Tommy John is dead-- but not gone;
his eponymous surgery carries on.
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
My contraption with the lovely and poetic moniker: "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" is working more elegantly than the name, although when I get up to speed on my bike, a full head of steam, hell bent for leather, dragging the wagon down La Reine Avenue towards the beach, I feel like a hurtling juggernaut, rolling thunder, an unstoppable force—but luckily no one has gotten in my way and I haven't had to break while pulling a full load . . . and, honestly, I don't think I'm going that fast (but it beats walking).
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)
As is our usual habit, my wife and I were doing the NYT puzzle Connections yestermorning, and I whizzed right through without making an error, so I celebrated my intellectual magnificence,
and my wife said to me, "You don't need to brag,"
so I said to her, "I always compliment you when you finish quickly,"
and she said, "That's different,"
so I said, "No, it's not—bragging is just complimenting yourself."
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
This morning I took our dog Lola to the Asbury Park dog beach, and a good time was had by all—quadrupeds and hominids alike—but it was fucking HOT, and it was only 7:30 AM . . . it was heinously, hellishly hot and humid, unprecedentedly oppressive, stoically still . . . or that's how James Ellroy's sleazoid shakedown artist Freddy Otash would describe it—I just finished Widespread Panic, which is not exactly a beach read, but while we're on vacation, I'm going to try to power through Ellroy's second L.A. Quartet—A.K.A. the Freddy Otash Quartet . . . here's how Ellroy describes Otash in an L.A.P.D. confidential memorandum in The Enchanters: "Mr. Otash . . . a freelance extortionist, scandal-rag dirt digger, strongarm goon, perpetrator of divorce shakedowns, doper of racehorses, informant for Chief William H. Parker, procurer and dope conduit for President John F. Kennedy" and in Widespread Panic Otash blackmails, digs dirt, strongarms, and leverages such stars as James Dean, Rock Hudson, Natalie Wood, and Elizabeth Taylor—I could barely follow his drunken, dexedrine-fueled machinations—but that's how it is with Ellroy, you just groove on the vibe and pick up what you can . . . anyway, I'm sure I'll get some reading done today as I'm going to remain in the AC for a while; I biked down to the beach and took a swim after my journey to the dog beach, and the water is sublime, but the beach itself is baking; my wife was down there in a beach yoga class with a bunch of other fit, good-looking women, but watching them just made me feel sad and out-of-shape . . . there's no way I could survive an hour of gyrating like that on the hot sand, especially while staring at the lovely clear blue ocean-- I'd last ten minutes and then get up and jump in the water.
Dave Visits Two Beaches, Bitches
Over the past two days, I was lucky enough to experience the splendid enchanted isolation of what is basically a private beach on the Outer Banks-- my buddy Whitney's family has a half share in a house that's on the Historic Beach Cottage Row: these are very old, wood-shingled, weather-beaten original beach cottages (many from the 1800s) that are ocean front and essentially have private beach access . . . so while you may be able to spy another family or person here and there, it's mainly you and the sea oats, the dunes, the sand, and the sea (and, in our case, nineteen of your oldest friends-- loud and drunk-- constantly interrupting any chance you might have at listening to the soothing sound of the surf or achieving inner peace and tranquility) and now-- after much driving-- I'm back in Jersey, at the beach-- Bradley Beach in particular-- and the difference is remarkable; I got up early this morning, biked over the bridge to Belmar and then back to Bradley Beach on the boardwalk, and then did some sprints in the sand and took a swim (the water is tropical) and the main difference is people, the density of people . . . people at Jersey beaches get up early and run, bike, kick box, exercise, do you yoga, smoke pot, ride one-wheelers . . . whatever, it's fun and inspirational and always makes me exercise a bit harder than I would have-- there's so many fit people really pushing it; there were also people already set up on the beach-- at 7:30 AM!-- claiming some real estate and ready to put in a full beach day of relaxation and recreation . . . and we are a ten minute walk to the beach, or a short bike ride, but we're close to main street and a plethora of bars, restaurants, distilleries, breweries, laundromats, auto-body shops, the train tracks, a train station, and a park that has music every night . . . while I like the proximity of the ocean and the incredible scenery of the Outer Banks, if I had my druthers of where to relocate, it would be Asbury, Ocean Grove, or Bradley Beach (although one difference that can be annoying is that on Jersey beaches, you need to pay for a badge to be on the beach-- and while sometimes this is not enforced, my wife saw a head lifeguard freaking out about all the people already on the beach at 9 AM-- before the badge people patrol the entrances and he told her, "We have to walk the beach and check! we have to issue citations! These people are stealing services! Stealing services!" and my wife saw a beach badge crackdown go down).
OBFT XXXIII . . . Hauling It Back to Jersey
OBFT XXXIII is in the books (for me at least) as I left at 4 AM this morning, and now I'm packing my bags . . . to go to the beach—Bradley Beach at the Jerzee Shore . . . first-world problems; anyway, the usual highlights:
--delicious food and fun at Tortuga's—despite the surly bartender . . .
--I told Bruce a joke, which wasn't even that filthy, so I can repeat it here: my friend was dating this girl, and she dumped him, and he was so angry that he stole her wheelchair . . . guess who came crawling back?
-- Whitney did a lot of fantastic DJing-- his wheelhouse-- and he put an ORF Rock sticker on the door at Tortuga's
--Billy's post-collegiate daughter (who did a spot-on Jersey accent when talking to Paci) and a couple of her tall, athletic friends stopped by and hung out for an inordinately long time, considering we are boring old men; Rodell and I beat them all at cornhole, but they gave us a run for our money and then they tried to learn how to play our favorite drinking game, the convoluted, fast-paced, and Byzantine word-based contest known as Z . . . and Hanna actually progressed to the big leagues;
-- the water was brisk but refreshing;
--Rodell and I took all comers and ended up undefeated at cornhole;
-- there was much shooting the shit, shooting the breeze, and shooting the bull . . . the people who took our photo at Tortuga's were impressed that we've been able to tolerate each other for this long—it's a blessing—so thanks, Whit and all who made it, hope to see everyone and more next summer.
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
Yesterday my wife and I drove through violent rain to Washington DC— for two hours, it was a white-knuckle drive, and— as usual on the Turnpike— despite the weather, people were driving like assholes and there were several accidents; but we arrived at the Hyatt near DuPont Circle (double DC!) safe and sound, my wife jumped out with the stuff, and I attempted to navigate to the parking garage, but Google led me astray and I pulled into the wrong underground garage— so I switched to Waze (I’m tech savvy like that) and blindly backed out into M Street— a move that would have met with ire, honking, and perhaps a collision in NYC, but the people are more forgiving in the South, so the maneuver went fairly smoothly— I found the deck, parked, reconnoitered with my wife and we went and got some happy hour dumplings and noodles and beer at an unassuming restaurant called CHIKO— a portmanteau of Chinese and Korean and a really cool and affordable casual place serving upscale Asian comfort food— we’d go back— then we got lost inside the O Mansion, one of the weirder museums I’ve ever wandered through— it’s five connected row houses full of vintage treasures and vintage junk, with no real differentiation between the two categories of stuff— piles of stuff, signed guitars and toys and paintings and photographs and antiques and clothing— but the fun is exploring the houses, which are connected by many many secret doors— we found quite a few— one led to a log cabin inside the house, hard to explain but an epic place and worth a visit— it’s also a working hotel and bar; after a couple hours inside that weirdness, we walked to a local dive—The Commodore— and had espresso martinis and chatted with the bartender; then we took a swim in the little pool in the basement of the Hyatt-- caution, world's slipperiest floor--took a nap, walked over to the City Tap House for beers and some sliders . . . a good half day of vacationing, after an awful drive.
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?
Dave (and Shakespeare) Stick the Landing
Shakespeare's Hamlet has one of the finest endings of any piece of drama, and I think I did a pretty good job ending my podcast ABOUT the ending of Hamlet (and endings in general) but all I can ask is that you give it a listen and decide for yourself: Hamlet: Act Five, Part Two . . . The Readiness and the Silence . . . and if you like, leave a favorable review please . . . I just listened through, found one error, corrected it, and reposted the audio, and now it is as done as it will ever be—although I did forget to put in a clip from the very silly Steve Coogan film Hamlet 2 . . . perhaps I will go back at some point and add that, but for now I'm taking a much-needed break from recording, editing, and mixing . . . hopefully, it will be easier when I record my next episode, which I'm going to try to write soup-to-nuts while I'm on vacation, and then record on a new computer (if it ever gets shipped).
Finished!
I am in a celebratory mood because I finished recording the audio for my final Pig on the Wall Hamlet podcast episode-- and in the nick of time, I think . . . as not only am I headed on various vacations soon, but my 2015 iMac is also on its last legs . .. several times while I was recording and editing this massive, clip-laden project, the computer reported "System Overload" and slowed down to a crawl or stopped . . . I'm finally going to upgrade my computer to a new Mac Mini, but though I ordered it, I won't receive it until late September . . . I think the "vibe-coders' are to blame.
One More Day of Recording!
I am finally in the home stretch of my Pig on the Wall Hamlet finale—I will finish it tomorrow morning . . . just in time, as my computer is on its last legs and we're about to go on vacation (there's nothing like a hard deadline to get you motivated).
The End is Nigh, The Rest is Silence
I've been working like a dog every morning, for hours at a time, and I'm damned close to finishing my Hamlet podcast . . . and bringing this thing to an end is difficult and it's freaking me out.
There, But For the Grace of God, Go I . . .
Barbara Kingsolver's novel Demon Copperhead retells the story of the orphan boy David Copperfield in modern-day Appalachia—Demon Copperhead survives neglect, the foster care system, addiction, and the catastrophe of the opioid crisis, which hit Appalachia especially hard; despite the hardship, there is a rural beauty to the setting, but about the only thing I could relate to in this tragic story of persistence is the fact that Demon Copperhead hurts his knee playing sports, and it really bothers him (but luckily, doctors aren't still doling out oxy prescriptions for any modicum of pain, or I might have ended up addicted as well).
We Live in a Twilight World
Today I finished watching Tenet, which is generally considered Christopher Nolan's least-liked movie—but luckily, this is my son Alex's favorite Christopher Nolan movie, and he has seen it multiple times, so he provided a helpful (if sometimes overbearing) running commentary as I watched . . . the film is a combination of Shane Carruth's time travel masterpiece Primer and a typical spy thriller, such as The Bourne Identity, and if you can't watch it with my son (who understood Primer on his first viewing) then you might need to look at a chart or watch a YouTube video to understand the way various characters weave their way forwards and backwards through time, or you could just watch it without comprehending all that and simply enjoy Kenneth Branagh's Russian accent and Elizabeth Debicki's lithesome figure (Debicki pretty much plays the same role in The Night Manager . . . a beautiful trophy wife married to an evil arms dealer, and she gets mixed up with a spy).
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 DÃas . . . 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!
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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).
The Bubble Man
I love the comedy stylings of Roy Wood Jr.-- Black History Museum Tour Guide and Leonardo DiCaprio is an Underrated White Ally are great bits . . . and his new album "Lonely Flowers" is a special one; it's a little more universal and profound than your typical comedy album; it's about human connection and friendship, and in the final bit—"The Bubble Man"—it's about love . . . check it out, it's fantastic: I couldn't find a video of the entire story so this is just audio— and it might get a little dusty by the end.
Eat at Joe's
There's nothing better than playing some indoor pickleball (and crushing all opponents) and then, when you get home-- hangry and tired, before you assemble some kind of primitive lunch, the kind of shitty lunch you make while shoving other random food in your mouth while making it, your wife calls you and says she bought a sandwich to split from a highly recommended place up the road in South Boundbrook called Joe's Meat Market . . . so I sat on the couch (and ate an ice pop) and waited patiently until she got home and it was worth the wait: it was the best breaded chicken cutlet, mozzarella, roasted red pepper sub I've ever had, and I can't wait to try their other food.
The Heat Was Hot, The Power Was Not
Last night, I was enjoying our A/C, watching the Argentina vs. Cabo Verde World Cup battle, when—suddenly—the sky turned black, and the winds kicked up, and we heard a loud crash on our front porch—like a car hit our house—and this was the result of the wind lifting a very heavy, very solid metal chair, bashing it against our aluminum siding, and then yanking the chair down the front porch steps . . . soon after that, our block lost power—there were trees down all over town, and one had pulled down a wire on Second Ave, up the block from our house—and a transformer on the North Side (Walter Ave) exploded . . . I watched the end of the game on someone's phone at my neighbor's house while firetrucks and police blocked off streets and assessed the damage; the scary thing was that without A/C our house got hot fast, even though it was raining and the sun was down, but the humidity works fast—and it made me realize just how attached and dependent we are to the power grid (and this morning I started Googling the most temperate places in the U.S.—places where you need the least heating and cooling . . . unfortunately, many of them are in California, and I'm not moving that far away, but it seems the Blue Ridge Mountains are a closer alternative) but PSE&G was on the ball last night, and we had consistent power by 11 PM—so we didn't lose any food in our refrigerator, and we were able to get a good night's sleep.
DSW? I Thought We Were Going to Lunch!
My wife and I found ourselves in Woodbridge today-- we were driving Ian's girlfriend home-- and so we decided to grab some lunch out of our normal vicinity: first we tried the highly rated Siwa Thai, but when we walked in, we noticed their AC wasn't working so after sitting for ten seconds, we did an about face and then headed to Blue Habanero in nearby Perth Amboy-- also highly rated AND recommended by Ian's girlfriend-- and while the food was great and the portions were huge, they also barely had any AC (but by this time we were hungry and simply sweated it out) and during lunch my wife sprung this idea upon me: let's go up the road a bit to DSW . . . I need sneakers and I was like, "I wish you told me this because I also need running shoes but I'm not wearing socks," and she was like, "I don't have socks either, we could buy some" and I really did not want to take this detour to the Designer Shoe Warehouse-- it was so fucking hot out and I hate putting socks on when my feet are sweating, and it would that much worse to put them on in public, in a DSW-- but then I remembered that we had boxed up quite a bit of our lunch and I was like: "we can't leave the food in the car, it's 102 degrees" and that was enough justification NOT to go to DSW.
It's Very Hot and Dry, So-- in the Name of Liberty-- Let's Shoot Off Some Very Loud Incendiary Devices
It's really fucking hot out, like actually hotter than the kind of heat that I normally complain about, but our neighbors are still having their annual July 4th BBQ-- on July 2nd, to coincide with the town fireworks, and our town is still shooting off their annual July 4th Fireworks (on July 2nd?) so at some point I'm going to brave this heat and drink a beer and play some cornhole-- and though it is an inferno outside, it's fairly pleasant in our house-- probably due to the awesome ceiling fan that I REINSTALLED today (with the help of my lovely wife) so that the connection plate is now perfectly flush with the ceiling, eliminating the slight wobble which I noticed yesterday (and remedied with two folded up piece of paper-- practical but not particularly classy) and I also tightened the fail-safe wire loop so that even if the screws fail, the fan housing will not crash down on anyone's head (unless you're like six foot five, sorry Whit).
Big Day, Already (Dave Finishes a Book, Installs a Ceiling Fan, and Prepares to Be a Soccer Fan)
I woke up early this morning and finished a massive tome (900-plus pages) I've been reading for two years: Reaganland: America's Right Turn (1976-1980) . . . this is the final installment in historian Rick Perlstein's series on the rise of the American conservative movement and while the books are exhaustive (and exhausting) they do remind you that there's nothing new under the sun— the playbook was the same: savvy conservative politicians harnessed anxieties about women and race and sexuality and crime and the lack of Christianity and family values in America . . . and the same tropes: scandals such as Hunter Biden and Billy Carter; optimism (make America great again!) instead of tightening your belt (and wearing a sweater) and absurdities—Carter's killer rabbit!-- and pretty much everything Reagan said about pollution (trees cause more pollution than automobiles?) and nuclear weapons (nuclear proliferation is none of our business? all the waste in a year from a nuclear power plant can be stored under a desk?) but despite Reagan's lack of policy and factual knowledge, Carter was no match for "the Teflon President," who could really deliver a speech and galvanize the corporate elites, the Southern whites, the evangelical Christians, and generally disaffected voters who were sick of inflation, high gas prices, the hostage crisis, and how the counterculture movement was bleeding into the suburbs . . . and not only did I finish that epic history, but I also finished the third Thursday Murder Club Mystery (The Bullet That Missed) and I successfully installed a ceiling fan—alone! -- which is a crazy procedure; for a decent amount of time the fan housing and blades were hanging from a thin metal cable while I connected all the electrical wires and the remote receiver . . . but, unlike my plumbing debacle, the fan and the light now work like a charm (and neither leaks water) and really, my day has just started . . . now I'm off to play pickleball, then I'm going to acupuncture, and then we're headed out to watch the USA play Bosnia AND Herzegovina—it seems ridiculous that they have to play two countries at the same time.
Not That Strong a Swimmer
I just did some laps in the pool at the YMCA, and while I wouldn't call myself a strong swimmer, I'm certainly a smooth swimmer—but I certainly don't push myself to the limit; meanwhile, the dude in the lane next to me was the worst swimmer I have ever seen swimming laps in the big pool: he moved through the water like a broken blender, generating an incredible succession of splashes and froth . . . frankly, I don't know how he kept his body above water, his legs were dangling, dragging, and fairly useless (he was definitely not swimming downhill) and his arms flailed with violence and consistentency that would have worn a lesser man out . . . so while his swimming was slow, intolerable, and annoying, he WAS getting an incredible workout trying not to drown.
First True Day of Summer (for Dave)
Today was the first real day of summer for me—a weekday when everyone else is working, and I have no obligations, so I can do shit during off-peak hours: I woke up when I wanted to wake up (5:50 AM) and worked on my podcast, then I turned off the electricity breaker and started to install our new ceiling fan, but when I opened the package, I realized that my wife ordered the wrong fan (plastic blades, not wood . . . super cheesy) and so I went to Wal-Mart and returned aforementioned ceiling fan at 10:00 AM . . . no line at customer service; I was in and out and playing pickleball at Ace by 10:15 AM—and over the past two days I've really established myself with the good younger players that play in the middle of the day (do they work?) which isn't easy for an old man, but now they know that looks can be deceiving—and then I watched Brazil defeat Japan (and took a nap at halftime) and after that I went to the Liquor Cave, before rush hour . . . when that two-mile drive becomes impossible to navigate (although it's probably easier now that school is out) and on my way home I asked Google why you can't serve beer over ice and it's because the ice melts rapidly and the coarse surface makes the beer release all it's carbonation, so it gets watered down and goes flat-- so then I had an idea for a plastic frozen stick that goes into beer to chill it but luckily these things already exist, so I don't have to invent them and market them (has anyone used one?) and now I'm going to unload the dishwasher and then try to relax a little, as it's been a hectic day.
Jaws + Parks and Rec = A+ TV Show
Widow's Bay, a show that perfectly balances horror and comedy, follows the struggles of Mayor Tom Loftis (Matthew Rhys) as he tries to draw more tourists to an isolated New England island, which has Martha's Vineyard-type potential (fuck Cape Cod) if only the place wasn't horribly and historically cursed—and this was originally a spec script by Katy Dippold for Parks and Rec, but she developed it into this fantastic series (but you can still feel the Parks and Rec influence) which made my wife and I both laugh hysterically and jump out of our seats—ten rope fire safety ladders out of ten.
More My Speed
Although my plumbing skills are abysmal-- as is fitting and proper for an English teacher—I am capable of measuring, drilling, and screwing (even if I don't measure all that much, it's the motion of the driver, not the size of the screw . . . being an English teacher also makes me capable of recognizing and utilizing crass wordplay and innuendo) and so though I couldn't install the pipework and fixtures properly in our new sink and vanity, I WAS able to affix the towel rack (and I am glad they gave me two tiny Allen head tightening screws; I didn't understand why at first, but my wife said it was probably in case you lost one and then on my first attempt, the screw slipped out of my hand and slid down the drain—lost forever—so for my second attempt, I inserted the screw BEFORE I entered the bathroom with the ring and then tightened it with the tiny Allen wrench . . . even when it's easier, it's never easy).
Zman Knows Me Too Well (Fuck You Zman)
My buddy Whitney (a.k.a. Les Coole) and his co-host Penny Baker do a fantastic radio show on Tuesday nights on WODU, and last Tuesday they let the fans take over the playlist (with Penny Baker's approval, of course) and so I submitted a mini-theme-: three songs that share a mystery common denominator . . . my original three songs were "Love the One You're With" by Stephen Stills, "Where It's At" by Beck, and "Shake It Up" by The Cars-- but Whitney and Penny substituted Violent Femmes "Kiss Off" for "Love the One You're With"-- which was probably too classic rock for the show . . . anyway, fucking Zman guessed my mini-them ONE song in—so annoying—but he said he just "thought like an English teacher" and moments into "Where It's At" he guessed "songs that end in prepositions," which was correct- even though technically in the song "Kiss Off," off operates as an adverbial particle that modifies how you should kiss and it's the same grammatical situation with "Shake It Up" . . . but "Where It's At" and "Love the One You're With" truly end with prepositions functioning as prepositions- so the moral here is that the next time I submit a mini-theme, I'm NOT going to think like an English teacher, I'm going to think like a patent lawyer.
The Alarm is Off
Another school year in the books: we loaded the kids on the bus, I cleaned up my room, we chatted in the English office, I ran over to the vo-tech to pick up my son Ian's OSHA card, my friend and fellow English teacher Stacey did a fantastic and very teacherly graduation speech (41 minutes in) while I played some pickleball—because the unfortunate thing about being a graduation speaker is that you have to attend graduation—then I went to lunch with my wife (Tacoria) and took a nap . . . and while we do have a meeting tomorrow and grade sign-out (and a pool party) I don't have to set my alarm until next September.
I Do Need to Cut Down on My Pizza Intake . . .
The women in the English Department like to do things communally, especially get coffee from WaWa and pay too much for food delivery . . . and while I'll sometimes take part in these cooperative ventures-- especially coffee runs: I don't mind getting coffee for one or two people (although I prefer Rachel to Stacey, as Stacey's coffee order is always very complicated) but I'm more every-man-for-himself when it comes to getting food and I REFUSE to ever take part in overpriced food delivery . . . so today when I had to run an errand, I stopped by Pasquale's and got a slice of grandma pepperoni and a slice of mushroom pizza and then, when I went into the English office to relax and eat my food, I got bullied into sharing a sliver of each slice with Cunningham and Denise (because I had the audacity to go and buy food all by myself . . . the gall).
Pain: It Hurts
I went to the dermatologist today, and she used a liquid nitrogen spray to freeze off some actinic keratosis on my nose and the top of my head-- this was moderately painful-- but slightly less painful than earlier in the day, when Kyle, a powerful, left-handed, lanky youngster, clobbered me in the side of the face with a pickleball.
Crunchy
My wife makes her own granola (and now I'm spoiled: it's much more delicious than store-bought).
Happy Father's Day! Half Day?
Happy Father's Day to all the fathers out there . . . but honestly, considering how easy it is to become a dad-- I won't get into the details of THAT-- but there's no pushing a ten-pound baby out of your womb, no breastfeeding, no perimenopause, no pelvic floor weakness, no postpartum depression, no hemorrhoids, no cesarean section, and no bowel issues-- so maybe dads shouldn't get an entire day, maybe just a half-day?
Deatz Analyzes the Beats!
If you're looking for some music recs, my buddy Deatz has started a zine-like blog called Deatz Beats, where he posts playlists and oddball, musically adjacent anecdotes-- he's into a wide variety of music, but there's a lot of punk, electronic, experimental, and alternative stuff (and music for when you're full of rage).
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