Sentence of Dave

Is There a Position Open for Doing This?

My friend Dom, who I just spent a week with at the beach, would like it to be known that-- in addition to his general congeniality, his ability to consume gin/vodka, and his formidable biking stamina-- he has an uncanny knack for identifying 80's songs in two or three notes (even Aldo Nova's "Fantasy").

Is There a Position Open for Doing This?

Space Werewolves > Intergalactic Politics

During our beach vacation, I had some trouble getting through John Scalzi's novel The Last Colony; it's the third book in his Old Man's War series and it's not exactly a beach read: there's a lot of intergalactic political strategy . . . John Perry and his rather unusual wife Jane Sagan (she's a special forces soldier made from the DNA of John's original wife) are trying to colonize planet called Roanoke-- a name which doesn't bode well-- and the colony becomes a pawn in an increasingly complicated series of alliances between the Conclave (412 alien races that have banded together) and the rest of the denizens of the universe (including the humans) and while all this is compelling and interesting, the part of the book I enjoyed the most was towards the middle, when the humans were still trying to colonize the planet and they ran into some werewolf life creatures with stone-age technology . . . this is something you can pay attention to, even when there's women in bikinis wandering around, but unfortunately, this plot-line is never revisited and so I struggled to finish the book at the beach and didn't get it done until last night, in the quiet of my very own bed.

No Ordinance For Offspring

Thursday morning, our peaceful vacation slumber was perforated, pierced and punctured (at 7 AM) by staccato bursts from several nail guns-- the crew framing the roof of the new construction across the street were getting an early start-- and while this didn't bother me, because I was up and ready to roll, Catherine thought the noise was excessive and so-- as she is wont to do-- she solved the problem; she called the Sea Isle police and they informed her that there was an 8 AM noise ordinance and they would ride by and inform the workers . . . and they did and the next morning the crew didn't start work until later; BUT soon after that, the three little kids set up a stand on the corner right below our front porch and they chanted-- for at least two hours straight-- "FREE POPSICLES AND LEMONADE! FREE POPSICLES AND LEMONADE! FREE POPSICLES AND LEMONADE! FREE POPSICLES AND LEMONADE! FREE POPSICLES AND LEMONADE! FREE POPSICLES AND LEMONADE! FREE POPSICLES AND LEMONADE!" and it seems there is no ordinance on the books to stop this sort of insanity (and the creepiness of the "free" aspect has really turned their patrons off . . . there's quite a bit of foot traffic and not one who walks by takes them up on the offer, as everyone knows there's no such thing as a free lunch, especially when it's offered by miniature towheaded redfaced sirens with high pitched voices).

No Ordinance For Offspring

Miracle on 51st Street

After running on the beach yesterday, I took an outdoor shower and then-- standing in the driveway, wearing only a towel-- I decided to throw my wet spandex and shorts onto our porch (rather than carry them through the house, where they would drip seawater everywhere) but my shoulder has been hurting and I can't throw wet clothing overhand, so I pitched them underhand and-- miracle of miracles-- they BOTH landed on the railing (and I've got a photo to prove it . . . although I guess you could photoshop something like this if you were that sort of person).

Miracle on 51st Street

You Could Probably Unfuc*k Yourself

Unfu*k Yourself: Get Out of Your Head and into Your Life by Gary John Bishop is a silly little book, obvious yet inspirational, but mainly, you'll think: "I could have written this!" but the point is that YOU didn't write it, Gary John Bishop did . . . and that's why he's a rich and famous life-coach and you're not (the Scottish accent might also help).

You Could Probably Unfuc*k Yourself

Star Crossed Neighbors

Ask Again, Yes by Mary Beth Keane is a modern-day Romeo and Juliet, which begins with a pair of Irish cops on the beat in 1970's New York City who end up living nextdoor to each other in the suburbs, and -- like the Montagues and the Capulets-- the two families are oil and water, but the children fall in love and though the time sequence is much much longer than the three breakneck days in Romeo and Juliet, Keane makes her novel race through time at a relentless pace-- I loved this the most about this book (which is a bit depressing at times . . . regret, alcoholism, mental illness, and being shot in the face are some of the themes) so while there are rough times, you know you'll see the end of them (sort of).

Star Crossed Neighbors

Meatball Night is also LeCompt Night

Last night at the beach-- after stuffing ourselves with Cat's Famous Meatballs-- we all went out to The Springfield Inn (Sea Isle's most wonderful dive bar, which has been slated for destruction for years now) to see Mike LeCompt and his inimitable cover band; making it to the third set is always an issue for me because there's an interminable break between sets two and three, but once we talked to Mike-- who is undergoing daily chemo for colon cancer-- and he said he was having a rough day (they had already played a hot and humid outdoor set at Wildwood) we all decided we had to stay-- if he could do three sets on chemo, I could do three sets on Bud Light (which are $3 a pop until midnight, and then they figure everyone is too drunk to care and they randomly raise the price to $5) so we made it to the end (aside from Lynn and Ed, who headed home and prepared some dumplings and pigs-in-a-blanket so we could have late night food right when we stumbled in) and the band and the crowd really picked it up for Mike, who had to take a couple of breaks-- but, nonetheless, it was an inspirational performance and motivated me to get off my ass this morning and do a 35 minute beach run-- I had a bit of a headache, but it's better than colon cancer . . . here is the setlist . . . he did a lot of Who songs:

The Boys are Back in Town
Bargain
Behind Blue Eyes
Pinball Wizard
Come Sail Away
Tempted
Abacab
Thunder Road
Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band
With a Little Help From My Friends

Baba O'Riley
Brandy
My Girl
Whole Lotta Love
Pressure
Just What I Needed
You're in My Heart
Maggie May
Forever Young
Here I Go Again
You're So Vain
Hey Jude

Leaving on a Jet Plane
The Kids are Alright
Suspicious Minds
All I Want is You
Who's Gonna Ride Your Wild Horses
So Lonely
Wild Nights
Long Train Running (Doobie Brothers)
Mona Lisas & Mad Hatters
Levon
Love Reign O'er Me.

Meatball Night is also LeCompt Night

Meatball Night!

Not time to write a sentence, I have to cut rolls for Cat's famous beach house meatballs (Mac's Famous Mac and Cheese? I mean, I'm your roommate and I've never heard of it).

Meatball Night!

Not time to write a sentence, I have to cut rolls for Cat's famous beach house meatballs (Mac's Famous Mac and Cheese? I mean, I'm your roommate and I've never heard of it).

Reading + Dad = $$$$$

When my kids were looking around town for odd jobs and such, I told them I had just read in The Week that folks with DM expertise were getting paid up to $250 dollars an hour to teach adults how to play Dungeons and Dragons and I suggested that they offer this service and so they added it to their list of jobs they would do and two days ago, they actually got paid to help some younger kids make characters and get a campaign going, which really beats pulling weeds (they are covered in poison ivy) and so now they've got a taste of the good life and white collar work.

Reading + Dad = $$$$$

The Big Apple Ain't What It Used to Be

Lawrence Block's hard-boiled crime novel The Sins of the Fathers-- the first in the 9 volume "alcoholic shamus" Matthew Scudder series-- takes place in a degenerate '70's version of New York City that now only exists in film and fiction . . . the story is gritty, callous, boozy, and-- at times-- downright graphically obscene, I'm not sure if I'll read another Scudder book any time soon-- but winter is coming, so maybe I'll wait until then.

The Big Apple Ain't What It Used to Be

Hail Fellow Well Met?

I saw a lot of myself in Susan Cain's book Quiet: The Power of Introverts in a World That Can't Stop Talking-- while I'm not a full-blown recluse, I always trend introvert on those Myers-Briggs type tests; Cain explains that while introverts need down time to recharge, they can be quite comfortable socially-- once they're familiar with the situation-- and that one of the main factors may be that introverts don't need as much stimulus as extroverts . . . introverts can be easily over-stimulated, so while many can do a pretty good job acting "hail-fellow-well-met"-- an odd compound word I learned in the book-- they salivate more when they taste something sour, they don't need the volume as high, and they stick to the sides in a roomful of people (something I definitely do) and I think this explains why I can't watch two TV shows in a row and why even a graphic novel is sometimes too much stimulus . . . my kids get annoyed that I can't plow through them (although I just finished The Walking Dead . . . holy shit! it's over!) and why I read a lot . . . I love reading because it's just the right amount of stimulus for me . . . but I don't have many of the great traits that some introverts possess: while I like to deliberately practice things when I'm alone, I'm not necessarily most organized and focused person to have on a project, I'm not super-detail oriented, and I do things fast and cut corners, so while I'm definitely an introvert, I've got to embrace the type a bit more and perhaps I'll get better at some of the characteristics I'm missing.