Is This Relaxing?

When I get home from school, to relax, before I go play pickleball or lift weights or walk the dog and steal rocks from the park, I play a five-minute game of speed chess . . . while drinking coffee—but perhaps I should meditate or do tai chi or something more relaxing, to relax?

My Knee is a Blender?

Over the last three weeks, I've received three hyaluronic acid shots in my knee, and now all I have to do is sit back and let the gel blend with my existing joint fluid, which will dilute the inflammatory enzymes that break down cartilage . . . or so I hope-- I will say that I played pickleball yesterday and biked home, and my knee feels pretty good today, so perhaps the gel is blending.

One Sentence College Essay Workshop (Complete With Videos)

During the first month of school, when I start to lose my voice—which I inevitably do: allergies and all the talking—I actually have some videos to fall back on (because of all the remote teaching during COVID) and I realized that I've never posted them . . . and that I may never tell these stories again, as they are very particular to certain lessons; yesterday the seniors were working on the College Essay, something in which I am certainly an expert; the first thing we do is list our "great" accomplishments, and then we try to figure out how to discuss these accomplishments without sounding pompous or arrogant or didactic or annoying—college essay prompts set kids up to be annoying . . . and I also remind them that they are children, and they may not have any actual "great" accomplishments and they have to be generous and open and sincere— being nice to your parents is a great accomplishment, as is having a wonderful friend group, or asking someone out on a date, or learning to cook something—it doesn't have to be a perfect score on the SAT or straight As or athletic prowess or digging wells for homeless orphans in Nicarauga . . . and then I give them two techniques to use when writing about this accomplishment; they could either tell a solid story (I give them the Dan Harmon 8-step story template and focus on the heavy price-- if you don't have a heavy price it's just an anecdote) and then I present them with two true stories from my high school golf career-- STORY NUMBER ONE and STORY NUMBER TWO . . . and I ask them which one would make for a better college essay (I also tell them that one of these stories WAS my college essay) and we discuss which story is more appropriate-- there's usually some debate (but the second story was my actual college essay . . . though I am the villain, as there's much better lesson and there's a heavy price for my actions) but then I give the kids an alternate route-- if you don't have a compelling structured story about your accomplishment or passion, then I tell them to develop something symbolic-- and I show them The Story of the String Bag, in which I describe how this string bag incident is a metaphor for coaching, symbolic of what it is like to be a coach-- which is a much better way to discuss something than listing all your accomplishments, which sounds more like a resume-- and then I made the kids watch my amazing, incredible pickleball video, in which I execute an ATP and I told them how great I am at pickleball and I made them applaud for my shot, and then I told them that they should not have applauded for me and no one likes a braggart and that I am actually BANNED from discussing pickleball in the English Office and I explained that if I were to write a College Essay about pickleball, instead of focusing on my incredible skills and ability, I would talk about pickleball and the the relationship with my brother-- and how it gives us something to do together— my brother was the one who pressed the button at the pickleball place so that my ATP video would be recorded, and my brother is the one who taught me to play, and pickleball is something we can do together-- not all siblings have that . . . so I would write about what pickleball symbolizes, a way for me to get together with a family member-- not about how good I am-- and the kids understood this concept, and then, while I was recounting all these sports stories and trying to teach them how to NOT to sound like an asshole, I remembered a moment from when I played freshman football that would be perfect for a college essay, a symbolic moment—so I tried to explain this to my three college writing classes and I learned that most kids do NOT understand football at all; my hypothetical essay was about switching from soccer to football-- I was the fastest kid in 8th grade—but no one wants to hear about how fast you are, that's not an essay-- so i would write about how I decided to switch from soccer to football because it was the 1980s and football was what the cool kids played, so I thought it would be a great avenue for scoring with the ladies (despite my bowl haircut and feathery, never-been-shaved mustache) and because I was fast, the coaches put me at running back (they didn't let me play defense because I couldn't really tackle anybody) and I asked my students where you should run on a soccer field and they kind of understood this—that you're allowed to run wherever you want: into space, you can check to the ball, you can get wide, you can go forwards, etcetera . . . it's free range—but then I asked them where you run on a football field, and it was like pulling teeth; barely anyone understood the concept of a PLAY or a ROUTE . . . and literally no student had heard the concept of a hole, a numbered spot where you were supposed to run because people were blocking for you there—because when I started playing football, I had a soccer mentality and never ran to the correct hole and that would be what my essay would focus on, the difference between soccer and football-- and there was this one symbolic moment, when I actually saw my coaches jump for joy at what I did-- and I wasn't running with the ball, all I did was successfully execute my "Gap Read Down" assignment and properly block the defensive end instead of going out wide-- our fullback gained some yards and the coaches were ecstatic that I didn't fuck up again . . . after one season I had enough though, football was too rigid and practice was boring-- too much runng through all these plays-- and so I switched back to soccer because I loved the autonomy . . . it would be a great college essay, as long as the reader had some knowledge of sports (and my students do not have much knowledge of sports . . . it's wild to explain this stuff to them).

I Should Have Biked to the Train

 

Yesterday, I took the train down to Hamilton to play in Battle Royale Six, an unsanctioned but incredibly well-structured pickleball tournament that my brother's buddy Craig organizes—teams of four, selected by captains, compete against each other for cash and medals—and then everyone goes to my brother's house for a Labor Day BBQ . . . and I was on my brother's team, and we played very well when we played together; we beat some of the best two-person teams—but we didn't do all that well when we were separated, although our team squeaked into the playoffs, and Marc and I beat our pairing, but our partners lost, so we had to play a "Dream Breaker" tiebreaker—you play four points and then swap out, and the other two players on your team play four points, and you play to 15 . . . we lost by a point and then lost the Bronze match 22-20—a guy nailed an ATP from a ball that bounced off the net, absurd—but I was happy that we were competitive, I haven't played against guys this good since June; all told we were on the courts from 10:30 AM to nearly 3:30 PM—I got over 20,000 steps, and I could barely walk by the end of it . . . and then we headed to my brother's house for food and cornhole . . . a few hours later, my mom drove me to the Hamilton Train Station, and I caught the 8:07 PM train to New Brunswick and I was planning on ubering the last mile home, instead of walking, but it was an 8 minute wait and the uber ride cost 13 bucks, so I figured I could walk it, but by the time I got up the hill (and to pass the time while I trudged along, I computed that I've made that walk from Highland Park to New Brunswick and back over 1000 times) my legs and knees were really giving out-- this was mainly due to an unforeseen factor, I was carrying a gym bag with all my pickleball equipment and clothing and water bottles and all that and the bag got HEAVIER and HEAVIER during my walk, until it was made of lead-- but luckily, when I was a little more than halfway home, a passing car slowed down-- they recognized that the person trudging along was barely able to move their legs-- and this turned out to our friend Colleen and she stopped and gave me a ride home and then I ate some raviolis-- I was hungry again-- and passed out (next time I will wait for an uber . . . or bike to the station: I saw a lot of people bringing bikes on the train, apparently you can do that on off-peak hours or the weekend-- that would be a great way to get home after a long day on your feet).

These Are a Few of My Favorite F@cking Things

Our beach vacation—and the summer itself-- are coming to a rapid end, so this morning I decided to cram in a few of my favorite things before the thunderstorms:

1) I went to Wardell Park and played some pickleball—it was hot and humid, and I really worked up a sweat;

2) when I got back from pickleball, I got on my bike and rode to the beach and jumped in the ocean and took a swim—this makes my knees feel great, and I will truly miss this when we return home . . . in all my time at the Jersey Shore, the water has never been warmer . . . I know that when I finish playing pickleball back in Central Jersey, I should come home and take a cold shower or go to the Y and swim in the pool—but it's not the same as biking down to the beach, standing knee-deep for a while contemplating the waves, and then diving into a wave and swimming around for a bit, buoyant and also able to flush out my nasal cavities without shame—because the ocean is so fucking big, what's a little more snot in it?

3) I went to Jody & Jodee's Fish Market and got yet another incredible fried fish sandwich—and I took some surreptitious photos while I was waiting for my tilefish on a roll because this place is Jersey as fuck . . . you couldn't invent the people who wandered in-- and where else can you get a fresh fried bluefish sandwich for $8.99?

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 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.

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.

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).

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).

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

The Method

At my age and fitness level, the rules of the game seem to be: no impact sports (pickleball, basketball, soccer, tennis) two days in a row-- and try not to play pickleball for much more than two hours-- and then right after playing an impact sport, go swimming at the YMCA in the colder, full-length competition pool-- just a few laps and some stretching and then a hot shower . . . and then you can actually walk into New Brunswick for the USA vs. Australia World Cup game and not look like a limping geezer.

Addendum: the method did NOT work today; I got a hamstring cramp at Destination Dogs while watching the game . . . not incapacitating, but maybe I shouldn't always swim after impact sports.

Jersey's Finest

Today was the best possible weather-- sunny and dry and 78 degrees-- and I know other parts of the country experience this regularly (fuck you, San Diego) but for Jersey, it was a slice of heaven . . . I biked over to Buccleuch Park for some pickleball, biked home to a lovely ravioli dinner, and because it was so dry, despite all the exercise, my shoes and feet didn't reek.

It Was a Good Day

I took my last personal day today, and it's been a pretty good day, pretty pretty good . . . I walked the dog-- no barkin', no smog-- and then worked on my podcast, ate some leftover pizza for breakfast, went to Ace and played several hours of indoor pickleball-- where I'm trouble-- and then drove straight from pickleball to the pool and swam a few laps, came home and took a two-hour nap, roused myself and went out to Shanghai Dumpling for Ian's birthday-- he turns twenty-one tomorrow-- and now I'm settling in to watch the USA vs. Paraguay World Cup game, and I've got the brew and the chronic, and I didn't have to use my AK-- I don't even own an AK-- so I gotta say, it was a good day.

Schizophrenic Saturday, So Far

A raw, rainy Memorial Day Weekend Saturday, which has had a bipolar quality-- I had so much fun playing pickleball this morning with my brother, Ann, and Craig-- we started at 7:30 AM at Ace in North Brunswick (they open at 6 AM?!) and played together for two hours, and then Marc and I whipped all comers ont he challenge courts until I realized I had to get out of there and help my son move out of his apartment in New Brunswick-- that was NOT so much fun and more about carrying overpacked bags of clothes and books (children don't know how to repsonsibly pack things) and tearing apart and tossing old furniture, but we got done a decent amount (although the job is not done, I will have to go back Sunday and Monday-- yuck) and now I am very sore-- I am too old to do two physical things in one day) but eagerly awaiting tonight's Knicks game.

Pickleball is the New Frisbee Golf?

Buccleuch Park-- which is adjacent to Rutgers College Avenue campus— now contains eighteen (count them!) pickleball courts, and the youngsters have discovered the game-- there were only two free courts left when all of us old folks got there today . . . the place was mobbed with college students, and they are, as a group: terrible at pickleball; they hit the ball all over the place; they walk behind courts while points are being played; they stand around in awkward places; they blast terrible music; and they don't wear nearly enough clothing for the weather . . . but I guess they are the future of the sport . . . the tennis courts are empty.