Monday, September 11, 2023

SMOKE GETS IN YOUR EYES (& Lungs): My 2023 OREGON VACATION

Sunday


I arrived at the Philadelphia International Airport very early Sunday morning to embark on my first plane flight of any tangible duration in 12 years.  (A one-way, 45-minute flight to Long Island does not count.)  Although the TSA line at the airport was quite lengthy, and prayers were uttered in hopes of not having a sudden need to go to the bathroom, the agents were efficient and courteous and, unlike the overzealous TSA agent I dealt with for the aforementioned flight to Long Island, I was not sexually molested.  After passing thru, I enjoyed a well-balanced breakfast of a plain Auntie Anne's pretzel and a bottle of chocolate milk and boarded my flight.  

After a brief layover in Denver, where I continued my healthy eating habits by purchasing a lukewarm Pizza Hut Personal Pan cheese pizza, a brief flight took me to my destination of Redmond Municipal Airport, just north of Bend, Oregon, where my friend John lives with his wife Melissa.  John picked me up and explained a bit about Bend as we were driving.  We went to Trader Joe's and to a similar, more local version of a healthy grocery store (where, for some reason, an attractive woman bizarrely kept passing us back and forth down the same aisle as I was making the crucial decision of what nutrition bars to purchase), and then headed to his house.  After unpacking, I went on a six-mile run.  I was warned about the hot temperatures, but the dry heat was child's play for this mid-Atlantic runner quite used to thick humidity.  For supper, John's wife was kind enough to boil some of the whole wheat pasta I had bought and offered to warm up sauce she had made.  I was a bit reticent because what is delicious and healthy for most is usually not delicious for me, but said to myself, "Why not?  Learn to trust," or some other optimistic variation of that and the sauce was DELICIOUS!!! In fact, my taste buds can still taste it as I type this.

We then all went for a walk where I was shown a bit of the surrounding areas of this quasi-resort town.  Many others were walking around, enjoying the twilight.  I went to bed and got a good night's sleep.

Monday

Monday morning, John and I and my stepson Seymour (who was well-behaved and caused no commotion at the TSA line) went for a hike up Lava Butte, which the US Forest website tells me is a "cinder cone rising 500 feet above Lava Lands Visitor Center."  The walk itself takes 1.45 miles to get to the top, which John and I completed with no issues.  After the walk back down, only interrupted by Seymour escaping my backpack in an attempt to chase one of the many mouse squirrels we saw, I got the itch to run, not merely walk up the hill.  John was kind enough to wait and I ran up and back down the hill without stopping (a fact not believed at the time by John), indeed staying under a 9:30/mile pace overall, encouraged in part by a group of people that included a very attractive woman who gave me the thumbs-up sign as I passed.  

John and I then hightailed it to the High Desert Museum, whose name suggested probable boredom.  However, I was quite surprised at how much I liked this museum.  The exhibits told the story of the High Desert Basin region, which spans several states and covers the region roughly from the Cascade Mountains to the Rocky Mountains, since the beginning of time through today.  More appealing, I got to see multiple species native to the region, including turtles of various sizes, fish, insects, livestock, otters frolicking in the water, birds-of-prey, snakes, etc.  While eating lunch, I fed a mouse squirrel some of my French fries, not noticing until later the sign discouraging patrons from doing so. The squirrel certainly seemed pleased I was not initially observant.




Incidentally, it was during my visit to this museum when I first realized just how in-shape women in Oregon were and that the two women referenced above were not the exceptions they would be if they resided in every state in which I ever lived.  Age, number of kids with them, pushing a baby stroller- it didn't matter, 95% of them were in shape.  I later saw a video that stated Oregon was the fifth healthiest state in the nation and my only doubt was whether there really were four allegedly healthier states.

Later on, I did a quick run in Bend where I made two observations: 1) in general, fellow runners and walkers in Oregon are far less friendly than where I live and 2) the drivers are far more courteous towards runners, always stopping for runners and pedestrians in crosswalks.

Tuesday

On a bright sunny day, I drove to Crater Lake National Park, perhaps the most visited tourist attraction in Oregon, armed with a cooler full of nutritious beverages, including a watermelon juice Melissa had made.  While traveling south on Route 97, I noticed for the first time in Oregon more depressed regions as I passed the outskirts of towns such as La Pine, Gilchrist, and Chenault.  Trump banners decorated some of the beaten trailers I saw, not different in spirit from Obama banners decorating other poor residences in a prior decade.

Making good time and knowing absolutely nothing about the layout of the park, only that there was a pristine, breathtaking lake to see, I had Google Maps direct me to the park's North entrance, which turned out to be the correct decision.  I was in a long queue of cars waiting to pay to enter the park.  I noticed multiple cars making U-turns at the entrance and did not know what to make of it.  Finally, I reached the entrance, where I encountered quite a perky, energetic young woman wearing a small nose ring who showed me a live cell phone shot of Crater Lake itself.  Explaining that smoke from wildfires in California was making the lake hardly visible, the young woman asked if I still wanted to pay the $30.00 to enter the park.  Knowing that I would probably never again be at Crater Lake, I decided I'd make the best of it and paid to enter the park.  I must commend this woman for maintaining a consistent level of friendliness and energy when speaking to me even after having to give her presentation probably 100s of times that day.  Either that, or my essential friendliness and naivete won her over.  Let's go with that.

I entered the park and drove approximately nine miles past some forests and the Pumice Desert and headed down West Rim Drive before reaching the first observation point for the lake, got out of my car, and could only see about 20 percent of Crater Lake, with the rest being just a haze.  Other observation points on my way to Rim Village did not provide any better views of this famous lake, which is approximately 6 miles wide from its furthest points and 1,943 feet deep at its deepest point.

Rim Village is located at the southwest section of the park and is where most tourists visiting the park gather to gaze in awe at Crater Lake.  Rim Village includes a visitor center, a lodge, a café, a gift shop, and Sinnott Memorial Overlook, a nice shady place from which to see the lake.  However, as wonderful as all this was, Rim Village did not afford me any vantage point from which to avoid seeing virtually nothing but haze while seeing the lake.

Still determined to make the best of it, I decided to explore the rest of the park.  I drove further south to Mazama Village, which by itself held no interest unless you were there to stay at their campgrounds.  I decided to drive back north towards East Rim Drive to finish the park loop and head home.  I stopped to do a one-mile hike on a trail called Godfrey Glen, which was first evidence that this park held charms beyond Crater Lake.  While walking through its woods, I got to see the quite impressive Annie Creek Canyon and got to hear but not see what I later learned was Munson Creek tumbling over Duwee Falls, quite idyllic.  

Encouraged and emboldened, I headed towards East Rim Drive and stopped at one more observation point, still unable to see much of the Lake.  Driving north on East Rim Drive, I passed an electric sign that said something along the lines of Cloudsomething, Road Closed 1.5 miles.  Not able to fully read the sign as it flashed from one part of its message to the other, I figured the road would be closed just 1.5 miles ahead because smoke made further driving dangerous and would then be obliged to turn around.  

Driving far longer than 1.5 miles, I thought the electric sign was merely not updated and eventually reached Mount Scott, the highest peak of the park.  If it was a bit earlier in the day, I would have attempted to complete what the park map called a strenuous 5-mile hike.  Instead, I was content to take some photos, stare in awe, and then continue my drive north.  I then passed Cloudcap Overlook as I got closer to the end of the park loop.  Suddenly, I saw that the road was blocked for further travel due to road repairs and I finally realized the message the electric sign was conveying.  "Aw, shucks," I said, or something similar and was mentally prepared to drive back from whence I came.  I passed Rim Village and then stopped at an observation point on West Rim Drive to get one last look at this unfortunately hazy view of the lake before heading back, still in an okay mood.




And then I saw it.  THE LAKE, in its most pristine view, so blue because "other colors of the spectrum are absorbed.  Blue wavelengths (scatter and are) seen by human eyes," or so the park map tells me.  I spoke with a gentleman from Virginia (not Thomas Jefferson) standing next to me, who told me he was at the park all day as well, monitoring the smoke situation and learned there was about a three-hour window when Crater Lake would be clear.  I could see clear across the Lake and observed the lake from multiple vantage points, including a return trip to Rim Village, blessed to have had a road closed obliging me to turn around.  I thanked God, took in all the views I wanted, and then headed back to Bend.

Wednesday

Waking up, I felt listless and nauseous. As it turned out, I drove through some areas on my way back from Crater Lake where the smoke from the California wildfires had settled, including Bend itself, and had slept in a room where one of the windows was microscopically open.  The smoke had gotten to me.  As I had plans to enjoy trips to Eugene on Thursday and somewhere out of town on Friday, I was really worried I would not feel better.

The day was spent watching documentaries with John, including one on Mister Rogers that moved a bit slow for my taste and one on Reggie Jackson I felt was a bit uneven.  John and I also went food shopping at a wonderful store named Market of Choice.  As we locked his vehicle, John made it a point to hide my black backpack, explaining as he did at Trader Joe's on Sunday and at Lava Butte on Monday that Bend had a problem with people "smashing (windows) and grabbing" after seeing possible items of interest in cars, which surprised me after becoming aware of the median (re: a lot) price of homes in Bend.

The wildfire smoke was becoming an uncontrollable variable in planning the rest of my stay in Oregon and I had to check every day to see what part of Oregon was forecast to have a low Air Quality Index and head for that area the following day.

Thursday

Drove to relatively smoke-free Eugene in part to run Pre's Trail, named in honor of Steve Prefontaine, a legendary American record-setting runner who attended nearby University of Oregon and died tragically from an automobile accident at a young age.  There are two main ways to get to Eugene and John encouraged me to head down Rte. 97 and eventually make my way back up north via Route 58, and I was glad I did, driving past beautiful Crescent Lake and other natural wonders of the Willamette National Forest on wonderful mountainous roads winding up and down and around.

Prior to reaching Eugene, I stopped in Springfield, Oregon, the city for which the Springfield of The Simpsons fame is based, to have a hastily arranged lunch with a friend I met online years ago, who brought her teenage grandson, a very talented entertainer from the few clips of him she posts on social media.  My notoriously picky eating habits led, by a process of tragic elimination, to a (of all things) Five Guys restaurant where I had French fries and (for the first time in probably 5-7 years) a chocolate shake.  The regrettably short lunch went very well and afterwards my friend told me that of all the people she encountered through social media, I was the most normal.  I later told her, quoting Jim Cornette, that this was like being told I was the nicest guy in prison.  Other observations of note: later that day, I was told by her that her grandson was "fascinated" by my accent, which is a conglomeration of living on Long Island raised by an Italian father and a Mainer mother and my basic politeness of tone.  I was also told by her that I smelled really good and, perhaps, it was the laundry detergent I use?!  As I have never before been the recipient of such a compliment when cologne wasn't involved, even while using the Tide pods I use to wash my clothes, I made a mental note to purchase some Everyone 3-in-1 Soap, Citrus & Mint fragrance that my hosts had for the guest shower.

Using Google Maps, I headed to Alton Baker Park to run Pre's Trail.  Expecting a pastoral run with my running shoes gracing bark chips on the ground with beautiful trees to my left and right, I was first surprised at just how awful the park's port-a-potty was (the most disgusting I have encountered in a long, long time), how out in the open the trail itself was, and how nondescript the scenery was, unless you count the homeless man pushing his belongings in a shopping cart about two miles into my run.  The air seemed damp with no hint of sun.  I passed the University of Oregon football stadium and started improvising on what direction to go as I was trying to stretch the run out to eight miles to burn those empty calories I had consumed earlier.  Eventually, I timed my run so I would be at the stadium at eight miles.  When done, I took a few selfies and then headed back to take a .7 mile walk back to my car.  On my way, I saw the greenest snake I had ever seen in the grass to my right with its fangs sticking out.  I went, "Awww!!!," and wish Seymour had been with me.  Seymour was too scared to make the trip, reading about some of the crime in Eugene as told by my online friend and hearing some of the negative comments about the city from John.

I took an alternate, shorter "scenic" route back to Bend on the recommendation of John's wife, taking Route 126 through some nice forestry obscured a bit by thick smoke that obliged me to wear a KN-95 mask WHILE DRIVING, eventually passing through the interesting town of Sisters. whose main strip had an Old West feel.  Along the way, I did a lot of thinking.

Friday

The day's journey to avoid the smoke of the wildfires took me to Mt. Hood, a place I had visited with John back in 2011.  Making the trip north on Rt. 97 and first passing through desert lands with an Old West feel and then beautiful forests as I approached the mountain, I realized that the appeal of Oregon for me was not necessarily the tourist attractions but the ambience I felt driving towards them.

I reached historic Timberline Lodge with Seymour in tow, prepared to enjoy the outdoors and hike somewhere.  Having made no preparations prior, I simply decided to climb up Mt. Hood as high as possible without having a specific trail to guide me.  I tried to follow what seemed like somewhat of a beaten path, trying not to slip as I was wearing running shoes that did not have the sturdiest traction and with Seymour continuously trying to wriggle out of my backpack in an attempt to hunt native wildlife.  Eventually, I made Seymour pose for a selfie with me near the building for the mountain's Magic Mile Chair Lift and, as I felt myself slipping down the mountain while trying to take our picture, I was startled by someone above me on the ski lift asking if the snake was real.  "No," I lied, took the selfie, and continued my trek upward, eventually climbing well past the end of the ski lift, meaning I was well past 7000' in elevation.  About 1.5 miles into my climb, I could no longer see a clear beaten path forward.  Looking down at just how I far had climbed, not having the most appropriate footwear, remembering how steep parts of this journey was and having a legit fear of climbing down things, I saw no one had gone higher than me, proved whatever stupid point I was trying to prove to myself, and decided to descend.  Hardly tired and hardly thirsty, I nonetheless descended very slowly, as if I was gently stepping on glass at times because of my trepidation.  I eventually made it down to the base, took a brief 1.5 mile walk on the Pacific Coast Trail, and then explored Timberline Lodge, gladdened to have found Huckleberry Jam at a gift shop.  I do not even like jelly, but I love Mark Twain and so bought a jar.




On the way back, I stopped at a Chevron in Redmond, Oregon to fill my tank.  Regular fuel was $4.79 a gallon, easily a $1.00/gallon more than in Delaware.

Saturday

I no longer had my rental car, John had to work, so I spent the morning with John's wife Melissa, walking to a local farmer's market.  We got in line to get fruits and vegetables from a popular local vendor, and I was glad to serve a purpose by carrying a portion of Melissa's purchases.  I was worried about being a burden, but Melissa seemed to enjoy walking with me to the various vendors as I enjoyed the ambience of a true farmer's market.  Organic goods?  Check.  Craftspeople with soaps, art, and candles?  Check.  The stereotypical angelic female singing in a lilting voice while playing an acoustic guitar?  Check.  Delicious homemade slices of pie?  Well, there was pie to be had and I bought two slices, but...

Melissa and I walked back to the house and while she made various salads with her purchases, I went for a 9.4 mile run at a location she recommended, not quite following the paths suggested, but instead finding some nice dirt trails and climbing some nice hills.  

After running and showering, Melissa offered to take me around the main part of Bend, knowing I was on a quest to buy a green shirt that said Oregon and to shop for souvenirs.  We went window shopping in many stores and, when entering one that I would never have entered myself, felt a bit like a husband who was about to lose a lot of money as his wife goes on a spending spree.  When strategically appropriate, I indicated to the various sales ladies at the various stores that I was just the best friend of her husband and would implicitly not be involved in any $500.00 art purchases to be contemplated.  

There were some very nice things to buy (re: expensive) in other stores such as coo-coo clocks made in Germany and athletic gear from a Swedish manufacturer, but I made no purchases and, as we headed back to the car, asked if we had time for me to see what, if any, chess books were in the nearby Deschutes Public Library.  We did. The geek in me dashed upstairs and was stunned to learn that this library did NOT follow the conventions of the Dewey Decimal System, instead confusingly clustering books by subject!  Eventually, after a search that took too long, I found what books they had, and we left.

Shortly after we reached the house, John came home and the three of us took a walk to a local pizzeria.  The slices I ate, despite having a bit too much garlic in the sauce, were quite passable as non-New York slices go.  We sat outside the restaurant, had a nice conversation on a pleasant evening, and headed home.

Sunday

John and I drove in the morning to hike Tumalo Mountain.  One thing I learned from beginning this hike, as well as earlier climbs up Lava Butte and Mount Hood is that I get tired at the beginning and talk as if I am trying to catch my breath and then, as I become accustomed to the hike, start to get stronger.  Halfway through the hike I was walking with vigor and carrying on a conversation without a hint of fatigue.  Even John, an experienced hiker, was starting to betray a bit of breathing as he verbally responded to whatever stupidity I was saying.  At this point, I had earned John's buy-in that, yes, I did run up Lava Butte on Monday without stopping.  Eventually, we reached the top of Tumalo Mountain, joined about five minutes later by two women who we had earlier passed.  The brunette of the two was quite fetching, easily the second most attractive woman I saw during my entire Oregon trip.  We took pictures of them with their cell phones and vice versa.

Fears of the descent followed, and I was tip toeing down at various points until the mountain started to plateau and, about a mile down, it happened.  A large contingent of young women in the same sports uniforms were climbing up the wooded path we were headed down, first a group of ten or so and then 15 yards or so away, another ten or so, and then another group of ten or so, and finally the adults who must have organized what some rudimentary research showed was a local school volleyball team on a team building exercise.  More than one of them were bemoaning the difficulty of the walk.  This entire scene was so out-of-place, so bizarre, and it paradoxically reminded me of the movie Gettysburg when the 15th Alabama climbs the wooded hills from nowhere attempting to storm the position of the 20th Maine on the left flank of the Union Army on Little Round Top.  In fact, I would have been barely more surprised if it WAS the 15th Alabama that had approached us.  

We made it to the bottom, and I took pictures of scenery that interested me before driving to Mt. Bachelor, the mountain I had really wanted to hike.  John and I spent some time there, then drove back to Bend first to walk around the Deschutes River, and then to get some ice cream.  We watched some MST3K shorts, then went for a run.  John stopped after running about a mile and I continued, which turned out to be a terrible mistake.  I did not realize that the air quality had taken a drastic turn for the worse in the hour or so I was inside until I was about three plus miles or so from the house.  I put my COVID mask on and headed back but felt really off after I finished.  The middle of my chest was hurting, and I was feeling nauseous and a bit woozy.  I ate some dinner and then watched a movie titled Jesus Revolution (starring Kelsey Grammar) with John and Melissa, which I did not realize was based on a true story until the end.

The chest discomfiture did not subside during the night.  I woke up after roughly 200 minutes of sleep, then tossed and turned in a vain attempt to find the optimal position for comfort, never resuming my sleep.

Monday:

Plans to see the Lava Cave were cancelled by me because I was still feeling out-of-sorts, although the chest pain was starting to subside.  John and I continued a nearly four-decade tradition of audio skits that I hope will never see the light-of-day in my lifetime.  Unfortunately, I was not able to deliver my parts with the over-the-top verve needed.  The rest of the day was spent recovering.

Seymour and I arrived at Redmond Airport to begin my flight home quite early, feeling somewhat better but concerned how my nausea and chest would fare even on the brief first leg of my flight to Seattle. The first leg went well, with Seymour and I having two seats all to ourselves and I having no issues.  However, we had a three-hour layover in Seattle.  I was concerned about the lack of food options as I strolled down what I thought was the entire corridor of the airport.  Worried I'd be starving, I went to a small store, bought a Betty Lou's Cherry Fruit Bar, which the packaging promised "Tastes Like a Piece of Pie," and a pack of Justin's Peanut Butter Cups for at least some nourishment, and asked the woman at the register if there was any place in this complex to get pizza.  She told me to try Pellino's and gave me walking directions, which I followed.  After making a right turn down a corridor I had overlooked, I suddenly saw plenty of dining options, souvenir and convenience stores, and plenty of room to sit in a two-story wing brightly lit by the sun.  It was as if the heavens had opened.  I found Pellino's and had the best Margherita pizza I've had in a long time.  The crust was perfectly crisp, and the ingredients were fine.  I spent some time eating, charging my phone, and reading a biography on Nathaniel Greene, the American Revolutionary War general for whom the city of Greensboro, NC is rightfully named, and headed to the waiting area for my flight.  When the call for the flight came, we got in line, scanned my ticket, walked past, said a brief prayer, and got on my flight.  

One of the stewardesses gave the presentation on safety and then requested that no passengers eat anything with peanuts because one passenger had a "severe" peanut allergy.  Recalling my Justin's Peanut Butter Cups purchase, I muttered, "aw, shucks," or words to that effect, with only the "piece of pie" and some Cheez-Its John had packed for me for the trip.  The flight to Philadelphia itself was a red-eye where I was supposed to arrive at 6:15 AM Eastern time.  I slept most of the way, diligently keeping my cell phone and wallet secured.  We landed on time, got off of the plane, was prepared to eat my peanut butter cups waiting for my luggage, remembered that the allergic passenger might be in my vicinity, and held out.  Thankfully, there were no passengers allergic to mouse squirrels, so Seymour was just fine.








Wednesday, November 10, 2021

SUNRISE IN YORK

 I hadn't taken a vacation lasting more than two days in over two years and hadn't been to Maine since 2017.  Plans last year for an extended Abraham Lincoln pilgrimage to Illinois, Indiana, and Kentucky were derailed by COVID-19 and panic set in that 2021 would come and go with me once again taking my remaining use-or-lose vacation time at the end of the year in the least ideal weather.  I concocted an itinerary where I would travel to both Vermont and Maine in the fall during a period where the weather still allowed for shorts, the season for some colorful leaves, and the timeframe for seasonal restaurants to still be open for me to devour my beloved Maine fried clams.  Arrangements were made for my cats and turtles to be cared for and, once again, my stepsons Alvin and Alburt would accompany me as I packed my Subaru (not the first car I ever owned, BTW, would-be hackers) and headed up to Bennington, VT Wednesday afternoon.   

Day 1

After a last-minute oil change and wiper replacement (more anon) and a trip to Trader Joe's to stack up on some marginally healthy snacks, the journey began.  I expected my GPS to somehow take me somewhere through NYC and eventually get me to Bennington.

Imagine my surprise when the directions directed me to get off on Exit 11 to go west on the Garden State Parkway and take the exit to Route 17-North which, thankfully, got me straight to the NYS Thruway while circumventing NYC.  The ride itself was pleasant enough, traveling north through the Catskills and brought back memories of trips through here in my younger days.  However, the desolate feel of the drive, the ebbing of sunlight, and the antiquated feel of the rest areas I zipped by gave off an unsettled vibe that something bad was about to happen.

At a rest stop to fill up the fuel tank in the middle of (it seemed) nowhere, I was solicited for money by an unusually young and attractive female panhandler with an oddly faint voice.  Thankfully, I survived unscathed.  Later, after a bathroom break at yet another nondescript rest stop, I returned to my car to find that a souvenir Washington Capitals license place given to me by a kindly, thoughtful old woman at work about 25 years ago during a Secret Santa exchange was torn from the front of my vehicle.  I wasn't even mad about this, but was quite saddened.  However, I was determined not to get too down and I drove through Troy, NY and eventually got to my cozy room at the charming Bennington Motor Inn.  I saw a beautiful moon and then my stepsons and I had a good night's sleep.

Day 2

Next morning, I had a wonderfully hilly five-mile run that took me past the church where lies the immortal poet Robert Frost and the Bennington Battlefield Monument obelisk, then showered, and prepared for my day.  After a quick stop at the gift shop by the Monument and a "breakfast" of an apple cider donut and maple-flavored soft serve ice cream (not as, well, maple-y as it tasted when I was in Bennington in 2019) at the Apple Barn, we started our ride.  A friend asked if it was starting to look like fall and I, at first, said "Surprisingly, not that much," then, as we entered the mountains that gave Vermont its state nickname, had to revise myself, "I apparently lied" as I saw wonderful colors, old churches, small shops in small towns, and other New England delights as I made my way to the Calvin Coolidge Homestead at Plymouth Notch in central Vermont after a brief stop in Weston, VT at the famous Vermont Country Store.

Although I love American history and have had memorized the U.S. presidents since my elementary school days, I have to admit that the main appeal for visiting the early home of our 30th president was his wife, First Lady Grace Coolidge.  As Amity Shlaes writes early on in her biography of Silent Cal, Grace was "one of the most beautiful first ladies" and, to my red-blooded American male eyes, perhaps the one with the best figure, at least according to my non-outlandish sensibilities with an appreciation of women who fit her description.  Grace was also one of the more outgoing and beloved First Ladies of her time ala Dolley Madison, very loyal to her husband and classy, and, most endearing, took a raccoon given as a Thanksgiving gift to be eaten and made it a White House pet.  If I were alive in the 1920's instead of the 2020's, Grace would have been the female celebrity to whom I would have been most attracted.

The Coolidge Homestead itself is nestled in the beautiful, colorful central Vermont mountains, part of a very small village where, if looking for a second when no cars or people with cell phones are around, you can transport yourself to the 19th century.  Among the highlights of the town are 1) the Florence Gilley General Store, open since the 1850's, attached to which is the bedroom where President Coolidge was born on July 4th, 1872, 2) the Calvin Coolidge Homestead itself where Coolidge grew up and features the exact small table in the exact room where Coolidge's father (a notary) administered the Oath of Office to President Coolidge in August 1923 when news of President Harding's death reached Plymouth Notch, 3) The Plymouth Cheese Factory built by Calvin's father John in 1890, and 4) the Plymouth Cemetery where the very modest headstones mark the final resting places of Calvin and Grace Coolidge.

I definitely plan to visit the Coolidge Homestead in the future.  Each year, there is a Coolidge 5K running race and, barring injury or happenstance, I plan to enter next year's event.

After visiting the nearby (walking distance) very modest gravesites of President Coolidge, Grace, and generations of Coolidges, the boys and I left Plymouth Notch.  I prepared to cut straight through New Hampshire and stay overnight at some motel in Augusta, ME or Belfast, ME.  However, with no network connection and, therefore, no GPS, I used an atlas I had the foresight to bring and was able to see a path to Route 4 via Route 100 and....of course, there was road construction preventing this.  After rerouting, I drove by some picturesque lakes, mountains, and forests, through Woodstock, VT (stopping at a co-op with whose clientele I found appealing), and eventually got to Lebanon, NH where cell phone reception finally kicked in and both GPS systems I had routed me southeast all the way to Portsmouth, NH and then up the I-95 to Maine.



Tired, I called my cousin and stayed at his house in Windham, ME and we stayed up until after midnight talking about his family, our anticlimactic careers, sports, etc.  And no politics.

Day 3

Went on an early morning run through the neighborhood where my cousin lived and ran on a nice dirt trail at Tassel Top Park, which has a beach of sorts for Lake Sebago.  Heading back to my cousin's house right at about the preplanned five mile mark, I decided to do "just a little bit more," somehow got lost, and ended up running far more than planned.

I drove up the Maine Turnpike, bought a shirt at a Kohl's in Augusta because I realized earlier that morning that I had packed the wrong black shirt, and then headed east on Route 3.  First destination: McLaughlin's in Lincolnville Beach to get the fried clams I had waited four years to eat where I got two shocks.  The first was the fact that the rubber on my left windshield wiper was suddenly loose.  Before leaving for vacation, I had the auto dealer change the right windshield wiper because the rubber on it was loose.  Did they give me a new windshield wiper like I thought I bought, or just switched them around?  

The more significant shock was the cost of the fried clams at McLaughlin's, $16.95 plus tax for a half a pint.  "Wow!," I thought, "they are really taking advantage of tourists!" as I bought a half pint for myself and one for my stepsons.  Anyway, this was an appetizer as I prepared to head up to Route 15 to go to Bagaduce's in Penobscot, ME, where I would get to eat delicious fried clams and onion rings cooked in a way apparently unique to Maine sitting at a table overlooking the bay.  A quick Google search showed Bagaduce's would be open until 6:30 PM, so I had plenty of time to get there.

The quaint, pastoral churches and the peaceful New England remoteness we drove by in Vermont and Maine had zero influence in preventing me from unleashing a barrage of curses after reaching Bagaduce's only to find that it was closed for the season. "%#*&!!!!!!!! Update your (further expletives) page already!!!!"  I ended up paying about $40.00 for a large basket of fried clams and onion rings at a take-out stand in Deer Isle.  After my first-ever trip to the town of Castine, site of one of the worst defeats suffered by the Colonials during the American Revolution, we drove to my aunt's house in Deer Isle overlooking the ocean (it is as nice and peaceful as it reads), where we were to stay for the next two nights.  My aunt and uncle and I discussed a variety of things.  I learned that the exorbitant price of the fried clams was no accident.  The waters in the surrounding areas have gotten warmer due to global warming, making clams and lobsters scarce in the area and very, very expensive.  (I still have an article from the Bangor Daily News where this was reported, but could now feel the impact directly).  I also learned from my aunt that Daniel O' Donnell was virtually the greatest-ever singer.  Pop, rock, country, folk, opera, ballads, gospel, rap for all I know, he can sing it all wonderfully, etc.  Needless to say, I was a bit underwhelmed once I saw him perform for the first time.

Day 4

I learned more about the Deer Isle/Stonington area that morning.  I learned that this small island was a COVID-19 hotspot where masking was now mandatory for all stores.  (I was gratified to see that, even in this remote part of the country, everyone was complying when I went to a few stores.)  Even more sad, I learned that there was a crisis shortage of nurses' aides, in part because of the pandemic, so much so that the nursing home where my grandmother lived her final years was closing for good and its inhabitants were already being moved to Bangor and Belfast, about an hour away, which would mean that loved ones would not be visiting as much, a casualty of COVID-19 not commonly reported.

After leaving my aunt's house, we headed to Ellsworth (gateway to Bar Harbor and Acadia National Park) to the Big Chicken Barn, a huge antique and used books/vintage magazines store.  For some reason, my stepsons were VERY, VERY enthusiastic when I mentioned going to the Chicken Barn, disconcertingly so, to be honest.  Once inside, I noticed that many patrons were not masked.  As I was staying as a guest at the home of two fully vaccinated, yet senior citizens, I did not want to take any chances and got out of there as fast as possible.  My stepsons were very down when I got back to my car, although they did not explain why.

We next went to Bar Harbor.  Rainy, overcrowded, 90% of the people unmasked, no parking- time to abort mission.  To salvage the day, we took Route 1 up to Winter Harbor and to Schoodic Point, a lovely, untainted, remote-feeling adjunct of Acadia National Park full of ocean scenery and pine trees about 45 minutes away.  Driving back from Schoodic Point, we stopped in Hancock, ME at Yu (not a typo) Takeout and, for $60.00 total, each had delicious fried clams and golden French fries.

Heading back to Deer Isle, I told my kids we were going to stop at Caterpillar Hill and, again disconcertingly, they got awfully excited.  I pulled up and the weather was too foggy to see the Deer Isle-Sedgwick Bridge, or much of anything.  Bummer.  I was disappointed, but my kids took it really hard, again without explaining why.

Day 5

One of my goals for the vacation was to see a sunrise on the ocean in Maine.  Unfortunately, heavy rains conspired against this during my stay at Deer Isle.  I did not even run either day I was in Deer Isle, in part because of the weather and in part because of my aunt telling me that coyotes are in the area quite often.  They pose no threat so don't let that deter you from running, my aunt said.  Na'ah, that's okay.  I'm good- don't need any Acme weaponry aimed at me.  After a Sunday afternoon lunch with my cousins and their kids where this non-meat, non-beef, non-poultry eater ate peas and corn and toast (precisely the cuisine I came to Maine for), I went to Stonington to visit my grandparents' graves, to sit in Stonington's harbor to watch the boats, and to stock up on Humpty Dumpty Barbeque Chips at the Burnt Cove Market.  I then began my trek south with plans to go to Salem, Massachusetts the following day to see the House of the Seven Gables.  Driving on the fly, with no particular place to go, a last-minute plan to stay at Sands By the Sea Motel in York Beach, Maine RIGHT ACROSS THE BLOCK FROM THE OCEAN was hatched, and this turned out to be the highlight of the vacation.  After taking an unnecessarily circuitous route there (I realized afterward my GPS was set to avoid tolls), I pulled in just in time to enjoy a beautiful moon with the beach all to myself, Alvin and Alburt off to themselves to do Heaven Knows What.

Day 6

Learning that sunrise was at 6:36 AM, I set my alarm for 5:45 AM.  Being a novice in enjoying sunrises, never having seen one on the ocean in my life, I presumed it would be pitch dark and I would eventually start to see light.  Stepping outside and already seeing shards of daylight, I hurried outside in a panic and, except for one older man on a bench and a woman sitting in her car, I had this beautiful beach all to myself!  I was transfixed watching, waiting, seeing seagulls flying as the morning got lighter and lighter and, finally at the appointed time, this small yellow ball rose up from the water.  It was an emotional, breathtaking, spiritual experience for me, a moment I cannot wait to repeat, although company would have been nice.



I stayed on the beach until past 7:15 AM and Alvin and Alburt, all smiles and smelling like fish and the ocean, came up to me.  They told me how thankful they were that we came to York Beach and then explained that they were so disappointed that the Big Chicken Barn in Ellsworth had books and not chickens and Caterpillar Hill had smog and trees instead of caterpillars.  Apparently, global warming did not prevent them from feasting on some poor sea creature(s).

Hungry, I went to a small local eatery named Sandy's where I had a delicious fried eggs and cinnamon French toast breakfast.  The waitress was wonderful.  After a visit to the famous Nubble Lighthouse that screams New England about a mile or so down the road, I headed down to Salem, passing through Kittery, ME, birthplace of The Association's Russ Giguere along the way.

Salem was a major disappointment, far removed from the recollections I had of it from my previous visit there back in 2000.  However, nestled in this mini metropolis of crowded, uninteresting streets of nondescription, was the House of the Seven Gables, inspiration for the Nathaniel Hawthorne novel of the same name.  I paid $20.00 to take the guided tour and, although I really liked the tour guide, the history of the house, Hawthorne's birthplace (a house within the confines of the site, moved from its original location a few blocks away), and the other visuals at the site were just not interesting, although it was great to walk up the narrow, winding secret staircase inside the House of the Seven Gables.  After the tour, I walked around the grounds, then chatted up the tour guide as she was sitting at one of the stations, walked around the grounds some more, then got my ass out of Salem before rush hour and got ready to head home.

Thankfully, the trip back was uneventful, with the usual highlights of past New England trips when traveling on the major roads: 1) stop at Papa Gino's at a Massachusetts Turnpike rest area for a slice of pizza, 2) drive past WWE headquarters in Stamford, CT on the I-95, 3) take the Cross Bronx Expressway over the George Washington Bridge, 4) suddenly realize I have to pee 1/2 way down the New Jersey Turnpike and stop at a rest area to take care of that and get a bite to eat, 5) wondering will this Turnpike ever end, and 6) saying to myself, "Damn, now I'm back in Delaware," and realizing my escape to another world has ended.

I never did wear the shirt I bought at Kohl's.


Tuesday, March 23, 2021

WHAT I DESPISE ABOUT SOCIAL MEDIA


          One of the more annoying phenomena of modern times is the need for more and more Americans to come across as witty, smart, and funny, a desire that increases exponentially in the age of social media.  Unfortunately, this yearning to impress is problematic for the constituents of a country whose creativity today as a collective whole resembles that of an eight-year old who repeats the same thing over and over because it got a laugh the first time.  Therefore, on social media (especially, but not limited to Twitter), the inevitable use and reuse and reuse and reuse of what this author calls internet clichés rears its ugly head, a particularly vexing annoyance for anyone who appreciates originality and strives to be a true individual thinker.  Below are some of the clichés that have passed their sell-by dates long before their users became the two thousandth person typing this onto their cell phones, along with some unasked-for commentary by yours truly:

"This!" Usage of this! followed by the sharing of a link or someone else's tweet or comment means you apparently need someone to articulate what you, yourself, are incapable of expressing.

"Asking for a friend" Of course.  Your friend is too shy to create a Twitter profile under an alias and is, therefore, quite grateful to you for asking this question on social media.

"That's it- that's the tweet"  That's it- conclusive proof that you have nothing to offer.

"This.Is.Not.Normal."  Correct.  Normally, this.is.to.be.written.as.one.sentence.

"Let me fix that headline for you."  No, thank you.  I created my own headline.  You can write your own.  On second thought, why don't you swim with piranhas to scratch that off of your bucket list?

"This is gold."  I can assure you that, 99 out of 100 times, it is probably not gold.  Or silver. Or bronze.  Probably, non-biodegradable plastic at best, non-biodegradable plastic that smells like an unchanged litter box in most instances.

"Winning the Internet."  Okay, great.  What's my prize?

"Breaking the Internet."  I can't even...

"My (say, 2020 COVID Pandemic) Bingo Card did not have (insert stupid event here) on it."  When this author sees this one recycled constantly, he wonders whether each person who uses it believes that no prior person has come across this.

"Hold my beer."  How about holding onto......This!

"I'm just going to leave this here."  Quite symbolic of the collective American attitude towards recycling.

"I don't know who needs to hear this."  First, you're typing this, not speaking, so you really do not know who needs to see this.  Second, if you do not know who needs to "hear" this, then shut up and proceed no further.

"I'm not crying, you're crying."  No, really, it's just you crying.  Seeing a clip of a U.S. solider serving overseas surprising their daughter (it's ALWAYS a daughter, never a son) at their high school or college graduation loses its emotional impact after the 72nd time seeing it.

"But here we are."  Actually, I am over here, and you are where you are.

"I will wait."  Patience is a virtue.  I respect that about you. If your waiting means you will hold your breath until you get a response, so much the better.

"History will not be kind" or some variation of this, usually followed by some liberal admonishment of Republicans doing alleged evil on the national stage.  Like "this is not who we are," "history..." is a cliche overused these days by liberals that means zero upon analysis.  Please consult this author's all-time favorite poem, Shelley's "Ozymandias," for more information.  Also, Republicans committing evil are worried about the accumulation of power and wealth on earth while they are alive and not about posterity.  (Obviously, their actions also support the idea that, public statements to the contrary, they also do not believe in an afterlife.)

"Your daily reminder that," every day, people will use the same lines over and over.

           Like new COVID mutations, new cliches are sprouting as we speak that have not yet become commonplace.  Meanwhile, thoughtful people have to deal with  "(Person) is the (Person) of (Person)" (Sample seen on Twitter: "Scott Baio is the Tim Allen of Chuck Woolerys"), "Remember when (event that did not happen or some false notion)?  Oh wait, (what actually did happen or what actually is allegedly true)," and a particularly insidious one where a Tweeter types a few words, then types the words ("checks notes") in parenthesis, and then finishes their thought, as if Americans today have the intellectual motivation to actually take notes on anything.

         What to do about this scourge?  In his 1997 book Braindroppings, George Carlin titled a section "More general lame overused expressions for which the users ought to be slain" (his use of lowercase, not mine), followed by such nightmares as "tell us how you really feel," "don't try this at home," "what's wrong with this picture?," etc.  Now, despite my piranha line above, I do NOT agree that people who regurgitate internet cliches should pay with their lives.  However, I will say....THIS!:  those (checks notes) who resort to their usage are lazy hacks, followers whoring for "likes," and not those who will move philosophy or critical commentary forward.  

        I'm just going to leave this here.

Saturday, May 9, 2020

LET THE MEME BUYER BEWARE


          Memes can be fun!  When created with responsibility and forethought, memes can also be a visually appealing medium to drive home a point using logic or humor, educating and delighting with the brevity of a picture more efficiently than an essay or video ever could.  However, unfortunately, too many "informative" memes posted today in the netherworld of social media are, at best, half-truths not fully vetted, using tenuous or disemboweled logic to the extent that reasonable, thoughtful people simply move on to the next post. However, some memes are so absurd, so fatuous, and incomprehensible that even this author takes pause and, when the meme emphasizes a political point to which blind acquiescence can result in great harm to the greater public welfare, it's time to sharpen the daggers.

          Unobjective, misleading or outright false memes being shared from one person to another is not the exclusive domain of only one political point-of-view.  For instance, a meme shared on social media by more than one friend claimed that Donald Trump told People Magazine in 1998 that "If I were to run (for President), I'd run as a Republican.  They're the dumbest group of voters in the country.  They believe everything on Fox News.  I could lie and they'd still eat it up.  I bet my numbers would be terrific."  When this author and others pointed out this meme (despite its plausibility) was blatantly false, even citing research, the memes remained on their social media pages.




           Another blatantly false post (not quite a meme) shared by more than one person on the Left was from an obvious parody account on Twitter of someone pretending to be ZM Willem-Alexander, King of the Netherlands (replete with a crown icon right next to the name!) that said, "Dear mister Trump.  You see this beautiful building?  It's the International Court of Justice in Our residency The Hague, the Netherlands.  It's waiting for you.  It might take a while. But it's waiting..."  The absurdity of an actual king of a first-world country posting such a message alone, to say nothing of the grammar (None of the original punctuation or capitalization- or lack thereof- of the faux post was altered by me) should have alerted most would-be post sharers, but when this writer told a friend who shared this on their social media page of its dubious origins, the response was, "Oh, well!"  The post stayed.



          However, it has been this author's experience that the majority of misleading, thoughtless posts come from the Right and the post that particularly made me pause was the following, which I guess is supposed to offer some type of commentary on press bias or something.  Let's break down this simple meme, listing some of the problems with it:




1. Timing:  The statistics (more on the veracity of these numbers in a moment) presented are virtually worthless, for they compare numbers for the United States near the end of the H1N1 virus pandemic to those at the onset of COVID-19.  Doing this to demonstrate some type of proportion to make a statement on press bias is intellectually dishonest, as no one could guess the final statistics of the corona virus at the time the meme was first crafted at or around March 10, 2020.

2. Lack of Logic: Presenting statistics that mathematically show the lethal potency of the very pandemic you're trying to downplay is rather myopic.  Highlighting numbers that demonstrate a fatality rate of only .0003695 for the pandemic you're trying to emphasize and then right above that offer numbers showing a fatality rate of 6.7% for the pandemic you're trying to minimize seems rather counterproductive to the point you're trying to make.


3. Panic Level, Part I: The quote "Swine flu sickened 57 million Americans," offered by the meme's creator to demonstrate that, during a pandemic, NBC News and other biased news agencies were using minimalist language to protect the Obama Administration, demonstrates nothing.  The quote in question was the headline of an online article that, in its body, gave a simple recitation of statistics and was not intended at all to be a definitive statement on either the public's or the media's attitudes on the H1N1 pandemic.   (Also, the sentence itself, when standing on its own, is not minimal at all.  Just read it in this paragraph, outside the context of the meme.)


4. Panic Level, Part II: The panic level of "Totally chill" during the H1N1 pandemic (although this assertion is not true- there are numerous stories that survive detailing public anxiety) versus the "Mass hysteria" at the onset of COVID-19 can also be explained in part by knowledege that, unlike the Obama Administration, it is understood by a majority of Americans that the current administration is totally incompetent and in way over their heads.  Time has certainly borne this out.  Just suggesting this as a possibility.  


5. Panic Level, Part III: Highlighting the quote "Swine flu sickened 57 million Americans" is pointless for another reason.  Is the meme's creator attempting to imply that, of all press coverage of the H1N1 virus circa 2009-10, there were no more foreboding quotes or headlines than this?  For a hilarious three minutes of right-wing media using minimalist language to downplay COVID-19, please do a YouTube search for The Daily Show's video "Saluting the Heroes of the Coronavirus Pandumbic," posted April 3, 2020.


6. Bogus Statistics: Never taking something at face value, this author attempted to verify the "22,469" number.  According to their website, the Center of Disease Control (CDC) estimated that 12,469 Americans died from the H1N1 virus based on a range of 8,888-18,306 possible deaths from the pandemic.  Why 12,469 and not the mean of 13,587 was used by the CDC is unknown to this author; that said, the 22,469 statistic is simply made up.  In response to the Right's inevitable complaint that adding 10,000 to the estimated total accounts for all the unreported U.S. H1N1 deaths, one most also hold U.S. COVID-19 statistics to that same liberal standard.


          The only things honest about this meme are its colors and the grammar.  

          Three days (3/13/2020) after this first meme was created and posted, a statistically more accurate meme citing the aforementioned 12,469 U.S. H1N1 deaths, 1,329 U.S. COVID-19 cases and 38 U.S. COVID-19 deaths graced Facebook, with the NBC News headline replaced by the unsupported assertion, "Do you all see how the media can manipulate your life?"  Even this more accurate post was flagged by Facebook in its half-hearted efforts to combat misinformation.  Unfortunately, what is relentlessly accurate are CDC figures as of May 8, 2020:  1,248,040 U.S. COVID-19 cases resulting in 75,477 U.S. COVID-19 deaths.  How many of these lives could have been saved if the COVID-19 pandemic was taken more seriously at the onset instead of being downplayed for transparent political purposes will, unfortunately, never be known.  Let the meme buyer beware.


Wednesday, April 8, 2020

I WANT MY HAND SANITIZER!!!!!!!!!

   
     Shortly after the onset of the Trump Administration, I found myself on a Facebook thread reading a question posed by an apparent Trump supporter in response to some liberal overemoting on a topic lost to memory that asked, in essence, "How has Trump becoming president affected YOU negatively?," and then went on to say that, macro issues aside, is it really so bad having Trump as president if YOUR life hasn't changed for the worse?  Seeing the concept of evaluating an issue or action solely on its personal impacts, I thought, was the perfect description of the 21st century Republican.  You now, Dick Cheney caring about Gay Rights because one of his daughters came out or rich Republicans who care not a whit about the environment except in their own backyard, etc.

     My mind involuntarily harkened back to these thoughts when I first read the story of Matt Colvin, a Tennessee man who, the day after the news broke of the first American death from COVID-19, decided with his brother to capitalize on the forthcoming tragic pandemic and anticipated panic by buying approximately 18,000 bottles of hand sanitizer in the surrounding Kentucky and Tennessee areas with intentions of selling their wares on Amazon for highly inflated prices.  The price gougers were stopped by Jeff Bezos' evil monolith after 300 bottles were already sold at an obscene profit.  The subsequent national outcry over this and stories of others in Pennsylvania and Canada doing the same wicked (to be blunt) thing shamed Mr. Colvin into donating the remaining approximately 17,700 bottles for the public good.

     All's well that ends well, one might incorrectly say, but where was the similar national public outcry when news stories broke out publicizing the skyrocketing, price gouging costs of insulin brands such as Levemir, Novolog, Lantus, and Humalog?  I mean, after all, while one can debate the effectiveness of hand sanitizer alone as a weapon against COVID-19, there is a direct causal relationship between insulin and life for diabetics.  And then I recalled, aha!, the hand sanitizer story sparked outrage because the entire nation as a whole were fruitlessly searching for bottles of it.  They could relate to this shortage- it affected THEM.  Whereas, the need for insulin does not affect everyone, even indirectly.



     What was equally troubling was the number of social media posts that emphasized that COVID-19 was, in general, nothing to fear because most of us are relatively healthy enough to ultimately combat it.  More than one post emphasized the elderly and/or those with heart disease, diabetes, chronic lung disease, or issues with the immune system as the people who really needed to worry about COVID-19.  Very rarely did these posts not stop there to DEMAND (my emphasis) that all of us need to take precautions to not contract COVID-19, not just for self-preservation, but to ensure that we do not pass it on to those more vulnerable.  Most just left it at the observation that YOU are most likely not vulnerable, a sort of perverse combination of forces of Darwinism and Bentham utilitarianism at play.  The pre-crisis John Stuart Mill would be proud (I can't knock Mill for Wordsworth's poetry being the catalyst for Mill overcoming his crisis- the Beach Boys' Endless Summer had the same impact on me during a personal crisis many moons ago).

     Oh, back to the thesis statement-less, first paragraph:  were the toilet paper hoarding, hand sanitizing price gouging, and strictly self-preservation COVID-19 perspectives examples of a solely a Republican mindset?  No, snatches from all ends of the political spectrum are exhibiting this behavior.  With a broad brush is this, then, an American mindset?  This writer doesn't know and cannot quite make out what the ghost of John F. Kennedy is trying to say, but it sounds like, "Ask not what your country can do for you, ask what you can do for you."

Saturday, March 9, 2019

Why Boston is the Most Successful Sports City


While whittling away my existence on Twitter back in December, I came across a tweet from Keith Olbermann stating


“Yankees 27

+ NFL Giants 8

+ Rangers 4

+ Mets 2

+ Knicks 2

+ Jets 1

= 44 


Shall we add in the ex-NY teams?  Dodgers (1), MLB Giants (8)?  Make it 53?” and then added, in blunt fashion, “You guys are morons.”


This, as my scanning eyes would soon confirm, was in response to a picture tweeted by Joe Giza of a Dunkin’ Donuts sign in Boston stating, “Boston Runs on Dunkin’, Hard Work, The Sweat From 37 Championships #Titletown!  And the Tears of New Yorkers.”


Now, setting aside the fact that the New York (MLB) Giants won five and not eight World Series titles before moving to San Francisco following the 1957 season (the other three were won in 2010, 2012, and 2014) and that Olbermann did not mention the Boston (Miracle) Braves’ World Series title in 1914, 44 championships certainly beats 37, no? (To say nothing of 50 (not 53) beating 38.)

I obviously assumed New York would be the more successful sports town but, as is my wont, decided to try to come up with an interesting counterpoint.  After rudimentary research, I tweeted back that Boston was ahead 27-19 in championships won after Olbermann was born (January 27, 1959).  Looking further, I noticed that it was only going back to 1940 (before Citizen Kane was released, before Teddy Ballgame batted .406, before the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbor) when New York pulls decisively ahead of Boston in the championship count, 31-30, (or 1947, if you include the Brooklyn Dodgers 1955 and NY Giants 1954 World Series titles) to get to the ultimate 44-37 totals (or 50-38 totals, if you include the relocated franchises.)


And, yet, despite the 44-37 (or 50-38) difference, Boston is still the more successful sports town when one considers how many championships have been won as a percentage of opportunities each city had.  As of December 31, 2018, the New York Yankees have played in all 115 seasons that a World Series has been played (excluding the 1994 strike year- I’ll get to the non-1904 World Series later), the Mets in 56 seasons (as of 1962), the NFL Giants in 94 seasons since 1925, the New York Jets in 53 seasons from Super Bowl I on, the New York Knicks in 72 seasons of NBA Championships from 1947 on, the Brooklyn Nets in six seasons from 2012, and the New York Rangers in 92 seasons from the 1926-27 season, which means that New York teams in the four major sports won only 44 championships out of 488 opportunities, or 9.016%.  Contrast this with Boston, who won 37 championships (Boston Red Sox: 9 World Series titles, New England Patriots: 5 Super Bowls, Boston Celtics: 17 NBA Championships, Boston Bruins: 6 Stanley Cups) in only 334 opportunities (the Boston Red Sox played in the same 115 seasons as the Yankees, the New England Patriots in the same 53 seasons as the Jets, the Boston Celtics in the same 72 seasons as the Knicks, and the Boston Bruins in 94 seasons from the 1924-25 season), or 11.078%.


Adding the five World Series titles won by the New York Giants and the one Series won by Brooklyn does not help because you’re adding six titles, yes, but you are also adding 55 seasons for each team (50/598= 8.361%).  The gap narrows if you include the Boston Braves (1 title in 50 years before that franchise moved to Milwaukee), which Olbermann overlooked, but Boston still comes out ahead, 38/384= 9.896%.  And none of this even counts 1904, when the BOSTON baseball team should have been declared World Champions after the NEW YORK Giants refused to play them for the title!  


Of the cities with teams in all four major sports leagues, Boston is #1. (Postscript:  since the Olbermann tweet, the New England Patriots won Super Bowl LIII to end the 53rd season of Super Bowls, thus improving Boston’s superior winning percentage still further, franchise relocations or not.)

Tuesday, January 8, 2019

Donald Trump is My President



You may not like it.  As an environmentalist, I CERTAINLY do not like it, but it is an irrefutable fact that Donald J. Trump is our duly-elected U.S. President, and attempts by some on the Left (even two years later- I’m talking to you, Michael Moore) to delegitimize this by pointing out that Trump lost the popular vote are ultimately found wanting.

The Electoral College is delineated in Article 2, Section 1 and in the 12th Amendment to the U.S. Constitution and Donald Trump, by the only legal barometer both major parties were aware of prior to Election Day, earned 304 electoral votes versus the 227 won by Democratic Party nominee Hillary Clinton to win the presidency.  There are arguments for and against the Electoral College which I do not wish to rehash here.  Instead, I’d like to stress that one cannot repudiate a victory reached under the lawful rules both sides were playing under initially by pointing out that a different result could have been achieved using a different barometer.  

To demonstrate this, a Reddit user cited (in the Reddit user’s words) “a great analogy” from Rush Limbaugh’s November 14, 2016 show (a segment I heard live, by the way) that, predictably, is simple enough for his core audience to grasp but not subtle enough to truly drive the point home.  Rush recalled the classic 1960 baseball World Series when the heavily-favored New York Yankees (Mantle, Berra, Ford, Maris, Richardson, Howard, et al) were beaten by the Pittsburgh Pirates in seven games, despite outscoring the National League representatives 55-27 in the seven games.  Rush’s simple point is to say, hey, the ground rule to determine the World Series winner is the first team to win four games in a best-of-seven series and, if we change the rule post-Series to say, na’ah, let’s declare the Bronx Bombers (Hillary) the Series winner because they scored more runs in the Series than the Pirates (Trump).  A simple analogy, yes, but not “great” because strategy (What do I need to do to get to 270 electoral votes?) is ignored.



A better, deeper (for me) analogy would be to compare the 2016 Election to one single baseball game.  Current official baseball rules dictate the winner of a game to be the team that scores the most runs.  Usually, but not always, the baseball team (or presidential candidate) who gets the most hits (votes) wins the game (the election).  However, as five U.S. Presidential elections and countless baseball games show, the candidate (team) who gets the most votes (hits) does not always win the election (game).  Just as there is strategy involved in earning the most electoral votes (what are the swing states, and which are in play for us?  How do I allocate my time and resources?  What message do I craft to appeal to those states?) beyond winning the popular vote, there’s strategy to winning a baseball game beyond getting the most hits.  In some situations, laying down a sacrifice bunt or grounding out to the right side of the infield to advance a baserunner into better scoring position makes strategic sense, although you are giving up an out (in other words, a chance to get a hit).  Trying to hit a sacrifice fly to score a baserunner from third, although again giving up an opportunity for a hit, makes strategic sense.  Ordering a stolen base attempt to move a runner into scoring position is another strategy that, depending on circumstances, might make sense even though the subsequent opening of a base may lead to an intentional walk to the next hitter, thus “taking the bat out of their hands,” or the runner may even get thrown out, which means your team has one less opportunity to get a hit.  In these examples, a team is implementing strategies (and I can think of multiple others that would also apply to this analogy) to attempt to win in ways other than focusing on getting hits alone because they realize that hits alone do not ensure victory, just like getting the most popular votes ensures nothing.  It would be absurd for a team that wins 4 runs to 3 to have the result overturned because they were outhit 8-6.

So, anti-Trumpers:  please stop alluding to the popular vote!  Antiquated or not, the Electoral College determines our U.S. President and will continue to do so in perpetuity.  So, learn the lessons of the bitter 2016 defeat (which, if my Twitter feed is any indication, pundits on the Left have not yet fully grasped), draw the necessary conclusions as to why the Rust Belt states who decided the election favored the message of a scion whose businesses filed bankruptcy on multiple occasions over the message (or lack thereof) of the more progressive party, cease with the stupid “Drumpf” stuff, and win an election.