Thursday Night Big Ten Buckeyes

It’s August, it’s Thursday night, and the Ohio State Buckeye football team is playing a Big Ten game — and on the road, no less.

This sort of thing isn’t supposed to happen to one of the most tradition-rich teams in college football, but this year all of the tradition goes out the window.  No more first-game cupcake, with Ohio State pulverizing one of the directional schools that are served up annually as fodder for the big boys.  No, this year we’re starting the season in earnest, with a game at Indiana this week and Oklahoma visiting the Horseshoe next week.   That’s called jumping into the season with both feet.  Sure, Indiana isn’t one of the Big Ten’s recognized powerhouses, but it’s a conference game, and Indiana has played the Buckeyes very tough indeed in recent years.  And all indications are that Indiana and its fans are pumped to the max for this game.  Indeed, their coach is calling the most significant home opener in Indiana history.

As a Buckeye traditionalist, the idea of Ohio State playing football in August — much less on a Thursday night, much less against a Big Ten team — rankles me, but the sport of college football is changing and the scheduling is changing with it.  Even though it’s August, I’ll be watching with interest tonight, to see if head coach Urban Meyer and his staff can once again blend new players with more experienced upperclassmen, replace a slew of talented Buckeyes who have moved on to the pros, and make another run at the college football playoff.

But Big Ten football, for the Buckeyes, in August?  I still shudder at the thought.

A New Approach To Hurricane Names

The hurricane that struck Houston this week has been uniquely, historically devastating.  It has made landfall twice, dumped enormous amounts of rain in Texas and western Louisiana, produced death and destruction, caused massive flooding and millions of dollars in property damage, wreaked havoc with infrastructure, and thrown hundreds, if not thousands, of people out of their homes.  It will take Houston months, if not years, to fully recover from its effects.

All of this from a storm called . . . Harvey?

Don’t get me wrong, Harvey is a perfectly good name — if you’re an 8 1/2 foot tall invisible rabbit who befriends Jimmy Stewart.  It’s a quaint, somewhat old-fashioned name that is well-suited to a meek, nebbishy guy who wears wire-rimmed glasses and a bow tie.  But as a name for an ultra-powerful, cataclysmic storm, it leaves a lot to be desired.  Isn’t the name Hurricane Harvey just a little bit . . . jarring?  You’re reading an article about the catastrophe and stop in your tracks and think:  “Really?  Hurricane Harvey?”

We need to come up with a new approach to naming hurricanes that properly recognizes their devastating impact and uses names that appropriately capture their power.  We need to make sure that next year we’re not reading about Hurricane Tiffany, or Hurricane Jerry, or Hurricane Tim.  All fine names, to be sure, but nevertheless totally discordant when applied to hurricanes.

I suggest that we ditch the use of current names for hurricanes and opt for a new hurricane naming convention that uses the names of ancient gods from cultures across the world.  The ancient gods typically combined the attributes of tremendous power, unpredictability, cruelty, and whimsical, unaccountable meddling in human affairs — all characteristics that also can be applied to colossal hurricanes.

The storm that struck Houston should have been called something like Hurricane Thor, or Hurricane Hephaestus, or Hurricane Hoth.  Not Hurricane Harvey.

The [Insert Noun Here] At [Insert Location]

The other day I was driving through southern Pennsylvania when I saw a billboard for one of those condominium/retirement community developments.  The name of the place was “The Views at Bridgewater.”  What kind of views, I wondered?  I didn’t know, and I wasn’t going to stop to find out.  But I did notice, once again, what seems to be an alarmingly ubiquitous trend in naming new real estate projects.

In the old days, a developer would have simply called the new project “Bridgewater,” but at some point a marketing genius decided that adding “the” and a one-word description would be much more attractive to potential buyers.  Maybe using the specifying “the” is thought to give the development a more distinctive feel.  Whatever the reason, this same naming convention seems to have been adopted by every real estate developer in America.  It’s always “The” followed by a noun identifying a physical feature followed by “at” followed by a location.  So, if somebody were to develop a condo project in the Westeros world of Game of Thrones, it inevitably would have a name like “The Walls at Casterly Rock” or “The Cliffs at Dragonstone.”  And if this naming convention had been developed before Seinfeld was broadcast, his parents would have lived in “The Units at Del Boca Vista” instead.

And just as disturbingly ubiquitous is the overuse of periods in advertising real estate developments.  Every “mixed use” development seems to feature “Live.  Work.  Play.” somewhere in its brochures and billboards.  Why the periods, rather than commas?  Probably because somebody did tests with a focus group, and decided that periods were more definitive and therefore more compelling.

Do these marketing approaches work with the average American?  They must, because they’re everywhere.  English teachers undoubtedly cringe at the overuse of one-word sentences, but at the same time feel a certain welling sense of pride that words and punctuation can be the difference between a successful real estate venture and an outright failure.

As for me, I’ll just continue to “Breathe.  Eat.  Blog.” here at “The Brickwork at German Village.”

Profiting From Others’ Misfortune

I’m a big fan of capitalism.  it’s by far the best, fairest, most rational, most efficient economic system — in normal times.  But when disaster strikes, and the “Invisible Hand” and the law of supply and demand entice some businesses to engage in rampant price-gouging, it makes capitalism look bad.

That’s what’s happening in Texas right now.  Hurricane Harvey has proven so devastating, and the likelihood of continuing devastation and economic disruption is so great, that supply and demand, which together are supposed to regulate pricing, are completely out of whack.  As a result, some people in Texas are charging the people trapped in the hurricane zone outrageous, grossly inflated prices — like $99 for a case of bottled water, gas for sale at $10 per gallon, which is about three times as much as it sold for prior to the hurricane, and marginal hotel rooms rented at Ritz-quality rates.

Texas, like other states, has laws against price-gouging in times of emergency or natural disaster, but it’s hard for the price police to keep up with the businessmen who see a catastrophe as a way to make an easy buck and pad their profits.  For every gouger who is caught, there undoubtedly are many others who make a lot of money selling at exorbitant prices to people who don’t know enough to raise an issue about it.  It’s an old, time-honored story, because price-gouging is as old as economic activity itself.

Natural disasters like hurricanes often bring out the best in people.  We’re seeing a lot of that in Texas, with people selflessly heading out to try to rescue those who are stranded, or opening their homes and their wallets to help those who have suffered terrible losses.  It just makes you sick to your stomach that, mixed in with the many Good Samaritans, are greedy people who take advantage of the unfortunate and put money ahead of simple human kindness and decency.  How do the gougers sleep at night, knowing that they are profiting from the misery of others?

Box Office Bombs

This summer of 2017 has been one of the worst ever for Hollywood.  According to the Hollywood Reporter, the number of tickets sold is likely to hit a 25-year low, and summer box-office revenue in America is down about 16 percent.  If it weren’t for international ticket sales, which increased slightly, the movie industry would be looking at a summer of complete, catastrophic, virtually across-the-board failure.

Why did the summer of ’17 suck for Hollywood?  If you read the Hollywood Reporter story linked above, a theme quickly becomes apparent:  almost every would-be blockbuster seems to be a remake or the latest installment of a tired “franchise.”  Pirates of the Caribbean 5.  The latest Transformers CGI-fest.  The Mummy and Baywatch.  And some of the new efforts, like King Arthur:  Legend of the Sword, were colossal bombs.

It’s not hard to draw the conclusion that the film industry has run out of creative gas. When every big commercial film is a remake of a TV show, a comic book, or another remake, you’re not exactly giving moviegoers lots of new, interesting fare that might lure them to the box office.  You’re not finding the next Jaws or Close Encounters of the Third Kind at your local theater.  Kish and I were totally unmotivated by this summer’s fare. Whenever we checked what was at the local megaplex our reaction was always . . . meh.  We were far more interested in what was playing at the local art film houses, or what was on Netflix.  The only big movie I saw this summer was The Dark Tower, which was an excuse for a bunch of guys to go have a beer and watch an action film.  I would never have gone to see it otherwise.

Will Hollywood learn a lesson from the dismal summer of ’17, and start looking for some new, fresh, original ideas for films that will get people out of their houses and off to the theater?  Maybe — but don’t count on it.  There were some franchise and remake successes this summer, with the new Guardians of the Galaxy, Spider-Man, Despicable Me 3, and Wonder Woman films performing well.  Hollywood likes franchises and remakes because they seem safe and conservative, with built-in audiences and no need to come up with original story ideas, so Hollywood will probably point to the successes, disregard the duds, continue with remakes, and comic book stories, and “franchise” flicks.

And if that happens, the rest of us will continue to stay home.

Space Suit Chic

We’ve got a little bit of a “space race” going these days, 50 years after the first one.  This particular space race is about which commercial entity is going to be the provider of choice for both travel and delivery of space-related services — like creating working flight suits that people would wear on space voyages, and other necessary components of routine life in space.

Last week SpaceX unveiled the look of its flight suit to great fanfare.  Some people described the suit — which is sleek, futuristic, and basic black and white — as looking like the imperial stormtrooper outfits from Star Wars, but it clearly has a certain style.  Elon Musk, the founder of SpaceX, says the suit is functional, not a mock-up, and has been tested to double vacuum pressure.  Interestingly, Musk also noted that SpaceX was focused on both esthetics and functionality in designing the suit, and that is was “incredibly hard” to balance the two, while focusing on one or the other would have been a lot easier.

Earlier this year, Boeing gave us a peek at its version of a flight suit, which passengers would wear on the Boeing Starliner spacecraft that is intended to deliver passengers to places in low-Earth orbit, like the International Space Station.  Boeing’s announcement got a less less attention than the SpaceX unveiling, but then Boeing isn’t quite as cool as SpaceX.  Boeing’s flight suit, which is “Boeing Blue” in color, looks a lot more like an updated version of the Apollo suits we remember from the glory days of moon shots and lunar rovers in the late ’60s and early ’70s.

Of course, Boeing and SpaceX are just two of the companies vying for supremacy in the corporatization of space, and flight suit design isn’t going to finally and conclusively determine who gets a leg up in the competition.  But the disclosure of things like flight suits is important nevertheless.  It shows that companies are hard at work on the necessary nuts and bolts of spaceflight, and you can bet that for every item, like flight suits, that get public attention there are dozens of less interesting devices that are being developed, streamlined, and perfected.

The unveiling of flights suits has another important function, too:  getting people talking about spaceflight again.  When I was growing up, it seemed like just about every kid wanted to be an astronaut, and the space program was a constant topic of conversation.  In the cool occupation pyramid, “astronaut” was at the pinnacle.  The aspirational dreams of youngsters may not have made a difference in how the American space program was operated, but it provided an important core of support for NASA, and many of us still harbor those inner dreams even though the manned space program has basically had a 45-year hiatus.  If the disclosure of the SpaceX and Boeing flight suits cause kids to begin dreaming about space again, it would be a good thing for those of us who feel that our future lies out among the stars.

Flapjacks At Jack Flaps

When I’m home or on the road for work, I rarely eat breakfast.  But when I’m traveling for fun, and can eat later in the morning, I’ll gladly start the day with a meal.

This morning, on our Indians’ game weekend, we went to Jack Flaps, a breakfast/lunch joint in one of the arcades on Euclid Avenue.  I got the Jack B. Flaps platter, which consists of two pancakes, butter, whiskey brown sugar syrup, whipped cream, and — and this was interesting — puffed corn.  With a side of savory country sausage and a good cup of freshly brewed coffee, it was an exceptional way to start the day.  I can now say I’m ready to sit on my butt for a few hours and watch athletes perform.

Press-On Care

At last night’s game we got a free Edwin Encarnacion jersey.  It’s the traditional design, in a size large enough to comfortably fit most reasonably sized people, and looks pretty sharp.  The jersey features that “press-on” type lettering, however — which means I’ll be giving it kid glove treatment.

I first learned this important life lesson in 1973, when I used my Big Bear bag boy earnings to buy a cool orange Eric Clapton t-shirt with a press-on picture of the Guitar God on the front.  (I know . . . “cool” and “orange t-shirt” are rarely used in the same sent, but you must remember it was the ’70s.) I wore it, put it in the laundry basket for Mom to wash, and got back a fundamentally changed garment.  The shirt had shrunk about five sizes and the picture of Clapton had become a cracked, crumbling, unrecognizable mess.  Gah!  But, because I paid for it with my own money, I continued to use it as one of the t-shirts I wore under my jeans shirt — and avoided buying press-on t-shirts thereafter.

It may be that press-on technology has improved in the last 45 years, but I’m not taking any chances.  The EE jersey won’t be seeing the washer, ever.

Sweet Victory

A free jersey, some home runs, and a Tribe win over a division rival on a beautiful summer night.  Not bad!

Make The Summer Last A Little Bit Longer

At The Jake — purists don’t call it Progressive Field — to watch the Tribe take on the Royals on a cool, bright August night.  What better than a ballgame to stretch the summer out a little longer?

The Physical Cues Around Us

I woke up this morning, prepared to take my morning walk, looked out at our patio, and noticed it is pitch black outside — when only a few weeks ago, at this same time of day, I was walking accompanied by the rising sun.  Thus was I gobsmacked with the reality that the days are getting shorter and the nights are getting longer.

We live each day so focused on the immediate demands of our lives that we often miss the gradual changes that are happening around us — until the physical cues provided by the world break through and make it clear.  The relative snugness of clothing alerts us to weight gain or loss.  Falling leaves tell us that September is only days away.  And the ever-lengthening night reminds us that the seasons are changing whether we notice it or not.

I’m not ready for summer to end — it seems like it just got here! — but the darkness this morning tells me I’d better enjoy it while it lasts.

Don’t Send In The Clowns

A major motion picture adaptation of Stephen King’s horror thriller It is getting ready to hit theaters, and a venue in Austin, Texas has come up with an unusual idea that is sure to thrill, petrify, and torment a significant segment of the local population.  The Alamo Drafthouse has decided to have a “clowns-only” screening of It.

Many people are scared to death of clowns and hate the sight of them.  In the case of Pennywise, the murderous clown who terrorizes the children of a small town in It, a strong case of clown fear is justified, but many people have a deep dread of all clowns, whether or not the clowns have a habit of dragging little kids into ancient sewer systems.  They think they are creepy, with all that white face paint and weird eye makeup and unnatural hair and silly hats and bulging costumes, and they probably don’t much care for the twisting motions and squealing sounds when clowns make balloon animals, either.

Clown fear — the word for it is coulrophobia — seems to be an innate part of some people’s psychological makeup and starts at an early age.  You can spend a few hilarious minutes on the internet checking out videos of panicked, crying little kids fleeing from the clown who Dad hired to entertain the kids at a birthday party.  They intuitively hate clowns, just like baby birds intuitively hate snakes.

Clowns don’t scare me or creep me out.  I’ve got a different problem with them — I don’t think they’re funny.  Ever since going to my first circus, I’ve been mystified by why some people think clown acts are hilarious.  There’s not much subtlety to clown acts, either.  And don’t even get me started about those serious, sad-faced, pantomiming clown acts that are supposed to leave you with a tear in your eye and a strong sense of pathos.

We’d all be well advised to give Austin a wide berth on September 9.

 

Modern Country

I’m on the road again, in one of those towns where there really aren’t any restaurants besides chains.  So I went to the nearest place within walking distance of my hotel — a Longhorn Steakhouse.

For a chain joint, the Longhorn isn’t bad.  The servers are nice, the place is clean, and the food is decent and reasonably priced.  There’s only one problem — the soundtrack at the Longhorn is “modern country,” which is enough to make pretty much any rational diner lose their appetite.  If there’s a more soulless, generic, synthesized, cookie-cutter music genre out there these days, I don’t know what it is.

I have no idea who modern country artists are — I just know they all sound the same.  The only thing that’s “country” about them is that they wear cowboy hats and try to sing with a twang.  Other than than, they’re indistinguishable from soulless, generic, synthesized, cookie-cutter pop stars.  As musical performers go, the modern country “stars” seem to be all hat and no cattle — pathetic, lamentable posers who aren’t fit to carry the boots of the country music stars who came before them.

It’s sad, really.  Country music used to be interesting, with artists like Hank Williams, Patsy Cline, Merle Haggard, George Jones, and Tammy Wynette.  They actually seemed to care about the songs they wrote and sang.  There was feeling in every chord.  Calling the modern bastardization of the genre “country music” really is an insult to the authentic, roots-related music that was produced way back when.

Fortunately, “modern country” is so generic that it’s like elevator music — easy to tune out.  I read my book, ate my steak, and pretty much ignored the twangy sameness.  You wouldn’t have been able to say that about the country stars and songs of the past.

Facebook Fatigue

Some years ago we were on a trip to Antigua with Richard and Russell where we met a very nice young woman from Great Britain and her parents.  She ended up hanging out with the boys, and after the trip we became Facebook friends.

The other day she posted this on her Facebook feed:

“Has anyone else on here been considering deleting Facebook for a long time, but keeps putting it off? I’ve been toying with the idea for years but can never bring myself to fully do it; it’s an attachment to photos, friends from all over the world I might lose, FOMO of information, and sheer habit. I find it’s become more destructive than good, however. It doesn’t make me feel good, it makes me feel depressed, and in the few times per week I actually check it, I realise I’ve become a robotic scroller, consuming information mindlessly and feeling lousy afterwards. According to statistics, only 9% of Facebook activity per day is to be social, the rest of the time is accidental logging in (how many of you have tapped on the Facebook app without even meaning to, just to ask yourself why did I click on this?), stalking and filling up time. It sucks to acknowledge that you’re addicted to something, and it sucks to realise you’re scared of leaving something inanimate. Does anyone else have this feeling?”

[For the aged among us, like me, “FOMO” is short for “fear of missing out” and is internet slang for feeling a sense of anxiety that you’re missing something interesting that people on social media are talking about or experiencing, like the recent solar eclipse.]

Her post captures a mood that I’ve been hearing from a lot of people who are fed up with Facebook and other forms of social media.  They’re finding it to be a bit empty and unsatisfying, they dislike the ads and the nagging prompts to update their profiles, they really hate the angry political debates, and they question whether the amount of time spent endlessly scrolling is worth it — so they drop off Facebook.  Some are happy that they have done so; others get that FOMO feeling, because once a social media connection is made it’s really hard to sever it, and they come back, presumably feeling a bit sheepish about the experience.

I can see her point, but I think the benefits of Facebook and other forms of social media outweigh the downsides — so long as you avoid obsessing, control your exposure, keep your temper, and recognize its limitations.  In fact, my contact with this young lady exemplifies why I think Facebook is a good thing.  She was an interesting person, and being Facebook friends has allowed me to see what she’s up to from time to time, wish her happy birthday, and congratulate her on getting a new job.  The world is a smaller place than it once was, and Facebook facilitates a sense of staying in touch with friends, acquaintances, family members, and former colleagues who are now far away.  And if you happen to be traveling to a place where one of your Facebook friends lives, it’s a handy way to see whether you can set up a meeting over coffee or dinner and really catch up.

I think Facebook has obvious downsides, and there’s a Big Brother element to it that is bothersome, but on the whole I think if Facebook didn’t exist it would need to be invented.

Goodnight, Kyrie

Kyrie Irving wanted to leave the Cleveland Cavaliers, and yesterday he got his wish.  The Cavs dealt Irving to the Boston Celtics in exchange for up-and-coming guard Isaiah Thomas, a forward, a center, and a number one draft pick.

When a player wants to leave a team, as Irving did, it’s not uncommon for fans of the team being spurned to be mad and call the player an ingrate.  I hope Cavs fans are classier than that when it comes to Irving.   He’s still young, and he wants a chance to be, in Reggie Jackson’s immortal phrase, “the straw that stirs the drink.”  Irving indicated that he wanted to go to a team where he could be the go-to guy and have a chance to really emerge from LeBron James’ colossal shadow.  That’s really not so hard to understand for a player of Irving’s obvious skills and talent.

I’ve always liked Irving, with his flannel shirt personality and willingness to accept a lesser role in a quest for a championship.  Cleveland fans will never forget that it was Irving that hit The Shot that put the Cavs ahead for good in game 7 of last year’s championship series — the one that miraculously produced Cleveland’s first professional sports championship in more than 50 years.  How can you dislike a player who is a key part of busting up a lifetime of sports futility?

So I say, thank you, Kyrie.  Fare you well (except when playing the Cavs).