DR: Frequently, I write articles for various Gettysburg area publications promoting the library where I work. As an organization, we supply a minimum of three articles to these publications each week. That’s 156 articles each year written by ten or fifteen employees. As you can imagine, it gets hard to keep the content fresh. As my company’s finance directory, my area of expertise can be pretty dull—where our funding comes from, what we spend it on—especially if I regurgitate the same information eight or nine times per year. I rarely write about the finances.

The other writers each have a programmatic area they oversee with events planned several times per month. For them, coming up with article topics, I assume, is as simple as looking at the calendar. On the other hand, my topics tend to be random and offbeat, sort of whatever pops into my head that week (very much like my blog). Below is the article I submitted this week on library materials for the visually impaired. I think it’s a clever take on a serious topic and an entertaining way to convey the information.

I wanted to post it here, because while the county-specific figures I’ve included are only pertinent locally, I think the general topic holds true for most public libraries.

What I wrote:

~ ~ ~

[Rod Serling voice-over]: Consider Mr. Henry Bemis, a small, quiet man in a large, bustling city. A bespeckled, strange character who prefers to immerse himself in books rather than live his life. Due to a demanding boss and his scornful wife, Mr. Bemis can’t find a quiet moment to read. In just a moment, fate will conspire to offer Mr. Bemis ample time with no distractions, a world to himself with unlimited books, in the Twilight Zone (cue music).

Do you remember this episode? Time Enough at Last has been ranked repeatedly as the number one fan favorite from The Twilight Zone’s five season run. It’s been decades since I’ve watched any episodes (except this one, which I watched this morning at four a.m.), but I can still remember quite a few plot-lines I prefer to this one. Regardless, a library article is nothing without books, so this is the episode I chose.

Henry Bemis, a bank teller, sneaks away to the vault for his lunch break—a quiet place where no one is likely to find him. As he dines, he dives into Dickens’ David Copperfield, a book he’s been trying to steal time to read since the beginning of the episode. Suddenly, the vault is shaken by a massive explosion that renders Henry unconscious. When he comes to hours later, he learns that an atomic war has destroyed civilization. He is only spared by the lead-lined, underground vault where he hid to read.

Inspecting his city, he finds nothing but destruction. No intact buildings and no people either. In the ruins of a grocery store, he finds countless cans of food strewn about. “Well, I won’t starve,” he says to himself. Henry’s inability to find any other survivors threatens to drive him mad. He’s about at his end when he realizes he’s wandered in to the ruins of the city library. Books are scattered about the street. As Henry collects them, he rattles off an account of the prizes he has found: “The works of Charles Dickens, the works of George Bernard Shaw, Shelly, Browning, Keats, Shakespeare, all the books I’ll ever want, all the books I need.”

As Henry celebrates his good fortune and newfound reason to live, he stumbles on some rubble and his glasses fall to the ground. The lenses break into pieces. The camera view shifts to Henry’s blurry vision. No more reading for him. Yet another ironic twist… in The Twilight Zone.

Sigh! If this exact scenario happens to you, don’t freak out. The Adams County Library System has several options for visually impaired readers.

First and foremost, we have a huge collection of large print books, 4,500 of them in all genres to choose from. They are just like the rest of our books, except the font is increased so people with eyesight issues can still read the words.

If the internet is working, which it is today and might be even after a nuclear holocaust, you have our eCollection to explore. Despite your vision troubles, our 43,000 eAudio Books are always an option. They are just like books on CD, except you can stream them through your device. And with font-sizing options on most eReaders, any of our 89,000 eBooks can now serve as a large print book.

On the outside chance that the internet disappears forever, simply find some batteries amidst the canned goods scattered around the wreckage of any former grocery store. You can fire up a battery-operated CD player and borrow some of our 3,600 Audio Books.

I think we readers are always looking for “time enough” to delve into our books. Hopefully we won’t need to wait for Armageddon to carve out that time. But for those who aren’t reading now because seeing the print is too challenging, please explore these options.

Lastly, the federal government and the Pennsylvania government run programs for visually impaired people.  Books come by mail preloaded on audio devices. These devices are simple to use and 100% free. Ask at any branch for help signing up for one or both of these services.

Jeff Cann
Finance Director and Sci-Fi Nerd
Adams County Library System

I first read about the ducks during the early days of the pandemic. An out-of-work elementary teacher wrote a blog post about ducking. When she spotted a Jeep in a parking lot, she squeezed a rubber duck into the door handle. A gift for a kindred soul, she said, knowing that all Jeep owners are basically the same people.

Months later, I started noticing ducks on dashboards—a Wrangler with three or four, a CJ7 with two or three. Sort of cute, but it quickly got out of hand. I soon started seeing passing Jeeps with forty-five ducks cluttering every horizontal surface.

When I was a kid, my father bred cats as a cottage industry. Suki and Cocoa, a pair of chocolate-point Siamese cats with pedigree, popped out litters of three to six kittens several times a year. A similar kitten these days might set a buyer back two-thousand dollars, but in the late sixties, I think the going rate was fifteen or twenty bucks.

Once, a kid purchased a kitten using his saved-up change. He paid for the cat using rolled quarters and dimes. When my father placed the coins on his car dashboard, a roll of dimes fell into the defroster vent. By the time a mechanic disassembled the dashboard and repaired whatever damage a roll of dimes can cause an HVAC system, the litter of kittens was a financial loss and then some.

Using my father’s mishap as a cautionary tale, I put nothing on my dashboard, ever. Probably automotive engineers have improved defroster vents over the past fifty-five years, and ducks in defrosters are not a concern, but the image of my dad trying to fish a roll of dimes out of a vent is never far from my memory.

Driving home from the beach last week, Susan suggested I search Spotify for a podcast our daughter Sophie suggested. The only thing we could remember was that the topic was cults. Search Spotify: Podcast on Cults. What popped up was the podcast series called Sounds Like a Cult, an entertaining and informative discussion on the cult-like behaviors of many modern groups. Some examples include Trader Joe’s shoppers, the Harry Potter infatuated, Ikea fans, Marathoners, the Costco obsessed (hmmm, lots of shoppers). What caught my eye was The Cult of Jeep Owners.

A couple of weeks earlier, Susan and I stood on a street corner with a friend when a Jeep whizzed by. He said, “You know, that duck thing just started during Covid.” I didn’t know that. I thought back to the early-pandemic blog post I read about ducking. Clearly, that blogger was an early adopter. Susan and I often point out the ducks to each other, maybe slightly derisively. Nothing screams “hey, look at me” more than thirty yellow ducks on a dashboard (except maybe blogging). This was a chance to learn the duck origin.

The podcast covered such topics as Jeep history (started as a war vehicle, as I’m sure we all know), Jeep hierarchy (owners get status for driving older Jeeps and Jeeps with aftermarket modifications), the Jeep-driver wave (yes, they have a wave*), and, of course, the ducks. Maybe our brains had become numb from our thirteen-hour drive home from Georgia, but it all sounded so good natured, so wholesome, so… FUN. By the time the podcast wrapped up, Susan and I were talking about buying a Jeep. At a minimum, we suddenly considered ourselves honorary Jeepsters.

By coincidence, I read a blog post last week reviewing the ancient T. Rex album Electric Warrior. No, I don’t know why the writer reviewed a fifty-four-year-old album, but he highlighted the song Jeepster as an album standout—a song I probably haven’t heard since college. I listened to the Jeepster on my phone and was suddenly transported back forty-some years to hanging out at my friend Andy’s house sucking down bong hits and trying to grasp the immensity of the universe. Jeepster has been playing in my head and on my car stereo on repeat ever since.

Jeeps! Everywhere!

I popped into Sweeet, Gettysburg’s retro candy shop, the other day to buy a duck for Susan. Most of Sweeet’s inventory is candy—buy it by the pound taffy, offbeat treats like chocolate covered scorpions, and yesterday’s faves like Zots, god I love Zots—but in the elevated window display area where fancy clothing boutiques arrange mannequins wearing the store’s most expensive clothing, Sweeet has assembled a couple hundred rubber ducks, no two are alike. This display well preceded Covid, so the Jeep crowd wasn’t the initial target market. I assume they are now.

I bought the duck as a joke. A small expenditure to make Susan laugh. As we got ready to run an errand, I snuck outside and put the duck on her dashboard. It’s printed with “radiate kindness,” a message in line with Susan’s Buddhist beliefs. And laugh she did, long and hard, but then the laughter morphed into something different. Having a duck on her dash made her happy. Before we returned home from our errands, we stopped by Sweeet again so we could buy ducks to send to her brother and sister. She wanted to spread the joy.

I’m sure the Jeepsters out there reading this, and of course the ones who see Susan’s duck on the dash of her Hyundai Santa Fe will think we’ve appropriated their duck motif. And we have, shamelessly, but everyone deserves happiness, and if a radiate kindness duck on her dash brings Susan joy, the Jeepsters will just have to live with it.

* I googled the Jeep-wave. As it turns out, it’s identical to the wave you’re likely receive from a farmer driving a battered pickup down a country road. Those Jeep owners have done some appropriating of their own.

Buy a duck and give it to a friend. And listen to Jeepster by T. Rex so it can be stuck in your head too.

Me, posturing with my comment, trying to seem smart on a smart person’s blog:

The detritus from abandoned blogs and terminated online relationships makes my last 12 years hard to revisit. I felt like some of those bloggers were among my best friends until one day they disappeared for good. I often think about looking them up, but I realize that because they vanished, they may want to stay lost. I wonder who will mourn when I log off for good.

Bill wrote about a disappeared blogger. About reaching out and receiving a disappointing reply. He wrote about other stuff too, but the lost friend part hit home. It made me want to respond. The attrition is endless. They leave for Substack. They become bored. Their muse takes flight. They birth a baby. They lose their voice. They get a life. Whatever. They vanish. Usually, it takes time. They write less. They read less. They take a break. They return months later promising to do better and then evaporate entirely.

I miss them. Do they miss me? My early days of writing featured vulnerability—newfound sobriety, growing insight into my Tourette, my OCD, my anxiety and depression. I cut myself open and spilled out prose. Those I read did the same. We built a community of injured souls. We understood and supported one another. I’m not sure how I would have succeeded without them.

One by one, they disappear. At first, I usually don’t notice. One day I think, “Huh, when was the last time Robyn commented on a post. When was the last time she liked one.” I check her blog and see she hasn’t written in weeks. She never posted again.

In time, others took her place, but they fell away as well. And then more. My desire to look them up—cyberstalk them, google their email and drop them a line—comes in waves. A strong one now, obviously, writing these thoughts. I once met up with Robyn at a trail race. We had so much in common. The running, of course, and punk music. Social anxiety. Autism—her son (definitely) and me (possibly). Plus, Gettysburg, her husband is a history nut.

She told me her family once took a photo outside the library where I work. She tried to guess which window was mine. She didn’t come in, social anxiety and all. The time we met was awkward. We tried to talk while we ran. Our paces mismatched. Me, out of breath, Robyn, itching to run ahead. Coffee would have worked better, assuming a pair of social misfits can hold a conversation.

One day I’ll quit blogging. I won’t fade away like most. I’ll drop out cold turkey. White knuckles, like I did with alcohol. To others, it will seem abrupt, but I’m sure I’ll have agonized over the decision for months. Will you notice? Will you reach out? Ask if I’m all right? Tell me what I meant to you… if anything? Blogging, I think, is dying. Different media, newer media is taking over. I suspect each of us will bail eventually. Find different hobbies, different ways to express ourselves. Or not. Possibly some of us will simply mourn one more lost bit of our lives.

Photo from Pixabay

We finished the class with standing sprints to Bring Me to Life by Evanescence, a five-minute climb to 4 Non Blondes’ What’s Up, and cooled-down to The Jam’s That’s Entertainment. As the opening bars to Beck’s Loser filled the room, the spinners slowed their pedals to a stop, dropped their heels, and stretched their calf muscles. I turned the music down to a conversational level and said, “This is my favorite song lyric right now.”

Beck sang out: In the time of chimpanzees, I was a monkey.

“Wait, what did he say?”

“In the time of chimpanzees, I was a monkey. That’s how I feel every day of my life.” No one asked me what I meant. The night before, I posted the lyric on my Facebook page to honor the start of Tourette Syndrome Awareness Month. My theme this year—Tourette Syndrome: So much more than tics. It’s the tics that get all the attention. Those unwanted movements and vocalizations are displayed with either respect or ridicule all over social media—the people who jerk, the people who cuss, the people who whistle, blink and bark.

Yes, the tics are obviously an issue. I disturb the people within earshot with my grunting. I cause people to look away with my long, dramatic, face-scrunching blinks. I’m sure people wonder why I jerk and torque my body as I walk down the street. Scratch my arm until it bleeds. Blow air across my eyes. Lick my lips, wipe them off. Lick my lips, wipe them off. A thousand times a day. The tics are the visible symptom, but there’s so much more. It’s the rest that derails me.

I loaded my Facebook post with hashtags, the disorders that accompany Tourette: #OCD #ADHD #ASD #Anxiety #Insecurity, and the takeaway I want people to grasp: #NotAJoke #NotAPunchline #ItsABigFuckingDeal, and the reason for my post #TouretteAwareness. I considered using #Embarrassment, but it seemed pathetic. But if I’m honest, embarrassment is the biggest one. I’m embarrassed by my tics.  

“What are you working on?” Susan peeked over from her side of the couch as I created an image of my Beck quote with my tagline ‘So much more than tics’ beneath it.

“A Facebook meme for Tourette Syndrome Awareness Month.” A five-minute debate over the proper meaning of ‘meme’ sprung up, and then she volunteered to take over using Canva, the graphic design tool she uses to market her business.

“PowerPoint is fine. Plus, I’m basically done.” A true statement, but I also knew if I let Susan take over, she would advocate against the Beck quote. I already know this approach is weird and oblique. I want people to have to think about it. I want them to arrive at their own understanding of the alienation I feel because of Tourette. I don’t want to hold their hands and lead them through the maze of my mind, even if they never get it. Which is good; I don’t think anybody got it.

My Facebook following is laughable. Of my one hundred or so friends, I suspect sixty or seventy have unfollowed me, bored with my bitchy anti-Trump sentiments, my weekly spin playlists, and my reshares of silly running memes (at least those are actual memes). Only eight people liked my post. Not much of an impact for Tourette Syndrome awareness. I have no idea how many people read it and didn’t like it, or simply didn’t understand. No one commented, no one asked for clarification.

I considered using my pulpit at the front of the spin room to discuss Tourette Awareness Month, and why the chimpanzee quote is significant to me, but it seemed inappropriate. I worried that the Y might get pissed at me for going off script. So, I’m telling you instead.

The fact that the song title is Loser isn’t lost on me. My disgust with Tourette Syndrome is well documented. I spend untold hours bemoaning my ‘loser’ status, feeling sorry for myself, feeling different from everyone else. This is an area I’m trying to improve, trying to transcend. I’ve made progress, but I’m a work in process.

Take a few minutes to listen to Loser. It’s a great and unique song, unlike anything else recorded (lyrics below).

LOSER

In the time of chimpanzees I was a monkey
Butane in my veins and I’m out to cut the junkie
With the plastic eyeballs, spray-paint the vegetables
Dog food stalls with the beefcake pantyhose

Kill the headlights and put it in neutral
Stock car flamin’ with a loser and the cruise control
Baby’s in Reno with the vitamin D
Got a couple of couches, sleep on the love-seat

Someone came in sayin’ I’m insane to complain
About a shotgun wedding and a stain on my shirt
Don’t believe everything that you breathe
You get a parking violation and a maggot on your sleeve
So shave your face with some mace in the dark
Savin’ all your food stamps and burnin’ down the trailer park
Yo, cut it

Soy un perdedor
I’m a loser baby, so why don’t you kill me?
(Double-barrel buckshot)
Soy un perdedor
I’m a loser baby, so why don’t you kill me?

Forces of evil in a bozo nightmare
Ban all the music with a phony gas chamber
‘Cause one’s got a weasel and the other’s got a flag
One’s on the pole, shove the other in a bag
With the rerun shows and the cocaine nose-job

The daytime crap of the folksinger slob
He hung himself with a guitar string
A slab of turkey-neck and it’s hanging from a pigeon wing
You can’t write if you can’t relate
Trade the cash for the beef for the body for the hate
And my time is a piece of wax falling on a termite
That’s choking on the splinters

Soy un perdedor
I’m a loser baby, so why don’t you kill me?
(Get crazy with the cheeze whiz)
Soy un perdedor
I’m a loser baby, so why don’t you kill me?
(Drive-by body pierce)
Yo, bring it on down

Soy un perdedor
I’m a loser baby, so why don’t you kill me?
(I can’t believe you)
Soy un perdedor
I’m a loser baby, so why don’t you kill me?

Soy un perdedor
I’m a loser baby, so why don’t you kill me?
(Sprechen Sie deutsch, baby?)
Soy un perdedor
I’m a loser baby, so why don’t you kill me?
(Know what I’m sayin’?)

Reunited, and it feels so good
Reunited, ’cause we understood
There’s one perfect fit
And sugar, this one is it
We both are so excited
‘Cause we’re reunited, hey, hey

Reunited, a Peaches and Herb song from my high school years. So distant from the music I preferred—Springsteen, Beatles, Thorogood, CSNY, the Stones, and of course the breaking new wave bands—but in the seventies, in the car, you listened to the radio. You listened to whatever they played. I never liked Reunited, I still don’t, but here it is, in my brain on repeat.

My high school reunion approaches. Easily the most hyped since my twentieth. Maybe more. I’m not sure why, this is my forty-fifth. It lacks the cachet of a milestone. Seems to me that four decades later, celebrations should be ten years apart. Yes, forty-five years is a long time, I haven’t seen any of these people since 2000, but c’mon guys, shouldn’t we wait until fifty? 

Anyway, I’m not going.

Oooh, I think I heard your groan from here! Yes, call me a buzzkill. A loser. A party-pooper. I’m all those things and more. And I’m even curious to see who those people from high school turned into. But I won’t pay the price. I’m not talking about the price of the event, although at $150 for dinner, that seems a little steep, especially for a nondrinker who can’t milk the open bar to get his money’s worth. I’m talking about the agony of the evening.

A few months ago, a guy named Richard emailed me out of the blue. He graduated with me, he said, did I remember him? I don’t. He was out for dinner with high school friends and my name came up. He decided to look me up. This has happened many times over the years. As a prolific blogger and regularly published columnist with a somewhat unique last name, I must be just about the easiest person to find on the internet. Richard lives about an hour away from me. Did I want to get together for drinks? I don’t.

Last month Steve emailed me. He found a tribute I wrote about a high school friend who died of ALS. Same questions as Richard, do I remember him? Do I want to get together, maybe at the reunion? Nope and nope.

Before you assume I was one of those super popular high school kids that everyone revered even though I didn’t take the time to learn anyone’s name, let me assure you, that wasn’t me. I dwelled far left-of-center on the high school popularity bell-curve. If I didn’t know someone, it’s because I assumed they had no interest in meeting me, so I never spoke with them. It’s also possible that my memories of the people I sort of knew in high school were lost in a 1995 bicycle crash that damaged my brain in ways I’m still discovering.

A few days ago, my brother texted me. “I gave your email address to Josh Casson so he could contact you about your reunion. I don’t want you to be surprised when he shows up in your inbox.” Sigh. I’m getting tired of turning people down. I wonder what they think. That I’m bitter about my high school experience, and I haven’t gotten over it? That I didn’t like them forty-five years ago, and I still don’t like them now? That my life turned out badly, and I’m embarrassed to show up? Is that last one so off the mark?

In my email exchange with Steve (the one I don’t know), I wrote: I had sort of dismissed the idea of going to the reunion, crowds and small talk aren’t really my thing. I’m sober and have symptomatic Tourette Syndrome (doubly so when anxious) so it seems like a hard night. TMI? He found me through my blog. It’s likely he already knew this.

Someone giving advice in the comments section will say, “Just go and be yourself. Who cares what those people think?” I called it agony earlier. Hyperbolic, possibly, but for those who suffer from social anxiety, mingling is miserable. And while I’ve grown more comfortable with my Tourette tics over the past few years, the thought of putting them on display in front of one hundred people already in full judgement mode seems too much to bear.

No, I’ll skip this one. Especially since I know we’ll have another reunion in just five short years: The big 5-0. I’ll make that one a priority. And after dinner, when the dancing starts, I’ll ask the DJ to play Reunited. Sorry, just kidding. Instead, I’ll request Call Me by the Blondie—the smash hit recording of my senior year from a band I still listen to today.

Photo by cottonbro studio on Pexels

“Mmmm.” A dozen voices in unison. Heads nod, claps splatter, polite, but well intentioned. “Wooo, Jenny!” One guy does the snapping thing. By the third reader, I begin to anticipate the Mmmm, an exclamation of knowing approval. After every poem: Mmmm. By coincidence, this happened a couple of weeks ago during an interview. A strong candidate, great experience, but my brain hung up on her Mmmm. For every question we asked: “Mmmm, good question… Mmmm, let me see…” I missed her answers. I obsessed over the Mmmm.

Tonight, the Mmmm is deserved. The poems are great. Every one of them. The reading continues, my heart sinks. I’m out of my league. These guys can write! Happy I brought nothing to share. Mmmm, nods, clap, clap, clap.

~ ~ ~

This visit, for me, was years in the making. A night at a poetry event two decades old. The first Friday of every month, shops up and down the strip serve cheap chardonnay and cubed cheese in a communitywide effort to attract shoppers. People browse, drink, then move to the next store. We skipped that scene, went straight to the Ragged Edge. We bought our drinks, jasmine lime green tea for Susan, a decaf black eye for me.

Black eye: a cup of coffee laced with two shots of espresso. Baristas sometimes give me that look. ‘What’s the point of decaf espresso?’ I say fuck you, just give me my coffee, but silently, in my head. The girl behind the counter didn’t blink an eye. She only charged me for one shot.

I appreciate the coffee shop’s name. Ragged Edge, a clear visual to illustrate the effects of over-caffeination. When I was young and idealistic and abused caffeine for sport, I hoped to open a coffee joint called Jitters with flickering neon sign. An ode to being wired. This predated triple caramel macchiatos and skinny chai lattes. Shops served brewed coffee and espresso. But I never got beyond the name and couldn’t have ridden the coming specialty drink wave, anyway.

They packed them in at the Ragged Edge. Susan and I grabbed the last seats, two thirds of a couch not facing the stage, my head twisted ninety degrees for two hours. Mmmm. Clap, clap-clap, clap. Twice last year I printed a poem on Friday afternoon and stuck it in my pocket. By dinner time I chickened out. As nervous and embarrassed to tell Susan my plan as I was to stand on the stage and read.

I told Katy, one of the organizers, over and over, “Yeah, I’ll need to get in there some month to read.” Years ago, I asked if people ever snuck in prose. “What would happen if I showed up with a flash piece?”

She frowned, “I wouldn’t do that.” And I never did.

As the reading let out, Amy and Dave, friends we arrived with, insisted I should participate, that I could hold my own. Susan agreed. When we got home, I read the poems on my blog. I think I’m right. The First Friday crowd inhabits a higher level, but now I’ve got something to shoot for.

Photo by Mihai Vlasceanu on Pexels

“I will stop the war in one day.” How many times did he say it? How many times was it repeated by his followers, his minions? “Only Trump can stop the war.”

So, what’s my problem? Why get hung up on this specific lie? So many others:

I’ll reduce grocery prices.

And gas prices.

Mexico will pay for the wall.

Ukraine started the war.

I won the 2020 election.

On and on. The list is endless.

Trump is the “dealmaker.” The king-negotiator. No one can squeeze more blood from a turnip. Trump’s ground-breaking deal: Putin gets to keep all the land he stole.

That’s it? That’s what Trump boasted about? That’s his plan to stop the war? Any asshole could have come up with that. But only one did. Breaking news: Trump says Putin doesn’t seem to want peace! And why would he? If he gets to keep what he’s grabbed, why not keep grabbing?

Note: My mother-in-law and her parents emigrated from Ukraine to America at the end of WWII along with about 400,000 other ‘displaced’ Europeans.

Image by jorono from Pixabay

As a kid, I read the cereal box while I ate breakfast. No, I’m not the only one. My brothers did this too, and on TV, characters on sit-coms and commercials would sometimes be shown reading the box. I think it was a thing. Sugary cereals often had content printed on the box to distract the diner. Mind puzzles, mazes, jokes, crap to buy. After I memorized the back of the box, I moved on to the ingredients list, wondering why we needed dyes and unpronounceable chemicals in my Trix.  Finally, I read the nutritional chart—the reading material becoming less and less interesting as breakfast wound down. Do people still do this? Now, I play Connections or read blogs while I eat breakfast. I exhaust the news while drinking my coffee.  

Old habits die hard. As I brushed my teeth last night, I occupied my mind by reading the back of the Q-Tips box. Q-Tips offered four illustrated uses for their product. Beauty—a photo of a woman removing eyeliner; First Aid and Baby Care—um, I think someone was tickling a baby’s foot with a Q-Tip; Home & Electronics—apparently here, you’re supposed to deconstruct your car stereo speakers and use a Q-Tip to poke at your tweeter; Arts & Crafts—why waste money on paintbrushes when you have a box of five-hundred Q-Tips?

What happened to cleaning ears? I googled: What percent of the population uses Q-Tips to clean their ears? I don’t think many definitive studies have addressed this question, but the number that kept popping up is sixty-eight percent. Sixty-eight percent of the population use Q-Tips to clean their ears even though for decades, doctors, and even the various manufacturers of Q-Tips, have cautioned against inserting a stick into your ear.

Personally, I use Q-Tips daily. If I don’t, the tips of my hearing aids get gunked up with the crap that lines my ear canals after I exercise. Plus, I think I’m addicted. I need my daily fix of ear scraping. In college, my friends and I walked to 7-Eleven one night to buy hot dogs, three for a buck, at the end of a party night. As we dressed our dogs with every single condiment offered, the clerk eyed us while he dug in his ear with the pocket-clip-end of a Bic Round Stick pen cap. Walking home, we trashed him as uncouth and ignorant, but the whole time I thought, that’s brilliant, I can’t wait to give that a try.

Without ear cleaning, Q-Tips would have gone out of business decades ago.

Lying in bed last night, I tried to think of another product that exists solely because people use it incorrectly. I immediately dismissed regulated medications from my list because so many are used off label—the most obvious and current being Ozempic. I settled on inhalants. In my preferred musical genre, punk rock, many songs sing the praises of inhaling chemicals as an intoxicant. Carbona Cleaning Products famously sued the Ramones in the seventies for suggesting that inhaling Carbona produced a superior high than sniffing airplane glue.

As a teen, I delved into this myself. Each bus tub of dough that rose on the prep shelves at the pizza joint where I worked contained a twenty second buzz. When you dug your hands into the center of the dough and made a small opening, the gas that escaped, if inhaled, left you dizzy and giggling. We called these dough-hits. Even though the managers complained that dough-hits ruined the dough, most days, most tubs got hit.

And eighties metalcore pioneers L7 sing a song about “Scrap,” a skinhead who lives to get high on spray paint fumes.

I met a skinhead named Scrap
He lived in my friend’s garage
Every day, he’s shaking that spray paint can
And comes out seeing stars

Grab a paper bag like an oxygen mask
Until your mind starts to gel
‘Cause the ball in the can has a crazy beat
The funky, dying brain cell

On a summer day about five years ago, I asked my kids, aged fourteen and seventeen, to clean and repaint the heavy, steel ‘bouncy-chairs’ that reside on our patio. Midday, they called me at work. “Walmart wouldn’t let us buy spray paint. We’re not old enough.” My immediate thought was a crack down on vandalism, but then I remembered my Scrap lyrics. If teenagers buy spray paint, it’s clearly to get high.

Scrap is a song I’ve returned to repeatedly over the past forty years. The clever lyrics compare the high from huffing paint fumes to the supposedly mindless adherence to charismatic Christianity.

Well, he met some Christians from hell
Who said, “Let’s go to Vegas, man”
So he packed up his leather and his red beret
Into that big, bad Christian van

Use revival meetings like an oxygen tent
‘Til your mind starts to gel
‘Cause the preacher thumps the bible with a crazy beat
The funky, dying brain cell

For me, song lyrics are often unintelligible. I always sang along offering my best approximation of what I thought a band said. As a child, Elton John’s fictional rock star “Benny” had electric boobs and a motor scooter. AC/DC sang about dirty deeds and the dunder chief—whoever TF that was. Deep Purple’s woman was a T.K.O. She makes me sick! When L7 told me that Scrap dug atallic coal baluka John, I had no clue what they were talking about. I didn’t twist the line into a cute phrase, I just mumbled along hoping that no one questioned my rendition.

Almost all lyrics are now on the internet. Ten or fifteen years ago, I checked out the lyrics to Scrap.

Well, he came back to the garage
But the garage, it wasn’t there
And he dug metallic gold more than Luke and John
Now he’s growing his hair

Huh! What’s metallic gold? More internet research. Ah, gold spray paint. The kids on the web think gold gives the best high. So, Q-Tips and metallic gold spray paint. Keep your eyes open. If the person in line in front of you at Walmart has either of those, an intervention might be in order.

Listen to Scrap by L7:

Photo from Pixabay

Photo by Dennis Steinauer

Darrin and I bantered about alcohol, as people often do. We joked about sneaking a flask into an inappropriate venue—not sure I can remember which one, maybe the book sale we’re both working in July. Sarcasm, not seriousness. Guy talk. Tribe talk. Then I fessed up. “I’m nine years sober.” Nine years dry, really, but I’ll explain what I mean by that later. I told Darrin some of my story, the reason why I’m dry.

“Oh man,” he said, “you should come and speak at Al-Anon*. This is good stuff to hear from the addict’s perspective.” I said I would. This is what I told them.

~ ~ ~

Part 1—Establishing my cred: I was a drunk. From the day I first stepped on my college campus until I met my wife fourteen years later, I was a drunk. Don’t let me mislead you, I was a partier in high school too, but in college, I went pro.

I have countless stories of ridiculous things I did. I used to see them as funny, edgy stories. Reckless adventures to be proud of. Now I see them as poor self-esteem, thinly guised self-harm, or maybe even a death wish. I’ll give some examples, but I picked short, simple stories. The longer ones end with me being mugged, or waking up naked on the basement floor, or permanently scaring away good friends with embarrassing behavior. We could call this my top ten, but really, it’s just ten, any ten. Given a bit of time, I could come up with dozens more.

Let’s call this “Ten stupid things I did drunk.”

1. I woke up in my car countless mornings—on city streets, major commuting thoroughfares, and leafy suburban lanes. Sometimes even on work days.
2. I got separated from my group on the fourth of July in DC and wandered around trashed for eight hours all by myself.
3. My friends and I walked out on a huge bar tab because we forgot to pay.
4. I went to a bar with the change jar from the top of my dresser because my bank account was empty and my credit card was maxed.
5. My friend Mike said something mildly insulting, so I smashed his passenger-side window with my beer bottle.
6. I gratified the dining room in my rental house with black spray paint.
7. I mummy-wrapped my head with duct-tape.
8. I insulted a big, muscular biker, called him a redneck, and then fell backwards over his parked motorcycle knocking it to the ground.
9. I passed out on a highway on-ramp while hitchhiking to my girlfriend’s college
10. I surfed down a wooden staircase on a bathroom scale.

Do you wonder why no one intervened? No one sat me down and said “Jeff, you have a problem. You need to stop drinking so much.” The day after the bathroom scale incident my brother chastised me: You know, you don’t always need to be the drunkest person in the room. But it was a half-hearted attempt, and for the most part, people laughed along at my escapades.

Thank God I found Susan. We met a couple of weeks after I returned home from a 4,600 mile bicycle trip around the United States. Given the constant exercise, my drinking calmed down a bit over that summer. I drank daily, of course, three to six beers per day—often warm beer—but with only one blackout bender across the course of the summer.

Susan was (and is) a light drinker. When we went out to parties, she would scale up to drink two or three beers, while I plowed through my usual six to nine or more. A few weeks into dating, I stepped off a curb and fell face first into a traffic lane on Connecticut Avenue in DC. Fortunately, no cars approached. Susan told me in clear terms that she wasn’t interested in dating a sloppy drunk. I decided to scale back my drinking. This was 1994, I was thirty-two years old. I had been a daily drinker with weekly blackouts for fourteen years.

Scaling back took years. I want to say I got my act together quickly. And things certainly improved, but not enough to avoid the hangovers, which continued for years and were a constant reminder that I still had a serious problem. Two memorable ones:

Four years after meeting Susan, I stood up a work-client I was supposed entertain at my company’s skybox at Redskins Park. I was too hungover to leave home. I not sure I ever recovered from that one with my boss.

Eight years after meeting Susan, I pulled to the side of the road, opened my car door and vomited into the street. We were on our way to a late afternoon cookout. I was still hungover from the night before. My new baby was in the car.

So, scaling back was a long, slow transition.

Part 2—Banging my head against a wall

Through the combination of parenting young children and willpower, I gave up drunkenness. From 2003 until 2016, I controlled my drinking. Control is the operative word. My desire and my nature were to overdrink—to slip passed buzzed into a slightly stuporous state. But I didn’t allow it. I limited myself to three drinks per night. Maybe an extra on Friday and Saturday. I delayed my drinks, usually red wine, until my kids were in bed. I wanted to savor my experience. 

As boxed wines proliferated and became better, I switched from bottles to save money. it got harder to track my intake. I felt an urge to top off whenever I passed through the kitchen. My consumption crept back up. Others noticed.

My son, maybe seven, learned in school that anything more than one is problem drinking. “Don’t get another dad, you’ve already had three.”

My wife: “How fast did you go through that box of wine anyway?”

Two glasses of red wine daily offer health benefits. Everyone knows that. At least we did fifteen years ago. Those two glasses became my target. My medicine. My guarantee that I was doing my part to boost my immune system, reduce my cholesterol and blood pressure, even though none of these metrics were really all that great. I knew I wasn’t addicted. I took my son to scout camp every summer for three days. Proof that I could go alcohol-free without detox.

Sometimes my consumption would creep up, an extra glass, but after a couple of weeks or months, I always returned to my two-glass target. I spent years trying to maximize my allowable daily allotment.

Trying to take the two-glass recommendation seriously, I filled a measuring cup with ten ounces of wine. I called it my measure. I broke it up every way imaginable—two equal portions, three tiny portions. A large glass, then a small glass, or the small glass first. It was never enough wine. As soon as I finished, I mourned. By mid-morning the next day, I craved my daily measure. I thought about it all day. After dinner, I cracked a book, poured my ten ounces, I sipped and read. And then it was gone. Back to mourning. Counting the hours until my next drink with a nonstop internal dialogue, looking for excuses to cheat.

I gave up drinking during the week. I thought if I broke the habit of nightly drinking, I’d feel better, it would be easier. It wasn’t. Instead of counting hours until my next drink, I counted days. My cheat days increased. Sunday is still the weekend. Thursday is close enough. Tuesday, a reward.

In January 2016, I quit. I couldn’t stand it anymore. The internal voices exhausted me. Alcohol was all I thought about. When’s my next drink. How much more do I have left to drink tonight. Ugh, no more tonight, cut off until tomorrow, cut off until Friday.

Part 3—My bitter pill: On my last day, a friend came over for Sunday night drinks. I opened a cheap bottle of red knowing these were my last drinks. I had two expensive and highly rated bottles in the cabinet, a pinot noir and a malbec. I didn’t want to open them because I knew I wouldn’t finish them. My wife and friend were drinking white. The wine I opened was terrible. One of the worst I can remember. My last two glasses of wine sucked.

Every sober alcoholic has a date. Except me. Two or three weeks after I quit, I was so frazzled, I couldn’t remember if it had been two weeks or three. My date is either January 10 or January 17. I’ll never know. I drank bottle after bottle of club soda over ice with a lime wedge. At least it looked like a drink. I didn’t know what to do with myself. I couldn’t read. I couldn’t concentrate. All I could think, over and over, was “the rest of my life!” I went to bed early to escape the sadness.

It took five years to go away. All of it wasn’t bad, but much of it was. It hit me in waves at obvious times and at random times. The feeling of loss lingered. Those occasions I always drank now felt hollow. Top ten times I crave(d) alcohol:

1. Passing out candy on Halloween
2. The night before Thanksgiving
3. Thanksgiving day
4. Setting up the Christmas tree
5. Christmas day
6. New years eve
7. After a hike
8. After mountain biking
9. While grilling meat
10. Out at a restaurant

Being a nondrinker is a bitter pill to swallow. “Drinker’ was an identity I embraced. An example is my conversation with Darrin. The one that launched this whole event for me. Alcohol is something we bonded easily over. It’s a quick way to understand each other. Short-hand. Membership in a club.

I’m not comfortable using the word sober. Sober suggests not-drunk, and I haven’t been properly drunk in decades. I use the word Dry instead. Was I an addict? Someone drinking ten ounces of wine a night doesn’t have a physical addiction. But I clearly had and emotional one. Which is worse? I’m not sure, but my detox period lasted five years, and it was brutal. I let all my friendships evaporate. Acute depression popped up again and again. But over time it faded away.

Part 4—Cured: I don’t miss it except in an abstract, unrealistic way. Like thinking when I was a drunk, I had friends. Life was a party. My confidence soared. I was a leader. “Beer goggles,” a therapist once said. “You see those days through blurry vision.” I know she’s right.

I have no desire to drink now. In fact, I hate being around people showing the slightest signs of intoxication. When I hear their voice thicken, it puts me on edge. I remember when my voice sounded like that. Another thirty-minutes, and they’ll be slurring. I’m embarrassed by the spectacle I must have been.

People suggest that if the draw is gone, I can resume drinking. I broke my habit. My addiction is past. I’m cured. Never. Those blackout-drunk fourteen years are ugly days to remember. 

Giving up alcohol is the hardest thing I ever did. It took me seventeen years from the time I met Susan until I was free from the clutches of alcohol. In all, alcohol influenced and controlled thirty-two years of my life. I’ll never give it a chance to grab hold of me again.

*Al-Anon: a mutual support program for people whose lives have been affected by someone else’s drinking.

Note: This is written in a passive voice. Because this is meant to be spoken, I believe people will digest it more easily than my usual tight, aggressive phrasing.

Image from Say Anything… used in accordance with fair use laws for academic analysis

I got out of the shower, threw on some clothes and found Susan in the kitchen brewing coffee. The question burned a hole down to my soul. “If Lloyd Dobler is so cool, why does he play that lame-ass song on his boombox?” Susan knew this reference, do you? John Cusack in the movie Say Anything… stands on Diane Court’s (Ione Skye) lawn, tape deck held above his head, and blasts out In Your Eyes by Peter Gabriel. This might be THE iconic scene, the crown jewel of the eighties Brat Pack romance memories. An image immediately recognizable by anyone born between 1960 and 1985. And it’s ruined by the blandest song imaginable.

Actual Lyrics from In Your Eyes:

In your eyes
In your eyes
In your eyes
In your eyes (in your eyes)
In your eyes
In your eyes (in your eyes)
In your eyes (in your eyes)

Okay, I might have cherry-picked those lyrics from the closing bars of the song, but seriously, they use the phrase thirty-one times in the song. Repetitive. Dull. Annoying.

The rest of the music in that movie has an edge. The soundtrack offers a round-up of eighties alternative bands that scream cool: Red Hot Chilli Peppers, The Replacements, Mother Love Bone, Soundgarden and Fishbone. Other John Cusack films follow suit. Grosse Point Blank features recurrent soundtrack appearances from the Clash, the Specials, the Pixies, the Jam, and the Violent Femmes. Sort of a who’s who of my Spotify playlist.

In 1989, this music was fringe. In my rural town, it’s still fringe. It’s outside the mainstream, unfamiliar, banished from commercial radio, not pop or country or classic rock, but undeniably hip. People like me, and I suppose the Lloyd Doblers and John Cusacks of the world, think: if everyone could just hear this music, they’d be hooked.

Just like his music, Lloyd Dobler has edge. He’s an outsider looking in, trying to fight conformity in his corner of the world. As a recent high school graduate, when asked what his future plans entail, he replies:

“I don’t want to sell anything, buy anything, or process anything as a career. I don’t want to sell anything bought or processed, or buy anything sold or processed, or process anything sold, bought, or processed, or repair anything sold, bought, or processed. You know, as a career, I don’t want to do that.”

He’s the anti-capitalist, a backlash against Reagan’s America.

As a thirty-five-year-old, I played a bar game with friends. We each needed to make a case for which actor would play us in a movie about our life. Naturally, I selected John Cusack. We’re about the same age, the same build, we identify as off-beat outsiders, and we seemingly possess identical taste in music. Same-same, twinsies, why wouldn’t he play me.

And this brings me back to my point. Did Cusack have any creative control in Say Anything…? If so, why did he film such an important scene with THAT song? I wouldn’t have used that song. I would have chosen from hundreds of better, more interesting, livelier eighties love songs. A handful of suggestions off the top of my head:

Obsession by Animotion
Love is a Battlefield by Pat Benatar
Time After Time by Cyndi Lauper
When Doves Cry by Prince
Almost anything by the Cure

Susan responded to my post-shower question: “The chicks dig it.” OK, she didn’t say “the chicks dig it,” that’s something I would say. She said something along the lines of “people love that song.” So Cusack green-lit In Your Eyes because it’s a crowd-pleaser, something for the masses, even though it’s a song Lloyd Dobler would never listen to. I’m going to name this phenomenon the Dobler Effect—when someone prefers fringe music but blanderizes their musical taste to accommodate the people around them.

Yes, this is a play on words, a nod to the Doppler Effect. Doppler Effect (n): the change in the frequency of a wave in relation to an observer who is moving relative to the source of the wave. Did that make any sense? It’s just a complicated way of describing something we already innately know. Think of a British ambulance. As the ambulance approaches, the neee-nuuu neee-nuuu pitch becomes higher and higher. After the ambulance passes, it gets lower and lower.

In each of these effects—Dobler and Doppler—a person’s perspective impacts the way they hear the sound. Susan points this out frequently. While listening to the same song, we hear very different music. I hear an intricate guitar solo in the random feedback of the Dream Syndicate. I conjure a melody in the jangly, atonal stummings of the Gang of Four. I pick up crooning in Johnny Lydon’s grating voice. I find solace and relaxation in the scraping guitars and screamed lyrics of Sonic Youth. Someone else considers In Your Eyes symphonic. I want to yawn.

Is it my neurodiversity? My rebellious nature? The fact that I was raised by a man who listened to Herb Albert and the Tiajuana Brass? I’m not sure, but I think genetics play a role. I can almost discern a member of my tribe just by looking at them.

It doesn’t surprise me that Lloyd Dobler woos Diane Court with a boring hit single. I do this all the time. As I create the playlists for the indoor cycle (spin) classes I instruct, I make sure I include four or five accessible songs, the crowd pleasers. Not boring songs, certainly, but songs everybody knows and likes. When someone walks away from my class thinking “what the hell was that,” I also want them thinking “oh, right, he played X, Y and Z, too.” We all do this, I think, those of us outside mainstream music. I have separate playlists in Spotify to play when I’m around other people. My principal playlist, Radio Jeff, is just for me. No one else would tolerate it.

I suspect the Dobler Effect and its non-musical cousins are familiar to most of us. We constantly make concessions to ease the discomfort of those around us. We drive slower for our spouse. We cook simpler meals for our kids. We dress in ways our boss deems appropriate. I’m sure each of us has an area where we naturally bend the norms of society. What’s telling is how we deal with that desire. Do we steadfastly plow ahead, refusing to give in, or do we recognize that compromise is necessary for civil society. Hopefully the latter, but Christ, In Your Eyes? C’mon Lloyd, you can do better than that.

Below is a recent spin playlist, one of my most accessible, actually. Constructing this mix was what got me thinking about the Dobler Effect and music-for-the-masses in the first place. Yes, this is what I consider music-for-the-masses.

Last weekend I bought new hearing aids. Well, I bought them weeks ago, but I had to wait for this past weekend for them to arrive. This is my third pair. I started wearing them eight years ago, and each pair died in exactly four years. Since 2017, I’ve dropped six thousand dollars trying to hear the people around me speak.

As an added annoyance, I buy my hearing aids from Costco. It’s a fifty-minute drive from my house, and I need to purchase a special annual membership to even enter the building. I typically go on the weekend. Every visit, it’s a sea of oversized SUVs jockeying for parking spaces or just trying to get the hell out of the massive traffic jam of a parking lot. It’s a hassle, but each time I buy new hearing aids, Consumer Reports ranks Costco’s models as the best, the cheapest, with the best customer service. In contrast, my father’s last pair, bought from the boutique hearing center Miracle Ear, cost over seven thousand dollars.

It’s been four years since I bought a Costco membership.

Sales lady: “You can buy a Gold Membership for sixty-five dollars, or you can buy a Platinum Membership for one-hundred thirty-five dollars.

Me: “I’ll buy the Gold.”

“Wait, with the Platinum Membership, you get two-percent cash back on purchases up to twenty-five-hundred dollars. Since you’re buying a big-ticket item, you’ll actually save money with the Platinum.”

I pulled out my phone and punched numbers into the calculator app. “Two percent of twenty-five-hundred is fifty dollars. I’ll still lose money.” The sales lady gave me a smile that seemed to say Thank you for figuring that out, I feel horrible about ripping off people all day, all week, all year.

The woman who fitted my hearing aids warned me that they would take a few weeks to get used to. She got that right. It’s so much easier now to hear and distinguish voices, but where my hearing aids really excel is picking up clatter.

Clatter (n): a continuous rattling sound as of hard objects falling or striking each other.

When I was a teenager, I frequently came home from my nighttime restaurant job stoned. My parents slept lightly, and some nights, they got out of bed to check on me as I settled down for a snack and some late-night TV. I had to hold it together for those few minutes of conversation so they wouldn’t figure out I was high. I quickly learned it was best not to wake them. I crept around the kitchen, silently fixing my snack, every tiny noise—the microwave closing, the metal ice cream scoop set into the sink—sounded like a bomb exploding.

My new hearing aids remind me of this. In the morning, as I make my lunch before heading off to work, I grab a bag of pretzel sticks from the pantry and wrestle to open the bag for the first time. The stiff plastic, designed to tear all the way down the side of the bag and spill out half the pretzels at some point before I finish eating the contents, crackles so loudly (in my hearing aids) you would think I had a clothes dryer in my kitchen spinning a case of broken beer bottles.

When I fetch a scoopful of ice from my freezer and dump it into my water glass, I’m reminded of the Coca Cola commercial that plays at one-hundred decibels through the Dolby Surround Sound^® system at my movie theater. The cat chomping his kibble, water running in the sink, the creaks and snaps of hardwood floors, the air escaping a fresh bottle of club soda, each of these causes such a racket that I wince. The volume of these sounds is almost comical, like something you’d see in a campy horror movie where the teenagers need to keep quiet to save their own lives.

I’m supposed to get used to this over the next couple of weeks. My brain will somehow quiet these sounds so they aren’t so prominent, so painful to my ears. While I want to say that’s impossible to believe, I remember visiting Susan’s grandparents when we first started dating. I woke up five times each night with passing trains. Nothing is so clatter-some as train wheels on train tracks at three in the morning. I commented to her grandmother that she must be exhausted all the time from interrupted sleep. She said, “Oh, I don’t hear those trains anymore. I haven’t heard them for years.”

Maybe we all ‘hear’ this clatter all the time, but our brains have learned to selectively adjust the volume to make it less disruptive. Maybe as an intoxicated teen, I heard those sounds at their actual level because I gave them my full attention (and because I was paranoid and high). Now, my hearing aids include all sorts of phone-app activated settings to filter out background noise. I suppose this would be a simple short-term solution, but my brain won’t learn anything that way. I’ll endure the clatter until it magically goes away.

~ ~ ~

A Bonus Post?

A couple days ago, I stressed about not blogging in over two weeks. Awake at two a.m., after banishing my cat from my bedroom before he started his wee-hours-of-the-morning routine of poking my elbow with a claw and then hiding under the bed, I conjured this potential mini blog post, thinking it was funny, thinking I was clever.

English is Weird:
My feed’s gone stale, my blog seems dead,
so here’s a verse for you to read.

I thought I touched a universal nerve about homophones requiring context to pronounce the words correctly, and what happens when dual contexts conflict? The next day, I realized how stupid this was. I wrote it down but kept it to myself. Until now.

Who broke the story? I can’t figure that out, but all the major players reported it: People, USA Today, E! Online, even the New York Post. I read about it first on Newser. Read Less, Know More: that’s their tag line—and everyone’s goal. “Loch Ness Centre Reports ‘Captivating’ Sighting.”

This sighting is the first of the year and deemed credible so far. Since they are obviously about to solve the mystery, I decided to spill my knowledge while I can still get the credit. I know the truth of the Loch Ness monster. And Bigfoot, and Mothman, and even the Lizard Man of Scape Ore Swamp. It’s the secret of all the Cryptids.

Psst: They don’t live here!

Do you know this word? Cryptids, a term derived from the Greek ‘krypto’ meaning hidden, refer to animals or beings whose existence is suggested but not proven scientifically.¹

Countless sources offer lists online, including Wikipedia. Most of those lists cover many of the same creatures, but they often branch out into specific local lore. Seemingly every region of the world has its own Cryptid. Any place there’s a swamp, there’s a Cryptid. The same goes for larger lakes all around the world. My wife grew up in Eerie, Pennsylvania. When I asked her if there is an Eerie lake-monster, she didn’t know. But a quick search online brought me to a documentary about Bessie, a sea creature first documented in 1817.

Someone first reported seeing the Loch Ness monster in the sixth century AD. Since then, almost twelve-hundred sightings have been logged. Those can’t all be hoaxes, right? Biologists point out that there can’t be just one Loch Ness monster. Nothing lives fifteen-hundred years. A sustainable community is required to continue breeding. Regardless, starting sixty years ago, repeated sonar studies of Loch Ness have proven that a pod of sea serpents isn’t lurking beneath the surface. It’s a conundrum, a puzzle.

I consider the book The Long Earth by Terry Pratchett and Steven Baxter as sort of a “Multiverse for Beginners” course. It describes in an orderly fashion, the basics of multiverse theory. The multiverse in The Long Earth is a series of parallel Earths where each world differs from its closest multiverse neighbor in subtle ways. Humans in the story learn to ‘step’ between these worlds. The ‘further’ they stray from their own Earth, they encounter greater differences. The trees, barely different in the next world, become unrecognizable several steps away. It’s a compelling model. Possibly it’s real?

Our Cryptids, perhaps, live on parallel Earths near our own universe, but far enough away for evolutionary deviations. If these Cryptids know the secret to stepping between worlds, nothing stops them from traveling through four dimensions. When Loch Ness becomes overfished on their world, they can step into the next world—our world—in search of food. Bigfoots could step in for a break because our world is cooler (or hotter) than many others. Mongolian Death Worms come to our Earth to do whatever it is that Mongolian Death Worms like to do, only slightly differently.

These creatures remain elusive after so many centuries because they only pop in for short periods to eat or relax. They leave just as quickly. The sighting this year at Loch Ness is simply a case of the right place at the right time. People might stare at the lake for the next five months and see nothing at all, because there’s nothing there.

Now that I’ve shared my secret with the world, everyone can stop searching. The Cryptids aren’t here. Until they are. And then they’re not.

¹ Definition taken from www.smorescience.com.

Photo by Ramon Vloon on Unsplash

这个小假期选择躲起来，租了一栋小别墅，搬了一车食物，和家人一起，煮饭烧烤火锅早起散步听歌泡温泉打牌打乒乓球打蚊子。躺平，摆烂，连相机都没有拿出来。1号在家躺平，2号出发，4号回家，完美躲过堵车和景区的人挤人，然后计划明天追赶假期的小尾巴，在家附近爬个山。虽然感觉和平时没太大差别，但十分自在，零焦虑。

By iPhone 12 Pro Max

需求分析

AI需求分析

提问

回答

实现思路

1. 创建插件文件夹和主文件：在WordPress的wp-content/plugins目录下创建一个新的插件文件夹，并在其中创建一个主PHP文件。
2. 在插件中注册静态页面：通过WordPress的钩子（hook）和函数，将静态页面文件注册为一个可访问的页面。
3. 生成自定义URL：使用WordPress的重写规则（rewrite rules）来指定访问该静态页面的URL。
4. 输出静态页面内容：在插件中捕获请求，并直接输出静态页面的内容，而不加载主题模板。

开发环节

工具准备

目录创建

文件创建与思路整理

1. 打开Cursor：选择我们新建的目录。
2. 新建文件：在左侧工具窗口中新建一个文件，名称随意，比如开发思路.txt。将KIMI给出的思路粘贴进去，包括你的提示。
3. 设置快捷键：在Mac上，按下Ctrl + I打开提问窗口。在窗口底部的图示中选择agent，选择Claude 3.5。这里为什么不选择自动或者3.7呢？因为3.5的性能最基础，不会通过长思考添加多余的东西，而是更直接地根据你的问题回答，所以推荐使用3.5版本。

提问与文档生成

请根据以上内容整理这个插件的思路，并生成一个开发文档在根目录，生成为JSON格式，尽量使用最小MVP实现，PHP文件越少越好，代码量越少越好。

内容检查与改进

开发与检查

插件命名与上传

测试

遇到的问题及解决

成功上线

后台安装了一下，然后上传测试下速度，优化了加载机制，去除掉额外的加载负担，添加一点点缓存，然后就可以正常访问了，直接在页面指针，上传一个压缩包即可，压缩包的名字就是目录名字，目录必须存在index.html文件。上传完回生成一个地址，访问即可。

插件下载地址：https://pan.baidu.com/s/1coL0HSbEgpaSJGz6rDg2Ww?pwd=igfn 

插件访问地址：https://note.jeffer.site/pointer/tubu/

结语

4月

4月份的记录姗姗来迟，整个4月没做什么事情，一直都是事情推着我走，上线了一个服务，做完发现有无数相同服务，等于重复造轮子，我再也不重复造轮子了，新的折腾点是最近再美化xiunobbs，准备做一个社区，不是我之前Ai开发的社区Voyseek。 这次是拿现有系统美化的。

唐山动物园

首先是去唐山玩，去了唐山动物园和唐山博物馆，到了动物园天气很好，发现大熊猫在睡觉，根本看不到，带着闺女在大熊猫玩偶前面拍照半天，看了很多东西。我很意外唐山动物园的动物明显比北京动物园生活好，吃的都胖了。北京动物园每次去，都对那些动物报以同情。

停电了

其次是停电后，我鱼缸的电机炸了，非常意外的意见，之前也总停电，还没有遇到电机炸的。养了一缸孔雀鱼和辣椒蟹，小螃蟹都捞出来，螃蟹无氧会死。然后立刻联系商家，品牌是Yee的2.5L侧挂过滤，去年买的，还在保质期。把点击邮寄回去，然后再寄回来，花费了大约四天左右。孔雀鱼果然结实抗造，一点事没事。完美衔接，然后再把小螃蟹们放回鱼缸。

停电那天有点坑，停了很久，晚上回家我一路从一楼爬到20层，中间歇息了一次，然后就发现楼梯应急灯都仍然给砸了，每一层砸一下，气的我在业主群大骂，也不知道哪个孙子干的，后来我看到有邻居直接在电梯憋了一个小时才出来，差点笑死。

接触自然

天气转暖后，闺女每天都要在小区公园玩半天，之前发现闺女怕蚂蚁，这次有意识的带她玩蚂蚁。捉住小蚂蚁，然后用小棍子捅，现在已经不怕蚂蚁了，没事就直接拿手抓，这样也很好，比怕这些小蚂蚁小虫子强多了，小孩子还是要接触自然。

新的折腾

前几天看到Koobai老哥的店铺转为金牌卖家，我就想起来自己原来的宝淘店也是金牌卖家，因为和供应商的拉扯就关闭了。楼下开电商店铺的兄弟前两天换了个大奔，邻居小哥我直接眼红，犹豫是否把淘宝店重新开起来。之前淘宝店还是赚钱的，就是因为供应商闹的，店铺被折腾废了，不过这个事情只作为一个副业试试，这两年的经济形势，凡事不大折腾，大折腾必挂。稳一点要比激进强太多了，凡事稳中求进。如果开店，我会厚颜在此要求博友苦力帮我刷单。

总结；4月份就这么过去了，五一马上来了。今年五一应该不会走远，还是带着孩子四处玩玩吧。提前祝福各位五一劳动节休息快乐。

“古蜀瑰宝—三星堆与金沙”文物特展从今年年初五开展，今天赶在撤展前一周去走了一下。展览展出来自三星堆博物馆、四川博物院、成都金沙遗址博物馆、成都博物馆、四川省文物考古研究院及成都文物考古研究院六家文物收藏单位的藏品163件（组），其中一级文物36件。之前看过几期相关纪录片，看实物还是第一次。感叹古人之精湛技艺，真怀疑外星人来过。

展览前言

中华文明，亘古及今，延绵不绝，五干年文明史先后发祥，如满天星斗，逐次凝聚，融汇出开放包容、创新创造的华夏瑰宝。位于中国西南、长江上游的四川盆地，是多元一体中华文明的起源地之一。从史载阙如到一醒惊天下，大量惊世发现让四川古代文明的璀璨画卷徐徐展开，更让世界对中华文明有了新的认知。
上世纪90年代以来，成都平原史前古城址群的发掘，再现了远古成都的文明曙光；三星堆和金沙遗址的腾空出世，大量气势磅礴且文化特征鲜明的珍贵文物震憾出土，揭示了古蜀王国曾经的辉煌；马家大墓、商业街船棺墓地等晚期蜀文化遗存则让传说中的开明王朝呈现在世人面前，更实证了古蜀融入中华文明的历史进程……一幕幕考古巨篇，串联起古蜀之地昔日的繁盛图景，更映照出中华文明的辉映互鉴、水乳交融，让古蜀文明成为中华历史长河中的一颗璀璨明珠。
泱泱华夏，历史绵延干载不息；锦绣天府，文明铸就千古华章。愿以此展览让大家共享四川古代文明之菁华，体悟中华文明数干载的积淀与传承！

三星堆遗址出土的青铜乌足神像通高约253厘米，是由1986年二号坑出士的铜鸟足人像、2021年三号坑出士的爬龙铜器盖、2022年八号坑出士的铜顶尊撑墨曲身人像、铜持龙立人像、铜杖形器等部分组合而成。整器为倒立的人身鸟足造型，双手按罍，头部顶尊。尊盖上有一立人，头戴高冠、双手握龙。这一罕见的青铜艺术杰作体现了中原商文化与古蜀地域文化的完美结合。

展览结语

中华文明是人类历史上唯—未曾中断的原生文明，具有强大的凝聚力、延续力和融合力，表现出多元一体、连绵不绝、兼容并蓄的文化特质。虽然古蜀国退出了历史舞台，但古蜀文明与中华各地区文明如百川汇流，相与为一，融合发展并延续至今。
万物有所生，而独知守其根。今天，我们在这里见证的不仅是古蜀人民杰出的创造力和非凡的想象力，也是中华文明融会创新的智慧结晶，更是人类文明对自然、宇宙、生命、艺术等共同主题的深刻探索与不懈追求。
铿锵有力的古蜀旋律悠悠回响，中华民族的精神根脉生生不息。

By 徕卡 D-LUX8

oss资源加载成功，oss静态资源分离成功。

简化了过滤和机制，又变快了。这是一个测试，不知道有没有变快一些。

天气不太好，飘着毛毛雨，阴沉沉的。今天无法去爬山，索性到澳门走走，没有什么目的，纯粹的在大街小巷里面瞎逛。还是选择我最喜欢的湾仔口岸坐船过海。这里过关的人非常少，船票25元/人，准时开船，3分钟左右到达对岸。下船后就可以直接逛，走15分钟可以到葡京。可以“湾仔口岸”公众号买票，“掐点”到口岸。如果从拱北过关，弯弯绕绕，30分钟可能还在关闸，然后还得等车转公交。

下船后，穿过小巷子，可以看到墙上不少涂鸦。

不时还会路过一些小街道，“里”。“里”是指双向都开口，一些较长的巷道。

还有一些夹在古老建筑中间时尚的商场。

在澳门瞎逛，你还会遇到不少教堂，都很精致。可以专题走一次，会收获不少。

午饭时间，已经在澳门瞎逛了 15000 步，急需填补肚子。好不容易走到一家评分4.9的茶餐厅，结果没开门。正当我对着门口纳闷的时候，一位路过的澳门本地阿伯跟我说这家逢周日休息。周日游客最多的时候居然休息！！好心的阿伯给我指路，说本地人喜欢去一个“街市”（菜市场）吃饭。吃饭的地方在“街市”上面，有电梯，右转再左转，如果左转再右转怕我找不到，听得我云里雾里。

终于，我们在关帝古庙的边上找到了这个地方。

吃饭的地方就位于这栋“营地街市市政综合大楼”上面，实在看不出来。

上到3楼后，发现别有洞天，真的是本地人的食堂。香味扑鼻，价格实在，如果你想找地道的吃食，建议你来试试。

上午10点过澳门，下午2点半回，结束周末澳门 City Walk，一共走了21000步。

“街市”以上照片 By 理光 GR3
“街市”后的照片 By iPhone 12 Pro Max

基础操作思路

使用对象缓存插件，比如Memcached、Redis等。
使用将WordPress等动态页面转为静态缓存的插件，比如SuperCache、LiteSpeed Cache、W3 Total Cache等。
使用图片压缩软件，如Smush、EWWW Image Optimizer、ShortPixel等。

图片优化

图片尺寸设置

提前加载页面

<script src="//instant.page/5.2.0" 
type="module" integrity="sha384-jnZyxPjiipYXnSU0ygqeac2q7CVYMbh84q0uHVRRxEtvFPiQYbXWUorga2aqZJ0z"></script>

整体优化思路和插件组合

通过插件Regenerate Thumbnails重新生成尺寸，
通过插件JefThumbnails Size调用合适的图片质量，
通过Jef Instant Loader插件提前加载页面。

体验效果

优点：整体优化完换，删除浏览器缓存访问博客，速度有非常明显的提升！点击页面的加载的确有闪电一样的感觉。

不足：第一次访问首页的时候，速度仍然没有那么快，和bosir的首页加载仍然有差距。限制我的有两点，我的首页图片较多，无形中增加了加载成本，第二服务器是香港服务器，受到带宽影响和bosir国内的服务器没法比。

AI辅助：

文章排版由KIMI完成，代码开发由Cursor完成。

结尾

买菜

昨天把缺气干瘪的车胎打气，然后骑着我心爱的小自行车去市场买菜。

阳春三四月，买菜四五家，这种感觉特别棒，阳光洒在身上懒洋洋的。

节省

前几天看闺女拿着一个皮都黑透了的香蕉吃，我当时都愣了，这玩意莫不是什么生化武器，孩子奶奶的节省思路每次都让我无语，周末休息赶快去超市买一大堆水果放冰箱。就算这样我也有点担心，因为她奶的思路是先挑坏的吃，然后等好的坏了在吃～～～～

中午孩子醒了闹脾气，我去拿鳕鱼肠，奶奶说你等她不干了（哭了）再给她吃这个，这有爆米花。我说那什么时候给她吃，我买了一箱子DHA鳕鱼肠就放这里等过期？？？

收拾冰箱，发现还有两大包冻豆角，吃了一冬天的冻豆角，吃的想吐。现在豆角便宜的才两三块钱一斤，新鲜的很便宜，但是必须吃这个去年冻豆角。本末倒置嘛？我不想吃，但是我含泪坚持吃。

尊敬老年人的节省，但是有时候真的离谱，操作让我震惊加不可思议。

扬沙子

昨天带闺女去小区中央公园玩，在滑梯下面等沙丘都是小朋友。我们正扒沙子，一个三岁小男孩拿起铲子就把沙子扬我闺女脖子里，我当时就吼了一嗓子，干嘛呢？然后立刻搂住我闺女，我闺女胆子小我担心她害怕。然后孩子奶奶过来，和孩子说你赶快道歉。我说你玩可以，但是扬沙子说不对的，不能往小朋友身上扬沙子，我脸色估计挺吓人的，孩子站那里就不道歉，我说你们走开，立刻走，别站这里。

闺女抱着我胳膊，我一点点把沙子给滑掉，又抖了半天才弄干净。整个脖子到衣服里面都是沙子，还有头上都是。

父母要学会给孩子安全感，如果别人扬沙子给我闺女，我还笑呵呵的说没事，我闺女会觉得她没有依仗，从而面对别的小朋友缺少底气和安全感。我就是要告诉闺女，别怕有爹在，有别人欺负你我就揍他！

这个小男孩一看就是平时惯的，孩子的表现都是日常的惯性。和我说道歉我觉得扯淡，能往别人脖子扬沙子的孩子道歉有个鸡儿用，该道歉的是他的父母长辈，他们应该和男孩道歉，日常没有管好孩子，没有树立正确的习惯和价值观。

消费贷

这个周末股市回撤，给出的评语就是不及预期，东升西落的叙事被质疑，我说过我不写金融文章了，但是不妨碍我吐槽几句。

周末的消费贷忽然落地，整个金融圈子都在传播，降低贷款利率，增大年限和额度。“在发钱和发券之间，他们选择了发贷！”求求别发了，我不配的。

目前，AI编程非常火爆，昨天看到@沉沦暴兵，一天发好几个插件，很多人很好奇怎么做的，正好把之前的一些操作经历整理一篇文章，之前通过Cursor创建了一个社交网站 ，该网站包含了最基本的注册、讨论、发帖、前台、后台、用户管理等功能。

作为一名互联网人，虽然我不会写实际代码，也从未学习过编程，但AI编程帮助我将一些想法变成了现实，我觉得很有趣，今天把整个流程分享给出来，以便于感兴趣的人直接可以直接上手，比想象的简单的多。

产品设计

今天，我们将花费20分钟创建一个WordPress网站插件，在开始之前，我们需要明确以下几点：

• 插件的基本功能是什么？
• 插件的性能要求，是否需要处理网站数据，是否有前后台数据交换？
• 插件的基本布局和界面设计是什么样的？

确定了这些之后，我们开始第二项工作：撰写提示词。以我们的插件为实际案例，整理这些提示词。提示词可以是半成品，因为我们可以通过AI再次细化。我建议第一次大家都以作品临摹为主，因为跟着操作一遍熟悉一下整个工作台。

提示词部分：

我要创建一个WordPress插件，该插件的名字为JefBookmark，作者Jeffer.Z，主页www.jeffer.xyz

该插件的主要功能是记录用户输入的网址和网址名称，支持标签功能。输入的书签使用WordPress文章自定义类型实现。

后台功能包括书签列表、添加、编辑、删除等。前台通过短代码调用，可以将短代码插入任何页面调用书签列表。

书签布局为：顶部显示“全部”和标签1、标签2、标签3等，最多支持展示10个标签。这一行的下方为书签列表，列表中的书签包括图标、书签名称（超链接形式），右侧显示该书签的标签。

底部为标签的分页，分页数量可以通过后台设置。

然后，我们打开KIMI或DeepSeek，优化一下提示词，并告诉它要放在Cursor中使用。以下是优化后的提示词：

AI返回的提示词：

插件信息
插件名称：JefBookmark
作者：Jeffer.Z
主页：www.jfnote.com

功能需求
1. 书签存储
- 使用WordPress自定义文章类型存储书签。
- 每个书签包含以下字段：
- 网址（必填）
- 网址名称（必填）
- 标签（支持多选，最多10个标签）

2. 后台管理
- 书签列表：显示所有书签，支持分页。
- 操作功能：添加、编辑、删除书签。
- 标签管理：支持最多10个标签的添加、编辑和删除。
- 分页设置：允许在后台设置分页数量。

3. 前台展示
- 使用短代码[jefbookmark]在任何页面调用书签列表。
- 布局设计：
- 顶部导航：显示“全部”和所有标签名称（最多10个）。
- 书签列表：
- 每个书签显示图标、书签名称（超链接形式）和所属标签。
- 标签显示在书签名称右侧。
- 分页功能：底部显示分页导航，分页数量可通过后台设置。

技术实现
- 自定义文章类型：jefbookmark
- 字段存储：
- 使用ACF（高级自定义字段）或自定义元数据存储书签信息。
- 短代码功能：
- [jefbookmark]：用于在前台页面调用书签列表。
- 模板文件：
- 自定义模板文件用于书签列表的前端展示。
- 样式与脚本：
- 提供基础的CSS样式和必要的JavaScript功能。

插件开发要求
- 确保插件兼容WordPress最新版本。
- 提供详细的文档说明插件的安装、使用和配置方法。
- 确保代码清晰、注释详细，便于后续维护和扩展。

编辑器操作

将这个提示词创建一个readme.md文件，然后把提示词粘贴进去。在你的项目文件夹中，新建一个名为Jefbookmark的文件夹，将md文件拖进去。

打开Cursor后，按下Ctrl + I打开对话窗口，选择支持的编程模型为Claude3.5，然后在输入框中@readme.md文件，直接对它说：“Cursor，请根据该文件创建一个网络书签插件。现在请你根据提供的信息思考下，你要如何实现并列出来插件的大纲，然后将大纲和文件结构创建一个json文件。”

这时，Cursor会开始思考，并列出实现方法，你可以看到窗口它的回复内容，以及它创建的json文件。

这里需要注意的地方，一般cursor会把项目搞得很大，你要求他以最小MVP代码量和文件量实现，如果是特别简单的插件，直接告诉他，请以一个PHP文件完成插件所有功能，根据功能去评估文件大小和数量，不要让cursor制作非常大的结构和目录，那会导致它不停的去创建目录和文件，把代码搞得非常复杂。你也可以在最初的readme文件就通过规则限制它，我一般会看一下cursor会输出多大的结构，然后才会第二次对它校正。这里考验大家的是，你要根据功能判断多少个文件足够它完成代码。如果你的项目很大，一定要自己设计文件结构，而不是让cursor给你设计，那会造成项目过载，使用一对复杂的技术，增加代码工作量。

接着，直接告诉它“请开始实现”，它会创建一些代码和文件。当所有代码完成后，

1. 请@codebase在输入框再次和它对话：“请检查全部代码和文件，查看是否有功能和代码衔接的错误，如果有请修复它。” Cursor会进行修复。
2. 然后再次@codebase，告诉它：“请你做上线之前的最后一次检查，保证插件的激活、启动、停用、卸载正常。” Cursor会做最后一次检查并修改代码。

打包安装

最后，将代码打包成zip文件，直接在WordPress网站插件上传文件包。如果插件没有正常启动，会有提示，将错误提示复制给Cursor，它会进行二次修复。再次上传覆盖插件即可。此时，你就可以在后台添加你的网络书签，并将短代码[jefbookmark]复制粘贴到你想要展示的位置，保存后，再次访问该页面就能看到你的网络书签了。

地址演示

网址：https://www.jeffer.xyz/bookmark

全程花费20分钟，包括代码修复和功能调整。对于有经验的开发者来说，可能只需半个小时就能搞定。如果你是新手，一个小时也能上线你的插件功能。

这里的网络书签只是一个演示，你可以创建任何符合规则的插件，比如表单、数据统计插件、文章伪原创插件等，具体做什么取决于你的兴趣和职业。

如果你有确定的界面和网址，也可以直接把地址丢在窗口，要求他以这种界面输出，输出级别比如1:1，比如参考整个布局，比如参考样式配色等，和Ai沟通尽量以最简洁是对话让ai理解，如果说不清楚就丢图片和网址，Cursor也可以阅读图片，然后直接按照图片创作网页。这里拿插件作为演示，是因为插件的门槛最低，一般在宝塔里面修改过PHP文件的博友，我都把这批博友视为可以直接上手Cursor编程选手。

问题修复

也会有一些博友的项目或者插件，主题出问题，修复的方法也很简单，直接将项目解压到目录，Cursor打开该项目文件，然后Ctrl I打开对话窗口，@codebase 让他遍历一遍项目代码，然后说一下这个项目的功能是什么，整个文件结构是什么样的。这是第一次对话，你需要它熟悉项目。

第二次对话，选择出问题的文件或者文件的目录，在对话窗口将问题描述，然后 @该文件或者该目录，第二次对话不要求他立刻实现代码，一定要先问他是什么问题，Cursor会定位出来问题，然后你告他，请思考几种方法可以修复，并且告诉我几种方法的优劣势，然后他会告诉你。

如果一直无法定位到问题，一般有可能出现导致的，AI当前被降智，你引用的文件位置错误，或者你提供的问题和实际的文件不匹配，一般项目越大越复杂，引入的变量越多，越难以定位到问题本身。

其他注意

1. 账号购买：去某宝买共享版3人500条高速，不要买号池账号，号池账号不稳定会降智的。
2. 汉化处理：随便找一个Ai问一下，会给你教程。
3. 适合人群：编码是否适合小白和程序员，适合任何可以通过键盘打字的人。
4. 屎山代码：创建的代码是否为屎山，如果你不规范它就是屎山，屎山与否取决于使用人在创建产品之初，给Cursor设计的代码目录结构和前提。如果你本身就可以阅读代码，这样更好，你可以要求他使用具体方法，什么框架，以什么规范创作。
5. 产品范围：还能写什么？可以写APP，小程序，网站，脚本等等。
6. 需要工具：www.cursor.com 直接注册，赠送免费50条额度使用，但是有一个前提，打开编辑器对话需要开魔法节点，建议使用香港节点。

End

如果遇到问题，可以评论区讨论，现在很多博友都在用，经验比我丰富的也很多，我这里写一篇作为抛砖引玉，没有过多的去截图，因为整个cursor的使用教程非常多，大家直接B站就能搜索到，基础操作熟悉一下就可以，这里更多的是提供做产品的思路。

列车在铁轨上疾驰，窗外的风景不断刷新，时而枯燥，时而鲜活。

By iPhone 12 Pro Max

最近好像大姨夫来了，干什么都一副要死不活的感觉，吃饭也没得味道。早晨出门，坐在路边半天歪着脑袋，人有些恍然，内心空空如也。

这种空不是放空，而是一种空洞，茫然，麻木，空空如也，没有生气。现在的状态也很奇怪，做什么身心无力，很容易疲劳困倦。

======================

我问KIMI，我人没事吧，它这么回复我，我差点被气到恢复正常。

摄于上海外滩，By iPhone 12 Pro Max

狮子林，苏州四大名园之一，代表元代的艺术风格。园林，园林，大多叫园，叫林的只有一个，就是狮子林。狮子林园内以假山叠石为主体，厅、堂、殿、阁、亭、选、斋、堂20余处，园中有9条假山山脉，21处洞穴，是中国古典园林中堆山最曲折，最复杂的一个，假山面积约占全园总面积的五分之一，面积达1100平方米，被誉为“假山王国”。乾隆下江南时曾六次到访狮子林，园中共有乾隆皇帝写的匾额16处，可见他对狮子林是喜爱至极。

狮子林为什么叫狮子林，大部份UP主解释为因为园内有很多假山形似狮子，所以叫狮子林。其实狮子林发端于禅林，是寺庙和园林的结合体。禅宗高僧天为纪念自己的师傅而取名“狮子林”。

元朝1341年，一位名叫天如的禅师来到苏州讲经传禅，天如禅师的弟子在娄门边的某处地方，见闹市中古木参天，觉得这里很适合修禅讲道，于是便在此置屋，建起了一处禅林给天如禅师布道之用。
来到苏州之前，天如禅师曾在浙江天目山狮子崖修行二十余载。而天如禅师的老师中峰明本，以及中峰明本的老师高峰原妙都是在狮子岩得道。
天如禅师将住所命名为“狮子林”，又称“菩提正宗寺”。狮子林，以“狮”同“师”，表明了不忘师祖之意。同时，狮子又名“狻猊”，是佛国之兽。而在古代，寺院又称丛林，简称“林”。这便是狮子林名字的由来。[原文]

卧云室位于指柏轩南面假山中央的平地中，如安卧于峰石间，取金元好问“何时卧云身，因节遂疏懒”诗句意名“卧云室”。其原为寺僧静坐敛心、止息杂虑的禅室。

亭内正中悬挂着天如禅师像。

揖峰指柏轩是园内主要厅堂，楼式建筑，轩面对规整的小水池和湖石假山，山上罗列石峰石笋，山石缝中古木虬根盘绕。轩底层四周为回廊，楼上层缩进。轩面阔五间，黄瓜环脊歇山顶。

真趣亭位于水池南岸，面对假山。其形体较大，结构特殊，亭内前二柱为花篮吊柱，后用纱隔成内廊，亭内天花装饰性强，扁作大梁上为菱角轩和船蓬轩，雕梁画栋，彩绘鎏金，鹅胫椅短柱柱头为座狮。亭内悬挂金底绿字乾隆御笔“真趣”匾。

园林漏景、借景都很好看，专门拍了一些。

此次狮子林游玩和旅行漫记差点可以偶遇，后来我又追到了上海，还是错过了。（纯属自编）如果要看狮子林的好片，可以去S兄博客。

好啦，2025 苏州园林之旅到此更新完毕。连续几天都在园子里逛，十分尽兴，都有点时空错乱了。

By iPhone 12 Pro Max（前一天玩得太累，回酒店忘记给相机电池充电， D-LUX8 备3个电池都是必要的。）

沧浪亭是苏州存世最古老的园林，苏州四大园林之一，代表着宋代艺术风格，出自于北宋时期苏舜钦之手，曾经是名将韩世忠的住宅。相对留园、拙政园，沧浪亭的造园艺术是别具一格的。未进园就有一池绿水环绕的园林外墙，然后一进门就可以看到一座假山屏障。园内以假山为主体，山下有开凿的水池，假山延伸的左侧石头山上有沧浪亭，然后山水之间以一条曲折的复廊相连。园内除了专门开凿的一个水池，就没有其他水源，它的水都巧妙的设计在了园外，是其一大特色。

沧浪亭匾额上三个字是清代文学家俞樾所书写，石柱上的楹联为“清风明月本无价，近水远山皆有情”。欧阳修曾在《沧浪亭》一诗中写道：清风明月本无价，可惜只卖四万钱。而苏舜钦在《过苏州》中有诗云：绿杨白鹭皆自得，近水远山皆有情。这副楹联便是清代梁章钜将这两句诗集为一联。

临水处建复廊，以漏窗通透内外景物，使内外山水融为一体。

清香馆内陈列一套树根家具，为清末之物，用福建榕树根精制，采其天然造型形有飞禽走兽图案，龙凤星祥形态。

据统计，园内共有花窗108款，造型各不相同，活泼有趣，十分花心思。

通过这些花窗漏景，可以窥探园内的美丽景色。

沧浪亭另外一个特色就是竹子，据统计园内共计22种竹子种类，包括箬竹、苦竹、慈孝竹、毛环竹、湘妃竹、水竹、青秆竹、哺鸡竹等等。园内处处可见竹子，《沧浪亭记》中记载其周边环境：“前竹后水，水之阳又竹，澄川翠干，光影会合于轩户之间，尤与风月为相宜”“水得微径于杂花修竹之间”。智者乐水，君子师竹。翠竹潇洒清逸，代表了君子的翩翩风度。

仰止亭，袭诗经“高山仰止，景行行止”之意而名。此为半亭，始筑于同治年间，其名与五百名贤祠有关，亭内嵌有御题文徵明小像石刻，是珍贵的历史文物。新亭建在遗址上，原亭为六棱六柱、六角形屋盖式凉亭，石木结构，高6米，周长20米，顶盖小青瓦、柱为红色、顶内盖板与花额窗为绿色，亭西一米靠山处立有“讲经台”石碑一块。

翠玲珑，又叫做“竹亭”，有三间房，另外连贯几间大小不一的旁室，南宋绍兴初韩世忠时就有其名，取苏子美诗“秋色入林红黯淡，日光穿竹翠玲珑”之意为名。

从翠玲珑的窗户往外看，四面都可以看到竹子。

明道堂，位于园内假山东南部，面阔三间，为清同治十二年巡抚张树声所创，袭苏舜钦《沧浪亭》中语“观听无邪，则道以明”之意而名。旧为会文讲学之所，此堂开敞四舍，宏伟庄严，是为园中主厅。

沧浪亭相对小众，去的当天人非常少，所以在这里我拍的照片反而是最多的。沧浪亭以园外的理水，园内的竹林、复廊、借景和漏窗最为有特色。不像留园那么精致，没有拙政园的大气奢华，沧浪亭表达的是一种古朴而又不经细琢的山野之趣。

摄于2025年2月7日，By 徕卡 D-LUX8

​周六闺女半夜睡觉翻来覆去，醒了哭闹，我抱着，她浑身发热像火球一样烫，体温计测量38.6，期间咳嗽的厉害，就一直哭，怎么安抚都不行，赶快把美林拿出来吃，过一会降温，但仍旧状态不好。 应该是妈妈传染的，症状一样，妈妈已经烧了好几天。

第二天早晨带盖闺女到门口诊采血，检查报告说是细菌感染，不知道是否准确。我感觉这就是病毒感染，满大街都是这玩意，昨下午又烧了一会，吃的美林降温，希望没啥事，只要不发烧应该就没大问题，要是发烧的是我就好了，孩子太小了，根本承受不了这个痛苦，咳嗽我都听到空腔声了，太严重。

周日后半夜又烧起来38.8，不过没有前一天晚上那么痛苦，起来坐小马桶尿尿，问我说爸爸现在几点啦？声音都洪亮了，大概是吃药缓解了很多，又是头孢又是消炎又是美林又是清肺。今天陪闺女看看，希望别再烧了，药要按时吃，还是非常管用。家里有孩子药要常备退烧药，有备无患。

拙政园，与沧浪亭、狮子林和留园并称苏州四大园林，为苏州四大名园之首，代表着明代的艺术风格。拙政园又与北京颐和园、承德避暑山庄、苏州留园一起被誉为中国四大名园。拙政园占地面积78亩（52000平方米），建于明正德四年（公元1509）。拙政园由东园、中园、西园（ 西部补园、中部拙政园、东园归田园居）以及住宅部分组成，住宅部分现为园林博物馆展厅。总体布局以水池为中心，中园最为出彩。

拙政园中“拙政”一词来源于潘安《闲居赋》“于是览止足之分，庶浮云之志，筑室种树，逍遥自得。池沼足以渔钓，春税足以代耕。灌园當蔬，供朝夕之膳；牧羊黏酪，侯伏腊之费。孝乎唯孝，友于兄弟，此亦拙者之为政也。”而拙政园从字面意思上看“拙”为笨拙之意，“政”指政治才能，“园”即园林之意。

拙政园的设计者是文徵明。当年王献臣诚邀文徵明为自己设计园林。文徵明素来清高，在书画界，一般人求画他都不应，何况是设计宅邸，但这次他因敬重王献臣的人品，而希望通过自己的设计，为其营造一方世外桃源，聊以慰藉。

在造园中，构景要素有叠山、理水、建筑、植物四个元素，造景手法分抑景、添景、夹景、对景、框景、漏景、点景、借景等，我尝试把拍的照片归了一下类。个人觉得叠山是狮子林比较出彩，理水以沧浪亭为最佳，建筑可能留园更加精致，而拙政园各方面都还不错，造景手法运用更丰富一些。

理水

叠山

建筑

曼陀罗树即山茶的别名，因为叶子类似茶叶，又可作饮，故得山茶名。

植物

造景手法

光影

古人官场的失意，不想出家门，“不出城市而得山林之性，逍遥自得而享闲居之乐”，借这些景这些物去抒发感情，一步一景都有其含义，什么季节去哪个亭子赏玩，配合什么植物花果，哪个亭子和哪个亭子对应，都是十分考究，前前后后花了二十年修建。景物建筑丰富，手法运用丰富，是实实在在的园林教科书。

摄于2025年2月6日，By 徕卡 D-LUX8

近期，我想要做一款产品，兴奋得睡不着觉，大半夜还在和朋友讨论产品的细节，从功能到域名、官网，再到技术框架。光是想项目的域名就花了两天时间，反反复复琢磨。产品功能也是一遍又一遍地思考，甚至用 AI 生成了一个特别系统全面的产品方案。不过，真正执行的时候，问题就来了，我开发不动它，执行层面包括产品的细化功能大脑想不出来。这么一套全面的东西，个人或者小团队很难轻松上手，必须要特别成熟的团队才行。但现实情况是，开发新项目的大多是小团队、不成熟团队，甚至是个人开发者。真正成熟的团队，他们不会轻易去碰新项目，而是在成熟项目里“堆屎山”。

在推进这个项目时，我首先将产品设计得非常全面，结果掉进了自嗨的坑里，严重高估了自己的开发能力。为了实现一个很简单的小功能，我用 Cursor 自己编码，开发一套 PHP 框架。这就好比为了一颗子弹去手搓手枪生产线，这不是做项目，而是在完美地编织一个大坑，然后把自己扔进去。前些天，我看到 Obaby 的网站还是 PHP 7.4 版本，就问她为啥不升级到 PHP 8。她说她编译了个 PHP 模块，我回复说：“你肯定是魔改了底层的东西，老放大招。有些问题可以用小招解决，不用总掏导弹核武器。”原来，很多朋友也是一样，动不动就在打苍蝇的时候掏火箭筒。

人的大脑和神经非常奇妙。在规划阶段，就像一个兴奋的内燃机，能做出一套完美方案。但真正执行的时候，就开始痛苦了，因为发现很多规划根本做不到。神经科学研究表明，规划阶段的多巴胺分泌远高于实际执行阶段。这就像是玩游戏时沉迷于攻略，却从来没真正开始游戏一样。这种“多巴胺陷阱”会让创作者陷入无尽的规划循环，根本没法真正投入，而大脑对“规划快感”的过度依赖，这不是个体问题，而是每个人都会经历的阶段。

在项目开发中，往往有两个东西最难绕过：第一个是系统化复杂思考，第二个是在执行中往往在错误的领域深耕而不自知。以实际举例，当你想做一件事的时候，是否会系统地规划某件事情？规划完后，执行力强的人甚至能把整套方案做出来，但你能执行下去吗？人们思考的完美，往往是他认知的完美，而不是他自己能力的完美。这句话一定要理解。当我们理解了自己能力的界限，再去结合整个方案的时候，我们才能真正现实地落地做出些东西。这是我关于系统化复杂化思考的反思。

第二是执行中的错误深耕。世界到底是什么样子的？你我会给出不同的答案。如果有三个人，世界就是他们交织重合的部分，因为只有这部分是真实的。未被交织的部分虽然存在，但并不在现实世界中出现。真正实际的实相是整个宇宙人们认知的交合处。

市场是什么？市场是你去买菜，你以为白菜5块钱，进货2块钱，你拿着钱进货去，第二天白菜大跌到2块钱，卖不出去了。这就是市场。你的2块钱和市场的售价2块钱都是这个真实世界。一个项目或者产品，在早期就应该去市场验证，而不是在某个领域细分深耕。等你推向市场，才发现你在错误的道路上走了两万五千里，你花费的时间全部都是无用的。

要解决问题，我们需要使用方法论。方法论是最好的老师，我们可以尝试用方法论去约束自己，避免磕磕绊绊。

如何避免完美主义陷阱

如何才能把我们的完美方案，做成一个匹配自己能力的真正执行方案？如何快速推进项目？这里引入最小可行产品（MVP）的概念。

最小可行产品（MVP）

定义：MVP 是在资源有限的情况下，开发出的具有最基本功能的产品版本，用于验证产品核心价值假设并获取用户反馈。

作用：MVP 可以帮助团队快速将产品推向市场，以最低的成本和最快的速度验证产品是否符合用户需求，从而避免大规模投入后才发现产品方向错误。

特点：
– 功能极简：只包含满足核心需求的最基本功能。
– 快速迭代：根据用户反馈快速调整和优化。
– 成本低：开发成本低，甚至可以是零成本。

实施建议：不要陷入大而全的规划，一个产品里面核心功能就那么几点。把产品按照最小的产品、最小的团队、最小的界面直接上线，快速迭代。用户会给你真正的反馈。

产品市场契合（PMF）

当你使用最小 MVP 创建了产品或项目后，接下来应该思考的是市场契合点：你的产品哪个点是用户最需要的？如果把它从产品中拿掉，大量用户会离开。比如，如果微信不能打开对话窗口，拼多多的价格比淘宝还贵，抖音一刷都是枯燥的教学视频，你会怎么样？

定义

PMF（Product-Market Fit，产品市场契合）是指产品与市场需求达到最佳契合点，即产品能够很好地满足目标用户的需求，并在市场上获得足够的用户认可和增长潜力。

验证标准

定性验证：如 Sean Ellis 测试，即询问用户“如果无法再使用这个产品，你会有多失望？”如果有 40% 的用户表示“非常失望”，则通常被认为达到了 PMF。
定量验证：根据产品类型不同，常见的指标包括：
用户留存率（如 30% 次日留存率）。
用户活跃度（如 DAU/MAU 达到 20% 以上）。
付费转化率（如 5% 以上）。
用户生命周期价值与获取成本比（LTV/CAC > 3）。
月流失率低于 2% 等。

作用

PMF 是产品从探索期迈向成长期的关键节点。只有实现了 PMF，产品才具备大规模推广的基础。

MVP 与 PMF 的关系

MVP 是实现 PMF 的重要工具和手段**：通过 MVP，团队可以快速验证产品的基本价值假设，收集用户反馈，进而优化产品并逐步向 PMF 靠拢。
PMF 是 MVP 的最终目标**：当产品通过不断迭代优化，最终与市场需求完美契合时，就实现了 PMF。

结语

为什么懂了一切，你仍然过不好一生？答案是，你只是在大脑里稍微过过脑子，却没有真正付诸实践。这篇文章最大的价值在于，你可以把所有现有的方案拿出来，附上“最小 MVP 方案”重新输出。把整个文档扔给 AI（如 Kimi），你会发现项目好像能做了。所有的知识都是这样，我只是简单的看了，但是没有用它去输出的时候，他永远是一段阅读记忆。并不是所有的知识都是有帮助的，就像这篇文章，当你需要它，它有帮助，当你不需要，不要浪费一点大脑，阅后即忘是最好的。感谢您花几分钟阅读我是个人思考。

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该文章撰写由Jeffer.Z完成，排版错别字及梳理由KIMI完成。

虎丘，又叫海涌山、海涌峰、虎阜，距现在已经有二千五百多年悠久历史。传说远古时期苏州是一片茫茫大海，虎丘山是从海里涌出的一个小小岛屿，后来沧海变良田就成为一座小山，山高34.3米，所以也叫海涌山。而虎丘这个名字源于春秋时的吴王阖闾，他在这里修城建都，死后也葬在这里。传说葬后三日，墓地有“白虎蹲其上”，因而得名。也有说“丘如蹲虎，以形名”。虎丘的山体由侏罗系火山岩浆构成，园内很多山石都是流纹岩。

虎丘后山有“虎丘后山胜前山”之说，现存青石小桥、石牌坊、湖石假山，也是苏州园林的一大代表。《吴地记》载：”虎丘山绝岩纵壑，茂林深篁，为江左丘壑之表“。

景区南门入口的牌坊，写着“吳中第一山”，远远能看到虎丘塔。

走进天下第一名胜虎丘大门，过海涌桥，再走百来米才到景区售票处。

这里的河道与山塘街相连，有七里山塘水源自虎丘的说法。

虎阜禅寺是沿山而建，由于山门建在山前，有“寺中藏山”的特点，但实际寺又在山里，又有深山藏古寺的布局。

景区检票口的碑廊。

断梁殿上面的主梁是断的，它用两根木料建成的，它的建成主要是运用了力学中的杠杆原理，在这断梁下有一排斗拱相托，通过斗拱将中间所承受的力分散到四周，采用了“挑梁式”的构筑方法。

断梁殿大门对联是：上联“塔影在波山光接屋”、下联“画船人语晓市花声”。

拥翠山庄墙上的两边刻有“龙、虎、豹、熊”行草大字石刻四方。拥翠山庄是苏州唯一 一座无水的园林，由苏州状元洪钧所建。建筑依山势分四个层次，园内第一层抱瓮轩，抱瓮轩三间朝南，是全园的主要建筑。

憨憨泉有一段美丽的传说，憨憨是中国梁代著名的高僧，当时他的眼睛不好，患有目疾，也就是“白内障”，虎丘山的方丈因为可怜他，收他做一个挑水和尚，但是当时挑水的路很远，有一次他挑水途经这里，因为感到累，于是就坐在这里休息，不知不觉中就睡着了，在梦中它梦见一位高僧对他说这里有一泉眼可通大海，醒后他就用双手触摸这片地，在这里摸到了一些青苔，他想有青苔就说明这地下一定有水，于是他用挑水的扁担在这里挖，大约挖了七七四十九天，终于一脉泉眼涌了出来，治好了憨憨的眼睛，因这口井是他所挖所以取名为“憨憨泉”。

真娘墓，位于通往虎丘山坡道的右侧。真娘确有其人，原名姓胡，名瑞珍，北方人。她从小父母双亡，唐朝“安史之乱”的时候，随同亲戚一起逃亡来到苏州，但是不幸坠入苏州阊门外的一个妓院——“乐云楼”。她虽成为青楼女子却守身如玉，只陪客人歌舞书画，是苏州一位绝色佳丽。当时，苏州有个大财主，名叫王荫祥，他用重金贿赂老鸨，企图在真娘那里留宿，真娘知道这次难以逃避，为了保持贞洁，她便上吊自尽了。这使王荫祥内心大受震撼，于是为真娘筑了此墓，并且发下重誓，今生永不再娶。此后，许多文人墨客都同情真娘，在她的墓上题写诗词，真娘也由此在中国历史上有了一席之地，与杭州另一名妓苏小小齐名，被誉为“香魂”。清乾隆十年（公元1745年），海陵陈璜访得遗址，建亭其上，立石刻书“古真娘墓”4字。

枕石，形似枕头。相传苏州才子唐伯虎游玩时在这个石头上睡着了，另外一个才子祝枝山看到了这个景象，便在石头上写下了“枕石”二字。

相传春秋时期，吴王阖闾为了争霸天下，召来了当时最有名的铸剑师干将莫邪夫妇为他铸剑。满期那天，他提着“莫邪”剑来到了虎丘山，将此剑献给了阖闾，阖闾为了试其剑的锋利，对着这块石头手起剑落，就将这块石头一劈为二，这就是有关试剑石的传说。事实上，这块石头是典型的火山喷出岩的凝灰岩，久经风化，沿着裂隙形成这样一条大缝，酷似剑劈。

旧志云：“生公讲座，下有千人列坐，故名。”《吴地记》曰：“虎丘泉石，其最胜者剑池，千人坐。”《吴郡志》云：“生公讲经处，大石盘陀数亩，高下如削，乃他山所无。”现石上刻有千人石“千人坐”三个篆字，是胡缵宗所书。

虎丘最出名的就是“剑池”，相传池底埋有吴王闵闾的墓葬，其子吴王夫差曾以鱼肠剑和其它宝剑共三千把為父亲陪葬，故名“剑池”。上从往下看，水道就像一把剑横卧在山间。

剑池岩壁四周写了各大家到此一游的题字。

虎丘塔是世界第二斜塔，又称中国的“比萨斜塔”，园内第二大景点。这座塔七层八面，塔高47.7米，塔向东北偏北方向倾斜，它的塔顶偏离中心2.34米，最大倾角是3度59分。1986年对虎丘塔进行“加固塔基”的第二次大修，才使千年古塔转危为安。虎丘塔建于五代后周显德六年（959年），建成于宋建隆二年辛酉（961年），已经有一千多年的历史。

虎丘是苏州2500年沧桑的见证，苏州历史文化古城的标志，有很多源远流长的典故，苏东坡曾说：“到苏州不游虎丘，乃憾事也”。

摄于2025年2月5日，By 徕卡 D-LUX8