Road Trip Day Eight: The Badlands Start Treating Us Good

An epic day in the Badlands yesterday, but I will try to keep it terse:

1) I got up early to catch the sunrise over the Badlands, but so did the mosquitoes;

2) we tackled the Notch Trail at 7 AM, when it was cool and cloudy-- and after we ascended the rope and log ladder, edged our way along a cliff, and peered through the windy notch and into the White River Valley, we remarked at how much easier the hike was than the guidebook described it, and how lucky we were that it wasn't so hot . . . and then it started pouring rain, big drop rain-- the kind that hurts-- turning the ash and broken sandstone trail into a treacherous mudslick-- we tried to climb into a cave, but the climb turned out to be more dangerous than the actual trail, and then -- as fast as it came-- the downpour stopped and we made it down without injury (and later in the day we saw several ambulances at the head of this same trail and heard from a fireman at the rodeo that a guy fell from the rope ladder and broke his leg);

3) we found the best food in Interior (and maybe on the planet) at the Cedar Pass Lodge . . . and this could be hyperbole because we had been hiking all morning (and ate dinner at The Wagon Wheel the night before) but the Sunrise Fry Bread-- a piece of Indian fry bread covered with buffalo meat chili, refried beans, two fried eggs, and cheese-- is the best breakfast I have ever eaten in my entire life, and everyone else was very happy with their food as well;

4) we rode the Loop Road through the park, stopping several times to climb surrealistic rock formations-- the Badlands are a paradise for kids, a giant game of king of the hill, but not as fun for parents, who notice the cliffs and rockslides-- and we saw big horn sheep, prairie dogs, and bison;

5) Wall Drug was just as tacky as ever, and we learned that folks in South Dakota call seltzer "soda water" . . . we thought our waitress was mentally challenged and she thought the same of us, until we sorted the whole thing out;

6) my son Ian has been keeping a journal and when he read his description of the Ashfall Fossil Beds, I realized that he described what happened there better than me: "there was a giant volcano and it erupted and the lava didn't touch the animals but they suffocated from ash and the bad air from the volcanic eruption" and he also described the dynamic between my wife and me when we arrived at the Badlands Budget Host: "at the hotel there were fishing hooks in the bed and mommy got mad at dad because he chose this motel."

7) though it was ninety degrees, we went to the rodeo (and when I expressed my worry about the heat and the rodeo to the grizzled waitress at The Wagon Wheel, she agreed that it would be brutal but gave me some advice: "drink a lot of beer" but that didn't help-- and though we were very impressed with the bronco riding and the steer wrestling, we left after an hour and went back to The Badlands Budget Host to enjoy the above ground pool . . . even my wife took a swim).

Road Trip Day Seven: Go West, Young Man (and Keep Going and Going and Going)

Yesterday, we crossed the Missouri River and our trip into the West truly began:

1) Nebraska is a browner, drier, bigger version of Iowa-- bigger farms, bigger spaces, and smaller towns . . . and the gas stations serve "fried gizzards";

2) the Ashfall Fossil Beds is something to see before you die . . . beardogs, barrel bodied rhinos, three toes horses, giant turtles, a barrel bodied rhino embryo in utero, horned rodents, moon rats, saber-toothed deer, etc. etc. . . all frozen in place by the ash of a giant volcano that erupted 12 million years ago: this is the Pompeii of Mammalian Megafauna (I liked it so much there I did the unthinkable . . . I bought a t-shirt);

3) we then drove to Interior, South Dakota-- population 67-- which is literally inside the Badlands and we checked in to The Badlands Budget Host, which my wife described as "the scariest motel I've ever stayed in" and while I admit that it is a bit rustic (Ian found a fishing hook in one of the beds) but the views are spectacular and the A/C worked-- and thank God for it, as we went from a breezy cool day in Nebraska to a broiling lunar moonscape;

4) the Horseshoe Bar looked a bit seedy (everything looked a bit seedy in Interior, but that's because we got such great hotel deals with Hotwire.com in the Midwest-- every place we stayed had an indoor pool in a glassed in atrium overlooking a body of water-- and so the Budget Host's above ground pool didn't have a chance in hell to impress, though my kids didn't care) and so instead we ate an early dinner (screw you, Mountain Time) at the Wagon Wheel Bar and Grill, which was located in "the business district" of Interior-- there was actually a sign-- and The Wagon Wheel was made of colorful corrugated metal; the interior of the place contained a grizzled biker, a grizzled bartender, a grizzled waitress/cook, and a bunch of video poker machines-- and surrounding one of the machines were several generations of a Native American family-- all female-- grandma transfixed by the screen, sipping her third Tecate, grandma's daughter playing on the adjacent machine, while her pre-teen daughter watched the youngest-- a cute little toddler in pink-- as she ate chicken fingers off a napkin on the floor of the bar . . . she was sitting on the floor of the bar, and her napkin was on the floor of the bar . . . the food was edible, but not much more, and that's perfectly fitting for a place called the Badlands.

Road Trip Day Six: Des Moines is the Capital of Iowa

Bill Bryson begins his book The Lost Continent with an opening worthy of Herman Melville: "I come from Des Moines . . . somebody has to" and then he pokes good-natured fun at the place, calling it "hypnotic" and boring and all the other things that people usually say about their hometown, but after driving for 13, 978 miles, visiting thirty eight of our fifty states, and cracking innumerable jokes along the way, Bryson finds new appreciation for Iowa's capital city; coincidentally The Lost Continent is the first book I finished on our road trip, and I finished it the day before we headed into Des Moines-- so I was looking forward to seeing the birth place of America's funniest expatriate travel writer, and the city did not disappoint, it is a charming place, amidst fertile, green, rolling hills (Iowa is NOT flat, though my father told my kids this repeatedly before we left) with a nice little zoo and a cool sculpture garden, beautiful botanical gardens and hip restaurants (we ate lunch at great little bar called El Bait Shop) and most importantly (after Chicago and New Brunswick) the driving is easy and the parking is plentiful . . . I really can't stress this enough, the city is on a grid and every road is three lanes wide (most of them one way) and wherever you want to go, there's a parking spot right in front of your destination-- there's even parking on the bridges!-- and there is no traffic to deter you from pulling in to your spot: a most excellent place, in some parallel life I'd like to settle there.

Road Trip Day Five: Megan Inadvertently Uses Zeugma

As we drove through the endless farmland between Chicago and Altoona, I worried that the USMNT would be blown out by Belgium and I also worried that we wouldn't be able to find a fun place to watch the blow-out-- but we were lucky enough on both counts; Jethro's BBQ was walking distance from our hotel, and-- after I explained just how far we had driven-- our extremely friendly waitress (Megan) not only recommended the beef brisket but also that I "get trashed" and I took her up on both accounts (she also drew us a lovely map to the local WalMart on a napkin) and though the USMNT lost the game, and though they could have gotten blown out-- they didn't-- and this was mainly because of NBTHS alumnus Tim Howard, who did my hometown proud, so no complaints about our first day in Iowa (aside from the surfeit of corn and the wind . . . but I think that comes with the territory).

Road Trip Day Four . . . I Begrudgingly Adjust to Central Time

Diligent readers are familiar with my rants about Daylight Savings Time, but this time I have nothing to complain about, as I've inflicted Central Time upon myself . . . so this sentence is going to be a little logy (can a sentence be logy? or just the author of it?) as I woke up at 4:30 AM Monday morning, and after reading some Bill Bryson (The Lost Continent) for inspiration, I did my favorite early morning thing to do at a hotel-- go to the  hotel fitness center and give whatever odd workout devices they have a perfunctory try and then swim some laps in an empty pool-- and though I got an early start, I still had a great time in Chicago; the Shedd Aquarium is awe-inspiring-- even better than the one in Camden-- and the Art Institute is equal to the Met (I saw more Magritte paintings in Chicago than I did in Belgium) and the sculptures and fountains and architecture and skyline in Millennium Park are as beautiful (or more so) than they are in Central Park and the "L" train system is equally as complicated, confusing and expensive as the subway in The Big Apple . . . the CTA employee saved us a few bucks on tickets by sending us around the block to Walgreens to purchase some kind of re-loadable card and then she had to use her personal card to scan the kids at a discount . . . absurdity . . . and the gist of it all is this: I don't know why this surprises me so much-- perhaps because we drove across a sea of farmland-- and I should have known better . . . but Chicago is a real city!

Road Trip Day Three . . . We Travel at the Air-Speed Velocity of an Unladen Swallow

Pittsburgh to Chicago is a long and boring haul through Ohio and Indiana, but luckily my son Alex lost his mind at the latter end of the ride, providing some much needed entertainment:

Alex: a coconut is almost a mammal!

Dad: what?

Alex: it has hair, and it gives milk . . . all it needs is to have live young;

Mom: what about a heart and a brain?

Alex: Ian doesn't have a brain, and he's a mammal!

but despite the long haul, the high temperatures, and my epic quest to find parking, we were able to rally and cover a lot of ground in the city-- for all the shortcomings of my children, I will give them this: as long as we keep feeding them, they can walk forever . . . even with the addition of "punishment push-ups," which they are consistently doing for various bad choices; anyway, here are a few highlights and lowlights of Day Three:

1) major surprise . . . when it's hot in Chicago, it's a beach town . . . at the shore of Lake Michigan, the skyscrapers abruptly end and the beaches begin . . . and another surprise . . . there were lots of attractive, scantily clad women roaming about (I had imagined the women of Chicago to be stout and solid . . . female versions of the guys in the SNL "dah Bears" skit) and there were loads of people sailing little boats and partying on yachts;

2) the view from the top of the John Hancock Observatory is astounding, but it must eventually get rather mundane, as the girl who ran the elevator made herself an excellent rubber band ball and was having a good time bouncing it;

3) the view from our hotel is awful, as all the rooms at the Holiday Inn Chicago Mart are on the interior of the building, but this is karma-- as we were upgraded in Pittsburgh and got the best view in the city-- so things needed to even out (and you can see down into the hotel pool, which is mildly entertaining . . . and if you leave the room, you can look down into the lobby, which is very nice . . . the hotel is a donut within a donut, I think);

5) deep dish pizza at Gino's East is good but very filling (and also really expensive and takes quite a while to make) so though the kids loved it, I much prefer Pete and Elda's at the Jersey shore;

5) nutritionally, I had an especially ugly day: Jimmy Dean sausage and egg sandwich for breakfast, two McDonald cheeseburgers for brunch, a chili dog with onions at Portillo's for lunch, and deep dish pizza with sausage, peppers, and onions for dinner . . . but at least I avoided the deep-fried cheeseburger;

6) there was also some serious nutritional disappoint when we found out that Rick Bayless's two Mexican places that we were dying to visit are closed on both Sundays and Mondays . . . our only hope is a quick breakfast on Tuesday before we head to Iowa.

Road Trip Day Two . . . Can I Keep It Short and Sweet?

In order to keep my fans from migrating to my competitor's blog, I am going to summarize our second day in Pittsburgh in as few words as possible . . . I'm going to try my best to be terse and laconic:

1) we visited the Carnegie Science Center, which is quite a bit better than the Liberty Science Center (although I found being inside the submarine extremely claustrophobic);

2) while my wife and kids were watching a show in the Buhl Planetarium, I slipped off to the Jerome Bettis Grille in order to watch the noon Brazil/Chile World Cup game and found myself sitting alone, making strange noises at a giant TV, and drinking copious amounts of beer to mask my embarrassment, because every other person in the bar was in town for the 4 PM Pirates/Mets game, and they were doing their best to look at anything besides the soccer match-- though it was on the majority of the TV sets in the place-- so these people were watching baseball pre-game, or hockey reruns, or even looking at the autographs and memorabilia on the walls . . . they all seemed to be of the same mind, that if their glance happened upon soccer, they would turn communist or something worse . . . but my wife and kids joined me at half-time and an ethnic guy (Asian? Filipino? Colombian? all three?) from Long Island, who was also a soccer coach, stood next to us and we all yelled and rooted like crazy people, as the match was fantastic and went to penalty kicks, but even though they made a special announcement on the PA about the game and actually shut off the classic rock for a bit and played the volume, the baseball fans in the bar still refused to look at the game, they focused on their deep-fried cheeseburgers and got ready to enjoy an afternoon watching America's pastime, not some artistic sport that you play with your feet and head (and you heard me right, the Jerome Bettis Grille specialty is the deep-fried cheeseburger . . . I was tempted to order one until I actually saw the sort of person who eats one . . . 

3) we then hauled it up the hill into the Mexican War Streets -- the best name for a neighborhood ever-- and went on an epic quest in the epic Pittsburgh heat to find The Mattress Factory . . . a contemporary art museum with room sized installation pieces . . . and once again we were going against the grain, walking past a tide of Mets and Pirates fans, none of whom knew the way to this museum . . . but we finally found it and it was weird and eerie and dark and fun and mainly air-conditioned, much more exciting than an afternoon baseball game in 90 degree heat game could ever be;

4) and finally, my wife (and competitor) has banned me from using her pictures, so this is all I have to offer in the way of photography (and so much for keeping it short and sweet, but I'm better with words than with a camera . . . and that's not saying much).

An Original Photo by Dave

Road Trip Day One . . . We Become Honorary Pittsburghers

I'm going to stretch the boundaries of the sentence for these posts (mainly because I'm competing against another, ersatz blog being written by my wife -- Sentences of Cat -- and I want to be the definitive and comprehensive provider for information about this cross country trip) and so I'm going to use a chronological listing format to give you all the stuff you need to know:

1) we made it to Fallingwater without much conflict in the car, mainly because of two podcasts -- Song Exploder  . . . artists take apart songs track by track and explain how they put them together -- and Professor Blastoff . . . which is slightly inappropriate for the kids but hysterically funny;

2) Fallingwater makes miraculous use of steel-reinforced concrete, which I just learned all about in the highly entertaining book Stuff Matters: Exploring the Marvelous Materials that Shape Our Man-Made World, and while I could appreciate the aesthetic charms of the place, mainly what kept running through my mind was: this would be an awesome place to have a party! but then I kept imagining drunk people leaning over the low balustrades and falling onto the wet slate below, and I questioned Frank Lloyd Wright's brilliance;

3) Hotwire upgraded us without telling us, and we found ourselves staying in the Pittsburgh Wyndham Grand, with a fantastic view from high above the confluence of the three rivers (the Ohio, the Allegheny, and the oft forgotten Monongohelalhgonelagonorrhea) and so after a surprisingly cheap meal at Pittsburgh's oldest restaurant -- the Original Oyster House-- we were able to watch the sun set into the confluence (and you're not going to get a word like "confluence" over at my competitor's blog;

4) the concierge at the Wyndham asked me where we were coming in from, and when I told him New Jersey, he said, "I've been to Elizabeth . . . they'll murder you twice there before you get out of the car," and I agreed that it was a tough town -- but not quite that bad (we travel there and play soccer, and while they play rather rough and tumble, no one ever gets knifed) and then he said, "I've also been to Camden" and I told him that's a rough town too, but "with a great aquarium" and I didn't bother to explain to him that not all of New Jersey is evocative of Mad Max and that I live in an innocuous Jersey town full of liberals, lesbians, Orthodox Jews, grad students, and a sprinkling of every ethnic group on the planet, and he assured me that Pittsburgh "is like Mr. Rogers" and it did seem to be full of nice old white men like the concierge, but we did meet one black guy, who owned the ice cream parlor we went to . . . the place is called DreamCream and each flavor in the shop represents a charity-- it could be an organization like the Red Cross, or an individual who needs an expensive medical test -- and by purchasing a particular flavor, you support that particular charity . . . so very Mr. Rogers;

5) and while I'm not above trashing my competitor's blog, I will steal one of her pictures.

Soccer Injury

During the USA/Portugal match, all the kids watching the game were sitting on the floor of my living room, and my son Ian didn't jump up quickly enough when the US scored their second goal, and so he got kneed in the side of the face . . . so amidst the jubilation he was curled in a ball, crying, and had to be extricated from the throng of cheering boys . . . and in my usual empathetic fashion I blamed the injury on his slow reaction time to the goal-- not the insane boys that injured him-- and advised him "when you watch soccer you've got to really pay attention because if a goal gets scored people go crazy."

Boats: Could They Cure PTSD?

In Another Great Day at Sea: Life Aboard the USS George H.W. Bush, Geoff Dyer summarizes writer Karl Marlantes theory: "in the Second World War people came home slowly, gradually, by boat, as part of a unit" but "in Vietnam, and in Iraq and Afghanistan, the swift return and dispersal of the group was accelerated and increased, something that may well have played a part in the drastic increase of PTSD" . . . and while this reverse acclimatization into the civilian life may be necessary to healthily adjust from wartime to peacetime, it's also possible that WWII guys were just tougher (this was the time of leather football helmets, a time when you could still die of septicemia from a rotten tooth). 

My Grill Communicates With Me In the Only Way It Knows How

I assumed that the very high temperatures on my Ducane grill thermometer were like the zone beyond the 85 mph mark on my mini-van's speedometer-- just for show-- but apparently, if you let enough fat and grease and meat shards pile up on the heat plates and the floor of the grill, and then throw a bunch of burgers on and close the lid, you can start a 700-degree fire inside your grill -- which charcoalizes burgers in mere minutes (and inspired me to finally clean the grill).

Itinerary

I am posting my cross country trip itinerary here so I don't get any statements like this after the trip . . . you should have told me you were going to Nebraska, my uncle owns a circus in Nebraska and you could have performed in it! or You were in Hot Springs, South Dakota last week . . . I was in Hot Springs, South Dakota last week . . . we could have met for margaritas at my favorite place . . . so here it is, and if you have any information about these places, I'd be happy to hear it: Pittsburgh to Chicago to Sioux City (near Adventureland) to Nebraska (Ashfall Fossil Beds) to the Badlands to the Black Hills (Rapid City and Hot Springs) to the Grand Tetons and finally to Yellowstone (we are staying north of the park in Emigrant, Montana).

Why Did All the Good Stuff Happen a Long Time Ago?

A lot of the supernatural -- werewolves and mermaids and vampires-- and the most fantastic religious miracles -- Jesus walking on water and Moses parting the Red Sea-- can probably be attributed to the fact that no one in ancient times had access to eyeglasses.

Parallel Preparation (Not Really)

If you're a diligent reader of this blog, you may have noticed that I haven't been reviewing many books lately, and that's because I have been reading travel guides and hiking guides and (my favorite) eating guides, in preparation for our cross-country trip, but one writer was able to pull me away from this preparatory research -- the humorous British curmudgeon Geoff Dyer; his new book is called Another Great Day at Sea: Life Aboard the USS George H.W. Bush and it is a study in the act of perpetual preparation, because-- as the men on board repeatedly tell him-- the lessons they learn about how to effectively and safely run an aircraft carrier are "written in blood"-- the bad things that can happen on the ship and in the air above the ship are multifaceted and multifarious, and Dyer describes them all (though he doesn't witness anything horrific, but he hears about soldiers being sucked into jet engines and blown overboard and killed by catapulting cables and the variety of ways to crash land, etc. etc.) and the book is both absurdist in its detailed observation and inspirational in how these men lead their lives, and it's great preparation for our cross-country trip, because no matter how claustrophobic it gets in the mini-van and no matter how annoying the kids get, this is NOTHING compared to what men and women have to endure when they are contained for months on an aircraft carrier (which, to Dyer's chagrin, has neither a bar nor a ping-pong table).

Sometimes A Short Walk Can Be a Very Good Time

I warn my composition students not to take to much lined paper at the start of the exam, because the only fun thing that you can do during the course of the examination is walk to the front of the room to get more paper (of course, normal people can sit in one place for an hour and a half straight without taking a short walk, but I know that I need little breaks like that to look forward to).

Probably Better Off This Way

On Wednesday morning, I tried to telepathically call my dog to my bedside, but he didn't come; though this would have been a neat trick, it's probably better that he can't read my thoughts . . . I wouldn't want to burden anyone with my stream of crappiness, especially my most faithful canine companion.

I Welcome the NSA to Read This

I am reading Glenn Greenwald's book No Place to Hide: Edward Snowden, the NSA, and the U.S. Surveillance State and while the revelations in the book are frightening and I certainly agree with Greenwald's point that "surveillance changes human behavior . . . people who know they are being watched are more confined, more cautious about what they say, less free" but I wonder if this is always an awful thing; there are people who feel they are always being surveilled by an omnipotent and omniscient being, and this doesn't bother them, in fact, it makes them strive harder to be moral and a good person in the eyes of their God (which can mean a lot of things, but that's a whole other can of worms) and I'm trying to convince my children that they are often being watched, even when they don't realize it (such as when they are eating in a restaurant, and my older son picks his nose and eats it) and even if our electronic correspondence is being surveilled by the U.S. government, this really hasn't changed things, as Greenwald still published his book-- sureveilled or not, he wasn't disappeared, like Dunbar in Catch-22, so I say to Uncle Sam, surveil away . . . read my third rate blog and my banal text messages . . . enjoy!

A Man Can Dream, Can't He?

I'd be fired for this, I suppose, but the other day, when I was showing my senior class the climax of The Matrix, there was a lock-drill . . . and so there was trouble inside the computer generated world designed to enslave humans (the matrix) because Neo was locked in battle with Agent Smith and there was trouble in "reality," because the robotic squid creatures were attacking Morpheus's hovercraft, and then the lock-down drill added another layer of trouble in our own reality outside of the movie and it made me think it would be really wonderful if I could stage some kind of attack of my classroom during this climactic moment, so there would be actual believable trouble on three levels of reality . . . the reality of the matrix, the reality of the world outside of the matrix but inside the film, and then the reality of the place where the film is being shown (some technical troubles with the projector might help the metaphor as well) but considering the climate in schools these days, I don't think it would be wise for me to stage an attack of my own classroom to accentuate a meta-philosophical point.

The Other Black Night

While my favorite Black Knight is the heavily armored dude in The Holy Grail who loses his arm and claims "it's just a flesh wound," I will concede a close second to The Black Knight pinball machine -- which introduced the two level playing field and also had feature called "Magna-save," which allowed you to press a button and operate an electromagnet to save your ball from draining-- when I played this thing back in 1980 it absolutely blew my mind (multi-balls on two levels! holy shit!) and so when the boys and I went to Asbury Park to visit the Silverball Pinball Museum last week, I was hoping they would have this machine . . . and they did, and it was a good lesson about the power of nostalgia over memory, because the game looks pretty lame and dated now (especially compared to the machines surrounding it) and so my advice is this: don't revisit anything from your youth, because experiencing it in the present might destroy happy memories from when you were ten (although I still had fun playing Centipede . . . whatever happened to the track ball?)

Dialing It In (For Good Reason)

This sentence is to celebrate the longest run of beautiful weather in the history of central New Jersey (and I apologize for a weak literary effort, but it's been too nice outside to sit at the computer and write . . . if I lived in Colorado this blog wouldn't exist).

A Student Teaches Me That LIfe Is a Different Kind of Highway

My students had to present philosophical metaphors last week and a very smart girl explained that her take on life is like driving -- she said that we are all rolling along the road, some one way and some in the opposite direction, and we all share the road but we don't know exactly where the other cars are going -- they may even be going to the same address as us, but for a very different reason, or just using the same road -- and we may wave or give them the finger, but we don't fully understand them and what's going on inside that vehicle . . . and that parallels her view of other people, we don't know their full intentions or thoughts but we can see similarities and/or major contrasts in how they are moving and acting and this gives us clues to how they think and feel; this philosophy boggled my mind because when I am driving, I don't think of the other cars as human entities, I think of them as obstacles and I'm often angry and wondering What the hell are these people doing out here on the road? Don't they have jobs? Are they just driving around aimlessly to irritate me? Why are they taking up space on this planet? Why are they driving 34 miles an hour in the passing lane? and if I get caught in a traffic jam, I don't console myself with the fact that I'm surrounded by other conscious people who have wants and needs, and a desire to get places, instead I feel claustrophobic and oppressed and insane and want all the cars around me to be vaporized by alien lasers form space . . . but from here on in, I'm going to try to change (a little) and (occasionally) attempt to empathize with both other cars and other people.

RISK Statistics Make Me Wonder

My son Ian begs us to play RISK, which is a major commitment, and then when we finally agree to play, he's usually miserable . . . on average, he cries 2.7 times a game, he outright cheats 6.5 times a game, and he fake quits 2.2 times per game; so my question is: why does he desire to "play" this game of domination, manipulation and betrayal . . . why does he desire this emotional turmoil?

This Hockey Puck Has Nothing To Do with the Rangers

A student of mine relayed an incident from her brother's dorm in college which I found radically inventive, but apparently, "to hockey puck" someone is a fairly mundane thing . . . so if you live in a dorm and you hate your RA, then you can urinate into some kind of cylinder -- such as the top of a peanut butter jar -- then freeze the urine, then pry the frozen urine from the lid, so that you have a "hockey puck" of frozen pee, and then you can slide this hockey puck of frozen pee under the door of the hated RA upon which you want to exact revenge (when he/she isn't in the room, of course) so that when they return to their room, they are greeted by a mysterious puddle of urine (in the story I heard, the RA was so befuddled by the urine puddles -- which were nowhere near the door, because it's easy to slide the "hockey puck"-- that he first changed the locks and then called animal control because he thought there was some creature living in his room that like to urinate on his floor when he was at class).

Sleep > Success

Yesterday a student played a video narrated by Eric Thomas, an ex-professional football player who is now a motivational speaker, and -- serendipitously-- the theme coincided with yesterday's sentence; in fact, it seemed as if Thomas was giving me a stern talking to about my need for sleep . . . he says you need to "want to succeed as bad as you want to breathe" and then (at 3:54 into the clip) he elaborates and says that most people "don't want success as much as you want to be cool . . . most of you don't want success as much as you want to sleep . . . some of you love sleep more than you love success," and I couldn't help agreeing with him . . . I would love to be more successful, but I'm not losing any sleep over it.

Sad But True (Awkward Dave Walks the Halls)

I'll never be a great man (for many reasons) but mainly because I need too much sleep (case in point: last week there was a half day for the students and so I had some free time to spend in my classroom, and a great man would have finished Amanda Gefter's Trespassing on Einstein's Lawn: A Father, A Daughter, the Meaning of Nothing and the Beginning of Everything, a fascinating book about the most metaphysical questions in physics, but instead I fell asleep at work in a plastic chair, head leaning against the file cabinet, feet resting on a desk . . . a position so uncomfortable that when I awoke, twenty minutes later, both my legs were asleep, from my glutes to my toes, and I didn't realize the extent that they were asleep until I had walked twenty yards down the hall, to the water fountain -- I'm always thirsty after a nap-- and that's when the pins and needles struck, and so I had to stagger back down the hallway to my room (on surveillance camera) and almost made it without being seen, but just before I opened my door a teacher rounded the corner and gave me a funny look (well deserved, since I was careening from one side of the hall to the other) and so, as I collapsed through my classroom door, I yelled to her, "both my legs are asleep!" so she wouldn't think I was drunk (an actual possibility, since we were able to leave the school for lunch because it was a half day).

Educating the Youth With Facial Hair

We've been watching The Matrix in senior English class, and half-way through, I realized that if I shaved my facial hair into a goatee/mohawk then I'd look a bit like Cypher (at least in the facial hair department) and so I gave it my best shot (it's a bit crooked) and then on Monday I came into class with my new look, and I instructed my students to take out a sheet of paper for a quiz and then I said: "Question #1" and pointed to my face and asked them to"connect my face with what we've been doing in class," and about a third of the students answered correctly (and while it was well worth the laugh, the only problem is that I don't have a good exit strategy from this look, and so I've been wearing this ridiculous goatee/mohawk for a couple of days now . . . I even attended a wake with it . . . no one said anything).

When You Need Clean, But Not VERY Clean

Finger + hose = ghetto powerwasher.

Locks, Sad News, and Other Things

On my way to the gym, I was listening to a Radiolab episode called "Things," and I came to the conclusion that I was not much of a "things" person-- that I don't attach a lot of sentimentality or significance to objects . . . and then I went into the locker-room and saw a lock that looked like my lock, and I thought to myself: I'd better not lock my bag next to that lock, because I won't know which lock is which, so instead I'll lock up over here and then I noticed that my lock was missing -- it wasn't attached to the strap of my gym bag as it usually is, and after searching a bit, I went over to the lock that looked my lock and tried my combination and it worked -- but there was nothing in the locker, of course, and I pondered this for a moment or two and then I realized what had happened; the last time I was at the gym was Tuesday, and I overheard two guys talking about a guy I knew named Lee, a guy I had played pick-up basketball with for twenty years, and they mentioned his trademark army duffel bag and then they started talking in hushed tones but I thought I heard the word "drowned" and this really disturbed me-- but for some reason I didn't go up to the guys, maybe I was embarrassed because I was eavesdropping and instead I lifted for a few more minutes-- but I couldn't concentrate-- so I left, and I guess because my mind was on other things, I relocked my lock after I packed up my stuff and left it there . . . and then I headed home and started searching for Lee on the internet, but I realized that though I had known him for twenty years, I didn't know his last name . . . and I should point out that this guy was one of the nicest, most positive guys I've ever met, and a great basketball player, and the kind of guy you'd want on your team, because he'd pass you the ball, compliment you up and down, and then make four three pointers in a row so you'd get to play in the next game . . . and after a little searching , I found out what happened and it's tragic . . . Lee went missing on Wednesday and they found his body in Farrington Lake, the lake behind my parents' house-- the lake next to the court at Bicentennial Park, where I first started playing with this guy-- and while nothing is particularly clear about what happened, there was even mention of depression or possible mental troubles in the newspaper (which I really couldn't fathom, but you never know what's going on in somebody's head, no matter how they act in public) but I will say this: he was a great guy and he will be missed.

Dave Uses the Word Quadrennial in Proper Context!

If you're excited for the World Cup, or like the word quadrennially, or just want to hear some stuff my friend Terry told me, then head over to Gheorghe: The Blog for Dave's Definitive and Quadrennial World Cup Preview.

It's a Lot of Work Not Doing Work!

Tuesday evening, our neighbor knocked at the door and then asked Catherine if she could come over and turn on their stove, and this is because our neighbors are Orthodox Jews, and during the holiday (Shavuot) they couldn't use electrical appliances (thus the knocking at the door, ringing the doorbell is prohibited) or do any "work," such as turn on the stove (but once the stove is on, then they can use it to cook).

Life Changing Sentence You Might Want to Avoid

I assume you know about Oxford philosopher Nick Bostrom's logically argued premise that we are probably living in a computer simulation (but if you don't know about this theory, then do NOT click on the links and FORGET YOU EVER READ THIS!)

Dart Board > Laundry Room = Duh

I recently put up a dart board in the basement, and while my stroke has improved because of this, I've often gone down to the basement in order to switch the laundry over, gotten waylaid by the dart board, ironed out a few kinks in the delivery, then headed upstairs, happy with my progress . . . my initial purpose to do some laundry totally forgotten, until I get upstairs, so I head down again, take a few more shots at the dartboard . . . rinse, lather, repeat.

Two Furry Thumbs Down

I can't remember who implored me to watch Ted, but if I do, I'm going to punch them in the nose.

Reverspectively Speaking

Not only was the Patrick Hughes show at the Flowers Gallery in Chelsea well worth the trip-- the art is trippy and three-dimensional, mesmerizing, and mind-blowing-- but the curator was also the nicest person we've ever encountered in a private gallery . . . she gave us a tour of all the paintings, pointed out cool stuff in many of them, showed us how some differed from others, and spoke at length about the artist (and she knew full well that we weren't buying anything, but maybe she thought our kids were cute or something; anyway, the show is up for a few more weeks, and I highly recommend getting over there and seeing it).

Reminder x 14!

Today my wife and I have been married for fourteen years, and this sentence is to celebrate this fantastic occasion (and also-- since I wrote it several days ago and "scheduled" it to appear-- to remind me to make my sentiments about this fantastic occasion known to my wife).

Who Knew?

Friday night, my ten year old son surprised and impressed the family with a passable British accent (apparently, he's been working on it for a while and he claims that it's hard to say American words-- such as "barbecue"-- properly . . . after he tried to say "barbecue", then his younger brother gave it a shot, and so I tried as well . . . and my accent was so heinous that it ended the episode).

Reminder

My family is driving cross country this summer and I've got to remember to play Bruce Springsteen's song "Badlands" when we enter the Badlands . . . I wonder what the odds are that I actually do this?

Not Sure If This Would Be Good or Bad . . .

I have two typically scatterbrained kids -- they forget clothing, water bottles, musical instruments, homework projects, and whatever task they have been asked to do-- but when they play Minecraft, they have laser-like focus, and so if menial work could be done through an interface like Minecraft-- with robots or drones or automation or something -- then little kids would line up to work these jobs, for free . . . I'm not sure what this would do to the economy, but if you could flip a burger on a computer screen, and then achieve some kind of digital reward for cooking it perfectly, and you could eventually level up, then that whole stigma would vanish (and teachers and parents would have to come up with some other cliche to inspire kids to go to college).

Losing Your Noodle

Aristotle, an all around smart guy, believed that the heart was the seat of our thoughts; now, of course, we know that our thoughts originate in our brain-- and if you need further proof, check out the story of Phineas Gage (or better yet, The Kids in the Hall "Academy Awards" skit) but this makes me wonder, if we did not have Aristotle or modern neuroscience to guide us, could we make a person believe that his thoughts originate in his foot, or elbow, or buttocks . . . and so I urge science people to get on this topic immediately (my guess is that it's perfectly possible, because it's not like you feel your thoughts in your brain, you just believe that your consciousness is swimming around in the general vicinity of your head).

It's Fun To Pass Judgement (from the Confines of a Motor Vehicle)

When you're cruising along without a care but the other side of the road has traffic piled up for miles, I know what you're thinking: I'm a good person and deserve my fate, while those sinners over there will have to repent by sitting in that jam.

Goblins, Corduroy, and Synth Pop

I wasn't much of a film buff in high school (my movie watching was limited to Monty Python flicks, Surf II, and anything that might contain a naked boob) and so I missed quite a few classic '80's films but I plugged a couple gaps this weekend: I watched both Labyrinth and The Sure Thing, and despite the obvious differences (puppets vs. no puppets) they contain some common ground: cheesy '80's music, young stars who eventually become fairly iconic (Jennifer Connelly and John Cusack), weird and harsh lighting, several endearing scenes amidst some predictable rubbish, and David Bowie's crotch (actually, only Labyrinth contains David Bowie's crotch, but The Sure Thing has the PG-13 rating . . . odd).

Robotrons, Methy Mikes, and Big Mitches

Colson Whitehead's new book The Noble Hustle: Poker, Beef Jerky and Death should be more fun than it is; Grantland paid the $10,000 stake for Whitehead-- a professional novelist and amateur poker player-- to take part in The World Series of Poker; Whitehead trains for the main event by playing in smaller tournaments in Atlantic City and he acquires a classy female novelist and professional poker coach who has actually played in the big event, and so the book has the potential to take on a Rocky tone, but playing poker at this level isn't much fun, nor is the training, and Colson Whitehead is not a fun guy, in fact, the funniest thing about the book may be the picture on the back cover, where he sports his poker uniform, a custom made "Republic of Anhedonia" track jacket . . . and while Whitehead is a bit of a grouch, the writing is hip, the allusions come fast and furious, and there's quite a bit of poker knowledge wedged in between his existential griping.

What Doesn't Kill You Makes You Stronger? We'll See . . .

I like to paddleboard on the Raritan River, mainly as a matter of convenience, as I live only a few hundred yards from a boat launch, and though I know the water isn't pristine, I prefer not to think about what's in the sauce, and instead I enjoy the views of the New Brunswick skyline, the Rutgers crew complex, and the rugged and forested cliffs directly across from the park (not to mention the large swath of open water as the river approaches the Donald and Morris Goodkind Bridges) but now that my children are also paddleboarding on the river . . . and falling into the river, as kids are wont to do, this report scares me a bit . . . apparently, the river is full of more than savage monsters, it also contains an unhealthy amount of mercury, benzene, arsenic, oil and gas drips, toxic fertilizer, and goose feces . . . a toxic brew, which-- best case scenario-- will turn my children into radioactive superheroes, or -- more likely -- it will do some weird and awful stuff to their innards, and because we don't have a control, a Family of Dave living next to a perfectly clean unpolluted river, we'll never know the exact effect recreating on the Raritan has on my kin.

Lesson Learned (I Instigate an Awkward Moment at the Pub)

If you are at your local pub, and an inebriated stranger approaches you and asks whether he should play Molly Hatchet or The Allman Brothers on the jukebox, the correct response is, "Whatever, man, they're both awesome!" but that's not what I said; instead I took a moment and sincerely thought about the question and told him, quite sincerely, that I couldn't recall any songs by Molly Hatchet so I wasn't qualified to decide, and this really astounded him-- that I wasn't familiar with Molly Hatchet-- so much so that he sang an a capella version of "Flirtin' With Disaster" to me and several of my friends, really belted it out, holding a fake microphone and everything, for an awkwardly long time, but I couldn't bring myself to walk away because he really wanted me to appreciate Molly Hatchet (but, of course, this had the opposite effect, as now any time I hear the name Molly Hatchet, I will associate the band with this horribly awkward moment).

Low Pressure Hello

Fellow New Jerseyans (New Jerseyites?) let us take a moment to give a warm welcome to an old friend we haven't seen (or felt) in a long while . . . he winters in the mangrove swamps of Mexico's Pacific coast with his cousin El Nino . . . but now he's back and making up for lost time . . . so welcome home Signor Unbearable Humidity . . . and you'll notice his good buddy Jock Itch sidling alongside him (and his arch-nemesis Tinactin in hot pursuit).

Silver Bullet For a Fourth Grader

Before

After

The bane of the elementary school boy is The School Project (and consequently, The School Project is also the bane of the elementary school boy's mom because she is the one that will provide succor when the elementary school boy announces-- at 9 PM-- that he forgot about his School Project; at this point, the elementary school boy's father, otherwise known as Dad, who has had a long afternoon coaching soccer, advises his son to hand in a piece of crap, take the bad grade like a man, then-- after dispensing this wisdom-- the elementary school dad goes to bed . . . but as evidenced by the "Before" and "After" pics that my wife e-mailed me the next day, this is NOT the proper course and when there is a project, you should take a careful look at "the scoring rubric" so you can advise your son or daughter on what to prioritize and how to make a plan of action and a rough-draft or sketch (or you take the easy way out and just do it for them-- but my wife is too principled for that).

Dirty White Boys

I've taught high school for nearly twenty years, and I'm still surprised by what will galvanize a class discussion; the other day in Creative Writing, an African American kid told a humorous story about how his grandmother-- who watched him every day after school-- insisted on bathing before returning him home to his parents, and I remarked that my own children bathe every other day, but only if we force them to, and this provoked a serious and spirited discussion about cleanliness, hygiene, and bathing frequency, and during the course of this discussion, two African American kids both admitted, sincerely and with true candor, that they had heard rumors from their parents and grandparents that "white people don't bathe every day," and when I confirmed this to be true, they thought it was hysterical and egregious -- and the Hispanic and South American kids in the class agreed, and told me about "inside clothes" and "outside clothes," and how you could never let "outside clothes" touch your bed, and this made me want to stir the pot some, so I told them that my kids often go to bed "with sticks and leaves in their hair," which may have been a slight exaggeration but the reaction it produced was worth the hyperbole (one girl actually turned to me and said, "Are you sure you're raising those kids right?").

Small Talk With Big Payoff

It's always a struggle for me to make small talk with the people at work that are not members of the English department, but Friday I had a great success: there is a janitor that passes by most days while I am on hall duty, and it was especially hot and humid that morning and so when I saw him, instead of offering my usual lame greeting (What's happening?) I stopped him and asked him, very kindly, if he could turn on the air-conditioning, because the weather was so hot and sticky . . . but, of course, as we both well knew, the high school doesn't have air-conditioning in the hallways and classrooms, and so he got a real kick out of that and pretended to "clap on" the A/C, a dated but perfect joke for the situation, and this made us both so happy that I am going to work hard to think of other one-liners to offer people around the building, so if anyone has a good idea, send it my way.

Seventeen Second Tour of Human Consciousness

Human cognition is still essentially a black box-- stimuli, filtered through our senses, enters our consciousness, this stuff is invisibly and unexplainably processed in our brain, and thoughts are produced . . . with varying degrees of success, recall, and logic . . . and we can rarely explain the causality of the stream: we can remember and explain some things at the drop of a hat, we have difficulty recalling other things, and sometimes we remember things too late (the French call this l'esprit d'escalier . . . the wit of the staircase) and this video clip of my son Alex captures all the mysteries and emotions of the mind in a mere seventeen seconds-- you'll probably have to watch it twice; I learned more from this clip than I did from all my college psychology courses (which isn't saying much) and it was pure luck that my kids stumbled upon it (they were rummaging through iPhoto, as they have reached the ripe old ages of eight and ten, and now look back upon their youth nostalgically).

And Now For Something Completely Different

Fans of Sentence of Dave know my son eight year old son Ian as a foul-mouthed candy-hoarder who once "betrayed the family" with a premeditated second floor flood, but apparently there's more going on in his head than profanity and malevolence . . . Tuesday morning, Ian was searching for something, and he looked distraught, so my wife asked him what he was looking for and offered to help him, but at first he wouldn't tell her what he was looking for and refused her aid, but my wife persisted and he finally said, "I can't find a letter . . . it's on a white piece of paper" and my wife remembered seeing this protruding from his desk drawer, and she had pushed it into the desk -- so she found it for him, and he seemed relieved . . . and rather secretive about it, so later that day, when Ian wasn't around, she went upstairs and looked at the letter and then showed it to me; it was a Mother's Day card to my mother-in-law-- who lived with us in an apartment in our basement for many years and looked after our kids until she passed away from cancer in the summer of 2012; Ian was very close with her and misses her very much, and this card expressed that sentiment in a rather unusual way . . . it was a Mother's Day card addressed to "Nanny" and thanked her for playing games with him and giving him treats but the writing was childish and sloppy and the paper was crumpled and at the bottom something was crossed out and the year "2009" was written in the lower right corner . . . and I looked carefully and was able to decipher the phrase that was crossed out and it said "4 years ago" and I realized what he had done -- he created an artifact; though he had written this note recently, he wanted it to be from when he was four years old and Nanny was still alive, and so he aged it and wrote with childish handwriting, and then he wrote the four years ago phrase and then realized that people didn't write that to date a letter, they put the actual year, so he crossed it out and wrote "2009" . . . and after we looked at the letter (and were appropriately choked up over it) we put it back in his desk and didn't say anything about it, but on Friday afternoon, he brought it downstairs and claimed he "found it" in the storage closet and that he must have written it when he was four, but when I reminded him that he couldn't write when he was four, he admitted that he had just written it and so when he is silent and contemplative, I will not assume that he is planning something malicious because I now have empirical evidence that belies this.

Empirical Evidence Trumps the Label

While walking the dog in the rain on Friday afternoon, I learned something valuable: my waterproof Columbia jacket is only a windbreaker.

If You Were to Actually Get Three Wishes, You Should Go Nuts With Them

My son Ian decided that if you make it to "your thirties," then you should be rewarded with three wishes, but when I asked him what he would wish for, hoping for some crazy-ass imaginative kid stuff . . . zombie armies, world domination, interplanetary battle ships, and such, but his wishes turned out to be fairly lame: first he said he would wish for a time machine, which had promise, but then he said he would use the time machine to "make a plane ride to Florida seem like three minutes" which resulted in me lecturing him in the style of Louie C.K. and then he wished that "he could visit all fifty states" with his family and his buddy Ben-- which was sweet, but entirely within the realm of possibility without squandering a magical wish-- and then he finished up with the completely mundane and cliche desire to "live a long and healthy life."

There's No Crying in Silicon Valley!

While we all know that "there's no crying in baseball," apparently the same isn't true about founding the most successful computer company in history, as Walter Isaacson's Steve Jobs biography is chock full of incidents where the charismatic, sensitive, and quite possibly delusional Jobs breaks down in tears, often in front of co-workers, rivals, or friends (and usually when his "reality distortion field" ceases to operate).

iPod, I Name Thee Lazarus

One of the perks of writing a trivial blog filled with drivel is that I can fact-check extremely mundane details from my life; for example, I know for certain that I bought my iPod Nano in April of 2008 and I made a habit of swimming with this iPod in November of 2008 (which didn't last long, as my supposedly waterproof Otterbox case leaked, resulting in a waterlogged and broken iPod . . . but one of my well-connected students set me up with an "appointment" with her ex-boyfriend at the Apple Store and he gave me a new one, despite the fact that water damage is NOT covered by the limited warranty) and then I used the new iPod-- an exact clone of the old iPod-- without incident for many years, until I lost it for several months in the winter of 2013, and now I am realizing that this particular iPod (which I have conflated with the original water-damaged iPod in a philosophical leap reminiscent of the Ship of Theseus dilemma) is imbued with miraculous qualities, because my wife's iPod -- a newer, sleeker model-- doesn't hold a charge and gives her loads of problems, but this model (like my Jeep) is built to last, possibly to infinity and beyond; to make a long story short, Tuesday morning, when I got in my car to go to work, I saw my iPod lying prostrate in the road . . . it must have fallen out of my gym bag, and so it spent the night on the pavement, getting soaked by several rainstorms and quite possibly run over by cars, and so I assumed this was finally the end -- R.I.P iPod-- but when I pressed the "play" symbol, the screen popped right up, and so I put it in a bowl of dry rice and it is now in good working order-- and this tempts me to to try other more extreme experiments on the device: fire, acid, ice, my digestive system . . . but perhaps I shouldn't tempt fate, as I'm sure I will place it in peril some time soon, without forcing the issue.

A Belated Happy Mother's Day to Hannah Duston?

To determine if you are going to purchase a  Hannah Duston bobble-head doll (pictured above) and to decide whether Hannah Duston is the greatest mom in American history or a cold-blooded racist child killer, you are going to have to learn the story of Hannah Duston . . . and the best way to do this is to listen to the most recent episode of 99 Percent Invisible: Monumental Dilemma.

We Look at Big Things and Small Things at Rutgers Day

We went over to Busch campus for this year's Rutgers Day, and the highlights were getting a tour of the electron microscope-- it's one of a kind, cost 5.2 million dollars, and is "one of the best in the world"-- and while the microscope itself is incredibly cool looking-- very steam punk-- the results of the microscope, seeing gold atoms magnified a billion times, isn't as excellent as it sounds because the "atoms" are just little moving blips on a really big computer monitor (I don't know what I expected to see . . . little blips with AU tattooed on their butts?) but even better than the microscope was the presentation by a psychologist with the excellent name of Thomas Papathomas, who studies the top down and bottom up nature of our visual system . . . how our eyes feed our brain and our brain feeds our eyes, and he said that he finds the best way to study this is to look at when our brain makes mistakes . . . and then he presented us with a phenomenal bunch of optical illusions, and he had the actual gigantic three-dimensional models of these things, and they were mind boggling . . . I will put some videos up here of what we saw, and you can see some original artwork that uses these ideas at the Patrick Hughes show at the Flowers Gallery in Chelsea, which I am definitely going to attend . . . anyway, I hope you enjoy the videos.

My Family Is No Threat to the Jackson Five

This year for Mother's Day the boys and I composed a song for Catherine and then recorded a video of us performing it. . . and it took many many takes to get a decent version . . . a version with audible lyrics and a minimum of giggling and modicum of timing . . . and while we finally got it done, we are definitely not going on tour any time soon (and I'm not going to post the video here because I don't want to turn my children into the Star Wars kid).

Adventure Time is the Best Time

I am biding my time until my kids are old enough to watch great shows such as The Shield and Battlestar Galactica and The Wire and Louie, but until then, Adventure Time will suffice . . . in fact, it will more than suffice, as each twelve minute episode packs in more jokes and epic awesomeness than a full episode of any other show in the entire universe, so find your children, tell them to stop doing their homework or practicing violin or whatever stupid thing they're doing, and get watching (because you've got 150 episodes to watch, or thirty hours of adventuring).

A Fun Thing To Do If Someone Leaves His/Her Email Open

This prank was the brainchild of my friend Stacey, but I took the ball and ran with it . . . lesser artists borrow, but great artists steal; fellow English teacher Kevin left his email account open in the office, and usually when this happens someone will write an over-the-top absurd epistle of love to the boss or something equally ridiculous that it's immediately recognized as a joke, but instead of the usual tact, Stacey simply e-mailed another teacher (as Kevin) and asked for some Hamlet materials -- so that this teacher would bring them to his room and he wouldn't know why-- and I liked the understated nature of this concept, but thought it would be funnier if twenty people came to see Kevin and he didn't know why, and they didn't really know why either, and so I sent out e-mails to all the English teachers, with headings like "weird rumor" and "crazy coincidence" and "I have something for you" and I left very simple messages, such as "you wouldn't believe who I ran into from your past" and "no big deal but I heard something about you that I don't want to put on e-mail" and "remind me to tell you this story, too complicated to write it" and this worked like a charm, teachers started showing up in his classroom, and he didn't know why and they weren't sure why and finally he ran into the hall, screaming "I don't want anything from anybody! I don't have anything for anybody!" which is a pretty good result for a joke conceived at 7:20 AM on a Friday (after a late pub night on Thursday).

Two Things Sentence of Dave Does NOT Condone

The staff here at Sentence of Dave would like to vociferously proclaim that we completely oppose Boko Haram's mass abduction of Nigerian school girls and consequent threat to sell them into slavery . . . and that we are also totally against both mass abduction and slavery in a general sense as well and don't think either of these things should be a part of 21st century life on planet earth (we were expecting life in the 21st century to provide a cure for cancer, flying cars and beef jerky that's actually good for you).

I Don't Care If It's Healthier

Organic peanut butter is peanut butter with all the fun removed.

A Stupid Discussion That Was Still Compelling

In the English office last week, a novice runner asked a question that had never occurred to me: "When you go out for a run, when do you start running?" and it turns out that many people have "starting points," such as the end of the driveway, where they begin and end their run . . . I tend to start running as I am going out the door, I jog down the steps and cut across the lawn . . . and maybe this is because of all the preparation I do before the run-- iPod, sunglasses, hands-free-dog leash/belt, poop bag, hat, orthotic inserts, etcetera . . . so that by the time I get out the door, I am impatient and fully "in the mode," but now I know that this isn't always the case . . . when and where do you start running when you go out for a run?

Dave's Meta-Joke of the Month

There are three things that are certain in the life: death, taxes, and jokes about death and taxes.

My Children Have Boring Names

Legendary funk bassist Bootsy Collins had an older brother named Catfish.

A Promise of Loyalty

While I probably shouldn't have abandoned my wife, children and dog to the slowly growing flood in our basement the other night, especially since we couldn't locate our submersible pump . . . but I would like to say in my defense that I did finally figure out who had borrowed it, though this was not until after I played in the first basketball game of the evening and -- unfortunately for my marriage -- my wife had already loaded the kids into the car (in their pajamas) and drove through the storm to the Home Depot, where she was going to purchase a new pump, when I called her . . . and she got home in time to get the pump into the basement shower so the water never went over the lip, and I got her flowers the next day, and it's not like this was a real flood, such as the one that caused a landslide to bury a village in Afghanistan, and I would like to hereby swear that if there ever is a real flood of that magnitude, I will skip Wednesday basketball night and remain with my family.

Thought Experiment?

It's best not to think about why you root for a particular team-- because, as Seinfeld points our, you are actually "rooting for the clothes"-- and Paul Lukas, the creator of Uni Watch: The Obsessive Study of Athletics Aesthetics, pushes this logic to the extreme (I heard him discussing this with Roman Mars on 99% Invisible) when he poses this dilemma: imagine that your favorite team traded all of its players, even up, for all the players on your least favorite team . . . which team would you root for?

My Kids Do Not Know How to Have Fun

My wife introduced my kids to the "license plate game" last Friday -- we were driving down Route 130 and she thought it would be good practice for our cross-country trip to try to identify license plates from different states . . . the rule being that you score a point if you are the first person to see a particular state's plate, but little did she imagine the genie she uncorked, as both my children took the game VERY seriously, and this resulted in several arguments, much yelling, some outright cheating (so that we had to introduce a verification corollary rule) and finally, just after I parallel parked the car across from the public lot, to culminate the competition, both my children bolted from the car, ran across the street (without looking both ways, or even one way) darted between cars in the parking lot, and sprinted to a white plate -- "Indiana!"-- and then argued about who yelled it first (resulting in another corollary rule: no playing the game outside the confines of the car) and two days later, on Sunday, when I was driving Ian back from his soccer game, he was still playing, even though he was alone in the back seat and I had informed him that I wasn't playing because I was driving back from an unfamiliar location, but none of this mattered, he was racking up points and soundly beating some imaginary opponent, an imaginary opponent who probably resembled his older brother.

Teenagers Go On Twitter to Escape Old People Who Write Long Sentences

Danah Boyd's new book It's Complicated: the social lives of networked teens is a must read -- both for people with kids and people who just want to know what the hell is going on; Boyd extensively researched teen internet habits-- she interviewed teens around the country and also read numerous sociological works on the topic-- and her big ideas are tempered with lots of anecdotes, often in the voices of the teens she interviewed . . . and what Boyd feels these teens are saying is this: we want to hang out with our friends, and that's a lot harder to do than it once was-- as the world is overly circumscribed for our kind, and there is a lack of public spaces where we our welcome, and we have a difficult time transporting ourselves to the few places we are welcome, and no one wants to see a cluster of teenagers anywhere except a high school football game-- and when we're there, we put our phones away, unlike most of you adults-- but most of the time, the best, safest, most accessible, and most convenient place to hang out is on-line . . . and while we can usually monitor and handle what we are doing, it's difficult to hang out in a place where you can't see lurking adults, which is why we often switch forums to where our friends are and the adults are not-- and we are willing to repurpose any forum to suit our needs, which are often social, and we often forget that we are under adult surveillance when we are online, and yes, the same problems that crop up in the real world happen on-line: bullying, racism, misinterpretation, gossip, drama, but adults shouldn't intervene in this world unless they really know the actual context of what is going on, which is often difficult and encoded . . . but still, if adults use their window into the online public space with some subtlety, instead of to only to pry, then it might open up lines of communication which are otherwise often frozen during the teenage years, but the most important thing to remember is that after we do our compulsory day at school and then practice soccer, meet with the Key Club, finish our violin exercises, study for AP Bio, then we go online to be social, not anti-social, and so unless you think we are having problems in the real world, please let us alone in our online world . . . the book is a quick and relatively easy read, and it acknowledges that our networked lives are here to stay -- and neither utopian nor dystopian-- instead they reflect the society at large, and it is up to adults to help children navigate the digital world, even though it is complicated, and adults should not simply rely on the fact that kids are digital "natives," because oftentimes they are not, and need help in understanding the consequences and methods of life on the internet . . .  and I'm going to really test  Boyd's claims this week, as I'm going to photocopy several excerpts and see how the real flesh and blood teenagers in my senior classes react; I will keep you posted of the results.

Dave Has an Emotion Towards Canada!

While I can't pretend that I care about Canada (though I tried my darndest) I at least harbor some emotion towards our nice neighbors to the north (with the capitol city no one can name) and this emotion is jealousy, as Canada now has the richest middle class in the world, a title the U.S. once held . . . and while our rich our richer than the Canadian rich, our poor are poorer than the Canadian poor, so unless you're one of the 1%, you're better off donning a toque, buying a down vest, and learning to enjoy backbacon and poutine (but I'm NOT learning French, that's where I' put my foot down).

Lawyers, Drones, and Funny (Stuff Going on in The U.S. Government)

I am often suspicious that I have no idea how the world works, which is one of the reasons I like to read: I feel as though I'm filling an infinitely large hole in my brain, and this feels simultaneously productive and good and also desperate and futile, and so it made me happy to hear Radiolab's Jad Abumrad make the same assertion during their new podcast "60 Words"; the show explores the consequences of the Authorization for Use of Military Force Against Terrorists, a resolution  passed by the United States Congress on September 14th, 2001 for obvious reasons . . . and a resolution that passed with a nearly unanimous vote-- only Barbara Lee had the foresight to see the possible problems with such a vague, broad, timeless fiat; the sixty words have authorized two wars, Guantanamo Bay detention center, and drone attacks, and the two phantom words, which were not in the original sentence, which authorizes the president to "use all necessary and appropriate force" against "nations, organization, or persons" that were involved in the September 11 attack on the United States, these two words-- which have been inserted by the government to make it easier to fight this war on terror . . . the words "associated forces," and so now it is difficult (even for congress itself) to know exactly who we are at war with, and who we can legitimately attack and kill with a drone (which is where the lawyers come in, when you want to issue a drone strike, you don't check with your commanding officer, first you check with a lawyer to see if it's legal) and while President Obama has attempted to make some inroads at ending the War on Terror, it's very difficult to stop something when the folks you are fighting haven't stopped fighting . . . and so Obama said that he was only going to use drone strikes when there is "an imminent threat" to the American people . . . and so perhaps the AUMF will eventually be repealed, but then there will be some new and powerful words that will insure that most folks have absolutely no idea what is legal and what our government is improvising . . . if you really want to learn more, read this very detailed article by Gregory Johnson called "60 Words and a War Without End: The UNtold Story of the Most Dangerous Sentence in U.S. History."

Any Venture Capitalists Out There Willing to Roll the Dice?

I had forgotten how much I hate traditional bowling, but a recent trip to Carolier Lanes reminded me: I hate sticking my fingers in the holes, I hate watching my kids struggle to chuck the ball down the lane, I hate how my wrist and forearm feel later in the day, I hate splits, I hate not making strikes, and I hate reminding my children about bowling etiquette (especially when you've got serious bowlers next to you, which we did) and so, once again, I am loudly and vociferously lamenting the lack of candlepin bowling alleys in New Jersey, and-- if someone will back me-- I am willing to quit my plum teaching job and open and run a candlepin bowling alley . . . candlepin (or duckpin) bowling is fun yet impossible, you get three tries-- which is the magic number-- the ball is small, there are no holes to mess with, the motion is smooth and easy, and it's kids love it twenty seven thousand times more than traditional bowling . . . so how much does it cost to build a bowling alley and who is going to spot me?

Least Rock and Roll Thing in the History of Rock and Roll

My friend John's band played Friday night at Teddy's Restaurant in Cranbury, and though they sounded great, I was very concerned for their image when a waitress delivered a big salad to the bassist, as salad and rock and roll do not complement each other (but they did make up for it later in the show when they drank some brown liquor).

Bring Your Child to Work Day Blues

I invited my children to join me at work on Thursday, but they weren't interested-- and my lack of children disappointed and mildly offended my high school students, as they wanted to meet them, but I can understand why Alex and Ian wanted to pass, as they would have had to get up at the crack of dawn, only to sit in a classroom and watch high school students learn about business ethics and narrative structure . . . I'm sure if I had a more exciting job, if I made candy or manufactured hand grenades or worked in the tiger cage at the zoo, then they would have made more of an effort, but high school is high school and there's no need to rush, as they will learn what it's like soon enough.

Untested and Unsolicited Dieting Strategy: Binge Gluttony

I haven't done any research, but I think it might be better if I eat all the Easter candy in one sitting, rather than parceling it out over several weeks (and I've been starting my day with jelly beans and ending it with chocolate, which can't be good) because I probably won't gain as much weight if I shove it all in my stomach at once, plus I won't be reliant on a sugar rush every two hours to make it through the day.

Luther!

The first season of Luther is fantastic, but be warned: the trope in most police shows is that things get very tense, but the police get there in the nick of time, but in Luther, they never make it.

Next Time Around, I'd Like to Be a Pharmaceutical Company

According to James Surowiecki in this week's New Yorker, the miracle drug Sovaldi will cure hepatitis C, but a single dose costs one thousand dollars, and the full treatment costs eighty grand . . . and your average hepatitis C patient makes 23,000 dollars a year, and 3.2 million Americans have hepatitis C . . . and because the people taking the drugs aren't really paying much of the cost, and insurers are obligated to cover a drug that doctors deem necessary (but insurers have "virtually zero" ability to negotiate price when a drug has no equivalent) a very strange economy has been created (and by very strange, I mean that taxpayers are going to foot the bill for our half-assed hybrid sort-of-subsidized health care situation . . . although, to play devil's advocate, perhaps eighty grand is a bargain, if it means you won't have to treat a person for a lifetime of complications for hepatitis C).

Who Are This Little Creatures Living in My House (and Why Are They Here?)

Jennifer Senior's book All Joy and No Fun: The Paradox of Modern Parenthood is entertaining, engaging, and well-researched, but I have to warn you, the book does get down to brass tacks; it asks the biggest and most existential of parental questions: why the hell are we doing this? and reminds us that the modern goal of parenting -- to raise happy, creative, well-adjusted children that can achieve anything they wish-- is rather elusive, compared to "the concrete aims of parenting in the past: creating competent children in certain kinds of work; and creating morally responsible citizens who will fulfill a prescribed set of community obligations," in other words, teaching your kid the family business and the community religion, and hoping it works out for them . . . but those days are long gone, and in the words of Viviana Zelizer, children have become "economically worthless but emotionally priceless."

BearMatch.com

Terri Frana-- a forty-four year old Florida mom who was mauled by a black bear while getting bikes out of the garage for her kids-- needs to get in touch with Troy Hurtubrise, who has devoted a great deal of his life to building "grizzly-proof" home-made armor . . . I learned about Hurtubrise's exploits in a Stuff to Blow Your mind podcast called "The War on Creativity," an episode that reminds us that most great thinkers are ignored or ridiculed while they are alive, but if Hurtubrise's suit could hold off a grizzly, then it should have no problem with a measly black bear (and I'm going to watch the documentary on the subject-- Project Grizzly-- so I can see just how effective the suit is, but judging from the tests in the above video, it's bear-proof).

It's Good To Be On Fire While Playing Basketball, But It's Not Good If Your Brain Is On Fire

Sassy New York Post reporter Susannah Cahalan tackles the most difficult story of her young career (even more difficult then when she went undercover as a stripper to procure illegal butt implants) in her memoir Brain on Fire: My Month of Madness . . . as best she can, she reconstructs her battle with anti-NMDA-receptor autoimmune encephalitis, a wild and malevolent disease that runs her through psychosis, delusions, seizures, convulsions, hallucinations -- bedbugs in particular -- obsessions, lethargy, comatose behavior, loss of verbal ability and social graces, and requires much research to diagnose and a fairly long recovery filled with drugs that bloat her body and slow her mind . . . but she is one of the lucky ones who does recover -- some remain afflicted and some die-- and so she wants to tell her story so that others can benefit, because this swelling of the brain is often misdiagnosed as mental illness, though it stems from a physical swelling of the right side of the brain . . . the book is one of those "there by the Grace of God go I" stories, as the disease has no known cause, and for me (and several of my readers) it has an added dose of reality, as Cahalan recovers at her mother's house in Summit, New Jersey, and visits her boyfriend's sister in nearby Chatham, New Jersey, so while the disease seems to be something out of The Exorcist, the fact that Cahalan has to undergo the scrutiny of "Summit moms" while trying to recover her wits lends the story a suburban surrealism.