AIs of various sorts seem to be able to do a lot of jobs that traditionally required the use of a human mind. They are particularly good with text generation. They can also easily do “literature reviews”, to offer a summary of current understanding or thinking regarding a topic. Some say they are good at writing computer code, but I’d like to see evidence of that before I’d believe it. Continue reading Post 1808: Some thoughts on AI, part 1.
In a nutshell: A large pot, a small burner, a thermometer, and some plastic bags. That’s all the equipment it takes to do up a batch of sous vide chicken breasts.
The bags have to be food-safe. I used heat-seal bags and a vacuum sealer. But I’m told you can use Zip-locks.
On my last trip to Safeway, they had boneless, skinless (tasteless, soulless) chicken breasts on sale. Cheap.
I bought a pack, even though this is not a cut of meat that I prefer. Seems like chicken breasts always turn out dry, no matter what.
I got the notion to cook them sous vide, that is, cook them in sealed plastic bags immersed in hot water. Sous vide has a reputation for cooking meats perfectly, and for preserving both tenderness and juiciness. Given how difficult is to get a juicy cooked chicken breast, this seemed like a good approach.
There were a few little drawbacks. First, sous vide is French (under vacuum). Second, it’s trendy. Third, it’s the sort of thing that “foodies” do. Whereas I just want a decent-tasting chicken breast, however arrived-at. Just not in my wheelhouse, generally speaking.
But the biggest drawback is that I don’t have a sous vide cooker, and I wasn’t going to buy one for just one meal. For sous vide, you need to keep the water at whatever temperature you want the fully-cooked meat to be. In the case of chicken, that’s going to be somewhere around 140-145F. A sous vide cooker automates the task of temperature control by combining a thermostat, a heating element, and a small water pump in a single unit. Stick it in a pot of water, dial in the temperature you want, and it’ll do its best to keep the water at that temperature.
Martha Stewart to the rescue. She says that one may do perfectly acceptable sous vide cooking without the fancy equipment. Just use a large pot of water, a small burner, and a thermometer. On a gas stove, regulate the flame to maintain a constant temperature in the water bath.
So here goes.
Job 1 is avoiding food poisoning. See the section on cooking times, below. The sous vide chicken recipes I looked at were not specific about times and temperatures, giving broad ranges. If I had just naively used the shortest time, that might not have turned out well.
In short, food safety considerations put firm minimums on the time and temperature. No matter how loosey-goosey any particular recipe is written. Anything beyond that the minimum dictated by safety is at your discretion. But safety first.
That said, I’m using quart vacuum seal bags and a Nesco vacuum sealer, below. Martha Stewart assures me that I could do this with Zip-lock bags instead.
Here are those five chicken breasts after the shake-and-seal step:
And in their hot water bath, circa 145F.
One unexpected aspect of sous vide chicken recipes is the wide range of suggested cook times. For example, Martha Stewart gives a range of 1.5 to 4 hours.
Is that optional? Can I pick any time within that range? Is that the possible range, given how well I want it cooked?
In short, what does that broad range of times represent?
I’ve read at least four completely different explanations for choosing a particular cooking time, within that broad range.
One possibility is that the thickness of the meat determines the required cooking time. So the stated range is for a variety of thicknesses of meat cuts. The thinner the meat, the shorter the cooking time.
A possible alternative explanation is that it’s difficult to overcook meat with sous vide. Thus, the range of times shows you the point at which the meat is done (i.e., safely edible), and the longest you can leave that fully-cooked meat in the cooker without damaging it.
A third possibility is that the longer it cooks, the more tender the meat gets. Functionally, this is similar to the last one, in that the lowest listed cooking time is the time to the point where the meat is done. The only substantive difference is that the meat becomes more tender, the longer it cooks.
The fourth is a straight-up food safety argument, that a certain cut of meat, at a certain temperature, will require some minimal time in order to be pasteurized properly. That is, for any bacteria on or in the meat have been killed. Note that this argument isn’t about the mouth feel of the cooked meat. It’s a straight-up food safety argument. (See this reference for a detailed chart of times).
Apparently, there’s some truth to all of the above. You need to cook the meat long enough so that it’s done (i.e., tastes right). You need to cook it long enough so that it’s safe to eat (pasteurized). For both of those, thicker cuts do in fact take longer than thinner ones. And the longer you cook it, beyond those minimums, for some cuts, the more tender the cut of meat gets.
All said and done, I like the chart from the reference cited just above, which would suggest that my roughly 1.75″ thick chicken breasts ought to cook for a minimum of 2.5 hours, at 145F. That’s a straight-up food safety limit. Anything less than that, and you are not guaranteed that all pathogens in the chicken will have been killed.
In this case, I get the feeling that the chicken breasts would have tasted perfectly fine after the minimum of 1.5 hours. But based on the pasteurization chart, they would not have been completely safe to eat before 2.5 hours.
On second thought, let’s make it three hours even. Just in case.
Note: I’ve now looked at this on my phone, and it looks terrible. In person, it actually looks appetizing.
There’s the end result. Chicken breast with Italian herb seasoning. I snipped off the top of one bag, dropped it on a bed of rice, and cut off a small piece.
The results are good, by my humble standards. The chicken breasts remained moist.
Pretty much everything else needs work. All of which would be solved by a good marinade, I think.
Unexpectedly, with Shake ‘n’ … to distribute the dried spices, followed by sous vide, the spices stay right where you left them. That’s because the juices mostly stay in the meat, leaving next-to-no juices available to redistribute the spices within the packet, during the cooking. Whatever got coated during the Shake ‘n’ Bake step remained coated. Anything missed at that stage remains uncoated.
In particular, the entire interior of the chicken breast is uncoated, and so tastes like grocery store chicken breast. Edible, but clearly a flaw from the outset, if you’re going with dry spices. Yet, isn’t the whole point of the spices (or bbq sauce, or marinade) that you taste something other than bland industrial chicken breast?
If there’s a next time, I’ll cut the breasts in half and marinate. Probably have to switch to Zip-locks at the same time, as vacuum sealing wet stuff is tricky.
Having successfully sous vided once, I understand the joy of having an actual sous vide cooker. Much like a slow cooker, or a rice steamer, there’s something to be said for setting up an appliance to cook something, and having that appliance do the rest. Rather than test and adjust every ten minutes or so.
So, while I can do sous vide on the stovetop, if I did it regularly, I’d spring for an actual sous vide appliance.
On the final plus side: No cleanup from the cooking. Toss the plastic bags and you’re done.
I’m glad I didn’t buy the machine first. So, thanks due to Martha Stewart. Because this is probably still not in my wheelhouse.
Decent end result, too much of everything else. Too much:
And, to be honest, at the end of the day, it’s still just a grocery-store chicken breast. Seems like if I’m going to all this trouble, I ought be cooking something nicer.
If you’ve done some canning — and in particular, if you’ve ever done low-temperature pasteurization of pickles — surely you have to be asking yourself “are unopened vaccum-sealed sous-vide-cooked packages shelf stable?”.
Or words to that effect.
In other words, what would happen to these if I didn’t stick them in the fridge?
First, I’m sure they would eventually be unsafe to eat. Why? Because chicken can be canned at home and the UDSA Complete Guide to Home Canning says that chicken, already partially cooked, needs to be processed for 90 minutes in a pressure canner. They don’t even give a time for open (water-bath) canners.
So that’s about 90 minutes, at about 250F, for safely canned chicken. Compared to which, three hours at 145F clearly doesn’t cut it. There’s no way these are shelf-stable food. And, in fact, by direct testing, botulism spores survive sous vide treatment (reference), which means these are not safe to store on the shelf.
Second, that said, sous vide may provide a longer life on the refrigerator shelf. USDA says storage up to four weeks, at refrigerator temperatures (reference). But other references disagree, and suggest that sell-by dates for commercially-prepared and refrigerated sous vide products may not be conservative enough (reference).
Bottom line: It’s best not to count on this as being any sort of food-preserving technique. Store it and consume it as you would any cooked meat.
I used to think I had a great e-rapport with my daughter. I would frequently write her lengthy emails, and she would respond almost immediately. How nice, I thought, that she’d always send back this little abbreviation, just to let me know that she’d gotten my email.
Then I found out what TLDR meant.
With that as background, let me keep this one brief. Continue reading Post #1805: The best deal at the farmers’ market.
This is here only because it’s hard to look up, and so many people get it wrong. Here’s the law that enables the FDIC to pay off all deposits in the event of a bank failure. (Actually, it lets the FDIC do pretty much whatever seems to be required):
From the Federal Deposit Insurance Corporation Improvement Act of 1991 (FDICIA):
PUBLIC LAW 102-242—DEC. 19, 1991 105 STAT. 2275
"(G) SYSTEMIC RISK.—
"(i) EMERGENCY DETERMINATION BY SECRETARY OF THE
TREASURY.—Notwithstanding subparagraphs (A) and
(E), if, upon the written recommendation of the Board
of Directors (upon a vote of not less than two-thirds of
the members of the Board of Directors) and the Board
of Governors of the Federal Reserve System (upon a
vote of not less than two-thirds of the members of such
Board), the Secretary of the Treasury (in consultation
with the President) determines that—
"(I) the Corporation's compliance with subpara-
graphs (A) and (E) with respect to an insured
depository institution would have serious adverse
effects on economic conditions or financial stabil-
ity; and
"(II) any action or assistance under this subpara-
graph would avoid or mitigate such adverse effects,
« the Corporation may take other action or provide
assistance under this section as necessary to avoid or
mitigate such effects.
Source: Google link to Govinfo.
In short, it takes a two-thirds majority of both the FDIC governing board and the Federal Reserve Board in order to invoke the FDIC’s systemic risk clause. Also, agreement from the Secretary of the Treasury and the President of the U.S.
So, it’s kind of a big deal.
Based on what I’ve read, prior to this, it was common for the FDIC to make a case-by-case determination of whether or not to cover all deposits, regardless of the stated limits on coverage. The Congress got tired of that and decided to codify the regulatory procedures, in this 1991 legislation.
After that codification in 1991, the systemic risk clause has been invoked rarely over the following decades. Most notably, it was invoked for several large banks during the 2008 banking crisis.
So it’s notable in that it’s being used here. That should be, at most, a once-a-decade event.
You do have to wonder when or whether the other shoe is going to drop. Or whether we’ve had our once, for this decade.
FSLIC. Raise your hand if you are old enough to recall what that stands for.
Briefly, FDIC : Bank :: FSLIC : Savings and Loan
You have to interpret the second “:” as “was to”, not “is to”. The Congress formally declared the Federal Savings and Loan Insurance Corporation (FSLIC) dead in 1989, after a decade-long illness. It was beyond bankrupt at the time. Its functions were subsumed into the Federal Deposit Insurance Corporation (FDIC).
I mention this bit of economic history because of the recent failure of the Silicon Valley Bank. That seems to have been driven by the same factor that drove the majority of S&Ls into bankruptcy in the 1980s.
Briefly, they borrowed short and lent long. Short, as in short-term. The money they took in — borrowed from their depositors — could be withdrawn at any time. Long, as in long-term. They apparently bought a lot of U.S. Treasury bonds. Which, although liquid enough at any given time, are still long-term loans to the U.S. Treasury. (And a fundamentally odd thing for a bank to invest in, when you get right down to it. It’s as if they couldn’t be bothered to find something with a better rate of return.)
In any case, as with any fixed-return asset, the price of those bonds drops as interest rates rise. Owning a lot of fixed-return long-term securities, in an era of rising rates, is a recipe for bank failure. (Or, as in the case of the 1980s, S&L failure.) As I shall explain below.
And, after more than a decade of more-or-less zero inflation and below-zero real interest rates, I have to wonder how many more banks are now lurking out there, in our current environment of rising interest rates, waiting to fail from that same root cause.
If you just want to see a professional write-up of the S&L crisis — minus the dirt — this piece by the Federal Reserve Bank of St. Louis is about as good as it gets.
U.S. banking regulation has a lot of generally-unrecognized quirks. Many of these derive from the fact that States were in the business of chartering banks long before the Federal government got in on that. States never relinquished that right. As a consequence, what appears to consumers today as a more-or-less monolithic industry is actually a mix of a institutions following different rules and regulations.
The practical consequence of this is that almost anything you say about bank regulation and deposit insurance will have some exception, somewhere. In Virginia, it appears that all state-chartered banks are in fact FDIC insured, meaning that they are subject to Federal regulation. But you can find states that allow some commercial banks to have no deposit insurance (e.g., CT), to (typically) states that operate bank insurance funds secondary to the FDIC, insuring deposit amounts in excess of the $250,000 FDIC limit (e.g, MA). You can also find entire categories of bank-like institutions that only exist under state charters (read the CT reference above to get the gist of that).
The FDIC insures most bank deposits in the U.S., so it’s worth a paragraph or two to explain the finances of that. (The FDIC reference page is here, the corresponding Credit Union reference page is here.).
The FDIC gives every bank a risk rating (termed CAMELS), based on factors such as capital adequacy and the riskiness of their underlying assets. This risk rating seems to be a pretty good predictor of which classes of banks are at higher risk of failure.
Source: Federal Deposit Insurance Corporation, Staff Studies. Report No. 2020-01. A History of Risk-Based Premiums at the FDIC, January 2020.
The FDIC charges banks a quarterly insurance premium based on the amount of insured deposits and the riskiness of the bank. As you can see, a large and risky bank might easily pay 10 times the insurance premium of a small bank with low apparent default risk.
Source: https://www.fdic.gov/deposit/insurance/assessments/proposed.html
In normal times, best I can tell, on average, covered institutions pay insurance premiums equal to about 0.12 cents per dollar of deposits. Effectively, that’s what you pay, in order to have your deposits insured. The bank just makes that transaction on your behalf. But the FDIC can add a temporary surcharge if the amount in the insurance fund gets too low.
The target value for the deposit insurance fund is 2% of the value of all of the covered assets (Source: FDIC). Which doesn’t sound like a lot, but the FDIC is a “full faith and credit” entity, meaning that the Federal government has to step in and make good on those insured deposits even if the insurance fund itself has been depleted.
(Oddly enough, while banks and S&Ls are insured by the FDIC, Federally-chartered credit unions are not. They are insured by a different “full faith and credit” entity, the National Credit Union Share Insurance Fund, and are supervised by the National Credit Union Administration.)
That “designated reserve ratio” was 1.25% of assets before the near-death of our banking system in 2008-2009. I went over this years ago, in Post #341. Since the demise of the FSLIC in the 1980s, we’ve only had one episode where, arguably, the FDIC’s Deposit Insurance Fund was subject to significant strain.
The graph below, courtesy of the Federal Deposit Insurance Corporation (FDIC), show the surge in bank failures that occurred in 2008 and 2009. In 2008, despite significant intervention by the Federal Reserve to try to stabilize the financial system, banks with assets amounting to more than a third of a trillion dollars failed.
Accordingly, the balance in the FDIC’s Deposit Insurance Fund ran negative during that wave of bank failures. Near as I can recall, this got absolutely no press coverage at the time. Plausibly, the FDIC kept fairly quiet about it, and at the same time the FDIC avoided a cash-flow issue by requiring banks to make their next three years insurance premium payments, up front, to keep the money flowing. (That, from detailed reporting in the Journal of Accountancy.)
Source: FDIC
Unsurprisingly, after that, they upped the target from 1.25% to 2% of covered assets.
In short, the FDIC’s Deposit Insurance Fund was stress-tested in that episode, came up a bit short, and, accordingly, has been required to run a bit more conservatively ever since. Acknowledging that if things really go south, the full faith and credit of the U.S. government stands behind them.
Unlike the S&Ls, discussed below, the proximate cause for those bank failures was the collapse of the sub-prime mortgage bubble, leading to a sharp downward adjustment in US housing prices, of a sort that had not been seen in the US for generations. The blue line below (from the Saint Louis Federal Reserve) shows an index of U.S. housing prices. The hump, peaking around 2006, is “the housing bubble”. The red line, for reference, is the US Consumer Price Index. The graph runs from 1975 at the left, the 2019 at the right. The gray bars are recessions.
Basically, a lot of banks made what in retrospect were a lot of really bad loans, based on ludicrously inflated real estate prices. Based, in turn, on what in hindsight was clearly a speculative bubble in real estate, driven by exceptionally easy credit, even for high-risk properties.
Finally, the billion-dollar question: How much does the FDIC lose when it shuts down a bank? Obviously, that varies, but after staring at a few tables in various sources, a good guess is about 8% of the assets of the bank. So if the Silicon Valley Bank is typical, and has $200B – $250B in assets, the Deposit Insurance Fund can expect to take a hit of about $20B. Far below the current balance of around $120B in that fund.
Source: An Examination of the Banking Crises of the 1980s and Early 1990s,
The first thing to grasp is that S&Ls are not the same as banks. Back in the day, they were a distinct class of depository institutions with their own separate regulators and insurance fund. For purposes of this discussion, these were institutions that, by law, offered savings accounts to small depositors and used that money primarily to fund home mortgages. In their heyday, half the home mortgages in the U.S. were funded by S&Ls.
Note that I said “savings accounts” above. Not checking accounts. The radical notion of allowing S&Ls to offer checking accounts (NOW accounts) did not occur until 1980, with the Congress’s first attempt to quash the S&L crisis.
The interesting historical difference between a savings account and a checking account is that you couldn’t demand to withdraw your money held in a savings account. These days, all vestiges of restrictions in withdrawal from savings accounts have disappeared (reference). But there was a time when S&Ls could say, sure, you can have your money — sometime.
In fact, I have both a checking and a savings account at my local credit union. If you bother to read the fine print in the account agreement, I find the following disclosure:
" The Credit Union reserves the right to delay the availability of funds deposited to accounts that are not transaction accounts for periods longer than those disclosed in this policy."
Translation: If they are having a problem, they have the right to prevent me from withdrawing money from my savings account. Even now. Even in 2023. These days, with both savings and checking paying close to zero interest, this hardly matters. I might as well keep the entire balance in checking. But this is a holdover from the days of bank runs and interest-bearing savings accounts. You got paid interest for your deposit, but the quid pro quo is that in the event of a bank run, you were stuck. For other specialized types of saving accounts — Holiday Club, Christmas Club — the restrictions are more explicit, and typically involve penalties for excessive or early withdrawals.
And that’s by design. With clauses such as that, the bank needs to keep fewer “reserves”, that is, less cash-on-hand and other liquid assets, to satisfy regulatory requirements. This lets it put a higher fraction of deposits to work earning interest, and so (in theory) should lead to better economic performance.
In short, prior to 1970, say, S&Ls were a backwater of American banking. They could only offer savings-type accounts, and they were highly restricted in the types of assets they could invest in. The maximum interest they could pay on deposits was set by law. By and large, they were community lending institutions that issued mortgages, and little else.
Then along came the economic turmoil of the 1970s and 1980s. Let me summarize the situation — borrowed short and lent long — in one graph.
The key to understanding why the S&Ls were trapped by rising interest rates is to understand that as interest rates go up, the value of fixed-income securities goes down. Among which are fixed-rate mortgages. When the prime rate is 4%, a mortgage paying 6% is an attractive investment. When the prime rate hits 21.5%, not so much. If you want to sell a 6% mortgage in that environment, you’re going to have to sell it at a deep, deep discount.
And so, as rates rose, two things happened. The value of S&L’s existing mortgage fell, so that if they had to sell them, they’d take a loss. And, separately, they began to lose deposits, and (once rates were deregulated) then had to pay higher interest to keep those deposits. Higher than what they were earning on their portfolios of mortgages.
They were trapped. If they liquidated their mortgages to pay off depositors, they took a loss. If they raised interest rates enough to keep their depositors, they took a loss. There was no way out.
Congress then spent the better part of a decade trying to do anything other than liquidate the bankrupt S&Ls. They loosened restrictions on S&Ls. They loosened them some more. They basically urged S&LS to take ever-more-risky bets in the hope that they would somehow earn themselves out of the hole they were in.
In short, the Congress turned what had been a backwater of American banking was turned into America’s biggest casino. All in the hopes that the S&Ls could earn enough to make up from the losses incurred by borrowing short and lending long in an era of rising interest rates.
From the original chart, it looks like a lot of S&Ls lasted until the end of the 1980s, but that’s an illusion. Regulators turned a blind eye to the fact that many of those S&Ls were technical bankrupt, because they didn’t have enough money in the FSLIC to liquidate them. At the time, the term was “zombie” S&Ls. Technically, dead, yet still functioning. Meanwhile, the industry kept falling deeper and deeper into the hole.
After a few well-publicized scandals, the Congress finally threw in the towel circa 1989. About a third of S&Ls were declared insolvent and were liquidated. The FSLIC was bailed out by abolishing it and transferring the liabilities to the FDIC. I assume the taxpayers in general made up for those cumulative losses, but I haven’t bothered to look up the details of that final FSLIC transaction.
I’m sure there was plenty of malfeasance along the way. And some pre-existing regulations got in the way. But the basic story — the reason a third of the industry went bankrupt — is far more mundane. A combination of
That’s just bad news, no matter who the actors are. Maybe they have adequate capital and current earnings to keep going. Maybe not.
Much like the 1970s/1980s, we’re now in an era of rising interest rates, following a prolonged period of low interest rates and low inflation.
Public information about of the failure of the Silicon Valley Bank sounded like the S&L crisis all over again. Sure, if you look hard enough, you can find some combination of malfeasance and incompetence. But from what I’ve read, the main problem is that they tied up much of their capital in long-term Treasuries. Borrowed short, lent long. Which, in the era of stable and low interest rates that existed from 2008 to circa 2022, was just fine. But in an era of rising rates, was a form of economic suicide.
As long as their depositor base remained stable, that wasn’t necessarily a problem. As long as they could earn enough to stay in business, they didn’t have to realize the losses on those long-term bonds.
But as soon as somebody suggested that withdrawing your money might be prudent, it was game over. That rapid withdrawal of funds forces them to sell off assets to pay back their depositors. And if the bulk of your assets are now far under water — well, you’re bankrupt in short order.
Are there more of these in the pipeline? Now way for the public to know. But I wouldn’t be surprised. And, I wouldn’t be worried either. If you look at the numbers, banks fail all the time.
The problem here isn’t with the regulators. Having learned some hard lessons from the foot-dragging of the S&L crisis, our regulatory authorities don’t screw around when a bank is in deep trouble. They come down like a ton of bricks. That’s not because they’ll somehow salvage more value out of the bank if they do that.
The problem is that — let’s face it — people are idiots. Bank regulators act decisively to quash any general run on the banks. The same mentality that gave us months of toilet paper shortages during the pandemic will give us bank runs.
Now, deposit insurance should have put an end to that. But in the era of constant internet disinformation, you know there’s somebody out there, right now, trying to start a bank run just to see if they can do it. Maybe a foreign government. Maybe just a home-grown jerk. It doesn’t really matter. Not to mention that you don’t even have to get up out of your chair to move your money out of a bank.
My take on it is that for the Feds to come out and say, hey, you’re covered, no matter what the size of the deposit? I don’t necessarily think that was good policy. I don’t think it was bad policy. I think it was probably the only policy that would work, in this circumstance.
Because now deposit insurance isn’t just facing traditional human stupidity. It’s facing stupidity, as amplified by social media and the internet. Bank runs were the flash mobs of their day. My guess is that bank regulators have to work faster and harder now, to stop those, than they have for the past half-century. So far, they seem up to the task. Let’s hope it stays that way.
I just want to interrupt your day for 60 seconds to point out something that you’re not seeing in the news.
Recently, a prominent elderly politician fell down in a hotel room and suffered a concussion. That’s the second serious fall he’s taken in the past couple of years. He broke his shoulder in that prior fall.
Currently, we observe the media/social media doing which of the following:
Hint: The politician is a Republican.
Answer: 5.
Sometimes, what doesn’t get reported tells more of a story than what does.
Normally my posts tend to be reality-based and fact-oriented.
Today, by contrast, I’m having a hard time dealing with reality, so I’m going to blather about the current state of affairs in the U.S.A.
I will eventually get around to those I-bonds. But it’s not exactly a direct route.
Your scope of authority is the stuff you have control over. Things you can change. Decisions that you get to make. That sort of thing.
Your scope of responsibility is the stuff you’ll be held accountable for. Financially, legally, morally, socially, or whatever. It’s all the stuff that, if it goes wrong, you take the blame and/or penalty. And if it goes right, you get the praise and/or reward.
If you’ve ever taken a class on how to manage a business, you’ve almost certainly heard some version of the maxim above. In an ideal business — and maybe in an ideal world — each person’s scope of authority and scope of responsibility would coincide.
Where scope of authority exceeds scope of responsibility, you get irresponsible decision-making. The decision-maker doesn’t have to care about the consequences of the decision.
Where scope of responsibility exceeds scope of authority, you get stress. A classic case might be where a customer screams at a waiter over the quality of the food. It’s not as if the waiter cooked it. But the waiter is held responsible for it.
This is really not much deeper than saying that you should be held accountable for your decisions. And, conversely, that you shouldn’t be held accountable for things outside your control.
Source: Wikipedia
You can read the full saga on Wikipedia or the New York Times.
Briefly: About a decade ago, an arm of the British government (the NERC) decided to make a major investment in a nearly $300M polar research ship. That ship has the serious mission of measuring the effects of climate change in the earth’s polar regions.
As the ship neared completion, it required a name. And so, to gin up popular support, they decided to choose the name of this new capital vessel via internet poll.
Hijinks ensued, in the form of the most popular name, by a wide margin, being Boaty McBoatface. The name was, in fact, suggested as a joke. The guy who suggested it eventually sort-of apologized for doing so. But it won handily.
In the end, the NERC reneged and gave the ship a properly serious name (the RRS Sir David Attenborough). But they did name one of the autonomous submersibles the Boaty McBoatface. As shown above, courtesy of Wikipedia.
This was a classic violation of Business 101. The scope of authority — the right to name the ship — was handed to an anonymous internet crowd who bore no responsibility whatsoever for their actions. Meanwhile, the people responsible for paying for and running the ship had, in theory, no control whatsoever over the name.
This is hardly the first time that a seemingly serious internet poll led to a frivolous outcome. But it was such a stunning backfire that “McBoatface” has now become a verb in its own right, per the Wiktionary:
Verb Boaty McBoatface (third-person singular simple present Boaty McBoatfaces, present participle Boaty McBoatfacing, simple past and past participle Boaty McBoatfaced)
(neologism) To hijack or troll a vote, especially one held online, by supporting a joke option. [from 2016]
In the U.S., an election is an anonymous poll in which those casting votes bear no individual responsibility for the consequences.
It’s hard for me to see much difference between that, and a typical internet poll. Other than the fact that it’s difficult to vote twice. And that some people actually do take elections seriously.
I guess it’s a bit pejorative to suggest that the current chaos in the House of Representatives has occurred because we McBoatfaced the last election. Still, you have to wonder about the people who voted for candidates whose sole promise was to be loud and disruptive, and do their darnedest to interrupt the normal business of government. Did they think that would be fun prank, the same as the McBoatface voters? Own the libs, or whatever. Or was that really their serious and thoughtful goal?
At least their candidates seem to be carrying through on their campaign promises.
Here’s one that kind of cracks me up, but kind of doesn’t. You hear a lot of people saying that the lack of a functioning House is OK, because the Federal government already passed a budget for FY 2023. They won’t have to face that task until this fall.
I think that’s backwards.
Rephrased: Senate Republicans saw this predictable train wreck months ago, and so worked with Democrats to pass the current (2023) FY budget. That’s presumably because they already knew (or strongly suspected) that the House wouldn’t be capable of doing that.
Re-interpreting today’s events: The predicted chaos has come to pass. I’d have to bet, then, that there will be no new budget for the next fiscal year, and no increase in the debt ceiling.
The currently-funded fiscal year (2023) ends on 9/30/2023. So that’s a known. Even then, I believe that entitlement programs (Social Security, Medicare) remain funded. It’s only the “discretionary” part of the budget that is not.
But as to when, exactly, we hit the debt ceiling, nobody can quite say. Consensus seems to be mid-2023.
At that point, the Federal government will continue to make what payments it can. So, likely, Social Security checks will continue to go out. (Figuratively speaking — I don’t think they’ve mailed out physical checks in decades.) Other payments will not be made.
Source: Covertinstruments.com
Which brings me to my final speculation. Everybody is working under the assumption that, eventually, this will all get straightened out. Somebody will figure out some way to rein in the House of Representatives so that they can do their required business.
By contrast, I keep asking myself, what if this is as good as it gets?
What if the house is permanently McBoatfaced?
Back when I was a kid, we had joke Presidential candidates. Comedian Pat Paulson was one. There was a movement to elect the fictional TV character Archie Bunker as U.S. President. And so on. But everybody knew they were jokes, or that they were fictional characters.
Enter Representative Santos of New York. Line, meet blur. The people of that district definitely elected a fictional character. They were simply not aware of it at the time. To which we can add a handful of Republican house members whose sole platform appears to have been being mad as hell, and stating their unequivocal unwillingness to go along with anything required to conduct the business of government. I guess we all now know they weren’t kidding.
A couple of days back, a friend asked me to see if I could open a couple of old suitcases that had belonged to her grandmother. Luckily, I happened to own the Covert Companion (r) tool, pictured above. The version I use has a few tools to help with what are called “low skill” attacks on locks. (“Low skill” being an accurate description of my lock-picking ability). Because I happened to own those crude little pieces of steel circled above, I had relatively little problem opening the simple warded locks on those suitcases.
But if I hadn’t had the tools, I’d have been helpless. The only way to open the suitcase would have been to destroy it. It’s a case of any tool, no matter how crude, being better than no tool at all.
Right now, I’m not seeing the tools in hand to fix the U.S. House. Not even the crudest tactic that could possibly resolve the current impasse, let alone get the place functional going forward. And, unlike those old suitcases, nobody has the power to destroy it, to achieve some end. The House works the way it works, or doesn’t, until such time as it works well enough to change the way it works. Which can’t happen. Because right now, it’s not working.
Which finally brings me to I-bonds. Is it smart to own I-bonds when the House is broken?
I’ve owned these for decades. In fact, they are so old that they are going to quit paying interest just a few years from now. Pre-tax, they pay just a bit more than the rate of inflation. Most of the decades that I have owned them, they’ve paid little more than zero. But now, as these things are reckoned, they are paying pretty well, compared to the alternatives.
But that high rate of return means nothing if you can’t spend it. And of all the people the Federal government could choose to stiff, in the event of a permanent failure to fund the government or raise the debt ceiling, I’d bet that small bondholders would be right at the top of the list. (N.B., I-bonds are marketed at small savers, with a purchase limit of $5000 per person per year.)
In any case, my conclusion is that if the House is permanently McBoatfaced, I might be wise to cash those I-bonds before we hit the debt limit sometime this summer. Otherwise, I just get the feeling that the longer this goes on, the longer it’s going to go on. Combined with the feeling that maybe this is as good as it gets. That there is no tool for fixing it.
And that if everybody has their hand out, to the Feds, I’m going to end up at the back of the line.
I told you I’d get to I-bonds eventually. It just took a while.
It’s a brand new year. But if you expect “… and new beginnings”, or “… and looking forward”, or some other such fluffy nonsense, you’ve come to the wrong website.
Instead, I’m focused on “garbage collection”, as used by computer programmers. More-or-less, it means freeing up memory or storage space by getting rid of obsolete, archaic objects.
In practical terms, this post is a bit of navel-gazing prior to re-configuring this blog. After doing a bit of manual garbage collection (tossing out draft and private posts, emptying the trash can) I am left with more than 1700 valid posts, stretching back four-and-a-half years. Much of that is material that nobody could possibly want to read again. It’s time for archiving the obsolete, restructuring the rest, and getting on with it. This post is my way of figuring out what I have, and what to do with it.
It’s just a question of figuring out what to do. And, as importantly, figuring out how to do it.
Perhaps tellingly, the Wikipedia article on garbage collection mentions roughly 35 distinct computer programming languages. Of which, I am familiar with exactly one: Beginners All-purpose Symbolic Instruction Code (BASIC).
Seeking out the obsolete and archaic? Perhaps I need look no further than the mirror.
Source for title image: Wikipedia, Janus.
N.B. Younger readers, if any, may feel free to substitute “app” for “program” throughout this section. “App” is short for “application”, which in turn is short for “applications programming”– the computer code that actually gets stuff done, stuff-wise, taking input from you, the “end user” — versus “systems programming”, the code that allows the computer/phone/gizmo/app to function, written by computer programmers. In my book, writing the Excel program itself counts as systems programming, while using Excel to calculate something is applications programming. New-school, Excel is therefore “an app”. And yes, the rest of the discussion will be every bit as clear as that was.
I am (or was) a data analyst, writing my own little old-school computer programs to draw information out of data. When you see original data analysis on this website, that’s me, plugging away with Statistical Analysis System (SAS) programs.
It’s a job that demands “rigidly defined areas of doubt and uncertainty.” (That, per the Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy.) For any given task, I may be clueless about what’s actually happening in the real world, or how a particular set of data was created. But I need to be as sure as possible that the computer program I’m using does exactly what I say its doing.
In the modern lingo, I am well-versed in “procedural” programming. A program consists of things that are very close to plain English sentences, showing what I’m doing to the underlying data. Except for the arcana, anyone with a logical mind can look at programs of that sort and get the gist of what’s going on.
It’s not rocket surgery or brain science. Even if you don’t program in SAS, you can probably figure out what I’m doing, below, literally a piece of the program that I currently use to analyze COVID-19 case data. This, even if some of the arcana of SAS programming may strike you as a bit odd.
* this section fixes known anomalies in the data, usually when old cases are dumped in (negative adjustment)
* or when duplicate cases are pulled out (positive adjustment), so that the adjusted data reflect the actual
* ongoing flow of new cases ;
if state = "New Jersey" and date ge input("20210104",yymmdd8.) then do ;
cases = cases - 57652 ;
end ;
* etc ;
Quaint, right? It’s computer code designed to be read and understood by humans. If you’re looking at the case counts from New Jersey, and the date is greater than or equal to January 4, 2021 (2021 01 04), subtract 57,652 cases. (Because that’s the day they dumped that many old cases into their count data, producing a big spike in the numbers.)
This “procedural programming” mindset is an almost insurmountable handicap when it comes to understanding how a blog functions. It’s just not how things are done any more. I don’t think that internet programmers actually go out of their way to make the logic of their programming as indecipherable as possible. But “indecipherable” pretty much sums it up.
By contrast to the above, here’s a little baby snippet of C++ code. If I stare at it hard enough, I can eventually figure out what it does. But I have to say, it’s not like they went out of their way to make it easy.
#include<iostream> using namespace std; int main() { int num1, num2, add; cout<<"Enter Two Numbers: "; cin>>num1>>num2; add = num1+num2; cout<<"\nResult = "<<add; cout<<endl; return 0; }
Source: Codescracker.com. This piece of code adds two numbers together, so it’s roughly analogous to, but somewhat simpler than, the SAS code above.
As a consequence, even though I have been writing computer programs for the majority of my lifetime, computer programming related to the internet (and to phones) leaves me baffled. It’s a combination of things: The odd argot to describe even basic concepts. The emphasis on “user friendly” interfaces that hide the actual computing going on. And what seems to be a never-ending competition to see which object-oriented language can write their operations in the most dense, opaque, and obscure fashion possible.
This is a serious handicap when the goal is to reorganize the roughly 1700 posts on this website. I keep thinking up simple things that I’d like to do. And I keep being completely stumped as to how to do them.
Worst, because I don’t really understand what’s going on, I take a guess as to how this website works, based on my “procedural programming” background. I figure out how I’d do it, and more-or-less assume that’s how things work. These guesses are invariably wrong.
As a result, more-or-less everything I assumed about how this blog actually functions has been incorrect. That now matters quite a bit, as I try to re-organize 1700 blog posts.
Here’s my fundamental misunderstanding: Where are my blog posts stored, on the server that hosts this blog?
Seems like a reasonable question. The answer is: No.
I figured that if I had 1700 posts appearing here as 1700 pages, then, somewhere on this website, there must be 1700 readable files that contain those posts. Because that makes sense to me. Compile each post once, then display that on demand as any end-user wants to see any given post. Therefore, logically, I ought to be able to find each post as a human-readable file. Somewhere. And it was just a question of figuring out where.
Or, even more simply, page:book :: post:blog. Naively, if this blog is like a book, then I’m asking where the individual pages of that book are stored. So that I may lay them all out in one place, look at them, and re-shuffle them to re-organize this blog.
But, as it turns out, that’s fundamentally wrong. This post — what you’re reading right now — does not exist. Not as any sort of file, on (say) a disk drive, on a computer. Nothing that you could search for and read, natively, on the server for the host of this blog.
Instead, this post — the text you’re reading right now — exists only as a single, long, unreadable line in an SQL (structured query language) database. (That’s what’s shown in the blue block, above, courtesy of reading my website backup files using an extremely old-school piece of software known as Vedit.)
That — that ugly, unreadable unformatted bloc of crap above — that’s how my posts actually exist, in the real world. They exist as entries in a database. All 1700 of them. The only practical way to extract the text of those posts is to query that database. And, as far as I can tell, the software to allow me to analyze that content, so that I can reorganize it efficiently, simply does not exist.
Worse, the only readable blog pages are totally ephemeral. They exist only as what WordPress compiles, on the fly, and presents to you on your screen. You literally look at a unique copy, constructed in real time, just for you.
When you close this browser tab, this blog post will cease to exist. In the sense that there will be no human-readable form of it, anywhere in the universe. (Unless somebody else has a browser window open to this blog entry.) The only permanent version of this blog post is that incomprehensible blue block of text above.
The screwy upshot is that many things I’d like to do to reconfigure this website — things that I figured ought to be easy, based on my old-school, “procedural” view of the world — are flatly impossible on a WordPress website like this one. Because the things I’m looking for — my blog posts — don’t really exist.
It’s a whole new world out there, programming-wise. And the more I know, the less I like it.
But on with the show. Even if I can’t yet actually implement the changes I need, I can still figure out what content I want to keep and toss.
This blog began in 2018 as an act of desperation. I was trying to organize opposition to a local zoning ordinance — so-called “MAC” zoning — in my home town of Vienna VA.
MAC zoning was repealed more than two years ago. Repealed, in some part, thanks to the reams of analysis posted on this blog. And to some well-designed yard signs, above.
A big chunk of what I did via this blog was simply to record what was said and done, and remind people of it, because otherwise they’d conveniently forget (Post #268). That, and occasionally doing the calculations and measurements that the Town Council should have been doing (e.g., traffic noise adjacent to Maple Avenue).
The yard signs have long since been collected and recycled into raised garden beds (Post G05, June 2020).
It’s time to do that for the hundreds of pieces of analysis that I posted on MAC zoning. Except for the occasional piece that has relevance beyond that local ordinance, such as this post on acoustics. And a handful of others that occasional get a hit. In the main, I don’t think anyone could possibly care about a law that’s no longer on the books.
The only practical impact on this website is that I can greatly simplify the list of blog post categories. If you try to search this blog by category, you’ll see a lot of seemingly useless stuff (e.g., “Building Height”). All of that dates to the MAC era. And all of that can be eliminated now.
I say “we won?” because after rescinding MAC zoning, the Town of Vienna immediately decided to redo all of the zoning regulations. Complete overhaul. Nothing was out of bounds.
But, as far as I can, there seems to be consensus to keep it small. And the staff member who was arguably the driving force behind some of the crazier parts of MAC zoning (E.g., Marco-Polo-Gate) has since moved on. So I’m not seeing a lot of value in keeping a close eye on this any more.
Verdict: Garbage collection, with a few exceptions. My plan, if I can implement it, is to write all those posts off to one large file (likely as a .pdf). Then remove them from the website. Then remove all the MAC-specific post categories from the website.
Then, in the spring of 2020, along came COVID-19. At some point, I decided to track and analyze it, because a) what else could I do and b) I’m a retired health economist will the programming and other skills sufficient for processing and interpreting disease-related data.
Early on, I think that had some real value-added. That’s true mainly because, early on, the U.S. CDC dropped the ball regarding airborne transmission of COVID and the need for masking. They denied that airborne transmission was real, despite overwhelming examples to the contrary. They first said that masks were not required (social distancing only), despite the obvious failure of that policy. Then switched to “cloth masks”, as if, at that point, there was still some risk that consumers might wipe out stocks of masks needed by health care providers. (There was no risk — the retail channels had been wiped clean of N95s months beforehand.)
But the CDC eventually and grudgingly aligned itself with reality. The vaccines came to fruition. The absolutely horrendous initial case-mortality rate dropped to something a little less scary.
And we mostly just got on with our lives, plus or minus the million plus who died, the shocking reduction in U.S. life expectancy, the loss of in-person K-12 education time, the biggest increase in the national debt since WWII. The hoarding, the shortages, the supply-chain issues, and the world-wide inflation.
And the nearly-endless bickering. Let’s not forget that.
And the vaccine nuttiness and disinformation. Which I also must classify as literally endless, because it continues to this day. No end in sight.
Latest from the CDC suggests that the folks who kept up with their vaccinations have a roughly 19-fold lower risk of dying. To which, Florida responds:
Source: CDC COVID data tracker, accessed 1/2/2023.
But, by and large, despite an ongoing 350 deaths and nearly 6000 hospitalizations per day for COVID (per the CDC COVID data tracker today), as a society, we’re over it. Things have been stable for quite a while now. And only about one eligible person in seven bothered to get the last dose of COVID vaccine.
Source: CDC COVID data tracker, accessed 1/2/2023
Still, there may be a bit of value in continue to track this from time to time. Lately, my sole value added has been in poo-poohing the notion of a “triple-demic”, and dismissing vague scare-mongering about a new winter wave of COVID.
Verdict: Garbage collection of everything except for the last few posts. At this point, I have about 900 posts on COVID on this website. Which is a bit obsessive, as that works out to just about one per day that we’ve had COVID circulating in the U.S. Keep COVID as a category, and maybe post every couple of weeks, if the data remain available.
I started gardening during the pandemic, just as a way to have something to do. Mostly, it started out as a way to get some exercise, because at that point, I believe gyms were shut down here in Virginia.
Arguably my most well-read gardening posts were the ones that tracked the canning lid shortage. Because, at the end of the day, preserving food is part of the gardening process, for most of us. More to the point, this was a serious problem for people who rely on home canning to provide a significant portion of their food, and it completely pissed me off that write-ups in the popular press treated it as some kind of a joke. So I took it seriously, and at one point had hundreds of hits per week on that topic.
Beyond that, it’s been more a case of testing various bits of garden advice you can find on the internet. Much of which — surprise — turns out to be wrong. It seems like a lot of gardening blogs repeat advice that they read, on other gardening blogs, without bothering to test it. At the minimum, testing that advice rigorously satisfies my need to do the occasional bit of amateur science.
In addition, I spend some time explaining what I’m trying to do, and tracking how it goes. I test equipment from time to time, such as pipe and such for irrigation. Or Mason jars for frost protection. And I think there’s some value added there. And there aren’t a lot of posts.
Verdict: No garbage collection, for now. It’s not that many posts, and it’s only a couple of fairly discrete post categories. Really, I ought to gather all that material into a small pamphlet, and be done with it.
Every once in a while, when I can’t find a good answer to a question that’s bothering me, I’ll go ahead and test it myself, if possible (e.g., Post #1658)
Or when I see the need for some sort of helpful device, that I can’t find for purchase anywhere, I’ll gin something up (e.g., Post 1663).
And so on. Just a potpourri of posts, whose sole link is that there’s some element of scientific method or engineering behind them.
Many of them have a very small, tightly defined audience. Such as this one, on making a floor-to-chair transfer device for paraplegics (Post #886).
The odd thing about these is that occasionally, out of the blue, I’ll get a lot of hits. This has been true of my post on heated covers for outdoor faucets. When the weather turns cold in early winter, I always seem to get a lot of hits on that one (Post #1412).
Verdict: No garbage collection, for now. No clue what to do with them, either, other than create a new post category for material of this type.
I have more-or-less lost interest in posting about the Town of Vienna. As I explained to a Town Council member a few months ago, it’s mostly that Town Council doesn’t get me nearly as angry now as they did in the past.
Arguably, I did quite a bit of good in the past, by (in effect) reporting on what was happening.
Mostly, when I started getting up to speed on MAC zoning, I noted that the Town often took months before posting any information whatsoever regarding what had taken place in various official Town meetings (e.g., Town Council meetings). So I bought the biggest microphone I could carry, and started ostentatiously recording Town Council meetings and posting the recordings (with my index and commentary) the next day. This apparently goaded the then-Mayor to get the official Town recording out before I did. To deny me the audience.
This has had the lasting effect of (at least) having recordings of most Town meetings, available in nearly-real time. It’s still awkward, because the Town won’t let you download the recordings. You have to view them through the Town’s approved interface. And yet, with enough effort, interested citizens can pull those up in Chrome (not Firefox) and FF through them to find the information they want. Whatever the shortcomings, it’s better than nothing. Which is what we had before.
I still need to follow up on a few items. The ongoing rezoning. The coming train-wreck of Town elections (Post #1591). But in terms of providing some sort of independent citizen oversight of what Town Council is up to, I’m just not up to the task.
Verdict: Garbage collection, other than current topics. I just don’t care enough any more to deal with it.
There are plenty of other smaller categories to consider. But I think this gives me some direction as to where I’m going with my blog reorganization.
Get rid of:
Keep:
And I guess that’s where this blog is heading.
But keep in mind, as you read this post, that it doesn’t actually exist. Per the discussion at the top of the post.
And that means that the biggest headache now finding any way to archive the older material, in bulk, in a readable format. Arguably, I’ll be able to find some software to do that. For sure, WordPress does not seem to have any native functions that will do that.
And once I’ve archived the old stuff in a form I’m comfortable with, I can concentrate on what comes next.
As we approach the end of the year, I think about my final charitable donations for the year.
“Give all you have to the poor, and follow me.” You can find that said, as the supposed words of Jesus, in one form or the other, in the Gospels of Matthew, Mark, and Luke.
In fact, in the most radical interpretation of those various passages, one cannot follow Jesus unless one does that. “Easier for the camel to pass through the eye of the needle, than for a rich man to enter heaven”. And all that.
How nutso is that?
I mean, just work out the literal implications of that for the modern U.S. suburbanite.
“Honey, I’m selling the house, the cars; liquidating the IRAs and the investment accounts; and giving all the proceeds to the church. We and our children can live as beggars. But it’s OK, we’ll get our reward in heaven.”
One might plausibly expect some negative feedback to that plan. As in, I’d expect to be declared mentally incompetent if I tried to do that. That’s how contrary to any sense of self-preservation or self-interest that particular piece of New Testament wisdom runs. If you actually tried it, the courts would stop you, one way or the other. For your own good. Because no rational individual would do that. They would assume you were nuts.
But is that necessarily true?
When I was a much younger man, I made up the term “lucralgia” to describe something I felt from time to time. It’s a portmanteau of lucre (money), and -algia (pain).
It’s that special pain you feel when giving away a significant sum of money. It’s the “hurts” in “give ’til it hurts”. I suspect that each person’s sense of lucralgia sets an upper limit on their charity, barring those who literally follow the rules of their church (e.g., literal tithing). You can only stand to give but so much.
I’ve always felt inadequate, somehow, in my philanthropy. You’re supposed to feel cheerful and upbeat about all the good your doing by contributing to worthy charities. All those babies saved, trees hugged, and whatnot.
But all I ever felt was a vague sense of duty. And lucralgia. That ache behind your solar plexus when you do your duty and sign a bunch of checks to worthy charities.
No joy.
Those of us in the business know it. Actuaries. Health economists.
For the rest of you, find your line. Then read ’em and weep. This is an excerpt from the 2020 U.S life table, showing how likely it is that, all other things equal, 100,000 Americans will live past a certain age.
Source: CDC
Here in the U.S.A., if you work hard, succeed financially, invest with wisdom, and live modestly, and generally are lucky enough to have all suns shine, you will eventually be rewarded with the epiphany that you will die before you can spend all of your money.
I am one of the fortunate ones who has met the criteria.
Perhaps less fortunately, I figured this out, for myself, a few years back. Maybe it’s because I am a health economist, working mainly with Medicare data. But I was completely familiar with the life table. And when I slapped that up against an estimate of expected financial returns — that’s when I retired.
The truly weird thing about that is that once you reach that realization, then, rationally, as long as you place little or no value on passing your money on to your kids, then the value of money is zero.
If the checking account balance is going to be massively positive on date-of-death, then, what’s the value of another $1000 more or less? It’s zero.
You can’t take it with you.
Old Mr. McGill is getting on in years. He’s exceptionally well-to-do, but never married and has no close relatives. All throughout his life, he’s donated millions to the Church. But all he has now, in life, is his fortune.
So he asks the parish priest if he can take his fortune with him when he dies. And he gets the stock answer, no, you can’t take it with you.
Not satisfied, he kicks it up the Church hierarchy, based on his history of massive charity toward the Church. At some point, the Pope Himself communes with God. And, lo and behold, in this one case, God will make an exception. The decision comes down. Mr. McGill can take it with him.
Overjoyed, Mr. McGill starts liquidating his assets, converting everything to gold bars and stacking them in a big aluminum suitcase. Block upon block of the precious metal. And, as is so often the case, as he almost got that suitcase filled, he suffered a massive stroke and died.
And there he went, suitcase in hand, off to heaven.
St. Peter met him at the gate, took one look at Mr. McGill and his suitcase, and said, “Nope, you know the rules. You can’t take it with you.”
To which Mr. McGill replied, “There’s an exception in my case”.
St. Peter promptly conferred with God, found out that this was true, opened up the Pearly Gates, and waved Mr. McGill into heaven.
“But,”, said St. Peter, “I have to know. What was so important that you couldn’t leave it back on Earth, but had to drag it with you to Heaven?”
And McGill gets a big smile on his face, places his suitcase down, and opens it up to display the contents.
Said St. Peter, incredulously: “You brought pavement?”
My point is that, if you get old enough, and have enough, it’s all just so much pavement.
As a consequence, what hurt badly as a young man doesn’t sting any more. Inverse Widow’s Mite, I guess, as long as I’m in New Testament mode. I’ve found the solution for lucralgia. Or it has found me.
Weirdly, I’m still as cheap as ever. All those habits of thrift, ingrained over a lifetime, continue to function.
But when it comes to writing those checks at the end of the year, it’s just not the painful chore it once was. I still find no joy in it. It’s just something that needs to be done. But I no longer have to fight down that pain as I sign my name. It’s just another chunk of pavement.
Once upon a midnight dreary, as I sat alone with Siri,
Christmas presents still to purchase, Cyber Monday deals to score,
There perched I with nerves now snapping,
packages in need of wrapping,
Gifts awaiting Christmas trappings, overlapping on the floor.
“Tis the season” grumbled I, “all glory that there isn’t more.”
Else I’d never find the floor.
Ah, so vaguely I’d remember, items ordered mid-November
As a Costco member, now were squatting glumly by the door.
Eagerly I wished the morrow;—
vainly I had sought to borrow
From my charge-cards I might borrow happiness from days of yore,
For the spirit of the season urges buying more and more,
Overnighted to my door.
Then my mind seized on the burden, gaze ashamèdly averting
From the pile of acquisitions spilt across my kitchen floor.
So that now, bank-balance bleeding,
poverty I’ll soon be pleading,
To my creditors unheeding I shall pay forevermore.
Bankruptcy shall be proceeding, that is where my life is borne.
Christmas spendthrift to the core.
Presently a doorbell-ringer forced me not to longer linger,
“Sir,” said I, “or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
Packages they need a-wrapping,
creditors may come knee-capping,
Sorrows I was now recapping, yapping as I crossed the floor.
“Wouldst thou stay, converse a moment?” —here I opened wide the door;—
Packages and nothing more.
Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams of Fridays Black no shopper dreamt before;
Etsy with their goods bespoken?
Hoping nothing had been broken,
And my only thought unspoken was that I would buy no more!
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the words, “Oh, sure”—
This I heard, and nothing more.
Dragging boxes undiscerning, sinews of my back now burning,
Soon, again, I heard a tintinnabulation as before.
“Mayhap”, said I, “Barnes and Noble?”,
breaking from my trance immobile,
Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore—
Lamentation to dispel with caissons bearing lit’rature?—
‘Tis the wind and nothing more!”
Motionless amidst the clutter, gazing outward toward the gutter,
Up now stepped a stately Postman, clothed in blue to reassure;
Not the least obeisance made he;
not a minute stopped or stayed he;
But, with bureaucratic mien of those who serve whom they abhor,
No kindness shone, nor outright malice, standing at my entry door.
“Sign”, spake he, and nothing more.
Then amidst my sad stockpiling, could not help myself reviling,
Poker face and postal uniform that he so blandly bore.
“You, man, are a public servant,
surely you must be observant,
Tell me what the sender’s name is ere I sign my name once more.
Alibaba? Ebay? Target? Amazonians galore?”
“Matters not, you will buy more.”
Much I marveled this ungainly fellow to discourse so plainly,
Answer so offensive, ‘neath my breath I sotto voce swore;
Yet amid this Christmas season,
no soul capable of reason
Could deny the reasonableness of his prophecy of more.
Flesh or spirit, care not I, deliver boxes by the score!
“Sign”, saith he, and nothing more.
For the Postman, standing lonely at the threshold, he spoke only
That one phrase, as if his world admitted but that single chore.
With his mail-sack then he puttered,
not a further word he muttered.
Thought I — might I utter phrasing, solely him to reassure?
“U.S.P.S. is my fav’rite, other shippers I deplore.”
Saith the Postman, “oh, for sure”.
Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
“Doubtless,” said I, “The Post Office badly lacks esprit-de-corps.”
Doubtless the Postmaster General
glories in this true disaster
Of a workforce who no faster than a snail our burdens bore—
Till the packages we wait for — are but ghosts on Lethe’s shore.
Post December 24.
Ignore now this Postman’s riling, other places call beguiling,
Best Buy, Zappos, Wayfair, Walmart, to me now these all implore.
Time is wasting, I was thinking,
Christmas is upon us sinking.
Shopping days are shrinking, slinking past the deadlines I abhor.
Mystery of kraft-wrapped beauty, parcel that I so adore!
Sign for it, then order more.
Signed I now without obsessing, gave me now his Postal blessing,
Knowing not the sender, tossed the package by the kitchen door.
Turning now to be about
his still-unfinished postal routing,
Humming dirges that his doubting melancholy burden bore.
Leaving, he could not restrain from off’ring up one parting score:
“I’ll return, you shall buy more.”
Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if man or devil!—
How payest I for all these goods that you deliver to my door?
Christmas spending goes undaunted,
in my home by lenders haunted,
Driven to me by my lack of lucre for the deals I score.
Is there—is there balm in Gilead?—tell me—tell me, I implore!”
Quoth the Postman, “Nevermore.”
“Be that word our sign of parting, friend or fiend!” I shrieked, upstarting—
“Get ye gone onto your route and bring me goods o nevermore”.
Leave no package as a token
of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my poverty unbroken!—mat of welcome step no more.
Take thy bag from off my stoop, and take thy form from out my door!”
Quoth the Postman “Nevermore.”
Source: (c) 2022, Christopher Hogan, with considerable theft from Edgar Allan Poe.
