We drove home from the beach today-- and on the way back we picked up Lola from the Barker Lounge-- and everyone was so tired from all the skimboarding, surfing, boogie-boarding, basketball, tennis, pickleball, frisbeer, cornhole, packing, unpacking, lugging of beach equipment to and fro, etc. etc. that most everyone in the house (including a very tired dog) took multiple naps (and Catherine was excited that a cashier complimented her on her tan).
The End of an Era . . .
Our favorite dive bar in Sea Isle, the Springfield, is no longer-- it's now an outdoor tiki bar-- and so our favorite cover band-- LeCompt-- now plays at The Oar House; we went over there Sunday night and while Catherine and I escaped the ten dollar cover charge because we arrived early-- we did not escape the crowds and the insanity; the place with jammed with very young people and the girls were all wearing halter-tops and no bra-- that is the look, whether your boobs support themselves or not-- and while it cleared out a bit between bands and a few older people wandered in, it was mainly a mass of young people; Cat and I snagged a spot at the bar, with my brother and Amy, but most of the cousins beat a hasty retreat when they saw the scene-- we could barely see the band from the bar-- we never realized what a great set-up the Springfield had (the band played inside the horseshoe shaped bar, elevated-- so everyone could see and it was in the round) and while Catherine did mosh her way to the front once, she said it was very gross and sweaty and she touched a lot of braless boobs (which of of wildly varying quality) and there were no dive bar drink specials-- a Bud Light was six bucks instead of two-- and for the first set, LeCompt just played the hits-- when we talked to him outside, after he overshared about his narcotic and alcohol recovery he told us he'd be playing the good stuff on Monday, outside, but that he had to play songs "for the kids" at this kind of show-- so that's it for the Springfield and the weird LeCompt shows where he would play all songs about rain (because it was raining) or all Who songs or just take requests written on napkins-- and while they sounded fine, it was more like hearing a good band in the distance-- we all decided we would not be back to see him there . . . but we'll find some other venue where the band can screw around more, but, sad to say, there was nothing like the Springfield and there may not be anything like it ever again.
Once Upon a Times
CHAOS: Charles Manson, the CIA, and the Secret History of the Sixties is Tom O'Neill's twenty year investigation of the Manson murders and while it is a stupendous work of reporting and obsession (and O'Neill is the main character, not Manson or the sixties) the book is in the end, unsatisfying because O'Neill does such a good job of connecting the dots when he can and avoiding conspiracy theories when he can't-- but you will be certain at the end of the book that the "Helter Skelter" motivation of the murders is a gross oversimplification or perhaps a cover-up of something much more sinister; meanwhile, Once Upon a Time in Hollywood, Quentin Tarantino's alternate history of the Manson murder timeline is as satisfying as Chaos is unsatisfying-- this is Tarantino's favorite trick, which he uses in both Django Unchained and Inglorious Bastards-- let's write history the way it should be, with the indignant rage and ultra-violence directed towards justice and new, better outcome; I recommend taking in both perspectives and remembering that we are just living in one particular timeline (and hopefully, it's not the darkest timeline).
In The Dark
When Darkness Loves Us by Elizabeth Engstrom contains two weird novellas; in both stories, small-town life becomes even smaller-- the stories are macabre, full of plot holes, possibly allegorical, and oddly compelling-- and they will really stretch your empathy muscles and let you see from two very unique and very strange female perspectives-- a tunnel dwelling troglodyte of a mom and a lonely, dimwitted, traumatized old woman without a nose . . . and according to George R.R. Martin, this is the point of fiction: “A reader lives a thousand lives before he dies . . . the man who never reads lives only one.”
OBFT XXVIII
The 28th annual Outer Banks Fishing Trip was yet again a great success, here are some things I remember:
1) Gormley and I crushed everyone at cornhole but the field was weak-- the lack of Jerry, Marston, and Old made a decided difference;
2) once Bruce and I made a plan, we took all comers at Frisbeer;
3) Bruce collected change for sixteen years in order to save money to buy a car for his kids to use-- and he did it-- but he won't let his kids use the car that he bought;
4) in a strange Tortuga's bar over/under we learned that nearly half of those present had "stolen corn" . . . from a cornfield;
5) I had a good time trying to keep up with Baldwin on his dobro style guitar . . . in the background I could hear Rob and Coby arguing politics;
6) the water was lovely and cool, the sand was hot, hot, hot;
7) we set up two canopies and had lots of beach time, despite the hot western wind, which picks up every day in the afternoon, according to Bruce (and empirical observation)
8) we mainly drank Guinness, Red Stripe, Truly, Pacifico, and peachie-weechies;
9) Ethan proffered much knowledge on environmental issues in Florida;
10) we played QB54 and Bruce didn't like it;
11) Charlie cooked up a storm of seared tuna and shrimp;
12) we were shushed at the bar at Tortuga's by some youngish bartender;
13) jokes were told, but they are not to be repeated;
14) Swaney fell down the steps to the shower, but didn't break his hip-- just suffered a few scrapes;
15) a good time was had by all, thanks again for hosting Whit, job well done!
Knee Stuff
I went to the knee doctor (Dr. Kinshasas Morton . . . who I also visited ten years ago!) but this time it was for my right knee and it seems I have "patellofemoral pain syndrome/chondromalacia patella," which isn't so bad-- it means my kneecap goes out of the groove and occasionally rubs against the bone on the outside of my knee-- so I have to do some exercises and wear a sleeve knee brace-- which has worked wonders . . . and I went to the gym today and ran an 8-minute mile on the treadmill-- which at my age is some indicator of heart health, and while I worked up a sweat doing it, it wasn't all that bad and my knee held up without any pain, so while I might not have the bee's knees, I at least have ant knees or some slightly lesser insect's knees.
What Are the Chances? Fuhgetaboutit . . .
I wish I was holed up in a taverna in Italy today-- how often does a nation have finalists in Wimbledon and the Euro Cup . . . on the same day?
Somebody Had to Write It
Though it's weird, trippy, and evocative-- with Vietnam flashbacks and spooky black magic in equal measure-- Herman Raucher's novel Maynard's House mainly explores this conceit:
what if Thoreau went to the woods to live deliberately, but his house was haunted by evil succubi and witchery?
Poker, I Don't Even Know Her . . .
My son Alex and I both read Maria Konnikova's The Biggest Bluff-- and it inspired us to play some poker-- her story is compelling and inspirational, as she goes from not knowing how many cards are in the deck to competing on the world circuit (in a year's time) but be warned-- she's very very smart and has a world class coach (Eric Seidel) and so while her lessons are universal-- the subtitle of the book is "How I Learned to Pay Attention, Master Myself, and Win"-- and she also has some specific tips about playing poker-- her main metaphor is to be a good poker player you've got to simultaneously be a detective and a storyteller-- BUT if you really want to know what it takes to succeed on the poker tour you've got to get real and read Phil Gordon's Little Gold Book : Advanced Lessons for Mastering Poker 2. 0 and this will lend a dose of reality to your dreams of becoming a pro-- range vs. range, combinatorics, variance, bankrolls, pot odds, PioSOLVER and HUDS, Game Theory Optimal, etcetera . . . poker competition is fierce and the fish are scarce now-- which makes Konnikova's story all the more impressive.
An Epic Hike and an Epic Ride to End an Epic Trip . . . But It Had to be the Shoes
It rained some on Sunday, but we were able to take a nice hike with the dog along the old narrow-gauge railroad tracks in Sullivan . . .
and then our last full day down east was a beauty-- 46 degrees in the early morning, slowly rising to a high of 71-- so we got up early and headed back to Acadia for one last epic and precarious hike-- the Dorr Mountain Ladder Trail . . . I highly recommend this hike but get there early, as the roadside parking fills up by ten AM; the hike was made even more precarious because of the heavy rain the night before-- we were essentially hiking up a waterfall of stone stairs-- so you really had to watch your step, but it was worth it, for the views and the interesting terrain . . .
the trail was built from 1913 to 1916 and it's a feat of mountainside engineering-- it may be one of the best hikes in the world, in terms of bang for your buck, views, instant gratification, and lack of tedium;
every turn is something new and interesting;
and you get up really high in a fast fashion
and there are blueberries at the top of Dorr Mountain
coming down wasn't quite as treacherous, but there were still some slippery sections
but it was obviously worth it-- this hike is far less crowded and far more shaded than the Beehive and offers even better vistas;
after the hike, we went to the quaint and uncrowded town of Ellsworth and had delicious burritos at 86 This . . . definitely quieter and cheaper than Bar Harbor, and then we headed back to the place for some final round of cornhole, some final soaks in the hot tub, and the big pack up so that we could get started at 6 AM on Tuesday morning . . . and everyone did a fantastic job packing up and we actually got driving at 6:16 AM on Tuesday morning-- so we'd be home in time to watch Italy play Spain, but best-laid plans, an hour-and-a-half down the road, Catherine yelled "the shoe bags!" and we all realized that we had left all our footwear hanging behind the door of the place-- and it was a LOT of footwear: running shoes and tennis shoes and hiking boots and sandals-- a few hundred dollars worth of shoes-- just enough that we had to turn around and drive back, perhaps adding three hours to our 8-hour drive . . . so we drove back, Lola got out, confused, and peed, and we got the shoes and piled back in-- but we didn't realize that now we would be headed into the teeth of Connecticut and NYC traffic AND a monster thunderstorm . . . so after several Joe Rogan podcasts (and an interesting story about Chippendale's called Welcome to Your Fantasy) we arrived home at 7:45 PM . . . over thirteen hours in the car-- Lola was a hero-- she never threw up or whined, and Catherine did a great job driving through the storm on our way to the George Washington bridge-- there was lots of flying garbage!-- and it was an epic end to an epic trip . . . perhaps one of our last true fmaily only vacations, as the kids are getting older and now have to start summer employment and all that-- and as a final treat, Italy beat Spain in PKs . . . and I never learned the score so I was able to watch the game and pretend we made it home at the right time.
The Auctioneer: A Good Book for Independence Day
The Auctioneer was a brief bestseller in1975 and then promptly forgotten-- perhaps because the youngish author, Joan Samson, soon after died of cancer-- but it's been reissued (with a Grady Hendrix intro) and it's more appropriate than ever; it's about Harlowe-- a small town in New Hampshire experiencing change-- there was a back-to-the - movement in the 60s and 70s that brought new people and culture to rural America, city slickers . . . and the city slicker in this novel is a menacing, Trump-like auctioneer who becomes very close with the chief of police . . . and then bad things start to happen, very bad things; it's allegorical like Shirley Jackson's "The Lottery" and the prose is spare like later Cormac McCarthy books; it's the opposite of Jack Ketchum's Off Season-- which is about not messing with the locals-- in this book, the locals are messed with and messed with, not unlike what's happened in current rural America-- and there's eventually going to be some sort of falling out and it might be liberating but it also might be ugly.
Baby Seals Conquer Dave Jones' Locker
We got up early this morning-- and it was COLD-- and we headed a few minutes up the road to Hancock Point Kayak Tours, which is an old coot named Antoine's house . . . Ant, as he is called, is a Master Sea Kayak guide and he really knows his stuff . . . but he does not fool around during the safety discussion; our family was joined by another group of four-- two moms and their respective kids-- and Ant got right down to business: he explained the sequence of steps required to enable the red DISTRESS button on his radio-- which he keeps in his pocket because in 2016 a Maine kayak guide and one of the folks on his tour drowned and died-- and so he just wanted to get the worst-case scenario out of the way . . . if he drowned and died and we were able to latch onto his hypothermic corpse, we could then grab the radio out of his front pocket and call for help . . . and then he went right into the protocol for if you make a grave error and flip the kayak and need to pull your spray skirt loose and get yourself out from under the boat . . . my family found the grim start to his talk kind of amusing but it made one of the mom's very nervous-- she asked how often this sort of stuff happened and she looked and sounded quite anxious-- and we found out this was for good reason; she was a widow-- and her son was only fourteen-- and she had a rough time during COVID as a single mom with two teenagers-- and in 2018 her cousin-- A Norfolk Academy/William and Mary guy that some of my friends knew-- drowned in a riptide trying to swim out to his daughter-- so Ant's speech probably unnerved her a bit, but it turned out that the double sea kayaks were very stable-- Catherine and I managed to steer ours fairly proficiently, and Alex and Ian were such quick paddlers that they had to continually be called back to the group; we took a trip to Bean Island and then to the rocky shoals beyondy, which were full of seals-- so everyone had a fantastic time, despite the cold weather-- and then. just when it couldn't get any more scenic, we saw a couple baby seals on the rocks and needless to say, they were very very cute . . . cute enough to erase any memories of the rather dark safety speech that began the journey.
The Other Side of Acadia
The Schoodic Peninsula side of Acadia National Park reminds me of the North Rim of the Grand Canyon: equally scenic but more desolate and exponentially less crowded-- we took an excellent green and mossy hike to the top of Schoodic Mountain and explored some of the cliffs and tidepools at Schoodic Point . . . and then we had the best (and cheapest) food on the trip at Downeast Mexican . . . the place started as a food truck that fed the migrant blueberry-pickers but the food was so good that they made a year-round endeavor out of it; both the Schoodic Peninsula and the Mexican joint are highly recommended if you ever make your way to Bar Harbor.
blueberries!
Dave = Winner
Another hot day in Maine, so we didn't do any epic hikes-- instead, we explored the peninsulas and beaches in Hancock and Sorrento-- and ate lobster rolls from a roadside shack-- and then headed back to our place to play some games . . . and I took the triple crown: winning at Scrabble, a five-dollar Texas Hold'em tourney, and finally beating my son Ian in a game of cornhole-- he's been killing me lately (since he adopted the method).