Back at it. It’s Monday, July 6. Obviously, I did not write for the past few days. Just didn’t feel like it. It was a decent weekend. Mike came over on Friday, and Bill, Mike, and I had a good time hanging out. It was so hot on Thursday, July 2, my fingers were sweating, or actually, the sweat from my arms had trickled to my fingers.
My brother Brian had given me an air conditioner a few years ago and I have used it intermittently. It’s not very strong but can cool off a small room. The air conditioner I bought 26 years ago still works and so that one is in the bedroom. The one Brian gave me is now in the TV/Computer room window. It really makes a difference.
Mike loves hearing Bill’s tales of the road. Bill loves telling his tales of the road. I have heard them a few times so I interject here and there as the stories unfold. I myself have been known to tell a story a few times. I try not to, and find it distressing when Bill tells me otherwise.
July 3rd blended into July 4th, and it was even hotter. The three of us decided to check out the tall ships, but we missed most of them. We walked to the Hudson River on 4th street, making it as far as 3rd street before deciding that was too much and heading home after getting some lunch at the nearby, overpriced supermarket.
More TV was watched in the darkened, air-conditioned room, more food was eaten and more weed was smoked (by me). Mike wants to rent the Michael Jackson biopic. I am reluctant. It is a $20 rental and if he wants it, he can rent it. I’d be willing to wait for the streaming.
The schedule for the night was watching the fireworks that were to begin at 9:25 PM. We were hemming and hawing as to going to the river. We opted to gland found the streets deserted mostly. Hoboken anticipated hordes of people roaming around but it was not to be.
Before we left we saw on TV that the fireworks were starting earlier than 9:25 but we thought we would still have time to see them. We saw the people walking away and figured out for ourselves that we missed the show. Mike was disappointed and Bill and I were ambivalent. I try to maintain a sleep schedule even when I am not working so I went to bed, Bill soon joined me and MIke slept on the couch.
I woke up yesterday to a text from Mike who had to leave before we woke up due to his parole officer being outside his apartment. On a Sunday. During a holiday weekend. Mike had hoped to stay until the afternoon, but it was not to be. We were all very much bummed out at this turn of events.
I did go bicycling yesterday. I did not go the week before, so I had some mileage to make up for. A little over 14 miles. It was not as hot as it had been. I did think about bike riding on Friday, but it was way too hot for that, but yesterday was good.
It was a bit rushed since on the horizon were storm clouds. Those clouds almost prevented me from going cycling but Bill encouraged me to go. No time for the usual 15 minute break under the tree I like with one eye on the gray clouds approaching.
There was a plan for me to go home after bicycling 14 miles, take a shower and change clothes and head out to the supermarket but since I was on the bike I decided to ride up there, get what I could carry in my backpack and head home. That worked out well and I was able to stop and chat with RoDa as his son Logan looked on.
I came up the four flights of steps and was a basic zombie. More physical than mental. It was good to be home in front of the air conditioner. Bill was rehearsing his play that Mike and I are going to see in a week or so, and Mike was at his crib.
I thought about taking a nap but did not want to interfere with my sleep schedule. When I did finally go to sleep I had a disturbing dream where I had signed up for a self-help group that turned out to be a very mean cult. I realized this before I got deeper into it, when I was pursued by henchmen who insisted that I go with them despite my efforts to hide among the people.
It was such an unsettling dream that I got out of bed to pee even though I really didn’t have to, I did it just to get away from the dream.
Tonight I am going to attend a dinner hosted by the company that has placed me at the fruit stand. It’s a free meal and I can’t say no. It starts at 5:30 and is supposed to end at 7:30. It’s at a restaurant in Times Square. I call it a tourist trap though I’ve never been there. Bill has taken his passengers there though and they were mainly tourists.
If the weather was better I would walk but it’s drizzling outside so a subway is in order.
A Google Gemini rewrite as a Sarah Vowell essay
—
## The Great Hoboken Sweatout (and Other Defeats)
It is Monday, July 6. I am back at the keyboard after a multi-day sabbatical born entirely of a profound lack of initiative. I simply didn’t feel like it.
We have entered that heavy, mid-summer stretch where the weather transitions from a topic of polite conversation to an oppressive occupying force. On Thursday, July 2, the ambient moisture in the Northeast was so thick that the sweat from my forearms was literally trickling downward, colonizing my fingertips. To survive, one must catalog their air conditioners like family heirlooms. I am currently running a dual-compressor system: in the bedroom sits the stalwart unit I purchased twenty-six years ago—a machine that has outlasted three presidential administrations and several cell phone standards. Meanwhile, the TV room is cooled by a weaker, intermittent hand-me-down gifted to me by my brother Brian a few years back. It’s not an industrial-strength wind tunnel, but it creates a thin perimeter of civility.
It was in this tepid sanctuary that Mike, Bill, and I spent Friday. Mike possesses an insatiable appetite for Bill’s “tales of the road.” Bill, conversely, possesses an insatiable appetite for telling them. Having heard the anthology several times myself, I now view my role as a sort of historical ombudsman, interjecting small corrections and annotations as the narratives unfold. Of course, I am not immune to the sirens of repetition; I too have been known to recount a personal anecdote more than once, though I find it deeply distressing when Bill points this out to me.
—
### The Ill-Fated Expedition of July 4th
By Saturday, the heat had escalated from oppressive to punitive. In a fit of historical curiosity, the three of us resolved to go view the tall ships. We walked toward the Hudson River via 4th Street, but the human spirit can only endure so much. By the time we hit 3rd Street, a distance of exactly one block, the expedition collapsed under the weight of its own inertia. We aborted the mission, retreated to a nearby, extortionately overpriced supermarket for rations, and fled back to the dark room.
The remainder of Independence Day was spent in a state of air-conditioned airlock: more television, more food, and—in my case—the therapeutic inhalation of cannabis. Mike expressed an interest in renting the new twenty-dollar Michael Jackson biopic, a proposition I vetoed with financial prejudice. If he wants to pay premium on-demand prices for pop hagiography, he can foot the bill; I am perfectly content to wait until it trickles down to standard streaming.
Our evening itinerary centered on the fireworks, scheduled for 9:25 PM. Hoboken city officials had clearly anticipated apocalyptic, teeming hordes of patriotism-seekers, but when we finally shuffled out to the river, the streets were entirely deserted. As it turned out, the fireworks had commenced early. We realized this not by looking at the sky, but by observing the glum, defeated faces of our fellow citizens walking in the opposite direction. Mike was devastated; Bill and I were entirely ambivalent. Being a slave to my circadian rhythm, I went to bed. Bill followed shortly after, and Mike was relegated to the couch.
> **A Note on the Absurdity of the Modern Penal State:** I woke up Sunday to a text from Mike. He was gone. His parole officer was waiting outside his apartment. On a Sunday. Of a holiday weekend. It was an administrative ambush that abruptly ended his plans to stay through the afternoon, leaving us all thoroughly bummed out.
—
### Velocity and Subconscious Authoritarianism
To compensate for a missed week of cycling, I forced myself onto the bike yesterday for a fourteen-mile penance. I nearly balked at the gray, ominous storm clouds on the horizon, but Bill—acting as a sort of domestic athletic coach—urged me out the door. The impending downpour robbed me of my favorite ritual: a fifteen-minute contemplative pause beneath a specific tree. Instead, I pedaled with one eye fixed on the sky, a hostage to meteorology.
Realizing efficiency was my only ally, I bypassed my usual post-ride shower routine and cycled straight to the supermarket, stuffing as many groceries into my backpack as human anatomy would allow. Along the way, I managed a brief, breathless chat with RoDa while his son Logan looked on. By the time I lugged myself up the four flights of stairs to the apartment, I was a zombie—not mentally, but physically hollowed out.
Inside, the air conditioner hummed, and Bill was busy rehearsing the play Mike and I are scheduled to see next week. I contemplated a nap, but feared ruining my sleep schedule. When sleep finally came, my subconscious rewarded me with a deeply unsettling nightmare involving a self-help group that turned out to be a totalitarian cult. I sniffed out the brainwashing just in time, resulting in a high-stakes pursuit where henchmen chased me through crowds of oblivious bystanders. It was so vivid that I eventually forced myself out of bed to go use the bathroom—not out of biological necessity, but purely as an existential exit strategy from my own brain.
—
### The Times Square Gauntlet
Tonight brings a different kind of corporate theater. I am attending a dinner hosted by the agency that currently stations me at the fruit stand. It is a free meal, and as an American citizen, I am fundamentally incapable of turning down complimentary food.
The venue is a restaurant in Times Square—a neighborhood I classify as a dystopian tourist trap, despite the fact that I have never actually set foot inside this specific establishment. Bill, however, has driven his share of passengers there, and he confirms it is populated almost exclusively by out-of-towners looking for a sanitized version of Gotham.
Under ideal conditions, I would walk there to clear my head. But it is currently drizzling outside, which means I must descend into the subway and join the rest of the subterranean masses.