We have a bizarre half-day extended-period schedule this week due to parent/teacher conferences (otherwise known as an insane waste of precious instructional time) and so I had to eat a snack during my Philosophy class to avoid being hangry; I took out my food while my students were watching the super-philosophical (and highly recommended) Erroll Morris documentary Fast Cheap and Out of Control . . . and just as I was about to pop a miniature cucumber smeared with Laughing Cow cheese into my mouth, Ray Mendez-- the naked mole rat specialist-- started graphically describing naked-mole rat bathroom habits, and every time I tried to take a bite, he said something disgusting and absurd-- and I was at my desk right next to the giant projection of the film while I was trying to eat my snack amidst this cascade of scatological imagery, and the students found it very funny; here is the transcript of what he says, and I should note that he says it with good-humored passion and fervor, he really loves these creatures:
They roll in their own feces: it's a way of making everybody smell the same. So it could be the subtle differences in the aroma that you carry around is enough to set you off against an enemy.
They don't urinate on each other. They urinate in the midden pile where all the feces are placed, and the individuals go there and roll in them. You'll see them kicking and rolling and shoving around in it and then turning around and going back into the nest system. They very rarely just go to the bathroom, turn around and leave.
When the young are weaned, they will literally beg for fecal matter so that they can eat it.
It's different than the hard pellets that you see the adults depositing when they're going to the bathroom; this stuff is much more undigested material.
Interesting concept to say: "Well, now I'm going to go to the bathroom, but I'm only going to expel partially digested food, so that some of the whole bacteria and protozoa that is in the fecal material, can be passed on as food."
[There's] a lot more Zen bowel movement going on than what you would normally imagine an animal having.
More Troubles with Detective Sean Duffy
Though Sean Duffy is as cool as they come (especially his eclectic musical taste) he isn't is as particular as James Bond about his alcohol: in fact he'll ingest most anything -- single malt scotch, pints of bitter, glasses of the black stuff, Vodka gimlets, enormous quantities of wine, cans of Bass . . . whatever, and he's not afraid to chase it with narcotics . . . stolen pharma grade cocaine, weed, codeine, or anything else that he runs across . . . sometimes this is to assuage physical pain, he often takes a beating, whether it's donning riot gear in Belfast, trying to keep some order as the lone Catholic in a Protestant housing project on Coronation Road in the town of Carrickfergus, discussing delicate matters with various Loyalist Protestant paramilitary groups in perpetual battle with the IRA, or getting officially roughed up by some American spooks for poking his nose where it doesn't belong . . . and sometimes he's drowning his troubles in drink and drugs to handle the mental anguish of being a "Fenian" peeler in the midst of the Troubles; in Adrian McKinty's new novel, Gun Street Girl, despite all this baggage the MI5 recognizes Duffy's talent and while his contact, Kate, remarks that "your house stinks of marijuana and Scotch, and there's what appears to be cocaine on the lapel of your dressing gown" she still wishes to enlist him in the British secret service, but then things get complicated . . . oddly, the wildest things in this novel are based on real events: a mysterious missile theft, MI5 agents lurking about Ireland in the 80's, a notable heroin overdose at Oxford, a Chinook helicopter crash, and connections to the Iran/Contra scandal . . . if you haven't read any of the McKinty's books, start with The Cold Cold Ground and make your way from there.
Would You Like Us to Assign Someone to Butter Your Muffin? Or Will You Go Shave Your Back Hair?
A corn muffin is just an excuse to eat some butter.
Birthday Cards! Not To Be Confused With Christmas Pants . . .
My wife and kids gave me several lovely cards for my birthday, but they paled in comparison to the cards I drew on Saturday night at Stacey's house: it didn't matter how cavalierly I bet, or if it was the flop, the turn, or the river . . . it was all birthday cards for me.
The Test 79: Time After Time (Travel)
This week's episode of The Test has got it all: Knight Rider, Quantum Leap, a Spanish lesson, and plenty of time travel . . . Stacey pithily summarizes the plot and you have to guess the time travel book or movie she's describing; treat yo' future self and give it a listen!
Little Miss Sunshine - Jokes = Logan
I will give credit where credit is due: New Yorker film reviewer Anthony Lane came up with the Logan/Little Miss Sunshine parallel-- although the connections are pretty obvious: Logan is a dysfunctional family road trip movie, complete with a grouchy dad, an irritable old man facing his imminent demise-- who even poses as Logan's grandfather-- and a mute kid who eventually finds a voice; when I asked Alex and Ian after the film if it reminded them of a comedy we had seen, they immediately made the connection . . . anyway, the important thing is that Logan is a dysfunctional family road trip movie without the jokes-- it's about decaying bodies in a decaying country, the difficulties and responsibilities of elder care, Alzheimer's and aging, death and decomposition, the awkwardness of meeting your young clone in female form and other hysterically entertaining topics; it is very dark and very grisly, and while I loved a couple of scenes-- especially Professor Xavier's seizure at the hotel and a mournful touch at the very end-- I am starting to see the light at the end of the tunnel, when I can just drop the kids off at the movies and they can go live inside the darkness of the Marvel Universe on their own for a few hours, while I read a book outside in the sunshine.
Drama: Dave Style
It's always been a real struggle for me to memorize anything verbatim, and so when I watch any dramatic performance, I'm always impressed that actors can memorize so many lines-- and I learned something this week from one of my drama students that further inspired my appreciation for the mnemonic ability of the thespian; we were acting out the scene in Twelfth Night when Toby reads aloud Andrew's absurd challenge to Caesario and I remarked how it must be a nice break for the actor to get to read something, instead of having to rely on his memory, and this aforementioned drama student told me that actors have memorize the lines in a letter and the paper is blank (in fact, he said that during one performance where there was a reading of a letter, the other kids wrote filthy jokes on the prop piece of paper to screw with the actors) and this shocked me-- I figured this was a nice opportunity to not memorize something, but actors don't think this way, and so I told the class about the play I am going to write, it will require no memorization at all and consist entirely of reading things-- perhaps it will start with the protagonist getting a text on his phone and reading it to his friend, who will then read a text from his phone, and this will remind someone else of a favorite passage in a novel, which he will pick up and read, and then the mail will arrive and there will be a letter from the main character's ex-wife's lawyer, with some legal jargon that his friend will look up on Wikipedia, and read the entry aloud-- the drama kids are appalled by this premise, but I've got some of my fellow bad-memory compatriots to agree that it is a brilliant idea, the only requirement to be in the play is that you must be an excellent reader . . . so Tom Cruise, you need not apply.
Seuss + Dave = Birthdays
Seuss was a man
who created a cat,
with a number of tricks,
and a fancy top hat--
I am the man
who created this blog,
but I don't have a cat . . .
I prefer my black dog.
who created a cat,
with a number of tricks,
and a fancy top hat--
I am the man
who created this blog,
but I don't have a cat . . .
I prefer my black dog.
The Paradox of the Socks
Our household is now in the proud possession a teenager: Alex turned thirteen today . . . it's bizarre to have a child this old-- especially since he still looks like a little kid-- and equally bizarre that I am taking him and some of his friends to a rated R movie on Friday (Logan) instead of something more tame and typical, such as The Lego Batman movie-- but though Alex has entered puberty in a numerical sense, it's my younger son Ian (who is 11) who possesses all the hormones: lately, after he's done something athletic, his feet and socks smell to high heaven, while Alex's aren't offensive at all.
Tragedy con Carne
Let us all take a moment of silence to reflect on the good things in life and their inevitable passing into the great beyond . . . specifically, let us deeply mourn the tragic demise of a pot of exceptionally delicious chili, which my wife left to cool on the stove after we supped of it last night and then was forgotten, never placed into the refrigerator and so thusly spoiled (as we all will) and had to be thrown away, with great sadness and regret, the meat and beans uneaten, laden with bacteria, and destined to decay and return to dust in the landfill . . . o woe, o woe, o greatest of all woes: a wasted pot of chili!
Desert Blues
The Test 78: Finish It!
This week on The Test, Cunningham starts it and Stacey and I finish it . . . or we try our very best; despites some bizarre asides, we're fairly successful . . . so give it a shot and see if you can finish it as well as we do.
Can My Dog Read My Mind?
My dog does not like water, and he's never happy about getting a bath-- and he has an uncanny sense of when I'm going to give him one; normally, he loves to go for a walk, and when you take the leash out and call his name, he comes rushing over and starts bouncing off the walls, but when I'm "tricking" him and pretending we're headed out for a walk, but we're really heading upstairs to the bathroom, he looks at me holding the leash and then slowly creeps into the room farthest from the stairs and lies down in a lifeless lump . . . then once I put the leash on him, he ever so slowly makes his way to the stairs-- like a dead man walking-- and he doesn't even glance at the front door, instead he grudgingly goes up the stairs and slouches into the bathroom-- and I'm not sure how he knows that it's bath time, perhaps he hears the word, or he hears me get towels out of the closet in Alex's room, but it's strange and perceptive and very funny; I need to take video next time it happens and post it up next to his typical behavior when you call him for a walk.
Fooling Around into the Future
Steven Johnson's book Wonderland: How Play Made the Modern World is full of weird and wonderful facts that I will soon forget (e.g. the word checkmate is derived from the Persian terms shah and mat, which translate as king and defeat) but the tone and essential theme is something I will remember and enjoy: the future begins with how we play-- how we experiment with sound and taste and vision and games and fashion and public space-- and while there are detriments, of course, the cotton revolution and the ensuing development of the department store created the consumer fashion economy, but also drove Victorian women to kleptomania, as they were so enamoured with all the new wares on display . . . anyway, the book itself is a wonderland of the exotic and the diverse, because when there is new technology available, there is usually a Cambrian explosion (my metaphor) of diversity . . . two centuries ago, the West End of London hosted much more than conventional theatrical plays-- today you go there for content and quality of a particular format-- but in 1820 there were a plethora (that's right, El Guapo, a plethora) of formats: "there were plays and musicals, but there were also panoramas and magic-lantern ghost shows, and animated paintings populated by small robots-- and dozens of other permutations . . . the West End functioned as a grand carnival of illusion, with each attraction dependent on its own unique technology to pull of its tricks."
Recreational Athletics, Brinksmanship, and The Nuclear Option
An evening to go down in infamy: last night, I was coaching the grade 6-8 town basketball team-- both my kids play on the same team and my buddy John is the head coach, but he couldn't make it so I was in charge . . . and we were missing our two best players, and though we didn't have the personnel, I was trying my best to get the kids to run the overload offense against the 2-3 zone, but this South River team has some absolutely gigantic kids (and an awesome little point guard) so were taking a beating, and my son Ian -- a diminutive sixth grader-- was hacked while shooting by a giant 8th grader (the size difference at this age is nuts) and I gave the ref some lip because he didn't call a foul and he did not hesitate before issuing me a technical and Ian was holding his jammed fingers and crying, so I pointed this out to the referee and I guess he didn't like my tone because he gave me a double technical and said, "You're outta here!" which posed a problem, since I was the only coach-- and while I may have overreacted a little, I believe he overreacted a lot . . . but I followed the rules and watched the game from beside the bleachers-- luckily, a random dude that I play pick-up ball with happened to be there (we were both going to play over-30 pick-up after the game) so he took over, and I conveyed some substitutions through my friend John's wife; it must also be noted that the kids played like animals after I got ejected, and they mounted something of a comeback (though there was no way to beat a team with kids this enormous) and I'd also like to point out that I apologized to the ref after the game and explained that it was my son who was hacked and crying, his tiny sixth grade fingers swollen and jammed, and that in that moment I became more of a dad than a coach, and he said, "You were a little over the top" and I should have said, "So were you" but I took the high road and walked away and I'll be glad when it's soccer season because the field is larger and the referees can't hear me.
Praise, Criticize . . . Who Cares?
A fun Tversky and Kahneman finding that's easy to test on your own is the "regression to the mean" fallacy-- the super-duo of behavioral economics observed this and wrote a paper about fighter pilots, but it's also a great thesis for sporting events . . . here is the logic:
when you criticize someone after they commit a boneheaded mistake, they are likely to improve in their next attempt, but if you praise someone after a brilliant maneuver, they rarely repeat their excellence on the next try-- but this does not mean you should criticize everyone all the time . . . it's not the criticism or praise that causes the shift in performance, it's the regression to the mean . . . most of the time, people perform somewhere between excellence and boneheadedness-- especially if it's something in which they are fairly skilled, such as playing a sport or flying a plane, and so after a boneheaded error, there is a statistical likelihood to be an improvement-- a regression to the mean-- caused by math, not criticism, and after a brilliant performance, people are likely to regress back to their regular old average ways, so that it seems as if praising them actually had a deleterious effect . . . the takeaway is this: yell whatever you want at your kid's soccer match-- if you want to feel consequential, then criticize him, but if you want to have a pleasant time, then praise him-- because neither action has much consequence (especially if it's soccer, because your son or daughter probably can't hear you anyway).
when you criticize someone after they commit a boneheaded mistake, they are likely to improve in their next attempt, but if you praise someone after a brilliant maneuver, they rarely repeat their excellence on the next try-- but this does not mean you should criticize everyone all the time . . . it's not the criticism or praise that causes the shift in performance, it's the regression to the mean . . . most of the time, people perform somewhere between excellence and boneheadedness-- especially if it's something in which they are fairly skilled, such as playing a sport or flying a plane, and so after a boneheaded error, there is a statistical likelihood to be an improvement-- a regression to the mean-- caused by math, not criticism, and after a brilliant performance, people are likely to regress back to their regular old average ways, so that it seems as if praising them actually had a deleterious effect . . . the takeaway is this: yell whatever you want at your kid's soccer match-- if you want to feel consequential, then criticize him, but if you want to have a pleasant time, then praise him-- because neither action has much consequence (especially if it's soccer, because your son or daughter probably can't hear you anyway).
The Simon and Garfunkel of Behavioral Economics
I'm probably constructing an illogical metaphor here-- perhaps Amos Tversky and Daniel Kahneman are more like Sonny and Cher or Sam and Dave-- but my "representativeness" heuristic immediately latched on to Simon and Garfunkel because of the lopsided nature of the duo; the odd thing about Tversky and Kahneman's symbiotic academic relationship is that both members spent some time in the spotlight . . . both members got a turn at being Paul Simon; at the start of their astoundingly fruitful collaborations, everyone doted on Tversky and no one knew Kahneman's name, and now --ironically and tragically, because of Tversky's death from cancer in 1996-- Kahneman is the famous one (I highly recommend his book Thinking Fast and Slow) and Tversky is forgotten; if you love Moneyball and The Blind Side, then at least read the first chapter of this book-- Lewis addresses the fact that Richard Thaler, another behavioral economist, had one criticism about Moneyball: it didn't address why professional baseball overvalued sluggers . . . and Thaler suggested that for the answers, all you had to do was look back to a wacky duo of Israeli psychologists and their experiments and papers . . . the first chapter of The Undoing Project tells the story of Daryl Morey, general manager of the Houston Rockets, and how he tries to overcome the irrationality of the human mind-- loss aversion and the influence of narratives and regret over decision making-- and while there is plenty of psychology and descriptions of experimentation in the rest of the book, it's also heavily concerned with the weird, wonderful, sometimes strained and awkward relationship between these two geniuses.
POTUS Before and After Pics: Specious at best
Everyone loves POTUS before and after pics-- look how the job aged him!-- but I think we need to look at some pictures of regular people over an eight year span before we make any assumptions . . . we need to add a control to the experiment; I couldn't find any quick examples on the internet-- everything had to do with WeightWatchers-- and I can't use pictures of myself, since I'm a bit of an anomaly (I haven't aged a day in the last eight years-- Another time Macleod!) but I'm going to put a portfolio together soon and then we can decide if being president really ages you faster than working some other job.
Dumb and White = Success?
Robert D. Putnam pointed out in his latest book Our Kids: The American Dream in Crisis that poor kids with very high grades and test scores are less likely to get a college degree than low-scoring rich kids-- so much for the egalitarianism of the American Dream-- and here's another damning addendum to that theme; the median white family headed by a high school drop-out has $7700 more net worth than the median black family headed by someone with some college education . . . the cause of paradoxical gap this is unknown in a specific sense, but there are certainly some factors to consider: discriminatory housing and loan policies, redlining, generational wealth, and prejudicial hiring are a few that come to mind, but the lesson is this:
you might believe that you are a free-agent, responsible for your choices and deserving of your granite countertops and big TV, but that's a simplistic view of things-- and if you're black and live in America and make the right choices, you're still probably earning less than a white high school drop-out, and if you're rich and live in America, then you have the luxury of being dumb, but if you're poor then intelligence won't necessarily lead you to a life of luxury.
you might believe that you are a free-agent, responsible for your choices and deserving of your granite countertops and big TV, but that's a simplistic view of things-- and if you're black and live in America and make the right choices, you're still probably earning less than a white high school drop-out, and if you're rich and live in America, then you have the luxury of being dumb, but if you're poor then intelligence won't necessarily lead you to a life of luxury.
The Test 77: The Big Naked Apple
Melt away those little town blues this week on The Test and see what you know about all things New York City ( if you're pressed for time, then head straight to the 16-minute mark for an important fact that Nick read).
Karma on Its Way
Just jumped a guy's car at the park . . . his cable wasn't long enough (and the clamp broke off-- he said "Haram" in response to this, which I haven't heard since I was living in Syria-- it literally means "forbidden" but everyone in Syria used it to mean "that's too bad" or "it's a pity") and so I dug my cable out from the mess in the back of the minivan-- it's extra long-- and it took a few minutes but his engine finally turned over . . . I'm assuming the universe will send a good deed my way in response (perhaps a particular travel soccer player who needs to turn in his paperwork will bring it to practice tomorrow?)
Dave Can't Control Harbingers and Omens
I had to stop interacting with Stacey at work today because I kept revealing clues as to the questions I am going to ask her tonight when we record the podcast . . . so if she does really well on the next episode, you know why.
Zen and the Art of Middlesex County
I am home, drinking a beer, and proud that I didn't lose my shit after an epically long day rambling around central Jersey: taught Shakespeare and Philosophy at East Brunswick in the AM, then left-- half-day personal-- headed back to Highland Park to walk the dog and prepare my Google Slides for a workshop presentation in Perth Amboy for a bunch of high school history and social studies teachers, helping them incorporate writing into the curriculum (I need a new laptop for podcast editing, so I'm doing some extra work) then headed back home again to Highland Park, drove over to the Middle School to pick up Ian from his Arts Program (the bus got lost and so he spent some time rambling around Middlesex County as well) and then we ate dinner and piled in the van to go to our away basketball game, and I fought through Route 18 traffic to get to South River-- blasting Run the Jewels to get the kids pumped-- but after much difficulty finding the gym (you've got to park in the big lot and then walk down a bunch of stairs) we realized that the game was NOT in South River, it was back in Highland Park, so we piled back into the van and drove to the Middle School (again) but the Middle School gym was empty . . . the game was at Bartle-- the elementary school two blocks from my house; we could have walked, and my brother was reffing (no help there, we still got slaughtered).
Chris Thile and Brad Mehldau Need to Listen to Dave
Virtuoso mandolinist Chris Thile and experimental jazz pianist Brad Mehldau have released a spectacular sounding eponymous album-- Mehldau's piano is sparse and soulful and Thile's alternately staccato and melodic mandolin peeks through the cracks and crevices left by the piano . . . but I had to thumbs-down half the songs on Google Play Music because they are utterly ruined by jazz singing: everyone who reads Sentence of Dave knows how much I hate jazz singing, and in this case, the vocals are truly a tragic addition to the album, because the pairing of the piano and the mandolin is so perfect on its own . . . perhaps Thile and/or Mehldau will read this and release a voiceless version just for me.
Dave's Brain Has the Right Stuff!
Last week in the English Office, my friend, colleague, and age-twin Liz wondered aloud about the origin of the phrase "pushing the envelope" and I took the bait; though I could care less about word origins, I'm always willing to take an etymological moonshot (because it's so fun to be correct) and I said, "I don't think it's about regular envelopes at all . . . I think it's about the envelope of air in the atmosphere . . . I think it's from The Right Stuff," and this top-o-the-head conjecture, this specious speculation, this frothy cream of my consciousness, this absurd lexical reckoning turned out to be spot-on, and while I know that those of you with razorlike CPU memories are thinking: who cares? what is it to retrieve a memory? what's the big deal? I would like to speak for the other folks, I would like to advocate for those of us who live on the flip side of the coin, the people who can't remember words and phrases and places and names, the people who struggle to recall what they had for breakfast, the people who can't always remember exactly where they live . . . this hypothetical person, when he is asked to produce his address, at the front desk of a certain electronic store (it might have been Circuit City, but-- typically-- I can't remember) completely freezes up and not only forgets his address but also can't recite his phone number . . . this is a person, who can't even remember if he's started or ended his parentheses, this kind of person, when he remembers something from many many years ago, and remembers it in context, and produces it-- like a magician . . . like a lexical Houdini-- then this person should be lauded and congratulated and celebrated, because his neurons have demonstrated the right stuff, and there's nothing more inscrutable and black-boxy than a bunch of neurons; not only are they hard to control (and harder to corral) but when they behave properly in context, then great celebration and rejoicing should ensue.
A Humble Suggestion for the Harlem Globetrotters: Lead Basketball!
We saw the Harlem Globetrotters last night at the RAC, and they performed as-billed, putting on a spectacular circus-like performance in the guise of a basketball game, but my favorite portion of the show was more annoying than athletic-- at one point the game transmogrified from hoops to football, a passing play into the end zone (over the baseline) and the Globetrotters questioned the referee's call: "Incomplete!" and so they literally rewound the play and performed it in slow-motion, so that the ref could better see the catch-- the rewind was wonderfully annoying, every action, motion, and piece of dialogue that occurred during the play was run backwards and the slow-mo was endless, with all kinds of extra details that were obviously too fast for the naked eye (including a box of donuts that made its way through the entire play) and at times it seemed as if the Globetrotters were having more fun than the audience during this endless bit, and this reminded me of when my buddy Whitney and I would play the "lead game" in college-- once we hit a certain stage of inebriation, we found it extraordinarily funny to pretend that everything in the room was made of the densest, heaviest lead and so doing simple tasks-- escaping from under a lead blanket or taking a sip of a lead cup or getting pinned to the floor of The Weeping Radish Brewery by a lead condiment-cup full of lead horseradish-- would take an inordinate amount of time and effort-- usually so much time and effort that all our friends would abandon us-- and we'd be left alone, unable to understand why our audience didn't appreciate the brilliant slow-motion slapstick of the lead-game . . . anyway, the Globetrotters should definitely take a page from our playbook and add a lead-basketball to their routine (a perfect complement to the helium filled ball that floats to the ceiling when the rival team takes a free throw).
Arachnids and Dramaturgy
In Philosophy class last week, I introduced my new students to the idea of a heuristic-- a quick and dirty problem-solving technique that someone employs to make it through the day-- and I contrasted this with what Bertrand Russell's calls "philosophic contemplation" . . . the latter mindset obviously takes a great deal more time and mental effort, and while we were discussing this, I was searching through my desk drawer for a paper clip and I saw a spider, which I promptly killed with my stapler-- so that I didn't have to feel the crunch-- and then we went back to the problem at hand, that with limited time it is impossible to philosophically contemplate every moment and dilemma that a typical day brings, and so we use heuristics to navigate most of our decisions (what to eat for breakfast, how fast to drive, who to sit with at lunch, whether or not to copy someone's homework, etcetera) and then I revealed to them that there was no spider-- I was acting-- but that many people use a kill-creepy-crawly heuristic instead of thinking deeply about the spider and its right to live . . . most of the students were glad that I didn't actually kill a real spider and they were impressed with my acting ability (I even picked up the nonexistent miniature carcass with a tissue . . . I learned everything I know from Master Thespian Jon Lovitz . . . acting!) but then I told them the story of the groundhog that I euthanized with a shovel and they were properly appalled; anyway, if you want to learn more about heuristics and just how screwy they are, read the new Michael Lewis book The Undoing Project . . . it's the story of two Israeli psychologists-- Daniel Kahneman and Amos Tversky-- who uncovered fundamental truths about the flaws in economics and the human mind, and there is liberal use of the word "heuristic" . . . I'm halfway through the book, and I'm hoping for an occurrence of the word "ersatz" as well.
Dave Almost Helps an Old Lady (But She's Too Quick For Him)
The streets and sidewalks in Highland Park were very icy this morning-- I almost fell while walking the dog-- and on my way to work, as I was about to turn off Third Avenue onto Benner, I saw an oldish woman walking at a rapid clip up the street; she was wearing a yellow and orange crossing guard vest and earmuffs and I could immediately sense that there was no way she was going to stop walking to let me turn-- she was looking straight ahead, resolutely, and there was the air of great determination about her, though-- oddly-- her gait was a bit gimpy, perhaps the result of a stroke or a bad hip or the start of some degenerative disease, so though she was moving quickly, it was in a herky-jerky manner, and the street she was about to cross was covered with an inch or two of ice; I watched in horror-- knowing it was coming-- as halfway across the street she wiped out, hit the ice hard, and rolled over . . . it was a terrible fall, made more so because of her palsied stride and so I opened my window to ask her if she was okay (and so did the lady in the car opposite me, on Benner) but before we could get her attention, she was back on her feet, chugging along-- I'm not sure if she had to be somewhere in a hurry, or she was an actual crossing guard getting an early start to the day, or if she just wore the vest for visibility and safety-- but whatever the case, she took that awkward fall like a champ and deserves to be memorialized here on Sentence of Dave for her effort, unflagging focus and perseverance . . . I hope when I'm that age I can take a fall like that.
Alex and Ian Spin an Exhausting Web of Disinformation
The trick with fake news and disinformation is to mix the real story with so many lies, alternatives, and obfuscations that it becomes exhausting and possibly even counterproductive to pursue the actual truth to its end-- it becomes more efficient to deal with the dilemma at hand, in the present, and forget about judgement and justice . . . here are a couple of cases in point . . . two recent incidents with my children:
1) Alex was certainly wrestling with three of his friends in the locker room before gym class, and he may have been warned twice to get out of the locker room by the gym teacher, he may have pinned down one of his friends, beaten him, and he may have also kneed this friend in the testicles-- causing him to cry-- although Alex claims he was only warned once to leave the locker room and did not knee his friend in the testicles . . . and then Alex definitely got very upset and lost his shit because the gym teacher would not listen to his side of the story and told Alex he was writing him up and calling home and Alex definitely used some profanity, and this profanity may have been directed at the gym teacher (or, as Alex claims, the expletives may have been directed at himself because he was upset that he was going to get in trouble) and then Alex probably smacked the write-up off the teacher's clipboard-- but it was initially reported that he smacked the write-up out of the teacher's hand . . . which certainly would have been worse, but now we've come to the consensus that the clipboard was on a desk in the gym, next to the teacher, a marginally better detail (but not much better) and there were definitely calls to my wife about the incident from the gym teacher (who did not mention the clipboard smack, possibly to protect Alex) and the vice-principal (who did report about Alex smacking the disciplinary write-up) and I think Alex and his friends went to the office to tell their side of the story, that it wasn't a real fight and they were only fooling around, and that Alex wasn't the testicle-crusher . . . but the story got so complicated that it became futile to try to figure out the actual truth-- and we explained to him that no one cared about the truth . . . he was acting like a total idiot and so were his friends, and once you're in that context, you don't get to explain slight gradations in culpability because everyone involved is in trouble and we left it at that and grounded him for two weeks and made him write a letter of apology to the gym teacher for being a complete nightmare . . . and we're not sure what the consequence will be at school, but there hasn't been anything yet (besides the phone calls home) and so they may be experiencing the same disinformation exhaustion that much of the country is working through;
2) last week, Ian may have mistakenly touched the spray bottle that he uses to humidify his lizard tank with the ceramic heat emitter-- a flattened bulb that screws into a clamp lamp, gets rather hot, and sits on top of the mesh top of the tank-- when I noticed the horrible plastic burning stench, this is what Ian claimed, and then he pointed out a tiny melted spot on the bottle, but today I noticed that the lamp was not turned on, and so I turned it on, and within minutes, the same burning plastic smell began emanating from the ceramic bulb and when I investigated closely, I noticed there was a bunch of brownish gunk on the ceramic bulb, and after further interrogation, Ian admitted that he had touched the bulb to another piece of plastic-- perhaps the top to a Play-Doh box-- and this was done purposefully and in the name of experimentation, I think, and then he turned off the ceramic heat bulb because he noticed it was making an awful plastic burning stench and didn't tell us anything, and I could not remove the melted plastic from the bulb, though I tried alcohol, vinegar, and bleach, and so he's going to have to buy a new one and we gave him a lecture about starting fires, doing dangerous things in the house, and not telling us when he's damaged something vital-- he could have killed his lizard (either with plastic fumes or lack of heat) and I told him that I did many similar experiments when I was young (and was often obfuscating with my own parents . . . why is there a sock marinating in lighter fluid in the basement? why is this squirt bottle filled with kerosene? where did all these melted lead D&D figurines come from? why does it smell smoky in the basement?) and that I understood his inquisitive nature . . . but he was still going to have to pay for a new ceramic heat emitter . . .
anyway, I hope this illustrates my point-- it was exhausting trying to get to the truth, and I don't think we were successful; God only knows if our punishments fit the crimes, and while we tried our best to give each child pertinent lessons for future situations, they never seem to apply anything they "learn" from us . . . but it's not like there's a better way to go about it.
1) Alex was certainly wrestling with three of his friends in the locker room before gym class, and he may have been warned twice to get out of the locker room by the gym teacher, he may have pinned down one of his friends, beaten him, and he may have also kneed this friend in the testicles-- causing him to cry-- although Alex claims he was only warned once to leave the locker room and did not knee his friend in the testicles . . . and then Alex definitely got very upset and lost his shit because the gym teacher would not listen to his side of the story and told Alex he was writing him up and calling home and Alex definitely used some profanity, and this profanity may have been directed at the gym teacher (or, as Alex claims, the expletives may have been directed at himself because he was upset that he was going to get in trouble) and then Alex probably smacked the write-up off the teacher's clipboard-- but it was initially reported that he smacked the write-up out of the teacher's hand . . . which certainly would have been worse, but now we've come to the consensus that the clipboard was on a desk in the gym, next to the teacher, a marginally better detail (but not much better) and there were definitely calls to my wife about the incident from the gym teacher (who did not mention the clipboard smack, possibly to protect Alex) and the vice-principal (who did report about Alex smacking the disciplinary write-up) and I think Alex and his friends went to the office to tell their side of the story, that it wasn't a real fight and they were only fooling around, and that Alex wasn't the testicle-crusher . . . but the story got so complicated that it became futile to try to figure out the actual truth-- and we explained to him that no one cared about the truth . . . he was acting like a total idiot and so were his friends, and once you're in that context, you don't get to explain slight gradations in culpability because everyone involved is in trouble and we left it at that and grounded him for two weeks and made him write a letter of apology to the gym teacher for being a complete nightmare . . . and we're not sure what the consequence will be at school, but there hasn't been anything yet (besides the phone calls home) and so they may be experiencing the same disinformation exhaustion that much of the country is working through;
2) last week, Ian may have mistakenly touched the spray bottle that he uses to humidify his lizard tank with the ceramic heat emitter-- a flattened bulb that screws into a clamp lamp, gets rather hot, and sits on top of the mesh top of the tank-- when I noticed the horrible plastic burning stench, this is what Ian claimed, and then he pointed out a tiny melted spot on the bottle, but today I noticed that the lamp was not turned on, and so I turned it on, and within minutes, the same burning plastic smell began emanating from the ceramic bulb and when I investigated closely, I noticed there was a bunch of brownish gunk on the ceramic bulb, and after further interrogation, Ian admitted that he had touched the bulb to another piece of plastic-- perhaps the top to a Play-Doh box-- and this was done purposefully and in the name of experimentation, I think, and then he turned off the ceramic heat bulb because he noticed it was making an awful plastic burning stench and didn't tell us anything, and I could not remove the melted plastic from the bulb, though I tried alcohol, vinegar, and bleach, and so he's going to have to buy a new one and we gave him a lecture about starting fires, doing dangerous things in the house, and not telling us when he's damaged something vital-- he could have killed his lizard (either with plastic fumes or lack of heat) and I told him that I did many similar experiments when I was young (and was often obfuscating with my own parents . . . why is there a sock marinating in lighter fluid in the basement? why is this squirt bottle filled with kerosene? where did all these melted lead D&D figurines come from? why does it smell smoky in the basement?) and that I understood his inquisitive nature . . . but he was still going to have to pay for a new ceramic heat emitter . . .
anyway, I hope this illustrates my point-- it was exhausting trying to get to the truth, and I don't think we were successful; God only knows if our punishments fit the crimes, and while we tried our best to give each child pertinent lessons for future situations, they never seem to apply anything they "learn" from us . . . but it's not like there's a better way to go about it.
No School Trumps Trump
I was going to post a long-winded rant about the awful injustices of Trump's hastily drawn terrorist travel ban-- the Orwellian fact that he's "solving" a problem that never existed, as we're already doing "extreme vetting" of refugees; listen to the new This American Life for more information-- but I just got the call that there's no school tomorrow, so instead I'm going to drink some beer and enjoy the imminent storm (the oddest thing is that it's 60 degrees here now . . . the boys and I played some basketball at the park, but then I tried to take the dog for a stroll around the neighborhood and he balked at it . . . despite the warm weather, he could feel the storm coming).
Litmus Test of Dave
There is no more surefire way to a judge a person's character-- according to Dave-- than by inquiring about their devotion to the TV show It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia . . . the more they like it, the more I like them (and while there may be an exception to this rule of thumb, I haven't encountered a black swan yet).
Hero to Zero and Back Again (Sort of)
Get ready for Dave's Self-Esteem Rollercoaster Ride in three acts:
1) last Thursday afternoon, and a cold Thursday afternoon it was, my wife called from her school to report that her car was dead-- totally dead, the vehicle remote wouldn't even lock the doors-- and she wanted me to come jump start the engine, but I told her that it sounded like the battery was kaput and advised her to call AAA-- they replace batteries-- and I said I would come over and wait in the cold for AAA to arrive and she could drive my car back to our warm and cozy home, because I'm a great guy and she had a bit of a cough and some laryngitis and she called me a "hero" and thanked me for waiting . . . and it was very cold and AAA was supposed to arrive within the hour, but that turned to 90 minutes and I was closing in on the two-hour mark, shivering heroically in the car, reading and listening to podcasts, when the AAA truck finally arrived;
2) a stout African-American woman got out of the truck, and I told her the situation-- that the car had just had some bodywork done on it, and perhaps the mechanic left the lights on or something, and I believed the battery was totally dead-- and while I was telling her this, she was looking under the hood, and she jostled one of the battery wires and it sparked and she said, "Looks like this wire is loose" and she grabbed a socket wrench, tightened the screw, everything in the car came to life, and she asked me to put on my brights-- they worked fine-- and I suddenly felt totally dumb and emasculated, if I had checked the battery connections, I would have fixed the car in ten seconds and avoided this whole scenario, and if I had actually tried to jump it, I would have noticed this . . . but the AAA lady was gone before I could even apologize-- I'm sure she sees stupidity like this all the time, and my self-esteem really took a hard hit;
3) until this morning: we had a lock-down drill first period, which is when I'm in the cafeteria, monitoring the late-in seniors-- and the janitor told us all to go into the staff lunchroom, so my students and a study hall from the other side of the cafeteria, and a number of teachers who were on duty in the vicinity all poured into the staff lunchroom and we were standing there awkwardly in the dark, shushing the students, and I asked the lady next to me if the door was locked and she said, "I think so" and I said, "I'd better check" and the door was unlocked so I spun the little locking mechanism and locked the door and moments later the door handle shook-- the security team was checking to make sure all the doors were locked . . . because that's the most important part of a lockdown, that you lock the door . . . and the lady who told me she thought the door was locked reacted as if I actually saved the entire room from a brutally violent massacre, she said,"That was awesome, you locked it right before they tried to get in! It was so close! You should play the lottery today!" and so I had to remind her that it was only a drill, and that I didn't actually save everyone from bloody death (and so I probably didn't deserve to win much in the lottery . . . maybe five dollars) and while I'm the first to admit that this was not a genuine act of heroism, it was certainly an ersatz act of heroism . . . and I also passed a second lockdown drill test, but one I'm not sure I agree with-- after they rattled the door to check the lock, then the security crew knocked-- very crafty-- and we've been told that once the door is locked, we should take a utilitarian stance and not open the door for anyone-- the lives of the many are worth more than the lives of the few, especially if they aren't punctual for the locking of the door . . . and so I didn't fall for this malevolent ruse, I did not open the door, but I think if it was a real lockdown, and a person in danger (or a school-shooter posing as a person in danger) knocked on the door and pleaded for me to open it, I'd probably open the door and take my chances, as it would be hard to leave someone in the lurch just outside the door . . . but that's a dilemma for another day, the important thing here is that I acted (hypothetically) heroically and depressed that little locking mechanism in the nick of time.
1) last Thursday afternoon, and a cold Thursday afternoon it was, my wife called from her school to report that her car was dead-- totally dead, the vehicle remote wouldn't even lock the doors-- and she wanted me to come jump start the engine, but I told her that it sounded like the battery was kaput and advised her to call AAA-- they replace batteries-- and I said I would come over and wait in the cold for AAA to arrive and she could drive my car back to our warm and cozy home, because I'm a great guy and she had a bit of a cough and some laryngitis and she called me a "hero" and thanked me for waiting . . . and it was very cold and AAA was supposed to arrive within the hour, but that turned to 90 minutes and I was closing in on the two-hour mark, shivering heroically in the car, reading and listening to podcasts, when the AAA truck finally arrived;
2) a stout African-American woman got out of the truck, and I told her the situation-- that the car had just had some bodywork done on it, and perhaps the mechanic left the lights on or something, and I believed the battery was totally dead-- and while I was telling her this, she was looking under the hood, and she jostled one of the battery wires and it sparked and she said, "Looks like this wire is loose" and she grabbed a socket wrench, tightened the screw, everything in the car came to life, and she asked me to put on my brights-- they worked fine-- and I suddenly felt totally dumb and emasculated, if I had checked the battery connections, I would have fixed the car in ten seconds and avoided this whole scenario, and if I had actually tried to jump it, I would have noticed this . . . but the AAA lady was gone before I could even apologize-- I'm sure she sees stupidity like this all the time, and my self-esteem really took a hard hit;
3) until this morning: we had a lock-down drill first period, which is when I'm in the cafeteria, monitoring the late-in seniors-- and the janitor told us all to go into the staff lunchroom, so my students and a study hall from the other side of the cafeteria, and a number of teachers who were on duty in the vicinity all poured into the staff lunchroom and we were standing there awkwardly in the dark, shushing the students, and I asked the lady next to me if the door was locked and she said, "I think so" and I said, "I'd better check" and the door was unlocked so I spun the little locking mechanism and locked the door and moments later the door handle shook-- the security team was checking to make sure all the doors were locked . . . because that's the most important part of a lockdown, that you lock the door . . . and the lady who told me she thought the door was locked reacted as if I actually saved the entire room from a brutally violent massacre, she said,"That was awesome, you locked it right before they tried to get in! It was so close! You should play the lottery today!" and so I had to remind her that it was only a drill, and that I didn't actually save everyone from bloody death (and so I probably didn't deserve to win much in the lottery . . . maybe five dollars) and while I'm the first to admit that this was not a genuine act of heroism, it was certainly an ersatz act of heroism . . . and I also passed a second lockdown drill test, but one I'm not sure I agree with-- after they rattled the door to check the lock, then the security crew knocked-- very crafty-- and we've been told that once the door is locked, we should take a utilitarian stance and not open the door for anyone-- the lives of the many are worth more than the lives of the few, especially if they aren't punctual for the locking of the door . . . and so I didn't fall for this malevolent ruse, I did not open the door, but I think if it was a real lockdown, and a person in danger (or a school-shooter posing as a person in danger) knocked on the door and pleaded for me to open it, I'd probably open the door and take my chances, as it would be hard to leave someone in the lurch just outside the door . . . but that's a dilemma for another day, the important thing here is that I acted (hypothetically) heroically and depressed that little locking mechanism in the nick of time.
The Test 76: We've Got Places All Over the Place
I go rogue on this episode of The Test and cut out the ladies (just like college!) and design a quiz for my buddy Whitney, but the questions are general enough for everyone to answer and enjoy-- plus the ladies make a much needed cameo, breaking up the bromance-- so take a load off and listen and learn about a couple of genuine American adventurers, doing their best to navigate this wild and wonderful country of ours.
Dave Almost Forgets to Write A Sentence . . . Or Does He?
Yikes . . . I got so preoccupied with soccer stuff and Texas Hold'em today (I played poker with my kids in the afternoon and then all evening with grown-ups at Stacey's house) that I nearly forgot to write a sentence . . . but I got this baby in under the wire just before the stroke of midnight-- or did I?-- I might have written it Sunday morning and postdated it . . . in Trump's America you shouldn't trust anything on the internet, as truth is a relative thing . . . especially in a world where I raise a big pre-flop bet from good position, go all in on Ace/Queen suited-- the hand I've been waiting for-- and match up well against K/J unsuited, draw a queen on the flop, nothing on the turn, and then my opponent pulls a king out of his ass on the river . . . in a world where something like this happens, you've got to be skeptical of everything.
Why Does My Phone Think It's Clairvoyant?
My phone autocorrected a number today . . . I was trying to text the digits 3241 (part of an address) but my phone kept changing this number to 532411 . . . and this makes no logical sense, as this new, autocorrected number isn't the zip code of the address, nor is it the area code of phone numbers associated with this place . . . if anyone knows why my phone (older model Samsung Galaxy) thinks it can read my mind when it comes to numbers, please explain.
Bosch (and Connelly) Do It Again
No spoilers, but Bosch (and Connelly) get it done again in The Wrong Side of Goodbye . . . and they get it done twice-- the book is a mystery wrapped in an enigma: I got so wrapped up in the interior serial rapist case that I forgot about the larger private case that framed the story, so I finished with one mystery and there were still fifty compelling pages left; not only that, but I learned why Harry Bosch doesn't eat Vietnamese food . . . when he was a tunnel rat back in 'Nam he had to eat spicy noodles and such every single day, every single meal, because when you're down in the tunnels, in such close quarters with the enemy, defusing booby traps and hunting Viet Cong, then you need to smell like them or they'll suss you out . . . and you smell like the food you eat, so it was all pho for Bosch, and that was enough of it.
Trump, Stop Being a Coward (I'd Use the P-Word, But It Would Be Gauche)
The hope that Trump might preside more moderately than his campaign rhetoric indicated has been shattered by his polarizing inaugural address and the hastily mandated executive order to ban Muslims and refugees from America . . . and while I was trying to ignore much of the day-to-day furor over his policies, I think he has drawn the proverbial line in the sand; if you're confused on this issue, I humbly present a few things you should digest and think about:
1) the new episode of The Weeds (The Don't-Call-It-A-Muslim-Ban) does a great job of parsing out the policy and the contradictions and problems with it-- you'll understand why there have been stays by federal judges enacted in regards to the ban;
2) a flat out "Muslim" ban is unconstitutional, so Trump had to make do by banning people from seven mainly Muslim countries-- but putting Syria on the list means that Trump can't help prioritize Syrian Christians-- or any other Christian refugees seeking asylum-- though Trump claims he would like to do this;
3) Trump suspended the US Refugee Program for 120 days and capped refugee admissions to 50,000 (instead of Obama's 110,00, which is still rather paltry considering scope of the crisis . . . global displacement is at an all time high);
4) in 2016, the United States accepted 12,000 Syrian refugees (Germany took in a million in 2015 and 300,000 in 2016) and Trump's executive order bans all Syrian refugees . . . this brings up the point that we weren't doing a terribly good job of addressing this refugee crisis under the Obama administration, and we certainly had a hand in creating this crisis because of our various military actions and inactions in the Middle East, and we are now presenting ourselves as an ugly selfish "America first" nation that is willing to turn its back on a heinous and horrible humanitarian tragedy;
5) if you need something more vivid to illustrate the toll of being a refugee, listen to This American Life: Are We There Yet?
6) if you want to feel especially shitty about your country-- and this is before Trump enacted the total ban on refugees from Iraq, then listen to This American Life: Didn't We Solve This One? and you'll hear the stories of Iraqi translators and defectors who helped us in the war in Iraq, were promised visas, and then were abandoned and left out in the cold . . . Trump expressed his solidarity for the "forgotten man" in America, but these people have been forgotten by America in an exponential and existential sense, and now they have no chance of receiving their due . . . this bureaucratic betrayal sounds like the perfect template to create terrorists;
5) you don't have to tow the party line on this, because tone and attitude towards immigration isn't a Democrat/Republican thing, it's a moral stance . . . for a startling example, check out the video of Bush and Reagan one-upping each other on how welcoming they would like to be and how many services they would like to provide for illegal immigrants . . . and Bill Clinton-- welfare reformer-- slammed illegal immigrants and their drain on social services;
6) Trump signed his executive order over the Holocaust Memorial weekend . . . I don't have to explain the irony;
7) America is a country with great wealth and resources and we are often big-hearted and welcoming to refugees and immigrants . . . but some of our most regretful and humiliating moments are when we treated foreigners poorly-- the Japanese internment and sending a boatload of Jews back to Europe to be slaughtered by Nazis are incidents that come to mind;
8) we are also a country where freedom of speech trumps all other rights-- this is no place for cowards-- and while it is extraordinarily rare that an immigrant commits an act of terrorism, this is a possibility-- but it is a possibility that we must endure if we are going to be a free country;
9) while I find it absurd, it's not illegal in America to literally believe in the words of the Koran or the Bible or any other outdated religious text . . . and it's not illegal in the United States to have radical religious opinions or radical political opinions or any other kind of belief, even if it be ridiculous unfounded and stupid, and because of this ur-policy, we are going to occasionally suffer some collateral damage-- but again, this is not a country for cowards . . .
10) the 2nd Amendment allows for the proliferation of guns and conservatives are fine with the collateral damage associated with this;
11) Trump and the Republicans want to deregulate environmental rules and regulations-- they're willing to let people drive around as much as they want, and pollute as much as they want, though this leads to the warming of the globe, the loss of biodiversity, and the death of lots of folks in automobile accidents . . . but conservatives show no fear of these dire consequences of their policy;
12) conservatives are also not afraid of obesity, going without health insurance, and pandemics-- Trump don't need no stinking vaccines . . . so if Great Americans, Trumplike Americans are not afraid of any of this, if they are willing to embrace death in so many ways, then I'd like to implore them-- Trump, his followers and the rest of the conservatives-- to stop being so cowardly about immigration; we love danger here in the US, whether it's getting run over by a drunk driver or shot by some lunatic in a movie theater or daring the oceans to rise and swallow our coastal cities, so let's embrace the danger and embark on a great adventure and let in all kinds of asylum seekers and immigrants-- let's expedite the system instead of drawing it to an ugly halt-- and let's do it for the forgotten men and women of the world, the people that have truly lost everything, who have nowhere to go and no one to look out for them . . . the huddled masses, the wretched refuse, the homeless . . . this is a concern that is beyond political polarization . . . where you stand on this issue determines not only what kind of American you are, but ultimately, what kind of person you are.
1) the new episode of The Weeds (The Don't-Call-It-A-Muslim-Ban) does a great job of parsing out the policy and the contradictions and problems with it-- you'll understand why there have been stays by federal judges enacted in regards to the ban;
2) a flat out "Muslim" ban is unconstitutional, so Trump had to make do by banning people from seven mainly Muslim countries-- but putting Syria on the list means that Trump can't help prioritize Syrian Christians-- or any other Christian refugees seeking asylum-- though Trump claims he would like to do this;
3) Trump suspended the US Refugee Program for 120 days and capped refugee admissions to 50,000 (instead of Obama's 110,00, which is still rather paltry considering scope of the crisis . . . global displacement is at an all time high);
4) in 2016, the United States accepted 12,000 Syrian refugees (Germany took in a million in 2015 and 300,000 in 2016) and Trump's executive order bans all Syrian refugees . . . this brings up the point that we weren't doing a terribly good job of addressing this refugee crisis under the Obama administration, and we certainly had a hand in creating this crisis because of our various military actions and inactions in the Middle East, and we are now presenting ourselves as an ugly selfish "America first" nation that is willing to turn its back on a heinous and horrible humanitarian tragedy;
5) if you need something more vivid to illustrate the toll of being a refugee, listen to This American Life: Are We There Yet?
6) if you want to feel especially shitty about your country-- and this is before Trump enacted the total ban on refugees from Iraq, then listen to This American Life: Didn't We Solve This One? and you'll hear the stories of Iraqi translators and defectors who helped us in the war in Iraq, were promised visas, and then were abandoned and left out in the cold . . . Trump expressed his solidarity for the "forgotten man" in America, but these people have been forgotten by America in an exponential and existential sense, and now they have no chance of receiving their due . . . this bureaucratic betrayal sounds like the perfect template to create terrorists;
5) you don't have to tow the party line on this, because tone and attitude towards immigration isn't a Democrat/Republican thing, it's a moral stance . . . for a startling example, check out the video of Bush and Reagan one-upping each other on how welcoming they would like to be and how many services they would like to provide for illegal immigrants . . . and Bill Clinton-- welfare reformer-- slammed illegal immigrants and their drain on social services;
6) Trump signed his executive order over the Holocaust Memorial weekend . . . I don't have to explain the irony;
7) America is a country with great wealth and resources and we are often big-hearted and welcoming to refugees and immigrants . . . but some of our most regretful and humiliating moments are when we treated foreigners poorly-- the Japanese internment and sending a boatload of Jews back to Europe to be slaughtered by Nazis are incidents that come to mind;
8) we are also a country where freedom of speech trumps all other rights-- this is no place for cowards-- and while it is extraordinarily rare that an immigrant commits an act of terrorism, this is a possibility-- but it is a possibility that we must endure if we are going to be a free country;
9) while I find it absurd, it's not illegal in America to literally believe in the words of the Koran or the Bible or any other outdated religious text . . . and it's not illegal in the United States to have radical religious opinions or radical political opinions or any other kind of belief, even if it be ridiculous unfounded and stupid, and because of this ur-policy, we are going to occasionally suffer some collateral damage-- but again, this is not a country for cowards . . .
10) the 2nd Amendment allows for the proliferation of guns and conservatives are fine with the collateral damage associated with this;
11) Trump and the Republicans want to deregulate environmental rules and regulations-- they're willing to let people drive around as much as they want, and pollute as much as they want, though this leads to the warming of the globe, the loss of biodiversity, and the death of lots of folks in automobile accidents . . . but conservatives show no fear of these dire consequences of their policy;
12) conservatives are also not afraid of obesity, going without health insurance, and pandemics-- Trump don't need no stinking vaccines . . . so if Great Americans, Trumplike Americans are not afraid of any of this, if they are willing to embrace death in so many ways, then I'd like to implore them-- Trump, his followers and the rest of the conservatives-- to stop being so cowardly about immigration; we love danger here in the US, whether it's getting run over by a drunk driver or shot by some lunatic in a movie theater or daring the oceans to rise and swallow our coastal cities, so let's embrace the danger and embark on a great adventure and let in all kinds of asylum seekers and immigrants-- let's expedite the system instead of drawing it to an ugly halt-- and let's do it for the forgotten men and women of the world, the people that have truly lost everything, who have nowhere to go and no one to look out for them . . . the huddled masses, the wretched refuse, the homeless . . . this is a concern that is beyond political polarization . . . where you stand on this issue determines not only what kind of American you are, but ultimately, what kind of person you are.
Cheap Delights for the Gut and the Butt
Two good (but unrelated) local reviews:
1) Healing Points Acupuncture has done wonders for my lower back and hip-- it's surprising how relaxing it is to lie under a foil blanket in a warm room with a bunch needles in your back, butt, and calves . . . in fact, I almost always fall asleep once the needles are in (although when the acupuncturist inserts the needles, it often feels like an electric shock, which is supposedly a good thing) and what makes it even more therapeutic is that acupuncture is covered by my health insurance-- there's not even a co-pay;
2) Lucy's Restaurant, which is in North Brunswick, but right on the border of New Brunswick, has some excellent, unusual, and cheap Mexican (and Peruvian) food . . . the chicken mole, which is served on the bone, is fantastic-- the meat had obviously been soaking in the sauce all day and fell right off in tender chunks; the green sauce for the enchiladas is tangy and delicious; the kids loved their steak burritos, and everyone at the table enjoyed the empanadas and the sopes (which are open-faced sandwiches with spiced pork or chorizo, served on gigantic thick round crispy tortillas coated with bean paste-- delicious).
1) Healing Points Acupuncture has done wonders for my lower back and hip-- it's surprising how relaxing it is to lie under a foil blanket in a warm room with a bunch needles in your back, butt, and calves . . . in fact, I almost always fall asleep once the needles are in (although when the acupuncturist inserts the needles, it often feels like an electric shock, which is supposedly a good thing) and what makes it even more therapeutic is that acupuncture is covered by my health insurance-- there's not even a co-pay;
2) Lucy's Restaurant, which is in North Brunswick, but right on the border of New Brunswick, has some excellent, unusual, and cheap Mexican (and Peruvian) food . . . the chicken mole, which is served on the bone, is fantastic-- the meat had obviously been soaking in the sauce all day and fell right off in tender chunks; the green sauce for the enchiladas is tangy and delicious; the kids loved their steak burritos, and everyone at the table enjoyed the empanadas and the sopes (which are open-faced sandwiches with spiced pork or chorizo, served on gigantic thick round crispy tortillas coated with bean paste-- delicious).
Could William Gibson and Donald Trump Both Be Right?
William Gibson, the acclaimed sci-fi author, has often said: "The future is already here-- it's just not very evenly distributed," and not only does this apply to access to technology and first world infrastructure, but it also applies to the benefits of globalization; the Freakonomics podcast has been examining Donald Trump's claim that the American Dream is dead, and it seems that in certain places, Trump is right-- while a few decades ago, 90 percent of thirty year olds earned more than their parents, now that number is down to fifty percent-- and the effects of globalization, which economists initially thought would be a win-win for everyone, are-- in the words of economist David Autor: "slow, frictional, and scarring," and so it's not that the American Dream is dead-- plenty of people are taking advantage of the global economy, plenty of people are richer than ever before, and most people have access to first world technological wonders . . . but the American Dream is unevenly distributed, especially if you're a non-college educated male who is unwilling to work in healthcare, or someone who wasn't given a head start (not that the government isn't trying to help a bit, listen to the new Planet Money podcast Retraining Day to hear how this works) which includes black Americans . . . I just finished a treatise on how to survive in this new-fangled, fast-paced, unpredictable world, called Whiplash-- it's coauthored by Joi Ito, the Director of the MIT Media Lab and Jeff Howe, the Director of the Media Innovation program at Northeastern) and they point out that "between 1934 and 1962 the federal government backed 120 billion dollars in home mortgages" which generated trillions of dollars of equity and 98 percent of these loans went to white families, so by 1984, the median white family had a net worth of 90,000 dollars and the median black family had a net worth of six thousand dollars . . . and the trend has continued, so white or black, if you get left behind, you get "whiplash," meanwhile, even the people with money are having a hard time predicting the future, and the only certainty now is that things will move at a dizzying pace, the internet has connected all the knowledge and minds of the earth, artificial intelligence and genetic modification are going to make wholesale changes to everything we do, and while human beings are adaptable, this trait is going to be pushed to the limit in the near future, and we're going to have to have a "healthy relationship with uncertainty," so the traditional American Dream is certainly dead for some, and it may be too late for them to retrain for the new economy, and the Dream is going to be revised often and fast, like the ascension of Uber . . . so you're going to need to both hang on tight and stay loose, so you don't suffer whiplash in the inevitable crash . . . or you'll find yourself in a rusted out tombstone of a town, voting for Donald Trump and hoping for a past that never existed and will certainly never return.
The Test 75: Stacey Rules!
Another gem of a quiz by Stacey-- and she thought of it all by herself!-- listen to the rules and then identify the corresponding movie . . . and if that's not enough to pique your interest, then let me tempt you with these delights: Nick (never introduced) does an impression of Stephen Hawking singing Disney, Cunningham tears me a new one for being a condescending sexist, and the ladies reproduce the outro montage (this is weirder than it sounds).
No Good Deed Goes Unpoopished
When I walk my dog, I carry extra poop-bags in case I find some stray poop, which I bag and toss-- dog poop contains lots of gross bacteria and it contaminates the watershed-- and this is an easy-to-execute good deed, as it doesn't involve old people, children, or hospitals . . . but when I told my class about this altruistic habit of mine, they were appalled:
"You shouldn't touch random poop!"
"You don't know where that poop is from!"
"That could be human poop!"
and though the last admonition did make me second guess my behavior, I told them that despite this, I would continue to bag random poop-- because I was skilled at turning the bag inside out and grabbing the poop and there was no way that I was going to get any of it on my hands . . . two days later, I was walking Sirius on the tow road, the path between the Raritan River and the canal (which is a major watershed) and I came across a pile of random poop, and I had just bagged my own dog's poop so I was already in possession of one bag of (warm) poop-- which I placed on the ground, still open, and I bagged the random poop-- which certainly could have been human poop, I'm no scatologist-- and then I decided that I should put the random poop into the bag with my dog's poop, to consolidate the poop, and things got messy and I got some of the random poop on my hand and finger-- yuck!-- and I could hear those cautionary high school voices ringing in my ears while I washed my hands in the freezing cold water that runs over a rock spillway, from the canal to the river . . . but despite this disgustingly ironic turn of events, I vow to continue bagging poop wherever I find it, especially when it's near a watershed or a place where children play (though I will be more careful and never try consolidate bags of poop again).
"You shouldn't touch random poop!"
"You don't know where that poop is from!"
"That could be human poop!"
and though the last admonition did make me second guess my behavior, I told them that despite this, I would continue to bag random poop-- because I was skilled at turning the bag inside out and grabbing the poop and there was no way that I was going to get any of it on my hands . . . two days later, I was walking Sirius on the tow road, the path between the Raritan River and the canal (which is a major watershed) and I came across a pile of random poop, and I had just bagged my own dog's poop so I was already in possession of one bag of (warm) poop-- which I placed on the ground, still open, and I bagged the random poop-- which certainly could have been human poop, I'm no scatologist-- and then I decided that I should put the random poop into the bag with my dog's poop, to consolidate the poop, and things got messy and I got some of the random poop on my hand and finger-- yuck!-- and I could hear those cautionary high school voices ringing in my ears while I washed my hands in the freezing cold water that runs over a rock spillway, from the canal to the river . . . but despite this disgustingly ironic turn of events, I vow to continue bagging poop wherever I find it, especially when it's near a watershed or a place where children play (though I will be more careful and never try consolidate bags of poop again).
Dave Averts Awkwardness!
Yesterday, a student came to the door of the English Office, looking for his teacher-- but this teacher, a diminutive blonde pixie-like person-- was nowhere to be found, and so I started to make an innocuous joke to the student-- I almost said: "She's kind of small, so sometimes we just totally lose her up in here," but-- in the nick of time-- I did some processing of the situation, caught myself and realized that the student I was talking to wasn't just rather small, he was a genuine little person-- a dwarf-- and I realized that my cavalier-losing-a-little-person-joke might offend him and revised my sentence on the fly, thus avoiding the graceless backpedalling that I usually have to perform in these situations . . . an upset victory over awkwardness!
Trump Supporters Hate Cutters
My students were typically appalled at the moral stance in environmental scientist Garrett Hardin's essay "Lifeboat Ethics: The Case Against Helping the Poor," because-- as the title implies-- Hardin believed that resource distribution is limited, and that the "lifeboat" that contains the developed nations of the world has a limited carrying capacity-- and so the boat should remain sovereign, protect its borders and beware of "boarding parties" which could destabilize the boat and make everyone drown . . . and though the lifeboat could support more people, a buffer should be maintained and the developing countries should be left to fend for themselves, to avoid "the tragedy of the commons"; the logic is a bit blunt and stark, and some of his rhetoric falls into the scare tactics of either/or logic, but the "tragedy of the commons" is a real environmental problem and one that needs to be addressed (though I don't think the solution is as grim as he paints it) but most of my students, who are liberal and despise Trump and his wall-building anti-immigrant posture, needed another way to understand how people could feel this way-- especially since most data indicates that the illegal immigrants in the United States contribute heartily to our economy, providing cheap labor in difficult professions without taking from major government programs such as welfare, food stamps, Social Security and Medicaid . . . and we've installed a system with a tacit understanding between the government and business that such labor will be available-- it's too expensive to deport people established here with jobs, many of whom pay taxes and all of whom contribute to the economy as customers and consumers-- but this is all logical abstraction that doesn't get to the emotional heart of why folks want to build a wall around our lifeboat and voted for Trump . . . so I provided my students with another, more powerful metaphor that I stumbled upon in the newest episode of Hidden Brain, Strangers in Their Own Land: The 'Deep Story" of Trump Supporters; sociologist Arlie Hochschild, a liberal, moved to conservative Louisiana and studied the narrative of conservative, white, heterosexual working-class Americans . . . she wanted to understand the paradox of why these people would vote against their own self-interest, vote against safety nets, vote for tax cuts for the rich and she came up with this deep metaphor: folks are standing in line, on their way up a steep mountain, and at the top of this mountain is the American Dream . . . and though these folks are tired and haven't had much upward mobility, they feel if they keep working, that they will make their way up the hill, but before they get their chance, people start cutting them in line-- blacks with affirmative action, illegal immigrants given a chance at the American Dream with DACA and DAPA, women, brown pelicans-- those damned environmentalists!-- all sorts of foreigners, transgender people, etcetera . . . and President Obama is signalling to those arrogant cutters to "go for it!" while ignoring them, the rule abiding working class white people . . . and, to extend this further, many of the people in the economically sound blue states are on a pretty nice plateau on the way up the mountain . . . we sometimes get annoyed with the folks way up there-- the filthy rich Wall Street elite-- but we don't get particularly angry with the folks below us, because our lives are good enough so we don't begrudge people food stamps or low paying agricultural jobs (even if they're not citizens) but the folks in Trumpland, who are farther down in the valley, are competing with those people cutting them in line, and it's making them outraged; I think this metaphor helped some of my students empathize with the Trump voters, though they don't believe this metaphor is the correct interpretation . . . and neither do I, there's plenty of room in the lifeboat, especially since most of these people climbing in are living in cities, which are greener than the rural areas that supported Trump, and I think these people contribute more to the economy than they burden it, but, of course, I'm not an uneducated white conservative working class dude in Lousianana . . . so what do I know . . . also, the working title for this post was a bit long, so I had to cut it down, but here it is in its entirety:
Trump: Make The United States a Lifeboat So That the Forgotten White Men Can Climb to the Top of the Mountain (Unimpeded by Blacks, Latinos, Illegals, Brown Pelicans, Women, Transgenders, and Other Cutters).
Trump: Make The United States a Lifeboat So That the Forgotten White Men Can Climb to the Top of the Mountain (Unimpeded by Blacks, Latinos, Illegals, Brown Pelicans, Women, Transgenders, and Other Cutters).
One For the Ladies (Nil for Dave)
The recent Women's March was very effective in empowering my wife-- she took the train to Trenton early Saturday morning, leaving me to do the laundry and the dishes, feed the children and then cart them around town, and I'm certain this scenario played out all over the country (and the globe!) and many men had to do more than their usual share of housework and child-rearing; I must concede that this was tactical brilliance: well played ladies . . . well played.
288 Page Test (Match)
If you're a straight American male and you're going to tackle Aravind Adiga's new novel, Selection Day, you'll have to take a page out of Russell Ziskey's playbook from Stripes . . . the army recruiter asks him and his buddy John Winger if they're homosexuals and Ziskey famously replies: "No, but we are willing to learn"-- while you won't be completely in the dark, as the novel has themes that parallel the U.S. sporting world: the obsessiveness, the statistics, the extreme dedication, the overbearing father, the monetizing of something that should be fun, the byzantine system in which to discover and exploit talent, the depths of corruption and the heights of achievement-- you're going to experience all this through the lens of Indian cricket, an obscure sport with opaque rules; this makes many sporting scenes a challenge to envision (there are some cricket terms in the back, but they don't help much) and the book also explores India, mainly Mumbai, outside of cricket, and this is a foreign world for the two protagonists, brothers who have been groomed to be professional cricketers since their father's sperm met egg . . . things become even more challenging when Manju, the younger and more talented brother, has homosexual urges: this means one thing in blue state liberal modern America, and something completely different in modern India-- homosexuality is more complex, more taboo, and a more difficult path for a young person, especially a young person of cricketing prominence, to navigate . . . so I recommend this novel if you're "willing to learn," and I guarantee you'll learn a great deal (though I still don't understand the ins and outs of a cricket match, though I often watch folks play it in the parks near my home).
A Serendipitous Postmodern Encounter in My Kitchen
A magical meta-moment occurred on Friday in my kitchen; we were hosting an eclectic crowd: my good buddy Whitney and some other W&M folks, a representative from North Brunswick (Mose!) and the Highland Park regulars-- and my friend Ann, a Sentence of Dave lurker, finally got to meet the prolifically profound Sentence of Dave commenter known as Zman and she professed her profound admiration for his wit, erudition, and verve . . . and then went on to vilify all manner of Dave, my writing style, my choice of topics, my digressions, and my general character; Ann's hypothesis in a nutshell is that the only artistry present on this blog is Zman's commentary . . . she contended that there is an odd symbiotic relationship between us, and if I were to expand on this metaphorically, then I would be the flatulent tick infested rhino and Zman would be my cleaning symbiote, the elegantly marked red-tailed oxpecker, feeding off my bloated body . . . anyway, though it was at my expense, I still took great joy at this serendipitous postmodern encounter between lurker and commenter, because I had contributed doubly to its occurrence, with my prolix prose and the crowd in my kitchen.
The Test 74: These Are People That Died
This week on The Test, the premise is relatively simple: I describe a death and you identify the person that died in this manner . . . but Cunningham and Stacey still figure out a way to steer the show off the rails and into the void; join us for spoonerisms, Marlon Brando impersonations, exploding Stacey, the reason Cunningham wants to kill off multiple endangered species and much much more.
Alex and Ian: The Usual Suspects
Once a week, I've been forcing my kids to watch an oldish movie that I unilaterally select and while they always initially complain, ultimately they end up loving it: we did Pan's Labyrinth (awesome but creepy and violent) and Little Miss Sunshine (funny and mildly inappropriate in a sweet way) and The Usual Suspects (which Alex loved, especially the twist at the end . . . but I still suspect, as I did the first time I saw it, that it's not a particularly good movie, that there's no way to unravel the mystery or the plot, and that it's a something of a one trick pony) and we've got Juno on tap for tonight, but I'm worried that we're not going to watch it because the boys are involved in some kind of bizarre epic battle that's going to result in both of them being sent to their respective rooms without dinner; Ian put away a pair of pajamas in the pajama drawer, which is in Alex's room and he left a pant-leg hanging out of the drawer and Alex told him to fix it because the hanging pant-leg was bothering him and Ian refused to put the pant leg all the way into the drawer, just to piss Alex off, and Alex sprayed water from the lizard-tank spray bottle onto Ian's bed and unless they can resolve this, they're not going to learn about teen pregnancy.
Litmus Test For Trump: Black Lungs or Clear Water
The Obama administration scrambled to finish the Stream Protection Act, a set of rules that detail how to enforce environmental protection laws already on the books-- the rules are 1200 pages long and fifteen years in the making (for more detail on the story, listen to the new Planet Money) and so now the question is whether Trump will utilize the rarely used Congressional Review Act to repeal the rules; the last time this was used, President Bush repealed Clinton's Workplace Injury rules and the backlash was fairly ugly . . . so keep an eye on this, as it will be a real litmus test as to just what kind of asshole Trump is going to be . . . and remember, there are two kinds of assholes: people who divide folks into two kinds of assholes and people who don't.
Betsy DeVos Is So Dumb She Should Be in a Sci-Fi Sitcom!
Readers of this blog are probably familiar the TV show Battlestar Galactica and the story of Laura Roslin, Secretary of Education of the Twelve Colonies of Kobol: she was 43rd in line for the presidency, but when the Cylons attack, everyone ahead of her on the presidential succession chart dies and she becomes the de facto leader of a ragtag band of FTL (faster than light) spaceships adrift in a hostile galaxy . . . and it turns out-- as these things usually do-- that the Secretary of Education is smart and savvy and principled and becomes a fantastic leader; I would like to pitch the converse version of this show (which would be a sitcom, of course) where the earth is destroyed by aliens that resemble giant grizzly bears and Betsy DeVos (who is undeniably very very dumb) ends up leading a ragtag band of spaceships into a hostile universe, but she allows the ships to do whatever they would like, without regulation, and encourages people to move from ship to ship if they don't like how they are treated-- while she basks in her ignorance and the luxury of her first class accommodations-- and her blissful idiocy is punctuated by occasional alien grizzly attacks but luckily, DeVos has a shitload of guns . . . and there are wacky subplot adventures on the different ships, but DeVos is unaware of anything that's going on, happily smiling in her well-tended bubble, praying to an anthropomorphic God and hoping that he will sort things out (but God turns out to be an alien grizzly bear, and eventually, when her ship travels through a wormhole, she meets Him and He eats her and then shits her out and she returns to the fleet to preach the Truth, because she has been eaten and defecated by the Divine Grizzly, but no one believes her and this just adds to the madness).
Dialing It In (Full of Pins)
I'm too tired to write anything coherent . . . which is odd because instead of exercising this afternoon, I went to the acupuncturist . . . which means I took a nap under a lightweight foil sheet, my body stuck full of pins (and I'm going back tomorrow, so expect more of the same . . . also-- note to self: apparently, I tried acupuncture four years ago, enjoyed some success with it and then promptly forgot that it's covered under my health insurance . . . but I won't forget again, because this lady told me that she does acupuncture on her dog and he loves it-- he even fetches the box of disposable needles and brings it to her-- and if it's good enough for a dog, it's good enough for Dave).
The Dorito Effect: A Good Book You Probably Don't Want to Read
Mark Schatzker's The Dorito Effect: The Surprising New Truth About Food and Flavor is a quick and easy read, but while the science is presented simply and effectively, the ideas themselves are not easy to digest . . . especially for a chip lover like me; here are some of the ideas (sans science, if you want that, read the book) in a proverbial nutshell:
1) much of our food has become bland, because we breed for the highest yield, the most pest-resistance and the best supermarket appearance . . . this as true for chicken as it is for broccoli and tomatoes . . . and the stuff in the book on chicken is pretty horrific . . . the chickens we are eating are abnormal genetically altered infants that grow at such a rapid rate that if you put it in human terms a two month human infant would weight 660 pounds . . . because of this the meat lacks flavor and nutrition, the flesh is watery and doesn't contain any of the good fats that more mature meat contains;
2) chicken used to be loaded with flavor-- especially older birds-- and there were varieties of chicken-- some for frying, some for broiling, some for stew-- but now all chicken is flavorless and has to be flavored post-slaughter, marinated and rubbed and coated and spiced;
3) we desire flavor because flavor indicates nutrition, but artificial and added flavors trick our brain into thinking we are getting a variety of food when we are not;
4) our body will keep eating these junk foods because our gut is waiting for the secondary compounds-- the fiber and vitamins and minerals and antioxidants-- which signal that we've had enough . . . you can eat enough McDonalds or potato chips to make yourself sick, but you can't do this with radicchio;
5) there is hope: people are trying to breed heirloom tomatoes for higher yield; it's possible to get a real chicken if you try hard enough; and kale and arugula have become very popular . . . Schatzker's advice is to try new natural foods, even if it's just a nibble of kale or mackerel; seek flavorful real foods; eat meat from pastured animals; avoid synthetic flavor technology; organic doesn't always equal good; use herbs and spices to complement food, not to cover up the blandness; don't pop vitamins; eat dark chocolate, drink wine and craft beer; find amazing fruit and give it to your kids; and demand better tasting chicken, strawberries, broccoli, carrots, potatoes, beef, etcetera . . . if you demand flavor, it will come, and with good flavor comes micronutrients and all kinds of other good things . . . and if you take one thing away from this post, it should be this: the lemon/lime flavoring in Sprite will NOT cure scurvy.
1) much of our food has become bland, because we breed for the highest yield, the most pest-resistance and the best supermarket appearance . . . this as true for chicken as it is for broccoli and tomatoes . . . and the stuff in the book on chicken is pretty horrific . . . the chickens we are eating are abnormal genetically altered infants that grow at such a rapid rate that if you put it in human terms a two month human infant would weight 660 pounds . . . because of this the meat lacks flavor and nutrition, the flesh is watery and doesn't contain any of the good fats that more mature meat contains;
2) chicken used to be loaded with flavor-- especially older birds-- and there were varieties of chicken-- some for frying, some for broiling, some for stew-- but now all chicken is flavorless and has to be flavored post-slaughter, marinated and rubbed and coated and spiced;
3) we desire flavor because flavor indicates nutrition, but artificial and added flavors trick our brain into thinking we are getting a variety of food when we are not;
4) our body will keep eating these junk foods because our gut is waiting for the secondary compounds-- the fiber and vitamins and minerals and antioxidants-- which signal that we've had enough . . . you can eat enough McDonalds or potato chips to make yourself sick, but you can't do this with radicchio;
5) there is hope: people are trying to breed heirloom tomatoes for higher yield; it's possible to get a real chicken if you try hard enough; and kale and arugula have become very popular . . . Schatzker's advice is to try new natural foods, even if it's just a nibble of kale or mackerel; seek flavorful real foods; eat meat from pastured animals; avoid synthetic flavor technology; organic doesn't always equal good; use herbs and spices to complement food, not to cover up the blandness; don't pop vitamins; eat dark chocolate, drink wine and craft beer; find amazing fruit and give it to your kids; and demand better tasting chicken, strawberries, broccoli, carrots, potatoes, beef, etcetera . . . if you demand flavor, it will come, and with good flavor comes micronutrients and all kinds of other good things . . . and if you take one thing away from this post, it should be this: the lemon/lime flavoring in Sprite will NOT cure scurvy.
The Test 73: Holy Days, Holidays, and Appliance Shopping
'Tis the season . . . or 'twas the season, and it's never too late to learn something about all the holidays that everyone just celebrated . . . so join us on The Test for some good times-- Stacey provides the questions, and Cunningham and I bumble our way through religious traditions, holiday customs, and related materialism, touching on topics as diverse as Petra, sneak-pooping, and when the gods believe it's appropriate to shop for an appliance.
Acupuncture and Miracles
I tried to play soccer this morning and I was foiled again-- my left calf and my right upper glute are both knotted up, and it's affecting my hip and I'm a trainwreck . . . but enough about me and my problems, on to the miracle: so I get home from soccer, limping and angry, my body in complete rebellion, my soul descending into the darkness that is midlife for an athlete, and after hearing my lamentations, my wife tells me to make an appointment with her acupuncturist, and I'm at the end of my rope so I actually follow her advice, look up the number, and call the acupuncturist, and after a bit of chatting, she's comfortable enough with me to share a weird revelation . . . apparently when I called her, she was sending a text and a photo-- a text thanking someone for recommending a local soccer program and a photo of her little daughter playing some soccer . . . and she was sending this text/photo to my wife and she said when my call came, her hair stood on end and she wondered if the person calling her could be related to the person she was sending the text/photo . . . and I am!
The Lizard Has Landed!
We finally finished setting up our bioactive vivarium and purchased a crested gecko-- half price at Petco this week!-- which my children named Bossk (after a lizard-like Star Wars character: a male Trandoshan bounty hunter, the son of Cradossk, who was known for hunting Wookies) and Bossk seems to be adapting nicely to his tank . . . if you look closely, you can see him here perched on his cork round.
Fuck John Wooden
Beloved UCLA coach John Wooden famously said: "The true test of a man's character is what he does when no one is watching," but what if you think no one is watching? . . . or-- more precisely-- what if you think no one is listening? because we've got to have some time off from all this good behavior-- it's not like we can maintain perfect character every waking moment-- so I was minding my own business, extricating a bike one of my children had cavalierly chucked into our bike shed, so that I could get my own bike out, and both bikes fell over . . . and my bike shed (custom built by yours truly) is under our porch, so it's a bit cramped in there and so when both bikes fell over, I let out a stream of expletives that would have made a teamster blush-- which was the only way to express my frustration with the state of the shed, the state of my aging body, the carelessness of my children, and my general annoyance with how tangled up bikes can get with one another . . . but, of course, I thought this was fine because I was sequestered away in a safe spot where I was certain no one was listening, but I forgot that my neighbor's porch happens to be rather close to the shed-- two Leyland cypress block the line of site, but they did not block or censor my profanity, and -- of course-- he happened to be on his porch and heard my puerile tirade and so he sincerely and sympathetically asked me if I was okay-- he assumed that I had been gravely injured, but I sheepishly told him I was fine, just frustrated, and if John Wooden hadn't died seven years ago, I would love to give him a serious chewing out, as I'm tired of this surveillance state Panopticon and ready to retire to the deep woods, where a man can reflect on a tangled nest of bikes in any manner he chooses.
Spoiler: It's Better to Watch the Love Grow
There have been a number of academic studies indicating that people enjoy stories more when they are provided with spoilers, and I've got some empirical evidence to support this argument: a student in my Creative Writing class (a rambunctious little senior named Haley) told me that she always checks with Reality Steve to find out who wins The Bachelor before she begins watching, and when I asked why she would want to ruin the drama she gave me an incredibly fulfilling explanation: "then you can sit back and watch the love grow."
If You Have a Brain, Don't Read This . . .
A foreboding contrast in style and logic:
1) President Obama's interview about healthcare on The Weeds: Obama is clear, knowledgeable, logical, and totally candid; he offers a challenge to Republicans-- he would love to endorse a transparent healthcare plan that does things better than the Affordable Care Act; Obama comports himself with intelligence, grace, and style and shows comprehensive understanding of the healthcare system, healthcare markets and economics, and the science of medicine . . .
versus
2) Donald Trump's muddled conspiratorial medical gobbledygook-- he's asked anti-vaxxer Robert Kennedy Jr. to head a commission on vaccine safety . . . despite the fact that all links between vaccines and autism have been debunked (Jenny McCarthy aside) but Trump also brilliantly avoids looking like a total lunatic, as he has vaccinated his children-- just on his own schedule, a slower, very "conservative" schedule . . . thus claiming his own bizarre, unfounded (but appealing to a certain sort of maverick renegade Trump supporter) middle ground . . .
and these two polemically opposed rhetorical methods illustrate the same lesson as Marshall Curry's excellent political documentary Street Fight . . . disenfranchised folks don't want statistics and numbers and policy debate, they want a compelling narrative that explains why forces beyond their control have conspired against them, and a roguish hero, with the same imperfections they possess, who is willing to fight the forces of academic logic and intellectual elitism, using any means necessary . . . though he's a Democrat, Sharpe James would be a welcome addition to Trumpland!
1) President Obama's interview about healthcare on The Weeds: Obama is clear, knowledgeable, logical, and totally candid; he offers a challenge to Republicans-- he would love to endorse a transparent healthcare plan that does things better than the Affordable Care Act; Obama comports himself with intelligence, grace, and style and shows comprehensive understanding of the healthcare system, healthcare markets and economics, and the science of medicine . . .
versus
2) Donald Trump's muddled conspiratorial medical gobbledygook-- he's asked anti-vaxxer Robert Kennedy Jr. to head a commission on vaccine safety . . . despite the fact that all links between vaccines and autism have been debunked (Jenny McCarthy aside) but Trump also brilliantly avoids looking like a total lunatic, as he has vaccinated his children-- just on his own schedule, a slower, very "conservative" schedule . . . thus claiming his own bizarre, unfounded (but appealing to a certain sort of maverick renegade Trump supporter) middle ground . . .
and these two polemically opposed rhetorical methods illustrate the same lesson as Marshall Curry's excellent political documentary Street Fight . . . disenfranchised folks don't want statistics and numbers and policy debate, they want a compelling narrative that explains why forces beyond their control have conspired against them, and a roguish hero, with the same imperfections they possess, who is willing to fight the forces of academic logic and intellectual elitism, using any means necessary . . . though he's a Democrat, Sharpe James would be a welcome addition to Trumpland!
Dave Might Be a Wordist!
In the newest Hidden Brain podcast, linguist John McWhorter argues that it is the nature of language to change, and it is the nature of old people to argue that the changes are indicative of degradation and decay . . . but living languages always change-- words, context, diction, usage, style-- there's no stopping the changes because the changes are inevitable, and while it might irk and irritate older people, or people educated a certain way, McWhorter believes that once a critical mass of people are using a certain word or phrase or context, you can't claim that that usage is "wrong," and he thinks that the last vestiges of socially approved prejudice are for language usage-- in civilized society, you can't stereotype people for race, gender, religion, or sexuality-- but you can still make broad judgements based on language usage . . . and he's convinced me; I've always told my students that "language is a river," yet I paradoxically correct people when they use "lay" when they mean "lie" . . . and I used to correct people when they said "nauseous" when they meant "nauseated" . . . I gave up the latter because I recognized that a critical mass had shifted the usage, and I'm going to quit the "lie" and "lay" business as well . . . because I don't want to be a wordist (or an anti-dentite!)
The Internet Is NOT For Porn, It's For Building a Vivarium
Although the broadway puppet comedy Avenue Q proclaims that "The Internet is For Porn," the lyrics are very wrong-- the internet isn't for porn, it's for nerds, and so when Saturday's unexpected winter storm aborted our plan to go lizard shopping, and I started browsing around on the internet, I ended up learning how to build a self-cleaning bioactive small lizard vivarium-- and so now Ian's Xmas lizard has morphed into a much more fascinating project: we ordered lots of weird stuff on Amazon, such as Hydroballs (lightweight expanded clay terrarium substrate) and substrate mesh and New Zealand moss and a magnetic shelf feeding bowl and a UVB bulb and several other layers of substrate and a thermometer and a cork round and I researched the proper plants to put in the vivarium and we're going to eventually add springtails and isopods, which will eat the lizard feces . . . so what I initially thought was going to be a little jail cell for a lizard is now going to be a deluxe crib . . . and all because of those folks willing to nerd it up on the internet . . . check out the above video for some terrarium porn!
The Test 72: Happy Apocalyptic New Year!
This week on The Test, hunker down with the gang and get ready for the inevitable . . . the end of days are near, but this eschatological primer (provided by Cunningham, in the true spirit of the theme, without any technology) will prepare you for what's coming . . . and there is no doubt that we've got our bases covered: Stacey brings the guns, Cunningham purveys the spiritual nonsense, and I provide the useless information.
Ronald Reagan = Ronald McDonald
If you're looking for more reasons to hate Ronald Reagan and Ronald McDonald, here they are: in the late 70s, the Federal Trade Commission put out a report that ran over 6,000 pages, with undeniable testimony from experts that children could not understand the difference between content and advertising and thus warranted special protection in this regard-- many countries banned advertising to children entirely (Norway and Quebec) and in most other countries severely restricted it . . . but not the United States:
"When Reagan appointed Mark S. Fowler as commissioner of the FCC on May 18, 1981, children's television would change dramatically . . . Fowler championed market forces as the determinant of broadcasting content, and thus oversaw the abolition of every advertising regulation that had served as a guide for broadcasters . . . in Fowler's estimation, the question of whether children had the ability to discriminate between the ads and the entertainment was a moot point; the free market, and not organizations such as ACT would decide the matter . . ."
and after the US deregulated, Ronald McDonald and his evil minions took over the airwaves-- it became impossible to discern between the show and the commercial (He-Man, G.I. Joe, My Little Pony, Transformers, etc) which led to some fairly awful animated art, as the show was beholden to the tie-in merchandise . . . and the rest of the advertising to kids was for sugary cereals, candy, and fast food . . . with plenty of pester power . . . you've got to catch 'em all . . . and then Ronald Reagan was given a second chance to save the children at the end of his presidency, in 1988 . . . a second chance to differentiate himself from a crazy burger-pushing clown, but he declined; a new bill to limit advertising to children sailed through the Senate and passed in the House 328-78, and was even approved by the National Association of Broadcasters, but Reagan vetoed it-- he actually "pocket vetoed" it-- claiming the bill was unconstitutional and violated freedom of speech, and that businesses could purvey whatever wares to children they wanted, in any shape or form, on our public airwaves, despite the fact that it was fairly despicable in practice (and also a contributor to childhood obesity) and because we live in America, if there's not a law, then it's a free-for-all (unlike some of the countries that regulate themselves in this department, such as Great Britain) and so Reagan cemented his legacy as another Ronald who is willing to sacrifice our children to the Greater Gods of Corporate America.
"When Reagan appointed Mark S. Fowler as commissioner of the FCC on May 18, 1981, children's television would change dramatically . . . Fowler championed market forces as the determinant of broadcasting content, and thus oversaw the abolition of every advertising regulation that had served as a guide for broadcasters . . . in Fowler's estimation, the question of whether children had the ability to discriminate between the ads and the entertainment was a moot point; the free market, and not organizations such as ACT would decide the matter . . ."
and after the US deregulated, Ronald McDonald and his evil minions took over the airwaves-- it became impossible to discern between the show and the commercial (He-Man, G.I. Joe, My Little Pony, Transformers, etc) which led to some fairly awful animated art, as the show was beholden to the tie-in merchandise . . . and the rest of the advertising to kids was for sugary cereals, candy, and fast food . . . with plenty of pester power . . . you've got to catch 'em all . . . and then Ronald Reagan was given a second chance to save the children at the end of his presidency, in 1988 . . . a second chance to differentiate himself from a crazy burger-pushing clown, but he declined; a new bill to limit advertising to children sailed through the Senate and passed in the House 328-78, and was even approved by the National Association of Broadcasters, but Reagan vetoed it-- he actually "pocket vetoed" it-- claiming the bill was unconstitutional and violated freedom of speech, and that businesses could purvey whatever wares to children they wanted, in any shape or form, on our public airwaves, despite the fact that it was fairly despicable in practice (and also a contributor to childhood obesity) and because we live in America, if there's not a law, then it's a free-for-all (unlike some of the countries that regulate themselves in this department, such as Great Britain) and so Reagan cemented his legacy as another Ronald who is willing to sacrifice our children to the Greater Gods of Corporate America.
Lizard Music
We are headed to NJ Exotic Pets in Lodi tomorrow, to buy a lizard . . . but we aren't sure what kind; Ian keeps calling the store and asking if they have certain obscure lizards in stock, and while I'm a little nervous about our actual visit to the pet store-- I don't know much about lizard pricing and care-- but I truly enjoy his phone calls to the store and could listen to them all day long . . . they go something like this:
"Hello . . . I was wondering if you have any forest armadillo lizards in stock?
No?
Are you getting some soon?
No?
Okay . . .
(pause for some internet research)
Hello . . . I was wondering if you have any fire skinks in stock?
No?
Are you getting some soon?
No?
Okay."
"Hello . . . I was wondering if you have any forest armadillo lizards in stock?
No?
Are you getting some soon?
No?
Okay . . .
(pause for some internet research)
Hello . . . I was wondering if you have any fire skinks in stock?
No?
Are you getting some soon?
No?
Okay."
Let Sleeping Birds Lie
This morning, while I was walking the dog in the 6 AM winter darkness, I nearly stepped on a bird; it was sleeping soundly, hidden in a leaf pile on the edge of the sidewalk, warm and comatose, dreaming of moist soil and wriggling worms, until I disturbed it . . . and then it fluttered off, scattering leaves and scaring the shit out of me.
And You Thought 2016 Was Wild?
Bill Bryson's book One Summer: America, 1927 uses a few months to paint a portrait of an America rolling precipitously into strange, new places, even faster than the America of today: Babe Ruth and Lou Gehrig invented the home run derby, Sacco and Vanzetti were executed, Al Capone reigned, eugenics and involuntary sterilization were all the rage, Hollywood pumped out 800 feature length movies a year . . . and filmed it's first big "talkie," the Jazz Singer, Dempsey fought Tunney, The Federal Reserve cut interest rates which precipitated the stock market crash, Italians were regarded as a dangerous ethnic group, Gutzon Borglum began Mount Rushmore, Calvin Coolidge did nothing, the Mississippi flooded monumentally, Herbert Hoover supervised flood management, a lunatic blew up a school in Michigan and killed forty-four children, Henry Ford stopped production on the Model T Ford and began planning Fordlandia, a doomed model city and rubber plantation in Brazil, Shipwreck Kelly sat on a flagpole in Newark for 12 days, and Charles Lindbergh was adored by zillions, a consequence of his daring solo flight across the Atlantic (this is before his child was kidnapped, before he associated himself with the Nazis, and before it was discovered that he had several secret families).
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