Field Trip

"Two roads diverged in a wood, and I -- I took the one less traveled by, and that has made all the difference."
-Robert Frost

So while the guy from this poem was taking the road less traveled, I took the road to Beverages and More. As I stated earlier, I love this store. All the Scotch talk got me worked up. My bottle of 12 year Macallan was running low, so I thought to myself, "What the Hell. It's time for a field trip."

I picked up some German wheat beer, crackers, a few singles of booze, and a bottle of 16 year Lagavulin. Opening the bottle was almost a religious experience. 16 plus years ago some random person in Scotland went about the process of making this whiskey, labored over it, andhopefully embraced the process lovingly. As I am writing this I am sipping a part of a bottle of history. It's smoky, and peety and tastes the way that Scotch should taste. It takes me about one to two hours to drink a single.

Anyway, most of the time when you think of a Scotch drinker, you think of an old "gentleman" sitting by a roaring fire place, maybe smoking a pipe with some sort of hound asleep at his feet. At least that's what I think about when I think of Scotch drinker. But what really jumped out at me with this, is the idea of a gentleman. Where did this term come from, and what does it really mean?

I'd guess that this concept of the gentleman originated from the 17th or 18th century. At some point, people other than royalty weren't strictly tied to the land. They had time to enjoy life instead of just survive it. So attributes other than killing animals and growing crops or fighting off mauraders became prized.

Fast forward to the 21st century. Personally, I think the concept of a gentleman I think of the following: a man who embraces and enjoys the daily maintenace of life, i.e. shaving, cooking, personal hygene, clothing, but also gets down to cases in whatever their given profession is. It is a high standard to strive for, and I think it is as important now than it has ever been before.

That's what I've been thinking about as I have as I have been sipping my Scotch.

I ordered a pair of pants this week from an online vendor: http://www.bonobospants.com/. Ordering things online is always a dicey enterprise, but these pants fit like they were created specifically to cover my backside. They are nothing short of miraculous. I'm going to order some more pants at the end of this week. If anybody is out there looking for pants, this is a great place look.

All right. That's all I got in the tank right now. I've shined my shoes, I've got laundry in the dryer, and 3/4ths of a tank of gas in the car. Not sure about you, but I am ready to kick ass this week.

Namaste

Step Inside This House

Here's a book of poems I got
From a girl I used to know
I guess I read it front to back
Fifty times or so
It's all about the good life
And stayin' at ease with the world
It's funny how I love that book
And I never loved that girl
- taken from Step Inside This House by Lyle Lovett

The first time I ever heard and recognized Lyle Lovett was at Aunt Shelly's condo in California. The song was She's No Lady, She's My Wife. I had to be about 10 years old at the time. That song has been sort of an unofficial family anthem. It's been played at every wedding since it's release.

When I was growing up, and the adults had gotten good an liquored up in Granny and Gramp's kitchen, they would put on country music and two-step--that is not an exaggeration at all, just a straight forward fact from my nouveau shit-kicker childhood. She's No Lady was probably the song that got the most play. I heard Step Inside This House this morning on the radio. So I had to write something about Lyle and his music.

The image of "step inside this house" was also appropriate in light of my friend's house burning down. It seems like every decade or period of a person's life could be qualified as a "house," or a completed section of events and memories. The possessions seem to just be reminders of times and places spent with the people we care about. The rest is just crap that is taking up space. Maybe a "fire" is good once and awhile to clear out all the crap we have accumulated, and to remember why we are holding on to certain things. I'm not suggesting arson here, just a good mindful cleaning from time to time.

The other thing I have been thinking about this morning is Scotch whiskey. In college my roommate and I would break out the Scotch and have "brain trust" meetings. It was basically us getting loaded on Scotch and talking about what we hoped our futures would be. That's probably why I have a deep soft-spot in my soul for a good bottle of Scotch. When I get depressed or have had a super-bad day, I'll had to Beverages and More and just look at the Scotch botttles. For some reason it always makes me feel better.

Right now my big dream is to have a Fortress of Solitude in New Zealand. The idea is to have about 20 to 30 acres outside of a major town, build a modest ranch style house, and possibly raise sheep on the property. The crowning achievement of the property will be a big, beautiful bar and numerous bottles of high-end Scotch. I figure I am about 30 or 40 years away from creating such a place, but the thought is nice. At the very least, it's something that I can think about while I sip a fine Scotch after a long day at the office.

The Things He Lost in the Fire and Jerome the Barber, Part II

"The things you own end up owning you."
- Tyler Durden in Fight Club

"From the outside, loss has an almost spiritual, cleansing quality about it. Then again, loss is a lot easier to deal with when it's not your own."
- ZA

Last night started like any normal "last night." I got off work, got a Gatorade and headed to swim practice. I'm warmin' up, you know, just gettin' the kinks out, and I see one of my fellow Masters swimmers approach the pool and just lay down. It was just one of those moments when you know someone is out of sorts. I swim over to the wall, get out of the pool.

"You doing okay," I ask.
"Did you hear what happened?"
"No. What happened?"
"My house burned down."

When I hear this my first thought is, You don't live in San Diego. Then I realize that he means his house here in Arizona burned down. My eyes widen. Holy shit, this guy just lost his house.
I know that when shit happens to me I would need a long, hard swim to beat out the excess nervous energy. And I also know that I wouldn't want to be spending a lot of time alone.

"All right, dude. Well, not sure if you have any plans, but you are welcome to join me and some friends for dinner." He accepts, and we share a lane.

After the workout we head over to the remnants of his house. From the outside the place looks normal. We open the gate, and the entire side of the house is missing. I can see inside. It is dark, full of still wet insulation, and charred everything. The house smells like soot, sulfur, and something else chemical. I take a deep breath and think to myself, "This is the smell of loss."

The world can take a lot of things from you. It can take our job, your house--as I saw last night--a whole slew of possessions, etc. If you spend your life collecting objects thinking that it's your "Life" then losing everthing you own in a fire is going to sting pretty good. Fortunately, my fellow swimmer has spent most of his life helping people, building skills, traveling, etc. He's rattled, but this loss hasn't totally destroyed him. As my favorite blogger, Gordon Byrn, once said, "Collect experiences, not objects."

I'm still in the process of building my life right now. There's not a whole lot for me to lose. With that said, it was still really horrible to hear about somone I see regularly lost a lifetime of possessions. I think this has to do with the realization that it is entirely possible that the same thing could happen to me. That's the wild part.

So that's what I am thinking about: loss. Thinking about wanting to go buy some new shirts, but also recognizing that three $100 shirts are just material objects. That said, I have a real weak spot for a great looking dress shirt. I'm not going to fight this about myself, just recognize it and be aware of it.

Got a haircut yesterday. It turns out that Jerome the Barber was a courier in is younger years. He traveled to South America and Europe dropping stuff off. A couple times he had a metal brief case handcuffed to his arm. He said it was kind of cool, except that it was really hard to use the bathroom with a metal brief case handcuffed to your arm. It's something to think about.

Got some new running shoes today. The ones I had were trashed from the trail run adventure. The arch was totally shot, and the cushion was totally gone in the toe box. I'll break them in tomorrow morning. I'm going to try to do 30 runs in 30 days. I can already hear MAD telling me that this is a little overboard, but it's worth a shot.

That's all I got in the tank right now. We'll see if I have anything substantial to say tomorrow.

Namaste

Mr. Costello, Jerome the Barber, and Trail Running

"Women love men who love women. Make sure you tell them that, son. 'I love women.' You do that and you'll have so many you won't know what to do."
- John Costello on women

Before I metamorphasized into a competitive number cruncher, I was a competitive tennis player. I was fortunate enough to find a good coach and the opportunity to get a lot of playing time while I attended the University of San Francisco. One of the fringe benefits of playing at USF was our home court was The Olympic Club--the oldest athletic club in the United States and one of the most prestigious as well.

As part of the gig, all the guys on the team had to do grunt work for the Olympic Club. It was sort of an unwritten rule. Most of the time it just meant hitting with a club member, or checking out their stroke and giving feedback. And it was the latter case that introduced me to Mr. John Costello.

Their are very few hard facts about Mr. Costello; at this point the man is more legend and myth than anything else. One story holds that he made his money by winning the landmark age discrimination case. Another states that he made his money through several shrewd real estate investments. Irregardless of how he made his money, every one knew what Costello spent his money on: women.

As the story goes, I'm getting done with my match and just toweling off, and this old man on the court next to me offers to play a set for $100 USD per point. At the time I had about $40 in my checking account, and I started to salivate. Then I thought about USF's relationship with the Olympic Club might be slightly tainted if they found out that grifting was going on at the club. The challenge of course came from Costello. What came next truly blew me away.

"Never mind, son. I'm not at my best today and you only play for money when you know you are at your best. My girlfriend and my wife are fighting again, and my head isn't one-hundred percent here."

"Your wife and your girlfriend," I asked.

"Yeah. I've got this 22 year old Chinese gal, and she just has the best ****y I've ever had. Really, I've been with hundreds and hundreds of women, and hers is the best. How old are you son?"

"I'm 21, sir."

"How many women have you had sex with?"

"Ahh....I don't think that's any of your business, sir."

"Fine. Just know that the more women that you have, the more women will want you. It's true."

That is how I met John Costello. I was laying in bed a few nights ago and thought that I should write something about him, so this is it. He was truly inappropriate at times, but he was always genuine. With any luck he's gotten things resolved between his wife and his girlfriend. Those words on women nicely tie into my experience at the barber shop yesterday.

It took me three years, but I finally found a solid barber. His name is Lazaro and the man is a professional. I go into the barbershop yesterday, head towards Lazaro's station to see how long it will be, but there is no Lazaro. There is this other man there named "Ernie." I walked up to the counter and ask about Lazaro.

"Well, he had some paper work problems," says the man. Lazaro is a native of Mexico, and I have a sneaking suspicion that he was deported to Mexico for some idiotic reason, probably related to the Patriot Act. With this new knowledge, I take a seat and wait for the next chair to open up. A chair opens up all right and I take a seat. I introduce myself and I meet Jerome the Barber for the first time.

From what I know about the standard barber-patron relationship, barbers are usually depositories of great knowledge, but only dispense it when asked. I don't have any serious problems right now, so I am expecting this to be a pretty standard haircut: state I was a "two" on the side, clean up the top, and taper the back--done. Well, I give the marching orders, and then Jerome takes off on a trip I will not soon forget.

As it turns out, Jerome has been married three times--and he stated that he was probably not a very good husband. By far though, his favorite was #2. She paid her way through barber school "dancing." There is a brief silence after he said this, and then he follow up with, "Nude, you know."

"Well Jerome," I say, "I haven't heard of too many women paying there way through school as a ballerina."

Well as it turns out Wife #2 was into women as well. She would bring them home, and "share" with Jerome. According to him it was the greatest five years of his life.

After this whole wild, sexual tale--which was absolutely hysterical--I get out of the chair and see nothing but a sea of parents--mostly mothers--with their little boys waiting for haircuts. The huge grin on my face drops as I think, "How much of that did they hear?" Anyway, Jerome gave me a solid haircut, and some wild stories.

Yesterday was my first trail run ever. It is by the most challenging run I have ever done. It was a seven-mile course that I expected to be a nice little run in the desert. I was dead wrong. I felt like I was riding a psychotic horse to a burning barn. The footing was poor, the terrain fit for the guys in the French Foreign Legion, and the other runners were running each other over. It was horrible. Lesson learned: be wary of trail running.

That's all I got right now. I am terribly sore, but feel like I really developing a deep cardio base. We'll see how it all pans out come January 13, 2008.

Namaste

Double Generation Gap

"The lessons of the past are ignored and obliterated in a contemporary antagonism known as the generation gap. "
- Spiro Agnew

A friend of mine admitted to me that they had secretly been keeping a blog. She trusted me enough to send me the link. While I was reading the material, I came across one entry she wrote about her little cousin's fascination with Cinderella. We all know the story: a beautiful woman is basically kept hostage by her step-mother, and then through a series of miraculous events, she and Prince Charming live happily ever after. I spent a good chunk of time afterwards thinking about the "happily ever after" idea, and I am beginning to think it is this idea that has caused a great deal of suffering in a many people lives.

Personally, I think the fairy tale ideal of perfect is an absolute crock of shit. Life is not perfect, but growing up I watched a lot of that Disney horse shit because it was supposed to be good, wholesome entertainment. Now there isn't any heavy duty swearing or sex in Disney cartoons, but they do put into a little kid's head that things end perfectly. Growing up with this idea of "perfect" created a completely delusional ideal. I don't know about any of you, but have you ever ridden off into the sunset, or even heard about someone riding off into the sunset? That sort of thing just doesn't happen.

This got me thinking about my grandparent's generation--the so called Greatest Generation. My grandpa on my mother's side was born around 1920, probably around the time that World War I had ended. His father grew up in Belfast, right after the Potato Famine had ended and thousands of people died of starvation. He probably grew up hearing stories about hard times in Ireland. My grandpa would experience the Great Depression, and later serve in World War II. Based on all of his life's experiences, I don't get the impression that he grew up with "happily ever after" mentality. If anything, I think he grew up with a sense that Life is always going to be unpredictable, often times severely unfair; you get through it by rolling up your sleeves and getting to work.

Now I don't think that my grandpa lived in a simpler time. But I do believe that things were a lot less sanitized in his time than they are now. Some of us know people who have lost their lives in the conflict in Iraq, but for the most part if we don't like what's going on in the Middle East we just change the channel. Back then, bodies were being shipped home from World War II, and the more bodies that were shipped home the more War Bonds people bought. Things weren't simpler, they were different.

As I look at what I see as the times my grandparents lived in, I'm beginning to really get a sense of why family was so important to them, and why they made it such a priority to spend time together. My grandfather has been quoted as saying, "The McGill family is the most exclusive club in the world. The only way in is through birth or marriage." It's a total rip off of a quote from Joe Kennedy, but it tells me a lot about his view of the world. In challenging, tumultous times, only your family is going to really support you. During good times, they are going to be there to remind you that the bad times weren't that far away, so enjoy the good spots while they are here. With my Irish family, this usually involves a great meal and a good drink.

One of the big ones that I am starting to get a handle on is that Life really is a dynamic, full bodied experience. You are going to get knocked down. Sometimes you will get knocked down so fucking hard, you won't know if you can get up. Irregardless, you get up. Other times, things just fall into place, and it's magical. Other times, you are just somewhere in the middle: going to work each day, gutting things out, dealing with situations that are mildly annoying. But that's Life.