Fan-O-Rama
Dave's (Almost) a Killer!
Yesterday afternoon, my wife and I were driving back from lunch at the Ugly Dumpling-- we were off from school for Yom Kippur-- and I made a left turn off Route 27 onto Fifth Avenue and then noticed flashing red lights in my rearview mirror . . . it was a cop, so I pulled over and Catherine got my insurance and registration out of the glove box and I made sure my teacher ID was hanging prominently from the rearview mirror-- and I was going to look for my PBA card in my wallet but I didn't bother because I was certain that I hadn't done anything wrong-- you can't make a left on Route 27 from 4 PM to 6 PM-- I've been busted for that-- but this time, I hadn't committed a moving violation-- and I commit A LOT of moving violations: I run red lights, make illegal u-turns, turn left-on-red at this particular light for morning basketball, speed on certain roads, change lanes without using my blinkers, use my phone while driving, etcetera . . . but this particular time, I had truly done nothing . . . this time I was innocent . . . and it took the cop a couple moments before he got out and approached us-- and he walked up to the passenger side and said, "Sorry, the computer got your plate wrong, it read a six instead of a nine . . . and you're one digit away from someone we're looking for who did something really serious . . . take it easy and have a nice day" so he was obviously using an ALPR to look for a BOLO, which is the kind of terminology you've got to know if you're almost a wanted felon, but for you law-abiding citizens, that means the cop was using an Automatic License Plate Reader-- which is a high-speed, computer-controlled camera that uses optical character recognition to read license plates. and alert officers when a car is on the "be on the lookout" list and now that I know I'm one digit away from armed and dangerous, I probably need to drive a bit more carefully (plus, I'm using quite a bit of tape to hold various parts of my vehicle together).
America + Conspiracy Theories = Forever
A new episode of We Defy Augury is up and streaming: "Powerful Eyes are Watching You, Sheeple" is (loosely) based on Colin Dickey's book Under the Eye of Power: How Fear of Secret Societies Shapes American Democracy"-- which I highly recommend-- and there is an eclectic mix of special guests, including Oedipa Maas, The Beastie Boys, Richard Nixon, Geraldo Rivera, The Who, and The Simpsons.
Rainy Day, Rainy Dave
It's still raining and I ate too many cookies and the Jets game is as bad as the weather and I need to replace a dangerously wobbly ceiling fan, but at least I cleaned up some of my study/recording studio (until I gave up . . . it's that kind of day).
The Espresso Martini Was Much Better Than the Music
I thought Jethro Tull's "Aqualung" was the song I hated the most, but last night at Bin, Batch, and Barrel I had to endure "Heart and Soul" by Huey Lewis and the News-- in its entirety-- and I'm pretty sure that I hate that song more-- I'd probably need to do some randomized controlled trials to truly determine this-- listen to the songs drunk, sober, stoned, in the morning, working out, while driving, outdoors, indoors-- but I'm not going to do that . . . usually the vibe at Bin, Batch, and Barrel is pretty chill (and we fled Cuzin's after one drink because the bartender there was WAY too aggressive in his pushing of food and drink) but there were a couple of Rutgers students who graduated from East Brunswick High School running the show and I think they assumed that the old folks who frequent Bin, Batch, and Barrel must love the worst music of the 1980s, so that's what they were playing (but Nick did make an insanely good Almond Joy espresso martini . . . I'll just have to talk to him about the music next time we're there).
Dave: Skilled at Choosing His Mate
Congratulations are in order, as my wife just got another prestigious job offer-- to be a superlative teacher coach for a nonprofit foundation-- now she'll be working THREE jobs, so please congratulate me on choosing such a productive, ambitious, and intelligent spouse.
A Conspiracy of Crickets?
I'm trying to finish up the new episode of my podcast-- which is about Colin Dickey's book Under the Eye of Power: How Fear of Secret Societies Shapes American Democracy and I mainly record early-- before school-- but lately, an orchestra of crickets has been ruining my audio (a bunch of fucking chirping crickets are actually called an "orchestra," I didn't make that up) and I'm wondering if this orchestra of crickets all got together and decided to fuck with me, especially because the theme of the book is conspiratorial thinking and it just seems weird that I've never had this problem before (but it IS a real problem-- there's a Reddit thread about it).
Medical Transportation at Its Finest?
If you get picked up by this Galaxy ambulance-- which resembles my own dilapidated minivan but represents a company whose motto is "Medical transportation at its finest" -- what kind of hospital will you end up at?
Dave Achieves Total Daveness (in the Group Chat)
1) stir-the-pot. . . I like getting people wound up about stuff-- for example when we had the hot weather at the start of the school year, and I found out that Metuchen had called a half-day, I immediately sent this information to the teacher group chat, to get folks riled up, in the hopes that we would also get some half-days (we did)
2) complain . . . my wife gets annoyed when I complain to her, so instead I do it digitally
3) make absurd jokes . . . such as when my friend Bruce shared a lovely picture where he was having a great time at a "Blues and Brews" Festival in Colorado and my friend Jason remarked on the fabulous weather and I noted the irony of listening to blues music in such a temperate, convivial atmosphere when blues music-- which was appropriated by white people from working-class black folk-- was intended to help these black folk forget their troubles and hardships while they worked the cotton fields of the deep South, in intolerable heat and humidity, surrounded by snakes and swampland, etcetera-- and while I was quite proud of this observation, perhaps, as evidenced by these recent screenshots, I am becoming a caricature of myself and my comments are becoming entirely predictable . . . so I need to lull people into thinking I've changed so then I can surprise them with some clever pot-stirring joke/complaint . . . and I guess this fiendish plot involves "liking" some photos and posts, responding with the occasional emoji, and answering sincere questions with practical and helpful information and I honestly doubt that is ever going to happen.
Close Call With a Bad-ass Motherfucker
I walked my dog down to the park this morning, in the pouring rain, and then I let her loose to do her business . . . we do this walk every morning and she's generally quite good off-leash-- she might chase a deer or a squirrel for a few yards, but then she comes right back when I call her-- but this morning it was very dark and hard for me to see what was going on and she noticed some creature moving by the trees, but when she trotted after this critter, it did NOT run away-- it ambled a few yards, and that's when I saw the white stripe and understood that Lola was face-to-ass with a skunk . . . and she didn't really know what to do, because generally when she chases an animal, the animal runs away, but this skunk was not fazed in the least-- so the skunk moseyed across the road and Lola moseyed behind her, and even though I yelled for her to come-- knowing that if she got sprayed I'd have to take the day off from work and wash her down with tomato juice (and it was pouring)-- Lola kept trailing the skunk . . . so I used the counter-intuitive technique that always works in these situations: I started walking home, up the hill, away from Lola and the skunk, and then I yelled, "Let's get a treat" and I turned my back to her and kept walking . . . and she high-tailed it over to me because she never wants to be left behind, especially when treats are involved, and I leashed her and we beat a hasty retreat-- and now I will be on the look-out for this skunk-- but I'm hoping it was just out in the open because so many earthworms had surfaced because of the downpour.
Dave (Lazily) Finds Religion
I'm not particularly religious, but my brother got married last night and Ian didn't text us his whereabouts until 4 AM-- although he and his brother did do a great job talking to old people at the wedding, and then Ian drove us all home, before heading to his girlfriend's place, so this was not unexpected-- anyway, I think I'll do the whole God-in-Genesis thing and rest on the seventh day and admire all the work I've done this week.
Ryan is runnin' . . . I'm passin', I'm passin' and runnin' . . .
I played some singles pickleball today with a young man named Ryan Cheng-- who played Division I tennis for Yale-- and while I didn't score many points on him, I like to think that I had him on the run (but he kept running to the ball and getting it back . . . I could make him run, but I couldn't get it past him).
Smokin' and Drinkin' on a Tuesday Night
By Tuesday evening of this week, I was already totally overwhelmed-- I got up early both Monday and Tuesday morning to work on a new episode of the podcast; then I went and played early morning sports; my classroom A/C broke and I was invaded by wasps; Back-to-School-Night was looming and I knew my Thursday night was going to be long and annoying; Friday afternoon I was planning on driving to Muhlenberg and back, to pick up my son because my brother is getting married this weekend; I had to print out emergence sub-plans, figure out the dual enrollment college credit stuff for my classes, plan for four preps, figure out this new Rutgers assignment . . . but then I figured out the solution to my anxiety: I had a cold beer while I was cooking dinner (Catherine was working) and I went out on the porch and smoked a bit of the pre-rolled joint inside the little plastic container (which is labelled Jungle Boys . . . ZkittlezCake) that the gas station attendant handed me when I got some gas over the summer-- I was like: "What's this?" and the attendant said it was in the well next to the gas cap, under the lid-- which was odd-- but I solved the mystery when I talked to my son, who said it was his friend's joint and his friend didn't want it to smell up the van-- which was very considerate-- so he stashed it next to the gas cap (and then forgot about it, of course) and so I put on "Shadrach" and put it to good use.
Dave's Classroom is Full of Hot Air (and Wasps)
At school on Tuesday, I noticed that although my portable A/C unit was running and though it was kicking out some cool air, my room was still uncomfortably hot and humid and I was NOT happy about this-- I played 6:30 AM basketball that morning and even though I showered, I was starting to sweat again-- and what really bothered me was that this little A/C unit had managed to cool the room down during the REALLY hot days last week-- so what he fuck was going on?-- and then, to add insult to injury, the last period of the day, large wasps started invading my room-- I climbed up on the window ledge and killed one by swatting it with a folder and the kids applauded, as they always do, but then two more wasps showed up and I had to climb up on the ledge AGAIN and kill them-- one wasp perched on a window frame behind the blind and I just whacked the blind with my folder, which decapitated the wasp, and I was able to kill the other one when it landed on a light fixture, but this was getting old-- I had to teach some college essay stuff that the kids actually needed to know-- but after I killed the third wasp, from my unusual perspective above the A/C unit, I noticed the duct that kicked out the hot air that the unit produced (that's the 2nd law of thermodynamics, perhaps?) had disconnected from the window seal, so the hot air that was supposed to vent outside was instead being blown back into my room-- mystery solved!-- that's what was causing the room to be so hot-- despite the fact that the A/C was running an producing cold air . . . because it was producing a greater amount of hot air, but that air was supposed to be vented outthe window, where it could contribute to global warming; I was annoyed that I didn't notice this earlier-- but when you're simultaneously teaching and killing wasps, it's hard to focus on other things-- and to this point, earlier in the day, none of us noticed a giant pile of broken safety glass in the corner of the English Office, scattered on the floor and low shelf-- perhaps this was a glass from a refrigerator shelf, from one of the confiscated refrigerators? who knows?-- we told the main office and went on with the day; anyway, I brought in some duct tape and sealed the vents permanently so that this won't happen again and I'm hoping that the open vent hole was how the wasps entered my room (but I doubt it).
Counterweight Conspiracies
Counterweight is the first book by anonymous Korean author Djuma translated into English-- I won't bother trying to explain the plot, but there's a space elevator; a giant corporation run by AI that has depleted the resources on a once impoverished island in order to build the space-elevator; a number of characters that may or may not be who they claim-- and most of these characters are under various amounts of influence, subconscious and conscious, from their respective Worms-- the brain implants that broker and network AI and organic neural activity . . . anyway, wheels-within-wheels, abundant conspiracies, and a different feel than the most typical American sci-fi trope . . . the lone rebel fighting the dystopian oppression: Katniss Everdeen against the Capitol, Neo vs. the Matrix, Montag fighting the book-burning-firemen . . . this has a different feel-- everyone is in on the conspiracy, everyone works for the company, or some other company (Green Fairy) and no one is a lone wolf, they are all aware that they are fighting the system from within, not without.
Fun Things to Say When You're Old
I was walking with Stacey and she needed to stop at the vice-principal's office to turn in a packet of papers-- and it turned out I needed to hand in this packet of papers as well (rosters and emergency sub plans) but I didn't know this stuff was due and the venerable secretary, Paulette, who I've known forever-- said, "Dave it was in the email Andy sent" and I said, "Oh . . . I'm not on that email thing" and she nearly shit herself-- she was like: "DAVE! You've got to get email!" and then I told her I was kidding and reassured her that I had access to my school email account . . . but she was fully ready to believe that I had taught the last twenty-years without checking my email.
First Day Lunch-time Reality
Today was the first full day of school-- we had half days last week because of the oppressive heat-- and it was the first day I had to navigate the microwave moratorium/good stewardship-of-public buildings initiative (they confiscated all our personal fridges, fans, and microwaves because of a toaster fire in the summer) so Stacey and I carried our food containers on plates, down to the faculty room, and used the school-approved microwaves to heat our food; then I had to walk briskly down to the cafeteria-- while carrying a hot glass container of Asian noodles on a plate-- to grab a plastic fork and also fill my water bottle (because none of the fountains are running upstairs) and then I walked back up the stairs so I could eat with my people-- but it seemed fairly convivial in the faculty room, so maybe I'll occasionally branch out and eat there (although that means I'm going to have to review names of staff) but mainly I'll just consider this roaming around extra exercise-- we played pickleball this morning before school and I hit 10,000 steps before noon, which means I can take a nap after school instead of going to the gym.
I am Throwing Out These Tevas!
Yesterday, I found a pair of black Tevas in my chest full of random boots and shoes and figured they were perfect for the afternoon adventure my wife and I were about to embark upon-- it was sweltering hot and extraordinarily humid, plus there was a slight possibility of rain, so I wanted to let my feet breathe (plus I had played over two-and-a-half hours of pickleball with my brother his group of expert players down at Veteran's Park in Hamilton, so my feet were tired and my toes needed to spread out, encumbered by shoes and socks) and I didn't want to be traipsing around in wet shoes-and-socks; our plan was to take the train to Princeton Junction; then ride the "dinky" into Princeton proper; head to a bar and watch Coco Gauff play Aryna Sabalenka in U.S. Open finals, then meet our friends Melanie and Ed for dinner at The Dinky Bar & Kitchen . . . but it started to rain a bit as we were leaving to catch the train, so instead of walking all the way to the train station in New Brunswick, we drove to the edge of Highland Park and we got out of the car, holding these tiny umbrellas, and started to walk but we were immediately soaked by sideways rain, so we decided to beat a hasty retreat, get our fancy rain jackets (which we didn't bring because it was so fucking hot and humid, and it wasn't really supposed to rain) but when we got back to our house, we heard some odd thumping on the roof of the car and then we noticed dime and quarter sized hail hitting the windows and or neighbor's driveway (it was so epic, I took some video) so now we were stuck in the car, but I figured our dog Lola was very upset, so I bolted through the hail and got into the house, where she was duly freaking out-- and we checked Uber to see if we could get to the train station that way but there were massive surge charges, so we were going to put on our rain jackets an dbrave the storm, but then Connell heroically offered to drive us, so we made our way into New Brunswick, through a couple of deep channels of water, and caught the 3:49 train; once we got to Princeton, the rain had subsided, and we made our way to the Ivy Inn, a dive bar with TVs on the other side of town-- except that I clicked on "The Ivy Club" instead of "The Ivy Inn" on my phone, so we started walking a circuitous route through campus because we were walking towards Princeton's first eating club, not the bar-- but we figured out the mistake and we didn't walk that far out of our way and we got to see a bunch of drunken shirtless fraternity guys playing an outdoor version of "beer die," which was enteraining-- and then we drank some beers and watched some tennis at the Ivy Inn-- very fun, but cash only-- and Melanie and Ed and Lynn and Connell joined us for the end of the match, and then we stuffed ourselves at The Dinky Bar & Kitchen, got some very expensive artisanal ice cream at the Bent Spoon, and caught a ride home with Lynn and Connell-- and once we got home, I took off my Tevas and both of my feet had areas the straps had rubbed raw and I remembered why I had stuffed these Tevas in that boot-and-shoe-chest . . . because they suck and ruin my feet and I think I've done this three times now with them, so I am throwing them out and sticking with Chacos.
The Attitudes About Toes, They Are a Changin'
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!
East Brunswick is existing in some weird circle of hell right now-- the temperatures and humidity are through the roof and there's weird traffic everywhere-- Route 18 and Milltown Road are both shut down-- but I can't complain because-- unlike my wife-- my classroom has an A/C unit (albeit small and underpowered) and because the rest of the high school is not consistently air-conditioned, we are doing half days for students today, Thursday, and Friday . . . my wife, on the other hand, is teaching a full day in her elementary school in Edison, with no respite from the heat . . . when she gets home today, she is NOT going to be happy.
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
In the newest episode of We Defy Augury-- "Spenser, Morality, and the Jock Ethic" -- I discuss my philosophical, moral, and ethical thoughts (loosely) based on Robert B. Parker's novel Mortal Stakes with Miss Education . . . other special guests include Coach D'Amato, Coach Taylor, Falstaff, God, Walter, Donny, and the Dude.
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?
If hardcore pro-life folks seriously believe that life begins at conception-- the moment when that one special sperm plunges into an enormous (relatively speaking) looming orb of an ovum, sparking the miracle of meiosis-- then they should start measuring their age differently; in the conception-begins-life camp, instead of celebrating your birthday, you should observe the day you were conceived-- and, consequently, these folks should consider themselves approximately nine months older than their current age-- of course, you can't call this new holiday a birthday-- so I humbly suggest "Boink-day" . . . although Boink-day applies more to parents than progeny, plus no one wants to think about their parents doing THAT . . . even if it did lead to your birth-- and while we're discussing this verboten subject, if you really drill down into what happened on your "birth" day, I regret to inform you that it involved your mother's (stretched out) vagina, and that's not something most people want to think about when they're blowing out candles and cutting a slice of cake
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 . . .Everyone gets contemptuous after a while of his clients. Teachers get scornful of students, doctors of patients, bartenders of drinkers, salesmen of buyers, clerks of customers. But, Jesus, they were saps. The Promised Land. Holy Christ.
Spenser and Pam on the city in the distance . . .
“What is it,” Pam Shepard said, “about a cluster of skyscrapers in the distance that makes you feel… What?… Romantic? Melancholy? Excited? Excited probably.”
“Promise,” I said.
“Of what?”
“Of everything,” I said. “From a distance they promise everything, whatever you’re after. They look clean and permanent against the sky like that. Up close you notice dog litter around the foundations.”
“Are you saying it’s not real? The look of the skyscrapers from a distance."
“No. It’s real enough, I think. But so is the dog litter and if you spend all your time looking at the spires you’re going to step in it.”
“Into each life some shit must fall?”
“Ah,” I said, “you put it so much more gracefully than I.”
Outside I bought two hot dogs and a bottle of cream soda from a street vendor and ate sitting by the fountain in City Hall Plaza. A lot of women employed in the Government Center buildings were lunching also on the plaza and I ranked them in the order of general desirability. I was down to sixteenth when my lunch was finished and I had to go to work. I’d have ranked the top twenty-five in that time normally, but there was a three-way tie for seventh and I lost a great deal of time trying to resolve it.
The restaurant wasn’t very busy, more empty than full, and I glanced around to see if anyone was casing me. Or looked suspicious. No one was polishing a machine gun, no one was picking his teeth with a switchblade, no one was paying me any attention at all.
“Why did you warn that black man?” Pam Shepard said, putting cream cheese on her bagel. She had skipped the hash and eggs, which showed you what she knew about breakfasts. The waitress came and poured more coffee in both our cups. “I don’t know. I’ve known him a long time. He was a fighter when I was. We used to train together sometimes.”
“But isn’t he one of them? I mean isn’t he the, what, the muscle man, the enforcer, for those people?”
“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
On our third day in Saugerties we walked too much: I got up early and biked over to the Esopus Bend Nature Preserve and wandered through the overgrown and buggy trails and boardwalks; then the rest of the gang got up and we drove over to Falling Waters Preserve and hiked along the Hudson to the waterfall; then we walked north from our house, over the Esopus, up towards town and then out to the Saugerties Lighthouse-- which sits at the end of a breezy and scenic peninsula that juts way out into the river-- along the sandy trail, my wife noticed the hundreds of oblong and pointy Eurasian water chestnut seeds, and she grabbed a couple to bring home to show her students, even though they are an invasive species and you know the end of this story . . . she brings them back to New Jersey, one falls out of her hand and into the Raritan River and ten years later they're clogging up every waterway in Central Jersey-- but she wouldn't heed my dire warnings and instead put them into our pack (and later, when I reached into the bag, the pointy seed poked my finger) and after checking out the lighthouse, we walked back into town, had local beers at the Dutch, ate lunch at the Village Diner (but Dom did not take advantage of the 55-and-over senior special menu . . . pudding comes with) and then we trekked back to the AirBnB . . . 25,000 steps . . . and as we walked up the steep street to our house, we ran into an old dude who looked a bit like a wizard, a wizard sitting in a battery powered wheelchair in the middle of the road and I greeted him and he said, "It's a good day for a nap" and I concurred and once we got home, I took 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
Another episode of We Defy Augury is up and streaming-- Miss Education and I discuss the literary tornado known as Colleen Hoover (or "CoHo" to her fans) and-- with the help of a benevolent God-- we cover topics far and wide: relationships, communication, chick lit, trauma porn, infertility, the art of the inner monologue, coat-hanger abortions, and the very real problems of very good-looking people (a topic of which I am very familiar).
SOMEBODY in These Photos Knows How to Party . . .
Ian's graduation party was a great success: the food was fantastic and it ALL went . . . the brisket, the special kielbasa, the pulled pork, the bbq chicken, the baked beans, the mac and cheese, the stuffed hot peppers . . . pretty much zero leftovers, which made clean-up easy; we did a good job on the alcohol as well, but if you'll notice in these pictures (one of which is NOT from this party but fits thematically) there is one person who knows how to party, photo be damned.
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)
After a LOT of prep (including painting the deck) we are ready to roll for Ian's graduation party-- Catherine just told me that my list is DONE-- and we were lucky enough to get one of the nicest day of summer for the party . . . the decorations are up, the food is ready (pulled pork bbq, pulled chicken bbq, beef brisket, stuffed peppers, mac and cheese, and some authentic Polish kielbasa from the weird little European provisions store on the Old Bridge Turnpike) and the house is clean; we had a to borrow quite a few tables and chairs from our friends-- I'm not looking forward to returning them tomorrow-- but everyone should have a place to plant their butt today (as long as they don't weight more than 225 pounds . . . as Alec's folding chairs have a weight limit tag on the back).
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
After a long day of grueling "work" (four hours of cutting and pasting curriculum bullshit into pacing guides and syllabi-- so dumb) I took a nap, biked over to the pool, swam some laps, and then lay on a lounge chair-- refreshed-- and read my mystery novel . . . until a couple kids jumped into the water near me and a third kid (who did not jump in) said, "You just jumped in where the shit was!" and then the kids discussed how a girl pooped in the pool yesterday, in that very corner, and then I felt less refreshed, so I biked home and showered.
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
If you lived through the 1970s, but were too young to remember much of it-- aside from the absurd commercials and network TV-- then this episode of We Defy Augury should be helpful and entertaining-- I take a look at how four crime novels characterize the zeitgeist of the 1970s (and I also take a few trips into the fuzzy abyss of my own memories of my first decade existing on this planet).
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
A text thread with my son Ian . . . it's got to be annoying to have an English teacher as a dad.
Ringworld: Get Down with Some 70s Sci-fi
New episode of We Defy Augury out . . . thoughts (loosely) based on Larry Niven's 1970s sci-fi classic Ringworld and Katie Williams' brand-spanking new sci-fi novel My Murder . . . Zardoz is one of the many special guests.
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.
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