Dave Gives His Permission For You To Proceed

There is absolutely nothing wrong with screwing off the shaker top of a canister of rainbow jimmies and chugging a mouthful (or two).

Click-Olympics

Stacy introduced the English department to an engaging new game Friday afternoon; here's how it works: 1) everyone needs their own computer with internet access 2) everyone needs to agree on a starting point on Wikipedia-- such as "Beethoven" or "Goldie Hawn" or "lobster" or any of the other 3,772, 967 articles on the site-- and everyone playing needs to get that particular agreed upon Wikipedia page up on their screen 3) everyone needs to agree on a goal, the Wikipedia article that will end that round-- for our example we'll go from "Beethoven" to "bacon" 4) everyone should start the round at the same time, and then you may click on any hyper-link on Wikipedia in order to link your way from the "Beethoven" page to the "bacon" page . . . you may also use the "back" arrow on your browser, but that's it . . . the game is oddly compelling because you have to speculate several clicks in advance-- and once you head down a wrong path it's easy to get lost-- but it's surprising how quickly and elegantly you can get places; for instance, if you start on "Beethoven," you can click on "infectious hepatitis"-- which possibly caused Beethoven's death-- and from there you can access "The Center for Disease Control and Prevention" page and then "food borne pathogens" and then "cooking" and the "cooking" entry contains a picture and a link of some tasty looking "bacon wrapped corn" and if you've beaten everyone else to the page then voila, you have won a round of what I like to call "Wikipedia Click-Olympics."

Bossypants

Tina Fey's book Bossypants is exactly like an episode of 30 Rock . . . fast-paced, full of clever jokes, and  over before you know it . . . the only downside to this formula is that it's tough to recall much from either an episode of 30 Rock (except Alec Baldwin's advice: "Never go with a hippie to a second location") or Fey's memoir (all I remember is that photo shoots are fun, her dad is a bad-ass, and once female comics get old, everyone considers them "batshit crazy") and though she's not quite as articulate as David Sedaris or as neurotically absurd as Woody Allen, she's certainly playing in that ballpark and there's nothing saccharine or forced about her humor . . . and I will also point out that in all my trips to the library-- and I'm not going to lie: I go to the library a lot-- this is the only time a librarian at the check-out desk commented about a book I was checking out (she told me the book is really great and Tina Fey is so smart and clever and recommended the audio book because Tina Fey reads it herself): nine scars out of ten.

If A Tree Falls, Marshall Curry Will Get the Shot . . . And Interview Everyone Who Saw It Fall

Once again, Marshall Curry has documented a fantastic story, covering all the angles in an even-handed and comprehensive manner in under ninety minutes . . . his first documentary, Street Fight, is a masterpiece of editing, and his new one-- If A Tree Falls: A Story of the Earth Liberation Front--is equally as compelling; it tells the tale of a group of eco-terrorists in Oregon that target the forestry industry with a campaign of arson, and how Daniel McGowan-- who was once a member of the group, but since moved on-- is haunted by his radical past . . . and Curry gets access to members of ELF, other radicals, forestry workers, informants, prosecutors, the sheriff, law enforcement agents, and McGowan and his family . . . so the film is full of ambiguity, contradictory logical positions, and documentary gold . . . and Curry, wisely, never shows his hand but instead lets the viewer decide what to make of the ethics of the case: ten old growth redwoods out of a possible ten (and could that be Bansky standing on the redwood stump in the picture?)

I Am A Hero (Sort Of)

My neighbor called me the other day because her baby daughter had an engorged deer tick stuck to her head, and she wanted my help in removing it . . . and so I briskly walked to her house, ready to offer my aid; after some sizing up of the tick we decided that she should hold Natalya's head still, and I should try to pluck the little black tick from amidst her wispy blonde locks with a pair of tweezers . . . but babies move their heads a lot, and they don't appreciate someone holding their head still, so the odds of tick removal did not look good, but I decided to take a shot at it anyway, and-- on my first attempt-- with a deft and skillful pinch, I snagged the tick and removed nary a hair from baby Natalya's head . . . and the fact that the "tick" actually turned out to be a tick-shaped piece of dried food should have no bearing on the assessment of my heroism.

Film Buff

 My wife and I were walking up the stairs, to put the kids to bed, when we heard a civilized discussion emanating from the bathroom-- and this stopped us in our tracks because we've never heard our kids having a civilized discussion anywhere, let alone the bathroom (which is usually a place of mayhem, chaos, and poorly aimed urine); Alex asked Ian "which character in the movie he liked the best" and Ian said he liked the eleven year old with glasses and Alex informed him that he was "the main character" and then Alex said he liked "the old guy who kept giving the kids clues" and Ian politely asked Alex why he liked him . . . and Catherine and I exchanged a tacit glance, both of us impressed by our cultured and refined children . . . and  then the two of them walked out of the bathroom and Ian was still wearing jeans and a t-shirt but Alex was butt-naked, and when we saw him, my wife and I laughed at the incongruity of the dialogue and the nudity and Alex also realized how funny the tableau looked and so he started running around-- bare-assed-- shrieking and yelling like a savage, and Ian (though still fully clothed) followed suit.

I Corrupt My Six Year Old Son

My son Ian wants in on the Taco Count-- and though I realize this is no way to encourage healthy eating habits, I can't proscribe him from the fun without being a total hypocrite-- and so I am keeping track of his taco consumption (which is impressive, he's now eating four tacos at a sitting-- two hard shell and two soft shell-- the same amount that my wife eats) but I am going to prorate his Count for both his weight (which is 1/4 of mine) and the time (three months instead of twelve) and so for each taco that he eats in the next three months, I will multiply it by four to compensate for his small size and then multiply again by four so that it is equivalent to a year of taco eating . . . so each taco he eats will count as sixteen 2011 Tacos . . . and he's already eaten eight tacos in October . . . so that's 128 pro-rated tacos for his annual count.

Retraction (Yogi Berra is NOT Dead)

Yesterday, in a cascade of self-referential meta-madness, I explained that it is very difficult to consciously create an adage in the style of Yogi Berra, and then I quoted a colleague who-- in a heated description-- inadvertently coined such a phrase (If you saw her, you'd know what she looks like!) but then--accidentally-- I penned my own Yogi Berraism, when I said that "Yogi Berra would be smiling in his grave" if he heard Katie's wonderful maxim . . . because not only is Yogi Berra is not dead (he's 86) but skulls are always smiling, so the metaphor doesn't really make sense . . . and I am hoping that this post doesn't kill Berra, because I've had a history of killing celebrities with my attention (the first song I ever sang in front of a class was "Delia's Gone" by Johnny Cash, and he died the next day-- which made my students extraordinarily happy-- and in college, I started reading Brighton Rock, by Graham Greene, and he was dead within hours, so I've definitely got some kind of voodoo magic . . . or a more logical explanation is that I am a prodigal consumer of arts and literature, and so over the course of my life it would be more odd if no one died that I was perusing at the the time).

Katie vs. Yogi

I have praised the laconic anti-wit of Yogi Berra, and I even tried to invent my own Yogi Berra-esque adage-- and I learned that it's not the kind of thing you can consciously create-- but once in a while someone says something so perfectly true and paradoxical, that you know Yogi is smiling in his grave . . . and so when my colleague Katie attempted to describe an extremely inappropriately dressed high school girl, she got so worked up about the sleaziness of the student's outfit that she passionately told us: "If you saw her, you'd know what she looks like!"

Patience and Saliva

I swam at lunch on Monday-- we had a workshop, so no students all day-- and on the way back to school I stopped to pick up lunch, and though I was pressed for time, I decided to forgo the robotic convenience of ordering a sandwich at WaWa, and instead I patronized a local place in Milltown; I had to wait in line, and it took a long time for them to complete my order, and I was ravenous because of my swim and the several hours we spent poring over the National Core Standards, so--naturally-- when I got in my car, I tore open my "Grand Canyon," a turkey sub loaded with roasted peppers and marinated mushrooms, and took a bite to appease my hunger, but then I made one of the most civilized and refined decisions in my young life . . . I decided not to shovel the sandwich into my mouth as I drove because I didn't want to get oil all over my shirt (there were some cute grade school teachers at the workshop) and because I wanted to sit in the sun and actually enjoy the final minutes of lunch . . . so difficult as it was, I re-wrapped the sandwich and started driving-- and, of course, I got behind an old lady and hit every light, and by the time I got to the school I was drooling like one of Pavlov's dogs-- but I was still extremely proud of myself; I felt mature; I was able to delay my gratification and enjoy my food . . . this is a big step for me and let me offer an example as to why: a number of years ago, after a long car ride to Nags Head, when Whitney and I stopped at Petrozza's Italian Provisions for a rare authentic Italian sub south of the Mason Dixon line-- which we planned to eat on his deck while looking at the Atlantic Ocean-- instead, in a wonderful instance of simultaneous unplanned gluttony-- we both finished our gigantic sandwiches before we even reached the car . . . and-- as Whitney recalls-- we had a pretty good parking spot.

Genre Definitions (Back By Popular Demand)

One of the exciting recurring features here at Sentence of Dave is called: "Dave Defines Science Fiction," and though I'd be hard-pressed to top my original definition, this new one adds a wrinkle . . .  so without further fanfare, here it is: fantasy is how things never were, and science fiction is how things will never be (and this highly entertaining and much discussed topic is recurring because I'm reading a good science-fiction novel by Richard K. Morgan that corresponds to my original definition . . . though I could care less about the protagonist, Takeshi Kovacs, I love exploring the world he inhabits; the book is called Altered Carbon and the London Times blurb is accurate: "This seamless marriage of hardcore cyberpunk and hard-boiled detective tale is an astonishing first novel").

Do You Understand BitCoin?

I learned about BitCoin in a pathetically analogue way (a hard copy of the October New Yorker's "Money Issue") and though I'm not sure I completely understand the concept, I am still fascinated by the story and will attempt to give the short, short version here: in 2009, Satoshi Nakamoto created a sophisticated, cryptographically secure code that created a new currency called BitCoin, and these coins could be "mined" by entering a computer lottery that rewards speedy computing power-- and at the start it was relatively easy to "mine" Bit Coins because few people were attempting to crack the code, but now it requires an extraordinary amount of computing power to "mine" a BitCoin because so many computers are competing . . . and-- though they have no physical presence or financial backing-- BitCoins have an actual market value (a little over four dollars a coin) and they can be traded for real currency and products and kept safe in "wallets" and Nakamoto's code ensures that no digital BitCoin can be spent more than once (and all transactions are public, though the "wallets" can be owned by anonymous users) and Satoshi seems to be a cipher himself, no one has ever uncovered who he really is-- but his code has so far proved to be impenetrable . . . if it could be compromised then the coins would lose all value . . . and he could also be considered criminal, if the new currency competes with the American dollar, and then his action could be considered treasonous, and there is the question of who needs an anonymous digital untraceable type of cash . . . possibly people involved in sketchy activities, but don't go by this rambling summary, do your own research and get back to me on what you've learned on this most marvelous invention of the digital age (and I'm not sure the guy who wrote the New Yorker article actually understand what BitCoin "mining" is either-- according to Wikipedia, BitCoin mining actually helps to cryptographically ensure that no individual BitCoin gets double spent, so a "miner" uses processing power to attempt to create unique "blocks" which keep BitCoins safe from hackers and the miner is rewarded by the network with a set amount of BitCoins if your computer can create one of these cryptographic blocks).

Mesomorphic

As I grow older, my figure more and more resembles that of the late Kirby Puckett.

A Harsh Dictum

When I mentioned that I might start wearing sleeveless t-shirts (because I'm always hot) my wife said that she would not be seen with me if I chose to wear such apparel in public-- unless I was playing basketball-- but I see plenty of people wearing sleeveless shirts who aren't actually playing hoops (though they might be on their way to play basketball . . . who can be sure?) and I don't see the problem . . . as long as you're not at a high end restaurant.

Please Tell Me Your Kids Do This

Saturday, we went for ice cream after Alex's soccer game, and while we were waiting for the lady to scoop the cones, Alex, who is seven years old, scraped a sprinkle off the counter-- out of a streak congealed ice cream that had been sitting in the unseasonably hot sun-- and nonchalantly popped said sprinkle into his mouth, as if he was sampling a bar snack . . . and I chastised him for his decision, but I am wondering if that's just typical behavior for a hungry second grade boy.

If You're Angry and You Know it Clap Your Hands

I've read a few books on the current economic crisis and watched the documentary Inside Job, and while these works explained the complexities of the collapse and certainly assigned some blame, none of them channeled the powerless frustration and anger that I have towards both our government and big business . . . but Matt Taibbi addresses this in his book Griftopia: Bubble Machines, Vampire Squids, and the Long Con That is Breaking America, which began as a Rolling Stone article; he points fingers, calls people "morons" and "assholes" and far worse, and refers to Goldman Sachs as "a great vampire squid wrapped around the face of humanity, relentlessly jamming its blood funnel into anything that smells like money" . . . he skewers Alan Greenspan and Hank Paulson and Lawrence Summers and Obama and Reagan and Clinton and both Bush presidents and everyone else involved in making decisions about our economy . . . and the result is frightening and comprehensive condemnation of our economic system, portraying it as an unregulated, backroom dealing casino that rewards the super-wealthy at the expense of the taxpayers, and, sadly, there seems to be no simple solution . . . there's nothing we can do, no party we can vote for, because the result will be the same . . . and while we debate red and blue state issues-- while half the nation rails about "overweening government power" and the other half protests against "corporate excess"-- the real problem is that our system is a combination of both these problems, and the media is never going to extensively cover complicated and boring issues like the repeal of the Glass-Steagall act and the loosening of the Commodity Exchange Act and the actual ramifications of ObamaCare, and so instead we debate about abortion and health-care and tax cuts-- we argue about if gas prices have increased because of demand from China or because we need to drill in the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge-- while the real business of America is done between the mega-banks and the government and the usual suspects, behind a green curtain that shields them from the democratic process that is more show than substance.

A Good Rule To Know

My son Alex told me that at school last week, he had to write a safety rule on a star shaped piece of paper, and that the teacher then put all the stars on the wall . . . he also said that most kids copied rules from the movie that inspired this lesson . . . Captain Buckle, a police officer, reminded the students to "always go places with a buddy" and "look both ways when you cross the street"-- but Alex was proud that he thought of an original rule-- a rule Captain Buckle did not mention . . . a rule his father taught him . . . and so his star on the wall reminds people of something very important: "no metal in the microwave."

A Joke That Doubles As An IQ Test

Here is something fun and annoying to do to your friends: explain that you are about to tell a joke, but that the joke also doubles as test of their intelligence-- this will make them anxious to get the joke, but chances are that they won't-- and then say, "A termite walks into a bar and asks, 'Where's the bartender?'"

Synco-what?

Though I pride myself on my large vocabulary, I've had my troubles recently . . . and now I'm faced with writing the most difficult sentence in my career, and it is about learning the clinical term for something that afflicts me, but I really do not want to write this sentence, for reasons I will soon explain-- and I suffer this solely for you, my diligent readers; last Wednesday in the English Office, my colleague Rachel said a string of words that sounded nothing like English: "He had a vasovagal response . . . it's a syncope," and so I asked her to explain and during her explanation, I started feeling lightheaded and my fingers started tingling and I got a strange sensation in my chest and I felt very nervous . . . almost as if I was going to pass out . . . and that's when I learned the truth: I often suffer from vasovagal responses, especially when people are talking about blood and fainting, which is a common trigger for the response . . . not that I mind actually seeing blood-- but I have trouble thinking about it (probably due to my gigantic imaginative brain) and so even as I write this sentence in the school library, I feel as though I might plant my face into the keyboard, but I soldier on anyway, dizzy but validated, because my response has a definition and and so I am not a freak.

Death Be Not Proud of A Turtle

The boys and I took a trip to Sandy Hook last Thursday, and despite the rain, poison ivy and mosquitoes, we had a good time, especially out on North Beach; Ian's highlight was the dead terrapin he found in a foamy and debris filled tide pool-- he poked it with a stick and when the head bobbed to the surface, we noticed that the eyes had been eaten out of the skull-- and this grisly image must have stuck with him because on the car ride home he said, "I'm proud that I found that turtle, but I'm not proud that it was dead and had no eyes."