You Probably Had to Be There (But F#$@ It)

If this sentence is a failure, then I apologize in advance, but I'm going to try to capture one of those tiny, humorous moments that makes a day at work, if not quite entertaining, at least bearable; we were all suffering through the first day of school for teachers, an endless workshop on curriculum revision and how to use the new software platforms, and I was showing Stacey my class roster on my school-issued Chromebook-- which is NOT a touchscreen-- and Stacey put her finger on the screen, to point to a former student that she really liked, and my hand was resting on the touchpad of the computer, and my brain instantly decided that the best course of action would be to make the screen move a little when she physically touched it, so then she scrolled with her finger, and I surreptitiously scrolled on the touchpad (this is easier than it sounds) and then she scrolled the other direction, and I followed suit, and for four seconds or so, she thought that I had in my possession a very special school-issued Chromebook with a dynamic touch screen, and she looked at me with a mixture of awe and jealousy, a "how-do-you-rate?" kind of look . . . and then she realized I was fucking with her and she started laughing . . . and the weird thing is, my brain decided to play this "joke" before my consciousness did . . . I just started doing it, and then I realized how funny it was . . . my finger on the touchpad instantly mimicked Stacey's finger movement on the screen and then I realized I was screwing with her perception, and even after we both knew the deal, it was still fun for her to flick the screen and watch it do what she desired . . . and soon enough all this will work fluidly and we'll control screens with our minds (but not yet, in fact, Stacey and I spent twenty-five minutes on Friday attempting to log someone out of Microsoft Outlook email-- God knows why our school adopted that platform this year-- only to determine that it's utterly impossible).

Ambiguities and Aesthetics (of Bumper Stickers)

I apologize for the tardiness of this sentence, and all I've got is more bumper sticker stuff, but, as they say, better late than never: I was driving behind an oldish Hyundai Sonata that was sporting a Hillary '16 bumper sticker, which was artfully placed over a Bernie Sanders 2016 bumper sticker; the Hillary Clinton sticker didn't completely obscure the Bernie Sanders sticker-- which was definitely an option, because the bumper stickers were the same size-- instead it was placed solidly over most of the sticker, in diagonal fashion, as if to indicate that the person was a realist and knew that the realpolitik play was to run Clinton (despite her many flaws) but there was certainly enough of the Bernie sticker left to illustrate that the Hyundai owner lamented Sanders' loss to Clinton and did not want to erase what Bernie had accomplished (he certainly moved the Clinton platform to the left) and while I applaud this person for conveying all those political opinions with two stickers, this person had a third bumper sticker (why does everyone have a third bumper sticker?) which said Stop Bigotry and this text was accompanied by a weird yellow and tan blob, and I googled this one and it turns out the weird yellow and tan blob is a stylized caricature of Donald Trump's head . . . and I'm not sure if the sticker means "Stop Being Bigoted Towards Donald Trump" and is encouraging us to just love him for the irascible racist blowhard that he is, or if it means "Stop Being a Bigot, Donald Trump," but I'm guessing this driver interpreted it as the latter and didn't even consider the former possibility.

Truly Madly Frustrating

Let me begin this rather critical review by saying that I love Liane Moriarty's precise prose, her mathematical plotting, and the fact that she hails from Australia . . . and while her new book Truly Madly Guilty is certainly intense and suspenseful and full of intriguing cast of characters carrying lots of weird and emotional intertwined baggage, the book is not much fun-- it's compelling in a I've-got-to-get-to-the-end sort of way, and that's an accomplishment in itself (and I love all the psychology of hoarding stuff) but there's not many enjoyable set pieces in this one (like the mom footrace in Big Little Lies) and the tone and diction of every chapter is framed by the dictates of the form-- in other words, the purpose of each page is to keep all the secrets obscure, the secrets at the heart of every relationship in the book and the secrets of the plot-- and this becomes rather annoying and contrived . . . I read the whole thing, because I had to, but I hope in her next novel she takes some time to breathe, and just let the story tell itself, instead of forcing it into such a convoluted box . . . and I know you're reading this, Liane-- I can call you Liane, right?-- and I just want to assure you that you're a really good sentence writer, incisive and clever and witty-- and this is coming from me . . . Dave! . . . the author of Sentence of Dave! . . . I've written MANY MANY phenomenal sentences and so a compliment from me is a real feather in your cap! and so listen to me and listen closely: in your next novel, take some time to write some funny sentences-- comedy . . . people love some comedy amidst the carnival disasters-- and develop some entertaining scenes, entertaining scenes unrestricted by the constraints of a maddeningly formulaic plot structure . . . and you can thank me in the credits (although I would prefer a dedication page).

Dave Endorses Taco Trucks on Every Corner

I'm sure diligent readers of Sentence of Dave remember my incredible 2011 Taco Count, but for those of you who don't, here's a quick synopsis: I polished off 200 tacos in one calendar year, and this inspired both my children and my students to comparable feats of gluttony . . . but just imagine how badly I could shatter my own record if Marco Gutierrez's delicious dream of American greatness were to come true and someday, in some utopian reality, there really is a "taco truck on every corner."

The Test 60: Let's Get Biblical, Biblical

Summer is over, thus it is time to go Old Testament on yo' ass . . . so tune in, keep score, learn why God was so goddamned angry back then, and if you do well on this test, then you can join Stacey and virtue signal to your heart's content . . . but even if you find Jesus boring (as Cunningham does) you don't have to worry, he's barely mentioned in this week's episode of The Test . . . we're more into vengeance and betrayal than forgiveness.

Dave Labors to Complete Summer

So I'd like to assure everyone that the summer is complete-- diligent readers might be worried, but yes I saw Lecompt at the Springfield a couple of times . . . I just never got around to writing about the shows, and yes I wrestled in a pool with a bunch of men, some teenage boys and one brave young woman for a greased watermelon . . . this year's scrum was especially epic and went on far too long; the watermelon actually split into pieces in the first match, but the lifeguards had a back-up watermelon (also fully slicked with vaseline) so we were able to play a second game, and while I was fighting for my life, treading water, breathing heavily, occasionally shot-putting the melon, and mainly trying not to drown, I managed to salvage two proud moments: the first was when I made an accurate behind the back pass (with a greased watermelon) under heavy pressure from The Deatz and the second was when one of my soccer players got into space on the wing, called for the melon, and finished perfectly . . . and though when he tossed the melon over the lip of the pool, this was to defeat my team (Team 2!) I attribute his heads-up play, communication, and spacing to my unparalleled coaching . . . so though it was a loss, it was also a victory . . . but let me assure you, it wasn't all treading water and high-fives, I also had one shameful moment, when an opposing player surfaced with the melon, and I violently dunked this person, and then I realized it wasn't an adult, it was one of the youngsters . . . one of the kids on my middle school team, in fact, and I know this doesn't bode well for the future-- when we started this watermelon thing five years ago, it was a bunch of dads and a few twenty-somethings, but this year a lot of the older guys decided they would not participate-- they were too old and it was too exhausting-- and so we recruited a batch of kids, and they're just going to get bigger and stronger and angrier . . . eventually, vengeance will be theirs.

Quest for Frog

I was driving down Woodbridge Avenue Thursday afternoon, behind an ancient Honda Accord that sported three bumper stickers:

1) Don't Steal . . . The Government Hates Competition;

2) What If the Hokey Pokey Is What It's All About?

3) and a third bumper sticker, old and faded, that featured an anthropomorphized frog-- his arm raised and his green finger pointed philosophically into the air-- and next to the frog was a speech bubble with some text in it, but the text was rather small and very faded . . . and-- after briefly meditating upon the first two stickers-- I decided that it was imperative that I find out what the anthropomorphized frog was saying, as his amphibious mantra would not only unlock the personality of the person in the car, but would also offer a key to uniting the yin and yang of our anxious national partisan consciousness-- the first two bumper stickers were so different in tone, one whimsical and silly and the other cautionary and angry-- and the frog's words would resolve this paradox, a paradox lurking at the heart of our national culture and our polarized media; whatever the frog's sage advice would be the balance-- the golden mean-- between absurd vacuous humor and a healthy critical skepticism, between enjoying life's weird and possibly futile ride and being an active, informed citizen in a democracy . . . and so I crept closer and closer to the car, as close as I could possibly get . . . but--alas--I could not read the words that the philosophical frog was saying, and so I drove home, frustrated, and searched the internet but there were no fruitful results for "philosophical frog bumper sticker" and so, for the good of our collective mentality and for the good of our conflicted nation, I have invented his words of wisdom: Life is Short and Then You Croak.

Teachers, The Ethics of Waiting in Line, and Why Dave Is a Great Humanitarian

The PTSA always provides the teachers with a nice spread of food on the first day back, so we can load up before the endless meetings; this year there were several tables in a row, parallel to the cafeteria wall, offering a buffet of fruit, muffins, donuts, coffee, bagels and cream cheese, and cookies . . . but when my colleague Krystina and I made our approach, we had to contend with a long line . . . a long line inching along on ONE side of the row of tables, the closer side, but no one was serving themselves along the other side of the tables-- and the tables were a good six feet from the wall, so there was plenty of room for people to line up and serve themselves on that side as well-- so I said, "Let's go" to Krystina and walked past the line, grabbed a plate, and served myself-- unimpeded-- on the far side of the buffet, but I looked back and Krystina was still in line and she wouldn't budge-- most teachers like to follow the rules-- and I think a few people might have looked at me askance, because while I didn't cut per se, I did serve myself before a lot of people who were waiting patiently in line, and I served myself much faster than the people slowly plugging along on the crowded side of the row of tables, and once I got back to my own little table and sat down, I noticed that the other teachers had followed my lead and they were now serving themselves on both sides of the row of tables, so though I did something slightly immoral, it was ethically utilitarian, because once I broke the ice, a greater number of people served themselves in a more expedient manner . . . so nice job Dave, for making things flow more smoothly and for making a bunch of teachers realize that sometimes you need to break the rules of etiquette in order to get a system to work more efficiently.

Prepare to Be Confused, Then Outraged, Then Confused Again

You may have heard some news about the exorbitant price increase for the Epipen, the ubiquitous life-saving anaphylaxis injection, and that the Heather Bresch-- the CEO of Mylan, the company that produces Epipen-- is the new Martin Shkreli, but the the issue is more complicated than a couple of greedy executives incentivised by stock prices and financial gains; if you really want to understand some of the context and the big picture, listen to the first third of Slate Money in their Worse Than Marxism edition, as they can explain it better than me; their point is this: sometimes markets and capitalism work worse than Marxism . . . markets are great for fungible items that aren't totally necessary and don't need to be on constant flow-- oranges, sneakers, houses, milk-- but crazy things happen when markets and regulation coexist (because the item or service is necessary for day to day infrastructure) so when you have electricity markets (Enron) or health care markets, where there is regulation, monopolies, the hurdle of the FDA, middlemen (pharmacy benefit managers) and no consumer transparency, and so in this instance, Mylan has increased the price of an Epipen from 100 dollars in 2007 to over 600 dollars today AND they did an incredible job marketing the need for the product (which remains mainly unchanged) so that dental offices and schools and Disneyland are required to have these things, generally in first aid kits-- which rarely get used, as most people who need an Epipen carry one-- and so most of these Epipens will gather dust and expire in a year (do they really?) and so you've got to replace them all and while, of course, we should try to have Epipens in as many places as possible, we should have them in as many places as is reasonably possible-- without incurring insane expenses (and I recognize this is cold utilitarian morality in the face of peanut and bee sting deaths, and so I'll let Louie CK do his thing . . . I put it up top, go 40 seconds in) while Heather Dresch is saying the system is broken, deductibles are too high, and we never wanted consumers to pay full price for these items, and then she's offering a 300 hundred dollar rebate card to consumers, this means that the health care system is going to foot that bill, and unless a big story breaks like this, most of the time-- because of opacity, collusion, and the inability for our government to negotiate and regulate prices on drugs-- we'll be unwittingly paying for all this because we never know what anything costs . . . and Heather Bresch, in her CNBC interview, blames the system for the price and she does offer a silver lining-- which is probably specious-- is that Americans are subsidizing drug prices for the rest of the world . . . because you can get an Epipen in Europe and Canada for less than 100 dollars-- the problem with this logic is that there hasn't been many blockbuster drugs developed recently, as big pharma has been more interested in researching older very specific drugs that have no generic, improving them slightly, and then jacking the price way up and marketing these drugs effectively, and so getting Epipens into restaurants, hotels, etcetera and we will again unknowingly foot the bill in increased deductibles and health care costs . . . so Heather Bresch has shown she can be just as big an asshole as one of the guys, but she's a product of the system . . . in Australia, Europe and Canada, health care is treated like water and electricity and there are bureaucratic means to set prices so that the services flow steadily . . . markets and capitalism work well in some instances, but without the right regulations they can also produce things like the institution of slavery (supply and demand . . . Europe needed sugar!) and the stock market crash of 1929 . . . near the end of the interview Bresch finally says, "I'm running a business" and she's right, that's what health care is in America, and--like education-- it probably shouldn't be.

Imminent Narcoleptic Apocalypse

I've taken a nap nearly every day this summer, and now the school year is approaching and I am full of dread and anxiety . . . how am I going to stay awake from sunrise to sunset and then into the great darkness beyond?

I'm Only Responsible for 20% of this Post

You'll have to head over to Gheorghe:The Blog today to get your daily dose of Dave . . . but I warn you: there are philosophical musings and superficially connected anecdotes-- the only payoff is you get to learn what the title means.

Two Vacation Complaints

We had a great vacation with friends in Sea Isle City, but I know you don't want to hear about that (or you'd be wandering around on Facebook) and so I will skip the fun stuff and get right to the gripes:

1) when the kids say they are going to cook dinner for the adults, and the kids are bunch of middle school boys, then the kids are NOT actually going to complete this task, and will require help, supervision, and labor from their mothers;

2) beach umbrella carrying bags are impossibly small and getting the umbrella, flaps, pole, and stakes back into the bag required super-human dexterity . . . beach umbrella companies (particularly Sport-Brella) need to consider the circumstances in which a beach umbrella is going to be stuffed back into the bag: the person cleaning up the umbrellas is often the last man on the beach, and will probably be tired, inebriated, wet, and sandy, and could be battling wind, flies, or the tide . . . so I beseech you: stop trying to cut costs and use a little more fabric on the bag!

The Test 59: A Cult Classic

This week on The Test, Cunningham uses her quiz on cults to whip Stacey and I into a fervently rapturous passion . . . so give it a listen, keep score, promulgate the tenets, try to maintain autonomy of consciousness, and be warned: you may need some deprogramming once the show is over.

Two Things I learned at the Pool Yesterday (Both Explosive)

The first thing I learned at the pool yesterday is that if you put enough rubber bands around a watermelon, it will explode . . . my wife and I saw a bunch of kids clustered around a picnic table, and so we went to investigate, and we saw a dad and a bunch of brave children stretching rubber bands around a watermelon-- which seemed very odd until someone explained the premise, and it took quite a few rubber bands and a good ten minutes, but the end result was a real crowd-pleaser; moments after the watermelon exploded all over the participants, our own children arrived (they were with friends) and we excitedly told them what we had witnessed, but they were unmoved by the information . . . apparently "everyone has seen that on YouTube" and the second thing I learned at the pool is that intestinal gas is visible in an x-ray; I learned this fun fact from a friend (a lady friend!) who will remain nameless (her request) when she recounted her last visit to the chiropractor, he took a full upper body x-ray, put it on display, and began assessing her spine, but she wasn't paying attention to his chiropractic wisdom, and instead was looking at the numerous black balls in her stomach and intestines . . . she knew what they represented and was appropriately mortified (even more so when the chiropractor said, "Wow, you're quite gassy," but she still had the wherewithal to reply, "I had Thai food for lunch").

Alfred Hitchcock Presents . . . The Flies

I certainly can't complain about the weather on our trip to Sea Isle City, but after an idyllic six days of ocean breezes and warm water, on our last day, the wind start blowing from the west, and with the west wind, the flies-- hordes of flies-- and with the flies . . . madness.

You Can Tune a Piano, But You Can't Identify Half of a Fish

My son Ian caught a little flat fish in his net today, but it looked like half of a fish, just a swimming head . . . and it had red spikes on each "tail" end-- we tried to identify it on the internet, to no avail: does anyone know what kind of fish this?

Whitesnake Foretells the Future

I finished two books at the beach yesterday, both on the the theme of human nature, and one was inspirational and disconcerting and the other satirical and reassuring;

1) the disconcerting and inspirational award goes to Sapiens: A Brief History of Humankind by Yuval Noah Harari; this is a Guns, Germs, and Steel-style Big History book that cuts a broad swath while telling the story of "an animal of no significance" that emerges from several other hominid species to conquer the earth-- it's one revolution after the next: cognitive, agricultural, religious, scientific, industrial, economic, nuclear, philosophical, and digital-- and we become the most wild and unnatural of all the animals, at first hunting and gathering in small tight-knit groups, but with a desire to create art (the Lion Man is 32,000 years old) and a desire for conquest (we probably took out the Neanderthals and we certainly killed all the megafauna) and this led to something larger and larger, but in no way inevitable or "natural" . . . in fact, according to Harari, there was just as much lost as gained when we settled down and became farmers (peasants ate worse, toiled harder, died of starvation and disease more often, and the great inequalities of wealth and class began) but this paved the way for one revolution after another, eventually leading to out effete, technological capitalist miracle-- fueled by cheap credit and trust in the future-- but, of course, capitalism is efficient but not ethical, so capitalism produced institutions like slavery and led to a devastation of the "natural" world . . . there are 300 million tons of humanity on the planet, and 700 million tons of domesticated factory farmed animals to feed us, but the total tonnage of the surviving large wild animals-- "from porcupines and penguins to elephants and whales-- is less than 100 million tons" and so while Harari portrays humanity as progressive, intelligent, conquering beings, he also acknowledges what Whitesnake told us long ago, that we don't know where we're going (though we sure know where we've been) and we're walking, alone down a street of dreams, drifting this way and that, into unknown, unforetold territory, revolution after revolution, looking for answers, and here we go again . . . so get ready to hold on for the rest of your days . . .

2) the second book is a refreshing change from Yuval Harari's big thoughts and philosophical speculations, and it is free on the Kindle and I highly recommend it; Three Men in a Boat (To Say Nothing of the Dog) by Jerome K. Jerome is an account of a men's boating holiday down the Thames River, and it is semi-autobiographical, hysterically funny, and was published in 1889 . . . and I shit you not, if you read this book, you'll realize that if you took a time machine back to 1889, you would have no problem hanging out with these folks-- the tone and the jokes and the diction are perfectly modern, and Jerome K. Jerome's observations could have fallen from a Seinfeldian observational comic, here are a few examples:

a) the mildest tempered people, when on land, become violent and blood-thirsty when in a boat;

b) few things, I have noticed, come quite up to the pictures of this world;

c) little was in sight to remind us of the nineteenth century;

d) in a boat, I have always noticed that it is the fixed idea of each member of the crew that he is doing everything . . . Harris's notion was, that is was he alone who had been working;

e) each person has what he doesn't want, and other people have what he does want . . . married men have wives, and don't seem to want him; and young single fellows cry out that they can't get them.

One Upping ad Infinitum

You have probably witnessed some one-upmanship, or been the victim of a one-upper, or possibly even one-upped someone yourself, but this one-upping is beyond the pale-- and I recognize the irony of saying that I am in possession the best one-upping anecdote in the history of one-upping: my wife and our friend Connell were sitting on the porch at Sea Isle, drinking and discussing the profound beauty of the night sky (and the travesty of light pollution) and my wife reminisced about the vast array of visible stars in the sky that she witnessed when we stayed inside Mesa Verde National Park, high atop the mesa, far from civilization . . . she said "there was a star in every piece of the sky" and Connell replied to this, without malice or premeditated hyperbole, by describing his trip to New Hampshire,  where from beside a mountain lake he could see "a thousand stars in every spot in the sky" and and we all reflected upon this description for a moment and then realized that Connell had one-upped Catherine, but by a thousandfold, and not a simple thousandfold, he one-upped her by a thousandfold per piece of sky, which is enough one-upping to last a lifetime (or at least inspire a lifetime of ridicule, which we have heaped upon him in the succeeding days).

A Surveyor, an Anthropologist, a Psychologist, and a Biologist Walk into a Bar

Jeff Vandermeer's sci-fi novel Annihilation certainly owes some of its tone and plot to the Strugatsky Brothers cult classic Roadside Picnic, but instead of navigating a mysterious area through the eyes of a Stalker, Vandermeer gives us a weird, gothic, and evocatively creepy tour of Area X through the mind and observations of a biologist, and the passages in which she analyzes the bizarre ecosystem of Area X are the most vivid and memorable in a book which is generally ambiguous and confounding . . . the team investigating Area X, purportedly the twelfth mission sent in to contain and understand the zone, consists of a psychologist, an anthropologist, a surveyor, and a biologist . . . but nothing is as it seems, everything goes awry, and the group spirals deeper and deeper into an area that has more to do with the Wallace Stevens poem "Of Mere Being" than an actual location on earth; the book is short and the first of a trilogy, and I liked it enough that I will probably read the other two, but be warned: the plot is more like a dream than a linear sequence of events, and the nature of reality is constantly eroded and called into question-- this is exemplified by the biologist's husband, who went into Area X on the 11th expedition, and came out as the walking dead . . . this was a man who thought he had been abused as a child, but when-- as an adult-- he saw a classic horror film, it "was only then that he realized that the television set must have been left on when he was only a couple years old" and his memories of abuse were a fake and a forgery, and "that splinter in his mind, never fully dislodged, disintegrated into nothing" and the looming menace, that all of our consciousness is faulty and false and misguided, takes root on every page of this book, and colors every detail of the lush, variegated environment of Area X and whatever lies beyond and below it.

Thank You Netflix!

The Netflix series Stranger Things succeeded where I failed, and convinced my kids that The Clash is the only band that matters.