Since Google Photos already does an excellent job tagging photos, it would be great if I could share tagged photos with the subjects
I’ve finally gone off the deep end. Daft as a doorknob, loony as a duck pond. To understand why I’m trying to comb the crushed oats and cornmeal out of my hair, let us start at the beginning.
The wellspring of my madness is Water itself – just two elements, three molecules. If only it were so simple! A more accurate ingredient list of water (lower case) would be lengthy and subject to change – ranging from the innocent (trace minerals, carbon dioxide, fluoride) to the more suspect (fluoride, bacterial life, piss). Humans have endeavored to consume sanitized water in one form or another for so long that it’s something most folks don’t even think about.
As I mentioned, it’s been driving me crazy lately. All of the water in my body comes from one source – the CWLP water purification facility. Drinking, bathing, cooking, flushing, washing, etc. all come from the same body of water.
And what a body it is, what a delight for the senses! The brilliant green color, strong scent of fish and algae, the eerie warmth in the vicinity of the power plant. A reasonable person would probably rather drink from a toilet bowl than straight out of the lake.
The steps between the repugnant stagnance of the lake and your glass of water are important, and almost totally invisible. Foul lake water turns into crystal clear tap water, free from the life forms that formerly lent it such a distinctive color and odor. You might think we had access to some marvelous glacier, piped straight from the Great White North, were it not for the tap’s one distinctive feature.
Enter the hero in the story of purification – Chlorine, smiter of microbial life. The water may be clear and mostly tasteless, but if you stick your nose into a glass of water, the smell of Cl is overpowering. If the chemical does a really marvelous job at sanitizing water, its only major drawback that it is also poisonous to Homo Sapiens. I found this use of a poisonous gas in our water supply unnerving- another “lesser of two evils” scenarios, like chemotherapy or diet soda.
I did some research, and it turns out sanitation departments across the country adhere to strict guidelines on the quantity of chlorine used, so you are certain to get only a safe dosage. Safe meaning it won’t kill you outright.
Let’s run with the assumption that it’s still better than drinking straight out of the lake. When it comes to bathing, I’m not really satisfied with either choice. Anyone who has swam in a pool will attest to what chlorine exposure does to the skin and hair, and the high temperatures and steam from the shower increase the amount of chlorine the skin absorbs. Throw in some dry winter weather, and I start to look like a molting reptile, or if I rub my face or hair, rather like a small snow flurry made of desiccated skin.
So I started to look around at ways to keep my hair clean without having to wash and shampoo it every day. I discovered an idea called dry shampoo. The concept is easy – comb stuff through your hair that will soak up any excess oil, leaving the scalp with a nice gloss to avoid unexpected skin flurries.
A more sensible person might have gone to Walgreens or a barbershop to buy dry shampoo, but I caught sight of a few DIY recipes that were too easy to pass up. Cornstarch, Corn meal, crushed oatmeal, and baking soda, in equal proportions. It sounds like something you would feed livestock.
I had all these ingredients handy, and though it took me a few minutes to crush my rolled oats with a mortar andÂ pestle, the concoction was soon ready. I stood over the sink, and spooned a bit out onto my skull. Rubbed it around a bit, tried to get all the odd spots, finding my skull to be lumpier than I remember. I needed to look up to see if I’d missed anything, and immediately felt a whole lot of grain fall down the back of my shirt. Damn.
After cleaning that up, it was time to remove the ground grains from my hair. I don’t have a brush, but the comb managed fairly well. The end result was surprisingly good – my hair wasn’t greasy anymore, but had a nice texture that comes from not being too dry.
I am satisfied, in spite of the nagging thought that this was probably something that pioneer women did on the Oregon Trail. For them, it might have been necessity. For me, it’s a mostly pointless obsession with controlling what goes into my body. If I wanted to poison myself, I’d shop around the bottom shelf of the liquor aisle at Shop N Save.
Whatever the case, I’m certain that at some point in the future, using chlorine to sanitize drinking water will be filed under What the fuck were they thinking back then?, in the company of leeches, frontal lobotomies, and fake titties that don’t bounce.
When that day comes, I’ll be the pioneer, portrayed by a statue of combing oatmeal out of its hair.
The clothes make the man, goes the old saying. If this is the case, my prospects just got a lot worse. Yesterday I found out that Imber’s Men’s store in Edwardsville is closing up.
It was never much to look at – the wood-panel decor was reminiscent of a classic station wagon, and the suits hanging on the racks were obviously intended for men well past their prime. Thus it was easy to pass up after a casual glance, especially for someone accustomed to rummaging through sales racks to find the odd sizes that my frame supports.
While I was killing time during one of April’s frequent and lengthy shopping excursions, I wandered in to Imber’s with an interest in finding a suit coat, as well as avoiding the antique store that had drawn April in. An impeccably dressed man greeted me and introduced himself as Alan Legow, owner of Imber’s. I didn’t know it until later, but this much more than a polite gesture- it was an opportunity for him to size me up. I mentioned the suit jacket, and he whipped three coats out without asking me my size or preference.
It’s a bit of an affront to a shopper with modern sensibilities – I was a bit unnerved by such close attention, and itching to slink off to a sales rack. Alan found me a coat that was good-looking, but a bit wide around the middle. Part of the problem was the t-shirt I was wearing – it didn’t really fit like a button shirt would. After a cursory glance at the shirt stock, Alan said he really didn’t have any shirts I could try on that would fit me properly. Had I ever had a custom tailored shirt?, he inquired.
I haven’t ever really had a custom anything – all my suits and shirts were from the glorious sales rack, and fit me like a garbage bag.
That’s when I was hooked – he pitched, and I swung hard. I didn’t have time that day for a full detail of measurements, but I promised to come back.
A few weeks later, I was ready. For 45 minutes, Alan measured every dimension of my torso, asked me what style of cuffs I liked, how long the shirt should taper, what style back, whether or not to have breast pockets, monogram style, etc. It turns out my right shoulder is a full inch lower than the left – I think it must be a casualty of playing tuba in the marching band for so many years.
While he was writing down my measurements, I was instructed to look through an enormous book of cloth samples. Each was only about 2″ square, but there were hundreds of them, each with a letter after the name of the cloth. I started with the A’s and B’s – simple prints, solid colors, smooth fabrics. C’s and D’s were more intricate pattern, finer cloth, richer colors. I found a J that was stunning – like no fabric I’d ever seen before. He asked if I’d made a decision about the cloth, and I didn’t hesitate to whip out the sample of J that caught my eye. He just smiled, and handed me another sheet of paper- the prices. A’s and B’s cost about $90 for a whole shirt, C’s and D’s between $100-$200, and so on. J fabrics were a cool $400 per shirt.
I found a great D fabric that fit the bill. It would be about a month before the shirt was finished, and when the day came, it was like getting my first car. The shirt was amazing – nothing has ever fit me so well. The real magic was the feeling of power it gave me – I felt like a prince, ready to order my servants to bring the car around and grab me a cold beer while I wait. Compared to retail, the shirts also cost a princely sum, but I tend to think of them as long-term investments. I have several now, I was married in one of Alan’s shirts, and God willing, I’ll be buried in one.
The whole experience is unorthodox, and it leaves me with the distinct impression that if this was the way clothes used to be purchased, then we are considerably worse off than our ancestors. Maybe not everyone is or was like Alan – a man who was clearly educated and could have chosen any field, and tailored clothes because it is his passion. Seeing someone derive true pleasure from their work makes you wonder why everyone can’t figure it out.
Imber’s was another one of those surprises that makes life more fun, and I would do well to be as happy and successful in my work as Alan was with his.
It took me awhile to figure out what funerals are all about. Â In this case, it didn’t take me this long because I’m slow, it’s just that at my age, funerals are a relatively rare occurrence. Â Anyway, funerals are not about the dead – they could care less what happens, as far as I can tell. Â Rather, funerals take place to reassure the living that a similar ceremony awaits them.
The realization hit me at my Great-Grandma’s funeral this summer. Â First hand accounts of her parenting skills left a lot to be desired – as a mother, she was indifferent and negligent. Â I only knew her as an elderly woman, but the stories I heard seemed accurate based on her actions at family gatherings. Â She died this summer at a ripe old age, which led me to the catholic church in Athens once again. Â To hear people talk about her at her funeral, the scope of her benevolence and tenderness meant we could expect her to be beatified any day.
If one went to a funeral every funeral in town for a few days, you might get the impression everyone who recently passed was a modern day saint. Â Most eulogies read like hyperbolic Madlibs – all you really need to do is change the names. Â So-and-so loved their kids more than anything, worked hard, had a wonderful life, saw the lighter side, cared for the poor, smelled like fresh roses, and damn near wiped out world hunger.
Obviously, not every dead person could really live up to such standards.
My theory is that those who speak of the dead invent fabulous stories about them to reassure the gathered family and friends that when they pass, a similar degree of polish will be applied to their lives. Â You’d be hard up to find someone who pronounces the deceased as dishonest, unkind, or douchebaggy, even if that were truly the case. Â And who can blame them? Â If I told the truth about someone I knew well, and said they were a normal person, that they made mistakes, weren’t a perfect friend/parent/Christian, etc, I would get run out of the church and probably disowned.
And that’s if Â I told the truth – not trying to stir up shit like the cretins at Westboro baptist (may they live long enough to die regretting what they’ve done).
The reason behind all this seems clear enough – we are mortally afraid of death. Â That it is the end, the very end, and that our lives may not have lived up to our own or others expectations.
This should be the real message a funeral sends – that life is short and precious, and because its conclusion may come at any time, we should live in happiness and excitement, not fear.
Instead, I strap on rose-tinted glasses whilst listening to speechifying about my Great Grandma, and wonder what they’ll say I meet my maker fromÂ old ageÂ Â falling into a volcano.
At this point in my life, I’m married, own a house, have a job, speak 3 languages decently, and can tie a bow tie. Â The only thing that I’ve missed in the quest to become a gentleman is being a Scotch drinker. Â Now, I’m resolved to take this final step into manhood.
My first encounter with Scotch wasn’t pretty. Â I was probably 20, and my Dad offered me a swiggle of his Glenfiddich. Â It struck me as unnervingly similar in smell to the polyurethane I use to seal my wood floors, and the taste wasn’t much better. Â The impression it left me with was overwhelmingly negative – I didn’t intend to get to know it better.
Some years later, I met Scotch again at a Christmas eve family gathering. Â My uncle Rick got a bottle of 15 yr old Scotch that he insisted I try. Â I held my nose and took a tiny sip. Â It burned, Â but I managed to get the whole thing down.
Fast forward to last week- I got to try a 20 yr old Scotch, and it was delicious. Â Tradition dictates that Scotch should be enjoyed slowly and carefully, but I was the first one to finish my glass and would have asked for more, if it weren’t so damn expensive.
Yesterday, I picked up a bottle of 12 yr old single malt Glenlivet from the good people at Sam’s Club, and this evening I’m trying it out.
So far, so good.
It still burns, but I find that a little water in the glass helps ease the burn and lets you taste a bit more of the flavor. Â The flavor itself is very difficult to define – slightly sweet, and a little fruity. Â The predominant tastes are almond and honey, maybe some smoke. Â There are other tastes too, but they’re too subtle for me to grasp.
Like so many things life, knowing a bit about Scotch helps to enhance my enjoyment of it, and, I hoped, would help me figure out what I was tasting.
The Scotch I’m enjoying is a single malt, meaning it comes exclusively from barley, a grain seemingly capable of anything. Â The early stages of Scotch production are almost identical to beer – the barley is sprouted, which ramps up sugar production, then dried and ground into coarse bits. Â These bits are then steeped so the sugars are released into water, and becomes malt. Â From there, the path diverges from beer a bit, and I don’t quite follow all the ins and outs of fermenting and distilling. Â Eventually, the unfinished Scotch is put in barrels, and must be aged a minimum of three years.
If you’re thinking that honey and almond don’t quite follow from boiled and dried barley, you’re quite correct. Â My hypothesis is that yeast is a major player. Â In the brewing world, the choice of yeast can have more influence over a beer’s final flavor than all the other ingredients put together. Â Those little critters can somehow impart flavors of fruit, bread, flowers, you name it.
A little more research shed some light on how the drying of the barley takes place. Â Instead of using plain old hot air or convection to dry the sprouted barley, some Scotch distillers burn peat in kilns and use the smoke to dry the barley. Â The centuries of cumulative biomass in the peat introduce all sorts of interesting flavors, which I guess collectively comprise all thoseÂ unnameablesÂ I mentioned earlier.. Â It’s just the sort of wacky behavior you’d expect from the folks who invented golf.
As I finish this glass, everything that went into it seems so clearly connected. Â The land, the crop, the bottle, and the ceremony all belong together. Â It’s humbling to think that this particular Scotch was made when I was 16, thinking about who I was going to hang out with this weekend. Â Now, my thoughts turn toÂ the men in my family who drank Scotch, and what their lives were like at 28.
Mostly wondering what they would think of me now.
A few days ago I was thinking about a piece I sang with the SIUE concert choir called ‘The Enemy’. Â It was part of a suite of songs based on the text of Charles Baudelaire’sÂ Flowers of Evil. Â It’s pretty obscure, so I was having a hard time finding a the original French text. Â After a bit, I tracked it down, only to discover that the English translations I’d found online were mostly garbage. Â They mistook the meaning of words, left things out or added non-existent phrases and ideas to the original. Â This is not acceptable.
In that spirit, I present the first attempt to correct a litany of terrible translations with one that is faithful to the spirit and letter of the original text. Â Here’s the original text:
Ma jeunesse ne fut qu’un tÃ©nÃ©breux orage,
TraversÃ© Ã§Ã et lÃ par de brillants soleils;
Le tonnerre et la pluie ont fait un tel ravage,
Qu’il reste en mon jardin bien peu de fruits vermeils.
VoilÃ que j’ai touchÃ© l’automne des idÃ©es,
Et qu’il faut employer la pelle et les rÃ¢teaux
Pour rassembler Ã neuf les terres inondÃ©es,
OÃ¹ l’eau creuse des trous grands comme des tombeaux.
Et qui sait si les fleurs nouvelles que je rÃªve
Trouveront dans ce sol lavÃ© comme une grÃ¨ve
Le mystique aliment qui ferait leur vigueur?
â€” Ã” douleur! Ã´ douleur! Le Temps mange la vie,
Et l’obscur Ennemi qui nous ronge le coeur
Du sang que nous perdons croÃ®t et se fortifie!
My youth was one raging storm
crossed by brilliant shafts of sunlight;
so devastated by thunder and rain,
that few ripe fruits remain in my garden.
Now, in the autumn of my mind,
I must employ the shovel and rake
to repair the flooded terrain,
where water cuts trenches as deep as tombs.
And who knows if the tender flowers of my dreams
will find in soil washed away like the shore
the mystical nourishment that gives them strength?
-Oh pain! Oh pain! Â Time devours life,
and the misty enemy who gnaws at our hearts
grows strong on the blood we lose!
I read an interesting article today about the future of consumer culture, and it taught me a few interesting things, and revealed (to my shame) that I’m as bad as the next consumer.
The premise presented in the article is this: everyone needs food, shelter, medicine, and other essentials.Â These expenses are intrinsic to a healthy, modern life, and don’t count against your spending habits.Â So, those are the essentials that you buy to survive, and beyond that, all of your purchases are optional.Â This is where all that disposable income goes- to guitars, jetskis, and Cadillacs.Â In my case, it goes to:
a. A motorcycle
c. A new car
This is an essential part of American capitalism- if you work hard, you get to reward yourself. What’s strange about American capitalism, in comparison to other empires, is the circumstances under which it developed.Â In days of former empires, there was an absolute maximum that a skilled labourer could produce, and that made his or her products valuable.Â Since shopping as we know it couldn’t take place, other institutions drove society- like war, religion, philosophy, literature, theatre, etc.Â Starting in the 20th century, for the first time in human history, mass-produced products are plentiful and cheap enough that there’s no limit to how much one can acquire, which reduces the value (both cost and emotional value) of those products greatly. This has made consumerism the driver of our society, and a national past-time that almost everyone indulges in.
So, we now find ourselves in the situation of having an unlimited number of cheap products to buy (made in Asian sweatshops for a nickel per hour), but at the cost of a decimated middle class, who were formerly skilled labourers and now face unemployment.
I’m not ready to tackle the 800 lb gorilla that characterizes the decline of the middle class; I simply want to point out that the society we live in is unique on account of our unparalleled potential to manufacture a glut of products without the need for skilled human labor.
As a small aside, I can also conclude that marketing as we know it is wholly the result of this flood of products- in a society that produces more than it needs, the need to advertise a certain brand or special product arose to convince us it is something we must have (Marketing all those products is a good job for the dwindling middle class that used to make them!).
So, all that background leads up to now, when the whole world has taken a break from rampant consumerism- not because we’re tired of it, but because savings, retirements, and even fortunes have been lost all across this country in the last 18 months.Â The question the article I mentioned earlier poses is whether or not this respite from runaway consumerism will make us wonder why we need it at all.
Now, the $64,000 question- how hard are you willing to work to have disposable income?Â I certainly don’t need a new car, and despite my craving for a new netbook, it wouldn’t really change my life at all.Â When I stop and tconsider the value of the products that I work all week to buy, it makes the 50 hour workweek seem grotesque.
After some thought and multiplication, I’ve concluded that I would willingly take a 20% cut in my salary to reclaim one day of my week.Â That is to say, I can easily meet my basic needs at 80% of my salary, and the extra 20% that I’m accustomed to is devoted entirely to my consumerist urges.
That might work for me, but would other people make a similar deal?
The end of the article supposed that a new societal driver would need to take consumerism’s place in order for it to be permanently reined in.Â My suggestion?Â Three words: 2011 Cat Olympics.