As usual, at the gym today, I was simultaneously working out AND trying to expand my musical horizons-- multi-tasking!-- and today I was exploring various prog rock albums (I wandered down this avenue by listening to the Alan Parsons Project album I, Robot . . . which combines yacht rock and Dark Side of the Moon sci-fi psychedelia) and I was giving the Genesis album Selling England by the Pound a whirl and I was not really digging it, but my phone kept falling out of my shorts when I moved from machine to machine so I utilized the secret zipper pocket but when I went to take my phone out to switch my music, I found that the zipper was stuck, and even though I was jacked up on weight-lifting and creatine, I could not budge said zipper and so my phone was inaccessible and I was stuck listening to this godawful Genesis album until I finished working out and got in the car and used "hey Google" to switch back to The Alan Parsons Project and then I had to use a pair of scissors to cut this secret pocket open and retrieve my phone-- so fifty years ago, bands could make prog rock, full of synthesizers, fantastical instrumentation, advanced recording techniques, incredible mastering, and layered sound-- but now it's 2025 and we still can't make zippers that work consistently and smoothly.
Dave Begrudgingly (and Apathetically) Participates . . .
This year for Halloween, the English Department decided to dress as various book titles-- e.g. Rachel wore a catcher's mask and carried a loaf of rye bread for The Catcher in the Rye-- and while I do not like to dress up in any kind of costume . . . or generally be festive in any way other than drinking alcohol and eating good food, I didn't want to suffer the ire of the department and last year I managed to skate by with a minimalistic "costume" and avoid public shaming, so I tried the same tactic this year-- I dressed as I often dress: khaki pants, a light-weight short-sleeved button down shirt, and knock-off Birkenstocks BUT I also brought in a cowbell-- and I told people I was dressed as Ernest Hemingway (close enough) and I was portraying For Whom the (Cow) Bell Tolls and while I was mildly shamed for lack of effort, once I explained myself, the ladies pretty much left me alone-- which is all you can ask for in this kind of situation.
There Comes a Time in a Man's Life When He Must Give His Regards (to Alan Parsons)
At the Buzzer
Pained Epiphany
I needed a break from reading the dense and detailed (but very well-written) slog that is James M. McPherson's Battle Cry for Freedom: The Civil War Era, and so I dove into the 2025 Arthur C. Clarke award winner Annie Bot by Sierra Greer-- Annie Bot is a sci-fi novel about the perfect android girlfriend, and while the book starts with a light, technologically provocative tone (warning . . . or perhaps selling point? there are robot/human sex scenes) but as I got further int othe story, I realized that though I was trying to read some sci-fi to escape the disturbing rationalizations, racism, and inhumanity of the Civil War, that Annie Bot and Battle Cry for Freedom are both ultimately about slavery and autonomy . . . but my NEXT book is going to be fun!
Monday Monday, Can't Trust That Day
Two Letters Make a Big Difference . . .
My wife and I finished watching Fisk-- a deadpan, often cringingly awkward, but ultimately heartwarming Australian workplace comedy-- and we are now watching Task, and though the two titles are a slant-rhyme, that's the only similarity . . . Task is something completely different from Fisk: relentlessly bleak, Pennsylvania rural, and full of characters that are hopelessly mired in poverty and pain.
Perp Walk? Poop Walk . . .
If you see me walking my dog, but I'm doing a strange shuffle, forwards, backwards, sideways . . . dragging my feet through the grass, exerting maximum friction, that means I'm doing the "poop walk" and that I previously stepped in dog poop and I'm trying to-- as the Rolling Stones sing in "Sweet Virginia"-- "scrape that shit right off" my shoes . . . this is my method: after I step in poop, I usually immediately take off the shoes and put them on my deck in the sun-- as it's no use trying to get the shit off when it's still moist and sticky, and then the next day I will go out on the porch and don the shoes and do the poop walk around the park and then I rinse and repeat for a few days and usually after three poop walks, the shoes are clean again.
Let's All Get Along, Fellow Companions (and Spell Words However We Want)
There's nothing more American than spelling stuff however the fuck we want to spell it; this goes for brand names, of course: Kwik-E-Mart . . . Froot Loops . . . Chick Fil-A . . . Lyft . . . Kool . . . and there are plenty of words that we spell differently than the British: center instead of centre, gray instead of gray, defence instead of defense-- but in the end, who cares?-- brands use different spellings so they can secure copyrights and garner attention, and language is a river and these little differences are water under the bridge . . . BUT my buddy Whitney, who is a spelling and grammar egghead, actually pointed out a spelling anomaly that is quite interesting (thanks, Whit) and-- after I've been challenging my classes, fellow teachers, random strangers and even my wife to this oddball spelling experiment and-- unlike most etymological word origin accounts, this one is NOT stupid and boring (did you know that the word "stupid" comes from the Latin stupere, which means to amaze or confound, but it suffered from typical pejorative semantic drift and by the 16th century it meant someone mentally slow . . . and that the word "boring" stems from the verb "to bore"--a repetitive and tiresome motion of drilling a hole by hand . . . see what I mean? stupid and boring . . . perhaps even shallow and pedantic) BUT try this experiment and see if you get the same results as me . . . ask someone to spell the word "camaraderie" and you should get some interesting results-- "camaraderie" is the French version of the word and an acceptable way to spell it, but in North America the spelling evolved into "comradery" and this change probably happened because of Communism and the Cold War and the assumption that these unified Russkies loved to call each other "comrade"-- or at least they called each other that in the movies and on TV . . . and whether or not this is how the alternate spelling arose, what I have found is that most people now use a hybrid spelling and use bits and pieces of each word and often spell the word "comraderie"-- or something close to that-- and I speculate that this will be another acceptable spelling in a few years . . . I hope you are stupefied and amazed by this etymological conundrum and do not find it stupid and boring (in the modern sense of those words).
Mystery Solved (Crystal Clear Footgear)
Dave Escapes the Silo . . . and Laughs and Laughs
My life has improved exponentially since I quit watching the boring, colorless, slow, pedantic, ponderous dystopian TV show Silo . . . what a drag-- since then I have been mainly watching comedies : Fisk, Platonic, Pokerface, and my guilty addiction: The Big Bang Theory . . . Fisk is an Australian, female-oriented version of The Office-- but it's much shorter and the story arcs are fast, furious, heartwarming, and fucking hysterical; Platonic sounds cheesy but actually tackles some fairly intricate issues about marriage and relationships in a zany madcap fashion . . . and Rose Byrne is a comic genius, and Kitty Flanagan, who plays Helen Tudor-Fisk, is the Australian version of Rose Byrne; Pokerface has a dark underbelly but Natasha Lyonne always brings the laughs, even when things get perilous; and when I tell people I'm watching The Big Bang Theory, they react in two ways: totally condescending or "oh yeah, that show is hysterical" and I'm siding with the latter opinion, I find the show utterly wonderful-- I never saw a single episode before last month and watching Jim Parsons play Sheldon and recite those incredibly long and bombastic punch-lines is mesmerizing-- and apparently it was NOT easy for him to memorize those lines, he really had to work at it, every single episode-- and I also feel like the show owes quite a bit to Seinfeld . . . it's often about nothing, the relationships rarely change (so far) and Howard Wolowitz looks like a miniature version of Jerry, but he has the self-absorbed concupiscence of George-- and he's ostentatiously Jewish-- and yes there is a laugh track but it doesn't really bother me (in fact, it might enable me to watch this show alone, something I rarely do . . . I'll watch live sports alone because it feels like other people are there but I will rarely watch a TV show alone . . . but maybe I just needed a laugh track to keep me company).
Some Things That Were Said Today
My team started off hot at morning basketball today, we won the first four games handily-- and we only had ten players, so there were no substitutes and the other team had Frank Nop, the venerable ex-AD who is 71 years young and jogs over for the camaraderie and usually just plays a couple of games-- and Frank told me he just had a virus and wasn't at 100 percent-- so after we won the fourth game, I said, with perfectly good intentions: "Why don't we mix up the teams?" to which Travis responded "fuck no!" and apparently that was "bulletin board material" and then our (motivated) opponents won the next four games, tying the series at 4-4 . . . so we had to play a quick game to three to settle the series (we won, but since we only played to three, there will be an "asterisk" next to this victory) and then during the school day, when I was pacing around, trying to keep my back loose-- which was tightening up because of morning basketball-- so I was stretching and pacing while the kids wrote a paragraph-- one of my students asked me: "Do you have ADHD? Because you always have to be moving or doing something," and I said, "I don't think I have ADHD because I'm pretty good at focusing but I do need to be doing something, unles I'm taking a nap, and I'm happiest when I'm playing some kind of sport or game that involves moving around because then I know what to do with myself" and she said, "So you're not the kind of person that can sleep real late and lie around in bed all day" and I said, "Nope, I'm up like a shot in the morning, doing stuff, until I get tired and go to sleep."
After Yesterday's Giant Disaster, Dave is Faced With Six Distinct Choices
No Kings, Just Queens Assigning Chores (from out of state!)
My wife is away on a ladies' trip to Rhode Island (but she's still assigning me chores from out of state: water my garden, take my car to the car-detailing place . . . is this legal?) but in between pickleball, lying on the couch, and doing my wife's remote bidding--
I still managed to find time yesterday to ride up to Morristown with Stacey to visit Cunningham and her toddler Quinn and attend the "No Kings" protest, which was pretty tame, honestly: no antifa organized leftist terrorism, no counter-protest, not even any rock-throwing . . . just some speakers and a fairly large but very orderly crowd carrying a bunch of signs . . . the only conflict that we saw was a young Matt Walsh wannabe wandering around with his cellphone asking people "what is a woman?" but then he wouldn't stay and engage with anyone-- Stacey said, "Aww . . . you haven't been with one yet?" and I yelled: "Don't watch The Crying Game! Then you'll really be confused!" and then I realized my reference was from 1992 and no one got it (except Stacey and this old lady next to us who called the youngster "a piece of shit"-- she laughed) but apparently the proper, conservative answer is "an adult human female" and once you start differentiating between sex and gender or bring up x and y chromosomes and social constructs, then you're an antifa indoctrinator or something . . . anyway, it was good to see so many people out at the various protests, peacefully protesting our piece-of-shit, anti-democratic, norm-breaking, possibly pedophilic, certainly pussy-grabbing, tariff-loving, polarizing, nepotistic, emolument abusing, insurrection inciting, felony pardoning, crybaby election loser, golf cheater, justice department weaponizing, EPA and Education dismantling, conspiracy mongering, media manipulating, journalism oppressor, lying, dog-whistling, race-baiting, shithole country hating, tax evading, bankrupt businessman, crypto charlatan, transactionally moral, quid quo pro corrupter, appointee of quacks and incompetents, penis-breath of a President (and I could go on and on).
Dave Gets Physical With Physical Graffiti!
Today my writing is on Gheorghe: The Blog, and I'm quite proud of it, but you're going to have to read this piece by my buddy Whitney and this piece by him as well (and do some listening) and then read my witty rejoinder . . . I promise you, it will be worth it!
Friday . . . Whew
Quitter?
All the Pretty Good Horses
After we read James Wright's serene and transcendent poem "A Blessing," I like to have my Creative Writing students draw the scene-- at a minimum, they are required to sketch two graceful, docile "Indian ponies" that can "hardly contain their happiness" and if they're really cooking with gas, then they can also attempt to draw the narrator, who is so entranced by these kind and mysterious animals in the twilight that he says, epiphanically: "Suddenly I realize that if I stepped out of my body I would break into blossom" and, year after year, the results of asking kids to draw beautiful horses are extraordinary: .
and I do NOT allow the students to use their computers or phones to look at horses before they draw, and the point of this exercise (besides my amusement) is that for most of us, it is much easier to use our words to convey tone than it is for us to visually represent tone, especially if the tone is enchanting . . .
Dave's a Killer . . . Dave's a Mess
Automobiles, Automobiles, Automobiles (and The Cult)
A very un-Dave weekend, but I survived and had a pretty damned good time, despite all the traffic: Saturday morning, I drove my Kia Sportage forty minutes through typical New Jersey traffic to Zman's house-- there's no good way to get there from Highland Park-- and then after listening to a few tales of Zwife's driving misadventures, we got into Zman's Alfa Romeo and headed up to Hopkinton-- home of Gormley and also the town where the Boston Marathon starts-- but we had to wade into epic traffic on the Hutchinson or the Cross Bronx or the Merritt-- who the fuck knows the difference between those roads?-- so we stopped for lunch at Zuppardi's Apizza in West Haven, which was delicious-- and then fought through a bunch more traffic on the way to Gormley's lovely abode, in the piney, fern gullied, rock-walled suburbs of Hopkinton-- and then we took a walk through the hood, where we did NOT encounter a beach ball (fucking AI is destroying reality) and then got ready to head to the show, which was in Boston city center, at the Orpheum-- and Gormley's wife drove us in, through even more traffic (thanks Liz!) and we hopped out at a traffic light and then I had to chase down the car because I left my phone charging in the backseat . . . I caught up to Liz as she was turning right, knocked on the window, jumped in and grabbed my phone, and then jumped out of the car before anyone could even beep at her-- a random middle-aged white dude was impressed by my alacrity and he said, "nice move!" and I held up my phone and told him "my ticket to the show is on here!" and he said, "Are you going to see The Cult?" and I said, "Yes I am!" and then we went to jm Curley's for drinks and food and then walked to the Orpheum for the show-- the opening act was a noisy duo called The Patriarchy-- but the lead singer was a lady . . . ironic!-- and then The Cult came out as The Death Cult, the goth-punk band that preceded The Cult-- and Ian Astbury was in some sort of Native American dress-robe and they played all the old stuff from Dreamtime and before (e.g. "Gods Zoo") and then the curtain went down, we restocked our beer, and then The Cult came out as The Cult and played all the old favorites, from "Wildflower" to "She Sells Sanctuary"-- I especially enjoyed a stripped-down double time version of "Fire Woman" . . . I guess they were like: we're required to play this but we're going to do it quickly . . . anyway, it was a great show, the band seemed especially energized and invigorated playing the old goth-punk stuff-- Billy Duffy had to actually pay attention to what he was doing instead of cranking out the power chords and the drummer, John Tempesta, is exceptional and really laid down those culturally appropriated tribal beats-- I did have to tell the guy in front of me to lower his phone-- he seemed to think he was filming a documentary-- but once I said something, he stopped holding it up without any conflict-- and in general, the crowd was very pleasant-- it was essentially a convention of burly middle-aged white males, a few still sporting long hair but most bald or balding-- and everyone looked like they were trouble thirty years ago but had since more-or-less assimilated into normal society-- it made me think of how long a history I have with this band-- I first saw them on the Electric tour in July of 1987 at the Felt Forum-- so 38 years ago-- it was an insane show-- they opened with "Bad Fun" and the moshing was actually violent and Ian got stuck on top of a amplifier at one point and roadies had to help him down . . . there's not many bands that I saw in high school that are still touring (The Who are probably the only other band that fits into this category, although I think they are done now) and then after the show we went back to jm Curley's for a nightcap and caught a ride back to Hopkinton (thanks for arranging that ride, Gormley!) where I finished the leftover pizza and hit the sack and then Zman and I got on the road early and hauled it back to Jersey-- that's more car-time than I prefer to do but I chewed some gum and enjoyed the good craik (as they say in Scotland) and Zman's flawless driving and now I'm home andd getting ready for school tomorrow . . . a whirlwind weekend.
Road Trip with Zman!
Do the Right Thing (and Be Punished For It)
After school yesterday, the pickleball gang was meeting at the new pickleball courts in Buccleuch Park-- fourteen new courts!-- and Buccleuch Park is in New Brunswick, adjacent to the Rutgers College Ave campus-- so the perfect distance to bike ride from my house in Highland Park . . . this would be a great warm-up for my hamstrings and hips AND I wanted to do the right thing and not add more traffic and pollution to the general mayhem that is New Brunswick/Rutgers at the start of the semester so I took a look at Google Maps and noticed that the shortest route was one I had taken before-- you go across the Route 27 bridge from Highland Park to New Brunswick, and then you go past the homeless encampment and through a tunnel that goes under the bridge and then you take a narrow, overgrown, pavement path in between Route 18 and the south bank of the Raritan River-- and the path is definitely decrepit and ruinous and in disrepair, full of trash and overgrown with ragweed and poison ivy, but it's not closed-- so I rode this path, which I hadn't been on in many years-- since COVID?-- and I passed some sketchy looking holes in the fence and a homeless guy actually shooting heroin-- the needle was in his arm-- and I had to pass very close to him because the path was so narrow and I didn't want to fall down the cliff and into the river--
and I finally got to the stairs which lead to a bike path bridge over Route 18, and then this bridge connects to the Rutgers campus bike path-- but when I reached the top of the stairs, the gate to get out was chained and padlocked--
so after going through all the stages of grief and doing a lot of cursing-- I could SEE the Rutgers children and see the Rutgers buildings, but I could not escape the caged bridge and there was no way across Route 18 there-- it was a multi-lane freeway under and overpass with a high concrete divider in the middle-- so after much profanity, I texted the pickleball crew, told them I would be late-- and carried my back back down the stairs, rode the overgrown path, passed the homeless guy-- who had now set up a tarp and was shooting heroin again . . . I had to walk my bike past him so as not to run into him-- I said, "right behind you, man . . . the gate was locked!" but he didn't seem to feel my pain-- and then I biked all the way back to the bridge, crossed over into New Brunswick proper and biked through the College Avenue campus to the park, where I played some pickleball, and then I biked home in the ensuing darkness, using the New Brunswick bike lanes-- but there were some assholes parked in the bike lanes in places so I yelled at them-- and my next move is this: I'm going to write an irate letter to the city of New Brunswick-- they either need to indicate that this bike path is closed or they need to clean it up and open the gate-- but this anecdote is a microcosm of our bike paths in Middlesex County-- there are some decent ones but none of them connect particularly well and there are always dangerous unprotected sections and it's really not viable to bike places unless you're willing to risk your life . . . so that's one of the many reasons everyone is in their car creating traffic (some of the other reasons are that people are stupid and people are lazy).
Excremental Learning
The Old Man Takes a Day
Twenty years ago, when I took a "mental health day," I would go extreme mountain biking, or hiking, or fly-fishing at the Ken Lockwood Gorge for a run on the beach or something epic, but I am obviously getting old-- today I took the day off because I couldn't sleep last night because of my lower back and hip, so I went and got a massage; then to Costco where I spent an inordinate amount of money on mundane items; and then took an epic nap . . . but now my back and hip feel better and I think I'll be able to carry on tomorrow.
Methought the Kids Knew This Word
Hypothetical Hyperbolic HW Nearly Foments Real Revolution
Hath in the skirts of Norway here and there
Sharked up a list of lawless resolutes
For food and diet to some enterprise
That hath a stomach in it, which is no other
(As it doth well appear unto our state)
But to recover of us, by strong hand
And terms compulsatory, those foresaid lands
So by his father lost.
How to Prevent Munchausen by Proxy and Stockholm Syndrome
Hypothetical Schadenfreude Alleviates Dave's Misery
Yesterday at school-- for the good of the children, the old people, the country in general, science, and my immune system-- I got both the new COVID booster and the flu shot (COVID booster on my left shoulder, which is still very fucking sore, and flu shot on my right shoulder, which is less sore) and I am unhappy to report that I couldn't sleep last night-- I had the chills and everything I've ever injured in my entire life aches (including my fucking back) and I feel like absolute garbage today and the only thing that will make me happy is if the people at work who neglected to get the vaccines get really sick and have a bad case of vomiting and diarrhea (at school . . . in front of all their students).
Battling Two Vaccine Shots While Writing A Review For One Battle After Another
The Call Is Coming From Inside the Hat!
Get Out of Your Car and Regain Ambulatory Autonomy!
When I get to school early, I like to "pull through" and get a spot with my car facing out, and to get one of these coveted spots, I often have to park between two other cars, and I am finding more and more that when I pull between these two cars, there are still people inside the cars and these people continue to sit there while I hop out and grab my stuff and start my day . . . so I asked in the English Office and apparently lots of people like to sit in their cars once they arrive at work-- which seems totally fucked up to me, I can't wait to get out of the car . . . I hate sitting, and I hate being trapped in a little box, and I want to regain ambulatory autonomy-- but evidently these people want to sit in a little metal box and talk on the phone or listen to one more song or listen to some inspirational self-help guru-- I heard that shit emanating from one parked car-- or they're just avoiding going into the building because they hate work or they are introverts or they get anxious-- but my advice to these people is:
1) stop idling and polluting the air;
2) get out of your car and live your life!
Just Give Me Some Time, Dammit!
My Back, Unlike World Liberty Financial, Is In the Red
My back is no longer back in the black-- it's in the red, deep in the red . . . so I should NOT have played three hours of pickleball yesterday, nor should I have read the news-- as far as I understand it, Trump pushed out US attorney Erik Siebert because he refused to pursue "trumped up" charges on James Comey and replaced him with an inexperienced beauty queen named Lindsey Halligan AND Trump also essentially received a quid pro quo bribe from an Abu Dhabi investment fund, to the tune of a 2 billion dollar investment in World Liberty Financial, and then the Trump White House reversed restrictions on the export of Nvidia AI computer chips to the U.A.E.-- though I guess this deal hasn't gone through yet becuase of security concerns, but still WTF?-- and, worst of all, my classroom is especially dank and smelling of mold because it was so unseasonably hot and humid over the weekend . . . such a Monday.
My Back is Back in the Black
Back to School: Not Great For My F$#king Back
Sandy Hook, The Mule Barn, Idioms, Lanternflies, Always Sunny . . .
Malcolm Gladwell: Explaining the Big Picture, Anecdotally
New episode of We Defy Augury up-- "Malcolm F$%cking Gladwell" . . . my thoughts (loosely) inspired by his new book, Revenge of the Tipping Point . . . and while I also delve into his other books and theories-- I try to keep it light and breezy, as would befit a podcast about the master of light and breezy non-fiction writing . . . but eventually I get stuck in the weeds (as one is wont to do when analyzing Gladwell's anecdotal evidence).
The Four Rings of Marriage?
I Am NOT Eating This Chicken! (of the Woods?) or Will I?
I Am Not Mechanical
I'm One in a Million, Baby (and less racist than Axl Rose, I hope)
Disney Chooses The Easy Way (Which Might Make Things Hard for the Rest of Us)
A few words on the Charlie Kirk shooting and the ensuing political consequences:
1. your thoughts and beliefs are your own and you are free to THINK whatever you want about the Charlie Kirk shooting-- you can be happy about it or sad about it or angry about it or any complex mix of these basic emotions . . . you could think it's a tragedy on par with the J.F.K assassination or you could think he had it coming-- or you could be like me . . . when someone informed me of the shooting, I said, "Huh? Who is that?" and no amount of explaining was going to make me care about him any more than any other victim of gun violence in our great and violent nation (and it's not like Kirk was an elected official who died in office, e.g. Melissa Hortman, the leader of the Minnesota state House Democratic caucus, who was killed alongside her husband, on the same day that a state senator, John Hoffman, and his wife were shot and injured . . . those are actual political assassinations) and I'm not going to pretend that lots of people didn't have lots of awful thoughts when Kirk was killed, but that is within their rights-- just as it is within my rights to root for the Jets only in certain circumstances-- because my friends are Jets fans-- and I will root wholeheartedly for them if the Giants are winning their game, but then if the Giants start losing, in my heart of heart, I hope the Jets lose too . . . because misery loves company-- this is awful and juvenile, but thoughts and beliefs are private and totally protected by the First Amendment, so you can root for whatever outcomes you like in your mind . . . and also realize that your thinking about them does not change anything in the physical world;
2. you are legally allowed to express your thoughts and beliefs abstractly-- in the proper place, at the proper time-- in order to try to change reality . . . now you can't drive around with a bullhorn in a quiet neighborhood at 3 AM and scream your political thoughts, that's not protected by the First Amendment, nor can you specifically call for violence-- you CAN'T say "in retribution for Kirk's death, I am going to release a horde of killer bees upon Jimmy Kimmel next Thursday at 4:00 PM . . . be there!"
3. while you can legally express your thoughts and beliefs and you will not be jailed for them-- with many caveats: as long as you are not slandering or libelling someone or revealing government secrets (nuclear codes, etcetera) or blackmailing or threatening an individual or corporation or soliciting someone to commit a crime or propagating child pornography or engaging in extreme obscenity-- BUT even if you are not doing one of these things that is not protected by the First Amendment, you could still suffer real world consequences for your opinions-- and this is what the MAGA crew is pushing-- cancel anyone who says or does anything defamatory about Kirk and his legacy;
4. the government is not allowed to control the content of the media, nor is blackmail protected by the First Amendment, so when Federal Communications Commission Chairman Brendan Carr said, about cancelling Kimmel, "We can either do this the easy way or the hard way," this was illegal and unconstitutional and, honestly, quite frightening-- and, the fact that Disney caved to this threat is even more frightening (but not as frightening as the fact that Amazon paid 40 million for a Melania Trump vanity doc) and hopefully this will be parsed out in a court of law and Samuel Alito-- as he always does-- will side with Freedom of Speech and realize that sometimes it protects "thought that we hate"
5. the right believes that this autocratic backlash from the Trump administration is a comeuppance for the left, who limited free speech about vaccines during COVID and whose "woke" ideology got people like Dave Chapelle, Kevin Hart, and J.K. Rowling in hot water-- and the threat by the Trump administration to take away tax-exempt status from left-leaning organizations (because they support radical leftist terrorism) is revenge for when the Obama administration used the IRS to target organizations afffiliated with the Tea Party;
6. this bullshit is totally typical . . . when a party is NOT in power and they are the underdog, they usually want unlimited free speech so they can criticize the powers that be-- but once a party takes power, then they squelch free speech and expression and want everyone to tow the party line-- and the Trump administration is going beyond the pale in how they execute this-- more transactional than any recent administration, more bullying, more use of leverage, more blatant blackmail and unconstitional rhetoric . . . it's shameful to use Kirk's death like this, but it's also perfectly normal in politics to "never let a good crisis go to waste."
Harvest Moon: Making Fairly Shitty Beer for Nearly Thirty Years
That Would Be in the Ass, Jalen
Bald-Faced Hornet = Elephant
It's my 31st year teaching high school and my lessons just keep getting better and smarter and funnier and more relevant and more brilliant-- case in point, yesterday I'm teaching the Orwell masterpiece "Shooting an Elephant" and the main thrust of the story is that Orwell does NOT want to shoot this elephant, but the crowd expects him to shoot the elephant-- he's the colonialist MP with the gun and while the Burmese despise him, he is the authority figure and the elephant, while in heat, did kill a man-- but then the elephants calms down and Orwell does not want to shoot a large, valuable intelligent working beast of burden-- but, as Orwell describes it, the expectation that the elephant was to be shot "was a bit of fun to them, as it would be to an English crowd; besides, they wanted the meat"-- so Orwell has to live up to their expectations of the imperaliast despot and shoot the elephant-- and it is tragic and horrible . . . and while the students were in groups figuring this out, a girl came up to me and said, unironically, "There's a bee, can you kill it?" and I went over to their group, and there was indeed a bee on the wall (actually a yellowjacket, which is a wasp) and I said to the group-- which was very distracted by the wasp-- "I don't really want to kill this animal, I'm not allergic-- but I guess I'm going to have to kill it so you people can concentrate" and then I killed the wasp and I asked the class how this incident was like the story and they were able to make the connection and then I told them that sometimes-- especially if you have read lots of literature like myself and are very very smart and know how the world works-- you can resist the pressure of the crowd and the pressure to live up to the generic expectations of an authority figure and transcend commonplace thought and so I told them the story of the bald-faced hornet nest above my driveway and how, at first, at the urging of my family and friends, I felt like I had to attack and destroy the nest-- and the hornet's nest is the elephant in this analogy-- and my son and I even made one attempt to destroy the nest but the hornets were unruffled by our attack (see the above video, which my class enjoyed) and then I told them about how my friends continued to pressure me to annihilate this nest, suggesting wilder and wilder methods-- dousing the nest with gasoline and incinerating it; attacking it with a drone; getting up on a ladder and sawing the branch off with a chainsaw and dropping the nest into a garbage pail; etcetera-- they wanted to see more videos, they wanted a bit of fun, just like the Burmese-- and while I thought about doing something radical and violent to the nest, I then realized I was being pressured into something that did NOT need to occur-- something I did NOT want to do: bald-faced hornets eat mosquitoes and flies, and-- even though Ian and I attacked them-- the hornets forgave us and did not seek vengeance, so instead of destroying the nest, I learned to live with it-- it's been up in the tree for months now-- and I think this is a better path, to try to live in some kind of peaceable detente with dangerous creatures, just as we might need to learn to live with (and occasionally suffer attacks from) megafauna, if we actually value animals such as elephants and tigers and bears-- if we truly value all the creatures great and small on this earth, then we're going to have to learn to live with them-- even though we might occasionally suffer a sting or a trampling-- because we've invaded every nook and cranny of their habitats.
Tail-gating?
Yesterday afternoon, I was walking our dog back from the dog park, and just before I reached my block, I noticed that a dude was walking a white poodle up ahead of me, maybe twenty yards in front of me-- and my block only has sidewalk on one side of the road, so I was forced to trail behind him but I figured as long as he kept up the pace, it wouldn't be a problem-- I keep an appropriate distance behind him until I got to my house . . . but his dog sensed my dog and turned and looked at her, and then the guy just stopped and stared at me, all pissed off and he yelled at me for "coming up behind him" and told me that wasn't cool and so I said, "this is my block, my house is right up there . . . I have to go this way" and he was all distraught and hot and bothered and so I attempted to walk around him-- but I wasn't taking my dog all the way out on the road becuase I never take her out on the road because I don't want her to think that's ever an option and-- of course, because regular dogs hate poodles-- the two dogs growled and barked at each other while I passed him and the guy, all vindicated, yelled "SEE!" and at that point I wanted to beat the fuck out of him but I was the bigger person and said nothing and just kept on walking, listening to him yell "INCONSIDERATE!" at the back of me-- and my wife said I should have made more of an effort to go around him and that I ought to have taken Lola into the street, but fuck that, this is Jersey and if you can't deal with a little tail-gating, then keep up your speed and if you want everyone to remain fifty-paces away from you then move to Wyoming, don't walk down a road with only one sidewalk in the most densely populated state in the union-- don't stop all miffed and block traffic . . . hopefully this douche will never walk his magisterial white poodle on our block again.
Put the Cell in the Cell
That's Entertainment?
You Sure That's Bob Dylan?
Even More Revision of the Eternally Entertaining Willie Nelson Joke
My wife and I are taking my mom to see Willie Nelson tonight-- yes, he is still alive! he is 92 years young-- and if you combine his age with his opening act, Bob Dylan, then you've got 176 years of gritty and nasal vocal expertise . . . Catherine and I are more excited for the artists going on a bit earlier-- Sheryl Crow and Waxahatchee-- but I was also excited to tell the infamous "Willie Nelson joke"-- which I told several times today (what's the last thing you want to hear when you're giving Willie Nelson a blow-job? that's not Willie Nelson!) but I think there might be a better, more cerebral punch-line . . . "are you sure that's Willie Nelson?"
Confusing Possibly Drug Addled Mindfuckery
Seth Harp, in his book The Fort Bragg Cartel: Drug Trafficking and Murder in the Special Forces, mentions four Army wives who were murdered in 2002 by their husbands in Fayetteville and how these deaths were first attributed to the drug Lariam (or mefloquine) because all the soldiers took this anti-malarial medicine while in Afghanistan and the possible side-effects of the medicine are hallucinations, psychosis, aggression, anxiety, and paranoia but Seth Harp believes that this attribution to Lariam is a cover-up and that these soldiers were experiencing PTSD and they were also doing all kinds of other (illegal) drugs such as cocaine, meth, molly and bath salts . . . but to make this more confusing, Lariam was pronounced very dangerous by the FDA in 2013-- the issued a "Black Box" warning and notified users that they could experience permanent neurological damage, suicidal thoughts and psychosis from the drug-- and to make this even MORE confusing, your narrator himself might be compromised and unable to write this sentence-- because my wife and I took Lariam in 1999 when we went to the Cuyabeno jungle basin in Ecuador-- a well-meaning doctor in Metuchen prescribed it to us and once we started taking it, we experienced paranoia, technicolor dreams of giant spiders, and lots of anxiety-- but when stopped taking it, at the advice of some Germans out in the jungle with us-- when I asked them what they were taking for malaria, they said, "vee take nothink"-- so once we stopped taking the pills, these chaotic feelings subsided and we had a much better time (except when my wife went to the outhouse, put her flashlight down, sat to pee, and something shot out of the darkness and attached itself to her chest-- she shrieked, flung the creature, and ran out of the outhouse with her pants at her ankles-- and upon inspection, we found that a giant tree frog, maybe a foot long, had suction cupped itself to her shirt . . . good times) and so now I don't know what to think about this drug and the murders but I still believe it fucked us up mentally and possibly could have done the same to these soldiers.
Malcolm Fucking Gladwell
Busy Half Day (Off)
Grueling day: online traffic court with my son Ian for his hydroplaning incident-- the case was adjourned because he still has a probationary license . . . he never updated it and to plead down a ticket, you need ot have a full license-- so back to the DMV before we can do Zoom Court all over again; then we went and picked up Ian's new (used) car in East Brunswick-- a 2012 Honda Accord that seems to house no roaches or spiders; then over to New Brunswick to pick up Alex-- it's a zoo over there right now because of all the returning students-- and then a sushi lunch with the boys at Pi's in Highland Park and now it's time for a nap.
Lo & Behold! David Playeth Around the Pole!
Car Shopping with Ian, Carmine, One Roach, and Several Spiders
Y'all Ready For This? Probably Not
My new episode of We Defy Augury, "Y'all Ready For This?" is (loosely) inspired by S.A. Cosby's Southern noir novel The King of Ashes and Tana French's wild tale of undercover infiltration The Likeness-- I explore the idea that reading (and perhaps acting, according to Val Kilmer) might train your mind-- in the comfort of your own home-- to tackle life's most wild and weird and disturbing situations . . .particularly 1
1) going undercover and assuming someone else's identity;
2) violent warfare to protect one's family.
Teamwork and Lots of Experience
I made it to 6:30 AM basketball this morning, despite a hip flexor strain- and I shot fairly well from VERY deep but couldn't make space to take any reasonable shots-- but the most exciting moment was when Frank Noppenberger-- the venerable AD from many years ago-- and I combined to rebound a ball under the basket . . . that rebound was gathered by a combined 126 years of decaying athleticism.
Giving Zero Fucks, In a Good Way (Educationally)
Today was my thirty-first "first day of school" as a teacher-- I told them the rules, summarized the course sequence, learned some names, and did a fun icebreaker activity . . . and I am pleased to announce that I've reached the stage in my career where I had exactly zero first-day jitters, nervousness, or anxiety.
The Canadian Allman Brothers?
If you love the Allman Brothers but you've worn out the grooves on their oeuvre, then you could give "Dickie Betts" by the Dean Ween Group a listen-- no surprise that those guys did an Allman Brothers Tribute . . . or-- more surprisingly-- you could listen to "Making Memories" by Rush . . . I've been going through their discology lately and the tone and sound of this track kind of shocked me (in a good way).
Talking Turkey
On the drive home from my mother's house in Monroe yesterday evening, we saw a bunch of wild turkeys crossing the road and the rest of the car ride home, my wife educated me on the many names for groups of turkeys and the names for various age classifications of turkeys . . . this shit is fucking absurd: baby turkeys are called "poults" . . . which maybe has something to do with poultry? . . . and juvenile male and female turkeys are called, respectively: "jakes" and "jennies" . . . and adult male turkeys are called "toms" or "gobblers"-- and then there are a shitload of names for a group of turkeys-- a group of young males is called a "gang" or a "posse" or a "mob" . . . and if it's just a random flock of turkeys, it could be a "gobble" of turkeys or a "rafter" of turkeys or a "brood" of turkeys . . . and I'm certainly skipping a few terms, like "longbeard' and "bearded hen" but it's all a bit overwhelming-- this is ONE kind of bird!-- but I know the turkey is a very important American bird, consumed with great zeal and relish on Thanksgiving and famously preferred over the bald eagle as a national bird by Ben Franklin-- Franklin thought the turkey was a respectable bird of Courage . . . after my wife explained all these various terms-- which I immediately forgot-- she found some other internet compendium of names for groups of every kind of bird . . . I don't know who uses these terms or when, but this list is way beyond "a murder of crows" . . . the only two I can still recall is a "charm" of finches . . . and that is a good one to remember because the goldfinch is the New Jersey state bird, and-- for obvious reasons-- I am also partial to a "squadron of pelicans."
Preparing for Reentry . . . Time to Pedal Up the Hill
Ugh . . . Wake Me Up For Thanksgiving Break
Dave Returns to Central Jersey (with very little fanfare)
My wife and I packed up our little pad in Ocean Grove this morning-- after another great beach day with friends on Friday-- and we drove back to Central Jersey . . . and we were pleasantly surprised to enter a clean house . . . Ian completed all his chores (he even put up a new magnetic screen on our back porch slider, so our dog can go in and out at will) and so my wife and I were able to get down to the rest of it: we put away all the beach stuff; my wife went down to her garden and planted seeds and harvested vegetables; I went to the gym for the first time in a month; I gave the dog a bath . . . also for the first time in a month; and while I loved living at the beach, it does feel good to be home-- while we definitely do not live in a large house, it seems like a mansion, after existing in a tiny space for a while-- it was also nice to use my big foam roller to sraighten out my back . . . the vacation bed was very mushy and my spine is out of whack . . . this was a fantastic summer (aside from when Ian totalled my wife's car-- but, luckily, I was at the beach with my college buddies for that hydroplaning escapade, and my family didn't tell me what happened until I got home) wherin I spent over a month close to the ocean-- but now it's time for school . . . and a visit to the dermatologist, I took a lot of sun over the last two months.
The Boys of Summer Have Gone
My Dog is NOT a Valiant and Courageous Leader (but she plays one on TV)
Kids . . . They are Full of Germs
Last Taco Tuesday!
Genius New Game to Accompany Wordle!
Doggelganger
