Pohjola's Daughter and The Drowning Man

I had no idea, but one of my favorite little cafes is actually date night central on Fridays. I didn't know this because I'm normally there in the middle of the day in the middle of the week, somewhere round about 3 when I almost always have the place to myself. Not only were there more people there, the menu was different so it was weird and kind of exciting all at the same time.

The hostess (another new wrinkle) seated me then shortly looped back around and sat down a glass of ice water, silverware, and told me the waiter would be right over. Wellll, not exactly right over. The place was packed and the staff was slammed, but I didn't have anywhere to be so...what the hell, I waited and took the time to do a little people watching.

It was a really interesting mix; mostly couples my age who probably had sitters at home with the kids, but there was one couple a few seats away that really caught my eye. They had to have been in their mid 80's, the guy had pants up to his armpits and the ol' gal's wig wasn't on quite straight. They were sharing an entree of pasta, duking it out with their forks over who got which meatball. He kept putting just the end of one strand of spaghetti in his mouth at a time, then he'd slurp it in real slow with his eyes wide open, staring right at her. The opposite end would bap him on the nose or the cheek each time and she thought it was the funniest thing. She played footsie with him under the table and kept motioning for him to lean in so she could wipe the sauce off his face. Then he'd go right back into his routine and make another face at her.

Now, I don't hear too good in situations like this. A big room full of conversation along with clanging dinnerware is normally a recipe for disaster for me on the hearing front...what I get is mostly static. But the couple at the next table over for some reason was fairly audible. I kinda half tuned in as the hostess brought over a basket of rolls. This guy was fighting way above his weight. He was trying his damndest to get anything out of his date; something more than just a yes or a no answer. It was the standard battery of questions: where'd you go to school, are your parents in town, what do you do, yadda yadda yadda. His date was dressed in an outfit that would've been perfectly acceptable at a wedding reception...if she was one of the bridesmaids. Really elaborate make-up, dangly earrings and some sort of mock tiara holding her hair up. Our man was in a shirt and slacks combo that made him look like a neck-down model in a five-and-dime weekly flyer.

She wasn't giving him much, didn't seem too keen on asking questions herself, so in an effort to keep the dance going he started in telling more in-depth things about himself. With each story, she rebuffed. He kept shifting gears, trying new approaches, and finally asked her if she liked old cars.

“Yeah, classic cars are cool.” she said flatly.

Paydirt. “I've got an old Ford truck I'm restoring in my garage.”

“Ew. I don't do trucks.”

I've never seen a guy inflate then deflate so quickly.

As the waiter shoe-horned his way between our tables to take my order, she excused herself to the restroom. After he left I looked over to their table and watched as our man ran his fingers through his thinning hair and exhaled heavily through pursed lips.

“I'm drowning over here.” he said, noticing that I was looking his way.

Did you guys just come from a wedding?

“No, this is an online thing, I met her here. I didn't know it was going to be formal. This is my best shirt.”

I asked him if he had ever heard the story of Väinämöinen and Pojhola's daughter. He said that he hadn't, accompanied with a rather confused look.

Väinämöinen is the hero in an epic Finnish fairy tale. He's got a big scraggly beard and a magic sled. He's looking for a wife when he gets into this adventure, searching for a stolen artifact that can create just about anything.

“Is this going to take a long time? She's gonna be back any minute.”

Are you kidding? You've seen the way she's dressed. Besides, from what I've heard she's probably talking to her roommate, telling her to send a text in a half hour to get her out of here.

“Go ahead.” he said.

So he's on this adventure when he runs into Pohjola, the Daughter of the North. She's hangin' out on a rainbow, weaving a gold cloth. Väinämöinen says “hey, you're pretty cute...why don't you jump in my sled and come along on this little adventure with me?” She says she'll only go along if he can do a couple things for her...like tie invisible knots in an egg and make a ship out of her little weaving tools. He thinks “well hell, I'm Väinämöinen, I'll give it a go.” Well, as it turns out he can't tie the knots and ends up with egg on his face, and he cuts himself on his axe trying make the ship. It doesn't take him long to figure out “damn, this is some bullshit...ta hell with this, I'm flying on down the road.”

“So?”

So...every fair maiden has a test for her suitor, and that's her right. Just because you're not pushin' her buttons doesn't mean you're a bad guy, you're just not her hero. And you, you just gotta keep on keepin' on till you find yours. Look over there at that old couple in the corner.


"The one with the guy cleaning bolognese out of the bottom row of his dentures in the water glass?”

Yeah, that one. The woman he's with doesn't care. Maybe she loves him because of it, not in spite of it. They fell for each other because of who they are...not who they aren't. And don't think you're the only one havin' it rough. Think of Pohjola's Daughter, sitting up there freezing her ass off on that rainbow. She's waiting, too.

“So now what?”

Now, you finish the date. Keep doin' what you're doin', be polite and mind your manners, do the awkward hug at the end...then forget about it.

“Aw man, here she comes.” he said, tensing up again.

I told him not to worry, that I'd cover for him.

I started in on the punchline from some old joke; “...and then he says to the guy, he says “rectum?? It nearly killed him!”

Laugh? Our man nearly fell out of the chair.

A Pound of Flesh

It took almost a full pint with Lou and Boone for me to cover the high points of my annual Dirt Worship trip. Truthfully Lou only half listened, Boone was mesmerized. I told them about the dangers of hidden cactus and trails reclaimed by landslides. Line-of-sight navigation by posts through overgrown sagebrush and 9% grade switchbacks. Boone nearly went off the back of his chair when I told him it took 4 hours to do the first 5 miles of day one. It was the most rugged country I've ever seen. In some spots there would've been no evidence of man for miles if it wasn't for the rutted-out trail we were riding on.

Lou came swabbing down the bar with the same rag he just used to dab his sweaty forehead. “They've got roads out there now, you know. You coulda taken a car. Man, if you break down out there, you're in a lotta trouble.”

Yeah, trouble. Like when you roll into camp with a half hour of daylight left wondering how far back the other three guys in your group are. Making the effort to go in and try to help will end up in more people stuck out in the 48 degree dark. Thanks to all the recent oil activity out there, cell phone coverage is better than you'd expect. The three greenhorns called 911 and the operator found them through the phone's GPS. I'll bet Lewis and Clark are shitting in their graves. Anyway, the Sheriff dropped them off in camp around 10 o'clock. They said their bikes were in a ditch somewhere. They promptly grilled hamburgers and garlic bread, washed it down with PBR boilermakers. No shit. All that after bonking on the first day.

Lou told me that I was stupid before turning to wash some glasses. After snorting a few obscenities he started in with the scolding. “Why would anyone pay money to do that? And in that place? I drove my first and third wives through there for vacation. Miserable place.”

Going by car is different though, because you see everything from a tin can, like an amusement park ride. I prefer Hemmingway's take on it; the only way to really get to know a country is by bike. You see the land as it really is because you sweat up each incline to enjoy coasting down the other side. When you reach the top, you see the land as only a handful have seen it, in a way that never translates on postcards. It's the sight of miles of pure, wild grace that makes you forget your legs feel like they're gonna fall off. You marvel at stunning views from a car at a wayside, but after a hard climb on a bike you'll cry when you see it if you have any soul in you.

I told him that I fully anticipate something to happen on every one of these trips. The risk is part of it. That's the adventure. I'm scared to death before every ride, wondering if my legs will hold up or if I'll have a nasty crash. But I can prepare for those things...what, am I going to not go? Am I going to not know? It's in those last few revolutions of the pedals coming into camp that make every tumble, every missed turn, every cramp, everything...it makes it all worth it. You made it.

Lou said “Bet you'll never do that again.”

Actually, I would. I'd turn around and ride back into it right now if I could.

Boone chewed on the end of his swizzle stick with his eyes at half mast, locked squarely on me. He pushed the bourbon supported ice in his glass, then pointed at me all wet-fingered.

“You know why you keep going back?”

I finished my pint and shook my head.

“That's your pound of flesh. Jumpin' in the hurt locker like that, that's your offering.”

He grinned, tapping his Newport on the bar's ledge.

“You don't see it, do you? The land is your church, it's your sweat lodge. Those wheels are your prophets, your spirit guides. You're out there followin' posts, but you're really lookin' for a sign...hopin' for a vision. You get out there and bust down every physical wall you've got on that thing...that's how you get your mind right. All you have to do is finish the ride, nothing else means shit.”

Lou turned down one corner of his newspaper and said “I still think you're stupid.”

“Nah, he's still waitin' to hear, that's all.”

“Dumbass.”

Life is a lot like riding a bike; to keep your balance you gotta keep movin'. Ol' Albert Einstein said that, and he was a pretty smart guy. Hell, it might also be a microcosm of the whole damn universe.

Recently Heard Around the House

And when I say 'heard' I mean 'spoken'. By me. To Radar.

Hey buddy, you want the last of this beer?

Don't you act like that, I steal extra plastic bags from the grocery store to pick up your shit!

Hey man, I'm gonna take a little nap here for a bit. Why don't you wait till I'm in a nice deep sleep then come over and jab me in the face with your jagged-assed paw? Good boy.

C'mon. Let's go shit on rich people's front lawns.

What, you're not gonna sleep in my bedroom no more? Fine. No, fine. Go sleep in your room. No, don't try to apologize, I don't wanna hear it. I'm gonna start charging you rent so go find a freakin' job, asshole.

No, don't stifle it! You just drank like a gallon of pond water, let 'er rip buddy!

Don't look at her, you'll turn to stone.

Leave it. Leave it! LEAVE IT! NO! GIMME THAT! Don't eat...oh wait. No, I'm sorry you can eat that. What? I said I was sorry.

Don't worry. You get to go.

Nightswimming

At the end of an extraordinary evening, with an extra spring in my step, Radar and I laced up to patrol the lake. After sprinting across the main road and a couple blocks of sniffing later, we settled into our normal night walk stride; a midnight mosey. The heat of the day is gone, all that's left of it is a thin layer of fog on the water. Peepers peep and crickets creek, interrupted only by the wail of crotchrockets a few avenues over and the hum of fluorescent light every 40 paces. We're the only ones around for half a mile, keeping watch through spider web fuzz and mosquito buzz.

Radar took his slack once we hit the boat ramp at the far end, went in like a ninja and was neck deep before I knew what he was doing. I didn't lock the leash, just let him go, and within seconds was watching him putt around with only his nose and ears showing.

I watched. I stared. I called his name and he disregarded. I smiled. I looked over each shoulder and took off my shoes and socks. The lake was like bathwater that had been left too long. Radar was 16 feet out, putting around silent as a Minnkota. I slid my shirt over my head, threw it on top of my shoes and strolled in, giving Radar more slack. The first few feet are deceiving, once chest deep the water was cool enough to take my breath away. Radar came by in silence and I unhooked the leash. I don't think he even noticed, he just kept swimming around me in wide circles, till I finally lost the bottom. After a few seconds I came back up and rolled onto my back. Suddenly the stars were incredibly apparent.

The Poor Man's Phillip Seymour Hoffman

At Bob Hope Memorial airport it was a crystal clear day 

just north of that Los Angeles existence, 

the palms were still out on North Hollywood Way 

with the Metrolink clanging in the distance. 

Against the backdrop of Angeles National Forest 

The Poor Man's Philip Seymour Hoffman emerges
spilling out with stars and tourists 

to satisfy the most disgusting of habitual urges. 

He slips on his shades as the doors slide back 

he reaches for a smoke but there's none in the pack.

“Damn...” he spits seeing only smokeless lips, 

“better check again” patting down his pockets and hips. 

"Nobody smokes in Burbank."

The carousel switched on and started to rumble 

as he scanned new arrivals all shaded under sill, 

the first bag hit with a thick thud tumble in that 
No Smoking palazzo for packs, if you will. 

He spots some cat standing alone with a cigarette 

puffing away at the edge of the sun, 

he played piano with Miles' second great quintet 

but as far as smoking he's the only one.  

Thinking up something clever to say 

The Poor Man's Philip Seymour Hoffman went his direction,

gotta be quick 'cause he's just a few steps away, 

something cool with nonchalant inflection. 

You had better be desperate askin' for a smoke 

'cause in California nothing could be bolder,

for a better chance at a toke he made nicotine the joke

after tapping Herbie Hancock on the shoulder.

No shit.

The PMPSH rolls up and taps Herbie.  “Excuse me. I hate to hassle you or anything. Uh, I was wondering if...”  He paused and tented his fingers in front of a clenched smile, Herbie began reaching into his suit coat for a pen with an 'awe shit, I've been recognized by a white boy' look.

“And they're really expensive now and all, but I've been in coach for like, four hours and had a really shitty connection...can I get one of your smokes?”

Herbie stopped and sized him up over the rim of his sunglasses, then went for the opposite coat pocket and pulled out his cigarettes. Without a word, but a grin just tight enough to keep his lit cigarette in place, Herbie angled the open box toward him.

“Ah, thanks so much.” he said, tugging on one of the filters. Herbie said to take two, they're small, then handed him his lighter.

The two stood there side by side in silence for a minute, inhaling and exhaling that sick, succulent smoke. Tastes like shit. So good. The PMPSH is shitting himself at the idea of standing next to one of his jazz heroes, smoking after a little 'boop, gotcher nose...', cool as a cucumber. Then without breaking his gaze off  the hazeless forest foothills, the PMPSH delivers a line I'm sure blew Herbie away.

With the cigarette in his mouth and two fingers across his lips he says to Herbie, he says “By the way...I think you're incredible.”

That's how cool the PMPSH is. On stage he's a chameleon, he can take you from Victorian London to the swamps of Florida by just rearranging his beard. Letting his hair grow out or cutting is close. But it's when you really listen to him, when you really pay attention to what he's doing onstage that you start to get the idea he does just as much homework (if not more) as the real Phillip Seymour Hoffman. With the PMPSH, you get all the look and commitment at fire sale prices. Give him a decade and he'll be the Reasonably Priced John Lithgow. Actually, I'm gonna say twice the commitment because that's one of the things I really admire about this guy. He never let go of the dream.

It's always a big to-do when he comes through town on one of his thrice annual sojourns. He's the crazy brother that never shows up empty handed and fits in with any situation. We catch  up in the push-and-shove of getting ready for a dinner party in a kitchen that would be small on a two-man submarine. 

He can charm the paint off the wall, this guy. I'm always glad to see him come through, but imagine how I felt when he told me that on his most recent visit, we'd be in the second row to see Elvis Costello and the Imposters. Lemme give you an idea...this is the guy that introduced me to Tom Waits. Now, Elvis Costello is to the PMPSH what Tom Waits is to me. He's rabid about the guy. And it's contagious, this enthusiasm. Me, I've always liked Elvis. After that show, I'm a devotee. When he plays a ballad his guitar purrs, dripping of sex. Next it's got you jumping a rattle-trap train before taking a break and starting another set screamin' like a son-of-a-bitch. Elvis sweat through at least two suits, for cryin' out loud. Played for three hours, lots of crowd interaction. He walked right by, like a yard away fer crissakes. Only one little bit of disappointment, I thought I might be able to steal some of his guitar tricks but, no dice. I only saw him from the waist up when he was playing guitar, my view excellently blocked by a large, solid podium painted deep red to match The Wheel in the background. 

I had to settle for watching his Go-Go dancer jiggle. 

Man's BFF

“When a man's best friend is a dog, that dog has a problem.” - Edward Abbey

Been busy lately, getting to know my brand new best friend, a Red Heeler I adopted through a rescue service. I'd been thinking about a dog for a while now, but was reluctant because of my schedule and the fact that you never really know what you're going to get when you bring a strange dog into the house.

He's about a year and a half old and came with the name Ozzie, which he paid about as much attention to as he does gnats on his wang. Immediately I started thinking up something new. Carl, Floyd, Capo, and LeRoy were all in contention. I even briefly entertained calling him Gronk, harkening back to my trips to Crested Butte. But late one night when we were out patrolling the neighborhood I watched as he casually strolled along a few paces in front of me with a self-assured swagger; like the neighborhood was safer because he was on the job. As he moved his head left and right, those big ol' ears the size of my hand perked straight up, it hit me.

Radar.

Radar is like a MacBook. He came installed with pretty much everything you need with the ability to add extras with ease. Sit, down, leave it, wait, kennel up. He knows 'em all. Not once has he tried to get on the furniture. Radar loves to be petted and belly rubs are his favorite, but he has no desire to be right in my lap all the time. When I'm out working in the yard, he's there. Just a couple yards away, interested but not in the way. One night I was down working in my brew room and noticed he had disappeared. I thought for sure he was upstairs eating one of my guitars or sacked out on my bed, but no. He was in his kennel, looking up as if to say “What?”

Now like Bill Burr was saying about Pit Bulls, how people cross to the other side of the street when they see one coming, Radar has the opposite effect. I've had more interaction with strangers in the last month than I have in years living in this city, all thanks to him. I can think of only a few dogs that have the same happy-go-lucky, “glad to know ya” kinda attitude. He gets along with everyone, even other dogs.

When I get home, he's there with a wagging tail and heavy breath, genuinely glad to see me. Can't pet him enough. Dammit, it's nice. Now I know what you're thinking, you're thinking he's glad to see me because he's hungry and has to go pee. You're wrong. He looks up at me like I'm the most important person in the world, like “you're so awesome, dude!” and I say no you're awesome, Radar. The rescue service I went through clearly charges less money for dogs that are stupid, ugly, and flawed because Radar was a little spendy. But lemme tell you, I would've paid 4 times what I gave to take him home. I'll never be as good a friend to him as he is to me. I'm not worthy of him, but I'll break my neck tryin' to be.

The best part? He's there for me. Been having nightmares lately, the kind where I'm woken up by my own voice screamin' or cryin'. Each time, he's right there with a paw on my shoulder, his big ol' ears folded back, gently licking my face. He stays there till I fall back to sleep and when I wake up for the day, he's laying right there in the same spot...he hadn't moved the entire time.

Where you been so long, dog?

Commitment, or "Follicle Tectonics and You"

There are lots of reasons cyclists shave their legs. Not one of them was good enough on its own for me to actually do it.

Keep in mind that while I've still got hair on top, it has been thinning out and showing up en masse on other parts of my body over the last couple years in some weird southerly migration. When I was in junior high, I prayed for body hair so that the other guys in gym class wouldn't make fun of me. Now who's laughin', assholes? That prayer was answered, albeit late, seeing as I now have to go to the barber not just for a haircut, but in order to hear and breathe.

I took Spodiodi out for a nice long spin a few days ago, we had one of those days that you're supposed to have in late March. The sun looked down from a cloudless sky, it's warmth lazily arm wrestling with the cool headwind. I was just this side of breaking a sweat, I mean I was really trucking along. My one cigarette a day allowance was cut off about three weeks ago, and the ol' lungs were noticeably stronger. I thought I must've been going about 20 or 22 mph, and maintaining it. I looked down at the speedometer. It said 14.

“Oh, Kiss. My. Ass. 14? Are you kidding me?”

Rolling up to the coffee shop I had to circle around a little to find a spot to lock up. Evidently everyone else in the neighborhood had the same idea I did. Here is where I really stand out; all the cyclists at this particular coffee shop are riding the newest machines from companies that I can hardly pronounce in colors I wouldn't be caught dead on. Each rider is freshly shorn and looking fabulous in their race kits.

Then there's me in a get up I cobbled together about 4 or 5 years ago through a sale on a cycling website that doesn't exist anymore. By appearance alone, I hardly belong on a carbon fiber bike. Looking like a drunk man trying to navigate an icy street, I made my way along the tile floor of the shop and tried to look inconspicuous in light of the “skrik-skrik-skrik” sound bike shoes make when you walk indoors. I ordered my latte and began facing all the bills the same way before tucking them back into my sweat dampened jersey pocket. With both hands fumbling behind my back I noticed several little black chest hairs corkscrewing this way and that through the fabric. Further down, a shag rug surrounding each leg. This looks pathetic or awful, I can't decide which.

“Ok”, I thought aloud. “I give. I'll do it.”

I picked up all the necessary accoutrements on the way home. The bottle of Jameson I already had. Coupla things here: don't get Nair on the twig OR the giggleberries. Don't get the razor on them either. In fact, just let that hair be.

Mine have to be the ugliest legs in creation. They're thin and lean; imagine pale white strips of beef jerky at the gas station check outs and you've got a good image. And with a big hunk of gristle in the middle. That would be my knees. I can remember how I got each ding and scar. My favorites are the one from ACL replacement surgery, that 6 hour day at Deer Creek, and the first day I rode with SPD pedals and fell off the side of a 5 foot log pile at Lewis and Clark. 14 punctures from the big ring. I can still count 5. And there's a brand new one as of Saturday's mountain bike ride, four chain ring gouges on my left calf. Got those when I was about 3 miles from the parking lot when a storm rolled in. For a minute it was nice, listening to the peepers sing in the rain. Then a sound that turns my stomach and chills my blood at the same time interrupted the zen. A sound that strikes fear in the heart of any midwesterner.

That siren went off and images of every close call storm I've been in since I was 5 years old rushed through my helmet. Add to that the fact that nobody knows I'm here, and I'm the last guy on the trail. Needless to say I hauled ass outta there. No idea how quick since I don't have a speedometer on the mountie, but it was fast enough that I wasn't able to handle some of the obstacles like I normally do. Getting sloppy in the turns isn't smart even when it's dry. I ended up ass over teakettle and landed pretty hard at the base of a tree. I'm still moving slow from that one, but since the manscaping had been done the day prior, cleanup was no sweat.

In my experience, here's what you need to know:

Shaving your legs doesn't make you go any faster. Tornado sirens do.

Shaving your legs does save you from social cycling circle ostracism.

Shaving your legs does help keep your legs cooler.

Shaving your legs makes cleaning wounds much easier. (this one makes sense to me)

Plus I hear women dig it. I'll have to experiment with that one and get back to you.

The Hunching Dog

Best full moon in ages. Damn near drove through a red light, watching it in my rear view mirror. Amazing how it just hung there, a buttery biscuit on a pale blue plate. You half expect it to fall to the ground. Try to reach out and grab it maybe, it's right there. It's my experience that the best full moons happen just before sunrise. You could confuse east and west on mornings like this.

Lucky Dog was staying with me for a couple days, so when I got home we went for a quick walk and more moon gazing. Lucky Dog spent a little too long getting stretched out and holding for 5 in Downward-Facing Dog, so we didn't see much. We had a nice, lazy stroll through the neighborhood, we were the only ones up. Not even squirrels. She had been sleeping all night and was starting to perk up pretty quick, so we headed back before both of us would be up for the day. I looked down at her, she blinked and started thumping her tail, then flopped down the rest of the way. Good dog.

We seemed to have finally, nonchalantly, transitioned from snow to rain, but the last few days we've had good luck. I figured a walk around the lake was in order, and a dog is a good excuse to just go amble. Plus they're great conversation starters, especially dogs like Lucky Dog.

As soon as we hit the end of the driveway, Lucky Dog stopped, situated herself, and started hunching. Trying to keep a good attitude, I scooped up the pile through a grocery bag, reversed it, and threw the knotted-up parcel in the trash can thinking “cool, now I don't have to carry a steaming bag of pooh around the lake.”

Lucky Dog's toenails need a trim, they set down a rhythm on the pavement like she was playing a beat up old washboard, panting out a little “Hambone” with a waggling tongue. She set the pace, and I just followed along. We went whichever way, following the breeze. Her nose knows, I figured.

About half way around the lake we ran into a young woman propped up against a tree next to her bike. Lucky Dog walked right up to her and sat down. “Atta girl...” I thought.

“Nice dog.” the woman said, grinning.

I started to explain that she wasn't mine, that she was just bunking with me for a few days while my co-worker was out of town, but instead I decided to act like I'd had her for years. While the two got acquainted I told stories about how before I got her, Lucky Dog had survived being caught out in a blizzard and a flesh eating skin disease. I said at one point she made it through a timber rattler bite she got while disarming a bomb at the bottom of a well where some little girl had fallen.

“Yeah, lucky.” she said.

This was great, Lucky Dog was workin' like a charm, but just as the conversation was kinda warming up, Lucky Dog left and started walking around a few paces down. Nose to the ground, she did a couple circles and started hunching again. I tried to not draw attention to Lucky Dog, but as it turns out I didn't have to. The head-forward-tail-up position her hunch creates was aerodynamically perfect to route the northeasterly breeze down her back, over the mounting pile of scat, and into this gal's nose. She held her hand up to try to block it out, but what could I do? I had already used my bag, and normally it's me that takes a shit (figuratively speaking) while talking to strange women.

“D'yaaaaaaah you're doing this at the worst possible time!” I thought, but it was too late.

Luckily a mismatched couple with a little bug-eyed rat dog came along, they were good enough to give me one of their little store bought bags which frankly, wasn't enough to get the job done. You've heard that phrase “like 10 pounds of shit in a 5 pound bag”? Yeah, it was like that.

“You're seeing me at my best here.” I said to the woman.

By the time I had raised up she was on her bike and riding away, leaving me to hear this guy's toothless stories about how his bug-eyed rat dog had saved him from a St. Bernard attack.

A St. Bernard. Pbbt. Yeah right, what bullshit.

We got the hell outta there, tout suite.

"You're pretty rough on my savoir faire there, Lucky Dog."

Bill's IPA

The shuttle launch was a few days ago. The candle on Endeavor's last mission was lit right around the same time I fired up my home brewery for the first time. It was her 25^th mission, and my first. I logged into Facebook and updated my status.

“About to light the burner in my home brewery. Hit 'refresh' a few times. If this message is still here, call the fire department.”

Suddenly everything went into launch mode.

“Control, uhhhhhh, we are in place...initiate the ignition sequence, uhhhhh.” ~chirp~

Grabbing the valve, I stopped and scanned my work one last time. Plugs. Pipe dope. Nipple. Dope. Flex hose. No dope. Reducer. No dope. Valve. Dope. After just a quarter turn there was a sharp hiss, like a gap-toothed yokel about to whistle Dixie. A spark is all you need, and I forgot to start the countdown as I stared front, realizing I didn't have an extension lighter. Just a Bic.

I leaned down and closed my eyes, briefly wondered what I might look like with no eyebrows, and let the Bic flick.

No explosion. I deleted my Facebook entry.

“Control, we uhhhhhhhh, we are go.” ~chirp~

“Kettle, you are clear. Set countdown for 20 minutes and immerse whole grains.” ~chirp~

While the grains steeped I laid out the hopping order and started sanitizing everything I'd need. Holy shit, it's already pretty hot in here. I had a fan on full blast, trying to get a current going out the window, but it wasn't easy.

“Control, we are at 160, that's one-six-zero, degrees.” ~chirp~

“Roger that uhhhhhhhhhhhh prepare to empty malt extract at one-seven-zero.” ~chirp~

This brew table was custom made, and in a word...it's perfect. I'll bet the guy who made it will be taking orders for more as soon as other people see it. You have to move the pot on and off the flame a couple times, so I had him make the boiling surface level with the table top, the burner sets on a little adjustable platform beneath. Bam. Back to boiling, 212 degrees, and then keep it there for an hour. It took about 15 minutes to get there.

“Control, we are approaching the hop break, please advise.” ~chirp~

“Stand by, Kettle...back off on my mark....3...2...1...mark.” ~chirp~

Damn...it's hot. I had a little bit of a headache, but now all I had to do was watch the time, pitch the hops at the right intervals, and sanitize the carboy. Across the room at the bench I plunked down and started taking some notes and some big pulls on the pint of beer I had poured just before I started. The glass was so sweaty it nearly slipped through my hands. Looking up, I saw an old bottle of Biere D'Or, brought back from my trip to Melton Mowbray, sitting right alongside a can of WD-40. Biere D'or. WD-40. I kept saying it over and over.

“Beer-dee-or...dubya-dee-fordee”, over and over. If you cheat and put in an extra 'dee', the two of these kinda sound Swedish. I said it out loud, “beer-dee-or-dee dubya-dee-fordee”.

Laugh? I nearly peed my pants. Now, I had drank only one pint of beer at this point, but man was I feeling loopy. I left the brew room and leaned against the basement wall. It was 25 degrees cooler, at least, and the air didn't seem as thick.

This is one of those times that you wish someone was there to be in on the joke. I used to have a cat, Whiskey, but I found him to be pretty stingy with laughter. You know, talking to pets isn't so crazy...it's better than talking to yourself. Wagner talked to his dog all the time when he wrote The Flying Dutchman. Socrates ended up talking to his donkey. I'd much rather talk to my dog than my ass. I don't know, I need to think about it more.

Anyway, there I was all by myself and laughing till I could hardly breathe, when I turned toward the wall and found myself face to face...with Bill...on a promo poster for a play I was in years ago. The laughter slowly stopped, I stared a bit. The play was about a man who somehow becomes unstuck in time; this man believes he is a Federation Starship captain from the future. Capt. John Wisher thinks his mission is to find a woman he doesn't know. In fact it is his wife, long since passed. Everyone thinks he's crazy, but he's just not from here. I don't want to give away too much, but you'll never see the show anyway...so it turns out the guy's kids were also members of Starfleet, sent back to get him. It was a great show.

Time had flown by with all that reminiscing and I ran back into the brew room with only 15 minutes left in the boil. Time for the wort chiller.

“Control, we are ready for copper.” ~chirp~

“Roger that. Immersion process initiated. Kettle, be advised, the thermometer probe is four inches from the bottom.” ~chirp~

“Affirmative. We're in the wort, five by five.” ~chirp~

Bill was one of those guys that you are always glad to see. He had a calm cheeriness about him, a serenity. Never heard him talk down about anyone. Quick to laugh. Your dad would say "he'd give you the shirt off his back". He rarely swore, but if he did it was only because the word was absolutely necessary in that instance, so he never sounded vulgar.

I was too far away to read the names of the cast, so I tried sounding it out to remember instead. “Bill Hendrix...Henson...Hanson? No...HENJUM! Bill Henjum!” The downside to all this is that Bill died unexpectedly. This was years ago, not long after this show closed. It bothers me that I can't remember how. I want to say it was a car accident, I don't know. I remember being somber for a few days after I got the word. Bill was one of those guys that you try to be like, you know?

This recipe is called “Chinook IPA”, but I think I'm just gonna call it “Bill's”. There are about 32 pints of beer in a corny keg. In 5 or 6 weeks when this this batch is ready to drink, there will be 32 toasts to Bill.

Oh yeah and a hood with a fan. Gotta install a hood with a fan. Too much carbon monoxide...that's bad, right?

The Rise of Slim Handy

"Home is where, when you go there, they have to take you in." - Robert Frost

"I'd like to thank my family, they know me and they love me anyway." - Tom Waits

It was a really good week. I mean really, really good.

This past winter had all but sucked the life from me; 88 inches of snow and temperatures that have kept the brass monkeys in storage for way longer than they should be. Hibernation is fine, but this was rigoddamdiculous. Add to the equation the extreme isolation that amounted to nothing but boredom, cynicism, and paranoia. I ain't gonna lie...my spirit was in bad shape.

Two friends that I've known for the longest time were nice enough to come visit for the weekend before my birthday, the best gift they ever could've given. I was under water, and this visit was a snorkel. I took their time here as an excuse to throw a little dinner party with some acquaintances that may well be budding friendships. Good food, good drink, good company, and weather that was good enough to allow us to feed on fajitas out on the deck. Nothing pleases me more than to share food with people, and to hear their stories while slowly getting drunk on craft beer and a surprise bottle of Woodford Reserve bourbon.

At the end of the weekend, I followed my friends back down to my hometown for 5 days of catching up. It was a long drive. Emotional. It started to rain just as I was leaving, small drops falling slowly. Not even enough to merit the intermittent setting on the wipers. The further along I got, the brighter the sky seemed. Warming temperatures. During the 5 hours in the car I listened to music that reminded me of mom, of leaving home, of visiting mountains, and riding two abreast on fire roads. Growing up and growing old. Arriving back at my former home, the sun was setting in a panoply of orange hues. You gotta remember that it never rains everyday, and all storm clouds eventually break up and let the sun through.

For some reason Pa had all the windows closed in the house, but hadn't turned on the air. These are the sort of conditions that cause the bowl of hard candy on the coffee table to all weld together. I must have turned into a true northerner because it wasn't five minutes before I had taken off my jeans and situated myself to where the fan was blowing up my leg.

That was nothing.

My birthday boasted a record breaking temperature for that day in history, 97 degrees. Normally I'm well prepared for trips but man, did my planning suck for this one. My suitcase held only long pants and for some reason I had every pair of wool socks I own. No idea what the hell I was thinking. Truth is, I wasn't thinking.

I woke on my birthday morning in the same bedroom I occupied in high school and college. No alarm. No schedule. I was sleepy enough to wonder if I had somehow transported myself back to 1977 when my parents slept in this room, laying mere feet from where mom and I had shared our gift of breakfast in bed three decades earlier. I touched my face...the beard was still there, it's 2011. I went back to sleep for another hour.

I have vague recollections of the birthday when my brother made me close my eyes so he could carry me outside and put me on my first brand new BMX bike, and my 16^th when Pa handed me the keys to the family car so I could go pick up pizza, and even fewer memories of my 21^st when I got blitzed in the traditional bar crawl right of passage. This birthday I'll remember till the day I die, in exhaustive, vivid detail.

It started with a latte and a visit to the cemetery where I played my guitar for mom, and took in the view the bluffs in the distance. Sitting there by myself I finally let it all out with a heave and a sob. Ah, release. I just talked to her, remembered, and played songs. The wave of memories washed over me with tsunami force and I just let them come. There were belly laughs and tears, sometimes simultaneously. I asked her for forgiveness, guidance, and blessings before going off for a nice, long lunch.

That night, Pa hosted a little grill out that turned into a real affair. Everyone was was there with their most precious gift for me; their time. Amid the brats and taco salad, the beer and cake, I heard laughter in person and stories that have been told dozens of times. They have grown more outrageous with each telling. They're tall tales now, soon to be legends.

So many gifts, the kind that take up no space in the car.

I've been gone for awhile, but I'm back now. Watch your ass.

The Syrup/Peanut Butter Mixture

About 33 or 34 years ago, my birthday and Mother's Day fell on the same Sunday, and I woke up to the sound of stacking plates and the smell of bacon.

Early May is a fine time to have a birthday. Warm with cool breezes, and usually the April showers have moved on by. You can tell a lot about the kind of summer you're going to have by the way early May behaves.

I got up and started to walk down the hall for breakfast, but mom's voice stopped me at the doorway to my parent's room. She started singing Happy Birthday, and said “come in here, come sit next to me, we're going to be served breakfast in bed.”

I ran in at full speed and leapt into a perfect swan dive, landing roughly on the folks' bed (this was the one day out of the year I'd get away with that...and I knew it). Mom just laughed and started back in on Happy Birthday. Clambering up the bed, I kicked my feet under the sheets and settled in.

This Mother's Day, the trees just outside the window had a full set of leaves but I could still see clear blue sky behind them. All around their trunks the tulips were just starting to wake up, and the sweet smell of lilacs under the window mixed with breakfast. Spring pajamas. Pillows propped up against the headboard, lounging in the cool, clean sheets. She held my hand and swiped her thumb slowly across my knuckles and cleared the matted rat's nest off my forehead, making way for her cheek.

I don't remember what we talked about, but I do remember wondering what those three guys were making for us...and how much longer it would be. Not long, evidently. It seemed like my thought willed their appearance. They brought in two TV trays loaded with pancakes and bacon, and not just syrup...my brother had made his special syrup/peanut butter mixture. He had the proportions down man, he says "you gotta hold your mouth just right." He slathered a healthy layer in between each pancake, with another layer on the top just in case. It takes about four times longer than normal to eat the syrup/peanut butter slathered stack because it feels like you never get all of it off your lips, so even after you've cleared the mouthful your tongue keeps going. You know what a dog looks like when it eats peanut butter? Yeah, imagine a little kid doing that, but with a pancake in there too. There was a tall glass of cold milk that I nearly drained after the first fork full. Damn, that's good.

Feels weird to be talking about breakfast with no coffee.

Anyway, presents for each of us followed right after we handed off our empty trays. I have no idea what I got, only that there were bits of wrapping paper and ribbon stuck to me, mom, and the bedpost. That mixture is tasty but it's like glue that never quite sets up. And I know I dropped the fork in the sheets at least once.

I miss her extra this time of year, when the tulips start to wake up.

Lois Ann, 1936-1994

I only knew that you were thirsty

Easter Sunday, 2011.

I need Half and Half.

Sitting in my car in the parking lot of a normally 24 hour grocery store at 6:15am, I began wondering how in the hell I forgot that today was Easter. Everything is closed. I told myself to go to the grocery store before work, but I didn't want to listen. I sat there, as the last of the early morning fog evaporated into nothing, and the sun on the horizon like God's flashlight stabbing me in the face. I was bleary eyed, perturbed, and wondering about my faith and where I put my chocolate Jesus.

What is faith, exactly? Call up Webster and he'll tell you it's “confidence or trust in a person or thing”, followed up quickly by definition number two that says “belief that is not based on proof”. All around the world there are people following their own little brand of religion, and a lot of 'em think that theirs is the right one and everyone else is going to hell. Some find the church late in life, others say they were following a calling right from day one. Maybe it's habitual, going way back to when their parents were simultaneously telling them about Jesus and the Easter Bunny. Try explaining that one when the kid hits 10 or 11. “The Tooth Fairy, Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny, we lied about those, but Jesus...Jesus, that's all true.” No wonder we're confused.

The holy ones up in front at church, with their vestments and collection plates, they say we're in the end times. The end is nigh. Repent. And because this person is at the head of a congregation, they are believed. Shit, there's a guy on my bus every Wednesday who says the same thing, but everyone just thinks he's crazy. The only difference is the location of the sermon and maybe the fact that my fellow commuter looks like he's a close cousin to Boo Radley.

But what if...what if he isn't crazy? What if he isn't on drugs or drunk? What if...and I'm just sayin' what if...what if he knows something we don't? What if he's actually illuminated? But let's face it, this guy doesn't fit the pastor profile. Last Wednesday he was one testimony away from getting kicked off the bus into a decent spring shower.

Sure enough, we hit the transit station and the driver stomped on the brakes and put it in park before the bus had quit movin'. He had had enough. A couple people swore from the back, the driver swore from the front. He chased ol' Boo's cousin out into the rain then closed the door with a hiss. I could hear Boo's cousin yelling “alright” over and over as I trotted into the building. I looked over my shoulder, and as the door closed I saw him there at the foot of the curb. He was looking up into the downpour, shouting hoarsely.

“Alright...alright...I don't want to do this anymore.”

At least that's what it sounded like. The door closed and the din of rain was sealed out with a click, and I just stood there a second and watched. He was just a silent drowning fish now, mouthing and gesticulating with the lunch crowd zipping by in all directions as if he wasn't even there. They disregard him as just another lost soul.

Now, perception is reality. What each person sees, hears or feels at any given moment is their reality. Boo's cousin appears crazy as a loon, but I have no idea what has happened in this man's life that has led him to this point. I only know that he believes what he is saying just as much as any preacher in a pulpit. I want to believe in something that strongly, but I'm sick with experience.

It sounds crazy but I kinda understand Boo's cousin. Sometimes I kinda know when a sound is just the house settling and when it's something else. I've heard voices on the wind and watched movement in my periphery. Once I left my body while sitting at the foot of a Redwood tree at Muir Woods National Monument. I've been visited by mom, and my old cat Whiskey.

It's possible that we all have been contacted by something unexplainable, but choose not to acknowledge it. Maybe we just call it a miracle. Maybe it's all garbled, like with Boo's cousin. Maybe we keep it a secret for fear of being labeled 'crazy', when there is no such thing as 'sane'.