Matthew Dicks's Blog, page 75

Terrible children

While teaching math this week, I made a mistake while writing an equation on the board.

I erased the equation and tried again. Annoyingly, I made the same mistake. I erased it again and tried a third time. This time I made a different mistake.

As I erased this mistake. I heard a student say,  “This is getting hard to watch.”

Students are the worst.

Famous for my invention of the peanut butter and tuna fish sandwich

I mentioned last week to a friend that I am the inventor of the peanut butter and tuna fish sandwich.

This bit of culinary brilliance was born of necessity.

As a kid, my mother occasionally served us tuna fish sandwiches for lunch. Rightfully despising mayonnaise more than almost any other food product on the planet, my sandwiches consisted of tuna on white bread.

Nothing more.

Lacking any binding agent, the tuna in my sandwich would simply fall out whenever I lifted it off the plate, making it difficult and annoying to eat.

One day, as my mother was making our lunch, I saw a can of tuna fish sitting beside a jar of peanut butter, and I had an inspiration. I took a dollop of peanut butter and popped it into the microwave for a few seconds, just long enough to soften it a bit, then I mixed it with tuna fish before placing it on my bread.

The peanut butter and tuna fish sandwich was born.

And it was good.

The typical reaction when I mention this sandwich is disgust, which annoys me for two reasons:

People have told me I should like more food, try more foods, and give more food a chance. Yet when I suggest that they might find this sandwich tasty, people refuse to even consider the possibility.People eat raw fish on a regular basis. Bull testicles. Olive loaf. Jello salad. Chitlins. Many of these foods probably seemed disgusting to you at some point (and some might still sound disgusting), but they are all regularly eaten in this country. You’re almost certainly eating food today that you once thought would be awful. Is a peanut butter and tuna fish sandwich really all that different?

For the record, I’ve served friends peanut butter and tuna fish. Years ago, I designed and operated a race for my friends, modeled after the television show The Amazing Race. Teams of two raced around town, completing tasks and taking on challenges. It was great fun and even better when Elysha became involved after the first year.

Each one of my races had a theme. One year, the theme was me:

Tasks and challenges related to my life. One of my tasks was to eat a peanut butter and tuna fish sandwich. At least two people participating in that race admitted to liking the sandwich, and I have served it to several others since then.

As far as I know, at least two people still eat peanut butter and tuna fish sandwiches regularly.

I’m not saying you will like peanut butter and tuna fish sandwiches. I merely suggesting that you have an open mind about the thing. If you’re willing to try raw squid or partake in ice cream that tastes like leftover cereal milk or pretend that green bean casserole is little more than a Trojan horse for Campbell’s cream of mushroom soup, maybe you could give my creation a chance.

Or at least not mock it until you’ve tried it.

And let me know what you think.

That friend to whom I mentioned the sandwich decided to Google “peanut butter and tuna fish sandwich” to see if others are eating it. Under Google’s “People Also Ask” links was one for “Is peanut butter and tuna good?”

The answer and its source was me.

She was amused.

Invent a sandwich, and you will become known for that sandwich. If there are any Wikipedia editors out there, perhaps it could be added to my Wikipedia page.

A story!

Clara texts Elysha and me from her iPad. She doesn’t own a phone, but she can text from her iPad using Wifi when she is inside the home.

Her message:

“The remote fell into the radiator.”

This is annoying. It’s fallen into the radiator before, and oddly, it’s incredibly difficult to extract. I groan as I read the message, knowing it’s just another problem to solve in the near future.

A moment later, my phone dings again:

A photo of Clara holding the remote in her hand, accompanied by this message:

“But I got it!”

This is everything you need to know about storytelling. Or at least a lot of it.

Clara starts her story by engaging her audience with stakes:

The remote is stuck in the radiator. Something is wrong. A problem exists, and it’s a problem that I care about. I’m invested in the problem and its possible solution.

This is how we engage an audience. Not through nonsense and verbal detritus like, “Guess what?” or “You’re not going to believe this” or “Bad news!”

We make people care by giving them something to care about.

Then there is a pause. Clara waits before sending the next message. This is called suspense.

At its heart, suspense is simply the strategic delay of desired information. An audience wants to know something, so we make them wait before knowing. This delay causes the audience to feel anxious. Move to the edge of their seat. Ponder possible explanations and solutions. Make predictions. Worry and hope.

In the space between texts, I spin. I worry and fester and writhe.

I also drop into backstory, remembering all of the times I have been forced to squeeze two fingers into the tiny opening of the radiator to gain purchase on a smooth, rounded remote control.

I groan. I’m dreading the moment.

Then my phone dings. I see the photo and a message indicating that she has already solved the problem.

This is surprise. Surprise can take many forms and can be deployed in many ways, In this case, surprise is the resolution of suspense with the unexpected. In an instant, Clara frees me from my burden. The world is right again. Happiness is unexpectedly restored.

All of this happened in the span of about 15 seconds, yet it was more engaging, compelling, suspenseful, and surprising than many of the stories I will hear today.

Clara gets it. She knows the best order to deliver information to maximize impact. She understands how to engage an audience through stakes. She wields the power of suspense with skill. She knows the joyous feeling of surprise and how to deliver it.

This was not a fluke. She’s done this many times, in both small and big ways. She’s a storyteller.

This time, she told her story via a text message.

It doesn’t take much to engage and entertain an audience.

Almost nothing at all when it’s told well.

The Who blows up The Smother’s Brothers

In 1967, The Who performed on The Smothers Brothers Comedy Hour.

At the end of their second song, “My Generation,” the band begins destroying their instruments, as they were wont to do. Amid this destruction, drummer Keith Moon set off an explosive that destroyed his kick drum. He had done this before, but because he wanted the explosion to be impressive for the TV audience, he packed his drum with three times the usual amount of TNT.

The result?

It was like a cannon went off. Townshend later said that the explosion set his hair on fire, and in the video, you can see him patting down his hair as if it had just been burning. Moon was hit with shrapnel from his kick drum and a cymbal that exploded against the floor.

After the explosion, Daltrey stepped off camera to check on Moon while Townshend continued to smash up pieces of the set.

Specifically Tommy Smothers’ acoustic guitar.

Pete Townshend later claimed that his hearing was permanently impaired following this explosion, though The Who famously played so loud that it’s possible his hearing was already failing him.

Needless to say, it’s worth viewing.

It’s an odd and unbelievable television moment I had not known until this week.

Man in bank wants money

On Saturday, I’m standing at the counter at my local bank, waiting for a teller to help me escape a particularly challenging corner of red tape hell.

A man approaches the teller to my left. “I’d like a cash advance,” he says.

This catches my attention. For about two years – including a period of time when I was indicted and awaiting trial for grand larceny (always fun to mention) – I worked as a teller and customer service representative at South Shore Bank in southeastern Massachusetts.

Mark Wahlberg – then Markey Mark – was one of my customers.

Knowing a little bit about retail banking, I know that asking a bank teller for a cash advance is not a thing. You can get a cash advance from a credit card at an ATM and access overdraft protection with your checking account, but asking a bank teller for a cash advance is weird.

So, I lean in slightly to listen to the conversation.

“We don’t offer cash advances,” the teller says.

“Are you sure?” the man asks.

“Do you have an account at the bank?” the teller asks, sounding rightly confused.

“No,” he says. “But I want a cash advance.” He says this forcefully, which causes me to instantly think it’s a robbery. Without any real conscious thought, I scan the man for weapons. Assess his size and strength. Look behind him for possible accomplices. Ball my hands into fists.

“We can’t do business unless you have an account at the bank or you’re holding a check from an account holder,” the teller says.

“Seriously?” he asks. Still aggressive.

“Yes,” she says.

The man stands there for a moment, staring her down, before turning and leaving.

“Did you…” I ask the adjacent teller.

“Yes,” she says before I can finish. “I thought he might be robbing me. I still think he might’ve been robbing me.”

Upon reflection, I don’t think he was attempting to rob the bank. I suspect that he heard about someone getting a cash advance from their bank, and not understanding how banking works, decided to try to get a cash advance of his own.

Which is weird.

But it’s also impossible to know what it’s like not to know something. Maybe he was an astrophysicist capable of building rockets to take human beings to Mars, but amid those long calculations and interstellar understanding, he didn’t have the time or interest to learn how banking works.

I don’t really believe this, but I’m allowing for the possibility.

Either way, given my unfortunate experience with armed robberies and my resulting PTSD, the thought that I might be standing in the middle of a bank robbery did not make the next day or two very peaceful or tranquil, at least in my mind.

It’s remarkable how a brief moment of possibility can throw a switch in our stupid, prehistoric brains, activating a level of vigilance, a readiness for battle, and an assumption of danger that isn’t very helpful while watching your son play baseball, riding your bike, playing golf with friends, or enjoying Rosh Hashanah dinner with the family.

Stupid cash advance guy.

No favorites

Want to know how to annoy kids of all ages?

When they ask you for your favorite number or color, tell them you don’t have one. It completely disrupts their understanding of the world. For some, it’s as if the entire planet has shifted on its axis, and the apocalypse is near.

What makes it even better is I’m not lying when I say this.

I have no favorite number, and I have no favorite color. I tell the kids that my preferences are based on context.

Am I playing blackjack? Then my favorite number is 21.

Am I eating hotdogs? In that case, one is just right. Two is fantastic but later filled with regret.

Am I playing golf? Then it’s the number equal to par on any hole.

Are we talking about salary? If so, my favorite number is the largest number available.

It all depends on the situation.

The same goes for colors.

If I’m about to step into a lake, blue is my favorite color.

If I’m choosing a color for my wife to wear, white is best.

If we’re talking about my front lawn, I prefer green.

If I’m looking for something to wear, I usually choose black for its simplicity.

But say this to a class of elementary school students and watch many of them lose their minds. They will argue, complain, whine, plead, and insist I choose one.

A student once wrote a three-page essay on why I should have a favorite color.

But I hold firm on my lack of preference, both because it’s true and annoys children to death. For some reason, children see my lack of a favorite color or number as a violation of the space-time continuum. A contravention of the laws of physics. A breach of the moral code. A transgression of basic human decency.

Often, it’s rage-inducing.

Also hilarious to watch.

NPR’s Robert Krulwich wrote about a mathematician’s project to collect the favorite numbers of people from around the world. His post includes some of the more interesting reasons why participants in the survey have chosen their favorite number.

And just for the record, that mathematician’s original survey included an option indicating “No favorite number,” so I’m not alone in my lack of preference. Apparently, there are enough of us to warrant an option on his survey.

A little bit goes a long, long way

On a flight to Washington, DC, earlier this summer, Clara, who talks to everyone, mentioned to the flight attendant as we were boarding that Charlie loves aviation and hopes to be a pilot someday.

Less than a minute later, Charlie was sitting in the copilot’s seat, talking to the pilot.

A month later, during our West Coast trip, Clara made the same announcement to another flight attendant, and once again, Charlie found himself in the cockpit. By the time we had returned home, Charlie had spent time in a total of three cockpits, including a chance to sit in the pilot’s seat and assist with a pre-flight task.

It’s not often that you take your child to our nation’s capital and cross country, and one of the highlights is a few moments in our method of transport.

Many thanks to the pilots, co-pilots, and flight attendants who took a few moments to make a boy’s dream come true.

It was a great example of how small efforts – nearly inconsequential efforts – can make a customer very happy and create a story for them to tell again and again.

Thank you, Delta Airlines and Alaskan Airlines, for making memories for Charlie that will last a lifetime.

Pirate Booty follow up

Follow-up on the letter I received from customer representative Dora C. on the Pirate Booty quandary.

If you’re not aware, I wrote to the makers of Pirate Booty earlier this year asking if the name “Pirate Booty” references the pirate’s treasure or the pirate’s butt. I’d been posing this question to my students relentlessly over the years, so to silence me, we finally wrote a letter to the company asking for clarification.

The company responded a few weeks ago, telling me the booty refers to the pirate’s treasure. I mailed a copy of that letter and one of my own to my former students since I was sure they were on the edge of their seats, just waiting for a response.

A few of them sent emails to me upon receiving my letter:
___________________________

Dear Mr. Dicks,

I am thoroughly disappointed about the Pirates Booty being the pirates’ treasure.I just don’t think the company should make the shapes into tiny butts and then innocently say they’re referring to pirates’ treasure.Sincerely,Your favorite student___________________________

Dear. Mr. Dicks,

Thank you for the amazing letter and the follow-up letter. I don’t agree with Hershey’s. I think that they refer to the pirate’s butt.

Your Former Student___________________________

Mr. Dicks,

This is an outrage. We must do something. We must stand up for those little pirate butts. Those butts deserve respect.

Let’s rise up.

___________________________

Dear Mr. Dicks,

I told you the booty was the treasure. Will you stop asking this crazy question now? Please?

I miss you, but I don’t miss the booty stuff, you crazy man.

Is it okay if I visit you next week?

___________________________

Two students are writing back to the Hershey Company to protest this outrageous decision. I’m unsure if they will receive a response, but I will be on the edge of my seat, waiting to hear.

At least it was memorable

A couple of years ago, I was playing golf with friends in Bermuda. We were standing in an elevated tee box, Atlantic Ocean to our left, condominiums to our right, and a large fairway down below.

After my friends hit their typically impressive tee shots, it was my turn. I stood over the ball, visualized the ideal tee shot, and swung.

The ball went up and to the right, slicing hard and hitting the side of the condo complex with a loud thwap.

I was surprised. I have many ways to hit a golf ball poorly, and I do so quite often, but a slice is rarely my problem.

My friends chuckled, as did I. Then I placed a second ball atop the tee and swung again.

Same result. Thwap!

Now I was annoyed. One of my friends suggested I take a drop on the fairway below and spare the homeowners another surprise. I refused. The rules of golf dictate that I hit the ball from the tee, so that was what I would do. But because I was frustrated and looking for some positive mojo, I switched from my typical white Calloway ball to a black ball that a client had gifted me a couple of months before this moment.

I’d never hit a black ball before, so perhaps it would offer me better luck.

I swung again. Thwap!

And again. Thwap!

Keep in mind that I had an enormous fairway and an entire ocean where I could potentially land my ball, but instead, for four straight shots, I had managed to hit the side of a condominium complex, slicing the ball in a way I rarely do.

My friends pleaded with me to take a drop. I refused and hit another ball.

Thwap!

Then another. Thwap!

Then another. Thwap!

The condo residents were either not home or hiding under their beds by now, convinced that the island was under attack.

Again, my friends pleaded with me to stop this insanity. Again, I refused.

I teed up another ball – the eighth so far – and swung. The ball flew straight and true, landing on the center of the fairway, far below. An excellent tee shot by my standards.

I was lying 16, about to hit a three-wood on the fairway for 17, but I had done it. And I had followed the rules of golf in doing so.

Why do I mention this?

A few weeks ago, one of my friends was teasing me about this moment, telling his friend about my disastrous series of tee shots in Bermuda. They laughed, of course, as did I, but I also pointed out that we played golf for three days in Bermuda—a total of 63 holes.

“How many of those holes do you recall with any specificity?” I asked. “How many of those 63 holes do you actually remember playing?”

I can recall more than a dozen of them with specificity today, but mainly because:

I misplayed them in some spectacular way.The view from the tee box was astounding.A conversation I had with my friends while playing the hole remains with me.The hole was designed in an interesting and unique way.

I probably remember more of those holes than my friends because that is my nature. I have a memory for my life that tends to be more robust than most.

My sister enjoys the same ability. Perhaps even more than me.

But the hole my friend remembered best was the one where I hit seven consecutive balls – five of them black – into a condominium complex.

Never shy away from your most embarrassing moments. Embrace your shameful experiences. Share those than-than-ideal experiences with the world. They are the moments that people love to hear about, and they are the ones people remember best.

They are the ones you will remember best.

There is a saying in storytelling:

You have a good time, or you have a good story.

Sometimes you have both.

Cruelty is kindness

I did not attend the Patriots home opener on Sunday. It was the first home opener I missed in two decades.

Instead, I was officiating the wedding of the daughter of a friend. It was an honor and a privilege to be asked to do something as important as marrying a couple, but admittedly, I was sad about missing my Patriots take the field for the first time in 2023.

Adding to the pain was Tom Brady’s return to Gillette Stadium for a special halftime celebration of his career.

The text messages began arriving sometime after noon, more than three hours before kickoff, from my friends and tailgate buddies. They were already in the parking lot outside the stadium, gathered for our traditional pregame festivities.

First came the photos of the tailgate party, featuring friends and food, followed by messages like:

“10 person tailgate!”

“Ohhhhh, dessert, dessert.”

“Miss a home opener? Shaun’s son is here on his anniversary!”

In the midst of the game, following an excellent play by the Patriots:

“Almost as good as our five cheese mac & cheese with pulled pork and slaw. But I digress.”

Lots of attempts to make me feel wrong, foolish, and disappointed about missing this important game.

Here’s the thing:

I was so happy to receive their text message. So pleased by their cruelty.

I would’ve done exactly the same thing.

As mean-spirited as these messages and photos were, I knew I wasn’t forgotten. I knew I was, at least to some small degree, missed. While they ate delicious food, watched football on a September afternoon, and spent time enjoying one another’s company, they also, for a moment, were thinking about me.

Yes, their comments were cruel, but their cruelty was also appreciated. Had they sent me messages like:

“Thinking about you today, buddy. Really wish you were here.”

“So proud of you for putting your desires aside and choosing to be a good friend.”

“Miss you, Matty. We really, really do.”

… I might’ve called the state police in fear that the gas on their outdoor grill was leaking into their Easy-Up and poisoning them.

I’m sure some people communicate with kindness, and in rare moments of need, my friends and I might opt to be a little more sentimental, but most of the time, a stinging barb, a well-timed insult, or a forceful rebuke is preferred.

Cruelty is kindness. It lets me know that they care. As they celebrated the opening to another Patriots football season without me on Sunday, they let me know I wasn’t forgotten.