Another Skirmish with Technology

It's been a week since my latest skirmish with technology. Though I acknowledge the benefits modern technology can deliver, the snafus that routinely occur using it can be infuriating. What happened in your most recent skirmish? I hope you were alone when things went technologically awry. I was not.

 

The day before sound-check went smoothly. And looking around the auditorium before beginning my presentation entitled The Magical Musical Mystery Tour I felt prepared, comfortable in a nice space that I'd used previously, and pleased to see at least fifteen familiar faces scattered throughout the nice-sized audience. 

But as the first stanza of Please, Please Me played, I could hear something was off. I've listened to that jewel more times than I can count and immediately noticed that both the propulsive rhythm guitar interlude between the first two lines of the stanza and George Harrison's brief guitar obbligato preceding the first refrain were seriously muted over the house sound system. I said nothing to the audience and quickly discounted it as a fluke with the first song. Twenty-three more Beatles gems still to go - with plenty to point out to the audience about each - over the next ninety minutes. Things would work out.

If only. By the middle of the second song, it was clear to me - if not to most of the audience - that this glitch was going to be with me, in varying degrees, for the rest of the night. In several cases, I was unable to make the pertinent musical distinctions I wanted to make because those distinctions were lost somewhere in the technological void between the playlist on my phone and the house sound system. In Rain, Ringo's explosive drumming was nearly inaudible. In Fixing a Hole, the harpsichord accompanying Paul McCartney's vocal was totally inaudible. Piano for the entire length of While My Guitar Gently Weeps? Missing. As you can probably guess, I could go on. 

Though all of this was out of my control, I apologized several times and was later admonished for overdoing the apology bit. Most of the people who spoke with me afterwards - or since - were kind, saying they enjoyed the presentation despite my difficulties. Others assured me they might not have noticed the glaring sound gaps had I not drawn attention to them. Am I evolved enough to say those kindnesses and reassurances - true or not - have helped me extract a lasting lesson from this fiasco? I am not. Above all, what remains with me a week later is an abiding frustration with technology. 

Catnip

Had someone asked me weeks ago if any reader of this blog had ever noticed a thematic similarity between any two of my posts, I would've laughed. I was reasonably confident any redundancy of mine would bypass even faithfully attentive readers. After all, having published almost 2700 posts since March 2011, there have been several instances when I could not recall something I'd written about until some relic had somehow been disinterred from my archives. I suspect the same may be true for anyone who has been at this blogging gig as persistently as I have. Though I use the search engine diligently to help me avoid repeating myself, every tool has limits.  

So, when a recent comment pointed out overlap between two recent posts mentioning my current East vs. West Coast dilemma, what happened? In a span of minutes, I was chastened I'd covered similar territory in a matter of weeks, flabbergasted someone had actually picked up on it, and finally, thrilled that same someone was paying attention. Fragile ego? Guilty as charged. In my defense? Name a single writer - famous or not - who doesn't want their work to reach people, however marginally. Catnip.

Special thanks to that reader for the comment; made my month. 

Focusing on Hope

Although it can be easy to get demoralized about certain aspects of modern-day life - e.g., climate change denial, the mainstreaming of hate by divisive celebrity pundits, the disinformation assault of social media - in the end, doing so is a choice. Isn't it vital to continually remind ourselves that making a choice to focus on things that give us hope is much healthier - for us, for our loved ones, for the world? What did you most recently focus on that lifted you? 

No matter what kind of day or week I'm having, each time I see a streetside lemonade stand being run by a group of children, my heart fills with optimism. How can anyone resist being touched by those handmade signs? How about the way the kids beckon cars and cyclists for business by waving or sometimes even shouting? For me, this kind of innocence is infectious. Even when I'm running late or not thirsty, I try to pull over. Almost always, while doing business with them, I'm beguiled by these young entrepreneurs. And I drive or ride away smiling.

 

My sisters and I had more than one streetside lemonade stand when we were kids. My daughter set one up right in front of our first house when she was in third or fourth grade. Her business partners were some of the kids from the neighborhood. When some kids across the street from my current home began setting up their stand recently - with the same kind of folding table you see almost every time - I began re-living both my own experiences and my daughter's. It felt wonderfully familiar and reassuring. I purposefully avoided listening to the news that day.

It's Complicated (Even with Limited Rainy Days Left)

What word or expression would you say most closely describes your relationship with money? For me? It's complicated. 

My complicated relationship with money began, in part, thanks to an incessant parental refrain I heard from early childhood through adolescence - "Be sure to save for a rainy day!" There's no blame attached to this recollection. Given what my parents endured as teenagers at the height of the Great Depression - hardships I cannot begin to comprehend - their rainy-day mantra was understandable. But when combined with their oft-repeated claim that their biggest disagreements were about money - specifically how to stretch each paycheck while raising four children - the messaging I internalized was bound to complicate my attitude about money. I was also taught - as I'm confident many of you were - that talking about money, especially how much you make, was impolite. More complications. 

Inheriting the legacy of my parent's dire experiences living through an economic apocalypse was only the beginning. With that foundation, I moved into my undergraduate years in the late 60s and, for better or worse, embraced the ethos of anti-materialism that suffused much campus life at the time. Over those impressionable years, I found myself most drawn to folks who treated money as a means to an end, not as an end in itself. All my tribe knew we would eventually have to make a living but we spent more time, more energy, and had a lot more conversations about how to make a life and how to avoid having our things own us vs. the other way around. That idealism informed my decisions back then and continued doing so for the coming decades. A by-product of that? More complications, as mature adult life and the necessity for making enough money to support a child into her young adult years became my highest priority. Included in that equation? A pledge that she would finish college with no debt. More rainy day saving, minimal spending on self, complications.  

At 76+ years old, I want for nothing and can afford to do much of what I want.  And the number of potential rainy days left to me to save for is no longer a factor. Why then does my relationship with and attitude about money still bedevil me? What prevents me - aside from stubborn habit - from spending money on myself whenever the spirit moves me? It's complicated.

Challenging the Big Three, Work, & OPS

How many times have you found yourself in a conversation about food at the same time you were sharing a meal with somebody? I'm not necessarily talking about the food you were eating at the time, but just about food in general. Given the critical social role food plays in our lives, it's predictive for conversations to often go this way. Think about your last five conversations. How many - sharing a meal aside - have touched on food at some point? 

Soon after this exact thing happened recently while having dinner with new friends, I began reflecting on other predictive conversational topics. Asked to estimate, what percentage of the conversations in your life would you say have NOT involved either food, the weather, or family? Which topic would you say occupies the next highest spot after those big three? Work, perhaps? I suspect work could be up there, especially for those of you having a higher-than-average share of troublesome colleagues. I know during my full-time working years - particularly when I supervised people - talking about work happened more frequently than I wanted. 

With my full-time work years behind me and Act Three well on its way, I'm confident in asserting that ailments have taken the place of work as a reliable - if tiresome - conversational standby. Still, there's no question in my mind that ailments of every stripe - what my wife calls OPS (i.e., Old People Shit) - continue to lag behind the big three. How about some of you from my Act Three cohort? How regularly do your conversations travel mindlessly down OPS Road? Have your complaints approached or surpassed the big three for conversational airtime? 

Final questions. Which conversational topics would you welcome being more regularly introduced into your life? The topics you select don't necessarily have to supplant any or all of the big three - I'm guessing that scenario is highly unlikely - but wouldn't you welcome shifting that percentage around a bit? What prevents any of us from doing the introducing?  

A Perpetual Gift

Of the benefits connected to my reading life after retiring, being newly exposed to a large number of great authors clearly tops the list. I'm most indebted to one individual for this significant enhancement in my reading life - the moderator of the first book club I ever joined. Over the sixteen years I've known her, only a handful of authors she has introduced to me haven't earned a spot on my list of keepers. And I've returned to several from that list - William Boyd, Louise Erdrich, Colm Tóibín - multiple times, without being disappointed. Readers: Have you got someone like this in your life? If yes, when did you most recently acknowledge the perpetual gift that person gives to you?

Which brings me to Lauren Groff. Strictly speaking, it was a different reading soulmate who first pointed me toward this prodigiously talented young-ish (born 1978) author. But from there the story repeatedly circles back to my friend of sixteen years. When I mentioned to her my admiration for Groff's 2016 novel Fates and Furies, she suggested we immediately slot it in for our next 1x1 book discussion. Turns out she'd read several of Groff's short stories in The New Yorker and admired them, much as I'd admired Fates and Furies. 

Reflections from the Bell Curve: 21st Century Couples

Five years later, for the first time - at my friend's urging - we violated a norm we'd established at the inception of our book club of two. We picked a novel by an author we'd previously read - Matrix (2021) by Lauren Groff. Wow, what a ride that was. Since then, Groff's name has surfaced several times in our book-soaked interactions, including me attending a short story class my friend taught, extolling Groff as a modern-day master of the form. Did I mention my friend's evangelism compelled me to pick up Groff's collection of stories entitled Florida (2023)? Holy shit. 

Reflections from the Bell Curve: Delayed Empathy

Reflections from the Bell Curve: Darn Her, Anyway

At this point, I'm guessing you'll know who crossed my mind a few weeks back when still another bookworm offered to loan me Groff's latest collection of short stories - Brawler (2026). And as I was being pummeled by Groff's gift, again, who did I think of? If you've got a fellow bibliophile who has brought as much to your reading life as my friend has to mine, I sincerely hope you'll let them know. 

Upcoming Semi-Compulsory Viewing

If you're the kind of viewer who enjoys following a mini-series from its outset, be on the lookout for the debut episode of Ride or Die - starring Octavia Spencer and Hannah Waddingham - streaming on Amazon beginning Wednesday July 15. If you don't mind jumping into a series after it begins or you're not much of a TV person, I urge you to mark Wednesday August 19 on your calendar. That's the night episode #6 of this new series will be shown, if you decide not to binge beforehand.  

I'm drawing your attention to this in the hope you'll celebrate with me as the top name - of three - scrolls by in the opening writer's credit for this particular episode. Like most, my daughter's career has had its share of victories and defeats. And this series - her first experience working in a writer's room after her move to LA a few years back - was frustrating and satisfying in nearly equal measure.

But the sequel to this story is happy enough to make this crowing father even more obnoxiously proud. Today, my daughter and her writing/directing partner started work on season two of Ride or Die, already renewed before season one begins. Keep your fingers crossed for syndication, please. In the meanwhile, I'll keep you informed about which episodes in season two will have her name at the top of the writing credits. Count on it.   

     

Where My Heart Is

"LA's fine but it ain't home, New York's home but it ain't mine no more."

Early in my young adult years as an itinerant musician, I took up temporary residence in Los Angeles, the only extended period of my life when I've actually lived outside of New Jersey. For several reasons, LA and I were not a good fit, which made my return to my beloved home state quite welcome. My unease with LA life in the early 70s also helped to permanently cement Neil Diamond's clever phrase from I Am, I Said into my lyric-addled brain. 

More than a half-century later - with visits to my new grandson in Los Angeles a regular occurrence - that lyric now fits me even more snugly. I like it OK out here - that tired and anodyne adjective "fine" is perfect, actually - but I still have trouble picturing myself feeling settled in LA. Great weather, nice vibe, ocean nearby, what's not to love? And if that hoary cliche is at all accurate and home is where the heart is, at present, LA holds many of the winning cards. 

Still, hard to predict if the desirable elements and those winning cards will persuade us to re-locate. In the meanwhile, this week the little man and I are perfecting drum interludes from Wipeout, analyzing the cinematography of Citizen Kane, and translating The Odyssey from the ancient Greek. Stay tuned for regular updates. 

Dear Edward

It would be reassuring to know my circuitous journey with Ann Napolitano's 2020 novel Dear Edward sounds even marginally similar to a journey one or more of you have had in your life with a book. If that's the case, please make a comment here or otherwise reach out to me. The story of my journey with this book will make this post longer than my norm. I hope you'll indulge me. 

June 2: I'm drawn in immediately by the intriguing epigraph, then fully immersed for over 100 pages. I stop reading just before Act Two begins, although the book's three act structure is not clear to me until my subsequent sittings on June 3 -5. (Important: As has been my practice for over sixteen years, before starting, I'd read no reviews of the book and purposefully avoided even glancing at the book jacket or reading the blurbs on the front or back cover. My intent since beginning this new-to-me practice in 2010: To enter every reading experience as a tabula rasa so that my opinion of what I read is - as near as is possible - entirely my own.)

June 3-5: The masterful way Napolitano executes the central conceit of her book - toggling between a flight from Newark to LAX vs. Edward's life from twelve-sixteen - captivates and propels me through all three acts over four consecutive reading days. The author's muscular but unshowy prose prompts me to copy numerous passages. Particularly poignant are the "Dear Edward" letters that Edward's uncle had been hiding from him, letters that Edward discovers about halfway through the book, thanks to help he gets from his friend and next-door neighbor Shay. As I finish the book on June 5, I'm uncertain about the epilogue. I decide to postpone writing an entry in my book journal or publishing a blog post about the novel until I'm closer to deciding how the epilogue has landed with me. In the meanwhile, I give it the highest possible rating on Goodreads, i.e., five stars. 

Early a.m., June 12: Still unsure about the epilogue, I begin - but don't complete - my book journal entry. A few excerpts = "...a moving and straightforward novel; one of the best of its type I've finished in a while...", "...I was riveted without exception...", "...excellent...".

Later a.m., June 12: Book in hand, I attend a meeting and unexpectedly run into a friend whose taste in literature I hold in high esteem. I mention having recently finished Dear Edward and ask if she's read it; she says no. But her unfiltered flip dismissal catches me off guard. "A book club book, mainstream". The plot now thickens a little. Given my lingering uncertainty about the epilogue, I start questioning myself, wondering if five stars was premature. Did I perhaps miss some glaring author missteps or overlook some cliched bestseller/mainstream tropes?    

June 13: Book journal entry - part 2 - starts when I copy the jacket, adding my usual {bracketed} asides to help cement key plot points in my mind. And then a peculiar thing begins to happen. I start finding flaws in the novel, ones that did not occur to me as the propulsive page-turning story swept me along. There is little doubt that my conversation on June 12 is contributing to my shift. This troubles me. Am I that malleable? My book journal entry remans incomplete. Final sentence that day: "Unsure where I'll go next when I attempt to finish this (now) ambivalent entry."

June 24: It's now been almost three weeks since I finished Dear Edward, with my waffling continuing to block me from completing my book journal entry. But the story and Napolitano's delivery of it will not leave me alone. Each time I re-read a copied passage or sentence, I am moved anew.  

A.M. June 25: I meet that same friend and discerning reader for a discussion about a different book. When the notion of time as a construct arises in our discussion of that book, Dear Edward comes back to me full force. I vaguely recall the final sentences of Napolitano's novel - in the epilogue - which takes place when Edward is nineteen. Didn't this gifted author skillfully allude to that same construct in the closing? I re-borrow the book from the library just to be sure. And here it is; we're now approaching the end of my circuitous journey:

"Shay is the girl wearing pajamas with pink clouds on them the first time he entered her room, and she is the woman who will give birth to their daughter ten years from now, and she is the young woman, her face wide open, offering him everything. Edward hears his brother's voice inside him; Jordan tells him not to waste any time. Not to waste any love. He watches Shay lean in his direction, and when she kisses him, she blots out the entire sky."  There's much more where that came from; I plan to share more with you in a near-future (and shorter) blog post about this exceptional book, one I've now concluded is worthy of the exclamation accompanying a five-star Goodreads rating: "It was amazing!"    

P.M. June 25: Book journal entry completed. A book club book? I'm still unclear what that actually means. Mainstream? Perhaps, but who cares? Would this unapologetic snob - one who fancies himself a fan of literary fiction - recommend it? Without question. End of journey.

Reflections from the Bell Curve: A Hard Book Can Be Good To Find 

        

    

76 vs. 67

The last time I reversed the digits of my age to use in a post was early in my blog's lifespan when I published 61? or ... 16? in July 2011. Months ago, a faithful reader stumbled across that relic in my archive, prompting me to re-visit this particular thought experiment, especially because it will be easier to recall specifics of my life from a distance of just nine years vs. forty-five. I hope you'll join me today and have some fun with this, regardless of the way your reversed digits fall. 

(If you are someone who journals and you retain your old ones, why not take a peek and see what you were up to at that earlier point in your life? That is, provided the reversal sends you back in time. If the reversal instead sends you forward, why not conjecture what you'll be up to at the older age the reversal places you? For those in double digit territory - 33, 55, 77 - or those with a "0" as your second digit, use your imagination. You don't expect me to do all the work, do you?)

* At 67, I started my own book club. Next January, the club will celebrate its tenth anniversary. And in September of this year, the club will reach another milestone - our 100th book. 

* Over the span of my 67th year, with a good friend's help, the first critical phase of a long-postponed project - my daughter recording eight of my original songs - was finished. The completed CD with overdubs, mixed and mastered, was held off for release to coincide with my 70th birthday. Directly below is a link to Bandcamp, a music site you can visit if you'd care to listen to one or more of the tunes. Lyrics are included. 

Til There Were Two | Patrick Barton

* At 67, I met the young man who would become my son-in-law approximately five years later. He is a welcome addition to my family and now the father to my beloved grandson.

Please join me in this thought experiment. When I'm 78, I'll try to remember to repeat the experiment a third and final time; forces my hand to project forward to my 87th year. a more daunting prospect for sure.  

Reflections from the Bell Curve: 61? or...16?  

Words for the Ages, Line Forty

"The older I get, the less I need."

Since the 2017 inception of this series, I've been on the lookout for terse lyrical phrases like that, words that are able to stand on their own, i.e., they're not dependent on the rhymes accompanying them to complete the thought. The lyric above - from a 2025 Mary Chapin-Carpenter song entitled Girl and Her Dog - satisfies those simple requirements. I've never been overly concerned about selecting lyrics that might strike others as capital "P" profound. For me, the most critical element is how well a lyric succinctly captures an essential and timeless truth. That is, are these words for the ages? 

The essential truth of those eight words struck me almost from the moment I first heard Carpenter sing them. Then as weeks went by, a question - one even simpler than the lyric that prompted it - would not let me go. What do any of us really need? I decided then that any lyric reminding me of Abraham Maslow's groundbreaking work on the hierarchy of needs is clearly worth memorializing here, profound or not. 

And that brought me full circle back to a central motivation for starting my blog fifteen+ years ago. From the start, I've aimed these reflections at the 98% of us who do not reside on either far end of the bell curve. We are neither fabulously famous nor we will ever end up in jail. We have more in common than not. We want to love and be loved. We want to take care of our families. We want to make a small difference in the world. We enjoy many of the same things. Those are the things I try to write about here - most of the time - hoping to engage you in some fashion.    

Maslow's hierarchy of needs - Wikipedia

Father's Day Gratitude

In your view, which traits help make a person well suited to being a parent? How much does the person's gender factor into your thinking. i.e., how much do the traits shift in your mind, father vs. mother?

Had someone had asked me that same question in my younger years, I suspect my answer might have been tied to things my own solid parents had shown me, traits reflecting prevailing cultural norms of the time. My mother = a loving and devoted caretaker of her children and our home; my father = a hard-working, dependable provider. 

Later in life, considering my own suitability as a potential father, my thinking evolved. Although I aspired to be a reliable provider like my father, I fully embraced my wife's wish to have a life outside our home. I knew also that I wanted any children we had to expect the same level of unconditional love and intense devotion to their care as my mother had shown me.     

It's quite clear to me how well suited my son-in-law is as a parent. He already shows my young grandson all that my parents showed me and all that I hope I showed my daughter as she grew up. In addition, my son-in-law's gentle temperament - unlike my father's or my own more combative tendencies - models a kinder, more gracious way of living. Without question, this one trait alone - if he follows his father's lead - will help my grandson better weather the challenges life will hurl at him.

On this Father's Day, I'm grateful for the example my son-in-law is showing to my favorite little man in the world.    

My Trimming Turmoil

The more time I spend trimming my six-hour class on the Beatles down to ninety minutes, the more I wonder why I offered to do so in the first place. Much ado about nothing, you say? Oh, I beg to differ. Using just one incomparable Beatles song as a focal point, indulge me as I lay out a few of the unpleasant dilemmas facing me while constructing my final playlist for the presentation I'm doing about a month from now.  

* If I choose not to use And Your Bird Can Sing how to best demonstrate how advanced the Beatles were with respect to guitar harmony?   

* If I do use And Your Bird Can Sing as my selection from the British version of Revolver, which of the equally important songs from that breakthrough album do I scuttle? Eleanor Rigby? Taxman? Here There and Everywhere? 

* Is a compromise in order with respect to And Your Bird Can Sing? That is, can I instead use that piece of musical magic and say it was from the vastly inferior American toss off LP called Yesterday and Today? If yes, how much time do I devote to making a distinction between the American and British versions of all the albums before Sergeant Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band? And then, what other Beatles ephemera do I leave out while rhapsodizing on their endlessly influential oeuvre? 

There's more where this came from, honest. If I began describing my turmoil about Abbey Road and what I'll play from that gem in this truncated class vs. what was included in my longer offering, you might begin to worry about my mental health. The White Album? If you still have any pity left for this unadulterated Beatles geek, please don't go there.     

 

Who's Cooking?

Though I have biases like everyone, for the most part, I consider myself reasonably open-minded. That said, I'm providing the Wikipedia link below to help you decide if what I'm about to confess makes me guilty of ethnocentrism.

Ethnocentrism - Wikipedia

With respect to restaurants specializing in ethnic cuisine, I'm less confident about what I'm about to eat when folks preparing my meal appear to have no trace of the ethnicity in question. Call me ethnocentric and read no further if you choose, but before anyone reports me to the PC police, hear me out. 

I don't necessarily need to hear Italian spoken by cooks in an Italian restaurant, but for me, it is preferable to hearing Russian or German. Now because I speak only English - admittedly bolstering my ethnocentric bona fides - I struggle to differentiate some languages from others. However, if any Polish or Slavic speaker working as a cook in a Mexican, Thai, or Lebanese restaurant stumbles across this post, allow me to respectfully suggest you stay silent when encountering me - or some equally prickly individual - as a customer. Even we monolinguists can usually pick out blatant auditory clues and, in my case, it could start me wondering if my meal is going to pass muster. Sorry in advance if this offends you.   

The ethnicity of cooks in a diner? A less cut and dry matter. Given the number of choices on a typical diner menu, a United Nations contingent would be necessary in those kitchens to fully satisfy my narrow requirements. However, to be painfully honest (what have I got to lose at this point?), I will almost always bypass a diner not featuring spanakopita. And I also pay attention to the name of the diner's proprietor when advertised, on the lookout for first names like Stavros or Eleni. Another technique? I listen when a diner's proprietor pronounces gyro.  If I hear something like "jiro" (hard "J" and long "i") instead of something close to "yiddo" (rhymes with "kiddo"), that could signal my last trip to that particular diner. I love my spanakopita too much to take chances. Same goes for my pasta primavera and all those other yummy ethnic dishes that have been passed down through generations of folks who originated the dish in the first place.    

Being Truly Tested

Over the span of your longest-lasting relationship, what has been the most serious test of the strength of your bond with that person?

Like most folks who have been together a long time, my wife and I have been tested more than a few times over our almost half-century together. But reading A Marriage at Sea (2024) brought into clear focus the difference between the tests most of us face and the kind of test that only the sturdiest of bonds can hope to endure.

Author Sophie Elmhirst's background as a journalist perfectly suits this tale of super-human resilience. In her debut, Elmhirst never raises her voice because it's unnecessary to do so. What Maurice and Maralyn Bailey faced during their 117 days adrift on a rubber raft in the middle of the Pacific Ocean needs no fanfare. I can't imagine an attentive reader being unmoved by this remarkable story.

  

Battling With Tears

Would you describe yourself - as I do - as introspective? If so, would you also say - as I would - that you frequently struggle to hold back tears? I've wondered most of my adult life about the link between these two temperamental traits of mine.  

I've known people I would describe as introspective that don't appear to struggle as much as me with tears. How often do you encounter folks like this? Though not proud of it, I'm obliged to admit I'm a little jealous of people like this. And though I never have, more than once I've been tempted to ask these folks to share a strategy with me. This is especially the case following an episode when my tears just don't seem to want to stop.  

Who knows? Maybe a few of those introspective folks will read this post and offer me some help. Even better, maybe the help offered to me will also assist one of you who sometimes fights the same battle as I do.

#77: The Mt. Rushmore Series

Perched near the midpoint between Memorial Day and the celebration of the nation's 250th anniversary that's poised to unfold on July 4th, it feels right to offer up four national treasures for this iteration of my most enduring series. I hope you'll join me by celebrating four uniquely American treasures you wouldn't want to do without. Regular readers will recognize my abiding passions reflected in the first three selections.

1.) The New York Times:  A feast for readers and the gold standard for responsible journalism, the Times has enriched me as a thinker my entire adult life. 

2.) Ken Burns: Without question, the greatest documentary filmmaker of my lifetime. My favorite film in his impressive oeuvre? See directly below. 

3.) Jazz: Music has been the singular driving force of my existence. And jazz is the classical music of these United States as well as being the subject of my favorite Ken Burns film. Understanding this uniquely American art form is a never-ending quest.  

4.) The National Park System: When Yellowstone National Park was created in 1872, the United States became the first country in the world to establish a national park. In 1916, with the birth of the National Park Service, another groundbreaking innovation was unveiled. At last count, I've visited thirty-five of the sixty-three national parks. Aside from those few bordering the Arctic circle and the one on American Samoa, my plan is to get to all the rest in my remaining years. Wish me luck.

How about you? Which four uniquely American treasures would you enshrine? 

 

But, However, Still ...

Without question, the largest looming issue in my current bi-coastal quandary is connected to my Act Three friendships. Because much as I want to witness every milestone in my new grandson's California life, leaving behind the friends I've made since 2010 is an unpleasant prospect.  

It would also be difficult leaving immediate family left here on the East Coast, but with one sister and three nieces already spread across the U.S., I've had years to cope with that reality. Now, with fewer years in front of me than behind, it's unsettling to envision day-to-day life without regular interaction with my newest tribe.  

Would I make new friends? Of course. How? Likely via some of the same techniques used when I moved here sixteen years ago. I'd join - or start - a book group or two. I'd volunteer, get involved with a local activist group, find people who enjoy hiking or being outdoors. My wife would try to connect with folks who love gardening and I'd try to locate musicians and other aspiring writers. One of the upsides to the Internet is how easy it can be now to connect with people that have similar interests. And staying in touch is also much easier than it used to be.  

But, however, still ... 

Troubled by a Question

"Since death is certain, but the time of death is uncertain, what is the most important thing?" - Pema Chodron

That formulation and provocative question have been on my mind for some time now. Perhaps the word "most" is what continues to bedevil me. How to be that specific? 

I recall when first stumbling across Chodron's words - used as the epigraph for a wise novel I was reading at the time - my reflexive answer to her question was family.  I suspect many people would say the same, don't you? But over the ensuing months, as I carefully examined how I often choose to spend my time, my answer started feeling less authentic. The chasm separating reflex and reality steadily grew, accompanied by a lingering unease.  

Today began uneventfully. Then, while still trying to find my rhythm, that question returned full bore and I wondered: Who am I if family is not the answer? The rest of today? Best not to dwell on that. 

 

To the Class of 2026

Invited to deliver a commencement address, what do you think would be most valuable to say to graduating college seniors in 2026?

My address will emphasize the three bullets below. The complete text is ready to be delivered the moment Harvard invites me. I decided not to include the full form here for two reasons. First, it keeps the post to a manageable and likely-to-be-read-in-full length. Second, years of studying and teaching public speaking have consistently reinforced for me the "power of three". No need to adhere to this arbitrary guideline when you comment. 

* Be kind. 

* Put down your phone regularly. 

* Before repeating or further publicizing something you read on the Internet, heard in a podcast, or learned of via social media, take some time to verify its accuracy.

Full Harvard-ready text available upon request. 

       

Resetting the Bar

No point being indirect. A Flower Traveled in My Blood (2025) is the best non-fiction book I've finished so far this year as well as being one of the best of its type that I've ever read. 

Subtitled The Incredible True Story of Grandmothers Who Fought to Find a Stolen Generation of Children, author Haley Cohen Gilliland expertly tells this riveting tale without sentiment or flourish. I guarantee the indefatigable grit of this group of Argentinian women will move and inspire you in equal measure. I was never out of the spell. The last time I can recall being as intensely involved in a book like this was while reading Patrick Radden Keefe's account of the troubles in Northern Ireland in Say Nothing (2018).

Earlier today as I finished Gilliland's tour-de-force, thoughts I'd entertained about extolling a different worthwhile book of non-fiction in my next blog post were immediately scuttled. For me, this book reset the bar. When my club discusses it at our July meeting, it will be difficult to stay in my usual role of neutral moderator. A Flower Traveled in My Blood is a home run.

Reflections from the Bell Curve: 2nd Attempt To Capture The Sports Market

The Whole "Work in Progress" Bit

Let's face it. When it comes to the whole "work in progress" bit, some of us have further to go than others. 

Although on some days that cliched expression fits how I'm feeling about my personal growth, on other days it feels like a cozy rationalization I'm using to excuse redundant bad behavior. For me, the one surefire way I've found to stay on the path to wholeness is to be sure I consistently surround myself with grounded people. People more concerned about being kind than they are about being right. People that strike me as having a solid core of decency and grace. People who - by the everyday example they set - bring me joy. 

The other people? That depends on the kind of day I'm having. Some days I can better tolerate people who remind me of myself on my worst days because it's encouraging to see - by comparison - that I have grown, at least a little. Other days I'm far less patient with those vexing spirits and have to catch myself from responding in kind to their judgmental statements, anger, or reflexive cynicism. And responding that way is an easy trap for me to fall into with my own temperamental tendency to judge as well as to anger easily.

In a recent conversation with a gentle soul who soothes me every time I hike with him - one of those folks from the second paragraph above - I stumbled across a re-framing insight about that work in progress trope. Rather than automatically resorting to a judging label for folks who trigger me - those referenced in the third paragraph, people I normally try to avoid - I've landed on a new strategy for those encounters. I'll try to remember that those folks need to do more work. This seems fair, given how far I've got to go on my journey.         

A Tale of Complete Trust & Faulty Memory

Reflections from the Bell Curve: #16: The Mt. Rushmore Series

When I published the post above in October 2013, I'd seen Fargo once - with my wife - not long after its 1996 release, eighteen years into our lifelong partnership. What follows is a brief tale of complete trust and faulty memory.   

From 1996-2013 my wife had repeatedly quoted a line of dialogue from the Coen Brothers' modern-day masterpiece. She'd said this line over and over with such total certainty that as I finished constructing Mt. Rushmore #16 - without first verifying - I decided to use "Whatcha got in the chippa?" as the last entry of four in that post. Such was my confidence that sheriff Frances McDormand said those exact words to homicidal Peter Stormare that I used the verb "deadpan" in my post describing McDormand's delivery. I'd heard my wife say the words so often I could hear McDormand while composing that post thirteen years ago. (BTW, those of you who have seen Fargo will readily recall Stormare's nearly mute psychopath, perhaps the creepiest creep the Coen Brothers have ever conjured, and those two twisted minds have conjured a memorable slew of them over their long film career.) 

Fast forward to several nights back, my first re-watch of Fargo. As the gruesome scene near the end of the movie unfolded, imagine my surprise as McDormand confronts Stormare, blood spewing from the woodchipper - Steve Buscemi's remains - and says nothing remotely similar to that line I'd used in my Mt. Rushmore. Before that re-watch I would have bet anyone McDormand asks Stormare "Whatcha got in the chippa?" Indeed, I would've gone to my grave swearing these were the exact words used. Over the years, I myself had repeated that line to others in different contexts, sure beyond any doubt that McDormand had said it. Such is what complete trust - and thirty years (1996-2026) of both hearing and repeating a line of non-existent dialogue - can do. 

Call this our married version of "Play it again, Sam." Except, Ingrid Bergman says those four words - just not in that exact order - speaking to Dooley Wilson in Casablanca. McDormand does say woodchipper - in the penultimate scene in her police car - but none of the rest. She doesn't deadpan at all; that was my invention. But under oath, I would've sworn differently.      

Skip This List

Though any "greatest" list is inherently subjective based on who is compiling it, to have even a scintilla of credibility, isn't it fair to ask that the compiler(s) has actually toiled in the field - just a little - especially when their list is likely to be widely read, like one published in say, the New York Times? In other words, doesn't any list of "greatest" authors or "greatest" filmmakers or "greatest" plumbers - no matter how subjective - carry more weight when created by someone who has actually written a book, made a film, fixed a toilet? 

In early May, I was excited when a good friend brought to my attention a Times piece called The Thirty Greatest Living American Songwriters. If anyone cares to know how much this travesty incensed me, contact my wife, who suggested medication as my rant approached an hour in length. Is apoplectic an exaggeration? I think not. I have not included here a link for this absurd piece of music journalism lest you waste precious time reading it.

But I did research each of the six contributors to see which of their songs I'd heard. Guesses anyone? And then - to help calm myself down - I listened carefully to Lullaby (Goodnight My Angel) for perhaps the thousandth time. While reveling in the artistry of Billy Joel's modern-day masterpiece, I briefly considered writing a letter to the Times editor, a suggestion my wife made to me somewhere around the thirty-minute mark in my toot. After deciding not to waste my time, I calmed down some more by listening to These Days and By the Time I Get to Phoenix. I knew I'd get around to writing a blog post about the garbage I'd just read but wanted to wait for a clear head. Two + weeks listening to songs by the three most egregiously overlooked songwriters from this insulting list was the perfect recipe for soothing my raging beast. I also listened to some stuff by the songwriters unfamiliar to me from that same list. Before I write of that experience, more calming down is required. Stay tuned and caveat emptor.       

Here's the thing: If you've never spent time carefully analyzing the songwriting craft of the two compositions mentioned above by Jackson Browne and Jim Webb respectively - putting aside the massive, consistent body of work both of them and Billy Joel have produced over the past fifty years - you can't call yourself a reputable music critic. Just try and create something as majestic as any of those three songs, Mr. or Ms. New York Times contributor. I'm waiting. 

Conversational Ping-Pong

"Only connect." - E.M. Forster

Few things get me as reliably juiced as conversational ping-pong. When did this most recently happen to you?

You feel heard even though the back-and-forth between you and the other person is rapid and nonstop. You bounce from subject to subject, but the conversation somehow remains focused. Your energy and attention never flag. You don't want it to end.

Sometimes I walk away from these one-on-one encounters with books to read, movies to watch (or re-watch), or music to listen to. More often, I de-brief the experience via writing; I desperately want to retain the buzz these moments of intense connection deliver and writing about them seems to help with that.  

But even if no books, films, music, or writing spring from an instance of conversational ping-pong, one thing is guaranteed. I look forward to the next time.   

Three Home Runs

Which mother in your life are you celebrating today? It's hard to imagine anyone who has had better good fortune than me in this domain. Three home runs.   

For almost the first twenty-eight years of my life, my mom was the person I knew would always be there for me, in every capacity. She was my coach, my confidant, and my biggest fan. Even when I let her down - which I did continually, especially as an adolescent - she didn't waver. Losing her in 1977 was the biggest loss of my life to that point.  

From almost the day I met my life partner, one fantasy has consistently played out in my head. I wish I could have heard my mom and her laughing together. My mom had the greatest laugh I'd ever heard, until April of 1978. And after forty-eight years, it's difficult for me to single out one thing I most cherish about my life partner. But her laugh - the only clear rival I've ever had to mom's - is right up there. As is her unerring sense of how to be the best possible mother to our daughter. 

My daughter is new to the role of mother. Is it too soon to say she'll be an equal to my mom or her own mother? I don't think it is. She had the best possible model, someone who unfailingly gave her unconditional love, the foundation to being a solid parent. From the day my grandson was born, I knew watching my daughter that she'd fully internalized that foundational message. I've seen nothing since - nor do I expect to - that would lead me to think that will ever change. My grandson's life is getting off to the same strong start as her own, and mine. Good mothers have that impact on their children's lives.   

I hope you've been as fortunate as I've been. If you have, remember to acknowledge the mothers who have shaped you, or shaped your children, or are shaping future generations.

Staying Power

Reflections from the Bell Curve: Liar, Liar

Although it took me almost eleven years to get around to it, there was never any doubt I'd return to Jill Lepore. And what a return it has been.

Lepore's This America: The Case for the Nation is the best book of its kind I've read since 2017 when I consumed Timothy Snyder's On Tyranny soon after its release. Both books are sobering but hopeful and both authors are first rate scholars, astute cultural critics, and compelling writers. And though you can finish either in under a few hours - each is an extended essay in book form - as soon as you finish, I suspect you'll want to reread immediately. I've returned to On Tyranny several times over the last nine years, have already reread This America once and plan to do so a second time before meeting a reading soulmate for a discussion about it next week. Over the coming years, I'm confident I'll return to Lepore's book just as frequently as I have Snyder's. What was the last book you finished that you couldn't wait to return to?   

"Patriotism is animated by love, nationalism by hatred."

"The nation is often wrong. But so long as protest is possible, it can always be righted." 

"Writing national history creates plenty of problems. But not writing national history creates more problems, and those problems are worse."

How do you know which books will have staying power for you? When a book compels me to write down sentence after sentence - as This America did - I know that book will be with me for a long time. 

Two Firsts I Could've Done Without

Some firsts - first kiss, first concert, first car - connect us with fond memories. Other firsts - first surgery, first heartbreak, first time not making it to a bathroom - are not as fondly remembered. 

Two firsts I've been reflecting on repeatedly over the past several weeks - and I sincerely hope both these firsts turn out to also be lasts - are both connected to a back condition I was initially diagnosed with over forty years ago. Since music has been a thread running through my entire life, the fact that both these firsts are also linked to music is unsurprising.  

The first of these firsts that I hope to never repeat occurred around 1985 soon after I became painfully acquainted with the medical term sciatica. That year, for the first time since I began playing music professionally over twenty years earlier, I was forced to call out sick for a gig. Standing up holding a guitar was simply not possible. Sitting was nearly as bad. Enough said.   

The second first - when my long-dormant condition decided to pay me an unwelcome visit while I was in Spain in March - forced me to postpone a multi-week music class I was scheduled to teach at a local community college in April. I began teaching these courses in 2014 and have otherwise been an educator on & off since graduating college in 1971. Meaning, over more than half a century, I've never had to postpone a single teaching assignment. Another first I'm now hoping won't ever be repeated. 

Good news to finish. My recent second first was accompanied by an outpouring of well wishes. Not only did the volume of outreach take me by surprise - family & friends, students & fellow hikers, book club members & readers of my blog, etc. - the concern others expressed about my absence clearly helped make my setback more tolerable. 

Thanks to all of you. I'm on the other side.       

The Gift of Music

What is your first memory of music that made a lasting impression? What musical memories do you closely associate with certain family members? What place did music have in your home or neighborhood? Much of the research I've been exposed to says lasting musical memories begin building when we're between 12-15 years old. Based on my own life, this rings true. How about for you?

I was fortunate to have two parents who enjoyed music. My father played the ukulele and my mother had a nice singing voice and good ear for harmony. When Dad would play a popular song from the 1930's - the years he and Mom were in that 12–15-year-old range - and my Mother would sing, the songs were unfamiliar to me. But songs like "Embraceable You" or "I Get a Kick Out of You" - and others written years before I was born - occupied a space in my early musical landscape even if they didn't take up as much space as "Where Did Our Love Go", "Surfin USA", or other songs popular when I was an adolescent. 

And now? A substantial portion of my 2026 guitar repertoire includes songs Dad played on the uke while Mom sang all those years ago. When Mom died in 1977, I was still singing rock n' roll in the bars. Dad lived almost another 20 years and by then I had switched to playing some of those early standards in a jazz style, so he got to appreciate this turn in my music. And though both of them always loved and supported my rock n' roll ambitions, there's something comforting about my current musical life taking me back to songs from my parents' impressionable years. To those of you who still have your parents: Why not ask them to share with you the music that made an early impression on them? Then go on your favorite streaming service and make a playlist for them. What a gift that will be.  

My Lost Month

As the lost month of April limps to a close, it's a relief to be moving into second gear, slowly.  

No exercise, not much guitar, and erratic sleep made this month one I'm unlikely to forget anytime soon. And yet, as always, there's much to be grateful for. Foremost among those things is one simple fact: I am healing a little each day. Whenever I caught myself whining, it didn't take much effort to shift my thoughts to the people in my life who aren't healing like I am. And how about these ancillary benefits that my immobilized state facilitated? 

* On more sleepless nights than not, I cracked through to genius level on Spelling Bee. Watch your back, Bill. (And don't tell me Hillary never helps you.)

* I watched the entire six-episode run of The American Revolution, reinforcing my belief that Ken Burns stands alongside Toni Morrison, the New York Times, and the National Park System on any short list of American treasures. 

* I made some headway on my perpetually unmanageable "to read" list. Stay tuned in May for a post or two on the winners I finished while stuck in neutral. The duds? Mum's the word. 

In the meanwhile, I'm looking forward to a nice - probably short - walk later today with my wife. Did I mention how fortunate I am that she was around to assist me for most of my lost month? 

 

 

A Sure Thing

"Writing stabilized thoughts; it allowed you to see connections that thoughts alone didn't."

Gabriel's Moon (2024) is the fifth William Boyd novel I've read since Brazzaville Beach (1990) took my breath away. If you're looking for a novelist you can depend on, end your search. Among novelists I've been newly exposed to since leaving the full-time work world, few have thrilled me as consistently as Boyd. He is a masterful storyteller and gifted prose stylist with an exceptional feel for setting.

"The river was gunmetal green, despite the pale blue, cloudless sky. It was deep, the Congo, and whatever the sky above, azure blue or lowering grey, its color never really changed."  

Gabriel's Moon, told in two acts, has London-based travel writer and reluctant spy Gabriel Dax moving from Leopoldville to Madrid to Cadiz to Warsaw to Rome, each locale coming alive in Boyd's capable hands. I was particularly struck by his depiction of Madrid, having coincidentally just spent a few days there in mid-March on vacation.

"... a kind of agreeable melancholy suffusing the dark, brown, shabby streets ... grand squares and plazas ... proudly situated with their huge, palatial, ornamented buildings ..."

Some years back, I suggested to my brother-in-law that he might enjoy Waiting for Sunrise (2012), my second exposure to William Boyd. He did and has subsequently sent me five novels by this modern-day master, including Gabriel's Moon and the previous novel I finished by Boyd - Solo (2013). Because of my brother-in-law's generosity, I've still got three sure things waiting on my bookshelves. Cool.

Reflections from the Bell Curve: Music Supervisor for Hire

Boomer Boners

When and how did you most recently date yourself?

I suppose it's predictive that the further I move into Act Three, the more I'll be dating myself. I'm grateful my thirty-something daughter and her thirty-something husband are usually kind when my boomer boners don't ring the faintest bell. Even my oldest niece - who turned fifty last November - usually lets me slide when I reference an actor, musician, or author who had their heyday in the 60s or 70s, never to be seen or heard from again. Bless her heart.

I've found I'm usually on safe ground mentioning boomer film or pop music figures who have managed to hang in there past their sell by date, e.g., Al Pacino or Paul McCartney. But those who haven't made it into People magazine for twenty+ years, no matter their previous level of notoriety? Boomer boner territory. With respect to authors closely associated with the peak boomer years, in my experience, that's fuzzier. 

When speaking to a Gen X or millennial reader, I might be OK casually dropping an author name here or there, especially when the work of that author had a place in Gen X or millennial school curricula, e.g., Harper Lee or Toni Morrison. And because literature is arguably less ephemeral than film and clearly less so than pop music or TV, boomer boners tend to be less frequent when I speak of authors, Arthur Hailey and James Michener aside.   

Still, a word of caution to my fellow boomers. There are many ways aside from references to actors, pop musicians, or authors to find yourself stuck in the boomer boner time warp. Rabbit ears, anyone? Penpals? Eight-tracks? Like it or not - and I don't - it's going to get more difficult as we old farts move deeper into Act Three. I'm already mulling over future conversations with my grandson. How do I explain to him why anyone ever had to give directions to someone else?

Open Letter: Road Scholar to Rhodes Scholar

Because I've been largely immobilized since returning from Spain in late March, day-to-day routines - by necessity - have since shifted. Included in that shift has been an insane competition with Rhodes Scholar and ex-President Bill Clinton. First, a little background.  

Some time back, my wife heard or read somewhere that Clinton gets to genius every time he plays Spelling Bee.  Soon after, she and I occasionally added Spelling Bee to our post-dinner ritual, i.e., the joint completion of Wordle, Strands, Connections and other games that can often be finished in a reasonable amount of time. On the nights we were foolish or ambitious enough to add Spelling Bee, I would joke that she was "gen" and I was "ius" whenever the two of us managed to get to Clinton's purported "every time" genius level. Fast forward now to late March and my lingering immobility.

With lots of time to myself - including a ten-day stretch when my wife was at her sister's - little out-of-the-house activity, an inability to sit for long stretches to play guitar, and interrupted sleep patterns, reading and writing dominated my waking hours for the first several days after our return from Spain. Then somewhere around the first week of April, my over-the-top competitive instinct combined with Clinton's reputation as a Spelling Bee genius kicked in. Word and/or game nerds who have spent frustrating hours with Spelling Bee might be able to predict how that time-sucking vortex - disguised as a harmless pastime - has since obsessed me. For those wise enough to have avoided ever being infuriated by Spelling Bee, skip the next paragraph, my open letter to Mr. Genius.

Dear Mr. President: Before uncovering both of today's pangrams - which you had to do to earn your everyday genius badge - did you even know "vincible" was a word? Did you use "hints" today? Do you ever use hints? Does Hillary ever assist you when playing Spelling Bee? How often? If she does, do you count those days when you reach genius with her help as your own or ... do you not count them at all or ... do you give her the gen or the ius? Last question Mr. Genius: On average, how many hours of serious torture does it take before you reach genius?

The last time I can recall being as seriously derailed by words as I've now been for a few weeks was in September 2011, soon after the notorious bagel store affair. Back then, following my first and only lifetime arrest, anagrams and palindromes tromped through my sleepless brain for weeks. See the link at the bottom for a blog post published soon after the impulsive act that ended up costing me over $4000.00 that year and helped thrust me into word misery for weeks. This current battle between obscure blogger and genius ex-President is thankfully unconnected to any rash act but has been no less consuming. This time it's my temporary homebound condition that has me endlessly shuffling seven letters in varying combinations for hours at a time until reaching that puerile but satisfying "I got genius" message. Alas, I suspect I'm spending more hours getting there than the genius who once occupied the White House. 

Reflections from the Bell Curve: Back (Mostly) From Anagram Land

Someday

April 17 is the day I knew I'd met my life partner. 

Forty-eight years ago today, she and I had our first real date. That date was preceded by an impromptu visit to a diner for late-night coffee on the night we met at a local bar near her home where I was doing a solo gig. At the diner, I asked her for a real date on my next night off, April 17. When she said yes, I was buzzing. And I remained in a state of heightened anticipation through the days leading up to our date. 

On April 17, as soon as she climbed into my VW van, I could smell her shampoo. Later at dinner I casually asked what brand she used. Her answer - "Whatever is in the shower at the time" - charmed me beyond reason. A mundane first date question met with an unguarded response; no pretense. 

After dinner, we went to hear a local musician play at a bar, doing a solo act much like my own. At this point, having spent less than ten hours together - including the diner, our dinner, and time at the bar - I was smitten and knew my life had changed. I said to her - "Someday I'm going to marry you". I don't recall her response. But she looked neither scared nor shocked. 

We've now been side-by-side since April 17, 1978. She has never let me forget we didn't get married until September 17, 1983. My only defense? I did say "Someday".   

An Assist from Jenny Wingfield Et Al

For more than forty years, my rationale for not re-watching movies - even those I loved the first time - was straightforward. I didn't want to spend hours in a redundant passive state. Such can be the curse of a goal-driven person. I don't claim to have never wasted precious hours re-watching an old favorite but it was rare and I was never tempted to purchase videocassettes just to have a standby on hand.  

Having more hours to myself after leaving the full-time work world as well as having a daughter in the film industry were two factors that moved me toward abandoning my longstanding resistance to re-watching movies. But the single factor that most persuaded me that re-watching films could be a productive use of my time was a deepening appreciation for the art of screenwriting. As I re-watched more movies, I began to see the way that first-rate screenwriting could help me as an aspiring writer, perhaps as much as great literature can. And I saw a clear link between how the concision of a great script contributes to movie magic and how a similar concision could aid me in my blog. Of course, it's possible I've simply constructed a neat rationalization for spending more time in front of a screen. But I don't think so.

When I recently re-watched The Man in the Moon (1991) for the first time since its theatrical release, the words of the perfectly realized script landed for me in a profoundly different way than they did thirty-five years ago. As the closing credits rolled, one thought wouldn't let me go. There was not a single false note in this coming-of-age film. Was Director Robert Mulligan's artistry on display? Without question. Were the central performances - including Reese Witherspoon in her film debut - nearly flawless? They were. 

But without the words of screenwriter Jenny Wingfield, all the other important elements that made this an extraordinary experience - twice - might have added up to a less satisfying whole. I may not improve as a writer having now been witness to Wingfield's words, twice. On the other hand, how can exposing myself more than once to her kind of artistry hurt me as a writer?

Atlas Riffing: Where Interest & Quirkiness Intersect

In grammar school I really enjoyed geography, which in my day was a subset of social studies. Remember that boomers? I don't recall ever telling peers that geography turned me on, probably because back then it wasn't considered a cool subject. Still, looking back it's easy for me to trace a clear line from my childhood enjoyment of geography to my adult interest in other cultures, my love of travel, and many of the quirky projects I've initiated throughout my life, like trying to sample the cuisine of as many countries in the world as possible. 

Where my enduring interest in geography and my quirkiness intersect is in a post full-time work habit I've dubbed Atlas riffing. When this habit will take control of me is not predictable, though books and movies are inclined to set me off. If a book or a film takes place in some unfamiliar locale, off the shelf comes my Atlas. So far, so good, right? I'm curious where in the world a story is taking place. I suspect many of you bookworms and film buffs might do something similar, perhaps with your phones. 

But once I step inside my Atlas, all bets are off. At that point, any casual observer watching you scrolling your phone vs. me Atlas riffing would clearly know which of us needs medication. I've lost count how many times over the past sixteen years I've riffed in that Atlas for several hours, bouncing from page to page like a deranged, happy pinball, all the while making fevered, frequently inscrutable annotations. On occasion, my Atlas riffing has gotten way out of hand in circumstances unconnected to books or films. For example, when mention is made of a less familiar country in casual conversation while I'm at home, it's difficult to suppress my immediate desire to grab the Atlas, which occupies a prominent place in the reference section of our over-stuffed bookshelves. If I do succumb, I try not to be rude via limiting my riffing time; sometimes I succeed. I also try not to appear obsessed while doing so. Another work in progress.  

Which quirky habit will you confess here? What got you started down that particular quirky road? Can you trace a line - as I have - from your current quirkiness to an interest developed early in life?

My Choice

The more I reflect on my recent experiences travelling through Spain, the more convinced I am that humankind will avoid what Elizabeth Kolbert and others have termed the sixth extinction.

I'm not naive. And I'm also not immune to being regularly discouraged by the disinformation campaign of climate change deniers and their mindless minions. But when I consider how endlessly inventive and ingenious people can be, I sincerely believe there's room for hope even if - as most scientists routinely tell us - we've passed the point of no return. 

If the Romans conceived and then built aqueducts that stand two thousand years later, if Antoni Gaudi envisioned Sagrada Familia - and disciples completed it over the next one hundred and fifty years - and if Guernica is still moving people to fight the good fight almost ninety years after Pablo Picasso created it, I submit that minds much greater than mine will find a way to help us mitigate our environmental misdeeds. 

In many ways, our natural world has already been irreversibly damaged. Succumbing to hopelessness is understandable. I choose to instead have faith in the limitless intelligence of humankind.

Reversing My 2026 Book Slump

Though I'm not obsessive enough to have kept track, over the fifteen+ years since the inception of my blog, I'd estimate about 20% of my 2600 + published posts have featured books that have moved me enough that I decided to promote them here. Those of you who have been regular readers for a while: Would you say that's about right? Assuming my estimate is close, it appears 2026 has begun with a bit of a book slump. Of thirty-four posts published thus far this year, less than a handful have featured worthwhile books I've finished since January. 

Soon after noting this downward trend on my blog, a quick review of my current book journal as well as some stats from Goodreads confirmed my suspicion. Not only have I finished fewer books over the first three months of this year vs. previous years - easy to spot via looking at earlier journals - but several of the finished ones have been serious duds. And I also gave up on others, another metric easy to track because of the comprehensive analytics Goodreads provides. It's a slump all right but it's one I plan to reverse effective immediately. A few strategies:

* Start being even more ruthless about what ends up on my list, especially with non-fiction titles.

* Rely more on authors who have rarely let me down, an easy fix via using those book journals. 

* Return to reading more when I'm fresh in the a.m. and keeping a closer eye on my monthly goal.

How about you? What have been your strategies when you've been in a book slump?

Timing Can Be Everything

It's taken me a lifetime to fully internalize the simple yet essential truth that timing can be everything.

Near the end of Sentimental Value, there's a conversation between the two sisters who are the centerpiece of this Oscar nominee for best film of 2025. A lifetime of witnessing the bond between my own sisters no doubt contributed to the impact that scene had on me. However, if I hadn't returned last night to watch this particular movie end-to-end several weeks after initially dismissing the first half as "sleepy", it's likely I'd have held onto my first misguided impression about it. End result: I would have bypassed an exceptional film and never experienced the emotional catharsis of that perfectly realized scene.     

How often have you been mystified when someone doesn't share your enthusiasm for a movie, a book, or piece of music that floored you? I cannot begin to count how many times this has happened to me. At this juncture in my long life, I sincerely believe that level of mismatched enthusiasm is connected to timing. Embracing the simple truth that timing can be everything has rewarded me in a few ways, including an improved ability to accept inevitable mismatches and move on without mischaracterizing someone else's views or elevating my own. I've shifted from thinking of mismatches as differences of opinion. As often as not, I'm now convinced it's a matter of timing.  

These days, when someone whose opinion I value raves about something - as was the case with Sentimental Value - I'm willing to give that something a second chance. I count my newfound willingness to do that as another reward connected to this simple yet essential truth. 

"When a student is ready, a teacher appears."  - Buddha

A Cocktail and a Conundrum

Having a good memory has come in handy a lot for me. This has been true across several domains of my life, e.g., with music, in relationships, for learning. I'm grateful for this particular trait. 

Here's the rub. Sometimes, I can be a little thin skinned. So when someone says something that hurts my feelings, which is not that hard to do, I tend to remember it for a long time. A friend of mine used to refer to this propensity as being part of my "Irish discourse". But because I'm the 7th generation on my Father's side - the Irish part of my heritage - to be born in the U.S., I'm not inclined to accept ethnic explanations. To me it just seems like I remember too much. Which two traits of yours when combined add up to an unpleasant cocktail like these two of mine do? What are your strategies for working around your cocktail? What suggestions do you have for me?

Forgive & forget? I've gotten a bit better at the forgive part of that equation as I've gotten older. The forget part? Got myself a little conundrum there, don't I?

Re-entrada de Hoy

After unpacking, checking your mail, and throwing away the science projects in your refrigerator, what are a few of the things you routinely do following an extended period away from a casa? 

Although my re-entry varies slightly depending on how long I've been away, for a while now there have been several consistent elements. Attending to the below between jet-lag required naps hoy was satisfying.  

* Re-calibrated my goals to accommodate the time just spent away. Berating myself for not getting to goals while away is a surefire way to diminish experiences I just had. Better to re-calibrate and continue to enjoy the brillo of those new experiences for as long as possible. 

* Tried to capture the spirit of my travel via retrospective journalling. Writing a few postscript palabras about most of the days is usually adequate. I avoid simply listing what I did and aim instead for what I felt or who I was with when a specific travel experience moved me. 

* Added a pushpin to the world mapa we have hanging in our hallway of places we've visited.

* Moved into my blog notebook the random jottings I made while away. This re-entry rutina - new since the 2011 inception of my blog - has become essential to me. The act of transcribing any jottings - tiny kernels of inspiration that pummel me whenever I travel - can later morph into something useful, e.g., un lirico, the beginnings of a story, an idea for a new course, a blog post. This magpie travel-related habit has become a crucial component in my creative matrix.

Y tu? 

Gracias a mi esposa por traducir.  

    

And ... Living History

Reflections from the Bell Curve: Humbled by History

Two thousand years from now, it's easy to envision anyone standing in front of Sagrada Familia here in Barcelona having a reaction similar to mine when I approached the Roman Aqueduct in Segovia a few days back. 

This marvel - the vision of Spanish architect Antoni Gaudi - began construction in 1882 and is now nearing completion. When it's finished, it will be the tallest church in the world. As is almost always the case, the picture below is inadequate. Visit Wikipedia - link is underneath the picture - to get a more complete sense of this indescribable modern wonder. Then follow the links from Wikipedia to learn the full story. I promise you will be amazed.  

What a treat it has been to go from being humbled by history via the Roman Aqueduct to feeling as though I'm living history via standing in front of Sagrada Familia. And both over the course of a few days. 

Sagrada Família - Wikipedia

Eat the World in Adolescence

Although the project we dubbed Eat the World has gone in fits and starts over its fifteen-year history, today's birthday feels special for two reasons.

1.) Unlike every March 23 since the inception of this project in 2011, today we are actually in a country outside the U.S. as we sample its cuisine. Put aside the fact that we'd already eaten dishes from Spain before we got here on Thursday because...

2.) The food here is so outstanding it does not matter that Spain was already included on our list of 102 previously sampled cuisines. I'm prepared to say the meals we've had thus far in Spain have been the equal of those we had when visiting Greece in 2019 and nearly the equal of those we had on our 2012 visit to Italy. Those of you who have visited Spain: Did you have an equally first-rate experience with Spanish cuisine when you were here?

Any complaints, you ask? Well, unlike Greece or Italy, vegetarian fare is not as routinely offered here. I'm coping just fine, thank you. 

Reflections from the Bell Curve: World Traveling Via Food (To Be Continued)

Humbled by History

What were the circumstances connected to the most recent instance when you felt humbled by history? Did something you read in a book perhaps connect you in some powerful way to the distant past? Maybe something depicted in a film about ancient times elicited a deep awe in you? I've certainly had experiences like that.

The vicarious thrill that books, film, or stories about history have delivered to me cannot compare to the buzz I felt today. As he began speaking of the Roman aqueduct we were approaching, I listened intently to our guide. But my attention wandered as my mind's eye tried to imagine this structure when it was first erected here in Segovia Spain over two thousand years ago. The last time I can recall feeling this humbled by history was when our guide interpreted the Native American petroglyphs in some of the remote caves of Death Valley on a visit we made there a few years back. I'm comfortable using the word transcendent to describe moments like the one I had earlier today while standing beneath the aqueduct pictured above.

I welcome hearing a similar story from your life. 

Infused with Gratitude

Awaiting our flight to Madrid, I'm infused with gratitude. 

* I'm grateful my wife and I have built a life that affords us the opportunity to travel extensively.

* I'm grateful my wife enjoys experiencing new places as much as I do.

* I'm grateful we're both healthy enough to continue travelling.

Although that partial list doesn't tell the full story, I hope anyone reading will feel inspired to join me by sharing a few things that make you grateful today. 

As always, the amount of reflecting I'll do between now and our return home on March 29 depends on how reliable the WIFI is in our locations while travelling through Spain. As previously requested by readers, I'll try to include a pic or two. Given my technological ineptitude, I make no promises.    

From a Committed Incoming Senior, Blogosphere U

In September of 1970, I began my 16th continuous year of formal schooling when I started my senior year as an undergraduate. Tomorrow begins my 16th continuous year of blogging. What has this incoming senior at Blogosphere U learned over fifteen years?

* Write it down immediately. What I write in my blog notebook frequently comes to nothing. But many tiny fragments often facilitate the assembly of something. And when I don't write it down immediately - whatever "it" is - I usually have more trouble retrieving it when it's needed.

* Be ready to accept help from anyone. I was almost finished with Blogosphere Grammar School before fully internalizing this lesson. Since wising up, I've made use of many sharp insights, several grammar tips, and a few potent challenges. It has all helped me as a thinker and writer. The feedback has come from faithful readers, frequent commenters, occasional lurkers, anonymous critics. Thanks to all. 

* Manage expectations via the lament of notable writers. Accepting my continued toils in obscurity has been made easier by learning of writers I admire who ponder their legacy. If folks like these - whose work is widely known - have these wonderings at least I'm in good company when feeling sorry for myself. 

Committed to blogging? Since I've now been at it for almost 20% of my life, that's safe to say. I am aware, however, that the verb committed has multiple meanings. Oh well. What practice are you committed to? How long has your commitment endured? What has that commitment taught you?

Help with a Reprise

The most gratifying thing about being asked to reprise one of the music courses I first began doing in 2014 is just that - being asked. It's additionally satisfying because each time I reprise one, my delivery of the content gets tighter. And from a mercenary viewpoint, each reprise brings me a bit closer to minimum wage, given the inordinate amount of time I devote when developing these courses.

It's been several years since I last had the opportunity to reprise Jazz 101 (and a Bit Beyond), one of my earliest creations and a class of which I'm particularly proud. It's such a gas watching participants get ignited when I introduce them to a new artist or a fresh interpretation of a song. Consequently, I'm really pleased I'll be reprising this specific course late this year because my tweaks to this one will reflect some recent discoveries I've made.

Reflections from the Bell Curve: Passing the Torch

After listening to the YouTube clip of Samara Joy imbedded in the post above, I have a favor to ask. If you've run across a newcomer to the jazz scene - i.e., a singer or instrumentalist who has broken through within the last five years - and you think that artist is in Joy's league and could've escaped my attention, please share that name with me, either in a comment here or offline. My search for jewels like Joy is never-ending. 

Thanks in advance.

Book Healing

Near the top of any list of highlights from my post full-time work life has to be the many book discussions I've had with others, both in clubs and in ad-hoc meetings with several reading soulmates. It would be difficult to overstate how much these discussions have enriched and energized me. Since joining my first book club less than two months into Act Three, barely a month has gone by over the ensuing sixteen years without a discussion or two awaiting me on my schedule. 

In addition to the enrichment and energy these discussions often provide, the fellowship can be equally satisfying. Relationships with people I initially meet via book discussions sometimes deepen. Just as frequently, when meeting a reader in a different setting, I encourage them to join my book group, which in turn sometimes strengthens those ties. It's a virtuous cycle, all connected by books. 

On occasion, a book discussion comes along just when I most need it. Like today. Leaving my club's discussion of Destiny of the Republic earlier this evening, I realized how healing it is during this difficult period of my life to simply be with others who love books. To all my fellow bookworms: Thank you!

Reflections from the Bell Curve: What If?

First Impression 6.0

I'm confident asserting that the fundamental aspects of my personality - especially my temperament - haven't shifted much over my lifetime. How about you? Putting aside behavioral changes you've made to help you better navigate the world, would you say you've remained much the same person over your lifetime? Or would you claim you're fundamentally different? In what way? 

Still, assuming I am - as I believe - much the same now as I've always been, I'm just as confident saying that the first impression I make on others has shifted radically over my seventy-six years. And in my case, that's been a good thing. How about this element of your make-up? Has the first impression you make on others changed a great deal over your lifetime? If your answer is no, I'm guessing you either don't care about the first impression you make on others or, you've been largely satisfied with how things have gone for you in that respect and have stayed the course. 

But if like me you've decided - perhaps more than once - to change course in this respect, I'm curious to know what prompted your shift. Was it feedback someone close to you was good enough to offer? Was it adverse reactions from new people you met that persuaded you? Was it something you read or a conversation with others about this important skill? Was it watching others who struck you as being particularly inept - as I've often been - at making a good first impression?

Based on recent experiences, I'm considering iteration 6.0, first impression-wise, an average of a new one for each decade of my adult life. My latest tweak is not - as have been most of the changes that drove me to discard earlier iterations - being driven by an embarrassing incident or pleas from people close to me. I guess that's at least good news, right?   

You're in Good Hands, Numerologists

Numerology has never been of even passing interest to me. That said, some random unconnected stuff from my life that culminated during the writing of this post will keep me alert for at least the next thirty-three minutes.  

In order:

1.) After publishing A Shoutout on Myrrh's Day on 2/26, I was reasonably sure what the likely subject of my next blog post would be i.e., the fact that each of the last three novels I'd read prominently featured twins. This struck me as blog-worthy for two reasons: a.) All the books are worth reading so I'd planned to combine three recommendations into one post, soon. b.) Each book came at me from a different direction. The three have nothing in common, except for those twins. Considering the number of possible book subjects vs. the ratio of single to multiple births worldwide, just that coincidence is a little weird, no? 

2.) Life interfered. My next post - on Saturday 2/28 - ended up marking time. And I still wasn't ready to write about much of anything else as today began.  

3.) When my sister asked me early this a.m. what I'd been reading recently, I told her about the weird twins-in-three-books-in-a-row bit. Then I offhandedly asked for her guess of the percentage of the world's births that are multiple. I had no idea of the answer and told her so, just a casual question, not unlike many such questions we've asked one another our whole lives. Her guess = 10%; I said I would have placed it closer to 1%. We left it there. 

4.) About an hour ago, after realizing I'd recovered enough from Saturday's curveball to write about something other than that, I came back to the books, those twins, and then recalled the conversation with my sister. Decided to ask Siri the multiple births question. Any guess before I get to the finish line? It's 3%. 

Before the last odd bit, I'll mention the books to ensure you at least get some reading ideas. a.) One of Us (2025) by Dan Chaon; selected in a pure library drive-by - on the strength of my adoration of an earlier novel by Chaon (Await Your Reply - 2009) - while looking for a novella by John Cheever. b.) The Sea (2003) by John Banville; a short meditative novel I've been meaning to get to ever since enjoying Banville's The Untouchable (1997), and also because Booker prizewinning books rarely let me down. c.) The Vanishing Half by Brit Bennett; been sitting in our home library since soon after its publication in 2020, a novel my wife read and recommended to me years ago.    

Ready, numerologists? Last three finished novels feature twins, 3% worldwide multiple birth rate, the post I planned to write postponed - because life interfered - now being published on 3/3.  If I were shameless, I'd wait to publish this until exactly thirty-three minutes past the hour. But I can't risk freaking out the numerologists. I need every reader I can get.   

Not Today

Since the inception of my blog, life has thrown a fair share of curveballs at me. I'm certain all of you have had just as many tossed your way, perhaps more. 

What do I know this moment? None of us get through life unscathed. What do I do next? Be there for the people who depend on me. 

When will it feel OK to publish something here that is unconnected to my pain?     

A Shoutout on Myrrh's Day

Over a music-obsessed lifetime, I've yet to run across a single song that uses Thursday as its focus, let alone in its title. I'm certain some have been written - a quick AI search no doubt would uncover a few obscurities that have escaped this geek - but surely Thursday holds the record for least celebrated day of the week, musically. 

And there's a plausible explanation for Thursday having remained forever in the musical cold. I mean, what is it exactly that sets today apart from its brethren? What feature gives Thursday any distinct flavor at all? Monday is all about getting busy, Saturday is a bad day to run errands because everyone has the same idea. Wednesday = hump day, thank God it's Friday, don't depend on everything being open on Sunday, day of rest, family dinner, etc. Thursday's only competition for being without a personality is Tuesday. But in that case at least the Moody Blues sang about Tuesday Afternoon. And many years before, Ira Gershwin memorialized that almost-as-nondescript day by rhyming it with "my good news day" in The Man I Love. Rhyming possibilities for Thursday? A little thin. Try it. Maybe it's her day? Perhaps liverwurst day? 

What we clearly have here are two musical tiers. That is, even folks who've given this admittedly arcane matter no thought - most folks, I would imagine - could readily name at least one song with Monday, Friday or Sunday in its title. That's the top tier. The bottom tier - Tuesday, Wednesday, Saturday - has definitely gotten far less musical attention. But Thursday? Tier-less, barely a mention (I don't count that throwaway line "Thursday goes too slow" from Friday on My Mind), a day without a notable theme song. If I get on it right now, this could be my shot at musical immortality. Stay tuned.

Upending Low Expectations

Given my indiscriminate movie jones, my low expectations for genre films are bound to be upended periodically. Such was the case when I recently stumbled across The Marksman (2021). 

Although this Liam Neeson vehicle dutifully checked off many of the "action" boxes - car chases, lots of gunfire, stoic hero and cardboard villain - there were several touches that helped elevate it above pure popcorn fare. Here are a few:

* The actor playing Miguel (Jacob Perez) is wholly believable as a young boy grieving his mother. The solid script deftly juxtaposed Miguel's grief as counterpoint to Neeson's recent loss of his wife. 

* The vast reach of Mexican drug cartels using modern technology is presented matter-of-factly. That wise choice made the scary parts of this tense story credible and even more terrifying.

* The final two scenes - no spoilers - are perfectly balanced.   

Bottom line: With my low expectations for action films going in, I was prepared to be diverted, at best. Instead, I was involved throughout and more surprisingly, quite moved at the end. Can't recall the last time I used the word "moved" referring to an action film. What was the last instance when your low expectations were similarly upended, by a film, a book, some music, or otherwise?