Mortal Stakes-- the third book in Robert B. Parker's Spenser series-- is about things I love: athletics, the ethics of sports, a conflict between ethical systems, the seedy underworld of 1970s prostitution and pornography, and-- of course-- ingenious blackmailing schemes.
I'm very proud that the new episode of my podcast is up and streaming: "Slouching Towards Something:Karl Polyani vs. Friedrich Hayek: Steel Cage Match or Shotgun Marriage?" as it took me months to read J. Bradford DeLong's epic economic tome-- apparently the sporadic and unprecedented progress of the Long Twentieth Century is over and weird times lie ahead; DeLong explains why in comprehensive detail but I boil things down to the essence of his argument and hopefully add some entertainment value to some dense and complicated content (as do my special guests, Milton Friedman, Gordon Gekko, and Bill Cosby).
Shark attacks have increased on the East Coast, for a number of reasons: an increase in gray seals and menhaden-- both food for sharks; federal laws that protect sharks from overfishing; and warming waters which allow bull, tiger, and black-tipped sharks to roam much farther north than Florida and the Carolinas . . . and I, for one, am rooting for more shark attacks because the Jersey shore has gotten extremely crowded and extremely expensive-- a few gruesome shark encounters might bring down the cost of weekly rentals, or at least clear the water out a bit so I can swim in peace (until I lose a limb).
Yesterday, I napped so hard that when I woke up, I thought it was tomorrow (which would be today).
I shouldn't reveal this, in case a malevolent demon reads my blog, but if someone wanted to punish me for eternity-- mercilessly-- they would have me paint the fucking spindles on our deck and then, right when I got some decent work done-- it would start to rain, and wash away the coat of paint-- and then I would have to start over-- because I hate to paint, and I hate to start over (and that's what's now happened to days in a row-- I've just painted the same area twice in two days and for the second day in a row there was a rain squall that was not predicted by my weather app).
There's nothing worse than pulling up to your house at 1 PM after a long day of work-- four hours!-- and you're very hungry and you know exactly what you're going to eat (a leftover jalapeno cheddar burger and air-fried potato wedges) BUT you're wife has also just pulled up from a massive grocery shopping trip and you've got to help her carry in all the groceries and then you have to put away the groceries before you can cook your lunch-- the groceries are getting in the way of you eating food . . . the irony!
Things pretty normal around here . . . or what passes for normal these days:
1) my older son Alex made my wife and I see the movie Barbie . . . and it was actually pretty good: visually appealing; often funny; surreal; great outfits; got a little preachy at times, but not overwhelmingly so . . . and I really loved all the "Ken" stuff-- especially how he lost interest in the patriarchy when he learned it wasn't all about horses;
2) Ian slammed the van into a pole at the gas station, trying to avoid a truck with a trailer-- so now there's another dent, another white streak of paint-- from the pole he hit-- and a black streak too-- but nothing a rubber mallet and some duct tape couldn't fix and at least no one was hurt and no insurance was necessary-- but this car's monetary value has certainly dipped into the negative;
3) once again, I am very sore from the stupid kick-boxing class-- probably because I followed up the class with an hour or so of applying primer to the hard to reach areas of our back deck -- so that Cat can paint it before Ian's graduation party this weekend . . .
4) a lady and a little kid showed up at our door today and handed us Ian's wallet-- which she found on a path while they were geo-caching-- very nice of them-- Ian didn't even know his wallet was missing;
5) and this is the summer of girlfriends-- both boys are spending a lot of time with their respective chicks-- interesting.
Robert B. Parker's first two Spenser mysteries-- The Godwulf Manuscript and God Save the Child-- will give you a perspective on crime in the 1970s in both inner city Boston and the surrounding suburbs . . . and the counter-culture of the 1960s is starting to permeate both locales.
I went to the dentist this morning, then caught the express train the the city with my wife . . . 29,000 steps later, I'm home and she's still out-- impressive for her, lame for me.
I took a bike ride this morning, and the New Brunswick entrance to the tow path (the Delaware and Raritan Canal State Park Trail) is now refurbished and open (and the trail itself is smoothly paved for miles and miles) and I just walked down to Donaldson Park and the basketball courts are almost finished-- they are putting the final asphalt down and painting the lines of the lane, foul line, and key; and they are installing the tennis and pickle-ball nets on the new courts by the entrance to Donaldson-- so pretty sweet, a lot of local improvements near my house . . . just in time for the cool dry fall weather.
Rainy day yesterday, so I went with my wife to a kickboxing class at Y-- and while I must admit, the class was entertaining and went by fairly quickly (generally, in an exercise class, I feel very claustrophobic-- like a caged animal-- I don't like people telling me what to do, confined spaces, following directions, and exercising when there isn't a ball or weights involved . . . I've done a couple yoga classes with my wife and I really had a hard time, both mentally and physically-- I just wanted to get the fuck out of there and play some basketball) and the guy who taught this kickboxing class really mixed things up-- we used the step and swung iron rods and punched with weights and all kinds of stuff, and while I had fun, I woke up this morning with very sore abs-- apparently I've got to push it more when I do my core on my own (or go to more of these stupid classes where they tell you what to do).
Definitely have the dummies today from the trip, but a couple of other memories surfaced:
1) my flight out of Newark was delayed (of course) and Marston and Gormley deserted me, so I had to enlist an Uber . . . and I really wanted a cup of coffee-- so on the way to the ride-share pick-up area I tried to stop at one Starbucks, but there was a line, and then I stumbled upon another Starbucks and I don't go to Starbucks so I didn't really know how or where to order, but I got the attention of the black dude behind the counter and told him I wanted a medium coffee, black, and he said, "Let me finish this" and then he poured me a coffee and slid it over to me and I was like "where do I pay? at this kiosk?" and he said, "don't worry about it" and I said, "really?" and he said, "no problem" and I thanked him and went on my way;
2) Friday, Whitney, who had just awoken at 11 AM and had a bit of a hangover, was gearing himself for our daily jaunt to Tortuga's bar-- we get there when it opens at 11:30 AM . . . and he said, "alright, time to strap it on again!" and I said, "I think you mean 'tie one on again' because 'strap it on again' means something very different.
Despite the cheesy aesthetic stylings of the OBFT XXX t-shirt (and the cheesy aesthetic stylings of the old men in attendance) the thirtieth annual Outer Banks Fishing Trip was a roaring success:
1) record number of guys in attendance . . . in no particular order: Whit, Rob, Cliff, Jason, Marston, Billy, Marlin, Gormley, Charlie, Gus, Swaney, Old, Overton, Joe, Coby, Fischel, Noble, Wainwright, Bruce, Paci, Stew, Hoopie, Ethan, Ian, Rodell, Dave Fairbanks, and me;
2) great weather-- cool and breezy;
3) a new game: Pizzazz . . . I hate the Southern Gentlemen accents;
4) the usual fun and food and Tortuga's;
5) the introduction of "the light bag" in cornhole;
6) no spikeball for Stew;
7) first rainy day in years;
8) Gormley christened the back fo the rental car after a long Wednesday night . . . always a mistake;
9) new stairs and less dune . . .
10) while we did not fish, we certainly supported the fishing industry by eating a hell of a lot of seafood;
11) a great time, thanks for hosting Whit (and Coby and Charlie for cooking) and now it's time to dry out and get ready for tomorrow's jury duty.
Colson Whitehead resumes the adventures of Ray Carney-- furniture salesman and occasional criminal-- in Crook Manifesto (the sequel to Harlem Shuffle) and you get a wonderfully gritty and graphic view of the Big Apple (and the surrounding areas, even Jersey . . . at one point a vehicle is abandoned on the "raggedy edge" of New Brunswick) in the 1970s . . . all the corruption, revolution, urban renewal, urban decay, cons, grifts, and wild times in a city that is a long way from gentrification-- a city that is literally on fire . . . a joyous cast of characters mixed up in a metropolis on the edge of chaos.
For a moment, I'll refrain from discussing my pus-filled abscess (although, truth be told: it is still festering) and discuss something more palatable: Taco John's has relinquished its trademark on the phrase "Taco Tuesday," thus giving it back to the people (and Taco Bell . . . it wasn't worth fighting them in court) BUT, before you get too fired up, just remember that when you're in the Garden State, if you want to sell a couple of meat-filled tortillas, you won't be afforded the same freedom of fajita as the rest of our nation-- you'll have to bow down to the originator of the phrase "Taco Tuesday," Gregory's Restaurant in Somers Point, New Jersey who apparently coined the phrase in the summer of 1979 and have no plans of releasing it back into the Pine Barrens (or anywhere else).
If you're in the vicinity of Highland Park and you need a great mechanic, Mike at Edison Automotive is your guy-- he just resurrected my dilapidated 2008 Toyota Sienna minivan-- which was spewing out error messages like a ninth grader's first Python program-- and not only that, once he replace the fuel pump and put in a new ignition coil cylinder, he had his guy run it over to the inspection station (I failed a few days ago) and it passed!-- and he got this done just in time for us to take the van on vacation-- we were going to have to try to stuff everything into the Mazda, which would have been very tight-- but now to minivan is rolling again (and it seems to have some pick-up and it doesn't veer to the left like it did) for one more beach vacation-- and that inspection sticker is good for two years (and . . . bonus . . . I covered up the cracked sideview mirror with a cut-out adhesive replacement mirror . . . classy).
In my new episode of We Defy Augury, I take a trip back to 1215 . . . the Year of the Magna Carta; Danny Danziger and John Gillingham help out and guide me, of course, as they are the co-authors of 1215: The Year of Magna Carta . . . and I also take a detour to another fabulous year, 1983 . . . and there are plenty of special guests in this episode as well, including: King Arthur, Denis, The Almighty Lord, Matthew Broderick as David, Al Pacino as Tony Montana, The Choir of Gonville, and Clark Griswold.
I had a lovely time rollerblading this morning-- there's some new pavement on 1st Avenue-- although I would not advise coming down the hill on second . . . I ran the stop sign and would have been killed if there were any cars coming, but then the other mode of transportation betrayed me-- it seems my van needs a new fuel pump-- probably cost a grand-- and that's why it won't pass inspection (or accelerate) so we're going to have to be very creative packing for our beach vacation . . . I also went on quite a driving adventure-- because we're down to one car, I had to drive Alex and Ian to work, but first I had to pick up Alex at the Woodbridge Train Station-- he went to the beach to visit his girlfriend, but as I was getting close to the station (with Ian in the car as well) Alex informed us that he missed the train and that he would be coming an hour later-- but at the Perth Amboy Station-- so I drove Ian to the pool so he could start his lifeguard shift, ran to the library, and then I headed to Perth Amboy-- in rush hour-- but then just as I arrived at the Perth Amboy Station, Alex said he got confused and missed that stop (which might have actually been South Amboy) and now he was headed toward Woodbridge again, so I drove there, found him, gave him his wallet back (Cat and I had to drive to the Piscataway Police Station last night because he left it at the bathroom at work and some nice kid turned it in) and took him to work (at the same pool Ian was at) and then headed back to Highland Park-- 2:45 minutes of driving-- and had a snack and then Cat and I got into the car and drove to a wake in South Brunswick and then we headed back to the pool to pick up the kids but Alex said he had a ride home from a friend-- but then that somehow got screwed up-- text misunderstanding-- and once we arrived home, Catherine learned she had to go back out and pick them up . . . quite a tour of Middlesex County during Thursday rush hour.
The German sci-fi TV series Dark lives up to it's billing-- every house, building, path, and road in the fictitious forest town of Winden is baleful and menacing; it's almost always raining (which has got to be difficult to film) and each and every character has something sinister in their past . . . it's like a bizarro version of Stranger Things where all the adults are adulterous and damaged and sketchy and the children have internalized this trauma from the previous generation-- Stranger Things is about kids going on adventures independent of adults, Dark is about kids and adults intertwined in some sort of time-traveling madness-- and while Catherine and I love the show (so far . . . we're almost done with Season 1 and it's supposed to get even better) sometimes we have to laugh at how dire every scene, person, and scenario becomes-- and I feel like I need to watch a German sitcom once we are finished with this: there are German sitcoms, right?
A new episode of my podcast is up and streaming-- "Bubble, Bubble, The Irish Troubles" . . . this one is inspired by Stuart Neville's thriller The Ghosts of Belfast and it is a major improvement from my last effort, which was a rambling and convoluted attempt to cover far too large a topic-- this episode has an eclectic crew of special guests to boot, including: The Hasbro Pop-O-Matic, Detective Sean Duffy, Adrian McKinty, Sinead O'Connor, Indiana Jones, Erin Quinn, Grandpa Joe, The People's Front of Judea, and U2.
I swore I'd never read another fantasy book and then my friend convinced to give Game of Thrones a shot and I ended up reading them all . . . and I swore I'd never listen to heavy metal music again but Rob Harvilla, on his podcast 60 Songs That Explain the '90s, convinced me to give Tool another listen (I vaguely remember listening to them in the '90s, along with Helmet and Ministry and Pantera) and they are just the right amount of heavy, just the right amount of Spinal Tap, and just the right amount of alternative weirdness for me to enjoy them now, at age 53 . . . weird (I'm also enjoying Waxahtachee very much . . . again-- old news, but I have trouble keeping up with this rapid paced digitally demanding popular culture smorgasbord that comprises our modern lives).
I played tennis in the heat this afternoon and then rushed to the pool to jump in before it closed down for "pre-teen" night-- but the pool water was pretty warm and didn't really cool me down and then Cat and I went to Taco Tuesday at La Casita-- a great deal-- and I drank a couple beers and then we watched the German sci-fi show "Dark," but I was barely coherent -- dehdrated and over-heated-- and my dream to move to Southern Vermon to escape the heat and global warming has been shattered by all the floods . . . and the worst part is I always look forward to summer-- I forget what the heat does to my brain and body.
If you're looking for a faster paced version of Donna Tartt's The Secret History, with all the ancient Greek allusions replaced with Shakespeare (which was far more satisfying for me) then M.L. Rio's If We Were Villains is the book for you-- it's intense.
Catherine and I spent the last few days so far up in the Catskills that it might not be designated as the Catskills-- near a quaintly dilapidated town called Stamford . . . our friends Ann and Craig invited us up-- Ann's family owns several houses on property surrounding a very very old house that has been in her family since the 1700s . . . but we stayed in her parents' modern house, across from the spooky cemetery where hundreds of crows congregated this morning; and we did some lovely hikes with spectacular views of the bucolic Schoharie Valley, drank some local IPAs and some Teremana tequila (endorsed by The Rock himself), played Bananagrams and watched the rain, drove the golf cart to get iced coffee from Stewarts, traipsed around town, and generally enjoyed the change of scenery and lack of humidity . . . and as a bonus, the kids didn't destroy the house or the van and the dog seems to have been taken care of . . . but now we are back in Jersey and it's a fucking jungle swamp outside.
This afternoon, my son Alex snuck me into the Busch gym on Rutgers and it was packed-- probably because it's so fucking hot outside-- and we got into a game of three-on-three with an old student of mine and some random college kids and Alex made a couple lay-ups and the kid covering him-- who was shorter than him-- started hanging all over him and chasing him and elbowing him and then when Alex stole the ball from him and drove the kid grabbed his shirt, soccer-style, to keep him from scoring and we were all like "you're done" and he complained that Alex elbowed him and then he stopped playing but the kind of hung out shooting in the midst of us while we were organizing another game and at some point Alex and the kid bumped into each other and then we were about to start another game but this kid kept shooting-- he was trying to get Alex to start something and he eventually succeeded-- he pushed him and Alex took a swing at him and me and another guy had to break it up and my old student got hit in the nose while he was trying to break it up (by Alex?) and then once it was sorted out the kid still kept hanging around and then he got the gym supervisors to come over and at this point I was like "we need to get out of here because I'm not supposed to be here and you're not supposed to be getting in fights on school grounds and that's what we did-- we went to the Piscataway Y and played two -on-two against two really athletic kids and got our butts kicked, but it was physical and fun and there were no hard feelings.
Donna Tartt's novel The Little Friend, a convoluted, meandering, and tangled Southern Gothic tale, inspired me to record a meandering and convoluted podcast celebrating this epic story: "Donna Tartt + Poisonous Snakes = Hell Yes!"
I played some pickle-ball with my wife this morning (for free!) and then I carted and spread a few wheelbarrows of free topsoil in my backyard, and now I'm enjoying a free beer-- some lady gave away a bunch of leftover IPAs from a fundraiser she had-- solid stuff: Night Shift Santilli and Lord Hobo Banger #6 . . . so while there's no free lunch there seems to be free other stuff, if you're willing to seek it out.
My wife got a colonoscopy this morning (she passed!) and then-- after a nap-- she got her butt in gear and hosted a book club reunion this afternoon (but she did not drive a car, drink alcohol, or sign any important documents-- all of which are strictly prohibited after being under anesthesia).
My wife is in the midst of colonoscopy prep and I played pickle-ball so hard in the heat that my scalp started peeling dead skin (or maybe it's just sweat residue or stuff from the inside of my new hat . . . I don't know, it came off in the shower).
Despite yesterday's post-acupuncture clambering, my back was feeling pretty loose this morning . . . until I noticed that the minivan's back driver-side tire was totally flat-- it turns out Ian ran over a nail on the way home from life-guarding last night (at least it wasn't Alex again) and after the usual mallet pounding and yanking (and some standing on the lug wrench) the lug nuts came loose and we changed yet another tire (it's getting tiresome) but hopefully, they'll be able to patch this one on the cheap-- and next summer my kids need to get jobs they can bike to because when they drive the car, it costs more money than they make.
After some three-on-three basketball this morning, my calves and back were pretty tight, so I told my acupuncturist to go to town on them-- and while there was a bit of pain right when she poked the needles in, then the muscles started to loosen up-- and after lying there in the liminal sleep state for twenty-five minutes, I felt much more relaxed . . . until I went into the parking lot and saw that the fucker that parked next to me wedged his car so close to my driver side door that I couldn't my door more than an inch or so-- I had to get into my car on the passenger side and climb over the middle console like some kind of middle-aged gymnast vaulting the ol' pommel horse (I'm not sure if that's what gymnasts do but I don't feel like googling it).
Autopocalypse Now (Carmageddon Later) is certainly my most impassioned episode of We Defy Augury . . . I get pretty worked up about the book Carmageddon: How Cars Make Life Worse and What To Do About It by Daniel Knowles (a guy who hates cars even more than me) but to balance things out, I was able to dig up a very rare monologue by The Boss himself . . . and you know how that guy feels about automobiles.
I don't know how we missed it, but wife wife and I are catching up on the nostalgic, funny, and wonderful Amazon show Red Oaks-- it's Caddyshack and The Graduate and Ferris Bueller all rolled up into one delightful '80s comedy-- that's set in New Jersey!-- and the eternally stoned valet Wheeler has got me listening to Roxy Music . . .. and while I love the show, I'm not certain that I love Roxy Music (but like Steely Dan, it might grow on me).
I don't know if this is a common experience, but it happens to me all the time-- when I'm reading in bed, at night, and I start to fall asleep, I'll nod off for a moment or two, but I'll dream that I'm still reading-- and my brain will invent the text-- so I'll still be reading along, but not really, my eyes are actually closed and my mind is making up what comes next in the book-- and then I'll start and wake up and I'll reread whatever I was reading and it will be totally different than what I just "read" in my previous half-conscious state . . . I'm assuming this happens to everyone who reads before bed?
I had another meh performance at the annual Joe Rosenberg cornhole tournament but Alex and his partner (a random old dude who was decent but not good) came in second-- so in the money-- and Alex came in second place last year as well . . . he was on fire today and his team only lost (in close matches) to the randomly drawn dream team of Joe (the host and board maker) and Ryan (a previous champ).
I finished off a full week of athletics with a stellar performance-- if I don't say so myself-- at 6:30 AM basketball this morning . . . sometimes it pays off to be a minute late, as I ended up on a dream team with all the elements-- youth, athleticism, basketball savvy, and the ability to shoot from outside-- and when you're on a good team, you often get good passes and open shots, which I converted like crazy today-- unusual when I play early in the morning-- it's too bad this is not the end of the line, there's another game Monday morning, where I'm sure I'll return to my usual shooting form (chucking that shit up from anywhere, waiting to get hot, cursing the russet clad early morn) but I can't complain-- starting from last Friday, it was cornhole, pickleball, singles tennis, basketball with college kids, badminton, lifting, bike ride to Castleton and pickleball last night, and then hoops this morning-- and I'm still upright and walking, an impressive week of screwing around in various arenas- and there's still a cornhole tournament tomorrow and father's day pickleball on Sunday and one last day of early morning basketball on Juneteenth.
I am very sore today, but in a good way: yesterday Alex snuck Ian and me into the Busch gym so we could play some pick-up basketball and we ran into one of my old students from East Brunswick (Armaan) who loves to play (and often plays with my son Alex) and then once we got in the gym, we saw several soccer players and one tennis player from Highland Park (Matt, Amay, and Boyang) and so we played a couple of hours of four-on-four and-- aside from one random-- I had either sired, coached, or taught all the players in the game-- and my team was kicking some butt (Armaan could really shoot and pass) and I was driving the soccer player that was covering me crazy-- he played basketball like a soccer player-- the way I did when I started-- and so succumbed to all the basic moves . . . anyway, we had a blast and then I got up this morning and played 6:30 AM badminton, which I haven't done in a while, and it was as frustrating as it usual is-- that game is difficult and unpredictable and it's really hard to hit a backhand out of the corner-- but I got another good runaround and now I can barely move.
It is my son Ian's eighteenth birthday today-- yikes-- and it's been quite a senior year, but hopefully, he will get his shit together before he has to send his fourth-quarter transcript to Muhlenberg-- my wife said she'd like to "shake him" and I said, "go right ahead, he's not a baby anymore"-- in other news, I was eating a couple of my wife's vegetable and ham egg muffins-- she was trying to use up our egg surplus and so she baked eggs and other good stuff in a muffin tin and made a bunch of them-- and while I kind of like the egg muffins, I don't love their consistency-- they are too foamy-- and I don't like foam . . . I don't like foam on my beer and I certainly don't like cold foam on my coffee-- who the fuck is paying extra for cold foam? would you pay extra for cold foam on a beer?-- and, on a positive note in the age department, yesterday at the Y, my older son (he's 19) and I beat two giant Asian dudes in two-on-two basketball-- they were seniors in college, they were very athletic and could jump and shoot, but they had no clue how to deal with a pick-and-roll and didn't figure out Alex was left-handed until I told them . . . I'm not sure how long I can keep this father/son basketball thing going, but it will be fun while it lasts (and we can't wait until Ian can play with us too-- he's gotten really tall and long, but he keeps busting up his fingers playing volleyball . . . and though my kids are coming back to basketball rather late in life, they're a hell of a lot better than I was when I was nineteen-- when I was nineteen, I played basketball like a rugby player).
I highly recommend asking Chat GPT for cooking advice-- it spits out a clear recipe without all the ads and anecdotes-- and I also highly recommend asking for your recipe "hip-hop" style . . . you'll get lines like this: "Carefully remove the foil packet from the grill, treating it like a valuable vinyl record, and let it cool slightly before opening."
One busy day after another . . . I can't wait for the dog days of summer-- yesterday we drove up and back to Muhlenberg for Ian's pre-registration and counseling-- this place is the exact opposite of Rutgers-- they really spell out exactly how everything is done and insist that your kid will be advised and counseled and will get through this experience-- it's really nice but kind of weird, after watching Alex learn how to navigate the many campuses, buses, gyms, cafeterias and bureaucratic snafus of Rutgers . . . it almost feels like this is our first kid going away to college-- because he's actually going away (a little over an hour) and not living up the road-- Catherine and I are also excited to explore the Allentown region-- you can walk to the city from the campus and there's a big Amish farmer's market along the way-- so long day up there-- lots of various sessions for parents and kids-- and then we went to a block party when we got home . . . this Sunday needs to be a day of rest.
The EBHS end-of-they-year party is fast approaching and Kristyn and I have to defend our hard-won cornhole tournament title . . . the bag-tossing competition is fierce but the competition for clever team names is lame-- people usually go with cliche monikers like "The Cornholios"-- but I wanted our team to have a more creative and unique title . . . so I asked Bard AI for some cornhole team names and, sadly, I got a bunch of bullshit . . . stuff like this:
--Corn on the Cobbso I told Bard I needed even funnier names and the AI gave me:
--The Cornhole WhisperersTeaching seniors in June is like being a lame-duck President-- you're still the President but you can't enact any new legislation and you don't hold any actual power-- you're just a figurehead.
The end of an action-packed anniversary weekend: my wife and I made it out after getting lost in the Sourlands-- we walked over the bridge to Cuzin's-- and, as usual, the drinks and the seafood (and the eggplant tower) were all fantastic (if a bit pricey) and the vibe in that place is nuts-- as opposed to Salt, which is a bit fancier and stodgier, Cuzin's always has people dressed casually who are there to spend some money-- the people next to us at the bar were particularly amazing-- a very Jersey couple . . . who may or may not have been a couple-- they frequently cursed each other out and referred to each other as "an asshole" and they required a TON of attention from the bartender-- the dude started out with a $55 tequila shot, then he needed to charge his phone, then his date needed the bartender to come around and show her the channel where there was a hook to hang her purse, then they had a lot fo questions about every drink and item on the menu-- but the woman-- who was 37 but didn't look it . . . according to the bartender-- was a particular kind of fit petite peroxide blonde Jersey girl from Manalapan with a fucking priceless "real housewives of New Jersey" accent that made everything she said hysterically funny-- anyway, Cuzin's is a lot of fun if you've got some money to spend-- it's more like a club that serves seafood than a restaurant, especially if you sit at the bar . . . so a good end to our anniversary-- we finished out the night watching the finale of The Diplomat . . . thumbs up on that show, and then this morning I got up early and played basketball with my son before he had to head to work lifeguarding-- and then he dropped me off at the pickle ball courts-- so I played sports for four hours and then came home, did some requisite cleaning of the house, and then took a two hour nap-- and when I awoke, Ian was back from prom weekend and mowing the lawn!-- he actually read my wife's note and did a chore-- pretty sweet-- and now he's sleeping . . . he must have had quite a weekend-- he started out in Wildwood and then ended up in LBI, staying at a rental organized by one of my EB students-- so maybe I'll get some gossip on Monday.
A new episode of my podcast We Defy Augury is up and streaming-- this was a tough one to make; it's called "The (Murder) Mystery of Existence" and my meandering philosophical thoughts are (loosely) based on Stuart Turton's mind-bending mystery novel The 7½ Deaths of Evelyn Hardcastle . . . Special Guests include: Albert Camus, Phil Connors, and Grant Goodeve.
I went out with the pub crew Thursday night to Steakhouse 85 and Alec leaned too far forward on his bar-chair, so that he was leaning on two legs, his elbow resting on the bar, and the chair legs slid backward on the polished wood floor and the long-legged chair went skittering backward-- horizontally-- and Alec's body suddenly dropped vertically, down below the bar (and luckily, he didn't hit his face on the rail) and though the chair skittered back eight feet or so, toward the host stand, no one was injured; then Saturday Catherine and I drove all the way up to Foxwoods in Connecticut for my cousin Nick's wedding-- and I remarked that you don't hear much about the state of Connecticut-- it's an under the radar state-- and now I know why-- the fucking traffic is terrible-- we stopped in Clinton at Liv's Dockside Grill for some seaside seafood-- and once you get off the highway, Connecticut is lovely-- it looks kind of like Cape Cod-- Clinton is near the end of the Long Island Sound-- you're looking across the sound at East Hampton and Montauk-- but then you have to get back on 95 and it's two lanes and white knuckle driving-- Foxwoods is a wild place, a little bit of Vegas in the middle of the Mashantucket Pequot reservation-- the wedding was lovely but we split the very expensive hotel room with my brother and his (soon-to-be) wife and my brother had a sinus infection and was snoring and making a lot of noise so we got up at 6 AM and hightailed it home-- much better drive with no traffic, but still a long fucking way-- and then I played some pickle-ball, practiced tennis with Ian, and went to a graduation party where I drank a bunch of Corona beer-- great for the day after a wedding-- and Alec and I dominated at corn-hole-- even over the recent college graduates, who were surprisingly bad . . . I asked one college student what the leisure sport of choice was at Reed college-- darts, frisbee golf, corn-hole, spike-ball, beer pong?-- and he said they don't play anything . . . I guess they just go to class and learn stuff . . . kids these days.
Highland Park boys tennis team is the ten seed in our region of the State Tournament, so we took a ride up to Roselle Park-- the seven seed-- and I was a bit nervous because they have an excellent first singles player (Owen Miller-- he's going to play at Susquehanna) but though Ian got spanked (and he hit the ball really well-- their guy was amazing, and an all-around nice guy and captain who seemed to be a real leader on and off the court) the rest of the team really came through-- Michael Cederbaum played the match of his life, as did the rest of the crew (aside from the usual second set space-out from our first doubles team) and we won the match 4-1 . . . but it was a very slow match, as they only had four courts-- so second doubles had to wait-- and, a weird tennis peccadillo that I've never encountered-- all their players, doubles and singles, took the full 90 second rest during switchovers . . . the ref even had to call for them a couple of times-- I'm not sure why they did this but it was weird and boring and it made the match much longer than it needed to be . . . next round is closer, in Woodbridge, and hopefully we will beat them soundly (and quickly).
Stacey made a good-old-fashioned worksheet for Hamlet scenes 4.5 and 4.6 and it was just what the doctor ordered.
