A Review of Some Key Moments in the Film Better Off Dead

One of the joys of having children is forcing them to watch movies from your youth; Saturday night we ate tacos and the entire family enjoyed a screening of Better Off Dead, and while everyone remembers the deranged paperboy who wants his two dollars and the hamburger singing Van Halen's "Everybody Wants Some," this movie has a lot more to it than those scenes and it is much weirder than I remembered . . . here are some moments you might have forgotten:

1. Ricky's mom drinks primer and blows up;

2. the Asian brothers with a PA system mounted in their car;

3. one of the Asian brothers is mute, the other speake like Howard Cosell;

4. Lane tries to commit suicide multiple times;

5. Lane's eight year old brother learns to pick up "trashy women" from a book;

6. Lane's eight year old brother builds a space shuttle from household parts, and it works;

7. Lane transforms from a klutz to a ski-pro in the span of a musical montage;

8. Lane's car transforms from a two hundred dollar heap of junk to a perfectly restored 1967 Camaro SS with a shiny paint job, also in the span of a musical montage;

9. Monique the French exchange student next door is both an an ace mechanic and a professional ski-instructor;

10. Ricky and Lane duel with ski-poles over Monique the French-exchange student;

11. Ricky's mom creates a living slime mold when she botches a recipe, she also cooks a stew that contains a very large living crustacean and has waving cephalopod tentacles;

12. though Monique can actually speak English-- a fact she has hidden from Ricky and his mom-- she substitutes "testicles" for the word "tentacles";

13. Charles de Mar (Curtis Armstrong) wears a top hat the entire movie and-- in an attempt to get high-- snorts both jello and snow;

14. at the end of the movie, Lane and Monique somehow drive the perfectly restored Camaro into Dodger stadium, park it on home plate, and make-out (the stadium is empty and Lane has his saxophone).

Plastic Fantastic Anaphora

I have a dream . . . I have a dream that one day in my kitchen cabinet there will only be one brand of plastic container . . . I have a dream that there will be only one brand of plastic container and whichever lid that I choose will fit any container that I choose-- of the proper shape-- I'm not an idiot . . . I have a dream that I will no longer waste my time searching for the correct brand of lid-- Tupperware, Rubbermaid, Ziploc, Sterilite, Gladware-- to fit the proper brand of container . . . I have a dream to streamline and expedite our plastic container cabinet. . . but when I told my family about this dream, my oldest son said, "Dad, that's the saddest dream I've ever heard."

Fight the Power

I urge you to listen to the 99 Percent Invisible episode "Flying Food"; it describes the relatively recent history of food advertising, and how innovators learned to make food look incredibly appealing-- to make food a delicious and dynamic subject that actually produces a visceral cravings in viewers-- but the important thing to remember, if you don't want to start salivating for burgers and fries every time you watch TV (because we eat WAY too much meat . . . for more on that topic, watch this TED talk by Times food writer Mark Bittman) then you need to remember that the actor who takes a bite out of the perfectly prepared burger and makes that orgasmically satisfied face, probably did that sixty-four times-- until he got the face just right-- and all the times previous, he spit the half chewed bite of burger and bun into a bucket-- the infamous spit bucket-- and if you can think of this image every time you see a delicious food image on TV, the image of the actor spitting a half-chewed bit of that burger or rib or donut into the spit bucket next to the set, a metal bucket slowing filling with half-digested chunks of meat and bread, covered in saliva-- then you are short-circuiting a habit routine . . . and to learn about this, read Charles Duhigg's book The Power of Habit: Why We Do What We Do in Life and Business; you'll learn how to change the middle portion of the cue/routine/reward subroutines that are happening all the time in our lives; in this particular instance, you'll get the same cue-- a commercial with delicious looking food-- but you will go into a different routine, where you talk graphically about the spit bucket with whoever is in the room, and the reward will be that you don't salivate and desire the unhealthy food, but instead share a trade secret that might help others fight the power of this advertising as well (but you'll actually probably come off as a righteous pedant, which is what Dave is all about).

The Test 44: More Shows!

If there's one thing that Stacey and I have learned while making forty-plus episodes of The Test, it's that Cunningham loves shows and knows her shows . . . so give this one a shot, try to identify the TV Theme Songs, listen to Stacey sing, absorb Cunningham's wisdom on what to watch, and see how discerning your ears are . . . because while these shows are popular, their theme songs are tough to identify out-of-context.

An Open Letter to US Youth Soccer:

Dear US Youth Soccer,

While I recognize this as a "first world problem," your top-down bureaucratic decision to align US Youth soccer with the rest of the world, and switch from school year age ranges to calendar year age ranges is an arbitrary pain-in-my-ass (are you also going to dictate that we use the metric system?) and while this change could have been implemented with the youngest teams, and you could have "grandfathered" the older teams, instead you are tearing apart every team, everywhere; in larger towns, this isn't as much of a problem, as they have more participants and so it is easier to do a complete reset and conduct new try-outs, but this dictate truly punishes the small town coaches who have cobbled together competitive teams and now have to either play them "up" a year, which isn't good for anybody-- especially my team, which is generally undersized to begin with-- or send some kids packing (who probably won't have another place to go) and so while I recognize that you want to align yourself with international soccer as far as small sided training, which is beneficial to players, I don't understand why shifting age ranges is going to benefit any player in particular, and it is certainly going to hurt a number of teams, and give a number of volunteer travel coaches a huge headache . . . in fact, I'd far prefer adopting the metric system to dealing with the logistics of this; perhaps you will reconsider . . .

Irately,

Dave.

History Repeats Itself (to Dave's Chagrin)

I was walking the dog this morning in the predawn darkness--staring at the sidewalk, thinking my early morning thoughts about the day-- and then my arm was suddenly horizontal, my dog lunging violently at something . . . but I was able to hold the leash and keep him from chasing whatever it was he wanted to chase . . . it took my eyes a moment to adjust to the lack of light, and then I saw that we nearly walked into a deer-- it was a few feet away and staring at us, not moving at all-- so I pulled Sirius to the other side of the street and kept my eyes peeled for more deer; after a few minutes, I lapsed back into my own head, and that's when Sirius lunged and barked again-- scaring the crap out of me again -- and this time the deer was above my head, on the lawn of my friend's front yard, which is seven feet or so above the sidewalk; the moral to the story is this: at least it wasn't a skunk.

Learning Stuff the Old Fashioned Way

Each morning during the homeroom video announcements at my high school, there is an introductory snippet of a song-- and it's different every day and it's usually a rock song and it's usually from the '90's and I can usually identify it, but the musical fragment from Tuesday eluded me . . . the only lyrics I could make out were "naa naa na na na na naaa" and while I knew the song and knew it was an alternative rock song from my era, I couldn't identify the artist or the title, and-- despite enlisting the aid of the internet and my honors Philosophy class-- there was no figuring it out . . . I will warn you that it's an internet black hole if you Google songs with "na na na" in the lyrics, and so I had to give up and do it the old-fashioned way (remember the old-fashioned way? if you didn't know the name of the guy that had a cameo in the movie, then you had to wait until you ran into your friend who knew all about movies and ask him) and so when I saw the teacher that runs the produces the morning announcements in the hallway, I went up to him and asked him if he knew the song, and he did . . . so take your guess and then follow the link to find out if you're right.

Robots vs. Selfish Drunk People

I recently watched the movie Ex Machina, and I loved it-- especially the "villain," a super-intelligent, super-rich, super-selfish tech wizard who spends his time drunk and alone on his giant estate, building strong AI robots-- which look like beautiful women, of course; I also just finished Evelyn Waugh's Brideshead Revisited: The Sacred & Profane Memories of Captain Charles Ryder-- the novel doesn't really contain a villain, per se, unless it's nostalgia for the affected British upper class and all their traditions and foibles . . . but it does contain lots of drunken selfish people and serves as a reminder that there's nothing all that recent (the book was published in 1945) about misdirected intelligence, ethical egoism, louche sensibility, and a general malaise with existing society and morals-- a desire to throw away everything previous and move into a new era, even if it is a rank and gross one-- and the haunting grip that the previous has on the present; I recommend both the book and the movie, they are smart, fun, thought-provoking, and weird.

If You Can Measure It, Then You Will Care About It

I'm not sure where I first heard the sentiment "we can't measure what we care about, so we care about what we can measure" and when I Googled the quotation I found several places where it might have originated-- but it sounds like one of those things that is impossible to pinpoint; anyway, I think it applies to both education and sports, and I'm going to keep it in mind as a teacher and a coach, and I think you should keep it in mind as well (in fact, there will be a quiz on this quotation in seven years time).

The Test 43: Dave Speaks for the Trees

This week on The Test, I speak for the trees . . . because if I don't speak for the trees, who will?

How Do YOU Spell the "C" Word?

Thursday in the English Department, lines were drawn, alliances were formed, vitriol was spewed, judgments (judgements?) were made, umbrage was taken, and words were exchanged that may never be forgotten . . . the vociferous and combative debate centered around how to spell the "c" word, not the profane one, the one synonymous with lousy, and so your choices were:

A. crummy

B. crumby

and nearly the entire department agreed that the proper spelling is "crumby," but there were two dissenters-- Kevin and myself-- and I pointed out to the Crumby Camp that the dissenters happened to be the only two red-blooded American male coaches in department-- besides Terry, and no one asked his opinion on this-- and that the Crumby Crew were a bunch of effete, British literature loving Anglophiles (the type of people who like to go to the theatre and pronounce judgement on the colours of the costumes) and it turns out that Kevin and I were correct, of course-- crummy is the proper spelling, although "crumby" was fine in 19th century England . . . which only fortifies our position, since we reside in New Jersey and Bruce Springsteen would never say "I'm pulling out of this crumby town."

Three Thousand Words

I am usually articulate enough to portray The Life of Dave with words alone, but sometimes only photographs will do the trick:


1) one of the few surviving photos from our hike up Glen Onoko Falls;

2) the spot that I mistook for the men's locker room;

3) a photo of our very tired dog after our very long hike to the Hickory Run Boulder Field . . . normally he would never deign to such humiliation.

T Junctions

Charlie Jane Ander's novel genre-mash-up novel All the Birds in the Sky uses the love affair between a witch and a techno-geek as a metaphor to pit science against magic . . . and while the book has its moments, it's ponderous at times-- the writing is vivid, but I didn't particularly care for the characters; the book does portray earth at an interesting T Junction: the scientists are abandoning ship while the more mystical folks are trying to find a way to save what's left of everything on earth-- not just the humans-- and this portion of the metaphor rings very true, with the presidential election looming and two roads diverging in the yellow wood for our country and the world to travel . . . a slightly less vivid and rather technical (but sort of readable) economic explanation of this is presented by Mohamed A. El-Erian in his book The Only Game in Town: Central Banks, Instability, and Avoiding the Next Collapse . . . he believes that central banks functioned as critical policy actors, and while they fell asleep at the wheel before 2008, they actually steered us away from total financial collapse . . . but they can't keep it up, and if we don't change political and institutional policies we could be headed down a path of "lost generations, worsening inequality, spreading poverty and political extremism" but if political and financial policy follows some simple guidelines, and there is stronger "multilateral policy coordination" then the "second road of the T junction" leads to much better economic and social outcomes . . . I'm not going to pretend I understood everything in the book, but I did like his ending analogy that incorporated the Ali/Foreman "Rumble in the Jungle" fight and the two possible outcomes predicted by the Ali camp and subsequent training strategies . . . this I understood; rather than read the book, if I were you, I would listen to El-Erian discuss the premise on Slate Money . . . he gives a clear synopsis and you might get hooked on the show, which is generally a lot of fun.

Snakes on a Homonym (Parts 1 and 2)

My boys and their buddy Ben went to the salamander path on Tuesday, to turn over some rocks and find salamanders, but--to their surprise-- they found more reptiles than amphibians: six garter snakes to four red-backed salamanders; they brought the snakes back to the house, marched into the kitchen and -- to my wife's surprise-- tossed them on the counter (which is a geometric plane, of course . . . I know puns are gauche but I couldn't resist . . . and I like to imagine the scene like this: my wife yelling at the kids, Samuel Jackson style, while gesturing at the counter with one of those math-teacher rubber-tipped chalkboard pointers, "There are too many motherf*#$ing snakes on this motherf%$ing plane!") and then they removed the snakes from the kitchen, put them in a cooler, and wheeled them around town to show their friends (and released them in Ben's yard later that afternoon) but they neglected to inform my wife that though they had brought six snakes into the kitchen, they only managed to remove five of them, and so when we got back from soccer practice, there was a snake on the counter under a clear tupperware container-- when my wife started cooking it crept out from behind the spices to enjoy the heat of the burner and she trapped it . . . it was a cute little guy, just enough of a snake on that motherf*&^ing plane (and I was going to title this sentence Snakes on a Plane, but I mentioned this anecdote to an English teaching colleague and he said, "Ah . . . a homonym" and I realized that the only title more annoying than my initial idea is the current one).

Problem . . . Solution . . . Problem . . . Solution . . . Problem

I am sure you have had the problem of what to do with your keys when you drive somewhere to go for a run-- normally I take the car key off my giant keychain full of keys and then leave all those other keys in the glove compartment, and tie my car key to my waistband cinch string . . . I've even stuck the key in my sock (I'm afraid to put it in my pocket because it could fall out while I'm running) but I figured out a much more elegant solution-- I laced the my headphone cord through the key ring and put the key in my pocket, attached to my iPod-- so there was no way for the key to fall out of my pocket because it was attached to my iPod . . . but then when I got back to the car, though the key opened the door, it wouldn't turn in the ignition because the steering wheel was stuck at a weird angle and locked in place . . . and apparently the solution to this is to take both hands and turn the wheel in whatever direction feels springy, and then turn the key-- but I was able to get it to work by pushing up on the steering wheel with my knees while simultaneously turning the key . . . next time I will run in the park by my house and avoid all this crap . . . because I recognize the irony of driving somewhere to go for a run (instead of driving to the gym, I should put my van in neutral and push it up and down my street).

What Are the Odds?

On the way home from our trip to the Poconos, my wife asked me what the mileage was on the oil-change sticker and I said "97,629" and then I pressed the little dashboard peg so I could check the mileage on the odometer, and --miraculously-- it was exactly the same number: 97,629; this seemed impossibly fortuitous, and-- after some celebrating-- we decided we should play those numbers in the lottery . . . but on further reflection, this may be one of those things that seems extraordinary, but is actually fairly likely . . . because while we get the oil changed every four thousand miles or so, we don't think about changing the oil until a good three or four months after the last oil change-- which is approximately three or four thousand miles of driving, so if it was completely random, then it would be a one in four thousand chance, but it's not-- in fact-- it might be closer to a one in five hundred chance, if you think about the window of when the subject of an oil-change comes up versus where the odometer might be . . . so I think we'll skip playing the lottery and put the money towards the oil change.

We Really Did Hike Glen Onoko Falls

Although we had a lovely hike up the Glen Onoko Falls Trail in Lehigh Gorge State Park (next to Jim Thorpe, PA) there isn't much evidence-- my wife took a number of pictures of myself, the dog and the boys as we climbed the treacherously steep, rocky trail-- and there are numerous photo ops as there is literally another waterfall at every turn in the path, each more scintillating than the next . . . and we even had a nice lady take a family picture by the sign (which contains dire warnings about the trail: hike at your own risk, sections of the trail are steep and treacherous, hikers have been seriously injured and killed, wear proper hiking shoes, use extreme caution, etcetera) but then my wife trusted our oldest son to select the best photos from the many on the phone, as he insisted he had a shortcut method of pruning all the pictures . . . but he didn't know his ass from his elbow and instead of keeping the photos he wanted, he permanently deleted them . . . but I got my revenge on Sunday when we went to Hickory Run State Park to see the Boulder Field; my wife had never seen the field, a terminal moraine created by a glacier during the last ice age-- 18 acres of various sized boulders, a lake of boulders in the midst of a pine and hickory evergreen forest-- but the kids and I had been there years ago; my older son insisted that we drove there the last time we went-- but I couldn't find any driving directions, so instead we hiked three and a half miles over rocky terrain on the eponymously named Boulder Field Trail to get to the field, and when we (finally!) arrived, my son noticed a parking lot on the opposite side, and his loud complaints jogged my brain and I vaguely remembered driving down a gravel road to get to the site-- but I insisted it was far more fun to hike it (and the dog certainly thought so) but on the return to the car, by mile seven my left knee hurt and my feet were sore and everyone was very hungry . . . luckily, Woody's Country House was open, if you go there, get the chili.

The Test 42: Literary Stuff

This week on The Test, Stacey teaches Cunningham and me a few things about her literary heroes; if you listen to this episode, I promise you will learn some anecdotes you can brandish while you drink martinis at a posh cocktail party with your hyper-educated, effete, literary friends . . . along the way, I try to make some half-baked jokes, and Cunningham decides that in order to inspire her literary muse,  she may have to live inside a computer or journey to Mars . . . play along at home, have fun, and remember: in order to seem educated, you don't have to actually read the book, you just need to know some literary stuff.

 

Oops, I Did It Again?

I've got a plethora of excuses for my actions yesterday (though my wife is accepting none of them) but apparently I got naked in a public area again, though I didn't realize it; this time, at least I was out-of-state-- at the H2Oooohh! Waterpark in the Poconos-- and my first excuse is that I hate indoor water parks: I hate the noise and the echoes of the noise, I hate being damp, I hate how hot and crowded it is, and I hate the claustrophobia . . . so I was mentally bracing myself for a rough time, and I wasn't paying attention to details-- and so after we got our bracelets and proceeded through the glass doors, my wife handed me my bathing suit and spandex, and I went into "changing mode" and found a bench surrounded by lockers, and while I did find it weird that there was a big glass window, and that the people in line could see into the area, conveniently, there were no people near this section of the window, and there weren't any people around me-- so I whipped off my shorts and boxers and quickly put on my spandex and bathing suit . . . and while it should have seemed strange to me that I was in the same area as my wife, I didn't really count her as someone who shouldn't see me naked, and there were no other females around, and the floor was nice and dry and there was no one anywhere near this bench, and-- like I said-- there were lockers, so I went into "locker room mode," but apparently I was still in a very public and visible area (so much so that my wife couldn't stop laughing for the next twenty minutes and actually took a photo of the spot where I changed) and while I don't think anyone saw me, my wife insists that a couple of teenage boys witnessed the incident, and were like "WTF!" but this can neither be confirmed nor denied, and the worst part is that I've been to this waterpark several times before and know where the men's locker room is, but my brain somehow blanked this information out . . . I don't know why I went into auto-pilot like this, but perhaps I was excited because the floor was so nice and dry in this area, and inside the actual men's changing room the floor is wet and damp everywhere . . . anyway, my story is that I changed so quickly that no one saw anything out of the ordinary, but my wife isn't buying this one bit.

Quest for Pizza . . . Old Bridge Edition

My Quest for Pizza continues . . . my friend Stacey, who is an Old Bridge local, recommended General Saloon and the pizza is pretty good: thin crust, yummy bacon, but a little too much cheese . . . I think if we requested light on the cheese this pizza would have been excellent, and it was quite good despite the cheesiness . . . the place itself has a pleasant and comfortable pub-like vibe-- you can bring the kids for lunch and it looks like a fun place to see a band at night; after a hike with the dog at John A. Philips Preserve, I tried another highly recommended Old Bridge pizza spot: Krispy Pizza . . . and I love the name-- there's nothing more American than spelling shit wrong-- and the pizza is good as well, thin crust . . . my plain slice was a tad greasy, but still very tasty; the chicken on the buffalo chicken slice was awesome, crumbly and tender, and the sauce was fairly spicy . . . but Shanahan's Bakery is still my favorite place to grab a slice in the vicinity . . . who will oust them?