My Day Awful...

Or 'day offal'. Or, 'day off, full'. It always goes the same way. I wait and wait for a day off, because there is so much to do. Then, instead of being hyper productive with my time, I sit around and vegetate. An idle schedule is the Devil's weekend in Vegas, I guess. Honestly, I do get a fair bit done when I have free time, but for some reason, it's the one or two things that I put off accomplishing that haunt me. This may be a personality thing. Half empty versus 'that's enough--stop pouring!'.

I attended a Sunday school lesson today, the first in many years I have attended, I suspect. It went well. It is headed by a couple that my wife and I met recently who are really quite generous and caring. Part of the discussion trended towards using your gifts. This, for whatever reason, got to me. I always figured I had been gifted in the realm of writing and music. As you can see, I'm failing miserably at managing a 'daily' blog. Music has been worse. Everyone takes a break; that is normal. I realized I was slacking more grandly than that recently when I pulled out my guitar and the cats (who just turned 1 year old) freaked out and hid. They tend not to do that when you repeat actions or noises over time. They start to take it for granted. Clearly, it was their first time seeing me brandish the ax.

In the end, it probably doesn't matter so much what I end up doing with this day off or that. Today, however, a chord was struck within me, and so I shall respond by striking back, first at the dishes, then the laundry, currently at the blog, and later, hopefully, on the guitar, where all good chords are properly struck. Cats beware.

This has been brought to you under the influence of some Sunday morning coffee. Nothing says 'excuse me, but where is the men's room?' like a cup of Sunday morning coffee.

Swan Song of the Survivor Beard...

For a little over 5 months now, I have been sporting what some call a 'freedom beard'. It has been described by some as 'epic', others as 'wow, that's...wow', and still others as 'good God, how are you able to get food past it?!'. Honestly, I had no agenda for how long I would grow it, so the shaving part seems like it should be similarly arbitrary. I call it the Survivor Beard because I began growing it in the hospital last year where I survived a rather nasty bout of food poisoning. I have always hoped that someone would describe it as 'prodigious' before it fell victim to my many shaving devices. I suppose some wishes are better left unfulfilled. I wouldn't want it to go to my head. Get it? Sorry for that.

Tomorrow I meet a friend for a jog. With the temperatures easily rising to the low 80's from here on out, I have to assume that wearing the carpet out is going to become a large burden rather quickly. It's not over until the blades connect, but I still find myself slowly beginning the lament. From the corners of my townhouse, a softoned, reedy dirge begins. The cats crouch tensely, suspicious of the morrow's activities. Perhaps they, too, shall mourn the passing of the shrub. For them, it is like a living menu of all the things I have eaten throughout the day, things that they sniff greedily at the vestiges of when I come home in the evening. Honestly, seeing it written down like this, it kind of makes doing it even more compelling. I leave you with the words of Shakespeare, from his excellent and dismal study of the downfall of that lovable Scottish king, Macbeth:

To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,
To the last syllable of recorded time;
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player,
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,
And then is heard no more. It is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.

This has been brought to you under the influence of New Belgium Brewery's Might Arrow Pale Ale. 'Atta girl, Arrow' indeed.

At Least The Beer Was Cheap...

Tonight I played a singularly forgettable round of trivia. I had 5 of my best surrounding me, but it was not enough to stave off mediocrity. Certain key answers eluded us, including what the definitions of the 4 'H's' are in The 4H Club. Apparently, Homicide and Hyperbole are not among them. Should it ever be re-envisioned, I'm hopeful those will be considered.

In other news, my wife has learned that a role with her name written all over it has come available in the schedule of a theater near us. It is a role that she has long wished to play, and yet was recently, was passed over for, to the general detriment of that production (the company of which, incidentally, no longer exists). I'll tell you all what I already know (and please pay special attention directors of the stage and screen): my wife is a rare and unique talent, tireless in her preparation, and flawless in her delivery. Besides that, she looks great up in front of people. You can't go wrong. But you probably will. Because she married me, and I am the upright Eeyore.

This has been brought to you under the influence of both Hopgasm, Kevin McNerneys flavorful first offering to the 5 Seasons Prado, and SweetWater IPA, his former West Coast best. Thanks to Kevin, IPA lot.

Last Waltz For The Gus-Man...

I heard the news today, oh boy. About a lucky dog who just wasn't fitting with his mortal coil anymore. A couple we know, good friends, called today to let us know they had had to put down their little buddy. They had adopted him from a local small dog rescue a few years ago, I think it was. Not terribly long, honestly. Too short for such a pleasant pet. They say he was cremated with his red bandanna on. He always had that on. It was his leather jacket, his stetson, his Chaplincane. Gus always greeted me at the door any time I came over with an eager sniffing, a playful demeanor and lately, two forepaws right to the groin where he rested until a sufficient amount of loving had been administered. He was bright, even for a mutt. I know that they will take awhile to mourn him. Next Saturday we are to meet at a local park for a scattering of ashes. Perhaps we will drink from deep malted wells, share stories, sniff crotches. It's all about Gus that night, no regard for self.

You know, we recently adopted (accepted, really) a pair of rescue kitties. They turned one year old this past week. Although their health seems great right now, it would be unreasonable to think that we will not live to see them pass on. Even after 20 years of them, we would still be middle aged, and with the amount of alcohol my boy cat consumes, he's probably looking at more like 15-17. It's the quality, I suppose, not the quantity, just like with anything. If it can take air, water, then grow and bloom, it can and will also die. Just a small reminder of that for me tonight. You want to make sure you don't regret those times where you were free to choose whatever you wanted to. Those times where no one had the gun to your head. That's my reflexive moral application from the situation. Eat, drink and be merry, for tomorrow we die. That's the Bible. Go figure.

This has been brought to you under the influence of some Listerine mouth wash. Just a splash. No insurance, so, what are you going to do? Gargle well, my pets...

The Sound and the Furry...

Well, so much for my big idea. Freebeard.com has been taken. I invited a couple over last night to get their opinion on how a site like that would look, content, aim, etc. This morning I went to check if there was one, and it's like the guy listened to our conversation, went back a couple of years in the past and created it. Bizarre. This is just one more example of Solomon's words 'there is nothing new under the sun' ringing true. Given that, somehow innovation still occurs. Perhaps I'm just not a hip, cutting edge type guy. Who knows, maybe in a couple months I'll invent Facebook and then realize that has already been done. My destiny may not be to have much money to speak of, no big ideas which include widespread recognition, no fame, no infamy. Lately, I haven't even been successful in making a baby. No progeny. No immortality.

This is becoming depressing, so I am pulling the plug on it. Assisted suicide--there's a dangerous topic to opine about. Perhaps later. I am seriously behind in my increasing inaptly titled 'daily' blog.

This has been brought to you under the influence of Batdorf and Bronson coffee, which is probably why everything is just sliding out of me in a most uncontrolled manner.

Raking Up Is Hard To Do...

Tonight I filled 7 lawn bags with leaves and other assorted debris from my back yard. I could have filled several more, but it got dark, and I couldn't tell which witch grass was which. We only just sprang forward, after all. Still, few things equal independent manhood like taking a swig of beer between carrying lawn bags full of crap you dredged from the far corners of your tiny backyard. We are having guests over tomorrow night, and I actually want there to be something of a scenic view as we grill out and lounge on the 22' by 7' concrete slab that juts from the rear of our townhouse. Tiki torches and well strung Christmas lights can make any unfortunate plot seem like a garden oasis. I did come here from NYC. People in NYC can make a 4' by 10' balcony seem like a tropic Eden. I've seen it happen. You simply have to allow for the fact that an ambulance and fire truck will alternate screaming through said Eden every 5-7 minutes.

I think the thing I found most interesting about raking up all the leaves is seeing what exactly is growing beneath them. The woman who owned the place before us was a notorious gardener, and there is ground cover everywhere to prove it. Ferns, bushes, a couple of dogwoods, daffodils, a hydrangea and many other things that defy classification (at least in my limited scope) just carpet the back. It's kind of cool, but also kind of intimidating. Early in the year as it is, the bug situation has not gotten out of hand. However, within a month, being outdoors will be more of a survival game than a breath of fresh air. The mosquitoes down here are large, black, and insatiable. Their bite swells larger, lasts longer and itches far more than anything I ever encountered in the North. I have a theory that every mosquito down here only targets the transplants. This is because the soul of a dead confederate soldier inhabits their tiny malformed bodies. It's just a theory. For now.

This has been brought to you under the influence of Harpoon's Leviathan Imperial IPA. Tomorrow night, in anticipation of our hosting, we shall have new libations to conquer...

The Piano Has Been Drinking...Not Me...

You know, they say after 30 to 60 days of fairly consistent behavior, a habit is generally born. I find that no matter how long you do something, assuming it requires a degree of discipline and conscious effort, you can generally fall off the wagon completely in about 3 days. It's been 4 since I posted here last, for example. Just another reminder of how hypocritical I am in being a stickler about forming good habits. At least it haunted me enough to wake me at 4 in the morning so that I could return to my--

All right. I'm not even buying this. My cat woke me up. You see, it's their birthday. St. Patrick's Day. I'm not one who necessarily thinks that a cat can understand everything you say to it, but the repetition of certain terms certainly does strike a chord of familiarity with them. 'Beer' for example is a word my boycat knows quite well. In fact, it is possible he thinks it is his name, because it is the only thing I say that he will actually respond to from across the room. Granted, I did name him Barley, and usually just shorten it to 'B', but I still think he knows what I'm talking about. Today I thought I would prepare them a feast of tuna fish and stout, see what happens. The girlcat could really take or leave the beer. She just likes to lick the condensation off of the bottles. Which works well, since the opening of the bottle is only large enough for one kitty tongue.

It's true. I am not an alcoholic--my cat is. Providing it the correct amount of residue to lap at requires tipping bottles regularly. And let's face it, he has a discerning tongue. None of this American macro brew nonsense. He's a fan of more aromatic hops driven micro brew IPA's. Ironically, Hops, the girlcat, really just likes water and almond milk. I've often wondered at how pets can take on qualities of their owners over time, the look of them, certain psychological characteristics, things like that. Owning pets now for the first time in my life, I see where they do have their own personalities, just like people, but for the rest, I guess they just don't have much choice. Environment forms us just as much as heredity. Perhaps even more, since inherent traits and abilities can evolve over time to suit current climates and needs. Fascinating stuff to ponder at sub 5 in the morning.

This has been brought to you while completely sober and rested, but don't worry, I'll fix that shortly.

The Force Is Dwindling Within Me...

Had a good day. Beautiful weather, spent time at home, grilled out, took a walk and ran a 5K this morning. I think I even had my best time since high school. I'm not positive, and they haven't posted the results yet. Can you imagine my frustration with technology that is takes almost a day to post several thousand bits of data from chips carried on runners' race numbers? I didn't sign up for the Dark Ages here, people. In other news, I'm exhausted. Too tired to read, really. I'm on my 2nd time through of watching The Empire Strikes Back, which is already more than I have watched it in my life. It holds up. But I can't for much longer.

This has been brought to you under the influence of copious amounts of water.

Daylight Forcings Time...

Tonight my wife and I had a lovely evening of imitation meat veggie protein tacos, local craft beer and British sitcoms. Few things are more appealing, when you get right down to it. Tomorrow morning, I have my first race of the season: The Shamrock and Roll Run. I signed up for this at the last minute--normally I don't do a race until early May. We shall see if this was wise. They do offer prizes for the first kilted finishers, as well as random door prizes and such. Perhaps I will get something for being legitimately 1/16 Irish and probably one of the only fully bearded runners. You never know. At the very least, I'm sure I'll end up on someone's Facebook page (again).

This has been brought to you under the influence of Harpoon's Leviathan IPA as well as SweetWater's new Dank Tank 'Mean Joe Bean'. Never has a coffee-laden porter dispersed so finely after impact. Good stuff.

Tonight and Other Drugs...

I received another 'that's the coolest beard I've ever seen' comment yesterday at a Chipotle, this time from a gentleman who was actually older than me (or at least looked it). Usually I get this from the 20-something crowd. I can understand if they have only seen 5 or 10 beards in their lives why mine might seem pretty mindblowing, but to someone who has walked the earth for several decades, surely my mane is at best comparable to the better ones, but not superior to them. Anyway, I've never really known what to do with my life, but it seems that this facial hair is giving me a sense of identity I never knew before. Perhaps a web site, 'Obey the Beard dot com', is in my future. The beard can give advice, point out movies or trends that are fashionable, recommend certain adult beverages for different occasions, maybe even sponsor events like foot races. My ruddy down is pregnant with possibility. As Richard Dreyfuss once said: 'this means something'.

This has been brought to you under the influence of Hopgasm, my gateway IPA which has essentially spoiled me for all others with an alcohol content of less than 8%.

Celebrity Sightings...

I guess I have nothing better to write about, yeah? Anyway, just watched an episode of Fringe tonight and recognized Kate, a friend of my wife's. Fun. A week or two ago I saw an old roommate from New York who had a couple of lines in The Social Network. Very nice. Would have been better if it had won best picture, but as we all know, robberies occur. Jason Bateman was a regular at the restaurant I work at while he was filming in Atlanta (with Ryan Reynolds, who was too busy learning his lines and losing his marriage to make it out, apparently). Finally, Ron Livingston and his wife came to my restaurant. I had to really bite my tongue not to call him a straight shooter with middle management written all over him. Good stuff. And thus I sleep.

This has been brought to you under the influence of 21st Amendment Back In Black among others.

My First Use of the Term Solomonic...

Tonight: trivia domination. The team pulled through. Also, recently on sports radio I heard someone who knew the coach of the college basketball team who had been railed recently on the news. I even commented on it, saying things such as 'learn to coach properly' and 'if you did your job better, your students wouldn't have a losing record and require a fire being lit under their bottoms' and such. Well, this coaches opinion was that the news had slanted the story and doctored the video which had been received with the student. What looked like 20 seconds worth of aggressive behavior was actually spliced from various reps the coach had given them which took almost 20 minutes of practice time to gather. Of course, it's hard to know who to believe. The lesson I took from it, though, was very practical and also very Biblical. It's actually a two-parter. First, the first to bring a case seems correct, until the other side steps forward. Then you see another side and it isn't quite to cut and dry. That's Solomonic wisdom. Second, the media is lying to us. Michael Moore has said it, but was dismissed for being over the top. Jesus indicated that the ruling culture of the day would slant his story (the body was stolen to protect the lie) and so it has been to this day. Why do I mention Michael Moore and Jesus back to back like that? They are the first two that came to mind. I'm blogging dangerously, remember. Anyway, place very little stock in that which is reported by most forms of media. They are instructed to create a story even when there really isn't much of one there. Trust me. You can always trust opinions--people rarely lie about those. It's facts that are tricky--those get messed with all the time.

This has been brought to you under the influence of Southern Tier's Gemini. A truly flavorful and powerful brew. Well done, Southern Tier.

Full Circle...

This past Sunday, my wife and I visited a church in our neighborhood. We have gone to many different churches over the years, as a couple and before, but there always seemed to be some travel involved. We knew someone in a different part of town who went to this place and they wanted us to come, etc. Anyway, for the first time, I went to the church that was geographically the closest to us. For perspective, we left at 11am when the service was to have started, and we arrived still during the opening prayer. It's a small group, perhaps only 20 or 25 people in the congregation when we were there. It was also very traditional. Presbyterian. I was raised in a traditional Presbyterian church. It's to this day the only church service I have ever been to where I constantly wished it would be over. In all fairness, my wife enjoyed it quite a bit. I can't say that I did. However, I am not convinced that we shouldn't perhaps be a part of this group. My wife told me a story recently about how she was given advice to 'throw away her list' shortly before she met me. This was the 'what I want in a husband' list that apparently all girls have since they are young, at least the ones who aren't lesbians. Well, as soon as she did that, things kind of opened up and she ended up meeting me. Not that I would consider myself such a great prize. I'm more grateful that she decided to get rid of her Brad Pittian image of a suitor so that I could step in without obvious prejudice. I mention this because I believe the same type of casting off is required in our list of church requirements. Lively, engaging, local, opportunities to serve, all these things are relative, and ultimately come from our own selfish desires. I suspect before we find a place to attend on a regular basis, this list a qualifications must likewise be cast off. Then, more than likely, we will stumble across exactly the right place for us. And, more than likely, it will be everything we wanted to begin with.

This has been brought to you under the influence of (among others) Leinenkugel's Big Eddy Russian Imperial Stout.

Burn Notice...?

A friend forwarded me an article today regarding an executive who was burned to death in India by a couple (or a few) of disgruntled former employees. Apparently they had doused his car in gasoline ans set fire to it. The exec burned to death, or died later from injuries received during the burning process, at least. Apparently, outsourcing is only a good idea if you do not actually send Americans to run the companies and employees overseas. This could create an international incident, especially when outsourcing or downsizing occurs there, which it inevitably will. The Indian people might be cheap, but they aren't the most desperate culture on earth. Perhaps the day will come when impoverished central Chinese men are convicted of literally eating the bosses which just fired them because, without work, they no longer have the means to feed themselves. It could happen. I'm just saying.

Typical...

According to a resent study, the most typical person in the world is an Han Chinese male of about 28 years of age. I saw the composite sketch based on 200,000 males fitting that description. It looka like a...man.

I was concerned when I clicked on the link at first that the most common type of person would be mine. After all, my last name is Miller, which is pretty freaking common, at least in my corner of the world. I'm a white male, mid 30's, protestant. I have red hair. I'm a step child. I'm a red-headed stepchild, for crying out loud. Left-handed, I'm an actor/writer/musician but I also do well at math and got an A in Logic in college. I named my cats after beer ingredients, but I only drink imports and micro-brews. Oh, and I'm a Christian.

It seems clear to my that my initial fears of being 'common' are completely unfounded after looking at the above description. Perhaps a better classification would be 'bizarre'. Not common, at any rate.

This has been brought to you under the influence of Stella Artois and Michelob Amber Bock (I'm not hypocritical, it's just that they tapped the keg of Stella and this was the only other beer I could stomach at the trivia site).

Nightcap of Irony...

So, as you may have realized, I am completely seduced by irony. This one was good enough to keep me awake past my bedtime on a week where it is really not a good thing to be awake past my bedtime. I am fully pumpkintastic. Still...

A recent article from AP mentions a new proposed Texas immigration law which has a suspicious exemption in it. Apparently, in a state which has been attempting to close down it's borders completely and remove illegal immigrants from the local workforce, it occurred to some statesmen that there should be an exemption for 'the help'. To clarify, the article stated that the law proposed would make hiring an illegal immigrant something punishable by steep fine and up to 10 years in prison. However, it allows for the illegal immigrant to be hired to do household chores. In other words, they cannot be hired to roll burritos at Moe's, but by all means, hire them under the table to mow your lawn, nanny your children, landscape, build additions, remove trees and any other serviceable act that can be performed upon private property. In other words, the government does not want to be burdened be recognizing them for their taxable potential, but the landed gentry would like to continue to take advantage of their inexpensive labor potential. I see where this is going. We are talking about the South, after all. Simply reinstate slavery. The terms and conditions can be discussed over Dunkin Donuts while being driven home from the gas station parking lot in the back of the pickup truck, just like it always should have been. You could even build them little shanty towns in the back of your property, at least for the ones who seem honest, the ones you might trust to actually go inside and use the facilities or fill up water jugs for the others.

Really, Texas? Really, America? How about instant naturalization and instant taxation? How do you think this country got going, anyway? Did the founding fathers put a cap on the national population that none of us are aware of excepting those in high state and federal office, and those being mostly to the right?

Here is the thing I found most lovely about this whole article. It was reported on the anniversary of the date in which Texas claimed independence from Mexico. The law which leaves a loophole for Mexicans to still do laborious chores or else leaving Texas in a risk of 'stifling the economic engine' (according Republican state representative Riddle's Chief of Staff), happens to be celebrating the date of its independence from Mexico. If it's that independent, why could things potentially stifle economically if they just put a ban on foreign labor?

We all know the answer to that. It's written all over the loose comments of the republican representatives of the state. I wonder if they remember the Alamo. They probably think it was a rumor created by the Left.

This has been brought to you under the influence of Founder's Red Rye P.A. A finer IPA brewed with Rye I challenge you to find.

Grateful Dead Song Plays Mentally As I Write This...

Being tired does strange things to people. It animalizes them, makes them mean, disturbed, unstable. My wife and I are both working more than usual this week, and we are all of the above if we are any. Sleep deprivation is for the young, college students, people whose bodies are still growing, or at least have not started completely breaking down just yet.

I'm tired, and I'm not apologizing for it. Unless you're my wife. Then I have to, because no amount of exhaustion is worth not keeping the peace at home.

Night.

This has been brought to you under the influence of Sweetwater IPA and altogether too much work.