I am Throwing Out These Tevas!

Yesterday, I found a pair of black Tevas in my chest full of random boots and shoes and figured they were perfect for the afternoon adventure my wife and I were about to embark upon-- it was sweltering hot and extraordinarily humid, plus there was a slight possibility of rain, so I wanted to let my feet breathe (plus I had played over two-and-a-half hours of pickleball with my brother his group of expert players down at Veteran's Park in Hamilton, so my feet were tired and my toes needed to spread out, encumbered by shoes and socks) and I didn't want to be traipsing around in wet shoes-and-socks; our plan was to take the train to Princeton Junction; then ride the "dinky" into Princeton proper; head to a bar and watch Coco Gauff play Aryna Sabalenka in U.S. Open finals, then meet our friends Melanie and Ed for dinner at The Dinky Bar & Kitchen . . . but it started to rain a bit as we were leaving to catch the train, so instead of walking all the way to the train station in New Brunswick, we drove to the edge of Highland Park and we got out of the car, holding these tiny umbrellas, and started to walk but we were immediately soaked by sideways rain, so we decided to beat a hasty retreat, get our fancy rain jackets (which we didn't bring because it was so fucking hot and humid, and it wasn't really supposed to rain) but when we got back to our house, we heard some odd thumping on the roof of the car and then we noticed dime and quarter sized hail hitting the windows and or neighbor's driveway (it was so epic, I took some video) so now we were stuck in the car, but I figured our dog Lola was very upset, so I bolted through the hail and got into the house, where she was duly freaking out-- and we checked Uber to see if we could get to the train station that way but there were massive surge charges, so we were going to put on our rain jackets an dbrave the storm, but then Connell heroically offered to drive us, so we made our way into New Brunswick, through a couple of deep channels of water, and caught the 3:49 train; once we got to Princeton, the rain had subsided, and we made our way to the Ivy Inn, a dive bar with TVs on the other side of town-- except that I clicked on "The Ivy Club" instead of "The Ivy Inn" on my phone, so we started walking a circuitous route through campus because we were walking towards Princeton's first eating club, not the bar-- but we figured out the mistake and we didn't walk that far out of our way and we got to see a bunch of drunken shirtless fraternity guys playing an outdoor version of "beer die," which was enteraining-- and then we drank some beers and watched some tennis at the Ivy Inn-- very fun, but cash only-- and Melanie and Ed and Lynn and Connell joined us for the end of the match, and then we stuffed ourselves at The Dinky Bar & Kitchen, got some very expensive artisanal ice cream at the Bent Spoon, and caught a ride home with Lynn and Connell-- and once we got home, I took off my Tevas and both of my feet had areas the straps had rubbed raw and I remembered why I had stuffed these Tevas in that boot-and-shoe-chest . . . because they suck and ruin my feet and I think I've done this three times now with them, so I am throwing them out and sticking with Chacos.

Double Beach Vacation (During a Pandemic)

This year, this oddball year, my family was kind enough to allow me to combine my annual guy's get-together-- Outer Banks Fishing Trip XXVII-- with a family vacation.

We've obviously been itching to get out of New Jersey, and we were able to find an affordable rental a block from the beach in Kill Devil Hills. Milepost Nine. As a bonus, we were able to bring the dog.

Here are a few notes for posterity on our vacation during a very weird time. 

1) We stayed at my buddy Whitney's house in Norfolk on Friday night. Whitney's daughters were there, and they are lovely. One just graduated high school and the other is going to be a senior. Aside from playing Bananagrams with them, my boys did not attempt any social interaction with them. Not a word. 

Par for the course.

Whitney and I attended the Friday fraternity Zoom happy hour from his upstairs music studio. It's hard to fit two large men in one Zoom square. 

Lola came up to join the Zoom at one point, and she knocked over a hollow-body guitar with her incessantly wagging tail, denting the body. Sorry, Whit!

2) Saturday we got up early so we could beat the July 4th traffic. We got to the Outer banks at 8:30 AM. No traffic but we had a lot of time to kill. We couldn't get into the rental until 3 PM, and we weren't going into any restaurants, because we were avoiding indoor spaces-- plus we had the dog.

We went for a hike in the Nags Head preserve, which is an amazing place-- an aquifer fed forest on a sand dune-- but it was humid and buggy. So we drove down to Rodanthe, way south of the main action, and hung out on a beautiful beach. 

Lola dug a hole in the shade and was quite happy. 

3) Beaches on the Outer Banks are more "anything goes" than in New Jersey. You can swim anywhere . . . near the lifeguards or not. There are also lifeguards on dune buggies that roam the strand, but if you drown before or after they drive by, you are SOL.

You can bring your dog to the beach, surf anywhere you like, smoke, legally drink beer, and do whatever sport suits your fancy. There's plenty of room to spread out.

While the freedom and the space are a nice change from the Jersey shore, you have to endure more chaos. One of the most entertaining moments from our vacation happened while we were sitting idly on the beach, under umbrellas. It was quiet and the beach was not crowded at all.

Then a horde of college-aged kids poured out of a house a hundred yards down the beach. They all had surfboards. They took the water by storm. Most of them were excellent surfers, but none of the boards had leashes. They were swapping boards, boards were crashing in the waves, the people in the water were in jeopardy of getting hit. They were weaving in and out of each other as they surfed. It looked like a circus. A dude and a chick tandem-surfed on a paddleboard. Occasionally, someone would bring out a six-pack of beer and toss a beer to all the interested parties. Theses people would chug a beer while they surfed. We had never seen anything like it. This went on for a good two hours. We never saw them again.

4) We saw a couple of biplanes fly by with Trump 2020 banners. One had something about the American worker. The other said something about independence. Folks cheered and clapped when they saw the slogans. That reminded us we had crossed the Mason/Dixon Line.

5) Lola really enjoyed playing in the warm surf.

6) The kids really enjoyed playing in the warm surf. While my older son Alex is an experienced surfer, that's no fun to watch. Much more enjoyable to check out Ian, who rarely surfs. 

Zoom in on his face in this picture . . .

Actually, I'll do it for you.

7) One night Aly-- a girl I teach with-- and her husband came over and had drinks on our front porch. Dan told me he had been coming to the Outer Banks his entire life. He was twenty-seven. I informed him that it was the twenty-seventh year of our annual guy's trip to the Outer Banks. In other words, I am old.

8) On Thursday and Friday, I abandoned my wife and kids to hang out with my fraternity buddies.

These guys.

Thursday was a long day of drinking, catching up, and cornhole. No one ate any real dinner. There were chips and salsa and some cold bbq, but that was it. The main course was beer.

Catherine picked me up at 1:15 AM and I got to go back to our lovely air-conditioned beach house and avoid sleeping with all the snoring men. She's a great woman.

The next morning I was a little rough around the edges, but Ian wanted to play tennis. By 8 AM, we were on the court. It was very hot and humid. While I was proud to be running around after a long night of drinking local IPAs,  at 5-5 we decided to call it a draw. I was dehydrated and going to pull a muscle.

Friday, folks were a little hungover. We sat on the beach, swam, chatted, told jokes, and played cornhole. Mattie O and I continued to reign supreme at cornhole. We started nearly every game down a few (or more) points but Mattie's mantra-- "We're fine"-- held true every time.

9) The other thing that reigned supreme was the Truly hard seltzer. A few of us had never tried one. A few had, and swore by them. After a long night of drinking hoppy beer, I must admit that those things were wonderful. They go down way too easy.

We discussed which flavor was the manliest. Mixed Berry? Pineapple? Mango? Passion Fruit? 

Black Cherry seemed to be the only flavor even vaguely marketed towards men. 

Cucumber Lime might be what James Bond would choose . . . if he had to.

While absurd, those things were easy on the stomach and after you had one, it was well-nigh impossible to drink a hoppy IPA. They are the wine coolers of 2020.

Talking to Dave Fairbanks about how nice the Outer Banks is in September and October, and how calm the island was during the lockdown has given me a new goal in life: live somewhere in the offseason! 

Someday.

A note on the jokes that were told on the beach: in this climate, any jokes centered on race are a bit dicey. Everyone gets that. So the jokes that were mainly focused on bestiality. And then there's this one, that the whole family can enjoy (if you can do an impression of a whale).

On Friday, my wife picked me up at 9 PM, because we were getting up early and heading home Saturday morning.

Thanks for hosting Whit, and thanks for everyone that attended. It's astounding we can still put up with each other. While we call it the Outer Banks Fishing Trip, there's no fishing. That's a testament to how much everyone likes to hang out.

On the docket: a ski trip where no one goes skiing.

10) Meanwhile, Friday evening, while I was on the beach chatting and playing cornhole, my wife and kids were packing the car. 

They did get to enjoy the sun, sand, and surf during the day-- we really lucked out with the weather, and aside from a few jellyfish, the water was perfect.

During the packing of the car, something unfortunate happened. Catherine expertly packed the huge rubber sack that goes top of the van. That's normally my job, but she did a better job than me. She put the zipper in front! Why didn't I think of that? And she got two boogie boards in there, along with the beach cart, the chairs, and the umbrella. Impressive. 

Has she earned this awful task? 

I think not, she already does too much.

She does all the organization inside the house. the only item I added to the packing list this time around was "blackening spice." I imagined we'd be blackening some fish, but it was too easy to order take-out seafood. We did NOT use the blackening spice.

We got up on Saturday at 5:30 AM, finished packing the car, and made the haul home. The ride went smoothly, aside from a Wawa in Virginia. While I was pumping gas and watching a video on the little screen on the gas pump about Wawa's impeccable cleaning, Catherine was inside the store surrounded by a bunch of people who weren't wearing masks. She wrote an irate comment on their website.

Now we're back, cases are spiking, we are in quarantine until we get tested on Tuesday, and it's back to the usual . . . which is unusual. We're living through history right now, and we don't know how the story ends. It's maddening. But we were lucky enough to have the resources to get away from it all for a week. It is a different world out there, it doesn't feel like a pandemic-- the Outer Banks has had less than a hundred cases, in total. 

It was great to see the guys, and it was great to get away with the family . . . even though we've spent a LOT of time together. The change in location helped. 

I hope we can do the same thing next year. I hope there is a next year!

Staunton . . . An Epic Day 2

Saturday morning, I walked Lola to Gypsy Hill Park. Like everything in Staunton, the park is very well maintained. But that doesn't mean they can get away with a pun like this:

In case you can't tell, on the swimming club grounds, there are hundreds of decorative deer. And a banner that reads:

Field of Deer . . . in Honor or in Memory of Our Dear Ones

Puns are not appropriate for sentiments like that.

The weather was crazy warm, so we headed out to hike Elliots Knob. At over 2400 feet, this mountain is one of the highest in Virginia. We didn't figure on doing all 8.5 miles-- the description said that would take at least five and a half hours-- but we wanted to at least see the waterfalls and a couple of good views of the valley.

Then we talked to an old guy with a couple of hunting dogs in a truck at the trailhead.  He said we'd have no problem making it to the top. I told Catherine I would consider going all the way, but if after two hours we were still walking uphill, I was heading down. That seemed reasonable.

Soon enough, we saw some waterfalls. This was when we were on the Falls Hollow Trail.

On and on we hiked, higher up the mountain and deeper into the woods. An animal poked its head onto the trail and Lola ran it off. I thought it looked like a small wild German Shepherd. Cat thought it might have been a large gray fox. 

Later on the hike, with the help of some locals, we learned that the animal was actually a coyote. In the Blue Ridge Mountains, coyotes look like this:

Lovely Blue Ridge Coyote

This coyote behaved like a proper wild animal and ran away when it saw humans and a dog. That's why we had trouble identifying it. We are used to Jersey coyotes, and they don't behave at all. They bite people and dogs alike, and they will stand their ground until the police shoot them.

They also look mangier . . .

Dirty Jersey Coyote

As we went up, the weather kept getting hotter and hotter. The trail widened and there were many views. Our mood was optimistic about making it to the top. I even took an artistic selfie of Cat and me.

Artistic selfie by Dave

Then we left the woods and hit the final stretch to the top: a gravel fire road which some folks we met described as "very steep." They advised us to take frequent breaks. The Falls Hollow trail through the woods was no longer navigable, so if we wanted to get to the fire tower at the top, we had to head up this road. We had only been hiking for an hour and twenty minutes, and though we were tired, I figured we would make it to the top in my two-hour window. So off we went.

Walking up the gravel fire road was brutal, but the top seemed so close. We just kept trudging away. Lola was fine. Four legs are better than two. We passed the two-hour mark, but we were so close that we kept going. It took us 2.5 hours to get to the tippy top. My legs hurt and I felt old.

Then I saw some actual old people at the base of the fire tower. They were making soup. It was inspirational. They said they came up in all kinds of weather. They were decked out in serious gear and had a lot of cooking equipment. They were having a grand time. We chatted with them for a while-- they had seen the production of Midsummer Nights Dream we were going to see-- and they taught us how to pronounce Staunton properly (don't say the "u"). They also convinced me to climb the fire tower-- I was done climbing but they said the view was worth it. Cat and I both did it and they were correct.

Whew

Going down the fire road was painful . . . way too steep, but once we got into the woods we flew down the rest of the way. We passed the young couple that started ahead of us, the girl was holding the small of her back as she walked and she said she was really feeling it.

We drove back to Staunton and stopped at Queen City Brewing, a brewpub with outdoor seating right by our place. We sat outside and had some delicious celebratory beers and talked to some locals. We learned that it's near impossible to buy any houses in central Staunton-- no one is selling-- and that if you do own one of those houses, you can't breathe on it the wrong way. Everything has to be historically accurate and such. We learned this from some retirees. They loved the town and the vibe.

Then we talked with a couple of Harley guys. They were youngish, wearing black leather, sported beards, and appeared to be tough motherfuckers. But one of them was quite chatty. He said he didn't know our politics and wouldn't hazard a guess-- which we found hysterical-- a couple hiking with a dog from New Jersey, excited to see a Shakespeare play should sound off some liberal alarms, but he forged ahead and started talking about how he didn't like the direction the town was going.

He was worried Staunton was going to enact some gun control laws that wouldn't allow AR-15s and handguns that could hold more than ten bullets. The surrounding counties had become "Second Amendment Sanctuaries,"-- an interesting play on that word-- but he was worried Staunton was going to become like Charlottesville. Liberal! We told him we didn't have much of a gun culture up in central New Jersey and we didn't really know the ins and outs of these laws. Sometimes it's best not to express your opinion.

Then we talked about the terrible state of I-81-- he was a truck driver-- and how he had lived in Baltimore for a while and it wasn't to his liking. His answer for most things-- crime in the cities, the deer population in New Jersey, coyotes, etc-- was more guns. But he was real nice about it. Through this entire discussion, his large bearded buddy said nothing. I think he mumbled something one time about what middle school he attended, but that was it. He just sat there and looked intimidating.

When we got in the car and started driving up the hill to our house, Cat and I parsed the whole weird interaction. Then we both said at once: "His friend was Silent Bob!"

Cat checked her phone and got a sad message. The play was canceled! The old couple on top of the mountain told us some of the cast was sick, and they were using understudies, so the sickness must have spread. We were disappointed, but also insanely tired and hungry. We hadn't eaten since breakfast. We went to Baja Bean Company for delicious and cheap Mexican food and then came home and watched a movie. While we missed watching with the kids, it was nice to select something without having a forty-five-minute debate, which is de rigueur for our house.

We watched Good Time, the movie by the same writers as Uncut Gems. Both highly recommended, if you can tolerate incredibly fast-paced bad decision making-- to the point where you want to bury your head in your hands and stop watching.

Everyone slept well-- including the dog-- after an epic day two in Staunton. Catherine actually got some sun on her chest it was so warm.

Left to the (Mini) Wolves

This cold but lovely (Black) Friday morning, I took our dog Lola to the Rutgers Ecological Preserve for a run. Unfortunately, the Preserve was closed. The parking lot had signs and some plastic blockades barring entrance and the side entrance had a blockade in front of it as well. I assumed this was because of the recent coyote attacks (and I was right). But I also assumed that the attacks were over, because the aggressive coyote had been euthanized by some Rutgers police. And the coyote was tested and came up negative for rabies. So I figured it was safe to head into the preserve, despite the signs and blockades. There were rumors that there was entire coyote den on the premises, but coyotes were nocturnal-- plus, Lola is a tank. She would run them off.

After running for about twenty minutes, I stumbled over a root obscured by fallen leaves and went flying face-forward into the mud. Luckily, I was wearing gloves, so I was able to somewhat break my fall. My bad shoulder held up, I didn't sprain my wrists, and I didn't cut my hands. The only thing to suffer was my left knee.

I really did hit the ground hard, and I must admit-- and this appropriately dates me-- that just after I hit, this is what I thought to myself:

This is just what you deserve, sneaking into the preserve when it's obviously closed to the public-- now you've broken your neck and no one is coming to help you, no one is going to stumble across you and save you-- because the preserve is closed-- and for good reason!-- and you ignored the signs and now you're going to be eaten by coyotes, ironically less than a mile from the technologically miraculous Bridge Evaluation and Accelerated Structural Testing lab-- which is affectionately known by the acronym The BEAST®-- maybe Lola will protect me, but for how long? and the nights will be cold . . . I'll have to drag my way down the trail to the road . . . etc. etc.

It totally skipped my mind that I was listening to my podcast (Flash Forward: Time After Time) on my cellphone, a device which enabled me to communicate and interact by various means with the world outside of the Rutgers Preserve. I got up, dusted myself off, and started running again-- thinking that I had just evaded certain death . . . and it didn't dawn on me until twenty-five minutes later, when I got back to the parking lot next to The BEAST®, that I had not evaded certain death-- that I owned a cellphone -- mainly because my mother called just as I was loading the dog into the back of the car and this reminded me that my podcast and music player also had communication capabilities.

As a side note, there's still some weird coyote stuff going on in the vicinity of the preserve. A small dog was mauled a couple days ago, after the original aggressive coyote was euthanized. So maybe I was in some danger. If a pack of coyotes got to me before I remembered that I had a cellphone, I might have been eaten alive (while listening to my podcast).

Trump Causes More Shit

Last week, after visiting the dog park, I tried to walk home along the river. It was damn near impassable. The grass and the path were strewn with goose poop. Disgusting for me, and a health hazard for my dog. She loves to eat the stuff, and it's laden with bacteria and parasites. The last time she chowed down on it, she threw up all over my van. Yuck.

This was the last straw for me. The geese never shit on the river path. There are a few areas in Donaldson Park that are consistently covered in fecal matter (and they are easy enough to avoid) but this winter-- perhaps because we never got solid snow cover-- the entire park was littered with the stuff. Every sporting field, every paved path . . . from the grassy meadows to the muddy banks. Poop poop poop poop. The only spot in the park not covered with goose poop was the dog park. But I couldn't walk through the other sections of the park to get to the dog park. There was too much shit. So I had to take the street along the park and cut into the park on the trail just past the public works building and the diesel fuel tank. This route is not scenic at all. It's damn near tragic. I live next to Donaldson Park so I can walk around in Donaldson Park.

My New "Scenic Route" to the Dog Park

I generally managed to keep Lola from eating goose poop on my way back from the river, but it was not pleasant or relaxing. So I was pretty irate when I got home. I had been through a scatological minefield, and I was certainly suffering from PTSD: Post Traumatic Shit Disorder. I was fired up. But instead of my usual complaining into the void, I decided to do something: I would write an email to the powers that be. I cranked out a couple paragraphs of crackpot commentary to the county parks director. I was vivid. I was livid. I was graphic. I was gross. I mentioned bacteria and parasites. I recalled that there used to be a guy that would come in and scare the geese away. He would set off fireworks and place silhouettes of dogs in the fields. What happened to that guy? Donaldson Park needed that guy! My tone was polite but frustrated. What other tone is there when you're dealing with goose-shit?

Here's what I got back. I was very pleased with the prompt reply (and properly indignant about the causes of the excessive poop).

A Prompt Clarification on the Shit Storm

Mr. Pellicane,

Thank you for your message regarding Canada goose numbers at Donaldson Park.  The County currently contracts with the Wildlife Services Division of the USDA, Animal and Plant Health Inspection Services for Canada goose management on all County properties.  This include harassment and egg treatments.  They cover over two dozen sites throughout the County.  With our proximity to water, open space and mild winters, controlling geese is always a challenge.

The biggest problem we are having this year is with the somewhat milder winter.  Many geese that pushed southward last year, simply did not this year.  Additionally, with the federal government shutdown for 35 days in December and January, all contracts were suspended.  Harassment during this time was minimal – only what our staff could get to.

We are certainly behind on behavior modification and it is apparent in many of our parks.  Our USDA tech is back on the job (for now, anyway) however, we are playing catch up across the County.  I have asked for increased visits to Donaldson Park over the next week and if there is not another shutdown, continued aggressive harassment for the next few.  This should hopefully help alleviate some of the pressure on Donaldson Park from the geese.

Thank you,

Rick Lear

Director

Office of Parks and Recreation

Department of Infrastructure Management

Let's Assign Some Blame!

Trump! This was Trump poop. Caused by his government shutdown. And even better, Rick Lear alluded to Trump's arch-nemesis. He didn't call it by name (perhaps, like the EPA, he's forbidden). But when he refers to the "mild winter," we all know what he's talking about. Climate change! So I had stepped in Donald Trump's shit, caused by something he refuses to believe in, the Chinese hoax. I couldn't have been happier. English teachers love irony.

The biggest problem we are having this year is with the somewhat milder winter.  Many geese that pushed southward last year, simply did not this year.  Additionally, with the federal government shutdown for 35 days in December and January, all contracts were suspended. 

Rick Lear

I was also happy because getting upset about Trump shit is fun. This is because Trump is temporary. His ideas are outdated. He's a throwback, a dinosaur, soon to be extinct. A last gasp. In fact, despite the bipartisan quagmire and the incorrigible stupidity and corruption of the Trump administration, I'm feeling pretty good about the world, goose poop and all. This is mainly because I'm nearly done with Steven Pinker's book Enlightenment Now: The Case for Reason, Science, Humanism, and Progress. It's also because my wife is doing a lot of Zumba and looking great (but that's besides the point).

Pinker uses an avalanche of charts and statistics to remind us that we are living in the best of times. And this is because of th enlightenment values mentioned in the title: science, reason, secular humanism, liberal democratic ideas. The world has never been less violent, more healthy, more prosperous, safer, and more liberal. Despite what the naysayers prophesy, more people have rights than ever before, less people are at war than ever before, knowledge is more accessible, and democracy is on the rise. While there are challenges, we keep coming up with solutions. And the two existential threats-- the things that worry Pinker the most-- the environment (including global warming) and nuclear war . . . both of these things are improving. Slowly, but they are definitely improving. As countries grow richer, they do a better job preserving the environment; they reforest and recycle and use less fossil fuels and look for alternate energy sources. And we are slowly whittling down the number of nuclear weapons on earth. That number may never reach zero, but it doesn't have to. As long as we accept and understand the challenges, there are solutions on the horizon.

The Robots Are NOT Coming

Pinker also dispels some of the ridiculous notions that cause folks unnecessary anxiety: artificial intelligence experts don't fear the singularity. AI is not going to rebel and replace us. It's too hard to make a semi-conductor. It's too hard to make anything. It takes teams and teams of people and many highly technical factories and lots of resources. And we humans control all that. We are the kings of meat-space. And most of this perceived conflict is online. This is also the reason we probably don't have to fear technological nightmare scenarios caused by lone wolf lunatics. It takes too many smart people to create technology that advanced. Your computer may get a virus (but nothing as serious as Y2K) but you need a team of specialists to make a nuclear bomb or a super-virus, and it's hard to assemble that many people down with destroying the human race.

This is why rational people don't fear Donald Trump. He's not the face of the 21st century, he's a wart that will soon dry up. And fall off. He's an old wart.

Pinker does acknowledge that Trump will have an effect-- especially if we let him-- on some of these precious enlightenment ideals that have served us so well. He's an impediment to "life and health" because of his anti-vaxxer rhetoric and his role in dismantling our healthcare system. He's a threat to worldwide wealth because of his idiotic zero-sum notions about trade. Countries that are tied together economically cooperate. They don't go to war. He's certainly not helping economic inequality, nor is he a boon to safety, on the job or otherwise. He hates regulations, which often spur progress and make business seek solutions to problems (such as car crashes, plane crashes, poisoning, tanker leaks, lead levels, mileage restrictions, etc). He's not particularly keen on democracy and seems to have a penchant for dictatorial strongmen. He's no fan of equal rights, and his speeches and Tweets often have an undercurrent of xenophobia and racism. And he's a liar liar pants on fire. So he's not an ambassador or advocate to the wonders of available and accurate knowledge.

The Glass Is Half Full? So Lame . . .

Optimism is not cool. Pinker is an utter nerd. It's more fun to obsess over Trump and predict the end of civility, the end of civilization. Trump is certainly a shitshow, and Michael Lewis does a nice job illustrating some of the consequences of his incomptetence. And he's an environmental disaster. But we are progressing despite him. You need proof? Listen to Adam Ruins Everything Episode 1, where Adam talks at length with the Los Angeles DOT Seleta Reynolds. Streetcars, bike lanes, public transport, walkable neighborhoods and plazas . . . in the car capital of the country. In LA? Sounds like a hippie's dream and a conservative's nightmare. But this progressive vision is happening, despite Trump, and with federal funding. There are difficulties, of course, but when you hear this dedicated and intelligent government employee explaining that the market won't solve these problems of morals and values, it's really heartening. She's also really funny.

Pinker is an atheistic utilitarian who may not have enough feelings about anything to move the stalwarts on the left or the right. He glosses over some pretty bad shit. But that's because he's looking at the numbers, not at the emotions. Not at identity politics or anything particularly political. He's in the same corner as President Obama, who wrote a miniature version of the Pinker book for Wired Magazine. It's an essay called "Now Is the Greatest Time to Be Alive." It's not nearly as fun as visions of rusted out towns full of drug-addled opiate addicts (not the whole story) and porous unwalled borders which allow terrorists, criminals and rapists to pour into our nation. Statistically supported optimism can't match Chinese bandits stealing our intellectual property, black people who don't know their proper place (let's make America Great Again! And Institutionally Racist!) and liberal socialists who want to empower the government so that it controls every aspect of our lives. The end of times. That's what gets the clicks.

But I'm siding with Rick Lear. He's going to be around long after Trump is gone, directing county parks and rec infrastructure, fighting the good fight against the geese. He'll suffer mild winters and government shutdowns, deal with cranky emails, and continue to make this country greater than it's ever been. I have faith that he's going to make my local park greater. He's going to get rid of those geese (and their shit).

I believe.

Pinker's incremental pragmaticism does have it's problems. Robert Gordon, in his comprehensive work The Rise and Fall of American Growth claims that we've captured all the technological "low hanging fruit" and that advances will be tiny and slow for a long time. And Charles C. Mann provides a much more balanced picture in his new book, The Wizard and Prophet. Pinker is a fan of Norman Borlaug, the agricultural engineer who founded the Green Revolution‌, but there are those scientists who don't believe technology will bail us out of every dilemma. We might need old-fashioned conservation to preserve our way of life. Mann uses ecologist William Vogt to represent this perspective. It's one worth noting.

Pinker is also not very romantic. There's no room for honor and zealotry and fanaticism and mysticism and martyrdom and certain types of selfless ascetic heroism in his philosophy. He's no Hamlet, who says to his buddy Horatio: "There are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in your philosophy." But Hamlet has seen a spirit, his father's spirit. The time is out of joint. Something is rotten. That's not so in Pinker's secular, statistical view of progress. Society will be less varied, but I have to admit, I don't really care. I won't miss the zealous fanatical whirling mystical martyrs one bit.

I'd much rather have a river blindness vaccine. And people are working on it.

Please Do Not Tell My Wife About the "Send Audio Clip Over SMS" Feature (A Close Reading of an Irate Text)

My students have informed me that you can send an audio clip via SMS on an Android phone. Please do not inform my wife about this Android feature. I'm afraid she will use it.

I should preface this story with the fact that our dog Lola sheds a lot. And my wife drives a car with a black interior. And our dog is light brown.

More of a honey gold really. With some white spots. And she's a shedder. Drives my wife crazy.

This morning, I received three text messages in reference to an incident that happened yesterday afternoon. My wife discovered the evidence of the incident while driving our kids to school this morning. Apparently, she dictated the text to my son Alex as she drove. Then she asked him to read it back, to ensure that he captured her tone.

A couple things here.

First of all, I love that my wife used "fricking" instead of "the queen mother of dirty words." I think this is because she was dictating the message to our fourteen year old son. I asked Alex about this. He said that mom did use the word "fricking" and that he thought it was inappropriate to text his father the f-word anyway.

Second, despite the text format, my wife and Alex were fairly effective at yelling at me. I got the message loud and clear. They made liberal use of exclamation points and all caps, and there's even a sinister ultimatum. What the fuck might happen to me if I don't vacuum the car this weekend? I'm not going to chance it. If you seek me, I will be vacuuming the car.

This next line really resonated with the women in my office:

It's so unsatisfying yelling at you through a text.

My wife

And then she yells at me some more! She's "so mad" that her diction literally falls apart. Even though this is actually only poor typing on Alex's part, it's a happy accident. Form fitting function. Sound equals sense.

Finally, the existential "WHY?" Though it's not in my best interest, for the sake of accuracy, I will elaborate on this. Thursday afternoon, as I was coaxing the dog into the back seat of her car, I did indeed think to myself:

Why? Why am I doing this? I know our dog sheds. I know she's going to shed all over the black interior of my wife's car. I know I'm going to get in trouble for this . . . why? why don't I walk across the street to my car?

I had these thoughts, and I did it anyway. I loaded Lola into the back of my wife's car. It was so cold out. Frigid. And I was dying. I had a runny nose and a scratchy throat and my eyes were glassy. I was sick. And I was heroically taking the dog to the dog park so she could run around. And my van, my filthy smelly dented van, my van that was full of dog hair (which doesn't really show because the interior is light gray with lots of dirt stains) was across the street. And it was so cold. I didn't feel like walking the extra twenty yards. That's why I did it. Laziness. But laziness for good-- or at least reasonable-- reasons. It was cold, and I was dying. I may have saved my own life. I'm forty-eight years old. I can barely deal with a cold. How could I handle pneumonia?

Anyway, I read this text strand to my students and one of them immediately yelled: "She can yell at you through a text! She can send you an audio clip!"

I hope my wife doesn't start utilizing this Android SMS feature. Actual angry audio can be pretty intense. It would be a lot to handle at work. And then would I have to send a sincere audio apology? I'm not a voice actor! What if some sarcasm leaked into my message?

I think text is a better medium for yelling at someone than actual live full volume yelling. Real yelling is loud and scary, but with texting, you have a moment to respond properly . . . which I think I did. By the time we both got home from work, my wife was no longer angry. In fact, she agreed to let me use a "screenshot" of the text strand. My students had to teach me how to take a "screenshot" on my phone. They're very clever. They also taught me where to find it. In my "gallery." I had never used this Android feature before, but now that I know about it, I'm sure I'll use it again (unlike the send audio clip function, which I'm never going to use . . . I thought we invented texting to avoid talking).

New Paltz with No Kids: A Study in Words and Photos

Just after Christmas, my parents took our two boys to Florida with them. This afforded me, my wife, and our dog Lola a chance to take a kid-free vacation in the Hudson Valley. My kids got to relax and live it up with their grandparents in Naples. Their trip looked like this:

This is NOT their story. Theirs is a story of balmy weather, good eating, and luxurious living. They had a wonderful time and my wife and I are much obliged to Grammy and Poppy. But it's boring stuff.

This post is about what to do in New Paltz if you're lucky enough to go without your kids. In December. In all sorts of weather. In a tiny cabin. With a dog. And a sick wife. Not only will I regale you with my eloquent prose, but I'm also going to include a visual feast for the eyes: digital photos! I will save the best shot for last: during a chance wildlife encounter, I actually had the wherewithal to snap a picture with my cellular phone. I generally forget that my phone has this capability, but now I'm emboldened. Now I'm a photographer (as well as an expert at indoor plant installations . . . but that's for another post).

Two days after Christmas, we dropped the kids at my parents and headed to New Paltz for our romantic getaway. The dog traveled in the crate, which turned out to be a godsend. Lola normally pukes on longish car-rides-- which is not very romantic. She had recently puked directly into our tennis-ball hopper. The hopper contained at least forty-five tennis balls. Tennis balls have a radius of 1.25 inches, so if you multiply that by 4π then you get nearly twenty inches of surface area per tennis ball. There was dog vomit on most of the balls, hundreds of inches of vomit covered surface area. Really gross. But in her crate, she lay down and slept. Vomit-free trip. Very romantic.

While we were traveling northbound on Route 1, we saw something kind of sexy on a Sonic sign (if you're into carnivorous bestiality).

This is not the actual sign we saw, but apparently Sonic restaurants across the nation use this obscenely anthropomorphic/cannibalistic haiku as a marketing gimmick. The chicken strips in central Jersey go for $5.99.

Two hours after we imagined a pullet performing at a gentleman's club and then promptly being thrown into the deep fryer, my wife and I arrived at our cozy and dog-friendly Airbnb cabin on the Rail Trail, less than a mile outside of downtown New Paltz. The location couldn't have been better. You could hike the Rail Trail for miles into the wilderness, or you could go the opposite direction and stroll into town, passing through scenically historic Huguenot Street. We unpacked and got ready to begin our (moderately) romantic kid-free vacation. Moderately romantic because-- unfortunately-- my wife was recovering from strep throat and also had a nasty cold (and accompanying cough). Phlegm makes things a little less romantic than lack of phlegm. But despite this, to her credit, she never complained once . . . she just blew her nose a lot.

Our little cabin

It was a beautiful afternoon.We took the dog for a long hike down the Rail Trail and then pondered where we should go for an early dinner.

My wife looked over her handwritten list of great things to do around New Paltz, provided by her friend Kristen. Kristin highly recommended an Irish bar/restaurant called Garvan's. We checked the map and learned that while downtown New Paltz was nearly a mile from our cabin, Garvan's was only a few hundred yards. It was just across the Rail Trail, by the golf course. We were walking distance to a bar! On a vacation without the kids! Pretty sweet. And it had a fantastic happy hour.

Garvan's is in an old building near the club house of the New Paltz Golf Course. It's the most Irish place I've ever been (I've never been to Ireland). The owner-- Garvan-- was very friendly and very Irish. Thus I decided to go with the Guinness. It tasted especially good, which I mentioned to the bartender. It was the end of his shift, so he might have been a little more brusque than normal, but he basically told me that it had better taste good, since Garvan's was one of the few places in the country where Guinness had installed the tap, so the blend of nitrous oxide and CO2 was perfect. Okay, I said, that explains that. What else could I say?

Catherine went with a half and half (also known as a snakebite or a poor man's black velvet). It consists of half cider and half Guinness. We also had the beet and jicama salad, some truffle fries, and some sliders. And some fish and chips. Very Irish and very delicious. The place is awesome, especially for happy hour.

Then we walked back to the cabin, walked the dog, and watched Derry Girls. If you haven't seen it yet, Derry Girls is the perfect show to watch after going to an Irish bar. It's an Irish Netflix comedy; essentially Mean Girls meets Adrian McKinty's "Troubles Trilogy." Catholic school girls (and one boy) amidst the political/religious conflict in Northern Ireland. In the '90's. It's fabulous. (Also, I'm good buddies with Adrian McKinty, so I don't use him in an analogy unless I'm dead serious . . . check the comments).

The bed was a bit soft and there was some coughing and snoring from my wife's side of it, but I had consumed enough Guinness to sleep through the sniffling.

The next morning, I walked the dog down the Rail Trail again (while my wife slept). And I realized that while the location of the cabin was great, the cabin itself was not perfect. It was clean, and it was cheap, but it was cozy. I am a solidly built American male, so when I say the cabin was "cozy," I actually mean claustrophobically small. Normally when we travel, we make some coffee and grab a light breakfast at home, then do something active, eat lunch out, and then-- at least a few times-- we cook dinner back at the ranch. This is the most economical way to do it. Lunch is the cheapest meal to eat out. It's also nice to get back to home base for dinner. You can drink as many local beers as you desire, without worrying about driving under the influence in a new locale. And going out for breakfast is just stupid. Pay for eggs? I can make eggs.

This photo makes the kitchen look bigger than it actually is.

On this trip, our normal schedule got turned on its head. The first morning, I tried to make some coffee, but I kept banging into things in the kitchen. The kitchen was too small to make coffee in. I made an executive decision and told my wife we were going to the Mudd Puddle for coffee and breakfast. She readily agreed. She loves to go out for breakfast but recognizes that going out for breakfast defies all my logic and reason. Lunch food is better than breakfast food. I hate to eat before I do some exercise. If you eat breakfast out, then you're not hungry for lunch. If you eat breakfast out, then you're not ready to snowboard, ski, hike, run, etc. It's completely insane to eat breakfast out. But my claustrophobia (and the lack of children) overrode that decision.

We had been to New Paltz once before-- with the kids-- and remembered that the Mudd Puddle had the best coffee in the universe. While we would never bring the kids to a local coffee shop for breakfast-- the place was too small and slow and local-- we realized that we did not have the kids with us. We could bring our books and read while we drank coffee.

So we went to the Mudd Puddle, got coffee, read our books, and I ate a James Special sandwich, which involves eggs, bourbon-soaked bacon, balsamic caramelized onions, and some kind of homemade bread. It was wild! It was crazy! We were eating food before doing exercise. The sandwich was the best thing ever. I had one every morning for the rest of the trip.

Then the rains came. We beat a hasty retreat back to our tiny cabin. Catherine, still nursing her cold, fell fast asleep. I took the dog for a long walk down the Rail Trail in the rain. It was gross. Hugeonot Street was historical and scenic, but I was full from breakfast. It's hard to appreciate 17th century architecture when your is stomach is full and your socks are damp. I got back and we watched "Bandersnatch" on Netflix. It was fun to choose but the plot was only okay.

It was pouring. The kids were sending us pictures. Ian caught a lizard. They were lounging around the pool. What the fuck were we going to do? The cabin was tiny and it was raining cats and dogs. Once again, it took a moment to realize that we didn't have to amuse the kids. They were in Florida. We took a ride to the Yard Owl Brewery. It was run by James, the guy who owned the Mudd Puddle. The beer had to be good.

It was. But playing Bananagrams in a small craft brewery on the Hudson Valley Rail Trail with my beautiful (but phlegmy) wife was even better than the beer, though. Very relaxing. Time seemed to stand still. And you could blame it on her illness, but I kicked her ass three times in a row (which doesn't usually happen).

The best beer at the Yard Owl was the Chouette D'or. It was divine! Divine I say! And that means a lot, because I hate eating, drinking, and enunciating anything French. The Owlet was also tasty (and very cute). We also had a cheese plate with red onion relish. The red onion relish is to die for. To die for! And it doesn't have a French name.

Catherine also liked the local cider.

The next day the rains let up. We went hiking in the morning on one of the trails in the Mohonk Preserve. We wanted to see the Mohonk Testimonial Gatehouse up close. It was built in 1908 and apparently, it was in a 1985 horror movie called The Stuff.

The Mohonk trails are beautifully maintained, but there is a $15 dollar fee daily fee per hiker. Fuck that! We trespassed.

After going for a hike, we headed over to Mid Hudson Sporting Clays to shoot some shotguns.

This was harder than I imagined. Catherine was pretty good, but I kept picking my head up. Also, Steve-- our instructor-- gave me a "man's gun." A 12 gauge. Catherine got to use the 20 gauge. Every time I picked my head up to watch the shot fly, the gun kicked and hit me in the cheek. This hurt like hell. We shot fifty rounds. Forty of them whacked me in the cheek. Ouch. If you look closely at the picture, my cheek is swollen. I would have not made it very far in the Wild West. Clint Eastwood would have shot me while I was rubbing my swollen cheek.

Over the next few days we did more of the same (aside from the shooting). We visited Catherine's favorite cider house: Bad Seed. They had a lot of interesting ciders on tap. There was also a wild double birthday party going on in there. A gaggle of women in their mid-fifties dressed in 70's style clothing. Apparently, this is what you do around New Paltz. Drive out to breweries and cider houses and have a good time. They are spacious places. You can bring kids and dogs. It's a sweet set-up.

Here's a shot of historic Huguenot Street. If you look closely, you can see that I am balder than I think I am. If you look very closely, you'll see my dog's anus.

One morning we drove out to Lake Minnewaska and hiked from Awosting Falls up to the cliffs around the lake. It's a spectacular place.

Here's a shot of Awosting Falls. The falls were really running because of all the rain.

There were a couple of other excellent spots. Arrowood Farm-Brewery is scenic and has great beer. Another big open space that is dog and kid-friendly. The Main Street Bistro serves vegetarian food good enough to make me a vegetarian (at least for a little while, later in the day I couldn't pass up short rib sliders at Garvan's). We had one fancy meal at a place called A Tavola and it was worth it (and I hate expensive restaurants). Then we went to the Denizen Theater and saw a play called "Adaptive Radiation." The play was very experimental, as was the performance space. It's called intimate black box theater and it's cozy. By cozy, I mean claustrophobically small. We were right on top of the four actors; the stage and seats were in a sort of an alley set-up: the seats rose up on either side of the stage, so you were staring at half of the audience (I enjoyed seeing their reactions to all the weirdness in the play). The play was more professional than I thought, and it was also louder than I thought. I also think that theater should happen before dinner. As I pointed out, The Denizen Theater was a cozy space, and I had just drank quite a few Molly IPAs and eaten a heavy meal. There was certainly something brewing in my belly, and a brisk walk in the air would have been more appropriate than sitting very still in a small black room in close proximity to a bunch of strangers. I managed to curtail any flatulence, but it wasn't easy. I had to sit very still.

And now, as promised, I'll show you the pièce de résistance . . . some stunning wildlife photography. I was out walking with the dog at dusk, on the Rail Trail, and I felt a presence. Something looming over me. It was an owl! A very appropriate animal, since we had been to the Yard Owl Brewery (where Cat bought an owl hat). And the owl is the Highland Park mascot (Highland Park is the town in which I live and coach).

Because of all this heaping significance, I actually remembered to pull my cell phone out and snap a photo. A few people who saw the photo were curious as to my equipment: I used an LG Harmony phone to take this picture. It costs twenty dollars when you sign up for Cricket. I don't think I had it on the highest resolution. Here is the photo. It's a keeper!

Let me zoom in. This is the stuff of National Geographic.

A vivid memory from a fantastic trip.

We had a smooth ride back to Jersey, hosted a small New Year's Party/game night, and picked up the kids at the Trenton airport on New Year's Day. The kids were fat, happy, and tired. Alex had gained 8 pounds and Ian had put on 5.

Once we got home from New Paltz, the dog seemed pretty depressed but then when Ian walked in the house she went totally bananas. It was like a miniature version of the end of the Odyssey; Odysseus returns home after his twenty-year voyage and his dog Argus sees him and gets so excited that he dies. Lola did not die (nor did she pee in the house) but she was pretty damned excited to have the kids back (and so were Cat and I . . . especially because they had followed our instructions and watched Derry Girls, so we had a lot to discuss).

Life is Disgusting: Dawn to Dark Edition

We were practicing showing and not telling in Creative Writing this morning, and I like to practice what I preach, so here goes: we've been mired in humidity here in central New Jersey for the past few weeks; giant fungus is sprouting in weird formations (see the above photo I took at 5:45 AM this morning) and my classroom-- which does not have air-conditioning or a cross breeze and only has windows adjacent to a stagnant courtyard-- just might be the most humid place in this swamp-ass state . . . the desks are slick with a weird viscous scum, the carpet is moist, the laptops are slimy, and soon after entry, the teenagers are coated with glistening teen spirit; at 7:30 AM this morning my knees were already stuck to my pants and my boxer briefs were soaked through . . . you can imagine the rest of the day; it's also been raining every afternoon, so soccer practice has been a muddy mess and all my equipment smells of damp and mold; in the evenings, I've been trying to fix two dodgy toilets in the upstairs of my house, and while I finally conquered the commode just off our bedroom, I couldn't fix the American Standard in the hall (despite a stream of constant profanity) and ended up having to order a different part on Amazon-- my hands were inside the tank so long, as I tried to rebuild the flush valve apparatus, that they pruned-- and were also caked with the black rubber sediment from the flapper-- and then this afternoon, the finale, I tried to cure our dog's proclivity for carsickness by taking her on a couple of short car rides, but when I ran into the beer store to get a six pack, she threw up all over the soccer corner flags . . . the smell was particularly vibrant because of the barometric pressure and the already pungent smell of all the wet fabric in my van, so I unloaded everything, tried to get all the chunks out of the car, washed off the corner flags and then loaded the equipment-- aside from the vomit stained corner flags and poles-- back into the car beofre everything got even yuckier from the impending rain.

Dave Accessorizes!

It makes me extremely jealous that women have so many fabulous choices on how to accessorize their outfits-- scarves and brooches, feather boas and scrunchies, bangles and handbags-- so, to combat mundanity, I've added a couple of items to my fashion arsenal:

1) with my battery powered headlamp, not only am I a shining beacon of coolness in the 6 AM darkness, but I also don't trip on the uneven pavement near my house (the streetlight on our corner is out) and I'm able to let my dog pursue his interests (chasing deer in the park) without losing him . . . so shine on, you crazy fashionable Dave . . .

2) around the house, in the driveway, and even in the car on a quick errand, I am sporting a pair of OOFOS OOClogs to help my feet recover from plantar fasciitis . . . my wife is not smitten with these-- in fact, she called them "the world's ugliest pair of shoes," but I should point out that she has a long history of clog-hating (when she met my friend and rugby phenom Brian Hightower for the first time, she was not impressed, mainly because he was wearing a pair of hideous black clogs-- but also because he's short with a big head; Hightower let me try on the clogs and I really liked them, they were comfortable and easy to slip into; Catherine made some derogatory comments about the clogs and the type of men that wear them and then we went out and got drunk and I forgot all about the entire incident, but Whitney didn't, and a year later he gave me a pair of them for my birthday-- to Catherine's chagrin-- and I wore them until they fell apart . . . I'll never forget that gift, as it was both incredibly thoughtful and incredibly vengeful in equal measures).

Physics Equation with Dark Matter

Black fleece pants + black jacket + black rainy night + black Nike sneakers + black dog = almost getting hit by a car while walking the dog.

Miraculous Ironic Juxtaposition with Exceptional Significance

As I got in my 2001 green and tan Subaru Outback (this will be important later in the sentence) at the local Quikcheck, I noticed that a guy from my pick-up basketball game was sitting in the mini-van parked next to my car, and a fluffy little white dog was sitting on his lap-- and I took a look at my dog, who happened to be in the backseat of my Subaru, and I felt deep sympathy for this guy next to me, because my dog is excellent looking-- he's sleek and black and streamlined, like a sports car-- and I had a moment where I felt great pity for all dudes that have fluffy little white dogs, instead of super-cool muscular black dogs-- and then the moment passed and I pulled out of the Quikcheck and was nearly run off the road by an intimidating '70's era muscle car-- a Charger or a Mustang, I think-- it was wide and mean looking, blue, with a thick white stripe on the hood (it looked like the car from Saxondale)-- and I'm sure the dude driving it felt the same way about me and my lame Subaru Outback that I felt about the guy with the fluffy white dog; and there are two ways I might interpret this miracle of juxtaposition:

1) I should respect people's choices-- maybe some guys likes fluffy white dogs and it's none of my business to think otherwise, or . . . .

2) I need to purchase a vintage muscle car so that I can pity people driving Subarus and minivans (and I'm leaning towards #2 because in six years, I'll be fifty and then I get to have a mid-life crisis).

Circus Peanuts Beware

The Vermont Country Store in Weston is over-priced and full of kitsch, but these minor faults are overshadowed by the vast array of free samples: dips and chips and salsa; local cheeses and pepperoni; fudge and cookies . . . if you're trashy enough, you could skip paying for lunch next door at the Bryant House (the associated restaurant) and just graze your way through the enormous store, which is actually several connected old buildings; the candy section fills one of these structures, and it is a joy to behold, several hundred square feet of every kind of chocolate, sweet, and confection possible -- arranged in a maze of jars and bins and cases . . . and from this horn of sugary plenty -- to avoid gluttony -- we decided to each choose a small scoop of ONE item -- Ian filled his bag with candy blackberries and raspberries; Alex chose candy Lego bricks, Catherine got dark chocolate covered cranberries, and I had a hankering for black licorice -- but there was a LOT of black licorice to choose from: ropes and strands, dog shaped licorice, swirls, rounds, twizzlers, etc. -- I finally decided on some smallish rhombus shaped pieces with the word "ZOUT" stamped on each piece . . . I assumed this was the brand of the candy, but when we got into the car and sampled our treats, I nearly had to spit mine out -- it was incredibly salty . . . and I soon learned, after doing a bit of research, that zout means "salty" in Danish, and I had purchased the infamous Dutch double-salted licorice, which might not be a candy at all, and instead some sort of folkloric remedy for sore throats . . . some folks on the Internet mentioned eating it as a "rite of passage," and all this is fine and good -- you might know that I am a fan of the circus peanut, and not because of the taste of course (circus peanuts taste horrible, like disintegrating Styrofoam) but simply because they exist at all and people continue to buy them and someone must be eating them . . . but I do believe there should be some sort of warning on this Danish double salted stuff, because now I have a bag of them, and the only way to unload them is to foist them off on unsuspecting people who don't speak Dutch.