I Seek Wisdom From the Crowd

Several years ago, my friend Whitney and I  laid an interesting wager on a game of darts-- this was very late at night and after many beers-- and the bet was this: the winner could make the loser wear any t-shirt he chose for one day of the OBFT (as long as this t-shirt was not horribly profane, as we spend a long portion of each day at the wrap around bar in a family seafood joint) and I won the game of darts, but I have yet to "collect" on this bet, as I've never determined what t-shirt I want Whitney to wear . . . and I kind of like holding the possibility that I might show up with a ridiculous t-shirt over his head each year, but I feel it's time for Whitney to pay up and so I am going to take a page out of James Surowiecki's book The Wisdom of Crowds: Why the Many are Smarter Than the Few and How Collective Wisdom Shapes Business, Economics, Societies, and Nations and see what you have to offer . . . so Internet, I call on your wisdom, give me an idea of how I can humiliate my friend in the form of a t-shirt.

Breaking News in the World of Cheap Mexican Food!

For as long as I can remember, Burrito Royale was a sketchy but constant staple on Route 1 in South Brunswick; I often got food there when I was waiting tables at Rumbleseats . . . and though the food was mediocre, I always appreciated the aesthetic charms of the joint-- amidst a corridor of chain restaurants, strip malls, and big box stores, this shack withstood the test of time (35 years!) but it has finally closed, to be replaced by . . . drum roll please . . . Burrito King . . . long live the King, hopefully as long as the Royale, which certainly had its share of cheese (and if you are the rare soul who needs more on this story, then click here).

This Is a Peccary (No Relation To A Pessary)

I will never understand the mysteries of the internet, but apparently people are coming to Sentence of Dave to look at a picture of a peccary, but when they arrive, they find no information about this lovely subtropical mammal, which is also known as "the musk hog" and has self-sharpening tusks, and instead these good folks, innocently surfing the web-- these javelina aficionados-- they find information on the use of a "pessary," which is a whole different can of worms, and I just want to make this perfectly clear to avoid a lawsuit, you may NOT use a peccary as a pessary . . . I do not advocate this, and while I am not a doctor and I have no idea if inserting a peccary into your uterus will prevent prolapse, even as a layman, I realize that the certain injury you will sustain from shoving a large odiferous mammal through your cervix can't possibly be worth the benefits . . . and for those of you who are researching the peccary, I will give you a tasty little factoid about this most beautiful of all of God's creatures: it is also known as "the skunk pig."

Chris McDougall vs. Dr. Kates (Literature vs. Podiatry)

It's a showdown remisicent of Godzilla versus Rodan: my foot doctor advised me not to run until the lab finished making my orthotic shoe inserts, but Chris McDougall, the author of Born to Run, told me that not only are orthotics bad for your feet, but that I shouldn't even wear traditional running shoes, as these will weaken my feet, and instead I should run barefoot . . . and I don't know who to listen to . . . I ran barefoot the other day, despite Dr. Kates warning, and my plantar fasciitis felt okay . . . but I don't want to push it and run too far, especially because of what happened to Caballo Blanco-- the problem is that I need a clone of myself, so that one of me can run with orthotics and one of me can run barefoot, and then my clone and I could truly judge which works better (and there's RockTape to consider, as well . . . so perhaps I need a third Dave).

Unreasonable Expectations

Though he had the best intentions, my brother set up my son Alex for much future disappointment; he gave us tickets to see the Red Bulls' home-opener and the seats were in the sixth row, on the end-line near the corner flag, so it was hard to see diagonally across the entire field, but it was a great view of the goal . . . and I warned my son-- who is eight and doesn't usually have the attention span to watch sports for very long-- that you have to pay close attention to a soccer game or you might miss the only goal . . . and then the game began and the Red Bulls scored two goals in the first six minutes, right in front of us . . . it was wonderful and spectacular, we got to see Thierry Henry score and assist, and this kept my son riveted to the game (despite the fact that it got quite slow-- when you take a 2-0 lead that quickly, then you just sink back and knock it around) but in the second half we also got to see Colorado score an excellent goal in front of us as well . . . and while this was a superb first professional sporting event for my, son I think he now has a skewed and unrealistic view of soccer, and doesn't realize just how slow-paced and boring the game can be; I will have to take him again to set things straight in his mind (this brings to mind my first Yankee game . . . or games, as my father thought I would enjoy a double-header, but I think my attention span was exhausted by the end of batting practice, which made for a long afternoon).

Battle Royale > The Hunger Games (Book) > The Hunger Games (Film)

If you feel the need to see a bunch of teenagers slaughtering each other in an organized contest, then watch renowned Japanese director Kinji Fukasaka's stylized and beautifully ludicrous Battle Royale rather than The Hunger Games-- an ersatz version if I've ever seen one; while Battle Royale whips through plot-arcs and violence effortlessly, elegantly and humorously characterizing the teenagers before they are killed in beautifully graphic scenes of blood and mayhem, The Hunger Games stays very close to its main subjects-- Katniss and Peeta-- much of the camera-work is done in the faux-documentary Blair Witch-style . . . but the film ignores what the book did well: the deft characterization of the other tributes-- most notably the fox-faced girl; it ignores the survival aspects of both living in District 12 and living in The Hunger Games arena . . . the hunting, gathering, camping, and sleeping in trees, and it glosses over the tactics and strategy the game-- including the best sub-plot of all: whether Peeta really loves Katniss and vice-versa, or if the romance is only a strategy to gain sponsorship . . . also annoying: the kids always look fresh-faced, made-up and coiffed, even deep into the games . . . after Katniss sleeps on a pile of leaves for two days, comatose because she was stung by poisonous wasps, she awakes scrubbed and clean, looking like she just got a facial, and her caretaker, Rue, looks the same-- no mud and grit and dirt-- even when Rue dies, she is cute and unblemished . . .  and I should also warn you that the acting and the dialogue are both extremely cheesy . . . but I shouldn't complain, the movie is for teenagers, not adults, and I watched it just so I could have something in common culturally with my students (who are going to stick me with a pair of scissors when I give them my review, but even if the movie is for teens, it shouldn't defy physics . . . how can you outrun those "muttation" dogs in a straight race, and there is no attempt to explain them-- unlike the book, in which they are genetically created from each dead competitor and resemble their human counterpart . . . in the movie, a lady generates one on a 3-D computer screen and then the creation instantly springs from the earth, fully formed and alive, and I would think if this miraculous technology existed then the Capitol Panem would have no use for fish and coal and whatever else they get from the 12 districts, as they would be gods that could create anything from nothing and I'm very disappointed that Roger Ebert gave this poor excuse of a movie three stars-- although most critics were in his camp-- but there are a few voices of reason on Rotten Tomatoes that noticed the many shortcomings of the film, especially David Denby, and I'm glad for that, because if my wife and Denby hadn't agreed that the movie sucked, then I might have doubted my sanity).

We Love You!

Just wanted to give a big shout out to all the fine people who can't seem to park their vehicle in between the lines . . . and I'm guessing you're the same fine people who are doing this sweet move as well (and a related question for all the litigators in the house: if I "accidentally" ding the car next to me in the parking lot when I open my door, but the car isn't parked between the lines, am I culpable?)

sentence of e e dave

i will no longer use caps 

and/or punctuation in my 

sentences 

(and they
will be
much more
artistic
because
of this)

i hope you like

the new format

but if you don't

then
you
don't get it

This Food Is Not Yet Rated

The Surgeon General needs to institute a food rating system; macaroni and cheese would be rated G, as not only is it is bland, but-- even better-- the individual pieces of macaroni stick together because of the sauce, so it's easy for a kid to get it from the plate to mouth without making a mess . . . sushi would be R, as it is spicy and raw, and couscous would be PG-13 . . . there may be some parents who think that, with supervision, their children have the fine motor skills to scoop up those little grains without making an unholy mess, but as for my kids-- I'll let them watch Temple of Doom and Super-8-- but they're not getting another shot at couscous until middle school.

Sometimes You're Soft and Sometimes You're Hard

So everybody likes to say they are "hardcore," whether you claim to be a hardcore surfer, hardcore mountain climber, or hardcore shopper . . . but what if you're not hardcore? . . . what if you're just moderately into the thing you are talking about-- I purchased a new mountain bike the yesterday and I told the guy at the bike store that I used to mountain bike, but I didn't tell him I was a "hardcore" biker because that would have been exaggerating-- I certainly took my bike to a lot of difficult single-track and rode often, but I wasn't "extreme" or a "gear head" . . . so I suppose I was a "soft-core" mountain biker, but I'm not sure if you're allowed to say that in any context other than the pornographic-- telling someone you're a soft-core mountain biker makes it sound like you do niche films with lots of bikes, oil, and spandex-- so I didn't say this . . . but perhaps someone braver than me will try out the phrase . . . perhaps you can tell the guy at the camera shop that you're a "soft-core" photographer or tell the Boy Scout den leader that you're a "soft-core" camper . . . I think if we all cooperate we can make this phrase as permissible as it's more explicit companion.

Creepy Surveillance Contest: U.S. vs. Syria

Here is one of my favorite stories from my time in Syria, and it sounds like America is following suit: my friend Drew-- a Canadian-- was on the phone speaking to a friend from home, who was French-Canadian, and his friend switched from English to French, as French-Canadians often do, but after he spoke a few words in French to Drew, another voice-- a deep voice-- interrupted their conversation and said, "Please continue the conversation in English," and so they did, as no one wants to be "disappeared" like Dunbar . . . and though it was no surprise that our phone-calls were being monitored, as we had all been forewarned about the methods Syria's oppressive police-state infrastructure employed, it was still pretty damn creepy, but-- according to this Wired magazine article-- the United States is far beyond this in terms of surveillance (though there's nothing more effective than a creepy voice from nowhere as a scare tactic) and soon nearly everything we say over the phone and everything we do on-line will be stored in the NSA's massive Utah Data Center, an innocuous sounding place five times the size of the U.S. Capitol that will specialize in data storage and breaking encryption-- so watch what you say, as it will come back to haunt you, especially if you are one of the one million Americans on the terrorist watchlist . . . or if you know one of those people, or if you've ever been in the same room with one of those people . . . and while this is scary, intrusive, and certainly some violation of our First Amendment Rights, it's also kind of nice to know that someone will always be reading Sentence of Dave-- a built in fan base-- so here's a shout out to all those folks at the NSA that are saving these words for all of digital eternity . . . and if I'm not on the watchlist, then please sign me up, because I spent three years in Syria and I loved it! 

Anti-social Notworking Part II

Facebook has advanced one step closer to the idea I pitched to them in 2009 (and by "pitched" I mean wrote it on this blog and posted it on the internet, where anyone, including Mark Zuckerberg, could read it) because they have now added a feature where you can demote your not-so-close friends to the status of Acquaintance . . . but they still haven't gone whole-hog and added the "Enemy" status that I suggested . . . and, now that Facial Recognition software and language decoding filters actually work, this Enemy feature would be a lot of fun; you would only see Enemy updates on your News Feed if it were bad news-- only statements like my dog got hit by a cement truck today:( would activate the filter-- and the facial recognition software would ensure that you only saw ugly, asymmetrical pictures of your "Enemies," . . . perhaps a certain BMI could also activate the feature, so if one of your enemies put on some weight, you'd be alerted . . . and imagine if you could "Enemy" the celebrities you hate . . . Zuckerberg, you know this idea has legs, so thank me in the comments and I am still available for hire, although I only work a maximum of six hours a day and I require summers off.

Crazy Asians

On Saturday mornings at the park by my house, a bunch of older Asian guys play something that vaguely resembles basketball-- they position themselves around the court more like they are playing soccer or hockey, and they tend to chuck long passes and dribble wildly and shoot on the move-- and this Saturday, as I rode by, my dog trucking along by my side, I kept hearing a weird tweeting sound-- and so I stopped to investigate, and I noticed a guy with a whistle, zealously refereeing the game, which looked ridiculous, of course, but in retrospect, it's not a bad idea and certainly some of the pick-up games I've played in could have used an Asian guy with a whistle.

The Kindness of an Old Lady in a House Robe

Unlike Blanche DuBois, it's not often that I've depended upon the kindness of strangers-- and we all know, from the murder of Kitty Genovese and the so-called "bystander effect," that if you are in trouble and there's a group of strangers nearby, you certainly can't rely on them to help you-- but all bets are off if there's only one person observing your predicament, there is a much greater chance that a single observer will come to your aid, and I got to experience this firsthand on Saturday morning: my dog escaped out the back gate and took off down the street, he made it a couple of blocks before I finally caught up with him, and he was scared shitless because he knew he had really screwed up and so he rolled onto his back and did his best imitation of Jello and when I pulled at his collar to get him up, this scared him even more and, of course, in my mad dash to catch him before he got hit by a car, I forgot to grab the leash so I was essentially going to have to drag him two blocks to my house or carry him, but luckily, an old lady in an old lady house-robe, walking her old dog, came to my aid-- she brought her dog over so Sirius could sniff him, which made him stand up and relax, and then she gave me the cloth belt of her robe to use as a leash and this worked wonderfully and I was able to walk Sirius home and then return her belt to her, and the only thing that would have made the story better is if she wasn't an old lady in an old lady house-robe, but instead the woman in the photo above . . . she is the first image that pops up on Google, if you type in "house robe," which is both an absurd and wonderful thing about the internet.

Take It Slow?

Patience is certainly a virtue-- but it is a virtue that can be expended-- and once your tank is empty, you don't sputter and roll to a stop . . . or at least I don't (for example: after several weeks of patiently reminding my son that running around with his shoes untied was dangerous, several weeks of patiently helping him tie his shoes, several weeks of patiently reminding him of the time he tripped over his untied shoelace and spent four hours in the emergency room-- there was the day that my tank was empty and I told him, "the next time I see you with your shoes untied, I'm going to kick you in the ass," and then five minutes later, when I saw him with his shoes untied, I followed through with my promise . . . but now I'm back to gently reminding him to tie his shoes and waiting patiently while he incompetently ties them . . . and when my wife was about to take him Cohl's to get new sneakers-- Velcro strap sneakers-- and he said to me, "Can I get tie sneakers?" I didn't have an aneurysm, I just reminded him of our past history with tie sneakers (minus the ass-kicking, which we don't ever mention) and when he said, "But Dad, I want to get better at tie sneakers and practice makes perfect," I didn't lose my temper or kick him in the ass or anything, and then I waited for some sort of divine omen, some provident sign for my good behavior, but nothing happened-- no manna fell from the heavens-- and so I think we are going to get caught in the same cycle of inept shoe-tying and ass-kicking and I doubt there is any exit from it.

I Should Be Doing Something Other Than Writing This Sentence (But I Forget What It Is)

So here is a question for married folks: if you and your spouse combined are equivalent to one brain, then do you play the role of the long-term memory, the short-term memory, both-- or as my colleague Krystina said about me when I had the audacity to wonder which one I was . . . "You're neither, obviously," but my wife does not agree; she is definitely the short term memory, keeping track of everything we need to do on a day to day basis and remembering just enough to make our household run smoothly, without experiencing the anxiety that I feel-- I either think about too many things, far into the future and freak out, or I forgot about everything I have to do and then suffer a sudden shock when I realize how busy I should have been . . . but she credits me with storing many of our long-term memories: movies we've seen, stories from our world travels, where to find old files on the computer, etc. and while her job is far more practical and important, I think my memories are an important aesthetic contribution to the relationship; like the arts, I could certainly be cut without ill-effect, but that doesn't mean I'm insignificant.

What Do The Pontiff and My Dog Have in Common?

Like the pope, my dog prefers to shit in the woods (except when he has the runs . . . then he shits in the playroom . . . my dog, I mean . . . I'm not sure how the Pope handles the runs).

Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Game of Thrones

I read George R.R. Martin's fantasy masterpiece Game of Thrones last year, and I was nervous about how it would translate to the small screen, but everyone is perfectly cast-- from Tyrion the dwarf to Daenerys to Ned Stark-- the characters met all my expectations and usually exceeded them (aside from Khal Drogo's impeccably waxed back) but here is the sad thing: after watching a few episodes, I no longer remember how I originally imagined the characters-- once I saw them rendered on my giant HDTV, all the previous images that I created, the unique vision of the novel that I held in my mind's eye-- this was instantly erased from my anemic brain; and we are used to this . . . it happens all the time: Billy Beane is Brad Pitt, John Adams is Paul Giamatti, and-- horror of horrors-- Hester Prynne is Demi Moore . . .we are no match for HD technology, and I suppose it's fine, in most cases, but there is some kid out there, who when you say "Johnny Cash," he imagines Joaquin Phoenix, and that is a travesty.

I Am A Big Hairy Clock

Last week, when I began my usual rant about Daylight Savings Time, my wife said, "It's like clockwork," and I said, "It's NOT like clockwork! It's the opposite of clockwork! It's anti-clockwork! Clocks don't just jump an hour ahead!" and she said, "Not Daylight Savings Time . . . your annual complaints about it."

Darth Vader vs. Sirius

Though my loyal readers expressed their disgust with some of the recent content on Sentence of Dave, I think the root cause of this story about my dog's anus needs clarification: my dog had good reason to tear apart the mitten and eat the stuffing, as my son's Darth Vader Alarm Clock went off in the middle of the day and the clock was screaming DON'T UNDERESTIMATE THE POWER OF THE FORCE! and THE EMPEROR HAS BEEN EXPECTING YOU! in a creepy Darth Vader voice, and Sirius was home alone and listening to this emanate from the top of the stairs for God knows how long, before I got home and unplugged the thing-- and I had to tell my son that we were going to have to get rid of the clock, as it's difficult to control the alarm, and impossible to shut off-- once it went off in the middle of the night and the dog knocked over the table it was on (and Alex was very good about parting with his beloved birthday gift . . . I told him he could sell it at a garage sale and use the money for whatever he desired . . . but I think he may have an inflated view of the value of the clock and be in for a rude awakening when he goes to sell it).

Miracles Happen to Me . . . Frequently

Lately, Dave has been blessed, as he has borne witness to myriad miracles, behold: I was teaching the start of Act IV of Hamlet, the section when Hamlet instructs the visiting players on how to act out the play he has written simulating the murder of his father . . . Hamlet tells the clowns not to "speak more than is set down for them," and he mentions some "villainous" players "that will themselves laugh," in order to get the audience to laugh along with them, but that in the meantime, necessary portions of the play are obscured and the actors do a poor job of imitating humanity . . . so before I read this section to my students, I do a bit of acting . . . first I complain of a sore throat-- sometimes I bum a throat lozenge from a student-- and then while I'm reading, I cough, clear my throat, and take a healthy swig from my water bottle and spill water all over my shirt, but I take Hamlet's advice and I don't acknowledge the mishap, I continue reading and-- though the students always laugh, I don't laugh with them-- instead I put the water bottle on my stool and continue the section and while I am questioning them about the meaning of Hamlet's advice, I stride past the stool and "accidentally" knock the water bottle off the stool, spilling water all over the carpet, and I after I pick up the bottle and place it on the stool a final time, then I trip and actually kick the stool over, water bottle and all-- and usually by this time some clever student figures out that I am illustrating the text . . . and to prove this, I show them that I have brought a spare shirt, so that I can do my performance in multiple classes (otherwise they would figure that I was just spastic, which is often true) and so this year, during second period, when I knocked the water bottle off the stool it landed upright . . . not a drop of water spilled, and since I was still in character, I simply picked it up, as if this miracle was an everyday occurrence, and put the bottle back on the stool, but then when I kicked the stool at the conclusion of my act, it slid out from beneath the water bottle, and once again, the water bottle dropped to the floor and landed perfectly upright, and by this time the class could have cared less about the textual demonstration and instead wanted to see more miracles, but I could not reproduce this feat for the rest of the day, which just goes to show that it was an occurrence of divine providence.

Midnight in Paris: Romantically Modern

Woody Allen's movie Midnight in Paris did the impossible-- it actually made me want to visit Paris-- he films the old architecture of the city so beautifully, in yellow saturated tones, that it would probably be impossible to find this Paris as a tourist . . . there is no urban sprawl or traffic or arrogant French people, but the theme of the film is paradoxical, as the moral of the story is that you should be happy in your own place and time, yet his portrayal of Paris in the 1920's is so romantic and magical . . . every scene is full of artistic celebrities-- Hemingway, the Fitzgeralds, Gertrude Stein, Man Ray, Toklas, Picasso, Dali, Eliot-- and they are all friendly and they speak as if they themselves are their own works of art (Dali asks the time traveling Owen Wilson-- an ersatz Woody Allen-- if he likes "the shape of the rhinoceros") and though the moral is an apt one, as we all think some past reality is more creative and golden than our own, the problem with the movie is that Woody Allen's version of the '20's in Paris really does seem more exciting and wonderful than the present . . . maybe he needed to include some of T.S. Eliot's anti-Semitism or a bit more of the intractably ugly and inaccessible art of the time, or the feeling that this was a "Lost Generation" . . . or maybe someone should have simply died of strep throat . . . and one last thought on the reason that Owen Wilson finally decides to embrace his present: are all the tour guides and shop-keepers in Paris really that hot?

One Tiny Step For Dave . . . and Zero Significance for Mankind.

I'm seriously thinking about thinking seriously about purchasing a mini-van . . . no that's not true: I am thinking seriously about seriously thinking about the purchase of a mini-van (but not in the near future-- I was going to try to buy a van before Spring Break, but since we're only headed to the Catskills, I've figured out a way to stall the purchase-- we're going to drive both the Subaru and the Jeep to the cabin so we can bring everything and the kitchen sink . . . I've been shopping for a new car for over five years, and so I don't want to rush the process at the end . . . and now I'm far more excited about buying a new bike, anyway . . . especially since I could buy thirty new bikes for the price of one used Toyota mini-van).

Let's Take A Moment and Think Logically

So now that all the uproar over Daylight Saving Time is over, let pitch my plan to you-- and I will admit that when I first explained this plan to my students and colleagues, they laughed at me-- but now I know how to approach the matter in the proper manner, so please bear with me . . . I will begin by asking a few simple questions:

1) is this the age of computers?

and (of course) the answer is "yes"

2) what is 2 times 30?

and (of course) the answer is 60

3) were the children tired the Monday morning after Daylight Savings Time?

and (of course) the answer is "yes"-- so when I propose this I want you to think about the children, all the tired, bleary eyed children . . . the children who don't get enough sleep because they want to watch the Super Bowl, the children who have to stay up late on a Monday night to watch the NCAA Championship, these aggrieved children . . . and so here is my plan, my plan for these children: instead of "springing ahead" an hour all at once, we "spring ahead" two minutes a day for a month . . . computers take care of the time-shift, and if you miss a few days on clocks that need to be set manually, there's no real problem . . . and so you can make a difference in the life of a child, for the low cost of two minutes a day, a mere two minutes a day and you can save a child, just two minutes a day . . . think about it.

A Good Walk Spoiled (By My Dog's Anus)

My son Alex asked me if I could bring our dog Sirius when I picked him up from school on Tuesday, and of course I obliged him, as nothing is better for an eight year old boy than to be greeted by his loyal companion after a long day at school, and then we decided to hike over to "the secret path" and the sun was shining and the weather was warm and the day seemed idyllic-- a father, a son, and the family dog out for a walk on a beautiful day-- and once we got into the woods, Sirius crouched in order to defecate, which pleased me because it meant I could bury the poop under sticks and leaves and instead of having to scoop it up in a bag, but after pushing out a few clumps, Sirius couldn't seem to bring his business to an end . . . an oblong chunk of poop wouldn't dislodge itself from beneath his stumpy tail, and Alex and I decided that we needed to help him-- so Alex held him still and I scraped at the offending piece with a stick, but no luck, this was one stubborn piece of poop . . . and Sirius was doing his best as well, occasionally crouching and shaking, but this didn't work either, so Alex pulled up his little tail and I went at the poop with some leaves, but that didn't work either, and at this point we certainly had poop on our hands and there were little specks of it on his coat, and then I spied a crumpled napkin on the forest floor and grabbed that (without thinking: for what was this napkin used before it was tossed on the ground?) but the napkin didn't dislodge the poop either, and so Alex and I gave up and decided we would take him to the dog park and let him run around, as we were certain the poop would come loose then, but after a couple laps around the dog park, the poop was still there, and so I decided to take matters into my own hands-- literally-- I took one of the bags from the gratis poop-bag dispenser and put my hand inside it, to use it like a glove, and then I got right up in there . . . and as I felt the consistency of the thing protruding from my dogs anus, I had an epiphany: two days before Sirius tore up a mitten and ate some of the stuffing inside it, stuffing that was long and stringy and white, and about an inch of this stuffing was sticking out of my dog's butt-hole-- covered in fecal matter-- and that's why it wasn't going any where, because the rest of the strand was inside my dog's colon, and I realized that it was my job, as the master of the dog, to pull out the remainder of the stuffing, which I did, and it came out rather easily, as it was lubricated by fecal matter: a six inch piece of stuffing, and-- as I'm sure you've guessed-- it was no longer white.

Don't Beat Yourself Up . . . Blame It On Daylight Saving Time

Note to self: coupons don't work unless you take them out of your pocket and actually hand them to the cashier (and, of course, I made this mistake on Monday, the day after we all "sprung ahead," and so I am suing Daylight Saving Time for my financial loss . . . as there is some evidence that the hour time shift is to blame for just about everything iniquitous in the universe).

An Unworthy Cause

I know there are worthier causes to devote my time to-- people around the world are starving and oppressed; the ice caps are melting; the rain forest is disappearing; and we haven't cured all the diseases that ail us-- but those things are too abstract for me to ponder . . . I prefer to protest things that affect me more directly, such as the ridiculous nuisance that we call Daylight Saving Time, which I consider further confirmation that we have no control over our modern lives . . . just as I'm getting a grip on my morning schedule (with the help of a chart made by my wife and the fact that there is finally some sunlight at 6:30 AM) I am thrust back into darkness, and for no logical reason-- simply because of a government dictum-- and so I am suggesting that we "take back our hour" and so, for the next Daylight Saving Time, in protest, I am advising you to NOT abide by the change-- show up at work at the correct time, don't set your clocks, don't lose an hour's sleep . . . TAKE BACK YOUR HOUR! TAKE BACK YOUR HOUR! . . . it's catchy to chant and it's a protest that probably won't involve tear gas, rubber bullets, or being hosed down by the authorities.

I am an Idiot, My Wife is a Saint

Friday, as I was pulling into the school parking lot, I felt my cell phone buzz and I instantly remembered what I had neglected to do . . . and then my phone started ringing and I realized that I wasn't going to escape this transgression with a mere text . . . my wife was going to talk to me about this, and so I accepted my guilt, accepted the call, and braced myself for the oncoming tirade . . . "What is wrong with you?" she began and I immediately started apologizing, because there was no excuse-- for the third time in two weeks, I had driven the wrong car to work-- we were trying to take my Jeep to the shop to get the brake lights fixed, but every time she made an appointment (and you need an appointment because our mechanic is so good) I forgot to drive the Subaru to work and instead took the very car that my wife needed to drop off at the garage . . . forcing her to call our mechanic and report to him that her husband was a complete idiot and she would need to reschedule . . . so this time she wasn't going to do that, and so she devised a plan whereby I would drive the car to her school and we would swap cars and I would be able to do this because I had a half day of classes and my parent conference schedule was light in the afternoon-- but there was only one problem, which I explained to her: "The only problem is that I'm supposed to go to lunch with Terry . . . if I drive all the way over there then he won't have anyone to go out to lunch with," and right after I explained the "problem" I realized that it wasn't really a "problem," and more just my concern with eating, but it was too late and so I braced myself once again for a deserved angry rejoinder: "I think it's more important that you get the brake lights fixed on the car that you drive both your children around in, rather than get a slice of pizza with Terry!" and I couldn't agree more and told my wife that I would meet her, and then went into the school and while I was summarizing this book in the English office, and explaining how I was in a System 1 mood, because my wife made me a chart for what I had to accomplish in the mornings (the kids have a chart and I have a chart, and my wife is on the chart, but I don't actually think she needs the chart) and I was very happy that I completed my Friday morning duty (walk the dog) and so I blithely walked out the door and hopped into my car, not thinking that I wasn't supposed to drive my car, and went straight to work . . . and while I was summarizing System 1 and System 2 to a colleague, my phone rang again and my wife told me that she was driving to my school right then, to swap the cars, so that I wouldn't have to drive all over during my lunch, and while I was extraordinarily happy that I was going to be able to have lunch with Terry, I also realized that it might be my last meal on earth and immediately decided that I would send my wife some flowers or perhaps place them in her car at work . . . but then I couldn't even get credit for that, as while I was recounting this story to my first period class, I felt another text arrive on my phone and it was from my wife and it said, "You better send me flowers" and the text also included her school address and the name and phone number of our local flower place, so not only did I know she was serious, but also that she thought I was an incapable idiot . . . but I managed to successfully send the flowers and I have smoothed things over . . . for now.

If You're Going Shopping, It's Best To be Angry

In Thinking, Fast and Slow, Daniel Kahneman shares a wealth of evidence that our intuition works better when we are in a good mood-- we are more creative but also more gullible . . . and he calls this System 1, but if you're going to do something analytic, and you have to consider several positions or the pros and cons of something, then this is called System 2, and to activate System 2, it is better if you are sad or vigilant or suspicious (or perhaps all three, although you might not be much fun to be around) and Kahneman summarizes this by explaining that "a happy mood loosens the control of System 2 over performance: when in a good mood, people become more intuitive and more creative but also less vigilant and more prone to logical errors," and this explains a lot to me; as now I can see why I was in such an ugly mood when I was doing all the shopping around for a new mortgage-- playing one broker off another, crunching numbers, comparing points versus rates, etc.-- and why I'm in such a good mood when I play soccer, which is all intuition, creativity, and spontaneous reaction.

Milestone (From An Outside Perspective)

The other day I went skiing with my two sons, who are six and eight, and it was the first time I took them without the help of my wife, and it was the first time that they didn't take a lesson or even warm-up on the bunny slope; instead, the three of us got on the quad lift, went to the top of the mountain, and all made our way down without incident-- and we did this over and over for four and half hours with only brief breaks for snacks-- and for all intents and purposes the day was a success . . . to an outsider on the mountain it must have appeared as an idyllic boy's day out (aside from one crash getting off the lift, Ian cut me off) and while I do think this was a banner day, I should still warn you people with younger kids who can't wait until they are old enough to keep up with you on the slopes that behind the scenes there is still a lot of grunt work . . . I was on my stomach in the lodge, underneath the table buckling ski boots because their little fingers weren't strong enough, and they still forgot to put on their hat and gloves and they couldn't carry their gear all the way across the parking yet and I had to pull them up hills because they don't give little kids ski poles, and dragging two kids while snowboarding is exhausting, so-- by the end of the day-- I was even more worn out than they were, but I had to drive home while they slept . . . some day it's going to be the other way around.

Ill-Suited Adjective

The marketing department at Herr's needs to have a stern word with the advertising genius who decided to add the adjective Creamy-- written in florid script-- in front of their "Dill Pickle" flavored chips; there are literal problems, of course, as pickles can be "zesty" or "crunchy," but they should never be the consistency of cream . . . and I'd love to analyze the connotations of the phrase "creamy dill pickle," but this is a family friendly blog, so I'll leave the symbolic interpretations to your collectively perverse imaginations . . . the only possible explanation for this filthy and unappetizing moniker is that Herr's is trying to acquire market dominance in the pregnant demographic.

A Bad Choice Followed By A Good Choice

I made a bad when choice when I ate the entire bag of All Natural Kettle Style Sweet Potato Chips in a fit of gluttony after work on Tuesday, not thinking that might my wife might have wanted some of these chips, but when my wife was chastising me for eating all the aforementioned chips, I made a good choice and did not complain to her about my stomachache (which was caused by eating all the chips) because I knew she would not have had any sympathy for me, and in fact, might have gotten even angrier when she realized that, though I was full, I kept eating the chips just because they were there.

Dead Letter Etiquette

What is the requisite length of time you should keep a card? . . . birthday, Christmas, or otherwise . . . and does it matter who gave you the card? does it matter that you're not going to read it again? does it matter if it has a picture of someone's family on it? . . . I believe that this story makes a case for keeping personal correspondence for a great length of time and for destroying it immediately . . . but I feel like I stash holiday cards in a basket for what I consider to be some arbitrarily polite length of time, and then I finally toss them, because some part of me feels like it would be rude to just read them, look at the picture, and then immediately chuck them in the trash . . . stupid card industry causing me more grief.

More Stuff High School Kids Wouldn't Like

Every three years the teachers at my school put on a "Faculty Follies," and though I participated my first year teaching (I played the harmonica and begged for money in a faculty room skit) this made me realize that the theater isn't for me-- I get too nervous and I don't enjoy being on stage-- but last faculty follies I did submit a brilliant idea for a comedy sketch, knowing full well it would be rejected . . . here is the sequence of events:

1) I begin by juggling three balls (I can juggle)
2) I do several basic juggling tricks-- under the leg, over the shoulder, etc.
3) my two beautiful assistants walk out on stage, one wheeling a unicycle and the other with three long-handled axes,
4) I take the axes and heft one of them, testing the weight,
5) I motion for my beautiful assistant to wheel over the unicycle
6) I lean two of the axes against the unicycle and hold the other by the handle
7) the tension builds as I prepare to mount the unicycle
8) instead I smash the unicycle to bits with the axe, take a deep bow, and walk off the stage

and I submitted the form with this description, but never heard back from the organizers, so this year, though I have another brilliant sketch idea, I'm not even going to submit the form: this was a collaborative effort inspired by my colleague Rachel, who was having a very hard time peeling an orange, and it goes like this:

1) Rachel, dressed in black, sits at a table and struggles to peel an orange . . .
2) meanwhile, the PA is blasting Wagner's Flight of the Valkyries . . .
3) Rachel finally peels the orange and then tosses the fruit over her shoulder,
4) she takes a large bite of the peel, makes a disgusted face, and walks off the stage,
5) the orange remains on stage for several skits,
6) Rachel reappears, having trouble peeling a banana . . .
7) she finally succeeds and this time eats the fruit,
8) she tosses the banana peel near the orange and exits,
9)  several minutes later, Eric comes on stage
10) instead of slipping on the banana peel, he slips on the orange,
11) Rachel and Eric bow . . .

this would be a magnificent piece of theater, but I am afraid the humor might be lost on the students.

Sometimes You Need to State the Obvious

I went to a Wizards game Saturday night and Gheorghe Muresan made an appearance in our suite: he is tall, very tall.

If You Like Pina Coladas and Making Love to Yourself

In my creative class, we listened to Allen Ginsberg read a poem called "Personals Ad," and many of the students had never heard of a "personal ad," as they are of the Match.com generation, and this led to me summarizing the plot of "Escape," by Rupert Holmes-- you might refer to this as "The Pina Colada Song" and you know the story: a guy who is "tired of his lady" reads a personal ad in the newspaper that describes his perfect match-- a woman who loves "Pina Coladas and getting caught in the rain"-- and so he organizes a rendezvous with this lady at a "bar called O'Malley's" where they can plan their escape; so I set all this up and lead them to the dramatic moment in the song and then I asked them: "Guess who he finds in the bar?" and a student who was either only half listening or only had "half a brain" yelled out "Himself"-- an answer which made us laugh, but also an answer that does make sense in a weird way-- and this led to us creating a revision of the song, where instead of reuniting with his lady, the narrator of the song instead meets a cloned version of himself-- perhaps a mad scientist stole his DNA when he was an infant-- and this is what the narrator yearned for all his life: to date himself . . . and then his lady eventually runs into him, and he is hooking up with a cloned version of himself and he is very happy about it, and she is completely disgusted with his vanity and rather bizarre and incestuous behavior . . . Rupert Holmes hasn't had a hit in a while, so perhaps he can record this version.

High School Kids Don't Care About This

Daniel Kahneman's new book Thinking, Fast and Slow, describes and contrasts two "systems" in our brains-- fast thinking and intuitive System 1 and deliberate, tedious, and often lazy System 2-- and he describes his comprehensive research and experimentation observing how System 1 (though brilliant at detecting emotions, recognizing objects, and jumping to fairly accurate conclusions) often screws up our System 2 thinking . . . and I found this example at the start of "Chapter 10: The Law of Small Numbers" both fascinating and indicative: Kahneman explains that the lowest incidence of kidney cancer in the United States is found in counties that are "mostly rural, sparsely populated, and located in traditionally Republican states in the Midwest, the South, and the West" and then he asks you what you make of this information . . . perhaps you speculate that people are exposed to less pollution in these places or lead healthier lifestyles or do more physical work . . . but then he reveals something paradoxical: the highest incidence of kidney cancer in the United States is found in "mostly rural, sparsely populated, traditionally Republican states in the Midwest, the South, and the West" and he asks you to make sense of this conflicting data . . . and perhaps your mind can resolve this-- maybe it has to do with poverty, or tobacco use, or access to poor medical care-- and so both these populations exist in the same regions, but the fact of the matter is that there is no causal reason why this is so-- the reason is purely statistical, and the important part of the statement is "sparsely populated"-- when you have smaller numbers there is a greater chance for statistical anomaly . . . I have a better chance of picking two students at random that both have blue eyes then I do having an entire class of thirty that all have blue eyes-- the two person sample is too small to indicate anything-- and so the only reason that the highest and lowest incidence of cancer occurs in the same type of county, demographically, is that these counties tend to have less people than other regions; this logical fallacy is common, the Gates Foundation determined that smaller schools are often more successful and invested substantial funds in creating small schools, sometimes even breaking large schools into smaller units, but what they neglected to realize is that small schools are often the most successful and they are also often the least successful . . . because their smaller populations are more likely to vary statistically; I found this idea compelling enough to explain to several of my classes, and I made a discovery of my own: high school kids DO NOT find this interesting at all . . . they don't want to guess why the incidence of kidney cancer is low, they don't want to guess why it is high, they don't want to speculate on the nature of the paradox, and they are certainly not excited to find out that there is NO causal reason for it.

A Number of Universal Significance

Today is the day,

I turn forty-two--

the meaning of life

but according to who?

and if you know,

I'm willing to bet

that you have read

all the books in the set--

you know that the dolphins

had such simple wishes,

they just wanted to say

thanks for the fishes.

Glad I'm a Dad

Dads talk about what they did with their kids, while moms talk about what they neglected to do.

Teacher of the Year

Sometimes being a great teacher is about what you DON'T do . . . the other morning I was using my guitar to illustrate how form often overpowers content . . . I played my creative writing students "Delia's Gone" by Johnny Cash, which is upbeat and kind of fun, though it is about murder, adultery, and revenge, and I also played "Goodbye Earl" by the Dixie Chicks-- another song that is catchy and cute, despite the fact that it is about poisoning an abusive husband, wrapping him in a tarp, and tossing him into a lake-- and then I was about to launch into "Last Kiss," a sixties song about a fatal car crash with a catchy chorus that was famously covered by Pearl Jam . . . I have fond memories of all the high school girls on the Spotswood soccer team joyously singing this tragic song on a bus ride home, smiling and laughing as they hollered the description of the car accident that kills the narrator's girlfriend, but not before he is able to give her one "last kiss" as she fades into the hereafter . . . but then I remembered that one of my students recently lost her boyfriend in a car crash, and-- miraculously-- I remembered this before I played the song . . . and so I actually averted an awkward moment instead of producing one, and for this amazing decision, I think I should win Teacher of the Year.

Exercise Your Right To Plagiarize . . . or Plagiarize Your Right To Exercise?

I often see people doing interesting exercises at the gym-- sometimes with weights, sometimes on the mats, sometimes with unusual equipment, such as medicine balls or rope attachments, and sometimes with the machines and contraptions that I never use-- and whenever I see someone doing an exercise that I've never done before, I have the urge to immediately attempt it, before I forget all about it and go back to my normal routine, but I feel weird about stealing someone's "move" right in front of them, so I always wait until they are out of sight before I copy what they were doing . . . should I feel weird about this?-- about stealing an exercise?-- I probably shouldn't because it's not actually "stealing," as you can't copyright an exercise move . . . or can you?

A Question for Counsel

On Friday afternoon, my son Alex-- who is almost eight years old and fully literate, and who has been warned many times not to play with food-- brandished a sleeve of Go-Gurt brand yogurt snack over his head and yelled "LIGHT SABER!" and then he swung the aforementioned sleeve of Go-Gurt down in the manner of a Jedi Knight using a light saber, but the tip of the sleeve of Go-Gurt caught the counter-top, and blue Go-Gurt splattered all over both the kitchen floor and all over everything else in the kitchen (including Alex and myself) and I am wondering what legal recourse I can take in this matter . . . i.e. what is the maximum punishment I can exact and still be within the letter of the law . . . for example: could I liquidate Alex's college fund and use it to buy a vintage guitar? could I abrogate his snacking privileges for life? could I appropriate his birthday swim party as my own and invite fifteen of my friends to splash in the pool and eat pizza?-- those of you familiar with the law, I thank you in advance for your advice (and I should also point out that the kitchen floor was recently swept and mopped).

Yikes

Last Wednesday, I drove all the way from New Brunswick to Highland Park with my car door open . . . this is partly because my Jeep is so loud and porous that it doesn't sound any different if the door is open or closed, and partly because whenever I get any time alone, I recede deeply into my thoughts . . . and I must have noticed something odd, but when I looked over my left shoulder to see if the window was open on the driver side passenger door, because I didn't see a half-open window, I assumed that it was closed, but in reality, I was actually looking at air and thinking it was a closed window, and so I drove right across the Albany Street Bridge with my door jutting out at a 45 degree angle-- as Jeep doors lock into place at this angle-- and it's something of a miracle that the door didn't strike another car, as the bridge is narrow (although I guess people were giving me a wide berth as they thought I was insane, and now I know why that guy beeped at me . . . I thought he was an asshole).

Serpentine!

I am teaching my dog Sirius to heel-- which essentially means that he needs to stay on my left side with his front legs even with me and he needs to adjust his gait to my movements-- and Sirius, although very good-natured, is also fast and athletic, so it's easy for him to get ahead on the leash, but I have been reading a lot of dog training books and one of the methods to get your dog to pay attention is to frequently change direction, which is what I have been doing-- I execute a left turn, then a right turn, walk to a tree, walk to another one, walk in a square, walk in a circle, go forward, go backward, etc.-- and I am sure everyone in the park thinks I am a lunatic who likes to torture his dog, especially when I'm executing the "serpentine," but I just channel Peter Falk and Alan Arkin from The In-Laws for inspiration.

Dave Invents Keyboard Therapy!

I am having trouble expressing how angry I am with words fit to print on a family-friendly blog, and I don't want to resort to kicking my dog, beating my children, or taking an axe to my computer to dispel these feelings, so, in order to convey my outrage at McAfee's policy of automatically renewing one's anti-virus subscription (despite the fact that I don't own a PC nor have I used McAfee anti-virus for four years . . . and I realize this is my fault, but the automatic renewal e-mails all got sent to spam and so I never noticed I was being charged until now) and also to convey my general outrage of living in a digital society that makes me feel detached and alienated from all financial processes, in order to convey all this ire without the use of four letter words or random violence, I am going to pound on this keyboard for a few seconds and let the pounded jumble of letters and numbers signify my emotions towards McAfee, my own incompetence, and the society we live in: " hio;efg3 RQ \M=we ra NI]0- 4 4T U]9- fq I0-  Y89PWE TA BY89PSE  BY89PS RGA8N]0-6J=U90  - RTWE 4TAWE TAI]0 NI]0- RG ]90 Isrg I]0-E G NI]0-we r90W 4T B89-  MI]0- RN890we rq \,= WERQCBFNU90N94E YU90 RYUIO[NI0RA0NU=90" and now, hopefully, I will be able to go on with my day in an even-keeled manner; Serenity now!

Sometimes It's Best To Keep Quiet

So on Monday, my wife and I took separate cars to the LA Fitness because I had to leave before her, and while I was walking across the parking lot, I overheard a little girl talking to her mother about what went on in the Kid's Club that morning . . . and my children were still in the Kid's Club, waiting for my wife to finish her spinning class and retrieve them-- so neither the little girl nor the mom recognized me-- and the girl said to her mom: "Ian head butted me" and that is my son's name, and the mom asked the girl, "Who's Ian?" and she replied, "Alex's younger brother . . . Alex was choking him and they got in trouble-- I told the lady," and for a brief second I thought about apologizing to this little girl for the atrocious behavior of my children, but I only entertained this for a second, and then I got into my car and made a clean escape (although I did question my children about it later, and Ian said he ran into the girl with his head by mistake while they were running around).

Your Secret is NOT Safe With Me

This is a long one, but if you're a fan of awkward moments and bad decisions, then it might be worth your time: once we finish Act II of Hamlet, I have my students rate the artistic, practical, and ethical nature of the various schemes in the play, and we discuss how Polonius forces his daughter Ophelia to turn over Hamlet's love letters, so he can read them to the king, and I always provide a real example-- for educational purposes, of course-- and ask them if this sort of behavior is ethical, to take someone's private, romantic writing and make it public . . . unfortunately, my example involves my friend Kevin, who teaches next door (and we are only separated by a thin, temporary accordion wall with an foldable opening, so we often pop in and out of each others classrooms through this "secret" entrance) and he was kind enough to sit in my class while I told my students this "case study" last week: so here it is . . . once upon a time, many years ago, before I was married, a "small world" coincidence occurred-- I met my wife on the streets of New Brunswick outside The Corner Tavern Bar, and I was with my childhood friend Rob, and Catherine-- my future wife-- was with her good friend Tammy and-- wildly-- eight years later Rob and I ended up married to these two lucky girls . . . and if we had walked out of the bar moments earlier or or stayed for last call, then we would have never met our future spouses . . . so after several years of dating Catherine and Tammy, we learned-- another weird coincidence-- that my long-time friend and colleague Kevin (who teaches next door to me) dated Tammy-- Rob's future wife-- in high school, when Tammy was a freshman and Kevin was a senior, AND-- miraculously-- Tammy had kept all the notes and correspondence that anyone had ever sent her in high school in a shoe-box . . . in other words, she had love notes that my friend Kevin wrote in high school-- which was the greatest news ever-- BUT, she wouldn't actually cede the notes to me because she knew I would use them for nefarious purposes (perhaps photo-copy them and give them to Kevin's students) so Tammy just gave me a quick glimpse and then hid them, but I was able to ascertain one fantastic piece of information: he signed all his love notes to Tammy "TTFN" (Ta Ta For Now) and so when I finish telling the students the story, I reveal his "signature" valediction and they laugh and laugh and scream it through the thin wall at him and taunt him with the information whenever they get the chance, causing him much embarrassment (although he's used to it by now-- since I do it every year-- and I think he actually enjoys the whole charade, which is why he sat in my class last week while I told the story . . . so he could face the "Ta Ta For Now" taunts head on) and then I remind the students that this was an educational case and I ask them if it was ethical for Tammy to let me see the letters, and if it was ethical for me to tell them the story, and then we compare the case to Hamlet and everyone is happy except Kevin-- but he knows the deal, which is that I will pretty much use any example that connects in my class to prove a point, but, unfortunately, not everyone knows this and my big mouth can lead to some awkward situations, such as last Tuesday, when I was explaining to my Creative Writing class how I am often a terribly illogical arguer and that I often make points that are rhetorically powerful but lack substance, I told them the breast milk example from the other day, and the fact that I shared this rather personal story found its way back to Rachel, the woman who tasted her own green-tinted breast milk, and she was NOT happy with me using that example because her students mentioned it in class and it made her truly embarrassed and red-faced . . . so there's a lot for me to learn here and I think I've learned it, but in case I haven't learned it, please remember: your secret is NOT safe with me.

Fecal Paradox

Due to lack of snow, the Canadian geese never left the park by my house this winter, and so the fields and paths are a shit-stained mess, except-- ironically-- the dog park, which has the only clean grass in the vicinity.

Polar Plunge 2012: Time to "Mose Up"

I have reported before on my wife's tendency to mix metaphors-- and she's been in rare form lately, creating new idioms such as shit in the wall (a mixture of "hole in the wall" and "shithole") and screw yourself into a corner ("paint yourself into a corner" and "screw up") but my favorite is the one she used at this year's Polar Plunge . . . she said that next year everyone has to "Mose up," combining the phrase "man up" with my buddy Dave's nickname "Mose," as Mose was the clear victor of the Polar Plunge again: last year he plunged three times and this year we thought we lost him in the crowd, only to find him swimming around in the frigid ocean . . . he was probably in the water for close to ten minutes, and when he finally emerged from the water-- surprise!-- he was wearing a Speedo, which he hid under a long pair of bathing trunks until moments before the mayhem, so that none of our group saw his outfit until he came out of the water . . . and as he strode out of the sea, pale and red-skinned, we rushed over to get pictures with him and found it difficult as he was painfully cold to the touch, so the bar has been set once again and next year we are all going to have to "mose up," and if my prose wasn't enough for you, scroll down for a special event on Sentence of Dave that we like to call The Sequence of Mose.

Attention Lorne Michaels: Free Comedy Sketch!

My friend Igor wrote a scathing critique of The Grammys the other day, and it gave me an idea for a gut-bustingly funny comedy sketch . . . here's my pitch: you have a bunch of grandmothers-- a.k.a. the grammys-- discussing the biggest hits of the year, rapping hip-hop lyrics, trying to sing Adele a capella, and then ultimately deciding who winds the awards-- somehow these women, these antediluvian grammys, like the Greek Fates, have all the power in the industry . . . I'm chuckling already, thinking about old ladies breaking, locking, and popping to "Watch the Throne."

What Do Todd Margaret And Tommy Saxondale Have in Common?

The Increasingly Poor Decisions of Todd Margaret is another TV program that belongs in the "Dave Thinks It's Hysterical But His Wife Thinks It's Too Silly" category, along with Saxondale and The Alan Partridge Show.

Would This Happen If I Were Driving A Mini-Van?

Someday I'm going to man-up and buy a new car-- most likely a mini-van-- and although it will be convenient and wonderful to have sliding doors, a cup-holder, heat, A/C, doors that lock, and other modern features, I'll miss the things you can't buy in a car: case in point, the other day I was walking out of the public library with my new books, and I was thinking about a million things and not paying very close attention to my surroundings and when I pulled on the door handle of my Jeep, I was surprised to find it locked-- and I rarely lock it because I don't have power locks-- so I pulled a bit harder, and then I was even more surprised when a face appeared in the window; after a moment it dawned on me-- this wasn't my Jeep! it was an identical 1993 forest green Jeep Cherokee with the same rust marks and peeling plastic trim, and so I shrugged my shoulders and gave my best "I'm not a lunatic smile" and pointed to my Jeep, which was parked next to the doppelganger Jeep and the guy inside, an older African American gent, followed my muted logic and laughed as well . . . two days later, I parked next to him again, and he rolled down his window and introduced himself to me-- his name is Bill and his Jeep has 187,000 miles on it and his wife had one that got 380,000 miles before she got into an accident on Industrial Avenue and since the mistaken identity incident we've talked several times as he's always reading in his car in the library parking lot (which is a bit odd, but maybe he's so attached to his Jeep that he prefers to sit inside his car rather than sit inside the library) and I doubt that anything like this will happen once I purchase a Toyota Sienna.

One of the Benefits of Growing Old

Twenty years from now, my only hope is that people will refer to me as a "character" instead of an "idiot."

This Is Why I Don't Drink Milk or Argue With Women

The other day in the English office, my friend and colleague Rachel claimed that her breast milk "turned green" when she ate a lot of salad, but I was skeptical and told her that she must have been hallucinating-- but I guess I don't know much about breastfeeding (and I have no problem admitting this) and so I did some research on-line and certain foods-- especially yellow and orange foods loaded with carotene-- can tint breast milk; Rachel has also tasted her own breast milk, which I find extremely gross, and when I tried to express this she countered with a very rational remark: "I taste everything my child eats," and that gave me time to process and NOT say what I was going to say next, which was, "Well, I don't drink my own urine," which doesn't make a lick of sense, but momentarily seemed like a powerful rhetorical flourish to my argument.

Christmas Serenity . . . for Now

Though I loved this particular piece of anti-Xmas art, I am proud to say that I had no annual Christmas melt-down this year-- I may have ranted a bit to my students about wrapping paper, but that was just to bait them into discussing consumerism and American culture-- but I delivered no full out angry anti-Christmas monologue to family members or colleagues, so either I am mellowing out or things are building to a head behind my calm exterior and we are going to have a "serenity now" scenario soon (on the other hand, I do readily admit that I despise Valentine's Day, especially the whole kids being forced to give every single classmate a Valentine thing-- the card industry is "training" them to be guilt-ridden materialists and we're all encouraging it).

Six of One, 3.85 Fixed Rate APR of the Other . . .

Though the result is essentially the same, I think I'd rather rob my bank rather than go through the hassle of refinancing my mortgage.

Does A.D. Mean Alcohol Dependent?

And without the discovery of fermentation, would we have already conquered the stars?

Does B.C. Mean Before Caffeine?

Without the benefits of coffee, would mankind still be in the dark ages?

Alan Moore: Predictable and Amusing (Just Like Me)

DC Comics is planning to release a seven comic book mini-series prequel to the unparalleled comic masterpiece Watchmen, and (according to The New York Times) creator Alan Moore is-- you guessed it!-- outraged and calls the new venture "completely shameless" and the article reports on Moore's typical pompous grouchiness, and explains that he has "completely disassociated himself from DC comics and the industry at large," and this sounds like a lot of fun-- to completely disassociate oneself from something, so here are a few things that I am now involved in that I plan to completely and indignantly disassociate myself from in the future:

1)  doing the dishes
2)  picking up dog poop
3)  tying my children's shoes
4)  wearing underwear
5)  flossing
6)  blogging
7)  canker sores
8)  Boardwalk Empire
9)  driving
10) Canada.

Sometimes You Need To Take Yourself For A Walk

I am browsing through Cesar's Way: The Natural, Everyday Guide to Understanding and Correcting Common Dog Problems, which is written by Cesar Milan-- the "dog whisperer" himself (no relation to the slightly lesser known "dog hollerer") and Cesar believes that walking your dog is the "single most powerful tool" to connect with your dog's mind, as "fish need to swim, birds need to fly . . . and dogs need to walk," and I think this might be true for humans as well, but the difference is that humans don't need to walk in a pack-- obediently following the pack leader-- humans need to walk themselves . . . we occasionally need to be alone and moving with complete autonomy-- I think this taps into our hunter-gatherer roots . . . perhaps it's why women like to go shopping; I certainly walk to relieve stress and my friend Whitney recently reminded me of a perfect example of how well this works: several years ago Whitney and I drove from Virginia to Colorado for a wedding, and we were supposed to get a good night's sleep and start the drive bright and early, but instead we stayed up until three in the morning drinking beer and playing darts, and then we spent twenty-two hung-over hours in the car together, and when we arrived at our destination in Boulder and parked the car, we had a brief argument about the best way to walk downtown-- where we were meeting a friend-- but the argument was more about being in the car too long with each other, and so, without any formal good-bye, we simply parted ways, and I took the high road and Whitney took the low road, and twenty minutes later, we met at the bar (I think Whitney got there first, but we actually didn't speak of our separation or the argument until hours later) and after each of us had our "walk," we were able to tolerate each other again . . . and even cooperate with each other: we bought a wiffle-ball and bat and when we crossed the continental divide, we took turn pitching to each other in a very civilized fashion until Whitney hit one over the edge of the continent: the ball plummeted over a cliff and onto a snowbank and we were quite pleased with ourselves-- but then, to our surprise, some high school kids clambered down the cliff and formed a human chain and "rescued" the ball and returned it to us, so we had to hit it off the divide again.

Dave's Favorite Story About Dave

Other readers have shared their Favorite Stories about Dave, and most have these have been in the Awkward Moments of Dave genre, but I would like to tell my favorite story about Dave, and it's not awkward at all, in fact-- believe it or not-- I am the clever hero of the story, in the tradition of cunning tricksters like Odysseus, Loki, and Br'er Rabbit, but don't worry, this theme won't be a recurring feature because it never happened again, so enjoy the one time I came through in the clutch: several years ago, when my two boys were quite young-- just able to walk and talk-- and we took a trip to the Newark Museum, which has a mini-zoo, art galleries, a fire museum, and a natural history section . . . and we were walking from the mini-zoo to the elevators, and the only way was through the art galleries, and so I was making the best of it, pointing out things my kids could recognize in the paintings, boats and cars and colors; the museum was empty-- a ghost town-- and so the guards, who were probably bored out of their minds, started chasing Alex and Ian around a bit, which my kids loved . . . Ian went one way and  Alex ran the other, and I chased Ian because he was younger and then I heard BEEP BEEP BEEP from the room next door and when I got in there, I saw Alex touching a large painting, and this had triggered the alarm system-- so I told him you couldn't touch the paintings and apologized to the guards, but they weren't upset at him, of course, since they had instigated the running around, and when we finally got to the elevators, there was a post-modern sculpture next to the doors-- it was an intimidating pile of seven or eight televisions, and the top and bottom screens showed a silver Buddha head floating on the ocean, being buffeted by the waves, and all the screens in the middle showed the same rotating Buddha head, but each screen was tinted a different color-- red, green, blue, yellow, purple-- and right next to the tower of TV's was a video camera and a rotating Buddha head-- the same Buddha head that was on all the TV screens-- and so I wondered if the camera was actually filming the head and sending a live-feed to the televisions, or if they were just playing a loop of film, so-- naturally-- I stuck my hand in front of the camera (I also wanted to see if my hand would appear in a different color on each screen) and I was rewarded with both the image of my hand on every screen and the BEEP BEEP BEEP of the alarm-- like a child, I had set off the system, but when the guard jogged in to check out why the alarm was going off, I pointed to my son Alex and said, "Alex, I told you, you can't touch anything here-- it's a museum!" and then we got into the elevator and made a clean getaway; this is the only time in my life I was able to think on my feet and say the right thing at the right time, and-- even though I threw my eldest child under the bus-- it felt wonderful.

Dog Thought #2

They say you have to bond with a new dog, so that it feels like part of your family, and-- as everyone knows-- the best way to bond is to have something in common . . . luckily, Sirius and I do have a common thread: parasitic worms (and you'd think since I once had some of these critters living in my intestines, I would have been less grossed-out when I "discovered" them in his stool, but they were still wriggling, nearly causing me to faint in the park).

Even Hamlet Can't Compete With a Giant Wasp

Like most teachers, I get very wound up and excited when I start Hamlet -- it's the ultimate piece of literature, totally engaging and entertaining, and full of comedy, tragedy, controversy, ambiguity, and supernatural fun -- but no matter how exciting the opening scene is, from the initial "Who's there?" to the ghost's entrance, it can't compete with a giant wasp, but that's been the recurring situation for the past few days, I start a lesson and then a wasp appears . . . I think there might be a nest somewhere in my ceiling . . . and once a wasp is hovering around, there's only one thing for students to look at , and it's not their Shakespeare text, and so the wasp must be killed, and one period that got pretty ugly-- I was smashing a stool into the ceiling tiles at one point-- but later in the day, when another giant wasp appeared in a different class, instead of killing the wasp-- which was time-consuming and distracting-- I incorporated it into the scene: I was playing the role of the Hamlet's scholarly friend, Horatio, who is enlisted to speak to the ghost, and so I made the wasp play the ghost and I yelled my lines at it "Stay, illusion! If thou hast any sound, or use of voice, speak to me!" and this seemed to appease it, so maybe it's not a living wasp at all, but the ghost of a giant wasp that I killed in the past.

Dog Thought #1

One of the ways I blow off steam is by walking around-- but I always feel a bit like a lunatic if I'm walking around completely aimlessly, without any ostensible purpose, so I usually "create" a perfunctory errand: I go buy cold cuts or a cup of coffee or some beer . . . but, of course, it's more about listening to my iPod and getting out of the house, alone and unfettered; one of the benefits of owning a dog is that now I don't have to invent a task for myself, I can just walk around aimlessly with the dog, and people look at me and think: he's not an itinerant wandering lunatic, he's just out walking his dog . . . but the only down side to this arrangement is that you have to talk to the Dog People you meet and I'm horrible at Dog Talk . . .

Dave: That's a beautiful dog . . . what is he, a Basset Hound? A Pekinese?
Dog Person: She's a Great Dane . . .
Dave: Oh, right . . . how about that one? A Shar-pei?
Dog Person: That's a cat.

Who Cares? Not Tom Ripley. Not Banksy. You.

The talented Tom Ripley is at it again in Ripley Under Ground, the second book in Patricia Highsmith's "Ripliad" series-- this time his victim is an unlucky art patron named Thomas Murchison, who rightly suspects that the painting he has bought is a forgery-- unfortunately he has stumbled into one of Tom Ripley's sophisticated con games-- and because he can't adopt Ripley's amorality, he ends up a corpse, but Highsmith has bigger fish to fry than just murder: Ripley asks Murchison, "Why disturb a forger who's doing such good work?" and this raises one of my favorite artistic/philosophical debates, which is portrayed in both the documentary My Kid Could Paint That and Banksy's perplexing film Exit Through The Gift Shop . . if there is any way to objectively judge art, then it shouldn't matter who painted the picture-- if it's good, then it's good-- but, of course, our brains don't work like that; art buyers want to be sure that it is prodigy Marla Olmstead that painted the canvases they spent so much money on, not her dad, and when Oprah revealed that James Frey's "memoir" A Million Little Pieces is actually part fictional, people were outraged-- including me!-- and so I suppose I should come clean here and reveal that Sentence of Dave is actually written by a trained donkey, not a computer program . . . but I'm sure you all suspected that from the start.

How Did This Happen?

I am an introverted person who enjoys being alone for long stretches of time-- I like to read and play the guitar and write sentences and listen to music-- and I have trouble thinking about more than one thing at a time, but somehow I've gotten myself into the absurd position where I have to: 1) be the boss of over a hundred kids during the school day . . . I constantly compel them do things that they would never do on their own: read Shakespeare, write essays, perform skits, and draw horses (I especially love compelling kids to draw horses, because if you can't draw-- and the bulk of the population in America can't draw-- then drawing a horse is especially comical) and then 2) after school I have to lord over my own children, and compel them to do homework and clean-up their shit and eat their dinner and brush their teeth and stop fighting, and now 3) we've added a dog to the equation, and I've never had a dog, but everything I've read explains that you have to establish yourself as the alpha and show the dog who's boss and my friend John gave me this advice: "Dog training is easy, you just need to establish that you are the master," and that makes sense, of course, but I often wonder: How did this happen? because I would be perfectly content being The Boss of No One and The Master of Nothing.

Specific Demographic

My friend Ann believes there is a very specific advertising demographic profile which consists of: 1) men in their late thirties and early forties 2) who use the digital music service Spotify 3) and run while wearing Vibram Five Fingers (those goofy looking "shoes" that have individual slots for each toe, and simulate the experience of running barefoot . . . sans glass shards, tetanus, and trichinosis) and she may be right . . . and I may be a member of this demographic, but all I can say in my defense-- which is exactly what the advertising folks want me to say-- is, "I love Spotify!" and "I love my Vibram Five Fingers!" and "I can't wait to see what they sell me next!"

Neal Stephenson Cares About Canada . . . and by the transitive property, so do I

The first seven hundred pages of Neal Stephenson's new novel Reamde take place in exotic locales such as Xiamen, Taiwan, the Philippines, and the MMORPG T'Rain, but the last three hundred pages follow international terrorist Abdullah Jones as he makes his way through the mountains of British Columbia towards the U.S. border-- and though the Canadian portion of the novel is a bit slower paced than the rest, it is well worth the wait until the entire international cast of characters descend on the inaccessible and mountainous border of Idaho and Canada-- Stephenson has a miniature war play out there, and his detailed, steady description of multiple plot threads is so arresting (not to mention that after 1000 pages you're rather attached to the characters) that your heart will race, your palms will sweat, the outside world will vanish, and when you finish the final page, you won't believe that the experience was NOT virtual, not generated by any sort of technology, and simply the result of well-placed squiggles on the white pages of a very thick book.