Matthew Dicks's Blog, page 658

Hearts in Atlantis: A fine name for an entirely different film

Have you seen the movie Hearts in Atlantis starring Anthony Hopkins?  It's a movie about a man with a mysterious power who is being hunted by "low men." It's an adaptation of a Stephen King novel by the same name, and though I am a huge fan of King's work, I hadn't gotten around to read the book until recently.

Turns out that Hearts in Atlantis (the book) is actually a collection of five short stories centered in the 1960's, and the title of the book is also the title of the second story in the book.

But this is not the story from which the movie was adapted.

The story upon which the movie is based is titled "Low Men in Yellow Coats." "Hearts in Atlantis" is the short story of some college boys who fall in love with and become addicted to the card game hearts (and is a tremendous short story).  there is nothing about hearts or card games or college boys in the film whatsoever.  

I can understand renaming a movie that is based upon a book, as producers did when they adapted Stephen King's short story "The Body" into the film Stand By Me, or when they adapted his short story "Rita Hayworth and Shawshank Redemption" and renamed it Shawshank Redemption. 

But to name the movie after the wrong short story seems pretty stupid.

It was also pretty awesome. I wont lie.

I didn't join my buddy at Foxboro Stadium yesterday, and therefore I missed a great football game, won by my beloved Patriots.  Since it was Halloween, I sold my season ticket and spent the day at with my family.

Late last night, I received a text from my friend:

Dude, it was pretty awesome. I won't lie.

Yeah, but I already knew it was pretty awesome.  I can't tell you how much I enjoy attending Patriots games.  I have a friend who prefers to watch the games at home, and I think he's absolutely insane.  Even my wife, who attends one game a season and does not brave the harsh elements well, acknowledges that watching a game on television pales in comparison to sitting in the stadium.  And the NFL season is short.  We only get eight opportunities a year to attend a game, so missing even one hurts.

So after receiving my friend's text message, I sat and reflected on my day:

I opened the day with a much-needed workout at the gym.

I spent much of the morning working on my manuscript, polishing the previous six chapters and nearly finishing a new one. 

Around noon, my wife and I brought Clara to her first play, an adaptation of If You Give A Mouse A Cookie, a book that she adores.  She loved the show, sitting in rapt attention for the entire time.

I watched the Packers defeat the sports team I despise most in the world, the New York Jets.  It was a great game, a 9-0 defeat for Gang Green, and one I would have missed had I been on the road to Foxboro.

I watched the Patriots game, time-shifting the second half in order to go trick-or-treating.  And while watching it on television is decidedly less fun, it's still the NFL and the Patriots.    

I took my daughter trick-or-treating for the first time in her life, and she loved it.  Listening to her say "Twikootweet" and "Thank you" was simply divine.  And for a girl who often is slow to warm up, she loved the whole process, smiling and laughing and nearly running from house to house.  And several of our neighbors, knowing that Clara is allergic to nuts, has special treats set aside for her.  We brought Elysha's parents along with us as well, and overall we had a great time.

By the end of the day, I had finished writing my student's report cards, one full week ahead of schedule. 

It was a hell of a day.  And when my buddy asked if it was worth missing the game, my text answer response was easy:

It was a push. 

And that's saying something.

  

Its a six hour holiday. NOT A SEASON.

Yesterday I worked at a Halloween-themed wedding.  Masks were worn by the bride and groom and many of their guests, centerpieces consisted of ceramic jack-o-lanterns filled with candy, and guests danced to The Monster Mash.

It was one of the finest Halloween-themed wedding I have ever seen.  Just the right amount of Halloween paraphernalia to bring home the theme without taking away from the wedding.   

I have only one complaint:  It wasn't Halloween.

The wedding was held on October 30th, one day before Halloween, and contrary to what seems to be becoming popular opinion, Halloween is not a seasonal holiday. 

It is a single day.

In fact, it's not even a day.  It's more like a six hour period from about 4:00-10:00 on Halloween night.  Masks are donned, children trick-or-treat, eggs are thrown, and that's it. 

At least that's how it should be. 

But for reasons that escape me, Halloween seems to be stretching itself across the October calendar, filling days around the holiday as if it were a blob of spreading goo. 

Yesterday thousands of college football fans filled stadiums, dressed in all manner of Halloween costume. 

But it wasn't Halloween.

Yesterday thousands of citizens gathered on The National Mall to rally with Jon Stewart and Stephen Colbert for reason and sanity, and many of them also donned masks and capes and costumes.

But it wasn't Halloween.  

And on Monday night, when the Houston Texans and Indianapolis Colts face off, there is a good chance that we will see spectators dressed in Halloween masks, even though at that point, Halloween will be 364 days away.    

Thanksgiving, Christmas and New Years are a part of the holiday season.   

Baseball is played over the course of a season.

Autumn is a season.

Halloween is not.

Brick House and breasts

I hate the song Brick House by The Commodores.

Always have.

But as a wedding DJ, I am forced to listen to the song more often than I want. I think the lyrics are just stupid. If I were a woman, the last thing I'd ever want to be compared to is a brick house.

Stupid.

But it gets worse. I recently discovered that many historians and anthropologists believe that Amazon women routinely removed their right breast as part of a religious ritual that helped them hunt, allowing them to pull back on bow strings and throw javelins without their breast getting in the way. Though there is much debate over the veracity of this claim, the name Amazon is believed to have derived from the Greek word a-mazon, meaning "no breast."

Read more about this here.

What does this have to do with Brick house and the Commodores?

Ironically, the Commodores sing about women's breasts and Amazons in their song:

Yea she's a brick-house,
that lady's stacked,
And that's a fact,
Ain't holdin' nothin back,
oh she's a brick-house,
Yeah she's the one,
the only one,
Built like an Amazon.

Whether or not Amazon women cut off one breast, I find it ironic and amusing that The Commodores would attempt to compare a woman's breasts favorably to that of an Amazon woman, who may have purposely removed her breast.

For one who truly hates the song as much as I do, I hope you take as much pleasure in this discovery as I did.

Perfection

Nordstrom's first employee manual was a work of genius. It read: 

Welcome to Nordstrom

We're glad to have you with our Company. Our number one goal is to provide outstanding customer service. Set both your personal and professional goals high. We have great confidence in your ability to achieve them.

Nordstrom Rules: Rule #1: Use best judgment in all situations. There will be no additional rules.

Please feel free to ask your department manager, store manager, or division general manager any question at any time.

I have known and continue to know many people who are thoroughly enamored with rules.  These are people who desire clearly delineated codes of conduct for all situations.  While there is a place in the world for rules, these people believe that there must be a rule for every place.   

In my estimation, these people tend to be timid, conforming, paralyzed by choice, lacking confidence, afraid to be perceived as the bad guy and unable to enforce discipline or garner respect without explicit norms.  These are people who value structure and obedience over choice and good judgment.

In raising my daughter, I'm hoping to be more of an old school Nordstrom's man.

Which is a phrase I never thought I would ever utter.

Panty raid!

Panty raid!

Am I Ned, too?

I was just reminded of a student who fell and hit his head on the pavement several years ago while at recess. The blow had been so traumatic that for weeks after the injury, the boy was not the same person.  His personality, his demeanor, and his cognitive abilities all seemed altered by the concussion that he had suffered.  Eventually he returned to his normal self, but for what seemed like weeks, I thought of him as an entirely different person, even going so far as to rename him Ned in my mind for a time.

I have suffered from more than my fair share of concussions in my life, beginning with a fall from the rings during a gymnastics unit of PE during my freshman year of high school.  Somehow I missed the mat and landed on my head, knocking me unconscious for about a minute.  It was a serious injury that kept me out of school for a week and in a fog for a long time.

Since that day, I've probably experienced about a dozen, from two automobile accidents, a diving accident, two pole vaulting accidents, a softball to the head, several fists to the skull, and general clumsiness.  I was once found unconscious in a walk-in freezer, having slipped and fallen on a patch of ice.  Doctors have told me that my repeated head injuries make it more likely for me to experience concussions in the future.  And with head injuries in the news because of recent developments in the NFL, I've been thinking about my history of concussions a lot. 

If just one fall on the pavement can alter a kid's personality for more than a month, what have the repeated concussions throughout my life done to me?

Am I also a Ned?

Perhaps this explains a great deal.

Sex in a carefully monitored lab setting

In a Slate piece that asks if you actually have to consult your doctor before having sex (as the Cialis commercials have made abundantly clear), Craig Bowron cites the following research: 

"…a 1984 study that involved ten married couples who were paid to have intercourse in a monitored lab setting. Blood pressure, pulse, and oxygen consumption were recorded, but only for the men; no one paid attention to the women. (Indeed, medical research is only now beginning to emerge from its dark, sexist past.) Foreplay was allowed, but the "results-oriented" nature of the experiment (the husband held an event-marker button to be pushed at the beginning and the end of his orgasm) did tend to play into a male view of sex. As the paper noted, "Some physical expression … was limited by the recording equipment. For example, the mask used to collect the husband's expired air kept him from kissing or talking."

I think I could write an entire novel based upon a fictionalized version of this research and just one of the ten couples. 

Maybe two.

In fact, I'm adding it to the idea list.  This might actually make a great story if I can find the right characters to fill the roles.

And I have so many questions.  For example:

How were the couples recruited?
How much were they paid?
What were their motives for getting involved in the study?
Was the intercourse monitored visually?
Did the research improve or hinder sexual performance?
What percentage of the couples remained married following the research?
Was the the male-female dynamic in terms of joining the study?

So much fodder for a possible book…

And no, unless you smoke three packs a day, dine on three pounds of red meat a week, and rarely leave your couch, there is no real need to consult a doctor before having sex.  At least according to Slate.

I am a giant nerd

I admire the guy's willingness to put his passion on display, and I love his courage to be himself, but this guy has no chance of ever getting a date.

Right?

Testicular cancer talk

Sometimes former students and I maintain friendships long after their days in my classroom have ended.  These students and I tend to share similar personalities, interests, and demeanors, and as they get older, it's easy to understand why they continue to visit me in my classroom long after they have left elementary school.

For a few former students, the teacher-student relationship has slowly developed into a genuine friendship.  As I have become close with their parents (and now call some of them my closest of friends), and as they have headed off to college and bigger and better things, I have begun to view these young people as friends, even if they continue to call me Mr. Dicks. 

One of my former students, now in college, is my daughter's primary babysitter and an all-around friend of our family.  On Saturday, while I was working, she and my wife spent the afternoon together, playing with Clara. 

Two other students (a brother and sister combination) are our primary dog sitter, and still another is our backup dog sitter.  We have invited former students and their families to our home for Christmas and Thanksgiving and Clara's first birthday, and we have been invited to their homes for similar reasons.  I count myself lucky to have these young people in my life.

Yesterday two such former students, now all grown up and attending college, came to visit me at the end of the school day.  We chatted for about fifteen minutes before I headed off to a meeting, but in that time, it became apparent why these students and I have become such good friends.

The first girl's hair is quite long. In the midst of our conversation, I asked if she planned on cutting it soon and perhaps give the hair to an organization like Locks for Love. She replied, "Of course not. I'm saving it for when I get cancer. In that case, my wig will match my natural hair color."

While a fellow teacher was slightly horrified at the remark, I found it quite clever.

We then began chatting about cellphones, and somehow this led to a discussion on how radar detectors once emitted so much radiation that police officers in the 1970''s were contracting cancer at alarming rates. "It's the same with cellphones," the other girl added. "So keep your cellphone out of your pocket or you'll get testicular cancer."

Having the former student mention my testicles was odd enough, but as she did, she pointed to my groin as well.

While I found the moment refreshingly innocent and amusing and a clear indication of the friendship I share with these girls, teachers never want students, all grown up or otherwise, pointing to their testicles.