Dish Washing Corollary #245

My wife has often corrected my method of loading the dishwasher-- apparently I don't categorize and group like items, and as a result I don't maximize the number of items that can fit on the bottom rack . . . and I'm also a bit cavalier with the kinds of items I place on the bottom rack and this leads to all kinds of trouble-- but Saturday Catherine also informed me of a Dish Washing Corollary with which I was not familiar: if the dishwasher is running and someone has just washed all the other dirty dishes, pots and pans that did not fit into the dish washer by hand and so the sink is totally clean and clear, then you should not toss a dirty dish into the sink (even though this is the normal protocol . . . the dirty dishes eventually get loaded into the dishwasher) because the sink is clean and someone has put in the time hand washing all the other dishes and so you should hand-wash this lone dish in order to show appreciation for the work the other person has done (even though hand-washing a single dish is a major waste of water, which I pointed out . . . and then I picked up another dirty breakfast dish off the kitchen table and asked, "Do I have to wash this one, too?" and then I dropped the subject because I knew I was pushing it and didn't want to get in big trouble . . . but, for the record, I'm not sure about the logic of this Dish Washing Corollary).

I'm Still Waiting . . .

Still no apology for The Potato Chip Incident (and while I'm on the subject, still no apology from my neighbors for the Out of Control Ivy Bed Incident . . . and you may be thinking: Who does Dave think he is? How can he demand apologies when he's constantly offending people?-- but after I put my foot in my mouth, I always apologize for my gaffe . . . unlike some people).

I'm Waiting . . .

Still no apology for The Potato Chip Incident (obviously the author of the offending e-mail is neither familiar with the experiments of Dan Ariely nor the film Monty Python and the Holy Grail).

The Potato Chip Incident

I ran the 8th grade soccer try-outs last week, and it was a stressful time both for me and for the forty-three prospective players that I had to evaluate . . . so when I received an e-mail Wednesday night from a disgruntled player that had the words "belittled" and "disrespected" in the first line, I took it quite hard, but then by the second line I knew this was not the kid writing to me, but a parent posing as the kid, because of the the phrase "to have a grown man embarrass a thirteen year-old boy in front of all his peers is truly not something I would have expected from a coach" and then by the third line I knew that this was something even more bizarre than an irate e-mail from a parent posing as a kid, as the reason cited for the narrator's anguish was "the potato chip comment"; I read the e-mail to my wife, at a loss as to what it meant or what had happened, as I remembered this particular player as being a bit chubby and unable to keep up with the running-- so much so that I never actually spoke to him (I run with the kids and so if you're at the front of the pack, then you get the added bonus of being able to chat with me . . . otherwise, I'm setting up drills and small sided scrimmages and taking notes on players) and so I sent an apologetic e-mail back to the "kid" saying I was sorry he felt this way, but that I only remembered showering the players with compliments (they're the strongest group I've ever had) and that perhaps he misheard or misunderstood, as I did not recall any "potato chip" comment or even remember making any comment to him . . . and then a few minutes after sending the e-mail, I remembered what had happened-- and if you're expecting another Awkward Moment of Dave, you're going to be disappointed-- while we were running full field sprints at the end of practice, this player went down to a knee in the middle of the field and started rubbing his leg and so I jogged over to him and asked him if he had a calf cramp and he confirmed this, and so I said-- as I've said to players a thousand times before-- "Okay, keep rubbing it, drink lots of water, and when you go home, eat a banana or some some potato chips" and then the rest of us ran on and I explained to the players that bananas have potassium and potato chips have sodium and potassium, and those minerals help with cramps (I could have also recommended kale, but 8th graders aren't usually partial to obscure leafy greens) and-- thinking back-- I'm sure the chubby kid with the calf-cramp missed the nutritional component of my advice, as he was in a world of pain that only a calf-cramp can create, and so I sent another e-mail to the "player" explaining that when I told him to "go home and eat a banana or some potato chips" that I was being serious because these foods cure cramps and I included a link to a web-site that explained the physiological reasons for this, and I explained that I was in no way belittling him or disrespecting him . . . and I am guessing that the kid didn't interpret the comment this way either, but that when he went home, he told his mom that try-outs were very difficult and that he got a cramp and that the coach told him to "go home and eat potato chips" and his mom-- who is probably more sensitive about the kid's weight than the kid is-- interpreted the tone of this phrase for the kid-- she heard this as me telling her chubby son that he was worthless and should "go home and eat potato chips"-- and so she wrote the angry e-mail that unfairly accused me of picking on a thirteen year old . . . and what really gets my goat is that once again, I am owed an apology and I'm never going to get it, because the kid never showed up to try-outs again and the mom never wrote back explaining how sorry she was, either posing as her son, or--  as she should do-- as herself, but this time contrite and penitent.

Dave's Radical New Diet!

Diet Tip #2: here is the best way to avoid snacking at night . . . once you finish your dinner, go straight to sleep.

My Big Chance To Earn A Darwin Award!

I can't wait for the cold weather to arrive-- and not just for my usual reasons-- I also have some evidence there might be a wasp's nest in my Jeep because 1) my son Ian found a wasp hiding in the floor trash and 2) while I was driving to work on Monday, in silence because my stereo no longer works, I distinctly heard buzzing coming from the back of the car . . . and the back of the car is full of coaching equipment, trash, and-- most significantly-- debris from when I ripped out a rotting wood fence and used my Jeep to transport load after load of wood and ivy and brush to the park dumpster (so lots of sticks and leaves and organic material like that) and there certainly could have been a few wasp eggs in that mess and now it's covered by coolers, a med-kit, cones, balls, and other soccer related stuff, and there's no way I'm cleaning all this out, so my only hope is that we get an early frost that kills them before they decide to swarm me . . . otherwise, you might read about my horrific wasp induced car wreck on this site.

How Do You Not Be "That Parent"?

I am finding it extremely difficult to watch my son Alex's travel team soccer games without "coaching" from the sidelines . . . I think I have coached soccer too long and I have lost my ability to simply be a fan; I'm trying to chat as much as possible with the other parents to divert my attention from the game, but it's a losing battle-- inevitably, I have to disperse some of wisdom I've garnered from nearly twenty years of coaching and so I yell: "Spread out!" or "Relax and pick your head up!" or some other brilliant phrase that will certainly ensure a victory for the Eagles (and I am certainly aware of the irony of yelling the word "relax").

My Wife Is A Terrible Alcoholic

My wife is not a raging alcoholic (and I am thankful for this) but she is an awful alcoholic . . . around dinner time she often opens a beer or pours herself a glass of wine, but she always misplaces it and never finishes it; I usually find it later-- half-full-- on the counter or next to the computer . . . she apparently doesn't know that if you pour yourself some alcohol after a long day of work, then that stuff should stay glued to your hand until you finish it . . . she does the same thing with coffee in the morning: she says that she "likes the idea of having a cup of coffee" but never finds the time to sit and actually finish a mug (I usually find her coffee cup-- hours later and three quarters full-- on a book shelf or next to the TV).

A Psychological Question

I am an introvert and-- for me-- being around people is like drinking alcohol: an initial sugar rush, loss of inhibitions, and the usual giddiness-- but after too much time with people, the inevitable hang-over results and I need time alone to re-charge . . . and I wonder if being an extrovert is the opposite: if time alone, time without other people to interact with, actually drains an extrovert-- the way Bill Compton drains Sookie Stackhouse in the back of Alceide's truck-- and they need to be around people to feel normal, energetic, and grounded again.

A Very Special Episode of Sentence of Dave

In memoriam of the Ten Year Anniversary of 9/11, I'd like to postulate a theory about a fraternity brother and rugby teammate of mine that died that day-- we called him Lud and he was an excellent guy with a habit for butchering idiomatic phrases . . . I recall him saying "blond as a bat" and "all bundled up like Utah Jack" and "kids were younger in those days," and perhaps those who remember him could contribute some others . . . and I am wondering if my wife has been possessed by Lud's spirit, because she has been exhibiting the same trouble with stylistic expressions and cliches-- although Catherine's make a bit more sense than Lud's-- here are a few examples (along with the original phrase): "fly by the handle" instead of "fly by night:";"sun cancer" instead of "skin cancer";" speed ball" instead of "fast ball";"buttons and whistles" instead of "bells and whistles";"summer shanty" instead of "summer shandy" and "living with the fishes" instead of "swimming with the fishes."

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).