I Didn't Realize Ira Glass Might Be Insane
I love dogs and I love the radio program "This American Life" and I greatly admire Ira Glass for the depth, detail, and creativity of his reporting, but now I also have to consider that he is a very crazy person who is married to an even crazier person -- Ira Glass is a very busy man, but he essentially spends all of his free time taking care of a troubled dog that attacks people, is allergic to nearly every kind of food, and lunges at Ira when his wife is sleeping . . . this is a man at the pinnacle of his radio career and he can't have anyone over to his apartment because Piney will attack them (he's bitten six people) and while the dog is now eight years old, and has calmed down a bit (sometimes a stranger can look him in the eye and he won't bite him) he still has to move from food source to food source when he develops an allergy (tuna, bison, rabbit, kangaroo, etc.) and so if you are at all a fan of "This American Life" then you've got to listen to this table-turning interview; it's compelling and weird and what Ira and his wife have sacrificed for this dog defies all logic and reason, which makes their behavior either saintly and magical, or completely lunatic . . . and don't just judge by this fairly sweet Newsweek piece, listen to the actual interview with Ira Glass, it's in Act Three of the "Animal Sacrifice" episode.
Due to Extinction, There Will Be No April Fool's Post This Year
I haven't gotten much response indicating that all the people out there in the human race are obeying my command to read Elizabeth Kolbert's book The Sixth Extinction: An Unnatural History, and so I am canceling today's April Fool's sentence due to mass extinction (caused by humanity) and there will be no more April Fooling on this blog until the Anthropocene ends, the human race fades away, and the rats and cockroaches explode into all the available evolutionary niches, ushering in a new age of very gross bio-diversity that we will not be around to name (but you can enjoy previous April Fool's posts, as I'm not so hardhearted as to remove those . . . it's not like we wanted to kill all these creatures, right?)
The Flu: A Big Thumbs Down
I am giving this season's flu a big thumbs down (and so next year I'm getting the flu shot, as my wife and children -- who all got the shot -- remained perfectly healthy while I suffered) as this flu's plot was repetitively long (a week? when does the flu last a week?) and boring (fever, chills, fever, chills, ad nauseam) and there were no twists to speak of -- you'd think vomiting and diarrhea would be a bad thing, but I would have welcomed intestinal problems to break up the sweats, aches and glassy eyes, plus an embarrassing and graphic puking episode is always fun to recount here on the blog, but instead all I could do was read for very shorts stints and watch marathon amounts of Portlandia; I must admit, the illness was not a total waste of time, as I did find three things that I will use in school during my minimal reading and maximal TV watching, which I will list here so that I can reference them and add them to my lesson plans when I finally return and so you can enjoy them as well, as they are perfect examples . . .
1: the Brunch Village episode of Portlandia, which is a perfect example of a mock-epic, something we cover in Creative Writing . . .Tim Robbins has a fantastic cameo at "the end of the line,"
2: the Alexandra episode of Portlandia also works in Creative Writing, as the episode satirizes post-modern "art projects," which will connect nicely with the documentary My Kid Could Paint That,
3: and an example to go along with my "logical fallacies" unit in Composition class . . . David J. Hand's The Improbability Principle describes the "cargo cults" of the South Pacific, these tribes saw Japanese and Allied soldiers build airstrips and landing fields during World War II, observed them marching and dressing in a military manner, and then large ships from the sky would come with loads of valuable and exotic loot . . . so when the war ended, the natives "built airstrips out of straw and coconut, and control towers out of bamboo and rope, and dressed themselves to resemble the military personnel they'd encountered during the war . . . they sat wearing carved wooden headsets and duplicated the waved landing signals" but, of course, no cargo planes ever came . . . this is the most vivid example for the old statistical maxim "correlation does not imply causation" that I've ever heard.
1: the Brunch Village episode of Portlandia, which is a perfect example of a mock-epic, something we cover in Creative Writing . . .Tim Robbins has a fantastic cameo at "the end of the line,"
2: the Alexandra episode of Portlandia also works in Creative Writing, as the episode satirizes post-modern "art projects," which will connect nicely with the documentary My Kid Could Paint That,
3: and an example to go along with my "logical fallacies" unit in Composition class . . . David J. Hand's The Improbability Principle describes the "cargo cults" of the South Pacific, these tribes saw Japanese and Allied soldiers build airstrips and landing fields during World War II, observed them marching and dressing in a military manner, and then large ships from the sky would come with loads of valuable and exotic loot . . . so when the war ended, the natives "built airstrips out of straw and coconut, and control towers out of bamboo and rope, and dressed themselves to resemble the military personnel they'd encountered during the war . . . they sat wearing carved wooden headsets and duplicated the waved landing signals" but, of course, no cargo planes ever came . . . this is the most vivid example for the old statistical maxim "correlation does not imply causation" that I've ever heard.
No Quarter Needed
Snapshot of the English office over the past week; English teachers (mainly male English teachers) glued to the two computer monitors, intensely concentrating, pecking at the arrow keys . . . some folks (including yours truly) poking at a rakishly angled keyboard, slanted diagonally off the desk, others-- more spatially gifted-- slanting their brain instead . . . and if you haven't guessed, we were playing a free version of Q*Bert, but don't get all up in arms about your tax money, this was pedagogically condoned, we weren't shirking our jobs as educators, in fact, we were being productive, as several teachers were using a recent Grantland article about marathon video game playing called "The Kings of Q*Bert" in class, so this was "research" for the lesson (and during this research, I briefly held the department high score -- which was written on the white board in the office -- but then Kevin overtook me by an unattainably wide margin and so I wisely chose to stop playing . . . unlike the lunatics in the Grantland article).
Book Review with a Side of Hyperbole, Please . . .
If you're only going to read one book this year, it should be War and Peace, but if you're going to read two books this year, then the other one should be Elizabeth Kolbert's The Sixth Extinction: An Unnatural History; while the message is grim, the writing is clear and engaging, and Kolbert narrates her own adventures in places as far-flung and varied as the Amazon, the Andes, the Great Barrier Reef, Italy, Vermont, and a littered fossil-filled stream in an undisclosed location near a ball field in the vicinity of Princeton, New Jersey to provide a counterpoint to some shockingly depressing lessons and predictions, and while I shouldn't be doing this, because you must read this book, I will provide a thumb-nail sketch of the content . . . before humans, there were five major extinctions, and "as in Tolstoy, every extinction event appears to be unhappy-- and fatally so-- in its own way"; there was the well-documented K-Pg extinction event (formerly known as the K-T extinction event) which wiped out the dinosaurs sixty-six million years ago, when a huge asteroid hit the earth near the Yucatan Peninsula, but the four other extinction events are more mysterious . . . they may have been because of climate change, shifting continents, habitat loss, and/or ocean acidification (global warming's "equally evil twin") and Kolbert wants to welcome us to the sixth extinction event, the Anthropocene, where all of these forces -- cranked up to a much faster velocity-- are wiping out species faster than we can count them, and there is an apt comparison deep in the book, after Kolbert recounts the story of the brown tree snake, an invasive species that has voraciously eaten every indigenous bird, mammal, and reptile on the island of Guam, and she cites the great nature writer David Quammen for this analogy: "while it is easy to demonize the brown tree snake, the animal is not evil; it's just amoral and in the wrong place . . . what Boiga irregularis has done in Guam is precisely what Homo sapiens has done all over the planet: succeed extravagantly at the expense of other species."
One to Live By
If you're an athletic dad, who believes that sports that don't incorporate a ball are joyless and stupid (swimming, cross-country, biathlon, triple jump . . . but an exception made for snowboarding) then you can't have too many of those little portable air-pumps (unless you're the kind of responsible person who takes care of their stuff and knows where they put everything, which I am not).
Kudos to Emily Dickinson
While yesterday's quiz hasn't gone viral, I have: for the past three days, I've had achey joints, glassy eyes, and I've gone to bed at 7:30 PM and slept until the alarm . . . and aside from slogging through work, I've been a shut-in . . . and now I'm running a fever and my eyes hurt so much that I can't read or watch TV, and so I don't have much content today, as my blog depends on my stupid adventures in the outside world, plus occasional reviews of books and movies; the only wisdom I have gleaned from this illness is that we should all appreciate Emily Dickinson's fantastic imagination, as she was a shut-in for life-- before the advent of cable TV-- and she managed to pump out two thousand wonderful poems (without the instant gratification of the internet).
What Kind of Sentence Are You?
Internet quizzes have become incredibly popular, both as a "data mining tool" and a method of humble-bragging on social media, so I've jumped on the bandwagon and created a quiz of my own to promote the illustrious Sentence of Dave brand; answer the following question and you'll find out exactly what kind of sentence you are . . . to begin, simply choose the phrase that best describes your character:
1) charming and slightly manipulative risk-taker;
2) neurotic worry wart;
3) aimless and lazy couch potato;
if you chose #1 then you are an incomplete loose periodic sentence with several gerunds and a subjunctive clause . . .
if you chose #2 then you are a run-on with several appositives, a sequence of anaphora, and a smattering of ellipses . . .
and if you chose #3 then you are an awkward fragment with inversions, synecdoche, and a mixed metaphor . . .
please pass this along to your friends so they can determine "the facts about their syntax" and achieve internet fun and enlightenment like you did!
1) charming and slightly manipulative risk-taker;
2) neurotic worry wart;
3) aimless and lazy couch potato;
if you chose #1 then you are an incomplete loose periodic sentence with several gerunds and a subjunctive clause . . .
if you chose #2 then you are a run-on with several appositives, a sequence of anaphora, and a smattering of ellipses . . .
and if you chose #3 then you are an awkward fragment with inversions, synecdoche, and a mixed metaphor . . .
please pass this along to your friends so they can determine "the facts about their syntax" and achieve internet fun and enlightenment like you did!
Poop It Forward
Friday, I took my kids, one of their friends, and my dog for a hike at a local nature preserve that will remain nameless for reasons I will soon divulge, and during our hike my son had to poop but the bathrooms were closed, and so I pointed him towards a good log to sit on, conveniently located near a pile of fallen leaves -- and he went and did his business and called it "the grossest thing ever" and then we hiked for a bit and my dog pooped but we were nowhere near a garbage can, so I bagged it and left the bag on the side of the path so I could pick it up on our way out of the woods and deposit it in the dumpster next to the locked bathroom (but I forgot that we weren't returning on that path and so the bag is still there, on the side of the path, full of poop, and it's my fault) and while all this poop related nonsense was happening, I could occasionally spy through the trees, across Route 1, the chain restaurant where my younger, childless colleagues were enjoying happy hour sans poop, and then, on Saturday night we had a few families over for dinner and the theme resurfaced: our children got sent to bed early because they found several bags of poop in the park and did the only logical thing: they threw the bags of poop at the other kids (and though I think there was some reciprocation, I'm pretty sure my kids started it, and so Alex's totally gross experience of pooping in the woods faded very quickly and had no lasting effect on him, and so now we have a new rule in our house: if you find a bag of poop at the park, don't pick it up and throw it at anyone . . . and, yesterday, to try to cosmically balance the scales of karma, I found the bags of poop in the park my children were chucking, and tossed them in the trash, and though it's highly unlikely that the person who may have hypothetically picked up the bag of poop I left in the woods, and selflessly carried it to a trashcan, just to make the world a better place, is reading this sentence, at least my dedicated readers know that I've paid my debt and evened the score).
Am I a Comic Genius or Just Going Senile?
Back in the '80's, I distinctly remember Robin Williams doing a bit about the ten week conflict in the Falkland Islands; his joke was that when a British newscaster says, "here we are in the Falkland Islands" it sounds like he's saying "here we are in the fuck'n islands," and I've used this bit in class when we talk about George Orwell's essay "Shooting an Elephant," which is about the decline of the British Empire . . . I like to ask my seniors where the last remnant of the Empire is located and then I say (in my best British accent, which is horrendous and Kramer-esque) "the Fuck'n Islands!" and then spell it for them and show them where it is on a map and tell them about the "war" in 1982 between Britain and Argentina over these pathetic sheep-covered windswept patches of grass in the ocean, but I've searched and searched for the original Robin Williams bit and I can't find it or even any reference to it, and now I'm wondering if I made the whole thing up, if I imagined that Robin Williams might do a bit about how the word Falkland sounds like Fuck'n when spoken with a British accent-- or maybe I actually saw a British broadcaster say this on the news in 1982 and thought it was funny . . . and so perhaps this is my bit, but I'm not sure: does anyone remember this?
I Hate Umbrellas and Minor Tragedies
When I visit weather.com, I want to know if I'm going to need hat and gloves, or if I should carry an umbrella (actually, I hate umbrellas, ellas, ellas, and would never carry one) but instead I find myself reading salacious headlines such as "16 Year Old Dies After Half Marathon" and "Honeymoon Ends in Tragedy" so I'm going to switch over to the homelier (but more accurate) alternative: weather.gov.
Another Reason I Should Probably Get a Smart Phone
When my son asked me if a tyrannosaurus rex could bite its own tongue, I wanted to give my boilerplate answer to ridiculous kid questions, which is "That's a really good question, but I don't know the answer -- why don't you look it up on the computer, and then tell me what you find" but we were on a long car ride, so I had to pause my podcast and discuss dinosaur tongues for twenty minutes, and this may be reason enough for me to break down and get a smart phone for our cross country trip this summer.
Slow Ride From Billings to Lincoln (But Worth It)
Nebraska is slow-paced and laconic, but don't let that put you off -- it's an awesome movie: funny, entertaining, and full of arresting imagery and faces that you don't usually see on a big screen; my favorite line is when Bruce Dern, playing Woody the senile alcoholic dad in search of a specious million dollar sweepstakes prize, slips away from his son to the bar . . . when his son attempts to drag him out of the joint, Woody claims "beer ain't drinking."
Will the Streak Continue? Let's Hope Not . . .
My son Ian has come so close to good behavior at school the past two weeks -- both weeks he had good days Monday through Thursday, but both weeks his teacher sent a note home on Friday, and both notes detailed an "f-word" violation; two weeks ago he wrote the f-word on another student's notebook (he claims he was dared, not exactly a great defense) and last week he said the f-word in music class when a fellow third grader "lied about him and left him out" and while this is quite an impressive streak, I'm really hoping it doesn't continue, and I'm wondering if I should pull him out of school this Friday to break the juju.
The Interestings is Interesting
The Interestings, by Meg Wolitzer, details the lives of a group of friends that meet as teenagers at an artsy summer camp called Spirit-in-the-Woods; the novel has a Joyce Carol Oates type feel -- Wolitzer is great at capturing the inner lives of all these people, as they grow and change from 1974 to the present, from teenagers into their "thicker, finalized adult selves, with almost no chance for reinvention" -- and while only one of the initial group achieves greatness (as a Matt Groenig-esque animation mogul) this is enough to change all of their lives in strange, subtle and profound ways . . . imagine if your best buddy created The Simpsons . . . or better yet, read the book and see how Meg Wolitzer imagines it, as she is a professional imaginer.
Old and Proud
While the usual inclination in our youth-obsessed culture is to never admit how old you are -- or at least to massage the number a bit -- the opposite is true at my weekly men's soccer and basketball games: people loudly proclaim their age, the older the better . . . as a rolling stone gathers no moss (until it hits another boulder and cracks into tiny pieces . . . and that's how I felt yesterday, after playing basketball and soccer on consecutive days, I thought I had the flu or something, but it turns out i was just old and sore).
Folk Music is Boring (and so are Folk Movies)
The only thing more boring than listening to folk music is watching a movie about a folk musician -- and while I normally love the Coen brothers, their new movie Inside Llewyn Davis is so slow, melancholy, and plotless that I welcomed any time the movie circled back to the "missing cat" sub-plot; I must admit that I didn't finish watching, so something really cool might happen in the final third, but I doubt it.
You Can't Coach Height . . . or Warmth
God knows why, but everyone decided to have soccer practice on Thursday night, though it was below freezing and extremely windy, but I did a truncated session and ended after an hour, and went over to check on my other son -- who was supposed to continue practicing until 7:30, and when I saw him in a drill, shivering, I asked him if he was cold . . . and this was like asking a toddler if he got a boo-boo . . . just saying the word "cold" to my son opened the floodgates; he said "yes, I'm so cold!" and started crying hysterically, so I got him out of there and the lesson is this: it's much windier out on the turf than it is in the driveway.
As American as Basketball and Enchiladas?
A recent study found that negative social media posts can have a domino effect on the mood of readers, sending them into a moody spiral of downbeat posting and grouchiness . . . but the opposite is true as well, and so I'm going to focus on something positive today to brighten the collective soul of the internet . . . while I know the expression is "as American as baseball and apple pie," I think I experienced something equally or even more wonderfully American on Wednesday night: I played basketball for an hour and a half-- a sport that is arguably now more American than baseball-- and then I came home and ate a late dinner of some insanely spicy and delicious home-made enchiladas (made by my Irish wife) while watching "Shameless" on Blu-ray on my giant HDTV . . . sports, deserved gluttony, Mexican food, and a big TV . . . you can't get much better (or more American) than that.
Life Changing Error
Wednesday morning, I reached into my pocket for my cell phone, and mistakenly pulled out my wallet -- so I reached into the same pocket again . . . and pulled out another wallet; I had inadvertently taken my "going out" wallet to school instead of my cell phone, and so now I was walking around with two wallets in my pocket, instead of my wallet and my cell phone, which was silly, but also a great visual gag, so I made sure to tell everyone the story, while enacting it, and the producing of the second wallet generally got a laugh, so I'm quitting my job and going on tour as a prop comedian, like my hero, Carrot Top.
Not Including Sex, Dancing or Defecation
Two things that people make funny faces while doing:
1) shooting darts;
2) opening a jar with a very tight lid.
1) shooting darts;
2) opening a jar with a very tight lid.
My Wife and I Take a (Small) Step Upward Towards Adulthood
For the past six months, my wife and I have been contemplating the purchase of a bed (and maybe even a bedroom set) because our old bed, which we brought back from Syria, fell apart -- and we got the rest of our ancient bedroom furniture twenty years ago when my Aunt Theresa died (and that furniture was ancient back in 1993) but we lucked out, and staved off the spending of any money on furniture (why start now?) because at the pub on Thursday night my friend Alec was describing his new bed, which has a padded headboard (actually he was describing how he got heartburn when he drank beer in his new bed while leaning against the padded headboard, but that's another sentence) and I mentioned that Cat and I had been sleeping on the floor for many months, and he said that he still had his old bed -- which happened to be queen-sized-- and he was willing got give it to us for free . . . which is a hell of a lot cheaper than buying a new bed, so we went out and bought a box spring, tied it to the roof of the car, managed to get it down Route 18 without a mishap, and now we're sleeping up in the air again, like civilized adults, and hopefully this whole spending-money-on-a-bedroom-set idea will fade away like a kid's drawing on a foggy car window.
I May Have Finally Defeated Daylight Savings Time
The only way to short-circuit the absolute absurdity of "springing ahead" is to stay up really late the night before the clocks change, destroying your circadian rhythm, so that you can go to bed at 7:30 PM on Sunday to prepare for the ugly Monday morning wake-up (but even though I did this, I still felt like shit all day Monday . . . which isn't that unusual for a Monday, so I don't know what to think).
The Holy Mother of All Miracles (involving Balls)
Zealous readers of this blog might recall that I am often at the heart of miraculous occurrences -- especially miracles involving balls -- and last Thursday, the gods were at it again, placing me in what may be the most miraculous expression of simultaneity in the history of human consciousness; this all happened in the span of one shortened half day period, the last period the day . . . my friend Stacey was once again searching for a red milk crate full of various balls, and this milk crate of various balls -- which had been missing for seven months -- was usually located under the table in the English office, but it had gone missing way back in September and now Stacy needed the balls for a fun class activity, but after much searching she finally determined that they were long gone, and needed replacing, and so she went down to the gym to beg some balls from the PE department, and while she was down there, on a lark, she inquired about her red milk crate of balls and the PE teachers said that they had "definitely not" seen a red crate of balls, but they did have some random balls that they found -- but they were "definitely not" in a red milk crate, but Stacy looked in the cabinet anyway, just in case, and there it was -- the red milk crate full of balls that was "definitely not" in the cabinet . . . some overly zealous janitor must have taken the ball crate from the English office and put it where it "belonged" down in the gym . . . and while the finding of this crate might be deemed a minor miracle in some circles, I would not pronounce it so, BUT, if you juxtapose this event with what was going on simultaneously in my classroom -- and I mean to the minute -- then this event becomes an integral in a yin-yang shaped whirling vortex of serendipitous beauty . . . and so, while Stacy was seeking the balls in the gym, my friend Laura was searching for copies of Outliers, and so she came down to my classroom because she knew that I taught the book the year before, and I was able to locate a few copies in my cabinet, but I told her that there was definitely a box of them somewhere -- as I had lay witness to the box in the English office with my own eyes-- but I "definitely didn't have it" and Laura said she had asked around upstairs but no one knew where the box was, and so I cursed the name of the amnesiac hoarder who had taken this box of books, and refused to give them to her, and I promised Laura I would keep my eye out for them (as I wanted them for later in the semester) and that I would smote the person who had them and then she went back upstairs with the copies we found, and then . . . moments after she left, Stacey walked into my room, jubilant and triumphant and told me the news -- she found the red milk crate full of various balls!-- and there was much rejoicing, and then she took a quick look around the mess that is my room, noting that there was a box of dusty soccer uniforms on one cabinet, and she wondered what was in the other box on top of the other cabinet and I said "softballs," and she said, "awesome, can I have a few for the milk crate?" and I said, "sure, they're not even mine, they're Kevin's" and so she got on a chair and took a look inside this cardboard box perched high atop my filing cabinet (Stacey is tall) and then she said, "you idiot, this is the box of Outliers," and she was correct, it was the box of Outliers that Laura had been looking for, the box of books I denied was in my room, and while I was denying that the books were in my room, at the exact same time, a PE teacher was denying that the red milk crate of balls was in the cabinet-- and we were both miraculously wrong in our certainty, and so Stacey and I rejoiced even more over this nested sequence of ball-related miracles, a sequence abetted by the limits of human perception and memory, and by my utter stupidity (and not only that, but my good metal water bottle was inside the box of Outliers as well, so now the universe is resolved and at complete stasis and rest . . . aside from what's happening in the Ukraine).
You Can't Fool the Tooth Fairy (Especially When the Tooth Fairy is My Wife)
The shiftier of my two children, Ian, recently lost a tooth, and he claimed that the tooth came out while he was brushing his teeth and fell down the drain in the bathroom sink . . . but this sounded fishy, and upon further inspection, my wife discovered that he was in possession of the tooth and -- God knows why -- he didn't want to give it up to the tooth fairy . . . but he obviously still wanted the night deposit that the fairy provides so he tried to pull one over on her (he has known for a long time that the tooth-fairy is mom) and after he got caught he cried and cried because "the tooth fairy doesn't give money to liars."
Meaner Girls? The Meanest Girls . . .
Megan Abbott's high school cheerleading novel Dare Me is tense, scary, and threatening; not only did I enjoy the thrilling noir plot, but I also gained valuable insight into stunting, teen anomie, and the art of betrayal (and though I know the cattiness of the rather despicable characters is ratcheted up to an unrealistic degree, it does make me happy that I have two boys and will probably never have to contend with a teenage daughter).
A Very Important Biological (and Moral) Dilemma
Should I feel sorry for my dog because he never gets to have sex-- though he frequently licks his genitals?
Awkward Dave Returns With a Vengeance and Suffers an Awkward Coincidence
Nothing upsets me more at school then when a student disrespects one of the hall aides, especially if the victim of the disrespect is an elderly lady, and so when I saw a student refuse to show the aide at the front door an ID (IDs are required to enter the building) and then walked away from her, I told her I would take care of it and I turned to follow the kid -- and as I turned, I caught him giving the aide the classic two-handed-double f-- you bird, and so I confronted the kid -- and he refused to show me his ID, and attempted to walk away -- and so I blocked his path and things got into that weird gray area where you've lost your temper with a student but you know you're probably not legally allowed to tackle him (but maybe you are?) and so you wonder how you're going to detain him (or you can simply just follow him, I once followed a kid who refused to show me his ID from the cafeteria into the gym locker room, where he attempted to hide in the corner) but luckily, before I completely blew my stack, another teacher showed up and she knew the kid's name -- and so instead of following him, I simply went to the office and wrote him up-- and all this happened before first period, I hadn't even taken my jacket off, so then I had some time to cool-off before my first class -- which is second period, as I have hall duty first period, but I still had to tell this wild tale to my Creative Writing class, but when I was halfway through, one girl said, "You better stop this story now" and I said, "Why?" and she said, "because that's her boyfriend" and pointed to a very sweet girl, who I turned to and said, "You're going out with a guy who gives the middle finger to old ladies?' and she smiled sheepishly and said, "Yeah, but I already talked to him about it, and told him he shouldn't do that."
Birthday Weekend Takes the Cake . . . A Rambling Summary of the Busiest Weekend of My Youngish Life
My wonderful wife arranged a surprise one-night getaway for my birthday last weekend (though I discovered the surprise a bit early, because we share an e-mail) and we met some old friends Friday in Greenwich Village, and my friends were nice enough to meet me in a "Dave friendly bar" -- and so Catherine and I made our way from the Hilton near Penn Station to the High Line, and then walked a bit up there . . . which is phenomenal and highly recommended, and then we hit the Chelsea Galleries-- which are directly below the High Line and which are also patently absurd -- and we saw some really bad modern art and some really scary modern art by David Altmejd, who essentially builds sculptures of horror movies, which is cool, but also begets many questions, such as: who buys this stuff? where do they put it?-- and though we found no answers, we did find some delicious pork and pineapple tacos in the Chelsea Market, and then we found Kettle of Fish, the "Dave friendly bar," which means: cheap, wood panelling, dart boards, pinball, dive-like and similar to the Park Pub . . . except this place was also full of beautiful young people, including some super-models hogging one of the dart boards, which was fun to be near at first but then got more and more annoying, but once Whitney and I got on the other board, no one was able to knock us off, a great birthday present, we won in ridiculous and dramatic fashion over opponents that were probably more skilled than us and did this for a good four hours straight, from 8 -12, until things dissolved . . . and then after more drinking and pizza, we made it back to the hotel at 2 AM, got up the next morning and took the train home for soccer practice, then got ready for my oldest son's birthday -- he was born a day before me -- and went to Medieval Times, and though I could barely keep my eyes open, it was quite fun, sort of like professional wrestling (and our knight won!) combined with bizarre dinner theater (and Whitney reminded me of the best line from The Cable Guy, which is spot on: "there were no utensils IN medieval times, hence there are no utensils AT Medieval Times") and then we hosted a sleepover for a bunch of ten year olds and then on Sunday morning, I had to wake-up my younger son and his buddy from the sleepover at 6 AM so we could get dressed to play three indoor 8 v 8 soccer games, and then after coaching that insanity, we rushed to the basketball play-off game, as I am the assistant coach on that team, and we won and advanced in the play-offs, and then I finally got to take a birthday nap.
Brilliant Tactics in 4th/5th Grade Recreational Basketball
Things got slightly heated at the recreational basketball semi-finals Monday night -- the league rule is that every player must play two quarters, and most teams have ten players, which makes things easy to keep track of, but the particular team we were playing had been shorting their weaker players minutes all season and our head coach brought this up during the game and so the opposing coach had to play everyone equally, and though this team beat us earlier in the season, we beat them handily this time -- and I was impressed with my coaching partner's strategic use of the rules to make the game fair, but the opposing coach countered with a brilliant counter-strategy: he attempted to have his worst player foul the point guard on our team constantly in the final stretch, so that this weak player would foul out, and he could replace him with a stronger player . . . which, I must admit, is a brilliant plan-- something I would never have dreamed up (I can barely remember to call time-outs).
Two Comedians Walk into a Bar
Dinner table dialogue . . .
Ian: Who had the most children?--
Alex: I don't know;
Ian: George Washington because he's the father of our country;
Mom: that's not funny;
Alex: it's political humor;
Mom: now that's funny.
Ian: Who had the most children?--
Alex: I don't know;
Ian: George Washington because he's the father of our country;
Mom: that's not funny;
Alex: it's political humor;
Mom: now that's funny.
I Fixed My Car?
Although Zman claims that adding washer fluid to the reservoir "does not constitute fixing your car," I beg to differ -- before I put that fluid into the reservoir, my car no longer shot washer fluid onto the windshield, but after I did it, it did . . . and so I fixed it (actually, I'm willing to admit my logic makes no sense, because nothing was broken . . . this was more like changing a light bulb or putting a new roll of toilet paper on the spindle, but -- more importantly-- I now know that you've got a good three weeks between when the "low washer fluid light" pops up on the dashboard and when you actually run out washer fluid . . . so if you see that thing, it's not like you're low on oil or something important, and you don't have to rush out to get washer fluid).
It's Not Poop Week, It's Hippo Week!
This sentence is more practical than most of the drivel on this blog, as I need to present this example to my students in a few weeks, when we finally wrap up Hamlet . . . so if you don't care about Shakespeare, hippos, feigned madness, and impractical subterfuge, then I give you permission to stop reading this, but for you brave souls, you might learn something fascinating if you forge ahead; once we finish Hamlet, I am going to make the students connect a theme or character or line or allusion from the play to something modern -- a book or movie scene or song or painting that directly or indirectly reflects ideas from the play, and I just stumbled on a wonderful example: after Hamlet learns from his father's ghost that his uncle is the murderer, he decides that the best course of action is to put on an "antic disposition"-- he feigns madness-- as he believes this will allow him unusual freedoms around the castle and also that Claudius won't suspect him of any subterfuge because he's essentially opted out of the political reality inside the castle . . . and while I've always considered this an absolutely ridiculous plan (but artistically very entertaining, of course) I stumbled upon a historical example of feigned madness that turned out rather well for the perpetrator, an adventurer named Fritz Duquesne, a South African Boer soldier, who lived a wild life as a spy, saboteur, storyteller, big game hunter, and heavy-handed purveyor of bullshit and espionage . . . he was also the arch-nemesis of Frederick Russell Burnham -- although they both agreed on one thing, that America should import hippopotami to simultaneously solve the problem of the turn of the century meat shortage and the invasive water hyacinth (and I learned about all this in Jon Mooallem's fantastic article about the attempt to introduce hippo ranching to the Louisiana bayous) but, of course, we never imported hippos, and years later, Duquesne became rather unhinged, and was involved in several terroristic bombings, counter-espionage, and fraud; while he was held in city jail in New York in 1919, he lost his mind, and then the use of the lower half of his body, but the authorities were skeptical, so they stuck pins into his legs and under his toe nails, and Duquesne "never once wriggled or winced" so they transported him to Bellevue, where he sat in a wheelchair in front of a barred window and watched the birds . . . but he wasn't actually paralyzed and somehow withstood the pin torture without revealing his ruse, and day after day he sawed at the bars with two hacksaw blades he had acquired, and finally made a daring and nimble escape, leaping from rooftop to rooftop, hopping a ferry to Hoboken, and then disappearing into New Jersey . . . and he wasn't caught until 1941, when he was discovered to be at the center of the infamous Duquesne Spy Ring, and he went to jail in Kansas and served 13 years of his 18 year sentence . . . so like Hamlet, a wild and artistically satisfying life that could only end in tragedy.
Old People Are Sexy Too
If you like to think about old people having sex, or your mother having sex, or you're just a fan of the Bard of Stratford upon Avon, then you will have to head over to Gheorghe: The Blog today for your daily dose of Dave.
Hippos Trump Everything
One of the things I love about reading is that it offers total unadulterated freedom of choice -- though I may have several books out from the library, and several more sitting by my bedside, waiting to be read, if I hear about something that piques my interest, I drop everything and commit wanton literary infidelity; I read whatever I want, when I want, without worrying about any recourse or repercussions; in other words, I'll break off a relationship with a book at the drop of a hat; this is the opposite of marriage (or my marriage anyway, as I'm pretty sure I'm forbidden to date other women -- not that I'm going to ask -- and I certainly can't engage in this sort of adulterous freedom with TV shows, because if my wife and I are watching a show, and I watch one without her, it's tantamount to cheating on her . . . and that's why when I heard that Jon Mooallem wrote a seventy one page article about the wild and ingenious plan at the turn of the century to solve America's meat shortage by farming hippos in the Louisiana bayous, I truncated all my previous literary relationships-- including getting to page seven in a new translation of Brothers Karamazov-- and immediately bought the article as a Kindle single on Amazon-- hippo farming!-- and it's well worth reading; there's megafauna, scouts, spies, terrorism, politics, subterfuge, feigned lunacy and plenty of hippo jerky (if you want a quick summary, then check out this Wired article on the article).
How Not to Fix Your Car
When the little light comes on that indicates that your car is low on windshield washer fluid, not only do you have to purchase more windshield washer fluid, but you also have to open the hood of the car and pour the stuff into the washer fluid reservoir (which I haven't done yet -- my big bottle of blue washer fluid has been riding shotgun in my van for two weeks now).
It's Poop Week!
I may not rescue old ladies from burning buildings or dig wells for the indigent, but I did bag and toss at least ten piles of poop at the dog park last week (I think people get lazy about picking up the poop when there is snow on the ground, because it's hard to walk through the deep stuff, but I can't stand seeing a brown pile of poop defacing the pure white snow . . . which is mainly yellow and gray now anyway, from exhaust and dog urine).
Hero to Zero (in ten hours)
Thursday morning I woke up sore but satisfied, as the night before -- at our weekly Over-30 basketball pick-up game, I had one of the best shooting nights of my rather ugly basketball career . . . both my outside shot and my hook shot were on, which is a rare occurrence, and pretty much everything I chucked up went in; my team won five games in a row and got to stay on the court for ninety minutes straight, and so by the end of the night I was not only happy with my athletic prowess but also totally exhausted, and it was with these wonderful memories in my mind, that I went walking the dog on Thursday morning, and when I neared the dog park, I had to climb over a large pile of snow, and though I could clearly see that there was ice on the pavement below, I figured I could keep my balance when I touched down on it -- because I was a great athlete-- but I did not keep my balance-- not even close-- in fact, both my legs shot into the air (similar to this incident, except more spastic) and I landed squarely on my upper back, and then my head snapped back and hit the ice, and I saw stars and lost my wind, and made some weird yelling noises because I couldn't breathe and because it hurt so fucking much, and Sirius licked my face a couple times to make sure I was alive, and I'm hoping that this incident doesn't screw up my outside shot, but I have a feeling that it will . . . or at least I can blame this incident if my shot returns to normal next week (and there is a fairly happy ending to this story: though I felt shaky all day Thursday and my back and neck hurt, I made it out to the pub, and stayed rather late, and while this might not have been great for my liver, when I woke up Friday morning, after four hours of sleep, my back felt fine . . . and my students -- who thought I was going to be feeling it far worse the second day -- were impressed by my resilience; in fact, I may have boldly claimed to one class that I was "unbreakable" and asked a student to throw a chair at me . . . but luckily, this student did not comply with my request).
It's Been a Long Winter
Though I knew it was a bad idea, I tried to pick up and bag my dog's poop with my gloves on, because it was so cold and snowy, and -- of course -- I got poop all over my gloves . . . but, resourceful soul that I am, I used some snow to clean my gloves off . . . the very same snow which drove me to attempt to pick up and bag a pile of dog poop with heavy winter gloves on, an impossible task . . . and now my gloves appear to be clean.
Sometimes the Internet Teaches Me Valuable Things
In 1979, President Jimmy Carter was attacked by a swamp rabbit (and the administration could neither confirm nor deny if this rabbit was in any way related to the "killer rabbit" in the 1975 film Monty Python and the Holy Grail).
Serendipity, Baby
Though I didn't plan it, I ended up simultaneously reading Futebol: The Brazilian Way of Life, by Alex Bellos, and Play Their Hearts Out: A Coach, His Star Recruit, and the Youth Basketball Machine by George Dohrmann . . . and while there is no question that Brazil is crazy about soccer and America is crazy about basketball, the craziness exhibits itself in very different ways: Brazilians are superstitious, zealous, and obsessively festive about their national pastime (soccer fan clubs also participate in wildly gala and choreographed carnival events, where tattooed soccer hooligans organize thousands of costumed participants in synchronized marching and dancing) and creative to a fault with their gameplay, as illustrated by their incorporation of religion into the sport, their use of bizarre nicknames and their attempt at an "autoball" league in the 1970's . . . meanwhile, the story George Dohrmann tells of elite youth basketball players and their sleazy, despicable, but wildly successful coach Joe Keller paints a portrait of greed, consumption, high hopes, wild aspirations, hard work, hype, enormous success, great pressure, and epic failure . . . all in the milieu of middle school . . . the story is by turns compelling and infuriating, but the book is a must read, especially if you coach kids, and once you're finished, you can check Dohrmann's blog to see where the players from the book are now.
Dave Accomplishes His Goal
For the second time this season, I had to coach our rec basketball team alone-- normally I am the assistant coach, but the head coach couldn't make it-- and the goal I set for myself was simple: I wanted to call at least one time-out (the last game that I coached solo I forgot about the existence of time-outs-- probably because of all the years coaching soccer-- and so I did all my strategizing during in-bounds passes and free-throws) and so, though we were well ahead and I had already pointed this our to several players, I still called one time out in the first half, to point out that the other team was running a 2-3 zone, and that our ball-handler should penetrate through the middle, and then either shoot or pass it out to the sides . . . and I've decided that I've got no desire to be Bobby Knight and I will be happy when spring soccer season rolls around and I can go back to chatting with the players on my bench while we watch things happen on the soccer field that are so far away and chaotic that's there's really no reason to yell anything, as no one is going to hear you nor are they going to be able to react in time to adjust to what you say.
Like Finches, Only Wackier and With Guns
The This American Life podcast "Good Guys" is a mixed bag, but the last story (Act 4) takes a turn into strange territory -- an anonymous soldier sent producer Sarah Koenig a number of recordings he made while on a tour of duty in Afghanistan, and he describes a group of men who joined the army not for love and country and patriotism, but instead to be able to experience the thrill of killing another human being . . . and while on some level this is disturbing, on another it makes me wonder if humans are just becoming more specialized, the way the finches did on the Galapagos Islands: now you can make your way in this world as a political pundit, a math nerd, an architect, a musician, a professional athlete, and as a killer . . . you can exploit your artistry, anger, rhetorical powers, mathematical skills, good looks, ruthlessness, business sense, good will towards all humans, or any number of oddball human traits to earn money and gain fame and favor, so it makes sense that the killing niche will find its experts as well, and they aren't necessarily going to be doing it for the "right" reasons . . . in fact, if they are doing it for the "wrong" reasons, then they might be better at it (but also immoral) just like these guys were really good at making money . . . and if the niche exists, just as it would in an evolutionary matrix, something is going to move into it and exploit it, and you really can't blame people or animals or weeds or finches or whatever, if they do.
There Is No Bizarro Pub
Normally, the dads in my town go to the pub on Thursday night, and the locals and regulars tolerate us well enough, but Wednesday night, with another snow storm looming, Alec and I tried to drum up an early emergency pub night . . . but though we couldn't convince the regular Thursday night crowd of dads to attend, we went anyway; on the way we speculated that there might be a Wednesday night crowd of dads . . . guys we barely knew -- a bizarro version of our crowd -- with perhaps one friend of ours in common who had been moonlighting without telling us about the other parallel, bizarro pub group, but this was not the case; the pub was filled with regulars and locals (and this is the kind of place the opens at 7 AM . . . the kind of place where the regulars do a pot luck every Sunday for football, a real version of Cheers, with a softball team, a dart board, and an owner who grew up in town, owns the building, works the bar, runs back into the "kitchen" to make a burger or a cheesesteak or a fish sandwich . . . a real version of Sam Malone, only fatter . . . but he did play college baseball) and things seemed a little wilder and louder on Wednesday night, there was some dancing in the area that is congested with dads on Thursday night, and the regulars kept telling Alec and I "it's the wrong night!" and "it's Wednesday night!" like we got confused and came on the wrong day and so I'm thinking that when we get ten or fifteen dads in the place on Thursday, we really change the vibe and so it's good to mix it up once in a while.
Sporting Drama is Nothing Like Valentine's Day
I'm not sure which is more outlandish, Sharknado or the second season of Homeland, but what I do know is that I need to temper the emotional roller coaster of Friday Night Lights with a dose of It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia, because sporting drama gets me choked up and teary eyed (unlike Valentine's Day . . . I was tasked with getting my wife a pair of slippers, and while I finally accomplished this, I had to go to several stores, as slippers are a hot item this winter; the guy at Target said, "sorry man, we're all sold out, we sold eight hundred pairs in three days" but I figured I could make that particular trip count for something-- as I hate going into stores-- so I went from the slipper department to the card department and picked out the perfect card with the perfect sentiment, since I certainly can't express myself (as evidenced by the poor and rambling structure of this sentence) but when the guy rang it up, I found, to my surprise, that the card I chose cost $7.50, which seemed absurd, so I didn't buy it, and had to go to another store . . . and it's not like I saved very much, I think I paid $4.95 for that card, but it was a matter of principle . . . I'm not paying more than $4.95 for a card).
This One Goes to 105 . . . So It's Five Better, Isn't It?
Amazon recently produced an editor's list of 100 Books to Read in a Lifetime and while I'm not making any accusation, this does sound suspiciously close to my list of 105 Books to Read Before You Die (Which Will Be Sooner Than You Think) and I did some in-depth analysis and I've decided that my list is much better than Amazon's list-- and this isn't only because I just read a rather critical article about Amazon's megalomaniacal economy destroying practices in a New Yorker article called "Cheap Words"-- it's also because I've read 67 of the books on the Amazon list-- which comes out to 67% of the list . . . 67/100 as a fraction, and while there are a few common titles between their list and mine (Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas; Guns, Germs, and Steel; The Corrections; and The Golden Compass) and a few common authors-- Orwell, Marquez, McCarthy, Chandler, and Sedaris-- there is one irreconcilable difference between the Amazon editors and me, and this difference speaks volumes . . . the Amazon editors think you need to read Dune before you die, and I don't.
Easy Doesn't Mean Light
I am still searching unsuccessfully for a light read . . . one of my students gave me a copy of John Green's Looking for Alaska, and I'm a sucker for books about private school, especially if they contain pranks, but even though this book is set at a private school and even though there are pranks, and even though it is an easy read, and even though John Green is entertaining and convinced me to watch the light and fun delirium tremens film Harvey, this book is NOT light at all, but if you are looking for a quick, gripping and rather depressing read, then this book is for you.
Is This So Wrong?
My boys and their friend were building a snow fort in the icy slush last week, and they were obviously preparing for an apocalyptic snowball fight, but I warned them that the snow was not good for that, as it was hard and icy and if anyone got hit in the face with an ice-ball they were going to get hurt and cry, and then-- content that I had done my job as a parent-- I went in the house to relax, but thirty minutes later the front door flew open and my son Ian stormed in crying and screaming because Alex hit him in the eye with an ice-ball, and so I yelled at him for not heeding my warning (though I probably should have yelled at Alex, but Ian was closer) and he yelled back at "You're not supposed to yell at little kids when they get hurt!" and so now I am wondering if it's okay to yell at little kids when they get hurt if you warned them that the thing they were doing was going to result in them getting hurt.
My Wife, Who Is Occasionally Sarcastic, Has Made Our Children Jersey Strong
Last November, after a beautiful hike in Vermont, my wife said to the boys, with complete sincerity: "Thanks, I had a really great day with you guys" but my son younger son Ian didn't pick up the tone, and turned to his brother and said, "I think we're in trouble."
Snakes Can Be Heavy
After finishing George Packer's extremely depressing book The Unwinding, I decided to read something lighter, and so I turned to a book a student recommended called The Lizard King: The True Crimes and Passions of the World's Greatest Reptile Smugglers . . . and while I couldn't put the book down, as I wanted to find out if Special Agent Chip Bepler of the U.S. Fish and Wildlife could finally take down Mike Van Nostrand, the brash and blatant kingpin of American reptile smuggling, this book is definitely not light reading: Bryan Christy tells a tale of drugs, crime, corruption boa constrictors full of cocaine melting in a van, environmental devastation, obsessive herpetologists, crooked zookeepers, and a completely overwhelmed Miami division of Fish and Wildlife, with just three agents to cover South Florida, the Keys, Puerto Rico and the U.S. Virgin Islands . . . three agents to "investigate every illegal plant or animal that came through the port of Miami, by plane or by boat . . . three agents to police the waterways against manatee abusers . . . three agents to wade into the marshes before dawn to await duck poachers . . . three agents to watch over the Florida panther, three to stop Mexican restaurants from serving up sea turtle eggs, three to force beachside hotels to dim their lights so that the sea turtles that did hatch could follow the reflected light of the moon to the Atlantic Ocean instead of finding death in the artificial illumination of a well-lit parking lot" and not only that, the book ends with a funeral, but I won't spoil it since Sunswept Entertainment is making a movie based on the story (and it seems they've turned Chip Bepler into a woman).
Metaphors in a Meta-Metaphor
George Packer's book The Unwinding: An Inner History of the New America is a gripping and intimate account of what has happened financially and politically in America over the past forty years, told through the eyes of a diverse group of people -- ruined entrepreneurs and liberal activists, Newt Gingrich and Jay Z, Wall Street Occupiers and white trash, Washington insiders and visionary technophiles -- and while most of the book subscribes to the titular metaphor: unless you are one of the lucky ones, the ones that stand with the political and financial establishment, unless you are someone who goes with the political "flow" then you are fine, but the rest of America is unraveling; I warn you, the book is painful to read and it will cause you to feel ire and depression and indignation and outright anger . . . but there's nothing much you can do, you are either in or you are out, and if you are in, then there's no incentive to change things that are bringing you money and power, and if you are out, then you don't have any power to speak of, and you can't muster the energy and the force to fight the lobbies and the banks and Washington politics and Wall Street and globalization and corruption and corporate union-busting . . . but at least along the way, there are a few tangential metaphors that are more fun the the overarching general unwinding of our society; Dean Price, a tobacco farmer's son who is trying to create sustainable agriculture and biofuel in the South, imagines the American factory farm poultry, those chickens so pumped full of chemicals that they are too big to walk on their own "served up and eaten by customers who would grow obese and eventually be seen in Walmart riding electric carts, because they were too heavy to walk the aisles of a Supercenter, just like the hormone fed chickens" and Packer explains how they brought judges out of retirement to go about the work of "clearing Florida's of half a million foreclosure cases. as earlier generations had cleared the mangrove swamps that made way for Tampa, and, finally, Peter Thiel -- founder of PayPal and and really rich dude -- uses a metaphor to show the general decline in attitude towards technology: he says that in the 1970's, best of the year sci-fi anthologies were full of stories where "me and my friend the robot walked on the moon" while now the trend in sci-fi is dystopian and fragmented (and The Hunger Games is the perfect analogy for what has happened . . . young folks, who will do everything their parents did, will not have access to the same economy and nation that privileged previous generations, and so they will be fighting each other to the death for the scraps) and Thiel calls this a "tech-slowdown" and he points out that most technological advances that have occurred recently have been in the imaginary binary world of 1s and 0s inside computers, not in the physical world; to summarize, this is an amazing depressing mess of a book without solutions, as it should be, but there are occasional bright spots: the Occupy Wall Street Movement and the perseverance of Dean Price in the face of a politically close-minded and corrupt world.
We'll Never Get to the Bottom of This One
My eight year old son Ian, who we regard as slightly shifty, woke up the other morning with chocolate on his face . . . but he didn't have any chocolate for dessert the night before, and so the only explanation is that he has a hidden cache of chocolate in his room, and that he ate some of it after he went to bed -- but I searched his room thoroughly and couldn't find anything (though we have found secret troves of candy in his room before, and so I had probably cause to conduct this search) and Ian insists that he didn't have any secret chocolate before bed . . . though he did bring up the possibility that he may have ate some chocolate while sleep-walking, and while I don't believe this for one bit, Ian is a tough nut to crack, and I don't feel like breaking out the water-board, and so we're just going to chalk this one up to poor detective work on our part and concede that we will never know the truth.
Hypothetical Soundtrack
If you feel the need to listen to music that evokes a nonexistent 1970's police show in which the heroes adeptly navigate the mean streets of their decaying city, and often have to cross the thin blue line in order to administer justice in a chaotic and amoral world, and then face repercussions from an oppressive and byzantine bureaucracy, a politically minded and data driven chief, and an apathetic force, then listen to The Crusaders album Free As the Wind . . . it's absolutely fantastic: play it straight through, and I promise you'll have a car chase (and more!) in your brain.
To The Guy in the Lexus Driving in Front of Me with Ten Inches of Snow on His Roof and Back Windshield:
On Milk Related Things
Last Thursday in the English office, I rejected the tastiness of Chantal's kale and banana smoothie because the consistency was too milky, and this led to the inevitable discussion about milk related things, and the fact that I have never drank a glass of milk, not even a glass of chocolate milk, nor have I ever had a milkshake (Kevin thought this was absolutely impossible and wanted me to provide witnesses to verify this patently absurd statement) and when I claimed that I wouldn't even try Nitro Milk Stout beer because -- though I know it contains no milk-- it has the word "milk" in the title and thus makes me think of milky things, Kevin became determined to penetrate my defenses, and he succeeded . . . he thought of the one thing with "milk" in it that I do love: Neutral Milk Hotel.
Gummy For Men
I am embarrassed to admit that I love gummy candy . . . gummy bears, gummy worms, gummy coke bottles . . . you name it, but I rarely indulge in these festive, colorful treats because I feel absolutely absurd eating them; no adult man can maintain any sort of dignity while sucking on a gummy peach ring, and I think there are other men that feel the same way-- other closeted-gummy-men-- and so there must be a market for macho gummy treats: gummy chewing tobacco, gummy seeds, gummy pork rinds, etc.
This is as Close to Archimedes as I Am Going to Get
I am certainly not a physicist in any sense of the word -- my "eureka" moments are usually very abstract -- but last week, while I was coaching a youth basketball game, I figured out how something works in the physical world; my thought process began during a game when our team was slaughtering the opposition, we were really racking up the points, and what surprised me was how often the shots were falling into the basket -- we always seemed to be getting the roll -- but upon further observation, I found that this was often the case . . . little kids make a fair amount of the shots they put up, if they hit the rim . . . and this is my best explanation as to why this is so: when an adult shoots a basketball, the arc of the ball usually rises far above the height of the basket, and then the ball plummets down towards the rim-- it's like the ball is being dropped from five feet above the basket-- and so if it hits wrong, it's got quite a bit of momentum, so it's going to "brick" and bounce wildly from the hoop, but a little kid shot typically just clears the rim . . . the point where the ball is at an actual standstill -- the apex-- is just above the basket, and so it hits the rim with very little impetus and has a much better chance of remaining on the rim, and possibly rolling in.
Kids Aren't Half As Annoying When You Are Playing Ping-Pong With Them
Nothing makes me happier than the fact that my kids are now proficient at ping-pong . . . cracking a cold beer and knocking that ball back and forth is as mindless and stress-free as parenting gets.
If Everyone Else is Juicing, How Can I Compete?
I recently learned that a number of people in my English department are "juicing" and have been at it for quite a while . . . they are drinking daily concoctions of kale, carrots, bananas, berries, yogurt, spinach, lime, and other healthy foods . . . and no one informed me of this shocking development (in fact, I learned about it rather randomly when a perfectly sensible guy said he was thinking about purchasing a $400 dollar Vitamix blender, which astounded me, but I then learned that everyone in the room -- five people -- were all liquefying vegetables and drinking them) and so now I'm wondering if I have to start drinking my vegetables just to keep up with the other teachers, who are obviously going to reap incredible benefits from these glowing green smoothies: clear complexions, full heads of silky hair, super-cognitive speed, boundless energy, the disappearance of hang-overs, and other various superpowers . . . but I don't really want to start slurping kale and carrots for breakfast, so I'm going to hope that it's just a phase, and that everyone will go back to eating normal crap soon.
Roger, Do It For the Children! (Or Most of the Children, But Not the Children in Shakespeare Class)
It's time once again for my annual epistle to Roger Goodell, beseeching him to move the Super Bowl to Saturday, and this year the impact of Super Bowl Sunday is worse than normal . . . typically, I start teaching Hamlet the Monday following the Super Bowl, which is difficult enough, but this year, because we've already had three snow days and the semester is off kilter, the Monday following the Super Bowl is an exam day . . . and a few of my students are stressing out because they have to stay up and watch the Super Bowl and they also have to take two exams the next day (luckily, this won't effect my period two class, though they have their exam on Monday morning at 7:26, because it's my Shakespeare class and they have admitted that they DO NOT watch football . . . when I asked if anyone knew the details of Peyton Manning's cervical fusion surgery, they all looked at me blankly, and a very smart girl said to me, "this is SHAKESPEARE class -- we don't know things like that.")
Lack of Sentence and an Idea for a T-shirt Wrapped into One Half-Assed Fragment of Thought
Last week, I had a really great idea for a sentence while I was talking to Alec at the pub, but the next morning, I couldn't remember it (and while that is an atrocious sentence, as far as content, the theme itself would make a great t-shirt: Dave went to the pub and all I got was this lousy sentence).
Facebook Stock Plummets! Dave Buys New Snowboard!
You don't need to read Dave Eggers' overly long and polemical book The Circle to know that Facebook is a vast evil time-suck that trivializes your life, robs you of your privacy, and makes you very stupid (and -- full disclosure -- I just sold some Facebook stock short, so I'm hoping that the rest of humanity reaches this conclusion too, and rapidly . . . and if this Princeton study is any indication, then -- like an infectious disease -- the Facebook epidemic will soon wane, as folks become immune to its infectious qualities and I will make hundreds of dollars).
It's Good to be the Cook
The Danish film A Hijacking taught me three things: 1) if your ship is taken by Somali pirates, everyone on board -- including the pirates -- is held hostage by the ransom negotiations 2) if you're trapped on a boat, nobody in their right mind shoots the cook 3) Somalis and Danes drunkenly singing "Happy Birthday" in English is really creepy.
You Might Only Want to Read 1/2 of this Sentence
The folks at work claim that my braided belt is from the '90's, but that's not true -- my braided belt from the '90's disintegrated long ago, and this braided belt is relatively new and I bought it at Kohls . . . and I really tried to wear a more fashionable belt but the problem with non-braided belts is that there are a limited number of holes, and so if you gain or lose a few pounds, or eat a giant lunch, then there might not be an ideal belt setting for your particular girth at that moment, and I like to buy my pants a little big, and so I actually need a belt to cinch them at the waist, because I'm not buying the pants big for my gut-- which isn't all that big-- I'm buying the pants big for my butt, which is ample and round, and needs room to breathe.
Batting A Thousand (Sort of)
I saw three ex-students out-of-context in the span of three days and nailed all of their names:
1) saw a girl I had many, many years ago at a concert at The Saint in Asbury Park-- where her younger brother was playing drums in a band with one of my colleagues-- and though she is over thirty and has a kid and a house and a mortgage, she was far more surprised that I have kids and a house and a mortgage . . . "Mr. P. is all grown up!" was her reaction;
2) saw a dude I taught a few years ago stocking beer at the fancy beer store -- although I this one was a Texas-leaguer, as I only remembered his last name;
3) and, finally, an easy one . . . I saw a girl I taught last year lurking in the high school parking lot (there's nothing lamer than hanging around the high school once you've graduated, but -- to her credit -- I think she was waiting to give someone a ride).
1) saw a girl I had many, many years ago at a concert at The Saint in Asbury Park-- where her younger brother was playing drums in a band with one of my colleagues-- and though she is over thirty and has a kid and a house and a mortgage, she was far more surprised that I have kids and a house and a mortgage . . . "Mr. P. is all grown up!" was her reaction;
2) saw a dude I taught a few years ago stocking beer at the fancy beer store -- although I this one was a Texas-leaguer, as I only remembered his last name;
3) and, finally, an easy one . . . I saw a girl I taught last year lurking in the high school parking lot (there's nothing lamer than hanging around the high school once you've graduated, but -- to her credit -- I think she was waiting to give someone a ride).
Despite All the F*%king Grading, There Are Some Fun Things About Being a Teacher
One of the great things about being a teacher is that you get to teach people things, and so when I show Marshall Curry's fantastic documentary Street Fight to my students it is ostensibly to teach them about politics, but the actual reason I show the film is so that when Cory Booker's campaign manager compares Sharpe James to former D.C. mayor Marion Barry, I get to pause the film and explain to my students about Marion Barry: who he was, what he did, and how-- despite what he did-- he got elected again (and it's a great excuse to say "crack cocaine" in class, which is always a crowd pleaser among the high school seniors . . . and I must warn you, if you're one of those people who like to watch movies in silence, with no pauses or interruptions, then you should NOT take my class, because I consider showing a movie in class more of a performance art: you are seeing a movie with Dave, who might pause it at any time to comment, or might not even bother to pause it . . . it's the educational version of Mystery Science Theater 3000, without the robots).
A Loooooooong Week for Ian
By Wednesday afternoon of last week, this was the list of Ian's infractions at school, as reported by his very forgiving and patient teacher on his behavior sheet: putting his middle finger down (instead of up, he claims he was taunted into doing this, but he knows better), putting the cap to the glue stick up his butt and then giving it to someone, getting caught erasing the details about the middle-finger episode and the glue stick/butt incident and so not only did his behavior sheet include an addendum (written in pen) describing those two previous incidents, but it also explained that Ian claimed that he "accidentally" erased that part of the note -- though he admitted to me that he did this in order to get in less trouble, and -- finally-- he got into an argument with Lucy and called her a "buttface buffoon."
My Wife and I Agree on How Not To Lose Your Shit
When I go to the gym, I leave my wallet and cell-phone in the glove compartment of my car because I think that there is a greater chance of my gym locker being broken into rather than my run-of-the-mill gray Toyota min-van, and I asked my wife what she does, and she uses the same strategy . . . for the same exact reason (though she drives our run-of-the-mill Subaru) and since my wife and I rarely agree on questions of logic, I am guessing that we are doing the smart thing for this scenario.
Sports: The Reason Why I Don't Invent a Bunch of Cool Stuff for the Internet
While reading George Packer's fragmented and arresting book about the fragmentation of America (The Unwinding: An Inner History of the New America) I learned why I am not more like Peter Thiel -- who has a long list of entrepreneurial and technological achievements, among them co-founding PayPal-- because to get hired by Thiel you not only had to be "incredibly smart" but also "without distracting obligations like wives and children or time-wasting hobbies like sports and TV . . . one applicant was turned down because he admitted to enjoying shooting hoops."
If . . . Then . . . But
Wednesday morning . . . 5:45 AM . . . and it's so foggy that I can't see the end of the road-- if I wasn't with my trusty canine companion, it would have been very spooky and that's the great thing about having a dog, you always have someone to accompany you on a walk, no matter the situation -- but, of course I should point out, if it wasn't for my trusty canine companion, I wouldn't have been walking around in the fog at 5:45 AM, I would have been in bed, or indoors, and that's what's not so great about owning a dog.
Layers and Layers of Irony and Failure
Nothing makes me more unhappy that enforced pep (you may remember my difficulties when I was compelled to "Dress Like a Holiday") but rather than suffer the ire of certain female members of my department, I now begrudgingly go along with whatever spirit theme is chosen, and so on Wednesday, I wore the required uniform -- black shirt and pants, glasses, and a beret (I only wore the beret momentarily, for "check in," but that's still pretty spirited for me) -- and our department followed suit . . . we were supposed to be Beatnik poets, but I thought some people looked like French painters and others looked like college graduates . . . but we did well enough with our department unity to tie the business department, and since the math department came up with this contest idea, they administered the tie-breaker . . . a math test . . . mano a mano . . . by someone chosen from the department, and so --ironically -- my department chose me to take the test, because though I am the least spirited member of the department, I am pretty good at math (and even taught it, long long ago) and so this set-up the wonderful possibility that the person who really didn't want to "dress like a holiday" would end up being the department spirit hero . . . and so I e-mailed the math teacher administering the tie-breaker and we set up a time and she told me to bring a calculator . . . and that's when I realized that this might actually be a math test and not some math riddle or math trivia quiz or something fun and spirited . . . as we were dealing with the math department, not the English department, and this made me a bit anxious, and it turned out I was right: I had to take a ten question quiz with algebraic equations and number lines and solution sets . . . and this test, in mathematical terms, was 0% fun, but I still felt confident taking it (which means nothing . . . I always feel confident when I take math tests and I've gotten some really abysmal math grades in my life) and I remembered all my acronyms: SMATO (subtraction means adding the opposites) and Please Excuse My Dear Aunt Sally and FOIL (first outside middle last) and was proudly reciting them to the proctor of the test as I did the problems, and -- for a moment-- I thought I just might be the least spirited department hero ever . . . Cinderella story, underdog victory and all that, but my lack of spirit must have caused some kind of karmic justice; I got a 90% on the quiz-- pretty good, but not good enough, as the guy from the business department got a perfect score (and I really should have got them all right too, but I missed a pair of absolute value bars in the first question, I think I saw them as parentheses, and -- always my problem in math -- I didn't check over my work well enough) but I'm going to try to parlay this ostensible failure into a success . . . I am so distraught and humiliated at my crucial role in our defeat that I can't bear to take part in any other spirit days, or it will remind me of the trauma of this one (that's my story and I'm sticking to it . . . and if there is a moral to my woeful tale, it is this: if the math department says that they are giving you a math test, it's going to be a math test).
Persistence and Patience Pay Off (When You're Dealing with Poop)
A few months ago, I rode through some dog-poop and the poop got all wedged in my bike's knobby tires, and I didn't feel like scraping the poop off the tires with a stick, or spraying the poop off with the hose, so I decided to let the poop alone (winter was approaching) because it was cold, so I figured it wouldn't smell, and I knew once I rode my bike enough, the poop would take care of itself and fall off on its own . . . and now -- months later -- my tires are finally poop-free (aside from a few globs of poop on the edge of the front tire, but I'm sure that will work its way off soon enough).
Caloric Categorization
The only healthy snack that satisfies me is a quartered apple with globs of peanut butter on each slice-- but sometimes I pour chocolate chips onto the peanut butter, and then I'm not sure if it's still a healthy snack, or if it has crossed the line into the territory of a "dessert."
Two News Stories People Can Relate To . . .
I'm plugging away at After the Music Stopped: The Financial Crisis, the Response, and the Work Ahead and though I've read more than a few books on this topic, I'm still learning a lot from Alan S. Blinder (did you know that the repeal of the Glass-Steagall act probably didn't have much effect on crisis? fascinating, right?) and while understanding the never-ending saga of the sub-prime mortgage meltdown of 2008 is close to being a job, not all news stories are so dense and difficult; last week was especially good for engaging and easy news . . . first there was the "polar vortex," which everyone enjoyed talking about-- I enjoyed all the fun facts: parts o Minnesota are colder than Mars! New Jersey is colder than Antarctica! and Alaska!-- and the other great story (especially if you live in New Jersey) is Bridgegate, and while I don't think Chris Christie is stupid enough to be directly involved in this fiasco, I sure hope he is . . . and everyone I know is rooting for this outcome as well-- it just seems like the act that will define him-- and it's so much easier to understand traffic and revenge, as opposed to economic policy . . . and if you're one of the seven people in America who hasn't seen the John Stewart bit on the topic, check it out.
If I Could Leave You With One Profound Thought . . .
If you like "Men are from Mars, women are from Venus" type stuff (men are waffles and women are spaghetti?) then you have to listen to the first act of This American Life Episode 14 (Accidental Documentaries) where you will hear a husband and a wife sending an audio "letter" to their son in medical school -- the tapes were made in 1967, but they were discovered long after the parents died and the son gave Ira Glass permission to use them on the air . . . but if you don't have time for the entire episode, then go twelve minutes in and there is a fantastic Carlin-esque baseball/football type point-to-point comparison of how men and women communicate . . . mom is discussing spirituality, her depression, and how much faith her husband has, and then there are quick cuts to the dad telling corny jokes and talking at length about some weird machine he is building in the basement for the family business . . . though these two are married, they aren't even living in the same universe and then twenty four minutes into it, dad leaves the son with one last "profound" thought, which is priceless (I played these bits for my high school classes and they loved them).
Dave Invents a Phrase: Parental Capital
Once upon a time, I learned not to take family viewing recommendations from people without kids, but I completely forgot this lesson a few weeks ago-- and when the twenty two year old student teacher suggested the animated comedy Bob's Burgers . . . she said the show is "cute and sweet" and not as crass as The Family Guy, and she's right, but it's still completely inappropriate for my kids -- there's lot of sexual innuendo (including geriatric sexual innuendo) and plenty of jokes about venereal disease, flatulence, cannibalism, dinner theater and other offensive topics . . . and, of course, it's their favorite show ever and because I set the precedent and let them watch it, I can't rescind this without losing major parental capital (and I'm glad, because Bob's Burgers is the first thing that they like to watch that I totally enjoy, Dr. Who is okay, but still a bit campy for me . . . and I'd also like to state that I think I am the first person to ever use the phrase "parental capital" as a parallel to "political capital" and I think the analogy is not only apt, but also super-awesome).
I Prefer to Watch
The difference between coaching soccer and coaching basketball is the difference between watching a squadron of fighter jets and piloting one of them.
Some Thoughts on Radishes, Red and Black
Apparently black radishes are not the same as red radishes . . . I thought I was getting away with something at the vegetable market the other day, when I bought black radishes instead of red radishes-- because I like red radishes and the black ones were a lot bigger, so I figured it would be more radish with less washing and peeling, but black radishes are more like a turnip-- kind of woody and starchy-- and you can't eat them in big chunks, the way I eat red radishes (people in my office think it is weird that I eat sliced radishes and Laughing Cow cheese, and when I explained to them that radishes are delicious, some of the teachers tried them, and one sarcastically remarked: "that's a flavor?")
If I Had A Million Dollars . . . I'd Probably Lose It in the Market
Though it's no literary masterpiece, I highly recommend What I Learned Losing a Million Dollars; Jim Paul and Brendan Moynihan give a candid account of Paul's meteoric rise and fall in the futures industry, and along the way, you learn the difference between a gambler, a trader, a speculator, and an investor . . . and why speculators suddenly decide they are actually investors (just after the stocks they own take a nosedive) ; this is a book about human psychology and how it needs to be subverted in order to be successful in the market; the secret is to be like Ayn Rand -- when she was asked if gun control laws violated the Second Amendment, she said: "I don't know, I haven't thought about it" . . . but it's really hard to take that sort of objective and rational approach when you're dealing with your money.
If I Were Subjunctively Rich
People who are not rich usually have an "if I were rich" statement, and this statement is usually designed to show that if this person happened to become rich, they wouldn't be terribly ostentatious and vain and gauche with their new found wealth . . . for example: if I were rich, I would just want to throw big parties for all my friends . . . if I were rich, I wouldn't want a new house, but I would redo my kitchen . . . and so my version of this statement is: if I were rich, I would get a massage every other day (every day sounds too greedy, which is why I say every other day, so I don't sound so extravagant with my hypothetical money).
Ian Demands Content
My eight year old son Ian would like me to report to you that on New Year's Eve, while he was fast asleep on an air mattress several feet away from me, I heard him laughing uproariously in his sleep (and this was excellent to hear, far less creepy than hearing someone talk in their sleep, and far less dangerous than sleep-walking . . . read this fascinating book for more on this theme).
More Than Your Typical Serial Killer Mystery
The Cold Cold Ground, by Adrian Mckinty, is so much more than your typical police-procedural-hunt-down-the-serial-killer mystery; it is set in 1981, amidst "the troubles" in Northern Ireland, and Belfast is close to complete anarchy . . . Sean Duffy, a Catholic cop (or "peeler") works on an entirely Protestant force, and has to investigate a killer targeting homosexuals while navigating a byzantine world of IRA heavies, hunger strikes and the death of Bobby Sands, Protestant Militia groups, and angry unemployed locals . . . but the book still has a sense of humor (quite a bit more than this film) and some romance between the murders, riots, and explosions; a quick read that takes you back to a chaotic time with which Mckinty is extremely familiar: nine severed hands out of ten.
Too Close For Comfort
I stumbled on a website called Thoughts of Dave and this really worried me -- is he the original Dave? -- but luckily he's not the original Dave, I am the original Dave, as his first post was in December of 2007 (The Ultimate Martini Recipe) and Sentence of Dave started WAY before that . . . in November of 2007.
Dave Solves a Grammatical Mystery All By Himself
Ironically, though this blog is a grammatical nightmare, I solved a grammatical mystery without referring to the internet: I was reading Alan S. Blinder's book After the Music Stopped: The Financial Crisis, the Response, and the Work Ahead and I noticed that in the phrase "an FDIC insured bank" there is the use of "an" before a consonant -- but a consonant in an abbreviation-- and I wondered why this was so, and then I remembered when Keanu Reeves says to Patrick Swayze "I am an F!B!I! agent" in Point Break and you also say "an X-ray" and "an NBA game" but you say "a WNBA" game and it is because when you say the name of certain consonant letters . . . and you only do this in abbreviations . . . then these consonant letters begin with a vowel sound (so for "F" you say "eff" and for "X" you say "ex" and for "N" you say "en") and so the article matches the sound of the letter, not the designation of the letter, and creates an interesting exception to the rule (or at least I find it interesting, but I'm sure most of you are asleep by now).
My Children Weren't the Only Animals in Florida
I would never visit the Naples Florida area again -- too much driving, too much development, too many strip malls, and too many cars -- but the paradoxical thing is that in between car rides (and boat rides) we saw an enormous amount of flora and fauna; we visited several parks (including Delnor-Wiggins State Park, Barefoot Beach, Keywaydin Island, Big Cypress National Preserve, and Corkscrew Swamp Sanctuary) and here is an incomplete list of the stuff we saw: Cuban brown anoles, Cuban tree frogs, snowy egrets, ladyfish, lizard fish (apparently, you can put any word in front of "fish" and it is a legitimate fish) blue runner, mangrove snapper, spanish mackerel (we were catching these fish in a boat, and as we reeled them in the dolphins almost ate them, and -- according to my dad's friend-- the owner of the boat-- dolphins occasionally jump in the boat chasing a fish . . . and after we caught the fish, we fed them to the dolphins, which was very fun) a bunny, a bald eagle catching a fish, osprey, pelicans, cormorants, LOTS of big alligators, a baby alligator, a wood stork, a hawk, blue herons, green-backed herons, tri-colored herons, a yellow-crowned night heron, vultures, ibis, sandwich tern, kingfishers, woodpeckers, raccoon, big turtles, snook, alligator gar, a giant water spider, and a school of rays (which Alex and I saw while standing on a paddleboard, and from that vantage point you realize that there's all kinds of stuff swimming around you in the gulf, and that it's best not to think about it).
My Kids Are Those Kids?
So there you are, relaxing poolside, reading a book or closing your eyes for a quick nap . . . and you hear a family with a couple of kids arrive and they absolutely ruin the vibe: these kids are loud, and they fight, they splash with the intent of blinding each other, they bicker violently, scratch and dunk each other, attempt dangerous stunts, dive where they aren't supposed to dive, run where they aren't supposed to run, and whip a ball at each other instead of playing catch with it, and then they finally have to be reprimanded by their parents . . . and I am very sad to report that these kids are my kids, and wherever they go, they destroy whatever mood existed previously, and no matter what we do -- short of beating them senseless in public -- my wife and I can't get them to stop being like this; I think because they are so close in age, they live in their own little universe . . . they don't notice other people or their surroundings, and perhaps someday this will be a benefit -- they certainly aren't self-conscious -- but right now, they are the scourge to anyone lying in a lounge chair with a book.
One Fish Two Fish Blackfish Blue Fish
I highly recommend the documentary Blackfish, which focuses on the dangers of keeping killer whales in captivity (especially one particularly large and incorrigibly uncontrollable whale: Tilikum) and my wife and kids loved it too, but I should warn you to strap yourself in, as there are some graphic moments: you see some footage of the attacks (and seventy killer whale attacks have been documented, all of them occurring when the whales were in captivity), including the recent one where Dawn Brancheau is killed (but while director Gabriela Cowperwaithe allows you to witness more than Werner Herzog does in Grizzly Man, the footage is just to get an idea of what the whales are capable of, and stops short of being a gratuitous snuff film) and you will also see a killer whale penis-- my son Ian commented: "that wiener is bigger than me"-- and learn about the killer whale version of impotence (male dorsal fin collapse) and while my son Alex's review of the film was flawless: "epic but scary," my younger son said the movie was "awesome" but he only gave it "four and a half stars" because "it was missing something" and it turned out that what he thought was missing was "really good" footage of the attacks . . . but once my wife and I explained to him that these were real people that died, and that their friends and family might be watching the movie, then he understood why they didn't show the entirety of the violent scenes; this film is eye-opening and compelling, and it will certainly make you rethink your trip to SeaWorld (or the ersatz Canadian version, SeaLand).
Dave Resolves to Do Some Stuff
This year, I resolve to write shorter sentences . . . terse, grammatically correct sentences . . . sentences that are brief and full of pithy wit and wisdom, and I'd also like to lose a few pounds (actually, more than a few . . . I want to lose 13 pounds) and I would also like to finish my album and learn to play piano and I want to lose my temper less with my children (unless they really deserve it) and I'm also going to appreciate the holiday season more and not gripe so much about materialism and consumerism and the environmental disaster that is wrapping paper, and I'm not going to lie any more either.
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