Ian and I woke up at 5:10 AM to go for his ankle surgery, but when we arrived at University Orthopedics, the building was surrounded by fire and police vehicles and enough flashing lights to give you a seizure-- after waiting a few minutes at the edge of the parking lot, we were informed that there was smoke in the building and a generator blew, so there would be no appointments today-- which really sucks because we scheduled this to coincide with my Spring Break and my wife's Spring Break-- which is next week-- so that we could take care of Ian while he's incapacitated-- and though I went to bed early, I did NOT get a good night's sleep because it seems that a raccoon has broken into our attic (which happened once before-- quite a tale) and it was making noise through the night-- probably pregnant female making a nest-- and on our early morning drive, Ian and I saw two raccoons strolling along the sidewalk across the street from our house . . . perhaps they are the culprits-- so it seems my Spring Break will consist of scheduling the animal removal guy and the roof guy; grading all the essay I received right before break-- the quarter ends right when we get back; going to PT for my torn calf; rescheduling Ian's surgery, and coaching tennis . . . no wet t-shirt contests for me.
I've spend an inordinate amount of my life on grassy fields-- playing soccer, coaching soccer, playing golf, hiking, walking the dog, etcetera-- but I've never spotted a four-leaf clover.
A long week . . . five days of teaching six classes and four preps, plus Back to School Night (and no more videos, we're doing it in person) but it's been a good week: Rutgers football won, Giants football "won" . . . but just barely, Ian went up 190 points on the SAT, Ian played really well in the tragic soccer loss against Middlesex . . . another ridiculous call-- this time a phantom PK and the Middlesex kid, who had been diving all game, kicked the ball while he was on the ground and HE got the call in his favor and then our goalie got knocked out of the way and another goal was scored and then another Middlesex kid took a dive and out player got his second yellow, so I'm glad I'm not coaching but Ian scraped the rust off from a summer of only tennis and actually looked fit and aggressive and his touch was excellent, and we had a delicious flank steak for dinner-- and you never know with flank steak, sometimes it can be tough, and I've got another episode of We Defy Augury out . . . we'll see if I can keep it up after this long week (and Garage Sale Day on Saturday . . . if I get the next episode out, I'm a podcasting hero).
My wife and I took a road trip to the Possumtown Firehouse last night for what I thought was going to be a two hour CPR class-- I need to update my certificate for coaching-- but the course also included First Aid and the lady running the class was a bit disorganized and a bit tangential, so we were there from 6 PM until nearly 10 PM, learning about tourniquets and nosebleeds and impalements and all kinds of things that make me dizzy-- luckily there was a large couch in the very comfy Possumtown Volunteer Firehouse (the lady's dad was the chief) and this place really had small town firehouse character: a big TV and a kegerator and a soda machine that you could just open and take the soda out and a fish tank with some big fish in it (I watched these fish when the videos got too graphic about blood) and the class was quite intimate, just me, my wife, and a young dude-- it was kind of stream-of-consciousness, with lots of anecdotes from the teacher's EMT experiences and the main thing I learned-- which no other class was so blunt about-- was that you don't need to worry about breaking someone's ribs when you're doing CPR because they are CLINICALLY DEAD . . . once she put it that way, it assuaged a lot of my fears about pressing too hard or whatever, you're literally trying to resurrect someone when you're doing those compressions (and we always have an AED nearby when I coach, so hopefully that machine will do the trick . . . although if someone like me goes down, you'll need the razor in the accessory kit top deal with my excessive chest hair).
I have coached soccer my entire adult life and can organize and arrange a practice for four to forty people in my sleep, but I am finding tennis to be a different animal entirely-- practice is much more chaotic and disorganized: there are challenge matches going on, and they end at various times; there are drills and fun games; there are balls EVERYWHERE; there's a court for our absolute beginners, who are just working on hitting the ball; plus, I try to work with some kids individually on particular shots . . . and there's no culminating scrimmage to end things-- practice start out organized but slowly fall apart as different matches and drills end at different times, so then you can end practice with whacky large group games like "around the world" and "lob doubles touch the net or fence" challenge and maybe some fitness . . . I really like coaching tennis so far, but I'm learning to go with the flow a bit and I can't wait for our first scrimmage to see the kids in action.
Weird tennis match this morning-- I hurt my quad last week playing soccer, so I promised myself I wouldn't run too hard at tennis this morning because I need to stay healthy for coaching tennis, and I played a good player this morning, Jonathan, a skilled and fit Asian guy in his thirties who has played a lot of tennis and I was hoping he'd kill me so I wouldn't get competitive and hurt my leg, but in between killer shots, he made some unforced errors and near the end, I was ahead 7-6 but he tied it at 7-7 and we had to play a tiebreaker-- and my leg was really starting to get tender, but I went ahead 3-0 in the tiebreaker, only to finally lose in the end 7-5 . . . and the whole time I was trying not to run down drop shots or get into long rallies and I'm just glad I survived without injury-- though I really could have beaten him if I was at full strength . . . and then I got bagels for my family and my wife gave me a very complicated order involving a "scooped out" bagel, a term which I never heard but seems to be something they are familiar with at the bagel shop.
The Saturday morning tennis schedule has gotten weird-- people are injured or have dropped out, so I played Barry again this morning-- and while I was always ahead handily and beat him 8 - 4, he's a tough old sonofabitch-- he's 66!-- and he was hitting his serve well and some weird angle shots that had me running back and forth-- but I actually hit a few aces; I got to the net and never missed an overhead; and while my cut backhand is still erratic, I was hitting my two-hander deep with some topspin-- I was working on just turning my back to start the stroke . . . I was struggling a little with his serve, I kept hitting floaters back-- and at the start, I hit a few shots without enough spin, so they floated out on me-- I've got to be confident with my follow-through . . . but I definitely got a confidence boost from my first day of coaching, I'm mired in tennis drills and practice plans, etcetera and it can only help my game (perhaps).
I've been negligent in writing sentences for the past couple of days, perhaps because it's that time of the school year: the long haul before Spring Break . . . there's no end to the learning in sight; my students have just handed in their third Rutgers college writing essay-- so one more to go-- but I have to grade fifty of these six-page synthetic behemoths . . . not much in the way of news; we're watching Goliath and All of Us Our Dead; I'm reading Live by Night, Dennis LeHane's historical tale of rum-running in Tampa and a hysterical book of essays by Samantha Irby; I ate split pea soup for lunch twice this week because Catherine took it out of the freezer thinking it was verde sauce for enchiladas; there's still snow on the ground, which is good for pulling a sled backwards; apparently the weather is going to warm up soon and spring will be in the air . . . tennis season is right around the corner and I'm certainly nervous about coaching it at the varsity level (and coaching both my children) so things will pick up around here soon enough, hopefully in a good way-- in the meantime, my wife has told me that I've been slacking on doing the dishes, so it's time to get to it (and I have a new phone, which is weird-- it's a OnePlus 8 (Never Settle!) and the screen sort of wraps around the body and you can't insert an SD card and things seem smaller than my old phone, but I'm sure I'll get used to it . . . and if I don't, well then I deserve it, because I tossed my Redmi 9 in the washer).
If you coach soccer, play soccer, or a interested in soccer tactics (but you don't want to lose your mind looking at inscrutable charts and diagrams in a book like this) then I highly recommend Dan Blank's Soccer IQ . . . it's chock full of pithy coaching tidbits (including lots of stuff that you probably already intuitively know but did not know how to explain to players) and simple diagrams and concepts and tactical philosophy boiled down to practical application-- I'm sure I'll read both volumes several times and I've already recognized that our team often plays "the impossible pass" and tried to explain how to remedy this.
Yesterday, we attempted to play an off day JV game (so that we could take a couple of younger varsity players-- we're low on numbers) but ten minutes into the game we got slammed by torrential rain-- so we hightailed it to the bus and drove back to Highland Park (from Middlesex of all places-- we were lucky not to get caught in the floodwaters) and the kids wanted to get dropped off in the Middle School lot because there is some shelter there from the rain-- so I directed the bus driver there, even though my car was parked on the other side of the school, on the street near the front of the building-- so I walked through the rain, carrying the ball bag and my giant coaching bag-- the thunder and lightning exploding around me, and when I got to Fifth Avenue, I couldn't find my van-- I wandered up and down the road, at first wondering if I forgot where i parked and then wondering if the car had been stolen-- but who would steal my disgusting and disgraceful van?-- and then I saw a blue Mazda and wondered if my wife had switched cars, but it wasn't our Mazda-- and by that time I was so wet that my phone wouldn't work-- so I couldn't call Alex or my wife-- and it just kept downpouring, so I got under a tree and managed to dry my phone off enough to call and I found out that Alex had taken the car home when he got caught in the rain at varsity practice-- in order to save his laptop-- and my wife had told him to do this but no one told ME that he took the car-- Alex thought Catherine communicated this to me and my wife thought that Alex had told me . . . so I was really wet and really pissed off when Alex came to get me . . . but it was only water, so I got over it-- and Alex then took the van to some sort of junior prom event, so there was more getting in and out of the car in the rain-- and I slept from 6-7 PM and then from 8 PM to 5 AM-- I was wet and tired, and then when I got in the van this morning to go to work, I soaked my pants-- the seat was sopping wet-- but I didn't feel like changing my pants-- I just threw a towel on the seat-- and first period my pants were very noticeably wet, which my class enjoyed-- but I put a small fan behind me, and that worked and now my pants are dry and my underwear is only a little moist.
I thoroughly enjoyed the Netflix mini-series "The Queen's Gambit," even as I recognized sports trope after sports trope; it's a Cinderella story and this scene pretty much summarizes the film:
the protagonist, an orphan named Beth, learns to play chess in the basement of the orphanage with her first mentor of many-- the janitor Mr. Shaibel-- so you get the Rocky-style gritty determinism and training, but, of course, Beth is an intuitive player-- her brain is so active she sees the pieces move on the ceiling . . . she has to resort to tranquilizers and alcohol to calm her busy mind . . . and she passes through many obstacles, suffers setbacks, and finally-- with a sequence of mentors (including the archetypal wise Black lady) she finally learns the Russians' secrets-- they are collaborative-- they study games together and everyone plays-- they advance in chess as a nation . . . but, in the nick of time, her scrappy American friends come to her aid and though she once suffered abysmal defeat, it seems that her brilliance-- which she could only summon with tranquilizers-- can also be bolstered by cooperation and friendship and coaching . . . it's a heartwarming feminist underdog tale that made me weep like I was watching "Hoosiers"-- the acting and imagery is first rate, and the color palette almost feels like "Madmen," it's just as much fun to look at the outfits as it is to root for Beth . . . the writers decided NOT to explain very much about chess at all, and this works-- if you know the game, you might think the speed of play is unrealistic (and it would be good to revisit Jim Belushi's SNL Chess Coach skit) but to watch people actually play chess is laborious, and as an added bonus, now my kids want to play some chess (I destroyed Alex last night, just crushed him right through the middle).
The current Covid pandemic and 9/11 are probably going to loom large in my lifetime-- the significant events that will leave their mark on my consciousness-- and I feel the same about both of them:
1) I've experienced both events from an unusual perspective . . . I was teaching in Damascus when the planes hit the towers, and I am coaching and teaching through this pandemic;
2) I feel like both events are common occurrences that Americans haven't normally dealt with . . . pandemics have been the norm throughout history, and most developing countries (including Syria) still deal with deadly infectious diseases on a daily basis-- malaria, typhoid, yellow fever river blindness, chikungunya, etc-- and many countries outside the US cope with plenty of terrorism . . . so the pandemic and terrorism were both events where we joined the rest of the world . . . I wish my looming significant event was Woodstock but that's not how it's going down.
This is what I've learned from coaching with a mask on: when I project my voice while wearing a mask, I get a sore throat . . . and when I get a sore throat, I'm not supposed to go to school-- as this is a symptom of COVID . . . but I'm required to wear a mask while I'm teaching/coaching . . . it's a PPE paradox!
Gordon argues that the tech revolution is less important than the five great inventions that turned the dark, damp, cold, and smoky house of the 1870s into the modern house of the 1940s.
These are the big five:
1) electricity
2) urban sanitation
3) chemicals and pharmaceuticals
4) modern travel (the internal combustion engine and plane travel)
5) modern communication
We just got our new fridge yesterday, and it's amazing. Big, cold inside, and easy to shut tightly. It makes ice and preserves food. We got a Frigidaire because that's what Steve the Appliance Doctor recommended. Our old fridge had a bottom drawer freezer and he said those are the kiss-of-death for the compressor. It easy to leave them cracked open, and then the compressor has to work really hard to push the cold air up to the fridge.
Of course, this was a first-world problem, as we had a small refrigerator/freezer in the basement. But you had to descend a flight of stairs, and really bend down to get to the tiny vegetable drawers. And no ice.
Refrigeration and air-conditioning are miracles that allow you to enjoy all the internet can provide. Without them, you couldn't be inside your house in the summer. Grid electricity and urban sanitation are particularly nice when its 95 degrees and you are holed up because of a pandemic.
We've also been living without an upstairs show-- contractors are replacing the bathroom tiles. We had a leak. So we've all been using the shower in the basement . . . we'll appreciate all our urban sanitation once we get that back.
These technological advances have allowed for humans to enjoy incredible population density and incredible ease of global movement. Population density creates the most vibrant and creative places in the world: cities. The freedom to travel allows us to move from city to city, like little gods of the planet.
The cost of this density and ability to travel is the pandemic.
So it looks like we're going to need a technological solution to COVID-19. If you don't think so . . . if you've got delusions of naturally reaching herd immunity, stop watching random people on YouTube and listen to Short Wave: Why Herd Immunity Won't Save Us . . . it's a credible and vetted science podcast that explains what we know about COVID, herd immunity, and Sweden's experiment.
In other news, I can't wait until the contractors are done. It's hard for me to read, nap, blog and otherwise be lazy when people are working so hard in my house (I did work pretty hard at soccer practice this morning, coaching in the heat with a mask on, but that was only for three hours).
We have off this Wednesday for Yom Kippur, and since I'm not Jewish, I don't have to worry about fasting and atonement. It's just a day off. Because of this mid-week break, I declared to my wife this morning that it was "mini-Thursday."
A cause for celebration.
I explained that tomorrow (Tuesday) is mini-Friday, and that our day off (Wednesday) is a mini-weekend, and then it's normal Thursday, normal Friday, and the regular two-day weekend. An excellent week (or two weeks mini-weeks).
My wife did not buy this. She told me that it was Monday and there was no getting around it. I ignored her, and it cost me.
I got it into my car to go to school, and all the check engine lights came on. One said "TRAC OFF," another cryptically informed me "VSC" and the regular engine block light came on. Then the temperature gauge starting floating from past the H to below the C. Back and forth, back and forth.
This is not the kind of stuff that should happen on mini-Thursday.
I got to school and found out we had a faculty meeting. I had no idea. And I had to coach a game after school. There are never meetings after school on Thursday, but apparently mini-Thursday is fair game. I talked to my boss and we agreed that I would stay for a little bit and then race home to coach soccer.
I ran over to the library on my free period, to pick up a couple of reserved books, but the library was closed. On Mondays it doesn't open until 10 AM. Most mornings it opens at 9 AM. But at least my car was driving fine, despite all the cautionary lights. I called my mechanic and made an appointment for Wednesday (the mini-weekend).
Before the faculty meeting, I ran to the library a second time. Then I watched an especially boring presentation about proctoring the PSAT (which I could ignore-- my son is taking it, so I am not allowed to proctor-- so sweet). Then I raced out of the meeting so I could get home to Highland Park to coach.
On Route 18, my van starting making a weird sound. It stalled out on the stretch of highway through New Brunswick, but I managed to get it going again. Then it stalled again on the hill up to Highland Park. I got it started but it was ugly. It stalled for a final time in the road in front of my house. I was trying to pull into my neighbor's driveway to turn it around, so the van was perpendicular to the road. I had to coach in twenty minutes. Some guy walking by helped me push a bit, but we needed more people. Something about the car smelled really bad. Something was burned out. My van was dying. On mini-Thursday! My son Ian showed up. He's wearing a sling (fractured elbow) so we put him in the driver's seat. We pushed more, to no avail. There was no power steering. Ian couldn't turn the wheel (with his one good arm). Then my son Alex showed up. This was manpower (kidpower?) to get the job done. We pushed the van into a parking spot on the street (facing the wrong way) and then unloaded the car of all the soccer equipment: balls, corner flags, pinnies, cones, my giant coaching bag, etc. We carried all the equipment down to the park for the game. It's lucky I live walking distance to the field. Most coaches would have been totally screwed.
My wife managed to get the car started and drive it to F&F Auto (highly recommended). She said it was about to stall the whole drive, but she caught all the lights. My team played poorly, and my son-- who was the hero of the game on Friday and scored the winning goal in overtime-- didn't get goal-side on a couple of key plays. Yuck. Friday he was a hero, but this was Monday kind of stuff.
I'm drinking a couple of beers now and pretending it's truly a (mini) Thursday night, but it's hard to get into the Thursday night groove. Too much Monday stuff happened. Hopefully tomorrow-- mini-Friday-- will have better karma.
As far as coaching goes, I have a pretty sweet deal. I now coach my hometown JV team. The field is two hundred yards from my house (sometimes I forget the corner flags on the field and run down there the next morning to grab them). My children are both in high school now, one is a freshman and the other is a sophomore, and I am coaching the two of them (and many of their friends). I am lucky as a coach and as a dad. I know this probably won't ever happen again.Many years ago, I coached girls soccer at Spotswood High School with my friend and fellow English teacher Kevin. We would teach our classes at East Brunswick, then race over to Spotswood to coach. Now that I coach for my hometown, Highland Park, we occasionally play Spotswood. It's always nostalgic to head back there, as that's where I spent my formative coaching years. You never forget that stuff-- especially coaching high school girls. They are nuts (and far more civilized than boys).
Last Wednesday, we had an away game against Spotswood. It's always a good test for Highland Park, because Spotswood is out of our division and twice our size. So I was excited for the game. I also wondered if I would remember anyone-- even though I hadn't coached there for fifteen years.
While I didn't recognize any coaches or administrators, the fields were the same. Both the varsity and the JV took early leads, so it looked to be a nice afternoon. Then my younger son Ian-- who's barely 100 pounds and has been getting killed this year-- got tripped from behind and went flying. The ground was rock hard (lack of rain). I knew as soon as he hit that he didn't land well. His right arm crumpled as it hit the dirt. I assumed it was a bad break.
I jogged out to him-- the injured player jog is the worst jog in sports-- and found Ian was in a lot of pain. He also thought his arm was broken. The trainer checked it this way and that and thought it might be fractured. Then another trainer drove over in a golf cart, and also gave Ian a second inspection. In the middle of it-- I was kneeling on the ground and he was bending my son's wrist-- he looked at me and said, "Is your name Dave?"
I nodded.
"Didn't you used to coach here?"
Someone remembered me!
My mom was at the game, so she received the chore of taking him to the urgent care for x-rays (Catherine was at Back to School Night). They couldn't tell if his elbow was fractured and recommended an orthopedist. Ian went yesterday, and he's got a small fracture in his elbow. He's in a sling for two weeks.
After they carted him off the field, it was hard to coach the rest of the game (we did pull off a nice victory) but in retrospect, it was good to be there, in the thick of it. There's only a few more years of this, and I enjoy seeing all of it close-up and personal. I'm hoping he makes it back for the tail end of the season, but even if he doesn't, it was still great to coach some games where my kids were passing the ball to each other.
Congratulations are in order because I've survived the longest week of the school year: a full five days of coaching and teaching (right in the thick of allergy season) plus an extra miniature workday on Thursday night . . . something in the biz that we refer to as B2SN.
And-- heroically-- after Back to School Night, I made it to Pub Night, where my so-called friends enacted a musical vengeance on me that I will detail in a future post.
Despite the unseasonable heat, school (and Back to School Night) went smoothly, but I can't say the same for coaching JV soccer.
Wednesday, one of my players got a red card for saying something profane to an opposing player, in earshot of the refs and the parents. He did not realize the repercussions of a red card: that I could not sub someone in for him and that we had to play with ten men. Now he knows.
Luckily, we held our lead, and-- even more fortunate-- the refs gave my player a stern talking to after the game and then said they weren't going to report the red card (which would have resulted in a two-game suspension). We need this kid on defense, even if he is a little green at soccer. He's big and fast and wins balls in the air.
This particular player was absent from practice on Thursday, which didn't make me happy, after the incident on Wednesday. As I was loading the equipment into my van, I happened to see his mom jogging in the park. I asked her where her son was-- why he wasn't at practice.
She said, "He wasn't with you?"
"Nope."
"Then I'm sure he was doing something he's not supposed to be doing."
On the bus Friday, I asked this player why he missed practice Thursday. He paused for a moment, and then said, "I . . . I had to help my mom out with a family thing."
"No you didn't," I said and told him when and where I had run into his mom. The perks of coaching in a small town.
So our center back started the game on the bench. I didn't want to punish the team all that much, so I planned on putting him in later in the first half. That's not how it went down.
We were playing on a narrow, bumpy, grass pitch in Middlesex against a scrappy, mainly Hispanic team who knew just how to play the bounces. And there was one ref. Nice guy, but he wasn't moving and he wasn't calling anything. It was schoolyard soccer.
The ball went out of bounds on the far sideline-- well out of bounds near the fence-- and our player stooped to pick it up and throw it in. But the ref wasn't paying attention, he never blew the whistle, and the opposing player dribbled the ball around our stooping player and then crossed it into the box. One of their players tried to knock it into the goal, but the ball bounced crazily, and one of my players grabbed it out of the air, tucked it under his arm, and starting walking toward the ref-- all the while yelling that the ball was clearly out of bounds and it was a Highland Park throw and some other things not fit to print.
This player was my older son Alex.
The ref, correctly, called a PK for a deliberate handball and pulled out his red card. We talked him down to a yellow-- I think he realized he had botched the play as well-- but I told him he was totally in the right to call the PK and card our player. You've got to play the whistle.
The ref also found it amusing when I told him the player in question was my son.
I gave my son (and the other players on the bench) some sage words of advice: when you realize there are no rules, you have to play the game that way. This Friday afternoon, on the pitch, there were no hard and fast rules, and so we had to adjust accordingly. I may have also called my son an idiot.
Our keeper made a great save on the PK, but the other team knocked in the rebound. We ended up losing 3 to 2, all junky goals, but I am proud to say that we adjusted to the mayhem and certainly made the game interesting. The varsity team-- who have been playing magically-- lost as well. Same kind of game. This was their first loss of the season.
Our striker Ben got hit in the eye with the ball, and when my wife went to get him an icepack from our car, she locked her keys inside. And I don't carry the key to her car, because I like to keep things simple. Streamlined. So much for that. Catherine got to ride home on the bus with the coaches and all the sweaty sad players.
Once we arrived home, after the whole nine yards, I told my wife that the rest of the school year would be "all downhill from here" and I meant it in a positive way. She disagreed, but for stylistic reasons. She didn't think I could use "downhill" with a positive connotation in that context. She heard "downhill" and thought the rest of the year was going to get worse and worse. Spiral out of control and decay. But I countered, you don't want to fight an uphill battle the rest of the year. You want to coast. Downhill, preferably.
We've had this linguistic debate before and I'm sure we'll never get to the bottom of it, but I did write a song.
To celebrate the long week, we went to the beach on Saturday. It was crazy hot and the water was warm. The kids surfed, I swam, we all played spike-ball, and the dog drove my wife crazy. We weren't even supposed to have her on the beach, you're not supposed to have dogs on the beach until October-- but I figured: who goes to the beach in September?
Apparently, everyone.
The shore was packed. No parking, festivals everywhere, and the sand was jammed with bodies. Like August. Weird. But kind of fun (aside from the fact that the changing rooms were locked and we had to keep Lola on her leash).
We finally took some heat for having the dog on the beach, but it was just as we were packing up to leave and the cop was really nice about it. I told him we tried to get to the dog beach in Asbury, but the Dave Matthews Band totally screwed us. Then, we ate lunch at 10th Avenue Burrito Co, which is always dog friendly.
Those of you who know me might be surprised to hear this, but I know what it's like to be objectified. To be eye-balled, given the once-over. I understand this is an unusual statement when it comes from a hirsute middle-aged man with more hair on his back than on his head, but it's true. I'm often characterized solely by my big firm gravity-defying round ones. Their size and symmetry appraised and lauded.
God forbid I show them off in public.
Hello? My face is up here!
Just because I'm well endowed doesn't give you the license to gawk and ogle.
Or does it?
I'll admit I find the attention flattering, but it's also awkward and weird. I want to cry out:
I'm more than a pair of fabulous fleshy protrusions!
I'm an accomplished Scrabble player, an avid reader of non-fiction and a fan of the surrealist paintings of Max Ernst!
There's a brain in here!
I'm more than a pair of stunning calves.
And while it might not be exactly analogous to the comments a voluptuous woman endures when she walks past an urban construction site, it's in the same ballpark. So, ladies, I get it. I know what it feels like to be a hot, sexy nubile babe at a sausage hang. I can empathize.
I'll admit there are some situations where unsolicited calf-commentary makes a certain sense. At sporting functions, for instance. Last week at Wednesday night pick-up basketball, a dude remarked that I have the "calves of a powerlifter." Total non sequitur. We were not on the subject of calf-raises or calf-injuries or calf-tattoos. He just had to say it. While it was slightly off-topic, it was not completely out-of-the-blue. When you match-up on defense in pick-up basketball, you first engage in a frank discussion about the physical attributes of the opposing team. You then coordinate your team's height, weight, speed, and strength. You're allowed to be candid. So perhaps my calves were just part of the scouting report. My son Alex informs me that some of the soccer players I've coached are intimidated by my giant calves. I sort of get this. The muscle tone in my calves is epic, and I'm sure it's due to coaching and playing soccer. So it's kind of germane. And I can understand when my acupuncturist comments on them. She's working on them. Sticking needles into them to try to get the giant knots out.
But I also get calf compliments at work. This is partly my fault for parading around in shorts in a professional environment, but I like to exercise when I'm on the clock (it's like I'm being paid to work out . . . you're tax dollars at work). So I'm not claiming harassment here; I recognize that I'm flaunting my naked calves in the workplace and that there may be consequences. And I know I'm a lucky guy: Johnny Drama would be green with envy. There's no question that women young and old find my calves irresistible. So when they get a peek at them, they're compelled to say something. I get this. I feel the same way when I see a shapely woman, especially if she's showing some cleavage. It's a hard topic not to discuss. I refrain, of course, because it's 2019, but the impulse is there.
I would also like to assure everyone that I do not have calf implants. I would never be so shallow.
My calves are real. And they're spectacular.
I've obviously got to end this post in the same manner as Boogie Nights. I've got to show you the goods.
Here they are:
It's more difficult than you think to take a selfie of both calves. I used a mirror.
Feel free to comment, but remember: I'm more than just a pair of awesome calves . . . I've also got great pecs!
You wouldn't believe how much I can bench. But you tell first . . .
I'd like to thank my buddy Whitney over at Gheorghe:The Blog for recently reminding me how much I love this piece of our pop-culture past.
Before I get down to brass tacks, I would like to point out that this commercial is "classic" only in the modern sense of the word. Which isn't saying all that much. It contains one of my favorite bits of dialogue, ever . . . a piece of dialogue so good there should be a t-shirt for it (there isn't). Something far wittier than "WHERE'S THE BEEF?" A piece of dialogue that resonates deep within my (rather shallow) soul. But I'm certainly lowering the bar . . . because I'm stupid. Corrupted by modern times.
I say this because I'm in the middle of a true classic right now, George Eliot's Middlemarch, and it's hard to compare a thirty second Bud Dry spot to a novel of this caliber. Middlemarch is incredibly well-written, and-- inconceivably--it was written by hand. You can see some of the manuscript here.
A page of Eliot's Middlemarch
There's some revision of course, a few cross-outs and some inserted lines, but I think when Mary Anne Evans-- the woman behind the pen name-- began writing a sentence, she knew exactly where it was going, in terms of thought, rhythm, structure, and syntax.
And so she could produce sentences like this one:
But the effect of her being on those around her was incalculably diffusive: for the growing good of the world is partly dependent on unhistoric acts; and that things are not so ill with you and me as they might have been, is half owing to the number who lived faithfully a hidden life, and rest in unvisited tombs.
Classic stuff. Most modern sentences just don't measure up. Part of the problem might be that many writers-- including myself-- compose with word processing software. And so instead of concentrating on thoughtful sentences and paragraphs, which translate into thoughtful thought-out thoughts, we often get consumed with "presentational elements."
This phenomenon is occurring right now, as I fiddle with the text in the link, experiment with different image layouts, and use a Wordpress feature called "Blockquote" to emphasize the Eliot sentence. I'm also occasionally Googling things like "how do you take a screenshot on a Mac" and " what is the effect of word processors on writing?"
Does anyone not succumb to these sort of temptations while they are writing?
Despite the distractions, I will try my best to return to original question: what kind of man am I?
Certainly a digressive one . . . but aren't all modern technologically embedded men more digressive than we once were? The internet itself shoulders some of the blame for this, but the problem also might be baked in to the nature of a typical male. Men and easy access to infinite information might be a poisonous combination. My wife doesn't get up from the dinner table to use our desktop computer to Google the population of Peru or what year the Oklahoma Land Rush occurred. But I do this kind of thing all the time (despite family rules prohibiting this behavior). And not just at the dinner table. This happens when I'm teaching class, talking to my friends, sitting on the toilet. I want a piece of information NOW. And it's usually nothing life changing. Perhaps male hunter-gatherers were always wandering off mid-meal to seek a different grub or tuber than the one being served?
It's incredibly hard to maintain a steady stream of thought when there's always the temptation to follow some other niggling idea, an idea that's probably dumber and more trivial than the one you're actually trying to think about. And the internet constantly affords this luxury, so when you have access, it's harder to write long, beautifully constructed sentences like those in Middlemarch.
There's some hard data on this, but you're going to have to wade through a long comment thread on this English Language & Usage Stack Exchange forum. Or I can save you the trouble: some smart people have come to the conclusion that as time has passed, sentences in literature have gotten shorter and shorter. I've read my fair share of literature and I can confirm that the sentences in Tristram Shandy are generally longer than the sentences in Freaky Deaky. And Hemingway? That guy could barely type a seven or eight word sentence before he had to take a break and grab a scotch and soda.
Anyway, I have been told that when you're writing for the internet, you should keep your sentences short and sweet. Though I ignored this advice for eleven years, I've come to acknowledge that it's true. It's tiring to read on a screen. Short sentences, plenty of paragraph breaks, and white space are an internet writer's best friend.
I really wish that my Kindle Paperwhite had a better browser, so I could read internet articles and posts on a non-glare screen . . . but apparently, no one else wants to do this. The populous demands to see their algorithmically chosen ads in vibrant, persuasive color. The internet would be a totally different experience if it were in matte black and white. Less intense, more about the words, less invasive.
I have lost the thread. Enough digression. Let's get back to using this classic Bud Dry commercial to decipher my riddle-inside-an-enigma personality.
There are five archetypal men presented by the commercial:
Guy # 1
A lot of women find my looks intimidating? Do you?
Once upon a time, I believed I was better looking than my wife. Whether or not this was true is a matter of opinion, but it's debatable. Look at the picture below, and you can be the judge. (Note: this photo is just before young Dave and Cat left on a "just hair-do it" themed bar crawl . . . this was NOT our normal hair).
Currently, there is no question that my wife is much better looking than me. The hair on my head has migrated to my back, ears, and shoulders. So any connection I once had with this guy is long dead. That Dave is gone.
Guy #2
My mother makes the best brisket . . .
Once in a while, I run across a dude who has a really tight relationship with his mother. While I find Woody Allen movies humorous, I don't want anything to do with this guy in real life. Creepy.
Guy #3
There I was, there I was, there I was . . . in the Congo.
This is the guy. This is the dialogue. Brilliant. Classic. Moving. Though I recognize that he comes off as a total douche, I still feel a strong connection with him. He's got an interesting story to tell. He demands your undivided attention. He's probably not going to consider what you have to say, but at least you're in for an interesting ride. He's self-centered, he makes weird gestures with his hands, and he's got his chair turned backward . . . but on the plus side, he's passionate and he's traveled the world.
I've taken my share of shit for being this guy. My wife and I taught in Syria for three years and I have a lot of stories that begin, "There I was . . . there I was . . . in Damascus." It's insufferable, but I love those memories. I think as I've gotten older, I've gotten more aware about how self-congratulatory those stories are, and I rarely dust them off . . . but when I do: watch out. That guy is me.
I first saw that commercial in the early '90's, long before I had traveled the world, and I felt an instant connection to that weird bit of dialogue. He presented me with my destiny . . . to become that vociferously annoying little man. Luckily, my wife accompanied me on all those adventures, so she never had to endure me telling those stories to her (but she does have to listen to me tell them to other people).
Guy #4
Just a minute . . . okay!
This guy is '90's Donald Trump. He's buying high, selling low, and using his dad's money to get rich (or go bankrupt). I've got none of this guy in me. Zero point zero. I can't stand spending money on clothes, I constantly pass up opportunities to make more money (so I can engage in hobbies like noodling on my guitar, writing this blog, and coaching soccer). But I think it's important to recognize that this is a type of guy, and while I don't really know or hang out with this guy, I've got to acknowledge that guys like this probably control the government and the economy and how the Giants will do next season, and I've passed up my chance to be one of them.
I'll never have a larger sphere of influence. I'll never be that guy.
Guy #5
You gonna finish that?
At least that's what I think this guy says-- his mouth is full and he's also got a thick New York accent. I appreciate this guy's turned up collar, rolled up sleeves, weight-lifter physique, and forward nature. Plus, he's doing a good deed: he's keeping his girlfriend slender by eating some of her food.
I've definitely got some of this guy in me, though I try to corral him. I've learned to let my wife and kids finish eating before I swoop in and grab the remains . . . but this guy is always lurking in the back of my brain. I may look composed on the outside, but my inner voice is running this monologue:
That's a big pile of fries . . . doesn't look like she can finish . . . and Ian looks full too . . . I think there's still a piece of bacon on that burger . . . patience . . . play it cool . . . patience . . . he's pushing his plate away . . . don't look at it . . . maintain eye contact with the wife . . . okay, you've counted to ten . . . time to pounce . . . you've got to beat Alex to it . . . maybe you shouldn't have gotten the side salad . . . can they see the saliva is pooling in your mouth?
"Are you going to finish that?
No?"
Yes! It's mine! All mine! My cunning and patience has paid off! Now if I keep it cool, I can parlay this into even more food . . . even more food!
I'm ten percent guy #1, eighty percent guy #2, and ten percent guy #3 . . . and I'm fine with that. In the end, though, the lesson is another sentence from Eliot's Middlemarch:
“Confound you handsome young fellows! You think of having it all your own way in the world. You don't understand women. They don't admire you half so much as you admire yourselves.”
For a long time, I never understood why my wife wasn't more impressed with my snowboarding and soccer skills, why she didn't take more interest in my progress on the guitar. But then I realized, these are the things I admire about myself. She just wants me to help out around the house, do some of the cooking, and listen to her stories . . . which usually begin, "You're not going to believe what happened at work/the garden/the grocery store today!"
And then she names seven people I've never met and places them in an interconnected web of insult and indignation.
Charles Wheeler likes to get naked . . . he's the author of Naked Economics, which I highly recommend, and I also enjoyed Naked Statistics: Stripping the Dread from the Data, which is full of fun facts and lots of number sense (and it will make you think about all the times you are offered either percent of increase or a number, when you really need both to make an assertion) and here a some random moments I enjoyed:
1) texting while driving causes crashes and laws banning texting while driving may also cause crashes because people can't stop texting while driving, but if there's a law against it, then people will hide their phones down by their crotch and take their eyes off the road;
2) people who buy carbon-monoxide monitors and little felt pads for the bottom of their furniture almost never miss credit card payments;
3) the top 100 grossing films only makes sense when it's adjusted for inflation . . . Hollywood likes to tell the story that each new blockbuster movie is so good it has blown away all the older films, but they like to list the gross (nominal) ticket receipts, not the real, adjusted receipts: here is the real list . . . The Exorcist makes the top ten and Jurassic World makes the top 25 so this list isn't any more cultivated than the gross profit list (though it's less homogenous);
4) our data sets are getting more and more predictive . . . people who buy birdseed are far less likely to default on their loans, but if we can identify drug smugglers 80 times out of 100, is it okay to harass those other twenty people over and over? so statistics generally leads to ethical dilemmas . . .
5) the most dangerous job stress seems to be jobs that have "low control" over their work situations . . . which makes me happy, because teaching and coaching feels highly stressful at times, but I always have control over what's happening . . . but this is only true if we trust the regression analysis, which is the most powerful statistical tool in existence, but very difficult to do well;
6) because you can screw up regression analysis in a number of ways: you can use regression to analyze a nonlinear relationship, you can screw up correlation and causation-- buying birdseed does not cause you to have good credit, those two things are simply correlated-- you can complete reverse the causality, you can omit variables, you can have variables that are so highly correlated that you can't extricate them from each other, you can extrapolate beyond the data, and you can have problems with too many variables;
7) Wheeler concludes with a quick overview of some real-world problems that are going to need clear statistical analysis: the future of NFL football, the rise in autism, the difficulty in assessing good teachers and schools, the best tools for fighting global poverty, and personal data privacy . . . if you're looking for a fairly in depth take on statistics, with more formulas and math than a Freakonomics or Malcolm Gladwell book, this is the one for you.
