Nice Boognish!

I was walking the dog in the park this morning, slightly dazed from Ian's graduation party, when the mirror-shade-wearing, long-haired park employee covered from head to toe in tattoos yelled from his moving maintenance vehicle, "Nice Boognish, man!" in reference to the Ween-style Boognish tattoo on my ankle-- and then he rolled to a stop and we talked about the Ween discography, Gene Ween's drug problems, the possibility of one last album, the weirdness of the last album, John and Peter's Place in New Hope, his interactions with Dean Ween, the Asbury Park concert we both attended, and other Ween-related topics . . . and then I recommended he check out 100 gecs, of course . . . so the moral is: tattoos, they connect people, all sorts of people.

I'm Too Tired to Party (Because of All the Party Prep)

After a LOT of prep (including painting the deck) we are ready to roll for Ian's graduation party-- Catherine just told me that my list is DONE-- and we were lucky enough to get one of the nicest day of summer for the party . . . the decorations are up, the food is ready (pulled pork bbq, pulled chicken bbq, beef brisket, stuffed peppers, mac and cheese, and some authentic Polish kielbasa from the weird little European provisions store on the Old Bridge Turnpike) and the house is clean; we had a to borrow quite a few tables and chairs from our friends-- I'm not looking forward to returning them tomorrow-- but everyone should have a place to plant their butt today (as long as they don't weight more than 225 pounds . . . as Alec's folding chairs have a weight limit tag on the back).

 

Nap Time is Relative

 Yesterday, I napped so hard that when I woke up, I thought it was tomorrow (which would be today).

Fuck You, Weather Underground

I shouldn't reveal this, in case a malevolent demon reads my blog, but if someone wanted to punish me for eternity-- mercilessly-- they would have me paint the fucking spindles on our deck and then, right when I got some decent work done-- it would start to rain, and wash away the coat of paint-- and then I would have to start over-- because I hate to paint, and I hate to start over (and that's what's now happened to days in a row-- I've just painted the same area twice in two days and for the second day in a row there was a rain squall that was not predicted by my weather app).

Groceries vs. Food

There's nothing worse than pulling up to your house at 1 PM after a long day of work-- four hours!-- and you're very hungry and you know exactly what you're going to eat (a leftover jalapeno cheddar burger and air-fried potato wedges) BUT you're wife has also just pulled up from a massive grocery shopping trip and you've got to help her carry in all the groceries and then you have to put away the groceries before you can cook your lunch-- the groceries are getting in the way of you eating food . . . the irony!

Refreshing is a State of Mind

After a long day of grueling "work" (four hours of cutting and pasting curriculum bullshit into pacing guides and syllabi-- so dumb) I took a nap, biked over to the pool, swam some laps, and then lay on a lounge chair-- refreshed-- and read my mystery novel . . . until a couple kids jumped into the water near me and a third kid (who did not jump in) said, "You just jumped in where the shit was!" and then the kids discussed how a girl pooped in the pool yesterday, in that very corner, and then I felt less refreshed, so I biked home and showered.

The Usual Bullshit

Things pretty normal around here . . . or what passes for normal these days:

1) my older son Alex made my wife and I see the movie Barbie . . . and it was actually pretty good: visually appealing; often funny; surreal; great outfits; got a little preachy at times, but not overwhelmingly so . . . and I really loved all the "Ken" stuff-- especially how he lost interest in the patriarchy when he learned it wasn't all about horses;

2) Ian slammed the van into a pole at the gas station, trying to avoid a truck with a trailer-- so now there's another dent, another white streak of paint-- from the pole he hit-- and a black streak too-- but nothing a rubber mallet and some duct tape couldn't fix and at least no one was hurt and no insurance was necessary-- but this car's monetary value has certainly dipped into the negative;

3) once again, I am very sore from the stupid kick-boxing class-- probably because I followed up the class with an hour or so of applying primer to the hard to reach areas of our back deck -- so that Cat can paint it before Ian's graduation party this weekend . . . 

4) a lady and a little kid showed up at our door today and handed us Ian's wallet-- which she found on a path while they were geo-caching-- very nice of them-- Ian didn't even know his wallet was missing;

5) and this is the summer of girlfriends-- both boys are spending a lot of time with their respective chicks-- interesting.

The 1970s . . . Characterized by Four Crime Novels

 

If you lived through the 1970s, but were too young to remember much of it-- aside from the absurd commercials and network TV-- then this episode of We Defy Augury should be helpful and entertaining-- I take a look at how four crime novels characterize the zeitgeist of the 1970s (and I also take a few trips into the fuzzy abyss of my own memories of my first decade existing on this planet).

70s Crime, Boston Style

Robert B. Parker's first two Spenser mysteries-- The Godwulf Manuscript and God Save the Child-- will give you a perspective on crime in the 1970s in both inner city Boston and the surrounding suburbs . . . and the counter-culture of the 1960s is starting to permeate both locales.

To the Guggenheim and Back . . .

Yesterday we covered a lot of ground in NYC-- despite the occasional rain-- we walked all the way to the Guggenheim, through Central Park-- and on the way we saw a giant inflatable rat AND a bike delivery guy delivering a bunch of balloons-- and the exhibits at the Guggenheim were awesome-- the linear, spare geometric sculptures and paintings of the Venezuelan artist Gego and the busy multi-media installations of Sarah Sze . . . then we didn't a bit of a bar crawl as we walked back to Penn Station-- we stopped for snack and drinks at the Penrose, for a beer at Eddy's on Second, and finally for some food and happy hour at Boqueria-- then we caught a fast train home (and we took a fast train there!) and I passed out.

Stamina of Cat

I went to the dentist this morning, then caught the express train the the city with my wife . . . 29,000 steps later, I'm home and she's still out-- impressive for her, lame for me.

Good Stuff

I took a bike ride this morning, and the New Brunswick entrance to the tow path (the Delaware and Raritan Canal State Park Trail) is now refurbished and open (and the trail itself is smoothly paved for miles and miles) and I just walked down to Donaldson Park and the basketball courts are almost finished-- they are putting the final asphalt down and painting the lines of the lane, foul line, and key; and they are installing the tennis and pickle-ball nets on the new courts by the entrance to Donaldson-- so pretty sweet, a lot of local improvements near my house . . . just in time for the cool dry fall weather.

No Laughing Today

Rainy day yesterday, so I went with my wife to a kickboxing class at Y-- and while I must admit, the class was entertaining and went by fairly quickly (generally, in an exercise class, I feel very claustrophobic-- like a caged animal-- I don't like people telling me what to do, confined spaces, following directions, and exercising when there isn't a ball or weights involved . . . I've done a couple yoga classes with my wife and I really had a hard time, both mentally and physically-- I just wanted to get the fuck out of there and play some basketball) and the guy who taught this kickboxing class really mixed things up-- we used the step and swung iron rods and punched with weights and all kinds of stuff, and while I had fun, I woke up this morning with very sore abs-- apparently I've got to push it more when I do my core on my own (or go to more of these stupid classes where they tell you what to do).

OBFT XXX Mental Recuperation

Definitely have the dummies today from the trip, but a couple of other memories surfaced:

1) my flight out of Newark was delayed (of course) and Marston and Gormley deserted me, so I had to enlist an Uber . . . and I really wanted a cup of coffee-- so on the way to the ride-share pick-up area I tried to stop at one Starbucks, but there was a line, and then I stumbled upon another Starbucks and I don't go to Starbucks so I didn't really know how or where to order, but I got the attention of the black dude behind the counter and told him I wanted a medium coffee, black, and he said, "Let me finish this" and then he poured me a coffee and slid it over to me and I was like "where do I pay? at this kiosk?" and he said, "don't worry about it" and I said, "really?" and he said, "no problem" and I thanked him and went on my way;

2) Friday, Whitney, who had just awoken at 11 AM and had a bit of a hangover, was gearing himself for our daily jaunt to Tortuga's bar-- we get there when it opens at 11:30 AM . . . and he said, "alright, time to strap it on again!" and I said, "I think you mean 'tie one on again' because 'strap it on again' means something very different.

OBFT XXX!

Despite the cheesy aesthetic stylings of the OBFT XXX t-shirt (and the cheesy aesthetic stylings of the old men in attendance) the thirtieth annual Outer Banks Fishing Trip was a roaring success:

1) record number of guys in attendance . . . in no particular order: Whit, Rob, Cliff, Jason, Marston, Billy, Marlin, Gormley, Charlie, Gus, Swaney, Old, Overton, Joe, Coby, Fischel, Noble, Wainwright, Bruce, Paci, Stew, Hoopie, Ethan, Ian, Rodell, Dave Fairbanks, and me;

2) great weather-- cool and breezy;

3) a new game: Pizzazz . . . I hate the Southern Gentlemen accents;

4) the usual fun and food and Tortuga's;

5) the introduction of "the light bag" in cornhole;

6) no spikeball for Stew;

7) first rainy day in years;

8) Gormley christened the back fo the rental car after a long Wednesday night . . . always a mistake;

9) new stairs and less dune . . . 

10) while we did not fish, we certainly supported the fishing industry by eating a hell of a lot of seafood;

11) a great time, thanks for hosting Whit (and Coby and Charlie for cooking) and now it's time to dry out and get ready for tomorrow's jury duty.

Life with an English Teacher as Your Dad

 

A text thread with my son Ian . . . it's got to be annoying to have an English teacher as a dad.

Ringworld: Get Down with Some 70s Sci-fi

 

New episode of We Defy Augury out . . . thoughts (loosely) based on Larry Niven's 1970s sci-fi classic Ringworld and Katie Williams' brand-spanking new sci-fi novel My Murder . . . Zardoz is one of the many special guests.

New York in the 70s: A Mealier Big Apple

Colson Whitehead resumes the adventures of Ray Carney-- furniture salesman and occasional criminal-- in Crook Manifesto (the sequel to Harlem Shuffle) and you get a wonderfully gritty and graphic view of the Big Apple (and the surrounding areas, even Jersey . . . at one point a vehicle is abandoned on the "raggedy edge" of New Brunswick) in the 1970s . . . all the corruption, revolution, urban renewal, urban decay, cons, grifts, and wild times in a city that is a long way from gentrification-- a city that is literally on fire . . . a joyous cast of characters mixed up in a metropolis on the edge of chaos.

Now the Weather Breaks? Now?

All summer, I sweated it out on the hot and humid Jersey streets and courts, living my runaway American Dream-- and then-- finally-- when the weather breaks and it's clear and cool and smoke-free and sunny and dry, I've got a giant pus-filled boil and I can't play any sports or go swimming . . . not the end of the world, but very annoying.

Taco Tuesday? Fuckin' Fuhgattabout It!

For a moment, I'll refrain from discussing my pus-filled abscess (although, truth be told: it is still festering) and discuss something more palatable: Taco John's has relinquished its trademark on the phrase "Taco Tuesday," thus giving it back to the people (and Taco Bell . . . it wasn't worth fighting them in court) BUT, before you get too fired up, just remember that when you're in the Garden State, if you want to sell a couple of meat-filled tortillas, you won't be afforded the same freedom of fajita as the rest of our nation-- you'll have to bow down to the originator of the phrase "Taco Tuesday," Gregory's Restaurant in Somers Point, New Jersey who apparently coined the phrase in the summer of 1979 and have no plans of releasing it back into the Pine Barrens (or anywhere else).