On the mornings when I play sports before school, I often wear sandals while I teach; it's faster and easier for me to put on sandals when I'm soaking wet-- just out of the shower-- trying to dry off and change into school clothes in the crowded coach's room and rush to first period . . . so yesterday after basketball, I wore my gray Chaco sandals with a pair of gray cargo pants and a black UnderArmour golf shirt-- pretty sharp, I thought-- and I apologized to my first-period class about my exposed toes and explained the situation-- very little time to shower, the difficulty of putting socks on when it's humid, time constraints, the desire to shed heat through my feet-- but to their credit, the students were oddly unfazed: usually the first time I wear sandals in class the kids give me some flak, but this time a girl simply said, "You English teachers always have your toes out," which struck me as peculiar, so I did some further investigation-- both around the school and on the internet-- and it turns out that high school kids think it's weird to reveal their toes in school-- they don't wear strappy sandals or heels or athletic slides or Jesus sandals or flip-flops-- in fact, they're so self-conscious about their feet and toes that they even wear socks even when they are sporting Crocs-- which I find nuts-- and at this point the student body seems to be used to the English department baring it all (below the ankle) as a matter of course (and I think they categorize us as "a bunch of hippies").
I Did Box Some People Out . . .
Tuesday morning I couldn't miss, but this morning I had a terrible day shooting from outside the arc at 6:30 AM basketball, but I redeemed myself with some rockstar teaching-- or perhaps alt-country star teaching-- as I played a rousing rendition of Lyle Lovett's song "Church" to my brand new senior special topics English class, "Music and the Arts"-- and then sent them on their way, as we had another half-day because of the heat, a wonderful way to start the week.
On a Lighter Note . . .
The day before the students come, we always have a three-hour staff meeting that is a rollercoaster of topics, tones, and emotions: without transition, we move from teachers who have gotten married; to introductions of new teachers; to teachers who have had babies; to how important classroom climate is; to bloodborne pathogens; to the budget for building a new high school; and then, just when we were getting sleepy the SSO (Special Security Officer) did a presentation about school-shootings and the utilitarian calculus you have to do once a lockdown is implemented: if you have a classroom full of students hidden in the appropriate place and some slow-moving student knocks on your locked door, they are shit-out-of-luck (and if the intruder does get into your classroom, his final advice was: throw shit at him) and you have to endure this three-hour rollercoaster ride while sitting on immobile backless plastic cafeteria seats . . . people leave on the brink of madness.
It's Not the Heat, Nor Is It the Humidity, It's the Air-Conditioning!
Move-in Day: Muhlenberg vs. Rutgers
My wife and I are now "empty-nesters"-- we moved Ian to Muhlenberg a couple of weeks ago and I moved Alex into his Rutgers College Avenue dorm (Clothier) in New Brunswick last Friday-- and the two move-in experiences were quite different, which makes sense, as one school is a small college on a self-contained campus and the other is a large state university intertwined within a midsized city and several surrounding residential areas; here's a quick description of each move-in;
1) when we pulled up to Muhlenberg College, there was plenty of signage; a number of helpful campus employees to direct us; and when we arrived in front of Ian's dorm, a throng of upperclassmen surrounded our car, asked for Ian's room number, and started carrying all his belongs to his room; once the car was emptied, I was directed to a nearby parking lot (free) and then we set up Ian's room and ate (free) lunch in the dining hall . . . lovely;
2) when we pulled up near Alex's dorm, a police officer told me to put my hazards on and then we were instructed to quickly unload all of Alex's stuff onto the sparse lawn in front of the dorm; I was then instructed to park in some deck (not free) quite far from the dorm-- but instead I found metered parking near HoneyGrow-- and then I walked back and helped Alex carry all his stuff up the stairs (pro tip: he has a lot of plants-- which have survived from freshman to sophomore year-- because they filter bad odors from his room) and while we were setting things up, a cop walked through the dorm, yelling: "The U-Haul and the white Ford Sierra are going to be towed-- if they are not moved immediately, they are going to be towed!"
Are You a Wizard or a Prophet?
Apparently, according to a comprehensive NYT investigation, America is in the midst of a groundwater crisis-- we are depleting our aquifers at an unsustainable rate; this is most apparent in Arizona . . . I just listened to "The Daily: Arizona's Pipe Dream" and I didn't realize how much of an oasis Pheonix is-- the lush lawns and parks and gardens-- and, of course, this greenery is sustained by groundwater, because Pheonix is in the desert . . . but Phoenix and it's surrounding suburbs have a plan-- or is it a pipe dream?-- IDE, an Israeli company that implements water treatment and desalination plants, has proposed running a pipeline 200 miles, from a small town in Mexico (Puerto Penasco) that sits on the Gulf of California; the pipe would run uphill and it would have to go through some ecologically sensitive areas-- and then there is the problem of the high salinity slurry that the plant will produce as a waste product-- the Gulf of California is narrow and doesn't have strong ocean currents, so the proposal to put the brine back into the Gulf could be environmentally dangerous . . . the debate around weather Pheonix should learn to conserve its water and stop growing at such a rapid rate versus the idea that technology and human ingenuity will prevail reminds me of an excellent book by Charles C. Mann: The Wizard and the Prophet; the Wizard is represented by the so-called father of the Green Revolution, Norman Borlaug . . . he was a techno-optimist who developed drought proof high yield crops and seeds to feed the world-- but this has led to our chemically dependent mono-culture factory farms and less diversity among our crops-- and the Prophet is symbolized by conservationist and ecologist William Vogt, who warned us that we need to live within our means and avoid overpopulation and unsustainable ecological practices . . . and these debates between sustainable growth and techno-optimism are going to be rife in the coming years (The Week just did a feature on the costs and benefits of carbon capture) and while Americans don't like being told to conserve and to tighten their belts . . . we always think a Wizard will provide the answer in the very near future-- but in the coming years, this might be the case (or the price tag might be too high-- which could make wealth inequality even more pronounced-- how expensive should water be?) and while we will certainly see some wizardry in response to these ecological challenges, we're also going to have to heed some of the warnings from the prophets . . . and whatever direction we take, it's going to be interesting and unprecedented.
Speak of the Lanternfly
Today, while I was walking with my wife across the Albany Street Bridge (from Highland Park to New Brunswick) I said, "Well, it's September and it looks like we're not going to have any lanternflies around here this year" and just as I finished speaking, a large insect flew into my shoulder, kamikaze-style, and-- of course-- it was a lanternfly . . . but was this a coincidence . . . or are the bugs not only starting to understand English but also irony?
The Usual Vaseline-Coated Shit-show
I played pickleball this morning, then mowed the lawn, then helped my son Alex move a TV and some furniture to New Brunswick . . . forgetting that I should have been conserving my energy for the traditional Labor Day pool party greased-watermelon-rugby match; this year's match was more epic than usual-- and it's usually fairly epic . . . after jumping out to an early lead, my team eventually lost 3-2 but it took far longer than usual and by the end, most of us were gassed-- from treading water; from wrestling and dunking folks; from trying to keep our with our fully grown, athletic children, and mainly from diving into the murky depths of the deep end in pursuit of the neutrally buoyant melon-- -- with dozens of legs kicking above you, blocking your path to oxygen-- and while most of the match was the usual Vaseline-coated shit-show, I was proud of two particular moments:
1) Alex had the watermelon a yard from the end line, but when he rose up to toss it over the side of the pool and tie the score, I rose up with him-- and like (a very short and hairy) Dikembe Mutombo, I cleanly blocked his scoring attempt . . . it was fucking sweet-- and when Alex scored on the next possession, he said, "Thank God I scored, or I'd never hear the end of that block"
2) during a frothy chaotic melee, I ended up clutching the watermelon to my belly, but my back was turned to our opponent's end-zone and I was holding the melon below the surface of the water-- and no one knew that I was in possession of the melon-- so I channeled Daniel-Day Lewis, looked around frantically, and said, "Where is it? Where did it go?" and I simultaneously started kicking my legs and proceeding very slowly into enemy territory-- and I made it a couple of yards utilizing this deception, but then Alex jumped on me and pushed the melon loose, and he claims "you were making that face that you always make when you're doing something stupid like that."
When You Come to a Fork in the Road . . . Take It
My Wife, DMV Hero . . .
Thursday morning my wife took her car to the Edison DMV Inspection Station; there was a decent line (because it was the end of the month) and after a number of cars went through the gate, the line of cars came to a stand-still; Catherine was eight cars back from the gate or so and the guy right at the gate, in a white Range Rover, was inching forward, waiting for the gate to rise-- but he didn't realize that you had to press the button and get a ticket and then the gate would rise . . . so everyone sat there for a few minutes, in their cars, waiting for this guy to press the button-- and to the credit of the human race, people did NOT start beeping at this guy (I might have gone that route) but-- to the ignominy of the human race-- neither did any of the drivers in the cars immediately behind this guy get out and help him . . . someone needed to show him that he had to press the button, so Catherine, who was a number of cars behind this guy, got out of the Mazda and walked all the way up to help this guy-- and along the way, everyone opened their windows and said to her, "He didn't push the button" and "I don't think he knows about the button" and "the gate won't open unless he pushes the button" and then Catherine had to literally PRESS the button for the guy-- he didn't speak English-- and then she handed him his ticket and the gate ascended-- and while Catherine was walking back to her car, all the drivers in line thanked her for being a DMV hero-- they complimented her on her alacrity, energy, and initiative-- and then when she reached the DMV Inspection Station, the DMV lady thanked her for pressing the button for the guy . . . she said she was watching the whole time and was just about to walk out an help him . . . and I'm very proud of my wife for being a DMV hero, but that's just the kind of person she is-- but I'm also wondering what I would have done in that situation-- maybe I would have beeped, maybe I would have gotten out of the car, or maybe I would have sat there, bitching and doing the Spelling Bee on my phone.
Happy Boink-Day?
Spenser Being Spenser
Robert B. Parker's fourth Spenser novel, Promised Land, is more about relationships than crime, and I should warn you: there's quite a bit of romance between Spenser and Susan Silverman (blech) which makes me think something terrible is going to happen to her later in the series, and-- far more fun-- we learn about Spenser's complicated connection to Hawk, a gangster adjacent black dude who Spenser knows from back in his boxing days . . . anyway, this isn't my favorite Spenser book, but it still has its moments; here are some highlights from my Kindle notes:
Spenser on radical feminism . . .
“No,” I said. “Annoyed, maybe, if you push me. But not at her, at all the silliness in the world. I’m sick of movements. I’m sick of people who think that a new system will take care of everything. I’m sick of people who put the cause ahead of the person. And I am sick of people, whatever sex, who dump the kids and run off: to work, to booze, to sex, to success. It’s irresponsible.”
Susan Silverman on Spenser . . .
“More than maybe,” Susan said. “It’s autonomy. You are the most autonomous person I’ve ever seen and you don’t let anything into that. Sometimes I think the muscle you’ve built is like a shield, like armor, and you keep yourself private and alone inside there. The integrity complete, unviolated, impervious, safe even from love.”
Spenser on human nature and belief . . .Spenser and Pam on the city in the distance . . .
“Yeah.”
“Doesn’t that make a difference? I mean you just let him go.”
“I’ve known him a long time,” I said.
Hawk on Spenser . . .
Hawk shrugged. “Me and your old man there are a lot alike. I told you that already. There ain’t all that many of us left, guys like old Spenser and me. He was gone there’d be one less. I’d have missed him. And I owed him one from this morning.”
Central Jersey: We Exist!
Governor Phil Murphy recently signed Bill S3206, which requires the New Jersey "Division of Travel and Tourism to re-draw the tourism map to promote Central Jersey" and also "requires promotion of overnight stays" in the newly created Central Jersey region-- so the folks in Middlesex, Hunterdon, Mercer, Middlesex, and Somerset counties now officially exist as full-fledged denizens of the Garden State . . . and now we've got to work on a slogan to promote Central Jersey so that I can AirBnB my house for lots of cash; here are a few ideas:
1) Central Jersey: no beaches but plenty of humidity;
2) Central Jersey: come for the pizza, stay for the poison ivy;
3) Central Jersey: we've got strip clubs AND strip malls;
4) Central Jersey: we'd love you to visit-- but there's enough fucking traffic so please take the train;
5) Central Jersey: we ain't Pennsylvania.
Always A Good Day for a Nap
Overlook Mountain: Rattlesnakes, Ruins, and Bears (Oh Shit)
On day two of our Saugerties vacation, we all got up early and headed to the Overlook Mountain Trailhead-- the trail is an out-and-back gravel and stone fire road and it ascends aggressively up Overlook mountain for 2.5 miles, but I read that the views from the fire tower at the top were worth the slog, plus there were some ruins of an abandoned hotel near the top that sounded interesting; for a while the trail was a bit boring and rather steep-- but once we got to the ruins of the Overlook Mountain House (which was the third iteration of the hotel . . . it started as a small lodge in 1833, then grew into a 300 room hotel, which consequently burned down-- twice-- so then the new owner, Morris Newgold, decided to build something that would last, so he started on the massive concrete structure that still stands-- in ruins-- today . . . but he never finished construction and abandoned the project in 1939) then things changed for the better; the ruins looked like a Catskills version of Angor Wat, with trees and shrubs growing amidst the layers of concrete foundations, walls, arches, pediments, pools, and stairs-- and after the ruins, we noticed a number of signs on the trail warning us of rattlesnakes, but we scoffed at these signs-- rattlesnakes? seriously?-- and then, when we reached the top, the two dudes that were right behind us told us that just after we left the Overlook Hotel area, a black bear strolled through the ruins; when we made our way to the lookout tower, a couple of rangers greeted us-- which was unusual-- but they were stationed up there to warn folks about all the nesting rattlesnakes . . . as the top of the mountain was infested with serpents; they pointed out a couple of sunning rattlers and a molting black corn snake . . . one thick brown timber rattlesnake that lay stoic and still on a stone just off the path was a monster-- thicker than my arm and six feet long; after observing the snakes, Catherine and I then climbed the fire-tower to the tiny observatory on top-- and, as a bonus, we were joined by a very good-looking couple of twenty-somethings from New York City and by the time we got down, Dom and Michelle had made it to the top and they got to see the rattlesnakes and then we hiked a bit to the other viewpoint and from there we could actually see Saugerties Light-- so all-in-all, a spectacular hike-- ruins, a bear-sighting, rattlesnakes, and great views-- plus, as a bonus, we saw a middle-aged lady jogging up the trail several times while we hikes and she told me she was doing SIX HOURS of running up and down the trail-- ultramarathon training?-- which was wild because we all thought going down the trail was harder on your knees and feet than walking up it-- but this lady was an iron-woman . . . anyway, we made it to the bottom, drove to Woodstock to get some lunch, miraculously found parking right in front of Oriole 9 . . . as Woodstock was packed with shoppers-- and after a delicious lunch and some excellent beers from the Westkill brewery, we went to a fairly lame flea market, bought some bread, and then drove back to back to Saugerties (and made a quick stop at Beer Universe . . . which is an entire universe of beer) and then we all took well deserved naps.
If A Tree Falls in Saugerties, I Want to See It!
Yesterday, Catherine and I drove up to Saugerties, NY to meet our friends Dom and Michelle for our first "empty nest" getaway . . . when we arrived, we parked in town, had a beer and some food at Stella's Station and then we drove across the bridge and unpacked and got set up in our AirBnB; that evening, we all walked back across the bridge which spanned the Esopus Creek, and headed back towards town-- and right after crossing the bridge, we stopped at the Diamond Mills Hotel, an expansive and swanky venue overlooking the Esopus Creek Falls, and we sat out on the patio and had drinks right above the roar of the cascading water and the scene would have been idyllic if it wasn't for two trees balanced precariously on the edge of the precipice-- we desperately wanted to see these trees plummet over the falls, but they had obviously been there a while and the chances of them falling in the brief window of time that we sat on the patio was slim-- especially since we weren't going to eat there . . . too expensive-- so after some speculation on how long the trees had been perched on the brink, I went and asked a random server for some information and he said the big one had been there since before he started working at the place, so several months and the small tree had been there a few weeks and then he said something that renewed my faith in the universality of the human spirit: "Man, I would love to see that big one fall tonight" and I concurred with him-- wholeheartedly concurred-- and then our fabulous server returned and they asked if we needed anything else, and we asked them if they could possibly make both the trees plummet over the falls and they laughed and said another line that confirmed the ubiquitous essence of the human experience-- they said, "I just work here" and on that note, we paid the check and headed to town, where we ate excellent Mexican food at the convivial and pub-like Main Street Restaurant-- and as far as we know, those trees are still hanging on for dear life.
Colleen Hoover and the Art of the Inner Monologue
SOMEBODY in These Photos Knows How to Party . . .
A Mystery with a Curveball
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.
Slouching Towards Something
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).
I'm Rooting for the Sharks
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).
Nice Boognish!
I was walking the dog in the park this morning, slightly dazed from Ian's graduation party, when the mirror-shade-wearing, long-haired park employee covered from head to toe in tattoos yelled from his moving maintenance vehicle, "Nice Boognish, man!" in reference to the Ween-style Boognish tattoo on my ankle-- and then he rolled to a stop and we talked about the Ween discography, Gene Ween's drug problems, the possibility of one last album, the weirdness of the last album, John and Peter's Place in New Hope, his interactions with Dean Ween, the Asbury Park concert we both attended, and other Ween-related topics . . . and then I recommended he check out 100 gecs, of course . . . so the moral is: tattoos, they connect people, all sorts of people.
I'm Too Tired to Party (Because of All the Party Prep)
Nap Time is Relative
Yesterday, I napped so hard that when I woke up, I thought it was tomorrow (which would be today).
Fuck You, Weather Underground
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).
Groceries vs. Food
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!
Refreshing is a State of Mind
The Usual Bullshit
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.
The 1970s . . . Characterized by Four Crime Novels
70s Crime, Boston Style
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.
To the Guggenheim and Back . . .
Stamina of Cat
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.
Good Stuff
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.
No Laughing Today
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).
OBFT XXX Mental Recuperation
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.
OBFT XXX!
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.
Life with an English Teacher as Your Dad
Ringworld: Get Down with Some 70s Sci-fi
New York in the 70s: A Mealier Big Apple
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.
Now the Weather Breaks? Now?
Taco Tuesday? Fuckin' Fuhgattabout It!
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).
Yuck
Last Day Blues
So Much for the Threepeat
My Future is Wide Open
The Beach: Last Person Standing Wins
Mike the Mechanic: Hero!
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).
1215 AD: Terrible Music But Great Charters
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.
Automobiles, Automobiles, and Roller Blades
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.
Old Dogs, New Tricks . . .
A week ago, my wife drove a golf-cart for the first time . . . and at first I was surprised by this, but once I thought about it: she's not a golfer and she never worked on a golf course (and she's not retired and living in Florida) and so she never had any reason to drive one . . . on a similar note, this morning I did my first solo trip into the maw of an automatic car wash-- my wife was surprised at this but I was like: "when have I ever wanted a clean car?"-- but apparently if you go to the Glow Express before 10 AM, a basic wash is only seven bucks and the vacuums are free-- and my van really really needed to be vacuumed-- it was so full of sticks and leaves and wrappers and dirt and sand and mouldering substances that it actually might have been unhealthy to sit inside this vehicle with the windows up-- so now the car is clean and relatively debris free, but it's still got a "failed" inspection sticker on it-- and this isn't why I thought it would fail-- the shattered side view mirror-- it's because of the check engine light (which you can see in the car wash photo) which has been on for years (along with lots of other lights) and it seems that they care about this one at the DMV so my mechanic is going to try to fix the problem tomorrow-- we tried the reset and drive for fifty miles plan but that didn't work-- so cross your fingers for my van . . . it's got 172,000 miles on it and I'd like to make it to 300k . . . I want my next car to fly.
Do Germans Make Sitcoms?
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?
Ball DOES Lie (and Scalding Water Often Burns the Innocent)
Is this the End of an Era?
Bubble Bubble, The Irish Troubles
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.
New (To Me) Music
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).
He'll Do You Up a Treat
The Knights of the Round Table were quite surprised when the Rabbit of Caerbannog turned out to be far more dangerous than he appeared, and I'm sure the young girl swimming in Lake Lanier (Georgia) was equally surprised when she was attacked and bitten by a fifty-pound rabid beaver . . . luckily her dad came to the rescue and beat the animal to death-- and, for those of you who are now worried about giant rabid beaver attacks, this is a fairly rare occurrence-- the last beaver attack in Lake Lanier was thirteen years ago (which doesn't seem all that rare for an event that insane-- I feel like that's the sort of anomaly that should have happened once before, in like 1870, and never again).
The Bear Finale: Forced Hibernation
My Brain Melted
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.
Are You Crazy? Or Just Acting Crazy?
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.
Million Ants Man Sighting (Form: Amorphous)
We Might Have Been in the Catskills
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.
I Am Too Old For This Shit
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.
Do It Geno!
The Little Friend: A Southern Gothic Tour de Force
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!"
Milton Friedman Was (Kind of) Wrong
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.