I was driving southbound on the New Jersey Turnpike and right around Newark Airport, a billboard with an attention-getting red background caught my eye. I almost drove through a guardrail and onto the airport tarmac once I got close enough to read it.

It’s that lunatic Dick Cheney’s big stupid face looking down on all us poor motorists. It should say (Actual Size) right below his photo.

Over the course of the summer, the Hilton Hotel in Atlantic City has, bizarrely, hosted a speaker series that featured the right-wing demigods who have driven the Republican party over a cliff. Bill O’Reilly spoke. Glen Beck. Ann Coulter. Is that how you’d like to spend your summer evening at the shore casinos? Listening to these bottom-feeders spew their hatred and lies?

The aforementioned are all part of a media conglomerate and it’s not surprising to see them out on speaking tours. But seeing Dick Cheney’s face up there is a little upsetting, and not a little dangerous at 70 mph. Here’s a guy who spent eight years hiding in secret bunkers pulling puppet strings. You couldn’t find him anywhere! But now his soft, plump, white face is on a billboard scaring New Jersey motorists. Another chicken hawk from the previous administration who callously sent people off to war while going to extreme lengths to avoid service himself. Some patriot. Ptu.

The reason he always gives that crooked closed-mouth grin is that if he parted his lips, you’d see the blood dripping from his teeth. Hide the women and children.

For what it’s worth, I voted for Obama, but I think his presidency has, thus far, been a terrible disappointment. But the GOP had nothing to offer as an alternative. I can’t think of one single plank of the Republican platform that I can get behind. I’ve voted for Republicans in the past—I’ve never been a party-line voter—but the crazies have seized control of the GOP.

In the song New York, New York, they claim that if you can make it there, you’ll make it anywhere. Well, take it from me, pallies, some of us make it there because we are incapable of making it anywhere else.

Since leaving New York for the suburbs of New Jersey 8.7 years ago, Mrs. Wife has put forth an valiant and steadfast effort to integrate me into our new community. Last weekend she took me on another husband play date. Despite my best efforts, the end results were the same as they ever were.

I simply cannot make a connection with any of the good people of New Jersey. They’re nice, regular folks who are simply trying to live their lives and grab an occasional night away from the kids. But I have absolutely no chemistry whatsoever with any of them. It’s a new sensation because one of my strengths — the thing that got me this far without the advantage of a college education — is that I can talk a pretty good game. But I got nuthin’ in the tank when I get together with these big gaggles of suburbanites. My poor wife!

I’m a broken misfit. The qualities that once made me feel unique and unlike everyone else now make me feel like an outcast in my own home. Do you know what I’m excited about? I’m excited that the much-praised Shakespeare in the Park production of The Merchant of Venice with Al Pacino as Shylock is going to open on Broadway in October. What an oddball! Believe me, there was no way to work something like that into any of the conversations I attempted on Saturday night. I’ll re-double my efforts. I want to fit in.

Recently spotted in the New York Times:

“The market is just happy the tests are coming out,” said Win Thin, currency strategist at Brown Brothers Harriman in New York.

What kind of monsters would name their kid Win if their last name was Thin? It’s inexcusable.

Do you guys know what these are?

They’re Dippin’ Dots. I’m not sure how they’re made but they’re delicious. They’re super-cold ice cream pellets. 8-Year Old Daughter and I are in love with them. The above example is the vanilla/strawberry combo. We got them when I took 8-Year Old Daughter to the county fair back in Ohio. 4-Year Old Daughter couldn’t go because of an ankle injury, poor thing.

My mom use to take us to the Berea Fair every year when we were kids. It was the highlight of our summer. Now that I’m taking my own kid, the circle seems complete. Happy news: It hasn’t changed one bit!

County fairs are about a lot of things. They’re about rides and farm displays and shows and animals and politicians who want to shake your hand. But for me, they’re mainly about food. Good bad food, if you know what I mean.

This is the grilled turkey leg man. I ate them for years and finally decided that I didn’t really like them all that much and I was eating them out of a sense of tradition. I wonder what they do with the rest of the bird?

Here’s the stuff of dreams. Grandma Ski’s Polish Food truck. Just look at that menu. All of the major food groups are represented. I had a big ‘ole kielbasa sandwich. Daughter, much to my disappointment, turned her nose up at these gourmet delights and had an utterly ordinary slice of pizza. Kids. They don’t know what’s good.

They still have a side show. It’s now called the Palace of Illusion, but when I was a kid it was the Freak Show. During those unenlightened times, you paid money to stare at people who had physical deformities. It was a parade of social rejects. It’s still a bit strange but it’s definitely been softened since then. That’s probably for the better, don’t you think? That’s my brother in the foreground. He is not part of the show. This year.

Here’s daughter coming out of the fun house. [That drum was rotating.] All I need at a county fair are the bumper cars and the fun house. I’ll have nothing whatsoever to do with all the sick-inducing rides. This ride would have been a perfect place to take LSD, if you were so inclined to do that sort of thing.

The Berea Fair is a true county fair with 4-H displays and lots of farm animals entered into blue ribbon competitions. Here’s a massive pig, almost as big as Daughter, and her young piglets. They were cute but looking at them just make me HUNGRY for a bacon, lettuce, tomato and mayo sandwich on toast. Yum-yum. Eat ’em up.

The evening we attended, they held the Demolition Derby. Have you even been to one? Fantastic entertainment. This particular evening was the Suburban Mom Minivan Edition. An all-minivan demolition derby! We couldn’t attend because we had to leave for New Jersey the next morning. There was also a Pink Floyd tribute band later in the evening. It killed me to miss these unique events. I won’t make the same scheduling error next year.

They share the same birthday, which was yesterday. Aside from their mutual admiration of Sean Penn, it’s probably the only thread you can draw between them.

I’ve been reading and collecting Bukowski rarities for a long, long time. I don’t know why that guy’s stuff gets under my skin the way it does. My life doesn’t parallel his in any way. I’m not much of a drinker. He would have disapproved of the way I’ve thrown my life away on office work. But we both had, shall we say, less than perfect fathers. So there’s that to consider.

Bukowski taught me that you don’t need a college degree in order to be well-read and literary. Until he revealed that to me, I wasted a lot of time feeling bad about myself.

Instead of a poem, which is what I was originally going to post, here are some of his words of wisdom. He was a pretty good prose writer. He would have been 90 years old yesterday. His stuff means a lot to me.

This is very important — to take leisure time. Pace is the essence. Without stopping entirely and doing nothing at all for great periods, you’re gonna lose everything. Whether you’re an actor, anything, a housewife … there has to be great pauses between highs, where you do nothing at all. You just lay on a bed and stare at the ceiling.

The nine-to-five is one of the greatest atrocities sprung upon mankind. You give your life away to a function that doesn’t interest you. This situation so repelled me that I was driven to drink, starvation, and mad females, simply as an alternative.

Two days ago I was in the car and the local classic rock station played Def Leppard’s 1983 slog hit Photograph. I turned up the volume to extra-crispy and haven’t been able to get that lick out of my head since. I love it! And I’m not ashamed to admit it. Good cowbell. Here are a few random photographs.

…unless, of course, you’re about seven months pregnant.

Mrs. Wife was looking over my shoulder when I posted this and said, “Are you sure she’s not just overweight?” I’m no OB/GYN, but I know a thing or two about breasts and those don’t look like overweight breasts to me. They look like pregnant breasts. Mrs. Wife said, “I’ll bet she’s got a sad story to tell.” Are y’all having a good day today? If not, cheer up. You could be in a worse predicament.

It’s August in New Jersey and you know what that means, don’t you? It’s LOCUST season! [Edit: CICADA. I stand corrected. See Ponita’s comment.] Go ahead. Click on it. I dare you.

Do you guys get these things? My finger is in the pic to give you a sense of scale. They’re big, ugly and, worst of all, NOISY beasties. Their drone goes on all. Day. Long. I hate insects. They make my flesh crawl.

By the way, that patch of brown, dry, dead plantation is my front lawn. We’ve had terrible heatwaves and droughts all summer long. This follows the numerous pounding blizzards we had a few months ago. Good thing we blasted a big hole in the ozone layer, otherwise we wouldn’t have this entertaining weather.

If you scroll down, you’ll see three posts about some astonishingly good, home cooked meals I had while visiting Cleveland. This post is the antithesis of those meals.

I met a friend at an Irish restaurant called Harp. They serve the usual burgers and bar food that you’d see in any Irish pub/restaurant, but they also serve some (supposedly) authentic Irish dishes. I always go ethnic whenever possible.

I ordered a meal that I had never heard of. I’ve been asking around and, apparently, it’s more common that I thought. Have you guys ever heard of a boxty cake? It can be best describe it as an Irish burrito. It’s a massive potato pancake folded over with stuff inside. Harp serves steak boxty, salmon boxty, vegetarian boxty, corned beef boxty and chicken boxty. I had the chicken. Inside were sauteed mushrooms, onions and peppers with a sun-dried tomato pesto cream sauce. Sounds scrumptious, doesn’t it? Take a look:

It was truly awful. A massive, heavy, flavorless blob of food. That’s the corned beef boxty in the background. When I left the table, I didn’t think I’d have to eat again for several days. I’m hoping it was just ill-prepared and not always that bad. Put it on the list of things I’ll never order again right next to haggis and camel. (Yes, I ate camel meat once. It tasted kind of rancid.)