Get busy, pack it in and compress yourself-- it's February, you sons of bitches, and you've only got 28 days to get it done this month . . . unless it's a leap year, is it a leap year?-- then you get an extra day and things aren't so dire.
Less Cheese Please
We stopped buying bags of pre-grate cheese (mainly because they have weird chemical additives to prevent clumping) and this had two good outcomes:
1. we eat less cheese;
2. when we grate a block of cheese by hand, the cheese tastes better.
Riley Sager, You Give Genre Fiction a Bad Name
Wow . . . this new Riley Sager book The House Across the Lake is a hot mess . . . but it certainly inspired me to think about the rules of genre fiction and lent itself to an episode with many special guests: Bart and Lisa Simpson, Marty and Rust, Steve Martin, God, Alec Baldwin . . . so my advice is DO NOT read this book, listen to my podcast instead: "Riley Sager, You Gives Genre Fiction a Bad Name."
Highs and Lows
I was quite pleased with myself (for a few minutes) at indoor soccer this morning-- the first two games were zero-zero ties (no wonder Americans don't watch soccer) but in the third game, I scored two goals to give our team a definitive win . . . and the winning team stays on; in the next game I was trying to send a ball up the line, and I was near where we stash some of the stray gym equipment-- so after I kicked the ball, my foot connected with a protruding wheel on a volleyball net base-- OUCH!-- the sound resounded throughout the gym and I really nailed my big toe (and ripped my sneaker!) and then I was not so pleased with myself, although I was able to play a few more games (after I shook it off) and now my foot and toe hurt . . . stupid wheel.
Sarcastic Tone Implied
I'm not very good at sarcasm-- I don't have the voice for it-- so I've got to broadcast it . . . here it comes: you know what's fun after teaching English to high school students all week . . . helping your son on Saturday with all the AP English assignments he neglected to complete while he had COVID.
AM Record
An EB AM record . . . nineteen people at Friday morning basketball today-- pretty wild, we had an upstairs game and a sub-gym game-- and the winner of the sub-gym game (after 11 minutes of play) walked up the stairs and played the winner of the upper gym game . . . and it only took three games for my shot to warm up, but when it did . . . it was pretty spectacular (for 7:15 AM in the morning).
Two Profound Questions
Here they are:
1. Why is it so hard for me to get a pair of socks on without ripping them?
2. Why have I gotten so into listening to The Brian Jonestown Massacre lately?
Dave is Not a Doctor
I'm not a medical doctor (though I often play one in my home, when I'm diagnosing my children and telling them various remedies: try the NetiPot, take some ibuprofen, you need to ice that, go take a shower, take some Tums, etcetera) and I learned yesterday that sometimes it's beneficial to go see an actual medical doctor because they know a bunch of stuff and you don't end up down a WebMD rabbit hole; anyway, my son Ian has been experiencing some gastrointestinal distress and he had to stay home from school yesterday so he could be near a bathroom, and this is the second time this has happened recently, so I took him over to our pediatric doctor and we told her the deets-- he had COVID two weeks ago and lately he's been having stomach pains and diarrhea and she asked if he had been drinking sugary drinks and the answer was a resounding yes-- Ian works at the local bubble tea place so he has access to free delicious sugary drinks all the time-- and he had three Tuesday during his shift, and a bunch of lychee fruit-- and she said that after COVID or any viral infection, your GI is screwed up and can't handle sugary juice or drinks, and it gives you the runs, and then she asked if he had any dairy-- cheese, milk, etc-- and the answer was yes and she told us that after COVID people are generally lactose intolerant for a week or two, while certain bacteria is returning to their GI tract, so mystery solved and now we know the culprit and what to do to remedy his discomfort . . . that young lady really knew her stuff!
Why I Don't Own a Gun
When I play pickleball, I get great joy from hitting my opponent square in the chest with the ball-- if they pop up a "dink," this is perfectly acceptable behavior (when you're playing with guys) and when I play badminton, if someone doesn't hit their shot deep enough, and they are near the net, I take great pleasure (as do the rest of the players in my badminton crew) in nailing the person in the head, chest or stomach with the shuttlecock-- last week, I even took aim at someone who had just dove and was on the ground-- I hit a man while he was down!-- and though I behave like this while competiting, I consider myself fairly civilized . . . but if you take this basic human (male?) desire to hit other people with fast moving things and then you toss 400 million guns into the mix, something bad is going to happen on a daily basis . . . and it does, day after day in America-- and this is why I don't own a gun!
Let's Play Duck Duck Oil Sands
Kate Beaton's graphic memoir Ducks: Two Years in the Oil Sands is heavy viscous stuff . . . I get into it in my new episode of We Defy Augury-- the gist is that if you reverse the male fantasy of being stranded with a large group of bored and sex-starved women, if you reverse that ratio and make it fifty men to every woman, it becomes Kate Beaton's nightmare.
Where Art Thou, Snow Day? Wherefore, No Snow?
Another gray, kind-of-mild winter day . . . where is the snow?
Moral: Eat at La Casita!
Yesterday at early morning basketball, we had sixteen players so we had to run a pair of four-on-four games across the gym-- while this was fun and very tiring, it was also dangerous, as when you run games this way there is very little space between the end line and the bleachers-- and one row of bleacher seats were protruding s when I barreled in for my patented hook shot, which involves a fair amount of contact-- think bowling ball and bowling pins-- after I made the shot my momentum carried my into the bleachers, where the one protruding row took me out at the knees and I scraped my elbow against the recessed bleacher wall-- but, aside from a scraped arm, I was fine . . . although by the time the school day was over, I was looking forward to a mellow evening-- the wife and I went to La Casita and drank a few beers and ate mole and sopes and a gordita-- and we had the place to ourselves, which was nice but kind of sad-- if you live in town, PLEASE support this place . . . it has great food and it's cheap (which is very unusual for food these days!) and it would be a great loss if it closed.
Real Night Court Takes Longer Than 22 Minutes
I hope my son learned his lesson yesterday at night court-- my lawyer buddy Jay got his violations knocked down to two points (and a stern lecture from the prosecutor) but it was still a long, rainy, costly evening . . . and we saw what COULD happen-- the kid in front of us got his moving violation knocked down to two points as well, but he was doing 60 in a 25 so he lost his license for ten days (and you have to go BACK to the DMV and get a new license, a punishment in itself) and that youngster gave Alex a lecture as well and said that Alex should be thankful that he has a supportive father who accompanied him to court, because his dad -- a truck driver-- was so pissed at him that he didn't want anything to do with the matter; anyway, I hope he slows down, I hope our insurance doesn't go up too much, and I hope Ian learns his lesson (by proxy) as well.
The Joys of Fatherhood
It would be a perfect Thursday afternoon to relax, take a nap, perhaps have a beer or two and avoid the ugly weather, but instead, I'll be accompanying my son and a lawyer friend on an excursion to Woodbridge Municipal Court to take care of my son's (three) moving violations-- because, in the parenting domain, while grades and school and medical stuff seem to be my wife's purview, illegal activities are my jurisdiction.
I'll Always Have "Tupperawareness"
I made a playlist on Spotify called "psychedelicious" but -- once again-- I haven't coined anything new . . . dammit.
Beware the Candy House
Jennifer Egan's new novel The Candy House, ostensibly a "sequel" to her tour-de-force A Visit From the Goon Squad, reminds us that "knowing everything is too much like knowing nothing"-- the book is certainly a wild ride, dipping into the consciousness of all sort of tangentially related characters-- but in the end, like eating too much candy, you will be cloyed but unsatisfied-- and that is Egan's purpose, of course-- as she is a super-genius . . . and this was a tough We Defy Augury episode to make because this book is more like a social network than a narrative-- it took all my brain cells to hold it together.
Let There Be Sweat
The Sporting Gods did shine their benevolent (and sweaty) light on New Jersey yesterday-- for five glorious hours, as Rutgers defeated Ohio State (vengeance!) in overtime and then the Giants hung on to beat the Vikings in their first playoff appearance in years . . . I definitely had a bit of a hangover this morning, but some sacrifice to the Sporting Gods-- in the manner of imbibing-- is necessary for such illustrious results.
May the Sporting Gods Shine Their Light on New Jersey Today?
This could be-- if the sporting gods will it-- a great sporting day for New Jersey-- Rutgers vs. Ohio State basketball game is about to start, a vengeance match because of the lousy call that cost Rutgers the game the first time they played-- and then the Giants play the Vikings . . . and the Giants haven't been in the playoffs in half a decade . . . and I have no school tomorrow, so I'm going to crack open a beer soon and hope for the best-- and if the games are close, I'll be happy-- that's all you can ask for (and I scored a couple goals at Sunday morning indoor soccer this morning and my team won four in a row, so I'm feeling that the sporting gods are on my side today . . . although I guess everyone at soccer is from New Jersey, so that doesn't really indicate shit).
Picture This: You Are a Woman Working the Oil Camps of Alberta
Kate Beaton's autobiographical graphic novel Ducks: Two Years in the Oil Sands is heavy, viscous stuff; Beaton heads from Nova Scotia to Alberta to make some money and pay off her student loans, but working in the man's world of the oil sands, she experiences environmental devastation, loneliness, drug and alcohol abuse, sexual harassment and rape, and numerous existential crises-- all amplified by the insular nature of the oil camps-- highly recommended but not as fun as the last graphic novel I read.
Catching Up
This is the week COVID finally caught Catherine and Ian-- but not me! . . . or not yet-- and earlier in the week the principal caught Ian going out to lunch when he wasn't supposed to (because he left through a door with an alarm on it) and so Ian can't go out to lunch for the rest of the month and then on Wednesday afternoon, a state trooper caught Alex flying down the Turnpike, doing at least 90, weaving in and out of traffic, without using a directional and he was so appalled by his driving that he gave him three tickets and made him call his mother-- even though he's eighteen and a legal adult-- so the trooper could explain, as a courtesy, just how idiotically he was driving . . . so hopefully we're all caught up with this kind of crap and can now get on with our lives.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)