War of the Words [sick]

 I had heard that there was a new movie available, and I'm not one to say no to a very small group of movies that I can't fully define. But this one boasted an incredibly low score on Rotten Tomatoes so the promise of a horrible movie got me.

I took a look: War of the Worlds (and I didn't hate the Tom Cruise version). Ninety minutes. But it seemed like more. A lot more. Like it would never end.

First, the good news -- the story telling technique was interesting and was a great comment on our reliance on technology and social media. But the reality of data collection was downright scary (if a tad unrealistic).

Now, the rest. Ice Cube is really the worst actor I have seen. Maybe ever. I have seen worse from non-actors, but this is a guy who is supposedly an actor. He was just bad. But this is appropriate because he was playing the absolute worst hero, ever. An unlikable jerk who doesn't know if he wants to keep his glasses on or take them off. So he just yells.

The effects were a small cut above an Asylum flick. The plot, pacing and writing were miserable and, worse, illogical. Continuity wasn't even attempted. The product placement is so thick that there was placement WITHIN other placement.

I saw this on Amazon Prime Video and it was offered with limited commercial interruptions. Too limited. There needed to be more interruptions.

One thing to look for -- go to about 1:06 and watch Mr. Cube's mini rant. That is actually good stuff. Then slog through the stock footage hit parade and listen carefully at 1:16:45 (approx) after he punches the thing. You're welcome.

It was a compelling movie in it own way -- I can admit that. But at the same time, it was infuriatingly bad, with a story that made no sense. I think I caught COVID by watching it.

National Fake League has begun again!

 A new season and a new opportunity to rig games. My movement to reveal the hidden layers of scripting in the NFL continues!

I was watching a preseason game yesterday (Eagles vs. Bengals). Third quarter, last minute of play in the quarter. The play happens and the quarterback, under pressure has to dump the ball. After the play, the booth guy says, "and we have a flag." OK, that happens. But the call that we hear is "illegal formation" (or possibly "illegal motion," I wasn't paying total attention). Then they showed the replay and it is clear that there was a holding penalty at the end of the play. The hold was right in front of the official (heck, the defender raised his arms after the hold and looked at the official with that "wasn't me" face) and then the flag flew. It was obvious from the timing and location of the flag that it wasn't a pre-snap penalty. It was a hold, clear as day.

No mention by anyone in the booth. In fact, no speaking. Cut to comemrcial.

Eh, I will pass

With all the fuss about AI recently (most of it made by me...you should see the living room) I decided to turn my gaze inward and try to figure out my resistance to interacting with the future rulers of earth.

What follows is a series of observations, not a cohesive essay, so bare with me (I'm not wearing pants).

I have, on my phone, a couple of these apps that present a human voice and mechanical mind. Thing is, the spoken word component is a lie. All one ever needed was a written-to-speech converter. This is nothing new https://www.naturalreaders.com/online/ . Heck, go back and watch Wargames -- the WOPR (nicknamed Joshua) communicates in written words but the synthesizer converts it to speech. It isn't speaking. So let's get that out of the way. The computer is still running and still running like a computer. What we have is really just a spoken word interface for a text based search engine.

See, that's the thing. Underneath it all, the "AI" is just a search engine and a predictive language engine. There is no thought or consideration. It is just as easy for me to type in a search as it is for me to speak (unless I'm driving). And while the results can be combined and read to me, all we have is a program that mines for info in the same old way.

Some of the more advanced interfaces attempt to refine their approach, but really they are all just running an algorithm to recognize words, create searches and then put the information together in sentence form. And you can "speak" back to them. But what do they do with the words you say? Bottom line is that the system is recognizing words and phrases and assembling words and phrases in return. But none of it is real. 

Our approach to language is that we master spoken word communication first. We speak before we can read. The written form of the language then spends a lifetime trying to catch up. We develop inflection, intonation, pauses, body language and all sorts of things that allow us to communicate in the spoken sphere even without the specific use of words. We can pick up on sarcasm, or lies, flirting or fear and we recognize the limitations of written language in capturing the meta data of our conversation.

Computers are native to the written language. That's all they know -- words and phrases and their semantic position and value. Not only do we lose the emotional context when we type, but a computer is incapable of recognizing and including spoken word tools when it tries to transfer its data to the spoken word. 

But we forget that the computer can't pick up on subtleties, choose to omit, or lie or spin and we project our expectations and our emotional content onto what the computer presents. So when I sit down and speak with my Gemini, while it might sound understanding or might make me feel better, it isn't really doing anything intelligent. It is Eliza for a new generation. In truth, spoken natives (humans) and written natives (computers) will always be separated by this rift.

On another note, I was shown this thing called "Grok" yesterday. Grok takes still photos and turns them into 5 second videos. I was able to see a video of my mother (A"H) when she was younger. I saw a "video" of me as a baby. And you can set it to be normal or funny. But the bottom line is IT NEVER HAPPENED. We are recording over the past because we think that a computer's revisionist vision of our past is preferable as it is in motion. We are dissatisfied with the fact that in the past, certain technologies didn't exist so we are inventing a more technologically gifted past which then creates a false version of our own histories. We can't even believe our own photos anymore. This isn't only about the distant past. I can show someone a "video" of a wedding from last night and that person will assume that the video is an actual recording of  the events of last night. But it might have no basis in any truth but it will look authentic and might lead people to draw conclusions, pass along stories or perpetuate the lie. And how can it be disproven?

I just sent a letter out to the student body as composed by AI. Next I'll send out one that's actually useful

Garbage time

 I have a demonstrated record of saving the world. I gave you all my sage advice here and I stand by it. But I'm no one trick pony. I am willing to trick ponies many times! So here is my new way to save the world.

If I recall correctly, we have a space station. We keep it up in space somewhere and from it, you can see my house. We are also hoping to be able to build more space stations and maybe a staging area for travel to other places, like space and stuff.

Also, and here's a fact you can take to the bank, the sun is large and has a strong gravitational pull. The bank doesn't care, but you do you. I would assume that science types could figure out how to move space stuff into a trajectory that will eventually have it crash into the sun -- or to be more precise, burn up as it nears the sun. And because space has no speed limits, we can develop a slingshot or some sort of cannon that shoots stuff towards the sun at really high speeds for fairly low cost because we don't care about safety and such.

So here's the plan -- we make a stripped down space hauler and load it up with trash, then we send it up to the space station which then takes the trash and fires it into the sun. Bam. No more garbage problem. The sun won't mind because it is a mass of incandescent gas a gigantic nuclear furnace and has no feelings that matter.

But, you say, it is prohibitively expensive to fire stuff into space. What if we compressed our trash so much that a lot fit on the spaceship? Then we wouldn't have to make that many trips. And what if we found a way to turn some of that trash into a fuel that would serve the propulsion needs. How tough can that be? Lots of stuff burns, so just burn lots of stuff. The ride doesn't need to be smooth as the rocket can be unmanned and remotely piloted and reused.

So basically, we can get rid of our garbage (and the pollution that incinerating it would create on earth), energize our space program and save humanity.

You're welcome.

Radio, Radio

I like radio. In fact, I like radio so much that I went to school to study radio. And you know what I did? I studied radio and it was glorious. I practiced being on the radio, learning how to run a radio station, editting material for the radio, and even producing a live show and conducting interviews. I was a radio junkie par excellence.

But, as the talmud often asks, "why radio?" This is a fair question, and, as with most such questions, it goes back to childhood trauma. Not so much trauma as craziness. Yeah, that's the word.

I went through all sorts of crazinesses as a youth, and one I remember, and I have no idea how or when it started, was a fear that I was the only one left alive and awake on the planet. Yes. That was a real fear of mine. I needed to be back home and in bed before my parents went to sleep. I was afraid that I was all alone. Really, that's what it boiled down to -- I hated being alone. So when I went down the block to a friend's house (yes, to play D+D...shhhhh) and my parents said that they were going to sleep early, I left while it was broad daylight and sprinted home so as to be there and safe. Crazy, I know.

Until one night, when I turned on the radio. It somehow reminded me that while I was lying there, all alone, there were other people alive and working. To know that I could turn on the radio and hear people who shared the night with me was to connect with reality and to be part of something. It restored a sense of well being. Maybe that seems grandiose but it actually was that life changing for me. So I really got into listening to the radio and I felt a kinship with it.

In college, I started out just being a guy. A guy who had some friends but hadn't found his calling. Then, sometime in my sophomore year, someone invited me to the radio station. And that was that. I again felt like I could connect with people -- other employees, radio devotees and other hangers on. People called in to tell me that they heard me; I was the voice in the night representing all that is still alive, their beacon. Even in the depths of 3:30 AM, I was alive and so were listeners. Some called in and that was always weird, but hey -- alive!

No, I am not invoking any Bon Jovi song. Radio didn't save my life. It just validated my neuroses so, yay radio!

A book review for the 9th of Av

 Strange choice of topic, I know, but I spent much of yesterday reading Noa Tishby's "Israel" and I wanted to sum up my thoughts about it.

It isn't a bad book. That's what I'm saying on a bottom line level. Now to the specifics.

First, super to you, Ms. Tishby, for writing this book. It has the potential to do good. So, yeah.

But here's where I start getting critical. First off, the tone of the book betrays that the author doesn't know what kind of book she wants to write. Her use of slang and catchphrases already makes her prose look dated, but it also screams of patronizing younger readers. Here's a remarkable fact, youth of the world, Noa Tishby knows what "AF" stands for. Isn't that grand? And that she uses it repeatedly; that makes her cool, right? She uses "cray" so she must be in touch with youth culture, right? Feh. She doesn't know for whom she is writing this, struggling to balance the tongue in cheek with the historical. This just waters down its factual power.

Also, I wasn't keeping count, but I found at least 3 errors in the text. One was an internal contradiction, one bespoke an ignorance of the bible and one flawed historical reference. And the transliteration and translation of some of the Hebrew was horrible. If the book wants to be taken seriously as a reference guide, then its facts must be above reproach. But if I, a guy sitting on a couch, trying to avoid humanity, can spot easy mistakes, others can. And if I find 3, I worry that there are 30. It is the Gell-Mann Amnesia effect. How can I trust the rest of the work if I can find mistakes in it?

She also doesn't seem to know if she is writing a memoir of her family, a series of shout outs to her friends and colleagues, or a work of historical significance. She bounces between voices, foci and subjects, often addressing the reader directly in a way that undercuts the ability to take the work seriously.

Her facts are great. She does break down history into understandable chunks, but this reveals another area of difficulty for the author. Tishby is an avowed and unapologetic leftist (as it relates to Israeli policies). She does try to acknowledge her agenda and balance with a presentation of both political sides, but every time she does this, it seems that she simply points out why the right was right and why all of her left-leaning stances have been disappointed by reality. But she still tries to keep to the left.

This is a book that could unite disparate elements of Israeli society (or the American diaspora Jewish society) and is a book that could have been so much better had the content been handled more competently. It has stuff I haven't read before (historical facts that, if they are accurate, are very important in presenting the Israeli position) but it also wallows in the whole "my family was awesome and I have suffered in between all the stuff I have accomplished so I will speak for everyone and say, my family was awesome. And also, the people I quote from our conversation also wrote books that support what they told me personally because I'm a celebrity in Hollywood"

At first I wanted to hate this as a self-indulgent piece of promotion. Then I wanted to look it because it brought a good organizational scheme and some valuable facts to the table. hen I wanted it to be done because I got tired of her bouncing around, paralleling her family's existence with that of the state of Israel.

So, is it a good book? Yes and no. Worth reading, especially on the 9th of Av? Yes, but maybe take a salt suppository before you start.

MCLANE!

 As I thumbed through the detritus that passes for television, with the championship spud, and the reality shows about swapping your spouse with a bear on a remote island, and the soap doctors, I fell upon the 5th installment of the Die Hard chain, "A Good Day to Die Hard." It was just starting and I, never having seen it, felt that this was an opportunity heaven sent for me to brush up on my cultural knowledge. 

This movie, the final installment (since the 6th one was canceled) of the Die Hard franchise has Bruce Willis' John McLane running through Moscow, making a mess of things and whining about being on vacation. While there were a few moments in the 4th movie that strained credulity, this movie choked the life out of credulity and then sat on its corpse after eating beans. Lots of beans. Everything about this movie is bad -- from the acting and dialogue to the incidental music and the effects.  The story didn't really exist.

The movie was actually offensively bad. Why offensively? Because someone or ones, somewhere thought that the audiences were so stupid that they would not notice how bad this movie is. Shame on you, media gatekeepers, and how dare you think that I am that dim.

I enjoyed the first 3 movies and didn't hate the fourth. This 5th one was beneath contempt. Fortunately, I keep extra contempt under there so I was OK.

I do have an idea, though -- I'd like them to take the first part of the movie, culminating in the three protagonists driving off together, and then reshoot the rest so that it plays like Secrets of the YaYa Sisterhood, and make it a travel film. Think "To Wong Fu..."

Bleeding Blue and Orange

 As a dyed in the wool Mets fan, I have learned to live with disappointment. I have learned not to get my hopes up so that, when the team chokes, as, statistically, they will, I won't feel too, too horrible. I recall as a youth, watching the Mets and Yankees playing the Mayor's Trophy game. When the Mets won this meaningless, pre-season exercise (the Mets went 10-8-1) I celebrated because I knew it wasn't going happen much and a little bit of a moral victory was enough.

The midsummer classic was always something of a let down as well. The Mets, you see, were not very good and were often populated by players who were, well, unremarkable outside the confines of my mind. So while some teams, their magical players topping all the lists, contributed chunks to the All-Star team, I always had to make due with the fallback -- each team gets at least one player on the team, regardless of votes. I always wanted that Mets player to do something remarkable and prove that the team had value and stars and its own magic.

This is why 1979 was a high point for me. The Mets had 2 (count 'em, TWO) players on the roster, catcher John Stearns and first baseman Lee Mazzilli. Stearns was a legend. I was just a boy, but he was everything a catcher was supposed to be, and more. Both were approximately .260 hitters and neither was destined for Cooperstown. Stearns was a reserve and didn't see any action. Mazz got up twice to represent the Flushing Faithful. He tied the game in the 8th with a homerun (IIRC, it hit the yellow line) and then forced in the leading run with a walk an inning later.

And there it was. Our guy, a Met, didn't just play but was instrumental in getting the win for the National League! Without him, the NL would not have its 45–48–2 record in All-Star games.

And as a 10 year old Mets fan, things were not going to get much better than that. Even today, as the Mets are actually playing something resembling baseball and they have enough of an imposing line up that their players actually get voted and start the game, I get a thrill when I read that Pete Alonso hit a homer in the All-Star Game, but it isn't the same. Back then, that home run was proof of life. It was a shock as the whipping boys from Queens finally showed up.

That year, the Mets finished 6th in the division, with a record of 63-99-1 but for one shining moment, I had reason to brag.

Childhood trauma

 I have stumbled upon a trauma from my youth, and I wished to confront it and commit it to form, lest I ever forget (as happens more and more these days). Now, when someone calls me out for some reason, i have another trauma in my stable that I can trot out and blame. Winning!

This is the scenario which inspires deep and deeply held dread -- hanging around with friends, getting ready to play softball. They are all talking about breaking in their new gloves, and one, clearly an expert points out the inmportant of applying neat's foot oil.

They all pause and nod, pounding their fists into their gloves in silent agreement.

I am afraid to say, "Hey, excuse me everybody, but what is a 'neat' and why would you somehow want to get oil from it's feet?"

A New Ad Campaign Idea

 Pick a competitive binary from the marketplace. The ad is an interview with a representative of one product. During the interview, he bad mouths his competition and the people who patronize his competition. Handheld camera and the framing as a hidden or candid moment...the camera quickly focuses on a bag from the competition. The rep looks at it and at the camera and says "I wouldn't ever use it if it didn't work so well."

Collective Stupidity, a rant

As I was watching TV last night, it dawned on me not just that we have evolved into a species that cannot fold a road map but is fearless about going unfamiliar places because of a slavish faith in Waze or some equivalent. We cannot think but we can know a lot more by virtue of the cloud.

The weather alerts (because, hey, it's gonna rain, and the people need to know) struck me as concerning. The weather folk (and a proud people they are) hype up a weather "event" and turning it into a weather "crisis." More rain! Run for your lives. You've seen rain, but not like this. Film at eleven. They bring in experts who show us amorphous but colorful blobs so we can tell if it is raining outside because looking would be too much trouble. And I'd be disappointed if I looked outside and didn't see red and orange hovering everywhere like the doppler readout on TV.

Meanwhile, the talking heads who have a lot of experience not getting in out of the rain tell me things like "Don't put your head under water and try to breathe" and "you know the joke about the flood and the guy on the roof who prays to be saved et cetera and then at the end, God says that he sent 3 boats?  Well that's crap. There will be no divinely inspired boats. Leave now." The underlying message is "prove to the world that every quasi- human on the evolutionary train that led to you didn't die in vain -- use your brain and don't be stupid."

Expected and usual weather patterns (heck, we have a hurricane season so we know they're coming and we can stop shhoting ducks and aliens and start shooting hurricanes) should be something we are used to by now. In the same way that the traffic report doesn't include all the places at which there is always traffic, so noting it is unnecessary, the idea that after a humid day, there will be torrential down pours should not surprise anyone. And we have all lived through it, so all we need is a weather person saying "expect the usual heavy rains from this time to that time and act accordingly." Period. Done.

But we are a nation of shouting because shouting (especially shouting first) is what makes the green flow so we send fools into the storm to tell you to be inside, and we remind you that surfing during a hurricane, brave and awesome looking as it might be, should be discouraged except among the most hard core and awesome people, so that's not you, right? Wink wink. See you on the beach. And I have become a member of the "cull the herd" school of curmudgeonliness so you kids go and have fun. We have to tell drivers, "Don't drive into standing water if you can't judge the depth and can't see the other side, and don't drive into flowing water at all. You can get donuts tomorrow." The expectation of idiocy (and the reliance on it to provide for quality news reports) creates an intellectual elite. Not only do they understand this pandering to the lower intellectual classes, but they are acutely aware of themselves at the top of the smarts-food chain because the mass of people haven't a clue.

This leads, of course, to bilateral resentment (how dare you be so smart! vs. how dare you be so stupid!) and, probably, helter skelter.

Random Rambling

The human race has continued to evolve over time. I, for example, am no longer monkey, but I am now a chimpanzee (h/t Beck). I believe, though, that environmental factors have influenced the way we have evolved. As medicine has evolved, we have become both stronger and weaker; more informed and cautious, but more reliant on experts and this leads to a decentralized society, no longer with a specific medicine woman or man.

So things change. Heck, I think that if we were to make it 95 feet down the line to first base, there would be an initial increase in outs, but eventually, the athletes would get stronger and faster and evolve into a new runner who can beat that throw.

Technology has helped us evolve into a species with a shorter attention span. We have also lost a baseline set of gross motor skills and strength because we focus on smaller, lighter devices (I am guessing that fine motor skills have improved over the years, just not the muscles that have to do with writing stuff by hand). The computer age made our ability to outsource thinking easier and we developed to expect instant answers, and immediate access to things that in the past we would never have been able to approach. The concept of "digital solitude" (that is, our practice of spending more hours in front of a keyboard than interacting with people) has apparently led to a declining birth rate. (the NYT article is behind a paywall, so here's the NY Post https://nypost.com/2025/03/31/lifestyle/screen-time-blamed-for-cross-cultural-drop-in-birth-rates/)

This isn't just about the loss of a skill, or some sort of experience gap, but a rewiring of our brains and bodies to be able to excel in a very different type of world. The continual imposition of AI into our daily lives will force us to evolve more, to depend on technology so as not to be able to do things on our own.

We are becoming extensions of the cloud, instead of the cloud being an extension of us.

the Pacekeeper

I pace. A lot. I find myself just wandering back and forth, possessed by some manic energy which manifests as a slow shuffle back and forth, not active enough to burn any calories, but not slow enough to sit down. It's a lose-lose, as long as "it" isn't "weight."

I come by this pacing habit honestly. No stealer of paces, I. It is genetic. I first noticed that my uncle was a pacer a long time ago. He was over at our house and he paced. And I noticed it. Sort of hard to hide, but I am still proud of my observational skills. Therefore, since he paces, and he is my uncle, science demands that I pace as well. Quads erat demonstratum, baby. Amirite?

By the way, when I say that my uncle is a pacer, I refer neither to the car, nor the basketball team, for as far as I know, he is neither of those. There might be other things he isn't, but I'm going to start by being sure he isn't an auto or professional athlete. I'm pretty sure he isn't a horse, but who knows? Call that indications for further research.

I actually believe that the canals on Mars were created by a couple of neurotic people full of nervous energy, pacing back and forth waiting for something. Just over millions of years.

So I was standing in the shower this morning and I realized that the water drains, because it does. Then, when I turned the water off, I noticed that it still dribbled and moved towards the drain. You see, a bathtub has a slight pitch, a shallow down-angle which encourages the water to roll down, overcoming the pull of gravity and geting water to flow. Amazing.

What that means is that if I walk from one end of the tub to the other, I am walking downhill! And, more importantly, if I turn around and walk back, I'm walking UPHILL! So now, if I pace while I taking a shower then half of my steps are uphill. I'm guaranteed to get in shape as long as i walk in the shower. Genius, I say.

Next, I have to find a way to get my bicycle into the tub so I can work on my hill climbing skills as I prep for the Tour de France.

Recent Viewing

 On my diet, one thing I'm allowed to consume is media, so I have been watching stuff recently and I have opinions.

First, the movie "Heads of State" with John Cena and Idris Elba.

It was sufficient and passable. It doesn't stay with you much but it was certainly diverting for a little bit.

Then I finished watching Ironheart. Six episodes, the first three make a reference or two to the greater MCU but episodes 4-6 are all about integrating with the universe. The universe, thus far, has tread very carefully on the tension between magic and technology. Tony Stark and Dr. Strange epitomized that conflict and then Spider Man bridged the gap, briefly. But Ironheart really tries to reconcile the two on an institutional and not anecdotal level. Previously, magic was about the stones, or combat and not about the existence of magic in the "real world." This show tries to bring magic into our world unapologetically, throwing around buts of magic and connecting it to technology just as a matter of course. Note -- The Librarians The Next Chapter has been dealing with this all season and somehow, they deal with it more cleanly. In the MCU it just opens up way too many questions. The series opened up a LOT and there are loads of questions left which might help this series somehow connect to some other phase 5, 6 or 7 piece.

So was it "good"? No. It was meh. It had plot holes and lazy writing but it did work very hard to make me question so much of what I thought I understood about the MCU. Is that a desired conclusion? My guess is that full MCU fluency will require one to watch this. It won't be especially enjoyable, but you have your marching orders.

And finally, I watched "The Old Guard 2." Here is my best advice: before starting this, watch The Old Guard again. Then turn the TV off and go to sleep. You're welcome.

Geez, that is a bad, bad movie. It looks like it was 3 different movies that were quickly and carelessly slapped together. It is a mess. If I had seen this first, I wouldn't have cared about a sequel. And I still don't.

Pretty darned bad. 

Dream fulfillment

 I hear of a story of a sage who, after many years of struggle, makes it to the Kotel, the Western Wall.

He finally is there, praying with fervor as this is the object of his many years' quest. He said that he had dreamed of seeing its splendor every day and this was a dream come true. 

And now, he was asked, now what will you do? You have been to the wall. What's left to achieve?

And he said, I still dream that dream. Every night. I shall work to fulfill it every day.

Just in time

 Movies don't present an accurate or realistic time scale. A guy has to drive any distance so he jumps into a conveniently close car and zooms off. He doesn't futz with the mirrors or seats, or accidentally turn on the wipers while trying to figure out where the gear shift is. No messing around with the air conditioning or heating or starting the car and having the radio playing loudly on a weird station. And he knows the way, doesn't hit traffic, finds a spot, makes all the lights, skids to a stop in a conveniently close parking spot, and doesn't get tangled in the shoulder belt. No waiting to close all the window, finishing singing to just this song, turning the key and having to jiggle it to get it out of the ignition, checking the back seat, or making a note of where he parked. He shows up right on time, regardless of distance.

Any way, time's passage in modern cinema is inconsistent and often arbitrary. So there.

On a side note, I watched the last half an hour of "Knowing" last night and I have to say that the ending was completely horrible. It was just goofy and silly.

Questions about the strike zone

 

Computers will eventually take over calling balls and strikes using a series of cameras and lasers to assess the location of the ball as it passes through the strike zone.

The strike zone, as it is based on the physical proportions of each individual [3], is constantly shifting as the batter moves in the batter’s box so the computer system would have to be able to figure the ball’s passage at the version of the strike zone extant at the specific instant that the ball crosses the plane of the zone.

The strike zone is a projection out from the batter’s body which means it has depth (unless it is purely two dimensional projection [2]) and therefore must be accounted as 3 dimensional [ibid, next sentence].

A three dimensional Strike Zone would have the depth equivalent to the breadth, from left shoulder to right shoulder of the batter, as it says, “midpoint between a batter's shoulders”.

************************

“take over” – now they are used on TV (*) and in pre-season as a resource to help in challenges (**)

“a series of cameras and lasers” – which have to be retrofitted into each stadium

“as it passes” –  this will be the explained below

“physical proportions” – As it is written, “The official strike zone is the area over home plate from the midpoint between a batter's shoulders and the top of the uniform pants -- when the batter is in his stance and prepared to swing at a pitched ball -- and a point just below the kneecap. In order to get a strike call, part of the ball must cross over part of home plate while in the aforementioned area.” [1]

“purely two dimensional” – but this leads to the question of “from where on the three dimensional body does the rectangle intersect? The very beginning of the body, the middle or the end?”

“3 dimensional” – questions: where when passing the breadth of the batter, must the ball be in (***) the strike zone? Can it (****) at any point, be “of” the zone, or must it do so at one specific part of the zone, though this would reduce the zone to two dimensions in a way (*****). Can a ball leave or enter the zone during its passage (i.e. is it accounted as a strike from the beginning or at the end (******) but both are unnecessary)?

“a batter's shoulders” – and if the batter moves as the ball passes through do we account the zone based on when the ball passed the midpoint even if the batter crouched at that moment to make the pitch be called a ball?

 

++++++++++++

 

[1] https://www.mlb.com/glossary/rules/strike-zone

[2] see https://www.baseballamerica.com/stories/by-ditching-mlb-rule-book-abs-strike-zone-has-found-its-footing/  which states, “Now, the zone is a two-dimensional box set at the halfway point of the plate (measured from front to back)”

[3] page 164 here https://mktg.mlbstatic.com/mlb/official-information/2025-official-baseball-rules.pdf

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

(*) though the image on the screen doesn’t seem to move with the batter and might not be the official strike zone used by the league, just a technological suggestion by the TV system

(**) I have not seen these questions dealt with so I don’t know how the pre-season judging implements its zone

(***) – or according to some, just touching

(****) – is there a minimum percentage [A] of the ball which must pass through or is a ball that even only kisses [B] the zone a strike?

(*****) – as the projection at a standard moment (for example halfway through) could then be accounted from the start as a two dimensional expression as the remainder is never necessary

(******) of a three dimensional zone with depth

 ============

[A] some say any amount, others say one third or one half

[B] as one is next to the other connected at only a certain point but not overlapping at all, as one kisses a holy book. The rules (page 155) state “if any part of the ball passes through any part of the strike zone” but as a ball is a sphere, reckoned in 3 dimensions are we considering the strike zone also 3 dimensional? The remainder of the definition on 155-156 never explicitly says that the zone is two dimensional but it relies on an image on paper which must be 2 dimensional. Can we assume from its use of a 2 dimensional image that it is limiting itself to 2 dimensions or is it simply a convenience because when the rules were written, there was no way to account for depth in diagrams. Or maybe they just didn’t think of this question.

Magical Geometry

I think it is time for us to take a moment and admire baseball.

Is it rigged like football? The jury is still out, but in the meanwhile, we can wax poetic about the game, itself, and ignore the specific iteration that has become the MLB.

First, baseball a 3 season sport. That doesn't mean that the players play during 3 seasons (though they do) but that the sport is, as part of our cultural parlance, become identified with three distinct seasons, something no other sport has accomplished.

Baseball blooms like the early buds, who embrace the spring as it shakes off the winter and use their early flowers to make us all appreciate the change from snow and ice. Baseball heralds the warmth of the spring, and the promise of renewal, a new season, a new chance for the Mets to suck again. Like I said, poetry. It has a spring season which both matters and doesn't, but it is part of the entire baseball season. "It's warm again and there's new grass on the field."

The boys of summer really hit their pace as summer sets in. All the associations (hot dogs, apple pie and Chevrolet included) of the sport with summer, independence, and American Ingénue-ity, all the way to the Midsummer Classic and beyond identify baseball with the summer -- the heat, the sweat, the flies and grounders.

Then we have the autumn, dominated by the World Series and fall ball. Crisp, clear evenings watching a team work its way through the playoffs easing our way into shorter days and a chill in the air as we near the Fall Classic.

The game defines and is defined by 3 quarters of the year (and the winter meetings plus the various winter leagues) and that's awesome.

Then we have the miracle that is the dimensions in baseball. Somehow, the distance of 90 feet down the baseline is the exact right distance to make ground balls thrown to first a close play. Somehow, the distance of 3-450 feet seems to be the right dimension to weed out the home run hitters from others.

Were the numbers and angles and sizes etc built knowing the limits of human, physical performance, or have we evolved into a species which has certain responses based on the demands of baseball? Was the distance down the lines or from the pitcher to home tinkered with to find the optimal numbers, based on trial and error and human effort? If the distance down the line had been set at 85 feet, would we make for better and faster infielders or just more men on base? Are we driven by baseball, or does baseball reflect some established limitations and reality?

One third of the season is gone and the magic continues.

LFGM

Science Problems

 Yesterday, I proctored a whole bunch of really smart 11th grade kids (who cannot access the internet like my smart TV can, so who's smart now?) as they took an honors level physics final. I took physics when I was in 10th grade and I remember a very few things. I remember vectors -- a vector is the hypoteneuse of a triangle created by someone floating down river while also needing to get to a spot on shore.

Since I'm not much a sailor, I never really worried about vectors but I remember them. And the whole "compute the accelaration" thing doesn't get used much. I just push down the pedal and car makes go fast.

While I was proctoring, I discovered, though, that what I learned as the "left hand rule" is now the "right hand rule"! What the hey? When did that happen? Now, true, my grasp of physics is so limited that when I drop a ball is doesn't hit the ground, but I'm pretty sure that it was the left hand rule and it had something to do with electric current or hitchhiking. The details are not clear -- I took the final in 1985 and didn't do especially well. In fact, I felt that the most precise answer to most questions on a physics test was either "why ask me?" or "yep, that's a toughie". Strangely, those same answers worked for other science and math tests. Talk about grand unification theory!

I have, though, determined that physics, as a discpline has a lock on the best word problems. If you are taking a biology test, you get prompts like, "You eat a piece of cherry pie. Then what happens?" Not very interesting.

Or chemistry? "You add some green powder to some red liquid and light a fire -- present the formula for the brown sludge you have to comb out of your hair after the explosion." I mean, sure, "explosion" but still, meh.

Then you get to physics: "you are holding on end of a mile long spring as you float, alone in the depths of space. How high and how quickly does anyone have to send a magnetic pulse through the aither so that light will refract in a way to close a circuit without any loss of acoustic energy?"

Now that's a prompt.

The Uniform Code

 I crave consistency and predictability. I like to feel in control, so I go places early, thus controlling when I arrive. This all provides a blanket of regularity -- a reassurance that all makes sense.

So imagine my surprise when I turned on the Mets game and saw jerseys like this

I thought I was watching a Rockies game (or a Mariners game). But, no -- this is a Mets uniform which just looks like a Rockies uniform. Or a Mariners uniform.

It used to be so simple. When your team is the home team, it wears a bright white uniform. For away games, your team wears gray ones. If your team colors were blue and orange, the accents would be blue and orange. That was a rule and it made things make sense. Then suddenly, my team has a blue uniform (that's OK, the team colors include blue) and a black uniform, a red uniform and 

 and a green one

I turn on some game and the team in coral with reflective black lettering is playing the team in vermillion with neon lettering but tomorrow, they will be the team in the pixelated grayscale camouflage playing the infrared team wearing the yellow caps to commemorate the loss of the team owner's favorite chimp. Much like Dolly Parton and wigs, the teem never wears the same uniform twice. Now I understand that this is a marketing ploy to get fans to shell out for a uniform in each flavor with every and any font but I shouldn't have to be looking at a color chart to figure out who the home team is.

Home uniform, away uniform. That's all the world needs.

A hot take on current events

 In a recent tragedy, two Israeli embassy employees were shot after an event in Washington, D.C. Aside from the crazies who justify murder and defend it as a viable expression of resistance to actions of a foreign government, people see the murders as wrong. I see the murders as wrong. So let's not get the wrong idea about what I'm about to explore.

One thing which is being thrown around is the claim that the murders were not just an attack on Israel (seeing the 2 employees as proxies) but that they were anti-Semitic. I have been wrestling with that and I'll explain why:

the attacker targeted Israelis (though even this is unknown and until we know how he chose his targets, we won't know his motivation explicitly; we will just be inferring)

the attacker recited slogans that relate to Israel, Gaza and the mideast. He said and did nothing which invoked religion.

one of the victims was not, according to Jewish law, Jewish. Did the shooter know or care about his religion? Does it matter if the attacker THOUGHT he was Jewish? Or thought that he was Jewish according to Judaism (does killing obvious non-Jews coming out of a synagogue make the attack anti-Semitic?) The victim was only patrilineally Jewish -- who determines religion to find out if the attack was religiously motivated?

the attacker attacked outside of a Jewish museum and after an event that was sponsored by a Jewish group. Was it just that assumption of Jewishness because of context?

I just have questions -- I don't know whether this is a prime example of the difference between pure anti-Zionism and anti-Semitism, or where this is an example of how the two are conflated accurately.

Standing alone, together

 There's something about a prayer that's magic (H/T SOB).

Every few years, I like to visit Israel because I like to visit the Kotel, the Western Wall. I use those moments to recharge my spiritual battery. I go up to the wall and I close my eyes. I turn on all my other senses and I try to soak in the experience, planting memories and feelings that I will tap into for the next weeks, months and years when I pray elsewhere. It is sort of like my version of Tintern Abbey. 

There is a tension I have noticed in prayer, but not a bad one -- the role of the individual and of the community. We try to pray with a minyan, a quorum, so that we can unite as a congregation and petition God as a force. But our central prayer, the Amidah (standing) [also called the Shmoneh Esrei though that only really applies to the weekday version, and even then, in the breach] separates us from the collective. We stand silently, We retreat into our own personal cocoon of prayer. The community, abuzz with the sounds of prayer turns silent. And when you close your eyes, or cover yourself with a tallit, or look down into your prayerbook intently, everything else disappears and you are now alone, standing in front of the Creator, using your own voice to plead. I close my eyes and I'm in front of the Kotel again. No matter how crowded the room, when I close my eyes, I'm alone -- just me and the big guy. Brutal honesty and no one else is there. The room is empty.

But then, in the words of my prayers, I notice something. Though I am alone in the presence of God, I pray in the plural. It isn't all about me. I'm still part of the collective even in my most private moments. An entire room of inviduals, silently standing before God, pleading for the group. I love that moment because it ties together so many opposites. This prayer symbolizes, to me, the reconciling of theoretically mutually exclusive concepts which then allows me, the finite, to connect with the infinite.

It is a beautiful feeling to so lose yourself in singular prayer that you forget that you are part of a united force of ten or more, all actually praying together, unaware of each other's existence.

Dead But Present

This is a story written by my dad Z"L . It was part of a collection of stories he wrote (and placed for sale on Lulu...just saying).

Jack was watching out the window and getting more and more frustrated as the minutes went by. They were eight minutes late already. “A watched pot never boils.” It wasn’t very original but it was the best the rabbi had to offer. “Actually it does. I tried it once to see. It wasn’t very interesting but the water did boil. If that expression were really true all we’d have to do to forestall anything would be to keep our eyes on it. Think of it. We could prevent war.” The rabbi knew him well enough to believe that he had actually watched a pot. Jack was very serious and very concrete in his thinking. He was not all that imaginative and he had no sense of humor at all, but he was reliable. “Watching grass grow and paint dry is even more uninteresting. In fact it’s boring. I gave up on them.” The rabbi didn’t doubt it at all. He was amused by Jack’s earnestness, but he didn’t laugh. That would have embarrassed the poor fellow. Jack’s view covered the parking lot and part of the path to the front door, though he couldn’t see the door itself from the coat room where they stood. “I have a great idea for getting people here on time – at least for Shabbos. Have the kiddush at the beginning – before we start davening. Some people come only in time for the food, and it may get them to come earlier. Food first, service second. Even if that doesn’t work it will mean that we start a little later and maybe there’ll be more people here then.” Jack’s idea was proposed quite seriously, but still the rabbi viewed it as a joke. “Original, but it won’t work. The people who come just for the food won’t get up early, even for the food, so they won’t come at all, and the people who are serious about davening won’t eat before they do so. I’m afraid we’ll need a different gimmick.” The front door slammed. “That’s funny. I didn’t see anyone coming and I have a good view of the way in.” As they left the coat room they saw the back of whoever it was who was entering the beis midrash where they davened during the week.

When Harry Baron arrived at shul for shacharit, there were nine men already present. He looked fit and just as everyone remembered. And as usual he was late.

After walking over to his accustomed seat he started putting on his tallis and tefillin. That, certainly, was unexceptionable behavior, but there was a problem, and a strange and frightened expression was visible on the faces of some of the men. Jack Harris edged over to the rabbi and in hushed tones asked: “Can we count him.” “Why not? He’s Jewish, isn’t he?” It was clear to the rabbi that even though he, himself, didn’t, Jack recognized the newcomer but appeared to have some doubts. “Well, yes, but ...” “Then what’s the problem?” “That’s Harry Baron.” “Lovely name. But what’s that got to do with it?” “He’s dead.” The rabbi was flustered and, for a moment, he did not – could not – speak. The rabbi was relatively new, having started there only a couple of months earlier and didn’t know Harry, nor Harry’s story. “I don’t understand. Now’s not the time for humor. People have to get to work. He started already. Let’s just continue without the hi-jinks.” The rabbi acted confident but he was very unsure of himself. The one thing he did know was that Harry was incapable of joking. “So we can count him?” “Of course we can.” “Even though he’s dead?” “What are you talking about. You’d better explain yourself. He looks very much alive to me, and he’s the tenth. We have a minyan.” Jack was blunt. “He died about a year ago. And it wasn’t as if his body was missing or couldn’t be identified with certainty. He had lung cancer and died in the hospital. He was buried the next day following tahara and the whole shmear. I remember the levayah. It was really very moving. As I recall it was the last one performed by Rabbi Becker before he died. The beis din apportioned the inheritance and issued instructions for the paying of the ketubah. Trust me. He’s dead.” “So your Harry Baron is dead and this must be someone who looks like him. You haven’t seen him in a year and I’m sure you’re just confused. I’ll speak to him and straighten this all out. Then we can begin.” The rabbi walked up to the front where Harry had gone to lead the davening. “Hi. I’m Rabbi Meister. Are you visiting? Or do you live here?” “Well, yes and no. I’m local. I haven’t been to minyan in a while.” “I’m confused by your answer. What do you mean ‘yes and no?’ What’s your name?” “Harry Baron.” The rabbi was silent for a moment. Nothing otherwise seemed out of the ordinary.

“That’s what Jack Harris said. But he also said you died, though you look very much alive to me. What’s the story?” “Jack’s right. I’m dead.” The rabbi’s face turned red and he was clearly very upset. “I’m losing my patience with this joke. What’s going on?” “I had lung cancer and died about a year ago. Actually it was just under a year ago – my yahrzeit is tonight – the same day as my father’s. So I wanted to be sure I got here in time or, better still, a day early. Tonight and tomorrow I’ll say kaddish with the minyan.” Harry’s clothes smelled of tobacco and everything was a little crumpled. The rabbi was more confused than before and walked off to a corner to think. He had seven years of experience and thought he could manage any question that came up but it was clear to him that he couldn’t deal with the problem he now faced. Harry started davening, very passionately. His voice was like that of an angel. Despite the fact that Harry had started, Jack Harris kept up the bombardment of Rabbi Meister. “Can we associate with someone who’s dead? I remember from somewhere that calling up the dead is avodah zara? What about one who just walks in on us? And what about Larry Katz? He’s a kohein. Does he have to leave and go to the mikvah? Even if we count Harry, we’ll be back at nine if that’s the case. And it’s getting close to the time for the Sh’ma. Tell us what to do.” The rabbi was bewildered. He was overwhelmed. And he couldn’t answer the questions. He told Jack that all he knew was that there were references to a “dead” husband who reappeared following his “widow’s” remarriage. But that didn’t appear to be the situation here. There was only one solution. The rabbi picked up his tallis and tefillin. “I’ll be back for minchah, and I’ll have some answers then. But I can’t be sure that we have a minyan now and I know I can’t figure it all out before it’s time to say Sh’ma, so the best assumption is that there is no minyan and this will make sure that’s the case.” And with that he left. That meant there were only nine present. So though the immediate solution wasn’t what Jack had in mind, the problem disappeared. Initially he was angry, but after a moment’s reflection, he decided that the rabbi had done the right thing. Although one isn’t permitted to leave a minyan if his absence will mean that there aren’t ten present, in this case, since there was no one saying kaddish and it was a sofek if there was a minyan, Rabbi Meister decided that by making sure there weren’t ten he had obviated the problems without penalizing any individual. Larry Katz still had a question, but for the moment he was on his own to solve it, so he left too. If the rabbi wasn’t sure, he certainly wasn’t going to stay around.

Rabbi Meister davened Shacharit at home. His davening was distracted and certainly lacked proper kavanah, but it was better than nothing. He couldn’t get over the feeling that what he had just experienced was impossible and there had to be a rational explanation, but he didn’t have time to explore that possibility – he had to deal with appearances, and to do so before minchah. There was a noontime luncheon of the shul Sisterhood, and he was scheduled to speak, but he’d have to cancel. He knew that at the very least he’d cause a disappointment and possibly wind up with some enemies among the women, but he had no choice. He had to have an answer by 5:30 in the afternoon, and it was already 8:15. It was too early to start calling people – not the Sisterhood president nor any of the experts who might advise him regarding his problem – so he pulled down several of his s’forim and began leafing through them. He didn’t expect to find any precedent – at least not one that dealt with exactly what he had seen – the Rabbis were imaginative and inventive, but they weren’t crazy. Some of the scenarios they proposed to explain obscure or apparently contradictory statements of their predecessors strained credibility, but Rabbi Meister was sure no one had hypothesized a situation like this morning’s. The best that he hoped for was a situation which was somewhere close enough for inferences to be made that might cover this state of affairs. He didn’t really expect to find any, but still he hoped. The closest situation he could find was just what he had expected. It was the case he had mentioned to Jack: the one that dealt with a second marriage of a woman whose husband was believed dead. In that instance, though, the man had never died despite the erroneous judgment of the beis din that he had. According to what Jack had told him, however, this was not such a situation because he was dead. And Baron confirmed this. The rabbi was hard-put to continue. He didn’t know where to go from there. He did know that he had to get his kids to school before nine and this was a non-negotiable responsibility. His wife worked downtown and left for work as soon as she saw his car in the driveway. She didn’t even wait for him to get out. He was early but she had told him that there was an early meeting at her agency and she wanted to attend if possible. Seeing him arrive at that hour she assumed he had rushed to help her out, so she left. That left him with the kids. Fortunately they could eat breakfast on their own while he davened, but, he had to drive them to school. It was just as well. He didn’t know where to go in solving this impossibility and the drive gave him time to think. The telephone rang but the caller would have to leave a message. He couldn’t be late in delivering the kids or he’d never hear the end of it. He’d pick up the message in about a half hour, as soon as he was done. Nothing couldn’t wait that long.

Rabbi Meister pulled into an open space right in front of the school. It was the first positive thing that had happened all day. After letting off his kids he pulled out his cell phone and called Esther Berman. The earlier he told her he wouldn’t be able to attend the luncheon the better.

“Esther? This is Rabbi Meister. How are you.” “I’m fine. Thanks. And you? I tried reaching you at home but wasn’t successful.” That must have been the call when he was leaving. He was glad he didn't get it before he left. Well, it seems to have managed to wait. Esther sounded all right, notwithstanding the fifteen minute delay. “What did you call about?” “We had two speakers scheduled today – you and Dr. Seligson. He was going to talk about problems associated with aging and about death. He has a medical emergency, though, and he called to cancel. We certainly understand his problem and I was wondering if you could lengthen your talk a little. Possibly you could deal with aging from a religious standpoint. Or maybe you could talk about medical ethics.” Disaster. It was clear why she had called him already. She was faced with a bad situation and needed him to save her. It would be impossible for him to beg off now. “Actually, the reason I called you was to tell you that I’d have to leave immediately after finishing my talk today. A problem came up this morning at minyan and I have to clear it up before afternoon services, and I’m not sure I’ll have time to add any more to the talk I’ve prepared.” In fact, the rabbi hadn’t really prepared much but had intended to talk off-the-cuff on the place women played in biblical history. It wasn’t original but it would work. He knew the material and was certain he could interest his audience. But he didn’t know whether he would have an opportunity to lengthen the talk. However the pressure to “rescue” the Sisterhood leadership was worth the effort. Their support in the future would be valuable. So Rabbi Meister “acceded” to Esther’s plea. “Look. I know you have a problem so let me try to help. I’ll be discussing women in the Bible and perhaps I can add to what I was going to say about Sarah. I can discuss aging in relation to her having a child at the age of ninety. There’s a lot to be said about the problems she faced having a child at that age, and that’s the best link I can come up with on the spur of the moment.” The rabbi knew there was a lot to be said since he had discussed the issue in a Rosh Hashanah sermon he had given at his last synagogue a few years earlier. All he had to do was print a new copy on his computer in the office. That meant he couldn’t use the material at Rodfei Emet for another few years but it would turn the situation from one that was likely to make him some enemies into one that might win him some friends. It didn’t solve his main difficulty, but this would take care of the situation with the Sisterhood problem. In view of what had happened with the morning minyan, he really didn’t want to talk about death – even from a standpoint unrelated to the current situation. This was an issue that had to be dealt with separately. Esther was relieved and she talked and talked after that. Rabbi Meister was tempted to silence her as politely as possible so he could get to his real problem, but he just listened as the minutes went by.

Eventually Mrs. Berman concluded. “We’re having an ice cream cake after the lecture and I’m sorry you won’t be able to have some and schmooze with us afterward. But thank you so much for helping us out. Now that the Sisterhood was out of the way, Rabbi Meister called Rabbi Herschel Spingold. He always called Rabbi Spingold when he had a difficult problem, and this certainly qualified. However much he thought he knew about halakhah, he had no idea how to deal with the situation. He dialed the number and waited. The rabbi, himself, answered the call. Rabbi Meister gave a detailed explanation of the problem and asked what he should do. “Of course it’s a serious question. And I need an answer by 5:30. I have to have it by minchah.” “No this isn’t a joke. I know what it sounds like but one of my minyan members assures me he attended the man’s funeral, and the man in question himself says he’s been dead for a year. He wants to say kaddish at ma’ariv for himself and his father. I have no idea how to deal with the situation, but I have to have some way of approaching it this afternoon. I couldn’t find a reference to anything similar and I don’t know where to look for clues. And I don’t have the time to try to find any answers on my own.” “All right. I’ll be there. I have to attend a Sisterhood luncheon, but I’ll come over as soon as I can free myself.” “No. Don’t worry. My expectations are low.” Rabbi Meister pressed the “End” button on his cell phone and looked at his watch. It was already 11:15. He’d be meeting with Rabbi Spingold later that day – as close to 2:00 PM as he could make it. In the meantime he went home to locate his presentation for the Sisterhood. He ran into his office and out with barely enough time to print a hard copy. He didn’t even have time to grab a snack from the office refrigerator, but in view of his experience he wasn’t very hungry.

Rabbi Meister arrived at 2:30 and rang the buzzer to be let into the apartment house. There had been more questions after his talk than he had anticipated. The idea of an elderly woman conceiving fascinated the Sisterhood members, many of whom had read in the newspapers of post-menopausal women who, with the help of modern science, had managed to be made pregnant. After he was buzzed in he took the elevator to the third floor where the Rabbi’s apartment was. Rabbi Spingold answered the door and let him in. He had been reading until then, hoping to find something that would shed light on Rabbi Meister’s problem, but he still couldn’t believe it. “I hope you haven’t been wasting my time with a practical joke.” Rabbi Meister was very serious. “I wish that were the case, but the situation is real and I’m out of my depth. I kept praying while it was happening that Jack Harris would burst out laughing – even though I knew deep down that it wasn’t in his nature to play a joke like that. I probably would have been angry but I know I would have been relieved. Unfortunately he didn’t laugh and now I have a problem that may be bizarre but has more implications than I can deal with.” Rabbi Spingold waited a moment and then responded. “I was hoping that you would tell me that you had learned that there had been a misunderstanding and you no longer needed answers to the questions you raised, but apparently that’s not the case. If I had more time I’d want to speak to or correspond with several rabbeim around the world to get their opinions on the case since there is no precedent that I can discover that is similar to it. Because you’re in a rush and the issues you’ve raised are limited, I’ll try to give you some guidance, but a lot more research and inquiry are really necessary. And there are questions you didn’t raise about debts, inheritance, marriage, oaths, and many other things regarding both the family and the man himself – whether dead or alive – which need clarification, but you didn’t raise them and I won’t give any opinion on them. “In any case, I want you to tell me the situation all over again. Don’t leave out any details, no matter how insignificant they seem.” Rabbi Meister described everything that happened. He began by saying that he wasn’t at the shul when Harry Baron died and that his only information was from Jack Harris and Baron himself. Not only that, but Rabbi Becker was dead and couldn’t help. He didn’t know who was on the beis din and suspected that it would take far too long to find out. So he could only tell Rabbi Spingold what he had observed and heard. There was a short pause while Rabbi Spingold thought. “Let’s start with some basic ground rules. First of all, we accept what the beis din, assuming it was properly constituted, decided as having been correct. At the time, at least. Also, we don’t listen to Mr. Baron. If he is alive, he’s lying and liars aren't acceptable as witnesses and if he's dead he certainly isn't a valid witness. In addition, an individual isn’t permitted to testify against himself except in monetary cases anyway.” Although that took care of one of the issues, it didn’t really solve the problem. But now he had only Jack’s word about Baron’s status. And there were still the questions of whether he was alive or dead, was it permissible to count him in the minyan, could he lead the davening as a chiyuv and say kaddish, did Larry Katz have to leave – in fact did they all have to leave? “The issue of ignoring the testimony from Harry Baron is good news but it still leaves several questions.” Rabbi Spingold continued. “Don’t be impatient. There are a lot of issues to be decided. That’s only one of them.” “I’m sorry. If I seem impatient it’s only because I’m totally bewildered and I’m having difficulty believing the situation I’m in.” “So am I. But you’ve come to me for answers and I’ll try to deal with each of the issues. It will take a little time, though. Let’s continue with the assumption that he’s dead. If that’s the case it’s obvious that he can’t be counted in the minyan and he certainly can’t lead the davening. If we eventually decide he’s alive he would have preference to lead since that honor belongs to a chiyuv.” “I can punt on that one. Morris Kolensky has a yahrzeit tonight and I’ll ask him to daven.” “Good. That will make things easier if I finally decide Mr. Baron is alive. ... I can’t even believe I’m saying these things.” That still didn’t deal with whether he should or could say kaddish for himself or his father but it avoided having him lead the davening. Who knows if he could be a valid shaliach tzibur. And it would be difficult to tell him that he couldn’t lead the davening if there was no other chiyuv present. “Next is the issue of the kohein in your minyan. While in theory a kohein can’t be in the same building as a dead body or a part of one, Eliyahu and Yehezkel, both of them kohanim, brought the dead to life. So they were in the presence of the dead. In the case of Yehezkel it was outdoors so perhaps this can be discounted, but Eliyahu was inside. So there appear to be some exceptions. I agree that your kohein isn’t bringing anyone to life, but if he makes the minyan he’s helping to bring the Shechina there. I'd let the kohein stay. “And the two of them, as well as Elisha and some others, associated with the dead in order to revive them, so association with the dead isn’t necessarily avodah zara. Besides, you didn’t summon up the dead. You may have been looking for a tenth, but I don’t think you were looking for anyone who had died.” There was a lot of additional discussion of these points, the halakhos and the midrashim surrounding them and previous decisions in cases that, with a little imagination, could be viewed as related. It was interesting how Rabbi Spingold discussed what were really the peripheral issues without dealing with the main problem – whether Harry was alive or dead. That, after all, was the real question. And whether he could be counted in the minyan. They could dance around all of the other issues once they decided about him, but the rabbi seemed to be in no rush to cover that issue. It was already 4:45 and that area hadn’t been begun. “I don’t know if Mr. Baron can say kaddish, either for himself or for his father, but since you had someone else saying it, ask him to keep the other two in mind. Then you can ignore whatever this fellow does. It will be covered. Thanks for telling me that there would be another chiyuv present. It certainly solves that problem – at least for the time being. “The hardest problem though is whether he is alive or dead and his status in counting the minyan. For all the others there was a way to work around them or some source which dealt with a situation similar enough to draw a parallel. Unfortunately the situation you’ve described has no parallel that I could find and I don’t have time to make inquiries before minchah. Tell me the full story again.”

It was getting late but Rabbi Meister had no choice except to comply. He recounted everything he could remember about the morning – from the waiting and watching until the time when he hurriedly left the shul. He related the history as told to him by Jack Harris. He described Harry, his appearance and his actions, as fully as he could, all the time checking his wristwatch – both to inform himself of the hour and to politely indicate to Rabbi Spingold that he was in a hurry. “All right. I’ve heard enough. I can make a preliminary determination which I hope is correct. Harry Baron was dead. But now he is alive. I cannot question the decision of a properly constituted beis din, especially since their conclusion corresponded to solid medical evidence and witnesses. But his reappearance raises new issues. We know that Hashem can revive the dead – we praise Him for that every day – so we can’t discount the possibility. But we really need more than a possibility. “According to what you tell me, he started leading the davening, chanting b’rachos, the Sh’ma and sections of the Torah and Talmud. That made me think of a verse from Psalms – 115 I think – that’s part of the Hallel. Lo hameitim yehallelu ka – “The dead cannot praise you.” If he was leading the davening he was praising Hashem and he must be alive.” It was good talmudic logic and gave Rabbi Meister enough leeway to count Harry. Rabbi Spingold had expressed his judgments with a demeanor exuding confidence, but his final remarks called it all into question: “I’m comfortable with what I’ve told you, but in the next few days I’ll get the opinions of some experts who may be familiar with precedents if there are any. In the meantime I’d suggest that you get an extra man or two so you have ten even without Mr. Baron.” So there was no real opinion at all. There was a tentative suggestion and some ways to deal with the situation that would obviate any real difficulties. It was a solution without an answer. But it would have to do. It was already ten minutes after five and Rabbi Meister ran down the stairs, not waiting for an elevator. On the way down he pulled out his cell phone and started dialing. It took four calls, but he managed to get a couple of extras who lived near the shul for the afternoon and evening minyanim. They weren’t thrilled but they couldn’t say no to the rabbi. The rabbi arrived at Rodfei Emet just before 5:30. The men he called had beaten him there and there was a minyan present even though Harry hadn’t arrived. “Let’s start immediately. The more we do before he arrives the happier I’ll be.” Larry Katz davened and he moved rapidly. By the time he finished, at 5:39, Harry still wasn’t there. The rabbi asked Morris Kolensky to step forward and lead. There wouldn’t even have to be a debate over who took precedence. That might come in the morning, but if they started on time they might get away with it, assuming Baron would be late again. The rabbi was usually infuriated that people didn’t get to minyan on time, but for once he was grateful.

Morris davened at a much more leisurely pace, especially when he said kaddish, but even though he took fifteen minutes for ma’ariv, Harry didn’t get there. At first the rabbi became worried about Harry. What might have happened to him? Did he have an accident? But it didn’t take long for him to come to his senses. “I don’t know if he’s really alive. And if he is, it’s because Hashem performed a miracle. With Harry’s protektsia he doesn’t need my concern.”

“Esther Berman called to thank you for your presentation.” The rabbi’s wife was home from work. She had picked up the children and made supper which was on the table. “She was very excited and couldn’t thank you enough. The ladies appeared to have enjoyed your talk a lot. What did you talk about?” “Old Jewish women. Of course they enjoyed it.” “Oh. By the way, there was also a call on the machine from a little before nine this morning. It must have come after you left with the kids. It was from someone named Harry Baron. He wanted to tell you that he’d daven elsewhere tonight and tomorrow. He wasn’t sure there’d be a minyan after you left. He didn’t leave a number. What happened this morning?” “You don’t want to know.”

The rabbi gave some thought to contacting Rabbi Spingold and calling him off, but he decided against it. He really wanted to know what the experts thought in case there was a next time. You never know.

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?