Vichy Water – Author's Blog Just another WordPress weblog

Follow

        Social Media is where it’s at. What a world. Connectivity. Ideas. Spirit. A few hours ago I sat empty, thinking, at the dock of my mind overlooking the Shark River jetty, near the beach of my youth, Belmar. So what the hell can I blog about? Then a message arrived for my eyes only from a new Facebook friend with a link to a powerful video about banking and oil. I took notes; felt I was back in Political Science 101. Rutgers Newark. Summer of 1965. Johnson announced Head Start and signed the Voting Rights Act (he wasn’t just about sending our young men to Vietnam). Ali knocked Liston out in first round (I missed it. Late for a change) Viet Cong offensive at US base in Da Nang. Four Tops. “I Can’t Help Myself.” Regrets are many. Never went to Newport Folk Festival in 1965(Dylan used electric for first time) or The March on Washington two years earlier. Regrets linger a long time just like the oil in the gulf and soon our Atlantic.  I’m on a roll now.

            No eating red meat in the title of the blog. I escaped the summer of 1965 and all the summers of the war. Mostly I was in school getting two degrees at Rutgers and interning as a Pharmacist. Then came a marriage, Watergate (a few years ago I got a chance to actually hug (at Columbia University) Ben Bradlee, editor of the Washington Post. He gave OK to Woodward and Bernstein to pursue) and my divorce. Being suddenly single in a world of change and evolution was hard. A new brother-in-law, perhaps trying to endear, gave me a phone number of a girl.  Six months into 1975, I still never called out of fear of the unknown. Political pressure and keeping the family together. Finally I called, reluctantly. Also read about new theories on dating, plastered on magazine covers and on how-to books in store windows artfully displaying the epidemic of divorce. A common theme in those self-help books was finding commonality.

            The date. Friday night. A significant positive; the girl lives in an estate. I had to walk 1/4 mile from the street to the door bell. A prayer for divine intervention. The door opens. A blond, blue-eyed six-foot tall girl invites me to enter a cavernous hallway. Mesmerized.  My being 6′ 5 1/2 ” she was divine.

             “What are our plans for tonight?” My deep breath. “I thought we’d go into New York City (we’re in Short Hills) for a movie and dinner.” A radiant smile appeared. “A movie is good. But I can only eat at two restaurants!” Confused, I ask, “Why?” She responds, “I’m a vegan. Only two places that are pure vegan.”  Two seconds elapse. “I can’t believe that. I’m a vegan too!”  Her face lit up; the power of commonality. “How long have you been a vegan?” I answered honestly, “Not long.” I had become a vegan. She was a two date girl. I stayed with the vegan status. Something clicked. I liked telling people I don’t eat meat. I changed a bit over the years to just no red meat. The reason why I stayed; health (perhaps). But I’ve invested all these years into honestly telling people I don’t eat red meat; too much of an investment to change now. I almost feel like Scrooge (Alastair Sim) telling the ghost of Christmas yet to come, “I’m too old to change.”

            Speaking of investments. The gulf oil disaster, apocalypse. What a crazy world we live in. Big banks and money rule. Western civilization; remote control everything, plastic throw-away coffee stirrers and corn chips geometrically designed to get to the bottom of the dip jar. Last night, sinking deeper into a real depression over the gulf, I realized we’ve killed that body of water and changed permanently the way of life for millions. Then the movie “Planet of the Apes” popped up. The last scene, Charlton Heston pounding the sandy clean beach with fist; the revelation, blood curdling, “We’ve finally really did it. You maniacs.”  

            So here’s what I learned in school today. Oil is beneath the skin. There’s gold in our vaults (‘I Remember Mama’ and ‘Goldfinger’). We do fractional reserve banking. Issue a lot of paper. No one (I never did) ever asks for the gold. Keep a fraction of deposits in reserve. Lend rest out with interest. $100 turns into $10,000. Oil is transacted in dollars. I know this is a bit simplistic and over my head. But what if Iraq, Iran and North Korea want to switch from dollars to euros for trading oil?  Did an old CIA director concoct WMD and give reason to go into Iraq before they convert to euros? Now we have military bases near all the oil fields in Iraq. The United States is completely dependent on trading oil in US $ in order to keep Fractional Reserve Currency afloat (since the 1980’s.) VP Cheney (Halliburton Cheney) deregulates oil industry so BP doesn’t have to spend extra money on some acoustic switch which could’ve prevented the apocalypse in the gulf. You know what Ollie and Stannie (from ‘March of the Wooden Soldiers’) I don’t give a damn what the hell you do with banking, switches, WMD and off shore rigs. Just make sure 1000% and don’t ever kill our oceans, gulf, Pelicans, tortoises, shrimps, oysters and livelihood and way of life for so many of my fellow Americans and Earth residents.  How tempted I’ve been to use the “F” word.

            For what it’s worth on my novel website, http://vichywater.net  I’m doing a dramatic sale of my novel giving 40% of the book profits to Oceana(involved in Ocean conservation) It’s just time to step up to the plate.

Follow

Follow

         Sometimes updating a blog every few days becomes a bit laborious. More folks keep dropping by so I need to give them a reason to believe (an old folk song). Earlier I thought about not eating red meat (hi Michelle P.) for decades and the reasons for that (a rather light hearted Tom Jones-ish escapade). Then a few hours ago, Facebook and Ellis C. and a post about Father’s Day. I gave him thumbs up. He enlisted me (with a misconstrued bribe) and I obliged. Then a bright bulb goes off (they don’t make 150 watts anymore so even bright bulbs are incandescently getting dimmer. I hope not a societal commentary). That’s it. My blog; copied nearly verbatim from the comments I made to Ellis. He said it was a bit tearful. Before hand, some thoughts about our world.

            Am I Santiago (the Old Man and the Sea), going 84 days without catching a fish? Am I prophetic, thinking they cap the gulf oil volcano in 84 days?  Wishing and hoping. So much dialogue, diatribe and other forms of “dia” saturating the information highway. Everybody involved. Is there a scientist or think tank that knows what the oceans and life will be like on August 5th, 2021.  Why enforce the Jones Act (which keeps foreign ships from helping us)? We need the help. Why not 20 specific, outlined contingency plans for blowouts before another well is drilled or another “I” is dotted, Bob Cratchit (an ancestor is rumored to be head of BP. Not) So much cover-up and stone walls.

            My grandmother told me stories about Russia in the old days of fiddlers hanging around a roof. The Cossacks were coming so they all ran around fixing up their villages to make them look nice. A term evolved: Potemkin village. Make nice. Are there marching orders to make the gulf coast beaches and everything visibly going on look nice? Freedom of the press having lunch (fresh cow’s milk) in a Potemkin village? One more thought about scientists saying what will happen to the oceans. They don’t know the “S” word. No offense. But common sense should tell us we don’t know.  A year ago I had the good fortune to have the former head of the EPA during 9-11 for several minutes, one on one (not on a basketball court, although she’s pretty tall). I wanted to say when I was in eighth grade; we studied fire, chemicals and reactions. When you burn unknowns, you create unknowns. Don’t breathe unknowns. We’ll never know what becomes of our precious oceans. My mother’s hormone pills she took for all those years, using old American Standard fixtures, flushing away, are probably still floating around our oceans, hooking up with a variety of creatures on every level of the chain. Small mouth male bass fish in our lakes almost all have eggs now. Oh, for the last few months I now peel all my fruit. Forget about washing. Enough. Now to my father.

            So the Facebook query by Ellis C. wanted to know about “Daddy’s Day.”

            I’m smiling at the screen. I could write a novella about my father and one day I will. Fathers. My father never used word “love.”  Never talked to me about civil rights. Never took me to any kind of athletic game. Never was for a lot of things. Funny you ask Ellis. Recently he passed. Even more recently, I had one of my famous epiphanies. He was the greatest father EVER. He did what his genetic makeup and world allowed him to. He never had Facebook or college BUT he was the greatest because (besides giving  great athletic and anti-aging genes) he TAUGHT me how to be the father I needed(and always wanted) to be. So my son Neil (my best friend in the world) has heard and felt the word love 23 times a day for 24 years. My son goes to 40 Rutgers sporting events a year (a little less now) with me (since he was 11). My son and I talk every night about civil rights, comics and parallel worlds (with some antiquated advice on dating) and when he was seven  I made him watch ‘Animal House’  and ‘Wuthering Heights'(really, really) So now we run to midnight opening movies together(it has a Ponce De Leon effect on me).Indeed, I had the greatest father. Oh, so DYFS doesn’t hunt me down for exposing my son to bad language at such a young age: when watching ‘Animal House’ when he was seven years, I coughed in my sons ear every time a bad word was said(especially when that devilish figure sat on Larry Kroger’s shoulder) Thanks Ellis for making me remember. Happy Father’s Day everyone. Dad, I miss you.

Follow

Follow

         Big title. Active thoughts for a Monday morning. A long blog. Think of all the energy a rocket needs at take off just to lift those first few feet. Before I go blogging officially: the dedication of blog entry. I’m holding a bottle of champagne with nowhere to break it. My favorite earth creature (for my 30’s decade) was the Ostrich. If there was a problem with life on the rural plain, the Ostrich buried head in sand (like under a pillow in a dark room). Miraculously, one of two things happened upon removal; problem was either still there or not. Perhaps an animal behavior psychologist should’ve Pavlovian taught the practicality of a coin toss; maybe eliminating sandy ears (was Road Runner the same species?) Having moved passed that mid-life decade (way past) another life form comes to mind for dealing with problems. Samantha Stevens always smiled, was basically cool, calm and collected; just the twitch of that perfectly formed nose handed down from father Robert Montgomery (nominated for an Oscar for ‘Here Comes Mr. Jordan.’ Claude Rains was in that movie too; best as Louis in ‘Casablanca’). Samantha’s nose twitches; Thomas Jefferson is having dinner with her and Darren.  Kennedy once said as 49 Nobel Prize winners were dining with him at the White House; that this dinner constituted the greatest collection of talent and human knowledge except perhaps when Jefferson (a Deist) dined alone. How magical Samantha was. How many of us dream of twitching our noses like her? I am right now. Elizabeth was such a great talent. Her father, brother and her all died from cancer. A propitious segue to Transhumanism and the H+ Summit.

            Through the magic of Facebook (soon a $50 billion IPO? Recent Russian anti-Semitism chased away a young man and his family. He came to America and co-founded Google. $150 Billion innovation chased away from Moscow. But at least a Russian owns the New Jersey Nets now) I found out about the H+ Summit at Harvard (Thanks to Alex L.) Two days of 60 amazing speakers talking about the Rise of the Citizen Scientist, Singularity, Transhumanism (live longer, be smarter. Maybe down a future road, they could’ve done something with Elizabeth’s pre-cancer genes). To this day, I still regret not having gone to the March on Washington in August, 1963.  To add to a growing list of life’s regrets, was not being LIVE at this summit. But I watched the live stream (and continue to watch the un-live stream rebroadcast) and promised myself, next May at H+ Summit, I’ll be there. Singularity in case you wonder: Maybe in a few decades a superior intelligence will be in charge (like HAL in 2001?). Life won’t be the same. I know that now. There won’t be any Tuna left in the seas. Maybe the seas, thanks to BP are dead anyway. I had to get that in.  Right now, no one can really predict down the road. But when it happens, Singularity says humans and machines will merge (become single) so bad health, old age and even dying is gone. Once again we could’ve helped Elizabeth. Maybe Singularity is this escape twitching to living to 150. Twitch rhymes with switch. I’ve been saying for a long time, one day we’ll find that switch that starts the aging process and you know what? Design a computer to design a computer that can find that switch. Are we at the 6th paradigm? Three dimensional molecular computing.

            Everyone, I suppose had an old swimming hole growing up. In Newark, it was a pool in a Temple on Clinton Avenue (the same place where Dr. King spoke in early 1963. I should’ve been there too). A few laps, dry off and your head is still swimming, ears ringing with clogged water. My mind is swimming from Saturday and Sunday’s speakers. One showed a video of a creature in a maze-like situation. I’m in a verbal maze. I don’t know what to say first. On Saturday afternoon, I did have the best of all worlds imaginable; watching the stream of speakers, taking notes and pedaling on my exercise bike, full throttle, thereby enabling my cerebral telomeres to stay young, vibrant; making them and the rest of my cells forget their age. When the Saturday session was over, I journeyed through the Lincoln Tunnel to the Upper East Side of New York, met siblings, had dinner (with Pellegrino not Vichy Water on the table). Walking around the city on a summer Saturday night is nirvana until you realize, no one is over thirty anywhere. Even two old women, supported by a cane and a walker, talking to a doorman on Park Avenue somehow looked in their late twenties. I was so self conscious (of my age) and remembering the movie, “Logan’s Run” where anyone over thirty is vaporized(I’m never in the mood for that) I ran into a deserted alley, found the cat from “Breakfast at Tiffany’s”  and rushed back to New Jersey where they accept every one(not like the Russians) When I got home, (still hungry, remembering that fancy Manhattan dining usually means plates garnished like an Andy Warhol painting, with just several strands of Pappardelle pasta. A voice said, “It’s all in the presentation”) I opened a box of Cheerios and sat in my high chair (high refers to mental state, still euphoric from all the biking endorphins) The cereal filled me up, senses too. Felt my cholesterol dropping 3 %. Love unrestrained high chairs at 2 AM.

            What a world. Sunday night. After Day #2.  So much to learn. Social networking to meet ‘likes.’ Moore’s Law. Computing performance per unit cost. More bang for bucks every 24 months.  Swimming. Neuro-modulation. My hand is raised. I’ll volunteer. Improve my health. When I start all over, let me keep both my meniscus. Maybe grow a second heart when needed. Redundancy works for me. I remember a pix of an Albatross on Midway Island( body was filled with ingested garbage, thrown away, all the way out there) The first synthetic cell was created. More swimming.  Someday an I-Pad becomes an oscilloscope. Imagine a future subway ride in New York City, now accepting people in their forties, looking at your oscilloscope and showing off your spikes to a complete stranger. Somebody said Italy’s birth rate is 1.2 % (not enough to sustain a country and their population is aging. I worry about that) Michael S. mentioned language barriers in our world holding us back. I wrote a blog about that a while back and called it “Tower of Babble.” I haven’t eaten red meat since 1975. One day, they’ll grow meat in a lab dish. So what happens to my objections then? Do I start looking for an ethicist now?  Do we need a moral high ground in the future?  What about the cell that takes up CO2, gets energy from the sun, and pees gasoline? I’ll bet plenty Exxon raises the price of our pump gas to fund that one. And finally listening to Ray Kurzweil talk. Indeed what a wonderful world and conference.

            The race track reference in the title: I always lose when I go the track. Once made 27 bets and lost all 27. I don’t go anymore. There’s another race on. Really important. I’m not betting. Just sitting in my high chair as I write this. I wouldn’t think to go to the dock at the bay; just sit in a wooden chair.  Nano-tech will give us (earthlings) the first true society of abundance. But will sustainability let us reap. It’s a race. Much appreciation to all the folks at H+ Summit for mind expansion. Read novel ‘Vichy Water’ for future think as well.

Follow

Follow

         This past Thursday June 3rd. A day that will live. Before I plunge into blog, since I’ve established a bit of a tradition, I’d like to dedicate. Just remembered a fraternity brother had a campus radio show (Lyndon Johnson was President, so this is a bit dated). The show was called “DJ Jake’s Dedication Discs. New(oxymoron?) 45’s were played into half dozen dorms. Campus was in Toledo, Ohio, air redolent with staunch Republicanism, not that there’s anything wrong with that. Jake let the “F” word slip out; of course the mike was supposed to be off. Show cancelled. No more dedications and memories of Yonkers or Great Neck.  Stylistically, I know my writing drifts like an association game.

            Back to dedication. For filling me up spiritually, resonating my soul, making me adore the smell of heather at Pedyston Crag, for haunting me (in a good way), for liking Native American flute music and loving, as I do, the Florida Keys(soon to be visited by BP’s oil) and being such a spirited, real part of the Good Earth (with respects to Pearl Buck). When I was in first grade, years after WWII, I actually thought Pearl Harbor was a girl friend of my mother. She was already friends with a Pearl Goldman.); for all the aforementioned, thanks to Cathy Earnshaw of the Heights. I feel like running off somewhere to claim my birthright. You indeed light my fire. Imagine Ed Sullivan not wanting Jim Morrison to use those lyrics on his Sunday night show. We’ve come a long way. Thing is, according to the title of blog, there’s a race on. Fasten your seatbelt; it’s going to be a bumpy blog (points for minor alliteration).

            On my way up to Morristown, N.J. on Thursday to get a special x-ray, precursor to dental work and perhaps orthodontic appliances (braces, which I firmly believe will have this Ponce De Leon effect on me. I’ll be a regular riot on Saturday mornings when I break a wire and look like every patient’s father). I turned on my GPS (Garmin) for help. Maybe Rosemary’s baby was all grown up, whispering from the back of the GPS, but the ‘thing’ was taking me all over Northern Jersey, then towards a sink hole in Guatemala, around a bridge that fell down in an ash storm, through a hostage crisis in an optical shop(actually happened in Canada once). I kept going my way. It refused. Goosebumps paraded up and down both arms. I’ll swear the word “HAL” appeared in a flash on the screen. I pulled the power cord. It still flashed “HAL.” I whispered the names Anthony and Stanley. Love Thursday afternoon epiphanies driving home on Route 18 in East Brunswick.

             Artificial Intelligence is making such inroads. We’ll never know all of it. The internet, robots, genetically engineered chicken soup, and the list goes on. A nephew recently mentioned to me, “Uncle Cal, you have no idea what’s in store.” To which I replied, apologetically, “I do, if we get there first before.” “Before what Uncle Cal” “Before Tuna goes extinct. No more fish in the oceans. 20 million fishing jobs lost. 68 Hurricane 5’s a season.” “Oh I know what you’re saying.” He’s a smart kid. Sure his uncle knows that silicon power doubles every 18 months and we’ll probably be visited in zoos (thanks to Michio Kaku and Al for the insight) by robots in 2050(Artificial Intelligence and  HAL). Robots may be calling the shots. I wonder what cage for me. Ah, probably the giraffe. I am 6′ 6.” Quantum calculations are already being done on individual atoms. There’s a race. Interracial (a different race) marriages jumped to 14.6% in 2008 in America. We’re getting there.  The real race is against Tuna going extinct, sustainability for our planetary ladies, gentlemen and children. As a social scientist and writer, I try so hard to understand why nobody really cares. Is it all resignation? Is there enough indignation with what BP did to America? What about some Orwellian thinking? That artificial world in 2050. Who gets there first? My nephew and son’s children. I can’t or won’t bet.  Cryptic my dear Watson.          

            I’ve been listening to the Eagles, “Peaceful Easy Feeling” a lot these last two days. I never paid attention when it first came out; stuck on Peter Paul Mary. But I obsess; maybe I’ve listened to this song a hundred times last few days (OCD I know. I don’t care) One hell of a song. Imagine being in the desert with a billion stars all around. I’ve got a feeling. Spirit is all around. It exists. Maybe I’ll hop on one of those stars and go back to Jake and tell him the microphone is on.

            Have a heavy wonderful weekend everybody. Check out my novel too. Looming more like Nostradamus.

Follow