Literacy: It's Not a Contest . . . Or Is It?

Over the past year, my friend (and fellow philosophy teacher) Stacey did something rather remarkable. I'm going to let her tell her story . . . but, before she begins, I have some rather remarkable commentary about her story (of course I do). I've conveniently put my words in vivid red, so if you want to skip them, you can proceed directly to Stacey's post. But you'd be missing out on some interesting context (and, not only that, you'd be missing out on all my thoughts and feelings, which-- if you've made your way to this corner of the internet-- you find either incredibly fascinating or so annoying that you can't stop reading them).

When Stacey started this project I was worried. Worried that she threw out the proverbial baby with the proverbial bathwater. I use the word "proverbial" here so readers unfamiliar with the idiom do not call DYFS and report Stacey for infanticide.

The "proverbial baby" Stacey tossed out of her life has more than a passing resemblance to an actual baby. It's immature, needs support in getting established, and possesses great potential. And it has a cute name. Podcast. Stacey threw out listening to podcasts, the nascent audio format that's still toddling around the media-milieu with an adorably anachronistic name. This freaked me out, because Stacey and I have both bonded with a number of different podcasts. It seemed kind of cold-blooded of her to cut ties completely with the art form (especially since we make one of our own). This would be like Steven Spielberg deciding not to watch movies (which might be the case, judging by how old the movies are that inspired him).

I'll let Stacey explain the specific ins and outs of why she quit this fledgling media cold turkey, but her general reason was so she could read more books. Now I'm all for reading books, but I don't like these kinds of arbitrarily strict deontological rules. I prefer case-by-case utilitarian ethics. The "deon" in deontological is Greek for duty, and Stacey decided it was her duty as an English teacher and an intellectual to change her ways. But I don't think you should completely quit something with as much potential value as podcasts. The right number of podcasts to listen to isn't zero. The right number is of podcasts to listen to is difficult to determine, but the golden mean, the amount of podcasts you can enjoy while still finding time to read, is probably somewhere around two per day. That seems reasonable. I wrote a long and winding post about the difficulties with this kind of Aristotelean morality and I do concede that it's easier to make a categorical rule if you want to get things done, but a good podcast is better than a bad book. I explained all this to Stacey, but she stuck to her principled guns.

I had other reasons for worrying about Stacey's project, some of them altruistic and some of them selfish. In all sincerity, I wanted Stacey to enjoy the new season of Serial. I wanted her to listen to two fantastic takes on human memory, one of them dead serious serious (Revisionist History "Free Brian Williams") and the other absurd and funny (Heavyweight "#16 Rob"). I wanted her to enjoy the weirdness of Benjamin Walker's Theory of Everything "Victory is Ours." But she would not bite. She was determined and focused.

Slightly more selfish was the fact that I wanted to be able to kill time at work discussing these podcasts with Stacey. I'd recommend them and she'd tell me "Not yet. I want to finish strong . . . December 2nd." I'd tell her she was nuts, that life is too short for hard and fast rules, and she shouldn't deny herself the pleasure, but there was no talking to her.

I was also worried that she might be reading a bunch of crap, just to amass a huge list of books. Loads of Jojo Moyes and Liane Moriarty and Nicholas Sparks. Chick-lit and cheese. This was rather stupid and sexist of me, it turns out.

My greatest anxiety was a selfish one. I was worried that she would read more books than me. I average forty-some books a year, a number I'm quite proud of. I always post the list, and I'm always impressed with myself (which isn't difficult . . . I set the bar low). It turns out I didn't need to worry about this. It wasn't even close. Stacey read so many books that I'll never count how many books I read in a year again. Because I'll never live up to her list, so why bother to count? It's not a contest anyway. Right? And the point of this blog is to slow down . . . so perhaps with my shorter list, I'm winning the contest.

I'd also like to clear up what might be a misconception: if you think Stacey was doing some sort of analogue back-to-basics return to reading on paper from books checked out from the library, you'd be dead wrong. She spent a shitload of money on this project-- that's how she rolls. She checked zero books out of the library. She bought zero hardcovers with which to adorn her shelves. Instead, she purchased the Kindle version of each book and the discounted Audible version as well, so she blew through books in an efficient digital combination; she read for about an hour or so each day on her phone, and then when her eyes got tired or she was driving or getting ready for school or working out, she listened to the audio version. High tech.

Stacey's Story of Her Badass Book list (In Her Own Words)

Every year around this time, I try to reflect on my life. I evaluate my strengths and weaknesses and think about the type of life I want to lead.

My father and I had a conversation once about how New Year’s resolutions are always so strict and limiting. They force you to place unnecessary rules and restrictions on your life.  These resolutions tell you what you can’t do and seldom leave room for any fun. We both agreed we were sick of resolutions telling us “don’t drink soda,” “don’t eat sweets,” “don’t watch as much tv” and the worst: “don’t drink beer.”

We decided that, from that point on, we would make our resolutions positive. For a full year we resolved that we would curse more — much to the chagrin of my mother. Whenever I called, my dad would bellow: “How the fuck are you?!”

Cursing more was fun. It was funny. It was easy. At the end of the year, we wished each other a “happy fucking New Year,” and I set to work picking another positive resolution.

Last year, I realized I was wasting an inordinate amount of time listening to podcasts hosted by self-congratulatory comedians boasting about the importance of their work. Of course, there would be an episode of Serial or Waking Up With Sam Harris thrown into the mix, but overall, I was not listening to anything of real academic merit. The etymology of the dick joke could not be considered high brow media consumption. Clearly, this was not a valuable use of my time.

My resolution became clear: I wanted to read more. Anytime I would normally spend idly listening to a podcast - I would instead pick up a book.

I started December 1st (I am never ready to make big life changes on the 1st of January). I find I can keep my resolutions if I have a month to ease into them, but it didn't matter for this one. I did not “ease” into this resolution. In December of 2017 I read eight books. This quickly turned my resolution into a challenge. I wanted to see how many books I could read in one year. I didn’t think I could maintain the pace of two books a week while still working full time - but I wanted to see what I was capable of.

Any time one of my friends mentioned a book they were reading, I immediately added it to my list. I scoured the New York Times and Washington Posts “Best Books of the Year.” I joined Goodreads at some point in this venture (I can’t believe it took me this long). If a book was highly rated - I was going to read it.

I did not select books based on how long they were (even though Dave would like to believe I did). Maybe next year I will do that, so I can double my list — but that doesn’t sound very appealing.

As this year draws to a close, I can say that my resolution was a success. I am incredibly proud of myself for what I have accomplished. I’ve read more this year than I have in probably the past six or seven years combined.

I have not yet decided my next resolution - if you have a suggestion, I am open... As 2018 draws to a close, I can truly say “this was a good fuckin’ year.”

(Editors note: Dave has bolded all the books he has read, and therefore approves of. Thirty of them! So many good ones, but number 80 is my favorite book I read this year).

2018 Books:

1. Lincoln in the Bardo by George Saunders

2. Murder on the Orient Express by Agatha Christie

3. Behind Closed Doors by BA Paris

4. The Power by Naomi Alderman

5. The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath

6. I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings by Maya Angelou

7. Ready Player One by Ernest Cline

8. The Relic Master by Christopher Buckley

9. The Outline by Rachel Cusk

10. Little Fires Everywhere by Celest Ng

11. Lab Girl by Hope Jahren

12. What Made Maddy Run by Kate Fagan

13. Atonement by Ian McEwen

14. Eleanor Oliphant is Completely Fine by Gail Honeyman

15. Hillbilly Elegy by J.D Vance.

16. Breakfast of Champions by Kurt Vonnegut

17. Tenth of December by George Saunders

18. Heroes of the Frontier by Dave Eggers

19. American Gods by Neil Gaiman

20. Cat’s Cradle by Kurt Vonnegut

21. Bear Town by Fredrik Backman

22. My Grandmother Asked Me to Tell You She’s Sorry by Fredrik Backman

23. White Houses by Amy Bloom

24. Zeitoun by Dave Eggers

25. Cemetery John by Robert Zorn

26. The Breakdown by BA Paris

27. The Identicals by Elin Hilderbrand

28. Less by Andrew Sean Greer

29. The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo by Stieg Larsson

30. This Is How You Lose Her by Junot Diaz

31. Wuthering Heights by Emily Bronte

32. Lathe of Heaven by Ursula LeGuin

33. Before We Were Yours by Lisa Wingate

34. An American Marriage by Tayari Jones

35. I’ll Be Gone In The Dark by Michelle McNamara

36. Surprise Me by Sophie Kinsella

37. Sing, Unburied, Sing by Jasmine Ward

38. Their Eyes Were Watching God by Zora Neale Hurston

39. The Woman in The Window by AJ Finn

40. Drown by Junot Diaz

41. The Alchemist by Paulo Coelho

42. Artemis by Andy Weir

43. Something in the Water by Catherine Steadman

44. Then She Was Gone by Lisa Jewell

45. Calypso by David Sedaris

46. Neverwhere by Neil Gaiman

47. A Head Full of Ghosts by Paul Tremblay

48. The Word is Murder by Anthony Horowitz

49. The Wife Between Us by Greer Hendricks and Sarah Pekkanen

50. Eleanor and Park by Rainbow Rowell

51. The Last Mrs. Parrish by Liv Constantine

52. The Hating Game by Sally Thorne

53. All The Missing Girls by Megan Miranda

54. Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close by Jonathan Safran Foer

55. Station Eleven by Emily St John Mandel

56. The Nightingale by Kristin Hannah

57. The Couple Next Door by Shari Lapena

58. The Alice Network by Kate Quinn

59. The Fault in Our Stars by John Green

60. A Gentleman in Moscow by Amor Towles

61. Ask The Dust by John Fante

62. Lamb by Christopher Moore

63. Erotic Stories for Punjabi Widows by Balli Kaur Jaswal

64. Fates and Furies by Lauren Groff

65. Dear Committee Members by Julie Schumacher

66. American Pastoral by Philip Roth

67. The Shakespeare Requirement by Julie Schumacher

68. Straight Man by Richard Russo

69. Where the Crawdad Sings by Delia Owens

70. Warlight by Michael Ondaatje

71. The Rules of Magic by Alice Hoffman

72. The Hate U Give by Angie Thomas

73. This Is How It Always Is by Laurie Frankel

74. Be Frank With Me by Julia Claiborne Johnson

75. Angela’s Ashes by Frank McCourt

76. Florida by Lauren Groff

77. The Other Woman by Sandie Jones

78. Between The World And Me by Ta-Nehisi Coates

79. The Coddling of the American Mind by Greg Lukianoff and Jonathan Haidt

80. Boom Town by Sam Anderson

Aristotle was NOT a Belgian (Virtue and the Three Body Problem)

Aristotle's advice on how to lead a happy, virtuous life holds up pretty well. Like the Buddha, Aristotle was interested in the middle path, the mean between excess and deficiency. And like the Buddha, Aristotle saw the pursuit of the good life as an ever-changing journey. Also, Aristotle and the Buddha are two people who have never been in my kitchen . . . if they had been, and I were to buttonhole either one of them, I'd have a certain gripe to discuss. Why else would I bring them up? To enlighten you? If you're looking for that sort of thing, the most I can do is recommend The Celestine Prophesy.

Aristotle was not Belgian! The central message of Buddhism is not "Every man for himself!"

But before we get to my complaints with the golden mean, we need to understand how Aristotle defines happiness. He does a fine job with it. Happiness, according to Aristotle, is not just pure hedonistic pleasure, but as flourishing. A state of Eudaimonia. And this sort of happiness is the end goal of all pursuits. Aristotle was certainly not a Belgian, but there is a sort of "every man for himself" quality to his ethics. So Otto wasn't completely off base. But Aristotle explains why a you should be mainly concerned with your own path to happiness and not particularly worried about other people. He posits that if a person uses his method of the middle path to attain a state of happiness, it will follow that this virtuous person will have true friendships with people of similar virtuous character. This will be good for society. Take care of your own happiness, and the people you wish to associate with will be reflective of your virtuous ethics. Thus, there will be a flourishing society of good people (except for women and slaves . . . he wasn't so keen on their potential). He explains this in Book I of Nichomachean Ethics:

Now we call that which is in itself worthy of pursuit more final than that which is worthy of pursuit for the sake of something else, and that which is never desirable for the sake of something else more final than the things that are desirable both in themselves and for the sake of that other thing, and therefore we call final without qualification that which is always desirable in itself and never for the sake of something else. Now such a thing happiness, above all else, is held to be; for this we choose always for itself and never for the sake of something else . . ."

So happiness is the thing that we don't seek in order to acquire something else. Happiness is the something else, the ultimate aim. We seek money in order to use it for things that make us flourish, not to roll around in it (unless you're Scrooge McDuck). We seek a nice car so we can drive our friends around; spending time with our friends (at high speeds, listening to music on a bangin' system) makes us happy.

Aristotle lived a long time ago-- he wrote the Nichomachean Ethics in 340 B.C.-- and so he would probably struggle with paradoxical post-modern folks who do seek happiness in order to acquire something else . . . these are the people who seek happiness so they can post pictures of themselves-- super-fucking-happy pictures of themselves-- on social media so that their ex-boyfriends and ex-girlfriends from high school can witness just how fucking-super-happy they are and then these ex-boyfriends and girlfriends will get really jealous and finally realize exactly what they missed out on by dumping these super-happy people. But that kind of behavior is probably only possible with the internet, so we can't blame Aristotle for not predicting just how bananas people would become once they had access to platforms like Facebook and Snapchat and felt the need to show the world just how happy they are (despite the Zoloft). So let's consider these people who seek happiness in order to rub it in other people's faces outliers and move on with our lives. Because if you're reading this blog, then you're definitely not the sort who likes to infinitely scroll through Facebook pictures, right?

Aristotle sees virtue as habitual action: "Moral virtue is the outcome of habit." He is a consequentialist, unconcerned with deontological principles (e.g. Immanuel Kant's categorical imperative). Good people deliberately commit good behaviors. That is their purpose. He is a teleologist. Or so says my neighbor's dog.

We are defined by our actions: "It is by doing just acts that we become just, by doing temperate acts that we become temperate, by doing courageous acts that we become courageous." But how do we figure out what is just, temperate, and courageous? Aristotle concedes that it's not easy. We need to seek the mean between the excess and deficiency. And not the mathematical average, but the mean relative to ourselves.

If being "courageous" is the target trait and the deficiency of courage is cowardice and the excess is being foolhardy, then Aristotle believes we need to chose actions that are neither "neither too much or too little." There are so many ways of doing it wrong, and only one way of doing it right. And it's partially determined by who you are. If you're a soldier, then your level of expected courage is so much higher than if you're a dude prone to motion-sickness at an amusement park. A soldier may need to fearlessly charge at a machine gun nest. Perhaps he shouldn't throw himself on a grenade during the charge-- that might be foolhardy because he could just run away from the grande and direct others to do the same-- but he can't not charge with his company. That's what he's trained for. The dude at the amusement park needs to take a Dramamine and ride the looper with his children, but he doesn't need to go beyond that . . . he doesn't need to forego his seat belt. That would be foolhardy (though it's intrinsically less dangerous to charging a machine gun nest. It's all relative).

Aristotle adds another rule. There are certain characteristics that are simply evil. There's no middle path with those. There's no right amount of betrayal or adultery. So there are traits to be avoided. Even positive traits provide difficulty. It's incredibly difficult to find the mean in anything. According to Aristotle, it takes a man of science. He also believes it is "only a man of science, who can find the mean or center of a circle," so apparently most Greek laymen did not have access to a compass.

All of us can understand this struggle. My teenage teenage children desire "pleasantness of amusement" but the waver between the deficiency and the excess, what Aristotle terms as "buffoonery" and "boorishness." Only occasionally are they "witty." The great divide in American politics is essentially defined by this conflict over money: "anybody can give or spend money, but to give it to the right persons, to give the right amount of it and to give it at the right time and for the right cause and in the right way, this is not what anybody can do, nor is it easy."

Americans tend to carom back and forth between the extremes. Last week, I had to cook dinner every night (a birthday gift for my wife) and this led to some over-indulgence in alcohol. I swore this week that I would abstain completely. But that's unrealistic. And so I found the middle ground between dipsomania and tee-totaling. Moderation. Moderate alcohol consumption is fueling this post.

The problem with this Aristotelean method of trying to attain the mean is that it's two-dimensional. Our lives don't operate on a line, they operate in a three-dimensional space. Whenever we work on some two-dimensional triplet continuum, there is some other force pulling on this line. So say we want to work on eating healthy. The deficiency of healthy eating is gluttony. Stuffing your face with Oreos and pudding. The excess of healthiness is anorexic obsessiveness. Only eating kale. You want to be in the middle, eating in a smaller window of time, no late-night snacking, fewer carbs, more protein and vegetables. So you end up eating a shitload of meat. Every kind of animal in the barn and then some. Bacon . . . ham . . . pork chops.

And you don't want to do that, but it's a consequence of trying to stop eating crap. When you're fixing your golf swing, you can only work on one thing at a time. But the other things screw up the one thing you're working on. It's a conundrum. And Aristotle didn't really offer any help. Physics does . . . sort of. My analogy for this dilemma (trilemma?) is called the "three body problem." If you need to compute how two bodies will move in relation to one another, say the earth and the moon, this is relatively easy (for a mathematician . . . I have enough trouble tracking down a high fly ball in left field). But when you add a third body to the system, the problem becomes notoriously difficult to analyze and solve. Wired unravels it in this article. Good luck. And for an extremely detailed narrative look at the consequences of the chaos endured by a planet orbiting a three-body star system, check out Cixin Liu's sci-fi masterpiece The Three-Body Problem (or wait a few years and watch the Amazon series based on the trilogy).

The way I see it, it's pretty easy to compute the relative mean between two extremes. There's complete abstinence  of alcohol. Prohibition. No drinks. There's excess. Ten drinks a night. And then there's moderation. A beer or two a couple nights a week. Maybe a few more on the weekend. But then add the pull of a third body. The holiday season and multiple parties. This throws a monkey wrench in things. You need to socialize. What is the mean of socializing? The deficiency is introverted reclusion. Avoiding people entirely. Then you could control your drinking perfectly. The excess is extroverted delirium. You need to attend everything. You have a fear of missing out on anything. And the mean is some sort of convivial participation. But this is going to screw with your plan on drinking moderately. And the drinking screws with the eating. And the next thing you know, it's January and you've gained ten pounds and the gym is packed.

Basically, once you add a third body to a relationship, it's extremely difficult to compute the forces and understand what habitual actions you should take. Which is why people like categorical rules. It's often easier. When you're pressed to order at a restaurant, it's difficult to fulfill both your ketogenic diet and your green ethics.

The Hidden Brain episode "A Founding Contradiction: Thomas Jefferson's Stance on Slavery" investigates an infinitely controversial historical example of the moral three body problem. There is no question that in the realm of politics, Jefferson flourished in the virtuous mean between oppressive monarch and reckless anarchist. He forged documents and laws designed to give the right amount of freedom to the man in the middle. He revised property laws, wrote the Declaration of Independence and the Virginia Statute for Religious Freedom, outlined the proper relationship between the Church and the State, and generally conceived ideas and policies that were built to last. And during this fruitful period, he owned 175 slaves and fathered six children with one of them (Sally Hemings).

Jefferson clearly spoke against slavery (though he considered himself a "good and benevolent" slave owner).

"The whole commerce between master and slave is a perpetual exercise of the most boisterous passions, the most unremitting despotism on the one part and degrading submissions on the other. Our children see this and learn to imitate it, for man is an imitative animal."

In 1807, three weeks before Britain did the same, Jefferson signed a law banning the importation of slaves into the United States, effectively banning the slave trade. Yet Jefferson only freed a few slaves during his life; when he died, 130 of his slaves were sold as part of the Monticello estate.

Jefferson knew slavery was wrong and must end, but he wasn't ready to expend the personal capital to end it. He was working on a lot of other things. So he never computed the Aristotelian triplet on slavery that would lead him to habitual moral action.  Perhaps the excess is "slave master" and the deficiency is "wanton sluggard" and somewhere in the middle is "cooperative employer." He felt the pull of the immoral nature of slavery, just as I know eating factory farmed animals is wrong-- these animals are the slaves of our time-- but if I'm going to be working on my own diet and fitness, I'm going to be eating animals.

Historian Annette Gordon-Reed offers this explanation during that Hidden Brain episode: 

This is not to minimize, as I would never do, the depredations of the institution of slavery - but I imagine, 100 years from now, people are going to look back at certain things that we do and say, why didn't people understand? You know, why didn't people do something? And there are a lot of things - there are a lot of times human beings don't act according to what they know is the right thing to do.
Monticello was Jefferson's place. This was his way of life. It's what he knew. And he felt that he helped to found a country. He helped the United States come into existence. Breaking with Great Britain, setting up a government, that was a pretty big deal, and that the next generation of people had something to do, as well, and that was to make the progress on the issue of slavery that he thought could be made.
Now, we're not satisfied with that because we say, you had the talent to do this thing. Why didn't you use the talent to do the other thing? But that's not, you know, what he thought he was here to do. The American Revolution was the most important thing in his life. And the tragedy is he couldn't see that, after the union is formed, that the thing that would split it apart would be the institution of slavery.

It's easy to espouse theoretical, deontological rules, but habitual action is hard. While it's difficult to argue for relative ethics-- I'm never going to excuse clitoral castration-- it's also difficult to universally condemn Jefferson for owning slaves. He was trapped within an economic and social machine reliant on slaves. And so while he wrote like an abolitionist, he also framed a pragmatic triplet that we might find abominable and contradictory. Jefferson saw that the excess as a slaveholder was to be a "cruel overlord" and the deficiency was to be an "apathetic and irresponsible patriarch." You couldn't just free your slaves, you also had to provide for them. There was no system in place. (Sally Hemings was freed but then negotiated to return to slavery at Monticello, but with "extraordinary privileges.") So Jefferson arrived at the mean . . . what he considered to be "benevolent ownership." We find it repugnant, but people in the future will laugh sardonically at our attempt to be environmental by foregoing plastic straws, while we drive our gas guzzling vehicles from store to store buying plastic gewgaws. 

Jefferson was busy building the framework for many, many progressive policies . . . policies that were far-ranging and significant. The Louisiana Purchase. He did what he could, and did it well. We need to remember that sometimes we can't change a habitual action without the help of technology. As far as slavery goes, we have it easy now . . . it's not even an option (unless you're in the sex slave trade . . . and then, shame on you!) We would never go back to slavery now that we have better agricultural technology. It's not even a moral choice. Jefferson couldn't see a simple way to attack the problem, and there would be no simple way until the plantation system-- a system of which he was a participant-- was completely dismantled.

People in the future may look back at us as savages because we tortured so many pigs and cows and sheep and chickens. We created huge cesspools of fecal waste and huge clouds of methane. But these future folk will be sitting on high, criticizing our evil ways, while they partake in delicious lab grown beef. No animals harmed, no animal waste, and no habitual action to compute. The Impossible Burger may solve this problem sooner than later. It's apparently "hyper-realistic" and bleeds just like real meat. It's a hell of a lot easier to fall into a virtuous habit when it's widely available and cheap.

So this is my gripe with Aristotle's middle path, the mean between excess and deficiency. It's nearly impossible to tread. There are always other virtues pulling you off course. Like a tennis serve or a golf swing, you can only work on one improvement at a time . . . you can't fix everything at once. And these traits operate in a three-dimensional space, and each attempt at moving toward the mean influences the other attempts. We can't figure it all out. And our willpower might be a limited resource. This works on a larger scale as well. As a technological society, we are struggling with free speech on the internet. The excess of free speech allows every hateful opinion and every fake news story. The deficiency of free speech is censorship . . . as the internet operates in China. So we try to plot the mean, some sort of middle ground where speech is free as long as it isn't malevolent fictitious propaganda or hate speech directed to incite riot and violence. But then toss in another dilemma to solve, say how much the government should regulate big tech monopolies-- the institutions that are controlling the platforms where this conflict is occurring-- and you've created a many-body problem that's incalculable. Who should control what we read? How free should our speech be? Who should monitor this? Should tech companies have more power than the government over our First Amendment Rights?

Who knows?

That's the end of the line for me. We need a modern Aristotle to figure this one out.

Next Year, I'll Buy Her Some Earrings

 My wife is an excellent cook-- creative, efficient, and unflappable. Her skills are crucial in the fall, when our house is extraordinarily busy. She's usually consumed by teaching elementary school math and science, running the community garden, and directing the school garden club. The boys and I are consumed by soccer. Despite these hurdles, she whips up meal after meal, day after day-- often without any help. This fall she worked around four soccer schedules: Alex played JV soccer, Ian played middle school soccer and for a club team, and I coached the middle school team and the in-town travel team. She's also the go-to person for help with school work (I'm more of a school work consultant, good for specific questions but not really capable of sustained service). Catherine times our family dinners around games, practices, and buses. She's the household MVP, keeping us full and healthy. We rarely ordered pizza.

Years ago, at the end of a similarly busy soccer season, Catherine went on a two-week cooking strike. She decided there was a lack of appreciation for all the planning, shopping, prepping and cooking she had been doing. It was a difficult period. The scab labor was unskilled, surly, and mainly underage. Negotiations were tense. Meals were lame. We survived but did not thrive. The boys and I learned our lesson: it is difficult to plan and serve delicious healthy meals all week. Though we learned our lesson, we didn't learn how to actually pull it off.

Last year when the season ended, we preempted any sort of labor dispute by announcing that we would do the cooking and dinner clean-up for a week. The end of the season coincides with Catherine's birthday, so not only did we avoid a cooking strike but we also provided her with a birthday gift. That's a win-win.

This year for Catherine's birthday, I upped the ante. Not only would I cook for a week, but I would also plan the menu and do the shopping. At the grocery store. Now I know-- truly know-- what it takes to cook various, creative, delicious and healthy meals for a week. It takes the planning skills of Hannibal, the scope and courage of Alexander the Great, and the confidence of Napoleon. And running a campaign like this is stressful, and the best way to relieve stress while you cook dinner is to imbibe. So you'll also need the liver of Winston Churchill.



The first step is to make a menu. Here is mine:



Sunday: green chorizo tacos

Monday: pasta, meat sauce, and sausage

Tuesday: leftovers . . . everyone had something planned

Wednesday: grilled shrimp, snap peas, and thin-sliced crispy potatoes

Thursday: grilled chicken, broccoli and rice

Friday: out to dinner . . . yes!

The second step was the hardest (behind butterflying, pounding, and marinating the chicken breasts . . . so gross). The second step was to go to the real grocery store . . . the big ShopRite in Edison. We have a small Stop & Shop in town which I can handle-- I know where things are and there isn't a big selection, but the big ShopRite in Edison is much cheaper than the Stop & Shop in town. Catherine gave me an out on this one: she said I could do the week's shopping at the smaller, more familiar store, but I decided it was time to man-up. If I was going to do it, I was going to really do it. She told me that there were a couple of products that wouldn't be in the main store. They would be located somewhere called "the annex." The "annex" was connected to the main store by a passageway akin to King's Crossing Platform 9 ¾. I would have to sprint towards an aisle of cat food and hope for the best.

There was a point during my shopping trip when I nearly broke down and quit. I almost shed tears. Seriously. You'd cry too. The store was huge, disorganized, and there were too many choices. I was in there forever, wandering. I actually found the annex (and bought some facial tissues . . . but I never found the 9-volt batteries). And even after all that time in the store, I still had to stop at the Garden Farm Market on my way home for produce because I couldn't find anything decent at ShopRite.

Why was it taking so fucking long to buy some basic shit? Why are food stores insane?

The new episode of Freakonomics tackles this question. In it, business Professor Michael Roberto makes a pitch:



ROBERTO: “I’d like to open a new kind of grocery store. We’re not going to have any branded items. It’s all going to be private label. We’re going to have no television advertising and no social media whatsoever. We’re never going to have anything on sale. We’re not going to accept coupons. We’ll have no loyalty card. We won’t have a circular that appears in the Sunday newspaper. We’ll have no self-checkout. We won’t have wide aisles or big parking lots. Would you invest in my company?”



This store sounds like a train-wreck. But it turns out that this is a successful business. It's a description of Trader Joe's.

I highly recommend "Should America be Run by . . . Trader Joe's?" It's Freakonomics at its best. The topic sounds boring: grocery stores. But there's a compelling narrative, and an explanation of how you can succeed in a low margin, super-competitive, rather bland business. Trader Joe's is killing it in terms of sales per square foot. How the fuck do they do it?

There are no sales, no discounts, no Whole Foods/Amazon algorithmic data tracking. When you enter the door, you've joined the club. It's kind of fun. Sometimes there's free coffee. There are lots of employees and they are instructed to drop everything and help you if you need help. The last time we were there, my wife couldn't find blue cheese. An employee told my wife that she would go in the back and find the blue cheese for her, and then she told my wife to keep shopping and I'll find you and give you the blue cheese. Brilliant. My wife continued to shop and because the store is small, with no annex, the employee was able to easily find my wife and give her the blue cheese.

During my ShopRite shopping epic, I wandered the meat section at for fifteen minutes, looking for ground pork. I was obviously bewildered. I stumbled on someone who might have been the butcher and asked him if they had ground pork. He said, "Nope. None of that today." Do they ever have ground pork? Could he go in the back and get some? Could he grind some for me? I have no clue and I didn't ask. He didn't offer any more information. I bought some ground turkey instead.

Trader Joe's offers a limited selection of each product and they may switch out a product at any time-- although they always have the staples-- but because the food is good and because you haven't worn yourself out looking for things, when the product you want isn't there, you might actually try something new. The store encourages experimentation. And it's small enough to browse but large enough to have everything you need (especially if it's a branch that sells alcohol). They have three kinds of salsa instead of seventy kinds. And they don't cater to everyone. There's an ethnic bent to the food and if you don't like it, you can shop elsewhere. I've only been inside a Trader Joe's once, and I was slightly overwhelmed-- but I get slightly overwhelmed when I enter any new place, especially when people are frantically buying things . . . it's because I vividly imagine the environmental disaster we are rushing towards. This is more of a "me" problem than a problem with Trader Joe's, and now that I've learned about the store through a podcast, I'm more inclined to go there. Ridiculous, but a little background knowledge goes a long way with me.

Trader Joe's is small on purpose. A typical grocery store carries 35,000 different items. Trader Joe's carries 3000. There aren't that many aisles-- I could walk up and down every single one without suffering a panic attack. And they rush you through the line. No weird interactions where you have to "borrow" the cashier's club card. I don't need to develop that kind of intimacy with someone I just met. If I see them on the street, am I obligated to lend them my umbrella? You don't have a card? Do you want to sign up? Uh . . . maybe? I made that mistake once. There's a Trader Joe's up the road from us now, in North Brunswick. I might go there. On my own. And buy some food. Coming from me, that's a bold statement.

Once I made the menu and purchased all the food, the week went fairly smoothly. Or it appeared smooth from my perspective. I only lost my shit twice. The reason for the smoothness was the lubricant: alcohol. I don't know how people who cook every night don't become raging alcoholics.

My thought process always went something like this: time to cut and pound the chicken! Yuck! Gross! You know what would help with a task this time-consuming and disgusting? Some music. And a beer. It's almost five o'clock.

The only night I didn't drink last week was Tuesday. Leftovers night. Soccer night. I now realize that soccer practice and the fact that my wife does most of the cooking are what stand between me and daily drinking. I know daily drinking doesn't always indicate alcoholism, but it's a step in that direction. And it makes you fat. If I had to cook every meal every night, with only my children to help (who are incredible at disappearing whenever there is work to be done) then my alcohol consumption would triple.

The two nights that I grilled were a double whammy. I normally like to have a beer when I grill . . . it's quiet and relaxing out on the porch; I can look over my sprawling bamboo plants into Donaldson Park. The dog accompanies me and occasionally descends from the porch to chase a squirrel off the property. A warm grill on a cold night, it's the life. But I normally have one beer while I grill. Because my wife is inside managing the other things. The vegetables, the rice, the potatoes, making the salad. whatever. Reminding the kids to finish their homework. Meanwhile, I'm "grilling," which includes a lot of staring into the park and enjoying the fresh air. Occasionally, I'll flip something. But grilling when you are also cooking other things inside the house is not relaxing. It's frantic. And when you're in and out so many times, feeling the pressure to get everything ready at the right time-- doing math, subtracting the minutes that the potatoes will be done from the amount of time it takes to grill shrimp-- then you might grab another beer as you pass by the fridge . . . or another glass of wine. Or another tequila, lime, and seltzer. It's dangerous.

I only lost my cool twice. Once was when I tasked Alex with cooking the snap peas while I finished grilling the shrimp. He decided they were burning-- even though we agreed we wanted them undercooked and crispy-- and he poured a bunch more olive oil in the pan. The peas turned out fine, but sort of drenched in oil. I snapped at him over those snap peas, and I shouldn't have. I told him he should have asked me before doing anything so radical, but then I changed my mind. Chefs get irate in the heat of the moment. I apologized and told him it was good that he took some initiative. Normally when I cook, I ask Catherine a million questions and it drives her crazy. Cooking is experimental, and Alex went for it. Next time he might know better.

The other time I got annoyed is when I was serving dinner and Catherine was fooling around on the computer. The house rule is that you're not supposed to be fooling around on the computer when dinner is served. This house rule is mainly designed for me, so when I chastised her, I had an out-of-body experience. It was like I was her, chastising me.

I'm going to chastise myself now. Time to get off the computer and do the dishes. And miracle of miracles, Catherine has already done the grocery shopping.

Dave Has Changed Venues . . . So Long and Thanks for All the Comments!

First off, I'd like to thank all the folks that visited this blog over the years-- eleven to be exact; that's over four thousand posts . . . and I couldn't have done it without the comments, so thanks Zman and Whit and Lecky and Rob and Marls and everyone else who contributed thoughts and criticism to my drivel . . . lately, writing the daily sentence has become a chore and I've wanted to expand my horizons as far as a website goes, so I'm starting a new blog called Park the Bus  . . . I've got one post up, which connects back to my very first Sentence of Dave post-- both Ur-posts are dedicated to my wife . . . the new venue is powered by Wordpress.org software, which seems vast and incredibly customizable and quite complicated, so who the hell knows what the site will look like in the end, but I'm excited to screw around with all the stuff; I might occasionally still use this blog for notes and ideas (and because it's a great resource for remembering when things happened) but I'm really going to dedicate my energy to slowing down, parking the bus if you will, and writing some longer pieces . . . so if you've got some time to kill, check out my first post, and thanks for all the visits and support.

Dave Has Changed Venues . . . So Long and Thanks for All the Comments!

First off, I'd like to thank all the folks that visited this blog over the years-- eleven to be exact; that's over four thousand posts . . . and I couldn't have done it without the comments, so thanks Zman and Whit and Lecky and Rob and Marls and everyone else who contributed thoughts and criticism to my drivel . . . lately, writing the daily sentence has become a chore and I've wanted to expand my horizons as far as a website goes, so I'm starting a new blog called Park the Bus  . . . I've got one post up, which connects back to my very first Sentence of Dave post-- both Ur-posts are dedicated to my wife . . . the new venue is powered by Wordpress.org software, which seems vast and incredibly customizable and quite complicated, so who the hell knows what the site will look like in the end, but I'm excited to screw around with all the stuff; I might occasionally still use this blog for notes and ideas (and because it's a great resource for remembering when things happened) but I'm really going to dedicate my energy to slowing down, parking the bus if you will, and writing some longer pieces . . . so if you've got some time to kill, check out my first post, and thanks for all the visits and support.

Here We Are . . . In the Congo

I've explained what kind of woman my wife is, and now it's only fair that I turn my laser-like logic and self-reflective acumen upon myself.

What kind of man am I? Who's there?

To unravel this eternal question of character, I will rely on the classic Bud Dry commercial "Why is a good man hard to find?" 

I'd like to thank my buddy Whitney over at Gheorghe:The Blog for recently reminding me how much I love this piece of our pop-culture past.

Before I get down to brass tacks, I would like to point out that this commercial is "classic" only in the modern sense of the word. Which isn't saying all that much. It contains one of my favorite bits of dialogue, ever . . . a piece of dialogue so good there should be a t-shirt for it (there isn't).  Something far wittier than "WHERE'S THE BEEF?" A piece of dialogue that resonates deep within my (rather shallow) soul. But I'm certainly lowering the bar . . . because I'm stupid. Corrupted by modern times.

I say this because I'm in the middle of a true classic right now, George Eliot's Middlemarch, and it's hard to compare a thirty second Bud Dry spot to a novel of this caliber. Middlemarch is incredibly well-written, and-- inconceivably--it was written by hand. You can see some of the manuscript here.

A page of Eliot's Middlemarch

There's some revision of course, a few cross-outs and some inserted lines, but I think when Mary Anne Evans-- the woman behind the pen name-- began writing a sentence, she knew exactly where it was going, in terms of thought, rhythm, structure, and syntax.

And so she could produce sentences like this one:

But the effect of her being on those around her was incalculably diffusive: for the growing good of the world is partly dependent on unhistoric acts; and that things are not so ill with you and me as they might have been, is half owing to the number who lived faithfully a hidden life, and rest in unvisited tombs. 

Classic stuff. Most modern sentences just don't measure up. Part of the problem might be that many writers-- including myself-- compose with word processing software. And so instead of concentrating on thoughtful sentences and paragraphs, which translate into thoughtful thought-out thoughts, we often get consumed with "presentational elements."

This phenomenon is occurring right now, as I fiddle with the text in the link, experiment with different image layouts, and use a Wordpress feature called "Blockquote" to emphasize the Eliot sentence. I'm also occasionally Googling things like "how do you take a screenshot on a Mac" and " what is the effect of word processors on writing?"

Does anyone not succumb to these sort of temptations while they are writing?

Despite the distractions, I will try my best to return to original question: what kind of man am I?

Certainly a digressive one . . . but aren't all modern technologically embedded men more digressive than we once were? The internet itself shoulders some of the blame for this, but the problem also might be baked in to the nature of a typical male. Men and easy access to infinite information might be a poisonous combination. My wife doesn't get up from the dinner table to use our desktop computer to Google the population of Peru or what year the Oklahoma Land Rush occurred. But I do this kind of thing all the time (despite family rules prohibiting this behavior). And not just at the dinner table. This happens when I'm teaching class, talking to my friends, sitting on the toilet. I want a piece of information NOW. And it's usually nothing life changing. Perhaps male hunter-gatherers were always wandering off mid-meal to seek a different grub or tuber than the one being served?

It's incredibly hard to maintain a steady stream of thought when there's always the temptation to follow some other niggling idea, an idea that's probably dumber and more trivial than the one you're actually trying to think about. And the internet constantly affords this luxury, so when you have access, it's harder to write long, beautifully constructed sentences like those in Middlemarch.

There's some hard data on this, but you're going to have to wade through a long comment thread on this English Language & Usage Stack Exchange forum.  Or I can save you the trouble: some smart people have come to the conclusion that as time has passed, sentences in literature have gotten shorter and shorter. I've read my fair share of literature and I can confirm that the sentences in Tristram Shandy are generally longer than the sentences in Freaky Deaky. And Hemingway? That guy could barely type a seven or eight word sentence before he had to take a break and grab a scotch and soda.

Anyway, I have been told that when you're writing for the internet, you should keep your sentences short and sweet. Though I ignored this advice for eleven years, I've come to acknowledge that it's true. It's tiring to read on a screen. Short sentences, plenty of paragraph breaks, and white space are an internet writer's best friend.

I really wish that my Kindle Paperwhite had a better browser, so I could read internet articles and posts on a non-glare screen . . . but apparently, no one else wants to do this. The populous demands to see their algorithmically chosen ads in vibrant, persuasive color. The internet would be a totally different experience if it were in matte black and white. Less intense, more about the words, less invasive.

I have lost the thread. Enough digression. Let's get back to using this classic Bud Dry commercial to decipher my riddle-inside-an-enigma personality.

There are five archetypal men presented by the commercial:

Guy # 1

A lot of women find my looks intimidating? Do you?

Once upon a time, I believed I was better looking than my wife. Whether or not this was true is a matter of opinion, but it's debatable. Look at the picture below, and you can be the judge. (Note: this photo is just before young Dave and Cat left on a "just hair-do it" themed bar crawl . . . this was NOT our normal hair).

Currently, there is no question that my wife is much better looking than me. The hair on my head has migrated to my back, ears, and shoulders. So any connection I once had with this guy is long dead. That Dave is gone.

Guy #2

My mother makes the best brisket . . .

Once in a while, I run across a dude who has a really tight relationship with his mother. While I find Woody Allen movies humorous, I don't want anything to do with this guy in real life. Creepy.

Guy #3

There I was, there I was, there I was . . . in the Congo.

This is the guy. This is the dialogue. Brilliant. Classic. Moving. Though I recognize that he comes off as a total douche, I still feel a strong connection with him. He's got an interesting story to tell. He demands your undivided attention. He's probably not going to consider what you have to say, but at least you're in for an interesting ride. He's self-centered, he makes weird gestures with his hands, and he's got his chair turned backward . . . but on the plus side, he's passionate and he's traveled the world.

I've taken my share of shit for being this guy. My wife and I taught in Syria for three years and I have a lot of stories that begin, "There I was . . . there I was . . .  in Damascus." It's insufferable, but I love those memories. I think as I've gotten older, I've gotten more aware about how self-congratulatory those stories are, and I rarely dust them off . . . but when I do: watch out. That guy is me.

I first saw that commercial in the early '90's, long before I had traveled the world, and I felt an instant connection to that weird bit of dialogue. He presented me with my destiny . . . to become that vociferously annoying little man. Luckily, my wife accompanied me on all those adventures, so she never had to endure me telling those stories to her (but she does have to listen to me tell them to other people).

Guy #4

Just a minute . . . okay!

This guy is '90's Donald Trump. He's buying high, selling low, and using his dad's money to get rich (or go bankrupt). I've got none of this guy in me. Zero point zero. I can't stand spending money on clothes, I constantly pass up opportunities to make more money (so I can engage in hobbies like noodling on my guitar, writing this blog, and coaching soccer). But I think it's important to recognize that this is a type of guy, and while I don't really know or hang out with this guy, I've got to acknowledge that guys like this probably control the government and the economy and how the Giants will do next season, and I've passed up my chance to be one of them.

I'll never have a larger sphere of influence. I'll never be that guy.

Guy #5 

You gonna finish that?

At least that's what I think this guy says-- his mouth is full and he's also got a thick New York accent. I appreciate this guy's turned up collar, rolled up sleeves, weight-lifter physique, and forward nature. Plus, he's doing a good deed: he's keeping his girlfriend slender by eating some of her food.

I've definitely got some of this guy in me, though I try to corral him. I've learned to let my wife and kids finish eating before I swoop in and grab the remains . . . but this guy is always lurking in the back of my brain. I may look composed on the outside, but my inner voice is running this monologue:

That's a big pile of fries . . . doesn't look like she can finish . . . and Ian looks full too . . . I think there's still a piece of bacon on that burger . . . patience . . . play it cool . . . patience . . . he's pushing his plate away . . . don't look at it . . .  maintain eye contact with the wife . . . okay, you've counted to ten . . . time to pounce . . . you've got to beat Alex to it . . . maybe you shouldn't have gotten the side salad . . . can they see the saliva is pooling in your mouth?

"Are you going to finish that?

No?"

Yes! It's mine! All mine! My cunning and patience has paid off! Now if I keep it cool, I can parlay this into even more food . . . even more food!

I'm ten percent guy #1, eighty percent guy #2, and ten percent guy #3 . . . and I'm fine with that. In the end, though, the lesson is another sentence from Eliot's Middlemarch:

“Confound you handsome young fellows! You think of having it all your own way in the world. You don't understand women. They don't admire you half so much as you admire yourselves.”

For a long time, I never understood why my wife wasn't more impressed with my snowboarding and soccer skills, why she didn't take more interest in my progress on the guitar. But then I realized, these are the things I admire about myself. She just wants me to help out around the house, do some of the cooking, and listen to her stories . . . which usually begin, "You're not going to believe what happened at work/the garden/the grocery store today!"

And then she names seven people I've never met and places them in an interconnected web of insult and indignation.

It's her version of the Congo.

Analysis of The Ur Post (Dedicated to My Beloved Wife)

Eleven years ago, I started writing a blog called Sentence of Dave. The premise was simple: rain or shine, I would write one sentence per day. The sentence might be short and sweet or it might run on and on. And while I didn't initially recognize the pun in the title, I soon realized that I had committed myself to a weird sort of imprisonment of chronology and structure. I generally embraced and enjoyed my self-imposed sentence-writing experiment (and I was always inspired by my fans, commenters, and critics).

Recently, however, writing the sentence became onerous, another chore. And I felt limited and rushed. So I'm trying something new. I'm going to take it slow and write some longer posts. I'm going to revise, ruminate, and procrastinate. Move at my own pace. Stall. Use periods. Park the bus.

The first post I wrote over at Sentence of Dave was dedicated to my loving wife. Here it is, in its entirety:

I am shopping for a new digital camera because my wife has a habit of leaving things on the roof of our car.

For good luck, I am once again dedicating this first post at Park the Bus to my wife. She is a wonderful woman: beautiful, loyal, smart, funny, and adventurous. I am lucky to have her. Unfortunately, she is also reckless and irresponsible, something of a menace. I need this longer format to truly explain what I mean.

To all appearances, my wife seems to be a diligent and dedicated elementary school teacher and mother. She helps run the community garden. She's a great cook with a green thumb. She eats healthy, works out, dresses sharp, and donates her time to charitable causes. But she's also the kind of person who will leave you a car with an empty gas tank. Below the line. No fuel at all. Not because she doesn't care about you-- I think most people would agree that she's a caring person. She will leave you the car on empty because she drives it around on empty. She's too busy running important errands for our family and the gardening club and her students and the elderly to stop for gas. And if you switch cars with her, and nearly run out of gas on the way to work ( while you are sitting in traffic because of construction) and call her-- your tone a little perturbed-- and give her a piece of your mind, and later on, text her some information, some completely innocuous and objective information about the consequences of using an internal combustion engine with very little gas in the tank, information about burnt out fuel pumps and kicking up sediment, then, oddly, you're the one who's going to be in trouble.

I'm a high school English teacher and my students-- despite the fact that they don't always read the assigned texts-- are often wise beyond their years in the ways of relationships. They vehemently advised me against sending those texts about sediment and fuel pumps to my wife. They told me it wasn't worth it. I explained to them that our Honda CRV was the second most expensive item our family-owned (a distant second behind our house) and it was my responsibility to inform my wife about these sorts of things. Because she was reckless. Not that she was alone in this manner of recklessness . . . I did an informal poll and though my evidence is anecdotal, I'm fairly sure that the world is equally divided into two kinds of people: sane folks who gas up when their tank gets down to 1/4 full and lunatics who drive around on fumes until their anxiety finally gets the better of them . . . or they actually run out of gas.

I could go on and on. My wife fills her coffee up far beyond what is normal or necessary. She walks around the kitchen with a meniscus of steaming hot liquid sloshing above the rim of the mug. Drinking coffee is supposed to be relaxing, a morning treat. A warm and tasty pick-me-up. Not an invitation for second-degree burns.

She does something similar (but less dangerous) with the dog's water bowl: she fills it up until the water is hovering above the brim and then cavalierly carries it across the room. She fills up the recycling bin in our kitchen so far above the rim that it's impossible to pull out the garbage/recycling drawer. For many years, she put large knives in the sink amongst all the dirty dishes (because she likes a clean counter). I actually broke her of this habit (but it took some bloodshed). Why does she do these things? Because she's got an incorrigibly reckless soul.

A quick mathematical aside: the relationship between a person's sanity and the amount of coffee they pour into their cup is the same as the relationship between a person's insanity and the amount of gas they have in their tank. I know formulas can be off-putting, but I think these equations are fairly simple and common-sensical.

the percentage you are sane = amount of gas in tank/full tank of gas

the percentage you are insane = amount coffee in cup/full cup of coffee

Running on fumes? Mathematically, you are 1% sane. Coffee cup filled to the absolute maximum? You are 100% insane.

The camera on the roof of the car; the empty gas tank; the overly full coffee cup, the overly full dog bowl, and the overly full recycling bin: these should all be entered as background evidence. What I really want to discuss is something that happened a few days ago. I was about to start teaching class, when my phone buzzed. There was a text from my wife and an accompanying photo. The text explained that our dog Lola had chewed up a bunch of papers that she had in her school bag. Student papers. Graded student papers. Essentially, the teacher's dog had eaten the students' homework. Damn close to Alfred Harmsmith's dream headline: "man bites dog."

I informed my class of the bad news . . . which was especially bad for me because I am in charge of training our new dog and if she behaves badly then the responsibility is mine. This is not particularly fair-- I'm no dog whisperer-- but my wife does take on a lot of responsibility in the house, so I can't complain. If Lola screws up, I'm to bear the brunt of it. And my wife is still partial to our old dog, Sirius, who shuffled off this mortal coil last March. So there was no winning this one. Lola had screwed the pooch, and I was to take the heat for it.

The first text message my wife sent me about the paper-eating incident was light: she recognized and enjoyed the whole "our dog ate the students' homework!" aspect of the scene. But then she instructed me that if I left the house when everyone was still sleeping, as I did on Wednesday, then I should bring the dog back upstairs and close the gate so she couldn't roam the house and chew on things. She made it clear who was culpable for the chewing. Me.

The final reckless thing I'd like to discuss about my wonderful and loving wife is that she does not zip her bags. She does not zip her purse. She does not zip her school bag. She doesn't zip her laptop case. She doesn't believe in zipping. She likes the convenience of easy entry. (Insert filthy joke here).

I'm constantly zipping my wife's purse shut. Sometimes because it's hanging by a thread on a hook with seven other jackets. Or it's teetering over the center console in the car. She should have zipped her school bag shut. We have a young Rhodesian/lab rescue in the house, and she likes to chew things. When I noticed the unzipped bag in the photo, I asked my class if I should bring this to my wife's attention. This wasn't my fault! This could have been prevented! If she had taken precautions, if she had zipped her bag shut, if she had utilized Whitcomb L. Judson's marvelously pragmatic invention, then the dog wouldn't have chewed up her papers. I presented this argument. My students' answer was still a resounding "NO!" I should NOT text her about the unzipped bag.

I explained to them about the purse and the gas tank and the recycling bin and the coffee. They didn't care. It's not worth it, they informed me. Even my sophomores understood this. They were so adamant that I sort of followed their advice.

I am proud that I did not text my wife about the unzipped bag. I patiently waited to bring it up until later in the afternoon. It was Thanksgiving Eve, and once we had imbibed a bit, I pounced, the same way our dog Lola pounces on her rubber bone when you toss it across the room. It was a much better method than texting. My students were right. You can't text about something as delicate as this (I learned that during the whole gas tank incident). But I wasn't going to completely ignore the situation. I knew it wouldn't change anything, but my voice had to be heard. It's the same reason I sat down and wrote this long-winded post. It feels good to take notes, organize your thoughts, and get it all out. People need to know. My wife needed to know. And I will give her credit: she took it like a champ. She may have called me a few choice names, but then she was over it. We went out to the bar, saw our friends, and I had a story to tell.

I'd like to thank my wife Catherine for the inspiration and the material . . . your irrational behavior makes me love you all the more.

Dave's Not Here Man

Dave's unplugging for a while, just to see how it feels.

Dave's Not Here Man

Dave's unplugging for a while, just to see how it feels.

Snow: Good For Shit

If you step in dog poop in the yard (while looking for dog poop in the yard) then old slushy snow piles are a great way to clean your shoes (preferably your neighbor's old slushy snow pile).

Snow: Good For Shit

If you step in dog poop in the yard (while looking for dog poop in the yard) then old slushy snow piles are a great way to clean your shoes (preferably your neighbor's old slushy snow pile).

Pomegranate Justice

This morning, my son Alex skillfully and patiently extracted all the seeds from a pomegranate and put them in a bowl to eat; he then offered me some and as I took the bowl from him I wondered just what sort of crime it would be if I ate the entire bowl . . . I would obviously owe him more than just the price of the pomegranate (and I would never have the patience to extract all the seeds at once the way he did so-- to me-- the bowl of pomegranate seeds with no white gunk was essentially priceless).

Pomegranate Justice

This morning, my son Alex skillfully and patiently extracted all the seeds from a pomegranate and put them in a bowl to eat; he then offered me some and as I took the bowl from him I wondered just what sort of crime it would be if I ate the entire bowl . . . I would obviously owe him more than just the price of the pomegranate (and I would never have the patience to extract all the seeds at once the way he did so-- to me-- the bowl of pomegranate seeds with no white gunk was essentially priceless).

What's in the Box?

I've been out hiking with the dog and I get home and open the fridge and I spy a box . . . a box in a bag . . . a styrofoam container-- and what's inside? what could be inside? what sort of leftovers? Thai food? I can't remember . . . yes! . . . leftover al pastor tacos and rice from La Catrina in New Brunswick . . . and so my breakfast plan transformed from the usual greek yogurt and peanut butter to a plate of pork, pineapple, rice, fried eggs and a tortilla . . . and it was delicious.

What's in the Box?

I've been out hiking with the dog and I get home and open the fridge and I spy a box . . . a box in a bag . . . a styrofoam container-- and what's inside? what could be inside? what sort of leftovers? Thai food? I can't remember . . . yes! . . . leftover al pastor tacos and rice from La Catrina in New Brunswick . . . and so my breakfast plan transformed from the usual greek yogurt and peanut butter to a plate of pork, pineapple, rice, fried eggs and a tortilla . . . and it was delicious.

Slick Roads and Broccoli

I'm about to head to happy hour, so I don't have the time to capture the absolute madness of yesterday's snowstorm in New Jersey but the accidents, commute-times, and the road conditions were absolutely epic . . . I got home before the worst of it, but I couldn't get my van back up the hill on the south-side of Highland Park to pick up my kids from school (apparently this was a common problem on hills all over the state) and my wife didn't get home from her school until nearly 7 PM-- she volunteered to stay with the stranded students . . . buses and cars just couldn't make their way to the school-- and this was really stressful for me and the boys, because Catherine had planned on making beef and broccoli stir-fry and we were trying to prep everything so she could finish cooking when she got home but we were out of soy sauce and she kept getting delayed more and more and when we called her about the soy sauce and suggested perhaps she could stop on her way home and pick some up, she didn't take kindly to that suggestion . . . but she finally made it home, improvised with the prepped ingredients and whipped up a delicious dish (though the meat was a little chewy . . . I pounded it some with one of those tenderizing hammers but I guess Catherine packs more of pounding punch than me).

Slick Roads and Broccoli

I'm about to head to happy hour, so I don't have the time to capture the absolute madness of yesterday's snowstorm in New Jersey but the accidents, commute-times, and the road conditions were absolutely epic . . . I got home before the worst of it, but I couldn't get my van back up the hill on the south-side of Highland Park to pick up my kids from school (apparently this was a common problem on hills all over the state) and my wife didn't get home from her school until nearly 7 PM-- she volunteered to stay with the stranded students . . . buses and cars just couldn't make their way to the school-- and this was really stressful for me and the boys, because Catherine had planned on making beef and broccoli stir-fry and we were trying to prep everything so she could finish cooking when she got home but we were out of soy sauce and she kept getting delayed more and more and when we called her about the soy sauce and suggested perhaps she could stop on her way home and pick some up, she didn't take kindly to that suggestion . . . but she finally made it home, improvised with the prepped ingredients and whipped up a delicious dish (though the meat was a little chewy . . . I pounded it some with one of those tenderizing hammers but I guess Catherine packs more of pounding punch than me).

Snow!

I tried dropping some hints with the secretaries in the main office but there were obviously no administrators in earshot-- and I also tried to foment rumors amongst the students and teachers in the hopes of a bottom-up emergent decision-- but despite my efforts, we didn't get an early dismissal . . . and it's still snowing buckets outside so maybe we'll have a delay tomorrow (and I'm not sure if "snowing buckets" is an expression but I'm not going to google it, you know what I mean).

Snow!

I tried dropping some hints with the secretaries in the main office but there were obviously no administrators in earshot-- and I also tried to foment rumors amongst the students and teachers in the hopes of a bottom-up emergent decision-- but despite my efforts, we didn't get an early dismissal . . . and it's still snowing buckets outside so maybe we'll have a delay tomorrow (and I'm not sure if "snowing buckets" is an expression but I'm not going to google it, you know what I mean).

When Do I Get to Buy a Dune-Buggy?

This has been the year of spending money on expensive, sober-minded stuff: a sick dog, braces and a palate expander, a washer/dryer, and now a dishwasher (although we did buy a ping-pong table somewhere amidst the pragmatic purchases).

When Do I Get to Buy a Dune-Buggy?

This has been the year of spending money on expensive, sober-minded stuff: a sick dog, braces and a palate expander, a washer/dryer, and now a dishwasher (although we did buy a ping-pong table somewhere amidst the pragmatic purchases).

Fantasy Football Explained (Using Status and Contract)

I love arming my students with the terms "status" and "contract" and then encouraging them apply these terms to whatever we are reading; there are status/contract motifs in The Merchant of Venice, Death of a Salesman, and The Great Gatsby and I also think the terms apply to the weird relationship between playing fantasy football and having a rooting interest in a professional football team; so allow me to take a page from one of lesson plans and explain: when you root for a particular team, because of where you were born or familial influence or whatever, then you possess the status of being a a fan of this team . . . you really can't change this-- perhaps you could be an ex-Giants fan, just as you can be an ex-wife-- but that status remains forever part of your past; on the other hand, fantasy football is all about temporary contracts that you make with your "team" and its montage of constituent players (and these players don't even have the knowledge that you've made a contract with them . . . nor do they know they are playing for your team) and these theoretical contracts are negotiated and broken from week to week and season to season, with little emotion to bind you to your team and your players; this is in no way similar to how you are bound to your status as a particular fan . . . the brilliance of fantasy football from a marketing standpoint is that it enlarges the purview of the once-casual fan well beyond their limited rooting status, and makes them more of a broker of contracts, a more focused consumer of football, without the emotional ups and downs of the old-time subjective supporter . . . a contract conveys professionalism, a contract is monetized and contains all due diligence, a contract assures rule of law and logic, and this is what fantasy football promises and delivers, you no longer have to suffer the caprices of your fate, you can strategize, formalize, capitalize and fetishize, while the fan is a dilettante, a simpleton, a rube, an amateur, limited who tunes in for the love of the game and the love of his or her team (and also often tunes out for the same reasons).

Fantasy Football Explained (Using Status and Contract)

I love arming my students with the terms "status" and "contract" and then encouraging them apply these terms to whatever we are reading; there are status/contract motifs in The Merchant of Venice, Death of a Salesman, and The Great Gatsby and I also think the terms apply to the weird relationship between playing fantasy football and having a rooting interest in a professional football team; so allow me to take a page from one of lesson plans and explain: when you root for a particular team, because of where you were born or familial influence or whatever, then you possess the status of being a a fan of this team . . . you really can't change this-- perhaps you could be an ex-Giants fan, just as you can be an ex-wife-- but that status remains forever part of your past; on the other hand, fantasy football is all about temporary contracts that you make with your "team" and its montage of constituent players (and these players don't even have the knowledge that you've made a contract with them . . . nor do they know they are playing for your team) and these theoretical contracts are negotiated and broken from week to week and season to season, with little emotion to bind you to your team and your players; this is in no way similar to how you are bound to your status as a particular fan . . . the brilliance of fantasy football from a marketing standpoint is that it enlarges the purview of the once-casual fan well beyond their limited rooting status, and makes them more of a broker of contracts, a more focused consumer of football, without the emotional ups and downs of the old-time subjective supporter . . . a contract conveys professionalism, a contract is monetized and contains all due diligence, a contract assures rule of law and logic, and this is what fantasy football promises and delivers, you no longer have to suffer the caprices of your fate, you can strategize, formalize, capitalize and fetishize, while the fan is a dilettante, a simpleton, a rube, an amateur, limited who tunes in for the love of the game and the love of his or her team (and also often tunes out for the same reasons).

Let's Get Naked (Statistically Speaking)

Charles Wheeler likes to get naked . . . he's the author of Naked Economics, which I highly recommend, and I also enjoyed Naked Statistics: Stripping the Dread from the Data, which is full of fun facts and lots of number sense (and it will make you think about all the times you are offered either percent of increase or a number, when you really need both to make an assertion) and here a some random moments I enjoyed:

1) texting while driving causes crashes and laws banning texting while driving may also cause crashes because people can't stop texting while driving, but if there's a law against it, then people will hide their phones down by their crotch and take their eyes off the road;

2) people who buy carbon-monoxide monitors and little felt pads for the bottom of their furniture almost never miss credit card payments;

3) the top 100 grossing films only makes sense when it's adjusted for inflation . . . Hollywood likes to tell the story that each new blockbuster movie is so good it has blown away all the older films, but they like to list the gross (nominal) ticket receipts, not the real, adjusted receipts: here is the real list . . . The Exorcist makes the top ten and Jurassic World makes the top 25 so this list isn't any more cultivated than the gross profit list (though it's less homogenous);

4) our data sets are getting more and more predictive . . . people who buy birdseed are far less likely to default on their loans, but if we can identify drug smugglers 80 times out of 100, is it okay to harass those other twenty people over and over? so statistics generally leads to ethical dilemmas . . .

5) the most dangerous job stress seems to be jobs that have "low control" over their work situations . . . which makes me happy, because teaching and coaching feels highly stressful at times, but I always have control over what's happening . . . but this is only true if we trust the regression analysis, which is the most powerful statistical tool in existence, but very difficult to do well;

6) because you can screw up regression analysis in a number of ways: you can use regression to analyze a nonlinear relationship, you can screw up correlation and causation-- buying birdseed does not cause you to have good credit, those two things are simply correlated-- you can complete reverse the causality, you can omit variables, you can have variables that are so highly correlated that you can't extricate them from each other, you can extrapolate beyond the data, and you can have problems with too many variables;

7) Wheeler concludes with a quick overview of some real-world problems that are going to need clear statistical analysis: the future of NFL football, the rise in autism, the difficulty in assessing good teachers and schools, the best tools for fighting global poverty, and personal data privacy . . . if you're looking for a fairly in depth take on statistics, with more formulas and math than a Freakonomics or Malcolm Gladwell book, this is the one for you.

Let's Get Naked (Statistically Speaking)

Charles Wheeler likes to get naked . . . he's the author of Naked Economics, which I highly recommend, and I also enjoyed Naked Statistics: Stripping the Dread from the Data, which is full of fun facts and lots of number sense (and it will make you think about all the times you are offered either percent of increase or a number, when you really need both to make an assertion) and here a some random moments I enjoyed:

1) texting while driving causes crashes and laws banning texting while driving may also cause crashes because people can't stop texting while driving, but if there's a law against it, then people will hide their phones down by their crotch and take their eyes off the road;

2) people who buy carbon-monoxide monitors and little felt pads for the bottom of their furniture almost never miss credit card payments;

3) the top 100 grossing films only makes sense when it's adjusted for inflation . . . Hollywood likes to tell the story that each new blockbuster movie is so good it has blown away all the older films, but they like to list the gross (nominal) ticket receipts, not the real, adjusted receipts: here is the real list . . . The Exorcist makes the top ten and Jurassic World makes the top 25 so this list isn't any more cultivated than the gross profit list (though it's less homogenous);

4) our data sets are getting more and more predictive . . . people who buy birdseed are far less likely to default on their loans, but if we can identify drug smugglers 80 times out of 100, is it okay to harass those other twenty people over and over? so statistics generally leads to ethical dilemmas . . .

5) the most dangerous job stress seems to be jobs that have "low control" over their work situations . . . which makes me happy, because teaching and coaching feels highly stressful at times, but I always have control over what's happening . . . but this is only true if we trust the regression analysis, which is the most powerful statistical tool in existence, but very difficult to do well;

6) because you can screw up regression analysis in a number of ways: you can use regression to analyze a nonlinear relationship, you can screw up correlation and causation-- buying birdseed does not cause you to have good credit, those two things are simply correlated-- you can complete reverse the causality, you can omit variables, you can have variables that are so highly correlated that you can't extricate them from each other, you can extrapolate beyond the data, and you can have problems with too many variables;

7) Wheeler concludes with a quick overview of some real-world problems that are going to need clear statistical analysis: the future of NFL football, the rise in autism, the difficulty in assessing good teachers and schools, the best tools for fighting global poverty, and personal data privacy . . . if you're looking for a fairly in depth take on statistics, with more formulas and math than a Freakonomics or Malcolm Gladwell book, this is the one for you.

I Rate This Film 0.0

Friday night, my family sat down together and watched Animal House . . . first time for my kids (they are 13 and 14 years old) and I haven't seen John Belushi imitate a zit since 1991, when I watched the film in it's entirety several dozen times in one summer (we were living in a shithole in Nags Head, I disconnected the cable, and the only movies we had on VHS were Animal House and Spinal Tap . . . so most nights we alternated, although we occasionally watched both in the same evening) and I'm happy to say the comedy really holds up (my son Alex had a three word review: "That was awesome!") but there are more gratuitous boobs than I remembered . . . I guess there was no internet porn back then so people had to get their gratuitous boobs in R rated movies. 

I Rate This Film 0.0

Friday night, my family sat down together and watched Animal House . . . first time for my kids (they are 13 and 14 years old) and I haven't seen John Belushi imitate a zit since 1991, when I watched the film in it's entirety several dozen times in one summer (we were living in a shithole in Nags Head, I disconnected the cable, and the only movies we had on VHS were Animal House and Spinal Tap . . . so most nights we alternated, although we occasionally watched both in the same evening) and I'm happy to say the comedy really holds up (my son Alex had a three word review: "That was awesome!") but there are more gratuitous boobs than I remembered . . . I guess there was no internet porn back then so people had to get their gratuitous boobs in R rated movies. 

Living on the Meniscus

The final ingredient in my wife's cup of coffee is a healthy dollop of danger . . . while I like to keep my hot beverages well below the rim, she fills her mug right up to the top, a meniscus of hot liquid quivering in the air above the cup . . . and this is before 8 AM.

Living on the Meniscus

The final ingredient in my wife's cup of coffee is a healthy dollop of danger . . . while I like to keep my hot beverages well below the rim, she fills her mug right up to the top, a meniscus of hot liquid quivering in the air above the cup . . . and this is before 8 AM.

Just When You Thought it Was Safe

I'm pleased to say-- though many of the ladies in the English department might not agree-- that the incessant high school soccer discussions will continue in my general vicinity, as both the school at which I teach (East Brunswick High School) and the town in which I live and coach (Highland Park) are Sectional State Champs in Central Jersey (in Group IV and Group I respectively) and while nearly all the other high school teams are done, East Brunswick and Highland Park are now headed to neutral fields to try to win it all: congratulations to all the players and Coach McKibbin and Coach Roig, great job extending the season and the concomitant soccer-related discussions.

Just When You Thought it Was Safe

I'm pleased to say-- though many of the ladies in the English department might not agree-- that the incessant high school soccer discussions will continue in my general vicinity, as both the school at which I teach (East Brunswick High School) and the town in which I live and coach (Highland Park) are Sectional State Champs in Central Jersey (in Group IV and Group I respectively) and while nearly all the other high school teams are done, East Brunswick and Highland Park are now headed to neutral fields to try to win it all: congratulations to all the players and Coach McKibbin and Coach Roig, great job extending the season and the concomitant soccer-related discussions.

Indolence Abetted by Dog

There is no better nap than when your dog is just outside your room, sleeping at the head of the stairs, guarding your indolence against all intruders.

Indolence Abetted by Dog

There is no better nap than when your dog is just outside your room, sleeping at the head of the stairs, guarding your indolence against all intruders.

Happy G:TBday!

In honor of fifteen years of taking life less seriously over at Gheorghe: The Blog, my buddy Whitney got real serious about being less serious and-- in a fit of expansively effusive generosity-- sent all the members of the site a couple of thoughtful gifts . . . this was a concerted effort, after ascertaining all our addresses, he then warned us about an incoming package and instructed us not to open it until G:TBday . . . because of all the ominous emails, we all imagined the worst: pipe bombs, blackmail photos and Gwyneth Paltrow's head . . . but the gifts turned out to be oddly thoughtful and quirkily sentimental; I got a Big Lebowski script (signed by Jeff Bridges . . . the Dude himself!) and a Jim Zorn jersey (signed by the King of the Scramble himself!) and you can read about the rest of the gifts here.

Happy G:TBday!

In honor of fifteen years of taking life less seriously over at Gheorghe: The Blog, my buddy Whitney got real serious about being less serious and-- in a fit of expansively effusive generosity-- sent all the members of the site a couple of thoughtful gifts . . . this was a concerted effort, after ascertaining all our addresses, he then warned us about an incoming package and instructed us not to open it until G:TBday . . . because of all the ominous emails, we all imagined the worst: pipe bombs, blackmail photos and Gwyneth Paltrow's head . . . but the gifts turned out to be oddly thoughtful and quirkily sentimental; I got a Big Lebowski script (signed by Jeff Bridges . . . the Dude himself!) and a Jim Zorn jersey (signed by the King of the Scramble himself!) and you can read about the rest of the gifts here.

Dave Throws His Vote Away

In honor of yesterday's post, I voted for Madelyn Hoffman today . . . go Green Party!

Dave Throws His Vote Away

In honor of yesterday's post, I voted for Madelyn Hoffman today . . . go Green Party!