Forgotten past

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This evening I spent about three hours cleaning out boxes of old letters, cards and mementos from the past. I threw out a lot (much of which made no sense to me), but in the process, I uncovered parts of my past that I had completely forgotten. For example, in 1992, I nearly moved in with a girl named Kelly, who I had dated for a while but had parted ways at the time of the proposed cohabitation. She was graduating from North Adams State University and I was about to become homeless, so apparently there were a few months when we intended to move in together on a platonic basis (though from the tone of the letters, the platonic nature of the relationship was questionable at best). Eventually I was accepted to Bridgewater State University (another fact forgotten) and was in the process of registering for classes and being assigned a dorm when life once again interfered, bringing me to Connecticut.

How does one forget something like this?

In fact, the period encompassing fall 1991 through spring 1993 is probably the most well documented portion of my life, since I was living with Mary and Gerry, Jehovah Witnesses who had taken me in when I needed a roof over my head. Because I slept on a cot in a room off the kitchen for almost two years, I had no telephone other than Mary and Gerry’s house phone, and since I was working two fulltime jobs at the time in order to pay for defense attorneys, the only way that my friends could realistically contact me was through letters. I have dozens and dozens of letters from friends and family from that time in my life.

Which leads me to wonder what other nuggets from my past that I may have forgotten.

Fortunately, I have a sister who literally remembers every moment of our childhood (hence our new back-and-forth blog) and a friend named Bengi who has been in my life since I was sixteen years old. Bengi has a steel trap for a memory nearly equal to my sister and actually told stories about me during his wedding toast that even I had forgotten.

If I’m ever to write a memoir, I’m going to need a lot of help from these two.

Happy Camper

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Last week I brought my students to a YMCA camp for three days of outdoor education. On the morning of our departure, I donned a tee-shirt that featured the smiling face of a presumed camper and the phrase Happy Camper emblazoned beneath. I wear it every year on the first day of camp.

And as I pulled it over my head, it occurred to me I probably put more purpose and decision making into the wearing of that tee-shirt than I do for almost anything else that I wear during the rest of the year. Typically I choose my clothing based upon the next item at the top of the pile or the shirt that matches the next pair of clean pants.

I’m not saying I look slovenly. I just wear whatever is next in line.

Except when it comes to my Happy Camper shirt. It’s the one day that I dig deep into the pile and make an actual wardrobe decision.

I was thinking that this was a good thing. It struck me as efficient and time-saving. It seemed to express an existential disregard for outward appearances beyond the requirements to appear clean and neat. It demonstrated the uniform equity that I assign to plaid and stripes, blue and green.

But when I tell people this, all I seem to get is eye-rolls and head shakes.

The bride is pretty

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I have noticed a disturbing trend over the past year that I have managed to document and analyze in order to determine if my observations have been accurate. As a wedding DJ, I have heard hundreds, if not thousands, of toasts, almost always by the best man, oftentimes by the father of the groom, and lately by the maid or matron of honor as well. Ten years ago a toast from the maid of honor was a rarity, but today it happens more often than it does not.

Though these women are all fine speakers and often do an excellent job with their toasts, I have noticed that they tend to limit their positive comment about the bride to physical appearance only. The typical maid of honor comments on how beautiful the bride looks and then follows this compliment with a story or anecdote about the couple. Sometimes she talks about the bride and groom’s first date, and sometimes she describes the moment when the groom asked the bride to marry him.  Stories from childhood or college are often included, and then glasses are raised and the microphone is passed to the best man.

In the last twelve weddings that I have worked in which a maid of honor toasted the bride and groom, she has limited all positive remarks about the bride to physical appearance.

Every single one.

In contrast, best man speeches never reference physical appearance (unless done in jest) but instead center on a groom’s character. Loyalty, friendship, selflessness, and even courage are often referenced.  Sometimes stupidity and clumsiness enter the fray as well.  From this past weekend, for example, the groom was described as loyal family man, dependable, funny, intelligent, risk-taking, hard working, sentimental, and kind.

All of these glowing remarks while the maid of honor limited her remarks to “You look so beautiful today” and “You look simply stunning today, as you always do.”

Granted, there was more to the maid of honor’s toast, but stories were told to promote laughter and reminiscence and not for the purposes of highlighting the bride’s many positive attributes.

Other than the bride’s degree of beauty, all other compliments (and I would argue the more meaningful comments) were reserved for the groom.

Thankfully this was not the case on our wedding day. Elysha’s sister’s toast including a glowing tribute to her sister, describing her as a warm and genuine person and not the pretty object that most maids of honor focus seem stuck on.

And my best man offered a long but excellent toast, full of stories that I had long since forgotten, but nothing about my physical appearance, probably to my benefit.

Prior to every toast, I review the use of the microphone with best men and maids of honor, and if needed, I will review their toasts as well, to ensure that nothing is missed.  At a recent wedding I suggested to the maid of honor that a few positive comments related to something other than the bride’s physical appearance might be in order, and she scoffed at the idea, looking at me as if I were from Pluto.

“Have you even heard a maid of honor toast before? I got all these ideas from a web site and (the bride) is going to love them.”

Though I didn’t think that she was wrong in her prediction of the bride’s reaction to the toast, I wished that she were.

Peanut allergy is peanuts by comparison

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Results published in the Annals of Allergy, Asthma & Immunology indicate that more than 30% of children with food allergies report being bullied or teased — often repeatedly — because of their eating restrictions. As the father of a peanut-allergic daughter, you might think this is cause for concern.

Think again.

Her last name is Dicks. Her peanut allergy is the last thing that kids will be teasing her about.

She should be happy that we named her Clara. I have two uncles named  Harold who both go by the name Harry Dicks, and my father is Leslie Dicks and uses the name Les Dicks.

Clara Dicks is a cake walk by comparison.

Most famous Newington resident?

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Last week I received an email from a fellow Newington resident and fan named Tony that read:

I have an oddball question for you that I've been thinking about for a long time - do you think you are the most famous current Newington resident?  The reason this question occurred to me is that I was parked in front of Cugino's one Saturday evening back in the spring, and I'm pretty sure you were parked next to me and were coming out of Goldburger’s with a to-go order.  So I said to my wife, somewhat excitedly, "Hey, I think that is Matthew Dicks."  She said "Who?" and once I reminded her of who you are she remembered as she is also well aware of you.

Since then I have been trying to think of a more famous resident of our fair town.

The email made me chuckle, and I immediately assumed that there must be someone in Newington more famous than a guy who has published a couple of novels and writes a blog in his spare time.

But perhaps not. Since that day, I have yet to come up with a more famous Newington resident. And I’ve tried. If I’m the most famous person in Newington, what does this say about my town?

Quite an indictment. Huh?

So I leave it to you.

Is there someone more famous than me currently residing in Newington? I challenge you to find someone or support Tony’s assertion.

Oh, and there are rules, outlined by Tony.

He writes:

Famous" means on some national level. Someone like the mayor of Newington or a local newscaster who lives in Newington may be known of by more people, but it is very localized.

Also, I am defining famous to mean someone will recognize your name and will know what you are known for. They wouldn't necessarily have to recognize you in person if they saw you, or know that you live in Newington. I'm not sure I'm totally comfortable with this qualifier, as you could easily argue that someone would have to be recognized in person. I would counter that many writers are famous without necessarily being physically recognizable. For example, I think most people could pick Stephen King out of a line up, but not necessarily Dean Koontz, Michael Crichton (when he was alive) or John Grisham.

So, the ultimate question would be are you the most well known Newington resident on a national level?

That’s it. Good hunting.

Rewriting Melville

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When I was in 8th grade, I was asked to write a book report on a novel by a famous American author. Mrs. Bennett took the class to the library and instructed us to spend the period searching for a book that we would read and then use to write our reports. Book reports, by the way, are stupid.

Even as a teacher today, I can attest to this fact. Is there a better way to ruin the excitement of a book? Asking a kid to write a book report is like taking the green pepper that you hope your child will learn to love and dipping it in paint thinner.

Stupid.

Aware of the stupidity of the book report at an early age, I made every effort to avoid the process. When we arrived in the library, I immediately grabbed a stool and began searching the top rows for any novel by a famous American author. I reasoned that books shelved high enough to require a stool to access were likely read less often. My goal was to find a book that hadn’t been touched in years.

Eventually I find just such a book. Omoo by Herman Melville. Thanks to the cards that were still tucked inside the covers of books in those days, I was able to see the date that this book was last taken out by a student or teacher:

More than nine years ago.

It looked as if it had been sitting up there for a while as well. Covered in dust, smelling of must, and creaking when I opened it for the first time. I took the book to Mrs. Bennett for approval, and she declared it to be a fine choice. “I’ve never read that one before,” she said and expressed anticipation in reading about it in my report.

Just what I had wanted.

Rather than reading the book, I spent the next two weeks inventing the plot, characters, and theme of this book and writing a report about my musings. I skimmed the first chapter for character names, but otherwise the entire report reflected my personal version of Omoo, complete with a scathing critique of my story.

My grade: A

I still have the paper.

In order to ensure that I would not be discovered, I kept the book in my possession for three full months after receiving my grade, telling the librarian that I had lost it.  Prior to the Internet, it would have been difficult, if not impossible, for Mrs. Bennett to locate another copy of a relatively unknown novel by the great writer. Had she been so inclined, she might have taken a trip to local libraries and book stores in hopes of finding a copy, but I doubted that she would go through the trouble. Had she asked to see the book, I planned to tell her that I had lost it.

Paying $20 to the library to ensure the sanctity of my excellent grade would have been well worth it.

Of course, Mrs. Bennett never asked for the book, and three months after my grade had been posted, the book was finally returned to its top shelf.

Wouldn’t it be great to see if it has been taken out by anyone since that day?

I have still not read Omoo, nor have I read Typee, the first in what turns out to be a Melville trilogy (Omoo is the second of the three). But I may get around to reading it someday. I would love to spend a week reading Omoo and comparing my story to that of Melville.

I often wonder which one was better.

The truth will set the wolves on you

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I don’t like to lie. There was a time in my life when lying was my unfortunate specialty.

Attempting to maintain two or three girlfriends at a time required a great deal of plotting and deceit (the fact that they lived in different states most of the year helped a lot), as well as the compliance and assistance of a few good friends. In these cases, lots of lying was required in order to juggle the girls effectively.

I’ve even killed off an already deceased grandparent on more than one occasion in order to miss a day or two of work (also with the help of a friend). Getting a weekend off while working for a restaurant is exceptionally difficult and often requires drastic measures.

But those days have long since passed. Back then, I was just out of high school and living with friends, barely able to take care of myself. I was young and impetuous and stupid. Thankfully, it didn’t take me long to figure out that the truth is an easier and more rewarding road to travel.

As a result, I attempt to avoid lying at all costs. Though this policy typically yields positive results, I occasionally find myself in the uncomfortable situation of telling the truth even when it hurts the feelings of friend or family member.

These are never unprovoked circumstances. If my friend has gained twenty pounds, for example, I don’t go out of my way to inform the person of the noticeable weight gain. My problems begin when someone asks me a question to which a truthful answer may prove to be uncomfortable or insulting. For example, if the friend who has gained twenty pounds asks if he or she looks bigger, I feel required to tell the truth.

This is especially difficult when a friend or family member attempts to assert that the three hour drive I just completed in order to arrive at his or her event “Wasn’t too bad, right?”

Actually, it was bad. In fact, it downright sucked, and the three hours that I will spend driving home will be just as bad, and potentially hazardous considering the time of day and my level of exhaustion. Please don’t belittle my sacrifice of time and fossil fuel.

This is the kind of honest response that gets me into trouble.

Or when a friend asks my opinion as an educator:

“My child isn’t reading on level yet, but most kids eventually catch up, right?”

Sure they do. But not if they spend seven hours a day watching television and playing video games in an un-monitored environment. Your child was capable of operating your media center and all of your remote controls when he was three years old. In my professional opinion, your kid is probably screwed unless you stop acting like a selfish and irresponsible parent.

Again, this kind of response is not always well received.

I am sometimes questioned by people (especially loved ones) for my unwillingness to make these admittedly innocent white lies in order to keep people happy. Here’s why:

A good friend wrote to me a few months ago, and her email is something that I will always treasure. She was talking to her daughter about friendship and relayed the following conversation:

I was explaining that my definition of a friend is the person who you can trust no matter what, you know they will have your back, you could call at 3AM if you need something and you know they will tell you honestly and thoughtfully if you are acting crazy. They will give you advice in your best interest, even...especially... if it's not exactly what you want to hear.

She was quiet for a moment, and then she said, "You know who I think is just like that?  Mr. Dicks.  You just know you could count on him no matter what...he'd be there for you and you never have to worry about him telling you the truth."

There’s value to this kind of reputation that makes all those awkward, uncomfortable moments of truth well worth the price.

Yes, I am left handed. As a result, I am more likely to be President or a murderer. Or both.

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The question my frequently asked at a book signing: "Oh, you're left handed?"

This is also the stupidest question that I am asked at book signings because I am asked this question while signing a book with my left hand.

So yes, I am left handed. Actually, like most left handers, I am slightly ambidextrous. Living in a world built for right handed people (which is why we are more prone to accidents and die sooner), left handers often learn to do things with either hand in order to compensate for life in this alien environment.

left_handed

I play baseball right handed (the effect of being given the hand-me-down glove of a right handed player) but can swing the bat from the left side of the plate almost as well.  I lack the power of my right handed stance, but I can be fairly effective when needed.

As a result of my right handed dominance in baseball, I also play golf right handed, which may explain some of my troubles.

I play basketball almost equally well with both hands and can shoot with either hand as well.

Watch me eat and you’ll see that I could be holding my fork with either hand and may even switch between bites.

As a pole vaulter, I used to make my coach crazy by shifting from a right handed to a left handed stance almost unconsciously.

Regardless, I am not really ambidextrous. I write exclusively with my left hand and favor my left in most other circumstances.

Recently I learned that five of the last six Presidents were left handed, including President Obama. In addition, former Presidential hopefuls John McCain, Al Gore, Bob Dole, John Edwards, Bill Bradley, and Ross Perot are left handed.

In fact, the only two right handed Presidents of the last 35 years were Carter and George W. Bush.

Draw your own conclusions.

I have been fascinated with the topic of handedness for some time. Specifically, I have always wondered why there are significantly fewer left handed individuals in the world.  It turns out that scientists have no idea why this is so.

One of my students once did a research project on handedness and cited a researcher who conjectured that right hand dominance relates to as time when soldiers fought with swords and shields. The right handed soldier would carry his sword in his right hand and his shield in his left, thus offering more protection for the heart, which is located on the left side of the body. For a left handed soldier, his heart would be on his sword side and thus frightfully exposed. If left handed soldiers were more frequently killed because of the exposure of their heart to the enemy, the genetic material that these soldiers would then pass on as part of the rape and looting of vanquished countries would be significantly reduced, thus diluting the propensity for the population to be born left handed.

This, however, is one man’s guess, but it’s an interesting, albeit unsupported hypothesis.

This same student also pointed out (correctly) that murderers and other violent criminals are more likely to be left handed as well.

I think she was trying to hurt my feelings.

The Google is God

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I love the Google. I know there is great consternation about the amount of personal information that the company gathers and potential threats to personal privacy, but I don’t care anymore. Take everything I’ve got, Google Gods. It’s worth it. Case in point:

Yesterday, my buddy and I were on the way to the Microsoft NERD Center in Boston for a conference on social media. We had no address for the location, but I simply entered NERD Center into my Google Maps app on my phone and received instant, turn-by-turn directions to the location.

Regaling the powers of the Google, I wondered what else it could do. On Sunday, we would be leaving Boston and heading south to Foxboro for the Patriots game. I knew that I could enter Gillette Stadium into the Google and get directions, but I wondered what other search terms might bring me there.

Instead of Gillette Stadium, I entered Sullivan Stadium, the original name of the former stadium from the 1970s.

Google gave me directions to Gillette Stadium.

Then I entered Tom Brady, the name of the Patriots quarterback..

Google gave me directions to Gillette Stadium.

Then I entered Randy Moss, the name of a Patriots wide receiver.

Google gave me directions to Gillette Stadium.

Then I entered Jerod Mayo, the name of a Patriots linebacker.

Google gave me directions to Gillette Stadium.

On a whim, I entered my name into Google Maps.

Google gave me directions to the NERD Center in Boston. I was registered online as an attendee of the conference.

Google knew where I was going to be on the day in question and provided directions to me.

Astounding.  And yes, a little frightening, too.

The good, the bad and the people who should shut up

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After day one of  Podcamp Boston, a few thoughts: 1. Why didn’t anyone tell me about Podcamp before now? Many, many thanks to AnnbKingman for giving me the heads-up!

2. There are some very smart and engaged people making a living in new media, and they are more than willing to share much of their experience and expertise, and they are enthusiastic in doing so. How many other industries can make this claim?

3. Content is king and an engaged audience is a close second. These are the primary means to monetization. There are no silver bullets, no magic advertising or sponsoring formulas, despite the number of people in search of them today.

3. Humility and self-deprecation result in greater attention and respect.  Self-aggrandizing, self-promotion and the hard sell always strike me as desperate and weak.

4.  Why no female presenters?

Oh, and if you have something negative to say to a presenter about his craft in the midst of his presentation, have the decency to say it when the session is over. Do not air your criticism publicly. These are people who are giving of their time and expertise, and while this does not inoculate them from scrutiny and criticism, they have a right to expect civility and respect during their presentation.

Thoughts?

Worst movie dialogue ever

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I recently watched the movie Four Weddings and a Funeral. I saw it years ago, but this film is timeless. Sadly, the excellence of the movie is tarnished by one of the cheesiest lines in all of cinematic history. At the close of the movie, Charles and Carrie are standing in the rain, together at last. The final few lines of the movie include this gem:

Charles: There I was, standing there in the church, and for the first time in my whole life I realized I totally and utterly loved one person. And it wasn't the person next to me in the veil. It's the person standing opposite me now... in the rain.

Carrie: Is it still raining? I hadn't noticed.

How this bit of dialogue didn’t end up on the cutting room floor is beyond me. Compounding the problem is Andie MacDowell’s poor delivery of the line, but it’s so awful that I can hardly blame her. She was probably throwing up in her mouth as she uttered the words.

My least favorite bit of dialogue comes from Back to the Future. In this scene, Marty McFly, having traveled thirty years into the past, is sitting at the counter of a 1950’s soda shop when the owner, Lou, begins speaking.

Lou: You gonna order something, kid? Marty McFly: Ah, yeah... Give me - Give me a Tab. Lou: Tab? I can't give you a tab unless you order something. Marty McFly: All right, give me a Pepsi Free. Lou: You want a Pepsi, pal, you're gonna pay for it.

A Tab? I realize that this diet cola still exists, but did anyone under the age of sixty ever drink the stuff? And what’s more, even my grandmother wouldn’t order a Tab in a restaurant. Marty is a seventeen year old kid from 1985. He deserves the beating that Biff soon delivers for ordering this stuff.

Then he asks for a Pepsi Free. Again, who orders a Pepsi Free?

Pepsi? Sure. Diet Pepsi? Okay.

But a Pepsi Free?

Worse bit of forced dialogue ever.

No murder in my heart

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Yesterday, I almost threw away a plastic bag containing labels marked with my daughter’s name. A few days before, I nearly ran a silver knife through the dishwasher.

In both cases, Elysha stopped me, telling me that she “would have killed me” had she not prevented these minor disasters.

But here’s the thing: I cannot recall a single instance in which I felt like I might need to kill her for something she did.

Please don’t get me wrong. I understand that Elysha had no plans on murdering me, but she would have no doubt been annoyed and angry with me for tossing out the labels and ruining the silver knife. But I cannot recall feeling this way a single time during our four-year marriage and seven-year relationship.

Which leads me to believe that one of the following are true:

1. I have a heart of gold, incapable of feelings of anger and outrage over trifles such as labels and knives.

2. I don’t pay enough attention to details and care so little about most material possessions that I fail to notice or do not care when her actions threaten the viability of something important to me.

3. I am simply more prone to acts of stupidity than my wife, and therefore I give her infinitely more cause for these kinds of emotions.

I know which choice I am leaning towards, but I suspect that you are probably leaning in a different direction.

No middle ground

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The University of Edinburgh released a study that measured the intelligence of adult brothers and sisters and found no significant difference in the average IQ between the sexes. However, they did find that men are twice as likely to be at the top and bottom tiers of the IQ scale.

As a man, I’m not sure how I feel about this.

Personally, I know that my thoughts, speech, and actions reflect of my rapidly  shifting position to the top or bottom tiers of of the intelligence scale. I can feel either incredibly brilliant or remarkably stupid depending on the situation.

Actually, that’s not quite right. In truth, I typically consider myself incredibly brilliant regardless of the situation and only discover later that I was acting like a complete moron.

Of course, my initial, and oftentimes false, inclination to assume that I am a genius might make me stupid regardless of the results of my actions.

See?

This is why we are twice as likely to occupy the top and bottom tiers of the IQ scale.

Can you have too much choice?

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A new Aldi’s grocery store has opened about a mile from my home. The foundation is being poured this week. I must ask:  Do we need a new grocery store? Within fifteen minutes of my home, the following grocery stores are available to me:

Stop & Shop Super Stop & Shop Whole Foods Price Chopper Roger’s Shaw's Waldbaum's Trader Joe's Stew Leonard’s BJ’s Wholesale Sam’s Club

And this doesn’t count the small, local grocers and butchers like Hall’s Market.

Do we really need another grocery store?

Consumer choice is a good thing, but the problem with all these stores is that people aren’t making any choices. I can’t tell you how many people I know who buy their meat at one store, their produce at a second store, their dry goods and dairy at a third location, and so on. This sounds fine and dandy on the surface, but all this choice is sending people all over town, clogging our roads, burning gasoline, producing CO2, and (worst of all) wasting inordinate amounts of time on the purchase of food.

Not to mention how inadequate and stupid some of these stores are.

Like Whole Foods. They’ll sell me a slice of pepperoni pizza but can’t deign to sell me a Coke to wash it down.

Or Stew Leonard’s, the amusement park version of a grocery store, equipped with just one aisle that zigzags through the store, complete with animatronic entertainment and carnival-like hawkers at every turn.

When I grew up, there was one grocery store in town. Almacs. If my parents chose to drive into the neighboring town, there were two more grocery stores available to us. That was it.

From my home today, I am a fifteen minute drive from twelve full-size grocery stores, one butcher and at least two smaller, local grocers.

I ask again: Do we really need to add an Aldi’s to the mix?