Sentence of Dave

Sentence Postponed Due to Hirsuteness

Catherine and I are off to my cousin Keith's wedding, so though I have a lot of rambling run-on sentence type thoughts they have been superseded by the categorical grooming imperative (the hair on my face was just as unkempt as the hair on my back).

Sentence Postponed Due to Hirsuteness

Dave Summons a Hackerlike Miracle

My wife just told me fantastic news: the school computer system erased all the teacher conferences she scheduled for our son Ian and now the time slots are all filled up by other people . . . this rectifies an impending marital conflict, as the Highland Park boys varsity team is playing in the State semi-finals on Monday night-- which is when the conferences were scheduled-- and I told my wife that i was not going t attend the conferences because of this conflict and she told me that I was "a slacker parent" and if I stuck to my guns and skipped out then I was certainly going to be in the doghouse-- but now there aren't any conferences to attend . . . I'd love to say I hacked into the school computer system and erased the conferences myself but I couldn't code my way out of a paper bag, so we'll just have to call this a November miracle.

Dave Summons a Hackerlike Miracle

Dave Stubs His Toe on an Invisible Box

My right quad is sore but I'm getting better and better with each attempt (although I'm not nearly good enough yet to post) but someday soon I'm going to achieve my newest wildest dream . . . I'm going to step on an invisible box and then I'm going to hop over it.

Dave Stubs His Toe on an Invisible Box

Fred Armisen is the Democratic Inversion of Donald Trump

The Undiscovered podcast episode "Party Lines" is the best piece of non-partisan political commentary I've heard in a long time (especially since Dan Carlin hasn't put anything out for a while) which means that very few people will be interested in what they have to report; the show explains a new mathematical method to determine how much gerrymandering has gone into a particular voting map (and the answer is usually "a lot") and the groundbreaking method-- like the method of throwing a cornhole beanbag-- is beautiful in its simplicity; votes are tallied and then a computer draws a trillion feasible voting maps and re-tallies the actual votes in regards to these particular borders, so you can see lots and lots of results and determine a few things:

1) what probably should have happened,

2) what's in the realm of possibility,

3) and what's an absurd result because of rigged maps . . .

this method is so beautifully elegant that it has passed through the Pennsylvania Supreme Court (though Trump advised Pennsylvanians to "challenge" the new map, as the "original was correct" . . . but we know Trump isn't so good at math) and while the Supreme Court is avoiding the issue (probably because gerrymandering helps Republicans right now) they won't avoid it forever, because as soon as Democrats take power, the conservative court will make the logical ruling and trust the numbers; Democrats and Republicans both love to gerrymander, it's just that Republicans control everything right now, so they need to gerrymander while the gerrymandering is good, which I totally understand; my other political thought today, which is a bit of an aside, is that, after much reading, discussion, and research, I've decided that most folks voted for Trump to give the middle finger to liberals and the political establishment-- they don't care about his lack of experience, his policy on healthcare, or his crass buffoonery . . . in fact, his crass buffoonery, unsolicited and stupid lies, lowbrow language, braggadocio, old man whiteness, racism, sexism, unwarranted confidence, clueless sensibility, and general un-hipness is exactly what Trump supporters love about him, because they know this will trigger absolutely irrational unseated anger in intellectuals and liberals-- there is no one more underserving of attention and power than Donald Trump, and therefore he is the perfect candidate to elect . . . so I tried to figure out who would be the perfect liberal candidate to trigger all the same emotions in conservatives and it's obviously not Barack Obama-- Obama actually got elected, because he's too on the nose . . . he's nerdy and intellectual, but he's black-- his saving grace-- because no conservative wants to be that overtly racist in this day and age, so I think the Democratic inversion of Donald Trump is Fred Armisen, he's ironically uncool, indecisive, apologetic but still kind of an asshole, unflinchingly liberal, empathetic, utterly nerdy, capable of weird indignance, and-- like Portlandia-- an inside joke that only liberals get.

Halloween is a Test

I have nothing creative in the tank, as I'm using all my willpower to not eat the Reeses peanut butter cups in the closet.

Will Lab-grown Chicken Still Be Slimy?

Handling raw chicken is almost gross enough to make me become a vegetarian (but not quite).

The Cheez-it Chompspiracy

I'm not a big fan of orange foods (aside from oranges, which I love) and while I'll occasionally munch on a carrot or sample a sweet potato, purely because I know they are salubrious, what I really truly and passionately despise are orange processed foods-- especially foods with weird orange dust that coat your fingers, such as Doritos and Cheese Doodles . . . my children know they can't eat those two orange foods anywhere in my vicinity, without the consequence of receiving a nutritional diatribe; one of the orange foods that I am trying to (unhappily) tolerate are Cheez-its . . . they're totally disgusting and barely qualify as victuals but my kids like them and as long as they don't take them out of the kitchen or eat an ungodly amount of them, I try to withhold my ire . . . but the classroom is a different place entirely, a place of intelligence and education, so when I noticed a charming, athletic, and intelligent student of mine chomping away at some Cheez-its, I immediately launched into a processed food lecture . . . and then I noticed a girl behind her was also snacking away . . . and she had a bag of Cheez-its and when I asked if this was planned, yet another female student lifted her own bag, the third bag of Cheez-its in a fifteen foot vicinity and these students insisted that they brought the snacks independently, and that there was no Cheez-it conspiracy between the three of them, and they were good students, honors students, so I believed them . . . and I'd like to add that I really like cantaloupe, especially if there's a slice of prosciutto wrapped around it.

Republicans: Mad as Hell (Just The Way They Like It)

The Weeds provided a great explanation for the growing political polarization in our whacked-out nation with their episode "Republicans control everything, and they're mad as hell" . . . Republicans should be content and proud of their victories and marching forward on various conservative reforms with a coordinated consensus, but instead they are angry about everything-- the caravan, abortion, immigrants, environmental protections, the rights of consumers, football players expressing their first amendment rights, conservative voices being silenced on college campuses-- and the reason for this anger may be that even though they've galvanized their political party (through gerrymandering and the fact that rural areas are overrepresented mathematically in our voting system) they have no traction in the media and culture . . . despite, Republican political power, the media and cultural hubs of NYC and coastal California will not bend the knee; coastal elites and the entertainment industry (aside form Kanye) ridicule and lampoon Trump and his party; meanwhile, Millennials-- even conservative Millennials-- are less racist, more tolerant of gay marriage and transgender people, more open to immigration than older conservatives, and they are more willing to support socialist policies that might actually help young people navigate healthcare, college, and the labor market . . . many college campuses are more liberal than ever and the Republicans just can't seem to get anyone intellectual to respect them and listen to them . . . so they remain angry and embittered, despite the fact that they are running the country and could have a great impact (or perhaps will have a great impact in deregulating all sorts of business, banking, and environment policy) but instead of having an open dialogue about these issues, Republicans will keep pushing wedge issues like the caravan and the wall and abortion, so they can get mad as hell and lament the fact that the culture won't reflect their policies (conservatives may also be angrier in temperament due to psychological reasons, because most conservatives are concerned more about "purity, loyalty, and authority" than most liberals).

Thus Endeth the Week

Parent/teacher conferences, a couple of away games, a puking player on the bur ride to South Amboy, forgotten socks by my son at South Amboy (so he had to share socks) and a bleeding player on the way home from South Amboy, Pub Night, a hard fought loss this afternoon, dinner with my family for my brother's birthday, and a bunch of other stuff . . . an epic week, so I'm rooting for this blustery Nor'easter to cancel all the weekend stuff.

Female Hillbilly Escapes the Heartland

Sarah Smarsh's Heartland: A Memoir of Working Hard and Being Broke in the Richest Country on Earth is a more poetic, even harder luck version of J.D. Vance's Hillbilly Elegy, and while at times I got mired in the details I still think this is a worthwhile and important read, especially for effete liberal middle class folk like myself that can barely understand the way 60 million rural people live in our vast and economically imbalanced shitshow of a country; the image that becomes a metaphor for Smarsh's youth is when she goes to pet some half-feral kittens, though she is worried that her scent will repel the mother cat from her young: "I reached out and patted a furry head . . . the head rolled away from the small body, leaving a track of blood on the concrete floor," and her dad explains that "a possum or a fox got 'em" and gnawed all the heads off the cute little kittens; while in suburbia, we care for and protect our puppies and kittens, on the farm in Kansas, that's not the case . . . Smarsh has a true "free range" youth and she was lucky to survive it and move into the middle class; while there are moments of unadulterated fun and her parents are not stereotypical rednecks, nor are they stereotypical conservatives, she is often surrounded by drunks and addiction, violence and transience, and she has a hard time-- despite her great intelligence-- finding her educational groove; the foibles and flaws of the folks surrounding her could generally have been softened by money, but there was no money to be found and so Smarsh realizes that "I was living in an environment full of what society had recently discovered was dangerous: the smoke, the fried food, the unbuckled seat belts . . . but I didn't know the half of it: sugary diets that led to cavities, noxious glue in the walls of cheap houses, nitrates from farm runoff in our drinking water, insecticides on the wind that shimmered down from crop-dusting airplanes" and-- without the ability to move, seek healthcare or help-- that these problems have blossomed into "obesity, diabetes, meta-amphetamine addiction, and opioids overprescribed by the same doctors who were supposed to help," and Smarsh grapples with the fact, that due to shame, racism, and pride, people where she lived voted against their best interests and backed Reagan and the Republicans, who were interested in gutting environmental protections, ending the possibility of small family farms, and erasing the promise of affordable healthcare and rural school funding, and anything else that would help the people in her impoverished predicament; America-- especially the Republican party-- has shamed the poor for being poor, despite the fact that we've created a system that has incredible benefits for the winners and incredible costs for the losers, even if the losers work hard every day, so hard that their bodies disintegrate and they have no way of healing themselves; Smarsh points out that there wasn't stereotypical sexist behavior in this world; women suffered violence from drunken and broken men, but they also made the big family decisions, left when they felt like it was time to leave, did work that was just as difficult as the men, and partied as hard as the dudes . . . it's a good book and beautifully written, but it's a tough pill to swallow and the easy answer is for us economically stable folks on the coasts is to say: "they voted for this and they got what they voted for," but these policies aren't good for any of us-- there by the Grace of God goes I-- and the newest one is how the Trump administration has undervalued the social cost of carbon emissions . . . absurd, awful, and will hurt those that live close to the land and don't have the option to up and leave it more than it will hurt the rest of us.

A+ in Chest Hair

Yesterday we had a half day of school with the students and then had to return at 5:30 PM for the dreaded parent/teacher conference night . . . before I left for work for the second time, I threw on the same clothes I had worn in the morning: khaki pants and a festive red plaid button down shirt, I then drove back to EBHS, watched some of the soccer game-- the weather was warm and beautiful-- and then headed to my classroom to chat with parents; after six or seven conferences, I had a break, so I went to the bathroom and when I looked in the mirror, I noted that my button down shirt was unbuttoned beyond my normal level (and my normal level of unbuttoning is already in the "casual" zone, as not only do I have tenure but I also have a thick neck) but tonight I was unbuttoned to a place most people would call "club" and I had shown these parents some serious chest hair . . . and it's well past beach season, so it was pretty unkempt.

A+ in Stealing

I had a bit of a Willy Loman moment yesterday when my son Ian opened his book bag and produced one of the soccer balls I instructed him to steal from gym class, and I then commended him for his initiative . . . I had just finished teaching the play and quickly remembered the moment when Willy condoned Biff's "borrowing" of the football from the locker-room and then later wondered why Biff ran off with Bill Oliver's fountain pen; I'd like to think this situation is slightly different but you will have to be the judge; last week, my soccer team told me that the gym class has been using three balls that belong to our travel soccer team-- we have practice at night on the school turf and sometimes we leave a ball or two behind, and these balls are then impressed into service for the school (despite the fact that they have our team name and the assistant coach's name on them) and so I told my team that we have to get those balls back, as the ball bag is rather depleted . . . and, of course, Ian was able to smuggle one out of class and bring it back to its rightful home . . . it was probably a bad way to go about getting the balls back, especially because in the past Ian has been involved in some sketchy situations at school, but I'm still proud of his moxie (and glad to have another ball in the bag).

Like Father (Unlike Father)

Alex took his sweatshirt off at the restaurant last night and I was sitting on the same side of the table as him and I said, "Look at this!" and then I took off my fleece and-- surprise!-- we we wearing the exact same powder blue "Moab Utah" t-shirt, but Alex wasn't as excited as I was . . . in fact, he put his sweatshirt back on.

A Good Day to Fly a Kite, Not Chip a Ball Over the Flat Four

Wind: the hot sauce of weather (we had to play on the waterfront in Elizabeth today and while the temperature was a deceptive 47 degrees, the high winds really spiced things up).

Dave is No Longer a Puppy

I tired myself out tiring the dog out.

Less Drama, Crisper Salads

Winter skipped the whole "coming" thing: it's here (especially in the English Office, which lost heat this week because a boiler pipe went . . . it was so fantastically cold inside that I was bringing random teachers in the hallway in just to feel it . . . our boss had to leave because she couldn't bear being there for an extended time, and we felt really stupid complaining it was too cold because we spent so much time last month complaining that it was so hot).

Nothing Like a Captive Audience (When You're Feeling Your Oats)

My first period creative writing class is comprised of eleven girls and one boy (and me) and this one boy wrote a wonderful personification piece (inspired by Sylvia Plath's "Mirror" and this gem from the New Yorker) from the perspective of a diamond engagement ring that was rejected once, stored away for a few years, and then got a second chance and found success . . . after the author read it aloud, I heard a few grumbles from the ladies, so I asked them-- knowing it was a loaded question-- if anyone had a problem with a recycled diamond ring, and then the festivities began . . . because hell hath no fury like a woman scorned with a secondhand ring; apparently, you should buy a "new" diamond specifically for the new person you have in mind (despite the fact that this "new" diamond is already 1 to 3.5 billion years old) and this led to a lot of good-natured early morning debate, and the ladies had to endure my various rants about strip-mining, the DeBeers conspiracy, the overhang, blood diamonds, rampant materialism, and the influence of the media on a saturated, overpriced market . . . in the end, we all agreed that it was a fun way to start the day, though I had little or no success convincing any of these women to forego engagement rings (and then, as an added bonus, a senior in my comp class said that people were getting sick because the weather dropped forty degrees in two days, so I got to call her "grandma" and lecture the class about why we actually get sick more when it's cold (it's mainly because viruses survive better in low humidity . . . although I also found some reasons that contradict my lecture-- perhaps when our feet are cold then our immune system doesn't work as well . . . so I'll have to apologize tomorrow for calling her "grandma," as perhaps the whole old-time "don't go outside with your hair wet" faction is right).