Yet another organization is announcing a data breach — this time posting confidential information numbering 260,000 of its member records.
The organization? The State Bar of California.
The people whose records were released? Attorneys who were the subject of more than a quarter-million attorney discipline cases.
Think anyone will sue?
I’m at the international terminal at LAX waiting in the bar before boarding my flight to London in a bit to see Pere Ubu.
I’m having a surprisingly good pizza — the only food the bar still has on offer, from a menu that was limited to begin with — and also a Sam Adams. No, it’s not a brown ale, but it fills the need for some sort of alcohol after the 90-minute ordeal of conflicting international travel dictates from British Airways, American Airlines (who are handling this leg of it), the UK gov’t. with some very shifting rules, and a whole bunch of confusion that resulted in me buying a COVID test in England that I’m pretty sure I don’t need for £49 (about $60 today) just so that I can complete a Passenger Travel Locator form that apparently will no longer be needed as of Friday.
So, all of that now resolved, and having a beer, and feeling more relaxed, I see a man come in with his two daughters and sit at the table next to me. It’s human nature, when stress is relieved, to suddenly become generous of spirit, isn’t it? It’s certainly my nature. It’s a way of saying back to the gods, “Okay, thank you, you resolved that, and now I don’t need to cancel my trip or burst a blood vessel, and so now I wish all a hearty hello.” I glance over at the dad traveling with kids and recognize a somewhat younger version of myself, a guy traveling with a kid or two, these two looking to be 7 and 9 or thereabouts, and it recalls for me those earlier days. He’s wearing a black ball cap, and the two girls are as well, each of them with shining beautiful blonde hair and they all are well-behaved, and studying their phones and chatting while awaiting whatever they’ve ordered.
“Beautiful girls,” I venture.
The man looks over.
“I have kids,” I say. “Two boys and a girl. I love them all, but there is something about daughters.” I don’t know what I mean by this, truly, because I love my three kids equally, and I’m proud of all three of them, except maybe I mean this: Good for you, pal, in having these radiant girls.
“Thank you,” he says, with a grin.
But there’s a bit of a smirk, and the one girl asks the other something, then the middle one says something to their dad. Now I’m wondering if perhaps they’re not both actually his. Maybe I’ve misread the relationship: Doesn’t the one look a little different?
“I’m sorry,” I say. “Did I get it wrong? They’re not both your daughters?”
“Actually,” he says, “they’re my sons.”
…
“Uh. Sorry.”
“It’s okay,” he says in a friendly manner. “They get it all the time.”
No doubt.
Note to self: The correct line is this: “Those are some very good-looking children.”
But I don’t envision ever again venturing down this path.
The stock market was dramatically up last year, and so far this year it has posted dramatic declines.
Given the depth of data provided every day about the doings of the stock market, shifts like these can seem confounding and, even, confusing. So I thought I’d share my own approach to it.
As with many things in life, I strive for a balanced viewpoint. Having a simpler approach to complex issues generally makes life itself simpler. So here’s my approach to the stock market, and it’s one that has informed my thoughts for decades now.
Here goes.
I’m opposed to market dips when they negatively affect me.
But I am in favor of them when they benefit me.
I apply the same sort of thinking to market increases: They’re good when they favor me, and they’re bad when they don’t.
I hope this easily grasped point of view serves you as well as it does me.
Here’s what it’s been like hiring people the past year.
At my company, we have three open positions. We locked one in on Friday (phew!), but I also had interviews over Zoom with candidates for one of the other open roles. Here’s a verbatim quote from one of those interviewees, who on paper was well-qualified:
“I can get you where you want to be. I just need a little bit of freedom. Sometimes I’ll be gone for a whole week in the month, to South America or Europe. But I’ll come back.”
Mind you, this is for a key management position: receiving payments, making payments, handling HR, operations, insurance, etc. The sort of position most of us would assume requires reliability. As in: You’ll know consistently when she’ll be around. It isn’t the sort of position where on, say, Wednesday, one might say, “Where’s Carol?” and an acceptable response would be, “Ecuador. But she said she’d come back.”
I shared this baffling interview response on my business partner, whose reply was “Uh, no.” Then I tried it on a couple of friends, one a longtime business owner and another a close friend who runs a non-profit. Just to, you know, make sure I’m not being too demanding in expecting people on the payroll and healthy to actually show up as expected. One said, “Frankly, I don’t know how didn’t start laughing hysterically.” The other said, sarcastically, “Well, she said she’d be baaaaaaack…..”
I’m calling this applicant “Carol.” That’s not her real name; I’ve struck her real name from memory. Life being short, I’ve moved on. But if they rewarded confidence with dollars, “Carol” would be a billionaire. Because: She also wanted to know in this initial interview when she should start, but first volunteered that she’d “need to come by and check out the office first” for “the vibe” and offered to do that the same day, say around 2?
I was out having lunch at 2. And here was the vibe in the office the rest of the day: just me, and whatever my vibe is. With everyone else either out with COVID or working remotely anyway.
The New York Times asked readers to pick the best book of the past 125 years. Here it is.
Except that’s not the best book of the past 125 years.
Here are the books the readers picked as the second- and third- and fourth-best books of the past 125 years.
Except those aren’t in the top ranks of best books either.
Because there are no best books.
Oh, there are bad books. And there are good books. Even great books. But a “best” book? Even the idea is ludicrous.
All art reflects its time — as do the sentiments of the public.
As America again, continuously, explores its fraught relationship with race, “To Kill a Mockingbird” wins here partly because, yes, it’s so moving — but also because it provides hope and nourishment. Primarily, let’s be honest, for white readers. Yes, Atticus Finch will save us. (Just don’t read its “sequel,” “Go Set a Watchman,” in which he holds extremely racist views.)
The #3 book, “1984” is a clear reflection of our growing concern over the potential loss of the republic, the increasing privacy invasion attributable to both tech and government, and the creeping dread of getting canceled by all our friends on the extreme left for saying “the wrong thing.” Another perfect book for our times.
I could go on about the other books, but let me instead restate what should be obvious: There is NO “best book” of the past 125 years. Books come and go in flavor and fashion, and are “lost” or “discovered” or never lost or never discovered.
F. Scott Fitzgerald was almost completely forgotten until Edmund Wilson, the NY Times and other critics revived his reputation. (The same happened with the justly revered Buster Keaton, courtesy of James Agee.) “Beowulf” has no relevance to my life — but was incredibly important to the people for whom it was written 1400 years ago. And so on.
What’s most important about this New York Times survey, it seems to me, is this: that it brought together hundreds of thousands of people, including us, to discuss and debate books. The underpinning of our shared humanity lies in our cultural traditions; learning from each other and sharing those traditions holds the best hope for us all.
There’s no need to rank books by popularity, or bestow false acclaim on them. Just reading them provides achievement enough.
For what seems like weeks, Los Angeles has had epic rainfall: nonstop, pouring, round-the-clock rainfall more than triple the average for this time of year. The ground surrounding my house, formerly parched, has been hard-pressed to take any more — which is how most of the humans have felt too.
But today, there’s this: beautiful, clear skies. As shown above my house.
2021 was not the best of years for a lot of people. There was plenty of death (covid-related and not), and real economic turmoil, a worsening environmental picture, an insurrection at the Capitol that I very wrongly assumed would spell the end of Trumpism now that the malfeasants were out in the light of day, and uncertainty… about the pandemic, the future, and so much else.
Yesterday, the cloudburst may have flooded my office.
But today, we have bright clear skies.
I’m grateful for that and more: my loved ones (both family and friends), good health and good cheer and good work. And the lure of the future, with travel and friends old and new and new accomplishments.
I hope the blue sky of today augurs well for your future, and for mine.
Three weeks ago, a friend and I saw the surviving members of the Monkees in their final performance. However much my friend and I tried to wish it otherwise, it was a melancholy affair, given the sad state of Mike Nesmith, who died today.
Micky Dolenz, it must be said, remains a vital performer at age 76. Dolenz is one of the great unheralded pop singers of the past half century, someone with a terrific voice who is also a natural showman — he’s able to hit all the notes, still and as always, and his stage energy is miraculously undiminished. At this point I’ve seen many rock and pop performers in their 70s, and to my ear and eye, Dolenz is the best preserved. A few years ago I told a friend during a concert that this had to be the last time I’d see Brian Wilson, because I never expected Brian Wilson, of all people, to be off-key, and I didn’t want my fond memories of the Beach Boys tarnished. If you have a chance to see Micky Dolenz, who undoubtedly will continue touring, take it — he’s a wonderful performer, he’s glad to entertain you, and you’ll be glad you’re there for it.
Sadly, the same couldn’t be said of Mike Nesmith. Just three years earlier, he’d been in fine form in another performance, again with Dolenz, at the Orpheum in downtown Los Angeles — playing guitar, singing well, buoyant and happy to be there, shimmering with all the love the audience threw at him. Their duet on “Me and Magdalena,” absolutely the highlight of the Monkees’ penultimate (and transcendent) album “Good Times!” was delivered with all the keening heartfelt emotion required. But tonight, at the Greek Theatre, we were stunned to see that not only couldn’t Nesmith play guitar, or even hold one, he could barely stand. At strange moments, he would absentmindedly shuffle off-stage or simply wander around the stage in ways that had many of us in the audience worrying that he’d fall over; at other times, his expression made clear that he wasn’t sure where he was or what he was doing or even perhaps who he was. At one point, he cried awkwardly; at another, Mr. Dolenz had to call for him to return to the stage: “Nez! Nez! I need you for this song…”.
It has been a hard couple of years for many people. For Mr. Nesmith, perhaps harder. So when I learned today that he had died, I was saddened, but, given the evidence, not surprised.
It isn’t easy to say this, but here goes: He shouldn’t have been on-stage. When your audience spends a concert deeply concerned about your health, there’s something wrong with the event.
I don’t know how one could ever know when a performer should retire. One of my favorite performers, Dame Edna, retired a few years ago, still at her (his) height. While I wish I could see that act again, I recognize that that was a very high-wire act, filled with smart rapid-fire improv and audience-involved repartee that was doubtless growing more difficult for an octogenarian. When David Lee Roth hung up his tights a few weeks ago, I congratulated him on Twitter because it was quite evident that he could no longer sing, and if I had seen all the mocking videos of his recent performances, I’m sure he had as well. I wish him a happy retirement. Performers like to perform, and we like to see them do so… but we don’t want to see them when they shouldn’t be doing it any more, and I’m sure they don’t truly want to be seen in that light either.
While part of me is glad that I got to see Mike Nesmith one last time, and during his very final concert, a greater part of me wishes the last time I’d seen him was in 2018, when he was still radiant. I’ve always liked the Monkees (I’ve been seeing them in concert for 30 years), and I’ve always liked Mr. Nesmith’s singing and his songs. I’m grateful for all the music and all the good times. But the previous final tour should have been the final final tour.
When or if you have the chance and the interest, go see the last Monkee, Micky Dolenz. He’s still got it. For now.
Last night, I woke up three times. One time I figured, well, let’s see what’s going on in the news. (Nothing good, I can assure you.) The second time I did some work: checked the financials; cleared some emails; reviewed the latest stats on a poll I’ve been following. The third time, I may have woken up simply to check the time: 5:50 a.m. Oh: progress.
I wish I could say this isn’t typical. It’s been going on for decades.
My son, meanwhile, a strapping 19-year-old, assures me that once he’s asleep, he stays asleep. To his credit, he sounded more factual than boastful. I told him, “Check back in with me when you’re in your 50s.” Then I destroyed him in a game of 500 Rummy. I think the last time I slept a full night through was while Jimmy Carter was in office. (Through no credit to him.)
I cleared my schedule for today so I could go get a medical procedure. It was simply a test, although they kept calling it, shudderingly, “surgery.” They asked if I’d ever had surgery before, and I said no. Not even a colonoscopy? Oh, sure, I said, I’ve had one of those. Well, evidently, that’s “surgery” as well. The things you learn. I had always associated surgery with getting cut open. Now I think surgery is whatever they decide to call it when they can charge more.
This “surgery,” in which they’d take nice bright photos of a generous portion of my insides — without, as noted, slicing me up with a knife — required knocking me out. I don’t know how long they were videoing my interior, but to me the procedure worked like this: one moment speaking to the doctor and the nurse, and the nurse saying that, okay, the anesthesia was starting intravenously, and the next instant my awakening to the proclamation that it was all over. I stumbled my way over to the restroom — no, thank you, I don’t need a wheelchair, for chrissake! — and then after that, stumbling my way out the door of the surgery center. (And, no, dammit, I don’t need a wheelchair for this either!)
Then I took my son, who nicely drove me to this procedure and waited around while people violated my personal core, out to lunch. Well, his lunch, my breakfast, my having been on orders not to eat or drink since the previous night.
After that — a great big breakfast for me, with eggs scrambled in diced ham, an invasion-sized pancake, a huge cup of water and two cups of glorious coffee, I went home. And crashed. Because to some degree I was still anesthetized.
I woke up hours and hours later. Feeling completely refreshed!
Oh: This must be what it feels like to feel rested.
So now I’m wondering how I might go about getting more non-surgical surgery. Clearly what is needed in my case is anesthesia. I’ve had a sleep disorder for decades, and have tried absolutely everything — but no one told me about the wonders of anesthesia! Mind you, I don’t want any maladies that actually require surgery (duh) and I’d rather avoid the trouble of going to that surgery center all the time, and I can do without the very pretty pink photos of my insides, attractive thought they may be. But if you know someone who can come over even just twice a month and anesthetize me, please let me know.
Halloween used to be a big deal around my neighborhood. Not any more.
Last year we had zero trick-or-treaters.
This year we had four.
And that’s because, twice, I ran out the door and chased after kids who were going to skip my house.
I wish I were kidding.
Why were the parents of the first two kids fast-walking past before I lunged out the front door to accost them with my cauldron of candy bars? Might have been the (okay, somewhat abrasive) music I was playing. (15-60-75, aka The Numbers Band.) Or maybe it was my vociferous mutts. Either way, the parents seemed genuinely relieved when I appeared reasonably friendly and reassuring to little Batman and little I-have-no-idea.
At ten after nine p.m., I figured, well, that’s that, at least I had two. So I got my dogs into their harnesses for their long-delayed walk. Of course, as soon as I got out the front door with my aggravating yapping critters, a gaggle of adults with two kids in tow who’d been poised to turn up my walkway started to run the other way. “Wait, wait!” I yelled after them, throwing the dogs back inside, grabbing the candy, and charging down the cement toward them. The kids took the candy, and I considered dispatching handfuls of it to the six adults, too, when suddenly I realized: I’m kind of insane with this.
Maybe I hoped there would be more kids because I thought more kids would equal less pandemic. Because, yes, I know there’s a pandemic going on. Still.
So now I’ve got a couple dozen pieces of chocolate candy bars left. I took the dogs for a walk, fed them — they chowed it down savagely like hyenas on a carcass — then ate my own belated dinner, then while watching Succession on HBO, I opened one of the candy bars, a miniature Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup, and ate it. The Hershey Company long ago having swapped out much of the chocolate for things like flavored oil, it didn’t even taste like chocolate.
Succession was pretty good, though.