[continued from part I]

So what exactly is the point of being selective about your beer? Wine snobs are generally nerve-grating for their seemingly BS reviews of oaky tannins, thick, rich mouthfeels and robust or seductive mid-palettes. These types of fans, while appreciative and enthusiastic, are almost more enamored by their own ability to dissect the substance. This contemplative navel-gazing is great (though expensive), but innevitably you come off sounding like a jackass.

To the other extent, though, there is great contrast between a $5.99 case of beer and an $11.99 six pack. And while I won’t wax intellectual about the aromatic use of Cascade hops instead of Chinook, I have slowly learned to recognize the subtle distinction. And the process is in fact where the hobby is, and gaining appreciation is the ultimate goal.

In all of this discovery of beer, it’s not the perfect beer that I’m after. I’ve realized something quite fundamental about myself. Simply put, I am too easily enamored by things involving a blend of strict methodology and creative adaptation. Car detailing, cooking, homebrewing, audio, web design…all of my hobbies that have occupied my free time over the years involve this mixture.

Each starts with a desire to gain appreciation by understanding how it all works. Perhaps my father’s engineering mind was imparted to me in a larger quantity than I think. In order to fall further in love with music, I want it to sound more pure, which involves learning about the science (gasp!) behind how it is produced and replicated…and then into how it is applied in specific environments. Cooking, making beer, they’re all the same. I want to love more, I want to learn and I want to not just blindly accept what’s out there commercially for my immediate consumption. Each turn brings more tweaking, more refinement and greater understanding (hopefully).

The Wife™ always looks at me with great wariness when I explain another half-cracked idea. She never gets why I would rather grind my own spices or roast my own coffee beans or hand squeeze my lemonade as opposed to the simplicity of buying the store-bought variety. She watches me get frustrated as I learn, she lovingly stands by my foul moods when my self-taught research leads me astray. But to me, the comprehension of how something works makes the final do-it-yourself version even better. I could buy bread at the store (and still do), but making it myself allows me to know what exactly I’m consuming, as well as helping me to acquire specific skills that can be transfered to other areas (e.g. yeast behavior, cell colony replication and maintenance is knowledge that is fundamental to beer making).

I know that at the end of the day, I can be too absorbed in my endless hours of research. If anyone truly knew how much free time I spent reading, analyzing and learning, I would certainly be embarrassed. But again, I’ve come to realize that this eternal student inside of me is just a part of who I am. And if my breadsticks aren’t perfect or you prefer that uncarbonated moose pee over one of my own ales, I don’t mind. The journey that got me there was worth a fair penny more than the final product.

My dog has recently taken to fancying himself a horse. Well, a racing horse at least. Mornings and evenings, if you fail to pay full attention to his Awesomeness, he decides to have a little fun with you by sneaking into the family room, picking up one of the remotes, and tiptoeing into another room. The problem with this is that when you hear the click-clack of his nails on the floor slow to a creep, it’s fairly obvious what he doing. And thus begins the Chase of the Idiots.

1. Latex paint - There are few things in life I hate more than painting. A colonoscopy is not one of them. But latex paint makes the crappiness of painting a tiny bit less crappy. Because instead of creating a gigantic uncleanable mess, it just creates a giant smeary mess!
2. The Office (US) - Holy smokes, what I’ve been missing. After catching one episode of the US version years ago, I gave up hope on this show, chalking it up to it simply “not being up to par with the genius that is Ricky Gervais’s UK version.” However, after having watched most of season two, all I can say is that I have indeed been a fool. Where my nights have gone this week…(thanks Hillary!)
3. This article on depression - One might not think this could qualify as something I’d love this week, but New Orleans columnist Chris Rose writes with such incredible sensitivity and insight. A position so close to mine it’s frightening.
4. Having a heater that isn’t broken - Most of the summer we were plagued by a lazy AC, which would cut in and out on us. Though we never got it checked out, we had high hopes for the heat. But when it came time for that (about 3 weeks ago), we were less than thrilled to find out that we had none. But after three weeks of no heat, it’s back! Guess checking the gas valve should have come before disassembling the furnace, eh?
5. TSP (trisodium phosphate) - This stuff rocks. Though somewhat caustic, this is an incredible cleaning substance. We’ve used it to scrub our walls to prep them for painting and it took off layers of grime and adhesive. I also have mixed it with Oxyclean (sodium percarbonate) to clean the crap out of my fermenting equipment. Is there anything this stuff can’t clean?!

‘Round and ‘round the first floor we go, both parties slipping at each turn on the hardwood floors. Kitchen. Family room. Dining room. Stop. Reverse. He ducks under tables and I fling chairs. Out of breath and miffed at his insolence, I grab him by the ruff and put him in his crate, only to be suckered into Round Two ten minutes later. I’m pretty sure he looks forward to this game all day.

This past weekend my friend Brad Who Lives In Memphis™ (Hi Brad!) came to visit The Wife™ and I. He said he wanted to help out around the house with some projects, and frankly who am I to say no to some help? Besides, it got me out of the house with an excuse to 1) buy some crap, 2) use power tools and, 3) not be around The Dog From the Bowels of Hell (Jonas) all day.

When Brad Who Lives In Memphis™ arrived, Jonas was rather unsure of it. Being as we live a few miles east of nowhere, we don’t have many house visitors, so our dog’s socialization skills are somewhat on par with the crazy psycho killer Buffalo Bill from Silence of the Lambs. This needs to go on the to-do list.

Anyway, Brad Who Lives In Memphis™ and I spent Saturday afternoon plowing through a whirlwind of to-do-list jobs, tasks that happily can now be crossed off the Master List which sits posted to the ‘fridge (consisting of roughly 844 items that need accomplishing). In a few short hours we installed a new security light over the garage, replaced three fence posts and broken latch in our gate, and did several rounds of surface prep for the kitchen walls. The Wife™ almost passed out when she came home to find items from the Master List had actually been accomplished. I told her she simply married the wrong man.

See, Brad Who Lives In Memphis™ (BWLIM) is a man’s man. He strikes a hammer with no regret. He chooses bolts and nails with confidence. No hemming or hawing, no worrying about “what if this doesn’t work?!” or “shouldn’t we measure one more time?!” He alone is the reason that three items on the Master List got checked off this weekend. And when he left on Sunday, I had a renewed sense of confidence. I spent the afternoon hanging by one hand and falling off ladders in order to clean out my gutters. I was freezing and wet with bleeding fingers and no idea what I was doing. But I learned to not let the fear of the “what ifs” stop me from trying.

As I always am reminded when I get to spend time with some of my good friends, I really miss them. A lot. We had such a wonderful time with Brad (BWLIM), and he is possibly the most unobtrusive house guest ever. And in a giant reversal, I think Jonas misses him the most. While Brad was staying with us, Jonas found a buddy. His sad little dog eyes were glued to Brad the entire weekend (as were his front paws and his mouth—Jonas is what you could call a Severe Space Invader). Wherever Brad went, Jonas tried to follow. And when Brad finally headed home, Jonas turned to look at The Wife™ and I with his sad little eyes as if to say, “Oh crap. What am I supposed to do now that he’s gone?”

Indeed, little buddy. Indeed.

I’m a lover, not a fighter. And this is where I don’t make the requisite Michael Jackson joke (from whence that line comes). I’m simply talking about beer.

When I first tried beer, I hated it. A small sip of my father’s Michelob Lite in early childhood impressed upon me that beer was indeed uncarbonated moose pee. Not that there really would be any need to carbonate it. I’m just saying…

Anyway, I never touched the stuff again until freshman year in college, where I went for a Killian’s. In retrospect I could have done much, much worse. But still, the first step was taken on many a year’s journey into the depths of terribly bad, bad beer. With stops in MaltLiquorville, Nattytown, Free-keg-asomethinberg and WarmFourtyopolis, I never really knew good beer. It was cheap, and I slowly learned to like what little taste could actually be extracted from them. And then I went to Dublin.

Har har, the joke is that I’m Irish, so I’m supposed to like anything remotely Irish, right? The truth is, though, that across the pond beer is actually taken seriously. My first pint of Guinness was served in a pint glass, with a shamrock formed into the head (produced by the bartender who knew how to properly pour a stout—back then I didn’t even know what a ‘stout’ was though, besides my ancestor’s physiological body type). The Guinness that hit my throat was possibly the best thing I had ever tasted. And it’s because it had character. Henceforth, I could never stop talking about how good the Guinness in the UK was. Ask my friends, I’m sure they’re tired of hearing about it by now.

And though my undergraduate ways continued, even after graduation and first jobs, beer in the US still never really did anything for me. I still drank it, but tended to go for Scotch instead, because it had the flavor, the distinct personality that I was looking for. With beer I was still just trying to convince myself that it wasn’t uncarbonated moose pee.

About a year and a half ago I stumbled upon a few people who were into homebrewing their own beer. Intrigued by the process (as I am with anything else process related), I was curious about all the different styles of beer they discussed and more importantly, why they were so passionate about this stuff. So I came back to beer, to give it one more shot.

Though I don’t remember “the beer that changed my mind,” I’m pretty sure it was either from Rogue or Great Lakes Brewing Company. I was taken away by the body, the taste and the complexity. I was dumbfounded that beer could be this flavorful (in the US, of course). I made a promise to myself that anytime I had to pick up a 6-pack, for a party, get-together, etc, that I would not get the same thing twice. I needed to try all the styles I could. So for about a year I tried, all the while waiting to get my hands dirty and make some myself, all the while still shocked that beer didn’t have to be uncarbonated moose pee.

There really is a substantial point to this blabbering, windbag post, but I should break it up to retain any sense of readership. You know, those two people are crucial to the future of denyingphoenix (Hi two readers!)…

I went through a period in college where I dreamt, every night, that I killed my father or that I knew who killed my father and I got blamed for it. They were those types of dreams that are so long and involved that you feel like you’ve been sleeping for days when you wake up, and you’re still exhausted from it. I have no idea what it meant, other than I 1) had an overactive and strange subconscience or, 2) I had blame/guilt issues. Thank goodness they went away though. And if this week’s FTILFF sucks, you can blame it on the staff. Not me. Got it?

1. Chili - Random, yes. But cooler weather (cooler *and* rainy, nonetheless) demands comforting food. And you really can’t screw up chili. I don’t make it like true Texas red, but whatever. Gets me through a cold Fall evening. Bust out that crockpot and it’s done when you get home from work!
2. Perhaps the most inspiring story I’ve ever read - I don’t cry. I’ve been to 98 funerals in my life (not joking) and have cried at perhaps 2. But this, THIS, got me misty-eyed yesterday. Gracious.
3. Online streaming of The Black Parade, the new disc from My Chemical Romance - Most people over the age of 16 that I know hate these guys for co-headlining the alterna-teen/mall-emo movement (see also Fall Out Boy). But this album takes quite a drastic departure from their first album. Think Bowie + Queen squeezed through the emo strainer. It’s dramatic. It’s different. And it’s refreshing, at the very least because they didn’t adhere to the sophomore formula for just duplicating an acclaimed first disc.
4. Friday Night Lights - I’m not too sweet on TV. Or Football. Yet somehow the dark, moody direction that this drama series takes is absolutely enthralling. I’m sure it will be canceled midseason or something, though. That’s my luck. And hey, Adrianne Palicki is from Toledo!
5. Video games - Another thing I never indulge in. But babysitting the goddaughter and niece every Tuesday night does afford me an opportunity to play XBox on a 90” theater screen. Besides the fact that I suck at every game, and that my 3 month old gaming companion can’t even hold her dinner down, let alone a controller, it’s a rockin’ good time. Makes me feel young again.

And just like that, someone saved hip hop. Yes I understand the drama of that statement and no, I do not use it lightly. Lupe Fiasco quite possibly may be the one to turn this sinking ship around.

To get things out of the way in this review, here is a list of things this album is not or does not contain:

• A predictably high ego-to-talent ratio. Unlike Kanye (who proportedly was supposed to save us in 2004) and countless others, Lupe’s lyrical prowess is not drowned by his own ego. This actually leaves room for music.
• Peppered club songs. It’s been a well established formula for selling over the past 10 years. Take 2-4 club tracks that require expensive producers, pepper it with an r’n’b jam and a bunch of crap filler and you’ve got a platinum hip hop album. Lupe doesn’t need no stinkin’ formulas.
• Cliched production. Another staple in modern hip hop is to have signature sounds by premier producers, resulting in the same stylistic crap being regurgitated over and over again. With this album, I had to look up who produced the songs because I pleasantly could not tell.

Good, now with that out of the way we can continue.

Food & Liquor could easily be the Illmatic of this decade. Gritty, real and honest, Lupe Fiasco’s lyrical talent takes center stage…but in no way is it overwhelming. Unlike Talib Kweli or Mos Def (who’s lyrical skills are awe-inspiring), you don’t get the sense that Lupe simply took his rhyme book and put a flashy beat over it. Instead, the rhyme and the beat fit seamlessly in almost every track, to produce what most modern hip hop albums today lack: heart.

When I think about the most defining albums in this genre (to me at least), each one stands out because they have a certain character, a feeling that you can almost touch when the disc spins to an end. Illmatic by Nas, 36 Chambers by Wu-Tang, Paul’s Boutique by the Beastie Boys…they all have personality in their own right, personality that reflects the exact time and place in which they were created. Food & Liquor does the same.

A product of Chicago’s street scene, steeped in the fashion and partnered with the skate culture, the album exudes an overall realness that frankly is entirely absent from every other disc out there today. It straddles the line between underground truth and mainstream appeal, and it stands alone in the crowd for not giving airs of hopelessness and dread. Simply put, I don’t feel like I’ve just read the Book of Revelations after these 72 minutes.

I would be remiss if I didn’t point out key tracks, but it is hard as the album really is best digested as a whole. “Kick Push,” the popular single [video] takes quite possibly the sharpest left turn in the genre in recent memory. Guns and drug running are swept aside for smart word play about a life embracing skating. “The Instrumental,” possibly the strongest on the disc, is a rolling, haunting tale of a kid being a slave to television and the media. “Daydreamin’” is the closest thing to a Kanye soul track, but Jill Scott’s vocal performance maintains a freshness that keeps the it from sounding the slightest bit hackneyed. “Pressure,” which features a now-out-of-retirement Jay-Z is surprising. Musically, it borrows the piano/snare/guitar sound typical to many Hova tracks, but w/ a new twist. And the biggest surprise on this track is that Hova gets one verse. Lupe doesn’t give the supposed King of Hip Hop more space than that, nor does he lean on his credentials to legitimize the song.

Though I could spotlight almost any track on the disc, I will leave it at saying that the entire album has a pace and energy that any other artist in the game could only hope for. It’s smart. It’s entertaining. It’s thought provoking without being tiresome and sermonesque. I’m excited to listen to this again and again.

If the kid is only this good because he’s hungry, because it’s his first release, then I can’t even complain because he’s given such a great album. But if there’s even the slightest chance that he’ll get better from here…consider me tuned in. I’ll stick around the genre long enough to see it, because it’ll be worth it for damn sure.

Everything that we were told was wrong. All the warnings, every in-the-know prophecy and every last pearl of supposed wisdom was off. And frankly, I’m happy about that very fact.

365 days ago we were surrounded by all of our closest friends and family. The eldest amongst them seemingly the most liberal with advice. And while the handshakes and smiles poured forth, I became increasingly unsure. 365 days later, I realize that I should have never even doubted myself.

As we sat at the table last night, in a dimly lit basement of a downtown building, I came to terms with just how much has changed. Before, the thought of being at such an expensive restaurant would have made me feel silly and contrived. Ordering scotch from an overly attentive waiter would have been truly daunting. But now that things have shifted, and now that I know everyone’s warnings were wrong, I’m ok with it.

The Wife™ and I celebrated our first anniversary yesterday. A pleasant day of cool autumn air and a beautiful clear evening serving a gentle reminder of last year’s big event. And instead of opting for a more ostentatious observance, we did what felt right, something distinctly “us”. No surprise bi-plane trips, no shocking diamond earrings or weekend getaways in Chicago. Such thrills, while perfectly fitting for others, just doesn’t suit us. We had a quiet day at home,a relaxing dinner at a great restaurant, and a playful exchange of some humble gifts. And while others will scoff at our lack of enthusiasm in celebrating such a momentous occasion, I’m reminded of all that misgiven advice last year.

When you marry, the unfortunate byproduct of the surrounding weeks is that many people pass along words that are intended as advice, but sadly fall short. If we were to believe all that we were told last year, the past 12 months should have been exceptionally trying times filled with arguments of epic proportions, nagging and nitpicking, and overall unrest. After all, they say that the first year of marriage is one of the most difficult.

And while I cannot say that we’ve been without incident, we both remarked last night at how wrong that collective advice was. Instead of this chaos and unhappiness, I’ve found a woman that has made me realize more about myself than I ever knew before. I feel ten years older, thirty years more comfortable and finally my life seems to have a healthy pace. She’s stuck with it, even during arguments over Excel budgets and unclean bathrooms. And at the end of the day, she’s still there to steal the covers in the middle of the night and blame me for it in the morning. And I love her all the more for it.

So to all my friends who have yet to be blessed with marriage, when that time finally does come, don’t listen to all the advice. And the next time I’m at a wedding, you can bet your ass that what I’ll be preaching to the newlyweds is to simply hang on to each other. It’s still a ride, bumpy or smooth.

There are days when I think our country is spinning out of control. There are days when I can’t bear to sit in front of a monitor any longer. There are even days when the idea of simply wearing socks makes me want to crawl back into bed.

But not today. Why, you ask? Because it’s another riveting installment of Five Things I Love for Friday! Gather ‘round the water cooler and mumble something about the weather kids.

1. PaxilBack [via] - A creative video parody of Justin Timberlake’s SexyBack. Not only are the lyrics way above average, the video isn’t half bad either. And the concept of anti-depressants as a play on being sexy is just hilarious to me. “The platinum bottle with the childproof cap…”
2. Sweater weather - Seeing as how it was a mere 36 ticks on the ol’ mercury this morning, I’d saw sweater weather is finally here. What’s also here, coincidentally, is “oh-f**k-my-steering-wheel-is-freezing” weather. Not cool.
3. Whale Song - Commercial on YouTube (again, sorry) for Holiday Inn’s workspaces. There’s eight in total (all are sufficiently awkward), but this one has to be the funniest. I’m picturing some co-workers doing this right now…
4. The Decemberists’ The Crane Wife album - Never been a Decemberists fan before. Not even sure what it is about this album. But their “major label debut” (I loathe that term) truly is stunning. A concept album of sorts, about an 18th century murder (I think? Haven’t worked it out yet.) in a folkish tone. Beautiful songwriting. I imagine this one will make many a best-of list come years end.
5. Local orchards/farms - Last Sunday we went on our annual pilgrimage to a huge farm in Indiana to pick pumpkins. We also indulged in some country shopping (hooray hot pumpkin donuts!) where I snagged a gallon jug of raspberry cider and some homemade pumpkin bread. A good part of me still (perhaps naively) longs for a more agrocentric society.

It’s Friday. Have a pumpkin beer. Support your local brewery. Go to a highschool football game or start a (legal) bonfire. Fall in the Midwest is assuredly here.

Just shut up already. Seriously. Gah…

I stare at the floor of the car where my feet are. Purposely not looking up. Not making eye contact. Head kept low, simply contemplating ways of getting away. Anything to put me out of my misery. Shoe strings? No, can’t choke myself in the passenger seat of a moving vehicle. Head out the window? Nah. No trees around to knock my head off. Oh God, something! My mother is driving me insane with all her ques….WAIT!. Turn up the radio. Oh hell yea. This song rules!

And suddenly, the adolescent world of gray skies and rain clouds shifts to a momentary, yet almost hopeful existence.

I’ve talked before about the transformative power of music and the ability of that medium to weave through one’s life, linking memories and forming new ones. But what hit me this morning on my drive to work was the power of surrendered musical decision making. And in all likelyhood, that phrase means little to anyone.

Have you ever noticed that the CD in your friend’s car is more interesting than what’s in your own? Have you ever been in a store and caught yourself tapping your foot to a song that otherwise you would have been embarrassed to admit listening to? There’s even a scene in High Fidelity where Jack Black’s character subtley introduces the customers in the store to the Beta Band, knowing they’ll all flip over it. It’s because it sounds better when you didn’t pick it.

Even though we have our moments of musical snobbery and aural elitism, we can’t deny how much better a song can sound by simply being surprised by it. I never listen to the radio. All of my music choices are coldly calculated, either with playlists or by delving into specific albums. I’m not surprised by anything because I’m trying to choose music that fits exactly with what I think I want to hear next. This is, in all likelyhood, why I am increasingly bored with my music collection.

I think most of us can attest to the scenario above. We’ve all been consumed with the drudgeries of life and our woes when suddenly a song on the radio makes you forget how miserable life is. You’re stripped of your pretenses and emotional put-ons for one hopeful instant. But if you had chosen that song? Nothing would have happened. You likely would have continued to sulk.

Perhaps this is why jukeboxes were so popular (well, besides the fact that listening to music at home was more complicated and prohibitively expensive back then). Even today, I would gladly choose a bar with pricier drinks and a better jukebox over one with the opposite (or worse, no jukebox at all). Having a random assortment of music and being caught off guard with some truly great tracks is like finding a $20 bill in your pocket. It can change your outlook on things instantaneously.

Being caught up in life and suddenly surprised by a great song is simply a gift, and one that I don’t open myself to often enough. I’m not saying that I’ll be listening to the radio anytime soon, but maybe I’ll just put the soundtrack to my life on shuffle and let someone else pick once in awhile.

After studying each single hi-res frame scan of the Zapruder film this week, I’ve reached a conclusion. And while I’m not much of a conspiracy theorist or history buff, and while I know there are people who have dedicated their entire lives to studying this topic, I’ve decided with relative personal finality that JFK was killed by two gunmen. I have no idea what relevance this has to anything, but at least it justifies me having spent 10 hours on Thanksgiving Day 2002 watching that marathon documentary on the History Channel.

1. Paco Rosic’s Sistine Chapel in Spray Paint - When I read about this, and before I saw the outcome, I expected it to be a terrible knockoff. But this guy nails it. The Krylon color alone makes it come alive and pop off the ceiling with such drama. Very well done (although I wonder about the logistics of having to spray upside down…)
2. Falling gas prices - Though I’m sure I’m speaking too soon, I’ve been so thankful recently for the slowly receding price of gas. When planning for vacation earlier this summer, I expected it to be in the mid $3 range, but thankfully it was no where close. I saw it this morning for $1.97 (and with no Kroger 15-cent discount either!)
3. Biff’s Song - Hey! It’s that guy from Back to the Future! I guess he’s doing some stand up now (and still had a career, good for you!) and I found this performance to be quite amusing. Ahh, childhood.
4. The Cut & Paste Design Contest - A very cool concept. I’m not sure if they do these elsewhere in the country, but a club-style gathering of Photoshopfreaks in a graphic rap battle of sorts…very cool indeed. It’s like 8 Mile, but for designers!
5. Friends with babies - Last night’s email announcing the birth of one of my closest friend’s first children made me smile endlessly. I’m so happy for both of them. Andrea looked like the happiest woman about to go into labor I’ve ever seen. Hooray baby Ethan!

Perhaps next week I will have figured out (for myself) who killed Biggie and Tupac. Although I’m already certain it was Suge Knight. Or the White House. Actually I’m torn on that one.

My dog has now officially been to four states. And by “been to,” I simply mean “pooped in.” No, I’m not generally this crass, but we’re speaking in dog-terms here, people. I sure as hell don’t measure my worldliness on where I’ve had bowel movements. Just his. ‘Cuz how else? He can’t drive a car…

Yet.

Anyway, Dogzilla went with The Wife™ and I on vacation last week, and boy what a grand time it was. After major strategery in packing the car, I stepped back to realize that, much like when having a child, 80% of the items contained in the vehicle pertained to him (the remaining 19% was The Wife™’s entire wardrobe. This 1% of space left me with nail clippers and a busted sandal for a week’s worth of clothing). Awesome.

After a weekend stop-over in Toledo for my friend Tyler’s wedding (Hi Tyler!), we hit the road to Maryland at 8am. (I’d like to take this opportunity to thank you, random assortment of alcoholic beverages from the night prior, you made those 10 hours in the car just that much more awesome.) And after only 24 hours in the condo with us, Jonas was off to Doggy Summer Camp (read: a kennel in Delaware, an entire state away, just so that we couldn’t hear his barking). We hadn’t planned on this, but drastic times call for drastic measures people.

[This middle part is where Jonas was gone for four glorious days, when I reclaimed my sanity and remembered what life like a normal person was. Not much else to recount. Just that I got my entire life back, that’s all.]

After picking up Jonas from Camp on Friday night, we decided that he should go down on the beach to see the ocean before we left town. Here is where the personalities of each family member truly, truly shine.

As I suggest to The Wife™ that we take him onto the beach (read: 10 feet away), she gives me The Look™. And as I walk toward the sand, dog in tow, she acts as if we’re planning a stick-up in broad daylight. See, The Wife™’s sensibilities are highly offended if you even think of doing something against The Rules™. And since technically the beach season wasn’t over for another two days, dogs were not allowed. The Rules™ can kiss my ass. I had driven 1200 miles at this point and dammit my spastic dog was going to see the Atlantic Ocean before driving another 800 miles in the other direction.

So down the shore we went, The Wife™ stealing glances to make sure the SWAT team wasn’t setting up to take us out, Jonas clearly mesmerized by the foreign substance beneath his paws, and me determined as hell to see it all through. Two steps onto the beach, he face-bombs into the sand to do his best impression of a puppy bulldozer. Pushing the sand mounds around using his snout, it’s as if he’s found his calling in life. That is, until he inhaled. This resulted in a tremendous succession of puppy sneezes, which to be honest is still one of the funniest things ever in the history of ever.

By the time we made it to the edge of the ocean, Bob the Bulldozer had tiny piles of sand on top of his schnoz. But, not surprisingly, he didn’t give a crap. And then he saw the water.

Water for Jonas is a weird thing. Bath time? Fine. No problem. Hello tub! From a hose? Hell no! Take that weapon of pain elsewhere, human! We really had no idea what he would think of the ocean, so we approached with caution. Oddly enough, he unfolded in stages.

Stage 1: Relative indifference. It was if we had shown him my fingernail. I dare say he’s been more entranced by golf matches on TV.

Stage 2: Apprehension. He’s noticing something is different here. He follows me into the lapping wave until the point where it actually might touch him. Then he back-peddles with the grace of a drunken donkey so that the terrible molten substance might not eat his flesh.

Stage 3: Acceptance. After seeing me stand in the waves and not have my legs melt off, he apparently decides that this oddity is indeed acceptable. So he prances in, splashes around, and seems to fancy it.

Stage 4: Dominance. True to his form, after realizing that the ocean was not a threat to him, he swiftly moves to wanting to conquer it. He smashes his paw into the wet sand, commanding the wave to STOP! When the water line recedes, he is flabbergasted. He begins furiously digging, to recover the water that left him. When the next wave arrives he takes it up a notch and decides that biting the water will surely kill it dead, making it stay at his command.

This is the point where Jonas learns, for the second time, that sand is not to be eaten or snorted. Though it takes him several generous mouthfuls to realize this, his hacking and sputtering on the way back up the beach convinced me that he understood.

So, the moral of the story here is three-fold: my dog is not as unreasonable as I think he is. He is equally vexed about the insubordination of the Atlantic Ocean as he is with me not bending to his will. Secondly, my wife is a paranoid Goodie Two Shoes who is still convinced we’re getting that $25 fine in the mail. And lastly, I just think they’re both plain nutso.

There are times, sporadically, where things get shaken up. Nothing major. No outwardly perceptible upheaval. But subtle interior rumblings, of which I have no idea what outcomes may surface.

It might be the vacation, the mental and emotional break from the office routine. It might simply be the seasonal shift. But the past several days have left me spun with anxiety, excitement and everything in between. It passes from second to second, flitting between random thoughts. And I have no idea why.

From one side is the excitement of cooler weather, the impending holidays, making Christmas ales and cookies, and even decorating a new house. From the other is bitterness about lax exercise routines, misbehaving canines and expensive home repairs. A passing thought about the desire for a cool evening walk is erased by a reminder of how tired I am. The rush of glee from finishing an inspiring book is pile-driven into the ground by thoughts of work duties. Back and forth we go…

Almost as if being unchained from my desk somehow reinvigorated the other parts of my life, those which take a back seat during the other 51 weeks of the year, everything seems suspended in conflict inside. I’ve strayed from writing too much about abstract and likely common emotional topics over the years, so I apologize for this singular lapse in editorial judgment.