Bachelor Weekend

Streetcar on the South Park Blocks.

Fall is here and Portlandians are moving indoors.  Or in my wife's case flying to SoCal to visit a new baby while I dusted off sweaters and lived the manly life.  Contrary to popular expectation, this weekend was not the bachelor fest of years past.  There was no naked HALO, no strippers, and no pub crawls.  More of a meandering through inner Portland combined and an attack on my Netflix queue.  I wandered down to the Lan Su Chinese gardens, had a sketchy lunch in China Town, checked out the Art Museum, and in general poked around and met up with a colleague from work.  

A big highlight was the three day Portland Humanist Film Festival, the second of its name and fairly well attended with at least 100 viewers at any one showing or lecture.  As some of you know I self-identify as a secular humanist and atheist, more so the former than the latter as it's better to state what you are as opposed to what you're not.  The topics ranged from serious to silly, documentaries to The Life of Brian (banned in several european countries after its release).   Beyond the joy of communing with like minded folk, I benefitted from one director's thoughts on the meaning of life.  After literally flying around the world asking clergy and physicists, brahmins and beatniks, he concluded that there is no universal answer.  The question isn't what is the meaning of life, but rather what gives my life meaning?  For him, and many others he suspected, it was the act of creation.   This could be children or cooking, art or ideas.   Such a simple concept, even pedestrian, yet like a zen koan it's had me thinking all weekend.  To that end I'm looking forward to the new camera I ordered last week, but that's for the next post...

I almost forgot the beer. 

Were you waiting long?

Oh dear.  It's been a while.  More than one of you has said something, one person in particular, and I'm so very sorry for keeping you waiting.  C'est la vie.

Summer was wet, hot, exhilarating, and full of milestones.   I become one with my bicycle, then cursed it after a week long ride across Iowa that left my hands number and wife giggling at my confused racial identity (aka cyclist tan lines).   Despite the heat and pain, it was a great way to reconnect with my Dad, an old high school friend, and a great roommate about to retire from the Navy.  Later this year I celebrated my parents 40th anniversary(!!!) and more recently visited the inlaws (twice!) along the border.  Not THAT border.  Less tequila, more redneck hippies and amazing vistas down near Shasta and Oregon Caves National Park.

I can't complain, though I'm not sure what's next.  For now I'm running before dawn and lusting after Italian bicycles and DSLRs.  Wife goes on vacation in a couple of weeks, who knows what she'll come back to...

Bubbling Away

Spring is often heralded as a time of growth and rebirth.  A million and one smells, sights, and feelings that burst onto the scene all at once, combining into a rapturous orgy of warmth and fuzziness across the land.   Or maybe that's just us Cascadians who toil in the grey and rain of our climate...

In any case, my attention has been focused on a different kind of growth.  More of a yeasty fermentation really.  It started out innocently enough with some late night blog browsing, and here we are six loaves later and the addition of a solid bread recipe.  I blame Orangette entirely.  On the flip side I owe this talented woman a bit of gratitude as Rachael seems to enjoy the dark crust and crumb I'm producing, rather than mocking my internet crush on the aforementioned writer or bringing up past attempts at capturing wild yeast for sourdough bread. 

Given this newfound confidence with wheat and yeast, I decided to take a second stab at beer brewing.  Same ingredients, but with hops and carboys rather than molasses and bread pans.  If you've never attempted this at home, let me say that baking and brewing are like running and biking.   Bakers and runners are all about minimalism.  Give me shoes and shorts, or flour and water, and I'll take you places for very little money.  In contrast, brewers and cyclists can (and will) talk for hours about gear and style....and both camps can drop a lot of money before having anything to show for it.  Fortunately the art of brewing goes back to the dawn of civilization, quite literally, so improvisation is not only allowed by strongly encouraged.   Why buy a $200 counterflow plate chiller and a dedicated refrigerator when you can empty out the icemaker and plonk 5 gallons of fermenting liquid next to the couch.  Then again, my wife might insist I invest in such tools after I delayed dinner by three hours and made the house smell like a brewery.  =)

View from my dining room window at 6:57 am, as the plaster shook from heavy machinery dropping chunks of asphalt.  I love urban living, I love urban living, I love urban living, I love urban living...

I'm a sentimental fool who's shocked at how fast he's aging.    Despite the gray hair, I still can't believe that 20 years ago I was finishing my final season of swimming and preparing for a graduation trip to Ireland with my father.   I also can't believe that I really dug the cheesy music of the period.  Consider these gems for your aural pleasure.  Oh the humanity!   

Old Friends

Hello again. Remember me? I'm the blogger who stood you up back in 2009. The jerk who stopped calling without so much as an explanation. The one who left you for those twin trollops Facebook and Twitter. Now, with much sheepishness and hat in hand, I'm hoping you'll take me back. Or at least give me a second chance. And if you don't, Mary's gonna have words with you. Let's not go there.

Much has changed since my last post. I've run and NOT run thanks to various body parts breaking on me. I've managed to not kill myself while driving on the wrong side of the road in England, AND discovered all the charms of Budapest despite the freezing cold and a distinct lack of proper brewed coffee. Which brings me to the fact that I'm now denying myself that sweet fuel of the Portlandia consciousness, but that's another post. I suppose that last one calls for a new profile photo, then again who says you have to take down cherished shots of your glory days.

So here's to forgiveness and picking up where things left off.