Bluetooth or Bonkers – the Perilous Puzzle of Public Perception

Posted on July 12, 2025 by The Narrator

There was a time, not so long ago, when it was relatively easy to distinguish the eccentric from the executive. You’d be strolling down Main Street, enjoying your ice cream cone or contemplating your lunch options, when suddenly you’d spot that guy — arms flailing, voice booming, passionately arguing about alien conspiracies or asking the birds to repay a debt. You’d subtly (or not so subtly, depending on their volume) cross to the other side of the street. You’d let the “crazy people who talk to themselves” have their clear, unencumbered path, perhaps offering a silent nod of respectful avoidance. It was the polite thing to do, for both of you. It was a simpler time, a time of clear social indicators.

Back then, identifying the unsound mind was a community sport. “See a screamer, change your demeanor” was the unspoken rule. I used to be a master of street psychology. I’d stroll down the sidewalk, effortlessly categorizing passersby into two distinct groups: the sane and the, well, let’s just say “enthusiastic”. But now? Good luck! Those halcyon days are behind us. Now, I’m left scratching my head, wondering if the disheveled guy yelling at his earpiece is having a heated debate with his accountant or negotiating with the voices in his head. It’s like the world has decided to play a game of “Guess Who’s Sane?” and I’m perpetually losing.  My elementary school education emphasized the importance of eye contact and facial expressions. Apparently, those skills are now as useful as a flip phone in a smartphone world.

It started innocently enough with the rise of mobile phones. Sure, early adopters carried bricks the size of a shoebox and practically screamed “I own stock in IBM” as they yelled into their Motorola monstrosities. Clearly on the phone, clearly a titan of industry, probably coordinating a rendezvous with his personal jet-powered limo. No misperception there. You didn’t confuse them with the local bus stop philosopher. They were too well-dressed and, more importantly, tethered to their devices.

Then came the smartphones — sleek, tiny, barely visible. At first, you could still tell: people held them to their ears like civilized humans. But then the ultimate social disruptor arrived: the Bluetooth earpiece.

The Bluetooth. The bane of public perception. Suddenly, it wasn’t just the Tech Bros and the Wall Street Warriors talking into invisible microphones. It’s everyone. And now? Now, I pass someone on the street having a heated conversation with no person in sight, no phone visible, no context provided. He’s red-faced, gesturing wildly and pacing like he’s defusing a hostage situation. Do I call the cops? Offer a tissue? Applaud? I don’t know anymore!

It’s my inner conflict is coming across a disheveled, slightly portly gentleman. His arm is waving wildly, his voice loud, excited, perhaps even a tad indignant. He’s clearly in the midst of a passionate monologue. And I am utterly, hopelessly lost. Is he complaining to someone on the phone that may or may not be nestled in his back pocket? Is he having a heated debate with an invisible friend about the merits of artisanal cheese? Or is he, perhaps, just having a very spirited internal dialogue with that other person occupying the same body as he? The possibilities are endless and my internal “Crazy-o-Meter” is officially broken.

The problem is further complicated by our pandemic-era social skills erosion. We all spent two years perfecting our communication with emoji, thumbs-up reactions and muting ourselves on Zoom when we needed to issue that primal scream into the void. Now that we’re back outside, the old rules of facial expression and body language just don’t compute. Is that group laughing at a joke? Or have they joined a laughing cult and I’m their next target? It’s getting harder and harder to figure people out these days. Society, it seems, no longer functions like it used to. The subtle cues, the unspoken rules, the very fabric of public interaction has been replaced by a cacophony of potential conversations with unseen entities. And honestly, it makes interacting with people really, really hard.

I’m starting to think the only way to tell who’s sane anymore is by whether or not they make eye contact and even that could go either way. Is that grandmotherly woman giving me a kind smile? Or silently threatening me with her eyes?

We used to laugh at the thought of talking to ourselves in public. Now, we schedule time to record ourselves talking to ourselves, upload it to TikTok and hope it goes viral.

So what’s the takeaway here?

We’ve reached a point in civilization where you can’t tell the difference between someone on a conference call and someone on a conference call with a higher power (virtual or real), an imaginary friend or telepathic aliens. Technology has democratized insanity and I, for one, am not sure whether to be impressed or very, very afraid.

Is this the first step in the fall of civilization? Will we all eventually be wandering around, shouting into the void, unsure if anyone is actually listening? Or are we just part of a grand, collective, public performance art piece?

Next time you pass someone on the sidewalk loudly whispering about lizard people and hummus, maybe don’t judge. Maybe he’s just on a call with the National Security Council. Or maybe he knows something you really don’t want to. Either way, smile politely, nod and cross the street. Just to be safe.

 

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Freedom, Fireworks and Founding Fathers

Posted on July 4, 2025 by The Narrator

As the calendar pages turn towards July, a familiar tension begins to build in my solidly middle-class neighborhood. It’s not the anticipation of barbecues and parades, not entirely. It’s the low, rumbling dread of what’s to come: the unofficial, unsanctioned and utterly unhinged celebration of American independence.

In the days leading up to the Fourth of July and for a good few days after, my usually quiet street transforms. My neighbors, many of whom I’ve reluctantly come to mentally label as “hoodlum rednecks” (a term I use with a sigh, not a sneer, born of sheer exhaustion), seem to possess an arsenal that would make a modern Army platoon blush. They detonate more explosives than a small nation at war and they do it at seemingly random times of day. And night. There’s truly nothing quite like being jolted awake at two in the morning by a massive explosion, your heart pounding, wondering if that concussive blast outside your window warrants an emergency response or a psychiatric intervention.

Then comes the morning of July 5th. As an early riser, I often hit the bike trails to escape the lingering haze of gunpowder and regret. What I find is a landscape of post-apocalyptic revelry: tons of debris – plastic, cardboard, spent casings – from the previous night’s festivities. And, more alarmingly, the tell-tale scorched circles and blackened patches of grass where fireworks inevitably got out of control. It’s a stark, sobering tableau of celebration gone awry.

Fireworks debris, from Cascadia Daily News

Fireworks debris, from Cascadia Daily News

And there’s another, increasingly prevalent, issue: the rise of drunken revelry. While a celebratory drink is one thing, the sheer volume of intoxication that accompanies some of these Fourth of July celebrations leads to an amazing, and frankly, disgusting, amount of damage. This ranges from the random bodily fluid blowouts discovered on lawns and sidewalks (yes, really) to the more catastrophic consequences of impaired driving, resulting in cars wrapped around trees, often taking out other vehicles in their destructive wake.

Drive Smart Nebraska Campaign

Drive Smart Nebraska Campaign

All of this leaves me with a persistent, nagging question, one that echoes louder with each premature bang and each piece of litter: Is this what our Founding Fathers truly envisioned as the celebration of our country’s founding?

I try to imagine John Adams, penning a letter to Abigail, describing the future of American festivity. Would he speak of skies ablaze with uncontrolled pyrotechnics, shaking the very foundations of homes at ungodly hours? Would Thomas Jefferson, in his quiet contemplation, foresee a nation celebrating its intellectual and political liberation with widespread public intoxication and property destruction? Would Benjamin Franklin, ever the pragmatist, nod approvingly at the sheer waste of resources, the environmental blight and the strain on emergency services?

Picture this: 1776, Philadelphia. Thomas Jefferson leans back in his chair, quill in hand, wiping ink from his fingers, as he pens the final lines of the Declaration of Independence. John Adams walks in, pausing to admire the document before saying, “Tom, you know what this calls for? Barely regulated explosives, public intoxication and someone vomiting on a flaming slip-n-slide in a Walmart parking lot! Should we write it in?”

It’s safe to say that didn’t happen. Yet here we are.

Writing the Declaration of Independence, 1776, by Jean Leon Gerome Ferris

Writing the Declaration of Independence, 1776, by Jean Leon Gerome Ferris

The Fourth of July is supposed to commemorate the adoption of the Declaration of Independence, a bold thoughtful stand for liberty and self-governance, rooted in reason, justice and human dignity. It was a turning point in the history of the world, the birth of a new nation, an experiment in democracy. But as I weave through my neighborhood on July 5th dodging firework debris, spotting blackened patches of scorched lawn and noting the charred remnants of Roman candles like some post-battle historian, I can’t help but wonder: What happened to the reverence?

The spirit of 1776 was one of profound thought, courageous debate and a deep, if sometimes flawed, commitment to principles of liberty, self-governance and the pursuit of a more perfect union. The Declaration of Independence, the very document we celebrate, is not a call to chaotic abandon. It’s a meticulously reasoned argument for freedom, a testament to the power of ideas and a solemn pledge of lives, fortunes and sacred honor.

While John Adams famously predicted that Independence Day would be celebrated with “pomp and parade, with shows, games, sports, guns, bells, bonfires and illuminations from one end of this continent to the other,” I believe his vision was one of ordered celebration, of communal joy and a respectful remembrance of the immense sacrifice involved. He envisioned citizens uniting in gratitude and shared purpose, not descending into a cacophony of random explosions and dangerous recklessness. The “illuminations” he spoke of were likely grand, controlled displays, not backyard arsenals threatening life and limb.

Our independence was hard-won, built on the ideals of self-control, civic responsibility and the collective good. It was about establishing a society where rights were protected and order prevailed, allowing for the flourishing of individuals and communities. To celebrate this profound legacy with actions that endanger our neighbors, pollute our shared spaces and strain our public services feels, to me, deeply antithetical to the very principles we claim to honor.

So, as we approach this Fourth of July, I want to urge everyone reading this to celebrate responsibly. Stay safe, be mindful of your neighbors, your environment and the laws designed to protect us all. But most importantly, take a moment to truly remember the actual meaning of Independence Day. It’s a day to reflect on the ideals of liberty, the responsibilities that come with freedom and the ongoing work required to build a more just and perfect society. Let our celebrations be a testament to our values, not a chaotic caricature of them. After all, freedom isn’t just the right to party. It’s the right to be better.

 

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The New Power Suit

Posted on June 29, 2025 by The Narrator

When I was in graduate school, I landed a job with an international corporation.  It was suit and tie and I loved it.  I wasn’t just pretending to be an adult.  I made it.  I was the first of my high school friends to go corporate, but by the time they were in the same position, I was getting a little bothered under the collar.  Suits, for some reason, are not designed to be comfortable (or maybe I just don’t know how to pick them).  I was looking forward to those casual Fridays when the jacket did not need to match the pants and instead of sporting a sensible tie, the top button of my shirt could be undone.

I’m still corporate, working for a very different international corporation, and all these years later corporate dress has changed.  My business attire these days is a clean pair of boots, Columbia Sportswear’s Titanium or Silver Ridge pants (with Omni-Shade) and a company logoed polo.  I’m pushing the dress code limits, but no one dares complain because I’m “flying the company flag”. Going after my pants and shoes would be unpatriotic.

And yet, much as I feel I’m pushing corporate culture, it doesn’t feel like I’ve kept up.  On a recent crisp early morning, the sun barely awake, I was pedaling along on my trusty bicycle, dodging squirrels and misplaced sprinklers. That’s when I saw her: a woman walking her dog in full pajama regalia — flannel pants, fuzzy slippers and a sleepy top that proudly proclaimed, “Don’t Talk to Me Before Coffee”. Classic. Functional. Confusing. When I was a kid, even contemplating going outside before washing up and putting on appropriate clothes would get me grounded for the day. Definitely confusing.

I chalked it up to a quirky start-of-day ritual. After all, who among us hasn’t shuffled out in sleepwear to grab the paper (when we still read those) or chase down a runaway trash can (before we started recycling just about everything)? Except we were in a city park, a significant distance from homes. I told myself that I get it. Sometimes the dog just has to go and formal wear is not a priority.

But then, like an oddly patterned domino effect, it kept happening.  Maybe it’s just recency bias, but all of a sudden, I started noticing it.

Later that same day, I saw another pajama-clad citizen perusing the cereal aisle of my local grocery store. She was calm, composed and contemplating an assortment of wheat bran cereals, to go with the carton of almond milk in her cart. She seemed to be completely oblivious to the fact she was in Cookie Monster pants and bunny slippers. I almost suggested that maybe she should check out the Cookie Crisp cereal boxes a few feet away.

But that wasn’t the conclusion of my recency bias experience. A few days later, at the airport, boarding a commercial flight, was a woman in what could only be described as satin bedtime finery. She didn’t glance sideways. She didn’t smirk. No shame, no irony. Just a woman, a neck pillow and what appeared to be a matching pajama-travel set. She was sauntering down the jet bridge, carry-on rolling behind her, looking utterly unbothered.

We are in the era of the Pajama Culture and I don’t really know what that means. When did this sneak up on us? Somewhere between Zoom meetings and home baking, society decided that comfort supersedes convention. If we’re going to be exhausted and emotionally overdrawn, at least we can do it in flannel.

And to be fair, pajama tech has come a long way. These aren’t your grandma’s ankle-length nightgowns. We’re talking microfleece, bamboo cotton, athleisure hybrids and enough elastic waistband innovation to make the space program jealous.

There appears to be a social shift that pajamas are no longer just for sleeping. They’re for thriving. Walking the dog? PJs. Getting groceries? PJs. Brunch? You bet your bunny slippers.

Is it a quiet rebellion against the pressures of adulting? Is it the natural evolution of fashion after athleisure? Is it rebellion against Puritan upbringing? I hazard to guess that it’s a slippery slope for someone thinking, “For tonight’s gala, I’ll be wearing my finest penguin-print jammies and a tiara.” Could pajamas become formal wear? Picture the red-carpet interviews:

Reporter: “Tell us, who are you wearing tonight?”
Starlet: “Target, from the Cozy Nights collection. These cloud-print drawstring pants are machine washable and fierce.”

Honestly? A decade ago I would have called this a far-fetched fantasy, but now I’m leerily eyeing this fashion trend. We’re just one pair of monogrammed sleep pants away from full pajama diplomacy.  I can see it now: late night boardroom meetings resembling a slumber party, the evening news reporters talking about the day’s game results while wearing pajamas in the style of their favorite teams, the district judge trading his court robes for a more comfortable, albeit more awkward fleece nightgown, with a frilly trim.

Are we abandoning all sense of decency? Are we embracing the “I don’t care about your opinion” attitude? Are pajamas the new formal wear? I’m not sure what’s more alarming – the fact that people are wearing pajamas in public or the fact that it’s becoming increasingly acceptable.

Is Star Wars doing this to us? Let’s be honest, every Jedi Knight looks like they just walked out of a galactic pajama party. Robes, tunics and that “I hit snooze five times” hairstyle. No wonder the galaxy’s always on the brink of collapse. You can’t fight the Sith with bedhead and bathroom slippers. And yet, somehow, it works. Maybe that’s the secret. The more comfortable you are, the stronger the Force flows. Or maybe it’s just a cautionary tale. If you give up fashion for comfort, you might end up raising a Darth.

I need to go back and reread my college history books to recall how the Roman Empire fell. Sleepwear might have been a factor.

La morte di Cesare by Vincenzo Camuccini

La morte di Cesare by Vincenzo Camuccini

In a world filled with chaos, perhaps the rise of pajamas is our collective protest for peace and quiet and harmony. A silent, but comfy rebellion against belts, buttons and all things restrictive. The next time you see someone pushing a shopping cart in their bedtime best, don’t scoff. Bellbottoms have been teetering for a while.  Perhaps these people are pioneers of a new lifestyle.

I should check with HR. Would pajamas with a collar count as “business casual”?

 

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Why Sometimes Doing Nothing is Pure Genius

Posted on June 14, 2025 by The Narrator

Not long ago a friend nearing retirement confided in me with a heavy heart, his voice carrying a note of genuine surprise, a blend of disappointment and some bewilderment. While the market had soared in recent years, his retirement portfolio was disappointingly flat. With just a few questions, the picture became clearer: he had entrusted a significant portion of his hard-earned savings to a company specializing in actively managed funds.

It’s a frustrating irony. During a period when the S&P 500 had made generous strides, he saw little benefit. The culprit? High fees, frequent trading and a lack of long-term discipline, hallmarks of the churning of securities held in actively managed funds. This means frequent buying and selling, which translates directly into short-term capital gains taxes and a steady stream of trading fees for the fund managers, all piled on top of already hefty management fees.

His experience is a stark reminder of the importance of low-cost, passive investing strategies. It’s a common tale and my friend’s experience is not unique. It serves as a powerful, albeit painful, reminder of some fundamental investing truths. So, grab a metaphorical (or actual) low-cost index fund and let’s delve into the lessons.

Warren Buffett’s Million-Dollar Bet

Let’s start with the undisputed heavyweight champion of common-sense investing, Mr. Warren Buffett. Back in 2007, the Oracle of Omaha, known for his down-to-earth wisdom and deep pockets, made a $1 million wager that a simple, low-cost S&P 500 index fund would outperform a curated selection of hedge funds over a decade.

Ted Seides of Protégé Partners, was brave enough to take on Buffett. He accepted the challenge by selecting five hedge funds. Surely, staffed by brilliant minds armed with complex algorithms and insider insights, these funds stood a chance to take down Warren Buffett himself. Their competitor was the meek Vanguard 500, an S&P 500 index fund, a fund that just buys a tiny piece of every company in the S&P 500 and calls it a day. No fancy footwork, no expensive suits.

The result? By 2017, plowing through the housing bubble market meltdown, the Vanguard 500 had delivered an average annual return of about 7.1%. The high-flying hedge fund portfolio? A rather deflated 2.2%. Over ten years that’s a lag of 60% on your investment!

Seides, a gentleman to the core, conceded before the bet officially concluded. Buffett won, proving that, for most investors, the silent killer isn’t market volatility, but the incessant, corrosive drip of fees. After fees, taxes and trading costs, even highly paid professionals, the smartest men in the room, have trouble outperforming the market. For most investors, a low-cost, diversified index fund is not just sufficient — it’s optimal.

 

The Dangers of Overtrading

You’d think after seeing the professionals stumble, individual investors would learn to keep their hands in their pockets. But human nature, bless its optimistic (and often delusional) heart, tends to believe we are different. We’re luckier, smarter, better suited to make investing decisions.

Academics Brad Barber and Terrance Odean studied individual investor behavior and published their now-famous work: “Trading Is Hazardous to Your Wealth”. Now you know that if a study title sounds like a warning label on a pack of cigarettes, you’re in for some fun facts.

Using actual trading data from 1991 to 1996, Barber and Odean found that individuals who traded stocks frequently experienced substantially lower returns than those who adopted a more patient approach. While the overall market was returning a robust 17.9% annually, the most active traders were clocking in at a rather pedestrian 11.4%. Over five years, that’s a beat by a third.

Why the shortfall? Active traders’ returns are often eroded by transaction costs, taxes and emotional decision-making. We think we’re smarter than the market, better at picking winners and quicker to react. But in reality, all that “action” just racks up transaction costs and taxes, slowly but surely eating away at any potential gains. It’s like constantly re-arranging the furniture in your house to “optimize flow” but having to pay a moving crew every time. Eventually, you’ve spent more on movers than the house is worth.

The study’s findings suggest that overconfidence bias can lead to excessive trading, resulting in poor performance. This study aligns with what my friend experienced: a well-meaning, but ultimately costly attempt to “beat the market” through an active strategy turned into a lesson in the dangers of over-management.

 

The Case of the Dead Investors

And now, for the most delightfully morbid, yet profoundly wise, investing lesson of all: the infamous Fidelity Investments study. One of the more ironic investing insights comes from an internal Fidelity study. It found that the accounts with the best performance over a 10-year period (2003–2013) belonged to investors who were either dead or had forgotten they even had an account.

Yes, you read that right. The market’s titans weren’t hedge fund managers or hyperactive day traders. They were literally six feet under, or busy living their lives, oblivious to their brokerage statements being mailed to the wrong address.

Why this macabre success?

  • No Costs, No Taxes: When you’re deceased or forgetful, you’re not trading. No trading means no transaction fees and no short-term capital gains taxes. It’s the ultimate low-cost, tax-efficient strategy.
  • Pure Compounding Power: These “dead” or “distracted” investors inherently adopted a “buy and hold” approach. Their investments were left untouched, allowing the magic of compounding to work its uninterrupted wonders over years, sometimes decades.
  • Immunity to Emotional Myopia: The market is a rollercoaster of fear and greed. Active investors are constantly tempted to sell during downturns (fear!) or buy into speculative bubbles (greed!). Our deceased or forgetful friends, however, were immune to these pitfalls. They simply weren’t around (or aware) to panic sell or to chase fleeting trends.

These individuals succeeded not because of genius strategy, but precisely because they did nothing. They didn’t panic-sell during downturns. They didn’t chase the latest fads. They didn’t fiddle.

In other words, inaction became a strategy and it outperformed most investors who tried to time the market or tweak their portfolios into perfection.

Best Practices for Long-Term Investing

What can we learn from all this? These lessons highlight the importance of patience, discipline and low costs in investing. Whether you’re a seasoned investor or just getting started, here are some key takeaways to build the foundation of your investment strategy:

  • Costs matter. High fees and transaction costs are silent killers of long-term returns. Syphoning away just 1% of your return over ten years adds up to a loss of 10%. And with a fund that eats away a “negligible” 3% every year, thirty years later your losses are 2.3 times more than what your gains could have been.  That’s a difference of $100,000 on an initial $10,000 investment!
  • Time in the market beats timing the market. Chasing performance or predicting downturns rarely works. Resist the urge to constantly tinker with your portfolio. Frequent trading is a wealth destroyer. Avoid reacting to short-term market noise. Adopt a “buy and hold” mindset, making adjustments only when your financial goals or life circumstances fundamentally change. Think in decades, not days.
  • Diversify and simplify. Broad index funds are often more effective than complex actively managed fund structures. These funds offer broad diversification and lower fees compared to actively managed funds.
  • Don’t overlook behavior. Avoid excessive trading, which can lead to higher costs, taxes and poor performance. Investor psychology — fear, greed, impatience — is often the greatest risk to your portfolio.
  • Automate and Forget (Almost): Set up automatic contributions to your retirement accounts and investment vehicles. Then, periodically review your overall asset allocation (maybe once a year, or after significant life events), but avoid daily or weekly checking. The less you react to market noise, the better.

By embracing these principles, investors can increase their chances of success and achieve their long-term financial goals. As the evidence suggests, sometimes the best investment strategy is simply to adopt a hands-off approach and let time work in your favor.

 

The Path to Investment Serenity

My friend’s story is painful, but instructive. It is a cautionary tale that provides invaluable wisdom. In a time when simply being in the market would have meant strong gains, he paid the price, literally, for chasing complexity. In the world of the intricate financial landscape, sometimes the most genius move isn’t about outsmarting the market, but simply about getting out of its way.

Investing doesn’t have to be exciting to be effective. In fact, boring is often better. If you understand your strategy, keep your costs low and stay disciplined. The odds are already stacked in your favor. The market rewards patience, not performance-chasing. And sometimes the best action is no action at all.

Here’s to simple strategies, low fees and, perhaps, a touch of healthy neglect when it comes to your investments. Your future self (and potentially your beneficiaries) will thank you.

 

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Low Moon, Big Drama

Posted on June 10, 2025 by The Narrator

Every June the full moon rises over fields and forests and the world collectively swoons over the “Strawberry Moon”, a name that dates back to Algonquin tribes, who marked the ripening of wild strawberries with this particular lunar cycle. Normally, this moon is simply another bright sphere in the night sky, but in June 2025, it’s not just sweet. It’s cosmically rare.

It’s participating in one of the Moon’s rarest and most dramatic acts: a Major Lunar Standstill. Yes, that’s a real astronomical thing and not just a yoga pose or a 70s rock band. So, what’s really going on in the sky this June and why is this Strawberry Moon more than just your average fruit-flavored lunar treat?

The last time it happened was back in 2006. Miss it in 2025, and your next chance won’t come around until 2043. So grab your camera, clear your schedule and maybe practice saying “wow” dramatically, because the Moon is about to put on a serious show.

First, let’s start with the basics. Every June we get a “Strawberry Moon”, named not for its color, but for its timing, when wild strawberries ripen. But in 2025, this full Moon is also aligned with a cosmic event that’s about as rare as a unicorn moonwalking across the sky: a Major Lunar Standstill.

So what exactly is a Major Lunar Standstill? Let’s get a bit nerdy. The Moon’s orbit is tilted by about 5.1 degrees compared to Earth’s orbit around the Sun. That tilt, plus Earth’s own 23.5 degree lean, means the Moon doesn’t rise and set in the exact same spot every day. Over time, its path across the sky wobbles like a slowly tipping spinning top. From this you get a lunar drift that makes the Moon’s position in the sky vary across the month and year. Sometimes it rises farther north, sometimes farther south. Sometimes it takes a high arc across the sky and sometimes it drags its heels just above the horizon, like a teenager being asked to mow the lawn.

Now here’s where it gets interesting: over an 18.6-year cycle, the extremes of the Moon’s rising and setting points shift back and forth. The biggest swing, the major lunar standstill, is when the Moon reaches its furthest north and south positions on the horizon. In practical terms, it rises and sets in the most extreme parts of the sky and in June 2025, it will be at its lowest point in that cycle when the full moon rises.

When the Moon sits low on the horizon, our brains play a neat little trick called the Moon Illusion. Compared to objects like trees, houses or mountains on the horizon, the Moon appears enormous. It’s not actually bigger, just optically pumped up.

Combine that with the Strawberry Moon’s already gorgeous golden glow as it rises in June twilight and you’ve got yourself a celestial spectacle worth cancelling your Netflix night over.

And the next one? You’ll be older. Possibly wiser. This kind of extreme Moon won’t come back until 2043. By then, who knows where you’ll be? Maybe retired. Maybe with grandkids. Maybe living on the Moon (okay, maybe not). But one thing’s for sure: you won’t get another chance like this for almost two decades.

So this June, as the Moon rises low and large, take a moment to just stare. Share it with a friend. Snap a picture. Say something poetic. Or just whisper, “Good heavens, that’s a big Moon.”

Because it really, truly will be.

So, on June 10th (or whenever it’s peaking in your local time zone), find a spot with an unobstructed view of the horizon. Pack a picnic and prepare to witness a truly exceptional Strawberry Moon, a rare celestial ballet that’s putting on its lowest, largest performance in nearly twenty years. Don’t miss the Moon’s big “limbo” moment!

 

The Ballad of the Strawberry Moon

Oh, rise up slow, sweet lunar tune,
You berry-blushed and bashful Moon,
A low-hung lamp on twilight’s thread,
With cheeks of pink and dreams of red.

You skim the hills with glowing grace,
A ribbon tied ‘round evening’s face.
The fireflies hum, the crickets swoon,
It’s story time beneath the Moon.

No strawberry fields up in the sky,
Yet there you hang, so round and shy.
The farmers smile, the berries bloom,
For June has brought the Strawberry Moon.

The owls all hoot, the coyotes croon,
To welcome back their crescent boon.
But oh! this year, you’re extra sly,
You barely even scrape the sky!

A lunar standstill, so they say,
You crouch and creep and flirt with hay.
And through this rare, celestial tune,
You wink at Earth, a flirty Moon.

No spaceship ride, no high balloon,
Could bring us closer than this June.
So grab a quilt, go sit out soon,
And raise a toast to the Strawberry Moon.

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Posterior Pride: A Deep Dive in the Crack in the System

Posted on June 7, 2025 by The Narrator

Let’s be honest, folks. When that persistent “drip… drip… drip…” starts emanating from under your kitchen sink, a primal fear grips the soul. One minute you’re rinsing out your coffee mug, the next you’re knee-deep in an under-the-cabinet puddle, wondering what lurking creatures are about to exit your plumbing system. It’s the harbinger of watery doom, a tiny leak threatening to escalate into a full-blown indoor swimming pool. And who do we call in our hour of need? The noble plumber, the tried-and-true, battle-hardened, wrench-wielding wizard of the waterworks, that steadfast warrior against the relentless march of moisture.

These heroes of the home arrive with a toolbox that looks like it’s survived three apocalyptic world wars and an encyclopedic knowledge of joints and fittings. There’s a certain comfort in their expertise, isn’t there? The way they confidently saunter in, diagnose the issue, the practiced twist of their wrench, the almost magical way they can coax stubborn pipes into submission. You breathe a sigh of relief, knowing your aquatic anxieties are in capable hands.

But then… there it is. The phenomenon. The legend. The unmistakable flash of the cringeworthy plumber’s crack. Yes, the plumber’s crack. That iconic half-moon salute to chaos and craftsmanship. Part folklore, part fashion faux pas, 100% unavoidable. Some say it’s accidental. Others claim it’s a rite of passage. Many believe it’s a badge of honor. And their timing is always perfect. It’s like they have a sixth sense for precisely how much of their “plumbing expertise” they can reveal while working under the sink.

Is it a rite of passage? A bold declaration of “I’m a plumber, hear me roar”, although that’s not the common sound emanating from that end. Are they daring you to find out if they put on underwear that particular morning? Or is it just a side effect of years spent working in cramped, poorly lit spaces, where the only thing more abundant than pipe joints is questionable fashion sense?

Think about it, when was the last time you saw an electrician or a carpenter sporting a similar “look”? Never, right? But plumbers? It’s like they’re trying out for a role in a buddy cop movie: “Plumber in the Hood”.

Now, I’m not here to shame anyone’s anatomy. We’re all built differently and gravity is a relentless mistress. Let’s be honest, bending over a sink cabinet that was obviously designed for hobbits requires a level of contortion that rivals Olympic gymnasts. Something’s gotta give. And usually, it’s the waistband. But what is it with this seemingly ingrained aspect of the plumbing profession? Is it some sort of unspoken uniform? A secret handshake of the wrench-wielding elite? A subtle form of rebellion against the tyranny of belt loops?

You see it everywhere. Bending over to tighten a valve? Crack. Reaching deep into the abyss of your under-sink cabinet? Crack. Even just standing there, contemplating the labyrinth of pipes, there’s a distinct possibility of a rogue glimpse.

Is there a Plumbers’ Union meeting where they discuss optimal crack exposure? Do they get extra points for achieving maximum visibility? Is there a “Crack of the Month” award? I have so many questions and yet, I’m simultaneously terrified of the answers.

Let’s face it, there are belts. There are suspenders. Heck, there are entire overalls built to combat the crack epidemic. But ask any seasoned plumber and they’ll tell you, once you’re elbow-deep in rusted pipes and mystery gunk, dignity takes a backseat.

Perhaps it’s a purely practical matter. Belts can get in the way, restrict movement when contorting into those pretzel-like positions plumbers often find themselves in. Maybe it’s a subconscious way of aerating the lower back after hours spent in damp, confined spaces. Or perhaps, just perhaps, it’s a subtle reminder that even in the most serious of situations (like your kitchen slowly becoming a bog), there’s always room for a little… cheeky humor.

It’s clearly a cultural phenomenon. The plumber’s crack has been referenced in movies, cartoons and sitcoms. It’s even inspired Halloween costumes. Somewhere out there, someone probably has a bumper sticker that says “Respect the Crack”.

I’ve tried to understand. I’ve pondered the physics, the ergonomics, the very sociological implications of this ubiquitous sight. And you know what I’ve concluded? I have absolutely no idea. I simply can’t crack it.

But here’s the thing: despite the occasional unintentional peek at the plumber’s personal landscape, I’m still incredibly grateful for their skills. They brave the murky depths of our plumbing systems, wrestling with leaky faucets and clogged drains so we don’t have to. They are the unsung heroes of household maintenance.

So, to all the wonderful, experienced plumbers out there who have saved my sanity (and my flooring): thank you. Thank you for your expertise, your dedication and your ability to stop that infernal drip. And while we’re at it, maybe consider a slightly higher rise in those trousers? Just a thought. For the sake of personal plumbing aesthetics. And my slightly traumatized retinas.

And if all else fails and your gaze is drawn to that familiar flash, don’t recoil. Salute it. It means help has arrived, because let’s face it, all wisecracks aside, getting the grizzled veteran plumber to cover up might just be a pipedream.

Stay dry, folks! And maybe, just maybe, offer a belt as a tip.

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The Joy, the Sweat and the Suffering: A Cyclist’s Story

Posted on June 2, 2025 by The Narrator

There’s a unique kind of magic in the hum of tires on asphalt, the wind in your face and the rhythmic push and pull of pedals. For me, the bicycle has been a lifelong companion, a constant source of joy and challenge since my parents gifted me my very first fat-wheeled, training-wheeled equipped steed at the tender age of three. It handled more like a Tonka truck than a precision machine, but that early fascination, upgraded to a dirt bike-esque machine by age seven or eight, give me some serious neighborhood range. Eventually, when I could make my own decisions, I upgraded to a proper road bike. Sleek, fast and unforgiving, a bike that hums when you’re in the zone and tattles on you when you’re not.

I’m an avid bicyclist, not in the leisurely “let’s cruise through the park” kind of way, but in the “let’s spend a weekend riding 100 miles and call that fun” kind of way. In a good year, I am easily pushing past the 5,000-mile mark. That’s enough to pedal from New York to Los Angeles and still have the legs to swing back through Vegas for a snack. This commitment isn’t just about numbers. It’s about the sheer love of cycling, the feeling of freedom, the physical exertion and the mental clarity that only comes from hours spent on two wheels. It’s a connection to the environment, a rolling meditation and a constant test of endurance.

This year, however, has been a tougher ride than most, even before factoring in the miles. Between the relentless demands of work, the unpredictable call of search and rescue duties and the beautiful chaos of family life, time has been a precious commodity. And when I have found a sliver of free time, the weather hasn’t always been cooperative. Wind, rain and cold temperatures have conspired to keep the bike indoors when I wanted to be out.

But then, yesterday happened. It was a gran fondo opportunity and the call of the road was simply too strong to ignore. “Gran fondo” is a French-Italian blend that loosely translates to “big ride” and these events live up to their name. They are not your average Sunday loops around the neighborhood. They are endurance tests for the bicycling community. The smallest ones push riders to complete a metric century, 100 kilometers or 62 miles. But many fondi stretch far beyond that, challenging cyclists with distances of up to 150 miles, or more, enough to question your sanity, hydration and life choices all at once. The beauty of a fondo is that it’s rarely a race. The primary goal isn’t to beat others, but simply to finish the ride, to conquer the distance and the elements and to prove your own resilience, mostly to yourself. My personal best season was a few years back when I completed a dozen fondi in a single year, each one a testament to personal grit and the camaraderie of the road with its own flavors of suffering, triumph and scenic glory. They’re the Tour de Personal Growth.

Yesterday’s fondo started out idyllic. The morning air was crisp, temperatures hovering comfortably in the 60s, with barely a whisper of wind. It was the kind of perfect start that makes you fall in love with cycling all over again. But as the day wore on, Mother Nature decided to turn up the dial. The winds picked up and with them, the temperatures soared. My trusty bicycle computer, a silent witness to the ordeal, logged an average temperature of 91 degrees, with a brutal peak of 109 degrees Fahrenheit. That’s not “warm”. That’s “bake a lasagna on your handlebars” hot. Riding in that kind of heat feels less like a hobby and more like a crazy dare.

Riding in conditions like that transforms the experience entirely. It’s no longer about gliding effortlessly. It becomes a raw battle against the elements. A hot wind, blasting like a furnace, makes every pedal stroke a monumental effort, sucking the joy out of the ride and replacing it with a relentless, dehydrating assault. It’s why you start to see riders pull over, seeking shade, or simply calling it a day when they stop at aid stations. And then there’s me, stubborn as ever, grinding away under a furnace blast like a Tour de France competitor on day 19 of a desert stage. Conditions like those are profoundly unfriendly, pushing the human body to its absolute limits.

Despite the escalating discomfort, I managed to finish the ride. I crossed that invisible line of completion, but not without paying a price. I probably checked off every symptom of heat exhaustion on WebMD along the way. The aftermath was telling: I guzzled three liters of ice-cold water, like a man who’d just survived the Sahara, a desperate attempt to rehydrate and cool my core. And in a rare, departure from my usual dietary discipline, I devoured a pint of ice cream. I’m not anti-ice cream by any means, but rarely do I consume that much in one sitting. Desperate times call for creamy reinforcements. This time, it was less about indulgence and more about survival, a delicious and essential intervention to bring my core temperature down.

A good fondo, even in normal conditions, can easily burn three days’ worth of calories, if not more, so the caloric intake wasn’t the issue. In fact, any potential caloric guilt was conveniently left behind at least a dozen miles short of the finish line. Even after all that fluid and ice cream, my weight was still down 6% from the day before. That’s not “I lost a little water weight”. That is dehydration with a vengeance, pure and simple, and a stark confirmation of the heat exhaustion theory.

My experience yesterday underscores a critical message for anyone exercising, especially in extreme conditions: get out there and exercise, but always, always manage your body’s response to the environment. Listen to its signals. Hydrate intelligently. And whatever you do, please, don’t use me as a benchmark for anything! Especially not when it’s 109 degrees out. I do search and rescue as a hobby. I’ve pulled plenty of exhausted, dehydrated, heat stressed individuals from all sorts of environments. I can see our medical lead looking me in the eyes, saying, “you know better than that, you idiot!”

Cycling has been with me longer than most friendships and it taught me more about persistence, patience and porta-potties than I care to admit. I love it. I live it. I hurt myself for it. And somehow, I come back smiling. My dedication to the saddle might sometimes override common sense, a testament to the deep love I have for this sport, but not necessarily a wise example to follow. The open road, whether bathed in golden sunlight or blistering under a scorching sun, continues to call and as long as it does, I’ll keep answering, learning and sharing the wild, wonderful and sometimes utterly insane journey of an avid bicyclist.

 

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Reflections on National Search and Rescue Week

Posted on May 19, 2025 by The Narrator

In 2010, the U.S. Senate designated the week leading up to Memorial Day weekend as National Search and Rescue Week. It’s a time meant to honor and recognize the tireless, often invisible work of search and rescue professionals and volunteers across the country. From deep wilderness recoveries to urban searches, search and rescue teams quietly and skillfully step in when lives hang in the balance.

For many, the image of search and rescue might conjure dramatic helicopter footage or news reports of daring wilderness rescues. While these scenarios certainly exist, the reality is often more grounded, more arduous and relies heavily on the tireless efforts of everyday citizens who volunteer their time, skills and often their own resources.

This year, National Search and Rescue Week (May 16 through May 22) hit with particular resonance for my team, because instead of slowing down to reflect, we found ourselves in the thick of back-to-back missions that reminded us exactly why we do what we do.

Our first callout was for a missing fourth grader who hadn’t come home from school. What began as a localized search quickly turned into an eighteen-hour, multi-agency operation spanning over a dozen square miles in the urban and urban-wilderness interface, a landscape far more challenging to navigate than one might imagine. Mutual aid came in from neighboring counties. Law enforcement coordinated logistics. Search and rescue volunteers, many of whom had just finished a full day’s work, stayed on their feet for over thirty hours straight. The end result? A successful find and one very relieved family.

After a couple hours of sleep and a fresh cup of coffee (maybe two), the second call came in: tornadoes. Three of them. Touching down in the rural reaches of our county, they tore through fields, homes and small communities. Our mission shifted from search to damage assessment. We rolled out alongside fire departments and emergency management crews, working systematically to identify hazardous areas and determine where we were needed most. This time, thanks to effective reverse-911 systems and emergency preparedness, no lives were lost. A small mercy.

These kinds of weeks are exhausting, humbling and rewarding and why search and rescue volunteers exist. We don’t do it for recognition or accolades. We do it because someone has to. Because when the unthinkable happens, someone has to show up, whether it’s 2 AM, raining sideways or 105 degrees in the shade.

The importance of volunteer search and rescue cannot be overstated. We provide a critical lifeline in situations where time is of the essence and specialized skills are required. We augment the capabilities of paid emergency services, often possessing unique expertise in areas like wilderness navigation, tracking, technical rescue and search management. Our local knowledge and community ties are invaluable assets in understanding the terrain and the potential whereabouts of those missing.

The dedication is immense. Volunteers invest countless hours in training, maintaining equipment and responding to missions, often at personal cost. The emotional toll can be significant, bearing witness to human vulnerability and the anxieties of those in crisis. Yet, we continue to answer the call, driven by a profound sense of responsibility and the immense satisfaction of a successful rescue.

But that doesn’t mean we don’t appreciate the designation of National Search and Rescue Week. It’s a moment to pause (if we’re lucky), maybe fire up the grill and enjoy some quiet time with our families, who sacrifice along with us. It’s a chance to reflect on missions past, prepare for missions ahead and most importantly, urge others to be prepared.

If you’d like to honor search and rescue volunteers this week, here’s the best way:

  • Let someone know where you’re going when you head out.
  • Take the ten essentials on every outdoor trip.
  • Keep your phone charged, with offline maps downloaded.
  • Respect weather forecasts and trail warnings.
  • And if you ever do need help, stay put and stay calm. We’ll come find you.

Here’s to a quiet week, a restful Memorial Day and a safe summer for all. We’re here 24/7, ready to go. But we’d be happy not to see you out in the field.

Stay safe out there.

 

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The Sin of Mixed Roots: When Latin and Greek Walk into a Word

Posted on May 16, 2025 by The Narrator

Let me start by saying I don’t judge people for the choices they make in life.  Love who you want, as long as everyone’s consenting and no one’s getting hurt, but if you’re going to go all-in on a lifestyle, please don’t go halfway on the language.

Case in point: many years ago, a friend and his significant other joined the polyamory community.  More power to them, but “polyamory” — a word that tries to be sexy, inclusive and open — instead gave me mild lexical whiplash.  Poly is Greek.  Amory is Latin.  That’s linguistic bed-hopping.  If we’re going to be open, let’s be honest, you can’t just pick roots from different ancient civilizations and pretend like the word doesn’t have commitment issues.

If you want to go all Greek: Polyphilia.  Elegant.  Nerdy.  Socratic.  All Latin?  Try Multiamore.  Sounds like a perfume or a decadent Roman holiday.  Either way, at least the roots aren’t arguing about syntax behind your back.

The Dire Wolf: Even Scientists Aren’t Innocent

This root salad came bubbling back to the surface when I was writing about the de-extinction of the dire wolf.  Yes, that’s a real thing and you can read about it here.  No, they don’t look like the ones from Game of Thrones.  Those were more fantasy bear-dogs than anything else.

But here’s the kicker: the dire wolf’s scientific name is Aenocyon dirus.  Let’s unpack that:

  • Aenocyon comes from Greek ainós (dreadful) and kyōn (dog).
  • Dirus is straight-up Latin for “fearsome”.

We get it.  It’s scary.  But you’ve just created a chimera of roots — a mutt, if you will — that would make both Homer and Virgil roll over in their respective graves.  In different city-states.

Other Crimes Against Etymology

This kind of root-mixing happens all the time and somehow we’ve allowed it to slide like mismatched socks at a toga party.

  • Television = Greek tele (far) + Latin vision (seeing).
    Why not teleopsis?  Or longascope?  (Okay, maybe not that last one.  That sounds like a painful Victorian medical device.)
  • Automobile = Greek auto (self) + Latin mobilis (movable).
    You’re literally driving a linguistic contradiction every day.
  • Homosexual = Greek homo (same) + Latin sexualis (pertaining to sex).
    A classic case of a mismatched couple and one that never filed for etymological marriage counseling.
  • Sociology = French soci (social) + Greek logy (study).
    A textbook example of a Franco-Hellenic hybrid, the poster child for linguistic indecision.
  • Biotechnology = Greek bios (life) + Latin tekhne (art or craft or practical skill) + Greek logy (study).
    Because nothing says “cutting-edge science” like a Greco-Roman-Greco identity crisis, proof that mixing ancient languages can still mess with modern genetics.

But… Why Do We Do This?

Because we’re lazy.  And flexible.  And English is a Frankenstein language that long ago gave up on consistency in favor of creativity.  It’s the magpie of tongues, borrowing shiny bits from Greek, Latin, French, German and whatever else it found lying around in the linguistic yard sale.

Let’s be honest: nobody wants to say “multiamorous relationship”.  It sounds like a medieval medical condition.  And polyphilia?  That might get you flagged on a search filter.

So we shrug, say “meh”, and keep using our Greek-Latin smoothies.  Does it make purists twitch?  Yes.  Does anyone else care?  Not really.  And that’s probably okay.  Unless you’re a purist, that is.  That might be therapy that I need.

Final Thoughts from the Word Police

The next time you’re inventing a new identity, a new creature or a new tech startup (looking at you, Theranos), spare a thought for your ancient linguistic ancestors.  They conquered empires, wrote epic poems and categorized plants with surgical precision.  They deserve better than a mashup menu of etymological fast food.  Let’s be mindful of our language and respect the roots of our words.  Whether you’re a scientist, a linguist or simply a word enthusiast, we can all do our part to preserve the sanctity of language.

If you must mix roots, at least be bold about it.  Own it.  Call it Greco-Latin fusion, like tapas with a side of tzatziki.  But don’t pretend it’s pure.

Bonus hybrid

Remember, the dire wolf might be coming back, but the sanctity of classical languages?  That bus sailed when someone named their Wi-Fi “Wīrlēas Fides”.

Wi-Fi is short for Wireless Fidelity, which in itself is a horrible linguistic mess.  Old English wīr, of Germanic origin, probably from the base of Latin viere, meaning ‘plait’ or ‘weave’ + the English suffix “-less” meaning “without” or “lacking”, stemming from Old English “-lēas”, which meant “free from” + late Middle English “fidelity” from Old French fidelite or Latin fidelitas, from fidelis ‘faithful’, from fides ‘faith’.  So really, your Wi-Fi is “Plait Lacking Faith”.

Language is hard.  Please don’t make it any more difficult than it needs to be.

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Mom: The Friend You Never Knew You Needed (Until You Grew Up)

Posted on May 11, 2025 by The Narrator

There’s something almost magical about reaching a point in life where you can sit across from your mom, coffee in hand, and just talk. Not about chores or curfews or why your laundry always smells like gym socks, but about life. Real, grown-up, beautiful, messy life.

I’m lucky enough to still have my mother around. That’s not something I take for granted, especially when I see so many friends my age who have already lost theirs. Mother’s Day brings a lot of emotions, but one that keeps bubbling to the top for me is gratitude. Deep, heartfelt gratitude. Because somewhere along the way, between scraped knees and teenage eye rolls, my mom became my friend.

Now don’t get me wrong, she’ll always be Mom. She still worries if I’ve eaten and yes, she still thinks I should bring a sweater just in case. But these days, we talk like adults. We share stories. We laugh, hard. We offer each other advice, vent frustrations and even swap book recommendations. Somehow, she’s gone from rule-enforcer to trusted confidante and honestly, she’s better at both than I ever gave her credit for.

Having your mom as your friend doesn’t mean the relationship loses its depth or sacredness. If anything, it grows stronger. It means you’ve lived enough life to finally understand hers a little better. It means you can appreciate her not just for what she did for you, but for who she is: a whole person with dreams, heartbreaks, quirks and wisdom.

So this Mother’s Day, I’m not just grateful for the woman who raised me, I’m grateful for the woman who gets me, the one who listens when I ramble, texts me memes and still manages to find the exact words I need to hear. Not everyone gets to experience that evolution, but I do. And that’s the best gift I could ever ask for.

Happy Mother’s Day, Mom. Thanks for being the first friend I ever had and somehow, still the best one.

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