matthearn.com

Don’t worry, not dead; we have some doings going on at work lately that have me busting my butt. Hard work not being something to which I am accustomed, it’s all I can do not to go home, squirt Cheeze Whiz into my mouth, and pass out in front of the TV. I have a bajillion picture albums I need to go through and get uploaded, so that’ll at least provide some entertainment, something to look forward to, for you, my reader. (I’m pretty sure there’s just the one, at this point.)

I shouldn’t complain, actually; I disappeared all last week for a lengthy Thanksgiving break, went and visited a new baby (Hi, Olivia!), and then crashed at a beach house on the Outer Banks for 5 days with Charles. I’ve been on a major beer-making frenzy for the last couple months, so I had plenty to take with me (and will have something like 3 cases + 3 kegs available for New Year’s); I had something like 2 cases plus a small party keg onhand, so we got our festive drink on for 5 solid days. Thanksgiving morning, I cruised back up to DE so that Charles and I could be on hand for official celebrations with Sarah’s parents. Then we spent the next three days recovering, by which I mean eating and drinking everything in the house. After managing to lose something like 9 pounds in 2 weeks prior to the break, I gained 11 pounds in 10 days. Go me!

In other news, I have acquired a New Car, specifically a 1997 Saab 9000 CSE. It was a gift from My Pops, whom I thank profusely, because driving to North Carolina in a 1998 Mazda Protege would have been uncomfortable and possibly unsafe. The Saab is a year older, and has something like 20,000 more miles, but it’s a Saab, so it’ll last for another 100K miles, and the Mazda was destined to fall apart like the Bluesmobile at any moment. (If I’d thrown a rod somewhere in Virginia, I would not have been surprised.)

That is about the absolute latest and greatest. Not that you care. I’ll try and actually make with the funny with a quickness, since the last month has been apologies, religious war, and pointless diary entries. Yay!

Like many Americans, I am on a diet. And also like many Americans, I hate it and it’s not working. Well…it sort of is. I can’t tell.

The problem is that I weigh exactly the same as when I started, roughly 240 pounds. (What can I say? I got a BIG ASS.) But my pants fit better, my belt is on a thinner notch, and people have been asking me if I’ve lost weight. I’m all, whaaaaaa? I have lost no weight! I weigh the same! And yet am thinner!

Perhaps my guns are getting bigger. Yeah, that’s the ticket. And my MASSIVE PECTORALS! Or, and this is far more likely, my neck.

In other news, I have gotten addicted to MS Flight Simulator 2004. I don’t think I’ve played a flight sim since about MS FS 4.0, which wasn’t actually a half bad game, but 2004 is way bitchiner, with full training programs, a number of built-in airplanes (plus bajillions of downloadables), real-time weather, and the ability to connect to the VATSIM network and interact with amateur air traffic controllers.

It’s not a bad deal, really; FS X is now out, so 2004 is a steal, brand new, at Amazon for $19.99. I got a Logitech Extreme 3D controller at Target for $26.99, and it has more gizmos than my car: throttle, twistable stick (for rudder control), trigger (in case I get a combat sim some day; meanwhile it controls the brakes), and 11 other configurable buttons. I haven’t crashed yet. Even on purpose! Although I’ve flipped a few planes by taxiing too fast.

I’ve gone through enough training to get my Private Pilot’s Certificate, and it makes me wonder; how much harder could it be to do that in real life? I mean, aside from the written test, and the costs, of course.

So now of course I’m looking at how much it would cost to someday buy a used airplane, and wondering how easy it is to make a flight in a single-engine airplane from New Castle County Airport to Mason, Texas. As usual, I’m whole hog into something that will be forgotten in 3 weeks. YAY FICKLE BRAIN!

Mmmm…autumn. The time of year when I leave my house in a heavy jacket and long pants because it’s 54 degrees at 9am, and end up having to strip to my knickers when I get out of work because it’s over 80 and the AC in the house isn’t on. I kid, because this is pretty much my favorite season. I love the leaves changing, I love the cooler temps, I love wearing layers, I love the smell of people getting their fireplaces going for the first time since March, I love the way my wife smells in the fall. (Musky.)

I’ve always been conflicted, though, because growing up I was not such a fan of school. And September was the beginning of it. I remember going to first grade on rainy Tuesdays and depressed all day, not least because I was a Talker, and was therefore usually on punishment. I think I spent the entirety of that year with my desk pushed far away from the rest of the class because I had problems “shutting the F up,” as Mrs. Morgan put it to my parents during parent-teacher conferences.

(Note: Mrs. Morgan probably never said that. I don’t know, I wasn’t there. But I wouldn’t be surprised if she had. I was . . . frustrating.)

Now, of course, I have to work my 8-9 hours a day year round, and I combat the depression with ill-gotten meds, but I look at Charles and think: dang, boyo. If you’re anything like me (and he’s almost identical to me, so far), in about 5 years you’re going to be sitting in first grade, talking a mile a minute, until your teacher throws a stapler at your head.

(Note: no teachers ever threw staplers at my head. Mr. Eshelman hit me in the eye with a piece of chalk once, but he assured me it was on accident. Though I did see him collecting a sawbuck from Ms. Shepard later, as if he had won some kind of bet.)

And as much as I enjoy cooler temperatures, the timing of them kinda sucked; it was warm most of last week, until I drove to the beach on Friday and the temps hovered in the high 60s all weekend. Not exactly “fling oneself into the surf” weather. Luckily, we (Sarah and I and her coworkers and friends) combatted this by drinking staggering amounts of red wine, and eating enough Mimolette that I still ain’t poopin’ right. (Which you totally needed to know.)

I dunno about you, but any time I go to the Arden Fair, I feel the need to document the goings-on. Unfortunately there’s only about 5 pictures, because I am a rank amateur, still learning how to use my tools, and a significant number of the pictures were blurry beyond belief. Arrrrrrrrrgh.

The weather for the Fair was perfect, though. Just warm enough to wear shorts, not quite warm enough that the moisture in my groin was a bother. We ate kettle corn, and I wandered into the book sale and started making selections. After I had tucked 10 or so books under my arm, a nice gentleman volunteer came over and asked if I would like a box.

“I would LOVE a box,” I replied, and he fetched me one. After 5 or so more minutes, I had completely filled the box and was balancing even more books on top.

“Sir, would you prefer a bigger box?”

I agreed, and he got me another one. I ended up taking away about 2 dozen books, including a host of fiction (Madeleine L’Engle’s Time Trilogy, consisting of A Wrinkle In Time, A Wind In The Door, and A Swiftly Tilting Planet, all of which I’d been planning to order from Amazon soon anyway, along with the Tripods Trilogy by John Christopher), poetry, books on photography, and a few medical textbooks. Total cost: $16. I love used books. I don’t understand how people can get rid of books; I have three 6′ bookshelves at home completely stocked, and dozens of books laying around my basement with no shelves on which to reside. When we get our new house, I’m going to try and reserve one room as my library, assuming my wife permits such a thing.

Sarah and her mom looked over some crafts, most of which were a tad overpriced, and little was bought. But the food was decent, like it is most years, and the Diamond State Concert Band played marches and things in the “Beer Garden,” and all was riotously fun.

What the heck, man. How is it possible that I can have gained 10 pounds but still completely fit into all my pants? Am I gaining fat in my knees and feet? What the crap?

What makes it all the more annoying is that I thought I had been reasonably good for the last month. I’m not actively dieting, but I figured I’d just eat plenty of vegetables and get lots of exercise, so I’ve been biking 2 or 3 times a week and running occasionally. I have, however, probably been drinking too much. Stupid homemade beer!

I guess it’s possible I gained some muscle, but I tend to doubt it. I do want to buy a large weight-training device within the next few months, though, so hopefully I can develop pecs instead of boobs. I know, I’ve tried it before at the gym, but here’s the thing: the gym sucks. There’s annoying other people there that I have to share machines with, plus now that I don’t work in Newark the school gym (which I have free access to ’cause Sarah works for UD and all) isn’t even remotely convenient anymore. I guess I could JOIN a gym, but…well, for the price of a year’s gym membership, which I probably won’t use much, I can get a Weider Crossbow (about $400-500) and get ripped when I want in the comfort of my own home. Heck YES, says the goat!

Hopefully it won’t turn into a coat rack.

The downside of riding one’s bike a lot, of course, is that if one is redunkulously clumsy, as I am, one occasionally falls off. On Saturday I took a nice long ride around New Castle, and made a wrong turn. Once I realized that the road I’d chosen didn’t go anywhere, I had to make a U-turn in a tight space, lost my balance, and couldn’t get my foot out of the clipless pedal in time to prevent me banging my elbow and skinning my knee. So now I have a skinned knee for the first time since approximately 1993. Gotta tell you, it’s pretty old-school.

Oh, the beer. Well, the first batch came back with mixed results, and I’m not sure why. Overall the beer is good, but certain bottles are a bit skunky. I thought the bottles were sufficiently clean, but who knows. It’s all a mystery. I went ahead and bought a new beer supply anyway, a “Robust Porter.” I definitely did a better job with the boiling and fermenting process, so hopefully it turns out to be a phatty batch. I bottled it last week, so I’ll know by the end of the month. (And quite possibly by then will have bottled yet another 2 cases. Woo unlimited beer supply!)

This may be the most rambling, disjointed post I’ve ever put on here. And that is seriously saying something.

I dreamt last night that I got my truck back. The circumstances surrounding it were vague, but for some reason I found myself at the Ford dealership, and the guy that originally sold me the truck said, “Hey you know, we have your truck outside.” And I drove off in it without having signed anything. Immediately I scratched the hood of it on some kind of post.

Anyway, I was so ecstatic to have my truck back, but I felt a great deal of guilt because somehow, despite not having signed anything, I knew it was going to cost me money that I don’t need to be wasting, since HW and I are trying to figure out how to move back up to North Wilmington. (As it turns out, most of New Castle is a cesspool. Our particular neighborhood isn’t too bad, but go 1/4 mile in any direction and the people have fewer teeth than my son. I hate to sound like a snob, but I need to move back to a place where people drive late model Camrys instead of 1993 Ford Tempos with Monza exhausts and plastic rims. Just seems like a more…intellectual environment. Plus, most of the things I do outside of work (church, drama productions, etc.) are in Wilmington, and both sets of parents are up there.) I recently got a pretty decent payraise at work, but we need to save up some serious down payment money, and also we need to prepare ourselves for the fact that our monthly mortgage+tax+insurance payment is probably going to DOUBLE.

So anyway, I felt guilty for having the truck, and was trying to figure out a way to return it. Then I found myself playing softball with a bunch of people I don’t know, and somehow I was managing them and attempting to put together a lineup card while the leadoff batter was already at the plate. At this point Sarah woke me up ’cause it was like 9:15am and I needed to get to work.

Oh, the reason I slept in until 9:15? The Brandywiners “preview night,” in which they give a bunch of tickets to current members and participants, was last night. Since they do the show in an outdoor theater at Longwood Gardens, they have to start hella late or it’s not dark enough to use the lighting system. So the show didn’t end until just after 11, and then we had to go to Applebee’s for mad delicious flava.

Oh yeah, Applebees: I used to hate that place, but now I don’t. The reason? The one by us is really really, really REALLY bad, and the one up by Longwood is less so; the Walmart-adjacent one we went to a couple times had service worse than a prison cafeteria. Plus it seems like Tyler Florence’s influence has improved the quality of the food a great deal, such that I had some kind of shrimp fettuccini and it was heck of enjoyable.

This concludes the most rambling, pointless thing I’ve typed since my 6th grade “Invent A Country” project. (Its name: “Hoyaglitchland.”)

Update: I did not get to kiss John Mayer on the mouth. All is sadness. Doubly frustrating, is that because the Tweeter Center sucks, I couldn’t get any pictures. Argh.

Our tickets said something about “NO PROFESSIONAL CAMERAS,” which kinda concerned me, but I thought, well, Canon’s own website describes the Rebel XTi as a “consumer” camera (the 30D is prosumer; the 5D is professional; and the 1D Mark III is “Holy Crap This Is Way Too Expensive To Take Out Of The Box”), and if I just put on a relatively tame lens (no monstrous zooms with lens hoods), they can’t really complain.

Incorrect.

Apparently when they say “No Professional Cameras,” they mean no detachable lenses, so despite the fact that my camera entered the building with a 50mm prime lens that wouldn’t allow me to get a shot of John any closer than “ant” view, it was confiscated (and returned later, worry not). This wouldn’t have been so troubling if the tickets had specifically said “No cameras with detachable lenses,” which would have been perfectly clear. It also would have been less annoying if they weren’t allowing people to bring in $800 Sony zoom 8MP digitals that were capable of getting pictures of the bass player’s ridiculous Village-People-Cop hat.

Anyway, we got in, and I immediately bought myself a large boring American beer, only to walk an extra 50 feet and discover they had a stand selling all kinds of quality microbrews. So my frustrations mounted. Then we got seated while James Morrison played his set, and I got even more pissed off, because the sound system at the Tweeter Center is so crappy it sounded like James was singing through a special filter designed to remove all consonants from every word. I couldn’t understand a thing. Even now I have no idea if any of his songs are any good; it might as well have been all instrumentals. I’ve heard better sound systems in an elevator.

The same goes for Ben Folds, who from what I’m told is a phenomenal musician and performer; all I can say is he has some amusing gimmicks and his songs often have pretty melodies. I’ll give him a B- because he kept throwing his piano seat at the keys, and at one point during a song he broke a piano string on a low note, immediately stopped the song, removed the string from the soundboard, handed it to a fan, and then restarted the song exactly where he’d left off.

Luckily, during his set I was able to run off and pee, and also buy a quality beer named something like “Circus Boy” or “Circus Penis,” or something. It was FANDAMNTASTIC, and I got back to my seat to listen to Ben Folds play 2 more completely unintelligible songs and then wander off to put on his neck brace (I’m assuming, since his head is roughly the same size as the rest of his body).

Honestly, the best part of the concert (up until John walked onstage) was making fun of other people with Liz. A quick rundown of the amusing people we saw:

• Between 8 and 27,000 skinny little high school/early college-aged skanks who seriously needed to go dig a sandwich out of the trash or something before their bodies collapsed in on themselves.
• An ENORMOUSLY fat woman in a wheelchair, attended by her fat husband and 2 fat daughters, getting wheeled around while sucking on what appeared to be a quart-sized glass of rum-soaked pixie-stix-sugar. There must have been 3,000 calories in that “drink,” which sadly was probably maybe 1/5 of this woman’s daily regular intake.
• A couple thousand guys who were clearly there because their girlfriends liked John Mayer. These were the guys who were probably annoyed because they kept wanting to sit down and dorks like me wouldn’t stop standing up and screaming.

Yeah, I was screaming. John Mayer gives me happy feelings in my pants. DEAL WITH IT.

There’s not much to really say about John’s performance; he was ridiculously spectacular. It’s difficult to grasp how good a guitarist he is by just listening to his CDs; you kinda have to watch him play on TV, or live, particularly if he’s not constrained by late-night/early-morning network TV timetables. And the best part about it is that he can solo pretty extensively, but it never starts to feel like it’s gone on too long. For example: if you go to see Phish in concert, which I have, they will play maybe 8 songs, each of which is roughly 25 minutes long on average. Only one of these songs will have an identifiable melody. Usually after about 7 minutes into each song, Trey Anastasio would slow things down, and you’d realize they were launching into another 10 minute build-up leading to some kind of climax that left you feeling unsatisfied. John, on the other hand, played something like 25 songs, some of which were 5 minutes long, some of which were 10, but each extended solo was melodic and interesting and WENT SOMEWHERE. Going to a Phish concert feels like a 3 hour free-form jazz symposium at Camden County Community College; going to a John Mayer concert feels like going to a rock concert.

On the other hand, going to a Phish concert usually guarantees you a pretty boss contact high.

John didn’t quite play all my favorites, which I guess just means I’ll have to go see him again. However: not at the Tweeter Center, which has incurred my almight wrath for all times to come due to their immense suckitude.

Thank SSCBJ for sick days, or personal days, or mental health days, or whatever it was I used yesterday to get out of most of my workday so I could get some bloody sleep. Bejeebers, I was exhausted.

Since Sarah’s doing the Brandywiners show this year, PLUS taking a class in a subject I don’t even begin to comprehend, I’m on Charles duty most of the time, so I’m routinely running a bit ragged. The weekend, which I’ll get to momentarily, nearly killed me.

Sarah had to be out of town most of the weekend at a wedding, so of course I made sure that my weekend was as busy as possible to make everything completely complex. I was singing in a benefit concert Saturday night, which included a Friday night rehearsal, so I had to find someone to watch HRB on Saturday; Craig and Mel jumped all over it, and did a bang-up job keeping him from eating nails and/or one of their cats, for which they are owed one ENORMOUS favor from me. That afternoon I took Charles and my parents to the Brandywiners picnic, at which there was frivolity and beer-drinking, and then sprinted home to try and get Charles to nap so I could shower and pack him up to go to C&M’s.

Of course, he refused to nap. At least, after a while, he stopped screaming, and busied himself trying to disassemble his crib through the combined efforts of mumbling incoherently while shaking the sides and banging his head into the slats as hard as possible. Since he was calm, I showered and changed, then I got him ready, dropped him off, and headed to Archmere Academy in north Wilmington, the site of the benefit, which went very well. Jenny and I sang “Anything You Can Do, I Can Do Better,” from “Annie, Get Your Gun,” which is inspired completely by a GAP commercial containing Claire Danes. Later we performed “No One Is Alone” from “Into The Woods” with two young people, Brooke and Madsy. It was all good times, and since my stuff was all done in the first act, I got to spend the second act eating and drinking in the lobby with the other people. It was fantastic!

After we were done, I returned to pick up Charles, who was a trouper despite the fact that it was 11pm before we got home, and we both passed out like your dad in the alley behind “Buxom.”

Sunday, we relaxed in the morning, and then went to a pool party at a BEAUTIFUL home near Hagley Museum. It was awesome; the pool was the size of my house, and instead of a diving board, it was just built into the hillside such that it had a stone wall and a diving ROCK. Charles splashed around and drank chlorinated pool water, and Sarah came back from Long Island in time to fling herself off of the diving rock and make everyone giggle.

Finally, we went home and fell asleep, which was just awesome. It was so completely rad. Nevertheless, I woke up yesterday morning STILL exhausted, and so I called in “dead” and went back to sleep. I awoke to attend a couple meetings, and then had time to run some errands, mow the lawn (untouched in three weeks; the neighbors were thrilled), clean the bathrooms (which had become sentient), and even do some woodworking. Good times! Good times.

Tomorrow: I make beer.

Well, the beach was delightful. We didn’t get to spend our usual week in Fenwick this year, due to rehearsals and classes and the concert I sang in Balmer last week, so there was sadness and gnashing of teefs, but we had a good time while we were there. Plus, since we weren’t down there for a super-long time, we didn’t have to strap our cargo carrier on the roof, as that is a Hassle. We managed to get up early on the 4th and get on the road by 9:15am, just about the time Charles needed a nap. He didn’t sleep much, unfortunately, but he’s a good traveller anyway so the 2-hour drive wasn’t all that painful.

We arrived around 11, got unpacked, and immediately commenced laying around doing nothing for extended periods of time. Charles discovered the big sunny porch, dragged most of his toys out there, and tried to figure out a way to punch through the screen and fall into the bushes. (He was never successful, thanks to the intervention of Sweet Crying Sainted Baby Jesus.) We watched tennis, grilled steaks, and eventually fell asleep, fat and happy.

Thursday we decided to drag Charles to the beach, despite the ominous skies. He rather liked it. After a while it started to rain, and I was tired of cleaning sand off of Charles, so we hoofed it back to the house and cleaned him up in the pool, which was for him almost as much fun as the ocean. After some ritual hosing out of the orifices of everyone, we went to a seafood place where I ate a plate of food almost as heavy as my son, who yelled a lot, ate everything that got near him, and generally made a big fuss. Our waitress was both Eastern European and scandalously hot.

Friday, Dad and I had intended to go golfing, but it was hot, so we went to the beach instead and left Charles in Sarah’s care, since she’s not really a beach kinda girl (She’s more of a laying-out-by-the-pool kinda girl, as long as she doesn’t have to put her head under water or actually swim or put her drink down or anything.) I frolicked in the waves, got a good sunburn, and generally acted significantly less than my age. Luckily, there were lots of young women there to admire my pasty physique and generally be creeped out by me.

After that we went to a BBQ place called Bethany Blues, wherein Charles was surly and we had to shovel our food down our gullets and take him outside so he’d stop staring at people and screaming. (I dunno what’s up with him recently, but he’s not fond of sitting in restaurants and enjoying the ambience. He ends up throwing food on the floor and screaming for no reason until I tase him take him outside. Hitting the terrible twos a bit early, I suppose.)

Saturday we basically packed up, sprinted home, changed clothes, and went to Mel’s baby shower, which was loud but filling; Sunday we went to my uncle’s house out in York (another 2 hour drive! Charles was thrilled) for my aunt’s birthday, and let Charles float around the pool in a little boat-like device my wife acquired for him. The boy is like a fish, I’m TELLING YOU.

And that’s all I have to say about that. Oh, for the rest of the pictures, head on over to Charles’s site. HILARITY IS TO BE FOUND THERE!

Okay, I’m going to force myself to post, but only because I’m off the rest of the week and do not intend to put anything up, unless I find myself with a strong desire to drunk-write, which is always a possibility, or if I take a picture of something particularly compelling (particularly disgusting diapers, or maybe my wife drooling whilst a-napping) and need to get it on the internets for posterity. I’m also not taking any responsibility for anything that follows being funny, ’cause if you think I’m going to worry about making you laugh at 2:18pm before my day off, well, in the words of Sean Connery, your mother’s a whore.

Yesterday I got to skip most of my workday to catch a bus to Baltimore with the Chancel Choir of First & Central Presbyterian (so named because they were both First, and the most Centrally Located, which makes the other Presbyterian churches like totally SO jealous) to sing at the American Guild of Organists Region III Convention. This may sound very similar to getting to go to, say, the Nebraska State Ophthalmalogy Opthamogoly Eye Doctor Convention, except that Eye Doctors are better dressed and usually less, well, girthy.

The ride down was largely uneventful, unless you were the driver, in which case apparently EVERYTHING is an event; he alerted us that when passing over the Susquehanna River, you could look to the right and see the Conowingo damn, which I guess is useful tourist information, but he also pointed out a Weigh Station, The Place Where You Drop Off Family Members Who Are Going On Cruises, and some $350K Condos. By the end, people were just yelling “SHUT THE #*$& UP” every time they heard the mic click on.

We were to sing in the Baltimore Basilica, which is notable for being the first Catholic cathedral built in the United States. The cornerstone was laid in 1806, and construction complete in 1821. In 1937, the cathedral was raised to the rank of “Minor Basilica” by Pope Pius XI, but by the mid50s the powers-that-be had decided that the building suffered from a condition they described as “being surrounded by FAR too many crackheads” and they scurried the See off to the suburbs. Now the Basilica is a “co-cathedral,” which is kinda like being a cheerleading co-captain: half the respect, and twice the teenage drama.

But I joke. The building is actually BEAUTIFUL, and since it’s mostly space and stone walls, the reverb in there is unbelievable. Since I mostly sing in carpeted rooms that suck sound right out of the air, listening to plainsong chant and Russian hymns bounce off the walls for 3-4 seconds after we stopped singing was fascinating.

We rehearsed there, and then had some time to kill before dinner, so some us went a-wondering around Baltimore. The Basilica is just a few blocks from Peabody Conservatory, which you may recall I went to for a few years before realizing how annoying other vocal performance majors usually are, so I wandered over there to see if things had changed, which of course they had. I got loads of pictures of the mid-town area, the best of which I’ll get online at some point. We had dinner, consisting of sandwiches, chips, and other knick knacks, at a nearby Unitarian church, and then went back to get dressed for the service.

The service started with a 30 minute concert by Mary Beth Bennett, who is most notable because she looked REALLY REALLY familiar to me and I couldn’t figure out why, and then about an hour of singing and praying and all that good timey religious stuff. Then we piled on the bus, drank some beers, and headed home.

Oh, also, I went to the Phils game on Sunday; they won, and I got a million pictures, which I’ll post later. Other than that, the only thing that was notable was that I went with two Mets fans in full Mets regalia and didn’t get peed on by anyone! It was stellar.