Words on the Precipice, Staring at the Abyss

When my dad was out visiting to meet the Boy we talked about the three things we always talk about: 1) the Yankees; 2) the Simpsons; 3) literature. 

The state of the Yankees, Simpsons quotes flying every which way, and authors, books, trends, the future, the past, the power of an art form...

At one point the conversation got to which countries care deeply about literature, which countries define somewhat their national identity by their literary experiments.

"In first place on that list," dad was saying, "would have to be Russia," which I took seriously because I know how much he loves a ton of authors and I know how much he loves France, speaks French, and reads content in French. He rarely speaks of the Russians. "And we'd be in whichever place is last."

I know what he's saying. but still: kind of a BUMMER. I mean, Twain, Faulkner, Pynchon, Wright, Denis Johnson...and my dad's still correct. American's don't have the same level of pride in their---OUR---writers like other nationalities.

So recently I wanted to see how the Internet felt. I typed "countries that care about literature" into a box and hit the return key to start the search.

The returns were symptomatic of the problem that makes me think we're on the precipice of a looming dark age for literature and literacy in general. Each link was about how Americans don't have regular access to health care because of financial constraints, or so the literature says.

Chalk that up to me typing in the wrong thing?

I've done action research projects before and "checking the literature" comprises an entire section of said project. And I guess "care," in the sense of online search engines, may automatically lead to healthcare.

But, wow, so off...SO OFF. 

I refined the search and got to more of what I was looking for. 

But my nerves were rattled.

It seems like in this "post-truth" Trumpian era words in America (the Western world? the entire world?) are hitting a trough. Their importance at conveying information and magic seems to be lost on the masses.

I started to think about three realms that deal heavily with words: journalism, book publishing, and the comic book industry.

Journalism: As we all have heard by now, readers' ability to get their "news" in the forms of listicles and tweets has had a deleterious impact on the newspaper as a public institution and the ability of a class of people---journalists---to make a living. 

One problem is that people want their news in these forms, because the real NEWS is too difficult for most people to process, which makes it boring.

Sending reporters to places, international or not, to do the footwork of breaking a story---or just getting the information for a story---is expensive. And accurate stories about Serbian atrocities certainly doesn't sell ad-space like a list about which actor named Chris is hottest.

Do you hear me: ad-space? What a jerk...I meant "generate clicks," which itself is getting a little anachronistic. Maybe it should be "generate taps?" "Swipes?"

Book publishing: If you're JK Rowling or Stephanie Meyer or somebody publishing popular genre fiction, times are likely less lean than if you're a writer of literary fiction.

Genre fiction and literature are not the same thing. Just remember: a master of our time, Aussie Richard Flanagan, almost quit writing to work in the mines of northern Australia because he couldn't make ends meet. Winning the Man-Booker prize made it possible for him to continue writing.

Comic-book industry: A long interview with writer Matthew Rosenberg shed light on things of which I wasn't aware. Rosenberg writes a few titles for Marvel, one of the "Big 2" companies, as well as a few titles for independent companies on topics from his own imagination (of one of which I am a huge fan). He also used to work in a local comic shop.

His point was that very few titles are creating new fans of the media; that most new titles are really just trying to siphon off enough readers of other creators and companies to stay afloat, and that the amount of content being created now is unsustainable.

And there is a ton of content being created right now. I even have an entire blog dedicated to independent comics and their publishers. One thing that I think does a disservice to the comic medium is that finding the literature---and there is some beautiful literary-styled-art being made in the medium---is very difficult if you don't know where to look.

Not enough new fans...

People laying off learning about the human condition through words...

People not caring about news and getting "news" from things that aren't actual sources...

According to a Canadian research team the most cost-effective form of art: literature.

That study was about how they, as a country, would set up their National Endowment for the Arts. America's NEA, per capita, is less than many countries, even Uzbekistan, who has a known problem with government censorship.

Did you read that? Uzbekistan spends more money per person supporting artists that the US, and they have a censorship problem.

They also have less people than California, but more than Texas...

So, in honor of wanting to discuss the words that I've been looking at recently, I have some pictures of what I'm reading.

I get the Sunday edition of the LA Times, at a super steep discount and locked in for three years, but I have no pictures of the detritus littering the house and raising Corrie's blood pressure.

For Decemberween we asked for this book and were gifted it by my mom. Thanks, by the way (we're lagging on our thank-you notes).

It's mostly about how to get your kids to eat like French kids. In France parents don't over schedule their kids with a bunch of activities, but they do spend an inordinate amount of time teaching their kids about food. From a very young age (babies, mostly), French parents train their children about food, what different things taste like, what different methods of cooking do to food, and about how they---the kids---have no say in what is being served.

Also, by outlawing vending machines in school and having fine dining in schools be a universal French thing, by outlawing snacking, and by prioritizing food education, the French eat fats and carbs in the same amounts as Americans, but have populations that are absent the heart disease and obesity that we have here. Processed food is also rare...

It's written by a Canuck who met her French husband while they were both away at university in England. After starting their family in Vancouver, they both took sabbaticals to live for a year in the small beach town where the husband grew up in Brittany, France. She is Canadian, but her sensibilities are very familiar (see: an annoying American) and she refers to the "North American-style" in referencing the way things are done that American's will recognize. She is an award winning blogger and has helped try to start reforms in Canadian schools that resemble what happens in France.

She is also interminably annoying and unadventurous about food. On every page she writes something that gets under my skin. As much as I like her "French Rules..." for teaching your kids about food, as much as I like to hear about bloggers making good, I find I can't sit and read through the book in a single sitting like it calls for.

Decemberween before this past one, this next book was Corrie's present from Auntie Peg and Uncle Dan:

With the baby and plenty of other stuff going on reading time shrank.

But the other day she brought it out of the room, saying she wanted to finally get to it. Then the Boy needed some attention, and she went back to soothe him. My turn to tend to him is, like, every fifth time, maybe?

Anyway, I picked it and started reading it. I made it through the first dozen pages before Corrie returned. "No," she said with a laugh, "You're supposed to be reading my other book, the one French food one..."

"Yeah, but..." This book starts with a married couple who are anthropologists during the golden age of that discipline, when you could get funded to go live with some "savages" in a dense jungle somewhere. The couple, dirty, harried, covered in sores, are heading by swanky river boat to a Christmas celebration at a larger encampment in Papua that has, eh, civilization. The wife, who narrates this section, judges and is judged by two wealthy Aussie ladies, one married and the other single, during their half-day-long river jaunt. The women and the men can't hang out together...

I liked it enough to want to read more, that's for sure. I haven't gotten back to it, but I want to.

A few months back I had heard of the English translation from the French of a masterful graphic novel biography of Muhammad Ali. When I saw it at my local comic shop, I picked up the hard-cover:

It's great and breezy and dense and well-paced and written in the 2nd person, which is rare. Because it's in graphic-novel medium, it'll be over before I know it. It may be one of the finer pieces from the industry.

I'm also still working on the fantastic Between the World and Me, Ta-Nehisi Coates' masterpiece on race in America:

***

So, where are we?

As a culture, we are not only anti-intellectual, we are anti-science, anti-good-ideas-if-they-disagree-with-my-wallet-or-politics, and, apparently, anti-truth.

Is there hope?

I have one charge who wrote every scene for her age-level in our age-related battle, and I have passed on my copy of Stoppard's Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead. Sometimes all you can do is give the right book to the right person at the right time.

And talk about literature.

And talk about the importance of a free and independent press.

And talk about the artistic possibilities of sequential art.

I'm staring off this precipice at the abyss, at the masses with their faces buried in their phones, their consciousness connected to fluff that won't last and carries no importance. I tell my son that it will get worse before it gets better, but that it will get better. Words have been a part of humanity for too long for them to be lost, and if they exist, someone will use them to make art.

I just hope he doesn't think I'm really just trying to convince myself.

Quality Time

Perspective comes to those on occasion when they need it most.

Having a baby around is usually the vehicle for perspective for me these days, but my job has it's own share of opportunities. Like the other day...

I have a charge who is a dishwasher by night, being abused for between 35 and 42 hours a week (I tell him it's because he shows up that they gave him a raise on the day he went in and tried to quit). He also plays drums and is into rock music.

We had the following exchange the other day after I started to think about it:

Me: Oh man, do you know John Bonham?

Him: Um...maybe...uh, no?

Me: (!!!!!)

...Next Day...

(After going to my car) Me: Come here and listen (starts playing the random Remasters CD from car)

Him: WHOA!

I INTRODUCED A YOUNG DRUMMER TO LED ZEPPELIN! HOW MANY CHANCES DO PEOPLE HAVE TO INTRODUCE TEENAGERS TO LED ZEPPELIN?

Turns out plenty, these days I guess. Karma-wise I may be good for the whole year for doing good deeds, right?

My son is sick, but you still need to spend quality time exploring your neighborhood:

Or the reedy dragons as you try to get as much use out of the Aquarium pass as possible:

That sucker's over a foot long!

Cass does well for a bit, and then he's only into other kids:

So we try flying a kite:

Or another trip to the Aquarium:

673 global marches today in protest of president orange roughy. How awesome.

I'm working on a post that's a bit alarming to someone like me, and I wanted to do something with pictures on my phone...

"...and then I woke up in Mexico..."

A bureaucrat had told us that they could take the passport picture there at City Hall. Awesome. Turned out: Nope. He was too young. "We don't have gear for a baby that size."

Before I could say, "That size? He's huge!" Corrie said, "I told the person his age when I asked if you could do it." The bureaucrat shrugged.

At Kinko's they took a bad picture, but the bureaucrat said it would be fine. "Are you sure?" we double checked.

Expecting to wait at least a portion of the 4 to 6 weeks needed to get a passport, we were shocked---frankly shocked---when it arrived a few business days later. Like, we both had to be there to swear the oath that this minor is our creation and all that on 12/16, and the passport arrived on 12/29.

Yeah, that's nearly two calendar weeks, but with Christmas in between? And weekends?

Shocked.

Anyway, what to do?

We needed---needed I tell you---to get it stamped for the Boy. I have only a few days left of break, and we joked that once it arrived (the passport) we'd have to go to Mexico immediately. And the then thing was in our hands on the very day we took the Dolmans to the airport.

We made arrangements. We wanted to keep it fast and loose. Stay close by, in Rosarito, just fifteen miles south of Tijuana. We thought about Ensenada, another 50 south from there, but figured that 1) we needed better planning and more time to plan; 2) probably find some friends since there is much more stuff to do than in Rosarito; and finally 3) LET'S NOT GET TOO CRAZY. (That's what I had to tell myself.)

So we looked at hotels and activities in Rosarito. Never that expensive and currently not too busy, we were confident we could get a place upon arriving. We wanted to take a look around beforehand, let's say.

We didn't know during our planning stage that Rosarito is, eh, boring as hell...unless you're a high school kid getting liquored up on spring break.

Anyway, we motored down I-5 towards San Diego, and stuck with the I-805 loop when the highways split. 805 avoids downtown San Diego. We chatted as the numbers dwindled on the signs for "International Border." The excitement was building!

Eventually the road took a sharp turn to the right as the overhead sign said END FREEWAY. This is it!

The pavement lessened in quality. Shouldn't there be a booth or something?

A large sign hung above the next sharp turn, this time to the left as the lines on the road disappeared. MEXICO it read.

Wait, what?

I funneled around to a lane and was being waved along. I got confused and went into a bay. This confused the federali, who now wanted to search my trunk. "No problema," I said as I popped the trunk and began to hand over my passport. She closed the trunk and motioned me to go. I must've remained confused, because then she barked, "Go!"

"They're not even gonna look at his passport?" Corrie whined from the back.

Before I could even figure out what the hell was going on I was merging with a freeway.

Oh shit! Okay! That sign says Rosarito and Ensenada. I'm on it!

Well, I got going to wrong way towards a toll road and the boy woke up. The access road was the one right on the fence heading due west. I'm sure you've seen it somewhere. To the right of the car is a huge fence and then rolling hills. To the left are rolling hills, sure, but they are covered in housing
that has been created from anything that one could get their hands on.

Eventually we made it to the correct road and on to Rosarito despite huge protests that clogged a major intersection. Locals are quite upset about a shady gasoline deal it appears.

We stopped in for lunch, and realized a two things: we'd forgotten all of Cass's solid food---the purees I make and that we feed him so he can feel like a part of our meals---and the cloth diapers we brought, an extra set of large suckers we've had since he was born, turned out to suck balls. Upon arriving in Rosarito we'd noticed that Cass had soaked through his pants, something he never does with our normal diapers, and then again before we finished our lunch.

That's when we realized that we'd only packed three pairs of pants---this was only an overnight adventure, right?---and two were already pissy.

After lunch, and in the last pair of pants, we headed to the ocean:

After the walk on the beach, where the wind caused a far more brutal experience of the weather, we decided that we should probably just cut our losses and go home for the night. But...when should we leave?

We didn't know, beyond a random horror story, what getting back to the US would be like, and then we didn't want to hit traffic in SD or OC or eventually LB.

Eventually we made it back to Tijuana, and followed the signs for "SD" with the graphic for I-5. But it turns out we were in the wrong line.

Of course we didn't know it at the time.

I finally got to the front and the border guy said, "Eh, where's your Sentri card?"

"I don't know what that is. I guess I don't have one?"

I had been in the "Solo Sentri/Sentri Only" lane, but didn't know what that meant, and, more annoyingly, the way we drove to the exit, following the signs, Sentri lanes were the only lanes available to me.

This "Sentri" program, I know now, is a partnership between Tijuana and San Diego that acts like a Fast Pass for residents of one place who work in the other.

The guy asked how often we made the trip. I said this is the first time. He asked what was our business in Mexico, with a quizzical WTF look.

We just wanted to get the Boy's passport stamped and take him to Rosarito for the day.

I SAID THIS TO THE BORDER CROSSING GUARD. He looked at me again with a WTF face. "You wanted to get your son's passport stamped? We don't stamp passports here. Only at the airport."

"Yeah, I learned that today."

He explained the Sentri deal, and said they would have to give us an official warning. Violations can be subject to $5000 fine (!!!!!!), and they would also need to search the entire vehicle.

The guy wrote some notes up on a sheet, taped it to the windshield, and waved us over to a line full of other whackos who were in the wrong line and now subject to super-searches.

This was the lamest part, mainly because the Boy needed to nurse and I needed to pee, and nobody could get out of the car. They did let Corrie have Cass out of his seat though, to get some grub. Each new agent who looked at the note cracked a smile and reiterated the Sentri deal.

We got it.

They checked under the hood halfheartedly, through the trunk quickly, had the dog sniff the car's margins, and even ran us through some kind of bomb-x-ray-machine.

SPOILER: We were clean.

Here's facing north on the beach:

Walking that direction, with the wind blowing hard in your face, was unpleasant.

Facing south got your ears a little cold, but not as bad:

It was a glorious trial of New Parents trying New Things. It was awesome and it was challenging and the Boy got to drive on into Mexico and later he'll get to genuinely share the story when he's old enough to care about scoring girls with tales of his idiot parents.

It was wonderful family outing.

And tomorrow we're heading to the Aquarium instead of breakfast in Mexico, and that's not so bad.

Epilogue Trivia: I learned this today also: "Tijuana" is the name of the city on the Mexican side of the border and originally "Tiajuana" was the name of the city on the American side of the border. That's why gringos so often add that extra syllable. That same city in the US is now called San Ysidro. "Tia-juana" is simply "Aunt Jane" and must have come naturally for gringos trying to comprehend what they heard when they heard "Tijuana." But, and I thought this was the cool part, the name originally is an Indian phrase "Ti-juan," or, "close to the water."

Decemberween, Santa Monica, and the Aquarium

Rounding up pictures of this year's holiday fun has proven more difficult than I thought. As my break meanders towards it's final push I realize how much I'm going to miss all this: the getting to spend as much time as is available with my Boy, hindered only by sleeping and boobies.

Corrie's folks, Ron and Carol, arrived on the 20th, after our holiday party. The party was a cleaning dry-run. It was awesome motivation.

It was nice to see them and for them to get to meet Cassius. Corrie's sister Mary arrived late on the 24th, and was picked up by Corrie on her way home from the crab feast and my Auntie Peg's.

The next night, after Norm and I went swimming in the ocean earlier in the day, we all got to visit at our base of operations for Decemberween activities, my Auntie Peg's.

Here's a nice family shot from that night, the 25th, with Norm, my mom seated, Mary, Ron in the background, and me watching Cass attack a hanging stuffed animal while being held by Dan.

Why my mom isn't wearing her glasses is lost on me. Here she is posing with the Boy:

The 26th was a blur. Everyone left who was down visiting and had driven, but Ron and Carol and Mary stuck around. Mary was determined to get to the our aquarium, the Aquarium of the Pacific, and we were determined to get a dual-person annual pass to said aquarium. The technical term for the relative cost of a two-adult annual pass is "stupid-cheap."

We also wanted to get to see "Rogue One" and let Carol do some babysitting. That seems like maybe not the best consolation, but Carol had missed out six months of doting, and Corrie and I needed to test ourselves on being able to function after leaving the Boy with someone besides us.

Our first attempt at a Star Wars movie trip failed miserably. We sauntered down to the movie theater on the 26th with twenty minutes to go before the movie and quickly came to realize that both our desired time and the next show were sold out.

Eventually we made it and had great reclining seats. How long have those been there? Where the hell have I been?

The Aquarium trip was pretty fantastic, and now that we can go every week for a year is pretty awesome as well. Cass was funny, kicking and panting loudly as we would approach the various huge glass slabs holding back the ocean life:

I don't think he understood the water-swimming aspect of how fish and sea creatures move about, but he'll get there:

It didn't matter who was holding him---he was transfixed. Here he is with Mary:

We took him out to a bird sanctuary and he got to enjoy the birdsong:

And that was mostly it. If you know six-month-olds you know, and this is another reason for the annual pass. He won't be able to be awake and alert for long enough to absorb everything for a while. But he sure enjoyed this large portion of his time there.

I took him into the otter-show zone and immediately an enormous otter showed up, swimming playfully right by our parcel of window. "Wow!" I exclaimed and glanced down at my boy in my arms. He was totally focused on a standing toddler who was leaning on his own parcel of glass.

Tony came by for a visit, and he and Carol and Mary all spent lots of time encouraging Cass to crawl. He's so close, it seems like with just the right amount of egging-on and clapping he'll figure out how his arms are supposed to move. Believe me, there is no lack of trying around here, before they all arrived or since they've left.

But still...

See? Somebody may have pictures of Norm and I swimming in the bracing waters of Santa Monica, and I haven't even mentioned my cousins visiting from out-of-country.

Out of country, by the by, is the basic conceit of our next adventure, one we completed just today.

The Boy had his first International Adventure.

A Baseball Note for Ryan

This seemed too long for a FB post, but I wanted to tell you about it.

I recently watched a documentary on Netflix called "Fastball." If you have Netflix, check it out. The description mentions the science of pitching and all, which caught my interest, but it was mostly a ton of anecdotes from old players and newspaper clippings and a few scientists sprinkled in.

It looks at, among other things, the "fastest" or "hardest" thrower ever. It looks at the four names in history that held their specific ages' imagination as the hardest throwers. Each had their own ers technological thumbs as well, which was kinda cool.

The science discussion mainly looked at what the old-school method meant in today's terms, and, with those adjustments, who threw "hardest."

Have you seen this documentary? What follows will be a SPOILER of the actual data.

Okay, they started with Aroldis Chapman's 105 mph one day as the starting point for their discussion.

They went back to the oldest "hardest" thrower, the Big Train, Walter Johnson. They used a military based deal with a copper net and a copper plate, both behind home plate, and clocked him at 122 feet per second. Back then, nobody even talked about mph for anything, really. 122 ft/sec calculated out to 86 mph, but that was about 7.5 feet behind home plate.

Next they looked at Bob Feller. After the cop-motorcycle experiment, they set him up with a similar military deal as Walter Johnson, only 25 years more sophisticated. His pitches were clocked in 96 mph, this time right at home plate. At the time, everybody considered that the hardest a human could throw.

Next up was Nolan Ryan. Stories about him were legendary, and while with the Astros (I believe) again they used some military equipment, this time closer to a speed gun. This turned out to be the first pitcher ever to hit triple digits, like 100.2 or something. This time, the gun was aimed about six feet in front of home plate.

They went back to Chapman and asked the main question: where is the gun aimed for Chapman's 105? Turns out it's aimed 50 feet from home plate, by far the furthest of all the other measures. It's basically a foot from a pitcher's release point. This close will naturally result in faster speed readings.

The next question is: can you back up those other pitcher's pitches and make their speeds relative to the current 50 foot distance?

Yes, apparently.

Walter Jonson's pitch speed of 86 seven-and-a-half feet behind home plate relates to 98 or so.

Bob Feller's pitch speed equated to 106 and some decimals.

Nolan Ryan, in his 30s, was pitching by today's standard above 107.

Nolan Ryan was interviewed, of course, and they showed his last few pitches against the Mariners. One was 96. The next one was in the 70s and he looked iffy with his elbow. The next one went fifty feet and he walked off the mound, having felt his elbow tendon pop like a rubber band, as he put it. He knew, at 46 years old, his time as a major league pitcher had just ended.

Check out the show if you have Netflix. One of my favorite parts is Bob Gibson: "Yeah I looked pissed. I was pissed! I had to pitch perfect every game because those guys couldn't score any damn runs! I had that super-low ERA and still had 9 losses or something. Ugh. How many 1-0 losses I had that year..."

Bob Gibson's great.

Neighborhood Day and Night

I have a few posts waiting to go up about our Winter Holiday so far, about having Ron and Carol (Corrie's parents) and Mary, one of Corrie's younger sisters, out visiting during the holiday. I wanted to mention also the crab feast at my auntie's (one of my family's traditions) and swimming in the ocean with Norm on a bright and blue Christmas Day. Tony was out visiting also, getting to meet the boy and give him his presents in person. We got our Aquarium passes (hot fire!).

We also went out to see "Rogue One," leaving the Boy with Carol, the first time neither of us were with him.

Ron and Carol stayed a half mile away at an Air BnB facsimile, and their view of the Performing Arts Center at the end of Long Beach Blvd. was pretty nice.

In the day time:

And at night:

I need to write up something for Ryan, something that is too long for FB or a text and I need to round up some pictures for all these posts before I can get going. Stalling and lagging, but the Boy is happy and healthy and all...

Happy New Year!