Sentence of Dave

The Test Has a Logo!

Our podcast has a new home on Podbean, and Stacey designed an awesome logo . . . so play along, keep score, and listen for special guests-- TJ, Jerry, and God . . . also, Stacey and Cunningham mimic my judginess (and I consider it flattery).

The Infinite Picture Skit!

During my epic adventure last Saturday, at the Bond Street Bar and Grill in Asbury Park, a group of good-natured folks at a table near the shuffleboard game asked my friend Alec if he could kindly take their picture . . . and he did such a good job of it that I told him, "Alec! You've got to get in the picture!" and so he handed me the camera and ran over and got in the frame and I took a picture of the group along with Alec . . . now if Connell picked up on this and ran over from his end of the shuffleboard table and said, "Dave! You've got to get in the picture!" and he took a picture of the group with both Alec and me, and then we had forty or fifty more friends available and they kept doing this ad infinitum . . . well, you get the idea-- now somebody get out there and organize this and then show me the pictures and the video.

Free Apps!

Everyone is designing a phone app these days, so if you want in on the action, here are a few of my ideas:

1) dog to Spanish translator;

2) body hair maintenance scheduler . . . it's a little stick figure and various areas light up when it's time to trim-- ear, nose, beard, nether regions, etcetera;

3) an alphabetic communicator, so that you can send a message of written words to a friend without having to speak, and then (perhaps) your friend could reply back to you with a written reply, and this would all appear on the phone screen . . . this one seems the most promising of my ideas.

They Alive, Dammit! It's a Miracle!

If you haven't seen the Netflix original Unbreakable Kimmy Schmidt, then the plot is a hard pill to swallow-- Kimmy and three other women were held captive underground for fifteen years by a lunatic doomsday cult preacher, and when they were finally rescued, Kimmy made her way to New York City on a wing and a prayer and ends up living in a basement apartment with an out-of-work flamboyantly gay African American actor named Titus Andromedon-- but the theme song, perhaps the catchiest since "Cheers," explains all this visually and persuasively; I would suggest starting with episode ten, "Kimmy's in a Love Triangle," because Dean Norris (Hank Shrader in Breaking Bad) makes a cameo as Le Loup, a "straight coach," who counsels gay actors to act like a heterosexual dudes, so they get get more acting roles . . . the scenarios he devises are absurd and spot-on (and you'll find out why straight men don't drink from straws).

I'll Do It Her Way . . . Grudgingly

My wife was oppressing my creativity the other day; she was being very critical of how I put away the silverware --my method, which is a matter of personal expression, a stylistic choice-- NOT laziness-- is I chuck all the stuff in the drawer, real fast, I don't worry about dedicating particular slots for spoons or forks or knives . . . I came to the conclusion that this is the correct technique (even though that's how I've always done it) while reading A Perfect Mess: The Hidden Benefits of Disorder . . . but my wife didn't want to hear my theories on when you should NOT organize something in a top-down fashion, though it's easy enough to find what you need when you need it; I think silverware falls into this category, it's a pain-in-the-ass to get all the different cutlery into the correct slots, but it's easy enough visually to find what you need when you open the drawer, even if it's a disorganized mess, because the slots are shallow and the different items are visually discernible with minimum effort (I use this same method in my clothing drawers) but despite the fact that we live in Frank Sinatra's state of origin, after I listened to her threats and ultimatums, I've decided to leave this one alone and I'm going to do it her way.

Warning: Blood and Irony Ahead!

I was opening a box of band-aids in order to tend to all the cuts on my toes (from when I dropped a bottle of beer at the Ween show and some glass got into my sandals and I didn't realize it until later in the evening, when I looked down and noticed that my right foot was all red) and the band-aid box lid gave me a mean little paper cut, right on the cuticle, and so I had to use one of the band-aids from the box to staunch the blood from a cut caused by that selfsame box . . . and this leads me to believe that I am too old to attend rock concerts without sustaining injury.

Notes to Self After a Day of Complete Idiocy

When the sun rose on Saturday morning, I was feeling good about myself and the new day dawning . . . after breakfast I went and played some tennis with my son Ian and our guest Carl-- a ten year old boy from the Bronx who had stayed at our house the past week (my wife arranged this through the Fresh Air Fund, and Carl had never been to New Jersey, so we took him to the beach, to the pool, on a train, to an art museum, etcetera . . . it was exhausting because he had never been to any of these places, but he had a great time and it may have opened my own kids' eyes a little bit to how lucky they have it) and now it was time to take Carl back to the Fresh Air Fund office, which was in Manhattan (3rd Ave) and I volunteered to do this because then I was ditching my family and going to meet Connell and Alec in Asbury Park to see The Dean Ween Group, and as I walked out the door my wife said, "Don't forget to get gas" but-- son of a bitch-- I forgot and didn't remember until I was stuck in traffic inside the Lincoln Tunnel-- and this made me a bit anxious and claustrophobic, but I could see plenty of gas stations on the GPS map on the other side of the tunnel, and once we made it through, I tried to find one, but no luck . . . and then I was in downtown Manhattan on Saturday and the traffic was insane and there were a lot of people and tourists and construction, and I kept making my way towards the little gas symbols on the GPS and inevitably, when I got there, it was a construction site or a plaza or outdoor seating for a restaurant-- and I knew my GPS thing was out of date, but you need a doctorate in computer science to update it-- so I finally called my wife, who has a smartphone-- and told her I was going to run out of gas in Manhattan and I desperately needed her help, and she tried to help me, but every gas station she called was closed, or just a service station-- and during this sequence of calls to my wife, she said that I went through the five stages of grief, denial that there were no gas stations in Manhattan, anger that a city full of cars had no gas to run on, bargaining . . . that if I could just get to the office and drop-off Carl, then I could walk for gas, depression-- she said at one point I was "inconsolable," stuck in traffic between construction and parked cars and close to tears-- because what happens if you run out of gas in a spot like that? do they shoot you for being so stupid?-- and finally, acceptance, I was owning it, I was going to run out of gas in Manhattan and block up some traffic . . . but, luckily, this didn't happen and I got Carl to the office, told them my dilemma and listened to everyone lament the fact that there are no gas stations in Manhattan because of real estate prices, and then I ran on fumes to the one station by the entrance to the Lincoln Tunnel, drove home, packed my bag and guitar for an overnight stay in Asbury and went to meet my friends, and we went out and drank too much and then went to the Ween show and I dropped a beer bottle and the glass cut up my toes-- which I didn't realize until I went to the bathroom-- and then when we made it back to Connell's mom's condo, I realized that I had lost my wallet, and it was too late to go back to The Stone Pony and try to find it, so I ate some frozen pizza and went to bed, and I had to hang around until noon the next day, when The Stone Pony box office opened, and then I lucked out again-- they had my wallet . . . so quite a day, and all the bad things that happened were totally my fault, and I'm lucky things weren't much worse . . . here are my notes for the future:

1) there no gas stations in downtown Manhattan;

2) I will never drive a car in Manhattan again . . . I can't handle it;

3) I should listen to my wife;

4) if you are trying to get tickets early at The Stone Pony, and there is an Italian woman picking out t-shirts, you might be waiting a LONG time . . . this woman tried on so many shirts that we thought we were on a reality show -- and the girl working the counter was so angry with the Italian woman that she was mean to us too, when we said we just wanted three tickets she said, "Not until I'm finished with her" and glared at us . . . so this lady may have been picking out t-shirts twenty minutes previous to us getting there, and after fifteen more minutes, when her seven year old son, who was sitting patiently on a stool next to his dad, coughed or cleared his throat or made some sound, she chastised him back into compliance and he shrank back into himself (my kids would have trashed the place six times over) and then once she finally got the shirts in the colors she wanted, she got into an argument over the price . . . it was surreal;

5) don't carry too much stuff in your pockets -- i.e. hardshell sunglass case-- because when you leave the bar it will feel like you have your wallet, when you really left it behind;

6) do NOT wear sandals to a concert, especially if you're going to drop a bottle of beer-- which I did . . . I was passing up to Alec, who was right by the stage, and i thought he grabbed it, but he didn't . . . and glass must have gotten into my sandals and then everyone was stomping around and the glass got shoved into my toes and I didn't notice until i went to the bathroom and it was gross-- I'm lucky i didn't get an infection . . . this is similar to what John and I learned at The Cult concert in 1990 in Hampton Coliseum . . . Ian Asbury threw his tambourine into the crowd and there was a melee for it and John and I each had a hand on it and some other dude stuck his arm (which was encased in denim) through the hole and then John's face turned pale and then I felt sick and we looked at our hands and they were all bloody, cut by the razor sharp metal shaker discs, and John had to get stitches;

7) the key to Skeeball might be the bank shot.

More Dreams!

If I can't swing being a professional dog-walker when I retire, perhaps I will be an impersonal trainer, and inspire people to keep in shape through detachment: I don't really care if you do those sit-ups, because I'm watching this golf match on TV and not paying attention to you one bit . . . in fact, your fitness level doesn't interest me in the least, I'm much more concerned with myself, but I've read that doing the plank might be good for your core . . . but whatever, your choice, what do I care if you get in shape?

You've Got to Have Dreams

When I retire, I'm going to augment my pension by being a professional dog-walker!

Personal Inspection

I took the van over to the DMV on Route 130 to get it inspected, and I got to ride in the passenger seat while the guys did their stuff . . . I also got to see them tentatively push aside the piece of honeycomb sitting on our dashboard, blocking the inspection sticker; the guy said to me, "There's no bees in there, right?" and I said, "I hope not" and, of course, there were no bees in it, because it was several months old . . . my son Ian handed it to me after a hike-- because kids pick up everything-- and asked if he could bring it home, and I stuck it there and it became a decorative item, hexagonal compartment visible through the windshield, and we never thought much of it until this moment at the DMV.

Live Vicariously Through Dave!

For all of you folks that have to work in the summer, here's a quick recap of my family beach vacation in Sea Isle City:

1) for several days, hundreds and hundreds of dolphins-- several pods?-- swam southward along the shore; at one point they were so close to the beach that the lifeguards had to pull everyone from the water . . . my father insisted they were porpoises but I took my cousin's paddleboard out to get a very close look, and they were definitely dolphins;

2) the AC broke in our condo, and it took five days to fix, so we spent a lot of time on the beach;

3) the day we took a break from the beach, we went to Stone Harbor and saw Ant-Man and-- shockingly-- it was very entertaining . . . Paul Rudd is charming and the special-effects and humor are somewhere between Honey I Shrunk the Kids and Iron Man . . . and nearly as entertaining as the film was the massive leak in the roof during the movie-- a huge thunderstorm rolled in during the opening minutes and all the people on the left side of the theater got soaked and there was a flood down the center aisle which we had to wade through when we left;

4) we really enjoyed eating at Hank Sauce, the restaurant named after the super-excellent hot sauce-- the pork tacos and the fish tacos were both excellent (and the sauce is the best);

5) I did not enjoy the lack of AC and wifi at Red White & Brew Coffee Shop;

6) while I was travelling from the Outer Banks to Sea Isle City-- twelve hours or cars, trains, taxis and buses-- Catherine and the boys saw a fisherman pull in a shark and a large stingray;

7) I nearly cried while carrying my cousin's paddleboard back to their beach house . . . that thing is heavy!

Looking Through My Mechanic's Son's Eyes

One of the most important things in modern life is to know of a good car mechanic, which I do . . . but he's getting older . . . luckily, his son is taking over the business; when my wife and I dropped off the Subaru the other morning we met the heir-apparent and then when my wife picked up the car later in the day, she got to hear-- secondhand from his dad-- the son's impression of our drop-off; apparently the youngster was amused by the fact that:

1) I didn't know how to work my phone and my wife showed me that if you hit the volume button it turns the ringer on;

2) I didn't understand why my wife was hanging around, I thought she was on her way to work, but she was there to give me a ride back home;

3) I chastised my wife for nearly hitting her brother's truck when she backed out of the driveway and she pointed out that she didn't hit his car and that the two dents in the car were both my fault.

Kurt Vonnegut Holds Up

When I was in middle school and high school, my two favorite authors were Kurt Vonnegut and Stephen King-- I read everything they wrote; but a few years ago, I tried to re-read The Stand and I found it dated and kind of cheesy (though I did love King's more recent novel 11/22/63) and I read less and less fiction these days anyway-- except crime fiction about murder and drug lords and torture-- but I was screwing around with my Kindle and somehow 'borrowed" Breakfast of Champions for free, and I devoured it in the same way teenage Dave must have done . . . the book is super-meta, extremely profane (with liberal use of the N-word) and very funny; Vonnegut's ironically detached view from outer space on art, the environment, character, free will, and income inequality are as modern (post-modern?) as anything written today; here are two passages that I highlighted:

1) "I used to be a conservationist. I used to weep and wail about people shooting bald eagles with automatic shotguns from helicopters and all that, but I gave it up. There's a river in Cleveland which is so polluted that it catches fire about once a year; that used to make me sick, but I laugh about it now . . . I realized," said Trout, "that God wasn't conservationist, so for anyone else to be one was sacrilegious and a waste of time. You ever see one of His volcanoes or tornadoes or tidal waves? Anybody ever tell you about the Ice Ages he arranges every half-million years? How about Dutch Elm disease?"

2) Because of the peculiar laws in that part of the planet, Rockefeller was allowed to own vast areas of the Earth's surface, and the petroleum and other valuable minerals under the surface , as well. He owned or controlled more of the planet than many nations. This had been his destiny since infancy. He was born into that cockamamie proprietorship.

Save $$$$ with Statistics

Diligent readers may remember the risk assessment I did about the tree limb hanging precipitously over my back yard . . . when I first saw the limb, I thought: I'd better call a tree guy, because that thing is going to kill someone when it comes down . . . but then I did some back-of-the-envelope calculation and realized that I should have thought: I don't need to call a tree guy because it's highly unlikely that that thing will kill someone when it comes down and it turns out that in this instance, the math was right . . . the limb fell during our vacation and killed nothing, it didn't even harm the lawn, so a little bit of logical thinking saved me some cash (though I must admit, that I did try some crazy shit before we left for the beach . . . I attached a rope to an arrow and tried to shoot it over the limb with my son Alex's bow and I punted a variety of balls at the limb, but the arrow couldn't pull the rope all the way up and though I got some punts in the vicinity, the only result was a stuck ball, and then I duct-taped a rope to a rock and started whirling it around but thought better of it, because the branch was very very high up in the tree and I realized all I was going to do was break some windows).

The Test 5: Everyone Fails

Stacey administers a test on acronyms, abbreviations and nicknames and we all do quite poorly-- including, ironically, Stacey; so give it a shot and good luck-- you're going to need it . . . also, listen up for a new character (and if you want to hear the sad sad story of how I tried to be a hipster douchebag while completing the audio editing for this episode, head on over to Gheorghe: The Blog).

Funny? Or Not So Funny? You Be the Judge . . .

I had a wonderful student last year in Composition class who was smart and outgoing and engaged and curious and generally wonderful to be around, and she really liked my class and respected my opinion (and let me know this in no uncertain terms) so I was a bit disappointed when she didn't follow my sage advice on a certain matter, but I'll let you be the judge; at the end of every school day this girl delivered the afternoon announcements over the intercom, and I would often kid her about her style, which always started very enthusiastic, but sometimes became less so when she got bogged down in the mundane details . . . the change of location of the robotics club, etcetera, etcetera . . . and as senior year ground to a close, she realized she was going to make her last afternoon announcement of her career, and she wanted to go out with something special and I suggested that after she delivered her last bit of afternoon information, she say, "This is Michelle X signing off, it was a pleasure and I'd also like you to know that I'm a talking parrot . . . SQUAWK!" and while she found this moderately amusing, she didn't think it was as hysterically funny as I thought it was and when I told some other teachers about this idea they questioned my sanity and my sense of humor, but my high school is huge and while two thousand kids had heard her voice every afternoon, the vast majority of them had never seen her face, so I think this would have been perfect and very funny finale to her disembodied voice, but since she didn't do it, we'll never know . . . unless I luck out and teach the voice of the afternoon announcements next year, because I will start my campaign early-- in September-- and by June this person will realize just how funny the final announcement could be . . . SQUAWK!

Dave Loves Chick lit! So? What Are YOU Going to Do About It?

So what? . . . so Dave loves chick lit . . . so he's read three Liane Moriarty novels about Australian moms . . . does that make him any less of a man? . . . does it mean he still won't kick your ass? . . . don't bet on it . . . and so what if he got a little weepy at the end of What Alice Forgot . . . you'd cry too . . . if you read more chick lit . . . loser . . . anyway, What Alice Forgot, is a time-travel story masquerading as an amnesia incident, and it is, by turns, funny, intense, moving, nostalgic, and inspirational . . . here are two passages that I liked:

1) I'd be at work, where people respected my opinions," said Nick . . . "And then I'd come home and it was like I was the village idiot . . . I'd pack the dishwasher the wrong way . . . I'd pick out the wrong clothes for the children . . . I stopped offering to help . . . it wasn't worth the criticism";

2) I knew there is nothing more patronizing to an Infertile than to hear a new mother complaining, as if that will make you feel better for not having your own baby . . . it's like telling a blind person, "Oh, sure, you get to see mountains and sunsets, but there's also rubbish dumps and pollution! Terrible!"

Shallow Thought #6

Since the advent of the smart-phone, there has been a spike in people stepping in dog-shit.

What's Better Than One Serial Killer?

Two serial killers, obviously-- The Dollmaker and The Follower-- and though Michael Connelly's third Hieronymous "Harry" Bosch novel was written back in 1994, The Concrete Blonde still feels relevant today because of the lurking theme under the double menace of the killers: unauthorized use of force by authority; Bosch shot The Dollmaker in the line of duty four years before the novel begins, and story opens with him being sued by the Dollmaker's widow for being a vigilante-- he shot the purported killer while he was naked and reaching for something under his pillow, which turned out to be a toupee, not a gun, and while there was a preponderance of evidence linking the suspect to the case; the plaintiff's attorney, Honey Chandler, brings up Rodney King and the noted corruption and civil rights abuses in the L.A.P.D. and meanwhile, the killings continue, making everyone-- including Bosch-- wonder if he got the wrong guy; while the book eventually veers away from this heavy stuff into more procedural law and the usual hot pursuit, with the requisite twists and turns (and plenty of pornography and violence) this is no lightweight beach read . . . so far it is my favorite of all the Connelly novels, and so I'd like to thank Joyce Carol Oates again for recommending him (you can say "you're welcome" in the comments, Joyce).