Science fiction, fantasy, mystery and what-not
Well, writers, musicians, artists, poets, essayists, and novelists, we made it to May. Sometimes, in Feb. and March, May seemed like an impossible goal. But we kept going, didn’t we? Sure, there were a few stumbles. New bruises and injuries were acquired, but here we are again.
March and April were good, and not good for me. That’s how life often seems, though, doesn’t it? One area is going great and another area collapses like a calving glacier. My setbacks were in health. First, there was a long time where I had a severe cold. It seemed to be touring my body. Just when I thought it’d done it’s farewell show, the tour would begin again.
Next, whatever steers these things enlarged my prostate and shut down my bladder. It wasn’t a joyous experience but I survived. I’m fortunate to be financially comfortable and have health insurance. Besides being painful, uncomfortable, and inconvenient for a while, the issues meant that coffee, caffeine, chocolates and alcohol needed to be sliced back. I allow myself one cup of coffee a day. Drinking it centers around my writing. I used to drink a glass of red wine each night; no more. I haven’t had chocolate in weeks. I still have a beer once or twice a week. I last had one a week ago. I going back to the doctor in a month to see if surgery is required, or what.
Many writing days were lost in March and April. I’m surprised to discover that the novel I began writing in January is eighty-eight thousand words, three hundred forty-five Word pages, and almost finished. I thought, how did that happen? I guess it demonstrates the power of just sitting down and pushing. I didn’t write for five straight days in March, although I tried. I stopped posting my goofy little things for a few days, too.
When I read the work-in-progress that I’ve written, I enjoy it. Then I read someone else’s novel and fall into dejection because my novel is a piece of crap in comparison. Then I read my work-in-progress again, and think, no, this works. It reminds me of George Jetson. Know him? He’s a fictional character in the animated cartoon series, The Jetsons. When the show ends and the credits run, George is walking the dog on a conveyor belt. The cat jumps on, and the dog begins chasing the cat. As the belt goes faster and faster, George falls down, and the cat and dog jump off to watch as George haplessly goes round and round, shouting, “Help. Jane, get me off this crazy thing.”
That’s how I sometimes feel with my writing efforts.
My exercise practices took a hit with my illnesses. Some days, my walking dropped to two and a half weary miles a day. Weekly totals plummeted to thirty-two miles. I gained eight pounds.
I’ve lost five of those pounds. The weekly totals of miles per week are back up into the mid-fifties. I recorded ten miles yesterday for the first time since the end of February. So, I’m making progress, and will cling to that.
That’s my recap. I hope you guys are all doing well, making progress, and not going insane or becoming depressed. Thanks for reading.
Got my coffee. Time to write like crazy, at least one more time.
Cheers
My friend nan referred me to Mary Roach’s book, Gulp, when I wrote about how my urine tastes, and I’m in her debt. After working down through my book piles, I started reading it on Saturday. It’s one of those books that forces me to set it down to think and conduct research. I’m still reading Gulp, but it’s a fascinating read. Ostensibly about the alimentary canal, it includes much about animals and humans’ eating habits, and some of the psychology behind our food choices.
One of the early facts that she stated is that most people only eat about forty flavors. When I shared that with my wife, she asked, “Is cheese one flavor?”
Good question, right? Is an IPA the same as a porter, stout, and lager? Why, no. I drink each for the different flavors they share with me. My choices also depend on what I’m doing and eating. So, do I put down beer as one flavor choice, delineate between the different beverages, or go more deeply into what makes it all up?
These are important distinctions because my wife and I immediately set out attempting to catalog our flavors. We quickly became trapped in a ball of mud about what parts of what flavors we like. We like dark chocolate but I don’t like it overly bitter, like past seventy-two percent. She likes it a little sweeter. Is dark chocolate a flavor, or is it chocolate with sugar, with whatever else is in there?
Those of you who eat gluten-free foods probably understand what I mean, along with the folks that eat sugar-free and fat-free offerings. They taste different. They’re a different experience in my mouth and on my tongue. Some of that may be psychological. In taste tests done with white and red wine, being able to see the color makes a difference in how the flavor is interpreted and described. Likewise, tests have shown that frequently, most of the differences observed between ten dollar bottle of wine and more expensive ones are often about perceptions of quality and expense; the more that something costs, the better it’s supposed to be, right?
It’s a knotty question. The whole thing about pet food was pretty mind-blowing. According to Mary’s research and writing, most cat food tastes about the same to the animals, regardless of what the flavor is supposed to be. To which I respond, say whaaat? My cats seem to show definite preferences, preferring to eat fishy stuff — which smells fishy to me — over the chicken, and chicken over beef. None of them are impressed with “Supper Super”. Gulp claims that these preferences are mostly about my perceptions, and not the animals.
It could be that I’m reading the whole thing wrong, or mis-interpreting the data. It does explain the waffle and fried chicken cat treats that have arrived. It’s not that the animals like waffles and chicken, but we, their owners, think that they’ll enjoy them.
The book fascinates me, too, because of the connections between tasting food and smell, and our brains’ acceptance about what is not good for us. I’m often smelling things and trying to analyze what I’m smelling, a process that I call, “What the hell is that smell?” My wife does the same. This leads to a game at our household that goes like this:
Her: “Do you smell that?”
Me: “You need to tell me what you mean. I smell many things.”
“That smell.”
“Again…”
“It smells like cat piss.”
“No, I don’t smell that.”
Sniffing the air, furniture, and carpet, we start looking around the area to see if it looks like a cat has pissed where they shouldn’t.
Me: “Maybe it’s the litter box.”
“It smells too strong. It smells like it’s right beside me.”
“Maybe a cat peed on your clothes. Are they wet?”
“I think I’m going to go change.”
Me: “I don’t smell cat piss, but I do smell someone’s marijuana crop. Or maybe it’s a skunk. Do you smell a skunk?”
The game goes on forever, it seems like.
I’ll keep reading Gulp. If more is explained, than I’ll come back and read another post.
That’s just the way it goes.
So you know that they’ve come out with Genius Coffee. It’s about time, innit? But, I hasten to inquire, where is our genius booze? I’d like to walk into my fav beverage hangout and ask for a Genius IPA.
Wouldn’t it be excellent if McDonald’s and Wendy’s began selling genius milkshakes? (Picture those television commercials.) Have a Genius Coke with your Jack? Prefer a Genius Red Bull? No doubt we’d need to have genius wine, vodka, tequila, to be fair, along with genius water, for those who don’t partake.
Maybe, then, if all these genius beverages work, we can make progress on what humanity is doing to each other and the rest of the world. Doubts force me to say, probably not. More likely, some will declare, “I don’t trust geniuses, so why should I swallow a genius drink?”
I don’t blame them. I’d be dubious of genius drinks. God knows what I’d learn about myself that I’ve worked so hard to hide.
Beer-floof (floofinition) – housepet who enjoys drinking beer.
In use: “He had to watch his dog because the little beer-floof always lapped out of his mug of beer whenever the opportunity came.”
You know, in the U.S. of A., it’s winter. Because of that, many towns are having beer festivals. At least, this is true out here in Oregon and California.
Some places call the beer festival a collaboration, a beer walk, or, if the organizers are feeling more stylish, a brewery tour. SF’s Beer Collaboration isn’t starting until Feb. 1. They have a theme, you know, like they do at a prom, Game of Thrones. I’m sure that some high school has had a Game of Thrones themed prom. That seems like it would be something like the red wedding or the prom from Carrie.
Anyway, in honor of beer strolls everywhere, I’m streaming Tom T. Hall’s 1975 classic, “I Like Beer”. Pretty self-explanatory what the song is about.
He found himself forced to explain beer etiquette to others.
“Beer etiquette,” others said. “Like, the proper way to drink beer?”
Which led, inevitably to statements, “I know how to drink beer. I have a PhD in beer drinking. I’m a natural.” These comments were regarded as hilarious.
No, that is not what he is talking about. He is talking about when you take beer to someone else’s home, or to a social gathering. When you take beer, a six-pack, for example, to someone’s house for a party, for example, you should always remove one beer.
“That would make it a five pack,” someone quickly and acutely noted.
Yes, he agreed, smiling, preparing to continue his explanation.
“Why would you do that?”
If you’ll give me a moment, I’ll explain.
“Okay, explain.”
Yes. Removing one bottle or can shows that you like this beer so much that you had to take one for yourself before you brought it. If you don’t take one, people will think that you don’t like that beer, and wonder why you’re bringing beer that you don’t like.
Cries of, “Bullshit,” and “Come on,” answered, but he was adamant that this was good beer etiquette. Always take one bottle out, whether it’s a six or twelve pack, or a case. If it’s a growler, you should remove twelve to sixteen ounces.
“Do you drink it?” someone said.
You can.
“What about wine?” a wag asked.
Another laughed. “Do you take six packs of wine to people’s houses?”
Another said, “Do they make six packs of wine?”
No, he said, gently, this etiquette is about beer.
Silent drinking pervaded the gathering. “Well,” the wag said, “Next time I go, I’ll just take an empty case and told them that it was too good to give away.” Then he laughed like it was the funniest thing he’d ever heard.
He’d been in darkness for so long, he’d last track of who he was. Questions plagued him about the value he put on himself, his purpose and goals, maddening lack of motivation, and most of all, who he was . He was so lonely, never seeing others. Sometimes he heard them and yearned to be part of the conversations and celebrations, but he never seemed to have the courage or strength needed to make that change.
Then, one day, the Earth moved in a starling way. He felt a hand on him. It drew him into a light.
“What’s that?” someone said as he blinked against the unaccustomed brightness.
“A wrinkled old ten dollar bill,” someone else said. “Woo hoo, I’m rich. Beer’s on me.”
Michael came in later than usual, arriving a few minutes after several others. Despite his tardiness, ‘his’ place was still unoccupied so he took his usual chair. Saying hellos, wiping sweat from his face — because he always walked — he poured a glass of porter and took a long drink.
Behind him stood another man.
Ron thought the other was with Michael. He’d followed him in and was now standing directly behind Michael’s chair. Ron looked at the fellow — unsmiling, a little swarthy looking and burly, about Michael’s age (in Ron’s guess), which would make the man in his early sixties, Ron thought, unsure about Michael’s age. Michael was the youngest. Ron thought Michael was his early sixties.
But Michael was ignoring the man, even though the man’s look was fixed on Michael.
The man looked at Ron as Ron looked at him. Ron shied away from greater contact, which wasn’t his style, and addressed his look to the other beer drinkers. He’d first thought the man was with Michael but now he thought maybe the guy had followed Michael in because he was pissed off. Ron, not imaginative, thought, maybe they’d had a fight, or were about to have one.
It wasn’t his style to back off or ignore things so he said to Michael, “Ahem. Michael.”
He waited for Michael to look his way. When Michael did, Ron said with a nod toward the man behind Michael’s seat, “Is he with you?”
Michael didn’t look. “Yes.” He drank more beer.
Confusion swept Ron. The rest of the guys at the table looked confused. Frank, grinning, said, “Should we offer him a chair and a beer?”
Michael glowered. “Why not?”
Rising fast, Ron said, “Let me do the honors, then.” Putting his hand out toward Rolf, he said, “I’m Ron, by the way.”
The man glared at Ron’s hand and then transferred the look to Ron’s face. “Rolf.”
“Rolf?” Ron said, lowering his hand.
“Yes.”
Joe had brought up a chair. Space was made for Rolf. “Do you drink beer?” Ron asked, sitting. His lips felt like Elmer’s glue had been smeared over them. “We have a Boneyard IPA or Pilot Rock porter. Or we can order you something else, like Ashland Amber Ale.”
“Porter,” Rolf said, sitting.
“Porter it is,” Ron said, filling the glass from the pitcher of porter. As he did that, Michael stood.
“I’m going to take a leak,” Michael said. He pointed at Rolf. “Stay. There.” He stared at Rolf for several seconds before turning and striding away.
Ron raised his eyebrows at Frank and the others. They all seemed as perplexed as he felt. That didn’t make him feel any better.
Andy said, “I’m Andy, Rolf.”
Nodding, Rolf picked up his beer.
Andy said, “How do you know Michael?”
“I’m his angel.” Rolf took a gulp of beer.
Everyone’s eyebrows except Rolf’s rose. “His angel?” Frank said with a grin.
Rolf lowered his glass. “Yes.”
“What kind of angel are you?” Bob said.
“I’m a healing angel,” Rolf said.
“Did you say that you’re an angel?” Andy said.
“Yes,” Rolf said with a sour look at Andy.
Ron said, “Maybe we should clarify what you mean by an angel.”
Rolf turned to him. “I’m a fucking angel from fucking heaven. Clear?”
“Yes,” Ron said, pulling back. “Very clear. I don’t mean to offend you.”
“I’m not offended.” Rolf turned back to his beer.
“How did you meet Michael?” Andy said.
“I didn’t,” Rolf said.
“Then how do you know him?” Ron said as several others asked the question.
Rolf picked up his beer and smirked. “He made me.”
Ron said, “He — ”
“Jesus wept,” Rolf said. “What the fuck is this, twenty questions? Michael imagined me. By imagining me, he made me. That’s how the fuck I met him. I’m his healing angel. Any other damn questions?”
Ron put his hands up. “Sorry. I don’t mean to offend you but I don’t think any of us have ever met an angel before. This is certainly a first for me.”
“Congratulations to you,” Rolf said.
“It’s just that we’ve never met someone who someone else made by imagining them,” Andy said. “So we’re taken aback.”
Raising his beer glass again, Rolf smirked at Andy. “Oh, yeah? What the fuck do you think you are?”
Michael Seidel, writer 