Slimy underhooks

My younger brother and I used to play a game in the summertime called “Slimy Underhooks.” It went like this: First, we’d drag the sprinkler out into the lawn and take off our shirts. Someone would crawl behind the bush under the kitchen window to turn the hose on. Then, we’d proceed to ensure that our upper bodies got completely wet. This completed the setup.

Each round began with a ceremonial dance: we’d each flap our arms like chickens, slapping our inner arms against our wet bony sides, making as much noise as possible. It made a sickly, wet slapping sound. We’d do this and stomp side to side, taking deep knee bends. Like boxers bumping gloves before a match, after about 15-30 seconds of this slapping, the game could begin.

The rules of the game were simple: whoever could hug their arms around the other person’s torso won, and the round was over. The technique was to tightly clench your arms to your sides, and point your hands forward, fingers flattened, like little spatulas. On defense, you’d swat away a lunging wet hand. On offense, you’d try to shoot your hands in between your opponent’s slimy torso and arm. The key to avoiding injury was to make sure both players were both sweaty and wet. It was a cross between boxing and wrestling, each competitors slimily circling and jabbing, waiting for just the right moment to strike.

Talking with my Grandpa

Grandpa says, ”Who’s the millionaire who started all that computer stuff?”

I say, ”Bill Gates?”

Wildfire Farms

When I was a kid, my younger sister was really into horses. I’m pretty sure many elementary-to-middle school-aged girls go through a horse phase. One summer, my parents signed us both up for a horse camp at a farm nearby, Wildfire Farms. My sister was ecstatic. I didn’t have any say.

Wildfire Farms was run by an old hippie. The summer “camp” didn’t have much of an agenda. My sister and one of the other girls stayed in the barn all day petting and grooming the horses. I somehow got relegated to digging a pit in the back where the hippie lady wanted to build a teepee. The dirt was rocky, so while I was sweating and swinging a pickaxe, my sister was in the shade having the time of her life with the horses.

At lunchtime, the lady took us into the house and fed us cheese sandwiches. She shared the house with a few alpacas. The alpacas smelled like piss. I remember being horrified when one wandered into the living room and snorted and spit at me while I was sitting on a hair-encrusted recliner, trying to eat my cheese sandwich.

The Galapagos

“Did you experience the Galapagos last night?” Wren asked me.

All the sudden, I realize: I did experience the Galapagos last night.

Some time after 4:00am, I shot awake. Every bird on the mountain started singing immediately, as if in response to their conductor. The symphony included bird calls in volume, quantity, and style that I have never heard before (or since). I fell back asleep.

When I woke up again, the birds were chirping outside, but nothing like what we experienced in the night.

Coffee strategy for international travel

When I worked at a Belgian startup, at least once every six months I’d fly to Europe for a “work week.” The name always bothered me—what were we supposed to call every other Monday through Friday? In any case, “work weeks” were great: they were a week of full of collaborating, ideating, strategizing. I got to bond (read: drink) with coworkers, and I traveled all over Europe for free.

Most of my adult life I have been fully addicted to coffee. My coffee preferences have matured over the years—and gotten more expensive—from Dunkin Donuts to Devoción, my current favorite. In college, the seasons created natural caffeine ebbs and flows: my coffee intake would slowly ramp up as the semester wore on, then spike drastically during finals week, and then drop to near zero during the breaks. And the cycle would repeat.

As an adult, there are no such guardrails. I remember one Saturday, after walking around SoHo all day, I couldn’t get energized to go out and meet my friends for dinner and drinks. At that point in the day, I realized I had consumed seven espressos, and I was feeling totally exhausted.

When you’re traveling to Europe, you know you’re going to want to fight the jet lag at some point. You’ll want to be prepared. Over the years, I’ve developed the following playbook: I present, a coffee strategy for international travel.

1. The first thing you’re going to want to do is to cut back. I’d recommend going cold turkey for the week leading up to your trip. Expect headaches, as your body grapples with the physical effects of your chemical dependency. I often find myself craving coffee at random times: someone buys a gas station coffee in a movie, and I start thinking about coffee, even late at night… More recently, I have become weak minded, so leading up to some trips I allow myself a single caffeinated beverage per day.
2. Hold out as long as possible. Layover? No need for a coffee yet.
3. Once you arrive, it’s time for The Trifecta. This is the most important part. Stop at a little cafe, ideally one with the chairs outside facing the street, and order one espresso, one beer, and one sparkling water. This effervescent trio is the most beautiful way to announce that you’ve arrived.
4. Do not take a nap. Embrace the brain drain. It might be hard for a day, but it pays dividends later in the week. I think there’s something beautiful about the strange delirium. I remember sitting at a fondue restaurant with my friend Michael in one of these moments. We just stared at each other, unable to form enough consecutive thoughts to carry a conversation, while a vat of cheese bubbled between us.

Advice for joining a German book club

When I dated the German, she invited me to her book club with the other Germans. Being part of a bookclub was a lifelong dream of mine. I had been reading a novel by Andrew Sean Greer that was so fun I frequently had to take a break from reading it to share a particularly complex and beautiful sentence with my German girlfriend.

At the time of my joining, it was her turn to pick a book. She knew I was loving this novel, so she picked it. All the Germans in the group went out and bought it. At the first book club meeting—which also included a fabulous dinner party, because these were fabulous Germans—one of the Germans was unabashed with her critique: the book sucked. The others piled on: The sentences were too long. It was confusing and difficult to read. These were the German’s lifelong friends from childhood, so they could be honest with each other. Besides for my girlfriend, no one knew that I was the one who had chosen the book. I was the newcomer, I was just getting to know these people. It turns out there are some complexities when you’re the only native english speaker in a English-language-but-very-German bookclub.

The German and I ended up breaking up. She said I could stay in the bookclub if I wanted. I figured the right thing to do was to resign.

The name of a boat in New Jersey

Yo Mama’s Ass XL

Connecticut

Driving through Connecticut. A horse, standing at the edge of his enclosure on a hill, looks out at a yacht. The horse and the boat are step brothers, relics of their master’s loves. Thoroughbred. Superyacht.

The road to the campground always has potholes

It is the first hot Saturday in the spring. Leaving town, I pass a black Lamborghini with a roof rack loaded with camping supplies: a tent, a cooler, a big duffle bag, a little grill. There is barely an inch between the carbon-fiber fins and the pavement, and even with the roof rack, the entire vehicle is only four feet tall. In all the Catskill mountains, I wondered where there’s a campground without a single pothole.

Strange plants

In the tunnels far below Penn Station, strange plants with drooping round leaves on tall bending stems grow towards a single light that hangs from the Manhattan bedrock above. In the puddle of light: brown rocks, trash.

Sunshower

Wren and I are going to an engagement party on the other side of the park. We are biking, on the heavy rental Citi bikes, and I am balancing a large bouquet of flowers. It’s a summer day. Blue skies and puffy clouds, like the Toy Story movie poster.

As we cross Grand Army Plaza, somehow one of Wren’s yellow clogs falls off, right in the middle of the intersection. A stranger stops and hands it back to her. She is feeling frazzled. We are running late.

Halfway through the park, the rain begins as if a single fat drop is called down, one at a time. The pace starts increasing. More drops are called down.

Like an orchestra tuning itself, slowly each of the thousands of people picnicking in the meadow begin to scream in unison. We pedal on. Just out of sight, their voices are reaching crescendo. Wren’s hair, which she had carefully curled, is now totally straight. My sunglasses are swimming goggles. We giggle.

What color is the ocean at night?

Nearly full moon, clear night, a breeze that’s neither warm nor cold. Half shells upturned in the sand, filled with water, like diamonds glittering purple and teal. Rocks on the jetty are wet and matte and soft like a washed up sea creature. The waves hiss and crackle and thick foam rolls up the sand and rolls away. If I didn’t know it was white, I wouldn’t know what color it was.

Stupid super powers

• Summon roadkill
• Turn into a puddle
• Extreme smell
• Being magnetic

My partner’s exes and their professions

• Name: Topper.
  Profession: Serial used-clothing entrepreneur.
  Fun fact: his cousin dated Kieth Richards’ daughter!
• Name: Greg.
  Profession: N/A. Fun fact: R.L. Stein lookalike, lived on a sailboat.
• Name: Anis.
  Profession: Hotel manager.
• Name: Anis (a different one).
  Profession: Founder, dating app startup (now defunct).
• Name: Pablo.
  Profession: Photographer (Chilean).
  Fun fact: can’t swim.
• Name: Antonello. Profession: photographer (Sicilian).
• Name: Rupert.
  Profession: Photographer (Australian).
  Fun fact: loves speedos and ultimate frisbee.
• Name: Ian.
  Profession: sommelier, amateur poet.
• Name: Adam.
  Profession: creative director.
  Fun fact: was fired (and sued!) by Google.
• Name: Ford.
  Profession: Barista.
  Fun fact: was considering being a lawyer, chose barista instead.
• Name: Kris.
  Profession: amateur opera singer.
  Fun fact: Loves grapes!
• Name: Oliver.
  Profession: Sandwich purveyor.
  Fun fact: Family owned the Atlanta Hawks!
• Name: Cameron.
  Profession: Unknown, crypto (?).
  Fun fact: While attending Harvard, co-founded a popular social media site but then got kicked out of the company!

Dogs puking

Dogs vomit the same way humans deal with a wardrobe malfunction: better fix this quick. Lick it back up. Pull up your pants.

The ‘last chance’ section at the grocery is a good way to discover new root vegetables but can be dangerous

Our local grocery store has their own farm, so the produce is always really fresh. There’s a “last chance” section where random but very discounted produce is bagged in bulk on a single wire shelf in the hallway to the employee break room. Sometimes they have dry goods there too; once I got a jar of smoked Spanish paprika for a dollar.

The last chance section is a good way to discover new root vegetables. We now know what kohlrabi is. We found a great pork and kohlrabi salad recipe—necessity is a good teacher.

In the summertime they have shopping bags full of tomatoes for three dollars. A full paper shopping bag. If it’s available I always get one and simmer them down into spicy red sauce.

Once Wren bought a huge bag of little cherry-red peppers. They were in good shape, firm and smooth-skinned like the hoods of tiny 2-seater BMWs. It’s a mystery why some of this stuff ends up in the hallway to the employee breakroom. She used the peppers in a cabbage slaw.

We came to find out that the peppers were Scotch Bonnets, one of the hottest peppers in the world. It’s rare you would ever need a single Scotch Bonnet in your dish, let alone a dozen of them. For the slaw, she had cut them like bell peppers. After 2 bites, we were crying and mouth breathing. After 3, I started burping uncontrollably. We chugged our margaritas for limited respite. You wouldn’t need that many Scotch Bonnets if you were running a homemade hot sauce stand.

Japanese tourists at the coffee shop

I work in the Financial District. The best coffee shop near the office is a Blue Bottle, a craft coffee chain from San Francisco (they were funded by Google Ventures). Every surface inside the shop is some sort of pale wood, they play lo-fi electronic beats on what looks like an expensive sound system, there’s always at least one barista wearing a beanie and one wearing a bucket hat, and the coffee is very good. This particular Blue Bottle is on the corner of one of the glass towers that’s part of the new World Trade Center. It looks directly out onto the 9/11 memorial’s reflecting pools.

It’s usually busy after lunch. Once there was a Japanese family ahead of me in line. When it was time to pay, the father opened a small pouch and began counting out gold dollar coins.

Sayulita solicitations

Things you may be asked to purchase on a beach in Mexico—and the time at which you are asked—while reading a book about late-1800s New York financiers:

Weed: 11:46 am. Hammocks: 11:48 am. Massage: 11:49 am. Wood carvings of sea creatures: 11:49 am. Sunglasses: 11:50 am. Dresses: 11:52 am. Blankets: 11:54 am. Woven bags: 11:55 am. Beach toys: 11:56 am. Beach toys and cigars: 11:57 am. Bracelets: 11:57 am. Hair braiding: 11:57 am. Wooden spoons: 11:58 am. Fruit: 11:58 am. Beach wraps: 11:59 am. Bracelets and hair braiding: 12:03 pm. Hair braiding and henna tattoos: 12:06 pm. Blankets: 12:08 pm. Hair braiding and bracelets : 12:10 pm. Bracelets: 12:13 pm. Different bracelets: 12:13 pm. Oysters from the river by the sewage treatment plant: 12:15 pm. Hammocks: 12:16 pm. Blankets: 12:17 pm. Wood carvings again: 12:18 pm. Massage: 12:19 pm. Plastic army man parachute kite: 12:19 pm. Long sleeved t-shirts: 12:20 pm. Bracelets and hair braiding: 12:21 pm. Silver(?) jewelry: 12:22 pm. Bracelets and tattoos: 12:23 pm. Hair braiding: 12:23 pm.

Folding laundry

I’m folding laundry in a Mexican beach town in the basement of a garage turned-four-story-apartment inside a gated complex which was built because my uncle-in-law divorced his wife who’s my wife’s aunt or my aunt-in-law and started a second family but then left the second family and got back together with my aunt-in-law and believes some conspiracy theory about the stock market and the banks and the government so he has nowhere to invest the gobs of money he’s made from starting a network of standalone emergency rooms across Texas so he bought a ranch and buried most of it there then used the rest of the money to continually add floors above this garage inside this walled complex in this small Mexican town, where at the baseball field two blocks north, reggaeton blares out of tinny speakers and at the the club one block south, high BPM techno with tons of airhorn pounds my small closed window.

Tomorrow I go back to work, remotely, from the spare bedroom, my laptop on an old tin pot, so I’m glad I’m getting the laundry done now. I decide not to fold my Hawaiian shirt because I’ll just hang it in the closet.

Big Truck Mystery

A big white pickup truck is driving so close behind me it takes up my entire rearview mirror. It’s the kind of truck where the hood is 7 feet above the ground, designed to ensure pedestrians will not survive in the event of an collision.

There is a big black decal of a tire print angled across the big white hood. Why would you put that there? What does it say about you? An even bigger truck drove across your hood? You are an off-road tire enthusiast?

Powerwashing outside the bagel shop

Two guys get out of a low-riding teal passenger van with chrome wheels. Inside, the van is filled with industrial plastic tanks. They start a gas-powered powerwasher somewhere inside the van. They each have a sprayer and are blasting suds all over the sidewalk around the entrance of the bagel shop. One guy has a broken foot and is in a walking boot, holding crutches. My dog and I are eating bagels at a sidewalk table next to the power washer pump, which is running very loudly. We are far enough away to avoid the flying suds. I see people clutching their newly-filled brown paper bags inside the bagel shop, peering out the front door. No one can come or go.

October 26

A dream:

Each day, I drive over the Verrazzano Narrows bridge. Each day, there’s a guy kayaking down below. The waves are big, he’s in the whitewater, battling. Later, on a hike, I pass him in the woods. I offer him some granola and he rejects it. Each day, I hike the same trail. I bring a different type of granola, and each day he turns me down. I wonder if he simply doesn’t like granola.

When you buy a used car, you encounter used car salesmen

My brother- and sister-in-law live in New Orleans. The first time they bought a car, the salesman was 19 and was eating crawfish on his desk. When they came in, he put the steaming tray of crawfish in his desk drawer. They left with a 2020 Subaru Outback.

The environmental band

On a gray, drizzly Sunday afternoon, there’s a band in the park playing the worst Counting Crows cover I’ve ever heard out of the back of a UHAUL box truck. They’re all crowded inside the truck, so you can’t really see them play. You can hear them quite well, unfortunately. There’s four people standing in front watching. There’s a sign taped on the side of the truck, something about the environment. Instead of “we will rock you,” they sang “superstorms and wildfires will shock you.” Instead of “I’ll stop the world and melt with you” they sang “we’ve melted the world with fossil fuels.” They played “paved paradise and put up a parking lot” as is, just incredibly out of tune. It’s starting to rain. Besides the four people, everyone else is hurrying away.

March 8th, Grand Street, Lower East Side

A guy who looks like Paulie Walnuts, one of Tony Sopranos guys, with slicked hair and a beige and gold bomber jacket, is chewing and spitting sunflower seeds on the corner. He’s standing next the entrance to Fine Fare Market, which houses a whole refrigerated aisle dedicated to Dominican salamis.

An Orthodox Jewish kid passes him, balancing on an electric scooter, one hand on the handlebars, the other on a very full shopping cart. He moves down the sidewalk slowly, awkwardly hunched over the cart, bouncing and wobbling on each crack and pothole.

A father and his son, about 6, pass the Jewish kid going the other direction. The father looks like he was in a successful alternative band in the aughts. His hair is gray and long-but-not-too long. The son is wearing a three piece suit with coattails. I hope it’s for a revolutionary war reenactment, not civil, because it is a gray suit, not blue.

Some things are defined by what they’re not

Some things, like diet energy drinks, Trumpism, and certain health foods are defined by what they are not, instead of what they are.

Pizza Box Art

There are only so many distinct pizza box designs in America. This one says “Delicious pizza!” as if with enough emphasis, it could influence the box’s contents.

The box depicts a cobblestone street, with a lot of perspective, like an early Renaissance work. Upon further inspection, the angles of the buildings are all so drastic they could never exist in the physical world, only in the Pizza World. At the end of the cobblestone street: a pizzeria, with black-line-drawn people carelessly eating in the window.

But above the pizzeria, a pie blots out the sky. It has pepperoni and mushrooms. V-shaped birds and dot-matrix printed clouds huddle near the one corner of the box The Great Pizza hasn't yet subsumed. In a dramatic role reversal, it looks as though the pizza is preparing to devour the pizzeria and the clueless customers inside.

My cousin’s friend, the professional stunt diver

My cousin’s friend is a professional stunt diver. He’s on team Red Bull. Six months out of the year, he travels around the world, competing in high-diving events. They dive off cliffs, skyscrapers, apartment complexes, and custom-built scaffold structures, sometimes into small pools only a few feet wide.

The stunt diver, my cousin, and I went on a ski trip together once. We stopped in front of a snow-covered cliff to take a photo of him holding all of his sponsor’s protein bars, fanned out so you could see the logos (a contractual obligation).

Once he was part of a stunt that involved him diving off of a hang glider mid flight. He was a bit nervous, so he jumped a few seconds too soon. In hindsight, he estimated he was probably at 120 feet above the water. They usually jump from 90 feet. He broke several of his ribs.

Oklahoma City

My connection to Oklahoma City: I dated a girl in high school from Oklahoma for a few weeks. She broke up with me on my birthday via text message. Her Facebook profile photo was of her in Oklahoma City as a huge thunderstorm approached that turned the sky green.

What they don’t tell you about electric dog collars

People put their dog in the car and drive away. It’s unfortunately common.

The UFC

The UFC is on TV. The fighters circle each other in a cage lined with ads for personal injury lawyers. It is 3:30 in the afternoon. I am at the hotel bar in the lobby of a Springhill Suites in a Texas strip mall.

Passover 2023

I’m waiting for the subway at 12:36 am after my coworker’s Passover Seder where only 1.5 out of the 15 attendees were Jewish (the host’s husband recently converted). My first Seder was several years back, when I was dating the German. She went to high school at the English language school in Munich, which was apparently quite prestigious. All her closest friends were Jewish, and many of them found themselves in New York in the second half of their twenties. The proceedings of the Seder were in German and Hebrew, so I didn’t really follow. Afterwards we drank wine and listened to J. Cole.

The train finally arrives. Two doors open: on one, a gruff man with a bicycle flipped over and a wrench, performing repairs beside an open 40oz of malt liquor. On the other, a seemingly bland group of normal looking people. My fiancée pulls me towards the second car, as I eye what exactly the guy is doing to his bicycle. As it turns out, the group of people we sit next to are all French and reek of cigarette smoke, which makes her nauseous.

Bubblegum on the stairs

The bubblegum that our downstairs neighbor left on the stairs is still there. Leaving for vacation, I was hopeful: time heals all wounds. But the bubblegum is still there. And vacation is over.

It’s coated in black grime now; only my knowledge that it was once pink remains.

I told Wren that it looked like an elf who worked in candyland contracted lymphoma, and this is what they coughed up. “You disgust me,” she said.

For a week or so, the bubblegum provided a small game for me, something to look forward to as a reward for making it halfway up our four story walkup. I could observe it and see if I could find new ways to describe it.

In the morning light, it glistens as if it’s still wet.

Somehow there’s a few flecks of glitter on it?!

The gum is on 5th step of the third flight of stairs.

Over time, the dome of gray bubblegum sheltered the grime on its leeward side, which stretches behind it towards the next stair as if it’s casting a shadow.

Things my friend Hugo says

When I lived on Canal street, a naked guy covered in KY jelly was running down the street, being chased by the police. It took a half hour for the police to pin him down because he was so slippery. When they finally did, they beat the shit out of him and threw him in a van and sped away.

How to time travel

Biking back from the beach, alone. The sycamores lining the street whisper in the breeze. The heat thickens on your skin but you aren’t hot. A man is setting up a hot dog cart in someone’s back yard. The liquor store’s white van in the driveway is full of ice and beer. It’s the 5th of July. A sprinkler clicks, but the water will evaporate in minutes, except for where it is filling a crease in the uneven sidewalk. The oak tree buckled the sidewalk here decades ago, and now the dark pool deepens in the shade. Everything is slow. You are time traveling.

The incident at Boris Bleb

Before my Nana met my grandpa, she dated a man named Newcomb Mott. He was a textbook salesman. “He was a bit odd,” Nana said. He always wore a trench coat. On one of their dates, he took her to see a mime show. Not long after, he left the city to travel through Europe, which was just fine by Nana.

While Newcomb was hiking in Finland, he crossed into the USSR and was promptly captured. It was the Cold War, so it was decided that he was an American spy. He was sentenced to prison in a Siberian gulag. On the long train ride to Siberia, he had time to think through his predicament. After some thought, he attempted to escape, at which point he was immediately killed. The Soviets claimed it was a suicide. He was shot 68 times.

Meanwhile, back in Brooklyn, my Nana met my Ed, a firefighter from a good Irish family. They got married, had kids, moved to the suburbs, and retired to New Hampshire, where they live on a lake.

Mexico in February (who has a choice?)

Between the palms, the island is dotted with tiny luxury resorts, each with their own differently-shaped palapas shading their own differently-beige sunbeds on the same white sand. One tourist lounges on each sunbed. The tourists are all tattoos and sunglasses, from places like Hamburg and London and New York. The sea is striped dark teal and neon from the shallows to the horizon. Wooden pylons, the final remains of a pier, lean into the waves, perpendicular to the stripes. One bird lounges on each pylon: a giant gray pelican, whose long neck curves like the hook of a cane, matte black frigatebirds, small white gulls. People and birds peer at the neon sea.

Are these birds at work or on vacation? Do they have a choice?

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Quack quack

When our dog Chaga sees a squirrel, he pins his ears back, lowers his head close to the ground, and tip-toes down the pavement, laying each paw on the asphalt slowly and deliberately (stealth mode). He does not seem to realize this will not make a difference, given he’s in the middle of the street. We are taking our daily loop around the neighborhood. Wren and I pause, waiting for him to complete this well-worn story arc.

Around this time the squirrel sees him, and after a short, very still pause, sprints away, in a flurry of tiny, manic steps. Chaga chases for a bit and then gradually slows to a trot and bends back to meet up with us, and we continue on.

But sometimes, the squirrel doesn’t see him, and Chaga gets very close to eating it before it scampers up the nearest tree, bits of bark practically flying off its weenie claws. As Chaga sniffs around the trunk, the squirrel, along with it’s comrades, quacks like ducks from the branches above. I don’t know if they’re taunting him, or processing the trauma of a near death experience. I think they are taunting him. Chaga doesn’t seem to mind.

The Jeep

The seats are white with dog hair.

It’s a standard transmission, but it’s geared so low that you can’t use first gear. Even from a dead stop, it’s better to start out of second. And you can’t go over 75 miles per hour, otherwise the vehicle starts to violently shake.

It’s a 2-door, so it’s a very short vehicle—which means you can parallel park it in really tight spaces, as long as you’re willing to gently nudge the cars around you.

After the second time someone stole the stereo, we just carry a bluetooth speaker along for every trip. It rolls around on the dashboard. On the highway, the car is very loud and the speaker is very small, so the music is very tinny. Sometimes I prefer silence.

It’s a convertible, which means that the whole roof of the car is held together by zippers and velcro. Most of the zippers are shot, so it’s a vehicle that is protected only by velcro. It’s best not to leave any possessions in it.

We always park on the street. Sometimes someone will have popped open the gray plastic underneath the steering wheel and all the colorful wires would be hanging out. They never seemed to figure out how to jump it though—or maybe they just couldn’t drive stick.

Once they were doing construction on the street where we were parked. We were the last car on the corner, and they needed to move the car, so one of the workers got in, put it in neutral, and they pushed it onto the sidewalk so they could continue the construction. We only found out when we went to leave a few days later. People gave us strange looks as we climbed in and started the car, which was fully parked on the sidewalk. We didn’t get a ticket though.

Wren drove the car in high school, when she got into a pretty bad front-end collision. She was OK, but the fenders in the front are still curved up on either end in a subtle smile. One of the running lights is missing, and the other one isn’t actually attached: it sits on top of the curved fender and dangles by a lone wire.

The first time I met Wren’s family, we drove to Lake George to camp on an island for a week. Her family has a long tradition of camping at lake George. She’s named after her grandfather, whose ashes were scattered into the lake. On the way back, Wren let me drive the Jeep for the first time. It was the early part of the summer when everything is hot and lime green.

The last time I drove the Jeep was on Christmas eve, early in the morning. It was unbelievably cold and sunny. The drive to her dad’s house passes through New Jersey farm country: leafless trees, frozen cream-colored stalks of corn. The fans roared, trying to heat the space inside the black canvas top. The moment felt serene but heavy, like it was sitting in my stomach. I took a lot of deep breaths. The shoulder of the highway was crusted in salt. Wren drove ahead of me in the new car that we bought together, the paper dealership plate flapping in the wind.

Someone in our neighborhood has a very similar Jeep. Theirs is navy blue, not pumpkin orange, and is a hardtop instead of a convertible. Our dog recognizes the sound of the engine and will try to follow it. First, he stands at attention, his furry body sharpened to a point, directly facing it. Then, quiet whimpering. Then he jumps and tugs on the leash to follow it as it passes us by.

I nearly crashed the Jeep once. We spun out on the highway after an ice storm in Vermont, careening sideways down the road at 65 miles per hour until safely slowing to a stop in the snowy median, at which point we were deeply stuck. A stranger who worked at a craft brewery and drove a Suburu stopped and help dig us out.

Taking the Jeep for long trips gave me tinnitus and what I think were bed sores—deep bruise like sensations in each of my butt cheeks that lingered for a few days.

Spotting the Jeep when we were walking around our neighborhood was like running into an old friend. We’d text each other pictures of her parked on the street, “Look who I ran into today,” even though we were the ones who parked her there.

There are many ways to eat an avocado

At the parade, a thin man is eating an avocado like an apple. Or an ice cream cone. He left some skin on the bottom for a handle. He takes a big lick.

How to make an iced latte

Press any button to power on the espresso machine.

Take a long drink of water.

Open the kitchen cabinet door above the coffee station.

Rub your eyes.

Set the glass jar of coffee beans on the counter. Open the jar.

Remove the lid on the grinder. Set lid on counter.

Open the drawer.

Select the black plastic scoop.

Add 1 scoop of beans into the grinder.

Refill the scoop part way. Carefully shake 3 beans out of the scoop back into the jar to get exactly 1 and 2/3 scoops. Add the second scoop of beans to the grinder.

Turn on the grinder.

Cross the kitchen and select a Oaxacan clay mug from the shelf.

Return to the coffee station.

Turn off the grinder.

Replace the grinder lid.

Walk across the kitchen and select an espresso cup from the cabinet by the dishwasher. Return to the coffee station.

Place the espresso cup under the machine.

Remove the portafilter from the top of the machine and place it face up on the counter.

Move the dosing cup from the tray it shares with the grinder and place it on the counter.

Remove the plastic tray full of grounds from the grinder.

Gently tip the grounds from one corner of the square container into the aluminum dosing cup. Rattle the tray to get the last of the grounds out.

Shake the dosing cup gently to even the grounds.

Place the portafilter upside down on top of the dosing cup.

While applying pressure, flip both the dosing cup and the portafilter.

While applying pressure, give the dosing cup and portafilter one shake.

Set the portafiler on the counter and remove the dosing cup.

Bang the portafilter on the counter once to settle the grinds.

Grab the tamper from the bowl next to the grinder.

Press the grounds into the portafilter with the tamper.

Gently twist the tamper to event the grounds.

Firmly press the grounds in again.

Give the tamper a few final twists.

Place the tamper back in its bowl.

Select the small brush from the bowl.

Carefully brush away any grounds that have fallen onto the handle or locking mechanism of the portafilter.

Place the brush back in the bowl.

Lift the portafilter to the machine. Hold it below the group head rotated at a 45 degree angle. Attach it by lifting and twisting.

Place one hand on the back of the machine so the machine doesn’t wiggle. Twist the portafilter to lock it firmly in place.

Press the double shot button.

Walk to the freezer and open it.

Empty the ice cubes from the silicone tray into the ice bin, popping each out with your thumb.

Close the freezer. Walk to the water filter on the counter.

Place the ice tray under the spout behind the drying dishes. Fill the first four sections in the silicone ice tray.

Close the spout.

Rotate the ice tray so the spout reaches the remaining four sections. Open spout and continue filling.

Close the spout.

Carry the ice tray back to the freezer. Open the freezer.

Carefully place ice tray on top of the frozen container of wedding cake.

Select 2 to 3 ice cubes from the ice bin and place in the Oaxacan clay mug.

Close the freezer.

Open the fridge.

Grab the glass bottle of milk.

Remove the orange cap.

Fill the mug 2/3 with milk.

Replace the cap.

Replace the milk in the fridge.

Remove the hot espresso from the machine and set on counter. Let cool.

Turn around and pick up the metal compost bin from the floor. Place on the counter.

Remove the lid of the compost bin and place it on the counter upside down, so that you do not get compost gunk on the counter. Ensure the lid is not near the edge, because it will roll around slightly when placed upside down.

Grip the back of the espresso machine with your non-dominant hand.

With your dominant hand, twist and remove the portafilter.

Release your grip on the machine, and cup your non-dominant hand beneath the portafilter to catch any drips.

Move the portafilter over the compost bin. Slowly rotate to empty the grounds. Do not rotate quickly—it will fling coffee drips across the counter.

Bang the portafilter on the compost bin, using the thin rubber band on the handle to strike the metal edge of the bin.

Slowly rotate the portafilter right side up. Do not rotate quickly—it will fling coffee drips across the counter. Cup your other hand beneath it again.

Cross the kitchen to the sink.

Turn on the sink. Rinse the hot espresso drips running down your hand, slipping under your wedding band.

Rinse the portafilter, inside and out.

Turn off the sink. Let the water drain from the portafilter.

Cupping your hand below the portafilter once more, return to the coffee station.

Open the drawer. pick up the dedicated coffee rag.

Dry the portafilter. Thoroughly wipe the inside of the basket in a circular motion.

Place the portafilter face down on the top of the espresso machine.

Place the lid back on the compost bin.

Return to the sink. Turn on cold water.

Pick up a rag and wet it. Turn off the sink. Wring out the rag.

Return to the coffee station. Wipe the counter. Scrape excess grounds into your palm.

Return to the sink. Dump the grounds. Turn on the sink. Rinse the remaining grounds stuck to your palm. Turn off the sink.

Walk to the oven to the hanging kitchen towels. Briefly dry your hands.

Return to the coffee station.

Swiftly pour the espresso into the Oaxacan clay mug, previously filled with milk and ice.

Carry the espresso cup back to the sink.

Turn on sink.

Rinse cup.

Turn off sink.

Place cup on drying rack.

Return to coffee station.

Sip latte.

Traveling light

The last person to board the plane was a guy with no bags, just a skateboard and a half empty Mountain Dew.

Concerning the spiritual in art

In my neighborhood, it’s an unspoken rule that if you have something you’re getting rid of, you leave it on the sidewalk. This leads to a beautiful, constant, low-volume sidewalk marketplace of free stuff. Baby toys, cologne, lamps, framed art, boxes of books, old computer monitors. It’s fun because if you’re observant while you’re strolling around, you can find great stuff—for free. It’s also fun because you get evaluated on your stuff—we’ve left some chairs that got snatched right away, and we’ve left some art that did not. It’s sad when you see stuff on the sidewalk in the rain.

There’s always a lot of books. We live in a well-read neighborhood. Once I found and gifted my girlfriend a psychiatry textbook called “The Joy of Suffering,” which she did not appreciate. I’ve skimmed a 1960s advertisement design review, Patton Oswalt’s memoir, volume 1 of modern Russian poetry, and a very outdated human resources and management textbook.

When I got back to the apartment one night, someone was using Wassily Kandinsky’s “Concerning the Spiritual in Art” as a doorstop. They must have found it in the box out front. The front door had been slamming on the book all day, which looked like it had been folded in half each direction at least a few times.

You should not pay for wifi on a flight to browse Facebook

On a Monday morning flight to New Orleans, I am watching the woman ahead of me scroll Facebook. I have a perfect vantage point right over her shoulder. Caption of a pic of generic kids standing in a generic yard: “It’s always bottomless play day around here.. never bottomless mimosas! [crying emoji].” She switches to Facebook marketplace. She skips over discounted spools of rope. She reviews an old pickup truck. Now a small boat that a dad is selling to pay for travel baseball. She switches back to her feed. “Plants grow in dirty water—don’t let the negativity get you down!!” She reviews the names of everyone else who liked it. She spends a long time hovering over that one.

January 2nd

A dream:

Downtown Manhattan, near Battery Park on the west side. I was running late, I had to get home. Standing near a dock. A very fit couple climbed out of the water wearing goggles and swimming caps. They told me they exercised by swimming up and down the Hudson. They had just swam from Midtown. I was really running late.

A man from the coastguard walked towards us. He told us that they had just captured a UFO on Nubble Light, an island/lighthouse off the coast. He pointed. Looking out on the harbor, we could see the Coast Guard tower blinking red where the UFO was. The man invited us to come see the aliens, which felt like shouldn’t have been allowed. He didn’t seem very professional. This was a once in a lifetime opportunity. Now I was really late.

“How long will it take?” I asked.

“An hour and a half,” he said.

I said I couldn’t do it and started to head home. The swimming couple boarded the ferry with him and headed towards Nubble Light.

There was something bad happening. Another ferry out on the harbor had caught fire. It was suddenly a cloudy day. The winds changed. It might storm.

This Season’s Hottest Item

After Christmas, my in-laws drive from New Jersey to New Orleans, where they spend the winter. Their house in New Orleans was previously rented to a bunch of college kids. The best way to test the quality of the craftsmanship in a building is to hand the keys to a bunch of 19 year old dudes. Naturally, my in-laws ended their leases and hired an interior designer when they decided to spend part of the year there.

But when they arrived, the house wasn’t done. There was no paint and the contractors were still in the midst of a bunch of repairs. The interior designer apologized and put them up in an Airbnb for a week. On the first night, someone broke into their car, which was still loaded with all their possessions from the cross country trip. But miraculously, almost nothing was stolen: the only thing they took was a Christmas gift from a few days prior, my father-in-law’s new therapeutic leg compression kit.

Good Fellas

The trees in front of my office window stand like actors on a Martin Scorsese movie poster. The maple is in front—she’s the Robert De Niro of the group—and the other three fan out behind, peeking over her shoulder.

The Proposal

I proposed to my girlfriend Wren in Prospect Park in the fall. As we were walking home—one of us with new jewelry—we ran into her ex. He was the first person that found out we got engaged, before our parents or friends. It wasn’t the worst way to meet your partner’s ex for the first time. Maybe it’s a good omen.

The New Juice

“I love the juicer. I just got it. But it’s a lot,” he says. He’s created a Noah’s Arc of produce on the conveyor belt at the organic grocery store. He is buying two of everything, regardless of juiceability. Two bundles of bitter dandelion greens. Two avocados. Two persimmons, each marching down the gray conveyor toward the paper bags. The line behind him snakes past the sparkling water display. “The total is $381.62. Would you like the receipt?” He hems and haws, then nods. The thin paper is so long it curls like a scroll. Bundles of dill and parsley are bursting from the top of his brown bags. The cashier hands it to him. “Like a trophy” she says.

Karmic tacos

Late at night there is a man who sells earth-shattering Al Pastor tacos from his cart in an alley in Mexico.

When his work is complete, pesos exchange hands, then tacos are handed over, spread evenly across an oval styrofoam plate. As I lift each taco to my mouth and end its brief existence, some of its essence is passed on to the next generation, who wait patiently on the white styrofoam below. The cycle continues; the drippings from one always join with the flesh of the next. With each incarnation, the tacos become more powerful.

Overheard phone call in the Ace hotel lobby

A missing girl, dead girl, the essence of a girl in a bottle. That’s the story. That’s retail. I talked to a lawyer. I don’t have the time. I don’t have the time for anything. My feet hurt, I can’t sleep. It’s like Rikers Island. Do you understand?! It doesn’t matter. People have to pay for it. I’m living in too much pain every day. From one thing to the next. Because of the world we live in. The pandemic made everything 7000 times worse.

Drunk philosophy

Graffiti and stickers in NYC dive bar bathrooms

• “The neon lights are veins”
• “This sink is NOT for feet washing!!!”
• “Dating: one nite stands only. Female only. Meaning: Spaghetti and meatball date. Meaning: soda date. Coffee date. Gyro date. Meaning: a walking date. Meaning: a cheeseburger deluxe date. Meaning: maybe romance. E-mail: datedating30@gmail.com.”
• “Data is an buddha”
• “Call mom”
• “God is love”
• “Stop the fucking hate, ppl”
• “DJ Juice on U-tube: Mixtape videos (vol. 72 reloaded)”
• “Sleep with your hands around your ankles”
• “Bottom shelf boyz”
• “Happy birthday Isaac. <3 The Creamy Boys”
• “Let’s gobble millionaires like good margins”
• “Gay sex and class war”
• “Don’t trust your fears (except in Halloween)”
• “Dog’s Best Man”
• “Unfuck the world. And then? And then? And then?”
• “<u>You</u> know who’s gay”
• “Death to settler-colonialism”
• “Give me $$$ to blow up banks”
• “Do not shit on floor”

Checking out at Goodwill

The cashier was wearing a trucker hat with an anime woman with a hand around her throat. The hand had a tattoo on each finger spelling L-O-V-E. He let out a big sigh.

The people ahead of us were two blond Russian women and a small child. The child was sloppily trying on every pair of sunglasses on the rack, which was threatening to topple over. Each of the women had a full cart of children’s toys and clothes. They each took a separate register when checking out, even though there were only two registers. They also seemed to litigate every item, holding each one up, unfolding them, and taking them out of the bag even after it had been scanned and folded.

Three teenagers behind us were buying a vintage teddy bear. By now, the line had snaked through the store while the Russians re-evaluated every item in their carts. A tall guy in a skullcap started yelling from the back of the line: “Young man! Young man!” The security guard grumbled incoherently, but didn’t move. The cashier asked no one in particular, “what the hell does he want?” Eventually, a different security guard walked to the back of the line to talk to him. The man said, “do you have any sneakers, size 14, in black?”

Snoop Dogg

When I was home from college one summer, a high school friend invited me to a Snoop Dogg concert in New Hampshire. It was at the Casino Ballroom, on the sleazy part of the boardwalk by the beach. My friend was a lifeguard for the summer, and he and all the other lifeguards rented a shack on the marsh, walking distance from the beach. Every high tide, the shack would flood.

We got to the show early. The warmup DJ was not very good but was very loud, so we decided to stand outside on the back steps for a bit. Just outside the venue, two drunk women were in a full fistfight. One had ripped a tuft of hair from the other, and they were rolling in the street, screaming in thick Boston accents and throwing haymakers. Their boyfriends were very encouraging. One of the boyfriends chugged his beer and threw the empty can at the brawlers. They were directly in front of a police station, but no one seemed to be coming out to break it up.

The show was starting, so we went back inside. When Snoop stepped on stage, a single cloud smoke rose from the thousands of joints in the crowd, as if choreographed.

Afterwards, we went back to the lifeguard shack on the marsh and drank a concoction made from a tube of cheap frozen lemonade and a bottle of cheap vodka. I slept on the couch.

Grenades in the sand

After graduation, my friend from college got a job on a barge in the New York harbor. They had just installed a new underwater gas pipeline to Brooklyn, and his barge’s job was to cover the pipeline with sand. The sand they used came from “overseas.” The problem was that they kept finding grenades in the sand. His supervisor told the crew that if they found one more grenade, the whole project would be cancelled. Miraculously, they never found another grenade and completely covered the gas pipeline.

At the auction

Middle of the woods. It’s cold and rainy. Everyone is wearing camo, except for me and the mennonites—father, son, and grandfather, wearing straw hats. Standing around in boots in thick mud in the back yard: “Hey Jim! How are ya?!” I’m the only one in sneakers. The house is small and smells likes mildew. many of the ceiling tiles are sagging and brown. There’s buckets of nails, buckets of copper pipes, buckets of fluorescent tube lights. The floor in each room is a patchwork of different styles and eras of linoleum. In the kitchen, there’s a small table near the window with a coffee maker and a microwave. This is where he sat, the unknown and now deceased owner. Next to the hot water tank, which somehow was on display in the kitchen next to the table, but clearly marked with a tag and scribbly sharpie handwriting (”stays with the house, not for sale”).

People you meet at a house party

Somewhere in Brooklyn: I was at a house party not too long after I moved to New York. I was chatting with a tall gangly guy, mop of black hair and glasses.

“What do you do for work?” I asked the tall gangly guy I was standing next to, nursing our red cups.

“I’m getting my Ph.D.,” he said.

“What in?”

“Geometry.”

“Woah, cool. So, like, what do you work on?”

“Shapes.”

Two types of Mexico beach vacations

From my observations, there are two paths for people who go to Mexico for vacation: you go to Margaritaville (in the Cancun airport), you take the shuttle (to Cancun), then you go to the Margaritaville (in Cancun). Or, you adventure.

Once one of my father-in-laws got botulism from Mexican beach oysters. He couldn’t leave the hospital for three weeks. On a separate trip, my other father-in-law also got food poisoning from Mexican beach oysters. He had such violent diarrhea he started hallucinating. Both fathers-in-law wouldn’t hesitate to come back (but not together). Both also have a new outlook on non-refrigerated raw seafood.

There is also a third, but rare type of person who vacations in Mexico: I read a news story about a woman who traveled to rural Mexico to get steeply discounted butt implants but was instead abducted by the cartel.

Fridays in the year 2013

Sophomore year of college. You live with your best friends in a cinderblock apartment. Every week flies by because you can’t wait until Friday. You pass friends and girls as you walk the brick paths in the sunshine between classes. You are in a good mood, because today is Friday and drinking alcohol is really, really fun. You wear your Seinfeld T-shirt. You spritz your wrists with Polo Blue. You drink vodka Sprites and $7 “champagne.” You listen to Major Lazer (Flosstradamus Remix). All the dudes in the cinderblock apartment dance. Today is Friday.

What not to do after leading a meditation at a corporate retreat

I’m at a corporate retreat in Cancun. As with any corporate retreat, the conference center ballroom is air conditioned to just above freezing. Today, a coworker named Raechel kicks things off by leading us in a meditative breathing exercise.

“Breathe in…” She speaks very closely into the mic so we can hear the thumping of her breath. “Imagine meeting your goals with focus and determination…. Now breath out. Imagine a light shining down from above, shining through you… Breathe in. Imagine converting that light into success on your quarterly OKRs…. OK now breathe out!”

That night, Raechel got extremely drunk at the hotel bar and had a meltdown where she went on a crazed rant about how much she hates her boss and this company. The next day she checked out of the resort and took a taxi to another resort down the road. Then she emailed the head of HR her letter of resignation.

How to eat ice cream

Straight from the pint: swirl the spoon from the outside in, making a little cone in the center. Use the smallest spoon you can find. When you’re halfway through, dig the spoon to the bottom of the cardboard container roll the ice cream around like a snowball, peeling off melty outer layer after melty outer layer. Sit cross-legged at the end of the bed while your wife tries to sleep, eye mask on, itching her leg.

Are you Jewish?

“Excuse me sir, are you Jewish?”

I’m not, but I did feel a bit honored to be included. During Rosh Hashanah, Hasidic teenage boys in black trousers and thin white colored shirts form a barrier of sorts at the entrance to the park, eager to talk to anyone they suspect may be Jewish.

A couple walking their dog confessed that they were in fact Jewish, but they weren’t interested. The teens locked on.

“No, it’s fine, we’re just trying to get to the park,” the man said.

The couple tried to pretend it wasn’t happening, but the teens wouldn’t take no for an answer. The couple started walking faster. The teens followed, shouting from behind. The couple picked up the pace. The leader of the teens started tooting his shofar at them, long slow blasts followed by short staccato ones. The dog loved the horn, and kept looking back. The man tugged on the leash. The couple picked up the pace again. Their dog was now running to keep up. The couple made a sudden turn into the woods. In a single-file line, the teens jogged into the woods after them. We heard the blasts of the horn slowly fade as they disappeared into the trees.

That afternoon, I saw them on Flatbush Avenue. They were standing in a circle on the sidewalk in front of a Boost Mobile store. Trucks roared only a foot or two away from them as they did their mitzvah and blew the ceremonial horn. Their subject stood solemnly. He seemed into it.

Lost in the plaza

Some of the signs in the strip mall plaza next to the highway:

Missing dog: Cockapoo. Coco.

Missing dog: Reese. Loves peanut butter.

Missing person: Dereck. 23 years old.

There’s a woman driving in the wrong lane heading straight towards me. Later I see the same woman pull out of the gas station and run a red light.

Above, two shiny foil balloons are drifting above the plaza, over the McDonald's, over the gas station, over the shuttered garage, floating higher and higher.

Archaic slang

Humdinger

Woolly bugger

Yoo hoo!

Toodle-oo

Mighty fine

Gee whiz

Holy moly

Shucks

Gosh

Golly

Jeepers creepers

Good sir or madame

Gadzooks!

Have you taken leave of your senses?

The Duane Reade in the bus station

I’m buying a bottle of water at a Duane Reade in Port Authority. Above the checkout counter, there’s a sign: “Uniquely New York.” Below that there’s a huge picture of a woman with a short haircut and a wide smile holding a glass of milk with the caption “How I feel: vitamins every day and prescriptions when I need them.” The milk seems to be skim—it’s slightly gray.

Dogs lead by example

I’m watching my dog, curled into a ball, chin squished into the couch. He is clearly quite cozy. It’s hard for us to get that cozy. Everything has to be just right: snowstorm, thick blanket, hot tea, afternoon free. Dogs make it look so effortless, they make it easier for us. They lead by example.

June 7th

A dream:

There’s a super-intelligent mushroom growing in our fridge. Scientists didn’t believe it was possible. Wren would read and write in the kitchen, but secretly she was teaching it because she knew it could hear us. It’s in a sealed Tupperware, but it’s growing fast and starting to burst out. I’m trying to go to someone for help and keep the Tupperware closed, because I know how dangerous it could be if the super-intelligent mushroom is released to the world. The lid is now bulging.

The lid blows off. The mushroom mostly looks like sourdough starter. It is expanding rapidly. I try to wrangle the sticky mess and press on. The only person who can help lives in an old Victorian house. The beige mushroom goop escapes my grip. I wack it with a shovel. It breaks into pieces, but continues growing. It’s as if it’s made out of foam. I wish I had done a better job of sealing it off. I should have duct-taped the fridge shut.

My uncle-in-law versus the hogs

Things my uncle-in-law says:

What I’ll do is, I’ll sit the blind with my rifle, I’ve got a silencer on it, and shoot hogs. Then I’ll check my emails (he’s an ER doctor in Texas), doot-da-doo… Then pfft! shoot another hog. (shrugs and smiles).

You know who owns and operates all the wind farms in the world? The C…C…P… (China).

The hogs, they have fleas. You know the tick and flea spray for dogs? So what I do is then bring the tick and flea medicine out. I buy it in bulk. I put it in a spray bottle, and spray ‘em down. Then I go inside, have a margarita or two, maybe a taquito. A half hour later or so, I take the tractor down, hose ‘em off. No fleas!

About a statue of a mermaid kissing a dolphin on the lips: I am mesmerized by beauty of that statue. I’ve never even thought of buying a sculpture before I met Octavio and he approved of it going in my garage apartment.

The hogs, it’s the best meat you’ll ever taste. They’re a Berkshire breed, so everything is like Canadian bacon. You know Canadian bacon? Delicious.

The hogs are plotting against me. I know they are. Here’s how I know. They dig a trench around my shooting table, that’s how I know they’re plotting against me.

Am I a south Texas redneck? (shrugs) Yep!

The hogs are downright destructive. My partner, he bought a big trap but then left to spend Christmas with his family in Galveston. I drive by, and he’s caught 34 hogs in the trap. I said, Ted, you better get down here and deal with these hogs! Anyways, he couldn’t make it so I called the local church, they showed up with eight or ten guys and bunch of pickups. We donated the hogs to feed hungry families for Christmas. I’m sure it was the best Christmas feast those families ever had!

One true energy company

There’s a company in my town called Conscious Energy. They are electricians. We spoke to the owner. He was knowledgable and willing to share his knowledge with us, which is one of the ways that someone can be friendly. He was very friendly.

If you’re an energy company, it usually means you drill for oil in the arctic or in countries that haven’t really figured out democracy. If you’re an energy drink, it usually means you mysteriously contain nothing (no sugar! no calories!) and are beloved by our Armed Forces. If you’re a human, you physically get your energy from the food you eat.

A true energy company would provide energy for home, auto, body, and mind. All your energy needs under one roof. Energy revenue verticalization. A powerplant attached to a grocery store attached to a gas station (which of course, mostly sells energy drinks). Imagine that.

Pigeons

The pigeons rarely come to my office window. Once they did, and they pooped on my air conditioner. Then they flew away.

Now, when it rains hard, the poop gets rehydrated and splatters all over the window.

Touristy trinkets: license plate signs

Signs made out of cut-up Mexican license plates:

• Tequila por favor
• No beer no sex
• I love mother
• I love big dick
• Love Is love
• Learn your life
• Happy Christmas

There are no ants at Cafe du Monde

At Cafe du Monde in New Orleans, they are famous for beignets covered in powdered sugar. There is so much powdered sugar, it stands in conical pyramids on top of the warm dough.

There is so much powdered sugar, you cannot see the bottom of the empty plates at the tables covered in crumpled napkins where tourists have gone.

There is so much powdered sugar, there are white streaks under the benches in the park across the street.

But there are no ants.

Overheard in church basement thrift store

“Would you look at this…” She holds up a sweater. “‘the future is female’… The things they come up with nowadays…”

Dougas burgers

Every year my grandpa buys half of a cow from his friend Kevin Dougas. It comes in hundreds of packages and spends the year in the freezer in the garage. A half cow is a lot of ground beef. When my siblings and cousins come to visit and swim in the lake, the lunchtime routine:

“Chee-burger, chee-burger, Pepsi no Coke!” My grandpa, still reciting Saturday Night Live from 1978. “Who wants burgers, who wants dogs? How many? How many dogs?”

No matter who raises their hands, he always miscounts. Because he doesn’t buy burgers from the grocery store like my parents, he forms the patties by hand. Each one is the size of a meatball at an expensive Italian restaurant.

Because the patties are the size and shape of grapefruits when they hit the grill, the middle is always raw. “Grandpa, there’s too much blood,” my sister says, red liquid pooling on her plate after the first bite.

“It’s not blood, it’s juice!” he shouts. Even after I muscled through 2 of the bloody burgers, there’s a whole platter of them left, like a rack of brown billiard balls. Grandpa keeps encouraging us to eat more, oblivious to the fact that he cooked at least double the number of cheeseburgers requested.

“I guess we’re not having cheeseburgers ever again,” Nana says. She’s been drinking vodka from a tall glass all morning.

Chaos Reigns

A girl wearing a “chaos reigns” t-shirt bends down to help her boyfriend after he dropped a full soda on the sidewalk. He’s distraught.

Having your own garage

They have a their own two story house in Prospect Heights. It’s a modern one, with cedar siding, their house number in a sans serif font, and up-lighting. They have their own garage.

The girlfriend is impatiently waiting on the sidewalk. She is wearing that brand of leggings that went viral on TikTok, I think. The boyfriend is parking their Tesla. The garage is only a few inches wider than the Tesla. The boyfriend is struggling. Now he is laying on the roof of the car, trying to reach the charging port. On the sidewalk, the girlfriend crosses her arms.

A strange meal in a strange time

During the pandemic, when I was staying with my family, we’d get takeout from Casa Tequila, the Mexican restaurant next to Bob’s Discount Furniture. I always ordered La Piña Loca, a hollowed out pineapple filled with every kind of meat, shrimp, and smothered in cheese.

Two men who love emulsifiers

I love ice cream. Ben and Jerry love emulsifiers. Here’s all six emulsifiers for their ‘Strawberry Cheesecake’ flavor:

CORN STARCH, LOCUST BEAN GUM, GUAR GUM, GUAR GUM (again), TAPIOCA STARCH, SOY LECITHIN, CARRAGEENAN.

Outside the Supreme store

In the long line outside the Supreme store, everyone is wearing the same outfit.

Witnessing a burglary

I’m looking out our hall window across the alley into our neighbors kitchen, as I usually do. It’s late and they are asleep. I’m about to turn away when some movement catches my eye: a tiny mouse zig zags across their counter, stealing crumbs.

NYC Bicycle Man

In the summer of 2023 there was a guy who rode a Citibike all over the city, balancing things on his head: TVs, car tires. I was always impressed every time I saw him; I could never ride a bike with no hands.