We Survived Dunkirk . . . and the Ride Home

The boys and I saw Dunkirk today and we survived-- but just barely; Christopher Nolan's film is loud, frantic, relentless and visually myriad . . . land, sea, and air-- each with its own time scale-- all of which eventually interlock in a moving but properly anticlimactic climax (this is the story of an evacuation, not a great victory, and while there are incredibly heroic individual acts and moments selfless behavior amongst the general chaos of hundreds of thousands of trapped soldiers being evacuated across the channel, from Dunkirk to England, the brilliance of this movie is that you don't get a clear look at a single Nazi, there are the Spitfires and the U-boats, and Germans occasionally shoot from afar, but this is essentially the story of heroic logistics, represented by Kenneth Branagh's stoic portrayal of Commander Bolton) and after two hours of shell shock and first-person virtual-reality warfare POV, I was fairly shook up . . . I wasn't able to properly relax until my son got the Planet Money podcast going in the car-- a brilliant story about Stephon Marbury's budget basketball shoe, the Starbury-- and I zoned out, listening, happy that I had successfully evacuated my children from Dunkirk, as we sped across the Morris Goodkind bridge on Route 1 and then--suddenly-- I was thrust back into the film, into the first person cockpit view, and something was speeding toward my face, a rock, a rock was hurtling towards my face and I ducked-- I actually ducked-- and the rock glanced off the windshield with a loud clack (chipping it) and the kids were like "What the hell!" and I noticed that the truck ahead of me had a sign on it that read "CONSTRUCTION VEHICLE  DO NOT FOLLOW" and so I pulled into the right lane and stopped following it.

What Doesn't Kill You Makes You Stronger? We'll See . . .

I like to paddleboard on the Raritan River, mainly as a matter of convenience, as I live only a few hundred yards from a boat launch, and though I know the water isn't pristine, I prefer not to think about what's in the sauce, and instead I enjoy the views of the New Brunswick skyline, the Rutgers crew complex, and the rugged and forested cliffs directly across from the park (not to mention the large swath of open water as the river approaches the Donald and Morris Goodkind Bridges) but now that my children are also paddleboarding on the river . . . and falling into the river, as kids are wont to do, this report scares me a bit . . . apparently, the river is full of more than savage monsters, it also contains an unhealthy amount of mercury, benzene, arsenic, oil and gas drips, toxic fertilizer, and goose feces . . . a toxic brew, which-- best case scenario-- will turn my children into radioactive superheroes, or -- more likely -- it will do some weird and awful stuff to their innards, and because we don't have a control, a Family of Dave living next to a perfectly clean unpolluted river, we'll never know the exact effect recreating on the Raritan has on my kin.

Someone Always Has It Worse (And He Might Be in the Lane Next to You)

Saturday, I was zooming across the Morris Goodkind Bridge, driving home from Gasko's Family Farm and Greenhouse, with a van loaded with mulch, topsoil, and two Leyland cypresses -- and I wasn't particular happy with plans for the afternoon, which involved some heavy lugging, some digging, and some planting -- but then I heard a loud WHAP and looked over at the car next to me and saw that his hood had flown into his windshield, completely obscuring his view (and shattering the windshield, I'm sure) and, luckily, there wasn't much traffic on the bridge, so he was able to steer onto the shoulder without plunging into the Raritan River, but his engine was steaming and that's no place to be stuck . . . and after seeing that up close, my fate for the rest of the afternoon seemed a lot more palatable.

Dave Coins a New Verb

Tuesday after school, while I was walking the dog, I blair-witched myself in the small patch of woods between Donaldson Park and the Donald Goodkind Bridge . . . but after twenty minutes of walking in circles, I was able to extricate myself (and my dog) before Rustin Parr slaughtered us in his shack.

Urban Paddle-boarding Emergency! (A Ridiculous Riparian Adventure)

I took my stand-up paddleboard out on the Raritan this afternoon-- it's a dirty river, but the boat launch is only a couple hundred yards from my house, so despite the dead seagulls, I try to enjoy it as best I can-- and while when I paddleboard on the ocean, I hope to see dolphins and other beautiful sea life, I don't expect much on the river . . . however, today proved to be very, very different: three minutes after I shoved off from the dock, three fire trucks and an ambulance raced into the park, followed by several other vehicles; one of the fire trucks backed a small boat into the water, loaded with firemen, and they zipped past me and headed towards the nearby Donald Goodkind Bridge . . . and there were emergency vehicles up on the bridge, lights flashing, and a number of people looking down into the water . . . so I yelled to one of the firemen "What's going on?" and he told me that someone jumped off the bridge, apparently following in the footsteps of Detective Vin Markazian-- who leapt to his death off the same bridge in Season 1 of The Sopranos-- so once I found out this information, I kept paddling towards the scene, of course, despite the fact that I had to battle the wake of several boats, because when do you get to see an emergency situation on a stand-up paddleboard?-- and then a boat chugged past me headed the opposite direction, towards the way I came, so I turned and followed it: it was a small fishing skiff with a tiki hut and several corny flags flying that said things like COLD BEER and THE BAR IS OPEN and GONE FISHING . . . but it turns out this unlikely vessel fished the man out of the water, and delivered him to the dock, where he was taken into the ambulance waiting at the foot of the boat launch . . . and I find this slightly sad (and a little ironic) that whoever decided to end their life didn't have a more regal delivery from the murky waters of the Raritan, but I guess that's what you get when you jump off a bridge in Jersey . . . it's no Viking funeral, but it could have been worse . . . he could have been dragged in by a curious dude on a stand-up paddleboard (and I later found out that the man survived, and was actually treading water when the "Good Samaritan" boat rescued him).

2012: More of The Same . . .

Catherine began the New Year in her own typical fashion: she called our home phone from a park in Milltown and I listened to her message and attempted to call her back, but I couldn't find our land-line handset-- I even pressed the "Find Handset" button, but no luck-- so I called her back with my cell-phone and by this time she was driving back down Route 1, and I asked her about the handset and after a long pause she said, "I think I left it on the roof of the car," and-- miraculously (and I don't use that word lightly) the phone was still on the roof of the car when she arrived home-- it survived two trips on Route 1 and crossed both the Donald and the Morris Goodkind Bridges . . . an astounding journey, especially considering most of the other objects Catherine has left on the roof of our car have not fared so well . . . and devout fans might remember that the first Sentence of Dave dealt with this same topic, all the way back in 2007, and things haven't changed much since. 

Arachnophobes Beware!

My Jeep does not have power windows nor does it have air-conditioning, and I am not very tall, so it's quite a reach for me to roll down the passenger side window while I am driving, but in the summer this is often necessary in order to get a cross breeze and a bit of ventilation, and so the other morning I took the time to do this safely before I began to drive; a moment later, I saw-- out of the corner of my eye, something move in the center of that space where the window was; I turned my head and observed an obscenely large and fat banded garden spider suspended on a web in the space between the side mirror and the roof . . . floating in the center of that open window, and so-- with an effort worthy of Patrick "Eel" O'Brian-- I leaned over while driving and rolled that window up so the spider wouldn't blow into the car (not that there aren't spiders living in my car) and continued driving, glancing over every so often to see if the spider was still hanging on . . . and every time I turned my head, it was still there . . . it hung there all the way through Highland Park, and onto Woodbridge Avenue, and was still holding tight when I got on Route 1 South, and so I sped up as I crossed the Donald Goodkind Bridge, I sped up to forty-five then fifty then sixty, but still the spider held on, so I drove faster (as any police officer would understand, if they had the slightest empathy for an arachnophobe) until , finally, at nearly eighty miles an hour, the spider was dislodged and disappeared, like Vin Makazian, over the side of the bridge . . . and this is disturbing to me, because that means when you walk into a spider web and try to shake the spider and the web off your face and hands, you need to generate a lot of speed to get that thing off of you.