Ballsy Bootlegger

When we got home from soccer practice last night, Catherine greeted Ian with the statement: "I found something in your bookbag" and Ian immediately went with the classic contraband trope-- he threw his friend under the bus and said, "I was just holding it for X so he didn't get in trouble with his parents" and I said, "Okay, no problem, we'll just call X's parents and straighten it all out" and after a moment of reflection, he walked over to my wife and told her the two giant bags of gummy candy were his-- he had bought them at Rite-Aid-- and, after the usual web of lies, he finally admitted they were just for his own gluttonous consumption-- so we confiscated the bag, gave him the perfunctory lecture about sugar-- we had just been to the dentist the day before!-- and then I advised him that if he had just bought a little bag of candy, consumed it, and threw away the evidence, no one would have been the wiser, but three pounds of candy was rather excessive-- dealer level weight-- and then we thought we were in the clear with parenting dilemmas, as the long weekend was almost upon us, but today Ian used his green hair paint to spray a giant pair of green genitals in the boy's locker room (the frank and the beans) and he not only had to clean the school locker rooms but he also did a bunch of manual labor around the house to atone for his profane vandalism . . . I guess I shouldn't have let him watch Superbad last weekend (although he did nice job weeding and mulching . . . not that I want him to get in trouble, but it is a big help with the chores when he does).

Manchesters Fictitious and Real

Although it is well-acted, impeccably structured, and beautifully filmed, watching Manchester by the Sea is about as much fun as following the Manchester Ariana Grande bombing . . . but since Manchester by the Sea didn't actually happen, why put yourself through unnecessary tragedy?

Did I Finish This Book?

If you're a fan of big data, breezy writing, fun facts and sex and sex and sex and sex, then you'll certainly enjoy Seth Stephens-Davidowitz's new book Everybody Lies: Big Data, New Data, and What the Internet Can Tell Us About Who We Really Are . . . his theories and information are extracted from the digital confessional, the place where people are the most honest, the place where people think no one else is listening . . . he studied massive troves of Google and Pornhub searches; here are some of the things you'll learn about:

1) how racist America really is . . . and where the racists live (closer than you think)

2) the truth about Freudian slips and phallic dream imagery (neither means shit)

3) the six most popular story structures (as determined by an algorithm)

4) why 99 percent of teenagers who reported having artificial limbs on academic surveys were pulling the researchers' legs (pun provided by Dave!)

5) why parents wonder if their son is a genius and their daughter is overweight;

6) why were not as polarized as we think (Stormfront users love the NY Times)

7) how we are lying about how much we want to judge and keep up with our friends, how much we care where and how products are produced, how much we want to watch midgets having sex with porn stars, and how much we want to learn about political policy;

8) how most people are overestimating the amount of sex they are having per week (male and female estimations don't add up, and even more damning, the condom sales don't add up)

9) the ethics of using all this data . . . we don't want to end up like Minority Report, with precogs predicting crimes before they happen and then pre-crime units preemptively abrogating people's rights-- or . . . if we could avert something like the recent Manchester bombing . . . maybe we do;

10) why non-fiction conclusions don't matter (most people don't finish non-fiction books).

Decisions in Basketball Have No Bearing on Decisions in Life

Pick-up basketball night is all about making quick decisions with the ball, and my son Alex is certainly getting better at that-- he made a couple of nice outlet passes and is getting better at catching and shooting the ball in one motion-- but his decision making off the court has improved not so much . . . before we left for the gym he was hungry so he put a bunch of cereal in his pocket, so he could eat it when necessary-- and when my wife and I questioned the rationality of this strategy, he told us: "these are clean shorts!" and when he got home, he filled a cup with cereal and milk, and went into the living room while drinking his concoction-- and he's got terrible allergies right now-- so he ended up choking and spitting cereal and milk all over the place (and he's got poison ivy on his face because he fell in a bush during Nerf wars and he also nearly asphyxiated at his soccer game on Sunday because his allergies were so bad-- we had to take him at half-time and the doctor gave him a steroid shot-- not that he can control his allergies . . . but he's quite the thirteen year old trainwreck right now).

The Test 87: Brothers From Another Mother

Another brilliant and creative test idea from Stacey this week, and she thought of it all by herself . . . without the help of a man . . . astounding; first you'll have to endure our tales of curing cancer and Cunningham's perplexity about a disgusting mystery of the human body, but this is a sun-dazed episode the whole family will enjoy (and kids might perform better than adults) so give it a shot, keep score, and see how you fare.

Applying the Bard to the Beautiful Game

We had a low turnout for this morning's travel soccer game in Flemington; we were missing several key players and had only one substitute-- who was not only sick, but had a sore quad from Saturday's game-- and we were playing a team with several big, fast players and an eleven year old goalie the size of an adult (he could punt the ball nearly the length of the field and he caught everything cleanly) and we were down 1 - 0 at the half so I paraphrased Shakespeare's St. Crispin's Day speech from Henry V to inspire them: I began with the mathematical division of glory . . . the fewer the players, the greater the share of honor, and then reminded them that they had showed up and and if they did something remarkable then those players who were not in attendance "should think themselves accursed they were not here, and hold their manhoods cheap" and then my very tired crew went out for the second half and immediately gave up a goal, so we were down 2 - 0 and things looked hopeless, and then they got inspired by something-- whether it was my speech we'll never know-- but they came back and tied the game and came damned close to winning it . . . if it wasn't for that giant goalie, but it was certainly a David vs. Goliath performance . . . the other team had eighteen players and we had nine and a half, and I was very proud of their effort.

It's Saturday and It's Raining . . . Again

Last week one of my students said, "It rains every weekend" and I pedantically pointed out how irrational her logic was-- how the weather does not possess consciousness and can't possibly be aware of what day of the week it is-- although it is Saturday and it's raining again, and we have a soccer game and I need to build a new gate for our fence and my wife is getting soaked at a bike rodeo and so my evidence may be anecdotal and also suspect to confirmation bias, but I'm starting to believe her.

R.I.P Grunge

I am usually unmoved by celebrity deaths but Chris Cornell's death is more symbolic . . . grunge is now truly dead: Cornell joins Kurt Cobain, Scott Weiland, and Layne Staley-- and while I've seen the meme about protecting Eddie Vedder at all costs, as he is the last remaining frontman of grunge, I never considered Pearl Jam a real grunge band, they're more of a pop act and most of their songs annoy me-- anyway, the age of grunge was the last time I could listen to pop radio and enjoy it (my friends and I saw Soundgarden and Circus of Power in Asbury Park in the late 80s-- the Louder Than Love tour-- and it was as billed, so LOUD, we couldn't hear for days afterwards and in a few short years grunge was everywhere-- Nirvana was ubiquitous and in 1993, the fantastic, extemporaneous and acoustic Alice in Chains album "Jar of Flies" reached number one on the charts . . . signifying something awesome about that time period . . .Dave was 23 and Kim Thayil said, in some interview in a guitar magazine, "It doesn't matter if you're playing a major or a minor chord when your sound is this loud and distorted" and all that is over now, especially for me, as I can't take loudness these days and if grunge resurfaced I wouldn't be able to tolerate it).

The Sixth Grade Scoop

I'll warn you at the start, this is hot stuff, salacious even, so put on your oven mitts and handle it with care: last night my son Ian and I went to the sushi place for dinner together-- Catherine and Alex went to the Asian place a few doors down-- so it was just me and my younger son, a sixth grader who is 11 going on 12, and while usually his older brother Alex dominates the conversation, this situation gave Ian a chance to air some things that were baffling him . . . he mentioned the fact that some people in his grade were "going out" and that "these things usually didn't last long, only a week or so" and that his buddy "wasn't doing that well" because he had a fight with his girlfriend, and so I asked him what they were fighting about and he said, "Shoes" and so I pressed him and he explained,"You know, if his shoes were cool or not" and I said that sometimes women cared about fashion-- that wasn't uncommon-- and Ian said the consensus among the sixth graders was that girls are "a complicated species"-- he used those exact words-- and I said that was certainly true, and he said that kids are also using the term "third wheel" for someone who is hanging around a couple, trying to get in on the action, they called it "third wheeling" and I said that isn't so uncommon either, and sometimes it's okay to be the third wheel and sometimes it isn't and then he said that his friend had "hugged his girlfriend when he was over her house' and her parents brought the hammer down and banned all hugging and hand-holding and Ian said he was not interested in partaking in any of this stuff in any way, shape, or form and I told him that was fine and that he had plenty of time before he needed to get involved with the "complicated species."

That's Recycling!

I haven't put together a will and last testament yet, so this sentence is going to have to suffice: when I die, I want to have a sky burial . . . I had never heard of this practice until yesterday, when a student of mine who had been to Tibet and seen it firsthand described it-- apparently, after you die they drag your corpse up onto a mountain, put you on a slab of stone, and let the scavenging birds eat you, so that your immortal soul and your decomposing flesh get to fly around in the sky for a while (and then get defecated back to earth, I suppose) and this environmentally friendly, chemical and flame free burial really appeals to me . . . if you want to see a video-- and warning, it is very gross, click here-- otherwise, when I shuffle off this mortal coil, someone needs to make this happen (and if you do, you can have my CD collection).

Thucydides Saw It Coming . . .

The South China Sea may end up being a battle between the submarines and the "slum encampments on stilts," between China and the rest-- and American Cold War dominance, relatively simplistic national game theory, will "likely have to pass . . . a more anxious complicated world awaits us" a world where, according to Thucydides, the real cause of the Peloponnesian War was the build-up of Athenian sea power, which made Sparta very nervous . . . so read Robert Kaplan and try to sort out Asia's Cauldron: The South China Sea and the End of a Stable Pacific . . . you're going to have to understand the Law of the Sea and how it applies to land masses and the nine-dashed line, and how we should react to the nine-dashed line and the domestic politics that the countries affected by the nine-dashed line (Vietnam, Malaysia, Thailand, Singapore, The Philippines, China, etc) and how they will react to our reactions and so on . . . the book may make you throw your liberal ideals out the window and start thinking in Realpolitik terms like Kissinger and it will certainly make you aware of the complexity that is modern southeast Asia (plus it has a few good maps at the start of the book, which I needed to look at constantly . . . there's a lot of countries and islands packed into a small area!)

Rationalize This

The home mortgage income deduction: a ridiculous subsidy to upper middle class and rich folks that will probably never go away because upper middle class and rich folks-- myself included-- will bend over backwards to rationalize it (although Britain managed to phase theirs out over a twenty year period).

The Test 86: Movies in Five (That's Three Sir)

This week on The Test, Stacey presents a brilliant set of cinematic puzzles, but despite the high quality of the quiz, a peeing dog, low batteries, and my newfound psychic abilities send this bad boy into uncharted waters.

Dave Uses the Scientific Method

Thursday night, I was offensively flatulent, and I blamed this-- by process of elimination-- on something in the taco meat; Friday, my wife and kids took off on an overnight band trip, leaving me alone in the house with the dog, and so after going to happy hour with some teachers at Bar Louie (at the mall . . . absurd) where I only drank Guinness, which never gives me gas, I decided to conduct an experiment and finish the leftover meat and see if my intuition was correct . . . and it was . . . something in that meat-- perhaps extra garlic in the spice packet?-- wreaked havoc on my stomach, and due to my inspired scientific zeal and endeavor, I am now close to certain that my hypothesis was correct (and my gassiness has subsided and my wife and kids won't be home until 7 PM so the only people to experience discomfort because of this experiment were me and the dog).

Adrian McKinty Does It Again

Mercury tilt bombs, Castle Carrickfergus, Jimmy Savile, the Troubles, Belfast, Coronation Road, atrocious scandals, a locked room murder, copious pints of beer, plenty of illicit substances, Steve Reich and other obscure minimalist music . . . this all adds up to another excellent Sean Duffy crime novel: Rain Dogs.

Robert Kaplan: More Analogies!

When my wife and I lived in Syria, it made sense for me to read a lot of Robert Kaplan: Balkan Ghosts, An Empire in Wilderness, The Coming Anarchy, Arabists, The Ends of the Earth . . . then we returned stateside, bought a house, had children, and our travels to exotic overseas locales ended . . . as did my obsession with the most literary of geopolitical analysts-- because reading Robert Kaplan takes a lot of concentration, it's not like breezing through a Thomas Friedman book-- but just because I forgot about Robert Kaplan, doesn't mean he stopped writing, and I've decided to catch up: I picked up Asia's Cauldron: The South China Sea and the End of a Stable Pacific in a used bookstore in Vermont and I'm wading through it, trying to sort out analogies like this: "Whereas Hanoi is Vietnam's Ankara, Saigon is Vietnam's Istanbul."

Deer Beer Diary . . .

The lady at the beer store in Ludlow said I should start a beer diary so I could better remember what I like . . . but Gary Taubes told me beer contains quite a bit of sugar, in the form of maltose, and apparently sugar is the enemy-- which makes me very sad-- but now I understand why I gained eight pounds over spring break in Vermont . . . anyway, here are some of the beers I sampled, the remains of which are still hanging about my midriff:

Idletyme Joy and Laughter . . . delicious;

Fiddlehead IPA . . . hoppy and delicious;

Trout River Rainbow Red Ale . . . smooth and delicious;

Farnham Red Ale . . . even better than the Trout River;

Terrapin HI-5 . . . typical;

Idletyme Zog's American Pale Ale . . . another good one;

Uncanny Valley Burlington Beer Company . . . weird cloudy grapefruit juice;

Whetstone Big 'stoner . . . awesome;

Whetstone Down South . . . way too smoky;

Whetstone Off the Rails . . . black but not heavy;

Farnham Double India Pale Ale 78 . . . a better version of the Uncanny Valley cloudy grapefruit juice;

Miller64 . . . nope.

The Enemy is Delicious

Fat is fine, but that's the only good news: the enemy is everywhere, and the enemy is addictive and the enemy is sugar . . . if you want to know why, then listen to the new Sam Harris podcast (but it might be better if you didn't).

The Miracle of the Missing ID

Friday when I got home from work, I unloaded the car-- beer and ice for our Cinco de Mayo party-- and then I took off my windbreaker and noticed that I was still wearing my school ID lanyard . . . but there was no school ID attached to the metal loop-- my ID had fallen off somewhere between school and home-- so I checked the house and my car, but no luck . . . and then Cunningham and Stacey arrived, to do the podcast, so I had to end my search (and I was pretty upset-- we had to sign our life away for this thing, because it's also an electronic card key, and I didn't know if I needed to tell someone at the school that I lost the card, since now anyone who found it could get into the building and I had just gotten in trouble for another security breach: I propped a door open with a chair so i didn't have to keep opening it for late-in seniors) and so an hour later when I received a phone call from the lady at Buy-Rite Liquor, informing me that someone had found my ID on the sidewalk outside the store, I was overjoyed (and told her so, and also might have recounted most of this sentence to her, which my wife and the ladies found very amusing . . . they told me I gave her way too much information, but I was just trying to explain how appreciative I was for the call).

The Gastro-Inevitable

I thought this batch of jalapeno infused tequila I whipped up for Cinco de Mayo was fairly mild (and it was certainly milder than this first attempt) and while some folks at the party disagreed, people liked it enough to finish the bottle . . . which made me think I should step it up the next time-- I can't be making spicy tequila that people can actually consume without clutching their throats and spitting up mucous . . . the only problem is that my stomach thought the mild stuff was more than spicy enough, and no matter how good it tastes, your stomach still has to deal with it later . . . and my stomach is getting old and fed up with stupid shenanigans like that.

Drones: Miniature Paranoia

1990s paranoia was all about unmarked helicopters-- they loomed, they surveilled, they indicated the presence of a mysterious authority-- but you could run from them and you could hide from them . . . Goodfellas and The X-Files come to mind-- but the 2010s are all about the drones: constant, persistent, ubiquitous . . . and there's nowhere to hide; the surveillance and paranoia are constant, so much so that we are inured to it.

Thank You, Stupid Meat Brain

I can't find a specific name for this logical fallacy, but I'm sure you'll understand what I'm talking about: sometimes people desire variety simply for the sake of variety without a perfectly logical rationale . . . and while this is illogical, there's no question that our stupid meat brains fall for this trick time after time-- this is the irrationality that causes trends in fashion and the 24 hour news cycle and the allure of social media . . . everyone knows that they should just buy some quality clothes that will last a lifetime, read Brothers Karamazov instead of an endless slew of stupid tweets, and stop following the daily political morass . . . but we enjoy the constant change, the shiny allure of the new . . . and while I think this is cognitive glitch is generally a swirling time suck, an environmental disaster, and a recipe for prodigality, I will descend from my high horse and admit that sometimes this desire for variety can be beneficial; Pitchfork, the arrogant, judgey, annoyingly opinionated and generally spot-on music site named the David Bowie/Brian Eno collaboration "Low" as the number one album of the 1970s and when I stumbled upon this last week, at first I found the pronouncement to be fairly humorous and completely absurd-- could this album really be better than Led Zeppelin IV and Exile on Main Street and London Calling and Dark Side of the Moon?-- could it even best Ziggy Stardust?-- but despite the silliness of the choice, the probably underserved number one position convinced me to listen to the album and I love it . . . I've been listening to it on repeat for a week straight; it's full of moody instrumentals that combine funk guitar and bass with ethereal synth washes (and limited saxophone, thank goodness) and when Bowie does sing, the lyrics are spare and ambiguous . . . sometimes the album feels like the soundtrack to Lord of the Rings; apparently this is Bowie in detox, after all the excess and abuse, and while I don't think it's genuinely better than Exile and Dark Side, I've played those albums out and would have no problem never listening to them again, so this variety-for-variety's-sake logical fallacy, while an obnoxious move by a hipster critic, got me listening to something I would never have discovered otherwise . . . so thanks Pitchfork, you giant douchebag and thank you stupid meat brain, for falling for this rather obvious cognitive ruse..

Let's Get Ready to (Logically) Bumble!

In honor of logical fallacy week here at SoD, I oversimplified things yesterday and I'm going to make an unfounded, imprecise analogy today: my generation's JFK moment was February 11, 1990 . . . when undefeated heavy-weight champion Mike Tyson lost to underdog Buster Douglas; I remember exactly where I was when I heard the news (the third floor of my fraternity house) and the absolute shock and disbelief that accompanied this information . . . my perception was forever altered: I now understood that nothing was certain, nothing was deserved, and the future was a wicked morass of variability and change.

The Internet (in a nutshell)

When we have access to everything, we don't know anything.

Operation . . . for Realsies

I hope you are enjoying vintage commercial/logical fallacy week here at Sentence of Dave, and I will begin this episode with an example of an excellent analogy: Saturday morning, I was about to leave the dog park with Sirius, and I noticed something bulbous beneath his eye-- a dog tick had attached itself to his lower eyelid-- so we hurried home and when I entered the house, I called to my wife: "Catherine? Can you get the tweezers? We're going to play Operation . . . for real" and the next sequence was perfectly analogous the old board game, except the punishment for a miscue wouldn't be a buzzing red light, it would be a one-eyed dog; I held Sirius steady, and after a couple of tentative failed attempts, Catherine nabbed the tick (without damaging the dog's eye) and then I found an old commercial for the game and showed it to my kids-- as I was so proud of my analogy-- and there's a really weird logical leap in the first moments of the ad, when the mom overhears her children say the word "operation" . . . she immediately assumes they are vivisecting the family dog . . . so my question is: what happened in the past to make her think this is the case?

The Straw Ham Argument

In my composition class we're reviewing common logical fallacies, which helped me finally put my finger on the exact reason this commercial (above) has been bothering me for over thirty years-- the wacky uncle hard selling the A-1 uses the "straw man argument" to convince his nephew to use steak sauce on his burger; first, he creates a hollow and idiotic premise (no one actually believes a hamburger is chopped ham) and then he knocks down this moronic argument (of his own invention) with apparent ease . . . a hamburger isn't chopped ham . . . no, it's chopped steak! . . . but, of course, there's no mention of what a hamburger really is: cheap beef parts, laced with E. Coli and salmonella, minced and padded out with pink slime . . . the whole thing goes down so quickly that the rest of the family never questions the uncle's slick (but ham-handed) rhetoric.

The Test 85: Going with the Flow

Please join us this week for a very special episode of The Test . . . I promise you mysteries and surprises, the revelation of a new superpower, and a whole lot more . . . a whole lot more.
 

Quest for Pizza . . . The Best Tomato Pie?

Alex had a game out in West Windsor today, so we got pizza from DeLorenzo's in Robbinsville . . . it is supposed to be the best "tomato pie" in New Jersey and while I've never had a tomato pie before, so I've nothing with which to compare it, it's damn good stuff: crispy, thin, chewy crust; sweet and delicious sauce, and light on the cheese (which is under the tomato sauce and condiments).

Am I Dave?

I am nearly finished with Dan Chaon's novel Await Your Reply-- which Jonathan Franzen calls "the essential identify-theft novel"-- and while I won't spoil anything about the plot, other than to say the book is suspenseful and thrilling and illuminating on identity-theft, I will share this Anais Nin quote that makes it's way into the consciousness of one of the characters:

We see things not as they are, but as we are . . . because the "I" behind the "eye" does the seeing

and I'd also like to note that no one has written the essential "Romeo and Juliet" of cell-phone courtship yet.

Happy BYCTWD! Sort of . . .

Happy Bring Your Child to Work Day . . . or, as we like to call it, Happy Bring Your Child to Work Day Because He Got Suspended From School For Two Days For Getting in a Fight in Gym Class and So My Wife Is Taking Him to Her Elementary School for the Day So He Can Do Manual Labor and Tutoring to Punish Him For His Stupid Decisions Day.

False Advertising or Just Desserts?

When I pulled onto Woodbridge Avenue on my way home from work today, I noticed that the Honda CRV in front of me sported a vanity plate that read "QT JILL" and so when I passed the car, I glanced over-- because I wanted to check out this Jill and determine if she possessed enough cuteness to warrant a celebratory license plate-- but the driver was a middle-aged Indian man with a plaid shirt and thick glasses . . . I assume he's either abducted QT JILL, borrowed her car, or has an amazing sense of humor and dreamed up the best vanity plate prank ever.

Extra Life

I finished Tom Bissell's book Extra Lives today and the last chapter-- a meditation on a short period of his life when he was addicted to the combination of cocaine and Grand Theft Auto IV-- is worth the price of admission; I liked the rest of the book, and honestly felt that maybe, by eschewing video games, I had missed something valuable in the last twenty-five years, but while Bissell finally boils his love of gaming down to the fact that he cherishes these in-game experiences, real experiences, visceral and like no other, they are experiences that take a tremendous amount of time, and this time must be spent at the expense of other things-- athletics, music, literature, family, sleep, sex, podcasts, etcetera-- and while I missed out on the actual adventure of GTA IV, I got to read about it, which was fairly exhilarating and slightly bizarre, and instead of spending 80 plus hours investigating the world, I got to hear about it secondhand, without giving up my own life . . . but perhaps when I near retirement, when my body breaks down but my mind craves excitement and adventure, perhaps then, when I take up golf again (another time consuming habit from my youth) I will also take up serious gaming, and perhaps by then, video games will be regarded as high art, like the graphic novel as compared to the comic book.

Cromulent?

I'm halfway through Tom Bissell's critical analysis of the aesthetics, rhetoric, and narrative structure of modern epic video games, Extra Lives: Why Video Games Matter, and it's pretty weird to read about all these games I've never played (I stopped playing video games after I conquered Road Rash on the Sega Genesis . . . although I do enjoy an occasional game of MarioKart 8 on the WiiU with my kids) and it was even weirder to stumble upon the word "cromulent" in the book, a word which sounds both made-up and vaguely familiar . . . and that is exactly how it is supposed to sound.

The Test 84: The Six Degrees of Canine Flatulence

This week on The Test, we explore the limits of human cognition, i.e. if it's possible for three people asphyxiating from dog farts to make random connection between various celebrities . . . it's a very special episode, starring Vin Diesel as Jesus Christ and everyone else as themselves; check it out, keep score, and see how you fare (although to truly replicate the testing environment, you'd need to stuff yourself into a tiny room full of methane filtered through the anus of a terrier).

A Snake to Bring on a Plane

Apparently, there are twenty-two species of snake found in New Jersey . . . and if you grab most of these critters, they'll probably bite you or leave some smelly oil on your hands (or both) but my son Ian caught a Northern ringneck snake yesterday and this is the snake for me-- the scales are totally smooth, the head is small, the colors are bright and beautiful, and this snake made no attempt to chomp any fingers . . . Ian let it go in the underbrush in our yard and I hope it hangs around (if these were the kind of snakes on the plane, the film would have been rated G and Samuel Jackson wouldn't have had to do all that swearing).

Get Off the Internet and Read This Book!

If you're looking to read something completely different, totally memorable, compelling, funny, and downright awesome (I really love this book) check out Christopher Buckley's novel The Relic Master . . . it's Monty Python and the Holy Grail meets Pillars of the Earth, a historical novel that reads nothing like a historical novel (and the plot doesn't bag out at the end, as it does in The Holy Grail) where you'll follow the adventures of Dismas, former Swiss mercenary and monk, who is now a collector of holy relics for both the Frederick the Wise (the Ruler of Saxony) and the Archbishop of Mainz . . . he'll run into lots of other historical figures along the way-- including the great German painter Albrecht Durer, Paracelsus, and Martin Luther-- but I promise you won't learn too much history; you will, however, contemplate faith, forgery, market economies, artistry, aesthetics, and just how the Shroud of Turin became the Shroud of Turin (you'll also learn about the euphemism "translating" as it applies to holy relics).

Rough Road Ahead

It was with great sadness yesterday that I wrote my eleven year old son Ian an IOU for "one pound of high quality Birnn chocolate," which he earned by beating me in a tennis match to 11-9 . . . I made this promise years ago, when I was sure my children would never be able to defeat me, and while I can offer a number of excuses (we weren't playing with real serves yet, we just get the ball into play and then begin the point, and there was some wind at my back, so I couldn't hit the ball as hard as I wanted for fear of it going out) the fact of the matter is that once I thought the game was in jeopardy, when he was beating me 6-2, I took things very seriously and played my ass off, and I couldn't get anything by him-- I was punching shots deep to his backhand and racing to the net, taking him cross-court, and eventually just hitting everything back, certain he would falter, but he was unassailable, didn't make an unforced error, and finally beat me with a wicked forehand winner that I couldn't touch . . . once we start serving for real, I think I'll get another year  or two of victories, but he's getting better and I'm getting worse, and the inevitably of time is rearing its ugly head.

Second Hand Tech

The young lady behind me on Route 18 this morning was completely distracted by her phone, texting at every stop light, glancing at the screen as she drove, and I couldn't stop watching her antics in my rearview mirror, which distracted me, and so instead of looking ahead, I was mesmerized by her distracted driving, which (ironically) made me accident prone as well.

Spiders and Snakes Oh My

My son Ian came home from the woods yesterday sporting two garter snake bites-- one on his hand and one on his finger, both fairly impressive and bloody, the teeth marks visible on his skin-- and not only did he catch two rather angry garter snakes, but he also nabbed a beautifully colored ring-necked snake (they are mildly venomous, but harmless to humans because their fangs face backwards and they have a very calm disposition) and in this regard my son is just like me, I loved catching snakes when I was a kid and couldn't get enough of stalking them; on the other hand, I'm not particularly fond of spiders, but my boys think they are peachy keen . . . while we were on vacation in Vermont, Alex chose to sleep in the basement of the house we rented, two floors away from the rest of us, and he even did this after we watched The Shining, and in the middle of the night, he said he woke up and felt something on his face, and it was a giant spider, so he killed it, and then went back to sleep, and I was astounded at this, that he had no nightmare, that he didn't come upstairs screaming, that he just shrugged it off as business as usual when you're sleeping in a basement in a cabin in the woods in Vermont.

At Least It Was Bob (and not a Bot)

My friend Bob showed me a demonstration video for the Electro Harmonix Synth 9 Synthesizer Machine Pedal (a guitar pedal that makes your guitar sound just like a variety of 80's synths!) and, in a manner of seconds, I went from not knowing that such a piece of technology existed to absolutely needing to possess it-- which is absurd-- but at least I can take solace in the fact that it was my friend and fellow musician Bob who recommended this item to me, because he knew I would love it, and not some advertising bot that predicted my predilection because my internet provider sold my search data to some company (for more on the evils of technology and how it will most likely be a bot and not your friend Bob who controls your future, listen to the new Sam Harris podcast, in which he discusses the philosophical implications of technological platforms that essentially want to monopolize our time far more than our mental health can tolerate-- Sam Harris is close to insufferable, especially when he talks about meditation and the stupid meditation app that he is designing, but he's also very smart and his guest, Design Ethicist Tristan Harris, is brilliant on this subject).

This Game Needs a Name . . .

Alec and I collaborated on a fantastic new party game last night and we even persuaded a few people to participate . . . the rules are a bit ambiguous and we haven't come up with a name, but the gist of it is this: you name two bands or musicians, and then triangulate the average-- there are no definite right answers but there are certainly wrong ones, and when you hear a really good answer, you know it's correct . . . for instance, everyone agreed that when you triangulate Michael Jackson and Mick Jagger, you get Prince; here are a few other notable answers from last night:

Neil Young + Bob Dylan = Tom Petty

Metallica + The Indigo Girls = PJ Harvey

Jimi Hendrix + Steve Perry = Lenny Kravitz . . .

I kept trying to introduce new elements to the game-- food and actors and book titles-- to make it more complicated and surreal, but this really offended one lady, who was quite knowledgeable about music and took the game very seriously (she offered a rather longwinded logical and detailed explanation of why Neil Peart is the triangulation of Keth Moon and Phil Collins) and so all I can say is the next time you're at a party, give it a shot, at the very least it will provoke some conversation . . . and if you want to get people involved, start with Michael Jackson + Mick Jagger = Prince before you move on to triangulations like Mozart + Weezer = Camper Van Beethoven.

A Bit More Serenity Than Yesterday . . .

Last day of the ski/snowboard season was a memorable one-- Okemo kept the Jackson-Gore Peak closed all week and opened it yesterday, so while the main mountain was a treacherous obstacle course of slushy snow, dirt patches, large rocks, ice, and crevasses, Jackson-Gore had a few perfectly groomed runs with full snow cover . . . and the weather was sunny and fairly warm, the snow was soft and forgiving but not slushy, there was nobody on the mountain, and my kids didn't get into a fistfight in the lodge (although later in the day, Alex punted a soccer ball into the back of Ian's head, knocking him to the ground, where he curled into the fetal position, wailing loud enough that I heard him from the other side of the house).

Serenity Almost

The scene: early morning in the ski lodge, snowy mountains stretched across the front windows, clusters of people quietly chatting, sipping coffee and buckling boots, and I have just ascended the stairs from the bathroom, and I am walking across the wide open main room, which is pleasantly uncrowded-- it's the end of the season-- and I notice, at the far side, near our table . . . no at our table . . . two small people fighting, some fists are thrown, a headlock is poorly executed (because both small people are wearing helmets) and I increase the speed of my previously languid stride because these are my children, and some random old guy is about to break them up, but I get there first, stop the brawl-- Ian is crying because he smashed his nose on Alex's helmet-- and they can't really explain the origin of the fight, Alex said something and Ian whacked him on the head and Alex lost his temper . . . and so I give up on that course of action and I make them look at the scene, look at the room and the mountains and the quiet people and the general serenity, and try to convince them how absolutely absurd they looked fighting in this scenario . . . and they agree with this sentiment, that they are spoiled awful human beings with no appreciation for the finer things in life and no clue how good they have it, and that there are children in Syria, refugees, who are starving and without medical care, who would give anything to be in a situation as wonderful and beautiful as this, and then we proceed out to the lift, laden with the guilt of living in a first world country and not fully appreciating it, and enjoy the spring conditions.

The Test 83: Going Viral

This week on The Test, Cunningham proudly presents "the dumbest thing she's ever made," and while she doesn't know what the answers are, or even what she's looking for, Stacey and I have no problem meeting her half way . . . so see if you know what's up with the youngsters, and what it takes to earn yourself a plaque and go viral.

Family + Isolation = Here's Johnny!

Catherine keeps interrupting me while I write this sentence, but I'm trying to keep my cool . . . I'm trying to avoid bashing her brains in with an ax (all work and no play makes Dave a dull boy) and I'm going to crack open a beer soon (all work and no play makes Dave a dull boy) because it rained today and so we holed up at the house and watched The Shining (streamable on Netflix) and I realized the true moral of the film is Don't go on the wagon while you're isolated on a mountain with your family . . . Jack could have used a little actual alcohol (not ghost whiskey) to soothe his nerves and then maybe he wouldn't have lost his mind . . . anyway, Catherine and I are staying flexible and mentally resilient, despite the wild swings in the weather-- yesterday we hiked all the way around Lowell Lake, the trail went from balmy to treacherous depending on the sun exposure, one moment we were walking on soft pine needles in the warm sun, the next we were being frozen by the spray of a snow-fueled stream while navigating ice fields; I was a little nervous that I might pull a muscle, but the kids loved it-- they said all the obstacles kept them more occupied and "confuzzled," so they didn't have time to bicker . . . the dog also loved the mixed terrain, and Catherine and I survived without injury; today we had to beat a hasty retreat from the mountain because of the rain and fog, but after we finished The Shining, we came up out of the basement to see the sun again, so I stopped sharpening my ax and we went outside and played some snow football.

Interesting Coleopteran Information

Love Me Do! The Beatles Progress is regarded by many credible sources as the best book about the Beatles and while I'm not the one to dispute this-- this is the only book about The Beatles I've read-- I think this is a great book on its own merits, an in-the-moment meditation on fame, mania, art, and celebrity-- The Beatles stuff is just icing on the cake; anyway, Michael Braun accompanies the Liverpudlians for several weeks of a world tour in 1963, just as Beatlemania is taking hold of the world-- and The Beatles present a telling contrast to Elvis and Cliff Richard, two of the big stars at the time-- both crooners who were very male and rather sexual . .  Frank Sinatra is another artist mentioned frequently; meanwhile, no one over twenty could understand what was going on with The Beatles, teenagers, mainly girls, flocked to anywhere that a Beatle might turn up, and Braun was there to document it all . . . this is a quick read and I recommend you go along for the magical mystery tour and read the book, but if not, here is a quick and messy look at the things I highlighted on my Kindle:

there are plenty of quips and quotes, and many of them reveal the archetypal character traits that become more concrete later in their careers;

Ringo Starr, 23 years old . . . "I don't care about politics . . . just people";

George Harrison, 21 years old, says: "I wouldn't do anything I didn't want to, would I?" and then explains his ambition is to design a guitar;

Paul McCartney, 22, would like "to be successful" and wants "money to do nothing with, money to have in case you wanted to do something";

John Lennon, 23, explains: "The more people you meet, the more you realize it's all a class thing";

then some trouble with visas when they came to America for the first time, but they were eventually  granted an H2 visa, a step above the H3 trainee visa, but below H1, which was reserved for "persons of distinguished merit and ability";

there are, of course, moments that seem prescient now . . . such as, in New York, before the Ed Sullivan appearance, Cynthia Lennon wanted to go out shopping but was afraid to venture out into the city alone, and she noted "the fans here seem a bit wackier than in England";

Braun actually delves into the intellectuals and their attempt to understand Beatlemania, instead of dismissing it . . . he describes how the critics spoke of pandiatonic versus diatonic, unresolved leading tones, false modal frames, and dominant seventh of the mixolydian . . . but the appeal was more than musical . . .

well known television psychologist Dr. Joyce Brothers offered her two cents as well, explaining that teen revolt is perfectly normal and unavoidable in a country which allows "social change, individualism, and free choice of lifestyle" and parents may fight back against this rebellion but it's because they have blocked out how difficult and traumatic it is to be a teenager in such a world, adults "honestly cannot believe that we ourselves were ever that unreasonable, sloppy and goonish . . . and so from generation to generation, the war wages on . . . the Beatles are a marvelous symbol to adolescents of their rebellion against adult society"

and Dr Renee Fox, sociologist, discussed their dual roles as male and female, adult and child, and how appealing this was, and how-- because they can barely be heard above the shrieks of the audience, they almost play the role of mimes . . . a play within a play . . .

and I'll end with one last bit of interesting coleopteran information . . . George Harrison made the mistake of telling fans that he liked to eat "jelly babies," a British gummy candy that takes the form of a plump infant, and so fans constantly pelted the band with these sweets, sometimes leaving them in the bag . . . Ringo Starr said getting hit with bag after bag of jelly babies felt like enduring "hailstones"

and the while the band's high jinks are tame and clownish by today's standards, Michael Braun can tell there's something big and bold in this popular rebellion, and The Beatles had the wit, talent, looks, and ability to ride the wave all the way to shore.

Spring Break Vermont: Hot as Daytona, But No Wet T-Shirt Contest

Some highlights from this bizarrely warm snowboarding trip:

1) fun this morning at Okemo, but got extremely slushy and thus exhausting . . . it's supposed to be even warmer tomorrow, so that might be it for the mountain;

2) the nearby Buttermilk Falls are all roaring from the snowmelt, and I came to a revelation while the boys and I were trying to hit a piece of blue Styrofoam spinning in the whirlpool at the base of one of the larger falls-- we were chucking rocks like mad, but not connecting-- and then I realized the most accurate method was "cornhole style" and tossed one like that which nearly hit, but Ian mimicked me and hit the foam with his very first cornhole type toss;

3) Catherine and I went snowshoeing into the woods (I was wearing shorts and a t-shirt and still sweating) and we found the creature that Sirius treed the day before-- it was a porcupine and it now lay dead at the base of a hollowed out tree . . . we're not sure how it died, or if it was this particular porcupine that was alive the day before, or perhaps a relative . . . but there's no way Sirius attacked this thing, because it was all full of sharp quills . . . perhaps the winter hibernation was just too much for it;

4) the people that own this house have similar taste to us in high quality board games-- Carcassonne, Settlers of Catan, Bananagrams, Ticket to Ride, etc. . . . in fact, they already owned almost all of the games we brought (except for Exploding Kittens, which is a silly card game that is totally inappropriate, with lots of butt and genitals jokes and, of course, exploding kittens . . . my kids found it on their shelf and loved it) and we tried one of their other games, Seven Wonders, and it had way too many pieces for Ian and I, but Catherine and Alex think it's the bees knees, so even among board game snobs, there are major disagreements as to what constitutes excellence.

Spring Break Vermont!

Weird winter wonderland up here in Southern Vermont: we are staying at our favorite rental property, it lies in a pocket of deep snow between Weston and Andover and though at the bottom of the mountain there are only slushy piles of the white stuff, at the top of the hill-- where the house is-- the snow is several feet deep; we've built a long and dangerous luge run that ends in a pit I dug . . . and if you pop over the far wall of the pit then you run into a rock wall (not recommended) and we went over to Okemo Mountain today for some snowboarding, and while the bottom runs were slushy, up at the top the snow was perfect . . . tomorrow is supposed to be even warmer than today, so I'm not sure what's going to happen, but we'll probably be acting like we're out west, skiing in t-shirts and slathering on the sunblock (I might even toss my bra into that tree full of lingerie).

What the High School Kids Think Is Funny

A student told me this joke, and I fell for it hook, line, and sinker:

How did the turtle cross the freeway?

Hint: take the "f" out of free and take the "f" out of way . . . punchline in the comments.

Spoilers, Ancient and Modern

If you haven't listened to S-Town yet, you should . . . and if you haven't read (or watched) Hamlet yet, then you probably never will and it would be silly for me to recommend it (sort of like recommending that you check out the Bible) but I'd like to point out some interesting parallels between the podcast and Shakespeare's most famous tragedy:

1) both contain themes of suicide, Hamlet contemplates suicide but chickens out-- though he can barely stand the "slings and arrows" life has sent his direction-- and John B. actually makes good on his promise to remove himself from the picture because he's just so "tired" of dealing with all the shit;

2) bother John B. and Hamlet see themselves in an "unweeded garden" of corruption and betrayal;

3) Brian Reed, the narrator and reporter in S- Town,plays the same role as Horatio-- he goes on a trip to investigate a death and ends up as an involved bystander in a world that is both intellectual and depraved;

4) Hamlet and John B. both believe that "frailty thy name is woman";

5) in both works, there is family intrigue and alliances, oblivious to the machinations of the outside world, and in the end, Fortinbras and the Burt family  operate in the same manner, swooping in to take over the land;

6) there is the distinct possibility that both protagonists are insane, and rereading or relistening makes this more and more apparent;

7) there are plays within plays in both works-- the back room in the tattoo shop, the needle play, the dramas within dramas of John B.'s relationships;

8) there is the theme of time and time dilation . . . no one can figure out how time passes in Hamlet, the span may be much longer than we think, and the same with S- Town-- John is involved with his horological studies, but it's impossible to trace when his mercury induced insanity began, when he went from trying to improve the town with his friend the clerk to feeling betrayed by everything, and if Brian Green ever knew him in a time of sanity;

9) both pieces contain plenty of dark humor amidst the tragedy;

10) both protagonists are most certainly geniuses;

11) both John B. and Hamlet have weird relationships with their respective mothers, and odd stances towards sex;

12) I really like the podcast and the play.

Memories . . . Light the Corners of My Mind?

Dan Chaon's new thriller Ill Will will make you question everything you think you know about your past, and while elements of the novel are predictable, Chaon's experiments with structure are enough to discomfit any normal narrative experience . . . whatever that means . . . and if you're gullible enough, you'll fall for everything, and if you're not impressionable, then you'll certainly be horrified, so however you enter this story, you're bound to be disturbed.

I Am Valuable

Although I'm certainly not the head chef in our kitchen, there are certain things at which I excel during dinner preparation:: I am a good chopper of vegetables, and (of course) I am good drinker of wine and beer, I select the best of the best when it comes to cooking music (although I sometimes get a bit lost in the selecting process) and I recently discovered another culinary skill that I possess . . . I am phenomenal at reading a recipe aloud, enunciating the measurements, so that my wife can execute the instructions without consulting the computer-- and this skill dovetails perfectly with the drinking and the musical selection, so it's a win-win-win!

Jimmy Gluestick Fingers

Our family just watched the 1990 Tim Burton classic Edward Scissorhands, and while we enjoyed the visuals: the brightly colored antiseptic suburbs, the dark contrast of the castle, the extent of the whimsical topiaries, the odd menace of Anthony Michael Hall, and the steampunk chic of Edward himself, we had some problems with the logic of the story: Mister Scissorhands occasionally eats, but he doesn't seem to actually require sustenance to survive, and he never goes to the bathroom--  he's obviously never removed his leather skinsuit (one of the problems of having scissors for hands) and he seems to be immortal-- as indicated by the ancient Winona Ryder at the end of the film-- but it's never explained what his energy source is . . . my kids thought maybe he generated power with the constant clicking of his scissorhands; we also speculated on possible sequels . . . Jimmy Gluestick Fingers, Johnny Tape Hands, Martha Marker Nails, Philip Fork Phalanges, etcetera.

To Distribute or Not to Distribute

My two favorite wonky podcasts have recently done episodes on healthcare (The Weeds, Common Sense) and the takeaway is this:

1) Americans pay a ton of money for healthcare and we don't get very good results-- we may be the greatest country in the world for lakes, but we are not even in the ballpark when it comes to health outcomes-- not only do we pay more, but we get less, and-- most significantly-- for a developed country, we die rather young;

2) we have taken the worst aspects of free markets and government subsidized healthcare and combined them, and at every step of the way, players are trying to squeeze profits from the system-- and without the government to negotiate prices, the patient is screwed;

3) Republicans care more about giving a tax break to rich people than actually reforming the system;

4) we may be subsidizing medical innovations for the rest of the world with our high drug costs . . . or that's what people who work in the industry would like you to believe;

and Dave's theory is this:

it all comes down to what William Gibson said: "the future is here-- it's just not evenly distributed," and how America decides to apply this sentiment to the population, as there's plenty of incredible medical advances, knowledge, drugs, and treatments and if we distributed these to the majority of Americans, we'd have a much healthier country . . . or you could take the Paul Ryan route and try to make the distribution as lumpy and uneven as possible, which might save money, or might allow for some advances for certain people, but wouldn't give everyone access to the future that is already here . . . and it seems that the disagreement over Gibson's idea breaks down along party lines; I know I'd rather have everyone getting access to all we have available now, even if that meant there wouldn't be as many innovations in the future, especially if you could decouple health care from employment and allow people to move around the country and switch careers without fear of losing benefits, as that would really spur the economy (as would a healthier populace) and maybe convince a few folks that coal mining is the only way to make a living (despite the particulate matter and mercury poisoning, which are quite costly, from both an environmental and healthcare perspective) but there are plenty of people-- rich people, conservative people, lobbyists, people in the medical business-- that would like to see things continue as they are, or even get less evenly distributed and make the industry more about economics and free markets . . . but the important thing to remember is that good health is a temporary state, no matter how well you feel, the reaper's scythe will cut you down to size soon enough . . . cheers!

The Test 82: Fill in the Trump

The bigliest, most beautiful, classiest Test ever, inspired by this Car Seat Headrest song . . . a great great test, I'm certain you're going to love it.

The Problem is You, Dave

More often than I'd like, I jack my phone into a charging cord that is not plugged into any sort of electrical outlet, and then at some unspecified later time, I get really annoyed and think my battery doesn't hold a charge.

No Spoilers (No Shit)

I finished S-Town this afternoon, and I won't spoil anything-- other than the fact that my previous prediction (Bitcoin!) was idiotic . . . you couldn't invent the ending to the story of John B. McLemore (and neither could I).

Spoiler? Only If Dave is as Smart as John B. McLemore

I am just starting episode five of S-Town, the fantastic new podcast from the producers of This American Life and Serial, and I have a bold out-of-the-box prediction (especially considering the Flannery O'Connoresque Southern Gothic tone of the story) and I promise my speculative conjecture won't spoil a thing if you haven't started listening, but I'm making my guess and it's Bitcoin.

Why Do We Walk So Far For Ice Cream?

The Median Voter Theorem-- an idea based on Harold Hoteling's theory of spatial competition, which Anthony Downs linked to the U.S. two party political system-- makes perfect logical sense; both ice cream trucks (or political parties) should move toward the middle of the block to capture the median voter (while still being the closest and most appetizing option for the extreme voters as well) and thus the two parties should move closer and closer together (while still remaining discernible) but for various reasons that Tyler Cowen outlines in his new book, reasons such as lobbyists, stasis, financiers, entrenched budgets, complacent participation in democracy and elections, the lack of meaning behind most policy, entrenched budgets and discretionary spending, and a bunch of other shit, this rational model doesn't apply any longer . . . and this is really really strange and means that the polarized political world that we now live in is much weirder than you might imagine . . . so watch the video, and then come up with your own theory on why we're completely insane and willing to walk a really long way for ice cream, and if you really want to be depressed (and intrigued) by stasis and stagnation, and the possibility of an apocalyptic reset that will not only drain the swamp, weed the garden, and possibly set fire to the wicked, read Tyler Cowen's fantastic, precise and intelligent book The Complacent Class: The Self-Defeating Quest for the American Dream, and if you're looking for something more metaphorical, literary, and Southern Gothic, then check out the podcast S-Town . . . but be careful about digesting them in combination, as you'll be in for an ugly ride.

Dave Returns! With the Usual Drivel . . .

My wife and I escaped from the children this weekend and enjoyed some unscheduled time in the City of Brotherly Love . . . and while we certainly experienced some love, it was mainly of the segregated and gentrified sort-- 13th Street near McGillin's pub is no longer gritty and urban, it's now a wonderful upscale strip of restaurants, bars, and coffee shops catering to young hipsters . . . here's a quick and dirty rundown of some of the stuff we did and saw:

1) after hiking over to the Edgar Allan Poe National Historic Site, which is a bit of a haul from center city but definitely worth a stop, we wandered into a Trump Rally, which was fairly small (apparently it got bigger and wilder as the day went on) and while it was pretty tame, it did have the usual jingoistic chanting, an African-American representing Black Lives Matter with a megaphone in an argument with a bearded Trump supporter, and some people off to the side with a fantastic sign condemning everyone; the sign read:

LUKEWARM CHRISTIANS LIKE TRUMP 

WILL BURN IN HELL WITH ALL LIBERALS

REPENT AND OBEY JESUS 

which is a statement I've got to admire in its candid comprehensiveness and straightforward sentiment;

2) we saw the horror movie Get Out, which is funny, scary, and satirizes race relations in America-- I highly recommend the film, it's totally entertaining . . . and soon after, when we were walking through a slightly sketchy area that harbored some prostitutes and homeless folks, a rather tipsy African-American woman yelled, "White people stink!" at my wife and me, and I told her she should go see Get Out, which would certainly confirm her hypothesis;

3) we ate at some excellent places: Lolita, Pub and Kitchen, Sampan, Dan Dan, and Misconduct Tavern.

Questions of Dave Part IV

Did the lobbyists who perpetuate our flawed and byzantine healthcare system conspire with the lobbyists who block tax reform?-- because they both have an interest in preserving systems that squeeze the maximum profit out of every step of the equation-- and why do these folks hate the American people so fucking much?

Questions of Dave Part III

Now that music is essentially free (Spotify, YouTube, etc.) and streamable, will creditors grant amnesty to those who are still delinquent on their BMG Music Service and Columbia House Cassette of the Month club bills, because they fell prey to the negative option payment mechanism?

Questions of Dave Part II

At what rate must you consume a 48 ounce plastic jug of garden fresh Costco salsa in order to finish it before it goes sour?

Questions of Dave Part I

Cat and I are leaving the kids with my parents and heading to the City of Brotherly Love for the weekend, so I'll provide you some questions to ponder while I'm off the reservation:

1) how many hours of vintage Van Halen concert footage must I force my children to watch before they can truly appreciate the preteen portrayal of Van Halen in the "Hot For Teacher" video?

Dave's Brain = Random Band Name Generator

From the man who provided this phenomenal (but inappropriate) band name, gratis, here's another . . . it's a bit more intellectual, perfect for some math-rockers looking for a moniker:

The Algorithms of Delphi. 

Dave Has No Need For Telepathy

It turns out that my new mind-reading machine is fairly useless-- I thought it might be interesting to read Donald Trump's mind, but his thoughts are identical to his tweets-- and every time I used it on people in my general vicinity, they were thinking the exact same thing: Dave's here! Awesome!

Telepathy of Dave

Just got my new mind-reader operating, so I pointed it at Paul Ryan's brain and found this gem: people will enjoy their own subpar healthcare more if a bunch of other people they know don't have any healthcare at all.

Dave + March = Mirror Madness

I was tired today, despite a good night's sleep and I just realized why . . . I'm exhausted from watching all that NCAA basketball-- that's right, I'm physically tired from sitting on my butt, vicariously competing-- because my mirror neurons were firing like crazy for much of Saturday and Sunday afternoon: in fact, scientifically, it's like I played 80% of those games, because that's the percentage of neurons that fire when you're watching sports (as opposed to playing sports) and I watched quite a few games (the weather was lousy on Saturday) so really I'm probably more tired than some of the kids who were playing, plus I battled plenty of monsters during Kong:Skull Island . . . so I more than earned this beer I'm drinking, and I can't wait to get another phenomenal workout next weekend.

The Test 81: Of What It Is Made

This week on The Test, Dave and Stacey learn that a lot of stuff is made of other kinds of stuff . . . and Cunningham knows what that stuff is . . . not only that, she also knows how to dispose of old soup; so play along and see if you know of what things are made (you should also notice a vast improvement in sound quality, as I learned how to use the level controls on my digital audio recorder).

King Guam

Kong: Skull Island is an entertaining mash-up of Apocalypse Now and every archetypal monster-movie trope; while it certainly has it's share of horrific deaths, it is far more fun than Logan . . . and John C. Reilly has the most fun of anyone in the film, he plays Hank Marlow-- his name is certainly a nod to the narrator of Conrad's Heart of Darkness-- a WWII pilot who crashed on the island in 1944 while engaged in a dogfight with a Japanese plane; both soldiers survive the crash, battle a bit on the sandy beach and in the jungle, and then become friends, bonding over being scared shitless by Kong; we then flash-forward nearly 30 years to 1973, and a government and military crew is sent to map Skull Island and look for resources (but an especially dour John Goodman knows there is more in the jungle) after the crew is properly hazed and scattered by an angry, territorial Kong, one group meets Marlow in the jungle, and though Marlow's friend has died, Marlow has made it through the years and preserved much of his sanity, thanks to some friendly (but creepy) natives . . . so he's a little wacky, but certainly no Kurtz-- and while he's got no idea about what's happened in the civilized world for the past three decades, he is an expert on Kong and the skull-crawlers and everything else Skull Island related (but Samuel Jackson just won't listen to him, his character has been broken by the Vietnam War and just wants to defeat something, anything, and that thing is Kong) and take my word for it, take the kids and go see it, it's a visual spectacular that puts the new Jurassic Park to shame, but more importantly, I just learned Doug Mack's travelogue The Not Quite States of America: Dispatches from the Territories and other Far Flung Outposts of the United States that there was a situation quite similar to Hank Marlow's on the island of Guam: Sergeant Shoichi Yokoi survived 28 years in the jungle of Guam, 20 of them with two companions and the last 8 years alone (his companions starved to death) and he survived by eating "rats, frogs, snails, shrimp, coconuts, and other tropical fruit" and trapping eels; he lived in a cave with bamboo shelves and a bamboo ladder to the surface, and while he didn't have to contend with giant lizards and a godlike monstrous ape, he did make it home, marry, and live to the ripe old age of 82, which is why I pronounce him (posthumously) King Guam.

Breaking News!

Occasionally, the master becomes the student, and a good teacher will accept this turning of the tables and try to glean as much wisdom as possible from the situation; yesterday was one of those days, as a very informed pupil in my Creative Class enlightened me about several items of pop-cultural significance:

1) rapper extraordinaire Jay-Z is married to pop icon Beyonce!

2) rapper extraordinaire Kanye West is married to professional celebrity Kim Kardashian!

and if you'd like more up-to-the-moment celebrity news, tune in tomorrow, when I explain what the term "Brangelina" means (that's a joke, I know all about Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie, but I sincerely had no idea that Jay-Z and Kanye West are both married . . . it doesn't seem to fit their lifestyles).

Missing Ari Shaffir

Last week, I nearly descended into madness, and this week, my podcasting partner Stacey flirted with her own lunatic demons; over the weekend, I received a few cryptic texts from her about some white whale of a project she was pursuing . . . she was collecting a multitude of obscure audio clips, scribbling notes (in various colors of ink) in a marble notebook, recording live audio bits on her phone, organizing aforementioned clips into some kinds of order only she could understand, and she told me she needed to record a bunch of audio before our usual podcasting session for The Test . . . so Monday night she recorded her manic notes, and then I gave her a crash course in GarageBand and left my old Macbook with her so she could try to stitch it all together together during the blizzard, and while she suffered several digital setbacks and nearly gave up (one of her texts to me, while she was deep in the process, said simply: "My life sucks") she persevered and put together a compelling, rather intense, possibly satirical, very-meta Serial-style show investigating the "disappearance" of comedian Ari Shaffir . . . so The Test proudly presents a Stacey Powers original: Missing Ari Shaffir.

DST Is Easier to Deal With When You Don't Have to Go to Work

Where It Hurts, a noir crime thriller set on Long Island-- but nowhere near the Hamptons-- is about as dark and violent as the genre gets, and Reed Farrel Coleman has a deft touch with an extensive set of characters; they materialize one after the other, each the star of a short chapter, each providing a small piece to the puzzle retired cop Gus Murphy is trying to solve, each character broken in their own special way, each piece of information similarly fragmented . . . this was a perfect blizzard read: I couldn't put it down . . . and I didn't need to.

Pun of the Century?

My friend Terry would not shut up yesterday about the imminent blizzard-- he kept abreast of the weather forecast on a minute-to-minute basis and streamed this information to the office in a constant cascade of meteorological bombast-- but moments before final dismissal, justice was served . . . I had a lexical epiphany and called him a "snow-it-all," and for a few hours, my self-esteem was riding high and I was much impressed with my wit, but after some research, I found out that "snow-it-all" is already defined at Urban Dictionary, so though I did think of the term in the moment, I can't take credit for coining up it.

The Test 80 . . . Dave Descends into Darkness

If you thought you were going to escape my semi-annual DST rant, you've got another thing coming-- and while I understand great forces are at work with this policy, forces that want us to consume more Halloween candy and more golf balls-- I'd like us for a moment to consider the feelings and emotions of our loyal four-legged friends . . . what have they done to deserve this shift? why must they be punished for a capitalist conspiracy to make us shop more, consume more, and play more golf? my dog is like a clock, he sidles down the stairs every morning at 5:50 AM to go for his morning constitutional and subsequent defecation, but this morning I had to drag him out of bed and though we took our usual route, he wasn't ready to move his bowels yet-- though he tried-- but the poor fellow was confused by this arbitrary shift in his circadian rhythm . . . so lets end DSL for the children, for the dogs, and for all the good people that have to go to work early in the morning (or just keep DSL and let kids get hit by school buses in the darkness of winter) and if you liked this glimpse inside the darkness of Dave's brain, then you'll certainly enjoy the latest episode of The Test, which details how Dave's life is spiralling out of control, widening in the gyre, how the center cannot hold, but during the journey, plenty of new shit has come to light . . . check it out: The Test 80: New $#@! Has Come to Light.

Your Opinion About Dave Is Not Your Own

Perhaps the easiest way to happily plunge into the surveillance state is to embrace the comforting notion that your mind is not your own, because if you're just along for the ride, then there's no reason to care what anyone (or anything) knows about you-- your deepest darkest most private thoughts are formed by the circumstances surrounding you, and thus there's no escaping them, nor are you responsible for them; Jonah Berger explores this wonderful new way to think and live in our modern world in his book Invisible Influence: The Hidden Forces That Shape Our Behavior . . . it's a fast, breezy read consisting of summaries of compelling studies and vivid anecdotes which complement the science-- you won't be able to put it down; Berger doesn't really get into the philosophical implications of these ideas, he simply wants you to note them and understand the cliché: everyone thinks these forces affect other people, but no one thinks that they ever fall prey to them, but as you read, you'll slowly agree that your decisions are usually made so you can fit in, stand out, or achieve some desired combination of the two-- and competition, when it's close, may spur you on, and when you're being crushed, may destroy your soul . . . I learned that I'm more working-class than upper-middle-class with my automobile selections, as most upper-middle-class drivers try to select a car that's a little different from their peers-- they want to differentiate themselves, but working class folks don't mind some unity in their selection, and my family drives the two of the most common cars on the road (a Honda CRV and a Toyota Sienna minivan) for good reason, they are extremely reliable and well-rated, and they are easy to get fixed, because there are plenty of parts and all mechanics are familiar with them . . . but with music, I'm a typical hipster douchebag: I only like the early stuff . . . before they sold out, or else I'm listening to jazz . . . and then only this album, etcetera . . . anyway, there's also plenty of the research that indicates that where you are born has a major influence on your thoughts, decisions, and how much money you earn, and so there's no better program to help the poor than Moving to Opportunity, because it's not the money, it's the invisible social forces surrounding children that make them successful . . . anyway, I'm going to take this to heart, and stop getting all freaked out by Benjamen Walker's Surveillance State mini-series and just do whatever.

Some Smart Sci-Fi

Two recommendations for sci-fi lovers:

1) if you're overly worried about the surveillance state we live in . . . or if you're not worried at all about the surveillance state we live in, then take some time off from the screens and read Normal, the new Warren Ellis novel: it's short (148 pages) and fast-paced and vivid, a locked-room mystery set in a high-end asylum/refuge for depressed futurists broken by the digital age . . . and there are lots of bugs;

2) if you're overly worried about alien invasion . . . or not worried at all about alien invasion, then watch Arrival, where Louise Banks (Amy Adams) and Ian Donnelly (Jeremy Renner) truly get lost in translation; screenwriter Eric Heisserer takes a page out of Kurt Vonnegut's novel Slaughterhouse Five: his heptapods see time all at once, like the Tralfamadorians, but this story doesn't have the surreal breezy irony of Vonnegut . . . it's paradoxical, cerebral and byzantine-- and done very realistically-- it's definitely not a thriller, and rather sad, but I loved it and so did my eleven year old son.

Send Lawyers, Guns, and Actors

The Supreme Court unanimously decided that an unloaded gun is still considered a "dangerous weapon" and possession of such during a theft means the crime is an armed robbery, but the possession of a toy gun is more ambiguous and I'd like to propose an amendment to the law: for a toy gun to be considered a dangerous weapon, the person who wields the gun needs to be an accomplished actor . . . if the criminal's acting ability is poor, then he should not be charged with armed robbery . . . but if Clint Eastwood waves a toy gun around, he should be considered armed and dangerous.

Poop and Food: Always Funny

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.

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

Tinawaren-- the Taureg band that hails from a Libyan refugee camp-- has a new album (Elwan) and Kurt Vile makes a guest appearance . . . while I can't comprehend the lyrics, that just adds to the atmosphere, and the guitar work is mesmerizing, hypnotic, and rhythmic-- a dash of Zeppelin, a bit of Black Keys, and a lot of something I've never heard before.