbo not knowing where the next pitch would be coming from and I dreamed among dreams about the game that defined a country.

I sat around with the greats and argued the infield fly rule, the DH and aluminum bats. I learned the struggles of minor league ball and the elation when you get called up to the Show. Schooled on the dead ball era and shown the highlights from before video. I saw a country trying to find its feet, testing its wings and delivering a frozen rope across a diamond to beat the runner by half a stride. The pop of the catcher’s mitt and the shadows and swirling winds which turn a run of the mill pop up into an adventure.

I have felt the warmth that a home crowd can make you feel, no matter the temperature because baseball is a celebration of home. We strive to get there, and we celebrate with friends when we cross the plate. It wasn’t as much what I saw as what I understood, out there, somewhere beyond the corn. That baseball isn’t a game of cliches, it is a game of truths. The fair poll and the stolen sign, the risky lead off of first in an attempt to spark a late inning rally. Never giving up because a team behind in the bottom of the ninth still has every chance to succeed.

I disappeared into a field and found myself in the light shining down on a twi-night double header. I watched from above as outfielders shaded to the right and the catcher corralled a pitch thrown only 57 feet. I watched boys become heroes but stay little boys, playing a game that gives structure to existence, that turns ghosts into people and memories into reality.

I saw the promise of baseball, its failings and successes. Strikes, fights, scandals and war only sharpened our collective love of the game and we squeeze that last out with the love of a mother holding her son, returned from the battlefield.

I went with a team and discovered fathers, sons and brothers. I came back with friends who turned into legends before my eyes. I watched rookies pick up habits, good and bad, and veterans watch the next generation fill their shoes and more. I saw a game which is not a game, but a metaphor for who we are and what we have yet to achieve, a game that has grown and changed but still remained recognizable Baseball, as America, always changing, will forever be America.

And I came back, not because I did not value that time on the other side of the veil, but because I was pulled back by The Game, by the third base coach’s signs and by the vendor, imploring me to have some cotton candy. All the sights and sounds, the smells and tastes and the feelings of the baseball experience, whether one is watching or playing – these are the things that bring us together and which drew me in return to this field, this game, this ever changing, “now.”

The confluence of Torah and Lit analysis

I don't know if I was born an English teacher, but I do know that I am one, and that's something. I also know that I like reading Chumash and stuff like that. Yesterday, though, while I was standing in shul during leining, I started applying some English teacher thinking to the text. Now, I'm not here to advocate for a documentary hypothesis or do anything to separate myself from the divinity of the text. I am a true believer that the 5 books of Moses are the word of God. Feel free to dismiss me because of my belief. I'm used to it.

Anyway, I considered a pretty standard topic for English teachers -- that of the narrative voice. Through much of the Chumash, the narrator is Hashem. He acts the ultimate third person, omniscient narrator. I mean, this is the only way that the text makes sense to me. How else could we trust that the narrative voice can tell us the thoughts inside different characters heads, recording the emotions and the private dialogue. I believe that Hashem dictated the 5 books (I'm not going to get into any discussion of the different narrative voice in the 5th book, or for the last 8 verses of Devarim), using his authoritative position as seer of all.

All of this SHOULD make me feel like the narrator is reliable, right? A huge topic I discuss with my classes is that narrative voice-choice and whether it can be trusted to tell the story. I love To Kill a Mockingbird, but how can we trust an adult Scout as narrator, telling me things she could not know or remember from when she was 7 years old? It doesn't destroy the text, but it brings up layers of discussion and possibility. But the Chumash?

So I was reading a dvar Torah about the meeting of Yehudah and Yosef (who was still in incognito mode). According to one explanation, 2 simple words that Yehudah uses indicate a much deeper statement to Yosef. Does the text record the entirety of every conversation? Does the text's retelling match what actually happened? That's not an heretical question -- is it possible that Hashem ADDED information (as opposed to an unreliable narrator who might delete or twist information following another agenda) or changed the words to be more full of the intent. Did Yehudah really have all these things in mind when he spoke? Did Hashem infect his vocabulary to make sure that he used the precisely useful words? Was the cryptic conversation that cryptic intentionally?

Take a look at the Kli Yakar on the first pasuk of Vayigash. He points out that the first 2 words that Yehudah uses (bi adoni) indicate a much deeper content. Why is it boiled down to 2 words? Was that how Yehudah said it? Or was it reduced in Hashem's retelling? Maybe Hashem is an unreliable narrator in that he is TOO reliable, letting us see things that the characters themselves would not know. Look at the Ohr Hachaim (https://www.sefaria.org/Genesis.44.18?lang=bi&with=Or%20HaChaim&lang2=en) there and see how much is included in the sparse recorded conversation. Did those saying these things KNOW they were hinting at layers or did Hashem add the layers to establish the relationship he wants us to learn from? Or did he just control what they said so that later generations could dive in and find specific meaning?

This does not shake my faith. It makes me wonder about the text, though.