The Earth, She is a Swiftly Tilting Planet

Yesterday signified the end of something: we went to the beach and the day started cold, rainy, and windy but by noon it was sunny and the ocean was freakishly warm and both boys got completely wet, and after I changed them we went to Pete and Elda's for pizza and then they slept all the way home . . . it was hard to remember that soon enough we're in for a long dark winter.

A Very Cheap Buzz

If you're an eighth grade soccer player on the bus after a game, then the height of fun is to sniff the inside of a fellow competitor's cleats.

Dave is a Rejuvenated Cucumber (or melon)

This morning, I was feeling tired, and so when I showered I used some of my wife's Cucumber Melon Rejuvenating Body Wash, and it was very refreshing: almost instantly I felt like a ripe and fresh cucumber (or melon) sitting plumply in a spring garden, dew dripping down my firm and smooth cucumber (or melon) skin and-- just like a rejuvenated cucumber (or melon) I was ready to face the day.

Two For One Pizza: Sounds Like A Good Idea, Right?

A fond memory: Aposto's, the narrow Italian bistro where we ate the other night, was once a far grubbier pizza joint called 2 For 1 Pizza, and the deal was this: when you ordered one pie, you got two pies for the price of that one-- in theory this was a good deal, but the same absurd dialog comprised every order . . . I'll take two pies . . . okay boss, two pies . . . so that means four pies? . . . you want four pies? . . . no, no, because then I'll get eight pies, right? . . . you want eight pies? . . . no I want four pies . . . okay, four pies . . . yes, so I'm only ordering two pies, so I get two for one, like the name, right . . . yes, then you get four pies . . . okay, just ring up two pies, okay . . . okay . . . okay . . . okay . . . just to be sure, I'm going to walk out of here with four pizza pies, right? . . . right . . . okay . . . right . . . okay.

Huh?

Republicans: the party of financial regulation.

Remembrance of Zills Past

There's a tambourine in the back seat of my car, but the only time I remember it's there is when I hit a bump.

The Doppelgangers is a Bad Name for a Sitcom

The apple doesn't fall far from the tree . . . Alex likes to use the right word for things, a fairly useless and frustrating characteristic; yesterday in the stroller, we passed by the house that has the same model and color Subaru as we do, and Alex reminded me of his fantasy about the family that lives there: that they are our twins in most every way-- number, age, appearance, etc.-- and then he asked me what we called them and I said, "I don't know" and made up a nonsensical rhyme of our last name and he said "No, not that kind of name" and then I remembered what word he was looking for . . . "our doppelgangers?" and he said, "Yeah, doppelgangers, they're our doppelgangers!" and I'm hoping he doesn't bring this up at pre-school because he's already weird enough.

Dad Shame

Sometimes when my children find other kids to play with at the park-- which is happening more and more often-- I get bored, and sometimes when I get bored, especially if I've forgotten something to read, then I toss whatever balls we've brought in the wagon at my kids; I did this the other day with a Nerf football, I chucked it over the top of the jungle gym, hoping to surprise little Ian, but my aim was too precise and I hit him in the side of the face, and so he turned to me and said "Daddy, you hurt me" and then went back to playing . . . and then I noticed that another father caught the whole thing, and his look of disgust for me was priceless.

He Hates to Say It . . . But He Loves to Say It

You're not supposed to like saying "I told you so" but in his book The Black Swan, all Nassim Nicholas Taleb has to say about the current financial crisis is: "I told you so"-- and there's nothing more enjoyable than saying "I hate to say it, but I told you so."

Caster Disaster

Last Saturday, I was that asshole: I chose a shopping cart at Target with a bad caster that alternated between making a loud clattering sound and a high pitched shriek, and I was too lazy to switch carts, instead I suffered the frowns of employees and shoppers alike-- it was early-- AND I got into the "express" lane at the grocery store and before I realized that I had more than twelve items, there was a line behind me . . . I thought I didn't have much but I did -- six bottles of seltzer, four cans of SpaghettiOs, two things of lunch meat, rolls, a loaf of bread, hot pepper rings, two packs of paper plates and a pack of paper cups-- for a grand total of eighteen items-- 50% more than the limit; once I realized my transgression I turned bright red, and all I could do was bag really fast and race out of the store, the shrieking caster broadcasting my shame.

Greek Myth = Wet Kids

I thought reading the kids some Greek myths would be at worst innocuous (and a bit boring) and at best a nice basis in the most common allusions in literature, but when we were out splashing in the rain the other day, I turned around to find both my children lying in a large brown puddle, faces in the water, making some kind of kissing fish sound; I asked them what they were doing and Alex said: "I'm that guy, Narceesusus, looking at himself in the water!"

Stress at the Stress Factory

Sometimes the comedy club isn't funny-- like when the table next to you can't stop chatting and you ask them repeatedly to please be quiet because you can't hear the jokes, and the waitress asks them to be quiet, and finally, you lose your temper and tell them to shut up and the young guy at the table-- put in the awkward position of having to defend his womenfolk, stands up and yells at you and then Patrice O'Neal stops the show and asks what the fuck is going on and your wife tells him and-- when O'Neal questions the offending table-- the annoying and loud drunk lady says (seriously) to Patrice Oneal "I didn't know I couldn't talk while you were doing your act" and Patrice Oneal lays into her and her table for a while and then on the way out a member of our table asks for an apology and soon enough there is a scuffle and a very effective brother/ sister tag-team pins the young guy who yelled at me to the floor and we throw several other folks into the tables and chairs and then we make a quick exit before the police detain us-- Catherine knew the hostess and so they let us out without delay-- and we retreated to the Corner Tavern, where we watched the police cars race past, on their way to a comedy club melee.

My Son the Half-Assed Telepath

My four year old son Alex told me that "in school you have to say everything out loud, you can't just talk in your brain, because the teacher can't hear what's in your brain" and then Alex claimed that HE could read my brain and he told me to count to a number in my head-- but not to say it aloud-- and, miraculously, he guessed it (the number was five) and while that was nifty, Alex then failed on the next seven tries at this same trick and so when I asked him to concede that he could not read minds he said "What about the five!" and he decided that he could only read minds "a little bit."

Words Are Worth 1000 Pictures

Yesterday, Catherine and I went to our first Back-to-School Night, and Alex's classroom had pictures the students drew on the walls and the pictures had captions written by the teacher-- but the captions were recited to the teacher by the students and then she transcribed them -- so the pictures were rudimentary and childish: you had blobs at the park, stick figures with happy balloons, dots on crooked mountains, etcetera-- but the captions were neat and legible; Alex's picture consisted of two stick figures next to some sort of jagged squiggly thing and the caption read: 

"My little brother Ian and I are running away from the poisonous lizard."

Football Conquers Chores

Whenever you have a lot of chores to do, and you've been sitting on your ass all afternoon watching football because you're sore from playing soccer, invariably, the Giants game goes into over-time-- and then what are you going to do . . . stop watching and start vacuuming after you've already invested three-and a half hours?

Prepositional Ponderings

This has been bothering me: Vincent Chase is the star on "Entourage," but I don't think he's the star of "Entourage"-- Ari Gold is . . . or is he?

Roslin > Palin

I was going to continue in the political vein with a sentence about the Sarah Palin/Laura Roslin Battlestar Galactica analogy-- Palin does look like Roslin (and Tight looks like McCain) has  but the analogy is so obvious-- and also very flawed, Palin is way dumber and way more conservative than Roslin-- so instead I'm going to remind you that it's really hard to coach a soccer game in a civil manner when you're ahead 4-0 in the first half (but I'll still provide a photo of Tricia Helfer).

I Go Off on a Tangent (About the Propriety of a Name)

Sarah Palin's children are named Track, Willow, Bristol, Piper, and Trig; Trig is her child with Down Syndrome . . . and the condition was diagnosed prenatally, so you'd think the Palin family would have had plenty of time to come up with a name that's a little less humiliating . . . kids without Down syndrome have a hard enough time spelling "trigonometry."

Ring the Bells, Let It Be Known: Dave Fixed the Toilet

Let it be known: yesterday-- Sunday the twenty first of September . . . the first day of autumn-- I FIXED THE TOILET; I replaced the fill valve (incorrectly at first, although I didn't know it, but when I returned from soccer there was a small flood in the bathroom and so, after deciphering the many pronged directions, I was able-- with much blasphemous profanity-- to fix it) and the purpose of this sentence is to record this feat for time immemorial so that six months from now when I have lapsed in my household chores once again-- as is inevitable-- then at least when my wife tells me that I never do anything around the house, I can pull up this post and say, "Once, not so long ago, I FIXED THE TOILET!"

I Wear Bad Idea Jeans

Another bad decision in a long line of them: during our 8th grade soccer pre-game warm up (and I feel that it's crucial to have a crisp looking pre-game warm-up) the kids playing the crosses were a bit sluggish, and so I gave them a little defensive pressure to get them up to game speed-- I ran from one side of the field to the other and made them cross the ball around my body, but I forgot that I was carrying a fresh, hot 16 ounce cup of coffee from WaWa . . . until a cross nearly grazed it and I realized that if the ball was two inches lower I would have suffered second degree burns (and completely ruined any semblance of a professional pre-game warm-up).