Coming Delusions

Once again, I am contemplating writing a novel-- but I'm not going to reveal too much about the plot, because I don't want to get everyone excited over something that I probably won't follow through on-- but I will tell you this: there's a shitload of robots . . . and they're living in the jungle.

Frankly Sookie, I Don't Give A Fang

It's been a summer of True Blood, and while I love the show-- cheesiness and all-- I could care less about Sookie and Bill's tumultuous affair . . . in fact, besides Sookie's mind reading and one-off impression of how Bill says her name, I wouldn't mind if those two were eaten by werewolves . . . I'm much more interested in the minor characters, the sub-plots, the supernatural, and the satire . . . it reminds me of how I felt about Cheers when I was a kid, I was far more invested in the adventures of Norm, Cliff, Coach, Woody and Frasier than I was in Sam and Diane's love/hate relationship.

I Burst A Metaphorical Balloon (Only to See It Inflated By A Kinder Soul)

The Annual Labor Day Rutgers Pool balloon toss ended in a draw, because all the remaining competitors' balloons burst on the final throw . . . and so I declared curtly, "Nobody wins," but the sweet mom next to me smiled and simultaneously declared the opposite: "Everybody wins!" 

I'm Back, Back in the Sisyphean Groove

The futility of reality has rudely interrupted my idyllic summer: after bailing Hurricane Irene induced sewer water from 2 AM until 7AM, we finally got the basement dry . . . but then a deluge sprang from the shower drain, and despite our bucket brigade, we could not lower the tide, and so all our previous labor was worthless . . . we had to admit defeat and carry my mother-in-law's furniture and belongings upstairs; the next day, while we were cleaning up, my back neighbor-- who lives at the bottom of the ivy covered hill behind my house-- motioned me over and very nicely explained that her husband thought that my stone-henge wall project was slightly over the property line and asked if I could move some of the rocks in case "they wanted to build a fence in five years" and though I was extremely pissed off at this, for reasons I will explain shortly-- I remained civil (I knew her husband-- who I've never talked to-- put her up to it) and I never mentioned that I had to tear out our original wood fence because their ivy engulfed and destroyed it, despite my attempts to trim it from our side, and I also didn't mention the countless cases of poison ivy I endured clearing out their weeds and vines and jungle-growth-- for the last six years, without even a "thank you"-- and despite the fact that my stones are clearly on the original fence line, which -- I checked the deed-- was build a bit inside our property line, and despite the fact that the rocks are to: 1) keep the hill from eroding 2) hold my mulch and top-soil in place 3) provide a beautiful border for the row of arbor vitae I've planted-- of which they will get a better view than me-- and 4) these stones will provide some physical buffer that will block the spread of their ivy, a buffer that I can stand on so I can do their yard-work because they have NEVER weeded this ivy bed or trimmed the ivy, despite this all this, and despite the fact that all my mother-in-law's furniture and household goods from the flooded basement were on our porch being dried and cleaned, despite all this, I decided to be diplomatic and roll a few of the giant rocks a up the hill a bit to assuage them . . . though as soon as I find some even bigger boulders, I'm stacking them atop the ones I have so that they slowly slide down and crush their ivy . . . and in truth I'm actually glad for all this pointless labor, because it is mentally preparing me for the endless waves of essays that my students will soon be handing me, from which there will be no respite until next summer.

The Waitresses Do NOT KNow What Boys Like (But I Do)

I wish my boys liked getting lost in a good book on a hot summer afternoon, but that's not the case . . . and The Waitresses have got it all wrong, they don't want to touch (or have anything remotely to do with) girls; I thought my son Ian liked winter, because all summer he kept telling me that he couldn't wait for the cold and the snow, so that we could have a snowball fight . . . but sometimes you don't know what you like until you try it . . . and when I saw my boys try it, then there was no question as to what boys like, and I am certain of this because I learned it empirically, through my powers of interview and observation: BOYS LIKE TO JELLYFISH FIGHT . . . last week at Midway Beach, my boys collected buckets of jellyfish and then hurled them at each other for over an hour, and I've never seen them happier . . . and my six year old son Ian explained why: "Jellyfish fighting is better than snowball fighting because a jellyfish doesn't hurt as much as a snowball when it hits you in the face."

P.S. Bucket of Jellyfish is a good name for a trance-band.

This Is Different Than It Sounds (Not That There's Anything Wrong With That)

The other night at the Park Pub, one of our regular gang tried to explain what was going to happen at the Rutgers Pool on Labor Day Weekend . . . apparently the staff was going to throw a "greased watermelon" into the deep end of the pool and then you could do "some wrestling" for the aforementioned greased watermelon with the "buff lifeguards," and we thought this sounded like a rather odd event to happen at a family pool, but he insisted that not only were their no erotic overtones to the event, but that it was a manly pursuit . . . and now that  I know of what he speaks, I can attest: it is a manly pursuit; the event works like this 

1) prior to the event one of the pool employees coats a watermelon with petroleum jelly 

2) the willing adults and teenagers (no one under thirteen allowed in this melee) are split into two teams 

3) the watermelon is tossed into the deep end 

4) no goggles are to be worn 

5) each team is trying to maneuver the watermelon to their side-- which is indicated before the event begins-- and then raise it above the water and out of the pool 

6) the head life-guard asked us not to be too violent, which proved impossible . . . for the first few minutes I was clueless as to where the watermelon was-- as there were thirty adults treading water and diving for it-- in fact, I dove down once to grab the melon, only to find it was the pool drain-- but then someone near me had the melon and I stripped it from him and turned over, and-- like an otter places a clam shell on his belly-- I balanced the watermelon on my stomach and started kicking for dear life . . . I advanced the melon nearly to the wall and kicked a few friends in the ribs before it slid away from me, but luckily one of the buff lifeguards that was on our team (Team Two, baby!) retrieved it and lifted it over the edge of the pool and spiked it down, breaking the melon and ensuring that we did not have to play another round, which was best for all parties involved . . . so the lesson here is that if a buff lifeguard asks you to wrestle around with a greased watermelon, don't get too excited because it's going to be extremely ugly, not hot and sexy.

Individuals Tending Towards Savagery Is A Great Name For A Punk-Rock Band

 Sentence of Dave has often discussed risk assessment . . .  it's difficult to decide what to worry about in a world where so much unfiltered information is so readily accessible . . . and so I will place you on the horns of another anxiety-filled dilemma: should you worry more about Individuals Tending Towards Savagery, a radical Mexican anti-technology group that praises the writings of Ted Kaczynski and recently bombed two Mexican nano-technology professors at the Monterrey Technological Institute, or should you worry about their prediction: that nanotechnology research will result in the creation of nano-cyborgs, which will be able to self-replicate automatically without the help of humans and eventually form an exponentially increasing "gray-goo" that will smother all life on earth?

How Much Better is 1493 is Than 1491? It's Two Better . . .

Charles Mann's new book 1493: Uncovering The New World Columbus Created is worth the price of admission simply for the chapter on malaria, but my favorite section covers the phenomenon of the quilombo-- a fugitive slave town established in the forests and jungles of South and Central America . . . of the millions of slaves imported to the Americas, countless thousands escaped the horrors of the cane fields and silver mines by vanishing into the jungle to establish communities "protected by steep terrain, thickly packed trees, treacherous rivers, and lethal booby traps" and these settlements-- often built in conjunction with the natives, who were also targeted for slavery-- endured for decades or even centuries (El Salvador's quilombo Liberdade has a population of 600,000 and is said to be the largest Afro- American community in the Western Hemisphere) and Mann's country by country history of these off-the-grid villages, towns and cities, which (to an untrained eye) were often indistinguishable from pristine jungle and which existed in surprisingly close proximity to the white settlements, with the expected consequences: the denizens of the quilombos waged guerrilla warfare, engaged in diplomacy, and traded with the ruling Spanish, Dutch, and Portuguese; the Europeans usually gave up on the fight and negotiated because they were laid low from jungle diseases that the natives and African Americans were immune to . . . and because Charles Mann enlightened me on so many new topics in such a detailed and engaging manner, I am giving this book the highest honor that The Sentence of Dave can bestow: it scores 1493 points out of a possible 1491 and I am replacing Mann's previous book 1491: New Revelations of the Americas Before Columbus with the sequel on my list of 105 Books to Read Before You Die . . . congratulations Charles Mann, I can imagine how proud you are to make The List.

The 9 Billion Sentences of Dave

In Arthur C. Clarke's short story "The Nine Billion Names of God," a group of Tibetan monks-- aided by Western computer programmers-- seek to list every name given to The Almighty, which they believe is the purpose of mankind . . . and monks also believe that once this enormous list is complete that God will bring the universe to an end, and though the programmers are skeptical of the eschatological prediction of the monks and leave just before the listing program finishes-- because they don't want to be around a bunch of disappointed mystics-- as they ride their horses through a mountain pass they notice that "overhead, without any fuss, the stars were going out," and though I do not claim any such grand plans for The Sentence of Dave, there are times when I think that if I get the right words in the perfect order that something magical will happen and I will blink out of existence just like the stars in the

Forces of Nature

I recently learned several lessons about the power of nature: 1) the earth will shake when it wants to shake 2) a hurricane can ruin your basement and your vacation . . . 3) you can build a sand castle monolithic enough to survive the incoming tide, but it will never be a match for the destructive force of a cute baby (and if the baby is cute enough, as this one was, then it's impossible to admonish said baby and instead, all you can do is watch the destruction). 

What Does Mandatory Mean?

We were in Sea Isle City when the "mandatory evacuation" for Cape May County was signed by the Governor, but apparently mandatory means different things to different men-- despite the mandatory order to evacuate, we hung out on the beach Friday with a number of other stalwart vacationers, as the weather was beautiful (the weatherman said, "DO NOT BE FOOLED!") and the water wasn't particularly rough . . . I went for a swim and then Alex and I were skim-boarding when a lifeguard in a sand vehicle informed us that there was a mandatory evacuation and the beach was closed . . . but when I asked him if we had to leave the beach, he told us we were free to stay, and then another lifeguard talked to us while we were skim-boarding, and after advising us that there was a mandatory evacuation, he said that surfers were allowed to surf but people weren't allowed to swim (and, of course, I had already deflated my paddle-board) and then the next lifeguard we saw told us we couldn't skim-board and advised us that there was a mandatory evacuation and suggested, because of traffic, that we "stay the day and enjoy the beach," and then he told us we could go into the water ankle deep but that he was "going for a swim because he could," and he hated to bother us except that his boss was right over there, and for the rest of the day we watched the lifeguards cruise up and down the beach, busting people and not busting them for various infractions (Alex skim-boarded a few more times, but then got busted again) and, finally, we packed and "evacuated," which actually felt more like driving home in some traffic than an actual evacuation and I think next time they either need to get some people with bullhorns-- because that's what I imagine when I hear the word "mandatory"-- or else say we "strongly suggest" that you leave town.

Headline: Hurricane Prevents Heart Attacks!

So our communal beach vacation was going to culminate on Friday night in a frenzied bout of much anticipated frying (Michelle brought a deep fryer) and all week suggestions were made about what to deep fry-- Dom called these suggestions "fry-deas"-- and items such as watermelon, frozen Snickers, Oreos, Twinkies, bacon, and maraschino cherries (which are not as toxic as legend suggests) were all slated for the oil, but lucky for our arteries, Hurricane Irene rolled into town and saved us from this orgy of saturated fat.

Next Time . . .

Since I use this blog as a back-up for my rather faulty memory, here are the things I need to remember for the next hurricane 1) get a small generator to power the pump in case the power goes out (lucky for us it didn't) 2) set an alarm so we can check the basement shower stall because a flood, unlike an earthquake, is quiet and easy to sleep through 3) set up the wet-vacuum ahead of time in case my mother-in-law sleeps through the flood and doesn't turn on the pump 4) get some sand-bags 5) buy several more submersible pumps, because one pump is no match for a hurricane 6) forget numbers one through five because it's all futile and no human can withstand the surge . . . all our bailing and pumping was for naught . . . but three pumps will empty the basement 7) do not attempt to build a Stonehenge type monument with giant boulders in the yard the morning before a hurricane strikes because you might have to repeatedly carry a full wet-vac up the basement stairs in the middle of the night and you should save your energy for this (and I think what really did me in was when I wheeled my largest boulder into place and tipped the wheelbarrow, only to see the boulder bounce over the intended spot and roll all the way down the hill into the middle of my neighbor's yard . . . I was so angry that I ran down the hill, picked up the boulder, and sprinted up the hill with it in my arms-- this is a great work-out but not recommended before a hurricane).

Where Were You When You Didn't Feel The Earthquake?

I missed my big chance to feel the earth shake to the tune of 5.8 on the Richter scale because I was in the ocean supervising five children in a melee on an inflatable turtle . . . and when I got out of the water and my wife told me her beach chair shook for ten seconds, I didn't believe her-- because I didn't want to believe that I was gypped out of my big chance to feel a genuine earthquake . . . but at least I got some taste of disaster week: I bailed water all night from my flooded basement.

Didja Know #3 (Brought To You By Charles C. Mann)

Honeybees are from England . . . there were none in America until someone traveling to Jamestown brought some over . . . and before this European plants, vegetables, and trees couldn't thrive, but the European honeybee will pollinate anything, so this "English fly" is what really allowed outside plant species to take off int eh New World . . . and I am sure everyone knows some plant or creature that was part of the Columbian exchange . . . chile peppers and pineapples and sweet potatoes and potatoes and tomatoes and chocolate all came from the New World, and the llamas were quickly replaced by European horses, goats, cows, and pigs . . . the idea of the nomadic Navaho Indian did not exist until the Spanish brought them horses, which made it easy to raid villages on the plains, before that they lived in cities and had to walk.

Didja Know #2 (Brought To You by Charles C. Mann)

Didja know that you can live healthily on potatoes and milk-- the potato provides every nutrient except vitamin A and D-- and so Irish workers often lived solely on potatoes (12 pounds a day) and milk . . . you also might not know (but the Andean Indians do) that if you leave potatoes outside to freeze and thaw repeatedly-- which ruptures the cell walls-- and then squeeze the water out of them and cure them in the sun, that you have produced squishy blobs that when cooked in stew resembles gnocchi.

Didja Know #1 (Brought To You By Charles C. Mann)

I have a habit of reading non-fiction books that force me to say the ever-annoying phrase "Didja know   . . ." followed by some inane fact that no one but myself cares about-- sorry-- and I'm halfway through another book like this-- 1493: Uncovering the New World Columbus Created by Charles C. Mann-- and (lucky for you) I read his earlier book 1491: New Revelation of the Americas Before Columbus before I began writing this blog, so you won't have to learn the truth about the civilizations that were here when the Europeans arrived, but, since I am on vacation, I will provide you with some interesting ideas from 1493 over the next few days, some of which I knew before I read the book, and some of which you might know as well . . . so here we go: didja know that the most potent form of malaria was imported from the swamps of Southern England to America, and was a major cause of why slavery took root in the South . . . because while indentured servants were cheaper than buying a slave, they kept dying of malaria, while the African Americans, due to sickle cell and Duffy antigen mutations, were more resistant to the plasmodium parasite and so-- though no one knew about the parasite itself-- plantations that used slaves fared better than plantations that used indentured servants and this advantage propelled them to success and gave slavery a strong hold below the malarial Mason-Dixon line (malaria also helped the nascent United States, Cornwallis's army was mainly composed of "unseasoned" Scots and he camped near a swamp before his fateful surrender to malarial resistant Southern troops at Yorktown).

Dave's 105 Books to Read Before You Die (Which Will be Sooner Than You Think)

Everyone seems to have a top hundred list of something, and so here are my top hundred books (plus five bonus books in case you finish the top hundred too quickly) and each author is only represented once, so while Shakespeare and Italo Calvino may actually deserve more than one slot, for the sake of variety there are no repeats; also, there is fiction, non-fiction, and everything else on this list . . . and I should point out that once you finish reading all the books on this list, then you will be much smarter than me, because though I've read them all, I'm not sure I remember anything from them:

1.   Moby Dick by Herman Melville
2.   Brothers Karamazov by Dostoevsky
3.   War and Peace by Leo Tolstoy
4.   The Lives of the Cell by Lewis Thomas
5.   Outliers by Malcolm Gladwell
6.   If on a winter's night a traveler by Italo Calvino
7.   Tristram Shandy by Lawrence Sterne
8.   Freaky Deaky by Elmore Leonard
9.   Blood Meridian by Cormac McCarthy
10. V by Thomas Pynchon
11. The Origin of Species by Charles Darwin
12. 100 Years of Solitude by Gabriel Garcia Marquez
13.  Labyrinths by Jorge Luis Borges
14.  Into the Wild by John Krakauer
15.  Music of Chance by Paul Auster
16.  The Dog of the South by Charles Portis
17.  Slaughterhouse-Five by Kurt Vonnegut
18. All the King's Men by Robert Penn Warren
19. Death Comes for the Archbishop by Willa Cather
20. The Bible
21. Henry IV (part 1) by William Shakespeare
22. The Complete Stories of J.G. Ballard
23. The Stories of John Cheever
24. Will You Please Be Quiet Please by Raymond Carver
25. The Image by Daniel Boorstin
26. Clockers by Richard Price
27. Nixonland by Rick Perlstein
28. American Tabloid by James Ellroy
29. A Peoples History of the United States by Howard Zinn
30. Balkan Ghosts by Robert Kaplan
31. The Sheltering Sky by Paul Bowles
32. The Three Stigmata of Palmer Eldritch  by Philip K. Dick
33.  Chaos by James Gleick
34.  The Society of the Mind by Marvin Minsky
35.  Watchmen by Alan Moore/ Dave Gibbons
36.  The Ghost Map by Steven Johnson
37.  The Executioner's Song by Norman Mailer
38.  Sex, Drugs, and Cocoa-Puffs by Chuck Klosterman
39.  Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas by Hunter S. Thompson
40.  Cannery Row by John Steinbeck
41.  Foucalt's Pendulum by Umberto Eco
42.  Solaris by Stanislaw Lem
43.  War With The Newts by Karel Kapek
44.  The Miracle Game by Josef Skvorecky
45.  The Restaurant at the End of the Universe by Douglas Adams
46.  Hotel New Hampshire by John Irving
47.  White Noise by Don Delillo
48.  The Big Sleep by Raymond Chandler
49.  Down and Out in Paris and London by George Orwell
50.  Innocents Abroad by Mark Twain
51.  Snow Crash by Neal Stephenson
52.  Even Cowgirls Get the Blues by Tom Robbins
53.  Bully For Brontosaurus by Stephen J. Gould
54.  The Drifters by James A. Michener
55.  Geek Love by Catherine Dunne
56.  The Blank Slate by Steven Pinker
57.  Human Universals by Donald Brown
58.  Shadows of Forgotten Ancestors by Carl Sagan and Anne Druyan
59.  The Snow Leopard by Peter Matthiessen
60.  The Diversity of Life by E.O. Wilson
61.  The Friends of Eddie Coyle by George V. Higgins
62.  Pale Fire by Vladimir Nabokov
63.  American Splendor by Harvey Pekar/ Robert Crumb
64.  The Memoirs of Hector Berlioz by Hector Berlioz
65.  A Confederacy of Dunces by John Kennedy Toole
66.  The Castle by Franz Kafka
67.  Midaq Alley by Naguib Mahfouz
68.  Naked by David Sedaris
69.  Godel Escher Bach by Douglas Hofstadter
70.  The Worldly Philosophers by Robert L. Heilbroner
71.  The Big Short by Michael Lewis
72.  Freakonomics by Stephen Dubner and Steven Levitt
73.  Video Night in Kathmandu by Pico Iyer
74.  Monster of God by David Quammen
75.  Bonfire of the Vanities by Tom Wolfe
76.  Safe Area Gorazde by Joe Sacco
77.  Lonesome Dove by Larry McMurtry
78.  Hyperspace by Michio Kaku
79.  Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrell by Susanna Clarke
80. The Complete Stories of Flannery O'Connor
81.  Nonzero: The Logic of Human Destiny by Richard Wright
82.  The Selfish Gene by Richard Dawkins
83.  Manchester United Ruined My Life by Colin Shindler
84.  Soccer in Sun and Shadow by Eduardo Galeano
85. From the Holy Mountain by William Dalrymple
86. A Supposedly Fun Thing I'll Never Do Again by David Foster Wallace
87. The End of the Road by John Barth
88. Neuromancer by William Gibson
89. Guns, Germs, and Steel by Jared Diamond
90. A Walk in the Woods by Bill Bryson
91. Amusing Ourselves to Death by Neil Postman
92. Some Buried Caesar by Rex Stout
93. The Black Swan by Nassim Nicholas Taleb
94. The Ascent of Money by Niall Ferguson
95. We Were the Mulvaneys by Joyce Carol Oates
96. The Bushwhacked Piano by Thomas McGuane
97. The Golden Compass by Philip Pullman
98. Walden by Henry David Thoreau
99. 1493 by Charles C. Mann
100.  Our Band Could Be Your Life by Michael Azerrad
101.  A Visit From the Goon Squad by Jennifer Egan
102.  The Life and Death of the Great American School System by Diane Ravitch
103.  Methland by Nick Reding
104. A Game of Thrones by George R.R. Martin
105. Born Standing Up by Steve Martin

Arachnophobes Beware!

My Jeep does not have power windows nor does it have air-conditioning, and I am not very tall, so it's quite a reach for me to roll down the passenger side window while I am driving, but in the summer this is often necessary in order to get a cross breeze and a bit of ventilation, and so the other morning I took the time to do this safely before I began to drive; a moment later, I saw-- out of the corner of my eye, something move in the center of that space where the window was; I turned my head and observed an obscenely large and fat banded garden spider suspended on a web in the space between the side mirror and the roof . . . floating in the center of that open window, and so-- with an effort worthy of Patrick "Eel" O'Brian-- I leaned over while driving and rolled that window up so the spider wouldn't blow into the car (not that there aren't spiders living in my car) and continued driving, glancing over every so often to see if the spider was still hanging on . . . and every time I turned my head, it was still there . . . it hung there all the way through Highland Park, and onto Woodbridge Avenue, and was still holding tight when I got on Route 1 South, and so I sped up as I crossed the Donald Goodkind Bridge, I sped up to forty-five then fifty then sixty, but still the spider held on, so I drove faster (as any police officer would understand, if they had the slightest empathy for an arachnophobe) until , finally, at nearly eighty miles an hour, the spider was dislodged and disappeared, like Vin Makazian, over the side of the bridge . . . and this is disturbing to me, because that means when you walk into a spider web and try to shake the spider and the web off your face and hands, you need to generate a lot of speed to get that thing off of you.

It's Easy Enough To Look It Up

Brendan Gleeson has been in two recent thrillers that owe a lot to Quentin Tarantino . . . they both explore the interstitial time periods that gangsters and cops inhabit between the action; In Bruges (2008) follows the adventures of two Dublin hit-men (Gleeson and Colin Farrell) sent to cool down in Belgium after a hit went horribly wrong-- and whether you like Hieronymous Bosch or not, I highly recommend this movie-- and now Gleeson stars in The Guard, which is equally as good . . . although the gangsters (international drug dealers) can be a little overly clever when they discuss philosophy, but the reason to watch the movie is to see Gleeson (a lazy and disenfranchised Galway cop, who is a good man who could have been a great man, if not for his location and his vices) interact with Don Cheadle-- who plays an FBI agent sent to Ireland to investigate drug smuggling . . . Cheadle can't tell if Gleeson is "really mother-bleeping dumb or really mother-bleeping smart," and neither can we . . . until the end: I won't spoil the ending, but it's easy enough to look it up on the internet, and I give this film two girls from the agency in Dublin out of a possible two . . . you have to see it not only for Gleeson, who is prodigious both in his size and his acting skills, but also for the plot, which makes excellent use of a crotch-infection, and actually makes you think twice once you've finished watching . . . and if you have seen it, remember that the IRA guy in the cowboy hat owes him a favor.