The Keys That Broke the Cat's Back

My wife went home from the beach yesterday to set up her classroom and harvest produce from her garden, and she didn't arrive back to our beach house until 9 PM—and she brought back various things we forgot to originally pack or needed: a fan, boogie boards, dog food, dog shampoo, some groceries, and her weighted (12-pound) vest, which I left in the car because I didn't feel like carrying it (it's heavy!) and then this morning, I moved her car out of our narrow driveway and snagged a spot down the street so that visitors could pull in, and when she was leaving to go for a walk, she asked, "Where's my weighted vest?" and I told her I left it in the car because it was heavy and I didn't feel like carrying it in last night, and then she said, "Where'd you park the car?" and I told her I parked it down the street, and then she produced a discontented grunt, and I asked why she was annoyed,, and she said she didn't want to carry her car keys around while she took her walk, and I said, "You're putting on a twelve-pound vest but you don't want to carry car keys? Seriously?" and then I brought up the whole straw-that-broke-the-camel's-back proverb, and she said something about the size of her pockets, and I was like, "Put the keys in the vest! You won't even notice!" and she laughed and went on her walk.

A Man Can Dream

My wife and I took a bike ride to the Asbury Sunday Market this morning, and I bought a loaf of sourdough bread and some wild mushrooms, and then we continued biking north along the coast into the high-rent districts of Loch Arbor, Allenhurst, and Deal-- and as we biked past the Gatsby-esque houses and estates, there was a small part of me that hoped that somoene pulling out of one of these driveways, in a Land Rover or an Aston Martin, might graze me with their expensive car-- nothing to awful, but maybe knock me down, maybe I'd suffer a broken wrist or a concussion, and the owner of this fabulously expensive house and car, maybe this person had a couple of DUIs in the past, and they've already been drinking a bit and they really don't want the authorities involved in this accident so they're like "How about two million dollars to keep this quiet? What's your Venmo?" and the Venmo goes through and I get an Uber to the hospital to get patched up and then I retire and buy a beach house.

Sometimes You've Got to Use Force When You're a Man

This morning, my wife wanted to bike down to the ocean for beach yoga, but her bike lock was jammed (I was also planning on attending beach yoga, but the Moccios showed up last night and I overindulged, so fuck that) and so she drove her car down to the beach for yoga, leaving me with the project of unjamming her bike lock; I googled the problem and the internet told me to lubricate the lock and then try to feel the tumblers falling into place—they might be out of whack—and gently pull the lock apart- with the force that you use to open a refrigerator door . . . same with the YouTube video I watched, the guy said the important thing was NOT to use too much force, so I greased up the lock with some Pam cooking spray and tried to gently prize it apart but no dice, so then I grabbed a variety of tools and implements from the kitchen and tried to gently pry it apart—a bottle opener, a fork, a butter knife, etc.-- and then I noticed the plastic combination rings were starting ot crack and decided to apply a bit more force—perhaps if I could see what was going on under the plastic?--and I cracked one of the rings, and it did not help; there was no little button under the plastic that said "Press Me To Open a Jammed Lock," and so I went back inside and—BINGO! -- I found a screwdriver, and so first I ordered Catherine a new lock from Amazon, and then I took the screwdriver and went at the stupid lock, ripping apart the plastic rings and jamming the screwdriver in the device and leveraging the metal, cutting my hand in the process, but I finally got the screwdriver somewhere fatal and ripped the lock apart—and I was very satisfied when it slid open, despite the fact that I ignored all the advice on the internet, because-- like Kenny Rogers said-- sometimes you've got ot use force when you're a man.

Everybody Likes a Compliment (especially Dave)

As is our usual habit, my wife and I were doing the NYT puzzle Connections yestermorning, and I whizzed right through without making an error, so I celebrated my intellectual magnificence, 

and my wife said to me, "You don't need to brag," 

so I said to her, "I always compliment you when you finish quickly," 

and she said, "That's different," 

so I said, "No, it's not—bragging is just complimenting yourself."

It's Hot, Widespread Panic HOT

This morning I took our dog Lola to the Asbury Park dog beach, and a good time was had by all—quadrupeds and hominids alike—but it was fucking HOT, and it was only 7:30 AM . . . it was heinously, hellishly hot and humid, unprecedentedly oppressive, stoically still . . . or that's how James Ellroy's sleazoid shakedown artist Freddy Otash would describe it—I just finished Widespread Panic, which is not exactly a beach read, but while we're on vacation, I'm going to try to power through Ellroy's second L.A. Quartet—A.K.A. the Freddy Otash Quartet . . . here's how Ellroy describes Otash in an L.A.P.D. confidential memorandum in The Enchanters: "Mr. Otash . . . a freelance extortionist, scandal-rag dirt digger, strongarm goon, perpetrator of divorce shakedowns, doper of racehorses, informant for Chief William H. Parker, procurer and dope conduit for President John F. Kennedy" and in Widespread Panic Otash blackmails, digs dirt, strongarms, and leverages such stars as James Dean, Rock Hudson, Natalie Wood, and Elizabeth Taylor—I could barely follow his drunken, dexedrine-fueled machinations—but that's how it is with Ellroy, you just groove on the vibe and pick up what you can . . . anyway, I'm sure I'll get some reading done today as I'm going to remain in the AC for a while; I biked down to the beach and took a swim after my journey to the dog beach, and the water is sublime, but the beach itself is baking; my wife was down there in a beach yoga class with a bunch of other fit, good-looking women, but watching them just made me feel sad and out-of-shape . . . there's no way I could survive an hour of gyrating like that on the hot sand, especially while staring at the lovely clear blue ocean-- I'd last ten minutes and then get up and jump in the water.

Dave Visits Two Beaches, Bitches

Over the past two days, I was lucky enough to experience the splendid enchanted isolation of what is basically a private beach on the Outer Banks-- my buddy Whitney's family has a half share in a house that's on the Historic Beach Cottage Row: these are very old, wood-shingled, weather-beaten original beach cottages (many from the 1800s) that are ocean front and essentially have private beach access . . . so while you may be able to spy another family or person here and there, it's mainly you and the sea oats, the dunes, the sand, and the sea (and, in our case, nineteen of your oldest friends-- loud and drunk-- constantly interrupting any chance you might have at listening to the soothing sound of the surf or achieving inner peace and tranquility) and now-- after much driving-- I'm back in Jersey, at the beach-- Bradley Beach in particular-- and the difference is remarkable; I got up early this morning, biked over the bridge to Belmar and then back to Bradley Beach on the boardwalk, and then did some sprints in the sand and took a swim (the water is tropical) and the main difference is people, the density of people . . . people at Jersey beaches get up early and run, bike, kick box, exercise, do you yoga, smoke pot, ride one-wheelers . . . whatever, it's fun and inspirational and always makes me exercise a bit harder than I would have-- there's so many fit people really pushing it; there were also people already set up on the beach-- at 7:30 AM!-- claiming some real estate and ready to put in a full beach day of relaxation and recreation . . . and we are a ten minute walk to the beach, or a short bike ride, but we're close to main street and a plethora of bars, restaurants, distilleries, breweries, laundromats, auto-body shops, the train tracks, a train station, and a park that has music every night . . . while I like the proximity of the ocean and the incredible scenery of the Outer Banks, if I had my druthers of where to relocate, it would be Asbury, Ocean Grove, or Bradley Beach (although one difference that can be annoying is that on Jersey beaches, you need to pay for a badge to be on the beach-- and while sometimes this is not enforced, my wife saw a head lifeguard freaking out about all the people already on the beach at 9 AM-- before the badge people patrol the entrances and he told her, "We have to walk the beach and check! we have to issue citations! These people are stealing services! Stealing services!" and my wife saw a beach badge crackdown go down).

The Mall is a Mess

Full disclosure: I love shitty hotel gyms—probably because I wake up early and this gives me a destination while my wife sleeps, and there is always one other lunatic in there with me; that is how I began my day yesterday, and then Cat and I took the Metro from DuPont Circle to The Mall— and the Mall is a MESS . . . Apparently there is going to be a Grand Prix race later in August and so there are crews tearing up streets, building giant grandstands (which obscure the view of the Capitol building and the Washington Monument) and there are chain link fences and barricades made of rubber tires everywhere— it’s not particularly aesthetically pleasing, and I’m not sure why we have to race cars around to celebrate 250 years of America— a horse race would be more appropriate, especially considering that our reliance on the car and gasoline usage are what has America over the barrel— but don’t get me started— anyway, we wandered through the wreckage but thoroughly enjoyed our time in the National Botanic Gardens and the lovely courtyard within, and the Hirshhorn Museum has an incredible collection of modern art and complementary Basquiat and Banksy pieces that pretty much explain post-modernism, and then we walked to The National Portrait Gallery— and after a quick stop at Compass Coffee, I highly recommend their nitro cold brew— we enjoyed seeing paintings of all the presidents (and a photo of Donald Trump, looking extra tough) and the various other historical portraits and portrayals— I can see why people like this museum, as it’s a nice break from the surrealism and abstraction of Modernism and post-modern art . . . there’s recognizable people in these painting; then we took the Metro back to our hotel, swam in the pool, and headed to Boqueria DuPont Circle for happy hour drinks and tapas— lovely spacious bar, which is the difference between DC and NYC— DC has height requirements on the buildings, nothing more than 10 stories or so, which makes the city much more spacious and spread out, there’s not the crowded density of Manhattan or Philly— which is nice when you’re in a bar, but not so great for walking (I racked up 26,000 steps yesterday) and my wife questioned this number because she only had 20,000 steps but I reminded her that I wake up early and I’m always pacing around and then, after we went to the Western Market and ate some ice cream, we did a calibration test and walked the same distance and she registered 366 steps and I registered 372 steps, which is a negligible difference— though she claims I “wave my arms around a lot” and that’s why I get more steps— anyway, we fell asleep to an Office marathon while our children played ping-pong and partied hard in our driveway, enjoying the parent-free home (but we can spy on them with the Ring camera, which is fun) and no Cat is headed back home on the train and I am headed to Norfolk for OBFT XXXIII.

From Jersey to Double DC

Yesterday my wife and I drove through violent rain to Washington DC— for two hours, it was a white-knuckle drive, and— as usual on the Turnpike— despite the weather, people were driving like assholes and there were several accidents; but we arrived at the Hyatt near DuPont Circle (double DC!) safe and sound, my wife jumped out with the stuff, and I attempted to navigate to the parking garage, but Google led me astray and I pulled into the wrong underground garage— so I switched to Waze (I’m tech savvy like that) and blindly backed out into M Street— a move that would have met with ire, honking, and perhaps a collision in NYC, but the people are more forgiving in the South, so the maneuver went fairly smoothly— I found the deck, parked, reconnoitered with my wife and we went and got some happy hour dumplings and noodles and beer at an unassuming restaurant called CHIKO— a portmanteau of Chinese and Korean and a really cool and affordable casual place serving upscale Asian comfort food— we’d go back— then we got lost inside the O Mansion, one of the weirder museums I’ve ever wandered through— it’s five connected row houses full of vintage treasures and vintage junk, with no real differentiation between the two categories of stuff— piles of stuff, signed guitars and toys and paintings and photographs and antiques and clothing— but the fun is exploring the houses, which are connected by many many secret doors— we found quite a few— one led to a log cabin inside the house, hard to explain but an epic place and worth a visit— it’s also a working hotel and bar; after a couple hours inside that weirdness, we walked to a local dive—The Commodore— and had espresso martinis and chatted with the bartender; then we took a swim in the little pool in the basement of the Hyatt-- caution, world's slipperiest floor--took a nap, walked over to the City Tap House for beers and some sliders . . . a good half day of vacationing, after an awful drive.

What Happened at Roy Rogers in 1995, Remained at Roy Rogers in 1995 . . .

My wife and I are about to leave for Washington, D.C. and after we spend a couple of nights sightseeing, she will take the train home, and I will continue on to Norfolk and the Outer Banks to see my college buddies-- but hopefully when we stop for lunch THIS WON'T HAPPEN . . . or if it does happen, since now we live in a time period where everything awkward and embarrassing is caught on video, perhaps it will be a blessing in disguise and I'll be able to retire immediately.

Living Under the Shadow of a Big Dumb Cup

My wife and I went to my buddy Terry's yesterday for some poolside fun, and while the food and the weather and the water and the company were all fantastic, the best thing about this outing to the suburbs of Manalapan—which is a fairly long drive from Highland Park, especially due to the state of Route 18—is that my wife left her Big Dumb Cup at Terry's house (and this blunder was in no way engineered by me . . . I'm not that smart) and so my wife's menacing behemoth cup (and the straw) are a good thirty-five minutes from our kitchen . . . but now my wife is threatening to buy another Big Dumb Cup to replace this one—because apparently all of our other water bottles suck—so my nightmare might be doubled if my wife purchases another one and then Terry returns the one she left . . . right now I'm enjoying life out from under the looming shadow of the Big Dumb Cup, but for how long, for how long?

We Live in a Twilight World

Today I finished watching Tenet, which is generally considered Christopher Nolan's least-liked movie—but luckily, this is my son Alex's favorite Christopher Nolan movie, and he has seen it multiple times, so he provided a helpful (if sometimes overbearing) running commentary as I watched . . . the film is a combination of Shane Carruth's time travel masterpiece Primer and a typical spy thriller, such as The Bourne Identity, and if you can't watch it with my son (who understood Primer on his first viewing) then you might need to look at a chart or watch a YouTube video to understand the way various characters weave their way forwards and backwards through time, or you could just watch it without comprehending all that and simply enjoy Kenneth Branagh's Russian accent and Elizabeth Debicki's lithesome figure (Debicki pretty much plays the same role in The Night Manager . . . a beautiful trophy wife married to an evil arms dealer, and she gets mixed up with a spy).

Nobody Wants to Hear This Shit

My wife and I spent a few days at the beach—we stayed with my cousins—and while I couldn't play pickleball with my brother because of my knee, just about everything else was lovely: an east wind blowing off the ocean; cornhole and beers on the beach; a brand new cousin, little baby Emerson; geocaching success with Kim and my wife in Strathmere; Bananagrams with my mom; good food at La Finestra and Johnny Cutlets and Phil's Famous Pizzeria (who knew they had the best cheesesteak around? my cousin Kim, that's who) and on the homefront (my wife's homemade meatballs) and our children did a good job taking care of the house and the dog (they even took out the garbage) but nobody wants to hear about this kind of shit, how great it was at the beach, how nice it was on vacation, so I'll skip to the mishaps and controversy, which were rather minor:

1) after taking a nap, my wife slipped and fell on the concrete steps walking to the beach and scraped up her knees and hands (but actually escaped without much damage, considering)

2) the house my cousin Jeff rented, which is on the beach, is quite fantastic except for one complaint . . . and this complaint was only from the ladies, who took offense—but I thought it was kind of endearing . . . the owner of the house went nuts with his label maker and labelled EVERYTHING; like I said, the women found this overbearing, but I liked it, I never know where anything goes or how anything works . . . I've provided photographic evidence to do the labeling justice . . . and I love the the owner requests on the glasses shelf "If It Breaks, Please Replace" and that he labeled a large clam shell with the address number.

There's No Basement at the Alamo, and There's No Water Closet Inside the Trojan Horse

My wife and I saw the Rutgers Cinema matinee showing of The Odyssey—five bucks! --But apparently we should have sprung to see it in IMAX . . . regardless, the movie is very entertaining, looks beautiful, and it is truly epic in length—but I am proud to say I made it all three hours without getting up to pee (but my knee really stiffened up), and while there are some significant differences between the film and Homer's epic poem, most of the classic signposts occur—but there are some modern touches: Penelope espouses some feminist convictions; the gods are less physically present, and there's more about regret and trauma; Odysseus is less of a trickster and more of a damaged action hero; there are some digs about how civilization has lost its way; the Trojan Horse ruse is grimly illustrated from the inside of the horse; and some of the bewitched romance between Odysseus and Circe and Odysseus and Calypso is revised . . . in other words, this cinematic Odysseus has a lot less fun than the protagonist of the poem . . . but Travis Scott, as an entertaining bard recounting the tale, makes up for this as he pounds the floor in dactylic hexameter.

Let Us Reflect Upon How Menacing These Big Dumb Cups Are

My high school students, my wife, and-- according to this SNL Skit-- a large portion of the female populace (i.e. pretty ladies who drive massive cars; women between the ages of 12 and 70; women who visit Target on the daily; women who are "physically, or at least spiritually, blond") possess Big Dumb Cups—and any time I see these things in the wild (unless they are in a car cupholder) I complain about their size, their top-heaviness, the danger of them tipping over, and their general absurdity . . . they are menacing; the other day, my wife's Big Dumb Cup was on the counter by the sink, and it tipped and FELL into a sink full of fragile dishes and glasses—those are real photos, not a reenactment! --and while we were lucky that the Big Dumb Cup didn't land directly on a pint glass and shatter it, it could have; it certainly could have . . . and I don't know what to do about this trend, as my wife and my students LOVE their Big Dumb Cups more than I've ever loved a cup— so there's no separating these people from their Big Dumb Cups, but if you know someone who owns one of these things, you should at least make them suffer through the SNL skit (which isn't very good, honestly, but it might make these people reflect on just how big and how dumb these cups really are).

It's Never Ugly in Princeton (Even When the Air Quality is Awful)

Yesterday, we took the train from what has to be one of the filthiest, smelliest, most dilapidated train stations in New Jersey: New Brunswick . . . the passages between tracks are often closed, the station houses a number of drug-addled street folk, and there's the ever-present smell of urine and feces; the dark warren of grubby shops is rather pathetic, there's a gross Dunkin' and a little flower and plant store (which our friend owns and runs; she finally had to call the cops because there's so much drug dealing and drug use right in front of her shop) and the railing all the way up the stairs to the southbound track is rusted, jagged, and coming out of the concrete—and New Brunswick Station is even more of an eyesore now that the multi-billion dollar HELIX (Health and Life Science Exchange) complex is nearly finished, as it's located directly across the street—but if you take a 17 minute train ride south, to Princeton Junction and then ride the two-car "Dinky" train for five minutes (2.7 miles) into Princeton proper—as we did yesterday—then it's like you've left New Jersey and gone to to a different country . . . the train station is beautiful and immaculate; you walk up a set of modernist stairs and past an enormous outdoor sculpture installation featuring 12 massive bronze animal heads that represent the signs of the Chinese zodiac-- and then we stopped at one of the best small plate and fancy drink places in the universe:The Dinky Bar and Kitchen-- which is in the old train restored station . . . we had espresso martinis and bao buns-- and then we wandered through the Gothic stone buildings on campus (some of which are hundreds of years old) and we then wandered over to the Princeton University Art Museum-- which is a Manhattan quality museum plopped down right in the middle of campus, and totally free-- and we saw the recent new exhibit, the mesmerizing and layered abstract canvases of Willem de Kooning-- plus loads of other stuff (which only represents five percent of the museum's holdings) and then I got some expensive sorbet at The Bent Spoon while my wife went to the consignment shop and then we met a bunch of friends at Triumph Brewery to listen to jazz and drink great beer in what might be the nicest bar in New Jersey (it took seven years to renovate the old post Office in Palmer Square into this space) and then we were lucky enough to catch a ride home-- Cat and I are the only people that regularly take the train to Princeton, I'm not sure why-- but everyone else drove-- and the next thing we knew, we were in South Brunswick, the North Brunswick, the New Brunswick, then Highland Park . . . and all that Laura Ashley preppy style was long gone and we were back in the Jerzee we all love and know.

It Is STILL Ugly Out There!

Despite the sunshine, the air quality in Central Jersey is WORSE than yesterday—due to the Canadian wildfires . . . fucking Canadians, smoking their cigarettes, lighting their fireworks and leaving campfires unattended . . . there's also plenty of dry vegetation due to global warming, so lightning strikes are also culpable, but it's more fun to blame actual Canadians rather than static electricity—but my wife and children did not believe my air quality report—my wife played pickleball this morning, outside (with a stye in her eye, probably caused by all the smog and smoke) and my son was going to play basketball outdoors, until I persuaded him not to . . . but hopefully tomorrow's rain clears the air (and we just cleared our gutters, so we are prepared) and I have never been rooting so hard for a rainy day.

To the Left, To the Left . . . Stupid Shuffle

The good news: my right knee, after a series of hyaluronic acid shots, is feeling excellent—less popping, no pain, and better flexibility . . . but now arthritis has flared up in my left knee, which was my good knee (but is now my bad knee), and I'm headed to Dr. Navia tomorrow to see what's up . . . I'm guessing it will need to be drained, and she'll give me a cortisone shot—I've never gotten one in my left knee, and the first time I got a cortisone shot in my right knee, it didn't hurt for a year—but one of the main things to remember when you're reading this blog is that I AM NOT A DOCTOR . . . I'm constantly telling my wife, my students, and my children this fact . . . I am quick to give medical advice, and I certainly know how to Google various symptoms and ailments, but this is (probably) not a credible alternative to a medical degree, and so I will report back tomorrow and judge the accuracy of my diagnosis.

No More Tuition Payments!

I was helping my wife with so much party prep—for Alex's graduation party—that I forgot to write a sentence . . . the party was a great success; we had an obscene amount of food; the weather held up; for the first time in a long time, ping-pong was played int he driveway; my British friend Ashley nearly had an aneurysm during the England/Norway World Cup match (and I kept my rooting for Norway to a minimum so as not to upset him . . . but I was hoping that my ten dollar bet on Norway to win it all would pay out . . . no such luck) and the kids helped with the set-up and clean-up, so our house is back to normal now, sort of (we have a lot of leftover Mexican food, and we have to return a bunch of chairs and tables to friends).

Two Things I'll Never Do Again (Because I Like Jazzier Numbers)

Last night I saw Joe Jackson at the State Theater (my wife and a few friends are fans) and this morning I finished John Steinbeck's sprawling novel East of Eden, and while I am glad to have done both these things, I'm not revisiting either—the classic Joe Jackson songs ("Is She Really Going Out With Him?" and "Sunday Papers" and "Steppin' Out") have too many words for my taste; I'm not a huge fan of dense singer-songwriter lyricism, nor am I a fan of easy-listening punk rock—I prefer obtuse abstractions sprinkled in amongst music with syncopated timbre (e.g. The Breeders' song "Cannonball" . . . I'll be your whatever you want/The bong in this reggae song) and I have the same complaint about Steinbeck's East of Eden . . . it's a compelling (but ultimately and very consistently) tragic multi-generational saga that is just so fucking long that, while I am glad I read it, I am also very glad that I am finished—it's a bit heavy-handed with Biblical imagery and symbolism . . . but I did enjoy Joe Jackson's newer, jazzier numbers—the songs where he let his incredible band (a fantastic drummer and a fantastic percussionist!) step out and really play and he interspersed some of his trademark lyrics here and there, and I also like John Steinbeck's looser, jazzier books: Cannery Row, which is more a sequence of entertaining and fragmented vignettes and anecdotes of the colorful characters that work at the labs and processing plants and sardine factories in Monterey, California—or Travels with Charley, a non-fiction travelogue wherein Steinbeck drives ten thousand miles with his pet poodle in a modified GMC pick-up camper (named Rocinante) and so the moral here is sometimes it's nice when artists leave things out and let the theme emerge (or not) instead of beating you over the head with it for 640 pages.

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.