Falling to Pieces (Central Jersey Style)

I feel like I'm living in some tri-state, upper-middle class version of a country song: yesterday we put the dog down; while I was digging his grave in the backyard, I ran into some drainage pipes and an old slate patio-- making the excavation far more difficult than I imagined; my oldest son has had the shits for three days, my youngest son can barely walk (due to a Sunday afternoon soccer collision) and while I was rushing home from work today to check on my sick son and then drive him to the orthodontist (despite his stomach ailment) I got a text from a colleague that read: "Did you leave? We have a meeting and you are presenting."

March Badness

R.I.P. Sirius Black . . . a good boy until the end.

And Thus the Whirligig of Time Brings in His Revenges (Upon Dave and Many Many Others)

I got my just desserts for stripping the joy from NCAA gambling bracketology-- a couple of days ago, I decided filling out brackets for a NCAA tournament pool is akin to a very very slow lottery drawing-- but that's not entirely true, because if you had Virginia to win it all (as I did in one of my brackets . . . thanks Rob) then the tournament just became a very very fast lottery drawing  . . . and, as expected, you lost (did anyone pick UMBC?)

My Wife is No Mantis Shrimp (or is she?)

The mantis shrimp has the most sophisticated visual system in the animal kingdom-- they have from 12 to 16 different kinds of rods and cones (dogs have two kinds of photoreceptors and we have a measly three) but paradoxically, they are absolutely awful at differentiating between colors . . . I'm not even going to attempt to explain why, other than to point out that it might have something to do with communication between mantis shrimp . . . very specific colors might mean things to them but the shades in between certainly do not . . . you can read this or listen to the new Radiolab to get the some of the details (scientific investigation is still underway on the root cause of this contradiction) but I will offer an analogy: while my wife is much better than me at seeing, perceiving, and visually assessing nearly everything in the real and/or aesthetic universe, she did think the shirt I was wearing this morning was green (when it was clearly blue) so I sent her a picture to clear things up.

A March Metaphor

The lottery has been often labeled a "tax on dumb people" and while picking brackets for the NCAA tournament is akin to this kind of gambling, the very important difference is that it's a very very slow lottery drawing . . . it's as if they did one of those old-fashioned ping-pong ball style drawings over the course of two weeks instead of two minutes, so that you have to time to develop all kinds of emotions and feelings about the balls drawn and the numbers on them, your mental state experiencing ups and downs, highs and lows, before you are (almost inevitably) eliminated along with everyone else.

What About Dad?

When I catch kids using cell-phones in class, why are they always texting their mother?

March Sadness

My dog-- ailing from Lymes-- still likes to walk, but he no longer wants to kill cats.

Talking to Women is Damn Near Impossible (for Dave)

Last night during dinner preparation, I noticed something out of the ordinary: my wife was listening to some decent music (Andrew Bird) and she had consciously selected this music, so I wanted to compliment her on her choice, but apparently when you compliment someone, not only is the sentiment itself important but you also have to watch your tone . . . she decided there was some sarcasm in my amazement at her great leap forward in musical taste, but when I vociferously insisted that this was not the case, she still thought the compliment was backhanded-- she inverted the statement and considered it a general condemnation of all the other music she listens to (and while she may have been right in this assumption, I readily admit I'm not crafty enough to couch my true intentions with lies and deception) and so then I tried to ameliorate the situation by discussing this nifty chart correlating SAT scores and musical predilection . . . on Google Play Music, if you play Andrew Bird, then the #1 suggestion is Sufjan Stevens, who is associated with high SAT scores . . . I think this tangential internet foray may have blunted the impact of my failed compliment, but the moral here is when you're talking to women about music, you have to watch your step.

Why? Why Why Why Why Why?

Insert Daylight Saving Time rant here (and also, I really hate these people, who obviously don't have a clue about the most important and-- in modern times-- the most neglected element on Maslow's hierarchy: sleep).

Once You Get In, You Never Get Out

Canceling a gym membership is like trying to retire from the mafia.

Sometimes You Eat the Toe, and Sometimes the Toe Eats You

While The Big Leboswki is hands down my favorite movie, I still don't pretend to understand the plot . . . like Raymond Chandler's The Big Sleep, the joy of the story is within the strands . . . the ins, the outs, the complicated what-have-you's and the new shit that eventually comes to light . . . but one thing I thought I knew was that Bunny Lebowski had all ten of her toes . . . until I watched the movie with my kids on Wednesday night; when Bunny drives by in her red convertible and you realize she has definitely not been abducted by nihilists, the camera pans across her feet and I always assumed it was to show all ten of her toes-- and that's because you later learn that the nihilist played by musician Aimee Mann has given her toe to abet the ransom scheme-- but Ian noticed that in the red convertible scene, Bunny's little toe on her right foot appears to be missing-- and if you review the clip, it's really hard to tell, it's a very ambiguous little toe-- and while there is a Reddit strand on this topic, it provides no definite answers . . . so it's time to draw a line in the sand and unravel the truth: is Bunny missing a toe?

Preparing For St. Patrick's Day (and the End of the Anthropocene)

Long after the human race has wound down and gone extinct-- the last of the fossil fuels extracted and burnt; the last of the plastics catalyzed and extruded; the rivers and wetlands polluted and poisoned; the oceans barren and static; the soil-- dry and spent-- blowing in the hot wind; roaches, crows, pigeons, rats, and raccoons the only creatures left to roam the depleted biosphere-- long after this, when some other civilization arises (or visits, from the far reaches of the galaxy) and they examine our digital detritus, they will recognize exactly when the humans stepped off the precipice and plunged into the abyss of frivolity and utter disaster and this moment is when Terry, Cunningham and Liz were in the English Office, looking at someone's phone, and vocalizing superlatives about an Inflatable Irish Pub . . .  for a moment I got sucked into the fun, but then I thought twice-- a difficult action in the time of tweets and and snaps-- and I took a look inside the inflatable pub and I recognized the pub for what it was . . . a waste of plastic, a fruitless endeavor, a giant scam, and a vivid and rubbery air-filled symbol that portends the inevitable fall of man . . . here's why:

1) there is no inflatable floor, so it's not even a bouncy inflatable Irish pub . . . if it were bouncy, you could get some exercise, mosh to The Pogues, perhaps "inadvertently" bounce into that special lass or lad you've had your eye on . . . but nope, this is just a shed made of polymers, similar to the one in my backyard, which I never try to foist off as an Irish pub;

2) there's an inflatable fireplace inside, which is patently stupid because

a) it obviously can't hold a real fire;

b) no one wants to look at a fake fireplace while they're sweating their ass off in an unventilated polyethylene kiln;

3) every Irish pub should have a dart board and this pub does not-- I recognize why it does not have a dart board, as pointed objects would endanger the inflatable nature of the pub . . . but that's the moment when the inflatable Irish pub designers should have stepped back and recognized the idiocy of their project;

4) there are no inflatable leprechauns inside this pub, and while I don't expect leprechauns in a real Irish pub (I am 48 years old) there's absolutely no reason not to have a few blow-up leprechauns in this inflatable abortion, leprechauns you could toss around, punt into the rafters, pretend to hump . . . whatever, in order to differentiate this product from a big plastic lawn tent, which is all it is . . . and so I've decided NOT to attend any parties that host one of these contraptions, in a quixotic (and probably misguided) attempt to take a stand for something, anything, in this absurd economy of ours, and I hope you will do the same.

The Machine Is Not Green

Green activist Paul Kingsnorth has given up, and he explains why in his rather grim, beautifully written, and occasionally cabalistic collection Confessions of a Recovering Environmentalist and Other Essays . . . this is a heavy read, bordering on a manifesto, and Kingsnorth does not see a traditionally Green future for our planet; he has no regard for the techno-optimists, who very well might solve the major human environmental problems in our future-- climate change and floods and famines and disasters and feeding the burgeoning population-- but he sees very little hope for the things that used to matter to traditional conservationists: biodiversity and wild places and an appreciation for ecology . . . he doesn't even think education is the answer; many people know the facts and most of those people would still rather escape into sleek digitized worlds of their own creation . . . he does have a few lists of what you can do, if you don't want to jump on the techno-optimism bandwagon, if you feel like you are living inside a giant machine, a machine built to drain your data and your bank account; a machine built to convince you to consume more than you need; a machine that persuades you to spend time in front of screens for more and more hours of the day; a machine that throws off your circadian rhythms, creates endless desires and constant jealousies, makes you care about things that you wouldn't ordinarily care about and makes you lose sight of what is important in life, a machine that keeps you from getting outdoors and enjoying what is left of the natural world . . . here are some things you can do:

1) withdraw . . . withdraw as a moral position and refuse to help the machine advance, withdraw "to examine your worldview"

2) preserve non-human life, in any local way shape or method you can 

3) get your hands dirty and do some physical work 

4) insist that nature has value beyond utility, beyond aiding and assisting the economic growth of mankind . . . and tell everyone this

5) build refuges from the oncoming storm;

and then at the end of the book he has eight principles of "uncivilisation" . . . here is a summary:

1) face the oncoming ecological unravelling with honesty and learn how to live within it

2) reject the paradigm of "problems" and solutions

3) change the modern story of progress we have been telling ourselves, because that has separated us from nature

4) make storytelling more than entertainment

5) recognize that humans are not the point of the planet

6) celebrate art and writing that is grounded in place and time, and not symbolic of the "cosmopolitan citadel"

7) no theories and ideologies, write with dirt under your fingernails

8) "the end of the world as we know it is not the end of the world full stop"

p.s. moments after I finished this post, the snowstorm disconnected our house from the machine and we spent an hour in darkness, contemplating "uncivilisation," which means my writing possesses miraculous powers (while I'm probably not the God, I'm certainly a god).

Twelve Fourteen Split

Alex turned 14 last week, while his younger brother is still 12 (they are 14 months apart) and we saw the age gap in action this weekend: Alex went to an afternoon party at a girl's house-- and before he left he fixed the back of his hair so it wasn't all messy, on the advice of his friend's girlfriend; meanwhile, Ian went to his friend's house to play "Nerf" with some guys, a game of warfare, ever-changing rules, and the shooting of enemy combatants with Nerf bullets (and Ian was annoyed that Alex did not attend and instead chose to spend his time at a party with girls).

Is This Normal Small Town Stuff?

Does every town have a crazy white-haired lady with two little white dogs that yells "SLOW DOWN!" when you're driving 27 miles-per-hour in a 25 miles-per-hour zone and-- God forbid-- if you make a rolling stop at a stop sign (because you're creeping up so you can see around the parked cars) then this lady might walk into the middle of the road, creating a barricade because she is flanked by her two little white dogs, and then she might slowly, menacingly stomp toward your car, screaming vehicular epithets and instructions, while your son (who is the front seat) laughs at her?

A Couple of Books That the Unabomber Would Enjoy

Jonathan Moore's The Night Market is a sci-fi crime thriller that blends the byzantine plotting and tone of Raymond Chandler with some William Gibson/Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind type near future technology, and there's also plenty of Philip K. Dick-style paranoia (which is fully deserved) but the real impact of this post-noir San Francisco crime drama is that it is all too real-- the city is a burned out husk, as are most of the people who walk through it, because rampant consumption and a sinister form of advertisement has invaded the consciousness of the city and its inhabitants . . . the conspiracy is far-reaching and just and shallow and greedy as it should be . . . this is a book about giving up and giving in: the apocalypse is here and we are living in it-- and the fact that there is not much difference between the San Francisco in the novel and the world right now is beyond frightening . . . I was already primed for this novel because I've been reading Paul Kingsnorth's new collection of essays, Collections of a Recovering Environmentalist, in which he announces the death of the conservation movement and the promulgation of a new form of neo-liberal economic environmentalism, concerned with carbon sinks, global warming, eco-tourism, and market-based technological solutions for ecological problems, which is in contrast to the old school Green movement, which found intrinsic and sacred value in the beauty of biodiversity and wild landscapes, and celebrated the primal human attachment for natural spaces and places free of human subjugation . . . Moore's The Night Market is the end result of this shift towards data-driven market-based solutions, there is complete consumerism, complete consumption, and a world completely dictated by brands, corporations, markets, and the desire to replace the things that are important with things.

Poetry Birthday Week!

Yesterday, we went to happy hour at the Golden Lion in Milltown to celebrate my birthday and the gang from work gave me some lovely presents, including a laminated original poem in my honor which contains all my favorite allusions . . .  I have hyperlinked them for your perusal:

All who know you, know you've got grit,
you always try your best to stay fit;
you teach your students with cunning and wit,
even Brady admits that your podcast is lit;
and even though you're hairy as shit
some might say you look like a homeless Brad Pitt--

so when you're old and grumbling about the difference between lie and lay
just comfort yourself with the butter you spray!

and they also presented me with my very own bottle of spray butter and a framed photo of faceswap Dave and Stacey where we look like Brad Pitt . . . the best gift was going to the Golden Lion in Milltown for the first time-- it's quite the dive, and has darts, two full sized shuffleboard tables, a nice back room pool table, and fantastic wings . . . I also learned an interesting piece of information: I knew the wings at the Golden Lion were fantastic because years ago, a regular used to bring them to the Park Pub all the time and we would feast on them-- I said as much to the bartender at the Golden Lion and she said, "Yeah, he was stealing those wings . . . that's why he got fired" and then she gave me a high five because I had eaten so many of those stolen wings; anyway, I'd like to thank all that attended, I had a great time and obviously left with my wife at the right moment: I was happily lubricated but not sloshed, and so Alex, Cat and I watched Fargo and went to bed early . . . meanwhile, the ladies closed the place (and we got there at 3 PM) but I guess once you turn 48, if you haven't learned something about alcohol consumption, then you're in serious trouble (the other thing I learned is the worst place to keep a valuable jewel is on a drunk woman's finger . . . why is that a thing?)

Dave and Dr. Seuss Pontificate on the Meaning of Shared Birthdays (in a Universe That May be Experiencing the Nietzschean Eternal Return)

Me and the Seuss,
we share the same date:
coincidence . . .
or an act of fate?
I tend to lean
towards the stochastic
but perhaps our world
is finitely elastic,
so we run the same path
after every big bang
and the Doctor and I
share our groove thang.

Sirius Gives Alex a Birthday Gift

Rollercoaster week for the dog: Monday we had "the talk" with the kids, as Sirius's health appeared to be headed downhill-- he had a couple urination incidents in the house (which never happened before . . . what a dog!) and he was totally lethargic and miserable; after we discussed the reality of his situation, Ian curled into a ball and cried, then he went upstairs to take a nap, I cried when I tried to console him, Catherine cried and hugged me and told me that we'd never have another dog like him (she's had a lot of dogs) and I had a couple of sleepless nights trying to figure out when to put him down (I was hoping he would make it through the week, because today is Alex's birthday and tomorrow is my birthday . . . that's no present) but Sirius must have heard us planning to shuffle him off his mortal coil and decided he'd rather be than not be, because yesterday he started wagging his tail, he greeted me like normal when I got home from work, and he actually ate some dog food, today he properly pooped and actually jumped up when I was getting ready to walk him-- his usual behavior-- and then he wouldn't let me bring him home-- he just wanted to keep walking around the park . . . the vet said that some of these medicines might take a while to work, so we are now cautiously optimistic that something good is happening inside his body and perhaps the kidney infection is abating . . . but at the very least he's not going to head into that undiscovered country on my son's birthday (or mine, I hope).

Fake Weather!

The sentence is cancelled today because of absurdly unseasonable weather . . . I'll get back to you when it's forty degrees and raining.