Sentence of Dave

No Ordinance For Offspring

Thursday morning, our peaceful vacation slumber was perforated, pierced and punctured (at 7 AM) by staccato bursts from several nail guns-- the crew framing the roof of the new construction across the street were getting an early start-- and while this didn't bother me, because I was up and ready to roll, Catherine thought the noise was excessive and so-- as she is wont to do-- she solved the problem; she called the Sea Isle police and they informed her that there was an 8 AM noise ordinance and they would ride by and inform the workers . . . and they did and the next morning the crew didn't start work until later; BUT soon after that, the three little kids set up a stand on the corner right below our front porch and they chanted-- for at least two hours straight-- "FREE POPSICLES AND LEMONADE! FREE POPSICLES AND LEMONADE! FREE POPSICLES AND LEMONADE! FREE POPSICLES AND LEMONADE! FREE POPSICLES AND LEMONADE! FREE POPSICLES AND LEMONADE! FREE POPSICLES AND LEMONADE!" and it seems there is no ordinance on the books to stop this sort of insanity (and the creepiness of the "free" aspect has really turned their patrons off . . . there's quite a bit of foot traffic and not one who walks by takes them up on the offer, as everyone knows there's no such thing as a free lunch, especially when it's offered by miniature towheaded redfaced sirens with high pitched voices).

No Ordinance For Offspring

Miracle on 51st Street

After running on the beach yesterday, I took an outdoor shower and then-- standing in the driveway, wearing only a towel-- I decided to throw my wet spandex and shorts onto our porch (rather than carry them through the house, where they would drip seawater everywhere) but my shoulder has been hurting and I can't throw wet clothing overhand, so I pitched them underhand and-- miracle of miracles-- they BOTH landed on the railing (and I've got a photo to prove it . . . although I guess you could photoshop something like this if you were that sort of person).

Miracle on 51st Street

You Could Probably Unfuc*k Yourself

Unfu*k Yourself: Get Out of Your Head and into Your Life by Gary John Bishop is a silly little book, obvious yet inspirational, but mainly, you'll think: "I could have written this!" but the point is that YOU didn't write it, Gary John Bishop did . . . and that's why he's a rich and famous life-coach and you're not (the Scottish accent might also help).

You Could Probably Unfuc*k Yourself

Star Crossed Neighbors

Ask Again, Yes by Mary Beth Keane is a modern-day Romeo and Juliet, which begins with a pair of Irish cops on the beat in 1970's New York City who end up living nextdoor to each other in the suburbs, and -- like the Montagues and the Capulets-- the two families are oil and water, but the children fall in love and though the time sequence is much much longer than the three breakneck days in Romeo and Juliet, Keane makes her novel race through time at a relentless pace-- I loved this the most about this book (which is a bit depressing at times . . . regret, alcoholism, mental illness, and being shot in the face are some of the themes) so while there are rough times, you know you'll see the end of them (sort of).

Star Crossed Neighbors

Meatball Night is also LeCompt Night

Last night at the beach-- after stuffing ourselves with Cat's Famous Meatballs-- we all went out to The Springfield Inn (Sea Isle's most wonderful dive bar, which has been slated for destruction for years now) to see Mike LeCompt and his inimitable cover band; making it to the third set is always an issue for me because there's an interminable break between sets two and three, but once we talked to Mike-- who is undergoing daily chemo for colon cancer-- and he said he was having a rough day (they had already played a hot and humid outdoor set at Wildwood) we all decided we had to stay-- if he could do three sets on chemo, I could do three sets on Bud Light (which are $3 a pop until midnight, and then they figure everyone is too drunk to care and they randomly raise the price to $5) so we made it to the end (aside from Lynn and Ed, who headed home and prepared some dumplings and pigs-in-a-blanket so we could have late night food right when we stumbled in) and the band and the crowd really picked it up for Mike, who had to take a couple of breaks-- but, nonetheless, it was an inspirational performance and motivated me to get off my ass this morning and do a 35 minute beach run-- I had a bit of a headache, but it's better than colon cancer . . . here is the setlist . . . he did a lot of Who songs:

The Boys are Back in Town
Bargain
Behind Blue Eyes
Pinball Wizard
Come Sail Away
Tempted
Abacab
Thunder Road
Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band
With a Little Help From My Friends

Baba O'Riley
Brandy
My Girl
Whole Lotta Love
Pressure
Just What I Needed
You're in My Heart
Maggie May
Forever Young
Here I Go Again
You're So Vain
Hey Jude

Leaving on a Jet Plane
The Kids are Alright
Suspicious Minds
All I Want is You
Who's Gonna Ride Your Wild Horses
So Lonely
Wild Nights
Long Train Running (Doobie Brothers)
Mona Lisas & Mad Hatters
Levon
Love Reign O'er Me.

Meatball Night is also LeCompt Night

Meatball Night!

Not time to write a sentence, I have to cut rolls for Cat's famous beach house meatballs (Mac's Famous Mac and Cheese? I mean, I'm your roommate and I've never heard of it).

Meatball Night!

Not time to write a sentence, I have to cut rolls for Cat's famous beach house meatballs (Mac's Famous Mac and Cheese? I mean, I'm your roommate and I've never heard of it).

Reading + Dad = $$$$$

When my kids were looking around town for odd jobs and such, I told them I had just read in The Week that folks with DM expertise were getting paid up to $250 dollars an hour to teach adults how to play Dungeons and Dragons and I suggested that they offer this service and so they added it to their list of jobs they would do and two days ago, they actually got paid to help some younger kids make characters and get a campaign going, which really beats pulling weeds (they are covered in poison ivy) and so now they've got a taste of the good life and white collar work.

Reading + Dad = $$$$$

The Big Apple Ain't What It Used to Be

Lawrence Block's hard-boiled crime novel The Sins of the Fathers-- the first in the 9 volume "alcoholic shamus" Matthew Scudder series-- takes place in a degenerate '70's version of New York City that now only exists in film and fiction . . . the story is gritty, callous, boozy, and-- at times-- downright graphically obscene, I'm not sure if I'll read another Scudder book any time soon-- but winter is coming, so maybe I'll wait until then.

The Big Apple Ain't What It Used to Be

Hail Fellow Well Met?

I saw a lot of myself in Susan Cain's book Quiet: The Power of Introverts in a World That Can't Stop Talking-- while I'm not a full-blown recluse, I always trend introvert on those Myers-Briggs type tests; Cain explains that while introverts need down time to recharge, they can be quite comfortable socially-- once they're familiar with the situation-- and that one of the main factors may be that introverts don't need as much stimulus as extroverts . . . introverts can be easily over-stimulated, so while many can do a pretty good job acting "hail-fellow-well-met"-- an odd compound word I learned in the book-- they salivate more when they taste something sour, they don't need the volume as high, and they stick to the sides in a roomful of people (something I definitely do) and I think this explains why I can't watch two TV shows in a row and why even a graphic novel is sometimes too much stimulus . . . my kids get annoyed that I can't plow through them (although I just finished The Walking Dead . . . holy shit! it's over!) and why I read a lot . . . I love reading because it's just the right amount of stimulus for me . . . but I don't have many of the great traits that some introverts possess: while I like to deliberately practice things when I'm alone, I'm not necessarily most organized and focused person to have on a project, I'm not super-detail oriented, and I do things fast and cut corners, so while I'm definitely an introvert, I've got to embrace the type a bit more and perhaps I'll get better at some of the characteristics I'm missing.

Hail Fellow Well Met?

Journey to the Center of the Suburbs

Yesterday, the boys and I watched the episode of It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia when Mac and Dennis move to the suburbs . . . it's one of my favorites and Alex and Ian loved it: the rage, the boredom, the pool filter, the mysterious chirping that Dennis heard the whole time, the neighbor, the naked storm, the commute, the cable guy, Frank's bet, the old black man, and the truth behind Mac's famous mac and cheese; then-- that evening after soccer practice-- in serendipitous parallel, Alex and I drove from our densely populated town deep into a bosky township aptly named Branchburg-- we wound through small leafy lanes and emerged into a wide-lawned development of absolutely giant suburban homes-- and we were tired and hungry (it was the first day of double sessions) so when the tree-lined road yawned open into pristine lawns and shrubbery and McMansions, I said, "It's like Always Sunny!" and Alex said, "I said that five minutes ago . . . don't you listen?" and then we pulled up to the address and there was a perfect tableau in the driveway: some preppy adults, a couple of tow-headed kids, and a fluffy dog-- we were there to purchase a used surfboard that Alex had found on Facebook Marketplace and it was already 8 PM so I was hoping to get in and out quickly, but the couple and their twins (and their dog) were incredibly nice (and so was the surfboard, according to Alex) and so we ended up chatting with them for a good half hour before we bought the board; the dad -- a fit little guy wearing a tucked in polo shirt and pressed jeans-- was a big surfer and had just gotten a new board and I think he really wanted this board to go to a good home, so he was very pleased that my son was buying it with money he earned walking dogs and pulling weeds; we got on the topic of Costa Rica, where my son did some surfing this summer, and-- of course-- they go every year, to Nosara (one of the places we went this summer) and they almost bought real estate there and they grew up in South Brunswick before they upgraded and moved to the serious suburbs and their kids play baseball and do dance and on and on . . . three cars passed by while we were chatting and they waved at all three vehicles and Alex just couldn't believe it-- how suburban the whole scene was-- the entire family out on the big lawn, the one girl with her brand new iPhone lounging in a giant lawn beanbag chair, the casually well-dressed mom and dad (although Alex was disappointed that the mom was drinking a Mike's Hard Lemonade . . . he thought it should have been chardonnay) and the general atmosphere of trust and good-nature and being so far off the map that nothing bad could ever happen . . . it's amazing that Branchburg is only a thirty minute drive from New Brunswick.