tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-142753012024-03-19T23:22:35.437-07:00Beer/RunHydrate!David Thttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18057468361776306071noreply@blogger.comBlogger118125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14275301.post-73644754670845316242024-02-19T08:39:00.000-08:002024-02-19T09:53:06.032-08:00Writing Prompt #12<p> </p><p><i>After years mostly dormant, I am attempting to work myself into being
a writer again. To that end, I did a simple Google search for "writing
prompts" and chose the first link listed, which included a total of 20
prompts. My goal is to write from a new prompt each day, giving myself
10 minutes before calling "hands up, utensils down" (so to speak), and
then posting the unedited result in this blog. The post below is today's
entry.</i> <br /></p><p> </p><p><b>"Describe your favorite piece of furniture from your childhood home."</b></p><p><b> </b></p><p>
</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">I
was probably seven or eight years old when my dad bought a tall, backless bookcase.
Calling it a “room divider,” he placed it perpendicular to the outside-adjacent wall of
the living room of his house in Frayser, where our whole family lived before
the divorce and where my brother and I stayed with him on most weekends for several years afterward.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">And,
sure enough, the simple placement of that one piece of furniture did
effectively divide the room, setting off the dining area as its own separate
space and making the now smaller living room cozier and more intimate. The bookcase
was probably over six feet tall (or at least I remember its being taller than
my 6’1’’ dad) and at least as wide, and it was deep enough to hold two rows of
books on each of its three shelf levels so that one set of books could face the
living room and another the dining room. Dad placed a small, cushioned chair and
a lamp at the corner made by the bookcase and the wall on the living room side, creating
a comfy reading nook. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">That corner was my sanctuary within the house, the one
spot where I did not feel like I was away from home, but at home.
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></p>
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{page:WordSection1;}</style>David Thttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18057468361776306071noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14275301.post-65293200809698269432024-02-17T09:28:00.000-08:002024-02-17T09:44:05.566-08:00Writing Prompt #11<p> </p><p><i>After years mostly dormant, I am attempting to work myself into being
a writer again. To that end, I did a simple Google search for "writing
prompts" and chose the first link listed, which included a total of 20
prompts. My goal is to write from a new prompt each day, giving myself
10 minutes before calling "hands up, utensils down" (so to speak), and
then posting the unedited result in this blog. The post below is today's
entry.</i> <br /></p><p> </p><p><b>"Write about something nice a stranger did for you."</b></p><p><b> </b></p><p>
</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">It
was late on a Saturday night in the fall of 2003, and I was lost.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">Well,
I knew where I was geographically—at the viaduct where Union and Poplar Avenues
swap their north-south positions, and specifically at the apex of the bridge on
Poplar above the railroad tracks. I was just under halfway drunk,
and I was looking down at the train that was passing below. <br /></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">“Don’t
do it!” said a calm but stern voice behind me.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">I
turned around to see a woman in a car that had stopped right behind me. I didn’t
hear her approaching; her command startled me into slightly greater sobriety.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">Mind
you, I was not planning to jump. I wasn’t even thinking of it. But my mind and heart were midnight dark. I had spent the last 45
minutes or so walking from Zinnie’s East on Madison in Midtown toward my home
in East Memphis. My pickup truck was still in the Zinnie’s parking lot. I
probably did not need to be driving anyway, but I didn’t set out walking for
safety’s sake. I had spent the evening at Zinnie’s East with a friend with whom
I was infatuated. I knew she didn’t have similar feelings for me, but instead
of giving myself distance to disentangle the friendship from the heartache, I continued
to hang out with her regularly, trying to rise above or ignore the feelings we both
knew I had for her, feelings that would not die when I tried to bury them but would instead break through
in bursts of resentment or petulance. After a night of feigning friendliness, I snapped just after we part ways, and as I approached my truck, I decided to just keep walking past
it into the night. The train was a welcome distraction from my thoughts.<br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">“Don’t
do it,” the stranger said again, more softly this time. Then, “Are you ok?</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">After hesitating slightly, I approached her car and then told her some version of the truth. I managed to assure her that, no, I wasn’t set
on deliberate self-harm.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">Once
I’d done that, she asked, “Do you want a ride home?</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">I
was still probably an hour and a half’s walk from my house. “Yeah,” I replied. “That’d
be great.”</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">We
chatted a little bit. At some point, </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">we realized we had a mutual acquaintance, who we discussed briefly. </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">I don’t recall what we talked about
except for that, though.
When we reached my house, I thanked her. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">I wish I could remember her name. I do remember her
kindness.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">Thank
you again, my Guardian Angel. <br /></span></p>
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{page:WordSection1;}</style>David Thttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18057468361776306071noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14275301.post-41725562269782336742024-02-16T08:30:00.000-08:002024-02-17T09:00:46.742-08:00Writing Prompt #10<p> </p><p><i>After years mostly dormant, I am attempting to work myself into being
a writer again. To that end, I did a simple Google search for "writing
prompts" and chose the first link listed, which included a total of 20
prompts. My goal is to write from a new prompt each day, giving myself
10 minutes before calling "hands up, utensils down" (so to speak), and
then posting the unedited result in this blog. The post below is today's
entry.</i> <br /></p><p> </p><p><b>"Write about why you want to write."</b></p><p><b> </b></p><p>
</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">I
want to earn a living. Being laid off from a full-time job sucks.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">I
want to earn a living, but do so using what I think is the greatest gift I’ve
been given—the ability to write clearly and precisely. I'm a writer, and I want to write to be who I am.<br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">That
last point sounds arrogant and vague. I am neither the world’s best nor the
world’s worst writer. I’m probably somewhere in the middle, if that matters.
But it’s a skill that has served me well in my work, my studies, and my connecting with other people.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">I
also know that writing is hard, especially if I’ve fallen out of the habit of
writing regularly.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">I
wrote a bit for my full-time job as an editor, but only sporadically. Mostly, I
wrote email messages to authors, printer reps, and colleagues; I often wrote
from boilerplates. I never really looked a blank page or screen and just <i>wrote</i>.
I went so long without doing so that I didn’t even know I missed it.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">But
then my friend Susan asked me to write an essay for an anthology she was planning
to compile and edit. I said yes, and then procrastinated for weeks before
really getting started. I finally began writing mostly disjointed sentences
and paragraphs here and there, over a couple of weeks.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">And
then, finally, I got tired of feeling the weight of the unfinished task, so I went for it, completing the bulk of the essay in a couple of
days. I can’t really help editing as I write, but I did as little of that as I could.
After taking a couple days’ break from the essay, I started rereading it, changing
phrases, adding and deleting anecdotes, massaging the language. I really
focused on the opening and closing sections, tweaking them so that they
conveyed the emotions I intended.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">By
the time I sent my draft to my friend, I had taken ownership of it. I wrote
this. I gave not only time, but effort, attention, feeling. Heart. I believed
in it, and believed that I had done good work, something worth doing.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">I want to feel that again.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">When I was laid off, I immediately started applying for editing jobs. One of my oldest friends, who has known me since college, let me know that a writing position might open up with her company. I politely blew her off, thinking I didn't really want to write for a living, and also that I probably wasn't qualified for the job.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">But she said that her boss was open to looking at my resume. I still didn't strongly consider applying, but she said she'd be happy to chat with me about what is involved in her work. So I called her. She gave me all sorts of details about what she did. But she also said, pointedly, "You're a good writer. I've thought so since grad school. And I know you could do this work." </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">I didn't get the job. But I got the opportunity to do freelance writing for the company. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">My friend reminded me that, yes, I am a writer. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">I want to write to be who I am.</span></p><p><style>@font-face
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{page:WordSection1;}</style><b> <br /></b></p>David Thttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18057468361776306071noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14275301.post-25716089863281977352024-02-15T08:01:00.000-08:002024-02-15T09:53:45.963-08:00Writing Prompt #9<p> </p><p><i>After years mostly dormant, I am attempting to work myself into being
a writer again. To that end, I did a simple Google search for "writing
prompts" and chose the first link listed, which included a total of 20
prompts. My goal is to write from a new prompt each day, giving myself
10 minutes before calling "hands up, utensils down" (so to speak), and
then posting the unedited result in this blog. The post below is today's
entry.</i> <br /></p><p> </p><p><b>"If you could live inside one of your favorite stories, what would you change about it?"</b></p><p><b> </b></p><p>
</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">Before
I can answer this question, I have to struggle with one of my greatest
weaknesses: I love to work within constraints, to think inside the box, to stay
within the guidelines. But I hate having to stop what I’m doing and set the
constraints, build the box, or draw the guidelines. <br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">I want to know my boundaries. For me, creative expression is finding new and
interesting ways to express myself within limits. I have fun coming up with fun
drum fills while playing in straight 4/4 time, making subtle changes to the
hop profile of a German-style helles lager, or seeing if I can run a set
distance a little faster. Playing a song with constantly changing time
signatures, developing a beer recipe with no reference to defined styles,
running with no plan for time or route, though—I feel stress just thinking
about doing those things. In jobs, I’ve been very good at working at a
particular type of task—say, copy editing—over and over, learning a little bit
each time, getting a little better incrementally, but I’ve balked when
asked to rethink a process or (worse) “carve out your own niche here!” Slowly
working and thinking through existing processes, instead of simply following
them, disorients me. The effect is almost the same as that of trying to
concentrate in a room with too many competing background noises, or organizing
a junk drawer.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">As
for changing stories, I just don’t approach them that way. When, for example, much of the Star
Wars fandom voiced their disappointment at narrative choices made in the most
recent movies, I didn’t get worked up about them. I want to hear (or see, or
read) the story and react to it as a solid thing that exists; it’s all wrapped
up in my suspending disbelief, in letting the story work whatever magic it has
on me. Approaching a story with what-ifs makes it less real, and less enjoyable.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">But
for the sake of this exercise? I read that George Lucas once considered a much
darker ending for Return of the Jedi: after Luke’s father dies on the (second)
Death Star, Luke picks up the Vader mask and helmet, looks at them for several
seconds, and puts them on his own head. </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">If I were Luke in that moment, I might do that.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">Cut to black, cue the Imperial March, and roll the end credits. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">Dude. <br /></span></p>
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{page:WordSection1;}</style>David Thttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18057468361776306071noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14275301.post-29902394806337522792024-02-14T09:16:00.000-08:002024-02-14T09:16:06.386-08:00Writing Prompt #8<p> </p><p><i>After years mostly dormant, I am attempting to work myself into being
a writer again. To that end, I did a simple Google search for "writing
prompts" and chose the first link listed, which included a total of 20
prompts. My goal is to write from a new prompt each day, giving myself
10 minutes before calling "hands up, utensils down" (so to speak), and
then posting the unedited result in this blog. The post below is today's
entry.</i> <br /></p><p> </p><p><b>"Write about an imagined ideal day walking around a city of your choosing."</b></p><p><b> </b></p><p>
</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">San Francisco remains my favorite city to see while running. I
start today's run just outside our rental home on 25<sup>th</sup> Street just a
block or so away from the BART station at Mission and 24<sup>th</sup>. I amble
eastward past Van Ness and Folsom and turn left onto Balmy Alley to look at the
street murals, stopping to take a few photos with my phone and mentally noting
new additions to the impromptu gallery since my last visit a few years ago. At
24<sup>th</sup>, I turn back to the west and pass Wise Sons Jewish Deli, where
I’d probably stop for breakfast were I not just getting started on my run.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">From
there, I head north up Shotwell St, passing several restaurants and colorful
old homes. I turn right at 18<sup>th</sup> and continue eastward till I reach
busy Harrison St, which I cross and then turn right onto to pick back up on 18<sup>th</sup>
after it jogs. Just after reaching Utah St, I circle upward through Fallen
Bridge Park and cross the freeway on the pedestrian bridge, which brings me
back onto 18<sup>th</sup> and into the Potrero Hill neighborhood. I descend 18<sup>th</sup>
steeply to De Haro St and turn left so that I can pass the old Anchor Brewing building
on my right. I stop at the brewery building, reminiscing about the tour that Cindy
and I took there in 2013 and wistfully wondering if I’ve had my last Anchor
beer.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">Crossing myself as I face St Gregory of Nyssa
Episcopal Church across the street, I reverse my course (now uphill until I
cross the freeway) but this time continue past Shotwell until I reach Dolores Park.
I slow to a jog as I move counterclockwise around the park’s perimeter, again
stopping to take a photo or two (definitely one from the southwest corner,
looking northeastward toward downtown). On another day I might tackle more hill
work in Noe Valley, but today I continue southward on Dolores until I reach 25<sup>th</sup>,
then head back east toward our apartment for a shower and coffee (though
probably not in that order) and to see if Cindy is awake.</span> </p>David Thttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18057468361776306071noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14275301.post-87948439668623074302024-02-13T08:41:00.000-08:002024-02-13T13:21:06.017-08:00Writing Prompt #7<p> </p><p><i>After years mostly dormant, I am attempting to work myself into being
a writer again. To that end, I did a simple Google search for "writing
prompts" and chose the first link listed, which included a total of 20
prompts. My goal is to write from a new prompt each day, giving myself
10 minutes before calling "hands up, utensils down" (so to speak), and
then posting the unedited result in this blog. The post below is today's
entry.</i> <br /></p><p> </p><p><b>"Write a review of the last movie you saw."</b></p><p><b> </b></p><p>
</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">“Feel-good”
movies are sometimes derided, sometimes dismissed, and almost never critically
acclaimed. When a feel-good flick is also a biopic, it can be overly
sentimental and even shade into soft hagiography. At their best, though,
feel-good films make their viewers, well, feel good. <i>My All-American</i> did
just that for me.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">My
All-American</span></i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"> tells
the story of Freddie Steinmark, an undersized but dogged defensive back for the
University of Texas Longhorns in the late 1960s and early 1970s. The upbeat, devoutly
Catholic Freddie is shown as a winner from his youth, winning games, winning
the confidence of coaches at all levels, and winning the heart of his eventual fiancée,
Linda, before ultimately being diagnosed with bone cancer, to which he succumbed shortly afterward.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">Freddie’s
story is his own, of course, though its cinematic telling echoes previous depictions
of football players, especially <i>Rudy</i> and <i>Brian’s Song</i>. The film
does not provide harsh, documentary-style grittiness, but that does not seem to be
its aim. From all accounts, the actual Freddie Steinmark truly did inspire his
teammates, coaches, and friends. The filmmakers’ choices zero in on the things
about him that did that—his faith (alluded to many times though not shown in a
cartoonish way), his discipline, and his unwillingness to give up despite
enormous physical, psychological, and emotional challenges.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">Ultimately, I did not watch <i>My All-American</i>
to see the dark side of an otherwise upstanding person or to learn more about
the seedy underbelly of big-time college sports—I know enough plenty about the
influence of big money on athletics and even more about the complexity and
contradictions of human souls, but I am old enough to dismiss the folly of
believing the pessimistic take is the only or truest take. I watched it in the hope
that Freddie’s better qualities might rub off on me as
well. God willing, they will someday.</span> </p>David Thttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18057468361776306071noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14275301.post-86323068477955701802024-02-12T08:55:00.000-08:002024-02-12T08:55:19.466-08:00Writing Prompt #6<p> </p><p> <i>After years mostly dormant, I am attempting to work myself into being
a writer again. To that end, I did a simple Google search for "writing
prompts" and chose the first link listed, which included a total of 20
prompts. My goal is to write from a new prompt each day, giving myself
10 minutes before calling "hands up, utensils down" (so to speak), and
then posting the unedited result in this blog. The post below is today's
entry.</i> <br /></p><p> </p><p><b>"What's the most adventurous thing you've eaten?"</b></p><p><b> </b></p><p>
</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">To
paraphrase Charlie in “So I Married and Axe Murderer,” Scottish cuisine is
based on a dare. A former picky eater, I tried several dishes during my brief Scotland
visit in 1995 that I probably would’ve shunned under different circumstances.
But I was twenty-three and overseas, so I tried black pudding, a couple of
other breakfast meats I couldn’t identify, and—eventually—haggis.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">I
had never seen haggis before then, though I had heard enough about it (“heart,
intestines, lungs, boiled in a wee sheep’s bladder…good for what ails ya!”) to be
a bit grossed out by the idea. However, our group was scheduled to attend a “Scottish
Feast” our last night before returning to London, for a formal marching out of
the haggis was the main event. Our bus driver/tour guide/sharer of spirits gave
us a rousing pep talk when we collectively voiced our disgust: “Oh, what you
do, see, is mix up a bit of haggis with your tatties. It’s beautiful.” I wasn’t
totally convinced, but I followed his advice one the haggis was plated,
generously stirring my potatoes into the vaguely meatloaf-esque mound. As the
lighting was dim in the supper hall, I could nearly dissociate what my brain
told me was in front of me from what I saw and tasted.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">And
what I tasted was comfort food, almost like something my mom would’ve made for
us. Beautiful.</span></p>
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{page:WordSection1;}</style><b> <br /></b></p>David Thttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18057468361776306071noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14275301.post-34114376173932101452024-02-10T07:38:00.000-08:002024-02-10T07:38:22.024-08:00Writing Prompt #5<p> <i>After years mostly dormant, I am attempting to work myself into being
a writer again. To that end, I did a simple Google search for "writing
prompts" and chose the first link listed, which included a total of 20
prompts. My goal is to write from a new prompt each day, giving myself
10 minutes before calling "hands up, utensils down" (so to speak), and
then posting the unedited result in this blog. The post below is today's
entry.</i> <br /></p><p> </p><p><b>"Describe your favorite room in your home or apartment."</b></p><p><b> </b>
</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">Our
den, though not exact the center of our house, is the center of our home. Cindy
and I spend much of our non-working time awake on the large tan sectional sofa
(which we bought to replace the ratty old green sectional sofa that was, for a while and
unbeknownst to us, a second home to a family of rodents), her at the end
nearest the kitchen and me anchoring the corner in the middle. Our two pups
usually join us, either on the sofa with us or watching out the windows of the French
doors that face the backyard, home to squirrels and other intruders.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">The
room’s wood paneling walls are painted a deep burgundy, what we used to call “Midtown
red,” a hue probably less popular with real estate agents now but that still fits
my 1990s-forged <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>definition of Classy.
The TV is in the corner opposite the crux of the sofa, which we watch on
occasion, though less often than we read on our phones. We eat all of our meals
at the short, square coffee table, which also serves as a makeshift shoe
closet.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">The
den was an addition to the original 1950s house, and it’s draftier than any
other room. In the summer, we sometimes install a window air conditioner to
fight against the afternoon heat and direct sunlight that invade this
west-facing room. In winter, we sit or lie under the extra blankets that we
keep stacked near Cindy’s end.</span></p>
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{page:WordSection1;}</style></p>David Thttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18057468361776306071noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14275301.post-76778664981395486982024-02-09T07:30:00.000-08:002024-02-13T10:10:22.672-08:00Writing Prompt #4<p> </p><p><i>After years mostly dormant, I am attempting to work myself into being
a writer again. To that end, I did a simple Google search for "writing
prompts" and chose the first link listed, which included a total of 20
prompts. My goal is to write from a new prompt each day, giving myself
10 minutes before calling "hands up, utensils down" (so to speak), and
then posting the unedited result in this blog. The post below is today's
entry.</i> <br /></p><p> </p><p><b>"What color do you feel like today and why?"</b></p><p><b><br /></b></p><p>
</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">I
am a steely bluish grey today, a product of the weather, perhaps, but not just
the weather. When I opened the front door this morning, I saw a rain-washed
street and sidewalk, evoking the colors of a school blacktop and backyard concrete
basketball patio, respectively. No rain was falling, though, so I could see the
houses, trees, light poles, and cars clearly, not needing to squint from a too
bright sky.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">My eyes are clear this morning. I drank no beer yesterday,
so I slept soundly and am alert after just one cup of coffee. Even without a
full-time job commitment, I have goals for the morning and afternoon, tasks
that will help me as I move forward in self-employment and exercise that will
keep me even emotionally. I face the coming day with neither bliss nor despair,
but determination and peace. A sober grey backlights my workstation as I glance
beyond my computer’s monitor through the window.</span>
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a writer again. To that end, I did a simple Google search for "writing
prompts" and chose the first link listed, which included a total of 20
prompts. My goal is to write from a new prompt each day, giving myself
10 minutes before calling "hands up, utensils down" (so to speak), and
then posting the unedited result in this blog. The post below is today's
entry.</i> <br /></p><p> </p><p><b>"Write about an item you have that isn’t expensive but means
a lot to you."</b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">My
Memphis State sweatshirt has seen its share of sweat—more than 37 years’ worth.
My mom bought it for me during a trip to the Tiger Bookstore on Walker, right
near the campus, in late 1986, during the middle of the Memphis State Tigers’
basketball season. The team was banned from playing in the NCAA tournament that
year, but that’s the only thing that kept them from playing in it, because they
were really good. Dwight Boyd, Sylvester Gray, Marvin Alexander, Dewayne Bailey—we
had some players.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"> </span> <br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">I
had multiple Tigers sweatshirts around that time, but this one was always my
favorite—midnight blue, with nothing but the bold words <i>MEMPHIS STATE</i> in
white with gray trim, across the front—simple, clean, classic, and free from
the clutter that seems to mar much of the apparel sold to fans of the university’s
teams. I wore it with pride to school, always affirming that my true loyalty
lay with the Tigers over and above our high school. When I ultimately attended
Memphis State, I took the sweatshirt with me, wearing it to football and
basketball games and pretty much anywhere else.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">The
shirt now has a few holes and some yellow paint stains, but it still fits, and
I still wear it to games. It’s older than most of my friendships, and it
outlasted my career at my longtime place of employment. I hope to be buried in
it, sanctifying it in an open coffin in the nave of my parish, exposed to
incense, icons, and the prayers of the faithful.</span></p>
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{page:WordSection1;}</style></p>David Thttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18057468361776306071noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14275301.post-38525329418422973272024-02-07T08:15:00.000-08:002024-02-07T08:15:52.717-08:00Writing Prompt #2<p> </p><p> <i>After years mostly dormant, I am attempting to work myself into being
a writer again. To that end, I did a simple Google search for "writing
prompts" and chose the first link listed, which included a total of 20
prompts. My goal is to write from a new prompt each day, giving myself
10 minutes before calling "hands up, utensils down" (so to speak), and
then posting the unedited result in this blog. The post below is today's
entry.</i></p><p>
</p><p class="MsoNormal"><b style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: small;">"Recall an important memory from your childhood and tell it
from the perspective of someone else who was present."</span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">Well,
score a point for the buck-toothed kid. Just when I thought I’d chosen the most
talented and, frankly, most attractive sixth-grade kids to represent our school’s
Orff music program at the county-wide program for Memphis in May, I’m going to
have to uglify things a bit and include that smart-aleck.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">Honestly,
I don’t know how he found out. I made my selections yesterday and sent the list
to the school board rep. Yeah, I made a joke in the teachers’ lounge afterward
about finally getting my revenge on the kid with the big teeth. Did one of them
rat me out? </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">Why
did I want revenge? That kid has pissed me off several times this past school
year. Back in the fall, I wrote out the lyrics to a short ditty on vegetables
on a poster-sized sheet of paper for the class to learn and sing. That bastard
had the nerve to raise his hand and, with a cocky grin, point out that <i>lettace</i>
is not spelled <i>l-e-t-t-a-c-e</i>. I told him, no, I spelled it correctly,
but he kept insisting I was wrong, so to get rid of him for a few minutes, I
sent him to the library to check the big dictionary. He wasn’t gone even five
minutes before he re-entered the classroom and, without saying a word, took a
marker and scribbled a <i>u</i> in place of the <i>a</i>. The gall. This is also
the same twerp who, when I was playing a tune on the recorder, stood up and did
a mocking dance and dumb-show of my playing. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">God
made him cocky, but he also made him look like a beaver, which was a good
enough reason to keep him off the Orff squad. Or so I thought, anyway, before
he and a couple of his friends confronted me about why he was not chosen. I was
completely blindsided, and in a moment of embarrassed panic, I told him I didn’t
mean to omit him and of course he was part of the team. Jeez. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">Was
it that goody-goody Miss Russell who outed me? Gah.</span></p>
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{page:WordSection1;}</style> <br /></p>David Thttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18057468361776306071noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14275301.post-84837732764412782832024-02-06T08:14:00.000-08:002024-02-07T08:17:42.108-08:00Writing Prompt #1<p><i>After years mostly dormant, I am attempting to work myself into being a writer again. To that end, I did a simple Google search for "writing prompts" and chose the first link listed, which included a total of 20 prompts. My goal is to write from a new prompt each day, giving myself 10 minutes before calling "hands up, utensils down" (so to speak), and then posting the unedited result in this blog. The post below is today's entry.</i></p><p><b> </b></p><p><b>"Write about a song and a feeling it invoked in you."</b><span style="font-weight: 400;"> </span><br /></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">My
friend Bryan Hayes wrote a song called The Other Side. On the surface, the lyrics
speak of saying goodbye to a close friend, seemingly shortly after their death.
Having talked to him about it, though, I know that the initial inspiration came
from the sadness he felt after his beloved Labrador retriever Fender died. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">I
almost never make it all the way through the song without crying, and I don’t
cry as easily as I wish I did. Heck, I hardly ever make it through the first
chorus without my eyes becoming wet with tears. The chorus lyrics are “Meet me
at the station, my friend / Save a seat on that ride…I’ll see you again on the
other side.” So simple, perhaps familiar even the first time I heard them. But
I cannot hear them without projecting a movie in my mind, of dogs I’ve had to
say goodbye to—Mr B (Bubba), the first dog I had as an adult and who was also
my (now) wife Cindy’s first dog as well, and Cy (Mr Man), our gentle giant of
a golden retriever who became ill out of the blue and had to be put down less than
a month later. I see one or both of them in a train car, usually a dining car
with a table between two facing seats as in a restaurant booth, just sitting,
smiling (tongues out), turning their heads to look at me as I sit next to them,
and hug their necks, and cry and cry and cry.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">Fuck
you, Bryan. And thank you.</span></p>
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{page:WordSection1;}</style></p>David Thttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18057468361776306071noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14275301.post-79762946978503255192020-02-27T09:37:00.003-08:002020-02-27T09:37:10.728-08:00Disarming<div>
<div class="" dir="auto">
<div class="ecm0bbzt hv4rvrfc e5nlhep0 dati1w0a" data-ad-comet-preview="message" data-ad-preview="message" id="jsc_c_h">
<div class="j83agx80 cbu4d94t ew0dbk1b irj2b8pg">
<div class="qzhwtbm6 knvmm38d">
A one man bomb squad<span class="oi732d6d ik7dh3pa d2edcug0 qv66sw1b c1et5uql a8c37x1j s89635nw ew0dbk1b jq4qci2q a3bd9o3v knj5qynh oo9gr5id"><div class="o9v6fnle cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql ii04i59q">
<div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;">
Gently reaches for the device under cover </div>
<div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;">
of darkness. Securing it </div>
<div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;">
He expertly glides his fingers</div>
<div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;">
Along the familiar casing for the switch</div>
<div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;">
He knows time is short</div>
<div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;">
But with muscle memory hard-won through repetition</div>
<div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;">
He finds the toggle and </div>
<div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;">
With near-silent click</div>
<div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;">
Disarms the offending object and </div>
</div>
<div class="o9v6fnle cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql ii04i59q">
<div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;">
</div>
<div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;">
In quiet triumph, slips off the bed </div>
<div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;">
Mere seconds before the alarm clock </div>
<div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;">
Would have awoken his wife on her day off</div>
<div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;">
A morning crisis defused</div>
</div>
</span></div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
David Thttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18057468361776306071noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14275301.post-83139734432937354602019-11-21T08:41:00.000-08:002019-11-21T08:46:28.941-08:00I Prefer<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
I prefer albums to singles</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I prefer listening to old favorite albums to searching for
new favorites</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I prefer Austen to Dickens</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I prefer running to cycling</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I prefer a knowing smile to a stream of flowery words</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I prefer public transport to cars </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I prefer walking to driving</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I prefer maps to step-by-step written directions</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I prefer inside jokes with my wife</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I prefer rooting for sports teams with my brother</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I prefer in-person conversations to telephone conversations</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I prefer not needing to set an alarm clock</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I prefer listening to the Beatles when I’m melancholy</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I prefer John to Paul</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I prefer John-plus-Paul to either John or Paul</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I prefer forests to beaches</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I prefer real Coca-Cola to non-Coke colas<br />
<br />
I prefer blending in<br />
<br />
I prefer drumming to singing<br />
<br />
I prefer finishing to starting to write a new song </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I prefer not unearthing old romantic relationships</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I prefer libraries to bookstores<br />
<br />
I prefer my candor and friendliness after a couple of beers<br />
<br />
I prefer constraints, borders, and outlines<br />
<br />
I prefer pushing the limits of constraints, borders, and outlines </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I prefer sincere doubt to unexamined faith</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I prefer rainy autumn days to sunny summer days</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I prefer order to chaos</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I prefer chaos sometimes</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
(h/t <a href="https://susancushman.com/i-prefer/">Susan</a>, <a href="https://atmidnight.home.blog/2019/11/14/for-wislawa/">Erin</a>, <a href="https://petrichor.art.blog/2019/11/15/valued/?fbclid=IwAR2ZvUtSyN0ozVzd_o6SCMbWC82TLivK6Fs5mY56fNU1Z_q6gJ0xHaK-t-c">Elizabeth</a>, and <a href="https://ariseandeatdotcom.wordpress.com/2019/11/18/free-will/?fbclid=IwAR00pESxTeWSytGztlcbOCkTYIU-3OojiHMNCGEbgVPjdxy8UrLMCIkKF7E">Thea</a>) </div>
David Thttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18057468361776306071noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14275301.post-73831294711097390542019-11-08T10:28:00.000-08:002019-11-08T10:40:48.833-08:00The Shackles of Youth<br />
<img alt="Image may contain: tree, sky, plant, grass, outdoor and nature" aria-busy="false" class="spotlight" height="320" src="https://scontent.fmem1-1.fna.fbcdn.net/v/t1.0-9/41715685_10155521282641423_4038776753106190336_n.jpg?_nc_cat=103&_nc_oc=AQkDVSZT-TTVXTzkgI8mJEheUrAXs6H8NL-KQJIo338kWestxRfOJEVuW22D4WZ6lpA&_nc_ht=scontent.fmem1-1.fna&oh=b159a6db6b2678f0596daaea6e380115&oe=5E6500AA" width="320" /> <br />
<br />
I often daydream about revisiting locations that were the
settings of parts of my past. Sometimes, I have a strong desire--almost a hunger or thirst--to walk around a neighborhood in which I used to spend time, or stand in a living room or kitchen in a house or apartment in which I used to live, not interacting with the present residents or inhabitants but merely seeing, drinking in those places.<br />
<br />
In other words, sometimes, many times, I daydream about being a ghost.<br />
<br />
My own theological architecture doesn't give much space to the contemplation of ghosts, though I don't think it outright denies the
overall concept. I don't want to haunt those places--again, I'd prefer my own presence to go unnoticed--but I suppose being a "ghost" is the image that best approximates that desire.<br />
<br />
Since I have lived in the city of my birth my whole
life, I sometimes actually get to be this sort of (benevolent[?]) ghost. If I choose to drive by the first house in which I remember living (in Frayser), or my maternal grandparents' house (also in Frayser), or the park my mom would take me to after I finished my half day of pre-kindergarten (which happens to be Overton Park), I can do so without much trouble or planning. Of course, some places are forever changed (a shopping center sits on the site of my first apartment, my paternal grandparents' house was razed and replaced by a McMansion), but I can still conjure a mental picture of the places I remember even in the presence of their replacements.<br />
<br />
Other settings from other parts of my life, though, have been less accessible. For more than two decades, the biggest hole in my haunting map was the little part of Chelsea in London where I lived for five weeks in the summer of 1995. For years, I would imagine being there, the setting of the Indian Summer of my adolescence (I was 23 going on 16), seeing myself walk down the King's Road and the surrounding neighborhood, not really seeking one specific terminus but simply walking, drinking in my surroundings, reveling in a sense of longing for its own sake.<br />
<br />
And then, suddenly, I was able to go there in real life, last fall, when Cindy and I spent a week in London and stayed not a ten-minute walk from the site of my old King's College dormitory. The first thing we did after our first meal the day we landed and checked into our Airbnb was to walk to the King's Road and see the Kings Chelsea Estates, the residential development that had taken over the old campus buildings and also surrounded them with newer, larger condominiums (of course I was already aware of the changes, having virtually walked the streets for years via Google street view).<br />
<br />
Seeing them, and then walking eastward along the King's Road for about a mile till we reached the Mona Lisa Cafe (a great place for cheap eats back in '95), felt nothing like being there before. Instead, I had the impression of looking over my own shoulder, or peering into my thoughts and emotions back then without really inhabiting them, seeing them as something to be analyzed rather than felt. It was as if my memories of being there had been a movie projected onto a flat screen, but now that I was there, I could not only see the movie in three dimensions, but experience it in four, pausing certain scenes, walking around the characters and sets. <br />
<br />
There was, no doubt, a brief rush of nostalgia, but also a quick follow-up sense of disenchantment--not dislike or disgust, but a real sense that something that had long held me in its sway no longer did so. The overarching feeling was one of relief. I felt no further need to revisit that particular part of London afterward, and we didn't.<br />
<br />
***** <br />
<br />
I have spent a lot of time--probably too much time, in fact--listening to and thinking about the remix of REM's <i>Monster</i> album that was done recently by the original album's producer, Scott Litt, and that is included among the bonus material accompanying the 25th anniversary packaging of the album. I was both intrigued and skeptical when I first read about the remix project a few months ago.<br />
<br />
I always liked the idea of <i>Monster</i> more than the act of listening to it start to finish, but it was still an album by favorite band at the time, and despite its never becoming my favorite of theirs, I listened to the hell out of it for months and still revisit it sometimes. I hoped that the remix would be revelatory in the way that Giles Martin's recent remixes of Beatles albums (especially the White Album) had been, but secretly feared it might end up being the aural version of George Lucas's tweaking of the original Star Wars movies, which was sometimes benign but other times heavy handed.<br />
<br />
Unfortunately, the first released track from the remix--"What's the Frequency, Kenneth?"--was more Lucas than Martin. The sound was bright and clean, but I noticed changes right away: The "machine gun" tremolo guitar riff--one of the catchiest and most memorable individual parts in the original recording--had simply been removed, as had been the final two lines of the chorus (including the concluding "Don't fuck with me"). "Kenneth" was my favorite song, and it seemed to have been changed for the worse; what was going to happen to the other songs?<br />
<br />
But one quirk about the original version of <i>Monster</i> is that ""Kenneth" was something of an outlier. Although it, too, featured loud, layered guitars that more or less buried the vocals, it had a brightness and expansiveness that contrasted with the claustrophobic sound of many of the other tracks. Those other tracks somehow sounded both layered and flat, closer to an aural painting done impasto than to a sonic sculpture.<br />
<br />
And it wasn't till I listened to the second track, "Crush With Eyeliner," that I began to get a feel for what the remix was accomplishing. Listening at full volume to a new mix of a song I'd heard literally hundred of times, I could actually hear the different layers individually and could feel their interplay. The flat screen projection became a solid object through which I could walk. The experience held for the rest of the album as well; and the sludgier and flatter the track was in the original release, the more shocking the revelation of hearing the sonically expansive remix. "I Don't Sleep, I Dream" and "I Took Your Name," two of my least favorite recordings on the original, are easily two of my favorites in their new versions. The enhancements, far from sanitizing the record, make it that much sexier, that much more glam, the lyrics (though now decipherable) that much slipperier, the narrator that much harder to pin down.<br />
<br />
And listening to the remix gave the opposite emotional effect that walking around Chelsea did. Instead of providing distance and closure, it immediately dropped me into the mental and emotional space of my 1994 self--a mixed brew of insecurity and bravado, cockiness and crushing doubt, the feeling that I could be anything I wanted as long as I did not think beyond the present moment. I got that feeling on my first listen last Friday, and I got it again when I listened the next few days in a row. Listening to the remix isn't doing a haunting--it's being haunted.<br />
<br />
Which is why consciously stopped listening to it a couple of days ago. I am not my 1994 self (22 going on 15), nor do I miss him very much. I can't live in that headspace any more than I can function walking around drunk (both things I know from experience, fortunately or unfortunately). Maybe I'll revisit the remix someday if I can do so in a less immersive way, but I'm letting it go for now. <br />
<br />
***<br />
<br />
Coda: For fun, here is my quick take on which <i>Monster</i> songs I like better in the original release and which I like better in the remix:<br />
<br />
<b>Prefer Original</b><br />
What's the Frequency, Kenneth?<br />
King of Comedy<br />
Star 69<br />
Strange Currencies<br />
Let Me In<br />
<br />
<b>Prefer Remix</b><br />
Crush With Eyeliner<br />
I Don't Sleep, I Dream<br />
Tongue<br />
Bang and Blame<br />
I Took Your Name<br />
Circus Envy<br />
You <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />David Thttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18057468361776306071noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14275301.post-72105163229452518672019-02-12T12:41:00.001-08:002024-02-06T08:15:16.171-08:00The AviatorThe men's book club at my parish recently read and discussed <i>The Aviator</i> by Eugene Vodolazkin. Spoiler alert: I loved the book. Second spoiler alert: I'll try not to spoil the actual plot of the book here.<br />
<br />
The conversation was particularly stimulating and energetic, with everyone who had read the book making interesting points and asking thought-provoking questions. J____ asked me one such question: "What was it about the book's plot that affected you so strongly?"<br />
<br />
My answer was somewhat rambling. I noted that the book was as much a punch to the gut and a bruise to the heart as it was a workout for the mind (while definitely stimulating, I would not say the writing itself was difficult to follow). When asked what especially moved me, I struggled to respond but was able to articulate one thing that hit home: the slow physical and mental disintegration that seemed to be leading to a slow disconnection from someone with whom one had an intimate connection. The slowness of the loss seemed as tragic as the loss itself.<br />
<br />
After the meeting, though, I knew that my answer was not so much inaccurate as incomplete. Yes, the impending loss moved me deeply, as did an earlier, similar loss of connection with another character. But, more than that, I think the book held up a startlingly clear mirror to my inner self, and I saw much that was familiar in the book's observations. And much of what I saw was hard to look at. The following all seemed to be reflected back at me<i></i><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; display: inline; float: none; font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; text-align: left; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;">:</span><br />
<ul>
<li>My own mortality and the mortality of people I love - imagining if I were the protagonist and Cindy were the wife, or that she were the love interest from earlier in the novel.</li>
<li>My own sin - What dark deeds and thoughts lurk below the level of my consciousness? Are there things I've done that I'm afraid to admit--to confess--even to myself, let alone to God before a priest?</li>
<li>My fear of dementia/losing my memory/being physically alive but decresingly able to communicate and connect with people around me, especially my wife.</li>
<li>My unwillingness (out of laziness? out of fear? out of indifference?) to do the long, taxing work of repentance. V<span style="font-family: "times new roman";">odolazkin</span>'s protagonists tend to do something awful when they're young but then spend the rest of their lives in active, humble (even humiliating) penance. Am I even sorry for my own wrongs?</li>
</ul>
On a completely different level (perhaps), my reading of this novel in light of having read <i>Crime and Punishment</i>, with which it shares some thematic and geographic elements--makes me want to visit St. Petersburg in the same way that I so long wanted to visit London. I don't want to do a big touristy tour--I want to feel and smell the streets, parks, bridges, churches, cemeteries. Its a longing that may pass. But I feel it, deep down.David Thttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18057468361776306071noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14275301.post-46398916288621362202019-01-18T09:08:00.001-08:002019-11-08T09:28:06.902-08:00BraceI limp to conversations<br />
<div>
And brace myself</div>
<div>
Waiting for the bottoms of boots</div>
<div>
to crush me </div>
<div>
into the playground blacktop</div>
<div>
Waiting for the voices of amateur comics</div>
<div>
to shout me </div>
<div>
as a punchline</div>
<div>
to a joke yet unwritten</div>
<div>
Waiting to be unheard</div>
<div>
or heard, and ignored</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I see you<br />
Brace yourself </div>
<div>
And I remember</div>
<div>
For a moment</div>
<div>
How heard</div>
<div>
How loud</div>
How crushing<br />
<div>
My words can be</div>
<div>
Your silence calling Bullshit</div>
on mineDavid Thttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18057468361776306071noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14275301.post-13252083933651965092018-12-31T08:15:00.000-08:002019-01-02T05:43:48.552-08:00State of the ...This is the spot in which I typically summarize the brewing success and failures I had during the past year. I'll still do that, but I'd rather think out loud (or at least in virtual print) as a way of clearing the mental cobwebs before focusing on beer yet again.<br />
<br />
My relationship to my avocations is changing. Compared to many I know, I have been blessed to have relatively few Really Big Demands (health, family, job) placed on my time and energy, My job is not physically taxing and also allows me to leave work "at work," so I really do have the freedom to choose what I do with fairly large swaths of time. Within those swaths, however, I do have regular commitments, some of which make me accountable to others and some of which I simply choose for myself. These can be categorized, roughly, as follows:<br />
<br />
<b>Commitments in Which I'm Accountable to Others* </b><br />
<ul>
<li>Chanting/singing./reading at St. John</li>
<li>Playing drums/percussion with Ted Horrell and the Monday Night Card</li>
<li>Serving on the Board of Directors for the Orthodox Christian Translation Society</li>
</ul>
<i> *Not listed here but assumed are my commitment to my wife, which is my reference point for all other commitments, as well as my commitment to being available to spend time with my nephews (of which I could do more) and my godchildren (likewise).</i><br />
<br />
<b>Self-Focused Commitments</b> <br />
<ul>
<li>Running</li>
<li>Brewing</li>
<li>Writing songs</li>
<li>Reading</li>
</ul>
The first item in each list is the one to which I give the most time. I chant at a minimum of one service per week, but most weeks include two or more and some seasons require an even larger commitment. I also try to lead a chant class/workshop every other week outside of liturgically dense times. There are times when the chant workload feels a little heavy, but only when I'm not actually there; I never regret chanting or being present at worship when I'm actually there.<br />
<br />
As for running, I still like to do it three times per week even as I move away from the competitive aspect of it; the moving is a product of a combination of bad diet (I'm just not in good enough physical shape right now to run fast) and a peace about not needing to define myself by running competitively (I enjoy the regular routine of running way more than I do the focus on planning and training that accompanies races). <br />
<br />
I wish that I could say that my need to define myself in relation to how I compare to others has decreased for my other activities like it has with running. It hasn't. Or at least it's still a big part of the mix.<br />
<br />
I love playing with Ted's band, and doing so has allowed me to remember how much I enjoy simply playing drums--without having to try to sing at the same time. Musically and personally, it's as good a band situation as one could hope to find. I've also had fun reconnecting with my friends in The Petty Thieves a couple of times in the past year or so, playing covers we all dig.<br />
<br />
But a part of me wants to be the one putting his own work out there, and my main outlet for doing that until recently has been with Dewey Starr and its antecedents. The Umsteds and I pretty much ceased being a working band after a fairly unpleasant acoustic opening gig in January. I don't think any one of us wants to revisit a situation in which we play for folks who clearly don't want to listen to us; plus, one of the fellas (Dave Jr) has a pretty sweet cover band gig going with his dad in which the group (1) draws crowds and thus (2) makes money, and all of them have multiple children and their own separate time commitments.<br />
<br />
And yet, I have a hard time letting go of the Dewey Starr/Archives/Name du Jour idea. It's pretty selfish, really--Dewey Starr was how I was able to get recordings of songs I'd written before the ears of others. We played a few decent-sized shows; more important to me, though, we had songs played on the radio multiple times, which fed a particular craving I've had as long as I can remember. "Look at me, the shy kid!" slipped into "Aren't I fantastic?" and sometimes revealed itself as a raw " LOVE ME!" All of that lay just below the surface of something that was actually
pretty great--extended family playing together just like we did when we
were kids. The selfish part may have been there all along, but it was
less prominent, less intrusive. <br />
<br />
Of course, that's oversimplifying things a bit. Maybe even more than the songwriting credit, I valued the songwriting partnership that Dave Jr and I have had. Collaborating on songs with him has probably been the most gratifying creative outlet I've had. Even this year, we put together two really good songs, and I have no doubt we'll continue to do that as time allows (we seem to be able to work on that even when we're not really in a band together).<br />
<br />
But since we have reached a pause, I'm re-evaluating my own songs, and my relationship with creating and sharing and how it is shaped or soured by the desire to be praised. I have songs I'm working on, but the (self-focused) noise is still there, waiting to be engaged, ignored, or denounced. <br />
<br />
The noise is there with brewing, too. On the one hand, I really do try to approach each batch of beer I brew with the best plan and information needed to make a truly excellent finished product. I love recipe research and development, I enjoy fine-tuning process choices and variables, and I don't mind being an unsparing critic of the beers themselves, pinpointing flaws and working to eliminate them the next time. But the more I brew, the less willing I am to subject my beers to harsh critique from fellow brewers. When I first joined our homebrew club, I brought samples of nearly every beer I brewed to meetings for critique. I learned a lot from that time, but I also received enough praise to start fashioning myself as a pretty good brewer. And, eventually, I started to resent the critiques and cherry picked beers (and brewers) that I figured would elicit (and provide) mostly praise. And now I rarely bring beers in for critique at all. I do still like to enter the large annual competition, but I do so mainly to WIN, not to get high-quality feedback. I've tied my ego to how much others like--and praise--my beers. Perhaps some of that is due to turnover in the club membership--many of the folks I knew and trusted most are no longer in the club--and also due to the fact that I simply don't want to stay late after meetings, which is when the main tasting occurs. But ego-sparing is involved as well.<br />
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And I've not come to a true peace about this. I still harbor fantasies of brewing professionally, even though I remain unconvinced that doing so would make sense for me and my family financially and lifestyle-wise. I still plan to enter multiple beers in the next regional competition even as I wonder how committed I am to the community of homebrewers. Brewing--like running--has become more of a solitary activity. I have friends with whom I brew sometimes, but it's usually easier for me to simply carve out time to brew by myself rather than plan around others' schedules. And I still crave validation from others even as I try to be my own worst, and best, critic.<br />
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So, the beers themselves:<br />
<br />
<b>Successes</b><br />
<ul>
<li>Munich helles - possibly my favorite beer I've brewed. I used the White Labs Budvar yeast strain and the lightest German base malt I could find, and the end result was delicate and contemplative--and an easy drinker.</li>
<li>Patersbier - I brewed a few of these, but the best one was basically a Belgian blonde scaled down. A great session-type beer.</li>
<li>Barleywine - it took a few months of conditioning, but the use of the Belgian yeast strain and the multiple levels of dry hopping appear to have been worth it. A successful experiment.</li>
<li>Oktoberfest - I think I may have liked it even better had I bottle conditioned it, but it was still darn tasty.</li>
<li>German pils - this one got better and better as it conditioned (well, at least until it got old). Solid pils, good hop/malt balance.</li>
<li>Dry stout - simply and roasty.</li>
<li>"Blonde ale" with whole Cascade hops. It didn't age well, but it was super nice when it was young.</li>
<li>"Bocce Bock" - helles bock brewed for Italian Fest. I made it slightly less strong than the 2017 version, but it still packed a punch. It did age well, tasting really nice after about 3 months in bottles. </li>
</ul>
<b>Failures</b><br />
<ul>
<li>The dark beer failures - I had both a honey porter and a strong stout get infected, leading to gushers. I'm guessing cleanliness issues did me in both times. </li>
</ul>
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<b>Mixed Bags/To Be Determined</b><br />
<ul>
<li>100% Brett witbier - it ultimately tasted good and had the muted funkiness I desired, but it's just a bit too odd to drink too often. I like it, but I'm also glad the batch was small.</li>
<li>Cream ale - I added more sugar than I'd intended, and I get a fruity, almost sherry-like flavor. Not unpleasant, and it accomplished what I intended (an easy drinker to keep at home), but I wish it didn't have that fruity finish.</li>
<li>Vienna lager (for Pascha) - I'm probably too critical of this one in that folks dug it, but there was a slight harshness (metallic? from the keg?) to the finish, at least at first.</li>
<li>Czech pils - I ended up not using the yeast I'd planned to use; also, I got a little acetaldehyde flavor, so I may not have let this one finish out like I should have done. Still pretty good, just not a stunner.</li>
<li>Ordinary bitter - probably more of a success than not--good, if not cravable. Even given the style, I probably could've made it slightly less bitter. </li>
</ul>
I have an English mild and a Dortmunder Export lager freshly in bottles, an IPA in primary, and a Czech dark lager ready to brew next.<br />
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Hey, I may even return to this blog again sometime before the end of 2019. Or I may not. Regardless, Cheers and God Bless.<br />
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As a postscript, here are a few things I've learned this year, or at least things that have come into better focus:<br />
<br />
<ul>
<li>Old memories of a place can be replaced with new memories of the same place. That's true anytime, of course, but, for me, I now have memories of London (and England overall) that are not tied to the drama of the romantic misadventures of a 23-year-old guy. Cindy and I visited England for about a week this fall, and though I did a brief whirlwind tour of the sites near where I stayed back in 1995, that sojourn was only a brief prelude to our own time exploring the City (and other cities) as a couple. I'll never forget the earlier trip, but my reference point has changed, and I can now sing the line from Rachael Yamagata's "I Want You" ("But when I think of London / I can only see your face") for real.</li>
<li>Generally speaking, and with rare yet definite exceptions, I don't enjoy parties, which seem to be the adult version of finding someone to sit with in the school cafeteria. My favorite thing to do at a party is to have one or two meaningful conversations with individuals, and, frankly, that's better done one-on-one or at least within a small group than at a larger party. (Plus, I've been the Old Guy at a party or two recently, which doesn't have to suck, but still kind of does sometimes.) </li>
<li>On the introvert/extrovert scale, I think I still rate introvert (in that I replenish energy via solitary activities). But I've noticed that, after awhile, the thing keeping me from being more social is something either like inertia or else like having a crust, or barnacles: while I'm alone, I have a hard time imagining I'd be happy doing something with others, but I nearly always am glad I did if I make the effort to do so. Solitude can be a habit, I guess, and I am a creature of habit, or at least of moving in one direction rather than veering off (it's why distance running is so much more appealing to me than, say, cross-training). I'm not sure I need to really think this through more than that, though finding a balance of solitude/time with others is an ongoing task. </li>
<li>I'm still afraid to try new things and fail. But I think I'm getting a little better at trying familiar things and failing. </li>
</ul>
David Thttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18057468361776306071noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14275301.post-80496673460608977502017-02-09T09:39:00.000-08:002017-03-03T07:09:12.032-08:00State of the Homebrewery Address, Early 2017<div>
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<i><span style="font-size: x-small;"> Belgian-style Tripel</span></i></div>
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It's February, and, as usual, several of my beers are in various stages
of fermenting or conditioning. Here's what's currently in progress:<br />
<ul>
<li>Primary: Rye pale ale w/Centennial and Chinook hops</li>
<li>Cold secondary: altbier</li>
<li>Newly bottled: Belgian pale (v2) for MS Brew Movement</li>
<li>Bottled but sitting for additional conditioning: Brett B Saison (probably 23 flip-top bottles) </li>
<li>Bottled and ready to drink: Schwarzbier (20ish bottles)</li>
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I also have an assortment of bottles still on hand from previous brews:</div>
<ul>
<li>Festbier (probably 2-4 bottles)</li>
<li>Kolsch (probably 4-6 big bottles and a small one)</li>
<li>Belgian pale v1 (probably 3-5 bottles)</li>
<li>Belgian tripel (4 or 5 bottles)</li>
</ul>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<i><span style="font-size: x-small;">Altbier</span></i></div>
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<b>2016 Successes</b></div>
<ul>
<li>Festbier (really, really tasty...maybe the best thing I've <span class="il">brewed</span>)</li>
<li>Science of Beer pale (good clean, hoppy pale ale)</li>
<li>Belgian pale v1 (really improved with age)</li>
<li>Kolsch (I'm almost always happy with that style)</li>
<li>Whole hop pale ale (one of the better hoppy beers I've <span class="il">brewed</span>)</li>
<li>Zwickelbier (first go at decoction)</li>
<li>Hefeweizen (decoction mashout)</li>
<li>ESB v1 (solid)</li>
<li>ESB v2 (different yeast, slightly more flavor hops...smooth and refreshing - and won the DeNeuville contest!)</li>
<li>Quick German pils (kind of threw it together for 4th race, but pretty refreshing)</li>
</ul>
<b>2016 Failures</b></div>
<ul>
<li>Hoppy wheat ale w/citrus zest (ugh)</li>
<li>Hefeweizen
w/raspberry and blueberry (some bottles didn't carb, others were bombs;
the OK ones were actually kind of boring)</li>
</ul>
<b>2016 TBD</b></div>
<ul>
<li>Schwarzbier (though I think it's going to be good)</li>
<li>Brett saison (super Brett-y...not much saison flavor. Interesting, not sure I hit what I intended)</li>
<li>Belgian tripel (not bad, but just never really mellowed out the way I wanted...a little harsh to my taste)</li>
<li>Belgian pale v2 (used 3522 to ferment...very nice at bottling time)</li>
<li>Altbier (way too early! really a 2017 beer anyway) </li>
</ul>
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<i><span style="font-size: x-small;">Hefeweizen </span></i><b><br /></b></div>
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<b>2016 Miscellany</b></div>
<ul>
<li>I
kegged a beer (pale for Sci of Beer) for the first time in a couple of
years. It tasted good and I liked having beer on tap, but a spigot
mishap led to several quarts of beer spilling onto my rug and wood
floor, so I'm not too motivated to keg again anytime soon!</li>
<li>Relatedly,
I acquired and then discarded a used dorm fridge--leaked condensation.
I'll miss the extra lagering space, but the leaking was a bad deal.</li>
<li>Quick
lager fermenting (ie, fermenting cold till just over 50% of attenuation
has taken place and then letting temp rise) has served me well, as has
the ice-pack method of temp control. </li>
<li>I continue to be inpatient with bottled beer--let those bottles condition, son!</li>
<li><span class="il">Brewing</span> with friends (eg, Joel, Donnie) is fun, and so is <span class="il">brewing</span> alone. I need to mix in a few more social brew days in with my solo outings.</li>
<li>As usual, I ended up with more beer in the fridge than I could drink. I need to give more away and buy less commercial beer!</li>
<li>The sump pump/ice bath technique (thanks Jeff K!) really helps me get wort temp down to lager fermentation range.</li>
<li>I
still struggle with constructive criticism of my beers--I'm way too
defensive and am my own greatest hindrance in becoming a better <span class="il">brewer</span>!</li>
</ul>
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<b>So...what do I want to brew this year?</b></div>
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<ul>
<li>ESB/bitter (w/seasonal yeast - split batch between 2 yeast strains)</li>
<li>Small saison (no brett...maybe use base recipe from brett one, and really ramp up finishing temp...dry is good)</li>
<li>More lagers! I'd love to give a triple-decoction Czech-style pils a go, and I wouldn't mind <span class="il">brewing</span>
a German-style pils around the same time for side-by-side comparison. I
think another festbier or a Maibock would also be great. A couple of nice lagers would be suitable for Italian Fest.</li>
<li>Another hefeweizen...no fruit this time!</li>
<li>Another witbier (for Cortney's wedding, but maybe also a trial run beforehand)</li>
<li>A traditional bock</li>
</ul>
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<i><span style="font-size: x-small;"> Schwarzbier</span></i></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: small;">Cheers!</span></span><i><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></i></div>
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David Thttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18057468361776306071noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14275301.post-89356172658329689192015-12-31T09:18:00.004-08:002015-12-31T09:26:55.051-08:00Travelogue 2015Let's see...Cindy and I took the following trips in 2015:<br />
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Madisonville, TN (twice)<br />
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New Orleans (by train)<br />
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Sandersville and Atlanta <br />
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<br />
St. Louis <br />
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Iowa City/Minneapolis/Red Wing/St. Louis<br />
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Rosemary Beach <br />
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Some thoughts: <br />
<ul>
<li>Other than the first trip to Madisonville (which I took alone to see my grandmother one final time), all trips were with Cindy. Traveling together is much better than traveling separately. </li>
<li>Compared to recent years, we traveled less, but we took one longer-than-average trip (Iowa/Minnesota/Missouri) and two other longish ones (Georgia and Florida). </li>
<li>We did not take a single flight in 2015. I really do not mind long road trips, especially if I am the one doing the driving; fortunately, Cindy does not particularly care to drive, so I drove pretty much the whole way on all of these trips.</li>
<li>Cindy and I are blessed to have the same preferred rhythm and pace when we travel: both of us have learned, through experience, that we enjoy our trips most when we can balance variety of activity with simple down time. Sometimes, it's better to leave a few possible attractions unvisited, a few meals uneaten, a few beers undrunk. I think our trip to Rosemary Beach was our most "successful" in that sense--much of what we did was within walking distance of our rental, and we started every morning on the late side with a bike ride and ended every day with a walk on the beach. </li>
<li>Although I had my share of good beer (especially in Minnesota), I didn't treat any particular trip as a "beer-cation" in 2015. I love visiting breweries, tap rooms, and brewpubs, but, by and large, I'm less keen on making those visits the main focus of our trips. (That said, I'd very much enjoy a beer-centric return to St. Louis one day!)</li>
<li>We traveled with our nephews twice in 2015--and took them on their first just-with-Cindy-and-me vacation (to St. Louis) in May. They boys really do travel well and are also old enough to enjoy a variety of food/restaurants, making for a fun and relaxing trip for both them and the adults.</li>
<li>It might go without saying, but I'll say it anyway: Cindy and I are blessed to have the financial means, time off work, health, and inclination to travel; we're both way more interested in traveling than we are in acquiring stuff, and I'm so thankful that we can share our adventures.</li>
</ul>
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<br />David Thttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18057468361776306071noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14275301.post-38622191749894052722014-09-24T12:41:00.002-07:002014-09-24T12:41:37.360-07:00Oregon Beer Inventory<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Here are the beers I tried in the Portland area this past week:<br />
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<b>Mash Tun</b><br />
Campfire Kolsch<br />
Galena IPA<br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>Widmer Brothers</b><br />
Amber Ale<br />
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<b>Hopworks</b><br />
IPA*<br />
<br />
<b>Rogue</b><br />
Roguenbeer Rye<br />
7 Hop Cider<br />
Dirtoir Black Lager<br />
Dopplesticke<br />
Smoke Hop Bomb IPA<br />
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<b>Breakside</b><br />
Breakside IPA<br />
Woodlawn Pale<br />
Passionfruit Sour<br />
Double IPA<br />
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<b>Deschutes</b><br />
Obsidian Stout<br />
Jubelale<br />
Cask India Red Ale<br />
Fresh Hop Oktoberfest<br />
Fresh Hop Kolsch*<br />
Nitro Cinder Conde<br />
Fresh Hop Mirror Pond<br />
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<b>Base Camp</b><br />
Fresh Hop in the Pool Helles Lager*<br />
Lost Meridian Wit*<br />
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<b>Hop Valley</b><br />
Imperial Red<br />
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<b>Hair of the Dog</b><br />
Lila Maibock<br />
Ruth Pale Ale<br />
Adam Dark Strong Ale<br />
Fred Golden Strong (w/rye)<br />
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<b>Pyramid</b><br />
Oktoberfest<br />
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*Right beer, right timeDavid Thttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18057468361776306071noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14275301.post-52203003380122753542014-02-14T07:43:00.003-08:002014-09-03T09:42:56.884-07:00State of the Homebrew Pipeline AddressFour different homebrewed beers are now making their way through my pipleline, the most I've had going at any one time. Here is the roster, from most recently to least recently brewed:<br />
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<b>Racked to secondary this week: Pale Ale with Rye</b><br />
I hesitate to call this beer a "Rye Pale Ale" or a "Rye IPA"; I used rye more as an accent than as a main part of the grist, and though I aimed for malt balance, I'm not sure this one quite qualifies as an IPA of any sort. That said, I really wanted to see how the rye combined with Maris Otter malt, which calls more attention to itself with its bready, almost nutty flavor than either 2-row or Pilsner malt, and the piney and slightly spicy flavor of Chinook hops (which I combined with the citrusy Cascade for flavor and aroma). On my first taste at transfer time, I definitely caught a little (though not a ton of) rye flavor and could really taste the Maris Otter in the finish; the hops hit first and were sufficiently prominent to make me consider scaling back the amount of dry hops I plan to add in a week or so--I'd like the finished beer to be fairly balanced, with no one flavor masking the others. This one should be about 6.5% ABV and should be ready to keg by next weekend.<br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>Racked to secondary last week and currently cold conditioning: California Common</b><br />
I love this style. I made only minor tweaks to a recipe I've been working on for awhile, adding a little carapils for better mouthfeel and dry hopping with a small amount of Cascade hops (which I'll add in a week or two) to add a citrus roundness to the more earthy Northern Brewer hops that help define the style; pre-Cascade, it was already in good shape, with a good smoothness from the cooler fermentation. I'll let this one condition for a total of 3 or 4 weeks (so another 2 weeks at least) before kegging it; it should be about 5% ABV--a good session beer.<br />
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<b>Kegged this week: Oatmeal Sweet Stout</b><br />
I came up with my first oatmeal stout recipe last fall for my friend Billy to brew for a party; the flavor was good, but the finished beer was a little thin in the mouthfeel for my preference (I like the creaminess of stouts on nitro tap and from the cans with the "widget"--again, just a personal preference). I thus added lactose (milk sugar) to the boil to give it a fuller, creamier mouthfeel. I just kegged it Tuesday and tried a sip yesterday: it's not fully carbonated yet, but WOOOOO I'm really happy with the mouthfeel and flavor. My goal is to let this one sit till Pascha (ie, late April) and then bring it out for Bright Week. It'll be an easy drinker at about 4.5% ABV.<br />
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<b>Kegged and ready to serve: Belgian Blonde with Mosaic Hops</b><br />
This one, which I brewed for the MS Brew Movement Event (next Thursday), is the oddball of the group. My original intention was to simply add American citrusy hops to my basic Belgian Blonde recipe; I started it that way, keeping the overall bitterness low and then dry-hopping with a little Cascade, but since the Cascade did not cut through the way I'd hoped it would and because I had a bunch of Mosaic hops left over from a previous brew, I just chunked them into the carboy to see what they'd taste like. The result? Now the imbalance is on the hop side, with the Mosaic hops (which are fruity but also kind of dank) dominating the flavor, pushing the spicy, delicate Belgian yeast flavors way into the background--they're still there, but the hops are mainly what I taste first, second, and last. Fortunately, I like Mosaic hops, and I think it's a pretty tasty beer and should go over well at the event--but it's not exactly the beer I'd planned to brew. <br />
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<b>Next Up: </b>Sticke Alt (stronger version of an Altbier) for the AutoZone Brew Fest and maybe a Maibock for my own enjoyment.<br />
<br />David Thttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18057468361776306071noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14275301.post-50949154997271097362013-12-31T11:05:00.001-08:002013-12-31T15:42:56.953-08:00Day 365 of 365I had intentions of posting some sort of sprawling reflection on the past year today. I may or may not get to that this (New Year's Eve) evening, which promises to be a wild party of running the Wolf River trails, walking Cy (see below), washing at least three loads of laundry, watching the Tigers basketball game, and, eventually, grilling burgers stuffed with blue cheese for a late night supper with Cindy, who will work till at least 9:00 and probably much later as folks try to fill all the 2013 prescriptions they can.<br />
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Cindy worked late the first New Year's Eve we spent together, too; we ended that night an actual couple, so I'm pretty much OK with a reprise nine years later. Overall, though, my New Year's Eve history had been pretty uniformly poor, including the following highlights:<br />
<ul>
<li>Staying home, along with my brother, while not being allowed to spend New Year's Eve with our favorite cousin because the (illegal thus immoral) shooting of fireworks within the city limits would be involved</li>
<li>Being stood up for a date when I was 16</li>
<li>Watching the Tigers lose on television while I was home with a cold when I was 20</li>
<li>Pining for some (other) girl and drinking to the point of falling asleep under a tree in a friend's front yard during a party when I was 22</li>
<li>Making my one and only foray into the world of drugs harder than alcohol or pot at the same house the next year</li>
<li>Arguing with my (then) girlfriend because I didn't want to take her to a party (which was at the house in front of which I'd passed out two years earlier and at which I'd snorted the cocaine the year before)</li>
<li>While we were dating, talking to Cindy on the phone while each of us was lying on our respective sofas with the stomach flu, unable to move and hardly able to talk. </li>
</ul>
It's a sorry history, for sure, and it'd be a depressing list except for the fact that each of the events described was pretty much the low point of each preceding year; the high points were, no doubt, on days on which I did not feel social or other pressure to celebrate only for celebrating's sake.<br />
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*****<br />
<br />
For now, I see 2013 as, among other things, the Year of Separate Travels for Cindy and me. The two of us did enjoy our semi-annual visit to the San Francisco area in May and were able to sneak away for a couple of longish weekends to the Mississippi Delta and Hot Springs, but otherwise most of our travels were done without the other. Cindy's trip to Alaska with her childhood best friend was long overdue, and I definitely had no place to complain about her being away, as I took five trips without her this year. Sadly, that number doesn't differ too much from those from previous years, but, maybe because I was on the left-at-home end for once, I felt the weight of the days spent apart more acutely this time. More than once, I thought to myself, "I miss Cindy in my bones"; it was not lust or even missed affection, just a feeling of emptiness, way deep down.<br />
<br />
Cindy rarely complains about my being away, though I know it bothers her. It doesn't help that my absences seem to coincide with unfortunate occurrences at home. In 2012, Mr. B locked himself in and pretty much destroyed our bedroom during one of my trips; Cindy had to have him put down--in my absence--during a second 2012 trip. This past year, Cindy had to deal with a backed-up sewer line while I was away for Thanksgiving. In each case, she gave me her blessing to travel, but I still kick myself for not being home when she needed me there. <br />
<br />
These separate trips will most likely still be necessary at times, a consequence of Cindy's rigid work/vacation schedule and my desire to visit family and friends when I can. But I'll do my darnedest to make sure 2014 is a Year of Shared Travels. Or at least the Year of Shared Time at Home. <br />
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*****<br />
<br />
On the plus side, this guy joined our family in October:<br />
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Even though I accidentally refer to him as "Mr. B" or "Bubba" now and again through old habit, Cy is decidedly his own man. The best leash-walking dog I've known, Cy will walk at my pace without my needing to tighten the leash, even walking alongside me when I simply place the handle end of the leash in my right coat pocket. He also knows how to work his way out of his kennel, which led to a problem-solving session similar to the one I needed back when I learned that Bubba could open an unlocked refrigerator. He's already pleasantly clingy and, like B, seems to prefer Cindy (though he wants to be near both of us). I suppose it's a luxury of childless folk to talk about the pleasantness of once again having a feeding and potty schedule give shape to one's day in reference to a four-legged companion, but it has been a surprisingly easy transition after a dogless year. <br />
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He'll be my companion for most of my activities this evening. I could not ask for better company. <br />
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<br />David Thttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18057468361776306071noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14275301.post-64955654095570496222013-02-07T16:07:00.001-08:002013-02-07T16:07:15.252-08:00Contents, February 7, 2013<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />David Thttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18057468361776306071noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14275301.post-36847532997761834012013-01-09T07:16:00.000-08:002013-01-09T13:44:38.908-08:00November Nashville Beer Tour<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
So it's been a couple of months since our beer tour of Nashville (technically, it was the Diners, Drive-Ins, and Dives Plus Brewery Tour, since we also ate at several restaurants we saw profiled on DD&D). Life and general busy-ness blocked my original intent to blog, but I'll post just a few pics and thoughts here. </div>
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Just for starters, Nashville seems to have a vibrant, if fledgling, craft beer scene. We visited three breweries (see below), but a separate trip could've taken us to at least three other brewpubs (Blackstone, Boscos, and Big River), and at least two more production breweries are either off the ground (Little Harpeth) or getting there (Broadcast). We started our tour with the Elder Brother of Nashville Breweries, Yazoo.</div>
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<i>Doubling up on Dos Perros</i></div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>Our tour guide, Seth Green (actual name!)</i></div>
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We enjoyed our ($7) tour, which included 3 fairly generous samples (even more generous for those of us accompanied by a spouse who doesn't drink!). The on-site tap room was a happening place, with a line of folks looking for late Saturday growler fills extending nearly out the door; I left with a growler of Rye Saison, maybe my favorite of their beers.<br />
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After dinner at a Greek diner (Athens Family Restaurant, which was fantastic), we headed to our favorite part of town, East Nashville, where we stopped by Fat Bottom Brewing.<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>Fat Bottom's branding has rounded into shape</i></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitknEKGGE_wPDaFqBR00l_ahJhBj-CXoco6ycZDYUsgf2jqANIJvsK47SNoQ9ETgpzGVUFsQXMdZ76op84_zp1FQsEazPrXsDYS1K8TXYievqLBTmYOeopCN_HZfQE4kxU8fsbKw/s1600/Fat+bottom+sampler.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitknEKGGE_wPDaFqBR00l_ahJhBj-CXoco6ycZDYUsgf2jqANIJvsK47SNoQ9ETgpzGVUFsQXMdZ76op84_zp1FQsEazPrXsDYS1K8TXYievqLBTmYOeopCN_HZfQE4kxU8fsbKw/s320/Fat+bottom+sampler.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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<i>The Fat Bottom sampler</i></div>
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The Fat Bottom sampler boasted several styles, and thus nice eye appeal. My favorite was the seasonal Rye Pale Ale, though the Black IPA was super tasty as well (all others were solid). Unlike Yazoo (and Jackalope, although food trucks service both of them fairly regularly), Fat Bottom boasts a full-service restaurant on-site. We were full from dinner, but decided that we'd try something from the menu the next time we're in town. (I took home a growler of the Rye Pale.)<br />
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On the way out of town the next day, we tried Jackalope, which is located in the Gulch District within site of Yazoo.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGY1FVkeWogOvbFuAMT5qRnY1wFPYF59UM7Ql2MG6iaRYWFdu6jekX_ya8BKPsiRUXIXAJpPY6Cf7ZDz3OTDlHj-Dg3uX2L1T6KgaiQkrAMkSTDR8q7_zPkaG49c1JvE_QjBGKRQ/s1600/Jackalope+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGY1FVkeWogOvbFuAMT5qRnY1wFPYF59UM7Ql2MG6iaRYWFdu6jekX_ya8BKPsiRUXIXAJpPY6Cf7ZDz3OTDlHj-Dg3uX2L1T6KgaiQkrAMkSTDR8q7_zPkaG49c1JvE_QjBGKRQ/s320/Jackalope+1.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<i>The Jackalope sampler</i></div>
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When I received the Jackalope sampler, I was initially worried that I'd received four pours of the same beer, since the four I'd ordered (Rompo Red Rye Ale, Bear Walker Maple Brown, Thunder Ann American Pale Ale, and a seasonal IPA) were similar in hue. Fortunately, the beers ended up being very distinctive and probably were my favorite overall from the weekend, the Rompo being especially good (enough so to take home a growler of it; I must've really been in the mood for rye those two days!).<br />
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The tap room at Jackalope was super laid back; my wife and I played Scrabble and munched on sticky buns (made locally and offered for sale at the counter) while I lingered over my beer. Jackalope is also in the process of expanding to include a coffee bar, which makes me like them even more (and makes it likely that we'll stop by there more than once next time we're in town).<br />
<br />David Thttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18057468361776306071noreply@blogger.com0