Review: Yards Thomas Jefferson’s Tavern Ale

Mortimer bought my dinner. A big plate of steaming fresh crow.

I received an anonymous telegram this morning. The cryptic messaging could only have come from him, in a futile attempt to be clever and evade authority.

Carlyle STOP I was truant to our rendezvous STOP Plan has changed STOP Staying at our place STOP Do not think me dead STOP

I had been certain he’d botched the job and gotten himself killed in the process. I’d pulled him out of close calls, away from deals gone bad, and out of the clutches of debt collectors a few too many times to ever assume anything he did had worked out as planned. I’m not sure why I thought this job would be any different. My brother is about as trustworthy as a street urchin when your back is turned, but he is still my brother.

I made my way to the Stonewall Tavern in Oxfordshire, hoping to finally catch up to him and get the full story. The dingy little cottage-turned-inn hadn’t changed much in the years I’d been in America. A bit more moss on the crumbling stone walls, a mess of ivy climbing the rotting wooden window sills, but the same old Stonewall I’d loved in my youth. Even the old sign was still intact, hanging lazily from two ornamented wrought iron hooks above the door.

The building was familiar, but the staff and patrons were not. My cos had told me of a feud gone bad several years after I boarded a ship to the new lands, in which the former owners had been murdered in their sleep over a few missing sheep worth less than a half crown. The new owners hadn’t done much with the decor; the inside of the tavern reeked of moldy ale and burnt lamb stew.

The barkeep eyed me suspiciously, keeping half his gaze on the short dagger I keep on my hip. I’d been a pariah in Mary-land for wearing the blade out in public, but I did not feel safe without it. Someone in my line of work is wise to keep his knife as sharp as his tongue. I often felt I was out of place in this newly emerging world. Long gone were the days of cloaks and blades, replaced by pea coats and gunpowder.

I ordered the tavern’s signature ale, and waited. Mortimer was not in the common area, but I expected as much. He wasn’t the brightest fellow, but he had a knack for hiding. Being craven gave him a certain longevity, all the result of his uncanny ability to disappear in plain sight. I quaffed the heavy golden liquid, letting the alcohol settle my thoughts and send my mind swimming languidly into a mildly drunken stupor.

Several men behind me were arguing about the state of affairs in the Americas, debating how things had changed in the wake of Thomas Jefferson’s death some twenty years prior. I could tell from their threadbare clothes and crude guttural speech these were an uneducated bunch, speaking of things they didn’t know and had never seen. I was certain that these men could not even read the most basic of writing, so their mindless argument was built of the worst kind of backwoods rumor mongering and poisoned truth.

As I finished my second pint, I noticed a commotion outside the tavern. The dim light inside made it impossible to make out many details through the ancient glass windows, but I could see a group of men and horses, some with lanterns, others with rifles. The tallest of them was barking orders.

I knew they were here for Mortimer. The peasants broke their conversation and made for the back door. As they scurried out of harm’s way, I could hear other men shouting as they surrounded the building. I slipped up next to the front door, pressing my back against the wall to hide my frame.

They may have known Mortimer was inside, but there were two things they wouldn’t be prepared for: me and my knife.

I’d made a living out of killing. There would be blood tonight. And it wouldn’t be mine, or Mortimer’s.

The influence of the colonies was felt strongly, even here in the heart of Britain.

Be a Bigger Pansy

Being a person who was brought up on British comedy, I’m likely to say words like, “bollocks”, “bugger”, and most importantly for this post, “pansy.”

The original context of the word as I know it is: “Don’t be a pansy.”

Don’t be a wuss. Don’t be a coward. Don’t be a little noodle-armed sissy-man. There are dozens of ways to say this, but for whatever reason, “pansy” was always my favorite pejorative for those who copped out of tough situations.

Until today.

As I was walking to a client presentation, I came across a single pansy growing out of a crack in the sidewalk. It was a perfect little flower; purple and white and beautiful, rising up from the concrete like an idealized little microcosm of nature triumphing over industry. He was strong and bold. He was the least “pansy” pansy I’ve ever seen.

I had one of those moments where everything I knew seemed wrong. Here was this dainty little flower, not giving a shit and kicking ass. He has almost no room to grow, but did that stop him? Nope. He had so few nutrients in that dirty sidewalk crack, but did that stop him from turning into a vividly colorful flower. Not at all. Did he get trampled on by all sorts of inconsiderate passers-by? No, he stood up tall.

He is a perfect example of something making the best of a shitty situation.

You think you’ve got it rough? That the whole world likes to kick you in your most tender and private parts, just when you had recovered from having those same parts kicked just recently? You think you’ve got it harder than anyone – nay anything – on this planet?

Next time you think like that, think of this pansy instead. Life dealt him a Jack-Two, off-suit. But he didn’t fold, no, he went all in. His little seed settled into the crevice that would become his world, and he embraced it for all its paven glory. He said, “eff you world, this is my life and I’m gonna grow and live and be so cool that random people will stop and take pictures of how awesome I am.”

And he did. See for yourself:

Purple pansy ponders prosperity.

Ode to a Favorite Cat

Yesterday we lost a family member. His name was Boddington (named after the beer, imagine that in my family). He was one of the greatest cats I have ever known.

This is for my mother, his mother, the greatest mom and cat-mom to ever grace this planet with her kindness. Her devotion to her cats is something of legend. Her love of life is unrivaled. She is a living model of compassion and selflessness.

Ode to a Favorite Cat 

Although I will not be around to wake you with meows,
Do not mourn my passing, for my life was sweet.
I had years and years of love and purrs,
A life that cats in the street dream endlessly of.

I have gone to a place where the weather is clear,
Rain never rustles my shiny coat;
I’ve gone to a place where the bowl is never empty,
And I never get fat.

The birds give perfect sport, the mice are clumsy and plentiful,
The grass I eat is soft, never makes me sick;
The rays of sun passing through the windows always make a perfect spot for me to bask,
And I can roll on my back without fear.

I will miss you as you miss me,
But know that I am with my brothers, Tom, J.R.;
In this place I am not sick, but in the prime of my life,
I am strong and fast and silly as a cat should be.

While my physical strength has left me,
I remain powerful in your heart;
As long as you remember my playful biting and relentless cries,
I will live forever.

Although I will not be around to sleep on your feet,
Do not mourn my passing, for my life was sweet.
You gave me something that makes life worth living,
Love, companionship, and an embrace so warm it can never fade.

We love you Boddington. You will be missed more than you know.

(Inspiration found here)

Rest well my noisy friend, our hearts are bigger and sweeter for having known you.

Full Frontal Phlebotomy

Sorry folks, no beer today.

Instead of putting fluids into my body, I’ve signed up to have them taken out.

I’m donating bone marrow on May 11th to treat my father’s leukemia. This means the Johns Hopkins Hospital Phlebotomy staff get to have their way with me, whenever they want. I’ve never really loved needles, but I’ve also never feared them. I can’t really be mad at the needles though, they’re just trying to do their job.

They’ve taken a lot of blood from my 5’7, 150lb frame. Twenty-two vials two months ago, sixteen vials yesterday, a pint and little bit today. If not for that “Hospital” word being on every sign on every wall, I’d think this place was run by not-so-subtle vampires.

The hospital staff seems astonished at how healthy I am. I find this a bit surprising, as I’m pretty inconsistent with taking care of my body. I hope they don’t notice the extreme level of hops and barley that I assume have permeated my blood. Or the overabundance of caffeine that, given my coffee intake, has probably mutated my red cells into hazelnut hybrids.

But what’s a little blood and marrow for my Dad? For all he’s defended me from, all he’s taught me, all he’s paid for, the least I can do is give him a few bags of my vital fluids. I just think back to all those times he helped me up off the soccer field when I was legitimately hurt, and all those times he told me to walk it off when I was being a wuss. All those times he taught me which bolts to loosen in what order, to prevent an exhaust manifold from falling onto my head. And all those times he showed me what respect, confidence, humility, and bravery were all about, through his careful words and actions.

He taught me how to be tough, how to be awesome, and most importantly how to overcome any obstacle in life, no matter how massive or threatening. It seems fitting that I’m using all of those skills he passed along to get through this donation process.

But don’t misunderstand. The donation may be stressful and painful, but I’m excited to do it. Giving him my marrow (that really isn’t doing anything else right now) is a tiny gift, compared to the gifts he has given me.

Oliver 1 : Dad 4,322,012.

Against hospital rules, I took some pictures. Oops:

Stage 1: Empty

I have no idea what each of these are for. I asked, but my needle-bearer could only tell me what additives were inside. The tests being done on them remain a total mystery.

Stage 2: Extraction

These pictures suck because I was being all clandestine, trying to snap them with my phone when people weren’t looking. This needle is piffling compared to the 16 gauge sucker I had rammed into my veins this morning.

Stage 3: Filled

That’s a lot of blood. I feel a bit woozy. I’m going to go lay down for a while.

Flash Fiction Challenge #1 – beatbox32

My entry for the flash fiction contest over at http://beatbox32.wordpress.com!

Daedalus 2112

Did we learn nothing from Icarus? Was his death for naught? Have we become so bold in our invention that we think ourselves more capable than nature?

The sky is for the birds.

The economic collapse of the olden days made tourism an archaism. As gas supplies dwindled, flights became scarce. Even those with the money to afford flights couldn’t book them. People only moved to find food. The days of adventure were replaced with the days of survival.

The global airline industry inevitably collapsed. The infrastructure fell to ruin; once bustling airports became open-air graveyards for rusting metal behemoths. Several resourceful tycoons attempted to keep a small, elite fleet in serviceable order, but soon found the cost too prohibitive and the attention from marauders too dangerous.

My son was born in a converted hanger. He is smart and strong, and has quickly learned what it takes to survive in the wasteland.  His eyesight is sharp, and he is often looking upward.

He has seen the magazines – Skymall, Plane and Pilot, Aviation Weekly – and asks many questions. His life is in the ruins of something he can never truly know, which both fascinates and frustrates his growing mind.

I have shown him the vast instrument panels, the food service trays, the massive piles of discarded seats, removed to make homes in abandoned fuselages. The more he sees, the more his obsession grows. I wish I could contain it, but he is surrounded by the artifacts of our days in the air. It would be like trying to keep a fish from getting wet.

I know that he will never fly. I learned of the downfall of aviation through my father, who learned from his. Man still has the knowledge of lift, thrust, and drag, but lacks the raw materials to rebuild working airplanes. Some have been cannibalized into homes or bunkers, others are completely beyond repair.

To keep him grounded and focused on survival, I have told this to him. His youthful fancy denies my logic, which is to be expected of a boy so young. I tell him that there is nothing wrong with studying, but to not be as brazen as to assume he will one day join the geese that pass over our airstrip. To fly now is dangerous, and his attention needs to be on protecting himself and his mother.

He has never seemed happy being stuck on the ground.

———————————————

I woke to find my wife shaking me, her eyes filled with worry. “He is gone!” she screams, unable to do more than point at an empty cot where my son should be.

He came home late, talking of some lights he’d seen high above the trees on the south side of the airstrip. He has lived through five or six marauder attacks and knew better than to explore alone. He asked if we could find the place tomorrow, and I had denied him.

I knew his imagination had overwhelmed his reason. I knew he thought they were real planes, and he had to go see them. Admittedly, I did not know what the lights were. Mystery rarely leads to anything safe.

I loaded my rifle and rushed towards the lights which were clearly visible, even from some distance. Several other people had come out to look, some preparing to lock down their homes in case of attack. I focused on the rhythmic pattern of the lights. They moved in a circle, as if some great storm had captured several streetlights in its fury.

I slowed my pace as I reached the tree line. I could see smaller lights, dotting the forest floor. I could hear talking and laughing. It sounded like dozens, if not hundreds of people. I cocked the bolt on my rifle as quietly as possible.

With my back to a tree, I started to make out what was being said. These people were speaking a language I was unfamiliar with. Dozens of colorful lights played and flashed on various large machines. An odd kind of music boomed from a small caravan. If these people were enemies, they came in odd fashion.

Lying prone, I used the scope of my rifle to get a better look. I panned the crowd; their faces were different, skin tones lighter, hair sunshine yellow. They seemed to be celebrating something. My crosshair finally came to rest on a huge metal machine in the middle of the clearing. At the top of it, sixteen lights spun in a circle, suspended by thin lengths of wire.

Then I saw him. My son was on this machine, climbing the extreme height towards roof of the contraption. The other people had not seen him. I could do little else but watch and pray.

As I sat enthralled, the sun broke over the horizon, flooding the area in a diffused half-light. I could make out what was at the end of the wires; tiny little plastic airplanes. My son had his eyes fixated on them; he could not see, or did not want to admit, that they were not real.

Through my scope, I watched as he jumped from the top of the tower, arms stretched out to his sides. I never saw him hit the ground. All I remember is his face.

Eyes closed, smile wide, the rays of the early sun behind him like two angelic wings.

Second Guest

Another one of my articles is up on the FFJD!

http://www.theffjd.com/2012/04/04/lost-on-planet-girl-fashion-101/

Enjoy!

Rush Hour

On Monday night, running through the streets of DC, headed for a building I’d never seen before, I had a moment of serenity.

I was late for my first day of class. I had been planning for this day for months; I left work early, had all my books and notes together, and was thoroughly prepared to be a kickass student once again. The cruel fates who control the DC Metro had made other plans. The train I was on lurched and heaved awkwardly, often unable (or perhaps unwilling) to open and close its door.  I was constantly checking my phone, watching my elaborate plan fall to pieces as large chunks of time were wasted at each stop. Just short of my destination, the train sighed and moved no more. They off-loaded all of the passengers and announced that “due to a mechanical failure, you’re all going to be late. Our bad.”

I, a paragon of punctuality, panicked. I considered my options. A cab would be costly, but I’d only be a few minutes late. I could wait for another train, but my hopes were dim. I did, in the end, what I often do: I ran. I booked it for the broken escalator (which seemed all too appropriate at the time), dodging packs of pissed off commuters. I came out of the Metro right onto the DC Mall; the ghostly image of the Capitol stood out in the foggy night air. I ran across the grass and mud, hoping to hail the first taxi I came across. I had no cash, but figured I’d sort it out later.

I couldn’t find a single cab. It was rush hour, but not a glimpse of yellow could be seen! I decided to just keep walking in the general direction of class, eventually reaching the next Metro station. I abandoned my cab idea, decided to get back on the train and continue on as originally planned. I made it to the building around 6:20 for a 6:00 class. I entered the classroom, apologetic and sweaty. Fortunately, the teacher of this class is awesome, and he was forgiving. My only punishment was to tell the class a story.

As I unpacked my things and regained my composure in the little classroom, I suddenly felt at peace. I realized that I was out of breath, leg aching, bounding up the giant escalators of the Dupont Circle station, because I legitimately cared about being late. I’m often blasé about getting to work on time, mainly because it’s not amazingly rewarding. But here I was, stressed and pushing myself to my limits to not be a few minutes late for a class. I didn’t appreciate the feeling of dedicated learning time during my undergraduate years. I was too concerned with 10,000 other things. Now, in a world where those 10,000 other things are 1,000,000 things, often not chosen by me, it is incredibly calming to have 5 hours a week where I can do nothing but learn.

Both of my classes seem excellent. The teachers are exuberant and friendly, my classmates eager to share their experiences. I didn’t think I could be more excited than I was when I was accepted to this program months ago. But here I sit, on the proverbial edge of my seat, practically drooling to see what’s next.

Hidden moral of this story? Never, ever, trust the DC Metro to get you anywhere on time. Doubly so if you have somewhere important to be.

One hundred and eighty-eight feet, ten inches.

The brain that doesn’t feed itself, eats itself

And so I attempt to unravel more of the world’s mysteries, at least those contained with corporeal fetters of written words and paper pages.

I just received news that I was accepted to Johns Hopkins University, in the Masters of Writing program. I start in a short few months, but am truly looking forward to the challenges of academic life…again.

Here’s to progress! Cheers!

Three Shall be the Count…

…No more, no less. Five is right out.

And so we wrap up week three of NaNoWriMo. As I announced in my last post, technically, I’ve already won. That hasn’t stopped me though; in fact, it hasn’t even slowed me.

I’m up to fifty-five thousand, one hundred and twelve words. One hundred and thirty-six pages. Twenty-seven chapters. One betrayal, one death. More of the latter coming.

Lessons learned this week:

1. Hail the Outline: herald of all things good and organizational

Yes, I’m still talking about outlining. I never thought I’d say this:  the outline is the most important thing you can do for you writing (at least from my perspective). I don’t know how many times I’ve gone back to it, revised it, loved it, yelled at it. It’s reciprocated and been very flexible with my constant mental flux. It is the glue that holds my novel together. Without it, it would be a jumbled mess of disjointed scenes. I can’t imagine how anyone writes anything of length without an outline.

2. NaNoWriMo is a social event, which can be good and bad

Tiffany pointed out that a lot of people participate in NaNo for the social aspect. A community of people doing the same thing, working towards the same goal. I like the concept; people getting together is cool. But when the content you’ve written on the forums outweighs the content of your novel 30:1, you’ve kind of missed the point. I spent about 15 minutes looking at the NaNo forums and decided to never go back. There are plenty of distractions in this world without you actively participating in a distraction created by the thing you’re trying to avoid being distracted from. Or something. Keeping a small group of people who are interested in your writing enough to provide feedback is the perfect level of social interaction.

3. While we’re talking about distractions

I’m a pretty busy dude. I work full time, I’m on a business proposal team, half of a wedding planning team, half of a home owning team, I’m a cat-dad, I try to fix everything that doesn’t work, I like to read, play instruments, exercise, and play games. This month, I changed almost none of my habits. Despite that, I met my goal, and I met it early.

Distractions are bullshit. Bullshit you make up to avoid doing something you really don’t want to do. If you find yourself preferring Fark or FailBlog or FPSs over writing, you probably don’t really like writing as much as you think (or have convinced yourself) you do. If you love to do it (and get a thrill from writing a great scene that ties in well), you’ll make writing one of those things you actively want to spent time on, not the other way around.

4. The writing environment is important

I know a lot of people like to work in the same physical location: a coffee shop, a home office, a table at a local park. There’s method to this madness. The same, comfortable situation gets me in the right mental state and reminds me where I’m going with my story. It’s the same effect as listening to music while studying, or visualizing your performance in a sport before you actually play. Your mind builds associations with your environment, which leads to you quickly getting into the right state of mind. We’re all creatures of comfort; use that to your advantage.

5. Don’t wait for a muse, or inspiration, or a moment of magic

Years ago, I bought into the concept of “the muse”; the magical fairy that flies into your brain and defibrillates the creative part of your mind at random. I used to rely on this fickle mistress in college, hoping she’d show up sometime between when my papers were assigned and when they were due.

As I’ve gotten more comfortable with my wordology, I’ve found that the muse is fake. Like Mr. Peanut and Topcat. You are your own inspiration. The more you write, the more you’ll write. Go ahead, try it. It really works.

With one week left, I’m going to try and finish my first draft. From there, I get to enter the wonderful mystical realm of self-editing. I’m guessing it’s going to be more Tartarus than Elysium.

Oh, and Happy Thanksgiving to all of my American readers!

Somehow, Mr.Peanut's astigmatism switched eyes in the mid-1930s.

Victory!?

Six minutes ago, I hit 50,031 words in my novel.

As per the “rules” of NaNoWriMo, I win! I won. Victory. Agapai!

But I’m not even close to finished. To stop now would be to leave the novel in utero indefinitely. Claiming victory now would be like enrolling my child in school while he was just a cluster of gooey cells; a confused little zygote.

It’s just a baby, unsure of it’s own identity. I can’t just leave it to die in the woods, scared and being chased by bears! I must guide him, and arm him with a torch and pointed stick. I must raise the child I have created and give him purpose.

As per my outline, I have seven chapters left. At ~2500 words a chapter, that is still another 17,500 words! So much left to say; a climax to hit; plot points to resolve; motivations to reveal; comeuppance to dole out.

There is so much fun and potential left in this story, the only admirable thing to do is finish it.

End? No, the journey doesn’t end here.

A wizard is never late. Nor is he early. He finishes his writing precisely when he means to.