I Could Have Played The Dead Body

In my quest to see the movies everyone else has already seen (you may recall my failed attempt to watch Top Gun) I finished The Big Chill last night, and my favorite piece of trivia about the movie is this: when the guys battle the bats in the attic, Harold (Kevin Klein) hums the theme from Raiders of the Lost Ark . . . another film written by Lawrence Kasdan (the second best piece of trivia: Kevin Costner played the dead body).

Happiness of Dave, Part 2

Happiness is going to the dentist because you think your abscess has returned and it will have to be "scooped out" like last time (and you will have to receive another Novocaine shot to the roof of your mouth) but instead you only need to take some penicillin . . . happiness is also staring at a very large spider on the ceiling, trying to determine how to remove it, but taking no action because your wife is still sleeping, and she is in charge of spiders (yes, despite all my trips to far off jungles and deserts, I am still scared silly of spiders, like the elephant is petrified of the mouse) but when she wakes up and I apprise her of the situation, she grabs a Tupperware and some paper towels-- and with alacrity, with alacrity-- she stands on the table, her face right at giant spider level, and swats it into the Tupperware and then squashes it (I then examined the carcass and concluded that it was not the deadly brown recluse . . . but at first glance I think all spiders are either a black widow or a brown recluse).

Happiness of Dave, Part One

Happiness is stepping on the scale after a two week vacation that was both gluttonous and bibulous, and weighing the same as when you left . . . and we are talking about a very gluttonous week which revolved around food: whether it was pork and broccoli rabe sandwiches, meatball night, Mexican night, Mrs. Brizzle's super-stacked prosciutto and soppressata subs, carnivore night, etc-- and the second week with our friends there was more of a balance between food and drink-- we had Ed to mix drinks-- but the meals were equally as good-- Michelle outdid herself, of course, and we managed to finish all of my wife's meatballs, though we were allotted sixteen each . . . I think the reason I didn't gain weight was that we did a prodigious amount of digging in the sand (and produced two sand sculptures-- a bird and a dragon) and the skim was up . . . or down . . . it was very, very good, so my down time, my time not running around with the kids, was spent sprinting through the shallow surf and jumping on a thin plastic board . . . that's me in the picture, the oldest, fattest, most hirsute skim-boarder on the East Coast).

Kids . . . You Can Send Them on Errands

The number one reason to have children: you can send them off to ask questions of people you would never talk to . . . for example, some dude on the beach had a stuffed squirrel on a towel so we asked Alex to go ask the owner if it was real, and after several trips with various queries from us (he returned with answers like “yes, it's real, but dead” and “no it wasn't a pet," we finally sent him over to ask the big question: "why?" and the answer was "to freak people out") and so our curiosity was satisfied without having to leave the comfort of our social circle or our beach chairs.

Too Much Beach Might Infect Your Penis

We spent the first five days at the beach at the beach-- the boys were at each other's throats in the condo, and so we would get on the sand at 8:30 and stay until 5:00 (and we had to wait until noon before the cousins got out there so Alex and Ian had to find strange kids to play with-- Alex met a kid his age who was right on his wavelength, who, coincidentally, turned out to be the son of an older William and Mary football player who played safety with Mark Kelso)-- but finally by Thursday we were all worn out, and Ian had to visit the doctor because of a fungal infection around the rim of his penis . . . so salt water doesn't cure everything.

I Thought There Were Aliens?

I finished Richard Ford's "Independence Day" last week at the beach-- the book that precedes "Lay of the Land" and I have the sneaking suspicion that I read it when it came out thirteen years ago, but there's nothing definite that makes me sure I read it (and it is nearly five hundred pages) except that I felt a sense of deja vu during the end, which leads me to think that I either A) read an excerpt in the New Yorker or B) have completely lost my mind.

Neither Choice Is Particularly Palatable

I've been thinking about a name for my new music project (which isn't starting for a while, despite the songs being written, because we have to finish the kitchen before I can get a new computer, and my old one melted down) and I am down to two (rather poor) hypotheticals: Rubber Bug and Dave and the Gray Goo.

My Ear-hair is Longer Than My Nose-hair!

You know the kind of guy that keeps getter better looking with age-- more distinguished and ruggedly handsome with every passing year . . . it is time for you to admit that you are not that kind of guy.

Double Baba

Yesterday (and I'm pretty sure very few people in North America can claim this) Dom and I were lucky enough to hear two different bands in the same bar play covers of "Baba O'Reilly" . . . we walked in to the Springfield Inn to hear Mike LeCompt but we had the time wrong, and a different band was playing-- The Juliano Brothers (three very fat guys who appeared to be related; they were very entertaining, especially the drummer . . . imagine Jabba the Hutt behind a drum-kit . . . some part of his belly touched every drum in the kit and he also sang as he played . . . you couldn't turn away) and the second version was by the inimitable Mike LeCompt, who heads possibly the greatest bar-band in the universe-- LeCompt was the lead singer for the hair band Tangier back in the 80s but now he plays every night of the summer on the Jersey shore, and during their three sets-- they played until two in the morning--the band crushed songs as diverse as Carly Simon's "You're So Vain," Led Zeppelin's "Ramble On" (who can sing that besides Robert Plant?) Bonnie Tyler's "Clouds in my Coffee," Whitesnake, Styx, Elvis, Brandy ("You're a Fine Girl") and a number of tunes by The Who-- they finished with "Won't Get Fooled Again" and "The Seeker."

Time and Your (Blood) Relatives

The cliche is that time passes slowly when you are young, and that each summer day is an eternity unto itself, and that as you get older the days, weeks, and months just rush by, but this is bullshit if you are spending all day with a four-year-old and a three-year-old (and you don't let them watch TV)-- there is some kind of time relativity transference, and their slow perception of time gets transferred to you, which has its pros and cons . . . I'm definitely getting more out of life, but by 3:30 I need to drink a cup of coffee just to keep up with them.

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

If you live in Jersey and you've been down the shore, then you've got to read Richard Ford's take on the whole thing in his new Frank Bascombe novel, Lay of the Land.

Humans: So Clever

Beer in a disposable aluminum can . . . what will they think of next?

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.