On Taylor and Trump

It’s a $50 million dollar grossing film at worst. An absolute blockbuster at best. The protagonist is a 6’5” 250lb. All-American white male who has mental telepathy with a quarterback blessed with generational talent. This allows him to seemingly always be open. He’s also insanely good at catching the football and running after said catch. What our gritty, yet handsome, Cleveland Heights boy doesn’t know is that the whole time he was making 1st round draft picks look like busts, the universe had him on a collision course with arguably one of the top 5 songwriters – yet alone performers – of all-time.

She looks like the first image that comes up in a Google search for “beautiful American woman.” And she’s every bit Rosey the Riveter as she is Audrey Hepburn. The fans? They love her because she’s honest. She’s true blue. Her ride is their ride. And you can’t slide a piece of paper between that embrace. This forces her into a life that’s envious from the outside and torturous from within. The adoration is intoxicating, but the scrutiny of every growing pain – of every extinguished flame – could drive a woman to smash the microscope into a million microscopic pieces. It’s everything and nothing at the same time.

Until they meet.

And while this first-round Hall of Fame inductee battles injury-after-injury in what may be his final march to the Super Bowl…love enters the chat. The headlines ask if she’ll be in the stands. His pre-game looks start tipping albums. For the bleeding hearts, romance. For the Capitalists, a tale taught at Fuqua. Pass the popcorn.

Siri, find me a Republican movie.

But Trump gives it two thumbs down.

This triggers a bunch of nervous Chiefs of Staff texting their bosses with screengrabs and suggestions for moving forward. It infuriates the left. It rallies the right. And it gives sleepy morning anchors a triple-shot of finally something relatively less frightening to talk about for a few hours.

Here’s the thing. It doesn’t make any sense. This should be huge. Yougee…massive…bigger than anyone’s ever scene before in the history of mankind. This is red meat tossed into a caged pen of starved tigers. This is the world Trump wants. This is exactly what’s he’s selling. Check the flyer, man.

However, you may have forgotten the first rule of cult leadership. You zig when they think you’re gonna zag. Chess, not checkers. So, he brushes his coat sleeve and adjusts his absurdly long red tie and two goons mobilize from across the room. They know exactly what needs to be done. Travis and Taylor are cancelled. Make America Great Again.

It’s not the love story the two-time divorcee rejects. It’s fear. It’s fear of this absolutely transcendental woman unleashing not only her power, but her personal relationships, with 90+ million fans worldwide – including millions of 18–24-year-old female voters in the U.S. And a 6’5” boyfriend batting down his last-second Hail Mary to stay out of jail for eternity.

That’s why he wants to change the channel.

On Compact Discs

Can I borrow your CD player, Cheech?

Cheech is my 9-year old. She put Beast on the left sleeve of her soccer sweatshirt. But her real name is Hattie Quinn. Cheech came from her older sister. Not sure why— but that’s how most good nicknames stick. It fits her like a finely tailored suit though. Good or bad — whenever she does something, all you can do is shake your head and say That’s the Cheech…

The Cheech

Anyway, she’s also the only one I know in this house with a CD player.

Yeah, it’s over there.

She was reading a book on the floor.

Wait, why do you need it?

Because I want to listen to some old CDs. She looked skeptical. But, she always looks skeptical. To play a CD. Like a physical CD. I opened the CD player and held up a disc that was in there. See, Cheech, we used to just have CDs and these don’t sync with the music we can dial up on our phones. She was tracking. Anyway, I had a bunch of great shows on CD…like concerts that people taped so it’s not stuff you can just find on Apple…

Like who?

The Cardinals. Ryan Adams and the Cardinals. They were on an absolute heater in 2006 and 2007. Really good stuff.

Cool.

Hattie went through an abbreviated series of her usual bedtime stall techniques while I stood in the doorway and held her CD player in my hand. We tucked her in and I retreated to the basement to plug this thing in and listen to some Ryan Adams.

I have to admit that I was borderline obscenely late for work this morning because I was searching for CDs. But, I would counter with A) if your Creative Director shows up on time, he’s probably no good and B) it turns out I have a CD player in my car so it worked out beautifully. I listened to the first set from 11/14/07 on the way in. Finishing the second set now.

Finding old music is like jumping into a time capsule. I’m immediately back into the Jade Green manual Kia Sportage I drove. Classic late 20s guy trying to find myself and love and hopefully do it in the right order.

But, I’m also here. A dozen years later. With a wife and two girls. Watching all those memories pass by through a different prescription.

Some of the angst is gone. Love lost is no longer a chief concern. And, it’s honestly hard to listen without at least thinking a little bit about how Ryan Adams was at his best as member of the Cardinals and at his worst as a posterchild for the #MeToo movement.

The point is we have nearly infinite music at our fingertips. But, it’s tough to beat washing the coffee stains off a CD, blowing the dust off the player and taking a trip back in time.

On Ok Computer

It feels pretty douchey when you say it. Let’s get that out of the way. It feels like beard oil and mustache wax and flannel swilling an imperial IPA infused with the spirit of Stephen Malkmus. That’s fair. But you also weren’t a 17-year old boy growing up in Cleveland, Ohio in 1997. So, gimme a minute. Ok Computer was a great album.

It was all the things. Immediately different — like watching Michael Jordan in his prime. The game was familiar, but you knew you were experiencing something special. Generational. From the first lick of Airbag through the end It had a heartbeat. It had moods. Emotion. Empathy. Frustration. Pain. Doubt. Love. Panic. Hope. It’s one of my stranded-on-a-desert-island-what-albums-are-you-choosing picks.

But, this isn’t a Rolling Stone review. It’s a few hundred words about a strange thread that weaved its way through my day and inspired me to fire up my computer after writing all day, listen to this album for the thousandth time and tell a story that isn’t trying to sell you anything.

Yesterday was birthday. Today, I walked into this.

And this.

Reader’s note: I’m letting my hair grow out a bit.

Anyway, the culprits filtered into my office and we sat around judging the photoshop skills, eating birthday baked goods and I can’t even remember how we got there but Fergs somehow came flying into the conversation with “…yeah, it’s just like how ‘Let Down’ was about Naked Lunch…” to which I said, “Like William S. Burroughs?” and he nodded like f*ck, yeah. And, that was it. Total sidebar.

Until tonight…when I’m cooking dinner and of course Pandora spits out ‘Let Down’ and I tap the lyrics and screengrab to throw into the work chat and ask what the song was about again? I had forgotten the reference, but the lyrics felt different than what I couldn’t remember was said. Fergs chimes in with a correction — it wasn’t Burroughs. Kafka. Metamorphosis. Makes more sense.

I think maybe there are two camps. People who feel like these threads as I call them — these random one-off mentions that randomly pop back into your day and send you down a path of memories and emotions are coincidental. Or people who surf the energy of the room and allow things to flow back to them because they know that its all connected. We’re all connected.

The latter are the same people who think Ok Computer is a phenomenal work of art.

On Pricilla Ann Perry

I grew up with Mikey. He’s the chef. He’s also our Chief Merchandizing Officer. We have Dawg Van cups, t-shirts and corduroy blazers. Bruzzer and I were in the same fraternity at Denison. He grew up in Warren, OH with Ralph, J. For a dozen years he lived a knockdown sand wedge away from Dewey in Shaker Heights. Bru worked for Ryan at PNC. Ryan owns the Dawg Van. That’s the crew.

The Dawg Van

Somewhere between five and eight Sundays, Mondays or Thursdays a season the six of us make the trek down to the melting pot of America — the Muni Lot. If you want to get a flavor of the Muni — follow this guy. He’s a friend of the Van.

Here’s the deal with the Muni. It gets a rap as being an unruly party. That’s 100% true. There is literally nothing that happens in the Muni that could, would, or should surprise you. But that act of putting a few thousand people on random and hitting the simulation button and seeing who ends up where talking to whom is what makes the Muni lot incredible.

It’s also where I met Pricilla Ann Perry. She’s Ryan’s aunt. 69 years old. Hails from mid-Maine. Absolute rock star. But, I knew none of this while I was riding down to the Muni. I was in the back, with Mikey and Ryan’s sister Megan who was in flip flops and a t-shirt (it was 41 degrees), brought a half-eaten veggie tray to the tailgate, and would leave 35 minutes in to go catch a flight. Pricilla was sitting on a cooler towards the front. Cackling with enthusiasm, asking Ryan to honk at passersby and shouting in a Northeastern accent. She came with a guy I presumed to be her son, Warren (that’s not his name but I can’t remember it and he seemed like a Warren) and his fiancé who was very quiet but revealed on the way home that she does Burlesque shows in Portland, Maine. She assured us they were tasteful. It was a conversation with more questions than answers.

Here’s the deal with the tailgate. There’s downtime. I guess in theory it’s pretty much all downtime and that’s what makes it magnificent. Point is you gotta keep occupied. So after walking the lot and tossing a few tight spirals with Mikey I ate a bagel with cream cheese, poured a beer off the side tap on the van, and drifted into a folding chair.

That’s where I met Pricilla. We talked about Maine. Bar Harbor. Bangor. Portland. Politics. Raising children. Love. Marriage. Careers. Cars. And family. We covered some ground. And, it was absolutely enjoyable. Delightful, really. I think that’s what I texted my bride. That I was having a delightful conversation with this 69-year old Mainer who ended up at our tailgate.

To say that Pricilla told a lot of great stories is an understatement. But, as she volleyed and served in the conversation my favorite was not really a story, but more of a one liner. She mentioned that she was a traveling nurse for a woman’s health organization. I drifted in thought. Thinking about how cool it was that people who support a cause with their entire being actually exist in this world and Pricilla turned to me and said, “That’s me. Pricilla Ann Perry. PAP. Get it? HA! It’s what I was born to do!” And she let out a mighty New England laugh.

I like PAP. I asked her if she’d allow me to take her picture for a blog that I write that nobody reads. Of course she said yes. I know she’ll never read this. But, I’m glad I met her. She’s why I love the Muni Lot.

On BeingReal

I was in a BeReal today. That was fun. Five or six of us were sacked out around my agency-provided daytime dorm room hacking away at laptops talking nonsense and lobbing one-liners while pounding out copy and content calendars. Then the notification went off and all hell broke loose.

That’s a bit much. It’s not really that all hell broke loose. But for someone who was only introduced to the app less than 24 hours earlier in a very similar formation in my office the immediate MOBILIZATION was fascinating. This was it. It was go-time.

JZ, you’re in my BeReal. I leaned in, smiled and snap. Posted. Well within the 2-minute timeframe.

This isn’t the part where I explain the card game to you. There isn’t much to explain really. The app is pretty simple. A notification randomly goes off and you’ve got 2 minutes to snap a pic (camera captures both directions) and post it. Only your friends can see it — not @electiondenier69. Apparently, unlike other social platforms people are pretty picky about who they friend. That’s it.

BeReal isn’t for me. I don’t really need to get bombarded with male-pattern baldness staring at an Excel spreadsheet for 2 minutes everyday. But, as they say…I love it for you.

The you being my early 20s amigas. In fact, I think BeReal is kind of brilliant. You see the shit. The grey cubicles. The drop ceilings. The puffy, hungover faces. The IKEA dressers. It’s all in plain sight. Front, back and snap.

I mean, I generally assume all social media is toxic and destructive. There are myriad well-supported statistics to support that. But, in the scheme of things this seems like something that wouldn’t quite make it on the Surgeon General’s radar. People can see if you tried to take multiple pictures because that’s not real. And they see how many minutes you posted after the 2 minute window because that’s not real either.

I guess in this plastic, filtered mess we’ve slid into it’s kinda cool to know that 20-some million users worldwide have this Pavlovian response to a push notification and use that 2-minutes to stare down the barrel of their cracked iPhone and say It’s time to BeReal.

Say what you want about that generation. I say they got a lot of guts.

On Tom Hyde

Aside from his W2, a smattering of investments and his Blockbuster card, Tom was a tough trail. For the most part he was off the grid. I think he had a landline, because it’s even hard to image someone in the mid-90s without one. But, I’m certain he had no answering machine. It’s unclear how long he worked in Corporate America and in what capacity, but he did well enough to give that whole scene an Irish goodbye with enough cash stocked away to make it a true one.

I first met Tom Hyde behind the counter at Bobick’s Golf Shop, tucked away in the back of a suburban strip mall on the eastside of Cleveland. He wasn’t working there for the salary, just the health care coverage. At first glance, he looked like the lone survivor of the 1970s. He was 6’1” or 6’2”, athletically slender with a curly salt and pepper mop and the kind of eyeglasses people wore before there were stores to give you options for different frames. Tom was an incredible storyteller. Though often he paused halfway through, slowly rubbing his greying 5 o’clock shadow and starring out the window for what seemed like an inordinate amount of time. Then he’d snap out of his private tangent and pick up again as if that two-and-a-half-minutes never happened. I’ve never dropped acid, but I have to say hanging out with Tom certainly piqued my interest.

Tom was a stick. Like all of us he grew up slinging doubles at the closest country club and playing as many holes as he could on Mondays. But, unlike a lot of low-handicappers, Tom eschewed technology. It was very on-brand. He’d walk up to the first tee with an ancient leather bag on one shoulder and forged Walter Hagen blade irons clanking together in time with every step. Then he’d casually beat you by a dozen strokes flushing pure irons off a clubface that was barely bigger than the ball it was hitting.

From 1994 to 1997, I spent about 15 hours a week with Tom closing the shop down after school. On paper, he should have hated me. I was a pimply Catholic school kid with a myopic world view and pressed khakis. In retrospect, I’m not too fond of that kid either. Yet somehow we found common ground the way being trapped at work with someone for 15 hours a week forces you to do.

We’d sell a few 18-packs of rock-hard Pinnacles to local duffers, but the majority of our time together was spent listening to The Doors in an empty shop. Tom loved The Doors.

He spoke of Morrison’s tortured genius in a way only a fellow tortured genius could truly appreciate. We’d listen and then he’d quote a line that just passed — slowly enough for me to comprehend the magnitude of the words. To soak in the poetry.

Tom wasn’t a sentimental guy. That quality would be in major conflict with his general ethos. But, for some reason he walked into the shop one day just before I was set to leave for college with a cardboard tube under his arm. He laid it down on the counter where he perched in a half-seated position for most of the evening. As we were closing the register that night he reached over and popped the plastic cap off the end of the tube. The reason I got this…John…was because it was the only poster I ever saw that was just Jim. He slowly unrolled it on the counter. Look at it. We both did in silence. It’s just Jim. It’s not Jim, the American Poet. It’s not Jim the sex symbol. It’s not Jim the frontman of the greatest band ever. It’s just Jim. We both starred at the poster. Anyway, it’s yours.

I have no idea what happened to Tom Hyde. I hope he’s still alive. I don’t have a picture of him because our friendship existed in a time before photo albums lived in our pockets. But, when I dug this poster out of our attic I could see him as clear as day.

On Work Friends

It isn’t fair to compare them to best friends. Best friends are the crème de la crème. For some reason, that person was born at the same time and somehow ended up living a bike-ride from your house and you went through every goddamn trial and tribulation of pre-pubescent life together and somehow you both survived. That gives them the gold jacket. They’re in the friend Hall of Fame. Untouchable.

Good friends, you ask? Good friends may have potentially been on the best friend track at some point in time. Or, you may have picked them up along the way. Undergrad, law school. Good friends you’ll vouch for — but you hold no legal or insurance liability for their actions at weddings or on golf trips. That said, you’ll do anything — within reason — for a good friend. Come on. It’s your good friend. It’s not like it’s some…

Acquaintance. Just some dude you know. But, you know what? Don’t shit on acquaintances. Walk into a room without knowing a single soul except …who’s that guy….I played in his foursome at that outing….we talked about the Grateful Dead on 13…what’s that guys’s name? Boom. Fist bump. Hey, man… And you both tread conversational waves on a superficial level. They know the deal. I dig a good acquaintance.

But, I’m here to talk about the work friends. Those motherfuckers you just knew you were going to vibe with when HR awkwardly paraded them around on their first day. Your tribe. The people you talk trash with. The people you can either love or hate working with depending on the project and your general level of disgust for work at that specific point in time. The weirdos that share your energy.

Standing in doorways or piled into someone’s office killing a random Thursday afternoon you kinda overshare a bunch of shit about your life because fuck it — these are your work friends — when are you ever going to run into them in real life?

And then you do. Worlds collide. And for a quarter of the night everyone is a slightly odd version of the person you know at work. Then after a couple drinks and some activity the room settles in and everyone becomes normal again. This is riiiight about that time of the night.

On the Everyman

To be honest, nothing about the guy sounds even remotely interesting. Yet, for the second time in as many months I’ve seen this dude pop up in random decks and I’m really hoping it’s just lazy writing and not a trend. So, who is this Everyman?

Maybe I’m late to the chat — but does this human actually exist? His wholesomeness makes him ‘irresistibly likeable’? Sure, that sounds like what trends on social. If he does exist, there’s no way in hell he dwells in this country as described. But, okay I’ll suspend my disbelief…until the part where he shuns all worldly possessions in search of the ultimate feeling — the feeling of belonging. All this fella wants to do is fit in. The ultimate sheep.

This writer sure as hell isn’t an Everyman. No, our pup here watches films, not movies. You can almost hear the cubicle high-five when he tells his bro he snuck a Bateman reference into the deck. Maybe that’s why he missed the irony of his Everyman being ‘free of artificial sweetners’, yet hopped up on doughnuts and lattes.

Anyway, keep your eye on this cat. This moral-crusading, pretentious-free pack animal is on the loose and just begging you to throw media spend at him because maybe — just maybe — your product will be the only one he’ll refuse to cast aside.

On Winter Storm Warnings

My fifth grader told me on the way home that her teacher’s Snow Day Tracker put Thursday’s odds at 99%. My wife’s entire schedule was moved to virtual appointments. We got the friendly reminder Monday morning to make sure we have all that we need at close of business Wednesday so we can be productive (read: billable) from home on Thursday. 8 - 16” expected. Snowfall exceeding 2”/hour at times. 35mph gusts. LFG.

In reality, we could get a dusting. Or freezing rain. I say this mainly because our planet is broken and less than 36h before this mega storm is about to hit I took my dog out in shorts and a sweatshirt because it was 49 degrees out. But, I’m here for the drama.

A Winter Storm Warning in the Great Lakes region dominates the conversation like no other event. And, everyone’s neurosis or ambivalence is on full display. My parents have cancelled any activity outside of the home two days before and three after just to be safe. In the meantime, someone checks out of the express lane of every grocery store in town with an empty fridge at home and barely enough food and drink in the cart to get them past dinner.

I suppose what I love the most about Winter Storm Warnings is that they give you something to do. Something to talk about. Something (relatively) inconsequential to turn into a big deal for 48h in February. Something outside of a seemingly never-ending pandemic, record inflation and the findings of the January 6th Insurrection Committee to mindlessly muse to a stranger in the bar seat next to you about. Think we’ll get 16 inches on Thursday?

I’m pulling - as always - for the blizzard of 2022. I want it to move from a warning to a promise that nobody alive has ever seen a storm of this epic proportion. Not around these parts. That’ll give me something to talk about for the next 50 years.

On the Cedar Lee

My wife’s best friend said - and I quote - she’s too stupid to get Wes Anderson. She has a MFA in Creative Writing and a law degree. If she’s too stupid I have no business being a fan. But I am, so she’s not.

That said, The French Dispatch is the most egregious display of intellectual snobism I’ve ever witnessed.

Here’s how it all went down. We dropped our girls off with their Grammy and Pap halfway between Wheeling, WV and Cleveland in a town called Zoar, Ohio. They have a primo Dairy Queen, a Subway and one of the busiest gas stations on I77. That crew was off to cut down a Christmas Tree and we found ourselves with a rare kids-free afternoon. So, we decided to do something we hadn’t done since 2015 - head up to the Cedar Lee to see a movie.

We were planning on seeing House of Gucci. Gaga in her prime. But, we also wanted a beer and a hot pretzel before and secretly I may have wanted to see the latest Wes Anderson movie just a hair more. So, when my bride suggested we audible I had no objections. What a great day. Back at the Cedar Lee.

As we waited in line a middle-aged man in a white turtleneck and Member’s Only jacket stood with his wife. I saw him. I know my wife saw him. And, in my head I rehearsed the line, you know, you don’t see much casual turtleneck wearing these days…

I wanted to lean over quite seriously and whisper it. But, when I went to deliver the crowd-pleaser she - as always - was one step ahead of me. Those big brown eyes shot a look that said don’t say it. And when I leaned in I could only get out you know, you don’t see.. before we both lost it. What a great day.

Then the movie started. Obscure New Yorker references, non sequiturs, absurd conversation and nostalgic references back to previous work. It was bad. It was also sad…for me. Watching an artist I so admired either fighting his way through an Eli Cash-level drug addiction or lost on a Steve Zissou odyssey Hoping to recreate his magic from a former time.

Anyway…here’s one of my favorite parts of the Cedar Lee. Look at the contoured tile. The full-length cast iron. The majesty.

It’s one of the most unique urinals in Cleveland. It immediately takes you back decades. It sort of feels like you’re on a movie set.

See House of Gucci over The French Dispatch. If a turtleneck is your look, rock it. Find someone you can laugh with. And, taking a photo of a urinal you artistically admire with the pressure of someone potentially bursting through the door feels kinda Wes Anderson…in a good way.

on Phish

Brad Wilson lied to his girlfriend about the veraciousness of his nightly reading. This is according to one Amy Oberhelman. Amy, given her status as Brad’s aforementioned girlfriend and present wife, was a reliable witness. She’s also from Indiana.

It was just a playful moment over drinks. I don’t remember the bar’s name but the lighting was great. We may or may not have been cramped around some oddly small side table-type thing covered in cocktails, sitting on a mish-mosh of chairs of different heights. That’s kind of how I remember it. There was good music, but it didn’t hamper conversation which is exactly the decibel level every restaurant needs to put a piece of masking tape next to. Amy was charmingly holding court. Speaking - with great recollection - about how Brad (allegedly) gave her the impression that he turned into an early 2000s version of Wordsworth when the clock striketh seven every night. Brad defended his (alleged) ruse with a well-timed one-liner or two and eventually someone else took the floor.

It’s really a forgettable story. Just one of those things that randomly comes up and it happens to be that couples’ time to take center stage for two minutes during the evening event. But, we like stories where we can identify with a flawed, yet likable protagonist which is what we all essentially are. So, when I think of Brad Wilson, this little vignette is one of the first things that comes to mind.

The other is the Disco Biscuits.

In the late 90s, the Gamma Xi chapter of Kappa Sigma threw a 40-keg rager in a random field miles away from bucolic Denison University. Brad was the late-night founder, tireless promotor, treasurer, logistics manager and security director of this risk management nightmare. The Disco Biscuits were the band that jammed, noodled and set a collective contingent — of which I was included - into absolute orbit.

And, while I don’t keep in as good of touch with my friend these days I did text him a screen-grab of my car radio sometime during the heart of the pandemic while I was waiting at a light after dropping one of my girls off at soccer. The Disco Biscuits were on. Brad called me minutes later.

It was good to catch up. Again, nothing really remarkable to report. But, I mainly enjoy these random connections we have every 2-3 years because at some point near the end of the call someone inevitably says So, what’ve you been listening to these days?

Then, sometime over the course of the next few days you’ll be in a car rushing to or from work-school-practice-grocery-wherever and you’ll remember that there’s an album your buddy says you should check out.

Anyway, I’ve been listening to a ton of Phish lately. And, Phish drummer Jon Fishman hosts a show called “The Errant Path” that is the most incredible musical curation I’ve ever heard. That alone is worth the Sirius subscription.

on Peppers

Here’s the thing. When we were all cruising around 2019 completely oblivious that our entire world was about to come to a screeching halt I’m not sure I could’ve answered the question At what age does one start canning Hungarian hot peppers? Turns out its 41.

It’s hard not to start in Warren, Ohio. I mean, that’s where the recipe came from. It’s also that lawless place where five of my buddies either hail from or have married into. Things are different in Warren.

But, if you’re drinking Crown in the ITAM at 7:00 a.m. after a workout at the Y at five, there’s a better than average chance there are some peppers out. Someone passes from “a touch of the Leukemia,” you’re goddamn right there are going to be peppers at the wake. You got the famous 422s or Chicago Frank’s peppers. And, you’ve got the old guys - the dads of my golf trip who’ve been doing golf trips longer than my crew has been alive. First-class peppers. Plenty of prominent players.

The OGs

So, amidst the toilet paper hoarding and impending doom of the Fall surge we decided to pile into a low-ceiling University Heights basement and throw our hat in the ring.

“Choose your job wisely. It’s yours for the next 30 years.”

Here’s the thing about canning peppers: it’s both a lot of work and not a lot of work. And, that might be what makes it great. You have periods of frenetic beehive activity followed by longer stretches of kicking back and stretching your legs. A little homemade wine. Some bread. Sample the product. There’s no rush. It’s a gentleman’s game.

Year one they were salty - dropped in the Atlantic salty - but crisp with an appropriate heat. This year we cut back the salt and added freshly minced garlic. We’ll see how the product turns out.

Also pictured: Dewey

We also added a guy. We’re five now. Got aprons and everything.

More salt early. Cut the day between salting and canning. Freshly minced garlic is a winner. Add another bushel. It’s all in the ledger.

We’re coming after you, Chicago Frank.

on Creative Direction

I’ve always loved this shot.

November 29, 2009

So, when my wife mentioned the need for a Christmas card photo I saw the opportunity to be the hero. The ideas guy. The Creative Direc-tor. (hand in the air)

Here’s how the sausage is really made.

9:44 a.m.

32 degrees. Feels like 29.

Here we are. Don’t think it’s gonna work. God damn is it cold. Scan around.

9:50 a.m.

Add some texture. A little color.

What about the other side of the wall? This is interesting. Is it weird to be standing in front of a random wall?

9:59 a.m.

Frozen.

10:09 a.m.

Clara can’t feel her feet.

Okay, let’s make this work. This will work. Walk to the car. Are these all blurry??

We had someplace to be. The shoot was over for now. But, we’re dressed in what we need to be in and with shipping delays we need the shot today. We head to Good Mansion Wines for some coffee, rations and….boom.

What a great porch. This is perfect. Scoot those chairs over.

I like it…but…

Maybe we should stand.

12:40 p.m.

12:51 p.m.

Merry Christmas.

Day of the Dead

The Charlottesville Marathon was still pretty homegrown in 2007 when I ran it with three of my best friends.

There was no expo. You just picked up your bib and shirt out of the back of the local running store. And, the course carried this casual vibe perfectly. It was somewhat marked, hilly AF and water was scarce - sometimes left to homemade roadside stands with kids serving up Dixie cups or hitting you with a much-needed spray of a hose. It was a runner’s race. There may have been 300 or so signed up for the full - maybe 2x that number in fans. But, there’s one guy I’ll never forget.

One buddy had moved ahead and the other had slipped behind. Now the two of us found ourselves running behind a pack of VMI cadets trapped in a field of negative energy. Nobody said a word. Yet you could hear the internal screaming as you ran closer to the pack. Mark gave me a nod and while neither of us were feeling fantastic we stepped on the gas to pass this funk. It worked. But in a mile or two we paid the price. Bombing gel packs – grasping at whatever you can just to try and get by.

And that’s when I heard it.

I couldn’t tell if it was in my head or the reality outside of it. Bump ba-ba, ba-dump bump bump. Bump ba-ba. You hear that? And as we make our way to the crest of the hill it gets louder. There’s no mistaking that baseline now. Then Jerry’s guitar hits that pure run where notes are just sprinkling down like raindrops and we’re nearly sprinting down the hill quads burning. Fire...fire on the mountain...

At the bottom, an old man sits stoically with his boombox perched next to him on a fencepost. No expression. Great big white-beard as much Claus as it was Garcia. Music blaring.

Courtesy: Grateful Dead

I don’t know how many of the 300 finished. But, I still love the fact that if you did you most definitely heard this old timer who got up early just to sit at the base of a grueling part of the race to play Fire on the Mountain on repeat for hours.

On the Day of the Dead...that’s a memory I’m grateful for..

Nothing happened.

Today is one of those days where it feels like it’ll never get fully light out. It’s how I imagine Alaska, but I’m in Cleveland. A light rain was already soaking everything when we woke up. The yard I mowed at dusk 12 hours ago has broken out in a rash of new leaves. Beanies are back in the rotation with my ball caps. The Browns are 4-3. And I just came to the realization that my golf season is over.

Technically, it ended four days ago on my birthday. Here’s a gratuitous pic of what turned out to be my best drive of the day.

(Editor’s note: I made 5)

While I could easily bore you with a highly detailed description of all 89 strokes I took on Monday, the reality is it was a round where nothing really happened. Aside from one other addict who was practicing 3-footers on the putting green in the light mist I was all alone on the course. Making neither a birdie nor a triple I walked across soggy fairways and furry greens playing in-lock step with my handicap.

Eight miles west of me it was a normal Monday. The weekly staff meeting. Gallons of coffee being consumed. Emails, Slacks and Teams flying around. And, as I scrolled through the mess as I walked off 18 and to my car it hit me that nothing really happened. Projects progressed. Jobs were routed. Final art was released. And while I knew my Tuesday was going to be a little bit more intense, nothing required my immediate attention.

Last year I let six-and-a-half PTO days expire. Partially because the pandemic made it a weird year and I’m sure latently because I have that hard-working American guilt about unplugging.

And, while I’m no LinkedIn sage I do think there was a lesson in all of this worth sharing. Take that PTO. Go out there and play some golf by yourself or do whatever it is you do and see what happens. If you’re lucky, maybe nothing happens.