A Noteworthy Parking Offense?

A few weeks ago, I noticed an egregiously parked car in our school note and left a mildly censorious Post-it note on it-- and while this might have been mildly obnoxious behavior, there was no question that this car was poorly parked. . . ANYONE would agree that the parking job was awful and that this car encroached on BOTH parking spots on either side of the vehicle-- the car was OBJECTIVELY poorly parked; yesterday morning, my wife and I went to pick up the Mazda, which we left on Adelaide Avenue overnight after we took the train to Princeton to meet my brother-- we were several drinks over the limit so we did not drive it home and instead walked from the train station back home on Friday night-- and when we got the car on Saturday morning, we noticed a note tucked into the driver side door handle-- the note said: 

2 Vehicles can fit here. Next time, pull closer to the driveway in front or behind you. 

and while I understand the sentiment-- Catherine parked the car in the middle of a small strip of curb between two driveways-- and obviously the note-writer wanted to park right in front of their house-- but I don't think this parking event was noteworthy for several reasons:

1) Adelaide is a long street with plenty of parking;

2) if my wife had pulled the Mazda all the way up to the next driveway, there might have been enough room to squeeze another car behind it-- but why do this? why encroach on someone's driveway when there is plenty of parking on this street?

3) this is not an objectively poor parking job-- it's a subjective desire by someone lazy and inconvenienced by the fact that they could not park exactly where they wanted;

4) this note is boring and didactic-- 

if the offended party would have written something funny or clever . . . "Pull up or pull out, dick" would have sufficed-- then I might have empathized more with the put-out parker who had to walk eleven yards farther than normal . . . but because of the moralistic tone, I will seek that spot out the next time we drive to the edge of Highland Park and foray into New Brunswick and I will park exactly in the middle of that strip between the two driveways and perhaps I will keep this note and adorn it with dicks and place it on my windshield.

Meta-Magical Mystery Tour

The new episode of We Defy Augury is (loosely) based on the meta-mystery novel Magpie Murders by Anthony Horowitz . . . get ready to deconstruct the mystery genre and murder in particular; special guests include The Smile, Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, Tom Hanks, and Meg Ryan.

Schools Out! For the Weekend . . .

These five-day weeks are brutal, but I just have to remember: summer is coming, summer is coming . . . and while I'm IN school I'm learning valuable things from my students, such as: anime fans talk with their hands (and apparently, make very specific hand motions) and, according to one of my students today: "I danced so hard in PE class my hijab fell off"-- which we decided could be the basis of an amazing song lyric.

Dave's Head is So Money

Some folks might find the buzz of the Remington Balder Pro annoying-- but to me, the high-pitched hum of the Five Dual Track heads is the sound of money in the bank . . . I shelled out any cash for a haircut in twenty years.

Ahh Dickens . . .

I forgot to bring my Kindle to school today-- so I'm not going to be able to delve deeper into the mud and fog of Bleak House during cafeteria duty . . . unless I deign to read on my laptop-- but I will provide two excerpts from the opening chapter of the Dickens' novel for your amusement and consideration . . . here is a sentence about the mud:

As much mud in the streets as if the waters had but newly retired from the face of the earth, and it would not be wonderful to meet a Megalosaurus, forty feet long or so, waddling like an elephantine lizard up Holborn Hill . . .

and here is a section focusing on fog:

Fog everywhere. Fog up the river, where it flows among green aits and meadows; fog down the river, where it rolls defiled among the tiers of shipping and the waterside pollutions of a great (and dirty) city. Fog on the Essex marshes, fog on the Kentish heights. Fog creeping into the cabooses of collier-brigs; fog lying out on the yards and hovering in the rigging of great ships; fog drooping on the gunwales of barges and small boats. Fog in the eyes and throats of ancient Greenwich pensioners, wheezing by the firesides of their wards; fog in the stem and bowl of the afternoon pipe of the wrathful skipper, down in his close cabin; fog cruelly pinching the toes and fingers of his shivering little ’prentice boy on deck. Chance people on the bridges peeping over the parapets into a nether sky of fog, with fog all round them, as if they were up in a balloon and hanging in the misty clouds.

Catherine's Foot = Step On It

My wife went to the orthopedist today so he could assess how she is healing from her foot surgery and her foot has received "the green light for all activities"-- hiking, pedicures, pickleball, Zumba-- but I assume the orthopedist meant only "foot-related" activities-- as her foot will not be attending cooking school nor will it be caulking the bathtub . . . but still, while feet aren't as dextrous as hands, they are the key to being ambulatory-- and you can't go on a bar crawl unless you are ambulatory.

Upstream, downstream . . . Minnesota 81/Rutgers 70

What a strange and perverse mental illness-- to look forward all day to a time when you will watch a remote event on television that will probably drive you to the brink of madness-- but believe that if you get emotionally involved enough, you will have some influence over the event-- and believe this enough so that you enjoy joyous high and suffer precipitous lows, project streams of profanity, enter existential futility, entertain possible resurrection, and finally go to bed, sweaty, frustrated, and fatigued, though you've only sat on your couch-- and you'll do it again Thursday night because the Rutgers men's basketball team is playing Purdue.

Dave Will Survive

Another boring evening last night-- I really felt like shit, congested and glassy-eyed and all that fun stuff that happens when you have a cold-- so we watched some college basketball and the first episode of Resident Alien-- which I found more amusing than my wife-- but this morning, despite sleeping poorly, I came back from outer space and managed to record some of my new podcast and play 90 minutes of indoor soccer, and all the trotting around helped drain the mucous . . . so I think I'm going to recover just in time to go to work tomorrow . . . blech (and my wife has off because her district budgeted enough snow days, while my district did not-- so at East Brunswick High School there will be learnin' on President's Day).

Lame Weekend (But It Could Be Worse)

All systems: clogged and stuffy-- I've got a cold and it sucks-- I worked all week while fighting off this virus-- and my reward is a lame weekend-- no alcohol, no gym, no indoor soccer, no going out to dinner or sitting in a bar . . . but I'm enjoying Martha Well's Murderbot Diaries, I got genius level on the NYT Spelling Bee last night, we finished watching Mythic Quest-- highly recommended, sweet and very funny . . . in the vein of Parks & Rec-- and we started the new version of Mr and Mrs. Smith with Donald Glover, which seems worth watching-- and I'm still powering through Robert Caro's The Power Broker . . . and reading about how hard Robert Mose's New Deal hires worked during the very cold and snowy winter of 1934 made me happy to have a warm house and sick days to use, if need be.

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

 

My newest episode of We Defy Augury, "There's No "I" AI: Good Writing, Intentionality, and a Plethora of Other Shit" collects some of my thoughts and lessons that are (loosely) based on William Zinsser's classic primer On Writing Well (and impacted by the current AI writing revolution) . . . Special Guests include George Carlin, Spirograph, John Cleese, Graham Chapman, Simple Minds, El Guapo, Hefe, and Donald Trump.

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

This afternoon was unseasonably warm, so eight of us got together at Castleton Park for some excellent pickleball and I experienced two new things-- or new to me:

1) I wore calf-compression sleeves-- and my strained calf muscle felt wonderful, safe, secure, and warm inside the tight polyester/nylon tube and I did not re-pull the muscle;

2) when I tried to block a drive at the net, the ball hit the bottom edge of my paddle, caromed, and clipped my testicle-- and though my testicle was safe and secure and warm inside my spandex tights, it did not matter-- and I felt that queasy sickly distinctive sensation that only those people possessing testicles ever have the privilege to feel-- but it dissipated fairly quickly and then I got back to enjoying the warm and sunny February afternoon.

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

I'm doing something new in Creative Writing class-- I used to begin class with "Show and Tell" . . . one or two kids would read a passage from their favorite book or they would play a little bit of a favorite song and explain why they liked it-- but many of these newfangled digital kids have trouble presenting things in a compelling fashion and because of the fragmented state of art and media, they also don't share much common culture, so there's not much statistical likelihood that what they present will resonate with the crowd-- so I ditched this routine and instead of this, we are beginning each class with a free-writing prompt; today's prompt was "describe yourself in the third person as if you were a character in a novel" and I always tackle the prompt too . . . moments after we began writing, I asked the class if they knew some synonyms for "really really good looking," which made a few students chuckle (of course, I'm sure there were a few who did not detect the irony and thought I was just a vain narcissist).