Glorious Kenya Githima

My friend Liz gave me a quarter pound of Kenya Githima coffee from Stumptown Coffee Roasters in New York.  Her friend works there in some managerial capacity.  She described the friend as tall, British, and garbed in pinstripes and a fedora.  She described the espresso as tasting of unicorns.

You heard it here:  Stumptown Coffee Roasters serves unicorn-flavored espresso.  I can’t verify that personally, but my source is reliable.

The Kenya Githima, grown in (Gachurio, Karantina, Nyeri) Africa is described thus on the included tag:  This well-composed cup leads with ripe cherry and currant aromatics as it transitions to a profile of kumquat, raspberry and grapefruit flavors balanced by brown sugar sweetness.

Some might say just ’fruity.’  Yet the shades of flavor are a little more complex.  I know this because I’m drinking it right now.  Mushing all these glorious tastes into one bland adjective would be a shame.  It has low acidity too; this coffee’s ‘bite’ is in the flavor, not the corrosion of my teeth and esophagus.  If the beans I have from Stumptown (which are at least two weeks old and past their flavor peak) are this good, imagine the espresso, freshly pulled, in all its unicorn-flavored goodness.

What bliss.

I will be making serious efforts to get to this place called Stumptown.  And maybe see New York, if there’s time.

“Winter on the Isle of Sci is windy, cold and wet. The days are dark and short, the nights dark and everlasting. The land is battered by fierce northern winds, which blast icy rain and snow by day, and gust through the roof thatch by night. The sun rises low–if it rises at all–and hovers close to the horizon, barely skirting the hilltops before losing heart and sinking once more into the icy abyss of night.”
~ Stephen Lawhead, The Paradise War

Winter is a dark time. Things get cold. I don’t mean just the weather, but that is a good place to begin. My husband is one of those rare individuals who doesn’t vehemently despise the icy abyss we call Wisconsin in winter, not only enduring but being warm despite it.

“One thing I like about winter,” he says every so often, “Is how good it feels to warm up after coming in from the cold.”
He describes stepping into a warm room, shrugging off a winter coat, then sipping hot chocolate or coffee. The clinging chill streams off clothes and skin until cold itself is just a memory. Perhaps there will be gingerbread cookies to share, or something equally delicious and seasonal, and a tree in the corner shimmering with tinsel and ornaments.

Regardless of tradition, I am often struck by the absurdness of winter decorations. Red glass balls hang everywhere to no practical end. Blinking lights and brass bells add their noise to what we see and hear already. Oversized socks no one except the Abominable Snowman could wear are tacked on the wall or the mantle. We bend pieces of evergreen into circle patterns and hang them on the doors, on cars, anything with a flat surface. We sing a lot (or some people do) about how happy life is…when obviously it’s not.

Our clothes are perpetually dampened and frozen to our bodies. Car windows freeze, forcing us to open the car door at the drive-thru; snowfall ruins the upholstery. Ice on the roads turns vehicles into heavy toboggans and the term ‘bumper cars’ takes on poignant meaning. Some of us leave home when it’s dark and the daylight has come and gone by the time we return, like the sun just gave up after Halloween. We’re vitamin deficient and downtrodden. Stepping outdoors may be gambling with one’s life, or at least bones if one slips on the icy walk and suffers an unfortunate fall. It’s too dangerous to go outside–or too inconvenient–and the grocery supply dwindles with our reluctance to venture out. Now we’re all of the above, and starving (or else, learning there are one hundred ways to prepare rice, and that expired milk doesn’t actually kill you when consumed after the expiration date).

I find myself lingering at the window by my front door, craning my head to see as much as possible through the narrow pane. I can just see the evergreens clustered at the far side of the parking lot. Their branches are iced with thick, deathly white, but life endures beneath, the color of the forest. My breath catches when I see it. If I venture outside and brush the snow away, if I put my face close to the glossed needles, I will smell it: Sharp pine, ever living when other life fails. Soon enough, the snow will be gone, the sun will return. I will see green again.

Then I realize why we hang green on our doors, and place bright colors–pieces of the life we can’t see anymore–around us. We are reminding ourselves that all is not lost.  We make these efforts and more to rise above the despair that winter throws upon us. This is how tradition is made, reminding us of a time when we were, for a moment, warm.

Some gestures extend through time out of mind and some are new, just found perhaps in recent weeks. In dark times we put up lights and bright things to give ourselves hope of what we do not see. Sometimes those things become milestones: Beacons lining the road to remind us we’ve come through this season before, and we will again.

Lights, vivid ornaments, hot chocolate–these stand for nothing in themselves. A blanket is only a blanket. Fire is only a release of wood’s energy. It is how we utilize these things that gives them value.

Hello Hurricane

Switchfoot has long been both iconic and underrated in the Alternative music scene. From their positive lyrics calling for change in the world, invoking hope, or pleading for authenticity to their anti-materialistic mantra, they have never been your typical band out to “make a buck” off catchy hooks. But lead singer Jon Foreman says, “I have had moments in my life where I’ve been naïve enough to think I’m going to change the world. And it’s a really incredible feeling, the day you discover that’s never going to be the case”¹.

When it came to writing the new record, the guys had to step back and de-construct themselves and re-define what it meant to be in Switchfoot, what they were really after in life and music; they began to re-invent themselves. “It was time to step back and re-evaluate why we play music, why we’re still a band¹.”

Hello Hurricane, written after spending time in Louisiana with survivors of Hurricane Katrina, is a kind of parade of pain, life’s hurts and struggles, punctuated with hope in true Switchfoot fashion. Their musical style has changed a bit too. While sonically un-mistakable, they’ve found a way to become fresh and new; most likely thanks in part to their new found independence.

Their “rockier” songs rock harder, sometimes evoking a more eclectic flair, à la Jack White, while their calmer tunes seem to showcase Foreman’s musical and lyrical poetry. Hello Hurricane boasts anthems that Switchfoot has come to be known for such as the defiant title track, and “Free”. Sweeter, smoother songs remain more poignant like the heartfelt “Enough to Let Me Go” and “Always”. And then there are songs that possess something of the true spirit of Rock and Roll such as “Mess of Me”, “The Sound” and “Bullet Soul”.

To be quite honest, it took me several listens, straight through, to really decide whether I actually liked this album, but when all was said and done I was won over. Truly they have topped themselves again. I love Hello Hurricane because it re-affirms what I already know to be true of Switchfoot. They write songs because it’s what they love to do. They bare their souls and write about Life and Love and Why; then distribute it to millions of listeners hoping that something resonates throughout their audience. It’s honest, it’s heartfelt, it’s Hello Hurricane.

d.b

¹Relevant Magazine Nov/Dec 09

I was driving the other day when I had a recurring thought come into my head.  I’ve had conversations before about how useful Mario Kart would be in the driving world of today.  I was driving in excess that day, a total of 3 hours, which is quite a lot for me. There are days when I don’t go outside of my home, literally, but that’s another story.  As such, I had a great amount of time on my hands to think. My thoughts began to race as my car was set to cruise control. I began to think about things from the stresses of life to the most random ideas. My aimless pondering then came to a screeching halt as I hit traffic in the oddest time of day. It was at this time my Mario Kart mode booted up.

If only I had a… My mind began thinking off all the possibilities of items I could instantly drop. However, I wanted to think of a strategic way to this. After all, you never know what those clue boxes will drop.

I first had to determine what character I would be. When I used to own at MK64, I typically would choose Bowser or Yoshi. Some players would shake their head at this, but somehow I knew how to make the best of those guys and win. In retrospect, being the dwarf size that I am, I think I would most resemble Toad. I think Toad would be the best fit for me now, although I would have to accept the fact that every time I got hit I would cry out, “Ooowww, whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa!”

Having my character chosen, I then began to analyze what items I would most use and in what situations they would be best for. Stuck in stop-and-go traffic and in a hurry? Time to pull out my star. Is that some idiot I see who can’t merge causing us to suddenly break? You’ve got a blue shell coming your way, my friend. You want to speed up right as I’m attempting to pass you? I think a red shell is in order for you. Whoops, I was the jerk who cut you off that time –time for ghost mode. Geez, those mushrooms would come in handy to get through those intersections that always like to turn red on me so quickly. To those who love tailgating me, I must warn you, I will not hold back from dropping a question mark box for you. Last but certainly not least, a shout out to those who aren’t content in staying in 1 lane for more than 60 seconds, a lightning bolt is in store. As such, I will gladly run over your bite-sized body, leaving you thin as a cracker and swaying back and forth in the air like a feather.

I seriously don’t suffer from road rage… not a clinical diagnosis away. I do, however, like to entertain the thought of living in the MK64 world.  In this world of people who seem like they got their driver’s license out of a Cracker Jack box, this is my way to cope. So, for now, I will just mentally send you little items to show you my opinion on your driving skills.

There once was a velveteen rabbit, and in the beginning he was really splendid. He was fat and bunchy, as a rabbit should be; his coat was spotted brown and white, he had real thread whiskers, and his ears were lined with pink sateen. On Christmas morning, when he sat wedged in the top of the Boy’s stocking, with a sprig of holly between his paws, the effect was charming.

I don’t know how I came to regard this book with such a sense of wonder. Perhaps because I’m the type who doesn’t just read stories–I live them. Perhaps this one had just enough fiction in its reality, with a rabbit who is alive inside of his cotton-stuffed skin, and a decent sense of wonder himself, that I recognized a kindred soul on the pages.
My world was huge, inside my mind, even at six and seven years old. I coasted through dry summer days in Nevada’s desert, braving the sage-flavored wind and dust devils like all the other kids. I watched eagerly with my brothers for the first snow to fall, hands pressed against the foggy pane of the living room window and leaving smudges that obscured the view. Unlike the other kids, I paid little attention to who was doing what, escaping with a book whenever I could. When no escape was available, my imagination would fend for itself.

Epic adventures played out across the evergreen landscape of my mind, things I never bothered to write down or tell others about any more than one would note brushing their teeth or drinking water when they got thirsty.

“What is Real?” the Rabbit asks his friend, the Skin Horse.
“Real isn’t how you are made,” The Skin Horse tells him.“You become. It takes a long time. That’s why it doesn’t often happen to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept. Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby. But these things don’t matter at all, because once you are Real you can’t be ugly, except to people who don’t understand.”

The Rabbit wished that he could become Real without these uncomfortable things happening to him.

Being bigger on the inside, and staying that way, is a rare quality. It’s a constant struggle. Becoming Real is so painful, many of us turn into make-believe. We call it survival. Things happen, that you remember dimly without much color, because you manage to stay out of trouble. Escape pain and poverty and loss as best you can. Sit in offices. Play the stock market. Develop ulcers. This is no way to live. I would rather end up shabby and much-loved, carved deep with pain so that joy can fill me just as deeply.

And once…the Rabbit was left out on the lawn until long after dusk, and Nana had to come and look for him with the candle because the Boy couldn’t go to sleep unless he was there…

“You must have your old Bunny!” she said. “Fancy all that fuss for a toy!”

The Boy sat up in bed and stretched out his hands. “Give me my Bunny!” he said. “You mustn’t say that. He isn’t a toy. He’s Real!”

When the little Rabbit heard that, he was happy…and so much love stirred in his little sawdust heart that it almost burst. And into his boot-button eyes, that had long ago lost their polish, there came a look of wisdom and beauty, so that even Nana noticed it the next morning when she picked him up, and said, “I declare if that old Bunny hasn’t got quite a knowing expression!”

There’s a lot to be said for storybook wisdom. Real is worth it.

I once was taught that anything can be addicting if it gives you some amount of pleasure.  Gaming is no exception.  Whether it’s MMORPGs, RPGs, console games, or LARPing, each of them exposes players to a new world than the one they’ve been living.  Suddenly, one more level doesn’t fulfill us, we count down the days to a new expansion, and it isn’t “just a game” anymore.  Even our language goes through a weird metamorphosis.

I wasn’t always a gamer.  Sure, I played some games here and there, but I wouldn’t have called myself a gamer until I met my husband.  I’ll never forget the first time I heard him talking with his friends in gamer language. “Your rogue is a twink so you were able to pwn some noobs?” I questioned with a raised eyebrow. “It’s gamer talk,” he replied.  “Oh…” I felt completely out of the loop.  As I listened to their conversation carry, I felt as if I had to learn this new language but was a little turned off at the lack of proper grammar this new vocabulary would include.  Yet, here I am today gladly telling you I’ve become one of your fellow gamers.  Only, I’m finding it hard to transition back to “real” life.

You see, I, like most of you, forget that most of the world doesn’t speak geeky gamer language.  Calling some idiot driver a level 1 noob won’t really offend them; rather, probably just confuse them.  I find myself not just using “LoL or lawl” but shouting, “Ding!” when I see my son learn a new “skill”, asking if something happened in game or “irl”, or almost saying “woot” instead of “amen” in church.  Just a few weeks ago, I was transcribing for a new doctor who obviously was struggling.  My first thought was, ‘What a noob.’  I’m pretty bad with this, but I probably wouldn’t even fit the definition of gamer to real gamers.

I acknowledge that I’m not the only one who brings the game with them to real life.  I now laugh when I hear people say, “It’s just a game.”  It does become a culture, but I do have to remind myself that I can’t always replace letters with numbers to spell words or tack on a trail of Z’s at the end of words.  However, it’s nice to know there is a community of geeks, just like me, who find gaming addicting and have formed our new little language that I’m still constantly learning.

This film was spellbinding for me.  I felt as though I was a little kid, watching my imagination take me away.  It was so thoroughly saturated with emotions ranging from passionate abandon to crushing heartache, changing with the furious whims of an 8 year old boy named Max.  The imagery conveyed intense feelings of very real danger and pure joy.  There were several scenes when there was unrest among the Wild Things and they would place the blame on Max, their chosen King.  Because of the unpredictability of the mood and direction of the scenes, I became genuinely uncomfortable and concerned for the outcome of the fights between them.

Basically this movie drew me in and I quickly became invested in Max’s fate.  It deals with a lot of real-life issues in such a disarming way that, at least for me, was very powerful.  I would recommend this film to anyone who was once a crazy kid.

This is one of the strangest and most enjoyable movies I’ve seen in a long time.  Filling me with both sadness and joy, the character of Benjamin Button touched me in a unique way.  I’ve always enjoyed the unusual stories, those told of outcasts, the misunderstood, or the broken.  What could have easily turned into a common story of a man born with a physical deformity and the challenges he faced, became so much more.  A tale filled with the magic and adventure of a life, viewed from the perspective of a woman at the end of hers.  A story of romance and love, both the passion of youth and commitment to do whatever is best for your family.
In summary I think this movie achieves much of what I believe it set out to.  It shows us the highs and lows of life, told in a new way.  It’s hard for me to point out flaws in a movie that I so thoroughly enjoyed, so I’ll just say this.  While I wouldn’t recommend this to everyone, if you enjoy the epic, romantic stories of life, love, and growing old with someone you truly care for, see this movie.

As with any movie I write about, please talk to me if you have any questions about the movie or my thoughts on it.

I love talking about movies!

I feel like sobbing, cheering, maybe throwing up a little.  Mostly I feel like talking about this movie for a few hours.

This film did a fantastic job of making me feel like I was there.  My heart is hurting for those lost in war.  The concussive force of these explosions was excellently translated using stunning slow motion shots, very intentional camera angles, and supurb special effects.  Spanning about 40 days of this particular squad’s deployment, we get a peek into several very different situations this group of men must face.  The suffocating unpredictability of the urban enviroment brings out anxiety, anger, terror and paranoia in these very realistic characters.  We see the constant threat of attack during each disarming mission wear on them, especially as they near the end of their deployment.  Each of the actors filled their roles with a subtle intensity that at times made me forget I was watching a movie at all.  I enjoyed the brief cameos by Guy Pearce, Ralph Fiennes, Evangeline Lilly, and Christian Camargo.

While very tough to watch, this is definitely one of my favorites of the year.  If you’re at all interested in seeing this, unsure about seeing this, or have seen it, please talk to me!  I’d happily share my thoughts. 

In closing, I am profoundly grateful for everyone who has served or is serving in our military.

I love going to the movies. I’ll just say that right away. There is something old-timey and magical about making a night of going to the movies.Whenever I see a film with any weight to it, I always like to sit through the credits. I feel like all to often people watch this epic, intense movie and then stand up and start jabbering the second the credits roll. They go right back to their lives and forget what just happened. So as a movie comes to a close, I like to sit and marinate in what I just experienced. The music that’s playing was picked for a reason. Depending on the people I’m with, I often don’t even say anything until the lights come on and the ushers are sighing loudly at the edge of the stairs. I go back over the film in my mind, thinking about the highs and lows, the parts I loved and the parts I didn’t.

The people who made this film put so much of their lives into it and I think that warrants some extended thought. I know it’s not just me that does this, there’s generally a few other (usually older) moviegoers that sit through the credits with me. I then stand up, stretch, smile at the old folks, and make my way out of the theater.

My name is Jeremy. And I’m a “Sits Through The Credits” guy.