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.