Everyone Has Their Own Special Purpose
My oldest son Alex developed early as far as language goes-- he was speaking in sentences before he was two years old, but Ian is precocious as well: he just turned three and he can competently punt.
Three or Thirty-eight, It's All The Same
While at the science museum, my three year old son Ian and I followed the instructions and positioned our faces next to the monitor and listened to the spooky music and then POW! the sound of a gunshot startled us . . . we were totally duped in the Neurology of Fear exhibit; we thought the display was about spookiness but it was actually a display of our flight or fight response and we were being filmed-- and so the computer played a slow motion replay of Ian and I shitting our pants: grimaces, raised eyebrows, bug-eyes, rapidly raised shoulders--- hysterical.
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.
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