I had a wicked headache today-- probably due to a combination of playing morning basketball, the drastic change in the weather, and not enough caffeine-- so I went to the nurse's office for some Tylenol; on the way out of the office, I nearly smacked a student with the door-- the door opens out into the hallway traffic . . . poor design-- and I said to the student, who luckily was not on his phone and dodged the heavy slab of wood, "I nearly sent you to the nurse's office . . . with the door of the nurse's office! Talk about irony!" and he laughed-- probably because the door did not hit him (and perhaps because of my briliant comment, even more brilliant because I delivered it while enduring a headache) and now there's a small part of me that actually wants to hit a kid with the nurse's office door, just hard enough that so the kid has to go to the nurse's office (but no harder, I'm not heartless) because it would be such a wonderful example of irony.
Doing What the Lady Told Me . . .
Although my wife and I have returned to our regular, mundane lives, the memories of Gettysburg linger-- especially the Cyclorama-- a 19th-century form of visual entertainment featuring an enormous panoramic, 360-degree immersive painting, often with dioramas around the base of the painting to add a degree of three-dimensional realism . . . the Gettysburg Visitor's Center has one, painted by the French artist Paul Philippoteaux and his team of artists, depicting Pickett's Charge, the climactic and farily suicidal Confederate attack on the Union forces in Gettysburg on July 3, 1863-- the Cyclorama was completed in 1883-- and several copies were made-- and the paintings toured various cities and were viewed like a movie-- fantastic experience . . . and I will also remember the stories of the Shriver family-- we took a tour of their house and the old lady giving the tour was enthusiastic and grisly in her descriptions of the horrors of war and the tragedy surrounding the Shrivers-- they were slated to open a basement saloon and ten pin bowling alley, when war reared its ugly head and George left to serve the Union, and then, as the Battle of Gettysburg loomed, the house was abandoned for a bit, and used by Confederate sharpshooters (who were shot themselves-- there is still blood in the attic) and George Shriver ended up in the notrious and terrible Andersonville POW camp, where he starved to death . . . anyway, if you go to Gettysburg, be sure to tour this house and be sure to see the Cyclorama-- and at the end of the tour of the Shriver house, our tour guide implored us to read the diaries of the Shriver family and she said we should be writing down the mundane details of our own lives, because you never know what future generation might find interesting . . . and I have been!
There's No Offside on the Battlefield (but there should be)
No Civil War-related material today, as we drove home from Gettysburg this morning, and now I am slogging through my soccer referee modules-- which must be completed before my referee training next Saturday . . . perhaps I'll understand Law 11 by then (Offside).
The Battle is Over
Gettysburg: A Whole Lotta History (and beer)
Got a Whole Lotta Plants
War, What IS It Good For?
After You Bring Her Back, Do You Have to Bring It Back?
Bring Her Back, the new Australian horror film by directors Danny and Michael Phillippou, tells the story of a foster mother named Laura who adopts two children-- Piper (who is blind) and her older step-brother Andy . . . but it turns out Laura wants the blind child as a vessel to resurrect her own dead child-- and she has learned how to perform this sinister (and disgusting and very scary) ritual from a sketchy VHS tape, which she often consults during the film (the tracking is terrible on this tape) and I was wondering where exactly she rented this VHS tape-- it doesn't seem like the typical Blockbuster fare-- but if you search that question on the internet, you'll end up down a weird rabbit hole as there is apparently an ARG (alternate reality game?) about the film . . . but I was quite satisfied (and totally petrified) by the film itself-- I had to watch an episode of Big Bang Theory once it was over, to erase the spookiness, and I don't think I'll be investigating this ritual any further-- but the real question is: after you "bring her back" and transport a deceased soul from the netherworld to this mortal coil, then if and when do you have to bring it back, the VHS tape, to the rental store?
Finally, Our Special Purpose is Unveiled
Alcohol is Less Fun When You're Old
We went out with friends last night, and I was a bit foggy this morning, and I wasn't sure why-- I didn't drink that much last night-- but my wife informed me that she only drank one glass of wine at dinner and that I consumed the rest of the bottle-- and I guess the wine atop an espresso martini and an IPA is more alcohol than I can handle these days . . . note to self.
Less Synth, More Zippers
As usual, at the gym today, I was simultaneously working out AND trying to expand my musical horizons-- multi-tasking!-- and today I was exploring various prog rock albums (I wandered down this avenue by listening to the Alan Parsons Project album I, Robot . . . which combines yacht rock and Dark Side of the Moon sci-fi psychedelia) and I was giving the Genesis album Selling England by the Pound a whirl and I was not really digging it, but my phone kept falling out of my shorts when I moved from machine to machine so I utilized the secret zipper pocket but when I went to take my phone out to switch my music, I found that the zipper was stuck, and even though I was jacked up on weight-lifting and creatine, I could not budge said zipper and so my phone was inaccessible and I was stuck listening to this godawful Genesis album until I finished working out and got in the car and used "hey Google" to switch back to The Alan Parsons Project and then I had to use a pair of scissors to cut this secret pocket open and retrieve my phone-- so fifty years ago, bands could make prog rock, full of synthesizers, fantastical instrumentation, advanced recording techniques, incredible mastering, and layered sound-- but now it's 2025 and we still can't make zippers that work consistently and smoothly.
Dave Begrudgingly (and Apathetically) Participates . . .
This year for Halloween, the English Department decided to dress as various book titles-- e.g. Rachel wore a catcher's mask and carried a loaf of rye bread for The Catcher in the Rye-- and while I do not like to dress up in any kind of costume . . . or generally be festive in any way other than drinking alcohol and eating good food, I didn't want to suffer the ire of the department and last year I managed to skate by with a minimalistic "costume" and avoid public shaming, so I tried the same tactic this year-- I dressed as I often dress: khaki pants, a light-weight short-sleeved button down shirt, and knock-off Birkenstocks BUT I also brought in a cowbell-- and I told people I was dressed as Ernest Hemingway (close enough) and I was portraying For Whom the (Cow) Bell Tolls and while I was mildly shamed for lack of effort, once I explained myself, the ladies pretty much left me alone-- which is all you can ask for in this kind of situation.
There Comes a Time in a Man's Life When He Must Give His Regards (to Alan Parsons)
At the Buzzer
Pained Epiphany
I needed a break from reading the dense and detailed (but very well-written) slog that is James M. McPherson's Battle Cry for Freedom: The Civil War Era, and so I dove into the 2025 Arthur C. Clarke award winner Annie Bot by Sierra Greer-- Annie Bot is a sci-fi novel about the perfect android girlfriend, and while the book starts with a light, technologically provocative tone (warning . . . or perhaps selling point? there are robot/human sex scenes) but as I got further int othe story, I realized that though I was trying to read some sci-fi to escape the disturbing rationalizations, racism, and inhumanity of the Civil War, that Annie Bot and Battle Cry for Freedom are both ultimately about slavery and autonomy . . . but my NEXT book is going to be fun!
Monday Monday, Can't Trust That Day
Two Letters Make a Big Difference . . .
My wife and I finished watching Fisk-- a deadpan, often cringingly awkward, but ultimately heartwarming Australian workplace comedy-- and we are now watching Task, and though the two titles are a slant-rhyme, that's the only similarity . . . Task is something completely different from Fisk: relentlessly bleak, Pennsylvania rural, and full of characters that are hopelessly mired in poverty and pain.
Perp Walk? Poop Walk . . .
If you see me walking my dog, but I'm doing a strange shuffle, forwards, backwards, sideways . . . dragging my feet through the grass, exerting maximum friction, that means I'm doing the "poop walk" and that I previously stepped in dog poop and I'm trying to-- as the Rolling Stones sing in "Sweet Virginia"-- "scrape that shit right off" my shoes . . . this is my method: after I step in poop, I usually immediately take off the shoes and put them on my deck in the sun-- as it's no use trying to get the shit off when it's still moist and sticky, and then the next day I will go out on the porch and don the shoes and do the poop walk around the park and then I rinse and repeat for a few days and usually after three poop walks, the shoes are clean again.
Let's All Get Along, Fellow Companions (and Spell Words However We Want)
There's nothing more American than spelling stuff however the fuck we want to spell it; this goes for brand names, of course: Kwik-E-Mart . . . Froot Loops . . . Chick Fil-A . . . Lyft . . . Kool . . . and there are plenty of words that we spell differently than the British: center instead of centre, gray instead of gray, defence instead of defense-- but in the end, who cares?-- brands use different spellings so they can secure copyrights and garner attention, and language is a river and these little differences are water under the bridge . . . BUT my buddy Whitney, who is a spelling and grammar egghead, actually pointed out a spelling anomaly that is quite interesting (thanks, Whit) and-- after I've been challenging my classes, fellow teachers, random strangers and even my wife to this oddball spelling experiment and-- unlike most etymological word origin accounts, this one is NOT stupid and boring (did you know that the word "stupid" comes from the Latin stupere, which means to amaze or confound, but it suffered from typical pejorative semantic drift and by the 16th century it meant someone mentally slow . . . and that the word "boring" stems from the verb "to bore"--a repetitive and tiresome motion of drilling a hole by hand . . . see what I mean? stupid and boring . . . perhaps even shallow and pedantic) BUT try this experiment and see if you get the same results as me . . . ask someone to spell the word "camaraderie" and you should get some interesting results-- "camaraderie" is the French version of the word and an acceptable way to spell it, but in North America the spelling evolved into "comradery" and this change probably happened because of Communism and the Cold War and the assumption that these unified Russkies loved to call each other "comrade"-- or at least they called each other that in the movies and on TV . . . and whether or not this is how the alternate spelling arose, what I have found is that most people now use a hybrid spelling and use bits and pieces of each word and often spell the word "comraderie"-- or something close to that-- and I speculate that this will be another acceptable spelling in a few years . . . I hope you are stupefied and amazed by this etymological conundrum and do not find it stupid and boring (in the modern sense of those words).
Mystery Solved (Crystal Clear Footgear)
