Female Hillbilly Escapes the Heartland

Sarah Smarsh's Heartland: A Memoir of Working Hard and Being Broke in the Richest Country on Earth is a more poetic, even harder luck version of J.D. Vance's Hillbilly Elegy, and while at times I got mired in the details I still think this is a worthwhile and important read, especially for effete liberal middle class folk like myself that can barely understand the way 60 million rural people live in our vast and economically imbalanced shitshow of a country; the image that becomes a metaphor for Smarsh's youth is when she goes to pet some half-feral kittens, though she is worried that her scent will repel the mother cat from her young: "I reached out and patted a furry head . . . the head rolled away from the small body, leaving a track of blood on the concrete floor," and her dad explains that "a possum or a fox got 'em" and gnawed all the heads off the cute little kittens; while in suburbia, we care for and protect our puppies and kittens, on the farm in Kansas, that's not the case . . . Smarsh has a true "free range" youth and she was lucky to survive it and move into the middle class; while there are moments of unadulterated fun and her parents are not stereotypical rednecks, nor are they stereotypical conservatives, she is often surrounded by drunks and addiction, violence and transience, and she has a hard time-- despite her great intelligence-- finding her educational groove; the foibles and flaws of the folks surrounding her could generally have been softened by money, but there was no money to be found and so Smarsh realizes that "I was living in an environment full of what society had recently discovered was dangerous: the smoke, the fried food, the unbuckled seat belts . . . but I didn't know the half of it: sugary diets that led to cavities, noxious glue in the walls of cheap houses, nitrates from farm runoff in our drinking water, insecticides on the wind that shimmered down from crop-dusting airplanes" and-- without the ability to move, seek healthcare or help-- that these problems have blossomed into "obesity, diabetes, meta-amphetamine addiction, and opioids overprescribed by the same doctors who were supposed to help," and Smarsh grapples with the fact, that due to shame, racism, and pride, people where she lived voted against their best interests and backed Reagan and the Republicans, who were interested in gutting environmental protections, ending the possibility of small family farms, and erasing the promise of affordable healthcare and rural school funding, and anything else that would help the people in her impoverished predicament; America-- especially the Republican party-- has shamed the poor for being poor, despite the fact that we've created a system that has incredible benefits for the winners and incredible costs for the losers, even if the losers work hard every day, so hard that their bodies disintegrate and they have no way of healing themselves; Smarsh points out that there wasn't stereotypical sexist behavior in this world; women suffered violence from drunken and broken men, but they also made the big family decisions, left when they felt like it was time to leave, did work that was just as difficult as the men, and partied as hard as the dudes . . . it's a good book and beautifully written, but it's a tough pill to swallow and the easy answer is for us economically stable folks on the coasts is to say: "they voted for this and they got what they voted for," but these policies aren't good for any of us-- there by the Grace of God goes I-- and the newest one is how the Trump administration has undervalued the social cost of carbon emissions . . . absurd, awful, and will hurt those that live close to the land and don't have the option to up and leave it more than it will hurt the rest of us.

A+ in Chest Hair

Yesterday we had a half day of school with the students and then had to return at 5:30 PM for the dreaded parent/teacher conference night . . . before I left for work for the second time, I threw on the same clothes I had worn in the morning: khaki pants and a festive red plaid button down shirt, I then drove back to EBHS, watched some of the soccer game-- the weather was warm and beautiful-- and then headed to my classroom to chat with parents; after six or seven conferences, I had a break, so I went to the bathroom and when I looked in the mirror, I noted that my button down shirt was unbuttoned beyond my normal level (and my normal level of unbuttoning is already in the "casual" zone, as not only do I have tenure but I also have a thick neck) but tonight I was unbuttoned to a place most people would call "club" and I had shown these parents some serious chest hair . . . and it's well past beach season, so it was pretty unkempt.

A+ in Stealing

I had a bit of a Willy Loman moment yesterday when my son Ian opened his book bag and produced one of the soccer balls I instructed him to steal from gym class, and I then commended him for his initiative . . . I had just finished teaching the play and quickly remembered the moment when Willy condoned Biff's "borrowing" of the football from the locker-room and then later wondered why Biff ran off with Bill Oliver's fountain pen; I'd like to think this situation is slightly different but you will have to be the judge; last week, my soccer team told me that the gym class has been using three balls that belong to our travel soccer team-- we have practice at night on the school turf and sometimes we leave a ball or two behind, and these balls are then impressed into service for the school (despite the fact that they have our team name and the assistant coach's name on them) and so I told my team that we have to get those balls back, as the ball bag is rather depleted . . . and, of course, Ian was able to smuggle one out of class and bring it back to its rightful home . . . it was probably a bad way to go about getting the balls back, especially because in the past Ian has been involved in some sketchy situations at school, but I'm still proud of his moxie (and glad to have another ball in the bag).

Like Father (Unlike Father)

Alex took his sweatshirt off at the restaurant last night and I was sitting on the same side of the table as him and I said, "Look at this!" and then I took off my fleece and-- surprise!-- we we wearing the exact same powder blue "Moab Utah" t-shirt, but Alex wasn't as excited as I was . . . in fact, he put his sweatshirt back on.

A Good Day to Fly a Kite, Not Chip a Ball Over the Flat Four

Wind: the hot sauce of weather (we had to play on the waterfront in Elizabeth today and while the temperature was a deceptive 47 degrees, the high winds really spiced things up).

Dave is No Longer a Puppy

I tired myself out tiring the dog out.

Less Drama, Crisper Salads

Winter skipped the whole "coming" thing: it's here (especially in the English Office, which lost heat this week because a boiler pipe went . . . it was so fantastically cold inside that I was bringing random teachers in the hallway in just to feel it . . . our boss had to leave because she couldn't bear being there for an extended time, and we felt really stupid complaining it was too cold because we spent so much time last month complaining that it was so hot).

Nothing Like a Captive Audience (When You're Feeling Your Oats)

My first period creative writing class is comprised of eleven girls and one boy (and me) and this one boy wrote a wonderful personification piece (inspired by Sylvia Plath's "Mirror" and this gem from the New Yorker) from the perspective of a diamond engagement ring that was rejected once, stored away for a few years, and then got a second chance and found success . . . after the author read it aloud, I heard a few grumbles from the ladies, so I asked them-- knowing it was a loaded question-- if anyone had a problem with a recycled diamond ring, and then the festivities began . . . because hell hath no fury like a woman scorned with a secondhand ring; apparently, you should buy a "new" diamond specifically for the new person you have in mind (despite the fact that this "new" diamond is already 1 to 3.5 billion years old) and this led to a lot of good-natured early morning debate, and the ladies had to endure my various rants about strip-mining, the DeBeers conspiracy, the overhang, blood diamonds, rampant materialism, and the influence of the media on a saturated, overpriced market . . . in the end, we all agreed that it was a fun way to start the day, though I had little or no success convincing any of these women to forego engagement rings (and then, as an added bonus, a senior in my comp class said that people were getting sick because the weather dropped forty degrees in two days, so I got to call her "grandma" and lecture the class about why we actually get sick more when it's cold (it's mainly because viruses survive better in low humidity . . . although I also found some reasons that contradict my lecture-- perhaps when our feet are cold then our immune system doesn't work as well . . . so I'll have to apologize tomorrow for calling her "grandma," as perhaps the whole old-time "don't go outside with your hair wet" faction is right).

I Need to Stop Losing My Temper (But My Kids Also Need to Stop Doing Stupid Shit)

Catherine was at a cooking class last night, so I was in charge of dinner-- but she kindly ran to Costco and bought us two rotisserie chickens, so I didn't have a whole lot to prepare; I made some green beans and heated up some store-bought mashed potatoes (yuck) and put one of the rotisserie chickens on a baking sheet in the oven, and a few minutes later, once it was hot, I took it out of the oven and told the kids to come-and-get-it . . . meanwhile, as the kids started spooning out green beans and potatoes, I carried the other rotisserie chicken down to the extra fridge in the basement, not thinking that anything could go wrong during my momentary absence, but when I got back upstairs, my fourteen year old son Alex was carving the rotisserie chicken with a big knife-- and this was not the problem . . . his other hand was the problem-- as he was holding the chicken in place with, of all things, our big red fabric oven mitt, and once he carved some meat, he grabbed it with the thumb and paw of the mitt, and this mitt was absolutely filthy-- it's an oven mitt, for Christ's sake-- so it was filthy before he started fondling the chicken with it and now it was moist and filthy and soaked with rotisserie chicken fat and this simultaneously grossed me out and pissed me off, causing me to launch into a profanity laced tirade about common sense and culinary hygiene, after which I showed him how to use a fork . . . and then I apologized and told him I shouldn't have lost my temper over something so ridiculous, and he apologized for being really stupid and we all agreed that the oven mitt is NOT for handling food.

Hey Stacey, A Good Podcast is Better Than a Bad Book

Jonathan Goldstein's podcast Heavyweight is by turns poignant, acerbic, mock-epic and-- of course-- funny . . . it generally has a very different tone than Malcolm Gladwell's often epically profound podcast Revisionist History, but each series has an episode that tackles the fickle and arbitrary nature of human memory; Gladwell's take on this theme is "Free Brian Williams,"a heavy tale of an NBC news anchor who told a war story that wasn't true and the consequences this false memory had on his career and reputation . . . Goldstein's version is a comic masterpiece, "#16 Rob" is about character actor Rob Corddry's attempt to convince his family that when he was a kid, he broke his arm (or did he?) and it's worth saving for a long drive with the kids . . . it's exactly an hour long and worth every minute (and I would recommend this podcast to my stupid friend Stacey, except that she's given up listening to podcasts and instead started reading/listening to books during the time she used to listen to podcasts-- she made this resolution because she started listening to a bunch of stupid podcasts where comedians waxed philosophical about how important comedy is and she wanted to break the habit, but I think she threw out the baby with the bathwater-- of course it's admirable that she's reading so much and I'll begrudgingly admit that she's compiled a huge list of books she conquered this year-- but still, listening to a good podcast is better than a reading bad book . . . and "Rob" is a really good podcast, certainly better than the last book I read).

Don't Blame Me . . . I Was Doing Laundry

I would like to point out, for the record, that I finished Christina Dalcher's dystopian feminist novel Vox in a laundromat . . . because the first half of this book seems designed to make women really angry at white men, for oppressing and subjugating them-- so I found it both ironic and appropriate that I was doing the kind of work that men in the novel freed themselves from when they shackled their women's voice boxes . . . women in this Fundamentalist Christian/Extra-Trumpian near future of this novel are forced to wear word counters on their wrists, which only allow them 100 words a day-- if they speak over the limit, then they get shocks of increasing severity . . . this book is the opposite of The Power in scope, quality, and theme; The Power is true sci-fi, the world is the main character and it is comprehensively evoked by Naomi Alderman, while Vox is a bit half-baked, the Pure movement version of Christianity and the surrounding corrupt politicians more of a caricature than a possibility-- although perhaps that's what people said about the Taliabn when they were just getting started-- and the larger themes of the book get lost in the plot, big ideas about how society can make children become monsters, how communication is the cornerstone of our society, and how Socratic dialogue between all people propels knowledge and civilization forward are pushed to the wayside as the story becomes a laser-focused, plot driven thriller (where, ironically, in the end, a bunch of men come to the rescue . . . it's a bit out of nowhere) and the science-fiction is lost in a world of chivralic fantasy . . . I finished because I wanted to know what happened-- which isn't saying much-- and while the premise had some potential, if you're looking for a dystopian feminist manifesto, try the aforementioned book The Power or the classic The Handmaid's Tale . . . or even the wacky Charlotte Perkins Gilman fin de siecle utopian novel Herland (I'd also like to point out that out of the several dozen people I saw come through the laundromat, I was the only one with a book . . .  everyone else was either watching the weather on the TV or poking at their phones).

Capsule Reviews

I almost forgot to write a sentence today because Cat and I got so wrapped up in the Amazon series Forever . . . I can't tell you about it without ruining things (unlike the fantastic Netflix show I watched with my kids earlier in the evening, Adam Ruins Everything . . . a show in which Adam everything everything about everything, ruining these things but also enlightening you) but my advice is this: watch the first three episodes of Forever in one sitting and then decide if you're going to proceed.

It Would Be Thirteen Years

Here's some more house stuff that you might eventually learn, but-- unfortunately-- by the time you learn it, you won't get too many future chances to put your knowledge to good use . . . but perhaps some lucky homeowner will stumble upon this post before it's too late: if your contractor installs the stacked washer/dryer laundry center and then builds the bathroom cabinets, then thirteen years later, when the stacked washer/dryer laundry center breaks and you need to have it removed so a new one can be installed, there's no guarantee that the stacked washer/dryer laundry center will fit between the sink and the cabinets and then you'll have to rip out the cabinets, reschedule the installation, and make another visit to the laundromat.

Thanks Weather Gods!

The weather gods have responded to my plea for some decent fall weather, so I'm going to go outside and enjoy it; I'll write something profound once it starts raining again (and I have a feeling my sentences would be a lot shorter and a lot more vacuous if I lived in San Diego).

Dave Appeals to the Weather Gods

Hey Weather Gods . . . I know you're listening . . . I'm on a sentence-writing-strike until we get some fall weather up in here!

Touch Typing = Coffee with Sugar and Creamer

The unemployment rate is low right now, but there are problems with the numbers-- they don't accurately represent all the people-- and it's a lot of people-- who have dropped out of the job market entirely: these people aren't retired, they aren't employed, and they aren't seeking employment . . . and they are mainly men; a recent episode of Hidden Brain attempts to explain one factor of this phenomenon . . . some of the sectors of the economy that are booming are regarded as "women's work," and men are having a hard time moving into these jobs; the episode-- entitled "Man Up"-- focuses on nursing, and how the men who have made the transition often need to compensate with extra-manliness because (unlike femininity) manhood is "hard to earn and easy to lose"; I never thought about this all that much until I listened to this episode, but I certainly work in a field that could be considered "women's work"-- I teach Creative Writing class!-- and I'm used to working side-by-side with women, and-- more often than not-- I've had a woman as my boss; I always thought of this as a perk of my job-- we have lots of smart, charming, attractive women in my department, but I also might compensate about certain things to accentuate my manliness: whenever my buddy Bob types anything-- he's a fantastic and flamboyant touch typist-- I give him a hard time for excelling at something so feminine, and whenever my friend Terry puts sugar and creamer in his coffee, I tell him that a man drinks his coffee black . . .on the whole though, it's fun to work with a bunch of women and it's easy to be the funniest person in the room (because women aren't all that funny) and if there's ever a heavy object that needs lifting or a tight jar lid that needs unscrewing, I'm at the ready.

Dave Tries (Awkwardly and Unsuccessfully) to Use an Interrobang‽

The interrobang is a very specific unit of punctuation, designed for use at the end of question that is both exclamatory and rhetorical; I attempted to use one the other night but-- perhaps because of lack of practice-- I did not meet with any success; my wife and I had just rolled in from a night of comedy at the State Theater and I was very thirsty-- it's always hot and dry in that theater-- and so I took a quick of slug of the first bottle of seltzer I found, which happened to be "mint lime" flavor, a flavor which i find detestable, and so I yelled, "WHO BOUGHT ALL THIS MINT FLAVORED SELTZER‽" and as soon as this exclamatory (and rhetorical) question left my lips, I knew I was in trouble . . . because my wife does the grocery shopping and so she bought all the mint flavored seltzer; apparently, she likes the various types of mint flavored seltzer that appeared in our kitchen recently (and the boys and I hadn't gotten around to gently breaking the news that we did NOT like this new-fangled mint flavored seltzer) and so she let me have it-- both for my exclamatory and rhetorical tone and for the fact that I never do the grocery shopping and therefore, I shouldn't be complaining about the products that miraculously materialize in our kitchen for our consumption, and I deserved all this vitriol and more (and then I found a great use for this seltzer that I formerly found detestable: a splash of it goes perfectly with mezcal on the rocks).

Was Bob a Coffee Samaritan or an Electromagnetic Rube?

Last week, my friend and colleague Bob was driving home from work and he spotted a travel coffee mug balanced on the roof of the Xterra in front of him and Bob is a good dude, so when he came to stop at a busy intersection, he exited his car, jogged up to the driver, motioned him to roll down the window, and told him about the cup on the back of the car and asked if he should grab it for him, and the driver-- without making eye contact-- said, "Sure" and so Bob jogged to the back of the Xterra and tried to pull the cup off the hood, but it was oddly heavy and kind of sticky, but he persevered, got it off the roof, and handed it to the driver, who took it from him and said, "Thanks" -- but still no eye contact-- and then the driver stuck the cup to the outside of his door, a defiant and gravity-defying move that made Bob realize the the coffee cup was magnetic, seriously magnetic, and then, without further explanation, the guy drove off; Bob jogged back to his car, through heavy traffic, confused as to what just happened-- he wasn't sure if he rescued a coffee cup from the perils of the open road or if he had just fallen prey to a weird practical joke; a few minutes later he pulled up next to the Xterra-- and he knew it was the right car because there was a coffee mug stuck to the driver side door-- and the driver still wouldn't make eye contact with him and so the question still looms large in both of our troubled minds: was Bob a good Samaritan or a gullible rube . . . and if Bob was a gullible rube, then was the coffee-mug-bit a piece of hilarious prop comedy or was it the work of a true menace to society, who likes to see good dudes run through traffic so he can show off his magnet.

Done and Gone (Are Not the Same)

Catherine and I went our separate ways today; she took the boys and a friend to Comic Con at the Javits Center in NYC (apparently it's a vast venue and after lunch she let them go off by themselves while she wandered alone and collected free stuff and at 3:30 PM she sent me a text that said, "Going to the parking deck now . . . Boys are gone," which scared the crap out of me until I realized she meant to text "done," not "gone") and meanwhile I had another schizophrenic day . . . early this morning I took the dog to the beach-- her first time there-- and it went extremely well: she didn't get carsick (I sat her in the front seat, kept the window open and gave her a Swedish fish at the beginning and middle of each ride, all internet tips that seemed to do the trick) and she loved the sea and sand and surf . . . the water was so warm that I took a swim; then I headed home because our washer/dryer died and I needed to drag four giant baskets of laundry to Wayne's Wash World III, a laundromat "conveniently" located right in the middle of town, so there's not much parking . . . no spaces in the little lot in the back so I had to settle for a spot right across from the place, but on the other side of Route 27, which is quite busy on Sunday; so I lugged the four baskets across the road, washed them, dried them, and then carried them back across the street; my second time doing this I had some serious attitude when I plunged into traffic, I was hot and bothered from digging around in the giant dryer and basically tempting someone to hit me and my laundry . . . perhaps the money from the lawsuit would pay for the new appliances; then I rushed home to meet the guy who needed to flush out our tankless hot water heater and when we cleared some space for him to get to the equipment and hook up his lines, I noticed that under the box that held my wife's wedding dress, there was a bunch of black mold . . . but the beach was beautiful, as was our walk from Ocean Grove into Asbury, it's just unfortunate that it didn't happen in the reverse order (because now all I'm thinking about is cleaning that mold in the basement, instead of the warm surf . . . but at least I have a couple photos to refresh my memory . . . and after doing all that stuff, I went and coached my travel soccer team, which has merged with my friend Phil's team, and Phil carried the ball bag from the goal over to  the bench and then he asked me what the deal was-- he said the bag smelled like vomit and so I told him that was because my dog puked on it and I hadn't washed it yet . . . but that was two weeks ago, hopefully-- with a Swedish fish or two-- Lola won't be doing that anymore).

From Mitvah to Melee

Today, we went from a lovely bar mitzvah-- featuring marvelous speeches from both the man of honor (Martin) and his dad (Adrian's speech was a bit of a roast about Martin's artistic nerdiness, complete with references to D&D, The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy, Magic: The Gathering, popsicle stick sculptures, and Kubo and the Two Strings . . . which are all things my kids enjoy as well) and an awesome meal at Stage Left . . . to something else entirely: Ian, Ben and I hustled out of the restaurant to get to their club soccer match, which turned out to be the opposite of spiritual nerdery and delicious foodery; the Cosmos played a team from Paterson, which seemed to be comprised of a number of kids with either pituitary disorders or forged paperwork, and the game got ugly and then it got uglier; a kid kept punching my son in the back of the neck and the ref finally noticed and issued a yellow card and called a PK, Ian buried it and all hell broke loose, the ref issued another card, the recipient cursed out the ref, some sort of scuffle erupted and the refs finally ejected two players from the Paterson side . . . so they were down to 9 players (but winning the game 3 -1) and then the Cosmos scored again; meanwhile, the red-carded players came over to the bleachers and the Paterson parents congratulated them for their spirited and violent play, and then cursed us out (in both English and Spanish) and the game slowly wound down and the Cosmos got one last corner, and Ian launched a perfect ball and before our kid could head it, he was pushed to the ground . . . no call and the final whistle was blown and then-- of course-- there was fight during the handshake line-up and the refs confiscated the Paterson team's player cards so they could red card the entire team and the coach and consequently prevent them from playing their next match, then the Paterson players came back to the field, with their parents following close behind, a ref got pushed, and it looked like a full brawl was imminent, but the Cosmos coach got our players away from the field and then there was a lot of angry milling around and finally the refs vacated the premises with the Paterson player cards and then there was more angry milling around and then the refs came back and spoke to both teams for a while and then the refs made the players do the handshake line again-- a good intention that everyone knew would result in more chaos-- and apparently, according to several witnesses, the Paterson players spit on their hands-- of course-- so there was even more discussions and arguing and then we finally split, and it was a bipolar day to say the least (but I never felt threatened because I brought Lola to the game and she was ready to rumble).