A Very Cheeky Groundhog

It's been a long time since I've seen a groundhog do anything cheeky (and it still wasn't nearly as cheeky as this) but the drought must be severely depleting whatever groundhogs normally eat, because as we walked down the steps to the pool, my wife looked to her left and said, "There is a large animal on one of the picnic tables eating someone's food," and she was right-- and this was the kind of behavior you expected from a raccoon or cat-- but on closer inspection it was a groundhog, munching away at a ham and salami sub from Park Deli, and I had to swing our pool bag at the groundhog to get it to scamper back into the woods and the sub was ruined, gnawed open and dismantled, and so our friends had to order food from Loui Pizza City.

Are These Absolutely Necessary?

Does an eighteen wheeler carrying a load of giant rocks really need to be any more intimidating than it already is? . . . I guess the particular cab owner I saw on Route 18 thought so, and added some giant spike lug nuts to his tires to ensure than every car near his truck was scared shitless-- of either being hit by falling boulders or impaled by his tires.

New Music: Sometimes There's A Man

Sometimes There's A Man by The Density

The Almighty Yojo has whipped up another collage of sound for your listening enjoyment-- Sometimes There's A Man celebrates everything that is wrong with men . . . for lyrics and more head over here.

No Ghost In This Machine

The Machinist is visual and visceral-- Christian Bale loses so much weight that he literally looks like one of the machines in the shop where he works-- and his body is functioning like a machine in the context of the movie's plot . . . his weight loss and delusions are the result of some very simple cause and effect, and though the movie has stimulating and horrific tableaux throughout and Christian Bale and his delusional doppelganger Ivan (John Sharian) do a fine job acting, the plot is extremely repetitive and it takes along time to get to the pay-off: seven lathes out of ten.

A Stupid and Annoying Paradox

As you get older, your brain has a harder time recalling things, but your body remembers every injury crystal clear.

Capsule Review

True Blood is Buffy with boobs.

JCVD: A Meta-Action Movie

I'm sure I would have appreciated JCVD more if I had seen more Jean-Claude Van Damme movies-- I think the only one I ever watched in its entirety was Bloodsport . . . or if I read the tabloids more and knew anything about his life-- but I still found the premise intriguing, though it dragged a little at the end; Van Damme plays a down and out version of himself, sincere and beaten, losing a custody case for his daughter, losing roles to Steven Seagal, unable to access funds, and painfully honest about his career, his art, and living the shallow life of a celebrity; ultimately the film asks a meta-question: does acting translate to reality? are actors skilled in what they portray or are they truly just pretending? could Paul Newman really shoot a game of pool? is Clint Eastwood actually tough? can Natalie Portman do ballet? and can Jean-Claude Van Damme actually use his martial arts training to rescue himself and others from a real hostage situation? . . . you'll have to watch the film to see the answer, and endure a six minute sincere monologue from Van Damme about the significance (and futility) of his life, and I didn't fully understand the very end . . . warning: spoiler! . . . why he is convicted, but if you like action and you like meta and you like the darkness of foreign film then you will like this story.

The True Purpose of This Blog!

So during my arduous summer project-- tearing down the ivy encrusted rotting fence in our backyard and replacing it with a similar but new non-rotting fence-- I stepped on a rusty nail and it penetrated the sole of my foot and so I went on-line and read a bit about tetanus and lockjaw  (you CAN get tetanus from a rusty nail and it CAN kill you) and decided that I should get a tetanus shot, as they only last ten years and I couldn't remember the last time I had gotten one, and then I had the bright idea of searching "tetanus" on Sentence of Dave and I was directed to this post, which made me absurdly happy.

I Cause Marital Conflict

So I'm walking across the parking lot of our condo in Chatham and a lady riding by in a BMW stops her car and says to me (in her Boston accent) "Didja heah my cah squeak?" and I did hear her car squeak, so I say that I heard a squeak and so she turns to her husband in the passenger seat, points at him, and says, triumphantly: "See! He heard a squeak," and then a few minutes later I see her driving all alone, slowing down, and then speeding up, listening, and she says to me, "Nobody heahs my squeak."

Bonus Post at G:TB!

If you want to know how to survive a tritium leak, and/or you like bugs, then you should check out my post at G:TB.

Our Band Could Be Your Life

Our Band Could Be Your Life: Scenes from the American Indie Underground 1981-1991 by Michael Azerrad, is less about the music and more about the story of thirteen indie bands, including some of my favorites such as Dinosaur Jr, The Minutemen-- who provided the title-- Minor Threat, Mission of Burma, Husker Du, The Replacements, Sonic Youth, and Fugazi . . . and the story of these bands is surprisingly similar:

1) feel detached and isolated from the other young people around you
2) form a band
3) practice an insane amount while the rest of your peers are doing school, girls, sports, and other "normal" things
4) procure a beat up van
5) go on a DIY "tour" in aforementioned van, playing sixty shows in fifty days-- in odd venues-- to crowds ranging from a half-dozen to a hundred people, making very little money, barely enough to cover food
6) record an album on the cheap, very quickly, but proficiently, because you are so well practiced from your tour
7) do more tours in the dirty and cramped van, which will insure conflict between the band members and everyone else "touring" with you, but also get your name out there
8) finally receive critical acclaim, but after it is too late
9) attempt to sign with a major label, but either get screwed or lose artistic control or fall apart because of the constant touring
10) realize this would have been so much easier if the internet was around . . .

I give the book ten EP records out of a possible ten, and though I've outlined the archetypal structure of most of the chapters, God is in the details, and Azerrad treats the details just right-- he doesn't idolize or romanticize these bands and their music but he does get across the epic nature of what they were trying to accomplish, and he shows how they achieved success with minimal technology, support, popularity, and (sometimes) musical ability . . . as The Minutemen said, "We jam econo."

Appropriate Meta-Cameo

I rarely recount my dreams here because if I did, I'd be labelled a hypocrite (and because I almost never remember them) but bear with me on this one: I was having a typical spooky nightmare, driving on a dark snowy road in Maine and when I arrived at my house, someone (or something) had jabbed large icicles in a pattern on the door and around the windows and up onto the roof of the house . . . and then Stephen King and I got out of the car to investigate and we were eventually attacked with snow and ice by some delinquent, inbred kids . . . pretty scary stuff, except that I had Stephen King by my side, so I was never all that scared of the situation because no one is scarier than Stephen King and he was my ally (at one point, I even playfully tossed a snowball at him and nearly hit him in the nuts and he laughed about it).

Don't Squash My Delusions

I am really, really good at swatting flies-- definitely way above average (or so I believe, but this could be an example of the Lake Wobegon Effect . . . as I also believe I am a really, really good driver).

Bonus Post at G:TB!

If you love America, athletics, and women, then  you'll probably want to check this out.

Is This Rude or Just Clueless?

So at the condo we stay at in Chatham, we often see the same families year to year-- and my parents have befriended some of them-- so an older mom that lives in New York City . . . a woman who I haven't seen since last Fourth of July, who I would say I know tangentially in the least, and who I've never had an actual conversation with . . . greeted me in this fashion when I first saw her at the pool: "I have a favor to ask you . . . do you think you could teach our son how to ride a two-wheeler, he's seven and a half and he still can't ride," and though her husband was playing with their son in the pool, right there, he didn't say a word-- so I'm not sure which is ruder, asking me that monumental favor, or standing there-- as a dad-- and letting your wife ask such a monumental favor and not saying something like, "She's just kidding . . . you're kidding, right, hon?" but he didn't say anything and so I was forced to answer her and I should have said something about the time, effort, pain, and suffering it usually takes to teach a kid to ride a bike, but instead I suggested that she "take him to a ball field" where he could ride on the dirt and not get as scraped up (and my parents reported that they did see them all at a ball field, their son decked out in elbow and knee pads trying to ride a bike that was too small for him).

OBFT XVIII

I thought this would be the year I finally missed the annual Outer Banks Fishing Trip, but I was able to get from Cape Cod to Kill Devil Hills in a long evening of travel (and, ironically, I went from sunshine and warm water on the Cape to fog, rain, and cold water in North Carolina) and so my streak continues-- Rob, Whitney, and I are the only folks who are eighteen for eighteen-- and this usually guarantees you a bed (as we have a "bed lottery" based on how many years you have been on the trip, but without Cliff to organize the "bed lottery" it didn't happen . . . and because Jason, Craig and I showed up so late on Thursday, all the beds had been claimed and so I spent the weekend attempting to sleep on a variety of surfaces: the floor, couch cushions, under a table, a hammock, and a cot that opened like one of those cartoon bear traps) but despite the lack of sleep, it was still an excellent time; this list may only make sense to fishing trip attendees, but here are a few highlights and low-lights: 1) T.J. dealing (cards) 2) Johnny dealing with T.J.'s dealing 3) July Madness . . . I especially liked watching Whitney dutifully filling out "the notebook" while we all sat at the bar at Tortuga's 4) Saturday's staggering bill at Tortuga's 5) the "race" back from Tortuga's . . . Rob, McWhinney, Jerry, and I staggered the mile and a half home on the beach after consuming a staggering amount of food and beer . . . McWhinney runs away with it, Jerry resolutely takes second and Rob and I dog it and tie for third . . . thanks again Whit!

Two Uses For A Stand-up Paddle Board

 
Stand-up paddle boarding on the Oyster Pond in Chatham is an excellent way to sneak up on cormorants, herons, and kingfishers . . . or-- if you're my wife-- Harry Connick Jr.

If The Economy Is So Bad, Why Is Everyone Driving To Cape Cod?

When you wake up at 4:00 AM to drive to Cape Cod, you feel as if the universe owes you a traffic free ride . . . but the universe could care less about your earnest resolve and it will let cars accumulate on Route 25 despite your sidereal effort.

Syrian Memory #7

To show his devotion to God, St. Simeon the Stylite lived atop a fifty foot stone column for forty years . . . and if you visit this holy site, which is near the city of Aleppo, you can buy a St. Simeon Frisbee to celebrate his accomplishment.

Syrian Memory #6 (Catherine Screws Up)

We were lucky enough to accompany some US Embassy folks to the very high security "Austrian Position 16" in the Golan Heights-- though we had to pass through countless checkpoints and endure many extended radio conversations-- we were finally granted permission to go up the mountain and see the view: the post overlooks the Sea of Galilee and the Biblical farmland where Paul walked to see the promised land, you can also see an Israeli checkpoint and this is the area where the Druze-- members of a strange religion somewhere between Christianity and Islam-- negotiate cross-border marriages with megaphones to prevent inbreeding-- and on our way down the mountain, while I admired the fabulous mustaches that all the Druze men sported, Catherine realized that she left her jacket up at "Austrian Post 16," her nice Gore-Tex jacket that I bought her as a gift . . . and it took us six months to get that jacket back, finally a nice UN soldier from New Zealand got it to us when he was on leave in Damascus.