5/6/2009
I like to think that I try to do a small part for the environment: I've stopped drinking out of disposable plastic, I try to abstain from eating large mammals because of the waste they produce, and--when possible-- I walk instead of drive . . . and I try to convince my students that these small differences make a big difference when everyone changes their behavior, but occasionally I push my luck, as I did last week when I tried to convince my creative writing class--composed mainly of females-- that they should buy one dress that they can use for the prom, their wedding, and any other formal occasion-- and, to drive the point home, I may have even lied and told them that we made my wife's wedding dress into a set of napkins and a bedspread, but, though the idea was met with disgust and repulsion, perhaps it will germinate in their heads and one of them will start a revolution which will cripple the fashion industry but cut consumption of clothing exponentially (and at the very least, this creative writing class, which started out very shy and quiet, to the point that I wondered if they would ever talk, has now become vociferous, outspoken, and often verging on violence because they have bonded in order to attack a common enemy-- which is me).
My House of Cards is Impregnable!
I'm a couple hundred pages into William D. Cohan's book House of Cards: A Tale of Hubris and Wretched Excess on Wall Street, a minute by minute account of Bear Sterns financial apocalypse-- and while I can't really recommend it, it's technical with a lot of big numbers and the wretched excess and hubris is pretty understated, when compared to The Winter's Tale or King Lear-- I will say this: it seems if that if people think there's a problem with your brokerage house-- if the stockholders or the repo people or the overnight credit people or the analysts or the ratings companies or the SEC or the banks or FED or the writers at Fortune or the rumor-mill or anyone else even entertains these thoughts, then the thoughts can create a mathematical reality and a meltdown can happen at the speed of an idea . . . and the other thing I learned while wading through the numbers, which are all in the billions, is just how funny it is when Dr. Evil tries to hold the world ransom for "one million dollars."
5/3/2009
I'm giving the second season of The Riches one million bloody hammers out of a possible five: Eddie Izzard and Minnie Driver and all the other actors are great, and it is the most stressful show to watch-- while still being funny-- since Deadwood (and it has that same method of starting each show ten seconds after the last show ended).
5/2/2009
After the fat man heard about the shark attack, he puffed his big cigar and said, "That's why I don't swim."
5/1/2009
Little did she know, but the young lady in the lane next to me (who was certainly a college-level swimmer, or possibly a professional swimmer, but most likely some kind of cyborg government swimming experiment-- genetically modified with certain part replaced by machinery) was in the race of her life . . . against me, just a regular human, not even wearing a Speedo-- and that is why I am so sore today.
Last Wishes
I would prefer not to die of the "swine flu," as there is nothing more embarrassing than people repeating "swine flu" over and over at your funeral (if I had my druthers, I would prefer to be eaten by a large carnivore) but there is a more humiliating way to "shuffle off this mortal coil" than swine flu: testicular elephantiasis.
4/29/2009
I guess it is unusual for a dude to buy fabric by the yard at Wal-Mart, but I needed some thick material to staple to the plywood walls in my little music studio to deaden the echo . . . the girl who worked in the sewing and crafts department was so amused by my awkwardness that she gave me an "extra spin" (which is not nearly as dirty as it sounds-- it just means she rolled an extra yard around my bolt of fabric without charging me for it, actually-- that sounds dirty as well).
4/28/2009
I see the appeal of Dancing with the Stars: the girls are really hot and scantily clad, so you can't stop watching because you want to get a clear look at them but you can't get a clear look because they move their bodies so quickly, convincing you that they are wearing less than they are actually wearing, but then once they stop, you realize they were wearing more than you thought while they were dancing-- or maybe some people actually like to watch dance?
4/28/2009
So my students are presenting various ethical dilemmas and how to resolve them, and a group of boys is presenting a case about plagiarism and the kid who is talking has on the exact same green and white striped golf shirt as me, so I very dryly ask him: "But how far do you go with this idea, for instance, if someone were to wear the same exact shirt as someone else, could that be said to be plagiarism? would it be intellectual theft? to wear the same shirt?" but he didn't get it, and neither did anyone in the class; in fact, one smart girl said, "Mr. Pellicane, I don't think that's a very good parallel to their dilemma" and so finally I had to point out my joke, which is not very funny at all . . . and then we had to backtrack and let the boy reiterate what he said because I wasn't paying attention to him, I was just thinking about setting up my brilliant joke, which obviously wasn't so funny.
King of the Road
I like to think that I'm a pretty calm driver, but this must not be genetic (or else my kids inherited some bad driving genes from my wife) because my children are absolute assholes on their big-wheel tricycles: the other day at the park, Alex nearly ran over a dog, and I think he may have intended to hit it; Ian actually ran a little Asian woman off the path and into the mud-- and I know this was with intent-- I watched him go out of his way to accomplish this; and after I took Ian's big-wheel away and made him walk, Alex who Catherine had instructed not to drive through a deep puddle, went ahead and did it anyway, and then tried to zip around Catherine and Ian, but cut it too close and ran Ian over, giving him road rash on his arm and knee . . . and this was just one particular ride on one particular day and we do a couple laps around the park with similar results every day . . . so the question is why do I continue to embarrass and torture myself and the answer is that I have a very short memory, because every day that it's not raining it seems like a good idea to me to take a relaxing cruise around the park: hope springs eternal in my optimistic mind that today will be the day that everyone behaves in a civilized manner.
4/25/2009
Our neighbors (who were in their kitchen eating lunch) got a treat this weekend when they saw me trick Catherine into cutting my hair-- she thought she was giving me my usual, a number one head shave, but I had grown my hair out over break and wanted her to trim the sides with the angled attachment for the clipper, but she insisted she couldn't do it and I had to resort to vociferous and loud persuasion until finally she took a swipe at me and cut a gouge in my head, which made her very angry and she refused to cut the other side and even it out and by this time we were both yelling and I took the clippers and cut the other side myself, without a mirror because we were in the backyard and I pleaded with her to cut the rest but she refused and told me to go to the barber, which I did, but it was Sunday and the barber was closed, so then the whole thing started up again, still in the backyard so the Coens could watch and I finally got her to shave my head in the usual style and now I'll probably never grow my hair out again even though there is some hair up there, but I'll never get to enjoy it because I'm too cheap to go to the barber (even though in the midst of our argument Catherine told me that I don't care about my appearance and asked how I would like it if she acted like that and then she threatened to get really fat and not wash or comb her hair-- but I knew this was an empty threat because she's too vain to actually go through with that just to punish me).
Peccary vs. Pessary
The Group (by Mary McCarthy) is a frank book about eight Vassar girls in the 1930's who speak candidly about men, sex, contraception, finances, and sexism-- and though I pride myself on my extensive vocabulary, I had to look up the word "pessary". . . and I'll bet that you don't know what a "pessary" is either, and we are not talking about a "peccary," we are talking about a "pessary"-- and believe me, they are not interchangeable at all.
You Fix One Thing . . .
Let it be known that my bookshelves are done and painted-- but that means I have to remove the boxes and boxes of books that I stashed under our beautiful handmade Syrian sleigh bed, which is a creaking, sagging piece of crap-- the boxes of books are holding the mattress up-- and so now I will have to fix THAT.
A First For Dave (and Possibly All Men)
I am very pleased with what maintenance did to the thermostat in my classroom during Spring Break; when I came back there was a note on the white board that said "The slider now controls the room temperature" and I like to keep my class really cold (I'm always hot and it keeps the kids awake-- plus human memory works better in the cold, kind of like a computer) and I usually do this by opening all the windows, which generates a lot of complaints, especially from the ladies, and sometimes outright rebellion-- they start climbing on the cabinets and closing the windows, despite my threats-- but yesterday I was able to get the room really cold without opening the windows, and then when my creative writing class, composed mainly of girls, came in and shivered, I pointed to the windows and said, "I know, it's cold in here so I kept all the windows closed today" and they BOUGHT IT and said, "We know, it's not you today, it just feels cold in here" and I'm very proud of this because it is the first time I have ever beaten a bunch of women in a battle of wits.
4/21/2009
So it turns out yesterday was Earth Day, Pot Day (I looked up why, the legend is that a crew of California high school kids in the 70's would always meet at Pasteur's statue to get stoned at 4:20 PM, which was the time detention let out) The Ten year Anniversary of Columbine, Hitler's Birthday and the Day Benny Hill died: which did you celebrate?
4/20/2009
The other night we watched Vicky Christina Barcelona, which was quite good-- the studly Spanish painter teaches you how to pick up two beautiful women at one time, he's quite skillful in both art and love, but even more impressive is my artistic eye . . . we knew nothing about the movie, just took it out of the Netflix sleeve and popped it in the player, but as it started I said, "That's Woody Allen's FONT! They stole Woody Allen's FONT! " and in a moment we learned that it is actually Woody Allen film . . . so I guessed the director by the font of the credits: although my wife wasn't particularly impressed with my precognizant aesthetic sense, I'm sure there are hordes of beautiful young women who will read this and swoon.
4/19/2009
While I was peeling a large ripe mango, my son Alex asked me: "What rhymes with mango?" and I impressed myself with the quantity and quality of my answer-- if you want to play along, stop reading now and see what you can come up with . . . I quickly said, "Durango-- a town in Colorado-- tango-- a Spanish dance-- Django (Reinhardt)-- a four fingered gypsy guitar player--and fandango, a movie website and also some kind of exotic dance" but Alex wasn't that impressed and he said "You forgot 'mango'" and laughed, perhaps thinking of the time Homer Simpson appreciated when his softball team rhymed "Homer" with "homer."
This Guy's Picture Is In The Dictionary Under "Man"
High marks for David Graham's new book The Lost City of Z: A Tale of Deadly Obsession in the Amazon Forest (I give it eleven poisoned arrows out of twelve) but I definitely felt lame and civilized reading it on the beach, nursing a Spring break hangover, my toes in the surf, kids digging contentedly in the sand, contemplating which seafood joint we should frequent in between pages-- this guy Percy Fawcett was a man (despite his first name) and though his adventures eventually killed him, he makes Indiana Jones look like a flower sniffer.
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