There's a lot I'd like to be doing right now. Not now now, but at this stage in my life now. Exercise more, pray more, read my Bible more often, get more writing done, do more work on my magazines, get more work published, work more with our business, get my home office cleaned so I have room to actually DO a lot of this stuff....
But as much as I'd like to be doing right now, I have even more excuses for not doing it. I'm busy. The kids are loud. I'm too tired. I'm beset by constant interruptions. There's no room. It doesn't matter anyway. I'll have more time, and more focus, when...
I even have excuses for my solutions. I started getting up an hour earlier in order to put in a solid block of writing each day. But, dangit, 3am is early.
But of course, each of these excuses boils down to a single, fundamental truth: I'm not really all that disciplined. If you're familiar at all with me, or with this blog, you've probably noticed I tend to get easily distracted.
Of course, that's one of the reasons I started this blog -- as a way to both hold myself accountable for my goals and to give positive direction to my split attentions.
And, of course, to help those who are in the same boat I am.
So do I have a solution to my issues? Some. The fact is, while excuses are annoying, they are often valid. There are, indeed, only 24 hours in a day, and I have to sleep during some of them. During others I have to work. I have responsibilities to my home and family. These things are unchangeable. What I can change, though, is what I do with the time I have available. Am I reading to or playing with my kids, or playing Angry Birds? Am I writing, or am I watching TV? Am I spending time with God, or surfing the internet?
It's true that I don't have a lot of extra time available -- but I do have the choice about whether I use it wisely or continue to waste it.
Saturday, July 23, 2011
Monday, July 11, 2011
"At Least I'm Not Like All Those Other Old Guys"
So, I was driving the minivan home from work, blasting Kid Rock's "Bawitdaba," with my windows rolled down, when it suddenly occurred to me: Yeah -- I'm that guy. The guy with four car seats in the back but a CD case filled with the kind of music that makes even my wife cringe a little.
Understand, I grew up on Crashdog and Vengeance Rising -- much to my mother's chagrin. I still recall with fondness the day she walked in on my teenage self listening to "Cashists, Fascists, and Other Fungus" and shouting at me.
"They're yelling at you!"
"It's Crashdog, Mom. You bought me the album."
"But they're yelling at you."
"Yes, that's why I bought it. I don't remember paying you to yell at me!"
This argument, it should be needless to mention, did NOT win me points with Mom.
At some point, that kid grew up. And much like back then, I'm a very respectful guy, until you tell me what I'm supposed to be listening to. I suppose much of my generation has outgrown the drums and the screaming, and the crunching guitars. To be sure, my musical tastes certainly stretch far beyond this, but at heart, I'll always be that kid in the mosh pit. In spirit anyway.
I've been coming to terms recently with the fact that I am getting older. I suppose at some point when I wasn't looking, the illusion of immortality wore off -- but I've never gotten used to the idea that I'm supposed to be an adult now. I'm still not entirely sure what that even means. I have a wife and four kids. A job and bills. Cars that break down, and responsibilities I don't remember signing on for. And I'm thankful every day for all of it. So is that being an adult? Or does it mean that I'm supposed to leave behind pieces of my individuality, too; my daydreams that I turn into stories, my intense desire to find humor where most people find frustration, simply because I'm afraid of what will happen to my sanity if I take those things too seriously?
These are the questions that crop up as I prepare for work and my overweight, 33-year-old visage glares back at me from the mirror, while I studiously ignore the gray hairs I've long since given up pulling out of my goatee. I dress myself in t-shirts and the occasional polo, having decided years ago that life's too short for neckties. If I go out in public, my middle-age-guy uniform consists of a polo shirt, camo shorts and skater shoes -- like a wearable mullet for the aging Nirvana generation.
So, yeah... on the inside, I'm pretty much the same as I've always been (maybe -- hopefully -- a little wiser), while on the outside it's a struggle to maintain a shirt-size you can still buy at Wal-Mart. I have a bad back and a trick knee -- and another knee that just seems to not like me very much. This was all brought home to me a couple years ago at the last metal show I caught, in Allentown, PA.
I should start by saying that, when my friend asked me if I wanted to go in on some tickets, I was beyond excited. I hadn't been to a hardcore/metal concert since college, and not only was Demon Hunter -- a current favorite -- headlining, but there was the added enticement of college nostalgia: Living Sacrifice was getting back together, and THIS was also their reunion tour. The fact that, of the 4 guys in the car, I was the senior by more than 10 years didn't really bother me so much. Didn't really occur to me, in fact, except to silently note that a post-show beer run was absolutely out of the question.
And then the first of the four bands hit the stage, and the mohawked and pierced college kids hit the pit. That's when I became suddenly and uncomfortably aware of who I was. Ten, fifteen years ago, I was one of those kids, dodging feet and elbows, planting one boot on the hardwood, as my head went its own way and my arms pushed and pulled with the crowd.
My first thought in Allentown: "Somebody's gonna lose an eye."
I remember when I was younger, there were always guys on the fringes of the pit. Those guys who were too old, or tired, or out of shape to mix it up with the rest of us. These guys were always a little mythic to me (at least, that's the way I remember it now). There they stood, just on the outside. And while they weren't in the dust and blood with the rest of us, they still rocked out. And not only that, but kept it just a little safer for everyone. I don't know that I fully understood it back then, but in Allentown, I joined those noble ranks. Maybe my knees and back couldn't deal with the pit. Maybe I was too out of shape to mix it up. But I could stand at the outside, keeping celebrants from being trampled; shoving overzealous revelers back into the throng, and making sure that, if somebody had to catch an elbow, it wouldn't be the wallflowers and teenage girls behind me.
Am I experiencing an early midlife crisis? Is my love of loud music may way of clinging to my lost youth? I guess there are as many answers to that as there are overpaid therapists. All I know is, I get to work on time, I love my wife and kids, and if my music's not pissing off the old ladies in the car next to me, it's not loud enough.
Now get off my lawn.
"They're yelling at you!"
"It's Crashdog, Mom. You bought me the album."
"But they're yelling at you."
"Yes, that's why I bought it. I don't remember paying you to yell at me!"
This argument, it should be needless to mention, did NOT win me points with Mom.
At some point, that kid grew up. And much like back then, I'm a very respectful guy, until you tell me what I'm supposed to be listening to. I suppose much of my generation has outgrown the drums and the screaming, and the crunching guitars. To be sure, my musical tastes certainly stretch far beyond this, but at heart, I'll always be that kid in the mosh pit. In spirit anyway.
I've been coming to terms recently with the fact that I am getting older. I suppose at some point when I wasn't looking, the illusion of immortality wore off -- but I've never gotten used to the idea that I'm supposed to be an adult now. I'm still not entirely sure what that even means. I have a wife and four kids. A job and bills. Cars that break down, and responsibilities I don't remember signing on for. And I'm thankful every day for all of it. So is that being an adult? Or does it mean that I'm supposed to leave behind pieces of my individuality, too; my daydreams that I turn into stories, my intense desire to find humor where most people find frustration, simply because I'm afraid of what will happen to my sanity if I take those things too seriously?
These are the questions that crop up as I prepare for work and my overweight, 33-year-old visage glares back at me from the mirror, while I studiously ignore the gray hairs I've long since given up pulling out of my goatee. I dress myself in t-shirts and the occasional polo, having decided years ago that life's too short for neckties. If I go out in public, my middle-age-guy uniform consists of a polo shirt, camo shorts and skater shoes -- like a wearable mullet for the aging Nirvana generation.
So, yeah... on the inside, I'm pretty much the same as I've always been (maybe -- hopefully -- a little wiser), while on the outside it's a struggle to maintain a shirt-size you can still buy at Wal-Mart. I have a bad back and a trick knee -- and another knee that just seems to not like me very much. This was all brought home to me a couple years ago at the last metal show I caught, in Allentown, PA.
I should start by saying that, when my friend asked me if I wanted to go in on some tickets, I was beyond excited. I hadn't been to a hardcore/metal concert since college, and not only was Demon Hunter -- a current favorite -- headlining, but there was the added enticement of college nostalgia: Living Sacrifice was getting back together, and THIS was also their reunion tour. The fact that, of the 4 guys in the car, I was the senior by more than 10 years didn't really bother me so much. Didn't really occur to me, in fact, except to silently note that a post-show beer run was absolutely out of the question.
And then the first of the four bands hit the stage, and the mohawked and pierced college kids hit the pit. That's when I became suddenly and uncomfortably aware of who I was. Ten, fifteen years ago, I was one of those kids, dodging feet and elbows, planting one boot on the hardwood, as my head went its own way and my arms pushed and pulled with the crowd.
My first thought in Allentown: "Somebody's gonna lose an eye."
I remember when I was younger, there were always guys on the fringes of the pit. Those guys who were too old, or tired, or out of shape to mix it up with the rest of us. These guys were always a little mythic to me (at least, that's the way I remember it now). There they stood, just on the outside. And while they weren't in the dust and blood with the rest of us, they still rocked out. And not only that, but kept it just a little safer for everyone. I don't know that I fully understood it back then, but in Allentown, I joined those noble ranks. Maybe my knees and back couldn't deal with the pit. Maybe I was too out of shape to mix it up. But I could stand at the outside, keeping celebrants from being trampled; shoving overzealous revelers back into the throng, and making sure that, if somebody had to catch an elbow, it wouldn't be the wallflowers and teenage girls behind me.
Am I experiencing an early midlife crisis? Is my love of loud music may way of clinging to my lost youth? I guess there are as many answers to that as there are overpaid therapists. All I know is, I get to work on time, I love my wife and kids, and if my music's not pissing off the old ladies in the car next to me, it's not loud enough.
Now get off my lawn.
Saturday, July 2, 2011
Bottle Collecting
In the next couple of weeks, I hope to be working on my Mr. Beer Irish Stout -- that being the second of the two cans of prepared wort extract my wife bought me for my birthday. In the meantime, I'm working on collecting brown bottles for the end game.
The kit my wife bought came with several bottles -- 1-liter plastic -- which are excellent for home use. But if you want to share, well... let's just say I don't like to let finite resources out of the house, when I can help it. Plus, while anytime I open a standard bottle, I know I'm going to finish it, the same cannot be said for the liter. Sometimes, I'm just not in the mood for that much (this is what happens when you drink for taste rather than drunkenness) at a time, which means the liter has to be recapped and stored in the fridge for later. In theory, there's no problem with this, I just don't like having less than a single glass left over... which happens a lot.
So all of that's a roundabout way to say that, simply for the sake of convenience, I'm switching to glass 12-oz bottles.
Of course, as with anything worth doing, there's more than one way to go about it. In this case, I do have the option of buying a case of bottles from the supplier. On the other hand, I could go to a local beer store (like CJ's in Potsdam) and buy the bottles there. Either way they need to be recapped. This second method is a bit more expensive per bottle, but then, as these more expensive bottles also come with beer inside them, there are definitely compensations.
Yesterday's supply of bottles came with Lake Placid Brewing's India Pale Ale in them, a slightly darker brew, with a very hoppy taste and citric aftertaste. A couple years ago, I'd have scoffed at the very idea of India Pale Ale, but this was from ignorance rather than experience. A friend of mine (also, coincidentally, named Randy) was the first to suggest that I may find the style enjoyable. Actually, this same friend is the one with whom I discovered one of my favorite craft brews. That's a good story -- remind me to tell it some time.
The point being that, in beer -- as in life (or anything else worth pursuing) -- it never hurts to open your mind. You may well find that your prejudices and predilections have more to do with your own misinformed perceptions than anything resembling reality. Case in point, my beer horizons have expanded pretty dramatically since my days in college, when I enjoyed my Killians and Sam Adams and Guinness. I no longer go straight for the red ales and stouts when I'm looking for a good beer -- I now find I'm always on the lookout for a good IPA.
And on that note, the Lake Placid India Pale Ale is one that will always find a home in my refrigerator. It's strong enough to make its point, and smooth (and flavorful) enough to make me get a second. As a matter of fact, I do believe it may go very well with this evening's fireworks...
 |
| The Mr. Beer kit bottles are useful, particularly for carbonating. The plastic does provide for an easier test for carbonation. But there are drawbacks, too. |
So all of that's a roundabout way to say that, simply for the sake of convenience, I'm switching to glass 12-oz bottles.
Of course, as with anything worth doing, there's more than one way to go about it. In this case, I do have the option of buying a case of bottles from the supplier. On the other hand, I could go to a local beer store (like CJ's in Potsdam) and buy the bottles there. Either way they need to be recapped. This second method is a bit more expensive per bottle, but then, as these more expensive bottles also come with beer inside them, there are definitely compensations.
 |
| I didn't take this picture. |
The point being that, in beer -- as in life (or anything else worth pursuing) -- it never hurts to open your mind. You may well find that your prejudices and predilections have more to do with your own misinformed perceptions than anything resembling reality. Case in point, my beer horizons have expanded pretty dramatically since my days in college, when I enjoyed my Killians and Sam Adams and Guinness. I no longer go straight for the red ales and stouts when I'm looking for a good beer -- I now find I'm always on the lookout for a good IPA.
And on that note, the Lake Placid India Pale Ale is one that will always find a home in my refrigerator. It's strong enough to make its point, and smooth (and flavorful) enough to make me get a second. As a matter of fact, I do believe it may go very well with this evening's fireworks...
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