I’ve been scanning these old 8mm recordings I inherited from my grandfather, and it’s been a rather distressing experience. It’s the combination of extreme nostalgia and resurrected regret, and the hardest part has been all the memories of my grandfather himself. We had this complicated, shifting relationship that changed for the worse as we got older, in particular, as he degenerated in terrible, tragic ways. He was an important part of my childhood, but when he died in 1989, I couldn’t bring myself to go to his funeral. Yet now, as I see these old recordings, I miss him and wish I could see him again, and also wish I could have done something to prevent his self-destruction.

One constant reminder of our connection is our name. I was named after my grandfather. I was his first grandchild. Strangely, no one called me “Paul” when I was born — I was PZ. I didn’t learn my full name until I was 5 and was sent off to school with a nametag that stated my proper name, and told that I have to answer to “Paul” or I might miss the bus to take me home, which sounded like a terrible threat. After that, my family started calling me “Little Paul” — Grandpa was Big Paul, of course — so now I was facing diminution on top of risking not being able to come home. I have always been confused about my name, my self, and my identity, and I don’t mentally attach a name to myself at all. I’m always just the bewildered narrator trying to figure out who I am.

I did not resent my grandfather at all, though. I thought he was a pretty cool guy. He served in WWII, but he did not like to talk about that at all. He’d deflect, and talk about his aspirations before the war, instead. He grew up on a farm in northern Minnesota, but what he wanted to be was an architect or an engineer. He had kept a big dossier of designs and skillfully drafted plans for houses that he’d done as a high school student in the 1930s, and he kept them for his entire life, stored away in a drawer, and only brought out when I’d ask to see them. He did not get to be an architect or engineer.

His family was poor, and could only afford to send one child to college, and that was Lyla, his older sister, who went off to become a teacher. One day when I was very young, I overheard Lyla tearfully apologizing to my grandfather, saying he should have been the one to go to college, that he was the smart one with high promise (I think this was at a point in his life where it was becoming obvious that he was swirling down the drain.) That’s always stuck with me, that education is important if you want to better yourself, and my grandfather is an example of what happens if you’re denied it.

He instead went to work as a farmhand, got married to my grandmother, Nora Berg, and had a daughter, his only child, my mother, Darlene Westad. He enlisted in the army in 1944, where he was recruited as a “Skilled craneman, derrickman, hoistman, and shovelman” and was shipped off to the Pacific theater, where he drove a bulldozer and built airfields under perilous conditions. He never talked about the war, except a few times to mention the horrible conditions and barracks full of lizards and snakes. But then, most veterans don’t like to talk about the war, I’ve noticed.

Before he was mustered out, he’d moved his family out of the frigid farmlands of Minnesota to the beautiful Pacific Northwest, and he joined them in 1946. He had bought a nice little house in Kent, Washington and got a job with the state highways department, and built roads in Washington state. By all accounts, it was a very good job, paid well, gave him plenty of time to indulge his hobbies of camping, fishing, and woodworking, and he built a wonderful workshop in his backyard. He taught me how to use a table saw and a lathe and a router there, and we built simple little projects together.

Once I was born and old enough, that is. One of the side effects of the location where he bought his house is that there was this big rowdy family of rogues and rascals living on the other side of the railroad tracks, about two blocks away, and one of the fellows over there eventually seduced his daughter and eloped off to Idaho with her, when she was just 16. Next thing he knew, she was pregnant, and presto, I was born in 1957. I would get hints that Grandpa did not much care for this Jim Myers guy, but the conflict was mostly soothed away, probably because he got to be a doting grandfather. And he was! He was a great and caring person when I was a child.

But then the cracks started to appear. Sometime in the 1960s, he lost the good construction job. He later got a job as a custodian for the Kent school district, and I’d sometimes help him out — I learned how to use a buffer! We kids had no idea what was going on at first, but we figured it out. For me, the light bulb moment was the day my brother and I were left with Grandpa for a while, and he shooed us out to the car and took us on a terrifying drive across town, weaving, nearly hitting a telephone pole or skidding into a ditch, until we reached a small dark establishment on the other side of town, and he told us to wait in the car while he took care of business. We waited. We waited for a long time. We eventually got out and went to the door, which said “No minors allowed”, and we crept in anyway, and there was Grandpa, slumped over a table with three empty shot glasses in front of him.

Oh yeah, Grandpa was a very soggy alcoholic.

We should have figured that out from the fact that every morning, first thing after getting up, he’d pop the top on a can of cheap beer, light up a cheap cigar, and pour the beer with great sloppy gulping sounds down his throat. Then he’d pop another. And another. Most mornings he’d be in a bleary-eyed haze by 10am. His wood shop was neglected. His relationship with our grandmother became increasingly cold and bitter. His grandchildren were sad and disillusioned, only coming by the house to see our grandmother.

Once I went off to college and eventually a career, I became the worst grandson, rarely visiting, actively avoiding him. I missed the worst of his descent, fortunately: he became verbally abusive and hostile, cursing my sisters who still tried to get together with our grandmother and help her out. He was loudly racist and misogynistic and hateful, and even threatened violence, although at that point he could barely get out of his chair to act on it. I heard all of this second hand, because I wasn’t going to go anywhere near the old man.

We all expected that he was well on his way to a gradual decline and death, and I was resigned to the fact that I’d someday get a call to tell me that Grandpa had a heart attack/slipped into an alcoholic coma/choked on his own vomit, but no! Fate had a cruel twist for him and was about to send him into a new Hell.

Remember the cigar? Grandpa was a non-stop, heavy cigar smoker. It made gift-giving easy, because we’d always just get him a box or two of those cheap Ben Franklin perfectos. He’d chew on those things all day long, and we collected those empty cigar boxes, which were great as pencil boxes, or places to store my dead bug collection, or bricks for building fantasy castles. Our house was full of them!

He was diagnosed with an oral cancer, and of course he neglected to do anything about it until his jaw was rotten with it. He was hospitalized, and the only thing they could do to save his life was to completely remove his jaw. I heard that my grandmother fainted when she saw him after the surgery — he looked like some zombie ghoul from EC comics. They removed one of his ribs, sculpted it, and implanted it in his hip to grow, and would later give him a reconstructed jawbone, but that wasn’t the worst of it.

He was a chronic alcoholic who hadn’t been sober in years, and now he was going to have to dry out cold turkey! He was wrecked. He had the DTs. He suffered hellishly with the combination chemotherapy and alcohol withdrawal. I, the bad grandson, didn’t go anywhere near him at this time. Other members of the family bore the burden.

He survived, and I saw him a few times in his later years. He was still sitting in the same old easy chair, but now instead of a can of beer he’d have a can of Ensure. He wasn’t cussing anyone out, because he could barely speak with this weak, toothless, chinless bridge of reconstructed bone for a jaw. He was hollowed out and empty eyed.

He later went into the hospital for further cancer treatments, got up to try to walk to the toilet, and had a heart attack and died.

Well, that was a depressing story.

At least I still remember the good grandpa who taught me how to measure and cut wood, who gave me his old drafting tools, who had a boat and took us out fishing, who every weekend would get together with his elderly parents to play cribbage with them. And who also, most relevant right now, bought an 8mm camera in the 1950s because he wanted to record memories of his family, especially his grandkids, and who taught me how to run the projector, and how to splice and repair the film. He told me I was supposed to preserve these movies for the whole family, and now I guess I am.

I have finished watching all these 8mm recordings my grandfather left to me, which have been converted into 8 20-30 minute mp4s. At some point I have to edit these down to make them presentable, because a) they’re in random order, b) the clips within each mp4 are in random order, and c) we are not a family of cinematographers or directors. Here are a few challenges for me:

• What I’ve got is the story of the whole Myers family from 1958-1985. Except there is no story, it’s a hodge-podge of brief moments.
• A lot of it is told from the perspective of doting parents and grandparents who are thrilled about their kids. It’s going to have limited appeal.
• The filmographers are terrible. They don’t believe in dwelling on a single person or group, but jitter all over the place.
• The actors all suck. The camera gets pointed at them, and what do they do? They stop, stand, and stare. The action freezes.
• There are long stretches where the camera pans over scenery. The actors may suck, but at least they’re alive. Do I really need to see that hill? I can tell when my dad is wielding the camera, because he really likes lingering over the landscape.
• There are a limited and repeated set of circumstances that trigger the family to haul out the camera: mainly, Christmases and summer vacation. There are too many Christmases, and sadly, not enough Christmases. Also, every summer we all immediately crowd into a tiny wading pool.
• The biases are obvious — they used the camera a lot more when it was new. That means I have a lot of video of me at age 1 toddling stupidly about, but not as much of my baby sister Lisa. If I edit this to match the representation in the shots, it’s going to look like a vanity project.
• Way too much sweetness. Seeing my great-grandparents laughing and hugging and kissing in their 90s was a bit overwhelming. We really had a happy family, but it’s exaggerated because the sadness and loss was never filmed.

I have a 3-day weekend coming up. Maybe I’ll be able to put together a short video from a small slice of this mess over the weekend — something that my surviving brothers and sisters will appreciate, at least. I have a project!

There is a company based in Virginia that makes high-end deli meats and cheeses. I didn’t know much about them, but I heard some gross, revolting stories that made me look. Rubbernecking the accident and all that, you know. Their main page is a bit daunting right now. They have recalled a lot of their products, saying they’re potentially contaminated with Listeria.

What they don’t mention is that 57 people so far have been hospitalized thanks to their food, or that there are 69 records of “noncompliances” flagged by the USDA in the past year. But don’t worry, the company says food safety is their “highest priority.”

Do you want to read about Boar’s Head’s offenses? No, you do not, so I’ll put them below the fold. Don’t read unless you have a strong stomach.

[Read more…]

There are two kinds of parents. 1) The ones who want their children to follow in their footsteps, take over the family business, continue their tradition as a farrier or door-to-door salesman or whatever. They live in dread that their child might turn out different, leave their faith, or someday disagree with their opinions. 2) The ones who encourage their kids to explore and develop their own interests and find happiness in their own skin. Guess what kind Richard Hanania would be if he, god forbid, were a parent?

The disclaimer that I’m for women living the lives they want is negated by the fact that he’s calling a successful young woman living the life she wants the nightmare scenario.

Just as the entire Republican party is echoing Hanania’s racism, they also share a love of misogyny.

Last week, Ann Coulter and other Republican bottom-feeders grossed normal people out by mocking Guz Walz for getting emotional during his dad’s speech at the Democratic National Convention (DNC). The insults didn’t just prove that the self-appointed protectors of “family values” wouldn’t know a loving family if they saw one. It was a reminder that the Trump campaign’s strategy continues to be appealing to ugly, bitter people with a message of resentment.

But the Walzes aren’t the only family whose evident happiness infuriates the extremely online MAGA movement. Harris’ family has drawn ire, as well. Especially her stepdaughter, 25-year-old model and designer Ella Emhoff, whose creativity, beauty, and easygoing love for her family has sent many on the right into paroxysms of rage. The daughter of Harris’ husband, Doug Emhoff, triggers the incel-minded online right by being a Brooklyn hipster who rejects the tiresome conservative rules for how women are allowed to dress or behave. In response, Donald Trump’s fanboys are in a total meltdown, unable to accept the existence of a woman who doesn’t care what they think of her. And they can’t hide that they’re furious that she looks great doing so.

In the real world, Ella Emhoff, who graduated from Parsons School of Design and has a modeling contract with IMG, is being declared “a fashion icon” for her effortless pairing of high fashion with her quirky tastes.

I guess I’m in category 2, since my 3 grown children are all living lives nothing like what I would choose for myself, and I’m proud that they’ve done that. Who wants to live in a world where half the people are forced to be tradwives? (Republicans, I guess.)

I should plug Kavin Senapathy’s new book, The Progressive Parent: Harnessing the Power of Science and Social Justice to Raise Awesome Kids.

Richard Hanania and the whole damn Republican party would hate it, which is why you should all run out and order it.

Once upon a time, I accused Nate Silver of being “a numerologist, or a horse race handicapper, and I suspected he was juggling the numbers to fit his expectations”. I was not very perceptive, and I missed the heart of Silver’s problem. He’s a gambling addict. I shouldn’t be surprised.

He has come out with a new book, essentially a confession, titled On the Edge, a 572-page doorstop that is actually a gambling manual. He has this mentality where the purpose of predictions is to win and win big, and he’s constantly angling for the risky bet that pays off on long odds.

This is the blurb for the book.

In the bestselling The Signal and the Noise, Nate Silver showed how forecasting would define the age of Big Data. Now, in this timely and riveting new book, Silver investigates “the River,” the community of like-minded people whose mastery of risk allows them to shape—and dominate—so much of modern life.

These professional risk-takers—poker players and hedge fund managers, crypto true believers and blue-chip art collectors—can teach us much about navigating the uncertainty of the twenty-first century. By immersing himself in the worlds of Doyle Brunson, Peter Thiel, Sam Bankman-Fried, Sam Altman, and many others, Silver offers insight into a range of issues that affect us all, from the frontiers of finance to the future of AI.

I fwowed up in my mouth a little bit. You, too, can be just like these con artists and charlatans — it’s the future of finance and AI!

Here’s the revelation that shocked me.

Whoa. He’s gambling $10,000 a day on basketball? If you had a friend who was throwing away that much on his gambling habit, wouldn’t you take them aside and suggest that they get help?

Notice also that he was churning $1.8 million into his daily betting routine between October and May, and at the end he comes out ahead…by about $5000. That’s some return on investment.

Also, I don’t believe him. I had an uncle who was addicted to betting on horse races, who claimed to have a system, who told me that on average he was coming out ahead, just like Nate Silver’s graph. Unfortunately, he was somehow living in poverty, getting by marginally, unable to afford the basics, and we’d just sometimes learn that he’d made a big score because he’d come home staggeringly drunk. The only people who profit in the long run from gambling are the race track owners and the bookies and the guys who run the liquor concessions.

I will say that hardcore gambling does have one useful outcome: it’s practitioners tend to be pretty glib about rationalizing their results. Somehow I’m not surprised that a gambling addict can write a 572 page book to justify his methods.

Just asking. I inherited this great big pile of 8mm film recordings made by my grandfather and father in the 1960s and 1970s and 1980s, which were pretty much unviewable — have you got an 8mm projector lying around? So I dropped them off at a Walmart Photocenter along with $650 to have them converted to digital. They’re sitting in Seattle right now, and I thought it would be a while until I could see them…but, you know, digital, so I just got an email saying I could view them over this thing called the internet.

Oh my god.

There’s my childhood, laid out in grainy, poorly lit, soundless, washed-out color. Christmases and camping trips, my great-grandparents alive again, my grandfather looking hale and sober, my grandmother middle-aged and strong, my father digging clams and picking up his kids, my mother in her 20s looking good, and all my siblings back again. I only had a few minutes to skim through these hours of film, but later I’ll have to watch them thoroughly and wallow in the old days.

Here, for instance, is me hugging my late brother sometime in the early 1960s.

If I’m found dead, drowned in a puddle of tears later this week, you’ll know what happened.

I’m going to upload these many recordings to YouTube to make them accessible to the rest of my family — no one else in the world will care but these are like jewels of ancient cinematography to me.