Dave Could Be a Middle School Soccer Star . . . If He Wasn't Thirty-Eight
I know I shouldn't be proud of this (but of course I am); at eighth grade soccer try-outs I timed the kids in a typical dribbling and sprinting exercise-- they had to weave in and out of eight cones, speed dribble to a far cone, play a lofted ball to a target, and then sprint forty yards to the finish, and, believe it or not, I posted the fastest time, edging out a speedy and ambidextrous thirteen year old by two tenths of a second (19.1 to 19.3 if you want to try it at home).
Not Eating Candy = The Terrorists Win
On a day as tragically infamous as this one, it is important to remember things you love, but often forget about, such as:
1) Guidance day for seniors (no teaching!)
2) black licorice.
Rooting For Whatever
I must admit that I was rooting a little bit for Chad Pennington to complete one into the end-zone at the end of the Jets game-- I normally try to find it in my heart to root for the Jets, but I wanted to see Pennington stick it in their face . . . I think I'm also a Ricky Williams fan, especially now that the Canadian football league has made a special Ricky Williams rule based around his early retirement from the NFL.
Good Sandwich = 403B
Waking up early and taking the time in the morning to make a really good sandwich for lunch is like investing for retirement; you are acknowledging that there is a time beyond the present and that you will exist in this time in the future and that it might be nice to have something pleasurable when this time arrives.
It Can Always Be Worse
It's Monday morning-- the first full week of work-- and the weekend flew by so fast that I barely remember it, plus I'm coughing up yellow phlegm and about to lose my voice (and I'll certainly lose it at try-outs this afternoon) and this is most likely because of the mold that's been growing in the humid jungle we call our classrooms, but I know I shouldn't complain, as there are worse things: for example, a case of hemorrhoids growing on my tongue.
This Is Fun, Right?
The first day of eighth grade soccer try-outs was yesterday, and I forgot how much I missed coaching; also, I can certainly see how Napoleon kept advancing into Russia, it's just so enjoyable to run your troops ragged while explaining to them that this is what they signed up for.
Good Morning, Kiddies!
Work Makes Dave Weary
This business of going to work is exhausting: Thursday night, I slept from eight P.M. to six A.M. (and I took a nap on the couch from 6:30 P.M. to 7:30 P.M., while the boys watched The Iron Giant).
Deep Regrets
I would like to apologize for my rash statement several weeks ago-- one of the problems with blogging is that you don't have the time to revise and filter raw and sometimes very offensive thoughts . . . and so in a fit of irrational prejudiceI claimed that I had no need for the Dorian mode, but now that I reflect on this, I'm afraid that I was being a modist-- I was judging the mode from superficial characteristics-- but with the right explanation (from a music theory text) I realized that I use the Dorian mode all the time, I just didn't know I was using it: it's a scale that starts like a minor but ends like a major (with a raised sixth) and it's highly useful when playing the blues.
Cold and Cutting Logic
Everyone has a theory . . . including the wrinkled old lady at the Shop-Rite deli counter-- I requested that she slice my cold cuts thin, because that's how my wife prefers them, but before she began slicing the meat, she asked me a question: "Is your wife thin?" and I said, "Yes" (but I should have put her on the spot and said, "No . . . she's morbidly obese and can't fit in the shower") and then she explained why she asked: "Thin people usually ask for their cold cuts sliced thin, I guess they don't like to eat as much meat."
Kids . . . Sometimes They Sound Like Marlon Brando
After the kids went up to bed and Catherine and I were watching Friday Night Lights, we heard a strange voice from the top of the stairs . . . Alex had gotten out of bed and was whispering to us . . . "Mom, could you do me a favor? could you get my . . ." but his whisper was so deep and scratchy that he sounded like Marlon Brando in The Godfather so we started making him whisper things like, "If you could do this one thing for me" and "Mom, can I arrange to meet with you this one time" and "please kiss this ring" then after we good laugh at his expense, we let him come down and get his Star Wars comic.
Can You Wash a Fart?
Ian has unlocked the door of juvenile humor: go with a gross image and beat that horse until it's dead; yesterday in the car he asked-- sincerely-- if he could wash his hands because they were covered in playground mulch, and then he asked if he could wash his feet, and then he asked if he could wash his butt and then he asked if he could wash his farts and then finally he settled on washing his snot, and for the rest of the car ride home he riffed on his mucous: "can you wash my snot . . . can you wash my snot . . . I can wash my snots . . . can you wash your snot?"
Can You Handle the Truth?
I think you can handle it, so I'm going to tell you the truth, and though it may be grotesque and incomprehensible, it may also save your life: Vic Mackey (The Shield) is the television version of Colonel Nathan R. Jessup (A Few Good Men).
One-Uppers Are A Downer
Last night, just after discussing the infamous "one-upper" that now works with us (this Emilio, he is more than famous for his "one-upping"-- for example: when a co-worker mentioned that he made some guacamole, Emilio claimed that he was growing an avocado tree in his closet) my friend Eric described a house he was landscaping and he mentioned the well-maintained garden with its plethora of pepper plants (a plethora, oh yes El Guapo, we have a plethora) including a beautiful Thai hot pepper bush with tiny colorful hot peppers growing all over it-- and I then remarked that I owned several such beautiful Thai hot pepper bushes when we lived in Syria and I kept them on our porch, where they served as a decorative spice rack and Catherine looked at me and said, "I think someone is doing some one-upping" and she was right.
Pop Art Paradox
Like the Harry Potter series, Feed the Animals -- the super mash-up album by Girl Talk -- is totally entertaining and completely derivative, but the question is: when you skillfully put the same old elements in a new context, is it great pop art or is it a comment on the fluid and disposable nature of pop art?
Sports . . . Better Than Reality
There comes a time in a man's life when he realizes that sports are not a metaphor for life; that sports, in fact, are far simpler, reductive, and easier to master than life; and that he should give up pursuing success in life and simply concentrate on sports (perhaps I'm realizing this because I'm reading Richard Ford's The Sportswriter).
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).
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