The Fountain of Youth Contains Grape Juice and Vinegar?
I play soccer every Sunday, and my body hurts when I start and my body hurts when I finish, but there's a twenty-minute window when I feel young again, but that twenty minutes cost me-- I'm sore for a few days after I play-- and the effects are both physical (I limp on my left ankle) and mental (kind of like Charlie in "Flowers for Algernon," it makes me remember that I was once young and fast and limber, but now I'm headed in the other direction and, sadly, I realize it) unless, and I still haven't tried it yet, unless the home remedy I just learned about is truly a fountain of youth . . . the recipe is one part apple cider vinegar to four parts juice (grape and apple) and you drink a few sips of it, chilled, every morning and then you're never sore again.
Toddler Magic
My son Alex did his first magic trick the other day-- he took a penny, showed it to me, and then placed it behind his back and asked me to guess which hand it was in; I guessed his right hand, but he opened his palm and it wasn't there, and then I said, "Okay it's in your left hand"-- and then I heard the sound of a coin falling onto the wood floor-- and then he opened his left hand . . . and it was empty: magic!
Raise the Bar With Alcohol
War and People
We watched Persepolis last night (if you haven't read the graphic novel, now you don't need to-- someone animated it for you!) and I finished Willa Cather's One of Ours this morning; both works portray war as an awful thing, so they have that in common, but also, in both works, the war doesn't so much as change the main character as just show him or her (respectively Marjane Satrapi and Claude Wheeler) in a clearer light-- so I recommend both not as grim, cautionary tales, but more as character studies: they both have a light touch.
The Sea Breeze Doesn't Make It to Spotswood
Yesterday at the beach there was a cool enough breeze off the ocean that when you got out from swimming, it was downright chilly, and even when we got into the car (which was parked in the sun) the thermometer only registered 81F, but on the ride home on Route 18 it slowly and steadily rose, and a mere thirty-five miles later-- at the Spotswood exit-- the temperature had climbed to 95F: when we got out of the car, it felt more like disembarking from an airplane after taking a winter flight to somewhere tropical (and meeting Celine, fresh from Turkey, accentuated the feeling that we were in another country, and she dredged up many fond memories of haggling with cab-drivers in meter-less cabs).
You Won't Like Me When I'm Angry
King of Kong joins Hoosiers, Billy Elliot and Rescue Dawn as movies that have gotten me choked up and teary eyed-- but King of Kong (a documentary about a rivalry between world class Donkey King players) is almost too archetypal to be real, and I wonder how they got such great footage of Billy Mitchell-- the Darth Vader of the film-- because he came off as so enigmatic and secretive . . . I hope I'm not being manipulated by the film, because that wouldn't make me weepy, it would make me angry . . . very angry . . . and I'm trying to control my temper, though that's hard during the summer, since I spend all day with my kids-- and the only thing they respond to is anger-- but I'm trying to be a good model for my son Alex, who now talks about his anger in the third person-- e.g. this morning, after Ian destroyed his Lego spaceship Alex said, "I'm getting my anger, I think in a second I'm going to have my anger, my anger is coming" and then, as he predicted, it did.
The Sort is Happening and It Is Big
I can't put down this new book by reporter Bill Bishop called The Big Sort; the premise is that Americans are agglomerating into micro-geographical regions of similar people-- mainly because so many Americans have moved in the past thirty years and everyone realizes how important and controllable this choice is, but this exacerbates the division between Democrats and Republicans because there's a sort of feedback loop when you only interact with people of your own mind-set . . . and that whole idea that there are swing voters out there to be persuaded, that's a myth, there are almost no swing voters-- and actually, people's choices aren't changing the party-lines, the party lines are changing people's choices to be more in line with the party, because it's easier to conform to a group (which is now more homogeneous than ever) and instead of engaging in discourse and debate with media and people different than you-- as was much more the case in 1976, when statistics show that you were more likely to switch parties, live in a mixed party neighborhood, have people in your church of mixed party, etc-- instead your church is probably primarily of your political affiliation (and is the most accurate prediction of what party you are-- if you believe the Bible is the undisputed Word of God, then you are a probably Republican)-- and this just scratches the surface of the book . . . I read 250 pages last night because my parents took the kids, so it was a lot to digest, but one fact I remember is that if you belong to a mail-order movie rental club (like Netflix) you are probably a Democrat.
Plenty of Action After the Movie
The first half of Wall-E rivals films like Modern Times, Brazil, and 2001: A Space Odyssey (which it parodies in the second half) for pure aesthetic entertainment and memorable imagery, and though it has a message for the kids and a tacked on happy ending, the movie is really just about looking at the screen-- bring the kids (if you want to answer a thousand questions, especially if you're with my son, Alex, who has inherited my penchant for talking, questioning, commenting, editorializing, and crying in the movie theater) or, even better, leave them home (and maybe the wife too-- Catherine jammed her ankle yesterday, running after Alex, who was riding his big-wheel staright into the road, and when she tried to get up after the movie was over, she couldn't walk and it was dark, of course, and we were meeting my parents next door at Bertucci's but as she hobbled out of the theater it started down-pouring, but we couldn't run for the car because she couldn't run so we got soaked and when we were sorting things out in front of the restaurant, Ian, vigilant about his big-boy underwear, pulled his pants down and showed the restaurant and parking lot some full frontal nudity and I had to scoop him up and run inside to the bathroom, leaving my crippled wife in the down-pour with Alex).
Gust Avrakotos' War?
Despite Tom Hanks (who is a tool, and always plays himself) and Julia Roberts (who is weird looking and affected and always plays herself), Charlie Wilson's War is a good movie . . . fast-paced, well-told, and entertaining: a cross between Charlie's Angels and Syriana; typically, Philip Seymour Hoffman steals the show, but the original and more appropriate title-- Gust Avrakotos' War -- doesn't roll off the tongue very well.
And Groundhogs Will Try That Long Preserved Virginity
Yesterday, on the drive home from the beach, Catherine and I saw something neither of us had ever seen before: a fat groundhog perched atop a tombstone; this is nothing like seeing a vulture or an asp or raven perched on a tombstone . . . that's ominous, of course, but this tableau made death and decay seem kind of cute.
Willa Cather Knows Electric Cars?
I'm reading Willa Cather's One of Ours-- which was published in 1922-- and without any fanfare, in a line of description about the town miller's wife, Cather wrote "she dressed well, came to town often in her electric car, and was always ready to work for the church or public library"-- which makes me wonder . . . if an electric car was a commonplace item in turn of the century Nebraska, then: who killed it?
Dave Wrote This Sometime or Other
I want to assure everyone (especially super-fans Squirrel and Whitney) that these sentences are as fresh as if they were just plucked from the salty heart of the ocean-- and even when they are flash-frozen, the are just as tasty and delicious (and if this doesn't make much sense, it's because I'm nursing a hang-over and the after-effects of eating a Fat Dad at 2 AM last night).
Dave Exorcises Junk Food Demons (and Sinks the Shot)
Yesterday, there was a giant spread of junk food in the English office, and as usual, I was drawn to the worst thing on the table-- a box of glazed mini-crullers-- but just as I was about to put the donut in my mouth, some other impulse took hold--DEMONS OUT!-- and I whipped the box of mini-donuts as hard as I could across the room at the little metal trashcan and-- to the surprise of the people in the room-- it went right in . . . and I think my relationship with junk food will be different now: I have conquered the urge to be a glutton, and my reward is that I am now unerringly accurate (although two periods later I did eat six mini-muffins, and I cut each one in half so that I could have double the surfaces to coat with butter).
Flattery + Humor = Parody
Someone drew the notable events of the year on the message board in the English office, and the parody of my blog went like this: "So I went to the Amish market to buy some meat and we contracted cholera and I decided to write a song about it."
I Coin A Word: Tupperawareness
Time to get all sniglety: some people possess a special ability to precisely gauge which plastic container is the right size to store the leftovers from dinner -- and I call this ability to accurately choose the correct container "tupperawareness" and while I do not possess this ability, (not by a long-shot) I am interested in studying people who do: I would like to learn their secret.
Dave Gets a Little Smarter
Thirty eight years living on this planet, and still so much to learn-- in the last two weeks I learned three things:
1) there are flying squirrels indigenous to New Jersey;
2) St. Augustine (not Jamestown!) is America's oldest permanent European settlement,;
3) that funny looking trestle sticking out into Farrington Lake over by Sir John's Restaurant is not the remnants of an old train line . . . it was a trolley.
Fuck You, BB&T Banking
A proud moment: we received a post-card from BB&T Banking saying that we have only one more car payment on the Subaru . . . BUT if we are using "autodraft" then the final payment will not be drafted from our account-- we will have to initiate payment by mailing a check AND if it's not mailed on time then late fees will be assessed BUT there was no phone number or address specified on the postcard (nor was there a reason why they wouldn't "autodraft" the last payment) and so after some irate phone-calling-- where no reason was given by the customer service representative as to why BB&T refuses to "autodraft" the last payment, we got the information we needed-- but because of this underhanded and, quite frankly, despicable attempt by BB&T to incur late fees on their loyal and punctilious customers, I am calling for a jihad on all BB&T employees and products-- yella!
Magical Moonlit Moose Sighting
Summer has begun, and it makes me recall my most vivid memory of last summer: my friend Rob and I were driving back up Bolton Mountain after a kickball game and consequent kickball-related picnic, it was late and the moon was full (and he lives in Vermont) and finally, after years of waiting, I got to see a moose; it was walking on the side of the road, fully illuminated by the moonlight, and we drove along side this tall, rickety creature for what seemed like five minutes-- he ambled along next to the car and I was able to get a good look at him by sticking my body out the sun-roof . . . and it was magical, just magical . . . although not as magical as if it were a unicorn or a centaur, but still pretty magical, despite the bushy moose beard . . . and I should also point out it was a juvenile, so if I've led you to believe it had those big antlers, it didn't.
Hey Internet! Write This Novel!
Here's a terrible idea for a novel:
the internet becomes so large and complex that it attains consciousness and starts writing e-mails to people, because that is the only way it can connect with reality-- it has no senses, just an awareness through its content that there is an outside world (like the reverse of The Matrix . . . or maybe a science-fiction version of Pinocchio) but, honestly, I'm not going to write it, and so I'm just throwing the idea out there . . . perhaps the internet will read it and then decide to self-reflexively write it-- so listen up, Internet, if you write a big-budget movie, I want some compensation!
Life Imitates Art?
Life imitates art (or what Whitney and I call art, but the rest of the world calls dreck)-- and it answers an ethical question as well: in a recent case, Nicholas Creanza (a pharmacist) posed as a gynecologist and "examined" several women, but he cannot be charged with rape because of an old law that states that an assault can't be considered rape if consent is obtained through fraud or deceit, and, either coincidentally or by design, Creanza's actions mirror the plot from "Dr. Seuss"-- Random Idiot's cross-over Beastie Boy's style hit from 1991 that details how Theodore Geisel uses his honorary doctorate to open a gynecology clinic and have his way with unsuspecting women, which we thought was a felony and so sent him to jail in the song (the Grinch who stole Christmas doing thirty to life/ sent to the slammer, now he's Bubba's wife) but really, we should have just sent him for some counseling.
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