Author: RTNM

A Tale of Two (Make that Three) Drummers

“Please, if you would be so kind.  I want to ask you a bit of an unusual question.  Why do you bother to get up in the morning after all you have seen and experienced?  I have known many people who have simply given up after seeing what their lives had become.  They are playing out the string, doing next to nothing as they wait for The Great Escape.  You, though, are different.  You seem as eager as ever to attack the world.  Why is that?”

Buford Lister paused.  He then took off the bandana that was wrapped around his head and slowly unwrapped it.  I must say that I was a bit confused by his actions.  I had no idea what was going on until he took the white, faded bandana and wiped the tears from his eyes.

“Scientists often say that language fails them when they try to discuss deep topics.  The people working in quantum physics are particularly guilty of this.  I believe that there are other realms of experience that can also be classified as equally problematic.  To be left speechless, to know that there is no formal way to express yourself, to know that no words exist to properly relate your experience, those are the situations I live for.  Of course, you can never know when you will be faced with such a dilemma.  These experiences come out of the ether to taunt us every once in a great while.  You are young, so maybe you have never experienced such a thing.  I have only come face to face with such emotions a couple times in my life.  That is the only reason I get up.  I know there is a chance I will be set upon by something beautiful, something unexplainable, perhaps sublime.  Even at my advanced age, I know I can be fundamentally changed by something I never considered.  That is why I get up.”

Buford Lister (this excerpt was taken from an unpublished interview by students from the Cultural Studies Department at Reederstock University four years ago).

*****

I have a favorite drummer, do you?  I have long thought that Charlie Watts was the perfect drummer for The Rolling Stones.  Along with Bill Wyman on bass, they formed the backbone for one of the greatest rock and roll bands we have ever seen.  They both played just enough to keep the beat and let the other members of the band shine.

Who was cooler than Watts?  Name someone, anyone, and I will take the side of Charlie, and you can argue the other side.  I will be happy to stand for Charlie, a man I always saw as a reluctant rock star.  He had a style and substance that is unusual for a rock and roll drummer; he played his instrument in an understated fashion, he kept time so the others could ascend to their musical heights.  He was the best.

I was surprised to hear that Charlie Watts passed on the other day.  I knew he was sick and that he would miss the Stones’ upcoming tour, but I, like most people, had no idea how sick he was.

Many of you might not know that Watts was a jazz musician at heart.  It seems pretty clear to me that he loved jazz more than rock and roll.  He formed jazz bands, and he would take them on tour.  My impression of him is that he was more at home playing jazz.  He was one of those rare people who mastered his instrument, and jazz might have challenged him a bit more than rock.  I am sure he found it more interesting.  What a fascinating man; I am sad that he is gone.

*****

Author’s Note:  Some years ago, I wrote a book of essays called The Athena Chapters.  The identity of Athena remains shrouded in mystery, and I will take the secret of her identity to my grave.  The night that I met her, I went to see another band, a group of traveling minstrels that were my favorite musical group for a long, long time.  She changed all of that.  The reasons for that band’s demotion are complicated and due entirely to her.  I guess I can’t listen to them anymore unless it is in terms of Athena, and I don’t like that.  I don’t need to be reminded of her; I have enough crap to deal with on a daily basis.

I include this lengthy “Author’s Note” because the driving force of the band that used to be my favorite was their bass player and drummer, my second favorite combo behind Watts and Wyman.  The two guys in the unnamed band were sublime.  One night, after a concert, I cornered the bass player and told him exactly what I thought of him.  As I remember, he wouldn’t let go of my hand.  He was genuinely happy with what I had to say.  He was immensely appreciative, and I sensed him getting emotional as I went on about his playing.  I remember him telling me that his bass coach told him that if he played correctly, no one would know that he played at all.  That was the essence of his sound.  He and the drummer were a perfect match.  Just like Watts and Wyman, they were born to play together.  As I turned to leave, one of the roadies rang up the drummer to tell him what I had said.  It was an excellent night.  I left feeling good about myself, after all, I had done a good deed, and I had been entirely truthful.

*****

For the last year or so, I have been following the drum battle between Dave Grohl, a 50ish white man living in Los Angeles, and Nandi Bushell, a mixed-race 11-year-old girl from England.  Of course, you should know who Grohl is, he is one of the most famous musicians alive.  He is a two-time inductee into The Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, once as a member of the seminal band Nirvana and again as the leader of Foo Fighters.  I have always admired Grohl; I have long thought he is one of the most interesting musicians alive.

As for Nandi, she is a badass rock star.  I still can’t believe what I have seen from that young lady.  This I know, Nandi and Grohl, by virtue of their unusual and unexpected relationship, have managed to spread love and joy across the world for the last year or so.  That is not hyperbole; search around on the internet if you are skeptical.

Their story has been well documented; even The New York Times did a piece on the relationship between the two unlikely rock stars.  Nandi, then 10, made a video challenging her hero, the mighty Dave Grohl, to a drum-off.  I urge you to search out the clips.  They offer nothing other than pure joy.  I am not sure I have ever seen anything like it.  She bashed the kit into oblivion, all the while keeping time like the human metronome that she is. Grohl never stood a chance.  Of course, he was forced to concede defeat.

A few days ago, I was surprised to see clips of a Foo Fighters concert showing up on YouTube.  They played at the LA Forum, and they ended the show with an appearance by a special guest.  Guess who showed up to blow the doors off the arena.  Go ahead, guess before you click the link.  Just a word of warning, some people might find a couple of words questionable, so I would consider the following clip NSFW.

 

 

I have long been a fan of Dave Grohl; I now declare myself a lifelong fan of Nandi Bushell.  She couldn’t have picked a better mentor.  I look forward with great interest to see what the future holds for both of them.  I must say, I am struck by the timing of this.  Shortly after my favorite drummer passes away, his replacement comes out of the ether in the form of a girl 70 years younger than him.  Truly astonishing.

In my more sentimental moments, I think that their relationship offers hope to all of us.  The world would be a better place if everyone could feel what I do when watching that clip.  And yes, I only wish I had the words to express what I truly feel.

Epilogue

I have written extensively about the hope my colleagues and I had for the burgeoning internet when I was at Harvard University in the 80s and early 90s.  Up until now, I have only commented on what a cesspool the entire enterprise has become.  As you know, you can easily find any form of hate and intolerance you want with just a few clicks.  I can’t help but think that the drum-off between Dave and Nandi was what we all had in mind when we thought about the possibilities for the internet.  The interaction between those two highlights the original promise of the internet.  Perhaps more importantly, it gives me real hope for the future.

Some News About The Collatz Conjecture

As many of you know, I spend a fair amount of time writing about and researching The Collatz Conjecture.  I have a computer running 24/7 whose only purpose is to find a counterexample to this insanely complex yet straightforward problem.  For those of you unfamiliar with the conjecture, it couldn’t be more simple.  Take any positive integer; if it is even, divide it by 2.  If it is odd, multiply it by 3 and then add 1.  In 1937, Lothar Collatz proposed that any positive integer subjected to this process would end up at 1.

No one has proven this conjecture, and young mathematicians are strongly encouraged not to work on it.  Many people believe the mathematics required to solve it has not yet been discovered.  It really is a curious, impenetrable problem.

I have written about the surprising progress the great mathematician Terry Tao made a couple of years ago on this topic.  He proved that the conjecture is true for nearly all numbers; if there are counterexamples, they are rare.  It truly is an astonishing piece of work.

This short post is about the loop that the numbers make at the end of the sequence.  If a number reaches 1, what happens next?  By rule, it turns into a 4, which turns into a 2, which becomes a 1.   And then, of course, the infinite 4-2-1 loop continues.

I came across a video the other day on the Veritasium channel.  They do outstanding work over there; we all should subscribe.  Watching the video, you will learn that the collective “we” has tested every number up through 2 raised to the 68^th power.  They all return to 1 via the 4-2-1 loop.  What came next shocked and discouraged me.  Mathematicians have concluded that if a loop other than 4-2-1 does exist, it must be larger than 186,000,000,000 numbers long.  Huh?  Well, all right then.

After playing that section of the video multiple times just to make sure I heard correctly, I decided that I am still going to build my own Raspberry Pi “Super Computer” to attack this problem.  If a novel loop is calculated, I doubt I will ever be able to spot it.  There is a chance, though, that I could still discover that elusive counterexample, and that would be very cool.  After all, mathematical immortality awaits the person who finds one of those vast numbers (if any really do exist).

NOTES:

I once heard someone explain what mathematical immortality really is.  He said that if you are a mathematical immortal, that means that one day (probably 500 years or so from now), a student will look up your name to include it in a research paper that only their professor will read.  Not bad, not bad at all…

Hayes

I have a few thoughts on getting older. I know, I know…we all are aging. Time and entropy have a stranglehold on life on Earth. I am concerned with what happens when the order turns to disarray and the imperceptible daily changes accelerate. I am interested when we look in the mirror and ask, “Who is that, and when did this happen?”

I knew an undergraduate student at Harvard named April. She was 19 when I met her. April was so pretty that she wore glasses she didn’t need. She told me she wore them to get some peace. Without them, she was constantly hit on by all shapes and sorts of humans. I saw her once without her glasses. I can still see her face. I must say, I understood her dilemma.

One day I asked April what she wanted to do when she got out of school. She immediately answered, “Chief Justice of the Supreme Court.” The thing about Harvard is you take people seriously when they say something like that. At my first Harvard graduation, Barack Obama was in the group to my right. I didn’t know him, I don’t ever recall meeting him, and my dad still can’t find the DVD he took of the ceremony. There is a good chance the future president shows up somewhere in the footage.

The people I knew there all had big, realistic ambitions. “Hey dude, what equation is going to be on your tombstone?” They would also ask how many inches The New York Times would dedicate to your obituary. You know, simple stuff like that.

I think at some point, most of the people there thought they were the next Einstein. Many of them had never met anyone as bright as they were until they arrived on campus. A small percentage looked around and said, “OK, I guess I have a chance. I don’t see any space aliens roaming around.” For others…their experience was totally different.

I heard a story about Bill Gates. I can’t remember where or when I heard it, but it goes like this. Gates was the most brilliant mathematician he knew when he arrived on campus. He was clearly smarter than anyone who took classes with him or attempted to teach him. After his arrival, it didn’t take him long to realize that he was the 7th or 8th best mathematician on the floor of his dorm. Don’t shed any tears for him; his life worked out just fine. His foundation is working hard to change the world, and it is succeeding.

Lately, I have been spending some time catching up with some people from my past. I have a few reasons for this, and, at this point, I will keep those motives to myself. Unfortunately, what I have found has generally been disheartening and disturbing.

So many of my cohorts and old friends have simply given up. Those dreams of the younger versions of themselves died a slow, painful death. They have fallen into a routine, and that is that. They are heading to retirement with as much enthusiasm and energy as they can muster. The bright, ambitious young people that I knew are nothing but figments, long-forgotten apparitions.

Their lives have been nothing but one compromise after another. They settled mainly because they were too tired to fight. The realization that they weren’t going to do anything extraordinary with their lives was a slow burn more than an unwelcome flash of insight. This is the way of the world. Nothing unusual here.

For reasons that aren’t entirely clear to me, I have not set my mace down. My armor remains polished. I will admit that the chainmail has sections with broken linkage, but it is still effective. While I know it is unlikely to be accurate, I keep telling people that I am delusional enough to think that my best days, my good old days, might still be ahead of me.

This brings me to a man I graduated high school with, a person I have not seen in 40 years. I found him online and sent him an email. I discovered that he is about to set out on an incredible adventure. He is selling all his stuff and moving nearly halfway around the world. I have always called him Hayes. I keep a top-secret list of my all-time favorite people, and yes, he is certainly included.

One day when we were in high school, Hayes mentioned his grandfather to me. I can’t remember the circumstance of how grandpa came up, but I never forgot what Hayes told me about him. “My grandfather lived until he died,” was all that Hayes said. In my mind, that meant that gramps disregarded all the doctors. He also didn’t listen to his relatives and friends. He woke up each morning and got the most out of that day; he damned the torpedoes and moved forward along the path he alone chose. I never met Hayes’ grandfather, but I have always admired him. It sure looks like Hayes inherited his spirit. Three cheers and a tiger for Hayes and his grandpa. I am inspired by their example, as we all should be.

In the last five years, I have twice faced down the maniacal entity that is death. I am not encouraged by what I saw. I am going to fight off the inevitable as long as I can. And, yes, at this point, I am growing increasingly concerned about the natural order of life on this planet. I have a lot of work to do, and I need more time to get it done. Know this, I am not going down without an epic battle; I am confident that inspiration from a man I never knew will steel my resolve. Just like Hayes’ grandfather, I have every intention to live until I die.

Epilogue: The story of Sang Ho Baek

A few months ago, a tragic story involving a 20-year-old pitcher on George Mason University’s baseball team made national news. Sang Ho Baek had elbow surgery and died from resulting complications. A traveling blood clot killed him. This circumstance is precisely what happened to me 5 years ago. I fell while running and shattered my elbow. Shortly after the surgery, I found myself in a field on my knees, having difficulty breathing. The clot had traveled to my heart and got shredded into dozens of clots that filled my lungs. I have no idea why I was spared while Sang Ho Baek was taken from us. I was lucky; he was not.

Of course, as the vagaries of luck would have it, the clots returned last year. This time they cut off 90% of the pathways to my lungs. Once again, I was fortunate to survive. Can they come back again? My doctors say no; the medication I am taking leaves them a virtual zero percent chance of returning. The issue I am facing is residual damage. I will have to wait a while longer to get that all sorted out.

Sang Ho Baek had a limitless future. I feel the need to honor him and all others taken far too soon. I still get a kick out of waking up every morning, and I vow to try my best to make every day count. My contribution to humanity is still to be made, and I am confident I will make it by tapping the keys on my keyboard. I may be misinformed, but by leaving behind a record of what it was like to be me, I hope to offer deeper insight to others about their lives and their place in the universe. After all, to do less would dishonor the memory of those who were never given a chance at a full, productive life.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Westworld

What is the biggest unanswered question facing science?  For me, the answer is an easy one.  No one, not even your anesthesiologist, understands the first thing about consciousness.  Anesthesia is particularly interesting in this respect, the highly paid practitioners know that it works, but they haven’t the faintest idea how or why it works.  Think about this the next time you go under for any type of surgery.

An anesthesiologist needs to understand everything about the nature of consciousness before telling you how and why you enter oblivion after they gas you up.  They simply can’t do it.  The person who unravels the mystery of consciousness will become the most famous scientist that has ever lived.  I am not going to hold my breath while I wait for the big announcement.  Obviously, it is a challenging problem.

A friend of mine recently underwent surgery on her wisdom teeth.  It was her first experience with anesthesia.  She described the state she was in while the two problematic teeth were removed. She told me that she was in a dreamlike state, and she didn’t like it when they brought her back to reality.  Anyone who has seen Inception can relate to her dilemma.

I told her that general anesthesia is much different.  There are no dreams.  I equated the experience to the type of consciousness I had before I was born.  Try as I might, I can’t remember anything from that period of history, human or otherwise.  The same holds for the period I was on the operating table.  I’ve tried, and I have nothing.  The harder I think, the less insight I have.  Oblivion is all I can come up with.

This brings me to the stellar HBO show Westworld.  Some of you might remember the movie from 1973.  The theme of the TV series is similar to the film.  Androids become self-aware and revolt against their programmers.  The HBO version takes a deep dive into consciousness and what it means to be self-aware.

The androids in Westworld are reset after they are killed or traumatized.  The memories are erased, and they start the next day brand new.  Of course, they start remembering what has happened to them and begin exploring the path toward self-awareness.  As you might imagine, this doesn’t work out for the people pulling strings.

The most interesting aspect of the show, the one I am most concerned with, is the revelation that Westworld exists to collect data on human visitors.  After all, immortality awaits the human whose consciousness can be perfectly cloned and placed in an android body.  Right?  Well, not really.  At least, I don’t think so.

The questions Westworld raises are profound.  And, yes, so far, they have dodged the really sticky stuff.  It is that problematic issue that I want to touch on.  If I die and my consciousness is put into an android body, is that still me?  What if the new version acts just like me and is faithful to me in every way imaginable?  What if the android fools everyone who knows me?  What if no one can tell that it is not the original flesh and bone version of me?

In the show, humans are replaced by androids, and no one skips a beat.  They often mention immortality, as if the mechanical analog is a continuation of the human version.  There is one big question they are ignoring, and they are right to ignore it.  The question, and its subsequent answer, rain hard on their parade.  If the version of me sitting at my computer right now does not know that I have been put into a new body, what difference does it make?  That part of me, the ghost in the machine that is aware of my living self, must be extracted and input into the new body.  If not, even though others may see me running down the road, I am dead as dead can be.  Of course, this dilemma has not been addressed on the show.

What good is immortality if I am dead?  What good is it if only the clone knows it is alive and sincerely thinks it is me?  How can I know that I am roaming around if the spark in me is not present in the new form?  And there it is, the problem with a consciousness exhibiting true fidelity.

The people involved in the making of Westworld are to be applauded for tackling such a big issue.  The show is very well done.  I am looking forward to its eventual return for a fourth season.  It is going to take some very clever maneuvering to stick the show’s landing.  I believe the writers are up to the task.

 

Mr. Gaskell

My grade school no longer exists.  My Junior High School was also torn down long ago.  My High School?  There is a nice lawn there now.  The last time I drove by, there was a gaggle of geese lounging about.  No worries, as long as they don’t send bulldozers into Harvard Yard, I will be just fine.

My grade school principal, at least for the last couple of years of my stay, was Mr. Gaskell.  He was a friendly fellow.  I have a vague recollection of a tyrant who was there before him.  That guy ruled through intimidation.  I don’t believe I ever heard him talk; all he ever did was yell.  I have no idea who he was, and I am not inclined to find out. He’s most likely dead, and I am fine with that.  That man was a jerk.  He made me hate getting up and going to school.

So, what about Mr. Gaskell?  What kind of principal was he?  I remember him telling me that he would fight Muhammad Ali for $1,000,000.  He had his fight strategy all planned out; as soon as he heard the opening bell, he would curl up in a ball on the canvas and then collect his check.  I told him that I didn’t think he had to worry; I didn’t see Don King presenting him with any such offer.

I recall him as a good guy, a man genuinely concerned with the kids he was responsible for.  But why an essay?  What did he do to become the topic of this post?

Well, about 50 years ago, I used to have nearly daily battles with him.  The topic was always the same.  I would defend my beloved Cleveland Indians, and he would consistently hit back with the undeniable truth.  Sadly, the reality was they stunk year after year after year.  As I recall, over thirty years in a row finishing at least ten games out of first place.   Back in the late 60s and early 70s, I was immune to such facts.  They were my team, and I died with them every summer (there wasn’t much living to do back then when it came to Cleveland baseball).

“Yeah, you just wait until next year.”

“Oh, I’ll wait all right, but it will be a lot longer than a year.  They stunk this year, and they will stink next year and the year after that and the year after that…”

“You’ll see.  You just wait.”

I always told him that I would call him the instant the Indians won a World Series.  I had my phone out in 1997, but Jose Mesa inexplicably refused to throw a fastball.  Mr. Gaskell and I didn’t talk that day.

Mr. Gaskell always told me that I would live out my life never seeing the Cleveland Indians win a World Series. “It’ll never happen.  Mark my words.”  Sigh…

The Cleveland baseball club just announced a name change.  The Indians are becoming the Guardians, and it looks like Mr. Gaskell was right.  This year’s team is deeply flawed, and I don’t see them winning a championship.  After the season ends, the Indians transform into the Guardians, and that is that.  Mr. Gaskell can bask in the glow of his prediction.

My perspective on all of this has drastically changed through the years.  Fortunately, I gave up long ago; I discovered that rooting for the Indians was like having a prolonged toothache.  It was all pain and suffering; there was never anything good to grab on to.  The experience was one low after another; I didn’t see any hope, so I removed myself from the fanbase.

Of course, many people will argue that the team got a lot better in the mid-90s and has sustained its winning ways.  I did take something away from this period.  The only thing I learned was the different types of pain experienced when your team gets close.  Finishing a couple outs from a championship is much different than finishing last.  That new kind of pain is much worse than the other.  Knowing your team had a real chance only to let it slip away is a lot more bothersome than finishing 35 games out of first.

As it stands, the Cleveland Guardians can win five or six World Series in a row, and I will shrug and go about my day.  I stopped caring a long time ago.  I had to; toothache pain is among the worst pain I have ever suffered.

Federer

When I was at Harvard, I was thrilled to take one particular class in The History of Science department.  It was taught by I. Bernard Cohen, the founder of the department.  Not only did he found Harvard’s world-class department in the history of science, but he also played a prominent role in the creation of history of science departments the world over.  Before Cohen, no universities offered degrees in the history of science; now, such degrees can be found at many major universities.  And yes, one of my Harvard degrees is a graduate degree in The History of Science.

When I arrived on campus, Cohen had already retired.  He came to campus one semester every year or so to teach a course on The Scientific Revolution.  At least that is my recollection.  Forgive me if that is not entirely accurate; it was so long ago…

I will never forget what happened on the first day of class.  Cohen walked through the door, and all activity stopped.  The man was a legend, and he commanded the respect of all the students.  Without uttering a word, he began to write on the blackboard.  The chalk did not make a sound as he chronicled the discoveries of Issac Newton (a man that I am nearly certain did not contain human DNA).  I, of course, held my breath as I wrote everything down in my notebook.

My memory of what happened next is vivid.  Cohen silently wrote out 17 discoveries attributed to Newton on the blackboard.  As he finished the last of his notations, he turned to the students and spoke.  This is what he said:

“Erase any 16 of these, and Sir Issac Newton would still be the most important and most brilliant scientist that ever lived.”

I remember leaning back in my seat and saying, “damn….”

During the semester, I talked with a number of the junior faculty about Cohen.  They all said that he hadn’t lost a step.  A number of them commented that he still had a photographic memory.  One man, a university dean, told me how terrified of Cohen he was when he was his student.  He said that he would wake up in the middle of the night from the same recurring nightmare.  In his dream, he would reference Cohen with a comma and not a period.  He would write, “I, Bernard Cohen, instead of I. Bernard Cohen.”  He told me that Cohen’s students often talked about what the “I” stood for.  I asked the dean if anyone ever asked Cohen about it.  He said that was impossible.  Cohen was not the kind of man that you would ask that sort of question to.  And so it goes…

I remember being struck during the semester by what a scholar’s scholar Cohen was.  He was a walking encyclopedia.  He didn’t strike me as a person whose DNA needed to be tested to prove they were of human origin; he simply impressed me with the depth and breadth of his knowledge.  He was an imposing figure, an impressive man.

One day, for reasons unknown, I was contemplating the nature of existence.  I thought what a waste it was for all the knowledge Cohen had to die with him.  Of course, he had volumes of published material anyone could reference, but I was thinking deeper than that.  He would be gone one day, and so would all of his experiences and knowledge.  His unique view, and the totality of his knowledge, would vanish into the ether.

During this same “deep think,” I remember considering that Cohen was a lot better at his job than Wade Boggs, the hall of fame third baseman who then played for the Red Sox, was at his.  I still believe that is true even though no one would pay to watch Cohen write, but millions (including me) forked over plenty of ducats to see Boggs hit.  I guess it is just human preference for one type of poetry over another.

Cohen, like all the professors I knew at Harvard, never really retired.  When they took their retirement, they became free to get to the real work.  All were lifelong learners.  After doing a little research, it appears that Cohen published 13 books after his “retirement.”  Not too shabby.

At this point, you might be wondering why this post is entitled “Federer” when all you have read about is a long-gone historian of science.  Now that the lede has been sufficiently buried, I can get to the business of this essay.  I. Bernard Cohen, a man that might have been better at his job than Roger Federer is at his, never declined.  Sure, maybe he wasn’t as sharp at 85 as he was at 30, but he remained vital and productive his entire life.  As for Federer…such is the lot of the athlete.

I remember watching Federer play tennis in his prime.  Sublime is the only word that comes to mind.  To see him glide around the court was memorable; to watch him toy with the best players in the world left me speechless.  He was the best I have ever seen.

Yesterday I was forced to watch Federer lose badly at Wimbledon.  A shell of his former self, I was distraught and embarrassed for him.  At nearly 40, time has grabbed him and roughed him up.  I hate when that happens.

What has happened to Roger Federer is not new or unusual.  One of the things I hate most in the world is to see the people I suspected of being immortal drop their guard and reveal their true selves.  Currently, Clayton Kershaw, the L.A. Dodgers pitcher, is going through the same thing.  He is no longer transcendent; he throws a baseball more or less like a normal human.  I am sad to see it.  This is a man who was on pace to be the greatest pitcher of all time.  Now he is merely an ordinary future Hall of Famer, a pedestrian representation of human excellence.  A few years ago, he was something else entirely.

And that brings us to a discussion about how aging affects people in different professions.  There is definitely a sweet spot for athletes.  It is a time when mental and physical abilities are at their peak.  Historically this happens in a person’s late 20s to early 30s.  After that time, concentration lapses, and athletic ability begins its decline.  The window for peak performance tends to be brief, at least for nearly all athletes.

The same is true for mathematicians and physicists.  Most all of the great discoveries throughout history are attributed to young people.  The major exception is when a person changes fields of study.  When this happens, the universe allows those slightly older to discover something novel and astonishing.

Of course, the universe treats famous athletes and first-rate scientists differently from the general population.  Most of us can decline on our own time, in our own private way.  The reminders of our own mortality are much more subtle and nuanced and generally not available for public consumption.  My only hope is that when I think of Federer, I remember the young version, the greatest tennis player I have ever seen.  I somehow want to forget the time-altered imposter I saw the other day.  After all, we all deserve at least as much.

Paterson

I just rewatched one of my favorite movies.  It is about a guy who drives a bus in Paterson, New Jersey.  That guy, a man named Paterson, is brilliantly played by Adam Driver.

This is not going to be a review of the movie.  There are lots of those out there, and they are nearly 100% positive.  The film was well-received by almost anyone who bothered to see it.  It is a terrific piece of work; I highly recommend it.

I have written several times about my favorite filmmaker, Wes Anderson.  This film is not by Anderson; the genius behind it is Ohio’s own Jim Jarmusch.  He is an interesting man with unusual artistic vision.  How many people can you think of that would want to tell the story of a poet who spends his days driving a bus?  It is certainly not a mainstream Hollywood film.  I have been known to watch a Hollywood blockbuster or two, but I much prefer the offbeat films of people like Anderson and Jarmusch.  They both are world-class storytellers.

Jarmusch both wrote and directed Paterson.  The movie is deeply moving.  For me, it has several points to make about the rigors of day-to-day existence that most of us are faced with.  The drudgery of the daily routine, the need for hope, and the source of inspiration.  My guess is that ten viewers could attribute eight or nine different central themes to the film.

If you love poetry, watch Paterson.  If you do not care much for poetry (I have never been a big fan), watch Paterson.  The film has lots to offer.  It is a masterclass in storytelling.

The Land Surveyor: Chapter One
(This is the first chapter of a novel that will be published soon)

 

I am not greedy.  I give away almost everything that I get.  Of course, I have to keep a little to sustain myself, but I don’t need much.  I get more than you can imagine from seeing people of all kinds energized by my thoughts and deeds.  As they become inspired, I grow stronger. 

Stanton adjusted the 9mm Ruger he had holstered to his belt.  Bears could pose a problem, but it is the two-legged predators he is most worried about.  When surveying in Iroquois County, Ohio, especially the southern part, a pistol is necessary.  The addition of a bulletproof vest isn’t the worst idea.  Yahoos with shotguns are plentiful in the place locals call Hillybilly Land.

“Alright, you can go ahead and follow the fence, rough pace off about 800 feet, and then start looking around for a pin or pipe.” Stanton hit a few buttons on his GPS unit as he watched Archie head west along the railroad right of way.  All he could do was shake his head as he watched his summer help, a recent high school graduate on his way to college, begin his walk.

“Hey Archie, you think you might need your bag?”

“Oh yeah, right.  I guess I wasn’t thinking.”

“I guess not.” Stanton watched as the young man picked up the bag filled with equipment and turned to start his journey.

“Dude, you might want the shovel and the Schonstedt.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah.”

“You know what you are doing, right?  Just head west along the fence line about 800 feet and then start looking for a monument.”

“About 800 feet, right?”

“Right.  You should see a fence heading north.  If we get lucky, we will find a pin or a pipe there.”

“No problem.”

Archie grabbed the equipment and started his walk.  He had calibrated his steps so that 35 of them equaled about 100 feet.  His silent count began.

Stanton turned his attention to his GPS unit, which was ticking away on the iron pin they had found at the southeast corner of the Oliver property.   If he could get a good shot on the pin, the day would go a lot faster.  They might even get the job done today, a rare occurrence when surveying a swamp in Iroquois County.

He once again checked the Ruger.  He instantly recalled the taste of the barrel.  Last night had been burdensome; he was so close, but he simply struggled to pull the trigger.  Locked and loaded, he wondered how bad it would hurt if he ate his gun right then and there.  As he considered the possibility, he decided it would be too big a burden on the people who would have to get him out.  They would not be happy with him or his corpse.  Tomorrow is another day, and it would be a lot more polite to off himself in his own home.  He had even purchased a tarp to make it easier on those responsible for cleanup.

Stanton took a deep breath as he drew his attention back to the GPS instrument.  He slowly rotated it until it started ticking again.  Ticking meant progress, and progress meant payday.  The machine made its happy sound, and the point was recorded.  He was ready to move on to the next property corner.

Archie paced off the distance as best he could.  He had to be close; at least he thought he was.  He looked around, but there was no fence running north.  He pulled out the Schonsdedt and began waving it back and forth. A high-pitched scream would let him know that something metal was buried under the tip of the device.  He slowly swung it around and back again, sweeping the area most likely to be the corner—still nothing.

“Hey Archie, you know that thing works better if you turn it on.”

“Huh?  What are you doing here so quick?  I thought you would be a while.  And this is turned on.  I just have the volume down low. I’m not an old guy like you; I can hear it fine.”

“I got lucky; we got a quick fix back there.  I shot in two more points just to make sure, and everything checked out, so we are good to go.”

Stanton looked around for remnants of an old fence.  He leaned his GPS unit against a tree, tied a large orange ribbon around a branch, and headed north.  No sign of an old fence anywhere.  No wire in trees, no old posts laying on the ground, no indication at all.

“Hey Arch, head across the tracks and see if you see a fence running north and south over there.  These property lines go straight through here.  If you can find that fence, we can find this one.”

“All right.”

“Grab the GPS and shoot in the railroad tracks.  Remember to code the points correctly.  Right under the number is that little box, type in RR, that will be fine.”

“Gotcha.”

Arch took off across the tracks, forgetting the GPS unit.  As he reached the woods on the southern right of way, he quickly turned back.

“Oh, man.  Arch, what is your deal?  If you want to shoot in some points, you need to have the GPS, right?”

“Yeah.  Wasn’t thinking.”

Archie grabbed the unit and headed back toward the tracks.  As he disappeared, Stanton noticed something sticking up through the ground.  At first, he thought it was red surveyor’s flag marking a pin.  As he got closer, the color turned to more of a crimson, a very faded crimson.

What is this?

He kicked the ground with his foot and started to remove the debris around the object.  He bent down to run his hand across it.  It appeared to be some sort of plastic.  He tried to lift it, but the majority of the object was still buried.  He went to get the small shovel that Archie carried in a specialized surveyor’s bag.  For some reason, Archie had taken it with him.  Yeah, makes sense.  He forgets the bag except for the one time when I need it.

He dialed Archie’s phone number.  His company had long ago given up on radios.  They were expensive, always breaking, and constantly going dead in the field due to limited battery capacity.  Cell phones were a much better choice.

“Hey Arch, get back here now. I need your help with something.”

“All right, no fence over here.  I did shoot in the tracks.”

“All right, come on back now; I need your shovel.”

“Give me a minute.”

Stanton waved Archie over to the object sticking a few inches out of the ground.

“Take the shovel and see if you get some leverage on this thing.  I want to see what it is.”

Archie probed the ground until he hit soft dirt.  He followed along the edge of the object until he formed a rectangle.

“What is this thing?  OK, see if you can get underneath it and get a little tug.”

Archie was able to move the object a little.  Stanton got on his knees and started swiping at the dirt and leaves covering the object.

“Man, this looks like a suitcase.”

“Yeah, I see it now.  OK, get underneath with the shovel, and I will see if I can get a grip.”

They both strained to get the suitcase free. When it was unburied, they found that the zipper still worked.

“All right, let’s see what we’ve got here.”

As Stanton lifted the top open, Archie gasped at the sight.  Stack after stack of $100 bills.  The case was full of them.

Stanton saw the money, and his eyes got big.

“I can’t believe it.  How much money is in here?  I can’t believe it.”

As Stanton was checking out the bills, Archie’s attention was elsewhere.  It was centered on what appeared to be the edge of another buried suitcase.

“Uh, Stanton…”

“Yeah?”

“I think we have another suitcase.”

As Archie probed with his shovel, Stanton used his hands to dig around what undoubtedly was a second case.

It didn’t take them long to extract it.  It also was full of 100 dollar bills.

Stanton moved back to the first case and started examining the bills.

“Archie, check out the serial numbers in that case.  See if they are sequential.”

“Sequential?”

“Yes.  That means the serial numbers are in order.”

“Right, right.”

Archie flipped through several bills.

“No, they are not.  Is that supposed to be good news?”

“Yeah, these are not in any kind of order either.  That is good news.”

Stanton’s eye moved back and forth across the dry, flat area in which the suitcases were found.

“Here, give me your shovel.” He took it and started probing.

The first time he stuck the shovel in the ground, he hit another suitcase, and then another, and another.

As Archie reached down to uncover the suitcases, Stanton stopped him.

“Wait a minute, we can’t carry all this out today.  It is what? About a mile back to the truck, and we can’t drive down the railroad; there isn’t a path between the tracks and the ditch.”

“Right.  Maybe we should leave those buried.”

“Maybe we should rebury the ones we already found.  Those things are heavy.  I don’t think it is a good idea that we try to carry them back.”

“Right.”

“Rebury them. I’ll get a four-wheeler and take it down the railroad right of way.  We can get the money that way.”

“All right.”

The two men buried the cases, making sure that no corners were exposed.

“Arch, let’s try to set this pin and go about our day in the most normal way possible.  After we get back to the truck, we can talk about a plan to get these cases out of here.”

“Sounds good.”

“All right then. Let’s see if we can find that fence.”

Simpleton Goodness
(a piece of flash fiction)

Simpleton Goodness, known to her friends as “Oh My,” gently and rhythmically moved her right pinky finger back and forth as she sat alone in the dark.  Contemplating her life?  Absolutely.

Author’s Note: Stop, have you ever given it any thought at all about how in the world a narrator of a story knows all that they know?  It really is inexplicable.  I am in a mood; I find it disconcerting that people sit back, suspend disbelief, and keep reading.  Many of you should spend your time in other, more productive pursuits.

Simpleton was arrogant and angry even though not a single person (other than me, the omniscient narrator) recognized these character flaws.  She appeared to be a nice and humble woman, and everyone liked and respected the family she came from.  She was unassuming and generous with her time and her money.  So, you are thinking, how exactly was she arrogant?  Easy, keep reading…

Simpleton wanted to leave something behind, something for future generations to remember her by.  She wanted her descendants (even though she had no children) to know what it was like to be her.  Ergo, she wrote and wrote and then wrote some more.  She worked extremely hard to master her craft; she spent nearly all her time on this lifelong project.  She always told people she wanted those who came after her to know how complicated and interesting she was and how wonderful her life was.  Are you still wondering why the mysterious narrator of your story considers her an arrogant, delusional piece of work?

I know what you are thinking.  You want to know what was so special about this woman that she decided to spend most of her time documenting her life.  So, what was it?  To be reasonable and honest – nothing, not a thing.  She was a middling woman with a mediocre education who lived in a modest house with no husband.  The only thing she ever did that was noteworthy was to appear in this set of paragraphs.  Nothing more, and believe me, I have looked.

She was just a person, an average person.  Why write about her?  That one is easy; she, like every single person on the face of the earth, thinks that they are unique, that her life has a real purpose.  Sigh, do I really have to say it?  Do I have to say that if everyone is special, then no one is? Do I have to tell everyone that believing that your life is interesting enough to write about makes you a delusional human?  Do I really need to say all that?

The sad truth is we all live, and we all are going to die.  If it gets us through the night, it is perfectly fine to think that we are special and live an important life.  Maybe, just maybe, that is a lie, and we all are going to struggle to get by.

The best I can do is wish you all good luck; that seems reasonable enough to me.  I am the narrator, I AM SPECIAL, I am not one of you…I know things.

 

 

Squam Lake
(a piece of flash fiction)

Kellen was dead, and that was a good thing.  She felt safe, as safe as a young woman prancing around the middle of Reverse Vampire territory could.  She thought she knew what was what (after all, she was a woman of the world, right?). Lucky for her, I’ve got her back.

Behold all who hear me; I am a modern-day Van Helsing. And, yes, I am talking about THAT Van Helsing.

Author’s Note:  Not that I need to brag, but I am a direct descendent of the great Van Helsing. Yeah howdy, little old me, the man nearly everyone calls Hillbilly Jedediah, carries the DNA of the greatest monster hunter that ever lived.  What does your DNA look like once it is untangled and exposed?

My tale won’t take long to tell.  I am working on a memoir, but I need to live several hundred more years before any publisher worth their salt will give me a sit-down.  So, here it is (such as it is).

It was a day like any other at Squam Lake, androids were dreaming of electric sheep, and the U.S. dollar was in a deadly tug of war with the Japanese Yen.  All seemed to be right with the world.  Of course, I didn’t sleep; how could I when all hell was breaking loose everywhere I looked.  I can’t save everyone; that’s impossible; I have to pick and choose.  This day, for reasons far beyond my capacity to understand, I decided to give her my attention.  Usually, I would say that if someone is foolish enough to go to Reverse Vampire Central (during an RV convention, no less), they deserve whatever they get.

How did I find him out?  It’s just one of those things, some real inexplicable nonsense.  It was the kind of lapse that can be made 1000 times and never get you in trouble.  Maybe it is just lousy RV karma. Maybe he “just ain’t living right,” as every evangelical will tell you is the reason for everything bad that happens to any poor son of a biscuit that happens to zig when they should have zagged.  Yeah, it finally happened; I was able to expose him, to show him for what he truly is.  I exposed him, I directed a bright light on his deepest colors.

It was a simple e-mail…short, nothing more than a few words.  I intercepted it the way I usually do; a simple keylogger sent the message directly to me.  “They are tricksy rabbits.” That is all he had to write.  What happened next will make your toes curl.

After I received the message, it took me two seconds to call her. “Get the heck out of there, dagnabbit; he is the one I have been looking for.  Evan is the Reverse Vampire!  I am sure of it; run as fast as you can.”

She made it two steps before her left hamstring was ripped from her leg.  I didn’t want to think about what I knew he would do with the fresh, human meat.  One thing is sure, he didn’t like it at room temperature.

I could immediately sense it; I felt her pain.  What else could I do?  I gathered up my resolve, opened a portal, and headed east.  You know, I didn’t have to save her; it wasn’t my job.  Looking back, I guess I kind of felt sorry for her.  Who knows, maybe I even liked her.  I have since given it lots of thought, and I still don’t know why I risked my life that day.

The encantation complete, the portal opened up only a few feet from Evan.

“Put her down, Now!”

Evan looked back at me; he was half-crazed, licking the blood off the detached muscle.  I could tell he was silently cursing in his feeble little mind, a half-sized brain with only enough room inside for murder and carnage.

So, I did it; I used The Device.  It does take a heck of a toll on me but, like I said, I guess maybe I like her. As it stands, she is fine (I sent her back to a time just before the trip to Squam Lake), Evan is a fetus (best I could do), and I really need a beer.  On second thought, my cousin, Naomi Crump makes the most vile moonshine I have ever experienced, and I could use a three or four-day bender.