The wind is the most annoying element in sports (except when it becomes a tornado-- then it's one of the most deadly elements) and while I love pickleball, the ball is highly susceptible to the wind-- and yesterday was the first time I ever played pickleball in a low wind speed situation and it was awesome . . . you can lob and you can really hit the ball hard (I haven't played indoors yet . . . or not since 1988 in gym class at NBTHS).
History . . . What is It Good For?
New episode of We Defy Augury up . . . I read a couple of history books and learned a few things-- but probably not as much as I should have learned: "Revolutions, Reconstructions, and a Mountain Lion."
John Mulaney Stole My Bit!
I was texting with my friend Whitney today and I recommended he listen to the album "10000 gecs"-- but I also recommended the context in which he should listen to the album . . . this is an album to enjoy with a beverage or a substance or perhaps driving alone in the car, blasting it with the windows open (but do not combine all three) and I told him when he played Track 2 (757) he should recall this moment from 2004:
it's the Outer Banks Fishing Trip and there are twenty dudes crammed into the Martha Wood cottage-- a beach shack at Milepost 12-- and it's dark and we're drunk and playing some poker and also playing some tunes-- on a CD player-- and I've got Ween's new album Quebec and I'm playing "The Fucked Jam" over and over and over, for two reasons--
number one, I love "The Fucked Jam". . . the incomprehensible high-pitched lyrics, the weird synths, the random dips and pauses that make you think this groovy abomination is over . . .
but the second reason I'm playing this track over and over is that it's driving this huge guy Tinsley, once a linemen for the W&M football team, absolutely crazy-- and he's new to our fishing trip-- he wasn't in our fraternity-- and so perhaps he's not used to my brand of humor-- but the song is really driving him nuts and I keep promising him that it's over, but then it starts again-- check out 23 seconds in, it does that dip quite often-- and then I sincerely promise him I'm going to play another track from the album-- and then I don't and I feign surprise and tell him I thought it was over . . . and this goes on and on until he finally runs around the table, pops the CD player open, grabs the disk, sprints out to the porch, shaking the house with his massive footsteps, and throws the disc into the dunes-- which was completely deserved and we laughed and laughed-- and then a few years later-- and I'm just putting this together now-- John Mulaney does his "Salt and Pepper Diner" bit, about playing the Tom Jones song "What's New Pussycat" over and over at a diner, until the people in the diner lose their mind-- and he talks about how the song has a "dip in it," just like "The Fucked Jam" and I'm just realizing that Mulaney stole my bit (although my punchline was much better-- a giant football player barreling across the porch and chucking a little discus into the darkness) and I will simply await a simple thank you for the idea that propelled him to great fame and fortune.
Tennis Canceled (Self Reflective Stretch Day)
No tennis match today-- the weather is truly ugly-- and we could probably use a bit more practice so this might be a good thing, so this afternoon (after listing to this podcast) I have been trying to some flexibility exercises and it turns out that I should stop bench pressing and start sitting on the floor, getting up off the floor, doing Asian deep squats, and hanging from bars (not hanging in bars) or I'm going to be a burden to my flexible and fit wife (who can pop up from criss-cross applesauce without using her hands) when I get older . . . although I can get up off the ground without using my hands-- but I have to twist to my knees, so I've got that going for me . . . or I could keep bench-pressing and if I need any assistance when I get old, i could just punch a young person and then tell them they need to help me or I'll punch them again (but I'll have to coax them into getting down to ground level, since I won't be able to lift myself up).
This Doesn't Bode Well . . .
Today at tennis practice, our third singles player and I beat Ian and Ethan -- first and second singles-- in a set . . . Ian has the yips with his backhand and Ethan must have been up playing video games all night . . . first match is tomorrow-- I hope they get it together.
Horror with Panache (or Should I Say Flair?)
Last Night in Soho, which on first glance might seem like some other kind of film-- perhaps a feminine/Anglophile version of Woody Allen's Midnight in Paris-- but the film is NOT directed by Woody Allen, it's directed by Edgar Wright (Shaun of the Dead, Hot Fuzz, Baby Driver, etc) and this is most definitely stylish and dream horror movie-- and it's a horror movie that makes decent sense (unlike Barbarian) but it mainly becomes a ghoulish contest of which blonde has more style, glamour and verve: Sandie (Anya Taylor-Joy) or Eloise (Thomasin McKenzie) and the film is a reminder not to romanticize the past because it might not live up to your expectation (or die up to your expectations).
Remember When Harry Potter Fought Jesus?
I've just started listening to The Witch Trials of J.K. Rowling and it seems Rowling is a useful and fascinating lens with which to observe the polarization of our culture-- I also forgot (until I listened to episode 2) how crazed the conservative Christians were about banning the Harry Potter books in the late 90s because they seduced children away from the magic of Jesus and towards the magic and necromancy and divination and sorcery and spells and fantasy of Hogwarts and the Potter pantheon-- and the books were just a victim of scale, of course, because there were plenty of fantasy books with far darker magic (I vaguely remember reading The Elfstones of Shannara in middle school . . . I think there's a nuclear war metaphor in that one) but the Harry Potter books were singular in their mass market domination-- anyway, it's an interesting podcast that's got a far broader scope than just talking about some J.K. Rowling tweets.
Horror and Lunch Buffet
Last night, Catherine and I watched the horror movie Barbarian and while I will admit that every decision every single regular person made in the movie was stupid and irrational and utterly insane, I was still gripping my wife's leg in terror throughout the film-- I don't really understand the title (although the film did take place on Barbary Street . . . a rundown abandoned Detroit suburb inhabited by squatters and derelicts-- aside form one cute AirBnB?) but there were so many bad choices . . . but that's how horror movies happen I suppose-- and maybe in this film most of the bad choices were made by men, but Tess-- the leading lady-- doesn't fare much better-- nor does the female arch-villain-- but it's still a fun and crazy journey; almost as scary was our ride to Muhlenberg University this morning-- torrential rain-- but the campus was lovely, the weather cleared up, and the free lunch at the dining hall was phenomenal-- since when does college have good food?
Spring Break! Spring Break?
Long last day of school-- I covered a class so I worked every minute, plus the kids are wild animals the day before break . . . this poor girl in Public Speaking class had to do a speech today-- she was absent last class-- and the assignment was to perform either a toast or a eulogy . . . and kids often eulogize goofy stuff like bad haircuts and their motivation but she was doing a semi-serious one about her dog, a teacup Yorkie-- who died a few years ago-- and her friends got the giggles because she was describing such a tiny dog and then when it got sad, they kept giggling and it got contagious because teenagers are idiots and I pretty much regretted all my life choices that had led me to being in that room full of those teenagers on the day of Spring Break-- but we got through it and the rest of the stupid classes and then there was still tennis practice but now I'm finally home, drinking a beer, listening to Beach House, and winding down from a long fucking stretch of school.
Dave Learns Too Much Today
I took over a new class today (because Cunningham got knocked up) and my co-teacher was out, so I had to learn a lot on my own (sort of, I called Cunningham twice on the phone, to her chagrin and the students' amusement, I enlisted the aid of our two tech support guys, and I asked the students numerous questions) and this new class is called Publisher's Workshop and the purpose of the class is to create all the articles and spreads for the school yearbook and to fill the school web page with articles-- so it's serious shit-- and I learned how to log onto Cuningham's iMac (it's slow and I hate the mouse) and I learned how to log onto the Bearhub web site -- which seems like a Wordpress blog-- and I got a Canva account (different from Canvas) so I can do the layouts-- and-- most importantly-- I learned the last name of my co-teacher-- because I only knew her first name, so now when she comes back I can refer to her properly in front of the kids . . . I took the kids (there are only eight of them) on a field trip today to the secret location where they store the tissue boxes-- I go directly to this secret location instead of putting in an order with the supplies lady-- so I taught them something (but probably not commensurate with what they taught me) and then we had picture day for the tennis team and I had to deal with MORE platforms-- the UTR site-- some kids have two accounts-- and Remind and Google classroom . . . so to summarize, I'm on a lot of platforms: Canvas, Gmail, Remind, Microsoft Email, Canva, Bearhub, UTR, and probably some shit I'm not even aware of . . . what have we wrought?
Long Fucking Afternoon
My son Ian, a senior, and Ethan-- an athletic and skilled sophomore, played their challenge match today for the first singles position and it wasn't pretty; Ian had two fingers taped on his left hand from a basketball injury and couldn't hit his patented two-handed backhand and Ethan suffered from calf cramps; Ian won the first set 6-1, Ethan won the second set 6-3 and then Ian won the third set 6-4 . . . Ethan showed that he's incredibly fast and can get to almost anything, Ian hit some decent first serves, but it was mainly a war of attrition and I'd kind of like to see them play again when they are both perfectly healthy.
Almost Fucking There
The Rutgers Expos team is slogging its way toward Spring Break but there's a bunch of essays, an Excel Spreadsheet, numerous college credit forms, and a bizarre final exam (called the FIE) in our way . . . I didn't realize there were so many obstacles in my way until Stacey called them to my attention Monday morning-- but we are diligently working through them (and I guess this happens every year but I conveniently forget about all this bullshit) and once this stuff is done and we make it to Spring Break, we will be in the final stretch . . . the fourth quarter!
March Showers Are Fucking Cold
The weather apps did not concur-- my students, with their newfangled iPhones, said their Apple weather app predicted 90% rain, but my much derided Weather Underground app said it wouldn't rain until 5 PM-- and the Weather Gods went with the Weather Underground (so we got 90 minutes of tennis practice in before we got wet).
Life is Scarier Than Death
It's easier to fight a deranged possessed puppet than it is to be an executrix . . . or at least that's my argument in this week's episode of We Defy Augury.
One-on-one Doubles
My high school tennis team is going to play one-on-one doubles every day at practice-- they can't do it well yet, but they have improved-- it's a great game to practice serving net play, agility, and fitness (and I can hang in with the better players because I can serve and volley and I don't need to cover so much court).
gecs!
I am still obsessed with the album 10000 gecs . . . I'm sure I'll get sick of it, but I'm listening to this album the way I listened to Paul's Boutique, The Pod, OK Computer, and The Soft Bulletin (among others) and it definitely scratches my brain.
Chat GPT is a Prude
I haven't played with Chat GPT in a while, but it rained today-- resulting in no tennis practice-- so I got to screwing around and I asked it a question inspired by a Beatles lyric and this is the pablum I got . . .
Yes, "Why don't we do it in the road?" is commonly interpreted as an invitation for sexual activity. However, engaging in sexual activity in public, especially on a road, is illegal and can be dangerous for a number of reasons.
First and foremost, engaging in sexual activity in public can lead to criminal charges for indecent exposure, public lewdness, or other related offenses. Additionally, it can be unsafe as there is an increased risk of being caught by law enforcement or pedestrians, as well as potential injury from passing vehicles.
In short, it is never advisable to engage in sexual activity in public, including on a road. It is important to prioritize personal safety and follow the laws and regulations set forth in one's community.
So Many gecs
If you liked this song, then you might like 100 gecs . . . if you need some context, listen to the new Switched on Pop . . . or go all the way . . . 1000 gecs . . . or even better: 10,000 gecs!
Longest Week of the Year
The long angry week: half days with no lunch, four fucking days of spring parent conferences-- unheard of anywhere except East Brunswick-- tennis practice, then back for conferences from 5 PM - 8 PM . . . and Route 18 is all fucked up on both sides so it's white-knuckle middle-finger-flipping chaos to get back and forth from tennis practice in Highland Park to the stupid night conferences . . . and I just got the Rutgers expos essays . . . I should have been a librarian or a hedge fund manager or grifter.
El Orfanato plus Being John Malkovich Equals?
If you're looking for a horror novel with serious puppetry, Being John Malkovich level marionette skills, then check out the new Grady Hendrix novel How to Sell a Haunted House . . . some of the scenes get a little long winded, but the book is very scary, very funny, and very Southern gothic (and once again, set in Charleston) AND there is an amazing bonus flashback set piece chapter set in Boston back when one of the main characters dropped out of college and joined a radical puppet collective with demonic and anarchic tendencies-- brilliant stuff . . . and Pupkin is a worthy villain and the book has a satisfying (and fairly logical, considering the subject matter) resolution . . . Grady Hendrix is a national treasure.
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