Our dog Lola might have some Rhodesian Ridgeback in her (or she might not) but the way she squares off against this Eastern Box Turtle is certainly indicative of her lion hunting heritage.
H.L. Mencken is the genius who actually discovered the Theory of Relativity, when he famously remarked that “A man's satisfaction with his salary depends on whether he makes more than his wife's sister's husband," and while I wish I could be more abstract and metaphysical-- like Einstein-- Mencken's characterization is far more accurate; so I was incredibly pleased to find out that on the list of the 50 New Jersey schools with the best SAT scores, my town (Highland Park) came in at number 14, which is incredible and kind of strange because we're a very diverse town with a wide variety of economic situations and we don't offer all that much in the way of AP classes at our high school (because we're small) and what was especially pleasing-- as Mencken predicted-- is the fact that we came in ahead of the school that I teach at (East Brunswick, 24 on the list) and East Brunswick is an academic powerhouse that offers a plethora of AP classes (some kids take five of them in one year!) and we also came in just ahead of Chatham, which is a relatively homogenous and quite wealthy town that is the home of several of my friends (and one particular star commenter) and while I'm not sure why this is so and it doesn't make any sense, it still makes me feel good (in a relative way, of course).
While I'm really proud of my son Alex-- he's in 9th grade and he's not so big (I think he's just starting to hit puberty) and he really scrapped his way up the tennis ladder this season (despite chipping his thumb playing goalie for his travel team) and-- because of injuries and school trips-- he got to play in a number of varsity matches; Highland Park is a tiny school but we have an exceptional tennis squad, so in the county we play in the highest division (Red) against the biggest and best schools and this prepared us for the state tournament, where we play schools our size-- and for the first time in eight years they won the entire state in their group (Group 1) and while Alex traveled to those matches, he didn't play-- but this enabled the team to play in the Tournament of Champions against the winners of all the groups and because of an injury, Alex got to play second doubles-- and while the entire team got beaten soundly, they played well and Alex learned a great deal-- but I'm most proud of myself, because I trained both my kids-- despite the fact that I'm not a tennis instructor and I didn't even play high school tennis (although my brother played in college, which has helped) and over the weekend, I analyzed Alex's serve and fixed it, and he said he served really well today and the only time they won was when he was serving . . . so while I can't figure out if I'm more proud of Alex for his skill and tenacity or myself for my patience, accurate practice hitting, and ability to glean tennis information from YouTube, this is a good problem to have (I just wish I could give myself a lesson and smooth out my own two-handed backhand).
When we went to the shelter to adopt our dog Lola, the caretaker claimed she was a Rhodesian Ridgeback mix . . . and this sounded awesome to me, as they are athletic dogs that were used to track lions-- but now that I've seen a few real Rhodesian Ridgebacks (and had a Ridgeback owner tell me that Lola is "zero percent" Rhodesian) and studied photos of other dogs, I'm fairly certainly that she's a Pit Bull Lab mix-- which is a good thing to be-- and she might even have a bit of Mexican Street Dog in her (a very very coveted and prestigious breed of dog).
On Saturday morning, my son and I carried our 56 inch Samsung DLP big screen TV out of the basement and put it to the curb -- the TV still works, but there's a number of white dots propagating across the screen and to fix this you have to replace the chipset, which is expensive-- and the big Samsung TV sat at the curb all day Saturday and Sunday-- no one grabbed it-- and then Sunday afternoon we went to my parents for dinner and when we returned, the big TV was gone . . . but there was a little TV left in it's place! . . . so either someone picked up the little TV off of a curb and then saw our TV and was like: that TV is bigger! and so they switched TVs or perhaps they took our big TV and brought it home and then realized they had no place to put their little TV and so they drove back and put it on our lawn . . . it's a real mystery and one that will probably never be solved, but whatever the reason, it made the whole family laugh really hard.
On Saturday morning, my son and I carried our 56 inch Samsung DLP big screen TV out of the basement and put it to the curb -- the TV still works, but there's a number of white dots propagating across the screen and to fix this you have to replace the chipset, which is expensive-- and the big Samsung TV sat at the curb all day Saturday and Sunday-- no one grabbed it-- and then Sunday afternoon we went to my parents for dinner and when we returned, the big TV was gone . . . but there was a little TV left in it's place! . . . so either someone picked up the little TV off of a curb and then saw our TV and was like: that TV is bigger! and so they switched TVs or perhaps they took our big TV and brought it home and then realized they had no place to put their little TV and so they drove back and put it on our lawn . . . it's a real mystery and one that will probably never be solved, but whatever the reason, it made the whole family laugh really hard.
When you're feeling down and out, it's important to compare your situation to someone from a different time period; for example, if I lived during the Middle Ages, I probably would have spent the vast majority of my life with dysentery, diarrhea and scurvy; slept in a room along with fleas, rats and livestock; never taken a hot shower or put on clean clothes fresh out of the dryer; and considered myself lucky if I avoided leprosy or the plague . . . now aren't you feeling good about yourself?
When you're feeling down and out, it's important to compare your situation to someone from a different time period; for example, if I lived during the Middle Ages, I probably would have spent the vast majority of my life with dysentery, diarrhea and scurvy; slept in a room along with fleas, rats and livestock; never taken a hot shower or put on clean clothes fresh out of the dryer; and considered myself lucky if I avoided leprosy or the plague . . . now aren't you feeling good about yourself?
The boys and I made a side-by-side photo-reproduction for Catherine for Mother's Day, and while she appreciated it immensely (especially the Photoshop work my son Alex did to make the scale parallel) there are a few noticeable differences-- if you've played PhotoHunt, then I'm sure you can spot them (but I'll put the answers in the comments).
The boys and I made a side-by-side photo-reproduction for Catherine for Mother's Day, and while she appreciated it immensely (especially the Photoshop work my son Alex did to make the scale parallel) there are a few noticeable differences-- if you've played PhotoHunt, then I'm sure you can spot them (but I'll put the answers in the comments).
These days, whenever I read a book, I end up taking a nap (and if I read a book at the end of the day, I take a really long nap and my alarm wakes me up for work).
These days, whenever I read a book, I end up taking a nap (and if I read a book at the end of the day, I take a really long nap and my alarm wakes me up for work).
I finally watched Zombieland last week-- I had been meaning to watch it for years, mainly because it stars East Brunswick alumnus Jesse Eisenberg, who I generally consider to be the poor man's Michael Cera but he's great in this movie, as are Woody Harrelson and Bill Murray; the movie is what happens if The Walking Dead had a baby with Fight Club and then those two movies get divorced and then The Walking Dead gets remarried to Sideways and those two raise the child . . . or something like that, I'll ask my friend Stacey to figure it out (movies having babies is her purview) but anyway, it's funny and entertaining and the whole family loved it: 8 double-taps out of 10 (and apparently there's a sequel on the way).
I finally watched Zombieland last week-- I had been meaning to watch it for years, mainly because it stars East Brunswick alumnus Jesse Eisenberg, who I generally consider to be the poor man's Michael Cera but he's great in this movie, as are Woody Harrelson and Bill Murray; the movie is what happens if The Walking Dead had a baby with Fight Club and then those two movies get divorced and then The Walking Dead gets remarried to Sideways and those two raise the child . . . or something like that, I'll ask my friend Stacey to figure it out (movies having babies is her purview) but anyway, it's funny and entertaining and the whole family loved it: 8 double-taps out of 10 (and apparently there's a sequel on the way).
Yesterday afternoon, I took the dog for a spin around the park adjacent to my house on my new rollerblades and I'm pleased to report that she was very well-behaved-- to celebrate, I stopped back at the dog park for Dog Park Happy Hour . . . while I cannot reveal the name of the park that hosts this Dog Park Happy Hour, for fear that the park rangers might descend upon it, apparently every Friday afternoon (once it gets warm) the dog park crew brings coolers of beer and wine so that they can imbibe while the canines frolic; a retired teacher from Staten Island offered me a Long Trail IPA-- my favorite!-- so I couldn't refuse . . . a few moments later my son Alex called me, asking for a ride home from tennis practice and I told him I couldn't get him for a while, and so he should either start walking or call his mother because someone had given me a beer at the dog park and I hadn't finished it yet; he said: "Dad, they told us in Health Class that you should never accept alcohol from strangers" and I told him that was very good advice (with the exception of Dog Park Happy Hour).
Yesterday afternoon, I took the dog for a spin around the park adjacent to my house on my new rollerblades and I'm pleased to report that she was very well-behaved-- to celebrate, I stopped back at the dog park for Dog Park Happy Hour . . . while I cannot reveal the name of the park that hosts this Dog Park Happy Hour, for fear that the park rangers might descend upon it, apparently every Friday afternoon (once it gets warm) the dog park crew brings coolers of beer and wine so that they can imbibe while the canines frolic; a retired teacher from Staten Island offered me a Long Trail IPA-- my favorite!-- so I couldn't refuse . . . a few moments later my son Alex called me, asking for a ride home from tennis practice and I told him I couldn't get him for a while, and so he should either start walking or call his mother because someone had given me a beer at the dog park and I hadn't finished it yet; he said: "Dad, they told us in Health Class that you should never accept alcohol from strangers" and I told him that was very good advice (with the exception of Dog Park Happy Hour).
While I'll still be writing all my long-form stuff at my new blog, Park the Bus, I think I'm going to resurrect Sentence of Dave for my more mundane (yet still incredibly brilliant) thoughts . . . I figure I owe it to humanity to write down as much stuff as possible before I shuffle off this mortal coil-- so that future generations can use my words live morally, happily, and wisely (especially all my knowledge of Food Safety).
While I'll still be writing all my long-form stuff at my new blog, Park the Bus, I think I'm going to resurrect Sentence of Dave for my more mundane (yet still incredibly brilliant) thoughts . . . I figure I owe it to humanity to write down as much stuff as possible before I shuffle off this mortal coil-- so that future generations can use my words live morally, happily, and wisely (especially all my knowledge of Food Safety).
After I go to the pub on Thursdays and drink beer and laugh with my friends, my habit is to come home, make a snack, and watch Cheers . . . a show where actors pretend to drink beer and laugh with their friends in a pub (and Cheers used to air on Thursday night . . . weird, right?)
After I go to the pub on Thursdays and drink beer and laugh with my friends, my habit is to come home, make a snack, and watch Cheers . . . a show where actors pretend to drink beer and laugh with their friends in a pub (and Cheers used to air on Thursday night . . . weird, right?)
I've been recently appointed the King of Food Safety in my household. This is because I am the only person in the house that knows The Golden Rule of Food Perishability. I have it memorized.
Last Monday we decided to have tacos. But Monday is a very busy night for us. Soccer, tennis, zumba, etc. So two of us had to eat at 5:30 PM and two of us had to eat at 8 PM. This was a food safety dilemma fit for King Solomon. I had to figure out what to do with the meat between the split feedings. Someone not versed in the Golden Rule of Food Safety would have left that stuff out, allowing it to become a Petri dish of multiplying bacteria. But I know better. And I was in charge. I refrigerated the meat and then reheated it for the second mealtime.
Safety first.
I have also been designated as The Biggest Hypocrite in our house, and I have something to report an that front as well. Even though I am the King of Food Safety, I do not subscribe to Divine Hygiene. I recognize that I can make mistakes (and I reflect upon them).
Today, when I got home from school, I conducted a thorough investigation of our dog's "hot spot." Do not be confused. She is not a sexy dog. This is canine terminology for a raw sore that won't heal because of incessant licking. She has one of these "hot spots" on her groin, she licked it raw during the doldrums of the recent rainy days.
Here it is:
Lola's festering sore
My investigation was both visual and tactile, and I am pleased to report that the spot is no longer oozing pus-- or maybe just a slight bit of pus, but it's certainly not festering-- and the sore mainly felt dry to the touch. So it's healing.
I was so pleased with her progress, that I grabbed a celebratory bag of potato chips, sat down in the good chair, put on a podcast, and started chomping away. After I few minutes, I realized I hadn't washed my hands after sticking my fingers in her raw sore. So I got up and washed my hands (though I realized it was too late, far too late).
I do this belated post haste handwashing all the time (and I'm sure my readers do it as well). I replace the ballcock assembly in the toilet, go downstairs, toss the old ballcock in the garbage, see a cookie on the counter, eat the cookie, and then realize I haven't washed my hands. Then I rush to the sink and wash my hands, like the washing can retroactively remove the bacteria from the food, though I've already swallowed it.
This is medieval logic, similar to the belief that if you rub a special ointment on a dagger that has caused a wound, you will heal the wound. I will keep you posted on the consistency of my diarrhea.
The English teachers in my department have been arguing about Game of Thrones minutia all week-- some people aren't happy that Daenerys finally exercises the nuclear option with such cavalier disregard for civilians-- but I think she's just making the best of things. She realizes she has no allies, and decides that inspiring fear is her best course of action. It's the utilitarian ethics of Hiroshima, and while it's horrific (and depicted as so) she does it so that there will be mercy “toward future generations who will never again be held hostage by a tyrant.”
Perhaps Winterfell will be Nagasaki?
And if you don't want to think Realpolitik, then there's also the fact that John Snow wouldn't kiss her . . . hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.
All this conspiracy and betrayal and loss has is enough to flip the coin of her madness switch. There's enough of an objective correlative for her to behave the way she does. She is down to her last dragon.
So let's stop arguing about a fantasy saga, and open our eyes to reality. Winter is NOT coming. And Secretary of State Mike Pompeo is making the best of it.
Like Daenerys, he's exercising some rather sketchy utilitarian ethics, but no one in my department is losing their shit over what he said: "“Steady reductions in sea ice are opening new passageways and new opportunities for trade . . . this could potentially slash the time it takes to travel between Asia and the West by as much as 20 days.”
Summer is coming.
And Pompeo is loving it. He made these remarks at a summit of the Arctic Council, which is comprised of eight representative countries bordering this region and several indigenous groups that live there. He was NOT preaching to the choir. There was no alliance. For the first time ever at the Arctic Council, there was no joint declaration. These countries and peoples aren't really interested in the upside of global warming. They're too close to the hot zone.
Pompeo wouldn't mention climate change by name, of course, but his point was: if the climate is changing, then let's make the best of it. Some future generations will live in devastation and epic floods, but others will enjoy economic prosperity. Smooth sailing through ice-free polar seas. It may take something apocalyptic to achieve this, but future generations will get their plastic goods from China even faster.
Daenerys has a better build for the hot weather than Pompeo, but you have to admire the both of them: optimistic and inspired, even in the face existential defeat.
I am certainly a hypocrite. There's no question about that. But I'm still entitled to my thoughts and opinions, even if they contradict my actions. Sometimes a compelling idea outstrips the operating system of the brain that tries to install it. So you get some cognitive dissonance, some contradictory behavior. And it's not unbecoming. It's not annoying. It's inspirational.
I occasionally eat pizza that's been left on the counter overnight. Despite this, I still believe I am an inspirational figure. A figure who has done some reading, checked his sources, and just wants to pass on that information. But it's information no one (especially my wife) wants to hear. She may be able to shut me up on this topic in the house, but she can't stop me from blogging about it.
I can find nothing to contradict this Golden Rule of food safety. Despite this, I am BANNED from discussing this topic in my house. Censored! The Danger Zone!
For the record: it's not a sin, it's not a waste, it's not a criminal offense. If food has been in "the danger zone" for more than two hours-- and the "danger zone" is defined as 40 to 120 degrees Fahrenheit-- then you should toss it. Your food has become a Petri dish of exponential orgiastic bacterial procreation. The bacteria population on this food is doubling every twenty minutes.
No one wants to hear this. Including my wife. Everyone wants to "pack up the sandwiches" that have been sitting out for five hours (slathered in mayonnaise) because it would be "a waste" to throw them away. And no one wants to read (or hear) about exponential bacteria growth. And you can't smell bacteria, even when they're hastily copulating.
Bacteria going at it . . .
Though I know this rule, I admit I'm a bundle of contradictions. I eat food off the floor; I double dip chips; and when I'm at a barbecue, I certainly eat food that's been sitting out too long. But when I do this stuff, I do it with the knowledge that I'm rolling the dice. And I know what the result might be. My wife should know as well. We lived in Syria for three years, where food safety is not a priority, refrigeration is poor, human excrement is used as fertilizer, the water is not particularly potable, and fly-covered meat is often displayed hanging in the window of the store.
Some Syrian meat just hanging out . . .
We suffered every kind of intestinal distress in the book. I got giant intestinal roundworms. We had frequent bouts of diarrhea. But those memories have faded from my wife's mind. I have included some bonus photos of Syrian butchery and meat at the end of this post (they are not for those with a weak stomach) to show you how lucky we are to have such hygienic food in America. I doubt my wife will look at them or take them to heart.
My wife thinks it's strange that I'll scoop out some yogurt into a bowl and then realize I have to feed the dog, so I'll put the yogurt into the fridge for the few minutes that it takes to feed the dog. I don't want the yogurt to to get warm while I'm doing the chore. She thinks I'm insane. I think I just truly appreciate the miracle of refrigeration. In the good old days, people used to die from drinking milk.
The people in the English department are split on this. Some people are grossed out by food that has been left out. Stacey just doesn't care. She'll eat fried chicken that's been sitting on an end table all night (being licked by her dog). Her opinion: what doesn't kill you makes you stronger. I get it, but I need to do more research on public opinion. I need talk to some of the science and health biology teachers and see what they think.
But like I said, I'm a hypocrite. I'm not afraid of being critical of other people who I think are behaving too obsessively about food safety.
The Illustrative Anecdote
Thursday night, a bunch of us were sitting outside at Pino's, quaffing beer and bourbon, eating gourmet chips ( provided by the Deatz . . . thanks Deatz!) when a woman walked up to the table and offered us fresh baked cookies. They were leftovers from a political function happening inside. You shouldn't take candy from a stranger, but this woman seemed trustworthy.
Everyone grabbed a cookie. And then things got embarrassing. My friends were just bonkers for these cookies. Grown-assed men, giggling over treats. It was weird and sad and silly. Pathetic, really. Especially because when I bit into my cookie, I realized those dark blobs weren't chocolate chips, they were raisins. It was the most deceptive (and disgusting) of cookies: oatmeal raisin. Yuck.
But everyone loved them. I couldn't harsh the buzz. I couldn't criticize the cookies. The guys were writhing in ecstasy while stuffing chunks of raisin-laden oatmeal into their pie-holes.
So I palmed my half-eaten cookie, reached into the gourmet chip bag for a chip, and left it behind. Voila! Now I didn't have to explain why I didn't finish my cookie. It was hidden in the chip bag. The chips were pretty much finished. Everyone's hunger was sated. No one would ever find me out. I didn't have to go on some weird rant about expectations and raisins. I could let the party continue, unimpeded by my grouchiness. Like a child slipping vegetables into his napkin and then surreptitiously tossing the napkin into the garbage, I had-- rather immaturely-- disposed of something I found unappetizing, without causing a scene.
The guys went inside to hear the band, leaving Paul and me at the table. We chatted for a bit, and then Paul reached into the gourmet chip bag for a chip and he pulled out my half-eaten cookie. He was disgusted. Appalled. I had contaminated the entire bag of chips! It was like I put my whole mouth in the bowl!
I mocked him for his squeamishness. We were at the pub! It was men's night! We were drinking and eating! It was my half-eaten cookie, not some random, unknown entity. Me! My mouth germs were fine!
Paul wasn't having it. And while I continued to berate him, I understood his position. Because I am a hypocrite.
Bonus Photos
Proceed at your own risk . . .
Eid al-Adha in Damascus
The next day, the flies came in droves . .
It's hard to find fresh camel head in Jersey
How long can you leave a cooked head at room temperature?
