“The Heart of a Swimmer vs. the Heart of a Runner,” read the headline.
Here we go, I thought, clicking on a recent New York Times article by Gretchen Reynolds. When you’re a runner, as I fancy myself to be, you grow accustomed to people scolding you about how awful the activity is.
Hard on the knees and joints. Too much pounding. Increased risk of heart attack for those just starting. Too much exposure to the sun.
These same people tout the advantages of cycling and swimming, even when I tell them I find cycling too inconvenient and that I sink whenever I come into contact with water. (At least I’m not a witch.)
So I was prepared for Reynolds’ article to be more of the same, an excoriation of my hobby based on some egghead’s idea of hard science. Surely, thought I, the heart of a runner has been found to be deficient, just as his knees and joints are.
And then I had an epiphany, just as the article opened on my screen and I was starting to read, already disgruntled by what I was certain would be there. My revelation was this: I was biased against information that I hadn’t even read yet.
I had identified a personal prejudice, some weird kissing cousin of confirmation bias, where people seek out only information that supports what they already believe. In my case, I was discounting information out of hand because I was preemptively certain it would contradict me.
Suddenly aware of this glitch in my thinking, I monitored my reading and reactions carefully. The article began with an acknowledgement that the hearts of both elite runners and swimmers were more efficient than the hearts of sedentary people. Okay so far, I thought.
Reynolds proceeded to note how a recent study had found “interesting if small differences” in the left ventricles of swimmers vs. runners. My inner eye rolled in anticipation, even as a more objective part of myself noted the cynicism and lack of objectivity I was demonstrating.
Surprisingly, however, the article found that the left ventricles of runners were more efficient than swimmers’, likely because running is performed vertically, while swimming is done horizontally. A runner’s left ventricle, then, must battle gravity to move blood back to the heart, which means that it becomes stronger and more efficient than a swimmer’s.
Reynolds even noted that it might behoove swimmers to add some running to their regular workouts.
As I read, I could feel my mental defenses lowering, allowing me to become more accepting. The science agreed with me, so it must be right, something I was far less willing to concede when I thought the research would go against me.
The scientific bottom line is that both elite swimmers and runners have cardiovascular advantages over people who don’t exercise. Researchers hope that the same is true for those of us who are far less elite participants.
More compelling for me, however, was the cognitive bottom line — how quickly I was ready to deep-six information based on a cognitive bias.
Cognitive bias helps to explain how so many people can be snared by fake news. Those who are absolutely certain, for example, that human-influenced climate change is a hoax will be more likely to write off even the most compelling evidence that it is real and to hang on every word of less authoritative sources. Likewise, parents who believe vaccinations cause autism will cling to anecdotal “evidence” in the face of overwhelming consensus from the scientific community that no such link exists. Supporters and detractors of President Trump will continue to fortify themselves behind their respective walls built by right- or left-leaning news organizations of dubious reputations.
And for readers who believe they are exempt from such fallibility, there is a name for this misconception, too — a bias blindspot.
The implications for vigorous and healthy debate aren’t good. We may smile and nod when presented with alternative viewpoints because we’ve been taught to be polite, yet we internally consign such information to the cerebral dustbin, even as we fancy ourselves as open-minded.
Trying to dissuade anybody of a deeply held belief in the course of a 750-word column or even a two-hour debate is asking too much. Maybe the best we can hope for when talking with somebody whose views are diametrically opposed to our own is to move the needle of their belief ever so slightly, to have them at least entertain the possibility that some small part of what we say has merit.
Think of it as swimming against the tide or running uphill — difficult to do, but worth it for our health.
chris.schillig@yahoo.com
@cschillig on Twitter
Edward Abbey must be turning over in his grave following the newest announcement regarding national parks — even if almost nobody knows where he is buried.
Abbey was an old-school naturalist whose book, “Desert Solitaire,” ranks as a contemporary “Walden.” In its pages, he extols the beauty of the natural world and argues passionately for its preservation.
He likely would be unhappy with last week’s announcement by the National Park Service, expanding the use of electric bicycles in the country’s 419 national parks. The bikes, some of which can travel at speeds of 28 mph, will now be allowed along any trails where regular, foot-powered bicycles are used.
The decision was lauded by advocates for the elderly, the disabled and the physically unfit, who say the bikes will allow visitors in these groups better access to taxpayer-funded parks. The bikes are also better for the environment than cars and motorcycles.
But many other groups are crying foul, advocating for e-bikes to remain only on designated trails for reasons of safety and aesthetics.
Without a doubt, slower-moving hikers coming into contact with e-cyclists moving at three times their speed could result in injuries to both parties. And the bikes, which emit a low, humming sound, will be a source of noise pollution for people attempting to escape the modern world.
Yet the inexorable forces of “industrial tourism” appear poised to win out.
Abbey, who died in 1989 and who was buried secretly by friends in a desert west of Tucson, loathed such “progress.” To him, industrial tourism referred to all the little — and big — amenities that encroach on man’s attempt to get back in touch with nature. These include paved roads, hotels, restaurants and convenience stores in and around national parks to cater to visitors in their “back-breaking upholstered mechanized wheelchairs,” Abbey-speak for automobiles.
He claimed that industrial tourism threatened the nation’s national park system by changing the fundamental nature of ... well, nature. But he also thought industrial tourism robbed tourists themselves by making it impossible for them to actually escape their “urban-suburban complexes.”
He was also critical of marathon visitors whose goal is to cram visits to as many parks as possible into a two-week vacation, believing they would be better served to slow down and savor one or two locations, exploring them by foot and, yes, by bicycle.
But he didn’t envision the advent and quick proliferation of the e-bicycle industry, which has fought hard for the recent rule change for reasons of shareholder self-interest.
Abbey was no ingenue, at peace among the trees and unaware of market forces. He recognized the inevitability of big money corrupting our parks system and applying the same pressures there as it has in all other facets of local, state and national legislation. Advocates of industrial tourism, he wrote, “look into red canyons and see only green, stand among flowers snorting out the smell of money, and hear, while thunderstorms rumble over mountains, the fall of a dollar bill on motel carpeting.”
Abbey argued for no more cars and no new roads in national parks, and for allowing park rangers to get back to the serious work of policing and educating the public about our natural heritage. Recent rollbacks in environmental policies, of which this recent e-bicycle decision is but one small reminder, would have appalled him.
Appalled, but not surprised.
All the way back in 1967, in the introduction to “Desert Solitaire,” he noted that the book should not inspire readers to seek out the scenes of natural beauty that he described so lovingly, because they were already gone or going away. The book, he wrote, was “not a travel guide but an elegy. A memorial. You’re holding a tombstone in your hands. A bloody rock. Don’t drop it on your foot — throw it at something big and glassy.”
Today, that observation seems more prophetic than ever, as we whizz along trails on our electric bikes and bring more and more of what we seek to leave behind with us when we commune with nature.
Nowhere, it seems, is immune to the clarion call of cash.
Call it the longest kiss in the history of pop culture: It started in 2010 and continues today.
The liplock between Hulkling and Wiccan, two characters in “Avengers: The Children’s Crusade,” originally was published by Marvel Comics in magazine form nine years ago. It was reprinted in the collected edition of the series in 2017.
But only last week did the smooch really start to turn heads.
Hulkling and Wiccan are both male, a fact that so concerned Marcelo Crivella, the mayor of Rio de Janeiro, that he ordered law enforcement agents to seize all copies of the collection from the city’s International Book Fair. The raid was a bust, however, since all copies were purchased by buyers ahead of the raid, likely in anticipation of how much the book would sell for on the secondary market now that it had been targeted.
Crivella is also a preacher, and he believes books like this “need to be packaged in black plastic and sealed” before purchase, making him the latest in a long series of misguided people who believe that just because something offends them personally it must be hidden away from view or restricted for the rest of the world.
Now the situation is worming its way through the Brazilian court system, with one judge ruling that Crivella could not seize books in the future or revoke the book fair’s permit, and another judge ruling that he could, according to the New York Times.
The situation is worth noting here in the United States, where similar attempts to restrict content are more common than readers might think. Later this month, the American Library Association will mark Banned Books Week, an annual effort to spotlight First Amendment rights of Americans to read what we want without censorship.
Many censorship attempts occur in public school libraries, where parents will protest the inclusion of particular books and request or demand their removal or restriction. Some school administrators and school boards, eager to head off bad publicity, will accede. When they do, the book has been banned. When they do not, the book has been challenged, based on the ALA’s definitions.
Hence, some readers found their right to read the following books jeopardized in 2018: “The Hate U Give” by Angie Thomas, seen as too negative toward police officers; the “Captain Underpants” series by Dav Pilkey, too encouraging of disruptive behaviors; and “Thirteen Reasons Why” by Jay Asher, too focused on teen suicides.
But far and away the No. 1 reason for the top books on the list to be challenged is the inclusion of Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual, Transgender, Queer, Intersex and Asexual themes. LGBTQIA+ was cited in five of the top 11 most-challenged books last year.
Let’s be clear: Parents have the absolute right to restrict their own children’s access to any books, movies, or online content they find offensive. What they don’t have the right to do is to restrict other parents’ children from accessing those materials.
And censorship is that slipperiest of slopes: Once you start down the path of determining what is offensive to a community, it’s hard to know where to stop. One person’s vulgarity is another’s realistic depiction of life. The drawing of lines needs to extend no further than the door to each person’s home.
And a few points to keep in mind about Mayor Crivella’s attempts:
To my knowledge, no pop-culture depiction of two same-sex characters kissing ever made a reader gay. It might have made him or her aware that other people are gay, or that it’s acceptable in most social circles in 2019 to be gay, and that people shouldn’t judge other people for being gay, but it never made a heterosexual person say, “I think I’ll be that.”
Secondly, when you call attention to an alleged problem, be sure you’re ready to accept the unintended consequences. In this case, I’m sure Marvel Comics will be happy to accommodate readers who want to see what all the fuss is about by going back to press on a nine-year-old story.
And so the long kiss continues.
chris.schillig@yahoo.com
@cschillig on Twitter
You know you’re getting old when most of your conversations about landmarks and destinations include the word “old.”
Like, when our cat got sick over the weekend and my wife and I had to take it to an emergency veterinarian a few cities over. The vet was located in the old Outback Steakhouse, next to the old Circuit City, just down the street from the old Best Buy.
Or last weekend, when we went to eat at A-Town Burgers and Brews, which I told friends is in the old Wally Armour budget lot, which is the old Waaa Daa Hot Dog Shoppe, which is the old Denny’s.
Speaking of Waaa Daa, which I looked up because I couldn’t remember if “Waaa” had two a’s or three — there is no limit to the lengths I will go to ensure this column is accurate, I tell ya — I was reminded that the plastic hot dog that once adorned the roof was moved out of storage in 2016 and taken to LeSage, West Virginia.
There, it has been put to good use, or maybe just use, at an establishment called Hillbilly Hotdogs. I have been told that this fine-dining emporium has been frequented by at least one prominent Alliance citizen in recent months, who traveled there by motorcycle only to learn that no matter how much you dress up a hot dog, it’s still just a hot dog.
By the way, in The Review blurb about the plastic weiner’s transfer, “Waaa Daa” was spelled “Waada,” so even at this late juncture, some controversy remains about the ill-fated shop. Or shoppe.
But, back to “old.”
If you’ve been around town, any town, long enough, lots of stuff can be described by what used to be there. Downtown Alliance is a good example. Various buildings there have been home to other ventures, sometimes two or three.
A church now resides in the former Sears building. A secondhand store now makes its home in the old Kidding’s Automotive store. And a flea market is in the old Grimm’s Furniture Store, which was the old Murphy’s, which was probably a few other old things before that, too.
This isn’t surprising. Businesses go where people are, and people are notoriously mobile. So when traffic patterns shift, businesses follow, leaving a lot of old in their wake. And most of that old is old-timers like me who remember where stuff used to be and find it easier to talk about ill-fated ventures that exist now only in our minds.
And into our minds are where businesses have been moving for the last 20 years or so, following a migration of consumers from physical buildings into cyberspace, where they shop from home and have it all delivered, or go no further than a business’s parking lot, where employees load it directly into the car.
Welcome to the era of Grubhub, Doordash, Walmart Grocery Pickup, and Amazon. No rubbing elbows with our neighbors. No serendipitous encounters in aisle seven. Just our own homemade bubbles to contain our homemade realities.
It’s enough to make a body feel ... well, old.
But that’s pretty heavy stuff. To recap the lighter messages, then:
Hot dogs are just hot dogs, even when handcrafted by hillbillies.
Waaa Daa — three a’s, then two.
A-Town Burgers and Brews — worth a visit.
And the cat’s just fine. Thanks for asking.
chris.schillig@yahoo.com
@cschillig on Twitter
English teachers, rejoice! Sonnets finally are headline news!
Last week, Ken Cuccinelli, the acting director of U.S. Citizenship and Immigration Services, offered his interpretation of a key passage from “The New Colossus,” the 14-line poem by Emma Lazarus carved on a plaque at the base of the Statue of Liberty.
(As an aside, have you ever noticed how many folks in this administration are “acting”?)
To Cuccinelli, the term “teeming masses” refers only to European people, which was his odd way of defending the latest round of restrictions this regime wants to impose on immigrants. Basically, if they can’t stand on their own and can’t survive without the help of any form of public assistance, ever, they can say goodbye to their green cards.
The policy proposal prompted me to seek out Lazarus’ original sonnet and make some updates for a new century and a new sheriff in town. Of course, the amendations (in brackets) will require changing the likeness of the statue. I trust it won’t be hard to guess the new image that should greet visitors to our shores. If anybody’s ego is worthy of a giant statue, it’s his.
***
Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame
[but more like the gaudy casinos emblazoned with the family name],
With conquering limbs astride from land to land
[And Cheeto-orange skin and fly-away hair at hand];
Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates [forget the gates, gimme a Big Beautiful Wall, paid for by diverted military funds ... I mean, by Mexico] shall stand
A mighty woman [let’s make it a man, one with off-the-rack suits and too-long ties]
with a torch [and a flame-thrower, and a big big big machine gun with the NRA logo emblazoned on the side], whose flame
Is the imprisoned [because the poorer you are, the more we like to imprison] lightning, and her [his] name
Mother of Exiles [Father of Outrageous Tweets]. From her [his] beacon-hand
Glows world-wide welcome [or scorn, especially if you’re from one of those ”(expletive)hole” countries]; her [his] mild [yet strong, powerful, healthy and virile] eyes command
The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame.
“Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!” cries she [he] [but really, we’d rather have your light-skinned, wealthy European storied pomp, especially if you are a really hot, blonde immigrant who likes older men — va va voom!]
With silent lips. “Give me your tired [but not too tired for all the jobs that nobody already living here doesn’t want], your poor [but not poor enough to qualify for public assistance, and if you do qualify, you’d better not ask even if your kids are hungry or sick or whatevs, cuz we’ll tell you and them to go back where you came from, even if you came from here],
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free [and, thanks to environmental-regulation rollbacks, to breathe smog, exhaust and other carcinogens too — but don’t you dare complain because we’ll boot you out faster a lefty, antifa protestor at an election rally, don’tcha know],
The wretched refuse [we prefer only aliens ... I mean, immigrants who win, of course] of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless [and vermin, invaders, and rapists — don’t bother], tempest-tost to me [what’s a tempest, anyway, and is “tost” what I have for breakfast along with leftover KFC while setting foreign policy based on Fox and Friends?],
I lift my lamp [and my crowd numbers and my Electoral College numbers, both bigger than anybody else’s — numbers, I have the biggest numbers, I really do] beside the golden door!”
***
Granted, these new words take away most of the poem’s beauty and lyricism, not to mention a guiding principle under which many people first came to this country, but one could argue that 45 has all but eliminated beauty and lyricism from public discourse, anyway. Besides, all that sentimental slop is for losers.
Don’t like the revisions? Well, that’s a problem, because the original words don’t apply to anything going on with immigration policy proposals today.
Better just to tear down the statue and put up a 151-foot STOP sign. In English only, of course, because we only speak American here.
chris.schillig@yahoo.com
@cschillig on Twitter
Did you enjoy your high school years?
A former classmate asked this on Facebook a few weeks ago, and I’ve been thinking about it on and off ever since. This has been challenging because my high school memories are growing fuzzy, like a picture viewed through a frame covered in decades of dust.
What I do remember is that I approached school like a job, which sounds harsher than I intend because I like working. Work gives people purpose. So if school was my job, then I enjoyed going there, showing up every day, being a good employee and doing the assigned tasks. Like many workers, I goofed off sometimes and was written up occasionally, but for the most part, I was probably considered eligible for rehire.
I had friends in high school, took some good and not-so-good classes, made memories of both the smiling and cringing varieties, and experienced the four years without much fanfare. (College felt much the same way.)
American society has fetishized school in general and high school in particular through a series of sitcoms, movies and comic books designed to make those years more significant than they already are. “Happy Days,” “American Graffiti,” “The Blackboard Jungle,” “Archie,” and dozens (hundreds?) more have entrenched high school into pop-culture parlance — the jocks, nerds, mean girls, greasers, goths and preps. Everybody had a role to play and a place to play it, be it the science classroom, study hall, Big Game or Big Dance. The really scary kids acted out their roles in the bathrooms or the alley out back, of course, but they too are part of the popular conception of high school.
Most comedy or drama results from people stepping outside their comfort zones, so a jock interacting with a goth in the hallway or a mean girl partnering with a nerd for the science fair is a source of numerous angsty conversations or witty one-liners, depending on the genre. How much this happens in real life is the subject of some debate, especially if those roles are exaggerated anyway.
One unintended consequence of all this media attention is to super-size many teens’ expectations for high school, making those eight semesters the Mount Everest of existence before they’ve even had a chance to experience them. To have a great high school career is to have a great life, and if every moment isn’t absolutely saturated in fun and zaniness ... well, there must be something wrong with you.
Ironically, or maybe inevitably, the other side of that high school mountain is populated by people who reached the peak of life in their teen years and who believe, in the words of the immortal prophet John Mellencamp, that “oh, yeah, life goes on, long after the thrill of living is gone.” These are the folks drawn to the past like a hypnotized mark to the swinging watch, seduced by the halcyon days of lettermen jackets and pompoms, where such objects have an almost totemic appeal.
They are attracted by the alleged simplicity of high school, before marriage, mortgage and the other challenges of adult life. They are the bar sitters, the wistful what-if-ers, and the targets of many a weight-loss, hair-growth and sports-car ad campaign.
My own high school memories are complicated, too, by the fact that I’ve spent 20 years of my adult life as a teacher, watching my students navigate the sometimes treacherous, sometimes wonderful, route to adulthood.
In this context, the question “Did you enjoy your high school years?” becomes much more vital, especially with the school year about to begin.
I want my students to enjoy their high school years, not because the time is the be-all, end-all of their existence (it’s not), but because people do better at something that they like, with people they like being around.
Enjoyment doesn’t have to mean unbridled joy at every turn. It does mean that students are engaged in something that they find value in, either because it relates to their life today or to an activity or job they want to pursue tomorrow.
Sometimes — maybe even often — this engagement is hard work. It requires putting off activities that bring instant gratification (an evening of Fortnite) for something that will pay dividends later (an evening of calculus).
In this regard, all of us — relatives, friends, neighbors — can help the young people in our lives to engage with school. We can ask them about their day, classes and the future, and then really listen when they answer. We can help them find the resources they need — academic, social, mental-health, financial — to persevere. We can limit their exposure to negative influences and give them opportunities to grow in positive ways.
And we can remind them, no matter how great or how dismal their school experiences, that these years are just one part of what will be a long and fruitful life.
That way, 20 or 30 years later, maybe they will be able to see past the media-induced stereotypes if they are ever asked, “Did you enjoy your high school years?”
chris.schillig@yahoo.com
@cschillig on Twitter
I hate the new normal.
At restaurants, bars, movie theaters or beloved local festival events, I hate scanning for exits and wondering who might be carrying a weapon and nursing a grudge, and if this might be the day or night when the American culture of mass shootings personally affects me or those I love.
I hate the ping of news alerts on my phone — three dead at a garlic festival in California on July 28; the one-two punch of 22 fatalities in El Paso on Saturday, followed by nine more in Dayton on Sunday.
I hate that “thoughts and prayers” has become a sick punchline for inertia.
I hate that someone, somewhere, even as these words are being typed, is mouthing the tired argument that guns don’t kill people, people kill people, and making a smarmy comment about the damage somebody could inflict with a sledgehammer, a steak knife or a chair leg.
I hate that the incidents that get the most attention are the ones with multiple fatalities, that so many one-offs — a guy with a gun blowing away his spouse or ex-girlfriend, a neighbor shooting a neighbor over loud music or barking dogs — hardly raise an eyebrow, just business as usual here in the Wild West of 2019.
Mostly, I hate knowing that gun violence, singletons and multiple homicides alike, will happen again and again and again until something is done.
What that something is can take two broad directions.
Direction number one is more guns. If more people were armed, goes this argument, and if more people did so under concealed-carry and open-carry laws, so wannabe-shooter psychos, craven to their very cores, would apparently stay at home.
A major flaw with this premise is that America, home to an estimated 327.2-million people, already has 390-million civilian firearms. The oft-repeated “good guy with a gun theory” doesn’t seem to hold water, unless the argument is that we don’t know how many psychos were deterred by the hypothetical presence of weekend warriors sporting weapons at craft shows and malls.
It seems more likely that the proliferation of guns in this country is part of the problem, not part of the solution. In other countries where guns are not as prevalent, incidents of gun violence, while not unheard of, are far less common. In the lexicon of Occam’s razor, this isn’t even a close shave.
How, then, to curtail access to guns without limiting the rights of law-abiding Americans to own them? (As an aside, a 2012 New Yorker article by Jeffrey Toobin explains how our modern understanding of the Second Amendment owes more to “an elaborate and brilliantly executed political operation” by the NRA and others in the 1980s then to centuries of prior legal precedent. But I digress.)
For one thing, we have to agree that the Second Amendment does not give citizens the right to own assault weapons, high-capacity magazines or accessories that increase their killing power.
Here is where gun aficionados love to bog down the argument with technical specs on what is or is not an assault weapon. To save a lot of emails, let me concede that any gun owner knows more details than I do. In plain English, any gun or attachment to a gun that allows it to kill a lot of people in a ridiculously short time is something civilians don’t need — not for personal protection, not for sport.
Secondly, we need to close loopholes in background checks so that they apply to all gun sales and transfers, and require that checks be completed before new owners take possession of weapons. Yes, this will slow down the process of buying and selling, in much the same way that new security procedures slowed down air travel after 9/11 — a worthwhile inconvenience because it made us safer.
The government also needs to expand the categories of people who cannot buy or own firearms to include individuals who are guilty of hate-crime misdemeanors and dating partners convicted of domestic violence. This will help curtail those tragedies that don’t always make front-page news.
The most common-sense changes can be found in the Brady Plan’s Comprehensive Approach to Preventing Gun Violence. At eight pages, it is short and eminently readable. It is also freely available online.
Will this be the series of tragedies that prompts a real discussion — from our coffee shops to Congress — about much-needed reform? And will we hold our elected lawmakers responsible for standing up to the NRA?
I hate to think it’s not, and I hate to think we won’t.
chris.schillig@yahoo.com
@cschillig on Twitter
