F#&k All Phones

I just spent thirty minutes trying to send a mass text about my wife's birthday celebration on my Android phone (using a third-party app called Textra) and I received a bunch of error messages and I have no clue who got the initial message-- and I can't see the morning basketball group chat because someone with an iPhone started the chat and so I can't join with my Android-- so I had to join on my wife's phone (which is annoying for her because the AM basketball crew sends a lot of lame GIFs) and while I had to cave, it seems like everything is pushing me to switch from Android to an iPhone . . . even though I hate the monopoly Apple has over phones and messaging in the United States (and I hate the fact that I can't put an SD card in an iPhone so I can download all of my Spotify music and photos).

Lola Defeats Urethra Bacteria

Our very concerned and conscientious veterinarian just called and our dog Lola is finally in the clear-- she recently endured some rather expensive bladder-stone removal surgery, and now she's eating some rather expensive prescription anti-bladder-stone dog food, and now her rather expensive extensive urinalysis has finally come back negative-- which is positive!-- she originally had some awful antibiotic-resistant bacterial infection that our vet was VERY worried about but she took some rather cheap human antibiotics and they worked . . . and hopefully this weird infection was the cause of the bladder-stones and so we won't have to deal with this again.

My wife + idioms = weirdness

I was telling my wife a story about how some boys tore down some class council election posters when my sophomore class took a walk around the building-- our periods are 83 minutes long, which is absurd, so I usually break it up with a lap around the school, but it's gotten cold so we had to walk inside, giving these three boys an opportunity to vandalize a rivals election posters-- and so I told my wife that I was no longer taking that class on walks because "the rotten apples spoil the bunch" and she started laughing and said she just realized that she butchered that exact idiom with her fifth-graders earlier in the day-- quite a coincidence-- she told her class that "the bad egg spoils the bunch," somehow combining the idea of a "bad egg" with the old Ben Franklin adage (which is actually "the rotten apple spoils his companions") but I explained to her that:

1) eggs don't come in a bunch

2) a bad egg doesn't spoil the rest of the eggs in the dozen because eggs have separate little compartments in the container and they are also insulated by a shell

and she found this logic so funny that she asked her class the next day if they noticed how she misused an idiom and a girl raised her hand and repeated my wife's distorted maxim back to her-- and my wife told the class that she really appreciated that no one corrected her and shamed her (as I often do) and then she told them about some of the other idioms she's butchered and she said the class was laughing so hard they were crying and one girl insisted that my wife was lying about these mixed metaphor mishaps but my wife told her that this was no exaggeration (and she believes this started happening more frequently twenty-five years ago when she got several migraines that were so bad that they thought she had a minor stroke and that this destroyed the idiom section of her brain-- but my theory is that she doesn't remember these phrases as single units, and instead substitutes synonyms for words within them at will, creating new phrases that are very close in meaning to the original saying).

You Know Hermano?

Let us celebrate this cold, dank, dark rainy Friday afternoon with good coffee and the mellow musical stylings of Hermanos Gutierrez . . . the Swiss-Ecuadorian brothers that play expansive spaghetti-western instrumentals with a King Tubby/Ennio Morricone vibe.

Two Things I'll Never Understand

While I'm starting to get the idea of 5/4 time, here are two things I will never, ever get right, no matter how hard I try:

1) knowing which side of the court to stand on when my friend Ann and I "stack" in pickleball;

2) which direction to place the ear-hook when I'm putting on my JLab Go Air Sports-- you'd think I'd get it right fifty percent of the time, but I seem to always get it wrong.

Take Five and Think About Five

I am trying to compose a song in 5/4 time-- the time signature with five quarter notes per measure?-- and most recognizable in the Mission Impossible theme song and Dave Brubeck's eponymous tune "Take Five"-- and while this video is supposed to be helpful, I'm not sure that it is . . . but Logic does have a way to change the time signature to 5/4, so I've got five "quarter notes" per measure now and I'm creating some Frankensteined music that might be in this oddball rhythm-- I will keep you posted.

Costco: Hyper-Capitalist Crucible

I made my triumphant return to 6:30 AM basketball this morning-- my pulled rib muscle feels much better and once again I can launch (chuck?) my patented long-range-high-arcing-randomly accurate three-pointer-- and I even dribbled the ball a few times, wending my way around the court; soon after, I had to wend my way through the halls, to get to my class to teach, dodging and weaving the masses while carrying my gym bag-- no easy task-- but all of this was light work compared to the swerving and weaving I did driving to Costco and the much more aggressive shopping cart pushing maneuvers I performed inside Costco-- I left work early to run this errand and thought things would be relatively mellow on a Tuesday afternoon but making my way through the traffic on the Route 1 jughandle was something out of Mad Max-- everyone was out roaming around burning fossil fuels and everyone sucks at driving once I arrived there was no respite: the Costco parking lot and warehouse were equally insane . . . just a moronic wasteland of people and cars and shopping carts-- and I am a fast walker and a fast cart-pusher, I've got places to go and things to do, but everyone else inside Costco always seems to be puttering along, browsing cheap cargo pants and remaindered books or stalled out and scrolling on their phone, their enormous Costco cart blocking the aisle-- it's infuriating, especially once I've grabbed the frozen salmon and shrimp, because then I want to get the fuck out as soon as possible, before the seafood defrosts, and I will lay waste to anyone in my path-- young, old, romantically entwined, bickering, whatever-- get the fuck out of my way!-- and then, once you get to the front, you've got to choose a line . . . and you'd better choose carefully . . . you need to evaluate the cashier, evaluate the carts, evaluate the idiots pushing the carts-- but I made it out alive and relatively quickly (though, to my chagrin, I left the dog crate in the back of the car, and I had bought both paper towels AND toilet paper, plus a case of wine and several cases of beer, so I had to put the beer and wine inside the dog crate so I would have enough room for the rest of the stuff in the back seat) and then I got to decompress at acupuncture and erase the stress from all this manic hyper-capitalistic behavior (and now I'm drinking some Conehead beer that I bought at a steep discount-- the irony! . . . I'm using the very stuff I bought in the stressful crucible of Costco to relax because I got stressed out going to Costco).

Gross Meatbag/Corporeal Irony!

Today in class, my College Writing students wrote a synthesis essay about the "Always Be Optimizing" chapter of the Jia Tolentino book Trick Mirror-- and while my colleague Cunningham wrote a wonderful prompt about how Tolentino describes women with an odd triad of imagery, as "gross meatbags, robots, and spiritual beings," I couldn't handle the term "gross meatbag"-- too visceral-- and so I changed it to the more academic-sounding "corporeal" and then told the children Cunningham's phrasing-- and there certainly is some "gross meatbag" imagery in this chapter, including a vivid account of a woman "queefing" in Tolentino's yoga class . . . so the kids had to write about the tension between these three portrayals of women and what it revealed about the world-- and, ironically, during last period, while I was robotically grading the previous class set of essays, and trying to inspire my current class to transcendent new heights of learning, the lunch of lentils, chicken, and cauliflower that my wife packed for me (which I had eaten an hour previous) made its way all the way through my corporeal digestive system, and so I had to make a hasty exit from class, quickly use the bathroom, and then return as though nothing unusual had happened . . . because, as I mentioned earlier, I don't like talking about that kind of gross meatbag stuff.

Ivermectin For All . . .

I have finally recovered from Friday's COVID booster and flu shot-- I felt crappy all day yesterday: aches, a headache, low fever, and fatigue . . . but soon enough I won't need any vaccines-- when R.F.K. Jr. takes over as the minister of Health, Human Services, and Abundant Full Stops . . . because then I'll be able to get government-approved ivermectin and raw milk to combat all the diseases.

Mike Tyson for President?

While we recently learned that a very old, amoral man could make a comeback in the political arena, that's not so easy in the actual arena-- so while all the old, amoral people (like myself) were rooting for Mike Tyson, he had a better shot at winning the presidential election than beating that jacked youngster last night (and while the main event was nothing special-- aside from when Jake Paul's trainer shot water down his shorts to cool off his junk-- there was plenty of spectacle before the fight: two women beating each other to a bloody pulp, and-- randomly-- Mike Tyson's bare flabby ass).

Dave Womans Up

Today's sentence is in honor of my perseverance and valor because I really" "manned up" at school today and suffered both a COVID booster shot AND the flu shot at the annual vaccine clinic-- and I took these shots ON THE SAME SHOULDER! with my colleagues watching me!-- and I place quotations around the phrase "manned up" because my wife womaned up and endured both these shots a few weeks ago and she had no symptoms or side-effects . . . but my immune system is especially robust and so I assume I'll be down for the count tonight.

Things Fall Apart . . .

I was having a healthy and efficient post-vacation week-- cooking lots of excellent meals; exercising intelligently; avoiding alcohol; recording some music; cleaning up after myself-- but today is where it all fell apart: the dishes have piled up, the garbage needs to go out; there's a shitload of laundry to be done; I'm drinking some delicious Honey Brown Ale that I bought in Annapolis from Forward Brewing; and all I've done so far today besides go to work is play pickleball and write this sentence.

Tennis vs. Pickleball

I played some pickleball this afternoon at Castleton Park with seven guys I know quite well from playing there for the last three years and I am certain a good time was had by all-- lots of exciting play, some sun, not too much wind, plenty of jokes (especially about Kevin's anger at having his pop-up pickleball stool stolen-- he left it behind Monday night in Highland Park and when he came back it was gone-- and he pronounced all of humanity "scumbags" and "thieves" . . . so sad, but also kind of funny) and plenty of socializing while waiting to play; meanwhile, on the adjacent tennis court, a dour guy with a hopper of balls was diligently practicing his serve-- alone-- and his serve looked pretty good, he was getting into trophy position, with a nice knee bend, and some good whip to the racket-- and if you want to be good at tennis, that's what you have to do, practice your serve for hours, alone (or in a lesson) but if you want to get better at pickleball, you just meet some friends and play (although I guess you could drill alone for hours, but you're not going to get the some benefits as practicing your serve in tennis-- there's no one dominant shot to practice in pickleball-- the serve isn't that much of a weapon and you're going to hit every kind of shot every time you play-- and a bunch you never thought existed too).

What More Could You Ask For?

I've been taking creatine and Metamucil every morning for several weeks, so I am both jacked AND regular.

Almost Forgot . . .

Fun (and gross) fact I learned from our Blackwater Refuge kayaking tour guide while we were perusing muskrat burrows: the Eastern Shore of Maryland hosts a muskrat skinning contest-- which means you first have to hunt the muskrats (and then after you skin the muskrats, you eat the muskrats!)

Leaf Blowers Blow

I'm not going to polarize this country even more than it already is-- but I HATE the sound of gas-powered leaf-blowers and I think folks should rake their leaves the old-fashioned way (or at least hire someone-- legal citizen or not-- to rake their leaves the old-fashioned way) but I'm not going to exacerbate matters further and declare that there are only two kinds of leaf rakers-- I'm not looking to be controversial and there is obviously a continuum of styles of leaf-raking and it's not an entrenched two-party leaf-raking system where you can really only reasonably choose between two styles-- but at the two poles of leaf raking are the obsessive raker who starts raking and bagging and doesn't stop until ALL of the leaves are removed from the lawn/yard and while I admire this style of raking, it is not my style-- then there is the irregular and sporadic raker, which is how I do it, the guy who randomly rakes a few leaves and puts them in a bag but doesn't necessarily fill the bag and maybe just leaves the bag in the yard, half full. . . because there's always tomorrow and there will always be more leaves and it's really organizationally difficult to rake ALL the leaves and honestly, if you leave some leaves on your lawn and the wind blows the right direction, they might end up on an obsessive leaf-raker's lawn, and that sort of solves the problem . . . plus fall is all about decay anyway and won't some of these leaves that you do not rake and bag decay and add nutrients to the soil?

Excellent Indian Food on the Eastern Shore

We returned home from the Eastern Shore of Maryland this morning and our house, our dog, and our son were all in one piece-- so a successful trip-- we had a good time with my wife's niece and her husband in Eastport . . . I loved the brewery and the local bars and restaurants so much I'd like to move there (if it wasn't for all the flooding) but maybe I'll settle on moving to Cambridge, a historical Eastern Shore town that seems to sit a little higher above the water (or at least most of the town . . . I am frankly amazed at how close to volatile bodies of water people will build houses and this trait is truly on display in Maryland) and while I was not surprised that the brewery and bakery were both excellent in Cambridge, the biggest surprise was that the restaurant our AirBnB lady recommended, Bombay Social, served some of the best Indian food we've ever eaten (and we live adjacent to Edison, New Jersey!)

Maryland, More Scenic Than You Might Think

A kayak was definitely the best way to explore the Blackwater Wildlife Refuge . . . we saw several bald eagles up close, including one that was adding moss to a gigantic eyrie high in a pine tree and once we were done paddling and hiking therefore, we headed to downtown Cambridge for beers at RaR Brewing and a walk along the piers to the lighthouse . . . who knew Maryland was so scenic?

Cheers . . . with Ghosts

Last night,  after a delicious meal at The Fox's Den, we stopped at the colonial-era Middleton Tavern for a nightcap (and some live music) with the locals-- the vibe of the bar is "Haunted Cheers" and then today we took a boat ride past the Naval Academy and up Spa Creek, past all the yachts and fancy homes, and I was thinking this is a lot of fucking boats, the most boats I've ever seen and then the captain of our little tour boat told us that the harbor and creek were totally empty now and there were no boats at all, compared to October-- so obviously I have no fucking clue what a lot of boats look like.

You Are A Future Fossil (If You're Lucky)

This morning, you might be lamenting the fact that the American people have spoken . . . and they overwhelmingly selected an antediluvian orange wanna-be fascist who dog-whistles to white supremacists; poses a danger to the EPA, the NOAA, the NWS, USDA, and NNSA; trusts Russian intelligence and Vladimir Putin more than the FBI and there CIA; worships tariffs, deportation, and grabbing women by the pussy; paid a porn star hush money; and loves lying about his golf scores, Arnold Palmer's penis, selling commemorative coins of himself, and over-charging foreign emissaries and American officials at his hotels and various properties . . . but it's only for four years-- you might need to hike out to the Calvert Cliffs in Maryland to put it in perspective and remember that we are all just future fossils (if we're lucky enough! if our rotting carcass is washed into a limestone crevasse where it can slowly be covered and replaced with silt as we decay!) and see the exposed layers of the earth from the Miocene (5 to 23 million years ago) and sift for ancient shark's teeth and fossilized shells . . . afterwards we had lunch in the oddly tropical weather (but I can't mention global warming now that Trump is back in power) on Solomons Island, we sat out on the deck at The Island Hideaway and watched the boats-- that place is an odd little nook on the western side of the Eastern Shore-- a well-appointed and well-situated place that must be hopping in the summer-- so much so that many ambitious dockowners have built semi-permanent micro-house boats on their docks so that they can AriBnB them out and make some extra cash-- God Bless America . . . and while I think Trump is a gauche douchebag, I'm still rooting for him to make some good choices, because we're all in this together.