Coffee: the final frontier

Dear Bro,

In my younger days I was never one to head directly for the coffee maker after awakening from a good night's slumber, with the ignorance of my formative years clouding my eyes to one of the joys of life. That was to change in the early 1990's. After I met my wife to be, Melody, (hey... that rhymes!) I was introduced to the wonders of water soaked in ground coffee seeds. Like any good caffeine junkie, it took a little while before this addiction took hold, but before you could say "OMG... is that a bus bearing down on (THUD!).. I was an official member of the "Garfield Shut up and Pour" morning glory drinking society. I have long ago forsaken that early morning first cigarette for the nicotine sobriety I ventured into in late 1997, but the scent of fresh coffee and the taste of that first cup is, in my opinion, the human version of jumper cables for the dead battery of life.

Like any addition, it started innocently with the purchase of pre-ground coffee. The average weekly shopping stop at the local grocery store would have us throwing a can of the national brands, usually Folgers or Maxwell House, into the cart for the next week's consumption. Even then though, our normal routine was set , with me getting up first and starting the brewing process and Melody miraculously awakening within a few minutes of the first pourable cup readied by the always dependable coffee machine. In those early days we would just grab the container of sugar and the milk from the fridge to accent that fine morning sunshine, but within a few years we graduated from sucrose products to using Equal and traded in the milk for "half and half". This combination worked for us for many years, defining our first hour of the day with this wonderful concoction being knocked back on a daily basis, more consistent then even Donald Trump's annual claims to being worth a "billion dollars".

Then one day in Sam's Club we discovered a Proctor and Gamble coffee named Millstone. They had the grinder set up in the store next to the display so I began a ritual of opening a 2lb bag on sale and grinding way once every couple of weeks. This proved to be more satisfying as the quality of the coffee was always first rate and we were able to continue our daily rituals safe in the knowledge that our mornings would include a cup of the good stuff. On rare occasions that I found the coffee bag empty, I would be forced to run to the local gas station/convenience store/"stop and rob" to pick up overpriced cups of go-go juice rather than facing the wraith of my soulmate with the most feared words on the planet.

"We are out of coffee...."

By the turn of the century we discovered that the coffee is fresher if you grind right before you drink it. So instead of standing in an aisle of a large multinational retail corporation's local store waiting for the display grinder to shred my coffee beans into dust, I could now have the luxury of performing the same task on a daily basis in my slippers while Guido meowed at my feet. Plus, lets face it, do we really know how often the grinder at the grocery store is cleaned, if at all, or whether it has been used by renegade post- Soviet Union KGB agents to dispose of any remaining polonium 210 that they happened to have lying around. These things can keep you up at night....

Now we reached a crisis in the household coffee consumption model. To be specific, Sam's Club stopped carrying Millstone coffee, and thus we were unable to obtain the type of coffee we were used to in the quantities we were accustomed to acquiring. This began a quest for coffee at our favorite grocery store, Jungle Jims. It actually turned into a blessing in disguise, as we have tried numerous different brands and types of coffee, ranging from the generic Starbucks to Fairtrade certified. Many were marginal, but along the way we have sampled many wonders of morning Paradise.

And then I saw an article on yahoo...

For some coffee purists, roasting beans at home is the only way to go

BY BRAD FOSS

Associated Press

America's most finicky coffee drinkers tout their caffeine connoisseurship in many, often contradictory, ways. They spend a bundle at Starbucks, or they refuse to patronize big chains. They drink only espresso, or they decline any cup of joe they didn't brew themselves.

Then, there are people like Chris Becker of Arlington, Va., whose coffee worship involves a ritual that places him at the outer edge of the country's java culture.

Becker roasts coffee beans at home.

Now for me this was a call to arms. This was the "mini-me" that completed me. Roast my own coffee???? How could I have missed this. I read further through the article...

It doesn't require a lot of time, money or equipment to roast coffee beans at home — less than 10 minutes in an air popcorn popper does the trick — but enthusiasts devote plenty of each to the craft.

Sign me up !!!!! I needed a source of green uncooked coffee beans, and again Jungle Jim's came to the rescue with a small shelf of green coffee for me to test out my coffee roasting prowess. All I needed was a popcorn popper, but unfortunately our popper was the wrong kind, as the heat vent was on the bottom and not on the sides. Literature I read assured me that the bottom venting kind had a nasty habit of catching the "chaff", or coffee bean coatings, on fire in a display not unlike that of the tail of a comet, and as my ambition was to roast coffee and not my domicile I decided discretion was the better part of valor and went scouring northern Cincinnati for a usable popcorn popper. Luck was with me on the first day of my hunt, as Bigg's Hypermarche not only had the type in question but had it on sale for $13.99. Rockin' !!!!!!


So last weekend I roasted my first batch of coffee. I am particularly fond of dark roasts so I wanted to toast these suckers within an inch of charcoal briquettedom, but Melody reminded me that she also would be victim to my experimentation and would prefer a finished product that she could actually stomach. With this knowledge I proceeded to roast my first batch. I decided to let it ride in the popcorn popper for six minutes, which based on my readings would create a dark roast not unlike the Millstone French roast we had enjoyed so much over the years. Once we had managed to shut off the smoke detector and get the popper in the backyard to let the beans finish smoking out there, I realized that her advice, while helpful, had not been heeded. The coffee was almost fully caramelized but was still usable as a morning go-go fluid, however the scent of almost burnt coffee became the dominant household aroma for at least 2 days... (okay... 3 or 4 if you ask Melody, but her nose has always been more sensitive then mine). A few days later I made additional batches of coffee, but this time I was relegated to the back patio to perform the task and I shorten the cooking process to allow a finished product that would be recognizable as drinkable coffee. The batch I created is still being consumed in the house, and is the proof in the pudding as to why I go to these lengths.... it is really...really good coffee....

I will dish you up a cup when you get back in the States....

Cincy Freedom

Dear Bro,

Back on February 15, 2002 it was break time at the Ken Meyer slaughterhouse on Spring Grove Ave. in Camp Washington, a small township just north of downtown Cincinnati. As the workers puffed their smokes and made small talk about either Xavier or UC basketball, a 1050lb cow in a small courtyard waiting to be brought into the processing center figured out what was about the happen to it and managed to scale a 6 foot high fence with barb-wire around the top and abscond into the crisp Ohio night. Thus began the tale of Charolais/Cincy Freedom/Moosama Bin Laden/Clifton Cow. The large and extremely aggravated bovine proceeded to trot off down the street toward nowhere in particular as amazed workers stared in disbelief and did the only thing available to them in hunting livestock that had escaped from death row. They dialed 911.

Within minutes Cincinnati's finest and even the Hamilton County Sheriff's department were on the hunt. They even called in a helicopter with search light to track the dangerous beastie. It was disclosed later that this is not an uncommon event, but in all previous cases the "dead cow walking" is recaptured swiftly and just as swiftly dispatched at the slaughterhouse. This case was different. Once the word was out this was followed by additional helicopters, animal control officers on foot and on horseback, heat seeking scanners, hunters of all varieties, and eventually, the news crews of Good Morning America. The quest to recapture went on for 11 days, as the wayward cow desperately tried to avoid becoming just another dinner for the inhabitants of Cincinnati. Finally on the 11th day authorities using thermal imaging equipment and armed with tranquilizer guns had captured the rebellious livestock.

Normally it would be back to the slaughterhouse and onto the dinner table within a couple of days, but now this cow was famous as people around the country followed the adventures of the wayward Cincinnati cow. Where there is fame there is camera hungry people and companies looking to make a quick buck. The late Marge Schott offered to give it a home. Fifth Third Bank offered to use the bovine in a starring role in its soon to be upcoming "Holy Cow" home-equity loan ad campaign. Fast food chicken chain Chick-Fil-A had even offered 100 free chicken sandwiches to whomever caught the cow. The mayor of Cincinnati, Charlie Luken, planned on using the cow as a honored guest in the Reds opening day parade, but since the cow was still spooked from it's big adventure it was decided that this was also a bad idea.

Ultimately, New York artist Peter Max (of Yellow Submarine and my family room fame) requested if he could put the cow on his animal sanctuary in Watkins Glen, New York. (The picture is infact the infamous cow recently at the refuge) For all intensive purposes he bought the cow as he committed to donate $180,000 worth of artwork to the Hamilton County SPCA, but since this was the best offer this was the one that was accepted. Even recently, when another cow raised by a local young man for a 4H contest escaped and ran away Peter Max again offered to trade artwork for the cow once it was recaptured. Unfortunately in this case, the cow did not respond well to the tranquillizer darts that had to be used and had to be put down.

Which led Melody and I to an idea of our own. Since Peter Max was quick to offer artwork for wayward southwestern Ohio cattle we figured our best bet of being able to afford a Peter Max original would be to dress Guido up on a kitty cat "cow suit" and take pictures of him in the front yard, maybe blurring the pictures somewhat to make it look like he is moving very quickly. Of course, the downside is that we are very attached to Guido and would not really want to have to hand him over to Mr. Max for the sake of some artwork, but hey.... based on how the cow is being treated I think Guido would be just fine.....

I am stressed... I need a test!

Thursday was the day of my cardiac stress test. I had suffered from some dizzy spells the previous week and some minor chest pains, so after a visit to Doc Fenton we decided that discretion was the better part of valor and I should probably make sure my arteries to my heart were not clogged with gunk.

Since Melody and I have been married I can count on one hand the number of times she has made coffee in the morning. This was one of them. The reason was pure compassion on her part, as I was informed the day prior by the pleasantly fascist hospital employee on the follow up call that I was not to have any caffeine this morning. As an additional kicker, I was not allowed to eat anything before the test either, and was limited to clear liquids and juices. After jotting all this down on a pad of paper I wondered if this was a cardiac test or an endurance test, as the test was not scheduled to begin until 1:00 pm in the afternoon and I arose that morning at 5:30 am.

So I sat at work from 7:00 am til 11:30 with only water to satisfy any pangs for nutrition. Outside my office I could smell the wonderful aroma of coffee, wafting through the building like a siren singing from the rocks. I dreamed of Juan Valdez and that smelly mule of his hand delivering a cup of fairly hot water filtered through cooked and crushed Plantae/Magnoliophyta/Magnoliopsida/Gentianales/Rubiaceae/Coffea seeds. Even though I only worked four & ½ hours that day, it was the longest work day in recent memory. When the time arrived, I summoned up my remaining strength and headed for the parking garage, knowing that I still had at least 5 additional hours between myself and some gruel.

I arrived at Mercy Hospital at the appointed time and checked in at the front desk as requested. After reviewing the paperwork before I signed the release documentation, I informed the administrative employee behind the counter that my doctor would probably be a little dismayed when he sees that they have changed his first name from William to Jennifer, so she quickly took back the forms and redid them while I waited there. I was told I needed to report to “Nuclear Medicine” and given directions to that part of the hospital. Personally, I had never heard of “nuclear medicine” and visions of two headed deer strolling by the Chernobyl power station rolled through my imagination, so I was very curious to see what this was all about.

After navigating the newly renovated hallways of the hospital, I found a door marked “Nuclear Medicine” that led to a small empty waiting room. The nurse behind the obligatory sliding glass window asked my name, said they would be with me in a minute, closed the glass, and proceeded to finish the gossip session she was previously engaging with a co-worker. Normally it would be a guess that they were talking about a fellow employee, but she did not fully close the glass and I could catch snippets of the juicy dirt on “Rhonda” that they were sharing. Between you and me I did not actually meet Rhonda, but if I did I would be interested to see if her dye job was as bad as they said….

Another nurse opened the door and called my name. She led me to a small room and informed me that I would be receiving an IV. We chatted about the procedure while she got the necessary materials together to “go vampire” on my arm. I mentioned that I was starving and would be glad when this was all done so I could actually eat something. She stopped what she was doing and looked at me like I was on drugs.

“You could have eaten something. Just no caffeine 12 hours before the test..”

I thought about asking her where their break room was, so I could raid their refrigerator for some food, hopefully the lunch sack of the prior day friendly fascist hospital employee who put me through this torture for nothing. But as the nurse already had my sleeves rolled up and was searching for a good vein to puncture I figured it would be pointless to pursuit that line of questioning.

The nurse was having a tough time finding a viable blood vessel at the junction of my ulna and humorous bones, and I was beginning to think we might end up playing the hospital version of "heroin den shooting gallery vein hunt" when she looked at my hand and exclaimed that I had wonderful veins on the back of them. Less than 2 minutes later after a quick swipe with disinfectant and a studious gaze by our friendly nurse and I had a needle in my hand connected to a tube. She proficiently taped down the needle and injected into the tube the various radioactive fluids necessary for the scan to be read properly.

When finished, she gave me a small bottle of water and told me to go back to the waiting room for 15 minutes while the fluids circulated through me. But as I got up and walked away I saw blood running down my hand and instantly realized that I was seriously leaking. With my usual wise-guy manner I turned back around, held my hand in the air, and asked "Is this suppose to do this?" I should have just let it leak because when she removed the tape and reset the needle it was probably the most painful part of the whole procedure.

After waiting the alloted time in the waiting room and downing the bottle of water I was called back and put into the "scanner" for 15 minutes. Rather than describe it I should just show a picture. Wasn't quite as dramatic as they make it look in the picture but it was a long 15 minutes. Plus I did not have to put on one of those insipidly thin "look at my butt!" robes as shown in the photo.

Once finished the nurse who had performed the scan helped me up from the table and gave me directions to my next destination: the actual stress test!

As I only got lost once, it took me about 4 minutes to get to the door marked "Stress Test". Again I enter to find a small waiting room. The nurse behind the glass door looks up and asks my name. She then asks me for my paperwork, which I dutifully informed her that her fellow coworkers down in Nuclear failed to trust me with bringing paperwork along, as they probably realized I would get lost at least once on the way and possible lose it in all the confusion. The stress test waiting room nurse then proceeded to lecture me on the shortcomings of her cohorts down in Nuclear, and as I did not have any indication or not whether she would be sticking my with any needles I just stood and nodded.

After the castigation of her fellow employee was complete, I was led through another door into a small room, where yet another nurse told me I had to take off my shirt so she could attach electrodes to my chest and abdomen. Once the shirt was off she took one look at my chest and broke out a razor. Now I am no gorilla but have a fair amount of chest hair, but when she got done prepping for placement of the electrodes I had several bare spots. Not even close to a re-enactment from "40 Year Old Virgin" but still traumatic to me.

Now I get handed off to another nurse who is in a slightly larger room with a curtain on one end not unlike a bay in a trauma center, only instead of a bed it has a well used treadmill with heart monitors sitting in the middle of it. The new nurse gives me the lowdown on what we are going to do... or I should say... what I am expected to do. She starts to make small talk as we wait for some additional paperwork to show up, but when I go to respond she keeps talking, so I quickly realize that her idea of small talk generally involves large quantities of her own voice and very little of anyone else. So again I smile and listen.

The paperwork shows up and I get grilled with medical questions. After the 10 minute interrogation, I am hooked up to a saline IV, about 14 electrodes, and led to the treadmill to begin the test. I hop on the treadmill and start at 1.2 mph at a 5% incline. No problem.

"Are you experiencing any chest pains?" they ask.

"No" I respond, thinking to myself that I would have to be pretty lame to be petering out already.

The test went on for 10 minutes and 45 seconds and maxed out at 4.2mph at 18% incline. Difficult and winding but I managed to do it without too much discomfort. Actually, the biggest discomfort was that every other minute they kept asking me that same pain question, making me think that any minute she would zap me with 1.1 jigawatts and then ask again....

"All done" the nurse stated as the treadmill began to slow down. "Are you feeling any pain at all"

"Just you" I thought but did not say.....

The Lame Name Game

Back in 2002 when I was working for a company named Cincinnati Voice & Data the owner of the company, the Chief Operating Officer, and the sales manager went on an outing with a local advertising agency to sell to them an ad campaign to help drum up business for the company. They left me out of this particular event on purpose as they knew as the accounting controller for the company I would be against spending our tight cash flow on advertising on TV when our customer base was businesses, not individuals. But alas, after a limo ride and much champagne they agreed to an advertising agency "makeover" of the company.

It started with a new motto for the ad campaign. With the fanfare usually reserved for Celine Dion by misguided fans, they came to our offices and unveiled the new slogan for our launch into marketing infamy...

Midwest Voice and Data "Who do you want to talk to?"

Well, okay, changing from Cincinnati to Midwest made sense, so as to make us regional rather than local in our namesake, so I gave them kudos for that one. The slogan was kind of lame, in my opinion, but workable if they didn't make the TV commercial too lame (they did).

After another week they came back and said no... Midwest was too limiting to your growth potential and you should choose another name. Thinking toward the future, it sounded like a good idea. So after several weeks of waiting they sent us a list of potential names from their "creative genius" from New York for us to consider, all the while telling us that this guy had come up with the name change for a lot of successful companies. Okay now we are impressed. But I quickly became unimpressed when I saw the lame list of retreads they sent our way. My instant impression was that like some cars that are made on Monday morning or late Friday we got a list with the same provenance.

So I created the "lame name game", in which I took the list of these creative gems from the greatest marketing cerebrum and decided to see how to apply our "Who do you want to talk to?" motto... feel free to make your own additions/changes:

MVD LTD.- (Motor Vehicle Department, Limited) Who do you want to get your driver's license from?

IDEA MOVERS - Who do you want to think about? And where?

TRANSMIT AUTHORITY - Since MVD LTD wouldn't give you a driver's license, who's bus do you want to ride on?

SEMAFORE - Who's image digitizer for scanning electron microscopes do you want to look at?

STRAIGHTLINE COMMUNICATIONS - Who do you want to talk to? But no swearing please!

RADIANT SIGNAL - Who do you want to send electro magnetic waves to?

SQUAWKBOX - Who do you want to talk to on CNBC?

INTELLIGENESIS - Who do you want to spy on in the Old Testament?

POWERLINE - Hey baby, come here often?

SINEWAVE - Who do you want to learn geometry from?

CONNECTICITY - Who do you want to want to talk to in a misspelled New England state?

ALPHA - beta? Marco... polo?

MEDIUS - Who do you want to talk to at MEDIUS COMMUNICATIONS INC. 133 King St. East, 4th floor, Toronto, Ontario, Canada M5C 1G6Telephone- [416] 367-7710 Fax - [416] 367-7711

TECHTONICS - Who do you want to talk to during an earthquake?

PLATO - Who do you want to talk to at a toga party?

SKYLINE -Are you hungry? Who do you want to eat with?OR Alternatively Who do you want to get sued by for copyright infringement?

POLARIS - Who do you want to aim a sub-based Intercontinental Ballistic missile at?

ANDANTE - Who wants to listen to a Symphony that never really gets going?

OPEN CHANNEL - Hi, I'm fourteen and this is my first time talking on......

SYZYGY - Bless you!

VOX - Who do you want to speak to in Latin?

LIGHTSPEED - Who do you want to talk to while traveling 186,000 miles per second in a vaccum?

FOUR OAKS - Who do you want to play golf with in Pittsburg, Kansas?

ANNUNCIO - Who do you want to talk to at a company purchased by PeopleSoft on Jan. 11, 2002.

OUIJA - Of whom do you wish contact? Just put your hands right here on the board....

THE PIPELINE - Dude! Talk to someone dude!

CHRYSALIS - Butterflies.... Look at all the pretty butterflies...Who do you want to talk to now that you have a weekend pass?

LINGUA FRANCA - Ce person vole con parlar?

ISIS INFORMATION SERVICES -Who wants to learn about the Egyptian God of fertility.

ISIS - Okay then, fine... we'll just get a vasectomy.

ALGORHYTHM - I'm sorry, Al Gore has no rhythm!

TRIBUTARIUS - Who do you want to give your money to?

MAINSTREET - Bob Seger's number?... just a minute please.

MODUS OPERANDI - Grabbeth maximus cashius and runneth

MODUS - I give up.... Vivendi?

SYNCOPATION - With whom do you wish convers'n with?

VISIONQUEST - Mathew Modine? One moment please...

PENTAMETER - "To whom of personage is speaking of present a necessity?"

THUNDERHEAD - What do ya want? All the best names were taken... here's the $*@$^# phone.

PROXIMA CENTAURI - Carl Sagan? He's left the building.. can I take a message?

PROXIMA - Who would you like to talk near?

VECTOR - "You have clearance, Clarence" "Roger,Roger" "What's our vector, Victor?"

BOWSTRING - We want to make you quiver!

AURORA - We like the car so much, we bought the name.

AURORA BOREALIS - We like the car so much, we found a way to use the name without getting sued!

SEVEN HILLS COMPANY - with our divisons: Palatine, Aventine, Capitoline, Quarinal, Viminal, Esquiline and Caelian. Now you have someone to talk to!

FLAMENCO - Ole!

HERALD SQUARE - "Who do you want to talk to....big boy? (note: Herald Square NY near the turn of the century the square was the center of the very boisterous Tenderloin district. The area was filled with dance halls and bordellos)

HARDWIRE - Don't touch me there!!!!!

VIBE INC. - Who do you want to talk to? Okay, just lean back , close your eyes and sense their presence...

SERENGETI - Who do you want to talk to at Serengeti Systems Incorporated 812 W. 11th Street, 3rd Floor Austin, Texas 78701-2022 USA

KHAN - Who do you want to invade?

EPSILON - I didn't even know that Eps was a barber.

SMOKESIGNALS - Our motto is "if it's good enough for picking a pope, it's good enough for us!"

ELYSIAN FIELDS - Who do you want to talk to in Greek heaven?

MAESTRO - Who do you want to talk to that we even care about?

CVD - How much is this costing us??????

CHARLIE/VICTOR/DELTA - NOVEMBER/FOXTROT/WHISKEY

EXETER SYSTEMS - stage right

TELEPATHY - Who do you want to talk to? No, don't tell me, let me guess....

GRAPEVINE - Marvin Gaye, he's indisposed... can I put you in his voice mail.

WINGED MESSENGER - "Live in concert, with special guess act "Flightless sender"

MERCURY - a winged messenger

FANDANGO - ole! again

VELICITOR - On a serious note: The only original thing I've seen on this whole damn page... too bad I don't like it.

INFOCORPS : Join the Infocorps. Like the peace corps... only different. Sign up today!

MENTOR - Do you need help deciding who you want to talk to?

FORCE V - from Navarone: We will make you talk!

ALLEZ - Ve must run frum zee nastie French types!!!

NEURON NETWORK - Don't be nervous, tell us who you want to talk to...

Fall's last hold out

Dear Bro,

When Michelle, mum, and I came out to visit you at Camp Atterbury this summer, we picked you up in mum's silver Jetta and went cruising the boulevards of the southern suburbs of Indianapolis. While heading back toward your base after a full day of 1/2 Priced Books browsing, Pirates of the Caribbean movie watching, mall walking, and TGI Friday's munching, you were heard to vocalize the following sentence:

"Now, while I am over there, remember that no matter how insignificant or boring the details are, they will be of interest to me while I am over there in Iraq."

As your humble liege, your wish is still my command.

Thus today we talk about the tree in my front yard. Let's start with a picture of it in the spring.

Pretty, isn't it. Now for the life of me I have do not have a clue what type of tree this is. It has been a front yard staple since we moved in back in 1998. Every April, usually the second week, it will bloom the beautiful white you see in the picture, a visual delight, but one we missed this year as we were in England while it was busy showing off. We knew we had missed it when arriving home on a windy day and saw the last remaining white flowers littering our yard as the rest had been redeposited all along our street. There was one aspect we were glad we did miss as part of this spring ritual. And that was the smell of these flowers. A good example would be if you have been on a mission and have not had a change of clothes for two days. When you arrive back to your base you sit down, take off your footwear, and then proceed to take a deep inhale of the scent of your socks. This is probably the closest recognizable scent to match the one given off annually by the front yard tree.

It also holds secret inhabitants. Most trees are homes for such critters as squirrels, birds, or bagworms. This tree showed it's secret inhabitants in 2004 when in the last week of May hundreds (if not thousands) of Cicada's burrowed out from beneath it's girth and began to sing to each other while hanging out in its limbs. Since this was Brood X that was last seen in Cincinnati in 1987, it was rather surprising to see them coming out at the base of this tree, as in 87 I suspect this particular specimen was little more than a sapling. They molted their skins at the base of the trunk, leaving layers of transparent Cicada outlines hanging off the bark like a disorganized version of Emperor Qin's terracota Army. They then sat in every branch of the tree, singing their noisy monotonous tune all day and then thankfully going quiet once the sun had set. Within 10 days their reign had ended, along with all the noise, and after slicing up the bottom of this tree's branches to leave their eggs. They quickly expired and fell to the ground, to be quickly brushed away by the wind or reclaimed by the other inhabitants of the front yard, mainly the now overstuffed bird population of northern Cincinnati.

Now we fast forward to today, and the reason for talking about this tree. As always, it has been a holdout. whereas most of the trees in the neighborhood have long since shaken loose all their multicolored leaves, the front yard tree held steadfast not conceding a single leaf, or even changing color from that summer light green that has endured for several months. That is until this weekend. We stepped out of the house on Sunday to find that overnight the leaves had both turned a crisp yellow while descending en-masse to a grassy grave, almost as if the tree was a cult that had instructed it's followers to "go to the next realm".

That's it... obviously nothing exciting happened today... not even a picture to post ....but then again this is the boring blog....

Soccer Game November 4 ,2006

Dear Bro,

And so we come to the final game of the fall over-thirty co-ed soccer season. Since last weekend's glorious victory at the well hidden Evendale field it was time to return to our home pitch at Liberty Park in West Chester for the finale. Here in Ohio we turned off the switch on daylights savings time on the previous weekend, allowing us an additional hour's sleep last Sunday morning. However, in turn it also gets darker an hour earlier, thus the final game of the season is slated to start at 4:00 pm instead of the usual 5:00 pm, allowing us to avoid that awkward problem of having to finish a game in candlelight....

I had a lot of running around to do on Saturday, nothing like the marathon photo essay of the Sunday from a few weeks ago, but still enough to prevent me from returning home to change before the game. So I packed up my soccer gear in my kit bag and headed out to burn some hyrdocarbons in and around the northern suburbs of Cincinnati.

To recap the sheer utter excitement up to that point: I stopped by the library to drop off a book (overdue of course) and then cruised over to mum's to visit for a few minutes to say hello. From there it was off to the Microcenter mall and a thrilling session of webcam shopping, of which you are aware of the successful conclusion due to our dual observation of the end of the Bengals game on Sunday. And finally, up to Trader's World in Monroe to look for cut price DVD's to ship to you for boredom relief purposes.

Before we get to the game, I have to talk about Trader's World for a minute. Since you have not spent any time in Ohio in the last few years I don't know if you have ever gone to a mid west American flea market. It sits just off I-75 right near the Solid Rock Church, which has a lake with... oh heck... why don't I just show you...

I am sure it is a very pretty building inside with a lot of nice amenities, but a 100 foot plaster of paris Jesus with hands upward sticking out of the lake is just a little over the top for me. Anyway, sorry about the sidebar but I just remember this from Uncle David furiously snapping pictures at this slice of Americana as we returned from the Dayton Airshow last year.

Back to Trader's World... since it was around 1:00 pm by now and my soccer game was only two exits south of this one I decided to kill a few hours looking for DVD's for the aforementioned soldier who will go nameless. Most of the flea market is indoors, with some booths in an outside section on the northern tarmac, but with cooler weather soon due and temperatures that day in the 40's not many of them bothered to show up, thus the main action is inside. The one great thing they have done in the last few years is to ban smoking indoors, much to the dismay of the majority of the people who come here.

As usual, I was getting my fair share of stares. This is because I was wearing a pair of track suit pants with my Leeds United Nike training shirt, which instantly classified me as "different". To fit in with this crowd one is best suited to wear NASCAR gear, preferably Dale Earnhart Jr. #8 or even Tony Stewart, but you are in danger of being insulted if you wear anything with Jeff Gordon on it... I still haven't figured that one out yet.. maybe he just seems too pretty for the average NASCAR fan. Additionally, it you are over 40, such as myself, there is no reason on earth that you should not be overweight, with a gait that clearly demonstrates your main concern while in forward motion is to keep from toppling over forward due to the large excess of fatty tissue attached to the front of your stomach. Interestingly, this species seems to have had a mid-life body shift because they have no buttocks which to speak of. The younger version is still very skinny, but urban-wannabe-sprawl has set into this age group, with the hayseed crowd wearing sideways mis-colored NY Yankees caps, over sized winter coats, jeans strapped midway between their ass and their knees, and a minimum of one tattoo that is clearly visible at all times. They don't speak either, but communicate through a series of head movements and blank stares. Personally, I think some one needs to make them watch "K-Fed" videos over and over again for at least 24 hours straight so they will get some understanding of just how idiotic they look trying to "fit in". Then again we probably looked pretty silly in the late 70's with all that long hair....

Oh yeah... on to the soccer game.....

I still arrived about an hour early for the game, thus I sat in my car and started reading The Guns of August that I had picked up early from the library. After 30 minutes our team captain Greg showed up, so I changed quickly in my car and joined him to chat and kick around a ball. By 10 minutes til game time we had just about enough players to field a team. They did what I can only assume was there normal routine of stretching and chatting, as I am usually the last person there and habitually miss this pre-game ritual.

For some reason something appeared different for this game. I could not quite put my finger on it as maybe because I was usually late and not use to this game prep period of warming up, but finally one of my teammates vocalized what I believe we were all thinking:

"Where is the other team?"

At this point we all stopped our activities and looked around. There were two teenage girl teams duking it out on the field next to us but no sign of middle aged adults in soccer gear anywhere to be seen. We debated our options... We could send out a search party to drive around the local area looking for wayward mini-vans with passengers wearing soccer garb and swinging there heads to and fro desperately searching for our field; declare absolute victory and head for the nearest saloon to consume large quantities of poorly brewed highly marketed Amercian beer, or just wait. We choose option three.

Eventually about 5 people showed up ten minutes late, and stated that would be all the members of their team they would be able to field that day, as several members were either sick or injured. Thus we won by default. However, since we had come all that way we did not want to go home without any scars, bruises, or boring stories, so since we had enough players to play 9-9 we went ahead and split up the teams and scrimmaged.

I joined they opposition with our manager Greg, one of our female players Kathleen, and Don the referee who was talked into playing . Our remaining team members made mincemeat of us for the first 20 minutes, only scoring once but backing us up in our own half for most of the time. One of the player who bothered to show up for the team I joined for a day complained that we need to get the ball forward to her as she was not getting any "action". Although the first thought was to tell her that there was plenty of action back here where we were running our butts off while she stood around, I chose discretion as the better part of valor and did not answer. Which worked in my favor because when we finally got a break away my female teammate passed it to me rather than her right before I toe punched it right past the goalie. Score 1-1!!!

The second half did not go as well, and even though we managed two more goals (including one more by me!!!) this did not come close to the seven they managed to slip by our defense. Final score 8-3.

A fun time had by all.....

The Game (a narrative from 1993)

Dear Bro,

The following is a narrative I wrote back in 93 about a visit to a pre-season game between the Cincinnati Bearcats and a visiting foreign team. Note that Melody is referred to as "fiancé " and not "wife", not to mention the out-dated Robocop reference.....

The Game

The usher was dressed in typical school colors. He threw us a broad smile as he quickly scanned our ticket stubs to verify we had tracked down our seats. “Row 12 on the left,” He loudly barked. “Enjoy the game.” I was impressed with his enthusiasm considering he was at least forty years removed from his university days. I suppose he was still friendly as the game was over an hour away and the majority of the crowd had not yet reached the auditorium. Subsequently he had not yet been bulldozed by runaway miniature freight trains commonly referred to as children or been odorized with ‘l’eau de Miller Lite’ courtesy of an overzealous patron trying to complete the beer run without missing any of the game. The more I thought about it the more firmly I became entrenched in a firm vow that I would stick to watching the TV at the Golden Years o’ Splendor Retirement Home then brave life and limb corralling the masses soon to be crushing in through this rather slim entry way.

The arena was definitely new. Scanning my surroundings I could nay see a hint of dirt in the place. The main grandstand’s generic flexible plastic seats did not have the telltale ‘perma-bend’ caused by the siege of overweight season ticket holders over a period of years. Looking up and behind I noticed the student section, so far back and above that it reminded me of a wedding reception, the friends of the bride and groom shoved in a hole in the back while Uncle Ivan from Cherry Orchard, Montana sits up front smiling at a nephew he has only met once at a family reunion twelve years previous. The floor of the court was a shiny oak-like substance coated with a plastic about as thick as Tammy Fae’s base coat. Even the new style floor bolted basketball hoops with their T-Rex stature looming at both end of the courts reminded me more of RoboCop than Hoosiers.

I was pleased to find myself mid-court twelve rows back. The vice president of the company that allows me to loiter and remarkably pays for the privilege assured me that they were excellent seats. My evening event beneficiary and I disagree on many subject matters pertaining to the company, but I must admit on this occasion I fully concurred with his opinion. All the action for this event would be within a stone’s throw of my location. I looked forward to settling back and soaking up the atmosphere.

The local university team was playing an exhibition game against a team from an unpronounceable Eastern European country. The arena was still sparsely populated when the national team of this country came trotting on the court for their warm-up session. I instantly felt sorry for them. They appeared bewildered under the glowing lights that permeated every inch of the court. They were tall, as most basketball teams tend toward, but seemed gaunt and pale, as if they had just stepped off a twenty-hour flight and their first American meal was not agreeing with their respective digestive systems. They stared around appearing lost and hoping to see a familiar or friendly face staring back at them from the growing crowd. Slowly they began their routine of lay-ups and jump shots so as to prepare for the evenings contest. After a brief period they sat on the hardwood in a pre-designated pattern and began warm-up exercises with one of their assistant coaches shouting out instructions for each new routine. I noticed all of their heads collectively turn as one just as the now moderately sized crowd began to release a large yell. From the blind side of the grandstand where I was seated came the home team, young and athletic, jogging around the outside of the court. Outnumbering them and running in the lead was the cheer leading squad.

They too could only be described as young and athletic with glistening white teeth and smiles the envy of any Cheshire Cat the looking glass could provide. The European team gaped at the muscular squad that slowly filed past. Then, one by one, they seemed to realize they were staring too intently and went back to exercising, daring only to glance in snatches.

The game was already decided during the warm-ups. The university team was the picture of confidence, executing picturesque lay-ups and dunks occasionally varied by a long arching three point shot that sailed past the rim, leaving a trail of envy among those of us who couldn’t even remove the funny bone in Milton Bradley’s Operation. As if a well-oiled machine they continued for approximately fifteen minutes, then suddenly broke off in step and headed back for the locker room, disappearing as quickly as they had appeared into a blacken hallway.

The European team hustled to their bench area at the beckoning of their coach. For the first time I took a good look at their warm-up uniforms. Unlike the home teams black and red designer patterns, the opponents wore green. Accept for the thirst quenching drink clearly labeled on the front of the warm-up jackets there was nothing remarkable about them, they were just green. Their shoes were all white but of different brands, except for the tallest player who had on a pair of black hi-tops. On reflection I thought about this and decided that he had the biggest feet on the team and his size was unavailable in white in his country. The starting players removed their warm-up suits to reveal their playing uniforms. Again, the uniforms were a simple green with numbers on the back and the name of their sponsor on the front in their native tongue.

The arena is now very crowded. People have filtered in all around me and are greeting each other as season ticket holders often do. My fiancé and I begin to feel like crashers at a cocktail party as the salutations continue. I hear someone behind me ask where the hell this team’s country was. A booming voice relied “somewhere around Yugoslavia and they’re probably glad to be here and not being shot at”. I looked again at the team in their green uniforms as they stooped around their coach. He was dressed in an ill-fitting short-sleeved white shirt with a non-remarkable tie and slacks. He appeared very intense, as he would stare at each of them in turn as he made a collective pep talk.

The lights dimmed. Most of the seats in the arena at this point were full, but were quickly vacated as the numerous fans stood one and all to cheer on the ‘official entrance’ of the home team. The male portion of the cheer leading squad came charging out of the locker room tunnel carrying huge banners displaying one letter each, when grouped collectively spelt the name of the home city. Behind them came the female cheerleaders, to be followed by more females dressed in satin tights, which we surmised to be some type of pep squad, followed finally by the home basketball team. The noise was deafening as the combination of the band and the crowd pushed the sound level to earsplitting proportions. The visiting internationals stared around the arena as the noise continued. It was quite obvious by their inexperience with the American version of home team introductions that they didn’t have a clue why the place had erupted into a cauldron of screaming frenzied supporters except the possibility that everyone was scared of the dark.

After several minutes of the band blowing its’ horns and athletic types running in circles the whole process came to a halt as the arena announcer introduced himself and welcomed us to tonight’s event. The lights were brought back up for the pre-game festivities. The spectators were cheering so loud that each time the announcer completed a sentence that the visiting team was in all probability looking toward the locker room to catch a glimpse of when the lions were going to be released. I watched them; sensing that they had heard many stories about America and at this point was wondering which ones to believe. Only the tallest one in his black hi-top sneakers seemed calm. He and the coaches were walking around the team and patting them on the back trying to shout encouraging remarks to them over the tumultuous mob. They each meekly smiled and nodded as their turn came in this small gesture of camaraderie. From somewhere behind me I heard voices again. “Nah! they don’t gotta chance against our boys!” drifted from above along with the comment: “What you expect from a bunch of ex commies? They’ll steal all the toilet paper and towels from the locker room before their gone!” I felt myself becoming a little angry at this obvious lack of respect for the visitors, but told myself that the comments were made by the cold war generation. After all, my fiancé and I were the closest thing to a student aged spectator in the whole section, unless you counted the middle-aged balding gentleman three rows in front whose wife or girlfriend was at least twenty years his junior (I pointed out to my fiancé that they could be father and daughter. She commented that most fathers wouldn’t slip their daughter the tongue as she had just observed).

The two teams began to stroll to separate ends of the court, each member carrying some small gift to be given to the opponent at center court. Both teams seemed wary of each other as they approached to now polite applause from the crowd. It appeared almost comical as the visitors in their ill-fitting generic green uniforms briskly shook hands with the flashy dressed home team. They tried to appear undaunted as they exchanged the gifts and then turned to walk back to their end of the court, but there was little confidence in their step. For the first time I began to realize how awed they really were. Here they were in a foreign country with a seemingly hostile crowd that spoke an unfamiliar language and never seemed to stop yelling, not knowing whether they are being encouraged, ignored, or insulted.

The player introductions came next. The announcer started with the visiting team nodding to one of the assistant coaches who spoke English. At a prearranged signal he stood behind each player as his name was about to be called to remind him to step forward, acknowledge the crowd, and then step back. The announcer was very impressive with his pronunciations of the players’ names, obviously having rehearsed them earlier in the day so as not to offend the visitors. Even though it sounded fluid and natural to me I watched the team as some players grimace and chuckle as their teammates’ names were called off. It occurred to me that the crowd had gotten quieter, applauding as each name was called off, loud enough to be heard over the numerous conversations popping up all around us but not loud enough to be confused with any form of enthusiasm. It was almost as if everyone didn’t clap their parents, whether still alive or not, would scold them when they got home and send them to bed without any dinner.

The announcer finally finished with the bench players and announced the first of the visiting team’s starting five. I was beginning to feel more comfortable with the reception the visitors were receiving. As an expatriate in France during my high school years I was very familiar with the feeling of a stranger in a strange land. We weren’t the friendliest spectators they had ever seen but indifferent enough that if per some minor miracle they won this contest their heads would still be attached to their shoulders once they boarded the bus to leave.

Then it happened.

As soon as the burly announcer in his plaid jacket called out the name of the first starting forward for the East Europeans the sprinkling of polite applause began again. However directly behind where the visitors were standing a student in the band held up a large white handwritten sign that stated “So What!”, which was chanted by the whole band section sitting around him. With the introduction of the next player came a new sign: “Who Cares!”. This time the crowd started to pick up on the chant and responded. The visiting team had picked up on the change in greetings but was still not aware of the mature activities of the school band going on behind them. The next introduction came followed by the next card: “Big Deal”. People were laughing around me now as they pointed out to their friends and family exactly from where the origin of the incantation was. The fourth announcement was made. The visitors could still sense a change but it was very evident they did not speak English, as they looked among each other in a bewildered fashion. Again the card came up. “Go Home” as a roar went up. One of the players had turned around and saw the card being held up. I looked at his reaction. He knew what the card meant.

So did I.