We are a commune of inquiring, skeptical, politically centrist, capitalist, anglophile, traditionalist New England Yankee humans, humanoids, and animals with many interests beyond and above politics. Each of us has had a high-school education (or GED), but all had ADD so didn't pay attention very well, especially the dogs. Each one of us does "try my best to be just like I am," and none of us enjoys working for others, including for Maggie, from whom we receive neither a nickel nor a dime. Freedom from nags, cranks, government, do-gooders, control-freaks and idiots is all that we ask for.
50% of max heart rate for an hour? It seems inefficient and not stressful enough for my taste (not to mention boring), but maybe as a once-weekly thing on a day following a strenuous weight session it might be warranted as a form of "active recovery." Or, of course, for beginner exercisers, anorectics, the elderly, or the terminally-sedentary.
At the same time, moving at all is probably a better idea than not moving. It burns no fat (not that you need that) and builds no strength, but certainly helps maintain some minimal degree of endurance and mobility.
I tried to introduce one hour of this sort of thing into my weekly regimen a few months ago as a "recovery day" (with a mix of treadmill, stairmaster, and elliptical) but I just can't stay with it. My body seems to insist on bursting into one-minute sprints in the course of it every several minutes, thus converting it to HIIT. Maybe it's because I am in half-decent shape, but my body just wants to pound it every few minutes instead of slogging along. I guess that's a good effect of my fitness training - energy.
Our seafood shop sends a guy down to Brighton Beach before each Christmas and New Year's Day to pick up 250 gm. tins of fresh Russian caviar from the Russian shops. (Brooklyn's Brighton Beach is heavily Russian immigrants.) You just have to phone in and pre-order yours from our guy. It's the farmed variety nowadays, which is a good thing.
We can have those large tins of fresh malossol (fresh, unsalted Sturgeon caviar) for $150 each. Mind you, that could be $800-$1000 at Petrossian. If you go to Brighton Beach yourself, you can buy a tin of Russian for as little as $80. Yes, it is the real deal. Amazing. I have never been to Brighton Beach but I hear that if you like Russian food, it's better there than in Moscow.
I would be remiss to neglect this: “I play to people’s fantasies. People may not always think big themselves, but they can still get very excited by those who do. People want to believe that something is the biggest and the greatest and the most spectacular. I call it truthful hyperbole. It’s an innocent form of exaggeration—and it’s a very effective form of promotion.”
Friends left this morning for an extended ski trip to Stowe (VT). I checked the temps for the next few days.
I have skied in New England when the temp was -20 at the top (that is -28 Celsius). You have to dress right, with hand-warmers and a face mask too. There are just 2 problems: 1) Will your car start? and 2) If you ski hard, you sweat going down and the sweat freezes on the lifts.
At some point in the day you wonder when cocktail hour is.
VDH notes the paradox of middle class people filling gyms while immigrants do their physical chores for them. Brawn in an Age of Brains:
Sometime in the 1970s and 1980s, millions of Americans—far more than just those constituting an economic elite—decided that a key to the good life was to be free from, say, the need to cook, watch children, mow the lawn, or rake leaves. Illegal immigration promised cheap help for the upper middle classes that had once been the exclusive domain of the aristocracy. In theory, skipping the gym for four hours a week would provide more than enough time to mow the lawn, prune the bushes, or vacuum the floor. Yet sweaty and studied exercise is often deemed preferable to rote labor, given that it is more scientifically calibrated to making one look and feel better. Repetitive muscular work is not seen as commensurately valuable, whether for the exercise it provides or for its psychic benefits. Yet for all one’s degrees and income, a person can still retain some sense of autonomy and an ability to master the surrounding material landscape, if only for a few hours each week, and to appreciate how the other half lives that does such physical labor for wages. It is a choice...
I get his point, but I do not think that fitness is equivalent to physical labor. Our carpenter lifts weights in the gym with the intention of continuing to be able to carry heavy things at work through his 70s. In my case, I have always done all of the outdoor labor at the HQ and the farm that I have time for (ie weekends), but I never saw any fitness gains from that. It is enjoyable for me, though.
For house-cleaning and laundry, we have two high-energy Polish immigrants who leave everything spotless, neat, and sparkling. Their only requirement of us is that there be no clutter, nothing on the floor, and nothing on any surfaces.
When you have day jobs, nobody wants to spend a weekend house-cleaning and doing laundry. Heck, we even do our workouts Sunday morning before church.
I plan to keep myself in fighting shape so I can fulfill that job, or duty, or whatever you call it. Little boys, little girls, whatever comes my way. I am prepared.
My plan them is to teach my family ways, to transfer my culture. I will talk with them about books, I will take them on hikes in the woods, I will teach them my secrets about the trees and the birds and amphibians and reptiles and fish and wildflowers, and all of their names. I will teach them how to use a hand saw and a table saw, and how to screw a screw and how to nail a nail. How to make a rustic outdoor table.
I will quote to them from Milton, the Bible, and Shakespeare while I take them on fishing hikes to mountain lakes, valley streams, Atlantic bays, and the ocean itself. I know from myself that grandkids remember every word their grandfathers utter and every bit of lore they convey.
I will reprimand them when they behave uncivilly or in an unsportsmanlike manner. I will teach them firearms and archery. I will teach them how to comport themselves at my NYC club, and how to dine with adults in an adult venue. I would be happy to introduce them to sailing craft, or handling powerboats for that matter. I will expose them to serious music and talk to them about it. I will encourage them towards the discipline of making serious music, or any music.
My two grandpas together helped teach me all of these things and I am forever grateful for that. My Mom and Dad were busy with all of the other kids, plus work of course.
I learned a lot besides all that from my two genteel Grandpas, including how to handle hunting dogs (Don't give them an inch, or they'll take a mile"), handling horses ("Dumb as rocks. Show them who's boss, and they will do anything you want."), and driving tractors on New England hills ("attend to the angles").
They also taught me how to speak with adults. "Ask them about themselves. Learn all you can from them."
Sports? I am no athlete but I would be joyful to swat tennis balls with a kid or kids for hours. Just buy me a couple of beers after as compensation. Interest and cheerful cooperation are required. I am sorry, but the business-essential art of golf is not in my repertoire.
My own Christmas kids are the best, and I will welcome some Christmas grandkids when the time is ripe.
One of my sisters sent me this pic from her driveway early this morning in western Mass. Very nice, because she and my excellent brother-in-law are without their boys this weekend and can spend the day snuggling by their fire drinking Baileys and probably reading yesterday's Sunday Pravda NYT.
Subaru people, if you know what I mean. I love them.
Photo is Christmas Eve at the olde Bird Dog homestead a few years ago. Cozy. Imagine the Judd's Christmas album too.
Luke 1:26-38
1:26 In the sixth month the angel Gabriel was sent by God to a town in Galilee called Nazareth,
1:27 to a virgin engaged to a man whose name was Joseph, of the house of David. The virgin's name was Mary.
1:28 And he came to her and said, "Greetings, favored one! The Lord is with you."
1:29 But she was much perplexed by his words and pondered what sort of greeting this might be.
1:30 The angel said to her, "Do not be afraid, Mary, for you have found favor with God.
1:31 And now, you will conceive in your womb and bear a son, and you will name him Jesus.
1:32 He will be great, and will be called the Son of the Most High, and the Lord God will give to him the throne of his ancestor David.
1:33 He will reign over the house of Jacob forever, and of his kingdom there will be no end."
1:34 Mary said to the angel, "How can this be, since I am a virgin?"
1:35 The angel said to her, "The Holy Spirit will come upon you, and the power of the Most High will overshadow you; therefore the child to be born will be holy; he will be called Son of God.
1:36 And now, your relative Elizabeth in her old age has also conceived a son; and this is the sixth month for her who was said to be barren.
1:37 For nothing will be impossible with God."
1:38 Then Mary said, "Here am I, the servant of the Lord; let it be with me according to your word." Then the angel departed from her.
What’s so frustrating about these election spectacles is that they have nothing to do with creating the good life. For that we have to look elsewhere, such as the newly emerging light we are seeing on the economic horizon. For the first time in decades, there is a chance that the job market is becoming active again, that incomes will rise, that inflation is solidly tamed, that the young generation will have new opportunities, that new products and inventions will continue to improve our lives.
None of this has anything to do with smears, epic struggles, revenge fantasies, and winner-take-all scenarios. ..
NYT: 
Can you read the NYT blurb on the book? 
Genetically engineered ‘super-horses’ 
I plan to keep myself in fighting shape so I can fulfill that job, or duty, or whatever you call it. Little boys, little girls, whatever comes my way. I am prepared.
One of my sisters sent me this pic from her driveway early this morning in western Mass. Very nice, because she and my excellent brother-in-law are without their boys this weekend and can spend the day snuggling by their fire drinking Baileys and probably reading yesterday's Sunday 