The Scream is so 90's . . . 1890's

Some lunatic paid 119.9 million dollars for Edward Munch's "The Scream" last night, and I don't think that's a very wise investment, as the image-- which was the ubiquitous icon of anxiety and angst for the 20th Century-- has lost its relevance . . . that screaming face doesn't do it for us in the 21st Century, because we don't have that kind of emotional energy to waste, we don't have the wherewithal to scream at the multiplex of horrors we face every waking moment-- horrors from our own lives, horrors from the lives of others, horrors from around the world, digital horrors multiplied a million times over . . . a constant barrage, an infinite deluge of horrible, contradictory, complex, awkward and terrible information . . . Joseph Kony is abducting children! Greece is going to default! My LDL cholesterol count is 340! Angelina and Brad are on the rocks! Eddie Money is still touring! I need to refinance! The sea levels are rising! . . . we'd be screaming all the time . . . we'd lose our voice; in fact, we don't have even have enough emotion left to utter a Homer-esque "Doh!"-- that's so '90's--  instead the essential reaction to the 21st Century, the facial expression for our times is Jim Halpert's ironic half-smirk . . . one of these : /  because how else can you react to the inconceivable? . . . I am afraid that the "The Scream" is destined to be lumped with King Lear and Oedipus Rex: an evocative piece tragic art, but also full of antiquated outpourings of melodrama and emotion . . . I wish I could paint so I could update the idea-- I would call it "The Smirk"-- not that there needs to be more parodies of this thing, which-- like I said-- has run its course, but I really do wish I could paint (mainly so I could paint a giant squid battling a sperm whale on my bedroom wall, a suggestion that my wife vetoed, probably because I can't paint).

Michael Chiklis and Andrew Strong are the Same Person

The proof is in the pudding: Andrew Strong never made a guest appearance on The Shield, and Vic Mackey never breaks into song after he tortures a confession out of a bad guy (because then you would identify the voice, that distinctive set of lungs that made The Commitments transcend the "band in a movie" genre . . . and I guess Shawn Ryan didn't want to give Mackey a sensitive, soulful side-- imagine if he sang his final confession-- but I think he missed a golden opportunity to make Vic Mackey even more disturbing  . . . Hitler was a failed painter, and that doesn't make him any less frightening, but it does add a strangely human touch to his evil).

Some Good Movies and TV You May Not Have Seen #6

Watching video of something extinct is poignant, nostalgic, and sad . . . but the knowledge of the subject's impending demise imbues the viewing with something special-- for example, check out the video above to see one of the last living thylacines, soon after this film was shot (in 1933) the "Tasmanian tiger' was eradicated by humans; the seminal TV series Freaks and Geeks evoked the same feeling in me . . . as by the time I watched it, it had already been cancelled (only super-hip people watched the show when it was broadcast) and so each episode-- no matter how excellent-- was a countdown until extinction; and once again, my wife and I are in the same predicament, this time with the 2009 sitcom Better Off Ted . . . it's funny, smart, satirical, fast-paced, and rather lighthearted send-up of business ethics, research and development, technology, and office politics; the jokes are clever, and Portia de Rossi is perfectly cast as the cold and callous dragon-lady boss, and though it was critically acclaimed, apparently no one watched it . . . we've got ten more episodes before it dies in front of us, never to be queued on Netflix again.

Cryptonomicon

I finally finished Neal Stephenson's 915 page tour de force of a novel Cryptonomicon, and a number of superlatives are appropriate: Pynchon-esque, epic, prescient (the book predates Bitcoin by a decade), sprawling, comprehensive, dense, mathematical, and extremely intelligent . . . but I should warn you that it doesn't really pick up until page 850 . . . although if you make it to page 546, then there is a break from the text in the form of some lovely charts, which explain the relationship between code-breaking genius Lawrence Pritchard Waterhouse's clarity of mind and frequency of his ejaculations-- including the difference in the sawtooth pattern between visits to the whorehouse and onanistic release and an explanation of how the graphs are differentially complicated by the arrival of his love interest Mary Smith . . . priceless stuff but you have work for it; ten gold bars out of ten.

America: Home of the Grill, Land of the Knave

Only in America will the pimple-faced grill guy from Lowe's-- whose camouflage boxers protrude conspicuously from his pants-- advise you that the $350 Ducane Affinity 4200 is "a great grill for the money" but that he prefers (and has somehow found the cash to purchase) the $1000 all stainless steel Weber model.

My Son Ian: Creative Genius or Incorrigible Weirdo?

Last Tuesday, I confronted my six year old son Ian at 5:05 PM about the inordinate number of Cheez-It brand baked snack crackers he was consuming, but he told me not to worry-- he would have no problem eating his dinner because he possesses "a treat tummy and a regular tummy," but I didn't buy this line of logic, and confiscated his giant bowl of Cheez-It brand baked snack crackers, and so he decided to go upstairs and "do some art," which I figured would consist of drawing or coloring, but he broke out the acrylic paints and made a big mess-- but I didn't want to yell at him and stifle his creative energy-- and then I noticed a metal fountain pen, broken in half, on his desk, and I calmly asked him . . . that's right fucking calmly-- because I'm no longer losing my temper, no matter how pissed I get at my kids-- so I asked him calmly what had happened, and then I noticed that he had broken the pen's ink cartridge in half-- snapped it in half, like some sort of lunatic with no respect for anything in his place of residence-- and he had mixed the blue ink from the pen cartridge with blue acrylic paint (and he had produced a lovely scenic painting) and once again-- though his desk, the floor, and his hands were stained with indelible blue ink-- I didn't want to stifle his artistic ambitions, or oppress his experimental little brain, so I got him cleaned up, complimented his attempt at mixing mediums, and told him that next time he should paint at the kitchen table (I am trying not to lose my temper with my kids these days, unless one child maliciously harms someone . . . and it's a fucking challenge).

The Descendents > The Descendants

If you have the choice, you're much better off listening to Milo Goes to College, rather than watching The Descendants . . . though the movie is well-acted and well-directed, it is also rather tedious, and very, very depressing (despite the all Hawaiian shirts and island music).

Learning to Let a Sleeping Cat Lie . . .or Lay . . . Whatever She Prefers

Last week I corrected my wife for using the word "lay" instead of "lie," and when she questioned me about the proper usage I made the mistake of saying, "You call yourself a teacher?" and then I attempted to explain the difference between "lie" and "lay"-- that "lay" always takes a direct object, which is why you lie down in your bed, but a chicken lays an egg-- but she was hearing none of it; she was rightfully indignant over my contemptuous tone (I need to work on that) and I realized that this was a sleeping dog that I should let lie . . . so I didn't mention it again until yesterday, when I heard her repeatedly telling our dog to "lay down," and so-- being very careful of my tone-- I yelled from the kitchen, "Are you trying to annoy me, or what?" but apparently my attempt to use a warm and playful tone didn't work because she yelled back, "No . . . I guess I'm just really stupid!" and even I could recognize that she was being sarcastic . . . so though it offends the English teacher in me, I think I'm going to have to live with this one fault that my wonderful, beautiful, generally flawless wife possesses, and consider myself lucky that this is my only grievance in an otherwise blissful marriage.

Far Better Than The Corn Palace

It makes sense that the world's largest kaleidoscope is near Woodstock, New York and it also makes sense that the eleven minute show is a psychedelic history of the United States . . . the kaleidoscope is housed in a grain silo, and because my family and I were the only folks partaking in the show, we got to lie down on the floor and stare straight up the barrel of the silo at the giant, fragmented images . . . and if that's not exciting enough for you, then you can let your kids browse in the high end section of the gift shop, which contains "toys" that run from the hundreds to the thousands of dollars; there is a sign that says only "responsible adults may handle them," and I'm sure this is warranted-- as this place must be a fun stop for irresponsible adults making a pilgrimage to Woodstock; anyway, if you are in the vicinity, it is definitely worth the trip, far more exciting than the Corn Palace in South Dakota (which I was so excited to see that I got a speeding ticket on my way into Mitchell-- I offered the cop my PBA card and he laughed at me-- and then I was sorely disappointed with the attraction).

Hey Sylvia Plath! Get Your Act Together! April is National Poetry Month!

April is the month to celebrate poets and poetry, and so I will share one of my poems here (and please don't be intimidated by how good it is, as I teach creative writing, and so I have unbelievable creative powers) and I should warn you that this poem contains an "allusion" and that if you don't know how Sylvia Plath offed herself, then you might not understand all the "layers" of this masterpiece, which not only did I write myself (without the use of the internet) but I have also memorized in toto so that I can recite it to my classes after we read "Mirror":

Some Advice for Sylvia Plath


Get your head out of that oven
and cook us up another poem.

The Potato Apostrophe Catastrophe

So last week, I thought to myself, if I were able to speak to a corporation, this is what I would say: "Hey Herr's . . . how about making the outside of your personal sized potato chip bag less slick and flashy, and instead do something useful with it, like make it more porous and corrugated-- more like the consistency of a napkin-- so that when I'm done eating your chips, I can wipe the greasy jalapeno dust off my fingers and onto the bag" but when I mentioned this genius idea to my students, they quickly saw the flaw in my plan: the bags would get incredibly dirty before they were sold . . . from the factory and the shipping and wherever they're stored, and I had to agree, as I could see someone working up a sweat, loading chips, and using one of the new "napkin bags" to wipe his brow, or blow his nose or worse . . . so this is not going to go down as one of Dave's Great Ideas, and I'd like to revise what I would say to the Herr's corporation: "Hey Herr's . . . keep up the good work on those delicious jalapeno chips!"

Ergonomic Canine Generated Plectrum

My dog chewed on one of my guitar picks, and now it fits perfectly between my finger and thumb (which makes me wonder if I can train him to do this while I am at work-- I could run a cottage industry creating ergonomic plectrums-- and I know my dog has plenty of free time while I'm at work, as I closely observed him over Spring Break, and he's very unproductive during the workday . . . he basically lies in the sun and naps . . . and his Buffalo Blue dog food doesn't come cheap).

How to Cultivate a Green Thumb

Watering my wife's garden would be monotonous, if it weren't for the magical powers of beer.

Some Good Movies and TV You May Not Have Seen #5

David Cronenberg's eXistenZ came out at the same time as The Matrix, but it wasn't as popular-- possibly because it's easier to spell "matrix" then it is to spell "eXistenZ"-- but Cronenberg's film is weird and fun and the acting is certainly more entertaining than what Keanu Reeves had to offer as Neo . . . Jude Law and Jennifer Jason Leigh wade through multiple levels of a video game which may or may not be reality, and they run into Ian Holm, Willem Dafoe and lots of really gross props along the way.

Life Isn't Fair (But You Don't Have to Rub It In)

My son Alex got in trouble for punching his younger brother in the head yesterday, and I am partly to blame-- Ian was telling us about his day at school, and he mentioned that his class had some sort of party and he got to eat M&M's and this really pissed his older brother off-- Alex immediately wanted some M&M's . . . because it wasn't fair that Ian got M&M's and he didn't get any-- but we didn't have any M&M's (and even if we did have some, I wouldn't have given him any because his logic was ridiculous, which I tried to explain-- the fact that occasionally his class had parties and got treats and that Ian's class did not get . . . but he wasn't buying it) and so, since he wouldn't listen to reason, I decided to taunt Alex a bit, and so I said to Ian, "I love M&M's! I'll bet those M&M's were really good, and it's nice to get some M&M's at school," and Ian agreed with me . . . but all this M&M talk was more than Alex could handle, so he popped Ian right in the forehead and then got sent upstairs-- but I should have been sent upstairs as well, as I exacerbated the situation.

Nostradavus (If You Are A Member of My Wife's Book Club, Do Not Read This!)

Using my magnificent powers of clairvoyance and divination, I am going to make a stunningly useless prediction: in the near future, my wife's book club will select Cheryl Strayed's memoir Wild: From Lost to Found on the Pacific Coast Trail as their book of the month . . . Karen Long called it a "tougher, more feral" version of Eat, Pray Love and it's already got a long request queue at the library . . . I am planning on reading this book-- if I ever finish Cryptonomicon-- but I will in no way recommend it to any members of her book club (and hopefully they won't read this sentence) so that we can see if my prophetic acumen is accurate.

Meme Song (Dave Coins an Essential New Phrase!)

From the same mind that brought you the eternally delightful and eminently practical word Tupperawareness, comes another hand-crafted, home-made, and absolutely essential addition to the lexicon . . . once you hear it, you won't be able to live without it; so imagine the scenario: you've just heard a memorable melody, a snatch of a song, just a wee bit of music . . . and you can't forget it-- it's ideal, archetypal, and exemplary, like the Da Duh Da Duh from Jaws or the Dah De Neh Na, Neh Na Nuh from Indiana Jones or the Da Na Nuh Na Nuh Nuh Na Nuh Nuh from Star Wars (Darth Vader's entrance) or the Dah Nah Nah Noo Nah from Close Encounters of the Third Kind and you need a name for this bit of music, and, thanks to Sentence of Dave,  here it is: a meme song (and I can't believe this term doesn't already exist, it makes me wonder if the internet is dumber than I thought).

Hiking + Amphibians = Happy Children

Happiness is flipping over a rock and finding a salamander . . . but you've got to flip a lot of rocks before you hit the jackpot; we tried our best at the Mohonk Preserve, but it proved salamander-less, but the next day, while we were hiking to Awosting Falls in Minnewaska State Park, I tried my luck in a drainage gully that ran alongside the trail, as it was damp and full of rocks . . . and there was a salamander under every stone . . . sometimes even two or three salamanders, but only the red-backed and Jefferson varieties, not the elusive yellow-spotted salamander (although we did find a yellow striped mimic millipede).

A Dirty Family Secret

When we go on vacation, we let our boys watch cable TV.

No Escape From the Theme

So Wednesday night my wife spent eight hours in the emergency room with her mother, who needed an emergency nephrostomy, and then she spent the entire following day in the hospital, conferring with doctors and and keeping her mom company . . . and by Thursday afternoon things finally started looking up (her mom's creatinine levels went down) and so my wife and I took a break the hospital (and our kids, who were at my parent's house) and went to Coco-- our favorite Thai/Malaysian place-- for some much needed food and beer; we were hoping to take a deep breath and relax, but this was not to be, we had barely dug into our papaya salad, when an older guy sitting at the table next to us slumped forward in his seat . . . we saw his eyes roll back into his skull and drool run down his chin, and the woman with him explained that he had a heart problem, so they laid him out on the floor and put a jacket under his head and some lady who seemed to know what she was doing checked his pulse and cleared his mouth (she turned out to be a nurse) and he was still out cold, so I figured I should use my CPR training, though I had never executed it on a real human, and so I knelt down next to him-- he definitely wasn't responding-- and so I put my hand on his chest and measured the proper distance from the sternum and just as I was about to start doing the compressions (to the beat of Stayin' Alive, of course) the guy came to . . . I think he may have had a small stroke or maybe he fainted-- who knows-- but in a moment he was fairly coherent, groggy, but able to talk-- so we went back to our "relaxing" meal-- and this guy was especially lucky that it wasn't a life-threatening emergency, as the waiter who called 911 must not have been very clear on the phone . . . the police took an inordinate amount of time to show up, and the ambulance took even longer-- because the police didn't realize it was a medical emergency and instead thought it was a customer dispute . . . so though we tried to take a break from the stress of the hospital, the medical crisis came to us, and remained there on the floor the entire length of our dinner, and the moral of the story is this: if you're at an authentic Asian restaurant and you're having a medical emergency, make sure someone who can speak fluent English makes the 911 call.