Dave Unironically Attends a Zumba Class

After school on Thursday I attended my friend Stacey's renegade zumba class (it's renegade because she's not certified) and I am always going to refer to it as "renegade zumba" because that sounds more badass than "certified zumba" . . . and if you're wondering why I did this fairly non-badass thing, though I'm such a badass, it's because I'm finally addressing one of major shortcomings in life: I'm not that strong a dancer . . . in fact, I can't dance . . . and so I'm doing an experiment on my body and brain-- I'm going to see if I can learn to move to the beat; I did have one miraculous moment when I was watching Stacey's sneakers in the mirror and I thought they were my own feet, because I was in time with the beat and moving my feet in the proper manner, but that was only one moment  among many, many missteps . . . but at the very least, I am learning a few things to attack my biggest problem with dancing: what do you do with your hands?

The World 2.0 Gets Dave All Wound Up

A perfect confluence of bizarre events nearly brought my brain to its knees recently, but luckily I have this blog where I can mix metaphors and spew detritus and then continue with my life: Cat and I finished Mad Men earlier this week, and that had me thinking about changing times and how hard it is to adapt-- and, then of course, there were the Paris attacks and the resulting technological controversies raised: metadata programs and electronic surveillance and privacy issues, and this dovetailed with what we were investigating in class . . . my students listened to  The Modern Moloch, a podcast on the history of the automobiles in the city, and how corporate lobbying changed our relationship with the car from "death machine" to "love affair" . . . and we used my Neil Postman's warning that technology is not neutral, that every piece of technology is "a burden and a blessing" to link the podcast to Leon Neyfakh's excellent article on texting and driving-- "A Deadly Habit"-- and Neyfakh and Roman Mars seem to agree that certain pieces of technology are beyond our control, and actually control us-- whether they psychologically override an already engaged prefrontal cortex, making us unable to make a good decision about using our phone while weaving through traffic, or make us change the way we relate to and coordinate with people-- including ability or inability to encrypt "personal data"-- which could contribute to terrorism but could also protect people's digital information . . . or past technology could control the infrastructure and architecture of our cities and suburbs in the future, this was the power of the car in the 1930's, after auto lobbying groups ensured that cars would have the right of way in every corridor of our country . . . these groups made us change our perception on who is to blame in an accident (instead of reckless drivers operating a dangerous vehicle it became the fault of those damned jaywalkers, walking like rubes where they shouldn't ) and while all this changing world stuff was rattling around in my brain, my son Ian's friend came flying down the street on a hands-free motorized scooter . . . and if you don't have a ten year old son then you might not know that these things are all the rage and my son Ian is now begging us to get one, and they've gotten pretty cheap and they are neat and they do work, but when he asked me if he could get one, I really had no answer for him . . . I told him he would have to wait for me to think about it (and then his friend did some lobbying and he's an eloquent little kid, he said: "my parents were skeptical too, and they took some convincing, but it's really cool!") and while I'll probably cave in on this, I'm not sure I'm even equipped to make the decision-- I don't know if a ten year old should have an electrically charged hands-free motorized vehicle which travels fifteen miles an hour and I don't know if I'm even capable of ever figuring this puzzle out-- it might be safer than his long board, but then it might not . . . and are they street legal?-- anyway, to add to this technological existential breakdown, yesterday our principal made an announcement to remind the students that though we are a BYOD (Bring Your Own Device) school and though kids can use their cellphones in the halls between classes (one earbud policy) that they cannot take any pictures with their phones or record any video (I think this was in response to a fight in the hallway: kids were taking pictures and video of it, which is bad for two reasons-- these images may come back to haunt the kids at a later date and the school promises parents that their kids images won't be taken in school and used anywhere unless unless permission is granted) but I don't think the two rules are compatible-- I don't think you can let kids have phones and then tell them not to use them the way they primarily use them . . . to take pictures and video of things . . . I don't think humans can handle having the device and then not using it in all sorts of ways that are habitual and generally socially acceptable, prohibited or not, so I think we should take all the smartphones and put them in a pile and run them over with our cars . . . and our hands-free motorized scooters.

The End of an Era . . . The End of Madmen

I'm very sleepy this morning because we watched the final episode of Mad Men last night, and while I won't reveal any spoilers to those of you who haven't finished the series (although I thought the ending would be more tragic, because of the ominous animated sequence during the opening credits, where Don flails about in an infinite dream-like fall . . . it's not like the end is a barrel of laughs, but there is plenty of joy mixed with the pathos-- it's more like the opening is a symbolic fall for the archetypal '50's stone-jawed businessman and I think the weird hug in the penultimate scene is about the shifting gender roles happening in America in the early '70's . . . although if you've got to hug a weird crying stranger in a therapy group to usher in a new era, then I might want to get left behind) but more importantly, it took me seven seasons to learn that the title of the show is Mad Men . . . not Madmen . . . and I'm surprised that the grammar Nazis who visit this place never caught the error . . . perhaps they never watched the show, or perhaps they were letting me slide because everyone pronounces it as one word.

I've Only Known Enrico Palazzo For 27 Years

Friday night my wife went out with some ladies, and the boys and I were left to our own devices; we decided on take-out burgers and film appreciation; I went with The Naked Gun, which streams on Netflix, and I was quite surprised by the year of its release-- 1988, because I had this false sense of nostalgia about this movie; I really thought I had watched when I was very young and very immature, and then continued to enjoy the repetition of the silly jokes during future viewings, but apparently I watched it when I was almost a full grown human (eighteen years old, but still very silly) and found it profoundly funny . . . and I still do: "it's Enrico Palazzo!"

An Autumn Miracle

Last week, I was walking home with the dog, annoyed that when I got back I would have to rake up all the wet leaves on my lawn and bag them-- in my book, the only thing worse than handling and bagging mounds of damp leaves is a pus-filled canker sore under the tongue-- but when I arrived, our lawn guy-- who only comes every two or three weeks, was blowing all the wet leaves off our lawn with an industrial strength leaf blower and he then vacuumed them all up and took them away . . . a well-timed serendipitous autumn miracle if I've ever seen one (and the opposite of the autumn disaster my brother and his friend conducted when they were in high school, they snuck out late at night and took all the leaves people had bagged-- and this was in North Brunswick, where the lawns are much bigger than Highland Park-- and they dumped the leaves back on people's lawns . . . and I'm hoping that none of those people read this blog and seek vengeance on my brother and his friend for this mischievous re-leafing).

The Test 23: Princess Cunningham

In this week's episode of The Test, Princess Cunningham quizzes Stacey and I on all things Disney; I do poorly-- which is to be expected, considering how I feel about that place-- but (spoiler alert) I do confuse two things that our older listeners might find entertaining . . . this film and this place; give it a listen, play along, and see if you can find your inner princess.

The Truth About About Cats & Dogs & Fish & Birds & Pigs

Although people love to pontificate about the differences between cats and dogs, in a gastronomical sense they are the same: we don't eat their kin in front of them . . . you  can consume tilapia in the same room as a fish tank, or chomp on chicken wings while you chat with your pet macaw, but -- in America, at least-- it is uncouth to eat dog or cat, especially when they are in the vicinity . . . I do think there is an outlier in the mix: I am sure those eccentric folks who own potbellied pigs will occasionally munch on a BLT without concern for their mini-hog's opinion on the matter (and cannibals are another category entirely . . . those that dine on the "long pig" are the kings of meta-eating).

Tennis for Men?

I always though a two-handed backhand was for kids and women, but apparently most men are hitting it now as well . . . and while I have a sweet one-handed slice backhand and a decent topspin backhand stroke as well, I'm not to old to adopt something new-- and my son Ian has an excellent two-hander so it might be fun to emulate him and hoist him with his own petard; the next time we hit the court, I'm going to put on my cutest white skirt and give the two-hander a shot.

This Might Be Farewell

In case I don't make it through the next couple of days, I'd like to thank all my readers for their encouragement and support . . . I know you all agree that I am an advanced wordsmith of the highest caliber, but I still don't think I have the lexical dexterity to explain how irritating, annoying and painful the canker sore under my tongue is . . . and while I've tried some of the remedies you have suggested, they don't seem to be working; in fact, I'm sure the sore is growing larger and larger each minute, festering and suppurating vast amount of pus, and in the coming days, I'm sure it will consume the rest of my tongue, then my mouth, then my face, and then my entire body-- I'll be one gigantic frothing sore, and thus unable to write any sentences . . . but it was fun while it lasted.

Who Needs Chelsea?

While I was certainly impressed by the breadth of hip restaurants in Chelsea, if you don't feel like schlepping all the way to the city, you can head to Easton, Avenue, New Brunswick and go to the City Cafe & Bar: it's totally hip inside, weird tables and couches and a nifty curved, tiled bar . . . and it's oddly affordable ($4 dollar pint of Guinness, $10 dollars for a big octopus salad, $2 for all their fancy sliders) and they have this delicious drink called Sangria Cerveza . . . this is certainly an excellent addition to the really good restaurants that have opened recently, also check out Desta Ethiopian Cuisine and 418 Burgers in Highland Park.

More Wild News From Dave's Closet!

Not only did all my white socks disintegrate on the same day, but both my belts -- black and brown-- fell apart within a week . . . so I went belt shopping, but instead of buying two belts, I bought a reversible belt, and saved the price of one belt . . . yes!

The Test 22: Stacey's Songs (Have Still Got It Going On)

This episode of The Test is another musical clip quiz by Stacey: listen to the song snippets, identify the artists, and then see if you can figure out the overarching theme . . . at the start of the show, I gloat about how I defeated Cunningham on the first song quiz, but I receive my just deserts on this one and fail miserably (and I really should have gotten it).

Is Winter Coming?

Weirdly warm weather continued in New Jersey on Saturday, and to celebrate we played many outdoor sports-- aside from soccer . . . we've had just about enough of that-- so we hit tennis balls and played basketball and I rode the Ripstik along with the kids, and they rode their penny-board (and then the boys and their friend began playing basketball while riding skateboards and Ripstiks, which looked fairly dangerous, but there were no major disasters) and then they took the mini-pool table that they bought on garage sale day and put it out on the porch and played that . . . and while I'm not pleased with the environmental impact of global warming, nor do I like scorching summertime weather, I must admit that this is pretty nice, especially considering we haven't had to turn the heat on, nor have we gotten annoyed with the children . . . as they're far less annoying when they're outside the house.

Reality Break

On Thursday my wife and I ditched the kids and the dog and all soccer-related events and essentially took a break from reality-- we went to the city to see Sleep No More, which was the most surreal event of our trip (I don't want to go into too much other than to say you should see it . . . it is the ideal "play" for me because you don't sit down, you wander through a five story set, ostensibly the Mckittrick Hotel, but actually a labyrinthine warehouse, chasing actors and actresses who are involved in something akin to a wordless 1920's noir version of Macbeth . . . it's bizarre, scary, and totally immersive . . . one of the best moments is when we wandered through the wrong door from the lounge, before we had donned our masks, and a group of white-masked audience members, as if on cue, all turned and stared at us-- perhaps they thought we were actors, because the only maskless people in the actual performance are the actors in the play, but we were quickly ushered back into the lounge, where we had a weird alcoholic drink and then were properly attired and thrown into the performance . . . it's three hours long and we certainly slept well afterwards) and before the show we wandered the High Line and the surrounding neighborhoods, Chelsea and the Meatpacking District . . . it's the best place in the city to walk around, full of hip restaurants and bars, coffee shops, art galleries, warehouses converted to foodmarkets, swanky apartment high-rises . . . we ate at a tapas place called Tia Pol -- delicious blistered shishito peppers, patatas bravas, fried chickpeas, etcetera-- and drank a beer in a jar (two dollar deposit) while we wandered the Chelsea Market and had beers and snacks at Cooper's Craft & Kitchen, a hipster craft brew bar with great pork belly and chili oil sliders . . . and if you want to enjoy all the free art galleries, go sooner rather than later, as this area can't last exactly as it is, the spaces are too valuable and the art galleries don't make enough money to afford the rent . . . we saw a wild display of Max Ernst sculptures . . . he's one of my favorite painters and while his paintings are probably very very expensive, you can grab one of his sculptures for the two or three hundred grand, we also really liked the thin line and watercolor pieces by Jen Ray . . . lots of rock chicks, amazon warrior women, piles of meat, and detailed detritus . . . then we continued the surreal reality break yesterday, though this time we took the dogs and the kids along . . . we went to the beach . . . and it was hot . . . in November (twenty years from now, when the average temperature in New Jersey in November is 84 degrees Fahrenheit, this post will be regarded as cute).

Instrumental Paradox

Why is jazz music so good and jazz singing so unbearable?

At a Loss to Avoid a Gain

If anyone knows how to avoid eating Halloween candy-- which now resides in giant bowls in my kitchen and is a very attractive nuisance-- without tossing it in the trash, since it does belong to my children (though I'm the one consuming the bulk of it) then please let me know.

Allegorical Cacti

At work on Monday I was called down to the office-- and teachers feel the same way as students when they are put in this position, as usually it indicates that something has gone wrong-- but I was pleasantly surprised when a secretary handed me a medium-sized cactus in a decorative box and told me I could be on my way . . . and in a cognitive flash I realized the symbolic significance of this desert succulent, but I read the accompanying card to be sure, and my wife confirmed my suspicions; Monday was our "Meetiversary," the day we met twenty-three years ago, and while that's not something I ever remember to honor, occasionally my wife does and she chose to celebrate it with the first gift I ever gave her . . . it was her birthday and I presented her with a lovely little cactus, a thorny thing which I thought was quite nifty (but what did twenty-three year old Dave know about women?) and Catherine was so annoyed by the lameness of my gift that she threw it at me.

Paper Clips, Trombones, Safety Pins, Coat Hangers and Bicycles

My son Ian forgot his trombone at school, but he did drag home the innards of an old desktop tower style computer because he thought his brother would think it was cool, but his brother did not think it was cool and neither did I . . . what I do think is cool, however, is that the French word for paperclip is "trombone" because paper clips really do look like little trombones, and if you like thinking in this manner, then you'll really like Avram Davidson's 1958 sci-fi short story "Or All the Seas With Oysters" . . . safety pins are the larval form of coat-hangers, which eventually grow and transform into fully grown bicycles.

Dave Learns Three Things (and Connects Two of Them)

I learned two valuable things while listening to Dan Carlin's newest episode of Common Sense: The Show That Should Not Be . . .

1) the correct way to pronounce the word "realpolitik" . . . ree-al politeek;

2) the idea that we need to divide the office of president into two parts: a prime minister and a chancellor . . . the prime minister can be a balding, wonky bean counter and the chancellor can be the good looking guy with a full head of hair straight out of Central Casting . . . and it's very difficult to find both these types inhabiting the same person, and because there's only one office and you need to win the election in the media, we elect the latter type of person and then expect him to be both things;

and now for the serendipitous connection which I mentioned in the title . . . while I was listening to the 99% Invisible episode "The Atmospherians" I learned that when you say the phrase "straight out of Central Casting" you are referencing an actual place in Burbank, California with a massive database of people, categorized by how they look, in order to provide films with authentic looking extras . . . but, of course, using extras that fit a stereotype can perpetuate that stereotype . . . so ask yourself this: when you are casting your vote for President next November, would you vote for a short balding guy who looks like George Costanza?

The Test 21: Poker Face Off

This episode of The Test, which focuses on gambling and probability, might have simply been a straightforward display of Stacey and her brother Brian's expertise on this topic, but --lucky for us-- Cunningham saves the day when she wiggles her way through some calculations . . . listen for her operatic multiplication.