Voodoo Lady, Doing That Stuff That You Do . . . Knocking Me Out With Your Voodoo
Today's session at the acupuncturist really concentrated the "puncture" portion of the treatment; I became a pincushion, a human voodoo doll-- representing myself in living effigy-- the needles revealing some unconscious hidden curse that was coursing through my veins . . . until Dana explained that it was just lactic acid.
Anti-natalist Chickens
During the latest episode of Waking Up With Sam Harris, David Benatar discusses his philosophical stance "anti-natalism," and how he believes it is sinful to bring new lives into a world dominated by suffering . . . in essence, he believes that it is better to not be born at all rather than to exist, and that once we exist, we attach a sentimental bias to our existence (unless it is so painful and awful that suicide is the only recourse) and so we go on existing even though not existing would have been better in the first place-- he likens this to attending a movie which is pretty awful, but not so awful that you would walk out, but certainly awful enough that you would have not gone to see it if you knew how bad it was (in my mind this movie is The Accountant, which "stars" Ben Affleck as an autistic action hero number cruncher . . . so dumb, but just barely entertaining enough that we didn't leave) and this is the metaphor for life, it is a movie that you would have chosen not to see if you knew how bad it was going to be, but once you've paid for a ticket, you generally decide to see it through . . . but Benatar believes you should definitely not drag anyone else to see the movie, thus you should not procreate and bring children into this awful world-show . . . I tend to disagree (especially since I just got back from circumnavigating the park in the snow, my dog bounding ahead of me from snow pile to snow pile, which-- despite my plantar fasciitis-- is a big check mark on the pro side of existing in the universe) but I still enjoyed employing the term "anti-natalist" in Philosophy class on Friday, when we were discussing Peter Singer and animal rights . . . more specifically, we were discussing the Douglas Adams bit in The Restaurant at the End of the Universe about the cow that wants to be eaten (and can express this desire eloquently) and the ethics of breeding animals that either desire to be eaten or-- even better-- are decerebrated vegetables with no consciousness at all (or perhaps even growing meat in chemical vats) and this leads to the question of whether being delicious and stupid and plump (and essentially of no nutritional value) is a good thing for chicken-kind or a bad thing for chicken-kind; numerically, the chicken species is doing fantastic-- couldn't be better-- as there are zillions of them, but fitness-wise and experience-wise they are doing atrociously . . . and so I think as far as chickens go, I'm an "anti-natalist," because the life of a modern chicken is so chock full of suffering that it's certainly better to have never been born (hatched?) in the first place rather than to have to endure living in a tiny box with fatty legs that can't support your obese chicken body while you're force-fed a disgusting diet full of hormones so that you grow at an exponential rate into a giant infantile avian ripe for slaughter . . . anyway, that's the word of the day over here: anti-natalism.
Passive Aggressive Punning
Once again, Stacey was repeatedly spritzing her lunch with her bright yellow bottle of I Can't Believe It's Not Butter brand spray butter, and-- once again-- I was complaining about her repeated spraying-- because if there's one thing I can't stand, it's the sound of butter substitute being sprayed . . . and if there's one thing Stacey loves, it's dousing her food with multiple iterations of moist and oily butter substitute (we even had an intervention about this habit on The Test) and while I've resigned myself to the fact that Stacey and I share a lunch period this year and the spray butter fetish is the only truly annoying thing about Stacey and it's also her right, as a red-blooded American citizen, to apply as much butter substitute to her lunch as she pleases and so I'd best just get used to it and live and let live (plus, I tend to chew too loudly and with my mouth agape so who am I to talk?) and so I was quite proud today when-- after four spray butter sequences-- I didn't freak out and rant and rave . . . instead I tried to lighten things up (while still conveying my disgust at the sound of her aqueous condiment) and so I said to her, "Okay, enough butter already . . . let's call it a spray."
Putting It On Wax (Museum)
Over the course of my life, I have purchased, with sincerity, three audio formats: vinyl records, cassettes, and CDs-- in fact, in 1989 I was so forward thinking that I bought the Cult album Sonic Temple in CD format before I even owned a CD player . . . I sensed the demise of the cassette format and I knew I was going to have to purchase a CD player, so in order to listen to this album, I had to visit other rooms on my freshman dorm and impress these stereo systems in the name of Ian Astbury (and it's a good thing I purchased the album on CD, because there were a few songs-- notably "Wake Up Time For Freedom"-- that were absolutely horrible and the CD format made it easy to skip over them) but, for whatever reason, I never bought any 8-Track cartridges, despite the fact that the gray two door 1985 Buick Skylark I drove during high school had a working 8 Track cassette player . . . instead I bought an 8 Track to compact cassette converter, in order to keep up with the times; I'm not sure what the point of this sentence is, other than I wish I was forward thinking enough to sell all my CDs before that format became defunct, and also how reflecting on these formats allows me to actually understand the hipster mentality of purchasing vinyl albums-- despite the irony and the environmental waste-- because it is nice to have an object associated with something as resonant and emotional and abstract as music . . . I don't think kids today have as much attachment to albums as those of us that grew up before the digital revolution, nor do I think kids wrap their identity so closely with bands and musical artists and this may have something to do with the fact that they haven't had to buy their music in a particular tangible format (or perhaps it's because of Snapchat and YouTube and Facebook, youngsters-- and perhaps all of us-- have become more image based, as opposed to auditory).
The Treachery of Dave
This sentence is not a pipe (nor is it a spoon . . . because there is no spoon).
Dog Lovers Should (Not) Read This
After some intense discussion in Philosophy class, we decided that it would probably be more utilitarian if dog owners decided at the outset-- and broadcast this to all involved-- that after ten years with their loyal companions, they would celebrate the pet/owner relationship by slaughtering and eating the animal, in order to avoid the melancholy doldrums of canine senescence and to bite into the exorbitant American consumption of factory farmed flesh . . . I can't imagine serving my own dog several years down the line at a morbid barbeque but I think if I understood this finality from the get go, then I could stomach it (obviously this is how things went not so long ago, when many of us lived on the farm: you hand fed your adorable piglet or lamb, knowing full well it was slated for the table and you digested the cognitive dissonance along with the seared flesh of your innocent dependent).
Note to Self: Buy Granola
Basmati rice in a brown zip-lock style bag has a similar heft as a bag of granola, and it also has a simlar feel and sound when it is poured-- which is why I poured a lot of uncooked Basmati rice into my bowl of Greek yogurt this morning before I noticed that it was rice pouring out of the bag and not granola (so much rice that I had to toss the whole mess into the trash . . . the rice grains were inextricable from the yogurt).
Spreading Some News About NYC
Yesterday, for my wife's birthday, we went on a West Village food tour that transmogrified into a West Village bar crawl; here is the itinerary, in case you want to replicate it without a guide (and without all the historical anecdotes about the neighborhood, which our tour guide provided; they were quite fascinating: astronomical real estate prices, gay pride landmarks, the site of Operation Midnight Climax, the site of the Triangle Shirtwaist Factory, the Friends apartment, and lots of 18th and 19th century landmark building) so to begin, we took the 8:48 AM train with two other couples (Mel/Ed and Ann/Craig) and took the subway down to Christopher Street and met our tour guide (Ian) and then we ate rice balls and soppressata at Faicco's Italian Specialties (super delicious) wandered the neighborhood a bit and then had some sensational empanadas and plantain chips and a very expensive mojito at Havana Alma de Cuba, next was Hudson Bagel for an everything bagel with cream cheese, which seemed silly to us, but the other folks on the tour, who hailed from Mississippi, were very impressed and said they were much better than the bagels at Kroger; then we took a detour through Washington Square Park, listened to some outdoor piano, and saw the new Ai Weiwei sculpture under the arch; then falafel and lamb shawarma at the original Mamoun's Falafel-- a place we are familiar with because there is a franchise in New Brunswick -- and the main thing to remember about Mamoun's is do not eat the hot sauce, it's very very hot . . . of course, I always break this rule, in honor of manliness, and yesterday was no exception, and I will say that the falafel at the original location did taste a bit better than the stuff they offer in New Brunswick, at this stage Cat went rogue and ran next door and bought some Belgian pomme frites for the group to share, and this made everyone very happy (and quite full) but we had to stuff in a sliver of artichoke pizza from the eponymously named Artichoke Basille's Pizza (which we all agreed was tasty but very rich, a sliver was more than enough) and a cupcake from Molly's Cupcakes; we all agreed the food tour was a lot of fun, and we also agreed that it was really strange to see just how many food and walking tours were ambling through the Village (with aspiring actors as guides) and it made us realize that though the city is only a fourteen dollar train ride away and we totally take it for granted and mainly complain about the crowds and the prices, it's a place that people from all over the world come to visit; the strangest moment on the food tour was when the young woman from the Mississippi crew showed us a weird picture of what looked like an S&M dungeon and explained how it was her favorite bar in New Orleans because some horrific murders had taken place there in the 18th century; she went into great detail about this, and it would have been creepy, except that she described the place in a wonderfully serene Deep Southern drawl-- cognitive dissonance-- anyway, after that we went to a number of bars: Fat Cat, which was a weird and grungy underground space with live jazz, pool, shuffleboard, and ping-pong; then the Duplex, a flamboyant lounge with 80's music videos and excellent cocktails, then we ate more food (Tacombi . . . delicious fish and chorizo tacos) and finished the night at The Garret, a packed speakeasy style joint that you have to enter by walking through the Five Guys (turn left by the fryer) and by the time we left, fairly soused from all the Norse Whisperers and Full Brazilans, there was a long line to get in, which ran parallel to the line for burgers-- weird-- and on the way home we found out that Ann had gone to highschool with one of my fraternity brothers-- my little brother, in fact-- so that fact provided us with much amusement until we got back to New Brunswick and mustered strenght for the walk across the bridge and up the hill . . . I was a little groggy today and a lot poorer-- alcoholic beverages cost an arm and a leg in these areas-- but it was a great reminder of all the things packed into a small space in New York (next time we go to that area, we're going to drag the kids along and make them go to the Tenement Museum, so they can see a historically accurate sweatshop and get inspired to attend college).
That's a Nice Paper You've Got There . . .
This year at East Brunswick, I am teaching three sections of the notorious Rutgers Expos class to high school seniors; last summer, we met with one of the guys who runs the program and we designed the high school version of the course, and the deal is that if the students pass then they can get college credit for the class and thus not have to to take it at Rutgers (or they can transfer the credits to wherever they are going) and this has been a compelling intellectual experience for the three of us who created the curriculum and a wild ride for the students taking it: the kids read five long, dense non-fiction piece of writing and write a sequence of five 5 page synthesis essays using these texts in a very logical and academic manner-- it's more of a reading comprehension course than anything else-- and while we're giving them good high school grades for just doing everything correctly, passing their reading quizzes and writing the essays in the right format and creating outlines and taking notes-- they are also being given a Rutgers grade, on the Rutgers rubric . . . and the Rutgers rubric is tough-- the kids agree that a C on the Rutgers rubric is equivalent to a B+ essay in high school and at the bottom end, the Rutgers rubric has a built-in cliff, it falls from C to NP (Not Passing) without stopping along the way in the C- and D zone, which are two of my favorite grades for kids that sort of did the work but didn't really succeed-- I especially like the most sarcastic of all the grades, the D+ . . . there's a certain kind of majestic piece of crap that deserves it, but now those low-but-not-failing-gift grades are off the table and so the majority of students have gotten an NP on the first two essays; the grade is so prevalent that we've nicknamed it Nice Paper, because the essay is decent in appearance; it's typed and cited and five pages and it's got paragraphs and plenty of quotations, but for whatever reason-- poor reading comprehension, lack of independent thought, overuse of summary, incoherent logic, privileging the student opinion over the text, no attempt at synthesis-- it doesn't pass, and so grading them has been absolutely grueling: I've conferenced with every student about each essay-- 120 conferences, the bulk of them about NP essays-- and while I don't think it's quite as difficult as when a doctor has to deliver the bad news to someone who is terminally ill, it's certainly in the ballpark of George Clooney's job in Up in the Air, the film where he flies around the country and lays people off-- like Clooney, I'm trying to keep the conferences positive and candid, especially since the papers are not averaged together for the Rutgers grade, you only have to pass two of them to pass the course, but despite this, there have been plenty of emotional moments and some crying-- these are good students used to succeeding in their efforts, so this is a real wake-up call for them; I've found that it helps if I use my usual tactic and make the conferences more about me than them-- this is going to hurt me more than it's going to hurt you!-- and so I put a chart on the board about how I feel grading each type of essay, so they could see the process through my eyes and empathize with me about how hard my job is and stop thinking about their own failing grade;
total trainwreck NP . . . fun and easy . . . because the errors are so significant and egregious that I can just chastise the student for their lousy effort and we can all move on with our lives;
NP bordering on a C . . . sad and painful . . . the student was so close and I was looking for a way to pass the essay but couldn't find it;
C . . . hopeful and irate . . . the essay has some promise but completely falls apart in spots;
C+ . . . reflective . . . I'm actually thinking about the argument and the logic;
B and B+ . . . suggestive . . . there have only been two B essays and I haven't read a B+ yet, but with the two B essays I just had a couple of ideas for how to improve the structure and logic and a couple of details they could have added . . . totally pleasant experience;
A . . . awesome experience . . . there's only been one A essay, and it was in my friend Kevin's class-- four teachers read it and all agreed that it was an A, it was sensational: total comprehension of the really difficult ideas in the text (emergent intelligence, self-organizing systems, evolutionary characteristics, and pattern amplification) and a brilliant application of these ideas to the other text we were working with . . . but I don't expect to see too many of these (and you'd think the other students would have been happy that someone wrote an A essay but they weren't . . . they were annoyed).
This One is No Fun
So I found out yesterday that an old student of mine (Emily Fredricks, graduated in 2011) was riding her bike to work in Philly and got hit and killed by a garbage truck; there have been protests, uproar, and extended media coverage about the accident, because she was in a Center City bike lane when she was struck . . . and right after I heard the news, I got in my car and turned on a new episode of Reply All, which presented another podcast (Heavyweight) and a transcendent story about a dude named Jesse who was riding his bike and got hit by a car and spent 17 days in a coma-- so a weird and disturbing coincidence that made me meditate on the costs of a society built around the automobile (and tomorrow is the 12 year mark of my brother's death by a car crash, and he's just one of many that I know that died in this manner . . . for a morbid but compelling take on the evolution of our automotive culture, listen to "The Modern Moloch").
The Best Gifts Don't Even Come in a Package
Tuition Wars
So here is my idea for a reality TV show . . . and I wish I had the gumption to actually do it: I tell my two children we are going to pay for one of them-- and only one of them-- to go to college, and thus pit the two of them against each other in a tactical battle to ascertain the scholarship: they could use any strategy they like to "win" the money . . . they could devote themselves to the family and do lots of chores and cooking and cleaning, or they could excel at school or in the arts or in sports or they could demonstrate extreme philanthropy or whatever . . . the main thing is that I would film every ugly minute of it and the show would make loads of cash and in the end, the big surprise would be that they both get to go to college, their education ironically financed by the very show that nearly destroyed them.
Compare/Contra$t
It's doubly annoying: not only do I have to take a day off of school so I can accompany my son Ian on his Initial Orthodontic Workup, but I then have to meet with the unfortunately named Dr. Overcash to discuss our plan of action; I already know braces are going to be expensive, but a name like Overcash is just rubbing it in-- not that I'm an anti-dentite-- he's a very nice guy and I trust and respect him, but it's certainly one of the worst dental names I've ever heard (unlike the aptly named pediatric doctor who cared for my son Alex when he got hit by a car last year . . . nothing assuages the anxiety of a trip to the emergency room more than a guy who introduces himself as Dr. Pepper).
Biathlon Lovers Beware
Our friends Rob and Tammy (who moved from central Jersey to Vermont many many years ago) stopped by on Saturday and they reminded us that back in the old days-- when we would trek up to their place for Thanksgiving-- the ski mountains were always already open and we'd get in a couple days of November riding over the long weekend . . . but these days, they said the mountains no longer open until December-- so some pretty specific climate change that's happened right in front of our eyes, in the last fifteen years . . . on the bright side, the boys and I have been out playing tennis every day since soccer season ended (and the same happened last year . . . I wonder if this generation of kids is going to be, on average, better at tennis and other warm weather sports and worse at snowboarding and skiing and snowshoeing and the biathlon).
That Prop is a Hero!
I learned a new term during the latest 99% Invisible: a "hero prop" is an item in a film that has a life of its own and serves more as a character than a component of the background story . . . my favorite "hero prop" is Marcellus Wallace's glowing briefcase in Pulp Fiction (but I'm also a fan of the Leg Lamp in A Christmas Story).
I AM the Internet
Let's all take a moment and celebrate ten years of Sentence of Dave (ten years man! ten years! ten years . . . TEN . . . ten YEARS . . . ten years!) and in order to really understand what this means, I did some back-of-the-envelope calculations, and apparently-- and this was as shocking to me as it will be to you-- I am responsible for 85% of the original content on the internet (my buddies over at Gheorghe: The Blog are responsible for most of the remainder, with a tiny sliver of a percentage ascribed to Twitter, Wikipedia, and eBaum's World) so while I contemplated quitting this project while I still have a few thoughts rattling around in my brain, I've decided to forge on towards dementia . . . because what would the internet do without me?
Smile . . . It's Thanksgiving (and, hopefully, you weren't molested by the head brother)
I felt slightly betrayed at the end of Roddy Doyle's new novel Smile . . . the narrator and the narration unravel into a metafictional mess . . . there are plenty of clues along the way that this is going to happen, but it was still rough reading; I wanted the narrator to get over his abuse at the hands of the Christian Brothers, I wanted his psyche to escape unscathed, I wanted Fitzpatrick to be a harmless barfly, but--alas-- it was not to be so . . . enough, I'm already spoiling things, but be forewarned . . . if you want something a little less heavy, Irish shenanigans and such, then read Doyle's The Barrytown Trilogy . . . The Commitments, The Snapper and The Van.
Dave Accessorizes!
It makes me extremely jealous that women have so many fabulous choices on how to accessorize their outfits-- scarves and brooches, feather boas and scrunchies, bangles and handbags-- so, to combat mundanity, I've added a couple of items to my fashion arsenal:
1) with my battery powered headlamp, not only am I a shining beacon of coolness in the 6 AM darkness, but I also don't trip on the uneven pavement near my house (the streetlight on our corner is out) and I'm able to let my dog pursue his interests (chasing deer in the park) without losing him . . . so shine on, you crazy fashionable Dave . . .
2) around the house, in the driveway, and even in the car on a quick errand, I am sporting a pair of OOFOS OOClogs to help my feet recover from plantar fasciitis . . . my wife is not smitten with these-- in fact, she called them "the world's ugliest pair of shoes," but I should point out that she has a long history of clog-hating (when she met my friend and rugby phenom Brian Hightower for the first time, she was not impressed, mainly because he was wearing a pair of hideous black clogs-- but also because he's short with a big head; Hightower let me try on the clogs and I really liked them, they were comfortable and easy to slip into; Catherine made some derogatory comments about the clogs and the type of men that wear them and then we went out and got drunk and I forgot all about the entire incident, but Whitney didn't, and a year later he gave me a pair of them for my birthday-- to Catherine's chagrin-- and I wore them until they fell apart . . . I'll never forget that gift, as it was both incredibly thoughtful and incredibly vengeful in equal measures).
1) with my battery powered headlamp, not only am I a shining beacon of coolness in the 6 AM darkness, but I also don't trip on the uneven pavement near my house (the streetlight on our corner is out) and I'm able to let my dog pursue his interests (chasing deer in the park) without losing him . . . so shine on, you crazy fashionable Dave . . .
Machine vs. Anti-Machine
Yikes . . . I wrote a lot of words about Highland Park soccer over on Gheorghe:TheBlog . . . my post is called Machine vs. Anti-Machine, and if you've several hours to kill, head over and read it.
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