Matthew Dicks's Blog, page 50

Cotton and Diet Coke

The best pranks combine something a person loves with something they hate.

For me, I love Diet Coke.

I hate cotton.

There’s actually a name for my distaste of cotton:

Sidonglobophobia. It’s described as “having a dislike for how cotton balls feel or sound,” which is exactly how I feel.

It sounds bizarre, but I know at least two other people who suffer from this, including another teacher in my school.

I can’t stand touching cotton balls or even thinking about touching them, as I mistakenly told a class of students years ago. Ever since then, students have been using cotton balls against me. I’ve had my stapler encased in cotton, cotton balls strewn about my classroom, cotton balls jammed into my coat pockets, and cotton balls taped to the keys of my computer.

It’s been a nightmare.

Though I don’t tell new students about this condition, former students always make sure to tell my next batch of kids about this weakness so it can continue to be exploited.

It’s been going on for years.

Still, I was surprised when I was handed this clever and well-designed bit of Diet Coke art with the note:

“Cut me. The future is inside this soda can.”

I thought there was a note inside. Maybe a picture. But no… it was cotton.

Also two cloth strips with the words “lame-o” and “substitute” written on each.

“Lame-o” requires no explanation.

“Substitute” refers to the frequency with which I ask my colleagues how to initiate an online assessment, log into a program, understand an acronym, or prepare paperwork for a field trip. Details escape me, so I constantly lean on my teammates for assistance regarding the specificity of my job.

While doing so for the ten dozenth time this year, a student asked, “Are you a substitute teacher?” which was both rude and accurate, making the insult especially effective.

I’ve been at war with this student ever since.

This Diet Coke gag was the latest salvo.

Teaching is so fun.

“Guys in shower”

In answer to a reader’s question:

“How does a man end up trapped in a shower stall in a women’s locker room for nearly four hours?”

Here is the answer:

It’s the fall of 1990. I’m visiting my girlfriend at Quinnipiac University. She’s living in a woman’s dorm. As we’re getting ready for bed, I ask her where to shower in the morning.

Even then, I was waking up well before the crack of dawn to write.

She told me I could use the women’s shower room across the hall. “Just put a sign – “Guys in shower – on the door.”

So I did.

But then the sign promptly fell off the door, so while I was in a shower, standing behind a rubber curtain., I heard the door to the room open. I assumed that a woman was entering to use the toilets on the other side of a dividing wall, but a moment later, I realized that a handful of women had entered to use the showers.

There was a moment when I had a chance to say something—”Hello! Guy in shower!”—but I panicked and said nothing. I froze. My towel and clothes were also on the other side of the room, sitting on a bench, meaning I could not get from the shower to my stuff without crossing about a dozen feet of tile completely naked.

Poor planning on my part.

Today, I would certainly speak up if I found myself in a similar circumstance. I would undoubtedly use humor to deflect the potential awkwardness of the situation and find a way to escape with everyone’s dignity intact. But I did not possess the same level of confidence back then that I enjoy today, so I froze, fearing what the women might assume had they known a man was standing in one of the shower stalls as they prepared to shower.

So I decided to simply wait for them to finish showering and leave, and then I would beat a hasty retreat. So I kept the water running and waited, except while they showered, more women entered.

Then more and more and more.

Not only did these women take showers, but they also hung out. Talked. Laughed. Gossiped. Blow-dried their hair. It seemed like no one was in a hurry to finish and leave.

I waited for nearly four hours, hoping for the shower room to clear. Too afraid to speak up. Too scared to say something. The longer I stood under the water, the more impossible it became to reveal my presence.

I felt so stupid and so helpless.

My girlfriend, who liked to sleep late on the weekends – which you should never do if you value the quality of your sleep, your health, and your possible longevity – had no idea that her boyfriend was trapped in the shower.

Finally, after what seemed like hours, the room went quiet, and before the door could open again, I sprinted from the shower to my towel, wrapped it around my waist, collected my clothing, and left.

Exiting the shower room, I saw my sign lying facedown in the hallway.

When I returned to my girlfriend’s dorm room, I found her still asleep. It was just after 9:00. I hadn’t written a single word yet. I was starving. My fingers looked like prunes. I was still feeling stupid.

When my girlfriend finally awoke, I told her about the incident. She laughed.

“Sticking a ‘Guys in shower’ sign on the door doesn’t keep girls from taking showers,” she said. “It just warns them a guy’s taking a shower, too, in case they want to stay covered up. But most of us don’t walk around the shower room naked anyway.”

“So I could’ve still found myself in a shower room full of women?” I asked. “Even if the sign hadn’t fallen off the door.”

“Yes,” she said. “Do you think we let guys just take over our shower room if they need to shower?”

The next morning, I hoofed it over to the men’s dorm to shower.

It was the fall of 1990. I was 19 years old and not even close to being confident enough to handle showering in a room full of women, even if they knew I was there.

Young Matt still had so much to learn.

Nonstop gaming

My flight from Boston to Los Angeles took just over six hours. Diagonally across from me, a young person spent the entire time – all six hours – playing this game on an iPad.

He continued to play the game as he exited the plane and ascended the jetway. He was still playing the game when I lost him in the crowd in the terminal.

I have no idea what the game is called, but it was a furious, constant tapping on the screen as images exploded, expanded, and flew about. This was not a game that required contemplation or planning. It was a relentless assault on the senses.

Six straight hours of this without a break, then a continuation of the game as the boy walked behind his parents.

360 minutes of nonstop gaming.

Teachers see the impact of this behavior in our classrooms every day.

I fear for the future.

Scott Baio and me

It’s the fall of 1984. I’m thirteen years old. It’s a Wednesday night, and I’m watching “Charles in Charge,” a sitcom starring Scott Baio –  the actor I’d previously seen on “Happy Days.”

It’s okay. Not great, but not bad, either.

Then boom! A flash of light! A roar of sound. A time traveler from the future – 2024, to be exact – appears in my living room.

After exchanging pleasantries, he says:

“Someday in the not too distant future – four decades from now – everyone will own a computer, and they will all be connected to something called the internet. The World Wide Web. You’ll actually own six or seven computers.”

“Really?” I ask. “Will I be rich?”

“No. It’s actually not too weird to own more than one computer in 2024. Seven is a lot, but I’m counting all of your devices, and your business requires them. Anyway… all human knowledge will be available at all times on these computers – some that fit in your pockets and have no buttons. This means that everyone on the planet will essentially be connected at all times, which means you will be connected to Scott Baio.”

“The guy on the TV?” I ask.

“Yes,” the time traveler says. “So you’ll be able to send him messages via a program called Twitter, though it will later be renamed X because the smart, strange, possibly evil man who bought Twitter loves the letter X so much that he attaches it to everything he owns, including one of his kids.

Except you won’t be able to send messages to Scott Baio via Twitter because Donald Trump was the President of the United States for four years.”

“Wait, what?” I ask.

“Yes, that Donald Trump,” the time traveler says. “And he was a monstrous idiot as President. Also as a human being.

But Scott Baio—that actor on your television—loves Donald Trump, so when you sent messages to Trump criticizing his policies, Scott Baio got mad and blocked you. He stopped you from being connected to him.”

“The guy on the TV – Charles in Charge – is going to block me?” I ask.

“Yes. Oh, Donald Trump will block you, too. He’s a fragile little snowflake of a man, so he will block you for criticizing him, but then you sue him, and the case goes all the way to the Supreme Court, where you win, so Donald Trump will be forced to unblock you.”

“I do all that?” I ask, suddenly impressed by my future self.

“Not on your own,” the time traveler says, “You join some other people in the lawsuit, so it’s not Matthew Dicks vs. Trump, but yes. You do that. Your life will always be a little nuts.”

“In a good way?” I ask.

“Only sometimes,” the time traveler says. “Sometimes it’s horrendous. But I digress. After Donald Trump blocks you, the US Capitol will be attacked by his followers after he loses the election, and he uses Twitter and other Twitter-like programs to incite the riot, so Twitter will ban Donald Trump.”

“And Donald Trump will go to jail?” I ask.

“No,” the time traveler says. “He might become President again.”

“Why?”

“Damn, good question. Anyway, I thought you should know that in about 40 years, you and that guy you’re watching on TV will have beef via a means of communication you can’t begin to imagine yet, and it will result in him blocking you from messaging him. Weird. Huh?”

Yes,” I say. “2024 sounds crazy!”

“Nah. 2020 and 2021… those were the crazy years.”

Barbie watches me.

February 15, 2010. Earlier morning. I’m sitting at my desk in my classroom with my principal, Plato. It’s our shared birthday. We’re talking about celebrating together later that night with our traditional birthday dinner when my students begin to arrive.

A student named Fely walks over to my desk, says, “Happy birthday,” and tosses a Barbie doll on my desk.

“For me?” I ask.

“Yup,” she says and smiles.

I look at the Barbie. It’s not new. It looks more than used. Kind of gross. Dirty and tattered. “Where’d you get this?” I ask.

“The dumpster,” she says and laughs.

“Yuck!” I pick it up and turn to throw it away when Plato grabs my arm and says, “No…” Then he takes the Barbie doll from me and places it on the bookshelf behind my desk. Then he positions the doll so she’s looking down on me. “She needs to stay here,” he says. “Watching you for the rest of your teaching career as a reminder of Fely and this moment.”

That was fourteen years ago.

That Barbie doll still sits atop my bookshelf today. I see her every day, and when I do, I think about Plato, who retired a decade ago, and Fely, who visited my classroom two years ago as a college student and cried when she saw that the Barbie doll was still watching over me.

I tell this story to my students every year as a means of explaining the Barbie doll and making them laugh. But I mostly tell the story to remind my students that they, too, can contribute to the collective story of our classroom and the people who once occupied it.

That is culture.

Artifacts and stories and the names of the people who came before. We honor the past to let the people in the present know that they, too, are part of a story and will be remembered.[image error]

That they are a valued member of a much larger community.

I have dozens of artifacts in my classroom, like the Barbie doll—items attached to stories about students and staff who did brilliant, hilarious, noble, and creative things that are still being spoken about years after they have moved on.

That is culture. Whether it’s a classroom, a workplace, or your home, this is one of the ways we build it:

Artifacts that trigger stories. Items that contain memories.

It doesn’t need to be much. A simple Barbie doll, recovered from a dumpster as a gag gift, is more than enough.

Productivity: Time over everything else

The lesson I teach my students every day is this:

The greatest thing a person can possess in this world is choice. We work hard because we want to have as many choices as possible in our lives.

Choice over how and where you spend your time.

Nothing else even comes close.

Brian Feroldi would seem to agree.

Banned music and movies

Authorities in the Russian Republic of Chechnya have announced a ban on music that they consider too fast or slow.

Minister of Culture Musa Dadayev announced the decision to limit all musical, vocal, and choreographic compositions to a tempo ranging from 80 to 116 beats per minute (BPM), Russian state news agency TASS reported.

Officials hope to eradicate the “polluting” Western influence in the region.

This means 13 of the 31 songs on Taylor Swift’s new album are banned in Chechnya.

Meanwhile, in China, the authoritarian state opposes horror movies because it rejects any notion of the supernatural. As a result, filmmakers are forced to create devices to explain away supernatural elements in their films in order to bypass censors.

In some films, everything is framed as just a dream or drug-induced hallucination.

In others, scientific nonsense is awkwardly inserted into the conclusion to explain away any possible supernatural elements.

I mention this stupidity as a gentle reminder of our nation’s greatness and the blessings of liberty, even when things seem less than perfect these days.

Congress may be on track to become one of the least productive in US history (thanks to a Republican-led House of Representatives), but at least we can dance to “Footloose” and watch Ghostbusters absent any governmental interference.

A plain hot dog for me

In preparation for the summer, CNN published a list of “Hot dog ideas for your next cookout.”

The Texas Twist, garnished with cole slaw and barbeque sauce.

The Nacho Dog, complete with chunky guacamole and Bobby’s Grilled Tomato-Chipotle Salsa.

Hot dogs on pretzel buns. Steamed and boiled hot dogs. Hot dogs loaded with Gorgonzola, marinated tomatoes, and delicate frisee lettuce.

Even hot dogs that aren’t actually hot dogs but ground chicken loaded with fresh herbs, chiles, and mango mustard spiked with mint.

The Brooklyn Dog, topped with caramelized onions, bacon, corn, and cheese, is the only one I think is worth considering, but in the end, my favorite version of the hot dog – one of my favorite foods – is a simple, grilled hot dog on a bun.

No condiments. No fixings. A simple, plain dog.

Elysha agrees. I’m fond of saying that I knew we were meant for each other when I discovered we had this in common, but that is not entirely true.

I knew that Elysha and I were meant for each other somewhere between the moment we met in an August faculty meeting at the school where I still teach and about a month later as we walked around a lake in Colebrook, Connecticut, laughing together for the first time.

On that day, I advised Elysha about her upcoming wedding, which she would eventually call off about three months before the big day. I was a wedding DJ with lots of insights into weddings and wedding planning, and even though I was infatuated with this woman, I was still willing to help her make the wedding day perfect.

Little did I know I would have that chance four years later at our own wedding.

We also talked about my marriage, which was coming to a gentle end.

The universe was pulling us together at that moment back in October of 2002.

We just didn’t know it yet.

Eventually, we started dating – more than a year after that walk around the lake. It began with dinners with friends, excuses to see each other during the school day, and late-night phone calls. During one of those calls, she said, “If we start dating, we’re going to get married and be together forever.”

One of my friends called this, “Goin’ hard to the hoop.” Another thought it was the dumbest thing a person could say before dating someone.

I thought it sounded just right. My heart soared that night.

Elysha said that she loved me a week after our first date—which neither of us realized was a date when the day began. We took a hike up Mount Carmel across the street from Quinnipiac University, where I once dated a girl and got trapped in a shower for more than four hours after the bathroom filled with women, and I was too afraid to acknowledge my presence.

On the way down the mountain that day, Elysha took my hand, and that was it. We were together. She’s never let go of my hand, and I’ve been holding on for dear life ever since.

Three months after that first date, we were living together, which seemed a little fast to some, but we had been friends for 18 months before kissing in a parking lot outside my own apartment, so three months felt about right.

A month after that, as I calculated our monthly expenses so we could each write a check to cover rent and utilities, she said, “Can I just give you all my money and let you take care of it? We’re going to be together forever anyway.”

She was right. Six months later, we were engaged on the steps at Grand Central Terminal, and less than two years after that, we married.

It was a perfect day.

Many things signaled that this woman was meant for me, so the agreement on the proper preparation of a hot dog seems a little silly by comparison, but it was important nonetheless.

You see, I am still befuddled why Elysha Green chose Matthew Dicks, and I suspect a fair number of people in this world have felt the same over the years. We are approaching 18 years of marriage, but I still find myself astounded on a daily basis about being married to this woman.

When we started dating, I was almost certain that this magical interlude would be temporary – a fleeting moment of joy I would look back upon with fondness later in life. I thought it would be the kind of relationship you downplay with your future spouse, fearful of making them jealous over someone who once held your heart in their hands.

So early on, I looked for signs that maybe I was wrong. Perhaps this relationship was more than just a perfect interlude in an otherwise imperfect life. Maybe it really could be forever. So when I discovered our agreement on hot dogs, I latched onto that signal that perhaps we were meant to be.

It was comfort. It represented possibility and hope. It wasn’t everything, but it was something.

I think about all this every time I eat a hot dog, which is maybe why I love them so much. They are objectively delicious but also filled with nostalgia and memories and the excitement and promise of new love.

A plain hot dig for me

In preparation for the summer, CNN published a list of “Hot dog ideas for your next cookout.”

The Texas Twist, garnished with cole slaw and barbeque sauce.

The Nacho Dog, complete with chunky guacamole and Bobby’s Grilled Tomato-Chipotle Salsa.

Hot dogs on pretzel buns. Steamed and boiled hot dogs. Hot dogs loaded with Gorgonzola, marinated tomatoes, and delicate frisee lettuce.

Even hot dogs that aren’t actually hot dogs but ground chicken loaded with fresh herbs, chiles, and mango mustard spiked with mint.

The Brooklyn Dog, topped with caramelized onions, bacon, corn, and cheese, is the only one I think is worth considering, but in the end, my favorite version of the hot dog – one of my favorite foods – is a simple, grilled hot dog on a bun.

No condiments. No fixings. A simple, plain dog.

Elysha agrees. I’m fond of saying that I knew we were meant for each other when I discovered we had this in common, but that is not entirely true.

I knew that Elysha and I were meant for each other somewhere between the moment we met in an August faculty meeting at the school where I still teach and about a month later as we walked around a lake in Colebrook, Connecticut, laughing together for the first time.

On that day, I advised Elysha about her upcoming wedding, which she would eventually call off about three months before the big day. I was a wedding DJ with lots of insights into weddings and wedding planning, and even though I was infatuated with this woman, I was still willing to help her make the wedding day perfect.

Little did I know I would have that chance four years later at our own wedding.

We also talked about my marriage, which was coming to a gentle end.

The universe was pulling us together at that moment back in October of 2002.

We just didn’t know it yet.

Eventually, we started dating – more than a year after that walk around the lake. It began with dinners with friends, excuses to see each other during the school day, and late-night phone calls. During one of those calls, she said, “If we start dating, we’re going to get married and be together forever.”

One of my friends called this, “Goin’ hard to the hoop.” Another thought it was the dumbest thing a person could say before dating someone.

I thought it sounded just right. My heart soared that night.

Elysha said that she loved me a week after our first date—which neither of us realized was a date when the day began. We took a hike up Mount Carmel across the street from Quinnipiac University, where I once dated a girl and got trapped in a shower for more than four hours after the bathroom filled with women, and I was too afraid to acknowledge my presence.

On the way down the mountain that day, Elysha took my hand, and that was it. We were together. She’s never let go of my hand, and I’ve been holding on for dear life ever since.

Three months after that first date, we were living together, which seemed a little fast to some, but we had been friends for 18 months before kissing in a parking lot outside my own apartment, so three months felt about right.

A month after that, as I calculated our monthly expenses so we could each write a check to cover rent and utilities, she said, “Can I just give you all my money and let you take care of it? We’re going to be together forever anyway.”

She was right. Six months later, we were engaged on the steps at Grand Central Terminal, and less than two years after that, we married.

It was a perfect day.

Many things signaled that this woman was meant for me, so the agreement on the proper preparation of a hot dog seems a little silly by comparison, but it was important nonetheless.

You see, I am still befuddled why Elysha Green chose Matthew Dicks, and I suspect a fair number of people in this world have felt the same over the years. We are approaching 18 years of marriage, but I still find myself astounded on a daily basis about being married to this woman.

When we started dating, I was almost certain that this magical interlude would be temporary – a fleeting moment of joy I would look back upon with fondness later in life. I thought it would be the kind of relationship you downplay with your future spouse, fearful of making them jealous over someone who once held your heart in their hands.

So early on, I looked for signs that maybe I was wrong. Perhaps this relationship was more than just a perfect interlude in an otherwise imperfect life. Maybe it really could be forever. So when I discovered our agreement on hot dogs, I latched onto that signal that perhaps we were meant to be.

It was comfort. It represented possibility and hope. It wasn’t everything, but it was something.

I think about all this every time I eat a hot dog, which is maybe why I love them so much. They are objectively delicious but also filled with nostalgia and memories and the excitement and promise of new love.

Missing Matoaka

“Missing Matoaka” is an alternative audio track to Disney’s “Pocahontas” designed to set the historical record straight. Matoaka—her real name—was not the heroine of some romantic adventure as portrayed in the Disney film and popular culture. In reality, she was the unfortunate protagonist in one of the first documented cases of a missing and murdered indigenous woman.

Available at MissingMatoaka.ca, this alternative audio is scored with music, sound effects, and dialogue that come together to tell the real story of Matoaka and was created using indigenous voices and instruments to ensure its authenticity.

Simply play this alternative audio over Disney’s “Pocahontas” to learn the real story. It’s alternative dialogue, matched and synced syllable for syllable, that takes an existing narrative and creates an entirely new story via sound design.

I love the purpose and mission of this project, but I also love the project itself. As someone who cherishes creation and is always impressed and enamored by new forms of creativity, inspiration, and art, I love the central idea behind this mission:

Alternative audio tracks for the film.

The correction of historical inaccuracies through the co-opting of original media.

Writes, actors, musicians, and sound designers working together to transform one thing into another.

It’s brilliant. Incredibly difficult and time-consuming but brilliant.

Muskrat Magazine has done this project to set the historical record straight, which is a worthy and much-needed mission, but just think what could be next for an ambitious writer or sound designer who wants to change another film to fit their own vision.

Making something that didn’t previously exist is something we should all admire.

Creating an entirely new category of things that didn’t previously exist is even more impressive.