I WAS A TEENAGE DUMMY

WEDNESDAY – BASIC SWITCH

We cancelled this morning’s Weehawken Pool visit. Neither of us can muster the enthusiasm. It's the construction going on in front of our house. The water company’s tearing up the street to replace the main and supply pipes. They've been at it a week. It’s loud and annoying. We can't park in our own garage or be trapped. We can't park on the street due to the construction vehicles overnighting. We pray the work's done by the time we leave for Cali in six days.

I'm vending at the ROT Fest this Saturday and thought today would be spent pulling out shit to sell and staging it in the currently empty garage. Then I got involved with a long-delayed project: switching our mobile provider from AT&T to Verizon. AT&T was killing us with overage charges, $15 for every additional GB on our crap "Family Share" plan. Our $90 bill for two lines would routinely ballon to $150. When we were going back and forth to Ulster County AT&T had dead zones all over the Catskills. I'm also not a fan of AT&T the corporate actor. When Verizon began sending mailers to the house telling us how much we can save as Fios customers it set (slowly moving) wheels in motion. The switch is a goddamn ordeal. I fired up our iMac around 3 PM and was just finishing at 7 PM. Four fucking hours on various chats with Verizon personnel. I almost gave up. First, I couldn't log into our Fios account because they instituted two-factor authentication and I kept getting the security answer wrong. I knew the correct answer but no matter how I typed it in nothing worked. When I tried to create a new password I got stuck in an authentication loop. I finally gave up and went through the Verizon Wireless site. They thought I was an existing customer even after I told them I was a Fios customer. Maybe they found some old account of mine, who knows? I'm chatting thirty minutes with one Verizon rep when he realizes this and foists me off on another. Back to the start I go, repeating every last bit of info. Damn. Sweet T. wants to heat up last night's lasagna.

”Give me a few more minutes.”

This happens several times but then it’s over. We're switched and with our Fios discount will pay $100 a month for the 5G Start Unlimited plan, which includes Canada and Mexico (with AT&T we paid through the nose to call Canada). We also get $700 in Verizon Gift cards, which we can use in the Verizon store or on our bill. I nearly opted for the more expensive tiers, which include "free" Disney+, Hulu and ESPN (ad-supported versions) and "free" Apple Music. That would've been another $50 – $60 a month and we're trying to reduce expenses. Yes, we currently pay for Disney+ and Hulu but those will go away before much longer, along with Netflix. There's so much content we never get around to I wonder if we should chuck all the streaming services and read to one other.

After lasagna we settle in the living room to wait for my nephew Alex to reach out. He's staying here tonight and Thursday, currently returning from visiting relatives on Long Island. His rental car needs to be returned to nearby North Bergen and it's 9:20 PM when he texts me he’s there. We're arrive in ten minutes and after he photographs the rental car to prove no damage, we go home. I'm in the mood for a cocktail and mix up gin martinis. We have no olives or cocktail onions, so Sweet T. suggests blueberries. She’s drinking an alcoholic seltzer and we settle in around the dining room table to talk. There's much to discuss about the wedding and aftermath but I steer the topic to Alex and his mom, my late sister Joanie.

"You know your mom was always the one who would get her feelings hurt at family gatherings. Someone would make a joke or bust her chops and she'd go off crying."

Alex isn't aware of this.

"Really. She was a sensitive person."

Alex finds this amazing. He remembers his mother not taking shit from anyone. Standing up for him when other family members object to something he’s doing.

"I'm glad to hear that."

After the drinks we go down to the basement, watch a show or two and then get Alex settled on the living room couch with sheets and pillows.

“This is better than the basement. There’s AC and I can turn the fan on.”

We say goodnight and as I climb the stairs I think about the last time I saw my sister. Cancer had moved from her lungs into her brain and she was losing her ability to speak. She looked at me, said You're the one who's funny on the radio and I lost it. I quickly went outside their house in Connecticut and bawled my eyes out.

THURSDAY – YOU DON’T KNOW JACK

Fuck, I'd love to sleep past 8:00 AM but my car needs to be moved, as does Sweet T.'s. The water company is supposedly coming back to do more work. When I get downstairs Alex is still sleeping. I try to get out the door without waking him. My car goes around the corner and Sweet T. moves her to the same stretch of curb. When I get back I whip up scrambled eggs and toast with coffee. Marty is still upstairs under the bed, refusing to venture out because STRANGER IN THE HOUSE. When breakfast is done I bring him some wet food, coaxing him out with a high-pitched "Come on, Marty... I have some num-nums for you!" To see his little white paws inch out bit by bit cracks me up and something like pride fills my heart when I realize Marty trusts me.

Alex keeps taking work calls and going back and forth via email on his current project. It's impressive to hear his command on the product launch he's finessing. It's for a high-profile client whose name you'd recognize but there's an NDA so DON'T ASK FOR DETAILS. He's hitching a ride to Hoboken with me, passengers of Sweet T.'s as she heads west to Lebanon, NJ to hang out with a friend. I'd go with her but I agreed to mind Sixth Street Vintage today. I wish I hadn't as there's a ton to do in preparation for the ROT Fest this weekend. I’m also hoping for some SYNT time. After a bit of writing I get my act together to be out the door by 11 AM. Alex is meeting Jenny, a co-worker who happens to live in Hoboken, the first time they'll see each other IRL. But he first joins me in Sixth Street Vintage where he spies a vintage Greist "Convertible" lamp from 1930 or 1931. Sharon must've just dragged it into the store because it's not on display, just sitting on the floor with a few other lamps. Alex is intrigued by its design. You can use it as a table lamp, hang it on the wall as a sconce or clamp it to a desk (hence “Convertible"). It’s about seven inches tall, made of brass – discolored in a few spots – and cute as hell. Alex wants me to ask Sharon about it and I tell him I will. Then I direct him toward Washington Street where he's meeting Jenny.

I've brought a Halliburton briefcase full of small items to set up on the counter. Safety razors, watches, lighters, vintage cameras. The usual. While laying it out Sharon shows up. She remarks that I'm here early.

"Well, the wife was headed out west and dropped me and my nephew off. He saw that lamp and wanted me to ask you about it."

She tells me she just put it out and doesn't even know if she wants to sell it. She's had it for years and the least she can take it for is $150. I text my nephew, expecting he'll be put off by the price. He's not. This should be interesting.

It's fucking hot in Hoboken and Sharon's agreed to run the AC unit in the store. Thank Jeebus because the three fans of varying sizes just blow hot air around. Sharon and I make small talk about what's happened since last we met. I tell her all about my niece's wedding in Rhode Island and she spins the tale of her brother's move to Australia and the plane ride back just to deal with a banking screw-up.

"Damn. He flew back just for that?"

Yes. It was all the money from the sale of his house, money he couldn't access due to some wanker's mistake. All is good now and Sharon leaves me to myself after ten minutes. When my counter display is complete I haul out the Freewrite and prepare to do some writing. A few customers drop by but all I've brought in is $28 and not for me. No one comes over to look at my counter display and I wonder if it's because I'm behind the counter.

Sharon texts me around 2 PM that she'll be back to relieve me no later than 4 PM. I thought I was on the hook until 6 but this is fine. Even with the AC it's hot as balls in here. Then I discover why. One of the windows in the back room has been propped open. With a hammer.

When Sharon returns I text Sweet T. to let her know I can leave. Can you get me or should I take a Lyft? She says she's just leaving Lebanon. Good. This should work out if I can find someplace to wait other than here. Alex texts, asks if he should order me food from the place he had lunch with his co-worker. He's sent a picture of the menu and I see an Impossible Burger with fries.

"Get me that."

For some reason I don't want to wait in the store for Alex and Sweet T., feeling like I'd be underfoot. So I wait outside where it's 90 and I begin sweating. This stretch of Sixth Street has no shade, no trees. It's hot as blazes out here and I keep ducking back into the store to cool off. Alex is making me nervous because I want him to get to the store before Sweet T. so she's not kept waiting. I keep texting Are you on your way? and it seems he might be going in the wrong direction until I send the address. Finally, I see him coming toward me on Sixth, Jenny beside him. She's his age, 26 or so, bubbly, cute, thrilled to be meeting Alex.

"Go inside and check out the store if you've never seen it."

They do and within minutes Sweet T. arrives. I go out to the car.

"Alex and his friend are in the store. He wants to buy a lamp. I told him to speak to Sharon about it. Ask her if she has any flexibility."

He takes my advice but she doesn't. She sticks to the $150 and Alex pays it. Damn. He has good taste in lamps. Jenny helps me load my stuff into Sweet T.'s car and we say goodbye. Back in Weehawken I tuck into my Impossible Burger while Sweet T. heats up lasagna for her and Alex. After dinner we give Alex a belated Christmas gift, a retro LED watch, leftover That Cave stock. He's absolutely thrilled with it, hasn't seen anything like it. He especially can't believe you have to press a button to tell the time.

"Yeah, not the most convenient thing."

Somehow the subject of I Was A Teenage Mummy – a movie I “starred” in as “Detective Jack Boyle” back in 1992 – came up over the past week. I wish I could tell you the context and who introduced the subject. It wasn't me, if memory serves. It might've been Sweet. T. But tonight's the night we told Alex we'd sit down and watch it. But I can't get our combo VCR/DVD player to open. The DVD drawer is stuck shut. Sweet T. says she saw the film on Venmo and Alex finds it on his Macbook, then Airplays it to the TV. I haven't seen this film in easily twenty years and it's a cringe-fest from start to finish. This guy Chris Frieri – who I sort of knew through a mutual acquaintance – had made a few films and this was his next step up. The plot has something to do with an exchange student of some vague Egyptian background getting bullied by greasers in high school and then kidnapping a young student and putting a curse on her to turn her into the title. The mummy then proceeds to wreak havoc, taking out greasers and their gals one by one. I play Detective Jack Boyle and as the movie unspools memories of the shoot came back to me. It was pure guerrilla film-making in black and white. Chris Frieri called in tons of favors, persuading nearly everyone to work for free or cheap. I can't remember if I got paid but almost lost it when I saw where much of the action was filmed.

"THAT'S THE HOUSE I LIVED IN IN TENAFLY!"

Yes, there on the screen is the four bedroom, two bath Craftsman-style house I moved into in 1986 when I left Long Island. Wow.

"Shit. I should've bought that house. But I didn't have any money in 1992."

The house was owned by Jeff Nagle (RIP), a wedding gift from his parents. But Donna Randall – a friend of mine – divorced him within a few years and I ended up becoming his roommate. He then moved out to New Mexico to be with his mother while his father house-hunted on the East Coast. It never occurred to me to ask why they just didn't move into the Tenafly house but I suspect something else was afoot. The end result was I had the house largely to myself. Jeff would appear once or twice a year for a week then head back to New Mexico. Jeff was the one who allowed Frieri to film at the house as I would've been too concerned about the neighbors, who already didn't like the young assholes living at 5 Sisson Terrace. To see it onscreen again thirty years on does something to my head.

I'd love to tell you the movie is a good time but apart from a few scenes – especially those with the A-Bones playing a high school dance – it's a train-wreck. The acting styles range from sorta OK to What the actual FUCK?! and I keep saying "Jesus, this guy was a moron." to the screen. Alex can't believe what he's seeing. Alternately impressed by the dedication of the main character, the exchange student (I keep yelling at my nephew "Didn't I tell you this kid is fully committed?!") and appalled at the utter lack of budget, he's still impressed it got made.

Oh shit, I just remember how the subject of the film came up. We were talking about SpongeBob SquarePants and I mentioned I was in a film with Tom Kenny, the voice of SpongeBob. It's true. Tom shows up in the high school dance scene for a few seconds. Big Billy Ray Peitsch (RIP) is also in the scene, as is Chris, one of the Missing Foundation drummers.

"Where are all these people now? Maybe we should have a cast reunion?"

Alex and Sweet T. laugh. A cast reunion for a film no one saw.

When the film freezes on Alex's laptop we take a break and I decide to bring one of the litter-boxes upstairs for little Marty, who's still hiding under the bed.

"Here you go, Marty. I brought you your bathroom."

Little white paws inch out from under the bed. Marty's not sure about this. But then he drags the rest of himself out and we spend a moment together.

"Sorry about this Marty. I think you'd like Alex."

I'm not about to try to what I did earlier: carrying him downstairs to meet my nephew. He tore off over my shoulder and it hurt like hell. Marty has food, water and a bathroom. We'll let him chill out here as long as he likes.

Back down in the basement we continue with I Was A Teenage Mummy and it only gets more over the top with an amputation, a beheading and a dime-store "transition" from mummy to high school student and back again. When the film ends my character is the only one still alive.

Take that, you greasers and you undead!

FRIDAY – WATERED DOWN

The stupid water company – formerly Suez and now something we can't pronounce – is still on our block, construction equipment parked at the corner, traffic cones blocking part of Highwood. My car needs to be moved. So does Sweet T.'s. She's sleeping late and I'm the one moving both vehicles just after 7:30 AM. When I get downstairs Alex is half-asleep on the couch.

"Did you have those lights on all night?"

Groggy, he says he did and I know I could've never fallen asleep with that much light in the room. Then again I can't fall asleep when it's pitch dark. I usually lay there doom-scrolling until my eyes close.

When I move my car and then my wife's around the corner I notice my Mercedes has a broken taillight lens. What the fuck? I spend a few minutes investigating the extent of damage and it's not bad. One small section of the clear portion for the back-up lights is busted out. Maybe I can remove the entire lens and glue it back together? But how did this happen? When I'm in the house again I spend more time checking the video doorbell and our other front door camera. I can't see anyone or anything hitting my car. It must've happened while I was parked around the corner. The other day I found significant damage to the young tree out front. A huge piece of bark has been ripped off and I surmise a construction vehicle did it. When one of the crew members saw me checking the tree he apologizes.

"Oh. Yeah. Sorry about that. It's a new piece of equipment and I must've hit the tree. I’ll tell my supervisor."

A moment later the supervisor comes over, sees me trying to put the piece of bark pack in place.

"It'll be fine. It'll grow back."

Fucking idiots.

The sign indicating NO PARKING was also torn off by the new piece of equipment so I tape the sign and the bark back on with painter's tape from our garage. I can't wait until these assholes are gone but – like Joe the Painter – you never know when they'll actually be working. We've been dutifully moving the cars every morning by 8 AM and often the Creamer people don't show. Creamer – ubiquitous in this area – are the hired hands for any water company work.

Alex needs to be at Grand Central by 3 PM today to catch a train to Connecticut. He's going to see a friend, his last stop on this whirlwind East Coast tour. Saturday he flies back to Los Angeles. First, there's breakfast, then we both sit at the dining room table working on our laptops. He's finalizing design on a big project for a celebrity client. I'm putting together social media ads for my booth at the ROT Fest Saturday. Then I'm out in the garage pulling out shit to bring to Highland Park and sell. I'm using one of the folding tables I just bought to sort out what's going. The focus is on the four large Sterilite storage containers atop the metal shelving at the back of the garage. Usually, I'd use a short step-stool to grab the containers and bring them down one by one. But the step-stool has a heavy crate of crappy records on it so I grab our 6-foot ladder. Bad idea. I get three of the Sterilites down but the fourth one’s heavy and when I momentarily balance it on the top of the ladder to guide it down it topples. It's heavy enough to kick the ladder out from beneath me. One moment on I'm on the third step, the next I’m flying off and doing a weird split when I land. Shades of Sweet T.'s broken leg. The old paper in the Sterilite container goes everywhere, the ladder hits the floor and I'm left checking myself for damage. This doesn't help the issues I'm having with the tendon behind my thigh. It now throbs and aches enough to drive me inside to a bottle of Tylenol. Again it's hard to escape the conclusion that my stuff is trying to kill me. I debate whether to say anything to Sweet T. about this. She'll just worry.

Alex downloads the NY Waterway app and has a hard time loading his credit card info on so he can buy a ferry ticket.

"Let me take a look."

I fuck around on the app a few minutes but it's a terrible user interface and I can't figure out how to get his credit card loaded. Then he does after I hand the phone back to him. He's on a 2:48 PM boat and jumps in the shower so he can travel fresh. By the time he gets out of the shower it's after 2:30 and I hear myself telling him we need to pick up the pace. We're out the door in a few minutes and arrive to the Lincoln Harbor ferry slip to see the boat at the dock and the gate to the gangway closing. I jump out of the Prius, wave my hands over my head.

"HOLD THE BOAT! HOLD THE BOAT!"

The New York Waterway deckhand hits the button that controls the gate, reversing it. Alex wants to hug me goodbye and I do, quickly, while telling him "They're not gonna hold the boat too long..." He gets down the gangway with his rolling luggage and backpack and turns to wave. Bye-bye, nephew.

Back at the house it's quiet. Time to pack Sweet T.'s car for tomorrow's ROT Fest. The Origami folding shelf goes in first, then the folding tables. Everything else goes on top until I can barely close the hatch. I find myself again pining away for a van or a pickup truck or a station wagon. Something with more room for all this shit. Something easier to load and unload. Part of me thinks If not now, when? and the other part thinks Why the fuck would you spend a bunch of money on another vehicle? Then there's the question of the Mercedes. It's been a fantastic car but it fell in my lap and I'd probably still be driving that '83 300D otherwise. I haven't yet turned 80K miles with this car so I either keep driving it until something major needs replacing – likely the transmission – or sell it while it still might fetch upwards of $5K if I make it look nice. I'm totally tossed up so will stand pat for the time being.

Neither of us feel like making dinner so we order a pizza and eat it with beer. That reminds me: I bought tickets for the Adrenalin OD reunion on Nov. 4 at The Bowery Electric. This ought to be interesting. We end the night with MasterChef and steel ourselves for the ROT Fest.

SATURDAY – MYOB & BYOB

I learned about Alex Dawson through my friend Jeff, who's been a part of many of Alex's Raconteur Radio productions. Raconteur Radio stages live "radio" plays (they're not actually broadcast or – come to think of it – podcast due to – ahem – copyright issues) using movie scripts like Jaws as a basis for their interpretations. Alex is a writing professor at Rutgers, had the Raconteur Bookstore in Highland Park, now closed, and recently crowd-sourced funding for a one-of-a-kind "Rack-On-Tour" (ROT) bookmobile, now parked in the Farmer's Market lot at 212 Raritan Ave in Highland Park. When I learn about the ROT Fest I think it might be a good way to work up to the Meadowlands Flea. But it'd be weird to sell at the flea because I'd be selling shit THAT CAME FROM THE FLEA. Cannibalis!. And I'm still resisting the entire idea because I know how grueling it can be. I carry scars still from those Punk Rock Flea Markets in Asbury Park and the WFMU Record Fairs and that one Strange Xchange in Montclair. What a pain in the ass. Packing the car. Hunting for parking. Humping everything into the venue. Getting to your space. Setting it all up. Dealing with all the tire-kickers. Then reversing the process. But I'm willing to test the waters, see if the ROT Fest is a horse of another color. I was hoping my friend Jeff would stop by but he says he has a "full day" commitment and I have no idea what that might be. I'm just glad Sweet T. is coming along because doing this shit yourself is a disaster recipe.

Eggs are scrambled for breakfast and we're out the door to Highland Park by 10 AM. There's traffic on the turnpike but we get there by 10:40 with plenty of time to set up. I find Alex and he directs us to where to set up if we want electricity to our spot: near a covered pavilion with picnic tables beneath and AC outlets high up on opposite corners. When the Prius is unloaded Sweet T. parks it in the nearby lot and returns to help me with the canopy. I bought it from the LIDL and only took it out of the box last night to load it in the car. Unzipping its case I find the instructions and read. Seems simple enough but there's only two of us and we can't seem to coordinate the raising. I keep running from one leg to another trying to get it snap into place. Finally we suss it out and get it built. This thing is gonna be a lifesaver. The sun's beating down and no one wants to be sitting exposed all day. Certainly not the other vendors. All three of them. I'm not sure what I expected but the ROT Fest is still in its infancy. Alex strikes me as the sort who can grow this into a much bigger deal, so I'm throwing my lot in.

I have a vague idea how to lay out the tables, Origami shelf and folding bar cart we brought for display space. But I keep experimenting until it feels right. Using a wooden crate as step-stool I run my extension cord to one of the outlets and snake the other end to our canopy.

Please let's not have anyone trip over this thing.

After we set up our display space Sweet T. and I unbox the stock and start setting it out. T-shirts and other clothing is hung from the canopy's crossmembers. The Origami shelf holds a ton, including various board games, the Orange Micro-Dark guitar amp and speaker, various clocks and the two Philips record players no one wants. Whatever needs to be plugged in goes to a power-strip attached to the extension cord. By Noon we've laid everything out and I'm mostly pleased but wish I'd brought proper boxes for the old paper. It's stacked up on three vintage desk drawers making it hard to look through. Next time.

We're almost done setting up when a blind man cuts through the Farmer's Market lot on his way to the church in the adjoining lot. I watch as his red-tipped cane taps on the ground near my extension cord. Somehow he manages to step up over the cord and he keeps coming directly toward the T-shirts hanging from the canopy's crossmembers. When the shirts almost brush his hat off he laughs. I debate guiding him through my booth but he clears it without incident.

We're opposite a small wooden stage with PA and acts are scheduled throughout the day. The first is a bearded singer/songwriter, Joe, whose songs aren't bad but whose volume is tough to surmount. I find myself shouting and saying WHAT?! to the trickle of customers stopping by. Sweet T. soon sets off in search of a frame shop for two drawings accepted into a Brooklyn art show and I resign myself to running the ship alone.

There was an internal debate back at home: do I bring the That Cave sign and try to display it somehow? The question answered itself when I ran out of space in the Prius. But a bigger question remains: should the That Cave name live on? It was never the greatest, always being transmuted into "The Cave" despite my efforts at correction. It got tiring, like always spelling my last name. My eBay, Marketplace and Venmo identities all use "That Cave". And I DO have a URL, hand-painted sign and neon clock. Am I making too much of it to see Saugerties and its disappointments every time I look at my logo? Last week's newsletter was titled Junk Uncle and I thought that might be a good new name for this "Selling Old Shit" business. But I can't be the first to come up with that. Maybe SOS, as in "Selling Old Shit"? I JUST CAME UP WITH THAT.

Entropy is all and it will remain That Cave until a drastic change is needed.

My first sales are modest. Old paper for $2, $5. A Rutt's Hut T-shirt for $15. Things poke along but then begin to pick up. I'm straightening up and rearranging when I turn and find my old pal Jeff in the booth.

"Hey! I thought you had an all-day commitment?"

He tells me he decided to go to the work party later. Jeff is a long-time Rutgers employee and they must be doing a year-end get-together. I'm glad he's here instead. And not just to spot me when I have to hit the head.

"Grab a chair, let's get caught up."

Jeff drops into the other folding chair and extracts a zippered case from a cargo pocket. From the zippered case he pulls a small flask and two skull-shaped clear shot glasses. This, he says, is the last of the Macallan you got me.

"For your birthday? Wow."

Jeff pours us each a shot and we toast, then down them.

"That's some good shit."

Jeff and I go back almost fifty years and there's not much bullshit between those who've know each other that long. We can and do say anything and everything to each other. Our conversation this morning is about Alex and his “vision" for ROT Fest, Jeff's aging parents down in Virginia and his sporadic dating life. His last relationship of any length was with a woman subsequently dubbed a femme fatale. Things were getting serious between them when she lowered the boom, ghosting him at first, then telling him it was over but offering no reason. He laughs when he tells me she mailed him back all his clothes, the ones he left at her condo in Astoria. But there's hurt and confusion beneath. This was the first woman in ages he thoroughly vibed with. She was even age appropriate. The break came out of nowhere and left him holding the bag. It's hard to feel that sorry for Jeff because he still has a great head of hair, hasn't gone to seed and is highly-entertaining to be around. Hell, he still goes out to bars, to clubs, to see live music.

Single ladies, get in touch with me if you want the hook-up.

I'm not sure if Jeff brings good luck with him but sales pick up. I'm bringing in cash and Venmo payments (no one does PayPal). Better still, I'm getting rid of shit, even some stuff that hurts to let go. A young girl finds a small advert for The Mad Daddys at Webster Hall with a hand-written post it note attached: "Chris, come on down to this show. It'll be great."

"That note was written by the singer, who's now dead if memory serves. Right Jeff?"

Jeff confirms it. The Post-it was written by a dead man. The Mad Daddys were a Cramps-adjacent NJ-based band whom I likely met via WFMU. For a moment I debate whether to sell the damn thing, then I ask the girl for $2. I was going to say $5 but she didn't seem that attached to it. All day this pattern repeats. There are items here I'd just as soon continue owning. Things given to me by acquaintances, friends. Then I remember why I'm going through all this trouble: to let go of shit. Somehow, that Mad Daddys ad resonated with that girl, who kept the Post-it and took the story behind it.

Shouting over Joe the singer/songwriter, Jeff provides timely assists on various sales, playing up one angle or another. You're not gonna find another one of those, HA HA. That's a good price, too, HA HA. One guy stops by and greets Jeff warmly, then buys the Breaker 19 board game I've been carting around since 2008 when we used it on the Freewheelin' show. We played the game on air, allowing a caller to chose a color token and play along. That was also hard to let go of but Jeff's friend was excited to have it. I'm going to teach my niece and nephew about analog games he tells us.

"Jeff, you think his niece and nephew want to play a trucking-themed board game from the 1970s?"

Jeff laughs again. We have a damn good time watching the sideshow acts that follow Joe and the acoustic-guitar strumming dude that follow them. Then the readings begin. Alex has invited a multiple Hugo award winner, a sci-fi writer whose work has been turned into TV shows and movies. When he introduces the guy I feel chagrin over my earlier behavior. I'd seen him and a woman I assume is his wife fish some cold drinks out of a cooler and carry them to a picnic table. Then they sat and ate lunch, interrupted by asshole me.

"Excuse me? Did Alex say you could take the drinks?"

They look at me, confused. The man squints, says Yes, he said we could.

"Okay, sorry."

I thought they were two randos who saw free drinks and decided to indulge. In my mind I was preserving scant resources for those of us who paid to be here. BUT WHO APPOINTED ME THE BEVERAGE POLICE?! I'm not sure what compelled me to get involved but I must remember: MYOB, not BYOB.

A kid stops by to check out the guitar for sale but there's no way his mom is coughing up $450.

"Those are first-generation DiMarzio Distortion pickups. On eBay they go for $200 each on their own. Do you know what an aftermarket pickup is?"

The kid looks at me like I'm speaking in tongues. After-market? Pickups? What are you saying, old man? Further explanation is neither warranted nor desired. Shut your piehole. The kid reminds me of myself when I first start playing guitar, in need of a decent instrument but unable to pay for one. For a moment I think of severely slashing the price to $250 but I don't think it'll matter. This mother's not buying her kid an electric guitar at ROT Fest, even if I throw in a free strap and soft-case.

People keep stopping by to say "Hello!" to Jeff and I wonder if I should ask him to be my official greeter at the next ROT Fest. Some of his fans even buy things. I'm waving goodbye to one item after another but pangs resound when I sell the vintage Kodak cameras that belonged to my mother. Well, one did. A Brownie. Another was mine and the the third was a flea market find. The guy gives me $60 when I throw in a vintage mini "Spy Camera" – the kind they sold in the back of comic books. Again, I think of keeping it, saying it's NFS (Not For Sale) but fuck it. Goodbye, spy camera.

Jeff begins to extract the zippered container with the flask when over his shoulder I see a Highland Park cop coming our way.

“Give it just a minute.”

Jeff gives me a confused look, keeps pulling out the booze.

“Give it just a minute, won’t you?”

He smiles, pauses. Here’s the cop.

“Hey, how’s it going?”

He ends up being Officer Friendly, hanging around to look at my stuff and make small talk. He’s here because of some dude who keeps coming over from New Brunswick to fuck with people.

“I read that the mental health thing has gotten worse with the pandemic. Prescriptions for anti-depressants are way up.”

“Yeah, even me. I went through it. Couldn’t leave the house. Finally put me on Lexapro.”

Wow, thanks for sharing.

Jeff tells me he's heading back home for a bit before hitting his work party.

"Hey, I hate to ask but is there any chance you'd come back around 6 PM and help us pack all this up?"

Sure, no problem he says.

"Thank, man."

It's a relief to know it won't just be and Sweet T. arguing over the breakdown process. Her car will need to be loaded in a very specific order and I'm not sure her patience will still be in supply at the end of the day. I'm not sure mine will but right now I'm having a much better time than I thought I would. I even manage to sell a Jack Taylor-designed Aerial View lighter to Joe the singer/songwriter. Alex had told me to bring WFMU merch, lots of fans around here, and I thought of The Gatekeeper, originally from Highland Park. There's zero chance he's showing up here, though. Next time I hope to bring those WFMU T-shirts marooned on a bedroom closet shelf in a vacuum bag. There must be two dozen assorted styles from the late '80s until my last year there, 2016. Most are 2XL and I'm not sure how many I'd sell. Many are out-of-print, so that might matter to the faithful. Getting rid of those shirts and all my Mermaid Parade shirts would be quite a hurdle for me. The 'FMU shirts I wore, sometimes wore out, but the Mermaid Parade shirts were rolled up and stuck in a drawer. Is there an audience for those on eBay?

This is a much better time here at the ROT Fest than eBay ever provided. There's a decent food truck parked steps away, cold water and seltzer and ongoing entertainment. Everyone who comes by is friendly, happy to see my rag-tag assortment. I'm the only one selling old stuff. The vendor to my left has hand-made art featuring what appear to be human teeth. Jeff and I wander over there and ask. The vendor laughs. Those? They're resin. I make them.

"Are you a dentist?"

He says no. Later, back in our folding chairs, I'll discuss it with Jeff.

"Why are you making perfect teeth replicas if you're not a dentist?"

We both agree his art is "interesting" but the prices are a bit much. The vendor next to him is selling screen-printed T-shirts with original designs. On my way back from another piss I ask him about the shirts. Turns out they're DTG.

"What's DTG?"

He tells me it's Direct To Garment then describes how his uncle or nephew or cousin owns one of the machines. You program your design in and load up a T-shirt, then hit a button. The machine prints directly onto the shirt. No need to burn a screen. Then he mentions he'll probably screen-print them next time.

When 6 PM rolls around I've made just over $300. I bought two LPs (The Supremes and Peel Slowly & See) for $10, spent $12 on lunch and paid Alex his $25 fee. To my shock Sweet T. says she'd do another one, that it wasn't bad at all. I remind her we've yet to break it all down and get it back in the car. Luckily, Jeff returns and chips in.

"Hey, why don't you stick around and go to dinner with us?"

Jeff says he'd love to but needs to go home to shower for a gig he's attending. Next time. With Jeff's help we're packed up in 35 minutes, which I consider a minor miracle. I find Alex, thank him for having me, tell him I'd love to do another.

"Did I ever tell you I own a custom trucking suit, by the way? I'd love to wear it here and tell the story behind it."

He says that would be great, next event is August 13. Shit, did I just agree to wear that suit in August? I'll be sweating balls, no doubt. I ask if our car is okay in the lot for a bit, we're going across the street for Thai food. He says no problem. Sweet T. and I cross Raritan Ave. to the Thai place I've been checking out online. I'm hungry and can't wait to try some of their appetizers and one main dish in particular. My idea is to order takeaway, eat it at one of the picnic tables near the car. Sweet T. doesn't want to do that and invokes her Wife Veto. We go in the restaurant, find a table, get water and realize it's hot inside. We thought we were escaping the heat but they've decided not to run the AC or not turn it up (turn it down?) so it's stuffy.

"Let's get out of here. I'll order something for the road and we can get Chinese when we're home."

Sweet T. goes out front, I step to the bar, place an order, tell the bartender I'll wait outside. When I get outside here comes Jeff across the street. He tells us Screw the shower, what do I need to shower for? I lean over and sniff.

"I don't smell anything."

We spend the next few minutes figuring out where to go. Jeff says there's a real good Chinese restaurant nearby but I convince everyone to try the other place he mentions, the Greek place. MY PEOPLE! He says he'll grab his car, meet us there. Sweet T. and I get the Prius and drive five minutes to the Greek restaurant. It hot, humid but we sit outside because of fucking COVID. Jeff arrives a few minutes later. Except for the table of loudmouths next to us (sample overheard conversation: "You know who YOU should really go see? The Zack Brown Band.") it's a grand time. I sneak the Thai appetizers on to a plate and we devour them. My main meal is Vegetarian Moussaka and it's all I want right now. Jeff tells a great story about a time he went to the NJ State Museum to stage a play and the State Trooper guarding the parking lot entrance was watching porn on his laptop. Clearly visible, Jeff emphasizes.

"Maybe he was lonely."

A bit of rain falls but not enough to ruin the night. We say goodbye to Jeff, who goes off to his show, and get home by 10 PM. Marty and Roger greet us with Where the hell have YOU been? cries. Hello, boys.

SUNDAY – THE GRILL CAN'T HELP IT

We can actually sleep late. No motherfucking water company construction, just two obligations later on. I need to empty Sweet T.'s car and we're helping out at Guttenberg Arts for their Pot Sale. I told Matt at GA I'd bring over my new canopy, so I leave it in the Prius after everything else is removed. It takes a solid hour to repatriate all we brought to ROT Fest but I somehow make it work. At 1:20 we leave for GA. At the end of the block we turn around to make sure Sweet T.'s curling iron is unplugged. We leave again. We make it to the end of the block and turn around again to grab the fake hamburgers we plan to grill. We're halfway there when Matt calls, asks if I have a Bluetooth speaker I can bring. Sure. We turn around a third time. It’s almost 2 PM, start time, when we finally arrive to the minor miracle of a parking spot right in front. My new pop-up canopy joins the other two out back and ten minutes later Russ and I are trying to get the two grills fired up. One of the grills gets nice and hot, the other is barely warm. We make do. Me, Russ and the current GA resident, a woman from Brazil, handle the grill chores, swapping on and off because it's hot work. Two dozen people show up and we have a great time drinking beer, eating hamburgers, hot dogs and plenty of vegetables out of the Güttengarden. The Bluetooth speaker pumps out a Brazilian mix and the combo of Sergio Mendes & Brasil 66, Astrud Gilberto, Gilberto Gil and Os Mutantes is perfect. The party begins breaking up around 5 PM and I grab my canopy, shove it back in the car. We're exhausted so we say quick goodbyes and hustle home. I surprise Sweet T. when I say "I'm driving."

She wants to know why.

"So I can back it in and make it easier to unload that canopy."

Backing into our garage is not for the faint of heart. No margin for error. And it's best to ask your passenger to get out beforehand or be trapped when they can't swing their door open. Sweet T.'s in the house when I finally get the Prius berthed and remove the pop-up canopy. There's no place to put it so it goes on the garage floor by the metal shelving. I'll deal with it later. I'll deal with it all later. Time to smoke some legal weed and relax. Tomorrow is busy day. I’m going to be on TV.

MONDAY – IN THROUGH THE OUT DOOR

Twenty years ago I went to a urologist to see why I was peeing frequently. They checked by shoving a scope up my urethra. I don't remember them giving me an anesthetic. It hurt like nothing before or since. This morning at 10:30 I'm due for another cystoscopy. My current urologist says there's been many advances since then. The scope is thinner, flexible. They'll also give me a numbing agent. I'm still dreading it with every fiber of my being. But something must be done about my BPH and this will help him see the state of my bladder and prostate.

Sweet T. drives me to West Orange for my appointment. It's raining and I'm glad she's with me because I'm not sure if I'd be up to driving myself back. She can’t come in with me so will spend the time locally, do some grocery shopping, etc. My procedure shouldn't take long. When I get in the doctor's office they bring me in for an ultrasound quickly, checking my kidneys and bladder. Then I'm taken to another room where a technician (nurse?) asks me to strip from the waist down. This is horrifying. She's a young woman and next thing I know is handling my cock. She tells me she's just going to give me the numbing agent as I feel a prick. That makes two of us, I suppose.

"Ow!"

I can't believe I just said "Ow!"

She tells me she'll be back with the doctor in 15 or 20 minutes, then hands me an antibiotic pill.

"What's this for?"

It's just in case you don't respond well to a foreign object going in through the out door. Shit, am I gonna get another UTI? I swallow the pill, lie back and wait. And wait. And wait some more. It's 35 minutes later when Jazmine, my nurse (tech?) returns with the doctor. Shit is about to get real.

"Hey, I hate to ask last minute but do you have something I can bite on? Like a roll of gauze or something?"

The doctor chuckles, tells Jasmine to find me something. She reaches into a cabinet and pulls out a small roll of gauze, hands it to me. I remove my mask, pop the gauze in my mouth, put the mask back on. The doctor tells me I'll feel some pain but that should pass. Liar. From the moment he sticks the scope in I'm in agony, squirming around, banging my fists on the examination table. The doctor tries to distract me by directing my attention to the screen showing my dick-camera view. There's your bladder wall, he says. And here's the prostate intrusion.

Fuck you, just get this out of me.

It's over in two minutes and I've never been happier for something to end since I tried to watch Avatar. Now I need to do a Flow Test. Jazmine wraps a cuff around my penis. The cuff is attached to a machine and I need to piss into a bucket on a scale. Somehow it’ll measure my flow. But as soon as Jazmine leaves the off slips off because my dick’s been lubricated. I piss all over the cuff until I can grab it, put it back on. I hope this doesn’t fuck up the test. When I’m done I get dressed and I’m escorted to yet another room where the doctor tells me the score. The good news? No evidence of bladder or prostate cancer. The bad? My bladder walls have thickened from the straining to urinate due to BPH. The medication is helping but real relief will only come through a procedure to shrink the prostate. There are two options. One involves using steam to "melt" the prostate so the urethra can "breathe". The other's called the Urolift, which is not a ski lift in Europe. Clips are placed around the prostate on either side of the urethra and they clamp it, providing immediate relief. The urologist, who's also experiencing BPH and is ten years younger, says he's getting the Urolift. And he wishes I'd seen him seven year ago when he began doing these procedures. He still feels I can have a good outcome if I address this now. Otherwise, I might make the bladder so thick with muscle it stops working.

Fuck me. It’s The Incredible Tightness of Peeing.

I tell him I’ll discuss it with my wife but to tentatively schedule me for sometime after September 15. That way I can get clear of my birthday and the Roxy Music show at Madison Square Garden. Priorities, people.

Sweet T. comes to get me and on the way home we have yet another Should we stay or should we go? conversation about our imminent vacation. Cathy and Richard have COVID but they'll probably be fine by the time we get to San Diego. Even if they aren’t, is that enough reason to cancel? We go back and forth ad nauseam, going over every scenario. I make the same point repeatedly.

"I don't want to give into fear."

When we get home I spend an hour looking into what happens if we cancel. It's not good. The airline will give us a flight voucher but charge a (likely hefty) change fee when we use it. We're basically fucked on the VRBO in San Diego and the AirBnB in Laurel Canyon. We might get 50% on San Diego, nothing on Los Angeles and could also ask both hosts to allow us to reschedule to a later date. But they can say no. I bought travel insurance for San Diego, since VRBO offered it. And my United Mileage Plus Whatever-the-fuck card has travel protection built in. There needs to be a valid reason, however, to cancel. We can't just say "Our friends are sick and we're scared of getting COVID, too." There's no legitimate reason to bail and we'd lose a bunch of money if we do. Screw it, let's go.

An hour later there's another discussion. Screw it, let's cancel and take the loss.

An hour after that, Screw it, let's go.

This continues until we've made ourselves insane enough to watch House of Gucci, which just popped up on Prime Video. I'm in just the right mood for the movie and it helps me forget the goddamn pandemic, American Democracy's end-stage and everything else for two plus hours.

Tomorrow we can play the vacation or no vacation game again.