For the second winter break in a row, my parents were nice enough to take the kids to Florida, giving Catherine, the dog and I the chance to take a trip of our own.
Last year we headed north to New Paltz and this year our destination is south: Staunton, Virginia, a town in the valley between George Washington/Thomas Jefferson National Forests and Shenandoah National Park.
The drive was brutal. I thought we were headed out to the country, but apparently, I-81 is a total two-lane shitshow, especially on a Friday when people are traveling. We left at 10 AM, thinking we would avoid rush hour. Never again. Six hours of bumper to bumper traffic. Lola was in the back, and I was impressed that she didn't puke, but she was definitely dazed from the stop and go (as was I). I thought it would be more like the drive to Vermont: the farther you drive, the more the Jersey/New York traffic fades and the forests begin, but it turned out to be like the drive to Cape Cod: steady traffic and then more traffic (but add lots and lots of trucks, and very narrow lanes and abundant construction). This road is a sore spot among the folks that live out here. It needs to be three lanes.
Staunton-- or should I say "Stanton" . . . we found out that you pronounce it without the "u"-- is a beautifully preserved smallish mountain town (24,000). We are staying in an Airbnb on the top of one of the hills above downtown. It's a beautiful place with fantastic views, but when you are at the top of the hill and you walk to town (or Gypsy Hill Park) then you've got to get back UP the hill on your way home. It's fine to walk up after a few beers, but as my wife remarked, "I wouldn't want to walk this drunk!"
The first night in town we wandered about and ate at the Byers Street Bistro. Good place. I tried to start on my New Year's Resolution early (eat less meat) and so I had the fried green tomato sandwich. Awesome. We had Brussell sprouts for an appetizer, and they were also delicious, but not vegetarian. Lots of bacon! Oh well . . . I'm trying to eat less meat, not no meat at all.
Then we went to Redbeards Brewing Company, one of the many, microbreweries in the area. The beer was kind of nuts-- Catherine had to pour out her bourbon barrel-aged amber with a bunch of stuff in it. Luckily, it was sixty degrees and we were sitting outside, so her beer was easy to dispose of. The moral here: when there are too many words in a beer description, don't order it!
Staunton is a boutique town. There's a restored historic train station-- a working train station with a train to Richmond-- and there are British tourists wandering around. It is an incredibly scenic place. There was a long wait at the restaurant in the train station and Catherine overheard a British family discussing the queue. The dad said, sincerely: "This is what we could do, during the wait, to make it enjoyable . . . we could walk about town, conversing with each other and making the time pass . . ."
And then the mom chimed in, "And we could look at the many Christmas lighting displays!"
And the children heard this and did not murder their parents. The Brits are so civilized.
Interesting fact: we could have taken a train from Trenton to Staunton. Seven hours and twelve minutes. Longer than the car ride, but less treacherous. It would have been tough with the dog and all but it's an interesting option for those of you who are dogless and want to see this place. It's certainly a walking town and you could rent bikes or something to get farther afield.
Though we were without the kids, Lola more than picked up the slack. She was up most of the night, pacing and carsick. She finally vomited a bit at 3 AM. Catherine went and slept in the downstairs bedroom. I consoled Lola until she fell asleep. I think she was overwhelmed from all the new smells in the house-- it's a dog-friendly Airbnb, and that combined with the ride screwed her up.
Tomorrow's post-- Day 2-- will be much more action-packed.
My son Alex's penultimate attempt to feed the dog was ugly. He mangled a can. The twisted metal monstrosity that he created was sharp and dangerous.
His last feeding foray was also a debacle, but less perilous and more annoying. His task was to pour the dry food into the bin. While he did get all the grain-free nuggets into the container-- and I commended him for this-- I did have to ask him one simple question.
Where is the scooper? You know, the plastic scooper that is used to measure and pour the dog food into the bowl?
I present the bin and the food. No scooper to be found.
He buried it, of course, poured a mountain of dried dog food right on top of it. This situation is less dangerous than a razor-sharp can in the fridge, but it still smacks of rash incompetence. Alex did have a snappy comeback to my assessment. He said: "It's like when there's a prize at the bottom of the cereal box and you have to eat all the cereal before you get the prize!"
Before you wash the dishes-- or load them into the dishwasher-- do you give them a good soak? Before you take arms against a set of filthy pots and pans, do you let them marinate for a while? Or do you jump right in and clean them immediately?
And some people are "soakers" while others are "immediate washers." There is no in-between.
Giving the dishes a purposeful (and artful) soak
After a heated discussion at a holiday party, it seems that most men are soakers. If I were going to be sexist, I would say this has to do with the fact that men have a better knowledge of chemistry and thus understand that water is "the universal solvent." Water dissolves more substances that any other liquid on earth. It is the enemy of many part of your abode-- your roof, foundation, wiring, sheetrock, carpet and wood flooring . . . but water is the friend of clean dishes.
Women are pursuing STEM fields more than ever, so I'm going to assume that they know the chemical potential of letting things soak in water. So it must be something else.
I am a soaker, of course. Dirty dishes? Science to the rescue!
Time + water = cleaner dishes
My wife is not a "soaker." She scoffs at soaking and considers it lazy. When the dishwasher is empty and I plop a dish in the sink and fill it with water, this irritates her to no end. Perhaps this is the root of the dilemma. Non-soakers like to get right to the task. Get 'er done! My friend Terry, one of the few males who is not a soaker, said that instead of soaking he just "applies a bunch of force with a sponge." To me, it seems silly to use force when you don't need to . . . if he just let those pans soak for a few days, he wouldn't need to use any force at all. I should also point out that Terry puts cream and sugar in his coffee, so he barely represents the typical male.
One particularly masculine dude said that one of the reasons he needed to soak the dishes was that when he was done with dinner, he needed to "have a lie down." I think this is reasonable; after a hearty meal, who wants to stick their hands into a wet stack of dishes when they could repose on the couch?
So with some skillful balancing, some artful arrangement of the pots, pans, dishes, and utensils, you can make the water work for you, while you have your digestive "lie down." Then you're doing your work while you're supine! Isn't that the goal?
The dishwasher isn't going to get peanut butter off a spoon, or yogurt and peanut butter out of a bowl. It's not going to clean a pan with charred food remnants. So you can either dig in, apply some force, and get your hands moist and dirty . . . or you could pour a bit of water in there and give everything a good soak. Then, while you are going about your business, the miracle of the universal solvent is happening right in your kitchen. And you don't need to supervise.
Soakers aren't lazy, they're smart, but the most commonly posed rebuttal to soaking posed by non-soakers is that soakers are just procrastinating in the hopes that someone else-- most likely a woman . . . or Terry-- will come along and do the dishes. While this is certainly a possibility, it's not the primary reason for soaking. This is just an (unfortunate) side effect. I really want to do the dishes . . . after they soak for a bit, so it's not so much of a chore. I think most soakers feel the same way. If non-soakers are so wound up to do a chore, instead of heroically swooping in and doing the dishes that are soaking, they should organize the tupperware or match socks or some other task that doesn't interrupt the scientific process happening in the sink. But this won't happen, because in this case, there really are two kinds of people:
1) people who can let the dishes soak, let the food decay, let the universal solvent work while you sleep, and
2) people who just have to get it done, no matter how much physical exertion the task requires.
If you're feeling good about being an educator, about inspiring students, giving them a leg up in life, preparing them for the future, then you might want to listen to "They' Schools" by the confrontationally radical hip-hop duo Dead Prez. The lyrics are intense, angry, polemic, and a bit crass, but they are a reminder that whatever you're teaching probably isn't exactly what your students need.
And even if it is, they still might not be buying it.
My fifteen year old son Alex created this post-modern monstrosity while trying to open a can of dog food.
I might have chalked it up to his left-handedness, if he hadn't tried to open the wrong side of the can.
You and I can tell it's the wrong side of the can because we're literate; we'd want to have the words right side up before we attacked the can with the opener. I'm pretty sure my son can read (he is a sophomore) but even if he can't, he might have noticed that the dog on the label was upside down.
Ben Westhoff's book Original Gangstas: The Untold Story of Dr. Dre, Eazy-E, Ice Cube, Tupac Shakur, and the Birth of West Coast Rap might be a little too involved, comprehensive, and detailed to be considered light reading, but if you want the whole tragic story-- all the ins and outs and what-have-you's-- that led to the murders of Tupac and Biggie, then this is it.
Suge Knight, the founder of Death Row Records, is prominent-- and representative of the oddball mix of artistic ingenuity, ambition, dynamism, and street ethics that came to a head in the 90's hip-hop world. The book is also a reminder of how much money was involved-- artists were still selling millions of CDs.
Because of the money, there are a lot of hip-hop artists involved in the East Coast/West Coast gangsta rap panoply. For example, here are the MCs and the Lil's from the index:
MCs
MC Breed, MC Domino, MC Hammer, MC Ren, MC Roxanne, MC Scarface, MC Shan, MC Eiht
Lil's
Lil' 1/2 Dead, Lil' Cease, Liil' Coco, Lil' Coco, Lil' Kim, Little Shawn
There are so many conglomerations of artists and bands that the plot gets daunting, but in the end, the takeaway is this: a lot of these artists got into hip-hop to escape the streets, and many of them-- especially Dr. Dre, Ice Cube, Snoop, and Tupac-- were incredibly talented, but the East Coast/West Coast silliness actually reversed cause and effect and these artists became more and more "gangsta" when they achieved their ambitions. The money and the entourages and the drugs and sex and hedonism, the attempts to "keep it real," and the influence of gang members all led to a wild intersection of cultures . . . and real violence. The other takeaway is that Eazy-E had ten kids by eight different women. Impressive (but he dies of AIDS, which . . . not so much).
Westhoff doesn't think Tupac and Biggie's murders will be solved. The investigations were rather shoddy-- especially when the police conspiracy was debunked-- and now most of the key witnesses are dead (often by violence).
Russell Poole said, "If this was Elvis Presley and Frank Sinatra who got murdered, there would have been arrests a long time ago." He's probably right.
As a dude from the suburbs, gangster rap fascinates me. It's raw and wild. It's certainly left our popular culture more crass and sexual and violent. It's often sexist. But, as Westhoff concludes, "gangsta rap also helped disenfranchised people gain a voice . . . the prevailing wisdom was black entertainers were supposed to act proper, and that same logic applied to black people generally.Even if the situations they grew up in were marked by poverty, crime, injustice, and squalor, they were expected to present themselves as if nothing was wrong . . . they took the experience of the inner city and made it understandable to people who had never set foot there. Gangsta rap, more than any other art form, made black life a permanent part of the American conversation."
Reading the book will inspire you to go back in time and listen. I constantly had my phone out, and switched between The Chronic, N.W.A., Snoop, Souls of Mischief, and Pharsyde. But no Bone Thugs-n-Harmony. Worst name and I really don't dig their music, though they kept cropping up in the book.
Anyway, go back and listen to some of it. You'll cringe, but the beats are great, the flow is fluid, and this may be the art form that defines our times.
If you'd like to see my top seven books for 2019, head over to Gheorghe:The Blog . . . I think I've been doing this particular Gheorghemas post for nearly a decade-- which is a lot of book recommendations-- at this point, I should probably compile a meta-list of the top books of the decade . . . perhaps I will do that at the end of 2020.
Today I present you with the miraculously serendipitous sequel to "The Scarlet Sweater." The blessed event happened on the same day as my revelation that Ugly Xmas Sweaters are the spawn of the Satanic Mill. Coincidental? I think not.
A senior girl walked into my 4th period College Writing class and she was wearing a shirt with a fantastic reptilian pattern.
"You're a lizard!" I said, excited. I love lizards
"It's not a lizard, it's a diamondback rattlesnake pattern," she said. "I got it from SHEIN for five dollars!"
"Five dollars?"
"FIVE dollars!"
"You need to listen to this."
This was the best set-up for a clip in my entire teaching career. Just perfect. I told the class the good news about the five dollar shirt and then I played this Maria Bamford bit for them (I transcribed it as well).
Joy Whack-a-mole
This is a little game you can play with your friends and family-- if you don't already play it-- in my family we call it Joy Whack-a Mole . . ..somebody brings up something they're really happy about and the other person tries to SLAM IT DOWN!
I was playing with my dad and I was like:
"Dad check out this new top!"
"Ooh that's very nice."
"Guess how much?"
"I don't know, fifty bucks?"
"No, Five!"
"Jesus, that's a good deal."
"You got that right, it's like 'five bucks,' how do they do it?"
"Ooh, I was reading about that . . . slavery! You put the manufacturing out in these countries and there's no labor laws, human rights violations, no environmental protection, and then that they pass that saving on to you."
I try to keep my Xmas Ranting at a minimum (except in Philosophy class, where we always read my favorite Dave-Xmas-Rant themed short story "The Ones That Walk Away From Omelas" and discuss child labor laws and pathological First World consumption and Third World environmental devastation in a utilitarian framework).
But Friday something I heard in the English Office set me off. It was officially "ugly Christmas sweater day" and lots of folks were participating in this administratively sanctioned event (it might have been called "ugly Holiday sweater day" to preserve the separation of Church and State . . . I'm not sure).
Anyway, at first my attitude was "whatever." If people like this kind of thing, who am I to criticize? I haven't worn a sweater since the 90s because they're itchy and hot and the sleeves are stupid. But maybe some people like being itchy and hot and dipping their sleeves covered into their lunch while they're eating it.
Then I saw something that piqued my interest. A couple of people were wearing ugly Xmas hoodies, and this was something new. Kristyna, a fellow English teacher, was wearing an incredibly ugly hoody. Just hideous. It was covered in very detailed, photographic quality Xmas ornaments. It was busy and loud and had that plastic sheen of a new hoodie made of some fabric that was more fossil-fuel than cotton.
I asked her how she acquired it and she said her dad had bought it, possibly as a joke, but it didn't fit him. We chatted about sizes and the ugliness of the hoody and then it struck me:
He bought it as a joke?
All of these ugly sweaters were bought as jokes. To be worn once. Yuck.
Yikes.
In America, we're so rich and entitled and wasteful and profligate and materialistic that we buy things as jokes. Instead of making jokes, with words-- and by the way, words don't consume any fossil fuels-- we buy jokes. Silly mugs and tchotchkes and ugly sweaters. It's bad enough that we buy all the stuff that we "need." But we also buy stuff that we don't need. And then-- in a final spasm of determination to consume every resource on this planet-- we buy jokes.
I had just watched this episode of Patriot Act, so I was a bit wound up about American clothing consumption.
We buy so so many clothes in America it's actually disgusting. They're made in Asia, and it's an environmental nightmare. Clothes take a lot of water to make. They pollute the water. They release toxic fumes in the air. The dyes are damaging to the environment. The workers toil in windowless rooms full of these fumes. They are often young and underpaid. But we're addicted to fast fashion and cheap clothes. So be it. I understand the motivation, to look good, and to look various. I'm always appreciative when my wife or the ladies in the English office are well-dressed. I wear the same clothes over and over again and it's boring. I get it. Not everyone wants to be boring. For some people, fashion is a hobby, an expression of who they are. Fine.
But do we need to buy clothing as a joke?
I think that "ugly sweater day" is a place to draw the line in the sand. If your workplace has one, rant a bit, indignantly. Tell people to watch Patriot Act "The Ugly Truth of Fast Fashion." And tell them to start wearing that scarlet sweater-- that shameful symbol of First World materialism run rampant-- more than one day a year. Own it and appreciate it for exactly what it is.
Taffy Brodesser-Akner's popular new novel Fleishman is in Trouble has been splendidly reviewed across the internet, so I will be brief. The book begins as a compelling divorce tale, told by a third party-- Libby, the ex-magazine writer.
If you continue there will be spoilers, as the book has a mystery element to it.
Libby is Toby's old friend, and she sympathetic to his plight. We learn that Toby is taking care of his two kids, saving lives as a hepatologist, navigating the on-line dating scene, and wondering where the hell his uber-successful agent wife has gotten to. He adopts a puppy. He's a divorced, horny Mr. Mom, who also has a difficult job. Despite his flaws, we are on his side. His wife is absent and cold and callous and overly ambitious.
But it seems that Libby (and the reader) has been taken in with Toby's story. While Toby's not in any way malevolent, his perspective might be limited. And stupidly masculine. Perhaps this is because he's quite short. It's not until Libby runs into Toby's wife Rachel that the story gets more fleshed out. Things are not exactly as they seem. But the story doesn't get fully fleshed out, because perhaps a third party can never understand a marriage from the outside.
So the paradox that Brodesser-Akner-Akner writes about is that it takes an outside view to describe a marriage, to get both perspectives, but it's like Nagel's essay about the mind of a bat-- you have to be inside a marriage to truly understand it. It's hard enough to unravel the motivations, voice, and point-of-view of one person, but once you bind their life inextricably to another, then both of their perspectives and characters are so intertwined, but also striving for autonomy, and there's no seeing it all at once.
While this sounds like serious stuff, the book is also satirical and funny and rambles through a wild world of NYC entitlement and wealth. Definitely worth reading.
I try to avoid walking through the hallways at the giant, overcrowded high school where I work. It's airless and oppressive and SLOW-- and I hate walking slow. The only positive thing is that you get to hear what the kids are talking about in the wild.
During hallway excursions, I typically overhear three types of conversation:
1) Things too filthy to transcribe.
2) Emotions ranging from anxiety to fuck-it about upcoming tests, quizzes, projects, and presentations.
3) References to memes,YouTubers,video games, school clubs, inside jokes, and other allusions are incomprehensible to me.
But yesterday, I heard something behind me that is exactly what I imagine high school kids should be talking about. Something that sounded like it was out of a John Hughes movie. It was wonderful. It was a pair of girls and they were walking behind me. One said to the other, with all sincerity:
"There's this boy in my lunch? He sits right at the the table next to mine, and he does not even know I exist. He's never even looked at me, but he's soooo cute!"
Last week, my wife had jury duty on Wednesday and I had jury duty on Thursday. This week, my wife had her administrative observation on Tuesday and I had my administrative observation on Wednesday.
Weird.
I hope my wife doesn't get bitten by a rabid animal (probably a coyote) next Monday . . . because it's going to happen to me on Tuesday. These things come in threes.
Stupid Advice People Give You So You Can Get Out of Jury Duty
"Tell the judge you're racist!"
"Tell the judge you can tell people are guilty just by looking into their eyes!"
"Act crazy!"
The Real Deal with "Voir Dire"
If you've ever been interviewed for a spot on a jury-- the process known in legal parlance as "voir dire"-- then you know this advice is absurd. You're in front of the general public, in a formal situation, talking to someone wearing robes, in a court of law.
You don't want to present yourself as racist clairvoyant lunatic.
You might run into these people in the future.
My wife sat in a room for a while and then got released early.
I was not as lucky as my wife.
I arrived at 8 AM, and snagged a choice seat at the one large table by the TV (advice from my wife) so I could get some grading done. The presiding judge came down and spoke to us about the importance of jury duty and the system. He explained the difference between an inconvenience and a hardship. Then we watched a video, which gave us some instructions on how to behave if we were on a jury. We instructed to not only listen to the witnesses, but to observe their body language and tone of voice as well. I had a problem with this, which I tucked away in the recess of my brain. Then I got back to reading quizzes.
I was called upstairs at 9:30 AM, with a hundred other citizens. One of the elevators was broken so we had to stuff ourselves into the good one, in shifts. We were crammed into a courtroom. I was sitting in between a tall white guy from Texas and an older African American gentleman with one earring who was working on an adult coloring book with some markers. The judge told us they needed 12 jurors for a criminal case, and then he told us a bit about the case. I can't reveal this information, or I might get fined $1000. The prosecutor and the defendant and the defendant's lawyer were all there. The defendant was accused of a violent crime. He was African-American and looked like a tough hombre. You'll understand why I mention his race soon enough.
We filled out two questionnaires and then the judge, prosecutor and lawyer interviewed possible jurors. This went on for hours. We finally got to break for lunch at 12:30 and I went to Tavern of George (a.k.a. Tumulty's) and inhaled a burger. The beer looked was tempting, but I didn't want to be found in contempt of court.
I went back, finished my grading, and added some information to my questionnaire. Quite a bit of information. There was nothing else to do. And I decided if I got called up that I wasn't going to repeat what I did last time I went through "voir dire." No pathetic pleading. I would not throw myself prostate upon the mercy of the court. My kids were older now, and more responsible. If I got called to be on a trial, so be it.
So I would be myself. I would explain that it was a rough time of year for me to miss-- because of the College Writing curriculum-- but that this was more of an inconvenience than a hardship.
At 2 PM, I got called up for some "voir dire." I took a deep breath and walked over to the table with the judge, the prosecutor, and the defendant's attorney. I sat down. I told the judge my school situation, but very plainly, without drama or histrionics, and he said he would consider it. Then we got into my questionnaire.
First he wanted to know why I said I wouldn't be able to convict someone just on testimony alone. I told him about the new Malcolm Gladwell book Talking to Strangers and just how difficult it was to determine whether a stranger was telling the truth or lying. I told him I had a problem with the instructional video, because its very difficult to determine anything credible from tone and body language. Some people always seem like they are telling the truth and other people always seem nervous or anxious or sketchy. And it doesn't mean much. I talked about the fallibility of human memory and the ambiguity of eyewitness accounts.
Then we went through the people my interactions with the legal world. My brother worked in the building. My dad was director of corrections. I had a few run-ins with the law, but mainly college shenanigans.
Then he asked me why I wasn't sure if the legal system was fair. I told him I had read and listened to a lot about Ferguson and the shooting of Michael Brown, and I had listened to Serial Season 3 in its entirety, which delved into the corruption int he Cleveland court system. I told him I had learned that sometimes the court system is designed to shake down and oppress people of color.
Then we took a look at the free response questions. We were upstairs for a long time and I had answered the questions comprehensively. For example, there was a question about how you get your news. I had listed every podcast I to which I subscribed-- this is a long list.
The judge saw this scrawling mess and said, "I don't think we've ever had anyone run out of room on the sheet."
We talked my favorite books and movies (the judge enjoyed The Irishman) and the prosecutor pursued the list of magazines I often read: The New Yorker and Harper's and Mother Jones and The Atlantic and Wired and The Week.
The judge took a look at the people I'd like to meet. I had listed The Wu-Tang Clan, Dave Chappelle, and Howard Stern. I forgot Larry David.
The judge thought about all this for a long moment and then said, "I'm going to have you take a seat over there."
He pointed at the jury box.
"Over there?" I said, in slight disbelief. I was headed toward the jury box! I quickly accepted it. It was my civic duty, it was only a six day trial, and my family would figure it out. It wasn't the end of the world. My students would be fine.
I took three steps, and then I heard the judge again. I turned. The prosecutor had just finished speaking to the judge. Telling the judge to dismiss me. No way the prosecutor wanted some liberal bombastic blowhard all full of random and useless information on his jury.
So I was dismissed. And I didn't have to act like a racist or a lunatic or a mind-reader.
The crowd seemed to be comprised mainly of aging Gen Xers-- mainly male-- and so our contingent fit right in. Lecky, Whitney, Zman, Gormley, McWhinney, Carles were all in attendance (as was TR for the pregame). Much beer was drank.
Lecky made Herculean drive from New Brunswick to the Wellmont in Montclair, and the traffic-- just as I predicted-- was abysmal. Complaining about traffic is not very rock-n-roll (and neither am I) but I told Lecky and Whitney we had better get a move on or we were going to be crawling up the Parkway, and I was right! This did give us time to listen to some of Lecky and Whitney's original music, and while I enjoyed this, I still would have rather been out of the car. I can't stand being in traffic. It makes me claustrophobic.
The Cult were energetic and in good spirits, despite the fact that Ian Astbury and Billy Duffy are both pushing sixty. They have slight guts. Gentleman's guts. They played the entire Sonic Temple album and a number of old tunes from Electric, Love and Dreamtime. Nostalgic of the times I went to see them in high school and college (aside from the fact that they didn't play "Bad Fun," which would usually result in dangerously violent moshing).
Lecky, Whitney and I squeezed our way near the front and engaged some (rather tame) moshing with people that looked to be our age. The Millennials in front of us, holding their phones up and filming the show, wanted none of it. Lecky remembered to wear his earplugs. I did not.
After the show, we made an epic hike to a bar atop Gormley's hotel. Between that and the moshing, it was a lot of time on our feet.
I have a giant metal storage cabinet in my classroom that I keep secure with a red and silver combination lock. The cabinet contains many very very valuable items. DVDs and photocopied materials and last years exams and my annotated copies of various texts.
These things may not sound valuable to you-- or to most people on the planet-- but they are worth a lot to me. Plus, I store my workbag and Lenovo Thinkpad in there at night. And there's detention in my room after school. All kinds of people wandering in and out. I don't need them perusing my Henry IV part 1 marginalia. So I like that lock.
More often than not, at the start of the day-- which is very early in the morning-- I take the lock off the cabinet and put it down somewhere weird (often inside the cabinet) and "lose" it for a few minutes. Then, inevitably, I find it and lock up the cabinet again.
Except for last Wednesday. I lost the lock, and even with the help of the sixteen kids in my Philosophy class, we could not find it. Sixteen kids searching the room! It seemed like a philosophical thought experiment, but it wasn't.
Is existence real? Can we trust our perception? Are we living in a simulation? Have I gone mad?
No. No. Yes. Yes.
I wish there was some kind of resolution to the story, other than I've descended into madness. The lock was in my pocket! The lock had fallen into the cuff of my pants! The lock was hidden in plain sight!
No such lock.
Where in Sam-fucking-Hill is that lock? It's got to turn up . . . and it's not behind the two (very heavy) filing cabinets next to the giant metal cabinet. I looked.
I was in denial for a couple of day-- my cabinet lockless-- but I'm bringing a new lock to school on Monday.
I'm back! while I'm glad I made an attempt to have a real website of my own, with independent hosting, I now know it's not for me.
It turns out Wordpress is incredibly powerful and customizable. It's also rather annoying. It loads really slow, and while I think there are some tweaks to make things faster, I don't feel like messing with it. The problem might also be Bluehost, which is really cheap but might also be really slow. It was easy enough to migrate posts back and forth, and while now I don't own my content, I can back it up when necessary. And I've given up on the privacy thing. I just got a real phone-- a Nokia 6.2!-- and I clicked bunch of things during the set up and I think all my information is everywhere. Why fight it?
Not only that, there are a bunch of footie blogs called "Park the Bus."
So I've added an "S" and this has given me the freedom to write multiple sentences. The power of the written word! The pen is mightier than the sword!
Hopefully Google will keep blogger updated. It loads and works so much faster than Wordpress, and now I know that's all I want out of a blog: convenience and easy posting. Tomorrow I'll write something more entertaining-- I still need to screw around with the layout and themes.
I have jury duty today in New Brunswick. Coincidentally, my wife had it yesterday, and she reported that it was hot and crowded. At one point, she had to sit on the floor in a small crowded room for two hours, before -- luckily-- she was released without having to serve on a trial.
My kids had an early dismissal from school yesterday, and so they went out to lunch with their friends. This would have been fine, except that my wife had made them both delicious sandwiches. Bacon and cheese on a bagel.
BOTH Alex and Ian conveniently "forgot" that their loving mother had prepared them lunch in the morning, and not only that-- they were too stupid to dispose of the evidence. So both of them had untouched lunches in their book bag when they returned home. Catherine was rightfully indignant. Spoiled ingrates. And not even considerate enough to at least pretend they had eaten their sandwiches. So she told from here on out, they could make their own lunch.
Ian just walked in from school, and I asked him what he packed. At first he refused to tell me-- he's annoyed that I'm making him look bad-- but I read him the post and he couldn't deny a word of it. He brought pasta and a green apple for his lunch and he's now eating a snack because he's hungry. I'll keep you posted on how long Catherine sticks to her guns-- if I know her it's going to be a while-- and if my kids start getting more creative with their lunches. Hopefully it will make them appreciate dinner more.
This cold but lovely (Black) Friday morning, I took our dog Lola to the Rutgers Ecological Preserve for a run. Unfortunately, the Preserve was closed. The parking lot had signs and some plastic blockades barring entrance and the side entrance had a blockade in front of it as well. I assumed this was because of the recent coyote attacks (and I was right). But I also assumed that the attacks were over, because the aggressive coyote had been euthanized by some Rutgers police. And the coyote was tested and came up negative for rabies. So I figured it was safe to head into the preserve, despite the signs and blockades. There were rumors that there was entire coyote den on the premises, but coyotes were nocturnal-- plus, Lola is a tank. She would run them off.
After running for about twenty minutes, I stumbled over a root obscured by fallen leaves and went flying face-forward into the mud. Luckily, I was wearing gloves, so I was able to somewhat break my fall. My bad shoulder held up, I didn't sprain my wrists, and I didn't cut my hands. The only thing to suffer was my left knee.
I really did hit the ground hard, and I must admit-- and this appropriately dates me-- that just after I hit, this is what I thought to myself:
This is just what you deserve, sneaking into the preserve when it's obviously closed to the public-- now you've broken your neck and no one is coming to help you, no one is going to stumble across you and save you-- because the preserve is closed-- and for good reason!-- and you ignored the signs and now you're going to be eaten by coyotes, ironically less than a mile from the technologically miraculous Bridge Evaluation and Accelerated Structural Testing lab-- which is affectionately known by the acronym The BEAST®-- maybe Lola will protect me, but for how long? and the nights will be cold . . . I'll have to drag my way down the trail to the road . . . etc. etc.
It totally skipped my mind that I was listening to my podcast (Flash Forward: Time After Time) on my cellphone, a device which enabled me to communicate and interact by various means with the world outside of the Rutgers Preserve. I got up, dusted myself off, and started running again-- thinking that I had just evaded certain death . . . and it didn't dawn on me until twenty-five minutes later, when I got back to the parking lot next to The BEAST®, that I had not evaded certain death-- that I owned a cellphone -- mainly because my mother called just as I was loading the dog into the back of the car and this reminded me that my podcast and music player also had communication capabilities.
As a side note, there's still some weird coyote stuff going on in the vicinity of the preserve. A small dog was mauled a couple days ago, after the original aggressive coyote was euthanized. So maybe I was in some danger. If a pack of coyotes got to me before I remembered that I had a cellphone, I might have been eaten alive (while listening to my podcast).
This morning, my wife insisted I taste her mashed turnips. She always makes a batch on Thanksgiving, in honor of her mom. So-- for fear of offending the dead-- I couldn't refuse to take a bite.
I told her that I found the turnips bland and mushy, two food characteristics that don't sit well with me. My wife was shocked. She thought they were tasty and delicious. But she also likes mashed potatoes, and I think that removing the skin and then smooshing a potato to mush (with some milk! yuck!) is sinful.
Mashed turnips taste and look the kind of food you'd eat if you were voyaging to Mars, to start a new colony. The kind of food they might give you a dollop of in the big house. The kind of food you'd eat if you'd broken free from The Matrix and were riding around on with the crew of the Nebuchadnezzar.
So apparently Catherine would fare better than me in space. And in jail. And as an American colonist in the 1600's. I'm thankful for many things, but Thanksgiving food isn't one of them.
Cave crickets (otherwise known as camel crickets, spider crickets, and sprickets) are an invasive species from China that may now outnumber people in the United States. They love basements and sheds and other dank places. They're fairly big and kind of scary, but they do not have fangs and can't bite humans. Despite their lack of biological weaponry, they are more dangerous than you might think.
Most of the camel crickets I encounter live in my bike shed. They are scavengers and provide a valuable service, eating all kinds of gross debris, so most of the time I ignore the giant herd of them that lives on the walls and ceiling of the shed. But I occasionally clean out the bike shed with our leaf blower, and during those rare occasions, I relish blowing the crickets to the four corners of the earth (though I know they'll be back soon enough). It's fun to show them who the boss is. No one can withstand my might wind! The problem is, if I flush them out of the bike shed, then they're going to migrate to my basement.
This is probably what happened Friday morning. I went down into the basement to throw in a load of wash, and saw two crickets by the stereo. I grabbed a manila folder, swatted one of them cleanly and then took aim at the other. I was in a weird position and when I swatted this one, a sharp pain rocketed through my shoulder.
So this camel cricket was the symbolic straw that broke the camel's back. Or the swatting at the camel cricket was the symbolic straw. And I broke the camel cricket's back, but the camel cricket broke my shoulder. Or something like that.
My shoulder has been injured since August, when I tried to resurrect my one-handed backhand. I've been in denial about it. Avoiding the doctor, trying to rehab it myself, and generally screwing it up. I finally recognized that this was the end of the line. I was done in by a harmless insect. Or I was done in playing tennis, and swatting at this stupid creature revealed just how screwed up my shoulder is.
I called my doctor but I couldn't get an appointment right away with the sports medicine guy. So I did some self-diagnosis.
These Bob and Brad guys seem really friendly and credible, and according to them, I probably do not have a rotator cuff tear.
Judging by this video, it seems to be an impingement.
They've even suggested exercises.
I can't wait to see if my self-diagnosis is correct. I go to the doctor on the 20th, and I'm going to be chock full of information.Thanks Bob and Brad!
