King of Pain

Yesterday, I went to Source Wellness Center (chiropractor, massage, acupuncture, and OT all in one spot!) and—under advisement from my wife—let the new deep massage guy Joe work on my calves and hamstrings, and while I endured the hamstring work fairly well, when he started doing stuff to my calves, he said, "You're going to hate me for this, and you're very messed up, but we can fix this," and then he started pressing spots on my calves, and the pain was so inordinate that I, in quick succession, prayed to all the gods of mercy in the universe, saw little black spots on the sun, cursed, cried, white-knuckle gripped the massage table, and understood the pain of childbirth . . . today, I am a bit sore, but my knee is much looser—all the muscles surrounding it were incredibly tight and restricting it, and so I am going back again next Thursday for more of the same.

Katie Zacharia vs. C.J. Kregg: Steel Cage No-Holds-Barred Coffin Mexican Death Match

It is not fair to compare fictional characters with reality . . . but it is fun; my wife and I just finished season two of The West Wing, and perhaps the most savvy, tactical, witty, and upright person on President Bartlet's staff is C.J. Kregg—she's tall, fast-talking, assertive, and poised . . . and perhaps because she crushed this role, Alison Janney gets to play the president on The Diplomat—anyway, to then see Trump's new secretary, Katie Zacharia, bumble her way through her first propagandistic disinformation monologue, after recently watching so much West Wing, this made me very, very sad . . . so I definitely can't go back and rewatch Battlestar Galactica, because President Roslin would give President Bartlet a run for his money—although I would love to see Trump handle a Cylon attack: "This war against these aliens will end as soon as I want it to end."

Hey Democrats! Watch Some TV and Learn Something!

My wife and I are watching season two of the widely renowned show The West Wing—and, holy shit, I am wondering if any of Joe Biden's inner circle, close friends, family, or White House staff—the people that concealed Biden's cognitive state and health from the general public—saw this particular season—because if they did, they should have understood the potential political fall-out and consequences of shielding the public from this important information—and if they HAD seen season two, which is highly unlikely (or else these people are very short-sighted) wherein President Bartlett and his wife and his closest aides hide his diagnosis of relapsing-remitting MS from the American public and the administration faces severe blowback for perpetrating this omission, maybe the Democratic Party would have taken a more transparent political tack, and then they wouldn't have lost the trust of the American people, and then Donald Trump would not have been elected again.

Is This Relaxing?

When I get home from school, to relax, before I go play pickleball or lift weights or walk the dog and steal rocks from the park, I play a five-minute game of speed chess . . . while drinking coffee—but perhaps I should meditate or do tai chi or something more relaxing, to relax?

Celebrate Indigenous Peoples' Day

An excellent and appropriate way to celebrate Indigenous Peoples' Day is to get a flu vaccine, because the flu was just one of the many diseases the Europeans gave to the Native Americans when they came to visit-- permanently-- and this "Columbian Exchange" was rather unequal in this regard, as the Europeans also brought over smallpox, measles, chickenpox, whooping cough, typhoid, diphtheria, cholera, malaria, and yellow fever . . . while the only major diease that Columbus and his crew brought back to Europe was a particularly virulent strain of syphilis; in 1495 there was a massive syphilis epidemic in Europe . . . but the Native Americans certainly got the short end of the pathogen stick-- so get a vaccine and combat the spread of infectious diseases through our population!

I've Been Waiting for This Particular Infraction All of My Life (cue Dramatic Phil Collins Drum Solo)

Yesterday, while refereeing a U-12 boys' game, I had to call a PK, and it finally happened—the moment I've been waiting for . . . the moment I warned my players about when I coached—but I don't think the particular scenario ever happened, either when I was playing or coaching . . . until yesterday: I ushered all the players but the kicker outside of the penalty arc; I warned the goalie to stay on his line; I blew the whistle; the kicker took the kick, and it went high, over the keeper's outstretched hands—but the keeper did NOT touch the ball—and then the ball caromed off the crossbar right back to the PK kicker, and he shot it again, and I jubilantly blew the whistle and called a "double touch on a direct kick violation"-- the crossbar is essentially part of the field, and once you kick a direct kick, you can't touch the ball again until another PLAYER touches the ball . . . the crossbar does not count as a player, and so I awarded an indirect free kick to the defense and quickly explained the rule to the poor PK kicker, who thought he was going to get another shot on goal, and the experienced old Polish guy, who was the AR that game, raised his flag when it all went down and he told me I called it "perfectly."

Dave Tries Not to Stone the Young People

Here are a few phrases and facts the children did not recognize this week, leading me to believe that you need to explain EVERYTHING to anyone younger than thirty:

1) my wife's fifth graders (and all the young teachers in proximity to my wife's classroom) did not know the phrase "up the creek without a paddle," and I said most people say "up shit's creek without a paddle," thus the name of the popular sitcom—and my wife did not realize the show was named after the idiom . . . so everyone learning some stuff;

2) Cunningham's senior classes did not know the phrase "carbon-based life form," probably because they did not grow up watching Star Trek;

3) my seventy-five senior English students—aside from one or two kids—had not heard of the "Spanish Armada," nor did they know that Queen Elizabeth defeated this massive fleet of bellicose Catholics;

now I am sure that the young folks know plenty of important things that I don't know, delulu Labubu kind of stuff, so I'm not casting any stones (and for you young people, that phrase comes from the New Testament, when some old-timey people wanted to stone a woman to death, and Jesus said, "He that is without sin, cast the first stone," and this persuasive tactic actually worked and all these old-timey sinners walked away, and then the phrase evolved to "people who live in glass houses shouldn't throw stones," and there's also a Billy Joel album titled Glass Houses).

Dave Forges On, Despite the Futility of It All

Yesterday, I was doing my Basic Shakespeare Intro for my senior College Writing class, and I taught one of my students in this class, Gavin, two years ago when he was a sophomore—in Honors English—and Gavin vaguely remembered this lesson—back then we did 12th Night, and now we are starting Hamlet but it doesn't matter; the basics are the same: Shakespeare was born in England (not, as some students told me, Russia or France or Vienna or Italy . . . Italy I get, because they read Romeo and Juliet—but Russia?) and Shakespeare often wrote in iambic pentameter, and he coined many words and phrases (eyeball, unreal, knock knock who's there, etc) and then we talk about WHY we still read Shakespeare today, in modern times, and my three reasons, in order, are:

1. His CHARACTERS—no one in the history of literature created as many compelling, psychologically unique, and fascinating characters, bar none—he is the champ;

2. His way with LANGUAGE—a close second, between Shakespeare and William Tyndale, those two created a large portion of the words and phrases we use today, plus Shakespeare was often writing poetically;

3. EMOTION—Shakespeare plays are wild and dramatic; they don't teach us any lessons, or that's not the main point; they are entertainment, and the people populating these plays really put it on the line—so the plays are fun to read, act, and view;

I have the students come up with reasons why we still read Shakespeare first, before I tell them the actual reasons, and many of them say, "He came up with a lot of interesting plots and stories," and I break the news to them that Shakespeare stole most of his plots from various sources: poems, myths, history books, old tales, novels, and other plays from the repertoire—there were no copyright laws back then, and artists "borrowed" with impunity . . .

so we went through this lesson with various slides and activities, and then the students tok a quiz on the material, and then we had a few minutes left in class, so we took a walk, and on our walk we ran into another student from the sophomore Honors English class from two years ago, a great student (Humza) who was now taking AP English-- and Gavin said to Humza, "Quick, name the three reasons we read Shakespeare," and Humza wracked his brain for a second and said, "He invented a lot of famous words and phrases," and Gavin said, "Ok, that's the easy one, why else?" and Humza said, "He came up with a lot of cool plots?" and Gavin said, "He stole his plots," and Humza, with all sincerity and seriousness, threw his hands into the air, shocked, and said, "He stole his plots?!" and I said, "Why? Why do I teach you people anything!?"

Is This Going to Be a Thing Now?

I don't know if this is a thing that happens when you get older (and produce less skin grease) but my ankles are really itchy and the skin down there is all dry—so for the first time in my life (heeding my wife's advice) I put on some moisturizer cream . . . and it seems to have helped.

Elephants, Acid, and Exploring the Inmost Cave

 

I just finished Act Two of my newest Pig on the Wall series (A Long, Long Road: The Secrets of Tom Petty's Sustained Success) . . . if you don't have the time or energy to listen to the whole thing, there is a musical quiz in the first few minutes, and at the 23-minute mark there's something else I made that I'm quite proud of, which turns into another oddball, one-question quiz—check it out and see if you get the answer.

Birds on the Brain

Last night (or actually 2:30 AM this morning) while I was in the depths of slumber, my wife yelled, "No! No! Don't let the turkey in the house!" which startled me from the depths of slumber—or momentarily startled me, then I started laughing—and while I normally don't recount dreams on this blog because dreams are stupid-- this one affected my actual physical existence, so I will attempt to sort out what happened here, psychologically, the concatenation of factors which created this dire and frightening avian scenario in my wife's subconscious mind:

1) my wife is afraid of birds;

2) we recently watched an episode of The West Wing in which Press Secretary C.J. Cregg finds two turkeys in her office—named Eric and Troy—and she has to determine which one is more photogenic and therefore will receive a presidential pardon from execution and consequent basting and roasting

3) fall weather has moved in, and Thanksgiving is approaching;

4) the weirdo across the street has several chickens and a rooster, and the rooster crows several times every morning.

Major Monday

I reffed six soccer matches this weekend-- and the Hyaluronic acid gel injections obviously haven't blended with my existing joint fluid because when I woke up this morning, my knee fucking hurt-- but I managed to finish my newest episode of Pig on the Wall (aside from the mix down) before school and then I rushed to the 7 AM Faculty Meeting (beats going 3 PM) which lasted a VERY long time, then I taught all day, but conserved my energy, because I knew when I got home from school, I was going to have to summon all my culinary skills and acumen . . . because I promised my wife-- in celebration of the fall weather-- that I'd make crockpot chili and crockpot chili needs some time in the crockpot, so right when I arrived home from school, I put on a pot of coffee and some Aphex Twin on the kitchen speaker and got to it-- caramelizing the onions, browning the meat, roasting the peppers, filling the crockpot with fire roasted tomatoes from my wife's garden, using the immersion blender to chop these tomatoes into slightly smaller pieces (very messy) and adding all the spices (I had to grind some black pepper with the mortar and pestle because we are out) and rinsing the beans and then doing all the dishes (aside from the ones I am soaking) and now I am done and the chili is simmering away in the crockpot, and I need to switch the Aphex Twin to something more mellow because it is stressing me out while I write this sentence.

Existential Moments Before an Offsides Violation

If people want to pay me cash for jogging around, blowing a whistle, and waving a flag, while the children kick a ball, so be it—this is the world we have chosen, this is the world we have designed, and all I can do is adapt and capitalize and enjoy it . . . these are the kinds of thoughts I have while taking my turn at AR, for our crew's third game, on a rainy Saturday, when the ball is out of bounds on the far side of a huge, wet grass field and won't be near me any time in the near future.

STONE CAGE BACKYARD DEATH MATCH!!!

 

In this corner of the backyard, we have—show me the money (wort)!!! . . . CREEPING JENNY! and in the same corner of the backyard, we have a not-so-cute little periwinkle called CREEPING MYRTLE! and these two shade-loving wrestlers are going to battle to cover the ground in a stone cage match, fenced in by medium-sized rocks (pilfered from the park) and may the hardiest, fastest-growing evergreen win . . . the internet predicts that Creeping Myrtle will CHOKE OUT Creeping Jenny, so that's worth the price of admission alone—although I must warn you that this match might take several years to resolve (maybe I'll do some stop-motion time-lapse photography to document the battle . . . although, probably not).

My Knee is a Blender?

Over the last three weeks, I've received three hyaluronic acid shots in my knee, and now all I have to do is sit back and let the gel blend with my existing joint fluid, which will dilute the inflammatory enzymes that break down cartilage . . . or so I hope-- I will say that I played pickleball yesterday and biked home, and my knee feels pretty good today, so perhaps the gel is blending.

Yet Another Racket (from the people that sell rackets)

I finally used the Dick's Gift Card I received from my mom some Christmas Past—I realized I could use it ONLINE and not have to actually visit Dick's Sporting Goods (which is located right on Route 18 in East Brunswick, and Route 18 in East Brunswick has now been under construction for the last three years and eight months . . . I shit you not) and so I bought a basketball (Alex stole mine and took it to Manhattan) and a pair of tennis shoes that were on sale . . . yesterday, the basketball arrived on my front porch, but I also got an email informing me that the sale-priced tennis shoes were out of stock, and so the order was canceled . . . so I went back to Dick's online store and tried to buy some other tennis shoes, thinking there would be some money in my account—but there was not—so I called the information number and told them what happened, and the very nice Midwestern lady told me that the money was credited back to the gift card, and I told her that I threw the gift card into the trash because IT HAD NO MONEY ON IT—I spent the money on the sale-priced tennis shoes . . . so now Dick's is snail-mailing me a new gift card with the balance on it—they can't just credit my account because (God only knows why) they have to refund the money in the same form they received it, which is a made-up fucking rule—money is fungible-- and I am sure most people don't bother to call the number and sort this out and so the money gets sent to a Dick's Gift Card sitting inside a soiled diaper in a garbage dump and then the missing money eventually boomerangs right back into Dick's gigantic bank account . . . and, to add insult to injury, the new gift card will take will take at least fourteen business days to be issued and then mailed because: fuck you.

Good Thing the Painting Behind Us Wasn't Saturn Devouring His Son

This twenty-five-year-old photo of my buddies and me in some funky bar/pool hall in Amsterdam makes more sense if you look closely at the painting behind us (but not THAT much more sense).

 

Dave Comes Up with Some "A" Material ("A" Stands for Antenna)

Yesterday, I remembered that when I touch the metal prong of my 1/8-inch mini jack that I plug into my laptop to connect to my Edifier desktop speakers, I get a pleasing static hum—this is called the "antenna effect," and it is the result of invisible 50 Hz or 60 Hz electrical noise radiating from the surrounding lights and power cords—and so I said to the students (and I can't believe I hadn't thought of this joke earlier in my career) that when I plug the mini-jack into my ear, you can hear my thoughts through the speakers . . . you can actually hear what's going on in my brain-- and then I placed the mini-jack into my ear but I also simulataneously touched the metal prong, and the students heard the pleasing static hum, and I said, "Yup . . . that's what's going on in there," and they laughed.

The Art of Reffing in the Rain

I learned a few things while reffing three soccer matches in yesterday's nor'easter:

1) I need to get a vented, transparent ref poncho, like the other ref had—even though I changed my undershirt, I was soaked through and through;

2) I need to pack some large plastic garbage bags—the other ref, who was very well prepared, lent me one of his, so I had somewhere to put my ref bag and keep it relatively dry;

3) I need to get some sort of eyewear-specific hydrophobic spray—such as SOFT99RainHopper—because by the third game, I was soaked to the skin, and there were so many beads of water on my eyeglasses that I couldn't accurately call the lines . . . luckily, the game was a blowout, and it was raining so hard that no one else could really see much either . . . but, hypothetically, if someone heckled me from the crowd, if someone yelled, "Are you blind, ref?" I would have answered, "Yes, indeed, you are correct, I AM blind."

Through Surf and Storm and Howling Gale, to Call Offsides and Such

I (barely) survived yesterday's viewing of Resident Evil at the Rutgers Cinema—when I wasn't laughing hysterically, which was fairly often, I was either curled into the fetal position, clutching my wife's hand, or jumping out of my pants . . . then after the movie, we decided to go to the nearest liquor store and buy some beer, and we took a cut-through road (School Street) that wound its way through one of the strangest neighborhoods we've ever seen in New Jersey—every house was a completely different architectural style; many looked like they had endured home improvement projects built by very unskilled laborers, but there were also occasional McMansions dotted among Cape Cods, colonials, weird little beach house-style ranches, and houses with stucco walls—and now I am headed to ref in the storm, but I know it won't be as bad as the weather in Resident Evil, nor will there be zombies that send out fleshy tendrils, mate with each other despite decapitation, and form a huge aggressive ball of agglomerated bodies with many legs and arms.