I had a dream that suddenly I was fourteen again, in my Dad's house. I asked Dad what had happened. He wasn't sure, but suggested that I take this opportunity to correct my life's mistakes. I thought about what I would do differently. I thought briefly that I'd have more incentive to keep my grades up. My life would be so much easier if I'd gotten a grade point higher by 0.07 (anything below a 3.0 is a tough sell for grad school). Thinking on that, I realized that no, I'd probably repeat that particular mistake. It wasn't as if I was unaware of the consequences the first time around. I'd know how to deal with a few ornery classes and professors, but it wouldn't make enough of a difference. I'd probably be more successful with dating, knowing how to deal with girls. I thought about all the roads untaken and how different of a person I could be but for a few matters of happenstance. Would I have flowered in a more competitive university like Berkeley?
I looked for the bathroom, but I'd forgotten that a little later in my original timeline my sister had discovered two secret rooms in Dad's house that had been converted into the main bathroom (the other one had become a closet, I think, by 2011). So, I re-"discovered" those secret rooms, thereby changing the course of history according to my priveledged knowledge of the future.
I'd forgotten how incredibly small Bri was when I was fourteen. Now she's roughly my size, give or take six inches, but back then she was much smaller than me. She hadn't had any kind of growth spurt and was the little, feisty kid I remember her being. As soon as I started knocking at walls she began ferreting out the painted-over outlines of hidden doors and casing the new rooms.
Showing posts with label retrospective. Show all posts
Showing posts with label retrospective. Show all posts
Tuesday, May 3, 2011
Friday, April 1, 2011
Pitchfork and Allmusic
It all started with Sufjan Stevens.
Sufjan Stevens was at the height of popularity when I was finishing high school, having just released the second album in his fifty states project. All of my hippest friends had him in heavy rotation on their iPods, right up there with Radiohead. The next year, in the dorms, I used iTunes's network to view and listen to the libraries of fellow students. It became apparent that Sufjan was among a group of bands whose popularity could be traced back to heavy promotion by Pitchfork Media. It also became apparent to me that Sufjan Stevens was a sort of fraud.
His music was all surface and no substance. That was notable enough, but my real epiphany was the realization that his music's surface catered to the sensibilities of critics and aspiring pretentious white kids everywhere. The elaborate arrangements, unusual instrumentation and hyper-empathetic vocals broke through bored critics palates and bypassed well-rehearsed cynicism. This would be all well and good if most music critics emphasized songwriting/musicianship over the progression of music's sound. Sometime before they actually wrote a review that sounded like a fourteen-year-old having a wet dream, they would have realized that the songs just weren't that great. It wasn't that Sufjan Stevens was bad, he just wasn't the musical genius he got billed as.
In the last couple of years Sufjan has admitted that the fifty states project was a publicity stunt that he never actually intended to carry out. At the end of last year he released his densest, most use-weird-noises-to-cover-a-lack-of-underlying-talent album ever, to an excellent reception by Pitchfork.
Hype is a pretty natural tendency of art criticism, especially when the critics in question are relatively young (when I was finishing high school the mean age of Pitchfork staffers was in the mid-20's). Some amount of self-policing must exist for an organization to produce a thoughtful body of criticism worthy of respect. The "Pitchfork band" phenomena indicated that shiny new, rapidly rising Pitchfork Media was (and continues to be) the most prominent, most irresponsible perpetrator of music over-hype in the industry.
Sometime during my freshman year, I started reading AllMusic. They gave the Queens of the Stone Age respectful reviews, said nice things about Sufjan without implying that he had any real talent, and panned Radiohead's alleged masterpiece Kid A. That last bit caught my attention and it earned my respect, even though I disagreed with their review right up until they backtracked and conceded to the album's greatness last year. In short, AllMusic embodied the contrary, thoughtful kind of snobbery that I saw in myself.
With the aid of dorm broadband, I was downloading music about as fast as I could keep up with. AllMusic provided comprehensive artist bios, discographies and a wealth of internal hyperlinking (genres, similar bands, bands influenced, etc). It's design was ideal for me to rapidly sift through music and investigate and expand my tastes into unknown territory.
It soon became apparent that I faced a dilemma. If I continued to blindly trust AllMusic's reviewers, my tastes would quickly become beholden to and bounded by the tastes and knowledge of a small group of individuals. I had to decide whether or not to sell my soul to AllMusic.
I mulled the decision over for a couple of weeks, but in the end it was an easy choice. I was fresh off my discovery of Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Heart's Club Band. I was eager to develop a taste for the "classic" bands and albums of rock and roll. I never put much stock in individualism and indeed, I'm irritated by the definition and cultivation of "personal taste". Personal taste should be treated as bias that must be filtered out of any final, "true" assessment. There is such a thing as great art in absolute terms.
I sold my soul to AllMusic. And I never looked back.
Sufjan Stevens was at the height of popularity when I was finishing high school, having just released the second album in his fifty states project. All of my hippest friends had him in heavy rotation on their iPods, right up there with Radiohead. The next year, in the dorms, I used iTunes's network to view and listen to the libraries of fellow students. It became apparent that Sufjan was among a group of bands whose popularity could be traced back to heavy promotion by Pitchfork Media. It also became apparent to me that Sufjan Stevens was a sort of fraud.
His music was all surface and no substance. That was notable enough, but my real epiphany was the realization that his music's surface catered to the sensibilities of critics and aspiring pretentious white kids everywhere. The elaborate arrangements, unusual instrumentation and hyper-empathetic vocals broke through bored critics palates and bypassed well-rehearsed cynicism. This would be all well and good if most music critics emphasized songwriting/musicianship over the progression of music's sound. Sometime before they actually wrote a review that sounded like a fourteen-year-old having a wet dream, they would have realized that the songs just weren't that great. It wasn't that Sufjan Stevens was bad, he just wasn't the musical genius he got billed as.
In the last couple of years Sufjan has admitted that the fifty states project was a publicity stunt that he never actually intended to carry out. At the end of last year he released his densest, most use-weird-noises-to-cover-a-lack-of-underlying-talent album ever, to an excellent reception by Pitchfork.
Hype is a pretty natural tendency of art criticism, especially when the critics in question are relatively young (when I was finishing high school the mean age of Pitchfork staffers was in the mid-20's). Some amount of self-policing must exist for an organization to produce a thoughtful body of criticism worthy of respect. The "Pitchfork band" phenomena indicated that shiny new, rapidly rising Pitchfork Media was (and continues to be) the most prominent, most irresponsible perpetrator of music over-hype in the industry.
Sometime during my freshman year, I started reading AllMusic. They gave the Queens of the Stone Age respectful reviews, said nice things about Sufjan without implying that he had any real talent, and panned Radiohead's alleged masterpiece Kid A. That last bit caught my attention and it earned my respect, even though I disagreed with their review right up until they backtracked and conceded to the album's greatness last year. In short, AllMusic embodied the contrary, thoughtful kind of snobbery that I saw in myself.
With the aid of dorm broadband, I was downloading music about as fast as I could keep up with. AllMusic provided comprehensive artist bios, discographies and a wealth of internal hyperlinking (genres, similar bands, bands influenced, etc). It's design was ideal for me to rapidly sift through music and investigate and expand my tastes into unknown territory.
It soon became apparent that I faced a dilemma. If I continued to blindly trust AllMusic's reviewers, my tastes would quickly become beholden to and bounded by the tastes and knowledge of a small group of individuals. I had to decide whether or not to sell my soul to AllMusic.
I mulled the decision over for a couple of weeks, but in the end it was an easy choice. I was fresh off my discovery of Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Heart's Club Band. I was eager to develop a taste for the "classic" bands and albums of rock and roll. I never put much stock in individualism and indeed, I'm irritated by the definition and cultivation of "personal taste". Personal taste should be treated as bias that must be filtered out of any final, "true" assessment. There is such a thing as great art in absolute terms.
I sold my soul to AllMusic. And I never looked back.
Sunday, October 10, 2010
Logistics of Drinking: Glasses
There are those of you who will know me as an aficionado of jam jars. That element of my ghetto chic has persevered since Brandon and I's days of Seagram's martinis.
My jam jars comfortably hold about six ounces. That makes them ample for stiff drinks like martinis. It may have influenced my arrival on the 2:1 rule of cocktails, which is two parts mixer to one part liquor. Judging from other peoples' tastes, the 2:1 ratio is not arrived at without some guidance.
The size of my jam jars also lends itself to drinking wine. Though the glass is too thick for chilled whites, room temperature reds are perfect in my sturdy little declarations against pretension.
My jam jars are practically indestructible. In all my time in Davis, only one of them has broken (and not for lack of being dropped). They're further practical because they fit the universal mason lid, which I usually acquire by way of Classico pasta sauce. All kinds of things have been stored at some point in those trusty jam jars.
At six ounces, however, they do have some limitations. When it comes to drinking orange juice, milk or water, you need a glass with some capacity. Classico pint jars work great for water, but they're a bit hard to clean for milk and OJ. For that I've used more conventional glasses wide enough to be scrubbed out by hand.
The real journey in the world of drinking glasses has been with beer. In the beginning, I drank out of the can or the bottle, as befitted my no-nonsense "living light" attitude. Later, we occasionally drank out of glasses just for fun. At some point Brandon and I noticed the difference in flavor between pale ale out of the bottle and out of the glass. Aromatic beers need a glass to show their full flavor. I still drink non-aromatic light lager out of cans without qualms (though cans warm beer up quickly).
Quart or pint mason jars are great for drinking beer out of. I've had less luck with thick plastic cups, which tend to quickly decarbonate beers because of their many surface imperfections. I also have had the use of Brandon's legendary beer stein and a variety of typical pint glasses. Surprisingly, neither of those worked well as beer glasses. Because of the thickness of the glass, if they're not prechilled before use they'll quickly warm the beer to swill. I just don't have the kind of patience required to prechill glasses.
Everything changed a year ago when Jill brought back a couple of fluted glasses with short stems, courtesy of her study abroad class field trip to the San Miguel brewery in Burgos, Spain. The glasses were thin enough to keep the beer cool, wide enough to sniff and comfortable in the hand.
Part of these beer glasses' attraction was the sense of class. I still have no complaints about mason jars. They also are lightweight and keep beer cool, but short-stemmed beer glasses are more comfortable in the hand and way too much fun to drink out of. I've bought a few purpose-made stemmed beer glasses since then and I now have enough to host small tastings in style. I'll probably be on a constant hunt for elegantly shaped beer glasses for as long as I'm obsessed with beer.
My jam jars comfortably hold about six ounces. That makes them ample for stiff drinks like martinis. It may have influenced my arrival on the 2:1 rule of cocktails, which is two parts mixer to one part liquor. Judging from other peoples' tastes, the 2:1 ratio is not arrived at without some guidance.
The size of my jam jars also lends itself to drinking wine. Though the glass is too thick for chilled whites, room temperature reds are perfect in my sturdy little declarations against pretension.
My jam jars are practically indestructible. In all my time in Davis, only one of them has broken (and not for lack of being dropped). They're further practical because they fit the universal mason lid, which I usually acquire by way of Classico pasta sauce. All kinds of things have been stored at some point in those trusty jam jars.
At six ounces, however, they do have some limitations. When it comes to drinking orange juice, milk or water, you need a glass with some capacity. Classico pint jars work great for water, but they're a bit hard to clean for milk and OJ. For that I've used more conventional glasses wide enough to be scrubbed out by hand.
The real journey in the world of drinking glasses has been with beer. In the beginning, I drank out of the can or the bottle, as befitted my no-nonsense "living light" attitude. Later, we occasionally drank out of glasses just for fun. At some point Brandon and I noticed the difference in flavor between pale ale out of the bottle and out of the glass. Aromatic beers need a glass to show their full flavor. I still drink non-aromatic light lager out of cans without qualms (though cans warm beer up quickly).
Quart or pint mason jars are great for drinking beer out of. I've had less luck with thick plastic cups, which tend to quickly decarbonate beers because of their many surface imperfections. I also have had the use of Brandon's legendary beer stein and a variety of typical pint glasses. Surprisingly, neither of those worked well as beer glasses. Because of the thickness of the glass, if they're not prechilled before use they'll quickly warm the beer to swill. I just don't have the kind of patience required to prechill glasses.
Everything changed a year ago when Jill brought back a couple of fluted glasses with short stems, courtesy of her study abroad class field trip to the San Miguel brewery in Burgos, Spain. The glasses were thin enough to keep the beer cool, wide enough to sniff and comfortable in the hand.
Part of these beer glasses' attraction was the sense of class. I still have no complaints about mason jars. They also are lightweight and keep beer cool, but short-stemmed beer glasses are more comfortable in the hand and way too much fun to drink out of. I've bought a few purpose-made stemmed beer glasses since then and I now have enough to host small tastings in style. I'll probably be on a constant hunt for elegantly shaped beer glasses for as long as I'm obsessed with beer.
Sunday, October 3, 2010
On the Persuasion of Words
My friend Rob prefaced a confessional story with a preamble about how the use of words is nearly always an attempt to persuade people to like us and love us. He explained that he did his best to use words for the greater good and ignore what light his confessional story might portray him in. This was my response, cleaned up for your reading pleasure.
Your discussion about the persuasion of words was an awesome thought, but it's hard to be convinced that your attempts at making people love you with words are anything other than more complex and self-consciously twisted than the majority of people's. Attempts to subvert the impulse to try to be loved are never true subversions. I don't think we can free ourselves of that motivation and our resulting actions to even a small degree, only try harder to cover our tracks.
I can strongly empathize with your thoughts. I think I've tried harder to subvert those impulses in myself than most I know. I've watched my smartest friends go through the same calculus, though. That's had the dual benefit of showing me what it looks like from the outside and illustrating to me that the impulse is completely normal for individuals of our intellect. It also illustrates that the impulse makes people's personas far more interesting even if they never succeed in displacing, subduing or even hiding their selfish desire to be loved.
I remember my effort at that began with Christianity. I remember being in catechism, wondering whether good deeds counted if they were based in a desire to feel better about oneself and/or be treated with the gentleness reserved for "nice people", to say nothing of being motivated by the promise of heaven. Because God knew our motivations perfectly, I concluded they did not qualify as truly good deeds.
The next step in my thought process was that the only way to do good things without the inevitable morally-compromising reward was to play my good intentions off as bad ones and convince both those around me and myself that my actions were selfish and wicked. This corresponded with an increasingly perverse altruism that I mixed freely with my most overtly evil impulses as well as an increasing obsession with compartmentalizing my mind for the purpose of insulating my conscious from the fact that I was doing things that I believed to be good.
This formed the basic tenets of my high school class persona that earned me so much hate and ultimately love. I managed to almost perfectly conceal that I was an essentially loving, conscience-driven individual haunted by insecurity and loneliness. I came across as an arrogant, self-obsessed dick who was too smart for his own good. The persona meshed smoothly with my slacker-who-loves-school thing. I refused to take notes to my teacher's chagrin and asked hard, merciless questions that sometimes went over the teachers' heads and always kept them on their toes.
Picking at flaws in logic and person became a favorite outlet for many impulses at once, including my altruism, though I would have rightly insisted then that I was venting displaced anger by pointing out my teachers' weaknesses. I did the same essential thing to fellow students for even raising their hand if they wasted class time. Not only was there such a thing as a dumb question, there was such a thing as people too dumb to be entitled to a voice.
By the time I entered college, I'd entered a new phase of activism that was more nuanced and less overtly conflicted and confrontational than my high school days, but I still have great respect for the person I was in high school. I've only built upon the moral calculus that formed my high school persona. I've given up on thinking that compartmentalization or cultivated hatred will allow me to do good without reaping the benefits. I've given up avoiding the benefits. Part of that is probably because of how high school ended. I was eventually respected and adored for my refusal to conform or parse words.
My blog is a complete embrace of the "look at me" and "love me" implicit in writing so many words in a place where so many people can see them. I make no bones about trying to persuade people that my way is the right one, but more importantly I make no bones about playing up the quirky charm of my personality. I am shameless about my efforts to persuade people into loving me via my blog. Haven't I already earned your liking?
That persuasion has always been a filtering process, though. I've never had any ambition to be loved by all or even most. When somebody thinks I'm insane, sociopathic or perverted my normal reaction is to say screw you. I work hard enough at being correctly understood that when explanation fails I have few qualms about judging people for judging me. Were I not so articulate and careful to justify my thoughts, I might be more lenient, but as it stands, fuck'em.
Your discussion about the persuasion of words was an awesome thought, but it's hard to be convinced that your attempts at making people love you with words are anything other than more complex and self-consciously twisted than the majority of people's. Attempts to subvert the impulse to try to be loved are never true subversions. I don't think we can free ourselves of that motivation and our resulting actions to even a small degree, only try harder to cover our tracks.
I can strongly empathize with your thoughts. I think I've tried harder to subvert those impulses in myself than most I know. I've watched my smartest friends go through the same calculus, though. That's had the dual benefit of showing me what it looks like from the outside and illustrating to me that the impulse is completely normal for individuals of our intellect. It also illustrates that the impulse makes people's personas far more interesting even if they never succeed in displacing, subduing or even hiding their selfish desire to be loved.
I remember my effort at that began with Christianity. I remember being in catechism, wondering whether good deeds counted if they were based in a desire to feel better about oneself and/or be treated with the gentleness reserved for "nice people", to say nothing of being motivated by the promise of heaven. Because God knew our motivations perfectly, I concluded they did not qualify as truly good deeds.
The next step in my thought process was that the only way to do good things without the inevitable morally-compromising reward was to play my good intentions off as bad ones and convince both those around me and myself that my actions were selfish and wicked. This corresponded with an increasingly perverse altruism that I mixed freely with my most overtly evil impulses as well as an increasing obsession with compartmentalizing my mind for the purpose of insulating my conscious from the fact that I was doing things that I believed to be good.
This formed the basic tenets of my high school class persona that earned me so much hate and ultimately love. I managed to almost perfectly conceal that I was an essentially loving, conscience-driven individual haunted by insecurity and loneliness. I came across as an arrogant, self-obsessed dick who was too smart for his own good. The persona meshed smoothly with my slacker-who-loves-school thing. I refused to take notes to my teacher's chagrin and asked hard, merciless questions that sometimes went over the teachers' heads and always kept them on their toes.
Picking at flaws in logic and person became a favorite outlet for many impulses at once, including my altruism, though I would have rightly insisted then that I was venting displaced anger by pointing out my teachers' weaknesses. I did the same essential thing to fellow students for even raising their hand if they wasted class time. Not only was there such a thing as a dumb question, there was such a thing as people too dumb to be entitled to a voice.
By the time I entered college, I'd entered a new phase of activism that was more nuanced and less overtly conflicted and confrontational than my high school days, but I still have great respect for the person I was in high school. I've only built upon the moral calculus that formed my high school persona. I've given up on thinking that compartmentalization or cultivated hatred will allow me to do good without reaping the benefits. I've given up avoiding the benefits. Part of that is probably because of how high school ended. I was eventually respected and adored for my refusal to conform or parse words.
My blog is a complete embrace of the "look at me" and "love me" implicit in writing so many words in a place where so many people can see them. I make no bones about trying to persuade people that my way is the right one, but more importantly I make no bones about playing up the quirky charm of my personality. I am shameless about my efforts to persuade people into loving me via my blog. Haven't I already earned your liking?
That persuasion has always been a filtering process, though. I've never had any ambition to be loved by all or even most. When somebody thinks I'm insane, sociopathic or perverted my normal reaction is to say screw you. I work hard enough at being correctly understood that when explanation fails I have few qualms about judging people for judging me. Were I not so articulate and careful to justify my thoughts, I might be more lenient, but as it stands, fuck'em.
Saturday, September 25, 2010
Eighty-Six Bottles of Beer on the Wall
I remember. Oh how I remember.
The last few weeks and indeed the last few months have been a time for reflection upon my time in Davis. It is, as I have already said, the end of an era. When Howard and Brandon and I moved to the Apple House, we started lining up beer bottles on top of our kitchen cabinets. A year later, when my mind was also looking backwards because of my upcoming graduation, I started telling Brandon stories I associated with various bottles. I realized how good a storytelling device they were and resolved to write this post in the future.
Yet another year later, Howard was the last of us original three to leave the Apple House and I got those charmed bottles. They had a crust of grease on their shoulders from their lengthy existence in that kitchen. I lined them up (mostly) chronologically and photographed them to tell you their stories. This is a long post, full of stories both momentous and trivial whose value lies in their significance to those who played roles in them.
Stella Artois was the first beer I ever bought. I got it while in the dorms through Brandon's high school friend Tyler. Tyler ended up introducing us to craft beer while we lived in the dorms because periodically he would visit his girlfriend Erin at UC Davis and we'd all hang out in Brandon's dorm and drink Tyler's beer. I remember it took me months to acquire a taste for any beer, but I left the dorms a fan of Sierra Nevada and Fat Tire.
My first visit to Nugget Market, I bought a battery of craft sodas, my interest a relic from my days in high school. I tasted them with my roommates one by one over the course of a week, setting the pattern I would later revisit with single-bottles of beer after I graduated.
The standout was an old soda I'd wanted to try since those high school days. Moxie has become synonymous with spunk and determination in vernacular and it frankly tastes medicinal. The thing is, it tastes medicinal in a completely awesome way. I'd drink it periodically if Nugget would freaking stock it again (more than can be said of all but a handful of craft sodas), but I haven't seen it on their shelves since.
Later that sophomore year, I got Allison's roommate Emy to buy us alcohol. She recommended New Belgium's 1554 from the Coop, which was excellent.
We became fans of Gordon Biersch Marzen among other things. We started saving bottles so that we might insinuate ourselves into brewing beer of our own some day. I remember Brandon thought Stone IPA was too bitter, but I tried to approach it with an open mind. He liked Red Hook, though, and three years later we had a pitcher of it with his family in Dana Point while they were visiting for a cousin's wedding.
I also remember when Allison's mom visited (but I forgot why) with a bottle of Skyy vodka and we made lemon drops at my house.
Our junior year Adam was old enough to give us the hookup. We liked Gordon Biersch's Marzen enough that we tried out Sudwerk's. I though it was relatively boring, but Brandon liked it.
Seagram's Gin should be in the lineup somewhere, because it was that year that Brandon and I started making martinis regularly, sipping them while we watched Seinfeld and Everybody Loves Raymond.
Howard's girlfriend Tammy turned twenty-one late in the year and I remember sipping Pyramid Apricot Ale with she and Howard at her apartment.
Soon after we'd graduated, the household turned twenty-one all at once. We stocked a bar and purchased some liquors I'd read about, including Rye Whiskey and Brazilian Cachaca. We had a cocktail party for Howard and I's birthday with our newly stocked bar. John Lazur, Adam, Greg Webb, Russell Manning and Jill were all there. Russell and Jill were dating that summer and I became friends with both of them through my involvement with DCD (the Davis College Democrats).
Brandon bought a Japanese White Ale called Hitachino's nest on some DCD escapade and I remember it tasted great.
Caius came to visit me that summer, twice. He made me a blackberry pie the first time and I documented a bike trip he and Brandon and I took up the American River. We also tried some beer and cider from the coop. Caius loved hard apple cider.
I took my new grill for it's first spin, grilling $4/lb New York Strip on the patio at Kingston Apartments. Brandon and I bought Pilsner Urquell on a whim. The steak turned out great. Though the beer was awesome, it didn't pair well at all. This inaugurated both my love of Pilsner and my long and unsuccessful search for the beer that would pair with American steak.
I also remember the love-at-first-taste I had with New Belgium's Skinny Dip.
When I visited home that summer, I bought Virgil's Cola at Farm-to-Market with my sister. The cola wasn't half as good as their root beer, but I had a great time hanging out with Bri.
Howard brought some Kirkland beer that he'd discovered at his hometown Costco.
I vividly remember shoving a wedge of key lime into a Corona on my way out the door to ride with Brian Ang and Matt Takaichi to see My Bloody Valentine in San Francisco. I remember sharing my jam jar of rye, the incredible volume of the show and the absolute hordes of kids dressed in their scene best.
Brandon and I ended up becoming big fans of Cachaca and the cocktail made from it called a Caipirinha. Before long we had to replace the old bottle we'd bought on my birthday.
At some point, John Lazur and I's boss, Richard, brought a few bottles of beer back from a visit to Jack Russell brewery. He told us that we could drink them together after closing up the chemical dispensary (John acted as manager for the closing shift). The two of us had a wonderful time discussing the beers. After that, we made a semi-regular thing out of it. John also introduced me to Dogfish Head brewery by giving me their fall seasonal.
Inspired by John, I hosted a "six-pack party", where guests where instructed to bring a six-pack of a beer they had never tried before. The hit of the night was Laura Nevins' Prohibition Lager, which I thought tasted like strawberries.
Before that fall, we made the big move from our run down apartment to a duplex that we called the Apple House. The last day of the move, Brandon went to pick up some McDonald's (having not unpacked the kitchen yet) and as such things go that time of year, a few friends dropped by and we had a housewarming party. Among those friends was Jill. We cracked open a sixer of Leffe, which Brandon claimed tasted exactly like creamed corn when he drank it in Europe with Tyler. Jill and I got to chat when the others made a trip to the store and the two of us hit it off. She'd broken up with Russell earlier that summer and I remember thinking to myself that I should go after her.
There were two impromptu get-togethers around our kitchen that September and Jill was at both. On one Jill formed her first opinion of Leffe and on the other I invented my Christmas Punch in the process of playing bartender to Jill, trying to mimic a cranberry vodka with limited ingredients.
Later in the fall I remember discovering Hefeweizen playing a drinking game with Sudwerk's at Don Gibson's house. I soon got bored with the style, though.
At the beginning of the fall my sister and Aaron Robinson visited for ORMF with Bri's friend Lauren and Aaron's then-girlfriend Jill Hardy. I cracked open one of my dad's more prized red wines (I'd taken a case to Davis with me).
The next day we went to the show and the brief romance I'd had with Lauren came back to life, Lauren's affection growing more pronounced when the the only one of the many Davis friends I invited to show up turned out to be Jill Miller.
A few weeks later, Brandon and I planned to visit our respective siblings in Santa Cruz. We hadn't found anyone interested in gas-sharing with us by that Friday, when by chance I ran into Jill between classes. I invited her and she said she'd come along. The three of us chatted enthusiastically the way there, bickering about whether Jill had good movie taste and agreeing to host a movie marathon. Lauren happened to have dropped by to visit Bri for the weekend, so the dynamic resumed. This time, though, while I put my arms around Lauren, Brandon put his arms around Jill. That night was when Jill decided she didn't actually like Leffe. The following night we picked up some "Oktoberfest" from Trader Joe's that Brandon and I agreed tasted a little like raw meat.
It wasn't until later, when Bri asked me if I liked Jill that I realized how obvious our chemistry was. Lauren certainly noticed. The similarities between the two outings are astonishing. In both cases, Jill was the only person of many invitees to show and Lauren happened to have dropped in on Bri. In both cases I was more ignorant of the dynamic than Lauren or Jill.
After we'd dropped Jill off at her house (and Jill and I had agreed to have a movie marathon the next weekend), I asked Brandon if he was interested in Jill. Brandon said definitely not and I said good, because though he had first dibs, I really wanted to go after her.
My new roommate Greg Webb had run a bruising independent campaign for ASUCD Senator. He announced that regardless of the outcome, he'd be hosting a "Moral Victory Party" and that he would drink a shot of tequila for every twenty votes he received. He got three hundred votes and was just eight votes short of winning.
We measured off the small amount of extra tequila from a fifth and Greg started to drink. Everybody drank (Brandon and I as always playing the role of bartenders extraordinaire), but Greg made it halfway through the bottle within an hour. We decided to move our small party to check out a handful of large parties we'd heard about. Greg was shouting a continuous stream of slurs and insults about the candidates that had beaten him, insisting that we go to the victory party for LEAD (the winning party) so that he could cuss them out in person. We steered Greg to my friend Kern's party. I had an involved albeit tipsy discussion with Jill about "las otras", trying desperately to convince her that she was my first pick. We danced together at Kern's party. By the time we left that party, our numbers had thinned considerably. By the time we arrived at Greg's friend's "wig party", it was just the three of us.
Drunken Greg looked like ET in a hot pink bob. We mixed and chatted, but mostly Jill and I's conversation continued. By the time we left, I was easily the most sober of our trio, Greg still weaving precariously as he continued hurling a stream of insults into the empty streets. Jill and I felt a sense of teamwork as we shepherded him home. For about half the walk I pushed Greg in a grocery cart. In the last leg of the trip Jill and I held hands. It was at that moment that I knew for sure that we had mutual interest, though later she would say it hadn't meant anything.
Jill and I had the long promised movie marathon and though it went otherwise swimmingly, Jill rebuffed my attempt to put my arm around her. We agreed to do it again the next weekend. The second time Jill's friend Lazzuly joined us and Jill snuggled up to me until I put my arm around her. We watched a couple of movies like that. Lazzuly left to get ready for a DCD party that night and I fed Jill a potato with cheese. We walked to the party holding hands.
At the party we danced only with each other. A DCDer named Shane mistook me for Colin Doyle, who'd been hitting on his girlfriend. He tipsily apologized for the mistake later, forcing not one but two bottles of Mirror Pond on me. I didn't care. By that time dancing had turned into making out and I was practically floating.
A few weeks later the Apple House hosted its Christmakah party. This was the third we'd hosted and by this time my roommates were pulling more weight in the preparation than I was (I who'd gallantly started the first one). That Jill and I were dating was made apparent to DCD that night. I busted out some of my dad's wine, making the mistake of letting a stranger open one of the bottles. The only way to salvage the resulting split cork was to push it into the bottle. I was pissed at the time, but I'm amused to see that cork half still sitting glumly in the bottle (the Chardonnay, btw). The next morning I asked Jill, (with a note of exasperation) "What are we?". She seemed surprised that I wanted to date exclusively. I was surprised that she'd allowed it to go this far without demanding some kind of commitment. I'd wanted a long term relationship all along (since that first hang-out at the Apple House) and wanted to lock her down before winter break.
That winter quarter, I took "Introduction to Beer and Brewing" with funny British professor Charles Bamforth. I was immediately excited by the sound of the bocks, starting off with the ubiquitous Shiner Bock.
That Valentine's day was my first worth celebrating and I pulled out the stops to make it special, more for me than for Jill. We went to Seasons for dinner and watched a playing of A Winter's Tale. The next day we decided to go to Napa, though it was raining. We bought a couple bottles of wine and some nice cheese, including the Chardonnay pictured.
I also remember having Adam over for a more modest incarnation of the "six-pack party". He brought Henry Weinhard and I got some Red Seal. Talk was good and the Red Seal was great.
That winter, my sister came to visit. I'd promised to bake her cookies if she visited me (and actually stayed with me, instead of spending all her time with Allison), a promise which she was quick to remind me of. I fondly remember sipping Red Tail while baking cookies (another terrible pairing) while it softly rained outside. I think probably the other time she came and stayed with Allison we drank the Kriek Boon, kriek being another beer style I'd been introduced to through my class.
At some point I hosted a beer tasting of various bocks. Allison, Jack, Brandon, Howard and Jill were all in attendance. I do love getting all my favorite people in one place. Add that to a wealth of delicious new beer and I'd have to call my state one of bliss.
After I graduated, Jill went to study abroad in Spain. I knew her being gone would be hard on me. She actually left the morning of my birthday. That afternoon I called John Lazur to come over and hang out. I made him try my newly invented Black Bayou with my purpose-purchased bottle of Maker's Mark, which isn't in the lineup because I still have some left in it.
We were having a great time chatting. One thing led to another and we cracked open a forty of Old English while Howard and Greg prepared a feast of different dishes all made with zucchini (you know how it is with zucchini). John left at eight or so and I passed out on my bed around ten. I woke up at four AM feeling like I'd been hit by a cement truck. Since I couldn't get to sleep I screwed around online and feverishly read the pulp fiction Jill had left me to read. In the next couple days I burned through her sizable stack of books, sleeping erratically and feeling like shit the whole time.
While Jill was gone I drove with my mom and sister to Wisconsin. Driving in shifts, we did it in thirty-two hours. It was the first time I'd been to Wisconsin since I'd turned twenty-one. I drank a local beer by New Glarus with my cousin Eddie, which felt like some kind of rite of passage.
I'd heard that Coca-Cola's formulation varied from country to country. I'd told Jill to bring back a coke from every country she passed through. She brought back a Spanish coke and a French one. I added in a bottle of Mexican coke and a can of Americana and we had an old-fashioned Apple House taste test. We couldn't really tell the difference between the Spanish and French cokes. For that matter, except the obvious difference of sucrose vs high fructose corn syrup, I couldn't detect a difference in the formula between the European cokes and our American one. The Mexican coke was definitely different. It drew the most polarized response, but we all agreed that it was "weird". It tasted warmer, like a fiesta (more cinnamon?). Whatever it was, I think Mexican coke was my favorite of the tasting.
Jill also returned from Spain with a taste for Spanish Tempranillo. We were always trying to drink it with pork. I'm not sure if we ever actually did.
On the edge of the picture is a bottle of Stone Pale Ale. Caius and I picked up a six pack of the stuff on our way to a backyard folk show. This must have been the summer before, because the occasion provided the inspiration for I BUI.
That summer, Jill's mom kind of turned on me without my realizing it. Jill wanted me to make my delicious grilled steak for her mom, so I made steaks for Jill, her mom and her friend Myranda Hunter (who happens to be my kind of people). I picked one of my dad's Bordeaux's for the steak (Jill's mom likes Merlot). Out of the gates I was criticized for burning the steaks. The night went downhill from there as Jill's mom became more drunk, more belligerent and more appalled by my nonchalance (any chance at diplomacy on my part being similarly buried in wine).
The night ended with Jill's mom telling Jill to break up with me and insisting that she was ok to drive home. Jill would hardly look at me until she got a text the next afternoon saying, "I was only kidding. Don't break up with the boy."
A few weeks later Matt Gribble visited me along his way from Stanford to grad school in Baltimore. I took him to a KDVS house show. He was pretty critical of the music, but he loved the lambic he'd bought (I did too, enough to ask to keep the bottle for my wall) and had a great time unsuccessfully chasing this scene kid who "wasn't out of the closet yet".
Matt Wingert finally visited me as he'd been promising for years. We chilled out with Brandon's brother Spencer and watched the first two seasons of the Venture Brothers. The last night we picked up a variety of mostly German lagers from the coop and he, Brandon, Jill and I had a tasting. The equation is simple: good beer plus good friends equals awesome. Works every time.
After a summer's growing anxiety about my continuing unemployment, I ran smack into the most unlikely of jobs. DCD had decided to encourage it's members to work for a housing measure on the ballot called Measure P. The project was sustainable and the campaign very well funded. I think somebody in DCD's leadership mistakenly hoped the club might get some portion of the $15/hour that the campaign was paying its workers.
Working the campaign was great. It got me out of the house and also off Jill's nerves (it was a hot summer). Flyering was a beautiful excuse to walk around Davis's idyllic neighborhoods. "Walking" and phone banking got me chatting with the town's residents. In addition to paying us well, the campaign was generous about taking us out to lunch. I acquired great respect for two of the three eateries we had accounts with: Steve's Pizza and Zia's Deli (the latter superb). Somehow, they even let us order beer for lunch, so I got a taste for Boont Amber Ale along the way.
I liked the hours, the people and the job itself. Because I was one of the few nonstudent campaigners, I eventually took a greater level of responsibility within the campaign. I organized walks, discussed strategy and even wrote campaign literature. I remember getting home completely windswept after acting as a bike messenger (eat your hearts out, fixie kids!) and immediately loving Sam Adams' Octoberfest, which fit the season and moment so perfectly. Did I mention October is my favorite month?
Towards the end of the campaign, the more regular among us went out to Little Prague for beers after a long day. On David Urhausen's suggestion, we got all three of the Chimay brews they offered. It was all very bittersweet, so I took home the most expensive bottle to memorialize the parting. Because Little Prague had recently decided to stop stocking Chimay, the bartender let us have a Chimay glass each for a couple dollars.
I gained an appreciation for the vast beauty of Davis those two months. I also gained an appreciation for the intelligent and ornery citizens of Davis, who voted our Measure down by a landslide. Things had to come to an end sooner or later. The campaign managers had slowly let on how unlikely it was that we'd win, but even they were unprepared for the decisiveness of the rebuke. It didn't sting as bad as the fact that the campaign ended. David hosted an end of campaign party with a keg of Sudwerk Pilsner, which was about the most jaw-droppingly awesome party provision I'd ever heard of.
Soon after I joined Jill and DCD for their Tahoe retreat, where young democrats from across the state rubbed shoulders. I don't think we brought it along, but I remember buying that bottle of Grolsch with Brandon around the same time. The beer itself was terribly skunked. The story of note from the retreat was my increasingly hostile disposition towards Andrew Peake. I'll just say that I guardedly liked him for a long time and that changed dramatically.
In December I finally retook the GRE (after bombing because I'd gone in cold). A weekend's prep and I increased my math score by 130 points. All told it was a raging victory for me. I cracked open Anchor's Christmas Ale with Brandon and Jill. It was quite good.
I decided to scale down last year's lavish Valentine's day celebration and work on a budget. Jill and I went to dinner with a coupon to one of our favorite Indian restaurants. The Indian lager tasted divine alongside the curry and the lamb special we ordered was quite delectable.
I remember buying and drinking the Red Bull Cola while still living at the Apple House, but I'm pretty sure I was already making arrangements to move out. The cola was really good. Pity it was too expensive to buy again.
Probably around the same time I remember drinking another Dogfish Head brew at Jill's house, this one inspired by ancient Mesopotamian beers. I'd started buying single bottles since Jill moved so close to the Coop and I discovered the cheap single bottles at Save-Mart. That trend would increase considerably once I'd moved away from my beer buddy Brandon.
My replacement at the Apple House was named Alberto. He took Brandon's living room and Brandon took my room, which Brandon was stoked about. Alberto brought with him a single bottle of Amaretto. I always coveted a taste, but never asked in my subsequent visits to the Apple House. Eventually it was added to the wall in my absence, and I find that somehow fitting.
The last few weeks and indeed the last few months have been a time for reflection upon my time in Davis. It is, as I have already said, the end of an era. When Howard and Brandon and I moved to the Apple House, we started lining up beer bottles on top of our kitchen cabinets. A year later, when my mind was also looking backwards because of my upcoming graduation, I started telling Brandon stories I associated with various bottles. I realized how good a storytelling device they were and resolved to write this post in the future.
Yet another year later, Howard was the last of us original three to leave the Apple House and I got those charmed bottles. They had a crust of grease on their shoulders from their lengthy existence in that kitchen. I lined them up (mostly) chronologically and photographed them to tell you their stories. This is a long post, full of stories both momentous and trivial whose value lies in their significance to those who played roles in them.
Stella Artois was the first beer I ever bought. I got it while in the dorms through Brandon's high school friend Tyler. Tyler ended up introducing us to craft beer while we lived in the dorms because periodically he would visit his girlfriend Erin at UC Davis and we'd all hang out in Brandon's dorm and drink Tyler's beer. I remember it took me months to acquire a taste for any beer, but I left the dorms a fan of Sierra Nevada and Fat Tire.
My first visit to Nugget Market, I bought a battery of craft sodas, my interest a relic from my days in high school. I tasted them with my roommates one by one over the course of a week, setting the pattern I would later revisit with single-bottles of beer after I graduated.
The standout was an old soda I'd wanted to try since those high school days. Moxie has become synonymous with spunk and determination in vernacular and it frankly tastes medicinal. The thing is, it tastes medicinal in a completely awesome way. I'd drink it periodically if Nugget would freaking stock it again (more than can be said of all but a handful of craft sodas), but I haven't seen it on their shelves since.
Later that sophomore year, I got Allison's roommate Emy to buy us alcohol. She recommended New Belgium's 1554 from the Coop, which was excellent.
We became fans of Gordon Biersch Marzen among other things. We started saving bottles so that we might insinuate ourselves into brewing beer of our own some day. I remember Brandon thought Stone IPA was too bitter, but I tried to approach it with an open mind. He liked Red Hook, though, and three years later we had a pitcher of it with his family in Dana Point while they were visiting for a cousin's wedding.
I also remember when Allison's mom visited (but I forgot why) with a bottle of Skyy vodka and we made lemon drops at my house.
Our junior year Adam was old enough to give us the hookup. We liked Gordon Biersch's Marzen enough that we tried out Sudwerk's. I though it was relatively boring, but Brandon liked it.
Seagram's Gin should be in the lineup somewhere, because it was that year that Brandon and I started making martinis regularly, sipping them while we watched Seinfeld and Everybody Loves Raymond.
Howard's girlfriend Tammy turned twenty-one late in the year and I remember sipping Pyramid Apricot Ale with she and Howard at her apartment.
Soon after we'd graduated, the household turned twenty-one all at once. We stocked a bar and purchased some liquors I'd read about, including Rye Whiskey and Brazilian Cachaca. We had a cocktail party for Howard and I's birthday with our newly stocked bar. John Lazur, Adam, Greg Webb, Russell Manning and Jill were all there. Russell and Jill were dating that summer and I became friends with both of them through my involvement with DCD (the Davis College Democrats).
Brandon bought a Japanese White Ale called Hitachino's nest on some DCD escapade and I remember it tasted great.
Caius came to visit me that summer, twice. He made me a blackberry pie the first time and I documented a bike trip he and Brandon and I took up the American River. We also tried some beer and cider from the coop. Caius loved hard apple cider.
I took my new grill for it's first spin, grilling $4/lb New York Strip on the patio at Kingston Apartments. Brandon and I bought Pilsner Urquell on a whim. The steak turned out great. Though the beer was awesome, it didn't pair well at all. This inaugurated both my love of Pilsner and my long and unsuccessful search for the beer that would pair with American steak.
I also remember the love-at-first-taste I had with New Belgium's Skinny Dip.
When I visited home that summer, I bought Virgil's Cola at Farm-to-Market with my sister. The cola wasn't half as good as their root beer, but I had a great time hanging out with Bri.
Howard brought some Kirkland beer that he'd discovered at his hometown Costco.
I vividly remember shoving a wedge of key lime into a Corona on my way out the door to ride with Brian Ang and Matt Takaichi to see My Bloody Valentine in San Francisco. I remember sharing my jam jar of rye, the incredible volume of the show and the absolute hordes of kids dressed in their scene best.
Brandon and I ended up becoming big fans of Cachaca and the cocktail made from it called a Caipirinha. Before long we had to replace the old bottle we'd bought on my birthday.
At some point, John Lazur and I's boss, Richard, brought a few bottles of beer back from a visit to Jack Russell brewery. He told us that we could drink them together after closing up the chemical dispensary (John acted as manager for the closing shift). The two of us had a wonderful time discussing the beers. After that, we made a semi-regular thing out of it. John also introduced me to Dogfish Head brewery by giving me their fall seasonal.
Inspired by John, I hosted a "six-pack party", where guests where instructed to bring a six-pack of a beer they had never tried before. The hit of the night was Laura Nevins' Prohibition Lager, which I thought tasted like strawberries.
Before that fall, we made the big move from our run down apartment to a duplex that we called the Apple House. The last day of the move, Brandon went to pick up some McDonald's (having not unpacked the kitchen yet) and as such things go that time of year, a few friends dropped by and we had a housewarming party. Among those friends was Jill. We cracked open a sixer of Leffe, which Brandon claimed tasted exactly like creamed corn when he drank it in Europe with Tyler. Jill and I got to chat when the others made a trip to the store and the two of us hit it off. She'd broken up with Russell earlier that summer and I remember thinking to myself that I should go after her.
There were two impromptu get-togethers around our kitchen that September and Jill was at both. On one Jill formed her first opinion of Leffe and on the other I invented my Christmas Punch in the process of playing bartender to Jill, trying to mimic a cranberry vodka with limited ingredients.
Later in the fall I remember discovering Hefeweizen playing a drinking game with Sudwerk's at Don Gibson's house. I soon got bored with the style, though.
At the beginning of the fall my sister and Aaron Robinson visited for ORMF with Bri's friend Lauren and Aaron's then-girlfriend Jill Hardy. I cracked open one of my dad's more prized red wines (I'd taken a case to Davis with me).
The next day we went to the show and the brief romance I'd had with Lauren came back to life, Lauren's affection growing more pronounced when the the only one of the many Davis friends I invited to show up turned out to be Jill Miller.
A few weeks later, Brandon and I planned to visit our respective siblings in Santa Cruz. We hadn't found anyone interested in gas-sharing with us by that Friday, when by chance I ran into Jill between classes. I invited her and she said she'd come along. The three of us chatted enthusiastically the way there, bickering about whether Jill had good movie taste and agreeing to host a movie marathon. Lauren happened to have dropped by to visit Bri for the weekend, so the dynamic resumed. This time, though, while I put my arms around Lauren, Brandon put his arms around Jill. That night was when Jill decided she didn't actually like Leffe. The following night we picked up some "Oktoberfest" from Trader Joe's that Brandon and I agreed tasted a little like raw meat.
It wasn't until later, when Bri asked me if I liked Jill that I realized how obvious our chemistry was. Lauren certainly noticed. The similarities between the two outings are astonishing. In both cases, Jill was the only person of many invitees to show and Lauren happened to have dropped in on Bri. In both cases I was more ignorant of the dynamic than Lauren or Jill.
After we'd dropped Jill off at her house (and Jill and I had agreed to have a movie marathon the next weekend), I asked Brandon if he was interested in Jill. Brandon said definitely not and I said good, because though he had first dibs, I really wanted to go after her.
My new roommate Greg Webb had run a bruising independent campaign for ASUCD Senator. He announced that regardless of the outcome, he'd be hosting a "Moral Victory Party" and that he would drink a shot of tequila for every twenty votes he received. He got three hundred votes and was just eight votes short of winning.
We measured off the small amount of extra tequila from a fifth and Greg started to drink. Everybody drank (Brandon and I as always playing the role of bartenders extraordinaire), but Greg made it halfway through the bottle within an hour. We decided to move our small party to check out a handful of large parties we'd heard about. Greg was shouting a continuous stream of slurs and insults about the candidates that had beaten him, insisting that we go to the victory party for LEAD (the winning party) so that he could cuss them out in person. We steered Greg to my friend Kern's party. I had an involved albeit tipsy discussion with Jill about "las otras", trying desperately to convince her that she was my first pick. We danced together at Kern's party. By the time we left that party, our numbers had thinned considerably. By the time we arrived at Greg's friend's "wig party", it was just the three of us.
Drunken Greg looked like ET in a hot pink bob. We mixed and chatted, but mostly Jill and I's conversation continued. By the time we left, I was easily the most sober of our trio, Greg still weaving precariously as he continued hurling a stream of insults into the empty streets. Jill and I felt a sense of teamwork as we shepherded him home. For about half the walk I pushed Greg in a grocery cart. In the last leg of the trip Jill and I held hands. It was at that moment that I knew for sure that we had mutual interest, though later she would say it hadn't meant anything.
Jill and I had the long promised movie marathon and though it went otherwise swimmingly, Jill rebuffed my attempt to put my arm around her. We agreed to do it again the next weekend. The second time Jill's friend Lazzuly joined us and Jill snuggled up to me until I put my arm around her. We watched a couple of movies like that. Lazzuly left to get ready for a DCD party that night and I fed Jill a potato with cheese. We walked to the party holding hands.
At the party we danced only with each other. A DCDer named Shane mistook me for Colin Doyle, who'd been hitting on his girlfriend. He tipsily apologized for the mistake later, forcing not one but two bottles of Mirror Pond on me. I didn't care. By that time dancing had turned into making out and I was practically floating.
A few weeks later the Apple House hosted its Christmakah party. This was the third we'd hosted and by this time my roommates were pulling more weight in the preparation than I was (I who'd gallantly started the first one). That Jill and I were dating was made apparent to DCD that night. I busted out some of my dad's wine, making the mistake of letting a stranger open one of the bottles. The only way to salvage the resulting split cork was to push it into the bottle. I was pissed at the time, but I'm amused to see that cork half still sitting glumly in the bottle (the Chardonnay, btw). The next morning I asked Jill, (with a note of exasperation) "What are we?". She seemed surprised that I wanted to date exclusively. I was surprised that she'd allowed it to go this far without demanding some kind of commitment. I'd wanted a long term relationship all along (since that first hang-out at the Apple House) and wanted to lock her down before winter break.
That winter quarter, I took "Introduction to Beer and Brewing" with funny British professor Charles Bamforth. I was immediately excited by the sound of the bocks, starting off with the ubiquitous Shiner Bock.
That Valentine's day was my first worth celebrating and I pulled out the stops to make it special, more for me than for Jill. We went to Seasons for dinner and watched a playing of A Winter's Tale. The next day we decided to go to Napa, though it was raining. We bought a couple bottles of wine and some nice cheese, including the Chardonnay pictured.
I also remember having Adam over for a more modest incarnation of the "six-pack party". He brought Henry Weinhard and I got some Red Seal. Talk was good and the Red Seal was great.
That winter, my sister came to visit. I'd promised to bake her cookies if she visited me (and actually stayed with me, instead of spending all her time with Allison), a promise which she was quick to remind me of. I fondly remember sipping Red Tail while baking cookies (another terrible pairing) while it softly rained outside. I think probably the other time she came and stayed with Allison we drank the Kriek Boon, kriek being another beer style I'd been introduced to through my class.
At some point I hosted a beer tasting of various bocks. Allison, Jack, Brandon, Howard and Jill were all in attendance. I do love getting all my favorite people in one place. Add that to a wealth of delicious new beer and I'd have to call my state one of bliss.
After I graduated, Jill went to study abroad in Spain. I knew her being gone would be hard on me. She actually left the morning of my birthday. That afternoon I called John Lazur to come over and hang out. I made him try my newly invented Black Bayou with my purpose-purchased bottle of Maker's Mark, which isn't in the lineup because I still have some left in it.
We were having a great time chatting. One thing led to another and we cracked open a forty of Old English while Howard and Greg prepared a feast of different dishes all made with zucchini (you know how it is with zucchini). John left at eight or so and I passed out on my bed around ten. I woke up at four AM feeling like I'd been hit by a cement truck. Since I couldn't get to sleep I screwed around online and feverishly read the pulp fiction Jill had left me to read. In the next couple days I burned through her sizable stack of books, sleeping erratically and feeling like shit the whole time.
While Jill was gone I drove with my mom and sister to Wisconsin. Driving in shifts, we did it in thirty-two hours. It was the first time I'd been to Wisconsin since I'd turned twenty-one. I drank a local beer by New Glarus with my cousin Eddie, which felt like some kind of rite of passage.
I'd heard that Coca-Cola's formulation varied from country to country. I'd told Jill to bring back a coke from every country she passed through. She brought back a Spanish coke and a French one. I added in a bottle of Mexican coke and a can of Americana and we had an old-fashioned Apple House taste test. We couldn't really tell the difference between the Spanish and French cokes. For that matter, except the obvious difference of sucrose vs high fructose corn syrup, I couldn't detect a difference in the formula between the European cokes and our American one. The Mexican coke was definitely different. It drew the most polarized response, but we all agreed that it was "weird". It tasted warmer, like a fiesta (more cinnamon?). Whatever it was, I think Mexican coke was my favorite of the tasting.
Jill also returned from Spain with a taste for Spanish Tempranillo. We were always trying to drink it with pork. I'm not sure if we ever actually did.
On the edge of the picture is a bottle of Stone Pale Ale. Caius and I picked up a six pack of the stuff on our way to a backyard folk show. This must have been the summer before, because the occasion provided the inspiration for I BUI.
That summer, Jill's mom kind of turned on me without my realizing it. Jill wanted me to make my delicious grilled steak for her mom, so I made steaks for Jill, her mom and her friend Myranda Hunter (who happens to be my kind of people). I picked one of my dad's Bordeaux's for the steak (Jill's mom likes Merlot). Out of the gates I was criticized for burning the steaks. The night went downhill from there as Jill's mom became more drunk, more belligerent and more appalled by my nonchalance (any chance at diplomacy on my part being similarly buried in wine).
The night ended with Jill's mom telling Jill to break up with me and insisting that she was ok to drive home. Jill would hardly look at me until she got a text the next afternoon saying, "I was only kidding. Don't break up with the boy."
A few weeks later Matt Gribble visited me along his way from Stanford to grad school in Baltimore. I took him to a KDVS house show. He was pretty critical of the music, but he loved the lambic he'd bought (I did too, enough to ask to keep the bottle for my wall) and had a great time unsuccessfully chasing this scene kid who "wasn't out of the closet yet".
Matt Wingert finally visited me as he'd been promising for years. We chilled out with Brandon's brother Spencer and watched the first two seasons of the Venture Brothers. The last night we picked up a variety of mostly German lagers from the coop and he, Brandon, Jill and I had a tasting. The equation is simple: good beer plus good friends equals awesome. Works every time.
After a summer's growing anxiety about my continuing unemployment, I ran smack into the most unlikely of jobs. DCD had decided to encourage it's members to work for a housing measure on the ballot called Measure P. The project was sustainable and the campaign very well funded. I think somebody in DCD's leadership mistakenly hoped the club might get some portion of the $15/hour that the campaign was paying its workers.
Working the campaign was great. It got me out of the house and also off Jill's nerves (it was a hot summer). Flyering was a beautiful excuse to walk around Davis's idyllic neighborhoods. "Walking" and phone banking got me chatting with the town's residents. In addition to paying us well, the campaign was generous about taking us out to lunch. I acquired great respect for two of the three eateries we had accounts with: Steve's Pizza and Zia's Deli (the latter superb). Somehow, they even let us order beer for lunch, so I got a taste for Boont Amber Ale along the way.
I liked the hours, the people and the job itself. Because I was one of the few nonstudent campaigners, I eventually took a greater level of responsibility within the campaign. I organized walks, discussed strategy and even wrote campaign literature. I remember getting home completely windswept after acting as a bike messenger (eat your hearts out, fixie kids!) and immediately loving Sam Adams' Octoberfest, which fit the season and moment so perfectly. Did I mention October is my favorite month?
Towards the end of the campaign, the more regular among us went out to Little Prague for beers after a long day. On David Urhausen's suggestion, we got all three of the Chimay brews they offered. It was all very bittersweet, so I took home the most expensive bottle to memorialize the parting. Because Little Prague had recently decided to stop stocking Chimay, the bartender let us have a Chimay glass each for a couple dollars.
I gained an appreciation for the vast beauty of Davis those two months. I also gained an appreciation for the intelligent and ornery citizens of Davis, who voted our Measure down by a landslide. Things had to come to an end sooner or later. The campaign managers had slowly let on how unlikely it was that we'd win, but even they were unprepared for the decisiveness of the rebuke. It didn't sting as bad as the fact that the campaign ended. David hosted an end of campaign party with a keg of Sudwerk Pilsner, which was about the most jaw-droppingly awesome party provision I'd ever heard of.
Soon after I joined Jill and DCD for their Tahoe retreat, where young democrats from across the state rubbed shoulders. I don't think we brought it along, but I remember buying that bottle of Grolsch with Brandon around the same time. The beer itself was terribly skunked. The story of note from the retreat was my increasingly hostile disposition towards Andrew Peake. I'll just say that I guardedly liked him for a long time and that changed dramatically.
In December I finally retook the GRE (after bombing because I'd gone in cold). A weekend's prep and I increased my math score by 130 points. All told it was a raging victory for me. I cracked open Anchor's Christmas Ale with Brandon and Jill. It was quite good.
I decided to scale down last year's lavish Valentine's day celebration and work on a budget. Jill and I went to dinner with a coupon to one of our favorite Indian restaurants. The Indian lager tasted divine alongside the curry and the lamb special we ordered was quite delectable.
I remember buying and drinking the Red Bull Cola while still living at the Apple House, but I'm pretty sure I was already making arrangements to move out. The cola was really good. Pity it was too expensive to buy again.
Probably around the same time I remember drinking another Dogfish Head brew at Jill's house, this one inspired by ancient Mesopotamian beers. I'd started buying single bottles since Jill moved so close to the Coop and I discovered the cheap single bottles at Save-Mart. That trend would increase considerably once I'd moved away from my beer buddy Brandon.
My replacement at the Apple House was named Alberto. He took Brandon's living room and Brandon took my room, which Brandon was stoked about. Alberto brought with him a single bottle of Amaretto. I always coveted a taste, but never asked in my subsequent visits to the Apple House. Eventually it was added to the wall in my absence, and I find that somehow fitting.
Thursday, September 16, 2010
Practical Intimacy
I have been having some very long conversations with some very good friends, partly because I'm bored/lonely and partly because I have something worth talking about. Going out with and living with Jill was an amazing experience. I think I matured a lot and learned even more. Because of our personalities it managed to be both intense (who on earth can handle THAT much time together?) and sober. Last week I managed to surprise even Howard with a few examples that demonstrated the degree to which we'd meshed our lives together.
One of my favorite things about moving in with Jill was the communality that far surpassed what I'd shared with my roommates. The prototypical example was washing our laundry together, because it allowed me to complete my partial loads of whites and reds (yes, bleeding opposite colors will dull each other so it makes sense to segregate them. my mom with the degree in painting says so, so there) and pretty much almost always have a full load of blues/darks on hand in need of washing. It also allowed me to wash laundry while she was in school or her to wash laundry while I was working.
Obviously the meshing went a lot farther. While we always split rent evenly along with every other major expense, we did away with keeping track of what was who's expenditure. The effect of this was to force us to compromise on what we spent money on. Considering that when I met her she spent her financial aid money freely on convenience food, generously on alcohol for other people's parties and gas to give people rides, this was actually quite a feat. We had sharp differences on how our parents had taught us to spend money. Compromise turns out to be surprisingly gratifying when it's grounded in goodwill and honesty. By the end of this past summer, our values (and not just spending habits) had moved a long way towards common ground.
Frankly, Jill and I had gotten much closer to embodying the "unmarried partners" tag we checked for a lark on the census form than I think either of us could have anticipated. Closer even than two of my best friends' relationships that have lasted over five years (this is opinion and not fact, but hey, Howard was impressed). Jill and I half-seriously joked that our relationship was stronger and more stable than one unnamed pair of newlyweds.
I feel like I got a window into what marriage must be. You console each other when the other's bummed, prod them to send in their graduate applications and they in turn make sure you're civil enough at social occasions not to make unnecessary enemies (go elitism!). I must confess the experience has left me eager for when I finally do get married. I'm pretty sure I'll love it.
One of my favorite things about moving in with Jill was the communality that far surpassed what I'd shared with my roommates. The prototypical example was washing our laundry together, because it allowed me to complete my partial loads of whites and reds (yes, bleeding opposite colors will dull each other so it makes sense to segregate them. my mom with the degree in painting says so, so there) and pretty much almost always have a full load of blues/darks on hand in need of washing. It also allowed me to wash laundry while she was in school or her to wash laundry while I was working.
Obviously the meshing went a lot farther. While we always split rent evenly along with every other major expense, we did away with keeping track of what was who's expenditure. The effect of this was to force us to compromise on what we spent money on. Considering that when I met her she spent her financial aid money freely on convenience food, generously on alcohol for other people's parties and gas to give people rides, this was actually quite a feat. We had sharp differences on how our parents had taught us to spend money. Compromise turns out to be surprisingly gratifying when it's grounded in goodwill and honesty. By the end of this past summer, our values (and not just spending habits) had moved a long way towards common ground.
Frankly, Jill and I had gotten much closer to embodying the "unmarried partners" tag we checked for a lark on the census form than I think either of us could have anticipated. Closer even than two of my best friends' relationships that have lasted over five years (this is opinion and not fact, but hey, Howard was impressed). Jill and I half-seriously joked that our relationship was stronger and more stable than one unnamed pair of newlyweds.
I feel like I got a window into what marriage must be. You console each other when the other's bummed, prod them to send in their graduate applications and they in turn make sure you're civil enough at social occasions not to make unnecessary enemies (go elitism!). I must confess the experience has left me eager for when I finally do get married. I'm pretty sure I'll love it.
Sunday, August 1, 2010
The Love Revolution
It seems an age ago that I was sitting with Marisa on our high school bleachers during lunch period, discussing love. It was a conversation that had been waiting to happen for a few months. She kept telling me, "I love you, Max." I never knew how to respond. I didn't feel like I understood what love was well enough to profess my love for someone.
So there we were, five years ago, Marisa finally asking me why I wouldn't say I loved her. I explained that I wasn't sure I loved anyone and that I didn't want to say so until I was sure it was true. She pressed on, "What about your family? Don't you love them?" She asked with the incredulity of a Mormon and ultrafriend. I thought for a minute, mulling things over, and decided, "I guess I love my sister. If I love anyone in the world it is my sister." "Don't you love your parents?"
So often love appears like water. Clear and invisible when we're standing still in the midst of it. I told her that I wasn't sure. I told her that I supposed I must, but if love was there I didn't know what I was supposed to be looking for. This was how I assuaged one of my best friends about refusing to say I loved her back.
I think at the time I thought she might use the word love too liberally. I was also wary because just a few months before my friend Caius had broken her heart by telling her he didn't love her anymore, concluding their brief, intense relationship. I didn't think love should be the sort of thing that could be recanted, so I gave the word extra caution, sometimes even hostility.
It wasn't until midway through college that I began to respond "I love you too" on the phone to my parents. By then there'd been enough motion and distance between us for me to witness the invisible bonds of love I had for my parents. It wasn't until a few months ago, between Marisa's return from her mission in Czech and my trip to the Lost Coast with Caius, that I finally admitted I loved my close friends. At the beginning of the summer I broached the subject of love with Jill and over the course of the conversation decided I loved her and told her so. That adds another first to the long list of firsts that Jill has on me.
Recently, I've been paying attention to older-fashioned uses of the word love. People used to use the word so much more freely. They talked about love of friends, cousins and their favorite possessions. Love is now used in romantic comedies as something earth shattering and singular. It may be irrevocable, but love is not singular. I think I've been shielded from the nature of love by hyperbole. I've been divorced enough from the source of the word that I've had trouble recognizing it in my own life. Love happens every day.
To some extent I guess I love everybody. That's not to take anything away from the people I first declared love for. They were first for good reason. I love you guys. I just think we should approach love in that old fashioned way. Not the way hippies treat love as if it's some supernatural, omnipresent, omnipotent force and not the way romantic comedies elevate romantic love to the point of alienating all other forms and degrees of it. I want to reclaim the word from poets, panderers and theorists back to the simple meaning it began with. I want it to refer to the affection we feel for the people around us.
So there we were, five years ago, Marisa finally asking me why I wouldn't say I loved her. I explained that I wasn't sure I loved anyone and that I didn't want to say so until I was sure it was true. She pressed on, "What about your family? Don't you love them?" She asked with the incredulity of a Mormon and ultrafriend. I thought for a minute, mulling things over, and decided, "I guess I love my sister. If I love anyone in the world it is my sister." "Don't you love your parents?"
So often love appears like water. Clear and invisible when we're standing still in the midst of it. I told her that I wasn't sure. I told her that I supposed I must, but if love was there I didn't know what I was supposed to be looking for. This was how I assuaged one of my best friends about refusing to say I loved her back.
I think at the time I thought she might use the word love too liberally. I was also wary because just a few months before my friend Caius had broken her heart by telling her he didn't love her anymore, concluding their brief, intense relationship. I didn't think love should be the sort of thing that could be recanted, so I gave the word extra caution, sometimes even hostility.
It wasn't until midway through college that I began to respond "I love you too" on the phone to my parents. By then there'd been enough motion and distance between us for me to witness the invisible bonds of love I had for my parents. It wasn't until a few months ago, between Marisa's return from her mission in Czech and my trip to the Lost Coast with Caius, that I finally admitted I loved my close friends. At the beginning of the summer I broached the subject of love with Jill and over the course of the conversation decided I loved her and told her so. That adds another first to the long list of firsts that Jill has on me.
Recently, I've been paying attention to older-fashioned uses of the word love. People used to use the word so much more freely. They talked about love of friends, cousins and their favorite possessions. Love is now used in romantic comedies as something earth shattering and singular. It may be irrevocable, but love is not singular. I think I've been shielded from the nature of love by hyperbole. I've been divorced enough from the source of the word that I've had trouble recognizing it in my own life. Love happens every day.
To some extent I guess I love everybody. That's not to take anything away from the people I first declared love for. They were first for good reason. I love you guys. I just think we should approach love in that old fashioned way. Not the way hippies treat love as if it's some supernatural, omnipresent, omnipotent force and not the way romantic comedies elevate romantic love to the point of alienating all other forms and degrees of it. I want to reclaim the word from poets, panderers and theorists back to the simple meaning it began with. I want it to refer to the affection we feel for the people around us.
Monday, July 19, 2010
On Dana Point
I lived in Dana Point from the age of 11 until I left for college. My mom still lives there and my dad still lives in the neighboring town of San Clemente. The pictures were taken my senior year of high school.
Dana Point is a coastal town in Southern California, located almost exactly halfway between Los Angeles and San Diego. Dana Point sits at the southern tip of the greater LA/Orange County metro area along with neighboring San Clemente. To the south of these two beach cities lies a wilderness area dominated by Camp Pendleton. Dana Point gets its name from a mention in Richard Henry Dana's Two Years Before the Mast, where he described throwing cowhides off the bluffs of a cove that served as port for Mission San Juan Capistrano.
Dad, Donna and Bri in the foreground, Dana Point bluffs and harbor in the midground and Catalina Island in the background, January
Matt Wingert in my front yard, December
Prom photo, taken at one of the half dozen locations commonly used for weddings within walking distance of my house, May
View of my neighborhood from my front yard, February
Dana Point is a coastal town in Southern California, located almost exactly halfway between Los Angeles and San Diego. Dana Point sits at the southern tip of the greater LA/Orange County metro area along with neighboring San Clemente. To the south of these two beach cities lies a wilderness area dominated by Camp Pendleton. Dana Point gets its name from a mention in Richard Henry Dana's Two Years Before the Mast, where he described throwing cowhides off the bluffs of a cove that served as port for Mission San Juan Capistrano.
Dad, Donna and Bri in the foreground, Dana Point bluffs and harbor in the midground and Catalina Island in the background, JanuarySan Clemente brags that it has the best climate in the world. Both cities have an average 342 days of sunshine and typical highs in the high seventies/low eighties in the summer and low sixties in winter, respectively. Like all of California, the bulk of annual precipitation falls in winter months. However, among the cloudiest months is June, a phenomenon known locally as "June Gloom" and caused by warming ocean temperatures.
Matt Wingert in my front yard, DecemberTrees commonly planted in Dana Point include palms, eucalyptus and coastal pines. Subtropical and Mediterranean plants are easily grown. Some classic continental plants that require chill or extreme heat are difficult to grow, like cherries and watermelons (though that didn't stop me from growing a 94lb pumpkin). Undeveloped headlands and canyons are mostly coastal sage scrub, a chaparral-type mixture of californian sage, sagebrush, lemonade berry and coyote broom.
Demographics in Dana Point are mixed, not possessing the wealth of northern neighbor Laguna Beach. A significant number of Mexican immigrants and lower-middle class whites live in apartments, while professional class people commute to central Orange County and live in hillside houses with ocean views. The local economy is driven primarily by tourism and the aforementioned commuters. The worst traffic jams in our area happen on sunny Saturday afternoons.
Many neighborhoods in Dana Point were developed slowly enough to evidence an eclectic mix of social classes. The oldest houses are beach cottages, built in the 50's with low square-footage and flat roofs. Many of Dana Point's N-S streets are named various colors of lanterns (ie Blue Lantern, Golden Lantern, Amber Lantern). The town's decor is mariner themed, and houses are frequently painted marine blue-grey. The town has approximately reached build-out, though adjacent landlocked cities demonstrate textbook McMansion sprawl, particularly Laguna Niguel, a place that handily manages to be both much wealthier and much uglier than Dana Point (I have a lot of high school friends from Niguel and that is fact, not opinion).
The local public education system is excellent. Dana Hills High is both a Blue Ribbon and California Distinguished School. It offers a large number of Advanced Placement courses and produces high standardized test scores. The school football team has always sucked. The school surf team is pretty good, but never beats neighboring rivals San Clemente, who frequently contend for the State Championship title.
Prom photo, taken at one of the half dozen locations commonly used for weddings within walking distance of my house, MayThe two cities collectively lay claim to a handful of excellent surf beaches that host annual surf contests including Salt Creek, Doheny, T-Street, Trestles and San Onofre. Dana Cove was famous for a surf break called Killer Dana until the harbor was built. Surf culture is everywhere, most visible in the many local board shops, board-laden cars and the popularity of the word "surf" in mostly taqueria restaurant names (one Dana Point restaurant, in fact, succinctly named "Taco Surf"). In addition to both Mexican-owned and white-owned taquerias, the region has a lot of local burger joints that recall the glory days of Southern California car culture, as well as a mix of 20$ entrée restaurants with an emphasis on California cuisine and sushi.
The overall culture is laid back. Politics are mildly conservative. In spite of those politics, hostility towards immigrants is remarkably low. Upper-middle class people either appreciate the Mexican immigrant population for services rendered (though I don't know anyone with an in-house maid, as pop culture might have you believe of OC, even in Laguna) or respect them for their strong work ethic. The stereotype of the lazy Mexican has always struck me as a foreign idea, product of Los Angeles demographics.
The overall culture is laid back. Politics are mildly conservative. In spite of those politics, hostility towards immigrants is remarkably low. Upper-middle class people either appreciate the Mexican immigrant population for services rendered (though I don't know anyone with an in-house maid, as pop culture might have you believe of OC, even in Laguna) or respect them for their strong work ethic. The stereotype of the lazy Mexican has always struck me as a foreign idea, product of Los Angeles demographics.
View of my neighborhood from my front yard, FebruaryI live in a beach cottage in a mixed-income part of town. The yard is fronted by a couple of Canary Island Date Palms. It takes me 20 minutes to walk to Doheny with my surfboard underarm. I love the diversity of houses here. I love the weather, especially the foggy and cloudy days. I love the smell of sagebrush. I love getting burritos after a day at the beach with friends. I love walking downtown to pick up avocados from little Mexican markets. I love that my prom photos have a backdrop most wedding photos would be in envy of (in fact, Brandon's cousin flew from the east coast to get married in Dana Point this weekend). I love hearing Bandas on the neighbor's radios. I love Dana Point.
Sunday, February 28, 2010
Ice Cream Flavors
I've fallen behind on my posting (my excuse is that February is so short) and I have a couple of stopgaps for you guys.
The following is a transcription of Chapter 9 from Sideways Stories From Wayside School by Louis Sachar. This particular story stuck with me through my college years, over a decade since I'd last read it. I searched wikipedia and tracked down the chapter, but I couldn't find an etext or any kind of transcription of the book or chapter. So for your viewing pleasure I found the book and did it myself. Enjoy!
Chapter 9: Maurecia
Maurecia liked ice cream. She was sweet and pretty and could beat up any boy in Mrs. Jewls's class. Everybody like Maurecia--except Kathy, but then she didn't like anybody. Maurecia only liked ice cream.
Every day Maurecia brought an ice cream cone to school and kept it in her desk until lunch time. At first she brought chocolate ice cream every day. But she soon tired of chocolate ice cream. So she started bringing vanilla. But she got tired of vanilla, too. Then she got tired of strawberry, fudge ripple, butter pecan, pistachio, and burgundy cherry, in that order. And then a terrible thing happened. Maurecia got tired of ice cream. By that time her desk was a mess, and everything in it was sticky.
Everybody liked Maurecia. But Maurecia didn't like anything.
Mrs. Jewls hated to see Maurecia unhappy.
"I don't understand it, Mrs. Jewls," cried Maurecia. "There just aren't any good flavors anymore."
So Mrs. Jewls worked all night. The next day she brought in a new flavor of ice cream for Maurecia. It was Maurecia-flavored ice cream. "Everybody will like it," thought Mrs. Jewels, "because everybody likes Maurecia."
"Here you are, Maurecia," said Mrs. Jewls, "Maurecia-flavored ice cream."
Everybody gathered around as Maurecia tasted it. They hoped she'd like it.
Maurecia took a lick.
"Well?" said Mrs. Jewls.
Maurecia took another lick.
"Well?" asked the class.
"This ice cream has no taste," said Maurecia. "It doesn't taste bad, but it doesn't taste good. It doesn't taste like anything at all!"
Mrs. Jewls was heartbroken.
"Here, let me try it," said Todd. He tasted it. "You're crazy, Maurecia!" he said. "This is the best-tasting ice cream I've ever eaten! Try some, Deedee."
"Ummmmmmmmm, it's delicious," said Deedee. "It's so sweet and creamy." She passed it around the room.
"Oh, it is so good," said Leslie.
"I think it tastes terrible," said Kathy.
"I don't understand it," said Maurecia. "I don't taste a thing."
Mrs. Jewls slapped herself in the face. "Oh, I've made a big mistake, Maurecia. Of course you can't taste anything. It's Maurecia-flavored ice cream. It's the same taste you always taste when you're not tasting anything at all."
So the next day Mrs. Jewls brought in Joe-flavored ice cream. Maurecia liked it. So did everybody else. Joe thought it had no taste.
Everybody liked Maurecia. Maurecia only liked Joe.
The following day Mrs. Jewls brought in Ron-flavored ice cream. Ron thought it had no taste, but everybody else loved it.
Everybody liked Maurecia. Maurecia only liked Joe and Ron.
By the end of the month, Mrs. Jewls had brought in twenty-seven new flavors of ice cream, one for each member of the class.
Everybody liked Maurecia, and Maurecia liked everybody. They all tasted so good. All except Kathy, that is. Kathy-flavored ice cream tasted a little bit like old bologna.
Everyone still agreed that Maurecia-flavored ice cream was the best, except Maurecia. She liked Todd ice cream the best.
This turned out to be a problem. Every once in a while Maurecia would try to take a bite out of Todd's arm in order to get that very special flavor.
The following is a transcription of Chapter 9 from Sideways Stories From Wayside School by Louis Sachar. This particular story stuck with me through my college years, over a decade since I'd last read it. I searched wikipedia and tracked down the chapter, but I couldn't find an etext or any kind of transcription of the book or chapter. So for your viewing pleasure I found the book and did it myself. Enjoy!
Chapter 9: Maurecia
Maurecia liked ice cream. She was sweet and pretty and could beat up any boy in Mrs. Jewls's class. Everybody like Maurecia--except Kathy, but then she didn't like anybody. Maurecia only liked ice cream.
Every day Maurecia brought an ice cream cone to school and kept it in her desk until lunch time. At first she brought chocolate ice cream every day. But she soon tired of chocolate ice cream. So she started bringing vanilla. But she got tired of vanilla, too. Then she got tired of strawberry, fudge ripple, butter pecan, pistachio, and burgundy cherry, in that order. And then a terrible thing happened. Maurecia got tired of ice cream. By that time her desk was a mess, and everything in it was sticky.
Everybody liked Maurecia. But Maurecia didn't like anything.
Mrs. Jewls hated to see Maurecia unhappy.
"I don't understand it, Mrs. Jewls," cried Maurecia. "There just aren't any good flavors anymore."
So Mrs. Jewls worked all night. The next day she brought in a new flavor of ice cream for Maurecia. It was Maurecia-flavored ice cream. "Everybody will like it," thought Mrs. Jewels, "because everybody likes Maurecia."
"Here you are, Maurecia," said Mrs. Jewls, "Maurecia-flavored ice cream."
Everybody gathered around as Maurecia tasted it. They hoped she'd like it.
Maurecia took a lick.
"Well?" said Mrs. Jewls.
Maurecia took another lick.
"Well?" asked the class.
"This ice cream has no taste," said Maurecia. "It doesn't taste bad, but it doesn't taste good. It doesn't taste like anything at all!"
Mrs. Jewls was heartbroken.
"Here, let me try it," said Todd. He tasted it. "You're crazy, Maurecia!" he said. "This is the best-tasting ice cream I've ever eaten! Try some, Deedee."
"Ummmmmmmmm, it's delicious," said Deedee. "It's so sweet and creamy." She passed it around the room.
"Oh, it is so good," said Leslie.
"I think it tastes terrible," said Kathy.
"I don't understand it," said Maurecia. "I don't taste a thing."
Mrs. Jewls slapped herself in the face. "Oh, I've made a big mistake, Maurecia. Of course you can't taste anything. It's Maurecia-flavored ice cream. It's the same taste you always taste when you're not tasting anything at all."
So the next day Mrs. Jewls brought in Joe-flavored ice cream. Maurecia liked it. So did everybody else. Joe thought it had no taste.
Everybody liked Maurecia. Maurecia only liked Joe.
The following day Mrs. Jewls brought in Ron-flavored ice cream. Ron thought it had no taste, but everybody else loved it.
Everybody liked Maurecia. Maurecia only liked Joe and Ron.
By the end of the month, Mrs. Jewls had brought in twenty-seven new flavors of ice cream, one for each member of the class.
Everybody liked Maurecia, and Maurecia liked everybody. They all tasted so good. All except Kathy, that is. Kathy-flavored ice cream tasted a little bit like old bologna.
Everyone still agreed that Maurecia-flavored ice cream was the best, except Maurecia. She liked Todd ice cream the best.
This turned out to be a problem. Every once in a while Maurecia would try to take a bite out of Todd's arm in order to get that very special flavor.
Saturday, July 18, 2009
Birthday Time!
It's been a year now since I started the Dilettante. A lot has changed. I kinda expected my Senior year to be the best year of college the way it was the best year of high school. I mean, my last year of high school was really awesome, like if there were four beans and three were dark and one was shiny white, that would be my senior year of high school. So I went into this year with an expectation for it to be the best of college, but conscientious of the probability that this senior year wouldn't shine on the same order of magnitude as the last one.
And of course, that's exactly what happened. It was a good year, and this blog certainly played a role in making it good. What do you call it when the act of detection alters what you're trying to detect? Last summer I had every reason to be relaxed, happy, and optimistic. I had a research job that was pleasant and engaging, I'd just turned twenty-one and was exploring the world of alcoholic beverages with Brandon and I had plenty of free time to write blogs and do stuff to write blogs about.
This summer is different. In some ways it is better, but it certainly isn't as unremittingly pleasant as the last. I've got more free time, but it feels like less. I've got a girlfriend that I adore, but she spent the first month of summer in Spain and I missed her like crazy. And of course, there's the whole no-longer-being-a-student thing. I'm looking for a job this summer. I need something to support myself with and something to fill out my research experience for grad apps. That need has cast something of a pall on the rest of this summer.
Obviously my post rate hasn't returned to last summer's steady clip, but you're reading this, so obviously I've managed to keep this blog alive and limping along. Coincidentally, the Dilettante reached two thousand unique hits almost simultaneous with its birthday, so I think all in all I have something to be proud of here. I hope you're still enjoying my writing. I certainly am, when I get around to it. Remember to comment when you feel inspired. Feedback is essential to improvement, and it doesn't hurt my ego either.
And of course, that's exactly what happened. It was a good year, and this blog certainly played a role in making it good. What do you call it when the act of detection alters what you're trying to detect? Last summer I had every reason to be relaxed, happy, and optimistic. I had a research job that was pleasant and engaging, I'd just turned twenty-one and was exploring the world of alcoholic beverages with Brandon and I had plenty of free time to write blogs and do stuff to write blogs about.
This summer is different. In some ways it is better, but it certainly isn't as unremittingly pleasant as the last. I've got more free time, but it feels like less. I've got a girlfriend that I adore, but she spent the first month of summer in Spain and I missed her like crazy. And of course, there's the whole no-longer-being-a-student thing. I'm looking for a job this summer. I need something to support myself with and something to fill out my research experience for grad apps. That need has cast something of a pall on the rest of this summer.
Obviously my post rate hasn't returned to last summer's steady clip, but you're reading this, so obviously I've managed to keep this blog alive and limping along. Coincidentally, the Dilettante reached two thousand unique hits almost simultaneous with its birthday, so I think all in all I have something to be proud of here. I hope you're still enjoying my writing. I certainly am, when I get around to it. Remember to comment when you feel inspired. Feedback is essential to improvement, and it doesn't hurt my ego either.
Monday, June 29, 2009
Eulogy for the Ash Maiden
The Ash Maiden was stolen in May. I'd forgotten where I'd parked her, so by the time I'd checked all of the possible places she could have been, realizing that she had been stolen was a little anticlimactic. She was locked, but that's never seemed to stop professional bike thieves before, so I didn't have any illusions.
Bike theft statistics tell us that the average Davis student will have their bicycle stolen once in the four years they attend university, so my experience is in perfect keeping with the norm. I hear about stolen bikes on a periodic basis on Facebook. People always seem so angry, finding the most horrible words they can think of to describe the faceless thief. I haven't been so disposed. My reaction to finding the Ash Maiden was not anger, just sadness.
My lock was flimsy, but I wasn't going to get a new one. When I got her I figured she was either too shabby to steal or I'd suck it up. I have no regrets.
I can't imagine what the thief must have looked like or been thinking when they took her. They must have had good taste. When I tell people of my loss I have either been met with "I'm so, so sorry. I know how much that bike meant to you" or "They took that piece of junk?" Actually, the Maiden was probably worth a hundred and fifty dollars. That value was stoked by the popularity of converting old road bikes to fixies. Anyways, I hope she ends up in a good home.
No object has ever so eloquently embodied my four years at Davis. Biking has been my simplest pleasure and substitute for wave riding. Both Howard and Brandon eventually switched to road bikes after seeing my passion for riding the Maiden long and hard every day. Incidentally this is also the conclusion of the longest-running inside joke we had. The Maiden embodied our household's dumpster-chic aesthetic with her pervasive rust, grinding gears, hand-made bullhorns and junky extra reflectors.
Early in my freshman year I rode with Caius from Daly City to Santa Cruz, an amazing adventure that deserves retelling on this forum. In my four years riding her, I crashed four times. In no instance did I collide with another bicyclist or car-- every one was completely on me. Two were from taking turns too aggressively, the other two for occupying my hands with things and then trying to brake one-handed. I never got to compete in an organized race on her. I never biked the entire length of the American River Parkway, or to Berkeley on her. I hardly ever rode her with a proper bike light.
I bought a new bike on Craigslist, a black road bike for $180. I dropped another $80 on some basic accessories-- bike light, a decent seat, a new inner tube, a lock. We're provisionally calling him Smoky, because he totally reeks of cigarettes. I didn't even know bicycles could carry smells. The change of gender was conscious, btw.
Bike theft statistics tell us that the average Davis student will have their bicycle stolen once in the four years they attend university, so my experience is in perfect keeping with the norm. I hear about stolen bikes on a periodic basis on Facebook. People always seem so angry, finding the most horrible words they can think of to describe the faceless thief. I haven't been so disposed. My reaction to finding the Ash Maiden was not anger, just sadness.
My lock was flimsy, but I wasn't going to get a new one. When I got her I figured she was either too shabby to steal or I'd suck it up. I have no regrets.
I can't imagine what the thief must have looked like or been thinking when they took her. They must have had good taste. When I tell people of my loss I have either been met with "I'm so, so sorry. I know how much that bike meant to you" or "They took that piece of junk?" Actually, the Maiden was probably worth a hundred and fifty dollars. That value was stoked by the popularity of converting old road bikes to fixies. Anyways, I hope she ends up in a good home.
No object has ever so eloquently embodied my four years at Davis. Biking has been my simplest pleasure and substitute for wave riding. Both Howard and Brandon eventually switched to road bikes after seeing my passion for riding the Maiden long and hard every day. Incidentally this is also the conclusion of the longest-running inside joke we had. The Maiden embodied our household's dumpster-chic aesthetic with her pervasive rust, grinding gears, hand-made bullhorns and junky extra reflectors.
Early in my freshman year I rode with Caius from Daly City to Santa Cruz, an amazing adventure that deserves retelling on this forum. In my four years riding her, I crashed four times. In no instance did I collide with another bicyclist or car-- every one was completely on me. Two were from taking turns too aggressively, the other two for occupying my hands with things and then trying to brake one-handed. I never got to compete in an organized race on her. I never biked the entire length of the American River Parkway, or to Berkeley on her. I hardly ever rode her with a proper bike light.
I bought a new bike on Craigslist, a black road bike for $180. I dropped another $80 on some basic accessories-- bike light, a decent seat, a new inner tube, a lock. We're provisionally calling him Smoky, because he totally reeks of cigarettes. I didn't even know bicycles could carry smells. The change of gender was conscious, btw.
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
Food Pairings: A Pauper's Pretension
I recently went morel hunting with the Davis Mycological Society in the low Sierra. After arriving home with my quarter pound take, I searched recipes to make with morels looking for an easy food pairing to create a meal for friends. To my disappointment, the reams of morel recipes that I found were uniformly built around college-unfriendly ingredients like foie gras, veal and caviar. The very idea that morels might fall into the hands of a pauper like myself seems to have escaped the folks at the Food Network and other recipe sites.
My haul:
The gourmet revels in the delicacy of outlandishly priced ingredient paired with still more outlandishly priced ingredient, but I was taught a different sort of gourmet; a gourmet more in keeping with American ideals. Brilliant food pairings are not limited to gourmet ingredients and establishments. Ratatouille is a peasant dish highly regarded by the culinary elite (notably in the movie of the same name), built around the synergy of bell peppers, squash and eggplant. So too with the Cajun "holy trinity" of peppers, parsley/celery and onions. That world-class food can only be had at world-class prices is a myth of gigantic proportions perpetrated by ignorance and pretension.
Great cuisine is simply about food combinations that sing. They are frequently as simple and ordinary as peanut butter and jelly or Santa's favorite midnight snack, milk and cookies. Too often do people forget that they need not look far to find grace and delight in food. I'd like to share with you some of my culinary discoveries that have brought me cheer through my college career.
While the peanut butter and jelly sandwich is already an American classic in its own right, there's nothing like washing it down with tea to add another dimension to your next noon banquet, as I discovered last summer. I particularly enjoyed "natural" peanut butter, apricot preserves and whole wheat bread with earl grey tea. I like that "natural" peanut butter doesn't have any sugar added and that whole wheat isn't overtly sweet in conjunction with the extra-sweetness found in preserves, because it emphasizes flavor separation. The apricot is brightened by the citrus oils in earl grey, and the tea complements the nuttiness and dryness of the peanuts and bread. If you normally freeze your bread, you'll find that toasting it also adds to the ensemble's flavor.
The single most important dish in my college diet has been potatoes with cheese. I take one large or two small russet potatoes, poke fork holes in them every inch, and nuke them 4-4.5 minutes one side and 2-2.5 on the reverse. I slice about 3 slots into them and insert slices of medium cheddar cheese (pregrated cheese won't smell as good or layer heavily enough). I add cheese until its about 2/3 the volume of the potato. I nuke it again until the cheese is gooey (about one minute). The dish goes great with beer. But beware, the combination has proven to be a powerful narcotic. This sort of lunch almost invariably ends with deciding to take a nap.
A classic meal passed down from my Wisconsin heritage is beer and bratwurst with rice and sauerkraut. I get my bratwurst from the Davis Meat Lab when I can, because it's great value. I brown the sausage in a pan for a couple of minutes, then add a can of beer. I check back to replace water and turn the sausage every fifteen minutes or so until they're cooked through. Ideally, I let the beer cook boil down to a thick goo and use it on the sausage and rice. That stuff is delicious. Serve it all with another beer. I've found light lagers to work best.
A snack I've enjoyed since I discovered prunes has been eating them with superdark chocolate. You can buy canisters of store brand prunes for cheap, and they have better flavor than the expensive ones you find at the farmer's market. You can find cheap superdark chocolate at Trader Joe's in packages called "Pound Plus". Seventy percent cocoa solids is the way to go. Just take a nibble of each and let the magic unfold.
I've also found that coke goes phenomenally with coffee. Pepsi Kona and Coca-Cola Blak are testaments to industry's awareness of the synergy, but both products failed to catch on in the US. I like to alternate sips of coffee with coke. Hot quenched by cold, bitter by sweet and vice versa. Their dark flavors meld beautifully.
Most recently, I discovered the wonder of anchovies on pizza. No frozen brands sell anchovy pizza, so I keep my cupboard stocked. The true wonder of anchovies is their interaction with pepperoni. The similar flavors expand on each other and set off the pizza at large.
My haul:
The gourmet revels in the delicacy of outlandishly priced ingredient paired with still more outlandishly priced ingredient, but I was taught a different sort of gourmet; a gourmet more in keeping with American ideals. Brilliant food pairings are not limited to gourmet ingredients and establishments. Ratatouille is a peasant dish highly regarded by the culinary elite (notably in the movie of the same name), built around the synergy of bell peppers, squash and eggplant. So too with the Cajun "holy trinity" of peppers, parsley/celery and onions. That world-class food can only be had at world-class prices is a myth of gigantic proportions perpetrated by ignorance and pretension.
Great cuisine is simply about food combinations that sing. They are frequently as simple and ordinary as peanut butter and jelly or Santa's favorite midnight snack, milk and cookies. Too often do people forget that they need not look far to find grace and delight in food. I'd like to share with you some of my culinary discoveries that have brought me cheer through my college career.
While the peanut butter and jelly sandwich is already an American classic in its own right, there's nothing like washing it down with tea to add another dimension to your next noon banquet, as I discovered last summer. I particularly enjoyed "natural" peanut butter, apricot preserves and whole wheat bread with earl grey tea. I like that "natural" peanut butter doesn't have any sugar added and that whole wheat isn't overtly sweet in conjunction with the extra-sweetness found in preserves, because it emphasizes flavor separation. The apricot is brightened by the citrus oils in earl grey, and the tea complements the nuttiness and dryness of the peanuts and bread. If you normally freeze your bread, you'll find that toasting it also adds to the ensemble's flavor.
The single most important dish in my college diet has been potatoes with cheese. I take one large or two small russet potatoes, poke fork holes in them every inch, and nuke them 4-4.5 minutes one side and 2-2.5 on the reverse. I slice about 3 slots into them and insert slices of medium cheddar cheese (pregrated cheese won't smell as good or layer heavily enough). I add cheese until its about 2/3 the volume of the potato. I nuke it again until the cheese is gooey (about one minute). The dish goes great with beer. But beware, the combination has proven to be a powerful narcotic. This sort of lunch almost invariably ends with deciding to take a nap.
A classic meal passed down from my Wisconsin heritage is beer and bratwurst with rice and sauerkraut. I get my bratwurst from the Davis Meat Lab when I can, because it's great value. I brown the sausage in a pan for a couple of minutes, then add a can of beer. I check back to replace water and turn the sausage every fifteen minutes or so until they're cooked through. Ideally, I let the beer cook boil down to a thick goo and use it on the sausage and rice. That stuff is delicious. Serve it all with another beer. I've found light lagers to work best.
A snack I've enjoyed since I discovered prunes has been eating them with superdark chocolate. You can buy canisters of store brand prunes for cheap, and they have better flavor than the expensive ones you find at the farmer's market. You can find cheap superdark chocolate at Trader Joe's in packages called "Pound Plus". Seventy percent cocoa solids is the way to go. Just take a nibble of each and let the magic unfold.
I've also found that coke goes phenomenally with coffee. Pepsi Kona and Coca-Cola Blak are testaments to industry's awareness of the synergy, but both products failed to catch on in the US. I like to alternate sips of coffee with coke. Hot quenched by cold, bitter by sweet and vice versa. Their dark flavors meld beautifully.
Most recently, I discovered the wonder of anchovies on pizza. No frozen brands sell anchovy pizza, so I keep my cupboard stocked. The true wonder of anchovies is their interaction with pepperoni. The similar flavors expand on each other and set off the pizza at large.
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