the educated serf

Reason is a magazine with a fair amount of bluster and intellectual self-importance.  There, I've ruined my chances of ever working for them or making friends with their writers and editors.   I suspect I never had a chance, having gone through only a relatively short Ayn Rand Libertarian phase when I was 17.  Since then I've definitely lacked any enthusiasm for free market philosophy or economics and personally I've not been a very successful capitalist, that's for sure. But I'll take them at their word that their goal is to provide reasoned arguments about critical topics -- and so, I approached this recent piece by Ronald Bailey with a somewhat open mind.  (It was only later that I realized this is the Ron Bailey who champions biotechnology without restraint and thinks global warming is a hoax.  I'm not sure that's a reasonable starting point for someone to consider sustainable practices, do you?).    Bailey argues that food miles are a bad way to judge...

I belong to a listserv of people who study food and this morning I posted an article that was in the New York Times about how the current nutrition obesity war climate has meant that many schools are banning bake sales as fundraisers. I just got this email from my friend Charlotte, who said: Check out the second picture in the article ...there is a woman teaching a kindergarten class about "good foods" versus "bad foods". Apparently chocolate is a bad food, and its at war with sushi, which is a good food. And ice cream is a BAD food? Who knew. I thought it was yum yum GOOD and full of healthy things like MILK. I was so distressed by the good V. bad lesson and then I realized that it's from the very same school where Saskia will probably be going ...! Here is what I wrote back to her and our other friends: Ah, California, where sushi is good but gay marriage is not. When Zoe was little (Esme was probably too small to remember it much) we used to do what ...

Pumpkins for Change My apologies for my absence.  Perhaps I can backtrack at some point and talk about the bat mitzvah, cooking for 100 people, having all the Massachusetts people, the Pennsylvania people, and the families from all over in one place, watching Zoe rock out in amazing style, and all the rest.  There are even a bunch of dog stories with philosophical underpinnings that are begging to be told.       But right now it's the culmination of living in Pennsylvania in this presidential election year that has dominated my thinking, breathing, feeling self.   Perhaps, also, it's the long term effect of having my personal political history dominated by Bushes and Reagan, of living in NH and PA and watching people vote on self interest rather than collective good, and of missing Massachusetts, where progressive is a good word. I can't describe how we felt last night, watching Obama become presidential.  I almost never speak of a "we," especially in terms of fee...

Costco, the Partition of India,  a Bat Mitzvah, and a Box of Clothes                                                                                                                          I keep saying I'm going to keep these posts short, but they're not. I have, as of five minutes ago, finally finished the endless freelance project that will, I hope, pay some of my bills and, more likely, cover the expenses of my daughter's upcoming bat mitzvah.  Which is, like, NEXT WEEK.   But before I put this curriculum-writing-induced migraine to bed so I can wake up fresh and make a round of phone calls to find a karaoke machine, a chocolate pudding cake, extra queen sized sheets (where ARE they? I know we had more), unemployment benefits, cat care appointments, and nice looking ceramic containers for the centerpieces, I had a few things to mention. Barbara Gerson, a terrific sociologist (whose book about work I read in ancient times as an undergraduate), points out that one of the...

Hey, Barney, can you spare a dime? This is a very short little comment, since, as you know, we serfs don't have time for contemplation and reflection.  I have an unfinished post about something more intellectual -- but well, it will have to wait.   I have to earn some money, which means blogging for peanuts, writing lesson plans with limited readings but lots of graphics, and sending out job applications, hoping they don't bear the tainted stink of failure that I truly believe is starting to adhere to me, just like the Steeler jerseys are adhering to the sweaty Monday Night Football fans I run into in CVS, the parking lot of the school, the neighborhood, and of course, the gas station, on this unusually warm September day.   But I'm having trouble reading the newspaper, listening to the radio, or thinking about my nonexistent bank account and the debts that we indentured types have stupidly incurred upon ourselves (really, wouldn't it be easier if we could blame the Gre...

When Scarlett and I walk in the woods, she generally likes to chase deer.  We're in a part of Pennsylvania where deer are really plentiful.  We joke that it took about three weeks after we moved here to get sick of them out in front of the house ("oh look! Bambi!" became "oh look! vermin!").    But they are beautiful in their own way, especially when the dog and I come across them, in various ways as we walk in the morning.  She smells them before I see them, I see them before she chases them.   Is she trying to catch and kill them?  I don't think so. Squirrels, yes, she has a death wish for squirrels.    We have evidence for that one.   But the deer are big.  And usually fast.  So, sometimes Scarlett runs a bit until the deer have effectively cleared out or she can't smell them anymore and then she doubles back and finds the spot where they were sleeping, standing, peeing, and makes sure she smells it thoroughly, adding her own scent for good measure.  ...

The other day I was walking the dog in one of our usual places, which is very wooded, but rather contained -- in fact, it reminds me of what it might be like in an area set aside for "the hunt" in medieval times -- it's wild but it's tame.   You know you're going to run into some deer (inevitable) and possibly other creatures, but also other people, usually mountain bikers (okay, that ruins the medieval image right there) and sometimes other folks with their dogs.      It was quiet that morning and so we went pretty far back into the woods (knowing it's got a boundary -- this is a park, owned by the state, that was once someone's estate, complete with ugly mansion on one end, paved pathway with women in jogging suits around the perimeter, and of course, a holiday light extravaganza you can drive through for $18 while you listen to "the Twelve Days of Christmas" on your car radio.)     I can't describe the way the forest has a medieval cast to...