Back to waking up at 6 AM feeling under-slept. I'd return to bed but Joe the Painter's due at 9 AM and I have much more SYNT writing ahead. My plan to write throughout the week broke down and I'm scrambling to remember just what the fuck went on these past few days. The best I can hope for is a simulacrum. Joe arrives early while I'm on the toilet. I text him I'll need a minute. These things mustn't be rushed.
It'll top out around 93º today, so we discuss the possibility of him working inside.
"Nah. I'm okay. I'm used to working in the heat. I'm just gonna do some scraping and prep work today anyway."
Fine by me. Joe gets to it outside while I'm camped at the dining room table cranking out a first draft. It moves along until the doorbell rings around 1 PM. It's Joe. He's lost his phone. He's a bit distraught, wants to come in, look around.
"Is it an iPhone? Can you track it?"
"No. It's not an iPhone. I must've put it down somewhere."
"Let me call your number."
I do and it quickly goes into voicemail.
"I think I might've set it down on the ledge. Is it possible someone walked by and picked it up?"
"I don't know. You want me to look at my doorbell video and see if I spot something?"
"Could you? That'd be great."
The next ten minutes is spent reviewing video from both cameras near the front door. Nothing. I'm beginning to resent how I've been pulled away from the task at hand, wondering if Joe’s worth the trouble. His work is good, his rate even better. But every time he shows up there's a problem that ends up becoming a time-suck.
"Hey Joe, I'm sorry but I have to get back to what I'm doing."
It’d be nice to wrap this up before 6 PM. Wish me luck.
Okay, I managed to get the newsletter out by 6 PM. Whew. It’s another newsletter that has me reeling. I’m on the mailing list for The Best Show newsletter and it says that Tom Scharpling’s opened a studio (with performance space!) in LA. I have no doubt he’s also moved there. This sends me into a funk. I keep wondering if that could’ve been me. Tom and I started out at roughly the same time at WFMU. He got a title shot outdoors and I got a one-way ticket to Palookaville. Rather than discuss it with Sweet T. I wait until she goes off to bed and call a few friends, hoping to be talked off the ledge. Jeff tells me it’s a bad time, makes vague reference to something he’s "going through" and begs off the phone in a matter of minutes, saying he'll call me. It’s all very odd. Jim says he'd call me some other time, he has a big day tomorrow. I'd forgotten he wasn't taking his usual Wednesday off and it’s already 10:30 PM. Time to try someone in California. Kaz and I spoke the other day and EJ was mentioned during the call (in reference to Mulholland Drive, the movie), so I phone EJ. The call lasts much longer than I intend, almost an hour. We go back and forth about the state of the world and ourselves, then I tell him how I've been confronted with my lack of achievement in life when the Best Show newsletter lands. I mention the whole "Comparison is the thief of joy" thing and EJ is forthright in his response.
"While you're comparing yourself to Tom Scharpling are you also comparing yourself to the guy who's gonna be sleeping in a box tonight?"
No, not really.
"You've also done a lot, you know. You were in The Nihilistics. You were on the radio. There's the Coney Island stuff. I read all about it. And I'm concerned for you because I know you think you haven't done much but you can write. You have a voice. How many people can say that?"
I suppose. You mean I can't just go on feeling sorry for myself, asking Why him? Why not ME?!
EJ goes on in this vein, even after I tell him I need to get to bed. We’re still talking 20 minutes later. Finally, around 11:35 PM, I wrap it up for good and head to bed, dejected.
WEDNESDAY
Despite setting the alarm clock (a Westclox Moonglow that wakes you with light) for 6 AM I’m not up until 6:40. Had a hard time falling asleep last night (I have a hard time falling asleep most nights) due to the news about Tom Scharpling and his move to LA. It was 12:20 AM before I closed my eyes and drifted off. Now I'm scrambling to get dressed and hit the bathroom for my morning ablutions before Sweet T. finishes her coffee and breakfast. When I get downstairs to the dining room she's halfway through her bowl of cereal.
"Sorry about getting up late. I set the alarm for the usual time. I don't know what happened."
I don't go into the whole Tom Scharpling thing with her to avoid being on the receiving end of a long pep talk. I want to move on from this. Sweet T. tells me there's no cereal left but she missed the bag of LIDL granola in the cabinet. There's just enough coffee to fill my mug, which I carry to the dining room table with the granola. Sweet T. points out the remaining blueberries in a mini-colander and they go atop the granola, now in a deep bowl. We're on oatmilk now, after soy and almond excursions. Sweet T. and I talk about our upcoming weekend. We're going to Rhode Island to see my sister and her family. It's been almost two years. We were there last for my niece Kristen's baby shower. The baby's been born and is 18 months old. Time to return to Rhode Island.
After Sweet T. leaves for work I get myself together for another visit to Lee at Hybrid Motors. He's putting in a temperature sensor so the damn anti-freeze idiot light on my dashboard stops lighting up. The drive to Fairview is excruciatingly slow at this hour. I'm behind two NJ Transit buses. There's another behind me. These buses no longer pull over, even if the bus stop is clear and no one's parked there. They stop dead in the middle of the street to discharge or take on passengers. They're too goddamn big to drive around so all the way up Boulevard East and beyond we're constantly stopping. Finally, somewhere in Guttenberg, I'm able to pass one bus but just barely: another is coming my way in the opposite lane and for a moment I'm not sure I can thread this needle. I gun it and manage to emerge unscathed. I arrive at Lee's at 8:05 AM and he gets to the sensor replacement right away.
"Did you hit any traffic on the way here?"
"Yeah. That fucking Boulevard East. Two buses in front of me. They don't even pull over any more."
"Tell me about it. I don't miss that drive."
Lee used to live on my block. Now he's in Cliffside Park.
"Those buses, man: they go through a light, it's green, I'm right behind them but it takes them so long to get through the intersection the light turns red by the time I pass under it. I did that three times on the way over here."
Lee shakes his head. He's been disassembling whatever's in his way so he can reach the sensor, located at the bottom of the anti-freeze overflow reservoir. We talk about a few other subjects, like his recently torn bicep, which required surgery, and my hamstring injury, which does not. Lee's a weightlifter (but that's not how he tore his bicep) and I tell him about the protein powder and amino acids I recently ordered to help the hamstring heal. He approves of this approach. The replacement of the sensor takes longer than Lee thought and I'm not out of there until almost 9 AM. Then I stop at the 7-11 around the corner for more coffee (I left the house before I could finish mine). Target’s next, to pick up a shower gift from my niece's wedding registry. It's a crappy, overcast and humid day, perfectly reflecting my interior state. Target's probably not the place to be right now as the whole place just depresses me even further. I can't tell you why. All the cheap shit made in China? The workers frantically stocking shelves, the ones you can't squeeze past with your cart? The fact that this is where I am at 10 AM on a Wednesday? Or could it be that they don't have the wedding registry item they said they did? This is the second time the Target app told me "2 IN STOCK" when there's zero in stock. Fuck. I find a nearby Target "Team Member" and she checks her special top secret Target phone.
"No. We don't have any in stock. There are some arriving June 11."
Yeah, that doesn't help me. We were going to bring it with us this weekend, surprise my niece and her fiancé. Stupid Target. So the trip isn't a total waste I swing by the pet food area and buy cat food, then I get non-dairy creamer and some frozen plant-based protein shit (fake chicken, fake Italian sausage). I'm the only one at the register and I pack my own purchases in the bags I brought. Out in the parking lot I notice bird shit all over my car and debate whether to stop at the Tonnelle Ave car wash on the way home.
Shit. Why didn't I buy some car wash soap when I was in there?
I'm not even sure car wash soap is needed. Can't I use Dawn or some other crap? Okay, fuck the car wash, too. It's going rain later and tomorrow, so let nature take its course. Instead, I phone Matt, tell him I want to go by Guttenberg Arts and do a site survey for the upcoming Güttengreenfest, their first-ever street fair. I'm running the sound and need to suss out some details on power, etc. I'm there and parked in five minutes. Matt's glad to see me and we get caught up, then go hunting for AC outlets near the street.
"I just had an outdoor outlet installed and you guys might want to think about the same thing here. It could really come in handy for stuff like this."
Matt agrees but for now he's okay with running an extension cord out of the building to the PA and other audio gear. We agree the "stage" (whatever it ends up being) should be near the building so we don't need 100-feet long extension cables. The idea of using the loading dock to stage music acts is bandied about. But there's supposed to be a glass-blowing demonstration on the loading dock, so that's a no. After ten minutes I tell Matt I need to get home.
"I have groceries in the trunk."
Back at home I see Joe the Painter's truck parked in front of our driveway. But Joe's nowhere around. As I'm unloading groceries from my trunk he comes down the block, says "Hello."
"Hey, how's it going? Did you get a phone yet?"
"No. And it's gonna sound dumb but I didn't get one because I didn't like the salesman."
"Okay..."
"Yeah, he was really pressuring me. He wouldn't show me anything basic, just wanted me to get something with a lot of bells and whistles."
Joe hasn't told me if he's here to do more work. Instead, he launches into another tail of woe.
"I gotta go see my old landlord. He wants me completely out by today. It's the first of the month. But now he says I clogged the kitchen sink. And he wants me to fix it before he'll return my security deposit. But I couldn't rent a snake yesterday. Anyway. I was gonna do more scraping and prep work 'cause it's supposed to rain tomorrow but I have to go take care of this."
"Yeah, sure, no problem."
I'm in a foul mood and don't feel like dealing with Joe today anyway.
"So how do we reach each other?"
"Oh! I'm going to get a new phone right now. I hope I still have your number when I get it set up."
"If you don't, just come by. You know where I live. Should I keep looking for your old phone, by the way?"
"Nah. I really think someone walked off with it. I know I had it in my back pocket after I got out of my truck. Then I didn't want it to get damaged while I was working over by the garage, so I took it out of my pocket and put it down. Someone must've come by and grabbed it."
"That's so fucked up. I mean, I looked at the video from both of our cameras and didn't see a thing. Maybe I should look again."
Joe leaves and I take the groceries inside and put them away. Marty does some social rolls for me, Roger's nowhere to be seen. Down in the basement I run a load of laundry, then go searching for an XL Hound shirt to fulfill a recent order. I'm confronted again with all the That Cave shit stuffed into the basement closet. Something. Must. Be. Done. About. This.
Upstairs in the office the app used to process T-shirt orders is launched on our iMac, which reminds me we never updated to the latest OS. That's because I've long planned a purge and cleanup of duplicates and junk files on the machine. But it's yet another thing I've yet to get around to. How did I get ANYTHING done when I had a job? Even with all this time available to me it's impossible to get to everything that needs doing. So much is falling by the wayside that it's all wayside. The other pressing project is to go into Mint, which keeps track of all my finances, and clean up the categories and info so it reflects reality. Tomorrow we meet with a Fidelity financial adviser (why he wanted Sweet T. in on this is not entirely clear) and plot a path forward through this uncertainty. Good luck with that, eh? No one knows where this shit is heading, least of all me. I'm trying to be stoic, remember to only worry about what's in my control. Another failure.
There's not much time left in the day before Sweet T.'s home and using these few hours wisely tortures me. There's too much on my punch list, which would be lovely if it was a list of punches I've yet to try. I've only had Hawaiian and Champagne punch, come to think. No, this punch list has items like "SeeYouNextTue! website" (build an online spot to gather all these newsletters); "tapewormhole.com set up" (build an online spot to gather all my audio); "tsakis.com rebuild" (do something about my ancient, horrible Tumblr-based website). It's not just website bullshit, either. There's mundane reminders ("Prescriptions" and "Attach trim to car" and "List more items for sale" and "Ship Hound T-shirt"), and a bunch of "Clean up" items. I'm to "Clean up" computers, external drives, the basement closet, my phone, etc. The final category is date-specific: "Bring Mopar toolboard" and "Gifts: whistles, books, etc." Those are items we're to bring to Rhode Island Friday when we visit my sister and her family. They're also the only two Punch List items besides "Prescriptions" I'm guaranteed to complete any time soon. The rest, including "Reconfigure Fios" (why is the fiber optic cable going into the basement where the ONT is, then traveling to the second floor via coax cable, only to hit the Fios modem and THEN our Airport router?), "Chest Handles" (replace the broken leather handles on our antique storage chest) and "iMessages out of iCloud" (empty 20 or more gigabytes of text messages from my account) are all "Future Business". Who the fuck knows when they'll be ticked off?
I'm not tackling any Punch List items with my remaining time before Sweet T.'s home. Right now it's time to set up an audio demo in the garage so I can sell a turntable and speakers to Joe from the DPW. This requires confronting the That Cave stack on the rear wall of our over-loaded garage. First, I need to remove the Harbor Freight moving blanket attached to the LIDL metal shelving with spring-loaded clamps. Holy shit. Out of sight, out of mind. Here's where I stuck the Mermaid Parade podium, that bamboo end-table we never sold, the Plexiglas bakery display I thought I'd use in That Cave (and never did) and the rolling cart with six drawers crammed with items from the Myron Levitsky Memorial Stash™. None of this concerns me now. What I'm after is that Marantz combo amp, the Acoustic Research XA turntable and a set of speakers, probably the KLH Model 20s. Extracting the Marantz and the AR requires shifting some shit around. Using a step stool, I relocate several items to the top shelf, then gingerly extract the Marantz and AR. They go on the floor while I clear off the workbench of four large plastic storage containers, which will eventually end up piled next to the bamboo end-table after I empty the rolling cart's contents into a banker's box. The whole time one question loops through my mind:
WHY DO I STILL HAVE ALL THIS SHIT?!
No answers are forthcoming. There's a vague sense there's still value here. If only I could get this shit to the Meadowlands Flea it can generate a few dollars. I'm not interested in doing yet more garage sales. If Joe from the DPW hadn't bought a guitar at our last garage sale I would've cleared about $10 for a full day's work. Speaking of, I tried texting Joe to see when he wanted to stop by and check out what I'm selling. It bounced back. He answers on the second ring when I call.
"Hey, Joe. It's Chris from Hudson Place. We talked on Monday about turntables and speakers. I'm ready to show you what I'm selling."
"Oh, yeah... hey, buddy. Thanks for calling."
"I tried texting. It didn't work."
"Yeah, my son handles all that shit. I don't know how to do that. But let me see if I can get by there today."
"Just call before you come by. My wife may have her car in the garage."
"Okay, buddy. Let me see if I can get over there."
With the workbench cleared there's just enough space for the large KLH speakers, the Marantz and the AR. Somehow, I find the Zip-Loc bag with all my speaker wire and the first order of business is to wire the speakers up properly. Then the AR turntable is connected to the PHONO jacks of the Marantz. The AR's AC power is plugged into a SWITCHED outlet on the Marantz, then the Marantz is plugged into the power-strip on my workbench. Time to hunt for some records to play. There's a vintage crate full of vinyl on the end-table and I pull out three LPs I think Joe will like: Good Rascals Greatest Hits, Blue Oyster Cult – Spectres and the first Van Halen LP. It's never a bad time to hear Godzilla so I slap the Blue Oyster Cult on the AR and bring the volume up on the Marantz. It's not the most powerful of the Marantz Made-in-the-USA stuff but this little pre/power amp sounds great through these speakers. I crank it up just past half, hoping the AR doesn't begin to squawk about its proximity to the speakers. But it was designed for this, the first turntable with a floating tonearm and three-point suspension for the base (a design still copied). If Godzilla begins it has to finish, so I listen to the entire song, remembering when I sang it at my last-ever WFMU Hoof & Mouth finale. Its chorus can sum up how many feel about The Gatekeeper:
Oh no, they say he's got to go... don't go, Godzilla.
The Gatekeeper's Godzilla, laying waste to the place yet somehow still beloved. I know, I know: “Chris is going off on THIS again?!” What can I say? WFMU will also be part of my life, even if I'm no longer welcome there. I'm in good company. So many have left or been pushed through that one-way door that we could start our own 24-hour on-air schedule.
After my successful demo I try Joe the DPW Guy again.
"Can't get there today, buddy. Tomorrow. I'll stop by tomorrow."
Here's hoping.
Back in the house I feed the cats, then notice a text from Sweet T. She'll be home around 7 PM. I'd forgotten there's a retirement party at her school. She's not the only one leaving. This gives me some more time to work on the computer and call Mermaid Parade Chief Justice Mark. He recently lost his dog to cancer and we commiserate about pets. I confide in him.
"I'm preparing myself now for the mess I'll be when Roger goes."
Mark tells me his family's taking the loss hard. How could they not? Our animals give us so much and ask so little. They might be the purest relationships we have.
Beyond pets, Mark and I discuss the latest Mermaid Parade news. He can't believe we won't be part of it again.
"I know. I was just cleaning up my phone and I deleted all the Mermaid Parade reminder lists. I had one for my clothing, one for the other shit I brought. I took screenshots before I deleted it all. Don't ask me why."
Mark tells me the Coney Island USA site was down for quite some time and no one seemed to notice or care. He's ostensibly the guy who administers the site but they wrested control from him as they grease the skids for his expulsion. He's dreading the next board meeting because they'll likely remove him, all for the crime of being a friend to Dick Zigun, Coney Island USA's founder and the man about whom a documentary's been made, Savior of Coney Island.
"How is Dick, anyway? I called him a few days ago but he was on the way to his lawyer's and didn't say much. He just told me things weren't going well."
Mark doesn't know any more than me. He reiterates that negotiations started well but have since unraveled. It's a turn of events I still can't believe. Coney Island USA with Dick Zigun is like a Nathan's hot dog without mustard. I'm happy that Dick's now involved with Luna Park but the fact he's no longer welcome in the CIUSA building continues to astound.
Mark and I wrap up the call by discussing the possibility of a Parade-day get-together at his place on Long Island. Let's see.
Sweet T. gets home with a bouquet of white roses and a whole bunch of cash. The next few weeks will bring a shower of gift cards, cash, flowers, chocolate, etc. Everyone who worked with her or was taught by her will let her know she'll be missed. It must be emotional for her.
I crank out dinner for myself, then hit the shower. It's 8:30 PM before we're in the basement watching "Track 2" of Pistol, the Sex Pistols miniseries from Danny Boyle (Trainspotting, et al). I want to hate-watch this show but it's too much fun. The needle-drops alone are spot on, the performances are over-the-top and the era depicted reminds us why the Pistols were desperately needed. See it if you can and read the Steve Jones memoir Lonely Boy upon which it’s based.
THURSDAY
Up at 6 AM. Roger and Marty get Fancy Feast, beef in gravy. These boys are not into the seafood so much. But put dead cow in front of them and they scarf it up. Speaking of, today's my first day mixing collagen into my coffee. I thought I'd give it a try but I'm not thrilled it's bovine. Can you get collagen from a cow without killing it? I should Google that. Breakfast is a soft-boiled egg and toasted semolina bread. Sweet T.'s out the door by 7 AM and after I clean up, Marty joins me on a recliner while I do the Wordle. Somehow, with only one correct letter, I guess the answer on my third try. Marty falls quickly asleep and I'd love to join him but there's too much to do. I let our best-dressed cat take a nap until a pee is needed. Marty hates – absolutely hates – for his slumber to be disturbed. Sorry, pal.
Throughout the day I'll head to the porch to peek outside, see what's happening in front of the house. That's how I spy Joe the Painter, climbing out of his pickup parked in front of Christine's. I grab the front door key, step out on our stoop.
"Hey Joe! How did it go with your phone?"
"Hey. I got the phone but it's not completely set up. I'm having technical difficulties."
"I know. I tried texting you and it bounced back. Do you want to try calling me?"
"I haven't been able to access my Google contacts."
"Do you have a pen or a pencil?"
Joe goes searching through his pockets, then heads to his pickup. He emerges with a pen and a notepad. I recite my number to him twice, then we talk about the ongoing work at our house.
"You coming by here today?"
"No. I'm doing some interior work for Christine. But tomorrow's supposed to be a nice day, so definitely. I can do more scraping and sanding, a little clean up."
"Okay. We won't be here Friday, so will you need access to the house?"
"No. I should be good."
"Okay. If you need power we have that new outdoor outlet in the backyard. And I can probably leave you a garage door remote."
"I don't think it'll be necessary."
Joe says he'll call me when gets his new phone working properly. Then he heads into Christine's. Before I go back inside I notice new NO PARKING signs taped to trees and a telephone pole along the curb across the street in front of Agro Joe's.
"Maybe he's moving out?"
From my thoughts to the universe's ears.
My next task is to order a gift for my niece who's getting married. This is much harder than it sounds. Her and her fiancé are registered at two stores and access to the registry is via something called "theknot.com" where all their wedding info's aggregated. For weeks we've been trying to buy them a robot vacuum, to no avail. I've gone to two or three Target stores after their app's told me TWO are in STOCK at EDGEWATER" or "Only ONE left at NORTH BERGEN COMMONS". But it always turns out to be false. The particular model they want is out of stock. The only other robotic vacuums are not nearly the same. So strategy shifts. We'll get them the fancy French enameled cast-iron braiser instead. Amazon says they can ship it same day and, yes, I know the human misery this will engender but we planned to bring the happy couple's gift with us to Rhode Island. This will work out perfectly if we get the braiser by 10 PM and I use the "Put that shit in a gift bag" option. The braiser comes out to almost $400 with tax. When Sweet T.'s informed via text that the gift problem is solved she asks how much she should kick in.
"Let's figure it out when you're home."
Good thing she's not here now: across the street we find out what the NO PARKING signs are for when a work crew in three large vehicles arrives to whack branches off trees. Our neighbor's minivan is one of two remaining vehicles along the curb and I text them about the cop who's either writing tickets or calling a tow truck. They're not home and no one has access to a car key to move their Honda. Maybe I should've kept my mouth shut instead of worrying them. But I'd want the heads up, shoe on the other foot. Another neighbor speaks with the cop, then points up the street to the house where the Jeep Wrangler's owner lives. A few minutes later the Jeep's moved and the tree crew takes whatever curb they can. Then a guy in a cherry picker lops off branches too near the power and phone lines. Two other workers on the street below gather the branches and feeds them into a chipper. This goes on all morning into the afternoon. No peace and quiet here today.
Up in the office I'm determined to clear space on my phone so I can shoot some pictures and video when we're in Rhode Island. My technique is ham-fisted but there's no better alternative. Selecting hundreds of photos and videos already imported, I delete them directly on the phone, then empty the trash. It's remarkable to me that Apple still has no way to do this simply via your desktop or laptop. You should be able to hook your phone up to your computer and delete entire albums of photos with one click. All I find online are workarounds usually involving third-party paid software. I don't want to pay for yet one more thing. My photo dump frees up 30 gigabytes of space, which is fine for now. Before the phone's disconnected a text arrives from Jeff, the friend who begged off the phone last night. I'd called him to be talked off my jealousy/envy ledge but he was too upset to speak. Now he's responding to my Sorry for what you're going through. Here's a GIF of a monkey. (Davy Jones, Monkee) text with a report of having met his first “…old school femme fatale" and I'm again thankful to no longer be dating.
While I pack for our trip to the Ocean State, my mind’s on my money. We're due in a 5 PM Zoom meeting with a Fidelity financial adviser to discuss what happens next with my dwindling 401K. They want Sweet T. in on the meeting but storms are predicted and she'll likely be delayed getting home. I've told her not to worry, that I can start the meeting alone and she can join. But she doesn't know why they want her involved. Do they hope to sell her something? Or do they want to make sure she's okay with what they plan? I'm still on the fence about letting Fidelity invest my money but it's not like I know what I'm doing. I've been using an automated service, Blooom, to adjust my risk profile and allocate dollars among the various investment vehicles in my 401K. It's almost a hands-off policy and maybe it's time to put hands on. We'll find out. In the interim it's time for a trip to America's least-favorite supermarket, LIDL. As I walk over with my shopping bags I scan the sky to see dark clouds rolling in from the west. Looks to be a bad one with possible loss of power. Maybe we won't have a Zoom meeting after all. Inside the Tower Shopping Plaza, which houses the LIDL, my first stop is a mailbox in the Post Office annex so I can I drop off the Hound shirt packed up yesterday. At the LIDL cart corral there are no fucking shopping carts, per usual. I ask the first LIDL employee I see where the carts are.
"In the parking lot."
Yes, businesses everywhere are understaffed, even here where the starting wage is $15 an hour. But understaffing is part of LIDL's strategy. They run their stores on a skeleton crew and can't spare a person to go round up carts in the parking lot, I guess. I'm forced to do what various signs at Whole Foods (LIDL probably cuts costs by not printing up signs) ask customers not to: PLEASE SHOP INTO A CART – DO NOT PLACE ITEMS IN YOUR BAG. If anyone working here cares enough to stop me I'll let them know they have no shopping carts available. But after thirty minutes of shoving avocados, an onion, lettuce, etc., in my bag no one says peep. Again, there are two registers of six in operation and no self-serve registers (again, LIDL, cutting expenses due to loss, refusing to put the customer first). Lord, I hate this place. On the way out I stop a LIDL employee – he happens to be a security guard – and ask if the manager's around.
"No. He's off today."
So who's minding the store? Jesus. I was not intending to go full-Karen, by the way, but I did want to point out the lack of carts. As if the manager would give a shit. On the way home I run into Christine, the neighbor who visited last week.
"Man, I hate that LIDL. There's no shopping carts in there. I guess we're supposed to round them up ourselves."
"Tell me about it. You can't even get a simple bag of rice."
"Of all the supermarkets they could've stuck in there why this one? I'd love to know who else put in a bid."
Christine wonders out loud if Shop Rite would've put another store so close to their Hoboken and Edgewater locations. Or Kings. Or why Whole Foods ended up down on the waterfront.
"Who knows? Maybe the Germans researched Hudson County politics and put some money in a bag under the table?"
Christine laughs. We part ways and I'm soon back at the house unpacking the LIDL haul just before the rain arrives. While I do a load of laundry and pack for Rhode Island the storm fully manifests. I contact Fidelity, tell me we should reschedule due to the storm. Roger and Marty hide when the thunder begins and don't reemerge until Sweet T.'s home around 5 PM. She's off tomorrow so we can travel, which means beer with dinner. While we eat we try to recall when we last visited Rhode Island and realize it was for my niece's baby shower. Her second daughter is now 18 months old and she was 7 or 8 months pregnant when we were there. So a long time. Fuck this pandemic.
FRIDAY
My light up alarm clock is not lighting up. Maybe the bulb went? I wake at 7:20 needing a pee. There's breakfast to make and my car to pack before we can leave Weehawken. We also put out extra dry food for the cats. Nanny Nancy won't be here to cat-sit until Saturday afternoon, so we tell Roger and Marty to be good buys until we return.
"Please don't kill each other."
A simple ask, no?
The car's finally pointed north around 9 AM. We're avoiding the horror that is the George Washington Bridge and Cross Bronx Expressway in favor of the Mario Cuomo (umm, Tappan Zee, thanks!). Halfway over the bridge I launch Waze and it directs us to the Hutchinson, which becomes the Merritt Parkway. Waze must known something we don't about the stretch of 95 after the Cross Bronx, usually a nightmare. The Hutchinson (and the Merritt) are earlier roads dating back to the dawn of motoring. They're narrow, two-lane, twisty and unforgiving, having no shoulders. But fellow motorists still go a thousand miles an hour (with the radio on or off). Not to stereotype but the more expensive and/or large the vehicle, the faster it’s going. I'm sticking to within ten miles of the speed limit, AKA "standing still" or "going backwards". If I get in the left lane to pass, instantly some fucking goon is up my ass. Audi, BMW, Porsche SUV, Ford F-150, Dodge Ram - they all tailgate me and anyone else with the temerity to be in their way. I've taken to doing little commentaries in a simpering Paul Lynde voice as the offending vehicle passes.
"Ooh! You're truck is so BIG and so FAST. You must be a real BADASS."
I'm not sure what Sweet T. makes of it but I can't seem to stop myself.
"Let me BY! I have PLACES to go and PEOPLE to see."
Sweet T.'s thinking the same as me when she points out how this could be the New York Thruway on the way to Saugerties. We have yet another chat about a recent report from a friend still there. He was at an art opening when my cousin and her omnipresent friend showed up (I conjecture she was probably there for the free snacks and booze). Cousin Jen was heard complaining about how slow things are, which gave us a lovely warm feeling of schadenfreude.
"You think she misses having me there?"
Sweet T. does some conjecture of her own. How could she not, if only to deal with any weirdos who drop in? Cousin Jen and That Cave and Saugerties will continue to come up in various conversations throughout the weekend and I long for a day it's far behind us, a dim memory of a very strange time.
Somewhere in Connecticut we stop at very congested travel plaza to piss. I also decide to top off the tank and notice someone parked at the pump when he emerges from the convenience store and takes his sweet-ass time clearing the lane. There are more selfish assholes in the world than it can possibly sustain. Motherfucker, pump your gas then park your car, THEN go shop. You don't leave your truck at one of the few available pumps while you go in for your Twinkies and Mountain Dew.
Driving makes me hate humanity far more than usual. Being behind the wheel brings out the worst in so many. Me, I've evolved to "Just get us there alive." and my excessive speeding and tailgating days are done.
We wend our way on to 95, which will take us almost all the way to my sister's in Warwick. Time to settle in for the next 108 miles. There's one more piss break somewhere in Connecticut but we make good time, arriving around 1:15 PM. It's warm and sunny here and we've left behind the fog and clouds. My sister's on a peninsula that juts out into Greenwich Bay, so there's water all around and a large pond abutting her backyard. It's a lovely spot and she's got a nice set up, with a New England-style saltbox where the living space is up a long flight of stairs, garage down below. Diana's been here since 2001, moving from Long Island to Rhode Island and – IMO – upgrading in the process. We drag our asses and luggage up into the first floor, which is an open plan, living room leading into the kitchen, then the dining room. It's airy and light up here and we drop our bags and settle in at the breakfast bar to get ourselves a cold drink and hammer out a plan for the day. A fair amount of coordination is needed to get everyone (me and Sweet T., my sister, two nieces and two great-nieces) in the same place at the same time for late lunch/early dinner. While multiple phone calls are made and texts sent we snack on cheese and crackers as hold-over. My niece Kristen will make us reservations at something called The Beach House, on the water near her in Barrington. Meanwhile, Diana, Sweet T. and I get into the subject of my niece Amanda's upcoming wedding. Apparently, my brother Marc's made it clear he won't attend because he can't get someone to fill in for his part-time job at Costco. This makes my sister apoplectic.
"Maybe if he asked back in February when he got the save-the-date he'd be able to go."
But we're not sure that's the reason he's begging off. Marc's also mentioned not having the money for airfare, which we all know is bullshit because he has the money to go out and buy tires for his truck, propellers for his boat, parts for his car, more parts for his ATV and motorcycle. Then there's the vintage stereo gear he likes.
"Listen, our brother has always placed himself first and if there's nothing in it for him he can't be bothered."
Full disclosure: my brother Marc was my primary bully growing up. When he hit puberty shortly before me (he's a year older) he decided I was the enemy and tormented me until I got the fuck off Long Island in 1986. We're talking a decade of coming in for daily verbal and physical abuse from one's own brother. And it was far worse with Marc than my other brother, Mario, now deceased. Mario mostly ignored me, thought me a pain-in-the-ass and pest best to avoid. But Marc and I... it was fucking BIBLICAL. He brutalized me and all these years later I hold almost no fraternal feeling for him. But I still stop the conversation about his blowing off my niece's wedding with a question.
"It make me wonder about the abuse he experienced growing up, how it played out differently for him. At a certain point I no longer cared if Daddy wanted anything to do with me. I told myself it didn't matter. Fuck him. But Marc could never do that. He cared. He wanted Daddy's affection and attention."
Armchair analyzing of others is my speciality.
We all laugh when I nail the exact dollar figure Marc's sent Amanda as a wedding gift.
"At our wedding he basically shoved a hundred bucks in my hand and said 'Here.', like getting a card or a gift was too much work."
It's been ever thus with Marc. But now he's offended his last ally in the family. My sister was on the phone with him for hours every week but this situation has her fuming. Marc will need to find someone else to bitch to about his treatment by Costco. And it ain't me.
We pile into Diana's Acura for the drive to Amanda's, nearby. My niece greets us warmly and introduces us to her cats. Her fiancé, John, is in Georgia working so we won't see him until the wedding. Gathering up Amanda we make for Kristen's in Barrington. If we could fly or, hell, row we'd arrive in minutes: it's just across Narragansett Bay. But we have to travel north into Providence and its rush hour, then east, then south. Scott, Kristen's husband, is still home when we get there but his departure is imminent, so we say "Hello" and "Goodbye" quickly. Then we finally get to meet Baby Harper, who takes one look at me and hides her face on her mother's shoulder.
"Kids have that reaction to me."
Avery, our other great-niece, comes down the stairs and seems subdued, circumspect. She's had a growth spurt since we were last here and Kristen remarks "She's nearly as tall as Uncle Chris!" We gather in the living room and I hand out gifts, T-shirts from That Cave, a vintage Acme Thunderer whistle for Avery, a stuffed Snoopy for Harper. Later, Scott will get a flat cap that has him joking about putting a razor blade in the peak, ala Peaky Blinders. Scott's people are from the Birmingham (England, not Alabama) area and I get to use the word "Brummies" around him.
We sit around the living room fawning over Baby Harper until someone points out we have a rapidly approaching reservation at The Beach House. We're all going in Kristen's minivan, which is a good idea until Baby Harper lets out an ear-piercing scream.
"Holy shit. I wish I had a decibel meter with me..."
As we drive through Bristol, Kristen points out some of the sights and landmarks while providing running commentary. I'm in the passenger seat taking it all in, wishing Sweet T. and I could see these people more often. Soon, we're parked at The Beach House and I'm the first out and in the restaurant, where I try to upgrade our table from inside to out on the deck. The manager, a smarmy-looking fellow, is a bit miffed I've interrupted his little pep rally with the servers.
"We have room on the deck but it isn't in the shaded portion."
As someone from New Jersey does, I pull a twenty out of wallet, sneak it along the bar to him.
"Oh. The money doesn't matter."
He slides the bill back to me like it smells bad. I grab it, put it back in my wallet.
"Let me show you what we have."
I follow him out to the deck where two dozen people are arrayed at tables and the bar. There's a gorgeous view of the bay and the sun's beating down unabated. The smarmy manager leads me over to two tables in direct sunlight.
"We can push these together."
"Okay..."
I look back wistfully to the raised portion of the deck, shaded with long lengths of canvas flown horizontally above, held aloft by tall uprights.
"And there's no room up there?"
There's plenty of room, it's half empty. Or half full, depending on your outlook.
"Oh. Those are reserved."
Yeah. But. There's no one there now. And by the time we're seated and eating someone else will depart. This guy doesn't seem to care. Maybe I offended him with my bribe.
"Okay. This will be fine."
My nieces and everyone else are grouped at the entrance to the deck, where I would've gone if I noticed. Now I join them, tell them we can sit outdoors. They follow me to our pushed-together tables and instantly there's a problem. Kristen will need to get the stroller for Harper, to keep her out of the sun. And we should probably apply sunscreen. She goes back to her van while the rest of us figure out where to sit in the unrelenting sunshine. There's no escape. It's hot and the sun's several hours from setting. When Kristen returns and parks Baby Harper it's obvious no one's crazy about this table. Kristen's confused.
"I thought we were inside."
"We were. I asked for a spot on the deck. I didn't know they don't even have an umbrella out here. I'm sorry."
Everyone says "It's fine!” and we shoulder on, ordering drinks when the waitress appears. There's classic rock playing over the outdoor speakers and of course it turns out to be a SiriusXM channel, ‘70s on 7. Fuck me. It's either SiriusXM or WFMU following me around. While we wait for drinks a woman eating alone, her baby in a stroller by her side, offers to give up her high top table.
"You want to take this one? They can push it together with that other one."
My sister declines.
"No, this is fine."
After the drinks arrive I decide it's not fine and say something to the waitress.
"Hey, could we possibly move inside? It's just too hot out here."
"Oh! Sure, give me just a minute."
"Sorry about this."
Soon, we all rise, march past the shaded, still half-empty (half-full) raised portion of the deck and into the back dining area. Tables have been hastily rearranged to accommodate us. We all sit in a rough approximation of our previous positions. The same SiriusXM shit plays in here, as if anyone on the planet needs to hear these songs yet again. The Beach House may be many things but their approach to piped-in music is your standard lazy "Put any fucking thing on." approach. You'd have something FAR more interesting if you let the servers hook up to a Bluetooth amp and play whatever's on their phones. I just don't understand these establishments that take such care with their decor and ambience and then aurally shit on the whole thing with You could be dancing... YEAH.
It's also stuffy where they stuck us, no windows open, no air flow, the AC cycled off. We order food and my clam chowder comes out almost instantly. It's good and I polish it off fast. The fish and chips is another story. It's a huge piece of cod, not several, small, easy to handle pieces.
"This is how they serve fish and chips?"
My niece confirms, yes, this is how they do it.
"Huh."
The only way to introduce this fish to that tartar sauce is to tear off chunks and dip it or smear the tartar sauce on the fish. The former approach ends with the fish chunks falling apart in the tartar sauce ramekin, so you have to use a fork to extract bits. The latter approach means you're using a knife and fork to eat your fish, defeating the very idea of fish and chips. Like the choice of music, it indicates a laziness in approach. Why cut this fish up into smaller, less unwieldy pieces when you can just fry the whole fucking thing? Perhaps I wouldn't be this put out if the fish passed the basic fish and chips test but it's crispy outside and thoroughly soggy inside. I eat it anyway.
While we chow down there's much discussion of the upcoming nuptials, Avery's cheerleading prowess, Baby Harper's adorability and everything that's happened since we last gathered, including Sweet T.'s pending retirement.
"Let's toast to that!"
I lead several toasts, one of my favorite things to do. Hell, I like toasting, buttered toast, and getting toasted. In related news, soon Rhode Island will have legal weed but Massachusetts is right over there, you can practically see it from the Beach House, and we could be there in fifteen minutes. But we're good and there's no need to run over the border and bring anything home since NJ joined the legal weed party.
We eat, drink and endure yet more songs of the '70s. When it comes time to settle up our money's no good. My rule in these situations is to offer three times. If it's still "No" then I'm fine with someone treating me. And Sweet T. and I will be picking up the check at some point, I'm sure. But a return to The Beach House is not in our future. Fuck this place.
We leave and hit a local beach as the sun's sinking. Avery shows off some cartwheels and a girl a few years younger breaks away from her father to mimic the gymnastics. There's a lifeguard chair and we group around it for photos, then get back in the minivan and return to Kristen's. Scott's back and we give him his flat cap. Avery gets up on the backyard trampoline and shows off a series of tumbles and splits. Kristen mixes me up a Manhattan and we gather in chairs near the trampoline to watch Avery and gab some more. The night ends back in the living room where I commandeer the TV via Airplay to show throwback family pictures. Poor Scott: I've supplanted the Rangers game he'd just switched on. But he's a good sport, literally, and joins us as we go down the years. Diana points out who's who and provides backstory while the younger generations marvel over the clothes, the furniture, the houses and those strange, younger version of people they thought they knew. It can't help but be bittersweet: so many of these relatives are now gone. Our grandparents, parents, uncles, aunts, brother, sister, on and on. For every one person still aboveground ten have merged with the infinite. After an hour of "Who's THAT?" we return the TV to Scott and his hockey, then say our goodbyes and climb into Diana's car for the drive back to Amanda's. Once she's dropped off we return to Warwick and chat for a bit before hitting the hay. It’s been a long day.
SATURDAY
It's overcast and cloudy when we get up. My nephew Matt's out of the house early, on his way to New Hampshire for the NHRA New England Nationals. We've got no schedule today and nowhere to be at any particular time but there’s a vague plan to meet up with Kristen, Scott and Harper at Bayberry Beer Hall in Providence, then we go see Amanda, who's working at Live Long Beerworks. First, I whip up cheesy scrambled eggs with peppers and onions, then we set out to poke around the area, waiting for Kristen to confirm the plan. There are garage sales everywhere and we stop at one where I buy a set of FRS walkie-talkies for $5. You never know when such things will come in handy. We're back on the road a few minutes when Sweet T. gets a text from her bank asking about recent use of a credit card. Someone's stolen her identity and is racking up charges in the San Francisco area. They're taking $149 Lyft rides, buying shit, eating meals. Having a real good time across the continent. Sweet T. goes into a bit of a panic, culminating with her telling me to stop talking (Me? Stop talking?!) as I suggest she use the bank's app to contact customer service. I clam up entirely until she handles the credit card crisis and apologizes. By the time we get to Bayberry Beer Hall the bank's cancelled the card and reversed the charges. Whew. Sweet T. apologizes for being short with me and we set it aside. The Bayberry Beer Hall is a lovely reclamation of what was probably a light manufacturing factory. Whoever designed and built it out had excellent taste. Polished concrete floors, exposed rafters, blonde wood, iron fixtures, smooth finishes. There's a minimalist aesthetic yet it doesn't feel cold. We find a long table and park ourselves, joined by some friends of Kristen's. There's an excellent chocolate stout with flavors of pistachio from a Maine brewery and it quickly becomes my New Favorite Thing. I also order the polenta and beans, even though it comes with an egg and I've already had eggs today. Sweet T. gets the Bluefish Bagel and side salad, along with a local Pilsener. I'm seated opposite Scott and we cluck over an ad in the local "What's Happening" paper for a female Black Sabbath cover band, Black Sabbitch (again with the Birmingham, England content!).
"This is hilarious. I was just telling my friend Laurie – she's in an all-female Stones band, Honky Tonk Women – there ought to be an all-female Sabbath band called "Rack Sabbath" and look at this!”
Scott's amused but also preoccupied with Baby Harper, who climbs all over him until her food arrives. Then she gleefully consumes fruit salad because he's told her there's no ice cream until she does. She gobbles up the fruit salad and when that ice cream finally hits her lips sweet satisfaction spreads ear-to-ear and she repeatedly lunges toward the spoon like it's taking too damn long with the re-up. It's not possible to look at little Harper and ignore what the planet might be when she's my age. They'll figure it out is cold comfort and not the type ice cream provides. I'd love to haul out my usual cavalier line about being dead before the shit truly hits the fan. But what about Harper and Avery and all those who didn't ask for the shit to ever hit the fan? This why every state will need legal weed eventually. Who wants to face what's coming stone cold sober?
Kristen laughs at my question. So this is day-drinking? I could get used to it.
Long Live Beerworks is roughly 20 minutes away, in a formerly industrial part of Providence where many factory buildings are being repurposed into living and retail and food spaces. Especially the latter. Providence is becoming a foodie town, driven by college kids (Brown and Rhode Island School of Design are here) and the availability of cheap property. Cheap, relatively speaking. Compared to Williamsburg, Brooklyn your average hipster would have a much easier lift bringing their brewpub to life here. The Long Live Beerworks is well-attended for a Saturday around 1 PM and we find Amanda behind the counter in her Live Long “Black Cat" T-shirt.
"Ooh. Are those for sale?"
Like I need yet another T-shirt.
My niece points to the merchandise area.
"Right there."
I wander over, find a T-shirt, pair of beer glasses and flat-bill ball cap with embroidered patch reading “Live Long". I cart it all over to the counter where my niece says she'll invoke her employee discount and bring it by later when we meet for dinner.
Out front we find a table and sit with our beers while Avery and Harper befriend an older couple with a dog. I'm drinking another chocolate stout, this one sans pistachio. It's almost as good. We stay thirty or forty minutes and before we go I ask one of Amanda's co-workers a question.
"How do you like working with my niece?"
"Amanda? She's the best!"
She is.
We say goodbye to her and part ways with Avery, Harper and Kristen. Our next stop is one of my fave places in Providence, the POP Emporium of Popular Culture. It's a antiques/vintage warehouse stuffed to the rafters with the kind of shit I sold in That Cave but on a massive scale. It's been here for years but when we arrive and park outside I see it with new eyes, having opened and closed my own vintage store since last we came. The only way this place survives is probably because the owners bought the building back when Providence made this kind of space available cheap in a revitalization bid. Stepping inside, my senses are once again assaulted from every possible direction. The use of horizontal and vertical space is impressive: anywhere your eye falls there's something to see. Lamps and signs hang from the ceiling. Posters and art line the walls. To the left is furniture, vending machines, jukeboxes, housewares, more. To the right is an assortment of stuff dating back a hundred years that would take me a hundred years to assemble. It's sensory overload but my favorite kind. Everything here would be impossible to make in the US now and as I wander from area to area I think of all the jobs these items created, the people who supported their families nicely on the income from producing these objects. Try to imagine anything made in China ending up in a vintage store fifty years from now. Go ahead. I’ll wait.
We poke around POP for almost an hour, then I find one of the owners.
"I saw a microscope over there but was wondering if you have any smaller ones."
I'm hoping to use one for inspecting phonograph needles as per Fabio's suggestion. It's hard to tell with the naked eye if your stylus is beyond its useful life.
"Let me go check."
The owner leads me back to where the big microscope sits and fishes out a vest-pocket black-and-brass model. It's marked $65 but he cuts the price down quick.
"Fifty bucks."
It's more than I want to spend but I have an ulterior motive. First I bond with him over the radio show they've piped in.
See? If it's not SiriusXM it's WFMU entering my orbit, though Mr. C. no longer plies his trade there. Back in the very long ago I'd regularly cross paths with him at WFMU and we'd chat. Now Mr. C.’s on Luxuria Radio and making reference to some Detroit soul fixture who recently passed. The POP owner barely registers my attempt at bonding but I continue.
"So I'm wondering if you're buying...."
"Lord knows I don't need more stock but I can't help myself. What do you have?"
"Well... I recently closed my store in Saugerties, New York. I sold similar stuff, Man Cave stuff. I'm headed back this way the second week of July and could bring a bunch with me."
"Sure. Let me get you a card."
"I have one."
"I'll put my cell number on it."
I hand him my ever-present vintage Cross pen.
"I know you don't want to look through stuff while you're open so can we arrange something outside those hours?"
"Absolutely. Just call me."
I pay for my vintage microscope and Sweet T., Diana and I shove off for Hope Street. There's a cooking supply store there and I'd love to get some new salt & pepper grinders. Ours are a bit hard to operate, especially one-handed while cooking. Hope Street is not far off and we're there and parked by Frog & Toad in ten minutes. Diana needs to pick up something for Amanda so we join her. I'm always fascinated by these type of – what are they exactly? Novelty? – shops. They're full of the sort of frivolous impulse purchases people looking for "gifts" or "something fun" buy. Most of it's quickly re-gifted or finds its way to a garage sale or Goodwill store. I resist the urge to buy yet more future landfill but still walk out with a $2 tiger sticker because it looks like Roger.
We stop in a few more shops on Hope Street and make Stock our last stop. There's an impressive array of salt & pepper shakers and grinders but the price points are above the range I anticipated. The ones I like, for instance, are $34 each. I'm not shelling out $68 for such a basic item. Then I spy some clear Lexan grinders for $22 each and am seriously considering it when I realize they'll quickly get scratched to hell. And they're made in China. At least the more expensive ones hail from the US, Germany and Italy. I'm about to leave empty-handed when I spy a zester for $16.
"Hey, I think I'm gonna get this. What was that recipe I attempted that called for lime zest and I used the stupid cheese grater?"
Sweet T. thinks it was Key Lime Pie but I know it was something else, something savory. Oh well. It's $16 and will come in handy. Plus, it's made in the USA (assembled in Mexico, full disclosure). I carry it to the counter and pay up, then we get ourselves back to Diana's to layover until dinner-time. We have a reservation at Kleo's, a great Greek restaurant in downtown Providence. Then we're going to check out WaterFire, the famous art installation begun by Barnaby Evans in 1994 and now credited with helping to revitalize Providence's downtown. First, we freshen up, then we swing by Amanda's again. We're soon back in Providence at a municipal parking lot near Kleo's. I'm always impressed with Providence and its architecture and layout. It feels substantial, an old-line New England city with something going on.
On the walk over to Kleo's I'm reminded we've eaten there before.
"Do you remember? During that festival? We got a table there?"
It's all coming back to me now, the minor miracle of finding a spot upfront where we could people watch. This was pre-pandemic when you didn't think about being in a crowd. Now I'm apprehensive about COVID and mass shootings anytime I'm around more than four other people.
The host at Kleo's seats us in a cramped booth where I'm forced to face a TV above the bar. It's, of course, set to a sports channel. Even if it's woman's baseball, which it is, I really don't want to watch sports ball while I eat. So I persuade our party to relocate to a table in the far corner, now being cleared and cleaned. Sweet T. remarks that this is my peccadillo, that I'm never happy with the first place we're put.
"I even moved us on our first date. Three times. Hey, if I'm paying for it I might as well enjoy it. Who wants to look at a TV the whole time you're eating?"
If I owned a bar or restaurant the TV would be hidden behind a vintage map or something, only revealed and fired up if someone killed Kennedy again or we televised a moon landing once more. Otherwise, talk to each other or stare at your fucking phone.
Drinks and food are quickly ordered and conversation ensues. We're again onto the subject of my brother Marc and his opting out of the wedding. I model what would likely happen if I attempt to intervene, using my Marc impression (heavy Lawn Guyland accent with lots of aggression).
"If I call him about this he'll just tell me the same thing. 'I can't get offa work.' And then he'll say no one understands the bind he's in, blah blah blah."
It's agreed that Marc doesn't feel familial obligation the way the rest of us do. Marc wants to do what Marc wants to do and always has. Ugh. It's hard for me to accept this is my brother, a person I'd love to be close to, to confide in, to talk with. Instead, I avoid him and when we do speak it rapidly descends into non-stop bitching on his part, until he goes full-blown MAGA. At that point, I beg off the phone. Fuck that noise, brother or no.
After our food arrives a large group or twenty Indian-Americans arrives to be seated at several tables near us. But instead of sitting they mill about inches from our table, coats still on, perfume and cologne so thick you can taste it. I want to say something but don't know what.
Can you please sit down?
"A bit more room please?"
Or the sarcastic Care to join us?
Nothing sounds right in my head and I'm worried Sweet T. will elbow me for opening my mouth. Eventually, the matriarch sits and the other women follow. Then the patriarch sits and the other men join. When I point this out to our table they're incredulous.
"I'm telling you that's what just happened."
Tradition, interrupting your meal since ancient times.
We finish up and order baklava for dessert. In addition to my chocolate stout and the stuffed ravioli, this is my third dish with pistachio today.
"Good thing I don't have a nut allergy."
The check arrives and we split it, then hoof it over to the river for WaterFire. I don't know I was expecting but this is a "Full Burn" and floating fire pits line the entire length of the river. It's a glorious, mesmerizing sight and the riverbanks and river walks are thronged. No one is wearing a mask and apart from the floating fires there's little illumination. Amanda leads us to the basin, the end point of WaterFire, and all along the way music's piped in at a decent volume. Thank Jesus it isn't fucking SiriusXM or WFMU but an eclectic World Music playlist. We make our way through the crowd, as diverse as the city's population. Everybody's drawn to the water, to the fire, as elemental as it gets. But there's also a shit ton of food and other vendors under white pop up canopies. Amanda asks if we want to check out the offerings but I demur.
"It's kinda crowded and no one's wearing a mass."
I'm also thinking of the recent mass shootings because, hey, this is America and we love guns. Unbeknownst to us a mass shooting is playing out right now in Philadephia. But we stumble along in the darkness atop the cobblestones until we're at the basin, where we pose for selfies. It's pushing up on 11 PM and I'm getting nervous, so I introduce the idea of getting the hell home. Everyone agrees. Time to go. By the time we get the car, drop off Amanda and arrive at Diana's it's almost Midnight. Sweet T. heads up to bed and I hang out in the kitchen with Diana and Matt's girlfriend Jenny, again discussing the wedding. And bachelorette party. Matt snores face up on the sectional a few feet away, absolutely dead to the world. He could sleep through an earthquake.
Diana and I were going to watch Bill Maher but there's no way to dislodge Matt and live, so I say goodnight. Maybe tomorrow we catch up on Real Time.
SUNDAY
Sweet T. and I sleep late, 8:30 AM, then pack up and get downstairs for a quick breakfast of coffee, babka and bananas. Diana wants to take us to the Providence Flea but I issue a standard disclaimer.
"I need more stuff like I need a hole in the head."
I also check Waze, which tells me of the huge disparity between leaving at 10 AM and Noon or later.
"It's a difference of three hours drive or four hours."
It's decide we'll have our breakfast on the deck, then get on 95 and hurtle south to Weehawken. My sister updates us on her neighbors and it's good to know we're not the only ones having issues. No one tells you about this when you buy a place that's near other people. Your quality of life will certainly be impacted if your neighbors are not neighborly. Maybe Sweet T. and I should've sold our house and gotten a place with acreage, a buffer zone between us and the nearest neighbor. But what if the nearest neighbor turns out to be an asshole and the only other people around?
We say goodbye, talk about what we'll do when we're back in July. Then it's time to go. The less said about the drive back, the better. When we arrive in Weehawken four hours later Roger and Marty are overjoyed to see us. Sweet T. showers, I follow, then we order pizza. No one's up to cooking. The Neighbors-Who-Aren’t-Neighborly are having a party next door. There's loud brass-based music blaring from a Bluetooth speaker and we don't dare open the windows. We even pull down the shades so the party-goers can't see in.
"I hope this isn't a usual thing."
We eat in silence, then finally take in Bill Maher and episode 4 of Pistol. When Sweet T. gets to bed I also watch Stranger Thingsepisode 4, falling asleep 20 minutes in. The night ends with a game of peekaboo with Marty.
MONDAY
Just after 12:30 AM I hear the roar of a motorcycle just outside and check the Ring app on my phone to see someone on a black Honda near our driveway. The rider is talking to someone in a double-parked car across the street. Loudly. He's shouting over the Honda's burble and I wonder how long this will continue. A car turns on to the block and is forced to squeeze past. The double-parker departs and the rider puts his Honda as close to our driveway lines as he can. There's a big empty swath of curb but he keeps inching the bike along until its front tire is almost touching the white paint indicating the no-go zone. Then he stands admiring his bike. I go back to sleep and the scene repeats an hour later. I'm awakened again by a revving motorcycle to find the Honda once more being parked at the curb, the rider fussing over his bike, etc. Fuck me. I put my head back down on the pillow. It happens AGAIN an hour later, around 2:30 AM. The fucker must've just gotten this Honda and is taking it for joyrides around the neighborhood. Each time he returns he makes sure to twist the throttle a time or two, like it's the middle of the fucking day and there aren't several dozen of his neighbors who have to get up early and go to work. I watch on the Ring app as this young douchebag admires his bike yet again. Then I fall asleep. When I wake up at 6 AM I'm yawning. Over breakfast I tell Sweet T. about the motorcycle. She slept through it.
"This is a new wrinkle we can do without. I hope this doesn't become a regular thing."
When Sweet T. goes to retrieve her car I watch from the porch, concerned she won't be able to swing her Prius clear of the Honda. But here she is with a snow shovel trying to clear something off the driveway. I grab a cardboard pizza box from the recycling, hustle out the driveway prepared to pick up some dogshit. It's a dead pigeon. Fuck. I scoop it up with the pizza box and deposit it in the trash. When Sweet T. leaves I contact my lawyer friend Bob and ask if I need to email the homeowner again about the motorcycle. He advises against it.
"He sounds like the type of guy who'll just smile in your face and do what he wants to do any way."
Bob advises checking the NJ Disorderly Conduct statute. I ask if that’s the best approach.
"This isn't disturbing the peace?"
"That's a vague category. I'd check out disorderly conduct."
The rest of my day is spent doing the Wordle, working with Joe the Painter to figure out what else needs repairing and painting on the exterior. I also write for the newsletter and have a shrink session before Sweet T. arrives home just after our rescheduled Zoom meeting with Fidelity begins. We’re counseled on converting my Sirius 401K into an IRA and parking some money in an insurance company annuity. He seems to know what he's on about, so we go ahead and make all the changes. If nothing else it will help me leave behind yet one more vestige of the past. We wrap the night up by watching a new Frontline all about the Minneapolis police.
The Honda’s still there but no one fires it up past Midnight. Fucking neighbors.
Narraganssett Beer Commercial
with Mike Nichols & Elaine May
Pop Pop-Up Shop!
I'll be at Sixth Street Vintage (408 6th Street, Hoboken NJ) this Friday – Sunday and next, 11 AM – 6 PM with a "Pop Pop-Up Shop": Lots of Man Cave & More stuff for Dads!
ART MAKES YOU SMART!
Sweet T.'s in a few art shows. Get out of the house and join us!
Sat. May 7 – Sat., June 11, 2022
Expressions 2022
NCA Gallery at the Shirt Factory
71 Lawrence Street – Suite #120
Glens Falls, NY 12801
6 pm ET: 1968 vs 2020
An Aerial View Archive from June 2020, featuring special guest Richard Eagan, who was at the Columbia University Takeover of 1968.
FRIDAY
6 pm ET: Bricks vs. Clicks An Aerial View Archive from June 12, 2021, recorded at That Cave and featuring Todd Norlander
