Note To Self

TUESDAY

It's clear I'm not getting enough sleep. When I awake at 6 AM I yawn a solid minute. I'm trying, Lord knows, to get to sleep by 11 PM. But then I’m in bed wide awake, worrying. If my phone's charging on the night stand I'll doom-scroll, toggling between Ukraine and COVID updates and Facebook visits. This morning, after breakfast and seeing Sweet T. off to work, I go back upstairs and crawl under the covers for another hour of sleep. It doesn't work. There's too much light leaking into the room and the white noise machine can’t cover up the near-constant sirens. We live in one of the most densely populated areas of the most densely populated state and between the cop cars, firetrucks and ambulances a siren sounds every few minutes. We're a hundred yards from Park Avenue, a main drag bisecting Weehawken and Union City and a thoroughfare to and from the several hospitals and firehouses nearby. Sirens make me nuts, especially several sounding simultaneously (often). It’s related to my tinnitus, the same reason I can only take brass instruments in small doses. I'd love to listen to more jazz or noise rock but when somebody starts wailing on a saxophone I can't take it. If we’re watching the next day I’ll even fast-forward through the SNL intro because that guy with the saxophone won’t give up. Trumpet doesn't hit me quite the same way but I still can't take much soloing.

Falling back to sleep doesn't work but it's warm in bed, so I stay there with Marty on my right, Roger on my left. They'd prefer I put the phone down but Facebook tells me there are birthdays today. What kind of friend would I be if I didn't acknowledge a birthday? But Joseph Warchol? I haven't thought about Joseph Warchol since I left high school. He lived near us in Lindenhurst but I wouldn't call him a friend. Maybe bowling buddy? The kid could roll. We'd be at Werner's and he hit one strike after another. I wonder if he still bowls or where the hell he is, so I check his timeline. That's where I stumble across this picture of our 6th grade class at EW Bower School. There I am, 11 year-old Chris T., standing in the back row as near to Miss Negron as I can get. It’s September 1973 and I’m feeling strange sensations around her. She’s pretty, smells good and I’m crushing hard. In the picture I wear my little sport coat, to impress Miss Negron. No other boy's wearing one. Michael Acquafreda, two from my right, is in a sweater vest but it's not the same. Mike and his father tried to start a car by pouring starter fluid down the carburetor, which then caught on fire, burning Michael. Rather than call an ambulance or take him to the hospital, Michael's father threw him in the shower. The resulting scars run from his neck down his arm and along the left side of his body. Michael’s a cafeteria clown who swallows milk and peas and shoots both out his nose. The girls find it gross but the boys love that shit. He's also the person I sneak cigarettes with, back behind EW Bower one weekend. He has his dad's Pall Malls, I have mom's Kools. Our friendship deteriorates after a sleep-over at his house. I’m so put off by the smell and the state of the place and the food his mom makes that I begin avoiding him post-elementary school. I stay friends with Chris Mathison, just to my right in the picture. We’re the ones working at Cieslak's Bakery the night of our Senior Prom. We dance with our brooms and mock everyone stupid enough to go. In reality, there isn't a girl who’d date either of us.

I wish Joseph Warchol (seated lower left in the pic) a Happy Birthday and fall asleep another ninety minutes. Then it’s time to get to work on the newsletter. But Marty has other ideas.

Hours later I’m still not done. Sweet T.’s back from meeting her sister in Manhattan and I’m putting the finishing touches on SYNT when she walks through the door around 7:30 PM, continuing to bang away, documenting a daily existence that alternately flies by and stands still.

NOTE TO SELF: Remember to write for this throughout the week.

The day ends with the rare two-cat night.

WEDNESDAY

A day I dread: Roger's got a vet appointment at 1:35 PM. He's due for a checkup and claw clip. Bringing Roger to Animal General in Edgewater is nerve-wracking. He yowls the entire way and no amount of soft talk helps. He likes this house and his hiding spots. The world outside can go to hell. Sometimes I feel supreme guilt for not figuring out how Roger and Marty can safely explore outside. They're prisoners of Hudson Place. I occupy myself before the vet visit by crafting a garage sale ad in PhotoShop. I'm self-taught, so it's not as slick as it could be, but serves the purpose:

Then it's time for Roger's extraordinary rendition. I'm trying something new after I wrangle him into the carrier: a repurposed black towel to block out the world. I saw this on a cat rescue documentary as a way to keep kitty somewhat calm. It doesn't seem to work in Roger's case. He just keeps yowling. But I get him into my car and we're in Edgewater in twenty minutes. I call Animal General when I'm parked.

"For Roger Tsakis?"

(That always cracks me up.)

"Yes."

"His appointment's at 1:45."

"Crap. I'm early."

"In ten minutes bring him in."

Great. He'll be yowling the entire time. I cut it to five minutes, then retrieve the carrier from the backseat and shuttle my faithful feline companion across the treacherous two-way lane carrying customers to and from the shopping center parking lot. Last thing we need is to be flattened by someone headed to Trader Joe's.

When we get up on the curb and are about to reach for the door to Animal General, a woman who just unloaded her bulldog from the backseat of a new Range Rover sails in ahead of me. I end up holding the door for her. She leaves the back passenger door of the Rover open and marches her frantic, scampering dog up to the reception desk. Jesus. The way some people act with their dogs when they see you've got a cat. To me, she's entitlement personified, with her double-parked door-ajar Range Rover, North Face puffy jacket and expensive sneakers

I'm half-hoping she left the Rover running so someone can jump in and drive away. Roger and I end up cooling our heels in the waiting room for a solid ten minutes while someone sees to the bulldog. Then we're ushered into the same room where I held Violet as she passed back in January 2020. When I place the carrier on the examination table and open its door, Roger tucks himself in the back, refusing to exit.

When the technician comes in to weigh Roger I extract him out the top of the carrier and he responds by digging his claws into me and climbing up my shoulder.

"Come on, Rog... come on. Let's get you on this scale."

The technician helps me get Roger off my shoulder and on the scale.

"Twelve point three pounds."

Okay. Seems good to me.

"The doctor will be here in just a moment."

I hold Roger, petting him, talking low to keep him calm. He's getting a bit acclimated and seems like he wants to explore. Then the vet enters and he clings more tightly.

"Good morning. Isn't he a handsome boy?"

Ladies love cool Roger.

I put Roger on the examination table and the vet begins feeling him for lumps.

"How's his appetite? Any vomiting?"

"His appetite is good. There's been some vomiting, usually if he eats his brother's food. We're trying to give him the sensitive stomach stuff but it's impossible to keep them separate."

We go on to discuss vomiting versus coughing up hairballs. Illuminating!

"My bigger concern is how his brother's chasing him constantly. They wrestle and it can get violent. I think Roger's feeling it."

"Is he sleeping a lot?"

"Yeah."

"Okay, if you want I can take some blood today and check his thyroid and liver function and other levels."

"Okay."

NOTE TO SELF: This is going to cost me. They always get you with the tests.

"I'm also concerned about his teeth. We had them scraped here years ago but there was concern about his heartbeat. You did a test and it was irregular but I think that's because he doesn't like this place."

"Let me check him now."

The vet can't get him into a position where she can put a stethoscope on him until I hold Roger to my chest.

"It does sound irregular but you're right. It could he's scared."

"And I also wanted to say we're going to skip the rabies shot. They called me about it but he's gonna be fifteen and never leaves the house."

"Okay. We're going to take him to withdraw blood."

"And clip his claws?"

"Yes."

I get Roger back in his carrier and the technician carts him to the back, vet in tow. In the waiting room the bulldog's gone but a big golden doodle has arrived. The dog rushes over to sniff me while its owner tries to reel in its leash.

A few minutes later I'm reunited with Roger and handed a bill for $372. Tests! The vet tells me they should have bloodwork results in a few days. Roger yowls all the way home and I sigh in relief when we're finally in the basement and I can let him out.

The rest of the day I'm clearing out the office closet so I can grab the bookcase I stuck in there months ago. It's loaded down with audio gear, which eventually gets relocated to a shelf halfway up the closet. First I have to empty THAT shelf and relocate all the boxes holding outmoded media to be digitized to shelves above our tanker desk. For a small office, it holds a ton. But I’m determined to get rid of all these cassettes, CDs, DATs and MiniDiscs.

NOTE TO SELF: This rearrangement is key to getting underway.

I’m still working on this project when Sweet T. gets home. I knock off for dinner and conversation. Then we go watch something in the basement. Before heading to bed I’m in the kitchen filling my water bottle when I hear a mewing sound and find Marty doing the newel post stare.

THURSDAY

The last time we went anywhere on a plane was February 2020, to San Diego. We dubbed that trip "Our Last Good Time" because the COVID-19 lockdowns began shortly after our return home. Now we're due to fly the friendly skies again. I just booked travel back to Southern California. It wasn't easy figuring out when to go and how to split our time between San Diego and Los Angeles, so we can visit friends in both. I keep entering and re-entering different dates and itineraries to find anything suitable. It finally works and I find reasonably-priced First/Business Class seats to San Diego and back from Los Angeles. There’s a travel credit from the cancelled Outlaw Country Cruise airfare but when I try to apply it United’s website tells me I can only use half. The other half they’ve allocated to my friend Jim, the person who was going to go on the cruise with me. I paid for the flights to Miami with a United credit card so we'd have travel protection and I'd be credited the miles. Now when I call United they tell me they can't transfer the travel credit: the ticket has someone else's name on it. I try to explain but United doesn’t care.

NOTE TO SELF: This doesn't seem to be a "customer forward" approach, but what do I know?

What sucks about this is that Jim JUST flew to Florida a few weeks ago, to pick up a 1970 Les Paul and see his sister. He could've used his own damn travel credit, had I known United wouldn't release it to me. I contact Jim, let him know what's up and he graciously agrees to reimburse me for the travel credit I can't use. Hey, maybe there'll be another guitar down in Florida and he’ll fly back.

There's a garage sale here this weekend but so far I've yet to set any of it up. There's panic creeping over me at the degree of avoidance going on. Why not get down to it? There's so much to do. I tell myself it's because it's cold and rainy and the garage will feel damp. Why not put on some long johns and go to work? There's something else afoot. Facebook provides the clue with one of those One Year Ago Today reminders. I'd written about returning to Saugerties to prepare That Cave's reopening April 17, 2021 (the store had been closed due to the COVID-19 spike and my recovery from foot surgery). Last March and April was an exciting time. Physical therapy got me up and around. I had the store to occupy me, with plans for many improvements. Sweet T. was discussing retirement and we even spoke with a realtor about listing our house. Ulster County, here we come. We're going all in on you. It felt good to have a trajectory after careening about in the post-SiriusXM years. Now I'm left with all this store stock and can't bring myself to do what's necessary to get rid of it. Instead, I'm on the web searching for places to stay in San Diego and LA. The AirBnBs we've used in the past are not available and what is kinda sucks. When we travel (when we travelED) we like privacy, which is what led us to AirBnB fifteen years ago, when I had to explain to people what it was. We found spectacular places, like that one high in the Hollywood Dell area with jetliner views for $150 a night. We stayed there two years in a row. Then they knocked down the modest building – initially put up as a ham radio transmitter shack – and put up a monstrosity, Now anything with a view is unaffordable. I give up on LA and try San Diego. We're hoping to stay in North Park, just to the NORTH of Balboa PARK, like we did pre-pandemic. But the little bungalow we rented is off AirBnB, probably sold. I search VRBO, too, and find something a block away from the 2020 rental. After checking the details and house rules I book it. Now we just need an LA spot and a rental car.

Before Sweet T. gets home I spend time in the garage trying to make sense of the mess, like my vintage barbershop cash register adapted for use in That Cave. By "adapted" I mean I removed the sheet metal shell and used it to hide my receipt printer. The cast iron guts of the cash register is where the weight is and the reason I groan while lifting the milk crate holding it. Under my breath I mutter.

NOTE TO SELF: How many fucking times do I have to move the same shit?

I've moved this cash register easily a dozen times, from its initial retrieval just outside of Princeton, to its temporary berth on the workbench while I figure out how to take it apart, to its shuttling up to Saugerties to God-knows-what-else. I'm tired of looking at it, not least because it still has a THAT CAVE magnet on the back. I'm tired of looking at all this stuff. If you were to walk up to me right now and offer me anything over $500 for everything I'd take it before you changed your mind.

I manage to move everything that’s against the long wall, placing it all near the workbench. This allows me to unfold the 14-foot cafeteria table and place it along the wall. Between the table, the shelves and the folding Origami rack there will be plenty of display space. First, I need to replace one of the casters on the Origami rack. The stem of the caster bent from all the weight we put on it. I located a suitable replacement at the Secaucus Home Depot and spend the next hour struggling to get the new caster screwed down tight because its thread pitch is different. With the help of some pliers I get the caster in place and decide that's enough for today.

I have no idea if anyone will show for this garage sale. It may be too early in the season. Meanwhile, I'm earning passive income from Sixth Street Vintage. The owner – Sharon – is keeping my stuff another week. She texts me pictures of items with no price and I try to respond quickly, hoping this arrangement can grow into something. I’d be happy to mind the store one or two days (she's open Thu – Sun) in exchange for some space. It'd be ideal. No rent, all profit. I'd be giving up a few hours but would get to interact with customers again. We've invited Sharon over for homemade pizza Friday night and I'm hoping we discuss further collaboration.

Right now, it's time to make dinner.

FRIDAY

Someday soon I won't have to get up at six AM. Today's not the day. After breakfast and Sweet T.'s departure, I sit and write for the newsletter. It's important to set things down while I remember them. Otherwise, I'm trying to piece it together from texts and pictures, an unreliable mechanism. I've been pondering just what SYNT means to me, what in particular I get from it. It goes out to 305 subscribers, of whom a third on average open it. I have no way of knowing if opening it means you've read it. Maybe you opened it to delete it. Maybe you have a bot or automation that opens it, then deletes it.

NOTE TO SELF: Check if “open” is the same as “read”.

It's often struck me as silly I don't share this writing online somewhere. Facebook. Or a website. It’d gain me more eyeballs, sure. But is that what I'm after? I don't think so.

Right now it's time to get into the garage and set up for this weekend's "HELL of a SALE" before the day gets entirely away. We're one of the few houses on this block with a functional garage, meaning it's big enough to fit a vehicle and isn't being used for storage. I've fucked up that second point with all this store stock, some of which – like this metal office chair – won't fit in a box. This is the crap I'm hoping sells this weekend. That chair. The kitchen step-stool. The aluminum Navy chair. If I can get these large items gone I can return the 14-foot cafeteria table to Matt and box everything else up. Then Sweet can get her car back in here.

The sea-foam green bookshelf I took out of the closet upstairs goes on the cafeteria table, along with another brown bookcase. Atop that I place the shelf from the back wall of the garage, the one I removed to make room for the metal LIDL shelving units. The larger of the two 1950s mirrored hanging wall units goes on the table, the smaller one beneath. That Origami folding rack is unfolded. Audio gear will go on it. Then I start putting things out. Whatever I think will sell finds it way to a shelf or the tabletop. Then I get the various stereo components on the Origami rack, turntables on the upper shelves. I can roll the rack into place tomorrow morning.

A voicemail comes in from the vet at Animal General. Roger's lab work looks good. There's a couple of levels – thyroid hormone and kidney values – on the high end of normal and we'll need to return in three to six months. I'll call Kathleen, our cat expert, and ask her about this. Roger's OG and I'd do anything to keep him healthy. As for my health, no word yet from my doctor about the liver scan.

NOTE TO SELF: Remind me to call the doctor Monday about my liver.

We're having Sharon from Sixth Street Antiques over for pizza tonight, so I run out to Whole Foods and International Liquors for supplies. In between those stops I put $4.89 a gallon premium in the car. It's getting expensive to kill the planet. My electric vehicle is still a few years away but I'd buy one today if NJ or the Federal government made it easy. What about buying my car from me and giving us a generous subsidy towards purchase? And where are my goddamn solar panels?!

Between the Speedway and International Liquors another text comes in from a friend who may or may not be helping me today with the garage sale set-up. Siri reads me the message: Help is not forthcoming.

KMAG YOYO

After the beer and vodka run I'm back in the garage frantically moving things around until it looks halfway decent. The tools go down beneath the table. I'm at it until 3:30, when I head in for a shower. Sweet T. is home by 4:45 and after her shower she starts in on the pizza. I'm trying to get the Symfonisk speakers I used in the store to work in our dining room, having no luck. Sharon arrives a bit early, while I'm still fucking with the speakers, so I tune the Marantz in the living room to WKCR. This is the second or third time Sharon's visited in all the time we've lived here. There's no good reason why it hasn’t been more often. We enjoy her company, she enjoys ours. While we devour pizza we talk about comings and goings in Weehawken.

"At this point we'll have had – what? – four sets of neighbors on each side of us?"

"It's crazy, what some of these houses are going for."

Sharon owns a house across the street, which she rents, and lives in an apartment above her store. How much longer any of us can hold out as the value of our homes continues to rise is anyone's guess.

"You sell your house, now you have to go into this horrible market for buyers and get something else. Or rent."

I'm sad to be losing the Lees, hoping the people who buy their place are more like them and less like the Ketamine Infusion Doctor who disappeared and now rents his house to a bunch of young randos who don’t seem to give a shit about being neighbors and stick their dog in the backyard to bark. The conversation turns to Sharon's store and I'm secretly thrilled when she offers to extend our arrangement.

"I'd love it if you could watch the place in exchange for some space."

"Would it be the table or would there be other space?"

"The table."

Fine with me. I piled a bunch of stuff on that table. Maybe, if this keeps working, I’ll get more space. We'll see. For now, I have a venue to earn a few bucks and a place to hang out one or two days a week. It's not quite That Cave but it's also not a kiosk at the mall.

Sharon leaves around 8:30 and Sweet T. brings down some poster-board and a thick marker for garage sale signs. I make six in rapid order, bare minimum of info on each.

"Honey, take this into the living room and let me see if I can read it from here."

Sweet T. backs into the living room as far as she can and holds up the sign.

"Looks good."

We're ready for tomorrow. Oops, not quite. I run out to the garage and find the staple gun and packing tape dispenser for sign mounting. NOW we're ready. After Bill Maher we're off to bed. Big day tomorrow. I'M GONNA SELL EVERYTHING!

SATURDAY

I'm up at 7:15 for a quick SS&S. Sweet T. makes a big breakfast and we're out the door by 9:15 to hang signs locally. She drives me to three intersections nearby and I struggle to put the signs up in the wind at the triangle with the DOG DOO DOO can. The telephone poles have so many rusty staples and nails in them that I only have to push the poster-board against the surface to mount it. I add a few of my own staples to be sure. On the aluminum light poles I use the clear packing tape. There's a fair amount of traffic through here on weekends and I'm hoping the signs and the social media posts will suffice. It's a sunny day, with a high of 60º predicted. Good day to unload shit.

At 10 AM I begin hauling things out onto the driveway and sidewalk. Sweet T. helps. She finds the hangers buried in the basement closet and hangs some clothes off our stoop railing. With the large items out of the garage I get more crap out on the table and the shelving. Then I tune in Rhythm Revue on WBGO via the garage radio. I'm hoping no early birds interrupt me wanting a peek before 11 AM. Have I told you how much I hate early birds?

We're ready to go at 11. So are the Lees. They've got a bunch of stuff in their driveway, things they're not taking when they move. I say good morning to Mrs. Lee.

"Chris, if you want any of this stuff, just take it."

"No thanks. I'm trying to unload things."

"I put a note up on a parent's site, said everything's free, come and get it."

"Cool. Well, maybe some of those people will stop by our sale."

Oh, they will. But they'll think it's more free stuff. Or cheap stuff.

By Noon I've had one passerby pop in. He looks around and goes. I spend the downtime rearranging things. By 1 PM there are more people walking back and forth to Boulevard East. They stop, look over the offerings, leave. Sweet T. texts me from in the house: How's it going? Not good. Is this going to be an utter waste of a lovely Saturday? And – stupid me – and I’m really doing this again tomorrow?

Then I make my first sale. Some dude with an accent I can't place stops by with three friends. For some reason, I think they're Albanian. But who knows? They buy two Hercules wall guitar hangers, $20 for the pair. I'm just to have it. The Albanians (if they ARE Albanians) look over the two guitars (one electric, one acoustic) and guitar amps for sale but leave without them. My next sale an hour later is for a Adams Novelty Company toy, $1. I'm up $21. Meanwhile, parents are cherry-picking the offerings in the Lee's driveway, trying to keep their kids from grabbing my stuff.

"Put that back, sweetie. Put it back."

My Bernie Sanders life-size cardboard standup draws some attention from a toddler, who points at it and proclaims "Pop Pop!" His mother is thrilled.

"Oh my God! He thinks that's his grandfather. I HAVE to get a picture!"

But, of course, she doesn't buy the Bernie Sanders life-size standup.

"Wait until his grandfather – who's the biggest Bernie Sanders fan – sees this!"

I've got a stash of vintage Made-in-the-USA American flags for sale, small ones, the kind you wave at parades, and a young girl of 7 or 8 grabs one and leaves with it. I had the flags for sale in That Cave, $10 each, but I'm now asking $5. How do I run after a kid and demand $5? I let her leave with the flag. A few minutes later she returns with her mother.

"She wants you to have this."

The girl hands me a Ukrainian flag and I piece it together. They're refugees, staying with one of our neighbors. The girl’s a niece, her mother's the sister of our neighbor.

"Wow. This is great. Thank you."

NOTE TO SELF: Maybe I should give our neighbor these other flags, tell her to get them to any other refugees?

As the day wears on more and more people stop by. But no one goes in their pocket. One teenager with another in tow asks about the electric guitar.

"How much?"

"Four ninety-nine."

"Really?"

I can tell he misunderstands.

"Four hundred and ninety-nine dollars."

"Oh!"

Yes, “Oh!”: on what planet can you buy an electric guitar for four dollars and ninety-nine cents?

Joe from the Weehawken DPW stops by and checks out the other guitar, a recent Regal resonator.

"I love these. I have three of them!"

Joe's a fixture here. I always see him in a yellow Weehawken DPW pickup truck, riding around doing whatever needs doing. He’s one of those guys who definitely had a band in high school and still has a band, even if they never play outside Hudson County. Joe's stopped by every garage sale I've ever held and actually buys stuff. Today he's telling me about some of his recent scores.

"Oh yeah. In my studio I have TWO jukeboxes. One plays 45 and the other plays 78s. And I just got a – whaddayacall? – phonograph from this lady, ten bucks!"

Sometimes I wish I was the DPW Sanitation guy, finding treasure in the trash.

While Joe and I discuss Gene Cornish of The Rascals (who Joe refers to as "The Young Rascals" because he's 68) a woman with a clipboard appears and comments on the Bernie Sanders standup.

"I see you have Bernie. Does that mean you're a Democrat?"

"I am."

"Well, I'm running for Congress from this district."

She introduces herself as Ane Roseborough-Eberhard.

"I teach history at the high school. I'm also on the Amistad Commission. So are you registered to vote?"

"Yes."

"Would you mind signing my petition?"

"Of course not."

Ane tells us she's running against Robert Menendez Jr.

"Wait. There's a JUNIOR? Jeez. I'm not a big fan of nepotism."

We get into a conversation about local politics. I congratulate Ane for throwing her hat in the ring. She asks Joe if he'd sign her petition.

"Sure!"

I rib him.

"The mayor didn't tell you who to vote for?"

"I do what I want."

Somehow, the subject turns to Donald Trump and white grievance. Joe chimes in.

"My wife HATES that guy. She spends all day looking at MSNBC and getting into fights online."

In another few minutes Ane's telling us about her previous career in the music industry and how America needs a minister of culture. Joe and I begin singing the praises of rock & roll, jazz and blues. Ane agrees.

"We gave that to the world. No one else came up with that."

Joe's tells us all about the bands he's booking for local free shows come the summer.

"Listen, at my house my son's a rapper – Lefty – my other son's into metal, my wife sings show tunes, I do R & B and the dog howls!"

I'm not selling anything but I'm having a good time hanging out with Ane and Joe.

Joe checks out the resonator one more time before leaving. Then Ane says she needs to go and I mention the opening at Guttenberg Arts tonight. She's never heard of the place and asks for details. I fill her in and she gives me her card. Then she's off for the next signature.

With one hour to go before I close up I've still got just $21 in profit. Remind me not to do this anymore. Then Joe returns.

"What's your best price on the resonator?"

"I had two ninety-nine on it."

I show him the That Cave price tag.

"I brought it down to $199. Then I told you I'd take $150 from you. That's my rock bottom."

Joe hems and haws but then reaches in his wallet and extracts three $50 bills.

"Here you go. And I'm gonna tell my son about that little Orange amp you're selling."

Now I'm up $171, which will prove to be all I make. On three sales. Thanks, Joe. At 4 PM Sweet T. helps me move everything inside and I close the garage door.

We're due at Guttenberg Arts at 7 PM, so we eat and I take another shower. Then I drive us to Guttenberg, where we luck into a parking space right in front of the building. We’re early but I worry the turnout will be sparse. Over the next hour three dozen people show up, including Congressional candidate Ane, whom I introduce to the people who founded Guttenberg Arts. She gets the tour. I also buy a piece of art, a tiny little ceramic reel-to-reel deck. The artist is a WFMU fan and recognizes my voice. She's invited a DJ currently on air at 'FMU, who arrives with her husband. Sweet T. and I were quite friendly with this pair, socializing often. Since I left WFMU we're persona non grata. Now they leave almost as soon as they arrive. They haven't been here ten minutes when they depart. NOTE TO SELF: Was it something I said?

The opening does wonders for us. Sweet T and I keep asking each other "Doesn't this remind you of what it used to be like?"

It does, except for the COVID. I keep wondering Is this where I get it? There's also the fact almost no one here is wearing a mask, including us. Will we come to regret it?

Ane shows up again, tells us how there’s been an unbroken line of white men serving as representatives from the 8th district.

"White men?! They're the WORST!”

My line gets a laugh but only primes the pump for the next.

"I'm the most useless thing on the planet. A cys-gendered straight white male over the age of 50."

Leave 'em laughing. Sweet T. and I wind it down and get out the door, saying our goodbyes walking. On the drive home we marvel once more at the Manhattan skyline view and consider ourselves lucky to live so near to the Big Apple. The night ends with a new SNL, during which we both fall asleep.

SUNDAY

I don't want to do a garage sale today. It's cold, wet, damp. A light drizzle falls. I'm not even awake until 9 AM. We got banged up last night. I'm barely dressed when the doorbell rings.

"Who the fuck is that?!"

Sweet T.'s already downstairs.

"I don't know."

I'm thinking maybe it's Joe's kid, the metalhead, here about the Orange amp. I hear Sweet T. talking to someone on the other side of the door.

"Isn't there a garage sale here today?"

"We cancelled because of the rain."

I get on the porch to see a red car parked in the middle of our street. Whomever was just on our porch is climbing into the passenger side.

"What the hell? Fucking EARLY BIRD!"

Sweet T. tells me what I already know. I need to take down all the signs. I go upstairs, put on some clothes and head out. It's quick work and the signs come down intact.

NOTE TO SELF: Do I save the signs for the next time, even though I do horribly with garage sales?

The signs go in the trunk. When I get back we make breakfast and I spend the day doing as little as possible. At 5 PM we go and watch the SNL we missed, then the Grammys.

MONDAY

NOTE TO SELF: Hide a key on the porch.

MONDAY

No matter how I try I can't get started. Oh sure, I'm up at 6 AM for breakfast with Sweet T. Then I go back to bed and don't get up until 11:30. I blame the sleep deficit. When I finally get my act together I spend the early afternoon writing, then lock myself on the porch inadvertently when I try to head to LIDL for a few things. Luckily, Sweet T.'s home five minutes later, so I'm not out there long. Had it been earlier in the day I'd be climbing out the window. Later, Sharon reaches out and asks if I'd like to mind Sixth Street Vintage (above) this weekend. I tell her I can't but can be there Thursday. Come and see me, 408 Sixth Street, Hoboken, Noon – 5 PM.

NOTE TO SELF: Hide a key on the porch.