A List Too Long

I’m a member of a Facebook group for members of my high school graduation class. It’s a good use of the Facebook social media platform, one that allows you to wish people happy birthday and helps you find out what has happened to people you knew 50 years ago.

Recently a photo montage was posted for the group of classmates who have died. It’s a regrettably long list. Our class was a huge one–the biggest in the history of our high school, if I recall correctly. The AIDS epidemic felled a number of our classmates back in the ’80s, and more recently we’ve received the sad news of more passings. Our class has reached the danger years of the mid-60s, when many diseases can take their toll.

It was a sad experience to watch that Facebook slide show. In a class of more than 800, I knew some of the people well, and some I really knew not at all; some of the deaths I knew about, while others were a grim surprise. I thought of some of the interactions I had with those I knew, and for the people who did not look familiar, I wondered if we may have been the same homeroom, taken a class together, or walked by each other in one of the long hallways–but we all definitely shared the space in a distinct place and time. The montage featured a lot of high school yearbook photos, and it was difficult to think that those fresh-faced, clear-eyed kids, in their frequently bad ’70s haircuts and outfits, are no more.

William Shakespeare’s verse in Cymbeline is apt:

Fear no more the heat o’ the sun,
Nor the furious winter’s rages;
Thou thy worldly task hast done,
Home art gone, and ta’en thy wages:
Golden lads and girls all must,
As chimney-sweepers, come to dust.

The Random Restaurant Tour–LV

It’s been a while since I’ve tried a new restaurant in Columbus. So yesterday, as the Bus-Riding Conservative and I were headed toward the North Market for lunch, I couldn’t resist the urge to veer to the left, cross the bridge over the railroad tracks, and head to Moran’s Bar and Grill. Located at the far north edge of the Arena District, catty-corner to the North Market, Moran’s was a place I’d seen on previous visits to the North Market and had been wanting to visit.

Moran’s has both a sizeable indoor eating (and drinking–hence the “bar” part of the name) area, plus a very nice patio surrounded by a wrought iron fence. It was a beautiful sunny day, and I was wearing my sunglasses, so the BRC and I decided to try to look cool and lunch al fresco. Fortunately, there was a table available on the patio for us.

Moran’s has an interesting menu, with lots of starters, sandwich, and “big bowl” salad options. It also has an intriguing roster of daily specials. Yesterday’s special was General Tso’s chicken, which was tempting me until our friendly server confirm that it did have vegetables in the form of broccoli–the most dreaded of them all. Because broccoli is anathema for me, I opted for the Cajun chicken sandwich, shown above, with a slice of cheddar cheese, slathered with sriracha mayo and served with a nice mound of fries. The BRC, evidently feeling in a military mood, went for the General Tso’s.

My chicken sandwich was quite good. The chicken was moist and tender, and the sriracha mayo sauce was flavorful and plentiful, which made consuming the sandwich a finger-licking exercise and resulted in some sriracha mayo drippings that I could scoop up and enjoy on my fries. The fries, incidentally, were excellent: hot and crispy on the outside. The BRC, incidentally, gave the General Tso’s a thumbs-up and told our server that the broccoli was the best he’d ever eaten. (Given my reflexive avoidance of any broccoli-related dish, I realized that a similar statement from me would mean absolutely nothing.)

I liked Moran’s and would come back again, and I also like the idea of getting back into the habit of trying a new place now and then. Fortunately, Columbus offers a continuing array of new potential lunch spots just waiting to be tried.

Hot Liquor

Thanks to a recent gift from the Happy Cracker Duo, our household is now up to three bottles of bourbon. They join a motley collection of other distilled spirits that we have accumulated in preparing for parties and other gatherings over the years and which remain on our bar cart, ready to serve the next thirsty visitor with a taste for a mixed drink.

It’s probably a good thing that we’ve received another bottle of bourbon, because we are now prepared in the event that a group of bourbon drinkers drops by. That’s a plausible scenario, because my unscientific study suggests that bourbon is the new, hot liquor these days. When I’ve gone out for happy hour events at work, for example, more and more people appear to be ordering bourbon–and even more importantly, they are talking a lot about it, and extolling the virtues of different brands.

The bourbon celebrants also tend to wax rhapsodic about the smells and tastes of the stuff, and often use high-falutin’ phrases like “mouthfeel” in describing their sipping experiences. They also tend to expect non-bourbonites like me to be able to instantly appreciate the rich smell of bourbon when they offer their glass for a sniff. Alas, to my hapless and uneducated nostrils, it just smells like other forms of brown liquor to me.

As someone who has traditionally been a wine and beer drinker, I’ve often wondered whether I should make an effort to develop a taste for mixed drinks. I’m not sure that I could ever become an “on the rocks” or “neat” guy, but perhaps I could get to the point of enjoying a well-made bourbon-based cocktail. With this latest addition to the bar cart, I’ve now got some bourbon to use for experimentation purposes.

The Cosmic Question Mark

The James Webb Space telescope was just doing its job. It was taking photographs of two young stars that were being formed in the Vela Constellation, some 1,470 light years from Earth. But at the bottom of the stunning photo of the two stars-to-be, well in the background, somebody saw the object above–and suddenly the two new stars in the Vela Constellation were forgotten because of this weird question mark in space.

What is it, exactly? Fans of The Matrix think it is glitch in the computer program that controls all of our lives, similar to when Neo saw a black cat walk past a doorway twice, or perhaps it’s a sign from The Oracle that the time has come to start asking “what is the matrix”? If you’re looking for a more scientific explanation, however, a precise answer is: nobody knows for sure. According to this article in The Smithsonian, scientists think this Cosmic Question Mark doesn’t have the characteristics of a star in the Milky Way, but they don’t know even the basics about it–such as whether it is billions of light years away, or very close and obscured by dust.

Careful study has led some scientists to determine that the Cosmic Question Mark seems to be two distinct objects, with the top being separate from the dot at the bottom, like your grade school teacher emphasized when you were practicing penmanship. But they don’t know if the two objects are far apart and just happen to have lined up into a perfectly formed question mark (Matrix fans won’t buy that one, I’m guessing) or are related in some way, and could, for example, be showing a spiral galaxy merging into another galaxy.

It’s pretty interesting to see what kinds of galactic phenomena are being discovered by the Webb Space Telescope. I think we need to start scanning its photos for other objects, like numbers, letters, exclamation points, and ampersands. Who knows–maybe the universe is trying to give us an email address or some kind of password, and its IT director is insisting on using punctuation marks like the Cosmic Question Mark to make it a “stronger” password and more secure.

Thanks to Richard for calling out this curious development!

Scenes From A Sunday Stroll

With the final days of August upon us, I’ve been trying to maximize my exposure to the summer weather, and today gave me a fine opportunity to do so. Columbus enjoyed spectacular conditions, with temperatures in the 80s, a blue sky highlighted with fleecy white clouds, and a delightful breeze. It was a perfect day for a good walk along the Scioto Mile, up one side and down the other.

I began by entering the Mile at Gay Street, then turning right to go behind the federal courthouse building, where I enjoyed the look and scent of a long row of hydrangea shrubs. (The bees seemed to enjoy them, too.) Kudos to the federal folks for adding a pretty segment to the Scioto Mile. After passing the federal courthouse, I walked under the two railroad bridges as a train rolled by, passed the confluence of the Scioto and the Olentangy rivers, then ducked down to follow the Erie trail.

As I approached the Souder Avenue bridge, where pedestrians can turn and walk down the other side of the river, I saw a doe and her fawn emerge from the trees next to the river, cross a little used road, and head north along the Olentangy. This is the first time I’ve seen deer along the Scioto Mile. The gardener in me is not a fan of deer, but I think it is a good sign that the effort to make this area more “natural” is working. Cleaning out the debris left by the former homeless encampments in the area undoubtedly has helped make the deer feel more at home and comfortable in going down to the river’s edge for a drink.

From the point of the deer encounter I crossed the Souder Avenue bridge and followed the trail south, along the west side of the river. As I passed the railroad bridge another CSX freight train rumbled past–the second freight train to roll through the downtown area during my walk. I like the sound of trains, and I found myself wondering: if so many freight trains go through Columbus, why can’t Columbus have an Amtrak station and become part of the American passenger rail network? How about that, Amtrak?

Then it was past Broad Street and the COSI complex, which was hosting some kind of street fair. A performer was singing an Elvis Presley song, and there were food trucks galore, vendor tents, and a lot of people out enjoying the sunshine and beautiful conditions. From there I strolled under the Town Street bridge before finally turning around and crossing the river again on the Main Street bridge. As has become increasingly commonplace, people were out on the river–which is what the Scioto Mile and river project were supposed to accomplish. Based on my experience, it seems to be working.

Shanking Into Football Season

Football season is just around the corner. I’ve been busy and therefore haven’t been paying a lot of attention to the training camp and preseason game news for the Cleveland Browns. What I’ve seen suggests that, as always, the credulous members of Browns Nation are approaching the coming season with their customary and incendiary mix of hope and optimism, expecting the Browns to be an offensive force and a defensive powerhouse that will roll through the season, make the playoffs, and–dare we say it?–finally allow the Browns to make it to the Super Bowl.

We’ve heard this song before. Cleveland Browns fans have a seemingly inexhaustible supply of positive thinking and an unparalleled ability to forget or rationalize away past disasters. Even those of us who have become more jaded by decades of disaster still feel that tiny tug of “maybe this could be the year” thinking.

So yesterday I watched parts of the Browns’ last preseason game, against the defending champion Kansas City Chiefs. The Browns lost, 33-32, but the first-team defense looked sharp against a Chiefs team that was playing without superstar QB Patrick Mahomes, and Browns quarterback Deshaun Watson made some plays on offense before the guys fighting for a roster spot took over the game. So, could this, actually, be the Browns’ year?

Not so fast! There was one glaring roster problem that should be obvious to any seasoned NFL observer: the Browns kicker, Cade York. Going into the game, he’d barely made 50 percent of his field goal kicks during the preseason, and he had missed two potential game-winners in the last preseason match-up. His first extra point effort yesterday was a dismal miss, too, and he had a potential game-winner blocked on a kick that didn’t look all that great, either. Something seems to be seriously wrong with his confidence, his fundamentals, and the other elements that go into being a dependable NFL kicker.

So what, you say: maybe the Browns’ defense will hold opponents’ scores down and the offense will put up huge numbers of points so the team will win every game by a comfortable margin. Regrettably, the NFL just doesn’t work out that way. In the period between 2000 and 2022, 23.22 percent of NFL games have been decided by three points or less. In a league where the margin of victory or defeat is so razor-thin, you’ve got to have a kicker you can count on to make the crucial game-winners. The reliability of the kicker will influence coaching decisions, end-of-game strategy, and countless other factors–and a demoralizing field goal or extra-point flub or two might snatch defeat from the jaws of victory and take the starch out of a team that otherwise could be a contender.

Would you count on Cade York to make a crucial kick? I wouldn’t, and I find it hard to believe that the Browns coaching staff or front-office would, either. I think it’s time for Cade to find another fan base to disappoint. There are lots of kickers out there, and if this is going to be “the year” the Browns need to find one who can deliver when the chips are down.

The Driverless Option

Suppose you are in San Francisco today, looking for a taxi. A vehicle-for-hire pulls up–but then you notice that it doesn’t have a driver. It’s part of the fleet of driverless vehicles that are operating in San Francisco and that are being introduced in other American cities. Would you get in?

I wouldn’t.

I am, by disposition, a late adopter of technology. I’ll never be in the first wave of people experimenting with a new gadget or new product. I’ll happily wait until other, bolder types have discovered the flaws and the glitches and let the product designers work out the kinks. I’ll probably start considering the product around version 4.0, after pretty much everyone I know is already using it.

Right now, I’m just not sold on driverless vehicles. There have been issues with the “robotaxis” roaming the streets in San Francisco, including accidents and a technological glitch that caused them to “freeze” during a busy Friday night, creating traffic jams. More recently, a self-driving shuttle bus introduced with great fanfare in Orlando got into a crash with a regular city bus only two days after it began operations. Presumably these mishaps are isolated incidents, but they are incidents nevertheless–which is why I’d prefer to wait until the track record improves before I voluntarily enter a self-driven car.

Taxi and Uber rides can be risky too, of course; you never know if your driver might be incompetent or distracted or too reckless for your tastes. But at least with a human being you have some assurance that they are licensed, that they are functioning properly, and that there is someone to communicate with if you find their driving unsettling. You can always tell them to slow down, suggest an alternate route, or just tell them to stop so you can get out and end the ride. If you are in a self-driving vehicle and you want to warn them that they are getting too close to a neighboring car, does the car listen?

For now, when it comes to driving, I’ll trust human beings over technology.

Bad At Yoga

Last weekend I did my second yoga class. (My first yoga class, which took place more than a year ago, technically was described as “gentle stretching,” but I vote to call it yoga and no one else gets a vote.) I approached the yoga session with some trepidation, because my first class established two things: (1) I am not very flexible, and (2) consequently, I am bad at yoga. Nevertheless, I know that flexibility is something you really need to work on as you get older, and one of the other participants described this particular class as very beginner-level, so I decided to give it a try.

The class was outside, on a grassy plain in a bucolic setting on a sunny morning. I grabbed one of the brightly colored yoga mats from a bin and headed to the rear of the group, hoping to blend in to the participants so my bad yoga poses wouldn’t be quite as noticeable. This technique generally kept me far from the instructor, who did some wandering through the rows of mats but for the most part stayed at the front of the group, but it also gave me a dispiriting view of all of the nimble participants ahead who were striking perfect poses and showing more flexibility than those old Stretch Armstrong dolls.

As we started the hour-long class, I quickly recognized some fundamental problems. First, I don’t know the names of the poses, so when the instructor said something like “then turn it into downward facing dog” I had to look at what other people were doing before I could even attempt an adjustment. And second, I didn’t understand the meaning of some of her descriptions, like keeping a “flat back” or making sure you were maintaining “soft knees.” As a result, I was in a general fog of confusion throughout the class and was consistently at least one pose behind the rest of the group. Add in the fact that I lack upper body strength, can’t touch my toes without bending my knees, and regularly misinterpret “right” and “left” while attempting to follow posing instructions, and the result is not a pretty one.

Nevertheless, yoga clearly is good exercise for me. It didn’t take long before I was sweating profusely, even though the rest of the class was barely to the point of a mild glow, and the hour-long session seemed to drag on forever as I hoped that each new “modified warrior pose” would be the last one and I could collapse face-down onto my scrunched-up mat. But when the session finally, blessedly ended, I did feel a certain sense of accomplishment.

Yoga reminds me of the old joke about the guy who encounters a man who is slamming his head against a wall. The passerby asks “why are you knocking your head against the wall?,” and the guy says “because it feels so good when I stop.”

I think I’ll be trying yoga again–some day.

As The Tailgate Food Turns

With football season fast approaching–Ohio State’s first game is only a week from this coming Saturday–one of our local health care systems thoughtfully sent out some guidance on tailgate food safety. The tutorial discusses the basics, like making sure to wash your hands before food preparation, preparing food on a clean surface, cooking items properly and storing and transporting them so chilled food stays chilled and cooked food stays hot, and finally ensuring that the food does not sit out for too long.

Surprisingly, however, the tailgate tips don’t emphasize the most basic rule of all: do not serve potato salad, or allow any of your guests to bring potato salad, or tailgate next to anyone who is likely to serve potato salad.

There are two reasons for this essential, threshold tailgating standard. First, our mothers all cautioned us about eating potato salad that has been left out in the sun, and they were right: it is a breeding ground for bacteria and a constant source of food poisoning. Basically, bacteria are rubbing their hands and licking their chops at the sight of potato salad, ready to get in there and multiply to dangerous levels that will make your tailgater guests who touch the stuff sprint to the nearest bathroom.

But even aside from the obvious health risks, and even if properly stored and chilled, potato salad is disgusting. People who prepare potato salad do a deep disservice to the humble potato, which otherwise serves humankind nobly by being the source of french fries, potato chips, mashed potatoes, and vodka. But the combinations used in potato salad recipes–which inevitably involve huge glistening spoonfuls of mayonnaise and often include celery, onions, shopped eggs, and even pickles–make it the only inedible potato-based food. The result is a perversion against nature and the intrinsic merits of the tasty tuber, and should not be countenanced at a football game tailgate party or anywhere else.

By all means, follow the food safety tips when you are setting up your first tailgate of the season, but don’t forget that cardinal rule. Go Bucks!

The Trump Weight Bet

It’s pretty much impossible to get away from Donald Trump these days, no matter how much you might really try to do so. What with various indictments, raids, investigations, lawsuits, and the former President’s evident narcissistic desire to be the center of attention at all times, the news websites these days seem to be all Trump, all the time. Some people apparently can’t get enough of this guy.

Recent evidence of this is that some bookmakers are taking bets on various aspects of Mr. Trump’s arraignment in Georgia, thereby combining two of America’s obsessions–gambling and Trump. You can bet on whether Trump will smile or scowl in his mugshot (or wear a MAGA hat), as well as the color of his tie, or whether he will be wearing a tie at all. And, since the booking process in Georgia apparently involves stepping on the scales, you also can bet on the former President’s weight.

The Trump weight over/under currently stands at 273.5 pounds–a number that has increased because 77 percent of bettors have chosen the “over,” causing the bookies to raise the target number by eight pounds so far. (As gamblers know, the betting lines shift as bets come in, to protect the bookies from losing their shirts.) That weight is well above what the former President has disclosed as his weight in the past, when Mr. Trump, who is 6′ 2″, has reported that he weighs about 240 pounds.

It’s weird to think that people are willing to bet about this kind of stuff. Wagering on a person’s weight is pretty embarrassing–if that person is capable of embarrassment, that is. But if you care about how much Donald Trump actually weighs, we’ll find that out this week, as he apparently won’t have the option of handing authorities one of those “please don’t weigh me” cards. Some bettors will be happy, some will be disappointed, and then, regrettably, we’ll no doubt move on to focus on a new Trump-related fixation.

Mental Image Pollution

I’ve been reading the Cormoran Strike series of books written by J.K. Rowling under the pseudonym Robert Galbraith. I’m in the middle of the third book in the (so far, at least) seven-book series, and have very much enjoyed following the exploits of British detective Cormoran Strike and his plucky assistant, Robin Ellacott.

One of the fun parts of reading a series of books is developing a clear mental image of the characters, and that has been true for the Cormoran Strike series. Strike is described as a huge, hairy, overweight man with a nose mashed from boxing and a head covered by hair that is better suited to his nether regions; he also has a prosthetic lower leg to replace the limb he lost in an explosion while serving in the investigatory service of the British Army. The descriptions of him are vivid, and after two and a half books, I’ve got a fixed picture of him. Robin is a bit more elusive, because other than strawberry-blond hair and an attractive figure, her main features are her very appealing personality, her loyalty to her boss, and her emerging toughness, but I’ve got a developing conception of her appearance as well.

Because of that, I’m going to follow my standard rule and not watch any TV adaptation until I’m done with the books. In this case, the books have been made into a British series called Strike. I don’t know whether the series is good or bad, but in either case I don’t want to mess with those mental images. I also prefer to finish the books in the series before I watch the show, and not get ahead of the books. I’ve followed that rule pretty uniformly, too, with the only exception being the Game of Thrones series because it is not clear to me whether George R.R. Martin will ever finish and publish the final books.

Sometimes the casting of beloved literary characters fits with the mental image, sometimes it jarringly doesn’t, and sometimes it completely alters the mental image in a positive way. The best example of that latter scenario is the casting of Robert Duvall as Gus McCrae in Lonesome Dove. Duvall’s rawboned look is not how I envisioned Gus, but by the end of the first episode I was sold, and Duvall’s unforgettable portrayal is how I know see that terrific character. Perhaps that can happen again with Cormoran Strike, but for now I’d like to leave my mental image of the character unpolluted by someone else’s vision.

The Last Days Of Summer

We had terrific weather during our stay in Door County, Wisconsin, with clear, bright blue skies, not much humidity, and temperatures around 80. They were perfect summer days, ideal for biking, walking, sailing, camping, boating, rock climbing, or any other outdoor activity of your choice, or just sitting outside in your sunglasses for lunch or an adult beverage. Not surprisingly, people were out in force, enjoying the fine conditions.

Then you would check your phone and see from the date that we are now in the last third of August, and realize that many kids are back in school already, and that means summer is rapidly coming to an end.

When I was a kid, every summer day outside with friends was a great day, but the end of summer days were especially to be savored. You tried to start them early and end them late, perhaps by catching fireflies in an old jar with holes punched in the top as dusk settled in. You tried to eat every meal outside. You knew that Labor Day was just around the corner, school would be starting soon, and then the seasons would change and cold weather would be upon us before we knew it.

I still feel that way about these end of summer days, and am thinking of what I can do this coming weekend to enjoy a few more outdoor moments during this golden season.

A Study In Green

During our all-too-brief visit to Door County, we made it a point to get out and walked around. Fortunately, there are plenty of trails and paths to follow in the areas around the waterfront. On one stroll through the woods near our hotel we ran across this gigantic boulder, painted green by moss and fungus and the sunlight diffused through the leafy canopy above. The scene seemed to have just about every shade of green you might find at the Sherwin-Williams paint shop.

Sunset Over Egg

Egg Harbor, that is. The sun sank majestically over the spit of land at one edge of the bay, a lone sailboat bobbed quietly at anchor, and the lake water lapped against the break wall as night fell in this pretty corner of the world.

The Bathers At Bare Bottom Beach

‘Yesterday was a beautiful day in Door County–ideal for exploring a new area. We visited the town of Egg Harbor, and found a few nice places to walk around. One of them was a little beach located at the end of a street called Bare Bottom Beach Road. The short street dead-ended at the beach, and we walked out to the edge of the water, our feet crunching on the tiny slivers of freshwater shells and smooth pebbles that make up the beach. We sat on flat rocks and watched the flock of Canadian geese standing in the shallows as a few seagulls flew overhead and, later, two snow white pelicans appeared.

Lake Michigan is a huge body of water. According to the International Association of Great Lakes Research, it is the fifth-largest fresh water lake in the world. (The IAGLR notes that Lake Michigan and the other four biggest lakes, including Lake Superior, hold more than half of the world’s supply of fresh water.) Not surprisingly, Lake Michigan and its surroundings are home of lots of birds. In a setting like this, even Canadian geese aren’t that annoying.

Coming to this part of “America’s north coast”–the area bordered by the chain of the five Great Lakes gouged out by the glaciers during the last Ice Age–and enjoying a warm, bright summer day makes for a pretty good trip.