Peanut Butter Hustle

I was preparing to go to early morning basketball-- it was 5:30 AM-- and I had to walk the dog in the sideways rain (I've got a special jacket for this-- I'll put up a picture) and Lola will sleep as late as you let her and is often fairly reluctant to come down the stairs early in the morning, she's content to wait up on the landing until everyone wakes up-- but I had just finished a jar of peanut butter, and her favorite hobby is to lick the remaining peanut butter out of the jar and even though she was warm and in her bed in Ian's room, all I had to whisper up the stairs was "peanut butter" and she came racing down, no hesitation about bounding down a dark staircase.

At Least It Was Short

Once again, I got sucked into another ridiculous Blake Crouch sci-fi thriller: this one is the first in a trilogy and it's called Pines . . . it's pretty much Twin Peaks plus Winesburg,Ohio inserted into The Matrix.

I Need To Try Chick-fil-A

My Public Speaking students are giving informational speeches and I have learned I don't know anything: today I learned about Abby Lee Miller-- the crazy abusive dance teacher who hid assets and survived spinal cancer; I learned about the YouTube phenomenon called Sidemen Sundays; and I learned I am really bad at eating fast food . . . I've never had Popeyes or Chick-fil-A.

Croatia: All Feet on Deck

Croatia, with a population of 3.9 million, makes it to the finals of the World Cup in 2018 and the semi-finals of the World Cup in 2022 . . . very impressive . . . and they'll probably bury Luka Modric in the basement of a castle in Transylvania and then resurrect him for the 2026 World Cup.

Carrie Soto Is Wack

On my podcast We Defy Augury, I usually try to convince you to read a particular book-- or at least to enjoy my thoughts on the book-- but this episode is different: I try to convince you NOT to read a particular book, Taylor Jenkins Reid's inane tennis novel Carrie Soto Is Back . . . which, oddly, got excellent reviews and-- even more absurd-- won the GoodReads reader's choice historical fiction novel of the year . . . anyway, join me, Clubber Lang, Helen Keller and John McEnroe as we try to unravel the idiocy of this book.

Sometimes You Win When You Don't Watch

Good week of sports for me: I managed to get to school early for both badminton and basketball, made it to the gym Saturday morning and played indoor soccer Sunday morning-- so now I'm pretty much immobile and very sore-- which will be perfect, since the Giants are on at 1 PM . . . and the World Cup games were fantastic, especially Croatia/Brazil and Argentina/Netherlands and the best sporting move that I made all week was that I completely forgot to watch the Rutgers/Ohio State basketball game on Thursday night, just blanked out and forgot about it . . . which was great because it ended with this debacle and if I would have committed to watching the entire game and then saw that ending, I probably would have had an aneurysm.

World Cup Woes

It's kind of nice when your country is eliminated from the World Cup because you can watch the games in a state of curiosity, awe, and general relaxation-- not that I told my British friends this nugget of wisdom after the disaster of the England/France game this afternoon . . . nothing worse than when your team totally dominates and your most overrated player-- according to these Brits-- skies a PK into the thirtieth row and you miss a chance to play Morocco to get into the finals . . . brutal stuff (and I feel quite bad for Harry Kane, but you've got to get that on goal and then if the keeper makes the play, good for him).

TGIFPK Edition

It's a Messi PK Friday! 

It's a Miracle . . . Now Shut Up and Do Your Work

We were brainstorming topics for an informational presentation in my Public Speaking class and some boys wanted to do a speech about how "Helen Keller isn't real" and I was like "what?" and they  told me they just didn't buy it-- how could someone who couldn't see or hear write books and I told them the one thing I remembered about Helen Keller-- that the teacher poured some water on her hand and spelled out "water" and they were like "what about 'the'? how did she learn the word 'the'?" and I was like, "I don't know! go do some research" and this class is split in two by the lunch period, so I brought this up in the English Office and Cunningham was like "yeah! how did she do all that? how could she learn all those words?" and I was like "you need to go sit with the stupid boys in my Public Speaking class" and Cunningham was like "how could she learn all the words?" and I said, "they put stuff in her hand and spelled it" but now I was starting to doubt myself because that sounded absurd . . . and she was like "how did she learn abstract concepts?" and I said, "you pour water over her hand and spell 'water' for a couple days, and then one day you pour hot water on her hand and spell 'betrayal'" and then I spent the rest of my lunch period researching Helen Keller and apparently her teacher spelled millions of words on her hand, and she used a braille typewriter, and she felt cheeks and mouths and lips for vibrations to learn what words sounded like and there were always doubters of her abilities but she repeatedly proved them wrong and rode a bike and flew a plane and went to college . . . and I'm not exactly sure how she did all this, but I'm pretty sure she is real-- but I'm still hard-pressed to explain how it all happened.

Blech

I'm not sure what season it is right now, but it's not winter and it's not fall . . . decay?

BADminton

I debuted my new (and fairly cheap . . . under fifty dollars) badminton racket today at 6:30 AM-- it was certainly an upgrade from the gym class equipment I've been using-- much lighter because it's made of graphite . . . but I saw no marked improvement in my game, perhaps because we couldn't get the basketball hoops up and so we had to tape out a court in the center of the gym-- which made judging things quite difficult (and while my play was, as usual, erratic and profanity laced, my arm doesn't hurt as much as it usually does after one of these sessions).

Liberation Daze

 

I just put up a new episode of my podcast, We Defy Augury . . . this episode, "Liberation Daze," examines the writing of George Saunders; Festivus makes a cameo appearance, as does Lloyd Dobler from Say Anything.

Too Many Sports . . .

Big Rutgers win over Indiana Friday night, then I settled in at the bar with some friends to watch the Giants, Jets, and World Cup game Sunday afternoon-- Giants should have won but tied-- nothing like watching an entire football game and it ending in a tie-- Jets fell apart on the one-yard line, and England crushed Senegal . . . in the end I don't know how to feel (although I was excited that Argentina moved on, I love that little Lionel Messi chap) but there might be too many sporting events on TV right now for me to handle.

USA? USA!

Here we go . . . should be fun, despite the anxiety and undue concern about the state of Christian Pulisic's nether regions-- there's nothing that can make a guy feel sympathy pain like another guy with a sore groin.

I Cook on Thursdays

No time to write, as I'm about to start cooking . . . yesterday was Catherine's birthday and instead of the usual present: two weeks of cooking dinner, I've decided on something more ambitious-- I'm going to cook dinner every Tuesday and Thursday until her next birthday (and maybe beyond that, we'll see how it goes) and while I won't be able to pull this off during tennis season, the rest of the time it should be fine-- the two weeks of cooking every meal was a mistake-- I would get stressed out, drink too much, run out of things I know how to make-- but this way I can stick to stuff in my wheelhouse and it won't get repetitive and she'll always know when I'm cooking-- on her meeting day and on Thursday, a good night to have a beer while you cook (unless you just had the flu) so I've got to get on with it: blackened mahi-mahi, Brussels sprouts and bacon, and roasted potatoes.

I'm Back . . . And Angrier Than Ever (About Dumb Stuff in a Chick-lit Novel)

I'm on the mend-- thanks to Tamiflu, my immune system, benzonatate, Mucinex, and acetaminophen-- but that flu was a doozy . . . I hope I'll be back to work tomorrow, although I have to teach three 82-minute periods, and Tamiflu screws with my stomach a bit . . . I'll bring some emergency underwear-- and I know I'm getting better because I got an easy read on my Kindle for $3.99 . . . Carrie Soto is Back by Taylor Jenkins Reid, and while I'm enjoying the cheesy father-daughter Serena-esque sports story and all the chic-lit feminist drama-- I don't think Taylor Jenkins Reid knows shit about tennis-- Carrie Soto is making her comeback at age 37 and all the players on tour hate her because she was a grinder? . . . so they are trying to find a top-quality player for her to hit with and no female players will do it so they have to get a male player who she once slept with and it ended badly-- Bowe Huntley-- who is ALSO trying to make a comeback . . . and Carrie isn't sure about this because she has such a past with this guy and while this is good for romantic drama, this makes ABSOLUTELY NO TENNIS SENSE . . . female tennis players do not require any particular professional male player to hit with-- they could use any male player of Division 1 college quality and beyond because male players are so much better than female players-- they've already done this experiment-- the Williams sisters played the 203 ranked male player and he beat them handily, back to back, while smoking cigarettes between games-- John McEnroe estimated that Serena would be ranked around 700th if she were to play on the men's circuit . . . not that any of this means anything, but the point is that Carrie could hit with any decent men's player and she would be seeing more velocity and spin than with the best woman's player-- how did this bestselling author's editor not catch this?

Sick Sucks

Sickness . . . it's so fucked up-- the Friday after Thanksgiving was turning into one of those wonderful holiday break days-- on Wednesday night, we dealt with the college son returning home and still behaving like he was in college, but we straightened that out and we had a lovely Thanksgiving at my parents-- but I didn't drink or eat all that much-- I don't like Thanksgiving food and I didn't really trust my kids to drive us home because there are a lot of drunk yahoos on the road post-Thanksgiving, plus I was saving my servings of alcohol for the USA/England World Cup Match-- Friday morning I rose early, and got my go-to-chili recipe simmering in the crockpot and then Ian and I went to the Piscataway Y and played some two-on-two hoops against some high school basketball players-- and beat them in two hard fought games-- my two point shot was on and Ian has learned to roll to the basket and his arms are so long that it hard to guard him . . . the Hispanic kid was calling me "Pops," as in-- "make sure you guard Pops outside" which was an absolute delight-- then we went home, got the house set up and thirty or so people of all ages came over for the game-- we had three devices streaming (we had to calibrate the iMac in the kitchen because it was a couple seconds ahead of the smart TV in the living room, because folks were very serious about all cheering being in unison, even though said cheering was totally apostrophic, as the players can't hear us) and the party was great-- a perfect result since we had a number of Brits over . . . and people stayed a bit late and some Scotch was consumed (thanks Adrian!) and then it was time for bed . . . and two hours later I woke up shivering and I've had a fever and a cough and a headache-- which really hurts when I cough-- and body aches and sleeplessness and all kinds of other gross symptoms-- so all my plans to go out with Terry on Tuesday to watch the USA/Iran game have come to nought-- especially since Terry came down with a wicked case of COVID yesterday-- so we'll both be watching the game on our respective couches, cheering softly . . . usa . . . usa . . .usa . . . and I'm headed to the doctor today so I can avoid this typical sequence of events and perhaps I'll get some kind fo drug or diagnosis that will get me better sooner rather than later-- this is the first time I've been really sick since February 2020, and I'm shocked it's not COVID-- but the test was negative so maybe it's RSV or the flu or just some weird virus like I had three years ago.

Costa Rica Shocks Japan

I always root for the Central and South American teams in the World Cup (and Mexico and Canada . . . proximity rooting) and so I was excited to see Costa Rica redeem the nation, after losing 7-0 to Spain, by coming up with a dramatic 1-0 win over Japan this morning . . . and I know it's got to be tough to announce an entire soccer match-- there's a lot of dead time and a lot of just knocking the ball around, but I still think that the announcer should not have called Japan "shell shocked" after Keysher Fuller's change-up chip shot goal, because of the firebombing of Tokyo and the atom bomb . . . "shocked" would have been enough-- that would be like saying, if the US team were to beat Iran, that it looks like the Iranians have been roasted by the Great Satan-- and I don't think you can say that on TV-- but soccer does bring out the hyperbole in many of us (my favorite adjective used by an announcer in this cup was a "tantalizing" pass).

Yuck

 My son came home for Thanksgiving and gave me his cold.

This Is How Old Soccer Fans Party

Fun day today . . . got up early, worked on the podcast, got my game-time chili into the crockpot, went to the gym and played some two-on-two with my son Ian-- and he's started to really roll to the basket, we beat a couple of high school basketball players because I was making my outside shot and Ian was setting screens and rolling, despite the fact that the one kid was calling me "pops"-- then got the house all organized for the USA/England game-party and we had a bunch of people over, of all ages-- and a number of them were British, which added a great element to the event because you couldn't root like a total asshole, you had to keep in mind that the person next to you might be rooting for the opposite result-- and we were all friends-- and a nil-nil tie was actually the perfect result for this party . . . it's a nice metaphor for our country, perhaps I would be more empathetic politically if there was always a Republican sitting on the couch next to me . . . anyway, my chili was a hit-- I've never had a party where the entire crockpot was consumed, and Adrian "neutral" bottle of Glengoyne Scotch was also a crowd favorite-- all parties should start at one and end at 6 PM.