If the earth stops rotating in a few, this may very well be the reason.
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Grizzly President
I found the 2005 documentary, Grizzly Man, the story of a dude intent on befriending bears in Alaska, riveting. Spoiler alert: It ends with him getting eaten.
I still remember walking out of the Capital Theater thinking, “That was the most intimate portrayal of mental illness I’ve ever seen.” Up close and personal with someone in serious need of help.
Fast forward to this morning. Hit Masters swimming hard. Then recovery in the form of coffee and oatmeal. With apples, raisins, avocados, eggs, and pumpkin seed goodness mixed in. Grabbed the coffee and Mount Oatmeal and headed upstairs to eat in front of the t.v. Oh, the market’s up. Oh, the Lakers are winning. Oh, damn, the President is riffing on “having predicted everything”.
It’s no coincidence that a few days ago the Paper of Record wrote that the President was caught completely off guard by the closing of the Strait of Hormuz. He said he not only predicted that the Strait of Hormuz would be closed, but also that Osama bin Laden was going to knock down the World Trade Center a year before it happened. And not just that, but he predicted “everything”.
Several assassinations, schoolchildren are killed in mass along with many other civilians, US servicemen and women are injured and killed, energy prices tank European economies, longstanding allies are further alienated. And the President’s primary concern is to bolster himself.
It’s impossible to exaggerate the level of insecurity. Something that, I suspect, we’d have to trace back 75 years to understand even a little.
This is Grizzly Man level mental illness. But this dude isn’t sleeping in a tent surrounded by bears in the Alaskan wilderness. He’s the Commander-in-Chief. This story will not end well either.
Numeracy Is Hard
The ICE versus electric car debate is driving me crazy. The debate is intensifying with gas prices soaring and Rivian just announcing it’s new, smaller, “more affordable” R2. The Model Y killer.
The mistake seemingly everyone is making is a tree-forest error. More specifically, all anyone can see is one tree, gas prices versus the price of electricity. The oft stated factoid is that if you drive 12,000 miles a year you can save about $1,200 annually switching to an electric car. To which I say, big whoop.
The electric car I recently sold depreciated close to $1,200 a month! Meanwhile, you’d have to use a magnifying glass to properly assess my new Honda Passport’s rate of depreciation.
Plus, states aren’t stupid, they’ve jacked up registration costs for electric cars since their owners completely sidestep gas taxes.
Repairing electric cars is way more expensive; as a result, insurance rates are considerably higher.
If you use a wide-angle lens and take the whole forest in, electric car ownership prob doesn’t even come close to penciling out. Put differently, what I spend at the pump in the Passport is inconsequential in the larger equation of car ownership.
The forest formula is as follows. Electric car depreciation + registration + repairs + insurance rates > Electric car gas savings + electric car reduced maintenance costs.
Or to borrow one of my favorite phrases from a friend, the cost of gas doesn’t move the needle. And yet, it’s all anyone talks about.
There’s still one good reason to go electric. To bolster your environmental bonafides, and thereby, get DanDantheTransportationMan off your back.
And so, as if you didn’t know it already, further evidence I am a knucklehead.
Application Denied
Vic postscript.
Back home as my application for citizenship was denied. The official explanation was two-fold.
First, I failed the “Field Test” by which they mean “Ice Test”. Anyone from the (dis)U.S.A. applying for citizenship has to skate end-end-to-end in under ten seconds. As I tightened the laces of my skates, I thought I could do it. Remember, I did skate at Kent State University weekly in the winters while living in Tallmadge, OH in primary school. Also, I thought if I could just channel Alysa Lui! You know, not focus on that red Canadian passport with the maple leaf on it, just use the test as an opportunity to express my bofo athleticism and joy. Should be easy peasy.
It took me 11 seconds.
Second, they wrote, “Applicant represents no real commercial value to the Canadian economy. Kinda a sadsack, spent most of his time moping around in his room. Mostly only exited the hotel to eat. Did try on a hoodie at Mountain Equipment Coop, but didn’t follow through on the purchase. Did take the business card of the artist exhibiting in the hotel’s cafe, but didn’t purchase any of her paintings.”
It seems to me they could’ve stopped after the first “no real commercial value” sentence. Didn’t have to get so personal. As if I don’t have any feelings.
Their closing statement left no wiggle room for a do-over. “It is our conclusion that he is a shit skater and consumer with little of value to add to Canada.”
That said, I will return Vic. And do better. Promise.
Question Of The Day
Has there ever been a time when less competent people have taken more consequential action?
Tomorrow’s question if you like to get your homework done early . . . How long until the assassination boomerang returns with such force not even the Secret Service can catch it?
Ghandi, “An eye for an eye will only make the whole world blind.”
All The Feels In The VAC
The Victoria Athletic Club is a smallish, but nice fitness center underneath the Hotel Grand Pacific.
My first widowed travel decisions have left a lot to be desired. Trip two is turning out to be like cognitive behavioral therapy, real belly of the beast grief shit. Last night, on the way to the Fish Market for a halibut burger and very large fries, I kept thinking of all the restaurants that dotted the way that the GalPal and I ate at.
This morning, sitting atop a bike in the VAC, I see visions of her in the pool area. Then remember our lap swim routine where she’d start out swimming in the lane next to me, but then lay in wait under the lane line waiting to see what she could grab as I went by. The second or third time, I’d pull up and say, “DUDE, STOP! I’m trying to workout!” And. She’d. Flash. Her. Smile. Which was her way of saying, “You know you like it.” No more VAC horseplay. No more smile. Ever.
Silver lining. At this rate, I’ll be done grieving in no time, and be fine. Right?
The bike I rode was parked right outside the glass encased squash court. While spinning, I watched a woman, guessing early 70s, do the most badass core routine, on a mat, on the empty squash court, I have ever seen. Pushups, every dead bug variation known to humankind, bridges, and on and on. She’d get up, walk out of the court, over to the pull up bar and rip off a bunch of pull ups. Grab a dumb bell, return, and get after it with more core exercises. This went on and on. I was so intrigued I wanted to chat her up, but there was no way, she was locked in! Each time she approached the door, I thought to myself, okay, this is it, she’s gonna make eye contact. Wrong.
I think to myself, it’s really not fair that a 70-something woman can be THAT fit when, what seems like yesterday, I was pushing 64 year old Lynn around the Plum St YMCA weight room in her wheelchair. Helping her on and off machines and giving her 2.5 pound dumbells to do bicep curls.
Fortunately, no one noticed the anonymous American cyclist tearing up on the bike. Which was good because crying would inevitably sink my application for citizenship. This is a country where people bodycheck one another against the boards. Routinely. I think the official national policy is, “No crybabies allowed.”
Solo Travel For The Win?
I’m sure you feel the exact same as the Huntington Beach, CA PressingPauser who texted me during the crossing, “I do hope you’ll continue with hourly updates on your journey north.”
Told him my laptop was proving a very helpful distraction, but the truth of the matter is the Strait of Juan de Fuca chop wasn’t nearly as bad as I anticipated and I avoided any feeling of imminent death.
Checked in early and am now sitting in my room reflecting on just how freaky deaky solo travel is. First, I’m happy to report, I am capable of filling out a customs form all by myself. Who knew?
Did you know when you travel solo, and you have two queen beds, you can use the spare one as an open dresser. Clothes, cables, all sorts of travel accoutrements spread across it?! Pretty groovy. Grab and go.
And if you want to sit in a chair by the window, and let the sun cook you, all while reading and sipping green tea, you can! For as long as you want. Mind blown.
And you can decide where to go to dinner yourself without any conferencing or changing of minds. At all. The Fish Market for the win.
And, you better be sitting down for this. Turns out you can use both sides of the bathroom counter! Just sling that toothbrush one direction, the contact lens case another, and spread out all the beauty products as if you are the Grand Poobah of the Water Closet. Because you are! And twice as many soft clean towels!
Altogether, there’s a bizarre absence of friction. But sports fans, while that no doubt is highly enjoyable initially, over the medium, and fo sho’ long-term, it’s detrimental to someday making another relationship work. Because friction is the lifeblood of relationships, and the more intimate, the more friction. Feeling out what your partner wants and needs, negotiating differences, and ultimately striking repeated compromises is the name of the game.
So as I do exactly as I want, what is happening to my banger interpersonal skills? I’ll tell you what. They’re atrophying.
Really Nice Knowing You
Okay, pushing off from the Coho Ferry Terminal in Port Angeles. When I woke up at 4:30a.m. my ancient bedside digital radio was flashing 3:30a.m. Damn, forgot all about the springing forward.
The drive was trippy. I literally didn’t see a car on my side of the road for 90 of the 120 miles. And only ones going in the opposite direction every 15-20 minutes. It was like the road was closed just for me.
It’s hella windy so the crossing is going to be a challenge. I am supe prone to sea sickness. When my sibs and I spread my mom’s ashes in the Pacific Ocean near the Long Beach, CA port a decade ago, they took great joy in my suffering. The worse I felt, the better they did. There’s no substitute for sister and brotherly love.
A peek inside my birdbrain for the next 90 minutes. “If against all odds, this giant ferry boat capsizes, I can no doubt can swim circles around everyone else on board. Yeah, but then again, given my lack of body fat, I will be the first to succumb to hypothermia. So yeah, definitely gonna die.”
Dear (dis)United States of America,
I’m off to Canada tomorrow. I know you will miss me. Gonna be rough, so many fond memories with Lynn. However, I am taking two friends. Seth Harp, in the form of his book, “The Fort Bragg Cartel: Drug Trafficking and Murder in the Special Forces”. And James Rebanks, in the form of his book, “The Place of Tides”.
Maybe I won’t run to Oak Bay. Maybe I won’t swim in the salt-based 25-meter pool underneath the hotel. Maybe I won’t sit in the steam room after not swimming in the pool. Maybe I won’t go to my fave restaurants or Victoria’s REI, MEC—Mountain Equipment Coop. Maybe I won’t go to “our” theatre. Maybe I’ll just cocoon with Harp and Rebanks. No outdoor equipment required for that. You know, just lean into the grief and Howard Hughes it.
If the Canadians look at my application for asylum, and conclude, “Oh, they don’t send their best.” I’ll be back midweek.
If I do have to return, I hope you will have used Monday to rethink your plan to completely disrupt the global world order and Tuesday to put it back together. I don’t think that’s too much to ask.
Paragraph To Ponder
Meanwhile, back at home, the War President declares the affordability crisis is over.
Jessica Grose writing in the New York Times:
“On Thursday, a woman named Sharon from Minnesota called into C-SPAN’s ‘open forum’ to express her despair about the cost of living. ‘I’m 65 years old. I’m legally blind. I’m on disability. I went to my doc, and I lost 28 pounds in the last year. I did not need to lose 28 pounds. I did not try to lose 28 pounds. I lost the 28 pounds because I cannot afford to eat anymore,’ Sharon explained, speaking clearly even though she sounded near tears. Because of Trump administration cuts to the Supplemental Nutrition Assistance Program, and the high cost of groceries, gas and electricity, Sharon only allows herself $65 a month for food.”
Pressing Pause 