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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.