Dave Will Survive
Lame Weekend (But It Could Be Worse)
Too Much Phlegm to Create a Coherent Metaphor
Teaching with a stuffy nose is like competing in a dance recital with a piece of toilet paper stuck to your ballet slipper.
Earworm Obsession (Dave Does Some "Work")
Yesterday, I worked harder than I have ever worked before (and probably after) because I got obsessed with an idea-- today, I will see if it was worth it; in my Music and the Arts class we're going to listen to the excellent 99% Invisible episode "Whomst Amongst Us Let the Dogs Out"-- an episode which investigates the nebulous and foggy history of the Baha Men's earworm "Who Let the Dogs Out"-- and so yesterday morning I started going down the rabbit hole of songs that are earworms, especially songs that just seem to exist in the ether-- you can't imagine the world without them . . . they just sort of show up; so I talked to students and teahcers and consulted the internet and I came up with a list of 50 earworm songs and then I wanted to make this into a quiz for the students-- to see if they could identify the song and perhaps-- although it's often very difficult-- the original artist . . . the only way to do this properly was to download the songs from YouTube and convert them to mp3s and then use Logic to clip the relevant earworm-- as little as possible and usually without vocals-- and then a piece of the chorus-- the "answer" to the earworm-- it took me four hours and as soon as I can figure out a way to share the file, I will-- but I'll certainly turn it into a podcast or something-- I think for people my age (53) that are native-born Americans, it will be fairly easy to identify most of the songs-- although the artists are often difficult-- and I did put some contemporary stuff in there for the kids, so they don't get frustrated-- I'm going to try it out on them today so I'll report how it goes tomorrow.
Welcome Home, Stranger
Every few years I end up reading a book like this one . . . a book where someone in a family that is scattered geographically dies and the family returns to the ol' homestead to mourn and revisit past conflicts and grievances-- Kate Christensen's novel Welcome Home, Stranger fits this archetype, so don't read it if you're looking for a lighthearted comedy, but it's an excellent book: the writing is strong and precise, the narrator-- an eco-journalist named Rachel-- tackles the futility of our decaying environment and her own existential crises with a sordid and mordant wit, and the state of Maine is just as much a character as any of the people in the book . . . nine lobster pots out of ten.
There's No "I" in AI
Dave Gets It Wrong (Again!)
For a good portion of last night's game, I thought it would be the first time a kicker received the Super Bowl MVP-- two record-setting field goals were kicked, the first (55 yards) by Jake Moody and the second (57 yards) by Harrison Butker . . . and Butker was perfect on the night, booting four field goals-- I think if Butker kicked a long one for a dramatic win/tie in overtime, he would have made place-kicking history . . . but luckily I'm not a betting man because Patrick Mahomes won MVP again-- and that makes three times . . . boring.
In Thirty Years, I Should Run For President?
Last week, I made a triumphant return to indoor soccer and I was able to play for 50 minutes before I felt a twinge in my calf--but I must confess, I also felt fat and out of shape on the soccer pitch, I've been going to the gym and playing pickleball and while pickleball may require some burst of speed and plenty of shuffling in a squat stance, it's not really stop-and-go aerobic exercise; this week, I was able to play for a little over an hour-- I got my 10,000 steps and then stopped before I hurt anything-- and wow, was I winded-- and I still felt fat and slow and without good touch, but I did score a nice left-footed goal on the volley, off a looping cross . . . so I am cautiously optimistic about athletics in 2024-- and my wife and I are trying to eat fewer carbs and more protein, so maybe we'll lose some weight this week, which I am assuming will really help my fitness in sports like soccer and basketball (I was annoyed last week, I didn't drink all week-- until Friday and Saturday, or eat dessert after dinner, and I still don't think I lost a pound . . . as I approach age 54 my metabolism has really slowed down-- when I was in my forties if I quit beer and dessert for a week, I'd lose five pounds).
I Love a (fictional) Dead Body
Magpie Murders, a meta-mystery by British author Anthony Horowitz, deconstructs the genre so cunningly that it very well might be the last whodunnit you ever need to read . . . it won't be, of course, because murder-- mystery novel murder, that is-- is just so damned fun.
Two Pickleball Firsts
Mystery Solved!
My English 12: Music and the Arts class agrees with me that the Reply All episode "The Case of the Missing Hit" is one of the most satisfying narrative arcs in the history of storytelling-- right up there with The Sixth Sense and Murder on the Orient Express-- except that this story is true, not made up bullshit.
Dave's Body is Haunted by Shit From 2020
My shoulder hurts-- which hasn't been the case since 2019/2020 . . . I aggravated my shoulder trying to hit a topspin one-handed backhand in 2019 and when I finally got an MRI in early 2020, I learned that my right shoulder has some arthritis, some bone cysts, and some swelling . . . not the worst case scenario-- but these elements have gotten organized once again and are making a team effort to make my shoulder sore and swollen and so it's hard to make a right-handed lay-up or hit an overhead smash in tennis and pickleball-- and throwing a football a good distance is out of the question-- but I'm taking naproxen, like the doctor said, and it's starting to work-- and I'm also recovering from a calf strain-- and this is another injury resurfacing from 2020 . . . I hurt it playing indoor soccer and though I played indoor soccer this weekend, I could still feel it a bit, so I stopped after an hour . . . and I guess this is just how it's going to be-- the same injuries are going to resurface when I push my body too much and they will always be there, lingering in the background, and I'll also accumulate new injuries . . . and then I'll get some kind of illness or disease and croak (and hopefully, I will eloquently document it all for your reading displeasure).
The Bell Tolls for Show and Tell
Note to (Flatulent) Self
Why Is That Lizard Wearing a Fur Coat?
My wife assisted me in some body hair removal today, transforming my back and shoulders from a hairy pelt to lovely smooth skin and changing one of my tattoos from a proto-mammal back into a reptile.
Let There be Light (and Screws)
Temperature Temperance
I did a roaming coverage today during first period-- so that various teachers could attend IEP meetings-- and I also stopped in a couple of other classrooms along my journey, to visit friends, and I noticed that, from classroom to classroom, there are fairly large temperature swings-- the first class I was in was hot enough to make me dazed . . . so I convinced this teacher to open a window so that I would not pass out-- though she said she felt cold-- which I attributed to some horrible illness and I think I actually convinced her she was coming down with something-- and I wanted to open more windows but there were guys on the roof making a shitload of noise with leafblowers, so I couldn't-- but what do you do when two people have such a different perception of the same temperature?-- there's only so much clothing you can remove or put on-- especially in the workplace-- and the other classrooms I visited were also fairly warm, so then when I got back to my classroom, enraged, I opened all the windows and made it very very cold-- cold enough that the students complained-- so I closed a couple windows, but then a teacher stopped in my room, to give a student a pass, and she said, "this room is nice and cold-- the rest of the building is so hot!" and I agreed with her and felt a great kinship with this lady . . . meanwhile, I felt great disdain for the teachers that were keeping their windows shut, not only were their rooms stifling hot, but they also smelled kind of funky . . . I guess I'm going to have to start carrying around a thermometer so I can point out to people when their perception of hot and cold is ludicrous (and I think people will really enjoy this information, just as they love it when I correct their grammar in real-time).
You Never Get a Second Chance to Make a First Transgression
Yesterday was the first day of the second semester, and so I met my new class of Creative Writing students and we did all the first day of school stuff-- cell phones in the cell phone holder; some first-day activities; name mnemonics on index cards . . . you know the drill-- and after I memorized all the names and recited them several times, I started collecting index cards-- and there were about five minutes left in class but I was obviously done so some kids got up to get their phones and then they started milling around by the door-- these were sophomores and I forget how sophomores behave because I mainly teach seniors-- so I was like: "stop milling around by the door and get back in the general vicinity of your desk because I don't like kids milling around near the door or anywhere near my person or my desk" and they were like: "okay, but someone escaped" and I was like: "wtf?" and I had everyone sit back down and-- lo and behold! one of the desks that was previously occupied was now empty-- one of the sophomores had slithered out the door, probably to go to lunch early-- and because I had just memorized their names I knew the name of the missing girl and I was like: "wow . . . I've been teaching for nearly thirty years and that's a new one for the first day of class . . . some first impression" and I wrote the girl up and sent an email to the girl's parents (no reply yet) and I can't wait to see what kind of second impression this girl makes when I chastise her in person tomorrow.
First Wrist Problems
I like my new Nike Xmas hoodie-- it's a magnetic blue/green color and size XL, so it fits me around my burly chest and neck . . . the only problem are the sleeves-- they're too tight for my thick wrists!
The Fork is Pitched
To commemorate the end of the 28-year reign of Pitchfork as an intellectual, snarky tastemaking mega-God, I'm listening to some of the top-rated electronica albums on the site-- today I did In Color by Jamie xx (which is good stuff to listen to at the gym) and I'm writing this sentence to the weird, jazzy beats of Amon Tobin's album Bricolage . . . I suppose the demise of Pitchfork as the ultimate purveyor of musical criticism was inevitable because the musical landscape has become so fragmented, across time, space, genre, demographics, and the globe . . . I can't remember the last time I thought the same music was good at the same time as a bunch of other people (maybe 100 gecs?) and with the advent of the earbud, you don't even know what people are listening to-- it's not like walking around a college campus in 1991 and hearing Nevermind and Ten pouring out of every dorm room-- or back in the 80s when people advertised their musical taste by carrying a boom box and blasting Van Halen or Public Enemy or AC/DC . . . now, taste is a private affair and you can listen to whatever fucking garbage you want, without the intrusion of music snobs-- it would be fun to know though, like the app Snoop, which Ruth Ware invents in her book One by One-- so you can spy on what people are listening to . . . but we'd never stand for that, just as no one wants to know what number (plus decimal point) that some pretentious music snob assigned an album . . . because what the fuck is an album?