On the mornings when I play sports before school, I often wear sandals while I teach; it's faster and easier for me to put on sandals when I'm soaking wet-- just out of the shower-- trying to dry off and change into school clothes in the crowded coach's room and rush to first period . . . so yesterday after basketball, I wore my gray Chaco sandals with a pair of gray cargo pants and a black UnderArmour golf shirt-- pretty sharp, I thought-- and I apologized to my first-period class about my exposed toes and explained the situation-- very little time to shower, the difficulty of putting socks on when it's humid, time constraints, the desire to shed heat through my feet-- but to their credit, the students were oddly unfazed: usually the first time I wear sandals in class the kids give me some flak, but this time a girl simply said, "You English teachers always have your toes out," which struck me as peculiar, so I did some further investigation-- both around the school and on the internet-- and it turns out that high school kids think it's weird to reveal their toes in school-- they don't wear strappy sandals or heels or athletic slides or Jesus sandals or flip-flops-- in fact, they're so self-conscious about their feet and toes that they even wear socks even when they are sporting Crocs-- which I find nuts-- and at this point the student body seems to be used to the English department baring it all (below the ankle) as a matter of course (and I think they categorize us as "a bunch of hippies").
I Did Box Some People Out . . .
Tuesday morning I couldn't miss, but this morning I had a terrible day shooting from outside the arc at 6:30 AM basketball, but I redeemed myself with some rockstar teaching-- or perhaps alt-country star teaching-- as I played a rousing rendition of Lyle Lovett's song "Church" to my brand new senior special topics English class, "Music and the Arts"-- and then sent them on their way, as we had another half-day because of the heat, a wonderful way to start the week.
On a Lighter Note . . .
The day before the students come, we always have a three-hour staff meeting that is a rollercoaster of topics, tones, and emotions: without transition, we move from teachers who have gotten married; to introductions of new teachers; to teachers who have had babies; to how important classroom climate is; to bloodborne pathogens; to the budget for building a new high school; and then, just when we were getting sleepy the SSO (Special Security Officer) did a presentation about school-shootings and the utilitarian calculus you have to do once a lockdown is implemented: if you have a classroom full of students hidden in the appropriate place and some slow-moving student knocks on your locked door, they are shit-out-of-luck (and if the intruder does get into your classroom, his final advice was: throw shit at him) and you have to endure this three-hour rollercoaster ride while sitting on immobile backless plastic cafeteria seats . . . people leave on the brink of madness.
It's Not the Heat, Nor Is It the Humidity, It's the Air-Conditioning!
Move-in Day: Muhlenberg vs. Rutgers
My wife and I are now "empty-nesters"-- we moved Ian to Muhlenberg a couple of weeks ago and I moved Alex into his Rutgers College Avenue dorm (Clothier) in New Brunswick last Friday-- and the two move-in experiences were quite different, which makes sense, as one school is a small college on a self-contained campus and the other is a large state university intertwined within a midsized city and several surrounding residential areas; here's a quick description of each move-in;
1) when we pulled up to Muhlenberg College, there was plenty of signage; a number of helpful campus employees to direct us; and when we arrived in front of Ian's dorm, a throng of upperclassmen surrounded our car, asked for Ian's room number, and started carrying all his belongs to his room; once the car was emptied, I was directed to a nearby parking lot (free) and then we set up Ian's room and ate (free) lunch in the dining hall . . . lovely;
2) when we pulled up near Alex's dorm, a police officer told me to put my hazards on and then we were instructed to quickly unload all of Alex's stuff onto the sparse lawn in front of the dorm; I was then instructed to park in some deck (not free) quite far from the dorm-- but instead I found metered parking near HoneyGrow-- and then I walked back and helped Alex carry all his stuff up the stairs (pro tip: he has a lot of plants-- which have survived from freshman to sophomore year-- because they filter bad odors from his room) and while we were setting things up, a cop walked through the dorm, yelling: "The U-Haul and the white Ford Sierra are going to be towed-- if they are not moved immediately, they are going to be towed!"
Are You a Wizard or a Prophet?
Apparently, according to a comprehensive NYT investigation, America is in the midst of a groundwater crisis-- we are depleting our aquifers at an unsustainable rate; this is most apparent in Arizona . . . I just listened to "The Daily: Arizona's Pipe Dream" and I didn't realize how much of an oasis Pheonix is-- the lush lawns and parks and gardens-- and, of course, this greenery is sustained by groundwater, because Pheonix is in the desert . . . but Phoenix and it's surrounding suburbs have a plan-- or is it a pipe dream?-- IDE, an Israeli company that implements water treatment and desalination plants, has proposed running a pipeline 200 miles, from a small town in Mexico (Puerto Penasco) that sits on the Gulf of California; the pipe would run uphill and it would have to go through some ecologically sensitive areas-- and then there is the problem of the high salinity slurry that the plant will produce as a waste product-- the Gulf of California is narrow and doesn't have strong ocean currents, so the proposal to put the brine back into the Gulf could be environmentally dangerous . . . the debate around weather Pheonix should learn to conserve its water and stop growing at such a rapid rate versus the idea that technology and human ingenuity will prevail reminds me of an excellent book by Charles C. Mann: The Wizard and the Prophet; the Wizard is represented by the so-called father of the Green Revolution, Norman Borlaug . . . he was a techno-optimist who developed drought proof high yield crops and seeds to feed the world-- but this has led to our chemically dependent mono-culture factory farms and less diversity among our crops-- and the Prophet is symbolized by conservationist and ecologist William Vogt, who warned us that we need to live within our means and avoid overpopulation and unsustainable ecological practices . . . and these debates between sustainable growth and techno-optimism are going to be rife in the coming years (The Week just did a feature on the costs and benefits of carbon capture) and while Americans don't like being told to conserve and to tighten their belts . . . we always think a Wizard will provide the answer in the very near future-- but in the coming years, this might be the case (or the price tag might be too high-- which could make wealth inequality even more pronounced-- how expensive should water be?) and while we will certainly see some wizardry in response to these ecological challenges, we're also going to have to heed some of the warnings from the prophets . . . and whatever direction we take, it's going to be interesting and unprecedented.
Speak of the Lanternfly
Today, while I was walking with my wife across the Albany Street Bridge (from Highland Park to New Brunswick) I said, "Well, it's September and it looks like we're not going to have any lanternflies around here this year" and just as I finished speaking, a large insect flew into my shoulder, kamikaze-style, and-- of course-- it was a lanternfly . . . but was this a coincidence . . . or are the bugs not only starting to understand English but also irony?
The Usual Vaseline-Coated Shit-show
I played pickleball this morning, then mowed the lawn, then helped my son Alex move a TV and some furniture to New Brunswick . . . forgetting that I should have been conserving my energy for the traditional Labor Day pool party greased-watermelon-rugby match; this year's match was more epic than usual-- and it's usually fairly epic . . . after jumping out to an early lead, my team eventually lost 3-2 but it took far longer than usual and by the end, most of us were gassed-- from treading water; from wrestling and dunking folks; from trying to keep our with our fully grown, athletic children, and mainly from diving into the murky depths of the deep end in pursuit of the neutrally buoyant melon-- -- with dozens of legs kicking above you, blocking your path to oxygen-- and while most of the match was the usual Vaseline-coated shit-show, I was proud of two particular moments:
1) Alex had the watermelon a yard from the end line, but when he rose up to toss it over the side of the pool and tie the score, I rose up with him-- and like (a very short and hairy) Dikembe Mutombo, I cleanly blocked his scoring attempt . . . it was fucking sweet-- and when Alex scored on the next possession, he said, "Thank God I scored, or I'd never hear the end of that block"
2) during a frothy chaotic melee, I ended up clutching the watermelon to my belly, but my back was turned to our opponent's end-zone and I was holding the melon below the surface of the water-- and no one knew that I was in possession of the melon-- so I channeled Daniel-Day Lewis, looked around frantically, and said, "Where is it? Where did it go?" and I simultaneously started kicking my legs and proceeding very slowly into enemy territory-- and I made it a couple of yards utilizing this deception, but then Alex jumped on me and pushed the melon loose, and he claims "you were making that face that you always make when you're doing something stupid like that."
When You Come to a Fork in the Road . . . Take It
My Wife, DMV Hero . . .
Thursday morning my wife took her car to the Edison DMV Inspection Station; there was a decent line (because it was the end of the month) and after a number of cars went through the gate, the line of cars came to a stand-still; Catherine was eight cars back from the gate or so and the guy right at the gate, in a white Range Rover, was inching forward, waiting for the gate to rise-- but he didn't realize that you had to press the button and get a ticket and then the gate would rise . . . so everyone sat there for a few minutes, in their cars, waiting for this guy to press the button-- and to the credit of the human race, people did NOT start beeping at this guy (I might have gone that route) but-- to the ignominy of the human race-- neither did any of the drivers in the cars immediately behind this guy get out and help him . . . someone needed to show him that he had to press the button, so Catherine, who was a number of cars behind this guy, got out of the Mazda and walked all the way up to help this guy-- and along the way, everyone opened their windows and said to her, "He didn't push the button" and "I don't think he knows about the button" and "the gate won't open unless he pushes the button" and then Catherine had to literally PRESS the button for the guy-- he didn't speak English-- and then she handed him his ticket and the gate ascended-- and while Catherine was walking back to her car, all the drivers in line thanked her for being a DMV hero-- they complimented her on her alacrity, energy, and initiative-- and then when she reached the DMV Inspection Station, the DMV lady thanked her for pressing the button for the guy . . . she said she was watching the whole time and was just about to walk out an help him . . . and I'm very proud of my wife for being a DMV hero, but that's just the kind of person she is-- but I'm also wondering what I would have done in that situation-- maybe I would have beeped, maybe I would have gotten out of the car, or maybe I would have sat there, bitching and doing the Spelling Bee on my phone.
Happy Boink-Day?
Spenser Being Spenser
Robert B. Parker's fourth Spenser novel, Promised Land, is more about relationships than crime, and I should warn you: there's quite a bit of romance between Spenser and Susan Silverman (blech) which makes me think something terrible is going to happen to her later in the series, and-- far more fun-- we learn about Spenser's complicated connection to Hawk, a gangster adjacent black dude who Spenser knows from back in his boxing days . . . anyway, this isn't my favorite Spenser book, but it still has its moments; here are some highlights from my Kindle notes:
Spenser on radical feminism . . .
“No,” I said. “Annoyed, maybe, if you push me. But not at her, at all the silliness in the world. I’m sick of movements. I’m sick of people who think that a new system will take care of everything. I’m sick of people who put the cause ahead of the person. And I am sick of people, whatever sex, who dump the kids and run off: to work, to booze, to sex, to success. It’s irresponsible.”
Susan Silverman on Spenser . . .
“More than maybe,” Susan said. “It’s autonomy. You are the most autonomous person I’ve ever seen and you don’t let anything into that. Sometimes I think the muscle you’ve built is like a shield, like armor, and you keep yourself private and alone inside there. The integrity complete, unviolated, impervious, safe even from love.”
Spenser on human nature and belief . . .Spenser and Pam on the city in the distance . . .
“Yeah.”
“Doesn’t that make a difference? I mean you just let him go.”
“I’ve known him a long time,” I said.
Hawk on Spenser . . .
Hawk shrugged. “Me and your old man there are a lot alike. I told you that already. There ain’t all that many of us left, guys like old Spenser and me. He was gone there’d be one less. I’d have missed him. And I owed him one from this morning.”
Central Jersey: We Exist!
Governor Phil Murphy recently signed Bill S3206, which requires the New Jersey "Division of Travel and Tourism to re-draw the tourism map to promote Central Jersey" and also "requires promotion of overnight stays" in the newly created Central Jersey region-- so the folks in Middlesex, Hunterdon, Mercer, Middlesex, and Somerset counties now officially exist as full-fledged denizens of the Garden State . . . and now we've got to work on a slogan to promote Central Jersey so that I can AirBnB my house for lots of cash; here are a few ideas:
1) Central Jersey: no beaches but plenty of humidity;
2) Central Jersey: come for the pizza, stay for the poison ivy;
3) Central Jersey: we've got strip clubs AND strip malls;
4) Central Jersey: we'd love you to visit-- but there's enough fucking traffic so please take the train;
5) Central Jersey: we ain't Pennsylvania.
Always A Good Day for a Nap
Overlook Mountain: Rattlesnakes, Ruins, and Bears (Oh Shit)
On day two of our Saugerties vacation, we all got up early and headed to the Overlook Mountain Trailhead-- the trail is an out-and-back gravel and stone fire road and it ascends aggressively up Overlook mountain for 2.5 miles, but I read that the views from the fire tower at the top were worth the slog, plus there were some ruins of an abandoned hotel near the top that sounded interesting; for a while the trail was a bit boring and rather steep-- but once we got to the ruins of the Overlook Mountain House (which was the third iteration of the hotel . . . it started as a small lodge in 1833, then grew into a 300 room hotel, which consequently burned down-- twice-- so then the new owner, Morris Newgold, decided to build something that would last, so he started on the massive concrete structure that still stands-- in ruins-- today . . . but he never finished construction and abandoned the project in 1939) then things changed for the better; the ruins looked like a Catskills version of Angor Wat, with trees and shrubs growing amidst the layers of concrete foundations, walls, arches, pediments, pools, and stairs-- and after the ruins, we noticed a number of signs on the trail warning us of rattlesnakes, but we scoffed at these signs-- rattlesnakes? seriously?-- and then, when we reached the top, the two dudes that were right behind us told us that just after we left the Overlook Hotel area, a black bear strolled through the ruins; when we made our way to the lookout tower, a couple of rangers greeted us-- which was unusual-- but they were stationed up there to warn folks about all the nesting rattlesnakes . . . as the top of the mountain was infested with serpents; they pointed out a couple of sunning rattlers and a molting black corn snake . . . one thick brown timber rattlesnake that lay stoic and still on a stone just off the path was a monster-- thicker than my arm and six feet long; after observing the snakes, Catherine and I then climbed the fire-tower to the tiny observatory on top-- and, as a bonus, we were joined by a very good-looking couple of twenty-somethings from New York City and by the time we got down, Dom and Michelle had made it to the top and they got to see the rattlesnakes and then we hiked a bit to the other viewpoint and from there we could actually see Saugerties Light-- so all-in-all, a spectacular hike-- ruins, a bear-sighting, rattlesnakes, and great views-- plus, as a bonus, we saw a middle-aged lady jogging up the trail several times while we hikes and she told me she was doing SIX HOURS of running up and down the trail-- ultramarathon training?-- which was wild because we all thought going down the trail was harder on your knees and feet than walking up it-- but this lady was an iron-woman . . . anyway, we made it to the bottom, drove to Woodstock to get some lunch, miraculously found parking right in front of Oriole 9 . . . as Woodstock was packed with shoppers-- and after a delicious lunch and some excellent beers from the Westkill brewery, we went to a fairly lame flea market, bought some bread, and then drove back to back to Saugerties (and made a quick stop at Beer Universe . . . which is an entire universe of beer) and then we all took well deserved naps.
If A Tree Falls in Saugerties, I Want to See It!
Yesterday, Catherine and I drove up to Saugerties, NY to meet our friends Dom and Michelle for our first "empty nest" getaway . . . when we arrived, we parked in town, had a beer and some food at Stella's Station and then we drove across the bridge and unpacked and got set up in our AirBnB; that evening, we all walked back across the bridge which spanned the Esopus Creek, and headed back towards town-- and right after crossing the bridge, we stopped at the Diamond Mills Hotel, an expansive and swanky venue overlooking the Esopus Creek Falls, and we sat out on the patio and had drinks right above the roar of the cascading water and the scene would have been idyllic if it wasn't for two trees balanced precariously on the edge of the precipice-- we desperately wanted to see these trees plummet over the falls, but they had obviously been there a while and the chances of them falling in the brief window of time that we sat on the patio was slim-- especially since we weren't going to eat there . . . too expensive-- so after some speculation on how long the trees had been perched on the brink, I went and asked a random server for some information and he said the big one had been there since before he started working at the place, so several months and the small tree had been there a few weeks and then he said something that renewed my faith in the universality of the human spirit: "Man, I would love to see that big one fall tonight" and I concurred with him-- wholeheartedly concurred-- and then our fabulous server returned and they asked if we needed anything else, and we asked them if they could possibly make both the trees plummet over the falls and they laughed and said another line that confirmed the ubiquitous essence of the human experience-- they said, "I just work here" and on that note, we paid the check and headed to town, where we ate excellent Mexican food at the convivial and pub-like Main Street Restaurant-- and as far as we know, those trees are still hanging on for dear life.
Colleen Hoover and the Art of the Inner Monologue
SOMEBODY in These Photos Knows How to Party . . .
A Mystery with a Curveball
Mortal Stakes-- the third book in Robert B. Parker's Spenser series-- is about things I love: athletics, the ethics of sports, a conflict between ethical systems, the seedy underworld of 1970s prostitution and pornography, and-- of course-- ingenious blackmailing schemes.
Slouching Towards Something
I'm very proud that the new episode of my podcast is up and streaming: "Slouching Towards Something:Karl Polyani vs. Friedrich Hayek: Steel Cage Match or Shotgun Marriage?" as it took me months to read J. Bradford DeLong's epic economic tome-- apparently the sporadic and unprecedented progress of the Long Twentieth Century is over and weird times lie ahead; DeLong explains why in comprehensive detail but I boil things down to the essence of his argument and hopefully add some entertainment value to some dense and complicated content (as do my special guests, Milton Friedman, Gordon Gekko, and Bill Cosby).