No One Ever Told Me This Shit

Our washing machine stopped spinning last week and we couldn't figure out why, but a jovial Hispanic appliance wizard solved the problem in 10 minutes-- for $150 . . . so that's $900 an hour, no wonder he was so sanguine-- after calling our machine "a piece of junk," he used a screwdriver to pry open the front panel and my wife and I actually screamed "ahhhgh!" in unison-- and we meant: holy shit! this is where all the socks went!-- so apparently if you wash socks and underwear in a mixed load with a lot of water, they float to the top and spill out over the tub and impede the motor-- to her embarrassment and chagrin, Catherine's thong was wrapped around the tub and a drive belt-- so once we removed all the socks and underwear, the washer could spin again-- and easy fix-- and the jovial appliance wizard told us something I never heard: we should wash socks and underwear separately, with very little water-- how did I make it 51 years without learning that?

75% Doesn't Cut It

Three out of four times I use the sink, I remember that we have no sink-head on the hose-- our head clogged and died a week ago and we are waiting for a new one from Grohe-- so you have to be VERY careful with the amount of water pressure you use and you have to hold the hose while you rinse dishes . . . if you forget this, you will suffer from some weird property of hydrodynamics; the sink hose turns into a fire hose and shoots a strong stream of water directly at your stomach and crotch, utterly soaking you and the kitchen floor and cabinet-- and while I have often remembered to grip the hose and use the water carefully, there are enough times when I forget (like two minutes ago or last night) and I absolutely soak myself, to my family's delight.

Summer of Dying Things

Our Honda CR-V, our dishwasher, our sink head, our front porch railings, two of our bikes, and now the spin cycle on our washing machine . . . all these things have died this summer (but our buddy Joe rebuilt the front porch, with vinyl railings, so it will last; I replaced our dishwasher and I'm working on the sink hose and sink head; Catherine got a new bike and I'm waiting out the shortage but we've yet to buy a car or get the washer to work . . . this stuff needs to be in order when school starts!)

What Happens to Those Final Girls After the Movie Ends?

The new Grady Hendrix horror novel, The Final Girl Support Group, is both more surreal and meta than his previous novels but also more profound and serious-- the conceit of this fictional world is that the events depicted in the classic slasher flicks of the '80s and '90s actually happened-- Nightmare on Elm Street and Halloween and The Texas Chainsaw Massacre, etc-- and then the stories were bought by film studios and made into movie franchises-- but the actual girls who survived these horrific events exist long after the slasher genre's popularity-- and these "final girls" have to deal with the trauma of their own lives, and the trauma of seeing their stories used as a disposable art form with (mostly) disposable women being murdered by monstrous men . . . and the book is also a thriller, with plot twists and wild violence and an unreliable narrator and interesting characters, but it's also a take on the objectification of women and the veneration of violence . . . nine axe-splintered doors out of ten.

All Kinds of Emotions, All Kinds of Screens

Last night our family went and saw Hasan Minhaj at the new NBPAC theater in New Brunswick-- he did ninety minutes of stand-up and storytelling, accompanied by some pertinent images and video on the big screen-- while the show was very funny, it was also sincere and confessional-- he described how obsessed he became with going after autocrats (after this incident when he criticized Saudi Arabia after the Khashoggi killing) because of the social media notoriety and how this eventually endangered his family and made him change his ways (somewhat) and there were also a lot of inside jokes directed at the almost entirely Indian audience-- he knew his crowd-- and then we went home and watched an especially emotional episode of Friday Night Lights . . . Riggins quits drinking and has a great game, Smash blows it with the recruiter, Saracen asks Coach's daughter out on a date, and Jason Street wheels himself out on the field at Homecoming . . . so we saw it all last night, in a variety of mediums.

Youth

This week at soccer we alternated three-hour practices with two-hour practices and despite this massive caloric expenditure, my younger son Ian gained seven pounds and grew an inch-- he's now the same height as me (or, as my wife claims, a shade taller-- so now I'm the third tallest person in our family of four).

Pool Tip

If you don't want to get water in your eyes when you're swimming laps, get some open water goggles-- they work much better than regular swim goggles.

Eat This Food!

Crumbly chorizo, delicious al pastor pork, tender carne asada, loaded sopes, thick fluffy gorditas, superb chicken mole, and a variety of tasty tamales . . . if you're anywhere near Highland Park, try the new authentic Mexican place, La Casita!

Sea Isle in a Weekend

Saturday morning, my older son Alex and I drove down to Sea Isle City to try to pack in a mini-vacation before high school soccer went into full swing (Ian couldn't come because he had too many jobs to do and Catherine is down there now) and the plan was to crash with our friends Saturday and Sunday night and then get up at 5:45 AM and drive back home for the timed mile at 9 AM-- these were ambitious plans that made me a bit nervous, but we managed it; we got in two days of beach and alcoholic beverages and skimboarding and skateboarding and boogie-boarding and cornhole and spikeball and impromptu musical jamming and the Tike Bar and LouDogs and Mike's Dog, etcetera and then got up early Monday and made it home for an epic 3-hour practice-- Alex survived the mile, he ran a 6:11 and the goal is to be under 6:15 and Ian-- who never runs unless he's playing a sport, ran an inspired 6:03 . . . but he did not do Sea Isle in a weekend, which may have helped his time (and Alex was out late for the first time with Dom and Nick, who are now college kids, so the times they are a'changing).

People Have Always Been Idiots . . .

Susan Wise Bauer's The History of the Medieval World is a massive and comprehensive chronological overview of recorded history "from the conversion of Constantine to the First Crusade" and my main takeaways, amidst the many names, empires, governances and betrayals-- enough to put Game of Thrones to shame-- is that people were just as absurd back then as they are today: Theodosius tried to keep the Roman Empire united in 380 but all folks were concerned about was the Arian vs. the Nicene take on the divinity of Christ-- it rivalled Monty Python-- the bishop Gregory of Nyssa complained in a sermon that if you asked for some change from a "cloak salesman" they just want to bend your ear about whether the Father is greater and the son is subject to him, etc, etc, so even then people were concerned with ridiculous political and religious abstractions instead of the matter at hand . . . and I also learned that in the larger Roman cities, chariot racing was like stock car racing-- you rooted for a team, not an individual driver-- and the sponsors of that team, which were broken into symbolic colors: red, white, blue and green-- and these boosters-- like soccer hooligans-- hated each other with great zeal, which led to riots and great violence-- 3000 blues wre killed in a 501 AD riot in Constantinople over some chariot race results . . . and this was not uncommon.

Dave Heroically Drives 7.4 Miles (Round Trip)

I had to borrow my neighbor's car today to make it on time for my bloodwork appointment at LabCorp this morning-- another requirement of my turning-50-physical-- and not only do I get dizzy when I think about giving blood, but I was also fasting-- so I'm proud to say I did not crash, dent or otherwise damage the loaner.

Heat Related Memory Loss Miracle!

Folks reported they were on my face yesterday when I left the workshop, but I searched the car and the house and everywhere else high and low and my new Zenni specs were nowhere to be found-- until I checked the pocket of the sports bag and there they were! but why there? Why . . .

Middle School Kids Don't Need Nice Things

I actually did some work today-- the college writing team met up at the middle school, zoomed with our Rutgers liaison, and then planned out the year-- but my main concern was not pedagogical, my main concern was that the middle school has INCREDIBLE air-conditioning, it was so cold in there we had to take a walk outside . . . and this is absurd-- why do skinny little middle-school kids doing earth science need such excellent climate control while the larger high school kids doing AP Physics have to endure the heat (and the heat is coming, yuck).

Annoying Coincidence

 I need a bike and a car (but we're in a bike and car shortage).

My Sternum Hurts (But Our Dished Are Clean)

Yesterday, I removed a dead dishwasher and installed a new one-- and it works!-- but my sternum hurts (the same thing that happened to me when I surfed a bunch in Costa Rica) from lying on my stomach fiddling with plumbing and drainage hoses and hot water spigots . . . anyway, we're trying to get back to the same amount of possessions we had before bad luck and the pandemic supply chain screwed us over . . . but used car prices are still through the roof and there is still a bike shortage, so while we're back to saving water and doing less dishwashing related labor, we're still not back to normal transportation-wise.

More Bang for Your Butt?

I got my fifty-year-old physical this week and the doctor was really pushing the colonoscopy-- I asked him about pooping in a box but he said that's not as reliable and you have to do it every year-- while a colonoscopy is good for ten years and because of the prep, it is a "complete reset for your colon"-- yuck-- and then he drew some pictures that made me dizzy and said that of any procedure, the colonoscopy is "the most bang for your buck" and then-- and he was trying to be optimistic, but I found it disturbing-- he said, "we like to start them now at 45, so you get one at 45, 55, 65, 75 . . . and then you're done" . . . so four colonoscopies and then you get to die!

Ouch (Momentarily)

Just before my son and I were about to play tennis, a wasp (or a yellowjacket?) stung my ring finger-- and it really hurt-- but just for a minute and then it totally went away (and wasps don't leave their stingers behind) and I think this pain and suffering inspired me to hit some excellent forehands.

New (Old) Music

I rerecorded an old song of mine with my new DAW (Logic) and my new AI mastering software (Ozone) and the AI drummer that comes with Logic and the result is pretty good-- I wish I could find the old version to play them side-by-side, but I'm positive the end result wasn't as crisp and couldn't played as loud without distortion-- while I'm definitely down on most pop-technology, especially Facebook and Twitter, it's a great time for audio-- whether podcasts, your own music, or the stuff your friends make and immediately post (and you don't have to LOOK at audio, which is the best thing about it).

Greasetruck · Monkey Mind

Yuck

After a lovely respite for vaccinated folks, mask-wearing is required again for all humans at the East Brunswick Library.

Sci-Fi Twofer Tuesday

I read two excellent sci-fi books recently, and they couldn't be more different in tone:

1) The Humans by Matt Haig is one of those "from-an-alien-perspective" stories that begins with ironic detachment-- wow, these humans are silly and they really can't handle technology and they're dangerous to themselves and the galaxy so we've got to deal with them-- but then, with the help of a dog, the humans start to win over the narrator and things get fun and romantic and profound and complicated . . . a compelling plot and great reminders of why humans are absurd and wonderful;

2) Moxlyland by Lauren Beukes is a  cyberpunk novel of the near future set in CapeTown, South Africa . . . and the apartheid is between class, not race; the government and the media is complicit in this and very oppressive and powerful, in a revised Brave New World sort of way . . . I'll just put a few quotes up that I highlighted on my Kindle and you'll get the idea-- but warning, you don't want to read this if you're a vaccine-hesitant-conspiracy-theorist (or maybe you do . . .)

Don’t be fooled by the cosy apartment blocks lining the highway, it’s all Potemkin for the tourists. 

Compared to what the corporates have done? >>10: What do you mean? >>skyward*: corrupting govts with their own agendas, politicians on their payroll, exacerbating the economic gaps. building social controls and access passes and electroshock pacifiers into the very technology we need to function day to day, so you’ve no choice but to accept the defuser in your phone or being barred from certain parts of the city because you don’t have clearance. you tell me how that compares to you hacking an adboard.

“Repeat. Do not be alarmed. The M7N1 Marburg variation is only fatal if you do NOT report to an immunity center for treatment within 48 hours. Repeat. It is NOT fatal if you present yourself promptly for vaccination treatment. Vaccination is 100% effective within three hours with minimal lasting side-effects.

Epic Stuff for Old People

I played a two hour plus tennis match today against my friend Cob-- I beat him handily in the first set, 6-1, but the second set kept going and going-- there were points that I was so winded that I didn't recover for the next three points-- and finally, when we were tied at 5-5, we decided to call it a tie and give up before we got hurt (and then, later in the day, I accompanied my wife to Home Depot!)

Dammit

Today is the day I stop drinking alcoholic beverages and eating cake/pie after six PM.

Back and Narcoleptic

We drove home from the beach today-- and on the way back we picked up Lola from the Barker Lounge-- and everyone was so tired from all the skimboarding, surfing, boogie-boarding, basketball, tennis, pickleball, frisbeer, cornhole, packing, unpacking, lugging of beach equipment to and fro, etc. etc. that most everyone in the house (including a very tired dog) took multiple naps (and Catherine was excited that a cashier complimented her on her tan).

The End of an Era . . .

Our favorite dive bar in Sea Isle, the Springfield, is no longer-- it's now an outdoor tiki bar-- and so our favorite cover band-- LeCompt-- now plays at The Oar House; we went over there Sunday night and while Catherine and I escaped the ten dollar cover charge because we arrived early-- we did not escape the crowds and the insanity; the place with jammed with very young people and the girls were all wearing halter-tops and no bra-- that is the look, whether your boobs support themselves or not-- and while it cleared out a bit between bands and a few older people wandered in, it was mainly a mass of young people; Cat and I snagged a spot at the bar, with my brother and Amy, but most of the cousins beat a hasty retreat when they saw the scene-- we could barely see the band from the bar-- we never realized what a great set-up the Springfield had (the band played inside the horseshoe shaped bar, elevated-- so everyone could see and it was in the round) and while Catherine did mosh her way to the front once, she said it was very gross and sweaty and she touched a lot of braless boobs (which of of wildly varying quality) and there were no dive bar drink specials-- a Bud Light was six bucks instead of two-- and for the first set, LeCompt just played the hits-- when we talked to him outside, after he overshared about his narcotic and alcohol recovery he told us he'd be playing the good stuff on Monday, outside, but that he had to play songs "for the kids" at this kind of show-- so that's it for the Springfield and the weird LeCompt shows where he would play all songs about rain (because it was raining) or all Who songs or just take requests written on napkins-- and while they sounded fine, it was more like hearing a good band in the distance-- we all decided we would not be back to see him there . . . but we'll find some other venue where the band can screw around more, but, sad to say, there was nothing like the Springfield and there may not be anything like it ever again.

Once Upon a Times

CHAOS: Charles Manson, the CIA, and the Secret History of the Sixties is Tom O'Neill's twenty year investigation of the Manson murders and while it is a stupendous work of reporting and obsession (and O'Neill is the main character, not Manson or the sixties) the book is in the end, unsatisfying because O'Neill does such a good job of connecting the dots when he can and avoiding conspiracy theories when he can't-- but you will be certain at the end of the book that the "Helter Skelter" motivation of the murders is a gross oversimplification or perhaps a cover-up of something much more sinister; meanwhile, Once Upon a Time in Hollywood, Quentin Tarantino's alternate history of the Manson murder timeline is as satisfying as Chaos is unsatisfying-- this is Tarantino's favorite trick, which he uses in both Django Unchained and Inglorious Bastards-- let's write history the way it should be, with the indignant rage and ultra-violence directed towards justice and new, better outcome; I recommend taking in both perspectives and remembering that we are just living in one particular timeline (and hopefully, it's not the darkest timeline).

Much Better

 It looks like my last post worked-- my blog can cancel weather!

Not Cool

I am canceling the weather here in New Jersey. 

In The Dark

When Darkness Loves Us by Elizabeth Engstrom contains two weird novellas; in both stories, small-town life becomes even smaller-- the stories are macabre, full of plot holes, possibly allegorical, and oddly compelling-- and they will really stretch your empathy muscles and let you see from two very unique and very strange female perspectives-- a tunnel dwelling troglodyte of a mom and a lonely, dimwitted, traumatized old woman without a nose . . . and according to George R.R. Martin, this is the point of fiction: “A reader lives a thousand lives before he dies . . . the man who never reads lives only one.” 

OBFT XXVIII

The 28th annual Outer Banks Fishing Trip was yet again a great success, here are some things I remember:

1) Gormley and I crushed everyone at cornhole but the field was weak-- the lack of Jerry, Marston, and Old made a decided difference;

2) once Bruce and I made a plan, we took all comers at Frisbeer;

3) Bruce collected change for sixteen years in order to save money to buy a car for his kids to use-- and he did it-- but he won't let his kids use the car that he bought;

4) in a strange Tortuga's bar over/under we learned that nearly half of those present had "stolen corn" . . . from a cornfield;

5) I had a good time trying to keep up with Baldwin on his dobro style guitar . . . in the background I could hear Rob and Coby arguing politics;

6) the water was lovely and cool, the sand was hot, hot, hot;

7) we set up two canopies and had lots of beach time, despite the hot western wind, which picks up every day in the afternoon, according to Bruce (and empirical observation)

8) we mainly drank Guinness, Red Stripe, Truly, Pacifico, and peachie-weechies;

9) Ethan proffered much knowledge on environmental issues in Florida;

10) we played QB54 and Bruce didn't like it;

11) Charlie cooked up a storm of seared tuna and shrimp;

12) we were shushed at the bar at Tortuga's by some youngish bartender;

13) jokes were told, but they are not to be repeated;

14) Swaney fell down the steps to the shower, but didn't break his hip-- just suffered a few scrapes;

15) a good time was had by all, thanks again for hosting Whit, job well done!

Knee Stuff

I went to the knee doctor (Dr. Kinshasas Morton . . . who I also visited ten years ago!) but this time it was for my right knee and it seems I have "patellofemoral pain syndrome/chondromalacia patella," which isn't so bad-- it means my kneecap goes out of the groove and occasionally rubs against the bone on the outside of my knee-- so I have to do some exercises and wear a sleeve knee brace-- which has worked wonders . . . and I went to the gym today and ran an 8-minute mile on the treadmill-- which at my age is some indicator of heart health, and while I worked up a sweat doing it, it wasn't all that bad and my knee held up without any pain, so while I might not have the bee's knees, I at least have ant knees or some slightly lesser insect's knees.

What Are the Chances? Fuhgetaboutit . . .

I wish I was holed up in a taverna in Italy today-- how often does a nation have finalists in Wimbledon and the Euro Cup . . . on the same day?

Somebody Had to Write It

Though it's weird, trippy, and evocative-- with Vietnam flashbacks and spooky black magic in equal measure-- Herman Raucher's novel Maynard's House mainly explores this conceit: 

what if Thoreau went to the woods to live deliberately, but his house was haunted by evil succubi and witchery?

Poker, I Don't Even Know Her . . .

My son Alex and I both read Maria Konnikova's The Biggest Bluff-- and it inspired us to play some poker-- her story is compelling and inspirational, as she goes from not knowing how many cards are in the deck to competing on the world circuit (in a year's time) but be warned-- she's very very smart and has a world class coach (Eric Seidel) and so while her lessons are universal-- the subtitle of the book is "How I Learned to Pay Attention, Master Myself, and Win"-- and she also has some specific tips about playing poker-- her main metaphor is to be a good poker player you've got to simultaneously be a detective and a storyteller-- BUT if you really want to know what it takes to succeed on the poker tour you've got to get real and read Phil Gordon's Little Gold Book : Advanced Lessons for Mastering Poker 2. 0 and this will lend a dose of reality to your dreams of becoming a pro-- range vs. range, combinatorics, variance, bankrolls, pot odds, PioSOLVER and HUDS, Game Theory Optimal, etcetera . . . poker competition is fierce and the fish are scarce now-- which makes Konnikova's story all the more impressive.

An Epic Hike and an Epic Ride to End an Epic Trip . . . But It Had to be the Shoes

It rained some on Sunday, but we were able to take a nice hike with the dog along the old narrow-gauge railroad tracks in  Sullivan . . .

and then our last full day down east was a beauty-- 46 degrees in the early morning, slowly rising to a high of 71-- so we got up early and headed back to Acadia for one last epic and precarious hike-- the Dorr Mountain Ladder Trail . . . I highly recommend this hike but get there early, as the roadside parking fills up by ten AM; the hike was made even more precarious because of the heavy rain the night before-- we were essentially hiking up a waterfall of stone stairs-- so you really had to watch your step, but it was worth it, for the views and the interesting terrain . . .

the trail was built from 1913 to 1916 and it's a feat of mountainside engineering-- it may be one of the best hikes in the world, in terms of bang for your buck, views, instant gratification, and lack of tedium;

every turn is something new and interesting;

and you get up really high in a fast fashion 

and there are blueberries at the top of Dorr Mountain 

coming down wasn't quite as treacherous, but there were still some slippery sections

but it was obviously worth it-- this hike is far less crowded and far more shaded than the Beehive and offers even better vistas;

after the hike, we went to the quaint and uncrowded town of Ellsworth and had delicious burritos at 86 This . . . definitely quieter and cheaper than Bar Harbor, and then we headed back to the place for some final round of cornhole, some final soaks in the hot tub, and the big pack up so that we could get started at 6 AM on Tuesday morning . . . and everyone did a fantastic job packing up and we actually got driving at 6:16 AM on Tuesday morning-- so we'd be home in time to watch Italy play Spain, but best-laid plans, an hour-and-a-half down the road, Catherine yelled "the shoe bags!" and we all realized that we had left all our footwear hanging behind the door of the place-- and it was a LOT of footwear: running shoes and tennis shoes and hiking boots and sandals-- a few hundred dollars worth of shoes-- just enough that we had to turn around and drive back, perhaps adding three hours to our 8-hour drive . . . so we drove back, Lola got out, confused, and peed, and we got the shoes and piled back in-- but we didn't realize that now we would be headed into the teeth of Connecticut and NYC traffic AND a monster thunderstorm . . . so after several Joe Rogan podcasts (and an interesting story about Chippendale's called Welcome to Your Fantasy) we arrived home at 7:45 PM . . . over thirteen hours in the car-- Lola was a hero-- she never threw up or whined, and Catherine did a great job driving through the storm on our way to the George Washington bridge-- there was lots of flying garbage!-- and it was an epic end to an epic trip . . . perhaps one of our last true fmaily only vacations, as the kids are getting older and now have to start summer employment and all that-- and as a final treat, Italy beat Spain in PKs . . . and I never learned the score so I was able to watch the game and pretend we made it home at the right time.

The Auctioneer: A Good Book for Independence Day

The Auctioneer was a brief bestseller in1975 and then promptly forgotten-- perhaps because the youngish author, Joan Samson, soon after died of cancer-- but it's been reissued (with a Grady Hendrix intro) and it's more appropriate than ever; it's about Harlowe-- a small town in New Hampshire experiencing change-- there was a back-to-the - movement in the 60s and 70s that brought new people and culture to rural America, city slickers . . . and the city slicker in this novel is a menacing, Trump-like auctioneer who becomes very close with the chief of police . . . and then bad things start to happen, very bad things; it's allegorical like Shirley Jackson's "The Lottery" and the prose is spare like later Cormac McCarthy books; it's the opposite of Jack Ketchum's Off Season-- which is about not messing with the locals-- in this book, the locals are messed with and messed with, not unlike what's happened in current rural America-- and there's eventually going to be some sort of falling out and it might be liberating but it also might be ugly.

Baby Seals Conquer Dave Jones' Locker

We got up early this morning-- and it was COLD-- and we headed a few minutes up the road to Hancock Point Kayak Tours, which is an old coot named Antoine's house . . . Ant, as he is called, is a Master Sea Kayak guide and he really knows his stuff . . . but he does not fool around during the safety discussion; our family was joined by another group of four-- two moms and their respective kids-- and Ant got right down to business: he explained the sequence of steps required to enable the red DISTRESS button on his radio-- which he keeps in his pocket because in 2016 a Maine kayak guide and one of the folks on his tour drowned and died-- and so he just wanted to get the worst-case scenario out of the way . . . if he drowned and died and we were able to latch onto his hypothermic corpse, we could then grab the radio out of his front pocket and call for help . . . and then he went right into the protocol for if you make a grave error and flip the kayak and need to pull your spray skirt loose and get yourself out from under the boat . . . my family found the grim start to his talk kind of amusing but it made one of the mom's very nervous-- she asked how often this sort of stuff happened and she looked and sounded quite anxious-- and we found out this was for good reason; she was a widow-- and her son was only fourteen-- and she had a rough time during COVID as a single mom with two teenagers-- and in 2018 her cousin-- A Norfolk Academy/William and Mary guy that some of my friends knew-- drowned in a riptide trying to swim out to his daughter-- so Ant's speech probably unnerved her a bit, but it turned out that the double sea kayaks were very stable-- Catherine and I managed to steer ours fairly proficiently, and Alex and Ian were such quick paddlers that they had to continually be called back to the group; we took a trip to Bean Island and then to the rocky shoals beyondy, which were full of seals-- so everyone had a fantastic time, despite the cold weather-- and then. just when it couldn't get any more scenic, we saw a couple baby seals on the rocks and needless to say, they were very very cute . . . cute enough to erase any memories of the rather dark safety speech that began the journey.

The Other Side of Acadia

The Schoodic Peninsula side of Acadia National Park reminds me of the North Rim of the Grand Canyon: equally scenic but more desolate and exponentially less crowded-- we took an excellent green and mossy hike to the top of Schoodic Mountain and explored some of the cliffs and tidepools at Schoodic Point . . . and then we had the best (and cheapest) food on the trip at Downeast Mexican . . . the place started as a food truck that fed the migrant blueberry-pickers but the food was so good that they made a year-round endeavor out of it; both the Schoodic Peninsula and the Mexican joint are highly recommended if you ever make your way to Bar Harbor.

blueberries!

Dave = Winner

Another hot day in Maine, so we didn't do any epic hikes-- instead, we explored the peninsulas and beaches in Hancock and Sorrento-- and ate lobster rolls from a roadside shack-- and then headed back to our place to play some games . . . and I took the triple crown: winning at Scrabble, a five-dollar Texas Hold'em tourney, and finally beating my son Ian in a game of cornhole-- he's been killing me lately (since he adopted the method).

 

Back Up The Beehive (21 Years Later)

 

Twenty-one years ago, my wife and I honeymooned in Bar Harbor-- and we stayed in a cottage, which was a step-up from our usual peanut-butter and jelly/hotdog camping excursions to Acadia; things have changed since then-- we have two teenagers and the park is MUCH more crowded-- but our kids were game to get up early on a very hot day and we clambered back up the iron rungs and sheer cliff faces to the top of the Beehive Mountain, which overlooks the Sand Beach-- and then we hooked around, climbed Gorham Mountain, and took the Ocean Trail back to the beach, nearly a three hour trek in extreme Maine heat; it was hard to keep up with the kids but we did it, but it definitely wiped me out . . . we ended at the Sand Beach but the water was VERY cold-- Alex and I did the plunge but Catherine and Ian did not-- and then we drove back to Hancock and took long naps in the A/C . . . I'm so glad we're not camping in this heat (and things could be worse, it's even hotter in New Jersey).

More Vehicular Woes! And a Nice Lake Swim . . .

We made it up to Hancock, Maine without mishap-- stopping for Bissell Brothers beer and Salvage BBQ in Portland-- and while our rental is a bit cluttered, it's in an amazing location, near some tidal falls full of pools dotted with pink starfish-- yesterday, we took a ride out to the Schoodic Peninsula and there was a scenic pull-off in Sullivan and not only were the views of Mount Desert Island and Cadillac Mountain majestic, but there was also a grass tennis court just below the hilltop; this was too much stimulus for the driver (yours truly) and I turned a bit too late to park and hit the curb-- which turned out to be a very high and sharp curb made of granite-- so I popped the tire and bent the rim of our last remaining vehicle; luckily, Alex and I knew how to access the spare tire in the van (because he popped a different tire on a sewer grate a month ago and we learned that 2008 Toyota Sienna's have the most inaccessible spare tires in the auto world-- you need a five sided hex nut because of a weird recall, to lower it down from a wire from directly beneath the car-- even the Triple A guy didn't have one, so the car had to be towed, but after the first flat, I bought one on Ebay and put it in the glove box) and so while Catherine called Triple A, Alex and I tried to change the tire-- and it was hot, REALLY hot . . . and we finally got the tire loose from the bottom of the car, and it was really rusty (from being under the car) and it was very difficult to remove the tire from the wire-- the metal part that held it eventually just fell apart and then we tried jacking the car up, but forgot to put the parking brake on, so it titled over-- meanwhile, Catherine found out the wait for Triple A assistance was over and hour, so we pulled the car up a bit, got the jack in the right spot, put on the brake, and slowly and sweatily jacked the car up, pulled off the old tire and put on the donut-- and then we headed to Complete Tire Service in Ellsworth, where they could have gouged us or made us wait-- they were busy-- but they were so friendly and accomodating and got a new rim and new tire on the car in less than an our and charged us a total of $237-- could have been far worse-- and then we ate lobster rolls and seafood at Jordan's, headed back to our place, let the dog out, and then got back in the car and drove to the beach at Donnell Pond, a scenic sandy cove at the end of a large lake in the mountains (and later in the evening, Ian beat me twice in a row at cornhole, which I blamed on tired forearms from jacking the car up).

Too Much To Report

I can't even begin to describe this, other than to say that we're extremely lucky and everyone is doing fine; but we are having some transportation woes, as we had ANOTHER bike stolen-- and now we know the thief went into our backyard (we had convinced ourselves that Ian left the other bike in the front of the house, though he thought otherwise) and we had to file another police report and look very very stupid-- because we did NOTHING in the way of security after the first theft; so today was home security update day-- we installed some Ring cameras; replaced our ancient, burned-out motion sensor bulbs; put some actual LOCKS on the bike shed, etc. -- this was a long day on top of packing for vacation, but then we got a frantic call from our older son Alex, explaining that he crashed the car . . . but he was okay-- so we raced over to Piscataway, in the pouring rain, to see a disturbing sight-- our Honda CRV on it's side, in the woods-- but Alex was fine-- he spun out on the wet road, possibly hit the gas instead of the brake, careened over the curb, slid on some grass, ran into some small trees and the CRV tipped over, so he had to climb upwards and out the driver side door-- he was a bit bruised and burned from the airbags, but did not hit his head or hurt anything too bad-- but the car is totalled-- so we're down two bikes and a car right now-- but glad our son is healthy and alive-- and then there's the problem that he wasn't fully licensed because we lost his social security card and the DMV had no appointments during the pandemic . . . so this is going to be an interesting insurance matter (and he's going to get a couple of points on his license) but thank goodness he didn't hit anyone or have a passenger in the car.

Tennis

 Nothing much to report here, just a bunch of tennis (even my wife got out and hit!)

Summer!

Summer is here and it's already been fairly epic;

-- me, the boys, and my brother attended my cousin's father-in-law's massive 25$ a head random draw cornhole tourney and while my kids and brother-- all good players-- got knocked out early, my partner and I almost went the distance . . . my partner was decent but had an odd throw, especially since he was a young athletic 6-foot five-inch black dude-- you'd think he'd be muscling it in, but instead he gripped the beanbag delicately by pinching a tiny scrap of fabric at the corner and then flicking it up high-- sometimes it swooshed right into the hole, but it was also buffeted by the wind . . . we were beaten by my cousin Keith and his partner in the finals-- I held Keith's partner at bay but my "little" cousin Keith, who's now in his mid-thirties, came up big-- but still, my partner and I won 100$ each . . . Keith and his partner won 250$, quite a pot for chucking a beanbag;

-- I made all my appointments: dentist, physical, knee, and even got one out of the way-- the eye lady had a cancellation so I went and my eyes are fine . . . I'm also a new patient now, apparently I haven't been to the doctor since 2016

-- I finished mastering a song, called "Asymmetrical Warfare" and it sort of sounds like I want it to sound, but mixing and mastering music will always be a mystery to me;

-- Monday night, I did the 12:30 - 4:30 AM shift for our town's project graduation event, it was at the Woodbridge Community Center and I was impressed at how a mentalist guessed three times in a row what number I chose on a die (but perhaps the die was Bluetooth or something?) and I learned that if I play basketball at 2 AM then my knee really starts to hurt and I also learned that a school bus full of teenagers that have stayed up all night smells really really ripe at 4:30 AM . . . yuck).

The Guest List: You'd Kill to be On It

There were some fraternal hijinks at my wedding-- the boys "jammed' me into the Lawrencebrook for my blatant PDA with my new wife . . . in college, we would scoop offenders up and put their head in the toilet bowl to discourage any public displays of affection, so I was fine with getting dunked in the river (plus, I took a few folks in with me) but Lucy Foley's new thriller The Guest List takes these "boys-will-be-boys" rituals to the end of the bloody line . . . the book has some Liane Moriarty style reverse-chronological plotting, some well-drawn characters (and consequent perspectives) and a nod to the Murder on the Orient Express . . . everyone is a suspect . . . a fun read and you'll finish in a day or two: nine bogs out of ten.

Which America Do You Live In?

George Packer's new article "The Four Americas" adds some much-needed precision to the usual polarization analysis; he divides the left up into Smart America and Just America (which should be called Woke America) and he divides the right into Free America and Real America . . . 

Free America celebrates makers and the energy of the "unencumbered individual" but despises takers that are dependent on a "smothering government"

Smart America celebrates meritocracy, intelligence, credentials, and progress-- but the losers are the poorly educated;

Real America celebrates place, patriotism, and Christian tradition but is wary of elites and immigrants who want to contaminate the values of our country

and Just America demands confrontation with the problems that we have been burying or avoiding and wants marginalized groups to gain their rightful power . . .

and while you might ask yourself "Which America do I live in?" if you're like me, a denizen of Smart America, then you'll revise that question and instead ask: "In which America do I live?"

Father's Day?

Unlike Mother's Day-- which should probably receive an exclamatory flourish and be changed to Mother's Day!-- Father's Day would do better with an interrogative: Father's Day? . . . because while moms are certain about their relationship with their offspring, dads are never totally sure.

It's Over . . .

The weirdest and worst school year ever is behind us; the graduation ceremony turned out well-- we had a great mother/daughter speaking duo from the class president and the selected teacher-- and Liz was supposed to speak 18 years ago, but she went into labor with her daughter and Brady had to sub in for her, so it was very appropriate that they shared the stage yesterday-- but while the speakers were under a tent, the rest of us were baking in the hot sun on the turf-- pretty much the worst circle of hell for me, having to sit still on a plastic chair for hours in a bright hot place; also, I was receiving work from kids up to the moment I walked out to graduation, which did NOT make me happy at all-- it seems a lot of the virtual kids who got very distracted and did nothing during the semester suddenly wanted to turn in assignments-- yuck-- but now it's all over but the crying; the end of the year party was great (though I didn't win the cornhole tourney . . . my partner was Terry and we wona few games but then he had to leave . . . I didn't know that my normal partner, a cute young lady who teaches special ed in a different school, was coming to the party-- and apparently, she had emailed me to see if we were partnering up, but I didn't check my email . . . that's not my strong suit, it's too chaotic in there-- so then I was stuck partnerless so I picked up Chantal and we beat the reigning champs, only to lose to a drunken juggernaut . . . there's always next year . . . we hope).

Your Next Book Club Selection

Grady Hendrix's The Southern Book Club's Guide to Slaying Vampires is his best book yet; it reminded me of the wonderful feeling I got in high school when I read a new Stephen King novel: you meet a cast of interesting fully-fleshed out modern characters and then terrible things happen to them . . . really fun and addictive.

Fightin' Zombies on Company Time

If you haven't fought some zombies in a big room while wearing an Oculus, you've got to give it a whirl-- no lag, exhausting, completely immersive, and fairly scary-- shit pops up all over the place and it's hard to shoot straight, so you end up fist-fighting swarms of undead, which fully surround you.

 

Best Exorcism Ever!

If you're looking for a tale of 80s high school nostalgia and demonic possession, couched in a wonderful-- but grossly graphic-- story of a life-long friendship, then check out My Best Friend's Exorcism by Grady Hendrix.

Mask Optional?

Masks are optional in my school now, but it seems like everyone is still wearing them-- staff and students alike, except me, the janitorial staff, and the security guards . . . I guess new habits die hard.

Things Feel Normal Again . . .

I didn't have to wear a mask today at school, I don't have to wear a mask in stores, Ian has people over for his birthday and Alex has some friends over and we were all sitting inside watching Nadal beat Djokovich- without masks-- and now all the kids are hanging out on our front lawn, playing cornhole and ping-pong, in a scene reminiscent of the last moment in Freaks and Geeks, when the different cliques are all getting along-- so a big shout out to those nameless smart folks who developed all these miraculous vaccines, as things feel normal again Nad they finished the night with a game of poker, five-dollar ante, which was REALLY reminiscent of that Freaks and Geeks scene).

Grady Hendrix = Weird Al?

Grady Hendrix may just be the Weird Al of graphic horror literature-- at his best, Hendrix is magical and satirical and very funny, with an exceptional eye for detail . . . but--like Weird Al-- he can be a bit gimmicky; We Sold Our Souls is a heavy metal horror story, and while it's a bit heavy on the fictitious metal lyrics of a prophetic unreleased album called Troglodyte, the plot is a magnificent mix of making-ends-meet America, conspiracy theories, metalheads, festival rock, soul-sucking demons, and the rock'n'roll biz . . .  six-hundred and thirteen pentagrams out of a possible six hundred and sixty-six.

I Hate the Heat

I really despise the heat of summer (and so does my son Ian and so does our dog) so it made me really happy to google "I hate the heat" and see lots of articles like this-- it made me feel less crazy.

Horrorstör!

Horrorstör, by Grady Hendrix, is a winner; my son and I both read it in the span of five days . . . it's about a haunted IKEA-like store (called ORSK) and the book is, by turns, funny, satirical, gross, creepy, endearing, and aesthetically pleasing . . . I learned a lot about retail and a lot about the desultory effect of a 19th-century panopticon style workhouse prison on the souls of the penitents incarcerated within (the story takes the classic Poltergeist-trope . . . this house was built on an Indian burial ground? and enlarges it . . . this ORSK was built on the remnants of an old prison-house?)

Cold > Heat

We're having a heatwave here in Jersey, and while my wife had to work a full day in an elementary school with no A/C and no fans, I was able to teach virtually in the comfort of my home-- a pretty sweet decision by our admin-- but my son Alex was home and his class got canceled so we went out and played some basketball-- and it was very hot-- and then my son Ian-- who actually attends school-- came home and we went to the park and played some more basketball (and some seniors showed up and we played with them as well) and now I've ruined all my time spent in the A/C-- I'm overheated and miss the winter (and we are all VERY rusty at basketball, as we haven't played since last summer).

Keeping Up with the Brainses

Sarah Pinkser's new sci-fi novel We are Satellites has an A+ premise-; it's a detailed look at how one family deals with a new technology that's sweeping the nation: the Pilot, a brain implant that allows for functional multitasking . . . half the family gets the Pilot, but younger daughter Sophia has epilepsy, and so she is left behind, as is one of her moms; in the first half there are lots of what Umberto Eco calls "transitional walks" between chapters-- long stretches of time go by and you have to piece things together on the fly-- this is fun and fast-paced, then the book gets more chronological and bloated in the second half-- but it's still a thought-experiment worth reading as we tend to do this to ourselves all the time, especially in education: laptops, SAT tutoring, advanced placement classes, drugs to help you focus, etc . . . the richest students and best schools get these innovations first and make good use of them, making the divide between those that don't have these advantages larger and larger . . . and then these things are pushed on the less fortunate, often subsidized, but often not to great effect; quite a bit of the book is set in a high school, as one of the moms is a teacher-- and she doesn't get a Pilot and ends up teaching the students that have also been left behind . . . if you like the premise it's worth reading th novel, but you can skim a bit towards the end (unless you have a Pilot implant and can functionally multi-task).

Go Nets, Make Me Fatter

The length of televised American sporting events definitely contributes to our obesity . . . how do you make it all the way through 7:30 PM NBA game without snacking on a bunch of shit?

No End to the Shit

This morning when I was biking home (on my wife's bike because mine got stolen, probably because my younger son left it out in front of the house, unlocked) I saw my younger son working for our neighbor Gwen, doing some digging; he was wearing his brand new tennis shoes, so I told him to go home and put on his boots, as his tennis shoes were for tennis only and he was ruining the soles-- plus it's much better to have hard soles when you kick a shovel into the dirt; he took the bike home, I chatted with Gwen for a bit, and then he came running back and I was like "where's the bike?" but he had left it in the backyard, so I walked home and when I entered the house, it was full of shit-- Ian had tracked a bunch of dog shit into the house on his tennis shoe-- so I had to clean all that up, he ruined a carpet and scattered shit on the various floors, and he had left out the taco meat, the cheese, and the salsa-- total mess; so I cleaned the carpet and his tennis shoe and did my best to find all the shit and wipe that up as well; then I noticed there were several large flies in the house, and when I went upstairs I noticed (after chastising Ian for have three-- three!-- wet towels on his bedroom floor) that my older son not only had his window open but the screen as well-- I think this was so he could see the bird nest more clearly below his window, but he never closed it . . . there's no moral to this sentence, nor a resolution or ending, because this shit is just going to keep on happening, over and over and over.

Dave Has Some Reading to Do . . .

 

All the books in my queue appeared at the library today-- so I've got some serious reading to do . . . feel free to join my book club-- I'm hoping to finish four of the six before they need to be returned.

Hybrid . . . Ugh

I'm having a tough time selecting a hybrid bike (my bike got stolen) as I have to sift through a myriad of models and features and price points, and I'm also having a tough time with hybrid teaching-- I've gotten to the point (as have most teachers) where I genuinely loathe the virtual kids-- for various reasons, some founded and some unfounded: they don't turn their cameras on, they ghost, they lag, they restart their computers, it takes a million clicks to interact with them, there's no reason for them to be home anymore, they take forever to answer questions, they disappear, they don't give off any energy or body language . . . it's nice to have some kids in person, they're usually fun and energetic-- or at least annoying in the normal teenage ways-- but having kids in class makes it that much harder to care at all about the little student icons on the tiny laptop screen . . . it's time for this year (and hybrid instruction) to end.

I Get It, I'd Jump Too

We had some coastal flooding in Donaldson Park this weekend, and the surging brackish tide left some fish in the park, which expired and baked in the sun yesterday-- my dog and I stumbled on one of these gape-jawed horrific dried fish today on our walk and Lola, who was blithely sniffing along, nearly jumped out of her skin when she was suddenly confronted with a dead-fish face . . . which I totally understand.

Heart Attacks and Stolen Bikes

Over the course of this rainy Memorial Day Weekend, the boys and I watched the weirdest Seinfeld episode ever-- "The Heart Attack"-- I truly do not remember having seen it . . . Larry David makes a cameo in a B-movie, wearing a spacesuit and screaming the line "flaming globes of Sigmund!" and George turns eggplant purple after drinking some herbal tea, and-- much more unfortunate-- my venerable Cannondale mountain bike was stolen out of my backyard, from the bike shed . . . or that's what we think-- unless Ian left it in front of the house . . . but he's 110% sure that he put it back in the shed-- and we were home all weekend (except yesterday we went to a bbq) so it must have been stolen yesterday when we were out-- but we left the back door open so Lola could go in and out . . . it's truly weird, I can't imagine someone coming all the way into the backyard and finding the bike shed unless they knew about it-- totally weird-- but the police are on the case, so if you've got any leads, let me know.

Do You Live in Fantasyland?

 

We live in a country where beliefs like this are the norm; Fantasyland: How America Went Haywire, A 500 Year History, by Kurt Andersen, tackles the question of "why?" . . . why is America so prone to wild, unfounded belief-- whether it be in new religions and churches-- charismatic, fundamental, evangelical, financial, puritanical, tongue-speaking, Mormon, etc; conspiracy theories-- UFOs and anti-vaxxers and 9/11 deniers and repressed memories of child kidnappings and Satanic cults that never existed, New World Orders; and general New Age nonsense, commercialized Disneyfied claptrap, or more obscure role-playing Larping and Milsim madness . . . and while this may have been odd and interesting in the age of P.T. Barnum, now that our political sphere is controlled by religious fantasists, it's scary (at least for the rational secularists, like me) and though it may have been the left-wingers, the hippies and the intellectuals of the 60's that pushed us into this space-- the cultural relativists and the "you do you and I'll do me" folks . . . the right-wing really weaponized this solipsistic view of facts and perspective, while nice folks like Oprah and Dr. Oz softened the ground for the King of Fanmtasyland, Donald Trump . . . it's a sobering tour de force, Waco in one chapter, Celebration, Florida in the next, and while it's compelling, I'm afraid the people who enjoyed this book-- and kept thinking "wow, that's wild, I can't believe people actually believe in God that much, I can't believe they're totally sure about crystals and witches gun rights and UFOs and 9/11 conspiracy and the end of times and the return of Jesus and all that" are people like me, who have very little contact with the rest of this utterly insane nation, the true-believers, and part of me wants to keep it that way . . . I'm not sure about anything, I don't have any principles, anything I once believed has turned out to be wrong (such as: exercise is the key to losing weight . . . ha!) and I'm always awaiting a new opinion to evaluate and synthesize with the rest of my carefully cultivated logical and rational ideas, that dwell foggily and amorphously in my brain . . . perhaps it would be nice to live in Fantasyland, but I don't think I've got it in me.

The Shape of Water

The Shape of Water, directed by Guillermo del Toro, is a beautiful and violent love story between a godlike-man-fish and a mute cleaning woman . . . every scene is something special (but be warned: there's some very tasteful but fairly graphic interspecies sex).

The Times They Are a Changin' (Back)

 I didn't have to wear a mask at the gym today!

Watching Grass Grow is Like Watching Paint Dry

I put down some grass seed in the yard in the spots that are bare from shed digging and dog pee, and grass takes a long time to germinate and grow. . .  it's like watching paint dry . . . watching grass grow . . . so boring I could cry (but all this Memorial Day rain should help it get going if the seeds don't wash away-- I'll keep you posted on the excitement and maybe even take a few pictures).

The Dreaded Pusher . . . or Seven of Them?

Disaster in the state tennis tournament yesterday, my kids' team got ousted in the first round by Florence, the seven seed (Highland Park was the two seed in Group 1 Central Jersey) and the entire team played the moonball/pusher style of tennis, which works pretty well on a hot day when you're under pressure; our doubles teams figured it out and won, but Alex and Ian lost and it all came down to Boyang in the third set-- he played valiantly (especially since Alex and Boyang rushed over from the AP Lang test and started playing without warming up. . . they both lost their first sets) but he lost in the final windy moments before the thunderstorm; the kid Ian played never hit a passing shot or an overhead-- all lobs and dinks, and while he had a decent first serve if he missed then he quickly did an underhanded drop serve-- as did the rest of the team; they all played this up-the-middle lob style-- it's a strategy like parking the bus in soccer, it works but it's ugly-- and they also made some questionable calls (another advantage of this style, as you don't play any shots near the lines and you wait for your opponent to either hit it out, or nearly out and then you call it out) so I have to play Ian and Alex all summer using this totally annoying tactic so they learn to disrupt it-- it's not easy, you can't hit side to side as you finally go insane and hit balls out, you have to hit drop shots and dinks, draw the person to the net and lob them, or go halfway to the net and take weak shots out of the air . . . this was a sad end to a good season and certainly a frustrating learning experience-- this moonball tactic exists and needs to be reckoned with (but wow is it borning and ugly).

You'll Never Leave the Woods

In the Woods, Irish mystery author Tana French's first novel is one you will never forget-- it revolves around two separate mysteries regarding dead children, a deeply dysfunctional and traumatized detective, and a number of fascinating relationships . . . and while it can be bleak and dark and frustrating, the writing and the memories of childhood are beautiful-- it's a dense book, in that way it reminds me of The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, but the narrator's absolute mental disintegration and his candid description of exactly that make this book something special: nine trowels out of ten.

Duh

My son Alex solved an easy version of this famous riddle today: Alex wanted to go to tennis practice early to practice his kick serve with his friend, but he usually drives his brother Ian-- but Ian wasn't home from school yet (Ian goes in-person, Alex is still remote) so Alex was going to ride his bike to the park but bring his set of keys to the van and I was going to drive Ian to the park and put MY bike in the back of the van-- so then when I got to the park, I could bike home and then Alex could throw his bike in the back of the van and drive himself, his bike and Ian home . . . but then Alex thought of an easier way; Alex rode MY bike to the park, then I drove Ian to the park, then I got on my bike and rode it home.

Stacey Turns Forty

Getting old is knowing when to drink five beers instead of ten (and the ladies at the engagement party we saw at The Homestead in Morristown had NOT learned this lesson yet).

Spring Means Extra Samaras

I finished my cinderblock planter/bar and my wife added some plants, but our yard is being overwhelmed right now by a bumper crop of those maple tree samara helicopter whirligigs . . . do those things fall in such abundance every year?

Kids Think of the Best Shit

My wife teaches fifth-grade math and she takes lots of outdoor mask breaks with her in-person students and one of them noticed that the purple ball with little spikes that she brought to school resembles the novel coronavirus and so now during mask breaks the kids play a dodgeball gamed called "covid," and if you get pegged with the purple spiky ball, then you've got covid and need to be vaccinated.

You Might Want to Read the Latter . . .

Klara and the Sun, by the masterful Kazuo Ishiguro, is a profound (and profoundly melancholy) take on obsolescence and AI . . . if you want a funny, poignant and upbeat version of this story, try Set My Heart to Five by Simon Stephenson. 

Stop Badgering Badgers

"Badgering" someone isn't behaving like a badger-- it's behaving like a dog during the sport of "badger-baiting," when the dog badgers the badger to death . . . according to this episode of Short Wave, badgers aren't particularly tenacious or annoying, in fact, they live together in communal warrens for generations-- badger "setts" have many rooms and dozens of entrances and denizens that live there . . . the sett can take up hundreds of meters; there's also a segment in the podcast about "badger butter" which I will not detail, too gross.

Dave and Cat Reopen NYC!

Catherine and I went to the city for a couple of nights to celebrate 21 years of marriage-- we didn't do much for our 20th Anniversary because of the pandemic-- but (thanks to the vaccine) NYC is open for business and now is a great time to visit:

1) hotels are cheap, we stayed at the Arlo Soho-- great location and a hip rooftop bar;

2) we hiked the entire lower Hudson River Westside Pier and park system down to the Battery and Stone Street . . . this is NOT the NYC of my youth-- they are gentrifying and constructing one pier after another, shade and courts and fields and chairs and trees and a little island! . . . you could walk the High Line across to the water and then make your way down along the river for a great day;

3) NYC is the right amount of crowded right now . . . not too many tourists, but lots of rich and beautiful people running and walking and hanging out . . . people that just did not look like normal people, no wrinkles, very skinny, very good looking, fashionable dressed . . . everyone looks sort of famous in this section of the city;

4) we went to two Greenwich Village comedy shows-- the upstairs of the very famous Comedy Cellar and the Comedy Store . . . both were fairly intimate because they're not packing people in and both shows were great, five or six comics getting up and doing ten to fifteen minutes each . . . superfun;

5) we ate outside and inside and drank at bars both outside and inside . . .

6) hiked around the perimeter and then cut through the city to get back to SoHo;

7) we ate a cronut . . . it was kind of gross;

8) and ate some vegetarian buffalo wings made of cauliflower at The Underdog, which-- surprisingly-- were not gross;

9) and lucked out with the weather . . .

10) the kids didn't destroy the house while we were gone, so that was a win;

11) we saw an actor we knew but we couldn't identify him, nor can we remember what show he is from . . . so we'll never know who he is . . . I thought he was Steve from Coupling;

12) the only odd moment of our trip was when a dude was grifting on the train headed back to Jersey and the door's closed before he could get off and he had a meltdown next to us . . . I was about to tell him to just go see the conductor but decided he wasn't really rational when he started yelling "MOTHERFUCKER!" and punching the seat, so I just continued to read my book and he got up and I think he got off in Seacaucus.

Tennis Notes/Sibling Notes

My boys had a tough match today-- they were playing Wardlaw Hartridge, an undefeated private school with a very good team, but it was a match that they had an outside shot of winning-- very outside-- and Alex (at second singles) was up 5-2 in the first set against a kid who was a better player than him and Ian (at first singles) was playing one of the better players in the county . . . and Ian was down 3-1 but hanging in and Alex took a look at the other matches and told Ian that he "had to win"-- because they play next to each other-- and Ian and Alex started bickering and there may have been some profanity . . . which the kid Ian was playing thought was directed at him . . . but it was directed Alex-- so then there was an awkward stoppage while all this was sorted out and it did not help Alex or Ian-- Alex ended up squandering his lead and losing his set in a tiebreaker . . . Ian lost the first set but then came around and led most of the second set before losing 7-5-- I was really proud of him for making it a match, and both my kids learned a valuable lesson; tennis is an individual sport and you can't be concerned about what's going on next to you . . . you've just got to focus on your match and see how it all turns out once you're done (they get another shot at this team on Monday, it would take a miracle, but maybe they'll figure it out and win).

The Wind Got in My Eyes

 I'd love to write a sentence but I can't concentrate because my dishwasher is too loud.

Everyone Should Be Talking About This Book!

Patricia Lockwood's new novel No One Is Talking About This is fragmented and poetic, it's hard to describe but easy to read; I would call it a more lyrical, more poignant Mark Leyner-like stream-of-internet data dump . . . the portal has taken over the narrator's mind-- the narrator who wrote the perfect tweet "can a dog be twins" and who makes her way in and out of meatspace and digital space with anxious disturbed ease . . . and then-- in the second half of the story-- reality intrudes-- the event is based on something that happened to Patricia Lockwood and her family-- and I won't spoil the way reality intrudes, but it rips her from the absurdity and obsession of the internet into a beautiful, profound, tragic everpresent now . . . but more important than the theme is the writing, it's wild, profane, funny and mesmerizing:

The things she wanted the baby to know seemed small, so small . . . How it felt to go to a grocery store on vacation; to wake up at three a.m. and run your whole life through your fingertips; first library card; new lipstick; a toe getting numb for two months because you borrowed shoes to a friend's wedding; Thursday; October; "She's Like the Wind" in a dentist's office; driver's license picture where you look like a killer; getting your bathing suit back on after you go to the bathroom, touching a cymbal for sound and then touching it again for silence . . .

so check it out-- I read it in a weekend-- it's certainly something different, and pretty much the opposite of the last book I read, Tana French's The Searcher, which is grounded in a rural setting, the internet mainly absent except as a villain to corrupt the youth . . . Lockwood's book is something completely different.

I Kept My Mouth Shut

Yesterday, at the pool clean-up day, there were a number of people who wore masks-- though we were outside and certainly crowded in any way-- but they gathered hedge-clippings and disposed of them with bare-hands, though I warned them of the poison-ivy; this was a contradictory and ironic mistake in risk-assessment . . . they should have uncovered their face and covered their hands (I wore gloves of course) but I wisely kept my mouth shut on this issue . . . I didn't want to jeopardize my guest passes and free sandwich.

The Mean Streets of Rural Ireland?

Five pints out of five for Tana French's new novel The Searcher . . . it's a bit like The Searchers in that it has the vibe of a Western-- a stranger enters an unfamiliar land and attempts to bring some order to a situation-- but it's Western Ireland . . . way out in the sticks, in beautiful mountainous country; Cal, a newly divorced and  newly retired Chicago cop, buys a fixer-upper in a desolate small town-- much of the book takes place amidst his labors over this little decrepit farmhouse on the peat bog . . . but though he is seeking good fishing and quiet times, he becomes inextricably connected with the town (a more somber version of Schitt's Creek) and some of the more nefarious, surprisingly nefarious because of the scenery-- but really not so much when you think of the direction that small, dying rural towns are heading-- and he has to exert what knowledge and power he has as an ex-cop in a new country-- a difficult problem when you no longer have the badge, the gun, and connections (although there is a gun, of course) and while I loved the plot, characters, setting, and relationships within this book, my favorite scene is more of a set-piece-- a particularly rowdy night at the local pub, Sean Og's, on a night where some moonshine is procured-- but the banter and antics belie a deeper "don't mess with the locals" type of warning, which takes a while to surface . . . reminds me a bit of the tavern scene in American Werewolf in London-- and there's also a theme I can identify with- especially recently, since I've just build a shed and almost finished a concrete bar/planter-- the idea that once upon a time, the goal was to build something tangible: a house, a flock, a family, a working piece of land . . . but now the young folks want so many intangibles and tangibles all at once-- views on YouTube, cred, money, sexual conquests, fashion, style, etcetera-- and this is laid bare in stark contrast the most rural and out-of-the-way areas.

No Time For Sentences!

No time to write sentences, as I'm working on my next project: a cinderblock bar/planter next to the newly built shed . . . I'm trying to finish it and fill it with succulents and such by Mother's Day (but it's pub night, so the workday is done).

My Neck Has a Weird Itch . . . Is It Just Sweat From Running?

When I looked in the mirror a moment ago, I saw a decent sized spider on my neck . . . and I wish I could say I reacted calmly (but no worse than my son's reaction this afternoon, after he went to the DMV to finally convert his temporary license into the real laminated McCoy-- only to find that they changed the rule last week and you MUST bring your physical Social Security card-- on top of a passport-- and we have no clue where that item is . . . going to the DMV is like being covered from head-to-toe with spiders).

If It Rained When I Was Sleeping, Then I Might Not Eat out of Boredom

It's May, so enough of the April showers, Weather Gods . . . I want to go out and watch my kids play tennis (not inhale an entire bag of BBQ potato chips while playing online chess while "attending" a Zoom faculty meeting).

Even More Shed (and Tennis Notes)

Caulking, hook-hanging, organizing . . . a shed-builder's work is never done-- even if the shed-builder is tired because he subbed in at the racquet club and played a strong player who also happened to be 27 years young-- the aforementioned shed-builder played well but still lost 6-3 and 5-4 . . . the 27-year-old-- who had a wicked forehand and great touch at the net, seemed to be one shot better in most rallies . .  especially one drop shot better because when you build a shed all week, your ability to spring for a drop shot is severely impaired.