CONFIDENCE GAME

TUESDAY

Another entire day turned over to this newsletter. Now Sweet T.'s in bed and I've wrapped up a phone call with Jim. Something he says about SYNT sticks.

"It's long. And it's sorta become a diary."

He’s right. SYNT has gotten long, last week’s far longer than intended. Mission creep. This is what happens when you're a one-person production crew. I’m not sure this relentless chronicling is sustainable. It began as promo vehicle and subservient to Aerial View. The relationship is now vice-versa. Many weeks there’s no new Aerial View but there's always a newsletter. Something compels me to set down what's in my brain in an attempt to understand it. Maybe I end up oversharing. Which led to the whole Tom Scharpling thing last week. Full disclosure: Tom subscribes, so I knew what I was doing. But I wasn't writing for or at him. I was trying to get to the truth about something we've all felt: envy at someone else's success. Tom isn't the only one I've had this issue with. There's also Kaz, the person who got me on WFMU and can reasonably be credited for my subsequent… well, everything. My radio career. Multiple friendships. Meeting Sweet T. Kaz – like Tom – is now a successful writer out in Hollywood. When I joked last week about Tom getting a title shot outdoors while I got a one way ticket to Palookaville it didn't mean That should've been me! Of course it couldn't. Tom (and Kaz) have talents I lack. What I said was Why not me? – a much easier question to answer. There are multiple parts, bear with me.

Let's begin with what I'm actually good at. Not fucking much. In Junior High (see self-portrait, above) I took up guitar but was mediocre, eventually ending up in a few seminal bands that managed to put out records while never touring beyond the tri-state area. At Lindenhurst high school I joined the dramatic Thespians and comedic Charles Street Players (pictured below, with me in bathrobe throttling Jeff Maschi) but never pursued acting beyond appearing in one or two indie films. There was a moment I thought I could be a comedian and and even got onstage during an open mic night at Richard M. Dixon's White House, a comedy club on Long Island owned by a famous Nixon impersonator (the comic I followed onstage? A just-starting-out Rosie O'Donnell). Richard M. Dixon himself critiqued my set, even had praise. Why didn't I keep going, getting up on stages to hone my act? I'm coming to that, after one more shoulda/coulda/woulda: writing. I've always set things down as a way to get them out of my head, parse what was going on. First by long-hand, then on my mother's Royal typewriter, her IBM Selectric, a Brother word processor and right up to this Freewrite. I wrote in a journal, bashed out poetry and short stories and imagined I'd someday be paid for my writing. But like music, comedy, acting I never truly pursued it. I paid lip service to it, pestered friends who were actual writers, asked them to introduce me to agents, tell me how to get published. Madness. Did I take any writing courses? Go on a writing retreat? Read my writing out loud in front of other writers? No. I toiled in obscurity. Kinda like now. It wasn't until I got on the radio with Kaz that I thought This is something I can do. Be extemporaneous. Think on my feet. Use my voice and acting skill to put a joke across. Live radio is where I thrived. Aerial View went on the air in 1989 and eight or nine years later I got my first radio job as a freelance engineer for NPR's NY Bureau. It took another two years to become part-time staff, another two after that to be hired full-time. Along the way I supplemented my meager income with engineering work at CBS Radio and a horrid mom & pop “American Song Book” AM in Hackensack. Oh, and I worked in the WFMU offices alongside David Newgarden and The Gatekeeper. There was also a stint at WFMU's Operation Director and Catalog of Curiosities (see Kurt Cobain reading it here) Director (the less said about that, the better). All these peripheral behind-the-mic jobs didn't fully utilize my ability to be entertaining, informative and relevant the way hosting Aerial View did. I was truly in my element fielding unscreened calls (Aerial View never had a call-screener) every Friday (later, Tuesdays) at 6 PM (does it surprise you to hear that Tom Scharpling mentioned Aerial View and me as inspiration for what he created with The Best Show?). It wasn't until 2002 that I was paid to be in front of the microphone when Micheal "The Good Doctor" Anderson (a WFMU colleague) hired me at what was then Sirius Satellite Radio to DJ on the Blues Channel. On air I was Chris Tedesco, in tribute to the great Tommy Tedesco. It’d be another four years before Jeremy Tepper – another WFMU connection – would hire me to co-host a daily three-hour talkshow for truckers. Man, I thought I hit the big-time. The pay was incredible and I got to do what I was good at: be funny on live radio. But not just funny. I was also empathetic, understanding, relatable, vulnerable. I've always had a simple philosophy of live radio and how to get a conversation going: I'll show you mine, then you show me yours. It was easier to do on Aerial View because I’d write an introductory monologue about something embarrassing or revealing or perplexing and ask the audience What about you? They'd respond just to top one another's stories. On SiriusXM I had to contend with a co-host who thought she was the star and I was the sidekick (that might've worked if she generated a single original idea or did any work besides talking). Still, the pay kept rising and I kept making listeners laugh or think or feel. Yet it was all ephemeral, to be heard once, perhaps twice, and never again, the recordings locked away deep in the bowels of the DC headquarters. I have no doubt our CD airchecks have since been thrown out to make room for yet more Howard Stern material.

While I bashed my brains out day after day on the radio, Tom and Kaz honed their craft and played the long game, forging connections with those who could help get them where they wanted to go. When I ask Why not me? I mean Why did they have the ambition and drive to realize their talents and I'm now chasing $200 tape syncs and cranking out a long newsletter for 100 people to read?

I'll tell you what I think it is. Tom and Kaz had enough confidence to believe in themselves and get others to do the same. Me? Not so much. Yes, I have talent, still think I'm a damn good talk show host… but so fucking what? No one's putting me on live radio for pay again. Ambition? Drive? Confidence? Never part of my DNA. I was raised to think almost nothing of myself, that a job at the post office was what I should aspire to because You'll have a pension. Being fat didn't help, especially because I was fat before anyone put the word "body" in front of the word "positivity". In my memory there was zero encouragement from my parents for my guitar-playing, my acting, comedy, writing. Long after I’d been a professional talk show host for years my mother told me “You’re the one who was supposed to make something of yourself.”

Thanks, Mom!

To this day I struggle with issues of self-confidence, self-esteem, self-worth. When I look at contemporaries of mine, like Tom and Kaz I don't see the sacrifices made, struggles endured, self-doubt suffered. Hell, I don't even ask Are they HAPPY? I see their external achievements – living in sunny California, paid well for their ideas, building a lasting body of work, admired – and think Why not me? Because I didn’t believe in myself and careened haphazardly from one job to the next until I lucked into a great-paying radio gig somewhere far beneath the lowest rung of the showbiz ladder. Now I do Aerial View for roughly a dozen people live on a Friday and put out a newsletter for a hundred of you every Tuesday. No one's paying me or paying attention. It's all our little secret.

Shhh. Don't tell anyone.

This isn't about Tom or Kaz. It's about the way I feel and have always felt about myself: that I'm undeserving, just not good enough to have been a success. It's all hubris, ego. Maybe I really DO need to eat some mushrooms, swallow some psilocybin, open my mind, get out of my own pain and lack. Ultimately, I've achieved things many haven't. I was in a NYHC band and an Industrial band and an integral part of the world's greatest non-commercial radio station and managed to talk to truckers coast-to-coast for a dozen years while interviewing a shit-ton of famous people and not losing my cool. Is there a third act for me, one more pivot, another achievement of which I’ll someday be proud? Who the fuck knows? I keep talking (and talking and talking and talking) about writing a book. But here I am again, writing this. This is not a book about me and Michael Nicolosi, who may or may not be the Long Island Serial Killer. Depending on how you feel about me it's either interminable navel-gazing with no point or like those Aerial View monologues where I took the personal and made it universal in an attempt to be vulnerable, allowing you to share your shortcomings, fears, foibles, triumphs. I wish this newsletter was a live radio show and you could call in right now but we'd have to wait until Aerial View on Friday and even then only Phil, formerly of Belleville, would call (Hey, Phil, how ya doin', pal?)

I should stop now. But not before I address Tom and Kaz directly.
Good for you. You cracked the code, you took your talents and made the most of them. Keep making people laugh and getting paid for it. What's better than that? Okay, making people cry and getting paid for it is also cool. I’m sorry if I let my issues get in the way of how we otherwise would’ve related. My bad.
- Chris T.

WEDNESDAY

Oh, shit, what a day. Sharon at 6th Street Vintage contacted me yesterday, offered me the back room this weekend and next. Now I'm scrambling to put together shit to sell. First, I need to meet Joe at Dyke's Lumber, 9:30 AM, to pay for wood and caulk. When Joe cautions me about approaching the counter I get a whiff of “Soup Nazi”.

"Don't ask them to help you. They're busy here. When they're ready, they'll ask you if you need help."

Okay. And here's my credit card, too!

After I leave Joe at Dyke's I circle by Sharon's and retrieve the new key. There's a stop in between at ACME in Hoboken where - THANK JESUS – they not only stock Ben & Jerry's Pistachio, the finest pistachio ice cream around, but Narragansett beer, which I forgot to buy in Rhode Island. Achievement unlocked, I head back to the house and tear apart the garage looking for shit to sell at Sharon’s. Fuck me. Despite what Tom Crowe said about not selling my stuff to a dealer ("You'll get pennies on the dollar!") I’m beyond done with this shit. I'm tired of looking at it, tired of moving it around, tired of it living rent-free in my brain. The Nirvana song Something In The Way comes to mind. I long for this drain to be unclogged.

As I clean and reorganize I keep offering things to Joe.

"You need some tools?"

"What about an air-conditioner?"

"Can you use this tool-bag?"

He has central air at his new place but he does take the tool-bag and some tools. I even foist a vintage GE AC meter off on a visiting PSE&G guy.

"That's a bakelite case."

The guy takes it, perplexed. I couldn’t tell you where or when I bought this meter (probably the Meadowlands Flea) but I've been trying to sell it a decade or more. It sat in That Cave unloved, unwanted, while a more "Steam Punk" meter waltzed out the door. That one was iron and wood, big and heavy, and I was glad the day some sucker customer took it home. I'll be ecstatic when all this stuff is gone. It's now destroying my weekend plans. Sweet T. and I were going back to the Weehawken pool this Saturday and Sunday until Sharon offered her backroom. I can’t stand being in thrall to this shit and the massive time-suck it engenders. No matter how I price what I bring to 6th St. Vintage it couldn't possibly compensate for the hours and hours invested.

From across the street there's a loud CRACK, metal hitting metal, and I rush out of the garage. Joe's on the upper steps of our stoop, smoking, laughing.

"What the hell was that?"

He points across the street to a white van, the name of a local roofer splayed across it.

"I wish I hadn't seen that."

In an instant I know what happened. Someone didn't account for the downward slope of our hill and in that instant between PARK and REVERSE the van rolled far enough backward to bang into a Honda hard. I go across the street to see the extent of the damage as the roofing crew exits the van to do the same. We all gather near the Honda's front bumper and someone I take for the foreman starts pointing, speaking Spanish to me.

"I'm sorry. I don't speak Spanish.”

He switches to English

"Look. There's no damage."

I hate to do it but I contradict him.

“Here. The license plate frame."

It’s broken in half but hasn't fallen off. This is par for the course around here. Bent license plates, broken license plate frames. Sometimes I'm glad we live in a "front plate" state: they take the brunt of these collisions. I report back to Joe what I've seen and he laughs again. Joe’s grown on me, despite the drama that follows him. Stolen phones. Shitty landlords. Venmo accidents. None of it matters because his work is meticulous. I've never known a painter to do so much prep, including light carpentry. Then I realize Joe's got a reputation to protect, his business is word-of-mouth and he's worked on a bunch of houses on this block alone. If neighbors start talking about a shitty job he did he'd never be hired again. I’d love to sit and chat with him but my shit won’t sell itself.

"Okay, I've got to get back to this garage."

Joe updates me: he won't be by tomorrow due to rain but will resume on Friday. Fine by me. Tomorrow I'll be occupied all day with 6th Street Vintage prep.

After I load up my trunk and backseat with items going to Sharon's it's roughly 4:30. Sweet T. will be home momentarily and I'm so spent I offer to get us some Thai food delivered. Done.

THURSDAY

Occupied all day with 6th Street Vintage gathering. Starting upstairs, I relocate all the That Crave crap distributed through the front bedroom and office. Watches, lighters, shaving razors, etc. Then there's the 1970 Philips record players, vintage binoculars in leather cases, old Down Beat magazines, on and on. It all goes into a bankers box. The clothes are stuffed in my Army duffel bag. This weeding process continues in the basement and garage until there's a nice pile of items for the car, including a bunch of framed art. Around 2:15 I run it all over to 6th Street Vintage, catching Sharon in her Tacoma pickup truck as she's leaving the space in front of her garage. We chat though our car windows a minute and she reminds me of something.

"Be careful with that new lock. Sometimes it doesn't seem like it's locked. Just double-check."

I tell her I will while an impatient Hobokenite crawls up my ass. When Sharon leaves I take her space and begin ferrying shit into her store. This requires a dozen trips back and forth and I put stuff wherever I can, telling myself I'll be here early tomorrow to arrange it all. On my final run back to the car I feel a sting on top of my right hand and look down to see blood.

When the fuck did I do THAT?

I've torn the flesh just below my pinky. My Mercedes is old enough to still have a First Aid kit in a special compartment on the rear deck. I grab it, find a Moist Towelette, which may have been in 1994 but is now a Dry Towelette. It still sops up the blood and I decide not to waste time withdrawing an ancient bandage, too. Before home I stop at the ACME, which was a Foodtown when I lived here, and I grieve for the old ACME near us that's now a contemptible LIDL. This ACME has a liquor department, a butcher, a fish monger, etc. Like a real supermarket and not something Kraftwerk might dream up. I pick up a six-pack of Narragansett Shandy (“Made with Del's lemonade!”), a bag of pretzels and four ears of corn. The pretzels are snacks for tonight's Jan. 6 hearings and I hustle home so there's enough time for me to make dinner and shower before 8 pm.

Sweet T. wants to get rid of a huge framed IKEA print, a blown-up aerial view (!) of Manhattan we had hanging in the Saugerties apartment, now on a bedroom wall. It's so large it won't fit in my car, so I suggest we put it in hers and she can drop me off in Hoboken on her way to work Friday morning.

"I'll load some other stuff in there, too."

Halfway through dinner it's decided we should run over to Hoboken tonight. Sweet T. has no margin for error in the morning and I can see the early AM plan makes her too nervous.

"Also, Sharon lives above the shop and I'm not sure it's a good idea to be there that early. I could wake her up."

Dinner done, we take the Prius to Hoboken, Sweet T. behind the wheel because I've had two beers. The wind's picked up and I worry about it turning the IKEA print into a sail but manage to get it inside along with the rest. It tortures me to know how much I HAVEN'T brought but there's not much display area back here, only a card table, a vintage ironing board and a long, narrow wooden board atop two old sawhorses. I need to be judicious. I've brought stuff I'm tired of storing. Blow-out prices, here, friends, blow-out prices.

We make it back to Weehawken with enough time for me to shower. Then we fire up the YouTube C-SPAN channel and watch the Jan. 6 hearings. It continues to amaze that anyone – anyone – would follow Donald Trump anywhere, including into a jail term for seditious conspiracy. Watching the hearings is to enter the real Upside Down, not that shit from Stranger Things. This is the genuine horror, how one grifter and failed businessman has so many in his grip, can bring this country so close to the brink, wants to do it again. Donald Trump is the worst thing to happen to America since the Civil War. I was going to say "The Depression" or "Pearl Harbor" or "9/11" or some other cataclysm but those events UNIFIED Americans, at least for a time. Trump is the first president who didn't even make a pretense of being a leader for all Americans. He only cared about "his people" – everyone else was an enemy. This is, of course, stating the obvious. Let me get more personal: Donald Trump is the reason I was fired from SiriusXM. After he "won" the 2016 election our show, Freewheelin', was on borrowed time with the audience and – especially – the sponsors. Listeners who never cared for Obama (that's putting it mildly: they thought he was destroying America) couldn't help but rub Trump's "victory" in our faces. They were emboldened to the point of calling us "Libtards" on the air if we somehow managed to express misgivings about Trump. I've said before that my co-host could only wield a cleaver on air, while I preferred a scalpel. Because of the roles we somehow established, she was the one with the power to take callers and – more crucially – hang up on them. After Trump she'd come down hard on any truck driver who'd talk about the new President in favorable terms. She'd ridicule them, interrupt them endlessly, hang up on them mid-sentence. She didn't have access to a tool I'd long employed: humor as disarming mechanism. I could make even the MAGA-faithful laugh. But too often I was yoked to whatever trail my co-host blazed and she loved to let everyone know how unacceptable Trump was. Within a year or two large sponsors were threatening to pull support from our show. This made the ad sales guy, an utter weasel named Steve, nervous to the point of working behind the scenes to have us replaced. Initially, I was friendly with Steve, trying hard to keep him happy since it was the money he brought in that kept us afloat. But post-Trump the relationship soured. We'd arrive at these truck shows to find our booth reduced in size, further from the main action. Broadcasting from a truck show is never great no matter the circumstances. It's a "sound-rich" environment. There are little kids pulling truck horns in the new models on the floor, vendors pumping announcements and music through competing PAs. At the start truck shows were exciting. They brought us face-to-face with our listeners, gave us a chance to try silly programming (like when we made drivers reenact scenes from Smokey & the Bandit complete with sound effects and original music). The worst of the silly programming was a trucker wedding, something fomented by my co-host. To me, staging a wedding at a truck show is a great illustration of her utter lack of imagination. How many daytime talk shows staged weddings? But somehow she talked two poor souls into getting hitched by her. She'd gotten a certificate from some online concern that gave her the power to marry people, insisting on being the center of attention on someone else’s big day. The company spent all of $100 on decorations and a cake and I provided music and sound effects along with color commentary. Would it surprise you to learn the "happy" couple broke up within a year amidst charges of infidelity? I used to joke about staging their divorce at our next truck show appearance and will admit to having a heaping helping of schadenfreude over the whole thing. At least I didn't have to listen to my co-host go on and on (and she did, whenever given the chance) about the biggest turnout we ever had at a live event. But we couldn't host a wedding each time (we did two large truck shows a year, MATS in Louisville and GATS in Dallas, with other smaller shows interspersed) and the law of diminishing returns soon kicked in… hard. After Trump it was clear the company preferred hosts who steered entirely clear of politics or who subtly echoed the MAGA-faithful. By 2018 the situation was dire and Steve the Ad Sales Douche was working with our new manager, a guy who wore pink Polo shirts and previously ignored me as he’d go on and on to those above him in the food chain about his weekends in the Hamptons while I’d maneuver around him to get my break-room coffee. I was obviously beneath even a "Good morning!” until our show came into his purview. That was the beginning of the end. Steve the Ad Sales Douche worked with Pink Polo to get us off the channel, a personal reason Trump is such a volatile topic for me. The guy who spat "You're FIRED!" at countless poor slobs on TV wasn't about to be shit-canned by America.

Sweet T. and I watch the first hearing utterly rapt.

FRIDAY

After breakfast and Sweet T.'s departure for her last Friday as a public school teacher (hard to believe), I gather up what's going with me to 6th Street Vintage. Then I call for a Lyft because parking in Hoboken on a Friday is impossible. When the Lyft arrives so does Joe the Painter and we spend a minute going over what he'll be doing today, then I hop in for the ten minute drive to Hoboken. Initially, I wanted to be in the shop much earlier, give myself two our more hours to set up in the back room. But now I'm scrambling to put everything out on the limited display surfaces. First, I try hanging the oversize IKEA print. Using a rickety wooden ladder (one I sold to Sharon years ago), I attempt to get the IKEA photo on a nail jutting out of the wall but it's just too damn big to handle by myself. I'm reluctant to go higher on the ladder, the way it creaks beneath me. This ladder was never meant to be used. When I picked it up at (where else?) the Meadowlands Flea years ago it was a gift for Roger. He loved to climb our Anderson Fiberglas™ ladder whenever I put it out and I thought I'd get a wooden one we could leave in the house (the Anderson is stashed in the garage). I spent a solid day sanding the old paint off Roger's ladder and we set it out for him. But he never took to it the way he took to the bright yellow Anderson. Maybe that one felt more secure beneath his weight. This one doesn't feel secure beneath mine. Fuck it. The oversize Manhattan aerial view will go on this high shelf over that clothing rack. There's another shelf on the same wall and that's where the Bernie Sanders and Stars Wars cardboard stand-ups go. Stupid me, I bought them for the Saugerties store, to sit at the top of the dreaded spiral staircase at the back of Poop Vintage. The idea was to swap them out every month. But my cousin was not thrilled with the concept. The only one actually pressed into service was Luke and Leia, to whom word bubbles were attached.

”Hey, Luke! What's down there?!”

Luke’s “response”? A long list of all you’d find downstairs. Now Luke & Leia are here and who knows how much more handling, stashing, moving, displaying they'll take? Like most of this shit I'm sick of it. If there's another Waitstock maybe we bring it along and BURN it?

Setting all my shit out and displaying it takes every available second until the doors open at 11 am. A few customers show up within minutes. They buy something, just not from me. This scenario repeats throughout the day. Two or three at a time locals stop by on their way to and from Washington Street, the main drag. The men are poured from the same mold: white, collegiate, late 20s, early 30s, sneakers or sandals, shorts, T-shirts, all topped off with the ubiquitous baseball cap in a pastel shade, turned backwards if he’s rebelling. Lord, how I hate bro culture. I've never understood it and don't care to. The women are only slightly more sartorially adventurous. When 5 PM rolls around Sharon's cleared over $250. I've made $0. I'm her clerk, really, texting her pics of items that don’t have prices, bargaining with customers (I'm able to take 10% off without contacting Sharon), taking payment, wrapping up and bagging purchases. Meanwhile, my stuff goes unloved, unsold. So much time and effort for nothing.

Sweet T. shows up just after 5 PM and I'm happy to see her. She runs out to the ACME to get me a lemonade.

"I went over there around two-thirty, bought a tuna sandwich."

Sweet T.'s back quickly and tells me she can hang around a bit if I want, we don't have to leave now. I swallow the lemonade in three quick gulps. This is thirsty work.

"Might as well stay until six. Maybe I can sell something."

Then, around 5:35, I hit the wall. I can't sit here until 6. Time to go home and see Roger and Marty, eat something, have a beer. I need the comfort and solace of home. We walk over to the ACME where Sweet T. parked, decide we don't need anything else from the store, climb in the car and go home. On the way I unburden myself.

"I think I'm done with all this. I can't move this stuff yet again. I just want it out of our lives. I'm gonna call that guy up in Providence, arrange something. Thing is, I want to sell him everything. I'm not bringing it all up there for him to tell me he only wants certain items. Fuck that. All or nothing."

There is no evidence the guy at POP will go for this. If it was me in That Cave and someone said You have to take it all I would've declined. I'm not your garbage dump. Let's see what Mr. POP says. Right now all I want is one of those Narragannsett Shandys and to sit in my recliner joined by one of the boys, both of whom stare at me waiting for lap clearance.

"Roger, Marty, it's first-come, first-served."

Marty takes a running leap and lands on my groin.

"Thanks a lot, pal."

Marty settles in and I pop the top on my shandy, which startles our best-dressed cat. Roger looks on, disappointment in his eyes.

"Hey, there's room for both of you."

Roger demurs. A feeling of defeat settles over me but not because he doesn't want to hop on pop. I'm pressed up against my own limitations yet again, confronting my current incarnation as – what, exactly? – itinerant seller of junk no one especially wants? I sip my Shandy and try to remember a time before the That Cave detour, wondering if I should’ve left a breadcrumb trail to find my way out. If I wasn't so utterly down on myself I'd admit I've made great progress toward the exit. I've set an informal goal of my upcoming birthday as the date I'd like to be done with That Cave stock. I may even sell the hand-painted store sign. What the fuck am I gonna do with it? First, That Cave was always a bad name. Everyone called it "The Cave". No one got how clever I was being. That Cave, like Bat Cave?! No? Maybe the whole venture was similarly ill-conceived.

Sweet T. makes homemade pizza and we sit and talk, excited to be headed back to the Weehawken pool this weekend. There isn't much on else on the schedule besides me sitting in 6th Street Vintage again on Saturday and Sunday.

"Hey, I think I'm gonna tell Sharon I can't do next weekend. Let's go to Bob and Melissa's party. They said we can stay over. Maybe I'll run the store next Friday but that’s it.”

Sweet T. tells me not to feel obligated, that it's nice Sharon offers the space but it's ultimately more trouble than it’s worth. True. She also reminds me of what I've said often, I need to sell most of this crap on eBay or Marketplace.

I should keep my big fat mouth shut.

We end the night by watching Kids In The Hall and Real Time. Then I stay in the basement with Roger and Marty to see the first episode of the Peaky Blinders final season. Holy shit. Darker and more impenetrable than ever, I watch with captions on because I can't understand a fookin’ word. This is one of those shows that grabbed me early but – there it is again – the law of diminishing returns means I'm more than happy to say goodbye. Let's wrap this up.

SATURDAY

Up too late last night with those Birmingham gangsters. It's 8 AM and I'd kill for another hour's sleep. There's a text from Fabio wondering if I'll be hitting the flea. I think about it a moment, then realize I'd feel too rushed. I write back By the time I get there I'd have an hour before I'd have to leave.

Bummer. Though, honestly, why would I go to the flea? I'd only come home with more shit to eventually unload. I lie and tell myself (and Sweet T.) I'm going for the exercise. There are other ways to take a walk that don't bombard you with cool old stuff to buy.

Downstairs, the boys get fed Fancy Feast beef, a favorite. I make a pot of coffee, then begin breakfast. Eggs and fake sausage, with buttered sourdough bread. All goes well until I try to over-easy Sweet T.'s eggs and they stick to the pan, tearing the yolks. Not enough butter. My sunny-side up eggs do the same when I try to extract them. Broken yolks for all!

Breakfast done, it's time for Wordle. My sister and I have been sending our scores back and forth and mine goes out at 9:03 AM, a 4 out of 6 solve. While I'd love to progress to the New York Times crossword I'm not sure I have the smarts. Maybe some day.

Around 10:15 Sweet T. runs me over to Hoboken in the Prius. We've been together since October of 2005 but somehow we still take issue with each other's driving. I tend to employ the gas when she uses the brake, believing it better to be in front of the trouble than behind. Like the light that goes yellow as we approach. Me, I would've mashed the accelerator. Sweet T. hesitates, hitting the brakes first, then the gas as the light turns red. I try to recommend my approach as a joke.

"You want to hit the gas in those situations, not the brake."

I think I'm saying it with a smile but it doesn't go over that way. Sweet T. tells me she doesn't appreciate criticism of her driving, especially when doing me a favor, that it makes her nervous. This strikes me ironic. Usually it’s me coming in for constant "guidance" behind the wheel as Sweet T. white-knuckles it. Her "feedback" has the effect of distracting me. Like most of us, she prefers having control of the vehicle. The result of my gentle joke this morning and her subsequent scolding is me going quiet, a childhood vestige. Find anyone better than me at giving the silent treatment and I'll buy you a lobster dinner. My go-to move as a kid was to withdraw, whether physically or by refusing to engage verbally. I could keep it up for hours. This is not conducive to maintaining healthy relationships. But I'm forever reminded about that thing Sheila the Shrink said about the figures Freud kept on his desk, supposedly two porcupines.

"They come together and hurt each other. Then they move apart and become cold and lonely."

It sounds right when she says it. Maybe the Freud porcupine bit is  apocryphal. It doesn't matter. The hurt/lonely part is true. Establish a life with another and see how often this cycle repeats. Some figure it out eventually, alone or through therapy. As Sweet T. drops me off at Sixth Street Vintage all I feel is the sting of being scolded, told something – Your criticism of my driving makes me nervous. – I've been meaning to say myself. This gets into difficult terrain. Expecting someone you love to ameliorate axiomatic behavior because they love you, too, is naive. The behavior predates you. It's not about you. Yet it's impossible not to take it personally, not to make it a test.

If you loved me, you'd ______.

Yeah, right. We're all broken, carrying our intrinsic hurts, worried what we'd be without them. Maybe I'm only talking about myself. I'm settled in the store an hour when Sweet T. texts and apologizes for snapping at me. She's also not in a great mood. When I ask why she's not sure. I have some idea. She's retiring in a few days, leaving behind a career that sustained her, helped her feel productive, needed. Beyond is the great unknown. Everyone keeps asking What's your plan? as if she formulated one. I've been too caught up in my own predicaments to be of much use beyond vague talk of how we'll be free to travel. Maybe this is one of those "Just listen" situations?

There'a steady flow of customers through the store, some spend time, others cycle through quickly. Sharon's goods ring up steady sales. Glassware. A vase. An objet d'art. None of my stuff sells. Then Fabio and Rusty Hoover drop by. Fabio texted me he might stop by after the flea. Now he’s in the doorway with Rusty as I type away on the Freewrite.

"Hey! Come on in."

They step inside and over to the counter where the Freewrite sits. Fabio points at it.

"What's that?"

"This is the Freewrite. Like a smart typewriter."

Rusty doesn't know what to make of it.

"I've never seen anything like that. What does it do, connect to your computer? Or is there a hard drive?"

Fabio has questions, too.

"Is this new? When did they come out?"

"Hang on, one question at a time. It has an internal hard drive and you can also hook it up to your computer to transfer files. I use the wifi function and send documents to DropBox. And it's not new. There was Kickstarter back in 2014."

Rusty wants to know how I heard about it.

"Through Kickstarter. I used to go on there, see what was interesting. I tried to get them to donate one to WFMU when they first came out."

Fabio asks how it went.

"I went into New York with Cheyenne, to see the initial model. But they didn't see the value in all the free publicity they would've gotten by donating one. Oh well."

Fabio is fascinated by my particular Freewrite. He reads the engraved inscription on the lower right-hand corner.

"Ernest Hemingway?"

"Yeah, it's a special model. The Hemigwrite. I like the naked aluminum."

"Mind if I ask how much?"

Rusty jumps in.

"Five hundred?"

"More than that. I'm embarrassed to say."

Fabio lets out a Wow. I understand. It's hard to explain the Freewrite to someone until they see it, try it. It's retro-looking but for me the form is secondary. It's billed as a "Distraction-free writing device" and that's true. No notifications, no internet, nothing between you and the words.

Fabio and Rusty wander around the store while I explain my situation.

"Sharon wanted to rented me this front room. Fourteen-hundred and forty a month. I'm not sure it would've made sense."

Rusty points out something that sound right but isn't.

"Maybe on Washington Street."

If this store was on Hoboken's main drag it wouldn't be $1440 a month. Easily double that.

"She also talked about renting me the back room for a thousand a month. Now we barter. I work the store in exchange for space."

Rusty, I'd forgotten, is extremely talkative. He peppers me with questions. I have one.

"How long have you been in Hoboken?"

"Thirty years."

Shit. I want to say something, apologize for not being in touch, etc. But Rusty and I only knew each other peripherally and I always found him to be a bit intense. It can feel like he's interrogating you. Now he wants to hear all about my WFMU troubles and I'm not sure I want to unspool a story Fabio’s heard many times.

"It started with the opening of Monty Hall...:

I lay out the whole sordid tale, maneuvering around Rusty's frequent interruptions until I arrive at the end.

"I've never gotten a response to any of my emails, calls, whatever. Little did I know when I left I was stepping through a one-way door."

Rusty tells me his WFMU-in-exile tale. He ran afoul of a woman I once considered a friend until, like The Gatekeeper, she decided to tell me what she thought was wrong with me. The two of them have no problem letting you know what your malfunction is and the chips fall where they may. This bullshit might go down better if you thought they cared for you more than they enjoyed the thrill of “Just being honest.”

As Rusty unwinds his banishment opus he gets more and more agitated, perplexed why this woman would lie about him.

"She said I PUNCHED her at a holiday party. I did no such thing. I don't even know where that CAME from."

Nor do I.

"Yeah, I don't get it. But she's a powerful enemy to make, even if none of it's true. She has her reasons for you not re-joining the staff and she has The Gatekeeper's ear."

I don't know if Rusty seeks an actual explanation but this is the best I can offer. He ends up buying an $8 mini-magazine from me, some men's publication from the ‘50s. Fabio wants me to demonstrate a Philips stereo record player I have for sale. We carry it up to the counter, plug it in, slap a 45 of Have You Seen Her? on the platter, get it going.

"Doesn't sound like the right speed."

Fabio futzes with the controls, turns the variable speed knob a bit. The Chi-lites sound more like themselves.

"That's better."

"It takes a minute to get up to speed but then it's fine."

Fabio wants to try it with an LP. He's thinking he might put it in his shop.

"But I have to know it can play an LP at the correct speed. I have enough things that don't quite work. I can't take on another."

"Shit. I took all the albums home. See if there's any in the loft."

Fabio goes up to the loft and reports back.

"Nothing but forty-fives here."

He brings one down, we try it.

"Sounds fine. See? It has to get up to speed."

Fabio is firm. He doesn't want to get involved unless he sees it play an LP himself.

"Didn't you buy a bunch of vinyl at the flea today? Where is it?"

"Yeah, I bought records. They're in the car."

"Which is where?"

"Down by Rusty's place. Bit of a walk. That's okay. I'll pass."

I want to tell him to just take it, see if it works, if not, bring it back next time we hit the flea. But I know he has limited space and won't take on something he's not sure about. I'm destined to cart this thing around a little longer, too.

Ball pain.

I ring up Rusty’s $8 purchase and before he and Fabio leave we pose for doorway selfies. Rusty’s buy seems to break the dam because the next few customers buy shit from me. A leather belt with fancy cowboy buckle. A vintage framed print of a woman with ukulele. Then it's all about Sharon's wares. A big, blustery fellow stops in with two women, asks if I remember him.

"We were here yesterday. I bought those glasses?"

"Yes, I remember. John, right?"

I'd seen his name when he Venmo'd payment.

"That's right. We used those glasses last night. Nothing fancy, just tequila cocktails. But they're great."

"Glad you like them."

"So today we're back with our friend."

They make their way around, spending all of thirty seconds in the backroom where my shit is. Maybe that's what it is, shit, and I can't admit or see it. It's certainly not getting the response here it did in Saugerties. Hoboken’s not low-brow territory, not since I moved out in 2007 anyway.

It's nearing 4 PM, the time I was initially to close up and head to the Weehawken pool with Sweet T. But the weather's overcast, windy, cool. This is not pool conditions, we text each other about blowing it off. I'm still worried about my wife and whatever's got her in a bad mood. Am I part? Is there something I'm doing or not doing that I should stop or start? Let's see if she's feeling the same when she comes to get me, then take it from there. She's generally even-keeled, positive, upbeat. It throws me when she's not and I find myself in the counter-intuitive position of trying to bring her out of whatever's got her down, not particularly my skillset. I tend to feel a fraud when I say It's all going to be okay. How do I know?

Around 5 PM a British couple stops in, the wife taken with a pair of vintage metal lockers like you'd see in an old boxing gym. These are two tall, vertical stacks of six cubicles each. She tells her husband the price.

"They're only a hundred forty-five each."

The husband grunts, looks at me as if to say What the hell are we gonna do with these?

I'm about to add to his pile of woe.

"Do you want me to see if she can do better on the pair?"

"Oh, would you?"

Sharon's running an estate sale on Garden Street a few blocks from here and she's not responding quickly to texts, so I call.

"What can you do on those lockers if someone takes both?"

"I don't know. One twenty-five each?"

I convey this to the husband and wife. She's thrilled. He's along for the ride. Or not. He asks a simple question that she can’t answer.

"How do we get them back home?”

I chime in.

"Where are you?"

"Weehawken. Park Avenue."

"I'm in Weehawken, too. Do you have a car?”

“No.”

How does anyone live around here without a car?

Maybe I ask Sweet T. and we put them in her car? No. Sharon has a pickup truck. I turn back to her on the phone.

"They may need them delivered."

"No problem. Tell them I have someone."

I convey this to the British couple and they ask, of course, How much? I ask Sharon.

"I don't know... forty bucks?"

"Alright. Thanks."

I get off the phone, close the sale.

"So she's gonna take off what it'll cost for delivery, forty bucks on the pair. Sounds good?"

The wife looks at her husband, who shrugs acquiescence.

"Cash or Venmo?"

While I take Venmo payment, Sharon texts the name of her delivery guy. I hold my phone up so the wife can get the info.

"Cheers."

The next forty-five minutes are fairly dead and I text Sweet T. to come get me any time after 6 PM. She shows up around 5:50 and parks out front. Angel, the delivery guy, shows up right behind her, rolling his pickup truck up to her back bumper. I meet him outside.

"You Angel?"

"Yeah, bro."

"You want me to ask her to move? Hey, honey, can you go around the block and let Angel pull in here?"

"No, bro. It's fine, bro. I'm good right here, bro."

I've met Angel in Sharon's shop previously. He's Latino, about my height, chews his words when he speaks so you have to ask him to repeat himself. He calls me "bro" about a million times.

"Bro, what am I delivering?"

I show him to the lockers. But Angel wants to look around first. He's fascinated by my stuff.

"This is cool, bro. I love this kind of stuff, bro. Bro, you know I do this, too? Yeah, bro. I have a place up in the Heights, bro."

"Jersey City Heights?"

"Yeah, bro. You should come by, bro."

Angel picks up an old Photoplay magazine and a TV Guide and offers me $20 for both, $11 less than priced. I don't care. I want it out of my sight. I take the money. Angel wants to go through everything I have but Sweet T.'s at the curb and we still need to get the lockers out.

"I'd love to show you it all but my wife's waiting..."

"No problem, bro. I'll come back, bro."

I help Angel get both lockers out the door and into his pickup bed. With the second one I do a reverse carry so I'm not walking backwards. This impresses Angel.

"I see you, bro. Old school carry, bro!"

"I like to see where I'm going."

Angel's not done yet.

"Hey, bro, I have toys, tons of toys, vintage shit, bro. Come by and take a look. I clear out houses, bro."

"Well, I have your number so I'll call."

Right now I just want to go home and get a beer. First, I check the shop, make sure all the lights and fans are off. Then I pull the door closed and lock the new lock. I wave bye to Angel as I climb into the passenger side of the Prius. Sweet T. wants to know how I did.

"Angel bought something so I'm up to eighty-one for the day. Or better than Friday when I made zero."

Sweet T. turns right on Adams, AKA not the way I would've gone. Adams doesn't cut all the way through to 15th Street, the penultimate northern border of Hoboken and the road that gets us to Willow so we can heard north into Weehawken. This is my preferred route because the further back towards the cliffs you go in Hoboken the less cars, pedestrians, future organ donors on bikes, scooters, electric skateboards. We have two different philosophies of driving: I go around everything, she goes through it. I said something Friday as she put her blinker on to turn on Adams. It didn’t go over well, seen as more “criticism”. That's not how it was meant. I thought I was being helpful, showing her an easier route with less intersections and turns, less chances to collide with something. Head west to Madison, turn right, go north to 15th, another right, then a left by the car wash onto Willow and you're home free. Three intersections, three turns. Her route? Right on Adams to 9th, another right, then left on Clinton, right on 12th, left on Willow. Five intersections, five turns, a much more crowded area, more cars, pedestrians, bikes, scooters, etc. Your chance of an accident goes up exponentially. None of this matters when someone thinks you're a control freak issuing criticism. If I'd been in the car with a friend and said Don't take Adams. Take Madison they would've shrugged and done so, not attaching judgement to my suggestion. I'm about to get another lesson in how hard it can be to communicate when love's involved. We've finally gotten clear of Willow and are headed north to Weehawken on Park Avenue when I mention something I just discovered at 6th Street Vintage.

"I think one of the reasons it's been slow is that it's so dark in that backroom. So get this. I text Sharon, mention how dim it is and maybe she should replace the bulbs. She writes back and asks if I knew about the dimmer. Duh. There's a dimmer back there. I had no idea."

This sends Sweet T. into a paroxysm of reproach. She tells me she can't take my complaining, that she's going through a rough time and can't listen to any more. I'm taken aback.

"I wasn't complaining. I was amazed. Here I'm thinking it's just dark back there and the whole time there's a dimmer."

This doesn't have the desired effect. She doesn't respond and we both end up going quiet. Double silent treatment. We get all the way home and into the garage without another word. I can tell she's angry by the way she gets out of the car and leaves me to carry everything inside. My messenger bag, another tote bag and a pizza box (I ordered a pie for lunch and there's five slices left). Getting the pizza box and everything else out of the garage and up the stoop is tricky. The front door's also closed, so I have to precariously balance the pizza box as I open the door. I mutter under my breath Thanks for the help.

Sarcasm!

Not-so-Sweet T. is already up the stairs and in the bedroom. I hear the door close behind her. This is bad. I empty my bags, put the pizza in the refrigerator (the box won't fit so I have to wrap the slices in aluminum foil). By the time I get upstairs the bedroom door is closed tight. Roger's crying at me because he knows something's wrong. I try to console him.

"Puji, come over here. Come here, Puj."

Roger just wails at me, as if to ask What the hell did you do NOW?

Like I know. I text, then quickly call my friend Jeff, who answers on the third ring.

"Hey. I was just reading your text. What's up?"

"Do you have plans tonight? Or are you staying in?"

"Why? What happened?"

"I can't really get into it. I just may need to get out of here tonight."

"Oh. Okay. Funny you should ask. I'm feeling a little under the weather. Nothing serious. No covid. I was up too late last night, did some drinking. But if you need to come over, fine."

"Okay, thanks. I should know in fifteen minutes. I'll let you know."

I knock on the bedroom door, now open a crack. Sweet T.'s on the bed, upset. I enter the room, ask a difficult question.

"Should I get out of here tonight?"

Between sobs she says no, she doesn't want me to leave. That she's been dealing with a lot and she can't take on any more from me. I feel horrible she's spilling out over the sides and I’m the reason.

"I didn't realize how much the retirement is affecting you. Your life is going to change utterly. I’m sorry about my complaining.”

I'm at a loss for words so I listen, trying not to hear what she says as criticism. Which is fucking hard. We talk it out until she begins coming out of the depths.

"Listen, I told Jeff I'd get back to him. Let me go call."

I dial, give the cursory version of what happened.

"But, hey, thanks for not turning me down when I called. I appreciate it."

Jeff laughs.

"Any time!"

Hopefully not. Later, after we've showered, eaten and are calmly discussing what happened, Sweet T. asks what I would've done if I'd gone down to Jeff ’s and did I wish I had.

"No. I didn't want to go. I thought you might've needed some space. But I WAS gonna talk Jeff into watching a two hour and forty-three minute James Bond film."

She laughs and it's all I need.

"Because I love you too much to ask YOU to watch two hours and forty-three minutes of James Bond."

She says she'll watch No Time To Die with me but will probably sleep through it.

"That's okay. I know it's hard to understand my attachment but the first Bond film came out the year I was born, so we're connected. And this is the last Daniel Craig Bond."

I'm not sure Sweet T. can tell Daniel Craig from George Lazenby but at least we're talking and laughing.

SUNDAY

A good day to sleep late. 9:00 AM. Then Roger wants attention for a solid five minutes. There's a big breakfast ahead and when it's over I go looking for the other items I'm bringing to Sharon's. I'm minding 6th Street Vintage again, 11 AM – 6 PM. I'd rather be doing almost anything else but this will give me a chance to sit and write. And it’ll give Sweet T. some time away from my bullshit. Last night I told her why I've been so down lately, how I worry endlessly about what happens if Wall Street takes an even bigger shit. What if my little nest egg goes utterly away? She reassures me we'll be OK but something in me isn’t yet convinced.

She drops me off at the store around 10:30 AM and I turn on the lights and fans, then settle in to do some writing. Sitting at this counter on my old shop stool isn't the most comfortable spot in the world but I'm getting something done. Customers stop in, buy stuff from Sharon and not from me. By 6 PM she's made a few hundred dollars and I've again made zero. My entire haul for the weekend is $81. Oh, and AT&T tells me I've gone over my allotted data. There's no wifi here so every time I snap a picture of something without a price and text it to Sharon it gobbles data. AT&T charges $15 for each 1 GB of "extra" data. Leeches. We already pay roughly $85 a month for our two phones. I need to contact Verizon, our Fios supplier, and see what they'll do for us if we switch to them.

Sweet T. comes to get me at 6 PM and it's a different scenario than yesterday, thankfully. When we get to the left turn near our house there's a long pink party limo waiting at the light.

"Oh my God, who would be caught dead in that thing?!"

Sweet T. reminds me my niece just had her bachelorette party up in Provincetown. Did something like this hideous Lincoln Navigator cart them around? I hope not. And why am I finding it hard to believe my niece is getting hitched in a few weeks? I think back to the last wedding we attended. Sweet T. and I were only together a few years when I dragged her to John Guardo’s nuptials way the hell out on Long Island. What a strange day THAT was. John and I worked together at NPR, he basically ran the New York Bureau, though they probably classified him as "receptionist". Somehow, Sweet T. and I got invited to his happy day.

He was divorced within a year or two.

Sunday night at home is quiet. Sweet T. makes burritos, which I gobble down with a shandy. Then seven of the Waitstock faithful gather for a Zoom meeting. We've gone two years without a gathering but now it looks like we have a date and a venue. The seven in attendance discuss logistics and what happens next. While I treasure the idea of gathering with these beloved people I wish someone else could do all the audio setup I've been doing alone these past years. Maybe I'll have a crew, who knows?

After the meeting we watch some TV and when Sweet T. goes to bed I fire up "Woke James Bond". These movies haven't gotten any less ludicrous, have they, even if they attempt to show how anachronistic Bond is? I make it halfway through by Midnight and bail just as Rami Malek appears as the What the fuck is wrong with him?! villain, leaving me with many questions, foremost of which is How did this dude get rich? And Why not just live comfortably on your private island, you freak?

MONDAY

Couldn't fall asleep last night, worried about – yes – money. All those years of steady income taken for granted. Now I'm floating out here in the ether, wondering how much further the stock market slides. I keep kicking myself for not buying that fucking house in Woodstock, now doubled in value. Over breakfast I bring it up again.

”Would we be living there and renting this place out? Or living here and renting up there?"

I know Sweet T. hates this, me beating myself up for not having listened to the small minority like cousin JD who said a reset was coming, that it couldn't go on like this. If I’d cashed out back in 2019 I would've cleared almost enough to buy the Woodstock house outright. But then we would've had to scramble to rent one or the other house so we could keep paying the mortgage here. Or maybe we would've just sold this place. If we had, we wouldn't have earned what we could've post-pandemic. Timing, eh? I find a way out of this shitty thinking like this:

"Yeah, but then we would've been up in Jen's territory, crossing paths with her in Woodstock and Kingston and Saugerties. No thank you. She put the stink on the whole place."

While it may be unfair to pin this all on my cousin, as my mother used to say, "Tough shit.”

I also remind myself what Bill and so many others said: Don’t get out on a down swing.

Once Sweet T. heads to work I spend time at the dining room table writing for the newsletter. I've put myself in a bind with this: it eats up more and more of my schedule and there's too much else to do. I need to throttle back somehow, change it up so it isn't all reportage on my week interspersed with observations valid or otherwise. Stay tuned.

There's a visit to the chiropractor in Hoboken at 10:30, then a swing by the ACME between Clinton and Grand. It's disorienting to be here recalling how it looked as Foodtown – or, as I dubbed it, Foodclown. Again I find myself envious, wishing we still had the ACME by us and not the stupid LIDL. Up and down each aisle I go, rubbing shoulders with the bright young things of Hoboken, wondering how decrepit I'd feel if I was still living around the corner on Adams. The median age of this place now has to be 22.

Back home the groceries are put away and my attention turns to a long-simmering project: redoing the dubbing station in our office. This is where outmoded media is digitized into WAV and MP3 files, to exist on a computer drive. The idea is to one day make all my old airchecks accessible online and to rid myself of all these cassettes, CDs, DATs and MiniDiscs clogging up the office. Today I'm pulling the flash-based Tascam recorder out because it adds an interim step that’s bogging down the process of transferring physical media to digital files. Rather than record directly into the computer, the cassette, DAT and MiniDisc audio was funneled into the Tascam and on to an SD card. Then the contents of the SD card were dumped into the computer. Corrections would be made via Adobe Audition and the resultant file moved to an outboard drive. Cut out the middleman, I say. When I'm done I'll be able to record directly to our iMac. But an hour and half of rearranging leads me to the conclusion that the audio interface I bought on eBay for $100, the device that was supposed to convert analog (cassette) and digital (DAT, MiniDisc) input to USB for routing to the computer is now outmoded: it won't play nice with a 64-bit operating system. I can get the iMac to recognize it in MIDI setup but this SoundDevices USBPre 1.5 won’t pass any audio. Fuck. When Sweet T. gets home I give up and help her with an ongoing email issue, which takes awhile. She rewards me by buying us Chinese food for dinner. After, we watch today's Jan. 6 Committee hearing, again disgusted by the spineless Trump enablers who said one thing to the public in Nov. 2020 and another entirely to the investigators subsequently. They all knew, all along, that Trump had legitimately lost, by a wide margin. But they echoed the Big Lie anyway. Along with today's stock market news I'm utterly bummed out and when Sweet T. hits the hay I decide to again escape into No Time To Die. Ugh. This movie did not need to be nearly three hours long. It's Midnight before I'm in bed, 1 AM before I'm asleep.

TODAY

Up yawning at 6:10 AM. Breakfast with Sweet T., then work on SYNT. Joe the Painter shows up around 10:30 AM and tells me we need six or seven cedar shingles to do a repair. This ought to be fun. I call the dermatologist, change my appointment for today. He can check my moles next week. Time to crank this out.

Pop Pop-Up Shop!

I'll be back at Sixth Street Vintage (408 6th Street, Hoboken NJ) this Friday Noon – 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 big upcoming art show:

Sat., June 25 – Sat., April 30, 2023

NJ Arts Annual: Reemergence
NJ State Museum
205 W. State Street
Trenton, NJ 08608

TODAY

6 pm ET: Bricks vs. Clicks
An Aerial View Archive from June 12, 2021, recorded at That Cave and featuring Todd Norlander

FRIDAY

6 pm ET: Father Fallacy & More
An Aerial View Archive from June 19, 2020, featuring special guest Richard Eagan, who was at the Columbia University Takeover of 1968.