Used Car Shopping: Phase One Complete

Today Cat and I drove to Raceway Kia in Freehold to complete phase one of used car shopping:

-- hey you've got this car for 18k I'd like to test drive 

-- ok sure, here we go

-- ok, this rides great, brakes work, like the control panel . . . what can you do for us?

-- it's 18k so let me just go see what I can do . . . 

five minutes later

-- ok, here you go, 24k . . . a great deal

--uh, what?

-- warranty, dealer fees, used car prep fees, sodomize you over a barrel fees, tax, you know . . .

-- what's this $1995 fee?

--used car prep fee . . . we spread that out over all the used cars

--so you add it to every used car?

--yes

--so why not just make it part of the price so we don't get all pissed off?

and then more haggling and high-pressure sales pitching, and then, let's get the manager (this is when the situation becomes so archetypal it's comedic . . . are we in a skit?) and then the calmer, cooler manager steps in

-- can we meet somewhere in the middle?

-- we don't want to go over twenty

-- we've got this other trim model?

-- can you put roof rails on it?

-- I'm not sure, probably not . . .

more salesmanship but not enough price lowering and then the inevitable walk-out . . . because you've got to walk out at least once . . . and maybe more times than that . . . what kind of fucked up business model is this?

Thirty Years Ago

Damp and dank and dreary today, so instead of coming up with something new, I'll post an excerpt written by my buddy Whitney, from a news report of what was going on in our lives thirty years ago, in 1994: 

File Under: things you don't need explained to you. 30 years is quite a long time. Like, really long. A generation-plus for humans. The lifetime of a koi. And yet, it was just yesterday in my brain.

So what were you doing 30 years ago today? Summer of 1994?

I know what a couple of you were doing.

Dave was in the Garden State -- in grad school or maybe just having finished. Living in a converted whorehouse on Route 18 in New Brunswick with some reptiles that scared me and some of his old buddies... who also scared me at times. His old mates played in a band and occasionally let the Idiots jam with them for a minute or two at a time. They threw all their spare change into a big bucket every day for a year and then threw a major rager with the take. Dave read a lot of books, especially for a 24-year-old, and he drank a beer called Artic Ice. It was a Coors product misspelled badly, but Dave liked the ABV and it only had 11.5 ounces, which he said cut out the half-ounce of backwash. He also lived with a guy who took his bride's surname, but I think you would have, too. Dave also worked tirelessly to murder a monitor lizard that they should have named Rasputin. 1994 for Dave: it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity.

for the rest of the updates (downdates?) on the gang, follow the link and enjoy . . . and thanks for the nostalgia Whit, I forgot about my "Artic Ice half ounce backwash theory" but I still think it holds water.

From Olive Drab to Gray Flannel

The Man in the Flannel Gray Suit, by Sloan Wilson, was published in 1955 and I found it to be a depressing predecessor of Mad Men . . . the book portrays the corporate world and a war-torn veteran trying to make his way within it-- but it's not the exciting, creative dynamic world of the 60s-- when the bibulous Ad-Men bro culture comes into contact with feminism and the counter-culture-- The Man in the Flannel Suit depicts a more boring, staid business world-- and the same with 50's home life-- so the novel is mainly scenes of mundanity and tedium and the commonplace, workplace politics and cynicism, getting along with your spouse, moving into a new house, etcetera-- punctuated by horrific WWII scenes and the psychological and ethical consequences of life during wartime . . . the novel has town meetings and small-town justice and codicils and speechwriting and business meetings and martinis and old age and young children and all kinds of scenes from everyday life, plus the consequences of the war on the men trying to live in this land of plenty . . . easy reading but tough to ponder.

I Wish I Could Watch a Movie Alone

My wife went to the beach with some lady friends for a few days (to see the Black Eyed Peas) and once again, I realized that I cannot watch a complete movie or TV show by myself-- I need someone else sitting near me for the experience to work-- I watched ten minutes of The Conjuring 2 before I realized it's way too scary to watch alone (and I had seen it before) and then I made it a decent way into the high school comedy Bottoms-- but couldn't seal the deal, the plot got utterly absurd and I had no one to voice my opinion to-- and then I watched some of American Fiction, which has some great acting but also kind of an absurd plot-- and it's supposed to be realistic-- and then I started Mad Max: Furiosa . . . and while I could probably get through that one, it's so good that I'll wait to watch it with my wife-- so it's back to reading, listening to music, online speed chess, YouTube pickleball tutorials, and Olympic sports.

The Boognish is Always a Conversation Starter (or Ender)

A youngish dude (and youngish means thirty?) at the pool noticed my Ween boognish tattoo and he told me he had really gotten into Ween lately-- he saw them play the 30th anniversary of "Chocolate and Cheese"-- which is approximately how old my tattoo is-- and then he recommended I listen to some King Gizzard and the Lizard Wizard-- and I told him I tried and enjoyed their psychedelic sound but their insanely prolific output of albums (they put out FIVE albums in 2017 alone!) overwhelmed me but I gave them another try-- Nonagon Infinity is fun and accessible and very Ween-like, as is I'm in Your Mind Fuzz I . . . they also have a jazzier album called "Sketches of Brunswick East," the suburb of Melbourne where they record-- and I teach in a suburb called East Brunswick . . . so fun parallel, though Brunswick East sounds classier than East Brunswick.

The Great Irony of Life

When you are young and you have your good looks and a head full of hair, you're too stupid to talk to the ladies.

Horowitz Portrays Horowitz

Anthony Horowitz's The Word is Murder is a meta-mystery on par with Magpie Murders . . . a fictional version of the author becomes Watson to a much less charming but equally talented Sherlock Holmes figure (named Hawthorne) and the investigation of this "true crime" story distracts the fictional Anthony Horowitz from his actual work (such as writing for the TV show Foyle's War) and sends him into an obsessive quest to not only solve the crime but to "investigate the investigation," who is just as mysterious as the mystery . . . and there are plenty of plot twists and brilliant usage of both Shakespeare and spelling autocorrect to provide clues and red herrings-- a highly entertaining read, nine model airplanes out of ten.

Maybe There Will Be Big Fans?

For the first time, I am going to play pickleball indoors today and I am a little nervous . . . one of my main mental tactics is that I never blame myself for a bad shot-- it's the psychological technique of sublimating instead of ruminating, famously studied by Martin Seligman-- but if we are indoors, how will I blame the wind?

Entropy, It's a Winner

The car shopping continues (RIP Toyota minivan) and the engine light has reared its ugly head on the Mazda dashboard, our dog probably needs surgery for bladder stones-- but we're putting it off and trying a special diet and hoping for a miracle-- and while we were able to replace one window (out of the three we wanted to replace) it seems the other two were installed incorrectly by total incompetents back in the 1980s and will require major construction to be swapped out . . . entropy always wins (and in case you were wondering, I checked and there's already a t-shirt with this phrase on it).

Dave Gets Sleeker

When I go to the gym, I normally lift some weights or shoot a few baskets, and then jump into the pool and swim a few laps-- I wear Spandex compression shorts under lightweight athletic shorts and I just swim in that outfit-- but today I had a brilliant idea: after swimming a few laps in my lightweight shorts, but feeling the drag from the pockets and all that, I simply took them off, while I was in the water and swam a few laps just wearing my Spandex compression shorts-- and what a difference, I felt streamlined, like a seal or a squid (a hairy squid) and getting from one side of the pool to the other was much faster and easier . . . and then when I was done, I grabbed my shorts from the side of the pool, put them back on while I was in the water, so I didn't have to parade around in my compression shorts (like an actual swimmer).

It Rhymes if You Drawl

Right now my life feels like a bad country song-- a bad but slightly liberal country song-- my Toyota minivan is dead and gone and my dog's bladder is full of stones. 

Breaking (But Very Boring) News

This morning at pickleball, I hit my first clean and intentional backhand ATP . . . it was a thing of beauty, I waited until the last moment and then hit a low line drive around the pole to the deep corner-- and it was as satisfying as knocking in a very long putt or holing a wedge shot or arcing in a deep three-pointer over an outstretched hand or making a difficult combination in pool or scoring a twenty-yard half-volley in soccer or doing something fun and interesting that I don't know about in lacrosse or hockey . . . it was very satisfying.

One Van Left Behind

 

Another action-packed family vacation in Sea Isle-- Alex and Matt defended last year's random draw cornhole title (and so only Greg and I and Alex and Matt have won back-to-back . . . so we played them and we did beat them-- but they were probably cornholed out from their tournament run . . . they will have to split up next year) and while we're taking plenty of memories back to central Jersey we will be leaving one important member of the family behind-- our 2008 Toyota Sienna Minivan overheated and the engine went, so she is headed to the junkyard, but at least she will spend the remainder of her days at the beach-- a well-deserved vacation from all the family trips, soccer jaunts, teenage shenanigans, work commuting, and general utilitarian duty . . . she served us well, all hail the minivan-- but I can't wait to get a smaller car that doesn't smell so bad, isn't held together by various kind of tape, and contains fewer wasps and spiders (and we were lucky enough to find out the bad news from the garage just as my parents were leaving yesterday, so Catherine jumped in their car and drove them home-- where, serndeipiotusly- our Mazda was because Ian drove them to the beach-- and then she turned around and brought the Mazda to Sea Isle, which barely fit all the stuff-- but we were able to send Alex and Ian home with my brother and they took the train from Hamilton to New Brunswick, quite the game plan . . . we were going to rent a box truck to take our stuff but the garage said they're all out on Saturdays delivering linen).

Advice for Coastal Landlords

Beach rentals need less decorative gew gaws and more hooks for hanging damp beach apparel.

A Coincidence is Just an Explanation Waiting to Happen (unless there are no rules)

Rainy day here at the beach, so in between naps I played some gin rummy with Ian and my dad and finished the third Jackson Brody mystery by Kate Atkinson, "When Will There Be Good News?" which takes place in an alternate Seinfeldian universe so full of coincidences that they become enjoyable expectations.

Vacation Jumbled Run On

Too many trivial vacation moments and so little time— I’ve got to prep the salad for meatball night— but last night was Jack’s college graduation party, which featured Mexican food and lots of life sized cut out pictures of Jack— which were placed on the deck and then nearly everyone lost their shit today at some point because when they saw these cut-outs from the beach, they looked like actual people lurking about . . . a few people waved to the 2-D Jacks and I thought someone was creeping around— then this morning my brother and I went to the advanced open play pickleball at the Avalon courts and we crushed a few people and then played the top dogs on the challenge court— a 4.6 duo with experience playing together, and my brother and I won the first game against them, then lost the second— I was so fatigued and dripping with sweat I could barely move— and then we took a break while they beat another contender 11-0 and then we played them in the rubber match and while I’m normally the best player in my intermediate level games, in this game they were targeting me because they knew I had less experience at this level than my brother, but I held on and we won the rubber match 11-8 and then we got packed up for the beach and the whole crew donned all the bathing suits and shirts with my father’s face on them and the boys pushed my dad to the beach in one of those beach wheelchairs with he giant rubber wheels— it’s all about those wheels— and my dad had a great time at the beach and also enjoyed seeing his face plastered all over thirty pieces of attire— which we ordered from China at a reasonable price— but the sizing was a bit weird— I’m a 2XL in these shorts and my brother is a 3XL . . . anyway, a great beach day and now it’s time to get ready for all the cousins and Catherine’s Meatballs.

Storming the Beaches of Sea Isle

My extended family have once again invaded a stretch of coastline at the Jersey Shore and some good stuff  has ensued: drinking, pickleball, communal dinners, dolphin sightings, clear temperate water, competitive cornhole, sun, sand, salt, etcetera but it has come at a price— a casualty while storming the beach: I packed the circular Spikeball net but forgot to pack the bag of Spikeballs but my wife found a couple for sale in a five and dime type store and so the kids and my brother went up by the dunes to play, while I wisely remained on the cornhole pitch— and my brother soon returned with a bloody big toe and his big toenail was hanging on by a thread, apparently the toe nail caught on his other foot when he dove for a ball and it ripped up and out, very ugly, but his wife— a nurse— washed it and taped it up and then my brother drank some bourbon as anesthetic— he was claiming he would be playing pickleball this morning, but I highly doubt it.

Not So Grumpy Old Men

My friend Whitney was in town last night-- because what's halfway between Norfolk and Cooperstown? Central  Jersey!-- so we went out and pretended we were young . . . and Whitney figured out how to foil the slow service at Pino's by ordering two Guinness at a time, which he imbibed at the same pace that I drank one . . . and the results are exactly what you might imagine.

Safety = Not Warped and Trippy at All

The super-classy/super-distorted-$9.99 eBay-stick-on-funhouse-replacement-side-view mirror is no more . . . our mechanic replaced it with a genuine powered crystal clear authentic Toyota Sienna mirror-- and where's the fun in that?

Summer Humidity Potpourri

Despite the heat and my resulting insipid laziness, there's been plenty going on around here:

1) I went to the gym with my wife last night and did an hour workout with her personal trainer-- and even though Cheryl "took it easy" because I was along for the ride, she nearly killed me-- we did a bunch of barre exercises and some serious ab work-- both of which I truly abhor, and now I am very sore;

2) luckily, my acupuncturist has risen from the dead-- so I went to her today to relieve some of the soreness, but I think she compounded it-- and she had quite a tale to tell, she's been out of work for a year . . . ever since she got hit from behind by some sort of Jersey shore boardwalk swing ride, which tossed her into the air and when she hit the ground she shattered an arm, broke ribs, and injured her shoulder-- several surgeries later, she is back sticking needles in people, but her left hand is all messed up and not working properly-- and there's far more to the story than I care to relate her, but it was harrowing;

3) our dog might have a UTI-- which always seems to happen right before vacation-- so I have to collect a urine sample and get some antibiotics for her tomorrow morning . . . fucking dogs--

4) I finished the finale of my Intro to Shakespeare Trilogy-- three clear reasons as to why we should still read the Bard today . . . presented in five acts;

5) I made nine meatballs last night-- a Hello Fresh recipe that my family enjoyed . . . I cooked the meatballs on foil on the grill because I didn't want to make the house hot;

6) my wife made 153 meatballs today-- for our beach trip-- and she cooked them inside the house and it got quite warm (and smoky) but they are, as usual, delicious.