Yesterday afternoon (or yesternight, as Shakespeare would have it) we went to the Grant Avenue Block Party and I played some cornhole and drank some beers and then it got too dark to play cornhole and I was getting kind of tired so I walked over to my wife, who was in a circle of women under the canopy, embroiled in a conversation, to check and see if I should grab another beer or if she was ready to go and I slid my arm around her, familiarly-- or perhaps even a step past familiarly, as this was my wife-- and then the two of us realized that this was NOT my wife, this was my wife's doppelganger . . . or certainly her doppelganger in this particular instance, in this particular lighting-- and while I was very embarrassed to have sidled up to this lady-- who I do know in passing from soccer and other town stuff-- and put my arm around her, in my defense, she was wearing the same white tank top as my wife; she has the same toned, tan, and freckled left arm as my wife; she was wearing similar glasses to my wife; she has blonde hair like my wife; she was gesticulating in an animated fashion, as my wife is wont to do; and from the angle I approached, she really looked like my wife . . . enough so that I went and found my wife and positioned her in the same spot, next to this woman, so that I could convince myself (and the other people who saw this awkward encounter) that it was a logical mistake and we all agreed that the resemblance was uncanny (and if you enjoy this theme, this recent incident complements this absurd moment of mistaken identity at the gym, from over a decade ago, quite nicely).
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Dig This
Spotify's infinite algorithmic bounty (which is as overwhelming as it is generous) recently introduced me to the psychedelic pop/rock of White Fence, but the album I'm obsessed with-- Hair-- is one layer deeper-- as it is a collaboration between White Fence and another musician I was not familiar with: Ty Segall . . . anyway, Hair is a garage psychedelia masterpiece, rapidly moving from jangly pop to overdriven fuzz to deconstructed punk, often without transition-- and the vibe is simultaneously counterculture relic and indie rock experiment, a real treat.
Gentrifiers Beware!
If you're looking for a thriller that lambastes rich white gentrifiers, pharmaceutical companies, and government-subsidized business acquisitions-- and has the wildly surreal conspiratorial feel of Jordan Peele's Get Out, check out Alyssa Cole's novel When No One Is Watching . . . but I should warn you: I thought this was going to be a more realistic take on race relations in a gentrifying Brooklyn neighborhood-- told from two perspectives, a black woman who grew up there and a white guy who is part of the new wave of property owners-- with a little mystery thrown in for plot . . . but this book is actually a full-fledged, over-the-top, everyone-is-in-on-it hair-raising horror story-- which, on the one hand, is a lot of fun-- with loads of Quentin Tarantino-style "Justified violence"-- but, on the other hand, the race and gentrifying issues lose all their nuance, they are sacrificed on the altar of plot, guns, and vengeance.
Rambling Saturday Morning Thoughts and Warnings
I'm a little logy from staying up late last night but it was worth it-- Rutgers beat Clemson for their first NCAA tourney win in 38 years-- and I am wondering if all the college towns with teams in the tournament are going to experience a spike in COVID cases in a week or two . . . especially teams that win a game or two . . . I was in a crowded bar last week when Rutgers beat Indiana and I was probably lucky to not get corona, especially since cases are still really high here in Jersey-- the virus is being weirdly stubborn, despite vaccinations and I'm assuming it's college kids passing it around . . . so I decided to stay in last night and avoid the pandemic, since Catherine and I are getting our second shot tomorrow and spring break is on the horizon-- we'll see how this strategy plays out; in other rambling news, while I was returning home from my morning ramble to the dog park, a sketchy looking guy seemed to emerge from the woods on the hill that leads back to my street-- which may mean he was wandering through someone's property and not the park per se; he was a youngish white dude with longish hair-- kind of nondescript but looked a little unkempt-- and he stomped his boots on the street to get the mud off them and this spooked Lola and she started growling at him, so I turned her and continued up the hill but this guy followed us and he wanted to chat and pet Lola, but she was having none of it-- it's weird how a dog can get a sketchy vibe from someone-- and then he kind of walked beside us, asking me about Lola's breed and complimenting her paws and wrists-- weird-- and then he said he'd like to have a dog but his rental doesn't allow it . . . and then I said, "Take it easy" turned toward my house but I didn't go straight into the driveway-- I did the old walk-by-your-own-house-so-the-sketchy-guy-doesn't-know-where-you-live trick, which may have worked-- but anyway, if you live near Donaldson Park, lock your car doors and keep an eye out for this guy, he may have been wandering through backyards and he's certainly worth avoiding if you don't want to end up in an awkward conversation.
Numbers and Some Perspective: Is The Coronavirus More Racist Than the Police?
Like most people, I've been mulling over the death of George Floyd and the ensuing protests. As have my friends.
It's really hard to be rational about police violence and brutality, toward black people and people in general. Especially when you are confronted with videos. Videos that elicit emotions. But videos that are also cherry-picked from millions of events. Policing in America is very very difficult. Is the culture of police racist, or is it overly-militarized, or is it simply rational in the face of a violent gun-filled society?
The new episode of The Weeds (Fixing the Police) gets into the nitty-gritty of this. They avoid race. They discuss the pros of a diverse police force, the possibility/impossibility of unbundling the police, the problems with qualified immunity, the simplest way to improve policing (make it easy to get rid of the worst officers) and the difficulty of reform because of police unions. So many of these things apply to teachers as well, so if you are a teacher, this episode is a must-listen. The reforms people want for police unions are often the same reforms people want for teacher unions.
The new episode of The Weeds (Fixing the Police) gets into the nitty-gritty of this. They avoid race. They discuss the pros of a diverse police force, the possibility/impossibility of unbundling the police, the problems with qualified immunity, the simplest way to improve policing (make it easy to get rid of the worst officers) and the difficulty of reform because of police unions. So many of these things apply to teachers as well, so if you are a teacher, this episode is a must-listen. The reforms people want for police unions are often the same reforms people want for teacher unions.
If you want more on how innovative policy could transform policing, Tyler Cowen's new episode with Rachel Harmon covers a lot of stuff:
Rachel Harmon joined Tyler to discuss the best ideas for improving policing, including why good data on policing is so hard to come by, why body cams are not a panacea, the benefits and costs of consolidating police departments, why more female cops won’t necessarily reduce the use of force, how federal programs can sometimes misfire, where changing police selection criteria would and wouldn’t help, whether some policing could be replaced by social workers, the sobering frequency of sexual assaults by police, how a national accreditation system might improve police conduct, what reformers can learn from Camden and elsewhere, and more.
I obviously think podcasts are a great medium for putting things in perspective. They are unconstrained by time, topical, and often allow smart people who don't come off well on video to express their opinions, with the benefit of audio editing.
Sam Harris puts things in perspective as well as anyone on his Making Sense podcast. He has slow and rational, rather emotionless discussions with smart people. But he does episode "#207: Can We Pull Back From the Brink?" all by his lonesome. He speaks for nearly two hours, in sentences that form logical paragraphs. It's really impressive. Unless you are very focused, it will be hard to listen to in one sitting. I think it's required listening if you want to think about these protests and the death of George Floyd.
Here are some of the questions that the episode (and my resultant reflection) have produced.
First of all, Sam Harris and most everyone has condemned Derek Chauvin's use of force on George Floyd.
But the question about the scene are myriad:
Was Chauvin trying to kill George Floyd? Would he have used a different amount of force on a white person? How often do the Minneapolis police (or any police) use this maneuver to restrain people? Why exactly were they restraining Floyd? Is Chauvin a homicidal maniac, a blatant racist, or did he think he was using a standard move to subdue someone resisting arrest?
No matter what the answers, this particular scene was heinous. But are most cops abusing black men like this? Are they doing something different to white people?
Sam Harris points out that there are over 10 million arrests each year in America. About one thousand of these result in lethal force. So one on every ten thousand arrests. Is that too many? It's more than in other developed countries. But we have WAY more guns on the streets than any other developed country.
Of those that die, most of them are white. About 30 percent of them are black. Black people only make up 13 percent of the population. So there is a disparity. Some claim that this 17 percent disparity is racism.
Is it?
Perhaps. But black people tend to be more likely to be arrested, and more likely to be involved in criminal activities. If you take this into account, then-- according to Sam Harris and most of what I have read:
This suggests that officer bias – in terms of officers making different shooting decisions for black and white citizens – is not necessarily the cause of black citizens being shot at higher rates. Even if officers were making the same decisions about whether to use deadly force for black and white citizens, population-level disparities would still emerge given these crime rate differences.
Is some police brutality racist? Perhaps, but that's hard to prove. It's a case by case thing. Is some police violence due to poor training? Absolutely. But there have been police reforms, especially in large cities. FiveThirtyEight has a podcast on police violence that details this. White police are LESS likely to use lethal force on a black person than they are on a white person. Have these reforms in large cities been enough? Do police unions need to be dismantled? Is it possible to dismantle the culture of police in a country as violent and gun-ridden as the United States? The data and numbers are ambiguous . . . although it seems lethal force is going down in major cities, and it is going up in rural areas.
Is some of this police violence because we send a person with a badge and a gun to deal with all sorts of problems that don't necessitate a badge and a gun?
How much of this can be blamed on the war on drugs? Harris talks about "no-knock" drug raids, which are inherently violent for people of any race. Are they necessary?
Harris brings up the largest factor, of course. Median black families have one-tenth of the wealth of median white families. So black families are more likely to live in poverty, in rougher neighborhoods, closer to crime, and closer to hands-on policing. Statistically, much of this inequality is due to slavery, Jim Crow laws, the fables of the Reconstruction, segregation, white supremacy, the KKK, political suppression, lack of civil rights, systemic discrimination, and real estate. Location, location, location.
This is all well and good to keep in mind until the shit goes down. Then every situation is particular. Radiolab has a fantastic episode that explains the criteria for "reasonable action" by police. It's much more about acting reasonably in the moment, then assessing the totality of the situation.
Malcolm Gladwell has a great podcast on this archetypal police situation, Descend into the Particular.
He comes to the conclusion that we might police laws far too rigidly, especially in neighborhoods where there is a constant police presence. Howard "Bunny" Colvin from The Wire would agree.
Gladwell breaks down the findings about the shooting of Michael Brown and the Ferguson riots and makes two assertions:
1) the white cop that shot Michael Brown was truly threatened by him
2) the policing system in Ferguson oppressed, terrorized, extorted, and enraged the people of the town, most of whom were black.
The Indicator has a heartbreaking episode on how fees and fines often target people of color and destroy their finances and their relationship with the police. Defunding the police could compound this problem-- if the police have less money, they are going to rely on fees and fines more. The fix for this is something no one wants to hear: higher taxes and a better-funded, more professional, better trained, less militarized, less statistically oriented police department. A department that is incentivized to have good community relations, media presence, and ethical standards, rather than high arrest rates and other conflict-ridden incidents. The Wire covers this.
Now there is Rayshard Brooks. Another video. And with ten million arrests, there will always be another video. Arrests will go awry and people will get shot. Black and white. Videos will surface.
Videos don't indicate the totality of truth. Were the George Floyd protests peaceful or were they riotous? Depends on which videos you watch. This is a major problem.
For most of the Brooks video, it's a typical DUI stop. Fairly cordial and boring. The Daily podcast "The Killing of Rayshard Brooks" summarizes the incident, if you don't know the details. And then things go wrong. And then there are the questions:
Would the cops have let a white guy walk home? Maybe, maybe not. Once the cops ascertained that brooks was drunk, they couldn't let him go. Brooks also had an outstanding warrant, which was probably weighing on his mind. When they try to cuff Brooks, a scuffle ensues, Brooks punches an officer, grabs a taser, runs, and then turns and shoots the taser at the cop in pursuit, and then he gets shot three times.
Can a cop let a drunk guy run away with his taser? Does a cop have to arrest a person who has been driving drunk, white or black? Could he have let him move his car out of the drive-thru and then sleep in it? Are the police now liable for this guy? He was drunk. The officer, Garrett Rolfe, was fired for the shooting. If a social worker showed up on the scene, how would it have played out?
For most of the body-cam video, which is 45 minutes long, Rolfe seemed polite and in control, but once the scuffle ensued and Brooks grabbed his taser, things got ugly quickly. This one seems different than the George Floyd case. The shooting was probably legal, but unnecessary. Brooks was running away. But when he points the taser at the cop, the cop reacts. In that split second, what is running through the cop's mind? If he is shot by the taser, is Brooks going to grab his gun? I would not want to be in that situation.
These are interesting discussions to have. You could discuss this one case for a long long time. But with ten million arrests per year, Harris points out that there WILL be another one. It's the law of averages. And another.
People are angry. The new episode of This American Life, "Here Again" begins and ends with angry black women.
The monopoly analogy really gets at just how shafted black people have been in America . . . but so have native Americans, folks in Appalachia, Japanese during WWII, etc. American capitalism shafts a lot of people.
If you go too far down this road of anger and white guilt and searching for racism, you end up with this . . . a Minneapolis councilwoman saying that calling 911 when you are being burgled comes from a place of privilege.
This is how Trump gets reelected. As the law and order president. Yikes. So everyone needs to listen to the Beastie Boys and check your head.
Defunding the police is possible, if you can replace them with something. Camden has done this, with some success. But it's a huge job. Police unions hold a lot of power, political and otherwise. And many people genuinely like and respect the police. Starting over is a monumental task, and maybe not the right task during a pandemic.
Coronavirus seems far more racist than the police, by the numbers. Here is some data from Brookings:
Whites comprise 62% of people in the U.S. between ages 45-54. In that age group, 1,013 white people have died from Covid-19 (22% of the total) compared to 1,448 Black people and 1,698 Hispanic/Latino people.
This is abominable and gets back to how black people have been shafted by the system. And these numbers are something we can improve immediately, with federal leadership, testing, contact tracing, etc.
If you go by the numbers, black people should probably be a little angrier about police brutality than white people, but not THAT much angrier. We should all be angry that we live in a country that needs militarized police. We should all be angry that we live in a country with such a prevalence of guns and violent crime.
But black people should be very VERY angry about how they have fared during coronavirus.
Who is to blame for that? How could this be remedied? Does our Federal Government even care? It seems Trump and his cronies are only reactionary and won't address this until there are people in the streets chanting about this issue. But of course, going to the streets to protest a virus is the very thing that might increase the virus. It's an ugly dilemma.
Sam Harris thinks the only way forward is to make things LESS about race, with the ultimate goal that the pigmentation in your epidermis is no more important than the color of your hair. I agree with him. Identity politics is the death of us. We should focus on reforms that reduce inequality for our entire society. But that's not how politics and protests work.
I hope things calm down soon and smart people discuss this in a reasonable manner. . . but holding that opinion might put me in the minority.
Please Do Not Tell My Wife About the "Send Audio Clip Over SMS" Feature (A Close Reading of an Irate Text)
My students have informed me that you can send an audio clip via SMS on an Android phone. Please do not inform my wife about this Android feature. I'm afraid she will use it.
I should preface this story with the fact that our dog Lola sheds a lot. And my wife drives a car with a black interior. And our dog is light brown.
More of a honey gold really. With some white spots. And she's a shedder. Drives my wife crazy.
This morning, I received three text messages in reference to an incident that happened yesterday afternoon. My wife discovered the evidence of the incident while driving our kids to school this morning. Apparently, she dictated the text to my son Alex as she drove. Then she asked him to read it back, to ensure that he captured her tone.
A couple things here.
First of all, I love that my wife used "fricking" instead of "the queen mother of dirty words." I think this is because she was dictating the message to our fourteen year old son. I asked Alex about this. He said that mom did use the word "fricking" and that he thought it was inappropriate to text his father the f-word anyway.
Second, despite the text format, my wife and Alex were fairly effective at yelling at me. I got the message loud and clear. They made liberal use of exclamation points and all caps, and there's even a sinister ultimatum. What the fuck might happen to me if I don't vacuum the car this weekend? I'm not going to chance it. If you seek me, I will be vacuuming the car.
This next line really resonated with the women in my office:
It's so unsatisfying yelling at you through a text.
My wife
And then she yells at me some more! She's "so mad" that her diction literally falls apart. Even though this is actually only poor typing on Alex's part, it's a happy accident. Form fitting function. Sound equals sense.
Finally, the existential "WHY?" Though it's not in my best interest, for the sake of accuracy, I will elaborate on this. Thursday afternoon, as I was coaxing the dog into the back seat of her car, I did indeed think to myself:
Why? Why am I doing this? I know our dog sheds. I know she's going to shed all over the black interior of my wife's car. I know I'm going to get in trouble for this . . . why? why don't I walk across the street to my car?
I had these thoughts, and I did it anyway. I loaded Lola into the back of my wife's car. It was so cold out. Frigid. And I was dying. I had a runny nose and a scratchy throat and my eyes were glassy. I was sick. And I was heroically taking the dog to the dog park so she could run around. And my van, my filthy smelly dented van, my van that was full of dog hair (which doesn't really show because the interior is light gray with lots of dirt stains) was across the street. And it was so cold. I didn't feel like walking the extra twenty yards. That's why I did it. Laziness. But laziness for good-- or at least reasonable-- reasons. It was cold, and I was dying. I may have saved my own life. I'm forty-eight years old. I can barely deal with a cold. How could I handle pneumonia?
Anyway, I read this text strand to my students and one of them immediately yelled: "She can yell at you through a text! She can send you an audio clip!"
I hope my wife doesn't start utilizing this Android SMS feature. Actual angry audio can be pretty intense. It would be a lot to handle at work. And then would I have to send a sincere audio apology? I'm not a voice actor! What if some sarcasm leaked into my message?
I think text is a better medium for yelling at someone than actual live full volume yelling. Real yelling is loud and scary, but with texting, you have a moment to respond properly . . . which I think I did. By the time we both got home from work, my wife was no longer angry. In fact, she agreed to let me use a "screenshot" of the text strand. My students had to teach me how to take a "screenshot" on my phone. They're very clever. They also taught me where to find it. In my "gallery." I had never used this Android feature before, but now that I know about it, I'm sure I'll use it again (unlike the send audio clip function, which I'm never going to use . . . I thought we invented texting to avoid talking).
Here We Are . . . In the Congo
I've explained what kind of woman my wife is, and now it's only fair that I turn my laser-like logic and self-reflective acumen upon myself.
What kind of man am I? Who's there?
To unravel this eternal question of character, I will rely on the classic Bud Dry commercial "Why is a good man hard to find?"
What kind of man am I? Who's there?
To unravel this eternal question of character, I will rely on the classic Bud Dry commercial "Why is a good man hard to find?"
I'd like to thank my buddy Whitney over at Gheorghe:The Blog for recently reminding me how much I love this piece of our pop-culture past.
Before I get down to brass tacks, I would like to point out that this commercial is "classic" only in the modern sense of the word. Which isn't saying all that much. It contains one of my favorite bits of dialogue, ever . . . a piece of dialogue so good there should be a t-shirt for it (there isn't). Something far wittier than "WHERE'S THE BEEF?" A piece of dialogue that resonates deep within my (rather shallow) soul. But I'm certainly lowering the bar . . . because I'm stupid. Corrupted by modern times.
I say this because I'm in the middle of a true classic right now, George Eliot's Middlemarch, and it's hard to compare a thirty second Bud Dry spot to a novel of this caliber. Middlemarch is incredibly well-written, and-- inconceivably--it was written by hand. You can see some of the manuscript here.
A page of Eliot's Middlemarch
There's some revision of course, a few cross-outs and some inserted lines, but I think when Mary Anne Evans-- the woman behind the pen name-- began writing a sentence, she knew exactly where it was going, in terms of thought, rhythm, structure, and syntax.
And so she could produce sentences like this one:
I say this because I'm in the middle of a true classic right now, George Eliot's Middlemarch, and it's hard to compare a thirty second Bud Dry spot to a novel of this caliber. Middlemarch is incredibly well-written, and-- inconceivably--it was written by hand. You can see some of the manuscript here.
A page of Eliot's Middlemarch
There's some revision of course, a few cross-outs and some inserted lines, but I think when Mary Anne Evans-- the woman behind the pen name-- began writing a sentence, she knew exactly where it was going, in terms of thought, rhythm, structure, and syntax.
And so she could produce sentences like this one:
But the effect of her being on those around her was incalculably diffusive: for the growing good of the world is partly dependent on unhistoric acts; and that things are not so ill with you and me as they might have been, is half owing to the number who lived faithfully a hidden life, and rest in unvisited tombs.
Classic stuff. Most modern sentences just don't measure up. Part of the problem might be that many writers-- including myself-- compose with word processing software. And so instead of concentrating on thoughtful sentences and paragraphs, which translate into thoughtful thought-out thoughts, we often get consumed with "presentational elements."
This phenomenon is occurring right now, as I fiddle with the text in the link, experiment with different image layouts, and use a Wordpress feature called "Blockquote" to emphasize the Eliot sentence. I'm also occasionally Googling things like "how do you take a screenshot on a Mac" and " what is the effect of word processors on writing?"
Does anyone not succumb to these sort of temptations while they are writing?
Despite the distractions, I will try my best to return to original question: what kind of man am I?
Certainly a digressive one . . . but aren't all modern technologically embedded men more digressive than we once were? The internet itself shoulders some of the blame for this, but the problem also might be baked in to the nature of a typical male. Men and easy access to infinite information might be a poisonous combination. My wife doesn't get up from the dinner table to use our desktop computer to Google the population of Peru or what year the Oklahoma Land Rush occurred. But I do this kind of thing all the time (despite family rules prohibiting this behavior). And not just at the dinner table. This happens when I'm teaching class, talking to my friends, sitting on the toilet. I want a piece of information NOW. And it's usually nothing life changing. Perhaps male hunter-gatherers were always wandering off mid-meal to seek a different grub or tuber than the one being served?
It's incredibly hard to maintain a steady stream of thought when there's always the temptation to follow some other niggling idea, an idea that's probably dumber and more trivial than the one you're actually trying to think about. And the internet constantly affords this luxury, so when you have access, it's harder to write long, beautifully constructed sentences like those in Middlemarch.
There's some hard data on this, but you're going to have to wade through a long comment thread on this English Language & Usage Stack Exchange forum. Or I can save you the trouble: some smart people have come to the conclusion that as time has passed, sentences in literature have gotten shorter and shorter. I've read my fair share of literature and I can confirm that the sentences in Tristram Shandy are generally longer than the sentences in Freaky Deaky. And Hemingway? That guy could barely type a seven or eight word sentence before he had to take a break and grab a scotch and soda.
Anyway, I have been told that when you're writing for the internet, you should keep your sentences short and sweet. Though I ignored this advice for eleven years, I've come to acknowledge that it's true. It's tiring to read on a screen. Short sentences, plenty of paragraph breaks, and white space are an internet writer's best friend.
I really wish that my Kindle Paperwhite had a better browser, so I could read internet articles and posts on a non-glare screen . . . but apparently, no one else wants to do this. The populous demands to see their algorithmically chosen ads in vibrant, persuasive color. The internet would be a totally different experience if it were in matte black and white. Less intense, more about the words, less invasive.
I have lost the thread. Enough digression. Let's get back to using this classic Bud Dry commercial to decipher my riddle-inside-an-enigma personality.
There are five archetypal men presented by the commercial:
Once upon a time, I believed I was better looking than my wife. Whether or not this was true is a matter of opinion, but it's debatable. Look at the picture below, and you can be the judge. (Note: this photo is just before young Dave and Cat left on a "just hair-do it" themed bar crawl . . . this was NOT our normal hair).
Currently, there is no question that my wife is much better looking than me. The hair on my head has migrated to my back, ears, and shoulders. So any connection I once had with this guy is long dead. That Dave is gone.
Once in a while, I run across a dude who has a really tight relationship with his mother. While I find Woody Allen movies humorous, I don't want anything to do with this guy in real life. Creepy.
This is the guy. This is the dialogue. Brilliant. Classic. Moving. Though I recognize that he comes off as a total douche, I still feel a strong connection with him. He's got an interesting story to tell. He demands your undivided attention. He's probably not going to consider what you have to say, but at least you're in for an interesting ride. He's self-centered, he makes weird gestures with his hands, and he's got his chair turned backward . . . but on the plus side, he's passionate and he's traveled the world.
I've taken my share of shit for being this guy. My wife and I taught in Syria for three years and I have a lot of stories that begin, "There I was . . . there I was . . . in Damascus." It's insufferable, but I love those memories. I think as I've gotten older, I've gotten more aware about how self-congratulatory those stories are, and I rarely dust them off . . . but when I do: watch out. That guy is me.
I first saw that commercial in the early '90's, long before I had traveled the world, and I felt an instant connection to that weird bit of dialogue. He presented me with my destiny . . . to become that vociferously annoying little man. Luckily, my wife accompanied me on all those adventures, so she never had to endure me telling those stories to her (but she does have to listen to me tell them to other people).
This guy is '90's Donald Trump. He's buying high, selling low, and using his dad's money to get rich (or go bankrupt). I've got none of this guy in me. Zero point zero. I can't stand spending money on clothes, I constantly pass up opportunities to make more money (so I can engage in hobbies like noodling on my guitar, writing this blog, and coaching soccer). But I think it's important to recognize that this is a type of guy, and while I don't really know or hang out with this guy, I've got to acknowledge that guys like this probably control the government and the economy and how the Giants will do next season, and I've passed up my chance to be one of them.
I'll never have a larger sphere of influence. I'll never be that guy.
At least that's what I think this guy says-- his mouth is full and he's also got a thick New York accent. I appreciate this guy's turned up collar, rolled up sleeves, weight-lifter physique, and forward nature. Plus, he's doing a good deed: he's keeping his girlfriend slender by eating some of her food.
I've definitely got some of this guy in me, though I try to corral him. I've learned to let my wife and kids finish eating before I swoop in and grab the remains . . . but this guy is always lurking in the back of my brain. I may look composed on the outside, but my inner voice is running this monologue:
That's a big pile of fries . . . doesn't look like she can finish . . . and Ian looks full too . . . I think there's still a piece of bacon on that burger . . . patience . . . play it cool . . . patience . . . he's pushing his plate away . . . don't look at it . . . maintain eye contact with the wife . . . okay, you've counted to ten . . . time to pounce . . . you've got to beat Alex to it . . . maybe you shouldn't have gotten the side salad . . . can they see the saliva is pooling in your mouth?
"Are you going to finish that?
No?"
Yes! It's mine! All mine! My cunning and patience has paid off! Now if I keep it cool, I can parlay this into even more food . . . even more food!
I'm ten percent guy #1, eighty percent guy #2, and ten percent guy #3 . . . and I'm fine with that. In the end, though, the lesson is another sentence from Eliot's Middlemarch:
And then she names seven people I've never met and places them in an interconnected web of insult and indignation.
It's her version of the Congo.
This phenomenon is occurring right now, as I fiddle with the text in the link, experiment with different image layouts, and use a Wordpress feature called "Blockquote" to emphasize the Eliot sentence. I'm also occasionally Googling things like "how do you take a screenshot on a Mac" and " what is the effect of word processors on writing?"
Does anyone not succumb to these sort of temptations while they are writing?
Despite the distractions, I will try my best to return to original question: what kind of man am I?
Certainly a digressive one . . . but aren't all modern technologically embedded men more digressive than we once were? The internet itself shoulders some of the blame for this, but the problem also might be baked in to the nature of a typical male. Men and easy access to infinite information might be a poisonous combination. My wife doesn't get up from the dinner table to use our desktop computer to Google the population of Peru or what year the Oklahoma Land Rush occurred. But I do this kind of thing all the time (despite family rules prohibiting this behavior). And not just at the dinner table. This happens when I'm teaching class, talking to my friends, sitting on the toilet. I want a piece of information NOW. And it's usually nothing life changing. Perhaps male hunter-gatherers were always wandering off mid-meal to seek a different grub or tuber than the one being served?
It's incredibly hard to maintain a steady stream of thought when there's always the temptation to follow some other niggling idea, an idea that's probably dumber and more trivial than the one you're actually trying to think about. And the internet constantly affords this luxury, so when you have access, it's harder to write long, beautifully constructed sentences like those in Middlemarch.
There's some hard data on this, but you're going to have to wade through a long comment thread on this English Language & Usage Stack Exchange forum. Or I can save you the trouble: some smart people have come to the conclusion that as time has passed, sentences in literature have gotten shorter and shorter. I've read my fair share of literature and I can confirm that the sentences in Tristram Shandy are generally longer than the sentences in Freaky Deaky. And Hemingway? That guy could barely type a seven or eight word sentence before he had to take a break and grab a scotch and soda.
Anyway, I have been told that when you're writing for the internet, you should keep your sentences short and sweet. Though I ignored this advice for eleven years, I've come to acknowledge that it's true. It's tiring to read on a screen. Short sentences, plenty of paragraph breaks, and white space are an internet writer's best friend.
I really wish that my Kindle Paperwhite had a better browser, so I could read internet articles and posts on a non-glare screen . . . but apparently, no one else wants to do this. The populous demands to see their algorithmically chosen ads in vibrant, persuasive color. The internet would be a totally different experience if it were in matte black and white. Less intense, more about the words, less invasive.
I have lost the thread. Enough digression. Let's get back to using this classic Bud Dry commercial to decipher my riddle-inside-an-enigma personality.
There are five archetypal men presented by the commercial:
Guy # 1
A lot of women find my looks intimidating? Do you?
Once upon a time, I believed I was better looking than my wife. Whether or not this was true is a matter of opinion, but it's debatable. Look at the picture below, and you can be the judge. (Note: this photo is just before young Dave and Cat left on a "just hair-do it" themed bar crawl . . . this was NOT our normal hair).
Guy #2
My mother makes the best brisket . . .
Once in a while, I run across a dude who has a really tight relationship with his mother. While I find Woody Allen movies humorous, I don't want anything to do with this guy in real life. Creepy.
Guy #3
There I was, there I was, there I was . . . in the Congo.
This is the guy. This is the dialogue. Brilliant. Classic. Moving. Though I recognize that he comes off as a total douche, I still feel a strong connection with him. He's got an interesting story to tell. He demands your undivided attention. He's probably not going to consider what you have to say, but at least you're in for an interesting ride. He's self-centered, he makes weird gestures with his hands, and he's got his chair turned backward . . . but on the plus side, he's passionate and he's traveled the world.
I've taken my share of shit for being this guy. My wife and I taught in Syria for three years and I have a lot of stories that begin, "There I was . . . there I was . . . in Damascus." It's insufferable, but I love those memories. I think as I've gotten older, I've gotten more aware about how self-congratulatory those stories are, and I rarely dust them off . . . but when I do: watch out. That guy is me.
I first saw that commercial in the early '90's, long before I had traveled the world, and I felt an instant connection to that weird bit of dialogue. He presented me with my destiny . . . to become that vociferously annoying little man. Luckily, my wife accompanied me on all those adventures, so she never had to endure me telling those stories to her (but she does have to listen to me tell them to other people).
Guy #4
Just a minute . . . okay!
This guy is '90's Donald Trump. He's buying high, selling low, and using his dad's money to get rich (or go bankrupt). I've got none of this guy in me. Zero point zero. I can't stand spending money on clothes, I constantly pass up opportunities to make more money (so I can engage in hobbies like noodling on my guitar, writing this blog, and coaching soccer). But I think it's important to recognize that this is a type of guy, and while I don't really know or hang out with this guy, I've got to acknowledge that guys like this probably control the government and the economy and how the Giants will do next season, and I've passed up my chance to be one of them.
I'll never have a larger sphere of influence. I'll never be that guy.
Guy #5
You gonna finish that?
At least that's what I think this guy says-- his mouth is full and he's also got a thick New York accent. I appreciate this guy's turned up collar, rolled up sleeves, weight-lifter physique, and forward nature. Plus, he's doing a good deed: he's keeping his girlfriend slender by eating some of her food.
I've definitely got some of this guy in me, though I try to corral him. I've learned to let my wife and kids finish eating before I swoop in and grab the remains . . . but this guy is always lurking in the back of my brain. I may look composed on the outside, but my inner voice is running this monologue:
That's a big pile of fries . . . doesn't look like she can finish . . . and Ian looks full too . . . I think there's still a piece of bacon on that burger . . . patience . . . play it cool . . . patience . . . he's pushing his plate away . . . don't look at it . . . maintain eye contact with the wife . . . okay, you've counted to ten . . . time to pounce . . . you've got to beat Alex to it . . . maybe you shouldn't have gotten the side salad . . . can they see the saliva is pooling in your mouth?
"Are you going to finish that?
No?"
Yes! It's mine! All mine! My cunning and patience has paid off! Now if I keep it cool, I can parlay this into even more food . . . even more food!
I'm ten percent guy #1, eighty percent guy #2, and ten percent guy #3 . . . and I'm fine with that. In the end, though, the lesson is another sentence from Eliot's Middlemarch:
For a long time, I never understood why my wife wasn't more impressed with my snowboarding and soccer skills, why she didn't take more interest in my progress on the guitar. But then I realized, these are the things I admire about myself. She just wants me to help out around the house, do some of the cooking, and listen to her stories . . . which usually begin, "You're not going to believe what happened at work/the garden/the grocery store today!"“Confound you handsome young fellows! You think of having it all your own way in the world. You don't understand women. They don't admire you half so much as you admire yourselves.”
And then she names seven people I've never met and places them in an interconnected web of insult and indignation.
It's her version of the Congo.
Cheers to Tennis (in February)
I am drinking some celebratory beer tonight for several reasons:
1) we got through a carnival of a workshop day in school . . . there were twenty teachers from area schools, various administrators and the associate director of the Rutgers Writing Program, all present to watch me and my colleagues teach the Rutgers Writing course; things went off without a hitch, partly thanks to our excellent and competent department chair and my wonderful teammates Brady and Strachan but mainly due to my charm and good-looks . . . a dozen adults sat in one of my classes and then one of my students endured an essay conference with ten random people watching; it was a wild and busy day made more interesting by the threat of a student walk-out and the news vans and helicopter hovering on the periphery of our school because our township decided to put armed police in every building, fueling a media frenzy (I should also note that on Monday-- President's Day-- after playing some tennis with the kids at my school, as I was driving across the empty parking lot . . . as it was a day off from school, a beautiful blonde woman flagged down my van, and so-- being a male-- I stopped to investigate and found that she was just as pretty I surmised, and that's when I noticed the CBS jacket and the microphone . . . I declined to make an official comment but I did chat with her for a while, just to look at her thick lustrous hair, pearly white teeth, and TV quality facial symmetry, I think her name is Natalie Duddridge)
2) despite some grim blood test results, our dog is still eating, walking about, and wagging his tail;
3) though my foot hurts, I taped it up and was able to compete a bit, but the beer might alleviate some of the pain;
4) I'm pretty sure my kids and I played the most outdoor tennis by a central Jersey family in February ever, in the history of planet . . . I played with my buddy Cob after school, Alex played his buddy Liam, then Alex played my brother, then I went out and hit with Ian under the lights, despite the fact that my foot hurt, because I know we won't get this chance again anytime soon.
1) we got through a carnival of a workshop day in school . . . there were twenty teachers from area schools, various administrators and the associate director of the Rutgers Writing Program, all present to watch me and my colleagues teach the Rutgers Writing course; things went off without a hitch, partly thanks to our excellent and competent department chair and my wonderful teammates Brady and Strachan but mainly due to my charm and good-looks . . . a dozen adults sat in one of my classes and then one of my students endured an essay conference with ten random people watching; it was a wild and busy day made more interesting by the threat of a student walk-out and the news vans and helicopter hovering on the periphery of our school because our township decided to put armed police in every building, fueling a media frenzy (I should also note that on Monday-- President's Day-- after playing some tennis with the kids at my school, as I was driving across the empty parking lot . . . as it was a day off from school, a beautiful blonde woman flagged down my van, and so-- being a male-- I stopped to investigate and found that she was just as pretty I surmised, and that's when I noticed the CBS jacket and the microphone . . . I declined to make an official comment but I did chat with her for a while, just to look at her thick lustrous hair, pearly white teeth, and TV quality facial symmetry, I think her name is Natalie Duddridge)
2) despite some grim blood test results, our dog is still eating, walking about, and wagging his tail;
3) though my foot hurts, I taped it up and was able to compete a bit, but the beer might alleviate some of the pain;
4) I'm pretty sure my kids and I played the most outdoor tennis by a central Jersey family in February ever, in the history of planet . . . I played with my buddy Cob after school, Alex played his buddy Liam, then Alex played my brother, then I went out and hit with Ian under the lights, despite the fact that my foot hurt, because I know we won't get this chance again anytime soon.
Joyce Carol Oates Has Got the (Good Book) Look
A few days ago I coined the term "man-ecdote" . . . it's a short tale told by a guy, from a masculine perspective, and if a lady is present, she might chastise him for expressing his outdated chauvinistic views in a post-gender/post-feminist world; here is a real example, recounted by yours truly-- a man-- in the office yesterday . . . at some point when I'm reading a hardcover book written by a woman, I turn to the inside of the dust jacket and appraise the photo of the author, and if she's bookish and frumpy then I'm pleased (as I was with Nancy Isenberg, the writer of White Trash: the 400 Year Untold History of Class in America, who looked exactly as I imagined a chick who would write a dense, polemical history tome would look) but if she's inappropriately good looking for the subject matter (God knows why, but I allow mystery and chick-lit authors a higher attractiveness to credibility ratio) then I'm slightly annoyed and wonder if what I'm reading is worthy of my time, and I think this stems from two (possibly intertwined) reasons:
1) I don't think it's fair that someone who is fit and sexy and put-together has also managed to write a quality piece of literature and/or non-fiction . . . that's monopolizing all the good stuff;
2) I think homely women with weird hair and glasses (e.g. Joyce Carol Oates) are smarter and more pensive than super-hot bombshells and thus they are more likely to have deep and profound thoughts, and so I trust their intellectual discourse more;
while Susan Sontag has alerted me to all the paradoxes and contradictions and stupidity of this kind of thinking, it's still hard to avoid doing it, because I'm a stupid man, full of stupid "man-ecdotes," and-- as a tangential bonus-- I'd also like to point out that if you tell a little story about some caramel glazed egg custard in a flaky and delicious pastry shell, then you've just recounted a "flan-ecdote."
1) I don't think it's fair that someone who is fit and sexy and put-together has also managed to write a quality piece of literature and/or non-fiction . . . that's monopolizing all the good stuff;
2) I think homely women with weird hair and glasses (e.g. Joyce Carol Oates) are smarter and more pensive than super-hot bombshells and thus they are more likely to have deep and profound thoughts, and so I trust their intellectual discourse more;
while Susan Sontag has alerted me to all the paradoxes and contradictions and stupidity of this kind of thinking, it's still hard to avoid doing it, because I'm a stupid man, full of stupid "man-ecdotes," and-- as a tangential bonus-- I'd also like to point out that if you tell a little story about some caramel glazed egg custard in a flaky and delicious pastry shell, then you've just recounted a "flan-ecdote."
Back to Back Crap
When I get motivated to do crappy chores, I usually do two in a row, and the chores I juxtaposed on Monday morning were especially gross-- so if you've got a weak stomach, turn back now: first, I took a white garbage bag and put it inside a cardboard box and then opened fifteen jars of rancid home-pickled vegetables and poured them into the bag-- our extra fridge in the basement died months ago, but we never took the stuff out of it . . . so the white plastic bag was filled with old beets and pickles and peppers and onions and loads of vinegar (of which plenty spilled onto my chest and shirt) and the sound of old pickled vegetables plopping into a plastic bag full of vinegar is not particularly pleasing; so after a half hour of this, I sealed up the bag and-- keeping it inside the cardboard box for support-- carried it to the CRV, the vegetables sloshing around inches from my face, put it in the back, drove it to the park, and chucked it into an empty dumpster, where it hit the metal floor and exploded, and then I got home, took off my shirt-- which reeked of vinegar-- went into the backyard, and in the shade of our yew tree, shaved my chest hair to a reasonable length.
Dirty White Boys
I've taught high school for nearly twenty years, and I'm still surprised by what will galvanize a class discussion; the other day in Creative Writing, an African American kid told a humorous story about how his grandmother-- who watched him every day after school-- insisted on bathing before returning him home to his parents, and I remarked that my own children bathe every other day, but only if we force them to, and this provoked a serious and spirited discussion about cleanliness, hygiene, and bathing frequency, and during the course of this discussion, two African American kids both admitted, sincerely and with true candor, that they had heard rumors from their parents and grandparents that "white people don't bathe every day," and when I confirmed this to be true, they thought it was hysterical and egregious -- and the Hispanic and South American kids in the class agreed, and told me about "inside clothes" and "outside clothes," and how you could never let "outside clothes" touch your bed, and this made me want to stir the pot some, so I told them that my kids often go to bed "with sticks and leaves in their hair," which may have been a slight exaggeration but the reaction it produced was worth the hyperbole (one girl actually turned to me and said, "Are you sure you're raising those kids right?").
Is This The Best Allocation of Valuable Resources?
Sometimes when I wake up there is a white hair jutting from one of my sideburns, directly perpendicular to my head, and obviously my body labored extremely hard to grow this gravity defying strand of hair in the span of a night, but meanwhile, my knee hurts and my back is sore from swimming and I still have some poison ivy . . . so my question is this: doesn't my body have better projects on which to work, rather than to grow these hairs?
This Could Be The Idea That Allows You To Retire in Style
This weird hair discussion at G:TB reminds me of an idea a friend and I had about making a documentary where we interviewed people about the strange and rapid growth of unsightly body hair-- that crazy white hair that sprouts in the middle of your forehead or the curly gray hair that grows in your ear in the span of a nap-- and the "money shot" would be a time lapse segment of one of these hairs actually sprouting during the night, it would take thousands of hour of film to capture this, and it would be analogous to getting footage of the Loch Ness Monster or Bigfoot . . . so does anyone have some venture capital they want to invest?
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