Matthew Dicks's Blog, page 301

My daughter demands death.

Ants have invaded the room in our house where the kids play. They are angry. Outraged, really. They told us to call an exterminator.

So we did. He arrived yesterday. I started to explain the problem, but Clara and Charlie interjected, bringing him to the room and explaining the problem themselves. 

I just watched and listened.

After determining where the ants were getting into the house, he told the kids what he was going to do. "I'm going to put some ant food in the cracks of the windows and doors for the ants. They'll find the food and bring it back to their nest, and the food will put all the other ants to sleep."

Clara leapt off the couch. "Sleep? I don't want them to go to sleep! I want you to kill them!"

The exterminator was taken aback by Clara's bloodthirsty response. He stared silently at her for a moment, dumbfounded.  

So I explained. "They've been stomping on the ants all week. They are both very comfortable with murdering insects."

It was sweet of the exterminator to try to protect my children's innocence, but when it comes to ants in the room where they play, my lovely, precious, delightful little kids would not object to the use of nuclear weapons if necessary.    

Where the hell is black?

Forget the gender implication contained in this graph. Where is black?

I've always thought that the concept of a favorite color is kind of strange. My color preferences tend to depend upon context. I might prefer red in some circumstances and green in others. 

But if pressed, I say that black is my favorite color. It is my preferred color in most contexts. 

When it comes to choosing clothing colors, I prefer black. 
When it comes to ink, I prefer black over all others.
My car is black. My golf bag is black. My sneakers are black.  

So where is black on these graphs? 

Am I the only person in the world whose favorite color is black?

Mom and Dad had a reely big show last nite

Earlier this month, Elysha and I produced and performed in a show at Infinity Hall in Norfolk, CT. Having been in that theater before to see some incredible musical acts, it was a thrill to take the stage and perform. 

Our storytellers were outstanding that night. One of our best shows ever.

I'll always remember our first night on that famous stage, but the thing that makes me smile the most about that night is what our daughter, Clara, put into her newspaper the next day. 

I'm not entirely sure why I'm not standing onstage alongside Elysha in the picture, but I love how Clara views Elysha (and perhaps me) as people who stand onstage and speak to large audiences.

Hopefully help her to do the same when her time comes.  

Five year plans are about five years too long

I played golf last month with a guy who is works in the corporate world. He’s got a degree in math and an MBA, but he also has a newborn son at home and wants to find a way to spend more time with his family. He’s fed up with the corporate culture and has done well enough to make a career change without having to worry about finances for a while.   

Teaching, he has decided, is the way to go. Once he discovered that I was a teacher, he immediately began asking me question after question about the profession, including the fastest way to earn a teaching certificate. I explained the ARC program to him, a three month process by which college graduates can become teachers in specific areas of need throughout the state, including math. 

“You could start the program in June and be teaching in September,” I said. “One of my best friends did exactly that. He left the corporate world in June and was teaching math in Hartford in September.”

The man was enthusiastic about the process and asked about a dozen follow-up questions as we walked the course together. With each step, his enthusiasm seemed to increase. As we made our final putts of the afternoon and headed back to the clubhouse, he thanked me for the information. He said, “That program sounds great. It’s still a little pie in the sky for me, but I think it’ll make it part of my five year plan.”

Five year plan? Really? 1,825 days to achieve a goal? 

I don’t understand people who talk about five year plans. A lot can happen in five years. Thinking that you can plan that far ahead is crazy. 

Five years ago, I was a writer who had published what appeared to be his last novel. I had written a third novel entitled Chicken Shack that no one wanted. For a struggling mid-list novelist, this universal rejection from the publishing industry often signals the end of a writing career.

My agent said, "You just need to write your best novel ever and relaunch your career."

"Oh? Is that all?" I said. 

I thought I was doomed. Instead, I did what she told me to do. I wrote my most successful book to date. An international bestseller published in more than 20 countries. A Dolly Gray Award winner, a Target book club pick, and a Nutmeg Award nominee.

But tell me five years ago that any of that would happen and I would've thought you were nuts. Writing my "best novel ever" was not part of my five year plan. I didn't think it was even possible. 

In fact, five years ago, I could count the number of countries where my novels had been published on one hand. Now I'd need five hands to keep count.   

Five years ago, none of my books had been optioned for film. I had yet to write a screenplay and didn't even know how. 

Five years ago, I had just finished writing a rock opera that I never thought I'd see staged in a theater. I was certain that my playwriting career was over. A brief experiment into a new genre that would never leave the page. 

Instead, our rock opera was performed by a cast of professional actors for a weekend run at a local theater, and I've gone on to write three other musicals. I've watched all three performed onstage, and I've actually made a tiny bit of money off the work. 

None of this was a part of any five year plan. 

Five years ago, I had yet to write a comic book. I had yet to land my job as a humor columnist. Neither of these things was even a blip on my radar. 

Five years ago, I had told one story on one stage at one Moth StorySLAM. If you had told me that I was going to win 20 StorySLAMs and 4 GrandSLAMS in the next five years, I would've told you that you were insane. Had you told me that I would perform in front of hundreds and sometimes thousands of people at a time around the country, I would've had you committed.

None of this was a part of my five year plan.  

Five years ago I had yet to teach storytelling to a single person. Teaching storytelling at places like Yale or Kripalu or the University of Connecticut or Purdue University was unimaginable. Conducting storytelling workshops for school districts, rabbinical schools, second generation survivors of the Holocaust, summer camps, writers, performers, screenwriters, and grandparents who can't get their grandchildren to listen to them would've been unthinkable. Traveling to Brazil to tell stories and teach students, teachers, and business leaders would've seemed ludicrous. 

Five years ago our storytelling organization Speak Up did not exist. We had yet to produce a single show. Had you told me that we'd be selling out venues as large as 500 seats more than a dozen times a year, I would've thought that you needed professional help. 

A lot can change in five years.  

Instead of a five year plan, how about a six month plan? Or a three month plan? In five years, this guy’s son will be entering kindergarten. He may have more children, planned or otherwise. His company could declare bankruptcy. The United States could be at war with Canada.

Five years is a long time. If this man is serious about wanting to make a change in his life, spend more time with his family, and find a way to make a difference in the world, why wait five years?  Having an intimate and personal understanding as to how short life can be, I wanted to tell this guy to ditch the stupid five year plan, go home, and sign up for the damn program.         

I didn’t. In the end, this guy seemed too invested in this five year plan to deter him with my few nuggets of wisdom, but I am left wondering where he will be in five years.

Will he be the teacher that he wants to be?

Will he be spending more time with his family?

Will he have escaped the corporate culture that he so despises?

Who knows? It’s five years away!

But I can guarantee that none of these things will come to pass in this year or the next. That’s the thing about a five year plan. It allows you to do nothing for a very long time.

The Moth: Two Little Jewish Dicks

In April of this year, I told this story about my Elysha, my kids, my last name, and Judaism at a Moth GrandSLAM at the Music Hall of Williamsburg in Brooklyn.

The theme of the night was Crash Course. I finished in second place.

At least 3 reasons why you should never say "Wish me luck!"

Three reasons to avoid saying the phrase "Wish me luck!" as part of your goodbye dialogue: 

It's aggressive, presumptuous, and authoritarian. 

Right? 

You're not even asking someone to wish you luck. You're telling them to offer you the wish. You're practically ordering them to do it. It's at least a little audacious, if not downright pushy. 

Isn't it?

Is there any other instance in which one person tells another person exactly what to say as they part? Can you even imagine it?

"Tell me not to worry!"
"Say something positive about my future!"
"Tell me that you love me a lot!"
"Tell me that you hope my plane doesn't crash, but say it in a funny way."
"When you say goodbye, add something about how you're hoping I win the PowerBall tonight!"
"As I turn my back and walk away, wait two seconds and then tell me I have a nice ass!"

It doesn't happen. "Wish me luck" is the only time when we demand that another person say a particular set of words as part of their farewell.

It also creates this odd stage play of sorts, because there is only one response to "Wish me luck!" 

It's "Good luck."

By asking someone to wish you luck, you can be 99.9% sure of their response, thereby creating this predetermined bit of two-line dialogue. It's like a guarantee of the future. You can be certain that there will be no surprises for at least the next two or three seconds.   

Person 1: Wish me luck!
Person 2: Good luck.

Is there another instance when dialogue is so predetermined? Even when you tell someone that you love them, the responses can vary slightly.

Person 1: I love you.

Possible responses:

I love you, too.
Me, too.
Love you, too.
Super love you!
Ditto.
Don't forget to pick up milk on the way home. 

"Wish me luck" is weird. I know that most of us don't think very much about it when we say it. It's simply a phrase that we use in place of the standard "Good bye" or "See you later." Most of the time, we're probably not trying to solicit wishes of good fortune from another person. We're simply trying to make an exit. 

Still, it's weird, even if you're using it innocuously. It's aggressive and presumptuous and authoritarian. It forces you and your companion into a brief and boring stage play. It's meaningless chatter laced with undertones of bellicosity.

I won't be annoyed if you ask me to wish you luck, but I may say something other than "Good luck," and perhaps something equally aggressive, presumptuous, and authoritarian.

Just for kicks.  

The Solar System. Obviously.

Am I wrong to think that my daughter's art is amazing and already worth thousands of dollars?

Seriously. Is this not fabulous, or am I simply blinded by fatherly love?

7 things that we all agree should exist but still don't. Unless you're four years old.

Seven things that we all agree should exist and are within our power to bring into existence but still don't.

A vacation from a vacationThe four day work weekThe elimination of all dress codesCellular telephone jamming technology in every movie theaterDecent rest areas along the Saw Mill and Taconic ParkwayFive more seasons of The OfficeA national holiday on the Monday following the Super Bowl

We all yearn for these things that seem within our reach and are yet so far away. 

Except for my son.

This was the start of his vacation after a vacation. 
He also has a zero day work week, and he doesn't work on the Monday following the Super Bowl.

Being four years-old is amazing. 

Country club dress codes treat adults like children, and yet adults continue to be members of country clubs. I don't get it.

My friend's country club does not allow denim to be worn after May 1. 

Women are allowed to wear shirts without sleeves but only if they are also wearing a collar. 

Men must wear collared shirts, and their shirts must be tucked in at all times. 

These are just a few of the ridiculous rules imposed on members of this country club, which leads me to ask:

Why?

Why can women wear denim on April 30 but not on May 1?

To what purpose does it serve to require men to tuck in their shirts?

Don't the people who established and enforce these rules understand how elitist, sexist, and arbitrary they make their country club appear? Are they blind to the snobbery and exclusivity that they are promoting?

But more importantly:

Why would anyone who is paying thousands of dollars per year to belong to a country club allow themselves to be subjected to dress codes that infantilize their choice over how they present themselves to the world?

Why would someone subject themselves to this kind of treatment?

There are very few times in life when we allow someone to dictate what we wear without paying us for our time:

When we are childrenWhen we allow our significant other to determine what is appropriate for a specific occasionWhen we're asked to serve as a bridesmaid or groomsman, pall bearer, or the like When we join a country club, and when we visit establishments like fancy restaurants that are closely akin to country clubs in terms of their elitism and snobbery

That might be it. These might be the only times when someone requires us to dress a certain way without paying us for that privilege. 

And in only one of these instances are people actually paying large sums of money in order to be told what to wear.

I have always felt that when you allow someone to tell you what to wear without compensation of any kind, you're allowing yourself to be treated like a child. You're allowing someone else to assume the role of Mommy and Daddy. It's one of the reasons why I bristle at every attempt to control my clothing choices in any way.

If you're not paying me, don't even think about telling me what I should wear. 

I also think (as you may already know) that this inane, materialistic, unnecessary focus on clothing and the condescending determination by others about what fashion choices are appropriate are things that should have been left behind in junior high school. 

I think this would be the case if not for a special breed of elitist jackass who thinks they they have the right to tell some that it's not appropriate to wear denim in the summer or that a man must play golf with his shirt tucked in.

You know the type. Just imagine the worst person you knew in high school. The one who wore the most stylish clothing and made fun of those who didn't.

They exist, even in adult form. 

I know these dress codes exist in many, many places. I know that they are commonplace in almost every country club in the world. But I also think that they are the direct result of a a lot of elitist jackasses who are hell-bent on ensuring that their kind of people don't accidentally become confused with any other kind of people. These dress codes serve to denote and separate the members of these country clubs from the heathens outside their pristine walls. They seek to elevate the image of the club and its members above the kind of thing you might see at a less-than-classy public golf course or a less-than-exclusive restaurant. 

I think that these things are decidedly less-than-noble goals, and they come at the expense of personal choice and treating adults like adults.  

The members of my friend's country club (and all country clubs) are adults. Hard working, well respected men and women who pay large fees in order to be members of this institution. They are all presumably successful people by any standard. Yet they allow their physical appearance to be dictated by who?

The anal-retentive snobs who run the place?A conservative, stick-up-their-ass rules committee? The members themselves, who cast sidelong glances at the ladies who dare to wear denim, gossip about men when their shirts come untucked, and turn in their fellow members to whatever parental-like standards squad who is charged with enforcing this nonsense?

I know that most if not all country clubs have dress codes. My friend's country club is not alone in its buffoonery. I have played golf at some of these clubs and conformed to the dress code because a friend has invited me and I choose to respect my friend's wishes and their standing in their club.  

But I think these dress codes are almost always stupid. As adults, we are supposed to be able to wear whatever the hell we want. While I understand a country club requiring members to wear something, the banning of denim or the tucking requirement are examples of a system gone amok.

It's also a system predicated entirely on sexism and gender inequality.  

When women can wear a sleeveless shirt, for example, and a man cannot, the ridiculous double standards and sexist attitudes of the past are proven to be surprisingly alive and well in some corners of the world. 

But even more baffling and disturbing to me is the contingent of people who want to be members of an exclusive country club badly enough to allow nameless, faceless, elitist strangers to tell them what to wear based upon the day of the year and the genitals that they happen to be equipped with at the moment.

Is there no attempt at rebellion?
No effort to force a rule change?
No declaration that "I'm an adult, damn it, and I will wear whatever I want, whenever I want!"

Maybe you're a guy who likes his shirt tucked in at all times, so the rule isn't a problem for you.

Maybe you're a woman who despises denim. 

But still, even if you happen to conform to every inane dress code rule out of personal preference, doesn't it enrage you to think that someone is taking your money and telling you what to wear?

It would enrage me.
Every day I would be enraged.

I am not at the point in life when I can afford a membership to a country club. Perhaps someday I'll be able to, and being a golfer, I think I'd enjoy a membership a great deal. But when and if that day comes, I will be faced with a Devil's bargain, as so many have undoubtedly been before me:

Become a member and dress as I am told. Dress in ways that I do not like. Allow elitism, snobbery, and buffoonery into my life.

I love golf. Truly. And I have always enjoyed the time I have been able to spend at my friend's country clubs. I would like to be a member, but when push comes to shove, I don't think I could do it. 

I'm an adult. When I play golf or sit by the pool or eat lunch on a terrace, I will wear whatever I damn well please, and if that does not conform to the expectations of the elitist, snobbish club officials, to hell with them. 

I'll continue to play with the riff-raff on public courses and swim in public pools, and I will like it. 

The life changing difference between "do" and "don't"

Attempting to improve on my ability to craft dialogue, I find myself listening to people more and more, eavesdropping on conversations and taking careful note of a person’s choice of words.

Last week I was in Carvel, waiting to order, when the woman in front of me was handed her root beer float. She looked at it, paused a moment and then asked, “Don’t you mix these up?”

Obviously, the woman was a lunatic to assume that a root beer float should be mixed like a shake. The word float implies that the ice cream should be floating in the root beer, and not spun in like some mutated form of a Dairy Queen Blizzard.

But what I noticed even more was her use of the word don’t instead of the word do. 

Note the difference in tone between the two questions:

Don’t you mix these up?

Do you mix these up?

The use of the word don’t implies accusation. It makes the speaker sound rude, condescending, and annoyed. It’s not a nice way to solicit the desired bit of information from the counterperson.

The use of the word do essentially turns the same question into an honest search for information, with no tone of accusation or annoyance whatsoever.

One simple word change could have made this woman’s ridiculous question at least sound sincere and polite, but instead, she came across as a complete jerk.  

Which undoubtedly she is. 

It's a good thing to keep in mind when writing dialogue. And when speaking to other human beings who don't deserve to be treated poorly.

Small word choices can make a world of difference.   

I was tempted to instruct this woman on her poor word choice but chose instead to remain silent. 

Though I don’t do it often, I am capable of restraint from time to time.