mikeShriver

I am going to accomplish things, today.

I’m going to read, I’m going to write. I am going to call my grandmother, change my oil, and finish up those nagging around-the-apartment tasks that stare at me like failure whenever I walk through my home. I am going to refinish the dining room table. I am going to take the hinges off my refrigerator, then put them back on so the door swings the other way.

I am going to fix not only the things that are broken in my apartment, but the things that are broken in my body. I am going to shave, cut my hair, and clean out the gung under my nails. I am going to get that weird pain in my joints checked out. I am going to go to the dentist and get my teeth cleaned: now, again in six months, and then once every six months until they fall out of my head.

I am god of getting shit done.

The world is a grab-bag of unfinished errands. I will reach into into its oily maw, and it will regurgitate to me the pregnant abstract of potential accomplishment, ready to be brought into the concrete through the confident and unwavering work of my own hands. They are the points on a compass, the notes of the scale, the coaches book of plays: the ‘to’ begging that I ‘do.’

My list is long; my tasks, towering and ominous, but I am ready. I have the will and the strength. There is nothing in my future that I can not overcome, even if it has started to snow.

It doesn’t really matter that I’ve lost my telephone charger, and my car doesn’t start when it freezes. I don’t have a belt sander, and I haven’t purchased stain, yet. My wrenches are all metric. My fingers are swollen from the last time I pinched them between the fridge and the cabinet. I’m pretty sure that won’t be too much of an obstacle.

Yes, I am quite confident that nothing can prevent me from writing that half-researched column, even with that all-day marathon of M*A*S*H on television. I’ll just watch one episode.

It sure looks cold outside, right now.

The cold aggravates my joints, but I’m sure I can brave it outside and the bus and make it to my dentist appointment. I hope I have enough bus tickets.

Indeed, today is going to be a day of catching up. I will finish off those things I have been putting off for so long. Once I am caught up, I will feel an overwhelming sense of accomplishment. It will have all been worth it. I can just imagine the looks of awe in the faces of my friends when they see the how good my apartment looks. They will stand in awe at my spry, youthful movements. I can proceed with my life in health and contentment. Once all is finished, I can look back at the day with pride and a glass of wine, and say “I have done it. I have done it all!”

Yes, I am going to do that. I am going to do all of this. I am going to do more than this!

Ah… but first I am going to have to get up.

Tags: accomplishment, Creative Writing, todo.

I’m publishing this essay on my blog, because I can’t find it anywhere online, and I think it’s too excellent a piece of satire to go unread. This essay is excerpted from Chesterton’s 1932 collection of observations on America entitled Sidelights.

A Plea for Prohibition

After a careful study of the operations of Prohibition in America, I have come to the conclusion that one of the best things that the Government could do would be to prohibit everything.

That the story of Mephistopheles, the fiend who tempted Faust, is in reality an allegory of the story of Prohibition in America, is admitted by all serious scholars whose authority carries weight in the modern world. Critics admiring the sarcasm of Mephistopheles have repeatedly referred to his humor as “dry” – a term now impossible to separate from its political content. The promise of the devil to produce a new and youthful Faust, in place of the old one, is obviously an allusion to the promise of the Prohibitionist to produce a new and fresh generation of American youth, unspoiled by the taste of alcohol. The allegory is not only clear about the sort of things that Prohibition really performed. One of the things, for instances which Mephistopheles really performed (if I remember rightly) was to make holes in a tavern table and draw out of the dead timber some magic hell-brew of his own, saying something like,

Wine is sap and grapes are wood;
This wooden board yields wine as good.

Could there possibly be a more self-evident and convincing references to the abuse arising from wood alcohol? Any critic who would evade so crushing a conclusion, as if it were a coincidence, must be indeed lacking in the logic that has lent stability and consistency to the Higher Criticism. When the fiend describes himself as “the spirit who denies,” it is plain enough that we are to read it in the sense of one who denies people the use of spirits. But the conclusive argument to my mind, in that Mephistopheles distinctly says of himself, “I am he who always wills the bad and always works the good.”

That Prohibition and Prohibitionists willed the bad no righteous or Christian person will doubt for a moment. That Prohibition and Prohibitionists eventually work the good may appear for the moment more doubtful. And yet there is one sense in which Prohibition has already worked some good; and may yet work very much more good. Wood alcohol is not in itself a happy example; and no judicious wine-taster will expect to find the best vintages in a liquid drawn by a devil out of a dinner-table. But there really is already in America a large number of people who are producing drinks in an equally domestic fashion; and drinks for their own dinner-tables if not out of them. It is not by any means true that all this home-made drink is poison. The presence of the devil is plain enough in the pleasing scheme of the American Government to poison all the alcohol under its control, so that anybody drinking it may be duly murdered; but murder has become almost the ordinary official method of the enforcement of a teetotal taste in beverages.

But the private brews differ very widely; multitudes are quite harmless and some are quite excellent. I know an American university where practically every one of the professor brews his own beer; some of them experimenting in two or three different kinds. But what is especially delightful is this: that with this widespread revival of the old human habit of home-brewing, much of that old human atmosphere that went with it has really reappeared. The professor of the higher metaphysics will be proud of his strong ale; the professor of the lower mathematics (otherwise known as high finance) will allege something more subtle in his milder ale; the professor of moral theology (whose ale I am sure is the strongest of all) will offer to drink all the other dons under the table without any ill effect on the health. Prohibition has to that extent actually worked the good, in spite of so malignantly and murderously willing the evil. And the good is this: the restoration of legitimate praise and pride of the creative crafts of the home.

This being the case, it seems that some of our more ardent supporters might well favour a strong, simple and sweeping policy. Let Congress or Parliament pass a law not only prohibiting fermented liquor, but practically everything else. Let the Government forbid bread, beef, boots, hats and coats; let there be a law against anybody indulging in chalk, cheese, leather, linen, tools, toys, tales, pictures or newspapers. Then, it would seem by serious sociological analogy, all human families will begin vigorously to produce all theses things for themselves; and the youth of the world will really return.

Tags: America, Chesterton, Homebrewing, Prohibition.

The morning after the apocalypse happened, Kane LaRue discovered, to his dismay, that he could no longer survive the world. Kane’s means for survival relied almost entirely on services and goods that others provided. Now that there were very few others, most of whom were solely occupied with their own survival, Kane found his prospects severely limited. With the restaurants, grocers, coffee shops, bars and Nordstroms all closed or destroyed, Kane found he had to rely on hunting, foraging and growing his own food. He had to build his own shelter, and sew his own clothing.

Nearly two thirds of The Republic of Cascadia’s 35 million citizens failed The Institute’s Apocalypse Skills Assessment/Survivability Skills And Readiness program. Urban and suburban residents, those people who are most likely to be affected by a civilization-ending event, are three times more likely than those in rural areas to lack this important training. 98% of those polled in our nation’s capitol city of Vancouver have stated their estimated level of rural self-sufficiency ranges from low to none. Many polled stated they would simply make use of one of the city’s ‘Suicide Booths’ instead of attempting survival in a world without Starbucks.

The Institute of Cascadia’s ASA/SSAR provides basic skills needed for survival in environments when self-sufficiency is required. Participation in the program is highly recommended by the Ministry of Security. The program provides a strong foundation of skills that will separate you from your reliance on the infrastructure of society. Skills taught include personal food production, preservation and preparation; shelter construction; sewing; brewing and distilling of spirits; personal defense; and a wide variety of other important abilities. Competence in the program has been shown to increase participants’ willingness to attempt survival in the end-times, and with completion of the program, participants are eligible for government sponsorships in the advanced-level programs The Institute provides.

Kane’s story did not end well. Without the proper training, Kane struggled with his everyday life. He was reduced to inexpertly trapping small animals and foraging for berries and other small edibles. His remaining existence was short and unpleasant. Kane’s apocalypse was caused by the breakup of the now long-defunct United States. His predicament is no less relevant now than it was back then, and with the Great Plains Alliance recent development of nuclear arms, and the increasing instability of the region’s geography, there is no more urgent a time to prepare your family.

The Institute’s program has compiled the most likely post-apocalyptic end-of-life scenarios, and has prepared survival training to meet each one of these possibilities. Give your family the preparedness they need for these unthinkable scenarios. Implement ASA/SSAR in your household, and engage your children in a lifestyle of competence and personal experience. Contact the Institute of Cascadia today for information on enrolling in this important program

Tags: apocalypse, cascadia, Creative Writing.

Step One: Preparing Your Workspace

A clean brewery is critical to the success of brewing your first beer. Infection is your enemy, and sanitization is your primary weapon against against the incoming invasion. Before you even begin to brew, ensure that your equipment is clean and sterile, and that your workspace is well-organized and easily accessible.

Starches are extracted from grains and converted into sugars, which are then flavored with hops, consumed by live yeast and turned into alcohol. That’s the theoretical concept behind the production of beer. In practice, the act of making beer is so laced with craft, tradition and style, that such a simplistic explanation does it no real justice. The first time I attempted to make a batch of my own beer, I was introduced to a surprising world of craft that I had not previously known existed.

Step Two: The Mash

Malted grains, usually barley, form the bulk of the fermentable sugars in a batch of beer. In order to extract these sugars, the grains must be ‘mashed’ with hot water. The heat of the water allows enzymes to form which break down the starches into fermentable and non-fermentable sugars. The temperature of the water during the mash is extremely important to the success of the brew.

Being a first time brewer, The complexity of making an all-grain batch of beer was well beyond my skill level. The introductory-level alternative is called an ‘extract’ batch, In that process, this prohibitively complicated first step is replaced with the purchase of a pre-made malt extract. This is seven pounds of a thick, sticky syrup that contains the sugars that are necessary for brewing.

Step Three: The Boil

The liquid that results from the mashing process is called ‘wort’. This liquid contains all the sugars and other compounds required for fermentation, but it is not quite ready for the yeast to be pitched. Before that can happen, the wort needs to be brought to a rolling boil, and kept there for at least an hour. Boiling performs multiple functions, including sanitizing the wort, and removing unwanted compounds that can add off-flavors to the final brew. During the boil, hops are added to flavor and bitter the brew. Boiling also helps extract alpha acids, which preserve and bitter the beer, and other flavors from the hops.

I tend to be an inattentive person, which is problematic during this phase of brewing. Attention is key, if neglected, the wort will burn or boil-over, and the caked on, burnt sugars are messy and difficult to clean off of the stove-top. Close attention must also be paid to the addition of hops. Hops are added at various times during the boil, in various quantities depending on the style and recipe being used. If the schedule isn’t followed closely, the resulting beer may be too bitter or too sweet, or it may lack depth of aroma and flavor.

Step Four: Cooling the Wort and Pitching the Yeast

Once boiling is complete, and the wort is ready for the yeast to be pitched. The final step is reducing the temperature of the wort to a range that the yeast can survive, usually below 70 degrees. The faster the wort is cooled, the less chances there are for bacterial infection. Once the wort is cooled to the proper temperature, it should be aerated, usually with vigorous shaking of the fermentor. Then the yeast can be pitched and the fermentation chamber sealed.

Preparation is extremely important to the process of brewing, but I still find myself caught off guard almost every time I get to this step. The simplest way to cool without any special equipment is to douse the brew-pot in a sink full of ice-water. Lack of preparation forces me to rush to the 7-11 next door in the last few minutes of the boil to grab three bags of ice to fill my sink. I can say from experience, that haste amplifies the destructive force of my mess.

Step Five: Fermentation

Fermentation should happen at a constant temperature that is determined by the yeast and style being brewed. Ales are fermented by top-feeding yeast which produce the best beverages at 60-70 degrees, whereas lagers are fermented by bottom-feeding yeasts at 50-60 degrees, for a longer period of time. Fermentation can be done in two stages, with the first usually consuming most of the sugar, and the second stage happening in a different fermentation vessel for clarifying and finishing the beer. A second stage of fermentation is not usually necessary for most styles.

Human beings have always been captivated by fermentation, from the first people to discover an overturned beehive filled with rainwater and natural mead, to the monks of Europe that crafted the divine styles to support their monasteries. What perfect force other than the breath of God can turn simple earthly sugars into the holy spirits of the angels?

Step Six: Bottling

Once the beer has completed fermentation, and reached it’s final gravity, it is time to package and condition. At this stage, it will lack any carbonation, and there are several ways to package and carbonate beer. Bottle-conditioning involved mixing a small amount of adjunct sugar into the beer, and sealing it into bottles. The residual yeast left in the beer will consume the small amount of added sugar, creating carbon dioxide, which will remain trapped in the beer due to the sealed bottles. The beer can also be siphoned off into a keg, which can be pressurized with a CO2 tank, and served directly from a tap. Homebrew stores sell 5-gallon ‘Cornelius’ Kegs specifically for this purpose.

My first attempt at brewing left me exhausted, and my kitchen covered in the ruin of a smelly mess. The resulting beverage was cloudy, yeasty, and under-carbonated. But the holy miracle had nonetheless taken place. Water had been transformed to beer, and I was irreversibly addicted to my newest hobby.

Tags: Creative Writing, Homebrewing.

“Where are you coming from,” The agent checked her passport again, “Dong-Yeon?”

“San Francisco.”

The agent glanced over his glasses at her, “You live in San Francisco?”

Dong-Yeon took a moment to think over the question. American order agents had a very particular way of communicating. They asked specific questions, but never seemed to want specific answers. “No, I live in Seattle. I was visiting family in Seoul.”

“Ok, So you are coming from Seoul.” again, he peered over his glasses, “Were you raised in Seoul?”

“No. I grew up in South Gyeonsang Province.” She paused for a moment, the agent silently continued to examine her travel documentation, so she continued, “I grew up on Namhae Island. It’s a long bus from Seoul, about 7 hours. The village I’m from is small. I did not even go to the mainland until I was seven years old.”

Dong-Yeon Oh doesn’t fully understand why she is telling all of this to the border agent. He is still silently poring over her documents, and she is not quite sure he is listening to anything that she has been telling him. She finds the silence nerve-wracking, and does her best to displace it with whatever idle conversation she thinks he might find relevant. The last time she went through a customs check, the agent asked her all about her uncle in Seoul. She did not think her uncle in Seoul was very relevant to her entry into the United States, but it was the only thing that came immediately to mind.

“We went to visit my uncle.” The security guard glanced up at her quizzically, which made her hesitate for a moment. “To Seoul, when I was a child, My grandmother took me on the bus to Seoul to visit my uncle that lived in the city. That was how I first got to see the mainland.”

The border agent was now entering information into his computer terminal. He made a short muffled grunting noise. Dong-Yeon could not tell whether it was directed at her or the machine.

“He had a,” here she struggled for a word, “A bell. On his door. I had never seen that before. There was no such thing in my village in Namhae. It was just like the houses that were on television. I played with the bell all afternoon, until my grandmother–”

The agent cut her off, “OK, What was your business in Seoul?”

The abruptness of the question threw Dong-Yeon off her guard. She had been a nurse in Seoul may years before, but she did not think that this was what he meant by the question.

Impatiently, it seemed to her, he reframed the question, “Where you traveling to Korea for business or personal reasons?”

“Oh,” she understood now, “Personal reasons. I used to work there. I thought maybe you were asking me about that.”

“Do you go to school in Seattle, or are you employed, here?”

“I used to take classes at the community college, for ESL. But now I work at a hospital. I am a nurse.” From her perspective border agents do not have their priorities straight. The questions they ask have no real importance. She could tell the agent many important things if he only asked the important questions.

Dong-Yeon stared at the agent for a moment. He had asked about her job in Seattle, but did not ask about the people she knew. It was the people that were important. She could be telling him all about her family, her grandmother, and her uncle in Seoul. She could talk about the people she has met in Seattle, since moving here. Without them she would not have the life she now enjoys. If he had asked, she would have told him about her classmates in the ESL program: Mizuki and Quan, who she explored museum openings with. She could tell him about the time Jia-Jia slipped and fell on the wet stone in front of the Sheraton while walking downtown in the rain. Dong-Yeon stayed with her in the lobby of the hotel until the rain stopped.

Karen, her host mother during those three quarters, had first suggested she try to find a permanent job in the US. Without that, who knows where she might have ended up. Where might she be without the friends she made at the public library’s “Talk Time” sessions, or what about her roommate that spent so much energy convincing her to attend the sessions in the first place? Each person had a small and important role in making this city like a second home to her, but the agent did not seem concerned with any of this; He did not even seem to recognize that this city could be her home.

The agent’s stamp fell heavily against her visa, and brought her out of her contemplation. He looked at her over his glasses again as he handed back her papers.

“Welcome to the States, Dong-Yeon. Enjoy your visit.”

Tags: Creative Writing.

I seem to be perpetually short on cash when I travel. Poor planning and difficulty with the math of currency exchange usually leave me with fewer rupees, dirhams, pesos and etc. than I need.

The ATMs in Colombia are freezing cold, especially compared to the tropical heat outside. They are like single-occupancy pods of A/C. Stepping into one feels like stepping into a walk-in refrigerator. I sampled many of them in my short time in that country, due to the trial-and-error inconsistency of a my debit card. Anyone who has travelled with me could probably tell you a story about my money problems on foreign soil.

On one occasion toward the end of my stay with Torin, we caught motos into town to pick up some supplies and get me a little cash for dinners and the trip home. I latched myself into the tiny environmentally controlled pod and began to push buttons at random on the kiosk. Almost as soon as Torin and I stepped into the box, a man came up outside the glass window and wordlessly began staring at us. His eyes were enormous, and I don’t think he blinked once during this entire episode.

With him standing out there, and my inability to figure out how to make the machine spit out currency, I pretty quickly decided against the original plan, and packed my wallet deep into my bag and exited the cash-pod.

As soon as we exited the ATM, the man, still silent and with no emotion on his face, outstretched his hand in my direction. It made me pretty uncomfortable to have his attention focused on me like that. Torin looked at me with a look in his face that said ‘I have no idea what this person wants’ and gave out a little laugh that revealed he was as uncomfortable as I was. We made our way pretty quickly to the nearest main road, where we could find some transportation. The man followed close behind us, hand outstretched, eyes wide, the whole time.

Transportation is simple to come buy in most every place I visited. You simply have to choose a motorcycle, and climb onto the back of it. We jumped onto the two closest motos and spit out the usual: ‘Mampujan.,’ and off we were, on our way out of the town. The man stood on the corner we had just departed, and continued to stare at us with his hand outstretched. Torin and I exchanged looks from out motos and watched him as we rode away.

He wasn’t left completely empty-handed. As we rode off, someone thoughtfully deposited an empty paper cup into our friend’s outstretched hand.

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I recently took 6 weeks off from work to visit some friends in South America. When I got back, I dumped 9 rolls on the counter at my local Bartell’s. I’m dedicating this post to my favorite shots from the trip.

Read the rest of this entry »

Tags: AE-1, Eyes, fuji superia 200, Fujica, Hobbies, N60, Photography, ST-801.

Yesterday was the first day of the Hearing. It was pretty rough going most of the day. We were awakened by news that some people had showed up with machetes and were threatening to take down some of the facilities. That incident turned out to be some of the youth in the community expressing a payment dispute, but it rattled some of the organizers and made for a frustrating scene. The event has so much to worry about coming from outside the community that it doesn’t need the infighting and quarrels of those inside the community.

The day was plagued with technical difficulties, issues regarding the distribution of meals and the terrible mud. The mud was slowly taken care of throughout the day, as trucks began arriving with the sand they should have laid down in the first place to take care of it. After the days events ended, the organizers had a big meeting during which they discussed major changes to the way food was distributed, that being the major hangup in the day. Far fewer people showed up today, and it is noticeably less chaotic. They have also managed to clear up the major technical issues, and there are a good number of people who seem to be legitimately attentive to the events in that courtroom in Bogota.

The last remnants of fear that I had from the weekend completely vanished yesterday. Perhaps the amount of nonstop work distracted me enough that I didn’t dwell on it. I think that seeing the community (try) to organize this event and plan through the threats gave me a feeling of implicit safety here. The community once again feels, to me, like a place where I am completely safe.

Tags: South America, Travel Journal.

The work began to manifest itself in a few more obvious ways today. Simon trucked a large tent into Mampujan for the hearing, and Torin and I were quickly enlisted to help set it up.

I wish I could say that I was useful in situations, such as this, where physical labor is required. After a couple of hours in that sun I largely gave up helping. Toring showed far more grace working steadfastly throughout the day as the sun turned into clouds turned into pouring rain, turned into 3-inches of mud covering the entire field. At the end of the day, he remained in the same high spirits he started out. He even seemed happier with having been given a job that required hard labor.

Halfway through the afternoon, I realized that the last roll of film I had shot hadn’t loaded properly. I lost some of my most anticipated photographs of the trip, so far.

Regarding the events of last night: They have completely changed my entire perspective on this day. Suddenly, there is hushed talk of police excorts and military informants in the community

In a place I used to feel completely safe, I am norewharboring back-of-my-mind thoughts of abductions and concerns for my safety and the safety of the others here.

As much as I was worried last night, I couldn’t stop thinking how awesome a story this will all make once I am back. Perhaps that is indicative of how afraid I actually was, but my most pressing thought was for the story I would have the opportunity to tell when I get back.

Torin thinks very little of the threats, which is somewhat reassuring, but I still slept pretty uneasily last night

Tags: South America, Travel Journal.

[Posts from this point on were not posted while on travel to avoid excessive worry they might have caused while I was abroad.]

Preparations for the hearing have been in full swing all day. After dinner and a leisurely sit in the hammock we were visited by four of the women who are working to help organize the event. They spent an hour or so at the house while they arranged for a ride back to their hotel, about 5 km up the road.

While they were staying there they expressed some concern that they might not be safe at the hotel. They asked Torin if he would escort them back to the hotel and help them get checked in. It seemed like kind of an absurd request. These women were native Colombians from the region, and certainly knew a lot more about the area than Torin or I knew. We eventually got in contact with the people that were to take them to the hotel and arranged for them to come and pick the women up.

["I think I was talking in Spanish to a native English speaker," Torin said after he hung up, "He had a strange accent and we both kept searching for words. Neither of us offered to switch to English, though." The man on the other end turned out to be named Simon. He was a Londoner who gave lectures at a seminary in Medellin, and had been living in Colombia for seven years. Spanish was second nature to him, now. In the coming days, I would have to constantly remind him that I don't speak Spanish, and he would have to make a concerted effort to switch over to English when speaking to me.]

“You’re coming with us.” One of the women stated to Torin.

“OK… And Miguel, too?”

“Sure, the more gringos the better.”

And like that we were on our way in the back of a pickup to a hotel that was five minutes from Torin’s house. We pulled into a lot that was, pretty literally, in the middle of nowhere. The lot held a gas station and a short row of locked rooms. There was a small food stand across the street where four or five people sat around a table and chatted. We were assigned our rooms and we settled in, then set off on a small walk to the snack stand across the street.

After purchasing some chips and water we walked across the expansive lot to enjoy the cigars we purchased in Cartagena away from the potentially unapproving eyes of our hotel-mates. We sat there, smoking our first Cubans, ants biting our feet and bugs swarming to the light overhead, when we noticed the red flashing lights of a police van illuminating the front of the hotel. Police in the US make me jumpy, and being confronted by Colombian Police was a terrifying thought. Luckily since I didn’t speak Spanish, I didn’t have to talk to them at all, Torin handled that. In a few moments the van pulled around the lot and stopped in front of us. They asked us if we were with a group of women staying at the hotel. Torin walked back to the hotel with one of the policemen while I stayed and finished my cigar. In a few moments Torin came back and beckoned me back to the hotel.

There had been an ‘incident,’ Torin informed me. While we were out smoking, one of the women we were with had received a phone call from a man who could list her her entire days activities, and the numbers of the rooms we were staying in at the hotel. He indicated that he was armed, and finished his call with the words ‘You need protection.’

We are now back in the hotel room, while several heavily armed policemen sit outside, watching the entrance to the rooms.

I have never been in any situation even remotely close to this before. At this point, I’m not entirely sure how to feel. A lot of common sonse tells me I am in little danger, anyone intent on wounding or killing has had ample opportunities far more suitable than this, with police watching over the room I sleep in. Even so, stories of kidnappings, disappearances, drug and paramilitary violence in Colombia form the majority of my understanding of the place.

Tags: South America, Travel Journal.