Screw Worm

 June 9, 2026 -- 

I read the Wall Street Journal "Ten Point" every morning. And this morning, I was alarmed to read in it that the New World screw worm has now been detected in Texas cattle. I suspect I'm in a small, small minority in my demographic and friend group in Dallas that's actually worried about this (although perhaps not). I do find my worry odd from a perspective of pure self-interest: I'm not "in" agriculture professionally, I don't live in a farming/ranching community, and I live in a huge urban area darn near a thousand miles away from Zavala County, Texas. My day-to-day has a lot to do with kids, their basketball, baseball, volleyball, and other activities, my high-rise-enveloped professional life, and the daily balancing act of family, career, and personal time (this is one of those instances where one wishes blogger had footnotes . . . I want to develop the theme of "personal time" for a mid-40s parent, and whether that's something desirable or good, and what it ideally should look like). It has next to nothing to do with livestock.

But livestock does have a lot to do with my worldview. I've never gotten over (and I'm not sure I want to get over) the escapism and magic of cowboy movies, and a big part of my psyche is held captive by the mythos of the American West and its adventure, hardship, freedom, and beauty. Going out to my wife's family's ranch and riding a horse through a thick stand of wind-tickled bluestem is a rapturous experience, and I'll confess that my thoughts linger there more than they should. There, cows are ever present, and while I know little about doctoring them, feeding them, rotating them on pasture, or making any money off them, they're a fixture of the landscape that's always at the back of my mind.

I'll also confess that food is a big part of my worldview. I love to cook, especially smoking and grilling, and my own personal food pyramid is crowned by beef as its capstone. Just last night, I cooked a beautiful, prime ribeye (purchased at 50% off, thanks to a Saturday morning run to Tom Thumb for omelete makings) in the cast iron, which made for a sumptuous meal. Years ago, when my wife and I got married, we had a garden in our back yard. We ate sparingly few vegetables from it (chiefly because we grew sparingly few vegetables from it), but it was a fun, calming hobby that bolstered appreciation for real food production and enhanced my awareness of where food comes from. (Yes, this project went hand in glove with reading Omnivore's Dilemma and watching Food, Inc. But it wasn't a "phase" from which I've moved on . . . if we lived on a lot bigger than 5,000 square feet now, I'd go right back to gardening attempting to garden.)

All these threads--the love of the cowboy, the love for food, and the appreciation for gardening and husbandry--coalesce into a worldview that esteems the analog, the organic, and the sustainable, and highly regards land and what can be made from it.

And while I was reading "The Ten Point" this morning, with its unsettling news of screw worms' appearance in Texas, I wondered whether last night's meal would become a rarity over the next 4-5 years, and how the ranch responds to this, and what this will do to the real rancher across the road who runs 2,000 cattle on his acreage. 

From a public policy and science standpoint, there are too many threads to even begin entertaining which one to pull on. We even don't have to get to public policy about prevention or eradication: we can just start with the question, "Was this preventable?" In addition to the above experiences that inform my worldview, one of the biggest drivers was Michael Crichton's Jurassic Park, and particularly the philosophy of chaos theory exposited throughout the novel by Ian Malcolm. (I read Jurassic Park after oral surgery as a middle-schooler . . . doubtless whatever cocktail of drugs I was on stayed with me and made my already-plastic brain all the more impressionable, but given Michael Crichton's provenance as a thinker, I'm unashamed to admit the book's impact on me.) My biggest takeaway from Malcolm's monologues, diatribes, and dialogues was that: (i) the world is immensely complex, and far more than we can ever know; (ii) we must have intellectual humility both individually and as a species; and (iii) that due to the world's complexity, we can never truly prevent the consequences of natural forces. By my lights, it's reasonably approximated by Murphy's Law: if something can go wrong, it will. We can slow nature down, but we will never truly "prevent" natural consequences.

What does this have to do with screw worm? Well, we had "constructed" a "biological barrier" against screw worm across the Darien Gap between Panama and Colombia. Beginning in the middle of the 20th century, the United States began breeding sterile male screw worm flies, whose sterility was the key to their eradication. Female screw worm flies mate only once in their lives, and so if they mate only with sterile males, then the species is unable to reproduce. This approach was immensely effective, and by the 1970s, the US, Mexico, and Central American had eradicated screw worm. There were four facilities that bred these flies--one in Florida, one in Texas, one in Chiapas, Mexico, and one in Panama, with the Panamanian facility ostensibly continuing to support eradication efforts over the last several decades. Thus, the screw worm flies were supposed to be contained on the southeastern side of the Darien Gap in Colombia.

But cracks in the barrier began to emerge. Naturally, Obama gave the Mexican facility back to Mexico in 2012. And Trump (again, naturally) fostered fractures in our partnership with the Mexican government over tariffs and the general buffoonery of his administration, and (surprise!) the Mexican government began lackadaiscally  reporting the data it was supposed to. I have seen no reporting on why the Panamanian facility was ineffective in containing the virus, but speculation is that the COVID-19 Pandemic complicated operational inputs, that the mass immigrations/migrations from Central and South America helped push the screw worm flies north, and that the U.S. and Mexico did a lax job policing South American cattle shipments.

Again, there are enough threads here to stock a needlepoint shop: ag policy, scientific R&D policy, foreign policy, immigration policy, natural philosophy. It's apparent that the US foresaw this problem some time ago, as we have a new facility coming online in 2027 to release sterile screw worm flies in Texas. I'm not close to informed enough to guess whether the government's response has been proactive, reasonable, or adequate, but I would posit that: (i) this has the potential to be a huge problem and upset the economy and food supply chain; and (ii) we simply had a blind spot fueled by a hubris of triumph over nature and our faith in other nations' ability to partner with us and fund vital programs.

I would say that the Mabrys will eat a lot of venison in 2026-27, but turns out screw worms can also infest deer. Regardless, we must trust that Sid Miller, Brooke Rollins, the USDA, and private actors all take the path of prudence and that we stanch the effects of this crisis sooner rather than later. And most importantly: (ii) my own worrying will not help; and (ii) God is in control.

I've talked a lot about worldview, and the biggest informant is that God's Providence reigns. That thought is ever-present, and I wish it were more often at the forefront of my mind in sharp focus, and not a life raft I see at the corner of my eye as I thrash about in the waves and currents of worry.

The Messiah: A Reflection on Biblical Theology

The Messiah is likely the most enduring and popular work of Handel's career.  The Hallelujah chorus is instantly recognizable to all, and 250 years after its release, it is still a command performance at Christmastime.  Not just classical music aficionados or pretentious, over-educated poseurs enjoy it, either--people still turn out in droves for Messiah "sing-alongs," where you can belt out "Ev'ry Valley" with the heartiest, cheeriest Christmas spirit that can be mustered on a 65-degree December day in Texas.

The musical score is beautiful.  Handel borrowed from his other works for the score, but that does not diminish the creative breadth of this work.  He wrote and arranged 53 separate pieces of music to tell the story of redemptive history.  He did not write the libretto---the "words" were the work of Charles Jennens, a solidly Reformed patron of the arts who was one of Handel's most stalwart and devoted fans--but his music served as a diorama that showcased, enlivened, and energized the Scriptures that formed the base of the work.  In other words, the music complemented the lyrics.  A quick example: in "Ev'ry Valley,"  Handel's score masterfully showcases Isaiah 40:4--"Every valley shall be exalted, and every mountain and hill shall be made low: and the crooked shall be made straight, and the rough places plain."  Handel's musicthat mirrors the text's meaning.  On "every valley," Handel's notes rise on valley, but then fall on "shall be ex-", only to quickly but measuredly rise on "a-al-ted."  If one were to look at a the score on a staff, you would see a "V," not so much for the English word "valley," but for the up-and-down geographic elevation that you see when you look at a valley.  In the same aria, Handel literally makes you hear the "crooked made straight" ("crooh-ooh-ooh-ked straiiiighhtttt"; up-down-up-down looooo-oooo-oooongggg).  Can you hear it?!  Beautiful!

So the merit of Handel's creativity is huge.  Beyond this, though, the Messiah's message moves me tremendously.  Can anyone imagine a concept album released today that tells the story of God's redemption?  I can't.  But Handel did it then, received tremendous acclaim for it, and the work endures today.

 More on this later, but I had to get this out.

If this broadcasting thing ends suddenly ...

... Big Game Brent could always apply for SEC Commissioner.  He should think about that.  Folksy idioms, laidback style, and incredible boosterism ... he'd be as natur'l as white bucks at an August wedding.

"Goshalmighty, Herbie, is that some sarcasm [wink]!?"  You betcha, Big Game Brent.  It is sarcasm.  But here's some straight shootin', pardner---you should be retired alongside the Dr Pepper trophy.  You, more than any other commentator, have done more to dumb down, over-narrate, maudlinize, and butcher college programs that you personally don't like.  You pick a favorite, you plug him, and then you expect Herbie to pick up the slack from your obsequious rants that purport to be "commentary."  And that favorite is always the team du jour from the Southeastern Conference.

Shame on your "journalism."  Yeah, yeah ... "It sells papers!"  Oh, but wait .... it doesn't, in either the literal or figurative sense.  People like conflict and freshness: you give them neither.  Your tired storylines, your utter predictability, your insincere diction have raised a generation of fans that cannot wait for your retirement.

I didn't play.  I want to know more about the game.  I know what the media consensus is; I don't need it related back to me every three plays in terms that would have made Grantland Rice squirm.  So I don't need mountains made of absurd, molehill-sized ironies about high school colors, nicknames, hometown rivalries, or whatever obscure fact your drift boat of a mind should happen to snag on.

So, Brent, think about that SEC job.  Chase your dream, go home to your first love.  No more pretending that other teams from other conferences might compete, no more missing Vandy-Tenn for having to call that pesky OU-Texas rivalry (although they do have that  mug o' beer and a Fletcher's corny dog!") ... Just total freedom to devote to REAL, folksy, fleet-footed, football.

Senile Eccentric Commentator.  It's got your name on it.

Passive-Aggressive Conversations I Wish I Had: Talking to a Supervisor

"Hi.  Got a sec?"

"Always!!!  The only bad questions are those left unasked!"  She gesticulated wildly--at least by 21st century office standards--pointing her finger upwards, reminiscent of the classical orator's pose exemplified by Augustus's statue on the Prima Porta Gate, and flipping her hair sideways. She defiantly warded off the creeping powers of indolence with her enthusiasm and motivational tactics.

"Um, okay.  I have this 1200-page document, and it basically says ..."

"Let's go look at it!"  At the t in Let's, she had already taken two heavy, stiletto-heel-driving stomps toward the querulous document, determined to wrangle it into submission.  She grabbed the mouse and surveyed her quarry.  "Well, so it's actually 1164 pages, and it looks like ..."

"Yeah.  Sorry if those extra 36 pages I claimed to have existed rendered the problem insoluble.  I was using this new mathematical concept called 'rounding,' which is gaining popularity.  At least based on what I've observed anecdotally."

The Third Day

Scroll down to the bottom of this blog and read the Faulkner lines. If I tried to attempt such elegy, it would likely sound maudlin, but it is no matter, for Faulkner said it better then, and he says it better than anyone can say it now.

This is the 150th anniversary of the third and final day at Gettysburg. It was not a last stand but a hubristic effort with minimal chance of success. Its glory--thousands of men marching for home and family, brimming with valor and bravery--is sadly overshadowed by Lee's single mistake of the war: his overestimation of his troops'--and perhaps his own--capabilities. He incorrectly weighed elementary tactical considerations about numerical strength and geography against intangibles, such as the effect of a withdrawal in his men, and their enthusiasm for a fight. It was a blunder, and likely a prideful one at that.

And yet Lee's devotion to duty and love of country, and that of his officers and men--from the cavalier, aristocratic Virginian planters to the slaveless, hardscrabble Texans with Hood--nearly brings me to tears on this day. Pickett's officers likely knew that they were matching to their death that day, yet they did so gladly. They believed in something greater than themselves, whether it was home, God, or a sense of "duty." And it is moving to think that a mass of men was willing to fight and die for these things.

Lee blundered. He disregarded basic strategic considerations for emotions. The last day is bathed in so much sadness, so much needlessness, so much folly, that oftentimes its sadness is all one can glimpse. But we should always remember its beauty. Watch Gettysburg and see the incredible love between Marse Robert and his soldiers. See the grace with which his men went into battle. And see Lee stoop and shoulder the burden of defeat and loss unreservedly. It is tragic, certainly, but it is beautiful.

Introducing a New Word: "SNARKIRAZZI"

"Snarkirazzi":
Pronunciation: \ˌsnär-kə-ˈrät-(ˌ)sē\
Function: noun
Etymology: Italian, a portmanteau of "snarky" and Paparazzi, surname of a gossip a photographer in the film La Dolce Vita (1959)
Date: 2013
:
1. A growing class of young, well-educated, politically liberal, usually self-described "progressive," bloggers who rely on conceited, dismissive, and belittling sarcasm in their writing to express conclusions or opinions formed without knowledge of relevant facts and without exposure to or consideration of any justification or rationale for that which they criticize.

2. People who read such writing or who speak or think in a similar manner.

Yeah, it's "a thing," so I made a word for it. I have long railed against East Coast elitism in the press and among "educated" people my age, so I figured I would come up with a word for those acolytes of elitism, those sacerdotes of snark.

The best example is Gawker. Smart people write for it, people who can turn an effective phrase and bulls-eye shoot the tone and impression they aim for. But it's annoying. Their authors try to outdo themselves in snark (not the eponymous creature of Lewis Carroll's poem, but the snot-nosed, vitriolic put-downs that today pass for wit) with every post, every report, every "article" that gets written. They write without facts and without having considered other points of view. And they spout disgust for people who disagree with them.

I understand that people think differently; they do not. I try to start with the premise that other people probably have a rationale for doing the things they do and that I should try to understand it before criticizing it. Snarkirazzi, in contrast, start with the premise that they are the smartest, coolest on the block and whatever they don't understand after a nano-second glance must be idiotic and thus ripe and proper fodder for mockery.

It wouldn't bother me so much if so many people didn't subscribe to this way of thinking and ape it. I am afraid, however, that people my age do. I realize that Gawker is not the New Republic, but that does not bother me. What bothers me is that few people my age know the New Republic/The Nation/whatever and understand the value that thoughtfulness and reason have in political news.

We talk about my generation's discontent with the current partisan gamesmanship that passes for statesmanship in Washington--the 2008 Obama campaign encapsulates that sentiment. But this gamesmanship, failure to compromise, and a literal inability to talk to or understand the other side is being trained into us and reinforced by sites and news outlets like Gawker.

They are educated enough to write better, and we are educated enough to read better. Way better than what we're fed by the snarkirazzi.

Oxford: Southern Picturebook

In trying to describe Oxford, I started to write all kinds of absurd hooks (e.g., "Do you ever wish life would slow down and say howdy?").  Although all of them were true, none of them worked.  They all sounded like promotions for planned communities a la Seaside or radio commercials for Blue Bell.  I honestly couldn't stomach these wrenching cliches as descriptions of something that I've come to dearly love and hold so closely.

But like I say, all of the cliches are true.  Life does in fact slow down.  People are as polite as I've ever seen (I consider myself painfully etiquette-bound, and I was struck by their politeness).  The town is leafy and green and emanates from a square that literally embodies tradition, cleanliness, morality, style, learning, and cuisine.

And all of it anchored by Ole Miss.  It's a campus grand in its modesty and stateliness.  The white columns and red brick are totally at home with themselves.  The architecture itself seems especially
organic, as Ole Miss's Greek Revival architecture takes its cue both from description and from proscription.  Descriptively, the campus sits miles from the Delta, described by some as "the most Southern place on Earth," where Greek Revival columns seem to grow from the ground like cypress trees.  And proscriptively, the buildings take their cue from the architecture of Plato's Athens--as do many universities, of course--but here they even label the focal point of the campus the "Lyceum."  I've rarely seen a campus get it this right.

There should be more to come, but I could go on for hours about Ole Miss's effort to right wrongs, wright leaders, and right its pigskin ship.  But it's enough, for now, to revel in Oxford's near perfection.

Playing Possum: I Feel Tears Wellin' Up

The original "King George" is dead.

That's incredible.  His voice--with its instinctive phrasing and pure, rich melodic notes--defined country music for decades.  He sang with and for the Establishment, the "Nashville Sound."  If he thought that strings would enrich a song, he let them in.  No Nudie suit?  Fine.  George would wear a white leisure suit.  But it simply did not matter, because whatever his producers suggested, no one could pack more emotion and meaning into a song than George Jones.

"The Nashville Sound" is and was a dirty epithet and point of contention for  fans, and rightly so.  Those people--myself included--hail Waylon Jennings, Willie Nelson, Cory Morrow, and Jason Boland as the antitheses of Nashville's soul-destroying, over-producing hit-factory.  "The Nashville Sound" is oftentimes viewed as the antithesis of "real," soul-felt music.  Much of that sentiment rings in me.  The eschewance of overproduced "Nashville" for more organic "Texas" is a common trope.  I love all of the artists who decided to forge a path in country music through channels outside the established Nashville folkways of country stardom.

And yet I cannot escape George Jones.  And no one can.  He is to country music what Frank Sinatra was to all pop music of his generation.  The weeping steel may have been supplemented by teary strings, but it was certainly not upended by them.  George Jones's voice was simply dynamite.  Anyone who could pack that much emotion into two minutes deserves our respect, no matter his genre.  He interpreted and carried a song like no one I've heard since him.  No one on radio, country or otherwise, can bring the raw emotion (i.e., supply meaning) to song like he can.

And so I say "The King Is Gone." Every time I play guitar and sing, that song carries your influence.  Thank you for teaching us how to sing, and listen, and love, and feel.

Good Friday Music

I wrote this song my first year in law school on Good Friday.   It had sort of languished as a song that I played once a year, but had never recorded. But I had some free time today and recorded it on my iPhone. And then I posted it.  If you like it, great.  If not, that's fine; it still means a lot to me.

Happy Good Friday.

I really enjoyed meeting with you ...

... but I cannot extend you an offer of employment at this time. We consulted a crystal ball while standing in mallard urine during this month's waxing gibbous at midnight-thirty, and we determined that you are not a good professional fit at this time.

We now insert a hackneyed euphemism to console you.

Best,
Big Law

Too Much Football to Handle

Pretty unbelievable games yesterday.  First, Oklahoma didn't exactly whip the buckskins off the Mountaineers like I thought they would.  Second, OREGON LOST?!  AND BAYLOR BEAT FREAKING KANSAS STATE?????  Two years ago, Baylor couldn't beat their own practice squad, but now here they are knocking off the no. 1 team in the country.  So many questions: I haven't broken down the OU tape yet, the new BCS standings haven't come out yet, and there are so many questions to be answered about where these teams are headed, viz., whether Baylor will now play the role of spoiler similar to what Tech had done in the last decade in the Big XII.

Wow.  What a Saturday.

I would like to sign off by reiterating my contention that friends don't schedule friends for parties during big games, but not everyone popped out of the womb blessed with Solomonic wisdom.

Bird in Hand: Pappy Van Winkle 15-year

And of all these things, the Albino whale was the symbol.  Would ye then wonder at the fiery hunt?

Pappy van Winkle whiskey is the white whale for nigh all whiskey connoisseurs.  Like any other commodity, supply and demand determine availability (and price).  And in a vicious cycle, like any luxury good, demand is exacerbated by the scarce supply.  Van Winkle releases between 6 and 7 thousand cases of whiskey every year.  That sounds like a great many, until you compare it to, say, Maker's 46--Maker's Mark's new product line--which releases 25,000 cases per year.  Note that that is four times as many cases per year.  Moreover, for whatever reason, this does not have the cult following that Van Winkle does.  So between the extreme cult following that it has obtained and the absurdly low production numbers (much appreciated for its quality control), it's a mighty tough bird to flush up.

And I have obtained a bottle.  It has yet to be opened.  

But I am excited about it, for I have sampled this whiskey before.  I have never tasted any so smooth yet full of character.  It's remarkably balanced.  Allegedly, its mashbill is very similar to Maker's Mark, deriving its sweetness from its high wheat content, and its heft and mellowness from its unhurried, slow stroll through 15 seasons of Kentucky's snow and sun.  Once you taste it, its devotees suddenly appear sane and rational.  "Of course their unrelenting fervor," you reason to yourself, "makes perfect sense."

And Thursday, I drove in the gray while after whiskey's white whale and brought it in.  Look for an update once the bottle is opened.

Anachronisms

I love anachronisms.  I intentionally try to use them whenever possible.  And of all the anachronisms I use, I like none better than geographical anachronisms.  And while many, many exist, for whatever reason, I have not found a satisfactory list on the Internet.  So I will write my own.  Aut viam inveniam aut faciam.  (This will be updated)

Turkey = Anatolia
Mumbai, India = Bombay
Myanmar = Burma
Thailand = Siam
Israel = Palestine
Sudan = THE Sudan
Istanbul = Constantinople (or Byzantium!)
Beijing = Peking
Vietnam = Indochina
Hawai'i = Sandwich Islands
Southeastern Mediterranean = The Levant
Chennai, India = Madras
Zimbabwe = Rhodesia
Ethiopia = Abyssinia
Benin (apparently in Africa) = Dahomey
Iraq, southeastern Turkey, northwestern Iran (Tigris-Euphrates watershed) = Mesopotamia

Review: Miles Davis' Kind of Blue

I am not a music critic.  But I am a musician and a music lover, and when you love something, you want to talk about it.  And because I just listened to Miles Davis' Kind of Blue, and loved it, I want to talk about it.

I don't know much about jazz, but I know that it's complex.  It usually doesn't follow the normal rythmic or melodic rules that pop, folk, and classical (actually, pretty much all music, I guess) do.  And there's probably no deeper exploration of a musician and an instrument's capabilities than jazz.  Jazz, in fact, prides itself on its complexity and demand for artistic proficiency.  But jazz's complexity frequently makes it somewhat less accessible and understandable, at least for me, and I find that jazz's most celebrated aspect may be its biggest hurdle to its own popularity.  So when I listen to a jazz album, I frequently come away saying that I appreciated it, but  didn't really enjoy it.

Kind of Blue, however, is completely different for me.  While it does not necessarily trace a clearer melody than many other jazz albums from the 1950s, I am overcome by the beauty of Miles Davis' trumpet, Coltrane's sax, and Bill Evans' piano.  I mean, those are basically the greats of 50s/60s jazz right there, and their synergy is really something special.  Listening to the album, you feel energized and lulled, alone and surrounded, warm and cool, and a thousand other opposite emotions all at once.  It's pretty crazy, but the music itself carries all of those emotions at once.  Art is supposed to be moving, to be emotionally charged, and Davis' composition is brimming with a huge range of emotion, many of which are felt simultaneously.  And beyond the initial reaction to the music's aesthetic, I want to listen to it over and over.  I want to examine it, to analyze it, to break it down and examine its architecture.  It is that good.

Now, here's where my admitted non-critic status comes in: I do not know enough knowledge about jazz and the theory behind it to dissect the music being played, and so I can't justify its greatness academically at any great length; I can only react to it based largely on my own tastes.  But here's what I do know: the album was innovative for its use of modes, rather than chord progression, as the basis of his composition.  The use of modes, rather than an increasingly complex riffs on a fixed chord progression, allowed Davis to improvise in ways that he heretofore had not done.  In short, in this album and his 1958 Milestones, he threw out the old blueprint of his jazz and began anew.  As Davis explained to his band prior to recording this, "There will be fewer chords, but infinitely more possibilities."  Kind of Blue explores them in an enlivening, soothing, beautiful way.  Get it.

Throw Barack Down the Well

Working on getting my recording up; it's very, very tough.

In my country there is problem
And that problem's GDP
It grows very very slow,
And will get worse with QE3

In my country there is problem
And that problem is Barack
He promised hope and change
But that hasn't done a lot.


CHORUS:  Throw Barack down the well
                    who promised us some hope
                    But a slogan's not a plan
                    And he doesn't have my vote.


In my country's an election
And Paul Ryan and Mitt Romney
Actually have a plan to cut spending
and boost the economy.

CHORUS

Brand, Spanking New

Man, I am so excited to get these broken in, but they still look awesome in their pristine condition.  I always think that brand new dress shoes--with their unblemished, sheer, polished soles, and immaculately flush, square and true heels, and polished, uncreased, smooth leather (which in this case is dark brown, not black)--are so cool right out of the box.  That smell, the pride in getting something you have wanted for a while (and of course being able to justify it), and the knowledge that they're dead perfect for me always is crowned by getting a good, thorough look at the shoes in their fresh, tabula rasa state.  I just thought it'd be cool to post some pics and document it.  Just out of sheer fun.  I love the soles of the shoe: hand-sewn moccasin construction, paper-white stitching, the Alden crest stamped true and crisp as it was at the factory, and the lightest, most uniform tan you could ask for, unblemished by the years of sidewalks and rain to come.  And I think I love them because the crisp, still-varnished sole speaks loudly to the years of enjoyment I will have in breaking them in, making them mine, and just liking to wear them.

Alden is the greatest shoemaker on the planet, in my mind, but in all minds the greatest shoemaker in America.  No one can do classics like they can, and nothing is more classic or versatile than the bit loafer. (*Actually, Alden's leisure hand-sewn moccasin, model 986 (otherwise known as "penny loafers") is maybe more classic.  In my opinion, though, the bit loafer, particularly a dark one like this, beats it in versatility.  [PS--blogger.com should allow footnotes; this parenthetical looks rather awkward, admittedly . . . ])  I'm glad I got them, and I look forward to wearing them.

Scheduling Mishap

I foolishly scheduled a date for tomorrow.  Why is that a bad?  Because tomorrow is the Cowboys' regular season opener.  Against the hated New York Football Giants.

I actually thought about re-scheduling.  But I did not.  That's called maturity.  And suaveness.

Passive-Aggressive Conversations I Wish I Had: The Tow-Truck Dispatcher/AAA

[Setting: my office-building.  Outside, 8:30pm.  Of course, a storm--a torrential storm--has started to envelop us.  I am looking at a huge flatbed truck pulled up out front, and the driver is apologizing for being dispatched out here to a parking garage with a maximum clearance of 6 feet, 6 inches.  (NOTE: In real life, the guy couldn't have been nicer, and it wasn't his fault.)  I walk back inside the building, take the elevator back upstairs to my office, and call Triple A back.]

Mabes:  Yes, hi.  I just spoke with someone there recently about dispatching a technician and perhaps a tow truck my way . . .

AAA phone jockey:  Sir, are you in a safe place?

Mabes:  Yes, yes.  I'm fine.  Anyway, we just spoke . . .

AAA:     Sir, can I please have your member number?

Mabes:   Uh, yes.  It's ________________.

AAA:      Okay, thank you, sir.  And I see you just called us and a tow truck is on its way to you.

Mabes:    That's right.  It . . .

AAA:      Has the two truck not arrived?

Mabes:    I appreciate your thoroughness.  No, it's here.  I think that I might have mentioned it this last time, but I think I was fairly specific that I was at my office building, and that I was underground in a parking garage.

AAA:    Hold on, please; let me pull up your notes . . .

Mabes:   Well, it's okay now, but I said that because the ceilings are very low, and . . .

AAA:     Oh, yes!  We did put that down.

Mabes:    Well, I'm sure I should have been clearer, maybe, but I believe I mentioned a flat-bed and how that may not work?

AAA:     Well, we did not put that down, but we sure did note that you were in a low, underground parking deck.

Mabes:   Oh.  Okay.  Well, there's a very large flat-bed tow-truck outside right then.  And I mentioned specifically an electrical problem, right?

AAA:     Yes, it appears that you did!

Mabes:   Okay, well, because . . . you sent a flat-bed tow truck, but I don't think you sent a technician.  I mean, I could be wrong, but I was under the impression that you were sending one.

AAA:    Uh, let me check . . .

Mabes:   Oh, you don't worry about it.  The two-truck driver has already called his dispatcher and is requesting just a pickup truck with jumper cables, so that's okay.  I just wanted to double-check that I did in fact specify that the ceiling was very low, that a flat-bed might not work, and that I was possibly having electrical system problems?

AAA:  Yes, sir, actually . . .

Mabes:   Okay, thanks.  I just wanted to double-check!  I will call you if I need any further help.

Big Oil: Meet Bain Capital

Big Oil, meet Bain Capital.  Just when you thought you had the won the war on the middle class and the environment, this upstart private equity firm unseats you from your self-proclaimed pedastal of Machiavellian backroom fatcat machinations.

Big Oil, is this amateur hour?!  Bain Capital is serious about wrecking the middle class and forcing people out of work.  You guys, though--what with your high-paying blue-collar jobs and quest for energy independence--are frankly giving a tad too much more than you take these days.

And the public has noticed.  Come on . . . if you're serious about being the arch-villain of the socio-political landscape, you need to step it up a little.  Ties between the White House, Halliburton, and the House of Saud?!  Puh-LEASE.   That is SO 2002. 

This is a full decade later, Big Oil.  We've advanced.  We're a post-Great-Recession society, and we've read Michael Lewis.  And, frankly, fracking is just too understandable and passe to really arouse any public interest.  We've got Main Street vs. Wall Street on our minds, not Main Street vs. Permian Basin divide.

But I've got some steps you can take:

1) Find some old tax returns from 2000-2008 that list Dick Cheney as some sort of director or manager.
2) Announce that you'll maybe close or consolidate a refinery, preferably one in a small town.  Better yet--sell it to China. (Even Bain didn't think of that!)
3) Maybe have find some way to drill a dry well, but still turn a profit.  I'm sure it can be done.

Recommendation: Moonrise Kingdom

A pre-teen love story?  Coming-of-age story?  A comedy?  An indie film? With a blockbuster cast?  And the title?!  What?

Coming into the movie, having read its synopsis, seen its previews, and being even casually aware of Wes Anderson and his cinematic predilections, the movie would seemingly raise too many questions to justify purchasing a ticket, much less making it a safe bet (at least when you're a very, very cheap man).  Maybe these considerations weren't present for most, but they sure were for me.  I love Wes Anderson, and the movie got a lot of buzz, but it was so . . . odd.

And the movie remained odd throughout.  In a delightful, captivating, offbeat, quirky way; sort of a "Pied Beauty" of cinema, at least in the sense of its idiosyncracies of its dialogue, characters, and plot.  It was not "pied" in editing or screenplay: the movie flowed seamlessly from start to finish.  Wes Anderson is the best out there at integrating character-narrated letters, flashbacks of live action, and cutaways or voice-overs of narrators (a la Alec Baldwin in The Royal Tenenbaums) altogether to produce a visually and emotionally enthralling diorama of color, humor, sympathy, and nostalgia.

The emotional range of the movie is stunning.  Anderson's ability to evoke sympathy or scorn for a character is unmatched, and he paints with his audience's full palette of feelings.  And he does not limit his expansive palette to feelings: the movie is also a visual feast of color, landscape, and costume.  Bill Murray's madras is perfect, as are Bruce Willis's skinny, short ties and Frances McDormand's sundresses.  Even the patina on Edward Norton's pocketknife is perfect.  All of the characters comfortably inhabit their own space and play their parts in a groundedly realistic fashion--even in the midst of the film's fantastic plot.

The Maine (best guess) coast.  Indian Summer, both in the natural calendar, and in the characters' childhood.  It's an extremely touching story told with a lighthearted, genuine realism.

Bottom line: if you don't like it, you either had no childhood or have never been outdoors.