The hungry I.

"AI development could be slowed by a huge demand for electricity," reports WSHU in Connecticut, and it's an interesting development in this weird new world of artificial intelligence. 

Connecticut and other states would have to significantly improve their energy infrastructure to keep up with the electricity needed for AI computing, said Chetan Jaiswal, a computer science professor at Quinnipiac University and an AI researcher.

“For example, a single chip running for nine days uses more than 27,000 kilowatt hours. An average household uses approximately 10,000 kilowatt hours annually,” Jaiswal said.

And that's a report from tiny Connecticut, far from the fantasy land that is California, where so many high-tech companies dwell, and where the government thinks that medieval tech like sun and wind will somehow cough up enough power for all of this. 

I have done some work in the last year looking at business startups, and many of them are pasting AI on their business plans the way Dot Com was bandied about in the nineties. It was the special sauce necessary to bring in the investor lettuce; then on to the IPO; then on to the giant bubble. Will that happen again? Yeah, probably. 

I don't even know that most of us are that impressed with artificial intelligence to date -- it seems to be a little crazy and even stupid. Is it worth all the hullabaloo? It's already helping lazy students get by, but worse, it's literally destroying science publishing. Science publisher Wiley is closing nineteen journals in its Hindawi subsidiary because of manuscript fabrication by so-called paper mills using AI. This is a terrifying development in the field. 

At least in the Dot Com revolution, when things shook out we had the Internet -- not an unmixed blessing, no, but for most people something of value. What will the AI revolution yield? Garbage research and a bottomless hunger for energy seem to be the whole of its useful product to date. 

What first popped to my mind with that energy-hungry-AI story was this unnerving quote from the third book of C.S. Lewis's Space Trilogy, which takes place in England: 

"It is the beginning of what is really a new species--the Chosen Heads who never die. They will call it the next step in evolution. And henceforward, all the creatures that you and I call human are mere candidates for admission to the new species or else its slaves--perhaps its food."

--The Director, That Hideous Strength 

In Lewis's 1945 novel, the monsters are organic; in our time, the "new species" is electronic. But what are we to be, but its slaves? Either by maintaining it technically where it can't maintain itself, or by providing its energy. It won't eat us, but it doesn't have to -- it will eat our energy, which we also need for food and homes and transportation. The more idiot humans cut back on our means of generating power by fossil fuels and nuclear energy, the less there is all around, and AI will need a bigger cut every year. Our energy costs will skyrocket yet more, because the wealthy investors will demand that AI get all the power it needs. 

It's a sneaky path to Doomsday that I wouldn't have expected, although in a way C.S. Lewis did. He was well aware of the kind of scientists who revile humanity and see it as an impediment to a better world. He knew that these were the very modern geniuses who could lead to our destruction, congratulating themselves as they too were fed to the fire. 

Living the dream.

The American Dream has become one of the most misunderstood parts of the American Mythos, nearly always represented as selfish, soured, a nightmare hiding beneath a shiny gloss.  

The term dates back to 1900 and is described aptly by Webster's as "an American social ideal that stresses egalitarianism and especially material prosperity." So let's have a look at what the dream is really all about. 

1. Prosperity 

Often the American Dream is stated as "Work hard and you'll get rich," but that's twisting it, either to benefit those who sucker you or those who know that riches are rare and so disappointment will follow. 

Prosperity, on the other hand, is nothing more than a good living, a fair reward for one's work. Since so many people who came to the United States came from places that still had a feudal mindset, in which the efforts of the many only really meant prosperity for the few, this was and is a big deal. Even today, in places where slavery and serfdom are supposedly banished, people still can't achieve prosperity from their own labor because they live in crooked kleptocracies, low-trust societies that are all about theft, bribery, and using the law to steal from everyone. Corruption is the only means to rise from poverty.

We're supposed to be a nation ruled by laws, not men, and this is why. No one ever gets a fair shake when the law is merely a tool for those in power -- which is quite what many people in America are trying to do today.

2. Freedom

Prosperity means freedom from the tyranny of need. Noted French jerk Jean-Jacques Rousseau famously wrote, "Man is born free; and everywhere he is in chains."

Oh, really? 

"Okay, baby, you're free! Here you go!" [chucks baby on lawn]

The chains to which all people are born are nature and necessity; only a baby born able to walk and eat grass and survive naked could be free as Rousseau demands. I never met a baby human yet who fit that description. 

But the American Dream promises a chance to not have to live under the shadow of terrible need, of hunger and exposure lurking daily outside the window. This is a far cry from promising mansions and yachts to everyone, but to my family who came over here from Europe, it was a huge improvement. They never expected Uncle Sugar to provide them with ease and comfort, just protection from lawbreakers and a chance to earn a fair wage. That was plenty to keep the wolf well away from the door. 

3. The Wealth Trap

The other proposed downside to the American Dream is meant to be the awful people who achieve it. Well, there we have to concede a point, if by those who achieve it we mean only the very wealthy, not the prosperous middle class. And yes, and they say on Instapundit, we currently have the worst ruling class in our history. Noblesse oblige is not considered their obligation for honor and generosity, but rather their responsibility to order the rest of us around. 

The rich are not usually concerned with the little people. We get in their way of them focusing on the ones they really hate -- the richer people. The guy a little farther up the hill who looks down on them. 

And if you are one of these moneyed mooks, you have a lot of incentive to hate everyone. People are always looking to separate you from your dough; you have no peace. For the type who holds the keys to the kingdom -- say, a repulsive, horrible creep who produces movies -- it must seem natural to demand humiliating services from those hoping you will unlock the door to fame and fortune.

And even if the rich can avoid all these temptations of pride, lust, envy, and so on, there's something about avarice that takes on its own life -- the hunger grows with the eating. 

Notice how well all these descriptions jibe with those in America's entertainment industry, the source of much disparagement of the middle class and the American Dream. They like to make the American Dream look bad, in their own actions and in their media, then take it out on the rest of us. It's America's fault! 

4. The Dream Is Good

The American Dream is still good, still right, and not to be disparaged because it sometimes fails, or because we fail it. It is not a promise, far less a guarantee. It is aspirational. It ought not to consume us, but encourage us. It ought not to be the whole aim of society, but a society that is rightly ordered makes it possible. It is still a dream wherein a people with no tribe more important than being Americans can look one another in the eye; where, as Joseph says in the series Jesus of Nazareth, "A man who's skillful in his work will stand before kings." 

The shifting battleground.

Yesterday being the celebration of Memorial Day, I was thinking about our nation and those who live in her embrace and yet despise her. For one thing, as I've said here in the past, it's become abundantly clear that Leftists only admire Americans who fight other Americans; there is no place in their admiration for Americans who fought foreign enemies. How can there be? If all foreigners are superior to us in this blighted country, there's no foreigners that we should defeat. 

That calculation seemed to start as defending the Native Americans, then moved on to others who were believed to have been unjustly at the sword point of the American military -- the Mexicans, the Spanish, and so on. Pretty much anyone who could be classified as Not White fell under that umbrella. Certainly we should not have been fighting the Vietnamese; it's not like they attacked us! That worked backward as well, that in retrospect we shouldn't have been fighting the Koreans. 

Admiration for the Confederates was swept away early, but then for the Union military too, as they most assuredly were not fighting to end slavery but for some selfish cause. The military in World War I were suckers and eventually dropped beneath notice. 

Holding out to the very end were the American warriors of World War II, and they mostly hung by a thread because of Pearl Harbor and the Final Solution. But Hiroshima eventually made us turn on America's fight against Japan, and now apparently the Left hates Jews, so the Nazis are not as bad as they used to be either. 

Now we're able and encouraged to despise all American fighters, unless they fought America herself. What a relief it must be to no longer wonder if one would have had the sustained courage to go to war for the nation, the sheer guts to stand firm in the heat of battle! Discarding respect for America's military means you never have to look up to them for anything anymore.   

It's easy to do this kind of thing when you don't teach genuine history. The younger generations literally know nothing about anything other than what Leftists choose to teach, and they certainly don't want to teach anything that shows America in a good light. 

But that's not even what I wanted to write about. I set out to write about the American Dream and how the idea has been mangled, but that will have to wait until tomorrow. 

May calling.

It's been a rainy and very buggy May, but I'm still glad I'm not freezing out there anymore. I still have not put away my winter coat, which hangs on the rack by the door. I don't trust this weather. 

But as I say, buggy as hell, with many skeeter bites and gnat encounters already. I caught some yellow jackets up to no good. Every year they find some place on the house they've never nested before, and proceed to nest there. This year it was under the second-story gutter. Well, I and my hose took care of them hive turkeys. 

I am a Cat 5 hurricane on wasps' nests. 

Been a really great year for the creepy-crawlies too, like these ninjas, rappeling from the trees:

"I'm going to land in your hair!"

On that note, I had the world's smallest grasshopper land on me, playing "My Heart Bleeds for You" on his world's smallest Cricket-in-Times-Square violin: 

I guess it's been good for the birds, though. And on that note, the dog and I got a couple of visitors while sitting on the porch a few days ago. I have seen plenty of birds perch on the porch rail, but these two were flying all around the porch itself. I thought we were getting dive-bombed. 

Well, turns out they were house hunters, and now every evening we see this: 

This has been going on for the better part of the week. I've had to hose off the planks under their preferred bedroom, but otherwise they are ideal tenants -- for squatters. I'm thinking it's their house now; I may have to move. 

Finally, big ups to the highway department on this one: 

To be fair, it's on a dead-end street. On the other hand, I've seen one driver fly through it recently. And on the other other hand (may I borrow yours?), the taxes we pay around here should guarantee concierge service for our road signs. 

It's for the boids, I tell ya! 

Ooh, I'm DYIN' AGAIN!

Apologies for not looking through comments the other day, especially about the book launch. (I have since replied as needed.) Work ran me over like a diesel train, but worse, I got a cold. 

I usually power through colds with Alka-Seltzer Plus Cold Medicine, but this is literally the worst cold I've had since I quit smoking many years ago. That one was weird. The wife of a work buddy surmised that it was so bad because all the toxins were leaving my body, which didn't and actually still doesn't make sense to me. For one thing, I was not off nicotine supplements yet, so I was still enjoying some toxins, in the form of gum or lozenges. For another, I lived with a smoker, so I was getting secondhand toxins. For a third -- shouldn't I feel better if the poison level is dropping? I felt like 100% hot garbage. How does reducing the poisons result in feeling worse? 

Well, haven't seen that chap in years, so I have had no opportunity for a follow-up consult with his wife. 

This cold started Sunday as a head cold, got a little worse, then yesterday it dropped like a rock into my chest. Well, that's not pleasant. Suddenly I felt a ton worse, and started sounding like Froggy Laughlin from the Little Rascals. In fact, I announced to the public that Froggy would be taking my calls that day, so I wouldn't scare anyone. If I start feeling better, I might upgrade to Andy Devine. 

Since that awful bout mentioned above, I've barely gotten sick at all. I do believe that one good thing that came out of the COVID fiasco was that the public got an education in handwashing, the #1 way to stop the spread of viruses. However, since another good thing that arose was deserved skepticism about our political and public health leaders, who knows if the public is bothering anymore? 

It was nice, not getting sick, but I suspect my wife picked up the cold in church -- lots of kids, you know, those cherubic little petri dishes -- and I, failing maintain proper form, managed to get it from her. She tried to protect me, but it only takes one slip and wham! Hello, virus. 

Well, if it hasn't killed me by now, I think I'll pull through. Meanwhile, I thank you for your continued patronage and concern. People who read my blog are the finest in the world, and good-looking, too! 

The rules of the game.

Bernard Suits (1925-2007), a philosopher of sports and games (nice work if you can get it, right?), wrote in 1967 that “playing a game is simply the voluntary attempt to overcome unnecessary obstacles.” And that's an interesting way to look at it. 

People who play for money, either gamblers or professional athletes, may pooh-pooh such a flowery description. Winning in those instances may yield a gusher of money -- as well as the rush of defeating an opponent -- so their game may hardly seem to be something as ordinary as voluntary attempts vs. unneeded obstacles. I would hesitate to put that description to either Tyson Fury or Oleksandr Usyk, who fought a brutal boxing match last week to decide the first undisputed heavyweight champion in 25 years. Usyk, the winner of a split decision, was unable to speak to the press afterward, as apparently he also won a split jaw. 

And yet Suits is correct all the same. Whether it's a brutal boxing match or a game of Crazy Eights with your kids, no one has to play, but if you do play, you must overcome the obstacles imposed by the rules. If I'm playing poker for funsies, I still can't reach over and grab the deck and find the cards I want. At that point I may be doing something, but I'm not playing poker. The rules are intended to be obstacles to surmount and a definition of victory over them. 

Of course, there are always those who have the attitude that pro sports is war, and all's fair in love and war. It's not cheating if you don't get caught. If you ain’t cheating, you ain’t trying. 

We love our rascally rogues, but only if they’re our rascally rogues. When the other guys are deflating footballs and stealing signs, we squeal like pigs. It's satisfying to think that the only reason they were winning was their wickedness. 

We instinctively know that if everyone is cheating, the game is ruined. Major League Baseball's steroid scandal shows that. None of those proven juiced-up muscleheads are going to make the Hall of Fame. (On the other hand, steroid use is no impediment to election to the Pro Wrestling Hall of Fame, because that's not a game -- it's theater.)

I want everyone to play by the rules, but that doesn't mean I don't understand the temptation. If I were a player getting my behind handed to me on the field, seeing my dreams of wealth and glory dwindle, and I thought I could get away with some kind of illegal edge, what would I do? I honestly don't know. But I fear what I would do is talk myself into believing everyone else was doing it, so why not?

One last thought: I think it's kind of excellent that a guy who made a living as a philosopher of games was named Suits. Too bad his first name wasn't Dex. 

Dragon breath.

I've mentioned before that I get tired of minty toothpastes -- that burn first thing in the morning, that reminder that my desperately needed coffee will taste of mint. Toothpaste does come in other flavors, mainly bubble gum or (from Colgate) watermelon, that are targeted toward kids. They usually have the same active ingredients as adult toothpastes in the same amount, so I can use them. Still, I'm always hoping to see something new in the mint-alternative toothpaste space. 

Well, here's one. 

Dragon Dazzle is a -- well, it's not a flavor, and it's not the brand, the brand being Hello. The flavor is blue raspberry, which is only slightly less mythical than dragons, dazzling or otherwise. 

This uncaps a number of questions that I hope to answer, including:

1) What's Hello? 

2) What's in this stuff? 

3) Is it any good? 

So here we go:

1) What's Hello? 

Ah, thereby lies a (dragon) tale. Nine years ago on this very blog I wrote about a couple of products from the Hello line, products from the supermarket's bargain bin. Back in those carefree, innocent days of 2015, I noted that Procter & Gamble had attacked the company on one of its claims, and it looked like it was goodbye for Hello. 

But it was not the end yet. Hello struggled on until 2020, when toothpaste magnate Colgate bought the brand. You will look in vain to find the world "Colgate" on the box, though. As I noted in the slightly less innocent age of 2016, huge corporations have been making bank on companies that look like plucky startups for a while now. 

Anyway, it appears that the Hello division of Colgate has stuck to its woo-woo ways of all natural and stuff, to the point of offering fluoride-free toothpaste along with the regular kind for those who fear their essence will be drained. 

2) What's in this stuff? 

Have a look: 

They're much more interested in telling you what's not in it than what's in it, but what is in it is sodium fluoride 0.24%. Interestingly, the toothpaste also contains xylitol, a powerful sweetener, listed as an inactive ingredient. And yet, maybe it ought to be considered an active ingredient.

Wrigley's Orbit gum was introduced as being the first in America with the miracle sweetener xylitol, a sweetener that had already been linked to reduced cavities in children. This has been a matter of some contention in the decades since, but more recently a dentist started a company called CarieFree, which in addition to other tooth-protecting ingredients uses xylitol proudly. (The company does have toothpaste in flavors like grape and orange, but at $18 for a 2.4-ounce tube, it can keep them.)

The description of the Dragon Dazzle is twee to the point of irritation. "Tastes like adventure and glory"? I'll be the judge of that. And that brings us to...

3) Is it any good? 

It doesn't look like much -- the lack of wacky artificial coloring yields a bluish white, sort of a cross between mother of pearl and a worm that never sees the light of day. 

It has a fruity flavor that is inoffensive and very sweet -- hello, xylitol! I guess it's a berry flavor. It's fine. It's mild enough to not insult my taste buds right out of the gate, which is what I was looking for. I'm okay with the taste. How good can it be? It's toothpaste. Neither adventure nor glory detected.  

All this said, there is a kind of Pride-Monthy quality to the product. Maybe coincidence -- after all, in that community grown men are now obsessed with the things that used to obsess seven-year-old girls: rainbows, unicorns, sparkles, pink, purple. It's a little rough on the children, I guess, to have their stuff appropriated, but you know -- eggs, omelets. 

Mutton-headed princesses.

I've worked on a few books for young readers over the years, most of which are targeted toward girls. Publishers will tell you that they barely bother with books for boys above grammar school age because boys don't read for fun. So they neglect boys' books and the spiral continues. 

I mention this because I don't want someone to think I'm just picking on fictional princesses today. No doubt there'd be plenty of fictional princes to pick on too, if boys were reading, and if boys were encouraged to believe in themselves beyond all reason the way girls are. 

That's the rub, right there. In almost every girls' book these days, there comes a time when the girl hero (we don't call them heroines anymore because that's a diminutive), who has been shoved aside by her oppressors, has a chance to sound off and show everyone how wrong they are. She doesn't have to know anything, as long as she believes in herself. Of course, the young lady's brilliance and goodness and courage dazzles everyone, and the bad guys are eschewed while the princess is tiara-cized. 

you go girl

We call this the Greta move, after Greta Thunberg, who may not be aware that the only reason she was able to tell off the UN when she was a child was because she was doing the bidding of the very adults she was telling off. But that's a longer, larger, more lousy story. 

What really bothers me, though, is that as bright as the young princess is, she can't be any smarter than the writer, and that's a problem. I remember one book where the princess discovers how poor the peasantry in town is, and resolves to fix this by looting the royal treasury and throwing gold out to everyone higgledy piggledy. 

No one in the book is smart enough to explain the concept of devaluation, how if you give every peasant five pounds of gold, two gold coins will no longer be enough to buy a fine horse. Sure, the princessdom will look nicer, with everyone making gold utensils and things, but the value of gold will plummet. Whatever's left in the treasury will lose value as well. Of course, brigands from elsewhere will be happy to come rob from the easy-pickin' peasants and take the loot back home where gold still has value. 

These things are simple economics, not hard to understand, but they are not as obvious as knowing that if you let go of an object it will drop. Many things in life are like that. If you're in a sealed room and you turn off the light, why does it get dark? The room is sealed; where did the light go? Guess what: It won't stay bright just because you think it should and really want it to. Neither will the peasants be prosperous because you give away the store.

Sadly, the princesses in these books are also a model for political figures who cannot understand why people stay poor when you print so much money for them. 

It makes me sad, it truly does, that the basics of economics are not taught in schools, or at least not taught well enough to act as a counter to this kind of magical thinking. Prosperity is difficult. Poverty is easy. How people get through high school without understanding even that is beyond me.

It's up, and it's good!

As I promised the other day, the book has landed! Now available on Amazon Kindle, McMann and Wife is live!

What's it about? It's about 300 pages. No, you want to know what the story is about. Here you go:

It’s April 1959, and McMann has landed in Southern California, in the bustling town of Dovlin. With his wife, his apartment, and his steady job as a night watchman, it seems like he’s left behind his former life. But he still works as a private investigator on the side, and that’s how the trouble starts.

A family is looking for its missing teenage daughter, and the mother calls McMann for help. The girl does not seem to fit the picture of a runaway—she has a quiet home life and does well in school. As he investigates further, more questions arise. These questions begin to point to a conspiracy within the town—one in which his missing person doesn’t even rate as a pawn.

Or is McMann just becoming paranoid?

In a world of high hopes but atomic fears, a land of dreams and nightmares, McMann will have to think fast to find his missing person—or he might just go missing as well.

This is the sequel to McMann and Duck: Private Investigators, but it isn't necessary to read book 1 if you're only interested in this one. 

Thanks for your kind patience in reading through this post, and I sure hope you'll also have the patience to read through the book. My usual policy stands: I can't refund your money if you buy the book and don't like it, but I will write you a personal apology if you read the whole thing and are disappointed. Let me know. And if you love it, let everyone know! 

Alarming situation.

You all think I'm a pretty sharp-witted character, a man with a keen wit and perspective glance, one who could never do something so stupid it would stand out like a neon sign blinking STUPID in humongous lettering over his head. Well, you're wrong. Yesterday was one for the books. 

Actually the story started in February. You may recall that when we returned home from a short trip, I found the fire alarms in the house beeping. There was no fire; it was likely a malfunction caused by ceiling dust. But I didn't know that until I had removed all but one hard-wired sensor, the next-to-last one, in a storage room, that being the cause of the false alarm. 

One of the things I had done while running around the house like a lunatic was pull the alarm sensor by the furnace out of the ceiling. This is a sensor attached by wires to a small battery block that sits under the Sheetrock; it's not wired to anything else. It's not part of the system that came with the house. It's part of the burglar/fire alarm system we had installed. Back in February, having removed it and determined it was not part of the beeping problem while rushing through the house, I put it aside, not back in the ceiling. Then I forgot about it. That was mistake number one. 

Mistake number two came on Saturday. I was downstairs when I noticed the thing was still lying around. I thought I ought to put it in the ceiling, but was afraid that I might accidentally set it off. The alarm is a tremendous and terrifying sound. So I figured I would do it when the house was empty of other bipeds and quadrupeds. I put the thing back down, but not where it had been -- I left it right on top of the furnace. Mistake number two. 

Saturday had been stuffy and warm, but the temperature dropped overnight. Sunday morning I alone was awake. I wanted to take a shower, but it was pretty chilly. So I turned the thermostat over from A/C to Heat. Mistake number three. 

I'm sure you can see where this is going.

We have a shower downstairs, which I decided to use instead of the upstairs one, lest I make noise and wake up my wife. Oh, no, we certainly wouldn't want to make noise and wake anyone up.

I had the water running and was partly stripped down when the alarm went off in Armageddon mode. The furnace had come on, and the heat had tripped the alarm sensors that I had left sitting on the furnace like some Nobel Laureate. The dog freaked out and so did I. Half naked, I emerged from the bathroom and punched in the code to stop the ringing, then hustled downstairs to move the alarm sensor. I knew what had happened immediately. Too bad I had not foreseen that possibility the day before. 

I got upstairs in time to see my phone ringing on the charger. The alarm company was checking in to make sure we were not perishing in an inferno. I thanked the nice lady on the phone, explained it was a false alarm caused by my negligence and there was no fire. She thanked me and reset the system. 

Don't go away, because it gets worse. 

With the alarm company satisfied and the possibility of another alarm subdued, I returned to the shower. Mistake number four, if you're still keeping tabs. I stripped off, got in the shower, began to soap up -- and the dog started barking his head off. I didn't hear the alarm so -- 

Oh no.

Naked, soapy, trailing slime down the hall like a slug, I looked out the peephole in the front door to see the fireman standing there. It was not the whole squad with a hook and ladder, just one officer from the volunteer company who lives nearby. I considered ignoring the door, but realized that the next thing that came through it might be an ax. So I opened the door, hiding my nekkid self as best as I could, soap and water dripping all over, the dog pushing past to ram into and open the storm door (I managed to get him by the collar). I apologized sincerely, saying it had been a false alarm and was no need to panic. He could see I was in showerly distress, assured me it was okay, and left. 

"What an idiot." -- Fireman

Oddly enough, it was the dog barking at the man at the door that woke my wife up, not the alarm. 

I did get my shower completed as fast as humanly possible, and I did wipe up the water in the hall. And I did indeed admit that this had all been caused by one of the stupidest things I have ever done sober. 

My wife just laughed it off. She thought it was funny. I guess if there's a lesson here, it might be that if you live with me, you'd better have a good sense of humor. 

Cover reveal!

 Okay, I don't want to give away too much here, but the cover of the new book is here!

I always feel like Navin Johnson when the new phone book arrives. Of course, I hope no one starts shooting. We'll revisit this soon, when the cover copy is ready and the damn thing is available, but here you go! And as you might guess, it's the sequel to McMann and Duck. and it takes place in 1959.  

As Mark Twain said when he first saw the cover of Huckleberry Finn, "I'm so verklempt I could just plotz!" 

Maybe that was Saul Bellow. Although why he'd be plotzing at Huckleberry Finn, I cannot say. 

First time lucky: home repair edition.

It has been my experience as a homeowner that the first time something goes wrong, and I have no idea how to fix it, I do a little research, get the tools and parts, and blam! Fixed. But every subsequent time the exact same situation comes up, something goes horribly wrong. 

I guess the worst case to date was when a valve needed replacing on the water heater. The first time I did the job was on a rainy Sunday afternoon, scared to death that I would blow the house up. Easy Peasy. The second time I did it, the new valve didn't fix the problem, which got worse, and I had to call a plumber. Who did exactly what I did and it worked and has continued to work. 

It doesn't make any sense, but then, beginner's luck never did (except as a means to gull some sucker into losing his paycheck gambling; "You're so lucky! Come on, you got a streak going!"). 

It happened again this past weekend, with a leaking kitchen sink. There's no washer, just this pricey Delta insert, which I procured. Last time, the job was a breeze. This time? Got multiple parts removed only to find that the last piece, the bonnet nut, was completely stuck. Liquid Wrench could loosen it -- maybe. But it was now six o'clock on Sunday evening and dinner had to be cooked, and it was better not to maybe break everything. So, back all the pieces went for now. 

All exploded diagrams look like this to me. 

Not that I'm always first-time lucky. This past winter I noticed that the storm door's latch was not latching adequately when shut. This is a problem because we live on a very windy hill. If the door does not shut properly, it can be blown open and BANG into the light fixture aside it. 

It took me THREE TRIES to get new hardware for the door. I would have replaced the door entirely, but they don't make that model anymore. I was very lucky even to find, on the ground, the sticker with the door's serial number so that I could get the right handle. The sticker had fallen off at some point and it was miracle I found it. So, with all hope gone, I assembled the new hardware, and it fit. But guess what? The latch still doesn't snap shut well. If it's really breezy I have to use the deadbolt. 

My wife says our next place should be in a condo where all repairs are covered by the homeowners' association fees. I think I'd rather live in a zoo at this point. Come see the captive middle-aged man! In a simulated natural environment. And they handle all the food and repairs. Genius! 

The S is for Solomon.

Today's topic is: How Captain Marvel was ruined, phase three. By Captain Marvel I mean the one that comes into being when Billy Batson says the magic word Shazam, not the various Captains Marvel that Marvel Comics has coughed up over the years. (That was phase two.)

Captain Marvel's ruination, phase one, was when DC Comics sued Fawcett, claiming that Cap was a rip-off of Superman, and won in 1951. DC later got hold of the Fawcett characters but sat on them for years. Eventually they started publishing new stories featuring the man called by his foes the Big Red Cheese. 

But today I want to discuss how the character was ruined by DC after I stopped being a regular reader of comic books. It ties into to other issues in our so-called culture, trust me. 

First, as you may be aware, the word Shazam is an initialism. It stands for the fabled personalities from whom Captain Marvel gets his superpowers: 

Solomon (wisdom)

Hercules (strength)

Atlas (stamina)

Zeus (sheer all-around power)

Achilles (courage)

Mercury (speed)

We have here a mashup of Greek and Roman names (like Hercules and Mercury rather than the Greek Herakles and Hermes), but that's forgivable. If all Roman names had been used (like Jupiter instead of Zeus) it would have been Shajam, and that sounds pretty bad. But the one figure that is not from myth, Solomon, is Biblical and historical. He really doesn't go with the others. Athena (in Roman, Minerva) would have been a mythical choice for wisdom. But that would have involved an icky girl, and then the magic word would be Ahazam or Mhazam, and those are pretty bad. 

The problem with Captain Marvel is that, while supposedly having the wisdom of Solomon, he's been turned into a dumbbell. 

This all started in the late 1980s, when DC was doing major reboots to its legacy characters. Prior to this point, Billy and Captain Marvel were two distinct characters -- they shared knowledge (when Billy turned into Captain Marvel, Cap knew what was going on), but they referred to each other as separate people even in their thoughts. Not that Billy was not a clever and resourceful boy; he could often accomplish things that big, conspicuous Marvel could not. It was hard to tell where one began and the other ended sometimes, except that Marvel had the attributes of the seven legendary personas, and Billy did not. 

Veteran writer Roy Thomas and his wife Dann decided it would be better if Billy's mind remained in Captain Marvel's body when the magic transformation happened. The problem is, Billy then cannot have the wisdom of Solomon; he only has his own mental capacity. Ditto, to a lesser degree, the courage of Achilles. Ever since, writers of less talent and respect for source material have treated Captain Marvel like a dopey child -- especially in the recent live-action and animated movies. He's essentially a preteen boy in the body of a superpowered man. 

This does not say much for the value of his supposed wisdom. Wisdom is thought of as an attribute or gift, sometimes gotten through hard experience, and distinct from intelligence. Intelligence helps you do math or learn languages; wisdom helps you know why these are good things and what the best means to deploy intellect and other gifts is. In the role-playing game Dungeons and Dragons, Intelligence and Wisdom have always been separate characteristics, and characters who score high in one or the other will pursue different paths.

In the Catholic faith, wisdom is thought of as one of the seven gifts of the Holy Spirit. (The others are understanding, counsel, fortitude, knowledge, piety, and fear of God.) In fact, Solomon's own wisdom is definitely recorded as a gift of God. In 1 Kings 5:3, God promises to give King Solomon whatever he asks for. Solomon says: 

You have shown great kindness to your servant, David my father, because he walked before you with fidelity, justice, and an upright heart; and you have continued this great kindness toward him today, giving him a son to sit upon his throne. Now, LORD, my God, you have made me, your servant, king to succeed David my father; but I am a mere youth, not knowing at all how to act—I, your servant, among the people you have chosen, a people so vast that it cannot be numbered or counted. Give your servant, therefore, a listening heart to judge your people and to distinguish between good and evil. For who is able to give judgment for this vast people of yours?

God is pleased by this response, which shows Solomon is pretty wise already. God tells him: 

Because you asked for this—you did not ask for a long life for yourself, nor for riches, nor for the life of your enemies—but you asked for discernment to know what is right—I now do as you request. I give you a heart so wise and discerning that there has never been anyone like you until now, nor after you will there be anyone to equal you.

Does that sound like it would result in the mind of a preteen boy? 

That's not the Captain Marvel we had, but that's the Captain Marvel we got now. Much like a lot of things-- newspapers, Congress, universities -- he looks like the same as he once did but is dumber than he used to be.

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Side note: Don't feel too bad for Athena/Minerva. Billy Batson has a sister, Mary Batson, and she was given the power to use the Shazam word to become Mary Marvel. But she does not get her powers from the same personas. At least, when she made her debut in 1942, her powers came from: 

Selena (grace)

Hippolyta (strength)

Ariadne (skill)

Zephyrus (fleetness)

Aurora (beauty)

Minerva (wisdom)

They've changed a little over the years, but M still stands for Minerva, so there's that. For all purposes, she was considered pretty much the girl version from the beginning -- almost but not quite as powerful as Cap himself, regardless of where the powers came from. 

Where the action is.

I recently learned about an interesting section of the brain, one that gets a lot of use for a lot of people, maybe especially us Mets fans. I did not know that there was a part of the brain specifically devoted to dealing with this common issue. I am, of course, referring to the vomiting center. 

The Encyclopedia Britannica says that "Vomiting is believed to be controlled by two distinct brain centres—the vomiting centre and the chemoreceptor trigger zone—both located in the medulla oblongata."

It's a happening place.

That medulla oblongata is like the O'Hare Airport of embarrassing bodily functions, including sneezing and coughing. Since it handles digestion as well, I will assume it has a farting center or the like. It definitely has its own vomiting center, which is the gate of this airport we're looking at today. 

I guess I always thought that vomiting just kind of happened. The stomach and the senses could take care of business, and the brain's only concern was to butt out and get the body to a toilet, stat. But no, the brain's got to be in the thick of things no matter what.  

So how does this thing work to make for emesis? (Emesis is a pleasant way to say an act of vomiting.) The medulla oblongata contains that cool-sounding chemoreceptor trigger zone, and when the CTZ gets word from the blood that the stomach ought to remove its contents quickly, it telegraphs the nearby vomiting center. "Hey, VC, we got a problem," it says, and before the vomiting center can get any details it's already sending the EVAC notice to the glands and muscles involved in hurling. The vomiting center does not screw around. It takes its job seriously. 

Okay, that explains throwing up from food poisoning, drunkenness, chemotherapy, and opiates, among other things. But what about when there's no actual poison in the system? you wonder. What if you're seasick? 

That's actually a good question, and I'm glad I thought of it. The Merck Manual tells us that "The exact pathophysiology is undefined, but motion sickness occurs only when the 8th cranial nerve and cerebellar vestibular tracts are intact; those lacking a functional vestibulo-cochlear system are immune to motion sickness. Movement via any form of transportation, including ship, motor vehicle, train, plane, spacecraft, and playground or amusement park rides can cause excessive vestibular stimulation." 

So excessive vestibular stimulation is somehow involved, although how it causes the vomiting center to light up like the Christmas tree in Rockefeller Center is a matter of debate. Its efficiency is, however, undeniable, especially at the fairgrounds when your child comes off the Spindizzy Heavemaster ride and lets the stew of corndog and chocolate ice cream fly on your new Jumpmans. 

The human brain is an absolutely amazing biological construction, but sometimes it seems like it's being controlled by a moron. Like a high-tech cutting-edge experimental jet being controlled by a chimpanzee using an Etch-a-Sketch. And that's not even considering the stupid things we do on purpose. On that topic I could blog every day for a year.  

Racism and MSG.

I’m not sure why the late Anthony Bourdain is regarded as such a hero. He was an opinionated loudmouth, for one thing, yet the people who hate Trump for that loved Bourdain for it. He always seemed pissed off. Like we'd all failed to meet his precious standards.

Tony was satisfied to buy whatever protein was cheap, sear it in a hot pan, baste it with a lot of butter, and then serve it up, presuming that the customers didn’t care and would never know the difference. He was smugly dismissive: Everything and everybody was expendable. I was right there with him and angrily dismissed him. This wasn’t a near miss, this was a story of roads diverged. My anger was further fueled by what I found to be his pretentious demeanor. One expression of that was he no longer went by Tony. He was now only Anthony—Anthony Bourdain.

That quote comes from chef Peter Hoffman, who came up in the business with Bourdain. In his book What's Good? A Memoir in Fourteen Ingredients, Hoffman spares no horses in lambasting the man in his youth, as above, but does express sorrow that they never reconciled later in life, when they saw eye-to-eye on a lot of issues.  

I never watched Bourdain on TV (I prefer Andrew Zimmern if I want to see a guy travel the world and eat bugs), but I get the feeling he was often talking through his hat. For example, he went on a rant during his 2016 show about MSG: 

Bourdain, who traveled the world and showcased an extraordinary diversity of cultures and cuisines, was more explicit. “I think (MSG) is good stuff,” he said in a 2016 episode of “Parts Unknown” filmed in China. “I don’t react to it – nobody does. It’s a lie.”

“You know what causes Chinese restaurant syndrome?” he added as he walked through the streets of Sichuan. “Racism.”

Thanks for adding to the paranoia in the world, Tony.  

As far back as 1971, a study in Biochemical Medicine stated that "The signs and symptoms following the ingestion of monosodium glutamate (MSG) were found strikingly similar to those induced by acetylcholine (ACh). The effects of anticholinergic and cholinesterase (ChE) inhibitor support the hypothesis that Chinese restaurant syndrome is a 'transient acetylcholinosis'." 

And what does ACh do to you? According to the CDC, "Excess acetylcholine produces a predictable cholinergic syndrome consisting of copious respiratory and oral secretions, diarrhea and vomiting, sweating, altered mental status, autonomic instability, and generalized weakness that can progress to paralysis and respiratory arrest." 

I guess Drs. Ghadimi, Kumar, and Abaci of the Department of Pediatrics, Methodist Hospital of Brooklyn, who did the Biochemical Medicine study, were all Chinese-hating racists. Probably the CDC too.  

It's racist because only Asians use MSG.

I remember the eighties, when the fear of MSG was a real thing, and everyone or her cousin got sick after getting takeout from the Chinese place. Was it overblown? Almost certainly, but no more than the current health scares that show up every week. My theory is that fear of bisphenol A will be racist next, because so many things made in China contain it. 

Worries about MSG were not just from people seething with racism and making themselves sick; there were legitimate studies done and results indicated there was cause for concern. In 1986, the FDA said that MSG was "generally recognized as safe" but noted that some people seemed to be sensitive to it. In 2012 they backtracked, saying that studies did not find any consistency among people who reported sensitivity, which would seem to contradict the 1971 findings. Who knows? In 2025 they may find something in support of MSG sensitivity again, and then I guess the FDA will be racist. 

My ear doctor notes that monosodium means sodium. Sodium can cause a flareup of Meniere's syndrome, so it's a concern in his practice. Considering that we're all eating too much sodium, does that make us racist for wanting to cut down? He cautions that Chinese takeout is known for having high sodium content; he even singles out P.F. Chang's frozen dinners. And indeed, Chang's Chicken Fried Rice Bowl (a lunch-size portion) contains 1,040 milligrams of sodium -- almost half the 2,300 mg or less of the daily intake recommended by the health pushers. Eating Well magazine notes that too much salt can cause headaches, nausea, dizziness, and vomiting -- which sounds like a lot of the so-called Chinese Restaurant Syndrome symptoms. Maybe it was not the Chinese in the Chinese food that was causing the problem for all those racists; it was the overload of sodium. I think it's a plausible explanation anyway. 

The damage is done, though. Hating on MSG is racist. In his book Damn Good Chinese Food, chef Chris Cheung writes, 

My friend, the late great Anthony Bourdain, called racism on this and I have to agree with him. I have professionally cooked Japanese food, Thai food, and American food, and MSG was used in all of these kitchens, but I have only ever seen the request, “please, no MSG” when cooking at a Chinese restaurant. I feel the message they are trying to send is that Chinese people are trying to make you sick through their food. 

Feelings aren't facts, Mr. Cheung. When the MSG scare began, the only Asian cuisine most Americans were only familiar with was Chinese food; Japanese food was almost entirely confined to the West Coast. Otherwise, Japanese and Thais would have gotten blamed too. Would that make you feel better? If you really want to find a hotbed of anti-Asian hate, I suggest you focus on Ivy League university admissions offices.

Racism is stupid, vile, ignorant, and lazy. You know what else is? Slapping the "racist" label on things because they annoy you, without knowing anything about why things are the way they are. Our main cultural problem is probably ignorance, and the overweening pride that makes it impenetrable. 

Recipe for disaster.

Springtime seems like a much better season to start eating healthy than New Year's. Spring produce is arriving in the stores. The weather is warming, the sun is shining, the days are longer, all bringing thoughts of outdoor activities and beach bods. 

What happens at New Year's? You make a desultory resolution in the dark and cold, surrounded by leftover cookies and candy from Christmas. Yeah, that's got a chance of working.

Of course, just because it's spring doesn't mean the food is going to be awesome. 

I found a recipe in a spring-themed store handout that caught my eye, and I couldn't wait to try it. It was for marinated London broil served with a strawberry-rhubarb salsa. Unfortunately I did have to wait to try it, as there was no rhubarb available for a few weeks yet. 

There were a few things about this recipe I dug. For one, the salsa reminded me of the orange salsa I make with chicken, a recipe that's been a winner in the family for decades. Several of the same ingredients. And strawberries and rhubarb are just made for each other. Who doesn't like strawberry-rhubarb pie? Communists, that's who. 

Furthermore, I was enticed by the marinade recipe and method recommended. London broil can easily be tough as a catcher's mitt, but this was a method I had not tried, pan-seared in cast-iron and finished in the broiler. 

The recipe was a lot of work, including pounding the hell out of the steak and marinating it for a day, blanching the rhubarb, chopping up a dozen things, but I figured in the time and made it for Sunday dinner. It made a lovely presentation. Then we dined. 

The salsa tasted like a lot of nothing with a little strawberry, and the London broil was tough enough to use for a catcher's mitt. 

Where did I go wrong? It's unclear. It may be that I left the meat in the broiler half a minute too long, and that was enough to ruin it. Or maybe it wasn't the time of spring to get the really good rhubarb, the stuff that doesn't taste like sour grass. Possibly the fault was not mine; I've worked on recipe text in books and magazines for decades, and I can tell you that sometimes space requirements lead to leaving out a few tips and tricks, things that might make the difference for the home cook, things the professional recipe writer might not think are important but are. It happens. 

Finally, it's an often-lamented problem with healthy eating that produce is always a little uneven, as are other fresh ingredients lauded by the health pushers. But Doritos? Twinkies? Fig Newtons? They are exactly the same every time. It's hard to argue with success.