Cold Weather: An Ode

I like it when the weather turns cold because then I feel like I'm getting my money's worth out of our house.

The Usual From Zizek

I am making my way through Slovenian super-brain Slavoj Zizek's new book Living in End Times, and interspersed amongst the neo-Marxist philosophy are aphoristic gems such as "religious idealists usually claim that, whether true or not, religion can make otherwise bad people do good things; from recent experience, we should rather stick to Steve Weinberg's claim that while without religion good people would do good things and bad people bad things, only religion can make good people do bad things," and then Zizek notes the violence inherent in the New Testament and he cites plenty of scripture to back this up; there are too many passages to cite them all, but here's an example from Luke 14:26: "If anyone comes to me, and does not hate his own father and mother, and wife and children and brothers and sisters, yes, and even his own life, he cannot be my disciple" and another from Matthew: "Do not think that I came to bring peace on earth; I did not come to bring peace, but a sword . . . for I came to set man against his father, and a daughter against her mother-in-law and a man's enemies will be the members of his household . . . he who loves his father or mother more than me is not worthy of me" and this makes me want to read the New Testament again and see exactly what's going on in there.

I Am Not Vacationing in Colombia Any Time Soon

The ESPN documentary The Two Escobars traces the rise and fall of the Colombian national soccer team and drug king-pin Pablo Escobar; it is easy to see how both Escobars come to be venerated in a country without rule of law or government service, the poor will take money from anyone who will provide it, and soccer is their diversion; for an update on this country and what America is doing there, read Robert Kaplan's Imperial Grunts: The American Military on the Ground; it is typical Kaplan, he gets down and dirty in places few journalists dare to travel, and he has the connections to meet the most important (if not the most highly ranked) people and the interviewing skills to get them to talk: in Colombia, he's embedded with the U.S. Army Special forces that are training President Uribe's Colombian Army to combat FARC, narco-terrorists, kidnappers, and the jungle cocaine lords that have replaced Pablo Escobar, and it is a frustrating job because their ROE (Rules of Engagement) prohibit taking initiative . . . they can only fight if someone attacks them, but these salty Green Berets are ready and willing to sustain casualties in order to lead by example; fortunately or unfortunately, our government isn't as ready or willing as they are, and so the hyper-competent American forces have to watch the not so competent Colombian forces they have trained try to accomplish the impossible: bring order to a fragmented, bosky, mountainous and inordinately poor and corrupt land.

Boot Tasting

As I was getting home from work last week, I caught the tail end of a message from the school nurse . . . something about my son Ian being bitten in school, and so I picked up the phone and the nurse told me what happened: my son Ian had gotten into a scuffle with another student and that student bit Ian on the foot . . . but Ian was wearing a rubber rain boot . . . so there was no harm done, either to my son's foot or his rain boot, but there must be some law where the school has to call if a child is bitten or something . . . and perhaps Ian has a little crush on the nurse because he was down there the next day as well because he got hit in the face with a jump rope handle . . . when asked about the boot incident Ian simply said, "he tasted my boot," and that confuses things further . . . is that a euphemism for something else? . . . did the other kindergartener actually want to see what Ian's boot tasted like? . . . and I'm thinking it is best not to think too hard about what goes on in that building.

Sometimes It Pays Not To Put Your Balls Back in Their Proper Place

Stacy needed my crate of assorted balls for a philosophy class activity, and she came to my classroom to remind me (but she could not bring herself to say "I need your balls" in front of my senior composition class, instead she said: "I need that box of sports equipment") and though she also called me over the weekend to remind me, I still forgot to put them in my car; so, on Monday morning, when she asked me for my balls, the only solution that came to mind was that I had a couple of flat soccer balls she could use in my Jeep (which is STUFFED with soccer equipment: cones, bags of balls, pug goals, discs, bags of pinneys, etc.) but when we went out to get the ersatz balls, we found what I was supposed to bring in the first place . . . the crate of assorted balls . . . it had been in my car since the last time she needed them: last year . . . and so the moral of the story is that sometimes it is best NOT to put your balls back where they belong.

Victory?

My adult soccer team improved its record to 3-0 the other night, and once again we beat a team that was younger, more fit, and more skilled than us (they were a group of Irish and British ladies and lads, and the ladies were as good as the lads/ one of them nearly nailed me with a shot in the nads) but two minutes into the game I stepped in a hole and hyper-extended my already bad knee (on a super-excellent move that froze the opposition, you should have seen it, it was graceful and explosive, until I stepped in the hole and my knee buckled and I angrily kicked the ball out of bounds and hopped off the field, muttering things about turning forty) but after some stretching I was able to return and play (though rather lamely) but my knee injury paled in comparison to what happened at the end of the first half on a fairly innocuous play in the box . . . the opposing keeper came out for a through ball and his own defender pushed our player into him and he somehow knocked his head, either on our players knee or the ground, and the play concussed him and/or hurt his neck and he could barely speak and the EMT's had to be sent for and they back-boarded him and taped his head to the neck brace and the whole nine yards and then-- after that long ugly, awkward, delay-- we continued the game but they were a man down and things had soured as far as having some fun on a Wednesday and the injured player's dad went into goal (I think his sister rode in the ambulance to the hospital with him) but then he stomped out of goal when one of our players came close to him (but did not touch him) on a play in the box and part of me was wondering: what the hell am I doing out here when I could be at home having a beer and participating in some safe activity like watching TV or playing my guitar or shingling my roof.

The Paper Heart

Last week, a large wasp found its way into my classroom and the students had the usual reactions-- panic, terror, and the rapid fluttering of arms-- but despite this flurry of activity (and my attempt to lure it out the door by shutting off the lights) the wasp landed on the sleeve of a sophomore boy . . . but he did NOT panic, he remained calm and gingerly held the fabric of his sleeve away from his arm so the wasp couldn't sting him and waited patiently until I flicked it off his shirt and then I swatted it dead with my folder (heavy from freshly collected essays) and so, for his grace under duress, the next day I presented him with what I called "The Paper Heart," an official certificate of bravery that I scrawled on a piece of scrap paper, but I'm not sure anyone got the joke.

When is the Last Time You Felt the Ionian Enchantment?

Brian Cox and Jeff Forshaw's new book Why does E=mc² (and why should we care?) comes close to achieving their goal . . . making you feel that at its heart the universe is orderly and simple because has an underlying simplicity (this is the Ionian enchantment) and the book does it by deriving fairly simple formulas from the Pythagorean theorem to show that the general weirdness of relativity (time progressing at different speeds, nuclear bombs, the universal speed limit, motion affecting size, the four dimensions of spacetime, CERN ) does make logical sense and is a helpful in creating a model of the universe that applies to more than the tiny Newtonian sliver in which we reside (and though this sentence should not be compared to Einstein's earth shattering equation, I would like you to note that I did figure out how to make the two in his formula superscript, which is a pretty damned impressive accomplishment in itself).

Years Later, The Truth Comes out

While we were drinking beers at the local Hooters, my friend and colleague Stacy made a confession: her first year she asked me for a clever way to illustrate and teach personification, and I recommended playing the They Might Be Giants song "Birdhouse in Your Soul"  for her students . . . months later she played the song for her class and announced to the office that it was a success, and I said, "Wow, I use the same song for personification, what a coincidence," and she didn't really know how to tell me that I had told her to use the song and just figured I was a dopey, spaced out guy and then she forgot all about it and didn't remember until the other night, but now it is all straightened out and it turns out I don't even remember the first part of the incident, so perhaps I am a dopey and spaced out guy.

Just Trying To Live My Life (Dave Style)

So I'm just living my life, stealing some printer paper from the boss's office and printing some stuff that I need to print, and leaving a stack of paper on the common table in the office while I'm printing my stuff that I needed to print, when I realize that I need to bolt, that time is of the essence, but while I am in the process of bolting out of there, I hear this voice, a voice with a reminiscent tone, a voice layered with subtext, a voice that is dripping with an undercurrent, an undercurrent which I know exactly how to decipher and this voice says, "Are you done with this paper?" and I look and see Liz holding the stack of paper that I tossed on the common table and I recognize that her tone is the same tone as when Catherine, my beloved wife, holds up a used yogurt container that I have left on the counter and says, "Are you done with this yogurt container?" and I know what this really means is: "You are a fucking insensitive slob who thinks women have been placed on this earth to clean up your shit, but I have been placed on this earth to teach you a lesson, and the lesson is this: women are not here to clean up your shit, and you are going to learn to clean up your shit, and you may learn this sooner or you may learn it later, but you will eventually learn this, and this tone is essential to you learning this lesson because it is a tone that is antithetical to the way you want to live your insensitive, self-centered, egotistical, selfish life and eventually you will hear the tone before the words are even spoken because the tone will live in your head and then you will realize that the tone has won and the Way of Dave has lost" and while I can see where both Liz and Catherine are coming from, sometimes you just want to live your life the way you want and leave a bunch of shit all over the place and clean it up later, but maybe I was born in the wrong place and at the wrong time and maybe I'm never going to get to live my life this way.

If You Think It, It Will Come

Some of the little girls we know are fascinated by the baby-making process . . . one girl gave our boys a basic tutorial on the birds-and-the-bees and another asked her mom, "How long does the boy have to leave it in there?" but our boys haven't had much interest in this process, and I am pretty sure that they both believe that if a woman thinks she wants a baby then it happens, in their minds there is no need for the male; here is a conversation between Ian and my wife that substantiates this . . . Ian: Mommy, I want a better family; Catherine: I think our family is pretty good; Ian: No Mommy, I want a bigger family; Catherine: We have a big family, Grammy and Poppy and Nanny and Uncle Marc and Daddy and Mommy and Alex . . . Ian: No, more people in the house . . . you can make it happen Mommy, you can make it happen in your tummy-- if you want to.

I Enter A New Age Bracket

In the past, I would occasionally learn that a student had a crush on me-- and this information would be enormously flattering to me: the fact that I could still appeal to the younger set-- but after this year's Back to School Night I learned that things are different now; I overheard a few of the girls in my class giggling and remarking how their mothers thought I was "cool" and attractive . . . I guess I appeal to a different demographic now.

Terry Has Talent . . . I Do Not

Rumor has it that my friend Terry can recognize any song after only listening to a few notes (I do not have this ability although I did recognize the Cheers theme song from one note) and he proved it Thursday night: we were having cheap beers at the local Hooters (I always wanted to write that phrase) and Stacy remarked how much she loved the new Cee Lo Green song "Fuck You" and Terry said that he had never heard it, so I sang a couple of verses (and my voice was even worse than usual, as it had been a very long day: I performed several songs in class, coached a soccer game, and then spoke to all the parents at "Back to School Night," so I was beyond gravelly) and Terry said, "That sounds like Gnarls Barkley," and for a moment my head swelled (after we explained to Terry that Cee Lo Green sang on the Gnarls Barkley hit "Crazy") and I thought that I was a very talented singer, but then Stacy pointed out that I had done a terrible job singing the song and that Terry was the one with the special talent.

Can Someone Explain This?

So if everyone is inside catching up with their TIVO and playing XBox and poking around on Facebook-- because we are addicted to technology and no one has any money to spend because the economy is bad and unemployment is high, then why is there so much fucking traffic?

God is Rooting For Us

My adult league soccer team rolls on, despite our age and infirmity; we won 1-0 Wednesday night against a team that was definitely half our age, and we got some help with the weather . . . ten minutes into the second half the game ended early due to lightning.

Daddy Needs a New Pair of Shoes, So Keep on Burning Those Fossil Fuels!

I am rooting for global warming, because the government can't prop up housing prices forever, and when several million people in New York City realize that they are going to be flooded out by a rising ocean, they will head on over to New Jersey and want to buy my house.

An Alternative Use For a Hand Dryer

Camping confession: I didn't shower during my camping trip last weekend, but it was pretty humid and despite changing underwear several times, I still felt pretty rank, and so the couple of times that I walked to the bathroom with plumbing, I pulled open the front of my pants and directed the hand dryer so it was blowing directly down them; this effectively dried my nether regions, but I was really concerned about someone walking in while I was doing this because my camping pants cinch at the ankles and I looked like the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man.

Chastity is Hard to Define to a Five Year Old

Jenny Jump State Park is named after a colonial girl who was being chased by Lenni Lenape Indians and when they finally cornered her at the edge of a cliff, her father instructed her to jump (which she did, and she died) in order to save her chastity . . . and it was rather hard to explain to the younger kids on our group camping trip why she jumped, I told them it was because her dad didn't want his daughter to have to marry a Native American . . . and that was enough explanation for my son Ian, who then resumed naming various sticks "Jenny" and then tossing them off the rock outcropping while simulating suicidal screams.

Hang Around Me And You Might Lose an Eye

I couldn't find my hatchet while we were breaking down our campsite, so I had to figure out some other way to pry the tent stakes from the ground; I decided to use one thick yellow tent stake as a lever to yank the stuck tent stake out of the ground, but when I yanked the plastic cracked and half the stake went flying and hit Ian in the face, which made him cry, but I was glad he didn't lose an eye . . . and then later that day when I was showering off all the camping grit, I decided my hair needed some conditioning, but the conditioner bottle was jammed with dried conditioner, so I squeezed and squeezed-- but to no avail-- the dried chunk would not dislodge, and so I put the conditioner on the shower floor (clogged hole pointing up) and stepped on the bottle and-- of course-- conditioner shot up in a geyser and went into my eye, temporarily blinding me, and making me feel, just for a moment, like one of those rabbits or guinea pigs that had to endure similar lab tests for months on end.

The Coming Years Are Going To Be Trouble

I was known as "The Poor Man's Galileo" in college for my generally idiotic hypotheses, but perhaps my son will not be as ersatz: Friday night we were in a rush to get to Jenny Jump State Park to set up camp before dark, and I told Alex and Ian we were "racing the sun" to get there on time, but Alex corrected me, saying:"Actually, Dad, we're racing the Earth, since it's the Earth spinning that makes it dark . . . the sun doesn't move," and I had to admit that he was correct.