I Would Have Used the Word "mundane" (for obvious reasons)

You're going to feel one way or the other about Halle Butler's novel Banal Nightmare  . . . the millennials that wander about this Midwestern college town are insufferable, trapped, and repetitive in a surreal No Exit sort of existential ennui-- but there is deep dark satirical humor amidst the emo-anguish and there is a beautiful cutting precision to Butler's language-- so if you like the following sentence, you'll like the book:

"There should be an Aesop's fable where a little ant jumps back and forth eternally between two spinning plates to teach us about the pitfalls of getting stuck in two conflicting and endlessly circular trains of thought, thought Moddie, but the only Aesop fable with ants, as far as she knew, was about how you deserved to die if you enjoyed your summer vacation."

Newer Delhi, Just Off the Turnpike

Today my wife and I did NOT travel to the above Hindu temple in New Delhi . . . instead, we did the next best thing and drove to Robbinsville, NJ-- thirty-five minutes south on the Turnpike-- and visited the recently opened BAPS Swaminarayan Akshardham Hindu mandir . . . it's the second largest Hindu mandir in the world, 213 feet tall and situated on an incredible 183-acre campus of land full of many buildings and structures made of intricately carved marble, sandstone, granite, and wood . . . the place was built by experts and volunteers, over a 12-year span and the main portions were finished last year but there is still much construction going on . . . it's free to enter and take a tour and there's also a busy vegetarian cafe-- we didn't eat there but heard that it is good-- the temple is mainly dedicated to Swaminarayan, a manifestation of Krishna, who at age 11 started a seven-year journey-- from 1792 to 1799-- walking the length and breadth of the subcontinent, barefoot and poorly clad-- stopping at one point to stand on one leg for over two months . . . this seems all the more impressive to me after we walked around the interior of the temple for 45 minutes, barefoot, and my feet started to ache . . . and I managed to stand on one leg for the length of a picture, not that impressive . . . but if you're ever in Central Jersey and in the mood for some inspirational three-dimensional art, head to Grounds for Sculpture and this temple-- they're fifteen minutes (but many worlds) apart.

Future Tense Water Feature Freak Out

Friday afternoon Terry was nice enough to host a small get-together of English teachers-- his wife and kids went to visit the grandparents in Florida so he had the house to himself-- and he specified that this was a"no children" party, which may have offended a few people, but it's really much nicer to lounge in a pool when there are no children-- and we're teachers, we're going to see kids soon enough (and I can barely tolerate adults) and Terry has a beautiful in-ground pool, complete with a rock waterfall water feature spilling into the deep end . . . and I guess it was a serendipitous set of circumstances that led to this incident; I was doing a few laps, some underwater, when Terry was telling a particular story about his rambunctious seven-year-old son Caleb, but anyway, when I surfaced all I heard was "You can dive off the rock waterfall!" and so I got out of the pool a little drunk, thinking to myself "Awesome! I can dive off the rock waterfall!" and I walked over and dove off the rock waterfall and my hands sort of grazed the incline from the deep end to the shallow end, but I recognized that might happen and made sure I did a shallow dive, but then when I emerged from underwater everyone was yelling at me-- they were saying the opposite of what I heard: "Terry just said NOT to dive off the rock waterfall!" and I was like "what?" but I guess I was underwater for most of Terry's story and then when I popped up all I heard was the end of a statement that probably went something like this: "my crazy seven-year-old dives off the waterfall and it's only six feet deep so it's totally dangerous, but he won't listen to me, he's going to break his neck . . . I mean, maybe if you move to the side it's a little safer to dive off those rocks next to the waterfall, but it's still not safe, it's too shallow but if you're as crazy as my son Caleb and you want to badly injure yourself then"-- and here's where I must have surfaced-- "you can go ahead and dive off the waterfall" so I think the moral here is that if you put a bunch of qualifiers in front of a statement, understand that if someone is underwater for the first half of your sentence, they could really fuck themselves up.

Pickleball . . . More like Clique-el-ball

Let's bask in the beauty of the title of this post for a moment because the rest of this experience will probably be a letdown . . . after all, no one wants to hear about another bald-goateed-fifty-something's pickleball exploits, but this is my blog and my life, and now that I've finally purchased a used car, I'm using the used car . . . 

so yesterday my buddy Jesse-- an EB grad who seems to play pickleball three hours a day, got me an invite to an impromptu tournament run by Ming's pickleball TeamReach group, a highly organized, tightly run group of quality players-- a dynasty of pickleball, if you will-- that mainly plays in Fords . . . and in this ten team tourney, you got. partner randomly assigned to you-- but they tried to make the teams fair-- so I was paired with this dude Kyle, a tall athletic 30-year-old bartender who was a little hungover and operating on three hours of sleep-- they knew I was a solid player but perhaps thought I wasn't as spry and athletic as some of the other folks because I'm on the older side (and not as slim as many of these pickleball guys) but if you pair me with a tall athlete, even if he's a little rough around the edges, there's going to be trouble-- so we went undefeated in group play, winning five or six and row, and ensuring top seed and then we had a close game in the semi-final-- one of the players was excellent, but we had beaten them once in group play and knew how to target the other guy-- and then we won the final game 11-1 . . . same deal, one excellent player and one mediocre player and then Kyle and I were awarded a first place medal and I was given the official invite to the group-- the secret password to the TeamReach account-- so I'm glad to be a part of that crew and will get to play some excellent pickleball with them . . .

then this morning, I was given the OK to return to my brother's elite 4.5 group that plays sometimes on Saturday morning-- I played with them a few weeks ago and I did well, so I was invited back-- but this is a weird world-- so when I was playing this morning I saw this guy Don I had played with a few times with my brother in the past when I was down at Veteran's Park and Don and I recently decided we were going to play a tournament together-- at the 4.0 level . . . I've never played in an official tournament (and I've only played in one unofficial tournament, which I won) and then he was like "I'm trying to sneak into this group because I didn't get an invite, even though I've played with these guys!" and I was like WTF, now I'm involved in some cliquey bullshit-- but I got him into a few games because I said we were going to play a tournament together . . . still, I was kind of amazed at the weird insularity of these pickleball groups-- Don is an excellent player but maybe he doesn't have a 4.5 rating, I don't know-- because I have no rating because I haven't played in any official tournaments, I was just lucky to have my brother vouching for me but Don and I played quite well against some great players so maybe I helped him get into this group or maybe I've doomed myself because I stirred the pot and got out of my lane and all those metaphors, and I'll never be asked back again . . . if you ask my wife, I'm the guy who always invites everyone, I hate excluding people-- especially the one black guy, and Don is the one black guy . . . not that this is a lily-white crew by any means, Indian guys and Turkish guys and Asian guys, so don't get me wrong, there's no racism going on here, pickleball is very inclusive of social class, ethnicity, race, etcetera . . . more so than perhaps any other sport-- because with pick-up basketball you can get some reverse-racism--  but I digress, and I guess the moral here is if you want really good pickleball games you've got to have some organizer like Ming or whoever organizes my brother's group and they need to be a bit exclusionary . . . so once again we return full circle to my fucking brilliant title of this post.

Used Car Shopping: Phase FOUR!

Though my wife and I were feeling beaten and beleaguered by our used car shopping expeditions, we got on the road again this morning, hoping to seal a deal . . . we headed back to the Raceway Kia in Freehold, the first dealership we visited on our tour of New Jersey, and where we thought we had a decent deal pending on a red 2020 Kia Sportage Ex which was in good shape and had new tires-- we didn't love the initial salesman that we interacted with, he was a bit abrasive and pushy, but the manager seemed was a cool guy and got us near where we wanted to be-- $21,500 out-the-door . . . and my pickleball buddy Tony, a used car purchaser and salesman said this was a very good price, which we had confirmed by checking out 2020 Kia Sportages all around the Garden State-- many of which did not run orr smelled like cat pee-- but when we checked on this particular car in the morning, the price had mysteriously gone up by two grand, so we expected the worst-- although the dealership did have an S model from 2021 which we thought might also fit our needs, but that only had 25k miles on it and it was a year newer so we didn't know if that would be in our price ballpark-- anyway, when we got there, our initial salesman hadn't gotten into work yet-- he was late, and the manager Ufuoma took care of us for a bit and told us to give this guy some shit for being late-- then when he did get in, he told us the red Sportage was sold and gone, but we could take a look at the other car-- but my wife's Spidey-Sense alerted her to some possible subterfuge-- this dude didn't check his computer he just cavalierly said the car was no longer available-- and so while he was going to get the other car, we checked online and then gave a quick call to the other side of the road, Raceway Nissan and apparently the red Sportage was NOT sold, it was still available-- and we told Ufuama the manager this and he was pretty pissed off at his late abrasive sales guy and there was some conflict when he got back and my wife said that she really hadn't liked this guy from the get-go and he said, "I'm right here! You're talking about me in front of me" but that's how it goes in these used car dealerships, they're set up for drama-- so then we were handed over to another young man, who was the first guy into work and the first guy that greeted us, and he turned out to be an East Brunswick graduate-- the school I teach at-- so we hit it off, but once we got down to nuts-and-bolts it turned out that the general manager would NOT approve the $21,500 on the red 2020 model, Ufuoma's price was TOO aggressive and so we thought we were back to square one, but we said how about the 2021 S model, which still had everything we needed-- but no keyless entry and no powered rear hatch-- which we did NOT care about, we just wanted roof racks-- and then the CLIPBOARD came into play-- I had been taking copious notes on a clipboard and although they could have all been bullshit, they were not, and Ufuoma took a look at the clipboard and what the Honda place in Old Bridge offered us on a 2020 S . . . $21, 342 and he said, "If I can do close to that, what do you think?" so we drove the 2021 S and it drove well and was immaculately kept and had a clean CarFax and we did all the wacky bullshit and at some point we all hugged it out-- Ufuoma is a very amicable and very jacked dude . . . in fact, so was the East Brunswick grad sales guy-- he showed us some videos of him working out with some ripped Instagram influencers-- and I should say that there were some pretty clear gender roles in the used car world-- the salesmen are bros and the service guys are dudes and the money and clerical people are nice ladies-- absurd-- and I should also say that we spent WAY too much time in these places, including nearly five hours to finalize all this and we all learned way too much about everyone and everything in this dealership, but we ended up getting a deal that made us all happy, we paid $21,750 out-the-door for a gray 2021 Kia Sportage S with 25k miles on it, but it was not fun and it was not easy and there was more hugging than I'm normally comfortable with, but I like the way the car drives, I like the dashboard, and the color and type of car is definitely an under-the-radar type model, so I'll have no problem sneaking out of work early, without being identified, which is the main reason to own your own car.

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.