The Fountain of Youth Contains Grape Juice and Vinegar?
I play soccer every Sunday, and my body hurts when I start and my body hurts when I finish, but there's a twenty-minute window when I feel young again, but that twenty minutes cost me-- I'm sore for a few days after I play-- and the effects are both physical (I limp on my left ankle) and mental (kind of like Charlie in "Flowers for Algernon," it makes me remember that I was once young and fast and limber, but now I'm headed in the other direction and, sadly, I realize it) unless, and I still haven't tried it yet, unless the home remedy I just learned about is truly a fountain of youth . . . the recipe is one part apple cider vinegar to four parts juice (grape and apple) and you drink a few sips of it, chilled, every morning and then you're never sore again.
Toddler Magic
My son Alex did his first magic trick the other day-- he took a penny, showed it to me, and then placed it behind his back and asked me to guess which hand it was in; I guessed his right hand, but he opened his palm and it wasn't there, and then I said, "Okay it's in your left hand"-- and then I heard the sound of a coin falling onto the wood floor-- and then he opened his left hand . . . and it was empty: magic!
Raise the Bar With Alcohol
War and People
We watched Persepolis last night (if you haven't read the graphic novel, now you don't need to-- someone animated it for you!) and I finished Willa Cather's One of Ours this morning; both works portray war as an awful thing, so they have that in common, but also, in both works, the war doesn't so much as change the main character as just show him or her (respectively Marjane Satrapi and Claude Wheeler) in a clearer light-- so I recommend both not as grim, cautionary tales, but more as character studies: they both have a light touch.
The Sea Breeze Doesn't Make It to Spotswood
Yesterday at the beach there was a cool enough breeze off the ocean that when you got out from swimming, it was downright chilly, and even when we got into the car (which was parked in the sun) the thermometer only registered 81F, but on the ride home on Route 18 it slowly and steadily rose, and a mere thirty-five miles later-- at the Spotswood exit-- the temperature had climbed to 95F: when we got out of the car, it felt more like disembarking from an airplane after taking a winter flight to somewhere tropical (and meeting Celine, fresh from Turkey, accentuated the feeling that we were in another country, and she dredged up many fond memories of haggling with cab-drivers in meter-less cabs).
You Won't Like Me When I'm Angry
King of Kong joins Hoosiers, Billy Elliot and Rescue Dawn as movies that have gotten me choked up and teary eyed-- but King of Kong (a documentary about a rivalry between world class Donkey King players) is almost too archetypal to be real, and I wonder how they got such great footage of Billy Mitchell-- the Darth Vader of the film-- because he came off as so enigmatic and secretive . . . I hope I'm not being manipulated by the film, because that wouldn't make me weepy, it would make me angry . . . very angry . . . and I'm trying to control my temper, though that's hard during the summer, since I spend all day with my kids-- and the only thing they respond to is anger-- but I'm trying to be a good model for my son Alex, who now talks about his anger in the third person-- e.g. this morning, after Ian destroyed his Lego spaceship Alex said, "I'm getting my anger, I think in a second I'm going to have my anger, my anger is coming" and then, as he predicted, it did.
The Sort is Happening and It Is Big
I can't put down this new book by reporter Bill Bishop called The Big Sort; the premise is that Americans are agglomerating into micro-geographical regions of similar people-- mainly because so many Americans have moved in the past thirty years and everyone realizes how important and controllable this choice is, but this exacerbates the division between Democrats and Republicans because there's a sort of feedback loop when you only interact with people of your own mind-set . . . and that whole idea that there are swing voters out there to be persuaded, that's a myth, there are almost no swing voters-- and actually, people's choices aren't changing the party-lines, the party lines are changing people's choices to be more in line with the party, because it's easier to conform to a group (which is now more homogeneous than ever) and instead of engaging in discourse and debate with media and people different than you-- as was much more the case in 1976, when statistics show that you were more likely to switch parties, live in a mixed party neighborhood, have people in your church of mixed party, etc-- instead your church is probably primarily of your political affiliation (and is the most accurate prediction of what party you are-- if you believe the Bible is the undisputed Word of God, then you are a probably Republican)-- and this just scratches the surface of the book . . . I read 250 pages last night because my parents took the kids, so it was a lot to digest, but one fact I remember is that if you belong to a mail-order movie rental club (like Netflix) you are probably a Democrat.
Plenty of Action After the Movie
The first half of Wall-E rivals films like Modern Times, Brazil, and 2001: A Space Odyssey (which it parodies in the second half) for pure aesthetic entertainment and memorable imagery, and though it has a message for the kids and a tacked on happy ending, the movie is really just about looking at the screen-- bring the kids (if you want to answer a thousand questions, especially if you're with my son, Alex, who has inherited my penchant for talking, questioning, commenting, editorializing, and crying in the movie theater) or, even better, leave them home (and maybe the wife too-- Catherine jammed her ankle yesterday, running after Alex, who was riding his big-wheel staright into the road, and when she tried to get up after the movie was over, she couldn't walk and it was dark, of course, and we were meeting my parents next door at Bertucci's but as she hobbled out of the theater it started down-pouring, but we couldn't run for the car because she couldn't run so we got soaked and when we were sorting things out in front of the restaurant, Ian, vigilant about his big-boy underwear, pulled his pants down and showed the restaurant and parking lot some full frontal nudity and I had to scoop him up and run inside to the bathroom, leaving my crippled wife in the down-pour with Alex).
Gust Avrakotos' War?
Despite Tom Hanks (who is a tool, and always plays himself) and Julia Roberts (who is weird looking and affected and always plays herself), Charlie Wilson's War is a good movie . . . fast-paced, well-told, and entertaining: a cross between Charlie's Angels and Syriana; typically, Philip Seymour Hoffman steals the show, but the original and more appropriate title-- Gust Avrakotos' War -- doesn't roll off the tongue very well.
And Groundhogs Will Try That Long Preserved Virginity
Yesterday, on the drive home from the beach, Catherine and I saw something neither of us had ever seen before: a fat groundhog perched atop a tombstone; this is nothing like seeing a vulture or an asp or raven perched on a tombstone . . . that's ominous, of course, but this tableau made death and decay seem kind of cute.
Willa Cather Knows Electric Cars?
I'm reading Willa Cather's One of Ours-- which was published in 1922-- and without any fanfare, in a line of description about the town miller's wife, Cather wrote "she dressed well, came to town often in her electric car, and was always ready to work for the church or public library"-- which makes me wonder . . . if an electric car was a commonplace item in turn of the century Nebraska, then: who killed it?
Dave Wrote This Sometime or Other
I want to assure everyone (especially super-fans Squirrel and Whitney) that these sentences are as fresh as if they were just plucked from the salty heart of the ocean-- and even when they are flash-frozen, the are just as tasty and delicious (and if this doesn't make much sense, it's because I'm nursing a hang-over and the after-effects of eating a Fat Dad at 2 AM last night).
Dave Exorcises Junk Food Demons (and Sinks the Shot)
Yesterday, there was a giant spread of junk food in the English office, and as usual, I was drawn to the worst thing on the table-- a box of glazed mini-crullers-- but just as I was about to put the donut in my mouth, some other impulse took hold--DEMONS OUT!-- and I whipped the box of mini-donuts as hard as I could across the room at the little metal trashcan and-- to the surprise of the people in the room-- it went right in . . . and I think my relationship with junk food will be different now: I have conquered the urge to be a glutton, and my reward is that I am now unerringly accurate (although two periods later I did eat six mini-muffins, and I cut each one in half so that I could have double the surfaces to coat with butter).
Flattery + Humor = Parody
Someone drew the notable events of the year on the message board in the English office, and the parody of my blog went like this: "So I went to the Amish market to buy some meat and we contracted cholera and I decided to write a song about it."
I Coin A Word: Tupperawareness
Time to get all sniglety: some people possess a special ability to precisely gauge which plastic container is the right size to store the leftovers from dinner -- and I call this ability to accurately choose the correct container "tupperawareness" and while I do not possess this ability, (not by a long-shot) I am interested in studying people who do: I would like to learn their secret.
Dave Gets a Little Smarter
Thirty eight years living on this planet, and still so much to learn-- in the last two weeks I learned three things:
1) there are flying squirrels indigenous to New Jersey;
2) St. Augustine (not Jamestown!) is America's oldest permanent European settlement,;
3) that funny looking trestle sticking out into Farrington Lake over by Sir John's Restaurant is not the remnants of an old train line . . . it was a trolley.
Fuck You, BB&T Banking
A proud moment: we received a post-card from BB&T Banking saying that we have only one more car payment on the Subaru . . . BUT if we are using "autodraft" then the final payment will not be drafted from our account-- we will have to initiate payment by mailing a check AND if it's not mailed on time then late fees will be assessed BUT there was no phone number or address specified on the postcard (nor was there a reason why they wouldn't "autodraft" the last payment) and so after some irate phone-calling-- where no reason was given by the customer service representative as to why BB&T refuses to "autodraft" the last payment, we got the information we needed-- but because of this underhanded and, quite frankly, despicable attempt by BB&T to incur late fees on their loyal and punctilious customers, I am calling for a jihad on all BB&T employees and products-- yella!
Magical Moonlit Moose Sighting
Summer has begun, and it makes me recall my most vivid memory of last summer: my friend Rob and I were driving back up Bolton Mountain after a kickball game and consequent kickball-related picnic, it was late and the moon was full (and he lives in Vermont) and finally, after years of waiting, I got to see a moose; it was walking on the side of the road, fully illuminated by the moonlight, and we drove along side this tall, rickety creature for what seemed like five minutes-- he ambled along next to the car and I was able to get a good look at him by sticking my body out the sun-roof . . . and it was magical, just magical . . . although not as magical as if it were a unicorn or a centaur, but still pretty magical, despite the bushy moose beard . . . and I should also point out it was a juvenile, so if I've led you to believe it had those big antlers, it didn't.
Hey Internet! Write This Novel!
Here's a terrible idea for a novel:
the internet becomes so large and complex that it attains consciousness and starts writing e-mails to people, because that is the only way it can connect with reality-- it has no senses, just an awareness through its content that there is an outside world (like the reverse of The Matrix . . . or maybe a science-fiction version of Pinocchio) but, honestly, I'm not going to write it, and so I'm just throwing the idea out there . . . perhaps the internet will read it and then decide to self-reflexively write it-- so listen up, Internet, if you write a big-budget movie, I want some compensation!
Life Imitates Art?
Life imitates art (or what Whitney and I call art, but the rest of the world calls dreck)-- and it answers an ethical question as well: in a recent case, Nicholas Creanza (a pharmacist) posed as a gynecologist and "examined" several women, but he cannot be charged with rape because of an old law that states that an assault can't be considered rape if consent is obtained through fraud or deceit, and, either coincidentally or by design, Creanza's actions mirror the plot from "Dr. Seuss"-- Random Idiot's cross-over Beastie Boy's style hit from 1991 that details how Theodore Geisel uses his honorary doctorate to open a gynecology clinic and have his way with unsuspecting women, which we thought was a felony and so sent him to jail in the song (the Grinch who stole Christmas doing thirty to life/ sent to the slammer, now he's Bubba's wife) but really, we should have just sent him for some counseling.
Focus Is Everything
Several days ago I mentioned the fact that my son Ian shares a birthday with the Olsen twins, and I posted an alluring picture of the twins sporting butterfly pasties; for some reason, this picture increased traffic to my blog tenfold (on one day, over 800 people visited) so I am going to focus less on my oldest child Alex, who although cute and quotable, has pissed me off of late (because when he saw Ian sprinting across the house, he raised his foot and karate kicked him in the stomach, nearly breaking Ian's breastbone) and focus more on Ian and the Olsen twins-- though, as I have said before, I have never watched an episode of Full House (but, although I didn't know it until Catherine mentioned it last night, I have been watching Mary-Kate-- she's the Jesus-loving pot dealer on Weeds).
Do Cremains Inspire Brand Loyalty?
Although Stacey thought that Dr. Fredric J. Baur (the inventor of the Pringles can) was buried in a Pringle-can shaped sarcophagus, that wasn't quite the case: some of his ashes were placed in an actual Pringles can and the rest were put in a traditional urn-- if he was buried in a big round red coffin with the Pringles logo on it, then it would have been very hard to keep a straight face at the wake, which is the most important thing at a wake . . . not to laugh at the body-- but what I am more curious about is the effect of interring someone in a product's container-- it can't be good marketing-- and it reminds me of the scattering of Donnie's ashes in The Big Lewbowski: did Folger's actually pay to have their brand name on the receptacle?
Dave Knows How to Steal Wry Observations (From the Population at Large)
When I began this blog, I thought my sentences would be full of wry observations (e.g. How would the convenience store 7-11 have reacted if the planes hit the World Trade Center on July 11th instead of September 11th, and the numerical array 7-11 became synonymous with the worst terrorist attack ever on American soil? Would 7-11 have changed its name? Or marketed itself as stalwart purveyor of patriotic snack consumption? the only way to beat the terrorists is by eating a Slim Jim?) but more often I overhear the wry observations than actually think of it myself; I love to eavesdrop, and I heard this just before the skies opened in New Brunswick Saturday night . . . the girl walking in front of me said, "This is my Einstein moment for today . . . when people hear thunder and lightning, they open up metal umbrellas and point them toward the sky," which is a pretty good point, but still, last night, I would have risked it to avoid the soaking I got, and another not so wry observation was directed at my wife and I as we braved the storm-- the doorman of the tapas place looked at me, soaked to the skin, and then at Catherine, snug and dry in her hooded Columbia rain coat and said, "Wearing that jacket tonight? Smartest move ever!" and when we walked into the super-cooled air-conditioning of the Hyatt, I realized he was right (and the Hyatt is too classy to have hand dryers in the bathroom).
Bosky Stringfellows
If you don't mind sacrificing your sunny disposition, read about the Stringfellow Acid Pits-- I just read the story in an anthology called The New Kings of Nonfiction-- and the case is a mind-boggling combination of Jarndyce and Jarndyce and Michael Clayton, with no easy culprit, plenty of waste and corruption, and no good answer; on a lighter note, in another essay in the book I learned a new word: bosky . . . perhaps your yard is bosky-- especially if you live in Central Jersey.
Dave Knows How to Behave in Line at the Pharmacy
Although I have never seen an episode of Full House, I do know that when you get to the head of the line at the pharmacy-- especially a long line, when you have plenty of time to prepare-- that you'll be required to provide some sort of tender-- cash or charge-- and I don't demurely look askance, step back, and then sheepishly root around in my purse, then fumble around in my wallet inside the purse, then look at the money like it's some kind of insect that lives in the purse, then make a bit of small talk with the cashier, then hand over the money, as if it's better to do such base things with someone you're acquainted with; somehow, without ever watching Full House, I've figured this out, that it's better to have your money or credit card in hand to speed things along, because if you're waiting to pick up a prescription, you're either impotent (like one of the guys in the line-- the pharmacist's voice was a little too loud) or someone is sick, and not only have I figured this out, but I have also (unlike my computer spell-check) learned how to spell non sequitur.
Happy Birthday . . . Ian, Mary-Kate, Ashley, and William Butler Yeats
Ian turns three today; if he were a bit older (notice my use of the subjunctive tense) he would be able to rap with the Olsen twins about sharing a birthday, and if he were a lot older he would have had a sure-fire conversation starter with William Butler Yeats (who I hear was equally as hot).
The Early Bird is Annoying
The nice thing about sleeping with the air-conditioner on (besides the fact that it keeps you cool) is that you don't hear the birds in the morning; my neighborhood birds woke me up this morning at 4:30 AM, two hours before my alarm clock is set to go off-- thanks birds!
Harbinger or a Test?
To do my part for the planet, I've sworn off consuming large mammals for a few months, but when I unwrapped my number 29 from The Park Deli, it was loaded with ham instead of turkey-- and I ate it, of course, it wasn't my fault, and it tasted delicious-- but do I regard this as a sign (that there is nothing to be done, the end is nigh, an omen of consumption, a harbinger of ensuing pork, and I should gorge on greasy flesh before the rapture) or perhaps this was a test-- and if it was a test of my newfound principles, then I failed miserably.
Dave is RRRRIIIIIPPPPPED
Alex Wins the (Mental) Contest
Yesterday, on the way to soccer practice, Alex wanted to race his soccer ball against my soccer ball down the big hill that leads to the park; playing the role of the good father, I did not push my ball as hard as he pushed his, but though Alex's ball took an early lead, it met extra resistance in some high grass that my ball avoided, and so my ball surged past his and rolled much farther into the field-- but when I claimed my victory Alex denied me, and when I pointed out that my ball went faster and farther, he said that to win the race, you had to get your ball to land on the (oddly enough) exact spot that his ball had landed on.
Bow Down to Our Insect Overlords
Ian's first three years could be titled Portrait of an Entomologist as a Young Man; it's not that just that he likes to spot, collect, hold, and observe bugs, bees, worms and spiders-- he actually thinks about them: yesterday, after discovering several ant hills in the garden, he looked up at me and said, ominously, "the ants are mad at us" . . . and when I asked him why he said, "because they like to bite us" which makes some sort of sense, but I definitely had a vision of Them! when he said it.
Darth Vader Would Be Scary as a Whale
My kids can sing the Darth Vader theme song in the voice of just about animal: a sheep is "baa baa baa baabuhbaa buhbabaa" and a pig is "oink oink oink oinkoinkoink oinkoinkoink"-- but yesterday Alex tried it as a blue whale and although I admire his spirit of artistic experimentation, I would have to say that his impression of a cetacean is pretty poor.
Alan Partridge: Too Droll For Some
Whenever Catherine goes out, I plan to watch whatever we have from Netflix (now it's this show The Riches, with Eddie Izzard and Minnie Driver-- so far it's excellent) but every time instead of watching, I go up to bed the same time as the kids, read, and then fall asleep within minutes-- which is pretty pathetic-- but I think I can only watch television with other people; in fact, I can't remember the last time I've watched a TV show or a movie alone . . . probably last year when Catherine gave up on The Alan Partridge Show and I kept watching (because Steve Coogan is priceless).
My Children Cooperate in a Jailbreak
Two scary things happened yesterday:
1) I learned that my red running shorts are "not sexy" and look "very eighties"-- and the fact that they have netting (so you don't need to wear underwear with them) didn't seem to impress anyone in the English office;
2) I came home to find Alex and Ian pretending to sleep on Ian's floor, and when I asked them how Ian got out of his crib, Alex said he helped him get out, by stacking several laundry baskets and then using a large stuffed Winnie the Pooh as a ladder-- and the scary thing is not that Ian escaped, it is the bigger picture: the natives are starting to cooperate.
There Will Be Milkshake Drinking
We finished There Will Be Blood last night; at first Catherine relegated me to watching the end of the film on the laptop so she could watch the two-hour finale of The Bachelor, but then she decided that I looked too depressing, sitting in a straight-backed chair with headphones on, watching the one of the bleakest movies ever made, so we watched the end together-- and my final comment on the film is this: I swore off butter after watching Last Tango in Paris, and now Daniel Day-Lewis has ruined the milkshake.
Don't Worry, That Guy Who Got Dismembered is Just a Minor Character
During story time, my son got upset for a moment when the King of the Elephants died from ingesting a poisonous mushroom, but then he realized that it wasn't Babar who died, but a minor character and he didn't care anymore, just as I have lost all feeling for the oil workers who keep getting killed in increasingly gruesome ways in There Will Be Blood (which is pretty good, but slow-- we are on day three of viewing it).
The Subway Is Byzantine
My last two trips to New York I have fared very poorly on the Subway System: previously, we took the B instead of the D on the way to the Met and ended up in Queens-- and this was certainly our fault, and alcohol consumption may have been to blame-- but this time even local Manhattanites were shaking their heads: after we ascended many stairs with the toddlers in tow, there was an 8 by 11 piece of paper instructing us that the A and the C were running on the local lines because of construction, and then after descending many stairs and taking the A we found ourselves whizzing by the 81st St. Museum stop, and then we kept going and going and finally we disembarked at 125th and took the downtown A to 59th then switched again to the uptown C to get to the Museum (it was funny hearing Alex saying "Why can't we catch the Local C?), and so on the way back we figured we had it down-- just take the C, take the local and we were guaranteed to stop where we wanted-- but as the D rolled by the conductor shouted out her window, "TAKE THE NEXT D! THE C IS ONLY RUNNING ON THE EXPRESS!" which we did and then switched again (it was easy, the train was waiting) but still . . . in the greatest city in the world should they be relying on taped up pieces of computer paper and shouting as their method of information dispersal?
DNA, Horizontally and Vertically
Microbial taxonomist Carl Woese says that in the good old days-- before archea, eukaryotes, and bacteria-- life shared its genes horizontally, there was no separation of DNA material, and evolution proceeded at a rapid, communal rate in the primordial soup, but then bacteria isolated itself and its intellectual property and the Darwinian age began (and lasted several billion years) and evolution moved slowly and separately; now, that time is coming to an end, the cultural revolution begat the bio-tech revolution, and once again, genetic material is being shared horizontally-- and I think this means that you shouldn't worry about that modified tomato that stays ripe for a month after it's picked because soon it will also be able to talk to you.
Pain or Sepsis?
Just worked up a sweat removing a splinter from Alex's foot-- it took the two of us to hold him down.
Emphasis is Everything
The documentary My Kid Could Paint That is about a precocious four year old abstract painter named Marla Olmstead-- and there are two ways to interpret the title: My Kid Could Paint That or My Kid Could Paint That . . . and that makes all the difference.
Do Kids Dream of Electric Robots?
Lots of sleep-related problems this morning: Alex had his "worst dream ever" about a giant man-eating robot (which, not so coincidentally, is what Ian wants for his birthday-- Alex said the idea "got into his head") and I rolled over in a weird way while I was sleeping last night and squashed my left testicle and it feels like someone kicked me in the jewels.
Gladiators Make Me Sleepy
Spartacus is the first Stanley Kubrick movie I've ever bailed on-- otherwise, I've seen them all (the furniture got me through Barry Lyndon and the nudity got me through Eyes Wide Shut).
Did You Sneak a Peak?
An old student spotted me while we were out Friday night, and it turns out she now teaches in Edison-- and what Catherine and the group thought was odd (and in retrospect, it is kind of funny) is that this petite girl was displaying a bodacious amount of cleavage, and the first thing I said to her after she asked "Do you remember me?" is "Of course . . . you and your friends made that "13 Ways of Looking at a Bra" video" and she remembered exactly what I was talking about-- she made video parody of a Wallace Stevens poem "13 Ways of Looking at a Blackbird" with her two wacky friends, but to my wife and the ladies it appeared that I was commenting upon her ample rack.
Naked or Nude?
If you like looking at naked ladies in the woods, then Grounds for Sculpture is the place for you.
Women's Clothes Are Weird
Even though Stacy is several inches taller than me, her track jacket does not flatter my figure.
Enough Already
Last night I went to my first retirement dinner, and it made me want to retire-- would anyone like to pay me my salary so I can retire?
Sorry Mr. Murphy
Tomorrow is senior cut day, but it is done East Brunswick style-- the parents call the kids out sick so they don't get in trouble-- but it still reminds me of when I cut school with friends and we got caught and I had to meet with the vice-principal at NBTHS, who-- coincidentally-- is now the principal at East Brunswick-- which sort of makes me feel like I never left high school (although I didn't get in much trouble for cutting, my dad had coached him.)
A Pinata Made of a Plethora of Lego Pieces
I don't let my kids watch TV on rainy days (I find it entertaining to see what they'll do when they get stir crazy); yesterday afternoon Alex built a piesta (he meant a pinata) out of Legos and put it on a shelf and then he covered his eyes and whacked it with a Lego stick-- which crumpled on impact-- but after a couple of turns, including a devastating blow by yours truly, it broke into pretend candy pieces.
Mind the Monkeysphere
Yesterday, in my endless third period (stalled by some standardized biology test) the Levitsky twins introduced me to the term "monkey-sphere" . . . and now I must reflect: who will make the cut, who is in my monkey-sphere?
Time Travel Through Blogging
A student of mine had a good idea for my blog, but I'll never be ambitious enough to do it; he suggested that for each day I post, I also post a sentence that pre-dates the first entry, so that I'm extending the blog in two directions-- the future and the past-- and then I can blog my way back through the birth of my children, dial-up access, The Presidents of the United States of America, etc.
The Natives Are Getting Clever
Watching Who Killed the Electric Car made me very angry last night, but my children cheered me up this morning-- the first thing Alex said to me today was "I'm not bored of you yet, Daddy, I still love you" and then later, during breakfast, Ian couldn't make up his mind about which cereal he wanted, so rather than wait at the beck and call of a two-year old, Catherine and I both left the kitchen-- and as I was about to write this sentence Alex yelled "Oh no, we made a big mess" and Ian concurred and I started cursing: "God dammit, you can't leave them alone for a second" and when I went into the kitchen looking for a puddle of milk Alex said, "We tricked you, we didn't make a mess, Ian just wanted some cereal."
I Behave In A Mature Manner
Despite the fact that Catherine and I have been arguing about the merits of my push lawn-mower-- she claims my beloved push-mower doesn't really cut the lawn-- this morning when I read in Wired that a gasoline-powered mower emits eleven times more pollution than an automobile-- get this-- I didn't even mention it to her . . . I made a very mature executive decision not to open that can of worms on a peaceful Saturday morning while we were drinking our coffee (but I can't promise that I won't mention the fact at a later date).
Dave Does His Civic Duty (Begrudgingly)
Jury duty effectively combined a trans-Atlantic airplane flight, the DMV, and a Kafka novel: I sat on an uncomfortable seat in a stuffy room with strange people for eight hours waiting for my number to be called, but it never was-- which is good, because I don't have to serve on a trial, but my eyes still hurt from reading so much (if I owned a cell-phone I could have called random people and talked about my daughter's science project, like the guy next to me) . . . I read an entire novel (Evelyn Waugh's Vile Bodies-- very funny and appropriate title for the day) and as much as I could handle of The Cosmic Landscape, but then it got too hard and I bought a random magazine about science culture called Seed at lunch.
Just Look Serious For the Camera
After three hours of tension, nothing much happens at the end of The Good Shepherd-- but I will hand it to Matt Damon for picking the easiest three hour movie script to memorize in the history of cinema: he's on-screen for then entire epic, and I think he says ten lines.
Teenagers . . . They'll Eat Anything
Last week, I took some store-bought beef jerky and put it in a crumpled plastic bag, and told my philosophy class it was Alex's pet rabbit "Hoppy" and that had died over the winter-- his hutch got too cold-- and that in order to teach Alex about recycling, we gutted Hoppy, jerked the carcass, and then ate some of him . . . I expected a dramatic emotional response, perhaps even a threat to call DYFUS, but no one thought anything of it and a handful of kids actually ate some.
It's Hard to Be a Straight Man
Friday night there were a couple of Rutger's football players sitting next to us at the bar, and the blond girl sitting with them with was so distractingly good-looking that I wished she would leave so I would stop leering (but, of course, she didn't leave, and instead took off her sweater so then I had to avoid the temptation of leering at exposed cleavage as well).
Grolar vs. Pizzly
Like string theorist Leonard Susskind, I prefer the sound of "megaverse" to "multiverse," but I also prefer the moniker grolar bear rather than pizzly bear-- and we all know what happened with that one.
Super Extra Serendipitous Good Luck Bonus Sentence
On the way to work this morning-- and, appropriately, it was raining-- I passed by a tractor trailer double stacked with concrete sarcophagi.
My Son Already Has a Higher Rank Than Me?
While we walked to get some falafel Alex formulated an intricate plan to spring loose the baby pig he visits with my dad at College Farm-- he's seen Charlotte's Web and he knows that if he doesn't rescue the little swine he will end up as bacon; the plan includes an alarm to wake us in the middle of the night, a midnight bicycle ride, a bell Alex can ring if he needs me to pedal faster, a lantern on a stick, a knapsack to put the pig in, and-- most important-- a promise . . . that I won't say, "Oh, man!" when Alex gives me an order.
Parrot vs. Human
I just read an article in the New Yorker about this African gray parrot (who, unfortunately, just croaked) and he seems to know his colors and shapes slightly better than my two year old son.
Vocab Lesson
I just raced to the finish of Richard Price's new novel Lush Life, and along the way I learned a few new words and terms: want cards, a whistle, a bump, shirred, wits, paradiddle, etc.
Solar Flare Blues
If you're feeling down and you don't know why, it could be a solar flare bombarding your pineal gland with electromagnetically charged particles . . . or you might want to try to get more sleep.
Happiness is Having More Fun Than Your Brother
Alex lost video-watching-privileges last night because of his recalcitrance at the smoothie place, but while Ian was watching Dinotopia we had heard lots of rustling and stacking in his room; when I went up he showed me the castle he had built with his blocks and he made sure to tell me that he had built a "gigantic base" so it wouldn't fall, and that he used "different materials"-- both pieces of advice I had given him, so this was his subtle way of making up with me, and then he added, "so I had more fun than Ian."
Death By Venom Is Funny
Last night, Ian found someone willing to turn every page in his animal encyclopedia (she was ten) and with each animal he had a dire warning: "if you go near that crocodile, it will bite you and you will be dead . . . if you go by that bug and touch it, you will be dead . . . if you go by that snake, you will be dead" and although the animals he pointed out certainly are very dangerous and have probably killed many people throughout the world, it's still funny when it comes from a two year old.
Juno Impregnated My Brain (With a Desire For Orange Tic Tacs)
Yesterday, on my way to happy hour, I did something very uncharacteristic: I made an impulse buy . . . I had watched Juno the night before and I had a desire for orange Tic-Tacs which was obviously generated by the clever product placement in the film; normally I never make any frivolous purchases-- especially ones dictated to me by the media-- but I was feeling wild, and they were only a dollar (they tasted so good that I finished the entire box on the way home).
The Good, The Bad, The Lies, and a Booger
Alex told me that at school yesterday, "a tear went down my face and plopped onto the ground at lunch because I missed you so much" which is total bullshit but he knows that I love to hear it; a moment after, Ian handed me a booger.
Could You Demonstrate That Once More, Please?
Alex was in a creative mood yesterday: he told us how he had to call the police on Catherine's mom because she crawled under the couch and punched him in the eye when he wasn't looking-- "she sneaked up on me and when I was turned the other way she went like this . . ." and then he would pretend to punch himself in th eye, which we got him to do over and over by saying, "Wait, how did she do it? (and I think Catherine's mom was upset that he was making up this awful story about her, but we found it hysterical).
Food: Fuels You Up and Slows You Down
It took twenty-four minutes to walk to this really good (and really cheap) Mexican restaurant in New Brunswick-- even while pushing the kids in the stroller-- but on the way back we had to slow down because I got a stitch.
But . . .
Ian begins every sentence with the word "but" (e.g. but I have to pee, but I like this worm, but I was crying for you to get me) so it's like he's stuck in an eternal argument with everyone in the universe.
Sleep: That's Where I'm a Viking
Catherine and I have resolved to stop snacking so much after dinner-- we both want to get fit before the summer-- but the only way I could stop eating last night was to go to sleep.
Summer = Two Month Weekend
Although tomorrow seems bleak: rainy and the end of spring break, there is still the solace that in the school year as a week metaphor, it is the beginning of Friday (for those of you who are not teachers, my condolences).
Waves: They Just Keep Coming
We get up at five in the morning and drive home; our plan was for the kids to sleep int he car, but Alex is up like a shot, before he can rub the sleep out of his eyes he's calling dibs on the box of Apple Jacks, which he had been plotting to eat (there was only one box in the treat cereal selection) all week long on the ride home, but despite no napping the kids are well behaved-- thanks to modern technology: the LeapPad (Diego has a hang-glider!) and the DVD player (which isn't working so well because Ian likes to kick it when he loses his temper-- but one last thought, when Ian was playing in a hole full of water on the beach he kept looking up at me and saying, "I'm so happy . . . I'm so happy that the wave came!")
Bruce is Patient
Friday: my college buddy Bruce, who runs Kittyhawk Kites-- the largest hang-gliding school in the world-- gets Alex and Ian airborne in a glider; each of them fly two runs down the dune with Bruce and I holding onto the wires of the glider-- and Alex tells him he dreamed about it and then it came true; Bruce-- who is very patient-- also answers between four and five hundred of Alex's questions about the glider and teaches him what a "wing nut" is.
Wild Wild Life
Thursday: a list of the wildlife we saw: dolphins, raccoon, gray fox, fiddler crabs, sand crabs, ospreys, herons, terns, pelicans, and-- of course-- bikers (it was bike week).
The Mental Age Game
Wednesday: Good weather returns and we hike over the tallest dune on the East coast (Jockey's Ridge) to the sound, where Alex and Ian brave the cold water until their lips are blue; later in the day Whitney shows up for some beer drinking, and we stay up late computing everyone's mental age-- this is Whitney's new thing and it often offends people to hear his decision on their mental age so I'll just tell you his: 19 and mine: 91 . . . you'll have to figure out the rest on your own.
Two Visits in One Day
Tuesday: rainy day, so we visit the aquarium and my friend Bruce-- he has two boys of similar age and demeanor as Alex and Ian, so there are lots of experiments, wrestling, and couch diving.
Ominous Vacation Monday
Monday: things look grim, Catherine has a sinus infection and rain is headed our way, but we did get some beach time in the morning while Catherine was at the doctor's-- the wind was howling off the ocean and Ian spent his time huddled in a deep hole inspecting a sand crab.
Running: Young or Old, It Makes You Tired
Sunday: A great day on the beach , and even though I kept letting Alex and Ian beat me in countless footraces down the beach, Catherine and I were the real winners when they took a three hour nap (I did as well).
Loser = Whitney
Friday night, Whitney and I stayed up drinking beer until four in the morning-- which wasn't the brightest way to start vacation-- except for the fact that I won a crucial dart bet and now Whitney has to wear the t-shirt of my choice for an entire day of the fishing trip: I'm open to suggestions and so far I'm thinking either an Elton John concert tee or some kind of cheesy vacation slogan shirt (Board me, I'm a pirate!)
Sometimes You Should Think INSIDE Your Brain
No sentences for a week-- we'll be at the beach and I purposely left my laptop at home, but don't get your panties in a bunch, I'll be hand-writing sentences and I'll post them when I get home; last night while drinking beer I contemplated out loud about writing seven fictitious sentences, beginning with these two:
1) Woke up in Mexico next to my new bride;
2) Mexican divorce laws are complicated;
and I said the second one loudly just as a short brown woman and her tall brown boyfriend walked out the back door of Charlie Brown's and she gave me a withering glare and it took me a second to realize that she thought I was making a racial remark directed at her . . . and I wanted to run after her and explain that I wasn't talking about her but my Spanish is rusty and so she'll have to hate me forever.
Hard Habit to Break
I commuted to work twice today; Catherine actually made me recite "take the Jeep, take the Jeep" because she needed to clean and pack the Subaru for out trip, but still, I took the Subaru . . . and I didn't realize it until I was half-way down Route 18, playing with the satellite radio (that's what clued me in, I remembered that the Jeep doesn't have satellite radio)-- so I had to turn around and do it again.
Wherein Dave Eats A Young Lady's Food (Without Permission)
After a frantic morning in class (I screwed up and permanently burned the director commentary on the DVD I wanted to show-- there was no turning it off-- so I had to come up with something to do on the fly) I ran into the English office, grabbed my sandwich, had a co-worker look up the hours of Blockbuster, and decided to walk across the orchard to get a legal copy of Michael Clayton-- but as I was about to leave the office I realized something about my sandwich . . . there was yellow cheese on it . . . and we didn't have yellow cheese at home . . . we had Swiss cheese . . . nor did we have turkey; I had eaten nearly half of a co-worker's sandwich and I didn't know what to do, so I followed the advice of everyone else: "Finish it and play dumb!" but when I was half-way across the orchard I realized that I should have just cut the sandwich in half and gave her half of my ham, swiss, and lettuce along with her turkey, yellow American, and mustard-- but it was too late and I had to face the music (someone ratted me out), but Kristyna wasn't that angry and so we swapped sandwiches and she thought mine was pretty good (aside from the balsamic vinegar, which she liked but was mildly allergic to, but I didn't see any hives on her-- and now I have learned my lesson: I will look before I eat).
Mom's a Good Teacher . . . Just Great
Yesterday, when we informed Alex that we would be watching mommy on television (on "Classroom Close-Up" on NJN) he started pacing around the sandbox, ranting: "Just great. Great. Now we'll have to watch that. Now we won't get to watch any video. We won't get to finish Meet the Robinsons," and though my wife is a celebrated and wonderful teacher, it is because she saves all her sarcasm for in the home, and now it has rubbed off on Alex.
The Best Band Name Ever
Here we are-- "The Hanging Chads"-- a teacher posted our entire performance, including the interminable fiasco with the cords, so if you want to see us actually play, fast forward (also: you can hear Ian in the background yelling "Daddy!" although I am hard to recognize and usually blocked by the PA speaker.)
The Grand Total Is . . .
After much frustration, deliberation, and soul-searching, I spent the extra cash and sprung for my first Apple product-- an Ipod Nano-- and in honor of this purchase I would like everyone to tally how much they have spent in their lifetime on portable music players -- I know there's some closet in my parents house with thirty broken Walkmen in it; I think I'm over a grand.
Poetry Versus Chemistry
High school drama . . . science teachers denounce the poetry festival . . . students are denied access to the dark artists of the pen because of quarterly reviews and quizzes in their real courses . . . tension between the departments . . . will all be forgiven by June?
Dave vs. Squirrel
I was dreading it all day, but who am I to be afraid of a little squirrel?-- so I donned my goggles, a dust mask, and a rain jacket with the hood cinched tightly around my head and wriggled into the crawl space above our bedroom ceiling; although there were no rotting carcasses, the poison was eaten and there were signs of a struggle . . . a mangled glue trap and rodent droppings, but nothing attacked me, and I was able to staple screen around the venting fan and scatter repellent everywhere-- the result: our first squirrel free night of sleep in months!
Like Stanley Milgram, I Cross The Line (But It's For Science!)
I did an activity with my students today designed to replicate Stanley Milgram's infamous obedience experiment, and I found that students enjoy torturing a friend more than they do an acquaintance-- the worst punishment inflicted (I replaced Milgram's shocks with calisthenics) was twenty squat thrusts for one wrong answer . . . on a quiz the "teacher" knew was impossible-- I wish I could get away with this kind of positive punishment as an incentive . . . I'd have the smartest, fittest students in the school.
The Culprit? My Wife
Yesterday, the sports-watch I lost weeks ago reappeared on shelf where I keep my stuff, and my question was: how did it get there?-- but after a brief but successful interrogation of my wife, I discovered that she "hid it" when the alarm was going off while she was taking a nap, and just remembered yesterday where she put it-- in the kid's food cabinet-- but if I wouldn't have asked her, I don't think would have told me her role in the mystery/crime.
Ideas . . . Where Do They Come From?
I had an epiphany last night, and I'm annoyed that I didn't think of it sooner (but you can't really control when you think of an idea-- it took me seven months to realize that I can use the giant pull down movie screen in my classroom to cover a quiz on the board, so then I don't have to photo-copy it or dictate it-- and if I forget to write it on the whiteboard before class, then I can hide behind the screen and write the questions while the students are busy doing something else, which they find very amusing) and so when Alex stumbled in with his blanket at one in the morning and squeezed between Catherine and I, I went into to his room because now he has a full sized bed and I slept there-- but I was so comfortable that I was nervous I wouldn't wake up so I need to put an alarm clock in there for next time.
No More Mr. Nice Guy (to Squirrels)
Two things that shouldn't happen on a lazy hungover Saturday: 1) Alex hit Ian on the head with a metal shovel, ripping a gash in his scalp, and 2) a squirrel leaped over my head while I was wedged in a hole in the ceiling, standing on a ladder-- my lower body in our bedroom, my upper body in our attic-- with both hands occupied with a reciprocating saw, so that if the squirrel landed on my face and started biting my cheeks, I wouldn't be able to tear it off . . . and I was certainly running the risk that if I instinctively swatted the squirrel, I'd cut off my nose with the saw (my second trip up the ladder, with a lamp, the squirrel chuckled menacingly, and I think I'm going to purchase some poison today).
Courbet Foray
It was a long strange trip, including a detour to Queens, and we were definitely the most inebriated people in the gallery, but it was certainly worth it: Courbet is the king of dogs, trout, and fleshy nudes . . . and then there was the secret gallery, which I would have missed if it wasn't for Stacey, and that's where I saw "The Origin of the World"-- I was going to post a picture, but then I thought better of it-- Google it if you dare!
Jack Watches Everything
I knew that Sam Anders was reciting lyrics from "All Along the Watchtower" from the moment he said "No reason to get excited," and I don't think he's a Cylon-- instead I think the four of them are hearing music broadcast from Earth, but I don't have anyone to discuss this with because the only person that I know who likes to talk about Battlestar Galactica is in Turkey (but I guess there's always Jack-- Jack watches everything).
It's a Playground Not a Pee Ground
Conflict at the playground: Ian was involved in some kind of incident with a long-haired boy (who I mistakenly called a girl) but his mom and some other woman sorted it out so I didn't pay much attention (I was juggling a soccer ball) until three minutes later when I heard the woman loudly remarking to her friend "but that father just kept playing with his ball while his boy was blocking the step and when I said 'Excuse me, Nicholas wants to get through here' to him he grabbed both posts and wouldn't let go" and so I walked over and said, "You know I can hear you, and I don't like to intercede all the time with the kids, and if you've got something to say you can say it to me" and she said, "If I have something to say to you I will" and then went back to talking to her friend about the consequences of allowing "aggressive behavior" but I found an ally in the other mother that was there-- she came over and made a point to tell me how much she appreciated Alex playing with her son (who had some social problems because he was on the autistic side-- but, if pressed, Alex will socialize with a fence post) and I was starting to feel better about myself as a parent, until Alex ran over and yelled "Ian peed on the mulch" and I realized my rule about being able to pee on a tree if we're outside had backfired, because now Ian was peeing on the metal post of the jungle gym, and then minutes later, sensing weakness in the long-haired boy he had bullied (who I must say, was a head taller and probably a year older than him) Ian slid down the slide and knocked him into the mulch-- but I don't think it was the same mulch that he peed on . . . and while I was discipling Ian for sliding with malicious intent (which he is normally allowed to do, with is brother . . . but considering) Alex was introducing his new friend to tree-peeing, but they were not hidden in the woods-- they were only a couple yards off the playground, so I'm sure that all these moms think I'm raising savages.
Tales of Vinnie the Roofer
Apparently, back when he lived in Youngstown, Ohio, Vinnie the Roofer was friends with Ray "Boom Boom" Mancini's brother, and he would often watch "Boom Boom" in his amateur fights; Vinnie was telling me about this while my son Ian ran around the house in a diarrhea filled pull-up diaper, so it was hard for me to pay close attention to the details because I was thinking about fecal leakage-- but I didn't want to interrupt Vinnie because he had just removed a squirrel's nest from my attic and I didn't want to seem ungrateful.
Dave Throws in the Sentence Writing Towel
After over a hundred posts, I think it's time to hang it up: I'm having trouble coming up with new ideas, I'm losing time with my family, and I've finally realized that if I could channel the energy I spend on this blog towards just one needy child, I 'd be doing the world a great service-- in short this blog is trivial, frivolous, and in no way contributes to the betterment of man; in fact, not only am I ashamed of myself for perpetuating this self-serving, egotistical waste of time and bandwith, but I'm also ashamed of you, my fans, who could be taking more initiative at work, spending more time with your own family or pets, or simply planting trees and cleaning up litter in your neighborhood instead of reading these long-winded and often grammatically suspect sentences from a small-minded man.
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