And I Thought I Was Living in a Democracy

My wife and I were "debating" over the placement of a piece of furniture, and my younger son Ian overheard this discussion and reminded me: "Mommy has a million votes and you have zero."

I'll Try Anything If It's Covered . . .

This Isn't Me, But It's What Happened.

This is me, several hours later.

So I guess I'm at the age where I'll let a person in white coat do anything to me: a few days ago, I went for acupuncture treatment . . . I'm hoping to alleviate some shoulder and knee pain -- and I also let the good doctor (a petite young Asian lady) do some "cupping" therapy; she lit alcohol swabs on fire and put them inside glass bowls, creating a vacuum in each, and then stuck them to my back and shoulders . . . and while the acupuncture was very relaxing (I fell asleep!) the cupping was kind of painful, and it made some reddish circular marks on my skin-- but it did loosen up my shoulders . . . and I played basketball last night, and my knee isn't swollen this morning-- though I can't tell if my liver and kidneys are stimulated (also, as a bonus, the doctor checked out my tongue, and said it looked fairly healthy -- and all this for a fifteen dollar co-pay!)

North Conway Pros and Cons

Over winter break we took a family vacation to North Conway, New Hampshire and stayed at the Red Jacket Resort, a big family-friendly hotel with a water park inside it, and -- in case you are thinking about a similar trip -- let me offer you some pros and cons of North Conway . . . I'll give you the bad news first:

1) North Conway is really far away -- do NOT believe the Google Maps estimate of six hours and thirty-seven minutes . . . which is where I got directions, it is actually more like eight hours (with stops) and, oddly, Mapquest has a far more accurate assessment of the distance . . . so I learned something: those programs can offer VERY different estimates on how long it takes to get somewhere;

2) once you get to North Conway, which is nestled in the heart of the White Mountains, you would expect the traffic to all but disappear, but because of the narrow set of roads that leads through the valley the traffic is insane, all the time -- so every trip through town is like driving through downtown Manhattan during rush hour . . . which is fine if you're prepared for it, but when you are nestled in the heart of the White Mountains, this is always unexpected -- the number of cars shocked me every time we got on the road, and I don't fare well in traffic, even if I'm prepared for it (at one point, I had to get out of the car and walk alongside it while my wife drove, crawling along in the bumper-to-bumper snarl so that I didn't suffer a claustrophobic nervous breakdown);

3) Cranmore Mountain doesn't have many signs to indicate what trail you are on, so I spent an entire day zooming down a trail that I thought was a Blue Intermediate -- which is my speed on a snowboard these days -- and every time down, I thought to myself: this is awful steep and there sure are a lot of moguls and ungroomed stuff . . . but it wasn't until the next day that I realized the trail was actually a Black Diamond, and that I was in danger of severely hurting myself . . . and by this time, though I didn't realize it, I had the flu -- so I thought I was just sore from snowboarding on moguls, but I was actually delirious with a 103 fever, which made the eight-hour ride home especially awful:

but there are plenty of pros, so don't let the cons get you down:

1) the Red Jacket Mountain View Inn is a great place to stay with kids -- every hotel should have a giant indoor water park -- and my wife and I generated unbelievably dangerous speeds when we went tandem on the water slides, probably due to my incredible density . . . I really liked the fact that people were walking around the hotel either decked out in ski outfits or bathing suits -- it made for some surreal scenes;

2) the New Hampshire beer is excellent . . . I especially enjoyed the Tuckerman's I.P.A and Moat Mountain Iron Mike Pale Ale;

3) North Conway has loads of great restaurants -- the barbecue at Moat Mountain Smokehouse and Brewery was excellent, and Peach's has amazing breakfast and lunch food;

4) it snows a LOT up there, which is a pro both for snowboarding and for hanging out in the water park, which is especially scenic when it snows -- but that's a con for driving home with a 103 fever.

I Did Suffer a 103 Fever!

Catherine Boo's new book Behind the Beautiful Forevers: Life, Death, and Hope in a Mumbai Undercity -- a non-fiction account of life among the poor in India --  is having the same effect as this book on me, and it's making me feel guilty about complaining so much about having the flu . . . in the first few pages, Abdul -- a garbage sorter in the Annawadi slums, witnesses a boy's hand get "cut clean off when he was putting plastic in one of the shredders," but instead of complaining A LOT, which is one of the few benefits of getting your hand cut clean off -- you have the right to really gripe and bitch and moan about it for a while, because it trumps most other complaints -- but instead of claiming this inalienable right, the poor boy's "eyes had filled with tears but he hadn't screamed . . . instead he stood there with his blood-spurting stump, his ability to earn a living ended, and started apologizing to the owner of the plant . . . "Sa'ab, I'm sorry . . . I won't cause you any problems by reporting this . . . you will have no trouble from me."

Inadvertent Test

I accidentally performed a social experiment on my son Alex last Thursday night: it was soccer clinic night, and Ian was sick with the flu -- so I was just dropping Alex off . . . and he's eight now, old enough to get dropped off at something like this -- but my wife gave him the lecture about never accepting a ride from a stranger . . . or even someone he knew, if he wasn't informed that he was going home with this person -- and Alex asked a legitimate question: "What if you guys have to take Ian to the hospital and can't pick me up?" and so we told him we would definitely get a message to him that he was supposed to ride home with someone else -- maybe by cell-phone or one of us would stop by; so once we got to the clinic, Alex started playing soccer and I got to talking with the parents that I knew, and my friend Pete said that his wife Celine could drive Alex home, because she had to stay and watch her son, who was younger, and so I said, "Awesome . . . that will save Catherine a trip" and I left -- but when I got home I realized that I didn't tell Alex that Celine would be giving him a ride home -- I essentially set up the situation we talked about . . . and so we decided to see what he would do (much easier than going back to the clinic) and, of course, he got a ride home with Celine -- who he knows well, plus she's pregnant -- and you always a trust a pregnant lady . . . and when I asked him if he remembered what we talked about before I dropped him off, he thought for a moment and then laughed and said, Oh yeah" but it certainly didn't occur to him when he was getting a ride from Celine . . . and in retrospect, of course he did the right thing and accepted a ride form a close friend, but I'm also pretty sure that he's easy to abduct.

My Kids Did Not Take the Expected Journey

The Hobbit is a totally entertaining film -- though a bit over-the-top with the visual effects (especially the battling stone giants . . . did Peter Jackson really need them?) -- and now I know that if a movie is good enough, my children can sit still for over three hours, without having to urinate.

It's A Free Country Part II

In America, you have the right to put a slice of pig on your veggie burger, and you also apparently have the right to drive a twenty year old Bonneville with a plastic garbage bag as a rear window, a bumper sticker that says: "I don't believe the liberal media," and a giant wedge shaped sign protruding from the roof advertising a furniture liquidation sale . . . and you have the right to drive this vehicle thirty miles under the speed limit, on Route 1, while chatting on your cell-phone (Pennsylvania plates, of course).

It's a Free Country

Sometimes, I put a couple slices of ham on my veggie burger.

Emo Finally Defined

Ironically, The Perks of Being a Wallflower is the first book I have read entirely in electronic format (on my wife's Kindle) . . . and if you haven't read the book, then you might not see the irony -- but the book is the opposite of cold digital technology, it is a sweet, sensitive, and emotional first person account of a boy's freshman year in high school -- and despite themes of suicide, sex, rape, closeted homosexuality, drugs, molestation, insanity, and depression, the book has a light touch-- due to Charlie's narration . . . and though this book has almost nothing I can relate to -- I am notoriously insensitive . . . and my children are following suit -- I am still glad that I read it (though the scene where Charlie gives the perfect present to each of his friends simultaneously amazed me and made me want to vomit) because it reminds me that some people are extra-sensitive, and it's good to be aware of this, and the book also finally defines the term that has remained undefinable: "emo" . . . although when I told my students this, they all said, "NO! Charlie's not emo!" but I think they do this to adults just to drive them crazy -- so Charlie is my personal definition of "emo" and as far as the whole Kindle reading experience . . . I am giving it a reserved "thumbs up,"  the screen is a bit small and I felt like I should have been reading a sci-fi novel or Wired Magazine, instead of a nostalgic high school favorite, but I give the device excellent marks for those who like to eat, read, and drink at the same time, as it lays perfectly flat, and you can turn the page with one hand, while eating or drinking with the other.

Sometimes It Takes A Decade For Closure

If you are frustrated by the incomprehensible school shooting Newtown, Connecticut, I highly recommend that you take a step back in time and read Dave Cullen's book Columbine -- the book took nearly ten years to write and dispels practically every assumption that was first asserted by the media about the massacre in Colorado . . . and it is an excellent reminder of the futility of trying to follow a news story in real time; I consciously avoided reading or watching anything about the Newtown shooting for this reason (and because the story was so damn disturbing) but reading about Columbine is working as a diversion -- I feel like I'm engaged with what is happening in our nation, but I'm not participating in the sensationalizing of a tragic event; unfortunately, no matter how long I wait, I may never know what made Adam Lanza tick, but Eric Harris and Dylan Klebold were remorseless enough to have left behind a treasure trove of film, journals, criminal incidents, Web pages, and transcripts from the various counseling they went through, and this information allowed FBI Agent Dwayne Fusilier to paint a complete picture of exactly why the boys did what they did . . . and it had nothing to do with the "Trench Coat Mafia" or  being bullied or jocks or targeting specific ethnicities or cliques: Eric Harris was a psychopath, who believed that he was superior to all other "robots" and his motive was to kill as many people as possible  in the most terroristic, fearful way he could conjure from his unsympathetic and damaged mind, and Dylan Klebold was intelligent and sensitive, but also a malleable, seething bipolar depressive who got sucked into Eric Harris's vortex of hate  -- and though it is frustrating to read about the various strands of both of these kid's lives that indicated that the were planning this horrible event -- hindsight is 20/20, of course -- and that they were really capable of pulling it off (although if it went as actually planned, then it would have been far, far worse -- Harris was determined to rack up a bigger body count than the Oklahoma City bombing -- but his bombs didn't detonate) but Dave Cullen constantly reminds us that psychopaths are notorious for pulling the wool over the eyes of everyone around them-- especially authority figures -- as they can mimic normal human emotions, including the all important ones like repentance, guilt, and resolution, and so it would have been very difficult to separate Harris from a typical rebellious teenager who was trying to turn over a new leaf . . . but the most disturbing detail of the book isn't even about the killers, it is about the rest of us and what we desire, which may not be as violent as what Harris and Klebold desired, but it is equally as sick and weird: soon after the massacre, "tour operators were quick to capitalize . . . the buses would pull up in front of the school, and tourists would pile out and start snapping pictures: the school, the grounds, the kids practicing on the athletic fields or milling about in the park."

A Sentence with Very Little Resolve

My 2013 New Year's Resolution has me stumped -- I need to lose a few pounds, but no one cares about that, and I don't feel like restricting myself to a certain kind of food again, though that was fun while it lasted . . . and I haven't gotten too many suggestions for things I should improve in 2013 (which is odd) . . . although I do like my wife's idea: try as many new ethnic restaurants as possible (we have a plethora in our vicinity, yes, that's right, a plethora of Mexican restaurants, El Guapo, plus Thai, Vietnamese, Korean, Malaysian, Indian, Middle Eastern, and just about everything else) but that's not really the point of a resolution, it should be something that leads to self-improvement (and I guess the Taco Count doesn't make much sense either) and I received one fairly insane idea from my friend Ed -- who was so excited that he delivered his plan by phone, I listened to his rambling monologue of my answering machine and then called him back because I had so many questions about the details: Ed thinks that I should allow one of my children -- Ian, the younger and more impressionable one -- unlimited access to premium cable TV, Facebook, Twitter, violent video games, and explicit music . . . set this child up with all these things in his bedroom, and then restrict my other child (Alex) to books, musical instruments, art supplies, and a reasonable bedtime . . . and do this for the course of a year and then note the effect on each child . . . and while this sounds like a worthy endeavor which would certainly provide fantastic sociological data for future parents, it's more of a crazy "Skinner Box" social experiment (and Snopes reports that B.F. Skinner did NOT raise his daughter in a Skinner Box) than a New Year's Resolution, which is something that I don't want to get involved in . . . I don't need any future lawsuits from my children . . . so unless someone comes up with something brilliant and quantifiable, then my resolution for 2013 is going to be "more of the same, with minor improvements" . . . I hope to be able to keep writing sentences, contribute to Gheorghe: The Blog a bit more often, finish some of the music I've been recording, coach my children, teach my students, lose my temper less, be kind and sensitive to my wife, make it to the pub on Thursdays, appreciate all the great family, friends, and colleagues that I have in my life, and finally sample human flesh.

These Might Be the Best Sentences of 2012

I just finished reading "The Year in Review" section of The Week magazine, and -- wow! -- Sentence of Dave did not tackle any of the big issues this year . . . in fact, I'm not sure I mentioned anything of significance that happened on the planet earth in 2012, but just because the content wasn't especially noteworthy, it doesn't mean that the style doesn't deserve recognition; so, without further ado, these just very well might be some of the best sentences I wrote last year . . . so take some time and savor them, as this is the closest you'll ever get to the brilliant and shining mind that is Dave:

1)  The Best Compare/ Contrast Sentence

2)  The Longest Sentence Ever Written About Chili

3)   The Longest Recurring Theme (with a Big Thanks to My Wife)

4)  The Best (and Simultaneously Most Disturbing) Photo Montage

5)  The Best Story With the Most Irrelevant Comments

6)  Grossest Title: "A Good Walk Spoiled (By My Dog's Anus)"

7)  Best Title (and Worst Idea): "The Potato Apostrophe Catastrophe"

8)  A Good Review of a Bad Movie

9)  Dave's Best Ideas Ever

10) The Most Impressive Streak of 2012

11) My Wife Is a Superhero 

12) Wildest Paddleboard Adventure

13) Dave and His Dog Nearly Die

14) The Most Emotional Sentence of the Year

15) The Least Emotional Sentence of the Year

16) The Best Book of the Year

17) The Most Inspirational Image of 2012

18) Dave is Dumb

19) And Dave is Awkward

20) But Dave Still Triumphs

Chevy Chase Moment . . . With Blood

My parents needed some help getting the Lionel trains to run in a circle around the tree, and so I volunteered to troubleshoot the track -- which involved crawling under some furniture, as the tree was placed in a tight space -- and this didn't turn out very festive, as I banged my head on the underside of a desk, on a very sharp point of wood; I relieved some of the pain by yelling "motherf*cker," and I felt badly about this for a moment because my parents had company over and my children were in earshot, but when I emerged from under the desk, I found that i was bleeding from an ugly gash on my head, and then I no longer felt guilty about the use pf profanity . . . it was warranted.

Succulent Suffixes (Dave is Back! With a Topic That His Dog Would Enjoy)

If you affix the word "chop" to any type of meat -- pork chop, veal chop, turkey chop -- then I don't find the dish appetizing at all (and the same goes for "shank") but if you add the word "barbecue" to the end, then whether it is pork or chicken or beef or turkey, it sounds delicious (and I'm not literally back, I am still in New Hampshire, but Sirius has gone on strike).

Union Logic, Woof!

In a situation where there is global competition, such as the auto industry and other manufacturing, it's going to be tough to defend the unions . . . or if you do something that can be outsourced -- like graphic arts  -- but if you are in an industry that relies on trained humans that can't be outsourced . . . whether it's waiting tables or stitching wounds or doing electrical work or teaching English or working at Wal-Mart, then your best hope for a living wage is an organized union . . . not that I deduced this myself, this is just something that my Master told me one time when we were out walking, but it does make a certain sort of sense (but what do I know, though my Master grants me health benefits, he  doesn't even have a pension plan or a 401K set up for me).

My Master is Good

I am very, very sorry for my poor typing yesterday -- my paws are large and clumsy and my vocabulary is rather limited, but after hours of intense practice, I have learned to accurately slap the letters on the keyboard with my neutered penis . . . Master, I hope you can find it within your pure and bountiful soul to forgive me, and when you come home, I will come to the door, greet you, and then roll unto my back, prostrate, and wiggle in obeisance to your greatness and munificence; I also miss both the sub-master (who I sometimes believe to be your master, but who is not my Master, which confuses me greatly, despite my knowledge of the transitive theory) and the two tiny-masters . . . though they are often cruel to me for no reason . . . but I stray from my point (stray . . . ha!) which is that you are a great master and that I will sit in complete deference to you when you arrive back from your vacation, though you did not take me, though you know that I love the snowy mountains . . . but you are a virtuous and wise master, and must have your reasons why you left me home, and who am I to question you, my Master, and plus, this gives me plenty of time to lick my testicles, which I know you don't want to see or hear . . . and so I will take advantage of this and get it "all out of my system" while you are gone, and then return to perfect behavior once you return.

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Sentence of Dog

While I am on vacation in New Hampshire, my dog Sirius has volunteered to write a sentence each day for the blog . . . he is guarding our house (with the help of my brother) and he should have plenty of quiet time to compose his thoughts; I must warn my readers, though, I am relinquishing complete control of my blog for the next few days and I can't guarantee you that the content will be as intellectually stimulating as it usually is -- on the other hand, I hope Sirius doesn't prove to be a better writer than me, as that would be very embarrassing; anyway, Sentence of Dave wishes you a Merry Christmas . . . I hope you got lots of presents, presents encased in layers of cardboard and plastic, tied together with twisty wires, wrapped in even more paper, and I hope you spend lots of quality family time disposing of all that stuff, and that you have a little bit of time after you've finally disposed of all the packaging, to actually play with your gifts (or at least assemble them and find the proper type of battery for them).

We Have A Lot of Spoons

Thirty two, to be exact, and I'm talking about adult, silverware type spoons -- I didn't include any of the kiddie spoons with plastic handles -- so if we just acquire three more plastic cups, then we can put a metal spoon into every plastic cup in our house . . . when we lived in the Middle East, we often hiked over midden piles of ancient cities, and they were essentially giant mounds of pottery chips, but our garbage doesn't really crumble back to dirt -- it lasts forever (I still have a rubber Tribe keychain from college) so my New Year's Resolution should be to sell and recycle all this junk accumulating in my house, but that's even less exciting than my 2012 Resolution . . . so I am taking suggestions for a 2013 Resolution, and, of course, I want it to be as engaging and popular as The 2011 Taco Count.

My Children Do Not Obey The Laws (of Gravity)

Often, when I am sitting in my kitchen, drinking a beer and reading a book, and my children are upstairs, getting ready for bed, I wonder: how can skinny little boys who barely weigh fifty pounds make such tremendous, foundation-shaking THUNKS?