ELECTRIC RODEO
I traveled back east last week for the annual ritual of dropping my daughter Margaux at summer camp. Her opportunity to be exposed to that particular sphincter-clenching subset of our great land.
Typically, we fly into Boston and then take a bus north to New Hampshire, but the plane was late and we missed the last bus, so we were forced to rent a car.
First, a shuttle to the rental car center and then a line at the Avis counter.
Line is probably ten deep. One agent behind the counter helping customers.
Then a second agent appears minutes later from a mysterious back room. And finally a third agent a few minutes after that.
There’s even a fourth guy, but his job doesn’t involve directly processing reservations. No, his job is to canvass the line and ask if you are a preferred Avis customer.
Preferred customers apparently get to jump the line.
There are no preferred customers, however, so he disappears through the door into the mysterious back room, never to be seen again.
He must have been the manager.
Eventually, we get to the counter. The guy asks me if I want coverage for x, y and z.
No.
He looks at me like I’ve failed a test. Like I’ve failed at life. How could I decline all these coverages with all those idiots out there on the road?
We’ve got you booked in an electric car, he continues.
Can I have an internal combustion engine instead?
That’ll cost you $25.
No thanks. I’ll take whatever you got.
We get to the garage and there’s a Hyundai Kona waiting for me. Says it’s got 240 miles of range. Which works for me, ‘cause I only need 130.
But by the time I get to my mother’s house, there’s 65 miles of range left. 240 my ass.
Next day, I call the Avis people at the Lebanon, New Hampshire, airport to ask ‘em where to charge my Hyundai. They tell me don’t bother.
What?
Boston hates us. We’re gonna put it on a truck. Don’t bother.
When I drive over and hand ‘em the keys, I get further explanation.
There’s only one non-Tesla charging station in the area. Even if I had charged the car, no one would have wanted it. Too inconvenient for the area. And yet the Logan Airport (Boston) desk continued to send one-way electric rentals their way.
So Lebanon literally ships whatever electrics end up there on a truck to Albany, New York, or Burlington, Vermont, where dudes like Bernie Sanders will rent them.
How’s that for environmentally friendly? she laughed. We have a two-pronged plug behind the office, she added. I can try to charge this, but it’ll take three days. And no one’s gonna want it anyway.
Especially in a place where gas sells for $3.69/gallon.
While we’re on Travels with Lunch … here we are in a craft brewing mecca with June Lake Brewing and Distant Brewing and Mammoth Brewing and leave it to the Maine Brewing Company to come up with a Lunch IPA.
I was sitting at the Omni Hotel bar in Boston and the bartender asked me what I wanted and I shrugged my shoulders and said I’m on vacation.
Dealer’s Choice? he asked.
Dealer’s Choice, I replied.
And then he brought me a Lunch IPA.
So I was at another bar after the Sox game on Monday (a home win against the Nationals), when I took a photo of this phone booth at the Bukowski Tavern in the Back Bay.
I just thought it was an art/insult piece.
Until I looked more closely at the photo when I got home and I realized there was a typed message above the receiver. This is what it says:
Call A Boomer by Matter Neuroscience
This payphone is part of a social experiment. Right now, you’re at Bukowski Tavern in Boston, Mass. (where young people usually are). When you pick up this phone, you’ll automatically be connected to another payphone at a senior living complex in Reno, Nevada (where older people usually are).
Younger adults and older adults tend to experience the highest levels of loneliness of any age group, so the goal of this project is to inspire generational connection through meaningful conversations, despite differences in age, lifestyle or politics.
Research shows that loneliness is more harmful than lack of exercise, excessive drinking and even excessive smoking. Positive conversations increase longevity by lowering our cortisol levels and increasing our feel-good neurotransmitters like dopamine, cannabinoids and oxytocin.
We are recording these conversations so we can highlight findings on our social media (@matterneuroscience). Any identifying details will be bleeped out as we treasure your anonymity.
Have fun and enjoy the conversation.
I read this and it completely bummed me out. I would’ve absolutely made a call if I’d known it was something more than what appeared to be a snarky art installation.
This is my daughter’s fifth summer at Camp Huckins in Freedom, New Hampshire. The previous four years she has attended for two weeks; this summer she’s going for four.
I began to wonder this year if my daughter is not being indoctrinated into a cult.
It began this spring when Margaux received a letter from the camp congratulating her on her upcoming fifth-year anniversary.
A five-year camper is called a “Huckster.”
The letter read, “Becoming a Huckster is a milestone at camp, and in addition to participating in the Huckster ceremony, one of the ways we ask campers to commemorate reaching this goal is by giving back to camp. We ask each new Huckster to participate in the Give Back to Camp program by raising money to donate to camp’s Financial Aid Fund.”
A shakedown.
They suggest campers make money via lemonade stands, bake sales, babysitting, et. al.
Anyway, this led to Margaux writing the profile on Mr. Desrochers which appears on page 23. Because she’s sold, you know, and Dad pays better than a bake sale. She’s talked about wanting to become a counselor if the opportunity presents itself, so of course she’s gonna drink the Kool Aid, seek approbation.
I don’t need my daughter thinking about becoming a world or local leader at this time. There’s more than enough time for that if that’s what she really feels like doing. Can’t she just attend camp and play capture the flag and eat a s’more without self-consciously wondering at every turn whether or not she’s meeting the mythical Huckster standard?
