The Required Amount at the Prescribed Rate (Handcrafted From the Finest Corinthian Leather)
These Photos Literally Symbolize the Seasons
You'd Think We've Have Teleportation By Now
You'd think it would be easy to connect your phone to two Bluetooth speakers at the same time, so they play the same music simultaneously-- or let me phrase that, I thought it would be easy to connect my phone to two Bluetooth speakers at the same time, but I'm not a computer engineer so I don't understand how Bluetooth is designed and the limitations of this technology . . . so I Googled this conundrum and here's the problem:
1. Bluetooth's Client-Server Model: Bluetooth operates on a client-server model where one device (your phone) acts as the client and the other (the speaker) as the server. This means your phone can only establish one active connection with a single speaker at a time.3. Bandwidth Limitations: Bluetooth's bandwidth is limited, meaning it can only handle a certain amount of data at a time. When trying to send audio to multiple speakers, the bandwidth might not be sufficient to maintain a high-quality connection to both speakers simultaneously.
4. Latency and Synchronization: Even if you could send audio to multiple speakers simultaneously, there might be a delay in the audio reaching each speaker, leading to a noticeable lag or out-of-sync audio experience.
Seven Things For Reading
Some Compromise . . .
Am I Special? Or Just Gross? Or Neither?
Does everyone else fling little white specks of food onto the bathroom mirror when they floss their teeth, or just me?
The Medium is the Scooter
Canadian communication theorist Marshall McLuhan said: "the medium is the message" and I think this is particularly true in sports: in the 1930s, the golden age of radio-- baseball, horseracing, and boxing were the most popular sports in America and these were the perfect sports to describe in an audio broadcast-- they are easy enough to narrate, there are slow moments either before or during the action so there's plenty of room for anecdote and description (I grew up listening to Phil Rizzuto tell stories about his barber during Yankee broadcasts) but as televisions got bigger and gained higher and higher definition, basketball and football gained popularity-- these are games where everyone is moving around at once and you need to see the action-- and you can choose where to look-- you can check out the defensive formation, or the blocking scheme, or the guy posting up in the paint-- it's impossible to narrate it all so it lends itself to a visual medium . . . and the internet appears to lend itself to sports gambling and fantasy sports, where people don't even bother with the narrative of an individual game but instead watch clips and short videos and consume statistics-- and TV has tried to keep up with this with the NFL Red Zone and such, which is essentially football coverage on crack . . . and who knows what the next medium will be for consuming sports-- flying your own drone over an event or being in a 3-D VR stadium-- and then who knows what sport this medium will lend itself to-- perhaps croquet will make a comeback.
Looks Like I Love Donald Trump?
The (Derivative) Art of the Tribute Band (Name)
Last night we saw two tribute bands: Big Foot County (The Grateful Dead) and Run, Rabbit Run (Pink Floyd) at the Kefi Ballroom, the venue that was once the nightclub Perle and has now been refashioned into an excellent live music venue-- something New Brunswick desperately needed once the Court Tavern shut down-- and the sound was superb, the beer was cold, and there were free samples of Timeless marijuana products (you could suck a cloud of vape out of a weird electronic genie bottle with your very own plastic straw . . . because of the strobe lighting, this seemed like something out of Bladerunner) but more interesting than all that is the art of naming your tribute band. . . I like the direction these bands went -- a random lyric-- as opposed to "punny" names like Proxy Music, The Rolling Clones, The Faux Fighters, and Deft Leppard-- those are groaners (although there is a one-man Def Leppard cover band that goes by "Jeff Leppard"-- that's pretty boss) but, for no good reason, I'm slightly more open to all-female tribute band puns, e.g. "Hell's Belles" and "Lez Zeppelin" and "ZZ Topless" but I still think something that takes a moment of thought, like The Crystal Ship (The Doors) or The Rocket Queens (Guns N' Roses) is more hip than a pun (but, of course, tribute bands are not very hip at all-- which begs the questions: when do you give up on your dream of being a famous, unique, and creative musician and dedicate yourself to playing one band's songs? is it when every time your band plays a particular artist, everyone goes nuts and you realize that you sound like them more than you sound like yourself? that's quite an artistic identity conundrum) and I can see the more obscure method of naming your tribute band as a fun bar game-- you say a hypothetical tribute band name and everyone tries to unravel the origin . . . if I were to say "The Lobster Telephones" you'd need to figure out that this is a hypothetical Cult cover band, the name pulled from a lyric in the song "Aphrodisiac Jacket" or if I were to say "The Sandy Crustaceans" then you'd have to surmise that this is a hypothetical Pixies cover band, the name culled from "Wave of Mutilation"-- it's not a game for the faint of heart-- and I should end this rambling discussion with the silliest tribute band name of all-time: Scrantonicity . . . Kevin's Police tribute band in The Office.
The Suburban/American Scream
1) Disillusioned: Five Families and the Unraveling of America's Suburbs by Benjamin Herold
2) The Fifties by David Halberstam
3) Outside the Gates of Eden: The Dream of America from Hiroshima to Now by Peter Bacon Hales
4) The Man in the Gray Flannel Suit by Sloan Wilson
Special Guests: Monty Python, Bill Cosby, Rush, Descendents, Bob and Doug McKenzie, Edward Scissorhands, Arcade Fire, Dead Milkmen, Malvina Reynolds, Helen Keller, Lucille Ball, Desi Arnaz, Bruce Springsteen, and The Who.
Canine or Cow?
Let the Kids Have Their Memes
Yesterday in my English 12: Music and the Arts class we finished watching Exit Through the Gift Shop, a provocative film about the nature of art directed by Banksy-- an artistic agent provocateur-- and our discussion about the purpose, value, and definition of compelling art somehow led to the meme with the fiendishly grinning blue Grinch and the caption "that feeling when knee surgery is tomorrow"-- an absurdist bit of humor that makes about as much sense to me as when the students yell "pumpkin!" in class . . . and you could trace the origin of these memes and attempt to understand why Gen Z kids find them funny . . . or you could do what I did and decide to let them alone-- because memes are this generation's punk rock (or hip-hop or alternative rock or math rock or heavy metal or any of the many musical genres that my parents do not understand) and while there really hasn't been a new musical genre that only the youth listens to and understands-- in fact, most kids listen to pop music, rock music, and hip-hop, the same stuff folks my age were listening to when we were teenagers-- so the kids deserve to have their own weird universe of pop culture, that bewildered adults denigrate-- thus if you are over thirty, stop watching TikTok and trying to emulate the youth, and instead, read a fucking book.
Lord of the Flies is Lame (No Tanks)
If you think Lord of the Flies is a bit tame and you want a book where the kids really go bonkers then check out Cixin Liu's Supernova Era . . . a supernova eight light-years away unleashes a pulse of radiation that hits the Earth with delayed but deadly consequence-- leaving only children under thirteen immune to the eventual (9 months or so) chromosomal decay and death-- so as adults face imminent death, they race against time to train the kids to take over the planet-- and then the adults die and the kids act just like kids and utilize none of the wisdom passed to down to them and instead squander time and resources and engage in insane war games in a globally warmed Antarctica and then things get really batshit wild and the book addresses one of the truly unfair things about human life on planet earth-- the fact that where we are born very likely determines our destiny.
Hey Kinesiologists and Tape Experts . . . Does This Shit Really Work?
Multiview! Multiview . . .
We Escaped the Room, but My Wife Did Not Escape the Inevitable March of Time
If You Don't Think Everything Sucks, You are the Victim of an Illusion
Your Achilles Heel is Actually Herculean
That's a 2024 Wrap, Spotify Style
It's Spotify Wrapped Day, and nothing is more fascinating than your past self-- last year my number one artist was Waxahatchee and four of my five top songs were from the Waxahatchee album St. Cloud . . . this year, though I would not have guessed this (because I've been listening to a lot of Afropop and jazz lately) I did this obsessive absurdity one better-- my top artist was once again Waxahatchee and all five of my top songs were from Katie Crutchfield's new album, Tiger's Blood . . . I guess I wore that album out last spring (and then we went to see her in the summer) although if you asked me to name my favorite song, I would say "Lone Star Lake" and that was not on the list (which consisted of Right Back to It, 3 Sisters, Evil Spawn, Ice Cold, and Bored) which is kind of strange-- and the other artists in my top five are Ty Segall, King Gizzard & the Lizard Wizard, Ezra Collective, and The Smile . . . the first time in a while The Grateful Dead did not make my top five; in other Wrapped news, there was no genre breakdown in this year-- pretty annoying-- especially since I listened to over 39,000 minutes of music and 1,556 artists, so it would be nice to know the breakdown of all that-- perhaps they'll bring that feature back next year.
Dave is No Freddy Krueger
Dave Suffers Ridicule and Derision (While Microwaving His Lunch)
When I pulled my lunch out of my cooler today in the English Office, my friend Cunningham was visibly (and audibly) appalled -- normally I eat some sort of delicious homemade meal: leftovers or a fresh salad, occasionally a sandwich-- but today all I had was a Trader Joe's Chicken Burrito Bowl . . . normally Catherine and I do some serious cooking and meal prep on Sunday (more Catherine than me, often) but this Sunday we ate a late lunch/early dinner at Bonefish Grill-- we had to use some gift certificates-- and we had a few drinks and watched the Jets squander another fourth-quarter lead and then we went home and relaxed-- on a Sunday! . . . we were still in Thanksgiving/Birthday weekend mode and so we had cupcakes for dinner and did no meal preparation for the week ahead-- so Cunningham called me "trash" and truly enjoyed disparaging my "TV dinner"-- such judgment!-- even though this bowl was quite delicious; check out the Trader Joe's description:
"seasoned chicken breast, brown rice, red quinoa, black beans, corn, bell peppers, Cheddar cheese... this is a hearty bowl . . . its Southwest style, smoky chipotle sauce marries all of those flavors and textures together and turns a bowl into a meal"
but I guess because my wife has always set such a high standard and I always bring in great fresh lunches, there's no deviating from this path . . . anyway when I got home from school, I set out to realign the universe and I made a batch of delicious and colorful chili, which is simmering right now in the crockpot-- so chili for dinner, chili for lunch tomorrow, and God help whoever has to cover me tomorrow morning at AM basketball, because this chili contains plenty of garlic, hot peppers, and beans.
What The Substance Lacks in Substance It Makes Up in Boobs (Both Old and Newfangled)
The body-horror film The Substance is most definitely lacking in the substance category: some serious plot holes need to be filled in, especially regarding the shared consciousness between Elisabeth (Demi Moore) and her "better self"-- but stylistically and visually the movie excels and even the editing is grotesque and perversely fun-- there's lots of nudity but it's not very sexy, the female figure is deconstructed under both the male gaze and the female gaze until all those concupiscent curves become splintered and fragmented, somehow unwholesome . . . and then things get really weird . . . eight spinal taps out of ten.
Correlation? Causation? Who Knows . . .
The First Rule of Caddyshack is Different Than the First Rule of Fight Club
So we truly had a happy Thanksgiving this year (tinged with a bit of sadness because my parents are still down in Florida-- my dad needed to finish rehab for some bruised ribs and wasn't ready to board a plane yet, but they are headed home next week) but we Facetimed my parents while were at Jim and LouAnne's, my brother's parents-in-law, and despite the fact that I got yelled at by Louanne for hating and forsaking all Thanksgiving food and the fact that the Giants totally suck ass, a good time was had by all-- especially after last year's events at the same household (we were lucky to be invited back, which was very kind, and-- also kind-- no one there brought up last year's events which my son Alex described as a holiday episode of "The Bear") . . . here's a basic account of how it went down, minus some of the crying and melodrama:
Ian forgot my wife's approaching birthday in the car and I think this ticked Alex off and then at Jim and Louanne's words were exchanged-- some sort of insults directed at corresponding girlfriends-- and Ian was especially sensitive because he had recently withdrawn from college-- and Alex's insult really enraged Ian (Alex claimed this is a thing guys do-- insult each other's girlfriends but I explained to him that this is NOT a thing guys do and is a good way to get killed) and so Ian got up from the table and punched Alex in the back of the head-- and this went down in the basement so I didn't see any of it-- the kids were down there-- so I get pulled from the upstair's kitchen table to sort this out -- Alex was on the front stoop, bleeding from his lip, and Ian was down the block so I was talking to Ian on the phone and then I walked back to the stoop and Ian had come back there and now the whole family was out there-- my brother's wife Amy and her brother and my brother, sorting the whole thing out, but then Alex decided to get his shot in because Ian sucker-punched him and so Alex punched Ian in the face and there was another scuffle-- and I'm used to breaking these two up, I've been doing it for nearly two decades-- even though now they are WAY too big to be fighting-- so I step in to separate them but so does Amy's brother Tommy and he falls and sprains his ankle-- and everyone calsm down but Tommy is hurt and the party is a mess-- my mother is a disaster and and we're incredibly embarrassed and decide to leave immediately, so Catherine doesn't get to eat any of the apple pie she made and Alex has a paper towel on his lip but does not seem to have a concussion and he was the designated driver so he drives us home, dabbing his bleeding lip and mouth the whole way (even though I only had a bit to drink-- but he insists on driving, perhaps so he can't beat the crap out of Ian or vice-versa) and when we get home, we tell the kids that tomorrow they will be making phone calls an apologizing and all that and then we get a good look at Alex's lip and it's split an punctured from the fork that was in his mouth when Ian hit him-- so Ian, Alex and I go to the emergency room at 8 PM, sit in a hot stuffy room together for a long time-- the only entertainment being a very cute crew of young ladies that are the plastic surgery/stitching team-- it's weird when you get old and doctors are so much younger than you-- and everyone was really nice at the hospital and these ladies didn't bat an eye at this insane fucking story-- they had obviously seen far worse-- and Alex was a real trooper and got six stitches in his lips and we didn't get home until midnight-- quite a Thanksgiving--but luckily, his wound healed without a scar-- nice job emergency room plastic surgery/stitching team!-- and my children have gotten along extraordinarily well since this incident and are following the first rule of Caddyshack (which is different than the first rule of Fight Club).
Happy Thanksgiving (with Qualifiers)
Detroiters . . . Don't Bring It Up Around My Wife
So as a rule-- or an eccentricity, I'm not sure which-- I don't watch TV alone (unless it's a sporting event because then I feel like I'm part of the crowd) but there is an exception: there are a small number of shows that I consider hysterically funny and my wife detests-- such as Saxondale-- and so I have to go it alone with these programs (unless my son Alex is home, because he enjoys I Think You Should Leave with Tim Robinson as much as I do) and now there's another show to add to this category, Detroiters-- which also features Tim Robinson (who my wife finds incredibly annoying) and the utterly charming Sam Richardson . . . the show is an absurdist combination of Madmen and Dumber and Dumber . . . but perhaps even dumber . . . anyway check it out, it's on Netflix right now (along with A.P. Bio with Glenn Howerton, which, thank the lord, my wife DOES find funny) if you're looking for something stupid, surreal, and very funny.
I Probably Need a New Phone (But I'm Not Buying One)
I started to watch the Netflix documentary Buy Now: A Shopping Conspiracy-- which honestly seemed a bit hokey and melodramatic . . . but still a good reminder that there are a bunch of smart people trying to get us to consume ever-more goods that we don't need, especially around the holidays-- but my wife said: "I don't think you should watch this right now" because I'm already irate enough around Black Friday, so I turned it off . . . which was a good idea.
F#&k All Phones
Lola Defeats Urethra Bacteria
My wife + idioms = weirdness
I was telling my wife a story about how some boys tore down some class council election posters when my sophomore class took a walk around the building-- our periods are 83 minutes long, which is absurd, so I usually break it up with a lap around the school, but it's gotten cold so we had to walk inside, giving these three boys an opportunity to vandalize a rivals election posters-- and so I told my wife that I was no longer taking that class on walks because "the rotten apples spoil the bunch" and she started laughing and said she just realized that she butchered that exact idiom with her fifth-graders earlier in the day-- quite a coincidence-- she told her class that "the bad egg spoils the bunch," somehow combining the idea of a "bad egg" with the old Ben Franklin adage (which is actually "the rotten apple spoils his companions") but I explained to her that:
1) eggs don't come in a bunch
2) a bad egg doesn't spoil the rest of the eggs in the dozen because eggs have separate little compartments in the container and they are also insulated by a shell
and she found this logic so funny that she asked her class the next day if they noticed how she misused an idiom and a girl raised her hand and repeated my wife's distorted maxim back to her-- and my wife told the class that she really appreciated that no one corrected her and shamed her (as I often do) and then she told them about some of the other idioms she's butchered and she said the class was laughing so hard they were crying and one girl insisted that my wife was lying about these mixed metaphor mishaps but my wife told her that this was no exaggeration (and she believes this started happening more frequently twenty-five years ago when she got several migraines that were so bad that they thought she had a minor stroke and that this destroyed the idiom section of her brain-- but my theory is that she doesn't remember these phrases as single units, and instead substitutes synonyms for words within them at will, creating new phrases that are very close in meaning to the original saying).
You Know Hermano?
Two Things I'll Never Understand
Take Five and Think About Five
Costco: Hyper-Capitalist Crucible
Gross Meatbag/Corporeal Irony!
Today in class, my College Writing students wrote a synthesis essay about the "Always Be Optimizing" chapter of the Jia Tolentino book Trick Mirror-- and while my colleague Cunningham wrote a wonderful prompt about how Tolentino describes women with an odd triad of imagery, as "gross meatbags, robots, and spiritual beings," I couldn't handle the term "gross meatbag"-- too visceral-- and so I changed it to the more academic-sounding "corporeal" and then told the children Cunningham's phrasing-- and there certainly is some "gross meatbag" imagery in this chapter, including a vivid account of a woman "queefing" in Tolentino's yoga class . . . so the kids had to write about the tension between these three portrayals of women and what it revealed about the world-- and, ironically, during last period, while I was robotically grading the previous class set of essays, and trying to inspire my current class to transcendent new heights of learning, the lunch of lentils, chicken, and cauliflower that my wife packed for me (which I had eaten an hour previous) made its way all the way through my corporeal digestive system, and so I had to make a hasty exit from class, quickly use the bathroom, and then return as though nothing unusual had happened . . . because, as I mentioned earlier, I don't like talking about that kind of gross meatbag stuff.
Ivermectin For All . . .
Mike Tyson for President?
Dave Womans Up
Today's sentence is in honor of my perseverance and valor because I really" "manned up" at school today and suffered both a COVID booster shot AND the flu shot at the annual vaccine clinic-- and I took these shots ON THE SAME SHOULDER! with my colleagues watching me!-- and I place quotations around the phrase "manned up" because my wife womaned up and endured both these shots a few weeks ago and she had no symptoms or side-effects . . . but my immune system is especially robust and so I assume I'll be down for the count tonight.
Things Fall Apart . . .
Tennis vs. Pickleball
What More Could You Ask For?
I've been taking creatine and Metamucil every morning for several weeks, so I am both jacked AND regular.
Almost Forgot . . .
Fun (and gross) fact I learned from our Blackwater Refuge kayaking tour guide while we were perusing muskrat burrows: the Eastern Shore of Maryland hosts a muskrat skinning contest-- which means you first have to hunt the muskrats (and then after you skin the muskrats, you eat the muskrats!)
Leaf Blowers Blow
Excellent Indian Food on the Eastern Shore
We returned home from the Eastern Shore of Maryland this morning and our house, our dog, and our son were all in one piece-- so a successful trip-- we had a good time with my wife's niece and her husband in Eastport . . . I loved the brewery and the local bars and restaurants so much I'd like to move there (if it wasn't for all the flooding) but maybe I'll settle on moving to Cambridge, a historical Eastern Shore town that seems to sit a little higher above the water (or at least most of the town . . . I am frankly amazed at how close to volatile bodies of water people will build houses and this trait is truly on display in Maryland) and while I was not surprised that the brewery and bakery were both excellent in Cambridge, the biggest surprise was that the restaurant our AirBnB lady recommended, Bombay Social, served some of the best Indian food we've ever eaten (and we live adjacent to Edison, New Jersey!)
Maryland, More Scenic Than You Might Think
Cheers . . . with Ghosts
Last night, after a delicious meal at The Fox's Den, we stopped at the colonial-era Middleton Tavern for a nightcap (and some live music) with the locals-- the vibe of the bar is "Haunted Cheers" and then today we took a boat ride past the Naval Academy and up Spa Creek, past all the yachts and fancy homes, and I was thinking this is a lot of fucking boats, the most boats I've ever seen and then the captain of our little tour boat told us that the harbor and creek were totally empty now and there were no boats at all, compared to October-- so obviously I have no fucking clue what a lot of boats look like.
You Are A Future Fossil (If You're Lucky)
Super Tuesday
Big day: woke up early; voted for Harris instead of Stein . . . because my wife threatened me-- possibly felony? . . . then went to the gym-- and while I can lift weights, my pulled rib muscle still hurts, especially when I sneeze-- and it hasn't rained in 47 days, so I'm sneezing a lot-- terrible coincidence of a particular muscle pull and an oddball fall weather pattern-- is there a word for unserendipitous? . . . then we headed to Havre de Grace (no one can pronounce it) and wandered through the Graw Alley Art Park, which is full of murals illustrating Havre de Grace's history-- including a depiction of a tawdry and bygone local brothel from the early 1900s-- The Red Onion-- excellent stuff, every town should have a large and colorful tribute to a brothel-- then we had a delicious and cheap seafood lunch at the outdoor Promenade Grill; then stopped at a rest stop so Cat could get some coffee but the millennial Asian couple in front of her were taking so long reading the menu that she stormed out; then made our way through some traffic to Annapolis; got slightly lost in the narrow winding roads of Maryland's capitol city, finally unloaded at our AirBnB, then drove to Eastport and found some free parking and drank some delicious beer-- including a prickly pear jalapeno lager-- at Forward Brewing; and now we're heading out on the town-- and maybe we'll try to stay up and see who wins this stupid election.
Just Listen
The Hirsute Diet
Dave Gets Professionally Developed
Dave Goes "All Out" for Halloween
I Guess I'll Ask Joe Rogan . . .
No Joy in Dave-ville
This morning, while playing basketball, I took an elbow under the right side of my ribcage (from a "kid" I taught in 1996) and I think I strained or bruised an intercostal muscle-- so it hurts to take a deep breath, it really hurts when I sneeze, and there is no joy in my life because it also hurts when I laugh.
Self-Checkout: Is It SUPPOSED to be Ironic?
Today, I scanned a full cart of groceries through the "self-checkout" register at Stop & Shop, and I only needed help from a human employee four times (twice because when I put down bags, it triggered some kind of shoplifting warning—you have to press a button before you put a bag down, or the scale decides the weight of the bag is some unscanned item—and once more to scan some apples and then a fourth time to scan some grapes).
Dave Survives a Normal Amount of Weekend Events
Four social events in one weekend, which is not my style, especially after. along week of school and parent/teacher conferences . . . too many social interactions and too much stimulus and not enough napping and reading time can sometimes make me cranky-- but I guess keeping busy is good right now (otherwise I might get sucked up in all the election bullshit) and so Friday night, my wife and I attended the Jimi Hendrix/Pink Floyd tribute band show at Pino's . . . the Hendrix cover band was comprised of some locals in their early twenties and they put on a great show-- but they were certainly the opening act, as the Pink Floyd show was absurdly good---- ten of the best musicians in the area squeezed onto the little stage in the back of the liquor store/bar/club, including a chick whose only job was to do the wild operatic back-up vocals during "The Great Gig in the Sky" and several keyboard players to reproduce all the sci-fi sounds and they served up several hours of all flavors of Floyd, songs from Dark Side and Animals and The Wall, and they even played some Pipers at the Gates of Dawn-- at one point a guy turned to me and said, "This shouldn't be free" but these guys do it for the love-- and hopefully the bar gives them a cut because the place was packed . . . then I played in a pickleball tournament down in Trenton (Mercer Bucks) where my partner and I got banged up-- rough draw-- but the competition was fun and the place was hopping and I never got to see young five plus players play-- the open even was wild, those guys get really low-- and there were phenomenal women players as well-- so a good experience-- and then I headed straight to my brother's house from there, for a birthday poker tournament-- and while I lost at pickleball, I got incredible cards at poker-- knocked my brother out-- we had two exciting all-in scenarios-- and ended up chopping the pot even though I was well ahead, so a nice ending to the night, and then I slept over at my brothr's house, drove home in the morning, went to the gym with my wife, then played some more pickleball, and later today we are headed to my parent's with the kids to celebrate Marc's birthday with them, before they head to Florida . . . and then I have to go to work tomorrow?
Coneheads Are Not Funny
The Horror? The Horror!
New episode of We Defy Augury-- "The Horror? The Horror!" . . . this one contains thoughts (loosely) inspired by three Paul Tremblay horror novels: Horror Movie, The Cabin at the End of the World, and A Head Full of Ghosts . . .
Special Guests include: Joe "the Zombie" Biden, Donald "Apocalypto" Trump, Foghat, Bernard Herrman, John Carpenter, Evil Dead, Hector Berlioz, Joey, Rachel, and Randy Meeks.
THIS Is The Person Responsible For My Child's Education?
It's Not Easy Seeing Brown
My nose is dry, my lips are cracked, and this long streak of unseasonably dry, hot weather has made me realize that New Mexico might be a nice place to visit, but I do not want to retire there.
Life Is Too Short to Look Both Ways When You Cross?
Last week, while I was driving to work, I saw a dead deer on the side of the road and that deer carcass projected the message that life is short, life is transitory and fleeting and ephemeral-- you're here and then you're gone-- so you don't have time to screw around, you don't have time to dawdle-- there's no time to look both ways before you cross the street, you've got to just make your move-- that dead deer symbolized the transitory nature of life . . . but at the same time, IF that deer had looked both ways, if that deer had been a bit more cautious, delayed and looked both ways, if that deer took its time crossing Route 18, then that deer might still be roaming around-- most likely chowing on everyone's hostas-- so the deer simultaneously symbolized the transitory nature of life AND poor choices leading to tragic consequences-- the dead deer symbolized two things at once, both negating each and augmenting each other, the juxtaposition of the symbols overlaying the bloody carcass (the dead deer probably also symbolized something about technology and nature not dovetailing together very well, but life is too short to think about things like this).
More Adventures in Education (and Growing Old)
Last week, in my senior English classes, we read the last page of Joan Didion's masterpiece about the counterculture in San Francisco in the late 1960s: "Slouching Towards Bethlehem" -- I was showing them an excellent example of descriptive writing with minimal intrusion from the author-- the subtext of the scenarios are enough to get the point across-- and I learned something: the vast majority of my students know NOTHING about the counterculture movement in San Francisco in the late 1960s . . . when I got the feeling that this passage needed more context, I asked them what was going on in San Francisco back then and one kid said, "The gold rush?" and I had to explain he was a century late and reminded him of the name of the football team and all that-- and the students had never heard of The Grateful Dead and hadn't heard the term "acid" for LSD . . . it was eye-opening because back in the day, high school students knew about the Grateful Dead because it had something to do with marijuana-- but now marijuana is legal and the Grateful Dead are no longer in this generation's popular mythology-- a few kids vaguely knew the term "hippies" but they did NOT know about communes and acid parties and jam bands and orgies and the Summer of Love or any of that . . . and when I asked what band was associated with this time period, from two classes I got the same answer: The Beatles . . . and then we went over that the Beatles were from England and there was one girl (I taught this girl's mom) that was able to name three of the Beatles (she couldn't recall George Harrison) and when I asked if anyone knew the fourth Beatle, a senior boy said, confidently, "Michael Jackson" and I had to more stuff . . . and the moral of the story is that I am getting old (but I was pleased to learn that Ariana Grande has a music video that is a tribute to my favorite movie, Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind).
Dave Dreams of Sophomores Past
I recently heard the phrase "row forward looking back" as a metaphorical attitude for heading into the unknown-- and that's how I feel about teaching this year: I have a sophomore class for the first time in many many years, so all my sophomore lesson plans are in manila folders, handwritten-- and while I head into a pedagogical future featuring computer-driven, AI-powered, digital learning models, I am reminded of the school days long ago when I used to teach the sophomores-- when we read novels and out of thick anthologies, took our tests on paper, and relied on human connection and the occasional VHS tape for entertainment-- and I'm trying to instill some of that in my current classroom as I pull on the oars, against the current, the prow of my dinghy headed who knows where, into some technological morass, my gaze searching over the waters I have traveled, my mind borne back ceaselessly into the past.
Useless Podcast Trivia
The largest banana port in the United States is in Wilmington, Delaware and once they arrive there, the bananas are loaded into gigantic ripening rooms, which are pumped full of the highly flammable gas ethylene, which makes the bananas ripen faster so they can be shipped out to grocery stores and restaurants?
Bring da Noize
I was glad to see the back of our old ironing board-- which hung on a hook, folded flat, on the back of our bedroom door-- because whenever my wife opened this contraption (no matter how much WD-40 I used) the hinged legs would produce a piercing "sssskkkrreeeeeek!" sound that perforated my eardrums and penetrated deep into my synapses, tearing loose and deleting core memories, impeding fine motor functions, and generally disrupting my consciousness-- so we put it to the curb and some unlucky soul grabbed it and it will now be screeching in some other house . . . but yesterday my wife opened our brand new ironing board and it produced the same "ssskkkreeeeek" so I'm going try a tip I read on the internet and spray the legs with PAM or some other cooking spray-- or try to convince my wife that wrinkles are fine (and always shake out because of the Jersey humidity).
Typical Tuesday Butt-kicking
Go To Hell (Novelistically)
Old Friends, OLD Friends
Think It Off, Think It Off
The Students Take ONE of My Suggestions
The Coffee Is Coming From Inside the Cup!
One of the most satisfying moments of Tuesday morning 6:30 AM basketball-- especially after a miserable shooting performance-- is drinking the morning coffee that I forego before the game (so as not to defecate in my shorts) which I leave on my desk in my classroom and I enjoy while I teach my first-period class-- the coffee tastes good, of course, and the caffeine keeps me from getting a headache . . . but this morning my Contigo brand coffee mug was giving me problems, and I couldn't figure out why-- it was leaking from the top . . . coffee was oozing out from under the lid for no apparent reason-- and I tried taping some paper around it, but-- much to the amusement of my Creative Writing class-- this did not work (as evidenced by the photo) and so I gulped down what I could and then after a short discussion, the class convinced me to throw it out . . . normally I would bring something like this home and put it back in the cabinet and avoid that cup for a month or so, then forget what happened, or watch my wife suffer the same problem and then think: oh yeah, that cup leaks . . . but not today . . . today, in a much more accurate manner than I shot my morning threes, I tossed the leaking cup into the garbage-- good riddance!-- and next week I will bring the new mug that my wife bought me and things will be less damp.
Ce vin est splendide, formidable, merveilleux !
Choices, choices . . . Neither Palatable
I'm Talking 'Bout Mexican Jell-O, Jell-O o o
Who knew that Mexican jello is far superior-- more rigid, firm, and flavorful-- than American Jell-O?
Can't Get There From Here
If you're looking for podcasts about strange stuff happening in small towns (and you've already listened to S-Town and taken an audio tour of Woodstock, Alabama) then you can't do better than these two:
1) Hysterical . . . this one investigates a spate of oddball symptoms-- tics, verbal outbursts, twitching, spasms-- that spread virally through the girls in an upstate New York high school in the town of LeRoy-- and the question is: was this mass hysteria, otherwise known as conversion disorder? or was it due to toxic chemicals or something environmental? a great one if you love The Crucible and the Salem Witch trials;
2) Cement City . . . two journalists stumble into a dying Pennsylvania town-- Donara, home to the Donara Smog Museum, which memorializes the Donora Smog of 1948, an air inversion containing fluorine that killed twenty people-- and they buy a house? a house made completely of concrete? and they get caught up in town politics and what it's like to live in a place with no bank, no grocery store, and no school, but a whole lot of camaraderie;
and while I recognize that these podcasts are presenting a very thin sliver of what it's like to live in a place that does NOT feel like it's the center of the world, and these podcasters have cherry-picked extremely interesting narratives of truly oddball events and these small towns just happen to be the setting, it's still really interesting to inhabit places like these, places that I will probably never truly understand, because I live in a fast-paced, densely populated, and expensive region of the country, with all the amenities and conveniences and ethnic restaurants and parks and high-end grocery stores and sky-high real-estate prices and even if I were to move to an out of the way rural kind of place, I'd never be able to pass as a local . . . you can take the guy out of Jersey, but you can't take the Jersey out of the guy.
A Head Full of Choices (and Ghosts)
Dave Does Holden Caulfield Doing Dave on Selling Sunset
Today in my sophomore honors English class, we are having an "emulate Holden Caulfield's voice but write about something modern" but I don't think anyone will write anything as perfect as my model-- in fact, the kids might be so dazzled by it that they might not write anything at all, for fear of not living up to the high standard that I have set-- anyway, my wife likes to watch a reality TV show called Selling Sunset, wherein a bunch of hot ditzy real estate agents flirt and drink and occasionally sell multi-millionaire dollar homes-- and even though I know the show is totally stupid, sometimes I sit down and watch it with her, fully realizing that the tactic used by the agency-- using sex to sell-- is not only working on the people buying houses inside the show, but it is also working on me . . . so here is this topic, from Holden Caulfield's perspective:
The thing that gives me a real pain in the ass is reality TV. If you weren’t aware, it’s not real. It’s phony. But people pretend like it’s real. And if you tell them it’s phony, then they get all touchy and offended, even though deep down they know it’s phony. So if you want to stay alive, you can’t tell people that. And all summer, my mom sat on the couch and smoked cigarettes and watched this show Selling Sunset. My mom has been very nervous since Allie died, and the cigarettes and the TV calm her down. Selling Sunset is about two brothers, twins, Jason and Brett and they run a very high-class real estate agency in Hollywood. They sell very expensive houses to very rich people. It would make you sick to see these houses. Some people don’t have a house at all, or even an apartment, but other people get to live in a mansion. It’s not fair, for chrissakes, but these people don’t seem to realize that state of affairs when they pay twenty million dollars for a house.
But that’s not even the worst part of the show. The phoniest part of the show is that these twin brothers, they employ very sexy women to do their selling. I have to admit, they are very sexy– and very flirtatious too. But they’re kind of stupid, or maybe worse, they’re pretending to be stupid. But people like to buy houses from these women because they act stupid and flirtatious and wear very tight dresses. They dress like burlesque dancers, because they’re always on camera, but they work in a professional office. And the two brothers, Jason and Brett, they treat this as normal business. And the worst part is that their method works. It works on the guys buying houses and it even worked on me. I’d see my mom watching this show, flicking her ashes into the glass ashtray on the end table, and I would sit down and watch it with her, even though I knew it was stupid and phony, but I’d watch because the women were so good-looking and they were wearing such tight outfits. The only good thing is I think my mother liked having me there, watching the show, even though she knew it was stupid. That was part of the reason I would watch it with her. But it wasn't the only reason, it was also for those women showing off in their tight dresses, good-looking women kill me, they really do.