Playing cornhole without beer feels a bit childish-- especially if you're playing with other adults-- you quickly realize that you're just tossing around beanbags in public (we learned this lesson at the Stress Factory, the local comedy club . . . they have cornhole outside and you can play while you wait to get in, and while the hostess insisted we'd be able to get beer out there while we waited, that was patently false . . . cornhole was fun at first, but then, without beer, the realization dawned on us what we were doing; at least with horseshoes, if you don't pay attention, you can get a concussion).
This past weekend, I was up at 3 AM three nights in a row. Each night was a different adventure. While it makes for good content, this is not a streak I want to continue.
3 am Adventure #1 -- Friday Night
Friday night, my son Alex was over on Busch Campus at Rutgers with his fellow members of the Highland Park Rocket Propulsion Lab. They got some kind of a grant and use the Rutgers facilities: the 3-D printer and the modeling software and the soldering equipment. These are really smart kids (who also play tennis-- that's how Alex met them). And something went wrong with Arduino mini (a piece of electronic equipment). The wires weren't grounded and they fried the circuit board.
So when Catherine and I got home from dinner with friends at 11 PM, Alex wasn't home yet. We texted and he said that they were trying to fix the circuit board and needed to stay later.
I reminded him that he had Model UN at 8 am at Franklin High School. He had to be up at 7 am. Then I fell asleep on the couch. I woke up at 2:30 am. Alex had not come in. I texted him. Things were not going well. He said they might not get done until 4 or 5 in the morning.
This was absurd. I told him he needed some sleep before his Model UN event and drove over to Busch Campus to find him. It wasn't easy. He had to run down the road to flag down the van. And-- though we didn't know it at the time-- we were near the spot where a Rutgers employee had been bitten by a coyote! Just one night previous (at 4 am).
I was so sleepy I missed the exit for Highland Park. Alex managed to get up and put on his coat and tie for Model UN the next morning. Impressive.
3 am Adventure #2 -- Saturday Night
Saturday afternoon, I attended the Rutgers/Ohio State game with my buddy Alec. We drank some beer before the game and then we drank some beer during the game. Then when I got home from the game I ate some of my wife's delicious Thai coconut curry chicken soup (and drank another beer). A little bit later I made a rash decision and decided to have ice cream, with a healthy dollop of whipped cream on top. This is not a combination of food my stomach can handle.
So this one was my fault. I was up at 3 am Saturday night with gas. I fell back to sleep, but couldn't really sleep late because of my son's Model UN event.
3 am Adventure 3# -- Sunday Night
Sunday afternoon, I took my son Alex to the Edison skate park. I brought the dog, so I could walk her while Alex skated. The adjacent fields were covered with goose poop and Lola ingested some. Yuck.
At three in the morning Sunday night (Monday morning?) we heard that distinctive retching sound of a vomiting dog. Lola was puking on the landing at the top of the stairs. Pretty minimal. Probably because of the goose poop. I got her outside and Catherine cleaned up the mess. We put down a towel in case she threw up again.
Thirty minutes later, she did just that. It was just a tiny bit, and she did it on the towel. I waited for a moment, to see if she was going to throw up more (since she was doing it on the towel). Catherine rushed by me, her thought being "get the dog outside." In her mad rush in the darkness, she flung her arm at my face. Her fingernail cut the inside of my nostril. Ouch! She drew blood!
Ian and Alex slept through all of this.
The next morning, I tried to find the spot where Lola defecated in the yard at 3 am. I hate leaving dog poop in the yard, because it always comes back to haunt you. I couldn't find the poop-- because I had stepped in it. I took off my clogs and left them outside.
Then, on the way back from walking her to the park, I tried to find the remainder of the poop and I stepped in it again. Luckily, we got some rain so it was easy to wipe my shoes clean on the wet grass.
During the school day, I learned that a cut inside your nostril really hurts. It hurts when you sniffle, it hurts when you rub your nose, and it especially hurts when you eat spicy food (like the leftover Thai coconut chicken soup that I had for lunch).
Anyway, I am hoping to end this streak tonight. Wish me luck.
For the second winter break in a row, my parents were nice enough to take the kids to Florida, giving Catherine, the dog and I the chance to take a trip of our own.
Last year we headed north to New Paltz and this year our destination is south: Staunton, Virginia, a town in the valley between George Washington/Thomas Jefferson National Forests and Shenandoah National Park.
The drive was brutal. I thought we were headed out to the country, but apparently, I-81 is a total two-lane shitshow, especially on a Friday when people are traveling. We left at 10 AM, thinking we would avoid rush hour. Never again. Six hours of bumper to bumper traffic. Lola was in the back, and I was impressed that she didn't puke, but she was definitely dazed from the stop and go (as was I). I thought it would be more like the drive to Vermont: the farther you drive, the more the Jersey/New York traffic fades and the forests begin, but it turned out to be like the drive to Cape Cod: steady traffic and then more traffic (but add lots and lots of trucks, and very narrow lanes and abundant construction). This road is a sore spot among the folks that live out here. It needs to be three lanes.
Staunton-- or should I say "Stanton" . . . we found out that you pronounce it without the "u"-- is a beautifully preserved smallish mountain town (24,000). We are staying in an Airbnb on the top of one of the hills above downtown. It's a beautiful place with fantastic views, but when you are at the top of the hill and you walk to town (or Gypsy Hill Park) then you've got to get back UP the hill on your way home. It's fine to walk up after a few beers, but as my wife remarked, "I wouldn't want to walk this drunk!"
The first night in town we wandered about and ate at the Byers Street Bistro. Good place. I tried to start on my New Year's Resolution early (eat less meat) and so I had the fried green tomato sandwich. Awesome. We had Brussell sprouts for an appetizer, and they were also delicious, but not vegetarian. Lots of bacon! Oh well . . . I'm trying to eat less meat, not no meat at all.
Then we went to Redbeards Brewing Company, one of the many, microbreweries in the area. The beer was kind of nuts-- Catherine had to pour out her bourbon barrel-aged amber with a bunch of stuff in it. Luckily, it was sixty degrees and we were sitting outside, so her beer was easy to dispose of. The moral here: when there are too many words in a beer description, don't order it!
Staunton is a boutique town. There's a restored historic train station-- a working train station with a train to Richmond-- and there are British tourists wandering around. It is an incredibly scenic place. There was a long wait at the restaurant in the train station and Catherine overheard a British family discussing the queue. The dad said, sincerely: "This is what we could do, during the wait, to make it enjoyable . . . we could walk about town, conversing with each other and making the time pass . . ."
And then the mom chimed in, "And we could look at the many Christmas lighting displays!"
And the children heard this and did not murder their parents. The Brits are so civilized.
Interesting fact: we could have taken a train from Trenton to Staunton. Seven hours and twelve minutes. Longer than the car ride, but less treacherous. It would have been tough with the dog and all but it's an interesting option for those of you who are dogless and want to see this place. It's certainly a walking town and you could rent bikes or something to get farther afield.
Though we were without the kids, Lola more than picked up the slack. She was up most of the night, pacing and carsick. She finally vomited a bit at 3 AM. Catherine went and slept in the downstairs bedroom. I consoled Lola until she fell asleep. I think she was overwhelmed from all the new smells in the house-- it's a dog-friendly Airbnb, and that combined with the ride screwed her up.
Tomorrow's post-- Day 2-- will be much more action-packed.
I'm having a hard time reconciling what I remember about Aleppo and what I have been reading about the city recently; an article in The Week called "Life Under the Caliphate" describes the some of the things happening in the region, which is mainly under control of ISIS:
1) unIslamic activities-- smoking, listening to music, wearing hair gel-- are punished by flogging, execution, and amputation;
2) there is video footage of gay men being thrown off tall buildings to their deaths;
3) Jews and Christians are given the choice to convert or die;
4) public executions and floggings happen nearly every day;
5) an ISIS pamphlet from Aleppo lists some crimes and punishments . . . drinking alcohol is 80 lashes, as is slander, spying for infidels and renouncing Islam both result in death;
6) women may marry at age 9 and should be married by age 16, and they must wear two heavy robes to conceal their figure . . .
and so I went back to the email updates that I sent from when I lived in Syria (200-2003) and looked at some of my recollections from our various trips to the city and surrounding regions;
1) we wandered through the Dead Cities, abandoned Byzantine olive-oil towns in the hills just outside of the city;
2) we watched Embassy folk collect ancient pottery shards at various tells and middens;
3) we stayed at the Baron Hotel-- the spooky but notable spot where Agathie Christie wrote "Murder on the Orient Express"-- drinking beer at the bar is right out of The Shining (but apparently, the place is closed down now):
4) our Syrian friend Yara told us tales of covered women in Aleppo that openly took lesbian lovers and I wrote a treatment for an erotic Syrian film:
the taciturn husband warns his wife not to leave the house for any reason, and then goes to play backgammon with his friends . . . a woman covered in black from head to toe shows up at the door, and the lady of the house invites her in fortea . . . she lifts her veil and gives her host a long concupiscent look . . . soon enough she’s shedding her robe, and there’s nothing underneath . . . 5) we ate-- notably at the Beit Sissi-- drank, wandered the city and the region, were mobbed by Syrian children who treated us like rock stars, took tours with our favorite guide in the Middle East-- Jihad-- and generally felt like we were on vacation . . . Aleppo always seemed a little less oppressive and a little more Western than Damascus, a little more like Turkey . . . but apparently those days are gone, and I'm having a hard time wrapping my head around this (I also read that ISIS beheaded the antiquities expert for Palmyra-- the spectacular Roman city in the Syrian desert-- because he refused to reveal where valuable artifacts were hidden . . . ISIS considers preserving ancient artifacts "akin to idol worship and punishable by death" and when they say that, apparently they aren't kidding . . . if you've got a strong stomach, you can watch ISIS sponsored beheadings all day on the internet, even some done by children . . . this really diminishes my concern over my basement beer fridge, which has lost it's ability to chill beer-- though the freezer is still fully operational-- at first I thought it was a crisis, but then I read about this stuff, and now it doesn't seem all that significant).
We had a heated musical debate in the English office Wednesday, and it wasn't typical (Beatles vs. Stones) or elitist (which Radiohead album is the best?) or hip (I'm too old to make an allusion here) and I'm happy to say I precipitated the discussion, first by bringing up a new singer I like (Courtney Barnett) and then comparing her to Sheryl Crow, and then revealing that while I was cooking the night before, I drank too much beer while listening to Sheryl Crow, because her music-- a guilty pleasure of mine-- always makes me feel a bit giddy . . . one of the younger teachers enjoyed the image of me bopping around the kitchen, slightly tipsy, singing "Soak Up the Sun" (although she wished I was drinking a Leinenkugel Summer Shandy instead of beer) and I was able to fully satisfy the role-reversal because I was also texting my wife and reminding her that dinner would be ready soon and she needed to get home . . . anyway this led to an odd debate where the older folks in the office were lauding the merits of Sheryl Crow, and Kristen the youngster was defending Maroon 5 . . . I'm not sure why she chose to pit Maroon 5 against Sheryl Crow, but it resulted in everyone pulling up songs on their phones and Chromebooks and playing them at once (especially "Move Like Jagger," which even Kristen detests) and while we couldn't convince her that Maroon 5 was awful (she kept defending these hypothetical and unnamed deep tracks . . . "the ones they never play on the radio") everyone else united in the defense of Sheryl Crow, and I think it comes down to this: neither one is Led Zeppelin, but Sheryl Crow has more good songs that Maroon 5, and less awful songs than Maroon 5, and it's way more fun to drink beer and cook while listening to The Very Best of Sheryl Crow(which doesn't even have Steve McQueen on it) but Kristen will never understand this because she associates Sheryl Crow with her mom and light FM, not Lilith Fair.
My wife is an excellent cook-- creative, efficient, and unflappable. Her skills are crucial in the fall, when our house is extraordinarily busy. She's usually consumed by teaching elementary school math and science, running the community garden, and directing the school garden club. The boys and I are consumed by soccer. Despite these hurdles, she whips up meal after meal, day after day-- often without any help. This fall she worked around four soccer schedules: Alex played JV soccer, Ian played middle school soccer and for a club team, and I coached the middle school team and the in-town travel team. She's also the go-to person for help with school work (I'm more of a school work consultant, good for specific questions but not really capable of sustained service). Catherine times our family dinners around games, practices, and buses. She's the household MVP, keeping us full and healthy. We rarely ordered pizza.
Years ago, at the end of a similarly busy soccer season, Catherine went on a two-week cooking strike. She decided there was a lack of appreciation for all the planning, shopping, prepping and cooking she had been doing. It was a difficult period. The scab labor was unskilled, surly, and mainly underage. Negotiations were tense. Meals were lame. We survived but did not thrive. The boys and I learned our lesson: it is difficult to plan and serve delicious healthy meals all week. Though we learned our lesson, we didn't learn how to actually pull it off.
Last year when the season ended, we preempted any sort of labor dispute by announcing that we would do the cooking and dinner clean-up for a week. The end of the season coincides with Catherine's birthday, so not only did we avoid a cooking strike but we also provided her with a birthday gift. That's a win-win.
This year for Catherine's birthday, I upped the ante. Not only would I cook for a week, but I would also plan the menu and do the shopping. At the grocery store. Now I know-- truly know-- what it takes to cook various, creative, delicious and healthy meals for a week. It takes the planning skills of Hannibal, the scope and courage of Alexander the Great, and the confidence of Napoleon. And running a campaign like this is stressful, and the best way to relieve stress while you cook dinner is to imbibe. So you'll also need the liver of Winston Churchill.
Tuesday: leftovers . . . everyone had something planned
Wednesday: grilled shrimp, snap peas, and thin-sliced crispy potatoes
Thursday: grilled chicken, broccoli and rice
Friday: out to dinner . . . yes!
The second step was the hardest (behind butterflying, pounding, and marinating the chicken breasts . . . so gross). The second step was to go to the real grocery store . . . the big ShopRite in Edison. We have a small Stop & Shop in town which I can handle-- I know where things are and there isn't a big selection, but the big ShopRite in Edison is much cheaper than the Stop & Shop in town. Catherine gave me an out on this one: she said I could do the week's shopping at the smaller, more familiar store, but I decided it was time to man-up. If I was going to do it, I was going to really do it. She told me that there were a couple of products that wouldn't be in the main store. They would be located somewhere called "the annex." The "annex" was connected to the main store by a passageway akin to King's Crossing Platform 9 ¾. I would have to sprint towards an aisle of cat food and hope for the best.
There was a point during my shopping trip when I nearly broke down and quit. I almost shed tears. Seriously. You'd cry too. The store was huge, disorganized, and there were too many choices. I was in there forever, wandering. I actually found the annex (and bought some facial tissues . . . but I never found the 9-volt batteries). And even after all that time in the store, I still had to stop at the Garden Farm Market on my way home for produce because I couldn't find anything decent at ShopRite.
Why was it taking so fucking long to buy some basic shit? Why are food stores insane?
The new episode of Freakonomics tackles this question. In it, business Professor Michael Roberto makes a pitch:
ROBERTO: “I’d like to open a new kind of grocery store. We’re not going to have any branded items. It’s all going to be private label. We’re going to have no television advertising and no social media whatsoever. We’re never going to have anything on sale. We’re not going to accept coupons. We’ll have no loyalty card. We won’t have a circular that appears in the Sunday newspaper. We’ll have no self-checkout. We won’t have wide aisles or big parking lots. Would you invest in my company?”
This store sounds like a train-wreck. But it turns out that this is a successful business. It's a description of Trader Joe's.
I highly recommend "Should America be Run by . . . Trader Joe's?" It's Freakonomics at its best. The topic sounds boring: grocery stores. But there's a compelling narrative, and an explanation of how you can succeed in a low margin, super-competitive, rather bland business. Trader Joe's is killing it in terms of sales per square foot. How the fuck do they do it?
There are no sales, no discounts, no Whole Foods/Amazon algorithmic data tracking. When you enter the door, you've joined the club. It's kind of fun. Sometimes there's free coffee. There are lots of employees and they are instructed to drop everything and help you if you need help. The last time we were there, my wife couldn't find blue cheese. An employee told my wife that she would go in the back and find the blue cheese for her, and then she told my wife to keep shopping and I'll find you and give you the blue cheese. Brilliant. My wife continued to shop and because the store is small, with no annex, the employee was able to easily find my wife and give her the blue cheese.
During my ShopRite shopping epic, I wandered the meat section at for fifteen minutes, looking for ground pork. I was obviously bewildered. I stumbled on someone who might have been the butcher and asked him if they had ground pork. He said, "Nope. None of that today." Do they ever have ground pork? Could he go in the back and get some? Could he grind some for me? I have no clue and I didn't ask. He didn't offer any more information. I bought some ground turkey instead.
Trader Joe's offers a limited selection of each product and they may switch out a product at any time-- although they always have the staples-- but because the food is good and because you haven't worn yourself out looking for things, when the product you want isn't there, you might actually try something new. The store encourages experimentation. And it's small enough to browse but large enough to have everything you need (especially if it's a branch that sells alcohol). They have three kinds of salsa instead of seventy kinds. And they don't cater to everyone. There's an ethnic bent to the food and if you don't like it, you can shop elsewhere. I've only been inside a Trader Joe's once, and I was slightly overwhelmed-- but I get slightly overwhelmed when I enter any new place, especially when people are frantically buying things . . . it's because I vividly imagine the environmental disaster we are rushing towards. This is more of a "me" problem than a problem with Trader Joe's, and now that I've learned about the store through a podcast, I'm more inclined to go there. Ridiculous, but a little background knowledge goes a long way with me.
Trader Joe's is small on purpose. A typical grocery store carries 35,000 different items. Trader Joe's carries 3000. There aren't that many aisles-- I could walk up and down every single one without suffering a panic attack. And they rush you through the line. No weird interactions where you have to "borrow" the cashier's club card. I don't need to develop that kind of intimacy with someone I just met. If I see them on the street, am I obligated to lend them my umbrella? You don't have a card? Do you want to sign up? Uh . . . maybe? I made that mistake once. There's a Trader Joe's up the road from us now, in North Brunswick. I might go there. On my own. And buy some food. Coming from me, that's a bold statement.
Once I made the menu and purchased all the food, the week went fairly smoothly. Or it appeared smooth from my perspective. I only lost my shit twice. The reason for the smoothness was the lubricant: alcohol. I don't know how people who cook every night don't become raging alcoholics.
My thought process always went something like this: time to cut and pound the chicken! Yuck! Gross! You know what would help with a task this time-consuming and disgusting? Some music. And a beer. It's almost five o'clock.
The only night I didn't drink last week was Tuesday. Leftovers night. Soccer night. I now realize that soccer practice and the fact that my wife does most of the cooking are what stand between me and daily drinking. I know daily drinking doesn't always indicate alcoholism, but it's a step in that direction. And it makes you fat. If I had to cook every meal every night, with only my children to help (who are incredible at disappearing whenever there is work to be done) then my alcohol consumption would triple.
The two nights that I grilled were a double whammy. I normally like to have a beer when I grill . . . it's quiet and relaxing out on the porch; I can look over my sprawling bamboo plants into Donaldson Park. The dog accompanies me and occasionally descends from the porch to chase a squirrel off the property. A warm grill on a cold night, it's the life. But I normally have one beer while I grill. Because my wife is inside managing the other things. The vegetables, the rice, the potatoes, making the salad. whatever. Reminding the kids to finish their homework. Meanwhile, I'm "grilling," which includes a lot of staring into the park and enjoying the fresh air. Occasionally, I'll flip something. But grilling when you are also cooking other things inside the house is not relaxing. It's frantic. And when you're in and out so many times, feeling the pressure to get everything ready at the right time-- doing math, subtracting the minutes that the potatoes will be done from the amount of time it takes to grill shrimp-- then you might grab another beer as you pass by the fridge . . . or another glass of wine. Or another tequila, lime, and seltzer. It's dangerous.
I only lost my cool twice. Once was when I tasked Alex with cooking the snap peas while I finished grilling the shrimp. He decided they were burning-- even though we agreed we wanted them undercooked and crispy-- and he poured a bunch more olive oil in the pan. The peas turned out fine, but sort of drenched in oil. I snapped at him over those snap peas, and I shouldn't have. I told him he should have asked me before doing anything so radical, but then I changed my mind. Chefs get irate in the heat of the moment. I apologized and told him it was good that he took some initiative. Normally when I cook, I ask Catherine a million questions and it drives her crazy. Cooking is experimental, and Alex went for it. Next time he might know better.
The other time I got annoyed is when I was serving dinner and Catherine was fooling around on the computer. The house rule is that you're not supposed to be fooling around on the computer when dinner is served. This house rule is mainly designed for me, so when I chastised her, I had an out-of-body experience. It was like I was her, chastising me.
I'm going to chastise myself now. Time to get off the computer and do the dishes. And miracle of miracles, Catherine has already done the grocery shopping.
Just after Christmas, my parents took our two boys to Florida with them. This afforded me, my wife, and our dog Lola a chance to take a kid-free vacation in the Hudson Valley. My kids got to relax and live it up with their grandparents in Naples. Their trip looked like this:
This is NOT their story. Theirs is a story of balmy weather, good eating, and luxurious living. They had a wonderful time and my wife and I are much obliged to Grammy and Poppy. But it's boring stuff.
This post is about what to do in New Paltz if you're lucky enough to go without your kids. In December. In all sorts of weather. In a tiny cabin. With a dog. And a sick wife. Not only will I regale you with my eloquent prose, but I'm also going to include a visual feast for the eyes: digital photos! I will save the best shot for last: during a chance wildlife encounter, I actually had the wherewithal to snap a picture with my cellular phone. I generally forget that my phone has this capability, but now I'm emboldened. Now I'm a photographer (as well as an expert at indoor plant installations . . . but that's for another post).
Two days after Christmas, we dropped the kids at my parents and headed to New Paltz for our romantic getaway. The dog traveled in the crate, which turned out to be a godsend. Lola normally pukes on longish car-rides-- which is not very romantic. She had recently puked directly into our tennis-ball hopper. The hopper contained at least forty-five tennis balls. Tennis balls have a radius of 1.25 inches, so if you multiply that by 4Ï€ then you get nearly twenty inches of surface area per tennis ball. There was dog vomit on most of the balls, hundreds of inches of vomit covered surface area. Really gross. But in her crate, she lay down and slept. Vomit-free trip. Very romantic.
While we were traveling northbound on Route 1, we saw something kind of sexy on a Sonic sign (if you're into carnivorous bestiality).
This is not the actual sign we saw, but apparently Sonic restaurants across the nation use this obscenely anthropomorphic/cannibalistic haiku as a marketing gimmick. The chicken strips in central Jersey go for $5.99.
Two hours after we imagined a pullet performing at a gentleman's club and then promptly being thrown into the deep fryer, my wife and I arrived at our cozy and dog-friendly Airbnb cabin on the Rail Trail, less than a mile outside of downtown New Paltz. The location couldn't have been better. You could hike the Rail Trail for miles into the wilderness, or you could go the opposite direction and stroll into town, passing through scenically historic Huguenot Street. We unpacked and got ready to begin our (moderately) romantic kid-free vacation. Moderately romantic because-- unfortunately-- my wife was recovering from strep throat and also had a nasty cold (and accompanying cough). Phlegm makes things a little less romantic than lack of phlegm. But despite this, to her credit, she never complained once . . . she just blew her nose a lot.
Our little cabin
It was a beautiful afternoon.We took the dog for a long hike down the Rail Trail and then pondered where we should go for an early dinner.
My wife looked over her handwritten list of great things to do around New Paltz, provided by her friend Kristen. Kristin highly recommended an Irish bar/restaurant called Garvan's. We checked the map and learned that while downtown New Paltz was nearly a mile from our cabin, Garvan's was only a few hundred yards. It was just across the Rail Trail, by the golf course. We were walking distance to a bar! On a vacation without the kids! Pretty sweet. And it had a fantastic happy hour.
Garvan's is in an old building near the club house of the New Paltz Golf Course. It's the most Irish place I've ever been (I've never been to Ireland). The owner-- Garvan-- was very friendly and very Irish. Thus I decided to go with the Guinness. It tasted especially good, which I mentioned to the bartender. It was the end of his shift, so he might have been a little more brusque than normal, but he basically told me that it had better taste good, since Garvan's was one of the few places in the country where Guinness had installed the tap, so the blend of nitrous oxide and CO2 was perfect. Okay, I said, that explains that. What else could I say?
Catherine went with a half and half (also known as a snakebite or a poor man's black velvet). It consists of half cider and half Guinness. We also had the beet and jicama salad, some truffle fries, and some sliders. And some fish and chips. Very Irish and very delicious. The place is awesome, especially for happy hour.
Then we walked back to the cabin, walked the dog, and watched Derry Girls. If you haven't seen it yet, Derry Girls is the perfect show to watch after going to an Irish bar. It's an Irish Netflix comedy; essentially Mean Girls meets Adrian McKinty's "Troubles Trilogy." Catholic school girls (and one boy) amidst the political/religious conflict in Northern Ireland. In the '90's. It's fabulous. (Also, I'm good buddies with Adrian McKinty, so I don't use him in an analogy unless I'm dead serious . . . check the comments).
The bed was a bit soft and there was some coughing and snoring from my wife's side of it, but I had consumed enough Guinness to sleep through the sniffling.
The next morning, I walked the dog down the Rail Trail again (while my wife slept). And I realized that while the location of the cabin was great, the cabin itself was not perfect. It was clean, and it was cheap, but it was cozy. I am a solidly built American male, so when I say the cabin was "cozy," I actually mean claustrophobically small. Normally when we travel, we make some coffee and grab a light breakfast at home, then do something active, eat lunch out, and then-- at least a few times-- we cook dinner back at the ranch. This is the most economical way to do it. Lunch is the cheapest meal to eat out. It's also nice to get back to home base for dinner. You can drink as many local beers as you desire, without worrying about driving under the influence in a new locale. And going out for breakfast is just stupid. Pay for eggs? I can make eggs.
This photo makes the kitchen look bigger than it actually is.
On this trip, our normal schedule got turned on its head. The first morning, I tried to make some coffee, but I kept banging into things in the kitchen. The kitchen was too small to make coffee in. I made an executive decision and told my wife we were going to the Mudd Puddle for coffee and breakfast. She readily agreed. She loves to go out for breakfast but recognizes that going out for breakfast defies all my logic and reason. Lunch food is better than breakfast food. I hate to eat before I do some exercise. If you eat breakfast out, then you're not hungry for lunch. If you eat breakfast out, then you're not ready to snowboard, ski, hike, run, etc. It's completely insane to eat breakfast out. But my claustrophobia (and the lack of children) overrode that decision.
We had been to New Paltz once before-- with the kids-- and remembered that the Mudd Puddle had the best coffee in the universe. While we would never bring the kids to a local coffee shop for breakfast-- the place was too small and slow and local-- we realized that we did not have the kids with us. We could bring our books and read while we drank coffee.
So we went to the Mudd Puddle, got coffee, read our books, and I ate a James Special sandwich, which involves eggs, bourbon-soaked bacon, balsamic caramelized onions, and some kind of homemade bread. It was wild! It was crazy! We were eating food before doing exercise. The sandwich was the best thing ever. I had one every morning for the rest of the trip.
Then the rains came. We beat a hasty retreat back to our tiny cabin. Catherine, still nursing her cold, fell fast asleep. I took the dog for a long walk down the Rail Trail in the rain. It was gross. Hugeonot Street was historical and scenic, but I was full from breakfast. It's hard to appreciate 17th century architecture when your is stomach is full and your socks are damp. I got back and we watched "Bandersnatch" on Netflix. It was fun to choose but the plot was only okay.
It was pouring. The kids were sending us pictures. Ian caught a lizard. They were lounging around the pool. What the fuck were we going to do? The cabin was tiny and it was raining cats and dogs. Once again, it took a moment to realize that we didn't have to amuse the kids. They were in Florida. We took a ride to the Yard Owl Brewery. It was run by James, the guy who owned the Mudd Puddle. The beer had to be good.
It was. But playing Bananagrams in a small craft brewery on the Hudson Valley Rail Trail with my beautiful (but phlegmy) wife was even better than the beer, though. Very relaxing. Time seemed to stand still. And you could blame it on her illness, but I kicked her ass three times in a row (which doesn't usually happen).
The best beer at the Yard Owl was the Chouette D'or. It was divine! Divine I say! And that means a lot, because I hate eating, drinking, and enunciating anything French. The Owlet was also tasty (and very cute). We also had a cheese plate with red onion relish. The red onion relish is to die for. To die for! And it doesn't have a French name.
Catherine also liked the local cider.
The next day the rains let up. We went hiking in the morning on one of the trails in the Mohonk Preserve. We wanted to see the Mohonk Testimonial Gatehouse up close. It was built in 1908 and apparently, it was in a 1985 horror movie called The Stuff.
The Mohonk trails are beautifully maintained, but there is a $15 dollar fee daily fee per hiker. Fuck that! We trespassed.
This was harder than I imagined. Catherine was pretty good, but I kept picking my head up. Also, Steve-- our instructor-- gave me a "man's gun." A 12 gauge. Catherine got to use the 20 gauge. Every time I picked my head up to watch the shot fly, the gun kicked and hit me in the cheek. This hurt like hell. We shot fifty rounds. Forty of them whacked me in the cheek. Ouch. If you look closely at the picture, my cheek is swollen. I would have not made it very far in the Wild West. Clint Eastwood would have shot me while I was rubbing my swollen cheek.
Over the next few days we did more of the same (aside from the shooting). We visited Catherine's favorite cider house: Bad Seed. They had a lot of interesting ciders on tap. There was also a wild double birthday party going on in there. A gaggle of women in their mid-fifties dressed in 70's style clothing. Apparently, this is what you do around New Paltz. Drive out to breweries and cider houses and have a good time. They are spacious places. You can bring kids and dogs. It's a sweet set-up.
Here's a shot of historic Huguenot Street. If you look closely, you can see that I am balder than I think I am. If you look very closely, you'll see my dog's anus.
One morning we drove out to Lake Minnewaska and hiked from Awosting Falls up to the cliffs around the lake. It's a spectacular place.
Here's a shot of Awosting Falls. The falls were really running because of all the rain.
There were a couple of other excellent spots. Arrowood Farm-Brewery is scenic and has great beer. Another big open space that is dog and kid-friendly. The Main Street Bistro serves vegetarian food good enough to make me a vegetarian (at least for a little while, later in the day I couldn't pass up short rib sliders at Garvan's). We had one fancy meal at a place called A Tavola and it was worth it (and I hate expensive restaurants). Then we went to the Denizen Theater and saw a play called "Adaptive Radiation." The play was very experimental, as was the performance space. It's called intimate black box theater and it's cozy. By cozy, I mean claustrophobically small. We were right on top of the four actors; the stage and seats were in a sort of an alley set-up: the seats rose up on either side of the stage, so you were staring at half of the audience (I enjoyed seeing their reactions to all the weirdness in the play). The play was more professional than I thought, and it was also louder than I thought. I also think that theater should happen before dinner. As I pointed out, The Denizen Theater was a cozy space, and I had just drank quite a few Molly IPAs and eaten a heavy meal. There was certainly something brewing in my belly, and a brisk walk in the air would have been more appropriate than sitting very still in a small black room in close proximity to a bunch of strangers. I managed to curtail any flatulence, but it wasn't easy. I had to sit very still.
Because of all this heaping significance, I actually remembered to pull my cell phone out and snap a photo. A few people who saw the photo were curious as to my equipment: I used an LG Harmony phone to take this picture. It costs twenty dollars when you sign up for Cricket. I don't think I had it on the highest resolution. Here is the photo. It's a keeper!
Let me zoom in. This is the stuff of National Geographic.
A vivid memory from a fantastic trip.
We had a smooth ride back to Jersey, hosted a small New Year's Party/game night, and picked up the kids at the Trenton airport on New Year's Day. The kids were fat, happy, and tired. Alex had gained 8 pounds and Ian had put on 5.
Once we got home from New Paltz, the dog seemed pretty depressed but then when Ian walked in the house she went totally bananas. It was like a miniature version of the end of the Odyssey; Odysseus returns home after his twenty-year voyage and his dog Argus sees him and gets so excited that he dies. Lola did not die (nor did she pee in the house) but she was pretty damned excited to have the kids back (and so were Cat and I . . . especially because they had followed our instructions and watched Derry Girls, so we had a lot to discuss).
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.
Yesterday afternoon, I took the dog for a spin around the park adjacent to my house on my new rollerblades and I'm pleased to report that she was very well-behaved-- to celebrate, I stopped back at the dog park for Dog Park Happy Hour . . . while I cannot reveal the name of the park that hosts this Dog Park Happy Hour, for fear that the park rangers might descend upon it, apparently every Friday afternoon (once it gets warm) the dog park crew brings coolers of beer and wine so that they can imbibe while the canines frolic; a retired teacher from Staten Island offered me a Long Trail IPA-- my favorite!-- so I couldn't refuse . . . a few moments later my son Alex called me, asking for a ride home from tennis practice and I told him I couldn't get him for a while, and so he should either start walking or call his mother because someone had given me a beer at the dog park and I hadn't finished it yet; he said: "Dad, they told us in Health Class that you should never accept alcohol from strangers" and I told him that was very good advice (with the exception of Dog Park Happy Hour).
-- our tiny VRBO rental on Line Street (in the young and trendy Upper King Street neighborhood) was not for the faint of heart (or the elderly) because the bed was a floating loft at the top of a skinny spiral staircase . . . when you got out of bed, your only option was to get ONTO the staircase . . .
--Brown's Court Bakery was a block away from our place-- some of the best baked goods I've ever eaten: the pepperoni/jalapeno danish, raspberry danish, bacon and cheddar scone, and the lavender sugar donut are all worth trying;
--Brown Dog Deli in downtown Charleston is a cheap, delicious joint to grab sandwiches and a beer;
-- the Two Sisters walking tour was excellent . . . we had Mary Helen (as the two sisters split the group) and she gave us an entertaining history of the city-- it's a weird place, after the Civil War and the earthquake of 1886, Charleston was somewhat in ruins . . . and because it wasn't wealthy, the city never rebuilt all it's historic homes and buildings-- and then some motivated Southern Ladies started preserving things until the money came into town and now the place is astounding, the homes are all remodeled historically by rich part-timers, there are lush gardens and window boxes and narrow cobblestone streets and brick alleys and iconic porches and patios-- it's like a beautiful version of New Orleans (without the urine and the vomit) and I'm not sure if we've ever put in more miles walking in a city--
--despite the windy weather, everyone told us you have to go to a rooftop bar when you're in Charleston so we went to the Pour Taproom, atop the Hyatt . . . an interesting concept: they have 80 computerized taps and you serve yourself beer and pay by the ounce . . . great views from up there, you can really see the layout of the city;
-- our last meal we went to Leon's again-- great affordable Southern food and local beers and a really great vibe;
--the Led Zeppelin poster in our VRBO rental was of the same nature as all those Nirvana t-shirts that the youngsters are wearing . . . I doubt very much the rental barons of StayDuvet are huge Zep fans but the band logo has become an aesthetic signifier of something young and fun;
--Charleston is a lot fo fun but I've heard it's swampy and mosquito-ridden in the summer and if we stayed there another week, Catherine and I would both be obese . . . it's a great place to visit and it's being rapidly gentrified as we speak . . . it's a Southern version of what happened in Asbury Park-- a prim location stunted by poverty and left in ruins until the money came to gentrify, and now both towns are adult playgrounds, great for a fun weekend, but maybe not somewhere to live full time.
After I go to the pub on Thursdays and drink beer and laugh with my friends, my habit is to come home, make a snack, and watch Cheers . . . a show where actors pretend to drink beer and laugh with their friends in a pub (and Cheers used to air on Thursday night . . . weird, right?)
After I go to the pub on Thursdays and drink beer and laugh with my friends, my habit is to come home, make a snack, and watch Cheers . . . a show where actors pretend to drink beer and laugh with their friends in a pub (and Cheers used to air on Thursday night . . . weird, right?)
Although I love Mr. Pi' sushi, I am starting to have my doubts about the tap beer-- for the second time, after having two Sierra Nevada Hazy Little Things, I was rewarded the next day with a headache and some stomach issues . . . and, of course, as my punishment for drinking beer on a weeknight, I had to cover PE class today-- with the new block schedule, 82 minutes of high school kids playing "badminton" is a recipe for a headache.
On the map, Westminster, Vermont looks fairly close to Bromley Mountain (Google Maps and my GPS say 22 miles) but we learned today that this is on dirt roads, which are passable if the weather is good . . . but once it started to snow folks along the way warned us that we'd better have a shovel and blankets if we wanted to get home later in the afternoon-- so we moved our lift tickets to Saturday and Sunday, stocked up on food and beer, and beat a hasty retreat back to the cabin at Windsor, and the snow has been falling all day and doesn't show any sign of letting up . . . we'll probably be snowed in tomorrow and, as an added wrinkle, the pipes appear to have frozen (or there's been a water main break) because we've got no running water . . . and we've got no cell-service, so we can't call a plumber or the town municipal office, but there's plenty of snow to melt if need be (for the kids) and I have beer and we showered last night, so I think we'll be okay (although I guess if anyone has to defecate, they're going to have to do it outside in the snow).
We made good time on the long and winding road to Samara-- no student protests, luckily, as there were major delays in San Jose and at the airport; the drive around Lake Arenal was beautiful, the road snaked up and down through small villages, including one with a German bakery with delicious stuff full of coconut and honey, and there were windy heights with views of the lake and the surrounding windmills and lots of one way bridges; Alex assumed shotgun/navigator for the second half of the ride and heroically hooked up the AUX cable to my phone so we could listen to music but soon after he directed me onto a back road which led directly into a river and a failed river crossing voids the car insurance-- so though we rented a 4wD Daihatsu Rush, an amazing light stripped down SUV-- I turned it around and took the paved route; a few hours later we made it to paradise . . . our Airbnb condo has an absurd view of the horseshoe shaped Samara beach, the water is warm, the kids took a surf lesson and caught countless waves, we hiked to the tidepools, ate fish and drank beers at the restaurants on the sand, found a Mexican joint that makes incredible beer, etc etc . . . once you get to Samara there's not much to say, it's a safe relatively undeveloped tropical beach town at the edge of the jungle, sheltered by a reef, and the beer is cheap and the surf instructors are excellent . . . my wife says it's the Highland Park of Costa Rica, it's small and very chill and you can walk everwhere but I think it's a little better because the 84 degree ocean water is nicer than the Raritan.
My friend Alec got a hold of some tickets to the Rutgers/Ohio State game yesterday. His neighbor couldn't attend. The tickets were handicap accessible so we got preferred parking and a pair of seats surrounded by space at the top of the mezzanine (although the stadium was relatively empty-- you could sit wherever).
Ohio State was favored by 53 points. The largest amount for any away team ever. I wanted to be the game-- take Rutgers and see if they could cover-- so I signed up for the FanDuel Sports Book. Apparently if this app verifies that you are from a state where sports gambling is legal, then you can place bets. It took a while-- I couldn't get my computer to verify that it was in New Jersey, so I used my phone. It takes some doing to download the app-- you can't directly download it from Google so you have to change settings and find the file and install it manually. The app is terrible. Slow and glitchy and impossible to find anything.
Before the site tried to verify my location, I loaded one hundred dollars into my account while I was on the computer-- they'll take your money THEN tell you they can't verify your location, so you can't bet your money. Very annoying.
Once I got on my phone, I was able to navigate the site a bit. There's no search bar, so you have to scroll through everything-- super-annoying-- and I couldn't find the Rutgers game. I searched and searched, but no luck. I decided they weren't taking bets because the spread was so huge. So I put my hundred dollars on William and Mary, my alma mater, and closed the stupid app. Even if I lost the bet, FanDuel was supposed to refund me the money-- they do this for your first bet up to $500 dollars-- so you can bet it again.
I placed a bet with my friend Alec-- he was willing to take Ohio State and give me 52.5-- and we drove over. We had a few drinks in the parking lot and then went in. Ohio State capitalized on two quick Rutgers turn-overs and scored fourteen points in the first three minutes. It looked like they were going to cover. But then Rutgers fought back and actually played some football. Unlike Willaim and Mary, who got clobbered. And we met a mutual friend (Sleepy Dan) who informed us they now serve beer at the stadium. Fabulous! He also informed me that the reason I couldn't find the game on FanDuel is that you're not allowed to bet on amateur contests happening in state. So no betting on Rutgers and Princeton. Makes sense, I suppose, but I wish the site had some information about that.
We got some beers. Dan claimed that someone stole his extra beer, which he put on a chair behind us for safekeeping. Then it got real cold. Dan left. Alec and I asked some nice ladies in an apparel stand where the warmest place in the stadium was. They only had a tiny space heater. The older lady put her hand on my face and said, "I'm freezing honey." Then she told us to go upstairs and try to get into the stadium club.
"Walk in like you own the place!" she advised us.
We walked up the ramp, saw the enormous bouncer turn his back to the entrance, and walked through with lots of confidence. We nearly made it to the bar when he caught us. "You can't come in here! You don't have the credentials!"
Alec showed him his ticket. While it got us preferred parking and handicapped seating, it did not get us into the club. As fast as we were in, we were out. Back out in the cold. We made it to the end of the third quarter and then headed to my house for some of Cat's homemade Thai coconut curry chicken soup.
And Rutgers beat the spread!
Today, FanDuel refunded my first bet, plus five dollars. I'm eager to be done with this sports gambling stuff, so I bet it all on the Patriots. I figure Brady and Bellichick wouldn't lose two in a row. I was right. My son was angry with me for betting $100 dollars until I explained to him that getting two bets for the price of one is something you have to exploit, but then you have to take the money and run. I've already cleaned out my account-- so if you add together the $25 I won on Rutgers and the $105 I made on my bet refund, I'm up $130. And I'm retiring from sports gambling (aside from March Madness pools). I don't need that kind of stress.
When I make tacos, I use beer as the liquid to absorb the seasonings-- but when my wife is around while I'm cooking, she won't allow me to do this . . . even though she always loves my tacos-- because she claims she doesn't like things cooked with beer (she obviously does) and when I'm around, my wife can't cook anything with milk in it, because I don't like things with milk as an ingredient (even though my wife makes plenty of recipes that contain milk . . . it's reciprocal, if I don't see the milk go into the food, I'm fine with, but if I see it happen, then I don't want to eat it).
2) Bruce gave a heartfelt speech and then we took turns scattering some of Johnny's mortal remains into the bosom of the Atlantic Ocean . . . and luckily the wind was blowing the right direction so there were no Lebowski moments;
3) sea turtle nest next to the dune, so we were chastised for being "in the direct line" between the turtle eggs and the ocean-- I could hear David Attenborough's voice describing the difficult journey the baby turtles make from under the sand and into the ocean, trying to avoid the drunken middle age men, the beer cans, and the flying cornhole bags . . . unfortunately, the eggs did not hatch while we were there, but we did get to watch the volunteers rake the sand and build a little walled runway for the turtles;
4) Ethan told an excellent joke about a party that was going to have some "drinking, dancing, fighting and fucking" . . . I can't wait to tell it;
5) Paci spoke in a German accent for thirty-five minutes straight;
6) Gormley spoke in tongues on Wednesday night at Whitney's new place . . . and Billy made the mistake of staying up late with him;
7) Whitney was in the middle of a move-- so while we enjoyed the pool in Norfolk, he was running around trying to figure out task rabbit chores, prices of furniture, and other real estate minutia;
8) Whitney's canopy withstood the wind, mine did not . . . and then I forgot it;
9) Whitney and I played a live version of our tribute song "Where's Johnny?"
10) plenty of stinging jellyfish in the water (mainly in the mornings) so Marston offered to drink a lot of beer so he could pee on anyone who was stung . . . maybe next year he'll get his chance;
11) Charlie Carter cooked an amazing meal of tuna and beef tenderloin and Fernandez brought down a bunch of high quality sliced smoked meats-- chorizo and salami and such-- and some really good bread and cheese . . a whole charcuterie!
12) we filled the bar at Tortuga's on Friday, including the panhandle-- and we were NOT shushed;
13) much cornhole was played on the beach-- I had good runs with Old, Marston, and Smokin' Joe;
14) Mac thought I might like a band called Ice 9 Kills-- perhaps because the lead singer holds various weapons (including a chainsaw) while singing, but I informed him they were a little heavy for my taste now, and that I was listening to a lot of Steely Dan;
15) Mac and Whit played a drunken game of drunk driver;
16) Whitney engineered a compelling song connection/trivia night on the deck on Saturday;
17) Z was played on Friday;
18) we got salad with our pizza Saturday night;
19) I believe a good time was had by all . . . thanks again Whitney (and everyone involved) for organizing, traveling, and making this happen-- we've been doing this for more our half our lives now!
Last night's beer drinking didn't go so well-- apparently, Tamiflu and Hermit Thrush Po Tweet sour pale ale do NOT mix well . . . my stomach turned into a bubbling cauldron for thirty minutes or so, until the inevitable happened . . . but I felt better today so I didn't take any sort of medicine and we had a great day on the Jackson Gore side of the mountain, now both my kids are navigating black diamond slopes, so I'm going to have to up my skills to stay with them; my wife and I also took a lovely hike to Buttermilk Falls-- the stupid ingrate children didn't want to go and this made me really miss the dog . . . he would go anywhere with me, happily, and he never gave me any lip-- anyway, I'm off the meds and successfully drinking two of the best beers I've ever tasted:
I went out with the pub crew Thursday night to Steakhouse 85 and Alec leaned too far forward on his bar-chair, so that he was leaning on two legs, his elbow resting on the bar, and the chair legs slid backward on the polished wood floor and the long-legged chair went skittering backward-- horizontally-- and Alec's body suddenly dropped vertically, down below the bar (and luckily, he didn't hit his face on the rail) and though the chair skittered back eight feet or so, toward the host stand, no one was injured; then Saturday Catherine and I drove all the way up to Foxwoods in Connecticut for my cousin Nick's wedding-- and I remarked that you don't hear much about the state of Connecticut-- it's an under the radar state-- and now I know why-- the fucking traffic is terrible-- we stopped in Clinton at Liv's Dockside Grill for some seaside seafood-- and once you get off the highway, Connecticut is lovely-- it looks kind of like Cape Cod-- Clinton is near the end of the Long Island Sound-- you're looking across the sound at East Hampton and Montauk-- but then you have to get back on 95 and it's two lanes and white knuckle driving-- Foxwoods is a wild place, a little bit of Vegas in the middle of the Mashantucket Pequot reservation-- the wedding was lovely but we split the very expensive hotel room with my brother and his (soon-to-be) wife and my brother had a sinus infection and was snoring and making a lot of noise so we got up at 6 AM and hightailed it home-- much better drive with no traffic, but still a long fucking way-- and then I played some pickle-ball, practiced tennis with Ian, and went to a graduation party where I drank a bunch of Corona beer-- great for the day after a wedding-- and Alec and I dominated at corn-hole-- even over the recent college graduates, who were surprisingly bad . . . I asked one college student what the leisure sport of choice was at Reed college-- darts, frisbee golf, corn-hole, spike-ball, beer pong?-- and he said they don't play anything . . . I guess they just go to class and learn stuff . . . kids these days.
This photo makes the kitchen look bigger than it actually is.
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