Last week, while I was biking with my dog, a woman in jogging attire, with a poorly behaved poodle, yelled to me, "You know, that's the worst thing you can do for your dog!" and so I circled my bike several times and politely listened to her explanation--she said she had a veterinarian friend who claims running along with a bike is bad for a dog's hips and that dogs need to stop frequently when they run and then she finished her lecture by challenging me to "look it up!" and I assured her that I would . . . though I know my dog and he loves biking with me and never has any trouble keeping up, but I humored her and "looked it up!" and there is nothing on the internet about how biking with a dog is bad for your dog (there are considerations, of course . . . your dog should be medium sized, you should avoid pavement when you can, and you should make sure your dog enjoys biking and can keep up . . . which my dog does easily because he can run . . . he begs me to take him out every morning) but this is all besides the point, the real issue here is why some people believe they can just yell out their opinions to a passerby . . . I know how I should have reacted to this woman-- whose poodle was going bananas, yanking her around and rearing up, while my dog obediently followed my tightly circling bike as I listened to her lambaste me . . . after she said, "That's the worst thing that you can do for your dog," then I should have said to her,"The worst thing? If you think that's the worst thing you can do to a dog, then I have two words for you . . ." and then I should have said, "Michael Vick" or "bear-baiting" or "Vietnamese restaurant" but, of course, this "jerk store" theorizing is what the French call "the wit of the staircase," of which I have plenty, but in real time, I am a witless coward.
Voracious Packing
Now that I own a minivan, packing for the beach is an episode in gluttony, nothing is too big or useless to bring . . . it's like eating without a care in the world about what you're consuming, as your belly is so cavernous that you'll never feel engorged and your body so huge that you could never get fat.
Yet Another Miraculous Coincidence (With Noodles)
I mentioned Noodle Gourmet-- the hole-in-the-wall Hong Kong style noodle joint on Easton Avenue in New Brunswick that I often frequent for lunch with my father, brother, and children-- to a Taiwanese acquaintance, and she gave it high marks, and said that I should order the den dien dong shing and I said, "What?" and she said, "the dong ding dienty den den shin" and after several repetitions of this farcical dialogue (my friend Connell tried the reverse approach-- he told her, "Describe me to the people that work there, so that when I go in, they'll know to give it to me") she finally wrote the name of the dish in Chinese on a scrap of paper, which I put in my wallet . . . and the next day, I met my father and brother for lunch there, and my brother was ahead of me in line and he pulled out a little scrap of paper with some Chinese characters on it-- he wanted to order mini-rice cakes with seafood and that dish is not on the English menu, so he got a Chinese co-worker to write down the order, and after he presented his little piece of paper, and then I stepped forward and presented mine, which was for a noodle dish slathered in minced pork and hot peppers-- totally delicious-- and while this may not rank among the most profound miraculous coincidences in my life-- it was pretty funny, and both dishes were astonishingly delicious . . . and Noodle Gourmet could avoid such silliness if they simply translated all these secret dishes in English.
They Blew Up the Chicken Man in Albuquerque Last Season
My wife and I finally finished Season 4 of Breaking Bad, and the parting shot of the poisonous Lily of the Valley plant in Walt's yard has finally convinced me that Bryan Cranston's no longer playing a cancer-ridden, drug dealing version of the snide and mild-mannered dad from Malcolm in the middle . . . he's a bad dude, perhaps morally worse than Nancy Botwin of Weeds . . . but I'm still rooting for him, perhaps because he started out as a high school teacher and he gives me inspiration on how I might be able to escape the clutches of the bell schedule.
Instead of Web- Surfing, They Should Call It Web-Driving
Ask someone if they are an above-average driver and they will almost definitely say yes-- and that's why it's difficult to ride shotgun, as you can't watch someone else drive without criticizing them-- and the same is true for web-searching; it's really hard to watch someone Google for information because they're not typing in the terms that you would type into the search bar, and they're not clicking on the sites you would click on, and they're not scrolling to and reading the stuff you would scroll to and read . . . my wife got so fed up with watching me search for a dog-boarding place that she went in the other room, got the lap-top, sat down next to me, and beat me to the information we were looking for.
A Circuitous Journey
A few weeks ago, I picked up the new Geoff Dyer book at my local library-- and because I really like Dyer's writing, I wasn't disconcerted by the fact that the book claimed to be about unlocking the mysteries of a Russian science-fiction film called Stalker, which I had never seen-- nor even heard of-- because I assumed that Dyer would simply be using the film as a springboard for his trademark digressions (as he did in his "biography" of D.H. Lawrence-- Out of Sheer Rage-- which you can find in the BIO section of the library, but the book never actually becomes a biography of Lawrence, and instead is a treatise on procrastination) but this recent book, which is called Zona: A Book About A Film About A Journey To A Room, is actually about what it is billed as being about, the film Stalker, directed by the renowned Russian director Andrei Tarkovsky . . . so I took the book back to the library and spoke to a friend of mine, a film buff, and he told me I had to watch Stalker before I read the book, but that it wasn't going to be easy . . . and he was right, it wasn't an easy viewing, and this may be because I am certainly no film buff . . . I came to movies rather late in life and I have a limited attention span . . . and so it took me days to watch Stalker, which is nearly three hours and famous for its interminably long shots where relatively little happens-- and while I am glad I watched it, as it is compelling, ambiguous, profound, and beautifully filmed story-- and the journey of Stalker, Writer, and Professor is both archetypal and unforgettable-- especially the last scene-- while I admit all this is true, I think I came to this film too late in my life to really appreciate it, and Dyer explains this phenomena in the book: he explains that he saw Stalker when he was twenty-four and in a phase when he was doing a lot of LSD, and he became obsessed with the film, in a way that doesn't happen once you hit thirty or forty . . . he explains the sad fact that you probably won't see the film you consider to be the "greatest" after the age of thirty, and definitely not after the age of forty-- your ability to have your perceptions altered, your ability to respond to art with maximum focus and obsession, this declines with age . . . and so I am stuck with the films of the '90's as my benchmark movies: Goodfellas and The Big Lebowski and Fargo and Reservoir Dogs and the documentaries of Erroll Morris . . . not that a few films from my early thirties haven't snuck into my pantheon . . . Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind and Adaptation . . . but most of my films are light-weights compared to the greats-- fast-paced post-modern fun, as opposed to profound aesthetic journeys, and there is probably not much I can do about it . . . and funny thing, I actually reading about Stalker more than I enjoyed watching it . . . so I am guessing I will never become a cinephile.
I Come To The End of Two Significant Nineteen Year Relationships on the Same Day
My mother-in-law passed away last night after a long battle with cancer-- and while it was very sad, she went on her own terms, peacefully, at home (she lives with us) and surrounded by family . . . and I can honestly say that our relationship defied the typical, as I got along quite well with her for the past nineteen years: she lived with us for seven of those years and took care of our children for much of that time, she was a vital woman and I have no regrets about electing to have my mother-in-law live in the same house as me . . . and as my mother-in-law was gradually losing consciousness, I was buying a used car-- more on my fantastic negotiating skills in a future sentence-- because my weather-beaten and ancient 1993 Jeep Cherokee was also near the end of its time . . . but the "Deathbox" managed one final ride down Route 130, to the Toyota dealership, where it immediately ceased working-- I couldn't get it started so the sales lady could take it for a test drive, and it took a team of people to jump start it and move it out of the main lot-- they gave me 100$ of pity money for the "trade-in," perhaps in deference to the many years of excellent service this car provided me (and all the material it has provided for this blog) . . . and so, in one of life's profound, mysterious, and miraculous coincidences, two outstanding nineteen year relationships ended on the same day yesterday, and my life will be very different from here on out.
A Fan's Notes on A Fan's Notes
Frederick Exley's fictional memoir A Fan's Notes is The Catcher in the Rye for sporting types . . . Exley is a grown-up Holden Caulfield, and that's not very pretty-- he's alienated, can't "run with the herd," and the only thing that gives his life meaning is drinking and New York Giants football-- especially Frank Gifford-- and though he moves in and out of asylums, fights, womanizes, and generally despises himself and his fellow man, spending alternate periods of frantic energy and stupefying malaise, in the end-- like Holden-- at the end of this wild journey, he ends up missing all the fringe dwelling characters with which he shared booze and adventures . . . I don't recommend this book for women, especially since they will get an even worse view of men than they already have, but if you are a sportsmen who likes to drink, and you're concerned with your age and the mark you've made on the world, then I think this is hard to read without thinking: there by the grace of God go I.
Camping Is More Fun If You Stay In a Hotel With Air-Conditioning
There is a feeling of triumph for a father when he brings his children back from a camping trip, alive and uninjured (but, ironically, despite the fact that we braved campfires, sleeping together in a tent, Alex adjusting to his tooth-spacer . . . he ate lots of ice cream . . . repeated rides on the Looper at Knoebels, bug collecting on a giant mosquito ridden hill, a treacherous hike across a monstrously huge and sun baked spider infested boulder field, an escaped fugitive, and slippery paths along a waterfall, despite the fact that we survived all this and more without injury . . . once we got home and went to the pool, within fifteen minutes, Alex got stung on the stomach by a bee).
Hey Lolailo! Do You Really Need To Be That Specific?
The Lolailo Sangria label provides some concise and definitive instructions on when to use their "refreshing wine product with natural fruit flavors," their recommendation is that it "is a perfect beverage for relaxing with friends, family, and all social get-togethers," and while I appreciate their advice, I would also like to use their product when I sit in a dark room, sullen and alone, and play jazz chords on my guitar . . . but I guess I'll have to buy a different bottle of wine for that occasion.
Little Black Rubber Pellets Must Multiply Like Tribbles
If everyone that plays on the artificial turf field brings home as many black little rubber pellets in their shoes as I bring home, then how are there any black little rubber pellets left on the field?
Pink Floyd Should Have Robbed Banks
While I can bring to mind the countenance of any member of The Beatles or The Who or The Rolling Stones or Led Zeppelin, when a friend challenged me to produce the face of Roger Waters or David Gilmour in my mind's eye, I couldn't do it, despite the fact that I think Pink Floyd is the best band of the bunch.
Better To Get It All Over On The Same Night
My wife and I are lucky that our children are fantastic sleepers, rarely waking up in the night-- and though this occasionally results in a wet bed, it's worth it because we never lose any sleep-- but Thursday night both our children had nightmares: Ian dreamed that our dog Sirius had an evil twin, that attacked him, and Alex dreamed about being hypnotized by tiny bugs . . . and, unfortunately for Alex, he had his nightmare after Ian, and so when he came to crawl into our bed and escape the tiny mesmeric bugs, he found his little brother there, and had to retreat back to his room and battle them.
It's Not Just Me
Before this year's graduation ceremony, while I was milling around with the other educators, I posed this Final Jeopardy! question and then we got on the subject of the capital of Canada . . . and apparently, nobody knows the capital of Canada-- teachers, administrators, students . . . they were all stumped; I also asked this at a July 4th get together and my favorite answer was: "What? Canada has no capital!"
Danger!
Never, ever ever eat home-made sausage, because once you do, you will never be able to go back to the store bought stuff . . . and so now I guess I need to get a meat grinder, a sausage press, and some motivation to stuff pork into little tubes.
Six Pounds of You Isn't You
Researchers have recently mapped 99 percent of the approximately 10,000 types of microbes that populate our bodies . . . 100 trillion bacteria, weighing six pounds, and while this isn't as sexy as discovering the Higgs-Boson in the Large Hadron Collider, it probably has more siginificance to our everyday lives: our unique microbiome assists in the digestion of food, trains our immune system, and protects us from harmful bacteria . . . and bacterial imbalances have been shown to cause obesity, mood disorders, and obesity . . . bacteria can even cause specific behaviors in mice and rats-- toxoplasmosis gondii is spread from cats to mice and rats, and makes rats and mice less afraid of cats, so that they are easier prey . . . and I love this because it's something else to blame, if you get sick or have about of toxic flatulence or simply act whacky, then it might not be you causing this . . . it might be your bacteria (and soon enough, we will have a legal clause for this . . . instead of the "insanity defense," we will have the "bacterial defense").
Bonus Post For Dog Lovers At G:TB!
If you dig dogs, then head over to Gheorghe: The Blog for a special "Summer Dave" pet post that also includes original photography, shot by yours truly.
I am 60% Through the Ripliad . . . How Far Are You?
I just finished the third novel in Patricia Highsmith's Tom Ripley series . . . Ripley's Game is more of the same as far as the talented Tom Ripley is concerned-- he handles murder with as much aplomb as anyone in the literary canon-- but Highsmith introduces another character, a man corrupted by Tom Ripley's games-- his situation reminds me of Jonathan Pryce's role in Glengarry Glen Ross (and, coincidentally, the character's name is Jonathan) and so you get the interesting juxtaposition of a man well-versed in the art of murder and a man still wet behind the ears in the ins and outs of homicide . . . and then throw in his French Catholic wife and you've got another excellent novel: nine garrotes out of ten.
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