The Butterfly Effect
190 pound man + very little knowledge of the butterfly stroke + repeated attempts to do the butterfly stroke after reading a chapter in a swimming book + very little self-consciousness or embarrassment about doing something ridiculous (some of you may remember the story of when I whipped my bathing suit off in the shower next to the pool, thinking I was already in the men's locker room, though I still had ten yards to go) + determination in the face of incompetence = miniature tsunami.
There Should Be Three Kinds of Kitchens
Sixteen levels of cabinetry, four levels of granite-- which needs to be tested for radon-- Silestone, Cambria, tile, wood, bamboo . . . the list goes on and on for the options available for the new kitchen, and the permutations and pricing become an endless labor; it would really stress me out if I were the one doing the research (and even knowing Catherine is contemplating all this stuff stresses me out a little, but if I told her that she would hit me).
Of (Senile) Mice and Men
Mice don't get Alzheimer's disease, which is annoying, but luckily, scientists figured out how to genetically alter them so they do-- which makes me feel a lot better, because if I start losing my mind, I don't want to be taunted by a bunch of mice (in fact, if I do get Alzheimer's disease, I wouldn't mind having a pet mouse with Alzheimer's disease that I could forget to feed until it shriveled and died).
The Plan: We're Not Splitting the Inheritance With an Interloper
I'm pretty sure Alex and Ian have come to a tacit agreement that they do not want any other children horning in on their deal, so they've agreed that the only way to preserve their positions in the household is by bringing Catherine and I to our knees each and every day, so we won't even consider having another child-- and although I'm tired, I'm also impressed with their cooperation in this endeavor.
No Snooki In This One
No Sleeping, No Happy Ending
For a good massage, ask for Sabrina at the Chinese Acupressure place on 27 between Third and Fourth Street in Highland Park-- the price is right for an hour massage (48$ and it is a full hour, there's a timer, none of this fifty minutes and a cup of water bullshit) and the massage alternates between relaxing pressure and spontaneous violence: Sabrina will be gently rubbing the nook in your Achilles one moment and then pounding your feet with her closed fists the next, or she'll be straddled over you rubbing your back then suddenly wedging her thumb under your iliotibial band-- it makes for an exciting time, you'll feel like a real man once it's over.
Perhaps I Will Stick to Sentences
I had an idea for a new blog-- One Hundred Portraits of Dave-- but I haven't followed through; the premise is that I draw 100 quick self-portraits on my tablet (no revision, no erasing, no tossing a really bad one) and see if I get any better at it, and this was my first attempt.
I've Seen The Top Chill, It Was Great . . .
On my quest to plug the gaps in my pop-culture erudition, I tried to watch Top Gun, but I only made it half-way through-- I reached my high-five limit-- and I was worried that I would never know why Maverick's dad died, but Wikipedia has an excellent and precise plot summary that is far more entertaining than the movie . . . and so now I have to decide--much like my students with every book I've ever assigned-- if I should actually watch The Big Chill or if I should just read the synopsis and fake it?
Atonement: Cure for Happiness
If you've got some spring in your step, if you see the glass as half full, if you've been whistling away and looking on the bright side of life, and you want to curtail your absurdly optimistic outlook, then watch Atonement.
Are "The Hold Steady" Sincere . . . or Sincerely Ironic?
Secret Park
I thought I knew my way around Highland Park (it's only a mile square) but-- based on some information from one of the elementary school teachers-- we found a new park (new to us); it's right behind the White Rose System and it has an old school merry-go-round and a cool rock wall for the kids to climb and some kind of fenced in court and it's shaded by huge trees and it was full of Asian grandmothers watching their grandchildren.
The End . . . Not Really All That Nigh
There has been a grave miscalculation: the end is not nigh-- in fact, judging by what cosmologists predict from radio telescope data, the end is the opposite of nigh.
Range Life
Sometimes, when the kids are occupied elsewhere, I sneak into the kitchen, turn the range on low, and roast a marshmallow.
Dave Takes an Aesthetic Stand
Reflecting on the Inflection
Eight Year Olds Dude, Eight Year Olds . . .
At the beach today, a fairly innocuous looking guy who claimed to be a journalism teacher at a high school in Pennsylvania asked if he could take a picture of Alex and Ian-- they were wearing their sun hats and playing on a large pile of sand-- but I told him I thought that was kind of weird, and that I would rather he didn't; I would never ask anyone if I could take a picture of their kids, so that's how I made my decision, but it also may have been influenced by the fact that earlier in the day the lifeguards pulled everyone out of the water for a few minutes because of a reputed shark sighting.
Youth Sports: They Build Character?
While walking home from my pick-up soccer game, I saw a great moment in youth sports: a shaggy haired kid who couldn't have been more than eight was standing on the tennis court, sandwiched by his parents, who were tag-teaming him with a vicious coaching diatribe because of his lame strokes and lamer attitude-- the mom, who was wearing a Rutgers shirt and looked athletic in a stocky way, was lambasting him with lines like this: "If you don't lift your arm, I'll lift you! Don't tell me it's hot, it was hotter than this at camp! Did they have air-conditioning on the courts at camp? I don't think so! If you don't bend your knees, I'll bend you!" and then the dad, who was tossing this youngster balls to whack, told her to stop and "watch Momma, don't watch the ball, watch Momma" and he would toss her one and "Momma" would whip a crisp top-spin forehand down the line, and then Dad would go back to tossing to his kid, who could barely bop the thing over the net, and the berating would begin all over again.
Lying . . . It's What Civilized People Do
It's all how you phrase it: when I suggested (to save some money) that I could do some of the painting for our kitchen addition, my wife gave me an absolute vote of no confidence, and banned me from doing ANY painting in her new kitchen, which offended me, of course-- I told her she had to give me some sort of hope that I could possibly do it, if I was very careful and uncharacteristically neat, even if she didn't believe this and wasn't even planning on letting me even stir the paint can-- just to show faith that her husband has the ability to improve himself, just to see optimism and potential in the universe-- and she said to me, "What do you want me to do? Lie?" and I said, "Yes! That's what people do!" and she said I was too sensitive, but my friend Eric didn't see what the problem was, he just said, "This is great-- now you don't have to paint."
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