Lyrics We Wrote

Today, I was obsessed with finding some song parody lyrics from the last Faculty Follies house band performance three years previous ("It's Fun to Guess on the P.S.A.T.) but I searched all my different Google drives and looked at Word files in various locations, hard and cloud-like, but I had no luck . . . and then a co-worker thought back three years ago, remembered that out boss introduced me to Evernote, and I checked there and found the file: digital mystery solved (but I worry how many platforms I will go through and how much digital detritus will collect int he next ten years . . . and then there's the passwords, all those ever-shifting passwords).

Playception!

So everyone with even a modicum of education knows that there is a play-within-a-play at the center of Shakespeare's Hamlet-- The Murder of Gonzago-- and some might remember that Hamlet has asked the players to insert into this play-within-a-play a "speech of some dozen or sixteen lines" which Hamlet has written, with the express intention to emulate his father's murder so as to spook his Uncle Claudius . . . so Hamlet has inserted a smaller play into the play-within-the-play, so essentially a play-within-the-play-within-the-play and tomorrow, when we discuss this scene in class, I've written a sixteen line play about this play-within-the-play-within-the-play, which I will premier while we are discussing Hamlet's inserted lines, and thus my piece will be a play-within-the-play-within-the-play-within-the-play . . . I told the kids that some people like this sort of meta-drama (myself included) and everyone else can go watch Macbeth.

Warning: Pedantry Ahead

A little knowledge is a dangerous thing (especially when it resides in my head) so I'm warning you ahead of time: I just learned that when you say a process has a "steep learning curve" you actually mean that the process is easy to learn-- because as you move along the x-axis of time, you zoom up the steep y-axis of learning proficiency, and before you know it, you can make brownies . . . if you want to say that something is difficult to learn, you say it has a "long and shallow learning curve," thus as you move along the x-axis of time, you barely go up at all on the y-axis of learning-- ten years later, you're middling fair at the oboe-- so I'm begging you, please don't say the phrase "steep learning curve" anywhere within my earshot, because my inner pedant is lying in wait, ready to pounce and explain this silliness, and, as much as I'd like to, I don't think I can control the impulse (although I've been doing great with the whole "lie" and "lay" fiasco, I heard several people screw it up royally on Friday and didn't say a word . . . but this "learning curve" thing is too rich to pass up).

Brotherly Love/Fatherly Rage

I guest-coached my older son Alex's travel soccer game today and they were short-handed (short-footed?) and so my younger son Ian had to guest-play on the team to give them 11 players; we were in North Plainfield, playing a scrappy Hispanic team and there was only one ref instead of the usual three, and this ref pretty much took a laissez faire approach to calling the game (except offsides, he called a goal back on a play that was clearly not offsides) and the other team took advantage of this-- they elbowed, grabbed, tossed, and two-handed pushed our players often (frequently after the play was over) and when our sweeper was grabbed by the shoulder and chucked and then the ref called a penalty kick on our team, I ran out onto the field to complain and he immediately red-carded me and sent me packing . . . I then had to get phone updates and watch the game from afar and it just got worse and worse, one of our players got elbowed so hard it bruised his ribs, and the opposing coach screamed at him to get up and insisted he was faking the injury and delaying the game-- at this point, our team was ahead 2 - 1 but the other team had 18 players and our 11 were exhausted and banged up, and the attack was pretty much relentless, corner kick after corner kick, cross after cross, and then my younger son Ian got two-handed shoved to the ground by an opposing player, and his older brother Alex ran to his rescue and punched the kid in the stomach, and a general melee erupted, the opposing coach ran onto the field and may have pushed one of our folks (a high school senior that was running the lines, a sibling to our sweeper) and, luckily, the ref actually listened to my younger son when he explained what happened and give the kid who pushed him down a yellow card . . . and moments later, the ref blew the long whistle to signal the end of the game, an epic and epically ugly win for the Eagles, with no subs and a lot of insanity (and I will say that after the game, the North Plainfield parents that I talked to were quite nice and quick to forgive me for getting a red card-- and apparently they apologized to our parents for some of the rough play on the part of their players-- and they certainly understood just how high emotions run during a soccer game, but I'm going to really try to calm down and take some deep breaths-- God only knows if I'll even be able to coach my own team tomorrow, or if I'll be suspended or something).

Good (Enough) Friday

In the end, this will be the day that it all happened ( if we're talking about 6 AM basketball, 7:30 AM folder review with the Rutgers guy, the teaching of  Hamlet . . . including some phenomenal acting by yours truly, a summative review with my boss, book club, an Uber ride into New Brunswick for more socializing, and a brisk walk back to Highland Park . . . I will be the first to admit that this is far too much of everything for one Friday and I'm glad to be back in the confines of my safe American home).

The First Rule of Book Club

I finished the classic Ursula Le Guin science-fiction novel The Lathe of Heaven earlier this week but I can't discuss my thoughts about it until Book Club tomorrow afternoon . . . because the first (and only) rule of Book Club is that you don't talk about the Book Club Book until Book Club.

A Significant Amount

What percentage of the passenger seat in my car is Jalapeno Chip seasoning?

Easily Distracted = Easily Amused

I had trouble writing my sentence today because of all the ping pong ping pong ping pong ping pong.

Not My Purview

Sunday morning, I got on my bike and rode across town to the 5K Volunteer Meeting; received my Volunteer t-shirt and little cardboard STOP sign and yellow police tape; was informed that I was in no way deputized as a sheriff or officer of the law and if there was any trouble at my intersection to call the police and that I should NOT attempt to actually stop and arrest any bull-headed drivers who made their way onto the course and then I made my way to 7th and Park to put up my police tape and man my post; I was stationed at a secluded intersection about three quarters of the way through the course and I only had to blockade one street with police tape as the other side of the street bordered on a stream; then I sipped my coffee and chatted with the family across the way, who were out with the kids waiting for the runners and in a few minutes they came through, sporadically at first, and then en masse and I cheered on the folks I knew (including my wife!) and had no trouble with traffic . . . until things started petering out and a woman with a thick accent (Russian?) wanted to know when she could pull her car out of her driveway because she had to get to an appointment and I told her to ask the police over at the next intersection and she said she had asked them and they said that she couldn't leave until all the people in the race came through-- she would know because there was a police vehicle bringing up the rear . . . and I told the woman that if she came my way, I could lift the police tape and she could shoot up 7th but she was going to get stopped at the other end, on Abbot, because the runners were looping around and I could see why she was getting annoyed because we were getting down to the end and people were walking and pushing strollers, one guy was wearing a dinosaur suit, and there seemed to be no end to it and so she said to me, "These people are not running . . . can you tell them to go faster? To start running?" and I informed her that I didn't think I had the authority to enforce any kind of pace on the runners and her answer to that was, "This running . . . I don't even understand it" and then she got in her car, pulled out of her driveway and came my way, against the grain of the race; the police at 8th and Park yelled at me to stop her, so I waved my little cardboard STOP sign at her but she drove right by me and made it two blocks, to the 5th and Park intersection and the police pulled her over there and gave her the business and she had to wait there until the bitter end . . . I'm glad no one was injured but I'm also glad that I saw some action and had a chance to use my signage, though it was to no avail.

The Grand Budapest Florida Hotel Project

The Florida Project is streaming for free on Amazon Prime right now and it's a sad and magical movie, a trashy, rundown, one-step-away-from-homeless version of The Grand Budapest Hotel . . . a six year old girl (Moonee) and her urchin-like friends have weird, slightly dangerous, and almost completely unmonitored adventures in the impoverished shadow of the Magic Kingdom, while Moonee's very young mom-- a tattooed recently unemployed exotic dancer-- tries to make ends meet; Willem Dafoe plays the hotel manager of the Magic Castle, a cheap hotel that mainly serves as way-station for folks that can't afford better housing, and his job is impossible-- especially when actual tourists show up and want to stay at the place; the movie's rhythm is the beat of a child's brain on summer vacation: every day is epic, every day is a chance to meet new people and do new things, then routines are established, and all of this is oblivious to the adult world, which is proceeding at a different, harsher pace . . . I loved it: ten ice cream cones out of ten.

Hey Man, Stop Blowin' Up My White Font Spot

I was covering a physics class last week and a nerdy kid offered me some valuable information on how to cheat the word count on an assignment (and word count is one of the stipulations of the college writing class I teach, their synthesis essays have to be at least 1500 words) and his method is brilliant:

1) you check the word count on the assignment and you're a bit short but you've got nothing else to say;

2) so you type a random sentence-- which contains no spelling mistakes-- then copy/paste this sentence enough times that you've met the word count requirement for the assignment;

3) then shrink these random copied sentences a bit so they don't take up much space and they are difficult to find;

4) then select these extra random sentences and change the font color to white . . . so the teacher can't see them but your word count now meets the requirements (and the other students were NOT happy that this kid told me about this method, so obviously kids have been doing this).

Dave Comes in First Place for First World Problems

My outdoor ping-pong table is arriving for pick-up at Sears tomorrow . . . one day after our Cuatro de Mayo Happy Hour (I guess we'll have to make do with corn-hole).

Catherine Goes Rogue

I arrived home from work today at 3 PM and noticed that my wife's car was parked in front of the house; at first I imagined the worst (my father underwent heart surgery yesterday-- successfully-- but I figured something might have gone horribly wrong) but I didn't walk in to bad news . . . I walked in to no news at all, and no sign of my wife; then I figured she got sick and took a half day, so I went upstairs to see if she was sleeping-- but no Catherine-- so then I figured the car was broken, but I went outside and the CRV turned over . . . so I called her school to ask if she was there and the secretary said she was in her classroom teaching . . . and that she had walked to school (a little over two miles) in order to get some exercise, a possibility I hadn't considered because of the unseasonable heat (and she walked home as well: impressive, but I told her to leave a note the next time it's 92 degrees she decides to go walkabout).

Dave Turns Catherine Into Dave

My wife called me yesterday on her way home from work to point out that she was filling up the gas tank in the CRV-- the tank was getting low (though the light was not on yet) and we were switching cars today and she wanted to "get credit" for doing the right thing and leaving me a car with a full tank of gas . . . now Catherine has always been a stoic sort of person who does the right thing because it's the right thing to do, she's never needed her ego stroked to behave morally, but I think I've changed her for the better and made her more like me; I pointed this out to her and told her I had already filled up the van and did not call her for credit-- I just did it because it's the right thing to do-- and she told me that she really hates filling the car up with gas so it was a special favor and thus deserving of "credit" and I agreed, of course-- we should all get credit for our good deeds . . . otherwise, why do them?-- but I also reminded her how annoyed she gets when I demand credit and applause for doing mundane tasks, such as the dishes (I don't like to get my hands moist) or cooking dinner (monitoring more than two burners stresses me out) or weeding the yard (bending over is annoying) or any of the other mundane tasks I complete . . . so this psychological egoism is a good sign, as I often feel that Catherine is directing my moral compass towards a more righteous angle, but perhaps my amoral magnetism is disrupting her poles.

Will Dave Use SoD as a Reference?

We are starting to prepare for our Cuatro de Mayo happy hour on Friday and I'm going to infuse some tequila with hot peppers; I have referred to the notes from last year, but the question is: will I use the advice in the sentence and the comments?

Dave Avoids Being an Awkward Racist

Fourth period today, I was far afield, covering an honors physics class in J Hall; the class was full of 11th graders and I teach mainly seniors, but I recognized a couple of younger siblings-- and then one younger sibling recognized me: a tall African-American kid said that I taught his older brother Callan and we talked about him for a moment and then I got the students working on their assignment (something to do with the speed of sound and the speed of light and car antennas) and I noticed that the other African-American kid in the class not only looked like the tall kid that said I taught his brother, but he also looked like the older brother Callan . . . but I didn't say anything because I didn't want to fall into the stereotypical "they all look alike" trope . . . so I kept my mouth shut about the resemblance, but then towards the end of the period I realized that I hadn't taken attendance yet, so I read the roster aloud and checked off who was present and it turned out the that the two African-American kids in the class were identical twins . . . so not only did they look like the older black kid that I taught, but they looked exactly like each other.

Dave Does the Math

We celebrated my grandmother's 96th birthday today (we celebrated a bit early-- her actual birthday is Tuesday but she's looking good so I think she's going to make it) and she's now twice my age (I'm 48) and I won't be double my older son's age for twenty years (he's 14) and I won't double my younger son's age for 22 years (he'll be 13 in a month) and my friend Brady (who's 47) and just had a daughter won't double her age for 47 years!

Early Goals Ease a Hangover . . .

I was a little foggy this morning because Catherine and I attended a raucous dance party last night, so I was especially happy when my travel soccer team took an early 4 - 0 lead in our game . . . Ian scored two quick goals, perhaps because he has extra energy due to his grounding (caused by poor academics . . . he's got no phone, he's not allowed to hang out with friends this weekend, and he's supposed to mulch the garden-- Catherine sent him out to do so on Thursday after school, but  when she went to check on his progress, she found him taking a nap in the sun . . . as long as he keeps scoring early goals and making my life as a coach less stressful, I'm fine with him catching zzz's wherever he can).

Scott Pruitt, You Are My Nemesis

If there's one thing that you can be certain of around here, it's that I despise Scott Pruitt and the new episode of Embedded has not helped matters . . . it's a deep dive into Pruitt's personality, politics and policy tactics and now his fervent passion for rolling back environmental rules and regulations, his desire to bring back coal, and his apparent disdain for science and the mission of the EPA make perfect sense: he's a brainwashed Bible-thumping religious fundamentalist who doubts the science behind climate change and doesn't think evolution is a true thing . . . now it's perfectly legal in America to believe the Bible is literally the word of God (and it's also perfectly legal to believe the Koran is the word of God) but I do not think anyone who think these things should head up a scientific agency designed to protect the air, water, and forests of nations from externalities created by business and the government; this is an agency for the people and he's taking it back, in the name of God, he's carving out space for religion in the public square, and he's going to set things straight again and let the earth be under the dominion of man, to be reaped and raped and domineered-- just like the Bible suggests; he worries about how the radical left worships the earth and the environment, instead of an angry anthropomorphic God, and is another Republican loon racing us towards the brink of environmental disaster; so this guy is anathema, my absolute nemesis . . . weird and joyless and and fighting for the same thing that radical Islam wants-- a government reflective of an ancient book-- it’s ironic (though Pruitt seems too literal to understand irony) and he’s far more dangerous and awful than Trump himself-- because Pruitt has beliefs and principles, while (hopefully) Trump is just a showman and doesn't actually believe anything . . . so maybe he'll fire Pruitt soon enough, when all the corruption shakes out (although I could care less about that stuff-- he should be fired for dismantling an agency that is based on science) and beyond the religious stuff, which will put things into context, the podcast also details a few of the cases that Pruitt pursued: as attorney general in Oklahoma, he managed to stop a classic environmental externality case right in its tracks . . . the Illinois River and water basin in Oklahoma was getting polluted by chickenshit running downstream from Arkansas, and Pruitt did his best to delay and then essentially negate the case that Oklahoma had against Arkansas . . . the case is still pending, eight years later and (ironically . . . but again, Pruitt would be too stupid to appreciate this) Pruitt is now on the other side of the case and could force Arkansas to comply and push the case along, but that ain't gonna happen . . . anyway, the guy famous for suing the EPA and not protecting his state from polluted waterways is now the guy in charge of the EPA . . . there's plenty more to this and I suggest you do some research and then send a letter to your Congressman about this Sunday-school-teacher gone rogue (there's a nice bit in the podcast where Cory Booker takes him on) and I'm going to try to forget about all this shit, because I just ordered an outdoor ping-pong table for our backyard and I'm very excited (and while I know consumption is a problem and making this durable ping-pong table used up many valuable resources, I also think it will keep me and the kids at home in the yard for many days and nights, so we'll drive less and consume less fossil fuels).

Trump and Ryan: Two Peas in a Pod?

Lots of farm stuff going on now in Congress-- The Indicator covers the labor drought . . . this is probably my favorite thing that Trump has (inadvertently) done; his tough stance on immigration and work visas has made it so American farms can't find workers (though they've raised wages) and so some American farmers are moving their farms to Mexico because it's easier to find labor there-- this affects local American economies negatively, of course, because we're not selling fertilizer and chemicals and tractors locally, but perhaps this farmland will remain as open space, perhaps we won't use as much water, perhaps Mexico will benefit from the jobs, and perhaps we'll be more inexplicably tied in a global economy, which will help destroy borders, nations, loyalty to flags, xenophobia, and lots of other awful things that our on the rise . . . so The Donald doesn't know what he's doing, but maybe he's undermining the very thing he stands for, which makes me happy; the folks on The Weeds are not very happy about the new work requirements attached to SNAP (Supplemental Nutrition Assistance Program . . . food stamps) because it's going to arbitrarily kick a bunch of people off the program-- but this seems to be Paul Ryan's dream, to deny poor people benefits (even if it costs more in bureaucracy execute his policy than the actual dispersal of said benefits) and the bill does nothing to change the ridiculous nature of farm subsidies . . . and that's the real nutritional problem in our country, poor people have access to plenty of calories (and are actually more likely to be obese than starving, but healthy food is expensive and mainly unsubsidized) -- if you want an overview of that situation, read this article, but for those of you who want the Cliffnotes, here is Marion Nestle:

"If you were to create a MyPlate meal that matched where the government historically aimed its subsidies, you’d get a lecture from your doctor. More than three-quarters of your plate would be taken up by a massive corn fritter (80 percent of benefits go to corn, grains and soy oil). You’d have a Dixie cup of milk (dairy gets 3 percent), a hamburger the size of a half dollar (livestock: 2 percent), two peas (fruits and vegetables: 0.45 percent) and an after-dinner cigarette (tobacco: 2 percent). Oh, and a really big linen napkin (cotton: 13 percent) to dab your lips."