Matthew Dicks's Blog, page 598

St. John Eyre Rivers is a single-minded jackass, but I love him just the same

Last Jane Eyre post.  I promise.  But I love this section of text.

Jane has discovered that she is the heiress to a sizeable fortune in informs her cousin, St. John, that it is her intention to quit teaching in the one-room schoolhouse where she has been employed for several months.

While St. John does not object to Jane's decision to quit, he asks her what she intends to do in place of teaching, which she performs at an exceptionally high level. 

Jane declares her intention to become what amounts to an unmarried housewife. 

And St. John does not approve. 

Nor do I.

I have never looked favorably upon the desire to become a housewife.  While I think that the ability to stay home with one's children before they enter school is a wonderful thing (and I wish that I could have done it myself), I agree with this jackass-of-a-man when he tells Jane to "look a little higher than domestic endearments and household joys" and "turn to profit the talents which God has committed to your keeping."

I couldn't have said it better myself. 

Later on, St. John will ask… no, demand that Jane marry him, and not because he loves her but because she is well suited for missionary work.  He requires a wife with such talents as he intends on to bring Christianity to the sub-continent. 

His proposal is a joke and he acts like a blind fool, but on the subject of housewifery, I find his words quite compelling.   

"You give it up very gleefully," said he; "I don't quite understand your light-heartedness, because I cannot tell what employment you propose to yourself as a substitute for the one you are relinquishing.  What aim, what purpose, what ambition in life have you now?"

"My first aim will be to clean down (do you comprehend the full force of the expression?)—to clean down Moor House from chamber to cellar; my next to rub it up with bees-wax, oil, and an indefinite number of cloths, till it glitters again; my third, to arrange every chair, table, bed, carpet, with mathematical precision; afterwards I shall go near to ruin you in coals and peat to keep up good fires in every room; and lastly, the two days preceding that on which your sisters are expected will be devoted by Hannah and me to such a beating of eggs, sorting of currants, grating of spices, compounding of Christmas cakes, chopping up of materials for mince-pies, and solemnising of other culinary rites, as words can convey but an inadequate notion of to the uninitiated like you.  My purpose, in short, is to have all things in an absolutely perfect state of readiness for Diana and Mary before next Thursday; and my ambition is to give them a beau-ideal of a welcome when they come."

St. John smiled slightly: still he was dissatisfied.

"It is all very well for the present," said he; "but seriously, I trust that when the first flush of vivacity is over, you will look a little higher than domestic endearments and household joys."

"The best things the world has!" I interrupted.

"No, Jane, no: this world is not the scene of fruition; do not attempt to make it so: nor of rest; do not turn slothful."

"I mean, on the contrary, to be busy."

"Jane, I excuse you for the present: two months' grace I allow you for the full enjoyment of your new position, and for pleasing yourself with this late-found charm of relationship; but then, I hope you will begin to look beyond Moor House and Morton, and sisterly society, and the selfish calm and sensual comfort of civilised affluence.  I hope your energies will then once more trouble you with their strength."

I looked at him with surprise.  "St. John," I said, "I think you are almost wicked to talk so.  I am disposed to be as content as a queen, and you try to stir me up to restlessness!  To what end?"

"To the end of turning to profit the talents which God has committed to your keeping; and of which He will surely one day demand a strict account.  Jane, I shall watch you closely and anxiously—I warn you of that.  And try to restrain the disproportionate fervour with which you throw yourself into commonplace home pleasures.  Don't cling so tenaciously to ties of the flesh; save your constancy and ardour for an adequate cause; forbear to waste them on trite transient objects.  Do you hear, Jane?"

My Moth story (or as close an approximation of the story as I can muster)

Hopefully the story that I told at the recent Moth StorySlam will one day be broadcast as one of their weekly podcasts, but many, many  outstanding stories are told at Moth events every month around the country (including the StorySlam that I won), so it's certainly not guaranteed. 

However, I've had many requests for me to share the story here, so I thought I'd at least share the materials that I used to prepare to tell the story that night. 

In order to get ready, I first wrote down what I would like to say, as quickly and as naturally as possible, with as little editing as possible.  It took less than half an hour. 

Then I memorized the first paragraph and the last couple paragraphs, so I could be certain about opening and closing the story well.  Then I read and reread the story as I initially wrote for the next day or two, trying to establish beats and specific phrases in my mind.

In order to keep the story fresh and not sound overly rehearsed, I never actually practiced the story aloud.  Instead, I broke the story down into sections in my mind and then practiced keeping those parts mentally arranged, including the means of transitioning from one section to the next.   

In my mind, the story flowed like this:

How I became a pole vaulter How to pole vault Why I did not like Jack Daniels The track meet My victory Jack's defeat Lessons learned

Seven parts.  I knew if I kept all seven parts in order in mind, with a means of transitioning from one to the next, I would be okay.

My only fear was the Moth's five minute time limit.  Because I never actually spoke my story aloud, I went into the StorySlam hoping that I was close to the five minute mark. 

It felt like five minutes when I reviewed it in my mind, but I was never sure. 

All I wanted to do was tell my story as cleanly and clearly as possible.  That was the goal.  Winning the StorySlam was an unexpected surprise, especially considering the amazing storytellers who performed that night. 

So below is the story as I initially wrote it, though reading through it now, it's clear that this story and the one that I told at the StorySlam differ greatly.  Sections of the story below were deleted during the telling, some intentionally and some by accident, and other parts were added as well. I like how the story came out on stage, and I think it was better than what is written below.  But this should give you a sense of the story as I intended to tell it.

Thanks so much for the interest in the story and all the support.  The date for the Moth GrandSlam has not yet been set, but I'll be sure to share that information when it becomes available.  ____________________________________________________

In the spring of 1986, Coach Cronin decided that we needed two more pole vaulters on our high school's track and field team.  At the time we had just one vaulter.  His name was Jimmy Deane, and Jimmy was the best pole vaulter in Massachusetts Division 3 athletics.  He never lost.

But there were track meets known as relays that required three competitors for each event, and in the case of the pole vault, this meant that three competitors needed to clear opening height, 7 feet 6 inches, or no scores would be recorded.  We were losing valuable points at these meets because Jimmy had no teammates, so Coach Cronin decided to fix that.

And so he took all the mediocre sprinters and long jumpers down to the pole vault pit in order to identify two new pole vaulters, and because I was both a mediocre sprinter and mediocre long jumper at the time, so I doubly qualified.

Now the pole vault is an interesting event.  It requires strength, speed and precision, but above all, it requires a healthy dose of insanity as well.  You stand on the end of a runway, holding a fiberglass pole about 10-12 feet long.  You then run as fast as you possibly can for about 18 steps, and as you take your last few steps, you raise one end of the pole in the air and jam the opposite end into a metal box set into the ground.  At that same moment, you throw your head back and your feet into the air, pulling back on the pole so that it will bend and then fling you over the bar as it unbends.

It an absolute act of insanity.  Perfect for adrenaline freaks, stoners, and guys who would separate their shoulders twenty years later diving for a ball in a meaningless teacher-student four square game.

There were about a dozen of us down at the pit that day, and two of us held onto the pole after jamming it into the box.  We did not vault that day.  I managed to wrench my shoulder as I flew off to the left, missing the mats completely, but because I was stupid enough to continue holding on as I literally tumbled into a ditch, I became a pole vaulter. 

And so perhaps the strangest assemblage of names to ever grace a pole vault pit came together that day:  Jimmy Deane, Jack Daniels and Matthew Dicks was born.

Fast forward to the day of the first relay.  Jack and I had been vaulting for about a month and we were occasionally clearing opening height.  Jack was a year older than me and at that point better than me, so when we arrived at the meet, I knew the pressure would be on me to succeed.

And here's where the ugly little truth about team sports comes into play.  While I wanted my team to win and to earn the respect of my opposition, the truth is I wanted the respect of my team even more.  This was the only time we would face Uxbridge High that spring, so I would never see the opposing vaulters again.  But I would see my teammates every day that spring.  They would be the dispensers of coolness and acceptance in the halls of my high school.  I wanted to be viewed as a valued member of the team.

There are two ways about doing this in team sports:

Perform at a high level.

Perform at a higher level than your mediocre teammates.

Knowing I could not do the former, I opted for the latter.

My only hope was for Jack to fail, thus making me the hero.  This is what I wanted.   

And I didn't like Jack very much.  Not only was Jack better looking and a better athlete than me, but he had the name Jack Daniels, an incredibly cool name for a high school guy, and I was saddled with Matthew Dicks.  That's not Dix like the fort as so many people ask me, but Dicks like more than one penis.

It's a tough name to have, as you can imagine.  Not as difficult as my father, whose name was Leslie Dicks but went by Les, nor as hard as my not one but two Uncle Harold Dicks who went by Harry, but tough.

And especially tough in pole vaulting, for you see, there is a lot of waiting around in pole vaulting, and in order to alert you that your turn is coming, a system was developed.  The officials would announce over the loudspeaker Jones Up, Smith on deck, Davis in the hole.  But for me, it would be Dicks up, Dicks on deck, Dicks in the hole.

Not the best way to foster concentration while every spectator within the sound of the official's voice laughs at you.

Actually, Dicks Up wasn't so bad.  I was still a virgin at the time, but the image it conjured at least offered me a little hope.

And so I stood at the end of the runway, Dicks Up, ready to vault.  And by some miracle of miracles, I cleared the bar on the first try.

I felt like a hero.  A million bucks.  And I felt better when Jack missed his first try.  I was cool under pressure.  He was not.

Then Jack missed his second vault, and for a second, I felt on top of the world, pleased to find that my prayers were being answered.  Yes, we would lose a lot of points as Jimmy's eventual winning vault would not count, and yes, it might cost us the meet, but I would be declared second best vaulter on the team and that was all that mattered.

And then it occurred to me.  If Jack succeeded in his final vault, my vault would be all but forgotten.  With the pressure on and the drama at its highest level, if Jack cleared that bar, he would become Mr. Clutch, the guy cool under pressure, and the second best vaulter on the team.

That son-of-a-bitch had positioned himself perfectly to be the hero.  And I wouldn't put it past Jack to have set this up on purpose.

And so as Jack ran down that runway toward his fate, I stared at his fiberglass pole, using all my mental energy to cause a mis-plant.  Not a broken pole, because that would give Jack an out. 

No, Jack had to fail, and it had to be his fault.

And he did.  And it was.  Jack's plant was good but he kicked the bar on the way up, ensuring us the defeat and me the victory that day.  Daniels was in the hole and Dicks was indeed up!

Here's the saddest part of the whole day:  Our team won the meet.  We crushed Uxbridge High that day, and as a result, my success and Jack's failure went unnoticed.  Though Jack's failure had cost the team points, it had not been enough to cost us the meet.

The team had won goddamn it.  But I lost.  No one even said a word to me about my successful vault, and it was at that moment that I realized a couple important things in life:

The world may revolve around me, but no one had really taken notice of it back in 1986.  It was sort of like the Sun in a pre-Copernican universe, and I am still struggling like Copernicus to right this wrong.

Everyone on my team were engaged in the same struggles that I was engaged in that day, so no one had any time to worry about a guy who would be lucky to clear opening height.  Jimmy Deane didn't even care.

The only teammates to receive any attention were the ones who performed at a high level.  Not the best of the rest, but the best of the best.

And that was not me.  And it has rarely, rarely been me. 

Thank you.    

Populating the bathroom with antiques and curiosities

"Don't mind the dying cat," my friend, Shep, said after directing me to the bathroom.

I peed sitting down.

I was afraid to turn my back on the thing.

 

A sign of tattoos to come?

We like to reward our daughter with stickers because she likes them a lot.

Unfortunately, whenever we give her one, she immediately lifts her shirt and sticks it to her belly for safe keeping.  Then removing them at the end of the day (to avoid finding them in her hair in the morning involves coercion and subterfuge of the highest order. 

Not fun. 

Is this normal behavior?

 

Poor Jane Eyre. Shes been hungry for a whole 19 hours.

Yesterday I declared Jane Eyre a superhero and specifically described her super power:

Super powerful nostril and brow identification

But all superhero fans know that with almost every super power comes a super weakness.

Like Superman. The fact that he comes from the planet Krypton gives him his remarkable powers here on Earth, yet Kryptonite (a chunk of rock from his now-defunct planet of Krypton) rids him of his powers and is potentially lethal to him. 

Classic superhero motif.

I am Mr. Indestructible. I cannot be killed (having been brought back from death twice already) nor can I be bruised (never once in my entire life), yet I tend to be hurt all the time.  Golfer's elbow.  Separated shoulders.  Bad knees.  Frequent concussions. 

Strength and weakness tied together. Get it?

And so it turns out that Jane Eyre also has a weakness, though sadly it does not tie in well with her unique powers of observation. 

Rather, Jane is ultra-super-mega hypoglycemic and prone to whining about her condition to no one in particular. 

The girl can't miss a meal without falling apart.

After fleeing Thornfield Manor by coach, she finds herself alone and destitute in the English countryside.

Less than 24 hours later, she is nearly dead from starvation. 

Despite her ability to accurately appraise one's countenance and disposition based solely upon nostril and brow, the girl cannot survive more than a day with food.

And thus her super weakness.   

Note the following, self-described soliloquy:

"My strength is quite failing me," I said in a soliloquy.  "I feel I cannot go much farther.  Shall I be an outcast again this night?  While the rain descends so, must I lay my head on the cold, drenched ground?  I fear I cannot do otherwise: for who will receive me?  But it will be very dreadful, with this feeling of hunger, faintness, chill, and this sense of desolation—this total prostration of hope.  In all likelihood, though, I should die before morning.  And why cannot I reconcile myself to the prospect of death?  Why do I struggle to retain a valueless life?  Because I know, or believe, Mr. Rochester is living: and then, to die of want and cold is a fate to which nature cannot submit passively.  Oh, Providence! sustain me a little longer!  Aid!—direct me!"

My glazed eye wandered over the dim and misty landscape.  I saw I had strayed far from the village: it was quite out of sight.  The very cultivation surrounding it had disappeared.  I had, by cross-ways and by-paths, once more drawn near the tract of moorland; and now, only a few fields, almost as wild and unproductive as the heath from which they were scarcely reclaimed, lay between me and the dusky hill.

"Well, I would rather die yonder than in a street or on a frequented road," I reflected.  "And far better that crows and ravens—if any ravens there be in these regions—should pick my flesh from my bones, than that they should be prisoned in a workhouse coffin and moulder in a pauper's grave."

And all this after less than a day without food!

If you've ever read Jasper Fforde's THE EYRE AFFAIR (and you should), you'll understand what I mean when I wish Thursday Next would pop into this section of the book (as she does in so many other sections of the novel) and say:

"Ravens picking flesh from your bones?  Dying before morning?  C'mon woman!  You've been without food for less than a day!  And this is Victorian, England!  Not Miami Beach!  It's not like you weigh 86 pounds soaking wet!  Pull yourself together, you sad sack of humanity!  You make me sick!"

I still like Jane.  I like her a lot. 

But based upon her condition, I don't think I'd ever date her.     

Not-so-secretive secrets to sleep

When people express envy of the fact that I only require about five hours of sleep a night and can often get by with less, I like to say that in addition to requiring less sleep, I am also a productive and efficient sleeper, and this plays an important role as well.  

This often causes my wife to often roll her eyes, but it's true. 

While many people spend 8 hours in bed, I question how much of that time is actually spent sleeping.  When I ask more probing questions about a person's sleep habits, I often find that at least some of the time that they claim is spent sleeping is actually spent watching television in bed, and tossing and turning throughout the night and snoozing in the bed in the morning after the alarm has gone off. 

When I say that I sleep for 5 hours, that means that I spend 5 hours in bed, and almost every second of that time is spent sleeping. 

I can fall asleep in about 30 seconds on almost every night (as my eye-rolling wife can attest), and when my alarm goes off (or more often, when I awaken prior to the alarm going off) I immediately climb from bed. 

For me, 5 hours in bed equals 5 hours of sleep. 

I find that this is not the case for many, many people.

So yes, insomnia is a legitimate medical problem for many people, and medication can help.

But I can't help but think that at least some of these medicated sleepers (and non-medicated insomniacs) could benefit from a few less pills and a healthy dose of my simple sleep suggestions, which are not actually my suggestions, but simply the suggestions of sleep experts that are frequently ignored. 

The three simple suggestions to which I adhere are:

Exercise vigorously for at least 30 minutes every day.  I promise that this, more than anything else, will lead to more restful sleep. And if you can't find 30 minutes a day to exercise, sleep 30 minutes less and exercise then. The 30 minute loss of sleep will be more than negated by the improved quality of your sleep. Do not eat anything two hours or more before bedtime.  Avoid caloric intake of any kind.  Never watch television in bed.  Never read in bed.  Never use an iPhone, iPad or similar device in bed.  Train your body and mind to think as your bed as a place to sleep and nothing more.\

That's it.  Simple, right? 

Except I have found that people do not like simple answers when it comes to improving their lifestyle. 

For example, over the past two years, I have lost almost 40 pounds and managed to keep every bit of it off without much trouble. 

When asked how I did it, I tell people that I eat a little less, I exercise a little more, and for a time, I counted calories.

This answer is rarely greeted with enthusiasm, because it sounds both too easy and too hard. 

Too easy because it does not require a person to begin eating only bacon, running 32 miles a week or fasting for three days on guava juice, but also too hard because it involves changes to a person's entire lifestyle.

Every meal should contain less food.  Every day should contain more exercise. 

For many people, fasting on guava juice and become marathoners would be easier. 

Sleeping is the same way.

Yes, you have to start exercising every day.

Yes, you can't eat Doritos or drink wine while watching television at night anymore.

Yes, you can't read or send a couple emails or watch the evening news or that Seinfeld rerun in bed anymore before turning out the light.

And yes, you can start sleeping better.  And less. 

Did you know that Jane Eyre is a superhero? Or perhaps a mutant? Or an alien? Or maybe even a werewolf? But with super powers nonetheless.

It's been a fine, fine novel so far, but the Victorian obsession with physical description, and more importantly, the assumptions that one could apparently draw based upon physical characteristics, has made JANE EYRE resemble a story about a superhero rather than an English governess.  

The girl can discern an astounding amount of information by just looking at someone, and if I didn't know any better, I would suspect her of being a mutant, an alien, a cyborg or perhaps a government experiment gone awry.

She cannot be human.  At the least, she is clearly wielding a powerful variant of ESP.

Note the passage below.  Please read carefully. 

Mr. St. John—sitting as still as one of the dusty pictures on the walls, keeping his eyes fixed on the page he perused, and his lips mutely sealed—was easy enough to examine.  Had he been a statue instead of a man, he could not have been easier.  He was young—perhaps from twenty-eight to thirty—tall, slender; his face riveted the eye; it was like a Greek face, very pure in outline: quite a straight, classic nose; quite an Athenian mouth and chin.  It is seldom, indeed, an English face comes so near the antique models as did his.  He might well be a little shocked at the irregularity of my lineaments, his own being so harmonious.  His eyes were large and blue, with brown lashes; his high forehead, colourless as ivory, was partially streaked over by careless locks of fair hair.

This is a gentle delineation, is it not, reader?  Yet he whom it describes scarcely impressed one with the idea of a gentle, a yielding, an impressible, or even of a placid nature.  Quiescent as he now sat, there was something about his nostril, his mouth, his brow, which, to my perceptions, indicated elements within either restless, or hard, or eager.  He did not speak to me one word, nor even direct to me one glance, till his sisters returned. 

The first paragraph of description is simply astounding in its level of density and obscurity. 

A Greek face?  A classic nose?  An Athenian mouth and chin? 

His face came close to that of an English antique model?

Did any of this mean anything to the nineteenth century reader?  Could Bronte's contemporaries learn that Mr. St. John had an Athenian chin and immediately perceive its cut and jib in their mind's eye?

But it's the second paragraph that clearly indicates Jane's superhuman powers of observation.  Has there ever been a time in human history, in fiction or real life, when a person was able to accurate assess the character and disposition of another human being based upon a single nostril?

I don't think so.   

And yet there it is, sitting on the page.  Without speaking a word, she has used nostril and brow to paint a surprisingly accurate portrait of the man's character. 

My agent told me that she wrote a paper in high school claiming that Jane Eyre was a werewolf, and she received an A+ for her effort. 

Perhaps it was super human powers like these that caused her to think this way. 

I wish someone would have told me that this was a superhero book.

I might have read it a long time ago. 

My obituary and eulogy instructions

I wrote a variation of this on Twitter yesterday, but I'd like to be sure that the request is taken seriously and not presumed to be some random notion that wandered into and out of my mind while standing in line at the grocery store .

In the off-chance that I die someday (an unlikely occurrence considering my super powers), I would like my obituary written and my eulogy spoken in the present tense.

Nothing at all in the past tense, please.  Nothing. 

Speak of me as if I were still alive. 

In one final fist shake of defiance at the institution of death, please refer to me as I had cheated death once again, both in word and in print.

Oh, and say some wicked nice things, too.  Make stuff up if you want.

Blue Stripy is my favorite pair of underwear. Whats yours?

Am I the only one who thinks it odd that our underwear drawers are filled with underwear of varying types, styles and appearances?

This morning, I put on my favorite pair of underwear.  It is my favorite primarily because of its fit.  It's a pair of striped-blue boxer briefs, and it adheres to my body ideally in every way. 

I have other pairs of underwear of identical construct (purchased in the same package as Blue Stripy) and while they are beloved as well, I like Blue Stripy the best of all for his color as well his fit.

Blue Stripy has it all. 

Finding Blue Stripy in my underwear drawer is a great way to start my day. 

But it occurs to me:

Why don't I simply own twenty pairs of Blue Stripy? 

There are many mornings when Blue Stripy and his brethren are unavailable for use, and I am forced to don a suitable though not-so-favored pair of underwear.  These pairs of underwear are slightly longer, slightly looser, slightly tighter, or made from a slightly less elastic material than Blue Stripy, and while they all adequately perform their job, I avoid these pairs whenever Blue Stripy and his comrades in arms are available. 

So why not just populate my wardrobe with a platoon of Blue Stripy and make every day a good day? 

The problem is that assembling twenty pairs of Blue Stripy would be difficult because most men's underwear is purchased in packages of 3-6 pairs, and each pair of underwear in these packages is typically different from the rest.

Same material and same construct but different design.  A cornucopia of underwear colors and patterns.   

Why this is the case is beyond me. 

If we all have a favorite pair of underwear (and you know you do), wouldn't it make sense to simply fill our drawers with that specific pair?

And wouldn't it be nice if the international underwear conglomerate made it their mission to provide each customer with the opportunity and ease of purchasing a bushel of their favorite underwear rather than ending up with a mishmash of excellent to average to below-average underwear?

I was unable to find this mythic underwear conglomerate or any similar  underwear governing body to which I could foist my appeal, but I did manage to turn up an Underwear Industry Report that is available free of charge.

I chose not to read it.  I've spent too much time on the Internet already.

And more importantly, I suspect that Blue Stripy does not make an appearance in the report. 

But perhaps you all might want to join me in the search of your own Blue Stripy. 

The ideal pair of underwear that matches your body and sense of style. 

And if found (and perhaps, like me, you  are fortunate enough to have already found it), I encourage you to spend the money and purchase as many pairs as possible, while simultaneously jettisoning all the substandard underwear that currently fulfills your underwear drawer.

I have made it my mission to search for Blue Stripy anytime I enter a store that sells underwear, and if I am ever lucky enough to find him again, I will be purchasing him in bulk. 

Life if hard enough.  Don't we all deserve to begin everyday by donning our favorite pair of underwear?

The mystery of net carbs, the most redundant name in human history and inexplicable online gaming, all in a bottle of 4C iced tea

In our recent pantry purge, I found this container of 4C iced tea mix. 

Note that the packaging indicates that contains 4 grams of net carbs per serving.

Net carbs?

Does a serving actually contain 5 net carbs, but the manufacturer assumes you will burn at least one carb stirring the stuff?

 

Naturally, I found myself wondering what 4C stands for while writing this post, so I did a little digging and found this explanation:

The name 4C, as in 4C iced tea and other products, comes from when the founder John Celauro opened up an Italian specialty store with 3 other immigrants who also had their last names begin with the letter C. The sign on the storefront read 4CCCC. Shortly thereafter, Mr. Celauro decided to change it to 4C.

I like how the company's explanation deliberately excludes the obvious: 

Mr. Celauro realized, after much mocking by his friends and neighbors, that the number 4, followed by four C's, was quite possibly the most redundant name ever plastered on a store front in human history.

Perhaps in an attempt to make up for this omission, the 4C company has "developed a few games that will challenge your mind as well as your skills" and included them on their website.

I invite you to check them out here. 

Doing so will most assuredly provide more hits to this page than the last three years combined, but most importantly, I would love for someone to present me with a scenario in which either of these two (not a few) games were actually found and played by anyone save the developers of these games and their guinea pig-like children.