Pool Shark

Mondays are hard enough as it is. But I make the day harder by doing deadlifts on Mondays. I PR'd today: 160 pounds x 3 reps. Last summer, I lifted 160 pounds once, finally out-lifting Adele -- a goal I'd had almost since I'd started weight training. Next week, I'll test my 1RM (one rep max) again, and I'm pretty confident I can hit 170 or 175.

Sometimes lifters try to argue that these hard and heavy lifts count as cardio. No doubt, one's heartrate can really surge while pulling more than one's weight up off the floor (or conversely, squatting with more than one's weight on one's back, then trying to stand up with it again). But it's not really enough of a sustained stress on the cardiovascular system to "count" as cardio. Indeed, a pounding heart and a shortness of breath are probably indicators that one needs to do more cardio.

After lifting today, I got in the pool for some laps. I'm back to swimming twice a week for the summer months. The cool water feels glorious, particularly as the temperatures hit 100 here in NYC. Less relaxing, however, was to have to share the lane with someone I've idolized for the past thirty years or so, to have to stay cool as New Yorkers -- unlike everyone elsewhere -- rarely freak out over celebrities. Celebrity sightings are just too commonplace. But less commonplace is sharing a lane for lap swim with Judith Butler, and I spent the whole 45 minutes obsessing in my head, worried I was going to kick them with my breaststroke, trying to decide if I should pause at the edge and let them go ahead -- you know, defer to my elder -- or if I was going to charge onward as, LOL, I'm younger and fitter and faster. (I googled -- younger by 15 years.)

"You changed my life," I would have said to Judith Butler, if I'd have felt like interrupting their swim. (How rude. How exhausting for them too, to not even be able to go to the gym without being fawned over or fought with.)

"You changed my life" -- that was the mantra repeated Saturday evening at AncestorsFest, the retirement party for Sam Freedman, a professor at the Columbia School of Journalism and surely one of the greatest teachers I've ever had. Sam has taught the infamous "book-writing" class since 1992 -- taught it to almost 700 students, with over 100 of us having gotten book contracts as a direct result (and even more, no doubt, as an indirect result).

It was a deeply moving event -- so much love in the room for Sam, such testimonials of decades of a shared struggle with writing, reading, and of course, Sam's copious line edits. It was deeply moving because I haven't seen anyone from my particular class -- including Sam -- since we wrapped in the Spring of 2018. I haven't seen any of them since my book came out, since Isaiah died. But as I've been spending so much time (again) thinking about this ill-fated attempt to replace teachers with machines, to replace writers with machines, it was particularly poignant to hear people talk about the immense difference a teacher makes. Sam has high standards, but he believes so deeply in your ability to meet those standards, you stretch yourself to do so. You work hard, and he won't let you fail. Being in that room at the J School with all the writers, all Sam's students, all the class Ancestors -- published authors or not -- gave me confidence about working on the next book, something that I sorely need.

I'm starting to write essays for Monday's Second Breakfast missive that are exploring some of the big deals I think are book-worthy. Today, for example, I jotted down ideas around the "machinery of feedback" -- how these machine metaphors shape how we interact with one another as teachers and students. But the Friday newsletter, in which I review the week's news, is full of spit and vinegar, hellfire and brimstone, no surprise, as things in the world -- and not just in the world of AI and education fuckery -- are so grim (and AI's advocates, so glib).

On Wednesday, I had to leave the gym early to go rescue Kin and Poppy, who had a flat tire on their way into the park for their daily ride. Kin's newsletter barely begins to capture the real joy those two have during their adventures.

On Wednesday afternoon, we took Poppy to the vet for her annual rabies shot. The vet gave us some anti-tick medication to put on her before we head up to Maine this week.

I'm excited to see family, but I've become so committed to "the routine" of our daily lives. I know it gives me some false sense of security after Isaiah's death -- some notion that I can control things, when obviously I cannot. So I type as I hear the news that Iran has fired missiles at a US base in Qatar.

Everything is fragile or fucked, it seems.

I've had my nose in novel after novel after novel the past few days, as non-fiction is tough to think through with bombs falling. I've also been sucked into the drama of The Pitt -- I am listening to No More Tears: The Dark Secrets of Johnson & Johnson on audiobook, and thinking a lot about the similarities between the pharmaceutical industry and the tech sector and how my god, capitalism must be destroyed. Also, probably, psychology.

In a follow-up thought to a newsletter from a week or so ago: I've decided I do not like the AppleTV adaptation of MurderBot.

I did like dining out this past week, and I think I'm moving back into the "ugh, I'm not cooking" stage of existence: Burger League at Leon's, a new-to-us Italian restaurant where we had a delicious lamb burger. We had breakfast burritos at Los Tacos No. 1. And last night, we make the spur-of-the-moment decision to try a new sushi place in the neighborhood: Omakase by Kun Tsuki. A bargain at $85 for an 18 course meal, but one of those "here is a ton of food served very quickly so you can make it to your Broadway show in time" sorts of things that feels weird when you're a local, not a tourist. Sitting at the bar next to us was a tourist who was very loud in her drunken enthusiasm for the fish. If I had to guess what play she was seeing, I'd say Good Night and Good Luck -- a George Clooney fan for sure.