You might be aware of the t-shirt enigma, but if not, I will do my best to explain it: most of the time, unless I'm about to exercise in an extremely cold environment, I want to wear the lightest, softest, thinnest t-shirt in my drawer—I assume this is the same for most people; I want to wear a light, soft, thin t-shirt when I am working out, when I am lounging around the house, when I am sitting on the porch in the Jersey humidity . . . so when I open my t-shirt drawer, I choose the thinnest, softest t-shirt, which means this t-shirt, soon enough, is going to go through the wash and get EVEN THINNER and EVEN SOFTER . . . thus precluding the wearing of my other t-shirts, which are thicker and stiffer and stifling and so, of course, do not go through the wash repeatedly because I rarely wear them-- so they never attain the status of the venerated thin and soft t-shirts . . . I'm not sure how to remedy this—there is, of course, the inevitable demise of these thin and soft t-shirts, but it takes a while—and I'd like to have more of them, so I occasionally wear a thicker t-shirt for a bit and then toss it in the wash, but unless I make a concerted effort to change this pattern, I'm stuck inside a cycle wrapped in an enigma of a riddle of soft cotton.
Texas . . . It's a Universe Unto Itself
While the next two books in the trilogy don't quite compare to Bluebird, Bluebird, Attica Locke does wrap things up for Darren Matthews and his mom in dramatic fashion-- lots of family secrets (and a bit too much family history for my taste) and much conflict over race and crime in East Texas (and even a fair perspective from the POV of a Black Trump supporter) make all three of these three books compelling reads.
Home . . . The Place Your Kids Fuck Up
We are back from the beach—and I am home for the first time in a month (aside from a short pit stop three weeks ago, when I drove from Kill Devil Hills to the Jersey Shore—I stopped at home for a moment to pick up the dog and the bikes) and the house is a mess: the houseplants have not been watered, the lawn needs mowing, the backyard is a jungle, the bathrooms have not been cleaned, the dishwasher has not been run, the cardboard was not put out, Alex went to the city but left his AC on, the rest of the windows are open, etcetera, etcetera . . . the moral being our boys do not know how to take care of the house, BUT most importantly, the mess is superficial . . . they didn't burn the place down, so the vacation was well worth the cleanup (and my body is a mess too—a month of eating and drinking has me weighing in at 196.9 . . . not the worst number to see on the scale, but still).
Thar She Blows . . . Or Thar He Blows: It's Hard to Sex a Humpback Whale
These Are a Few of My Favorite F@cking Things
Our beach vacation—and the summer itself-- are coming to a rapid end, so this morning I decided to cram in a few of my favorite things before the thunderstorms:
1) I went to Wardell Park and played some pickleball—it was hot and humid, and I really worked up a sweat;
2) when I got back from pickleball, I got on my bike and rode to the beach and jumped in the ocean and took a swim—this makes my knees feel great, and I will truly miss this when we return home . . . in all my time at the Jersey Shore, the water has never been warmer . . . I know that when I finish playing pickleball back in Central Jersey, I should come home and take a cold shower or go to the Y and swim in the pool—but it's not the same as biking down to the beach, standing knee-deep for a while contemplating the waves, and then diving into a wave and swimming around for a bit, buoyant and also able to flush out my nasal cavities without shame—because the ocean is so fucking big, what's a little more snot in it?
3) I went to Jody & Jodee's Fish Market and got yet another incredible fried fish sandwich—and I took some surreptitious photos while I was waiting for my tilefish on a roll because this place is Jersey as fuck . . . you couldn't invent the people who wandered in-- and where else can you get a fresh fried bluefish sandwich for $8.99?
A Feverish End to the Summer
Last night was the final Taco Tuesday of the summer at Barrio Costero—Soder joined us for steak tacos, but Stacey did not . . . she was still recovering from her trip to Vegas—and now I am sad to report that this long and wild month of socializing, partying, drinking, smoking, swimming-- so much swimming, the water at the Jersey Shore has never been warmer-- doing Zyn nicotine pouches, reading, strumming my guitar, writing podcast scripts, eating seafood and thin crust pizza at Vic's, drinking fancy drinks at The Wheelhouse, napping on the beach and all the rest of the good stuff is coming to an end; we visited so many people and had so many visitors that my head is reeling—but now it's time to dry out, start eating healthy, and get ready for school; vacation is not quite over, however, so my wife and I enjoyed a serene paddleboarding/kayaking journey this morning on the Manasquan Inlet, and because I was on a paddleboard and I was wearing my polarized sunglasses, I was lucky enought to see a number of needlefish darting through the water and several packs of fifteen to twenty cownose rays, flapping their wings just below the surface of the water . . . you should actually call a group of cownose rays (or rays in general) a "fever" of rays-- but I'm not a pedantic douchebag, so I'm not going to do that . . . anyway, I paddleboarded over a whole fucking bunch of cownose stingrays and it was a little scary-- but apparently they visit every summer when the water warms up, and they're fairly docile unless you step on their poison barb-- so be on the lookout and try not to shit yourself if you find yourself in the midst of them.
Worm Holes and Plot Holes at the End of Oak Street
Warning: spoilers ahead for the fairly entertaining dinosaur movie The End of Oak Street, but do not let these spoilers or plot holes stop you from seeing the movie—especially if you're like me and thoroughly enjoy any movie where humans have to survive while being chased by prehistoric megafauna—but the film opens a major can of time-travel worms in order to save Dad-- who gets eaten by a dinosaur, he sacrifices himself to save the family; so when the family finally finds its way out of the Cretaceous period and portals back to 1982, for some reason they pop out a few minutes BEFORE they went on their prehistoric wormhole journey—so now, just for a few minutes, there are two versions of all the characters, so the wife calls her husband to deliver some pizza, so he drives out of the neighborhood that is soon to be transported back in time-- but he's essentially and unknowingly abandoning his family—the family of doubles, so the doubles of the kids and Mom are going back to the Cretaceous to have more adventures, but without dad, they are going ot have to fend for themselves—because the version of the family that just came back are essentially stealing dad from another family/timeline . . . because the original Dad got chomped and eaten by a dinosaur, so they grab his double to complete the family in the present (1982) but now the other family that got sent to the past has no dad . . . so what if THAT family also makes it back? -- dad is really the dad of THAT family, and this "Rick and Morty" type theme is NOT addressed, nor is the fate of the family that gets sent back in time-- now Mom does phone a few people and tell them to get out of the neighborhood before it gets transported, and one of those people is the librarian . . . so she does NOT go back into the past, yet she's the character that saves them from being eaten right before they jump into the portal—but she shouldn't be there at all. . . but maybe don't think about any of these paradoxes and just enjoy the feathered, modernized dinosaurs (interestingly, no one in 1982 remarks on this, even though proto-feathers are a more recent addition to the idea of a dinosaur, but whatever) and hope that big-budget directors and producers and studios keep making stupid movies with giant creatures (maybe there will be a sequel, where the dadless family survives the Cretaceous and makes it back to 1982 and then steals dad back from the original family?)
Profound Epiphany (NOT about clip-on umbrellas)
Dave Sits Up Straight
I must have been hunched over all day yesterday-- while riding my bike . . . which is a mountain bike so you can't sit upright-- and while sitting at the various bars we visited, and so when I jumped in the ocean yesterday afternoon and swam a bit, my left shoulder did something weird, and since then it's really been hurting, especially when I rotate my hand inward towards my torso-- and while I'm not a doctor, I do have YouTube, and so I think this is a shoulder impingement or some rotator cuff tendonitis, which can be caused by poor posture and hunching over-- so, once again, I am trying to improve my posture and walk like I have a stick up my ass, thumbs forward, shoulders back by the ears-- but though this makes my shoulder hurt less, it also feels very silly, like I'm playing some weird role in a movie: "HELLO I'M DAVE! PLEASED TO MEET YOU! I'M IN INSURANCE SALES! ARE YOU THINKING OF CHANGING YOUR POLICY?" or some shit like that . . . I'm even sitting up straight as I type this sentence, so it's hard with me to end with a joke or something ironic-- it's like I've evolved from a mischievous ape into an actual human being-- and so I'm just going to sincerely thank you for reading and wish you a blessed day.
Bars and Belmar on Bikes
My Knee is a Champion (to be precise, Sam Champion)
My left knee starts hurting when the humidity increases, and it REALLY starts hurting before a big rainstorm—so judging by how my knee feels this morning, there's going to be a big rainstorm today.
An Irishman and a Black Lady Walk into a Bar . . .
The Keys That Broke the Cat's Back
My wife went home from the beach yesterday to set up her classroom and harvest produce from her garden, and she didn't arrive back to our beach house until 9 PM—and she brought back various things we forgot to originally pack or needed: a fan, boogie boards, dog food, dog shampoo, some groceries, and her weighted (12-pound) vest, which I left in the car because I didn't feel like carrying it (it's heavy!) and then this morning, I moved her car out of our narrow driveway and snagged a spot down the street so that visitors could pull in, and when she was leaving to go for a walk, she asked, "Where's my weighted vest?" and I told her I left it in the car because it was heavy and I didn't feel like carrying it in last night, and then she said, "Where'd you park the car?" and I told her I parked it down the street, and then she produced a discontented grunt, and I asked why she was annoyed,, and she said she didn't want to carry her car keys around while she took her walk, and I said, "You're putting on a twelve-pound vest but you don't want to carry car keys? Seriously?" and then I brought up the whole straw-that-broke-the-camel's-back proverb, and she said something about the size of her pockets, and I was like, "Put the keys in the vest! You won't even notice!" and she laughed and went on her walk.
A Man Can Dream
My wife and I took a bike ride to the Asbury Sunday Market this morning, and I bought a loaf of sourdough bread and some wild mushrooms, and then we continued biking north along the coast into the high-rent districts of Loch Arbor, Allenhurst, and Deal-- and as we biked past the Gatsby-esque houses and estates, there was a small part of me that hoped that somoene pulling out of one of these driveways, in a Land Rover or an Aston Martin, might graze me with their expensive car-- nothing to awful, but maybe knock me down, maybe I'd suffer a broken wrist or a concussion, and the owner of this fabulously expensive house and car, maybe this person had a couple of DUIs in the past, and they've already been drinking a bit and they really don't want the authorities involved in this accident so they're like "How about two million dollars to keep this quiet? What's your Venmo?" and the Venmo goes through and I get an Uber to the hospital to get patched up and then I retire and buy a beach house.
Rolling Rolling Rolling, Keep That Wagon Rolling
Sometimes You've Got to Use Force When You're a Man
This morning, my wife wanted to bike down to the ocean for beach yoga, but her bike lock was jammed (I was also planning on attending beach yoga, but the Moccios showed up last night and I overindulged, so fuck that) and so she drove her car down to the beach for yoga, leaving me with the project of unjamming her bike lock; I googled the problem and the internet told me to lubricate the lock and then try to feel the tumblers falling into place—they might be out of whack—and gently pull the lock apart- with the force that you use to open a refrigerator door . . . same with the YouTube video I watched, the guy said the important thing was NOT to use too much force, so I greased up the lock with some Pam cooking spray and tried to gently prize it apart but no dice, so then I grabbed a variety of tools and implements from the kitchen and tried to gently pry it apart—a bottle opener, a fork, a butter knife, etc.-- and then I noticed the plastic combination rings were starting ot crack and decided to apply a bit more force—perhaps if I could see what was going on under the plastic?--and I cracked one of the rings, and it did not help; there was no little button under the plastic that said "Press Me To Open a Jammed Lock," and so I went back inside and—BINGO! -- I found a screwdriver, and so first I ordered Catherine a new lock from Amazon, and then I took the screwdriver and went at the stupid lock, ripping apart the plastic rings and jamming the screwdriver in the device and leveraging the metal, cutting my hand in the process, but I finally got the screwdriver somewhere fatal and ripped the lock apart—and I was very satisfied when it slid open, despite the fact that I ignored all the advice on the internet, because-- like Kenny Rogers said-- sometimes you've got ot use force when you're a man.
Dave is a Fucking Genius
I think by this time, we all know that you put the beer in the cooler first, then the ice—but I just developed a similar move that I've never seen before; I was going to heat up some rigatoni and meat sauce in the microwave, and usually the sauce splatters all over the inside walls, so I have to put a paper towel over the bowl, but this time I had a brilliant idea, and I put the meat sauce on the bottom of the bowl and I covered the marinara with the rigatoni—so then when I microwaved, there was no splatter!
Everybody Likes a Compliment (especially Dave)
Sad News and Nostalgia
Some sad news was passed along to me recently: Tim Raba passed away; I haven't seen Tim in many, many years, but he was a phenomenal North Brunswick athlete—primarily baseball and soccer, but he could play anything—and while he had his struggles after high school, I'll always remember embracing him after he scored in overtime in the County Finals against East Brunswick—he was the other outside back, I played on the left and he played on the right (and we had two future college players at stopper and sweeper . . . we were the best defense in North Brunswick history, I think we had three goals scored on us in 24 games my senior year) and Tim and I were the fastest kids on the team, two of the fastest players in the county, and now he's gone and I'm fat and slow, and there's a lesson here, but it's lost on me, other than time goes by and everything falls apart.
It's Hot, Widespread Panic HOT
Dave Visits Two Beaches, Bitches
OBFT XXXIII . . . Hauling It Back to Jersey
Typical Beach Report
A solid Wednesday night get-together to start OBFT XXXIII— Billy, Cliffy, Charlie, Paci, Swaney, Vicki . . . uh . . .Ethan, Jason, (sorry to ruin the rhythm) and, of course, Whitney and Elaine; we went to Aw Shucks for oysters— it was national oyster day— and some other bar for drinks; Charlie and I stopped at 7-11 for tobacco products— I wanted to try Zyn and Charlie wanted to by some traditional Copenhagen— and we were so confused by the array that the lady gave me my coffee for free . . . this is the second time in Norfolk that my general befuddlement has been rewarded by a free cup of coffee; then we went back to Whitney’s place and chatted about old man things: knee replacements, hip replacements, GLPs-1s, retirement, how annoying pets can be, King Crimson and Frank Zappa and jazz, etc and I tried the Zyn and it really worked— major nicotine rush— and then we left for the beach fairly early, the BBQ stand at The Border Station wasn’t even open yet, so I just got coffee and peanuts— but at least the lid fit on the coffee cup, because my drive from DC to Norfolk was marred by a faulty 7-11 coffee lid . . . I went to sip my very hot coffee while driving on I-64 and the top popped off and hot coffee exploded all my hands, shirt, shorts, legs, and car— yikes— but that is forgotten (and so is the back up trying to get through the I-664 tunnel into Norfolk) because now I’m at the Martha Wood, enjoying the water and the ocean breeze and the rocking chairs on the porch, reading a completely bonkers James Elroy book called Widespread Panic.
The Mall is a Mess
Full disclosure: I love shitty hotel gyms—probably because I wake up early and this gives me a destination while my wife sleeps, and there is always one other lunatic in there with me; that is how I began my day yesterday, and then Cat and I took the Metro from DuPont Circle to The Mall— and the Mall is a MESS . . . Apparently there is going to be a Grand Prix race later in August and so there are crews tearing up streets, building giant grandstands (which obscure the view of the Capitol building and the Washington Monument) and there are chain link fences and barricades made of rubber tires everywhere— it’s not particularly aesthetically pleasing, and I’m not sure why we have to race cars around to celebrate 250 years of America— a horse race would be more appropriate, especially considering that our reliance on the car and gasoline usage are what has America over the barrel— but don’t get me started— anyway, we wandered through the wreckage but thoroughly enjoyed our time in the National Botanic Gardens and the lovely courtyard within, and the Hirshhorn Museum has an incredible collection of modern art and complementary Basquiat and Banksy pieces that pretty much explain post-modernism, and then we walked to The National Portrait Gallery— and after a quick stop at Compass Coffee, I highly recommend their nitro cold brew— we enjoyed seeing paintings of all the presidents (and a photo of Donald Trump, looking extra tough) and the various other historical portraits and portrayals— I can see why people like this museum, as it’s a nice break from the surrealism and abstraction of Modernism and post-modern art . . . there’s recognizable people in these painting; then we took the Metro back to our hotel, swam in the pool, and headed to Boqueria DuPont Circle for happy hour drinks and tapas— lovely spacious bar, which is the difference between DC and NYC— DC has height requirements on the buildings, nothing more than 10 stories or so, which makes the city much more spacious and spread out, there’s not the crowded density of Manhattan or Philly— which is nice when you’re in a bar, but not so great for walking (I racked up 26,000 steps yesterday) and my wife questioned this number because she only had 20,000 steps but I reminded her that I wake up early and I’m always pacing around and then, after we went to the Western Market and ate some ice cream, we did a calibration test and walked the same distance and she registered 366 steps and I registered 372 steps, which is a negligible difference— though she claims I “wave my arms around a lot” and that’s why I get more steps— anyway, we fell asleep to an Office marathon while our children played ping-pong and partied hard in our driveway, enjoying the parent-free home (but we can spy on them with the Ring camera, which is fun) and no Cat is headed back home on the train and I am headed to Norfolk for OBFT XXXIII.
From Jersey to Double DC
What Happened at Roy Rogers in 1995, Remained at Roy Rogers in 1995 . . .
My wife and I are about to leave for Washington, D.C. and after we spend a couple of nights sightseeing, she will take the train home, and I will continue on to Norfolk and the Outer Banks to see my college buddies-- but hopefully when we stop for lunch THIS WON'T HAPPEN . . . or if it does happen, since now we live in a time period where everything awkward and embarrassing is caught on video, perhaps it will be a blessing in disguise and I'll be able to retire immediately.
What Are Two Kitchens I Had Never Been In?
This week, my family tried and enjoyed food from two very different restaurants, Amma's Kitchen and Birria Kitchen . . . but they have two things in common: they both have "kitchen" in their name, and they are both in Edison; Amma's Kitchen serves authentic South Indian food in a casual spot located in a strip on the renowned Oak Tree Road—the dosas and roti and dal and fried chicken and biryani were all fantastic—my kids said that it was even better than Delhi Garden—and that's saying something—and as a bonus, there's a massive headshot of Amma on the wall of the restaurant watching over you as you eat; the best thing at Birria Kitchen are the birria tacos, although the chicken al pastor and the birria burrito were also delicious—we only had the beef birria tacos, but they also have chicken birria . . . next time.
Living Under the Shadow of a Big Dumb Cup
My wife and I went to my buddy Terry's yesterday for some poolside fun, and while the food and the weather and the water and the company were all fantastic, the best thing about this outing to the suburbs of Manalapan—which is a fairly long drive from Highland Park, especially due to the state of Route 18—is that my wife left her Big Dumb Cup at Terry's house (and this blunder was in no way engineered by me . . . I'm not that smart) and so my wife's menacing behemoth cup (and the straw) are a good thirty-five minutes from our kitchen . . . but now my wife is threatening to buy another Big Dumb Cup to replace this one—because apparently all of our other water bottles suck—so my nightmare might be doubled if my wife purchases another one and then Terry returns the one she left . . . right now I'm enjoying life out from under the looming shadow of the Big Dumb Cup, but for how long, for how long?