I played indoor pickleball this morning at an open play and ended up paired with a fairly skilled but very surly man named Sergei-- we were winning games, but he was far more concerned with telling me all kinds of things about where I should be and what shots I should and shouldn't take-- I think he forgot we were planning giant ping-pong with a wiffleball.
Should Have Known Better
Last night I met my friends and my son Alex at Tavern on George to watch the Knicks defeat the Pacers-- which was very fun-- but I had committed to 6:30 AM basketball, so I dragged myself out of bed and played hoops this morning, which was not so fun (until I made the last two shots to win the final game-- and that's all you remember anyway) and the lesson is: I will not combine alcohol and early morning athletics again any time soon, as that is a young man's game.
I've Got a Perfect Puzzle For You
Until I listened to Malcolm Gladwell's Revisionist History episode "Nooks and Crannies"—which is about the legality surrounding trade secrets, particularly the recipe for Thomas's English Muffins—I never contemplated a serious moral dilemma from my youth: were the original Oompa-Loompas slave labor? . . . in the first edition of the book, the one I read, Roald Dahl described the Oompa-Loompas as a tribe of African Pygmy people whom Willy Wonka shipped to England to work forever in his factory--protecting his valuable trade secrets, which were previously being stolen by corporate spies-- and the Oompa-Loompas worked in exchange for cocoa beans . . . so this set-up sounds super sketchy . . . Wonka claims that the Oompa-Loompa's country of origin was a horrible place and the Oompa-Loompas were vulnerable to predators such as the Snozzwangers and Wangdoodles and so they are better off working in his factory but at the very least this sounds colonialist and certainly Wonka is breaking numerous labor laws and the worst case scenario is that the Oompa-Loompas have been taken against their will and detained indefinitely, without passport, currency, or any way to return home and have no choice but to work for cocoa beans.
Pure Innocent Fun
Ira Madison's collection of pop culture essays, Pure Innocent Fun, is the elder millennial Black gay man's dishier version of Chuck Klosterman's Sex, Drugs, and Cocoa Puffs-- a book that Madison says inspired him-- and while Klosterman is around my age and evrything he writes about resonates with me, Ira Madison-- who is 39-- came of age in a slightly different pop culture environment and I was not familiar with all pop culture touchstones-- according to Madison, Gen Xers watched Beavis and Butthead while Madison connected with Daria . . . we do both love Buffy the Vampire Slayer, but for Madison, Buffy is a bad-ass bitch who is also in a secret club-- which he related to as a closeted gay Black man at a very white and preppy high school in Milwaukee . . . Madison is also a fan of soap operas-- which I never watched-- and the film Soapdish, which I remember loving but I haven't seen it in a long time . . . and he has inspired me to watch the movie Bring It On, which he claims "might seem to be a frivolous cheerleading movie" but it is "one of the only good films about cultural appropriation that’s ever been made and most certainly one of the best films about race in America"-- I hope this is true because I love a good sports movie . . . we shall see.
Something Happened
When I was young, you specified the thing you were listening to, watching, or reading: I'm reading the new Stephen King book; I'm listening to the new God Lives Underwater album; I'm watching Melrose Place . . . but now I people often mention the platform they are using instead of the specific content: I'm watching Netflix/YouTube/TikTok, I'm listening to Spotify, I'm going to sit down and read my Kindle-- I'm sure Marshall McLuhan would have a field day with this trend-- the delivery method and the algorithm are more important than the content; we don't own content any more-- we just breeze though it, separate from everyone else and because of media fragmentation, no one is watching/reading/listening to the same thing . . . and I find this is a little sad and scary.
"very rough trail through boulder field"
Catherine and I took a hike in the John Witherspoon Woods this morning-- a patch of land we'd never visited -- and we entered from the north, off Stuart Road, which was a bit hairy-- there's no real parking lot and you have to scramble and climb through a boulder field and past Devil's Cave, before you hit discernable trails-- and while it's quite beautiful inside the woods . . . there's a lovely stream and an old lake--they restored the stone dams from the 1800s-- it's also a bit of a maze-- I had to use the compass app on my phone to avoid a Blair Witch situation-- and there's also quite a bit of poison ivy-- but we eventually made it back to the car and went to the The Tiger's Tale in Montgomery for beers and sandwiches-- an excellent little pub, if you're in the vicinity.
Dave Gives it the Ol' Viticulture Try
Over two decades ago, Calvin Trillin explained that in a blind taste test, most people can't tell the difference between red and white wine, and this is true for me-- I am certainly no super-taster, nor do I have a particularly sensitive nose (except when it comes to my wife's deer repellent spray-- that shit makes me gag) so I really tried to channel this knowledge last night and drink a glass of Bread and Butter chardonnay (which I purchased by accident at Costco, it was lurking in a case of pinot noir) but I could not do it-- and so maybe visual clues do produce flavors, and a deep dark red color makes my brain taste one thing and light golden urine-like color makes my brain taste another.
At Least It Wasn't a Heart Attack . . . Ack ack
Apparently, pianoman Billy Joel has canceled all his upcoming concerts because of "normal pressure hydrocephalus," which I believe (though I am not a doctor) may have been caused by the shrill and annoying synthesizer sound in his song "Pressure"-- and due to the symptoms of the disease: general sensory malfunctions and confusion-- Joel obviously doesn't want to get up on stage and perform . . . because he might forget the words and sound like Leslie Knope in this fantastic video-- let's all hope for a speedy recovery (but I'm certainly fine if he puts "We Didn't Start the Fire" on the shelf-- too many lyrics to perform with hydrocephalic pressure and it's also a really irritating song).
Dave Does NOT Use This Concept and Suffers For It
A couple of days ago in the comments my friend Rob coined the term "psychic hedge"-- but this might not be the best name for this concept (which is to bet AGAINST the team you are rooting for so that you win either way . . . if your team wins, you are excited and happy but if your team loses, then at least you gain some cash-- so either outcome, you win something) but apparently when you google the term "psychic hedge" you get results for two unrelated topics:
1) hedge witches? and magical hedge barriers?
2) using your psychic abilities to enhance your gambling acumen
so perhaps we should call this practice of betting against the team you are rooting for a "psychological hedge" or an "emotional hedge" and then the next step is to determine exactly how much money you need to bet in order to offset your rooting interests-- this is a relative proposition, of course, and depends on how rich you are and how ardent of a fan you are . . . or you could just go the Seinfeld route and bet $182 against your team and then see how you feel if you gain this amount . . . although I'm not sure there's any amount of money that could offset the Knicks epic collapse last night-- they blew a 14 point lead with three minutes left and lost in overtime . . . I definitely put in more than $182 of emotions and fanaticism, and I was not smart enough to place a very large psychological hedge bet to counterbalance my disappointment.
Good Ideas . . . What the Fuck?
My new episode of We Defy Augury philosophical, literary, and musical meditation on creativity and good ideas; the working title is "The Serendipitous Miracle of Creativity: Part 1" and my thoughts are (loosely) inspired by Jonah Lehrer's article "Groupthink," Plutarch's "The Ship of Theseus Dilemma," and Steven Johnson's book Where Good Ideas Come From: The Natural History of Innovation . . . the topic got too long and unwieldy for one episode, so hopefully I will finish part two sometime soon.
Just Turning on a Giants Game is a Gamble
After listening to Michael Lewis talk about fandom and sports gambling-- he was on Armchair Expert and he's doing a season of his own podcast on this topic-- I am convinced that the irrationality of sports fanaticism and the way the sports gambling companies have preyed on this irrationality, which mainly resides in the hearts and brains of young men, and how these sports gambling behemoths have leveraged these emotions in an unethical manner to make boatloads of cash, designing sites and promotions to incentivize the stupidest bets and literally banning anyone who shows skill, rationality, and competence-- and, like the old time tobacco manufacturers, figuring out how to hook them when they're young-- I now believe that just watching a game and rooting for your team is enough of an emotional gamble-- there's no reason to put any money on the line because you're already emotionally invested on an outcome you can't control and probably won't go the way you want, so why lose money too?
The Creeping Jenny Controversy
Creeping Jenny, otherwise known as Moneywort, is an herbaceous, semi-evergreen perennial from Eurasia that was introduced in North America in the 1700s, and apparently it is good ground cover for shady, damp areas-- so I bought a few plants for three dollars apiece from Lowe's-- but I did not realize until after I purchased these plants that some folks on the internet have very strong feelings about Lysimachia nummularia (a.k.a. Creeping Jenny) and believe it is "ground cancer" . . . and this plant is also on the Massachusetts Prohibited Plant List, which means that you can't buy, sell, or propogate this plant in Massachusetts-- it is regarded as an invasive species that grows incredibly fast-- so while I'm preparing for the worst-- and I took some photos of these rather innocuous looking yellow sprouts in case my yard is soon overwhelmed-- I highly doubt that they can spread THAT fast . . . if these plants have been around since 1739 wouldn't they have already spread and covered every available surface of our nation by now?
Groovy
My wife (far left) and my cousins just before they went out to "Boogie Nights" at the Tropicana in Atlantic City, which I assume has a 70s vibe . . . but they look quite reminiscent of the get-ups me and my fraternity brothers would buy at the local thrift shop, for our beloved 70s parties back in college (my favorite purchase was a denim jumpsuit with a zipper that started at the collar and went all the way down to my crotch . . . so it was essentially a giant fly).
Time to Prep
No time to write a sentence, as I need to continue brainstorming ideas for a Netflix pilot-- Monmouth County is about to become the new Hollywood.
Che Cazzo?
Perhaps you have not experienced the surreal absurdist joys of the animated "Italian brainrot" characters and perhaps you are better off not going down this very stupid road, but perhaps, in these troubling times, Italian brainrot is exactly what the children need (and, of course, the high school students introduced me to this-- but I guess it's more than high school kids enjoying this silliness, as the latest episode of Hard Fork also features a segment on this comedic trend) and while you might think this is the end of civilization as we know it, you should remember that the youth always wants to adopt language and humor that the previous generation does not understand . . .
Exhibit A: Mr. Hankey
Exhibit B: Beavis and Butthead
Exhibit C: Strange Brew . . . hoser.
THIS Is Where You Get a Break From the Smelly Teenagers?
Due to a damp and rainy week, the English Office-- the place where my colleagues eat, hang out, swap stories about the youth, and escape the pungent odors of teen spirit-- today our office smelled, as Hamlet might put it: "rank and gross in nature" or as I put it: like sweaty mildewed socks.
Boy's Life
Horror and mystery writer Robert R. McCammon's 1991 novel Boy's Life is something weird and different and special and I highly recommend it if you're looking for a sprawling tale to get lost in . . . the book is set in the 1960s and has Southern Gothic elements, a sprinkling of magical realism, a murder mystery, and an eccentric cast of characters in a small town in Alabama-- but it's really a coming-of-age story and the end of innocence in America: Southern charm and the Civil Rights movement butt heads and the narrator tries to maintain his childlike innocence in a world determined to screw with him and his emotions in every way feasible-- plus there's a rampant dinosaur.
Del is One Funky Homosapien
Yesterday's sentence was a bit grim-- we're really feeling the effects of technology at my job, and it's casting a dark cloud over everything digital-- but today, inspired by this Rob Harvilla podcast, I started going through Del the Funky Homosapien's back catalog on Spotify and I must say, it's nice to have just about every album every recorded-- though digitally flattened and compressed-- at your digital beck-and-call.
What's Happening in Those Other Timelines?
Sometimes-- like when my wife and I are walking on the sidewalk on Easton Avenue in New Brunswick and we almost get knocked over by a dude on a little electric motor scooter puttering along, staring at his phone-- I think we are in the dumbest technological timeline . . . we've harnessed all these vast technological powers and we use them for predatory sports gambling apps, crypto meme coins, space tourism, social media, isolated echo chamber polarization conspiracy mongering, floating sea homes for societal drop-outs, and cheating on homework . . . meanwhile there seems to be no no incredible and exciting systemic changes on the horizon (not even a lane in city for motierized vehicles, so they have to weave along on the sidewalk and occasionally veer into traffic).
Check ME Out!
This morning, while I was in the produce aisle at ShopRite, doing the grocery shopping so my wife could relax on Mother's Day, I overheard several women chatting, and they were wondering why the hell they were grocery shopping instead of their husbands-- and I almost said something to them but then thought better of it.
If You Trace a Pair of Shoes, They Look Like a Pair of Testicles
If you ask twenty-one fifth-graders to trace their shadows on the school playground blacktop-- as my wife's colleague did-- then you might end up with twenty-one drawings that look vaguely phallic-- which is troublesome if all the parents are coming to school for the Spring Concert (which they were).
Stay in Your Seat
Sinners is worth seeing in the movie theater, mainly because of one particular musical scene-- and the bulk of the film is a highly entertaining genre mash-up . . . though the final horror sequence is a bit forced, but the best scene happens after the final credits start to roll, so even though the runtime is long, be patient and watch the ending, it's worth it.
Nothing is More Annoying Than a Semi-Super-Power
I'm listening to the new Revisionist History podcast about face blindness, which got me curious-- am I a "super-recognizer"-- I certainly think I'm quite good at recognizing faces-- as a teacher, you need this skill-- and so I took a couple of online tests and what I learned is that while I'm probably not a "super-recognizer," I am quite a bit above average at recognizing faces, according to the two tests I took-- and this makes perfect sense, because I think I'm a super-recognizer, especially when my wife and I are watching TV and I always think I've seen every actor is some other show-- and most of the time I am right, but sometimes I am wrong (and I annoy my wife with this half-assed superpower every time I go down this rabbit hole).
It Is Act Five!
We started Hamlet today in my senior classes, and I taught them a few basic things about Shakespeare and his works, including the fact that all Shakespeare plays have five acts-- and that all the good stuff happens in Act Five . . . and one student asked if it was Act Five of the school year yet and I did some back-of-the-envelope calculations in my head (so my consciousness was the envelope?) and then I said, "Yes, it is Act Five!"
Prophetic Fallacy
I am teaching my sophomores The Great Gatsby and today we acted out scenes from Chapter Five-- the section when Nick arranges for Gatsby to meet with Daisy at Nick's little house for tea, the first time they've seen each other in five years-- and at first Gatsby and Daisy are awkward and embarrassed, while it is raining-- but then: pathetic fallacy alert!-- then the old chemistry comes back and the sun, empathetic to their emotions-- starts to shine (which is a fallacy, the weather does not give a shit about your emotions) so I made sure to have a student play the weather in that scene-- and he's a tall kid so he loomed over the other two actors, it was fantastic-- and then the natural world reflected the book; I stayed up to late last night watching the Knicks' epic comeback against Boston, then dragged myself out of bed for 6:30 AM basketball-- and it was a dark and rainy gloomy day and I was tired and hungry and had a headache from the humidity-- but I went to acupuncture after school, which usually loosens me up and when I got out of acupunture, lo and behind! the sun was shining, and there was a cool breeze, and I was able to sit on the deck in the sun and read my thoroughly joyful and entertaining book (Boy's Life by Robert R. McCammon) so perhaps the pathetic fallacy is not a complete fallacy, it's just selective and relative-- the weather is always expressing someone's emotions, it just might not be yours.
First Period Epiphany
This morning we were discussing the ornithologist Richard O. Prum's text about Darwin's oft-ignored theory of sexual selection and its radical consequences, and I realized that Gatsby is the ultimate bowerbird-- his absurd mansion across the Manhasset Bay from Tom and Daisy's house-- so situated to attract her attention, is the ultimate mating gesture . . . and perhaps if he had a real job and had to worry about survival a bit more, he wouldn't have had the time and energy to enter this realm of ornamental extravagance.
More Celebrating My Dad's Life
Yesterday was the second iteration of my dad's Celebration of Life . . . we had an incredible turnout-- Father Tom, my cousin Greg, and a few of my dad's old friends (and of course, me, my brother and my kids) spoke and reminisced and said wonderful things about my dad-- and though it was something of a somber occasion, my college and high school buddies brought some joy to the weekend (plus we saw a band at Pino's that opened with Sugar's "Hoover Dam," a favorite and quite a rarity).
The Kentuck Derby Gets Political
Thoughts inspired by my buddy Rob: Sovereignty defeats Journalism . . . appropriate, timely, and poignant.
Stream of Consciousness
My buddy Whitney just arrived, so I figured I'd give him a crack at the sentence, so I asked him for something quotable to write, and he said, "Let me think about that while I urinate"-- but then he did come through with some interesting information a bit later: he taught me to pour a Guiness out of the can and into the cold mug quickly, not slowly and then the head dissipates-- a method unlike how you pour any other kind of beer.
Note to Self: They Are Called Samaras and I Hate Them
Every spring, I am shocked by the amount of maple tree helicopter whiriligig things that accumulate in my backyard and on my porch and, consequently, in my home-- either I track them in on my shoes or they slip in because we keep the sliding glass door open most of the time (we have a magnetic screen, which keeps the bugs out and allows the dog free reign of the porch and yard) and every year I am also shocked that there is a technical name for these whirligig helicopter thingies: samaras-- but I guess they eventually disappear-- where the fuck do they go?-- and I eventually forget the name for them . . . until spring inevitably returns.
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