Sentence of Dave

Synco-what?

Though I pride myself on my large vocabulary, I've had my troubles recently . . . and now I'm faced with writing the most difficult sentence in my career, and it is about learning the clinical term for something that afflicts me, but I really do not want to write this sentence, for reasons I will soon explain-- and I suffer this solely for you, my diligent readers; last Wednesday in the English Office, my colleague Rachel said a string of words that sounded nothing like English: "He had a vasovagal response . . . it's a syncope," and so I asked her to explain and during her explanation, I started feeling lightheaded and my fingers started tingling and I got a strange sensation in my chest and I felt very nervous . . . almost as if I was going to pass out . . . and that's when I learned the truth: I often suffer from vasovagal responses, especially when people are talking about blood and fainting, which is a common trigger for the response . . . not that I mind actually seeing blood-- but I have trouble thinking about it (probably due to my gigantic imaginative brain) and so even as I write this sentence in the school library, I feel as though I might plant my face into the keyboard, but I soldier on anyway, dizzy but validated, because my response has a definition and and so I am not a freak.

Death Be Not Proud of A Turtle

The boys and I took a trip to Sandy Hook last Thursday, and despite the rain, poison ivy and mosquitoes, we had a good time, especially out on North Beach; Ian's highlight was the dead terrapin he found in a foamy and debris filled tide pool-- he poked it with a stick and when the head bobbed to the surface, we noticed that the eyes had been eaten out of the skull-- and this grisly image must have stuck with him because on the car ride home he said, "I'm proud that I found that turtle, but I'm not proud that it was dead and had no eyes."

One Thing At A Time

When trying to improve at a sport, it's best to focus on one skill at a time: in the heat of competition it's near impossible to remember anything, let alone two separate things . . . and so I gave my son Alex one thing to improve during his soccer game on Sunday, and I think the "one thing at a time method" worked, as he played well and assisted in his team's only goal . . . what skill did I ask him to work on? . . . just before he ran onto the field, I told him to try to avoid prolonged holding and "adjustment" of his genitals during the course of play-- as this not only made him lose focus on the ball, but was also inappropriate in mixed company-- and while he wasn't perfect in this endeavor, he was certainly more successful than in the previous game, and that's all you can ask of a seven year old boy.

Bite Me?

Last week during first period, one of my students announced that she had successfully passed her Road Test and was now the proud owner of a New Jersey Probationary Driver's License, and another girl turned to her and said, "Did you get somebody to bite it?" and I found this statement odd and said so, and she explained that it's good luck to get someone to bite your new driving license . . . but none of the other kids had heard of this tradition, nor had the students in the class next door . . . but I did find this reference to what must be a rather obscure practice, which may stem from biting a gold coin to tell if it's real (and the resultant Olympic tradition of biting your gold medal).

A Contradiction So Bottomless That Even Dave Cannot Resolve It

I love the television show Community and I love claymation . . . but I hate the claymation episode of Community.

Thanks Dan

Lately, I've been obsessed with the TV show Community . . . it's a sitcom satirizing traditional TV Tropes (and if you haven't been to the TV Tropes web-site, block out a few hours and check it out) and creator and writer Dan Harmon, in an interview in Wired magazine, explains his method of organizing beats, scenes, episodes, and entire seasons of the show; he calls his graphic organizer an "embryo" and he ensures that the elements are present at every step before he moves on . . . and so last week, while I was teaching narrative writing in my composition class, preparing kids to write their college essays, I told a number of stories (not that I don't tell stories the rest of the year) and I found that my stories subscribed to Harmon's organizer, as did the narrative models we used from the text (Orwell's "Shooting an Elephant" and "Salvation" by Langston Hughes and "Me Talk Pretty One Day" by David Sedaris) and so here is Harmon's embryo, in case you want to try it out:

1. A character is in a zone of comfort
2. But they want something
3. They enter an unfamiliar situation
4. Adapt to it
5. Get what they wanted
6. Pay a heavy price for it
7. Then return to their familiar situation
8. Having changed

and while all stories don't conform to this pattern-- especially once you get modern and post-modern and characters never adapt (Kafka) or fail to get what they want (Hemingway) or do not pay a heavy price (Nicholson Baker) or remain static during the course of the story (Camus)-- I think that the most satisfying stories-- whether your talking Into The Wild or Moby Dick-- usually do follow this archetype.

Asymmetrical Asynchronous Control

My parents have a pinball machine in their basement, and my Dad was impressed that my son Ian could use the flippers independently-- apparently even some adults have trouble with this skill-- but Ian mastered this when he was three . . . and he seems to have some weird control over both sides of his body-- he kicks lefty and throws righty-- and he's always had the ability to raise one eyebrow, and in a far more natural manner than Mr. Spock.

Dave's Second Best Idea Ever!

Fans of this blog may recall Dave's Best Idea Ever, and might even be familiar with some of Dave's Bad Ideas, and so-- because Dave is a humble man who responds to the opinions of his readers-- I will let you decide which category this new idea of mine belongs, but-- not that I mean to sway you-- based on empirical evidence, I think it should be in the former . . . and I will warn you that this is a Soccer Idea, but I think that even non-soccer folks will appreciate its brilliance . . . The Problem is this: it is difficult to get very young soccer players to pass the ball to their teammates, or even to remember that their teammates actually exist, and so I wanted to create a drill that not only encouraged passing, but also had an element of immediacy to it, and not only that, I wanted the drill to reward passing instead of dribbling, which is difficult to do when the players are young and the skill levels are various, but I figured out the solution to this insoluble problem and I present it to you free-of-charge because I consider this blog to be my public service to the universe (because there's no way I'm ever going to serve hobos at a soup kitchen) and so here is the answer: zombies . . . little kids know how to act like zombies, and so I made one child be the "zombie" in the drill, and this "zombie" must hold a ball out in front of them (which is a bit mummy-like, but no one questioned it, and it slows them down) and then I instructed the zombie that all he or she desires is to zombie-walk at the ball and tag the person with the ball at their feet with their "zombie-ball" and so I put three kids in a box made with cones and told them that they have to keep the ball inside the box and away from the zombie-- but they can't get tagged by a zombie or kick the ball out of the box, or else they become the zombie-- and the zombie moves slow enough for just about any player to have enough time to look up and make a decent pass, but the zombie is fast enough (and usually making scary noises) and this encourages the player to get rid of the ball quickly and to pass it to a teammate . . . instead of just dribbling aimlessly . . . and the drill certainly makes them realize that there are other people on their team, and they understood quickly enough that the best way to defeat the zombie was to stay spread out and kick it far away when the zombie approached, and, for once, they were doing something that approximated actual soccer, passing a ball around from person to person-- and even though they were only avoiding a zombie, it still made them behave in a totally different way than they normally behave on the pitch-- and one group got good enough that I had to introduce a second zombie . . . and now I am dreaming of an entire side of zombies, forcing the children to spread out and knock the ball around like a miniature Manchester United . . . so all I can tell you is, give it a try and enjoy the results, and I am positive you will admit that this is in the running for Dave's Second Best Idea Ever.

A Sight Gag Just For You

You might recall that I permanently damaged my iPod while swimming with it in a waterproof case called an Otterbox-- but I was lucky enough to know a student with an ex-boyfriend who worked at an Apple Store, and, despite the water damage, he set me up with a new iPod, which I did not submerge underwater-- but I still used my old Otterbox to protect the new iPod from rain and sweat, until the Otterbox's head-phone jack broke . . . and now I need a new water-resistant case for my iPod, but until I get one I am using a Ziploc sandwich bag as an ersatz but physically humorous water-proof case, and now I am actually becoming resistant to buying a new case for my iPod because it's so much fun to tell people in the office that I just got a great new water-proof case for my iPod (and most people at least feign some interest because it's a technological subject . . . Katie actually asked if I got an Otterbox) and then once I've built up some interest and drama about my new-fangled waterproof case, I pull out my iPod, in the clear plastic sandwich bag, with the headphones snaking out of the corner, and the people laugh and laugh, and I think to myself: I could have been a great prop comic, just like Carrot Top.

The Rise And Fall of North Eastern Fall

Some folks love the smell of napalm in the morning, but not me-- I love the smell of decaying fungus in the morning . . . last Sunday morning to be specific, I was loving the reeky, sweet, pungent odors of an entire wheelbarrow full of weird toadstools, giant fan shaped fungi, and clusters of long stemmed mushrooms, all of which needed to be removed from my backyard, as they were quickly turning to a bug infested slime . . . and I know I shouldn't complain about things I can't control but this is the worst fall ever-- what happened to late September Sunday morning sitting on the porch in a sweatshirt and sweatpants, drinking coffee in the crisp autumn air, enjoying the rattle of dried leaves, without having to fend off giant jungle mosquitoes?

Where's The Beef . . . From?

Here at Sentence of Dave, the staff occasionally provides more than the usual drivel, and this is one of those occasions; in the past, I revealed the shocking nature of beef brisket and today I will discuss another cut of meat, the hanger steak . . . Wikipedia explains that "it is derived from the diaphragm of the steer" . . . but "diaphragm steak" sounds disgusting (and is also difficult to spell) and so it has more conveniently been referred to as skirt steak and "the butcher's cut" because it has long been a butcher's secret as to how delicious it tastes . . . I got to try this steak at The Frog and The Peach-- a well-regarded rather expensive restaurant that I would ordinarily never visit, but because it was Restaurant Week in New Brunswick, they had a 35$ Prix Fixe menu and so Catherine and I decided to treat ourselves, and it was well worth it-- the hanger steak, which is very lean and has the potential to be tough if it's not marinated and cooked right, was sensationally good-- I don't eat much beef these days and I almost never eat a steak, but if I could eat one of these every night, I would: hanger steak is super lean (and I hate any fat on my meat) and very firm and consistent . . . essentially it's steak that looks and tastes as little like a chunk of cow as possible, and that's the way I like my beef; coincidentally, the night before, I was out late at the Park Pub, and on the way home I got a cheeseburger from White Rose-- and it was late enough that it was technically the same day as our outing to The Frog and The Peach, and so in a short span I consumed two very different grades of beef . . . with a substantial price difference between the two meals . . . a White Rose cheeseburger costs $3.05, including tax (I had to borrow a nickel from Connel) and so it was less than 10% of what the hanger steak cost me . . . and though White Rose doesn't point out what cut of meat they use in their burgers, the important part of the story is that both meals were equally delicious.

Yin and Yang

I stayed out far too late at the Park Pub on Thursday night, and was suffering at school the next day-- and I knew I had a long afternoon in store because I had an away game . . . which equals two long and loud bus rides, Friday afternoon traffic, and lot of waiting around at the school with 21 eighth grade boys -- but I accepted this as my punishment for staying out late and drank some coffee and resigned myself to my fate . . . but then it started to rain buckets and the 9th grade coach told me his game on Saturday was already cancelled and I thought to myself: Odd, the universe is going to reward me for staying out late . . . my game will be cancelled and I'll have the afternoon off but when I went to the Athletic Office to hear the good news, I was informed that my game was still on, and again, I took the news stoically because I felt that the universe should punish me for staying out late . . . and the afternoon wore on and I grew more sleepy, but I received no e-mail cancelling the game, and so I got some candy and coffee on my way to the middle school, parked, carried the water cooler and ice chest into the building, and ran into one of my soccer players, and he was coming out the school door in jeans . . . and he informed me that they made a last minute announcement that the game was cancelled . . . and so I got into my car and texted my wife the news and she informed me that my parents had taken the kids for the night and that it was Restaurant Week in New Brunswick and we were going out for a nice meal . . . so in the end, the universe rewarded me for staying out late, which may seem odd, but I think it is because I accepted my punishment so willingly and with such stolid resignation.

Vocabulary Woes . . .

Friday afternoon, Liz was scrambling to make photo-copies in the English office, but the machine was jammed, and so I gallantly offered to walk across the school to the copy room and make her the copies (I actually wasn't being that chivalrous, I was hung-over and needed some exercise and a purpose in my life) and she thanked me and said, "Can you judge it for me, also?" and for a moment I was stumped-- I assumed "judging it" was some obscure photo-copy terminology . . . perhaps it meant to shrink down the text and copy it horizontally, like leaves in a book or something . . . and so I said, "I don't know how to do that," but she explained that she just wanted me to attempt the quiz and decide if it was fair-- so as I walked across the building I took a look at it, but when I saw it was a matching vocabulary quiz I nearly lost interest (because as everyone who has the patience to listen to me knows, I claim to be a walking dictionary) but then I noticed that this was no ordinary vocabulary quiz . . . it was only seven words, but these were the words: convivial, congenial, amicable, affable, jocular, levity, and cordial . . . and, you had to discern between seven extremely similar matching definitions, and needless to say, I did NOT get 100% and perhaps my claim that I am a walking dictionary is a bit overblown . . . but perhaps I'm a walking thesaurus.

A Sporting Paradox

I've been reading Soccernomics: Why England Loses, Why Germany and Brazil Win, and Why the U.S., Japan, Australia, Turkey--and Even Iraq--Are Destined to Become the Kings of the World's Most Popular Sport, and one of the many fascinating things the authors point out is that though America is thought of as the great proponent of the "free-market," its sporting leagues are much more socialist and egalitarian than other countries-- we have salary caps and media profit sharing (in the NFL, all television profit is shared equally) and merchandise profit sharing (outside of New York, the Yankees receive only one-thirtieth the profit on each cap sold, the same as every other team in baseball) to ensure that there is some parity in our professional sports, while the countries with far more socialized governments-- countries with a larger "safety net," with unionized labor and government health-care, and cradle to the grave benefits-- let soccer players be bought and sold like commodities on an exchange, and let the teams with the most money (i.e. Manchester United) reign supreme.

Another Movie

If you're single, self-indulgent, past your prime, seeking love, and drink too much, then you'll really dig Mike Leigh's new movie Another Year, and empathize with poor Mary-- but otherwise, you'll cringe during almost every scene, but I still recommend the film . . . the acting is perfect and the actors are imperfect, and the result will make you feel good about your repetitive, mundane life . . . and if it gets you down, then watch a more upbeat Leigh film: Happy Go Lucky.

Even Subjective Questions Can Have Wrong Answers

My Shakespeare class was asking me a number of questions about how Shakespeare's plays were enacted in Elizabethan times, and while I had a few answers for them, I eventually had to admit that one of the best uses of a time machine would be to go back and see a production Hamlet or Twelfth Night at the Globe Theatre, and then I asked the class to speculate on this hypothetical question: if they had two chances to use a time machine to see something in the past (not alter history) then what was the other thing they should see-- besides a Shakespeare play-- and a student quickly guessed the other "correct" answer . . . which is a dinosaur, of course, and a few students debated my "correct" answers-- someone suggested the Lincoln Assassination, which I must admit is a pretty good thing to go back and see-- and I decided to ask my friend and colleague Kevin, who was teaching English next door, if he knew the correct answers to this thought experiment . . . and I am so glad I asked him, because my classes laughed about his answer for the rest of the day (and I will admit that it was before 8 AM in the morning and I caught him off guard, but still, his answer was egregious) and so after I posed the question, he thought for a moment and said, "So it can be anything in the past, personal or in history, right?" and I confirmed this, and then he thought hard, searching for the correct answer and finally said, "Maybe I should see my own birth?" and then he realized what he said, and I said to him, "You want to see yourself coming out of your own mother's uterus! That's disgusting!" and my class agreed that no one should want to see their own mother's distended private parts (and I know Kevin's mother, which made it worse) and Kevin realized his error and tried to back-pedal quickly: "Okay, I take that one back . . . how about a dinosaur . . . I'd like to see a dinosaur" and we all agreed that was a better choice.

A Question of Curd

My wife took a bite of her salad Sunday night and instantly decided that the bleu cheese had gone bad, but-- despite the fact that she has a more acute sense of smell than me-- I questioned her judgement because I'm not sure there is any way to ascertain if certain stinky cheeses (such as Roquefort, Limburger, and Stilton) have passed their prime . . . and though we checked the package and found that the cheese was three days beyond the expiration date, I could taste no difference and I suffered no adverse effects from the slightly stinkier stinky cheese.

Dish Washing Corollary #245

My wife has often corrected my method of loading the dishwasher-- apparently I don't categorize and group like items, and as a result I don't maximize the number of items that can fit on the bottom rack . . . and I'm also a bit cavalier with the kinds of items I place on the bottom rack and this leads to all kinds of trouble-- but Saturday Catherine also informed me of a Dish Washing Corollary with which I was not familiar: if the dishwasher is running and someone has just washed all the other dirty dishes, pots and pans that did not fit into the dish washer by hand and so the sink is totally clean and clear, then you should not toss a dirty dish into the sink (even though this is the normal protocol . . . the dirty dishes eventually get loaded into the dishwasher) because the sink is clean and someone has put in the time hand washing all the other dishes and so you should hand-wash this lone dish in order to show appreciation for the work the other person has done (even though hand-washing a single dish is a major waste of water, which I pointed out . . . and then I picked up another dirty breakfast dish off the kitchen table and asked, "Do I have to wash this one, too?" and then I dropped the subject because I knew I was pushing it and didn't want to get in big trouble . . . but, for the record, I'm not sure about the logic of this Dish Washing Corollary).

I'm Still Waiting . . .

Still no apology for The Potato Chip Incident (and while I'm on the subject, still no apology from my neighbors for the Out of Control Ivy Bed Incident . . . and you may be thinking: Who does Dave think he is? How can he demand apologies when he's constantly offending people?-- but after I put my foot in my mouth, I always apologize for my gaffe . . . unlike some people).

I'm Waiting . . .

Still no apology for The Potato Chip Incident (obviously the author of the offending e-mail is neither familiar with the experiments of Dan Ariely nor the film Monty Python and the Holy Grail).

The Potato Chip Incident

I ran the 8th grade soccer try-outs last week, and it was a stressful time both for me and for the forty-three prospective players that I had to evaluate . . . so when I received an e-mail Wednesday night from a disgruntled player that had the words "belittled" and "disrespected" in the first line, I took it quite hard, but then by the second line I knew this was not the kid writing to me, but a parent posing as the kid, because of the the phrase "to have a grown man embarrass a thirteen year-old boy in front of all his peers is truly not something I would have expected from a coach" and then by the third line I knew that this was something even more bizarre than an irate e-mail from a parent posing as a kid, as the reason cited for the narrator's anguish was "the potato chip comment"; I read the e-mail to my wife, at a loss as to what it meant or what had happened, as I remembered this particular player as being a bit chubby and unable to keep up with the running-- so much so that I never actually spoke to him (I run with the kids and so if you're at the front of the pack, then you get the added bonus of being able to chat with me . . . otherwise, I'm setting up drills and small sided scrimmages and taking notes on players) and so I sent an apologetic e-mail back to the "kid" saying I was sorry he felt this way, but that I only remembered showering the players with compliments (they're the strongest group I've ever had) and that perhaps he misheard or misunderstood, as I did not recall any "potato chip" comment or even remember making any comment to him . . . and then a few minutes after sending the e-mail, I remembered what had happened-- and if you're expecting another Awkward Moment of Dave, you're going to be disappointed-- while we were running full field sprints at the end of practice, this player went down to a knee in the middle of the field and started rubbing his leg and so I jogged over to him and asked him if he had a calf cramp and he confirmed this, and so I said-- as I've said to players a thousand times before-- "Okay, keep rubbing it, drink lots of water, and when you go home, eat a banana or some some potato chips" and then the rest of us ran on and I explained to the players that bananas have potassium and potato chips have sodium and potassium, and those minerals help with cramps (I could have also recommended kale, but 8th graders aren't usually partial to obscure leafy greens) and-- thinking back-- I'm sure the chubby kid with the calf-cramp missed the nutritional component of my advice, as he was in a world of pain that only a calf-cramp can create, and so I sent another e-mail to the "player" explaining that when I told him to "go home and eat a banana or some potato chips" that I was being serious because these foods cure cramps and I included a link to a web-site that explained the physiological reasons for this, and I explained that I was in no way belittling him or disrespecting him . . . and I am guessing that the kid didn't interpret the comment this way either, but that when he went home, he told his mom that try-outs were very difficult and that he got a cramp and that the coach told him to "go home and eat potato chips" and his mom-- who is probably more sensitive about the kid's weight than the kid is-- interpreted the tone of this phrase for the kid-- she heard this as me telling her chubby son that he was worthless and should "go home and eat potato chips"-- and so she wrote the angry e-mail that unfairly accused me of picking on a thirteen year old . . . and what really gets my goat is that once again, I am owed an apology and I'm never going to get it, because the kid never showed up to try-outs again and the mom never wrote back explaining how sorry she was, either posing as her son, or-- as she should do-- as herself, but this time contrite and penitent.

Dave's Radical New Diet!

Diet Tip #2: here is the best way to avoid snacking at night . . . once you finish your dinner, go straight to sleep.

My Big Chance To Earn A Darwin Award!

I can't wait for the cold weather to arrive-- and not just for my usual reasons-- I also have some evidence there might be a wasp's nest in my Jeep because 1) my son Ian found a wasp hiding in the floor trash and 2) while I was driving to work on Monday, in silence because my stereo no longer works, I distinctly heard buzzing coming from the back of the car . . . and the back of the car is full of coaching equipment, trash, and-- most significantly-- debris from when I ripped out a rotting wood fence and used my Jeep to transport load after load of wood and ivy and brush to the park dumpster (so lots of sticks and leaves and organic material like that) and there certainly could have been a few wasp eggs in that mess and now it's covered by coolers, a med-kit, cones, balls, and other soccer related stuff, and there's no way I'm cleaning all this out, so my only hope is that we get an early frost that kills them before they decide to swarm me . . . otherwise, you might read about my horrific wasp induced car wreck on this site.

How Do You Not Be "That Parent"?

I am finding it extremely difficult to watch my son Alex's travel team soccer games without "coaching" from the sidelines . . . I think I have coached soccer too long and I have lost my ability to simply be a fan; I'm trying to chat as much as possible with the other parents to divert my attention from the game, but it's a losing battle-- inevitably, I have to disperse some of wisdom I've garnered from nearly twenty years of coaching and so I yell: "Spread out!" or "Relax and pick your head up!" or some other brilliant phrase that will certainly ensure a victory for the Eagles (and I am certainly aware of the irony of yelling the word "relax").

My Wife Is A Terrible Alcoholic

My wife is not a raging alcoholic (and I am thankful for this) but she is an awful alcoholic . . . around dinner time she often opens a beer or pours herself a glass of wine, but she always misplaces it and never finishes it; I usually find it later-- half-full-- on the counter or next to the computer . . . she apparently doesn't know that if you pour yourself some alcohol after a long day of work, then that stuff should stay glued to your hand until you finish it . . . she does the same thing with coffee in the morning: she says that she "likes the idea of having a cup of coffee" but never finds the time to sit and actually finish a mug (I usually find her coffee cup-- hours later and three quarters full-- on a book shelf or next to the TV).

A Psychological Question

I am an introvert and-- for me-- being around people is like drinking alcohol: an initial sugar rush, loss of inhibitions, and the usual giddiness-- but after too much time with people, the inevitable hang-over results and I need time alone to re-charge . . . and I wonder if being an extrovert is the opposite: if time alone, time without other people to interact with, actually drains an extrovert-- the way Bill Compton drains Sookie Stackhouse in the back of Alceide's truck-- and they need to be around people to feel normal, energetic, and grounded again.

A Very Special Episode of Sentence of Dave

In memoriam of the Ten Year Anniversary of 9/11, I'd like to postulate a theory about a fraternity brother and rugby teammate of mine that died that day-- we called him Lud and he was an excellent guy with a habit for butchering idiomatic phrases . . . I recall him saying "blond as a bat" and "all bundled up like Utah Jack" and "kids were younger in those days," and perhaps those who remember him could contribute some others . . . and I am wondering if my wife has been possessed by Lud's spirit, because she has been exhibiting the same trouble with stylistic expressions and cliches-- although Catherine's make a bit more sense than Lud's-- here are a few examples (along with the original phrase): "fly by the handle" instead of "fly by night:";"sun cancer" instead of "skin cancer";" speed ball" instead of "fast ball";"buttons and whistles" instead of "bells and whistles";"summer shanty" instead of "summer shandy" and "living with the fishes" instead of "swimming with the fishes."

Coming Delusions

Once again, I am contemplating writing a novel-- but I'm not going to reveal too much about the plot, because I don't want to get everyone excited over something that I probably won't follow through on-- but I will tell you this: there's a shitload of robots . . . and they're living in the jungle.

Frankly Sookie, I Don't Give A Fang

It's been a summer of True Blood, and while I love the show-- cheesiness and all-- I could care less about Sookie and Bill's tumultuous affair . . . in fact, besides Sookie's mind reading and one-off impression of how Bill says her name, I wouldn't mind if those two were eaten by werewolves . . . I'm much more interested in the minor characters, the sub-plots, the supernatural, and the satire . . . it reminds me of how I felt about Cheers when I was a kid, I was far more invested in the adventures of Norm, Cliff, Coach, Woody and Frasier than I was in Sam and Diane's love/hate relationship.

I Burst A Metaphorical Balloon (Only to See It Inflated By A Kinder Soul)

The Annual Labor Day Rutgers Pool balloon toss ended in a draw, because all the remaining competitors' balloons burst on the final throw . . . and so I declared curtly, "Nobody wins," but the sweet mom next to me smiled and simultaneously declared the opposite: "Everybody wins!"

I'm Back, Back in the Sisyphean Groove

The futility of reality has rudely interrupted my idyllic summer: after bailing Hurricane Irene induced sewer water from 2 AM until 7AM, we finally got the basement dry . . . but then a deluge sprang from the shower drain, and despite our bucket brigade, we could not lower the tide, and so all our previous labor was worthless . . . we had to admit defeat and carry my mother-in-law's furniture and belongings upstairs; the next day, while we were cleaning up, my back neighbor-- who lives at the bottom of the ivy covered hill behind my house-- motioned me over and very nicely explained that her husband thought that my stone-henge wall project was slightly over the property line and asked if I could move some of the rocks in case "they wanted to build a fence in five years" and though I was extremely pissed off at this, for reasons I will explain shortly-- I remained civil (I knew her husband-- who I've never talked to-- put her up to it) and I never mentioned that I had to tear out our original wood fence because their ivy engulfed and destroyed it, despite my attempts to trim it from our side, and I also didn't mention the countless cases of poison ivy I endured clearing out their weeds and vines and jungle-growth-- for the last six years, without even a "thank you"-- and despite the fact that my stones are clearly on the original fence line, which -- I checked the deed-- was build a bit inside our property line, and despite the fact that the rocks are to: 1) keep the hill from eroding 2) hold my mulch and top-soil in place 3) provide a beautiful border for the row of arbor vitae I've planted-- of which they will get a better view than me-- and 4) these stones will provide some physical buffer that will block the spread of their ivy, a buffer that I can stand on so I can do their yard-work because they have NEVER weeded this ivy bed or trimmed the ivy, despite this all this, and despite the fact that all my mother-in-law's furniture and household goods from the flooded basement were on our porch being dried and cleaned, despite all this, I decided to be diplomatic and roll a few of the giant rocks a up the hill a bit to assuage them . . . though as soon as I find some even bigger boulders, I'm stacking them atop the ones I have so that they slowly slide down and crush their ivy . . . and in truth I'm actually glad for all this pointless labor, because it is mentally preparing me for the endless waves of essays that my students will soon be handing me, from which there will be no respite until next summer.

The Waitresses Do NOT KNow What Boys Like (But I Do)

I wish my boys liked getting lost in a good book on a hot summer afternoon, but that's not the case . . . and The Waitresses have got it all wrong, they don't want to touch (or have anything remotely to do with) girls; I thought my son Ian liked winter, because all summer he kept telling me that he couldn't wait for the cold and the snow, so that we could have a snowball fight . . . but sometimes you don't know what you like until you try it . . . and when I saw my boys try it, then there was no question as to what boys like, and I am certain of this because I learned it empirically, through my powers of interview and observation: BOYS LIKE TO JELLYFISH FIGHT . . . last week at Midway Beach, my boys collected buckets of jellyfish and then hurled them at each other for over an hour, and I've never seen them happier . . . and my six year old son Ian explained why: "Jellyfish fighting is better than snowball fighting because a jellyfish doesn't hurt as much as a snowball when it hits you in the face."

P.S. Bucket of Jellyfish is a good name for a trance-band.

This Is Different Than It Sounds (Not That There's Anything Wrong With That)

The other night at the Park Pub, one of our regular gang tried to explain what was going to happen at the Rutgers Pool on Labor Day Weekend . . . apparently the staff was going to throw a "greased watermelon" into the deep end of the pool and then you could do "some wrestling" for the aforementioned greased watermelon with the "buff lifeguards," and we thought this sounded like a rather odd event to happen at a family pool, but he insisted that not only were their no erotic overtones to the event, but that it was a manly pursuit . . . and now that I know of what he speaks, I can attest: it is a manly pursuit; the event works like this

1) prior to the event one of the pool employees coats a watermelon with petroleum jelly

2) the willing adults and teenagers (no one under thirteen allowed in this melee) are split into two teams

3) the watermelon is tossed into the deep end

4) no goggles are to be worn

5) each team is trying to maneuver the watermelon to their side-- which is indicated before the event begins-- and then raise it above the water and out of the pool

6) the head life-guard asked us not to be too violent, which proved impossible . . . for the first few minutes I was clueless as to where the watermelon was-- as there were thirty adults treading water and diving for it-- in fact, I dove down once to grab the melon, only to find it was the pool drain-- but then someone near me had the melon and I stripped it from him and turned over, and-- like an otter places a clam shell on his belly-- I balanced the watermelon on my stomach and started kicking for dear life . . . I advanced the melon nearly to the wall and kicked a few friends in the ribs before it slid away from me, but luckily one of the buff lifeguards that was on our team (Team Two, baby!) retrieved it and lifted it over the edge of the pool and spiked it down, breaking the melon and ensuring that we did not have to play another round, which was best for all parties involved . . . so the lesson here is that if a buff lifeguard asks you to wrestle around with a greased watermelon, don't get too excited because it's going to be extremely ugly, not hot and sexy.

Individuals Tending Towards Savagery Is A Great Name For A Punk-Rock Band

Sentence of Dave has often discussed risk assessment . . . it's difficult to decide what to worry about in a world where so much unfiltered information is so readily accessible . . . and so I will place you on the horns of another anxiety-filled dilemma: should you worry more about Individuals Tending Towards Savagery, a radical Mexican anti-technology group that praises the writings of Ted Kaczynski and recently bombed two Mexican nano-technology professors at the Monterrey Technological Institute, or should you worry about their prediction: that nanotechnology research will result in the creation of nano-cyborgs, which will be able to self-replicate automatically without the help of humans and eventually form an exponentially increasing "gray-goo" that will smother all life on earth?

How Much Better is 1493 is Than 1491? It's Two Better . . .

Charles Mann's new book 1493: Uncovering The New World Columbus Created is worth the price of admission simply for the chapter on malaria, but my favorite section covers the phenomenon of the quilombo-- a fugitive slave town established in the forests and jungles of South and Central America . . . of the millions of slaves imported to the Americas, countless thousands escaped the horrors of the cane fields and silver mines by vanishing into the jungle to establish communities "protected by steep terrain, thickly packed trees, treacherous rivers, and lethal booby traps" and these settlements-- often built in conjunction with the natives, who were also targeted for slavery-- endured for decades or even centuries (El Salvador's quilombo Liberdade has a population of 600,000 and is said to be the largest Afro- American community in the Western Hemisphere) and Mann's country by country history of these off-the-grid villages, towns and cities, which (to an untrained eye) were often indistinguishable from pristine jungle and which existed in surprisingly close proximity to the white settlements, with the expected consequences: the denizens of the quilombos waged guerrilla warfare, engaged in diplomacy, and traded with the ruling Spanish, Dutch, and Portuguese; the Europeans usually gave up on the fight and negotiated because they were laid low from jungle diseases that the natives and African Americans were immune to . . . and because Charles Mann enlightened me on so many new topics in such a detailed and engaging manner, I am giving this book the highest honor that The Sentence of Dave can bestow: it scores 1493 points out of a possible 1491 and I am replacing Mann's previous book 1491: New Revelations of the Americas Before Columbus with the sequel on my list of 105 Books to Read Before You Die . . . congratulations Charles Mann, I can imagine how proud you are to make The List.

The 9 Billion Sentences of Dave

In Arthur C. Clarke's short story "The Nine Billion Names of God," a group of Tibetan monks-- aided by Western computer programmers-- seek to list every name given to The Almighty, which they believe is the purpose of mankind . . . and monks also believe that once this enormous list is complete that God will bring the universe to an end, and though the programmers are skeptical of the eschatological prediction of the monks and leave just before the listing program finishes-- because they don't want to be around a bunch of disappointed mystics-- as they ride their horses through a mountain pass they notice that "overhead, without any fuss, the stars were going out," and though I do not claim any such grand plans for The Sentence of Dave, there are times when I think that if I get the right words in the perfect order that something magical will happen and I will blink out of existence just like the stars in the

Forces of Nature

I recently learned several lessons about the power of nature: 1) the earth will shake when it wants to shake 2) a hurricane can ruin your basement and your vacation . . . 3) you can build a sand castle monolithic enough to survive the incoming tide, but it will never be a match for the destructive force of a cute baby (and if the baby is cute enough, as this one was, then it's impossible to admonish said baby and instead, all you can do is watch the destruction).

What Does Mandatory Mean?

We were in Sea Isle City when the "mandatory evacuation" for Cape May County was signed by the Governor, but apparently mandatory means different things to different men-- despite the mandatory order to evacuate, we hung out on the beach Friday with a number of other stalwart vacationers, as the weather was beautiful (the weatherman said, "DO NOT BE FOOLED!") and the water wasn't particularly rough . . . I went for a swim and then Alex and I were skim-boarding when a lifeguard in a sand vehicle informed us that there was a mandatory evacuation and the beach was closed . . . but when I asked him if we had to leave the beach, he told us we were free to stay, and then another lifeguard talked to us while we were skim-boarding, and after advising us that there was a mandatory evacuation, he said that surfers were allowed to surf but people weren't allowed to swim (and, of course, I had already deflated my paddle-board) and then the next lifeguard we saw told us we couldn't skim-board and advised us that there was a mandatory evacuation and suggested, because of traffic, that we "stay the day and enjoy the beach," and then he told us we could go into the water ankle deep but that he was "going for a swim because he could," and he hated to bother us except that his boss was right over there, and for the rest of the day we watched the lifeguards cruise up and down the beach, busting people and not busting them for various infractions (Alex skim-boarded a few more times, but then got busted again) and, finally, we packed and "evacuated," which actually felt more like driving home in some traffic than an actual evacuation and I think next time they either need to get some people with bullhorns-- because that's what I imagine when I hear the word "mandatory"-- or else say we "strongly suggest" that you leave town.

Headline: Hurricane Prevents Heart Attacks!

So our communal beach vacation was going to culminate on Friday night in a frenzied bout of much anticipated frying (Michelle brought a deep fryer) and all week suggestions were made about what to deep fry-- Dom called these suggestions "fry-deas"-- and items such as watermelon, frozen Snickers, Oreos, Twinkies, bacon, and maraschino cherries (which are not as toxic as legend suggests) were all slated for the oil, but lucky for our arteries, Hurricane Irene rolled into town and saved us from this orgy of saturated fat.

Next Time . . .

Since I use this blog as a back-up for my rather faulty memory, here are the things I need to remember for the next hurricane 1) get a small generator to power the pump in case the power goes out (lucky for us it didn't) 2) set an alarm so we can check the basement shower stall because a flood, unlike an earthquake, is quiet and easy to sleep through 3) set up the wet-vacuum ahead of time in case my mother-in-law sleeps through the flood and doesn't turn on the pump 4) get some sand-bags 5) buy several more submersible pumps, because one pump is no match for a hurricane 6) forget numbers one through five because it's all futile and no human can withstand the surge . . . all our bailing and pumping was for naught . . . but three pumps will empty the basement 7) do not attempt to build a Stonehenge type monument with giant boulders in the yard the morning before a hurricane strikes because you might have to repeatedly carry a full wet-vac up the basement stairs in the middle of the night and you should save your energy for this (and I think what really did me in was when I wheeled my largest boulder into place and tipped the wheelbarrow, only to see the boulder bounce over the intended spot and roll all the way down the hill into the middle of my neighbor's yard . . . I was so angry that I ran down the hill, picked up the boulder, and sprinted up the hill with it in my arms-- this is a great work-out but not recommended before a hurricane).

Where Were You When You Didn't Feel The Earthquake?

I missed my big chance to feel the earth shake to the tune of 5.8 on the Richter scale because I was in the ocean supervising five children in a melee on an inflatable turtle . . . and when I got out of the water and my wife told me her beach chair shook for ten seconds, I didn't believe her-- because I didn't want to believe that I was gypped out of my big chance to feel a genuine earthquake . . . but at least I got some taste of disaster week: I bailed water all night from my flooded basement.

Didja Know #3 (Brought To You By Charles C. Mann)

Honeybees are from England . . . there were none in America until someone traveling to Jamestown brought some over . . . and before this European plants, vegetables, and trees couldn't thrive, but the European honeybee will pollinate anything, so this "English fly" is what really allowed outside plant species to take off int eh New World . . . and I am sure everyone knows some plant or creature that was part of the Columbian exchange . . . chile peppers and pineapples and sweet potatoes and potatoes and tomatoes and chocolate all came from the New World, and the llamas were quickly replaced by European horses, goats, cows, and pigs . . . the idea of the nomadic Navaho Indian did not exist until the Spanish brought them horses, which made it easy to raid villages on the plains, before that they lived in cities and had to walk.

Didja Know #2 (Brought To You by Charles C. Mann)

Didja know that you can live healthily on potatoes and milk-- the potato provides every nutrient except vitamin A and D-- and so Irish workers often lived solely on potatoes (12 pounds a day) and milk . . . you also might not know (but the Andean Indians do) that if you leave potatoes outside to freeze and thaw repeatedly-- which ruptures the cell walls-- and then squeeze the water out of them and cure them in the sun, that you have produced squishy blobs that when cooked in stew resembles gnocchi.

Didja Know #1 (Brought To You By Charles C. Mann)

I have a habit of reading non-fiction books that force me to say the ever-annoying phrase "Didja know . . ." followed by some inane fact that no one but myself cares about-- sorry-- and I'm halfway through another book like this-- 1493: Uncovering the New World Columbus Created by Charles C. Mann-- and (lucky for you) I read his earlier book 1491: New Revelation of the Americas Before Columbus before I began writing this blog, so you won't have to learn the truth about the civilizations that were here when the Europeans arrived, but, since I am on vacation, I will provide you with some interesting ideas from 1493 over the next few days, some of which I knew before I read the book, and some of which you might know as well . . . so here we go: didja know that the most potent form of malaria was imported from the swamps of Southern England to America, and was a major cause of why slavery took root in the South . . . because while indentured servants were cheaper than buying a slave, they kept dying of malaria, while the African Americans, due to sickle cell and Duffy antigen mutations, were more resistant to the plasmodium parasite and so-- though no one knew about the parasite itself-- plantations that used slaves fared better than plantations that used indentured servants and this advantage propelled them to success and gave slavery a strong hold below the malarial Mason-Dixon line (malaria also helped the nascent United States, Cornwallis's army was mainly composed of "unseasoned" Scots and he camped near a swamp before his fateful surrender to malarial resistant Southern troops at Yorktown).

Dave's 105 Books to Read Before You Die (Which Will be Sooner Than You Think)

Everyone seems to have a top hundred list of something, and so here are my top hundred books (plus five bonus books in case you finish the top hundred too quickly) and each author is only represented once, so while Shakespeare and Italo Calvino may actually deserve more than one slot, for the sake of variety there are no repeats; also, there is fiction, non-fiction, and everything else on this list . . . and I should point out that once you finish reading all the books on this list, then you will be much smarter than me, because though I've read them all, I'm not sure I remember anything from them:

1.   Moby Dick by Herman Melville
2.   Brothers Karamazov by Dostoevsky
3.   War and Peace by Leo Tolstoy
4.   The Lives of the Cell by Lewis Thomas
5.   Outliers by Malcolm Gladwell
6.   If on a winter's night a traveler by Italo Calvino
7.   Tristram Shandy by Lawrence Sterne
8. Freaky Deaky by Elmore Leonard
9.   Blood Meridian by Cormac McCarthy
10. V by Thomas Pynchon
11. The Origin of Species by Charles Darwin
12. 100 Years of Solitude by Gabriel Garcia Marquez
13. Labyrinths by Jorge Luis Borges
14. Into the Wild by John Krakauer
15. Music of Chance by Paul Auster
16. The Dog of the South by Charles Portis
17. Slaughterhouse-Five by Kurt Vonnegut
18. All the King's Men by Robert Penn Warren
19. Death Comes for the Archbishop by Willa Cather
20. The Bible
21. Henry IV (part 1) by William Shakespeare
22. The Complete Stories of J.G. Ballard
23. The Stories of John Cheever
24. Will You Please Be Quiet Please by Raymond Carver
25. The Image by Daniel Boorstin
26. Clockers by Richard Price
27. Nixonland by Rick Perlstein
28. American Tabloid by James Ellroy
29. A Peoples History of the United States by Howard Zinn
30. Balkan Ghosts by Robert Kaplan
31. The Sheltering Sky by Paul Bowles
32. The Three Stigmata of Palmer Eldritch by Philip K. Dick
33. Chaos by James Gleick
34. The Society of the Mind by Marvin Minsky
35. Watchmen by Alan Moore/ Dave Gibbons
36. The Ghost Map by Steven Johnson
37. The Executioner's Song by Norman Mailer
38. Sex, Drugs, and Cocoa-Puffs by Chuck Klosterman
39. Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas by Hunter S. Thompson
40. Cannery Row by John Steinbeck
41. Foucalt's Pendulum by Umberto Eco
42. Solaris by Stanislaw Lem
43. War With The Newts by Karel Kapek
44. The Miracle Game by Josef Skvorecky
45. The Restaurant at the End of the Universe by Douglas Adams
46. Hotel New Hampshire by John Irving
47. White Noise by Don Delillo
48. The Big Sleep by Raymond Chandler
49. Down and Out in Paris and London by George Orwell
50. Innocents Abroad by Mark Twain
51. Snow Crash by Neal Stephenson
52. Even Cowgirls Get the Blues by Tom Robbins
53. Bully For Brontosaurus by Stephen J. Gould
54. The Drifters by James A. Michener
55. Geek Love by Catherine Dunne
56. The Blank Slate by Steven Pinker
57. Human Universals by Donald Brown
58. Shadows of Forgotten Ancestors by Carl Sagan and Anne Druyan
59. The Snow Leopard by Peter Matthiessen
60. The Diversity of Life by E.O. Wilson
61. The Friends of Eddie Coyle by George V. Higgins
62. Pale Fire by Vladimir Nabokov
63. American Splendor by Harvey Pekar/ Robert Crumb
64. The Memoirs of Hector Berlioz by Hector Berlioz
65. A Confederacy of Dunces by John Kennedy Toole
66. The Castle by Franz Kafka
67. Midaq Alley by Naguib Mahfouz
68. Naked by David Sedaris
69. Godel Escher Bach by Douglas Hofstadter
70. The Worldly Philosophers by Robert L. Heilbroner
71. The Big Short by Michael Lewis
72. Freakonomics by Stephen Dubner and Steven Levitt
73. Video Night in Kathmandu by Pico Iyer
74. Monster of God by David Quammen
75. Bonfire of the Vanities by Tom Wolfe
76. Safe Area Gorazde by Joe Sacco
77. Lonesome Dove by Larry McMurtry
78. Hyperspace by Michio Kaku
79. Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrell by Susanna Clarke
80. The Complete Stories of Flannery O'Connor
81. Nonzero: The Logic of Human Destiny by Richard Wright
82. The Selfish Gene by Richard Dawkins
83. Manchester United Ruined My Life by Colin Shindler
84. Soccer in Sun and Shadow by Eduardo Galeano
85. From the Holy Mountain by William Dalrymple
86. A Supposedly Fun Thing I'll Never Do Again by David Foster Wallace
87. The End of the Road by John Barth
88. Neuromancer by William Gibson
89. Guns, Germs, and Steel by Jared Diamond
90. A Walk in the Woods by Bill Bryson
91. Amusing Ourselves to Death by Neil Postman
92. Some Buried Caesar by Rex Stout
93. The Black Swan by Nassim Nicholas Taleb
94. The Ascent of Money by Niall Ferguson
95. We Were the Mulvaneys by Joyce Carol Oates
96. The Bushwhacked Piano by Thomas McGuane
97. The Golden Compass by Philip Pullman
98. Walden by Henry David Thoreau
99. 1493 by Charles C. Mann
100. Our Band Could Be Your Life by Michael Azerrad
101. A Visit From the Goon Squad by Jennifer Egan
102. The Life and Death of the Great American School System by Diane Ravitch
103. Methland by Nick Reding
104. A Game of Thrones by George R.R. Martin
105. Born Standing Up by Steve Martin

Arachnophobes Beware!

My Jeep does not have power windows nor does it have air-conditioning, and I am not very tall, so it's quite a reach for me to roll down the passenger side window while I am driving, but in the summer this is often necessary in order to get a cross breeze and a bit of ventilation, and so the other morning I took the time to do this safely before I began to drive; a moment later, I saw-- out of the corner of my eye, something move in the center of that space where the window was; I turned my head and observed an obscenely large and fat banded garden spider suspended on a web in the space between the side mirror and the roof . . . floating in the center of that open window, and so-- with an effort worthy of Patrick "Eel" O'Brian-- I leaned over while driving and rolled that window up so the spider wouldn't blow into the car (not that there aren't spiders living in my car) and continued driving, glancing over every so often to see if the spider was still hanging on . . . and every time I turned my head, it was still there . . . it hung there all the way through Highland Park, and onto Woodbridge Avenue, and was still holding tight when I got on Route 1 South, and so I sped up as I crossed the Donald Goodkind Bridge, I sped up to forty-five then fifty then sixty, but still the spider held on, so I drove faster (as any police officer would understand, if they had the slightest empathy for an arachnophobe) until , finally, at nearly eighty miles an hour, the spider was dislodged and disappeared, like Vin Makazian, over the side of the bridge . . . and this is disturbing to me, because that means when you walk into a spider web and try to shake the spider and the web off your face and hands, you need to generate a lot of speed to get that thing off of you.

It's Easy Enough To Look It Up

Brendan Gleeson has been in two recent thrillers that owe a lot to Quentin Tarantino . . . they both explore the interstitial time periods that gangsters and cops inhabit between the action; In Bruges (2008) follows the adventures of two Dublin hit-men (Gleeson and Colin Farrell) sent to cool down in Belgium after a hit went horribly wrong-- and whether you like Hieronymous Bosch or not, I highly recommend this movie-- and now Gleeson stars in The Guard, which is equally as good . . . although the gangsters (international drug dealers) can be a little overly clever when they discuss philosophy, but the reason to watch the movie is to see Gleeson (a lazy and disenfranchised Galway cop, who is a good man who could have been a great man, if not for his location and his vices) interact with Don Cheadle-- who plays an FBI agent sent to Ireland to investigate drug smuggling . . . Cheadle can't tell if Gleeson is "really mother-bleeping dumb or really mother-bleeping smart," and neither can we . . . until the end: I won't spoil the ending, but it's easy enough to look it up on the internet, and I give this film two girls from the agency in Dublin out of a possible two . . . you have to see it not only for Gleeson, who is prodigious both in his size and his acting skills, but also for the plot, which makes excellent use of a crotch-infection, and actually makes you think twice once you've finished watching . . . and if you have seen it, remember that the IRA guy in the cowboy hat owes him a favor.

I Could Have Told You This Without Doing A Study

A recent study done at The University of California asserts that people enjoy mystery and suspense stories more if the plot is spoiled . . . and this makes perfect sense to me, because I usually enjoy something more if I have more information about it; it is easier to process and less stressful . . . which is why I am vehemently opposed to surprise parties, which have nothing to do with the victim's enjoyment of the party and are all about the selfish, egotistical party-planners, who think they are so clever, withholding information from the person who is supposed to enjoy the party the most, but, of course, the victim doesn't enjoy the party the most . . . the planners enjoy the party the most, because, as the study illustrates, they are in the know, and the victim doesn't enjoy the party because the victim is either A) genuinely surprised, which as the study shows, is not particularly enjoyable and can be a lot to process-- I was genuinely surprised by a party on my 30th birthday, and it took me an hour to get over the fact that we were no longer (and never had been) going to my favorite mexican restaurant or B) not surprised because the victim sussed out the party, and then has to deal with the stress of acting surprised, which, unless the victim is a professional actor, is not fun and rather stressful . . . and so let this be a lesson to all of you potential surprise party planners: people enjoy knowing what's going to happen next . . . especially if it's something fun like a party, so don't deprive someone of all the happy and enjoyable preparatory thoughts about a party in their honor just because you feel the need to exercise your sinister desires to spread disinformation and skulk about . . . you're not being ingenious, you're being iniquitous.

Geeks, sportos, motorheads, dweebs, dorks, sluts, buttheads... they all think he's a righteous dude.

Alexandra Robbins' new book The Geeks Shall Inherit the Earth: Popularity, Quirk Theory, and Why Outsiders Thrive After High School doesn't break any new ground with its thesis: the traits that you might be bullied, ridiculed, and ostracized for in high school are the very same traits that may lead to success when you leave the cliquey, rigid walls of school and enter the real world . . . but the book is well worth reading for the stories of the kids she follows . . . it's an eye-opening non-fiction update of The Breakfast Club, and while it's not quite as harsh as Mean Girls (which was based on a similar book called Queen Bees and Wannabes) it is still a rough road for Danielle (the loner), Whitney (the popular bitch), Eli (the nerd), Blue (the homosexual gamer), Regan (the weird girl), and Noah (the Band Geek) as they navigate the difference between being liked and being perceived as popular, and it makes you remember how cruel it is to ostracize someone . . . and even though I deal with kids this age all day, they are different in class, and so if I am assigned cafeteria duty this year, I'm going to keep my eyes open and see if I can figure out what's actually going on in there . . .

Romantic Getaway?

My wife and I took a quick childless vacation to Philadelphia last week . . . a night of romance at The Thomas Bond House, a quaint, historical, and affordable bed and breakfast in the heart of the city's historical section . . . although our itinerary was anything but romantic: we began at The Mutter Museum, which is housed in The College of Physicians and contains a collection of stomach turning medical oddities from the 18th and 19th century . . . and while I won't go into detail describing them, I will tell you this: you should be glad you're not hydrocephalic . . . then we saw a very un-romantic movie (The Guard with Brendan Gleeson . . . the most romantic part is when he has some fun with two girls from "the agency" in Dublin and contracts a genital rash . . . and while I am being un-romantic, let me talk about money: the movie theater, like everything else in Philly, was cheap . . . it was only 6.50 for a ticket) and we ate at two excellent places that certainly can't be described as romantic-- The Good Dog, which has the appearance of a neighborhood dive bar but makes amazing sandwiches, and Dmitri's, which is tiny, crowded, noisy, and spartan, with a black and white checked floor, tables, and nothing else inside . . . but the octopus and shrimp and hummus and avocado citrus salad are excellent . . . and then we finished our anti-romantic romantic getaway at Eastern State Penitentiary-- claimed to be the first modern building in America and the first penitentiary in the world-- and the place is truly creepy, especially when you listen to the audio tour, which is narrated by Steve Buscemi, and highly recommended (and if you've seen Twelve Monkeys, several scenes from the film were shot inside the prison walls).

Who Needs Anything Else?

The plots of the HBO comedy Bored to Death are pretty thin, but you don't need a plot when you get to watch Ted Danson and Zach Galifianakis pretend to get stoned in a car (when Galifianakis asks Danson a question about time, Danson claims ignorance because he's on "marijuana minutes.")

Motion Trumps Emotion

There's nothing like getting your ass in gear for combating apathy and/or anxiety . . . and once you get your shit moving, all the other bullshit just seems to fade into the background (and if you are appalled and offended by my liberal use of profanity today, then read this . . . I'm relieving both the pain and the stress in my life without using drugs and/or alcohol or physically abusing my loved ones).

The Anecdote of the Jar

No one wants to hear parents bragging about their kids, so I'll make this quick and then get to the conspiracy theories: my six year old son Ian used pastels to draw the clay jar pictured above while he was at his art class; the shading is first rate, and his teacher was so impressed that she put a picture of it on her web page . . . and my first reaction when Ian brought this piece home was: "You didn't make that!" and Sentence of Dave has investigated artistic manipulation enough that I at least have to entertain the idea that Ian didn't produce this very competent still-life . . . but then who did? . . . at first I suspected his art teacher Jill, and that made sense, because if we perceived her as an excellent teacher, then we would keep sending Ian back to her for lessons, but, unlike Marla Olmstead, Ian will produce quality art in front of anyone (and also, unlike Marla Olmstead, you can usually tell what it is he has produced) and so the hoax must be more sinister . . . I am guessing that Banksy is posing as my six year old son-- his ultimate piece of performance art-- and meanwhile my actual son roams the earth with his mentor Mr. Brainwash, doing graffiti art, and eventually they will reveal the swap and bask in the glory of media fame . . . and the price of both Banksy and Ian's art will sky-rocket.

This One Comes Together At The End

So last Monday night Catherine and I were supposed to see the new Planet of the Apes movie, which is called Rise of the Planet of the Apes and purportedly details how genetically modified intelligent apes defeat the humans in a war for species supremacy . . . and judging from the reviews, the film uses the usual science-fiction trope of giving the human race exactly what it deserves for experimenting where it shouldn't . . . but though my mom got the kids on time, one errand led to another and we missed the movie and instead went to The George Street Ale House for food and drinks . . . but we got more than we bargained for: a young man at the table behind us decided to attempt to eat "Das Burger," which is two 1 pound hamburger patties, four fried eggs, four slices of pork-roll, a slab of Gouda, apple-wood bacon, and four onion rings all served on a giant bun . . . if you finish "Das Burger" in under 30 minutes then it is free, but if you don't, then it costs 29 dollars . . . and though the guy started strong, never putting the burger down and using water strategically to help his mastication, it still came down to the final minute and, with his friend cheering him on, he was able to shove the last bit of meat and bun in his mouth under the wire, but then he bolted towards the bathroom in what I thought was a joking feint to go vomit . . . it wasn't a joke . . . but he choked his vomit back down . . . TWICE . . . and officially ate "Das Burger" . . . and judging by this event, I don't think the demise of human civilization needs anything as radical and dramatic as genetically modified intelligent apes, we're doing fine on our own.

Aphorism Week is Canceled!

Due to yesterday's atrocious aphorism, The Sentence of Dave Board of Directors has decided (wisely) to cancel Aphorism Week . . . expect the usual drivel tomorrow.

Aphorism Week Begins!

It's aphorism week here at Sentence of Dave, and here is #1: Follow your dreams, even if they lead you down into a deep, dark and sticky abyss from which there is no escape . . . and once you have fallen down so deep into your own particular dream-pit that there is no way back to the light, once you are trapped, your arms and legs stuck to the walls, and the only possible way to escape is by hacking off your limbs Aron Ralston style, then you know you must continue to follow your delusional fantasies-- to become a world renowned graffiti artist or pass the audition for American Idol or pilot a hot-air balloon around the world-- and so you continue them though you are blind, isolated, and friendless, and you do this until you die, but in the moments before your death you feel great satisfaction that you lived life as your own man, bowing to none, listening to none, forging your own path, and this feeling makes it almost worth the fact that there is no one to mourn your passing, in fact, there's not even anyone to pay for your funeral and you will be buried in a pauper's grave.

A Full Day in NYC (Including The Whitney)

Though over 1.5 million people live in Manhattan, it felt like a small town last week when we arrived at the 81st Street Subway Station and found a note taped to the column outside the Museum of Natural History entrance that read "Gabov and Akos . . . We went to get some beers" and though we never caught up with Gabov and Akos at the bar, my two sons enjoyed the giant mamenchisaurus exhibit-- the museum staff actually built one of these creatures, with muscle and organ cutaways . . . very illuminating and highly recommended . . . also highly recommended (thanks Zman!) is lunch at the Shake Shack-- which is on Columbus between 77th and 78th and so a very short walk from the museum . . . the Shake Shack has awesome burgers, fries, and shakes and it is far cheaper than museum food, and they'll let you back into the museum after you go eat there (warning: get there before noon or you'll wait in a giant line) and after the museum, we trekked across Central Park to see The Whitney-- The Museum of American Art, not the all around fun guy that lives in Norfolk-- which had an exhibit of Lyonel Feininger's colorful expressionist paintings-- which we all enjoyed-- but I think my kids liked Cory Arcangel's "Pro Tools" exhibit more . . . he creates weird technological installations, such as Various Self Playing Bowling Games, which is a bowling alley consisting of large-scale projections of bowling games from the late 1970s to now, with each bowler only chucking gutter balls . . . there was also an optical illusion he created with metal carts that made Catherine and I question our sanity and a film of hundreds of different people on YouTube playing a Paganini piece, stitched together note by note . . . it almost gave me a epileptic seizure but it is SFW, so check it out . . . and we ended the day by taking a taxi ride back to Penn Station . . . Alex and Ian fell asleep the moment their heads hit the dirty, germ encrusted taxi seats.

A Song Contest!

Anyone and everyone with an ounce of musical talent: head over to Gheorghe: The Blog for the First Annual G:TB Song Contest, sponsored by Almighty Yojo Productions . . . you just might win The Grand Prize.

Mine Shaft

I highly recommend a visit to The Sterling Hill Mining Museum in Ogdensburg, NJ . . . it is the self-proclaimed "Fluorescent Mineral Capital of the World" and you will not be disappointed in this regard . . . the museum (Zobel Exhibit Hall) contains a startling array of valuable minerals, fossils, and mining equipment-- in fact, it was recently burgled-- and the pièce de résistance is a giant wooden periodic table with cubbyholes containing samples, ore and examples of every element (there should be one of these in every science class . . . but the guy who built it said it contains 25,000 dollars worth of stuff) and when you do journey down into the historical Sterling Hill Zinc Mine, perhaps you'll be lucky enough to have an older gentleman named Bob as your guide . . . he calls the men "Ace" and the women "Sweets" and speaks in staccato sentences that begin with information about the mine but end with anecdotal non sequiturs about twenty dollar bills and driver's licenses, motel rooms and electrical outlets, and the importance of a good dentist . . . he's also not afraid to tell a joke or two (e.g. what side of a cow has the most hair? the outside) and every time someone sneezed he high-fived their snot coated hand and said, "God bless you and God bless me," and, if you are still not understanding the value of having a guide with dementia, remember that it's a two hour tour deep into the bowels of the earth, so having Bob as a guide only adds to the excitement, as you're not sure if you will ever return to the surface again.

A Geography Question

Is it better to live in Hoboken and have a view of the Manhattan skyline . . . or spend the extra cash and live in Manhattan, and have a view of the Hoboken skyline?

The Peeing Tree

I assume you are familiar with Shel Silverstein's tale of sacrifice called The Giving Tree, but that's nothing compared with what "The Peeing Tree" had to endure on our camping trip . . . the tree was named this for obvious reasons, as four boys under ten years old need to urinate a lot when they are in the woods, and the tree absorbed their micturates without complaint or offense . . . but (also for obvious reasons) the stories do not end in the same manner . . . you wouldn't want to sit on or anywhere near "The Peeing Tree."

Two Strikes on China Mieville (But A Home Run for Rex Stout)

For the second time, I have given up on a China Mieville novel . . . I tried to read Perdido Street Station and loved the wild imagery, the inter-species love affair, and the detailed bestiary of New Corubuzon, but got bored with the repetitive plot, and now I have given up on his new novel, Kraken, which happens in an bizarrely imagined version of London and recounts a "squidnapping" and-- among other things-- a Giant Squid Cult, a strike among magical familiars, people who can be folded up like origami, and other cool Philip K. Dick-esque (Dick-ian?) conceits, and although there is plenty of action, once again, the plot is rather lame and repetitive and so three hundred pages was enough for me . . . but the book I switched to-- a Nero Wolfe mystery called Some Buried Caesar, by Rex Stout-- is worth reading: a plot worthy of a Raymond Chandler novel, hard-boiled wisecracks worthy of Dashiell Hammett, and the near idolatry of a prize-winning bull named Hickory Caesar Brindon . . . a bovine protagonist always referred to by his full moniker: ten prize orchids out of ten.

A Fantastic Ratio

I finally polished off George R.R. Martin's second novel in his epic The Song of Fire and Ice . . . A Clash of Kings is long, bleak, and complex-- it's definitely got the "Empire Strikes Back" groove-- and I have figured out the secret of how Martin retains his magical lack of whimsy: his proper name to adjective ratio is ten to one.

Setting the Bar at the Bar

This is often the case: you consider anyone who drinks less than you a teetotaller, and you consider anyone who drinks more than you a dipsomaniac.

The Ascent of Money: Same Taste But More Filling

The Ascent of Money: A Financial History of the World, by Scotsmen Niall Ferguson, is yet another book about economics that teaches this lesson, summarized neatly by Frank Knight in 1921: "Uncertainty must be taken in a sense radically distinct from the familiar notion of Risk, from which it has never been properly separated," which is the idea that risk can be computed and monetized, while uncertainty (or as Donald Rumsfeld aptly put it, "unknown unknowns") cannot even be fathomed-- especially because, as Ferguson cleverly points out, your average investment banker has a career of twenty five years and bases his formulas and strategies on relatively recent data, but every forty or fifty years something happens beyond the pale, beyond our imagination-- but despite these occasional bouts of creative economic destruction, Ferguson believes-- like Matt Ridley-- that the ascent of money has done mankind great good, but he doesn't prove this with abstractions and theories, and that is the fun of the book; he uses messy examples from throughout history . . . each chapter tackles a different financial institution, from its origins until now (banking, the bond market, the stock market, insurance, real estate, globalization) and he often points out that finance was just as complex and chaotic in the past as it is now, and whether he's describing fellow Scotsmen John Law's gambles with the French Economy or the Medici's first attempts at banking or the Opium Wars, his writing is vivid, informative, challenging, and always cycles back to economics: ten Scottish Ministers' Widows' Funds out of ten.

I Don't Do This . . . But My Wife Might

Beer over ice: classy or trashy?

Boolean Illogic

I like girls and I like Girl Talk . . . but I dislike cars, yet I like Car Talk.

Two Boys + One Ball = WTF?

My two sons play a game at the pool that appears simple from a distance-- you see two children bopping a ball back and forth on the concrete-- but if you get within earshot, you'll realize that playing "boxball" is slightly more complicated than running the Indianapolis offense . . . the game begins with the winner of the previous match reciting the rules that will be in effect for the next game, and he may say any combination of the following: old school . . . including singles, doubles, triples, quadruples, and quintuples, sushi (using any part of your body), sushi cut (a slicing shot that can only bounce once), black and white magic (various spins that return the ball to the server), time bomb (you can throw the ball away and count to ten . . . the opponent has to get the ball back to the court before you finish counting), cherry bomb (throw it really hard at the ground and the opponent has to catch it), ocean (a square between you and the other person), negative and positive (more spinning shots), knives (bouncing it on the corner of the box), and moose crossing (allows a timeout for outsiders to cross the court) . . . and the kids don't find it funny when I satirize this preponderance of absurdly named rules . . . I like to ask if they're playing "sucker punch" and "necromancy" and "werewolves" and "octagons" but they don't laugh at my humor, because "boxball" isn't something to make light of.