My family is at the beach— and while it’s not quite the same without my dad— still, the weather is nice, the water is warm, I’ve already played basketball with the boys and pickleball in Avalon, and last night, we were all tired and didn’t go hang out with my cousins, instead we watched The Office, which was a family favorite back in the day, and we reminisced about when comedy was comedy— unlike the new season of The Bear— a show which used to be at least a little bit funny but has gotten more and more depressing with each season.
Trump and Tariffs, Two Stupid Tastes That are Even Stupider Together
The irrationality of Trump's tariff policies cannot be overstated-- the fact that he slapped a 50% tariff on the tiny African nation of Lesotho is case in point . . . ostensibly because Lesotho runs a trade deficit with the USA-- but Lesotho is too poor to buy American products (and even if they did buy American products, they are too tiny a nation to buy very much) but we like to buy lots of diamonds and textiles from them-- so essentially they are being punished by Trump for being small and poor and doing back-breaking labor, but this silliness is nothing compared to what's happening with Brazil: Brazil actually buys more stuff from the USA than it sells, so we are running a trade surplus with Brazil -- hooray!-- this is a place that we export goods to and make money, but nonetheless, Trump is threatening Brazil with high tariffs because he does not like the way the Brazilian judicial system is treating fellow asshole authoritarian Jair Bolsonaro-- who staged his own Jan 6 insurrection (and possible assassination plot) because Bolsonaro felt his election loss was rigged-- sound familiar? . . . so to show solidarity with an abominable guy, Trump jeopardizes a trade relationship that actually benefits the United States . . . WTF?
Busy Like a Hornet?
Earlier this afternoon-- despite the heat-- I geared up-- sweatpants, work boots, sweatshirt, glasses, gloves, and I sprayed this bald-faced hornet's nest that is hanging over the end of my driveway with some wasp and hornet killer spray . . . the spray promised to shoot 27 feet but I don't think it had that kind of range, although I think I did some damage and later on tonight, as apparently, bald-faced hornets are less aggressive when it starts getting dark, I'm going to spray the nest with our garden hose and see if I can knock it loose . . . hopefully most of the hornets are stunned or dead from the spray . . . I will keep you posted (or if you don't hear from me, then I have succumbed to the stings) but mainly I'm impressed at how fast these creatures built this thing-- I swear it wasn't there yesterday.
Africa Hot
Last night, my wife and I scored some free tickets to the Red Bulls game--our friend runs the Rutgers Mandela Washington Fellowship, which brings young African entrepreneurs to Rutgers for business networking and mentoring, but also some social activities--so last night they were all going to a Red Bulls match, they were taking a bus in but my wife and I chose to take the train to Newark and eat at Burke's Tavern, a Newark gastro-pub straight out of Brooklyn... there's some gentrification going on--and Burke's was delicious, especially the braised pork sandwich and beet salad--then we made the mistake of walking over the bridge to Harrison, instead of taking the PATH--this was a mistake because it was absolutely sweltering, jungle-hot outside--it seems New Jersey is moving from a temperate zone to a sub-tropical zone--by the time we reached the stadium, we were drenched with sweat... meanwhile, the African fellows were having no problem with the heat; the game was exciting, the Red Bulls overcame a two-goal deficit and won 5-3... I think so many goals were scored in the second half because the players wore out and couldn't run off the ball--anyway, we ended our day by taking the air-conditioned bus home, which was lovely--because you could nod off and not worry about getting off at your stop--and I'm looking forward to repeating this trip in the fall when the weather is more reasonable (for a person that grew up in a temperate zone, not the tropics).
Irony . . . It's So Ironic
As an English teacher, I'm always looking for examples of irony—and not "Alanis Morissette irony," such as "rain on your wedding day" or a "free ride when you've already paid"—those are examples of bad and good luck, respectively, not irony (although it is brilliant to improperly use a literary device and name the song as such; the song gained much more notoriety than if she had properly used the device; I should write a song called "Imagery" and fill it with abstractions . . . or a song called "Hyperbole" and keep it very understated)—and the trend of Trump-inspired ICE agents wearing masks when they do immigration raids, when the Donald actually posted (about "radical left" protesters) that MASKS WILL NOT BE ALLOWED and authorities should ARREST THE PEOPLE IN FACE MASKS, NOW! is just about perfect in the irony department (and that's not even mentioning the Republican stance towards masking during COVID).
Bad News/Good News
So we found out some bad news and some good news today . . . bad news first, of course: the bad news is that when my son Ian hydroplaned the other night in my wife's car—just down the street from our house—he ran over the curb and smacked into a concrete barrier by the public works building; while he was not injured, my wife's sporty Mazda CX-5 was not so lucky: because the airbags deployed, the car was totaled, and we will be doing some car shopping this summer—but we also found out some good news at the vet today—the weird, strong antibiotics I administered for two weeks (I was supposed to handle them with gloves) cured our dog Lola's UTI and her new expensive food has dissolved all her struvite bladder stones, so she is totally in the clear—a miracle!— and so while it sucks to have to shop for a car, we are lucky that both our dog and our son are healthy.
Back to the Suck
My body is sore from the long car ride home from teh Outer Banks; my brain is sore from the partying on the trip; and New Jersey is a humid jungle (and we are expecting four inches of rain today!) yet despite the post-OBFT blues, I managed to fix a door, lift some weights, and play some basketball with my son today . . . I'm certainly not capable of any advanced thinking, but I'm getting there.
OBFT XXXII
I just completed the long drive home from the Outer Banks, and I can attest that OBFT XXXII did indeed occur in a newly renovated Martha Wood cottage (at least the outside), and beers were drank—though not as many as usual—and at one point the bartender at Tortuga's shamed us into ordering another round, I also took some flak for ordering coffee after I tried to order an espresso martini but was denied, and plenty of seafood and pizza was eaten, music was played, Whit and I finished a pertinent song—which his wife claimed was vain (I'll post it and you can decide)—and we played cornhole and swam (avoiding seaweed and jellyfish at first, then the water improved), and in general a good time was had by all, and now it's time to dry out—thanks Whit, for another great weekend at the beach.
Shallow Thoughts
I am at the beach and my brain is currently generating zero thoughts, other than: those waves sound nice.
Epigram Exposé
First, people said that art imitates life, then Oscar Wilde flipped this idea around and said that more often, life imitates art-- very clever, Oscar-- but I am going to set the record straight, boring though it may be: life typically imitates life, and art typically imitates art, and rarely do the two meet.
Mysteriously Meta-Magical
If you're in the mood for something meta, you could certainly read Moonflower Murders by meta-mystery master Anthony Horowitz . . . or if you're in the mood for something metamagical (and you've already read the Hofstadter collection) you could watch Nathan Fielder's "reality" show The Rehearsal . . . but be warned: you're wife might not like it.
Fireworks Etiquette?
I am not as big on manners, etiquette, and calling out rudeness as my wife-- most of the time, breaches of decorum fascinate me more than annoy me-- but even I was at the end of my rope last night at the town fireworks display; my wife and I walked down the street with a couple of camping chairs and sat at the top of the hill overlooking the park-- they shoot off the fireworks from down by the river-- and a group of middle-aged ladies and a guy (and when I saw middled-aged I mean they seemed a little older than us . . . but who the hell knows anymore because we're old too) stood behind us-- very close to our chairs and they started having an insanely annoying and very loud conversation-- which is fine, it's Independence Day and we're celebrating free speech and the first amendment and all that-- but then they continued the conversation once the fireworks began-- but they had to talk even louder and motion even more vociferously, because they had to compete with the explosions-- and their discussion ranged from places they had traveled: Bar Harbor, Arizona, Duluth . . . with no theme-- just basically saying places-- to a long and tangential discussion of the speed of sound-- and they estimated the speed of sound for quite a while, never really getting close to the actual speed (approximately 761 mph/1100 feet per second) and its relation to the speed of light and how you see the fireworks before you hear them-- then they started estimating the distance of the mortars from the viewing area-- on and on and on, non-stop inane dialogue, right in our ears-- and I knew my wife was really getting pissed off and so was the guy standing in front of me-- I thought he was going to turn around and hit them with his cane, he kept giving them the evil eye-- but they didn't notice because they were yapping away-- and his daughter kept trying to calm him down so he didn't commit assault with an ambulatory assistive device-- and then those two finally moved and my wife and I followed suit . . . the loudest lady of the coven said, "YOU'RE GIVING UP THIS GOOD SPOT?" but we did not deign to talk to her and instead walked a bit up the hill and watched the finale with a neighbor and his daughter, with the proper amount of conversation for a firework display-- we said appropriate things like "ooh, that's a nice one" and "wow" and "that's a crowd favorite" and so while I am a proponent of freedom and liberty and do-what-you-want, I will say that these very annoying people were definitely pushing the boundaries of personal space and allowable noise during a visual display.
What's Better Than Dinosaurs? Genetically Engineered Hybrid Dinosaurs!
While I am sick of sequels and reboots and revivals and live-action remakes, there is always a special spot in my heart for dinosaurs (and any giant creature feature) so my wife and I went over to the Rutgers Cinema to see Jurassic World Rebirth today and while the movie is certainly more of the same-- the people who deserve to get eaten get eaten; we are warned not to tamper with mother nature; and science should benefit all of humanity-- there is also wonderful meta-element to the theme . . . in this film, we are in a post-dinosaurian future, where humans have become accustomed and even inured to the existence of these creatures-- and the dinosaurs are not faring well in zoos and parks and such, they are dying of disease and because the air is not oxygen rich enough and so they are really only thriving near the equator-- BUT because people were bored of typical dinosaurs, a lab in the tropics was engineering bizarre and scary genetic hybrid dinosaurs, to increase interest and demand in the creatures and revitalize the industry-- but the lab had a containment breach and was abandoned and this is the island where this cast of characters ends up-- so these genetically engineered dinosaurs, made ostensibly to revive public interest in dinosaurs, also revive public interest in the dinosaur movie-- Jurassic World Rebirth-- because these dinosaurs are even creepier and smarter and more dangerous than actual dinosaurs-- good fun-- and I also like the that the movie opens with monkeys observing dinosaurs and looking like "WTF" and ends with dolphins riding alongside the escape vessel-- the film is saying: THESE are the creatures we should be concerned with, the creatures we have and need to protect-- and we should stop mucking about with creatures that died off tens of millions of years ago.
Let Freedom Explode Loudly All Night
Most of my post-Independence Day was triumphant and celebratory: I returned to full force on the pickleball court, despite my sketchy hamstring and I celebrated my recovery with some beer and tequila at my friend's pool . . . but this celebration was interrupted by a phone call from Ian-- he found our dog panting and shaking in the bathroom and thought she was very sick, so I drove home to check her out but she was simply hiding from the bombs-- there's been fireworks goign off for days and she's losing her mind because of this-- she's getting more anxious about loud noises and she gets older-- and so am I -- last night I woke with a start and asked my wife who was knocking at our bedroom door, which is a scary thing to ask someone who is currently dreaming-- but it was just more fucking fireworks . . . maybe we should celebrate Independence Day with voter registration or a historical reenactment of the adoption of the Declaration of Independence . . . something less loud and more dog-friendly.
Happy Fourth, Goldie Hawn!
The Sugarland Express, Steven Spielberg's theatrical directorial debut, is a fine film to watch on the Fourth of July-- as the movie seems to be set on July 3rd or 4th (because of the parade in Rodrigo) but the actual events that inspired the film did NOT happen during July . . . and the true story is equally as bizarre and compelling as the film: the 1969 kidnapping of Texas State Trooper Kenneth Crone by Robert and Ila Fae Dent . . . the Dents, on the run with the mission to reclaim their child from foster care, led police on a dramatic chase across Texa-- and while Robert Dent is shot to death by an FBI agent and a local Sheriff, Ila Fae Dent did her time and actually regained custody of her child.
Father of the Week!
Tuesday, I had to bring my son Alex a pair of pants so he could participate in his engineering lab (no shorts allowed! Alex said another student who wore shorts had to change into snow pants-- with suspenders-- that was all he had in his car) and today Alex needed me to print out his formula sheet for his fluid dynamics exam and drive it over to him because all the libraries are closed for July 4th weekend and he had no access to a printer-- good thing he goes to Rutgers and lives five minutes away . . . and the moral of the story is: it's great when your kids make you feel needed and you can actually solve the problem quickly and easilty, like when they were little tykes and they needed help getting something off a high shelf or needed a hand with some simple homework-- you rarely get to do that for adult sized children, their problems are usually more in the existential and financial and philosophical vein and much harder to solve in a jiffy.
Sometimes Your (Rather Large) Kid Needs a Pair of Pants
I thought my days of dropping off a fresh pair of pants for a child at school were long over, but my 21-year-old son Alex called me yesterday from Rutgers-Busch Campus and said he wasn't allowed into his engineering lab while wearing shorts, and so I procured a pair of pants from Ian, drove them over to engineering building, tossed them out the car window to him him in the parking lot, and recognized that this parenting shit is probably never going to end.
Trust No One . . . Especially Dave
My new episode of We Defy Augury: "Trust No One: Unreliable Narration in Life and Art" is (loosely) inspired by the novels of Jim Thompson and the Richard Russo essay "In Defense of Omniscience"-- and there is also a film quiz . . . see how you fare.
Jersey's Finest
Good thing it's summer (and I'm not working) because Bruce Springsteen just released "Tracks II: The Lost Albums," which includes 83 songs and 5 hours and 20 minutes of "new" Bruce music—unreleased tracks from 1983 to 2018... I've listened to some, and it seems to be high-quality material, not just a bunch of outtakes and B-sides... I'm especially impressed by the "Philadelphia Sessions"—which Bruce recorded in the early 1990s, after the success of his song "Streets of Philadelphia"—these tracks feature drum loops and synthesizer washes and sound much more modern than most Bruce songs—"Blind Spot" is particularly good... anyway, I hear there are more interesting songs deeper in, so I will slowly dig through and enjoy this treasure trove from the Boss.
To Live and Die in the 80s (wearing very tight blue jeans) in L.A.
My wife and I watched To Live and Die in L.A. last night — it's streaming for free on Amazon Prime and I don't know how we missed this one in the theater; it's from 1985! — directed by William Friedkin (who also directed The French Connection and The Exorcist) it's a fast-paced noir thriller that begins with a rogue U.S. Secret Service agent going on a reckless, unsanctioned mission; Richard Chance — played by a young William Petersen of later CSI fame — lives up to his name, he's a base jumper who drinks and smokes constantly and instead of a G-man suit, he wears a football jersey, a scarf, and tight jeans-- very Don Johnson-- and between all the cigarettes, booze, and tight jeans, I don't know how he chases down the bad guys, but he does; right at the start, a master counterfeiter, played by a very young and unwrinkled Willem Dafoe, kills Chance's partner (with only three days left to retirement! so classic) and Chance pulls his new partner into a seedy underworld of morally bankrupt behavior that may or may not result in justice-- it’s worth watching this film for the credits font and the 80s fashion alone — and the excellent soundtrack by Wang Chung-- but there’s also an epic car chase that actually makes sense in terms of plot, character, and setting . . . I don't know how they pulled off this chase without digital effects — it's masterful; anyway, Roger Ebert gave this film four stars, and it deserves them, it’s cocaine-fueled, artsy violence in a grittier, seedier L.A. that doesn't exist anymore-- every scene is frenetic and full of interesting extras and you’ll half-recognize nearly every main actor, including Jane Leeves (she was "the virgin" in Seinfeld, but she's certainly not that in this film) but be warned — there's some hardcore 80s violence, nudity, profanity, and drinking of Miller High Life.
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