Progress Report

Captain's Log, Stardate 2445.3

Our mission to repair the critical time-line breach progresses. My covert return to 21st Century Earth is yielding useful information. Inhabitants of this era are, as history records, remarkably irrational. Their society is chaotic and one readily grasps how The Second Civil War started in 2029. If it wasn't for First Contact with orbiting Vulcan spacecraft during that intractable war it's doubtful this planet would have survived in any time-line. Humans possess enough technology to save or destroy their world but seem to lack sufficient wisdom to avoid the latter fate.

Universal skills promoting peace and self-development (e.g., empathy, compassion) are in short supply here. Instead of confronting the real cause of political oppression (an entrenched economic class system) people quarrel with others in similar or worse circumstances as they compete for limited resources. Without insight or unity these Earthlings can't understand or correct their plight. Anxiety and rage are on full display in public places, especially roadways, where motorists recklessly vie to "get somewhere" at faster speed than prudent. This species cannot be trusted with warp-drive energy prior to receiving extensive genetic augmentation. (See, however, Khan Noonien Singh.)

My plan to infiltrate the existing power structure continues. I've mastered cultural knowledge necessary to persuade numerous inhabitants to assist me in this effort. My next move is to acquire a professional sporting team since athletics is valued here not for personal achievement but as secular religion with rituals and mystical significance. Fans worship "the baseball gods" and related deities. Sports gambling, once forbidden, now flourishes openly. The majority of young men now divert scarce long-term investment capital to bet on sporting events where, predictably, they lose their money. Loss of such funds cripples the imprudent leading to widespread poverty and social instability. Humans, it appears, do not comprehend the well-established Dunning-Kruger Effect.

Captain out.

The Ravages of Time

If you think of me as an old blind man, you might be surprised to learn that 25 years ago I was a catch. A moderately handsome guy with a soupçon of style.

For the plaintiff, we offer Exhibit A into evidence. A photograph from August 2001. The exhibit speaks for itself.

We rest our case. :)

Light Reading

Lately I've been studying heavy tomes on abstruse subjects like physics and neuroscience. To give myself a break I'm now reading a series of fun books by George Plimpton. They're an amuse-bouche, light refreshment to stimulate my mental palate.

These books were popular in the 1960s and '70s. George Plimpton, a literary gentleman, wondered what it would be like to play sports with professional athletes. At the time George was an out-of-shape amateur who hadn't done anything physical since college -- and was mediocre even then. What interested George were the visceral experiences of meeting pros on their turf, facing reality instead of fantasy.

In Yankee Stadium George pitched to baseball greats Willie Mays, Mickey Mantle and a dozen others ("Out Of My League"). On the gridiron, George quarterbacked for the Detroit Lions ("Paper Lion"). He even climbed into a boxing ring and went a few rounds with a champion fighter. And he was a hockey goalie for the Boston Bruins ("Open Net"). These feats were initially published as articles in Sports Illustrated and later turned into bestselling books. "Paper Lion" was turned into a movie starring Alan Alda.

Every sports fan has Walter Mitty fantasies of being on the playing field in heated battle. "It's the bottom of the ninth inning and..." George faced those situations up close and his observations about them are very amusing. 

Riding Buddy

I've met many people in my life. Some are more memorable than others.

Thirty years ago I started riding motorcycles. At the time I didn't know other bikers so I went out and looked for some. I started hanging out at a biker bar in Valley Stream ("The Clubhouse"). The bar was conspicuously rough and seedy. Patrons engaged in sex in the basement, drunks got rip-roaringly intoxicated every night of the week and pool games sometimes ended in fistfights. I always arrived on my bike wearing motorcycle gear, announcing my enthusiasm for motorcycling. Often I traveled in very cold weather, conveying my commitment to living like a badass. Patrons frequently insisted on going outside to inspect my motorcycle "'cause only a lunatic would ride in the ass of Winter."

Before long I befriended the owners, all of whom belonged to a local motorcycle club. After many late nights drinking, tossing darts and shooting pool I developed good friendships. They, of course, steered me toward their M/C which I joined. After probation (several group rides and club meetings) I was admitted to the club. After the first year I got an award for "Most Enthusiastic Member." Two years later I was elected club President and, the year after that, was re-elected for a second term. 

One of the owners, Rich Culmone, became my closest friend. I enjoyed Rich for his rare combination of social deviance and personal generosity. His background is full of eccentric employments and activities. Rich's demeanor is tough and intimidating, yet he's a sweet guy at heart. If you are his friend, as I am, there is absolutely nothing he won't do for you. Rich will take a bullet -- or shoot one -- to protect you. Plus Rich's girlfriend (later wife) Roberta is cheery and delightful.

Since I was new to motorcycling there was plenty I didn't know. Rich taught me gobs about riding and how to be a biker. By example and through advice he rapidly transformed me from a tyro to an old hand. He taught me about biker culture, outlaw clubs, what "81" means, and how to deal with criminals and low-lifes. This was all new to me.

At the time I rode locally every day but hadn't been on any long trips. My first was initiated by Rich and it was a huge learning experience. Rich was planning to ride by himself from New York to Montana to attend the annual BMW Motorrad rally. I could squeeze eight days off work so I decided to join him, traveling as far west as I could in four days (which turned out to be North Dakota) before turning around and coming home alone. I covered 4,000 miles during those eight days, passing through Pennsylvania, Ohio, Illinois, Wisconsin, Minnesota, Canada and North Dakota.

The trip was amazing. My first surprise was when we were leaving: Rich said we had to make a quick stop so he could "get some bullets." Bullets?! Rich bought ammo which alerted me to the fact he was "packing" on the trip. 

A second surprise was crossing the longest suspension bridge in the world: the Mackinac Bridge in Michigan. We arrived at the bridge in a windy rainstorm just after the sun had gone down. Minutes later bridge operators lit a sign saying "No Motorcycles" due to the hazardous conditions but we were already on the bridge-span. Wind was so strong that it pushed our bikes sideways toward involuntary lane-changes. I could barely see the road but was aware that the outer guardrail was lower than my motorcycle. Riding with white knuckles I spent eternity wrestling with the likely possibility of being blown off the bridge and falling thousands of feet to a watery death. Later, after getting to the other side, I stopped at a gas station and mentioned this to an old woman at the counter. She said "Yeah, we lose a few cars off the bridge every year."

Riding across the bridge Rich was sure I was gonna die. He worried my family would blame him for putting me, an inexperienced rider, in that dangerous situation. Rich cares for me and would have felt terrible watching me get blown overboard to a watery death but, in truth, there was nothing he could do to prevent it. We were stuck in a real "ride or die" quandary.

After four days on the road with Rich I returned home by myself. The first four days prepared me to solo-ride long distance. I didn't have the guts to do that when we started; Rich gave me the necessary confidence and aplomb. He helped me grow into a long-distance motorcycle rider.

I've stayed friends with Rich ever since then, even after he and Roberta moved to Las Vegas. He returns to New York to visit his daughter and includes seeing me during those visits. A few years ago Rich, like me, started suffering health problems which forced him to give up motorcycling. His charm, however, never disappeared. We joke on the phone and chat about old times, the club and fellow biker-buddies.

Thanks, Rich, for the kindness you've shown me. Keep the rubber side down, buddy.

My Parents

In 1956, seventy years ago, my parents (Ralph & Barbara Jo) got married.

Back then they watched "I Love Lucy" on a small black-and-white television set, listened to Elvis sing on 45 rpm vinyl records, and ate Cheez Whiz and Sloppy Joes. Cooking was adding mayonnaise to something. Dessert was Jell-O in a variety of shapes and colors. 

Like their friends, my parents smoked cigarettes and drank lots of liquor at boisterous parties in "finished basements". Furniture was "mid-century modern"; kitchen counters were easy-to-clean Formica.

My parents bought a house for $15,000 and cars for $1,000. Born into an unstable world in the 1930s, they were fortunate to later live through the greatest period of economic prosperity in our nation's history. They retired in their fifties and lived comfortably down in "sunny Florida" on a civil service pension.

I'm happy they had nice lives.

"The Human Cosmos"

Books, like toys, can be fun or educational.

I just finished the most informative book I've read in decades: "The Human Cosmos: Civilization and the Stars" by noted British science writer Jo Marchant (2020). The book, an award-winner, addresses a half-dozen important subjects with a through-line that makes sense. The work deepened my understanding of these topics, including my central obsession: what is reality?

While not a typical "beach read," the beach would be an appropriate place to enjoy this book. Like a sentient grain of sand, you can ponder your place in the colossal cosmos.

Psycho Bunny

Have you heard of Psycho Bunny?

It is, improbably, a hip brand of expensive menswear. Made with high-quality materials and real craftsmanship (100% Pima cotton from Peru), their polo shirts ($120) and t-shirts ($60) are worn by successful young men in middle age (30-40 years old). The brand is obviously irreverent, as shown by its odd name, weird logo and vivid colors. The clothes are edgy and made for "men who march to their own drummer." Hey, I resemble that remark!

There's one Psycho Bunny store on Long Island in the Roosevelt Field mall. I went there today and picked up a tee and polo shirt. Here's the front and back of the t-shirt. What do you think?