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Spring Forward, Fall Back, and Do the Hokey Pokey

White Rock To miss a train or business deal,
Because our clocks are without keel
Can cause a nation loss of gold
E’en worse than all the misers hold.

Alandur — 1942 letter to Time magazine urging a national daylight savings time

 

One of the few undeniable benefits of living in the digital era is not having to walk through your home, manually turning back or twisting forward by an hour all of your clocks and watches. Smartphones, computers and even DVRs automatically align with society’s circadian rhythm , as dictated by the nation’s Daylight Savings Time law.

Yes, it’s a law, signed in 1964 by Lyndon Johnson.

But we’ve been screwing with clocks long before then. Sunday morning will mark exactly the 100th time the U.S. has either sprung forward or fallen back. Indeed, we’ve been doing it for so long we’ve forgotten why we did it in the first place — or why we continue to do it.

Daylight savings was initially a wartime maneuver. Germany was the first country to implement it, calculating that the Weimer Republic would save thousands in electricity costs by maximizing daylight hours. Turns out, despite schoolyard legend, that it wasn’t because of stupid farmers.

In fact, farmers hated the change. It meant that, for half a year, they had to get up earlier to bring milk and harvested crops to market. Hollywood hated it, too, reasoning that people were less likely to go into a darkened theater while the sun was shining.

But Uncle Sam would have none of it. If Germany could figure out a military advantage using only a pocket watch, surely we could too. And it didn’t hurt that some institutions — like Major League Baseball, which had not yet invented stadium lighting — tacitly lobbied Congress to institute the shift.

Never mind the grim statistics that come as surely as a beach tide during daylight savings. The National Highway Traffic Safety Administration says that accidents spike fractionally twice a year — the weekend and first week of daylight savings — due to fatigue and drowsy driving.

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And there’s no evidence supporting an energy savings. When Indiana adopted the law (you can opt out as a state, though only Arizona and Hawaii have done so), electricity use actually rose 1%. Small, but with a population of 6.5 million, significant.

Still, don’t expect anything resembling change. After all, this is a Congress that still supports an electoral college, though I challenge a single lawmaker to explain why it still exists.

So for now, we’ll just have to get used to it. And, as a public service, remember to adjust your clocks at 2 a.m. Sunday. Remember, it’s the law.

Speaking of which, how about at least an amendment to the bill? Instead of messing with the time-space continuum at 2 a.m. on a Sunday, why not have spring’s leap forward at 4 p.m. Friday? And its  fall backward at 9 a.m. Monday? You know, so we can at least spend a couple hours less in a cubicle.

That would at least keep us clearer-headed on Tuesday’s election day.

Speaking of which (encore); ever wonder why our presidential elections are held on a Tuesday? Congress chose the day because voting booths were once rare and separated by hundreds of miles. Many voters had to spend Monday simply traveling to make it to the polls in time. And we’ve never modernized.

Stupid farmers.

'Daylight Savings Time claims another victim.'

‘Daylight Savings Time claims another victim.’

 

 

 

Something Whatzit This Way Comes

 

I’ve always been a sucker for gadgets, gizmos and whatzits.

Perhaps it was the gimmicks in the cheap magic tricks I bought as a kid. At least that’s what I rationalize when I continue to feed my addiction to odd purchases. Like the spy pen camera I bought I last week.

I had no need for one, as I’ve really cut down on my pen writing and spying. I can’t even really tell you why I was looking at them. But I knew when I wanted one: When one reviewer who raved about the device admitted that he bought it it “because when I was a kid I always dreamed of having one.”

spy-pen

That’s enough for me (along with a price tag of $35; funny, the cost of dreams). Alas, the toy was broken upon arrival, and I had to reluctantly return it.

The psychosis spreads to my vehicles, many of which will become historical footnotes of bad engineering. There were the two Fieros. The Yugo. And one of my favorites, a purple X-90 that’s the closest the auto industry has come to a bubble car. x90 I’m currently driving a smart car because the Fiat 500 seemed too big, having a backseat and all.

I drive another ridiculous contraption now, a Can-Am Spyder that is, in essence, a reverse trike — two wheels in front, one in back. Think a dyslexic Big Wheel. The bike flummoxes insurance companies and state DMVs, which aren’t sure how to categorize it. You don’t even need a motorcycle license to drive one, which is about as insane as not needing a license to work an AR-15.

But the gizmo has turned into an intellectual whatzit. The purchase was borne of the stubborn realization that driving on only two wheels is insane in Los Angeles. But I can’t bring myself to give up the roller-coaster high that is any motorcycle ride.

So now I drive the equivalent of either a Batbike or a bike for circus clowns, and love it. I take 6-mile rides along Lake Balboa to pick up a donut three blocks away. The thing has such a cavernous trunk I take it grocery shopping, as it can hold a 24-pack and two grocery bags. It’s the first motorcycle to earn a thumbs-up from my mother, which is either a very good or very troubling sign.

It has come at the cost of some hubris. Once I rode a Harley, and I’m still too embarrassed by the training wheels to pull into a Harley shop, lest I be discovered for the fraud I am.

biker-wannabe

But there’s something to that third wheel, more assuring than I expected. A good friend recently confided he rides his Harley now to simply keep it running. “But it’s a 700 pound bike,” he told me. “If that drops, I won’t be able to pick it up.”

I hear you, brother. And I’m only a half step behind you in my burgeoning caution.

But on the ride to buy cake donuts this weekend, I came upon a group of boys, all brandishing skateboards and spasming cell phones. They geared up, headed out of the shop, and surrounded the bike. “What the hell is that?” one asked loudly to no one.

And I realized: He’d found the through line to much of my life. From magic tricks to handheld gadgets to the motorcycles and cars that ferry me, I’m undeniably drawn to any whatthehellisthat?

Fortuna may insist that my body age. But she is powerless against my towering immaturity.

Nyah Nyah Nyah.

Now what’s that spy pen website?

Joltin’ Joe Has Left and Gone Away

Perhaps we were premature in declaring 2016 a banner year in sports.

Apparently, a free agency has ruined athletics everywhere.

Or so declared every blubbering bobblehead on ESPN after The Oklahoma City Thunder lost prodigious forward Kevin Durant to free agency and its sworn enemy, The Golden State Warriors.

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You would have thought George Washington were revealed a British cross-dresser, the outrage ran so deep. Stephen A. Smith, the loudest of ESPN’s bullhorns, called it the ‘most cowardly move’ in the history of sport. Not just the NBA. Sport. You know, gladiators and the Olympics and O.J. Simpson and shit.

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The self-flatulating Bill Simmons proclaimed that the Warriors now had the NBA’s greatest “supergroup” lineup in basketball history. imageFrom the covers of The Huffington Post to the Hollywood Reporter, a viral video of a toddler vowing to punch Durant in the face became the emblem of a brokenhearted city.

I get the hurt. I could never forgive the Detroit Lions for moving to Pontiac (bitterness probably fueled by dad’s stories about Pontiac laying off police to pay for the stadium).

Still, this Chicken Little response seems a bit much, if inevitable. Yes, the betrayals must sting, the shifting allegiances must discourage.

But name a sport that isn’t contaminated by money. Long ago, free agency turned major American teams — regardless of sport — into a collection of millionaire gypsies, villains to hiss. Think of most major sports and you’re likely to know the names of more players you don’t like than the ones you do.

Like that kid in the video.

Speaking of which: Who the hell is the dad? You know, the genius who decided how fun it would be to break his kid’s heart. And tape it. And post it. I can only imagine family holidays: ‘The Easter Bunny is here, Miles! Well, his leg, at least. I really should adjust that trap.

And whose drawl is that later in the video? My guess is the grandfather who raised his own little Einstein. You can almost see the bait drop in the water when gramps asks Miles his opinion of that black man who broke his heart.

So that’s how Republicans are born.

And so too, perhaps, dynasties. Few Vegas bookies would offer generous odds that the Warriors will lose in the next decade.

But from armies to rock bands to sports franchises, supergroups can be tricky things. While often potent, they can be short-lived; just ask Blind Faith or the Miami Heat.

And they often wilt facing a local kid with a reason to care.

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