There's nothing better than playing some indoor pickleball (and crushing all opponents) and then, when you get home-- hangry and tired, before you assemble some kind of primitive lunch, the kind of shitty lunch you make while shoving other random food in your mouth while making it, your wife calls you and says she bought a sandwich to split from a highly recommended place up the road in South Boundbrook called Joe's Meat Market . . . so I sat on the couch (and ate an ice pop) and waited patiently until she got home and it was worth the wait: it was the best breaded chicken cutlet, mozzarella, roasted red pepper sub I've ever had, and I can't wait to try their other food.
The Heat Was Hot, The Power Was Not
Last night, I was enjoying our A/C, watching the Argentina vs. Cabo Verde World Cup battle, when—suddenly—the sky turned black, and the winds kicked up, and we heard a loud crash on our front porch—like a car hit our house—and this was the result of the wind lifting a very heavy, very solid metal chair, bashing it against our aluminum siding, and then yanking the chair down the front porch steps . . . soon after that, our block lost power—there were trees down all over town, and one had pulled down a wire on Second Ave, up the block from our house—and a transformer on the North Side (Walter Ave) exploded . . . I watched the end of the game on someone's phone at my neighbor's house while firetrucks and police blocked off streets and assessed the damage; the scary thing was that without A/C our house got hot fast, even though it was raining and the sun was down, but the humidity works fast—and it made me realize just how attached and dependent we are to the power grid (and this morning I started Googling the most temperate places in the U.S.—places where you need the least heating and cooling . . . unfortunately, many of them are in California, and I'm not moving that far away, but it seems the Blue Ridge Mountains are a closer alternative) but PSE&G was on the ball last night, and we had consistent power by 11 PM—so we didn't lose any food in our refrigerator, and we were able to get a good night's sleep.
DSW? I Thought We Were Going to Lunch!
My wife and I found ourselves in Woodbridge today-- we were driving Ian's girlfriend home-- and so we decided to grab some lunch out of our normal vicinity: first we tried the highly rated Siwa Thai, but when we walked in, we noticed their AC wasn't working so after sitting for ten seconds, we did an about face and then headed to Blue Habanero in nearby Perth Amboy-- also highly rated AND recommended by Ian's girlfriend-- and while the food was great and the portions were huge, they also barely had any AC (but by this time we were hungry and simply sweated it out) and during lunch my wife sprung this idea upon me: let's go up the road a bit to DSW . . . I need sneakers and I was like, "I wish you told me this because I also need running shoes but I'm not wearing socks," and she was like, "I don't have socks either, we could buy some" and I really did not want to take this detour to the Designer Shoe Warehouse-- it was so fucking hot out and I hate putting socks on when my feet are sweating, and it would that much worse to put them on in public, in a DSW-- but then I remembered that we had boxed up quite a bit of our lunch and I was like: "we can't leave the food in the car, it's 102 degrees" and that was enough justification NOT to go to DSW.
It's Very Hot and Dry, So-- in the Name of Liberty-- Let's Shoot Off Some Very Loud Incendiary Devices
It's really fucking hot out, like actually hotter than the kind of heat that I normally complain about, but our neighbors are still having their annual July 4th BBQ-- on July 2nd, to coincide with the town fireworks, and our town is still shooting off their annual July 4th Fireworks (on July 2nd?) so at some point I'm going to brave this heat and drink a beer and play some cornhole-- and though it is an inferno outside, it's fairly pleasant in our house-- probably due to the awesome ceiling fan that I REINSTALLED today (with the help of my lovely wife) so that the connection plate is now perfectly flush with the ceiling, eliminating the slight wobble which I noticed yesterday (and remedied with two folded up piece of paper-- practical but not particularly classy) and I also tightened the fail-safe wire loop so that even if the screws fail, the fan housing will not crash down on anyone's head (unless you're like six foot five, sorry Whit).
Big Day, Already (Dave Finishes a Book, Installs a Ceiling Fan, and Prepares to Be a Soccer Fan)
I woke up early this morning and finished a massive tome (900-plus pages) I've been reading for two years: Reaganland: America's Right Turn (1976-1980) . . . this is the final installment in historian Rick Perlstein's series on the rise of the American conservative movement and while the books are exhaustive (and exhausting) they do remind you that there's nothing new under the sun— the playbook was the same: savvy conservative politicians harnessed anxieties about women and race and sexuality and crime and the lack of Christianity and family values in America . . . and the same tropes: scandals such as Hunter Biden and Billy Carter; optimism (make America great again!) instead of tightening your belt (and wearing a sweater) and absurdities—Carter's killer rabbit!-- and pretty much everything Reagan said about pollution (trees cause more pollution than automobiles?) and nuclear weapons (nuclear proliferation is none of our business? all the waste in a year from a nuclear power plant can be stored under a desk?) but despite Reagan's lack of policy and factual knowledge, Carter was no match for "the Teflon President," who could really deliver a speech and galvanize the corporate elites, the Southern whites, the evangelical Christians, and generally disaffected voters who were sick of inflation, high gas prices, the hostage crisis, and how the counterculture movement was bleeding into the suburbs . . . and not only did I finish that epic history, but I also finished the third Thursday Murder Club Mystery (The Bullet That Missed) and I successfully installed a ceiling fan—alone! -- which is a crazy procedure; for a decent amount of time the fan housing and blades were hanging from a thin metal cable while I connected all the electrical wires and the remote receiver . . . but, unlike my plumbing debacle, the fan and the light now work like a charm (and neither leaks water) and really, my day has just started . . . now I'm off to play pickleball, then I'm going to acupuncture, and then we're headed out to watch the USA play Bosnia AND Herzegovina—it seems ridiculous that they have to play two countries at the same time.
Not That Strong a Swimmer
I just did some laps in the pool at the YMCA, and while I wouldn't call myself a strong swimmer, I'm certainly a smooth swimmer—but I certainly don't push myself to the limit; meanwhile, the dude in the lane next to me was the worst swimmer I have ever seen swimming laps in the big pool: he moved through the water like a broken blender, generating an incredible succession of splashes and froth . . . frankly, I don't know how he kept his body above water, his legs were dangling, dragging, and fairly useless (he was definitely not swimming downhill) and his arms flailed with violence and consistentency that would have worn a lesser man out . . . so while his swimming was slow, intolerable, and annoying, he WAS getting an incredible workout trying not to drown.
First True Day of Summer (for Dave)
Today was the first real day of summer for me—a weekday when everyone else is working, and I have no obligations, so I can do shit during off-peak hours: I woke up when I wanted to wake up (5:50 AM) and worked on my podcast, then I turned off the electricity breaker and started to install our new ceiling fan, but when I opened the package, I realized that my wife ordered the wrong fan (plastic blades, not wood . . . super cheesy) and so I went to Wal-Mart and returned aforementioned ceiling fan at 10:00 AM . . . no line at customer service; I was in and out and playing pickleball at Ace by 10:15 AM—and over the past two days I've really established myself with the good younger players that play in the middle of the day (do they work?) which isn't easy for an old man, but now they know that looks can be deceiving—and then I watched Brazil defeat Japan (and took a nap at halftime) and after that I went to the Liquor Cave, before rush hour . . . when that two-mile drive becomes impossible to navigate (although it's probably easier now that school is out) and on my way home I asked Google why you can't serve beer over ice and it's because the ice melts rapidly and the coarse surface makes the beer release all it's carbonation, so it gets watered down and goes flat-- so then I had an idea for a plastic frozen stick that goes into beer to chill it but luckily these things already exist, so I don't have to invent them and market them (has anyone used one?) and now I'm going to unload the dishwasher and then try to relax a little, as it's been a hectic day.
Jaws + Parks and Rec = A+ TV Show
Widow's Bay, a show that perfectly balances horror and comedy, follows the struggles of Mayor Tom Loftis (Matthew Rhys) as he tries to draw more tourists to an isolated New England island, which has Martha's Vineyard-type potential (fuck Cape Cod) if only the place wasn't horribly and historically cursed—and this was originally a spec script by Katy Dippold for Parks and Rec, but she developed it into this fantastic series (but you can still feel the Parks and Rec influence) which made my wife and I both laugh hysterically and jump out of our seats—ten rope fire safety ladders out of ten.
More My Speed
Although my plumbing skills are abysmal-- as is fitting and proper for an English teacher—I am capable of measuring, drilling, and screwing (even if I don't measure all that much, it's the motion of the driver, not the size of the screw . . . being an English teacher also makes me capable of recognizing and utilizing crass wordplay and innuendo) and so though I couldn't install the pipework and fixtures properly in our new sink and vanity, I WAS able to affix the towel rack (and I am glad they gave me two tiny Allen head tightening screws; I didn't understand why at first, but my wife said it was probably in case you lost one and then on my first attempt, the screw slipped out of my hand and slid down the drain—lost forever—so for my second attempt, I inserted the screw BEFORE I entered the bathroom with the ring and then tightened it with the tiny Allen wrench . . . even when it's easier, it's never easy).
Zman Knows Me Too Well (Fuck You Zman)
My buddy Whitney (a.k.a. Les Coole) and his co-host Penny Baker do a fantastic radio show on Tuesday nights on WODU, and last Tuesday they let the fans take over the playlist (with Penny Baker's approval, of course) and so I submitted a mini-theme-: three songs that share a mystery common denominator . . . my original three songs were "Love the One You're With" by Stephen Stills, "Where It's At" by Beck, and "Shake It Up" by The Cars-- but Whitney and Penny substituted Violent Femmes "Kiss Off" for "Love the One You're With"-- which was probably too classic rock for the show . . . anyway, fucking Zman guessed my mini-them ONE song in—so annoying—but he said he just "thought like an English teacher" and moments into "Where It's At" he guessed "songs that end in prepositions," which was correct- even though technically in the song "Kiss Off," off operates as an adverbial particle that modifies how you should kiss and it's the same grammatical situation with "Shake It Up" . . . but "Where It's At" and "Love the One You're With" truly end with prepositions functioning as prepositions- so the moral here is that the next time I submit a mini-theme, I'm NOT going to think like an English teacher, I'm going to think like a patent lawyer.
The Alarm is Off
Another school year in the books: we loaded the kids on the bus, I cleaned up my room, we chatted in the English office, I ran over to the vo-tech to pick up my son Ian's OSHA card, my friend and fellow English teacher Stacey did a fantastic and very teacherly graduation speech (41 minutes in) while I played some pickleball—because the unfortunate thing about being a graduation speaker is that you have to attend graduation—then I went to lunch with my wife (Tacoria) and took a nap . . . and while we do have a meeting tomorrow and grade sign-out (and a pool party) I don't have to set my alarm until next September.
I Do Need to Cut Down on My Pizza Intake . . .
The women in the English Department like to do things communally, especially get coffee from WaWa and pay too much for food delivery . . . and while I'll sometimes take part in these cooperative ventures-- especially coffee runs: I don't mind getting coffee for one or two people (although I prefer Rachel to Stacey, as Stacey's coffee order is always very complicated) but I'm more every-man-for-himself when it comes to getting food and I REFUSE to ever take part in overpriced food delivery . . . so today when I had to run an errand, I stopped by Pasquale's and got a slice of grandma pepperoni and a slice of mushroom pizza and then, when I went into the English office to relax and eat my food, I got bullied into sharing a sliver of each slice with Cunningham and Denise (because I had the audacity to go and buy food all by myself . . . the gall).
Pain: It Hurts
I went to the dermatologist today, and she used a liquid nitrogen spray to freeze off some actinic keratosis on my nose and the top of my head-- this was moderately painful-- but slightly less painful than earlier in the day, when Kyle, a powerful, left-handed, lanky youngster, clobbered me in the side of the face with a pickleball.
Crunchy
My wife makes her own granola (and now I'm spoiled: it's much more delicious than store-bought).
Happy Father's Day! Half Day?
Happy Father's Day to all the fathers out there . . . but honestly, considering how easy it is to become a dad-- I won't get into the details of THAT-- but there's no pushing a ten-pound baby out of your womb, no breastfeeding, no perimenopause, no pelvic floor weakness, no postpartum depression, no hemorrhoids, no cesarean section, and no bowel issues-- so maybe dads shouldn't get an entire day, maybe just a half-day?
Deatz Analyzes the Beats!
If you're looking for some music recs, my buddy Deatz has started a zine-like blog called Deatz Beats, where he posts playlists and oddball, musically adjacent anecdotes-- he's into a wide variety of music, but there's a lot of punk, electronic, experimental, and alternative stuff (and music for when you're full of rage).
The Method
At my age and fitness level, the rules of the game seem to be: no impact sports (pickleball, basketball, soccer, tennis) two days in a row-- and try not to play pickleball for much more than two hours-- and then right after playing an impact sport, go swimming at the YMCA in the colder, full-length competition pool-- just a few laps and some stretching and then a hot shower . . . and then you can actually walk into New Brunswick for the USA vs. Australia World Cup game and not look like a limping geezer.
Addendum: the method did NOT work today; I got a hamstring cramp at Destination Dogs while watching the game . . . not incapacitating, but maybe I shouldn't always swim after impact sports.
This is Thriller Time
It's nearly summer, and so I'm taking a break from Robert Caro's twelve-hundred-page bio of Robert Moses, The Power Broker, and consuming some thrillers . . . I recently finished The Dry, by Jane Harper, a grim, tautly written, well-paced murder mystery in a rural Australian town full of Bogans (Aussie rednecks) and regret, and now I'm reading the second Thursday Murder Club book, The Man Who Died Twice, and then I've got Anthony Horowitz's sixth Hawthorne installment, "A Deadly Episode," waiting for me on hold at the library . . . so I'm turning pages, happy and intrigued, and learning absolutely nothing.
Jersey's Finest
Today was the best possible weather-- sunny and dry and 78 degrees-- and I know other parts of the country experience this regularly (fuck you, San Diego) but for Jersey, it was a slice of heaven . . . I biked over to Buccleuch Park for some pickleball, biked home to a lovely ravioli dinner, and because it was so dry, despite all the exercise, my shoes and feet didn't reek.
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