I just finished making Episode 5 of We Defy Augury: "The Foundling by Ann Leary: Eugenics on the Beach?" and I just finished reading Ghettoside: A True Story of Murder in America by Jill Leovy, which will definitely inspire another episode-- this is a book that turns policing and violent crime on its head-- it's about a particular murder of a policeman's son in South Central LA; the causes and misperceptions of gang violence; the kind of policing necessary to combat the high murder rates among black males; and the reasons murder rates in certain areas stay persistently high . . . tragic but highly recommended.
As Usual . . .
One of the recurring themes of this blog is that I think I am sore from doing some oddball exercise (this time: deadlifts) but then it turns out I have a virus-- this time it's a weird stomach bug that I got from my wife: no diarrhea, thank God, but bloating and burping and generally feeling a little run down and sick and glassy-eyed . . . hopefully it will be gone tomorrow (and it's definitely not a kidney stone, which I wondered about last night when I couldn't sleep because my stomach hurt).
Post Deadlift Blues
Ian and I had some fun doing trap bar deadlifts yesterday at the gym-- the trap bar makes deadlifts much easier to execute . . . which might not be such a good thing, now my entire body is sore.
Post Beach Blues
The day after a beach day is always a bit depressing-- it's so hot and dry in central Jersey right now- and while I did bike to the pool and swim a few laps, it's not the same as a foggy chilly breeze off the ocean . . . unfortunately, beach real estate is through-the-roof, perhaps because of this work-from-home thing that has freed rich people from living in urban centers . . . boo to that.
Bloodhound at the Beach?
Lovely (and fairly typical) beach day in Asbury Park with Stacey, Cunningham, Chantal and my wife-- but one odd moment when we were walking through the convention center: a policeman with a retired bloodhound ordered Stacey and I to get "cheek to cheek" with the dog for a picture; we obeyed, of course, he was wearing a uniform and the dog was too cute . . . and so we have this priceless pic to show for it.
A Beach Read . . . About Eugenics?
The Foundling, by Ann Leary, is billed as a summer beach read and it meets those specifications: while there's no sun or sand in the novel-- it's quite gothic-- it's definitely a vacation for your brain, especially the second half, which has a very compelling escape plot, reminiscent of Shawshank Redemption; the book is an easy read, on the one hand, especially for historical fiction (the setting in a woman's asylum in Pennsylvania in 1927, the Nettleton State Village for Feebleminded Women of Childbearing Age) but on the other hand, the book brings up some difficult questions about eugenics, morality, who should be institutionalized, corruption, power authority, religion, woman's rights, and racism . . . but only in the first half of the novel-- then it just gets beachier and beachier.
Oddly Liberating
This morning my son Alex took the book bag with my phone in it and Ian took the car with my wallet in it so I had no phone or money so I took a nap.
Sharks and Lantern Flies Menace the East Coast
Yesterday, my wife went over our friends' house (Lynn and Connell) to help them plant some milkweed-- because apparently milkweed poisons spotted lantern-flies and Lynn and Connell have an epic spotted lantern-fly infestation, mainly because they live on a cliff right above the Raritan River . . . a great view of New Brunswick from their back deck but also plenty of tree-of-heaven, the weedy river bush that lantern-flies love-- so they were waging chemical and biological warfare, which involved climbing out onto the ledge above the cliff, clearing brush and small trees, and planting the milkweed-- and it was hot yesterday and they were all wearing long sleeves and pants to avoid poison ivy and I guess they were working for quite a while, sawing at trees and removing ivy and weeds and bushes and planting the milkweed, and Connell got out his little chainsaw to cut down one particular tree and clambered down onto the cliff, on a little ledge above the river, and my wife was working away and not paying attention to much else-- she was in the zone-- when Lynn, who was up above, yelled to her that Connell wasn't responding and she didn't know what was going on-- so Catherine climbed over to where Connell was sitting and he was lights out, pale as a ghost and unresponsive-- but luckily, we just took a First Aid course, so she didn't lose her shit . . . she shook him and talked to him until she finally got a response-- but she was ready to do some serious CPR-- and she directed Lynn, who was up top, to call 911 . . . the police were there in no time, and Connell came to and she ascertained that he hadn't eaten or drank anything that morning and then started working in heavy clothing in the hot sun-- so she made him drink some water (and poured some on him) and Lynn lowered him down some food and the police helped get him off the cliff-- Connell was annoyed that they had called 911 but Catherine was like, "there's no way I'm getting you off this cliff, if you fall, I'm not going to be able to catch you" and in the end he didn't have to go to the hospital-- it was just a case of heatstroke, but these lantern flies are a serious menace-- we've got civilians clambering around on cliffs with chainsaws getting heatstroke, so perhaps we've got to take Kent Brockman's attitude and welcome our new insect overlords . . . and then my parents told me there's sharks at the Jersey shore-- which I took with a grain of salt, until I looked online, and not only have there been shark sighting, but there was a giant great white just off the coast of Sea Isle City, the beach we are headed to in a couple weeks (but I will not forego my early morning run and swim-- if I'm going to die, then that's how it's going to happen).
Shuffling Around Harlem and Elsewhere
Colson Whitehead's new novel Harlem Shuffle is not as dark and profound as The Underground Railroad but it still explores race and place-- Ray Carney appears to be a straight furniture salesmen to most of the uptown denizens of Harlem-- but he's more crooked than the average person might think (but less crooked than his father and many of the hoods that abound in his neighborhood) and while there's no surreal time-traveling train, the structures of grift, corruption and power are quite different when he pops out of the subway downtown, where the white people are-- the book is a caper tale, a revenge story, an astute take on the duality of human nature, an evocative period piece, and a real page turner, definitely worth a read.
Summer sans Motor Vehicle
Relaxing summer so far: the kids take the cars to their various job so all that's left for me to do is pull my training sled up and down the hill by my house, work on my podcast, watch Wimbledon, bike to the pool, swim a few laps, pass out with a book in a lounge chair, then bike home (my wife seems to have a bunch of other stuff she's occupied with, but I try not to let it interrupt my focus).
Trip to Possumtown!
My wife and I took a road trip to the Possumtown Firehouse last night for what I thought was going to be a two hour CPR class-- I need to update my certificate for coaching-- but the course also included First Aid and the lady running the class was a bit disorganized and a bit tangential, so we were there from 6 PM until nearly 10 PM, learning about tourniquets and nosebleeds and impalements and all kinds of things that make me dizzy-- luckily there was a large couch in the very comfy Possumtown Volunteer Firehouse (the lady's dad was the chief) and this place really had small town firehouse character: a big TV and a kegerator and a soda machine that you could just open and take the soda out and a fish tank with some big fish in it (I watched these fish when the videos got too graphic about blood) and the class was quite intimate, just me, my wife, and a young dude-- it was kind of stream-of-consciousness, with lots of anecdotes from the teacher's EMT experiences and the main thing I learned-- which no other class was so blunt about-- was that you don't need to worry about breaking someone's ribs when you're doing CPR because they are CLINICALLY DEAD . . . once she put it that way, it assuaged a lot of my fears about pressing too hard or whatever, you're literally trying to resurrect someone when you're doing those compressions (and we always have an AED nearby when I coach, so hopefully that machine will do the trick . . . although if someone like me goes down, you'll need the razor in the accessory kit top deal with my excessive chest hair).
Youngsters are Cute . . . But F%$% 'em
Youngsters ARE cute-- as evidenced by the baby raccoon that Lola and I saw cavorting in a tree at the park-- and they the future, of course, but I was still happy to see Novak Djokovic come back from two sets down against the young Jannik Sinner and watch Nadal finish off Taylor Fritz, who is more than ten years his junior . . . I've talked to quite a few people who are sick of seeing those old pros win over and over (with the possibility of a Federer return?) but I'm rooting for them-- because when they start losing, it means we're all that much closer to obscurity and death.
Impressive Stuff
Impressive amount of people at the Rutgers pool yesterday for Fourth of July; impressive amount of meats served, not so impressive performance by Alec and I in the balloon toss (I blame the overfilled balloon), very impressive amounts of lantern fly nymphs on the trees, tables, and one old guy; impressive amount of fireworks on display from Connell's back deck-- perhaps we could see displays from North Brunswick, South Brunswick, Milltown, Sayreville and Somerville but it was hard to tell . . . Cat and I returned home stuffed and tired and I was glad to get back to the routine today: I went to the gym, then biked to the pool-- which was empty-- did some laps, passed out on a lounge chair while reading my book, woke up and biked home (I don't understand how people bike enormous distances-- my butt hurts when I ride a few miles).
Right on the Note
No irony at our town fireworks display last night: they blasted Katy Perry's song "Firework" as the shit blew up-- and some nine-year-old behind me remarked, "this song is perfect for this."
Sort of Relaxing Saturday
It could have been a relaxing Saturday . . . but I got up early and did some work on my new podcast-- it's called We Defy Augury, I'm looking for guests, and it's up and running-- you just have to read something you've read and talk about what the reading makes you think about-- and then I played 90 minutes of two-on-two basketball with my older son and a couple guys at the Piscataway Y, and then I collapsed on the couch-- ostensibly to relax and watch some Wimbledon . . . but the featured match was Nick Kyrgios vs. Stefano Tsitsipas and it was NOT relaxing-- I was really rooting for Tsitsipas and he was trying his best to deal with Kyrgios's antics but Kyrgios spent the entire match bickering with the line judge and talking to himself like a lunatic and playing at a breakneck pace (and serving the hell out of the ball) and while Tsitsipas had his chances, he just couldn't break Kyrgios's menacing serve.
The Joy of Joy
I'm starting to understand Joy Williams a bit more-- I just finished The Quick and the Dead and her fragmented moments and motifs are starting to make sense; Annabel, Alice, and Corvus are three precocious girls linked by grief-- all of them have lost parents to terrible tragedy-- and they wander through a nameless desert town-- volunteering at a grim nursing home, forging strange relationships with older people, navigating a big game hunter's taxidermy museum . . . and all through, the living and the dead interact, and man and nature push against each other in strange oppressive ways . . . once again, the world is on the verge of something apocalyptic and these girls realize this more than the adults who are blinder by their petty thoughts.
Victory . . . But At What Cost? At What Cost?
I beat Dr. Michael Atkin today at tennis 7-5-- it was a grueling match and I rarely get the best of him (he's the quickest 40 year old this side of the Raritan) and then I had to bike home from the match (because Ian took the van to work) and I saw my wife's car parked on the road but she wasn't in the house or the yard (though the shed was open) and I yelled around to see if she was home, but she wasn't inside-- and then a few minutes later she poked her head in the house and said, "You really didn't see me painting the front porch? You biked right past me? RIGHT past me!" and she was correct-- I didn't see her, or the entire painting set-up-- the match took away all my noticing skills (and I don't have many to begin with) and if the police would have interrogated me I would have swore up and down, on my grandmother's grave, that my wife was NOT in the driveway-- and that's why I don't believe anything anyone says they saw or didn't see because while people may be great at seeing and hitting a bouncy yellow ball, they're not so great at seeing other stuff.
If You Live In Jersey (and Teach) Check This Out
Holy shit . . . my wife saved us a boatload of money by switching from Liberty Mutual Insurance to Teachers Insurance through Plymouth Rock-- she actually thought it was some kind of scam (but it turns out it's less than half the price for the same specs . . . nuts).
Summer Begins?
This morning was going to be the official start of summer relxation for Catherine and me-- school is over, Alex's graduation party successful and complete, the clean-up of Alex's party also successful and complete, plenty of leftover food from the party so no reason to cook, both kids heading out the work at their respective jobs . . . all good stuff, but when I was going down to my study at 5:30 AM to do some recording, I noticed a crazy sound coming from the basement-- I thought it might be coming from an open window in the basement, but it was actually coming from the freezer-- and the freezer door was left WIDE open . . . as wide open as possible, and the condenser fan was frozen and most of the food had defrosted-- and there was a bag of peanut butter squares (leftover dessert from the party) on the counter and the only person who had been down there to eat them was Ian . . . so I had to wake up my wife and wake Ian up and we went into freezer crisis mode-- we filled a cooler with ice, threw what was still frozen into the cooler with some ice, made Ian cook the rest of the defrosted stuff: some ground beef, some ground turkey, and some sausage-- and we'll be having shrimp for dinner tonight because those were totally defrosted-- and then we unplugged the fridge and let the ice melt-- hopefully it will start working again-- and then we settled in to some serious college financial budgeting-- yuck-- and we made a hard decision and canceled HBO MAX (that fifteen dollars a month is really going to help?) but we did not cancel YouTube TV because there are too many upcoming sporting events (and what else are we going to do since we can't go out to eat or go to bars or live events or go on vacation or go shopping or pretty much do anything except pay for college).
What the Hell is a Harrow?
Reading Joy Williams is like scrambling up a muddy embankment . . . but there is no top of the cliff, it's all scrambling; Harrow is set at a cryptic boarding school with strange slogans and then the school closes and then the main character Khristen-- if you could call her that-- finds herself in an odd post-apocalyptic world, a world that has gone beyond the "verge" that we've been at for so long and falls into a slightly more chaotic state-- there are strange episodes at a bowling alley, where a cake with a depiction of Goya's Saturn Devouring His Son offends a youngster, and then a long strange section about seditious geriatrics living around a toxic lake, plotting revenge against ecologically corrupt humans . . . but these plans come to naught, raising the question: why aren't old people more violent and rebellious? they've got nothing to lose, right? . . . I think Joy Williams might be a modern-day Kafka, and she refers to him-- I don't think this book is her best work-- I was more compelled by The Changeling and now I'm making my way through The Quick and the Dead and that one has some roots and rocks in the mud to hang on to, but it does feel a bit like reading Pynchon, except the vocabulary is right there and easier to ascertain and comprehend-- each sentence a little masterpiece, but how do you connect them together . . . or should you?
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