οὐδὲν οἶδα

G&A #7

2012-02-08T17:55:00.000-08:00

G&A #6

2012-02-06T08:52:00.000-08:00

G&A #5

2012-02-05T09:43:00.001-08:00

G&A #4

2012-02-04T09:26:00.000-08:00

G&A #3

2012-02-03T08:42:00.000-08:00

G&A #2

2012-02-02T10:04:00.001-08:00

G&A Debut

2012-02-01T11:27:00.000-08:00

Breakfast

2012-01-31T10:44:00.000-08:00

Obviously the most important part of breakfast is coffee. I’m partial to espresso, which can be made easily enough in a portable stovetop macchinetta, or moka pot, usually referred to after the most popular brand as a Bialetti. I have three of them. The one thing to know about them is if you overfill the filter with grounds, it will turn out bitter. No, it’s not supposed to be bitter! The other thing to remember is, “boiled coffee is spoiled coffee.”

Coffee labeled as “espresso roast” is basically a marketing tool aimed at stupid people. It just means a dark roast of coffee, in the same sense that espresso brown is a dark brown. There’s no such thing as an espresso bean. Espresso is simply a method of making strong coffee by forcing steam through finely ground coffee beans. Further, dark roast basically means burnt. I prefer medium roast for all my coffee, including espresso.

I went for many years without a coffee grinder. In Portland, I got used to grinding it in the store, but when I left, I found that states in the south and Midwest set their in-store grinders so that even the espresso setting is too coarse of a grind, unless you like weak coffee. I just have the normal old cylindrical-shaped grinder, which works great as long as it’s held and shaken while using. Ground coffee loses its flavor after about a week.

Bottled orange juice has that same bitterness that overripe oranges have. I don’t know how anybody drinks it. If you want orange juice, it is so much better to get oranges and squeeze them instead. Lately, however, I’ve been drinking a fair amount of Spicy V8.

One endearing memory as a kid was being able to pick a grapefruit off the tree in my grandpa’s backyard, cut it up with this bent-tipped, serrated knife and spooning it out. Some people poured sugar on top, but I’ve always preferred things on the sour, tangy side. Grapefruit is as under-rated as a breakfast food as it is over-rated as a cocktail ingredient. It certainly beats the shorts off of all those suger-laden cereals out there. Growing up, my favorite cereal was microwaved Grape-Nuts. I must have been one weird kid. That stuff is disgusting. Today, my favorite breakfast includes bread and runny eggs.

Some people don’t like runny yolks. I can empathize; it is kind of a weird taste. One prop for yolks is that it’s the best source of vitamin D besides the sun. If you insist on scrambling them, you need to beat them with a splash of milk or cream to make them nice and fluffy. I don’t drink milk, but I sometimes purchase heavy cream, and it seems to work better than milk for anything I’d be using it for.

Make sure when purchasing eggs, they are AA Grade (so the yolks are firm) and cage-free (so you can retain some grasp on humanity).

I’ve always been a big fan off Eggs Florentine. It’s like Eggs Benedict except uses spinach instead of bacon. My all-time favorite place to get this was a little breakfast joint near the Berkeley/San Pablo border in the East Bay. The problem with this as a staple for breakfast, besides the fact that it’s pretty rich, is that Hollandaise sauce is a pain to make.

Poached eggs, the other main ingredient in the dish, are NOT difficult, and yet I’ve been so frustrated by them being ruined at restaurant after restaurant that I now kindly inform the server beforehand that if the yolks aren’t runny I will be returning them. Blame it on The Last Detail (1973). Here’s how to poach an egg: fill a saucepan with about 3-4 inches of water, a pinch of salt and a healthy splash of white wine vinegar. Bring to boil and then reduce to just under and keep it there. Don’t break the egg directly into the water. Instead, drop it into a little bowl, glass or coffee mug first (I'll admit, I use an old-fashioned glass). That way, when you add it to the water, instead of a stringy mess all over the place, the albumen will be surrounding the yolk. While cooking, some white frothy-looking stuff might float to the top. If there’s too much, that probably means you didn’t add enough vinegar, but you’ll want to scoop it out before it encourages the water to return to a hard boil. There should be some bubbling and movement going on in the pan. If you’re eggs are just sunk to the bottom of it, turn up the heat! After 3 minutes, the egg will be ready to retrieve with a slotted spoon. Remove excess water before plating. I usually cook two at a time.

The dish I more often make with poached eggs is Huevos Rancheros. Warm a corn tortilla to place under the poached egg, cover the egg with cheddar cheese if you want and top with a sauté of onion, jalapeno, tomato, cilantro (unless you have that genetic trait that makes it taste like soap) and seasonings; in other words, pretty much the same as pico de gallo but not raw. Add avocado slices on top.

Sometimes I’m too lazy for any sautéing. In that case, I’ll just throw some Chulula on the egg. My explanation to restaurant servers who don’t know is that it’s like Tabasco only way better. Tabasco as is far too vinegary. I’ll also settle for Tapatio or Tamazula. If I’m in Portland, I’ll likely use Secret Aardvark sauce instead. I’m not picky. Paprika is also tasty on poached eggs.

Rachel and I went on a breakfast date every Saturday morning for the two years we dated. This experience taught me that there are few to no good breakfast joints in Portland. We returned most to Paradox Café, across from the Tao of Tea (highly recommended) on Belmont.

My favorite breakfast during that time, however, was enjoyed at what I assume, by the fact that they were using writing that looked like what I’ve seen in Ingmar Bergman movies, was a Swedish place. It existed for a very brief time circa 2006 on Clinton St., on that block near 16th where that row of shops are, but it had already closed by the time I tried to visit a second time. Portland sucks like that.

At that restaurant, I ordered something I’d never had before- a soft boiled egg. I did understand the premise, however, which was more than could be said of the table next to us that ordered the same thing then complained that the yolk was runny.

There’s not much difference between a soft-boiled egg and a poached egg, except you can eat the soft-boiled egg right out of the shell. Here’s how it’s done: bring 3-4 inches of water to a boil, then reduce the same as when making a poached egg. Gently place the entire egg into the water with a slotted spoon and set a timer for 5 minutes. If the egg floats, that means it is rotten; throw it out and try again. While in the water, there should be some bubbles coming to the surface from under the egg. Every stove is a little different, so there’s a learning curve of where the dial should be whenever using an unfamiliar one. A smaller egg will cook faster than a bigger one, but between 4 ½ and 5 minutes is the typical time it takes to get the white hard while keeping the yolk runny. Scoop the egg out of the water, set it in a wide-rimmed shot glass (or egg cup if you have one), cross your fingers and slice the top off with a butter knife.

At that restaurant, the soft-boiled egg was served with bread slices, a cheese similar to fontina and a soft block that I didn’t immediately realize wasn’t a soft cheese but butter. Butter is delicious! Especially when it’s room temperature. I use a lot of butter, and have seldom had a problem with a stick of butter in a butter dish on a counter going bad. If it does go bad, it turns dark yellow and slimy. I tend to want things in their most unadulterated form, so that it gives me the most flexibility and control over preparation. For that reason, I prefer unsalted butter. I already own both fine and coarse varieties of sea salt, so I can add it if desired. (Following the same logic, I also insist on peanut butter without added sugar and unflavored tortilla chips.)

I also prefer well-buttered bread to toast, unless I’m for some reason forced to eat that unnaturally square-shaped mushy stuff. It saddens me to see anybody shopping in the mushy bread aisle of a grocery store. Either find a decent bakery or learn how to make bread. My breads of choice are rye and pumpernickel with the occasional sourdough.

Some morning, while eating my poached egg with buttered bread and salted avocado slices on the side, I should take a picture. But there's not much time to waste before piling the egg and avocado on the bread and consuming it- cold soft-boiled eggs are disgusting.

How Refrigeration Works

2012-01-23T08:58:00.000-08:00

Top 10 of 2011

2012-01-22T09:57:00.000-08:00

(in somewhat chronological order):
1. Spending day alone in Coralville
2. Buying bird cage w/ Kate & Jason
3. Losing board games at Chant & Risa’s
4. Getting new truck on last day of crappy job
5. Watching Barca beat ManU at The Londoner
6. Carolyn! (Better than the other nine combined)
7. Tats w/ Josh Fields
8. Disc golf at Wildcat Bluff
9. Time spent w/ Bryan & Danny
10. Cioppino at Moss Landing

Most unbelievable event:
World Series Game 6

Low points:
1. Barca losing Copa Del Rey to Real Madrid
2. Buster Posey getting injured

A lot of other great memories come to mind, but I'm trying to be summary.

Disc Golf Review, Part 3: Disc Dyeing

2012-01-20T09:53:00.000-08:00

The first disc I bought on the internet was a DGA Rogue in clear sparkle plastic. It didn’t take long to realize I had made a flawed decision- the thing was so hard to find I quickly became gun-shy about throwing it. I replaced it with a bright pink Discraft Surge that I lost soon after in a blackberry thicket. Such is life.
I intended to continue to avoid clear plastics, but when I wanted to buy a Latitude 64 disc I could only find clear ones in the weights I wanted. I perused the Latitude 64 thread on the forum at www.discgolfreview.com (DGR) to see if this had been addressed. It had; the recommended solution was to simply dye the disc another color yourself.

One of the topics on the DGR forum is Disc Artwork. I don’t consider myself much of an artist, but I figured I’d peruse it to learn enough to make clear discs visible. The post entitled ACID’S DYE TUTORIAL is very useful. Turns out, all you have to do is dilute powdered RIT with water, slightly heat it in an old skillet that you never intend on cooking with again, float the disc on top until it’s the desired darkness and quickly rinse with cold water. My girlfriend gave me a packet of navy Blue RIT dye. I also asked her if she knew what contact paper was, and she reached into a closet and produced a roll.

I figured I might as well put a design on the disc, so while the diluted dye was warming, I cut a few random stripes out of the contact paper and stuck them to the disc, which reminded me of clouds, so I developed them into a scene of sky and water with a ship in the distance. Although it ended up more purple than blue, I thought it turned out pretty good:

(The double-image effect was caused by the shadow cast on the countertop it was sitting on when I took the photo.)

I have since dyed dozens of discs. It is very satisfying to personalize your discs, and not unlike giving them tattoos. When I dyed the San Francisco logo on an orange Z Avenger, I realized the disc became immediately more visible for the same reason why, in a crowd of people, a person displaying a shirt referencing your favorite team, hometown, etc. will stand out. Our eyes are wired to latch onto symbols with meaning.

A limitation on this endeavor is that baseline plastics, such as Innova DX or Pro, don’t hold dye. You can get them to change color, but I’ve not been able to get them dark or vibrant and subtle lines won’t work. The most serendipitous result of an effort to try to dye a plastic was soaking a Gateway Glow Wizard in black dye and having it come out a glorious bronze:

I dyed a couple other Wizards, and quite enjoy how gnarly the silhouette of Leatherface from Texas Chainsaw Massacre came out:

I am also partial to the depiction of Albert Ayler’s “Spiritual Unity” album cover:

The logo stamped on most discs when you purchase them is called a “hot stamp.” This can be blotted off with a cotton ball soaked in acetone, which can be found in the paint aisle of a hardware store. At first, I was using fingernail polish, which is diluted acetone, but it doesn’t work at all and I ended up with scratched up discs from trying to force the stamps off. You want to dab the stamp and not attempt to wipe it off, which will cause it to smear all over the disc. You also want to do this over a sink or something, so you don’t end up dripping acetone and stamp dye everywhere. Discraft’s stamps are imprinted deeper into the plastic than Innova’s, resulting in a permanent indentation even after the ink is removed, called a “ghost stamp.” Scratches and the ghost stamp can be seen on this Discraft Glow Stalker that I put Morpheus from Sandman comics onto:

Sometimes, I decide to leave part of the original logo, and put Scotch tape over the part to remain while using the acetone, but this is an imperfect method as the acetone can actually melt off the tape. Here’s one of my favorite discs, where I left “Teebird,” because for some reason seahorse-teebird is funny to me:

Designs are made by covering what you don’t want dyed with contact paper, which is thin vinyl with a sticky-side. It is mostly used on the inside of kitchen and bathroom drawers. In many stores, it is in the same aisle as large plastic storage bins. I recommend the clear kind, as you can see what’s going on underneath it during the process.

Upon removing the contact paper, some residual stickiness is often left behind that is difficult to remove. I’ve tried dish soap, Goo-Gone and WD-40, but have yet to find a solution better than time and obsessive thumb-rubbing.

When starting a new project, the first thing you need to do is decide whether you want the image itself or the remainder of the top of the disc to remain uncolored. It seems obvious, but I’ve messed up and pulled off the wrong half of the vinyl more than once, and now sharpie “keep” on whatever I don’t want dyed. If you want the image dyed, you will need to cover the entire face and wing of the disc with contact paper.

Next, put the design under the contact paper and trace it using sharpies. I use a fat one to fill in large areas to be cut out and a fine one for lines. I found an old light table that is very useful for this task. If more than one color or shade is going to be dyed into the disc, I note this with sharpie, because otherwise I tend to forget what I’m doing later. You are always going to want to dye the darkest color first, especially outlines. Here’s a somewhat complicated design, FC Barcelona’s logo, drawn and labeled:

There is a machine called a plotter that can cut out designs in contact paper, but I’ve never used one. I’ve always cut out the design using a regular X-acto knife, but my girlfriend got me a 360º swivel blade X-acto for Christmas, and I look forward to using it as it should make my life easier, especially when cutting acute curves. It’s sort of like carving a pumpkin, but more delicate: imagine creating shapes by carving only the peel off an apple. The most difficult shape I’ve cut out so far, which I didn’t anticipate, was a Klingon logo. I made the thin black lines by holding two blades together (the disc was originally red), but there’s surely a better method!

According to the rules established by the DGA, it is legal to infuse ink into the disc but illegal to alter a disc in any way using any cutting tool. This means you are technically supposed to cut out the design before sticking the contact paper to the disc. This severely limits the type of designs that can be done, or at least increases the labor involved, requiring any isolated shapes to be individually placed. The vinyl is very thin, and you don’t want to press very hard at all while cutting it, but it is impossible to not make minor scrapes into the disc. If you want to use a disc you’ve cut a design into in a tournament, you have to lie and say you cut it out before you stuck it to the disc.

Every little knife slip will be revealed by the dye. You can fix most mistakes by taping Scotch tape over them. The hardest mistake to fix is moving an edge slightly inward after removing the vinyl. You have to hold the disc at just the right angle under a desk lamp to see the cuts you’ve made, and Scotch tape adds glare and makes this task more difficult. For this reason, you want to lift your blade as infrequently as possible. Unfortunately, you have to lift the non-swiveling X-acto to make sharp turns, as doing otherwise will gouge into the disc. Also, if you slip and cut into vinyl not to be removed, lift the blade and tape over it immediately, and then continue by cutting from the opposite direction so the blade doesn’t follow the same groove.

I remove each section of vinyl using tweezers as soon as I get it cut, assuming of course that section is to be the first if a series of dyeing is to be done. Because the cut lines are so difficult to see, it is easy to forget to remove stuff that’s supposed to be removed. While removing, pull against any portions where edges meet to avoid lifting or ripping the vinyl. This is where bleed it most likely to occur. Double-check that every piece of vinyl has been removed, as sometimes the vinyl tears and leaves behind an unintended portion. I’ve also had removed pieces find their way stuck in some random location back onto the disc instead of in the trash. Here’s the Barca logo disc with the first portion to be dyed removed:

I mix powdered RIT in a glass Ball jar with water so that I can see the color. I made an early mistake of putting the lid on and shaking the mixture, which caused it to froth, and then I had a whole bunch of bubbles to get rid of before I could put the disc into it. I now stir it with a plastic knife. You can store the mixture into the jar after use, however, and it can be re-used indefinitely.

You don’t want the dye to get too hot before floating your disc onto it, as doing so will cause the contact paper to loosen at the edges allowing bleed will occur. I heat the mixture on low for several minutes (if it starts smoking, it’s too hot) then turn off the burner completely before sliding the disc in at a slight angle to provide an exit for any air bubbles, which will create little circles in the finished product. After letting it soak for 5 minutes, I quickly lift to check for loose contact paper, bleed, air bubbles and that the temperature is correct. An annoying problem with ghost stamps to look for is they can create a channel in which the dye can seep under the contact paper.

If there is bleed or lifting at this point the best solution is to abort the process by rinsing and letting the disc and contact paper cool and dry. Then, squirt Elmer’s school glue under the contact paper in the problem area, wipe off the excess and let it dry overnight before trying again. While putting the FC Barcelona logo on a Discraft Glow Buzzz, the dye bled into the ghost stamp where the bee was on the original design, which I was too lazy to fix until I’d dyed the outline for 20 minutes. Solid black usually takes 30 minutes. In this case, I tried to take advantage of the fact that the black was looking blue in its early stages and removed the section covering what are supposed to be blue stripes and did ten more minutes in black:

I have done several experiments taking advantage of using the same dye but removing portions of the vinyl at different times to create various shades. Again, I number the order in which each area is to be removed to avoid confusion during the process. The color of the disc in progress is hard to judge, because the vinyl covering darkens as well. Upon removing the vinyl at the end, the dyes tend to be darker than you thought. The color spread, from lightest to darkest, is typically 3 to 30 minutes, and you need to anticipate that the first colors in will continue to get darker during the process. I rinse the discs and reheat the dye while removing each level of contact paper. Here are some results:

Doing an outline in black and then removing the vinyl it is surrounding and filling it in with another color looks very nice. Comic books provide a great resource for utilizing this technique, as it is not dissimilar to the process they use of having one person ink and another fill in the color. You can actually make a thin outline simply by dyeing it after cutting but before removing any vinyl, but thicker, bolder outlines look better. Here’s the X-Men character Beast on a disc called Beast:

This is a perfect example of how hard it is to keep track of what stays and what gets removed. There is a glaring gaffe that probably most wouldn’t notice until pointed out. It’s supposed to look like this:

On the Barca logo disc, I could tell right away the stripes were not the color I'd wanted, being more purple than blue, but I worried about them getting black if I left it in too long. This was my first attempt at adding three different dye colors. I glued the vinyl back onto the blue stripes (I had simply saved the sections after removing them) and removed the sections to be dyed red:

For some strange reason, I decided to remove the covers I’d put back on the blue stripes before doing the yellow:

This did not help them look less purple. The most frustrating part, to me, is that upon cleaning the disc I discovered that the bleed from the beginning was exactly the blue I had wanted the stripes to be!

I’m realizing, especially given my level of talent, with disc art it’s prudent to incorporate the KISS (keep it simple, stupid) principle. Speaking of which, this is more than enough disc golf discussion for awhile….

Disc Golf Review, Part 2: Technique

2012-01-08T11:06:00.000-08:00

Sometime last year, shortly after being shown how to properly grip the disc, I sort of figured out that I could get more distance if I torqued my wrist so that my palm was facing up after the release. Pretty soon, I was throwing the discs so hard and fast that they were turning to the right… or so I thought. I started seeking out more stable discs. While it is true that giving the disc more speed will cause it to lose stability, I wasn’t throwing far enough for that to be the case. My discs were turning because I was giving them OAT (off-axis torque).

I found this out by trolling the forum at discgolfreview.com (DGR). They recommended working out OAT by learning to make your flippiest disc hyzer while throwing it flat. A few days prior, I had wrapped a paper plate in duct tape and thrown it across the room for awhile. It was so unstable, I could whip it across the room spiraling out a counter-clockwise corkscrew. Eventually, my girlfriend got ahold of it and aimed for a plant. Her throw gently hyzered into the pot. This is what I needed to figure out how to do.

Since then, I have graduated to using a large coffee can lid to practice this skill. Besides learning how to refrain from twisting your wrist, a major thing to learn with this exercise is how to reduce wobble, as doing so increases glide, the straightest part of the flight, tremendously. I remember watching my younger sister playing with a toy top as a kid, and she finessed the handle with her little fingers and got the thing to effortlessly spin for a long time. When it finally petered out, I said, “Oh yeah- watch this!” and torqued the top as hard as I could. It flopped around wildly for a few moments and then crashed onto its side.

I had several high speed drivers that all went around the same distance, maxing out at 300 feet. The opinion on the forum was that this was due to reliance on arm strength rather than leg, hip and shoulder whip. This was also extremely familiar. This exact premise is central to a method of drumming called the Moeller technique, which I spent years studying, practicing and teaching. To increase drum speed, you have to learn to relax and whip your limbs instead of counter-productively tensing muscles.

Some of the movements involved in throwing a disc are simply intended to get things in the correct position and alignment to enable maximum efficiency in generating power to the disc, reducing wobble and getting the nose down. As an example- if you pull the disc level across your chest, pointing your elbow at the target, you will not only have the disc aligned to propel it forward instead of up, but also arrive at a position near your right pec where it is actually impossible to use your arm muscles to throw it. This requires you to generate force using your hips, which are much more powerful. The crux of this task is to seamlessly weave these separate tasks into one fluid motion.

I started playing rounds while incorporating various theories and tips found on the “techniques” portion of the disc golf review forum. After about five rounds of this, I had increased my accuracy but my distance was the same. By ten rounds, my distance had potentially increased except the only times I managed to get the nose down were on throws that flew wildly to the right. Halfway through about 15 rounds, after several holes where every throw sailed wildly to the right, I was pretty much relegated to running up and down the concrete pad trying to remember how to let go of the disc.

Back to the drawing board, or in this case, forum. Like most things on the internet, there is more misinformation than anything else on the site. Members give all manner of analogies intended to help visualize the throw of the disc. Some equate it to throwing a hammer or snapping a towel, but I really didn’t find these concepts accurate or helpful. While watching one video, a comparison to dropping the bat head in baseball was made. As an avid baseball fan, I am very familiar with this term.

The plight of former first baseman for the San Francisco Giants J.T. Snow came to mind. He is probably the best fielding first baseman I’ve ever seen, and early in his career he was a decent hitter, too. Then, he lost his hitting mechanics, and the harder he worked at trying to get them back, the worse his hitting became. The Giants used to have a brilliant and knowledgeable hitting coach named Dusty Baker. Unfortunately, he wasn’t their hitting coach but their manager, and he wasn’t as good of a manager. After he left, taking Gene Clines, the Giants’ actual hitting coach, with him, the hitting mechanics of pretty much the entire team fell apart.

While I can’t hit a baseball worth a darn, I have watched enough baseball to knowledgeably critique a swing. It suddenly occurred to me a RHBH disc golf throw is very much like batting lefty. J.T. Snow is a lefty. If a lefty is fouling everything to right, what’s he doing wrong? Either he’s getting out on his front foot or he’s not keeping his hands back. Voila; problem solved.

Another baseball adage that applies to disc golf is to accelerate through the throw. I miss watching that fluid, easy swing of Barry Bonds culminating in the ball appearing to jump off the bat like it had a propulsion system. His swing looked like that television effect created by going from slow-motion to real time. On a drive, the disc should be traveling at its fastest upon release. Rushing the wind-up into the throw is counter-productive.

Much of the time at DGR is spent learning to recognize useless information. One of the few people who reliably knows what he’s talking about is named Blake Takkunen, and one of his helpful articles on the main page of DGR explains the role of the grip on the disc. The first time I skimmed it, I was thrown off by the nuances of two things: the line on the hand to keep the disc edge on and keeping the thumb in front of the forefinger.

This is Blake's illustration, showing to put the disc edge against a line running from between the index and middle finger and the terminus of the wrinkle at the base of the thumb pad. He cryptically remarks that the disc can be above this line. Looking at my grip, I was satisfied that the back edge was on his line and the front edge above it, as that seemed to satisfy his criteria. Also, it seemed impossible to place the disc on the part of the palm between those two fingers while having the forefinger gripped beneath it. I had neglected to consider the elasticity of skin. I now realize he was intending to allow for a higher but parallel line. Simply taking his advice and placing the disc exactly where he says to has been immeasurably useful.

Any discussion of disc grip notes to place the thumb in front of the knuckle of the forefinger. I was putting my thumb as far forward as I could, which was pulling the disc nose up- the exact opposite of what you want to do. All they’re trying to say is put the thumb flat on the disc pointing forward and the forefinger tight around the rim. This should naturally cause the tip of the thumb to be in front of the forefinger knuckle by a few centimeters. I put my thumb’s right side very close to the outside edge of the disc.

For maximum distance, it is crucial to clamp tight to the disc just prior to the release, but not earlier. If you tightly squeeze a fist, you can feel your finger muscles fatigue after barely a second. After that, your arm muscles begin to detrimentally stiffen instead.

As a memory exercise, I compiled a list of reminders to act as a sort of mental checklist, breaking down the major aspects and motions to consider during a drive:

Drive:
1. Grip:
a. palm/pad placement
b. fingers curled
c. thumb
2. Wrist down and cocked
3. On balls of feet, knees bent, spine aligned
4. Set height, nose, hyzer
5. Controlled X-Step through disc location
6. Start lawn mower into right pec
7. Shift hip weight
8. Tighten grip (SNAP)
9. Step through

(Please Note: “Throw as hard as you can” intentionally absent!)

It is excruciatingly difficult to remember all of these things in the second it takes to perform them.

Putting requires less body movement, making it seem simpler to figure out, but perhaps that perception is precisely what makes it difficult. It is tempting to get frustrated over missed putts, with the basket mocking before you, but losing confidence is a death knell. I have found a 5 minute video clinic on YouTube with Cameron Todd and David Feldberg to be most helpful. One day on the course, some random guy, after watching me putt, remarked, “Grab the pole.” This advice has helped reduce popping the disc up as if throwing a free-throw. I made a similar putting reminder list:

Putt:
1. Grip:
a. palm/pad placement
b. fingers fanned
c. thumb
2. Wrist down and cocked
3. On balls of feet, knees bent, spine aligned
4. Target pole
5. Arm straight (elbow not quite locked)
6. Push with legs
7. SNAP from waist
8. Back leg push according to distance

I suppose I may as well make a mid-range list as well:

Mid-Range:
1. Grip:
a. palm/pad placement
b. fingers birdie grip
c. thumb
2. Wrist down and cocked
3. On balls of feet, knees bent, spine aligned
4. Set height, nose, hyzer
5. Step front foot back, pull disc back
6. Step front foot forward, start lawn mower into right pec
7. Shift hip weight
8. Tighten grip (SNAP)
9. Step through

These lists might be too aimed at my strategies and struggles to be of much use for others. In the end, the only way to figure out how to throw a disc is by developing productive habits through repetition and practice, practice, practice.

Check back for Disc Golf Review, Part 3: Disc Dyeing.

Disc Golf Review, Part 1: Disc Selection

2011-12-12T09:33:00.000-08:00

I somehow lucked into finding a girlfriend who, like myself, enjoys playing disc golf. When we met, she had used an Innova Gazelle in the past but no longer had it, so I gave her my 168 gram Innova Leopard and 172 gram Skeeter. The Skeeter had become too understable for me, and I had never liked the Leopard, but she seemed to be able to throw both fairly straight almost from the start. I had her try others, but she threw those two the best.

I started playing disc golf three or four years ago, most weekends with a friend who threw forehand (FH) and only used a Discraft Cyclone and Magnet. I throw almost exclusively backhand (BH), although I’d learned how to flick (synonym for forehand) at mid-ranges last year as I was finding myself deep in the woods a lot and you can’t throw a backhand when surrounded by branches or have a tree right in front of you. The first driver I’d been able to throw straight was a 172 gram Innova Sidewinder, then Beasts at gradually increasing weights from 162 to 170 and now I was using a 167 gram Discraft Surge, but had recently purchased a 168 gram Avenger. Someone had shown me how to grip a disc last year, but that is about all I’d bothered to learn about the sport.

For her birthday, I decided to get my girlfriend a driver that would fly further than the Leopard. I went to a store, and after staring at hundreds of options, dropped $18 on the latest and greatest disc- advertised as a super-fast distance driver for beginners- a Discraft Nuke SS. When I got it home, I decided to get some opinions on what I’d just purchased. I found a relevant website at www.discgolfreview.com (DGR), but it didn’t seem to have been updated for a few years so didn’t include the Nuke series discs. It took a strange amount of further exploration before I discovered that this same website had a forum section full of people discussing all manner of disc golf in a relatively intelligent manner. Actually, the reason I didn’t find it sooner is because I had previously perused another forum on discgolfcoursereview.com (DGCR), which is THE site for finding courses in the United States, but the discussions are rather silly and juvenile, and I didn’t realize they weren’t the same forum.

The first thing I discovered was the Nuke SS was unanimously panned. I educated myself on the difference in disc rim widths, which I hadn’t really considered before. The disc with the largest rim I had tried was the Orc, which took a drastic nose-dive whenever I tried to throw it. Turns out, I wasn’t the only one who had this issue with this disc, but others swore by the Orc, insisting one only needed to keep the nose down on it. It took me some further reading to discover that “nose down” was divergent from the disc’s angle of ascent.

In airplane terminology, nose angle is called “pitch,” and keeping the pitch from being angled up is essential for getting a long, straight backhand or forehand throw. Every newbie I’ve ever seen throws with the nose too high, causing the disc to “spike-” or “knife-hyzer.” This is when, on a RHBH throw, the disc goes up in the air, banks left, and crashes back down. (A RHFH throw will bank right.) Until a thrower can keep the nose down on a disc, it really doesn’t matter much what model of disc is thrown.

While several companies make disc golf discs, the most popular are Innova, Discraft, Discmania, Millennium, Gateway, MVP, Latitude 64 and DGA. There are others, including Vibram and Prodiscus, whose products I have never used. With so many choices, it becomes quickly evident why purchasing a disc is daunting. The most knowledgeable member of discgolfreview.com is named Blake Takkunen. He has compiled a comprehensive chart that compares the flight characteristics of hundreds of discs from many companies. It is called Joe’s Universal Flight Chart and can be found at http://www.gottagogottathrow.com. The only other chart I know of that compares the discs of different companies side by side is by Marshall Street (http://www.marshallstreetdiscgolf.com). Both of these projects were funded by online disc retailers in an ingenious effort to assist shoppers and attract traffic.

Banking left or right is called “roll” in a pilot’s world, but in disc golf, the tendency of a disc to roll is the real important factor, and is called stability. The design of the disc will cause it to behave in a range of stabilities. A disc which resists roll is considered “stable,” while discs which roll to the left on a RHBH throw are “overstable” and those that roll to the right are “understable.” Highly overstable discs are considered “beefy” or “piggish,” and understable discs are “flippy.”

You can also create roll by angling the disc when you throw it. Angling a disc with the side opposite the grip location tilted down and therefore banking to the left on a RHBH throw is called “hyzer.” Anhyzer, the antonym of hyzer, refers to angling the disc with the side opposite the grip location tilted up to encourage roll to the right on a RHBH throw, and that understable movement is called “turnover” or “flip.” One useful technique is to throw an understable disc at a hyzer angle so that it flips to horizontal and consequently flies straight. This is called a “hyzer flip.”

Discs are also designed within a tolerance of how forcefully they are to be thrown, measured in terms of “speed,” and the best speed to choose primarily depends on the distance to the basket. Blake’s chart calls speed “power,” and helpfully provides the distance a nose-down disc should travel under normal conditions at each power rating to behave according to his stability measurements. The route to the basket also plays a significant role in speed selection. If the disc is traveling faster than its tolerated speed, it will become understable, and if slower, it will become overstable. Therefore, you can create various flight paths simply by adjusting the power on the throw. Eventually all but the slowest rated discs will become overstable as they are overcome by wind resistance, gravity and whatnot, causing them to roll in the direction counter to their spin at the end of their flight, which means to the left on a RHBH throw. This fade at the end of a disc’s flight is measured by the disc golf community in terms of LSS, or low speed stability.

Most companies rate their discs according to speed and stability, but Discraft frustratingly doesn’t make a distinction between stages of flight, of which there are three. The first part of the disc flight has been dubbed HSS, or high speed stability, by the disc golf community. Innova calls it “turn.” This is when the disc is released and at the max velocity the thrower has provided. Turn is universally measured on a scale using straight as zero, with increasingly overstable moving away from zero along a positive number line and understable doing the same along a negative number line.

The middle part of the flight is called glide. This is seemingly when the rotational spin, speed and design of the disc align to minimize drag, causing the disc to float through the air; effortlessly holding its line. Latitude 64 have recently raised the bar in terms of glide, but Discraft seems to have the largest variance in glide capability between various discs, and so I find it frustrating that their charts ignore glide altogether. While some discs can glide seemingly forever, others don’t glide much at all, and these are essential for use on holes which require an abrupt transition between HSS and LSS stages. Eliminating wobble and increasing yaw, which is the spin of the disc on its axis, will give the disc more glide and decrease both HSS and LSS.

A good disc is any one whose flight characteristics you can understand, utilize and trust.

One section of the forum is dedicated to sharing what discs are currently in one’s bag, and I became captivated by this. DGR promotes using a minimum number of discs and molds (the term they use in favor of disc models). Unless you’re the store or company selling them, it makes sense to learn to steer and control various flight paths of one disc rather than purchasing a different disc for every flight route you want to take. It is also useful to take advantage of the fact that as discs age, they lose stability. You can broaden the number of routes you can take at the same distance by using the same mold in various states of wear. But as a beginner, it’s sort of difficult to commit to buying a bunch of one mold until you’ve tried a bunch of different molds to get idea of what fits you best. The problem with this became readily apparent when I attempted to compare a Discmania DD with a Discraft Avenger. The drastic differences in rim shape caused me to lose my release point when switching between the two, so that I was either releasing the Avenger too early or the DD too late. I quickly realized I needed to choose between the two, and the predictability of the Avenger won out, despite the fact that the DD flies further and tend to skip off the ground when it hits, stealing several more feet.

My former playing partner’s Cyclone/Magnet combo, along with a Comet, are the classic “old-school” discs. I was sort of astonished that the Leopard was indeed touted as a great disc not only to start out with, but as a staple for slow and straight or s-curve fairway drives. In fact, the most-used discs were moderately stable fairway drivers, slightly understable mid-range discs and overstable putters.

I had expected to see a bunch of max weight, overstable long distance, super fast drivers. How else could those other people I sometimes see on courses be throwing so far? Score one for the marketing machine. Turns out, those max range distance discs are for throwing beyond 400 feet, and if you can’t throw them that far, there is no point in using them. Anyway, the average hole distance from the tee on a typical disc golf course is closer to 300 feet. It is easier to throw a disc 300 feet that was designed to travel 300 feet than it is to throw a disc 300 feet that was designed to travel 400 feet. Mind-bogglingly simple logic. There’s a caveat in this statement however, in that it assumes you are using proper throwing technique.

I had been in the habit of throwing everything as hard as I could, and meanwhile was frustrated with my lack of consistency. According to the DGR forum, one could throw further with more accuracy using less power but maximizing disc glide. My bag contained six distance drivers, most of which I never used, and zero fairway drivers. I took most of the high-speed drivers out and purchased three fairway drivers- a Firebird, a Teebird and a Glow Stalker. I bought my girlfriend a Cyclone and gave her my P&A Aviar putter, which I replaced with a Gateway Wizard.

Once upon a time, I was a drummer. I wasn’t some prodigy blessed with the gift of rhythm; I learned what it was and how to express it only after years of diligent practice. One thing I’m aware of about myself is that while I am incredibly adept at improvising solutions, I have little to no natural athletic instinct. Also, I am a passionately devoted person with a stronger work ethic than most. I’m not particularly proficient at solving riddles, but it’s something I enjoy doing. All this is to say that I understand one improves not buy purchasing the “best” materials, but through practice, practice, practice. Beyond that, the obsessive quest to discover the brand/size/shape/thickness/material of drumsticks/bundle sticks/mallets/brushes/drumheads that best fit your individual hands/approach/style/needs is exactly like choosing distance drivers/fairway drivers/mid-ranges/putters/utility discs. The frustration of product consistency after finding exactly what you’re looking for is also familiar.

Because of various factors associated with humidity, cooling rates, etc, there are variances between discs of the same mold, especially when compared year to year, giving forum members infinite fodder to bitch/debate about. These obsesses tend to lead to a preoccupation with purchasing every disc one can find that most resembles one they had success with in the past, which certainly works in favor of those selling discs. Also, the real fear of losing a preferred disc can set in, leading one to withhold using it until a suitable backup has been procured.

All kinds of tricks are used to determine when a disc was made. Some companies make this easier by changing their stamp designs more than others (and none more than Millenium). One obvious way with certain Innova discs is simply by the number of national championships credited to Ken Climo (he’s up to twelve). The lettering embossed on the inside of the disc, called tooling, often changes from run to run.

Some companies occasionally modify their disc molds without letting anybody know. The forum is very useful for ferreting out variations within a mold. The Innova wing, or shaped underside edge of a disc, for example, can be in at least three variants: X, L and + (plus). The disc Innova calls Beast has a completely different wing than it did when it first came out, and is not the same disc by any stretch of the imagination. According the DGR forum, certain discontinued and old mold Discraft discs reappear as DGA discs.

A disc is made by combining a top and bottom mold. Once a company has built two molds of the same diameter, they can potentially double their profits by swapping halves and “inventing” two more discs. From my cynical point of view, that means half the discs out there are little more than a practical way of lowering overhead costs.

The line on the disc at the point where the molds meet is called the parting line. Excess plastic sometimes found on new discs at the parting line is called flashing, and will cause new discs to be more stable. It wears down after a few rounds of throws. As the disc ages, it loses some structural integrity, which also causes the stability to decrease. I’m too late to the party to start offering suggestions now, but I don’t know why the parting line isn’t instead called the flash line. Anyway, some guy with the avatar “Marmoset” figured out that when comparing the same mold side by side on a flat surface, a disc with a higher parting line will tend to be more stable. I am a sucker for such nerdiness.

I had never understood what a disc “bead” was, but now I figured out it was the vertical ridge on the underside of the inner wing of some discs that acts as a stabilizer. The P&A Aviar I gave to my girlfriend doesn’t have a bead, but there is another Aviar putter that does. The Roc is probably the most popular beaded disc. Beaded discs tend to have better wind resistance. The down-side of a bead is that, when you grip the disc, it rests against the side of your index finger with the comfort of a dull axe.

I’ve barely used the Stalker, simply because it was made irrelevent by the Teebird (both at 171 grams) which quickly became my favorite disc. I had purchased it in transparent Champion plastic, which is Innova’s most durable disc. As discs age, they become less stable. Cheaper plastics do so at a faster rate than more expensive plastics. At the DGR forum, it is recommended to purchase baseline plastics at first, so you can more quickly learn how the flight characteristics change as it ages. I, however, had intentionally bought the better plastic in order to give myself time to learn the flight of the disc before it became too unstable. But curious, I bought another Teebird in the cheap DX plastic at the same weight for $8. It easily had more glide than the Champion version. The noticeable difference in the shape of the disc was that the edge was sharper when new. The third round after buying it was played using only the DX Teebird and the Wizard. This was not by design, but due to the fact that those were the only two discs I needed. Along the way, I hit at least two trees and a metal power line tower squarely, and by the final hole, a left hook over a river, the Teebird was beat in to the point that, when I threw it at a hyzer angle, it flipped to straight and sailed across the river into a tree on the opposite bank considerably past the basket. Despite the five minute walk it took to recover the disc, I viewed this as a success.

I had purchased the Firebird in max weight, or 175 grams, because I wanted to make sure it turned left. This turned out to be a mistake, as the overstable disc design itself was more than capable of doing its job. The heaviness of the disc relative to my other drivers tended to throw off my release point on the rare occasion when I needed the disc. However, I couldn’t find a lighter Firebird, so, after consulting the forum, bought a 169 gram Discraft Predator instead. You can turn a sharp left or get good distance on a strong throw with this disc, and it can be confidently “flexed,” or put on a hard anny line knowing the disc will pull out of it to yield a stretched S-curve.

I use mid-range discs mainly as utility discs to be used when unique circumstances present themselves as the result of a uniquely designed hole or a bad throw. The Roc is the most versatile mid-range disc I’ve thrown, but it has a lot of overlap with the Wizard, and I almost always choose the latter instead, so I’m contemplating getting a Buzzz, the most popular disc Discraft makes, as it purportedly can get more distance and work well for the shot I have the most trouble with- straight to slightly right downhill “tunnel” shots. (Actually, I do have one Z Buzzz that I can flick better than other discs, but it is very light for a mid-range (168 grams) and therefore too flippy.)

Besides throwing them, the best way to understand and appreciate the differences between discs is by feeling them. The variances in shapes and contours, tackiness and flexibility all become perceptible to the touch. Gateway offers the largest range in disc feels, while Discraft seems the most consistent. Right now I am particularly enthralled by the feel of some of Innova’s pearly Champion discs, despite the purported fact that the swirls only come from a batch made right after switching disc colors. While perhaps a bit too slick, Latitude 64’s discs seem indestructible.

Here’s what it looks like at the end of 2011:

Extra Long Range Driver:
168g Innova Star Destroyer (Long S-curves)

Long Range Driver:
168g Discraft Z Avenger (Pinpoint accuracy, highly predictable)
(After much searching, I am loving a 171g Roadrunner for understable duties)

Fairway Drivers:
169g Discraft Z Predator (Overstable, long left turns, heavy winds)
171g Innova Champion Teebird (Stable, line-shaping workhorse)
171g Innova DX Teebird (Understable, S-curves)

Mid-range:
175g Innova Star big bead Gator (Left turn!)
176g Innova KC Pro Roc
173g Latitude 64 Opto Fuse (Amazing turnovers, tons of glide, useless in headwinds)

Putters:
175g Gateway Soft Wizard (Approach shots, short drives)
174g Gateway Glow Wizard (Newer and grippier, hyzer finish putts)
???? Gateway Evolution HPP Warlock (Most putts, holds any line albeit a limited range)

Amongst my next disc golf related purchases will be a scale that measures grams.

Check back for Disc Golf Review, Part 2: Technique.

The Greatest Cocktail Recipes, Period.

2011-12-01T15:18:00.000-08:00

In early 2006, I got curious about cocktails. Since then, I have spent countless hours honing the art of cocktail-making. The number of different cocktails I have tried is easily in the thousands, from dozens of resources. What no cocktail book containing hundreds or thousands of recipes tells you is that most of them suck. Any combination of ingredients given a name is deemed a cocktail, and it seems the name is often given more thought. My 2011 New Years resolution was to whittle down my accumulated list of cocktails to try again, which was well over 200- all organized alphabetically by category- at the end of 2010. I pretty much had this task completed by May, and, since then, have enjoyed being able to drink proven and tasty cocktails instead of wasting time and money on all manner of random weirdness.

I am what you might call meticulous about using authentic and fresh ingredients and exacting ratios. I don’t just add a dash- I actually have a spoon that measures a dash. For me, the goal of a mixed drink is to highlight the best aspects of all the liquids involved, which flies in the face of modern convention that assumes drinks are mixed to disguise the alcohol. I seek harmony and balance with all ingredients as well as a resultant gestalt. Probably the biggest fallacy in cocktail explorations is to be intrigued by an unfamiliar ingredient and mistake that for tastefulness. The opposite can also occur- when I first tried using Benedictine I thought it was horrible because I was putting way too much of it in everything. It is essential to understand how each ingredient tastes by itself in order to discern how it contributes to the mix. Leaving no stone unturned, I have compared glass shapes, ice cube sizes, various sugars, shaker designs, juicers, recipe variants, gins, whiskies (more like hundreds), tequilas, rums, bitters, vermouths, grenadines and even vodkas, which generally has too subtle a flavor to work in cocktails.

Fresh-squeezed citrus is an absolute must. A typical lemon usually yields 2 oz of juice, and a lime's around 1.5 oz (called a jigger), but I always squeeze separately and pour through a fine filter into a measuring device. One also must be able to execute a proper twist. The first step is to thoroughly wash the citrus, because it often has been waxed to make it shiny. Also, room temperature citrus works much better than refrigerated. Using a sharp paring knife or potato peeler, cut a swath of peel approximately ¾ inch wide and 3 inches long (and no, I don't use a ruler). Try to get as little pith (the white, chewy stuff) as possible. Now, mix your drink. You will want the outside of the peel pointing toward your newly-made cocktail, a few inches above the drink. Next, either pinch the peel at each end and wring it like a wash cloth, or firmly grasp the edges of the long sides of the peel between the thumbs and the fingers and snap the peel slice in half down the middle, making sure not to propel the entire thing into the beverage. Either way, you should see a spritz of whatever-it-is spray into and float on top of the drink. If I don’t see the spritz, I start over. It is up to the bartender’s discretion whether to finally discard the twist or add it to the drink. (I’ve concluded that there is never any reason for a twist of lime; a squeeze from a wedge is better.)

Cocktails are easier to make than bartenders let on, although it requires a bit more care than pouring random ratios into a container. Some basic rules are to always use a chilled cocktail glass, and to shake for around 30 seconds and stir for 45, preferably with cracked ice, which is 1/3 the size of an ice cube. (I found trays at Fred Meyer in Portland, OR that make little gumdrop-shaped ice that work perfectly.) A metal shaker will frost over when the drink is properly shaken down to the right temperature. As a general rule of thumb, shake if you’re combining alcoholic and non-alcoholic ingredients; otherwise stir. (Dubiously helpful hint: if you’re almost out of an ingredient, measure that before mixing other ingredients so that if the ratio is short, you can adjust the others accordingly.) Also, to “rinse” means to coat a glass by swirling a liquor around in it and then pouring out the excess. Mint is spearmint; you can buy a plant for $3 that’ll last you all summer.

Non-Alcoholic Accompaniments:
It is good to have options for adding non-alcoholic components to cocktails, especially if you decide to have more than two. Here are a couple basics:

Grenadine
Combine 1.25 cups granulated sugar and 1 cup POM pomegranate juice in saucepan. Stir while bringing just to boil (if allowed to rolling boil it will taste burnt). Simmer 7 minutes or until thick enough to coat back of spoon. Allow to cool.
Not to be confused with sugar and food coloring, which is what a lot of the store-bought stuff is!

Sangrita
3 oz Spicy V8 (sub tomato juice)
1.5 oz fresh-squeezed orange juice
½ oz fresh-squeezed lime juice
1 tsp grenadine
½ tsp Worcestershire sauce
1 dash habanero sauce
Rock (pour back and forth) in Boston shaker w/ cracked ice
Strain into empty old fashioned glass
This is a tequila back that works great as a palate-cleanser. In Mexico, tequila is invariably served with it, but everyone makes it differently. For example, it is often made in a blender with real tomatoes and jalapenos, and I’ve never tried doing it that way. I should.

Simple Syrup
Combine 2 cups granulated sugar and 1 cup water in saucepan. Stir while bringing just to boil (if allowed to rolling boil it will taste burnt). Simmer 6 minutes or until thick enough to coat back of spoon. Allow to cool.
Since it’s pre-dissolved, simple syrup mixes much better than granulated sugar.

Non-Alcoholic Drinks:
So-called “virgin” cocktails, while a great idea in theory, tend to be a waste of time. Here are my recommendations for days when you don’t want to consume alcohol:

Lemonade
5 oz fresh-squeezed lemon juice
1.5 tbsp simple syrup
Shake w/ cracked ice; serve in Collins glass filled w/ ice cubes
This may be on the sour side for those used to bullshit “lemon-esque” beverages.

Thai Iced Tea (makes 2 glasses)
Bring 3 cups water to boil.
Add ½ cup thai tea leaves, turn down to simmer.
Stir the tea and water for 10 minutes.
Pour the liquid through fine filter into another saucepan
Return to simmer then add 3/4 cup sugar and stir until melted.
Allow to cool.
Pour over ice and top with heavy cream.
Stir before drinking.
Thai tea leaves are found at Asian specialty markets, and are not some secret mix of teas, herbs and spices like many Americans assume. They always have added food coloring to make the drink orange.

Without further ado:
Greatest Cocktails Ever:
Not an exaggerated title; I believe there are 30 of them, but the number is a coincidence. I have tried, balanced and tested each of these dozens of times and fed them to others, and they remain delicious and intriguing. Any minor alterations from the original recipe, such as using green chartreuse instead of yellow or lemon juice instead of grapefruit, have been marked as “variant.” All variants have been double-checked against the original to ensure my way is better.

Applejack

Widow’s Kiss
2 oz Laird’s Applejack
¾ oz green Chartreuse
1 tsp Benedictine
2 dash Angostura bitters
Stir w/ cracked ice, serve up into cocktail glass.
Garnish w/ cherry
This is what I consider my overall favorite cocktail.

Brandy/Cognac

Amer (Variant)
1.5 oz E&J brandy
¾ oz Amer Picon
¾ oz fresh-squeezed lime juice
2 tsp grenadine
Shake w/ cracked ice, serve up into cocktail glass
Garnish w/ cherry

Champs Elysees (Variant)
2 oz Hennessey cognac
¾ oz fresh-squeezed lime juice
2 tsp green Chartreuse
1 dash Angostura bitters
1 dash Regan’s orange bitters
Shake w/ cracked ice; strain into cocktail glass
Optional nutmeg sprinkle
This drink has a very intriguing bite, perhaps the cocktail equivalent of allspice.

Georgia Mint Julep
in julep cup (sub old fashioned glass),
Delicately muddle:
9-10 mint leaves
2 sugar cubes
2+ tsp peach brandy
Pack w/ crushed ice, making a snow cone above the cup
Add 2 oz Hennessey, pouring in a spiral and melting the ice
Refill crushed ice to level w/ cup if needed
Garnish mint sprig
The ice prevents the drink from being gulped down all at once. It should get a bit sweeter as you progress.

Sidecar
1.5 oz E&J Brandy
¾ oz Cointreau
¾ oz fresh-squeezed lemon juice
Shake w/ cracked ice, serve up in sugar-coated cocktail glass
Add lemon twist
Seductive. I can’t think of a bigger compliment for a cocktail.

Gin, London Dry

Corpse Reviver #2
1.5 oz Boodles London dry gin
¾ oz Cointreau
¾ oz Lillet Blanc
¾ oz fresh-squeezed lemon juice
Shake w/ cracked ice; strain into absinthe-rinsed cocktail glass
Garnish w/ cherry

Gin Aloha (Variant)
1.5 oz London dry gin
¾ oz Cointreau
¾ oz pineapple juice
2 dashes Regan’s orange bitters
1 dash Angostura bitters
Shake w/ cracked ice; strain into cocktail glass
Fruity and tropical.

Gin and Tonic
in highball glass add:
6 ice cubes
1.5 oz. Tangueray London Dry Gin
Rub Lime wedge around rim, squeeze into glass and add rind
Top w/ 4 oz. Fever Tree tonic water
Let stand 1 minute
I’m not taking credit for the final touch of letting it stand to let the bubbles stir the drink instead of stirring it and making it flat, but whoever turned me onto that realization is genius. I mean, who can bear to wait one minute before drinking this summertime favorite?

Hanky Panky (Variant)
1.5 oz Boodles London dry gin
1 oz Noilly Pratt, Dolin or Vya sweet vermouth
2 tsp Fernet Branca
1 dash Regan’s orange bitters
Stir w/ cracked ice; strain into cocktail glass
Add orange twist
This is the best digestive I’ve come across, despite the unfortunate name. Perfect for following too big or spicy a meal before bedtime. It is not nearly as good without the orange twist.

Inspiration
1.5 oz Boodles London dry gin
¾ oz Grand Marnier
¾ oz Laird’s Applejack
½ oz Noilly Pratt dry vermouth
Stir w/ cracked ice; strain into cocktail glass
Garnish cherry
Bored with martinis? Here you go; problem solved.

Pegu Club
1.5 oz Boodles gin
¾ oz Cointreau
¾ oz fresh-squeezed lime juice
2 dashes Angostura bitters
Shake w/ cracked ice, serve up into cocktail glass
Move over margarita. This is so much better.

Ramos Fizz
2 oz Boodles gin
½ oz fresh-squeezed lime juice
½ oz fresh-squeezed lemon juice
1.5 dashes orange-flower water
1 small egg white
½ oz cream
moistened sugar cube
Shake without ice in Boston shaker for several minutes, adding cracked ice for final 30 seconds
Strain into empty old-fashioned glass
add splash soda, garnish w/ mint sprig
This is my standard for any complicated cocktail. If it’s as difficult to make as this but not as delicious, then why bother? So far, no other mixed drink has passed that test.

Red Snapper
5 oz Spicy V8
1.5 oz Tangueray London Dry gin
1 tsp Worcestershire sauce
½ tsp horseradish
(optional) splash habanero sauce
Rock (pour back and forth) w/ cracked ice in Boston shaker
Strain into empty old-fashioned glass or pint glass filled w/ ice cubes
Shake celery salt on top
garnish w/ pickled asparagus spear
It’s the same as a Bloody Mary except uses gin instead of vodka.

Royal Buck/Rickey
1.5 oz Tangueray London gin
¾ oz fresh-squeezed lime juice
½ oz sweet vermouth
½ oz grenadine
Stir briefly w/ spent shell of lime and ice cubes in old fashioned glass
Top w/ Goya ginger beer (for buck) or soda (for rickey)

Gin, Old Tom

Martinez
2.5 oz Old Tom gin
1/2 oz Dolin, Noilly Pratt or Vya sweet vermouth
1 dash Regan’s orange bitters
Stir w/ cracked ice, serve up into Luxardo maraschino liqueur-rinsed cocktail glass
This is among the first cocktails, chronologically speaking. The two Old Tom Gins on America’s market, Hayman’s and Ransom, are both sweet, but Ransom is more complex.

Gin, Plymouth

Lucien Gaudin
1.5 oz Plymouth gin
¾ oz Noilly Pratt dry vermouth
½ oz Gran Classico
½ oz Cointreau
Stir w/ ice, serve up into cocktail glass
Add orange twist
This is a very expensive, luxurious drink for an upscale evening.

Dry Martini
2.5 oz Plymouth gin (or Tangueray Ten London gin)
½ oz Noilly Pratt dry vermouth
Stir w/ ice, serve up into cocktail glass
Add lemon twist
An olive garnish accentuates the dry vermouth, which encourages people to start bitching that there’s too much dry vermouth, which they ironically attempt to solve by adding more olives and subtracting vermouth until they’re drinking spiked olive juice. Don’t get me started….

Million Dollar
1.5 oz Plymouth Gin
¾ oz sweet vermouth
½ oz pineapple juice
½ oz grenadine
1 small egg white
Shake without ice in Boston shaker for several minutes, adding cracked ice for final 30 seconds
Strain into cocktail glass
This drink is somehow almost chocolate-y.

Pink Gin
3 oz Plymouth gin
½ tsp + 1 dash Angostura
Shake w/ cracked ice, serve up into cocktail glass
The deliciousness of this wonderful digestif goes far beyond its simplicity.

Pisco

Pisco Sour
2 oz Don Cesar pisco puro
1½ oz fresh-squeezed (Peruvian) lemon juice
1 small egg white
2 moistened sugar cubes
Shake without ice in Boston shaker for several minutes, adding cracked ice for final 30 seconds
Strain into cocktail glass
Float several drops Amargo Chuncho bitters on top (sub Angostura bitters)

Rum

Hemingway Daiquiri
2 oz light rum (Cruzan)
1 oz fresh-squeezed lime juice
1 oz fresh-squeezed grapefruit juice
2 tsp maraschino liqueur
Shake w/ cracked ice
Strain into Collins glass filled w/ crushed ice

Mojito
Muddle:
½ lime quartered
1 sugar cube
Lightly muddle:
9-10 spearmint leaves
2nd sugar cube
Add:
2 oz Bacardi light rum
Shake lightly w/ cracked ice; strain into Collins glass filled w/ shaved ice
Refill shaved ice to top
top w/ soda
garnish mint sprig
Perhaps the best drink for a hot summer day.

Tequila

Carney Girl (AVW Original)
2 oz reposado tequila
3/4 oz Lillet blanc
1.5 tsp grenadine
Shake w/ cracked ice; strain into cocktail glass
The only drink I’ve created that is tasty, albeit on the feminine side, and somehow unlike anything else; the idea for it was inadvertently inspired by my friend Sean Joseph Patrick Carney mentioning a girl who swore by mixing tequila with white wine.

Doralto
1.5 oz 1800 reposado tequila
1 oz fresh-squeezed lemon juice
1 tsp simple syrup
1 dash Angostura
Shake w/ cracked ice; strain into old fashioned glass w/ 5 ice cubes
Top with tonic water
Garnish w/ lime wheel
The garnish functions as a visual aid to taste the limey-ness of the drink. Alternatively, you can just tell the recipient it tastes limey.

Whiskey

Brooklyn
2 oz Sazerac rye whiskey
¾ oz dry vermouth
2 tsp Amer Picon
1 tsp Luxardo maraschino liqueur
Stir w/ cracked ice; strain into cocktail glass
Add orange twist

Hot Toddy
1.5 oz Sazerac Rye
1 lemon circle studded with 8 or so cloves
Top w/ hot water
2 dashes orange bitters
1 dash Angostura bitters
The toddy yields itself well to infinite variations; you almost can’t screw this drink up.

Old Fashioned
Muddle in old fashioned glass:
1 moistened sugar cube
2 dash Angostura
2 dash Regan’s orange bitters
1 broad lemon peel
Add:
3 ice cubes
2.5 oz rye whiskey or bourbon
stir lightly by swishing glass
Garnish w/ ½ orange wheel on rim
If too strong, aggressively swizzle it or add a splash soda)
Ask ten people how to make an Old Fashioned and you will get ten answers. I’ve made several dozen Old Fashioned recipes and this one is hands-down superior.

Sazerac
Moisten and crush sugar cube in mixing glass
Add:
2.5 oz Sazerac rye whiskey
3 dashes Peychaud’s bitters
Stir w/ cracked ice
Strain into chilled absinthe-coated cocktail glass
Add lemon twist

Twin Hills
2 oz Sazerac rye whiskey
2 tsp Benedictine
2 tsp fresh-squeezed lemon juice
2 tsp fresh-squeezed lime juice
1 tsp simple syrup
Shake w/ cracked ice, serve up into cocktail glass.
(optional) Garnish with thin lemon and lime slices floated on top
A sophisticated sour that transcends the genre. This drink is also known by the objectionable name Frisco Sour, although that leads me to wonder why it’s not called Twin Peaks.

Wheeler
1.5 oz Sazerac rye whiskey
½ oz fresh-squeezed orange juice
½ oz Noilly Pratt dry vermouth
2 tsp grenadine
Shake w/ cracked ice; strain into cocktail glass
Much better than it looks on paper.

Cocktail Honorable Mentions:
These drinks are very good, although not truly exceptional; but their ease of preparation sometimes makes them go-to drinks when hurried or feeling lazy.

Buck
In highball glass, build:
Wipe rim w/ spent half lime shell
Add 4 ice cubes and shell
1.5 oz any liquor (esp. Sazerac Rye)
¾ lime juice
fill w/ Goya ginger beer
A great, simple drink. Not worthwhile unless you use a spicy ginger beer.

French Connection
3 oz brandy/cognac
1 oz Grand Marnier
stir w/ cracked ice, strain into
Old fashioned glass containing 3 ice cubes
When I first came across Grand Marnier, I was unimpressed, and even demonstrated to myself that a better tasting concoction could be made using equal parts Hennessey and Cointreau. But the stuff kinda grows on you, and tastes like nothing else.

Gimlet (Variant)
2 oz Plymouth gin
1 oz fresh-squeezed lime juice
1 tsp simple syrup
Shake w/ cracked ice; strain into cocktail glass
A gimlet is supposed to be gin and Rose’s lime juice cordial.

Whiskey Sour
2 oz Sazerac rye whiskey
1 oz lemon juice
1 tsp simple syrup
Shake w/ cracked ice; strain into cocktail glass

Cocktail Runner-Ups:
Just in case thirty-some incredible mixed drinks aren’t enough for you, I’ll tack on a long list of runner-ups. Most of the following are cocktails I liked the first time I tried them but eventually lost interest in. In some, I tasted potential but never got the flavor balance quite to my satisfaction. Some were pushed aside by another similar but preferred cocktail. Some of these are good to know because they’re frequently requested. All of these were too good to delete completely. I don’t feel like re-categorizing these drinks, so they are all simply alphabetized.

Abby (Variant)
1.5 oz Boodles gin
1 oz Lillet Blanc
1 dash Orange bitters
1 dash Angostura bitters
Stir w/ cracked ice; strain into cocktail glass
Add lemon twist

Admiral
1.5 oz bourbon
¾ oz dry vermouth
¾ oz lemon juice
Shake w/ cracked ice; strain into cocktail glass

Affinity
1.5 oz Famous Grouse blended scotch
¾ oz sweet vermouth
¾ oz dry vermouth
1 dash Angostura bitters
Stir w/ cracked ice, serve up into cocktail glass
Add lemon twist

AJ Cocktail
1.5 oz Laird’s applejack
1.5 oz grapefruit juice
½ oz grenadine
Shake w/ cracked ice; strain into cocktail glass

Ante
1.5 oz Applejack
¾ oz Dubonnet
2 tsp Cointreau
1 dash Angostura bitters
Stir w/ cracked ice; strain into cocktail glass

Apple Blow Fizz
2 oz Bonded Laird’s applejack
½ oz lemon juice
1 small egg
1 tsp sugar
Shake without ice in Boston shaker for several minutes, adding cracked ice for final 30 seconds
Strain into old fashioned glass containing 2-3 ice cubes
Top w/ soda
Sorta tastes like cream soda.

Applejack Rabbit
1.5 oz Laird's applejack
½ oz orange juice
½ oz lemon juice
½ oz maple syrup
Shake w/ cracked ice; strain into cocktail glass

Apricot Tonic Fizz (AVW original)
1.5 oz dry gin or rye whiskey
½ oz apricot brandy
Shake w/ cracked ice; strain into
Old-fashioned glass w/ 5 ice cubes
Top w/ tonic water

Aviation
1.5 oz Boodles London dry gin
½ oz lemon juice
½ tsp maraschino liqueur
1 dash apricot brandy
Shake w/ cracked ice; strain into cocktail glass
Garnish maraschino cherry

Bacardi Special
1.5 oz Bacardi light rum
¾ oz Boodles London dry gin
3 tsp lime juice
1 tsp grenadine
1 tsp sugar
Shake w/ cracked ice, strain into cocktail glass
Add lemon twist

Bebbo Cocktail
1.5 oz Boodles London dry gin
½ oz lemon juice
½ orange juice
1 tsp honey
Stir without ice until honey dissolves
Add cracked ice and shake; strain into cocktail glass
Garnish w/ cherry

Bermuda Bouquet
1.5 oz London gin (Tanguerey)
1 oz lemon juice
¾ oz orange juice
2 tsp grenadine
2 tsp Cointreau
1 tsp apricot brandy
1 tsp simple syrup
Shake w/ cracked ice, strain into cocktail glass

Bourbon Collins (Variant)
2 oz Weller’s Reserve bourbon
1 oz lemon juice
1 tsp simple syrup
1 dash Peychaud’s bitters
Shake w/ ice, strain into chilled Collins glass filled w/ ice cubes
Fill w/ 3-4 oz club soda, garnish w/ lemon wedge

Casino
2 oz Old Tom Gin
½ oz lemon juice
3 dashes orange bitters
2 dashes Luxardo maraschino liqueur
Stir w/ cracked ice; strain into cocktail glass
Garnish w/ cherry

Ceylon
1 oz dry sherry
½ oz brandy/cognac
½ oz Noilly Pratt dry vermouth
2 tsp Cointreau
2 tsp lemon juice
Shake w/ cracked ice; strain into cocktail glass
Add light pinch cinnamon, orange twist, lemon twist
If you have sherry, make this drink!

Chapala
1.5 oz 1800 reposado tequila
½ oz orange juice
½ oz lemon juice
2 tsp grenadine
1 dash orange-flower water
Shake w/ cracked ice; strain into cocktail glass

Commodore
2 oz rye whiskey
1 oz lemon juice
2 dashes orange bitters
1 tsp simple syrup
Shake w/ cracked ice; strain into cocktail glass

Crusta
2 oz Liquor (esp. brandy/cognac)
1 oz Cointreau
1/2 oz lemon juice
½ tsp maraschino
2 dashes Angostura
Shake w/ cracked ice; strain into sugar coated white wine glass
Garnish w/ huge lemon swath around inside of rim

Deep Sea
1.5 oz Old Tom Gin
¾ oz Noilly Pratt Dry Vermouth
2 dashes orange bitters
1 dash absinthe
Stir w/ cracked ice; strain into cocktail glass
Add lemon twist

Egg Nog
Mix:
1 egg yolk
3 oz half and half
1 oz brandy
1 oz light rum
1 tbsp powdered sugar
Beat:
1 egg white
1 tbsp powdered sugar
Combine; garnish w/ nutmeg

El Presidente
1.5 oz light rum
½ oz Noilly Pratt dry vermouth
2 tsp Cointreau
½ tsp grenadine
Shake w/ cracked ice; strain into cocktail glass
Add orange twist

English Rose
2 oz London gin
¾ oz Noilly Pratt dry vermouth
2 tsp lemon juice
1 tsp Parfait Amour
1 tsp grenadine
Shake w/ cracked ice; strain into cocktail glass

Fancy #1
2 oz any liquor
2 tsp Cointreau
1 dash Peychaud’s bitters
1 dash Angostura bitters
Stir well w/ cracked ice; strain into cocktail glass
Garnish lemon twist

Fancy #2
2 oz any liquor
1 tsp Maraschino liqueur
1 dash Regan’s orange bitters
1 dash Angostura bitters
Stir well w/ cracked ice; strain into cocktail glass
Garnish lemon twist

Floradora
Build in highball glass w/ ice cubes:
1.5 oz London dry gin
¾ oz framboise
½ oz lime juice
3-4 oz ginger beer
Garnish lime slice and raspberries

Florida (Variation)
1.5 oz London dry gin
1 oz grapefruit juice
¾ oz Lillet blanc
2 tsp Campari
Shake w/ cracked ice; strain into cocktail glass
Garnish orange slice

Flying High
1.5 oz gin
1 oz orange juice
1 oz Cherry Heering
¼ oz lemon juice
1 dash Angostura
1 small egg white
Shake without ice in Boston shaker for several minutes, adding cracked ice for final 30 seconds
Strain into cocktail glass

Greenfly
2 oz Boodles London dry gin
½ oz lemon juice
½ oz Green Chartreuse
1 tsp simple syrup
Shake w/ cracked ice; strain into cocktail glass
Add orange twist

Harvard
1.5 oz brandy
½ oz sweet vermouth (Carpano Antica)
½ oz lemon juice
1 tsp grenadine
1 dash angostura
Shake w/ cracked ice; strain into cocktail glass

Hawaiian Brandy
1.5 oz Laird’s bonded applejack
½ oz pineapple juice
¼ oz lemon juice
¼ oz maraschino liqueur
Shake w/ cracked ice; strain into cocktail glass

Honeymoon
1.5 oz Laird’s applejack
½ oz lemon juice
2 tsp Cointreau
1-2 tsp Benedictine
Shake w/ cracked ice; strain into cocktail glass
I really liked this for awhile, as it tastes a bit like honey, which is surprising until you realize Benedictine has a prominent honey flavor.

HPW Variation
1.5 oz Old Tom Gin
¾ oz sweet vermouth
1 tsp Clear Creek Kirschwasser
Stir w/ cracked ice; strain into cocktail glass

Imperial
1.5 oz Boodles London dry gin
¾ oz Noilly Pratt dry vermouth
½ tsp maraschino liqueur
1 dash Angostura bitters
Stir w/ ice; strain into cocktail glass
Garnish cherry (or olive)
A good martini variation!

Income Tax
1.5 oz Boodles London dry gin
1 oz orange juice
½ oz Carpano Antica sweet vermouth
½ oz Noilly Pratt dry vermouth
2 dashes angostura bitters
Shake w/ cracked ice; strain into cocktail glass

Jack Rose
2 oz Laird's applejack
1 oz lemon juice
1¼ tsp grenadine
Shake w/ cracked ice; strain into cocktail glass

Jewel
1.5 oz Boodles London dry gin
¾ oz sweet vermouth
2 tsp green chartreuse
2 dashes orange bitters
Shake w/ cracked ice; strain into cocktail glass
Add lemon twist
Garnish w/ cherry

La Floridita Daquiri
2 oz light rum
¾ oz lime juice
1 tsp+1 dash maraschino liqueur
1 tsp powdered sugar
Shake w/ cracked ice; strain into
Old fashioned glass filled w/ crushed ice
Garnish maraschino cherry

Le Bourget
2 oz Boodles gin
½ oz lemon juice
2 tsp St. Germain
Shake w/ cracked ice; strain into cocktail glass

Linstead Variation
1.5 oz Sazerac Rye
1/2 oz lemon juice
2 tsp pineapple juice
1 dash Angostura
Shake w/ cracked ice; strain into
Absinthe rinsed cocktail glass
Add lemon twist

Mai Tai
1 oz light rum
1 oz dark rum
1/2 oz Cointreau
1/2 oz lime juice
1 tsp simple syrup
1 tsp Orgeat
Shake w/ cracked ice; strain into
cocktail glass filled w/ shaved ice
Garnish mint sprig

Manhattan
2 oz Sazerac Rye whiskey
3/4 oz Carpana Antica Sweet Vermouth
2 dashes Angostura
Stir w/ ice, serve up
Garnish with cherry (or lemon twist)

Margarita
1.5 oz 1800 Reposado tequila
3/4 oz Cointreau
3/4 oz lime juice
Shake w/ cracked ice, strain into salted cocktail glass

Mary Pickford
2 oz light rum
1 oz Pineapple juice
1 tsp Grenadine
1/2 tsp Maraschino
Shake w/ cracked ice; strain into cocktail glass
Garnish Maraschino cherry

Mint Julep
in mint julep cup:
add 1 moistened sugar cube
slightly crush 9 mint leaves
Fill with crushed ice, pack into snow cone shape
Add 4 oz bourbon
Lightly swirl glass
Refill with ice to level, mint sprig garnish

Monk’s Path
1.5 oz Old Tom’s gin
¾ oz lime juice
¾ oz orange juice
½ oz yellow Chartreuse
Shake w/ cracked ice; strain into
Absinthe rinsed cocktail glass
I cribbed this recipe from some bar in Portland, OR. I always prefer substituting green chartreuse whenever yellow is called for.

Negroni
1.5 oz London dry gin
¾ oz sweet vermouth
¾ oz Campari
Stir w/ cracked ice; strain into cocktail glass
Garnish w/ orange wheel

No Name
1 oz London dry gin
1 oz lemon juice
¾ oz Grand Marnier
¾ oz Clear Creek Kirschwasser
Shake w/ cracked ice; strain into cocktail glass
Garnish lemon twist

Orange Fizz (Variant)
1.5 oz London dry gin
1 oz orange juice
3 tsp lemon juice
2 tsp Cointreau
2 tsp orange bitters
1 moistened sugar cube
Shake w/ cracked ice; strain into
old fashioned glass w/ 3-4 ice cubes
Top w/ soda

Pago Pago
1.5 oz gold rum (Appleton Estate)
½ oz lime juice
½ oz pineapple juice
2 tsp green chartreuse
2 tsp crème de cacao
Shake w/ cracked ice, strain into cocktail glass.

Park Avenue
2 oz Boodles gin
¾ oz pineapple juice
¾ oz sweet vermouth
2 tsp Cointreau
Shake w/ cracked ice; strain into cocktail glass
(Garnish orange twist)

Pendennis Cocktail
1.5 oz Boodles gin
¾ oz lime juice
½ oz apricot brandy
2 dashes Peychaud’s bitters
Shake w/ cracked ice, serve up into cocktail glass

Pink Lady
1.5 oz dry gin
¾ oz Laird’s applejack
¾ oz lemon
1 small egg white
½ tsp grenadine
Shake without ice in Boston shaker for several minutes, adding cracked ice for final 30 seconds
Garnish with cherry

Pisco Punch Variation
1.5 oz pisco
¾ oz lemon juice (brings out pisco) OR lime juice (brings out pineapple)
¾ oz pineapple juice
Shake w/ cracked ice; strain into cocktail glass

Pompana
1.5 oz Boodles gin
1.5 oz Grapefruit juice
½ oz Noilly Pratt dry vermouth
½ tsp Regan’s Orange Bitters
Stir w/ cracked ice; strain into cocktail glass
Garnish w/ orange slice

Red Lion
1.5 oz Boodles gin
¾ oz Grand Marnier
½ oz lemon juice
½ oz orange juice
Shake w/ cracked ice; strain into cocktail glass

Reno Split
1.5 oz Weller’s Reserve bourbon
1 oz apricot brandy
2 oz pineapple juice
Build in highball glass 2/3 full of cubed ice
Stir
Add splash of soda
A great summer drink; I may have simply burned myself out on them….

Rickey
Same as buck, except sub soda for ginger beer

Rolls Royce
1.5 oz Hennessey
¾ oz orange juice
¾ oz Cointreau
Shake w/ cracked ice, serve up into cocktail glass.
Garnish orange twist
Another drink that used to be one of my favorites.

Rose #3
1.5 oz Clear Creek kirschwasser
¾ oz Noilly Pratt dry vermouth
2 tsp grenadine
Shake w/ cracked ice, serve up into cocktail glass

Roy Howard
1.5 oz Lillet Blanc
¾ oz Hennessey
¾ oz orange juice
2 tsp grenadine
Shake w/ cracked ice, serve up into cocktail glass.

Salty Dog
Salt rim of highball glass
Fill w/ ice cubes
1.5 oz vodka (or Tanguerey gin)
top grapefruit juice

Satan’s Whiskers
1½ oz London dry gin
½ oz orange juice
½ oz Grand Marnier (called Straight Satan’s Whiskers) OR ½ oz Cointreau (called Curled…)
½ oz Noilly Pratt dry vermouth
½ oz sweet vermouth
½ tsp orange bitters
Shake w/ cracked ice; strain into cocktail glass

Singapore Sling
2 oz London gin
2 oz pineapple juice
¾ oz Cherry brandy
¾ oz lime juice
2 dashes grenadine
2 tsp Benedictine
2 dash orange bitters
1 dash Angostura bitters
Shake w/ cracked ice; strain into empty old-fashioned glass
Top w/ soda
Garnish cherry, pineapple slice, orange wheel

Star
2 oz Laird’s Applejack
½ oz sweet vermouth
1 dash Regan’s orange bitters
Stir w/ cracked ice, serve up into cocktail glass.
Add lemon twist

Tom Collins
2 oz Old Tom gin
1 oz lemon juice
1 crushed sugar cube
Shake w/ ice, strain into chilled Collins glass w/ 4 ice cubes
Add 3 oz club soda, garnish w/ cherry and orange slice

20th Century
1.5 oz Boodles gin
¾ oz Lillet Blanc
¾ oz lemon juice
1 tsp Crème de cacao
Shake w/ cracked ice, serve up into cocktail glass.
Add lemon twist
An interesting drink that, when properly balanced, unravels in layers in your mouth.

Vesper
1.5 oz Boodles Gin
1 ounce vodka
½ oz Lillet Blanc
Shake w/ cracked ice, serve up into cocktail glass.
Add lemon twist
From the first James Bond novel. Again, I may have burned myself out on these.

(Unnamed Original)
1.5 oz tequila
½ oz lemon juice
½ oz grapefruit juice
1 tsp simple syrup
Build in salt-rimmed old fashioned glass
Stir w/ 3-4 ice cubes
Top w/ soda

(Unnamed Original)
1.5 oz dark rum
¾ applejack
¾ oz Grand Marnier
½ oz sweet vermouth
Stir w/ cracked ice; strain into cocktail glass

(Unnamed Original)
build over ice cubes in Old Fashioned glasss:
1.5 oz Gran Classico (sub Campari)
1.5 oz grapefruit
Top w/ soda

Camping Journal VI

2011-11-15T06:52:00.000-08:00

July 17, 2011

That’s a big stick for a little kid.

You had the whole titmouse debacle.

I think I have to be at council fire.

You’re an embarrassment at Greed.

Are you doing a little squirrel cartoon on that nut? You look so furtive.

I saw a grosbeak!

He just backed up all the way until he rammed his butt into the bench.

He also wants me to sleep on the ground so he can eat it.

Did you answer Woody’s Craigslist ad?

I felt like you just took it off the crack and set it there.

What diseases can you get from picnic benches?
Gonorrhea.

It’s a foolish thing but it makes me feel better. Like your mom.

I need a few blows into the mattress… if you know what I mean.
I have no idea.
My middle name is Subtlety.

He’s gonna be licking the butter out of his ass after he shits.

Wow, you really filled up that page.
We’re hilarious.
Apparently.

Now we’re talking about raking coals.

Woody’s nose is the one place where he doesn’t have hair. Think about that.
I did think about the areas you tend to frequent.

I’ve hear so much about the tomahawk, I wanted to see it.

We have to find something non-flammable.
Does your vagina burn?

My pants are covered in butter and bug spray.

Horsehead? Not unless I can make one out of marzipan.

Fuck it.
Yes, the sooner you realize that, the better off we’ll all be.

He’s not a blueberry picking kind of dude.

Her two dogs were licking my balls.
This is a whole new side to you.
I think they like me.
They like everyone’s balls.

I actually don’t have balls.
So what did your mom lick?

Mine was… how should I phrase this?
Raw?
No- big.

Carnivore my ass.
I don’t know- does poop count as a meat?

Apparently she made you put cayenne on your balls.
You’re another Dr. Spock.

July 18, 2011

Whiskey pours: 4:15, 5:50, 7:07, 8:25, 9:08

I’m going to put duct tape on your mom’s glow end.

I saw the lipstick on Woody- and I do need the dog.

It’s dramatic for a few minutes and then it’s over.

Jim Carrey is my gynecologist.

The sounds that eek out of his body surprise him sometimes.

You were on a thing about putting cayenne on your balls. That went on for awhile, actually.

These three days have been enough. I need flannel and heroin.

Bears scare me.

What did you eat?
One of those bl… or was it?

If I were a bug, I’d be as obnoxious tasting as possible.
I would taste like ladybugs smell.

You could be a nature documentary.

If I got poison oak on my dick, I’m not, like, using it.

I’ll shoe your shine.

The Lathe of Escher

2011-11-11T07:53:00.000-08:00

Duplicate digit days always remind me of Risa, because she was born on one of them and I called to wish her a happy birthday on the wrong one once.

For over a decade, Risa has been compiling and distributing sundry articles amongst a select group of members in a top-secret organization loosely connected to Cedar Falls, Iowa. A mailer arrived the other day, and upon skimming the contents, I came upon the transcriptions of a Camping Journal- a term coined by Risa- giving a distorted play-by-play of Brett and Andrea’s wedding reunion campout. “Oh, that’s strange,” I commented aloud, “I thought I had written a lot of that.” I then read the explanatory opening paragraph with near disbelief: I had written the bulk of that night’s Camping Journal.

My handwriting is completely illegible, and it does not improve with drinking. One morning in Maupin, Oregon, while struggling to read an entire page of my own Camping Journal scribbles from the epic night before in Dick’s backyard, I showed it to Sandy. She just laughed and shook her head. “My students have better handwriting than that.” I have been typing everything intended for others to read since my parents bought an Apple 2e clone when I was in seventh grade. Risa, however, was somehow only stumped by six words, which she scanned and included in their original form. The first four are: gun, woman, misbehavin’ and paddling; I have no clue myself what the last two are.

It suddenly occurred to me that Risa and I have remained in fairly consistent contact since we first met in Brad’s dorm room on April 27th, 1996, which is longer than anybody else I know. Therefore, it is highly probable that Risa knows me better than anybody else. This is likely how she was able to kick my ass at Risk last month, despite my having taught her everything (worthwhile anyway) she knows about the game. (Anyone who’s played a board game with my dad or I will get this joke.)

Risa’s married to this guy Chant. Chant and I met while “working” at a gas station conveniently located a couple blocks from “The Blue House,” where Risa lived at the time. Upon meeting Chant, I thought to myself, this guy is either as smart as I am or as full of shit. He dons a jaunty grin, keen eyes, stilt-like legs and flaxen hair. Perhaps he’s just a little too adorable for my tastes. He brews some fine beer, though. (I’m genuinely tempted to add LOLZ.)

One day while working together, Chant called me out for staring at a cute customer. Two years later, that cute customer and I would move to the San Francisco Bay Area together, not long after Chant and Risa had moved to Eugene, Oregon.

About a year ago, Chant and Risa asked if I’d seen some movie I’d never heard of. Chant promptly burned me a copy and, instead of writing the name of the movie, drew a picture of some devious-looking guy on it. Most people shy away from recommending movies to me, as I’m generally not shy about giving my opinion on it. If I don’t like a movie, I tend to amuse myself by talking through it ala MST3K. Anyway, I finally got around to watching the movie last night. It’s tragically titled The Lathe of Heaven (1980), so now I get why Chant opted to omit it. It is my kind of movie in so many ways- a sort of Twilight Zone meets Philip K. Dick in Portland, Oregon with a PBS budget (literally). It seems an essential link between cinematic science fiction prior to Star Wars (1977) and those that weren’t trying to be another Return of the Jedi (1983).

Chant also burned me the first season of The Wire. I plan on starting to watch that next week.

Risa has always had a crush on Arlo Guthrie. She even made me re-watch Alice’s Restaurant (1969) during our college years, and it turned out to be much better than I remembered it. I’m sure their newborn son, Escher Arlo, will be seeing it soon.

There’s a tête-à-tête in the entertainingly quotable movie Tombstone (1993) where, after the tuberculosis addled Doc Holliday, delightfully portrayed by Val Kilmer, coughs up blood and falls off his horse, Turkey Creek Jack Johnson asks, “Why are you doin’ this, Doc?” Holliday slurs, “Because Wyatt Earp is my friend.” Johnson scoffs, “Friend? Hell, I got lots of friends.” Holliday replies, “I don’t.”

Hypocritical Oath

2011-10-05T06:38:00.000-07:00

There’s not much subtle about me. Last week, a co-worker exclaimed, “I don’t understand you- you’re so blunt!”

“How can it be difficult to understand me telling you exactly what I mean?” I asked.

“I’m not used to it.”

Fair enough. In part because I disdain condescension, I find it difficult to be patronizing towards others. Similarly, because I’m an unimpressive mind-reader, I tend to speak rather directly. Unfortunately, most people are jelly-spined crybabies who would rather hear how awesome they are than the truth. I crave frankness, but it is exceedingly rare. People aren’t generally comfortable giving their genuine opinions unless it’s done anonymously or from a safe distance. I suspect this is oftentimes due to their own tacit acceptance that they don’t know what they’re talking about, which would be immediately revealed in their inability to rationally defend their stance. Of course, it could also be due to the likelihood of me disagreeing with anything and everything anybody says. Maybe others, like myself, don’t like to argue. Maybe others aren’t as confident in their ability to bullshit as I am. I am incredulous to a fault. There is a minority who know more than I initially give them credit for, but I’m not willing to assume their competence until I deem it sufficiently demonstrated.

Conversely, I often fail to understand why anybody would take anything I say to heart. Who really cares about the opinions of others? Others, apparently. I’m not suggesting I’m immune to being offended- that’d be naïve. (My mind travels to an anomalous social interaction with three musical associates during my tenure as a drummer. While playing some game with obscure words that you had to invent and guess definitions for that was far less enjoyable than reading the dictionary, the host casually commented while gesturing toward the other participants, “I think it would be awesome to start a trio with you on piano, you on drums and me on electronics. No offense, Andrew.”)

Not all that long ago, someone I didn’t immediately recognize sent me a friend request on Facebook. I eventually determined it to be a girl I knew only because we ate lunch at the same time in high school. She’d sit across the table from me and bitch incessantly about whatever we had been served. As this was the only contact I ever had with her, I found her extremely annoying. I ignored the request. Now, after realizing my hypocrisy, I feel a bit bad about that.

I’m tangentially reminded of an occurrence in high school when my bipolar girlfriend quixotically declared, “I don’t think there’s anything you could do that would make me mad.”

“That’s absurd,” I retorted. “I could piss you off right now in fifty different ways.”

“I bet you can’t.”

“How much?”

“Five bucks.”

“You know how I’ve been staying after school to work on a computer project? Really, I’ve just been staying after to hang out with Beth.”

“WHAT? IS THAT TRUE?”

“No, of course not- you owe me five bucks.” Suffice it to say she didn’t talk to me for the next two days, and I never got my five dollars.

One of the things I love most about the human experience is how we find unique ways of interacting with individuals as we become acquainted. For instance, whenever Rachel or I would go off on a tangent, the other would loudly interrupt with, “IN CONCLUSION,” which would effectively dissolve the monologue into fits of giggles.

IN CONCLUSION, I yearn to hear the frank opinions of others, although I don’t usually care what their opinion is.

Sermon

2011-09-22T17:37:00.000-07:00

Sometime while I was in high school, during which I frequented not only church but all manner of Pentecostal gatherings aimed at keeping teens sober, celibate and, most importantly, charitable, a story began circulating. I heard it three times: Not long ago, there was a science teacher at a high school who got into a debate about evolution with a Christian student… Were this story factual, not only would it have been a simple task to name the school where this occurred, but they certainly would have done so. Instead, we are led to unquestioningly believe that teachers everywhere are trying to lead Christians away from “The Truth” by not only forcing evolution upon them, but actively attacking Christianity. Reducing the debate to the historical accuracy of the Book of Genesis versus Darwinian evolution and calling it Creationism versus evolution is already a win for Christians, as doing so slyly and unjustifiably eliminates any exploration into the validity of the thousands of other creation stories found in every culture throughout history. It’s the same technique used to argue the existence of an eternal, omnipotent creator while immediately disregarding the possibility of the existence of any god or gods other than the one they envision, ironically ignorant that their description is not even found in the Bible, but is an ultimate Idyllic being proposed by the Neo-Platonists in the 3rd century AD.

The teacher insisted that the Laws of Physics will always win out over supernatural forces. To prove this point, he held up an egg… Where the hell did the science teacher suddenly get an egg? What kind of egg? These nagging questions were never addressed. However, this story always made sure to stress the dangers of knowledge. Christians despise education; it is counter to their agenda. Secular teachers are all only trying to deceive, confuse and discourage you. It is preferable to blindly assume you are right and everybody else is wrong. Research for Christians seems to consist of finding others who agree with what they already believe or, more accurately, want to believe.

”If I drop this egg,” the teacher declared, “it will fall to the ground and break every time.” “Not if God wills otherwise,” the student countered…” Anyone like myself who had grown up in the Church already anticipated one thing about the outcome of this story- the teacher wasn’t going to drop the egg. If there was one thing Jesus was an exemplar of, it was weaseling out of debates. A popular dodge in Christianity is a Scripture verse Jesus used to ignore the taunts of a demonic spirit he saw after fasting in the desert for 40 days: Thou shalt not tempt (always misconstrued as, or to mean, “test”- one of those times when people who can’t even tell you what language the statement was originally written in suddenly become experts in translation) the Lord thy God. This kind of thing makes it hard to believe that people at the time compared Jesus to Elijah, who incessantly mocked the followers of Baal while publically pitting their god to a test against his (before having them killed).

Parables are stories used to explain beliefs but disguised to make it sound like they prove them. This subterfuge was, according to The Gospels, Jesus’ favorite tactic. Seemingly every opinion can be reduced to a comparison with a wheat farmer or fisherman. It shouldn’t be all that difficult to work out that how many seeds a Roman farmer plants has nothing to do with the price of beans in China, so to speak. I suspect Jesus’ tendency to avoid answers with unnecessary explanative examples is why Christians often confuse disagreement with misunderstanding. In a supreme illustration of egocentricity, they will assume that any failure to agree with their point of view is due solely to a misunderstanding of what their point of view is. Further, they seem to insist, although not in these exact words, that, “My ignorance (somehow) acts to demonstrate God’s infinite wisdom; therefore my words will always be wanting enough that you will likely never understand that I am right and you are wrong. (Of course, if you don’t believe me, you will burn forever in hell.)” They spend a lot of time making up excuses for retaining coherency in their beliefs, and no time verifying any of them. They are not even interested enough in Jesus to peruse any of the plethora of stories about him and quotes accredited to him other than the four included in the modern Bible, and they don’t research the provenance of those, either.

”Feel free to drop the egg and see what happens,” the student challenges, “but allow me to pray first.” The teacher laughed and acquiesced… See how persecuted we poor Christians are, having to beg permission to pray in school? It is a God-given right that we should be allowed to pray (as long as these prayers are to the God of Christianity). Don’t try and confuse us by pointing out that this is circular logic. Also, don't point out that this particular debate regards compulsory faculty or peer-led religious liturgy in public schools and not the right of an individual to pray in school. We are so easily confused! ”Dear Jesus,” the child prayed, “if it be your will, let the egg not break when it is dropped. And, at the same time, let the teacher be instantly struck down dead for his disbelief…” Okay, whoa there, kid. Either he’s bluffing or he is psychotic. Either way, he should definitely be expelled for publicly announcing his wish that a teacher be killed. Presumably, if we are to adhere to the lesson of this story, even overt threats are okay as long as they’re in the name of the Christian God.

Rattled and shaking, the teacher carefully placed the egg on his desk and stutteringly began a lesson on another topic…. Christians are in deep denial regarding those that believe differently than them; assuming they must be unhappy, desperate immoral villains living in fear. Most non-Christians would unflinchingly splatter the egg.

The punctum saliens of this quaint little tale, according to everybody I heard tell it, is that people’s belief in God is actually stronger than their disbelief. Why then didn’t the kid just simply agree to have the teacher drop the egg? The teller of this transparently fictional story could have easily wrapped it up by claiming the egg bounced around the room like silly putty. Problematically, most would be hard-pressed to believe that ending. Ironic.

Nobody really follows Jesus’ teachings. His solution for how to pay taxes, for example, was to catch a fish and pull a gold coin out of its mouth. If you truly believe in the Christian God, you should try that and let me know how it goes. If you don’t try it or it doesn’t work, then you don’t believe in the divinity of Jesus- and that’s according to the canonized teachings of Jesus. But I’m sure you’re too busy smugly reading about Elijah and how he mocked the impotence of Baal….

My Favorite Things

2011-08-30T08:43:00.000-07:00

I’ve had a line from a song stuck in my head for about a week now: “If you like piña coladas….” That’s the only line I know, and since I don’t at all enjoy cloying cocktails, I have no idea why I keep singing this line. The song is a trite one about someone finding his soul mate in the classifieds by listing various they like to do, which made me start thinking about the Richard Rodgers and Oscar Hammerstein II song, My Favorite Things. I don’t really know the words to that one either. In fact, the songs I know the lyrics to are limited to a few nursery rhymes and 80’s cartoon theme songs.

Relying solely on memory, my guess was that Rodgers was employing in this song an old trick of the trade that in medieval times was used as proof that the devil is always lurking in the shadows. In any major key, if you play the same notes beginning on the sixth note in that scale, you will be playing a minor key. Musicians call this the relative minor. I imagined the song skipped along in a major tonality until the B section ("When the dog bites…"), where he deftly switched to the relative minor.

The first thing I noticed upon hearing the actual tune was that the Julie Andrews version is atrocious. Singing is eschewed in favor of acting cutesy. Thankfully, the original Mary Martin version is listenable. And, as it turns out, I was totally incorrect in my imagined assessment. The song is played in E minor, which, in part because it only has one accidental (F#), is, for lack of a better description, gentle on the ears. (I remember as a kid asking a music teacher what minor keys were and being told it was a scale of notes that sounded spooky. This is an egregiously inadequate explanation.)

The song begins only with a B and the whole first phrase uses only two other notes, E and F#. It then gradually harmonically expands these notes in a manner reminiscent of Beethoven (for example), unraveling the notes cautiously and politely in a lilting, un-syncopated waltz. Then, the contrast in the B section is done simply by imposing a slur leading into a rest on the downbeat of every other measure. Simple. He is, after all, writing a children’s song.

Less than a year after the song debuted on Broadway in The Sound of Music and long before the movie adaptation, John Coltrane used My Favorite Things as a vehicle tune to reintroduce the soprano saxophone, an instrument that had been played by Sidney Bechet, a major figure in the development of jazz at the turn of the century, but had been virtually completely neglected since. Coltrane plays the melody in an elastic 6/8 time- common in African music but almost never heard in classical Western music- over a steadily repeating piano vamp (courtesy of McCoy Tyner) channeling an Afro-Cuban tumbao part. Adding syncopation immediately renders Rodger’s B section gimmick useless, and, in fact, Coltrane never plays the B section at all. Instead, Coltrane tacks a two measure turnaround onto the A section. A “turnaround” is a device frequently employed in jazz as a means to fluidly get from the end of a melody line back to the beginning. Once in place, the turnaround enables Coltrane to loop the A section ad nauseum. Indeed, Coltrane explores the A section in depth, but when he finally breaks free from it, he performs a parallel or, more generally, a modal transformation of the song, turning it from E minor to E major!

Whereas switching from a minor key to the relative major (for example, from E minor to G major) uses the same notes starting in two different places along the scale, a parallel change from E minor to E major involve different scale notes but start in the same place. The final movements of several late Romantic era Russian compositions, such as Rachmaninoff’s Symphony #2, also explore this move from E minor to E major. Coltrane, like every innovator, had been diligently doing his homework in researching the innovators that came before.

This may all be a bit tedious to you, and if so, you will be relieved that I removed an entire section elaborating on tonal modality, but are really going to want to kick my ass when I reveal my point in mentioning all this: the manipulation of frequencies, dynamics and tempos in sounds are among my favorite things. Another of my favorite things is researching innovators.

I am often criticized for being too picky. Call me what you will, but sometimes I feel like the complaint is really that I’m too curious. We humans are wired to enjoy all things magical. Where magic doesn’t exist, we maintain it with willful ignorance. Humans become conservative in order to avoid having to come to terms with the possibility that their knowledge, experiences or beliefs are sub-par. Anthropologically, the best explanation I can guess for this condition is that a sober assessment of reality would cause suicide rates to skyrocket and procreation rates to plummet. (Perhaps that’s just a pithy circular argument, i.e. we enjoy the magical because reality sucks.) Sometimes, finding out too much about something does destroy the allure. (One example that comes to mind is meeting George Clinton.) Other times, however, as is the case with John Coltrane’s musical endeavors, further discovery can increase the appeal to the point of obsession. For me, these are the truly wonderful things in life, which is why everybody’s constant yammering about how much they like something that they know little to nothing about will continue to peeve me to no end. But, to honor the example of Coltrane’s interpretation of My Favorite Things, I am going to attempt to avoid negativity and focus on things that make me happy.

Here are a few more of my favorite things: watching baseball (biased toward San Francisco Giants), watching soccer (biased toward FC Barcelona), playing disc golf, eating Thai food, eating seafood, drinking single malt Scotch whisky, making cocktails, laughing with friends, being able to say offensive things without anyone taking offense, watching Japanese movies, tinkering with non-digital gadgets, studying military history, debunking myths, giving massages, wielding knives, getting tattooed, female orgasms, listening to cicadas and thunderstorms, campfires, playing Risk, keeping abreast of advances in physics, science fiction in general, gaining independence in skill and thought, perusing thrift stores and estate sales, Glencairn whisky glasses, being in the presence of the ocean, exercising conscious awareness of sensory information, analyzing everything and hot showers.

Midwest Vegetarian Living

2011-08-02T13:26:00.000-07:00

I became a vegetarian in January of 1995, shortly after reading an essay as part of a college ethics course that supposed if aliens came to earth who could live on human blood and/or orange juice, we would prefer for them to only drink orange juice. This is one of those Red Herring non-arguments that has nothing to do with the so-called omnivore’s dilemma (no, I haven’t read it), because were it to compare apples to apples, the aliens would have a choice of eating cow’s meat and/or drinking orange juice. No human omnivore I know condones anyone, including aliens, drinking human blood. Regardless, that essay encouraged me to start reading up on the meat industry, and I stopped eating meat while educating myself.

As it turns out, the American mass meat industry is vile.

More interesting though, is the consistent responses you get from culturally ignorant meat eaters (Iowans) upon hearing of your vegetarianism. The most frequent first question is, “Where do you get your protein?” For starters, even that stupid food pyramid these people learned growing up recommends almost the same amount of meat as candy be consumed on a daily basis. How much protein do they think one needs? More offensive, they are actually implying their diet, which likely consists largely of fried food and hamburgers, is more nutritious than mine. I frankly don’t even know where to begin to respond to that amount of ignorance. Where do they get their vitamins and minerals? They seem completely oblivious to the fact that the typical American Bible-thumper diet is the most unhealthy one on the planet while other countries or religions with a largely meat-free diet are the healthiest. Finally, as it turns out, virtually everything contains some protein. I can immediately list all kinds of places I regularly get high doses of protein: pinto (often refried) beans, black-eyed peas, chick peas (hummus), lentils (Oh, the days when I could get good Ethiopian food!), almonds, cashews, peanuts (peanut butter), spinach, wheat flour, rice, eggs, edamame… speaking of which, I think it’s pretty awesome not only that people in Iowa don’t know what edamame is, but that you can’t find it in the grocery stores here. They’re immature soybeans, dipshits. Yeah, that stuff that’s growing acre upon acre all around you. Which leads to the second most common first response in understanding vegetarians: “What do you eat, then- tofu?”

Trust me, these people have no clue what tofu is. (It’s soybeans that have been mashed, strained and curdled.) Yes, I do eat tofu. But I think it’s hilarious that the only alternative they can conceive to eating meat is eating a meat substitute. Try looking for food in places other than the meat aisle; I think you’ll see a few options. One of the most bizarre questions I get seasonally is, “What are you going to eat for Thanksgiving?” Um, everything except the turkey, the stuffing that you shoved up the turkey’s ass and the gravy made from mystery turkey liquids and parts- and everything you assholes insisted upon unnecessarily throwing bacon into. Of all the places to worry about finding something to eat, the Thanksgiving table lands near the bottom. No, I am not eating a Tofurkey- they are fucking disgusting.

For some reason, many people assume vegetarians do not care about the taste of food. Somehow, they are under the impression that all foods other than meat are bland and/or gross. I suppose you would get that idea if you surrounded your meat with white bread, American processed “cheese-like” food and iceburg lettuce- all of which are among the blandest foods on the planet- and drowned it in ketchup and yellow mustard, which are absolutely horrid. Good job on having four different preparations of potatoes as your side dish options: baked, mashed, fried or cut super thin then fried. Bland, bland, salt and salt. (Potatoes and potato products are alright; I’m demonstrating the mundanity in typical Midwestern diets while using a little hyperbole.) I am fond of dozens of herbs and seasonings in addition to salt. I love what Iowans would call spicy food. I call it flavorful. I tend to keep several varieties of chili peppers on hand. Also, what is all this dried, canned or frozen shit that everybody is buying? Most of that crap has had the flavor sucked and zapped out of it. Those frozen TV dinner things that they don’t call TV dinners anymore are appalling. Meanwhile, there are farmer’s markets all over the place in Iowa all summer long full of locally grown, seasonal and fresh produce and herbs. Texture-wise, Portobello mushrooms and well-prepared eggplant are not only extraordinarily delicious, but what you’d call meaty.

The one meat substitute on the market I do very much enjoy is called Soyrizo. It works great in red pasta sauces and tacos. I was very excited and relieved to find Soyrizo in Iowa (after having no luck procuring it in Alabama), but recently the chain nearest me began stocking a competitor’s brand of a similar looking product instead. I tried it and it is not nearly as good, so I complained. The guy said they were trying that brand to see how it would sell. “Well, why couldn’t you keep both brands in stock?” I asked. He looked at me like I was crazy. Why the hell would vegetarians need options, he seemed to be thinking. Meanwhile, that store has 20 brands of the same flavor of soda to choose from. Okay, excuse me- it’s called “pop” here.

The third comment I get is, “Ooh, you have to be careful- I knew this so-and-so who tried being a vegetarian and got really sick.” I don’t know- maybe you only know idiots. Birds of a feather…. I have now been a vegetarian for over 15 years, and can tell you truthfully I am the healthiest person I have ever met. Other’s “concerns” are generally thinly disguised scare-tactics and excuses. I listen to my body, and sometimes I will find myself craving peanut butter or something like that. Really, my biggest concern is to not get dehydrated, but I don’t know if that has anything to do with being a vegetarian. I drink a lot of liquids. I don’t really care for most sweets, desserts or other sugary foods that are rampant in American cuisine (what is the deal with sugar-laced cereals for breakfast?!), but have concluded that sugar cravings are a sign of dehydration. I have found myself a bit anemic at times, which is no different from when I did eat meat. Kidney and pinto beans, beets, curry (which is perhaps my favorite thing), spinach, collards, sauerkraut, molasses, walnuts, almonds, asparagus and I think broccoli (which I’m not particularly a huge fan of) are great sources of iron. The best meat sources of iron are oysters, clams and beef liver, and all of those can be highly toxic. One thing I do is maintain a high intake of vitamin C, which aids the body in absorbing many minerals, including iron, and builds the immune system. I consume vast amounts of citrus juices, occasionally with alcohol which, incidentally, also helps the body absorb iron. I don’t take any vitamin or mineral supplements, and sort of think they are bullshit, but did used to take vitamin C supplements to prevent nosebleeds (which I frequently got in high school while a meat eater) and still do if I’m feeling the signs of oncoming illness, which for me is almost always a sore throat. (Excess vitamin C gets peed out anyway, so there’s no reason to be choking down 500 ml a day.) While it is commonly claimed that vegans are at risk of vitamin B12 deficiency, this does not apply to me as I consume eggs on a regular basis. This is a heavily exaggerated risk even for vegans, as humans only need trace amounts of vitamin B12 and it is stored in the body for long periods of time. (In contrast to vegetarians, I have met a few unhealthy, not to mention neurotic, vegans.)

Dairy products are the most obvious source of calcium, but it is also abundant in most foods also rich in iron as well as oranges, and is otherwise not that good for you. Contrary to popular belief, vitamin D is not found naturally occurring in dairy; it comes from egg yolks and the sun. (The United States dairy lobby is HUGE.) Many children and some adults are allergic to the proteins or lactose in grazing mammals’ milk. I think cow’s milk is ghastly to drink straight out of the carton, and only use it for some cooking recipes, especially soups. I prefer almond quote-unquote milk. Actually, I tend to use heavy cream instead of milk for cooking, because then I can also use it to make Ramos Fizzes (another topic…). I also don’t personally like the taste of most of those milk derivative dairy products, such as yogurt, cottage cheese, sour cream, etc. Yuck. I am a big fan of butter, and I love cheese! Soft cheeses like brie and feta, stinky cheeses like camembert and stilton, semi-hard cheeses like cheddar and swiss, chevre aka goat cheeses and hard cheeses like asiago are all a fairly regular part of my diet. These are not nutritious, however, and I have to be careful not too consume too much cheese.

I do infrequently eat meat, especially raw seafood and fish aka sashimi (not so much an issue in Iowa, where, in case you hadn't noticed, there is no fresh seafood), perhaps twice a year, which brings up two concerns others are quick to emote. First, I have never gotten sick from eating meat after having been a vegetarian. I hear this a lot, especially from vegetarians who refuse to ever eat meat because they insist it makes them violently sick. If it does, it’s most likely either a paranoia induced self-fulfilling prophecy or they decided to eat meat after drinking a case of beer and it’s an obvious misdiagnosis. Also, vegetarianism does not need to be treated like some damned religion. Once, while eating out with someone I’d been with for nearly a year, I accidentally ordered a dish at a restaurant with scallops, not knowing what they were, and, instead of unnecessarily and embarrassingly freaking out at the waiter like the immature brat next to me, I simply ate it. Even though this was the first meat I’d eaten in some years, my date, a regular meat eater, immediately declared, “You’re not a vegetarian.” Whatever; my lifestyle is not the source of our planet’s environmental concerns. (My two fish a year are not endangering the ocean’s food supply.) When I am a guest at someone’s house and they serve me meat, I will often try some. It’s preferable to show respect and demonstrate humble gratitude instead of being one of those pompous, judgmental asshole vegetarians shoving their dogmas down other’s throats.

Another comment that is either too clever or too idiotic for most Iowans, but I have gotten from some new age neo-hippies goes, “You have to kill root vegetables before eating them, too. How’s that more acceptable than killing an animal?” Actually, this is sort of a take on that ethics class example. The best response to this would be to hand that person a live chicken and a potted beet and ask them to demonstrate their belief that killing a chicken is the same as killing a beet. If they bow out with, “I wouldn’t kill either one,” announce, “Okay, let me demonstrate,” and see which one they protect first. It irritates me how few meat eaters have ever killed the animals they’ve eaten, or would actually kill what they eat. It strikes me as hypocritical and cowardice; like hiring a hit man.

I have no problem with people raising and eating animals in a self-sustaining, environmentally aware and humane way. However, killing for sport is about as fucked up as you can get. It should be obvious that it’s a bad idea to encourage or exercise the idea that killing is fun. People that are willing to kill animals creep me out, but, especially since we’ve killed off most natural predators other than ourselves, I understand they do play a necessary role in our world. As do terrorists.

Common Sense And Other Tales

2011-07-26T13:57:00.000-07:00

During my first overnight camping trip, at the age of four, my dad taught me how to make an archery bow out of a green sapling and nylon string. At five, I could tie several knots and differentiate between tinder, kindling and fuel. Peter appeared when I was eight or so, and by then I could pitch a tent, wield an axe, lash a fence, rig a fishing pole, fire a black powder rifle and properly sharpen a knife.

“Peter just has no common sense,” my dad would say, shaking his head. Dad led our church’s all-male scouting group, which met every Wednesday evening. We drove 40 miles each way to these meetings for several years, as we did to two services every Sunday, during the time when Pastor Steve led the church in Webster City. For a period we picked up Peter along the way. This guy had a knack for breaking everything. To this day, you can’t go on a camping trip with my family and ask, “Who broke this?” without the inevitable reply- “Peter.”

As an example, while setting up tents at the beginning of one camping trip, Peter asked if he could help. “Sure,” my dad said, “Grab one of those tomahawks and hammer in those tent pegs.” Yes, we did have several tomahawks lying around. Oh, does that seem weird to you? Also, our tent pegs were railroad spikes. Anyway, Peter took a hack at driving in a railroad spike using the sharp end of the throwing hatchet instead of the butt-end, leaving a remarkable chip in the blade.

Peter was several years older than me; closer to my brother’s age. My brother knew algebra. Peter did not know left from right. I began to wonder what common sense was and why Peter didn’t have it. Dad began taking some extra time to thoroughly explain things to Peter. I asked why Peter’s own dad didn’t teach him these things, and my dad explained that some kids don’t have responsible or attentive dads and others didn’t have dads at all. It occurred to me that common sense was something akin to things your parents are supposed to teach you.

My first pocket knife had raccoons etched on the blade. When I showed it to Peter, he couldn’t figure out how to work the locking mechanism that keeps the blade from slipping shut. After demonstrating how it worked, he promptly closed it on himself and cut a finger. I quickly fetched a band-aid, hoping I wasn’t going to get in trouble for being in part responsible for the mishap, and watched wide-eyed as Peter futilely tried to figure out how to apply the bandage. I eventually had to adhere it myself. Peter had no common sense.

Dad had given me this knife during a strange fishing trip a few years prior. We attended a much closer church in Fort Dodge then, and it was evenly divided into the older teenage kids- Sean, Jay, Troy and my brother, and the younger grade school kids- Stevie, Trent, Jeremy and myself. Honestly, the other kids were a bunch of hoodlums. Fort Dodge was a poor and rough-and-tumble town. My dad was in charge of the older kids and Jeremy’s dad was in charge of the younger kids. Jeremy’s dad taught us the scouting group's Code and the definitions of some of the strange words it contained, including “loyal,” “courteous” and “obedient.” I specifically recall him defining loyal as, “You know, being loyal to someone or something,” which I realized was no explanation whatsoever. I wondered if he knew what it meant.

On the day I received the knife, we went fishing near a spillway in Fort Dodge, and were given strict instructions to be very careful around the dam- no getting near the water, no running and no climbing or crossing the protective barriers. Before long, us younger kids had gotten bored with fishing and were running, climbing and shoving each other on top of the spillway.

Suddenly, we noticed a commotion below where the big kids still were, and Jeremy’s dad seemed to be attending to my dad, who was holding his back. Without knowing what was going on, I decided I’d better start following instructions and stopped horsing around with the other kids. Shortly thereafter, one of them slid down the spillway and probably would have drowned if my dad hadn’t gone in after him and fetched him out of the water. (I honestly don’t remember which kid it was, but for easier readability later on, I’m going to suppose it was Trent.) After that, it was time to leave, and as we packed things up dad gave me the raccoon-laden pocket knife with strict instructions as to its proper usage, and I considered this my reward for being relatively obedient.

The scouting group meetings generally consisted of a morality lesson and a fun activity. One activity was ring-toss, which consisted of attempting to throw wooden shower curtain rings around the neck of one of a cluster of soda bottles. The reward for accomplishing this feat was the bottle itself, but since I didn’t particularly care for soda, I found the game a bit tedious. One day while this activity was taking place, Peter revealed a box, and inside was a set of handcuffs replete with key. These things were pretty much the coolest thing I had ever seen.

Peter said they belonged to his dad, who was a cop. By this time I had determined that Peter didn’t have a father, because of the common sense thing, so this bombshell surprised me. However, Stevie’s dad at that other church was a cop, too, and Stevie was the worst behaving kid of the bunch. So it seemed even police officers could be bad fathers. After that, I’d continually ask Peter to bring the handcuffs again, but he never did. Also, his stories pertaining to his father’s occupation and whereabouts was in constant flux, so I began to suspect he was inventing him like Dill in To Kill a Mockingbird.

On one camping trip, while a few of us were milling around in our tent, separate from the adults, the taboo topic of girls came up. “What would you do if a girl drove into the campgrounds right now?”

“I don’t know,” I answered, uninterested. It seemed a stupid premise. Girls weren’t allowed on these camping trips. Anyway, I had a sister who wasn’t particularly mysterious, so I was simply glad for the respite from one being around.

Peter, however, went into a monologue: “First, I’d bring her back into this tent and close the flap. And zip up all the windows. Then, I’d slowly unbutton her blouse, starting at the top and working my way down…”

“Why would you want to do that?” I interrupted. Peter gave me an indecipherable look. I didn’t know whether it meant my question was stupid or that he didn’t actually know the answer, either. I never got the chance to find out, as Little Steve, the pastor’s kid, quickly put an abrupt end to the conversation.
After pondering this awkward moment, I concluded that this was another example of Peter’s lack of parental guidance. Otherwise he would have known better than to have inappropriate fantasies about girls.

On another occasion, my dad returned home late, and mentioned it was because he had been visiting a kid in prison. It was a kid from the Fort Dodge church’s scouting group way back when who I didn’t immediately remember, but eventually recognized as the infrequent member who had once shown me how to construct an effective paper airplane. How could someone smart enough to know that be in jail? “I think his dad had a drinking problem and might have been abusive,” my dad explained. “Do you remember- we visited his house once to try and help and I even reported his situation to social services, but they didn’t do anything.” I vaguely remembered. “He was the one who threw the knife at me.”

“What?!” This was certainly news to me.

“It was on that same fishing trip when Trent fell in the spillway. At the previous meeting we had done an activity and as a prize I had given him a pocket knife with raccoons on the blade- I think you have it now. Anyway, I think his dad must have found him with it and he’d gotten in trouble for it, because the next week during that fishing trip he drove up, got out of the car and threw the knife at me while I was sitting at a picnic table and it hit me square in the back. Luckily, it had rotated so the point of the handle hit me even though the blade was out but he still threw it hard enough that it really hurt. At first, I thought I’d been shot.”

“That’s not why he’s in jail, is it?”

“Oh no, I figured he had enough problems. I guess I was right.”

Why would my dad now be going out of his way to visit an incarcerated person who had once tried to kill him? It defied common sense, unless I was to stick with my original interpretation of the term.

I find an exploration of the term “common sense” yields more questions than answers. I assume the idea is a derivative of the Jungian concept of the collective unconscious, which I, as a subjective individual, can only see as a load of hooey. I don’t believe I can remember things that didn’t happen to me. Will a bird raised in isolation still fly south for the winter without being introduced to a migrating flock? Hell if I know; nor do I consider the question germane. Instincts are distinctly separate to memory, as the former are things done without a previous sensory influence.

I have no idea how accurate or precise my memories are, nor am I able to perceive to what degree they have been altered, influenced or changed over time. Are my remembrances more or less influential than the actual experiences I’ve had, many of which are totally irretrievable to my consciousness? I don’t know the answer to that question, either.

My friend Eric is fond of postulating, “Can you think it if you can’t say it?” It is a clever question in part because the quest for the answer requires both intense examination and detailed articulation. In the end, I’m of the opinion that the impression that it often takes years to properly explain things that have been known all along point toward the reality that we can’t say much of what we think. An example is the person who can provide the answer to a math problem but is incapable of “showing his work,” or demonstrating the method used to come to that solution. However, even if it is in fact correct, one cannot trust the conclusion without demonstrating a fully coherent process of obtaining it. It would be unjustifiable to place any validity in unexplainable beliefs.

Does an unsolved mathematical equation have a solution? The best answer we can give is simply to try and solve it. Yet, I firmly believe that questions without answers exist in abundance. One seemingly useless thing to do is simply assume an answer and then assume that answer is the correct answer.

At least one impossible question is immediately posited here: If the blade of that knife had found its mark, who would have saved Trent from drowning?” There are no answers to purely hypothetical questions with no applicable predetermined rules. There is no point it wondering, “What if….” Life is what it is, which is to some degree separate from how we remember it to be, unless we are to argue life doesn’t exist at all, but is a figment of our own imaginations. That assumption must be rejected on the grounds that it forces us into an egocentric existence where nobody else matters. Because it cannot be demonstrated otherwise, we must assume the consciousness of the other is as relevant as our own. (I am making an argument that can align itself with Pascal’s wager here: it would be a lesser transgression to assume equality and be wrong than it would to assume inequality and be wrong.)

I often find my mind returning to moments in life that found me bewildered. Many of these seem to pertain to juxtapositions between the world those who raised us intended us to see, and the world as it reveals itself despite them. I am reminded of another scene from To Kill A Mockingbird, when Atticus says, “There's a lot of ugly things in this world, son. I wish I could keep 'em all away from you. That's never possible.” As illustrated in Plato’s allegory of the cave, refusing to question the validity of how we immediately see things is detrimental to our growth.

In the years since Peter, I’ve come to the conclusion that when people say, “It’s common sense,” what they mean is they are incapable of effectively explaining their reasoning, likely because the logic is dubious, so they will instead refuse to answer on the unfounded grounds that the question is stupid. I see no evidence that common sense exists at all, but that some of us are better inclined towards finding reasonable and effective solutions than others.

How To Fall In Love Without Really Trying

2011-07-20T06:37:00.000-07:00

Part One
When I arrived in Iowa, I had gone almost a decade without watching television. Overwhelmed by the hundreds of programs offered on my brother’s gigantic flatscreen, I spent the first several weeks catching myself up to date while looking for work. As nearly everything on television is constantly being rerun, this wasn’t particularly difficult. One day, while flipping through channels, I paused at some program about guys who have romantic relationships with life-sized dolls. At first I thought it was a documentary Janine had recommended, but then I became curious whether the people on it resembled the character played by the satisfyingly ceaselessly creepy Dennis Hopper in the cult classic movie River’s Edge (1986), starring Crispin Glover (in a hilariously quotable performance), Keanu Reeves and Ione Skye. I really, really enjoy this movie, despite the fact the director seems to have had little clue as to what to do with what he potentially had.

One interviewee in this television program explained that he dates dolls because he doesn’t know how to meet real women. Maybe your conversation ice-breaker needs work, I snickered to myself.

One trait I possess but have never been able to fully explain is that, as an anonymous person in a group of people, I am completely uninteresting. I was always the last kid picked for the elementary recess football team, despite the fact that I wasn’t really too bad. Whenever I go to any gathering with a group of male friends, I watch in the background while girls swoon over everyone in my group except me.

However, and this is a big but, if I am able to finagle myself into a one-on-one conversation in a setting relatively free of distractions, I become a bit of a babe magnet, as long as the girl can get (past) my rather tasteless and often punny sense of humor. Other prerequisites include the avoidance of small-talk, which I can never pull off, and someone who finds cockiness and clumsiness attractive when paired.

Perhaps the lynchpin to this contrast in dating success lies in my rather entrancing baby blue eyes, which I can use to full effect only when I capture someone long enough to lock gazes. I tend to not make eye contact with people I have no interest in; it can cause unwanted attention/confusion. (I fully realize these are ridiculous statements to be making of oneself, but my friends with vouch for me that it’s true: my eyes are magic.)

I had pondered the doll fetish guy’s concern long enough that the next time someone whined, “I don’t know how to meet women,” I’d prepared a rather brilliant (I say so myself) response: “I’ll tell you how to meet them if you tell me how to avoid them.”

My eyes get me in trouble sometimes. One nuisance is I have a rather strong weakness for pretty girls. On another television show, one that I actually enjoy, called Iron Chef America, there’s often a curmudgeonly judge named Jeffrey Steingarten, and in one episode he rudely says to the lubricious Jeri Ryan aka Seven of Nine, “It’s no accident that beautiful women have bad personalities- they think they can get away with anything.” It’s a fact, Jack.

Right after my last relationship ended in misery, females were invisible. I had no interest and no sex drive for perhaps the first time since puberty. This was a very nice state to be in, actually, as it greatly tapered distractions. Then one morning about five months after the fiasco, a woman got onto the bus, and as she turned and bent slightly to put her ticket into the machine, I found myself thinking, holy crap that is a fine ass. Uh, oh. Fortunately, she didn’t sit close enough to make eye contact.

I determined that my next tattoo would be an anatomical heart inside of a birdcage on my ribcage, the most painful area I’ve had inked, to remind myself not to let another girl run recklessly off with my easily-seduced and gullible self. It would also bring to mind Molly, who hearts hearts and is my closest female friend with whom I remained prudently platonic.

Part Two
A few months more solidly on my feet, a co-worker asked whether Carolyn and I had met. “I’ve seen her around,” I deadpanned. Carolyn laughed. I instantly wanted to make her laugh more. Too bad she’s so cute, otherwise she might be fun to converse with, I thought. With the exception of her finely contoured backside, I hadn’t looked at her yet.

When we did get around to striking up a conversation, my tat plans somehow came up. The next time I saw her, she stated, “I’ve been thinking about your tattoo idea- the imagery seems pretty intense.” I heard, “I’ve been thinking about you….”

I decided to find out what this chick was about, which I was obliged to wait a week to do as we work together only on Sundays. In the meantime, that other co-worker mentioned Carolyn was my age. (I can’t discern ages at all.) Noon on Sunday arrived. Carolyn mentioned robots. I heart robots. I mentioned Fast, Cheap and Out of Control. She admitted, “I started watching that but fell asleep. I’ve just been watching a lot of fluff lately, like Dr. Who.”

This is somewhat akin to mentioning to an 80’s era Bulls fan that you’re closely related to Michael Jordan. We’re talking Times Square ball-drop. In fact, I once jokingly declared I model my life after The Doctor to an ex who’d never heard of the show, but months later read aloud a sentence from a book which described it as a “children’s television program,” to which I responded, “That’s harsh.”

It goes without saying that I went into a diatribe about the second (and best!) Doctor (played by Patrick Troughton) and attempted to score some easy bonus points by explaining how the female sidekicks were much stronger characters before Tom Baker, the fourth Doctor, started complaining of being upstaged.

We moved onto hobbies. “Lately, I’ve been trying to learn to skateboard.” Okay, timeout. Molly and I once had a stalemate discussion about which was hotter, girls who skateboard or girls who play bass guitar.

Carolyn and I share an affinity for direct communication, juvenile humor, the absurd and macabre. We both read obituaries, appreciate wandering aimlessly through cemeteries, shop almost exclusively at Goodwill, enjoy science fiction and find children unnerving. We like chess and can’t stand Scrabble. We are bi-centennial babies (and therefore Dragons), which comes in handy when swapping memories as we experienced each year at the same time. When I casually mentioned I would love to study Kendo, she exclaimed, “Swordfighting? Me, too!”

“Too bad our interactions are limited to Sundays during work. We should meet up in another setting sometime. Like dinner, or something?”

“That would be great,” she responded, “but I have dietary restrictions in that I’m a vegetarian.”

“So am I.” I tried not to sound shocked. This is happening in the middle of nowhere, Iowa.

Leaning into the counter which separated our areas of work, my oceanic orbs drank deeply into a pair of bottled whisky worlds. It occurred to me that we were the same height. “Let me get your number and we’ll figure out a time to do something,” I suggested.

“Do you have severed heads in your freezer?” she replied.

“I shrink them so they can be displayed chronologically on my mantle.” My attempt at humor fell flat.

“There’s an Indian restaurant in Hiawatha.” It gets better. “Do you like the X-Men?” It gets better.

After the dinner and movie, my brother asked how it went. I shrugged, “First dates are easy; it’s two years from now that’s the tricky part.” I then instantly bombarded her email box with a series of mistakes and personality traits from previous experiences I intended to avoid henceforth. I realized this might be received as absurd after one date, but my fears were assuaged when she replied not only with answers but a longer list of her concerns. Our sense of ethics, desires and expectations were not just compatible; they were virtually identical.

For our second outing, we played a leisurely game of disc golf on an overcrowded course in Coralville. When Carolyn headed toward the wrong tee early on, I intoned, “Don’t go that way! Never go that way!” in my poor impersonation of a blue-haired worm with a British accent. Our conversation quickly and excitedly turned to all manner of things pertaining to The Labyrinth (1986), but mostly David Bowie and Terry Jones.

By the fifth hole, where the basket lies directly beyond a steep slope, play had bottlenecked. When our turn came, a small crowd had gathered on a little ridge behind us. As I approached the concrete platform, I was remembering that last time I played this course, during which this drive had flown directly into a tree on the right and rolled down the hill before resting under a log just in front of where people were now watching expectantly. (The difficulty in this particular throw lies in that, if you don’t throw the disc steep enough, it won’t clear the incline, but if you throw it too steep, it will tend to fall short and also curve too far to the left. My previous mistake was most likely a result of anticipating I’d error by throwing too steep and attempting to compensate by throwing the disc too far to the right.)

As I positioned my feet for the throw, a voice behind me demanded, “Andrew- don’t fuck it up.”

I glanced back to spy her mischievous grin and responded, “With a crowd, too. Under pressure!” I thought of something and smiled back. “I won’t,” I added, then broke into the Bowie/Queen collaborative bass line famously copped by Vanilla Ice. My drive neatly cleared the incline and landed a few feet in front of the hole.

Based on my dating track record, it would be fair to be skeptical that this relationship will fair better, but after all the dealings with women I’ve had over the past 15+ years, I consider myself something of an expert in the process. Being with Carolyn is both comfortable and engaging, and she has demonstrated herself to be reliable and trustworthy. I already look forward to the tricky part….

I Will Survive

2011-07-09T16:25:00.000-07:00

At first I was afraid- I was petrified! Kept thinking I could never live without you by my side… but then I spent so many nights thinking how you did me wrong and I grew strong… and I learned how to get along. And so you're back from outer space- I just walked in to find you here with that sad look upon your face. I should have changed that stupid lock, I should have made you leave your key, if I had known for just one second you'd be back to bother me.

Go on now- Go! Walk out the door. Just turn around now, 'cause you're not welcome anymore. Weren't you the one who tried to hurt me with goodbye? Did you think I'd crumble? Did you think I'd lay (sic) down and die? Oh no, not I! I will survive! Oh, as long as I know how to love I know I’ll stay alive. I've got all my life to live and I've got all my love to give and I'll survive. I will survive! Hey, hey….

It took all the strength I had not to fall apart, just trying hard to mend the pieces of my broken heart, and I spent oh, so many nights just feeling sorry for myself. I used to cry, but now I hold my head up high and you see me, somebody new! I'm not that chained up little person still in love with you. And so you felt like dropping in and just expect me to be free? Well, now I'm saving all my loving for someone who's loving me.

Go on now- Go! Walk out the door. Just turn around now, 'cause you're not welcome anymore. Weren't you the one who tried to break me with goodbye? Did you think I'd crumble? Did you think I'd lay (sic) down and die? Oh no, not I! I will survive! Oh, as long as I know how to love I know I’ll stay alive. I've got all my life to live and I've got all my love to give and I'll survive. I will survive! Oh…!

-Gloria Gaynor

Unused Drafts

2011-06-29T15:24:00.000-07:00

Between one-third and a half of everything I write for this blog never gets posted. Some drafts are simply unfocused rants, but other writings don’t make the cut because they become too personal. It doesn’t take a psychologist to realize my writing is obsessed with psychological evaluations of myself and those around me.

When I graduated from high school, I had no idea what I wanted out of life or what to expect of it. What I did know even then was that I wasn’t going to live life on anybody else’s terms. It would have never occurred to me to not go to college, but it is curious that I initially chose psychology as my major. The only class I liked in high school was history, but even at 16 I understood there was no such thing as a job liking history.

I was an optimistic teen, and believed I had a lot of wisdom to offer. I tend to consider I’ve changed drastically since then, but perhaps I’m the same person except after having ridden something of a rollercoaster nonstop for 20 years. So maybe I’m the same person only nauseous.

I have a bad habit of complaining a lot. Listening to anyone complain is exhausting. In my case it’s especially ridiculous, because my life is and generally has been wonderful. I have an instinctual urge to punch the faces of religious fanatics that constantly insist upon every occasion and circumstance, “my life is truly blessed,” but unlike those delusional hypocrites, my life is truly blessed.

It would be an understatement to point out that I am a passionate individual. I get really excited about things that excite me. The rest, whether bogus, inferior or plebeian, is irksome. I tend to speak and act rather extremely, and don’t have much patience for irrelevant niceties. The thing I am most passionate about is uncovering misconceptions, assumptions and lies, and this tends to insult those who insist on standing firm in theirs. I happen to be a compulsive thinker and researcher with a keen sense of logic, while most others tend to believe whatever makes them comfortable. Comforts often annoy me. People who insist on having them at all times unfailingly infuriate me.

While writing this blog, I spend a lot of time editing out subtle digs aimed at people I disdain who don’t even read this thing. I leave a few in just for good measure, but for the most part negative energy is wasted energy as it is not constructive. I never forget those who have been kind to me. Unfortunately, I also don’t tend to forget times when I’ve been disrespected, and so I must be diligent in reminding myself that there is little to be gained from wishing ill of others. I think the idea that karma exists is absurd, as it is but one of many examples of humans blindly insisting that what they hope is true actually is. It is as easy to find the rationale to justify any belief as it is difficult to entertain the probability that your beliefs are unfounded.

In writing this self-absorbed blog, I’ve had to learn to write as if I’m sharing all kinds of secrets while leaving out telling details that are really nobody’s business. Also, truth is sometimes grayed in favor of humor or cunning. As part of an intended jeer written in a recent unused draft, I observed: “The main skill in writing is demonstrating how crafty one can be at subterfuge.” Perhaps the greatest gift in writing is the opportunity it provides to inspire. This is precisely why the most inspiring people are the biggest liars.

Expectations

2011-06-20T10:36:00.000-07:00

I remember plenty of random occurrences. One of them was a late spring day in high school. I noticed the grass was getting tall and mowed it. The front yard AND the backyard, as I proudly and quickly pointed out to my dad after he got home from work. “Okay, that’s great,” he said. “You know,” he added after a pause, “you shouldn’t really expect to be praised for doing what’s expected of you.” That is a life truth I’ve held onto since.

One of Jesus’ teachings according to the New Testament is that humans were created unequally, and those who have been gifted with more (presumably intelligence, skill, wealth, beauty, etc.) are expected to accomplish, produce or deliver more (presumably guidance, succor, philanthropy, chastity, etc.). Jesus’ convictions are overrated, to state it mildly.

According to Genesis in the Old Testament, toil was created as punishment after humans gained independence by learning the difference between right and wrong. The transgression was that this was achieved by disobeying a direct order and trusting a creature other than God. The irony is that God had lied, telling Adam and Eve the fruit of the tree would bring not discernment but death, while the other creature had revealed the truth.

While the man made from dust and the woman made from a rib made from dust did in fact not die as a direct result of eating the fruit, God later on placed an angel with a flaming sword to prevent the couple from eating from another tree which presumably would have granted them eternal life, which he possibly hadn’t even told them about, but the need for its existence in the first place demonstrates that Adam and Eve were never immortal. Some 930 years later, Adam died, and while the exact cause of death is unstated, it was the same year as a physically impossible yet reportedly extremely disastrous flood. When Eve died was not considered noteworthy. No jury ever compiled would ever find that snake responsible for murder, or any other crime for that matter.

Honestly, I don’t know how anybody can read Genesis and then take any of the rest of the Bible seriously. I suppose that’s why most people skim over most of it as well as the rest of the Pentateuch.

The point of the lesson is that we (Jews, really) are expected to obey the one-and-only, unnamable, unstoppable, vitriolic God no matter what. The reality of the lesson is what the big G says is not all that trustworthy. I’d expect more from a being of God’s magnitude. He’ll get no praise from me. There’s no reason God should be expecting it anyhow.

The Confidence Paradox

2011-06-06T12:44:00.000-07:00

While explaining the requirements of my next job during an unofficial exit interview with my immediate work superior a few weeks ago, I became keenly aware of her persistence and resolve in declaring, “I can’t.” Of course we all have limitations, but I’m generally opposed to imposing them untested upon oneself. Eventually I responded to yet another "I can't" with, “I guess the difference (between you and me) is that I can.”

I was suddenly confronted by my own hypocrisy. For years I have held onto the Existentialist concept that who we are is indefinable, because of utmost significance in our lives is what we are doing. I’ve long believed that defining oneself is necessarily a limitation that inaccurately denies potential. However regardless of its accuracy, mightn’t it be beneficially self-fulfilling to define oneself as having progressive traits, such as competence? Even defining oneself as indefinable is a definition that influences behavior. In fact, defining oneself as indefinable may well act as encouragement to behave unpredictably and an essential precursor to trying new things. Without trying new things, one becomes increasingly easy to define. Obituaries enthrall me.

That said; I am also very opposed to everyone following their so-called dreams- a direct result of my fascination with serial killers. Some people have pretty fucked up motivations, and perhaps not everyone should be happy. For years I’ve wondered why I pursued a psychology degree post high school, but besides thinking I had all the answers, I was really into reading books about murderous nut jobs back then. I firmly believe that as living beings, we are obliged to treat other living beings with respect, because as a living being, I believe I am worthy of being respected. I don’t trust the choices or opinions of those who don’t strive foremost to maintain this moral imperative. I have at times neglected to do so myself, and the results have been regrettable.

I was leaving this aforementioned job, which I had suffered through for four or five months, after it had become apparent the employment model was specifically intended to break down the will and esteem of its employees. The pay was performance based, and involved answering calls for a major corporation. The actual task to be performed was easy, which was fortunate considering we got no training, unless you count six weeks during which an indiscriminately hired group of us were babysat by various people with no job training experience, none of whom had done or knew how to do the job we were to do.

One advertised perk was that there was no script to follow. However, there was a continuously changing and increasing list of things we had to say on every phone call, much of which had nothing to do with the task. We were handed poorly structured and worded lists of clarifications, changes and reminders of things we had to say, and then they decided we couldn’t have any paper or writing utensils in our cubicles so the lists were taken away.

We had a supervisor and two other separate committees eavesdropping on our calls and rating them according to parameters unique to whichever group (and person in that group) it was. When we were reprimanded for doing whatever a spy, co-worker or floor adviser on a previous call had told us to do, we were told the information we received was incorrect, so we never had any way of being right ourselves. Time limits were imposed on everything, and then those time limits were decreased. We were allowed an unpaid lunch and two 15 minute breaks, all at strictly scheduled times, and if we wanted to log out of our phones at any other time for any other reason, including for completing work and using the restroom, we needed to get written permission.

One criterion affecting our pay was something called “Availability,” which needed to be at 75 then 78 then 85 percent, and nobody would or could tell me how that percentage was calculated. I received vague answers that it was a factor of various things that also already affected our pay, so if that was the case we were being penalized twice for the same transgressions.

The most complicated aspect of the actual work was manipulating around a dozen computer software systems simultaneously. If a system ran slow or crashed, it was considered our fault, and we were not allowed to tell a caller we were having computer problems. We had to constantly reset our passwords for getting into these systems, and had to make them sufficiently long and complicated under varying criteria depending on the program without reusing previous ones. Then, if we messed up a password three times in a row, we’d get locked out of the system and have to look for someone who could reset it for us and attempt to answer, “How can you forget your password?” Even clocking in had its set of rules and obstacles, which if were not followed precisely, caused us to lose attendance points, of which we were allowed eight a year.

We were forced to become obsessed with trying to follow hundreds of unclear, changing and absurd rules. It was vexing to say the least, and the very few who received their full potential pay had figured out the trick was to simply transfer most calls and were unethical enough to follow through with it. The only opportunity for promotion was to become a supervisor and involved taking a pay cut. Upper management was hired externally. We were considered not only incompetent but expendable. The only reason I could see for not finding a new job is that the employees who stay have been convinced they aren’t capable of finding or performing one.

Just before leaving, I met a fellow worker who had been there for 13 years. I thought to myself I couldn’t think of anything to worse, until she continued, “I have six children.” I stood corrected. But it was her next comment which is of relevance here: “When I first saw you, I thought you were some corporate big-shot here on an inspection or something.” I quickly shot back, “I should be.” I had entered that job out of desperation and already feeling defeated, so I found her assumption curious. While her statement mostly helped demonstrate her ineptitude, it was flattering. What about me had she said that made her think I was in charge? At that time, I appeared to myself as a short, scrawny reject with unkempt hair wearing hastily purchased Goodwill clothes.

Did I mention this phone job had a dress code? The reason for this, it became clear, was so that they could bribe us with the “reward” of being able to wear jeans. The given explanation was that studies had shown wearing business casual clothes increased performance. Nobody had an answer as to when, where, how or by whom these studies were conducted or published. If that claim has any validity, which I highly doubt, that means the result of their reward was to hinder our performance. I refused to wear jeans so that when I was reminded I could wear jeans that day, I could reply I only accepted monetary rewards. I think I was the only employee there that actually followed the dress code anyway.

Fashion is amongst our society’s most effective tools of manipulation. Fashion can be used to reveal, imply or hide both wealth and beauty. I despise pretense. The biggest factor in my fashion choices is that I get hot flashes very easily, and the best clothes to avoid these are loose fitting, short-sleeved and breathable (cotton). Before beginning my new job, I went around to thrift stores and bought a bunch of work-appropriate clothes, hoping that I would immediately appear as if I knew what I was doing. Now that I think about it, my so-called image has perhaps long been intended to express something akin to, “I know what I’m doing,” or, “Don’t irritate me,” with a hint of “I’m only kidding.” Sometimes girls I date will ironically attempt to get me to change my sense of style, which of course proves futile. Sometimes “just for spite” is motivation enough.

Have you ever heard anybody intone, “You don’t have anything to prove?” That’s a bunch of bullshit. Maybe life’s not a competition, but I want to be good at it anyway. I’m not going to waste time riding on someone else’s whims.

I was once made aware a liaison had ended with this explanation: “I used to find you intimidating, but I don’t anymore.” I was gobsmacked by this statement, not making heads or tails of how it was intended, and have frequently pondered it since. I undoubtedly have a tendency to come across as abrasive. I’m familiar with watching my friends tense upon me encountering their other friends for the first time, nervously anticipating how long it will take for me to challenge the validity of any off-handed remark. Bad liars and wishy-washy people don’t tend to like me. Sometimes I feel bad about this. Then I remind myself, “Fuck liars and wishy-washy people. I don’t like them either.” Sometimes that thought makes me feel even worse.

I’m generally not shy about expressing opinions accumulated from varied interests and acquired memories. People say I’m a snob; and I actually sort of prefer that to expert or connoisseur. Ignorance really annoys me and deserves to be eradicated, but I’ve been told on numerous occasions there are times I should keep quiet. I consider it is a defeatist attitude to resign to the idea that nobody’s going to change their mind anyway. Of course, it seems pretty unanimous that “it’s not what you say, it’s how you say it” that offends people. I’m certainly no politician. I’m confronted with either feeling guilty about my impudence or owning it. To phrase the question at hand as a philosopher: should we/I have confidence in confidence?

Confidence might be the purest expression of power, and vastly increases the likelihood of getting your own way. Encountering confidence can be simultaneously intimidating and stimulating. Confidence increases both the probability of and opportunity for rash behavior. Shame, on the other hand, is stilting and unbecoming. A causal relationship between attitudes and actions reveals itself....

Desire might be the impetus for change, but confidence allows its pursuit. Whether you actually want to be where you want to go remains to be seen, but oftentimes anywhere seems preferable to where you are. What can be done without confidence? The same thing you’ve been doing, I suppose, only probably not very well or with much enjoyment. Teddy Roosevelt said, “The person who has never failed has seldom done anything.” Just yesterday, I randomly read an article about some lady who’s had the same saving account since 1913, and her “secret” to living a long life was, “I get along good because I don’t have any wants.” While she has successfully gotten old, I frankly don’t understand the point of her continued existence.

The easiest way to gain confidence is by doing well at something, or at least being told that you are. No matter what endeavor one pursues, there will always be those nearby to tell you it can’t or shouldn’t be done or what you should be doing instead. My inclination is to dismiss disapproving people. While there is an advantage to having an objective perspective that should not be overlooked, life is not objective; besides- what does anybody else know?

If there’s one thing I’ve learned about humans, it’s that they are unreliable. Since the only person I can control is me, I have made it a point to try and be dependable- then at least I know I can rely on myself. Unfortunately, my decisions are sometimes extremely impulsive and occasionally morally suspect- qualities of an untrustworthy individual. In all truth, I can’t rely on myself either.

Confidence defined is faith in self; if you are confident you can pull off a miracle it vastly increases your odds of doing so. Sometimes ignorance is the source of confidence. Would I have moved 2000 miles to a major metropolitan area in my early 20’s to become an audio engineer if I’d known how little about engineering (and life) I knew? The fact that I’m always learning is proof of my ignorance. Only hindsight can discern the difference between confidence and over-confidence, but experience can provide clarity. It can blur it as well: confidence is why Douglas McArthur wanted to invade China when the North Korean army fled there in the 1950’s. Having confidence relies in part in being able to move on from past errors, learning from them what you can and ignoring whatever about them that isn’t instructional. Without confidence, we start looking, and finding excuses. Confidence attempts, at least, to find answers.

Confidence inclines us to attempt to improve at a difficult task. There’s a quote attributed to baseball pitching legend Dizzy Dean that goes, “It’s not braggin’ if you can back it up.” This is one reason I appreciate (some) sports. Athletes demonstrate the actual abilities of human beings to perform in a specific setting and time and within predefined parameters despite opposition and various other restrictions; not some fantasy engineered by a novel or movie in which all the environments, situations and characters can be manipulated at will. Pitching is the perfect example of something requiring utmost confidence. The worse possible pitcher is one lacking in it.

It is not only physically but also psychologically most difficult to pitch to a hitter you know can hit well, but the best pitchers will throw their best pitches to those batters. Critical situations will have the same effect. This truly defies logic. In the end, you might give up a home run. Maybe you should have walked the guy. Maybe you did everything right. The saying goes, “Sometimes you just gotta tip your cap.” Either way, you almost certainly don’t walk the batter after the one you gave up the home run to (and yet it happens all the time). Maybe the next time when a similar situation comes up, your strategy will be different. Then again, maybe you won’t. Maybe you should, maybe you shouldn’t. Regardless, every situation is different in a multitude of ways, and no moment in time is repeatable. The batter is always different; the conditions are always different; the situation is always different; how you’re feeling is always different. In the end, you just have to throw the pitch and see what happens.

Maybe we shouldn’t have confidence in confidence, but often we must. Without confidence you’ve already lost, with it you might anyway. Like the guy from Radiohead whines, “You can try the best you can, the best you can is good enough.” I agree with him even as I wish he’d shut up.

Anyone who attempts to sap your esteem is your enemy. My advice is to urgently remove yourself from their presence, and not for your sake alone. Anyone you let treat you like shit will then assume it is acceptable to treat others like shit. Rise against the machine, even if you do get run over by a tank.

Pit

2011-05-30T06:01:00.000-07:00

Are you familiar with Pit? It is a fast-paced card trading game that my family, after learning from farmers, played growing up. It is for four to nine players; it can theoretically be played with three, but isn’t as fun that way. It uses its own cards, made up of different crops, like wheat, corn, barley, etc. You use as many crops as there are players. Each crop has a point value. The object is to gain a monopoly of a crop. It’s supposed to be like trading in some farmer stock market or something.

There are nine cards of each crop. At the beginning of each round, all the cards are dealt, and when the dealer rings the bell, all the players begin trading cards simultaneously. If you’re doing it right, pandemonium will ensue. You can trade as many cards as you’d like at a time, but- and this is important- they have to all be the same crop. You can’t make a trade combining a corn and a wheat or anything like that. A trade is done by swapping the same amount of cards with any other player. The trades are hidden, so you don’t know what crop you’re getting until the deal’s complete. Once you figure out what cards you want to trade, you yell out the number of cards in the trade and/or hold them out face down. You don’t really have to yell; of course you don’t really have to win, either. Once you and anybody else are in agreement on the number of cards to trade, the trade can be made. Since both of your hands will have cards in them, you just sort of set the cards in front of each other and then pick up your new ones- and then bitch about the fact that you just gave each other the same thing or whatever. You can totally refuse to trade with any player at any time as well. You have to adapt your strategy to match the number of cards other people are trading. Also, especially at the beginning of a round, if you notice everyone keeps giving you the same crop, it might be smart to start collecting that crop. The faster you can trade, the better your odds become of winning.

Once you get all nine of a crop, ring the bell, and if you are the first one to do so, you get the amount of points shown on that crop. I call ringing the bell “going out,” even though I don’t know what that means exactly. After each round, the cards pass clockwise to the next dealer and a new round begins. The first player to 500, or 300 if you want to play a shorter game, wins. You can either designate a scorekeeper or pass out sticky notes and have each player keep track of their own score.

That’s the gist of the game, but there are two other cards I haven’t told you about, which are the bear and the bull. Both of these cards can be traded in with a crop. The bear is always bad. Get rid of it as soon as you get it. You can’t even ring the bell if the bear is in your possession even if you have a monopoly of a crop. The bull, on the other hand, acts like a wild card, and can be used as a substitute for a crop, so you can ring the bell if you have eight of a crop and a bull. However if another player goes out, you lose 20 points if you have the bear or the bull (or 40 points if you have both). I usually hold onto the bull at the start of a round but if I feel like somebody is about to win and I’m not even close I’ll get rid of it.

Because of the bear and the bull, the two players after the dealer will have an extra card; in other words ten, whereas the other players will have nine cards so the same number as there are in a monopoly. This is important to remember because if you are one of those two players with an extra card in the round it means even if you have a monopoly of a crop, one of your cards won’t match. However, if you have the extra card and manage to collect all nine of a crop and the bull, you get double the points. You can go out with eight of a crop, the bull and one of another crop (just not the bear.)

Some people have trouble remembering the difference between the bear and the bull and I always wonder how they react if they were confronted with them in real life. You probably should have studied harder in kindergarten. Maybe think of it like you could raise crops and cattle but you’re never going to keep a bear around- unless you’re a gypsy I suppose.

That’s pretty much all there is to it. It’s one of those games that should become apparent and obvious once it starts. Or scare you to death- one of the two. The main thing to remember is you can’t mix crops on a trade. Also, don’t mistake corn for coffee or barley with the bear or bull. Also, when someone rings the bell, make sure they double-check their cards and prove they’ve won before anyone else shows theirs because if they fucked up play immediately continues as if the bell hadn't rung.

Futbol For Gringos

2011-05-09T11:01:00.000-07:00

One reason Association Football (commonly called football, although to avoid confusion I’ll begrudgingly use the term “soccer;” a bastardization as offensive to most who love the sport as “Frisco” is to those who love San Francisco) is not as popular in America as in other countries is because Americans tend to be lazy. American sports are either slow-paced events on large surfaces or fast-paced but on small surfaces. Soccer is a fast-paced sport played on an area larger than an American Football field. A soccer field is called “the pitch.” A soccer ball is called a football. A soccer player is called a “footballer.”

A soccer match is played in two 45-minute halves separated by a 15 minute break. The full of each 45 minutes is played and only the one referee on the pitch (who is called the “man in black” even though he’ll wear any color that makes him stand out from the teams) can call time-out, which he does by blowing a whistle. That same referee keeps track of the time when play is stopped and this is added to the end of each half as “stoppage time,” also called “injury time.” Therefore, plays and strategies are developed before the match and on the fly, giving little to no down-time for replays to explain what occurred. The spectator is actually obliged to watch the action while it’s happening, and anything like “instant replay” to verify the decisions of the referee would destroy the pace and therefore the fundamental premise of the game. The athleticism required to keep up a fast pace while continually covering a lot of ground and also deftly controlling a ball using primary those labored legs is truly awe inspiring.

The object of football is to move a round ball completely past the thickness of a line in an area, called the goal, 8 yards wide and 8 feet tall belonging to another team, while preventing that other team from doing the same. The netting’s only purpose is to make it easy to tell whether a ball goes through or around a goal. The area of the pitch in front of the goal is demarked by a “goal area” 6 yards deep and 20 yards wide and a larger “penalty area” 18 yards deep and 44 yards wide, and the entire pitch is outlined by a “touchline.” A ball is considered out-of-bounds when it completely crosses the touchline unless, of course, it’s a goal. The portion of the touchline on each end of the field but outside of the goal line is called the “byline,” and the perpendicular touchlines running the length of the pitch are called the “sidelines.” The sideline behind which the coaches and reserves sit is called the “technical side.”

There are two assistant referees, formerly known as “linesmen,” one on each sideline, who are usually in charge of judging whether and where the ball passes their sideline and, if it did, which team had touched it last. The referee can always overrule or ask for help from a linesman. Each assistant referee holds a flag, and when a ball goes out-of-bounds, he will point the flag in the direction of the goal of the team who last touched the ball, demonstrating the continued direction of play, and, when possible, stand at the location where it crossed. One player from the team who wins position then executes a “throw-in” from that area. During a throw-in, the player must have both hands on the ball and throw it with both hands above and behind the head without their feet leaving the ground. You can’t throw it to yourself or directly into either goal.

Each match begins with eleven footballers on each side, and in an official game, each team can make a maximum of three substitutions per game, and once a player is taken out he cannot re-enter the game. A “friendly” is an unofficial soccer match that allows a pre-game agreed upon number of substitutions- anywhere from six to unlimited. Besides for injury, substitutions are often made to adjust either the offensive or defensive strength of the team. A “super-sub” is a talented and speedy player who is rested on the bench as what Americans would call an ace-in-the-hole until the latter part of the match. When a sub asks to enter the game, the technical-side linesman signals to the referee, who will decide when to stop play and let him in. A fourth referee holds up a sign announcing the number of the players being swapped. (The only other job of this fourth referee is to use the same sign to display how much stoppage time, rounded to the nearest minute, the referee on the pitch has determined.) Similarly, when play is stopped due to an injury, the injured player must leave the pitch and cannot return until granted permission from the referee, but he can be let back on the field without a stoppage in play.

Each team has offensive and defensive specialists, but ten players on each side must follow the same rules, while one player, called the goalkeeper, is allowed to intentionally use his hands and arms but only while inside his own penalty area and, in a relatively recent rule addition, not if the ball is intentionally kicked or thrown-in to him by a teammate. The goalkeeper usually wears the number 1 on a jersey that must not match the rest of his teams’ (so that he can be distinguished by the referee).

The most aggressive offensive player on each side is colloquially called the “striker” and for whatever reason (possibly a tradition traceable to Pele) he often wears the number 10. His position near the opponent’s goal is properly called “center-forward,” and some teams utilize an “inside forward” or “secondary striker” who plays almost alongside the striker. Most strikers don’t station themselves directly in front of the goal in order to spread the defense and utilize the advantage of attacking from angles.

Offensive players who play primarily wide of the goal area near the sidelines are called “wingers,” and they generally push play forward on the left and right sides of the field, commonly to drive the ball toward the corner of the pitch and then send it across the goal, called a “cross,” for a teammate, probably the striker, to intercept and redirect through the goal. Most players are dominantly right-footed and some are left-footed. This affects their offensive and defensive movements and strategies. Traditionally, right-footed wingers play on the right side of the pitch and vice versa to be able to better hug the sideline without letting the ball go out while fending off opponents with the weaker leg, but these roles are often reversed; one strategic reason being it is easier for a right-footed player on the left flank or vice versa to cut inside.

Midfielders generally play behind the forwards and cover the middle third of the field. There are aggressive midfielders more prone to collapse forward and defensive midfielders, also called halfbacks, inclined to hold back. There are usually left and right midfielders, called wide-men, as well; similar to wingers but less attack minded.

Defensive players are called “fullbacks” or just “backs.” There are left, right and often two center fullbacks. A lone center back who plays deep behind the fullbacks is called a “sweeper” (or a “libero”). Defending man-to-man, even as a result of picking up a player in your zone, is called “marking,” and a defender who fails to cover a player he should be marking is “off his mark.” In today’s soccer, there is sometimes a player who is basically a greedy, offensive-minded left or right halfback or fullback, and instead of calling him out of position, he is known as a “wingback.”

Well over 11 positions have just been listed, so obviously team strategy involves picking and choosing where to play; a team can’t be everywhere at once. In fact, an offensive strategy is to spread the other team out across the field, known as “opening up” the defense. Team formations are described minus the goal keeper and from the defense forward; some common ones being 4-4-2, 4-3-2-1 (called the “Christmas tree” formation), 3-5-2 and 4-3-3.

Each team is required to designate a Captain, who wears an arm band. If the Captain is removed or substituted for, he must pass the badge to a teammate on the pitch, even though his only job is to participate in calling heads or tails to decide which goal to defend first. (The team that loses the coin toss gets first possession, and during the kick-off from the center of the pitch all players must be in their own half of the field and the team defending must stay outside of the center circle. The teams switch goals and starting possession after half.)

The single most important and game affecting rule in soccer is “offside.” A player is considered ineligible and out of play if, when he or a teammate touches the ball, he is between the ball and the goal on the opponent’s half of the field and there are not at least two opposing players even or ahead of him and the goal. That’s all there is to it, folks. If a player is offside, he cannot make an attempt at the ball, even after a rebound, or otherwise affect play until the ball is touched with control with him back onside. Deciding whether a player is offside is an important job of the assistant referee, who will generally try and keep himself in line with the second to last defender, and will signal a violation by flashing the flag up then holding it down if the violation occurred on the third of the pitch closest his sideline, horizontal if it occurred in the middle third of the pitch or up if on the third of the pitch furthest from his sideline.

If an offside violation is made, the opposing team is awarded an indirect free kick from the spot of the offense. An indirect free kick means a goal may not be scored before a second player touches the ball. During any free kick, the defense must be at least 10 yards from the ball until it is touched by the offense. (The defense will often hover around the ball until their side is positioned so that any attempt by the offense to catch them off-guard by a rushed re-start will be deemed illegal and reset.)

A “tackle” is when a footballer slides at the ball with one foot extended in an effort to kick it. This would be pretty simple to understand if Americans didn’t use the term to mean something completely different, but is so-named because it is the only situation during which it is not considered a penalty if, when tackling, you should happen to also- unintentionally of course!- make heavy contact with an opposing player. You can never do things like tackle through an opposing player, extend both legs or scissor your legs while tackling, or push, grab, endanger (which includes facing cleats away from the ground) or in any other way intentionally interfere with an opposing player. Not even screens, or what are called picks in basketball, are legal. These will all award the opposing team a direct free kick- which means a goal may be scored before a second player touches the ball- from the location of the foul. It is common for the defense to form a “wall” between the ball and the goal during a direct free kick.

If the referee deems the penalty flagrant he will issue a yellow card. If the same player is show a yellow card twice or does anything unsportsmanlike even once, he is issued a red card, which means, in addition to the direct free kick, that player is immediately removed from the game and cannot be replaced, so that team will play the rest of the game “short-sided” with ten (or less if there are multiple red cards) players. The referee never has to explain his decisions, which are final. This is to avoid arguments, and arguing with a ref will get you carded, or “booked,” but as a fan it can sometimes be frustrating. Even bench players can get booked. In tournament play, bookings can carry over to subsequent games.

“Diving,” when a footballer pretends he’s been fouled, is supposed to be an instant yellow card, but because it is always difficult and controversial to decide someone is pretending to be hurt, it is a big problem in soccer.

It is not a penalty if the ball hits any player’s hand or arm, only if a player other than the goalkeeper deliberately uses their hand, arm or shoulder to touch the ball. This is called a “hand ball” and is penalized with awarding the other team a direct free kick. A player cannot even deliberately touch the ball with their hands or arms in order to protect themselves, but it is not a hand ball if it is exclusively an instinctually reflexive protective action. It is okay to use the clavicle and scapula but not the fleshy part of the shoulder. Remember, even a goalkeeper cannot use their hands whenever outside the penalty area or any time the ball is intentionally kicked or thrown-in to them by a teammate, but it is okay for a goalkeeper to handle a ball that has been passed by a teammate with a body part other than the hands or feet.

Striking the ball with your head is called a “header.”

The referee will not stop play while the team in possession is successfully advancing toward the opponent’s goal if the defending team commits a penalty. Allowing play to continue despite having been fouled is called “playing the advantage.” If a referee sees a foul but allows play to continue, he’ll motion both arms forward, but if the advantage fails to develop within a few seconds of the penalty, the referee will belatedly stop play to enforce the penalty. Even if play continues, any flagrant foul will be eventually booked.

Not even an injury will stop play if there’s an advantage, but sometimes the team in possession will kick the ball out of play in order to let an injured player from the other side be dragged off the field. When this happens, it is an unspoken and well-honored agreement that the other side will return the favor by returning it to the opposing team on the throw-in.

If a player is called for a violation punishable by a direct free kick while inside his own penalty area, the opposing team is awarded a penalty kick, in which any player from that team on the pitch when the penalty occurs gets a one-on-one attempt to score from a “penalty spot” 12 yards from the goal. During a penalty kick, all other players except the defending goalkeeper must remain outside the penalty area and an arch atop the middle third of the penalty area until the ball is kicked. The goalkeeper must stay on the goal line until the ball is kicked, and the kicker’s first contact must be toward the goal. Also, he cannot feign a kick or anything similarly deceptive.

The offside rule and the penalty area combine to necessitate a defensive strategy known as “holding the line.” Players other than the goalkeeper are reluctant to encroach nearer than 18 yards from their own goal.

A through kick is a ball kicked into the hole behind the defense and timed so that an onside player can run it down. Strikers will often stand offside to lull the defenders into ignoring him so that he can sneak back onside just before a through kick. Alternatively, teams will sometimes employ an “offside trap,” in which the defensive back line suddenly and simultaneously moves forward to put an offensive player offside.

If a ball crosses the byline or flies over the goal, the referee awards a corner kick if it was last touched by the team defending that goal or a goal kick if it was last touched by the attacking team. Both situations allow for the use of a pre-designed play incorporated upon a restart, called a “set piece.” A corner kick is a highly advantageous scoring opportunity that begins with the ball in the small pizza slice shape in the corner of the pitch adjacent to the target goal. A goal kick begins in a team’s own goal area, and the ball must be immediately kicked clear of the penalty area, which the opposing team must remain outside until the ball is kicked. Interestingly, there is no offside during a goal kick.

An “own goal” is when in which a footballer accidentally scores a goal into his own net for the other team. It is not considered an own goal if a kick from the opposing team takes a defection off the defense but still would have scored had the defense not been present. Own goals don’t count if as a result of any set piece, including a free kick.

Moving the ball backward to one’s own goal is called a “back-pass,” and is very common ploy, especially to reset the offense.

The most basic technique for moving a soccer ball up field is the “give-and-go.” One player kicks the ball forward but at an angle to a teammate, forcing the defense to shift and cover the ball while he keeps running forward. The teammate can then pass the ball back to him while he is still onside and now less defended. Two (or more) players can employ this technique in tandem to move the ball across the field very quickly while constantly disrupting the defense.

The player’s first contact with the ball is very important, and is called “first touch.” He must judge the speed and spin of the ball in order to be able to immediately gain control of it. “Dribbling” is the technique of one player moving the ball but keeping it to himself. The final launch of the ball toward the goal is called the “finish.” Players can cause the ball to bend and knuckle in a myriad of ways.

It is obviously advantageous to keep possession of the football. The Spanish have perfected the art of “tiki-taka,” in which they constantly move the ball using short passes between players aligned in triangles. This game of keep-away will eventually tire-out and frustrate the defense. The most common defense to this strategy is to wait patiently for a chance to steal the ball, and then immediately send it to a striker lying in wait just inside the midfield line, who breaks toward the opponent’s goal aiming for a one-on-one opportunity. This is known as a “counter.”

Most soccer games can end in a tie, which is very foreign to Americans. Over the course of a season or tournament, a scoring system is generally employed that awards a winner 3 points, a tie one point and a loser zero points. Because home field advantage is perhaps greater in Association Football than any other sport, later stages on many tournaments incorporate a “two-legged tie,” which has nothing to do with a tie. In it, two matches are played, one in each team’s home stadium, and the combined scores of each match determine the winner.

At the completion of a season or tournament, a winner must be determined from the remaining teams, and at this point a tie-breaker adds another coin toss and two 15 minute halves to the match. If additional time doesn’t yield a winner, a shoot-out will ensue, during which players from each team will take turns attempting penalty kicks until there’s a winner. The exact details will vary tournament to tournament.

Most countries have a “premier” football league and lesser divisions, and at the completion of a season losing teams can be “relegated” or demoted while winning teams from lesser leagues can be promoted to replace them.

I think that’s a sufficient introduction. For more information, attend a soccer match!

Check Engine

2011-04-19T09:01:00.000-07:00

Not wanting to waste any opportunity to relax, I’ve been getting up an hour earlier on my days off. Last Sunday, I decided to visit Coralville. I’d heard that’s where the good sushi is in this landlocked pastureland. There is also a nice, relatively easy disc golf course I wanted to revisit. And, of course, I wanted to check out the thrift shops, which, along with any art museum, is always what I want to explore at every new place I visit. Finally, I had a job interview the next morning and was in dire need of a haircut.

On my way out the door, I realized I hadn’t finished my coffee, so I poured it into a lidded mug to take with me. I’ve been using my brother’s Audi while he’s been out of the country, and the designers of it didn’t recognize the convenience of cup holders. They’ve been placed in the fold-down middle arm of the vehicle, which, when horizontal, pokes in the way of the manual gear shift. When I got to the stop light at the bottom of the hill, I futilely searched for another place to rest my coffee so I could remove the arm from my way.

The light was already green when I looked up, but when I stepped on the gas, the engine revved as I remained stationary. The problem was simply that I was in neutral, which was more than enough to cause the check engine light to appear on the instrument panel of the finicky vehicle. I cursed at it under my breath, already hoping it would disappear before my brother returned. As I quickly glanced in my rear-view mirror to see if I was holding anybody up, I shifted into first. At that moment, a car flew in front of me through its solidly red light.

Had my momentary fumbling just saved my life?

The Goodwill in Coralville was annoyingly barren, but I did purchase an ostentatious Cuisinart coffee maker that I would later discover does not work at all. No matter- I wasn’t planning on using the thing anyway.

I thought I was going to the same disc golf course Chant and Risa introduced me to last fall, but I’m still not sure whether I went to that one or another in a similar location. It was only my second time out this year and windy, so the discs generally flew wherever they felt. Regardless, wandering through trails amongst the trees whilst throwing things is a nearly idyllic activity.

An internet search had revealed an actual barbershop replete with atmosphere, but it was closed, so I drove down the street until I stumbled upon one of those sterile Great Clips places. Actually, this was after driving past a sports themed man-spa thing that probably cut hair but I was not going to find out. Also along the way I stopped at a liquor store, curious to see if it had any hard-to-find specialty items, but immediately recognized it was instead a place whose bread-and-butter was likely Thunderbird.
“Are you looking for anything in particular?”
“No, thanks.”
“We have a lot of things behind the counter here that you can’t see is why I ask.”
“Do you have Applejack?”
“What?”
“Laird’s Applejack?”
“What is that, a liquor or a wine?”
“An apple brandy; like calvados. Never mind.” He was flipping frantically through a purchasing guide. “Do you have any vermouth?”
“Yes, we have both sweet and dry right over there.” I glanced briefly enough to discern the only brand was Gallo.
“Okay, thank you.” I quickly escaped as he hurled apologies.

People who know me might forget that I am rather shy. Unless I remind myself to fake it, I struggle to converse with strangers. Also, I’ll never understand why hairstylists insist upon asking how they should cut my hair. If I knew how to cut my hair I would. The next thing she asks is, “What do you do for a living?”

I have a bad habit of complaining a lot. One excuse is that I’m acutely observant, and another is when someone asks a question, I answer it. My disdain for deception stems from my uncanny ability at recognizing it. I have recently been working a job that has been intentionally tailored to destroy the self-esteem of its employees, as that and sheer desperation are the only reasons anyone would continue under their employment. Using the same strategy employed by Christianity to maintain its flock, the first step is to convince the underlings that everything they do or desire is wrong and, secondly, that they are incapable of problem-solving. Finally, they are promised to be rewarded as long as they continue to accept these two conditions. The genius is in its simplicity, as the message can be quickly outlined in what Christians call a tract. The insanity is my observations will be refuted by telling me everything I do or desire is wrong and I am incapable of problem-solving….

After my haircut, I drove back and forth until I finally found the sushi place, only to discover it didn’t open for another hour. I almost went home, reasoning that I couldn’t afford it anyway and self-conscious that I had forgotten to bring clothes to change into more appropriate for fine dining and less suited for disc golf. Undeterred, I walked around for the hour, pondering my pending job interview and reminding myself during it to exude confidence and remain optimistic.

I walked up to the door as it was being unlocked, sat in a corner at the sushi bar and was served by a cute, young, redheaded waitress who miraculously didn’t remind me of anybody. I went out of my way to chat with the apprentice sushi chef and phrase statements like, “The salmon wasn’t quite as good as the other fish,” instead of, “This salmon is disgusting and inedible.” I spent over an hour and, after tip, $70 in the place, sipping on unfiltered sake and trying various preparations of seafood.

I quite enjoy spending time with myself. There is no one else as savvy at entertaining and amusing myself as I. At the same time, it’s rather unfortunate that after six months, I have yet to tell many of the old friends I am surrounded by I’m even here because I assume they have better things to do than hang out with me.

I landed the job, which starts next week just prior to my brother’s probable return. I am in a bit of a rush to purchase my own truck before then. The check engine light on my brother’s car remains lit.

Liquor Cabinet

2011-04-16T08:52:00.000-07:00

Molly wants to know what 5 bottles of liquor I would buy. The question makes no sense on several levels, but I’ve decided to try and answer it by imagining myself with an empty liquor cabinet.

The first bottle I would buy is 16 year Lagavulin scotch. The downside is it’s $90 a bottle. The upside is it’s the most glorious tasting beverage in existence. If instead you want to start with a cheaper option, I’d recommend Chivas Regal blended scotch at $30 a bottle. Of course, these are not for mixing.

The second thing I would buy would be two things: Angostura bitters and Plymouth gin. Now I could make pink gins, and honestly I’d be pretty set. Life can be lived on scotch and pink gins alone. However, since I’m so fond of exploration, I’d quickly need to get Boodles London dry gin, which is only $18 a bottle, as a versatile cocktail base. I may as well get Noilly Pratt dry vermouth as soon as possible as well.

The next bottle I would buy would certainly be Cointreau, as it is the most versatile and imitated liqueur. It tastes like orange rind, and can be used in anything that calls for triple sec or curacao. Now I am armed to make a Pegu Club, which means game-set-match if a date gets back to my place for a nightcap. (Actually, it's a refreshing, sunny drink, but whatever.)

My next purchase would be 1800 Reposado tequila, as I enjoy is straight and it also works great for making slightly tangy cocktails. It goes without saying I’d need to keep a supply of lemons, limes and oranges. Now I can make margaritas, but really I prefer sidecars. While Hennessey is my preferred cognac, I’ve recently discovered (above Chant and Risa's refrigerator) E&J brandy as a cheaper and very tasty option, and would recommend getting E&J first.

Now I realize I am missing Laird’s Applejack and green Chartreuse, which are both used in my favorite cocktail, the Widow’s Kiss. But for that I’d also need Benedictine, which when used sparingly adds honey sweetness to cocktails.

Another liqueur to be sparingly used but essential for its versatility is Luxardo Maraschino. Next is a shopping spree of Sazerac Rye whiskey, Regan’s orange bitters, Peychaud’s bitters and Dolin (if you can find it) or Noilly Pratt sweet vermouth.

I’d also need non-alcoholic mixers such as Fever Tree tonic water, pomegranate grenadine, 100% pure pineapple juice, fresh spearmint, cherries and orange flower-water. Seltzer water too.

I’d also want a bottle of absinthe- just a cheap, as in $60, bottle to use sparingly as a mixer. If you want the really good absinthe for absinthe drips you still have to import it by purchasing it online. My favorite is Jade PF 1901, but honestly I haven’t had a good absinthe in several years.

This is a pretty decent novice cabinet. Now I’d start adding bottles according to personal preference. I’d definitely want Fernet Branca because it’s the best digestif and Don Cesar Pisco Puro, because I love Pisco Sours. Add Lillet Blanc and, wow, I think I’m set. Oh, and Grand Marnier. And a well-made kirshwasser, like Clear Creek. There are literally hundreds of liqueurs, both fruity and nutty, to experiment with. Next on my list of things to try is Cynar, whose prominent flavor is artichoke. And, if I can ever find it, cachaca- to get a taste of Brazil.

If you want bourbon for mixing, I’d recommend Weller’s Reserve. If you want to drink it straight, I’d recommend Eagle Rare or Booker’s.

If you want light rum, smuggle in Havana Club or try 10 Cane. Honestly, Cruzan and Bacardi also work well for mixing. The one rum drink I love is the Mojito. Dark rum seems like it should be a great cocktail mixer, but I think the flavor is too bold. After many purchases, I finally discovered 12 Year El Dorado demerara rum, which is too yummy straight to waste in a cocktail.

In contrast, vodka is too subtle to be a useful cocktail mixer. It quickly becomes buried so you can’t taste it. Stolichnaya tastes chalky, which I guess could be a desired quality in a drink, especially if you were that kid who ate chalk in elementary school. Sipped straight, Ketel One is actually pretty refreshing.

Your Life

2011-04-14T10:03:00.000-07:00

Every once in a while, someone says something so horrifyingly naïve that I will spend years pondering what it must be like to live such a confining existence.

One time, while carpooling with a co-worker and playing Benny Goodman, I was asked, “Does the music keep getting louder and softer on purpose, or is there something wrong with your CD player?”

Monday, after boasting at work that I had just come from a job interview that went well, I was asked, “Where? The only other call centers I know of are….”

The splendid movie, Lonesome Jim contains perhaps my favorite movie quote, which is befitting in these moments: “I feel like ending it enough as it is. I can’t imagine having your life.”

Mike Tyson's America

2011-03-30T16:53:00.000-07:00

“Iron” Mike Tyson grew up in a tough neighborhood in Brooklyn, New York. After his mother died when he was sixteen, he was adopted by Cus D’Amato, a reclusive boxing trainer and manager who had been responsible for making Floyd Patterson the youngest heavyweight boxing champion in 1956. I, on the other hand, grew up in a farmhouse with a stable family in the middle of nowhere, Iowa. I wanted to take Tae Kwan Do lessons but we couldn’t afford them, so I studied books explaining Asian martial arts instead.

The premise of boxing is ludicrous, which became a hugely popular word in my elementary school after we first heard it said in a nasally voice by none other than Mike Tyson. (That segue is cute enough I fear it will seem contrived….) Basically, boxing involves wrapping up your fists with leather-covered pillows and then attempting to punch an opponent in the front or sides of either the body above the belly button or head while he attempts to do the same atop a 256-484 square foot surface for 30-45 minutes.

Boxing aficionados will tell you the most important element of boxing is footwork. They will also tell you the most beautiful thing in boxing is the left jab. A left jab is a quick, straight punch thrown with the weak hand. It generally serves to measure the distance between you and the opponent and get the opponent off balance. Tyson was not a beautiful boxer- he had no left jab whatsoever. In fact, that is exactly the reason he was so successful.

Tyson was short for a heavyweight boxer. When I was a kid, I thought he was short like me, but actually he is 5’11’’. His reach is normal for his size, so was also less than that of his opponents. Tyson’s technique, cleverly designed to compensate for this, was to position both his gloves high in front of his face and explode toward his opponent like a bulldozer. He was able to nimbly move his head while keeping his arms rock-solid in front of it. When within jabbing range, Tyson didn’t as much as flinch. He just kept barreling forward, deftly cutting off the ring and both perplexing and intimidating his opponent just long enough to feed him devastating right hooks and uppercuts at point blank range.

In November of 1986, a year that had begun with the explosion of the Challenger, “Iron” Mike Tyson overtook Floyd Patterson’s record by a year and a half to become the new youngest heavyweight champion in boxing history. Cus D’Amato died shortly thereafter. Around the same time, my rabbit, aptly named Snowball, froze to death. As Tyson continued to pummel opponents in the ring on an almost weekly basis, my dad turned the rabbit cage into a pigeon coop. I was spending a significant amount of my time reading Marvel comic books, an alternate universe filled with super humans whose personal lives we got a glimpse of in every third issue, and playing with the 1980’s version of G.I. Joe- poseable plastic fighters and vehicles of all different styles whose product tag-line was “A Real American Hero.”

My dad is not a fighter and does not condone fighting. He is what one might call a hobbyist. In the mid 80’s, he divided his spare time between building a boat in the basement, constructing wire-controlled gas propeller-driven model airplanes, playing in a basketball league and assiduously leading the church’s boy-scout group. And by “spare time,” I’m referring to time not being spent supporting a family of five on a single household income as a construction and maintenance worker and also sustaining a 3.5 acre lot with horses, pigs, chickens, a quarter-acre garden and a four bedroom, one bathroom century home that ran on propane and shallow well-water. All this while teaching me how to pitch a baseball, build bird houses and model rockets, shoot a rifle, ride a bike on gravel, play basketball and who knows what else.

I’m not sure why or how dad decided to add raising pigeons to the list. I also don’t recall what kind of pigeons we had at that time. At some point, he moved the pigeon coop from the converted rabbit cage to the machine shed where I was spending more and more time practicing on an old drumset he had bought me for $50. Having yet to develop the capacity for controlling dynamics, I would struggle to figure out how to continue to hear the pigeons cooing while attempting to accompany them on that drumset.

In 1988, just after ending my elementary school years and becoming old enough to finally join the Christian frontiersman re-enactment club my dad and brother were involved in, we moved a few hours south to a small town just outside Des Moines called Polk City. At the same time, my brother, six years my elder, went off to college in Iowa City. Dad asked if I would like to continue to raise pigeons with him when we moved. I can’t recall moving the pigeons from the farm, but I do remember going with dad to buy some new ones. On that trip I learned there were different kinds of pigeons, and it seemed to me a no-brainer that the best ones were those that periodically interrupted their flight with random freefall backflips. My dad wanted the ones that could find their way home from hundreds of miles away. The person selling the pigeons made sure we wouldn’t be using the birds for training dogs. I learned what was meant by that on the drive home. Dad had built a shed in the backyard which he divided it into two sections, one for his Racing Homers and one for my Rollers.

That summer, the neighborhood kids quickly introduced me to their two favorite things: Poison, a really bad “hair” band, and Mike Tyson’s Punchout, a really awesome Nintendo game. In it, you got to be “Iron” Mike and fight his opponents; learning their names, stats, strengths and weaknesses. We all knew it was an almost exact rip-off of an Atari game called Punchout, but it was way better in our eyes- because it was Mike Tyson’s Punchout. I couldn’t even beat the video game version of the guys Tyson had made short work of in real life.

In the eighties, America and Americans were invincible. Perhaps the “Miracle on Ice” can be credited for setting the tone for the decade. We had not only the greatest athletes on the planet, as the 1984 Olympics would prove, but we also had the most entertaining movies, the most brilliant technology, the loudest music, the funniest comedians, Pepsi and break dancing. Sure, the Brits had Princess Di, but we had the king- Michael Jackson. We were so bad-ass we were winning the Cold War by intimidation alone. Everything was larger than life back then. Even our president was a Hollywood actor. We didn’t know or care to know about the wars his administration was instigating, funding and arming. Unbelievably in retrospect, we were also largely ignorant of the AIDS epidemic. We nearly got through the entire decade with only those six astronauts and the accompanying teacher being our only televised glimpse of reality, and they had become enshrined in our minds as epitomizing American bravery and fortitude. We even saved Jessica McClure from that well. 1989 was defined by the Exxon Valdez oil spill, but we failed to appreciate the significance of this event as a poignant warning that we would soon find ourselves cleaning up all kinds of messes that would be the direct results of our decade of peace and prosperity. (When god announced her presence during the World Series and then let the A’s beat the Giants, we should have known we were headed for trouble.)

The early nineties sucked, and not only because of the fact that I was entering high school. The end began on February 11th, 1990. I didn’t watch the “Buster” Douglas fight. Nobody watched that fight, because we all knew nobody could beat Mike Tyson. He was “the baddest man on the planet.” Afterwards, we didn’t know what to believe anymore. Before we knew what was happening, we were fighting in Iraq, “Magic” Johnson had AIDS and Michael Jackson was white. We had been told there was no draft, yet here were getting “Selective Service” registration cards in the mail. Forced to inspect closer, we quickly learned not only was the Marvel universe fiction, but our media-fed one was as well. Obviously many of the greats of the era: Michael Jordan, Joe Montana, Wayne Gretzky, etc. have remained untainted, but that is beside the point. We as a collective had glass chins. We quickly found a new spokesperson for our generation in Kurt Cobain. The turnaround was so drastic that, on January 11th, 1992, Nirvana’s “Nevermind” supplanted Michael Jackson’s “Dangerous” atop the Billboard charts.

Raising pigeons consists mostly of giving them straw, food and water, cleaning up their crap and making sure they are inside at dusk so they don’t get eaten by hawks and owls. The last is achieved by throwing rocks at them if they try and roost on the neighbor's garage. I sometimes drove random places with dad to release the Homers at gradually increasing distances. It wasn’t unusual for them to eventually fail to return, and every once in awhile, one that had been lost for several months would suddenly appear, ragged and beaten. Dad and I remained active in the frontiersman group, where we camped in a Baker-style lean-to tent dad had designed and sewn with three built-in cots. He also built oak and glass lanterns that we bartered with at “Rendezvous,” which were all-male gatherings during which we shot black powder rifles, threw knives, tomahawks and horseshoes, swapped tales and started bonfires with flint and steel.

During one such event, another member of our frontiersman group, whom I had known as far back as I could remember for being able to build the fastest pinewood derby cars in the state, spent an afternoon turning a leaky metal washtub into a washtub bass- only to discover he couldn’t play the thing. Others made brief and unsuccessful attempts, but when it was my dad’s turn, he immediately began plucking out familiar melodies. This astonished me likely as much as it had my parents when my brother had sat down at a piano and started sight-reading music back in ’82. Later that night there was a severe storm and we came within a few feet of being struck by lightning.

After returning home, dad bought a guitar and we started a Christian rock band. This was my first band outside of the organized school music program, which I remained heavily involved in, and my first taste of rehearsals, gigs, band mates and music equipment, which dad bought second-hand from a nice old junk collector named Fred. Also during this time, dad grew his hair long, got his ear pierced and bought a motorcycle.

My junior year of high school, I began dating a girl and discovered bebop. I worked as a prep cook and read classic literature. Dad didn’t know about any of this stuff. He followed meaningless drivel like college football and played golf, which was far too frustrating a sport to try and figure out how to do.

In retrospect, it is obvious that one way to defend against Tyson’s strategy is to tie him up before he can unload a punch, obliging the referee to break the pair up. Repeated, this would make for an interesting gambit to determine who would get more frustrated with a fight in which nary a punch would be thrown, the fans or Tyson. Evander Holyfield was determined to find out.

Mike Tyson’s early success combined with the untimely death of the architect of that success left Tyson without a backup plan. Having presumably never been exposed to the philosophy of fighters like Bruce Lee and Muhammad Ali, flexibility and adaptation were not in “Iron” Mike’s repertoire. He had instead been trained to be unyielding, and he had learned well. When things didn’t work out the way they were supposed to, Mike Tyson didn’t get frustrated; he absolutely snapped.

Today, Tyson’s influence is very much alive in Mixed Martial Arts, or MMA, a modern sport that combines fighting with grappling. Wresters who converted to MMA figured out that Tyson’s style was perfectly suited for them, as the way to defend it, tying up, is exactly what wrestlers want to do. MMA gloves are much less padded than boxing gloves, so even a boxing novice can knock someone out. (This is not to belittle MMA as a sport- I’ve realized the easiest way to defend oneself in real life is to learn how to do everything that is illegal in MMA.) Chuck “The Iceman” Liddell, who a lot of kids today probably tout as the greatest fighter ever, made a career out of emulating Tyson’s boxing approach in MMA fights.

There is currently a television show about Mike Tyson learning to train Racing Homers, called “Taking on Tyson.” Tyson has raised pigeons most of his life, but they have always been ones that looked pretty or did tricks in the air. The unique thing about Homers is that they can find their way home from hundreds of miles away, but in order for them to be good at it, they have to be trained. To some, a show about a washed-up nut-job fooling around with birds might seem a bore, but I’ve remained glued to every episode, not only because Mike Tyson helped define my generation, but because it reminds how fortunate I am that, while my generation grew up looking for heroes in pop-culture, I was being raised by a superhero.

Beating on Death's Door

2011-03-26T07:38:00.000-07:00

She's a slick one, born of greed
Speaking endless words, long and empty
A beggar who still wants to choose
A dethroned queen still demands her due
If you want something for nothing you take what you get
A virgin whore in a dirty wedding dress

Scream for salvation, beating on death's door
But just be careful what you wish for

There's a blood stain on the ceiling
But you're the only duck in the shooting gallery
Trying to look out through a bricked-in window
Your destiny lies in the alley below
Trying to see yourself in a shattered mirror
When all else fails, she holds you with broken arms
There's poison in her veins, but the bitch comes for free
A quick fix for all that you think that you need

Scream for salvation, beating on death's door
But just be careful what you wish for
The patron saint of fools answers all your requests
She's all yours now, so deal with it

She’s all yours now
She’s all yours
Your whore, deal with it

There's no shoulder left to cry wolf on
You're tied in knots that can't be undone
No more warnings will fall on deaf ears
You lied too many times, now no one cares

No one cares
No one cares
You liar
No one cares
No one cares

An empty promise with a heart of tin
Her crooked smile beguiles and it draws you within
The hope for something more, all that you wish for
A kick to the head and a boot to the door
Chasing a crack under the lady’s clothes
A paper trail ends in choking smoke
But you know you lit the match yourself
Play the burning cards that you dealt

Scream for salvation, beating on death's door
But just be careful what you wish for
The patron saint of fools answers all your requests
She's all yours now, so deal with it

She's all yours now, so deal with it
She's all yours now, so deal with it
-Lamb of God

More Manhattans

2011-03-23T15:01:00.000-07:00

In response to recent comments left by two of my most loyal readers, I made cherry syrup last week. Not being in the mood for macerating, I bought the only 100% cherry juice I could find at Hy-Vee, which was actually black cherry juice. The result was definitely not anything like grenadine (duh) but was also more than simply for color, as it does taste like sugary black cherries (duh).

I then spent the next several days trying to make a delicious Manhattan, as that’s the only drink I’ve heard of that bartenders sometimes use cherry syrup in. While it was possibly the first cocktail I learned how to make, I’m not actually a big fan. In fact, I don’t think I’ve enjoyed drinking one since running out of Molly’s delicious brandy-soaked (I think that’s what they were) cherries that made anything taste good. However, I am currently reading the informative book, “The Joy of Mixology,” by Gary Regan, a true cocktail-making expert, and the Manhattan is his favorite drink.

Allow me to break the drink down into its component elements and possible variations: (1)The base liquor can be either rye whiskey or bourbon, and my cupboard limited me to Russell Reserve rye and Weller’s Reserve bourbon. (2)The next ingredient is sweet vermouth, and I had Noilly Pratt and Carpana Antica in stock. (3)The drink needs bitters, and although I’ve always used Angostura, Regan suggests trying Peychaud’s or orange bitters. (I did not try orange bitters). (4)Although not a “correct” ingredient, it is common to add simple syrup, juice from the cherry jar or cherry syrup. (5)Shaken or stirred? (Rule of thumb: if the drink doesn’t contain any non-alcoholic ingredients, stir.) (6)Finally, the drink is usually garnished with a cherry, but Regan suggests a lemon twist instead.

When thoroughly explored, it becomes quickly obvious that even a simple drink can be made any number of ways. And that’s not even taking various ratios into consideration. I think I only made two variations using the cherry syrup before I decided it was a sure-fire way to ruin the drink. After two days without drinking anything worth drinking, I took a day off to drink Old Fashioneds (I have no idea whether that’s the correct plural form of Old Fashioned), a drink which I love that is essentially a Manhattan without the vermouth. (I wonder if anybody has ever thought to substitute gin for whiskey in an Old Fashioned and call it an Old-tini?)

On testing day three, I took a sip of the following: 2 oz rye, ¾ oz Carpano and 2 dashes Angostura stirred- by this time I had experimented enough to confirm following the shake/stir rule of thumb does work best- and it was delicious. I then threw in a maraschino garnish which instantly ruined the drink. Frustratingly, I had just used up the last of the rye. I made another using bourbon instead of rye and a lemon twist instead of a cherry. It was good but not incredible. After that, I made a Lucien Gaudin and, while stirring, realized the total cost of the bottles I was using to make that 3 ounce plus melted ice sized drink was around $120. Jesus.

Incidentally, I was just surprised to find I’d written on Manhattans once before for this blog several years ago. It made for a funny read, as it brought to light both things I knew and things I didn’t know back then. I certainly no longer advocate the recipe I recommended on that post.

Postcards

2011-03-18T08:53:00.000-07:00

In the days before Facebook, if you wanted to keep in touch with friends and relatives but couldn’t think of much to say to them, you sent them a postcard. The brilliance of the postcard is the side opposite where you are supposed to write has been decorated for you. Most postcards illustrate a location and are intended to be used by travelers to keep in touch with their loved ones back home. These were also frequently used to let others know when they’d be arriving (“Got a flat tire here and will have to wait until Monday to get it fixed. Hopefully, we can get there by Thursday...”). I quite enjoy looking through written on postcards at antique shops. Most of the scribblings are barely legible and mundane, but contemplating why a particular postcard was chosen by the sender and why it was kept by the recipient can be titillating. Two days ago I couldn’t resist spending a dollar on a head-scratcher of a postcard. The front is not a picture but a poem:

The Cynic’s Toast
Here’s to the glass we so love to sip,
It dries many a pensive tear;
‘Tis not so sweet as a woman’s lip,
But a d— sight more sincere.

Underneath has been handwritten “aint (sic) it the truth” replete with quotes. I turned the postcard over expecting a consoling note to a guy who’d just been dumped, but instead it is addressed to “Miss Bess Sanders,” and reads, “Have always known this but didn’t know how to express myself, not being verry (sic) poetical.” For a moment I thought someone must have been sending the equivalent of a raised middle finger to an ex, until I noticed the postmark date: Feb 14, 1910. The fact that this postcard was pristinely kept instead of immediately torn into a hundred pieces leads me to believe this was an incredibly ill-considered and, as the postcard was headed from Pocatello, Idaho to Springfield, Missouri, late arriving Valentine!

Last year I took the train up to Seattle to see an art installation designed and built by my close friend Jake and his girlfriend Ellen. Two artists who start dating and then start collaborating on projects run a good chance of producing nauseating results, especially when their collaboration is for an erotic art exhibit. I was very impressed when their entry turned out to be the cleverest thing there, which honestly wasn’t that huge a feat considering most of the artwork involved naked people being tortured. Their piece, entitled “Love Notes,” was a huge bed covered with over a dozen unique pillows. The idea was to select a pillow (not dissimilar to picking out a postcard) in which you both left a note for the next random person who chose that same pillow and took the note left by the random person prior. I guess you were supposed to keep the note, but then I guess the person before you was expected to write something worth keeping.

The exhibit inspired me to send a postcard featuring a different Yoshitomo Nara artwork to my long distance girlfriend every day for a month. This turned into a very nice ritual of getting home from work, writing a sentence or two and walking two blocks to the post office, during which I found myself passing the same lady walking with two kids and headed to the southern food joint that I never did try.

How To F It Up

2011-03-15T09:48:00.000-07:00

RP and I had been dating for well over a year, and she was nearly idyllic. We both loved watching Star Trek and 60’s era Japanese movies, thinking up catch-phrases, camping, playing Mah Jong and drinking whiskey. Besides, she’s gorgeous. If one were to nitpick, perhaps she was a bit too dependent on drinking too much. And she was always complaining about both her job and her living conditions. I was renting a room in a house owned by a condescending control-freak with a bratty eight-year old. She was living a few blocks away with a bartender, a waitress and a transient in a ramshackle house with one dingy bathroom. I really wanted to move, and it made sense to me that we should find a place together. She didn’t think it was a good idea.

One of our sources of entertainment was a bi-weekly sandwich making party, dubbed Tuna Tuesday, hosted by my friends MP, TR and JW at a beautiful house with a great backyard in northeast Portland. I first learned of this festivity because I had worked with MP, and she showed up hung-over every other Wednesday. I didn’t drink much at Tuna Tuesday because I needed to drive home before working the next morning. When I heard that MP’s roommates were leaving, I thought it was the perfect opportunity for RP and I to take advantage of. We could have an entire upstairs and full bathroom to ourselves for only slightly more than our current rent! I instigated an argument about the washing machine with my asshole landlord and gave him notice. Then I talked RP into begrudgingly giving hers.

RP and I moved into the Tuna Tuesday house on or around Halloween- just in time for the annual party. We invited everybody we knew, and over a hundred people showed up. Among them was JB, someone I met many years ago in Iowa when AS brought him along on what I had intended to be our first date. This may have contributed to his inaccurate estimation that I “stole” her away from him, as AS and I lived together for the following six years. JB is an athletic guy whose consistently calm demeanor strikingly contrasts my unpredictable feistiness. I think it is fair to say there has always been some underlying tension and subconscious resentment between us.

JB brought his current girlfriend MM to the Halloween party, whom I had met when she was dating another girl, at the time when JB was dating JM and I was single. Nobody else at the party had ever met MM, and she is delightfully sardonic or obnoxiously insolent depending upon your point of view, with no item in her wardrobe, including Halloween costumes, that covers her bosoms. JB and I spent that evening on the bar stools in the kitchen with MM squeezed familiarly between us while we chugged manhattans. I don’t know where RP was, but I do remember her last-minute sushi costume. I also blurrily remember an intervention of sorts where a group of friends hauled me upstairs and mentioned I might be ready for bed. The only thing I remember after that is going back downstairs. Prudence has never been my forte.

RP immediately regretted moving into this Tuna Tuesday house where I was destined to act a drunken fool. I, on the other hand, loved living there, and turned one of the two upstairs bedrooms into an office for myself. RP didn’t drive, and had an hour long bus commute to and from work. To kill time waiting for her to get home, I wrote posts for this blog. Eventually she got another job closer to home that began to require her to work late on an increasingly regular basis. Around July, the realization caught up to me that she wasn’t working late at work, and upon confronting her about it, she moved out with nary a word.

JB and AS are currently back together, living in Eugene, Oregon. RP lives in Michigan with her brother. MP is currently reading this. I have no idea what happened to MM.

Buck/Rickey

2011-03-12T07:28:00.000-08:00

Ginger ale and ginger beer is the same thing. Ale is beer, as I’ve had to explain to a bartender at a bar in Cedar Rapids. Neither ginger ale nor ginger beer contains alcohol. These days, the ginger ale you get in the soda aisle is sweet and artificial, and companies call it ginger beer when they want to distance themselves from that variety. Most of it, including the somewhat popular Reed's brand, doesn’t taste much better. If you want a spicy carbonated beverage that burns up your nose when you drink it (and you do), buy an authentic Jamaican-style ginger beer. The brand most easily found is Goya; look for it in the Asian section next to the coconut drinks or in the Mexican section with the Jarritos. Once you find Goya Jamaican-style ginger beer or something similar, you can make a proper Buck, a classic British highball popular in the 20’s.

One peeve I’ve become sensitive to from reading too many ill-researched cocktail books is those who think lemons and limes are interchangeable. Absolutely untrue. In my ample drink mixing experience, I’ve had better luck substituting lemon juice for grapefruit juice than for lime juice. A buck must be made with a half a LIME. Adding lime juice to Jamaican-style ginger beer cuts the intense spice yet adds a zest that makes it delicious. Lemon juice essentially waters it down a bit. Many buck recipes incorrectly call for lemon, and the only excusable reason for this is that they're using weak ginger beer.

Another peeve I have is when recipes ask for half a fruit or vegetable without telling you whose garden they are using to determine the size of their fruits and vegetables. I need precision. An average-sized lime contains 1.5 ounces (1 jigger) of juice. A buck uses ¾ ounces of lime juice.

When purchasing citrus, look for smooth, round fruit that is slightly tender. Most store-bought citrus gets covered with a coat of wax. Because the lime shell is included in the drink, be sure to wash off the wax. Next, roll the lime between the counter and your palm to help separate the juice from the skin. Cut the lime in half, juice the half and pour the juice into an empty (10 ounce) old-fashioned aka rocks glass. Add the spent shell and 3 ice cubes. Proper ice cubes, not those worthless little things my brother’s refrigerator spits out.

If you want a virgin drink, simply fill the glass with the ginger beer and you’re done. If you want it spiked, first add a jigger of London dry gin and swish the glass around once or twice before adding the ginger beer. Resist the temptation to stir anything carbonated- it makes it goes flat. Instead, trust the fizzing-action of the bubbles to do the stirring for you. Tangueray perfectly compliments carbonated highballs, but it is generally over-priced, so I buy Boodles, which is smoother, cheaper and preferable to Tangueray in uncarbonated cocktails.

A rickey is exactly the same as a buck except you use soda water instead of ginger beer, which makes it boring; like a wanna-be gin and tonic. However, you can amp the drink up by making a Royal Rickey- a very refreshing, summery drink. All you do is add a ½ ounce each of sweet vermouth (Vya, Noilly Pratt or Dolin) and real grenadine (recipe below) and stirring before topping with soda. Or, top with Jamaican-style ginger beer to make a Royal Buck.

Buck/Rickey
1.5 oz London dry gin
¾ oz lime juice
Stir briefly w/ spent lime shell, 3 ice cubes in old fashioned glass
Top w/ ginger ale (for buck) or soda (for rickey)

Royal Buck/Rickey
1.5 oz London dry gin
¾ oz lime juice
½ oz sweet vermouth
½ oz grenadine
Stir briefly w/ spent lime shell, 3 ice cubes in old fashioned glass
Top w/ ginger ale (for buck) or soda (for rickey)

Grenadine
Combine 1.25 cups granulated sugar and 1 cup POM pomegranate juice in saucepan. Stir while bringing to just under boiling. Lightly simmer 7 minutes or until thick enough to coat back of spoon. Allow to cool and keep refrigerated.

Flatworms

2011-03-06T08:17:00.000-08:00

Last night I dreamt I was with an unknown girl hiking in a forest looking for an area to use my camp stove and Bialetti to make coffee and we came upon a couple who invited us into their home which was absolutely covered with parasitic flatworms and my cats were there and I was worried for them and the couple didn’t mind the worms at all and they had pets also so I felt perhaps I was overreacting but my clothes were covered with them so I was shopping at a thrift store for new ones but every time I saw a shirt on a rack that I liked when I moved the hangers it was no longer there and I wondered whether things were actually disappearing or if I was going crazy….

Eighteen Percent

2011-03-04T08:09:00.000-08:00

How to figure an 18% tip in your head (using $30.00 as final bill):
1. Add comped food or drinks to bill. (30.00 + free $5 dessert= 35.00)
2. Find 10% by moving the decimal point to the left one digit. (3.50)
3. Find 20% by multiplying 10% by 2. (3.50 x 2 = 7.00)
4. Find 2% by moving the decimal point of 20% to the left one digit. (0.70)
5. Subtract 2% from 20% to get 18%. (7.00 - 0.70 = 6.30)

How to do the same thing using a calculator:
1. Multiply total times .18. (35.00 x .18 = 6.30)

The Human Condition

2011-03-02T10:33:00.000-08:00

The Human Condition (1959-1961) is a cinematic masterpiece, based on a novel by Jumpei Gomikawa, written and directed by Masaki Kobayashi. Over the course of three movies, each broken into two 90 minutes halves, this epic follows the life of Kaji (Tatsuya Nakadai), a Japanese man toiling through World War II.

Beautiful and shocking, hopeful and depressing, there is no description which can do anything but detract from the experience of watching these films. The storyline manages to remain compelling and unpredictable throughout, and the ending…. The acting is stellar. The cinematography, by Yoshio Miyajima, gives Kazuo Miyagawa a run for his money, which is the biggest compliment that can possibly be given. Stanley Kubrick stole the first half of the second movie almost scene for scene in making the first half of Full Metal Jacket (1987). Individually, each of these movies could be considered among the best ever made. Collectively, this trilogy is among the greatest achievements humankind has ever produced. Seriously.

Unfortunately the bulk of Americans don’t have nearly ten hours to waste on black-and-white and subtitled perfection.

How It Goes

2011-02-27T11:25:00.004-08:00

“I didn’t know you played the drums.”
“I used to but not anymore.”
“What kind of music do you play?”
“I played mostly jazz and experimental stuff.”
“Wow, jazz drumming is really hard, isn’t it?”
“I don’t know how to make sense of that question. It’s like anything else- whether it’s easy or difficult depends on how deep you go into it, I guess.”
“So why did you quit?”
“I got tired of starving to death a found a real job.”
“Well I play guitar in a blues band with some friends, and we perform at a bar downtown on open mic night about once a month or so. We’re actually looking for a drummer right now. We would love to have you play with us!”
“No, thanks.”
“Are you sure? We’re not very good but it’s a lot of fun!”
“I spent around eight hours a day for something like ten years practicing and hauling my drums around to do something that nobody will pay you for because everyone thinks it’s fun. In my experience if you’re having fun, it’s because you don’t know that you don’t know what you’re doing.”
“Oh, well we just practice on Sundays.”
“Anyway, I haven’t played in like three or four years now.”
“Oh wow, why not?”
“There’s no reason for me to play. I can just listen to Milford Graves or Jo Jones or Alla Rakha, et cetera.”
“But don’t you miss playing?”
“No.”
“Well, I hope you get back into it someday.”

The Lover

2011-02-18T08:11:00.000-08:00

The Lover (1992) is about a rich 30-something Chinese aristocrat who falls desperately in love with a 15 year old, lower class French girl. He pays the family to allow her to visit him, and she is immediately enchanted by his world of luxury and sensuality. Eventually, however, the novelty wanes as the depravity of the situation sets in, and the time arrives for the rebellious teen to explore life on her own terms. The aristocrat, born with a silver spoon, is crushed by the reality that everything about the situation made it impossible for the girl to love him. It is one of those movies where you can blame and empathize with both characters equally, which is one of the wonderful things about well-written and edited fiction.

The movie also brings to light the fact that some people haven’t spent enough time experiencing the real world to be able to differentiate it from fantasy. We have grown up in a world surrounded by fiction novels and movies bringing our dreams to life. We are continually surrounded by artificial images designed to manipulate our emotions in a specific way, and have become unable to see things from a point of view other than the one being spelled out for us. We think the end of everything is already written and all we have to do is throw in as much drama as possible before we get to it. We’ve become obsessed with reading and watching characters that reflect ourselves, as if that somehow justifies our behaviors, and characters with lives full of improbable adventures, which we think can be emulated. All of this comes at the expense of developing social skills, accepting mundanities and empathizing with other subjective perspectives. That is exactly why I drastically slowed down my novel intake after reading The Brothers Karamazov in 1997. Never trust anybody who is disinterested in knowing how to interact with, respect and treat others.

Last week, I overheard a pregnant co-worker discussing whether she should break up with her boyfriend. She revealed that they had begun dating last year because she was out of a job and needed money to pay for her son’s birthday party. She had intended on dating him only long enough for him to pay for the party, but then she got knocked up, which wasn’t an accident as she wanted another kid. As I seethed in silence, having had my fill of irresponsible, manipulative women, she concluded, “I guess this makes me sound like a pretty rotten person, but really I just don’t know what I want.”

If you don’t know what you want, for the love of humanity, PLEASE don’t lead others to believe you want them.

In the past, I tended to allow my life be led by my heart, letting love take me where it may. I took on daring escapades and pretty girls with equal passion. I was easily seduced. It took me awhile to learn that what girls love is the attention of being desired, and become overtaken with curiosity to discover how far you will go for them. Eventually, they despise you for being so foolish as to fall for their wiles and seek attention elsewhere. I haven’t been able to wrap my head around why all girls feel like they can treat my life like it’s a fucking joke. It only now occurs to me that women probably assume all of my pursuits are as futile as my pursuit of them. Eureka!

I have been played for a fool by women older, younger and the same age as me. It is highly likely that I am indeed a bumbling idiot incapable of being loved. My random obsessions tend to bore others. My tendency to criticize and pass judgment makes me difficult to be around. Oftentimes I prefer being able to have my own space and solitude, but I also like having others to share my feelings and experiences with. Women, however, will go to great lengths to avoid being alone. I get lonely also, but I’ve never spent my time seducing any random sucker in order to prevent it.

I’m sincerely trying to grant credence to the possibility that women don’t intend to bring men to ruin, but it is difficult to not see how calculatedly I’ve been manipulated. I can only hope that women are so blinded by their own selfishness, it doesn’t occur to them that males are humans with real emotions. People get so caught up in their own life that they can easily forget they’re ruining someone else’s in the process. One of the last things my most recent girlfriend told me was, “I thought it would work out.” I can only fathom that by this, she meant she thought I was so much of a moron I would perpetually tolerate her continually escalating meanness. In fact, almost immediately after that statement, she added, “I just figure everybody is as selfish and uncaring as I am.”

I didn’t agree with that assessment of humanity until the moment she said it. It saddens me to realize how scorned, angry and hateful I’ve become. I used to see attractive women everywhere. Now I only see lying bitches. There is absolutely nothing a woman can offer that is anywhere close to being worth putting up with their bullshit. I don’t care if you are a philanthropic chef who’s a Japanese cinema buff, Scotch aficionado, Giants baseball fan and can peel a hard-boiled egg with your twat- I AM NOT INTERESTED. (If you’re aware of a girl that fits this description, let me know….)

It occurs to me there are a lot of men out there who want to spend their lives running after women. Perhaps I’ve simply been mistaken for one of them. But I’m positive most of the women I’ve dated certainly did not want nor would allow me chasing after other women. They just want to be chased by other men, or in some cases, other women.

I readily admit that I have horrible taste in women. For starters, I have dated two divorcees. One of them stated the day after her wedding was the worst day of her life because it dawned on her she’d committed to being with that person for the rest of her life. The other declared, “I only got married because the idea was so ridiculous I thought it would be funny.” Knowing this, I have nobody but myself to blame for believing them when they goaded me with lies about wanting to be with me forever.

I’ve also dated a lot of girls who’ve had no idea what they wanted out of life. Since I’ve seldom known what I wanted either, it never occurred to me that that might be a problem. Perhaps the difference is that I’ve taken ample opportunity to explore and experience life on my own terms. I’ve made more than my share of mistakes in the process. In contrast, most women I’ve dated have a knack for shirking responsibility. It is easy to criticize others or blame them for your problems when you have never had to solve your own. Anybody willing to date me must have alterior motives, and I think wanting to have someone else to blame for their shortcomings is one of them.

Sigmund Freud famously asked, "What do women want?" Bob Dylan fittingly answered, "It ain't me, babe. No, no, no it ain't me you're looking for, babe."

Faith and Hope

2011-02-12T07:10:00.000-08:00

In medicine, there is a well-established phenomenon known as “the placebo effect.” The health of a person suffering from almost any ailment, including cancers and psychoses, can be measurably improved 33% of the time and even healed completely merely by convincing a patient that they are being cured. This demonstrates the very real and potent effectiveness of both faith and hope. Reinforcing an optimistic belief increases its intensity, which will actually increase its effectiveness. Increasing its effectiveness in turn increases its intensity even more! Simply believing something will happen to you will heavily increase the odds that it actually will happen to you, and believing it more will make it more likely to happen. Similarly, hoping for something to happen will inspire you to bring it about, in what is called a “self-fulfilling prophecy.” Inspirational speakers make billions of dollars every year exploiting these realities by telling audiences about these realities.

Thinking something is true will make it appear true from your perspective. This is known as bias. Our senses are designed predicatively, so that we often actually see, hear, taste, etc. what we believe we are seeing, hearing, tasting, etc. This is why reliable experiments can only be done using “blind” testing and control groups. This is why it is so difficult for any human justice system to be impartial. Our lives are defined by our prejudices. What we experience today affects how we experience tomorrow.

Faith has its limits. Believing in something doesn’t make it objectively true. One’s convictions only affect and are affected by one’s own (mental and physical) realities and experiences. Another’s belief that I will be healed, for example, only affects my health insofar as they are able to convince me that their opinion has validity.

The previous sentence will have acted as a red flag to many. The power of faith is so profound, the object of that faith will be adhered to no matter how absurd it is. I am of the minority that doesn’t believe in supernatural phenomena. Harry Houdini spent the latter part of his life offering a huge reward to anyone who could perform a supernatural act, to no avail. Things perceived by us as miracles are occurrences with likelihoods which can be calculated by laws of probability. It is not only possible but inevitable that eventually someone will, for example, win the lottery. Your chances of doing so will remain the same whether you are a psychic, a prophet or an atheist. People have a lot of misconceptions regarding odds. Did you know, for example, the 5 year survival rate for prostate cancer is 98%? That means 98 of every 100 people who had gotten prostate cancer in the past five years are blathering on about how it’s a miracle they’re still alive.

A Muslim friend recently claimed we don’t believe in magic in America because the government keeps its powers hidden. He didn’t provide any evidence to support this claim, and I find it a bit ridiculous. If magic existed, our government would be stockpiling voodoo dolls instead of nuclear arms. I defy anybody who believes in miracles to actually perform one.

Several blind tests have demonstrated remote prayer to have no effect whatsoever. While believers will insist this is incorrect, you won’t see any of them performing objective experiments on their own. The truth is they don’t want to know the truth. Humans are generally more comfortable believing what they want to hear than going to the trouble of researching claims for authenticity. This is in part because the powers of faith and hope are not based at all on what is believed or hoped in, but instead on how strongly any belief or hope is held. The major gripe I have with religion is that instead of encouraging others to have faith and hope, they insist others have faith in hope in the same things they have faith and hope in.

Gauche

2011-02-06T08:10:00.000-08:00

I tend to demonstrate a somewhat awkward social presence. I am inelegant in both posture and speech, which those who don’t know me are prone to confuse with insecurity, weakness or buffoonery. I realize I’m clumsy, but I also consider myself adroit; two adjectives generally considered antonyms. I am proficient at solving technical issues and making shrewd observations, but can neither dance nor orate.

While discussing my gaucheness with a friend the other day, she remarked that one conspicuous aspect of my personality was a penchant for unexpectedly abrupt responses. She accredited this to my preference for erring on the side of humility, which was perhaps a bit too charitable. The truth is; I tend to think in a rather elusive, fragmented way. My mind traces broad connections between a plethora of memories while I strive to maintain a consistent, encompassing point of view. My inclination for avoiding assumptions while exhausting possibilities predisposes me toward exploring alternatives rather than providing answers.

In conversation, it can be difficult for me to know where to begin or forecast where I’m going. When asked how my day is going, for example, my mind races through a hundred different ways my day has gone and in what ways that day’s occurrences can be qualitatively interpreted. My contemplative nature compels me to burst into a diatribe on everything in a desperate attempt at grasping its essence. Usually before doing so, it occurs to me the questioner doesn’t actually care, so after a pregnant pause I reply, “Fine.”

I’m not very good at conducting a linear conversation limited and focused upon a single topic. At the same time, I prefer not to belabor things with unnecessary or unwanted tangents. I don’t easily accept declarations, overlook perspectives or dismiss improbabilities. Sometimes trying to coherently get my point across is akin to attempting long division in my head. I’m not very adept at explaining and elaborating on a subject without being able to write it down and edit it first.

The way I write echoes the way I process information. I usually begin with a rambling rant which is immediately followed up with another tangent aimed in a completely different direction. Then I jot down a list of key words and phrases that seem useful in drawing connections between and expounding upon the rants. After that, I simply work by turning the idea fragments into sentences or paragraphs and fitting them into the composition. As new thought fragments occur, I continue to compile them under the composition. I consider the essay finished when there are either no notes on the bottom of the page or I have no idea how to fit them in.

About a half hour into this essay, which had a working title of “Confidence,” it occurred to me to compare my social presence to my writing style. After adding, “How I write this blog…,” I copied and pasted what I’d written up to that point and moved it to the bottom of the document, where it sat for several days. Here it is:

"I tend to demonstrate a somewhsat awkward social presence. I am inelegant in both posture and speech, which others are prone to confuse with insecurity, weakness or buffoonery. While I realize I’m clumsy, I also consider myself adroit, two adjectives generally considered to be antonyms.

While discussing my gaucheness with a friend the other day, she observed the perplexing thing about me is that my responses can be unexpectedly abrupt.
Another quality I possess is abruptness. I don’t like to elaborate or explain without being able to write it down and edit it first.

I abhor boasting. Whenever anybody irrelevantly elucidates their fame or success, my gag reflex is triggered.

Matter-of-factness (don’t tend to elaborate exaggerate or.)

The more I elaborate, the greater my chances become of pissing people off.

How I write this blog: words and sentence fragments, put in order, complete the sentences.

Private: don’t like to allow others to watch me work. Will tend to accomplish feats very fast in hopes they won’t be witnessed.

Flaw: sometimes try to avoid input. It’s not that I don’t appreciate the opinions of others, it’s just that I sometimes find them distracting."

While the way my mind processes information is a key factor in the way I communicate, my interests and biases are of equal significance. I’m curious to discover what earth creatures are capable of discovering, discerning and creating. Because I spend so much time conducting research instead of simply resigning myself to an opinion, I expect the same of others. I’m not at all interested in uninformed opinions. My thirst for human potential influences me to refrain from idle conversation, ego-stroking or living in the past. I desire to avoid clichés and whittle talk down to educated opinions and observations. I’m easily irritated by nervous chatter. I love finding those rare people who are willing to join me in finding ways of linking and comparing random subject matter.

One of the most bizarre things about American culture is that we are actually proud to be ignorant, and ridicule those who aren’t by calling them elitists and snobs. It seems most people seem completely disinterested in learning anything beyond their own nose, content either with believing their problems are the biggest problems in the world or that they’ve stumbled upon some simple solution to all the world’s problems. I can’t stand those who like to hear themselves talk- like that Lake Wobegon guy. I’ve witnessed entire evenings during which not a single necessary word was uttered. My theory is people can’t stand silence because it allows for contemplation. When I was younger, I found it confusing that adults didn’t seem to know very much. Now I’ve realized most people never learned how to think. We spend our lives being told how to behave and what to do by a bunch of people who spent their lives being told how to behave and what to do. I can’t stand this bandwagon mentality. Perhaps that is why I sometimes go out of my way to resist being agreeable. Success, popularity and convention are all reasons to be suspicious.

I abhor boasting as much as ignorance. I find it pointless and unnecessary. There is less value in what others have done than in how they’ve conducted themselves as they did it. Whenever anybody elucidates their accomplishments, my gag reflex is triggered. I absolutely cannot stand the likes of Oprah Winfrey, who has made billions of dollars simply by flaunting her so-called charitable acts. I don’t think anyone should do anything in order to be praised for it, in part because that means what is being done holds value in the eyes of others instead of themselves. For me, the need for external validation is a sign of weakness. I’d rather conduct my affairs in private, and often find myself accomplishing feats very fast in hopes they won’t be witnessed.

I have learned to be cautious about providing information about myself to strangers, in part because I am generally patently honest, even when that isn’t a prudent policy. Elaboration increases my chances of pissing others off. In my experience, most people are equal parts inauthentic and nosy, with untrustworthy motives and judgments. Most spend way too much time telling others what they think they want to hear; a game I do not play. Why the hell would I care to find out what you think I want to be told? This is why I believe criticism is usually more useful than praise. There’s nothing to be learned from being acknowledged for what you know, or more accurately, for what others think you know.

Like A Rolling Stone

2011-01-23T11:40:00.000-08:00

Once upon a time you dressed so fine- threw the bums a dime in your prime, didn't you? People'd call, say, "Beware doll, you're bound to fall-" you thought they were all a’kiddin' you. You used to laugh about everybody that was hangin' out. Now you don't talk so loud, now you don't seem so proud, about having to be scrounging your next meal.

How does it feel? How does it feel to be without a home, like a complete unknown, like a rolling stone…?

Aw, you've gone to the finest school all right, Miss Lonely, but you know you only used to get juiced in it. Nobody’s ever taught you how to live out on the street and now you're gonna have to get used to it. You say you’d never compromise with a mystery tramp, but now you realize he's not selling any alibis as you stare into the vacuum of his eyes and say, “Do you want to make a deal?”

How does it feel? How does it feel to be on your own with no direction home, a complete unknown, like a rolling stone…?

Aw, you never turned around to see the frowns on the jugglers and the clowns when they all did tricks for you. You never understood that it ain't no good- you shouldn't let other people get your kicks for you. You used to ride on a chrome horse with your diplomat who carried on his shoulder a Siamese cat. Ain't it hard when you discover that he really wasn't where it's at, after he took from you everything he could steal?

How does it feel? How does it feel to have (sic) on your own, with no direction home, like a complete unknown, like a rolling stone…?

Aw, princess on the steeple and all the pretty people they're all drinkin', thinkin' that they’ve got it made. Exchanging all precious gifts, but you'd better take your diamond ring- you'd better pawn it, babe. You used to be so amused at Napoleon in rags and the language that he used. Go to him now, he calls you- you can't refuse. When you ain’t got nothing, you’ve got nothing to lose. You're invisible now; you’ve got no secrets to conceal.

How does it feel? Aw, how does it feel to be on your own, with no direction home, like a complete unknown, like a rolling stone…?

-Bob Dylan

Pitching

2011-01-19T09:08:00.000-08:00

Molly recently mentioned the sex appeal to be found in a baseball pitcher’s ability to focus on her blog (in which she inexplicably calls me “A”), and since pitching is one of my favorite topics, I figured I’d do a copy-cat post… except far more exhaustive/obsessive.

There is a body-type that screams “football linesman” and another that screams “basketball center.” Baseball pitchers, on the other hand, come in all shapes and sizes. In order to pitch in the big leagues, you need to be able to throw at least two pitches, and you need to be able to throw at least one of these well. One of these must be a fastball, and the other needs to have either speed or movement that is distinctly different from that fastball. A starting pitcher, who is expected to face the same opposing players multiple times over the course of a game, will probably need to know how to throw a third pitch, unless he can throw one of the aforementioned pitches exceptionally well. A closer, whose job it is to retire the final few batters to secure a win, only needs to know how to throw one pitch if it is exceptional.

As a baseball travels through the air, its seams affect the air current around it, and different pitches are created by manipulating these air currents by altering the way the seams travel. When a pitch is released, the pitcher must be touching a 2 feet long slab, called “the rubber,” that is 1 foot higher and 60 feet 6 inches away from the 17 inch wide front of a five-sided plate shaped with two 12 inch angles aligned one each with the first and third base lines which begin 8.5 inches behind the front edge. One reason for the shape is to increase the difficultly of throwing a “back door” pitch which curves around the front edge but crosses over the back.

A “ball” is a pitch that does not go over the plate and between the mid-torso and lowest point of the kneecap of a batter, does not touch any part of the batter AND the batter makes no attempt to hit. The main goal of the pitcher is to retire each batter, which is called an “out,” before he throws four balls. On the fourth ball, the batter gets to advance to first base. This is called a “base on balls” or “walk.” After three outs, any base runners are cleared and the teams switch sides. Three outs recorded by each side is called an “inning.”

A Major League fastball leaves the pitcher’s hand and crosses home plate in less than half a second. A ball hit by a batter can return to a pitcher in less time than that.

There are a myriad of limitations put on the pitcher. For example, the pitcher can do almost nothing to trick a base runner. Doing so is called a “balk” allowing all base runners to advance one base, and what constitutes trickery is a matter of such debate it is not even legal for anyone to question or argue a called balk. (The pitcher can fake a throw if he is not touching the rubber when he does so.) A pitcher also can’t use a scuffed or otherwise affected ball, throw a softball-style windmill pitch or lick his fingers and then touch the ball without wiping his hand first unless he does so when he’s not standing on the mound. The weapons the pitcher is left with are skill, determination, guile, nerves of steel and eight teammates. The overall strategy of the pitcher is to get and keep the batter off balance and out of rhythm.

It becomes quickly obvious to anyone whose job it is to prevent a person with a bat wound behind their head from hitting a ball that it would be prudent to keep the ball as far away from that bat as possible. In other words, throw a pitch low and away. And eureka, this is the key location every pitcher needs to be able to deliver a pitch to. Not only does it take more time for the bat to reach that spot, it also forces the batter to extend his arms, eliminating arm muscles from the equation, pushes the batter’s balance forward and prevents the bat from getting under the ball and giving it lift.

Anybody that can consistently throw a pitch low and away will not only make millions of dollars, but if they can continue to do it year after year, like Greg Maddux, they will become a hall-of-famer. Baseball is really easy. Of course, if you keep throwing pitches low and away, the batter will cheat forward and anticipate that location. This can be quickly remedied by throwing a fastball high and inside, which will force the batter backward, which is no simple task when leaning forward, so he will be too busy getting out of the way to swing at the pitch. In order to entice a batter looking low and away to awkwardly swing, you must pitch inside but keep it low. But this is risky, because if a batter is looking for a pitch low and inside or if any pitch is too centered over the plate, the batter has a good chance of hitting it full force. The only reason to intentionally throw a pitch high and outside is if you’re trying to walk the batter. That’s pretty much how pitching works. On paper.

The importance of throwing a pitch low and away is also a major reason why, with rare exception, it is advantageous for a right-handed pitcher to face a batter on the right-handed or third base side of the plate and vice-versa. This is because the natural arc of a pitch thrown by a right-hander will tend to cause it to go away from the third base side of the plate. For the same reason, however, it is more difficult for a right-handed pitcher to throw low and inside to a batter on the right side and vice versa. In other words, strategy will be affected by whether a pitcher is facing a batter on the left or right side. A batter on the left-handed side has better odds of getting a pitch middle-in while facing a right-handed pitcher than a righty facing the same guy. Also, a batter hitting a right-handed pitcher on the left-handed side has a better angle to see the ball as it is released from the right-hander’s hand. An important aspect of any pitcher is his ability to hide the ball, distract the eye of the batter and/or be unpredictable before and as he throws. Before a batter can hit the ball, he first has to be able to see it. Then, he has milliseconds to judge its angle, spin and speed and react.

There is a little more to striking a baseball than the bat simply connecting with the ball. The bat has a so-called “sweet-spot” in which physics allows maximal thrust upon the ball upon contact. Although opinions differ, the sweet spot of a bat is an area around 3 inches long, which is exactly the diameter of a baseball. Humans can instinctually intuit the sweet-spot of a bat better than modern physics, which, frankly, is pretty freaking awesome. That is to say it’s really, really difficult to squarely hit a moving baseball with a cylindrical piece of wood. A successful pitcher is able to prevent a well-trained batter from connecting the ball with the sweet-spot.

Anybody who claims baseball isn’t a team sport is a dolt. By far the most common method of getting a batter out is by getting him to hit a ball poorly in play so that a fielder can either catch it in the air or get it into the hand of someone who can touch first base before the batter. The pitches thrown and the defensive alignment of the fielders are specifically designed and arranged to best exploit the weakness and tendencies of each batter and the strengths of the pitcher. The beauty of sport, of course, is that things often don’t go according to plan, and the true spirit of a pitcher is revealed when they don’t.

Being unpredictable is a far riskier strategy than sticking with what’s working. A disciplined hitter who recognizes an effective pitch will often simply wait until the pitcher throws something else. It is a rare day when a pitcher can throw all of his pitches with equal effectiveness. Some of this is out of the pitcher’s control, as the movement of a ball is influenced in part by wind, humidity and elevation. The pitcher and batter both spend the game figuring out what pitches are most reliable and deceptive as well as which pitches that pitcher/batter have the most confidence in throwing/hitting that day. Pitchers get in trouble when they lose confidence or have too much confidence in an unreliable or predictable pitch.

The “strike zone” or simply “zone” is the area above the plate, above the lowest point of the kneecaps and below the middle of the batter’s torso. The batter cannot have either foot completely outside a rectangular area, called a batter’s box, 6 feet long, 4 feet wide and 6 inches away from home plate when he strikes the ball or he is automatically out. Any pitch deemed to have traveled through the strike zone regardless of whether the batter attempts to hit it or any pitch the batter attempts to hit but misses is called a “strike.” Any struck ball that is touched by a fielder while out of play, stops out of play before reaching a bag (90 feet), is wide of the bag while crossing it after a bounce, initially lands out of play beyond a bag or strikes the batter while he is still in the batter’s box is called a “foul” and is out of play, but all other struck balls are “fair” and in play. A foul with less than two strikes is also marked as a strike. Any ball that is caught in the air except a ball immediately caught by the catcher with less than two strikes is considered an “out” and that ball is considered in play (even if caught in foul territory). A batter is out after three strikes, unless the third strike hits the ground before being caught in which case that ball is considered in play unless there is a runner on first base and there are less than two outs. Getting that third strike against a batter is called a “strike-out,” even if it hits the ground, so it is possible to strike out and still get on base. In scoring, strike-outs are represented with a “K,” and a strike-out secured without a batter trying to swing is noted with a backwards K. The “pitch count” is the number of balls and strikes accumulated during an at bat, and balls are always announced or listed first.

The fastball will always be the most important pitch in baseball. There are several different kinds of fastballs, but they all share a backspin rotation which minimizes drag, although the best ones still have subtle movement. To clarify movement- baseballs can move laterally or down as they travel through the air. One of the greatest fastballs in history belonged to Sandy Koufax, and those who saw it swear it actually rose in the air on its way to home plate. This is so commonly believed that Koufax’s Wikipedia entry actually gives an explanation as to why it rose, but since baseballs don’t have wings, it is in fact impossible for a baseball to rise or lift. In reality a rising fastball is merely an optical illusion, but since batters get very good at calculating the effects of gravity on the ball, fastballs with minimal declination, especially when thrown higher in the zone, can be very effective. Pitch speed is measured from when it leaves the pitcher’s hand, and even a fastball is going around 10 mph slower than the measured speed by the time it reaches the batter. As a ball slows, it is more likely to be affected by air currents, and this is why many fastballs have what is called “late movement.”

Pitches thrown with a twisting or limited rotation are called breaking balls. The seams induce asymmetrical drag that causes the ball to move. This drag also slows down the ball- unless you’re talking about a freak pitch like Randy Johnson’s slider. This decreased speed can be advantageous as varying the speeds of pitches interrupts the batter’s timing. A change-up is a pitch with backspin rotation but thrown using weaker fingers or grip so that it looks like a fastball but travels substantially slower. The point of a breaking ball is to give it movement away from or into and under the bat while the point of the change-up is to drop unexpectedly under the bat. Breaking balls and change-ups are collectively contrasted from fastballs by being called off-speed pitches. Every off-speed pitch should arrive low in the strike zone. An off-speed pitch that arrives above the batter’s waist will provide a good angle for the batter to see the ball and ample time for the batter to get the bat under the ball, all while the ball is conveniently dropping into the bat. Such a pitch is called a “hanger,” and the only reason every hanger isn’t annihilated is that, since pitchers never intend to throw it, hitters aren’t always expecting it.

Many people forget that pitchers want to avoid throwing in the strike zone as much as possible. They want the batter to chase balls that are out of the zone. This is best done by not giving the batter the opportunity to wait for a predictable or hittable pitch. For this reason the pitcher wants the first pitch to be a strike. That first pitch sets up the rest of the at-bat. In jazz there’s a saying, “It’s not what you play, it’s what you play next that counts.” Adapted to baseball, it is often true that it’s not what pitch is thrown, it’s what pitch is thrown next that counts. Every pitch can change the momentum of whether there’s more pressure on the batter to hit the ball or on the pitcher to get a strike on the next pitch. Pitch counts that favor the hitter are called “hitter’s counts” for obvious reasons. These are 1-0, 2-0, 3-0, 2-1 and 3-1. All other pitch counts tend to favor the pitcher, except 3-2, or “full count,” which slightly favors the hitter but can also favor the pitcher depending on the circumstances. Hitter’s counts add pressure on the pitcher to get a ball in the strike zone, so he will tend to throw a pitch he can best control (usually the fastball) and aim it dangerously more toward the center of the zone. Hitter’s counts are often called fastball counts.

Balls and strikes are determined by a human umpire. Different umpires see the strike zone a bit differently and the strike zone can change pitcher to pitcher and over the course of a game. The most irritating games are those in which the strike zone changes pitch to pitch. The more movement a pitch has, the more difficult it is to determine whether it traveled through the strike zone. A pitch is less likely to be called a strike if it misses the intended location, which can be exposed by where the catcher puts his glove or how he catches it. One task of the pitcher is to find out how far low and outside they can throw and still get a strike called.

Each major league team is only allowed to have 25 players on their active roster except from September 1st until the end of the regular season, when they can have 40. Of the 25, around 12 are pitchers. Starting pitchers are usually expected to throw just over a hundred pitches per game. The goal is to retire a side in 15 or less pitches. During the regular season, which is 162 games long, starting pitchers rest for four days after pitching in one, which means there are five starting pitchers. The rest are relief pitchers whose job it is to replace the starting pitcher for various reasons, often because the pitcher has become ineffective or the manager thinks another pitcher will be more effective against a certain batter. Major League baseball is divided into two leagues, called the National League and the American League, and in the 70’s the American League added a rule allowing for another player to bat in place of the pitcher. This is called the designated hitter rule, and the logic behind is since pitchers don’t hit every day to get into a balanced rhythm, they are usually the worst hitters on the team. In the National League, where the designated hitter rule is considered a cop-out, pitchers are often taken out of the game to be replaced by a better hitter.

Baseball players are expected to follow certain rules of conduct. These rules, often unwritten, are sometimes enforced by a pitcher in the form of a fastball to the body of a batter. I defy anyone who doesn’t think this is a good idea to watch a professional American basketball game. But seriously, the designated hitter rule can be tied to a frowning upon this tradition, as now in the American League the pitcher does not have the potential to taste a bit of his own medicine if exception is taken to his actions.

Baseball loves statistics, and one of the more complicated statistics is a pitcher’s ERA, which stands for earned run average. Basically it is a tool designed to judge a pitcher’s ability at preventing the other team from scoring, and measures the points scored by the opposition that can be blamed in part on the pitcher for every nine innings that pitcher works. A great ERA of a starting pitcher is 2 or lower. ERA does not work well for comparing relief pitchers, as one bad inning will tend to inflate the statistic for awhile. If I were in charge, I’d invent a stat called FBF, or first batter faced, to judge the effectiveness of a relief pitcher in retiring the first batter. But currently, the best statistic to use when valuing a relief pitcher is by looking at his strike-out to walk ratio (strike-outs divided by walks), which shouldn’t really be worse than three.

Another statistic every starting pitcher will forever be tied to is his record. A baseball game is considered “official” after five complete innings, and in every official game, one and only one pitcher is credited with a “win” and another with a “loss.” Any pitcher who leaves the game before it is official cannot qualify for a win or loss and is credited with a “no-decision.” Every pitcher that pitches at least five full innings automatically qualifies for a win or loss unless the game is tied when he is taken out. (For this reason it is very controversial whenever a pitcher with the lead is taken out of a game in the fifth inning.) If his team is or gets ahead in the same inning in which he was removed and stays a head for the rest of the game, he gets a win. If his team is behind or gets behind in the same inning in which he was removed and stays behind for the rest of the game, he gets a loss. If the score gets tied or the lead changes sides in any inning after a pitcher was removed, that pitcher will get a “”no-decision.” If a starting pitcher gets a no-decision, the win or loss will fall on a relief pitcher. If more than one relief pitcher pitched in an inning during which a lead was taken, it becomes the job of the official scorer to decide which is credited with the win or loss. Of the 32 games a pitcher can expect to start, the lofty goal of every pitcher is to get 20 wins in a season. In some years nobody succeeds in this endeavor.

A “save” is a relatively modern stat that determines the effectiveness of a pitcher in securing a team’s win by retaining the lead at the end of a game and getting the final opposing batter out. A player qualifies for a save if he enters and finishes a game with his team leading and pitches at least three innings, or pitches at least an inning with a three run or less lead or pitches at least 1/3 of an inning and enters the game with the potential tying run on base, at bat or next up to bat (which is called “on-deck”). If that same pitcher loses the lead, he is credited with a “blown save.” While it is not possible to be credited with both a save and a win in the same game, a pitcher can actually get a blown-save and a win.

For more information on baseball and how it works, read the complete official baseball rules, which are surprisingly articulate, at: http://mlb.mlb.com/mlb/downloads/y2010/official_rules/2010_OfficialBaseballRules.pdf

Discipline

2011-01-12T10:17:00.000-08:00

I’ve witnessed a ton of small-town drama in Cedar Rapids. It’s as if I’m back in high school, replete with cliques and gossip. Part of me wishes they’d just shoot each other like they do in the city. (This is the point where, to be pc, I’m supposed to add “j/k.”)

I have this co-worker who talks loudly, disrespectfully and constantly about everyone and everything. She is impatient and impertinent. She seems easily agitated and full of pet peeves. I can’t figure out why she refuses to keep her own council. In other words, she reminds of ways I have frequently behaved. But the most annoying thing about her is that whenever anybody asks a question, she fidgets and rolls her eyes. Then like clockwork, presumably because she just heard an answer out of context, she asks THE EXACT SAME QUESTION.

Frankly, most people annoy me. I used to be a staunch adherer to Socrates’ approach toward others, whereby one should point out logical flaws and unquestioned assumptions in others until they poison you. Now, I’m more inclined to let fools be. It is frustrating that the idiot majority has more clout than me in political and social decisions, but it is futile to try and reason with unreasonable people. It seems the better policy is to live and let die. It is possible and preferable to dislike personalities, attitudes and behaviors without letting them irritate you.

There’s this other co-worker who is paranoid about being disrespected and/or disliked, and as a result is easily rattled. He’ll take the subtlest things as an insult and lash out in anger, insisting upon his ethical superiority. He spends much of his time oscillating between shaking his head, gesturing loudly and laughing hysterically. He’s the type who brags loudly that there’s nobody in Cedar Rapids who can knock him out. I don’t see the point in being able to take a punch if you can’t even take criticism. I doubt he’s ever seen Cool Hand Luke. To me the question in life is not whether you can take a punch, but whether you can take a punch without punching back. To me the question in life is not whether you can be knocked down, but whether you can get back up and take another.

To borrow a scene from Fight Club, discipline is found in letting go of the steering wheel at 60 mph and staring silently and fearlessly into the oncoming headlights....

Internet Radio

2011-01-10T08:34:00.000-08:00

Around 2001, the accountant at the recording studio I was working at and I both applied for a job describing music for an upstart website. She got the job; I didn’t- which turned out to be a blessing because the company didn’t actually have any money so everybody was working for no pay. All I needed was another volunteer position!

Fast-forward a few years, and Pandora is doing pretty well for itself. For those of you who don’t know, www.pandora.com is a website that allows you to choose artists or songs from which it creates a “radio” station of similar music. You can include multiple performers or songs in each radio station you create, which is essential for preventing the station from becoming repetitive.

I have been using Pandora for a few years now. In fact, I am currently listening to “Allauddin Khan Radio.” When I first tried to create this station, there was no Hindustani music to speak of; mostly horrible World fusion. This could have been my fault, as the first names I used in creating the station were Ravi Shankar and Zakir Hussain. Now, their northern Indian classical section is larger than I would have expected.

Unfortunately, one can only listen to 40 hours of Pandora per month for free, even though it is riddled with advertisements and commercials. Fortunately, there are other internet radio stations. Last.fm, which has no listening restrictions, is even better than Pandora. Last.fm seems to have a larger underground music database. Although I think it’s possible, I’ve never bothered to figure out how to link artists with Last.fm, which is a credit to the site as Pandora would be unbearable without the artist links.

Last.fm does not have a pause button, which is annoying. It also does not automatically start playing when you go to the website, as Pandora does, and often crashes while trying to play the annoying commercial before the station starts. Last. Fm doesn’t play commercials between songs as Pandora does. It keeps track of every song you’ve ever played on it, but I’m not sure what the benefit of this is. On Last.fm you can comment on tracks (like on youtube), and if you click on the name of a commenter, you can see their listening history, which is actually kind of creepy, but useful for getting a chance to listen to bands others are constantly listening to but you’ve never heard of.

Pandora generally leans toward popular music. My “Tool Radio” station, for example, is lame- it plays a bunch of Rage Against the Machine, Nine Inch Nails and Nirvana- none of which have much in common with Tool other than being early ‘90’s band that gained huge popularity. The “Tool Radio” for Last.fm, however, plays much more relevant artists such as Opeth, Indukti and Isis. Of course, you also get crap like Peach and Deftones which is just grating and completely unwanted. Both Tool stations play Soundgarden, but Pandora plays their shit like “Black Hole Sun” whereas Last.fm plays awesome Soundgarden such as “The Day I Tried To Live.” Last.fm seems a bit more aware of member ties; thus they’ll play ASHES dIVIDE (sic as far as I’m concerned; pet peeve) and Pandora won’t.

I listen to a wide variety of music. Some other artist names I frequently use to create radio stations are: El Lebrijano (flamenco), Albert Ayler (post-Coltrane jazz), Art Ensemble of Chicago (avant garde), Thelonious Monk (bebop), Charles Mingus (music), Busoni or Debussy (classical piano), Slayer (heavy metal), Blind Lemon Jefferson or Skip James (blues) and Buckethead (guitar).

Convent

2011-01-05T08:51:00.000-08:00

Catholics have devised an ingenious method for recruiting free labor in exchange for room and board by taking advantage of the limited opportunities and insecurities of women who have had a relationship go bad or affair exposed and institutionalizing them inside a convent. Many women have been forced into convents by relatives as a way of punishment and to be “educated.” Others simply find themselves with nowhere else to go. Christians predictably stress the notion of penance: the idea that one should make good as compensation for behaving foolishly. The main duty of a Christian is to indoctrinate others. In business, this is called a pyramid scheme. In religion, it’s called a cult.

Christianity preys heavily on ignorance, insecurity, guilt and fear. It is very adept at exploiting the misfortunate by opportunistically enlisting the confused, stressed and vulnerable with the promise of guidance, success and love. Instead of considering or respecting the desires of individuals, Christianity claims to know what is best for everybody. By following God instead of your own impulses, you will find peace. Religion can be considered little more than a means of shirking personal responsibility.

They’ve established a notion that there are things nobody should ever do and calls them “sins.” Conveniently for anybody wanting to point out the flaws in others, most of these have to do with seeking enjoyment or indulging instinctual impulses, most notably sex. It stresses that flaws should and will be punished, while strict discipline and obedience will lead to an honorable life after death. This militaristic way of thinking is only useful for someone raising and training an army. Think about that!

After experiencing a personal relationship gone wrong, having a place you can stay for free with food provided and a roof over your head in relative peace and quiet while being able to distract yourself by spending your time serving your fellow man sounds idyllic. And probably no two things are more successful at making you feel better about yourself than being accepted as part of a group and helping others.

Another nice thing about a convent is that you don’t have to worry about personal one-on-one affection and intimacy. Real love makes you vulnerable and leads to disappointment. When grand ambitions leave you feeling helpless with your faith in humankind shattered, it is tempting to resign to a simple life where little opportunity is given for anything to go wrong. With religion, you can simply imagine yourself being loved while keeping a professional distance from it. It’s nice to feel safe from disillusionment. Eschewing responsibility in favor of reliance on an omnipotent, omni-present being who controls the fate of all and loves you personally can seem very safe and comforting, even if that being is suspiciously invisible and non-communicative.

The offering of something to believe is especially seductive and vivid after one is confronted with betrayal or the folly of one’s own assumptions. While nihilism is an ironic concept, I consider it a noble pursuit. It’s pathetic to assume one must believe in something, so if one belief system falls flat, it is a necessity to pick another one. The notion that having made mistakes somehow proves there’s a god is laughable. To quote The Big Lebowski: “Just because we’re bereaved, that doesn’t make us saps.”

Disappointment is a potent libido destroyer. The celibate nature of a convent can actually seem a refreshing change immediately after exiting a disastrous relationship. After all, the desire for sex was a major incentive for starting the relationship to begin with. Perhaps that means sex is bad after all, right? Following that logic, it stands to reason anything enjoyable has the potential to lead to disappointment, whereas asceticism will never let you down- it simply keeps you there while providing the illusion that desires are tamable and fate is under control. Life in a convent encourages you to let go of possessions and carnality, which is exactly the situation you’re likely to find yourself confronted in after a relationship falls apart anyway, unless you find/already have another relationship to pursue. Living alone, especially if you’ve never done it before, is pretty daunting. You don’t have to live alone in a convent!

I don’t buy into the concept of karma. Christians prefer to call it retribution. There are simply far too many assholes living comfortable lives to buy into any sort of cosmic justice. While it’s nice to suppose that someone who has wronged us has it coming back to them, wishful thinking should never be mistaken for actuality. Future behaviors or circumstances do not somehow cancel out or balance past blunders. Believing this is a gross misunderstanding of time.

I don’t understand how one would get out of a convent. I can’t think of a career where it is helpful to put “nun” on your resume. A convent isn’t designed to help women get back on their feet, but a cleverly devised trap in which fears are reinforced, suffering is celebrated, disillusionment with the world is encouraged and a promised reward not arriving until after death. Indeed, a convent seems the perfect place to be for someone who would rather be dead.

Epilogue
There are as many degrees of foolishness as there are humans. A distinction must be made between mistakes and transgressions. The guiding principle I use for judging human behavior is that all humans should be treated with respect, and unfortunately this concept is not found anywhere in Christianity. I define a mistake as a wrong or poor decision made in earnest, and contrast a transgression as a deliberate attempt at taking advantage of others. I’m not suggesting that it is possible to discern whether every act is a mistake or transgression, but I am stating there’s a difference between the two.

Having or exploring a relationship with another human can rarely be considered a mistake. Continuing a relationship with someone who treats humans poorly almost certainly is. But in the grand scheme of things, trusting an untrustworthy person or failing to communicate successfully are minor transgressions.
Life not working according to plan does not make the person living it a failure. Mistakes can be discouraging, and contrary to popular rhetoric, there’s sometimes nothing to be learned from them except how to accept responsibility, pick up pieces, leave pieces and move on.

Being a manipulative liar, on the other hand, is a transgression, not a mistake. Once you’ve proven yourself untrustworthy, it is a very long, nearly impossible path to regain any sort of integrity. One method for expediting the process of regaining trust is to remove yourself to a place where nobody knows your past. Of course, if this is done to create new opportunities for exploitation, this act is in itself a transgression. But if a charlatan joins a convent in order to remove themselves from society, realizing they are a detriment to it, I can respect that.

My Cats

2010-12-29T08:00:00.000-08:00

Boo Radley and Nobody were born on June 21st, 2003. I learned of this through Amy, my girlfriend at the time. Her co-worker had three female cats that had all had litters at the same time, and Amy had volunteered to take one off her hands. I was Four Square against it, but in compromise agreed to visit the kittens.

This co-worker was some sort of hippie/Buddhist/pothead/slacker squatting in an abandoned store in Berkeley. The place looked and smelled as if a port-a-potty had tipped over inside of it. Semi-feral cats were free to roam in and out of broken and boarded-over windows. The urine-soaked carpeting had been ripped up from the floor and left rolled up in piles for the multitude of cats and kittens to play and shit in.

There was something like 13 kittens, all a few weeks old, and amongst them was a tiny grey thing too weak to fend off the others for milk. Fortunately, one of his brothers, who was grey and white, made room for him so he could nurse. Then these two bounced around and played together. This camaraderie was endearing enough to persuade me to agree to adopt both kittens.

When they were eight weeks old, the kittens came to live in our split-level apartment. They had fleas and ear mites, which Amy got rid of with frequent baths and q-tips, both of which the kittens enjoyed very much. While neither kitten was particularly shy, the grey and white one was more suspicious of us. The all grey one liked being tossed around and spanked. I ended up naming them after characters from two of my favorite American black-and-white movies: Boo Radley from To Kill A Mockingbird and Nodody from Dead Man.

I was eking out a living as a drummer at the time, so I spent my days practicing drums in the basement, watching Judge Judy and running around with a light bulb pull-chain which was Nobody’s favorite toy. They would hang around while I practiced, and were eerily unafraid of the noise of my drums.

There was no way we were going to keep these curious cats indoors, but they did seem to quickly understand that they were not to go into the road. I started opening a back window every day so they could come and go as they pleased. Our back yard was full of gopher piles, and Boo was soon bringing critters in and leaving their guts for us to clean up. Amy didn’t like the cats being out after dark, and the cats did not like to come in at night.

Nobody will copy any new thing Boo does to explore what he may have discovered, but they’ve had distinct personalities from day one. Boo’s favorite thing is to climb on top of people when they are in bed, and Boo’s favorite spot was on top of Amy’s head. Nobody’s favorite thing is to be spanked, and he’ll tap you with a paw incessantly until he wins your attention and then sticks his butt in the air. Nobody’s nickname is Tapper. When he gets bored he’ll provoke Boo by poking at his hind legs. Boo sleeps more than Nobody. Boo is more complex than Nobody in that he seems to have a greater spectrum of emotions. Sometimes Boo will get really excited and will adamantly demand affection. At other times he will be aloof. Boo has a more diverse repertoire of sounds and better strategies for getting his point across. He makes an amazing chattering noise at birds.

Boo is more particular about which humans he likes. There are certain people, usually girls, whom he seems to recognize and favor. Nobody will go up to random strangers on the sidewalk, and it’s very cute watching people stop to pet him- except I get nervous somebody’s going to walk off with him. Fortunately, Nobody does not like to be carried. Boo is very protective of Nobody, and has never met another cat he liked. He used to whine whenever he didn’t know where Nobody was, and he still tries to keep an eye on him when Nobody’s outdoors.

When Amy and I broke up, I cried for two days- because I was going to have to live without the cats. This is the truth. In an act of supreme empathy and generosity, and because she was sick of all the crying, Amy offered to let me keep them.

I rented a bedroom in an apartment where I left the window open at all times for the cats to come and go at their leisure. My roommates had four cats, One of the roommates’ cats would piss in a corner of my room, which I successfully remedied by moving the cat box to that spot. A bite from another apartment’s cat resulted in an infection that required Boo to wear a cone on his head for two weeks. He spent that time walking backwards. When our stay in Oakland came to an end and I started packing, Boo ran for it and hid. He delayed the move for 24 hours while I outsmarted him with food to trap him. They did a very good job moving to Portland.

I found a place to live with this condescending prick who Nobody was seemingly fond of, except that he pissed on his bed a few times when we first moved there. I got a cat door and built a wood frame to fit it into my bedroom window. Eventually the thing fell apart. I began dating Rachel, who quickly became Boo’s all-time favorite person (to this day). Seriously, Boo would snuggle with Rachel in the cutest positions ever. She was very fond of my kitties.

Boo and Casey did not get along, perhaps because Boo likes to sprawl out on paper and she likes to read. Casey openly did not like Boo, which I found both startling and annoying, and insisted Boo knew she didn’t like him, but she either thought that notion was absurd or didn’t care. Nobody liked her very much though (exactly why that’s such a fun name), and, while he generally taps people at every instant they are not petting him, he was content to lie beside her and watch her read. Casey liked that Nobody is more like a dog than a cat. My cats are deathly afraid of dogs, by the way.

When we moved cross-country through the desert/south this summer, I crammed them in the back of an SUV and rigged up tubing running from the air-conditioning vents to keep them alive and monitored their temperature with a remote thermometer I bought along the way. Nobody got really sick on the first day and pretty much turned himself inside-out all over the truck. One night we stayed in a motel and they were so disgusting I bathed them twice. I had to keep them shut in the bathroom because otherwise Boo would have crawled and hid in the box springs of the torn-up crappy motel bed, and the poor guy cried and cried in that bathroom pretty much all night. They were pretty miserable during the trip, but recovered quickly.

Both cats always sleep with/on me, and I guess I pretty much let them do whatever they want except scratch on things other than their scratch pad and climb on kitchen counters. I guess they’re kind of annoying- but not nearly as much as most humans. My cats have never lied to me. Whenever I move, someone inevitably asks, “Are you taking the cats with you?” This never ceases to be an incredibly odd question to me. Of course! I fail to fathom what the alternative could be.

Boo rarely goes outside these days; I suspect because he’s sick of dealing with new cats every time he moves. Nobody is just crazy about my brother, and whines at him constantly, which I’d never witnessed before. Both cats have generally been pretty quiet, except when they think they are about to get treated with moist food, which is rarely. They prefer seafood. Which reminds me- I haven’t fed them this morning. I don’t monitor how much they eat but they’ve always stayed skinny. But when Boo gets hungry he eats too fast and throws it back up….

Begin Again Again

2010-12-19T10:46:00.000-08:00

When I first got to Iowa, I was feeling pretty sorry for myself. Ironically, I was very fortunate in having a place I could take refuge. I came to live with my brother, whom I last lived with 22 years ago. I didn’t actually know quite what to expect. It turns out he’s not dissimilar to me if you removed my cockiness. I am privileged with the opportunity to get back on my feet without desperation. My brother, like myself, is a generous person. He has this Mennonite cookbook full of simple meals that he makes most nights. I am going to have to get myself a copy. First, I have to get myself a truck.

The public transportation system here is hilarious. There are something like 12 buses that make a loop once an hour and meet in the middle of downtown, so the bus route map is comparable to the city with a child-drawn flower on top of it. A ticket is $1.25; however, if you want to transfer (which you’ll always want to do unless your destination is downtown), you have to pay again or get a $3.00 day pass. Inexplicably, they stop running altogether at 7:00pm, and don’t run on Sundays at all!

Moving to a new place is an excellent opportunity to reinvent oneself. For starters, I tell everyone here I’m from the west coast, which I feel is true. One bizarre thing is that everyone here seems to think I’m quiet and reserved!

I have had the chance to sort through every single one of my possessions this year and get rid of a lot of junk. Most Americans have an appalling accumulation of crap. The things I own that I like the most are my tattoos, which is a good thing.

For the most part, it seems the only people that live in Cedar Rapids are those who don’t know enough to leave. But there’s something relaxing about the quaintness of it all. It’s a perfect place to save money, as housing is super cheap and there’s nothing to do.

I got a job working with AT&T. It’s not bad, but the co-workers I’m training with are a bunch of nineteen-year-old mothers who eat ramen noodles for every lunch and fast food for every dinner, all washed down with soda, which they call “pop.” I’ve been inspired by the reality that, no matter how bad it might be for me right now, at least I’m not one of these losers. I’m reminded of one of my favorite lines from the apropos movie Lonesome Jim, “I think about ending it enough as it is; I can’t imagine having YOUR life.” But really these kids are smart, witty and driven. I’ve found myself learning from them.

Nobody ever did anything by saying “I can’t.” I am the type of person who has tended to be motivated by criticism and bored with compliments. Now I’ve realized that negativity is the real bore. There is no greater gift than the opportunity to pay someone a compliment. I still think people that need to be complimented all the time are pathetic.

There have been times when I’ve felt life owed me something. Now I’m realizing I owe life something. While I can at times behave like a bratty little kid, at heart I am a responsible adult… who should not date bratty little kids. Another key realization is that I have always been attracted to strong-willed, independent people. This really explains a lot about my life.

I feel so blessed with all that I’ve accomplished and experienced. I’ve done more this year alone than what most people can ever dream of. Just thinking about the food I’ve eaten and the places I’ve been this year: The best Indian food I ate was in Tuscaloosa, breakfast- Tuscaloosa, Thai- Chattanooga, sushi- Portland, Mexican- Portland, bar food- Portland, Tex Mex- Huston, home-cooked meal- Tucson, coffee- Tucson, cocktails- New Orleans, Spanish- New Orleans, Italian- San Francisco, Peruvian- San Francisco… AND since I can’t get a nopales burrito around here, I’ve learned to make my own.

2010 Top 10

2010-12-12T07:45:00.000-08:00

in chronological order:

Scotch tastings at Ian’s
Chant and Risa’s Oregon visit
Joseph Cornell exhibit at New Orleans Art Museum
Watching Portland Beavers games with the Lemon Ladies
Reuniting with college classmate Stefanie
Applejack cocktail tasting at my apt.
Surprise going away party in my honor
Meeting Makena and Ryder McLaughlin
Seeing Eric Sheldon and his family
Lance’s 40th birthday

Other awesome things included watching World Cup and playing a ton of disc golf. I also got to spend time in ten different states (traveling through several others) and live in three of them this year! AND THE GIANTS WON THE WORLD SERIES!!! 2010 has truly been a great year and I look forward to the next one.

How I Ended Up Back In Iowa

2010-11-11T09:20:00.000-08:00

Life in Portland had reached a dead-end. Also, I had met a cute, silly girl just before she’d moved to Tuscaloosa, Alabama for graduate school. Between semesters, she lived in my apartment. Mild mannered, she read a lot of old French romances and Raymond Chandler. In the evenings we made meals together and went on long walks. We shared a sardonic sense of humor.

The obvious odd thing about Casey is that she would persistently refuse to talk in the presence of others. This was so contrary from when we were together, during which we chatted zealously, that at first I perceived it as some strange game. She explained that she had severe social anxiety.

I visited her in Alabama over her spring break last March. We had a pretty fun time visiting New Orleans, sharing tastes in what we liked and disliked while there. It was annoying looking for vegan food. Unlike myself, a flexible vegetarian willing to try whatever, Casey was completely uncompromising and refused to eat not only anything non-vegan, but things like veggie burgers and hummus plates- because that is what they always give vegans to eat.

On the evening before my departure from Alabama we attended a party of her classmates and drank too many gin and tonics. She was very irritated with me at the party, and I felt my presence there was embarrassing her. She ended up declaring she would rather be going home with anyone at the party other than me and I yelled at her in response and tried to walk home alone in the rain but got utterly lost. When I called her on my cell, she basically said my being lost was not her problem. Two hours later, I found my way to her home and slept on the couch.

We reconciled over a volley of phone calls and emails spanning several weeks. I raised some concerns which, in retrospect, seem very much well-founded. Among them were the suggestions that she only liked me because I was willing to take care of her and that she thought she was better than everybody else.

As her semester ended, we planned for her to stay with me again that summer. But suddenly, she announced that she would be staying in Tuscaloosa and insisted I would have to move there if we were to remain together. I refused, and it seemed we were over. She stated her reasoning to be it was getting too difficult to be with me knowing we would have to separate again in the fall. On this point, we were in agreement. It was finally decided that she would buy a one-way ticket to Portland and in the fall we would move to Tuscaloosa together.

As my days in Portland neared to a close, I obviously wanted to hang out with my friends there one last time. She got more and more irritated with this, and did not want to hang out with any of them. I attributed this to her social anxiety. I began to realize that Casey did not really consider humans to have intrinsic value. She declared she didn’t care whether anyone liked her and meant it.

I gave my landlord notice, took several truckloads of items to Goodwill, sold my furniture, truck and a snare drum, shipped the rest of my drumset to my parents and mailed my books and CDs to Alabama. On July 30, 2010, I picked up a mid-size SUV from the airport and spent eight hours trying to fit what was left of my belongings into it.

Casey was adamant about me getting rid of certain things. I didn’t put up much argument about anything except my down comforter. She pointed out that it didn’t get cold enough for it in Alabama and didn’t match her other blankets. In the end, it was the last thing besides my compost container that I just couldn’t fit into the truck and tossed. Actually, I also couldn’t fit my bicycle tires and a doumbek but my friends Carl and Ann helped me tie the tires to the rack on top of the SUV and I gifted them the drum.

The driving itself over the next several days and 3000 miles went fine. The stop at my parents’ sucked because I spent the majority of the time sorting through piles of old stuff I didn’t know they’d kept while Casey got upset by what she perceived as being abandoned. On the last day of the trip, she got very angry that I had told how we met. I didn’t know what the big deal was, but she posited that she didn’t like that “others will think we’re a monogamous, heterosexual couple.” I have had several relationships end due to concerns over monogamy, heterosexuality or both, so I am consequently more tolerant in those cultural boundaries being crossed than others might be. However, my concern was that she didn’t want others to think we were in a relationship at all.

Casey had warned me adamantly that she was very particular about her stuff and that she needed to be left alone while studying, both of which were fine by me, although it quickly became annoying when she refused to let me use her computer, which could access the neighbor’s internet while mine could not. I quickly set up cable internet access so I could use my own computer and began looking for a bartending job. When that didn’t go anywhere, I began the application process to open my own cocktail lounge. She was supportive of both at first and did let me use her car, as driving makes her very anxious. It soon became apparent that riding with me in her car also made her nervous, even though riding in my truck and the SUV had not. Also, she did not like walking in Tuscaloosa as there were few sidewalks. Soon, we avoided going anywhere together.

Casey couldn’t stand for anything in her apartment being touched and would constantly point out whenever she noticed anything had been disturbed- including the drying towel, dishes, toaster and sofa.

Casey stated that she did not want me to meet any of her friends and got very angry when I insisted on going to breakfast with a friend and her after I had specifically been invited by that person. She spent the next several days reminding me how much I had ruined that encounter and it was the only time the two of us hung out with anybody else the whole time I was there. She would get very upset with me, constantly pointing out everything I might be doing wrong, whenever we were in public anywhere. My presence embarrassed her.

She found any point of view other than her own intolerable. Her philosophy was simply that you should uncompromisingly do whatever you wanted with no regard for anyone. I futilely tried to point out that this point of view was far removed from human social realities and sounded frighteningly like Ayn Rand. Her response was to ban philosophical talk about anything. She truly could not fathom concepts contrary to her accepted way of life. She had no respect for anyone, and had no qualms ridiculing any and all ideas contrary to her own. She found the idea of doing anything for anyone else appalling. In fact, ridiculing others is what she enjoyed most. I have never seen such malice in another human being.

She did not like being responsible for any decision-making. She phrased things with “we,” by which she meant for me to read her mind and do whatever she wanted me to do. “We need to eat,” meant I immediately needed to cook her something that she’d want. This came up a lot, as she would get hysterical if she did not eat at regular intervals. I had also been put in charge of all grocery shopping. This was very difficult for me as I don’t really know how to cook, but I tried my best. We seldom cooked together in Tuscaloosa. She did make meals sometimes, but would insist that I would keep her company in the kitchen as she did so- even if she was only making food for herself.

Casey had a way of smiling, bowing her head and batting her eyes that were very persuasive. I began to notice Casey would get unreasonably upset whenever I didn’t agree with her or she didn’t get her way. Then I began to notice she would lather on the charm in order to manipulate me to get her way and then, if that didn’t work, abruptly lose her temper and insult me. Once irate, she would play a game akin to one I recognized from junior high, called “I know you are but what am I?” For example, if I were to say something didn’t make sense, she’d automatically retort, “YOU don’t make sense,” etc. It was very difficult for her to accept she could be wrong about anything.

We had planned to take a trip out of Tuscaloosa every weekend, but all but one of these got cancelled. In late September, we randomly drove three hours to Chattanooga. The trip was fun until we both got hungry and couldn’t find a decent place to eat. After wandering around the neighborhood for an hour, the last place we came upon was a pizza joint. She asked me to check if there was anything she could eat there, so I walked in and asked the young waiter if they had vegan pizza. He didn’t have any idea, and Casey was furious that I had asked him instead of simply asking for a menu. Frustrated, I walked out of the pizza place. An argument ensued on the sidewalk, and she informed me it was none of my business deciding for her where she wanted to eat. I replied, “Fine; pick a place,” knowing full well that she would not do so as she absolutely refused to be held accountable for anything. I was nothing more than her personal assistant there solely to take the blame for whatever might go wrong in her life. After she refused to eat anywhere, we returned to the car and I drove to what seemed to be the “hippie” part of town and happened across a vegan place that turned out to be very good.

While in Chattanooga, Casey found out her dad was having bi-pass surgery. The surgery was much more complicated than expected. The day after we got back from Chattanooga she surprised me with the news she had gotten a plane ticket back to her hometown of Pittsburgh for the next four days to visit her dad in the hospital.

She was very upset about having to return from Pennsylvania, and stated repeatedly that there was no reason for her to do so. I meekly reminded her I was there and missed her, and she found the implications ridiculous. She had been too busy doing homework and hanging out with a friend to miss me. On the drive home from the airport, she informed me she’d be moving back to Pittsburgh and didn’t want me to live with her when she did. Continuing, she declared it would be pathetic for me to follow her there, but if I insisted on doing so, I would have to get a separate apartment. Pressed, she stated that I knew she was in a relationship with her friend in Pittsburgh. Until that moment, she had only referred to him as her best friend and had specifically declared she could never be in a relationship with him.

Hurt and surprised, I asked why I should be living with her in Tuscaloosa then. She replied she was being nice in allowing me a place to stay since I wanted to move to Tuscaloosa. She declared she would have never lived with me if she had lived in Portland, pointing out that it was far too early in our relationship to make such a commitment. When we got home she immediately and loudly began cleaning the bathroom, which was the only room I hadn't cleaned while she was gone. Confused and stressed, I tried to straighten the kitchen and ended up breaking a Pyrex saucepan, which caused me to burst into tears. I went to bed.

I awoke to Casey screaming hysterically that she was running late, coffee hadn’t been prepared the night before and there was no food in the house to make lunch with. I got up, prepared the coffee, looked vainly for food then suggested I could give her a ride to school then go shopping and bring her a lunch later and went back to bed. The next thing I know, she jumped on top of me, covered the sheets over my head and punched me in the jaw. “THE COFFEE ISN’T BREWING FAST ENOUGH!”

She accepted the ride but did not want me to bring her lunch, as doing so would have opened up the possibility of being seen together. I spent the next several hours in a state of shock. I tried to go for a walk and got disoriented. I can’t imagine the fear experienced by someone who has been the victim of abuse by someone bigger and stronger than them. Being attacked by a tiny girl was scary enough for me. I had no idea what to do or where to turn. Looking at a US map, I realized I wasn’t really that far from Iowa, the state where I perhaps know the most people, including my brother.

She returned from her classes and immediately returned to yelling. I curled up in a corner and covered my head. She chided me for being afraid of her and demanded if I was going to move out, I needed to do so immediately. I pleaded for her to give me time to pack in a dramatic and frustrated panic which made her visibly gleeful. She pointed out I hadn’t done anything while I was there anyway and anything I had done was idiotic. I kept as quiet as possible until I could leave because I feared for my life and didn’t want to do or say anything to send her into a tizzy.

Packing went quickly, as much of the stuff was still boxed and the rest was mostly glasses I’d collected to use in my theoretical cocktail lounge. I left my modem and wireless devices for her. I asked if I could have the cutting board that was purchased because I’d gotten rid of mine in Portland but she said no and I dared not protest. I also let her keep a Native American-style noisemaker I’d made many years prior that she wore as a necklace. It’s easy to feel bitter about such trifles as they become material representations of all that’s really been stolen. Especially when you realize she received a net gain by the experience.

I rented a truck and, two months after arriving in Alabama, drove to Cedar Rapids, where I’m currently crashing at my brother’s place while looking for a job. Iowa is quickly getting cold, but it is nice to be with family. I am satisfied I got out of there before things got worse, and things were certainly only going to get worse.

The overwhelming reality, as I sit here and type this now, is that I am heartbroken. It seems impossible for anyone, including myself, to fathom the disillusionment after having emotionally invested so much, everything in fact, in what has now been revealed as a fraudulent scam. It's not the first time I've been heartbroken, but that only makes it worse. It is hard to explain how it is to be so in love with someone only to discover they don’t actually care about you one wit. Right now, I have no desire in being in a relationship with anybody ever again.

Disc Golf

2010-11-04T16:09:00.000-07:00

Disc golf is an almost nonsense sport in which one tries to throw a Frisbee-like disc into a metal basket lifted a few feet off the ground and with chains above the basket intended to ensnare the disc. Disc golf courses are laid out similar to regular golf courses except the course can be much more wooded and there is no green. Most courses are of the par three variety, in which you try to get the disc into the basket in three throws. Perhaps the best thing about disc golf is that it is fairly easy for a beginner to pick up, but provides infinite challenges as one continues to attempt to lower their score.

One thing most who have never played the sport don’t understand about disc golf is that you don’t actually use a Frisbee like what you’d play catch with. Disc golf discs are smaller, flatter and made of a harder plastic. The two biggest companies that make these discs are Innova and Discraft, and although there are many others (Millennium would be the third biggest I guess), to my knowledge Wham-O, who makes Frisbees, does not, and this is one good reason why the sport is not called Frisbee golf.

There are several ways to throw a disc. Backhanded, in which you throw the disc across the body (the same foot as the throwing arm should be forward), is the most familiar and popular method. For right-handed throwers, discs thrown back-handed will tend to curve to the left. Everything is reversed for left-handed throwers. (When describing the characteristics of discs, right-hand backhand is the most-used reference point and is generally abbreviated RHBH.) The curve of a disc from right to left is called “hyzer.” It is extremely useful to learn how to throw and control hyzer shots. Oftentimes, it is the only way to get around trees. Also, from medium distances, you often want to hyzer into the basket rather than throwing straight at it, because if you miss, a hyzer shot will land nearer the target. The simplest way to hyzer a disc is to hold the far edge of the disc lower than the edge held with the hand. A disc which curves from left to right is called “anhyzer,” and is somewhat more difficult for a novice right-hander to throw and control than a hyzer. Besides raising the outer lip of the disc, I’ve found backhanded anhyzers are thrown if you arch your back (or fall backward, which is one important reason to stay balanced through the swing). It is easy to accidentally anhyzer a shot while standing on a left to right slope.

A forehanded throw, or “flick,” is a sidearm throw that, for right-handers, tends to curve to the right; in other words, anhyzer. Because it requires less motion, forehand is often a very useful technique to know for getting out of bad lies. It’s preferable to have the foot opposite the throwing arm forward, but foot position is more forgiving than with backhand, so you can be more squared to the target. You can generate more speed with less arm swing by flicking, which can make flicks better for headwinds and long uphills. Flicks tend to fly a bit straighter than backhands, but are not as easy to guide or finesse as backhands.

A third type of throw is a roller, in which you throw the disc so that it rolls on the ground. It can be a useful technique on certain holes if you can figure out how to do it. The thumber and tomahawk are two other throws, both in which you throw the disc overhand like a ball. These are useful for getting over obstacles.

There are as many different discs available to buy as there are body types and throwing styles, which makes choosing the right one(s) for you a royal pain. Innova’s success seems to lie in its ability to make beginner-friendly discs, but Discraft, Millenium, DGA, Maple Valley and others all offer good discs. I’ve seen people on the course who look like they’re carrying one of each disc ever made, which gets pretty ridiculous. You have to have pinpoint control before you can actually utilize different discs to their full potential. Because each disc handles different, switching discs too often will tend to hinder a novice’s game, as your muscle memory will be working overtime trying to coordinate how to throw each one. It is more useful to devote the time necessary throwing one disc and becoming familiar with it. Besides, most people carrying all those discs only use a few of them for their primary throws per round. The rest are mainly used for chucking in frustration after the first throw goes awry.

Disc golf fact #1: There is no disc which is incapable of hitting a tree.

The main differences in discs are:
1. How much they weigh. Most discs weigh between 160- 175 grams with some mid-rangers going up to 180 grams. They also sell discs which are 150 grams- I believe because in Japan it is a tournament rule that all discs must weigh 150 grams- but I’ve never used one. As a rule of thumb, lighter drivers go further than heavier drivers, but heavier discs are a bit more predictable. For this reason, it is preferable for mid-range discs, where you are trying to land as close to the basket as possible, to be a bit heavier than drivers, where you want to get as much distance as possible. Weight also plays a huge factor in stability, wind and glide (see differences #3, #4 and #5). Heavier discs are also better at getting through obstacles like small branches and leaves.

2. How much force they are to be thrown with. Each disc has what is referred to as its “speed,” which is the optimal force each disc has been designed to be thrown with. Speed has a lot to do with amount of torque or axial spin put on the disc. Like helicopter blades, the turning of a disc will help it fly through the air. Discs with higher speeds are designed to have less drag. You can get more distance with discs that can be thrown with more force, but a disc will have much more fade (see difference #6) if not thrown at its max velocity. I’ve discovered you can generate more speed from a disc by gripping it more tightly. Speed is the first number in Innova’s rating system. Discraft rates its discs according to distance, which is a combination of speed and glide (see difference #5).

3. How they’ll tend to move at top speed. This is known as “stability.” Discs which tend to coast to the right when thrown back-handed by a right-hander at their max velocity are referred to as “understable.” Throwing a disc so that it curves to the right (for RHBH throws) at the beginning of its flight is called giving it “turn.” Understable discs are more forgiving so better for beginners. Understable discs are also the ones you can make roll. Overstable discs will tend to hyzer more, which can be useful if you need to curve around trees but best avoided for straight drives. For whatever reason, discs thrown forehanded will fly in a tighter line and so more stable discs are often preferred for forehand throws. Stability is the third number in Innova’s rating system (negative numbers given to understable discs). Innova discs range from +1 (very stable) to -4. Discraft discs are rated with a number which combines stability with fade (see difference #6), so their discs range from +3 (very stable) to -1. These rating systems do not take into account two other important factors regarding stability: heavier discs will tend to be more stable than a lighter version of the same disc, and as discs age (see difference #8) they tend to become much less stable.

4. How they’ll behave in the wind. This has most to do with weight and stability; heavier discs will throw better into the wind. A disc become more unstable in headwind, so it’s sometimes better to choose a more stable disc or give it more hyzer when throwing into the wind. Conversely, tailwind will make a less stable. I might not be correct on this last point, but I believe higher speed discs are better for headwinds (because they think they’re going faster than they actually are) and lower speed discs are better for tailwinds (because they think they’re going slower than they actually are).

5. How long they’ll tend to glide in the air. This is what gives you maximum distance. Besides reducing drag, which is a factor of disc speed and disc design, lighter discs will stay aloft longer if there is no wind. It is probably impossible to control how long a disc will glide, and for that reason the total length of flight of lighter discs is less predictable. This is the second number in Innova’s rating system.

6. How much they’ll tend to turn as they slow down. As a disc descends, it will drift to the left for right-handed backhand throwers. This is called fade and is the final number in Innova’s rating system. More fade can be a good thing depending on the route from the tee to the basket. Discs thrown at a speed lower than its top rated speed with have increased fade. Beginners should get discs with less fade as it makes it harder to predict where the disc will land.

7. Their grip. You don’t want a disc to slip out of your hand, which is why you should always have a towel to dry your discs off. Translucent discs (Innova’s are called Champion plastic while Discraft’s are called Z plastic) are less tacky, which I tend to prefer for drivers but not putters.

8. How long they’ll last. All plastic degrades over time, but some plastics are more durable. As they age, discs become more understable. Innova’s Pro series discs age frustratingly quickly. This fact makes disc golf a real consumer sport, because if you play a lot, you must continually buy new discs to replace old ones. If a new disc is overstable, don’t be too quick to dismiss or get rid of it, because you might simply have to break it in or gain throwing experience.

Most companies have a translucent and an opaque line of discs. Usually the translucent version has less tackiness and is slightly less stable, but the new DGA sparkle discs are exceptions, being more stable than their opaque counterparts. You can get discs in an array of colors. Purchasing discs of various colors becomes helpful in being able to easily tell your own discs apart. I have found that black and yellow discs especially but also white ones blend into the ground and can be a pain to try and find. I even own a disc ridiculously colored in what I call autumn camouflage.

Here are disc flight charts for Innova drivers, Innova mid-range and putters, Discraft and DGA. More complicated than you thought, huh? I’ll try to simplify. For beginners, I would suggest starting with two discs- a driver around 165 grams; try an Innova Sidewinder, Valkyrie or Beast or Discraft Avenger SS, and a putter around 170-175 grams; try an Innova Pro Aviar Putt & Approach or Discraft Magnet. For more experienced players, I’d recommend adding a 175-180 versatile mid-range disc, like the Innova Roc, and a more stable driver, such as an Innova Wraith or Discraft Nuke or Surge. A couple discs to check out from companies other than Innova and Discraft: the DGA Rogue driver and the Maple Valley putter.

In disc golf, the first throw is from a platform, called a tee. You can move on the tee during the throw and can release the disc from anywhere on the tee. On a long drive, you are trying to throw the disc as far as you can, landing it in a spot free of obstacles. It is very common for people to brag that they can throw a disc 400-500 feet. That’s much further away than most baskets at most courses. Most experienced throwers can consistently get their drive over 300 feet on a level plain (downhill throws go further and uphill throws shorter). To maximize distance, I grip the disc tightly pushed into the palm with all four finger tips against the inside lip under the disc and the thumb flat on top and throw with force enough to rip the disc out of my hand (instead of letting it go).

On all subsequent throws one foot must be in the area where the previous throw landed when you release your disc. To mark the line of release, you’re supposed to use a marker, which is a small disc placed so it touches the edge of the thrown disc at its point closest to the basket, but most only use these for tournaments. Up until you are 10 meters (about 30 feet) from the basket, you may still step into the throw and follow-through one step past the marker. If closer than 10 meters, your body must remain balanced or stationary (I suppose to prevent you from being able to lean into or jump at the target). A disc is considered in the basket when it comes to rest connected to any part of it or the chains; but not on the very top of the apparatus holding the chains (a disc landing here is called a DROT) or touching the pole underneath the basket.

It is helpful to have what’s called a fairway driver, which is basically a disc designed for the 250 foot range; typical for a short drive or long second shot. Because fairway drivers have more drag than long distance drivers, they will not go as far but will have less fade than a long distance driver would if thrown the same distance. Most beginners should use the same fairway driver for their initial drive and fairway drives because they won’t have the technique required to be able to generate enough rotation from their tee motion to get a high-speed driver up to speed, so the disc will have tons of fade. Once you can throw a fairway driver straight or get it to turn with consistency, then it’ll be time to buy a high-speed driver.

Everybody seems to differ on how to throw mid-range shots, which I think of as being between the 75-225 feet range on a level surface. There is a technique some used called the jump-putt, but I find it easier to set my feet as you would a regular golf shot (shoulder width apart, with toes positioned so a line between them points toward the basket) and control the distance of the disk by adjusting the finger grip, straightening the fingers so they’re less against the inside lip edge and more flat along the bottom for shorter shots. One trick I sometimes utilize is that if you want to throw a mid-range shot with a lot of hyzer, you can simply throw a driver with less speed than it is intended to be thrown with.

On puts, around 75 feet or less from the basket, I point the lead toe at the basket and rock my hips, pushing my arm out from my abdomen, making sure to keep my wrist stiff and my fingers loose, resting the forefinger flat on the outer edge to minimize disc spin. Remember, even a putter will go 200 feet or more if thrown with full velocity.

One inevitable if you play enough disc golf is disc envy. Whenever you see someone else throw a disc 350 feet, you automatically want to know what brand they’re using. Guess what? Chances are good they could take whatever disc you are using and throw it that far, too.

To Be Continued!

2010-10-21T10:26:00.000-07:00

When I declared I was leaving, her response was, “But I didn’t do anything wrong.”

Now I find myself about to encounter winter for the first time this century. Looking for work is an extremely frustrating endeavor. This is a very easy fact for those with an income to forget. The temptation to wallow in self-pity is nearly overwhelming. At first, I’d resist by reminding myself that feeling sorry for myself didn’t make any sense since I’d gotten myself into this mess to begin with. But I’m beginning to realize that is also overstated. I will continue to persevere against all odds because that is what I’ve always done. Frankly, my willingness to defy a life of complacent resignation is how I am where I am, and that is something to be proud of. One of my favorite quotes comes from Theodore Roosevelt: “He who never fails rarely does anything.”

I will continue to move forward, living my life the only way I know: fearless.

Alabama Day One

2010-08-10T09:29:00.000-07:00

Later today I will begin looking for a job. I am excitedly anticipating the possibilities. My future is an unknown. I love to discover and explore. I love change.

Last week, after getting rid of a lot of junk, I moved to Tuscaloosa, Alabama in a rented SUV. After dropping that vehicle off near the Birmingham airport and getting into a tiny Toyota Yaris, I spied a thrift store and decided to check it out. Thrift stores are one of my favorite things; and I was in need of a few items.

Although the store didn’t advertise that it was church affiliated, a Baptist preacher blared overhead. There wasn’t much to be found other than furniture, but I picked up some cat dishes and my girlfriend (the reason for the move) found two large bags she thought might be good for carrying things while bicycling.

“How ya’ll doin’?” the checkout lady inquired earnestly. “What’s your t-shirt say? Whaaat wouuuld P-P-Pycird do… I guess I don’t know what that means.” Behind her were a picture of Jesus and some Bible verses.

“It’s a Star Trek reference,” I muttered, not bothering to explain further or correct her mispronunciation of the Next Generation captain’s name. “I don’t need a bag,” I quickly added as she reached for one.

“That’s alright, I’m gonna give you one anyway. Everyone’s special in this place.” Um, oookay. I dared not protest, although ‘the environment’s special, too,’ came to mind. “I’ll wrap these bowls for ya’ll too.” My girlfriend had gone to look at a dress or something, so the cashier was using ‘ya’ll’ as a singular pronoun.

“Thanks.”

“Wow, what’s that on your arm? That’s different,” she observed rhetorically. The last time someone commented on my arm tattoo was in the Atlanta airport. In my recent hometown of Portland, people are more likely to ask why you don’t have a tattoo. “I like tattoos,” she quickly added.

“Me too.” I attempted to hide the dryness in my voice.

“Ya’ll on vacation?” In retrospect, the nature of the query is obvious, but at the time it caught me completely off-guard. Why in hell would anybody go to Alabama on vacation? I naively assumed that she was asking because of the bags, which she was currently ridiculously shoving into a plastic bag.

“No, we’re just buying a couple bags,” I replied strangely as my girlfriend appeared.

“How ya’ll doin’?” Once again, the cashier managed to make what one would assume to be a frivolous comment not sound automatic.

My girlfriend smiled, “Fine thanks.” I paid for the items.

“Ya’ll have blessed day,” she said to me. Going out of her way to lean toward my girlfriend, she added, “Ya’ll have a blessed day, too.”

Heart of Gold

2010-05-23T09:19:00.000-07:00

I want to live
I want to give
I've been a miner
For a heart of gold
It's these expressions
I never give
That keep me searching
For a heart of gold
And I'm getting old
Keeps me searching
For a heart of gold
And I'm getting old

I've been to Hollywood
I've been to Redwood
I crossed the ocean
For a heart of gold
I've been in my mind
It's such a fine line
That keeps me searching
For a heart of gold
And I'm getting old
Keeps me searching
For a heart of gold
And I'm getting old

Keep me searching
For a heart of gold
You keep me searching
For a heart of gold
And I'm growing old
I've been a miner
For a heart of gold

-Neil Young

Exes

2010-05-01T10:23:00.000-07:00

I know people who don’t have any ex-girlfriends. There is either something very wrong or very right with these people. Some have dated evil people with whom any future contact should be avoided at all costs. I have more than my fair share of exes (seriously; sheesh), and I feel fortunate that I have stayed in touch with all but one of them. (She did send me an asinine email about a year ago and also has her Facebook profile set to “public” so the whole world can see she’s a complete moron aka ultra-conservative religious-right fanatic.)

I consider an ex anybody you’ve dated for over a year. The others are just happenstance.

Exes are useful people to have in your life. For starters, they know you better than yourself and have seen you at your worst, so you can talk with them about ANYTHING. Beyond that, different exes understand you in different ways and you learn different things (about yourself) from them. I still frequently laugh to myself about an ex who was fond of saying, “Oh I’m sorry- did I hurt your stupid little feelings?” THAT was a person who knew me well. Also, it is sometimes helpful to find out that their relationships continue to fail for the same reasons just as yours have.

One caveat is that you can’t be friends with an ex until you’ve completely avoided them for awhile after the breakup. Space is good. It allows you to realize that everything was not their or your fault and dilutes the love you have for them enough to make them bearable to be with. As I’ve said before, I have never fallen out of love with anybody, and so besides family and current girlfriend, exes are the people I love the most in this world.

There are some exes with things that they will never reveal to you or that you should never reveal to them. Accept this. Another unsettling thing about exes is that you’ll tend to find out that some to most of your friends actually like your ex better than you. Face it; that may be a factor in why you’re no longer together.

Sex with the ex. Quite the conundrum. It’s always fallen into the “more trouble than it’s worth” category for me, personally. But if all parties understand it didn’t work and it’s never gonna work you could have yourself a pretty convenient NSA thing going on. The reality is it’s much easier to finagle yourself into bed with someone you’ve already slept with.

I have no idea where I’m going with this….

Demotivator

2010-03-30T19:00:00.001-07:00

Wallflower

2010-03-28T18:35:00.000-07:00

Wallflower, wallflower
Won't you dance with me
I'm sad and lonely too
Wallflower, wallflower
Won't you dance with me
I'm fallin' in love with you
Just like you I'm wonderin' what I'm doin' here
Just like you I'm wonderin' what's goin' on
Wallflower, wallflower
Won't you dance with me
The night will soon be gone
I have seen you standing in the smoky haze
And I know that you're gonna be mine one of these days
Mine alone
Wallflower, wallflower
Take a chance on me
Please let me ride you home

-Bob Dylan

You've Really Got A Hold On Me

2010-03-24T12:13:00.000-07:00

I don't like you
But I love you
Seeing that I'm always
Thinking of you
Oh, oh, oh
You treat me badly
I love you madly
You've really got a hold on me
You've really got a hold on me

Baby,
I don't want you
But I need you
Don't want to kiss you
But I need to
Oh, oh, oh
You do me wrong now
My love is strong now
You've really got a hold on me
You've really got a hold on me

Baby,
I love you and all I want you to do is just
Hold me, hold me, hold me, hold me
Tighter, tigher

I want to leave you
Don't want to stay here
Don't want to spend
Another day here
Oh, oh, oh
I want to split now
I can’t quit now
You've really got a hold on me
You've really got a hold on me

Baby,
I love you and all I want you to do is just
Hold me, squeeze me, hold me, hold me

You've really got a hold on me
You've really got a hold on me

-Smokey Robinson

Intolerance

2010-03-22T21:46:00.000-07:00

I don't wanna be
Hostile
I don't wanna be
Dismal
And I don't wanna
Rot in an
Apathetic existence
See I wanna
Believe you
And I wanted to
Trust you
And I wanna have
Faith to
Put away the dagger

But you lie, cheat and steal
you lie, cheat and steal
you lie, cheat and steal
And I tolerated it

Veil of
Virtue
Hung to
Hide your
Method while I
Smile and
Laugh and
Dance and
Sing your
Praise and glory
Shroud of
Virtue
Hung to
Mask your
Stigma as I
Smile and
Laugh and
Dance and
Sing your
Glory

While you lie, cheat and steal
you lie, cheat and steal
you lie, cheat and steal
How can I tolerate you?

Our guilt
Our blame
I've been
Far too
Sympathetic
Our blood
Our fault
I've been
Far too
Sympathetic

I am not innocent
I am not innocent
You are not innocent
No one is innocent

You lie, cheat and steal
you lie, cheat and steal
you lie, cheat and steal
you lie, cheat and steal
you lie, cheat and steal
you lie, cheat and steal
you lie, cheat and steal
you lie, cheat and steal
you lie, cheat and steal
you lie, cheat and steal
you lie, cheat and steal
you lie, cheat and steal
you lie, cheat and steal
you lie, cheat and steal
you lie, cheat and steal
How can I tolerate you?

I will not tolerate you
I will go down beside you
I must go down beside you
No one is innocent

-Tool

It’s Been a Long, Long Time

2010-03-10T17:27:00.000-08:00

Kiss me once, then kiss me twice
Then kiss me once again
It's been a long, long time
Haven't felt like this, my dear
Since I can't remember when
It's been a long, long time

You'll never know how many dreams
I've dreamt about you
Or just how empty they all seemed without you
So kiss me once, then kiss me twice
Then kiss me once again
It's been a long, long time

-Sammy Cahn

Omniscience

2010-03-08T17:35:00.000-08:00

Monotheists claim their god provides all the answers, but in reality it only excuses them from having to provide any. Any and all questions challenging the validity of their beliefs are smugly met with, “I don’t know all the answers, but GOD DOES!” They don’t seem to realize this is a non-answer. Assuming someone else knows does not mean that someone else does know nor should it excuse one from knowing themselves. I humorously imagine these Christians standing at the Pearly Gates and having God ask them, “Why should I let you in?” and hearing them respond, “I don’t know, but YOU DO!”

Christians love to challenge the theory of evolution. “It doesn’t make sense,” they declare without knowing anything about it other than what others who don’t know anything about it have told them. Um, have they read the Genesis creation story? It is LUDICROUS; containing no historical or scientific basis whatsoever. They love to ask, “How could anything exist without a creator?” but refuse to answer, “Who created God, then?” They don’t realize they are merely parlaying the problem. “They demand an answer for the existence of the universe. Their answer is simply, “God.” Yet, they get offended when asked for an explanation of the existence of God. In this context, isn’t “the universe” and “God” simply two ways of saying the same thing? For example, if, “How does the universe exist?” is answered by, “God,” it logically follows that the next question in need of answering is, “How does God exist?” Otherwise the original problem has not in actuality been addressed.

Gods don’t provide any answers; they simply eliminate the incentive to look for them. “Simply believe.” Most Christians would be surprised to know that the idea of BLIND FAITH that they rely so heavily upon isn’t even in their precious albeit mostly ignored- except for when it’s convenient for them to quote from- Bible. I’m fairly certain the term was originally intended as an affront against so-called “believers.” Blind Faith is little more than an Eric Clapton and Steve Winwood collaboration, folks. Wake up and smell the hypocrisy. If you can’t rationally defend your own beliefs your existence is null. You certainly have NO business challenging, criticizing, demonizing, questioning or denying anybody else’s beliefs.

Let me break it down another way: Christians claim their god is omniscient; or all-knowing. This is from the Latin omnis, meaning “all” and scientia, meaning “knowledge.” We now mean science, from that same root word meaning knowledge, to be the methodical pursuit toward acquiring knowledge. “Christian” literally means “of, or like, Christ.” For them, Christ is a manifestation of God. In order to pursue the ways of Christ, the very manifestation of omniscience, one must by definition also be pursuing knowledge. It can therefore be said that Christians who hate science are uninterested in the being they claim to worship.

No doubt someone will want to accuse me here of simply using semantics. On the contrary, I am accurately using semantics. I would LOVE for a Christian to say, “By ‘blind faith’ I mean I don’t want to know,” which IS what they mean.

Jambi

2010-03-06T16:31:00.001-08:00

Here from the king's mountain view
Here from the wild dream come true
Feast like a sultan I do
On treasures and flesh never few

But I
I would
Wish it all away
If I
Thought I'd lose you
Just one day

The devil and his had me down
In love with the dark side I'd found
Dabbling all the way down
Up to my neck soon to drown

But you changed that all for me
Lifted me up turned me around

So I
I
I
I
I would
I would
I would
Wish
This
All
Away

Prayed like a martyr dusk 'til dawn
Begged like a hooker all night long
Tempted the devil with my song
And got what I wanted all along

But I
And I would
If I could
Then I would
Wish it away
Wish it away
Wish it all away
Wanna wish it all away

No pressure could hold
Sway
Or justify my kneeling away my center
So if I could I'd wish it all away
If I thought tomorrow would take you away
You're my peace of mind my home my center
I'm just trying to hold on one more day

Damn my eyes
Damn my eyes

Damn my eyes if they should compromise our fulcrum
If wants and needs divide me then I might as well be gone!

Shine on forever
Shine on benevolent sun

Shine down upon the broken
Shine until the two become one

Shine on forever
Shine on benevolent sun

Shine on upon the severed
Shine until the two become one

Divided I wither away
Divided I wither away

Shine down upon the many
Light our way benevolent sun

Breathe in union
Breathe in union
Breathe in union
Breathe in union
Breathe in union
So
As one
Survive
Another day
And season

Silence leach
And save your poison
Silence leach
And stay out of my way

-Tool

Bogus Cocktail Books

2010-03-06T09:45:00.000-08:00

Somebody recently asked me how to spot a lousy cocktail book. The Cocktail Handbook, by Maria Contantino is but one example of such a book, and I thought it might be amusing to make fun on it.

Since I’m no newcomer to cocktails, I typically skip past the first part of books that tell you what to buy and how to use it and delve straight into the recipes. This book, however, doesn’t use ounces to measure the cocktails- it just says 1 measure, etc. But she’s not strictly using ratios either, as she’ll then slip in a teaspoon of something. So I had to go back to the beginning part of the book to find out what she thinks a “measure” is. It turns out in Maria’s world, one measure=25ml. I have no idea what a ml is, but no problem- I have a computer handy. It turns on 25 ml is equal to 0.845350 fluid ounces. Wow, thanks. That’s REAL useful. Strangely, I don’t have anything that measures 0.845350 fluid ounces lying around. She goes onto suggest once you get as good as her you won’t need to measure at all. I see what’s going on- she has no idea what amounts she uses. Whatever, the measurements in recipes are always wrong anyway, so I’ll just figure them out myself.

While perusing the front section, I couldn’t help but notice she neglected to explain how to use a shaker.

The book is separated into sections with drinks using the same base spirit, and I much prefer this to wholly alphabetized cocktail books. The first section is gin, and the first cocktail is the Bennet. I know this one! (It’s not as good as a Pegu Club.) But wait, check this out- her recipe is 2 measures gin, 2/3 measure lime juice, 1/3 measure sugar syrup and 1 dash bitters. Okay, so what’s 1/3 of 0.845350 fluid ounces? I already know it’s supposed to be 1 tsp, so why the unnecessary complication (especially since she uses teaspoon elsewhere)? I’ll stop harping on it.

Her instructions throughout the book are to shake with ice cubes instead of cracked ice. She must be a vigorous shaker.

Her 26 gin drinks are extremely basic and boring. A lot of gin and citrus juice combinations. Also a lot of what I call “genre” drinks: Gin Collins, Gin Daisy, Gin Fizz, Gin Rickey, Gin Sling, Gin Swizzle…. For a book entitled the The Cocktail Handbook, these are sure a lot of drinks other than cocktails. Her martini is acceptable. There were three gin drinks mentioned that I hadn’t tried. The Pink Pussycat was stupid. The Grass Skirt called for the drink to be shaken and poured unstrained into an old-fashioned glass, which no self-respecting bartender would do (you put fresh ice cubes into the glass and strain out the mostly-melted cracked ones). The Honolulu looked interesting, so I started making it- only to realize she was asking for ¼ teaspoon of three juices instead of ¼ ounce which was obviously what was meant. So I ignored the book (also using 1.5 ounces of gin instead of 1.5 measures or 1.268025 ounces) and the drink turned out pretty good, if a little boring.

Not having any rum, I paid less attention to the rum recipes and started reading the short drink descriptions. Turns out, they aren’t descriptions at all; simply conjectures on the drink name’s origin and punny plays on their names. These could have all been written without having tried the drink. The most descriptive she gets is “orange-and-cinnamon flavored” for a drink containing rum, sweet vermouth, orange and cinnamon. She’s a damn poet.

In the vodka section I come across the third drink containing grapefruit juice, and the third time I’ve read something like “This is the best way to drink grapefruit juice!” She seems to be under the impression that grapefruit juice is extremely sour, which is odd. She also often writes, “Try it and see what you think.” I suspect this author is a teetotaler. She couldn’t think of a way to comment on the name Volga so she didn’t write anything.

The whisky section continues with the stupidity. She doesn’t know that all bourbon uses sour mash. Here’s the description for the Thunderclap, an appalling beverage: “Too many of these, and that’s what a pin dropping will sound like!” I want to punch this lady in the face. She continues with the genre beverages- the highball, the sour, the squirt….

There is a drink in the tequila section called the Doralto that is simply outstanding. This one recipe (which I altered only slightly) suddenly makes this book worth purchasing.

I also discovered a decent and heretofore unknown tequila-based drink in the Poker Face. (She fails to correctly describe how to build a highball, but my standards are so low at this point I almost didn’t mention it.) The author claims gold tequila has been aged 2-4 years, when in actuality it is un-aged (silver) tequila with yellow food coloring. (The intention of gold tequila is for gringos to mistake it for reposado tequila, which is aged from 2 to 11 months.) I also created a decent drink by changing the Icebreaker recipe completely.

I can barely go on- the ludicrous Tequila Moonrise is described as: “After the sun goes down, up comes the moon!” She is fond of exclamatory comments. The Operator is “A great ginger-wine flavor!” The ingredients? White wine, ginger ale, lime juice.

New gripe: Extremely similar cocktails in the same book. The Sidecar AND the Tantalus? The Negroni AND the Americano (even after she mentions the similarilty)? (I had already forgiven the Martini, Gibson, Kangaroo trilogy).

In the champagne section there suddenly pops out a drink that the author has actually tried: the Bamboo. Or at any rate she gives an opinion on it. Curiously, for this drink, she’s suddenly keen on pointing out that the mixing glass and cocktail glass should be chilled, which is true of ALL cocktails. I’d try it if I had sherry.

Mercifully, the book ends. With the Yellowjacket, a boring mocktail combination of fruit juices, described thusly: “A yellowjacket is a type of wasp, so be prepared for quite a sharp ‘sting’ of a drink!”

Stinkfist

2010-03-04T14:29:00.001-08:00

Something has to change
Undeniable dilemma
Boredom's not a burden
Anyone should bear

Constant over-stimulation numbs me
but I would not want you
Any other way

‘Cause:
It's not enough
I need more
Nothing seems to satisfy
I said
I don't want it
I just need it
To breathe, to feel, to know I'm alive

Finger deep within the borderline
Show me that you love me and that we belong together
Relax, turn around and take my hand

I can help you change
Tired moments into pleasure
Say the word and we'll be
Well upon our way

Blend and balance
Pain and comfort
Deep within you
‘Til you will not want me any other way

But:
It's not enough
I need more
Nothing seems to satisfy
I said
I don't want it
I just need it
To breathe, to feel, to know I'm alive

Knuckle deep inside the borderline
This may hurt a little but it's something you'll get used to
Relax, slip away….

Something kinda sad about
The way that things have come to be
Desensitized to everything
What became of subtlety?

How can this mean anything to me
If I really don't feel anything at all?

I'LL KEEP DIGGING
‘TIL I FEEL SOMETHING

Elbow deep inside the borderline
Show me that you love me and that we belong together
Shoulder deep within the borderline
Relax, turn around and take my hand

-Tool

Dopplegangers

2010-02-28T08:33:00.000-08:00

There exists people on this planet, I’d daresay on this selfsame street even, with whom I share literally nothing in common.

It is not at all difficult to imagine a tall, blonde, overweight, unimaginative, uninterested, conservative, religious, dim-witted, gullible, insecure, unhappy, credulous, bullying, patriotic, materialistic, image-conscious, married female who not only procreates but enjoys kids, prefers piss beer to whiskey, cosmopolitans to martinis (or doesn't drink), eats hamburgers and hot dogs with ketchup, can't stand spicy or ethnic foods, loves shopping and crowds and coffee shops, accumulates excessive debt, indulges in pedicures, goes out clubbing and dancing, reads romance novels, listens to pop music, follows football, watches television- especially American comedies, finds fake boobs and excessive make-up attractive, thinks mascots are cute, prefers dogs to cats, hates camping, is racist and homophobic, thinks jazz music is a bunch of racket, finds museums boring, enjoys small talk and fears death.

No, it is not surprising that the exact opposite of me exists, although I have to admit it is a little disturbing that the opposite of me describes about 30% of Americans.