I Was a Screen Time Expert. Then the Coronavirus Happened.

An author reflects(rəˈflekt) on her pre-pandemic pronouncements(prəˈnounsmənt) about children’s technology use and offers new advice, like focus on feelings, not screens.

By Anya Kamenetz

Before the pandemic, I was a parenting expert. It was a cushy(ˈko͝oSHē) gig. In 2019, I boarded 34 flights. I checked into nice hotels, put on makeup and fitted jewel(ˈjo͞oəl)-toned(tōnd) dresses, strode(strōd) onto stages large and dinky(ˈdiNGkē), and tried to project authoritative(əˈTHôrəˌtādiv) calm(kä(l)m). I told worried parents about the nine signs of tech overuse, like ditching(ˈdiCHiNG) sleep for screens. I advised them to write a “family media contract” and trust, but verify, their tweens’(twēn) doings online.

While I was on the road, my two daughters were enjoying modest(ˈmädəst), cute little doses(dōs) of Peppa Pig and Roblox, in between happily attending school, preschool, after-school activities and play dates, safe in the care of their father, grandmother and our full-time nanny(ˈnanē).

Now, like Socrates(ˈsäkrəˌtēz), I know better. I know that I know nothing.

Parenting expert? Please. I took only 12-week maternity(məˈtərnədē) leaves, and for the second baby, I had both the nanny’s help and the big girl in pre-K five days a week. I finished my parenting book about screen time on that maternity leave, which was kind of like writing up lab results before the experiment was finished.

My point being: I have never, ever, spent this much time with my children, or anyone’s children, as I have over the past four months during shelter(ˈSHeltər)-in-place orders. Nor have I contemplated(ˈkän(t)əmˌplāt) working full time, while my husband also works full time, without sufficient child care, let alone while dealing with multiple weekly deadlines and 5 a.m. live radio hits, in an insanely(inˈsānlē) stressful 24-hour news cycle where it’s actually, kind of, my job to doomscroll through Twitter (well, at least it’s job-adjacent(əˈjās(ə)nt)). By the way, “zombie(ˈzämbē) fires” are eating the Arctic(ˈärktik) and they are as terrifying(ˈterəfīiNG) as they sound.

I want to take this moment to apologize(əˈpäləˌjīz) to anyone who faced similar constraints(kənˈstrānt) before the pandemic and felt judged or shamed by my, or anyone’s, implication that they weren’t good parents because they weren’t successfully enforcing a “healthy balance” with screens, either for themselves or their children. That was a fat(fat) honking(häNGk) wad(wäd) of privilege(ˈpriv(ə)lij) speaking.

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https://www.nytimes.com/2020/07/27/parenting/children-screen-time-games-phones.html

What are the odds of that?

By Derek Sivers

Three true stories:

In 1992, in Tokyo, I dated a girl named Masako. After our month together, she moved to London. We lost touch.

In 2008, I was in London for a few days. I wondered if Masako still lived there, sixteen years later.

A minute later, she walked by.

“Masako!”

“Derek?!”

In 1993, I had a pen-pal(pal) from Argentina(ˌärjənˈtēnə) named Lucia. She was studying Norwegian(ˌnôrˈwējən) and planned to move to Oslo, Norway, some day. We lost touch.

In 2007, my band was on tour in Oslo for a few days. I was sitting in a park, wondering if Lucia ever moved there.

A minute later, she walked by.

“Lucia!”

“Derek?!”

Today I’m in Singapore(ˈsiNGəˌpôr). I went to the library to write. It was very busy, with nowhere to sit(sit), so I walked from room to room before I finally found the last free seat(sēt).

I noticed that the guy next to me was reading a book I recommend often: Ego(ˈēɡō) Is the Enemy(ˈenəmē).

I said, “Great book!”

He said, “I got it because of you. You’re Derek, right?”

His name is Thomas. We had emailed(ˈēmāl) a few days ago.

Some people like to think that there are no coincidences(kōˈinsədəns). They say, “What are the odds(ädz) of that?” as if to mean that it can’t be chance(CHans). Life feels more amazing to them if it all has meaning. (Seeking patterns in randomness(ˈrandəmnəs) is called apophenia(ˈapəfineə).)

I like to think that everything is a coincidence. Life feels more amazing to me if it has no meaning. No secret agenda(əˈjendə). Beautifully random.

What are the odds of winning the big lottery(ˈlädərē)? Fifty million to one? Ah, but that’s if you’re being egocentric(ˌēɡōˈsentrik) and thinking only of yourself! Someone always wins it. So what if you look past yourself and ask, “What are the odds that this rare thing will happen to someone?” Almost 100 percent.

That’s a nice reminder when the odds seem impossible. Amazingly rare things happen to people every day.

https://sivers.org/odds

Pop’s Birthday

By 王渊源John

My maternal(məˈtərnl) grandfather, William Francis Franck(fräNGk), passed away in 2015 at the age of 97. He would have been 103 today.

We called him Pop. He got that name because it was what my cousin(ˈkəz(ə)n) Ginny, who was his first grandchild, called him.

His career, most of which happened before I knew him, was in the Textile(ˈtekˌstīl) industry. He was the CEO of a company called Tultex, and it grew from 160 to 6500 employees during his tenure(ˈtenyər).

He also loved computers and new technology. He was avid(ˈavəd) Apple Computer fan starting in the early 80s, and he even opened a computer store with my uncle.

I remember him as a kind and funny man who could be very demanding and exacting, but who was always full of love and care for others.

During the last few years of his life, he would often call me on Skype(skīp). Sometimes when he called me he would ask what I was calling about, and I eventually discovered that he thought the “your friend is online notifications” were missed calls.

I remember our conversations very fondly. No matter whether I was in an important meeting or sleeping, I was always happy to take his call. Sometimes we would talk for longer, but often the conversations would be quite short.

He would say, “Hey Old Boy, just wanted to let you know we love you.”

“I love you too, Pop.”

“Ok. Take care. Goodbye!”

Doomscrolling(do͞omˈskrōliNG) is slowly eroding(əˈrōd) your mental(ˈmen(t)l) health

Checking your phone for an extra two hours every night won’t stop the apocalypse(əˈpäkəˌlips).

By Angela Watercutter

It’s 11:37pm and the pattern shows no signs of shifting. At 1:12am, it’s more of the same. Thumb(THəm) down, thumb up. Twitter, Instagram, and—if you’re feeling particularly wrought(rôt)/masochistic(ˌmasəˈkistik)—Facebook. Ever since the COVID-19 pandemic left a great many people locked down in their homes in early March, the evening ritual(ˈriCH(o͞o)əl) has been codifying(ˈkädəˌfī): Each night ends the way the day began, with an endless scroll(skrōl) through social media in a desperate(ˈdesp(ə)rət) search for clarity.

To those who have become purveyors(pərˈvāər) of the perverse(pərˈvərs) exercise, like The New York Times’ Kevin Roose, this habit has become known as doomsurfing, or “falling into deep, morbid(ˈmôrbəd) rabbit(ˈrabət) holes filled with coronavirus content(kənˈtent,ˈkäntent), agitating(ˈajəˌtāt) myself to the point of physical discomfort, erasing(əˈrās) any hope of a good night’s sleep.” For those who prefer their despair be portable(ˈpôrdəb(ə)l), the term is doomscrolling, and as protests over racial(ˈrāSHəl) injustice and police brutality(bro͞oˈtalədē) following the death of George Floyd have joined the COVID-19 crisis in the news cycle, it’s only gotten more intense. The constant stream of news and social media never ends.

Of course, a late-night scroll is nothing new—it’s the kind of thing therapists(ˈTHerəpəst) often hear about when couples say one or the other isn’t providing enough attention. But it used to be that Sunday nights in bed were spent digging through Twitter for Game of Thrones(THrōn) hot takes, or armchair(ˈärmˌCHer) quarterbacking(ˈkwôrdərˌbak) the day’s game. Now, the only thing to binge(binj)-watch is the world’s collapse(kəˈlaps) into crisis(ˈkrīsis). Coronavirus deaths (473,000 worldwide and counting), unemployment(ˌənəmˈploimənt) rates(rāt) (around 13 percent in the US), protesters in the street on any given day marching for racial justice (countless thousands)—the faucet(ˈfôsit) of data runs nonstop. There are unlimited seasons, and the promise of some answer, or perhaps even some good news, always feels one click away.

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https://arstechnica.com/gaming/2020/06/doomscrolling-is-slowly-eroding-your-mental-health/

Making permanent(ˈpərmənənt) changes

By Steve Pavlina

You may often get stuck in cycles of temporarily(ˈtempəˌrerəlē) upgrading some part of your life, only to watch that area decline when you stop giving it as much attention. People especially do this with their finances(ˈfīnans) and their health. When the pressure to take action is strong enough, they’ll make some improvements, but once the immediacy(iˈmēdēəsē) subsides, they return to old habits –and the old results.

Partly this is a framing issue. If you really want to upgrade a certain area of your life and have the upgrade stick, it helps to frame your efforts as creating permanent changes. Adopt(əˈdäpt) the mindset that you can never go back to the old way of doing things. Do your best to mentally(ˈment(ə)lē) and emotionally accept that the old path must permanently end, and you can never return to it again.

You might have a temporary upgrade phase and a long-term maintenance(ˈmānt(ə)nəns) phase for certain changes, but the maintenance phase can’t be the same as the pre-upgrade phase if you want to lock in some permanent gains(ɡān). Whatever you’re doing now that isn’t getting you the results you want – that particular collection of habits – has to die off and never see the light of day again.

For instance, if you’re considering a dietary(ˈdīəˌterē) change to improve your health, frame it as a permanent change. This framing makes it clear that you can never go back to the way you’re eating now. If you do, you’ll undo any results you gain. Look at your current eating habits and know you must leave them in the past and that they can never be part of your future.

The notion of making a permanent change may seem daunting(ˈdôn(t)iNG) enough, but you also have to accept that this means the absolute end of your current practices.

If you want to upgrade your health, your current health practices must end forever. If you want to upgrade your finances, your current financial practices must end forever. If you want to upgrade your social life, your current social practices must end forever. To usher(ˈəSHər) in the new and make it stick, you must be willing to accept the death of the old.

…
https://www.stevepavlina.com/blog/2020/06/making-permanent-changes/

The Song Of Wandering(ˈwändəriNG) Aengus

By William Butler Yeats(yāts)

I went out to the hazel(ˈhāzəl) wood,
Because a fire was in my head,
And cut and peeled(pēl) a hazel wand(wänd),
And hooked a berry(ˈberē) to a thread(THred);
And when white moths(môTH) were on the wing,
And moth-like stars were flickering(ˈflikəriNG) out,
I dropped the berry in a stream
And caught a little silver(ˈsilvər) trout(trout).

When I had laid it on the floor
I went to blow the fire a-flame,
But something rustled(ˈrəsəl) on the floor,
And someone called me by my name:
It had become a glimmering(ˈɡliməriNG) girl
With apple blossom(ˈbläsəm) in her hair(her)
Who called me by my name and ran
And faded(fād) through the brightening(ˈbrītn) air.

Though I am old with wandering
Through hollow(ˈhälō) lands and hilly(ˈhilē) lands,
I will find out where she has gone,
And kiss her lips and take her hands;
And walk among long dappled(ˈdap(ə)ld) grass(ɡras),
And pluck(plək) till time and times are done,
The silver apples of the moon,
The golden(ˈɡōldən) apples of the sun.

https://americanliterature.com/author/william-butler-yeats/poem/the-song-of-wandering-aengus

The best way to enjoy a book? Learn to ‘slow read’

By Kate Barlow

I am no slow eater. I can’t remember the number of times I was told as a child not to gobble(ˈɡäbəl) my food. Neither have I ever been a slow reader. I went through(THro͞o) books like combine(ˈkämˌbīn) harvesters(ˈhärvəstər) through crops(kräp) in the English village of my childhood. I suspect I will continue to gobble my food until, and no doubt(dout) including, my last meal on this Earth.

But books! Now they are an entirely different matter. During these days of isolation and physical distancing I have at last seen the error of my ways and decided to make changes. Mainly(ˈmānlē), I must admit, because I am deprived(dəˈprīvd) of bookstores and libraries.

Browsing online, be it ever so simple, is just not the same as standing before floor-to-ceiling shelves(SHelvz) crammed(kram) with tomes(tōm) and breathing in that aroma(əˈrōmə) of brand new volumes(ˈvälyəm) as you select a book and carefully take it down. Add to that, the wonderful dusty, musty atmosphere(ˈatməsˌfir) inside a good second-hand bookstore and I am in heaven.

But no longer, or at least not for some time.

So I have decided the time has come to teach myself to slow read. Didn’t someone once say “it’s an ill wind that blows nobody any good?”

I imagine slow reading to be like slow cooking; a mixture(ˈmiksCHər) of ingredients(inˈɡrēdēənt) melded(meld) into something one can truly savour(ˈsāvər). Slow reading is enjoying each sentence, absorbing(əbˈzôrbiNG) those paragraphs of description sweated over by the author and more often than not skipped over by readers like me who as soon as we get the gist are anxious(ˈaNG(k)SHəs) to get to the action.

…
https://www.theglobeandmail.com/life/first-person/article-the-best-way-to-enjoy-a-book-learn-to-slow-read/

Review of “Raiders(ˈrādər) of the Lost Ark”

By Roger Ebert

Steven Spielberg’s “Raiders of the Lost Ark” plays like an anthology(anˈTHäləjē) of the best parts from all the Saturday matinee(ˌmatnˈā) serials(ˈsirēəl) ever made. It takes place in Africa(ˈafrəkə), Nepal(nəˈpôl), Egypt(ˈējəpt), at sea and in a secret submarine(ˈsəbməˌrēn) base. It contains(kənˈtān) trucks, bulldozers(ˈbo͝olˌdōzər), tanks, motorcycles, ships, subs, Pan Am Clippers(ˈklipər), and a Nazi(ˈnätsē) flying wing. It has snakes, spiders(ˈspīdər), booby(ˈbo͞obē) traps and explosives(ikˈsplōsiv). The hero is trapped in a snake pit, and the heroine(ˈherōən) finds herself assaulted(əˈsôlt) by mummies(ˈməmē). The weapons range from revolvers(rəˈvälvər) and machineguns to machetes(məˈ(t)SHedē) and whips((h)wip). And there is the supernatural, too, as the Ark of the Covenant(ˈkəvənənt) triggers an eerie(ˈirē) heavenly fire that bolts through the bodies of the Nazis.

The Saturday serial aspects of “Raiders of the Lost Ark” have been much commented(ˈkäment) on, and relished(ˈreliSH). But I haven’t seen much discussion of the movie’s other driving theme, Spielberg’s feelings about the Nazis. “Impersonal,” critic(ˈkridik) Pauline(pôˈlēn) Kael called the film, and indeed it is primarily(ˌprīˈmerəlē) a technical exercise, with personalities so shallow they’re like a dew(d(y)o͞o) that has settled on the characters. But Spielberg is not trying here for human insights and emotional complexity(kəmˈpleksədē); he finds those in other films, but in “Raiders” he wants to do two things: make a great entertainment, and stick it to the Nazis.

We know how deeply he feels about the Holocaust(ˈhäləˌkôst). We have seen “Schindler(ˈSHindlər)’s List” and we know about his Shoah(ˈSHōə) Project. Those are works of a thoughtful adult. “Raiders of the Lost Ark” is the work of Spielberg’s recaptured(rēˈkapCHər) adolescence(ˌadəˈlesəns), I think; it contains the kind of stuff teenage boys like, and it also perhaps contains the daydreams of a young Jewish(ˈjo͞oiSH) kid who imagines blowing up Nazis real good. The screenplay is by Lawrence(ˈlôrəns) Kasdan, based on a story by Philip Kaufman, George Lucas and an uncredited(ˌənˈkredədəd) Spielberg, whose movie is great fun on the surface – one of the classic entertainments – and then has a buried(ˈberēd) level.

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https://www.rogerebert.com/reviews/great-movie-raiders-of-the-lost-ark-1981

Stop Firing the Innocent(ˈinəsənt)

America needs a reckoning(ˈrek(ə)niNG) over racism(ˈrāˌsizəm). Punishing(ˈpənəSHiNG) people who did not do anything wrong harms(härm) that important cause(kôz).

By Yascha Mounk

As companies and organizations of all sorts have scrambled(ˈskrambəl) to institute a zero-tolerance(ˈtäl(ə)rəns) policy on racism over the past few weeks, some of them have turned out to be more interested in signaling their good intentions than punishing actual culprits(ˈkəlprət). This emphasis(ˈemfəsəs) on appearing rather than being virtuous(ˈvərCHo͞oəs) has already resulted in the mistreatment(misˈtrētmənt) of innocent people—not all of them public figures or well-connected individuals with wealth to cushion(ˈko͝oSHən) their fall.

What happened to Emmanuel(əˈmanyəwəl) Cafferty is an especially egregious(əˈɡrējəs) example. At the end of a long shift mapping underground utility(yo͞oˈtilədē) lines, he was on his way home, his left hand casually(ˈkaZHo͞oəlē) hanging out the window of the white pickup truck issued to him by the San Diego Gas & Electric company. When he came to a halt at a traffic light, another driver flipped him off.

Then, Cafferty told me a few days ago, the other driver began to act even more strangely. He flashed what looked to Cafferty like an “okay” hand gesture(ˈjesCHər) and started cussing(kəs) him out. When the light turned green, Cafferty drove off, hoping to put an end to the disconcerting(ˌdiskənˈsərdiNG) encounter.

But when Cafferty reached another red light, the man, now holding a cellphone camera, was there again. “Do it! Do it!” he shouted. Unsure what to do, Cafferty copied the gesture the other driver kept making. The man appeared to take a video, or perhaps a photo.

Two hours later, Cafferty got a call from his supervisor(ˈso͞opərˌvīzər), who told him that somebody had seen Cafferty making a white-supremacist(so͞oˈpreməsəst) hand gesture, and had posted photographic(ˌfōdəˈɡrafik) evidence on Twitter. (Likely unbeknownst(ˌənbəˈnōn) to most Americans, the alt-right(ôlt) has appropriated(əˈprōprēət) a version of the “okay” symbol for their own purposes because it looks like the initials(iˈniSHəl) for “white power”; this is the symbol the man accused(əˈkyo͞ozd) Cafferty of making when his hand was dangling(ˈdaNGɡliNG) out of his truck.) Dozens of people were now calling the company to demand Cafferty’s dismissal(ˌdisˈmis(ə)l).

By the end of the call, Cafferty had been suspended without pay. By the end of the day, his colleagues(ˈkälēɡ) had come by his house to pick up the company truck. By the following Monday, he was out of a job.

…
https://www.theatlantic.com/ideas/archive/2020/06/stop-firing-innocent/613615/

plank record