Showing posts sorted by relevance for query wife. Sort by date Show all posts
Showing posts sorted by relevance for query wife. Sort by date Show all posts
Te Cacharon!
Ian failed a Spanish quiz last week, so my wife has been on his case, to ensure that he's ready for the test this week-- last night Ian was sitting at the dining room table, doing an online quiz on the laptop, reciting Spanish words aloud, when my wife-- who was in the kitchen-- said to him, "What are you doing?" and Ian said, "Doing the quiz" and my wife said, "Look in the window" and Ian turned and looked and he realized that my wife could see the reflection of the laptop screen in the dining room window, and he also realized that his clever ruse of mumbling random Spanish words while he played Slither.io (an online Centipede-like video game) had failed him . . . te cacharon!
Cowardly Swedes in the Snow and the Jungle
It is both awful and compelling to witness a grown man's total humiliation-- I have only seen this once and it is indelibly engraved in my brain . . . my wife and I were hiking up a limestone karst in the Khao Sok region of Thailand, and our leader Nit-- a whiskey slugging ex-tiger hunter turned eco-guide-- was pointing out the jungle sights: boar, elephant, and tapir tracks; trees that had been ripped apart by Malayan sun bears; monitor lizards basking in the sun; hornbills flying overhead . . . it was loud, cicadas and gibbons shrieked and chattered; and we were making our way up a steep section, switchback after switchback-- Catherine and I were at the back of the line; Nit was in the lead, followed by Hans the big Swede, his tall and lovely wife Maude, and their teenage son . . . and one moment we were soaking in all the nature and the next moment was pandemonium . . . first we heard a loud predatory growl and then Hans turned and bolted, knocking his wife to the ground, and he sprinted by his son, his eyes round with fear . . . and finally, right in front of Catherine, he fell face first into the mud, tripped by a log . . . Nit was laughing hysterically, and Catherine and I, with our view from the back of the line, had seen the whole thing: Nit got ahead of the group and just before Hans rounded the turn, Nit did his best tiger imitation, a sharp guttural scream-- and granted, this was tiger territory-- and Hans bought it-- hook, line and sinker-- and took off like a bat out of hell, abandoning his wife and children in a moment of Costanzaesque panic . . . and so, a few minutes later, when we ended the hike on top of the karst, Hans was able to regain his breath, but not able to save face (which was bright red in embarrassment) and Nit couldn't have been happier that he had destroyed this man's reputation . . . this is a moment I can still see as vividly as the day it happened, it was both funny and horrible, but I never imagined what it did to Hans and Maude's marriage . . . until now-- an ex-student sent me an email recommending an international film called Force Majeure because she thought it was similar to this story (which I told in class) and though it takes place in the French Alps instead of the Thai jungle, the film is more than similar-- it is exactly like what happened in the jungle; a Swedish family is eating breakfast outside at a mountain-top ski resort and they see an avalanche headed towards the deck-- and while at first they think it is a "controlled" avalanche, as the wall of snow gets closer and closer, the restaurant patrons move from fascinated to afraid, and then the wall of snow hits-- and the Swedish mom grabs the two children to protect them and meanwhile the Swedish dad grabs his gloves and his phone and then (like brave Sir Robin) he runs away, abandoning his family to the snow . . . and though it turns out that the avalanche was indeed "controlled" and the frightening wall of snow which enveloped the deck was only avalanche "smoke," that doesn't change matters, and minutes later the dad slinks back into the scene and the rest of the movie (this is just the start) is about the consequences of his cowardice-- just like the event I saw, it's painful and terrible to watch (but also impossible to look away . . . check out the clip to get the idea).
Dave Defeats His Wife in a Battle of Logic!
It's a rare occurrence, but I always relish when my wife screws up-- in fact, it's the topic of the very first Sentence of Dave-- and so it was with great pleasure, when my wife came down the stairs and into the kitchen yesterday morning, that I asked her-- facetiously-- if she had heard the weather report the night before, you know . . . the weather report about Winter Storm Jonas, the mighty blizzard that had dominated the news for the latter half of the week . . . and though she knew I was up to something, she admitted to having knowledge of the storm, and this admission buried her, because my next question was: "then why did you leave two six packs of beer on our back porch?" and at first she tried to maneuver her way out of it-- she said she didn't think that they would have been buried and she pointed out that I occasionally put beer in the snow, but she finally confessed that it was an absurd move, and that if I hadn't seen the bottle caps, just above the blanket of snow (and wondered if some fruity beer fairy had come in the night and left a six pack Illusive Traveler Grapefruit Shandy and a six pack of Leinenkugel Berry Weiss as some sort of blizzard survival kit) then the beer would have been buried in a snow drift until spring, the bottles shattered, and-- more importantly-- my wife would have been beerless for the duration of the blizzard.
Mom Always Figures It Out (Except for the Stolen Bike)
Yesterday was my son Alex's class trip to Dorney Park and my wife suggested that he not bring his cell-phone because he would surely lose and/or damage it and when Alex and Ian were walking out the door together, she saw he had complied with this-- the phone was on his desk, charging . . . and the two boys left, together-- which was odd-- and then Ian ran back inside and up the stairs and told her she was right and that it was too hot for pants and he changed into shorts and then he went into Alex's room for a moment and she asked him where his bookbag was and he said, "Alex is holding it for me," which was odd-- they normally bicker over civilized favors such as waiting for each other or helping each other in any way-- and then Ian was gone, before Catherine could process what had happened (she was getting ready for school as well) but then it struck her-- Alex had paid Ian to go back into the house and smuggle his cell phone out-- and when she went into Alex's room, sure enough, the phone was gone . . . so later in the day she texted Alex this message, "To whoever stole Alex's phone, please return it" and then on the ride to the soccer game, Ian confirmed that he had smuggled the phone out of the house for his brother and he asked my wife if they had made a deal, did Alex still have to hold up his end, even though they got caught, and she said, "Of course he does, you got the phone for him" and Ian revealed that Alex had promised to pay him a dollar if he got the phone and then we got home from the game and Alex was a sunburned mess because he had taken his shirt off, and my wife hadn't sunblocked his chest, and he said that they needed their phones so they could check in with their chaperones-- why he didn't communicate this to my wife and instead hatched a furtive and deceitful plan to liberate his phone is beyond me . . . but the moral here is we should always be wary when the boys are behaving cooperatively.
Serendipitous Student Connection #1 (Moth/ Snow/ Wife)
Sometimes a student says something so incisive that it completely changes the direction of a class discussion, and even the tone of an entire lesson; for instance, this week I taught Virginia Woolf's posthumously published suicide-note of an essay, "The Death of the Moth," and when we read the description of the moth's futile fluttering from one corner of the window to the next-- because it was trapped between the pane and the screen-- I asked the class who had done this before: shut a bug inside a window between the glass and the screen, and several kids raised their hands and admitted to this cowardly act, and we agreed that sometimes it is quicker, easier, and more convenient to isolate and ignore the problem of the bug instead of taking initiative and actually swatting, squishing, or removing it . . . but then one girl looked me squarely in the eye and said, "Why don't you just kill the bug? Why leave it in the window for later?" and I told her that is exactly what my wife would say in this instance, and that there were two kinds of people-- those that kill the bug immediately, and those who shut it in the window so it can suffer a slow death and be dealt with later . . . and then I told the class what happened on the weekend . . . we had an unusual October snowstorm and my wife instructed me to shovel the snow and then she got all dressed up in a tight dress and sexy boots and headed off to a baby shower and I took the kids sledding and when I got home, I was tired and wanted to watch the Giants game, and the sun was out, so instead of shoveling the driveway and the porch, I decided to let the sun melt the snow-- the same way you might let the sun dehydrate and fry the bug trapped in the window pane-- but the sun failed me, failed me miserably, and my lovely wife arrived home in her sexy boots to the same amount of snow that was there when she left and instead of reminding me to shovel it, she went ahead and shoveled the driveway and porch in her tight dress and sexy boots, and I think she did this so she could shovel even more guilt on me when she found me half-asleep on the couch, watching the football game . . because she's the kind of person who kills the bug-- she doesn't leave it trapped in the window for later-- but the real question here is: Why do women get all decked out for a baby shower?
Snakes on a Homonym (Parts 1 and 2)
My boys and their buddy Ben went to the salamander path on Tuesday, to turn over some rocks and find salamanders, but--to their surprise-- they found more reptiles than amphibians: six garter snakes to four red-backed salamanders; they brought the snakes back to the house, marched into the kitchen and -- to my wife's surprise-- tossed them on the counter (which is a geometric plane, of course . . . I know puns are gauche but I couldn't resist . . . and I like to imagine the scene like this: my wife yelling at the kids, Samuel Jackson style, while gesturing at the counter with one of those math-teacher rubber-tipped chalkboard pointers, "There are too many motherf*#$ing snakes on this motherf%$ing plane!") and then they removed the snakes from the kitchen, put them in a cooler, and wheeled them around town to show their friends (and released them in Ben's yard later that afternoon) but they neglected to inform my wife that though they had brought six snakes into the kitchen, they only managed to remove five of them, and so when we got back from soccer practice, there was a snake on the counter under a clear tupperware container-- when my wife started cooking it crept out from behind the spices to enjoy the heat of the burner and she trapped it . . . it was a cute little guy, just enough of a snake on that motherf*&^ing plane (and I was going to title this sentence Snakes on a Plane, but I mentioned this anecdote to an English teaching colleague and he said, "Ah . . . a homonym" and I realized that the only title more annoying than my initial idea is the current one).
No Principles=Happiness
Last week, I received a phone call from my wife and she told me she was at the gas station and had been waiting for ten minutes but hadn't gotten any service-- she said she even tried to pump the gas herself but you needed some sort of code to do that in New Jersey-- and so she was pretty irate and then she said, "Oh here he comes," and I heard her ask for "thirty dollars of regular, cash," and then I didn't hear from her for a while-- a long while, because she was supposed to come home and cook some pasta for the kids while I went and retrieved them from the trampoline in our neighbor's backyard, but when I got home from that errand, she was nowhere to be found, which was annoying, because now we had to rush to eat, and then my cell-phone rang again and it was her and she said, "I'm still at the gas station, I'm waiting for the police," and then she told me why: the attendant had filled her tank, despite the fact that she asked for thirty dollars cash, and she didn't have any more cash and she refused to pay the extra twelve dollars or give the attendant her credit card because it was his mistake, so he threatened to to call the police on her because she wouldn't pay the full 42 dollars and he wrote down her license number, so she turned the tables on him, and she called the police on him, for threatening her and writing down her license for no reason, and eventually the police came and sided with her (she was in Edison, and she is an Edison teacher after all, and the attendant admitted his mistake, and after trying to negotiate-- "you pay six and I pay six"-- he told her that he was very poor and that the manager made him pay for mistakes such as this out of his salary, and so then my wife got out of her car and gave the manager a piece of her mind, and said that if he made the attendant pay for the mistake she was going to tell all her friends to boycott this particular Raceway) but of course my advice to her before she told me the whole story was, "Just pay the twelve dollars and get out of there! Come home to your husband and children! We need you!" but my wife said that she had to stay and fight the good fight because it was a "matter of principle," and she was emboldened by the fact that an old man at the station told her: "They did the same thing to my wife last week!" and so she felt she was standing up for everyone who had suffered over-charging at this station and had to set things straight and after it was all over I asked her a stupid (but sincere) question: "How did you call the police? How did you know the number?" and she said, "I dialed 911."
Mnemosyne Demands a Sacrifice
My wife has to remember a wealth of information on a daily basis-- she has a lot of responsibility at her job and in our community, and she's also the reason our hectically scheduled household operates smoothly . . . and this doesn't end when we go on vacation: she's the primary packer and planner (I'm the chief researcher) so she's bound to forget a thing or two . . . but never has she forgotten three things on one trip, until now-- and I'm not relishing this in any way, shape or form, but I'd still like to record it, in a most unbiased and objective manner, for posterity-- not only that, this event does harken back to the humble beginnings of this blog; so . . . without any gloating . . . here's the list:
1) at the start of our trip, my wife forgot her prescription sunglasses, but we were only a few minutes down the road, so we turned back and got them;
2) while my wife was paying the check at the much recommended Wild Fern restaurant, she put down the iPad on the counter and left it there-- she didn't realize this until we were fifteen minutes away-- but we turned back and luckily it was still there (Heather, the owner/chef/waitress of The Wild Fern knew the house we were renting and said she was going to return it to us there if we didn't come back so we were safe either way);
3) when we were leaving the rented house in Stockbridge, my wife forgot her ceramic-travel coffee mug inside the house, but we had already locked up and left the key inside, so we had to chalk that one up to as a sacrifice to Mnemosyne.
1) at the start of our trip, my wife forgot her prescription sunglasses, but we were only a few minutes down the road, so we turned back and got them;
2) while my wife was paying the check at the much recommended Wild Fern restaurant, she put down the iPad on the counter and left it there-- she didn't realize this until we were fifteen minutes away-- but we turned back and luckily it was still there (Heather, the owner/chef/waitress of The Wild Fern knew the house we were renting and said she was going to return it to us there if we didn't come back so we were safe either way);
3) when we were leaving the rented house in Stockbridge, my wife forgot her ceramic-travel coffee mug inside the house, but we had already locked up and left the key inside, so we had to chalk that one up to as a sacrifice to Mnemosyne.
Not My Fault (For Once)
Yesterday, we attempted to play an off day JV game (so that we could take a couple of younger varsity players-- we're low on numbers) but ten minutes into the game we got slammed by torrential rain-- so we hightailed it to the bus and drove back to Highland Park (from Middlesex of all places-- we were lucky not to get caught in the floodwaters) and the kids wanted to get dropped off in the Middle School lot because there is some shelter there from the rain-- so I directed the bus driver there, even though my car was parked on the other side of the school, on the street near the front of the building-- so I walked through the rain, carrying the ball bag and my giant coaching bag-- the thunder and lightning exploding around me, and when I got to Fifth Avenue, I couldn't find my van-- I wandered up and down the road, at first wondering if I forgot where i parked and then wondering if the car had been stolen-- but who would steal my disgusting and disgraceful van?-- and then I saw a blue Mazda and wondered if my wife had switched cars, but it wasn't our Mazda-- and by that time I was so wet that my phone wouldn't work-- so I couldn't call Alex or my wife-- and it just kept downpouring, so I got under a tree and managed to dry my phone off enough to call and I found out that Alex had taken the car home when he got caught in the rain at varsity practice-- in order to save his laptop-- and my wife had told him to do this but no one told ME that he took the car-- Alex thought Catherine communicated this to me and my wife thought that Alex had told me . . . so I was really wet and really pissed off when Alex came to get me . . . but it was only water, so I got over it-- and Alex then took the van to some sort of junior prom event, so there was more getting in and out of the car in the rain-- and I slept from 6-7 PM and then from 8 PM to 5 AM-- I was wet and tired, and then when I got in the van this morning to go to work, I soaked my pants-- the seat was sopping wet-- but I didn't feel like changing my pants-- I just threw a towel on the seat-- and first period my pants were very noticeably wet, which my class enjoyed-- but I put a small fan behind me, and that worked and now my pants are dry and my underwear is only a little moist.
None Shall Pass
Last Tuesday, Alex and I went to soccer practice without Ian, because he pulled his quad; practice was a bit chaotic because everyone was sharing the turf-- Donaldson Park is a swamp-- and so once Alex and I arrived back home, at ten of eight, all I was hoping for was some warm food and and some quiet times, but this was not the case; we entered the house and Alex went into the kitchen, where my wife immediately called upon him to recite the months of the year . . . and he failed-- perhaps because he was tired and surprised by the question-- and then he was in deep trouble too, because a few minutes previous my wife had discovered a glaring hole in Ian's general knowledge-- he ddin't know the months of the year-- and so after Alex failed she yelled "he doesn't know them either! this is ridiculous . . . a fourth and fifth grader don't know the months of the year!" but it turned out Alex did know them, he just panicked in the heat of the moment . . . Ian, on the other hand, could not recite them, even with some time to think, and so there is a new house rule: before the boys get any screen time, they have to pass a "life quiz" on some basic knowledge . . . the months of the year, the location of Canada and Mexico in relation to the United States, the air-speed velocity of an unladen sparrow . . . something along those lines (and I lucked out, because my wife also demanded that they know each month's corresponding number and I'm a bit shaky on this, but my wife didn't quiz me, and so I got to watch Parks and Rec).
Sometimes a Cookie Is More Than a Cookie
After I ate lunch last Saturday, while my wife was on the phone in the basement, I had a hankering for something sweet and I remembered that last week there was some kind of half-eaten chocolatey cookie thing in her lunch cooler-- I had sampled it and it was pretty good-- and I checked her bag and it was still there and I didn't want to interrupt her phone call (and I was hungry) so I ate it (pretty much inhaled it) and then I took a nap . . . and at some point during my nap, my wife woke me up and asked "Did you eat the cookie in my lunch bag?" and I confirmed this and she got pretty upset-- I wasn't sure why-- but I fell back to sleep . . . and when I woke up, she told me that this was a special cookie that her co-teacher had brought back from DisneyWorld for her-- that you had to wait a very long time at some gothic bakery named Gideon's Bakehouse and she had been eating a little bit of each day . . . and when she got off the phone, her plan was to relax and have some tea and eat the remainder of this special cookie-- everyone else in the house was napping and she was trying to not get angry when everyone else was relaxing when there was shit to get done, so she was going to try to relax herself but I had ruined it by selfishly eating her cookie-- I violated her personal space, went into her lunch cooler, didn't ask permission, and I had eaten all her potato chips the day before, etcetera . . . and so I apologized-- but qualified my apology by saying that if I had known how important this cookie was to her, I wouldn't have eaten (but also pointing out that no cookie should have this kind of value) and then Catherine, Alex and I were headed to go see Dune at the Rutgers Theater . . which isn't as fun to watch when your wife is mad at you-- and Alex and I were of the same mindset: it's just a cookie! and so we watched Dune-- which is a decent movie but doesn't really capture the heat and grit and dust of the desert . . . it's more Star Wars than Fury Road-- and then when we got home, Ian was up in his bed and he had been eating candy in his bed and throwing the wrappers and empty boxes under his bed-- as he is wont to do-- and this is a fineable offense for him, because it's gross and unhealthy and attracts mice-- and I got mad at him for doing this again-- and because he was hoarding a giant bag of Twix in his room-- and then Catherine got mad at me for getting mad at him because she said the reason he hoards candy in his room is that if it's downstairs, I'll eat it-- because eat everything, without regard for the owner (which is kind of true) and so I started making some rules about how no one is allowed to bring more than one serving of candy into the house-- because I can't control myself and everyone was pissed off at me and I was pissed off at everyone and I was sick of being treated like some kind of monster because I ate a cookie and then next morning I took the dog for a walk and then when I got back Catherine wanted to talk about what happened and I made a rash decision-- I took back my apology for eating the cookie! and this was very stupid but I wasn't really thinking clearly but I said that it had been in her cooler since last week and she hadn't told me the value, etc. etc. and there was more arguing but then I realized that I was wrong-- although I did get Catherine to admit ten percent guilt in the altercation-- she should have told me about the cookie and she shouldn't have overreacted so much and I made a special shelf in the cupboard for Catherine and Ian's food-- a shelf I'm really going to try not to violate-- and I got her a special cupcake at the special cupcake store that was just for (and I even waited in line . . . about a minute) and I also assured her that the cookie, from what I could remember, didn't even taste that good (and I guess this kind of shit is happening the world over because my boss Jess came in with a similar story-- she has two young kids-- and she brought home two cookies, one for each of them, but her husband ate one without asking and so she had to split the other cookie for her children) and it seems there are two kinds fo people-- people like me and Alex, who don't really treat there possessions all that possessively-- and people like Ian and my wife, who want their stuff and think people shouldn't steal and eat it (and those two are ore vengeful . . . Catherine made a batch of cookies and she put a post-it on it doling out the amounts-- Alex, Ian and Catherine got eight each but I only got three).
Two Reasons Why I Will Never Get a Vasectomy
I will never get a vasectomy.
My rationale is based on two very solid reasons. They’re not the two reasons you are thinking, although I do value those two things as well.
I acquired one reason from a TV show and the other from a movie.
That’s where you learn stuff, right?
Reason #1 is obvious.
I don’t want anyone — advanced medical degree or not — going near my testicles with a pair of surgical shears. Michael Scott expresses this better than I ever could during “The Dinner Party.” If you haven’t seen it, you need to (especially if you are thinking about getting a vasectomy).
This is what he tells his girlfriend/condo-mate/ex-boss Jan Levinson (in front of an audience of co-workers).
When I said that I wanted to have kids, and you said that you wanted me to have a vasectomy, what did I do? And then when you said that you might want to have kids and I wasn’t so sure, who had the vasectomy reversed? And then when you said you definitely didn’t want to have kids, who had it reversed back? Snip snap! Snip snap! Snip snap! I did. You have no idea the physical toll, that three vasectomies have on a person.
My second reason for refusing to get a vasectomy is much more profound.
I should point out that I’m certainly a vasectomy candidate. I’m fifty. I’m happily married with two children. My wife and I are done procreating. Once in a while, when I see a cute little infant I turn to my wife and say, “We should have a baby!”
My wife wisely says back to me: “That store is closed.”
She’s right. We’re done with that stage in our life.
Or she is . . .
My wife uses some kind of hormonal IUD that I should know more about. I do know that birth control is often left up to women, and it’s often a pain in the neck (a pain in the vagina?) There are plenty of side-effects. Headaches, weight gain, nausea, pelvic pain, irregular bleeding, acne, breast tenderness, etc.
The United States is not particularly good at subsidizing sex education and birth control, which is ironic, because a huge swath of our country is violently opposed to abortions. Male sterilization should be another tool in the box to prevent unwanted pregnancies. A better understanding of birth control of all types will decrease abortions, allow more women to finish school, and prevent infants from entering the world in a state of poverty. Men should understand this. Birth control should not be solely left up to women.
So I get it. Undergoing a vasectomy is not a big deal. I don’t want an old man poking around in my mouth with a drill, but I still go to the dentist. One in ten American males has been voluntarily sterilized. 500,000 men a year. I have friends that have done it. It’s not supposed to be that bad. I’m all for vasectomies. In fact, I urge YOU to get one.
If I really wanted to, I could get over Reason #1.
The MAIN reason I’m not getting a vasectomy is inspired by the ending of the classic Kubrick film Dr. Strangelove: Or How I Stopped Worrying and Learned to Love the Bomb.
Reason #2
I might be called upon to repopulate the planet.
My friend Ann finds this portion of my argument silly, and it’s not. It’s deadly serious. So let me explain.
Dr. Strangelove was made in the 1960s. The world was worried about the madness of MAD. Gigantic nuclear arsenals were supposed to deter nuclear war, but in the film, an Air Force high alert mission goes awry — with the help of the homicidal General Ripper — and his breach of authority sets off a cascading chain of events that results in an impending nuclear disaster.
If you haven’t seen this movie, you need to.
Dr. Stranglelove — an ex-Nazi in charge of U.S. military weapons R&D — suggests that the survivors of the initial nuclear blast could hide out in “some of our deeper mineshafts.” Radioactivity wouldn’t penetrate down there and in a matter of weeks, sufficient improvements in the dwelling space could be provided.
In the plan that he proposes to President Merkin Muffley, several hundred thousand citizens would need to remain in the mineshafts until the radiation subsides: one hundred years.
Peter Sellers plays both roles.
PRESIDENT MUFFLEY: You mean, people could actually stay down there for a hundred years?
DR. STRANGELOVE: It would not be difficult Mein Fuhrer! Nuclear reactors could, heh… I’m sorry. Mr. President. Nuclear reactors could provide power almost indefinitely. Greenhouses could maintain plant life. Animals could be bred and slaughtered.
The plan then takes a more eugenic slant.
Dr. Strangelove suggests a computer program should be used to determine who gets selected go down into the mine shaft (besides present company in the War Room . . . they get a free pass, of course).
And then we get to the real mission. The population in the mineshafts would have a “ratio of ten females to each male” and the women would be selected for “highly stimulating sexual characteristics,” Dr. Strangelove estimates that within twenty years the U.S. will be back to its present gross national product.
Even the highly distractible General Buck Turgidson finds this plan interesting. As does the Russian liaison.
GENERAL TURGIDSON Doctor, you mentioned the ratio of ten women to each man. Now, wouldn’t that necessitate the abandonment of the so-called monogamous sexual relationship, I mean, as far as men were concerned?
DR. STRANGELOVE Regrettably, yes. But it is, you know, a sacrifice required for the future of the human race. I hasten to add that since each man will be required to do prodigious service along these lines . . .
Since the Cold War ended, we haven’t been as concerned about all-out nuclear war. But COVID-19 has given us a sneak preview of another kind of apocalypse. And this one kills men at a higher rate than women (though it’s negligible).
But what if it wasn’t negligible?
What if there were a highly contagious virus that targets the Y chromosome and kills all the men? Or nearly all of them. This COULD happen. I read about it in a comic book.
What if this hypothetical virus kills all the men except me?
Or me and a couple of guys who have had their tubes snipped?
Then it will be up to me to repopulate the planet!
Regrettably, this will “necessitate the abandonment of the so-called monogamous sexual relationship.”
I’m willing to make that sacrifice and do “prodigious service” for the human race.
Here’s how I envision it. I’m lounging on a beautiful white sand beach of some lush tropical island, being tended to by a cadre of incredibly beautiful women from around the globe. Occasionally — perhaps once a week or so — a boat sails into the harbor.
A number of bikini-clad attendants lower one especially beautiful specimen into the water. Then they all stride through the surf, beads of saltwater on their bronze or brown or black or white skin.
I beckon them to come forward.
They present some delicacy from wherever they hail: Iceland, France, Zimbabwe, Egypt, Goa, the Sudan. I taste the food. I admire the women. The queen bee smiles coyly at me. She rubs my tan feet. Then we head into my candlelit bamboo hut and get to down to business.
Perhaps — if I’m feeling up to it — I bonus impregnate a few of the attendants as well. Why not? This is my job. I embrace it. Then they sail off, my future progeny lodged in their uteruses.
Though my friend Ann found my description of this scenario ludicrous, she was still willing to play along. “If you’re pretending this could happen, couldn’t you pretend that you were fertile? Even if you had a vasectomy?”
For a little while. But in nine months, the gig would be up. That’s too soon for such a sweet post.
Plus, who would be a better Adam for the planet than me? I want to do this. It’s a sacrifice I’m willing to make. So though it’s highly unlikely, I’m playing this lottery. Not having a vasectomy is the golden ticket.
I haven’t run this by my wife yet, but I’m sure she’ll be on board. If she trusted me to be the father of her offspring — if need be — why shouldn’t I father of the entire human race?
My rationale is based on two very solid reasons. They’re not the two reasons you are thinking, although I do value those two things as well.
I acquired one reason from a TV show and the other from a movie.
That’s where you learn stuff, right?
Reason #1 is obvious.
I don’t want anyone — advanced medical degree or not — going near my testicles with a pair of surgical shears. Michael Scott expresses this better than I ever could during “The Dinner Party.” If you haven’t seen it, you need to (especially if you are thinking about getting a vasectomy).
This is what he tells his girlfriend/condo-mate/ex-boss Jan Levinson (in front of an audience of co-workers).
When I said that I wanted to have kids, and you said that you wanted me to have a vasectomy, what did I do? And then when you said that you might want to have kids and I wasn’t so sure, who had the vasectomy reversed? And then when you said you definitely didn’t want to have kids, who had it reversed back? Snip snap! Snip snap! Snip snap! I did. You have no idea the physical toll, that three vasectomies have on a person.
My second reason for refusing to get a vasectomy is much more profound.
I should point out that I’m certainly a vasectomy candidate. I’m fifty. I’m happily married with two children. My wife and I are done procreating. Once in a while, when I see a cute little infant I turn to my wife and say, “We should have a baby!”
My wife wisely says back to me: “That store is closed.”
She’s right. We’re done with that stage in our life.
Or she is . . .
My wife uses some kind of hormonal IUD that I should know more about. I do know that birth control is often left up to women, and it’s often a pain in the neck (a pain in the vagina?) There are plenty of side-effects. Headaches, weight gain, nausea, pelvic pain, irregular bleeding, acne, breast tenderness, etc.
The United States is not particularly good at subsidizing sex education and birth control, which is ironic, because a huge swath of our country is violently opposed to abortions. Male sterilization should be another tool in the box to prevent unwanted pregnancies. A better understanding of birth control of all types will decrease abortions, allow more women to finish school, and prevent infants from entering the world in a state of poverty. Men should understand this. Birth control should not be solely left up to women.
So I get it. Undergoing a vasectomy is not a big deal. I don’t want an old man poking around in my mouth with a drill, but I still go to the dentist. One in ten American males has been voluntarily sterilized. 500,000 men a year. I have friends that have done it. It’s not supposed to be that bad. I’m all for vasectomies. In fact, I urge YOU to get one.
If I really wanted to, I could get over Reason #1.
The MAIN reason I’m not getting a vasectomy is inspired by the ending of the classic Kubrick film Dr. Strangelove: Or How I Stopped Worrying and Learned to Love the Bomb.
Reason #2
I might be called upon to repopulate the planet.
My friend Ann finds this portion of my argument silly, and it’s not. It’s deadly serious. So let me explain.
Dr. Strangelove was made in the 1960s. The world was worried about the madness of MAD. Gigantic nuclear arsenals were supposed to deter nuclear war, but in the film, an Air Force high alert mission goes awry — with the help of the homicidal General Ripper — and his breach of authority sets off a cascading chain of events that results in an impending nuclear disaster.
If you haven’t seen this movie, you need to.
Dr. Stranglelove — an ex-Nazi in charge of U.S. military weapons R&D — suggests that the survivors of the initial nuclear blast could hide out in “some of our deeper mineshafts.” Radioactivity wouldn’t penetrate down there and in a matter of weeks, sufficient improvements in the dwelling space could be provided.
In the plan that he proposes to President Merkin Muffley, several hundred thousand citizens would need to remain in the mineshafts until the radiation subsides: one hundred years.
Peter Sellers plays both roles.
PRESIDENT MUFFLEY: You mean, people could actually stay down there for a hundred years?
DR. STRANGELOVE: It would not be difficult Mein Fuhrer! Nuclear reactors could, heh… I’m sorry. Mr. President. Nuclear reactors could provide power almost indefinitely. Greenhouses could maintain plant life. Animals could be bred and slaughtered.
The plan then takes a more eugenic slant.
Dr. Strangelove suggests a computer program should be used to determine who gets selected go down into the mine shaft (besides present company in the War Room . . . they get a free pass, of course).
And then we get to the real mission. The population in the mineshafts would have a “ratio of ten females to each male” and the women would be selected for “highly stimulating sexual characteristics,” Dr. Strangelove estimates that within twenty years the U.S. will be back to its present gross national product.
Even the highly distractible General Buck Turgidson finds this plan interesting. As does the Russian liaison.
GENERAL TURGIDSON Doctor, you mentioned the ratio of ten women to each man. Now, wouldn’t that necessitate the abandonment of the so-called monogamous sexual relationship, I mean, as far as men were concerned?
DR. STRANGELOVE Regrettably, yes. But it is, you know, a sacrifice required for the future of the human race. I hasten to add that since each man will be required to do prodigious service along these lines . . .
Since the Cold War ended, we haven’t been as concerned about all-out nuclear war. But COVID-19 has given us a sneak preview of another kind of apocalypse. And this one kills men at a higher rate than women (though it’s negligible).
But what if it wasn’t negligible?
What if there were a highly contagious virus that targets the Y chromosome and kills all the men? Or nearly all of them. This COULD happen. I read about it in a comic book.
What if this hypothetical virus kills all the men except me?
Or me and a couple of guys who have had their tubes snipped?
Then it will be up to me to repopulate the planet!
Regrettably, this will “necessitate the abandonment of the so-called monogamous sexual relationship.”
I’m willing to make that sacrifice and do “prodigious service” for the human race.
Here’s how I envision it. I’m lounging on a beautiful white sand beach of some lush tropical island, being tended to by a cadre of incredibly beautiful women from around the globe. Occasionally — perhaps once a week or so — a boat sails into the harbor.
A number of bikini-clad attendants lower one especially beautiful specimen into the water. Then they all stride through the surf, beads of saltwater on their bronze or brown or black or white skin.
I beckon them to come forward.
They present some delicacy from wherever they hail: Iceland, France, Zimbabwe, Egypt, Goa, the Sudan. I taste the food. I admire the women. The queen bee smiles coyly at me. She rubs my tan feet. Then we head into my candlelit bamboo hut and get to down to business.
Perhaps — if I’m feeling up to it — I bonus impregnate a few of the attendants as well. Why not? This is my job. I embrace it. Then they sail off, my future progeny lodged in their uteruses.
Though my friend Ann found my description of this scenario ludicrous, she was still willing to play along. “If you’re pretending this could happen, couldn’t you pretend that you were fertile? Even if you had a vasectomy?”
For a little while. But in nine months, the gig would be up. That’s too soon for such a sweet post.
Plus, who would be a better Adam for the planet than me? I want to do this. It’s a sacrifice I’m willing to make. So though it’s highly unlikely, I’m playing this lottery. Not having a vasectomy is the golden ticket.
I haven’t run this by my wife yet, but I’m sure she’ll be on board. If she trusted me to be the father of her offspring — if need be — why shouldn’t I father of the entire human race?
Staunton and Beyond: A Deadly Hike, Breweries, and Cider Houses
The rest of our trip to Staunton was a bit more relaxing than the first two days. The day after our epic hike up Elliots Knob it rained, so we headed east past Waynesboro to hit some of the many breweries and ciders that litter this area.
First, we went across the Blue Ridge Parkway to Route 151 to visit the Blue Mountain brewery. The fog was epic. No visibility. Pea soup. We made it, but it was scary. The Blue Mountain set up is impressive: great beer, huge restaurant, several bars, indoor and outdoor seating, etc. The place was packed! Great atmosphere.
I only had exactly one beer though because I wanted to get back to Waynesboro in exactly one piece. The bartender was helpful-- he had comprehensive knowledge about every bar and brewery in Staunton and Waynesboro and beyond.
We took his advice and we headed back through the fog to Basic City Beer. This place is in a metalworks warehouse on the outskirts of Waynesboro. The beer is excellent, I especially liked the 6th Lord IPA. The warehouse is huge and has shuffleboard, corn hole, giant TVs, ping-pong, pinball machines, video games, etc. Great place to bring the family.
And they have a kitchen cooperative, a place that was once a food truck and had now moved into the warehouse. Hops Kitchen.
I broke my New Year's Resolution (even though it was before 2020) and had some pork, on these pulled pork nachos, which were ridiculous.
I also beat my wife at Bananagrams, which is not easy.
We then walked across the parking lot to Blue Toad Cider House. Good stuff. We bought some to bring back. Jersey hasn't started making good cider yet (that I know of).
Then back to Staunton. We ate at The Mill Street Grill. A low-ceilinged wood paneled place that feels quite high end, attentive service, great menu, and all that, but the prices are reasonable. Highly recommended.
The next day the weather was ridiculous. It was drizzling, but over 60 degrees. The weather report said the rain was going to stop, so we packed up the dog and headed to Crabtree Falls. We were a little worried about the state of the trail because so much rain had come down, and apparently people die on this hike all the time. All the time! Over thirty people! And pets die too.
We took the scenic route, which may have been 30 seconds fast on Waze, but was also 30 times more dangerous. Incredible windy road.
The rain stopped as we started hiking. I was in shorts and a t-shirt. While you can see how people die on this trail-- as there are a lot of really dangerous spots to take selfies-- if you follow the advice on the signs then you most definitely will not die. The trail is well marked and there are overlooks with sturdy railing intermittently. People must really do some sill stuff on a regular basis to keep up the death toll.
I was able to let Lola off the leash for a good portion of the trail, and just reeled her in and leashed her at the spots that looked like certain death. Catherine proclaimed that Crabtree Falls is her Number #1 Waterfall hike in the world. It is impressive. A lot of viewpoints and the falls are endless. It is billed as the longest waterfall east of the Mississippi.
Here's a shot of Staunton from above the train station. Really a great town to wander, with so many historic sites and buildings.
First, we went across the Blue Ridge Parkway to Route 151 to visit the Blue Mountain brewery. The fog was epic. No visibility. Pea soup. We made it, but it was scary. The Blue Mountain set up is impressive: great beer, huge restaurant, several bars, indoor and outdoor seating, etc. The place was packed! Great atmosphere.
I only had exactly one beer though because I wanted to get back to Waynesboro in exactly one piece. The bartender was helpful-- he had comprehensive knowledge about every bar and brewery in Staunton and Waynesboro and beyond.
We took his advice and we headed back through the fog to Basic City Beer. This place is in a metalworks warehouse on the outskirts of Waynesboro. The beer is excellent, I especially liked the 6th Lord IPA. The warehouse is huge and has shuffleboard, corn hole, giant TVs, ping-pong, pinball machines, video games, etc. Great place to bring the family.
And they have a kitchen cooperative, a place that was once a food truck and had now moved into the warehouse. Hops Kitchen.
I broke my New Year's Resolution (even though it was before 2020) and had some pork, on these pulled pork nachos, which were ridiculous.
I also beat my wife at Bananagrams, which is not easy.
We then walked across the parking lot to Blue Toad Cider House. Good stuff. We bought some to bring back. Jersey hasn't started making good cider yet (that I know of).
Then back to Staunton. We ate at The Mill Street Grill. A low-ceilinged wood paneled place that feels quite high end, attentive service, great menu, and all that, but the prices are reasonable. Highly recommended.
The next day the weather was ridiculous. It was drizzling, but over 60 degrees. The weather report said the rain was going to stop, so we packed up the dog and headed to Crabtree Falls. We were a little worried about the state of the trail because so much rain had come down, and apparently people die on this hike all the time. All the time! Over thirty people! And pets die too.
We took the scenic route, which may have been 30 seconds fast on Waze, but was also 30 times more dangerous. Incredible windy road.
The rain stopped as we started hiking. I was in shorts and a t-shirt. While you can see how people die on this trail-- as there are a lot of really dangerous spots to take selfies-- if you follow the advice on the signs then you most definitely will not die. The trail is well marked and there are overlooks with sturdy railing intermittently. People must really do some sill stuff on a regular basis to keep up the death toll.
After hiking the falls, we headed to Devil's Backbone Brewery Basecamp on 151. This is an amazing location: restaurant, meadows, outdoor seating, cafes, etc. The weather had become spring-break-like. The staff was NOT prepared. The outdoor bar wasn't open and the place was utterly packed. The poor bartender was in the weeds! We were able to grab a beer and sit outside with the dog. Beer was great, this would be a great place to return when it's fully staffed and ready.
Next stop was Bold Rock Cider. This was our favorite place. We returned the next day-- it was colder as you can see by my wife's attire-- and sat and tasted ciders.
We eventually sat by the fire and talked to a pretty older mom--a Southern belle-- and her firebrand of a daughter. People in the south are so chatty. The mom had a nursing story about a quadrapelgic who was put into that tragic state by . . . you guessed it: Crabtree Falls!
We also visited Wild Wolf Brewery, which had great beer and food. You could make a whole vacation of hiking and visiting breweries and cider houses on 151. The places are all spacious, and kid and dog friendly.
This was the only sad part of our vacation.
Here's a shot of Staunton from above the train station. Really a great town to wander, with so many historic sites and buildings.
On our way to the breweries on 151, we did some driving on Skyline Drive through Shenandoah National Park and the Blue Ridge Parkway.
It was windy.
Lots of scenic overlooks.
A great winter break trip with my lovely wife . . .
And our silly dog . . .
We made great time driving back to Jersey (because we left at 6:30 AM on New Year's Day . . . that's the way to do it). We walked into the house and it smelled weird. My parents had picked the kids up after we left for Virginia. They closed up the house. Ian left a bowl full of noodles on the counter, which had gone rotten. It smelled upstairs as well. One of them had urinated and did not bother to flush. That stuff fermented, yuck. Back to reality.
We picked the kids up that evening. My wife, myself, and the dog were happy to see them (and smell them). But the break was nice.
Sandwich Choice
Apparently, if your wife makes you a sandwich for lunch-- especially if she very rarely makes your lunch-- and then you go to work and your boss has purchased a spread of really really good sandwiches from the Italian deli in Middlesex (Sapore) and you make an executive decision and eat the better sandwich (actually sandwiches, I had two) then you should throw away the sandwich your wife made and never tell her you didn't eat it-- this is what my wife suggested when I told her the truth about the sandwiches-- as she was rightfully annoyed that she made lunch for me and I didn't eat it . . . next time I will prevaricate and dispose of the evidence of my sandwich infidelity.
12th Man = Chili
So I have made Giants play-off chili three times in my life, and all three times have resulted in good luck for the Giants-- but Sunday was the first time I actually had good luck making the chili . . . to explain: the first time I made Giants play-off chili was in 1991-- the Giants played the Bears that afternoon in the NFC divisional play-off game, which they won 31-3, and then they eventually went on to beat Buffalo in the Super Bowl-- and I had recently received a crock-pot as a gift from my parents, once they discovered that I went off the William and Mary meal plan and pocketed the money, and so I was cooking for myself (which consisted of eating fast food, catfish we caught in the Chickahominy River and microwave burritos) and I decided to inaugurate the crock-pot by making some chili so I bought some beef and peppers and onions and chili powder and tossed it into the pot and left it to simmer for a few hours, but when I returned there was a slick of viscous golden liquid atop the chili and there was so much of it that I couldn't scoop it off, it had permeated the entire batch and the chili was disgusting and quite inedible and by this time my roommate Jason had returned and he took a look at the concoction and asked, "Did you brown the meat before you put it in?" and I said, "Brown the meat?" and he said, "You didn't brown the meat and drain the fat?" and that's when I learned that you need to brown the meat before you put it in a crock-pot and by this time the game was nearly on, so I put the top on the crock-pot full of fat saturated meat and peppers and unplugged it and . . . I forgot about it, I suppose it got lost among the detritus on the floor of our room and I "discovered" it a few weeks later; the chili was dry, irremovable, and covered with blue, green, and yellow fungus and so I did the only thing we could-- I tossed the crock-pot off the third floor balcony to the bricks below and a cheering crowd watched it explode into shards of pottery, chunks of chili, and clots of fungus; the second time I made Giants play-offs chili was in 2001, we were living in Damascus and the Giants played Minnesota in the NFC Championship game, which they would win 41-0 and then go on to lose to the Ravens in the Super Bowl (which my friend Drew and I watched at the U.S. Marine house in the middle of the night) and while I was cooking this batch of chili-- and I should mention that I browned the meat-- the power went out, which was a common occurrence in Damascus, so I had to cook by candle-light and I thought I might have to carry the chili to Drew's apartment for the game, because his power was still on, but miraculously, my power came back on an hour before game-time; unfortunately, while I was cooking in the dark, I over-salted the chili, and I soon learned that you can't erase the taste of salt with more spices, and so by the time my wife got home, it was nearly game time and I was close to tears and I hysterically beseeched my wife to help me-- I worked so hard! my chili tasted awful! more chili powder didn't work! more cumin didn't work! more cilantro didn't work! help!-- and my wife looked at me in disbelief and said, "Why don't you brown some more meat, and add a couple more cans of tomatoes and beans and dilute the salt?" and I realized: this was why I married her! this was brilliant! utilize ratio and proportion! more chili and the same amount of salt=less overall salt! and so I was able to save this batch of chili, and everyone enjoyed it as well as the resounding Giants victory; and the third time I made Giants play-off chili was, of course, on Sunday, and the Giants throttled the Packers 37-20, and not only that, but I finally got my culinary act together and made an excellent batch of chili (in a crock-pot) and so I think this bodes well for both the Giants and future batches of my play-off chili.
We Really Did Hike Glen Onoko Falls
Although we had a lovely hike up the Glen Onoko Falls Trail in Lehigh Gorge State Park (next to Jim Thorpe, PA) there isn't much evidence-- my wife took a number of pictures of myself, the dog and the boys as we climbed the treacherously steep, rocky trail-- and there are numerous photo ops as there is literally another waterfall at every turn in the path, each more scintillating than the next . . . and we even had a nice lady take a family picture by the sign (which contains dire warnings about the trail: hike at your own risk, sections of the trail are steep and treacherous, hikers have been seriously injured and killed, wear proper hiking shoes, use extreme caution, etcetera) but then my wife trusted our oldest son to select the best photos from the many on the phone, as he insisted he had a shortcut method of pruning all the pictures . . . but he didn't know his ass from his elbow and instead of keeping the photos he wanted, he permanently deleted them . . . but I got my revenge on Sunday when we went to Hickory Run State Park to see the Boulder Field; my wife had never seen the field, a terminal moraine created by a glacier during the last ice age-- 18 acres of various sized boulders, a lake of boulders in the midst of a pine and hickory evergreen forest-- but the kids and I had been there years ago; my older son insisted that we drove there the last time we went-- but I couldn't find any driving directions, so instead we hiked three and a half miles over rocky terrain on the eponymously named Boulder Field Trail to get to the field, and when we (finally!) arrived, my son noticed a parking lot on the opposite side, and his loud complaints jogged my brain and I vaguely remembered driving down a gravel road to get to the site-- but I insisted it was far more fun to hike it (and the dog certainly thought so) but on the return to the car, by mile seven my left knee hurt and my feet were sore and everyone was very hungry . . . luckily, Woody's Country House was open, if you go there, get the chili.
If Your Friends Jumped Off a Bridge, You Would Too (3x)
On Friday, soccer practice was canceled because the varsity coach and his immediate family had some exposure to some folks who came down with coronavirus. They had to do the whole test-and-wait thing.
So since there was no soccer, my son Alex said he was going to play spikeball with his friends.
Serendipitously, our acupuncturist had just opened up. She has two rooms at her office, so my wife and I both booked appointments. We told our other son Ian where we were going, put our phones on do not disturb, and went and got punctured.
During that hour block when we were incommunicado pincushions, my son Alex sent a sequence of interesting texts.
He was not playing spikeball.
Instead, him and his older buddies had decided to head to "the safest place in New Jersey." His definition of "the safest place in New Jersey" was a nearby lake with a small cliff to jump off. He said the cliff was seven feet or so.
We were sort of annoyed that he didn't check with us before he took off on this adventure-- and we added a new rule to the parenting handbook: if you can't contact us, you are not allowed to leave town on a dangerous adventure!
We asked for some details and got them. I've got to commend my son on being the only one in this group to actually disclose where he was headed. The other kids did NOT inform their parents what they were doing.
Of course, he did not FULLY disclose what was going on. Not sure if this was due to ignorance or his desire to protect his mother from the truth.
First of all, he was headed an hour SOUTH on the Turnpike, not north.
Second, he was jumping off a forty-foot bridge into a dirty tidal estuary. Kraft's Bridge. While it's not the safest place in New Jersey-- my living room couch is the safest place in New Jersey-- it's supposedly fairly safe, as far as bridge-jumping goes.
This is what happens when soccer practice is canceled due to a pandemic.
Alex was with the same guys that he went on this epic biking adventure with. They just graduated and he's a rising junior, so I can see how this all went down.
How do you refuse a bridge jumping expedition with some college guys?
His buddy Gary went as well . . . Gary said he was going to "rocket club." Some of you may know Gary from the NYT Mini-crossword leaderboard. He's a smart kid. So that made me feel better.
As an aside, now Alex and his two older buddies have completed the biking and swimming legs of a very stupid triathlon.
I assume the running portion will involve streaking.
As usual, though this was kind of a rash decision, things might have gone smoothly, if it wasn't for a lack of communication. Alex stopped answering calls and texts, and we didn't have his friends' cell-phone numbers.
Like his bike adventure, it got dark and my wife got increasingly worried.
I texted my friend and asked if he had heard from his son. He said no, that his son had gone to play spikeball. I informed him that his son was not playing spikeball, he was down in south Jersey, jumping off a bridge into a river.
"Sounds bad," my friend texted back.
So now my wife and I were just hanging around, worried. We hadn't heard from anyone.
I call this dilemma Schrödinger's Phone.
If cell-phones didn't exist-- like when we were young-- then none of the parents would have had any idea of what was going on. Ignorance is bliss. We would have thought that Alex was playing spikeball and he lost track of time.
We would have been annoyed but not worried.
But it's not 1986 (spikeball didn't even exist in 1986).
It's 2020 and so-- like Schrödinger's cat-- the boys were in a quantum superposition. They were in all states: drowned in the Rancocas Creek, on their way home, broken down on the side of the Turnpike, etc. Alive, dead, injured, safe, sound . . . until we got information from the phone, all the possibilities in the universe are possible.
A message from the phone would reveal (and possibly create) their reality. That's what we were waiting for.
It finally came, around 8:30 PM. They had left their phones in the car, so they wouldn't get wet (except for the kid who drove-- he had a waterproof phone and brought it to the river in case they needed to call 911).
The reason they got held up for so long is that their driver-- the kid with the phone-- froze up on the concrete ledge. He couldn't climb back up to the bridge and he was too scared to jump. I've seen this happen to people. So this poor kid spent over an hour on the ledge, petrified. Meanwhile, Alex said he did the jump three times. From the concrete ledge and from the bridge itself. So did his other two friends.
Finally, their driver jumped. They all walked back to the car, only to find that their driver has left the keys back by the river. He had to walk all the way back down the path, in the dark, to find his keys.
Alex said he could see his phone ringing in the car and knew he was in trouble. But he couldn't get to it.
Luckily, the driver found his keys, and they got home safe and sound.
Alex got to clean all the bathrooms in our Saturday morning (and that's just the start of his chore list).
Once again, he was fairly close to getting through this adventure without consequence, but he was done in by the existence of cell-phones. And, as I said, it turns out he was the only person who gave his parents any idea of where he was going. So there's that.
And it's kind of nice to have someone clean all the bathrooms. I'm sure this won't be the last time he does that . . .
It's Easy to Get In, But It Ain't Easy to Get Out
Walter Mosley's White Butterfly is the third novel in his Easy Rawlins trilogy. It's less of a period piece than the first two: Devil in a Blue Dress captures the post-WWII vibe of the 1940s in LA and The Red Death relies on the Red Scare of the 1950s to propel the plot.
This one is a classic case; a serial killer-- who had already killed a number of black women-- murders a white girl, a stripper from a good family. Now that there is a white victim, the police are suddenly interested, but their only conduit into the streets of Watts is Ezekiel "Easy" Rawlins (and his various associates). So they lean on Easy for information, knowing full well that he is going to see that there was little investigation into this case when black prostitutes were being murdered.
The problem is that Easy is married now. He's got a lovely wife-- she's a healthcare worker and a wonderful mom-- and he's got a young daughter, and he's pretty much adopted the mute boy Jesus from the first novel. He's settled down, making his money off his rental properties. And he hasn't told his way bubkis about his checkered past (but she suspects). So he's a reluctant sort-of-detective. He's annoyed by the task, sick of the racism, and happy to spend time with his family and his financial projects.
But he's got to hit the streets of Watts again-- the brothels, the seedy apartments, the down-and-out jazz bars, the strip clubs-- in search of names and leads. Or the police will put his psychotic buddy Mouse away for good. His wife isn't happy about this change in demeanor, and Easy starts drinking hard and making wild decisions. He's a black man in a white world and the police and politicians are using him for all he's worth.
This book relies on my favorite criminal plot. The archetype. If you get involved in illicit activities, this is what you have to look forward to:
This one is a classic case; a serial killer-- who had already killed a number of black women-- murders a white girl, a stripper from a good family. Now that there is a white victim, the police are suddenly interested, but their only conduit into the streets of Watts is Ezekiel "Easy" Rawlins (and his various associates). So they lean on Easy for information, knowing full well that he is going to see that there was little investigation into this case when black prostitutes were being murdered.
The problem is that Easy is married now. He's got a lovely wife-- she's a healthcare worker and a wonderful mom-- and he's got a young daughter, and he's pretty much adopted the mute boy Jesus from the first novel. He's settled down, making his money off his rental properties. And he hasn't told his way bubkis about his checkered past (but she suspects). So he's a reluctant sort-of-detective. He's annoyed by the task, sick of the racism, and happy to spend time with his family and his financial projects.
But he's got to hit the streets of Watts again-- the brothels, the seedy apartments, the down-and-out jazz bars, the strip clubs-- in search of names and leads. Or the police will put his psychotic buddy Mouse away for good. His wife isn't happy about this change in demeanor, and Easy starts drinking hard and making wild decisions. He's a black man in a white world and the police and politicians are using him for all he's worth.
This book relies on my favorite criminal plot. The archetype. If you get involved in illicit activities, this is what you have to look forward to:
Or you might prefer this meta-impression.
And then there's this silliness . . .
Anyway, I really liked this novel. Again, with Mosely the plot is secondary. It's the view into the black man's world-- and not through an Uncle Tom like detective Quinten Naylor . . . a guy Easy despises because he walks and talks and politicizes like a white man-- but the ambiguous world that any hustling black man from this time period had to endure.
The novel doesn't end perfectly for Easy . . . if the series is to continue, you can't have a wife dragging you towards domestic life . . . and the series does continue. Movies as various as Trainspotting and Goodfellas (and The Godfather, of course) have taught me the big lesson:
Just when you think you've gotten out, they pull you back in.
Happens every time.
Tupperware Tetris
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The Avengers Are Not As Super As My Wife
The Avengers is certainly action-packed, but the heroes are too super for me . . . when the characters are invincible, there's not much on the line (plus they stole the ending from the movie version of The Watchmen) but my wife, on the other hand (who is a mere mortal) did perform a super-heroic feat while we were watching The Avengers and she did it with everything on the line . . . my son Ian said, "My tummy hurts, I think I'm going to throw up," and in a split second, with her super-human reflexes, my wife whipped out the giant bag of potato chips that she had smuggled into the theater, got it perfectly positioned in front of Ian's face as he yakked-- in the dark! the the fucking dark!-- and then calmly took Ian and the bag of potato chips/vomit to the bathroom, tossed the latter, cleaned up the former . . . and brought him back so he could enjoy the rest of the movie . . . I'd like to see Natalia Romanova pull that off.
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