I do a lesson with my Composition class on removing the "clutter" from their writing-- I like to teach the lesson just after a student uses the word "plethora" in an essay (or "myriad") and once we learn about clutter-- I use a couple of George Carlin bits to drive the idea home-- then, to completely exorcise the bombast, we write "clutter riddles"-- incredibly dense and prolix descriptions of everyday occurrences . . . and we try to guess what each passage is describing; I think this would be an excellent game show (perhaps The Test will do a trial run)-- here is an example that I wrote, and I'll put the answer in the comments:
1) when your antagonist commits an iniquitous act, you may find benevolence from a higher power, who will beckon you to enter the semi-circle and stand parallel to the diameter and then behold-- the sphere will be bequeathed to you by the hands of authority and you may launch the orb towards the halo in the firmament for one half the value, but still not no a negligible amount;
and here's my favorite one this year from the students;
2) the portal to the universe increases in magnitude and the fragile, delicate spheroid is ejected and immediately surrounded by a group of similar-minded experts who, with much frenzy and brouhaha, congregate, awaiting the high pitched frequency sound that will satisfy them.
What the Teens are Talking About
As a high school teacher, I'm privy to the exciting social lives of teenagers . . . here's a snippet of conversation I overheard between two sophomore boys as they walked down the hall: "The PSAT is a total lie-- you know how they said that Spanish moss is a lichen . . . it's not."
TV is Bad For Kids
Don't be fooled, even if your kid is watching something educational-- like a documentary about philately-- you still have to worry, as not only is watching TV bad for your brain, but the TV itself is a health hazard: recently, there has been a rash of injuries caused by children toppling over flat screen TVs . . . I'm sure the same could happen with a bookshelf, but when a kid suffers a bump on the head from Dickens or Flaubert, it isn't as sensational and dystopian as a concussion caused by a hi-def flatscreen.
Dogs Will be Dogs
It was yesterday morning, 6 AM, dark and chilly, and I was walking the dog . . . but I was in the home stretch, nearing my driveway-- the dog's feces bagged and tossed in a dumpster-- and I was ready for a well-deserved cup of coffee, when-- with a yank so sudden my fingers didn't have time to clench-- the leash shot out of my hands and Sirius shot across the street into the darkness of the neighbor's yard, chasing a cat . . . and I was angry at myself, for not seeing the cat, and angry at my dog, for being such a cliche, for being so hackneyed and lame . . . for being the kind of dog that liked to chase cats; for being such a typical chauvinistic stereotypical canine who couldn't control himself when he saw that arched back, those glowing eyes, and that rigid tail . . . so I stomped into the house, told my wife I didn't have time for a cat-chasing dog because I had to go to work, went back outside with a treat, and-- luckily-- heard the jingling sound of his collar, and then, once we were back inside the house, I wondered if I should actually give him the treat . . . because then I would be rewarding his cat-chasing . . . but I decided cats were an attractive nuisance, and the people that own them shouldn't let them roam the town because they eat songbirds and tempt dogs . . . and dogs will be dogs and so I gave him the treat because he returned home after his little adventure (and I'm really not sure what he would actually do with a cat if he caught one . . . hopefully we'll never find out).
The Test 18: Plants and Things
This episode of The Test is probably as close to educational as we'll ever come . . . we all performed so well that we didn't even need the Voice of God to save us from our ignorance; so give it a shot and see if you can do as well as the ladies, and remember, it's not easy being green.
Garage Sale Day!
There is nothing quite like the mania to which my children and their gang of friends succumb during our town's "Garage Sale Day" . . . armed with a bit of cash and the materialism our culture has inculcated into them since birth, they scour the sales like a horde of leaf-cutter ants and proudly return with war stories and fairly useless junk-- for example, by Saturday afternoon, our household was the proud owner of TWO miniature pool tables, but then Alex decided to trade his miniature pool table (the more miniature of the two) with a friend for a cotton candy machine, but I quickly put the kibosh on that and he ended up with something fairly useful: a case full of high-quality poker chips (and there was some talk among them about designating Friday nights for "pool and gambling" and this was cute because they're all under twelve, and even cuter because they were wearing recently purchased garage sale fedoras and sunglasses).
Rock 'n' Roll Mathematics #1
There's a mathematical paradox in The Fabulous Thunderbird's song "Tuff Enuff" . . . if you work "twenty-four hours, seven days a week," then you won't actually have any time left over to "come home" and kiss your girlfriend's cheek . . . unless, of course, you have "eight days a week" to show you care (and I'm not even going to comment on the creative spelling of the title . . . or maybe I will: "Tough Enough" looks so much better).
Words for Beyond Words
I finally finished Carl Safina's book Beyond Words: What Animals Think and Feel and it's one of the most powerful and moving things I've read in a long time-- I actually had ambitious plans to summarize numerous portions, but the book is over four hundred pages and dense with details, so you're going to have to trust me, this is a really good one; here are a few things to whet your appetite:
1) Lyell Watson's description of an old lonely matriarch elephant standing beside the ocean enjoying the ultrasound rumble of a blue whale and possibly communicating back with her own deep voice: "the blue whale was on the surface again, pointed inshore, resting, her blowhole clearly visible . . . the largest animal in the ocean and the largest living land animal were no more than a hundred yards apart, . . . commiserating over the back fence of this rocky Cape shore";
2) the cruelty of the ivory trade, both to human-slaves and to elephants . . . as late as 1882, slavers chained humans together and had them carry the heavy tusks from the Upper Congo to port-- a 1000 mile slog-- and, as protocol had it, if you got sick, you were killed (to prevent malingering) and if you grew to weak to carry your tusk and your child, then your child was killed, because, as the headman logically explained: "We cannot leave valuable ivory on the road . . . we spear the child and make her burden lighter . . . ivory first";
3) the descriptions of wolves in Yellowstone, their infinitely complex personalities and hierarchies and forays and betrayals . . . the touching moment when Wolf Twenty-one, at the tail end of his years, watched his pack hunt an elk and then headed in the opposite direction, to the top of Druid Peak-- his favorite family rendezvous point-- where he lay down in the shade of a big tree and died . . . on his own terms;
4) the tool use of various animals, including apes, chimps, elephants, insects, dolphins;
5) the self-awareness and theory of other minds that dogs, dolphins, killer whales and primates possess;
6) the variety of killer whale types-- fish eaters, whale eaters, dolphin eaters, seal eaters-- and the various strategies that different tribes of whales use to hunt;
7) the intelligence and creativity of dolphins . . . you can train dolphins to "do something new" for a treat . . . and they will synchronize this creativity with another dolphin . . . my students have trouble with that task;
8) the vast intelligence, empathy, and abstract thinking ability of killer whales . . . and the many injustices done to them in the wild and in marine parks;
9) a lot of other stuff . . . this book is groundbreaking and belongs on the same shelf with two other recent great books about nature: The Sixth Extinction and Wild Ones . . . read all three before you die!
1) Lyell Watson's description of an old lonely matriarch elephant standing beside the ocean enjoying the ultrasound rumble of a blue whale and possibly communicating back with her own deep voice: "the blue whale was on the surface again, pointed inshore, resting, her blowhole clearly visible . . . the largest animal in the ocean and the largest living land animal were no more than a hundred yards apart, . . . commiserating over the back fence of this rocky Cape shore";
2) the cruelty of the ivory trade, both to human-slaves and to elephants . . . as late as 1882, slavers chained humans together and had them carry the heavy tusks from the Upper Congo to port-- a 1000 mile slog-- and, as protocol had it, if you got sick, you were killed (to prevent malingering) and if you grew to weak to carry your tusk and your child, then your child was killed, because, as the headman logically explained: "We cannot leave valuable ivory on the road . . . we spear the child and make her burden lighter . . . ivory first";
3) the descriptions of wolves in Yellowstone, their infinitely complex personalities and hierarchies and forays and betrayals . . . the touching moment when Wolf Twenty-one, at the tail end of his years, watched his pack hunt an elk and then headed in the opposite direction, to the top of Druid Peak-- his favorite family rendezvous point-- where he lay down in the shade of a big tree and died . . . on his own terms;
4) the tool use of various animals, including apes, chimps, elephants, insects, dolphins;
5) the self-awareness and theory of other minds that dogs, dolphins, killer whales and primates possess;
6) the variety of killer whale types-- fish eaters, whale eaters, dolphin eaters, seal eaters-- and the various strategies that different tribes of whales use to hunt;
7) the intelligence and creativity of dolphins . . . you can train dolphins to "do something new" for a treat . . . and they will synchronize this creativity with another dolphin . . . my students have trouble with that task;
8) the vast intelligence, empathy, and abstract thinking ability of killer whales . . . and the many injustices done to them in the wild and in marine parks;
9) a lot of other stuff . . . this book is groundbreaking and belongs on the same shelf with two other recent great books about nature: The Sixth Extinction and Wild Ones . . . read all three before you die!
Read This in the Voice of Stephen Wright
I finally sprung for a vanity license plate, but I don't want people to know how vain I am, so I got 58T * CA3.
Open Letter to Tyreese
It's the zombie apocalypse and you're trudging through Georgia and the anti-theft tags at Kohls aren't going to trigger any alarms and you can help yourself to the stuff in anyone's closet, so go ahead and trade your sweat-stained long-sleeved shirt for something lighter and maybe put on some shorts as well . . . it's the end of the world and you never have to do wash again (and I'm not even going to inquire if you've been changing your underwear).
Dogs and (Sleeping) Kids . . . You've Gotta Love'em
Each morning, just before I leave for work, I go upstairs and give each of my children a kiss on the forehead-- they're always sound asleep and they look so peaceful and they never even stir-- and I realized yesterday, that when I head up the stairs to do this, the dog tags along, and he gets into the beanbag chair beside Ian's bed and pretends to go back to sleep and he waits for his farewell pat on the head . . . and he doesn't have to do this, because I've already walked him and my wife is downstairs and he's totally ready for the day, but he must like this ritual as much as I do.
Keep On Chewing
Every season, The Walking Dead ramps up the gore a little more, but my wife and I are unfazed: sixty -plus episodes of zombie apocalypse have desensitized us to the point where we can eat dinner while watching the most horrific blood and guts, and even worse: we had no problem eating chicken while Gareth and the cannibals simultaneously dined on Bob's leg, while Bob was fully conscious . . . our chewing was synchronized with their chewing and it didn't bother us at all . . . and I definitely remember at the start of the show, when the zombies ate a horse, I nearly lost it and decided I could never eat while watching, but I've overcome my squeamishness and so has Catherine (during the first episode of the fifth season, a zombie killed a human by biting his face off and Catherine nonchalantly took a bite of pizza and then turned to me and said, "That's a new one.")
The Test 17: Financial Literacy (and Idiocy)
This week's episode of The Test is quick and painless (unlike last week's epic) and special guest Scott and I perform admirably on Stacey's quiz about financial awareness, plus we all collaborate on a new (and disgusting) theory of consciousness . . . and-- as a special bonus-- Stacey remembers a number association from a previous episode!
Woe For the Modern Man
In 2012, Anne-Mare Slaughter explained "Why Women Still Can't Have It All" and though she took some flak for her hypothesis-- that in order to achieve the same things as men, women need to be either superhuman, self-employed, or well-off-- I think her sincerity really resonated with women trying to be super-moms and super-employees and also have some kind of social life and maintain a house . . . but enough about women . . . if you listen to Hanna Rosin, then women are doing fine and it's the men we need to worry about, so-- in order to balance the scales-- I'll offer a lament for them, because in today's litigious circumscribed world, where anything you do might be recorded and put on the internet, and where any misstep might result in a lawsuit, men can't have it all either: you can't bring your kids to the pub on Sundays, you can't let them ride bikes without a helmet . . . in fact, you've got to keep track of your kid's whereabouts on a daily basis . . . it's very taxing and stressful, and it's difficult to relieve this stress because due to the ubiquity of digital cameras, it's tough to maintain a mistress with any degree of secrecy and it's even tougher to take a trip to the local brothel (especially for men of the cloth, video surveillance has made their vow of chastity far more literal than it used to be) and you don't want to tell an off-color joke in public, because it might be recorded for posterity, or even rant in your own home-- you might be banned from the NBA for life-- and you can't drink liquor at work, like Don Draper in Mad Men . . . or take a nap on the couch in your office (like Don Draper in Mad Men) or light fires on the beach without a permit or smoke cigars indoors or get in a fistfight at school (without being considered for a psychological evaluation) or any number of "manly" things . . . so if you want to maintain your status as a family man and keep your job, then certainly men can't have it all either . . . unless-- which Slaughter points out-- you're rich . . . then all this need not apply, and you can use a term that was probably created by a man: f#$@ you money.
Would Gandhi Curb Stomp a Bully?
On Friday, during the morning announcements, the principal reminded us that it is National Bullying Prevention Month-- and this is certainly a good thing, as bullying is gradually going the way of the dinosaur (or at least meat-world bullying . . . cyber-bullying is another issue entirely) but then he told us National Bullying Prevention Month is sponsored by the leading national anti-bullying organization in the United States . . . STOMP Out Bullying . . . and my homeroom class and I found this name to be a bit oxymoronic, harkening back to the old days, when the only way to defeat a bully was to punch him in the face . . . so either we're not getting the irony (but I doubt a national anti-bullying organization would have an ironic name) or STOMP is an acronym for something a bit less violent . . . but I can't find anything about an acronym in their mission statement, so I'm guessing the tone is intentional and sincere and I'm wondering why they don't go all the way and add the word "CURB" to the front end.
Sitcoms and Everything Else: Now and Then
The difference between watching a sitcom in the 1980's and watching a sitcom in 2015 is this: back then, you were never quite sure what you were going to get . . . you'd be settling in for WKRP in Cincinnati, hoping for some humorous hijinks with Dr. Johnny Fever and Venus Flytrap (and some dueling cleavage between Bailey and Jennifer) and suddenly you're thrust into a "very special episode" about people being trampled at a Who concert . . . but today, because of the fragmentation of media, everything is much more genre-based and tone specific . . . there's very little straying from a show's particular formula-- I'm not sure if this is a good thing . . . the fact that we can control the tone of everything we consume, whether it be music, TV, or political commentary-- while we get what we want, there are less surprises: imagine a "very special episode" of 30 Rock, where one of Tracy Jordan's children gets seduced and creepily molested by "the bicycle man."
Pathetic Fallacy
According to weather.com, the Northeast is in "the cone of uncertainty" as far as Hurricane Joaquin is concerned . . . but really, aren't we all living in our own personal "cone of uncertainty," though we sometimes forget this is the case?
The Ultimate Wish: Combine These
I wish I were European, so I could wear a Speedo to my pool without irony . . . and not for the comfort (no chafing!) or the speed I'd gain while swimming my laps, but just because I can't imagine what my brain would feel like if I didn't mind walking around in one of those things (I also wish I could dance without feeling self-conscious and spastic).
Hooray for Child Labor!
The boys and I were in a rush to get to a barbeque on Saturday (mainly because we were held up at the Rutgers/Kansas game, which was intolerably slow, due to a preponderance of penalties and TV timeouts) and we had to procure both beer and Klondike bars (which they do not sell at the same store in New Jersey) but then -- miracle of miracles-- I had an idea: I dropped the boys off at Stop and Shop, and they went in and bought the ice cream, while I drove across the street to the beer store and bought beer, and then I whipped around and-- perfect timing-- picked them up in front of the grocery store . . . this made me very happy, and I will exploiting them like this more in the future.
She's Back and Less Fun Than Ever . . .
Our most popular episode of The Test is "Dating Cunningham"-- in it she reveals the secret topics and knowledge that will make an excellent first impression on her-- but the second date is not as fun and breezy as the first, in fact, things get quite heavy (and not very hot) although Stacey and I attempt to crack as many jokes as we can in between answering the deep and weighty questions that she poses . . . not for the faint of heart, but worth it in the end, especially if you want to continue this "virtual courtship" with her; good luck, play at home, and see how you score (pun intended).
Dave Has a Revelation!
For the past ten years, I have used the same system to hang my clothes in my rather small closet in the corner of our bedroom-- I pile the clothes on the bed, grab a hanger from the closet, put my shirt or pair of pants on the hanger, shove some stuff aside in the closet, hang the item on the appropriate rack and then grab another hanger and repeat until I am angry, bored, and frustrated . . . but yesterday, I had a revelation to end all revelations . . . a eureka moment that has been fermenting in my brain for ten years and finally burst forth, as Athena sprang from the forehead of Zeus, fully formed and ready for action; I counted the number of pants and shirts that needed to be hung in my closet and took the corresponding number of hangers at the start of the process and then I put all the pants on hangers, made sure the hanger-hooks were all facing in the same directions, shoved some clothes to the side, and hung all the pants at the same time and then I repeated the process for my shirts . . . and I'm sharing this revelation with you free-of-charge so you can improve your clothes-hanging process (and if you already knew to do this, and didn't tell me, then you are now my sworn enemy for life).
Small Town Life and Trampolines
I was walking the dog last week and I saw two guys rolling a giant trampoline down my street-- and this was something I had never seen before, so I didn't have anything particularly witty to say to them, but it seemed like such a good opportunity to say something . . . because when you see some people rolling a trampoline down your street, you should have some base level of curiosity, or you're not really a human, and so I took a shot and came up with "good thing that thing is round!" and while I'll admit that this comment is not my best work, it was good enough to break the ice, and then-- miracle of small-town miracles-- it turned out that I knew one of the guys rolling the trampoline, he was a fellow over-30 basketball player who I had covered many times and a fellow dad and an all around good guy and we chatted for a moment about the logistics of the trampoline transportation, they were moving the big bouncer from my neighbor's backyard to his down the street . . . and I'm not sure what the moral of the story is, but I will say that I love living in a small town where these sort of things happen and the next time someone is rolling a trampoline down my street I'm going to say something much funnier, like: "Don't let any kids use that thing if their parents are lawyers!"
Sitcoms of Dave
I know we're a bit behind the times in my family (my Shakespeare students were astounded that I didn't know that Anne Hathaway is also a famous modern actress, and not solely Shakespeare's wife) but we finally finished watching Parks and Rec and we're quite broken up that it's over-- there hasn't been a sitcom gang that endearing since Cheers (maybe the the study group from Community) but I am pleased that my son Alex has decided on this year's Halloween costume, and it's as meta as it gets; he's going to wear a fake mustache and a purple suit jacket and carry around his saxophone and do his best to impersonate Ron Swanson's alter ego Duke Silver.
The People Are All the Same?
I am rewatching Cheers on Netflix . . . I started with the pilot and I've made it to episode ten, "Endless Slumper"; the one when Sammy loans out his good luck charm, a bottle cap that keeps him from hitting the bottle, and consequently has a streak of bad luck; it's an especially moving episode with a dramatic conclusion-- it appears that Sam is going to start drinking again, but instead he simply produces a new good luck charm, and I vividly remember watching this episode 33 years ago (when I was twelve) and it was equally moving back then, but I had such a different view of the show: I thought Sam was the best, Norm and Coach were hysterical, Carla both scared me and grossed me out, I thought Cliff was a total nerd (the irony!) and I was annoyed by Diane's pretentiousness . . . but now I realize that Diane is both the funniest person in the bar and the funniest person on the show, Norm is a sad clown, Cliff actually knows quite a bit, Sam is incredibly cheesy . . . the only one I understood was Carla . . . she really is scary and gross.
It's Delicious . . . Enough Said
Stone Delicious IPA lives up to its name-- it's tasty, but not overwhelmingly hoppy, and at 7.7 percent alcohol, it packs quite a punch; the words that come to mind when I drink this beer are:
1) crisp;
2) beer-like;
3) good;
and now for the words that did not come to my mind when I drank this beer-- and I have culled these words from the reviews on Beeradvocate-- so these words really and truly came to someone's mind when they drank this beer:
1) herbaceous;
2) sweet lemon grassy;
3) bready;
4) sweet lemon candy;
5) piney;
6) resinous;
7) not abrasive;
8) fluffy sponge;
9) pungent;
10) orange rind;
11) burlap;
12) burlap?
13) grapefruit pith;
14) black pepper;
15) mellow booze;
16) dirty brass;
17) blurry;
18) parching and numbing;
19) yeast cake;
20) lemon zest;
21) tropicalness;
22) tropicalness?
23) minty touch;
24) antique white head;
25) bold drippings;
26) frothy ice-cream;
27) funky yeast;
28) funky hoppy note;
29) very floral;
30) faint jasmine;
and the contrast between these lists leads me to wonder if my palate exists on the same plane as these poetic, aesthetic and rather prolix folks who write the reviews on Beeradvocate . . . I do appreciate a good beer and I am voluble guy with a prodigious vocabulary, but I am loathe to admit it: very few adjectives come to mind when I drink a beer-- I don't know if this is a skill I can foster, or an attribute I don't possess-- but the next time I have a beer in a relaxing setting . . . after a long day of teaching and coaching, I like to drink a glass of beer while I spray water on my wife's garden, and this might be the perfect venue to find some new and creative flavors and capture them with precision . . . but I have a feeling I'm still going to come up with words like "cold" and "refreshing" and "unlike the bitterness of red wine."
1) crisp;
2) beer-like;
3) good;
and now for the words that did not come to my mind when I drank this beer-- and I have culled these words from the reviews on Beeradvocate-- so these words really and truly came to someone's mind when they drank this beer:
1) herbaceous;
2) sweet lemon grassy;
3) bready;
4) sweet lemon candy;
5) piney;
6) resinous;
7) not abrasive;
8) fluffy sponge;
9) pungent;
10) orange rind;
11) burlap;
12) burlap?
13) grapefruit pith;
14) black pepper;
15) mellow booze;
16) dirty brass;
17) blurry;
18) parching and numbing;
19) yeast cake;
20) lemon zest;
21) tropicalness;
22) tropicalness?
23) minty touch;
24) antique white head;
25) bold drippings;
26) frothy ice-cream;
27) funky yeast;
28) funky hoppy note;
29) very floral;
30) faint jasmine;
and the contrast between these lists leads me to wonder if my palate exists on the same plane as these poetic, aesthetic and rather prolix folks who write the reviews on Beeradvocate . . . I do appreciate a good beer and I am voluble guy with a prodigious vocabulary, but I am loathe to admit it: very few adjectives come to mind when I drink a beer-- I don't know if this is a skill I can foster, or an attribute I don't possess-- but the next time I have a beer in a relaxing setting . . . after a long day of teaching and coaching, I like to drink a glass of beer while I spray water on my wife's garden, and this might be the perfect venue to find some new and creative flavors and capture them with precision . . . but I have a feeling I'm still going to come up with words like "cold" and "refreshing" and "unlike the bitterness of red wine."
If You're Going to Be Impressed, It Should Be By Captain Dacres
I am still plowing through Walter R. Borneman's 1812: The War That Forged a Nation, and while I'm not digesting all the names and dates, I do get the big picture: warfare was a different thing two hundred years ago, a gentleman's pursuit; after an epic sea-battle between the USS Constitution and the British HMS Guerriere, Captain Hull boarded the ruined British ship and said, "Captain Hull presents his compliments, sir, and wishes to know if you have struck your flag?" and Dacres said yes, he would like to surrender, but he no longer had any masts upon which to strike the flag, and Hull then refused to take Dacres sword because he fought so valiantly-- and later in the day, when the British ship was searched and the crew and prisoners transferred, Hull found ten impressed American soldiers aboard, which was "a graphic example of one of the war's causes" but . . . and I find this a really nice gesture: Dacres "graciously permitted the Americans to go belowdecks rather than to fight against their countrymen."
Slow Carb Diet Nearly Gets Me Fired
I've lost a few pounds in the past month, mainly due to to a "slow carb" diet-- instead of rice and tortillas and bread, I've been eating more lentils and beans-- and so last Thursday on Back-to-School-Night, I was feeling slim, so slim-- in fact-- that when I walked down the stairs to my room, I realized that my pants were falling down, and I didn't have a belt . . . I tried to write a few things on the whiteboard, but there were already some parents in the room and I didn't want to moon them, so I grabbed a ball of yarn off the filing cabinet (there was some kind of life skills class in my room last year) and made an awkward getaway to the English Office; I was going to try to make a yarn belt but my friend Allie showed me a neat trick, instead of making an entire belt, she simply looped some yarn around two adjacent belt loops and then cinched the loop, effectively making my pant's waist size a few inches smaller . . . and this trick saved the day, I was able to entertain the parents in the appropriate manner (with my pants on).
Methinks We Know Our Shakespeare
On this new episode of The Test, special (but recurring) guest Alec challenges us with a Shakespeare quiz that even our British friends deem impossible, but it's right in our wheelhouse, and so --with some liberal scoring-- Stacey, Cunningham, and I knock it out of the park . . . take a shot and see what you know Bard of Avon (and listen for a special romantic connection between Dave and Alec worthy of Romeo and Juliet).
Breaking News from Dave's Sock Drawer!
Yesterday, I noticed that all my white athletic socks were torn through at the heel . . . is this a weird coincidence or an insidious plot of planned obsolescence?
You Can't Forget What You Don't Remember
The de facto motto for 9/11 this year was "Never Forget" and while I don't think we are yet in jeopardy of nationwide amnesia over that day of cataclysmic violence against innocents, it is going to happen-- this year is the first time my high school students, who are seniors, don't remember the event (they were three years old at the time) and eventually 9/11 will just be a page in a history book; all this did inspire me to remember something that I may have never forgotten (because I never learned about it) and so I ran out to the library and checked out Walter R. Borneman's book 1812: The War That Forged a Nation . . . which is heralded as the best popular account of the War of 1812; so far the book has put me to sleep in multiple places in my house (sometimes several times in a row . . . I wake up, read another page, and then fall back to sleep) but at least I've gotten the gist of the origin of the war: the British were impressing U.S. Seamen into their Royal Navy, they were impeding our trade with France -- because of the Napoleonic Wars, they fired on an American frigate because they wanted to board the ship and search for deserters, and they were inciting Native Americans on our borders . . . not that inciting the Native Americans was always a surefire alliance, as they certainly realized that the British were just as greedy and dangerous as the Americans . . . the only detail I remember so far from the book is that the British took control of an American outpost on Mackinac Island, Fort Michilimackinac, and on a warm June morning in 1763, the Chippewa gathered to play a game of lacrosse; the British soldiers came out to watch the contest and when the leather ball "inadvertently" flew through the open gates of the fort, the Chippewa followed the play . . . and on the way in, the squaws handed them weapons that had been hidden in their blankets, and the Chippewa proceeded to slaughter nearly every British soldier in the fort . . . a trick play that would have made Pop Warner proud (especially since he pioneered many of his trick plays while coaching the Carlisle Indians, an undersized Native American team that represented the Carlisle Indian Industrial School and compiled an astounding winning percentage and competed with the likes of Harvard).
Mrs. X Finds X
My wife (otherwise known as Mrs. X) didn't fare particularly well on this recent Test about numbers, but that didn't stop her from doing some back-of-the-envelope calculations Sunday morning, from which she concluded that I ate seven pieces of "grandma style" pizza Saturday night . . . and I'm not debating her arithmetic, but I would like to say, for the record, that "grandma style" pieces of pizza are square and a bit smaller than a regular slice of pie, and they have significantly less cheese on them . . . not that I'm advocating seven slices per serving, but I will say this: if someone pointed a gun at my head-- even a water gun-- I could have forced down an eighth.
Time For a Life Change
After reading Carl Safina's description of elephant behavior in Ambolesi Park in Kenya-- the concerned mothers, the lost children, the playful loose-limbed clowning, the heroic matriarchs and the self-centered egoists, the mourning of the dead, the memory and associations with a loved elephant's remains, the medical maneuvers (removing darts and spears from a fellow elephant) with a dextrous trunk, the "discussions" about when to leave a place, and the variety of sounds and greetings in general that the elephants use to communicate, and the overall empathy and emotion these creatures show for one another (and occasionally to humans) I have made a major life decision: no more poaching . . . I am quitting cold turkey, and I hope people around the world read his book Beyond Words: What Animals Think and Feel and do likewise; I know it will be tough to quit, and I'll probably gain some weight, and I'll certainly miss the thrill of bringing down something the size of a dinosaur and the money I earned selling contraband ivory-- $1500 dollars a pound for that stuff-- but that's it, I'm done, I quit, no more poaching for me . . . plus this whole "fake tusk" sting operation has made me paranoid . . . anyway, if I can quit poaching cold turkey, then maybe you can too . . . give it a try and see how it feels, and I realize some of you are poaching simply to put food on the table, while I use the money to buy ocelot pants and crocodile skin boots, so perhaps it's wrong of me to inflict my morality on you, but that's a whole other can of worms for another day.
The Test 14: Number of the Dave
I thought this episode of The Test would be fun and easy-- an innocuous number association quiz-- but the ladies though differently . . . including the mystery Mrs. X . . . what the ladies lacked in number sense, they made up for with attitude: there was banging, yelling, slapping and vitriol; Stacey claimed she wanted to light herself on fire; Mrs. X did some wacky math about football, and Cunningham finally remembered something significant and ended what I claimed was "the greatest moment in podcasting history" . . . check it out, play at home, and see if you fare better than the ladies (or agree with them that this test is impossible).
Monday Mornings, You are a Giant Crayfish
If you're feeling extraordinary, proud and special, because you're a human and have such an advanced consciousness, read Carl Safina's new book Beyond Words: What Animals Think and Feel . . . it will take you down a peg or two: you'll learn that when crayfish were shocked repeatedly, they hid-- and had elevated levels of serotonin-- the same hormone that stressed-out humans possess, and chlordiazepoxide relieved their symptoms . . . a commonly used drug to treat people who are suffering from anxiety; the lowly nematode worm, which only possesses 302 nerve cells, behaves the same way as a human when it has an elevated level of nematocin: it seeks out sex; S.W. Emmons-- a worm scientist-- explains that "just as today's roads and highways may have once been ancient trails, biological systems can retain essential features derived from their origins . . . it is a mistake to consider small invertebrates as primitive."
Diamond in the Instructions
I was channelling Ron Swanson the other night, drinking a scotch on the rocks while assembling a pub table and set of stools for the new and improved Greasetruck Studios, when I ran across this phrase in the instructions for cleaning the table-top . . . sometimes you find poetry in the least likely places: "treat surface with care, surface is resistant to scratches but is not scratch resistant."
It's Raining Metaphors!
New Jersey recently had a long period of extremely hot and dry weather-- no rain for weeks-- and then massive downpours for a couple of days . . . and I'd just like to let The Powers That Be know that this isn't really healthy, extended teetotalling followed by an insane binge, it's much better to have a couple drinks a night (or some rain frequently, but in moderation) rather than abstain for so long and then go on a lunatic bender.
Edgar Allan Poe on Steroids
Kevin P. Keating's novel The Captive Condition is described on the inside cover as the story of "an idyllic Midwestern college town that turns out to be a panorama of depravity and a nexus of horror" and I suppose that's accurate, although Normandy Falls hasn't been idyllic for a long time-- it's the victim of typical Midwestern post-industrial decay, but instead of the reality of opiate addiction, the town has fallen prey to other substances . . . the Gonk's homebrewed "Red Death" and chef Xavier's psychedelic jazar juice-- comprised of many things, but mainly an African carrot and formaldehyde . . . if this sounds absurd, it is . . . the book is a flurry of haunting images and elevated prose, done in the style of Poe and Lovecraft-- almost satirically-- and the nexus of evil is the maintenance section of the local university, presided over by the Gonk, but there's also murders, evil twin children, adulterous professors, ancient experiments gone wrong, possession, automatic writing, outside art, and a one-eyed lost soul of narrator trying to escape the clutches of the town and everything in it; this all leads up to a wild and whirling conclusion; if you're looking for something weird and grotesque, this is the book for you.
Irony Defined
I was telling a crowd of teachers in the English Office this story about how my younger son locked my older son out of the house-- and it was a very hot day-- and my younger son then proceeded to taunt my older son from the comfort of the air-conditioned house-- and my older son got so infuriated that he started violently banging the giant sliding glass door on our porch, and while my younger son got in more trouble for being the instigator, Alex was still in some trouble for totally losing his mind and nearly hospitalizing himself (and possibly doing serious damage to the house) and so I tried to convey this lesson to him: just because it's hot and you're angry, it's no reason to completely lose your temper and go insane . . . because that's exactly what your younger brother wants to happen, and when I got to the moral, everyone in the English Office started laughing, and they weren't laughing with me, they were laughing at me . . . and after a few moments, I realized why . . . I had been losing my temper and going insane all week because of the heat, banging on things and complaining, cursing our building and our administration and global warming, etcetera etcetera . . . and to present this hypocrisy to a crowd of English teachers, in such a perfect juxtaposition, me counseling my son to behave in the exact opposite manner of my own behavior, was such an exemplar of irony that I almost wish I had planned it . . . but I didn't, and the best part of the moment may have been when I realized just what a fool I was (and am and will continue to be).
Moonrise Kingdom > The Life Aquatic
I thought I would hate this movie . . . but I loved it, and I thought it would be cheesy, but it's actually clever and zany and visually engaging, and-- like Madmen-- some of the allure is purely aesthetic, the props and the colors and the two-dimensional nature of the sets, and I know all this sounds ridiculous and absurd and vague and unsubstantiated, but if you watch the movie, you'll know what I mean-- it's a whimsical story and whimsical (almost fey) universe but Harvey Keitel and Ed Norton and Bill Murray and Bruce Willis and Frances McDormand and Tilda Swinton are not whimsical actors, which makes the movie understated and funny instead of mawkish and nostalgic . . . give it a shot, it's a lot better than The Life Aquatic with Steve Zissou.
The Test 13: Stacey's Songs (Have Got It Goin' On)
This is my favorite episode of The Test so far . . . Stacey devised a musical clip quiz, and to pass, you must identify the songs and artists, and then connect them to an overarching theme; I get the answer and Cunningham doesn't-- she requires an extra clue-- and I revel in this; not only that, there's a new outro montage, and-- as a bonus-- I steal Cunningham's youth; play at home and see if you can get the answer faster than me (probably pretty easy if you know your music) and let me know how you did . . . especially if you fail.
Attention NBC: Free Sitcom Idea!
This sitcom idea is inspired by a comment written by Clarence about my rave review of our new Shark NV500 Rotator vacuum . . . he speculated that 1990 Dave would be dismayed, disappointed and disgusted by the domesticity of 2015 Dave, and he's right, of course: 1990 Dave was a rude, insolent, slightly deranged illogical slob who spurned all responsibility and civility . . . and this is the premise for an amazing sitcom: 1990 Dave travels through a time warp into the future and he has nowhere to stay and no viable skills, so 2015 Dave has to take him in . . . it's a messy, funny, and ultimately endearing show, because 2015 Dave can't kill 1990 Dave-- and 2015 Dave's wife and kids have to put up with 1990 Dave and prevent 1990 Dave from harming himself, because he's destined to eventually stumble into another time warp and return to his own timeline in the past, where he will meet his wife and fulfill his destiny to become a fairly responsible, occasionally awkward, sort of civilized parent and citizen (who occasionally volunteers to vacuum the house . . . and to add another layer to the show, 2015 Dave's wife is strangely attracted to 1990 Dave, though he annoys the shit out of her with his puerile behavior, but she just can't help herself because he is a much better looking version of Dave than 2015 Dave).
Some Kids Need a Visual Aid
I've decided I'm really going to crack down on cell-phone use in my classes this year, and so I read the kids the riot act on the first day of class: I explained that phones are a distraction and an attractive nuisance that the teenage psyche cannot handle-- and I cited the fact that schools that ban phones see an increase in test scores-- and this seems to have had some impact, but I think to really hammer the point home, I need a visual aid, so I'm going to get a little aquarium and fill it with water (and maybe some colored gravel and a piece of coral) and then throw some old cell-phones in there and tell my students that if I confiscate your phone, that's where I put it . . . and, if I get really motivated, I'm going to set up a stooge with an old phone and pretend to confiscate the phone from him or her, and then toss it into the tank . . . if I forget to do this, someone please remind me.
The Test Episode 12: Acting!
Episode 12 of The Test has it all-- except Cunningham, who couldn't make it; some of the highlights include:
1) not one, but two special guests . . . my friend Alec (a performance space designer) and his wife Heather (who runs the business end of Alec's company) join us for a test on film and theater;
2) everyone sings;
3) God beeps himself;
4) I go a little nuts on the musical interlude . . . but rest assured, it does finally end; play along at home, keep score, and realize that we made this one fun and easy only so that we can lure other people onto the show (presidential hopefuls, keep us in mind . . . you could show off your knowledge and visit beautiful New Brunswick, New Jersey, where you might have the privilege of getting assaulted by a group of Rutgers football players).
1) not one, but two special guests . . . my friend Alec (a performance space designer) and his wife Heather (who runs the business end of Alec's company) join us for a test on film and theater;
2) everyone sings;
3) God beeps himself;
4) I go a little nuts on the musical interlude . . . but rest assured, it does finally end; play along at home, keep score, and realize that we made this one fun and easy only so that we can lure other people onto the show (presidential hopefuls, keep us in mind . . . you could show off your knowledge and visit beautiful New Brunswick, New Jersey, where you might have the privilege of getting assaulted by a group of Rutgers football players).
Warning: Very Mundane Stuff
My wife bought a new vacuum, and it works exponentially better than our old vacuum; in fact, when we saw what the new vacuum sucked into the canister from our rugs, we wondered if our old vacuum was sucking up anything . . . our new vacuum is a Shark NV500 Rotator and it's so awesome and sleek that I actually volunteered to vacuum the upstairs carpets, just so I could use it.
Ronald Reagan Needed Barry Goldwater . . . and American Politics Needs Bernie Sanders and Donald Trump
I was having trouble finishing Before the Storm, Rick Perlstein's book about the 1964 Lyndon Johnson/Barry Goldwater election, but Donald Trump renewed my interest; like Goldwater, Trump is a political outsider, and like Goldwater, he is galvanizing an angry conservative minority that feels that no other politician is speaking for them . . . and like Goldwater, if Trump gets nominated, I'm pretty sure he is unelectable and will lose in a landslide . . . but Perlstein-- who is a liberal-- understands the significance of the loss; Goldwater paved the way for Ronald Reagan, and Goldwater paved the way for an organized and radical conservative movement in America . . . to read about a more tactical politician, check out the second book in his historical trilogy (Nixonland) but if you want something that explains what is going on right now in America, read Before the Storm, which is subtitled Barry Goldwater and the Unmaking of the American Consensus . . . if you want to read something shorter on the same theme, there's a good article in The Week and I also highly recommend Dan Carlin's podcast, Common Sense . . . his analysis of the first televised GOP debate, "Trumping the Playbook" explains the influence an outsider can have on typical political rhetoric and why we should appreciate and enjoy the waves these folks create, whether or not we are for their policies . . . so I'd like to give a big thanks to Bernie Sanders and Donald Trump, for shaking things up and making it real.
Kids Trick You Into Thinking They Are Civilized
After a productive morning of podcasting, Stacey, Cunningham, my wife, Alex, Ian and I went out for Mexican food-- and Stacey treated the boys to a ride to the restaurant in her new Jeep (with the top down) and the ladies were very impressed with our boys' behavior at the restaurant . . . and when Alex and Ian were finished with lunch, they asked if they could walk home, which they occasionally do instead of sitting and waiting for the check-- it's four or five blocks, so if Cat and I have driven, we usually arrive at home around the same time-- and after the kids left, Stacey said, "they're just like regular people!" and we agreed and we were very happy with our children . . . BUT . . . and this is the update for Stacey and Cunningham-- they are NOT like real people, even though they occasionally fool us into thinking they are . . . when we arrived home, we heard screaming and a loud banging noise coming from the backyard, and quickly surmised that it was Alex, banging on the giant glass sliding door-- I raced around the side of the house and told him to stop and he explained that Ian had locked him out of the house (and chained the front door) and then taunted him from the comfort of the air-conditioning and Alex totally lost his mind and came close to shattering a very very expensive window and probably hospitalizing himself . . . moments later, Ian's friend showed up and Ian had the awkward task of sending him home, since he was in so much trouble, and then we sent Alex over to Ian's friend's house to explain what happened, and Ian had to stay home, miserable and alone, and face the consequences of his actions.
There Are Good Dogs and There are Bad Dogs
The Hand That Feeds You opens with a scene so grisly and disturbing that the rest of the book hangs under its shadow . . . and the fact that dogs might be responsible-- and good dogs at that-- makes it even worse . . . but this is one of those psychological thrillers where nothing is at it seems, and I highly recommend it if you are looking for one last fast summer read; even the author-- A.J. Rich-- is a facade for something more complicated . . . I learned the story in this New York Times review: the name is a pseudonym, and the book was collaboratively written by acclaimed short-story writer Amy Hempel and her friend, novelist Jill Ciment . . . that's the "A" and the "J" in the pseudonym, and the name "Rich" is in honor of their friend Katherine Russell Rich, who had an idea for a thriller based on what happened with a man she had been dating who proposed to her . . . she grew suspicious of him, paid someone to hack his e-mail, and she found out that he had several other lives-- he was living with another woman, and seeing several others on the side . . . so she broke up with him and started a novel with a similarly deceptive sociopath as the main character, but never got past the first chapter, she died of breast cancer soon after . . . so Amy Hempel and Jill Ciment took the ball and ran with it, and the result is a crisp, taut, disturbing story that may or may not be something dog lovers would enjoy, but the lesson is this, which the band Camper van Beethoven pointed out many years ago: there are good guys and there are bad guys/ and there are crooks and criminals/ and there are doctors and there are lawyers/ and there are folks like you and me . . . and the same goes for dogs.
This Test Sort of Goes To 11
On the 11th Episode of The Test, Stacey does NOT quiz us on our knowledge of This is Spinal Tap . . . instead, she focuses on current events, which are not my area of expertise (at one point in the show, I can't think of anything recent and bring up a related event that happened 112 years ago) but Cunningham and I survive . . . and even get a few right; follow this link and you can subscribe to the podcast on iTunes . . . play along, score yourself, and get ready for the next episode where we have not one but TWO guests.
No Need to Worry, I Have Them All
If you're wondering where your extension cords went, apparently they attained autonomy and migrated into my junk room, where they've been hiding out behind the cabinets and in the storage bins (I found 23 unused extension cords in there . . . 23!)
One Summer, Two Stephen King Books
It's been a long time since I read two Stephen King books in one summer-- maybe thirty years-- but Finders Keepers is even better than Joyland . . . it's a compelling thriller, and at the heart of it resides a Salinger-esque writer who is King's antithesis: a well-reviewed artist scared to damage his legacy, scrawling away but afraid to publish . . . things do slow down a bit in the middle of the book, but press on, the ending will make you sweat: eight Moleskine notebooks out of ten.
Giant Apes, White Whales, Cheeky Monkeys, and a Can of Worms
It took two nights for my family and I to make it through Peter Jackson's epic 2005 remake of King Kong and-- despite the three hour running time-- everyone loved it . . . my kids loved the action, my wife loved the romance (especially the ice-sliding scene) and I loved how much the film reminded me of my favorite novel: Moby Dick . . . like Moby Dick, the story is too long, more of an adventure than a narrative, and both Kong and The White Whale are inscrutable violent natural forces-- a yin and yang of black and white, ocean and jungle . . . these creatures have nothing to do with idealistic environmentalism . . . let's save the dolphins and the panda bears . . . Kong and The Leviathan are far too frightening and primitive for that kind of sentiment, but at the heart of both animals is something deeply emotional and intelligent-- they are not monsters-- and because of this, they are both doomed . . . they go down fighting (and though Moby Dick breaks the Pequod in half and drags Ahab to his death, he is full of harpoons, wounded and hunted by man . . . he doesn't die at the end of the novel, but we all know what happened to the rest of his kin) and both King Kong and Moby Dick are stories of love and obsession . . . Carl Denham (Jack Black) has the same monomania for film and spectacle as Ahab does for the White Whale . . . both these creatures would be fine if left alone, but humans open the can of worms (or the barrel of monkeys, lots of metaphors here) and monkeys must meddle, it is in our nature, and then when we stare into the eye of the Other and call it monstrous, we have to wonder: who is the real monster?
Aleppo Causes Me Cognitive Dissonance
I'm having a hard time reconciling what I remember about Aleppo and what I have been reading about the city recently; an article in The Week called "Life Under the Caliphate" describes the some of the things happening in the region, which is mainly under control of ISIS:
1) unIslamic activities-- smoking, listening to music, wearing hair gel-- are punished by flogging, execution, and amputation;
2) there is video footage of gay men being thrown off tall buildings to their deaths;
3) Jews and Christians are given the choice to convert or die;
4) public executions and floggings happen nearly every day;
5) an ISIS pamphlet from Aleppo lists some crimes and punishments . . . drinking alcohol is 80 lashes, as is slander, spying for infidels and renouncing Islam both result in death;
6) women may marry at age 9 and should be married by age 16, and they must wear two heavy robes to conceal their figure . . .
and so I went back to the email updates that I sent from when I lived in Syria (200-2003) and looked at some of my recollections from our various trips to the city and surrounding regions;
1) we wandered through the Dead Cities, abandoned Byzantine olive-oil towns in the hills just outside of the city;
2) we watched Embassy folk collect ancient pottery shards at various tells and middens;
3) we stayed at the Baron Hotel-- the spooky but notable spot where Agathie Christie wrote "Murder on the Orient Express"-- drinking beer at the bar is right out of The Shining (but apparently, the place is closed down now):
4) our Syrian friend Yara told us tales of covered women in Aleppo that openly took lesbian lovers and I wrote a treatment for an erotic Syrian film:
the taciturn husband warns his wife not to leave the house for any reason, and then goes to play backgammon with his friends . . . a woman covered in black from head to toe shows up at the door, and the lady of the house invites her in for tea . . . she lifts her veil and gives her host a long concupiscent look . . . soon enough she’s shedding her robe, and there’s nothing underneath . . .
5) we ate-- notably at the Beit Sissi-- drank, wandered the city and the region, were mobbed by Syrian children who treated us like rock stars, took tours with our favorite guide in the Middle East-- Jihad-- and generally felt like we were on vacation . . . Aleppo always seemed a little less oppressive and a little more Western than Damascus, a little more like Turkey . . . but apparently those days are gone, and I'm having a hard time wrapping my head around this (I also read that ISIS beheaded the antiquities expert for Palmyra-- the spectacular Roman city in the Syrian desert-- because he refused to reveal where valuable artifacts were hidden . . . ISIS considers preserving ancient artifacts "akin to idol worship and punishable by death" and when they say that, apparently they aren't kidding . . . if you've got a strong stomach, you can watch ISIS sponsored beheadings all day on the internet, even some done by children . . . this really diminishes my concern over my basement beer fridge, which has lost it's ability to chill beer-- though the freezer is still fully operational-- at first I thought it was a crisis, but then I read about this stuff, and now it doesn't seem all that significant).
1) unIslamic activities-- smoking, listening to music, wearing hair gel-- are punished by flogging, execution, and amputation;
2) there is video footage of gay men being thrown off tall buildings to their deaths;
3) Jews and Christians are given the choice to convert or die;
4) public executions and floggings happen nearly every day;
5) an ISIS pamphlet from Aleppo lists some crimes and punishments . . . drinking alcohol is 80 lashes, as is slander, spying for infidels and renouncing Islam both result in death;
6) women may marry at age 9 and should be married by age 16, and they must wear two heavy robes to conceal their figure . . .
and so I went back to the email updates that I sent from when I lived in Syria (200-2003) and looked at some of my recollections from our various trips to the city and surrounding regions;
1) we wandered through the Dead Cities, abandoned Byzantine olive-oil towns in the hills just outside of the city;
2) we watched Embassy folk collect ancient pottery shards at various tells and middens;
3) we stayed at the Baron Hotel-- the spooky but notable spot where Agathie Christie wrote "Murder on the Orient Express"-- drinking beer at the bar is right out of The Shining (but apparently, the place is closed down now):
4) our Syrian friend Yara told us tales of covered women in Aleppo that openly took lesbian lovers and I wrote a treatment for an erotic Syrian film:
the taciturn husband warns his wife not to leave the house for any reason, and then goes to play backgammon with his friends . . . a woman covered in black from head to toe shows up at the door, and the lady of the house invites her in for tea . . . she lifts her veil and gives her host a long concupiscent look . . . soon enough she’s shedding her robe, and there’s nothing underneath . . .
5) we ate-- notably at the Beit Sissi-- drank, wandered the city and the region, were mobbed by Syrian children who treated us like rock stars, took tours with our favorite guide in the Middle East-- Jihad-- and generally felt like we were on vacation . . . Aleppo always seemed a little less oppressive and a little more Western than Damascus, a little more like Turkey . . . but apparently those days are gone, and I'm having a hard time wrapping my head around this (I also read that ISIS beheaded the antiquities expert for Palmyra-- the spectacular Roman city in the Syrian desert-- because he refused to reveal where valuable artifacts were hidden . . . ISIS considers preserving ancient artifacts "akin to idol worship and punishable by death" and when they say that, apparently they aren't kidding . . . if you've got a strong stomach, you can watch ISIS sponsored beheadings all day on the internet, even some done by children . . . this really diminishes my concern over my basement beer fridge, which has lost it's ability to chill beer-- though the freezer is still fully operational-- at first I thought it was a crisis, but then I read about this stuff, and now it doesn't seem all that significant).
This Picture Is NOT Photoshopped (I don't even know how to use Photoshop)
While I was walking the dog in Donaldson Park, I saw in the distance a small tree, floating horizontally, levitating five feet above the ground, and then, after an awestruck moment, I realized that it was not completely defying gravity, but instead balanced on a slender slice of trunk . . . upon closer inspection, I could tell that the split was the work of termites, but my main thought was: I've got to get one of my children under this thing and snap a photo before it topples over . . . and while I may have put my son Ian in some degree of mortal danger, it was obviously well worth it.
Heavy Stuff in Small Packages
Guest editor John Jeremiah Sullivan chooses some heavy stuff for The Best American Essays of 2014; tales of sexual abuse, miscarriage in Mongolia, alienating illnesses, foreign deaths, candid sexual promiscuity and obsessive contemplation (even of joy) dominate the collection, but there are two "lighter" essays and both are worth reading:
1) "The Old Man at Burning Man" by Wells Tower, which describes a trip the narrator and his dying father take to the bizarre post-apocalyptic festival out in The Black Rock Desert in northern Nevada;
2) "Slickheads" by Lawrence Jackson, a description of a Baltimore gang war in the '80's between the Woodlawn slickheads and the Oxford preps . . . the language in this one is wild, inventive and colorful-- "yeah, they was popping and breaking, helicopter and all that, but that shit is for tourists"-- and there are lots of nicknames-- Pretty Ricky, Knuckles, Meechee, Charm Sawyer (and, if you listened to Serial, then you'll appreciate the references to Leakin Park).
1) "The Old Man at Burning Man" by Wells Tower, which describes a trip the narrator and his dying father take to the bizarre post-apocalyptic festival out in The Black Rock Desert in northern Nevada;
2) "Slickheads" by Lawrence Jackson, a description of a Baltimore gang war in the '80's between the Woodlawn slickheads and the Oxford preps . . . the language in this one is wild, inventive and colorful-- "yeah, they was popping and breaking, helicopter and all that, but that shit is for tourists"-- and there are lots of nicknames-- Pretty Ricky, Knuckles, Meechee, Charm Sawyer (and, if you listened to Serial, then you'll appreciate the references to Leakin Park).
Tchotchke Overload
We had a spectacularly sunny week in Sea Isle City this year; four families shared a five bedroom house with a beautiful view of the ocean-- and while the house itself was perfectly situated and also of new construction, our only complaint was with the interior: it was overloaded with tchotchkes . . . brass mermaid on the counter, wooden Italian man holding a pizza amidst various sized pottery, giant model ships, bowls of glass balls, a wooden canoe on the dining room table, strange ornaments on the toilets, little chairs on the landing, loads of throw pillows, etcetera . . . and everything was BIG . . . big couches and big chairs and a huge table on the porch that you could barely walk around and big wooden beds that couldn't be moved, something between Pottery Barn and Vermont farmhouse, and so all the kids slept up in the master bedroom, and the two little guys slept in a four corner poster bed-- ridiculous-- but none of this mattered, we only broke a couple of things and we'll probably get the deposit back, the only thing that was actually dangerous was a giant wooden mirror leaning against the wall at the foot of the stairs (there's a picture of it above) and when I saw it, I immediately put it behind a chair in the corner so that someone wouldn't put their arm through it, or worse-- so it wouldn't topple over and kill someone (one of the kids on the trip has CP and walks with sticks and occasionally leans on furniture for balance, so this thing was a hazard) and right after I put it behind a chair, the owner came in to check things out from the previous week and I thought he said he was going to do something with the mirror-- like remove it-- but we left to go to the beach and he put it back in its original location, so we had to move it again . . . I think in a situation like this, the owner has created an attractive nuisance of a house, and the deposit should be reversed and we should receive some money for making sure his giant Harry Potter mirror of Erised and his wooden boat collection and his various gewgaws didn't get destroyed.
The Yin and Yang of Soccer
In honor of Sunday, the most holy day, which has been deemed both The Day of Soccer (both travel and pick-up) and the Day of American Football, I will bequeath the internet a sporting thesis; soccer presents a perfect yin and yang of speed and deception, a player with a dearth of one can compensate with an abundance of the other-- when I was young I got away with lots of speed and a modicum of skill, but now that I'm old and slow, I need to add an element of trickery to every move I make-- and while other sports require these elements in some amount, it's not a perfect balance; basketball inordinately rewards height and this throws off the equation, and football prizes size and strength as well as speed (in fact, with enough size and strength, there's no need for deception . . . this is most blatantly illustrated by the fact that soccer players "dive" when they are fouled, while football players run forward for yardage-- whether they are being face-masked or not) and it is this simple balance of skills that makes soccer the most accessible game in the world and why there are infinite variations in how to train and play.
A Good Summer (So Far)
Summer is my least favorite season-- too hot and sunny-- but I shouldn't complain . . . as there are only two requirements for having a good summer if you live on the East Coast:
1) you don't contract Lyme's Disease;
2) you don't mistakenly wade into a patch of poison ivy;
the rest is bonus, the beach trips and the pool barbecues, the hiking and the tennis, the paddle-boarding and the garden plot . . . you can't do any of these if you're bedridden, on antibiotics, and oozing pus.
1) you don't contract Lyme's Disease;
2) you don't mistakenly wade into a patch of poison ivy;
the rest is bonus, the beach trips and the pool barbecues, the hiking and the tennis, the paddle-boarding and the garden plot . . . you can't do any of these if you're bedridden, on antibiotics, and oozing pus.
This One Almost Goes to Eleven
I'm especially proud of this new episode of The Test because I edited the entire thing on vacation on my ancient MacBook Pro laptop . . . I made a template with all the bits and pieces: the intro, the outro, the intermission and voice of God music; then I used some Garage Band effects to create the voice of God-- and I'm sure my fellow beach house residents thought I was insane, talking in the voice of God to a computer-- but I got it done: the episode is a bit spooky, because I use my clairvoyant powers to read Cunningham's mind and to predict Stacey's imminent demise, but I promise that you will learn the secret information that will enable you to date Cunningham . . . or at least meet her on a Tinder booty call.
Favelas and Futebol at the Copa
Juliana Barbassa's book Dancing With the Devil in the City of God: Rio de Janeiro on the Brink is a frustrating and fascinating tour of Brazil's most celebrated city . . . you journey from the beautiful but polluted beaches to the lucrative but labyrinthine real-estate system to the seediest of brothels-- "at a place called Vanessa's Bar, the prices were posted on the wall, starting at $15 dollars for 15 minutes of straight-up oral or vaginal sex with protection"-- Barbassa details the history of the favelas (made famous in the awesome film City of God) and the slow improvements, including the firefights between police and gangs -- especially the Red Command-- and the UPP, police units stationed inside the shanty towns . . . and the current dilemma: the ongoing battle between the residents of the favelas and the city, which is preparing for the 2016 Olympics and attempting to raze many of the shantytowns; the Olympic Park is moving out into the far western suburbs of the city and there are caimans on the golf course and terrible sanitation and sewage problems, but Brazil managed to get it together for the World Cup, and Barbassa has faith that they will figure this one out as well; her chapter on living on Brazil during the cup is fantastic, especially her description of the awful 7-1 semi-final loss to Germany; she sat with her relatives and cousins and watched "dumbfounded" as the players came forward; team captain David Luiz spoke for all of them when he said, "I'm sorry everyone, I just wanted to give my people something to be happy about," and that is the theme of the book: the Brazilians are an emotional society that wants to live in the moment and be happy, partying on the beach, drinking beer in the street, dancing in costume to the samba during Carnival, but they are also realizing that to take a major place on the world stage takes planning and foresight, and they are slowly, with lots of bumps and hiccups, learning to do that as well; the book is excellent and really makes you appreciate living in America, which may not be the most efficient, most environmentally pristine country, but it sure beats the byzantine corruption, pollution, and class stagnation that Brazil is trying to overcome . . . the book ends on a hopeful note, and I think all the world is rooting for Rio to get cleaned up and do a fantastic job hosting the Olympics (except, perhaps, for the Uruguayans, who still relish their upset victory over Brazil in the 1950 World Cup in Rio and are angry that no one ever considers them for hosting major world events).
Another Trip to Sea Isle, Another LeCompt Show . . .
It was Sunday night and we were on vacation in Sea Isle City, so-- of course-- we were at the required LeCompt show, and while we were taking a break outside on the beach behind the Springfield Inn, checking out the newly constructed dune, and we saw something glittering and it was Mike LeCompt's sequined shirt: he stumbled through the sand and right up to us and said, "Whatever you're doing, I'd like to do it too" and after he regaled us with stories of whiskey, meth, and recovery and his tour of various seaside jails, and we all reminisced about old shows and his old band members, we realized that if we didn't nudge him back to the bar, there would be no second set, so Connell said "We've got to get back inside to see the band" and that reminded LeCompt that he had to go play, and then Connell requested that he play "Born to Run" to open the second set and he also requested that I should sing the "1, 2, 3, 4!" bit, which I was hoping to never do again because then people high five me for the rest of the night for my ability to count, but there was no escaping it and so I got shoved to the front, and LeCompt swung the microphone in my direction and I must be getting old, because I was a little slow on my delivery . . . the whole thing smacked of The Holy Grail . . . I only got to three before he yanked the mike stand back so he could power through the final verse; this might be the fourth time I've done the 1, 2, 3, 4! so it would be fitting if it was the last, but history tends to repeat itself at LeCompt shows, so who knows (and as a side note, this is the first LeCompt show I made it through without breaking down and buying some chewing tobacco during one of the endless breaks between sets, so I felt much better Monday morning though I was a bit grouchy during the show . . . especially when Lynn poured beer on my head) because I was jonesing for nicotine, it's hard for me to stay awake past ten without it, but I am using LeCompt as my inspiration and trying to completely quit; a big thanks to Dom for some diligent record-keeping during the show; because of his hard work, we have a fairly complete set list:
1) These Eyes (The Guess Who);
2) California Dreaming (The Mamas & The Papas);
3) Heart of the Matter (Don Henley);
4) Find a Reason to Believe (Rod Stewart);
5) Forever Young (Rod Stewart);
6) A Cat Stevens song;
7) Angie;
8) Ruby Tuesday;
9) Levon (Elton John);
10) Come Sail Away (Styx);
11) Piano Man;
12) Italian Restaurant;
13) Born to Run;
14) Suffragette City;
15) Behind Blue Eyes;
16) Bargain;
17) You're So Vain (Carly Simon);
18) Thunder Road;
19) What is and What Should Never Be;
20) Ramble On;
21) Here I Go Again (Whitesnake);
22) Thinking Out Loud (Ed Sheran);
23) Bill the Kid (Billy Joel);
24) Easy (Lionel Richie);
25) Brandy (Looking Glass);
26) Dancing in the Moonlight (Van Morrison);
27) Heroes (David Bowie);
28) Young Americans (David Bowie);
29) Suspicious Minds.
1) These Eyes (The Guess Who);
2) California Dreaming (The Mamas & The Papas);
3) Heart of the Matter (Don Henley);
4) Find a Reason to Believe (Rod Stewart);
5) Forever Young (Rod Stewart);
6) A Cat Stevens song;
7) Angie;
8) Ruby Tuesday;
9) Levon (Elton John);
10) Come Sail Away (Styx);
11) Piano Man;
12) Italian Restaurant;
13) Born to Run;
14) Suffragette City;
15) Behind Blue Eyes;
16) Bargain;
17) You're So Vain (Carly Simon);
18) Thunder Road;
19) What is and What Should Never Be;
20) Ramble On;
21) Here I Go Again (Whitesnake);
22) Thinking Out Loud (Ed Sheran);
23) Bill the Kid (Billy Joel);
24) Easy (Lionel Richie);
25) Brandy (Looking Glass);
26) Dancing in the Moonlight (Van Morrison);
27) Heroes (David Bowie);
28) Young Americans (David Bowie);
29) Suspicious Minds.
This Sentence is about . . . Something
I listened to Harlan Coben on Freakonomics last week, in an episode called "How to Create Suspense" and he was so engaging that I decided to read one of his books . . . it took me three days to plow through Tell No One and I'm proud to say that I learned absolutely nothing, the book is pure plot and as-billed: it is very suspenseful . . . during the Freakonomics interview, Coben explains one of his methods: "if a person's dead, they're dead; I'm just trying to solve the crime . . . but if a person's missing, you have hope" and that's the main way he generates suspense in this novel, but he also alternates between first and third person narration, which limits the amount of information you receive into a very cautious flow, a drip from a spigot . . . and, as a topper, he's got Eric Wu wandering around, a dude from North Korea who endured some kind of harrowing childhood and now lives only to use his giant hands to torture humans until they break; aside from Wu, most of the characters are fairly stereotypical, but the book moves so fast, and the scenes are so vividly drawn, that it doesn't really matter, the purpose is to make you keep turning the page (or poking the edge of your Kindle screen) and the book serves its purpose well.
All Apologies
To the young lovers cuddling on the lifeguard stand and the lady combing the beach for shells and the the man driving the sand sweeper, I apologize for the view you had to endure: me striding out of the ocean in sheer gray spandex . . . after my morning run, I stripped down and took a swim; so if you're in Sea Isle City this week, and you like to head to the beach in early AM for some peace and serenity, then I suggest you stay north of 45th Street.
The Long Goodbye
I am cleaning out my side room so I can expand Greasetruck Studios, but getting rid of the piles and piles of books I've acquired over the years is extremely difficult . . . the books I've read and don't remember are easy to part with, and I'm keeping the best books by my favorite authors, but it's hard to get rid of all the trade paperbacks-- even though I know I'll never read them, the numerous Philip K. Dick and Elmore Leonard and Clifford Simak novels-- but the font is too small and pages are yellowed and my kids will never touch them and I've got a Kindle . . . and it's also hard to get rid of the books that I bought but never read, the testament to my literary failures, but I didn't pick up The History of the Vikings for the last ten years, and it's been sitting there in plain sight, so I don't think I'm ever going to read it (the same goes for Bleak House and Finnegan's Wake . . . but I've still got aspirations for Nostromo).
Tragedy of the Commons (and Consciousness)
If you want to listen to something scary and frustrating, Planet Money 640: The Bottom of the Well is the one for you . . . or you could just enjoy my stream of consciousness recap: so there's no water in the well and pistachios and almonds take a shitload of water to grow, a gallon per nut . . . a gallon per nut! . . . but if I drill a very very deep well I can tap the rapidly diminishing aquifer and water my pistachio trees, even though the townsfolk in Porterville can no longer access fresh water from their wells, even though their taps have run dry . . . but that's not my problem, I see the irony, that they have to visit portable showers and sinks at a temporary water station, while they can actually see the lush farmland to the south of them, acres of pistachio and walnut and almond trees, but this is a boon for me, because the demand for pistachios and almonds is through the roof, and the supply is small, because they require so much water and India and China are going to buy them from someone and, honestly, if I don't dig a deep well and suck up that aquifer, then my neighbor is going to do it-- and he's a douche-- or the banks and the hedge funds will do it-- because this is an arbitrage situation, and you've got to take advantage while you can, and the aquifer should last another fifty years or so, and by that time I'll be retired and living in Florida or the Pine Barrens, where there is plenty of water, and you know what, it might start raining at any time, there's no law against it, so no reason for me not to make some money while the making is good, because if it's not me, it's going to be somebody else and then my grandkids can get the hell out of here, before the Mad Max scenario that some scientists envision comes to fruition . . . that would be wild.
Game of Thrones and The Peltzman Effect
While listening to an old episode of Freakonomics, I learned about The Peltzman Effect, which asserts that when things become safer, we compensate by taking more risks-- and while the theory has never been proven exactly as Peltzman stated it, that safety features and regulations are completely useless and even counterproductive, there is no question that the effect is real, just not as powerful as Peltzman envisioned; The Peltzman Effect certainly rears its ugly head in American football: helmets became safer and more shock resistant, and so players started using their head to initiate tackles (you don't see rugby players doing this very often) and though there are less fractured skulls, there are more concussions and brain trauma; you can also see the Peltzman Effect at work in Game of Thrones . . . two incidents come to mind, both having to do with heavy armour and the perceived safety that it affords;
1) when Bronn defeats Ser Varis Egan in Tyrion's first trial by combat; Bronn is wearing light leather armour and Ser Vardis has on heavy plate mail and carries a giant shield; Bronn takes few risks and generally keeps out of range-- he lets Ser Vardis exhaust himself with risky swings of his giant sword, and then carefully pokes and slices at him until he falls apart;
2) when Oberyn nearly kills The Mountain in Tyrion's second trial by combat; again Oberyn wears a light leather outfit and dances out of range, taking few risks with his long-handled spear, and if he wouldn't have let his guard down during his vengeful celebration, then he would have survived the battle instead of dying in the grossest manner possible . . . Kids in the Hall style!
Another Time, Picnic!
I know people are on vacation and someone out there is planning a picnic, but it's still nice to have a rainy day once in a while . . . when else are you going to watch Highlander with your kids?
I Need to Read Something With Jokes
The Last Coyote is the fourth book in Michael Connelly's Harry Bosch series, and it is a dark and existential one-- think True Detectives without the cute ending; Bosch is on involuntary stress leave because he assaulted his lieutenant, and so he has time to delve into the details of his wretched past . . . his mother was a working girl and Harry was taken from her by child services and placed in a youth home, and though his mother had plans to straighten out and regain custody, before that could happen she was strangled-- and the case was treated oddly, brushed aside and never solved . . . it reeked of corruption and foul play; at the start of this novel, Bosch finally decides that his life's mission is to look into it, though his police psychologist warns him against this course of action because she feels it will do him more harm than good-- but Harry Bosch takes advice from no man (or woman) and what he finds isn't pretty; Bosch is especially grouchy and irascible in this one (for good reason) and I think I need a break from him, I need to read something like Bossypants or Me Talk Pretty One Day, to restore my good spirits.
The Test Has a Logo!
Our podcast has a new home on Podbean, and Stacey designed an awesome logo . . . so play along, keep score, and listen for special guests-- TJ, Jerry, and God . . . also, Stacey and Cunningham mimic my judginess (and I consider it flattery).
The Infinite Picture Skit!
During my epic adventure last Saturday, at the Bond Street Bar and Grill in Asbury Park, a group of good-natured folks at a table near the shuffleboard game asked my friend Alec if he could kindly take their picture . . . and he did such a good job of it that I told him, "Alec! You've got to get in the picture!" and so he handed me the camera and ran over and got in the frame and I took a picture of the group along with Alec . . . now if Connell picked up on this and ran over from his end of the shuffleboard table and said, "Dave! You've got to get in the picture!" and he took a picture of the group with both Alec and me, and then we had forty or fifty more friends available and they kept doing this ad infinitum . . . well, you get the idea-- now somebody get out there and organize this and then show me the pictures and the video.
Free Apps!
Everyone is designing a phone app these days, so if you want in on the action, here are a few of my ideas:
1) dog to Spanish translator;
2) body hair maintenance scheduler . . . it's a little stick figure and various areas light up when it's time to trim-- ear, nose, beard, nether regions, etcetera;
3) an alphabetic communicator, so that you can send a message of written words to a friend without having to speak, and then (perhaps) your friend could reply back to you with a written reply, and this would all appear on the phone screen . . . this one seems the most promising of my ideas.
1) dog to Spanish translator;
2) body hair maintenance scheduler . . . it's a little stick figure and various areas light up when it's time to trim-- ear, nose, beard, nether regions, etcetera;
3) an alphabetic communicator, so that you can send a message of written words to a friend without having to speak, and then (perhaps) your friend could reply back to you with a written reply, and this would all appear on the phone screen . . . this one seems the most promising of my ideas.
They Alive, Dammit! It's a Miracle!
If you haven't seen the Netflix original Unbreakable Kimmy Schmidt, then the plot is a hard pill to swallow-- Kimmy and three other women were held captive underground for fifteen years by a lunatic doomsday cult preacher, and when they were finally rescued, Kimmy made her way to New York City on a wing and a prayer and ends up living in a basement apartment with an out-of-work flamboyantly gay African American actor named Titus Andromedon-- but the theme song, perhaps the catchiest since "Cheers," explains all this visually and persuasively; I would suggest starting with episode ten, "Kimmy's in a Love Triangle," because Dean Norris (Hank Shrader in Breaking Bad) makes a cameo as Le Loup, a "straight coach," who counsels gay actors to act like a heterosexual dudes, so they get get more acting roles . . . the scenarios he devises are absurd and spot-on (and you'll find out why straight men don't drink from straws).
I'll Do It Her Way . . . Grudgingly
My wife was oppressing my creativity the other day; she was being very critical of how I put away the silverware --my method, which is a matter of personal expression, a stylistic choice-- NOT laziness-- is I chuck all the stuff in the drawer, real fast, I don't worry about dedicating particular slots for spoons or forks or knives . . . I came to the conclusion that this is the correct technique (even though that's how I've always done it) while reading A Perfect Mess: The Hidden Benefits of Disorder . . . but my wife didn't want to hear my theories on when you should NOT organize something in a top-down fashion, though it's easy enough to find what you need when you need it; I think silverware falls into this category, it's a pain-in-the-ass to get all the different cutlery into the correct slots, but it's easy enough visually to find what you need when you open the drawer, even if it's a disorganized mess, because the slots are shallow and the different items are visually discernible with minimum effort (I use this same method in my clothing drawers) but despite the fact that we live in Frank Sinatra's state of origin, after I listened to her threats and ultimatums, I've decided to leave this one alone and I'm going to do it her way.
Warning: Blood and Irony Ahead!
I was opening a box of band-aids in order to tend to all the cuts on my toes (from when I dropped a bottle of beer at the Ween show and some glass got into my sandals and I didn't realize it until later in the evening, when I looked down and noticed that my right foot was all red) and the band-aid box lid gave me a mean little paper cut, right on the cuticle, and so I had to use one of the band-aids from the box to staunch the blood from a cut caused by that selfsame box . . . and this leads me to believe that I am too old to attend rock concerts without sustaining injury.
Notes to Self After a Day of Complete Idiocy
When the sun rose on Saturday morning, I was feeling good about myself and the new day dawning . . . after breakfast I went and played some tennis with my son Ian and our guest Carl-- a ten year old boy from the Bronx who had stayed at our house the past week (my wife arranged this through the Fresh Air Fund, and Carl had never been to New Jersey, so we took him to the beach, to the pool, on a train, to an art museum, etcetera . . . it was exhausting because he had never been to any of these places, but he had a great time and it may have opened my own kids' eyes a little bit to how lucky they have it) and now it was time to take Carl back to the Fresh Air Fund office, which was in Manhattan (3rd Ave) and I volunteered to do this because then I was ditching my family and going to meet Connell and Alec in Asbury Park to see The Dean Ween Group, and as I walked out the door my wife said, "Don't forget to get gas" but-- son of a bitch-- I forgot and didn't remember until I was stuck in traffic inside the Lincoln Tunnel-- and this made me a bit anxious and claustrophobic, but I could see plenty of gas stations on the GPS map on the other side of the tunnel, and once we made it through, I tried to find one, but no luck . . . and then I was in downtown Manhattan on Saturday and the traffic was insane and there were a lot of people and tourists and construction, and I kept making my way towards the little gas symbols on the GPS and inevitably, when I got there, it was a construction site or a plaza or outdoor seating for a restaurant-- and I knew my GPS thing was out of date, but you need a doctorate in computer science to update it-- so I finally called my wife, who has a smartphone-- and told her I was going to run out of gas in Manhattan and I desperately needed her help, and she tried to help me, but every gas station she called was closed, or just a service station-- and during this sequence of calls to my wife, she said that I went through the five stages of grief, denial that there were no gas stations in Manhattan, anger that a city full of cars had no gas to run on, bargaining . . . that if I could just get to the office and drop-off Carl, then I could walk for gas, depression-- she said at one point I was "inconsolable," stuck in traffic between construction and parked cars and close to tears-- because what happens if you run out of gas in a spot like that? do they shoot you for being so stupid?-- and finally, acceptance, I was owning it, I was going to run out of gas in Manhattan and block up some traffic . . . but, luckily, this didn't happen and I got Carl to the office, told them my dilemma and listened to everyone lament the fact that there are no gas stations in Manhattan because of real estate prices, and then I ran on fumes to the one station by the entrance to the Lincoln Tunnel, drove home, packed my bag and guitar for an overnight stay in Asbury and went to meet my friends, and we went out and drank too much and then went to the Ween show and I dropped a beer bottle and the glass cut up my toes-- which I didn't realize until I went to the bathroom-- and then when we made it back to Connell's mom's condo, I realized that I had lost my wallet, and it was too late to go back to The Stone Pony and try to find it, so I ate some frozen pizza and went to bed, and I had to hang around until noon the next day, when The Stone Pony box office opened, and then I lucked out again-- they had my wallet . . . so quite a day, and all the bad things that happened were totally my fault, and I'm lucky things weren't much worse . . . here are my notes for the future:
1) there no gas stations in downtown Manhattan;
2) I will never drive a car in Manhattan again . . . I can't handle it;
3) I should listen to my wife;
4) if you are trying to get tickets early at The Stone Pony, and there is an Italian woman picking out t-shirts, you might be waiting a LONG time . . . this woman tried on so many shirts that we thought we were on a reality show -- and the girl working the counter was so angry with the Italian woman that she was mean to us too, when we said we just wanted three tickets she said, "Not until I'm finished with her" and glared at us . . . so this lady may have been picking out t-shirts twenty minutes previous to us getting there, and after fifteen more minutes, when her seven year old son, who was sitting patiently on a stool next to his dad, coughed or cleared his throat or made some sound, she chastised him back into compliance and he shrank back into himself (my kids would have trashed the place six times over) and then once she finally got the shirts in the colors she wanted, she got into an argument over the price . . . it was surreal;
5) don't carry too much stuff in your pockets -- i.e. hardshell sunglass case-- because when you leave the bar it will feel like you have your wallet, when you really left it behind;
6) do NOT wear sandals to a concert, especially if you're going to drop a bottle of beer-- which I did . . . I was passing up to Alec, who was right by the stage, and i thought he grabbed it, but he didn't . . . and glass must have gotten into my sandals and then everyone was stomping around and the glass got shoved into my toes and I didn't notice until i went to the bathroom and it was gross-- I'm lucky i didn't get an infection . . . this is similar to what John and I learned at The Cult concert in 1990 in Hampton Coliseum . . . Ian Asbury threw his tambourine into the crowd and there was a melee for it and John and I each had a hand on it and some other dude stuck his arm (which was encased in denim) through the hole and then John's face turned pale and then I felt sick and we looked at our hands and they were all bloody, cut by the razor sharp metal shaker discs, and John had to get stitches;
7) the key to Skeeball might be the bank shot.
1) there no gas stations in downtown Manhattan;
2) I will never drive a car in Manhattan again . . . I can't handle it;
3) I should listen to my wife;
4) if you are trying to get tickets early at The Stone Pony, and there is an Italian woman picking out t-shirts, you might be waiting a LONG time . . . this woman tried on so many shirts that we thought we were on a reality show -- and the girl working the counter was so angry with the Italian woman that she was mean to us too, when we said we just wanted three tickets she said, "Not until I'm finished with her" and glared at us . . . so this lady may have been picking out t-shirts twenty minutes previous to us getting there, and after fifteen more minutes, when her seven year old son, who was sitting patiently on a stool next to his dad, coughed or cleared his throat or made some sound, she chastised him back into compliance and he shrank back into himself (my kids would have trashed the place six times over) and then once she finally got the shirts in the colors she wanted, she got into an argument over the price . . . it was surreal;
5) don't carry too much stuff in your pockets -- i.e. hardshell sunglass case-- because when you leave the bar it will feel like you have your wallet, when you really left it behind;
6) do NOT wear sandals to a concert, especially if you're going to drop a bottle of beer-- which I did . . . I was passing up to Alec, who was right by the stage, and i thought he grabbed it, but he didn't . . . and glass must have gotten into my sandals and then everyone was stomping around and the glass got shoved into my toes and I didn't notice until i went to the bathroom and it was gross-- I'm lucky i didn't get an infection . . . this is similar to what John and I learned at The Cult concert in 1990 in Hampton Coliseum . . . Ian Asbury threw his tambourine into the crowd and there was a melee for it and John and I each had a hand on it and some other dude stuck his arm (which was encased in denim) through the hole and then John's face turned pale and then I felt sick and we looked at our hands and they were all bloody, cut by the razor sharp metal shaker discs, and John had to get stitches;
7) the key to Skeeball might be the bank shot.
More Dreams!
If I can't swing being a professional dog-walker when I retire, perhaps I will be an impersonal trainer, and inspire people to keep in shape through detachment: I don't really care if you do those sit-ups, because I'm watching this golf match on TV and not paying attention to you one bit . . . in fact, your fitness level doesn't interest me in the least, I'm much more concerned with myself, but I've read that doing the plank might be good for your core . . . but whatever, your choice, what do I care if you get in shape?
You've Got to Have Dreams
When I retire, I'm going to augment my pension by being a professional dog-walker!
Personal Inspection
I took the van over to the DMV on Route 130 to get it inspected, and I got to ride in the passenger seat while the guys did their stuff . . . I also got to see them tentatively push aside the piece of honeycomb sitting on our dashboard, blocking the inspection sticker; the guy said to me, "There's no bees in there, right?" and I said, "I hope not" and, of course, there were no bees in it, because it was several months old . . . my son Ian handed it to me after a hike-- because kids pick up everything-- and asked if he could bring it home, and I stuck it there and it became a decorative item, hexagonal compartment visible through the windshield, and we never thought much of it until this moment at the DMV.
More Nostalgic Reading
Stephen King's recent novel Joyland is a little book with some big scenes-- it takes place in 1973, at a haunted amusement park and there is some sleuthing as well as some spookiness; think Scooby Doo meets Something Wicked This Way Comes . . . and if it wasn't for those meddling summer employees, he would have gotten away with it . . . you also learn lots of "carny" lingo (such as "wearing the fur") and the ins and outs of running a low budget amusement park: two scaly thumbs up.
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