Incendiarily?

My wife took my son to Trader Joe's yesterday and I asked her to pick me up a bottle of hot sauce-- not Sriracha or Taco Sauce, but something more along the lines of Tobasco or Cholula-- and she honored my request and brought home what looked like a typical little bottle of vinegar-based sauce, so at dinner, I eagerly slathered the sauce on my blackened salmon and then, after I ate a few bites, I started to sweat-- and at first I thought this was because we were watching Furiosa: A Mad Max Saga, a film that truly captures the heat and the grit of the desert . . . way better than Dune-- but then I realized that this was not a cinematically-induced delusion, it was due to the Trader Joe's hot sauce-- so then I read the fine print (I needed my reading glasses)  and I learned that this sauce is "scaldingly, incendiarily hot" . . . it's so fucking hot that they invented a word to describe it!-- anyway, you'd think they'd write this in a larger font or more prominently display a warning, something beyond the flame emoji that replaces the "o" in hot because this stuff is not a slathering sauce, it's a one drop and done sauce: so now you are warned (and I can handle some spicy sauce! I'm a tough guy! this stuff made me shed tears! that's really hot! you'd cry too if you ate this much of this particular sauce!)

In This Kind of Book, Someone is Going to Get Murdered (and maybe some other people too)

Anthony Horowitz, the author of A Line to Kill, once again puts the fictional version of himself-- slightly less famous, more maligned version of himself?-- in the midst of murder . . . murder in an unlikely setting, the tiny Channel Island of Alderney, which last saw any great violence when it was occupied by the Nazis during WWII . . . but there hasn't been any murder since then-- until now-- Tony and his subject, Hawthorne (the rather unlikeable ex-detective with a checkered past, turned Sherlock-esque police consultant) are invited to a literary festival on Alderney, along with a panoply of literary luminaries, including blind psychic Elizabeth Lovell, TV chef Marc Bellamy, war historian George Elkin, beloved children's author Anne Cleary, and French modernist poet Maïssa Lamar-- and the novel quickly goes from an ensemble cast vacation to a version of Agatha Christie’s Ten Little Indians . . . the murderer is on the island and the solution will be elaborate, puzzling, and unexpected-- because, despite the meta-inclusion of the actual author, this isn't reality, it's detective fiction-- and don't you forget that.

Used Car Shopping Phase Three

My wife and I have gained much-used car wisdom in our search-- we're especially wary of strange fees and cars that are not ready for a test drive (or even to be sold) but just because we are wary doesn't mean these things can't reoccur . . .

a phone call (and this was also expressed in an email and a text message)

-- Hi, is this particular car available? . . . we're interested but it's a long ride to Totowa (Totowa?) and we've been burned at some other places, so we are just confirming that the car is operating and ready for a test drive . . .

--Yes, it's ready for your 11 AM appointment

--Great

after an hour-long drive to Totowa . . . yes Kansas, we're in Totowa

--I'm so sorry, the key fob doesn't work so you can take a look

--But we can't drive the car?

--No, the key fob doesn't work

--Wow . . . we went over this on the phone and in email . . . this was a long ride

we took a look at the car, which was scratched up, inside and out, and-- according to the Carfax-- didn't get much maintenance . . . the final number on it was decent but not good enough . . . especially since we were never driving to Totowa again-- so then we stopped in Old Bridge at a Honda dealership and this time, we could drive the car! and it was in good shape! aside from a cracked windshield, which the sales guy said he would fix it . . . and we were damn close to buying it-- but they didn't REALLY want to sell it--  we got the price sheet from a very nice salesman and we said:

--OK, this is close, if you can get rid of the $499 nitro fill fee . . . we don't need tires filled with nitrogen and even if we did, it doesn't cost 500 dollars and you're going to have to get rid of this $499 window etching fee . . . same thing

--Ok and then you'll pay this price, minus these fees

--Yup

--Ok, let me check and see if they agree . . . I can't make this final decision

we wait for a few minutes

--I'm sorry, bad news, they've put x amount into this car and they've got to replace the windshield and they're not budging on this price

but at least at the Honda place it was fairly fast and fairly transparent . . . but these fucking fees are absurd-- and apparently in New Jersey, there's no limit on the amount a dealership can charge for "doc fees" . . . in California it's $82-- which is very low-- and the max is $175 in New York but in New Jersey it seems to be $799 to $899 . . . so maybe we need to try to head to Staten fucking Island . . . I'm sure the used car salesmen (are there any used car saleswomen?) are really sweet and polite and transparent over there.

I Suppose It Doesn't Matter

Sometimes I wonder if my dog actually respects me as her most loyal companion, or if she just knows that I'm the one who remembers to feed her.

Being an Adult is Boring, Annoying, and Infuriating

Completed another tedious but financially signficant adult task today-- and this fits right into the adult tasks I've been grappling with this summer: shopping for a used car, replacing fucked up windows, treating a dog with bladder stones, and trying to find a through-the-wall AC unit that fits the hole in our bedroom wall-- anyway, I serendipitously read something in The Week about skyrocketing home insurance rates and this motivated me to check out Liberty Mutual rate-- which is paid along with our mortgage and property taxes and so not a bill we evaluate or keep track of-- and the fucking dirtbags at Liberty Mutual had increased our rate by several thousand dollars in the past two years-- up to $3800 for our smallish home . . . totally insane, when the average rate for home insurance in New Jersey is $1200 . . . so I switched to Triple A-- which took twenty minutes of clicking--and this brought our rate down by nearly $2500 -- Liberty Mutual, those fucking bastards, are sending us a pro-rated check for most of the money that they would have extracted if I hadn't read that article and gotten curious . . . so my advice is to check your home insurance rate, weird things are afoot in that industry (mainly due to climate change and thus more frequent chaotic, disastrous weather events, which is costing them a shitload of money).

Gettin' Old Feels Like Gettin' Young

This morning I woke up early, as I am wont to do, and so I crept downstairs-- quietly, so as not to wake up my wife-- with the new issue of The Week and my gigantic Kindle Scribe . . . and I started to read The Week on the couch, with a lamp on behind me but the font was a bit small and fuzzy and my progressive glasses weren't in reach and I was like: this is new . . . now I'm so decrepit I can't read magazine font until my eyes have warmed up? and so I switched over to my gigantic Kindle Scribe, which has a paperwhite screen big enough to support a font I can read and still have lots of words on the page, and I felt like a child again, reading the big words in the big book-- getting old feels like getting young.

Used Car Shopping Phase Two

Armed with some decent pricing information from Phase One, Cat and I take a ride to the Sansone AutoMall in Woodbridge to take a look at a particular car from a particular year (I won't reveal what car and what year until the car shopping is complete-- I don't want one of you numbskulls swooping in and buying it) and this time I didn't forget my clipboard . . . although Cat forgot the checkbook and we had to turn around and get it-- and although there weren't as many bizarre fees tacked on, this encounter didn't go all that well . . .

--let me go get the car

twenty minutes later

-- we had to jump it, we're going to have to replace the battery . . . a light was left on

--this car smells like cat pee

--someone also left the window cracked and water got it

Cat feels the front passenger side floor

--it's all wet

--we'll detail it again, of course . . .

test drive, and the car drives fine, despite the pee smell . . . then back to the office

-- ok this car has been in one accident, it needs a new battery, it smells, and it's got more miles on it then the other car we looked at . . . we got them down to around $21,500 . . . so you'd really have to make a much lower offer to offset all this negative stuff . . .

--ok let me see what I can do . . .

the salesman leaves for a few minutes and comes back with a $22k out-the-door offer . . . what?

but there was no more bullshit and we parted amicably-- I think he knew with the water and the smell and the clipboard that this wasn't going to happen unless he knocked five grand off the price . . . so now we enter Phase Three.

I Wrote it Down

I am certain that many many inebriated people, in many pubs across the land, during some sparkling, tangential, bibulously stoned conversation that haphazardly sketched out some compelling (at the time) IDEA, were wont to cry out "Write it down! . . . we need to write this down!" and while many of these propositions should NOT be written down-- for reasons of political correctness, job security, and just a general lack of quality, last night might be an exception-- on pub night, Alec and I always end up spitballing what we think are genius comedy sketch routines, but then we never write them down-- and it's probably better that way-- case in point, I am not writing down two of our  discussions: The Polish Triathlete and Tourette Tits, for obvious reasons, but I will do my best to save one scintillating dialogue for posterity, the exception that might prove the rule, anyway last night we were discussing the constitutional right to get a little drunk or stoned, put some headphones on (I just got som earbuds that actually fit my ears) and walk to the bar listening to the music you choose-- nothing is more American-- but then we wondered how this might go down in colonial times, when they were actually writing the constitution but did NOT possess headphones and we hashed out exactly how the skit would go . . . so I am offering it up to SNL or whoever wants to film it;

INT. MODERN SUBURBAN BEDROOM. NIGHT

A teenage kid is listening to loud rock music.

Unseen Parent: Lower that!

The kid turns off the music, pulls open a drawer, opens a little box (you put your weed in there) and grabs a one-hitter and puts it in his pocket. He then puts on his headphones and exits his room.

Kid: I'm going for a walk.

Mom: Okay great. Take out the garbage.

Kid: Fine.

EXT. SUBURBAN STREET. NIGHT

The kid walks down the street, bopping to his music, and meets up with a few friends.

One of his friends says something about the new girl down the way and what a great rack she has.

Teen: WHAT? WHO?

Friend: Your music is too loud! You're talking really loud.

He removes his headphones and they proceed to smoke some pot.

BLACK SCREEN. 

SUPER: 250 Years Ago

INT. COLONIAL TEEN BEDROOM. DUSK

A colonial teenage kid (wearing a mohawk wig?) is listening to a three-piece BAND in his room. Drummer, mandolin, fife. They are playing raucously.

Unseen Parent: Tell your band to play softer! Mezzo piano!

The teenage kid waves at the band to stop playing. He gets up, opens a drawer, grabs a flask, and motions to the band.

Kid: Come on.

The kid walks into a colonial family room.

Kid: I'm going for a walk.

Mom: Great. Make sure the sheep are in the pen.

Kid: Fine.

EXT. COLONIAL FARM ROAD. DUSK

The teenage kid walks down the road. His band follows behind, playing some fast-paced music. He meets up with a couple of other teens. They drink from the flask. They chat about the new girl that moved in down the road and her slender ankles. The band gets too close. They can't hear each other.

Other Teen: What?

The main teen motions the band to back up, so they can hear each other.

The teens walk down the road, the band following. The teens bop to the music.

INT. MODERN SUBURBAN DINING ROOM

The teen and his parents are eating dinner.

Mom: And even though I had the receipt, they sent me to wait in a DIFFERENT line . . . it took forever. That's the last time I'm going to that Target.

Dad: Customer service is a lost art.

The teen rolls his eyes at this boring conversation and puts on his headphones.

Dad: No headphones at the table!

BLACK SCREEN. 

SUPER: 250 Years Ago

INT. COLONIAL DINING ROOM

The teen and his parents are eating dinner. The three-piece band is in the corner, silent.

Mom: And then he shears Margaret's sheep . . . even though I had clearly gotten into the barn before her!

Dad: I wonder if he had lust in his heart for Margaret. She does have slender ankles.

The teen rolls his eyes and motions to his band. They launch into some raucous music.

Dad: Shut those guys off!

The teen motions to his band to stop.

Then we imagined one final scene, which I don't feel like writing out-- where the suburban parents are watching TV and the music is too loud and they ask the kid to turn it down but he can't hear them and then it cuts to the colonial parents watching a couple of actors perform in their living room-- a parallel for TV-- and the teen's band is playing too loudly for them to hear the actors and they all yell for him to turn it down and that's that.

Used Car Shopping: Phase One Complete

Today Cat and I drove to Raceway Kia in Freehold to complete phase one of used car shopping:

-- hey you've got this car for 18k I'd like to test drive 

-- ok sure, here we go

-- ok, this rides great, brakes work, like the control panel . . . what can you do for us?

-- it's 18k so let me just go see what I can do . . . 

five minutes later

-- ok, here you go, 24k . . . a great deal

--uh, what?

-- warranty, dealer fees, used car prep fees, sodomize you over a barrel fees, tax, you know . . .

-- what's this $1995 fee?

--used car prep fee . . . we spread that out over all the used cars

--so you add it to every used car?

--yes

--so why not just make it part of the price so we don't get all pissed off?

and then more haggling and high-pressure sales pitching, and then, let's get the manager (this is when the situation becomes so archetypal it's comedic . . . are we in a skit?) and then the calmer, cooler manager steps in

-- can we meet somewhere in the middle?

-- we don't want to go over twenty

-- we've got this other trim model?

-- can you put roof rails on it?

-- I'm not sure, probably not . . .

more salesmanship but not enough price lowering and then the inevitable walk-out . . . because you've got to walk out at least once . . . and maybe more times than that . . . what kind of fucked up business model is this?

Thirty Years Ago

Damp and dank and dreary today, so instead of coming up with something new, I'll post an excerpt written by my buddy Whitney, from a news report of what was going on in our lives thirty years ago, in 1994: 

File Under: things you don't need explained to you. 30 years is quite a long time. Like, really long. A generation-plus for humans. The lifetime of a koi. And yet, it was just yesterday in my brain.

So what were you doing 30 years ago today? Summer of 1994?

I know what a couple of you were doing.

Dave was in the Garden State -- in grad school or maybe just having finished. Living in a converted whorehouse on Route 18 in New Brunswick with some reptiles that scared me and some of his old buddies... who also scared me at times. His old mates played in a band and occasionally let the Idiots jam with them for a minute or two at a time. They threw all their spare change into a big bucket every day for a year and then threw a major rager with the take. Dave read a lot of books, especially for a 24-year-old, and he drank a beer called Artic Ice. It was a Coors product misspelled badly, but Dave liked the ABV and it only had 11.5 ounces, which he said cut out the half-ounce of backwash. He also lived with a guy who took his bride's surname, but I think you would have, too. Dave also worked tirelessly to murder a monitor lizard that they should have named Rasputin. 1994 for Dave: it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity.

for the rest of the updates (downdates?) on the gang, follow the link and enjoy . . . and thanks for the nostalgia Whit, I forgot about my "Artic Ice half ounce backwash theory" but I still think it holds water.

From Olive Drab to Gray Flannel

The Man in the Flannel Gray Suit, by Sloan Wilson, was published in 1955 and I found it to be a depressing predecessor of Mad Men . . . the book portrays the corporate world and a war-torn veteran trying to make his way within it-- but it's not the exciting, creative dynamic world of the 60s-- when the bibulous Ad-Men bro culture comes into contact with feminism and the counter-culture-- The Man in the Flannel Suit depicts a more boring, staid business world-- and the same with 50's home life-- so the novel is mainly scenes of mundanity and tedium and the commonplace, workplace politics and cynicism, getting along with your spouse, moving into a new house, etcetera-- punctuated by horrific WWII scenes and the psychological and ethical consequences of life during wartime . . . the novel has town meetings and small-town justice and codicils and speechwriting and business meetings and martinis and old age and young children and all kinds of scenes from everyday life, plus the consequences of the war on the men trying to live in this land of plenty . . . easy reading but tough to ponder.

I Wish I Could Watch a Movie Alone

My wife went to the beach with some lady friends for a few days (to see the Black Eyed Peas) and once again, I realized that I cannot watch a complete movie or TV show by myself-- I need someone else sitting near me for the experience to work-- I watched ten minutes of The Conjuring 2 before I realized it's way too scary to watch alone (and I had seen it before) and then I made it a decent way into the high school comedy Bottoms-- but couldn't seal the deal, the plot got utterly absurd and I had no one to voice my opinion to-- and then I watched some of American Fiction, which has some great acting but also kind of an absurd plot-- and it's supposed to be realistic-- and then I started Mad Max: Furiosa . . . and while I could probably get through that one, it's so good that I'll wait to watch it with my wife-- so it's back to reading, listening to music, online speed chess, YouTube pickleball tutorials, and Olympic sports.

The Boognish is Always a Conversation Starter (or Ender)

A youngish dude (and youngish means thirty?) at the pool noticed my Ween boognish tattoo and he told me he had really gotten into Ween lately-- he saw them play the 30th anniversary of "Chocolate and Cheese"-- which is approximately how old my tattoo is-- and then he recommended I listen to some King Gizzard and the Lizard Wizard-- and I told him I tried and enjoyed their psychedelic sound but their insanely prolific output of albums (they put out FIVE albums in 2017 alone!) overwhelmed me but I gave them another try-- Nonagon Infinity is fun and accessible and very Ween-like, as is I'm in Your Mind Fuzz I . . . they also have a jazzier album called "Sketches of Brunswick East," the suburb of Melbourne where they record-- and I teach in a suburb called East Brunswick . . . so fun parallel, though Brunswick East sounds classier than East Brunswick.

The Great Irony of Life

When you are young and you have your good looks and a head full of hair, you're too stupid to talk to the ladies.

Horowitz Portrays Horowitz

Anthony Horowitz's The Word is Murder is a meta-mystery on par with Magpie Murders . . . a fictional version of the author becomes Watson to a much less charming but equally talented Sherlock Holmes figure (named Hawthorne) and the investigation of this "true crime" story distracts the fictional Anthony Horowitz from his actual work (such as writing for the TV show Foyle's War) and sends him into an obsessive quest to not only solve the crime but to "investigate the investigation," who is just as mysterious as the mystery . . . and there are plenty of plot twists and brilliant usage of both Shakespeare and spelling autocorrect to provide clues and red herrings-- a highly entertaining read, nine model airplanes out of ten.

Maybe There Will Be Big Fans?

For the first time, I am going to play pickleball indoors today and I am a little nervous . . . one of my main mental tactics is that I never blame myself for a bad shot-- it's the psychological technique of sublimating instead of ruminating, famously studied by Martin Seligman-- but if we are indoors, how will I blame the wind?

Entropy, It's a Winner

The car shopping continues (RIP Toyota minivan) and the engine light has reared its ugly head on the Mazda dashboard, our dog probably needs surgery for bladder stones-- but we're putting it off and trying a special diet and hoping for a miracle-- and while we were able to replace one window (out of the three we wanted to replace) it seems the other two were installed incorrectly by total incompetents back in the 1980s and will require major construction to be swapped out . . . entropy always wins (and in case you were wondering, I checked and there's already a t-shirt with this phrase on it).

Dave Gets Sleeker

When I go to the gym, I normally lift some weights or shoot a few baskets, and then jump into the pool and swim a few laps-- I wear Spandex compression shorts under lightweight athletic shorts and I just swim in that outfit-- but today I had a brilliant idea: after swimming a few laps in my lightweight shorts, but feeling the drag from the pockets and all that, I simply took them off, while I was in the water and swam a few laps just wearing my Spandex compression shorts-- and what a difference, I felt streamlined, like a seal or a squid (a hairy squid) and getting from one side of the pool to the other was much faster and easier . . . and then when I was done, I grabbed my shorts from the side of the pool, put them back on while I was in the water, so I didn't have to parade around in my compression shorts (like an actual swimmer).

It Rhymes if You Drawl

Right now my life feels like a bad country song-- a bad but slightly liberal country song-- my Toyota minivan is dead and gone and my dog's bladder is full of stones. 

Breaking (But Very Boring) News

This morning at pickleball, I hit my first clean and intentional backhand ATP . . . it was a thing of beauty, I waited until the last moment and then hit a low line drive around the pole to the deep corner-- and it was as satisfying as knocking in a very long putt or holing a wedge shot or arcing in a deep three-pointer over an outstretched hand or making a difficult combination in pool or scoring a twenty-yard half-volley in soccer or doing something fun and interesting that I don't know about in lacrosse or hockey . . . it was very satisfying.

One Van Left Behind

 

Another action-packed family vacation in Sea Isle-- Alex and Matt defended last year's random draw cornhole title (and so only Greg and I and Alex and Matt have won back-to-back . . . so we played them and we did beat them-- but they were probably cornholed out from their tournament run . . . they will have to split up next year) and while we're taking plenty of memories back to central Jersey we will be leaving one important member of the family behind-- our 2008 Toyota Sienna Minivan overheated and the engine went, so she is headed to the junkyard, but at least she will spend the remainder of her days at the beach-- a well-deserved vacation from all the family trips, soccer jaunts, teenage shenanigans, work commuting, and general utilitarian duty . . . she served us well, all hail the minivan-- but I can't wait to get a smaller car that doesn't smell so bad, isn't held together by various kind of tape, and contains fewer wasps and spiders (and we were lucky enough to find out the bad news from the garage just as my parents were leaving yesterday, so Catherine jumped in their car and drove them home-- where, serndeipiotusly- our Mazda was because Ian drove them to the beach-- and then she turned around and brought the Mazda to Sea Isle, which barely fit all the stuff-- but we were able to send Alex and Ian home with my brother and they took the train from Hamilton to New Brunswick, quite the game plan . . . we were going to rent a box truck to take our stuff but the garage said they're all out on Saturdays delivering linen).

Advice for Coastal Landlords

Beach rentals need less decorative gew gaws and more hooks for hanging damp beach apparel.

A Coincidence is Just an Explanation Waiting to Happen (unless there are no rules)

Rainy day here at the beach, so in between naps I played some gin rummy with Ian and my dad and finished the third Jackson Brody mystery by Kate Atkinson, "When Will There Be Good News?" which takes place in an alternate Seinfeldian universe so full of coincidences that they become enjoyable expectations.

Vacation Jumbled Run On

Too many trivial vacation moments and so little time— I’ve got to prep the salad for meatball night— but last night was Jack’s college graduation party, which featured Mexican food and lots of life sized cut out pictures of Jack— which were placed on the deck and then nearly everyone lost their shit today at some point because when they saw these cut-outs from the beach, they looked like actual people lurking about . . . a few people waved to the 2-D Jacks and I thought someone was creeping around— then this morning my brother and I went to the advanced open play pickleball at the Avalon courts and we crushed a few people and then played the top dogs on the challenge court— a 4.6 duo with experience playing together, and my brother and I won the first game against them, then lost the second— I was so fatigued and dripping with sweat I could barely move— and then we took a break while they beat another contender 11-0 and then we played them in the rubber match and while I’m normally the best player in my intermediate level games, in this game they were targeting me because they knew I had less experience at this level than my brother, but I held on and we won the rubber match 11-8 and then we got packed up for the beach and the whole crew donned all the bathing suits and shirts with my father’s face on them and the boys pushed my dad to the beach in one of those beach wheelchairs with he giant rubber wheels— it’s all about those wheels— and my dad had a great time at the beach and also enjoyed seeing his face plastered all over thirty pieces of attire— which we ordered from China at a reasonable price— but the sizing was a bit weird— I’m a 2XL in these shorts and my brother is a 3XL . . . anyway, a great beach day and now it’s time to get ready for all the cousins and Catherine’s Meatballs.

Storming the Beaches of Sea Isle

My extended family have once again invaded a stretch of coastline at the Jersey Shore and some good stuff  has ensued: drinking, pickleball, communal dinners, dolphin sightings, clear temperate water, competitive cornhole, sun, sand, salt, etcetera but it has come at a price— a casualty while storming the beach: I packed the circular Spikeball net but forgot to pack the bag of Spikeballs but my wife found a couple for sale in a five and dime type store and so the kids and my brother went up by the dunes to play, while I wisely remained on the cornhole pitch— and my brother soon returned with a bloody big toe and his big toenail was hanging on by a thread, apparently the toe nail caught on his other foot when he dove for a ball and it ripped up and out, very ugly, but his wife— a nurse— washed it and taped it up and then my brother drank some bourbon as anesthetic— he was claiming he would be playing pickleball this morning, but I highly doubt it.

Not So Grumpy Old Men

My friend Whitney was in town last night-- because what's halfway between Norfolk and Cooperstown? Central  Jersey!-- so we went out and pretended we were young . . . and Whitney figured out how to foil the slow service at Pino's by ordering two Guinness at a time, which he imbibed at the same pace that I drank one . . . and the results are exactly what you might imagine.

Safety = Not Warped and Trippy at All

The super-classy/super-distorted-$9.99 eBay-stick-on-funhouse-replacement-side-view mirror is no more . . . our mechanic replaced it with a genuine powered crystal clear authentic Toyota Sienna mirror-- and where's the fun in that?

Summer Humidity Potpourri

Despite the heat and my resulting insipid laziness, there's been plenty going on around here:

1) I went to the gym with my wife last night and did an hour workout with her personal trainer-- and even though Cheryl "took it easy" because I was along for the ride, she nearly killed me-- we did a bunch of barre exercises and some serious ab work-- both of which I truly abhor, and now I am very sore;

2) luckily, my acupuncturist has risen from the dead-- so I went to her today to relieve some of the soreness, but I think she compounded it-- and she had quite a tale to tell, she's been out of work for a year . . . ever since she got hit from behind by some sort of Jersey shore boardwalk swing ride, which tossed her into the air and when she hit the ground she shattered an arm, broke ribs, and injured her shoulder-- several surgeries later, she is back sticking needles in people, but her left hand is all messed up and not working properly-- and there's far more to the story than I care to relate her, but it was harrowing;

3) our dog might have a UTI-- which always seems to happen right before vacation-- so I have to collect a urine sample and get some antibiotics for her tomorrow morning . . . fucking dogs--

4) I finished the finale of my Intro to Shakespeare Trilogy-- three clear reasons as to why we should still read the Bard today . . . presented in five acts;

5) I made nine meatballs last night-- a Hello Fresh recipe that my family enjoyed . . . I cooked the meatballs on foil on the grill because I didn't want to make the house hot;

6) my wife made 153 meatballs today-- for our beach trip-- and she cooked them inside the house and it got quite warm (and smoky) but they are, as usual, delicious.

The Detective Up Late

Adrian McKinty's newest Sean Duffy novel-- number seven-- is just as good, if not a wee bit better, than all the rest; The Detective Up Late has the usual mix of criminal mystery, Belfast Troubles politics, and oddball hipster allusions-- musical and otherwise . . . and at the start of this novel, we turn the page from the 80s to the 90s and the musical allusions follow suit-- except for all the Mahler and Wagner references-- anyway, here are a few new jokes and references I learned:

1) I read a joke about an alternate ending to Peter Pan where Captain Hook wins the duel and sends Peter Pan back to London in a body bag-- not a very joke funny and quite dark, and it truly requires a dead Pan delivery . . .

2) There was a young man from Peru/ Whose limericks stopped at line two;

3) The English title of the French novel "Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea" by Jules Verne was mistranslated: the original French title-- "Vingt Mille Lieues sous les mers," translates to "Under the Seas" but Mercier's translation is "Under the Sea" and this mistranslation can lead to confusion about the distance traveled by Professor Arronax and Captain Nemo in the novel. In the French version, "twenty thousand leagues" refers to the distance traveled-- as a league is about 3.5 miles-- but in the English version, it can sound like the Nautilus dives that far downward, however, that's not possible because the distance is greater than the diameter of the Earth, so the voyage actually takes place around the world under different seas

4) Duffy has a print of the 1968 painting by Giorgio de Chirico "The Return of Ulysses" on his wall-- I was not familiar with Chirico but this image is a perfect allegory of Duffy returning home from the insane violence, betrayal, and ruin of Belfast, to his wife and child and collection of music-- and in this novel he is splitting his time between two homes, one in Northern Ireland on Coronation Road-- where he has made great inroads as a Catholic peeler among prods . . . and his new safer home in Scotland-- anyway, another bang-up job by McKinty-- highly recommended.

Where's My Hair?

Successful 80th Birthday party for my dad yesterday at Mercer Oaks Golf Course-- no pics of the party yet, they are stored on my wife's good camera-- but an amazing turnout for a bunch of old fogeys, and my wife did a bang-up job collecting and printing out all the old photos . . . I did a speech on some of the memories from the six decades I've spent with my dad-- from the plaid of the seventies, through all the sports in the 80s, the Jim Brown era, working with him-- doing expert witness write-ups and learning what really goes on in jail (progressive or not) and then his years as poppy to my kids-- a great dad and a great Guy who has always been there for all of us . . . but I wish his hair was there for me-- my brother Marc and I got shorted in both departments, we didn't get his height OR his hair.

Dream Dave Gets Whacked

I woke up this morning at 5:15 AM-- but not on my own accord, as is usual-- instead, I was roused from a deep sleep by my wife, who was whacking her pillow with her hand-- three times, at full strength-- but she was still sleeping while she was doing this pillow-whacking . . . very strange-- and then I fell back to sleep and when we both woke up at 7 AM I told her what happened and she vaguely remembered doing this: she was dreaming and I won't go into all the absurd details of the dream-- we were double agents or something and moving place to place and she was packing and she thought I was on a mission but I had actually stopped at a friend's house to watch a soccer game and I didn't call her to tell her what was going on and she was worried-- sounds like an episode of The Americans-- but anyway, the long and the short of it is she was hitting me in her dream!

Yacht Rock vs Zodiac Mindwarp

 

Yacht Rock night at Mr. Pi's-- which made me nostalgically remember the classic YouTube series "Yacht Rock" with Hollywood Steve . . . we're talking 2005 internet, which was post Ebaum's World-- but not by much-- and while listening to the band play all the soft hits of the 70s and 80s, my friend Ashley and I found out we had something in common back in high school-- we both loved a band that was the opposite of yacht rock . . . Zodiac Mindwarp and the Love Reaction.

Dave Learns About an Old French Guy

I'm reading Fareed Zakaria's book Age of Revolutions: Progress and Backlash from 1600 to the Present and I definitely think I fell asleep in AP Euro when we went over the French Revolution-- this Robespierre fellow was a wild and crazy guy!

Dave Deliberates . . . Perfectly

My jury duty is over-- I sat on a two-day personal injury civil case that concluded today-- we found a landlord negligent for the behavior of his agent-- a guy who lived rent-free in his four-unit house in exchange for being the de facto handyman and superintendent-- and this handyman/superintendent (who did not appear in court-- very mysterious) gravely injured the hand of another guy, who was helping him build some stairs-- the guy lost his pinky and most of the use of his dominant hand . . . and then we had to assign a monetary value to the injury-- to make this guy "whole" again-- pain, suffering, loss of work, etcetera-- but not medical expenses-- and he was a fairly old guy and that was a factor and we did a bunch of calculations (but we were not provided with ANY guidance about the monetary amount) and so. we averaged together all of our numbers-- which were in the same ballpark-- I suggested $400,000 and there were a few jurors above and a few below, so that became the number we presented to the court-- and after we went back in the courtroom and presented our verdict, I met my brother for lunch-- he does mediation of this sort in the courthouse, but usually for smaller claims-- but he has access to all the mediation files-- unless the judge seals them, they are a matter of public record-- and so he looked up this case and found that the county arbitrator determined the exact same amount as reasonable compensatory damages-- but the plaintiff wasn't happy with this number and so went to trial-- and was awarded the same dollar amount by a bunch of amateurs doing back-of-the-envelope calculations-- a fairly strange coincidence . . . unless my secret and untapped talent is awarding the perfect amount of compensatory damages!

Dave Goes to Court

Despite my usual techniques, I am seated on a jury for a civil case-- and while I can't reveal any details (other than the judge promises it will conclude by the end of the week) I will say that this particular courtroom drama veers between sleep-inducingly boring and rather gruesome-- which isn't the worst combination, because just when I'm about to fall asleep, I wake up and then nearly faint.

A Compelling Combination

Tana French's mystery novel Faithful Place is an evocative tale set in the land of James Joyce and The Commitments but co-directed by Quentin Tarantino and Guy Ritchie.

The First Rule of Costco!

The first rule of Costco is-- of course-- you don't talk about what you buy at Costco-- but the second rule of Costco is NEVER stray from the list-- no impulse buys . . . or else you'll end up like me, shredding this giant three-pound block of Vermont cheddar and freezing it in bags because it would take a family of four at least six months to consume that much cheese, even though it is delicious.

 

The Flag at the Berkeley Hung Limply

It was a bit better at the beach today, a bit.

A Question for the Philosopher/Meteorologists of the (Rapidly Warming) World

Does enduring ungodly humidity build character?

Step One, Do It Yourself

A quick word of advice for the guy who walked into the gym before me today: instead of pushing the big silver automatic door opener, start your workout with a lat pull and yank the door open with your own muscle power.

Muse Your Allusion

Every two weeks or so I shave my head with my Balder Pro Rotary Shaver, and the next day I always get a few comments about my smooth and shiny scalp-- and the comments usually come in the form of a reference to a celebrity which definitely dates the person making the allusion:

my parents-- Mr. Clean, Kojak;

my wife-- Lex Luther;

the students-- Walter White.

The Buzz is Coming from Within the Shirt!

At dusk yesterday, while I was watering my wife's riotous flower garden, I heard the buzzing of a bee near my ear-- so I ducked and swatted a bit, but the buzzing continued-- so I swatted near my ear a few more times while sidestepping the bee-- but the buzzing in my ear continued and I ended up swatting my lip-- because I was swatting at my right shoulder with my left hand-- you can't swat your right shoulder very effectively with your right hand-- and I'm sure from an outside perspective I looked like the Claude the Tasmanian Devil-- but then, in my peripheral vision, I saw a black blob on my shirt and I realized that the bee was stuck in the collar of my shirt, so I swatted some more-- kind of hurting my neck in the process-- but I got the bee off me and I don't even think it stung me . . . but after all the acrobats and swatting myself, it was hard to tell.

Shakespeare Quiz!

 

If you're depressed and despondent over the US Men's National Soccer Team's loss to Uruguay (and their subsequent exit from the Copa America) then perhaps my new episode of We Defy Augury will distract you from your despair-- it's called "The Play's the Thing" and it's a Shakespeare quiz-- I provide the line (often performed by someone famous) and you try to guess the play, the character, and the genre-- good luck!

Dave Does the TimeWarp (Again)

I went out on my rollerblades this morning, to explore the new pavement in town-- and while it was generally smooth blading, I did realize that the new pavement is an elevation level above our house-- our house is closer to the river and probably 30 feet above sea level and the new pavement is the "higher" portions of Highland Park-- which goes up to 98 feet above sea level . . .not a huge amount but enough so it was a bit hairy getting back down to our house-- especially because there were a lot of sticks and leaves on the road from yesterday's storm . . . and, as usual, I did not see any other rollerbladers this morning-- which makes me feel like one of the people in the Netflix show Travelers . . . I'm from the future!-- but really, traveling by rollerblade no longer says: "I'm from the future!" . . . it says: "I'm from the 90s!"

Not What But When . . .

Last night we played the music/chronology game HITSTER with a bunch of folks and I learned that my wife has a special talent-- though she rarely knows the names of bands, songs, or albums,  if she hears a song, she can precisely identify WHEN the song was released-- even pop stuff from the early aughts-- in the game you need to listen to songs and identify if they were released before or after the other songs in your timeline and you win once you get ten songs in your line (and you can challenge if you think someone has it wrong) and, because of my wife's heretofore unknown talent, we crushed everyone.

Note to Future (Possibly Reincarnated) Self

If you get a dog, make sure the color of the dog's coat matches the color of your kitchen floor-- otherwise, the floor always appears littered with dog hair.

The Older You Get, The More You Pack (Until You Get REALLY Old)

The older you get, the longer it takes to pack for the beach . . . but it's because you're smarter and realize that you need more stuff-- sunblock, sunglasses, seltzer, change of clothes, sunhat, Kindle, variety of snacks, a chair, umbrella, etcetera-- stuff you eschewed and forgot when you were young and could handle the full effects of the sun and you were limber enough to be able to lay comfortably on a towel on the bumpy hot sand (and today we preceded the beach day with some pickleball at Wardell Park-- which made for even MORE packing-- wrist bands, paddle, baseball cap, extra pickleballs, even more snacks, water . . . it's a miracle I left the house) still I suppose once you get REALLY old and you're just going to shuffle along the boardwalk, then you won't need to pack anything.

(Dave is) Brave

I still feel kind of crappy today from yesterday's first dose of the shingles vaccine-- my wife says that I sometimes whine and complain when I feel a little sick . . . which might be true-- but I still managed to bravely accomplish several chores: I vacuumed the house; shook out the vacuum filter; sprayed the garden and backyard with the chemical that kills mosquitoes; and met with Joey the Handyman about replacing some windows-- and, ironically, the most exhausting of those tasks was meeting with Joey the Handyman,-- who is going to DO a task for me-- and while he's a stand-up guy he's also a whirlwind: in the span of twenty minutes he told me twenty stories, laid out his political perspectives, reviewed every place he had ever lived in his life (quite a few places!) and formed an indelible bond with my dog (and then he came back . . . he forgot his phone).

Shingles Shot, Part One

My wife and I got our first dose of the shingles vaccine, Shingrix, today-- I was reluctant because I heard it bangs you up a bit but a couple of our friends really got hammered with rough cases of the actual shingles virus-- awful blistering and stroke-like effects, so I listened to my wife and got the shot- and it did make my arm sore and after I biked to the pool and swam, I came home and collapsed on the couch with a sore neck and slept for two hours while half-watching "Bojack Horseman" and then I cooked some flank steak, took a Naproxen and felt pretty much better . . . but I hear the second shot is the one that wrecks you.

Kids and Consciousness

Inside Out 2 isn't as emotional as its predecessor-- Bing Bong's sacrifice and the end of Riley's innocence is as abstractly meta-tragic as you can get-- but in some ways I like the sequel better: its a sports movie!-- and there's a great deal about what happens in your brain when you are involved in sports; jockeying for position on a team; gametime decisions and action; the ethics of sporting life; and realizing you might need to leave some good friends (who are lesser players) behind . . . it's a fast-paced, funny film and the new emotions (Anxiety, Ennui, Embarrassment, and Envy) perfectly reflect Riley's new teenage hormonally driven consciousness . . . for a darker take on teamwork, kids, and consciousness, check out the graphic novel Sentient-- created by Eisner Award-winners Jeff Lemire and Gabriel Walta-- but strap yourself in-- this tale of a generation starship's AI attempt to "mother' a group of orphaned children is violent, gut-wretching, and riveting (in the grimmest way).

Shakespeare: Timeless-- But a Man of His Times

Like the Bard himself, I got a bit long-winded in Part One of this introduction to the life, times, and art of Shakespeare-- sorry!-- but I had a plethora of thoughts (loosely) based on A Year in the Life of William Shakespeare:1599 by James Shapiro, Shakespeare: The World as a Stage by Bill Bryson, The Elizabethan World Picture by E.M.W. Tillyard and countless years of teaching Shakespeare to high school students . . . Special Guests: Tim the Enchanter, Cole Porter, and the Bard.

Who Is One DJ Who Has Been in Zman's New Kitchen?

Kool DJ Red Alert and my wife

When my buddy Zman promised that "Kool DJ Red Alert" would be handling the music at his "Old Man, New Kitchen" birthday/remodeling party, I didn't think much of it-- I figured either he had an alter-ego named "Kool DJ RedAlert" or a friend that did some DJing . . . but goes to show what I know-- Kool DJ RedAlert is an Antiguan-American disc jockey who rose to fame on WRKS 98.7 Kiss FM in New York City and is recognized as one of the founding fathers of hip hop music and culture . . . we've seen him in documentaries, he produced music with the Jungle Brothers, he "holds the all-time record for the most guest appearances among all hip hop artists and personalities in the history of the music video" and he was one of the founders of the mixtape-- he's the bomb and watching him in Zman's living room, while he created mixes and beats underneath classic hip-hop, 80s grooves, yacht rock, and every other kind of pop music-- in 30-second blasts of sonic excitement, seamless transitioning and matching beats, by spinning those platters, was fabulous fun . . . not just a party, but an auditory/educational experience.

Cool DJ Green Alert

When TV is Infinite, Every Show is Insignificant

After recommendations from numerous trustworthy people, my wife and I tried watching the Shogun reboot-- but apparently we only like Japanese drama if the main character is a fiery-breathing 350-foot irradiated lizard . . . we are enjoying the Netflix sci-fi/time travel diamond-in-the-rough Travelers . . . I don't know how we missed this one-- or I DO know exactly how we missed it: there are too many fucking TV shows.

Incentive to Bike

This heat is stupid . . . and it feels even more stupid inside my minivan-- the A/C died for the second time a few months ago and it just doesn't seem worth it to resuscitate it again.

I'm On Summer Break! My Wife is NOT on Summer Break (Yet)

First day of summer vacation for me: I worked on my Shakespeare podcast; biked to the gym and lifted; biked to New Brunswick for some shopping at my favorite (and totally legal) store; watched a few episodes of Bojack Horseman in a semi-catatonic nap state; went to the pool and swam a few laps; and I'm planning on playing osm pickleball once it cools down . . . meanwhile, my wife came home in an irate mood-- she's not done until Friday and they had some sort of outdoor fun-day in the scorching heat-- all these New Jersey districts need to coordinate so that teachers all get done on the same day, so we can avoid all this inter-familial summer vacation jealousy.

Which One Are You? No Judgements . . .

 

According to my wife, there are two kinds of vacuumers: meticulous (her) and just-get-the-job-done (me).

(Pretty) Good Day

I had a pretty good day at 6:30 AM hoops this morning, I made a few clutch three-pointers and played some solid D . . . BUT I jammed my pinky going for a rebound and it's all misshapen and swollen; then I got a pretty good movie recommendation form my buddy Jack-- Shin Godzilla . . . BUT it's not streaming anywhere so I'll have to try and pirate it; and in the afternoon, I had a pretty good time at the pool-- I was really hot from watering the garden and very sore from morning hoops, so I swam a few laps to cool down and I stretched out in the shallow end and the water was clear and refreshing BUT after my swim, when I reclined on the lounger to read my book, I noticed that the lounger was covered in ants . . . and soon enough I was covered in ants and so I decided to head home and read my book in the safety of my home.

Chess and Sugar

I was left to my own devices today because I have off from school for Eid al-Adha but my wife does not-- and while I accomplished a number of constructive tasks: I biked to the gym and lifted some weights, did the dishes, got a new tank of propane gas for the grill, helped my neighbor move a rug and a table, swam a few laps at the pool, read my book, picked up my son in New Brunswick and took him to the pharmacy to get prescription eye drops, did some yard work, stole a couple of rocks from the park, put away a bunch of laundry, put protective wax on the dog's paws and walked her, and took a nap-- I also consumed a massive amount of sugar, mainly while playing online speed chess-- I ate some Haribo gummy peaches around 10:30 AM;  after lunch, I drank a Coke in a glass bottle with cane sugar-- delicious; and I consumed a bunch of Haribo gummy bears around 4:30 PM . . . I guess this is what happens when I'm home alone and I don't drink as much coffee as usual.

Wood!

It's been a lovely Fathers Day (or Father's Day, whichever you prefer) and I haven't even had a beer yet-- early this morning I noticed that the dome lights were on in the van, but despite Ian's idiocy, the battery still worked-- so good thing I noticed early-- then I played some morning pickleball with Alec, Ann, and Ashley-- just the four of us so we really tried out a lot of new strategies and shots . . . I am gradually learning that pickleball is NOT tennis-- and then I went over to the pool and swam a few laps-- the water was still cold, but that actually helped my sore knees and calf-- like a lizard, I had to lie in full sun to warm up-- and then I ate a lemongrass and beef ban mi sandwich-- thanks to my wife-- and received some Father's Day loot: a new hat, giant beer pong, some swim goggles that actually fit, a couple t-shirts, and my younger son Ian gave me this nifty little wooden guitar-- which splits in two (and reseals magnetically) and has wooden picks inside-- and I had never played guitar with a wooden pick but I really like it-- especially because plastic picks always slip out of my fingers, but these wooden picks really have a grip to them-- and now we're about to head to my parents to see the rest of the gang-- and super-bonus-- I have off from school tomorrow because of Eid.

 

Dave Does Some Suburban Civil Engineering

Wild Saturday: after pickleball and the gym, respectively, my wife and I went to TWO mall-like areas-- this is highly unusual behavior-- but we had a Seasons 52 gift card (the best chain restaurant I've ever been to . . . besides White Castle) and Seasons 52 is right next to Barnes and Nobles-- which resides next to the Menlo Park Mall, in a semi-attached manner-- and we wanted to get my father a couple of books for Fathers Day-- and it was hot and sunny so we parked in the shade, underneath what I believe is more parking-- and it's kind of nuts that EVERYONE in the lot didn't park in the shady area-- but there were plenty of spaces-- weird-- and then we actually walked through the mall-- the first time I've done that in a long, long time-- and made our way to Barnes and Nobles, bought a couple of books (no more Educator Discount, boo!) and then we ate lunch and then when we got back to the car, it was nice and cool, despite the sun-- because we had the foresight to park in the shade-- then we went to Wegman's, which resides near Woodbridge Center Mall, and we got some fresh fish for dinner and some good beer and cider-- but when we got back to the car, it was HOT . . . because there was zero shaded parking-- and this makes me wonder: why don't we build all our large stores on top of the parking lots, which would save space, allowed for more green areas, avoid over-heated cars, avoid such long walks across hot parking lots, and it would look a lot nicer-- there should be some incentive to build over the parking lot and then have a belt of green space around the lot-- which would also avoid the incredible heat sink that is a large stretch of asphalt-- anyway, I'm sure there's prohibitive costs associated with this plan-- but maybe in the future we'll incentive the right things so that the cost is neglible (and Rutgers has some parking lots that are shaded by solar panels-- this is another solution) but the next time I go to the Menlo Park Mall when it's hot (which might not be for a decade) I know where to park.

She Blinded Me With Blindness

It's the last Friday of the school year, so this is the last day students will enter my classroom and enjoy my avant-garde blinds-- which make the statement: the world is a fucked up place, especially technology, but in the end, it doesn't matter how things look, as long as they get the job done (the same might be said about my minivan).

Lunch Surprise!

I was already pleased that both boys could make it to sushi lunch today-- it's Ian's birthday (he's 19 . . . wtf?) and he's actually got some mobility now-- he's walking, albeit slowly, in a supportive boot-- and Alex has been busy working at Tavern on George-- he's making his way in the restaurant biz . . . he's already been promoted from host to server and he's been working a shitload of hours-- and he made enough cash that he treated us to a Father's Day/Birthday Lunch . . . always a surprise when your college-aged kid reaches for the check (and he seems to really like the bustle of restaurant work, unlike the boredom of last summer's disaster of a job-- lifeguarding at condo pools . . . so perhaps he won't get fired at this job).

The Groundlings Were Grungy in the 1590s

Though it gets a bit technical at times, James Shapiro's book A Year in the Life of Shakespeare:1599 truly illustrates that though The Bard's writing appears to be timeless, Shakespeare himself was truly a man of his times and a man determined-- through his writing-- to push forward, artistically and financially . . . the book details the impact the Globe Theater-- built by Shakespeare and his acting company to exacting specifications-- had on the most experienced playgoers in the history of theater-- Shakespeare broke free of the clowning and the jig, and wrote and directed some of the most politically, linguistically, and emotionally ambiguous and complex plays ever written-- artistry that was even more compelling in Elizabethan England than it is now-- while his plays are still astounding, they are but a "walking shadow" to how they must have been received in London in 1599-- when the allusions resonated, the inventive language was newly coined, and the political turmoil in his histories was reflective of the same issues faced by Elizabeth and Essex and the rest of the nobles of England.

Upon Even Further Reflection (and some looking around)

I'm pretty sure my van is the shittiest vehicle in the teacher parking lot.

Upon Further Reflection . . .

 

Yet another wedding-- this one out in the beautiful hills just outside of Branchburg, at Neshanick Valley Golf Course . . . Paul and Sharon tied the knot and they couldn't have had a better day-- and my wife and I serendipitously met my son Ian's girlfriend's father . . . he was half of the wedding band, a duo that performed some unusual wedding songs: "Ring of Fire" and The Cure's "Lovesong"-- but the real question is: where are the lanternflies?

Bamboozled

 

I planted some tiny specimens of fargesia rufa clumping bamboo along our fenceline back in 2013 and then I let it grow-- unchecked-- until it grew much larger and more jungly than the photo above; I really enjoyed this dense evergreen foliage, even though it was making our backyard smaller and smaller-- and my wife allowed it because she knew how much pleasure I derived from looking out at this thick dense bamboo jungle, for various reasons:

1) it was aesthetically pleasing

2) it obscured the view of our neighbor's house 

3 and the bamboo remained bright green in the middle of winter . . . 

but apparently, you are NOT supposed to let clumping bamboo grow in this fashion, as the rootball can get so dense that the bamboo can strangle itself-- you're supposed to cull the "weeping" culms and clear out the dead branches between the healthy upright culms-- so I've got some serious work to do, I trimmed some of the bushy stuff this morning, but I'm going to have to get down on my hands and knees and really weed out a lot of dead shoots and clean out the leaves (and soccer balls and dog toys-- I found a few of those in there) to allow air circulation and healthier sprouts . . . here's where I am now in this project, but I probably won't really get in there and trim everything until fall, when it gets colder and I won't get eaten alive by mosquitoes.

Godzilla Plus One Million!

Godzilla Minu One is finally streaming in the United States-- on Netflix-- and it was worth the wait; Cat and I watched it last night with Ian and his girlfriend-- who professed to hating Godzilla movies because "there's never any plot" but I convinced her to try this one . . . I had watched half of it Thursday night and knew that the movie has a compelling story: a failed kamikaze pilot tries to cobble together a shattered life in the ruins of firebombed Tokyo, but his shame, regret, and trauma from the war-- and a chance encounter with young Godzilla-- have damaged him enough that he can't love the woman and child that need him . . . but he's going to get one more chance at redemption, and so is his country-- which has been leveled to zero by the war, disarmed, and being slowly rebuilt with the help of the U.S. (and famously, General MacArthur) but in this alternate history, Godzilla-- who is more like Jaws or Moby Dick, a senseless force of nature, bent on haphazard destruction, more like an earthquake or tornado than some Marvel monster with recognizable motives-- knocks Japan from zero to "minus one"-- and the rest of the world doesn't really want to get involved with a giant radioactive creature-- the United States is more concerned about the Soviet Union and the Cold War-- so it's up to a ragtag bunch of minesweepers; a plan bordering on pure genius; and Koichi-- the shamed kamikaze pilot-- to rescue not only Japan but Japanese honor and reputation . . . and there's certainly a nod to Dunkirk at the end . . . Ian's girlfriend admitted to getting so involved that she was crying at the end . . . and so was I (and you'd cry to, if you watched this movie).

Half Day of School (That Was Half Good)

Today was the last day of classes at my high school-- next week is exams-- and the day started in a lovely fashion, I played morning hoops and I made my very first shot-- a three-pointer to win the game-- and, after much sweating, fouling, rebounding, and running around-- I made my last shot-- another three-pointer to win the game (and who remembers all those missed shots in the middle? nobody!) and then I walked off the court, happily, and into the locker room, where I showered up and prepared for an easy half-day of yearbook signing (or makeshift yearbook signing since the school collected back all the yearbooks because of the yearbook debacle) and watching "Trini 2 DE Bone" the Hamlet 5.1/alas poor Yorick/Laertes jumping into the grave adjacent Atlanta episode-- but then things took an odd turn: we were watching the eulogies for Sylvia and a student from one of my other classes walked in, and-- some context-- the seniors can be exempt from exams, if they have certain grades or have completed certain requirements, it's teacher's discretion, and its a nice senior privilege-- but this student had cut the last two classes and hadn't taken the test that was required to get an exemption form (which needs to be signed by a parent or guardian) and she came into my room today and attempted to hand me an exemption form and I was like: "what? I didn't GIVE you an exemption form" and she was like "I wasn't here when you gave them out" and I was like "Okay, then you needed to come ask me for a form, not filch one and forge it and then hand it back to the originator and think they forgot that they didn't give you a form?" and then I told her to come back later when I had processed the absurdity of this event-- but she never did-- and then I wrote her up and emailed her parents and now she's coming in on exam day, the only student in that class that is coming in-- so annoying-- and she'll take the 12th Night test and some other exam that I cook up for her . . . and if she would have just asked earlier in the week, I would have told her, take the test and then I'll give you an exemption form but instead she took this oddball road, which is inconvenient to all parties involved (but I had to draw a line in the sand on this one . . . so obnoxious and entitled and just plain silly-- I can't think of the proper metaphor for this: is it like going to the DMV with a license that you made yourself and asking them to certify it? is it like giving your doctor a prescription for opioids that you wrote out yourself?)

Seriously?

Senior class, first period, and there are two more days of actual school (then exams) and everyone knows my cell phone policy (they are a menace; a scourge upon humanity; the devil's technology; designed to foster addiction, polarization, shallow thinking, distraction, and stupidity . . . especially in teenagers, especially during school time) yet a girl has an odd stack of three textbooks on her desk and she's doing something behind the textbooks and her eyes are glancing back and forth rapidly, so I chastised her and made her put her phone in the phone caddy-- shameful for a senior . . . and this was so absurd (and also so typical) that I acted it out in the next period, but I put a student in front of the room and I built the tower of books and played with my phone, so someone could experience the insanity that is giving kids cell-phones and then sending them off to class.

Social Media is Anti-Social

Here's a case of idiotic social media amplification run amok at the high school where I teach. . . a couple of yearbook pictures got inadvertently switched-- easy to do when students are running the show and the mistake was traced back to simple human error-- but the pictures were of two religious/cultural clubs- one mainly Jewish and one mainly Muslim-- and the Jewish club forgot to turn in the names of its members to the yearbook staff so the names aren't in the book-- the same is true for several other clubs that have pages in the book . . . but this case is particularly egregious and symbolic, according to the internet hordes-- and now accusations are flying, people are OUTRAGED! on social media, the worst is being assumed, internet trolls (including a rabbi internet troll) are posting unwarranted rumors about students and teachers and it's a general shitshow, which will blow over when the next stupid story comes along-- but right now, it's fodder for the endless, moronic 24-hour news cycle, which feeds on crap like this.

That's a Wrap!

Successful pickleball and pizza party to end the tennis season-- and everyone got a very special award, in categories such as: "Most Likely to Be Singing a Catchy Song From the 90s on the Bus" and "Best Taste in Sci-fi" and "Most Food Consumed Within 30 Minutes of a Match (without Puking)"-- and my buddy Craig (the AD) and I defended our honor and beat the first, second, and third singles players in various doubles matches, but it won't be long before they figure out the game and start beating us . . . a fun season, a fun party, and while I'm normally not a soda drinker, there's nothing like a mini can of Coke after a long hot day with a bunch of teenagers.

I Thought of This Myself! I Didn't Even Use Pinterest!

Today Cat and I are celebrating our 24th Wedding Anniversary, but instead of buying TWO dozen roses, I saved some money and mathematically transformed one dozen roses into the appropriate amount with a simple formula-- and then I delivered the flowers (and the equation) to her school and was able to present them to her during a fire drill (and her math students were properly amused once they solved the equation, as was my wife).

Moving On In

Alex and his girlfriend are finally situated in their studio apartment in New Brunswick and the move made me realize that putting queen-sized mattresses and box springs on top of the van and then carrying them up several flights of stairs is a young man's game-- my body is sore-- but we were able to use the handicap access elevator to bring a bunch of other things up-- though a resident complained that that was only for handicap use and not for transporting dressers and such-- and, fortuitously, we were also able to fit both dressers, side-by-side, into the closet-- very tight fit . . . we had to lift one dresser up and lower it; today I tool Alex for an epic starter grocery store visit to get all the essentials-- normally Catherin would do this but she was at a dance recital . . . Cat and I did get to celebrate our 24 year anniversary amidst all this moving and shopping, we went to Salt last night and had a delicious, albeit pricey, meal and during the move I did learn something new about my wife as well . . . she told me to look for a Jersey Mike's gift card in her purse to give to Alex and I found out that she is a gift card hoarder . . . I thought we always utilized gift cards right when we got them, but apparently not (and I think elementary school teachers get a lot of gift cards at various times of the year) so we've got some random lunches and shopping to do next weekend.

I Washed (Some Very Particular) Dishes!

Yesterday, when I got home, my wife was having a rather heated discussion with our son about the difference between the communal act of doing the dishes and the selective and annoying act of doing only your dishes-- and the happiness from Happy Hour evaporated.

Tools are Cool

Yesterday, Alex and I went to New Brunswick to buy a table from a college girl for twenty bucks-- Alex is moving into an apartment with his girlfriend next weekend-- and the table was perfect but we were unable to get it out of the little room it resided in . . . and even if we could, there was a warren of hallways and a narrow staircase to navigate, so we needed to take the legs off the table, but this college girl had zero tools-- no pliers, no wrench, no hammer, nothing-- so we had to head home and get some tools and I advised the college girl to get a toolbox and start populating it . . . I was like: "Start with a hammer and a screwdriver" but the real lesson here is you should never leave home without a plethora of tools.

The Fat Lady Has Sung

That's it: tennis season is officially over (aside from the pickleball/pizza/uniform collection party next week) and we put in a good showing against the Group 1 powerhouse Edison Academy . . . my guess is that they will win it all-- and it's always nice to lose the to the ultimate winner-- but my kids played great today, probably because they were such underdogs that there was no pressure; our final hands-in we said "Henry" on three, as that's our only senior and he's the best dude around-- so now that season has concluded, I will have the time to pursue random activities after school, such as utilizing my upright weed-puller on my moss and clover back lawn, trimming the bamboo, digging a dry well, and attending Friday happy hour. 

I'm Tired and I Didn't Even Play . . .

Longest day and longest tennis match ever . . . we left at 2:45 and got home at 7:45 . . . Roselle Park only has four courts-- but we won and advanced to the Group 1 semi-finals, which will occur tomorrow (we play Edison Academy and, barring some kind of miracle, we are going to get whipped).

A Plus in Unattendance

The joys of senior cut-day . . . 100% absenteeism in my three senior classes!

Whitney, Elaine, Zoom, Schwartz, Profigliano, etcetera

Catherine and I made the long haul home today from Virginia Beach-- we were down there for my buddy Whitney's third wedding (or the third wedding Cat and I have attended . . . maybe he's also had a few secret weddings) but, as they say, third time is a charm and his new wife Elaine is totally charming-- it's the Goldilocks magic of threes-- too hot, too cold, just right . . . so this one is going to last-- anyway, too tired to write a coherent sentence but some quick recollections: the wedding band was amazing . . . they are called Full Moon Fever and they are a Tom Petty Tribute Band-- I could never stray too far from the dance floor because they managed to play several hours of Tom Petty, each song better than the last . . . and we went from the wedding venue-- Whitney's dad's place on a gold course (or more like IN a golf course) to Aloha Snacks in downtown Virginia Beach-- the shuttle ride was chaotic and claustrophobic but the shuttle did have two stripper poles inside-- people were definitely three sheets to the wind at the afterparty but we did rustle up a game of "Zoom" -- Cat took some video because she had never seen it live . . . it's the reason girls didn't really talk to us in college-- then we took a LONG and SLOW walk back with Zman to our Airbnb on 19th Street-- Catherine's feet were killing her because she had been in heels for seven hours-- the next day, yesterday, was lovely-- we went to the beach twice, in the morning after walking through the ViBe Creative district-- which is full of colorful painted murals and eating some delicious breakfast treats from Prosperity Kitchen and Pantry-- highly recommended . . . especially the pizza and the Vegan chocolate chip cookie, which was suggested to us by the yoga girl in the peach Lululemon outfit-- and then we met Stu and a few others at Atlantic on Pacific for the best happy hour I've ever been to-- it's every day from 3 PM to 6 PM and the deals are fantastic-- then we met the gang on the beach at 58th Street, had a few beers, and walked to the lawn at the Cavalier Hotel before saying good-bye and taking the long walk back to 17th Street, where we got some excellent ice cream at Lolly's Creamery and then went to bed so we could arise early today and beat the traffic . . . and excellent weekend, amazing wedding, congrats to Whitney and Elaine, and it was awesome to catch up with all the folks at the party.

I Also Got Kneed in the Quad

I completed a classic Quadrathlon today: I finished teaching Act IV of Hamlet; biked to the park; played an hour of pickleball; and then played two hours of full-court basketball with my son Alex and a bunch of youngsters . . . and now I wish I turned the A/C on before I left.

The Tennis Team is Hot

My tennis team eked out a 3-2 victory over Bound Brook today, in the heat-- we ran out of water but the other team graciously provided us with some, and one of our players ran out of gas and lost in a tiebreaker because his opponent doggedly ran down every shot, despite the unseasonably scorching temperatures-- but our first doubles team came through I the clutch and we live on to play another match next week when it should be cooler (and then, once we got back to Highland Park, my son Alex and I went down to the park and played some two-on-two basketball with some guys that played tennis in Highland Park back in the day-- and we shot poorly but sweated superbly).

I Should Get My Van License

Another long day: and there's nothing worse after a hot traffic-clogged tennis match van ride (in which the van driver, a cute little middle-aged Hispanic lady with a very liberal sense of lane maintenance, kept getting lost-- I spent three seconds texting zman and when I looked up we were going the wrong direction down Route 1 . . . serves me right for texting and passenging) than arriving to find the opposing team only has four courts-- because you have to play five matches, so that means things are going to take a while-- but the opposing coach and I did get fairly close to a mangy (and probably overheated) fox-- and once we got back to the school, the bus driver told me to complain to the van company because they "never fix the A/C" and she's right-- none of the vans we take to matches ever have working A/C but most of the season is fairly temperate-- and even though we only have one or two more matches, I'm going to call and complain, for her sake, because she's got to drive people around in circles in that thing all summer.