Dave is Legend

I've used this blog to reference the titles of books I've read and movies I've watched, but while we were in Vermont last week, for the first time I used this blog to reference my own idea-- which I forgot, but I knew that I had had an idea; my friend Rob turned on the movie I Am Legend and I remembered that the ending was lame, and that I had come up with an alternate ending, but I couldn't remember what it was . . . so I used this blog as my cyborg memory and looked it up . . . 1/25/2009 if you are interested, but I guess eventually, I'll need a digital version of the blog implanted into my brain.

Would You Adopt This Kid?

It doesn't take much to scare me, and The Orphanage (El Orfanato) was enough to do the trick . . . it's pretty damn creepy and it also has an excellent plot-- my wife and I were still talking about what happened in the closet the next day-- so I'm giving it nine deformed sack wearing bastard orphan children out of ten.

7/7/2009

I was excited to learn the derivation of the phrase "beyond the pale" but no one else was-- my wife and friends had never heard this idiom before-- but perhaps you have, and it comes from when the English were colonizing Ireland-- in th elate 1500's-- there were rules about consorting with the "wild Irish"-- it was generally not allowed, and so the English colonists were not to go "beyond the Pale," a region surrounding Dublin, and into the weirdness that was rural Ireland.

7/6/2009

It's frustrating to read Daniel Boyle's book The Talent Code: Greatness Isn't Born. It's Grown. Here's How at age thirty nine, when my myelin production is soon to wane, and realize that I could have been whatever I wanted, a cartoonist, a guitarist, a ballerina, if I had only practiced deep enough and long enough-- that there really is no such thing as talent, only perseverance, failure, time, and persistence-- and that if you put in your 10,000 hours practicing the right way, with the right motivation-- you need to be in a situation that keeps telling your brain better get busy, as opposed to "better watch TV" or "better be well rounded"-- then you will be a world class talent, and people will look at you and think you are "gifted"-- so since it's too late for me to truly master anything (and judging by this rambling sentence, I could use 9000 more hours of writing practice) all I can do is start torturing my kids and it's never too soon to start . . . so what do I want them to master?

A Macho Solution

Now that it's summer, it's time to dig out my roller-blades, and, of course, there's a certain stigma attached to them-- thus the old joke . . . What's the hardest thing about roller-blading? Telling your parents you're gay . . . not that there's anything wrong with being a gay-blader, but I like to look manly in all my endeavors, and so when i presented my dilemma in the English Office, my friend Eric gave me an elegantly simple solution: I'm going to purchase a hockey stick, and whenever I roller-blade, I'm going to carry the hockey stick with me, so it looks like I'm on my way to a roller hockey game, a very macho event . . . and as long as no one ever presses me as to where the game is, the plan is foolproof.

I Hate Residual Glee

I'm sure there are other dads out there with the same opinion, but they're probably afraid to admit it, so I will be the grouch: I hate bubbles . . . I hate bubble-making paraphernalia, I hate bubble-making liquid, I hate the sticky mess, I hate the way the soap kills the lawn, and I don't even like looking at bubbles very much (and since it's Independence Day, I should also mention that I don't like watching fireworks either).

I'll Miss You The Same Way I Miss Richard the Third

Sometimes when a relationship is abusive, it's better if it just ends . . . and I've decided I can no longer be friends with Vic Mackey . . . though there were times when I was rooting for him, especially when Forrest Whitaker was hot on his tail, but the final episode of the The Shield reminded me that hanging out with Vic wasn't good for either of us-- it made us both into something worse than we already were.

7/2/2009

Along with a sense of accomplishment, there also comes sadness when you finish a long novel: I just finished-- after two tries-- Denis Johnson's Vietnam saga Tree of Smoke and though I'm happy that I'm getting it back to the library on time, I'm going to miss William "Skip" Sands and his rogue Colonel uncle; the novel is certainly Pynchonesque, it has tunnels like V, it investigates information theory-- including propagation, distortion, and chain of command-- and it has an inscrutable quality, like Gravity's Rainbow (but not nearly as difficult and without as many characters) but by the end you understand these people that fell into the cracks of the Vietnam war and want to spend more time with them, 614 pages isn't enough.

Random Idiotic Thoughts

During graduation, while they read the seven hundred plus names of the senior class, you are alone with your thoughts . . . mainly, I thought how strange it was that every speaker had a quote from Dr. Seuss in their speech and that if I ever have to give a graduation speech, I won't quote Dr. Seuss, I will instead quote the Random Idiots song about Dr. Seuss-- you know, the one where the good doctor uses his faux doctorate to open a gynecology clinic and have his way gullible women . . . and that day, of course, will be my last as a teacher.

6/30/2009

Yesterday's sentence was a complete fabrication: we weren't out of eggs, I never went to the grocery store, and no toddler licked the back of my leg . . . sorry about that.

Do The Back of My Knees Look Like They Are Covered With Germs?

Yesterday morning, while waiting on line at the grocery store (it's summer vacation-- now when we're out of eggs, I don't settle for yogurt-- instead I just walk over to the store, get eggs, come home and cook them . . . it's awesome) a toddler toddled up behind me and licked my bare leg-- just above the back of my knee-- and his mother said, "Seth, don't do that, you'll get sick" but she never apologized to me, which I think is pretty rude . . . when my kids do something disgusting to someone, I apologize for them and I make them apologize.

6/28/2009

Mayhem in the kiddie pool on Friday: Alex and his friends were racing around playing some violent game, and at one point Alex yelled "I am chaos!" and then Ian spotted a round chunk and told me he thought it might be poop and so we told the lifeguard, who gingerly netted it, and made a positively negative identification as fecal matter, but it didn't matter because ominous clouds were rolling in and we just made it to the car before the downpour.

6/27/2009

They had a nice spread of donuts and bagels for us at the year end high school meeting, and among the food was a quiche in a glass dish, so I remarked, "It looks like somebody made this," meaning, of course, that it was home-made food among the store bought stuff, and perhaps I didn't say it eloquently-- I was a little hung-over from the year end party-- but a large curly haired woman looked at me like I was a complete moron, and in a Real Housewives of New Jersey accent, said (sarcastically)"YOU THINK SOMEBODY MADE IT, OH YEAH? YOU THINK SO-- YOU THINK SOMEBODY ACTUALLY MADE THAT, A REAL PERSON! YOU THINK A REAL PERSON ACTUALLY COOKED THAT?" which is a strange way to interact with someone you've never met . . . so I just backed away slowly, the way you do from an angry rhino that is about to charge, so she stopped her string of vitriol towards me and made a remark about me probably being a PE teacher to the PE teacher next to her (and I later confirmed that she didn't know this woman either).

6/26/2009

Rolled onto my right testicle while I was sleeping again-- and feeling like you took a knee in the crotch is no way to start the day.

6/25/2009

My four year old son's refusal to use worms as bait "because they are good for the soil and they're alive" has made me take a closer look at my own beliefs; worms are good for the soil and they are alive-- and maybe we shouldn't use them for a recreational pursuit that involves torturing a fish-- unless, of course, we're going to eat the fish . . . but that's a whole other issue: we still haven't eaten anything that we've caught yet and I'm not sure how Ian is going to react to that can of worms.

Greasetruck conquers all!

Greasetruck's new song, "The Bear," is an incredible musical accomplishment because not only is it the greatest rock song of all time, it is also-- simultaneously-- the greatest parody of a rock song of all time, and thus, it is impervious to all criticism -- anything you think is super great, is super great, and anything you think is totally stupid, is actually intended to be humorous . . . you see how this works?-- so save your vitriol for the new Coldplay album . . . also, note the use of heavy metal banjo (which is difficult to record, not because of the banjo playing, which is pretty rudimentary, but because it's hard to use the computer keyboard and mouse while wearing banjo finger-picks . . . I doubt Bela Fleck has this problem, but these are the issues that arise for the home recording hobbyist).

6/23/2009

Our anniversary day in New York City started well, but then the Mexicans got their revenge on me: we ate at a great Thai place for lunch (Pam Real Thai on 9th Ave) and saw Avenue Q (which was pretty funny, but, like British writer Geoff Dyer, nothing makes me happier than having no interest in the theater-- I don't have to read reviews, sit in cramped seats, buy tickets, ask people what shows are good, etc.-- so though I laughed, this will be my last play for a long long long time, and even though the songs were funny and satirical, they sounded too much like what they were satirizing, that slick forgettable Broadway sound . . . but the Bad Idea Bears made me laugh) and then the rest of our day was full of lessons; we walked fifty blocks up to the Guggenheim to see the Frank Lloyd Wright exhibit, but we wanted to wait until 5:45 because then it's "pay what you want" so we had a few minutes to kill, but up by the Guggenheim there are no bars just very fancy restaurants, very fancy children's clothing stores, and apartments . . . then we learned that a LOT of people want to cheap out and pay four dollars to get in the Guggenheim, so we abandoned the gigantic line to catch the train to Newark to eat at what was supposed to be a great authentic Mexican page and we got off the express train home to walk to it in Newark and though I had read recent reviews and the place has a web page, it was boarded up and CLOSED--el restaurante está cerrado-- and I am sure that this is now a Mexican curse and conspiracy (avid readers will remember a similar dilemma several weeks ago) and so for our anniversary dinner we got take-out from "Hansel and Griddle" in New Brunswick, took it home, and watched The Shield . . . but we didn't feel so bad about our foiled plans because we got to listen to a great cell phone conversation between a bitter middle aged balding dude and his mother: one son just got arrested on five counts of burgarly and he was mad because his ex-wife was "protecting the kid with a lawyer when he needed to be punished, to be sent to boot camp, mom" and his other son just got his second violation for underage drinking and now his ex-wife wanted him back in the picture to control his sons, who he feared might hurt the wife and had "lunged at her" but he had to move to Houston to a radio station there, because his time at CBS was coming to a close and he couldn't handle the four hour commute-- so like we learned from Avenue Q, sometimes a little shadenfreude is a good thing.

Bowling and Vietnam: Both Are Better To Read About (Than Experience)

I'm finally getting deep into the shit of Denis Johnson's Vietnam novel Tree of Smoke, and along the way I ran across a fantastic sentence about bowling, the best sentence about bowling that I've ever read-- so good, in fact, that it almost makes me want to go bowling, but not quite, because bowling is only fun for three frames, then it gets painfully boring-- and so, without further fanfare, here is the superb bowling sentence: 

"Skip had never bowled, never before this moment even observed . . . the appeal was obvious, the cleanly geometry, the assurances of physical ballistics, the organic richness of the wooden lanes and the mute servitude of the machines that raised the pins and swept away the fallen, above all the powerlessness and suspense, the ball held, the ball directed, the ball traveling away like a son, beyond hope of influence."

6/21/2009

Wednesday was not so great for fishing-- we caught one measly sunfish-- but it was a great day for snaking, perhaps because it was sunny but also chilly, so the snakes were out but too sluggish to react quickly, I had to usher most of them out of our way with the fishing rod; during our two hour hike along the Raritan canal we saw five serpents: two black racers, a fat water snake and a slender one, and a garter snake; Ian spotted the largest one curled in a knot on in the grass on the side of the path, and for the rest of the hike he kept proudly asking, "Was that good looking? Was that super good looking?"

6/23/2009

Between the boil water advisory (there was some kind of main break) and the Swine flu, Middlesex County is starting to remind me of our days in Damascus-- eventually, you give up being vigilant and just get sick because it's easier than the alternative.