After I ate lunch last Saturday, while my wife was on the phone in the basement, I had a hankering for something sweet and I remembered that last week there was some kind of half-eaten chocolatey cookie thing in her lunch cooler-- I had sampled it and it was pretty good-- and I checked her bag and it was still there and I didn't want to interrupt her phone call (and I was hungry) so I ate it (pretty much inhaled it) and then I took a nap . . . and at some point during my nap, my wife woke me up and asked "Did you eat the cookie in my lunch bag?" and I confirmed this and she got pretty upset-- I wasn't sure why-- but I fell back to sleep . . . and when I woke up, she told me that this was a special cookie that her co-teacher had brought back from DisneyWorld for her-- that you had to wait a very long time at some gothic bakery named Gideon's Bakehouse and she had been eating a little bit of each day . . . and when she got off the phone, her plan was to relax and have some tea and eat the remainder of this special cookie-- everyone else in the house was napping and she was trying to not get angry when everyone else was relaxing when there was shit to get done, so she was going to try to relax herself but I had ruined it by selfishly eating her cookie-- I violated her personal space, went into her lunch cooler, didn't ask permission, and I had eaten all her potato chips the day before, etcetera . . . and so I apologized-- but qualified my apology by saying that if I had known how important this cookie was to her, I wouldn't have eaten (but also pointing out that no cookie should have this kind of value) and then Catherine, Alex and I were headed to go see Dune at the Rutgers Theater . . which isn't as fun to watch when your wife is mad at you-- and Alex and I were of the same mindset: it's just a cookie! and so we watched Dune-- which is a decent movie but doesn't really capture the heat and grit and dust of the desert . . . it's more Star Wars than Fury Road-- and then when we got home, Ian was up in his bed and he had been eating candy in his bed and throwing the wrappers and empty boxes under his bed-- as he is wont to do-- and this is a fineable offense for him, because it's gross and unhealthy and attracts mice-- and I got mad at him for doing this again-- and because he was hoarding a giant bag of Twix in his room-- and then Catherine got mad at me for getting mad at him because she said the reason he hoards candy in his room is that if it's downstairs, I'll eat it-- because eat everything, without regard for the owner (which is kind of true) and so I started making some rules about how no one is allowed to bring more than one serving of candy into the house-- because I can't control myself and everyone was pissed off at me and I was pissed off at everyone and I was sick of being treated like some kind of monster because I ate a cookie and then next morning I took the dog for a walk and then when I got back Catherine wanted to talk about what happened and I made a rash decision-- I took back my apology for eating the cookie! and this was very stupid but I wasn't really thinking clearly but I said that it had been in her cooler since last week and she hadn't told me the value, etc. etc. and there was more arguing but then I realized that I was wrong-- although I did get Catherine to admit ten percent guilt in the altercation-- she should have told me about the cookie and she shouldn't have overreacted so much and I made a special shelf in the cupboard for Catherine and Ian's food-- a shelf I'm really going to try not to violate-- and I got her a special cupcake at the special cupcake store that was just for (and I even waited in line . . . about a minute) and I also assured her that the cookie, from what I could remember, didn't even taste that good (and I guess this kind of shit is happening the world over because my boss Jess came in with a similar story-- she has two young kids-- and she brought home two cookies, one for each of them, but her husband ate one without asking and so she had to split the other cookie for her children) and it seems there are two kinds fo people-- people like me and Alex, who don't really treat there possessions all that possessively-- and people like Ian and my wife, who want their stuff and think people shouldn't steal and eat it (and those two are ore vengeful . . . Catherine made a batch of cookies and she put a post-it on it doling out the amounts-- Alex, Ian and Catherine got eight each but I only got three).
That's Good Stuff
I've been grading Rutgers essays all week and procrastinating on posting my good content, but Larry David hasn't been holding back his best stuff: episode 4 of the new season (11) may be one of the best ever . . . check out the"The Watermelon" as soon as possible.
Stacey = Sherlock
It's always an exciting school day when you've got to solve a plagiarism case-- and Stacey and I did it in a period . . . she was lucky enough to get a full confession, which exonerated my student (it seems her paper was stolen and then altered slightly, sentence-by-sentence . . . but the transformation was not enough to fool Turnitin).
77 Days and Counting
Countdown City-- the second book in Ben Winters' Last Policeman trilogy-- is a little less of a procedural mystery novel and a little more of an apocalypse novel . . . which is fitting because now the asteroid Maia is only 77 days out and more and more people are losing their shit; I was completely satisfied with the tipping of the scales . . . Hank Palace is still on the case-- though the case is weird and obtuse and he's not even on the police force any longer (because they've disbanded all the divisions except street police . . .) but things are getting grim and there are larger concerns, conspiratorial concerns and survival concerns and I'm very excited to read the finale in the trilogy, and I've got no clue where it will go.
Ten Years of Scary Stories!
Another excellent Scary Story Contest last night, the tenth one . . . so the prompt was "Ten Years Later" . . . Stacy and I had to cut A LOT of words on Friday-- the deadline day-- in order to get it under the limit (2000) and though we didn't win, I'm very proud of how we pared down our piece, which was a 2030 Ten Year Reunion of the Class of Covid . . . and no one wanted to go, aside for murderous insane reasons and thinks got very very ugly (I was especially proud of my VR idea . . . someone had downloaded everyone's high school photos so everyone wore VR goggles and you appeared as you did in high school, which was cool-- aside from the fat girl with acne who lost a bunch of weight and kicked the drugs and sugar that were giving her skin trouble-- she was really angry that everyone was seeing the high school version of herself instead of the big reveal) and while our story got a lot of laughs, it was not the winner-- Cunningham won again, this time with a photorealistically described tale of a pair of hoarders, one of whom was dead and the other was arguing with the skeleton over the same stupid shit for ten years; I read Liz Soder's tale of a chimp named Garbo who led an absoutely inhuamne life in a lab-- and she came in second; and there was also a sell your soul to a healer/preacher/devil tale by Mooney; a tightly plotted Goonies style international mystery by Eric and a disturbing tale of molestation and revenge by Liz . . . I'm always impressed by how excellent the stories are and we've all gotten really good at plotting and developing under the 2000 word limit . . . and it's really a treat to get your story read aloud by a new reader . . . so thanks to the Soders for hosting, and for all who wrote and all who attended . . . it really is one of the best social events of the year.
I Like to READ Stories
Tomorrow is the 10th Annual Scary Story Contest and Stacey and I are still way over the word limit on our story and we are giving up and going to bed . . . we will finish this thing on the clock during school tomorrow-- and thus be professionally paid writers-- and I can't wait to get upstairs into bed and read my professionally written novel Countdown City . . . because I truly enjoy reading fiction far more than I enjoy writing it, and this stupid contest makes me appreciate the time, energy, logic, revision, editing, and passion that goes into writing a great book.
Rage, rage! Against the dying of the light!
My wife has banned me from ranting about Daylight Saving Time to her, so I'll do it here instead: New Jersey is experiencing the finest fall weather possible-- mid-60s and sunny and dry-- and this lovely sunlight has been stolen . . .. stolen! . . . by these bureaucratic time manipulators who need to justify their job by changing the clocks . . . I could be enjoying several hours of this beautiful weather after school lets out but because we decided to "fall back," now it gets dark at 4:30 PM . . . why? why? why not just leave the clocks on Daylight Saving Time, use lights in the morning, and enjoy tennis, hiking, dog-walking, etc. in the evening . . . this seems like a no-brainer-- plus we avoid the shitty feeling of feeling "off" because the clocks have been moved . . . I just don't get it.
The Midnight Library
I'm not sure if I accept the Borgesian premise of Matt Haig's novel The Midnight Library . . . but I'm also not sure if Nora the narrator-- or Matt Haig himself-- accepts the premise either . . . but the adventure of parallel universes and the many, many, many possible lives of Nora-- the rock star lives and the depressive lives and the addicted lives and the successful lives, the jobless lives and the Arctic lives, heaps and heaps of lives . . . and perhaps this is how the forking paths of time branch, but I think things might tend a bit more towards the mean-- I could be wrong of course, especially seeing the way my best friend and I met our wives (in the middle of the road in New Brunswick, after the bars emptied out) and understanding my life might be completely different if that moment didn't occur . . . but it's worth getting to the end and seeing how things resolve-- because maybe all these possible lives aren't that important anyway.
New Jersey . . . It's Dense
Soccer season is over . . . tragically . . . so Catherine and I went on an adventure today in our newly detailed (and dry) Mazda . . . lots of contrast in a small area:
1) we went to the Jersey Shore Outlets and I bought some golf shirts at the Under Armour outlet because they gave an additional 40% off to frontline workers-- including teachers!-- and a pair of running shoes at Saucony . . . most places are giving big discounts to veterans, teachers, hospital workers, etc . . . wild
2) then we hiked around the Manasquan Reservoir-- quickly-- because we didn't have the kids or the dog;
Sports (Can Be) Extra
Yesterday we played Middlesex in the second round of the state tournament-- they are the two seed and possibly the best team in the section-- they have two huge center backs and the best goalie in the county-- athletically, skill-wise, and in fashion-- and a number of skilled and physical players-- but we only lost 2-1 to them last time (and my son pulled his quad in that game and was out for two weeks) but yesterday we were playing them on their hilly grass field so it was going to be an ugly game-- they like to pack it back and play over the top, but they can also knock the ball around-- the first half we avoided a couple of scary opportunities and we had a couple of nice shots, which their goalie snagged, and so it was 0-0 into the second half . . . my son Alex went in at left-back and a few minutes later someone collided with him and kneed him in his bad quad and he had to be taken out of the game and our only other experienced defensive sub had a midl concussion, so we were down to no subs that could really deal with this level of physicality but we hung on and scored a nice goal fifteen minutes into the second half, to go up 1-0 . . . our big center back has been playing striker (Luke) and he knocked it over to Tekoa, who finished low and away on the super-keeper . . . everyone mobbed Tekoa-- I was so excited, I slipped and fell on the wet grass-- it was mayhem . . . and then, a few minutes later, the head ref decided the game with an absolutely abominable call . . . the ball was rolling into the side of the box and out big striker Luke was trotting after it and the goalie called it and came at it from an angle and he did something very clever: he scooped up the ball and then leapt forward into Luke-- so he initiated the contact (which was very mild) and the ref saw it differently and gave Luke a yellow card . . . it was his second yellow-- so he got sent off and we had to play with ten men-- and we were still generating chances-- our most skilled players, Robin and Matt, were connecting and getting shots off but to no avail and then the inevtiable happened . . . Middlesex scored on a bouncy shot to the corner from outside the eighteen and we were headed to overtime . . . Golden Goal . . . and we were playing with ten men and without our best defender/striker and a few minutes in, on a long free-kick, one of our defenders got thrown to the ground and three big guys got goal side and one of them scored on a header . . . a tough tough loss-- the kids were stunned, they sat in silence on the bench for fifteen minutes and it was an emotional bus-ride home . . ., especially for the seniors and the varsity coach; andf this would be the last away game bus ride I would take with these guys and my older son (aside from tennis season!) and they were truly a great crew to coach and while it was a hard way to go out, at least it was epic and against the best team in the section, but it was an emotional rollercoaster, yikes . . . and while we got knocked out this year, we all fondly remember our undefeated middle school season back in the day . . . sports, sports, sports . . . they're something else.
Valentine Street Massacre
This morning, my son and I absolutely annihilated a couple hundred frost-bitten lanternflies that adhered to the two small maple trees in the front of our house; I would post a picture but the carnage was too gross (and there were some giant wasps feeding on the carcasses . . . so we beat a hasty retreat once we were done with the squishing).
I Should Have Been a Bear
The cool weather is finally here (and wow did I eat a lot today . . . I guess my body is getting ready to hibernate).
Ritickulous
I thought it was cold enough to go for a walk with the dog at Rutgers Gardens this morning-- it was in the 40s-- but apparently the ticks were also enjoying the fall weather . . . one managed to get lost in my stomach hair and the other was on the outside of my sweatpants, making a parasitic bloodsucking beeline for some exposed flesh-- how far north do I have to go to avoid these critters?
The Last Policeman
The Last Policeman, a sci-fi/detective novel by Ben H. Winters, is the literary equivalent of David Bowie's impending-- but not too imminent-- apocalypse song "Five Years" . . . in The Last Policeman, a large asteroid will hit earth in six months time, most likely resulting in the end of civilization, but until then there are murders to solve and existential feelings to confront; the story-- like the Bowie song-- is a masterpiece of the mundane confronting the eschatological . . . but there's no big rush, yet (although plenty of folks are committing suicide or going Bucket List or taking early retirement or settling into a life of drugs and alcohol or embracing conspiracy theories, etc. but this is more background to the matters at hand: a murder and a cop who still believes he has a purpose).
The Water Paradox
Very Dark Shadows
Carol O'Connor's second book in the Mallory series, The Man Who Cast Two Shadows, dwells in darkness: the dark arts, Mallory's grim childhood, coerced abortion, feigned blindness, a litany of the worst of human behavior, and the possibility of deep deception at all levels of relationships, imagery, and motivation . . . but there is a kitty cat!
Whew . . .
When I got in my car yesterday after school, I thought I saw a giant spider on the driver-side floor mat, so I stomped it to death-- pretty scary-- but upon closer inspection, it was just a big wasp-- so I was very relieved.
Gladwell Does It Again . . .
I didn't think I was interested in the new Malcolm Gladwell book The Bomber Mafia: A Dream, a Temptation, and the Longest Night of the Second World War until my friend Cunningham recommended it and i started reading it-- and then I was like: how does this guy do it?-- Gladwell claims he's not the greatest writer, but he's the greatest rewriter, and it shows-- he really knows how to take his material and revise it into something perfectly organized, juxtaposed and memorable-- in this one it's the battle of a moral idea in WWII-- let's bomb precisely so we can take out important wartime industries and avoid civilian casualties-- and a pragmatic approach to war: the shorter the duration the better it is for all nations involved . . . and you know what happened: the firebombing of Tokyo and the nuclear bombs Little Boy and Fat Man-- Curtis LeMay's barbaric practicality won out over General Haywood Hansell's faith in the accuracy of the Norden bombsight . . . the book is just the right length for a history book (I couldn't make it through Thomas Asbridge's definitive history of the crusades, though it's an excellent book, because it's just too damn long) and it lays bare the human error in tactics, strategy, and information during wartime . . . for a longer version of this, read Mark Bowden's book Hue 1968: A Turning Point of the American War in Vietnam . . . the moral of the story is, you had to be there, you had to be brave, you had to be flexible, and you might as well throw out all your convictions because you're involved in humanity's stupidest method of solving national problems.
The Good, The Bad and the Very Damp
I can't even keep track of all this stuff-- yesterday we played Rahway in soccer and had a nice 4-3 win; my older son didn't play because he was injured but my younger son got some minutes because the team is banged up and apparently he played great at the end of the game, won some headers, and threaded a through ball to get the game-winning assist-- but I had to attend the all-county selection meeting as a proxy so I missed the second half of the game . . . and when I drove home at 9:30 PM there was lots of lightning from the impending storm, which I had discussed throughout the day with my children-- but apparently this didn't sink into my older son's brain-- because when he was getting White Rose fries he opened the sunroof of my wife's newish Mazda CX-5-- which we purchased recently because my son totalled our Honda CR-V at the start of the summer-- and my son did not close the sunroof when he got home and this was the wrong night to not close the sunroof, because we had a torrential rainstorm-- whcich we all discussed and prepared for-- so this was a major mental error (unlike his first accident in the rain, which was more of a physical error) and so this afternoon we've been shop-vaccing the car and running a dehumidifier inside and this is on top of the fact that he spilled a bunch of epoxy rocket glue inside the minivan, so it smells like a distillery . . . so basically my son is destroying all our cars.
Wild Weekend
Quite a weekend in our house . . . no internet Friday night (the horror!) because a wire fell and then Homecoming on Saturday-- so our boys got dressed and went to a dance, while I cruised down to DC and met my rugby buddies and-- after many pints of Guinness at the newly gentrified Wharf area of the District, we went to see the New Zealand All Blacks do the haka and dismantle the US Eagles in 15 v 15 full side play . . . the final score was 104 to 14 and it was actually kind of wonderful to watch, the overlaps, the quick decision making, the great runs, the touch on the pop-kicks, etc. and then some tequila was consumed and things got hazy . . . but I'm back home and alive to tell the tale.
