The Lament of the Ageing Sprinter

Once I was fast, but alas, that time has passed.

Dave Balances the Scales of Justice!

It's rare that a perfectly just punishment is meted out for a crime-- a reprisal not overly rash and vengeful but also not anemically sympathetic-- but I am proud to say I was able to dish out just such a comeuppance to a student this week . . . last week this particular student took an extra sheet of giant sized easel paper for his group and when he realized that his group already had enough giant sized easel paper and they didn't need this piece of giant sized easel paper, he crumpled it up and threw it into the trash, but I saw him do this and made him uncrumple the piece of paper and reattach it to the pad (this easel paper has a sticky upper edge, like a gigantic post-it note, so this was easy enough) and this week, when this student and his partner had to choose a quotation from "The Apology" by Socrates and then put it on a giant sheet of easel paper and hang it on the wall, I gleefully handed him the sheet that he had crumpled the week before, made him admit that this was the perfect punishment for his crime, and thoroughly enjoyed watching him smooth out the wrinkles so he could legibly write the quotation.

R.I.P. Tom Petty and Our Pet Lizard?

This has been a tough week in our house-- not only did rock legend Tom Petty's soul pass into the great wide open, but it also looks like its curtains for our pet lizard, a crested gecko named Bossk . . . he's been missing since Sunday and at this point, he's probably either died from lack of food, water, heat and humidity or he's been eaten by the dog; my stupid children are one hundred percent responsible for the probable death of Bossk-- which I've pointed this out to them-- because they took the lizard out of the tank (which is fine, he's quite tame) and put him on a toy truck in Alex's room (right by the crawl space door) and then left Alex's room for a moment to get something-- they both left the lizard unattended-- and when they returned (moments later they insist) the lizard was gone . . . and this led to a mad search on Sunday morning, Alex was late for his soccer game and the upstairs looked like Hurricane Maria had passed through . . . but no lizard, so then we set up heating stations and food and water stations in both rooms, but there's been no sign of him (and the dog kept eating the lizard food, a yucky reconstituted vegetable paste) and while I'm sad about Bossk's probable demise, I'm also sort of glad my kids learned this lesson-- because this is at least the third time they've lost the lizard in this manner . . . I found it once clinging to the wall behind a bookcase; so hopefully they've learned that you can't leave a loose lizard unattended (and it's hard for me to actually be angry about this, because my track record with lizards is absolutely awful-- my room mate Rob and I had one in college, which we tried to keep in a wooden bird cage because we liked the aesthetic, but it promptly escaped-- three weeks later it crawled out from wherever it was hiding and died on the rug . . . then, after college, when I was living in a shitty house on Route 18 with eight other people, I had a monitor lizard and when I was away on vacation, someone kicked the heat rock plug out and it froze to death . . . because we were living in a house with no insulation, not an ideal habitat for a tropical creature . . . so anyway, we'll probably replace Bossk with a similar critter and hopefully my kids will keep a better eye on his successor, but-- judging by their ability to learn from their mistakes, I'm not particularly optimistic).

Tom Petty = America

Some people prefer The Beatles, others go for The Rolling Stones (I'm a Stones guy) but everybody, every red-blooded American, loves Tom Petty (and Creedence, of course) and he'll be sorely missed-- not missed in an abstract way, the way people lamented losing the great "talent" of Prince and Bowie-- but missed as a songwriter and as a significant contributor to our shared sonic landscape . . . Tom Petty is the tolerable Bob Dylan, the guy whose songs you listen to if you need to remove a bad song from your head . . . he's the guy I'm most comfortable with on the guitar, and I'm sure that's true for many back porch strummers . . . I once claimed in some hyperbolic G:TB post that "Don't Come Around Here No More" is the greatest song/video combination in the history of music, and I'm sticking to that . . . I learned of his death from Stacey, while we were recording The Test and I was very sad, but then I learned that he wasn't dead yet and I hoped he would recover and make a great late life album, like Johnny Cash and Gregg Allman and Willie Nelson have done, but I guess that's not to be . . . anyway, I'm glad his last album, Hypnotic Eye, topped the charts and I hope another songwriter as talented as Petty comes around sooner rather than later.

Drinking and (Not) Driving

Once autonomous self-driving cars become ubiquitous, it might be time for the United States (and the 12 other countries with a drinking age of 21) to think about lowering that number to resolve the you-can-serve-in-the-military-but-you-can't-order-a-beer paradox.

If You Hate Trump, You Should Read Larry Summers' Blog

If you'd like some anti-Trump fodder with more policy analysis and less ad hominem rhetoric, listen to the new episode of Freakonomics:"Why Larry Summers is the Economist Everyone Hates to Love" . . . Summers is the abrasive genius who has acted as US Treasury Secretary, chief economist for the Obama administration and the world bank, and president of Harvard-- until some remarks he made were deemed sexist and he resigned . . . anyway, Summers explains why many of Trump's economic policies are misguided, why his credibility (or lack thereof) is important to economic issues, and why we can't streamline the government to the extent that conservatives would like; here are a couple of things that I liked:

1) Summers thinks Trump is right in principle about corporate tax reform, though the administration hasn't implemented any policy on this (and Summers has no confidence that they have the know-how to do so) and he uses this wonderful library analogy to explain what we've been doing for the past seven years with corporate taxes:

Permit me an analogy here. Imagine that you are running a library and that there is a substantial volume of overdue books. You might offer amnesty to get people to return the books. You might announce you will never offer amnesty, so people will take fines seriously and return the books. Only an idiot would put a sign on the door saying, “No amnesty now, but we’re thinking hard about amnesty for next month.

You laugh, but American corporations have $2 trillion-plus overseas. If they bring that cash back right now, they pay 35 percent. If you’ve picked up any newspaper in the last seven years, you’ll know that Congress has been actively debating changes to that policy—for seven years. Just like the sign on the door of the library saying they’re thinking about amnesty for next month. It would be hard to conceive a policy better designed to keep that cash outside the US and not invested in the US than the policy we have pursued. That’s why I stress business tax reform as important for economic growth.

2) Summers explains why the government can't be downsized . . . he has several reasons, all of which he explains on his blog-- the piece is short and worth reading-- but the most telling statistic is that the relative price of a TV and a day in the hospital has changed by a factor of 100 since the 1980's;

3) I also like this piece about how "America needs its unions more than ever" about how the balance in power has shifted dramatically from the employee to the employer, and that's not changing any time soon (case in point, my groceries were delivered at 4:45 AM this morning, it was pitch black and the dog started barking when a guy in an Amazon Fresh truck pulled up, got out with a flashlight, and exchanged the containers on our porch . . . all hail Amazon . . . but I hope that guy was getting some overtime pay).

Puns: Enjoy Them While You Can

Once the oceans and the robots rise up and destroy us, after the nukes and the supervolcanoes have exploded, and the straggling remainder are finished off by antibiotic-resistant pandemics . . . once the human race is wiped off the face of this planet, we will not be remembered for our intelligence or our foresight, but hopefully some future civilization will appreciate the thing at which we were the best . . . our sense of humor-- and it is for this alien culture that I write this sentence: yesterday in Creative Writing class I had my students play Scattergories as a brainstorming activity and then told them to apply the methodology to their own imagery piece-- go deep into your brain for details, avoid the obvious, and the sift through what you have and choose the best-- but one girl got obsessed with the game itself and kept searching for categories on her computer:

Student: Dairy products . . . that's a good category . . .

Teacher: That is a good category . . . but you can't just list dairy products for your piece, what kind of tone would that be?

Student: (without missing a beat) A little bit cheesy . . .

and we all rejoiced and then the kids taught me this joke:

why did the mushroom go to the party?

because he's a fun guy!

Stacey Again?

It's rare that an outsider makes my blog twice in one week-- I have so many fascinating thoughts and opinions that it's hard for interlopers to dent my consciousness-- but my friend and colleague Stacey  so perfectly described our hot, humid cesspool of a high school that I've got to put it in print . . . she said being in our school is like being at a crowded public indoor pool, perpetually, except of course there's no water to jump into . . . it reminds me of when my kids were little and they took swim lessons over at Rutgers in the wintertime, and I'd have to wait around for them, sweating and overdressed, everything moist and slick with condensation . . . I'd try to read but it was just too gross to concentrate-- luckily, the weather has broken and fall is here, but I'll happily (and indignantly) use the same analogy at the end of the school year.

The Best Fun Fact Ever

The Guinness Book of World Records was the brainchild of Sir Hugh Beaver, the managing director of Guinness Brewery . . . in 1951, he got into a Monty Python-esque argument while hunting (about the airborne speed of two birds: the red grouse and the golden plover) and realized that bars would benefit greatly from a book to settle absurd arguments, so he tasked the McWhirter brothers with the project, with the promise that he'd stamp the Guinness name on the product, and in 1955, a perennial bestseller was born (a bestseller which is undergoing a transformation . . . listen to this episode of Planet Money for that story).

If It Wasn't For You Meddling Post-Traumatic Young Adults . . .

Edgar Cantero's meta-novel Meddling Kids is an interesting fictional experiment: a Scooby-Doo-like gang of kid detectives are reunited as adults to try to solve the one special case that traumatized them all, a case so nefarious that it sent them hurtling towards suicide, mental illness, alcoholism, and nihilistic depression . . . and while this conceit works for a while, it eventually it becomes a slog: too many hijinks and amphibian creatures; too much sorcery; too much plot and not enough jokes . . . but I still give it a B+ for the effort and hope Cantero's next effort is just as weird.

You Got a Choice, Dishwasher

My friend, colleague, and podcasting partner Stacey was taking a run at Capik Nature Preserve in Sayreville last weekend, and she spotted a group of boy scouts setting up camp near the trail; the scoutmaster and some other adults were supervising, and when she got close to them, the scoutmaster-- a middle-aged man-- looked at Stacey, an attractive six foot tall woman in athletic gear, and said, "Hey guys . . . here's our dishwasher!" and then he turned and addressed the young scouts, in case they hadn't heard his chauvinistic witticism, and repeated it to them, "Hey boys . . . look, our dishwasher is here!" and it took Stacey a moment to process the remark-- she mumbled something to the scoutmaster about them probably making a big mess, but then, as she ran on and replayed the scene-- the fact that the scoutmaster remarked on the beautiful weather to the guy that was ahead of her on the trail walking his dog, and waited for her to appear to make his "dishwasher" joke-- and she grew more and more incensed, and like Ransom Stoddard, she realized she had a choice: she could turn around and give the scoutmaster a piece of her mind . . . ask him if he had earned his badge in misogyny or if he still lived in his mother's basement, or she could take the high road and put the stupid remark (literally) behind her . . . but she did neither, instead she ran for an extra forty minutes, planning exactly what to say to this sexist scoutmaster who was supposed to be a role model for young men, but when she looped around again, the scouts were gone-- she had missed her opportunity-- the French call this l'esprit de l'escalier-- the wit of the staircase-- but a staircase is shorter than a running trail, so I'm sure some fantastic things ran through Stacey's mind as she ran-- it's too bad we don't have a transcript.

The Butterfly Effect Is Silly

James Gleick's new book Time Travel: A History is strange and uncategorizable: it begins as a history of the idea of time travel-- H.G. Wells was the first to marry those words together-- and then the chapters twist and turn through philosophy, physics, literature, memory psychology, technology and the meaning of the digital world . . . the book invites you to think about time as much as it details all the thoughts that have come before, I found myself deciding that the "butterfly effect" is rather silly-- ecosystems are more robust than that and one butterfly isn't going to throw all that much off . . . and our minds are probably similar, one change here or there in the fabric of our timelines wouldn't do all that much to our personality and fate (if it were a butterfly sized change) but we'll never know of course, because the most important thing about time to conscious individuals is that we live through it, our perceptions prisoners to the moments, and no matter what the physicists tell us about the reversibility of cause and effect, time is a one-way street for our bodies and a layered labyrinth for our brains . . . anyway, the book is full of quotable quotes, long summaries of time travel books and movies, philosophical implications of scientific breakthroughs, and plenty of food for thought . . . it makes me want to go back and reread some of Gleick's other great books, Chaos and Faster and The Information, and rereading is a method of time travel as well, one espoused by Nabokov, you return to a text knowing the framework and then start to observe it as a whole, outside of the timescape of flipping pages and forward progress, and know it differently . . . and if you like thinking about such things, then you'll love Time Travel: A History.

Humans: Impressively Stupid

Considering how important our keys are, it's impressive how reliant most of us are on very crappy keychains (mine are held together with a cheap faux mini-carabiner with no locking mechanism).

Vermont + Chick Peas = Delightful Geographical Culinary Anomaly

It's no surprise that Vermont has great local cheese and beer and wine and apples, but the victual you really want to procure is Yalla brand hummus and Yalla brand pita . . . this stuff rivals what we ate in Syria (minus the civil war and the intestinal parasites).

Ouch

While Cat and I were hiking this morning, a wasp stung me on the calf-- and after a reasonable amount of swatting and yelping, I think I handled the pain fairly stoically.

Taking a Break From the Seltzer

My wife and I are in Brattleboro for the long weekend-- sans children-- and we just did an impromptu micro-brew pub crawl . . . here are my notes:

1) Hermit Thrush is all about the sour (and the guy behind the bar will tell you how they achieve the sour, and it's more complicated than you might imagine)

2) Whetstone Station is all about the view;

3) McNeill's Brewery has fantastic home-brew style beer, games galore, a sincere and sweet waif of a bartender-- she brought us pads and pens so we could play Boggle and she asked what kind of music we'd like to hear and then put it on (I suggested Greg Allman's final album, Southern Blood) and there's also plenty of the dank, and the stickiest tables this side of the Mississippi.

This Sentence is Not About Salsa

I can't pinpoint exactly when this happened, it just crept up on us-- but I think my family is indicative of a larger American trend in that we drink a shitload of seltzer.

A Matter About A Mattress (Dave Turns the Corner)

My neighbors have five kids so they're are always cleaning out their house and their garage, getting rid of clutter, and tossing items their kids have aged out of, and all the cleaning and organizing and property maintenance seems to be done by the lady-of-the-house-- she certainly doesn't get much help from her husband and kids-- so while I feel bad that she has so many responsibilities, I also like to complain to my wife about whatever junk is cluttering up the sidewalk, as it's unsightly, it blocks my way to the park, and it detracts from my wife's beautifully maintained front garden; I used to be a live-and-let-live kind of guy, the kind of guy who didn't care if people neglected to bring in their garbage cans promptly from the curb after garbage collection (I once got into a passionate debate with my friends Dan and Dom on this issue-- they were homeowners at the time and disdainfully-- and accurately-- called me a "renter") but I think I turned some kind of crazy corner this morning-- the neighbors threw a twin mattress on the sidewalk in front of their driveway on Sunday (right where I start my morning walk with the dog) and bulk trash day isn't until September 27, so after gamely walking over the mattress several times yesterday, I decided that instead of complaining for a week and a half and driving my wife bananas, I would take matters into my own hands, and so before I went to work this morning (I wanted to get it done before the storm soaked the mattress) I threw the mattress on the roof of my van, drove down to the park, and tossed it in the dumpster . . . and while it's sad to wave good-bye to good-natured, easy-going Dave, I'm going to try to embrace New Crotchety Dave, the Dave who has Initiative and Interest in Property Values, the Dave who has realized sometimes it's easier to just do it yourself, instead of complaining about it, because I think this is the Dave of the future, the Dave that will eventually succumb to that wacky lunatic, Senile Crank Dave.

This is Why I Rarely Run Errands

Saturday morning, I got up and went out into the world, alone, to do some things: I drove out to Pennington to buy a craigslist bike for my son Ian; took a detour to visit the Stony Brook Millstone Watershed Preserve-- a beautiful reserve with a large environmental center and plenty of hiking trails through meadows, forests, and floodplains-- promptly got lost in the woods, ended up at a farmer's market on a road I did not recognize-- where I got conflicting directions on how to get back to the Watershed parking lot, and then used Google Maps on my phone to figure out the best way to go-- it's incredibly accurate, if I took ten steps or so in the wrong direction, I could tell-- then I stopped at Joe Canal's in Lawrenceville, but my little keychain bottle didn't work-- each store is independently owned and so I needed to sign up for another little red keychain bottle so I could get the discount, and then when I stopped at 7-11 on Route 1 for a snack, the friendly young dude behind the counter offered me a plastic bag for my potato chips and cheese-stick, and I refused-- I always try to refuse plastic bags, because they are an environmental scourge and most of the time you can just carry your shit or put it in your pockets, but the dude behind the counter was doing the hard sell-- he held up the bag and said, "It's free!" and if he wasn't such a friendly, good-natured young dude, I would have given him a lecture on the environmental cost of handing out non-recyclable plastic bags with every minor purchase, but that would have been obnoxious, so I just said, "Save it for the next guy" and he said, "Okay . . . then do you want a Squishy? It smells like food when you squeeze it" and he pointed to a display of little nerf food items in plastic, which were listed at $2.99 each and I wasn't sure if he was up-selling me one of these, or offering to give me one or what, so I just said, "No thanks but that's really funny" and I'm not sure what I was referencing: the fact that Squishy food items that smell actually exist and are sold in stores: or that he thought because I refused a plastic bag, I might want one of these; or that whenever I run errands, people say weird stuff to me (the last time I was at Kohls, the little old Asian cashier ordered me go back into the store to get more underwear to take advantage of a sale, complained about the high taxes, and said too many Indian people were moving into town).

Dave is on a Collision Course . . . with Himself

There's nothing better than the Tina Fey flick Mean Girls . . . I reference it at least once a day-- I especially like to say "You can't just ask someone why they're white"-- and there's nothing worse than musical theater, I disparage the genre no less than thrice month, and these two passionately polar opinions have got me in a real bind, because a musical version of Mean Girls is opening on Broadway and I'm not sure if I want to see it or not . . . it's a Hegelian conundrum: I'm afraid if I don't see it, I'll regret it for the rest of my life, but I'm afraid if I do shell out the cash and willingly take my wife to see some musical theater, I'll spontaneously combust.