Your Number One Douche Has a New Album

Yes, I know. I have a problem.

I'm usually such a positive person, breezing my way through life like . . . like . . . like a Beach Boys song. (A good Beach Boys song, not garbage like "Kokomo.")

And yet there is someone out there who gets my goat so much that it makes me a compulsively negative person. Makes me an Internet troll, of all things. It's horrible. And it happens any time he is mentioned, gets a headline, or . . . lookee here, releases a new album!

Mike Love, y'all. Future resident of actual Hell. Current purveyor of musical Hell.

12 Sides of Summer is his newest auditory upchucking, and it's a dandy. Stephen Thomas Erlewine, the premier reviewer at AllMusic, gives it more credit than I would have (natch) but notes the "incredibly chintzy production that sounds like it was slapped together at home on a tablet computer."  Meanwhile, in the Evening Standard, Harriet Wolstenholme writes:

California Beach, a rare original song, opens with a quintessential Love lyric: “Where surfers are surfing and dancers are dancing/ You’re sure to find a honey that you’ll love romancing”. Ick.

We will get back to that rare original song in a minute, but let's get to Les Coole's review of the record:

Just dreck. I mean . . . dreck.

There you have it.  Bad covers of what Erlewine calls "shopworn summer standards" with putrid production and Mike Love's voice.  A voice, which does have a place in musical history, and is best highlighted here:

(I got that clip from a website called Crappy Music Monday in a post in which the first two sentences are "Mike Love is a douche-nozzle. Pretty much everyone knows this." Join the movement, people.)

Mike Love is 78, and it's understandable that a voice at that age will diminish.  Could be a good thing, but if the best descriptor for your vocals on an album is "wan," maybe it's time to hang up the baseball cap and just get back to supporting your pal Donald Trump's mission to Make America Like Kokomo For the First Time.

The songs... okay, so I created a playlist below featuring the originals, solid covers of those songs, and then Mike Love's 12 Sides of Summer renditions.  Have a listen and decide what you think.  (I know, you don't give a damn. Why do I get so twisted up?)

Example: You know The Rivieras' "California Sun," a beach all-timer with that Vox Continental organ and surf guitar that etches itself in the brain permanently. You may well know the Ramones' cover, with Johnny's pounding guitar and Joey's inimitable voice. And then you get this new version, a relatively inoffensive bongo-and-handclap stab with a robust backup chorus that juxtaposably dwarfs Dr. Love's frail warbling. Harmless but pointless. Steve Spurrier: "Not very good."

It's the same lot of tripe throughout, with a couple of things worth mentioning:

• He can't even cover the Beach Boys very well.
• If you can redo "Girl From Ipanema" with a sonic quality that says "What's two steps beyond elevator music?", well, you've accomplished something.
• A little media noise has been made about "Rockaway Beach," his take on the aforementioned Ramones, and how it's a crazy cross-culture mish-mash. It's not. It's not avant-garde, and it actually makes sense. The Ramones were punk rock but drew mightily from 60's sun and surf classics like the Beach Boys. Not a bad marriage. Well chosen, sir. But again, Mike Love's always nasally grating, now eunuchally impotent voice* coupled with mom's basement production utterly undercuts the result.

* From Mike Love's own website: "Love’s voice is a style of its own. He combines his steady bass/baritone with a whimsical intonation— indicative of the ultra-cool, self-confidence and innocence of the early 1960s."  

So he has his ridiculous description, I have mine.

• And finally, there's the original single that Rolling Stone calls "breezy."  It's called "California Beach," and if you astutely noted that Mike Love has covered "California Sun" and "Rockaway Beach" on the same album that he produces a "new," "original" song called "California Beach," good for you. That's not where the appropriating ends. To enable a true-side-by-side comparison, I've appended the playlist with some needless duplication. Obnoxious, eh?  Check it out. "California Beach" is "Rockaway Beach." (No, Finkle/Einhorn lovers, "Rockaway Beach is not "California Beach.")  All that's missing is a Cal Cal, California Beach chorus.  There's a reason the two tracks could not be placed further apart on this album, but it's still pretty brazen. This is "Riot in Cell Block 9" / "Student Demonstration Time" all over again.  Seriously. What a douche.

That's all, good people. Now back to my positively positive dipshittery.

Oh yeah... I also love this: http://cokemachineglow.com/features/pictures-of-mike-love-looking-like-a-douche/http://cokemachineglow.com/features/pictures-of-mike-love-looking-like-a-douche/

Chronicles of an Aging Gheorghie: Bar Tabs and Boat Drinks

A bit of consumer advocacy from our friend in OBX, which may well explain how we manage to rack up $700 bar tabs when we're in his neck of the woods. And the wisdom at the end is worth noting, though I suspect we all fall on the right side of that advice.

A brief tale of fading memory, camaraderie and small business accommodation that may resonate with those who age, who drink and who visit this outpost:

Several weeks back, a buddy and I met one afternoon at a local watering hole that shall go nameless, but rhymes with “Shmortuga’s Fly.” We sat at the bar and were there between two and three hours. We had a few beers apiece, we each had a meal, and at the end I ordered some takeout to carry home for the missus. I put the bill on my card, my buddy gave me cash, and off we went.

Fast-forward a couple weeks, and the charge on my credit card statement for that day was considerably higher than I remembered. There were no shots, no swag, no round of drinks for the bar. Of course, I didn’t keep the receipt to check against the statement, ‘cause I don’t need any more small pieces of paper in my orbit (Is that a thing? Do people keep receipts for a month to check against their credit card bill?).

Texted my buddy and asked if he remembered the total. He did not, but said it seemed high. Told him that I didn’t know if I had any recourse, since I didn’t have a receipt. Coincidentally, he owned a restaurant/bar in the Maryland D.C. suburbs for 25 years and said that most joints keep a record of credit card transactions, and certainly for the past month.

So, I drove to Shmortuga’s and talked to a manager. Wasn’t demanding or accusatory, but wrote out the date and the details as I remembered, and asked if they could research it. She was very polite and said it might be a few days, but they’d look into it.

A couple days pass, and into my inbox pop several texts. The first says, the bill looks right, with a screen shot of our order. Several more beers than I recalled, an appetizer we split that I didn’t remember, and I put the tip on the card, when I thought I left cash. Another text came in a little later with a screen shot of the card charge for the exact amount, complete with my illegible signature.
I texted back and thanked her for checking. Told her this is what happens when you’re old and you have a few beers and your memory’s shot. She said, no problem, we’re at the beach, it happens all the time, and thanks for my business.

I’ve heard a few anecdotes here of groups getting doctored bar bills – an extra pitcher that wasn’t ordered, an upsell on drinks (“when you asked for a tall one, I thought that meant you wanted a double”). For the most part, folks here play it straight. The Shmortuga’s manager assured me a couple times that they don’t do business that way. Told her, I’m not suggesting that you do; I might have mis-remembered, folks make honest mistakes, but just take a look if you can.

My takeaway is that my mind is an unreliable bookkeeper when out drinking and eating – during and after. Catawba White Zombie Ale on draft is a little pricier than you think. The bill is whatever it says it is, so just pay the damn thing and don’t waste my or any overworked manager’s time. And don’t let any of it deter you from visiting a little corner we’ll just call the Shmouter Blanks.

Farewell, Champ

Though he never knew if, my life story was intertwined - if only briefly - with that of Pernell "Sweetpea" Whitaker. I was saddened as I returned to civilization on Friday to learn that the former world titleholder in four weight classes (lightweight, light welterweight, welterweight, and light middleweight) was struck by a pickup truck and killed in Norfolk last Sunday.

In the winter of 1989, while I was a Pi Lam pledge, I found myself in the common area of our fraternity house with a mix of brothers and pledges. A boxing telecast came on, and as the tale of the tape was broadcast, one of the brothers noticed something. Whitaker was listed at 5'4", 125 pounds. "Russell," the brother (who's name is lost to history) gleefully exclaimed, "What are your measurements?"

"About 5'4", 125," I replied.

With a giddiness tinged with just a soupcon of sadism, he instructed me to stand next to the television and mimic Pea's moves throughout the fight. If my sense of timing is correct, the fight in question was Whitaker's win by decision over Greg Haugen, which earned the Norfolk native the IBF Lightweight belt. And that's how I came to fight twelve rounds in the Pit of the Pi Lam house in Williamsburg.

About four years later, I joined Whit and a bunch of other guys in a group house in Arlington to watch Whitaker take on Julio Cesar Chavez in a welterweight bout. Pea beat the everlovin' hell out of the legendary Mexican champ, winning 9 of 12 rounds in the eyes of Sports Illustrated's on-site reporter. The judges, possibly influenced by the heavily pro-Chavez crowd in San Antonio, saw it differently, calling it a majority draw (two judges had it a draw, while one called the fight for Whitaker).

The Pea was robbed, y'all, but not me, as I had 'draw' in the pool we put together, so I walked with a bittersweet payday.

Whitaker struggled after his career ended, like many in the fight game. He died at 55, far too young.

I've never been a huge fight fan, but two of the most memorable bouts of my life involved Sweetpea Whitaker. He was unquestionably my favorite fighter ever.

RIP, Norfolk's proud son.

Marcus King is the Shit And You Need to Listen to Him Because I Said So, So Please Do It Because I Really Mean It - He's the Shit. Thanks.

As traditional blues fades more and more onto the fringe of popular American music, the emergence of young guitar guns in the genre always raises the interest of veteran old fans who hope that torch of inspiration stays lit. We have seen it with the North Mississippi All Stars, and most recently with Gary Clark Jr.

But I'm not here to talk about them. I'm here to talk about Marcus King and the Marcus King Band. They are THE SHIT. Marcus King is 23 years old. He looks like a smush of Meatloaf and Greg Allman that was then miniaturized. And he plays like Stevie Ray, with a full life's worth of blues and soul in his young body, courtesy of his dad's legacy as a bluesman in his own right (Marvin King).

I highly recommend you find some time to play this wonderful show from last March at the Capitol Theatre in Port Chester, NY (home of the PCU Whooping Cranes!). Crank it at your desk, in your car, while you are doing nautilus, or while you are having a drink and getting loose. It takes 25 seconds for the show to start, so don't start wetting the bed when you click that play button!

The first two songs are hot fire that show the muscle he brings to the table. First song goes to about the 5:40 mark, and the second (full of classic rock licks you may know!) goes to about the 15:00 mark. And yeah, dig that horn section. And the keys too. Some funky funky stuff going down on that stage. He's a South Cackalacky dude, but there is some of that New Orleans funk in that band's sound.

I could probably find a YouTube single track to play from the band's eponymous album. And I could probably also point you to his track featuring Derek Trucks. But I'm instead going to dare you to play this show in the background as you are doing your Crossfit workout or finishing your TPS reports or dropping a deuce. At least make it to the 11:45 mark to hear him the classic rock teases while Marcus is absolutely shredding on the guitar.

The little dude is an otherwordly player. His star is very much on the rise and he is touring like a madman. Go get some!

The Duke of Brunswick Was a Baller - G:TB Does Swiss History

Amid the slacking here, I thought it would be a good time to offer a European history lesson. I now consider myself an expert after my last run through the continent for work in May. It was a whirlwind visit: London, Geneva, Luxembourg and Milan in a week. Lots of wrinkled clothes and work meetings, with a wee bit of tourism fun mixed in.

One of the surprising fun parts of my trip was my twenty-four hours in Geneva. I had been to Zurich for work about four years ago. It was cloudy and damp and uneventful, save for a good client meal where I learned about the Vivino wine app. Geneva was a different story, almost entirely b/c of the perfect weather. Things I learned on this trip included the following: Lake Geneva is one of the largest lakes in Western Europe!  It's pretty damn beautiful to look at when the sun is out! And it feeds the Rhone River, which runs all through France and, presumably, nourishes the grapes that make up Cote du Rhone wine, one of my favorite reds to accompany a nice steak!

My day included 24 degree weather (Celsius), abundant sunshine and lots of eventful walking between meetings, as you can see from my fantastic photos. So I got to enjoy great weather, see the town and learn a few things. On one walk, I walked past a curious structure right up against the lake. Turns out it was the tomb of the Duke of Brunswick. And he was kind of a badass. So let's learn!

Charles William Ferdinand was born in 1804 in Brunswick, a part of Saxony in Germany. He was rich as hell, and inherited a duchy at age 11. Not a dutchie, unfortunately. But Charles got squeezed out of power, forced to leave Germany, and his palace was burned. And his brother later returned to Brunswick, took over his duchy and had a mercenary army on call to defend it. Dick move by the brother, right?

So Charles became a wealthy expat across Europe for his whole life and lived it up something fierce. He spent most of his later years in Geneva. After visiting there, I get it. Water and sunshine and seasons and culture. All good stuff. I still think I would opt for Capri or Mallorca or Crete, but not all folks love islands.

Charles died in a hotel in 1873 at the age of 68. When I first saw that he died in 1873 (after being born in 1804), I thought he passed at age 69, which would have been cool. When I found out he passed before his 69th birthday, I thought it would have been cool if he passed 69 days before his 69th. But he died 73 days before his 69th. So, um, bummer. And yeah, I'm kind of a loser.

Here's where things get cool. When Charles died, he had quite a fortune from his duchy. He decided to leave it all to the city of Geneva, under the condition that the city build a special tomb for him that overlooks Lake Geneva.  Baller move, right? I'm surprised no US celebrities/magnates/politicians have tried the same with Mount Rushmore, Central Park, the Joshua Tree or any other iconic area. But I digress.

Turns out there was some consternation among the Genevites (Genevians?), but they took the money and ran. They built the Brunswick Monument for Charles and it stands to this day. And it's pretty sweet. May we all have such a theatrical homage to our life across the street from a European lake.

Be sure to turn in next week (or year) for our second lesson, where we learn about how weird Luxembourg is. 

Twelve Years a Dad

In April 2007, my wife and I went on a "babymoon" vacation before the birth of our first son. She was five months pregnant. We had no idea how ill-prepared we were for what lied ahead. But we knew that the vacation was a "last hurrah" before parenthood. We went to the Yucatan peninsula. We had a minor scare (googling the phrase "second trimester spotting" on the PC of a third world hotel is suboptimal), but ended up having a good time at Playa del Carmen and Isla Mujeres. I drank more tequila than necessary, and enjoyed a few Cubans. And some cigars too. Hey-oh!

In the years since 2007, we lost our last two remaining parents. And we have no siblings near us to babysit. So any adult time away came after paying for an overnight sitter. And that was not cheap. So we didn't do any adult traveling. Which sucked quite a bit!

But a light at the end of our adult vacation purgatory is emerging. It is sleepaway camp. Several years ago, we found out from a dad in town about a YMCA camp in the foothills of the Berkshires (western Massachusetts), near where some of us (including a very rural version of Rootsy) celebrated Dr J's wedding many years ago. I vaguely remember we ended that night doing diving football catches into a hotel pool and passing a bottle of Southern Comfort. And I think Rootsy started a hootenanny late night. I vomited the next day, seconds after exiting a train at Grand Central Station, amid a throng of young folks attending a Brazilian Day parade in Manhattan. That was fun for everybody.

Anyhoo, the camp is a values-based camp that is a pretty amazing place. Kids go for four weeks at a time, generally from the summer after third grade through the summer after eighth grade. After that, there are volunteer/travel opportunities and counselor gigs that are no joke. We know a neighbor/former camper who finished his freshman year in high school this year. He is now in Vietnam, doing a volunteer/travel program. Hopefully he hasn't seen Full Metal Jacket.

So where was I? My eldest is starting his third year at camp this year. He has become a fishing whiz who does improv acting and ultimate frisbee and got an elite badge by swimming over a mile across the lake. All these things came out of the blue. Which is awesome. That's camp. Try something new. Put yourself out there. Have fun. He has camp buddies from Boston, NY, California and other areas.

The camp is really quite cool. The link to the camp is here and there is a touching video below that makes my wife feel like there's dust in her eyes.



His experience has my younger kid fired up for camp. He will go for the first time this year. Life experience, fishing, camping, values, yadda, yadda, yadda.

But here's the rub - my wife and I will soon be empty-nesters for four weeks! It's the first time since 2007, starting Sunday July 21st. I had plans to eat cheese on my couch in my underwear, but the missus has other ideas.

So after we spend ~36 hours missing them, we will shoot down to Charleston for several days of adult activities: tourism, BBQ, booze, fine dining, sweating, relaxing by a pool, relaxing on a beach, booze, BBQ, sweat, rinse, repeat.

Charleston emerged b/c of the food scene. More specifically, I have been infatuated with the BBQ scene there. I have been itching to visit Rodney Scott's BBQ joint, which is just a mile away from town. Rodney Scott is a legend in the BBQ world. And I am irrationally excited to go there and eat the hell out of his offerings. I'm more of a pork loyalist with my BBQ, and he cooks the whole damn hog. He also won a James Beard award! That is impressive, but I don't exactly know why.

We also plan to do a day trip to Kiawah. And my wife is itching to do a trip to Columbia, SC, where she attended college her freshman year. I'm not up for that, but can use it as leverage for more BBQ. I'm looking at you, John Lewis BBQ. Any guy that worked at Franklin's in Austin and then moved to Charleston to sell that town on Texas style BBQ is worth paying attention to.

So be prepared for gluttonous comments from me next week. My wife and I have had a long run without some time to ourselves. The best we had in the past was kid camp on vacations when the kids were very young, but that's a distant memory. I have no idea if we will enjoy each other's company, but we'll enjoy the solitude. At least until my gas kicks in.

Where in the World was zman? Part 4

It's been a hell of a twelve day run for your boy from the Neck. I will regale you with tales of my comings and goings over the next few days. My last installment left off at bedtime on Friday.

On Saturday we woke up bright and early, had breakfast, and went over to the WDC. We were loaded onto a van and hauled over some truly bumpy terrain to a dinosaur dig site where we spent about four hours helping the WDC staff dig stuff up.

The big black thing on the right of zson is a Camarasaurus leg bone, I think it was a femur. zson found a small piece of Camarasaurus tendon which they let him keep along with some fossilized plant matter and "float bone" (random tiny bone fragments) that I found. He was thrilled. Then they loaded us up again and took us even further out onto a ridge that used to be below an ocean. It's littered with fossilized sea life. We found and kept a bunch of clam and squid fossils, then went back to the museum for a behind-the-scenes tour including a Maiasaura mid-assembly and various pieces of Jimbo the Supersaurus. He's 106 feet long.

Then we got a guided museum tour. It was dope, as the kids say. Here's a Camarasaurus:

And here's the best Archaeopteryx in the US:

And here's an explanation of the Archaeopteryx:

Then we headed back to Casper. On Sunday we fished again with great success including this 20 inch rainbow trout.

Then we went back to Denver on Monday. zson was too pooped to do much other than swim in the hotel's saltwater pool and play with other kids at a McDonald's playground. I guess he needed some kid interaction after six days with just me. Then we flew home. I read "The Boilerplate Rhino" by David Quammen through most of the flight and it's perfect airplane material, especially after our week in the field. It's a collection of Quammen's essays from Outside magazine. They're all about 5-6 pages long so it's easy to stop and start the book, and the one about T. rex fossils in Montana was particularly resonant given recent events.

None of this is a humblebrag (except for that last photo of the fish). I have no idea how to parent properly. My guiding principle when I'm faced with a decision about my kids is to avoid doing what my parents would have done. So rather than have him watch TV all summer I took zson to a place I've never been to do stuff I wanted to do as a kid (and as an adult, truth be told). I'm just trying to get things right.

Hopefully zson will look back at this trip fondly. I know I will.

Where in the World was zman? Part 3

It's been a hell of a twelve day run for your boy from the Neck. I will regale you with tales of my comings and goings throughout the week. My last installment left off on Friday.

The drive from Casper to Thermopolis takes two hours, the first eighty minutes of which are pretty boring. The final forty minutes through the Wind River Canyon are about as beautiful as any drive I’ve ever taken. Once you get to Shoshoni you turn north and drive along a lake which turns into the Bighorn River. Then you enter a canyon of multicolored rocks and flowers with the road right up against the river. The ride back south was even more beautiful. I could spend all day driving back and forth through that canyon in a convertible and never get tired of it.

Like Casper, Thermopolis is also a funny little place. The population is about 3,500 but it has a world-class dinosaur museum (the Wyoming Dinosaur Center or WDC), an amphitheater and the world's largest natural mineral hot springs. There's a tannery called Merlin's Hide Out. They sell all sorts of cool stuff like this:

Thermopolis also has one pretty cool restaurant with a brewery. But it also has this building with some uncool masonry (I hope it was built before the 1930s) and a Ron Paul sign.

Despite its libertarian streak, Thermopolis felt much younger, newer, and hopeful than Casper. I saw no cowboy hats or big belt buckles (although I did see a guy in boots with spurs and he was wearing them genuinely with no irony, unlike TR during his stint in the West Village). Most people were decked out in well-worn technical outdoor gear but with the swagger of a bow hunter, not a granola. The only time I smelled weed on the whole trip was by the men’s room at the One Eyed Buffalo (the site of my only real meal in Thermopolis—they make a hell of a prime rib). If Thermopolis was a singer it would be Sturgill Simpson.



At some point we had lunch. zson’s diet consists essentially of pizza, mac and cheese, and chicken tenders/nuggets so we had a fair number of meals at McDonald’s because (a) Wyoming pizza probably is not right and (b) there aren’t a ton of dining options in towns of 3,500 people. Thermopolis has a McDonald’s but more importantly it’s right next door to Ava’s Silver and Rock Shop. Much like Marls circa 1994, the shop’s outwardly dumpy appearance hides some amazing stuff inside. The owners (Eddie and Ava) are a husband and wife team of grumpy elderly geologists. Eddie discovered the Avaceratops (he named it after Ava) and he’s happy to tell the story. He’s also happy to tell you how the people running the Wyoming Dinosaur Center don’t know what they’re doing (apparently he and Ava helped get the dig sites started and were dismissed from their post sometime thereafter—Eddie is passionately pissed about this and Ava interrupted him at one point to merely say “It’s a sore point” and then got back to cleaning fossils). And man, do they have fossils. Cheap fossils! You can buy fossil fish for $10 to $20 and they’re beautifully perfect and decently big. They also have Spinosaurus teeth, shark teeth (for a dollar each), all sorts of plants (fifty cents a pop) and fish, bones from various sauropods, and an amazing lower jaw from a Mososaur. My biggest regret from the trip is not going back to their store on the way out of town to buy a fossil or two.

Then we checked into our hotel and learned that the air conditioning in our room was broken. I can say with great authority that there's nothing sadder than a Lasko box fan in your window on a 90 degree day. It was like freshman year in Monroe all over again. So we went over to Star Plunge where we swam in the hot springs, and this happened:

We played Bananagrams for a bit and had dinner, then we went back to Star Plunge to swim in the hot spring until it closed at 9 pm (once you pay you can leave and come back anytime that day). Then we slept a sweaty sleep.

Stay tuned for further installments later this week.

Where in the World was zman? Part 2

It's been a hell of a twelve day run for your boy from the Neck. I will regale you with tales of my comings and goings over the next few days. My last installment left off on Tuesday.

On Wednesday, zson and I flew to Denver and got a rental car. I knew we would have a good time when zson got in the car, a standard-size relatively popular five-passenger Japanese SUV, and said "Is this whole car made out of plastic?" I'm raising him right. I tuned the radio to Sirus's 70's channel as we started to drive north. About 10 minutes later zson said "We need to listen to country music" and he was correct. Just as walking around New York City with hiphop in your earphones can change the way you view a song and the city, country and western music sets the mood perfectly for the Rocky Mountain states. Four hours later we were in Casper, WY where we stayed in a cabin along the North Platte River.

Wyoming is strangely beautiful in late June. Driving north on I25, the prairie swells into mountains and the whole thing looks like a lumpy cake covered in sage green fondant. Every once in a while some force of nature cut the cake to reveal layers of coffee, chocolate, vanilla, and red velvet. It's stunning in a "Am I on Mars?" kind of way.

The next morning we woke up and went to the lodge about a quarter mile up the road where we got in a drift boat and fly fished our asses off with a guide from Crazy Rainbow. We caught rainbow trout exclusively, all of them in the 15 to 18 inch range. zson is pretty fishy—he always gets at least twice as many bites as I do and this day out was no different than normal. His cast isn’t great but he can mend and set really well. Unfortunately (or fortunately, depending on your world view) the rainbows in the North Platte are so big and strong that they are more likely to pull zson into the water than he is to pull them into the boat. Ben, the guide, and I helped him finish off his fish. zson adopted the practice of kissing fish before releasing them.

We slept in the cabin that night and checked out downtown Casper the next morning (Friday). Casper is a funny little city. The population is only 55,000 but it has a college, an arena, a planetarium, several museums and lots of other stuff. Almost every man over 60 had a cowboy hat and boots, Wrangler jeans, and a big silver belt buckle commemorating some event involving cattle and/or horses. The vibe is old and hardscrabble mixed with right-wing patriotism. Here are some signs we saw in a diner.

If Casper was a singer it would be Merle Haggard.



That said, everyone we met was super friendly and interested to hear about life in New Jersey. Crazy Rainbow is affiliated with Ugly Bug Fly Shop, so we stopped by the shop and booked another half-day of fishing for the upcoming Sunday (I specifically didn't plan anything after Saturday because I wasn't sure what we would want to do, so we winged it from there). We also checked out Lou Taubert Ranch Outfitters, which is “One of the Nation's Leading Western Stores" according to their shopping bags, and a t-shirt store in which we bought University of Wyoming Cowboys gear: a shirt for zdaughter and socks for zwoman (cut us some slack, zson is eight).

Then we climbed aboard our plastic SUV and drove north for two hours, listening to Willie's Roadhouse, Outlaw Country, and Bluegrass Junction until we arrived in Thermopolis.

Stay tuned for further installments later this week.

America, Fuck Yeah

We've got a William & Mary grad at the helm. We've got the sublimely confident badassery of Megan
Rapinoe, and the no fucks given goal-scoring acumen of Alex Morgan, and the ball-hunting wall-crashing physicality of Julie Ertz, and the I'll-rest-when-I'm-dead full-field athleticism of Crystal Dunn and Kelley O'Hara on the outside, and the top-five in all of American soccer (men or women) technical skill of Tobin Heath, and the ridiculous skill coming off the bench from Carli Lloyd, Christen Press, and Mallory Pugh, and the stupendously underrated vision and offensive engine-room drive of Rose Lavelle, and 13 other all-World women on our side.

The Netherlands, they're good. Champions of Europe, terrific on set pieces, heiresses to a national obsession for soccer. They can beat us.

They're not going to.

Where in the World was zman? Part 1

It's been a hell of a twelve day run for your boy from the Neck. I will regale you with tales of my comings and goings over the next few days.

Two Fridays ago I had to go into Manhattan for a hearing which went about as well as I realistically could've hoped--if the hearing was an at-bat we hit a double. The hearing ended around 1:30 pm and counsel took me out for lunch at The Odeon where I had the grilled Eden Brook trout with quinoa. It was delicious. As luck would have it, I already had dinner plans in the city with a guy I used to work with. But that wasn't until 6:00 pm so I had about 3 hours to kill. Naturally, I headed to a bar, Monk McGinn's, to drink beer and watch college baseball. The trout wasn't soaking up much alcohol and I was worried that the freight train of fun might jump the track so at some point I ordered the crispy duck spring rolls. They were good. Much like Tom T. Hall, beer makes me a jolly good fellow and I was in great spirits when my friend showed up.



We drank for a little while more and headed over to Marc Forgione where we got the Chili Lobster appetizer and I got the swordfish with asparagus. My friend is into "mixology" so we drank from the cocktail menu. I got home late, drunk and full of seafood. It was a good night.

The next day we had reservations at Sushi Nakazawa, arguably the best sushi restaurant in Manhattan. It even has a Michelin star. The reservation is a pain in the ass to get--it isn't as difficult as it used to be but to be safe for a Saturday reservation you have to make it online at midnight 30 days before the date you want. Part of the hubbub stems from the fact that the head chef (Daisuke Nakazawa) was a sous chef at Sukiyabashi Jiro which is owned and operated by Jiro Ono, arguably the best sushi chef in the world. They made a documentary about Ono-san called "Jiro Dreams of Sushi" which you can find on Netflix. Nakazawa-san appears around 0:39 and 1:38



As you can see at 1:38, Nakazawa-san has trouble perfecting one particular egg-based dish. He fails over and over throughout the movie. Finally, after months of practice, Ono-san tastes what Nakazawa-san made and said it was acceptable, prompting Nakazawa-san to sob like Michael Jordan when he won the title in 1996. This is the final item Nakazawa-san serves everyone at his restaurant. I didn't have a bite of food that was anything less than outstanding. My favorite was the cuttlefish with Japanese mint which is second from the right.

The following Monday I was supposed to go to Richmond to see Jason Isbell and Father John Misty with Whit but I bailed for two reasons. First, zwoman scheduled the demolition of our kitchen counter for Tuesday and she wanted me there to make sure everything went according to plan. Second, I also had to pack and do a bunch of other stuff on Tuesday for a trip on Wednesday, which I'll cover in later posts. The trip was too important for me to half-ass the preparation, and I was worried I wouldn't have enough time to drive home Tuesday morning, likely all hungover, and pack in the afternoon/evening. Sorry Whit, but it was sons before bros this time.

As luck would have it, FOGTB Hoopie was in Manhattan on Monday night and I knew that even if I was all hungover on Tuesday I would at least wake up at home so I went out with him and fellow FOGTB Juan Carlos. We drank a bunch of beer, then went to Jongro, my favorite Korean BBQ spot. We ordered too much food and drank a bunch of beer and shochu.

Then we went over to the bar at the Ace Hotel and continued to drink boulevardiers and screw up their turntable. For the record, if you're going to put a turntable on the bar, where customers can access it, along with a stack of records, you shouldn't be surprised if a drunken music fan takes matters into his own hands. A good time was had by all and when I woke up the next morning zwoman told me that the entire second floor of zhouse smelled like a distillery.

Then on Tuesday I packed. Like me, the counter guy bailed. Demo date is still TBD.

Stay tuned for further installments later this week.

American Life

Good morning, America, how are you?

I am an American aquarium drinker. A demolition style hell American freak, yeah. In the day we sweat it out in the streets of a runaway American dream.

There was a Buffalo Soldier in the heart of America. Said he couldn't go on the American way. In Europe and America, there's a growing feeling of hysteria.

Well, she was an American girl. American woman. Knockin' me out with those American thighs.

Bye, bye, Miss American Pie. She need to get a piece of the American pie and take her bite out. All night, she wants a young American.

For the boy we have American life. American boys hate to lose. Don't wanna be an American idiot.

We're the kids in America. Two American kids growin' up in the heartland.

White America, I could be one of your kids. Take a jumbo across the water, like to see America. They're coming to America.

Oh, but ain't that America for you and me. America the beautiful.

Do you like American music? We like all kinds of music, but I like American music best.

We Interrupt Your Regularly Scheduled Dipshittery...

I saw pictures of a tank* rolling across the Anacostia River Bridge this morning, and the hairs stood up on the back of my neck.

(* technically, it was a Bradley Fighting Vehicle, but at 27.6 tons carrying a 25mm chain gun, a TOW anti-tank missile and a 7.62mm machine gun for backup, it's got a pretty tanky affect)

Much has been written in recent days comparing the President's* Independence Day celebration to those of authoritarian regimes the world over. Aside from a reflexive shake of the head at our tinpot leader's predictable instinct for look-at-me showmanship, I didn't give it much thought.

Then I saw the tank, and I was both pissed and unnerved. (I understand that it's not a tank. Enough already.)

Pissed, because it's honestly and ironically un-American to flash our military might to celebrate the country. No less a figure than Dwight D. Eisenhower - the last military leader to serve as President - offered this counsel on the issue, "We, the United States, are seeking peace. We are the pre-eminent power on earth. For us to try to imitate what the Soviets are doing in Red Square would make us look weak.”

(NOTE: Turns out Ike's inauguration parade in 1953 featured tanks and rockets. Apparently his thinking evolved. He did, after all, famously and presciently warn of the creeping influence of the military-industrial complex. This is why I should probably do research before I post, rather than after. Doesn't change my overall opinion, though. In modern peacetime America, tanks on the streets are weird and chilling.)

And pissed because displays of militarism on the 4th of July run counter to what I know of the American Armed Forces. I spent my entire childhood around military men and women. They are professional, and diligent, and honorable, nearly to a one. They're also exceedingly humble, in my experience. I can tell you with certainty that my father, no shrinking violet of a bleeding-heart liberal, would be highly annoyed with the festivities planned in the Nation's Capital tomorrow. He, like so many of his fellow soldiers, served not for acclaim, but out of a sense of duty. In essence, the diametric opposite of the current Commander-in-Chief.

I was unnerved because the scene was so jarring, so contextually...wrong. Tanks roll into places marked by strife, by instability, where ruling parties seek to quash dissent, or occupying armies show force to keep the defeated in fear and awe. They don't patrol the streets of high-functioning modern democracies. I don't mean to be alarmist, for sure, and I know the Bradley in question wasn't 'patrolling' anything in a real way, but the visual struck me cold nonetheless.

People purporting to be patriots will cheer American might tomorrow as planes fly over D.C., fireworks explode in the sky, armored vehicles pass by on Constitution Avenue. Those 'patriots' are cowards in my book. They're losing the war of ideas, so they wrap themselves in the might of the American military while they suppress votes, cage brown people in a form of fear cloaked in other-hating bravado, and celebrate a President* anathema to nearly everything I thought I knew of America.

I'll return to Eisenhower to close this melancholy message. In a radio chat in 1959, the general-turned-statesman said, “If my message to you on this Fourth of July could be put into one sentence, it would be this: State the facts of freedom and trust in God, as we have ever done.”

We're denying the facts of freedom, and trusting in our worst instincts. I don't expect to have a terribly happy 4th of July this year.

Whimsy for the Winsy

We have a swingset in our back yard, a relic from a time when my children actually used such a thing. It's a bit rickety, and it's been generally unused for at least four years. It sits on a nicely leveled raised bed, framed by railroad ties.

One of my pipe dreams, home improvement category, is to remove the swingset and replace it with a tiny house/man shed/retreat. Something like this:

But I saw something yesterday that has me reconsidering the art of the possible.

Minnesotan-by-way-of-Alaska Gabe Emerson also wanted a small place to call his own on his friend's remote property. After first seeking to acquire an old plane fuselage, he went one better.

He bought a monorail.

Seems the Minnesota Zoo decommissioned one and had no idea what to do with it. Once Emerson convinced them he was serious, they sold it to him for a song. Or for $1,000, to be precise. It cost another $5,000 or so to dismantle and move the six-car train to the property, which is a steal, considering.

Emerson built a deck and is in the process of renovating and updating the cars. But he and his friends have already used it as an alternative to tents, and he's likely got the most unique cabin in Minnesota's famously cabin-crazed culture.

Now all I need to do is find a monorail.

The Secret Lives of Men

Our man TJ has a lot going on in his life. Husband, social media maven, connoisseur of fine foods (and honestly, who saw that coming?), raconteur. So there are some reasons why we haven't seen all that much of him around these parts.

Turns out there's another reason.

He's about to release his third album.

As yet untitled, the new record features 'Heart's Eyes', which you can hear below.



And because I know you want to refresh yourselves on the Teej's earlier stuff, here's a link to his last album, 'On the Horizon'.

The video for his first hit single 'Anonymous', really makes him look thin. Nearly sickly, if you're asking me. I prefer a voluptuous Teej.



I'm sure he'll tell us when he's touring next. That's summit material, for certain.

1989: The Year, Not the Taylor Swift Album Covered by Ryan Adams

I'm a fan of Paste magazine. I was a subscriber when they used to have a print offering (which came with a CD of recently released songs).  I am now on their e-mailing list and check out their online articles with some frequency.

Paste has a good feel to it. Highly knowledgeable writers for the most part, though there are times halfway through an article that I realize that the author was born when I was in college and therefore may not see things through the same lens.  Still, always a decent approach and highly informative. That's good for a music geek like... some of you.

Tons of music. Also, movies, television, games, beer, pop culture, and even politics, but tons of music. Their music reviews aren't as esoterically harsh as Pitchfork, nor as Grammy-style clueless as Rolling Stone. Nor are their politics as pointedly extreme as RS's... though in some cases the writers at Paste bleed somewhat heartily.

Anyway, this week they have a new music piece on 1989, which happens to have been 30 years ago, and the albums which hit the shelves of your local record store that year. Record stores... you remember... those mom and pop ones like Tracks in Norfolk (RIP) and Birdland in Virginia Beach (alive and kicking).  Or Tower Records in big cities.  Places where Rob and I would peruse the shelves very deliberately and make choices insightfully sublime and just awful in equal measure.

1989... the three bad brothers you know so well were freshmen becoming sophomores after pledging a certain fraternity; some among our gang here were young teens in the tri-state area and the space coast; and Mr. KQ was raising kids and looking forward to slowing his pace as retirement crept closer. The music we respectively cued up on compact disc or cassette or tuned in via the FM dial... well, here it is.

The article is worth reading in full (linked above), and you can say whatever you want about opinion-based best-of lists found on the dork web, but the list simply took me back to a simpler, more ignorant, and more blissful, if not drunker, time:

PASTE - The Best Albums of 1989

30. The Blue Nile: Hats
29. Andrew Hill: Eternal Spirit
28. The Ocean Blue: The Ocean Blue
27. New Order: Technique
26. Lou Reed: New York
25. The Mighty Lemon Drops: Laughter
24. Yo La Tengo: President Yo La Tengo
23. Galaxie 500: On Fire
22. Neil Young: Freedom
21. Elvis Costello: Spike
20. Indigo Girls: Indigo Girls
19. Bob Mould: Workbook
18. The Replacements: Don’t Tell A Soul
17. The B-52’s: Cosmic Thing
16. XTC: Oranges and Lemons
15. Bonnie Raitt: Nick Of Time
14. Camper Van Beethoven: Key Lime Pie
13. Janet Jackson: Rhythm Nation 1814
12. Bob Dylan: Oh Mercy
11. Nirvana: Bleach
10. Fugazi: 13 Songs
9. Nine Inch Nails: Pretty Hate Machine
8. Tom Petty: Full Moon Fever
7. Kate Bush: The Sensual World
6. The Stone Roses: The Stone Roses
5. The Cure: Disintegration
4. Beastie Boys: Paul’s Boutique
3. Madonna: Like a Prayer
2. The Pixies: Doolittle
1. De La Soul: Three Feet High and Rising

Debate it if you will, and you certainly can. That "See a Little Light" is coming in two spots behind "Love Shack" is going to confound at least one of our opinionated gang.  I'm as pleased by Key Lime Pie's inclusion as I am Mother's Milk's omission.  Madonna seems out of place, the Petty album is annoyingly ubiquitous but still mostly underrated, and 13 Songs was an amalgamation of two EP's, one from 1988, so it questionably counts (but should be heard when you're feeling angsty).

We talk about it ad nauseum in this space, but it still amuses to see Paul's Boutique get props left and right this millennium after being summarily ignored in 1989. Some stuff isn't appreciated in its time. Like Dazed and Confused. And "Arrested Development"... the television show, not Mr. Wendal.  And the Cauc Hop.

Three Feet High and Rising, at #1, is curiously absent from Spotify, but I'll have to give it a re-listen on my private stock of Moving Pictures Experts Group Audio Layer 3 files... and YouTube videos like this:

More albums worth remembering from 1989... some that would certainly make my list:
The Cult: Sonic Temple
Red Hot Chili Peppers: Mother's Milk
Faith No More: The Real Thing
Hoodoo Gurus: Magnum Cum Louder
The Connells: Fun and Games
Stevie Ray Vaughan and Double Trouble: In Step
The Pogues: Peace and Love
Drivin' 'n' Cryin': Mystery Road
Mötley Crüe: Dr. Feelgood
Big Audio Dynamite: Megatop Phoenix
3rd Bass: The Cactus Album
The Jesus and Mary Chain: Automatic
Biz Markie: The Biz Never Sleeps
Random Idiots: Bloodfinger
Paul McCartney: Flowers in the Dirt
The Smithereens: 11
Phish: Junta
Kirsty MacColl: Kite
10,000 Maniacs: Blind Man's Zoo
Fine Young Cannibals: The Raw and the Cooked

There was a lot lot LOT of dreck that year as well, of course. '89 releases from the likes of Starship, Warrant, Milli Vanilli, Richard Marx, Barry Manilow, Wang Chung, Cher, Michael Bolton, Mr. Big, David Hasselhoff, Bee Gees, and good ol' Kenny G. Plus bloaty, post-peak efforts from the Dead, the Stones, Mellencamp, Prince, Bowie, Peter Gabriel and Queen.

But there was far more that I loved.  And such articles and ensuing discussions just make me want to play some of the old music.

To wit:

Cry In the Beginning So You Can Smile In the End

If you've been following the 2019 Women's World Cup closely, this will be a bit of a rehash for you. But it's so compelling that I want to enshrine it here so historians of G:TB will know that it mattered to us.

(You don't think there will be historians that sift through these digital archives with a fine-byte comb, teasing valuable insights from our chronicles of this variously glorious and monstrously fucked up time? I've seen the future, friends, and there are historians.)

Marta Vieira da Silva, almost always known only by her first name, is arguably the best woman soccer player on the planet. She's scored 17 goals for Brazil in World Cup play, the most ever. She's been named World Football of the Year six times. No less a luminary than Pele called her "Pele in skirts" (we'll set aside the sexism and focus on the genuflection). She famously overcame meager family circumstances and her home nation's indifference to the women's game to become one of the most recognizable women athletes on the planet.



It's that indifference that she addressed this week. Brazil fell to France, 2-1 in overtime, in the Round of 16 of this year's World Cup, eliminating them from the tournament. While the 33 year-old Marta may have one more run in her, it's unlikely that even her sublime talent will be rewarded with a major trophy - Brazil have never captured a global title. And so, after the Selecao lost to the hosts, she gave this remarkable interview:

Case of the Mondays, Followed by the Great Days

This week is, in professional terms, fairly enormous for your humble blogger. I got a promotion late last year, and for the first time in my life, I'm responsible for a sales and revenue target. I like to think I'm pretty good at a lot of things (and I know that I'm lousy at many, as well, including discipline and organization), but I know fuck all about running a sales team. And the numbers through May betray that.

While my business is growing by 12% from a revenue perspective, and by nearly 20% in terms of year over year sales, we're behind our sales target fairly significantly. But with a little luck, we're gonna have a monster June. We need it. And I'm gonna be stressed like you read about this week while I watch the deals come in.

Fortunately, I've got a bit of a built-in stress release planned for just a few short weeks. I've done a four-day canoe trip in Maine with my cousin, uncle, sister's husband, and several other guys twice over the past few years. We're upping the ante this year. Rather than try to explain it, here's the trip syllabus from my uncle's older brother Bob, a seasoned outdoorsman. (If you read carefully, you'll notice what I'm contributing to the group's enjoyment, beyond charisma and the occasional moment of unintentional comedy.)

Allagash River Canoe Trip July 13, 2019 – July 20, 2019

Saturday, July 13: Travel to Pelletier’s camp ground on the St. Johns River in St. Francis, ME. Address is ME-161, St. Francis, ME 04774. Eat supper in St. Francis. Camp overnight.

Sunday, July 14: Wake up early and be transported to start of trip (3 and ½ hours) at Chamberlin Bridge. Put in and starttrip. Paddle up Chamberlin Lake (10 miles), portage Locke Dam and continue 5 miles to Pilsbury Island (Campsite = Pump Handle) and camp. 15 miles. All lake paddling with a short portage – 50 Yards.

Monday, July 15: Paddle from Eagle lake to the outlet of Churchill Lake and camp. (Campsite = Jaws) 16 miles. All lake paddling Note: Possible side trip to visit the Tramway

Tuesday, July 16: Paddle to the outlet of Heron lake and portage Churchill Dam (75 yards). Run Chase Rapides (9 miles) to Umsaskis Lake. Camp at the Ledges. 14 miles

Wednesday, July 17: Continue down river through Long Lake to Round pond. Great wild life viewing in this area. Good river current and small rapids. Camp at Squirrel Pocket. 20 miles

Thursday, July 18: Continue down river to Allagash Falls. Portage Falls (about ¼ mile trail) and continue down river to West Twin Brook where we will camp. 26 miles

Friday, July 19: Continue down river to town of Allagash and onto the St Johns River. Note: the Allagash River spills into the St. Johns River at the town of Allagash. The combined river is twice the size of the two individual rivers. Good current and small rapids down to our camp ground at St. Francis where we will spend the night. Drive to Fort Kent for a celebratory dinner. 21 miles

Saturday, July 20: Head Home!!

Gear for the group will be provided by Bob:

Tarps
Packs
Plastic bags and trash bags
Cooking equipment (pots, pans, grill, plates, forks, spoons, cups) can opener, matches
Axe and saw
Tents as needed. Jason is supplying one so is Fred.
Craig is bringing one, I think. If we have extras we can leave them in our cars.
Coolers: Stephen to supply some of these and RHC the rest.
Ropes
First aid kit,
Maps
Lantern and flash light

Individuals responsible for:
Sleeping bag
Sleeping pad
Tent – I have extras if you need one
Clothes, river shoes and rain gear
Bug Repellent, Sun Screen
Alcoholic beverages
Individual dietary preferences and Medications
Flash light

Food to include:
Breakfast – coffee, tea, hot chocolate, cereal hot and cold, tang, milk, fruit, (Rob Russell is planning to supply gourmet coffee!!)
Gorp (Grand Old Raisins and Peanuts) to be supplied by Cathy Webster (Jason’s mom)
Lunch – cheese, crackers, peanut butter, jelly, life savers, candy bar or granola bar, canned meat, fruit drink, dried fruit
Afternoon snack – Granola bars
Dinner – Meat, vegetables, starch, desert, salad

I know that some have expressed thoughts about the menu. Please give me any input that you might have. Lets travel in style and eat in style!!

Fred is an experienced photographer. He has agreed to be our trip photographer. National Geographic
is already making inquiries about his negatives!!

The Allagash is a classic canoe trip, probably the most popular week long canoe trip in the United States. The river was designated by Congress, in 1965, as a “wild and scenic river” and is regulated by the Park Service. Camping is permitted only at designated sites which are all named and include a picnic table, fire ring and outhouse. Canoeing groups are limited to 12 people or less. I have been down the river at least 15 times since my first trip in 1964.

There is a lot of information about the Allagash and its history on line. Detailed maps showing rapids, campsites and points of interest are also available on line or from the Park Service. Recommended reading for anyone wanting a “feel” for the river and its history is The Allagash by Lou Deitz.
The canoeing challenges on this trip include a good bit of lake paddling at the start of the trip – 30 miles or so.



Chamberlin Lake can be especially difficult if we have a headwind since the lake is long and narrow and big waves can build up. Chase Rapids are the first rapids that we will encounter (starting just below Churchill Dam). These are several miles long and class 3 and 2. Since these are the first rapids of the trip, we will not be as “experienced” as we will be a day or two later. I am sure that our adrenalin and excitement will be very high as we take on this stretch of river. Below Chase Rapids the Allagash has about 70 miles of good current and any number of fun rapids until we reach the town of Allagash where the Allagash and the St. John Rivers merge. The only significant portage is around Allagash Falls.

At present our group consists of 10 people, five canoes. This is two less than the largest permitted group. We are renting the canoes from the transportation company and they will be 17 foot Old Town Trippers or similar

Summer Catch: Wager Edition

Most of you will be familiar with the venerable Cape Cod Baseball League. One of the nation's oldest and most prestigious summer wooden bat leagues, the Cape League was founded in 1885.  In 2017, 306 Cape League alumni featured on Major League Baseball rosters, and at least four league alums are in the MLB Hall of Fame (Craig Biggio, Carlton Fisk, Pie Traynor, and Frank Thomas).

You're likely less familiar with a more recent tradition tied to the league's fortunes. My family had a house in Brewster from the late 1930s until two years ago. (Luckily for me, my cousin bought another one as soon as my grandmother sold our family's cottage.) I've been to dozens of Brewster Whitecaps games over the years.

Whitney spent a summer living on the Cape and working in Harwich. As a consequence, he fancies himself a big Harwich Mariners fan. And FOG:TB Coby Beck grew up in Chatham, so he's backed the Chatham Anglers (nee A's) since way back.

Last summer, the three of us put (a very little bit of) our money where our mouths were, agreeing on a friendly wager on the outcome of the 2018 CCBL season. The team that had the best season earned their backer a 12-pack of the winner's choice. Chatham made it to the league championship series, falling to the Wareham Gatemen. The Anglers fell short of summer glory, but they did ensure Mr. Beck Esq. two 12-packs of Golden Anniversary Light. He's not a particularly discerning beer drinker, to be sure.

He's not all that concerned about collecting, either, as neither Whitney nor I have yet paid the bet off. Hopefully we'll see Coby at OBFT XXVI.

Entering this evening's action, the Whitecaps are on a seven-game unbeaten streak, and pace the league with a 6-3-1 mark. Chatham, who host Brewster tonight at historic Veterans Field, are 4-3-1. And Harwich is bringing up the rear of the East Division at 4-5-0. Lotta ball left in the 44-game season. We know you'll be following along.

Go 'Caps!

G:TBook Review

Courtesy of our OBX correspondent, a thoughtful review of what appears to be provocative and complex argument about the very future of the human race. My take? We're all fucked, but some of us will pass on in time to not really have to worry about it. That's not sardonic flippancy. It's what I actually believe. Maybe our ancestors will get lucky.

Author and activist Bill McKibben has banged the drum about climate change and inequality for 30 years. He’s stood on glaciers and visited remote villages where electricity is a rumor. He’s met with Silicon Valley executives and with subsistence level farmers.

McKibben’s latest book, Falter, treads familiar ground, but he asks a larger question: Has the human game begun to play itself out? He cites the twin perils of unchecked climate change and artificial intelligence as potentially altering human existence irrevocably moving forward.

He cites science, history, personal reporting and anecdotes and plenty of outside sources. There’s ample gloom and doom, but he also offers suggestions for how we might still walk back from the brink. For its weighty subject matter, it’s an interesting, breezy, almost conversational 256-page read.

As he wrote at the beginning of the book: “A writer doesn’t owe a reader hope – the only obligation is honesty – but I want those who pick up this volume to know that its author lives in a state of engagement, not despair. If I didn’t, I wouldn’t have bothered writing what follows.”

Income inequality, McKibben writes, means that increasingly few people are making more and larger decisions about everyone else. Rising seas and expanding areas of drought mean that “the size of the board on which we’re playing will get smaller.”

He writes about a Randian, libertarian streak that has taken over the upper levels of the conservative movement for the past 40 years, from Reagan, Thatcher, the Bush presidencies, the Koch brothers, and now Trump. A triumph of the individual and the idea that a person’s value is measured by what they produce and what they earn, and that society and the collective are for suckers and mooches.

The oil companies, McKibben writes, were doing their own research about the possible damage from increased carbon dioxide levels as far back as the 1970s and essentially buried the findings. “Global warming is the ultimate problem for oil companies,” he writes, “because oil causes it, and it’s the ultimate problem for government haters because without government intervention you can’t solve it. Those twin existential threats, to cash and to worldview, meant that there was never any shortage of resources for the task of denying climate change.”

One of McKibben’s favorite words in the book is “leverage” – the outsized influence a small group of individuals or one industry wields. “The politics of one country for one 50-year period will have rewritten the geological history and crimped the human game,” he writes. “That’s what leverage looks like.”

The end of the human race, or our best hope for the future?
Discuss.

He also worries about artificial intelligence that smarts its way beyond our ability to control it. He writes that we may not be far away from the possibility of producing designer babies, who are smarter and stronger and better. Since that won’t be cheap, he says such a development could exacerbate inequality. And given the rapid rate of technological improvement, wouldn’t each batch of designer humans essentially become second-rate and less after a short time? If outcomes are programmed into people, doesn’t that diminish the human experience?

McKibben also writes that an inordinate number of powerful people in Silicon Valley are freaked out by death (who knew?), or rather obsessed with the idea of prolonging their own lives. There’s no shortage of start-ups involving new drugs or cryogenics or tech implants. An exceptionally smart gent named Ray Kurzweil, who’s the director of engineering at Google and who McKibben is fond of, hopes to live long enough so that nanobots can fix his aging cells and extend his life, or perhaps connect his brain to the cloud so that it may be implanted elsewhere and effectively live forever.

“The technologists at some level value individual humans too much,” he writes, “they value humanness far too little.”

But there’s hope, McKibben writes at the end of the book. It takes the form of solar panels and the non-violent protest movement. Solar panels can produce power cheaply and efficiently, particularly in places where there is none, such as African villages. Solar power can supplement and eventually replace fossil fuels, creating jobs and decreasing costs along the way. McKibben also takes heart from the non-violent movement, which helped turn the tide for women’s suffrage in this country, Indian independence under Gandhi, civil rights and gay marriage.

It won’t be easy, McKibben writes. Much damage has been done and we’re already a long way down the road. Many forces and much money are aligned against changing the status quo. But it’s possible and vital.

“The libertarian ideal of individual autonomy, which to one extent or another every modern human understands and cherishes,” he writes, “runs aground when the stakes get as high as ecological hell or human meaninglessness.”

Regardless of your politics, it’s a worthy read.