So … we’re going to put a new deck on our house. I originally planned a big announcement (which really just means a long blog post with lots of capital letters), but I’ve come to realize if I try to plan something to completion, I will spend the rest of my life in the planning phase. It’s best to just start whatever needs starting and figure it out as I go. SO HERE WE ARE.

I mentioned the deck plan a couple months ago, and since then, I’ve done quite a bit of research and talked to a handful of professionals. My original plan was to have a contractor do the entire project. It’s going to be a very large job and as I tried to wrap my brain around it, I convinced myself that it would be worth a couple (THOUSAND) extra dollars to just have the pros come in and knock it out.

After having no less than three contractors take a look at the project and give me high level estimates, I realized that I had underestimated the market by about two-thirds. We could have purchased a nice automobile for the money this was going to cost. The options we were left with were A) pretend we live in a high-rise condo with no deck or yard, or B) build the damn thing ourselves. I found as I socialized the project that my friends and family tended to agree with whatever my plan was.

“We’re going to build a new deck.”

“Awesome! Deckbuilding is fun. I will help.”

“Actually, I think I’m going to have professionals do it. It’s a huge job.”

“You should totally have professionals do it! Your time is worth too much to spend all your weekends building a deck.”

“I talked to some professionals, and I think I’m going to do the whole job myself.”

“You should totally do it yourself. Deckbuilding is fun. I will help.”

I’ve been reading books (including this one put out by the Forest Products Society — highly recommended), talking to people, and creeping around friends’ houses looking at the underlying support structure(s) of their various outdoor leisure areas. Mostly, I’ve been preparing myself mentally for the project, which will doubtlessly gobble vastly more time and resources than I have ever invested in a home improvement project to date. It’s going to be a huge job. Like, retarded huge.

And we’ve already hit our first significant speed bump!

Two weekends ago, I was in the back yard outlining the proposed new deck with string to help visualize the project. As I was anchoring a pole where one of the new deck posts would be located, my foot sank into the ground. And it wasn’t like sinking into soft dirt or mud. It was like the top 2 inches of clay gave way and a hole about a foot deep opened up underneath me.

Oh. Great. A sinkhole. Right there. Where the deck … of course. Where else would a sinkhole … SENSATIONAL!!

I grabbed a shovel and quickly unearthed a problem area. A hole like this should take more than 10 minutes to dig:

After the existential freakout subsided, I contacted several of my landscape architect friends (Note to self: Why the hell do I know so many landscape architects?) Their initial diagnoses were identical: It’s an old construction bury pit and I would need to “over-excavate” the area and re-pack the dirt. So that’s what I did last Sunday. I wish there was a more entertaining story to tell, but I don’t know what to say about me digging a hole and then filling it right back up. Living the dream, indeed.

Photo set of me moving thousands of pounds of dirt with a spade shovel.

I meant to write this up a couple days ago, but I keep forgetting because I will be 31 in July, which means my brain resembles a single, sparking wire dangling in the center of a dank, empty warehouse.

Last Thursday, whilst enjoying some frosty cold ones around a large table at M&T, Bob Townsend TOTALLY CALLED ME OUT on this blog entry. Go read the third paragraph and the first two comments … I’ll wait.

I am usually very good about reconciling my digital reach with my real life (as evidenced here, a mere 40 posts after the one linked above), so it’s never surprising when Google leads people to this site like a yelping Border Collie.

Having re-read what I wrote (almost three years ago, BOB!), I don’t really disagree with anything I said. In fact, the blog post itself was enthusiastic and supportive. It was only when fufats took umbrage with Townsend’s proclamations, and I subsequently agreed with fufats that the tone turned snide (THANKS A LOT, BILL!). I still agree with the post, and I agree with the spirit of the comments, but I regret that the conversation was had in a tone that came across as highly critical of Bob in what is essentially a public forum, but offered Bob no chance to respond unless he were somehow able to find the whole thing on his own. Which he eventually did.

Would I personally describe Atlanta as a mecca for the best beers in the world? Eh, it depends on what you consider to be the best beers in the world. Regardless, craft brew enthusiasts in the ATL are fast running out of things to complain about. Atlanta may not be Portland or Seattle, or even Boston or Denver, but there is no shortage of perfectly great beer here.

I think it’s fairly safe to say, when I wrote that post, I never thought I would ever actually meet and / or hang out with Bob. Now having met and chatted with him several times at various beer events, I can say Bob is super and I feel bad. Sorry, Bob.

Do you happen to have 45 extra minutes burning a hole in your life? Well then sashay on over to the Georgia Podcast Network and listen to Jen, Rusty, Duane, Garrett, and me review four beers that have been infused with some sort of lime flavor.

Sub-optimal Beer episode 1: “Chelada” beers - May 22, 2008

Mmmmm, gross:

Oh, did I forget to tell you I’m in a new band? It’s called Onomatopoenis. We have one album [s/t], and it has one song on it, which is called Onomatopoenis. Unfortunately, immediately following the release of our debut record, we broke up having never played a single live show. Oh well. Here is the album in it’s entirety:

(Those of you reading via RSS will have to visit the site to stream the audio, or you can download here.)

Seriously though, Crane, Dave, and I wrote and recorded this song in approximately 30 minutes. Add another 20-30 minutes to adjust the mics and record the vocals and we are ONE CRAZY FAST HIT MACHINE, I AM TELLING YOU. Strangely enough, we aren’t nearly as drunk as we sound. Rise up.

Brian Crane: Bass, Vocals
Dave Becker: Guitar, Vocals
Mike Douglas: Vocals, Vocals
Your Mom: Drums, Vocals

Due to some schedule adjusting, I will be filling in for Bob Townsend at next Thursday’s Muss and Turner’s beer tasting. You will be sampling (and I will be yammering about) 6 beers new to the Atlanta market. The list isn’t final, but I can tell you there will be beer(s) from Utah (pronounced UTAH!!!) that is/are the opposite of suck.

Date: Thursday, 5/22, in the year of our lord, 2k8
Time: 6:30ish - 8:00ish
Cost: $15.00 (includes a 10% discount on dinner if you stay and eat)

There are a limited number of seats and they tend to fill up quick [pats self on back], so call 770-434-1114 or email reservations@mussandturners.com to get your name on the list.

“Oh, your Austin connection is leaving from C17 in in C Terminal. You have to take the inter-terminal shuttle to get there. Walk down to the end of this terminal until you get to gate A2. That’s where the shuttle is.”

“Okay. Thank you.”

Sigh. I know where the shuttle is. It’s right there under the blinking sign that says, “This is the part where you have an hour-plus layover, yet you still have to hustle to make your connection.” I’ve written before about what an unmitigated infrastructure embarrassment Houston’s George Bush Intercontinental Airport (IAH) is, so I’ll spare you most (but not all) of my personal vitriol. It’s like an unindustrialized country’s “My First Airport.” Did you read that horrible story last week about the DC-9 in Congo that failed to takeoff and smashed into the crowded market at the end of the runway? That’s what the Houston airport is like, instead of innocent Africans being caught in the angry path of industrial deterioration, it’s big fat fucking fatasses from Texas getting caught, I don’t know, being fat and stupid in the path of me being cosmopolitan and judgmental.* Insert “Houston, we have a problem,” joke of your liking here. I’ll wait.

I approached the end of the terminal and encountered a large woman on a stool reading a newspaper. It was a typical gate, but all signs indicated this gate was set aside, out of the limitless kindness of Continental Airlines’ hearts, specifically to whisk travelers like me from one terminal to another. I would prefer an airport that was designed by people who design airports like people who are not idiots, but, you know, thanks, Continental.

“Is this the shuttle that goes to Terminal C?”

Looking up from her classifieds, “Yyyyyyyep.”

I stepped toward the jetway door. Let me rephrase. LIKE AN IDIOT, I stepped toward the jetway door. The resulting admonishment was administered in an incredulous tone not often heard outside the DMV. I swear this is a direct quote.

“Whoa there! No no no! You can’t walk down that jetway! In fact, you couldn’t even open that door if you wanted to.”

I could not walk down that jetway. I could not even open that door. Even if I were to have wanted to have. Thankfully, my expectations were already appropriately low. I took a deep breath.

“What am I supposed to do?”

“You’re supposed to wait over there until another bus gets here.”

“Oh, okay, thank you.”

I took my place over with the other three idiots who had dared try to transfer from terminal A to terminal C. We waited. A fellow idiot appeared on the horizon doing the Tight Connection Shuffle with a roll-aboard and a laptop bag. The other idiots and I said, “This ought to be good,” to each other with our eyeballs. It was good. The jetway door, which she had opened, was slammed closed in his face and she demanded to know just where he thought he was going. He needed to get to terminal C. Well, he can just wait for the shuttle with everyone else. You didn’t have to slam the door in my face. As he joined us, we all nodded sympathetically, eyes closed, teeth clenched.

—————————————————————————–

“Is your connection to Atlanta on Continental or Delta?”

“Delta.”

“Oh, you are flying out of terminal A. You have to take our inter-terminal shu-”

“Yeah yeah yeah. Thanks.”

Sigh. Sigh. SIGH SIGH SIGH SIGH SIGH.

Despite the fact that I had booked the entire itinerary on Continental (via my corporate travel portal), this IAH-ATL leg, like the ATL-IAH leg the day before, was being operated by Delta. Never mind my primary gripe about not earning points on other airlines with names other than Delta, this multi-carrier shit is just confusing. I can’t imagine a family who doesn’t travel very much on vacation with their kids trying to navigate this cluster. Why couldn’t I have just booked the flight through Delta? Oh, that’s right, because that would have cost $1200. I want to fly Delta because it’s where I’m comfortable and it’s where I earn points. And because they are based in my home city, I want Delta to succeed, yet here I am on a Delta-owned-and-operated jet and my money went into Continental’s pocket. HEY, SOMEONE SIGN ME UP FOR THAT MBA PROGRAM!!

Back on the shuttle [note to self: come up with word that captures phrase Business Traveler’s Short Bus, over], I met a man in an oddly similar situation as myself. He got on the bus and told the driver he was headed to Atlanta. He took the seat next to mine and said, “You know, even with a long layover, you kind of have to hustle around here don’t you?” I imagined this must be what it feels like to make a breakthrough with a therapist. Many emotions flooded forth, but they came out as the phrase, “This is the worst airport I’ve ever experienced.” He agreed, though I could tell he wasn’t the type to join in on venting through vilification so I let it go. We talked a bit. He is from somewhere near Madison, GA. He was quite a bit older than I, but we were pretty much the same; Powder blue shirt, black slacks, black dress shoes, small combo roll-aboard bag, both heading home from one day in Austin.

We chatted as we walked toward the gate. His cell phone rang and he stopped to dig it out. We were being friendly, but we were still very much traveling strangers, so I kept walking. A few seconds later, I heard, “Hey.” Then again, “Hey.” I turned and it was him about a hundred yards back, waving me back toward him. I walked back and he motioned toward the Continental Presidents Club. “We’ve got about 40 minutes until we board. I could get you in here as a guest if you want relax for a bit.” Absofreakinlutelythankyouverymuch. Once inside, he said, “Make yourself at home,” and wandered off. So, for the next half hour, with my feet up, I sipped free bourbon while catching up on email via free wi-fi. I wanted to board early because the flight was on a small regional jet and carry-on space is a super premium, so I left a little early and thanked him on the way out. Never got his name.

When I arrived at the gate, I was dismayed to see that boarding had already started. My seat, I presumed, would be something along the lines of a middle seat in the back over which everyone on the plane would have to climb to reach the bathroom. When I handed my boarding pass to the gate agent, I expected her to laugh, slap me across the face, and shout, “GET ON THE PLANE, MAGGOT!” This explains my surprise and disbelief when the boarding pass scanner beeped the most magical and succulent of all beeps. “Here’s your new boarding card, Mr. Simon. Seat 1D.” There aren’t enough double-us in the entire English language to convey the AWWWWWWW YEAH that I felt.

I sank into my seat, sipped another bourbon, and played All Songs Considered: A Band to Call Your Own II. The first song that came on was Neutral Milk Hotel’s In The Aeroplane Over The Sea.

* I’m really glad the worst places I have to fly through are places like Texas and not sub-Saharan Africa.

I’ve stopped doing a monthly search string post because there haven’t been enough good new ones the past several months to justify a quality post each month. And come one, people, I am all about the quality. That said, I was just poking around in the stats files and some of these made me chuckle. My mother taught me to share:

I’ve tried my hand at suburban farming in the past. As with virtually every aspect of my life, I am really good at getting it started and exceptionally shitty at following it through to the end. Why, just last summer, I started a (rather late) container garden at the end of the driveway with some tomatoes, peppers, and herbs. Most of the plants grew enthusiastically, and I watered them almost daily. Then, at some magical point which I can never, ever see coming, I simply lost interest. I got some good tomatoes out of the deal, which became a couple of great batches of salsa, but I didn’t really know what to do with the rest, so I just left it there. There were a couple banana peppers and a handful of cayennes, and I just ignored them to rot on the stem. Quick, someone tag this post with “therapy” so I can point to it when I’m on the couch at some point in the future.

Despite having not read The Omnivore’s Dilema, nor In Defense of Food, nor Animal, Vegetable, Miracle, I very much like the idea of producing myself some of the food I eat. It is because of this notion that I have thrown my lack of focus to the wind and started another container garden. I actually got quite an early start this year. So early in fact that I played it safe and started the garden indoors to avoid the risk of late frost (like the 29°F day we had last April that wreaked so much havoc).

I couldn’t put the young plants in any old window because our goonish cats would march right over and chomp away until I came roaring around the corner with the hose and the vacuum. So, I positioned the little buds in a bin to catch drainage and put the whole thing in the window of my office whose door I could keep closed. Here’s a picture right before I brought them down to the driveway and put them in larger pots.

And here we are in our permanent homes. Go to this picture’s flickr page to see what is in each container:

The April frost from last year that I alluded to earlier tried its best to obliterate our fig tree. The fig tree survived, but barely, and like a severely handicapped war veteran with acute PTSD, the tree has been trying to finish itself off ever since. The frost only got a few of the leaves, but it killed most of the roots. A few weeks after the frost, I found the fig tree lying on it’s side like it had just given up. Not on my watch, mister. I grabbed some twine and fashioned a stake out of scrap lumber. Minutes later, he was again vertical. The next day I found him lying on the other side. DON’T YOU DIE ON ME!! I banged out two more stakes and quickly assembled a tri-pod-style support system like I should have done the first time. The tree has remained supported ever since. It kicked out two good rounds of fruit last year, and it is ready to kick out THE JAMS this year. This is one branch:

And there are a dozen or so just like it. I hit it with 2 gallons of dilluted root stimulator and reset the support system. I’m expecting near total recovery. If I can stay interested long enough to keep it watered. You bring the gorgonzola and prosciutto.

Atlanta / Miami 4-piece, Torche released a new album called Meanderthal yesterday. Gchatting with Thomas a little bit ago, I used the description “Melodic, stoner prog.” I feel that’s pretty accurate, but I would also add the words “anthem” and “rumbling” in there somewhere if I could. I’m still on some PR email lists from the magazine days and one piece of press I received used the phrase “bomb-string stoner pop/thunder rock/doom pop classic,” which reads more like search engine optimization than music PR, but it’s also all accurate. If you fancy yourself the kind of person who is into stuff that rules, you should check out Meanderthal.

You can stream all of Meanderthal here. Their MySpace is here (if you’re into that sort of thing).

Torche is playing at Lenny’s on Monday, May 26th with Stinking Lizaveta and The Sword (which is a superb band name).

Well over a year ago I described Starbucks coffee as “Kingsford soaked in hot pee.” It’s not some sort of revelation. Virtually every homo sapiens I know thinks Starbucks coffee is on the licking-the-campfire side of the flavor spectrum. Well, it appears someone very high up at Starbucks marketing reads my blog (or, you know, has identified a tipping point in customer sentiment) because this press release from yesterday announces they’re going to do something about it, starting today.

I came across the press release via this post at Serious Eats, which I only skimmed because Serious Eats updates no less than eleven and a half thousand times a day. I didn’t read the press release at the time either because press releases are dumb. Basically, I saw the Starbucks logo, read that they are going to experiment with not over-roasting their beans, thought, “It’s about time,” and moved along with my morning.

My building, like all office buildings in America, has a Starbucks in it. As I was fleeing the building for lunch, I was accosted by a woman on the street in a Starbucks uniform holding a tray of small coffee cups.

“WOULDYOULIKEAFREESMALLCUPOFCOFFEE?!?!”
“IT’SOURNEWPIKESPLACEBLEND!!”
“WEJUSTRELEASEDITTHISMORNING!!”

If I hadn’t taken one of her cups of coffee, she would have committed seppuku right in front of me, so I obliged. I was actually pleasantly surprised. They managed to take the edge off without losing that deep, dark-roasted character that seems to be unique to Starbucks. I don’t happen to care for that signature flavor, but a lot of people love it and it makes for strong brand recognition, so I understand why they retained it. Acidity is low, and the dominant flavor I got was nuttiness, almost buttery. I doubt the triple-caramel, half-caf, soy latte set will care much, but this is a step in the right direction for black coffee drinkers. If anything they may have toned it down a little too much, but I will be a little less dis-inclined to drink black coffee from Starbucks now.

UPDATE: Initial reactions to the Pike’s Place blend are up at Serious Eats.