The Miracle of the Missing ID

Friday when I got home from work, I unloaded the car-- beer and ice for our Cinco de Mayo party-- and then I took off my windbreaker and noticed that I was still wearing my school ID lanyard . . . but there was no school ID attached to the metal loop-- my ID had fallen off somewhere between school and home-- so I checked the house and my car, but no luck . . . and then Cunningham and Stacey arrived, to do the podcast, so I had to end my search (and I was pretty upset-- we had to sign our life away for this thing, because it's also an electronic card key, and I didn't know if I needed to tell someone at the school that I lost the card, since now anyone who found it could get into the building and I had just gotten in trouble for another security breach: I propped a door open with a chair so i didn't have to keep opening it for late-in seniors) and so an hour later when I received a phone call from the lady at Buy-Rite Liquor, informing me that someone had found my ID on the sidewalk outside the store, I was overjoyed (and told her so, and also might have recounted most of this sentence to her, which my wife and the ladies found very amusing . . . they told me I gave her way too much information, but I was just trying to explain how appreciative I was for the call).

The Gastro-Inevitable

I thought this batch of jalapeno infused tequila I whipped up for Cinco de Mayo was fairly mild (and it was certainly milder than this first attempt) and while some folks at the party disagreed, people liked it enough to finish the bottle . . . which made me think I should step it up the next time-- I can't be making spicy tequila that people can actually consume without clutching their throats and spitting up mucous . . . the only problem is that my stomach thought the mild stuff was more than spicy enough, and no matter how good it tastes, your stomach still has to deal with it later . . . and my stomach is getting old and fed up with stupid shenanigans like that.

Drones: Miniature Paranoia

1990s paranoia was all about unmarked helicopters-- they loomed, they surveilled, they indicated the presence of a mysterious authority-- but you could run from them and you could hide from them . . . Goodfellas and The X-Files come to mind-- but the 2010s are all about the drones: constant, persistent, ubiquitous . . . and there's nowhere to hide; the surveillance and paranoia are constant, so much so that we are inured to it.

Thank You, Stupid Meat Brain

I can't find a specific name for this logical fallacy, but I'm sure you'll understand what I'm talking about: sometimes people desire variety simply for the sake of variety without a perfectly logical rationale . . . and while this is illogical, there's no question that our stupid meat brains fall for this trick time after time-- this is the irrationality that causes trends in fashion and the 24 hour news cycle and the allure of social media . . . everyone knows that they should just buy some quality clothes that will last a lifetime, read Brothers Karamazov instead of an endless slew of stupid tweets, and stop following the daily political morass . . . but we enjoy the constant change, the shiny allure of the new . . . and while I think this is cognitive glitch is generally a swirling time suck, an environmental disaster, and a recipe for prodigality, I will descend from my high horse and admit that sometimes this desire for variety can be beneficial; Pitchfork, the arrogant, judgey, annoyingly opinionated and generally spot-on music site named the David Bowie/Brian Eno collaboration "Low" as the number one album of the 1970s and when I stumbled upon this last week, at first I found the pronouncement to be fairly humorous and completely absurd-- could this album really be better than Led Zeppelin IV and Exile on Main Street and London Calling and Dark Side of the Moon?-- could it even best Ziggy Stardust?-- but despite the silliness of the choice, the probably underserved number one position convinced me to listen to the album and I love it . . . I've been listening to it on repeat for a week straight; it's full of moody instrumentals that combine funk guitar and bass with ethereal synth washes (and limited saxophone, thank goodness) and when Bowie does sing, the lyrics are spare and ambiguous . . . sometimes the album feels like the soundtrack to Lord of the Rings; apparently this is Bowie in detox, after all the excess and abuse, and while I don't think it's genuinely better than Exile and Dark Side, I've played those albums out and would have no problem never listening to them again, so this variety-for-variety's-sake logical fallacy, while an obnoxious move by a hipster critic, got me listening to something I would never have discovered otherwise . . . so thanks Pitchfork, you giant douchebag and thank you stupid meat brain, for falling for this rather obvious cognitive ruse..

Let's Get Ready to (Logically) Bumble!

In honor of logical fallacy week here at SoD, I oversimplified things yesterday and I'm going to make an unfounded, imprecise analogy today: my generation's JFK moment was February 11, 1990 . . . when undefeated heavy-weight champion Mike Tyson lost to underdog Buster Douglas; I remember exactly where I was when I heard the news (the third floor of my fraternity house) and the absolute shock and disbelief that accompanied this information . . . my perception was forever altered: I now understood that nothing was certain, nothing was deserved, and the future was a wicked morass of variability and change.

The Internet (in a nutshell)

When we have access to everything, we don't know anything.

Operation . . . for Realsies

I hope you are enjoying vintage commercial/logical fallacy week here at Sentence of Dave, and I will begin this episode with an example of an excellent analogy: Saturday morning, I was about to leave the dog park with Sirius, and I noticed something bulbous beneath his eye-- a dog tick had attached itself to his lower eyelid-- so we hurried home and when I entered the house, I called to my wife: "Catherine? Can you get the tweezers? We're going to play Operation . . . for real" and the next sequence was perfectly analogous the old board game, except the punishment for a miscue wouldn't be a buzzing red light, it would be a one-eyed dog; I held Sirius steady, and after a couple of tentative failed attempts, Catherine nabbed the tick (without damaging the dog's eye) and then I found an old commercial for the game and showed it to my kids-- as I was so proud of my analogy-- and there's a really weird logical leap in the first moments of the ad, when the mom overhears her children say the word "operation" . . . she immediately assumes they are vivisecting the family dog . . . so my question is: what happened in the past to make her think this is the case?

The Straw Ham Argument

In my composition class we're reviewing common logical fallacies, which helped me finally put my finger on the exact reason this commercial (above) has been bothering me for over thirty years-- the wacky uncle hard selling the A-1 uses the "straw man argument" to convince his nephew to use steak sauce on his burger; first, he creates a hollow and idiotic premise (no one actually believes a hamburger is chopped ham) and then he knocks down this moronic argument (of his own invention) with apparent ease . . . a hamburger isn't chopped ham . . . no, it's chopped steak! . . . but, of course, there's no mention of what a hamburger really is: cheap beef parts, laced with E. Coli and salmonella, minced and padded out with pink slime . . . the whole thing goes down so quickly that the rest of the family never questions the uncle's slick (but ham-handed) rhetoric.

The Test 85: Going with the Flow

Please join us this week for a very special episode of The Test . . . I promise you mysteries and surprises, the revelation of a new superpower, and a whole lot more . . . a whole lot more.
 

Quest for Pizza . . . The Best Tomato Pie?

Alex had a game out in West Windsor today, so we got pizza from DeLorenzo's in Robbinsville . . . it is supposed to be the best "tomato pie" in New Jersey and while I've never had a tomato pie before, so I've nothing with which to compare it, it's damn good stuff: crispy, thin, chewy crust; sweet and delicious sauce, and light on the cheese (which is under the tomato sauce and condiments).

Am I Dave?

I am nearly finished with Dan Chaon's novel Await Your Reply-- which Jonathan Franzen calls "the essential identify-theft novel"-- and while I won't spoil anything about the plot, other than to say the book is suspenseful and thrilling and illuminating on identity-theft, I will share this Anais Nin quote that makes it's way into the consciousness of one of the characters:

We see things not as they are, but as we are . . . because the "I" behind the "eye" does the seeing

and I'd also like to note that no one has written the essential "Romeo and Juliet" of cell-phone courtship yet.

Happy BYCTWD! Sort of . . .

Happy Bring Your Child to Work Day . . . or, as we like to call it, Happy Bring Your Child to Work Day Because He Got Suspended From School For Two Days For Getting in a Fight in Gym Class and So My Wife Is Taking Him to Her Elementary School for the Day So He Can Do Manual Labor and Tutoring to Punish Him For His Stupid Decisions Day.

False Advertising or Just Desserts?

When I pulled onto Woodbridge Avenue on my way home from work today, I noticed that the Honda CRV in front of me sported a vanity plate that read "QT JILL" and so when I passed the car, I glanced over-- because I wanted to check out this Jill and determine if she possessed enough cuteness to warrant a celebratory license plate-- but the driver was a middle-aged Indian man with a plaid shirt and thick glasses . . . I assume he's either abducted QT JILL, borrowed her car, or has an amazing sense of humor and dreamed up the best vanity plate prank ever.

Extra Life

I finished Tom Bissell's book Extra Lives today and the last chapter-- a meditation on a short period of his life when he was addicted to the combination of cocaine and Grand Theft Auto IV-- is worth the price of admission; I liked the rest of the book, and honestly felt that maybe, by eschewing video games, I had missed something valuable in the last twenty-five years, but while Bissell finally boils his love of gaming down to the fact that he cherishes these in-game experiences, real experiences, visceral and like no other, they are experiences that take a tremendous amount of time, and this time must be spent at the expense of other things-- athletics, music, literature, family, sleep, sex, podcasts, etcetera-- and while I missed out on the actual adventure of GTA IV, I got to read about it, which was fairly exhilarating and slightly bizarre, and instead of spending 80 plus hours investigating the world, I got to hear about it secondhand, without giving up my own life . . . but perhaps when I near retirement, when my body breaks down but my mind craves excitement and adventure, perhaps then, when I take up golf again (another time consuming habit from my youth) I will also take up serious gaming, and perhaps by then, video games will be regarded as high art, like the graphic novel as compared to the comic book.

Cromulent?

I'm halfway through Tom Bissell's critical analysis of the aesthetics, rhetoric, and narrative structure of modern epic video games, Extra Lives: Why Video Games Matter, and it's pretty weird to read about all these games I've never played (I stopped playing video games after I conquered Road Rash on the Sega Genesis . . . although I do enjoy an occasional game of MarioKart 8 on the WiiU with my kids) and it was even weirder to stumble upon the word "cromulent" in the book, a word which sounds both made-up and vaguely familiar . . . and that is exactly how it is supposed to sound.

The Test 84: The Six Degrees of Canine Flatulence

This week on The Test, we explore the limits of human cognition, i.e. if it's possible for three people asphyxiating from dog farts to make random connection between various celebrities . . . it's a very special episode, starring Vin Diesel as Jesus Christ and everyone else as themselves; check it out, keep score, and see how you fare (although to truly replicate the testing environment, you'd need to stuff yourself into a tiny room full of methane filtered through the anus of a terrier).

A Snake to Bring on a Plane

Apparently, there are twenty-two species of snake found in New Jersey . . . and if you grab most of these critters, they'll probably bite you or leave some smelly oil on your hands (or both) but my son Ian caught a Northern ringneck snake yesterday and this is the snake for me-- the scales are totally smooth, the head is small, the colors are bright and beautiful, and this snake made no attempt to chomp any fingers . . . Ian let it go in the underbrush in our yard and I hope it hangs around (if these were the kind of snakes on the plane, the film would have been rated G and Samuel Jackson wouldn't have had to do all that swearing).

Get Off the Internet and Read This Book!

If you're looking to read something completely different, totally memorable, compelling, funny, and downright awesome (I really love this book) check out Christopher Buckley's novel The Relic Master . . . it's Monty Python and the Holy Grail meets Pillars of the Earth, a historical novel that reads nothing like a historical novel (and the plot doesn't bag out at the end, as it does in The Holy Grail) where you'll follow the adventures of Dismas, former Swiss mercenary and monk, who is now a collector of holy relics for both the Frederick the Wise (the Ruler of Saxony) and the Archbishop of Mainz . . . he'll run into lots of other historical figures along the way-- including the great German painter Albrecht Durer, Paracelsus, and Martin Luther-- but I promise you won't learn too much history; you will, however, contemplate faith, forgery, market economies, artistry, aesthetics, and just how the Shroud of Turin became the Shroud of Turin (you'll also learn about the euphemism "translating" as it applies to holy relics).

Rough Road Ahead

It was with great sadness yesterday that I wrote my eleven year old son Ian an IOU for "one pound of high quality Birnn chocolate," which he earned by beating me in a tennis match to 11-9 . . . I made this promise years ago, when I was sure my children would never be able to defeat me, and while I can offer a number of excuses (we weren't playing with real serves yet, we just get the ball into play and then begin the point, and there was some wind at my back, so I couldn't hit the ball as hard as I wanted for fear of it going out) the fact of the matter is that once I thought the game was in jeopardy, when he was beating me 6-2, I took things very seriously and played my ass off, and I couldn't get anything by him-- I was punching shots deep to his backhand and racing to the net, taking him cross-court, and eventually just hitting everything back, certain he would falter, but he was unassailable, didn't make an unforced error, and finally beat me with a wicked forehand winner that I couldn't touch . . . once we start serving for real, I think I'll get another year  or two of victories, but he's getting better and I'm getting worse, and the inevitably of time is rearing its ugly head.

Second Hand Tech

The young lady behind me on Route 18 this morning was completely distracted by her phone, texting at every stop light, glancing at the screen as she drove, and I couldn't stop watching her antics in my rearview mirror, which distracted me, and so instead of looking ahead, I was mesmerized by her distracted driving, which (ironically) made me accident prone as well.