Nobody Wants to Hear This Shit

My wife and I spent a few days at the beach—we stayed with my cousins—and while I couldn't play pickleball with my brother because of my knee, just about everything else was lovely: an east wind blowing off the ocean; cornhole and beers on the beach; a brand new cousin, little baby Emerson; geocaching success with Kim and my wife in Strathmere; Bananagrams with my mom; good food at La Finestra and Johnny Cutlets and Phil's Famous Pizzeria (who knew they had the best cheesesteak around? my cousin Kim, that's who) and on the homefront (my wife's homemade meatballs) and our children did a good job taking care of the house and the dog (they even took out the garbage) but nobody wants to hear about this kind of shit, how great it was at the beach, how nice it was on vacation, so I'll skip to the mishaps and controversy, which were rather minor:

1) after taking a nap, my wife slipped and fell on the concrete steps walking to the beach and scraped up her knees and hands (but actually escaped without much damage, considering)

2) the house my cousin Jeff rented, which is on the beach, is quite fantastic except for one complaint . . . and this complaint was only from the ladies, who took offense—but I thought it was kind of endearing . . . the owner of the house went nuts with his label maker and labelled EVERYTHING; like I said, the women found this overbearing, but I liked it, I never know where anything goes or how anything works . . . I've provided photographic evidence to do the labeling justice . . . and I love the the owner requests on the glasses shelf "If It Breaks, Please Replace" and that he labeled a large clam shell with the address number.

Dave's Not Here Man

I'm currently at the beach, but I asked DeepSeek to read my blog and provide you folks with a sentence in the same style as Dave, and the AI determined that my style is "verbose, meandering, self-deprecating, and slightly absurd" and produced this:  

I have, after a period of what I can only describe as existential lethargy—a condition not unlike the feeling of having one's soul slowly drained by the relentless, beige-colored hum of a malfunctioning refrigerator—finally arrived at the conclusion that my latest, and perhaps most ersatz, theory regarding the universe is that it is not, in fact, expanding, but rather that we are all just slowly shrinking in direct proportion to the ever-increasing number of awkward moments we accumulate over a lifetime, a proposition which I will now proceed to support with a series of half-baked anecdotes and a misuse of the word "miracle".

There's No Basement at the Alamo, and There's No Water Closet Inside the Trojan Horse

My wife and I saw the Rutgers Cinema matinee showing of The Odyssey—five bucks! --But apparently we should have sprung to see it in IMAX . . . regardless, the movie is very entertaining, looks beautiful, and it is truly epic in length—but I am proud to say I made it all three hours without getting up to pee (but my knee really stiffened up), and while there are some significant differences between the film and Homer's epic poem, most of the classic signposts occur—but there are some modern touches: Penelope espouses some feminist convictions; the gods are less physically present, and there's more about regret and trauma; Odysseus is less of a trickster and more of a damaged action hero; there are some digs about how civilization has lost its way; the Trojan Horse ruse is grimly illustrated from the inside of the horse; and some of the bewitched romance between Odysseus and Circe and Odysseus and Calypso is revised . . . in other words, this cinematic Odysseus has a lot less fun than the protagonist of the poem . . . but Travis Scott, as an entertaining bard recounting the tale, makes up for this as he pounds the floor in dactylic hexameter.

Keysourcing

Call to action: we all need to put our heads together and remember where I put the spare key to my Kia.

Dave's Left Knee . . . Won the Battle But Lost the War

I did NOT sleep well last night: yesterday, I went for a bike ride in the morning, down the towpath next to the Raritan-- but after a few miles, the trail was washed out, muddy, rutted, and full of puddles . . . so I turned back, went home, and iced my sore knee-- and then I went to acupuncture and my knee was feeling good (perhaps because of the dry weather) and so I went to play some pickleball at Buccleuh Park-- perfect weather so we had a big group, over a dozen players, and though I was determined to take it easy and not strain my left knee-- last Monday I got a cortisone shot, which seems to have done absolutely nothing-- so I was limping around to some extent, but my friend Ann and I got into one of those endless matches against two very good players (Kevin and Jim) where you get so focused that you forget you're injured-- and thirty minutes later, we ended up winning, 12 to 10 . . . fantastic, but at what cost? at what cost? my knee stiffened up, and despite ingesting and smoking a fair amount of THC, my knee still hurt all night. I was rolling around, trying to find a comfortable position-- I got up at 2 AM and went downstairs and took some Advil and iced, and I think I fell asleep for a bit, but it looks like I'm going to need the HA gel shots in my left knee as well, so I'm trying to get that scheduled, but it seems I won't be playing any pickleball or basketball any time soon.

Let Us Reflect Upon How Menacing These Big Dumb Cups Are

My high school students, my wife, and-- according to this SNL Skit-- a large portion of the female populace (i.e. pretty ladies who drive massive cars; women between the ages of 12 and 70; women who visit Target on the daily; women who are "physically, or at least spiritually, blond") possess Big Dumb Cups—and any time I see these things in the wild (unless they are in a car cupholder) I complain about their size, their top-heaviness, the danger of them tipping over, and their general absurdity . . . they are menacing; the other day, my wife's Big Dumb Cup was on the counter by the sink, and it tipped and FELL into a sink full of fragile dishes and glasses—those are real photos, not a reenactment! --and while we were lucky that the Big Dumb Cup didn't land directly on a pint glass and shatter it, it could have; it certainly could have . . . and I don't know what to do about this trend, as my wife and my students LOVE their Big Dumb Cups more than I've ever loved a cup— so there's no separating these people from their Big Dumb Cups, but if you know someone who owns one of these things, you should at least make them suffer through the SNL skit (which isn't very good, honestly, but it might make these people reflect on just how big and how dumb these cups really are).

Dave Has Three Different Thoughts in Less Than a Second

I've been going to the gym often to ride the bike and use the elliptical machine because I just got a cortisone shot in my knee, and I'm trying to do low-impact exercise—yesterday, when I started pedaling, I looked over to my right and had three thoughts in quick succession:

1) there's a leak in the ceiling!

then I noticed the guy on the elliptical, striding above this puddle: he was a skinny youngish guy, wearing a ski hat and a long-sleeved shirt . . . and this was his SWEAT . . . and I felt kind of lame, as I was pedaling rather slowly, while I contemplated the Midi crossword—so my second thought was:

2) I really need to work out harder . . .

but then I came to my senses, and my brain issued a final judgment on this situation:

3) this guy needs to take it outside . . . this is disgusting.

It's Never Ugly in Princeton (Even When the Air Quality is Awful)

Yesterday, we took the train from what has to be one of the filthiest, smelliest, most dilapidated train stations in New Jersey: New Brunswick . . . the passages between tracks are often closed, the station houses a number of drug-addled street folk, and there's the ever-present smell of urine and feces; the dark warren of grubby shops is rather pathetic, there's a gross Dunkin' and a little flower and plant store (which our friend owns and runs; she finally had to call the cops because there's so much drug dealing and drug use right in front of her shop) and the railing all the way up the stairs to the southbound track is rusted, jagged, and coming out of the concrete—and New Brunswick Station is even more of an eyesore now that the multi-billion dollar HELIX (Health and Life Science Exchange) complex is nearly finished, as it's located directly across the street—but if you take a 17 minute train ride south, to Princeton Junction and then ride the two-car "Dinky" train for five minutes (2.7 miles) into Princeton proper—as we did yesterday—then it's like you've left New Jersey and gone to to a different country . . . the train station is beautiful and immaculate; you walk up a set of modernist stairs and past an enormous outdoor sculpture installation featuring 12 massive bronze animal heads that represent the signs of the Chinese zodiac-- and then we stopped at one of the best small plate and fancy drink places in the universe:The Dinky Bar and Kitchen-- which is in the old train restored station . . . we had espresso martinis and bao buns-- and then we wandered through the Gothic stone buildings on campus (some of which are hundreds of years old) and we then wandered over to the Princeton University Art Museum-- which is a Manhattan quality museum plopped down right in the middle of campus, and totally free-- and we saw the recent new exhibit, the mesmerizing and layered abstract canvases of Willem de Kooning-- plus loads of other stuff (which only represents five percent of the museum's holdings) and then I got some expensive sorbet at The Bent Spoon while my wife went to the consignment shop and then we met a bunch of friends at Triumph Brewery to listen to jazz and drink great beer in what might be the nicest bar in New Jersey (it took seven years to renovate the old post Office in Palmer Square into this space) and then we were lucky enough to catch a ride home-- Cat and I are the only people that regularly take the train to Princeton, I'm not sure why-- but everyone else drove-- and the next thing we knew, we were in South Brunswick, the North Brunswick, the New Brunswick, then Highland Park . . . and all that Laura Ashley preppy style was long gone and we were back in the Jerzee we all love and know.

It Is STILL Ugly Out There!

Despite the sunshine, the air quality in Central Jersey is WORSE than yesterday—due to the Canadian wildfires . . . fucking Canadians, smoking their cigarettes, lighting their fireworks and leaving campfires unattended . . . there's also plenty of dry vegetation due to global warming, so lightning strikes are also culpable, but it's more fun to blame actual Canadians rather than static electricity—but my wife and children did not believe my air quality report—my wife played pickleball this morning, outside (with a stye in her eye, probably caused by all the smog and smoke) and my son was going to play basketball outdoors, until I persuaded him not to . . . but hopefully tomorrow's rain clears the air (and we just cleared our gutters, so we are prepared) and I have never been rooting so hard for a rainy day.

It's Ugly Out There!

While I know I should be appreciative of the fact that I am alive and healthy and the little things are the big things and good friends and family and meat on the table and all that bullshit, I'd instead like to take a moment and point out some of the ugliness I ran into today:

1) while driving my dog to the vet so they could collect a clean urine sample, I saw the world's dirtiest unicorn, hanging from the back of a trailer—it was so ugly I snapped a photo of it;

2) the photo of the world's dirtiest unicorn looks even filthier and grittier because the air in New Jersey today is quite ugly and smoggyy (due to Canadian wildfires)

3) while I was at the vet, waiting to pay for Lola's urine analysis, I heard some ugly, mournful wailing behind a door, which I surmised was a woman who just put her dog down . . . brutal to hear this, haunting—and made me remember this awful day;

4) and finally, an ugly ray of hope: I purchased something that looks ugly and has an ugly moniker, but despite the ugliness, achieves its purpose: the poetically named "Bike Trailer Hitch for Wagon Camping Rolling Cart Collapsible Wagon with 360° Swivel Joint & Shock Absorber, Quick-Release Clamps for Folding Wagons, Pet Carts & Garden Trailers" was an impulse Amazon purchase, a contraption I hoped would make hauling our beach wagon the five blocks to the beach quick and easy, and I hooked the thing up to my bike and our wagon today, and it works! 

Tacos Todo Los Días . . . Fifteen Years Later and Still Delicious

We had Mexican fare for Alex's graduation party, and there was TONS of extra food, so I've eaten various tacos-- al pastor, barbacoa, ground turkey, blackened chicken-- with the leftover rice and beans for every meal since then; so a few tacos on Saturday and then six tacos a day since then-- 24 tacos or so?-- but, alas, it's finally over . . . Alex finally finished the last bit of turkey taco meat for lunch today, so I'm finally going to eat something different-- and it's hard to believe it's been fifteen years since my infamous Taco Count! . . . I feel like the internet has fueled much grosser kinds of eating since then, mukbang videos and competitive eating contests and ASMR chewing . . . 200 tacos in one year seems like something from more innocent times.

Reading, Icing, Rinsing, Repeating . . .

I am still laid up and moving slowly today-- waiting for the cortisone shot to work its anti-inflammatory magic on my left knee-- I went for some x-rays this morning to make sure it isn't anything more than arthritis (and the x-rays were quite taxing, I had to lie on a cold metal bed and twist my leg this way and that way-- then the machine got finicky and they had to take a few shots over again, then I had to sit-up, holding the digital sensor board behind my knee, and freeze in that pose) and I've recently finished two novels, quite opposte in tone: The Keeper by Tana French, the third in the Ardnakelty trilogy, is dark and claustrophobic and insular, a Chicago cop retires to what seems to be an idyllic pastoral Irish village but then he learns that the town and its inhabitants have been entangled with the land and each other for centuries and you shouldd not mess with the locals . . . and by the third book, Cal Hooper has nearly become a local and he really gets involved in the town, a mysterious suicide, a woman, a once feral child, and the baroque relationships, hiearchies, and gossip mill that fuel much animosity and loyalty-- it's the usual Tana French, masterful, brooding, smart, and evocative . . . and then for something completely different, I read Volume 1 of The Unselected Journals of Emma M. Lion by Beth Brower, which can only be described as witty, delightful, and faux-Victorian-- it's mildly historical fiction (with lots of Shakespeare references) from the point-of-view of Emma Lion, once an upper-middle-class Victorian woman, but now thrown into difficult financial straits by her annoying fop of a cousin Archibald, who has spent much of her inheritance before she could manage it . . . it seems Emma will have to navigate all sorts of social and fiscal quandaries in her london milieu, but she'll do it with verve and aplomb and plenty of witty repartee and banter-- I'll certainly read a few more of these to take my mind off my knee.

Dave's Not a Doctor . . . and He Could Never Play One on TV

I survived my visit to the sports doctor (Dr. Navia) and my prediction was half correct: after some poking, probing, and prodding, she decided to give me a cortisone shot but said there was NOT enough fluid to warrant draining the knee (hooray!) and I'm getting some x-rays tomorrow and going for a follow-up in September, to see if I need the hyaluronic acid shots—but for now, I need to ice and rest, and hopefully the cortisone will do the trick (and I could never play a doctor on TV because I couldn't even look at the tray with the needles on it, let alone the actual needle going into my knee—this is why I don't watch The Pitt . . and I was already stressed out by the time Dr. Nadia got to me because I was reading the end of the excellent new Tana French novel, The Keeper—book three in the Ardnakelty trilogy—and some bad, rather visceral medical shit was going down . . . next time I go to the doctor, I'll be sure to read something lighter while I wait).

To the Left, To the Left . . . Stupid Shuffle

The good news: my right knee, after a series of hyaluronic acid shots, is feeling excellent—less popping, no pain, and better flexibility . . . but now arthritis has flared up in my left knee, which was my good knee (but is now my bad knee), and I'm headed to Dr. Navia tomorrow to see what's up . . . I'm guessing it will need to be drained, and she'll give me a cortisone shot—I've never gotten one in my left knee, and the first time I got a cortisone shot in my right knee, it didn't hurt for a year—but one of the main things to remember when you're reading this blog is that I AM NOT A DOCTOR . . . I'm constantly telling my wife, my students, and my children this fact . . . I am quick to give medical advice, and I certainly know how to Google various symptoms and ailments, but this is (probably) not a credible alternative to a medical degree, and so I will report back tomorrow and judge the accuracy of my diagnosis.

No More Tuition Payments!

I was helping my wife with so much party prep—for Alex's graduation party—that I forgot to write a sentence . . . the party was a great success; we had an obscene amount of food; the weather held up; for the first time in a long time, ping-pong was played int he driveway; my British friend Ashley nearly had an aneurysm during the England/Norway World Cup match (and I kept my rooting for Norway to a minimum so as not to upset him . . . but I was hoping that my ten dollar bet on Norway to win it all would pay out . . . no such luck) and the kids helped with the set-up and clean-up, so our house is back to normal now, sort of (we have a lot of leftover Mexican food, and we have to return a bunch of chairs and tables to friends).

Alas Poor Yorick, Alas Poor Ophelia, Alas . . . Alexander the Great is Stopping a Bunghole?

 

I truly and sincerely believed I was going to complete my podcast series about Hamlet with this episode, but this play, which has a mind of its own, was not having it—there's just so much to cover in scene 5.1—and so, like the play itself, my podcast will not end; it is stuck in a loop of indecision and deliberation and contemplation . . . but next episode, I promise, things will be resolved (and it's going to be tragic . . . but also I will also be quite relieved when everyone dies).

Two Things I'll Never Do Again (Because I Like Jazzier Numbers)

Last night I saw Joe Jackson at the State Theater (my wife and a few friends are fans) and this morning I finished John Steinbeck's sprawling novel East of Eden, and while I am glad to have done both these things, I'm not revisiting either—the classic Joe Jackson songs ("Is She Really Going Out With Him?" and "Sunday Papers" and "Steppin' Out") have too many words for my taste; I'm not a huge fan of dense singer-songwriter lyricism, nor am I a fan of easy-listening punk rock—I prefer obtuse abstractions sprinkled in amongst music with syncopated timbre (e.g. The Breeders' song "Cannonball" . . . I'll be your whatever you want/The bong in this reggae song) and I have the same complaint about Steinbeck's East of Eden . . . it's a compelling (but ultimately and very consistently) tragic multi-generational saga that is just so fucking long that, while I am glad I read it, I am also very glad that I am finished—it's a bit heavy-handed with Biblical imagery and symbolism . . . but I did enjoy Joe Jackson's newer, jazzier numbers—the songs where he let his incredible band (a fantastic drummer and a fantastic percussionist!) step out and really play and he interspersed some of his trademark lyrics here and there, and I also like John Steinbeck's looser, jazzier books: Cannery Row, which is more a sequence of entertaining and fragmented vignettes and anecdotes of the colorful characters that work at the labs and processing plants and sardine factories in Monterey, California—or Travels with Charley, a non-fiction travelogue wherein Steinbeck drives ten thousand miles with his pet poodle in a modified GMC pick-up camper (named Rocinante) and so the moral here is sometimes it's nice when artists leave things out and let the theme emerge (or not) instead of beating you over the head with it for 640 pages.

Doing Things Right is Exhausting . . .

 

I installed three strands of string lights in my backyard today—my old string lights frayed and fell apart, most likely because I didn't install them properly: I haphazardly draped them and twisted them and nailed them and screwed them and stapled them to whatever surface was available—but this time I bought the highly rated, heavy-duty Feit LED string lights from Costco (quite affordable if you buy three 48-foot strands) and I installed them by the book, with C-cup hook screws—which was tedious and tiring (and my right forearm was a bit sore at pickleball, from all the screwing) but I think these lights will last longer than the last batch (and, once I got done, I went batshit crazy and ordered three more strands, and I'm going to install a guide wire across the back of my yard, from tree to tree, and light up a long stretch high in the leafy canopy . . . why? because the internet told me to . . . and this should be good for late night cornhole).

MTV Cribs: Gecko Edition

My son Ian just upgraded his lizard tank, and it looks great—honestly, I'm amazed that the little guy is still alive . . . Bossk is at least nine years old, and he seems to be in good health (although, full disclosure, I am not a herpetologist, so how the fuck would I know?) and with proper care, Google says that a crested gecko can live fifteen to twenty years—so plenty of time for him to enjoy his new digs.

Minor Epiphanies . . . Major Stupidity?

A few minor thoughts that sprang into my head of late . . . half-baked, mishappen, and of no significance whatsoever:

1) I was in the gym locker room, struggling through the hardest part of my workout—changing from my workout clothes into a bathing suit and organizing all the gear—the goggles and earplugs and suit and towel and sandals, taking off my socks (always a struggle) and figuring out where to put everything while I changed, and then I realized a simple solution to one of the things . . . instead of placing my open lock down amidst all the other junk, where I tend to lose it, I could just hang it on the hasp of another locker—one that I wasn't using, and then pull it off and snap it shut on my locker once I was done changing . . . it's a game changer! and it only took thirty-five years for me to figure out this method;

2) lately I've noticed a lot of fat people (of all ages) riding electric bikes in Donaldson Park . . . and while part of me is thinking "maybe you should pedal a bit," there's another part of me that realizes these things are a game changer for people who couldn't (or wouldn't) have the power and stamina to propel themselves on a traditional bike, so (pun intended) more power to them;

3) this morning at 4:39 AM, when the dog's coughing fit awoke me, I realized that I had never thought about exactly how the TV Guide worked . . . the guide knew, IN ADVANCE, all the shows that would be on for the coming week—for all the various localities in the United States . . . I always took this for granted, but apparently the country was divided up into 100 regions, and these regions had to constantly communicate with TV Guide . . . by phone, fax, and mail—to make those schedules accurate . . . it kind of miraculous, and I really never thought about it . . . and this minor epiphany is going to lead to some major thoughts about the modern world . . . I grew up in a time when a little magazine knew in advance all there was to watch—for the most part—but now, no one knows what's out there because there are billions of hours of content and no guidebook, no way to navigate it all, aside from opaque algorithms and people you trust . . . anyway, feel free to take any of these ideas and run with them, I'm going to play pickleball (I had a minor epiphany about my backhand grip at the kitchen the other day-- knuckles first, knuckles first).