On blogging, success, and an $8 peanut butter sandwich

Many of you (and by “you” I mean the five people who read this blog regularly and the sixteen people who were Googling for Looney Tunes slash fiction) have noted that this blog has gone un-updated for a while.  You have my heartfelt apologies, but I really didn’t have a darned thing to say for months.  Really.

When I began blogging four years ago, I decided that my little corner of the internet wouldn’t be a forum for my moping and whining.  It’s all to easy to come across that way, and especially given the stream-of-consciousness composition method that I use when I write, I very easily could’ve written quite a few posts that would’ve made a sixteen year old with a sparkling, seizure-inducing MySpace blush.  So when I would consider writing on here this spring, I always demurred, because I didn’t want to talk about the pressing, real-life concerns in my world: unemployment, crime, relationships, disappointment, writer’s block (of course), and finances.  Believe me, you wouldn’t want to read that dreck.

But why start writing now?  Well, I’m employed again (twice over) and haven’t had to talk to the police in almost a month, for starters.  Actually, that last part isn’t entirely true; I have had to talk about The Police.  For those of you who haven’t heard, I’m freelancing at the Houston Chronicle, and one of my recent assignments was to write a review of the Police/Elvis Costello show in the Woodlands.  Somehow, around the office here, this was deemed to be drawing the short straw.  For me, though, it was the first time in the five weeks that I’ve been here that I actually felt like something approaching a real journalist.  So that experience was the shot in the arm that I needed to start writing here again; it was something that I could re-tell here without it being so maudlin or boring that you’d click away to see what was posted on ManBabies today.

The quick timeline of writing the Police review, in chronological order: cracking myself up by thinking of fake interview questions for Sting (“what was it like playing the Goblin King in Labyrinth?”), figuring out how in the hell someone was going to edit my story at the ungodly hour it would be completed, receiving and then returning ALL the media tickets for the event, running into a nemesis,  cramming three people into Vesper for the return trip to town, a gigantic cup of coffee at Brasil, walking through the ghost town that Houston becomes on weekday nights, composing a caffiene-fueled piece while hoping not to be evicerated in the comments, meeting the creepy night editor, and slogging home too hyped up to sleep even though it was 3am.  Whew.

So back to the point, at heart I’m an optimist, and I’ve had plenty of reasons to support a more cheery outlook on life lately.  It even goes beyond the fact that I’ve got what amounts to my dream job right now (it is still a job, after), though.  On Wednesday, my post-deadline haze was rolled back under the influence of a sandwich and a conversation.  The role of the sandwich was played by the heavenly Fat Elvis at B’wiched on Westheimer, a pannini concoction of homemade peanut butter, caramelized bananas, and wild honey. (The King and the Big Puma would both be proud)  The conversation was provided by my dear old mum, who was somewhat out of the loop of recent developments in my life.  As I rattled through the litany of good things that’ve been happening, the act of relating them all in sequence brought to mind just how mind-numbingly blessed I’ve been lately.  As the great poets Chubawumba once said, I get knocked down, but I get up again, you’re never gonna keep me down.

(It’s stuck in your head now, isn’t it? You’re welcome.)

Anyway, on the heels of all this introspection and reflection, I rolled in to work this morning, intent on blogging, when I read this article.  While I don’t think I’ll ever have the attention of a large part of a major American city like she did, her experiences did really help me to coalesce the thoughts on my self-imposed hiatus, leading to the very entry you find here.  Writing has suddenly become not only my passion, but my livelihood, and I’m still wrestling with the implications of that.  Hopefully, it’ll make my writing here more vibrant and more focused, or it could just make this the one outlet for my not-suitable-for-print ramblings.

we. shall. see.

Loose Ends

Well, I’ve successfully procrastinated on several topics to the point that I won’t be able to do any of them the justice that they deserve. Instead, you, o patient reader, will get a half-assed summary of the past couple of weeks. It’s just that I’ve been reeling from my devastating loss in the Ladies… bracket and getting out of bed was hard enough. (yeah right.)

First up, the Hunniford wedding in Columbus and the road trip that it necessitated. The things I’m most proud about here: I can finally say that I know how to drive a manual transmission, I saw the Chunky River (it flows with Campbell’s Big Beefy Potato Stew), and I tried Skyline Chili. But most importantly, two of my favorite people were finally united in holy matrimony, ending the awkwardness of what on earth to call the house that they purchased this spring together. “I’m going to the Hunnifords to watch Lost.” “But they’re not the Hunnifords yet.” “Dammit. Now I’m late and I’ll never know why Jack’s full beard has less grey in it than his stubble.” Where was I? Oh yeah: I’ve determined that rural Ohio is a great place to be from. As a place to be, well…

Next, a quick note in praise of the Hummingbird Brewery. The new beers are being cranked out and released on a bi-weekly basis or so, which makes the whole experience of tasting each new home brew not unlike tuning in to a favorite tv show. Each visit brings some new palate moving experience. Keep up the good work, fellas.

I really intended to do a right proper review of the new Ethan Durelle album, Talks To The Dark, but time and other musical interludes have washed away the first impression that I had when I first received the album in the mail. My fandom of their music is certainly no secret around here, but this album is truly a leap forward for them. From the jazzy breakdown of Big Ending to the sinister drone of Downtown Man, there’s new territory being explored all over. The biggest revelation for me is the album closer, Horns of the Altar. Knowing some of the personal band history that likely influenced the writing of this song, its raw, broken vocals and bleak yet faithful hope are an encouragement and a sure-fire “hairs on the back of your neck” moment with each listen. I can’t wait to hear the newer songs live in August.

While we’re on the subject of music, the new White Stripes album is great. The dark experimentalism of Get Behind Me Satan is gone, in favor of the time-tested formula of earlier albums like White Blood Cells and De Stijl. Still crossing my fingers that they’re going to hit Dallas or Houston around ACL. Also, just recently found this band Cabin. Whoa. Just whoa.

I cried a little when Craig Biggio got his 3,000th hit. I realized that he’s been an Astro since I was six years old. Six! Think about what you were doing when you were six. That’s the year that he got his first hit. In an Astros uniform. Of the 27 players to get 3,000, only 7 or 8 did it with a single team. Craig is Houston baseball.

Finally, props to my little brother JM, for not realizing what happens when you have sex with your wife. In so doing, you’ve bought me 12 more months of grace about my current singleness. I knew you’d come through for me when I needed it most.

The Most Intense Shit You’ve Ever Seen

I’m not really one for frivolous profanity (there is, I believe, such a thing as non-frivolous profanity); this is one of the many things that Criss Angel and I do not have in common. The title of this post is a quote from his tv show, Mindfreak. During a lull in the action this weekend, we watched part of an episode where Mr. Angel promised to put on a display of magic that would include “the most intense shit you’ve ever seen.” The “shit” consisted of the age-old “cut the string and then have it return to one piece” gag and almost running over Carrot Top with a motorcycle. At least the latter promised to be satisfying, uplifting even, had things gone wrong. In the end, we all agreed we’d seen more intense shit elsewhere.

I begin with the example of the magic show to demonstrate that it’s often hard to meet people’s expectations. After a stunningly awesome introduction to the Hotel Room Five back in March, any reunion would almost necessarily be a letdown. Group dynamics over four days instead of twelve marathon hours would be different. The joy of discovery would have passed, replaced by heightened expectations and closer relationships than those that initially existed.

Now, don’t get me wrong: I had an absolute blast tooling around the District and NOVA this weekend. We made a new set of memories that are in a lot of ways more significant and lasting than the flash-in-a-pan nature of the first weekend together. New running jokes (like the Angel quote) and catch phrases evolved, shared experiences told deeper stories about the members of the group, and some phenomenal food was consumed in the process.

I would also be remiss if I didn’t make mention of our pentultimate destination on Sunday night. Brickskeller’s is a bar in the DuPont Circle area of DC that features a beer list so staggering that I just sat there with a stupid grin for the longest time before realizing that the nice lady needed me to pick out one of the hundreds of beers to drink myself. Additional fun was derived from being the de facto sommelier of the group, and picking out beers for the members of the group based on their tastes and personalities. Regardless, everyone got to try the beauty that is Belgian beer. Mission accomplished.

Now that I’m back in Houston, the companionship and comradarie that we had last weekend is coming into tighter focus. It’s particularly special to think that this same vibe can be instantly recreated in almost any place on the map. I guess November in Denver will tell for sure.

APACHE!

Gigantic Turkey Sub Makes a Good Point

Also, I want to be Captain Pajama Shark.

——-

I’m off to DC tomorrow. Anybody want anything while I’m up there?

In a related story, Wilco’s song Walken off their new album is probably the best song I’ve heard all year. It barely knocks off Welcome Ghosts by Explosions in the Sky and Horns Of The Altar by Ethan Durelle.

And for those of you who were interested, the blueberry bourbon ribs were phenomenal. Rubbed ‘em with cayanne, chili powder, white pepper, ancho chile, minced onion, and sea salt overnight. (not literally. I did stop rubbing after a while and went to bed.) Then after an hour on the grill, I slathered them with the Sauce, which contained blueberry preserves, Knob Creek bourbon, whole red chiles, more ancho, extra virgin olive oil, and orange blossom honey. Suffice to say, minds were blown.

Very Odds and Ends

As I approach my Memorial Day trip to The District, I’m reminded of how infrequently I travel for pleasure these days. I’m specifically excluding wedding-related trips since those matrimonially-inspired sojourns, while fun in their own right, hardly qualify as a vacation.

Naturally, I travel a lot for work. These trips are rarely to garden spots anymore (Goodbye, Miami. Hello, Sioux City!) and definitely have nothing to do with relaxation. Unless you’re a sadist. The romance and mystique of business travel is so far in my rearview mirror as to be virtually invisible.

Which is why DC is going to be so much fun. I love cities and Washington is one of my faves to visit. It’s busy, it has good public transportation, and great restaurants. Plus, four of my favorite people will be there, with the opportunity to add more as we go along. (Hi Jules!) I can’t wait.

——

”Aspiring proto-deacon” was a phrase that I used to describe myself earlier this week. The problem with that description is that I’m a huge screw up. I hardly fit even the most liberal qualifications for the diaconate (well, ok: maybe I could pull it off if I were Unitarian), and recent experience has shown that I’m more likely to be the one in need ecclesiastical support than the provider of support. Still, it helps to have a goal in mind. At this point, I’d rather be a deacon (or otherwise formally bound in church service) than be married. Seriously. I think.

——

Finally, I’m sitting on (not literally) some sweet looking pork ribs that I purchased at this week’s Farmer’s Market. My plans for them involve the words ”blueberry-bourbon glaze.” The one thing I lack is a place, time, and occasion for which to prepare them. I’m opening the floor to suggestions. Anything that doesn’t involve the words ”Roger Clemens Yankees debut” will be considered.

Live Blogging the Market

While real music bloggers are talking about Coachella, I’m still stuck in the grind of my week-to-week routine. On Tuesdays, that means I’m behind the table at the Houston Farmers Market, passing out the same answer (every Tuesday, 3:30 til 7pm) and trying to sell amusingly named cookies. Since there have been some requests for a more detailed description of the market, and because it’s the only interesting thing that I feel like blogging about right now, here’s a hastily recalled live blog of yesterday’s market:

3:30PM – I’m still at work. I can only imagine what’s going on at the market at this point. I’ll assume that it involves hippies and brocolli, because the cool people only show up when I’m there.

4:30PM – I head over to the market. It’s five minute from the house, but I get bogged down with a work phone call that makes me a bit late. The booth is over-manned (or over-womaned if we’re being technical), but my arrival allows Sol to go do her shopping. Good for her, good for me, since the whole “standing around doing nothing” thing sucks.

4:31PM – Her?!? Hide. Possibly burrow.

4:45PM – Looks like rain. Very windy. Since moving to Rice’s campus more than a month ago, there’s been a decided lack of rain while the market is going on. Will our luck hold?

5:10PM – Michelle (the market manager) had set up a motorized bubble machine near the entrance to the market. An enterprising four year old boy let his natural curiosity get the best of him, and in his effort to examine the inner workings of the machine, he manages to spill out most of the bubble compound. His mother arrives a couple minutes later and proceeds to go Jack Bauer on her son for his offense. (God only knows what happens around their house when he hits his sister. Can you send someone to timeout in Gitmo?) She forces Michelle to take five dollars to compensate for the bubbles (who would refuse her anything at this point? If she’d told her son to kiss our feet, we would’ve all lined up our tootsies for fear of the consequences of non-cooperation.) But seriously, five bucks for bubbles?!? You could probably buy a controling interest in the world bubble market for five bucks. Again, the punishment does not fit the crime. Props to me for keeping a reasonably straight face the whole time by pretending to check my email on my Treo.

5:25PM – Hmph. No email.

5:40PM – Michelle hands me fifteen bucks and tells me to go pick up her mother’s cheese order from the Dairymaids. Michelle is trying to set me up with one or the other of them, which led the following exchange regarding their usual Tuesday uniforms (brown tee shirts, self-crocheted khaki hats, jeans, & aprons):

Me: They both seem nice, but I’d like to see them out of those outfits.

Michelle and the rest of humanity: …

Me: THAT’S NOT WHAT I MEANT!

Rob Hays, still the ladies man after all these years. Provlone is acquired, and awkward wooing follows. I used to be smooth, I promise. My heart isn’t in it, though.

6:10PM – Dangerously late, I head down to order new meat from the pork chop lady. Every time she and I talk, she notices my Aggie ring for the first time and asks my class year. I think I need to go the Dairymaid route and wear the same outfit to the market each week so that she’s recognize me. I order baby back ribs and bacon. The ribs will eventually become blueberry bourbon glazed. Or at least that’s my idea at the moment. Also, for the record, the pork chops were ridiculously good. Marinaded ‘em in a sauce containing bourbon, champagne vinegar, spices, honey, and olive oil and grilled, served ‘em with cheese grits (with a spot of truffle oil) and asparagus. Good times.

6:11PM – Almost spilled the beans about a birthday surprise.

6:15PM - Michelle F. shows up. Debate the merits of Mute Math vs. Son Volt for a Sunday concert. Mute Math it is. Eventually I’ll be a Son Volt fan (I think), but Mute Math’s live show is a not-miss.

6:32PM – My favorite part of the evening: time for Michelle M. to recommend a post-market restaurant. We settle on Lemongrass and I call the Hon for backup. Turns out that Thai shrimp and scallops served with green beans and a mushroom mix are the tonic for the weary soul.

6:43 – Free (ish) gelato!!! Who knew that chocolate orange wouldn’t be a big seller. I would’ve bought the whole stock if I’d known.

6:45 – Rain drops.

6:46 – I’m outta here early to put on some more Lemongrass appropriate clothes. Michelle M. sends me on my way with free cookies.

So that’s pretty typical for Tuesdays. Sometimes we’ll have the random tin-foil-hat types dropping by the info booth. I’ve discovered that nodding along knowingly while someone wears a War Profiteers/Oil Profiteers t-shirt is an underrated skill.

Hopefully I’ll post again this week, either something about music or my car. I’m kinda in a rut, huh?