. . . been relocated to Braised Eel.
That's braisedeel.blogspot.com.
Hollow Earth Theory is too tricky on the tongue.
Anyone look it up?
Anyone read Woyzeck?
See ya there, kids!
Wednesday, December 24, 2008
Monday, December 22, 2008
Sick Tree
While replacing wiper blades on the work truck, I suddenly became inexplicably cold and lightheaded, and have remained so. No joke! I'm under blankets now, shivering.
This didn't stop me from going to the orthopedist's office. The doctor was confident and matter of fact, and had strange cuts all over this fingers.
I do not have a tear in my ligaments. Nor do I have any obvious source of my discomfort other than, well, jiu-jitsu.
I asked him about training in the future. He told me I would have to decide what it is worth to me. We outlined three possible operations, none appealing.
The short-term plan is this: heal up, take some antibiotics, and try it again.
*
I told Billy about the Dogfish Head Brewery 90 minute I.P.A.s. He travelled around Amesbury until he found a liquor store that sold them, and called me later, in a drunken state.
"I drank four!" he told me, while changing his grandbaby's diapers. "I can see his dingdong!"
These are strong ales. Three is enough for me.
When he came into work today, he told me, "Goo Goo, your dog whatever beer got me in trouble."
Turns out, he didn't buy four, but eight, and worked his way through them all, capping them with a trio of bud lites before his girlfriend came home.
"Did she yell at you?" I asked.
"Oh, she yelled at me," he said. "I can't buy that anymore."
"But why don't you just drink three or four?" I asked him.
"Goo Goo, please. Those are strong beers! Gooooo Goooooooooo!!!"
I suggested, once again, that he try for just a four-pack, but he had already turned around and was once again focused on his warehouse duties.
*
The novel is off the rails, but I'm doing my best to be a dutiful engineer. Can't will away an avalanche, folks.
*
I woke up Saturday after a now forgotten dream and could only think, with utterly curmudgeonliness, that people have lost the true spirit of Christmas.
William James notes, without any irony, that there is a tremendous pragmatic value in the vague. And so there is! But let's not leave it at that.
This seems to have little to do with people saying holiday rather than Christmas, since I've never met a single person who has a problem with saying Christmas but many who suspect the word is under fire. The ghost of Joe McCarthy is pale but perceptible.
In my admittedly secularized view it has to do with self-sacrifice, family, and serenity. I may be a materialist, but I also believe in the spirit of things: one that is volatile and everchanging: sometimes stronger (the Stephen Colbert Christmas special, Truman Capote's story, the Pogues) and sometimes just pure hangover shit: red and cloudy (Tickle Me Elmo, dry turkey, Bill O'Reilly).
Just because something is changing, doesn't mean we should at least try to return to the source and see it gives us strength, always with the foreknowledge that anyone who thinks they have got it figured out in this regard is likely an ideologue and not of my camp.
I associate a true Christmas with quiet and cold. That's my Viking heart: the pagan tremblings at the base of the holiday must have resonated with fur and bone and fire -- the rolling blue snows of a mythological past or an anticipated ideal.
We all know moments where it seems to come upon us. And you stop to think, "Hey there, that's one of those moments! I just felt it! For a fleeting moment, things were as they ought to be. Fuck ya!!!" And you try to stick to this sensation and let it linger, and often it does, before fading with the light.
I also figure that my deep and provocative understanding of the holiday spirit was formed, stamped, and set to dry by the Peanuts special on the same topic, since I watched it reverently as a child, and my sense of the meaning of the spirit of the holiday of Christmas and/or its allegorical interpretations strays not a hair from that pitiful, solitary, poor tree and whatever sense Mr. C. Brown makes of it.
C. Brown, please!
This didn't stop me from going to the orthopedist's office. The doctor was confident and matter of fact, and had strange cuts all over this fingers.
I do not have a tear in my ligaments. Nor do I have any obvious source of my discomfort other than, well, jiu-jitsu.
I asked him about training in the future. He told me I would have to decide what it is worth to me. We outlined three possible operations, none appealing.
The short-term plan is this: heal up, take some antibiotics, and try it again.
*
I told Billy about the Dogfish Head Brewery 90 minute I.P.A.s. He travelled around Amesbury until he found a liquor store that sold them, and called me later, in a drunken state.
"I drank four!" he told me, while changing his grandbaby's diapers. "I can see his dingdong!"
These are strong ales. Three is enough for me.
When he came into work today, he told me, "Goo Goo, your dog whatever beer got me in trouble."
Turns out, he didn't buy four, but eight, and worked his way through them all, capping them with a trio of bud lites before his girlfriend came home.
"Did she yell at you?" I asked.
"Oh, she yelled at me," he said. "I can't buy that anymore."
"But why don't you just drink three or four?" I asked him.
"Goo Goo, please. Those are strong beers! Gooooo Goooooooooo!!!"
I suggested, once again, that he try for just a four-pack, but he had already turned around and was once again focused on his warehouse duties.
*
The novel is off the rails, but I'm doing my best to be a dutiful engineer. Can't will away an avalanche, folks.
*
I woke up Saturday after a now forgotten dream and could only think, with utterly curmudgeonliness, that people have lost the true spirit of Christmas.
William James notes, without any irony, that there is a tremendous pragmatic value in the vague. And so there is! But let's not leave it at that.
This seems to have little to do with people saying holiday rather than Christmas, since I've never met a single person who has a problem with saying Christmas but many who suspect the word is under fire. The ghost of Joe McCarthy is pale but perceptible.
In my admittedly secularized view it has to do with self-sacrifice, family, and serenity. I may be a materialist, but I also believe in the spirit of things: one that is volatile and everchanging: sometimes stronger (the Stephen Colbert Christmas special, Truman Capote's story, the Pogues) and sometimes just pure hangover shit: red and cloudy (Tickle Me Elmo, dry turkey, Bill O'Reilly).
Just because something is changing, doesn't mean we should at least try to return to the source and see it gives us strength, always with the foreknowledge that anyone who thinks they have got it figured out in this regard is likely an ideologue and not of my camp.
I associate a true Christmas with quiet and cold. That's my Viking heart: the pagan tremblings at the base of the holiday must have resonated with fur and bone and fire -- the rolling blue snows of a mythological past or an anticipated ideal.
We all know moments where it seems to come upon us. And you stop to think, "Hey there, that's one of those moments! I just felt it! For a fleeting moment, things were as they ought to be. Fuck ya!!!" And you try to stick to this sensation and let it linger, and often it does, before fading with the light.
I also figure that my deep and provocative understanding of the holiday spirit was formed, stamped, and set to dry by the Peanuts special on the same topic, since I watched it reverently as a child, and my sense of the meaning of the spirit of the holiday of Christmas and/or its allegorical interpretations strays not a hair from that pitiful, solitary, poor tree and whatever sense Mr. C. Brown makes of it.
C. Brown, please!
Sunday, December 21, 2008
Beers of the Weekend
1. Dogfish Head Brewery Indian Brown Ale
2. Uerige Sticke
3. Aventinus Wheat-Doppelbock
Yes, I am a poor man, but I enjoy nice things. Still, although these are all world class beers, I spent only seven dollars and change for beer this weekend. How did I do it?
The first and primary reason is that Jess kindly bought me the DFH beers. The second is that I only bought single bottles of the others.
*
I was planning on starting my homebrew today, but the storm has prevented me from picking up a couple of packages of brewer's yeast. Soon enough, lads! Soon enough.
Much of today has been spent in food prep -- a great pleasure -- and soon I'll have to handle the elements as they come, clearing the snow. We have a small driveway, so the trick is mostly to shovel out the end so that it doesn't harden into ice. The back porch is trickier -- the heavy snow might cause structural damage to the house if left to build.
Additionally, the buildup keeps us from watching the snow fall on the Townsend woods, or the ice forming on the tiny tributary of the Squanicook that runs behind our house.
2. Uerige Sticke
3. Aventinus Wheat-Doppelbock
Yes, I am a poor man, but I enjoy nice things. Still, although these are all world class beers, I spent only seven dollars and change for beer this weekend. How did I do it?
The first and primary reason is that Jess kindly bought me the DFH beers. The second is that I only bought single bottles of the others.
*
I was planning on starting my homebrew today, but the storm has prevented me from picking up a couple of packages of brewer's yeast. Soon enough, lads! Soon enough.
Much of today has been spent in food prep -- a great pleasure -- and soon I'll have to handle the elements as they come, clearing the snow. We have a small driveway, so the trick is mostly to shovel out the end so that it doesn't harden into ice. The back porch is trickier -- the heavy snow might cause structural damage to the house if left to build.
Additionally, the buildup keeps us from watching the snow fall on the Townsend woods, or the ice forming on the tiny tributary of the Squanicook that runs behind our house.
Pork Neck Bones
Currently, I'm getting ready to add rice to some pork neck bones I've been cooking for the past two hours. I've New Englandized them by skimming the fat and using brown rice, and Asianized them with a chili oil.
And they sure smell good.
Pork neck bones are classic "poor folks" food -- delicious food used by people forced to use ingredients regarded as scraps by the upper classes, who look on them with disgust.
Me? I'm trying to learn how to use these cuts both because I can make big dishes with little cash, but also because on a tiny but significant level it demonstrates an attitude of mindfulness about food, where it comes from, and what constitutes waste and carelessness.
*
I'm thinking of traveling to New Jersey in April to get certified as a beer judge. Who's in?
And they sure smell good.
Pork neck bones are classic "poor folks" food -- delicious food used by people forced to use ingredients regarded as scraps by the upper classes, who look on them with disgust.
Me? I'm trying to learn how to use these cuts both because I can make big dishes with little cash, but also because on a tiny but significant level it demonstrates an attitude of mindfulness about food, where it comes from, and what constitutes waste and carelessness.
*
I'm thinking of traveling to New Jersey in April to get certified as a beer judge. Who's in?
Hymn to Ninkasi
I lifted this from the Beer Advocate website. The Sumerians were the first to brew beer, and they had a goddess of beer, Ninkasi. This poem is notable in that it contains a recipe.
People find this odd, but traditional poetry sometimes includes detailed instructions for anything ranging from beekeeping to cooking to playing musical instruments.
Hymn to Ninkasi
Borne of the flowing water,
Tenderly cared for by the Ninhursag,
Borne of the flowing water,
Tenderly cared for by the Ninhursag,
Having founded your town by the sacred lake,
She finished its great walls for you,
Ninkasi, having founded your town by the sacred lake,
She finished it's walls for you,
Your father is Enki, Lord Nidimmud,
Your mother is Ninti, the queen of the sacred lake.
Ninkasi, your father is Enki, Lord Nidimmud,
Your mother is Ninti, the queen of the sacred lake.
You are the one who handles the dough [and] with a big shovel,
Mixing in a pit, the bappir with sweet aromatics,
Ninkasi, you are the one who handles the dough [and] with a big shovel,
Mixing in a pit, the bappir with [date] - honey,
You are the one who bakes the bappir in the big oven,
Puts in order the piles of hulled grains,
Ninkasi, you are the one who bakes the bappir in the big oven,
Puts in order the piles of hulled grains,
You are the one who waters the malt set on the ground,
The noble dogs keep away even the potentates,
Ninkasi, you are the one who waters the malt set on the ground,
The noble dogs keep away even the potentates,
You are the one who soaks the malt in a jar,
The waves rise, the waves fall.
Ninkasi, you are the one who soaks the malt in a jar,
The waves rise, the waves fall.
You are the one who spreads the cooked mash on large reed mats,
Coolness overcomes,
Ninkasi, you are the one who spreads the cooked mash on large reed mats,
Coolness overcomes,
You are the one who holds with both hands the great sweet wort,
Brewing [it] with honey [and] wine
(You the sweet wort to the vessel)
Ninkasi, (...)(You the sweet wort to the vessel)
The filtering vat, which makes a pleasant sound,
You place appropriately on a large collector vat.
Ninkasi, the filtering vat, which makes a pleasant sound,
You place appropriately on a large collector vat.
When you pour out the filtered beer of the collector vat,
It is [like] the onrush of Tigris and Euphrates.
Ninkasi, you are the one who pours out the filtered beer of the collector vat,
It is [like] the onrush of Tigris and Euphrates.
People find this odd, but traditional poetry sometimes includes detailed instructions for anything ranging from beekeeping to cooking to playing musical instruments.
Hymn to Ninkasi
Borne of the flowing water,
Tenderly cared for by the Ninhursag,
Borne of the flowing water,
Tenderly cared for by the Ninhursag,
Having founded your town by the sacred lake,
She finished its great walls for you,
Ninkasi, having founded your town by the sacred lake,
She finished it's walls for you,
Your father is Enki, Lord Nidimmud,
Your mother is Ninti, the queen of the sacred lake.
Ninkasi, your father is Enki, Lord Nidimmud,
Your mother is Ninti, the queen of the sacred lake.
You are the one who handles the dough [and] with a big shovel,
Mixing in a pit, the bappir with sweet aromatics,
Ninkasi, you are the one who handles the dough [and] with a big shovel,
Mixing in a pit, the bappir with [date] - honey,
You are the one who bakes the bappir in the big oven,
Puts in order the piles of hulled grains,
Ninkasi, you are the one who bakes the bappir in the big oven,
Puts in order the piles of hulled grains,
You are the one who waters the malt set on the ground,
The noble dogs keep away even the potentates,
Ninkasi, you are the one who waters the malt set on the ground,
The noble dogs keep away even the potentates,
You are the one who soaks the malt in a jar,
The waves rise, the waves fall.
Ninkasi, you are the one who soaks the malt in a jar,
The waves rise, the waves fall.
You are the one who spreads the cooked mash on large reed mats,
Coolness overcomes,
Ninkasi, you are the one who spreads the cooked mash on large reed mats,
Coolness overcomes,
You are the one who holds with both hands the great sweet wort,
Brewing [it] with honey [and] wine
(You the sweet wort to the vessel)
Ninkasi, (...)(You the sweet wort to the vessel)
The filtering vat, which makes a pleasant sound,
You place appropriately on a large collector vat.
Ninkasi, the filtering vat, which makes a pleasant sound,
You place appropriately on a large collector vat.
When you pour out the filtered beer of the collector vat,
It is [like] the onrush of Tigris and Euphrates.
Ninkasi, you are the one who pours out the filtered beer of the collector vat,
It is [like] the onrush of Tigris and Euphrates.
Friday, December 19, 2008
Two Points on Practical Matters
Anyone remotely interested in craft beer should check out Beer Advocate. It's amazing to the point of being daunting. Where to begin? When to end?
And: because of the way I set up this blog, it reads particularly well on smartphones. Bookmark and you'll see!
And: because of the way I set up this blog, it reads particularly well on smartphones. Bookmark and you'll see!
Red River Shore
The snow is falling and the storm has hit Townsend.
Jess is on the couch, IMing a friend, and I'm in the armchair, listening to the new Dylan and drinking a Duvel from a pewter mug.
And the snow it does fall.
*
I nearly broke Billy's heart yesterday by misreading my check and thinking they'd given us a Christmas bonus. He's dropped over two grand into his broken down old Dodge neon over the past few months, and is short on Christmas money. But I was misreading info about Afflac, which we both pay in for.
He told his girl that, driving home last night, he could barely see the road at various points. His heating coil had given out.
"I can't take this anymore," she told him.
"You can't take it?" Billy said to me. "It's me who can't see shit!!!"
*
What else am I doing? Making turkey stock. I drove around with the bones of the bird in a garbage bag yesterday, and asked that the legs and wings be left on. I reached into the bag for a wing for lunch, and had to fight to get it out. When it finally gave, it popped and sprayed a glob of liquid turkey fat across my glasses. That's yesterday, in short.
And oh yeah, I electrocuted myself. But I'm okay. End of story.
*
There are three distinct scars on my hand from where Billy squeezed it during our armwrestling contest.
*
And oh yeah, aside from the stock, I'm cooking up a leg of lamb for dinner. I bought that, along with some pork neck bones.
I rubbed the lamb in a dry spice rub and I'm slow cooking it. Should be ready by seven. My purchases were all guy-oriented, since the original plan was for Jess to stay with a friend in Watertown if the weather got bad. She got out early enough, and was able to make it to Townsend before travel would have become dangerous.
*
So here we sit, listening and enjoying the quiet (the Dufflebag is with his father), watching the snow fall down, white, but with a faint shadow of Christmas lights.
Jess is on the couch, IMing a friend, and I'm in the armchair, listening to the new Dylan and drinking a Duvel from a pewter mug.
And the snow it does fall.
*
I nearly broke Billy's heart yesterday by misreading my check and thinking they'd given us a Christmas bonus. He's dropped over two grand into his broken down old Dodge neon over the past few months, and is short on Christmas money. But I was misreading info about Afflac, which we both pay in for.
He told his girl that, driving home last night, he could barely see the road at various points. His heating coil had given out.
"I can't take this anymore," she told him.
"You can't take it?" Billy said to me. "It's me who can't see shit!!!"
*
What else am I doing? Making turkey stock. I drove around with the bones of the bird in a garbage bag yesterday, and asked that the legs and wings be left on. I reached into the bag for a wing for lunch, and had to fight to get it out. When it finally gave, it popped and sprayed a glob of liquid turkey fat across my glasses. That's yesterday, in short.
And oh yeah, I electrocuted myself. But I'm okay. End of story.
*
There are three distinct scars on my hand from where Billy squeezed it during our armwrestling contest.
*
And oh yeah, aside from the stock, I'm cooking up a leg of lamb for dinner. I bought that, along with some pork neck bones.
I rubbed the lamb in a dry spice rub and I'm slow cooking it. Should be ready by seven. My purchases were all guy-oriented, since the original plan was for Jess to stay with a friend in Watertown if the weather got bad. She got out early enough, and was able to make it to Townsend before travel would have become dangerous.
*
So here we sit, listening and enjoying the quiet (the Dufflebag is with his father), watching the snow fall down, white, but with a faint shadow of Christmas lights.
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
Things Should Start to Get Interesting Right About Now
With the Boss out another day and rumors (which I honestly consider unfounded) circulating that he is drinking himself to death, the subject of in-warehouse conversation today centered around addiction.
As you may remember, the owner of a major contractor went into work drunk and fired all his employees. Here's the update: he is now living in a garage while his wife tries to salvage the business. None of the suppliers are offering him credit. Some of his employees have returned.
At the front desk, we are the great hub of contractor gossip, since it's the one place where any given tinknocker might find any other tinknocker on a Wednesday morning.
They drive up to the docks, park, and come inside for conversation and coffee, and to place orders.
And this is not only why I know about all these rumors, but why the rumors spread widely in a short time.
While I pulled orders, I overhead Eddie talking about his old drinking days: how many cases he would drink in a week. He mentioned that, at his worst, he stood drunk on a balcony and flipped the bird to passing cars.
Who hasn't done this? I wondered. Or at least come close.
But then, almost in an aside, he mentioned that this lead to him losing his home, wife, and family.
*
I know quite a few of my co-workers are turning to drink. On the level of sheer numbers, this doesn't make sense: if you have less money, why spend it on booze? But there are other forms of capital, friend!
It isn't only me who is coming closer to Bartleby the Scrivener.
As people's stress levels rise, as families collapse, as work gets harder and less reward, as we kill the celebrations that subtly but effectively kept open the possibility for regeneration (Christmas parties, New Years) there doesn't seem much to offset the grind. And since the grind is so unappealing, so numbing, why not simply say:
That's okay. Today I'll stay in bed.
Knowing well enough that it'll be weeks before the bulldozers arrive.
And maybe by then at least you can drink some choice spiced rum and gotten a full night's sleep.
I speak here on the level of emotions: for men (and I really am speaking only of men, although I'm sure this holds for women and boys as well) who shut down in the face of despair. I have come to understand that there are people who will never quite understand this. I don't know why, but those people exist and there's a gulf here. So, if you're one of them, so be it.
We can no longer take to the sea, or disappear to Florida and join the circus. There are fewer escape routes, and ultimately there will be none.
Good for justice, no? Bad for the psyche and us too fragile humans, who sometimes must do the wrong thing a few times to get any understanding on matters. And sometimes more than a few.
As you may remember, the owner of a major contractor went into work drunk and fired all his employees. Here's the update: he is now living in a garage while his wife tries to salvage the business. None of the suppliers are offering him credit. Some of his employees have returned.
At the front desk, we are the great hub of contractor gossip, since it's the one place where any given tinknocker might find any other tinknocker on a Wednesday morning.
They drive up to the docks, park, and come inside for conversation and coffee, and to place orders.
And this is not only why I know about all these rumors, but why the rumors spread widely in a short time.
While I pulled orders, I overhead Eddie talking about his old drinking days: how many cases he would drink in a week. He mentioned that, at his worst, he stood drunk on a balcony and flipped the bird to passing cars.
Who hasn't done this? I wondered. Or at least come close.
But then, almost in an aside, he mentioned that this lead to him losing his home, wife, and family.
*
I know quite a few of my co-workers are turning to drink. On the level of sheer numbers, this doesn't make sense: if you have less money, why spend it on booze? But there are other forms of capital, friend!
It isn't only me who is coming closer to Bartleby the Scrivener.
As people's stress levels rise, as families collapse, as work gets harder and less reward, as we kill the celebrations that subtly but effectively kept open the possibility for regeneration (Christmas parties, New Years) there doesn't seem much to offset the grind. And since the grind is so unappealing, so numbing, why not simply say:
That's okay. Today I'll stay in bed.
Knowing well enough that it'll be weeks before the bulldozers arrive.
And maybe by then at least you can drink some choice spiced rum and gotten a full night's sleep.
I speak here on the level of emotions: for men (and I really am speaking only of men, although I'm sure this holds for women and boys as well) who shut down in the face of despair. I have come to understand that there are people who will never quite understand this. I don't know why, but those people exist and there's a gulf here. So, if you're one of them, so be it.
We can no longer take to the sea, or disappear to Florida and join the circus. There are fewer escape routes, and ultimately there will be none.
Good for justice, no? Bad for the psyche and us too fragile humans, who sometimes must do the wrong thing a few times to get any understanding on matters. And sometimes more than a few.
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
The Contest
I challenged Billy to an armwrestling contest today.
He told me I could put his hand all the way to the far side and start there.
He beat me instantly, and we tried it again. This time, he dug his fingers so tightly into my hand that it ripped the skin off.
"Instant disqualitification!" I yelled, in triumph.
Dougie scores again.
He told me I could put his hand all the way to the far side and start there.
He beat me instantly, and we tried it again. This time, he dug his fingers so tightly into my hand that it ripped the skin off.
"Instant disqualitification!" I yelled, in triumph.
Dougie scores again.
The Eventless Horizon
Billy pulled me aside today.
"Can I ask you something?"
Sure, Billyboy.
"Do you think the Boss has a drinking problem?"
The Boss was out for days last year with a strange "stomach problem" and it was widely rumored that his beloved combination of tequila and weed were hitting his gut and his immune system with a one-two punch.
I told Billy I story I heard about the Boss.
I heard that the Boss's grandmother died of cirrhosis, and that he had to see her as she died. Apparently, she was sweating and twitching in her final moments.
"So it runs in the family," Billy said.
Then, without missing a beat, Billy went on to explain how his beer consumption has risen to ten to twelve beers a night. "Although," he added, "If I drink hard liquor, my girl will kick me out of the house!"
*
My mother got power again, and thanks for that. Because the Boss has been out two days straight, I haven't had access to the worktruck, so I've been stuck in the w.
At one point, to alleviate boredom, I tore up a piece of paper and rubbed it in my hair.
I try to learn more about sales, but people are protective of their knowledge and guard whatever skills they acquire. The company itself seems to lack all organization when it comes to training their employees. The computer system is still based on MS-DOS and, as I mentioned before, parts are assigned numbers we have to memorize to input them into a sales order. Unfortunately, the parts correspond to those used by an old manufacturer we no longer work with. There are hundreds of parts. One, for example, a sticky back collar with damper, has the number 133 stamped on the side, but Billy, and everyone else, calls it a 168. Not a big problem for a few parts or even twenty, but with hundreds, you can imagine how this makes it difficult for the "new guy" -- I've worked there for two years, if you can believe it -- to learn the system.
Additionally, different contractors have different names for the parts. They are not standardized.
When I make progress learning the system, it is during the occasional slow days. As I catch on, the truck runs start coming back in, and I soon return to the same duties I've held since my second day on the job. Pulling orders off a list, driving the truck, sweeping the floors, emptying the trash, stacking the cardboard.
On a day like, say, today, the eventless horizon makes for some long hours. During the last five minutes of my shift, I suspect I look at the clock dozens of times.
*
The raid on my mother's freezer yielded a hefty package of chicken breasts, which I've been slow cooking with green onions, shallots, nutmeg, cinnamon, oil, and chilli peppers since I got home from work at five.
It is a vaguely Indian tasting dish. Not my best, but okay. Probably enough for ten meals if I space them right. Decent meals, at that: mix up the rice and the sandwiches and the salads in appropriate combinations and I just might make it to the end without becoming tired of the taste.
The trick, tonight, is get a little reading and writing done and get to bed in time for seven hours sleep. In the event that the Boss misses again tomorrow, I don't want to face another day like the last two with anything but a full fighting spirit.
"Can I ask you something?"
Sure, Billyboy.
"Do you think the Boss has a drinking problem?"
The Boss was out for days last year with a strange "stomach problem" and it was widely rumored that his beloved combination of tequila and weed were hitting his gut and his immune system with a one-two punch.
I told Billy I story I heard about the Boss.
I heard that the Boss's grandmother died of cirrhosis, and that he had to see her as she died. Apparently, she was sweating and twitching in her final moments.
"So it runs in the family," Billy said.
Then, without missing a beat, Billy went on to explain how his beer consumption has risen to ten to twelve beers a night. "Although," he added, "If I drink hard liquor, my girl will kick me out of the house!"
*
My mother got power again, and thanks for that. Because the Boss has been out two days straight, I haven't had access to the worktruck, so I've been stuck in the w.
At one point, to alleviate boredom, I tore up a piece of paper and rubbed it in my hair.
I try to learn more about sales, but people are protective of their knowledge and guard whatever skills they acquire. The company itself seems to lack all organization when it comes to training their employees. The computer system is still based on MS-DOS and, as I mentioned before, parts are assigned numbers we have to memorize to input them into a sales order. Unfortunately, the parts correspond to those used by an old manufacturer we no longer work with. There are hundreds of parts. One, for example, a sticky back collar with damper, has the number 133 stamped on the side, but Billy, and everyone else, calls it a 168. Not a big problem for a few parts or even twenty, but with hundreds, you can imagine how this makes it difficult for the "new guy" -- I've worked there for two years, if you can believe it -- to learn the system.
Additionally, different contractors have different names for the parts. They are not standardized.
When I make progress learning the system, it is during the occasional slow days. As I catch on, the truck runs start coming back in, and I soon return to the same duties I've held since my second day on the job. Pulling orders off a list, driving the truck, sweeping the floors, emptying the trash, stacking the cardboard.
On a day like, say, today, the eventless horizon makes for some long hours. During the last five minutes of my shift, I suspect I look at the clock dozens of times.
*
The raid on my mother's freezer yielded a hefty package of chicken breasts, which I've been slow cooking with green onions, shallots, nutmeg, cinnamon, oil, and chilli peppers since I got home from work at five.
It is a vaguely Indian tasting dish. Not my best, but okay. Probably enough for ten meals if I space them right. Decent meals, at that: mix up the rice and the sandwiches and the salads in appropriate combinations and I just might make it to the end without becoming tired of the taste.
The trick, tonight, is get a little reading and writing done and get to bed in time for seven hours sleep. In the event that the Boss misses again tomorrow, I don't want to face another day like the last two with anything but a full fighting spirit.
Monday, December 15, 2008
Playlist
Randomized playlist heard while writing:
- Thea Gilmore "I Want to Tell You" (a Beatle's cover)
- Rapeman, "Marmoset"
- Modest Mouse, "The Good Times Are Killing Me"
- Geeshie Wiley "Eagles on a Half"
- Al Jolson "Liza"
- Down "Stone the Crows"
- Blue Oyster Cult "Mes Dames Sarat"
- Bob Dylan "All I Really Want to Do"
- Blondie "In the Sun"
- Antonius Block "I Won,T Love"
- Roxy Music "To Turn You On"
- The Everly Brothers "Crying in the Rain"
Crude Populisms
Jess tried to prank me by switching my home page to a gay porn site. Nice try! Better luck next time!
*
The Boss was out today, so I spent all day in the w. Work came in a trickle. At one point, I felt like going outside and rubbing dirt in my hair.
After work, I drove to my mother's house to check on her. Although the outside temperature had warmed, inside it was still dangerously cold.
I grabbed some defrosting meat from the freezer that I'll cook up before it goes bad. I also looked in the pantry and saw five big bottles of molasses. She hardly ever cooks with it, so I stuffed a bottle into my coat on my way out the door.
*
Gonna go work on the novel a little before teaching tonight. That's all, folks!
*
The Boss was out today, so I spent all day in the w. Work came in a trickle. At one point, I felt like going outside and rubbing dirt in my hair.
After work, I drove to my mother's house to check on her. Although the outside temperature had warmed, inside it was still dangerously cold.
I grabbed some defrosting meat from the freezer that I'll cook up before it goes bad. I also looked in the pantry and saw five big bottles of molasses. She hardly ever cooks with it, so I stuffed a bottle into my coat on my way out the door.
*
Gonna go work on the novel a little before teaching tonight. That's all, folks!
Sunday, December 14, 2008
I Am Drunken
I drank three of the craft beers today, forgetting that they hover around nine percent.
I am drunken.
Jess is making fun of me.
Carry on, soldiers!
I am drunken.
Jess is making fun of me.
Carry on, soldiers!
Among the Kittens
When I found my mother, she was wearing two coats and slippers she had knitted herself. She knits slippers and gives them out as gifts to friends. They are fairly useless, and the best you can say is that, when down, she likes to help people however she can. Still, they are sad looking, and not warm -- they are oddly shaped and remind me of the slip-on paper shoes you put on when you're going through a germ-free area. I suspect she was wearing multiple pairs.
*
I drove the backroads through Groton back to Townsend.
When I got home, the cats erupted in joy at seeing me. I am not exagerrating. They continually jumped on my legs and tried to get me to pick them up, and I would take turns holding them in front of the window for warmth.
I began doing dishes. At first, being in the house was shockingly cold. It stung a little to breath. The pipes were okay and the water was warm, and this brought me comfort. Not so bad, this doing dishes nonsense!
At one point, I took a break. I was hand drying the knives because I know that the kittens would jump on them and I didn't want any lacerations. I left the water running over the dish soap because it had frozen over and I was thawing it out, drop by drop.
I looked in the freezer, out of curiosity, to see if it was cold enough for the burgers to still be frozen. They weren't, but I felt circulating air. How odd, I thought for a moment, before realizing what had happened. I turned around. Sure enough, the microwave was on, and the heat was starting to kick up. A single light burned in the bathroom.
*
My mother's neighborhood was hit hard. Worse than mine. Trees I remember from childhood lay broken across driveways. I saw smashed cars and downed lines. Fences broken. And everywhere, the ice along the side of the road that glittered like broken glass.
*
I'm back home now. Of course, the power could go out again. It seems that the downed line only affects the houses after ours.
*
In the process of all this Big D has discovered a new favorite toy: filthy Brillo pads. Add this to shoelaces and toothbrushes and fake mice in the Kitten Paradise.
*
The cats continue to clamor around me, and I think of my warm reception and how, soon after I arrived, the heat came back on. In the same way that Slappy thinks of Jess as some sort of Superchihuahua, I suspect I've confirmed in their minds that I'm a God of Felines.
I read an informal interview with a Zen master. "I used to be a tiger. But now I am a cat." And the master smiled, looking quite pleased.
*
I drove the backroads through Groton back to Townsend.
When I got home, the cats erupted in joy at seeing me. I am not exagerrating. They continually jumped on my legs and tried to get me to pick them up, and I would take turns holding them in front of the window for warmth.
I began doing dishes. At first, being in the house was shockingly cold. It stung a little to breath. The pipes were okay and the water was warm, and this brought me comfort. Not so bad, this doing dishes nonsense!
At one point, I took a break. I was hand drying the knives because I know that the kittens would jump on them and I didn't want any lacerations. I left the water running over the dish soap because it had frozen over and I was thawing it out, drop by drop.
I looked in the freezer, out of curiosity, to see if it was cold enough for the burgers to still be frozen. They weren't, but I felt circulating air. How odd, I thought for a moment, before realizing what had happened. I turned around. Sure enough, the microwave was on, and the heat was starting to kick up. A single light burned in the bathroom.
*
My mother's neighborhood was hit hard. Worse than mine. Trees I remember from childhood lay broken across driveways. I saw smashed cars and downed lines. Fences broken. And everywhere, the ice along the side of the road that glittered like broken glass.
*
I'm back home now. Of course, the power could go out again. It seems that the downed line only affects the houses after ours.
*
In the process of all this Big D has discovered a new favorite toy: filthy Brillo pads. Add this to shoelaces and toothbrushes and fake mice in the Kitten Paradise.
*
The cats continue to clamor around me, and I think of my warm reception and how, soon after I arrived, the heat came back on. In the same way that Slappy thinks of Jess as some sort of Superchihuahua, I suspect I've confirmed in their minds that I'm a God of Felines.
I read an informal interview with a Zen master. "I used to be a tiger. But now I am a cat." And the master smiled, looking quite pleased.
Playlist
- "I Should Have Known Better," Wire
- "Long Ago and Worlds Apart," The Small Faces
- "Down by the Riverside," Elvis Presley, Carl Perkins, and Jerry Lee Lewis
- "Dictatosaurus," Probot
- "Girl from Orbit," Sterling Roswell
- "So Lonely," Tim Buckley
- "She Devil," Lonnie Johnson
- "Death Room Blues" Blind Willie McTell
- "That Old Sweet Roll (Hi-De-Ho)," Dusty Springfield
- "Johnny Come Lately," Steve Earle
- "Blood Song," Entombed
- "I Don't Want to Forget How to Jive," Thin Lizzy
Zen at War
Check out Josh Baran's interesting review of Brian Victoria's Zen at War, a book detailing, among other things, collusion between Zen masters and the Nazis during World War II and institutional Zen support of imperial regimes.
A Free CF
I texted Billy last night, telling him there was a free UFC on Spike last night. I've been trying to get him to start watching the fights, and he shows no interest.
He texted back: "A free cf."
CF is warehouse slang for a clusterfuck, but it also seems to indicate something broader. We started calling things cf's when we noticed how easily some guys threw the term around. Traffic? A clusterfuck. A box in the way? A clusterfuck. So we referred to the slightest complication as a cf.
But then we began to see the situation of our lives in general as a cf. Both in the ironic sense and the other: that, on same level, we really are screwed.
But Billy hit the nail on the head.
I lay on the couch like a sponge, not wanting to do much other than curl up with my girl.
*
I've spent the last two days with the dog by my side almost the whole time. Slappy was bonded to Jess before I met her, so no matter how much time we spend together, I no longer exist when Jess comes in the room. But it still felt odd to drive off this morning without her, my little travelling companion through the complications of the last few days.
*
I need to get to Townsend and check on the cats and the pipes. I just need to make sure. And I need to do the dishes. After that, I need to answer a few questions about how the week might unfold: where I'll stay, how I'll get through work.
My brother picked up my mother yesterday and brought her to the warehouse and tried to keep her entertained with movies on a portable dvd player. She doesn't have the patience for most movies.
Quickly, she decided she wanted to go home, even though the house was dropping in temperature and was already in the low forties.
"I couldn't talk her out of it," my brother told me.
And we both came to the conclusion that at this point in her life, after facing a few major disappointments and an endless list of minor ones, on some deep level all she wants is not to leave the house.
*
I'm back in the North Andover Starbucks where I posted from yesterday.
It's early -- not yet nine -- but they are playing slick reggae. It's a noxious music to write to. At least for me. Talk about cultural context! A cold day in one of the whitest towns in the state, and they're cranking world music with that crazy beat! Let's dance! Let's read the paper!
I wanted to take the same parking space I did yesterday, for the sake of continuity, but someone had parked in two spaces. I thought about breaking their sideview mirror. Briefly, mind you.
I did that one. Someone had parked flush against my car on the driver side, even though they had plenty of space on the other. It was simple laziness. So I hip checked their side view mirror as I tried to squeeze past and surprised myself when it came off like cooked chicken from the bone.
*
I've got the itunes running to counter the reggae. Once again, it saves me. "Tarpit" by Dinosaur Jr., followed by Muddy Waters, Benny Goodman, and the Motorhead cover of "God Saves the Queen."
God save your mad parade. No more!
He texted back: "A free cf."
CF is warehouse slang for a clusterfuck, but it also seems to indicate something broader. We started calling things cf's when we noticed how easily some guys threw the term around. Traffic? A clusterfuck. A box in the way? A clusterfuck. So we referred to the slightest complication as a cf.
But then we began to see the situation of our lives in general as a cf. Both in the ironic sense and the other: that, on same level, we really are screwed.
But Billy hit the nail on the head.
I lay on the couch like a sponge, not wanting to do much other than curl up with my girl.
*
I've spent the last two days with the dog by my side almost the whole time. Slappy was bonded to Jess before I met her, so no matter how much time we spend together, I no longer exist when Jess comes in the room. But it still felt odd to drive off this morning without her, my little travelling companion through the complications of the last few days.
*
I need to get to Townsend and check on the cats and the pipes. I just need to make sure. And I need to do the dishes. After that, I need to answer a few questions about how the week might unfold: where I'll stay, how I'll get through work.
My brother picked up my mother yesterday and brought her to the warehouse and tried to keep her entertained with movies on a portable dvd player. She doesn't have the patience for most movies.
Quickly, she decided she wanted to go home, even though the house was dropping in temperature and was already in the low forties.
"I couldn't talk her out of it," my brother told me.
And we both came to the conclusion that at this point in her life, after facing a few major disappointments and an endless list of minor ones, on some deep level all she wants is not to leave the house.
*
I'm back in the North Andover Starbucks where I posted from yesterday.
It's early -- not yet nine -- but they are playing slick reggae. It's a noxious music to write to. At least for me. Talk about cultural context! A cold day in one of the whitest towns in the state, and they're cranking world music with that crazy beat! Let's dance! Let's read the paper!
I wanted to take the same parking space I did yesterday, for the sake of continuity, but someone had parked in two spaces. I thought about breaking their sideview mirror. Briefly, mind you.
I did that one. Someone had parked flush against my car on the driver side, even though they had plenty of space on the other. It was simple laziness. So I hip checked their side view mirror as I tried to squeeze past and surprised myself when it came off like cooked chicken from the bone.
*
I've got the itunes running to counter the reggae. Once again, it saves me. "Tarpit" by Dinosaur Jr., followed by Muddy Waters, Benny Goodman, and the Motorhead cover of "God Saves the Queen."
God save your mad parade. No more!
Saturday, December 13, 2008
The Great Slappy Rescue
I'm in the crowded North Andover Starbucks. It's in a strip mall. Cars bomb in and out, and everyone honks at each other even though it's nearly impossible to start backing out of a space with full visibility. The whole place has the air of barely restrained chaos. Two old guys with stroller are sitting next to me. They keep tell each other to fuck off. One claims to be pushing 100. One of them knocked my bookbag over on his way to the table and he looked down and cursed at my bag.
*
I bought lunch at Fuddruckers -- a place that reminds me of the restaurants in Idiocracy, an underseen and underappreciated film. I've never been there before. It's a burger bar. There were lots of kids inside, so that getting a burger and putting a little ketchup and a few pickles on top took nearly fifteen minutes. I suspect it's a good place to take a kid, assuming you don't mind preloading his arteries with fats. Get 'em started young!
Aside from not knowing where else to go -- not familiar with this part of the state -- I got burgers because I figured it was a sure bet for the hungry dog.
She sat on my lap and we ate together. She seemed grateful.
My laptop battery died and I still have half an hour before Jess gets out of the movie so I can hand the dog over. I just wanted a little more juice for the laptop, so I bought a coffee and I'm here now, writing.
One of the old guys breaks the silence. "We're here now. Dot dot dot. I don't see nothing happening."
I wonder if he's mocking me, the writer. He seems to be looking at me.
I cranked the heat in the Hyundai for Slappy. I need to get back out to her soon. We'll sit together in the car, with her on my lap, and I'll finish my coffee and start reading the Percy book.
*
An angry customer is at the counter. I hear her say: "Well, you should hang a sign up!"
"We can't hang up a sign about that," the worker says. The staff look tired.
The old guys are drinking their coffee and eating Sun Chips. They seem more at ease with each other, now that they're settled.
"Is that coffee strong enough for you?"
"Not as strong as you, my friend."
It's a compliment and they both laugh.
*
I bought lunch at Fuddruckers -- a place that reminds me of the restaurants in Idiocracy, an underseen and underappreciated film. I've never been there before. It's a burger bar. There were lots of kids inside, so that getting a burger and putting a little ketchup and a few pickles on top took nearly fifteen minutes. I suspect it's a good place to take a kid, assuming you don't mind preloading his arteries with fats. Get 'em started young!
Aside from not knowing where else to go -- not familiar with this part of the state -- I got burgers because I figured it was a sure bet for the hungry dog.
She sat on my lap and we ate together. She seemed grateful.
My laptop battery died and I still have half an hour before Jess gets out of the movie so I can hand the dog over. I just wanted a little more juice for the laptop, so I bought a coffee and I'm here now, writing.
One of the old guys breaks the silence. "We're here now. Dot dot dot. I don't see nothing happening."
I wonder if he's mocking me, the writer. He seems to be looking at me.
I cranked the heat in the Hyundai for Slappy. I need to get back out to her soon. We'll sit together in the car, with her on my lap, and I'll finish my coffee and start reading the Percy book.
*
An angry customer is at the counter. I hear her say: "Well, you should hang a sign up!"
"We can't hang up a sign about that," the worker says. The staff look tired.
The old guys are drinking their coffee and eating Sun Chips. They seem more at ease with each other, now that they're settled.
"Is that coffee strong enough for you?"
"Not as strong as you, my friend."
It's a compliment and they both laugh.
Now and the Prequel
I'm sitting in the North Andover Starbucks parking lot. Slappy is next to me. I was fine in the house without heat, but it's a mexican dog with a thin coat, and she was starting to look dangerously cold this morning. I have a Starbucks card so I'm able to get an internet connection while sitting here, keeping the dog warm.
So I cancelled my reffing duties and drove out to Middleton. Jess is at the movies and they left the house open for me, but there is also an aggressive dog who lives there. I was almost killed by the same type of dog when I was younger, and although I've gotten over my fear of dogs, I still feel uncomfortable around them when they get aggressive. Around this dog, I actually feel sick to my stomach. So I backed out and now I'm hanging with Slappy. She looks like she has to take a shit, but I don't have a leash for her and it's too cold for her to be outside anyway.
I finished last night with a Founder's Old Curmudgeon Ale -- a piney, surprising drink. Not something I'd drink every day, but welcome last night in the weather.
And I went to bed with all three animals as well as a copy of Walter Percy's The Moviegoer, which I hardly remember reading although I do remember wondering why I haven't gotten to it sooner, since he can really write.
*
My mother called me this morning, telling me her house was at 47 degrees and that she had run out of food. I tried calling my brother for help, but his phone was shut off. I found out later that his power went out, too. He drove down to pick her up and now they're both in the w -- the only place they could find with heat. Billy called and told me about it. He told me my brother expected to stay there all day and maybe through the night if they had to.
*
I have a lot more to say, but limited battery power on the laptop. I'm going to cut and paste my entry from last night below. Along with the following longish entry, I got out another 2,000 words on the novel I'm writing. With the writing and the cooking and the animal rescue mission, it's been a productive time.
*
(Here's yesterday's entry -- I didn't have a connection so I'm posting it now).
A tree fell onto the power lines across from our house early this morning, some time before six. I was already awake and heard the crack.
I told Jess I had to get up early and make it into work for a delivery. Billy had already called and left a message on his phone, telling me that the power was out in the w, and that he needed help if I could make it early. I leave my phone in the car at night, because cellphone reception is frustratingly sporadic at the house. Plus, I like being cut off somewhat.
I tried to drive in. The tree had fallen all the way across the street, so I couldn’t go my normal route. When I called the police dispatcher and told her about the fallen tree she thanked me and was about to hang up, but then shouted just as I was about to hit the red to tell everyone to stay home.
A combination of the slightest fog on my windshield with the total power outage in town made visibility low, and once I began to find myself hoping I was on the road and not someone’s yard, I decided I would turn back.
I was tired anyone, and didn’t mind sleeping in. I kept getting calls: from my mom, from Billy, from the boss. At one point, the cats busted into the room. They’re not supposed to be on the bed, because Jess and I are both slightly allergic. They purred happily and Slappy started chasing them off. She knows they’re not supposed to be on the bed, and guards it with a little strain would-be sheep dog.
Jess decided she had to go to work, and took a long route in, being blocked off by police at various occasions. She called when she made it down.
I happily chose the route of lazy sensibility, and have used the day to make a rich chicken stock from some bones I was saving for the purpose. I’m also seasoning my skillets and making a steady supply of cowboy coffee.
Cowboy coffee is when you smash the whole beans with a hammer and boil them in water, and the result is surprisingly mild and pleasant. I didn’t want to go into the basement without lights, so I used a metal measuring cup which worked well.
I’ve also been able to take some pictures and read, making one of the few days in recent memory that has been productive on my own terms. More serene than any blueblood.
*
When I mentioned to Billy that I was still looking for work he said, “You’re going to get one of those jobs where you work eight hours. I don’t understand that. I’m a fucking blue collar. Ten hours minimum.”
“Yeah, but what if you could make more money working less hours?” I asked him.
“I just know that it won’t happen.”
*
And now I have to go outside and make sure the outside hose is disconnected. Jess and the Dufflebag will probably stay at her stepmom's. I’m going to stay here to watch the pipes and animals.
Having no power reminds me of the more pleasant aspects of living on the farm. The best moments there were generally when I was alone at the edge of the field, drinking coffee and reading a book. I suppose it returned me to a childlike sense of things I look for more easily than, say, a drug. Tricky we sometimes need difficult situations to force us into enjoying ourselves and our lives on any meaningful level. But you all knew that.
For dinner, I’m going to make a roast garlic soup from the stock. It gets dark early around here, so I’m going to have to amuse myself with whatever solace my electric lantern provides, up until the batteries die. That amounts to a book or two, and the three remaining winter lagers in the refrigerator. Plus the soup, plus the dog, and it’s a darkness to look forward to.
I’ll miss my girl. But I won’t miss the lights.
*
The roast garlic soup. I made it in the dark, so the spices burned slightly, and it came out less than perfect. Still, however, a soup that seemed to taste better by the spoonful.
I made it with the chicken stock. I set the stock out on the porch to congeal the fat, which I skimmed after driving the Dufflebag to Jess for pickup. They’re going to stay with her stepmother. Now that I’ve gotten it out of my system – the cooking, really – I wish I was there with them.
But I really needed to get it out of my system.
Alongside the soup, I drank the Dogfish Head Brewery’s Olde School ale, which proports to be a barley “wine-style” ale. I poured it in one of the pewter mugs I rescued from my mother’s house this week.
If you’ve never drank beer from a pewter mug, you are missing a great pleasure.
The roast garlic soup is poured over a piece of browned French bread. I made the mistake of using less oil than the recipe called for – stupid American – and the spices burnt. I’ll know next time. But still, my mouth is still active: all with the garlic soup. Think a French onion soup but with garlic, chilies, and romano cheese. The bread becomes soggy, except at the edges, where the browning made it crisp.
Even if the initial taste was slightly bitter, the aftertaste is one of the most well wintered tastes I know. The house, for example, is no longer cold.
The remainder of the chicken stock went back on the porch, along with the other ales I bought for the evening and beyond.
*
I’m told that the ice storm discriminated. Some parts of the state are wondering if they need an umbrella, others are thinking Mad Max. We are of the Mad Max.
A car drove repeatedly around the common, honking its horn.
I saw two near accidents as people drove through unpowered traffic lights, and this in a short drive.
My way out to meet Jess involved a long detour, past Blood Farm. I found an ATM and deposited the check I picked up yesterday. I bought the ale, the bread, and the cheese.
Right now, I’m missing Jess. I want both her, and the books, and the writing, and the animals, and all else.
Slappy is sitting on my chest, shivering. She’s cold, and wondering why.
Bubbs, the writing cat, is by my side. As the order normally goes, Big D will join us soon, climb up, and make it difficult for me to do anything but sit and provide comfort to the beasts.
*
I’m looking into my lantern. I can see a few insects inside. I’m surprised to see them there. The last time I used the lantern regularly, I was living in the trailer, on the farm, and I wonder if the bugs are preserved from that short, but transformative, time of my life. They might as well be preserved in amber from a prehistoric past.
I’m not sure if the lantern is duller than I remembered, or if the batteries need to be changed. I have a fresh batch of D’s, but I’m still hesitant to change them, not knowing how long I’ll be here, without power.
*
I’ve continued to write. And my cheeks continue to suggest roast garlic. I still feel warm.
I took a few pictures today. I’ll post them once I have internet access. They show the house, and the tree that fell across the street. It’s still out there. No one has gotten around to removing it yet. This makes me think we have time to wait.
*
I’ve cracked open the second craft ale, a Dogfish Head Brewery Midas Touch. It’s made with honey and saffron. I find the way the bottles are marketed a little annoying and overstated. This hardly matters: the beer tastes good. Although, still, no matter how good it is, it’s still hard to take when being drunk from bottles meant for children, not monks, not Sumerians. I would go so far as to say that the labeling is tasteless, but by saying that I put myself among the tasteless myself, so let’s just say I’ll focus on the taste, which I like very much, and leave the rest for the market.
*
The damn dog is sleeping under one of my writing arms. The good one, at that! Damn dog.
So I cancelled my reffing duties and drove out to Middleton. Jess is at the movies and they left the house open for me, but there is also an aggressive dog who lives there. I was almost killed by the same type of dog when I was younger, and although I've gotten over my fear of dogs, I still feel uncomfortable around them when they get aggressive. Around this dog, I actually feel sick to my stomach. So I backed out and now I'm hanging with Slappy. She looks like she has to take a shit, but I don't have a leash for her and it's too cold for her to be outside anyway.
I finished last night with a Founder's Old Curmudgeon Ale -- a piney, surprising drink. Not something I'd drink every day, but welcome last night in the weather.
And I went to bed with all three animals as well as a copy of Walter Percy's The Moviegoer, which I hardly remember reading although I do remember wondering why I haven't gotten to it sooner, since he can really write.
*
My mother called me this morning, telling me her house was at 47 degrees and that she had run out of food. I tried calling my brother for help, but his phone was shut off. I found out later that his power went out, too. He drove down to pick her up and now they're both in the w -- the only place they could find with heat. Billy called and told me about it. He told me my brother expected to stay there all day and maybe through the night if they had to.
*
I have a lot more to say, but limited battery power on the laptop. I'm going to cut and paste my entry from last night below. Along with the following longish entry, I got out another 2,000 words on the novel I'm writing. With the writing and the cooking and the animal rescue mission, it's been a productive time.
*
(Here's yesterday's entry -- I didn't have a connection so I'm posting it now).
A tree fell onto the power lines across from our house early this morning, some time before six. I was already awake and heard the crack.
I told Jess I had to get up early and make it into work for a delivery. Billy had already called and left a message on his phone, telling me that the power was out in the w, and that he needed help if I could make it early. I leave my phone in the car at night, because cellphone reception is frustratingly sporadic at the house. Plus, I like being cut off somewhat.
I tried to drive in. The tree had fallen all the way across the street, so I couldn’t go my normal route. When I called the police dispatcher and told her about the fallen tree she thanked me and was about to hang up, but then shouted just as I was about to hit the red to tell everyone to stay home.
A combination of the slightest fog on my windshield with the total power outage in town made visibility low, and once I began to find myself hoping I was on the road and not someone’s yard, I decided I would turn back.
I was tired anyone, and didn’t mind sleeping in. I kept getting calls: from my mom, from Billy, from the boss. At one point, the cats busted into the room. They’re not supposed to be on the bed, because Jess and I are both slightly allergic. They purred happily and Slappy started chasing them off. She knows they’re not supposed to be on the bed, and guards it with a little strain would-be sheep dog.
Jess decided she had to go to work, and took a long route in, being blocked off by police at various occasions. She called when she made it down.
I happily chose the route of lazy sensibility, and have used the day to make a rich chicken stock from some bones I was saving for the purpose. I’m also seasoning my skillets and making a steady supply of cowboy coffee.
Cowboy coffee is when you smash the whole beans with a hammer and boil them in water, and the result is surprisingly mild and pleasant. I didn’t want to go into the basement without lights, so I used a metal measuring cup which worked well.
I’ve also been able to take some pictures and read, making one of the few days in recent memory that has been productive on my own terms. More serene than any blueblood.
*
When I mentioned to Billy that I was still looking for work he said, “You’re going to get one of those jobs where you work eight hours. I don’t understand that. I’m a fucking blue collar. Ten hours minimum.”
“Yeah, but what if you could make more money working less hours?” I asked him.
“I just know that it won’t happen.”
*
And now I have to go outside and make sure the outside hose is disconnected. Jess and the Dufflebag will probably stay at her stepmom's. I’m going to stay here to watch the pipes and animals.
Having no power reminds me of the more pleasant aspects of living on the farm. The best moments there were generally when I was alone at the edge of the field, drinking coffee and reading a book. I suppose it returned me to a childlike sense of things I look for more easily than, say, a drug. Tricky we sometimes need difficult situations to force us into enjoying ourselves and our lives on any meaningful level. But you all knew that.
For dinner, I’m going to make a roast garlic soup from the stock. It gets dark early around here, so I’m going to have to amuse myself with whatever solace my electric lantern provides, up until the batteries die. That amounts to a book or two, and the three remaining winter lagers in the refrigerator. Plus the soup, plus the dog, and it’s a darkness to look forward to.
I’ll miss my girl. But I won’t miss the lights.
*
The roast garlic soup. I made it in the dark, so the spices burned slightly, and it came out less than perfect. Still, however, a soup that seemed to taste better by the spoonful.
I made it with the chicken stock. I set the stock out on the porch to congeal the fat, which I skimmed after driving the Dufflebag to Jess for pickup. They’re going to stay with her stepmother. Now that I’ve gotten it out of my system – the cooking, really – I wish I was there with them.
But I really needed to get it out of my system.
Alongside the soup, I drank the Dogfish Head Brewery’s Olde School ale, which proports to be a barley “wine-style” ale. I poured it in one of the pewter mugs I rescued from my mother’s house this week.
If you’ve never drank beer from a pewter mug, you are missing a great pleasure.
The roast garlic soup is poured over a piece of browned French bread. I made the mistake of using less oil than the recipe called for – stupid American – and the spices burnt. I’ll know next time. But still, my mouth is still active: all with the garlic soup. Think a French onion soup but with garlic, chilies, and romano cheese. The bread becomes soggy, except at the edges, where the browning made it crisp.
Even if the initial taste was slightly bitter, the aftertaste is one of the most well wintered tastes I know. The house, for example, is no longer cold.
The remainder of the chicken stock went back on the porch, along with the other ales I bought for the evening and beyond.
*
I’m told that the ice storm discriminated. Some parts of the state are wondering if they need an umbrella, others are thinking Mad Max. We are of the Mad Max.
A car drove repeatedly around the common, honking its horn.
I saw two near accidents as people drove through unpowered traffic lights, and this in a short drive.
My way out to meet Jess involved a long detour, past Blood Farm. I found an ATM and deposited the check I picked up yesterday. I bought the ale, the bread, and the cheese.
Right now, I’m missing Jess. I want both her, and the books, and the writing, and the animals, and all else.
Slappy is sitting on my chest, shivering. She’s cold, and wondering why.
Bubbs, the writing cat, is by my side. As the order normally goes, Big D will join us soon, climb up, and make it difficult for me to do anything but sit and provide comfort to the beasts.
*
I’m looking into my lantern. I can see a few insects inside. I’m surprised to see them there. The last time I used the lantern regularly, I was living in the trailer, on the farm, and I wonder if the bugs are preserved from that short, but transformative, time of my life. They might as well be preserved in amber from a prehistoric past.
I’m not sure if the lantern is duller than I remembered, or if the batteries need to be changed. I have a fresh batch of D’s, but I’m still hesitant to change them, not knowing how long I’ll be here, without power.
*
I’ve continued to write. And my cheeks continue to suggest roast garlic. I still feel warm.
I took a few pictures today. I’ll post them once I have internet access. They show the house, and the tree that fell across the street. It’s still out there. No one has gotten around to removing it yet. This makes me think we have time to wait.
*
I’ve cracked open the second craft ale, a Dogfish Head Brewery Midas Touch. It’s made with honey and saffron. I find the way the bottles are marketed a little annoying and overstated. This hardly matters: the beer tastes good. Although, still, no matter how good it is, it’s still hard to take when being drunk from bottles meant for children, not monks, not Sumerians. I would go so far as to say that the labeling is tasteless, but by saying that I put myself among the tasteless myself, so let’s just say I’ll focus on the taste, which I like very much, and leave the rest for the market.
*
The damn dog is sleeping under one of my writing arms. The good one, at that! Damn dog.
Monday, December 8, 2008
Complicity and Denial
When I got into work this morning, Billy drew me aside and informed me that the owner of a major, local contracting company arrived drunk to work an hour before and started insulting his workers before firing them all.
Crazy.
"But, Goo Goo, it's your fault," he told me.
Why?
Last year, for Christmas, I bought Billy a bottle of blueberry Stoli, since he goes in for blueberry flavored things. And vodka.
And Billy, being of the generous spirit, probably didn't get more than a shot for himself, as he offered it to everyone who came to the counter.
(For the record, Billy gave me my treasured copy of the Neil Diamond boxed set).
Well, the owner of the company in question was on the wagon at the time and hadn't touched a drop in years. Something about the morning or the spirit moved him, and he asked Billy how much he could take.
As much as you want! Holiday cheer!
So he poured himself a full coffee cup of the stuff and shot it down while the counterworkers stood wide-eyed.
And since then, it's been a day by day descent into addiction and chaos for our man, no doubt fueled by the twin demons of the bad economic times and the bad fortunes following men capable of downing a coffee cup full of blueberry vodka early in the morning, while the rest of the world is just beginning to blink and curse the alarm clock.
This has made me rethink my gift to Billy this year, but the die has been cast. Blueberry Stoli, it is!!!
Crazy.
"But, Goo Goo, it's your fault," he told me.
Why?
Last year, for Christmas, I bought Billy a bottle of blueberry Stoli, since he goes in for blueberry flavored things. And vodka.
And Billy, being of the generous spirit, probably didn't get more than a shot for himself, as he offered it to everyone who came to the counter.
(For the record, Billy gave me my treasured copy of the Neil Diamond boxed set).
Well, the owner of the company in question was on the wagon at the time and hadn't touched a drop in years. Something about the morning or the spirit moved him, and he asked Billy how much he could take.
As much as you want! Holiday cheer!
So he poured himself a full coffee cup of the stuff and shot it down while the counterworkers stood wide-eyed.
And since then, it's been a day by day descent into addiction and chaos for our man, no doubt fueled by the twin demons of the bad economic times and the bad fortunes following men capable of downing a coffee cup full of blueberry vodka early in the morning, while the rest of the world is just beginning to blink and curse the alarm clock.
This has made me rethink my gift to Billy this year, but the die has been cast. Blueberry Stoli, it is!!!
Sunday, December 7, 2008
Processing
I froze the bones from the pig and finally got around to making stock tonight. It's the second stock I've made in the new house, the second since I've started cooking again. It could have been better -- but I was pressed for time.
With it, I made a butternut squash soup and it fit the winter just fine. Almost all ingredient were local, save the garlic, pepper, fresh nutmeg, and salt. Squash, green onions, pork, and herbs were all bought almost within walking distance.
For dessert, I prepared pomegranates for the first time, dropping the seeds into a bowl of cold water to make it easier to remove the membranes.
It was nice to get in a healthy meal, and I assume I burned more calories making it than eating it: I started work at four and put the last dried dish in the cupboard five minutes ago, nearly five hours later.
*
We didn't get home from karaoke until 1:30 a.m. last night. Jess was so tired I gave her the mini egg sandwich I be bought at the gas station, and she ate it halfway through, from the top down. Thankfully, I didn't have to carry her up the stairs, but she fell asleep instantly, whereas I still had to wind down a little, and I did so writing a few facebook messages and reading a chapter in a book Mikey lent me.
*
We bought a healthy little Christmas tree at Gary's farmstand. We went to Pierce's first, but they were too expensive.
When I grew up, we owned a plastic tree. I don't think it was until high school when I found out that some people actually put real trees into their homes.
So far, the cats have not discovered its joys. We wait expectantly.
After Jess decorated the fence and two of our trees with lights, our home has taken on the soft light feel of the coming season. The tree, still unadorned, heightens this, as does the snow, or at least the occasional threat of it.
*
Next Saturday, Jess is going to spend with her family and she's going to have a "sleep over" with her sisters. This means that I will have the house to myself for the first time, ever. And my plans are to do the jiu-jitsu tournament during the day, return home with good whole bean coffee, a book or two, and some winter ales. I will no doubt spend a quiet evening enjoying the two extremes of the tranquil enjoyment of literature and the soothing pleasure of blowing out the eyeballs of a Boomer in Gears of War 2.
Carry on, soldiers!
With it, I made a butternut squash soup and it fit the winter just fine. Almost all ingredient were local, save the garlic, pepper, fresh nutmeg, and salt. Squash, green onions, pork, and herbs were all bought almost within walking distance.
For dessert, I prepared pomegranates for the first time, dropping the seeds into a bowl of cold water to make it easier to remove the membranes.
It was nice to get in a healthy meal, and I assume I burned more calories making it than eating it: I started work at four and put the last dried dish in the cupboard five minutes ago, nearly five hours later.
*
We didn't get home from karaoke until 1:30 a.m. last night. Jess was so tired I gave her the mini egg sandwich I be bought at the gas station, and she ate it halfway through, from the top down. Thankfully, I didn't have to carry her up the stairs, but she fell asleep instantly, whereas I still had to wind down a little, and I did so writing a few facebook messages and reading a chapter in a book Mikey lent me.
*
We bought a healthy little Christmas tree at Gary's farmstand. We went to Pierce's first, but they were too expensive.
When I grew up, we owned a plastic tree. I don't think it was until high school when I found out that some people actually put real trees into their homes.
So far, the cats have not discovered its joys. We wait expectantly.
After Jess decorated the fence and two of our trees with lights, our home has taken on the soft light feel of the coming season. The tree, still unadorned, heightens this, as does the snow, or at least the occasional threat of it.
*
Next Saturday, Jess is going to spend with her family and she's going to have a "sleep over" with her sisters. This means that I will have the house to myself for the first time, ever. And my plans are to do the jiu-jitsu tournament during the day, return home with good whole bean coffee, a book or two, and some winter ales. I will no doubt spend a quiet evening enjoying the two extremes of the tranquil enjoyment of literature and the soothing pleasure of blowing out the eyeballs of a Boomer in Gears of War 2.
Carry on, soldiers!
Saturday, December 6, 2008
Skipping Lightly, Oh Fuck Yeah
I'm sitting in the Newburyport Starbucks. Too many kids around for my tastes, but it will have to do.
I vowed to work on the novel today, but I had a morning meeting at the jiu-jitsu school and I'm going to karaoke tonight outside of Waltham. Because of a driving situation that doesn't bear repeating, I had to drive Jess to Newburyport for her four-year old niece's birthday party. And the funny thing was, as I was sitting on the couch in the basement, watching football.
I tend to associate watching weekend sports with intellectual laziness. I have no justification in doing so. I just do. It makes me feel greasy, in a way that a more complete collapse into do-nothing daydreams doesn't.
But oh yeah, I mentioned a funny thing. The funny thing was that I was starting to enjoy myself, sitting there, nursing a beer and watching the game. People let their hair down and forget the silent children in the room, and all sorts of otherwise taboo subjects are brought up. I kept track. Everything from reprisal killings to cocaine to -- I don't know -- the goddamned news. It's all news, this . . . . But I've known Jess enough so that her family are, well, dare I say it? Let's move on . . . .
So I left. Not to prevent a good time, but to insure continuity on the novel. It's too easy to take a few days off and start filling the time with learning to make paella. It's hard enough to get home and fry up and clean up and up up up when the pull of the earth is so damn low. The heaviness at the end of the day. And, right at that moment, I was to drain the syrup from my ears and write a novel that people will actually want to read, and that will mean something to people.
Mean something. Hmmm. Vague language. Have to be careful with that. But you know what I mean.
So I'm here among the crying babies, working for my 1000 words. That's my daily goal. One year, one novel, do or die.
So it goes. Me and the crying babies and the coffee, spitting away on a cold Saturday afternoon in Newburyport.
I vowed to work on the novel today, but I had a morning meeting at the jiu-jitsu school and I'm going to karaoke tonight outside of Waltham. Because of a driving situation that doesn't bear repeating, I had to drive Jess to Newburyport for her four-year old niece's birthday party. And the funny thing was, as I was sitting on the couch in the basement, watching football.
I tend to associate watching weekend sports with intellectual laziness. I have no justification in doing so. I just do. It makes me feel greasy, in a way that a more complete collapse into do-nothing daydreams doesn't.
But oh yeah, I mentioned a funny thing. The funny thing was that I was starting to enjoy myself, sitting there, nursing a beer and watching the game. People let their hair down and forget the silent children in the room, and all sorts of otherwise taboo subjects are brought up. I kept track. Everything from reprisal killings to cocaine to -- I don't know -- the goddamned news. It's all news, this . . . . But I've known Jess enough so that her family are, well, dare I say it? Let's move on . . . .
So I left. Not to prevent a good time, but to insure continuity on the novel. It's too easy to take a few days off and start filling the time with learning to make paella. It's hard enough to get home and fry up and clean up and up up up when the pull of the earth is so damn low. The heaviness at the end of the day. And, right at that moment, I was to drain the syrup from my ears and write a novel that people will actually want to read, and that will mean something to people.
Mean something. Hmmm. Vague language. Have to be careful with that. But you know what I mean.
So I'm here among the crying babies, working for my 1000 words. That's my daily goal. One year, one novel, do or die.
So it goes. Me and the crying babies and the coffee, spitting away on a cold Saturday afternoon in Newburyport.
Thursday, December 4, 2008
WALL-E
Finished WALL-E last night, after dashing off a quick 1000 words of the novel that I've returned to writing.
What struck me about the Idiocracy-themed Disney flick was how it already has the sense of being dated. Sure, it's creative and clever at every turn, with a fascinating level of physical detail, but at the same time it all seems like something from another era, when we thought the middle class would continue to prosper. It's dark vision of the future isn't nearly as dark as what might be upon us.
After seeing it, I remember back to an NPR interview with director Andrew Stanton, in which the interview claimed that people on the right criticized the film for being too left-wing, and people on the right critized it for being too left-wing, and the director disavowed any politics whatever. This is all if my memory serves. After having seen it, I will now go so far as to doubt the sanity of anyone who sees this film as coming from a right-wing perspective, and I doubt anyone did in the first place.
Speaking of right and left, Christopher Hitchens (is there any other major public intellectual these days?) wrote a piece on Sarah Palin late in the campaign that I find myself returning to, not just because he ended up predicting the outcome and diagnosing the wherefores of the vote, but because he seems to one of the few who isn't afraid to speak out against dangerous tendencies in American populism: most notably, the odd notion that the only true Americans come from small towns.
*
So pardon me if I skip away quickly. I want to work on the novel while I still have energy left in me to write.
What struck me about the Idiocracy-themed Disney flick was how it already has the sense of being dated. Sure, it's creative and clever at every turn, with a fascinating level of physical detail, but at the same time it all seems like something from another era, when we thought the middle class would continue to prosper. It's dark vision of the future isn't nearly as dark as what might be upon us.
After seeing it, I remember back to an NPR interview with director Andrew Stanton, in which the interview claimed that people on the right criticized the film for being too left-wing, and people on the right critized it for being too left-wing, and the director disavowed any politics whatever. This is all if my memory serves. After having seen it, I will now go so far as to doubt the sanity of anyone who sees this film as coming from a right-wing perspective, and I doubt anyone did in the first place.
Speaking of right and left, Christopher Hitchens (is there any other major public intellectual these days?) wrote a piece on Sarah Palin late in the campaign that I find myself returning to, not just because he ended up predicting the outcome and diagnosing the wherefores of the vote, but because he seems to one of the few who isn't afraid to speak out against dangerous tendencies in American populism: most notably, the odd notion that the only true Americans come from small towns.
*
So pardon me if I skip away quickly. I want to work on the novel while I still have energy left in me to write.
Wednesday, December 3, 2008
The Humility of the Frankfurter
I'm sick of eating turkey and leek soup, so today I spent one of my final few bills on the twin hot dog special at a gas station.
Two fifty gets you two franks and lots of fixins. I loaded mine with sauerkraut, banana peppers, and mustard.
Two dollars fifty for a lunch isn't half bad. There was once a day when I would have balked at such a meal, but it was hot and salty and had a kick.
In William Least Heat Moon's Blue Highways, he visits a monastery and is shocked to find that the monks eat hot dogs at lunch, rather than some gruel or primitive stew. Since then, I've associated hot dogs with austerity. I suppose some associate them with baseball, but for me it's just monks and gas stations, all the way down the line.
Two fifty gets you two franks and lots of fixins. I loaded mine with sauerkraut, banana peppers, and mustard.
Two dollars fifty for a lunch isn't half bad. There was once a day when I would have balked at such a meal, but it was hot and salty and had a kick.
In William Least Heat Moon's Blue Highways, he visits a monastery and is shocked to find that the monks eat hot dogs at lunch, rather than some gruel or primitive stew. Since then, I've associated hot dogs with austerity. I suppose some associate them with baseball, but for me it's just monks and gas stations, all the way down the line.
AC/DC
"You know what song has grown on me?" I asked Billy.
"I dunno."
"The new AC/DC."
"Me, too!" he said, his eyes widening.
What I like about the song, aside from the guitar sound and its catchiness is the ambiguity about whether being a runaway train is a good or a bad thing. Plus, I like the image of some singer singing to some girl, offering her advice, and then having one-hundred of his friends emphasize the key points of his lecture in chorus.
"I think that AC/DC must decide what songs go on the record by voting whether or not it'll be a good song for strippers," said a guy at the counter.
Billy reflected: "What do you think, right now, is the biggest band for stripper music?"
"AC/DC?" I offered.
"No," Billy replied, with confidence, "It's Buckcherry."
And with that, we went back to work.
"I dunno."
"The new AC/DC."
"Me, too!" he said, his eyes widening.
What I like about the song, aside from the guitar sound and its catchiness is the ambiguity about whether being a runaway train is a good or a bad thing. Plus, I like the image of some singer singing to some girl, offering her advice, and then having one-hundred of his friends emphasize the key points of his lecture in chorus.
"I think that AC/DC must decide what songs go on the record by voting whether or not it'll be a good song for strippers," said a guy at the counter.
Billy reflected: "What do you think, right now, is the biggest band for stripper music?"
"AC/DC?" I offered.
"No," Billy replied, with confidence, "It's Buckcherry."
And with that, we went back to work.
Tuesday, December 2, 2008
Samurai Sword
Saturday night, Jess fell asleep on my lap while we were watching the first Harry Potter movie.
I can sometimes carry on amusing conversations with her while in this state that she doesn't remember.
In the beginning of the movie, incoming Hogwart's students are told they are allowed to bring a cat, an owl, or a toad as a familiar.
"Which one do you think I would bring?" I asked Jess, not realizing she had dozed off.
"A samurai sword," she said, quickly, and matter-of-factly.
The choice is between a cat, and owl, or a toad, I told her.
"Slappy," she said.
"Go back to sleep," I told her.
*
My mother's computer continued to be a source of annoyance. I stopped by after work yesterday to try installing the old harddrive and, after ninety minutes of fruitless effort, decided I would instead try to talk her into letting me take the power tools.
She keeps some great, old, still functioning power tooks in the basement: a belt sander, a router, a saw, even an electric grinding stone. They are decades old, heavy, and built in a age where you expected to pass tools onto your children.
When I told her that I wasn't able to fix the computer, she burst into tears. "What else can go wrong!" she yelled.
I silently took the tools, as well as a dusy air popper I'd found in the basement. She was still crying when I left, Fox News playing in the living room.
I got into the car and drove off. I had a handful of napkins with me. I had somehow, without noticed, nicked the skin on my left cheek and it wouldn't stop bleeding. It bled for hours. I would almost say tears of blood, only it was a little too low on my face to be tears.
When I arrived at the school to teach, it was still bleeding. Chris recommend I put duct tape over it, as it would act like a second skin. I did, and it finally stopped bleeding after I replaced the tape.
*
Mikey and George both offered to go out of their way to fix the computer. I ended up rerouting a truck run earlier today and dropping the tower off with Mikey to see if it could be salvaged. Their kindness gives me peace of mind on a number of levels.
As my persistent knee troubles continue to worsen, and I'm forced to at least consider retiring from jiu-jitsu, depending on the outcome of doctor's meetings, at this point it is more the people I'd miss than the training. Not that I wouldn't miss the training -- but as with anything you do for a length of time, the value disengages at key points from the activity itself, and you find yourself thinking things like, "I can't stop training. Where the fuck will I find people to do karaoke with!"
*
Speaking of karaoke. Saturday night. Who's down?
I can sometimes carry on amusing conversations with her while in this state that she doesn't remember.
In the beginning of the movie, incoming Hogwart's students are told they are allowed to bring a cat, an owl, or a toad as a familiar.
"Which one do you think I would bring?" I asked Jess, not realizing she had dozed off.
"A samurai sword," she said, quickly, and matter-of-factly.
The choice is between a cat, and owl, or a toad, I told her.
"Slappy," she said.
"Go back to sleep," I told her.
*
My mother's computer continued to be a source of annoyance. I stopped by after work yesterday to try installing the old harddrive and, after ninety minutes of fruitless effort, decided I would instead try to talk her into letting me take the power tools.
She keeps some great, old, still functioning power tooks in the basement: a belt sander, a router, a saw, even an electric grinding stone. They are decades old, heavy, and built in a age where you expected to pass tools onto your children.
When I told her that I wasn't able to fix the computer, she burst into tears. "What else can go wrong!" she yelled.
I silently took the tools, as well as a dusy air popper I'd found in the basement. She was still crying when I left, Fox News playing in the living room.
I got into the car and drove off. I had a handful of napkins with me. I had somehow, without noticed, nicked the skin on my left cheek and it wouldn't stop bleeding. It bled for hours. I would almost say tears of blood, only it was a little too low on my face to be tears.
When I arrived at the school to teach, it was still bleeding. Chris recommend I put duct tape over it, as it would act like a second skin. I did, and it finally stopped bleeding after I replaced the tape.
*
Mikey and George both offered to go out of their way to fix the computer. I ended up rerouting a truck run earlier today and dropping the tower off with Mikey to see if it could be salvaged. Their kindness gives me peace of mind on a number of levels.
As my persistent knee troubles continue to worsen, and I'm forced to at least consider retiring from jiu-jitsu, depending on the outcome of doctor's meetings, at this point it is more the people I'd miss than the training. Not that I wouldn't miss the training -- but as with anything you do for a length of time, the value disengages at key points from the activity itself, and you find yourself thinking things like, "I can't stop training. Where the fuck will I find people to do karaoke with!"
*
Speaking of karaoke. Saturday night. Who's down?
Sunday, November 30, 2008
Clearing Nettles
Not much to report. Past few days have been centered around food: preparing food, reading about food, cleaning up food.
I went to Blood Farm in West Groton to pick up a Chine end pork roast, which I am currently cooking, at low heat, for the next eight hours. Should be grand.
I read on the internet that the place has slow service. There was one person ahead of me in line and I probably waiting twenty minutes with my roast and pig ears in hand.
The smoked pig ears were for Slappy, and enjoy them she did.
While waiting, a man came in, upset that he had brought in his deer and that they had given him the whole carcass and he just wanted the head. He kept asking workers to help him, but no one seemed to know what to do. Finally, an older butcher -- he looked Latino -- heard the man and went outside to help. With a few cuts of his knife, no more carcass! Head only!
Today I have to clear out the rose bushes so that we can fit two cars in our tiny driveway. That's my big project, as well as cleaning out the chimney for the pellet stove, which we fired up for the first time last night.
Since I have to sit around the house while the pork slow cooks, I'm hoping to get some writing done. And it wouldn't hurt to get some exercise. Unfortunately, my knees are so bad that I'm limited in what I can do. A nice long walk? Who knows?
I went to Blood Farm in West Groton to pick up a Chine end pork roast, which I am currently cooking, at low heat, for the next eight hours. Should be grand.
I read on the internet that the place has slow service. There was one person ahead of me in line and I probably waiting twenty minutes with my roast and pig ears in hand.
The smoked pig ears were for Slappy, and enjoy them she did.
While waiting, a man came in, upset that he had brought in his deer and that they had given him the whole carcass and he just wanted the head. He kept asking workers to help him, but no one seemed to know what to do. Finally, an older butcher -- he looked Latino -- heard the man and went outside to help. With a few cuts of his knife, no more carcass! Head only!
Today I have to clear out the rose bushes so that we can fit two cars in our tiny driveway. That's my big project, as well as cleaning out the chimney for the pellet stove, which we fired up for the first time last night.
Since I have to sit around the house while the pork slow cooks, I'm hoping to get some writing done. And it wouldn't hurt to get some exercise. Unfortunately, my knees are so bad that I'm limited in what I can do. A nice long walk? Who knows?
Thursday, November 27, 2008
Turkey Plus
Okay, the turkey that tasted so good on initial sampling ended up uneven upon carving, with dry white meat. I don't care for white meat so much, so this didn't bother me.
But I can now retract my earlier assessment and say that my turkey was not as good as my mother's. This year.
But I can now retract my earlier assessment and say that my turkey was not as good as my mother's. This year.
Heavy on the Horseradish
My first turkey is done and cooling. I tried it. I don't like to brag, but it's the best turkey I've ever eaten.
It's not bragging, really. For the past two weeks, I've been going to Barnes and Noble and checking the net for recipes and tips. I'm not a huge turkey fan, so I wanted to do this right. I don't like the dry stuff I usually get, and this is almost more like a slow roasted pork, it's so tender. I've been up since six cooking. Now it's just a matter of waiting for the family to show up, when I'll finally let myself polish off one of the two remaining I.P.A.'s. My brother gets the other.
It also isn't bragging because I've only been eating one person's turkey for the past thirty some years of my life. My mother is a good cook, but a little conservative. She's remarkably consistent -- same bird every year all that time. But I've had enough of that bird, and wanted mine with bacon and oranges and garlic and fresh rosemary.
I also made a walnut stuffing and the cranberry relish recipe I heard about on NPR this week. It turned out to be even better than expected. Did I go a little heavy on the horseradish? Guilty as charged!
Jess is taking a shower after cleaning the house all morning. This is our first Thanksgiving together. It seems to mark a turning point. The weather is unseasonably warm. My knee hurts, but the sun is out and the cats are clearly excited at the constant company. I'm just hoping they don't take to hopping up on the counters during the meal. They seem in that spirit today. Hopping, that is.
I finally got my Netflix squared away. The new XBOX has a program that lets you steam titles directly off Netflix for free, assuming you have a subscription. There are diverse titles available, and I already have my queue loaded with Herzog and documentaries and David Attenborough programs.
I can be all modern with my XBOX, but I'll keep my old man taste in movies. Bring on the polar bears and spelling contests! I'll watch it all and eat apples with cheddar to boot.
Fifteen minutes to go. The family arrives soon.
It's not bragging, really. For the past two weeks, I've been going to Barnes and Noble and checking the net for recipes and tips. I'm not a huge turkey fan, so I wanted to do this right. I don't like the dry stuff I usually get, and this is almost more like a slow roasted pork, it's so tender. I've been up since six cooking. Now it's just a matter of waiting for the family to show up, when I'll finally let myself polish off one of the two remaining I.P.A.'s. My brother gets the other.
It also isn't bragging because I've only been eating one person's turkey for the past thirty some years of my life. My mother is a good cook, but a little conservative. She's remarkably consistent -- same bird every year all that time. But I've had enough of that bird, and wanted mine with bacon and oranges and garlic and fresh rosemary.
I also made a walnut stuffing and the cranberry relish recipe I heard about on NPR this week. It turned out to be even better than expected. Did I go a little heavy on the horseradish? Guilty as charged!
Jess is taking a shower after cleaning the house all morning. This is our first Thanksgiving together. It seems to mark a turning point. The weather is unseasonably warm. My knee hurts, but the sun is out and the cats are clearly excited at the constant company. I'm just hoping they don't take to hopping up on the counters during the meal. They seem in that spirit today. Hopping, that is.
I finally got my Netflix squared away. The new XBOX has a program that lets you steam titles directly off Netflix for free, assuming you have a subscription. There are diverse titles available, and I already have my queue loaded with Herzog and documentaries and David Attenborough programs.
I can be all modern with my XBOX, but I'll keep my old man taste in movies. Bring on the polar bears and spelling contests! I'll watch it all and eat apples with cheddar to boot.
Fifteen minutes to go. The family arrives soon.
Wednesday, November 26, 2008
Tissues and Toilet Paper
This morning I diverted my truck route to head to my mother's house. I dropped off a frozen turkey -- one of the contractors gave it to the Boss, but I'm serving him Thanksgiving dinner tomorrow and had already acquired a bird. So it went to the freezer, and the trip also gave me the chance to pick up a pan for the turkey.
When I pulled up in the truck, a strange looking bird of a type I had never seen before came up alongside me and pecked at my sneaker. It followed me around the house and to the porch. I suspect it would have followed me inside, had I opened the door for it.
"Hey, Mom," I said, "There's a strange bird outside following me around."
"I've seen those. There's a whole family of them. Are they pheasants?"
"I don't think they're pheasants. I think it's a wood grouse."
I have no idea why I thought it was a wood grouse. I've never seen a wood grouse before.
When I walked back outside, the grousebird was waiting for me. It followed me to the front yard and I sat on a rock and tried to pet it. It sat next to me, within a foot, but would protest and peck at my hand if I tried to pet it.
I went to the front door and opened it and asked my mother to bring me something for the bird to eat. She brought me an old cylinder of Quaker oats.
I put some in my hand and offered it to the bird. It ate some, and looked angry. It bit me hard in the finger, but not enough to break the skin.
As I drove away, the bird stood in the driveway, craning it's neck, protesting. It looked lonely and sad. I think it thought I was its mother.
*
Jess had to bring the Dufflebag to see his Dad tonight. While she delivered the boy, I sat on the couch playing Gears of War 2.
At some point, the door opened. "Oh shit," I thought, "Jess is back already." I was supposed to finish the shopping for Thanksgiving and pick up some tissues and toilet paper before she got back, and cursed myself for losing track of the time.
A strange, tall, pale white man entered the house.
He looked at me, casually.
"This isn't Adam's house, is it?"
"Nah." I replied.
He looked around.
"Hey, is that the new Gears of War?"
"Yep."
Bear in mind, I was wearing a headset and playing a live game with Macarena.
"Is it good?"
I had been drinking Dogfish Head 90 minute I.P.A.s and felt a little woozy. "Yeah, it's . . . it's . . . great. I really like it."
"Okay," he said, and went back into the night.
*
Addendum:
I googled the noble wood grouse, and it looks nothing like the bird I saw. I did take pics from my cell phone, and will post tomorrow.
The curious may find the true wood grouse here.
When I pulled up in the truck, a strange looking bird of a type I had never seen before came up alongside me and pecked at my sneaker. It followed me around the house and to the porch. I suspect it would have followed me inside, had I opened the door for it.
"Hey, Mom," I said, "There's a strange bird outside following me around."
"I've seen those. There's a whole family of them. Are they pheasants?"
"I don't think they're pheasants. I think it's a wood grouse."
I have no idea why I thought it was a wood grouse. I've never seen a wood grouse before.
When I walked back outside, the grousebird was waiting for me. It followed me to the front yard and I sat on a rock and tried to pet it. It sat next to me, within a foot, but would protest and peck at my hand if I tried to pet it.
I went to the front door and opened it and asked my mother to bring me something for the bird to eat. She brought me an old cylinder of Quaker oats.
I put some in my hand and offered it to the bird. It ate some, and looked angry. It bit me hard in the finger, but not enough to break the skin.
As I drove away, the bird stood in the driveway, craning it's neck, protesting. It looked lonely and sad. I think it thought I was its mother.
*
Jess had to bring the Dufflebag to see his Dad tonight. While she delivered the boy, I sat on the couch playing Gears of War 2.
At some point, the door opened. "Oh shit," I thought, "Jess is back already." I was supposed to finish the shopping for Thanksgiving and pick up some tissues and toilet paper before she got back, and cursed myself for losing track of the time.
A strange, tall, pale white man entered the house.
He looked at me, casually.
"This isn't Adam's house, is it?"
"Nah." I replied.
He looked around.
"Hey, is that the new Gears of War?"
"Yep."
Bear in mind, I was wearing a headset and playing a live game with Macarena.
"Is it good?"
I had been drinking Dogfish Head 90 minute I.P.A.s and felt a little woozy. "Yeah, it's . . . it's . . . great. I really like it."
"Okay," he said, and went back into the night.
*
Addendum:
I googled the noble wood grouse, and it looks nothing like the bird I saw. I did take pics from my cell phone, and will post tomorrow.
The curious may find the true wood grouse here.
Monday, November 24, 2008
Taking Temp
The profile of playwright David Rabe in last week's New Yorker details the life of his father, a man who gave up teaching English. Financial desperation forced him to start working in a slaughterhouse, and the young Rabe grew up in a household shadowed by a sense of failed dreams and economic anxiety.
I don't want to be that Dad.
*
At my Halloween party, guests brought so much beer that I've been able to live off the excess since then, which is saying a lot, since I do enjoy beer. At one point there must have been twelve different beers in the old ice box. And now, I'm down to the last bottle: a Sam Adam's Holiday Porter. I'm drinking it now, and trying to savor it.
*
My mother called today and asked me, for the first time, when my birthday was. My mother always remembered -- my dad often forgot or had to be reminded. She actually could remember, when prodded, but she wasn't sure.
*
George was kind enough to secure a copy of Gears of War 2, and I spent some pleasant hours this weekend blasting the kidneys out of locusts and grubs. Sometimes, I get wrapped up in the games and will continue to play long after they are fun. The campaign mode was short and simple enough so that I felt immersed, but also able to stand up after an hour's time and not feel as though I was one step closer to amoeba.
The online mode is even more fun, as it gives me yet another avenue in which to poke fun of my friend and XBOX fan Macarena.
Speaking of Mac, he is going to lend me supplies for beer brewing. I'm inspired by the food issue of the New Yorker -- in which I recognized lifestyles I can probably aspire to and probably would enjoy -- read and you'll see why.
I've begun to notice that people who leave bjj because they are injured or can no longer make the massive time commitment, often turn to cooking as a hobby, and they are like arts in some respects. Adrenaline, aesethetics, the fusion of material acts with transcendental values, the feeling that the process reflects a certain psychology, and and the sense that our personal qualities, good and bad, are reflected in organization, knife-cutting, patience, and intuition we bring to the dish. It's as though if we could bake the perfect bread, then it's fate's loss if we aren't kings, and a sorry loss to fate at that.
*
With the restored water heater has come the restored baseboard heating to the second floor of the house. Whereas before, we arose on cold wood and scurried downstairs for warmth, now we sink into winter on the morning steps downstairs.
My morning ritual is to dress and then go outside to warm both our cars. I never used to warm up my car first, preferring instead to sit and shiver inside, but Jess has shown me the wisdom of this, and I begin each morning with a freshly cooked breakfast sandwhich, one often made from delicious Jimmy Dean sausage and some locally made, quality mustard (high/low!), taking off in a toasty car, the sun still yet to rise.
I don't want to be that Dad.
*
At my Halloween party, guests brought so much beer that I've been able to live off the excess since then, which is saying a lot, since I do enjoy beer. At one point there must have been twelve different beers in the old ice box. And now, I'm down to the last bottle: a Sam Adam's Holiday Porter. I'm drinking it now, and trying to savor it.
*
My mother called today and asked me, for the first time, when my birthday was. My mother always remembered -- my dad often forgot or had to be reminded. She actually could remember, when prodded, but she wasn't sure.
*
George was kind enough to secure a copy of Gears of War 2, and I spent some pleasant hours this weekend blasting the kidneys out of locusts and grubs. Sometimes, I get wrapped up in the games and will continue to play long after they are fun. The campaign mode was short and simple enough so that I felt immersed, but also able to stand up after an hour's time and not feel as though I was one step closer to amoeba.
The online mode is even more fun, as it gives me yet another avenue in which to poke fun of my friend and XBOX fan Macarena.
Speaking of Mac, he is going to lend me supplies for beer brewing. I'm inspired by the food issue of the New Yorker -- in which I recognized lifestyles I can probably aspire to and probably would enjoy -- read and you'll see why.
I've begun to notice that people who leave bjj because they are injured or can no longer make the massive time commitment, often turn to cooking as a hobby, and they are like arts in some respects. Adrenaline, aesethetics, the fusion of material acts with transcendental values, the feeling that the process reflects a certain psychology, and and the sense that our personal qualities, good and bad, are reflected in organization, knife-cutting, patience, and intuition we bring to the dish. It's as though if we could bake the perfect bread, then it's fate's loss if we aren't kings, and a sorry loss to fate at that.
*
With the restored water heater has come the restored baseboard heating to the second floor of the house. Whereas before, we arose on cold wood and scurried downstairs for warmth, now we sink into winter on the morning steps downstairs.
My morning ritual is to dress and then go outside to warm both our cars. I never used to warm up my car first, preferring instead to sit and shiver inside, but Jess has shown me the wisdom of this, and I begin each morning with a freshly cooked breakfast sandwhich, one often made from delicious Jimmy Dean sausage and some locally made, quality mustard (high/low!), taking off in a toasty car, the sun still yet to rise.
Sunday, November 23, 2008
When I worked at the gym at NYU, we occasionally encountered a man who would sneak into the upstairs bathrooms to shave. It was demeaning to all involved to drag this guy out of the building, but the administration was strict.
We didn't know much about him, and, in retrospect, I should have asked. I'm pretty sure that on a few occasions I actually covered for the guy while he finished, although I certainly asked him to leave at times as well. Sometimes, he was only half done shaving, so he'd leave with shaving cream still on part of his chin. He also seemed to cut himself a lot, perhaps from using dull razors or from rushing before he got caught.
According to the assistant operations manager, the man was a former professor. That was why he knew about the gym. At some point in the past he either developed a mental illness, or became an addict, or did something else to lead him to a life on the streets.
There have been times in my life when I've thought about that guy and realized how close I've come to going that way myself. After all, going to graduate school was itself a way of escaping demons. I was galvanized by the death of my friend Rob back in 94. He died of a heroin overdose. Quickly thereafter, I decided I had to take action and do something with my life other than what I was doing: a vague hallucinatory mix of drugs and inertia and strumming guitars. Of course, it's possible I could have chosen that direction anyway, but it's what pushed me to dive in.
I bought some GRE test booklets and spent six months studying the history of English literature. When I took my subject exam, I scored in the 98th percentile, which isn't surprising since I read nearly every major canonical work and memorized a slew of rhetoric terms in Greek to prepare.
Little did I know that I would soon go off to grad school, where a twenty year passion for literature would be extinguished in a matter of months. There's nothing wrong with this. In a sense, it propelled me into history: instead of living and thinking like a pre-post-modernist, now I was in the New New Age and found myself, blinking my newborn eyes, and wondering what wastelands lay beyond.
I have never found anything as intellectually engaging as I did back then, but I have found much that is more sober, insightful, and useful. I am less provoked and more deliberate. But not without my limitations.
*
I made lunches for all five days this week and spent only 5.63 to do it. I bought three pounds of pork (on sale), a jalapeno pepper, a head of garlic, and a head of green cabbage. I found some leftover lemongrass and thai rice. The resulting dish is hearty and complex enough to not get tiresome after three or four days. The pork, like most pork in this country, was too lean, and thus slightly dry and tasteless. It was not as tasty as some of the chicken dishes I'd made recently, but I still suspect it's going to be tastier than just about anything I could while on the road. And you can't beat the price.
My local grocery store doesn't have organ meats -- otherwise I might have kicked it up with some kidneys.
*
This weekend I applied or made inquiries to Home Depot and the Wachusett Brewing Company. I can now reduce the list of career themes to: food, fighting, fixing things, writing, and teaching. Those are the points at which we now spin.
*
One of the guys from William J Malcolm and Son installed our water heater this weekend. It ended up being more complex we first supposed -- our low basements ceilings made finding a suitably sized heater difficult. But, in the end, the plumber did excellent work and we now have hot water. Plus, I still have three dollars in my pocket to last the week! That doesn't sound like much, but it's a cup of coffee on a cold day, and sometimes, that's all you need to make it through. And, given the expenses of the weekend, it's a miracle I came out with a full tank of gas and the hope of a warm cup of the black in the early, cold afternoon.
After helping Tracie move to her new home in Stow earlier today -- she is a jiu-jitsu student who injured her back and recently had emergency surgery -- I insulated the basement against the cold air that was getting in through two boarded up windows. The plumber brought the problem to my attention and reminded me that the sharp cold could cause the pipes to freeze. I did most of the work with some trash bags and a staple gun. Now, the basement is somewhat darker and looks even more forbidding, but it has a touch of warmth, even on a cold day such as this.
We didn't know much about him, and, in retrospect, I should have asked. I'm pretty sure that on a few occasions I actually covered for the guy while he finished, although I certainly asked him to leave at times as well. Sometimes, he was only half done shaving, so he'd leave with shaving cream still on part of his chin. He also seemed to cut himself a lot, perhaps from using dull razors or from rushing before he got caught.
According to the assistant operations manager, the man was a former professor. That was why he knew about the gym. At some point in the past he either developed a mental illness, or became an addict, or did something else to lead him to a life on the streets.
There have been times in my life when I've thought about that guy and realized how close I've come to going that way myself. After all, going to graduate school was itself a way of escaping demons. I was galvanized by the death of my friend Rob back in 94. He died of a heroin overdose. Quickly thereafter, I decided I had to take action and do something with my life other than what I was doing: a vague hallucinatory mix of drugs and inertia and strumming guitars. Of course, it's possible I could have chosen that direction anyway, but it's what pushed me to dive in.
I bought some GRE test booklets and spent six months studying the history of English literature. When I took my subject exam, I scored in the 98th percentile, which isn't surprising since I read nearly every major canonical work and memorized a slew of rhetoric terms in Greek to prepare.
Little did I know that I would soon go off to grad school, where a twenty year passion for literature would be extinguished in a matter of months. There's nothing wrong with this. In a sense, it propelled me into history: instead of living and thinking like a pre-post-modernist, now I was in the New New Age and found myself, blinking my newborn eyes, and wondering what wastelands lay beyond.
I have never found anything as intellectually engaging as I did back then, but I have found much that is more sober, insightful, and useful. I am less provoked and more deliberate. But not without my limitations.
*
I made lunches for all five days this week and spent only 5.63 to do it. I bought three pounds of pork (on sale), a jalapeno pepper, a head of garlic, and a head of green cabbage. I found some leftover lemongrass and thai rice. The resulting dish is hearty and complex enough to not get tiresome after three or four days. The pork, like most pork in this country, was too lean, and thus slightly dry and tasteless. It was not as tasty as some of the chicken dishes I'd made recently, but I still suspect it's going to be tastier than just about anything I could while on the road. And you can't beat the price.
My local grocery store doesn't have organ meats -- otherwise I might have kicked it up with some kidneys.
*
This weekend I applied or made inquiries to Home Depot and the Wachusett Brewing Company. I can now reduce the list of career themes to: food, fighting, fixing things, writing, and teaching. Those are the points at which we now spin.
*
One of the guys from William J Malcolm and Son installed our water heater this weekend. It ended up being more complex we first supposed -- our low basements ceilings made finding a suitably sized heater difficult. But, in the end, the plumber did excellent work and we now have hot water. Plus, I still have three dollars in my pocket to last the week! That doesn't sound like much, but it's a cup of coffee on a cold day, and sometimes, that's all you need to make it through. And, given the expenses of the weekend, it's a miracle I came out with a full tank of gas and the hope of a warm cup of the black in the early, cold afternoon.
After helping Tracie move to her new home in Stow earlier today -- she is a jiu-jitsu student who injured her back and recently had emergency surgery -- I insulated the basement against the cold air that was getting in through two boarded up windows. The plumber brought the problem to my attention and reminded me that the sharp cold could cause the pipes to freeze. I did most of the work with some trash bags and a staple gun. Now, the basement is somewhat darker and looks even more forbidding, but it has a touch of warmth, even on a cold day such as this.
Wednesday, November 19, 2008
The Place of Salmon
I went to the local library tonight to research the town's history. The library is, itself, an historic building, housing a few peculiar artifacts that I'll detail in later entries.
It is small, but with books well chosen. In other words, there was an appealing randomness to it all, with enough to make me think I could go a few years and read hard there and not tap the stacks. I applied for, and received, a library card and took out, for my first borrowing, Richard N. Smith's history Divinity and Dust. Smith himself had an interesting voice. The book is tightly written, and slightly eccentric. He graduated from Harvard in the 1970s, had dealings with the state Republican party (a Mass republican) and peppered his chapters with enough quotes from Emerson, Thoreau, and Jefferson to make me think he'd be a great drinking partner on a cold night.
Maybe I'll try to track him down. Scratch that. I will track him down, and report back here.
*
Random Townsend facts and insight:
It is small, but with books well chosen. In other words, there was an appealing randomness to it all, with enough to make me think I could go a few years and read hard there and not tap the stacks. I applied for, and received, a library card and took out, for my first borrowing, Richard N. Smith's history Divinity and Dust. Smith himself had an interesting voice. The book is tightly written, and slightly eccentric. He graduated from Harvard in the 1970s, had dealings with the state Republican party (a Mass republican) and peppered his chapters with enough quotes from Emerson, Thoreau, and Jefferson to make me think he'd be a great drinking partner on a cold night.
Maybe I'll try to track him down. Scratch that. I will track him down, and report back here.
*
Random Townsend facts and insight:
- The town is multicentered and, aside from the barrel industry, seems given to cottage industries. A history of the Finnish in Townsend listed occupations as various as auto dealer, musician, upholster, oil furnace repairman, educator and photographer.
- Speaking of Finns, the Finnish name for Santa Claus is Joulu Pukki.
- Speaking of Finnish, they came to speak a mixed language called Finliskaa, which was mostly English words in a Finnish accent and with Finnish endings. Example: bedirooma.
- Speaking of autos, early car owners padded their garages because of the unreliable shift from forward to reverse. Additionally, because the early Fords were built with reverse as the strongest gear, people typically climbed Bayberry hill backwards.
- Townsend boasted one of the last paternalist-oriented industries, barrel making. When the industry declined in the fifties, with barrels generally only bought by the whiskey manufacturers, one of the major figures in town, A.D. Fessenden, owner of the local barrel plant, seemed to take personal affront when his workers unionized. The plant closed in 1960, but the workers didn't seem too upset. They quickly realized they could make nearly twice as much money doing less monotonous work in nearby Groton.
- I enjoy the random. Shrubs was a popular drink in the town's early days: it combined a fruit base with rum or brandy. This was a popular New England drink. I'm game. Pour me a pint.
- I live near the Squanicook -- I read today that the word means "Place of Salmon."
*
I still haven't managed to secure either a water heater or the money to buy one with, but I worked a lot of overtime last week, so I'll pick one up on Friday. Two more days without a dishwasher or shower. Nothing compared to farm life, but still.
I told George that Jess was working to get me into the painter's union. "You were just talking about teaching and becoming a paralegal!" he said, exasperated. "I need to make money!" I said. For me, there is no different, material or otherwise, between painting and teaching and I just need to help pay the mortgage. Obviously, I would rather write for a living. I can join the painter's union and still get into teaching down the road.
So, then. I must be doing a lot of writing, right? Well, I did some research in the library tonight and got home at eight, my first period of rest since leaving for work at six this morning. It's now almost nine. All I've had to eat was a slice of bread and a half of a cold baked potato. And yes, I'm still tinkering away, writing short articles for websites and trying to keep myself to 400 to 600 working words a day. Easy enough, but not. My mother called me four times today, crying, because her computer had crashed and she couldn't figure out how to make it work. So I'll put in a likely nine hours tomorrow, and then go deal with her computer, and then drive all the way here, and I'm hoping, at that point, to have one concentrated thought that isn't just I should but my fingernails or a slice of pepperoni pizza would be delicious but yeah, I've got 600 words on the subject of Townsend, or MMA, or food, or beer, or the economy, or Obama, or AC/DC, or sex and patriotism, or early country blues, or the cold, or the dog, or any manner of beginning and ending that might rise or not . . . .
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
Check Out . . .
the bottom of this page for the astronomy pic of the day, as well as the "this day in history" gadget or gidget or whatever it's called.
I'm considering issuing a papal bull myself. Details to follow.
I'm considering issuing a papal bull myself. Details to follow.
An Unfortunate Series of Clusterfucks
I was on the road for a clean nine hours today. This including one long, looping journey throught he backroads of Dunstable, where signs warning of attack dogs are posted on gates -- the houses beyond can be oddly geometric, or they might be the sort of rustic farm, the type a wealthy person buys after retirement.
It took over two hours to get to one of these houses. Three weimaraners barked at me from inside while an older person, at least six-five and apparently some sort of full-time maintenance man, came out to accept my goods.
He went through the whole order, rejecting all he had asked for. When I left, he stripped the order of copper and fittings until all that remained were two small bottles of paste. Two hours for two jars of paste!
And as I wove among the grand houses, I made calls, trying, with ultimate futility, to come up with money for a water heater Jess and I had located at Sears.
It was a despairing day, cold and quiet. I checked my phone for email, hoping for word about a job. Nothing. I decided at one point I needed to get a weekend gig and move to a seven day workweek. I've done it before. I wrote Jess and told her this and she told me her friend might be able to get me a better paying driving job.
Through this all, I am simply more confirmed that I need to keep writing, even if it's just at times as a form of lamentation. Not a complaint, but a mournful look at the old and lost. If there's beauty to the road, it's there: old bridges and rail lines spotted from a backcountry drive, rusted tractors, occasionally the sight of some frisbee carrying and carefree dog to balance it all out and push it into the universal. But I've aged and grown tired and seen my life change while on the road. It hasn't been a journey but one endless circle sucking me back home, with only hints of progress. At times, it feels as though my expectations of myself are falling away like ships on the horizon. I'm going to grow a beard and stand against the cold. At some point, someone with like blood would have cursed fate and reached for his axe, and I know that the hot spirit hasn't left me, however weary of disappointment.
Not a complaint, mind you. But a view from the road.
*
I stopped by my mother's house after work for a quick shower before returning to Townsend. I caught a cold, but it's just a headcold and I have none of the typical achiness. Still, I suspect a shower will feel damn good and will wash away the dusty feeling on my skin.
*
And then? Cold nights, stargazing, maybe a bowl of soup. The regular.
*
I had a dream last night that Jess was under attack by some faceless horde, and I was trying to protect her. When I was younger, I often had dreams about being falsely accused. Now, the pattern is that I'm trying to protect someone or something.
I woke up and the chihuahua, Slappy, was crossing Jess's shoulder as though she was making a journey across the hills. I could see her eyes in the starlight, and even she looked mournful and resilient.
*
Seven minutes to write. That's all I've given myself time for. Showertime, bitches!
Monday, November 17, 2008
Smoking Gun
The Smoking Gun's feature on mug shots has been impossibly good these past few weeks. Enjoy!
A Fork to the Cheekbone
Billy told me that he made the mistake of sheepishly asking his bullying girlfriend, the only person he seems afraid of, if she had made rice to go with his chicken and potatoes the other time.
"I thought she was going to kill me, Dougie," he told me. "I was scared for my life!"
So today I would send him messages on the terminal like this.
"Jess made pasta last night. Asked her if there was any sausage to go with it and she stuck a fork in my cheekbone."
So the wheel endlessly spins.
"I thought she was going to kill me, Dougie," he told me. "I was scared for my life!"
So today I would send him messages on the terminal like this.
"Jess made pasta last night. Asked her if there was any sausage to go with it and she stuck a fork in my cheekbone."
So the wheel endlessly spins.
Stay White
Today, work was slow in the w, so Billy and I fell into trivia. We always listen to Mike FM, the local mix station, and this gives us the opportunity to do a lot of "name that tune" and other such games.
Mike was kind enough to play one of my favorite songs, the duet "Stumblin' In" by Suzi Quatro and Chris Norman, and I let loose with questions about the Runaway's former members, Smokie's minor hits, and Happy Days.
An Irish kid, known for his love of hip-hop and ganja, was at the counter. Before he left, he turned around and said, "Hey guys, stay white."
And he walked away, without smiling.
It had been months since I'd heard whiteness used as some rough equivalence to uncoolness or awkwardness or whatever it was he meant. And that's mostly because I work in what is largely a white industry: Boston Irish Catholic, really. Sure, there are Columbians and blacks and Puerto Ricans and Brazilians who come through our doors, but they are somewhat outnumbered by the Irish. We even have regular customers who are Irish Irish.
Billy doesn't care about being cool, and he doesn't need to. He's 280 and can clean two-hundred pound cubes over his head effortlessly. He can still listen to Creed and admit to crying when he hears Sinatra. Who cares? Not much to prove.
I mean, I'm not that attune to hipness. Not that I would ever listen to Creed without an instinctual shudder.
But these things are inconsequential.
The Irish kid left and Billy turned to me, thoughtfully. He knew we were just made fun of. Darkness crossed his brow.
"Dougie," he said.
"Yes, Billy?"
"It's time for an old-fashioned."
*
An old-fashioned is not short for a plain friend donut, but a handjob. And over a year ago Billy and I realized that we both found the notion of a handjob inherently funny. I'm not the only one: check out the movie Rushmore.
All day long, Billy sends me messages on the terminal: "Dirty Dave would like his handjob now." "I'll trade you your lunch for an old-fashioned."
There is a difference in kind between crude humor that comes down on the side of humor and that which comes down on the side of crude. Dirty Dave? His humor is about enjoying the suffering and humiliation of others. He's not alone.
I guess what makes me connect to Billy in this way, aside from our ability to riff on the same topic for months, is this sense of it being not just because it's funny, but because we know exactly how unfunny it is. It's a sort of metahumor: transcendental! Humor in the w must be cyclical. It's a stay against the endless patterns of pulling orders and stuffing boxes.
"When my nephew asks me what I do for a living," Billy once told me, sorrow on his face, "I tell him I put stuff in and out of boxes."
*
Our water heater is still out. I went to my mother's on Saturday to shower, but had to go without yesterday. I was so self-conscious today that I went into the women's room at w, wetted a handful of paper towels, and tried to sponge myself down in the stall.
I generally opt for the women's room in the W. It's cleaner and there's less of a likelihood that someone will walk in on you. I'm not the only one. Eddy and the Boss use it, too, and I can usually get in a good read of the Manchester Union-Ledger while dropping a deuce. Since it is perhaps the worst newspaper published in a major city, it's almost always a sure bet for an unintentionally funny food review where the critic is more keen on portion size than technique.
Lots of murders, up there in Manchester, it seems, and lots of food festivals. Sounds like a fun place.
*
My knee hurts enough so that I'm taking a serious vacation from BJJ. Well enough. Of course, I miss it, but, over time, you find that the experience of training holds as much futility and disappointment as it does revelations and progress and I mean this in a broad sense. But I'm in for life, still. It is, after all, tattooed on my arm.
*
Listmania:
Ten songs that just played on my iTunes party shuffle:
Mike was kind enough to play one of my favorite songs, the duet "Stumblin' In" by Suzi Quatro and Chris Norman, and I let loose with questions about the Runaway's former members, Smokie's minor hits, and Happy Days.
An Irish kid, known for his love of hip-hop and ganja, was at the counter. Before he left, he turned around and said, "Hey guys, stay white."
And he walked away, without smiling.
It had been months since I'd heard whiteness used as some rough equivalence to uncoolness or awkwardness or whatever it was he meant. And that's mostly because I work in what is largely a white industry: Boston Irish Catholic, really. Sure, there are Columbians and blacks and Puerto Ricans and Brazilians who come through our doors, but they are somewhat outnumbered by the Irish. We even have regular customers who are Irish Irish.
Billy doesn't care about being cool, and he doesn't need to. He's 280 and can clean two-hundred pound cubes over his head effortlessly. He can still listen to Creed and admit to crying when he hears Sinatra. Who cares? Not much to prove.
I mean, I'm not that attune to hipness. Not that I would ever listen to Creed without an instinctual shudder.
But these things are inconsequential.
The Irish kid left and Billy turned to me, thoughtfully. He knew we were just made fun of. Darkness crossed his brow.
"Dougie," he said.
"Yes, Billy?"
"It's time for an old-fashioned."
*
An old-fashioned is not short for a plain friend donut, but a handjob. And over a year ago Billy and I realized that we both found the notion of a handjob inherently funny. I'm not the only one: check out the movie Rushmore.
All day long, Billy sends me messages on the terminal: "Dirty Dave would like his handjob now." "I'll trade you your lunch for an old-fashioned."
There is a difference in kind between crude humor that comes down on the side of humor and that which comes down on the side of crude. Dirty Dave? His humor is about enjoying the suffering and humiliation of others. He's not alone.
I guess what makes me connect to Billy in this way, aside from our ability to riff on the same topic for months, is this sense of it being not just because it's funny, but because we know exactly how unfunny it is. It's a sort of metahumor: transcendental! Humor in the w must be cyclical. It's a stay against the endless patterns of pulling orders and stuffing boxes.
"When my nephew asks me what I do for a living," Billy once told me, sorrow on his face, "I tell him I put stuff in and out of boxes."
*
Our water heater is still out. I went to my mother's on Saturday to shower, but had to go without yesterday. I was so self-conscious today that I went into the women's room at w, wetted a handful of paper towels, and tried to sponge myself down in the stall.
I generally opt for the women's room in the W. It's cleaner and there's less of a likelihood that someone will walk in on you. I'm not the only one. Eddy and the Boss use it, too, and I can usually get in a good read of the Manchester Union-Ledger while dropping a deuce. Since it is perhaps the worst newspaper published in a major city, it's almost always a sure bet for an unintentionally funny food review where the critic is more keen on portion size than technique.
Lots of murders, up there in Manchester, it seems, and lots of food festivals. Sounds like a fun place.
*
My knee hurts enough so that I'm taking a serious vacation from BJJ. Well enough. Of course, I miss it, but, over time, you find that the experience of training holds as much futility and disappointment as it does revelations and progress and I mean this in a broad sense. But I'm in for life, still. It is, after all, tattooed on my arm.
*
Listmania:
Ten songs that just played on my iTunes party shuffle:
- "The Cowboy Trail" anonymous song on compilation cd of early cowboy music
- "Vito's Ordination Song" Sufjan Stevens
- "Heat Wave" Linda Rondstadt (I am a closet fan.)
- "A Big Hunk O' Love" Elvis Presley
- "Eyes of a Child" Mark Lanegan
- "Taxi Driver" Guitar Wolf
- "Death of a Disco Dancer" The Smiths
- "Warden in the Sky" Woody Guthrie
- "The End of the Summer" Frank Black
- "The Thing that Should Not Be" Metallica
Sunday, November 16, 2008
Empire of the Signs
My damn GPS wasn't picking up a signal, so it took some luck, some of it bad, to find a Starbucks near my house. I like Starbucks, obviously, because of the free wi-fi. And I'll go against you both the uber-snobs and the reverse-snobs and admit that the coffee is pretty good, too.
I have my knock-off noise cancelling headphones on, listening to my downloaded music/fuel. Nice mix now: some early Springsteen, Entombed (good music to write to -- although I haven't given much thought why. It works well with the mechanical rapidity of typing), and Mahler.
I'm working on a few freelance articles to see if I can get into that game and supplement my income. Who knows? Maybe I can actually make a living doing something I enjoy?
So much of the afternoon was spend banging out a clean, clear piece on MMA, easy enough because it was meant for a general audience. I do well with that mythic beast, the general audience, because, deep down, I'm kind of an idiot and don't understand things well myself. So I always approach a subject from the perspective of an outsider, even if it's something that, on the surface, I have close knowledge of.
I'm planning another article that I'll start working on tomorrow on Massachusetts history. I figure I'll keep writing about what interests me: fighting, philosophy, history, food, sex, and culture. Nothing wrong with that!
*
I did manage to get some reading time in, despite the long work hours yesterday and the UFC party last night, where a few of us went Martha Stewart and made it into yet another surreal BJJ event -- instead of chips and drinks we had Texas chili, Indian chicken, and what I see as somewhat Scandinavian pork, although perhaps only I saw it that way. Viking pork! There you have it. Add in cookies and cake, and mix in brutal fights with unassuming engineers, a curious eleven year old in the shape of the Dufflebag, and a living room scattered with children's toys and fitness equipment, you have some sort of postmodern grab bag at its finest. If we had all been speaking different languages, it might have even made more sense. An empire of the signs.
*
No need to leave you hanging. What was I reading?
I got a whole whopping two chapters into Guy de Maupassant's travel book Afloat, a work that blurs the lines between fiction and reportage. It was put out by what is probably my favorite publisher, the New York Review of Books Classics, which specializes in releasing undeservedly obscure titles.
The introduction is about the cynical, overspending Maupassant and the creation of this book. And I love to laugh at how awful writers can be. In their day, worse than rock stars, it seems, and mostly because they could articulate their world in broader scope.
Here's how Maupassant begins. Classic!
This diary has no interesting story to tell, no tales of derring-do. Last spring I went on a short cruise along the Mediterranean coast and every day, in my spare time, I jotted down things I'd seen and thought.
In fact what I saw was water, sun, cloud, and rocks, and that's all. I had only simple thoughts, the kind you have when you're being carried drowsily along on the cradle of the waves.
I love the mix of understatement and poetry.
I have my knock-off noise cancelling headphones on, listening to my downloaded music/fuel. Nice mix now: some early Springsteen, Entombed (good music to write to -- although I haven't given much thought why. It works well with the mechanical rapidity of typing), and Mahler.
I'm working on a few freelance articles to see if I can get into that game and supplement my income. Who knows? Maybe I can actually make a living doing something I enjoy?
So much of the afternoon was spend banging out a clean, clear piece on MMA, easy enough because it was meant for a general audience. I do well with that mythic beast, the general audience, because, deep down, I'm kind of an idiot and don't understand things well myself. So I always approach a subject from the perspective of an outsider, even if it's something that, on the surface, I have close knowledge of.
I'm planning another article that I'll start working on tomorrow on Massachusetts history. I figure I'll keep writing about what interests me: fighting, philosophy, history, food, sex, and culture. Nothing wrong with that!
*
I did manage to get some reading time in, despite the long work hours yesterday and the UFC party last night, where a few of us went Martha Stewart and made it into yet another surreal BJJ event -- instead of chips and drinks we had Texas chili, Indian chicken, and what I see as somewhat Scandinavian pork, although perhaps only I saw it that way. Viking pork! There you have it. Add in cookies and cake, and mix in brutal fights with unassuming engineers, a curious eleven year old in the shape of the Dufflebag, and a living room scattered with children's toys and fitness equipment, you have some sort of postmodern grab bag at its finest. If we had all been speaking different languages, it might have even made more sense. An empire of the signs.
*
No need to leave you hanging. What was I reading?
I got a whole whopping two chapters into Guy de Maupassant's travel book Afloat, a work that blurs the lines between fiction and reportage. It was put out by what is probably my favorite publisher, the New York Review of Books Classics, which specializes in releasing undeservedly obscure titles.
The introduction is about the cynical, overspending Maupassant and the creation of this book. And I love to laugh at how awful writers can be. In their day, worse than rock stars, it seems, and mostly because they could articulate their world in broader scope.
Here's how Maupassant begins. Classic!
This diary has no interesting story to tell, no tales of derring-do. Last spring I went on a short cruise along the Mediterranean coast and every day, in my spare time, I jotted down things I'd seen and thought.
In fact what I saw was water, sun, cloud, and rocks, and that's all. I had only simple thoughts, the kind you have when you're being carried drowsily along on the cradle of the waves.
I love the mix of understatement and poetry.
Please Donate
Hey guys. For the next year I'm going to try to give it a go and make a career out of freelance writing. During that time I'm going to continue to look for teaching jobs, while remaining open to anything else that comes along.
I'm going to continue posting here and if I can get some donations going, then I'll be able to keep it updated more often and offer more interesting content.
Got an extra buck or two? Donate it to me!
I'm going to continue posting here and if I can get some donations going, then I'll be able to keep it updated more often and offer more interesting content.
Got an extra buck or two? Donate it to me!
Saturday, November 15, 2008
Blue Team
Inventory is over.
Billy and I were partnered up, with me as the "writer" and him as the "counter." Imagine that.
Billy recounts each item repeatedly and will empty out a box of, say, three top take-offs, onto the ground to make sure of the number. I might look inside from a distance and mutter "three, Billy" and he'll say, "Goo Goo, please."
Fact is, in a world where mistakes are almost inevitable, given the lack of real organization, the multiple part numbers and bin locations, the different manufacturers for the same item, Billy's error rate might be close to zero. I've caught him once, in all my time, making a blunder. I suspect I make as many mistakes in a week as he does in months, and I am careful. But there's still and odd "w cloud" -- a vague sense of propulsion that will make you look and know you're supposed to count out twelve seven inch dampers and you still count out six. If asked, you'd swear you'd counted out twelve, but there they are in the box. Six.
And it's not a simple lack of focus. We had to recheck some counts later in the afternoon and we're assigned parts covered by a senior worker and one of the owners in the company, and nearly every item was miscounted. There must be some sort of w mind that needs to be cultivated in most people, like pec strength or quick mental math.
Billy talks to the parts as though they were naughty animals. While going through the Hart and Cooley return air grills, he saw something fishy. "Hold on, Goo Goo. Hey you, get out of there!" And he violently wrenched out the same size grill, made by Total Air. "I caught you. Couldn't get past old Bubbs."
"That's good warehousing," I told Billy.
"Mmm. Sweet as melon," he told me.
*
My mother lives near the w, and I often stop by but try to avoid conversation. This makes me feel like a turd, but the conversations are depressing. I mean, literally, depressing. In that I leave and for hours feel darkened. She's been unemployed for over a year, and any given conversation concerns the house falling apart, the government falling apart, or the fact that some potential employer didn't call her back. She seems to exagerrate their villainy, insisting me that the managers are telling her, "We're not going to hire someone like you."
When I say, "Mom, did they really say that?" she'll say, "I don't understand why you think it's easy to get a job! I'm trying everything!"
*
When I get home, the first thing I do, usually, is to take a shit, and my mother will often follow me to the door and start talking to me. I have to tell her, "Hey Mom, anyway we can talk later? I'm busy now."
She'll stop and then continue to stand outside the door, talking to the cats. I often turn on the cold water just to make white noise.
*
I took a nap after inventory. I needed some rest -- I'm going up to Haverhill for a UFC party tonight (for the record, my money is on Lesnar). At one point during my nap, she knocked and asked me, "Is today Monday or Sunday?"
"Saturday," I replied.
"Oh," she said, and I heard her walk away, back out to the family room where Fox TV waited, the only light in an otherwise unlit room.
Billy and I were partnered up, with me as the "writer" and him as the "counter." Imagine that.
Billy recounts each item repeatedly and will empty out a box of, say, three top take-offs, onto the ground to make sure of the number. I might look inside from a distance and mutter "three, Billy" and he'll say, "Goo Goo, please."
Fact is, in a world where mistakes are almost inevitable, given the lack of real organization, the multiple part numbers and bin locations, the different manufacturers for the same item, Billy's error rate might be close to zero. I've caught him once, in all my time, making a blunder. I suspect I make as many mistakes in a week as he does in months, and I am careful. But there's still and odd "w cloud" -- a vague sense of propulsion that will make you look and know you're supposed to count out twelve seven inch dampers and you still count out six. If asked, you'd swear you'd counted out twelve, but there they are in the box. Six.
And it's not a simple lack of focus. We had to recheck some counts later in the afternoon and we're assigned parts covered by a senior worker and one of the owners in the company, and nearly every item was miscounted. There must be some sort of w mind that needs to be cultivated in most people, like pec strength or quick mental math.
Billy talks to the parts as though they were naughty animals. While going through the Hart and Cooley return air grills, he saw something fishy. "Hold on, Goo Goo. Hey you, get out of there!" And he violently wrenched out the same size grill, made by Total Air. "I caught you. Couldn't get past old Bubbs."
"That's good warehousing," I told Billy.
"Mmm. Sweet as melon," he told me.
*
My mother lives near the w, and I often stop by but try to avoid conversation. This makes me feel like a turd, but the conversations are depressing. I mean, literally, depressing. In that I leave and for hours feel darkened. She's been unemployed for over a year, and any given conversation concerns the house falling apart, the government falling apart, or the fact that some potential employer didn't call her back. She seems to exagerrate their villainy, insisting me that the managers are telling her, "We're not going to hire someone like you."
When I say, "Mom, did they really say that?" she'll say, "I don't understand why you think it's easy to get a job! I'm trying everything!"
*
When I get home, the first thing I do, usually, is to take a shit, and my mother will often follow me to the door and start talking to me. I have to tell her, "Hey Mom, anyway we can talk later? I'm busy now."
She'll stop and then continue to stand outside the door, talking to the cats. I often turn on the cold water just to make white noise.
*
I took a nap after inventory. I needed some rest -- I'm going up to Haverhill for a UFC party tonight (for the record, my money is on Lesnar). At one point during my nap, she knocked and asked me, "Is today Monday or Sunday?"
"Saturday," I replied.
"Oh," she said, and I heard her walk away, back out to the family room where Fox TV waited, the only light in an otherwise unlit room.
Friday, November 14, 2008
Goo Goo's Steel Nipples
Billy's nickname for me is Goo Goo. It evolved from a shortening of my name, backwards. Doug to Geh to Goo to Goo Goo.
He is the only person in the world who calls me this, although people know who he's talking about when he asks, "Where's Goo Goo?"
*
Last night I was getting ready for bed.
"I hope you're not planning on getting into bed with that sweatshirt on."
I wasn't, but I feigned ignorance. "Why not?!?"
"It's terrible!"
The w soils and tears and ruins. From shoes to shirts. The dust and the metal work in conjunction to sully and rend. I've broken glasses and belts and cell phones. And this, not with the stunning speed of the farm, but with a slow, patient, insistence that, given enough time, just about any object will emerge, worn.
*
Inventory is tomorrow, so I'm putting in a six day work week. Financially, it will keep me above water for another week, but in the sense that I'm just barely being saved from drowning. It seems, I suppose, an awful lot of work to do just to scrape by. But that's in the nature of the world, at times.
And this isn't a cop out or quietism.
Or fatalism, for that matter.
Just an acknowledgement that there is a relationship between work and success, but the relationship is tenuous and strange at times. It follows the convolutions and reversals of any relationship: and there is betrayal and bad luck and good fortune here, too.
No mere fatalism, here! But still, I'm thinking of spider webs.
*
I was so drained by the end of the day that I had to wonder: at what point does this make me into someone who'll stab a man just for staring at me funny? That's the way I felt: testy and worthless. A bad combo.
I counted hundreds of bins of brass fittings and some steel nipples. I counted flanges and fuses and p-traps and concentric line kits. I counted five foot pipe in both twenty-six and thirty gauge. Most of the time, I was wishing I was in a cafe, drinking coffee, reading, and watching the rain fall. This wish was dim and ghostlike, and, to an extend, so was I. So when Billy came to mutter if I was ready to hang myself, I could only mutter "Maybe I already have."
But that's a cold, rainy afternoon of ill-fitting work with no immediate prospects. It'll do that to ya! It's a grim enough day so that a river of whiskey wouldn't drown out the sense of unease.
I have, however, found some respite. One: in music, which sounds particularly good these days. Ripping my cd collection has excited my ears and reminded me of what why I used to pursue music with such abandon. And two: cooking. Cooking is meditative for me.
This isn't to say there are other forms of solace: Jess is sick and I'm avoiding her a little, just because I simply can't get sick tonight because I'm going in tomorrow come what may. And the long work week is hard enough to endure while feeling healthy. Not to mention, it would spoil one of the few perks: free pizza on inventory day.
Free pizza! Fate be damned!
He is the only person in the world who calls me this, although people know who he's talking about when he asks, "Where's Goo Goo?"
*
Last night I was getting ready for bed.
"I hope you're not planning on getting into bed with that sweatshirt on."
I wasn't, but I feigned ignorance. "Why not?!?"
"It's terrible!"
The w soils and tears and ruins. From shoes to shirts. The dust and the metal work in conjunction to sully and rend. I've broken glasses and belts and cell phones. And this, not with the stunning speed of the farm, but with a slow, patient, insistence that, given enough time, just about any object will emerge, worn.
*
Inventory is tomorrow, so I'm putting in a six day work week. Financially, it will keep me above water for another week, but in the sense that I'm just barely being saved from drowning. It seems, I suppose, an awful lot of work to do just to scrape by. But that's in the nature of the world, at times.
And this isn't a cop out or quietism.
Or fatalism, for that matter.
Just an acknowledgement that there is a relationship between work and success, but the relationship is tenuous and strange at times. It follows the convolutions and reversals of any relationship: and there is betrayal and bad luck and good fortune here, too.
No mere fatalism, here! But still, I'm thinking of spider webs.
*
I was so drained by the end of the day that I had to wonder: at what point does this make me into someone who'll stab a man just for staring at me funny? That's the way I felt: testy and worthless. A bad combo.
I counted hundreds of bins of brass fittings and some steel nipples. I counted flanges and fuses and p-traps and concentric line kits. I counted five foot pipe in both twenty-six and thirty gauge. Most of the time, I was wishing I was in a cafe, drinking coffee, reading, and watching the rain fall. This wish was dim and ghostlike, and, to an extend, so was I. So when Billy came to mutter if I was ready to hang myself, I could only mutter "Maybe I already have."
But that's a cold, rainy afternoon of ill-fitting work with no immediate prospects. It'll do that to ya! It's a grim enough day so that a river of whiskey wouldn't drown out the sense of unease.
I have, however, found some respite. One: in music, which sounds particularly good these days. Ripping my cd collection has excited my ears and reminded me of what why I used to pursue music with such abandon. And two: cooking. Cooking is meditative for me.
This isn't to say there are other forms of solace: Jess is sick and I'm avoiding her a little, just because I simply can't get sick tonight because I'm going in tomorrow come what may. And the long work week is hard enough to endure while feeling healthy. Not to mention, it would spoil one of the few perks: free pizza on inventory day.
Free pizza! Fate be damned!
dreams and teeth marks
As I neared home tonight, Jess called and told me that the CO2 alarm had gone off.
"What do I do?" she asked.
"I don't know," I said. It's one of those things in life that might be obvious to some, but I've never had to think about it before. I called my brother, and then Jake, from the jiu-jitsu school, my go to guy for anything involving brokeness and leaks and machines.
*
A female police officer parked outside, and she waited with us while the firetruck came. A small group of firefighters, all but one shockingly young to my eyes, appeared with hats and meters and flashlights and went into the basement, where they detected a slight level.
It took some time as they went around and made sure. They petted the cats. They looked around with a heat camera.
It seemed that trace levels were leaking back in through the vent.
*
An hour later, the firetruck arrived, with all the same people as before but about six more, and this time they practically broke the door open.
"We heard about your high levels of CO2 and rushed over."
"High levels?!?" Jess asked, looking at me.
I shrugged.
Before the night was over, the water heater was disconnected and we are once again without hot water. I worked a ten hour shift today. I was even going to write an entry tonight about how bad I smelt. I know because I was in small rooms all afternoon counting brass pipe fittings.
The confusion came because they got a reading of 17, but this somehow got communicated as 17,000, putting us on the road to death.
But they noticed the sorry state of the water heater, which is now leaking full force. One of the firefighters was also a plumber, and he explained that our heater is working all the time because of the leak. Additionally, he felt that the vent pipe was partially obstructed.
Earlier today, I was scrounging around trying to figure out how to meet a Monday car payment I can't afford. Now I'm looking at a heater and repairs. That's the bad news. I'm uniquely situated to take care of it. After all, I work in a warehouse that sells waterheaters and can buy them at cost. But still.
As they firefighters left, one of them said, "And you should probably get those stairs fixed, too."
*
I had a few truck runs early this morning, most of which were spent dwelling on the quiet melancholy of the road as compared to the sense of dread resulting from the economic news. From the driver's seat, not much has changed. But I can sense something else on the roads, even as I sit, isolated. The highways are life some parts removed -- with mostly the radio to give me a sense of connection. But I couldn't help but see all the cars and think: which are the ones who are suffering and jobless and desperate? Who, driving by me now, is doomed?
I drove to my mother's home to grab an armful of books, hoping to get in some reading. I left for work at six and got home at six. After dealing with the fire department, and then cooking some chicken and cleaning, and then dealing with the fire department again, and then shopping for food for next week, it's brought me to the time now, almost ten. I need to get up at 5:30 tomorrow morning to go to work for inventory.
It doesn't appear that there will be much time to read. Or do anything else, other than work and try to be optimistic in the face of diminishing returns.
Jess is sick. She thinks she might have strep throat. Tonight is the night when the Dufflebag gets to stay up late. He's watching a generic comedy on tv and laughing loudly.
*
When I finish writing, I need to mop the kitchen floor. The firefighters tracked in some mud from the rain. And this despite their best efforts -- I noticed them all trying their best to wipe their feet before entering.
So yeah, to the mop. Here's my sole attempt at meaning making for the day, and it's necessary, given the situation.
*
Here's Vic Chesnutt. Maybe you've heard of him.
"What do I do?" she asked.
"I don't know," I said. It's one of those things in life that might be obvious to some, but I've never had to think about it before. I called my brother, and then Jake, from the jiu-jitsu school, my go to guy for anything involving brokeness and leaks and machines.
*
A female police officer parked outside, and she waited with us while the firetruck came. A small group of firefighters, all but one shockingly young to my eyes, appeared with hats and meters and flashlights and went into the basement, where they detected a slight level.
It took some time as they went around and made sure. They petted the cats. They looked around with a heat camera.
It seemed that trace levels were leaking back in through the vent.
*
An hour later, the firetruck arrived, with all the same people as before but about six more, and this time they practically broke the door open.
"We heard about your high levels of CO2 and rushed over."
"High levels?!?" Jess asked, looking at me.
I shrugged.
Before the night was over, the water heater was disconnected and we are once again without hot water. I worked a ten hour shift today. I was even going to write an entry tonight about how bad I smelt. I know because I was in small rooms all afternoon counting brass pipe fittings.
The confusion came because they got a reading of 17, but this somehow got communicated as 17,000, putting us on the road to death.
But they noticed the sorry state of the water heater, which is now leaking full force. One of the firefighters was also a plumber, and he explained that our heater is working all the time because of the leak. Additionally, he felt that the vent pipe was partially obstructed.
Earlier today, I was scrounging around trying to figure out how to meet a Monday car payment I can't afford. Now I'm looking at a heater and repairs. That's the bad news. I'm uniquely situated to take care of it. After all, I work in a warehouse that sells waterheaters and can buy them at cost. But still.
As they firefighters left, one of them said, "And you should probably get those stairs fixed, too."
*
I had a few truck runs early this morning, most of which were spent dwelling on the quiet melancholy of the road as compared to the sense of dread resulting from the economic news. From the driver's seat, not much has changed. But I can sense something else on the roads, even as I sit, isolated. The highways are life some parts removed -- with mostly the radio to give me a sense of connection. But I couldn't help but see all the cars and think: which are the ones who are suffering and jobless and desperate? Who, driving by me now, is doomed?
I drove to my mother's home to grab an armful of books, hoping to get in some reading. I left for work at six and got home at six. After dealing with the fire department, and then cooking some chicken and cleaning, and then dealing with the fire department again, and then shopping for food for next week, it's brought me to the time now, almost ten. I need to get up at 5:30 tomorrow morning to go to work for inventory.
It doesn't appear that there will be much time to read. Or do anything else, other than work and try to be optimistic in the face of diminishing returns.
Jess is sick. She thinks she might have strep throat. Tonight is the night when the Dufflebag gets to stay up late. He's watching a generic comedy on tv and laughing loudly.
*
When I finish writing, I need to mop the kitchen floor. The firefighters tracked in some mud from the rain. And this despite their best efforts -- I noticed them all trying their best to wipe their feet before entering.
So yeah, to the mop. Here's my sole attempt at meaning making for the day, and it's necessary, given the situation.
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Here's Vic Chesnutt. Maybe you've heard of him.
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