The Hired Man - Tales of an Unwitting Driver

As I have mentioned in previous essays, my college years were filled with a variety of odd jobs that provided a substantial financial cushion during a very frugal period of my life. Amid yard work and house-cleaning, childcare and livestock medicating, one job dwarfs all others in longevity and peculiarity. This is the story of my time with LMG.

Please note that all accounts in this story are true. Many names have been changed to protect the innocent.

In Bed With the Enemy

Enemy is a word that, in our society, is thrown around more than it ought to be. Blame it on terrorism, communism, or uber-violent movies featuring Jean-Claude Van Damme. Whatever the reason, it seems that we as Americans over dramatize the quibbles we experience, drawing lines in the sand and labeling people as "frenemies".

Exhibit A: The Hellspawn

That being said, some enemies are justifiably titled as such. Beings that create terror and pain. Persons who torture and maim. Cruel masters of chaos. Evil such as the Hellspawn you see here.

This foul demon has been against me since day one. His name is Hobbes.


Don't let the name fool you. He is not adventurous or philosophical like the Hobbes of Bill Watterson's universe.

This felonious feline made it clear early in our relationship that there would be no love lost between the two of us.

My allergies reciprocated. It was mutual loathing that has remained constant for over seven years. I knew his game, he knew mine. We steered clear of each other as best we could, and cursed each other under our respective breathes as we passed in the halls of the Shortridge estate.

But last week we came home from a few days away from the house, and this little animal had changed his M.O.

He was nice.

Never Trust a Man With Two First Names

We walked in the door, and the little orange gato was immediately rubbing up against my leg. He cooed affectionately as his back arched in exfoliatory bliss. I sluffed off the cat and continued up the stairs. The rest of the day was without note, and I went to bed early in an attempt to fight the fatigue that had been beating me down all weekend.

Exhibit B: Not The Hobbes Your Thinking of

I awoke as the sky was just beginning to lighten through my window. In a half cognizant state, I felt a weight at the foot of the bed. I sat up to see a yellow blob through bleary eyes. The form drew closer, and clarified into the Hobbes I'd learned to loathe. But I was too tired to care about his presence. As I dozed, the cat kneaded my stomach and curled up to snooze upon my chest. Groggily, I warned the feline,



"My biological response to your existence is to throw you across the room. I hope you realize this."

But his purring got the better of me, and I allowed him to sleep on me.

When I awoke, the cat was gone. In its place, my allergies had placed seven pounds of mucous in my airways. I labored to remove the muck in every way I knew how, but in the end, resigned myself to a day of phlegm-filled fun.

Later that day, I was lounging on the couch, removing more congestion from my lungs as I watched nothing-in-particular on the television. I dozed to the sound of some rerun not worth remembering, when again, a cat appeared on my stomach. This time, Hobbes insisted on laying on my upper chest, rubbing his face affectionately against my chin. At first, I resisted, but as before, the cuteness won me over and I allowed him to purr his way onto my chest.

After an hour or so of this lovey-dovey routine, I realized that I was likely dying from respiratory failure. My throat was closing with defensive boogers, vainly attempting to stop the siege of cat hair from entering my lungs. My eyes were watering so bad that they could put out a Texan brush fire, and every fifteen to thirty seconds, my nose would expel a viscous plume of mucous that paid reverent homage to Slimer from Ghost Busters.

It turns out that Hobbes was actually trying to destroy me. Like a double-agent, he warmed up to me, got my guard down, and then went in for the kill. And it worked like a charm. I fell for it, hook, line, and sinker.

Keep Your Friends Close and Your Enemies Closer

The lesson learned from this feline fray is this:

Exhibit C: Pay No Attention to the Cat on the Refrigerator

If your enemy extends a hand in friendship,  do not recoil. Give peace a chance. Be open to communication and be willing to compromise. If the United States Government did more of that, maybe Congress would actually accomplish something other than making my head hurt. Then again, one side would probably be allergic to the other, and almost suffocate on the political dander.

OK, so the comparison kind of fell apart there at the end.

Just remember: Even as you should not back away from peace, You should also be hesitant to rush headlong into bed with your adversary.

They may be trying to give you a parasite. I'm just saying.

It's Gonna Take Time

My best friend got married this weekend. It was an exhausting three days of whiskey, toasts, dancing, and bison.

Yes, bison.

We celebrated the love of these two awesome people and I, as a co-best man, was charged with giving a toast. I struggled to bring to words the joy and appreciation I felt for Brian and Kimi, but finally, a mere hours before the ceremony, I scrawled my thoughts onto a handful of recently purchased note cards.

I realize now, that I should have just shown this video:

George Harrison pretty much sums up the message that I wanted to share to this newly nuptualized couple: Love is awesome, but staying committed to love amid all the other crap that consumes your life, that is the greatest challenge you'll ever face.

It's gonna take time to do it right.

What I Learned in that Seemingly Meaningless Job - Get Outa Bed!

I've held plenty of positions at jobs that I knew were not going to be my career. Let's recap:

Roofing
Starbucks Barista
Paper Boy
Waiter

In all of these, as well as others, I've loved and loathed certain elements of the job. The commute, the working conditions, the boss, the heat, the cold. But I've also tried to learn something from each as well. As I see it, if you don't learn from the experiences you've had, the job was a waste of your time.

I was thinking about the concept of life lessons this morning. I woke up around 6am, and rather than throw my phone and curl back up in my warm bed, I actually got out of bed. I showered, shaved, dressed leisurely, and even had time to read a book and get some work done on this blog. All before I got to my 8am meeting.

As I was doing this, I realized that I am able to get up at ridiculous hours because of my exhausting stint at Starbucks. As an opener, I was generally at work by 4:30am, half consciously cranking out lattes and quaffing espresso like shots of whiskey. Not an advisable method of existence for any prolonged period of time, but during that time in my life, my productivity was through the roof!

The take away is this:

Get up early, produce your craft, whether it be knitting or music, and start your day feeling as if you accomplished something!

My friend Brian and I often discuss the benefits of working early in the morning. He once said something to the affect of,

"The best things are accomplished before the day starts. It's those who get up early or stay up late who make things happen."

I may have butchered my wise friends sentiments, but you get the gist.


Practicing Preachers

So this is all fine and dandy, but how do you convince yourself of this when it is 6am and you are faced with the Bed vs. Brain dilemma?

I tried writing a note on my phone. It read,


"Get up. Go for a run. Eat breakfast. Do laundry. Read. Blog. Podcast. DO SOMETHING!"

That has worked about a third of the time.

I've taken advice from the guys at Radiolab and attempted to combat the immediate gratification of going back to sleep. My half conscious brain rages,

"You'll feel so good if you get up and accomplish something!"


"You've need to get a blog posted today."


"Work out, lazy ass."

This has also had a limited affect. Jad and Robert, in an episode entitled "Help!" argue that you have to replace your weakness with an immediate gratification. Something that will be so jarring that it will overwhelm your desire to play it safe.

"If you don't get up, RIGHT NOW, I (you) will give $100 to the next drunk hobo you see!"

Nothing against drunk hobos, but I don't have a hundred bucks to throw around like that. I'll try it tomorrow and let you know how it works.

Collaboration Nation

Brian and I have been collaborating on music. We have both created around a dozen songs independently over the last year, each with it's own positive qualities and negative traits. We realize that. Some of the music is down-right awful. Some of it is good, but needs tweaking. A fresh set of eyes. Perspective.

So I sent Brian my cannon. Brian sent me his catalog. Recordings, lyrics, tabs, and chicken-scratch napkins have all been relinquished, in the spirit of betterment and collaboration. Brian has torn my music apart, piece by piece, and rebuilt it as he sees it. I have taken Brian's music, and turned it on its ear.

The process is both energizing and nerve-wracking. It's like taking your diary to your friend and saying,

"Rip this apart, and write me a new one."

So much emotion goes into a song, even a light-hearted, goofy ditty about politics, that when he sends me an email with his interpretation attached, I anxiously click on the message. I read his thoughts. I get his perspective. I click "Listen."

And so far, I love it. Sure there are parts that Brian has changed that I think are inferior to my version. But he's added so much freshness that I am thrilled to record this project later this year.

So this brings to mind some thoughts about collaboration.

Co - Labor - Ate

When you collaborate, it is an incredibly humbling experience. It's easy to rely only on yourself. It's easy to put words on a page that touch your heart. But creating a product that can then be held out for the world - a cold, unforgiving world - to judge, is a harrowing prospect. What if they hate it? What if they think it's shit?


By asking someone else to critique your work, you are asking for gentle honesty. Tell me what is good AND what I need to improve. Don't sugar-coat it, but don't make me want to give up all together. It's a fine line, and one that few people have been able to provide to me in my creative endeavors.

Why is honesty is such a hard thing to come by? Why do most people either reply with a disinterested "That's nice" or a judgmental scoff? Is it so hard to realize that someone who has worked up the courage to share their craft with the public is worthy of an earnest review?

Once a level of trust is built, and you don't have to apologize for every criticism you give a collaborator. Saying "I don't understand what you were trying to do" is not the same as "Your music sucks." It's refreshing to hear Brian change something and not have the overwhelming urge to yell "You don't understand! That was important!"

Collaboration has helped me grow as a musician. That insight will hopefully help me grow as a person as well.

Finding Authenticity in Americana

I'd been discussing with a colleague last week the idea of Authenticity in today's culture. He is from the New England region, hailing from Maine, and has spent a great deal of time in Connecticut, New Hampshire, and Massachusetts. When you look at Shawn, the New England woodsman ambiance is clear. He often wears thick cable-knit sweaters, durable mariner jackets, and generally sports an impressive, full bodied beard.

Shawn told me that, since he was a child, the clothing company L.L. Bean has been a mainstay in his house. This Northeasterly outfitter deals exclusively in durable outdoor apparel meant to last. It was a regional business that provided quality products to the hearty people of the North Atlantic. But recently, it seems as though L.L. Bean has become much more vogue in the rest of the United States. Popping up in fashion magazines and on indie hipsters in places like Portland and Memphis, this diaspora of Shawn's beloved Bean should be a welcome sign of prosperity for the company. So why is Shawn feeling an underlying level of resentment toward these retrofitted, skinny-jeaned lumberjacks?

It is an interesting phenomenon that is taking place in our society. A trend towards the rustic that goes beyond clothing. It's infused in our food, music, attire, and recreation. It's a call to authenticity, but is it authentic? I'm aiming to further clarify this phenomenon in a series of posts. If you have any anecdotes or resources, I'd love to hear from you.

MicroBrews, MicroDistilleries, Microcosms

I would be naive if I said that Microbreweries were a new phenomenon. That being said, the rise in widespread popularity of the brewpub and microbrewery can be seen in the mid 1980's, after a steady decline in breweries due to the lasting affects of prohibition¹. Now, you can find a microbrewery in every town of moderate size, offering a unique product and intimate connection to the product served.

Hot on the heels of the craft-brewed beer is the microdistillery. Facilities that craft-brew small batch vodka, gin, whiskey, and other spirits are increasingly popular in the recent years. These distilleries, similar to microbreweries, will create one-of-a-kind blends in batches of only a few thousand, that create a sense of ownership in those who consume their libations. By being among a select few who experience the spirits, you can become a member of the esoteric group that is more cultured or savvy.

The element that truly draws people into this industry is the connection to the process. By purchasing a locally distilled bottle of vodka, you know where the grain comes from, who is processing it, and can even purchase it directly from the distillery. You can walk through the facility and see the giant copper-pot stills. And every sip has that story in it. By knowing more about the liquid in the glass, the connection is greater.

So why do we feel that need to connect with our product? Why do we care about the back story of our brews and bubbly? Kurt Reighley, author of United States of Americana has some theories.

“ 'People want to have real, genuine, authentic things,' says Christina Vernon of Wolverine, who've made boots since 1883. Thanks to the protracted recession and mounting concerns about conservation, she predicts that demand will only increase. 'The throwaway society is going to go away – or be greatly diminished.' ” ²

So blame it on the economy. But many of these trends started earlier than the recessional woes of the last decade. So I don't believe we can attribute this lurch toward authentic living solely to the likes of the big banks and greedy CEOs.

Recession Reaction or Larger Trend?

Musicologist Brian Wilcoxon has a more cyclical perspective on the “authenticity” movement. As the commercial world blossomed over the last few decades of the twentieth century, becoming cheaper, more prepackaged, and more accessible, the bubble has burst, and we are living in a post-commercial America, where the emphasis is not on bigger, faster, cheaper. Instead the appeal is local, handcrafted, and rare. Wilcoxon, in a recent interview:

“There is a sort of "call to small" -- while there's a cynical part of me that thinks much of this is just a trend (like the clothes at the above named stores), I think there is a real sense of disenchantment with "large" America. Young adults, or at least, a segment of young adults, seem to be interested in quality, in origin, in roots, in the environment, or maybe just one of these things that has an impact on the other. And thus you see things like the farmer's market making huge grounds in how people eat. You have chains of grocery stores like Trader Joe's, Fresh Market, and Whole Foods offering organic foods grown (and sold) with integrity (when I say "sold," I'm thinking particularly of the push towards "Fair Trade" chocolate, coffee, tea, etc.). You see people wanting to purchase things grown and made locally. You also have people doing their part to help the environment by riding their bicycles or driving hybrid vehicles.”³

So where does that leave Shawn? Should he be irritated that people are wearing L.L. Bean, but have never experienced the grueling Maine winters that the company protected him from as a child? Is this move toward American roots simply a fad, treading on the heals of all the other recurring decades? If that is the case, then I'm afraid the next stop may be a Neo-Victorian resurgence, complete with parasols and top hats.

Ok, so I just googled Neo-Victorian. It's already started. Hold on to your flanel, indie hipsters.

Seriously though, where does this “Roots” movement come from, in your opinion? What have you seen that irks, excites, or befuddles you? I welcome any insight, anecdotal or theoretical.

¹ Papzian, Charlie. The Revival. Craft Beer: Celebrating the Best of American Beer, http://www.craftbeer.com/pages/beerology/history-of-beer/the-revival

² Reighley, Kurt. United States of Americana: A Field Guide to the New American Roots Movement. New York: HarperCollins, 2010.

³Wilcoxon, Brian. (2011, April 11) Authenticity [Interview by Chris Walljasper].

Saturday Night's Alright for Fighting

I almost got into a fight this weekend. I say almost with just a hint of sadness.

To put it more accurately, the fight almost got into me.

On Saturday, Annie and I drove out to Kewanee, Illinois to have dinner and drinks with our friends Brian and Kimi. The town of Kewanee is not more than a blip on the radar, known for a monstrous furniture store that encompasses close to half of the downtown. It also has the only remaining Pabst Blue Ribbon franchised bar in the United States. So when we want something cool to drink, we go to Cerno's.

Walking into Cerno's, there is a frosted filigree with the letters PBR ornately emblazoned on the door of glass and heavy, dark wood. To your left is an old bank tellers booth where, in the early days of its existence, the tavern offered a check cashing service to its thirsty patrons. The floor below is a mosaic of stone squares and fifteen feet above it is a baroque display of tin and dusty chandeliers.

The bar is guarded by massive mahogany pillars, each bearing a carved angel. The cherubim wield trumpets, heralding the cold, refreshing beer that won the blue ribbon at the 1893 Worlds Fair. Back lit logos depicting the Pabst hop leaf remind you of the beer you should be drinking.

Things Were Going So Well

The night was going swimmingly, with vigorous chatter about weddings, school, work, and various other endeavors. Annie and Kimi were on one side of the booth, Brian and I on the other, shouting above the din that enveloped our ears. The bar was not full, but it had a half dozen imbibing patrons.

Brian was recounting a story he'd recently heard of Kurt Cobain's early years when Annie grabbed my arm from across the table.

“Chris. Chris! CHRIS!” Her voice escalated as her eyes widened, looking over my shoulder at some unknown danger. As I turned to see what had riled her, a tornado of women came plowing through the narrow bar, aimed directly at our booth.

The four women were drunkenly attempting to exact vengeance for some undisclosed insult by pulling hair, shoving bodies, and slapping whatever they could make contact with. They bounced through the aisle like a pinball of human destruction, inadvertently dragging others into their fray. By the time the brawl reached our unassuming location, there were four or five other people involved.

As I laid eyes on this mess of arms, hair, and insults, I realized that while these men and women were passionately defending themselves and their loved ones, they were not willing to put down their beverages. This made for a messy component of the quarrel that had found itself to our doorstep. Bottles of domestic beer spewed forth like dark amber volcanoes. Their golden, foamy magma erupted across the tumultuous terrain of the bar, falling to rest on our table, our pizza, and yes, on all of us. Unsure of how to proceed, Brian and I stood there, passively ensuring that no physical presence enter our little corner of the bar.

With the beer bottles emptied on our table, someone decided that the only use left for these glass carafes was for bludgeoning. In a high, overarm swing, we saw a man slam the base of a beer bottle into the back of another man's skull. With such force, I'd imagine that one or the other would have caved, but neither object seemed phased. Another bottle flew through the air, landing at my feet in tiny pieces. Imagining the damage that could be done with the dagger-like shards that remained, I slid the broken pieces under the booth and hoped no one would notice. The storm of drunken emotion seemed stalled in front of our table when the Kewanee police force arrived.

That's Our Cue, Exit Stage Left

Judging by the size of the town, I would argue that the majority of the police officers of the self appointed “Hog Capital of the World” were present. They began breaking up the fight, questioning people, and issuing citations. At that point, we decided to take our leave of our beloved Cerno's.

As we walked out, Brian leaned over and said,

“You always say you want to get into a fight. That was your chance.” A true statement, but I think I made the right choice. There were only a few probable outcomes to me joining that fray, and none looked promising:

1. I beat up a girl. I look like a jackass who hits women because he can't take on a real man. Some beefcake seeks retribution and I end up dying in the hog capital of the world.
2. I get my cranium crushed by a bottle of crappy, St. Louis brewed beer. At least if I am going to die at the hands of a beer, I want it to be a good one.
3. I survive the fray, only to be arrested for disturbing the peace, assault, or improper use of beer bottles. I spend a night in the Kewanee clink, next to a man charged with defacing a giant swine statue.

No matter how you cut it, this was not the fight I wanted to partake in. Not that I can really determine what an ideal fight would look like. I'd probably have ten of my biggest and closest friends with me, and I'd be hiding behind them yelling things like,

“Yeah, kick his ass!”

“Take that, punk!”

“That'll teach you!”

Until that day, I'll continue standing strong, ready to defend my family and friends from assault, but none-to-eager to dive into fisticuffs.

Phobophobia - Another Conversation on Fear

My wife is afraid of snakes. My wife is afraid of spirits. My wife is afraid of a diverse number of creepy-crawlers and heebie-jeebies. She's not crazy, paranoid, or irrational. She's just developed an aversion to some of the more culturally nefarious elements of the world.

At first, when I'd come across one of my wife's phobia's, I'd scoff. In my mind, the targets of her reticence are harmless and fascinating. I find a snake in the yard, it's my goal to catch it. A spider scampers across the ceiling, I collect it and deposit the eight-legged critter harmlessly outside.

But as we've learned to live together and compromise, I've stopped and thought more about fears. How do fears develop? What dictates the subjects of our anxiety?

Spiders, Snakes, Raccoons, and Skunks

Ever since I can remember, I have allayed any fears of physical creatures with a scientific perspective. As a camp counselor at Camp Eastman in Nauvoo, Illinois, we had several critter alerts come up. Over the course of my ten years at camp, we had warnings about raccoons, skunks, snapping turtles, cottonmouth rattlesnakes, and even bobcats and mountain lions.

Generally, the counselors would be put on alert to watch out for the appearance of these critters, but no serious action would be taken. As high school and college men, we'd generally take matters into our own hands. On a lazy July afternoon, we'd be lounging in our bunks, evading the searing rays of a Midwestern sun. Suddenly a voice would cut through the humid atmosphere,

“Snake!”

Like firemen to a blaze, we'd launch from our beds, grabbing whatever forked stick we could find, and search out the serpent-warning siren. Upon arrival we'd generally find one or two staff members dancing skittishly around a writhing, black line. If they were younger scouts the drama of the situation would get the better of them, and they'd be bound and determined that this was the most poisonous snake you'd ever seen.

“It's a black mamba!”

“No! It's a Cobra!”

“I think it's a baby anaconda!”

Generally it was a black-rat snake. The species is harmless to humans, but tended to be an inch in diameter and up to three feet long. This made them an exciting find for the staff, and we'd corral the beast for observation in the nature center. Whomever brandished a forked stick would aim for trapping the head of the snake, while the rest of us would use other branches to keep the animal from scurrying into the nearby trees. Clad in ankle-high hiking boots, there was little fear of a bite. But one summer, there were verifiable reports of a cottonmouth snake on camp property. It was a serious threat, as we were working with scouts who could weigh as little as 60 pounds. If they got bit by such a snake, their was a serious threat of death, so the administration developed an emergency snake bite plan. We had weekly drills to simulate such an emergency.

If we heard the words “Snake Bite” over the radio, we all had our marching orders. Some of us were to report to the site of the incident to keep other campers calm and administer medical attention. Others were in charge of pursuing the snake in an attempt to trap and identify the species. My duty was to meet the ambulance at the front gate and lead them to the camper.

After a couple of times practicing snake drills, we'd fashioned ourselves into a well-oiled machine. We hit our marks, radioed confirmation, and saved the mock-victims. But after a few weeks of silence on the snake front, we were itching for some action. Then one day, the nature director's voice crackled over the radio,

“We've got a snake sited down at Pete's Pond. I think she's the one. Anyone above 18 free for some snake wrangling, please report.”

In full sprint, I met two other college-aged staffers in the parade grounds outside the mess hall. We made the 300+ yard dash in seconds, despite the heat and hiking boots working against us. When we arrived, Mike had already gathered several snake catchers – 7 foot PVC pipes with a looped coil at the end for snaring a serpent. When we arrived, he stopped us ten feet from the water.

“She's down there by the reeds. Quiet down so you don't scare her off.”

We divided up and circled the area. The key was getting bodies on all sides of the animal, so as to block any escape. The problem was that the snake could easily duck under the water and disappear, or worse yet, charge one of us and get a bite off before we could stop her. But we were there to end this once and for all.

We jockeyed for position and waited for Mike's signal. When we were all prepared, we all moved in on the creature. We strategically pushed the snake toward the shore and, as she began moving toward the reeds and tall grass, Mike expertly snagged her by the neck. One of the staffers had a five gallon bucket standing by, and slammed down the lid as the last of the beasts slithering body passed the lip. She was not happy. But she was contained.

After the Department of Natural Resources reviewed the animal, they determined that it was in fact a cottonmouth snake, and a big one at that. The snake was over four feet long. 

She was also pregnant.

Apocalypse, Now?

With the relatively recent resurgence of zombie-hype, it seems that we've had an over abundance of end of world, cataclysmic event pop-culture in the last few years. Don't get me wrong, I love this genre. But I consume it with an eyebrow raised and with a large dose of skepticism.

Earlier today, I got a text from Brian, who said,

“do you know about the singularity? have you heard about this? it's the single thing that scares me the most”

Needless to say, I didn't have a clue what he was talking about, but the fact that it had Brian spooked warranted some deeper investigation.

From the Wikipedia entry that Brian sent me, I've gleaned that singularity is when miniscule robots are used to take heal humans, but eventually lead to humankind living forever, as bionic-man like entities.

To some, this might sound like an awesome prospect. If we can live forever, what is there to fear? But to Brian, this was terrifying. To quote:

“...This, to my protestant-raised brain, sounds an awful lot like the devil...think about that: everyone would be forced to choose between a life of faith, which equals death, or a life of certainty, which equals eternal life. Who would be brave enough to choose death? To allow for the possibility of nothingness, when the other side can "promise" everything? To me, that sounds so much like the bible it's not even funny. I hope I die before the singularity so that I don't have to choose sides...”

So basically, this is a theological, philosophical fear. So, like Annie's fear of snakes and spiders, I empathize with Brian’s fear. But I cannot say that I share his fear. It's not that it wouldn't be scary. The actual event of a nanobot takeover sounds downright terrifying. But I am not one to dwell on fear-mongering what-ifs. In the event of a cyber-biological invasion, I'll be one of the first ones hightailing it to a remote part of the countryside. But until then, what's the point of fretting?

The Fear I Fear

I don't want to sound like some butch, uber-machismo, douche bag. I have anxiety. I can be jumpy. But it's things internal, not external, that I fear.

I fear failure. I fear scorn. I fear disdain. It's the feeling that I have let someone down that really gets to me. So yes. I am afraid.

I am intrigued by the idea of fear. Why do we do it? What causes the emotion of fear? Please write in about your fears and phobias. Tell me where you think they came from and what you've done to cope with the things that frighten you.

Love is a Many Splendid Thing

Love.

The word gets thrown around with reckless abandon.

"I love cheese pizza!"

"I love my Grammy and Pappy!"

"I love Justin Bieber!"

I love to throw up in my mouth when I hear that last one. The Ancient Greeks had three words to define the varying emotions we try to encapsulate with this one, lackadaisical noun. Or verb. Whatever.

Love, Love? (Paltrow and Wilson, Royal Tenenbaums)

When you type the word into any given online dictionary, you'll get dozens of definitions ranging from infatuation to tennis. mix these definitions up, splash them into the majority of pop culture, and it's no wonder that the majority of the world is thoroughly verklempt over the concept of love.

As I sit here in this shopping mall food court, you may think that I am going to definitively determine a universal term for love.

I am not.


Top 10 Things I love

This is a list of things that I love. Some are what you might call familial or brotherly love, some are passionate or creative love, and yes, one is romantic love. So here's to love:


Coffee - As potentially unhealthy as it may be, I love drinking thick, black, dregs of coffee. I like my coffee like I like my guard gorillas --  black and strong. I've adopted a couple of different stigmas for drinking coffee. The first comes from working with farmers, where adding a deluge of milk and sugar to coffee is weak and often not available. Drink it quick, drink it black, and get back to work.

The other comes from working in the boutique coffee industry. Coffee snobs love to look down their pointy proboscis', through their jet black sludge, and dash diminutive daggers at anyone affecting the purest form of caffeinated bliss. Don't sugar your coffee. So in order to get through both the physical and mental rigors of 4am shifts at Starbucks, I learned to love the raw, unadulterated goodness of black coffee.

This is definitely a passion love, similar to "cheese pizza" love.


Bourbon Whiskey - It may be folly, or at least liver cringing, but I truly love bourbon. This love comes with a healthy dose of knowledge and experience with the caramel colored beverage. Just as some people can nose a glass of wine and pick up notes of pear or chrysanthemum, I truly enjoy identifying the nuanced goodness of a good glass of well-made bourbon whiskey. Best imbibed neat, or with a single cube to give it a slight chill, I love good bourbon because of the implicit emotion attached of sharing the beverage with good friends. That is the emotional root of my piety towards Kentucky-made Whiskey.

Again, another "cheese pizza" love. But so much better than cheese pizza.

Grandpa Leroy and I, discussing family history...I think.

My heritage - I know that everyone hopes that they've got some piece of important history hiding in the branches of their family tree -- The inventor of the mousetrap, survivors of the Russian Gulag, or the man who coined the phrase "Psych!". But in the end, most of us come from ordinary people.

And that's what I love. Mundane stories of the hard-working, rough-edged, common folks that contributed to my deoxyribonucleic acid make me proud of where I came from. Whether it be the stories from fifty years ago or the taller tales of Austrian nobility, I am fascinated by the culture from which I am created.

This love is born out of filial piety. Mark it in the "Grammy and Pappy" category.


Music - I really tried to come up with a way to narrow this one down. Good music? Too subjective. Music that has deeper meaning than pop-trash that graces the airwaves of most top 40 stations? Two dismissive. I will admit that many of the older artists I love are complete sellouts. I love to groove to Prince, even though I'm fairly certain that much of his music has no deeper meaning, only sexual allusions and Crayola colors.

Sometimes you cannot turn away some music, based solely on its genre, instrumentation, or artist. Music speaks to you in different way at different times, and can have amazing affect on people. Watching my wife learn about the scientific and prescriptive uses of music in therapy astounds me again and again as I see an even greater application for the art form that touches my soul like no other.

Music. Score one more for the "Cheese Pizza" love.

Richard Harrod and I, enjoying the outdoors at Ol' MC

Outside - The early vestiges of each season catch me by surprise like the sight of an old friend after years of distance. Each seasonal change has an invigorating scent that permeates every pore of my body. If you were to ask me to name my favorite season, I would name each for its own unique reason.

Ever since I was a child, I've loved being in nature. On my grandfathers farm, at Boy Scout Camp, and even at college -- I've felt the most at home out of doors.

This is another one of those great appreciation loves...a big, all natural, "Cheese Pizza" love.


Brian - Brian Wilcoxon is my best friend. As potentially emasculating as it may sound, I love Brian. The one man who truly thinks on the same level as me -- on every level. Brian and I are in-sync on many things -- our love of learning, creative passions, and boy bands.

I've had friends come and go, fade and resurface. I do not begrudge any of them for our current status. But Brian's a friendship I truly cherish. (This does not mean I don't love my other friends. Brian simply hits the top of the chart.)

My love for Brian falls in the "Grammy and Pappy" category. Brotherly love is next to familial love in my book.


Knowledge - "Knowledge is power". "Knowing is half the battle". "The more you know." Damn, I love knowledge. Learning is one of the most enjoyable things I have ever done. As nerd-tastic as that sounds, It's true. I don't care what the subject, I just am smitten with acquiring more knowledge. Book-smarts or street-smarts, it matters not. I am a consumer for the information of the world. Because with the correct knowledge, I believe that you can achieve almost anything. I know that sounds sappy, but it's true.

Another "cheese pizza" love. Or more aptly put, an "everything pizza" kind of love.


My parents - I will admit that they drive me crazy sometimes. I don't always understand them either. But my mother and father are pretty awesome, if you think about it.

This category falls into a similar vein as "My heritage", but is closer to home. I am continually seeing traits in myself, both positive and negative, and finding similar attributes in my parents. The whole concept is fascinating to me. In some ways I am completely like my parents, in others, it's a complete 180. Regardless of the specifics, I truly appreciate everything my mother and father have done to make me the man I am today.

Although they may resent the title, they fall into the category of "Grammy and Pappy" love.


Eleanor - This little dog is friggin' adorable! She has more character than any other pet I've ever owned. She is the biggest sass ever packed into an over-sized wiener dog, yet I feel a deep affection for my dog. More than I remember feeling for any of my previous dogs, cats, or turtles.

When she army-crawls across the floor to see me, howls a hound-dog greeting as I come in the front door, or discusses the conflicts in the middle-east in her low-warbled growl, I melt. Against all gumption, I love this dog.

Definitely a familial, "Grammy and Pappy" love for my pooch.

The love of my life

Annie - What can I say about this woman? It is nye impossible to come up with words that get even close to the emotions that well up in my soul when I think of her. My best friend, my biggest fan, and my truest critic, all in one beautiful, amazing, scintillating body. She is everything I need, and everything I want. She tells me when I am being ridiculous, and begs me to be more insane.

My wife is perfect. Objectively perfect.


Because of that, she is definitely a "Justin Bieber" kind of love. The only difference is that she wont fade away in a few years.