Think Kit #28: Eating The Peel

Part of Think Kit.
Warning: this post contains shirtless photos of the narrator.

I haven't spoken to my maternal grandfather in over 23 years. In the fall of 1990, when I was six, he passed away. I can recall seeing him for the last time, in what seemed to be a nursing home. I remember the smell – it didn't smell like home. The air seemed clotted with strange things, and I didn't want to touch anything in the room. It all seemed temporal.

Time has glossed over enough of my neurons that I can't remember saying anything to my Grandfather, although I assume I shared the wisdom of a five-year old. I was really interested in baseball at the time; maybe I spouted a random Mark Grace statistic, or talked about my best friends in Kindergarten, Asher and Dan and Steve. These are all probabilities, though considering any of them feels foreign.

I remember going to a house that he lived in – there was a lofted room and a hammock indoors. In my memory, the room seems as big as a factory floor, the walls a burnished white, the trim a dark-stained brown. There aren't items in the house other than people, the loft, a hammock, and stairs. It is Summer, and the yard is hot and dry, the trees short and far apart.

I wonder what we would talk about, on the eve of turning 30. He liked driving, and cars – I wonder what he'd say to my ten years of bad luck with used vehicles. (Blown transmissions, selling for scrap metal.) Would I have medical questions? (He was a doctor back in the day that house calls were still made.) Would I mail him my latest band's cassette tape? (His father was a musician, and played a ukulele.) Would we disagree politically? (Or has my not-knowing turned him into a sympathetic character?) Would he have any other light to shed on family history? (In college, I was fascinated by his, and our, Hawaiian heritage.) What would he think of my writing? (He considered himself a writer, and left material unpublished.)

Even creating a fiction around him is hard. Decades pass and things become rigid – maybe he is too far away to get roped easily into a new story. A favorite story about him was his ability to eat the peel. He and my mom loved oranges – and after eating the orange, he'd eat the peel, piece by piece. My mom can even recall him eating a banana peel or two, although, "Those weren't his favorite."

There's a bag of tangerines on my counter. I think I'll eat one today. And try a piece of the peel.

Think Kit #12: Nu-Dill

I like to say that I'm a restless wanderer, but aside from new brews (thanks, Twenty Tap) – I don't do a whole lot of "new" week-to-week. I have set habits that may or may not make me some kinda OCD-freak:

• alternating breakfasts (toast one day, egg the next)
• when weather cooperates, running Sun. - Thurs.
• read New Yorker in the AM and before bed
• read NY Times over lunch
• consistently cook-and-refine favorite recipes fairly often
• spin records from 7p - 8p while cooking or cleaning

...I mean, you get the point. Being an adult is some boring shit.

I did try something new this week. It's really cold, and I had some fresh dill to use before it went off, so I decided to make some soup. Or more specifically, dal, an Indian-subcontinental specialty that is always amazing at an Indian joint – the earthy thickness of lentils, fragrant aroma of spice, and bite of fresh herbs create a powerful spell to eyes, ears, and mouth ... but mine are usually lacking. 

What am I missing? Is it ghee? Is it fresh spices? Some kind of hidden secret like tamarind paste or other exotic, unpronounceable powder? Maybe I'm cooking it wrong?

I've also only used fresh dill in one recipe so far a dry Indian curry that's so good...I haven't branched out. The dill cooks down till it's tender like a green – unfortunately, I only see dill in bulk at Asian markets like Saraga. Come on, Kroger, step up your produce game! I don't want those tiny, plastic containers of past-date herb snippets. Weak.

This time I cooked the lentils separate, in liquid (2 to 1 ratio); afterwards you can easily whisk them into sort of a paste. I sauteed onions, garlic, and spices in a separate pot, then added the dill, cooked down a bit – after which I added the lentils and some water, and brought to a boil as a light, spicy soup.

In hindsight, I wish I had added a cup or so less water, in order to thicken things, but this method was closer to what I was hoping for. ...still might need that ghee, though!

Think Kit #10: Touching Two Oceans

This year, I touched two oceans. In August I flew to California, and touched the Pacific several times. When we hit the PCH just past Half Moon Bay, we slid down a rope to an abandoned, rocky beach. I ran into the cold waves until my feet were frozen, pulsing with hurt. I sprinted up the warm sand past rusty piles of beer cans and month-old bonfire remains.

I waded past my knees in the much warmer surf off the boardwalk in Santa Barbara, pulling my shorts up in an Urkel-like maneuver until they were scrunched against my pale thighs. The water was more green and yellow than blue, though I spent more time gazing back at the palm trees and distant mountains.

In Venice Beach, we arrived at sunset and low-tide, the sky reflecting off the inch-high waves that felt like quiet velvet barely brushing the tops of your feet. The next day was windy, and the waves were knock-you-down violent. We got in past our waist, saw a small shark nosing about, and moved further down the beach. Occasionally, two waves would catch up to each other like just-full-grown dogs – the force swept my feet out and ground me against the sand, ripping my swimtrunks down to my knees while I surfaced slowly in order to stay clothed.

(Venice Beach, low-tide, looking North. August 2013.)

In November, Amelia & I flew down to Florida to see my parents. In Indian Rocks, after a sandwich and a Yuengling, we walked towards the ominously-colored sky to the beach, the wind whipping a few spare drops like tiny comets. The water was warm, and the low, strong tide was eating a two-foot tall shelf along the lower half of the beach. We walked a few hundred yards in the water until the storm rolled closer in and we broke from the car.

A few days later, we visited some other traveling Hoosiers in Redington Beach. We walked several miles down the beach, wading in and out of the water and passing under a pier where a family was taking family pictures in front of some grizzled pelicans. On Honeymoon Island, the rocks and crushed shells became too sharp to walk barefoot on, so despite the warm water, we put our shoes back on, driving down the causeway and setting up camp chairs to watch the sunset with a fat cigar and a full stomach.

The final night of the trip, Clearwater Beach was abandoned, in full post-Thanksgiving hangover mode. We walked down the beach in the late afternoon and watched a pod of dolphins swim around a couple hundred yards out. One went against the flow of his friends and jumped a full six feet out of the water. After dinner, it was too dark to walk on the beach filled with forgotten sand pits, paunchy jellyfish, and the chill of the ocean at night.

On the boardwalk, past a few lonely vendors selling jewelry and cell phone accessories and face painting, there was a completely empty bandstand blasting music from a lone speaker jauntily propped up on a metal cart.

(Prancing the rocky beach in Florida, December 2013.)

In 2006, I touched the Pacific and Atlantic on two separate tours with Everything, Now!
In 2012, I touched the North Sea while on a European sojourn in Newcastle, and the Pacific in Seattle's Golden Gardens Park, while visiting for my brother's wedding.
Each time has felt distinctly different and ripe with importance, like a clear bell of blessing. A tone that resonates for days inside my body.

I want to make a habit of touching two oceans in a year.

Think Kit #9: Modern Humans Are Pathetic

Last Fall, I moved out of the Eastside duplex (Little Flower, represent) I'd inhabited for five years. Though I ended up there by accident (my old roommate, Andy, was moving to Indianapolis --> I decided I wanted to move to Indianapolis --> His sister lived across the street and told us about the place), it really did feel like home.

But, the 25-minute commute to Broad Ripple ate at my soul – yeah, I hate driving unless I'm going on a trip. Commuting farther than that is a sin greater than gluttony in my book (yeah...my book is weird), and yes, I'm aware that I'm a weird-o in a city that if you are car-less (like I was for 6 months a couple years ago), treats you like a mental patient. "You don't have a car? What do you do...ride the bus?" ("Riding the bus" being the equivalent of pigs flying. Or the cows coming home. It just doesn't happen.)

(The weather was so nasty, I had to dig out the coolest

shirt I owned – this vintage 70s track & field jersey

from my Dad's old school, Maconaquah.)

So! Late last Fall we moved up to Broad Ripple. (Well, technically Meridian Kessler – not So Bro...that's not a word and doesn't exist.) It was closer to work. It was more bike-able/walk-able, and we wanted to go down to one car. We ended up renting an older bungalow that needs some fixin' up – windows, walls, facilities, and whatnot. Oh, and there's no Central A/C.

"It's only one summer," we said to each other. "Probably." Besides, there were some window units in the basement, although it turned out that our ancient window frames couldn't support the mammoth, 1980s-era mothballed machines, save for one little plastic guy, which we installed in the bedroom.

You're waiting for the surprise? Indiana summers aren't the worst, right? And this one had way less 100-degree days. But all of those humid, upper 80 and mid-90-degree steamers, for what felt like two-and-a-half solid months – holy shit. I woke up sweating. I went to bed sweating. I cooked all Summer (we generally cook 6 nights a week) in my underwear, if that.

I ran 5-milers and attempted to cool off on the porch. No dice. My sweat dripped off my body and pooled on the stained concrete. Our cats hung limply beneath desks, on the cool tile of the hearth, and whenever possible, when the slightest breeze tickled their drooping whiskers, on the screened-in porch. We ate cold salads, drank heavily iced gin & tonics, and I even sprung for a box fan that made it impossible to hear anything streaming on Netflix.

(Late-summer okra. It gets tall, the vegetables get big,
and you have to pick through the sticky stalks

and use kitchen shears to snap off the smaller,

more tender pods.)

During the Labor Day heat wave, Amelia was canning late-season vegetables, boiling a 5-gallon pot in order to sanitize and pressurize jars full of pickled okra. I doubled-up in the kitchen to bake a loaf of bread – the combination of all three forms of heat liquified my brain, and for a few minutes, I genuinely worried that I was going crazy. I imagined laying in the yard, beneath the maple tree, in my underwear and sideburns, reserved neighbors staring out from their freon-pumping-tombs, calling the non-emergency-line and then turning back to their big screens.

"I'm fine!" I would yell. "It's just too fucking hot in my house!"

My brain gradually unscrambled. I thought about my parents, growing up in small town Indiana, sleeping in the short-ceilinged bungalows that lined small streets. No air conditioning. Two brothers sharing a bed. They were tougher than I thought. I crawled up to the porch swing, and my skin stuck to the wood.

Modern humans are pathetic.

Think Kit #4: A Little Two-Wheel Wisdom

I'm not big on decisions. Let's just say it runs in the family to follow the following interminable thought process:

• Reach a juncture
• Consider the options
• Ruminate
• ...keep ruminating...
• Choose the less-bad option while constantly checking and re-checking your decision

Following the rumination, there's also an out that involves not making a choice. Keep a hand on the tiller and keep driving. Needless to say, when it comes to evaluating "wisdom" – I don't consider myself an expert, after all, what's wisdom in a world where the middle-class has been hollowed out, a 140-character thought-dump is worth billions, and the Clippers are actually good. 

I try to focus instead on overall goals and themes, and work towards them to align my lifestyle and choices. One decision I made this year was to ride my bike to work. Every day (excepting for snow/ice). In the Summer, Amelia & I even reduced our working motor vehicles to one. Since March, I've been fortunate enough to only drive to work twice (once to transport musical gear, and once due to snow/freezing rain). Biking to work has improved my life in a number of different ways:

(Action shot via. The Monon may be Indy's greatest asset.
Except when it rains and you have no back fender...
...you'll be picking the splinters out of your pants for days.)

1. More exercise – well, yeah. 4+ miles round-trip. That's a good 20 miles a week. More exercise also produces more dopamine, which reduces stress levels and clears my head. 
2. Less tech – On a bike, I'm not attached to a device (If you bike and wear headphones–shame on you. Yes, I'm judging.), I'm just listening to wind, and breath, and passing dogs, and cross-traffic, and inner rhythms. I get to think.
3. Save money – driving into Broad Ripple actually takes longer than biking. And all those traffic lights, stop signs, and crazy 22-year-olds make the drive that much longer. According to Commuter Connect, I save my employer and myself $1.52 each bike trip. That's at least a burrito, or a pint or two of beer each week!
4. Pollute less – have you run in Indianapolis lately? I run five days a week. Most runs end (or are halted half way) for me to (warning: bodily fluid reference forthcoming) hack and blow grey snot out of my body. Indianapolis...your air is kinda gross. Let's work on that.
5. It's fun – if you haven't been on a bike lately...it's still fun! It's still fun to ride with no hands (within reason)! It's still fun to pedal backwards! It's still fun to wave at other bikers! It's still fun to get a great deal on bike lights and attach them to your frame! It's still fun to feel the wind in your hair (unless it's below 40-degrees)!

Lastly, I got a great deal on a used bike and supported an awesome community organization at Freewheelin' Community Bikes. Go there and get yourself some wheels.

October 2013 Mix: The Cusp

10 tracks, 46 minutes. Get it here.

(I shouldn't have to say this – but support working artists & musicians by purchasing records! Links in the tracklist.)

1) Songs: Ohia - I've Been Riding With The Ghost

2) Bitchin' Bajas - Sun City

3) Landing - Gathering

4) Camera Obscura - Troublemaker

5) Richard Hell & The Voidoids - I'm Your Man

6) Parquet Courts - Stoned And Starving

7) Paris 1942 - Move Out Of Wichita

8) Swell Maps - BLAM!!

9) Endless Boogie - Occult Banker

10) Television - Glory (Live in Portland 1978)

Jason Molina passed away in March, in Indianapolis, where I reside. I didn't know he was in town, and hell, I don't think many people he was close to did, either. He succumbed to organ failure from alcohol poisoning. Songs: Ohia's "I've Been Riding With The Ghost" is a ripper that melds together his best traits as a songwriter, the indelible, plaintive acoustic beginning, the Neil Young-esque staccato-electric verse, and the ruminating, glowing lyrics.

"Trying to remember how it got so late / why every night pain comes from a different place / 

now something's gotta change." Hope you're in a better place now, Mr. Molina.

I saw Bitchin' Bajas for the first time this Summer at Indianapolis's premiere musical happening – Cataracts. I'd missed them earlier in the year, but knew based on the Alice Coltrane & Robert Fripp references (as well as their Drag City backing & CAVE-chops), that their higher wavelength was one I needed to tap into. They played a blissful 15-minute set (due to running late) that was pitch-perfect. "Sun City" is tone painting, gorgeously full of guitar fuzz, organ drone, and sunny synth, all flowing together into One. 

Bitchin' Bajas LIVE at Cataracts 2013.

In August, I booked my first show in five years – all it took to convince me was the announcement that dream-wave/drone-poppers Landing were embarking on a rare tour. With an extensive discography that balances gauzy guitar work and more recently, drum-machine powered delicate new-wave...how could I not? "Gathering" is all note-heavy guitar hook and gentle, shoegaze-y vocal lift, building to a blurred haze of guitar that washes out the end.

Landing LIVE this fall at Do317 Lounge.

Ok, time to admit that Camera Obscura is no longer a guilty pleasure. While 2013 LP Desire Lines mellows out a bit – the hooks are still there, the production is pristine, and songwriter/vocalist Tracyanne Campbell still hits all the right notes (and still has that gorgeous Scottish accent...I'm a sucker for it). "Troublemaker" is the lead single and, to prove that serious/romantic nouveau pop isn't all they do, has shown up in video recently with a jab at ridiculous British television.

Note to self: don't ever consider wearing a jumpsuit. Real bad.

I've been on a huge bootleg kick this year, and Television has been leading the charge. If we're gonna get down to brass tax, I recommend this 1978 set (for the noisiness and solos) and Double Exposure (for demos and alternate versions). But somehow I never heard the Neon Boys (pre-TV) or Richard Hell & The Voidoids (replaced in TV by Richard Lloyd). Blank Generation is the succinct classic you might expect from such an ex-pat – "I'm Your Man" is full of attitude and swing and an iconic vocal take, just reined in enough to express instability. 

Classic cover art, too.

Pastiche, on the whole, in rock and roll music usually annoys me, from the dance-rock craze of the early 2000s, to hyperliterate scarf-rock that tumbled out with the Decemberists...yuck. Parquet Courts manage to take a pastiche of lo-fi icons (GBV, Pavement, even Brit post-punk like Wire or Gang of Four) and squish it into their own strange, wiry box. Wry vocal takes and cyclical guitar lines over a rock-solid rhythm section made Light Up Gold one of my favorite records of 2012. "Stoned and Starving" is the centerpiece, five-minutes-plus of a helluva guitar hook, lazy ruminations, and feedback – it's glorious.

(NYC-by-way-of-Texas, the LP cover does hint at the
subtle twang contained within.)

From the same universe, but a generation-and-a-half prior, discovering the Paris 1942 record was a jolt to my summer. It's all high-end, dismal punk and no-wave skronk. Part Sun City Girls and part Mo Tucker (the Velvets) – it sounds exactly like what you'd imagine...which is actually perfect. "Move to Wichita" is a grimy pop gem caked in dirty, wet newspapers of sound, like a house show that you're almost too drunk to remember. 

(I imagine the gloomy figure on the bridge actually
just found out they were moving to Wichita.)

"Aplomb" – something about Brits and how they have plenty of this to go around. Is it the weather? In the midst of bar bands and Sex Pistol-apers came Swell Maps, a brother-led group that had swagger and artistic ambitions. A Trip to Marineville has feedback experiments, perfect pills of pop-punk, and jam-it-all-in lackadaisical prog. "BLAM!!" takes a primal, bashing, almost-Kraut beat and pounds it into the ground with jagged guitar swell, moaning background vocals, and – surprise! – a sing-along chorus. 

(Swell Maps - "Build A Car". With rare live footage.)

Long Island by Endless Boogie is my favorite record of the year. Who could dethrone the muscular riff that "Occult Banker" rides into the sunset? A band of recordheads and riffheads for recordheads and riffheads – they do one thing: boogie. Choogle. Wah-wah riff. For 5, 7, 9 minutes at a time. Always mutating, hooks gestating and rearing their heads on down the road while their vocalist and frontman mumble-rants like Tom Waits with a chest cold. If that doesn't sound appealing: listen to that riff.

(A beast has awoken in the swamp – maybe this LP is
his foot-stompin' welcome back party. Rise from yr mud
and strap on a six-string, dude.)

I've already mentioned Television, and since I just waxed apoplectic about the power of the riff, I thought I'd end this mix with the regal-sounding "Glory" – this live version speeds the studio track up a bit, adds some distortion to the rhythms, but really, it's all about that crushing chorus that blasts immediately into guitar-solo, and back into the ragged vocals of another chorus with extra guitar on top. These guys were locked in in 1978, and it shows with the extra-heavy ending: 

"When I see the glory / I ain't gonna worry."

Year of Doing Shit Better

2012 became affectionately known, post-birthday gathering and bar, nay, brasserie-crawling weekend in Chicago, as the Year of Doing Shit. 11 months on from that blizzardly detour, we've decided that 2013 should be the Year of Doing Shit Better. I'll be 29 in January, high time to become some sort of master craftsman (or piss-poor imitator) at _______. Let these moving images, sound waves, visions, and non-linear text combinations be my Inspirado.

(Some serious brows and beards.)

Establish a vision. Make a record that fulfills it.

(Poilane. Redux.)

Become the Rustic Loaf. 

(Daniel Kalder's Lost Cosmonaut.)

Travel more. Digest better. Document creatively. 

(NEU!'s "Hallogallo" from 1972.)

Internalize this. Space and atmosphere.

(2011 half-marathon. Maconaquah vintage jersey.)

Hitting my goal of 200 runs for 2012. 

Now, do that over with 5 days of body-weight training per week. 

(Anselm Kiefer at the Hamburger Bahnhof.)
See more art. Make more art. Become a fount of ideas.

(Kama Stoutra homebrew.)

Brew more beer. All-grain. On my own set-up.

(January 2011. Muncie.)

Grow another beard like this.

Ok, not really. 

But accumulate all the learning & knowledge that is possible.

With excess of Good; and firm asceticism toward Good-Enough. 

(Part of SmallBox's ThinkKit project.)