Of course, we all know the classic culprit:  GARLIC.   Powerful enough to knock the hair off a sideways yak at 30 yards, this zippy little demon is a sure-fire way to ruin Date Night if one or other other did not partake in the strongly-flavored pasta dish that was served.   Long after you have ceased to taste it (mostly because your tastebuds have been overpowered and now lie gasping in the corner), it is assured that your partner will wrinkle their nose and forcefully deprive you of any joy in the Close-to-You Department.

We can easily pick on other ones, too:   Chocolate, eggs, tobacco, wine, beer, onions, vinegar — any number of other foods fall into this category of, “lasts longer that you do”.   Every cigar smoker knows that it’s a pleasure during but the aftertaste is something akin to sucking on men’s athletic socks.

The question is: What do we like to taste long after?

Garlic is not something I desire to taste for any longer than I must after the meal.    Its powerful, commanding flavor often matches very nicely with the rest of the food and really enhances the experience of eating, but when it’s several hours later and you can still peel the paint, it can get frustrating in a hurry.

On the other hand, if that death-by-chocolate cake is still hanging out and dancing on my tongue several hours after I push away from the table, I’m generally ok with that.   Other flavors of the sweet variety we seem not to mind — fruits, pastries — and some of the stronger flavors can be ok if tempered by something.   A straight-up curry might not be good by bedtime but if it was a peanut-butter-laced one?   The result can be hours of pleasant memories to behold.

What flavors, if you have a choice, are the ones you’d like to taste over and over, long after the meal has come and gone?   Which ones turn you off in ways you cannot describe lest you frighten the children?

© Nathan Pralle for PhilosYphia, 2010. | Permalink | 4 little comments jumping on the bed. | Subscribe RSS

I sure hope I’m ready.

The three days I’m doing are as follows:

Tuesday: Algona to Clear Lake, a distance of 51.3 miles total

Wednesday: Clear Lake to Charles City, a distance of 51.7 miles total

Thursday: Charles City to Waterloo, a distance  of 82.7 miles total

If you’re really curious, all Daily Maps can be found HERE.

As with all RAGBRAI days, each route passes through various small towns who set up food vendors, entertainment, and generally turn out to welcome all the riders.   It’s not a race but more of a tour, so stopping and smelling the roses (or the cow yards, as it might be) is encouraged.   I love stopping at the little homemade roadside stands, the ones manned by kids and their family, selling homemade rolls or cookies or lemonade.   They light up when you stop to buy something or sign their guestbook or just have a chat.   I love that.

Each night the overnight towns provide lots of entertainment and opportunities to party and have fun.   I’m looking forward to the Spin Doctors concert on Tuesday night in Clear Lake.

I will be live Tweeting my journey and encourage you to follow along if you don’t already — I tweet at @NathanPralle — and I’ll also be updating Facebook with pictures and status updates as I can (www.facebook.com/NathanPralle) so keep track of me there, too.

I’m ready to spin some wheels and grind out some miles!

© Nathan Pralle for PhilosYphia, 2010. | Permalink | 5 little comments jumping on the bed. | Subscribe RSS

I am realistic.   I recognize the flaws in the country and the system and I may be vocal about them, or I may simply register them with a vote.   I may be very critical of policies and procedures but that doesn’t mean that I have less of it inside me.    It simply means I care.

I might grow teary at the National Anthem or I may not; sometimes even if I do not visibly react, I’m still thinking about it inside.    The song may do nothing for me and yet that does not make me less.

I may not willingly volunteer to joined the armed forces, recognizing that it’s not my forte to do what they do.   That doesn’t mean I’m less supportive of those that choose that profession and duty.

I realize that I can be both worldly and nationally; I am not limited by my affiliations to my country to be less than compassionate, understanding, multicultural, globally relevant, or charitable to the world as a whole.   My participation in the culture and nationality of another country does not exclude me from being tied to my own.

I understand that loyalty does not equal exclusivity; I am free to show my support for more than just this and yet not be considered to be neglectful.

What I am is unique and special, and it contributes to the whole.   So does everyone else, in equal parts.

I am an American and I am Patriotic — you just might not recognize me.

© Nathan Pralle for PhilosYphia, 2010. | Permalink | One comment. One lonely comment looking for a friend. | Subscribe RSS

If you’d like to do so, here’s the items to follow that she and I did to create this sample.    Then simply scan in your paper (remember to show your work!  Hee hee.)

1. Name/Blog Name
2. Right handed, left handed or both
3. Favorite letters to write
4. Least favorite letters to write
5. Write: The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog.
6. Write in caps:
CRAB
HUMOR
KALEIDOSCOPE
PAJAMAS
GAZILLION
7. Favorite song lyrics
8. Tag 7 people
9. Any special note or drawing

I have to apologize; since becoming computer-literate, my handwriting has gone completely and totally south.   But that’s ok, I rarely have to use it for anyone but me.   But…here’s my sample!   Enjoy interpreting!  (click on it for a larger version)

P.S. — In question #8, I have tagged the following people, but really — if you want to do it, I highly encourage you to go for it:   Queenie Carly, Stacey at This Just In, Corn Fed Girl, Mark at Avablog, Five Second Dance Party, Randomly Yours, Julia, and Tara Septembre

© Nathan Pralle for PhilosYphia, 2010. | Permalink | 8 little comments jumping on the bed. | Subscribe RSS

The other day while shopping at Fareway (our local, Iowa-based grocery store), I stopped the friendly bagger-boy and said, “Hey — can I get paper for the produce?”   He looked a bit surprised, but responded in the positive and started bagging up the fresh things in some classic, heavyweight brown paper bags.

It’s at this point in this blog entry that any number of environmentalists and/or grocery store owners start spinning madly in their graves.    The tree-huggers are getting all teary at the idea of their main squeezes being turned into pulp simply so I can haul my Cheetos home and the store owners are fainting from the pure cost involved with paper vs. plastic.

It’s not that I don’t get it.   Yes, I understand, paper bags are less friendly to the environment vs. plastic (because they consume trees) and infinitely less favorable over cloth, reusable bags.   I have some of those, too.   And we use them…sometimes.    And plastic otherwise.   I get it.

And store owners, no need to fret; I doubt the paper bag will exist much longer and reusables will be come the de facto standard of the industry, saving you millions a year in providing packaging to your customers.   I know how much you welcomed the advent of plastic.   I get it.

But I lament still for the paper bag.

First you have the stiffness; oh god, the stiffness!   For all those who have ever bagged their own groceries, we all realize the same thing:  plastic bags are shapeless.   They fall into whatever configuration you force them to and they have zero ability to stand up against the items inside.    They become this shapeless sloth that sits in your trunk and, if you’re lucky, doesn’t spew cans all over when you turn a corner.   Paper, on the other hand, gives authority to its contents.    It provides the basic four walls of stability upon which you can neatly construct a solid stacking inside.

There’s a fine, fine art to bagging swiftly and correctly in a paper bag that simply doesn’t translate to plastic.   I’ve seen expert baggers place an entire grocery cart just so into two bags in such a precise manner that it would bring you to tears from the sheer beauty of it all.

Secondly, the SMELL!    Paper has this wonderful, nostalgic smell to it of the pulp and the glue that cannot be matched.    One of my favorite scents in the world is fresh peaches inside a paper bag.    Tell me that it doesn’t make you want to shiver and I won’t believe you.

The world moves on, much like it does for anything else, and not necessarily in a bad way.   Reusable bags are smart, they’re neat, and they’re efficient.    Plastic suffices in the meantime, despite its negatives.   But I shall always lament for the texture, feel, and smell of a real paper bag.

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© Nathan Pralle for PhilosYphia, 2010. | Permalink | 9 little comments jumping on the bed. | Subscribe RSS

I’ve been scouring my MP3 collection, looking for nice, thumpy, fast-paced songs to drive such necessary times in my life and have assembled a list that I think will work for now, but hey — I’m always up for suggestions.    My requirements are pretty strict — has to be catchy, mindless, and a solid beat.   But the biggest requirement is the tempo; there’s a lot of great songs out there that aren’t fast-paced enough.   That’s why Black Eyed Peas’ I’ve Got a Feeling doesn’t make the cut — while thumpy and catchy, it’s too slow for a good motivational pace.    Remember — we’re trying to get my ass MOVING.

Here’s the list I’ve assembled so far:

ABBA – Lay All Your Love on Me
ABBA – Mamma Mia
Adam Lambert – Whataya Want From Me
Bowling for Soup – Girl All the Bad Guys Want
Bowling for Soup – High School Never Ends
C & C Music Factory – Everybody Dance Now
Chumbawamba – Amnesia
Chumbawamba – Tubthumping
Crystal Method – Bloodbath Dance
Daft Punk – Da Funk
Daft Punk – Harder Better Faster Stronger
Dire Straits – Money For Nothing
Disturbed – The Game
Enigma – Matrix Theme
Fallout Boy – Dance Dance
Fallout Boy – Sophomore Slump
Green Day – Basket Case
Green Day – Burnout
Green Day – Emenius Sleepus
Green Day – In The End
Green Day – Warning
House of Pain – Jump Around
Jason Derulo – In My Head
Jay Z feat Alicia Keys – Empire State Of Mind
Jimmy Eat World – The Middle
Jock Jams – 1,2,3,4 (Sumpin’ New)
Jock Jams – Boom Boom Boom
Jock Jams – Cheerleading Competition Dance
Jock Jams – Gonna Make You Sweat
Jock Jams – I Like to Move It
Journey – Eye of the Tiger
Ke$ha – Blah Blah Blah
Ke$ha – TiK ToK
Kelly Clarkson – Since Youve Been Gone
Kris Kross – Jump
La Roux – Bulletproof
Lady Antebellum – Need You Now
Lady Gaga – Telephone
Limp Bizkit – Rollin
Madonna – 4 Minutes
Madonna – Ray Of Light
Madonna – Revolver
Matrix – Can You Feel It
Michael Jackson – Beat It
Muse – Supermassive Black Hole
Nickelback – Animals
Offspring – Keep Em Separated
Offspring – She’s Got Issues
Orianthi – According To You
R.E.M. – It’s the End of the World As We Know It and I Feel Fine
R.E.M. – Orange Crush
R.E.M. – Shiny Happy People
Rammstein – Du Hast
Real McCoy – Another Night
Real McCoy – Run Away
Rhianna – Pon de Replay
Rihanna – Hard
Rihanna – Russian Roulette
Snow Patrol – Hands Open
Survivor – Eye Of The Tiger
The Killers – Somebody Told Me (Mylo Remix)
Tom Cochrane – Life Is A Highway
Train – Hey Soul Sister
Vengaboys – Boom Boom Boom
Vengaboys – Kiss
Vengaboys – Up and Down
Vengaboys – We Like To Party

What do you think?   Got any good suggestions for ones that I’ve missed?

P.S. — Yes, I know some of this is really old-school, clicheish, or simply mind-numbingly dumb.   SUCK IT.   This is for sweating purposes, not an artistic expression.

© Nathan Pralle for PhilosYphia, 2010. | Permalink | 8 little comments jumping on the bed. | Subscribe RSS

This is not to say that I don’t get hungry, but in thinking and meditating on my relationship with food, my body, and my weight, I’ve come to the uncomfortable realization that perhaps I don’t really, truly, know what it’s like to be hungry.   That perhaps what I consider to be, “hunger,” is really just a farcical symptom brought about by my mind and not my body — hence, I eat when I don’t need to, or more than I must when I do.

What does hunger feel like for YOU?   There’s different types that I feel, of course, and many I can identify, ranging in intensity from, “I’m bored” to “I’m going to pass out if you don’t get me something RIGHT NOW.”    But I’d say the typical hunger that I feel is neither of the two.

Just a snack?

When I generally feel hungry, the sensation starts in my mouth, which I think is a great part of the problem.    It’s hard to describe, but it’s like my mouth needs to eat — does that even make sense?   I can feel the sensations of biting, chewing, swallowing, and the tastes and flavors that come along with the process in my mouth.   Not physically, although sometimes it waters or otherwise, but mentally.    I have a mental sensation of needing to physically use a part of my body.   I guess that’s the best description.

That’s the typical hunger and the one that appears at “regular” mealtimes.    It’s what I typically act on, even if my stomach is not sending the, “Uhm…food, please?” message yet.    This may be very problematic.

If I let hunger go long enough, I eventually get to the pain-in-the-tummy sort, that kind of hunger where you feel EMPTY and the ache starts to be so bad that if you don’t do something about it, you’re sure something bad will happen.   It’s that crampy-style of hunger.    That for me is very rare, but I get it occasionally.    What’s even more disturbing is that if I ignore it long enough, it’ll go away, but that doesn’t mean that my body isn’t needing food, it’s just stopped complaining about it.   If I wait too long, I won’t feel hungry, but I’ll get lightheaded, dizzy, aches, etc. until I give in and eat.     How am I supposed to work with this when it isn’t consistent?

Here’s a big problem: I don’t know what’s normal.

That is, we as humans say, “I’m hungry!” but nobody really knows what that means.   I know for my friend Paul, his hunger is insane — when the man’s hungry, he’ll eat the varnish off woodwork.    But I don’t know what his hunger feels like vs. mine — and maybe mine’s not normal.    Maybe at every meal he feels like he’s going to keel over and die if he doesn’t eat Right.  Now.

I need to find out what’s normal.    But how?

Well, I’m hoping for one that you’ll comment and describe what your typical hunger feels like to you, the sort you have when you need to eat a meal on any regular day.   Does it hurt?   Ache?   Where do you feel it, in your belly, in your head, in your mouth?   What other sensations do you have, do you feel dizzy, like you’re going to pass out, or is that only when you get extremely hungry?   How fast does it go away when you finally eat?  What happens if you ignore it?

I’m hoping by exploring this topic that I can try to get a better hold on my own bodily sensations and what they truly mean vs. whatever my mind is concocting at the moment.   In this, maybe I can learn what my body really needs vs. what it just thinks it wants, which is a huge step towards doing the right things for it and me.      Thanks for playing along.

© Nathan Pralle for PhilosYphia, 2010. | Permalink | 5 little comments jumping on the bed. | Subscribe RSS

I can see myself trudging up the relatively steep hillock covered in long, flowing green grasses, waving fiercely in the stiff wind blowing from beyond the rise.   Burdened, thick clouds hang close to the ground, their countenance not one of rain but merely a shrouding of the land in the dimly-highlighted gray of anticipation.   There is nothing else around this place except the grass-covered hills; if there is, my vision doesn’t lead me to see it.   The bottom is hidden beyond the threshold of sight.

The vision alternatively shifts between a bird’s-eye view of the situation and a personal detail; I am in a constant flux between the closeness of my warm breath and the soft ssssshhh of the grass and a perspective floating above, watching the play unfold.    I am dressed unusually — all in white; long, loose pants, a long, flowing seamless shirt, barefoot.   I can feel the dual nature of the grass, both soft and cool underfoot and yet harsh and sharp on the edges as it slides along the top and sides of my feet.

The wind blasts into my face, racing down the slope and nearly bowling me over; my struggle is prolific as I take cautioned breaths of an air tinged with the light smell of salt and water, catching a few molecules before they race behind me to some unknown destination.   I can barely see the breeze is so strong, but by squinting I can look around as I climb.

And I see her.

She is doing likewise; trudging slowly up the hill, leaning forward into the gale, her long flowing locks trailing behind her.    She is also all in white; a long, flowing dress of simple mediumweight cotton dances in the eddies behind her and presses against her barefoot legs as she moves, the bodice scooped and the sleeves long, yet simple; loose and comfortable.     A plain silver comb adorns her hair.

We are almost at the top now, maybe a dozen feet from the pinnacle and perhaps twenty apart but closing, as our trajectories are angled towards each other, when a brilliant light bursts on the peak for just a moment and then fades, and in its place stands a little boy.

He is perhaps two, maybe three years old, but I cannot see his face as he is turned away from us.    Brown, curly hair adorns his round head, punctuated by soft, small ears.    As we all are, he is in white;  a simple shirt, white cotton pants, his small bare feet poking out from the bottom as he stands there in the waving grasses, arms at his sides.

She and I reach the peak, stepping our last and coming to rest on either side of the boy, facing outwards as he is.   I feel a small warmth in my hand and I look down to see his short fingers entwining in mine; he has grasped each of our hands with his.    I look up and stare into the clear blue eyes of my son and he cracks the most innocent and brilliant of smiles.    At that very instant, a new energy like a slow, warm bolt of lightening runs between us and fills me from head to toe.

I look further upwards into the shining eyes and face of my wife who looks at me for an instant, then back down at our prodigy who is sharing his gaze between us.  I know she can feel the connection swelling between us, a bond stronger than mere touch, simple recognition; it is the shared connection of our family, our everlasting association with each other as parent, child, spouse.   I can feel him and her both and I know they feel me.

Our faces turn forward towards a rising sun that is breaking through the clouds, and we squeeze hands, pulsing this energy between us, ready to face whatever meets us, together.

We take a step forward towards the sun, down the hill, and forward into life.

© Nathan Pralle for PhilosYphia, 2010. | Permalink | 3 little comments jumping on the bed. | Subscribe RSS

One of the big negatives was that Verizon appeared to be the only cellphone provider with any service up there, so my wife’s iWireless phone and my AT&T-powered iPhone were almost useless the entire time, making it incredibly hard to communicate between folks, so a lot of the time we did things by ourselves.   But on the whole that wasn’t bad, either, as it gave us time to go our own paces.

One afternoon, after riding 9.5 miles with my wife and kiddo, while they took a nap I took off for more trail riding and ended up doing about 16.5 miles along the trail going from Preston to Harmony.    I decided to take a video as I was riding to share with you the experience of it:

In short, a good weekend to unplug a bit and spend some time with family.    If you have the inclination to bike and are ever in southeastern Minnesota, I highly recommend the trails; they are all paved, the small towns are pretty and cute and full of shops, the people are uber-friendly, and the lack of technology might frustrate you but it will definitely encourage you to do something else with your time.

© Nathan Pralle for PhilosYphia, 2010. | Permalink | 4 little comments jumping on the bed. | Subscribe RSS

Pressure increases as the hill starts to rise underneath my tires.    My breath catches a bit as my body struggles to adjust.

“Don’t you puss out on me,” he injects harshly.

I look up, the bright rays of the late-afternoon sun splashing at the edges of my glasses, rendering the world into a half-washed-out landscape.   I gaze up the road to the top of the rise, several hundred yards away and far too many upwards.    My neck drops my head.

“It’s a damned hill.   ‘Tough’ is kind of the point here, I’m going to have to gear down,” I retort.

“Bullshit.   ‘It’s a damned hill’,” he sing-songs.    “Weak.    So it’s a hill.   One of, what, half a billion on the roads?  Suck it up.”

Brain negotiates contract terms with legs and they dig in harder, pushing the pressure gradient steeply upwards on the pedals, and causing my lungs to panic into a pant.  Teeth bared, silence pervades for a bit as we concentrate on the act of hoisting upwards, thoughts turned towards the effort being expelled and the aching of the muscles involved.   Sweat collects in my helmet band and beads down my face.

“Come on!   COME ON!”

I can feel myself faltering at the edge of potential.   “Stupid.”  I gasp, “Why am I doing this?”

“Because you need to actually move your nearly 300-pound ass for once in your life?” he cackles.   “Because you know you can and you just insist on being a wuss about it?”

I sigh.   It’s the same old story; the same inability to live up.    It’s like a record whose needle resets automatically, starting all over with the same message, in the same, crackly fidelity.

I gear down.   It was inevitable.   But not so much that he’ll complain a lot.    “So why bother, then?    I’m just going to end up where I was before.”

He’s suddenly fierce, right there, in my face.    His mocking has disappeared.

“Because it doesn’t have to.    You know you can change this, you have the ability.   You just need to be convinced of it.    Now, MOVE!”

I move.   Not because the entirety of myself wants to, but because somewhere inside there’s a small kernel of myself that believes him, however unlikely the fantasy might be, surrounded by a lot more that desperately wants to have faith.    So I move.   I dig, and crank, and push, and pant.    And the top comes closer.    As I feel the crest beginning to flow underneath my tires, he chants softly beside me.

“Thaaaaat’s it, yes, that’s it.   Keep it up, keep it up.    That’s what I’m talking about!”

I round the top of the hill and the pressure releases from my legs, although my lungs have yet to read the telegram and still grab hungrily at great gobs of air.    I keep moving — staying in motion is the only way to prevent the large knotted muscles from freezing solid.

“Wooof,” I exhale.    I take in a breath and look around, taking in the grasses, the fields, the waving corn, the stretch of road ahead of me.

As the bike sinks into the downhill side, I can see him grinning at me, and I cannot help but crack a small, ironic, but meaningful smile out of the corner of my mouth.   I feel a new-found vigor rush into my legs, infusing them with a renewed energy and excitement for the next challenge ahead.   Pedals push, speed increases, and the wind rushes past.

The miles tick down.   He is still there, mostly damning.   Sometimes encouraging.   At the best of times, seemingly at war with me, but that’s how it always is.   The motivation is not that of the heroes, not that of the stories.   This is hard-won, struggled, squeezed out of every fibre unwillingly.   But in the end, it is real.

I glance down to look at our silhouette; two wheels, two legs, one body, and a hundred miles of hot pavement.

And down the road we go.

© Nathan Pralle for PhilosYphia, 2010. | Permalink | 2 little comments jumping on the bed. | Subscribe RSS

You can now buy spray cheese in a can and strawberry edible underwear but if you’re not a graduate student in fluid dynamics you end up with sprinkled shoes?

The urinal has some serious issues, people.

The good old design that has carried us forward from the days of cavemen shooting it down a cracked rock is just not cutting the mustard anymore.   I realize that tradition says a lot — who doesn’t love those adorable porcelain hairwashers all hanging in a row, looking like so many faceless golems with their mouths agape, awaiting the spring rains?   In middle school they were our targets as we frogstepped backwards and attempted to best our pals’ records.  The college gals living on a previously-men’s floor found them to be great planters and grew some mighty philodendrons.   They’ve certainly seen their days of glory.

I am not suggesting, mind you, that we revert; even if you’ve never lined up at the 20′ Stainless-Steel Trough of Hell in a sports stadium, you can just imagine how pleasant that experience is to the participants.    Let’s keep in mind that function is king but form is definitely a close second.

I mean, good lord — a TUBE would be a better choice, eh?   A funnel?   Something that gently cradles the stream in and gradually alters the course towards the drain?   Anything better than that sharp, harsh backdrop.   Approaching this and attempting not to get anything on you is akin to trying to fire a gun at a brick wall and dodging the rebound.     This is not good technology, people.

Technology has provided us with toilet seats that pre-warm themselves, low-flush solutions, and if you’re really daring, self-mulching bogs for those of you who like to self-fertilize your own roses.

How has the urinal been left behind in development?

Who did we piss off?

Or on?

© Nathan Pralle for PhilosYphia, 2010. | Permalink | 2 little comments jumping on the bed. | Subscribe RSS

Only one problem:   The reception was dry.   There wasn’t even champagne.   Sigh.

A little bubbly goes a long way.

I think a common misconception with those who are skittish around the topic of alcohol is that having a wet wedding will result in a lot of rowdy folks getting totally sloshed and puking all over.    And depending on your family, this may be the case with a few people — everyone has at least one guy or gal who will go too far and need some help stumbling into bed at the end of the evening.

However, here’s what I’ve observed about the presence of alcohol in a social gathering setting such as a wedding:

In order to have a rip-roaring good time, people need to be comfortable enough to let down their hair and loosen up a bit, especially when the room is full of people who are, at best, acquaintances and family members that you don’t hang out with all the time.   Sure, you have a few friends, but the bulk of people at a wedding are folks you simply don’t see every day.   We humans have a HUGE ability to spend the bulk of our time in such a situation wondering what others are thinking of us.   It’s why we agonize over what to wear, how we walk, talk, and act, and who we are seen associating with or not.

In short, we’re pretty uptight and formal.

Given enough time, we’d get comfortable on our own and loosen up, but at a wedding reception, you only have a few hours to have fun and then it’s over and people have to go to bed.    The process has to be sped up.

Enter the powers of alcohol!

Despite the occasional semi-amusing person who will spend the evening replacing the bulk of their blood supply with whiskey, most folks will have a drink or three and call it good.   Even in this small amount, amazing things happen to the group dynamic.   One of alcohol’s first functions on the brain is to relax the body and mind and the second is to reduce inhibitions.    Of course, if you drink enough you might get REALLY wild, but the first inhibitions to be relaxed is to stop worrying so damned much about what others are thinking about what you’re doing and to just have fun.

This ends up being an essential key to creating a great party atmosphere in the time constraints allowed.    The quick way to get the folks that will have fun to HAVING FUN is to get a bit of booze in them.   Not so much that they can’t stand up, but enough that they can relax, loosen up, and start worrying more about having a good time than about comparing notes.    Nobody wants a bunch of drunks stumbling around and breaking tables, but we do want a great time to be had.    Having some adult beverages available will ensure this.   Tongues loosen, bodies loosen, minds shut up.   It’s a great formula for an awesome time.

This all being said, weddings are for the bride and groom and whatever they want on that day is law; everyone else can sit down and shut the hell up as far as I’m concerned.   Various religions or customs might take offense to having such beverages present.   I completely get the arguments against it, but if your event allows for it, take it as advice that it can be one of the best social lubricants known to man.

I had a wonderful time at the aforementioned wedding and would never say otherwise, but I walked away early in the night, wondering if it wouldn’t have been that much more impressive and memorable had a few of the tighter individuals simply had some liquid encouragement ingested in order to get down and groove.

© Nathan Pralle for PhilosYphia, 2010. | Permalink | 9 little comments jumping on the bed. | Subscribe RSS

The real key to this is that travelers don’t hate à la carte; in fact, I’d wager that most people really enjoy it.   Today’s modern human likes options — that’s why McDonald’s has something on the order of 18 different meal options and some 35-40 foods to choose from.   We like menus, we like picking out exactly what we want down to the color.  (See: paint chips) People really enjoy things like Dell’s build-a-computer site where you can see exactly what options increase or decrease your purchase price based on how hefty you want to make your new machine.  Most of us really enjoy being a bit picky in our own quirky ways and making it unique.

Choices give us a sense of control and power over a situation.   We like that.

There are two aspects about the current process that really torque passengers into an angry foam:  A) surprises and B) dealing with choices and money at the time of travel.

Let’s face it — travel’s not easy.   Whether in a car or a plane, there’s plenty of hassles to deal with between you and your destination.    Remembering what to pack, how to get there, timing for meeting people or getting to your meeting, hotel and car reservations, meals, kids…the list goes on and on.   People really like getting things buttoned up beforehand and avoiding any issues on the day of travel because one thing piles on another and before you know it, you have a four-alarm fire and no water in sight.

So, along comes the airlines and tosses the ‘pay per piece of baggage’ wrench into the gears of the entire mechanism and fouls the whole damned thing up.   Instead of being able to button yourself up before traveling you’re dealing with having to whip our your wallet and toss cash or a credit card at a frazzled check-in clerk in the hopes of making your luggage problem go away.   You might have known about it ahead of time, but maybe you didn’t — perhaps you thought you were well underneath the weight limit and suddenly you’re above it and dying inside.   And all of this comes on top of pushing the clock to get through security and on your plane in the first place.   In short, it becomes your 7th level of hell in a hurry.

The Way it Should Be

À la carte has the great power to be the next revolutionary thing in air travel provided:

• you can handle all the planning and paying details at the time of booking the trip
• no unpleasant surprises greet you on Travel Day

Just imagine being able to choose all aspects of your trip for an adjustable fee!   I can think of a great number of options that people would happily pay extra for (or be happy to sacrifice for a lower ticket price):

• Comfort – pillow(s), blanket(s), eye shades, hot towels, heat pads, earplugs
• Entertainment – movies, TV shows, Internet access, on-demand video, headphones
• Meals – how many, how fancy, vegetarian, vegan, kosher, snacks
• Drinks – all-inclusive, pay-per-drink, liquor only, top-shelf
• Luggage – per piece or per weight fees, international luggage waivers, delivery to the plane door, first off the plane, personal delivery from plane to you
• Seating – options for no surrounding children, frequent flyers only, sleeping-only seats, awake-only seating, first-on plane, last-on plane
• Assistance – help boarding, ticketing, security, customs  (how many of us would pay to be expedited through?)

There are, obviously, many more options that could be had, but how great would it be to even have such choices to make?   And all it requires is a custom bar code on your boarding pass that instantly indicates what you do and don’t get and some cheap hand scanners to make it all happen.   In the end, a ticket buys you a seat on a metal tube flying from point A to point B; everything else about the experience you have a choice in and, if you choose, the option to get — for a price.

In the end, the travelers feel more in control of their experience and feel they get a better value for their money, and the airlines can better control costs, make some extra cash, and deliver an experience that matches their customers’ expectations.

What do you think?   Would you gladly welcome the “À la carte” option the next time you take flight?

© Nathan Pralle for PhilosYphia, 2010. | Permalink | 5 little comments jumping on the bed. | Subscribe RSS

I can hope that politicians will implement some really great reforms for immigration soon, but I won’t hold my breath lest I turn blue and collapse before my time.   But I have my own ideas, and if it sparks some discussion on their merits, so be it.

This is a dependent list, meaning that to truly work all points must be implemented at once (or staged in as noted).   Half-assing this system won’t work to benefit of anyone, most likely.

IMMIGRATION REFORM IDEAS

1.  Truly Lock Down Our Borders – We’ve been saying it for years, but we’ve never actually done it.   Tons of other countries are a pain in the ass to get into because they have their borders tighter than a bongo but the United States is practically an open gate with a “Welcome!” sign.    If this requires the placement of a soldier on each mile of the border to guard it and a 15′ high razor fence, so be it — I’m sure we can find plenty of servicepeople willing to trade their deployment in Afghanistan for some homeland security duty.

2.  Announce a Period of Partial Amnesty — Once you have locked down the borders, declare a 6-month window of partial amnesty for all illegal aliens.    You put out a huge marketing campaign that tells the public, “You have six months to come forward and declare yourself as an illegal seeking permanent status in our country or to leave.   If you come forward in this time period, you will be shuffled into the program for gaining a green card without penalty.   If you decide to leave, you can go without issue.  After this time period expires, you will be declared illegal and an enemy of the State and will be deported without appeal.”   This does not mean that folks will not be required to go through the standard procedure to become a legal permanent resident, but you have to deal with the current illegal population and wholesale deportation is impractical, so this is the fair way to handle the backlog.

3.  Simplify the Permanent Resident Requirements and Procedures — I will detail what requirements I think are necessary to be a permanent resident in this country and a citizen in another post, but suffice it to say that both the requirements and the procedure needs to be simple, straightforward, relatively cheap, and clear-cut.   Anything else and you encourage people to go or stay illegal and take their chances.

4.  Revise and Expand the Visa Program — We have a huge requirement for temporary presence and work positions in this country, whether it be in the entertainment industry or the seasonal worker system.   If you provide an easy way for people to come here legitimately for work, visits, or similar, you discourage illegal access.    Seasonal worker visas should be super-easy to obtain for a specified time period, say, 3-4 months, with easy requirements — prove you pay your taxes and a criminal/drug check.    No quotas, a low fee, and easy applications complete the picture of simplicity.

5.  Lower Wage Requirements for Seasonal Workers – One of the big problems with seasonal workers is that companies prefer that they be illegal so they can pay them below minimum wage to work in the fields and so forth, and the people are perfectly willing to do so.   Thus, to make this work, lower the minimum wage requirement to something reasonable; say, $2/hour.    This will prevent outright exploitation ($0.50/hour or something) but will give companies the flexibility they need.

5.   Heighten the Penalties for Illegal Entry –  Coming here illegally should carry a swift and harsh punishment, fast deportation, fines, and banning from the country for a very long time.   If you make it easy to NOT be illegal, then the ones that are should be severely dealt with to further discourage it.

6.  Amend the 14th Amendment – The intentions of this Amendment did not include providing a loophole for illegal immigrants to get a foothold in the country simply by having a child.    If the child is born to a permanent resident or citizen, this makes sense to make them citizens as well.   But if both parents are illegal or temporary, the child should absolutely not become a citizen automatically; it ties these people here in unnatural and unfair circumstances.

7.  Require Regular “Check-Ins” for all Non-Permanent Residents — If you’re here and you’re not permanent, you should have to check in with an official body every 3 months or so to confirm that you are following the terms of your visa and that there are no outstanding measures to be taken care of.   If you fail to report regularly, you are then tagged as being illegal and you are sought and handled in that matter.

8.  Require Regular Worker Audits – Companies will have little to no excuses for hiring illegals under the new system, so regular surprise worker audits should be conducted.   Contrary to all the detractors out there, it’s completely legitimate to ask, “show me your papers” to employees and employers to have them prove that only legal workers are being used.

9.  Require Paperwork for Any Government-Paid Benefit – The only exception is being dire, life-threatening medical care, but otherwise, it’s completely normal to background check someone before giving them government-paid care, food stamps, etc.    Make it fair — if you are going to ask everyone, ask EVERYONE, including me, to prove that I’m a legitimate citizen.   More on this in a future post about national ID cards.

10.  No Tolerance Rule for Crimes by Temporary Residents — As non-permanent residents in the USA, hold those present here temporarily to a higher standard; if you commit a crime while here, you are convicted and deported.   No time in jails (costs us money), no big appeals process, no chance to go back to work here.   We insist as visitors to our country that you treat it better than your own country; if you are not willing to do so, out you go.

Conclusion

These measures are probably not complete and all-encompassing of all situations that exist out there, but I think they would be a step in the right direction towards where we need to go.   Some of these appear harsh, perhaps; and maybe that’s a legitimate concern, but at the same time, we have to consider this fact:   We welcome with open arms foreigners into our great country, but we insist that you are a visitor and must behave with the appropriate amount of respect.     I realize the economic issues of cheap labor and seasonal help and I think we can work the laws and regulations to conform with those needs and demands without sacrificing our national security and control of the situation.   In reform, we hope to go back to being a great country who makes it clear what is acceptable and what isn’t and is only ever enhanced by the stream of new people, cultures, and ideas entering on a daily basis.

© Nathan Pralle for PhilosYphia, 2010. | Permalink | 5 little comments jumping on the bed. | Subscribe RSS

“Gee, how exciting, ” you all say in unison.

Well, OK; so perhaps getting a load of rock dumped on your driveway (is that a euphemism?) isn’t anywhere close to the top on the Wonderful Orgasm Scale.    In fact, it probably sits right above taking off a pair of soiled underwear in terms of excitement.   That all being said, it’s a big event around this household, mostly because of two reasons:

#1 — I traded my old 1996 Dodge Intrepid for it, which has been sitting in a non-running state on our lawn for THREE YEARS, a time span which I thought had probably rendered it useless for anything other than wasp nests and raccoons.

#2 — Due to our driveway being mostly dirt, every rain, spring shower, or sloppy snowfall the entire thing would turn into a maze of puddles and gunky crap and general frustration.   This was a home improvement we had always hoped to do but really, when you have some spare cash, does gravel immediately come to mind?  NO.

So I traded, even up — car for new rock.    And boy is it nice.    Thanks to the awesome help of my father on Sunday, we got it spread and now it just needs a bit of tamping down during rains and driving on it to be simply great.    Below is photographic evidence thereof:

© Nathan Pralle for PhilosYphia, 2010. | Permalink | 3 little comments jumping on the bed. | Subscribe RSS

Fortunately for all of us here, Three C Bistro is not an inappropriate moniker.

The outer building is fairly unimpressive, a leftover from the previous owner, but the inside has transformed nicely.   Muted browns, soft reds, blues, and greens surround the eating area, framed by wood and stonework and all in the style of Italian renaissance with some modern flairs.   The seating is generous booths or tables and chairs, neither of which are particularly unique but they fit within the styling around them.   A fountain on one side and muted lighting complete the scene.

I was sat in short order by an eager hostess and attended to by an attentive waiter.    It was lunch, so the menu was smaller; I shall have to stop by for an evening meal.    Basic, standard sandwiches and burgers abided, but there were also higher-style, higher-ticket items such as a Prime Rib sandwich and a crab salad.   Appetizers ran between $4 and $10 and entreés between $7 and $15.   The wine and beer selection were copious although being at work I will have to wait to try those.

Service was quick, uncomplicated, and in short order I had my Reuben with a side of fries.   I always love to get a Reuben at a new location because how they prepare this simple and yet classic sandwich says a lot about their style and approach.    This one was very decent — the swirled rye was fresh and tasty with a slight toast, the corned beef generous and flavorful, the sauerkraut wasn’t nearly as tart as I liked but went fine nonetheless.

The only complaint I derived from it was that the Thousand Island dressing was served on the side and not as a part of the sandwich which, in my eyes, violates the principle of a Reuben.   I was annoyed that I had to spend good-quality eating time spreading sauce on a sandwich that just should have had it.    That being said, the dressing was very nice and went well with the rest.

The fries were large, with skins and seasoned salt, cooked perfectly.  The unsweetened iced tea I had was unremarkable and was probably from a mix, although it was hard to say definitively.    A second arrived before I even finished the first, however, so that’s a huge point in my book.

They have wireless Internet! I cannot emphasize enough how much I value that and how much I think businesses would benefit from providing it.   A simple network but it worked well; thank you!

The check arrived for a bit over $10, it was quickly processed, and I left.    But I shall be back — well done, Three C!  I think you may have actually brought a real, excellent bistro to Iowa.

Rating: 4.5 sammiches out of 5

Three C Bistro
510 Hildreth St
Charles City, IA 50616
641-228-3544
Facebook: Three C Bistro

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I don’t consider myself a food snob; I eat equally well at a fine restaurant as your neighborhood fast food joint because I understand that there are a multitude of reasons why you might choose either one.   There is a time and place for thick, heavy, greasy burgers and a perfect setting for filet mignon with a white wine reduction and asparagus.

This, however, was completely off the scale for me.

In reality, I should have been tipped off by the fact that no good place would label themselves as partaking in multiple, unrelated pursuits in their name as Ryan’s Grill, Buffet & Bakery on Collins Road in Cedar Rapids, IA, but I figured it was probably akin to Bonanza which, while they do indeed serve steak, could not be readily considered to be a steak joint.   Rather, they are a buffet joint that just happens to have sliced and grilled dead steer inside.    They smartly leave this out of their name, however, so one is not misled; you believe you are attending a Bonanza of something.    Exactly what, of course, varies by the night.

Upon entering, I was greeted by a girl who seemed infinitely disappointed that the cash register was not an iPad and struggled to figure out how to ring up one meal + drink for me.   I do suppose this is because, from looking around, she was used to a mom and dad with at least a dozen children in tow, so I’m sure the math was daunting.   Nonetheless, I got approved to descend upon the goods and chose a table.

The first plate off the stack still had food on it.    Had I been a person of delicate character, I might have stopped right there, but I’m realistic — I understand this happens in busy places.   I set it aside, grabbed the second, and went to the islands of steaming goods to pick my wares.

If it takes me more than once around a buffet serving bar to fill up my plate, there’s a problem.   This one took THREE times around before I finally selected a few things I felt brave enough to try:   a horribly over-baked and depressed salmon fillet, some boasted chicken, and mashed potatoes.   I delicately skipped past the dish marked, “beef tips”, which looked like everything out of the reject bucket doused in a slurry of brown gravy.

I ate the first plate and sipped on the brown water that was labeled as being iced tea but bore no resemblance thereof.   Nothing was remarkable, that’s for sure.   About halfway through, in the middle of a mouthful, a teenage boy in an ill-fitted apron suddenly appeared at my elbow and loudly asked, “Do you want a DINNER ROLL?”, while staring off into space.   Shocked, I blinked, swallowed, and said, “uh, no, I’ll be OK, thanks” and he was gone before I finished.

I went for a second plate of grub, by this point feeling a bit off, but figuring it was just hunger.   I grabbed a plate — and it was soiled.   So was the next one.   And the next.   And the next.   Five dirty plates into that stack and I switched stacks.    The next wasn’t dirty, it was greasy, like it had been rinsed in lard.   The entire stack was.     Third stack:  first one was dirty, second was clean AND didn’t feel slick, so I took it.    Got a spoonful of mashed potatoes on it and looked down to see this greasy, fingery smear across the opposite side of the plate.   I stopped, stared for a bit, and then proceeded to put a few more pieces of food (if you can call it that) on my plate and shuffle miserably back to my seat.

I sat.

I stared.

My stomach imitated a Quaker on acid.

About this time a roughly 250-p0und 12-year-old girl a few tables away threw a meltdown hissy fit over the fact that her father wouldn’t let her have a 3rd bowl of ice cream.    My stomach lurched, I grabbed my ticket, and I left in a hurry.    The rest of the way home (2.5 hours), my innards did flip-flops and I cursed driving past Panera.

There are probably a few good uses for a place like Ryan’s:     Revenge comes to mind.   Perhaps social experiments in 3rd-world hygiene.    There’s a good chance it’d work better than waterboarding in torture camps.

If, however, you like organs to be intact and non-hemorrhaging at the end of your meal, I highly recommend you avoid stopping at Ryan’s of Cedar Rapids.

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© Nathan Pralle for PhilosYphia, 2010. | Permalink | 8 little comments jumping on the bed. | Subscribe RSS

I arrived in the morning feeling very lost and very late, of which only the latter was debunked upon entering and seeing the very long line for registration. I was, at least, happy that of all the things I show up late for in life, this wouldn’t be one of them.

The day proceeded pretty much thusly; registration, milling about, pre-convention business, a whole bunch of speeches by political candidates, official business, some more speeches, and voting on the platform of the party. This all took from about 9am until 3-4pm and I left around 3ish because we were past most of the interesting parts.

I left? Yes, I did, mostly because the entire day ended up being a complete waste of my time. It’s not that there weren’t points at which it was interesting — indeed, some of the political speeches were quite good and the heated debate over the controversial portions of the platform was most entertaining. But these sparse moments of interesting were bordered on all sides by long stretches of extremely boring.

And it’s not that the content was all that boring, it’s that the organization was pure crap. The folks running the whole thing were running around or standing about looking very confused while trying to figure out what was next, what the format of the next section was, etc. And despite purporting to adhere to the standards of Order, once it extended beyond simply courtesies to the chair (in particular, one point of procedure that was challenged and discussed and argued ad nauseum), it all fell apart.

In whole, I spent the day muttering, “Get ON with it, already.” I eventually gave up and slipped out to spend the balance of the day doing something — anything — more interesting.

Good Points:

• Getting to meet and talk to Bill Maske, candidate for Congress (against Tom Latham(R)), who came up to me as I was sitting alone and feeling fairly out of place, shook my hand, and talked some small-talk to me. Nice guy, good speech, and I think he’s got a shot at the seat, I hope.
• Kurt Meyer’s more-than-passionate intro for Bill Maske. Im-pressive.
• Hearing a very rational speech in favor of a provision to support the removal of “God” from the Pledge of Allegiance, in which the speaker basically said, “I don’t care what you believe in as long as you stand beside me to defend America together.” Brilliant. (The provision passed.)
• Seeing the cute little blonde-haired kid, complete with backpack and Omaba button, on his dad’s shoulders. Start ‘em early!
• Hearing cheers and jeers from the crowd depending on what bills or political names were said. Yes, it was a bit, “sports centre”ish, but on the whole, it’s nice to turn to the person next to you and say, “You know, I can’t STAND Chuck Grassley” and they completely agree.

Conclusion

I won’t attend a Convention again, I think; once was enough of a Saturday blown trying to keep awake while things proceeded around me. To be honest, I thought the business end of it would whiz by and the bulk of the time would be spent hearing from candidates or other citizens who had an axe to grind and wanted to make it known. While there was a good whack of that, too, it was difficult to sort the wheat from the chaff, and that’s very unfortunate.

1.5 out of 5 stars.

© Nathan Pralle for PhilosYphia, 2010. | Permalink | 3 little comments jumping on the bed. | Subscribe RSS

They will compile these images into some presentations and consider them for inclusion in an upcoming book.   Frankly, I don’t really care what happens to them so much as I think the concept is fascinating.

I was so intrigued, and I was awake at 10am on Sunday (which is what 15:00 UTC translates to), so I went and participated.

The picture I ended up submitting was this one:

But I took quite a few others; here they are.    Did I pick the right moment?   What would you have chosen as your moment?

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To such ends that I partake of the words of the seer and do my best to explore new-found worlds, I took it upon myself this past week to use his recipe to create my own corned beef. I figured I had little to lose, ultimately, and potentially a lot to gain from the experience. Plus, I’ve always been fond of soaking meat in brines of all sorts because they transform under the pressures of salt and time into new creations.

Two chuck roasts — chosen because they were significantly cheaper than a full brisket and I figured it’s best to ensure I was successful first — were soaked in the prescribed brine solution for six days. I procured some pink salt (sodium nitrite) from an online source for the most-essential preservative portion of the brine and to ensure a good, solid red color throughout.

Six days in the fridge, covered in brine, anchored to the bottom of a pan with a heavy plate. It was a long time to wait and hope that I was creating a marvel and not a fuzzy mold farm. Cooking with old methods like this is most definitely an effort in faith.

Last night I extracted the meat from its bath and rinsed it thoroughly, noting that the feel of it had changed from a pliable, meaty feel to a more solid, waxy touch. The two chunks were then dropped into my large cast iron pot (which you may have when you pry it from my cold, dead hands), covered in water, spices, and a mirepoix, and set to simmer on the stove for about 3 hours.

In the meantime, I busied myself making cabbage to go along, since it seemed like the proper accompaniment to such an iconic meal. Rendered bacon fat and water steamed up a head and a half of cabbage, sprinkled with thyme. I then tossed the bacon back in and sautéed it until the chopped leaves were translucent and golden. A bit of salt here, pepper there, and it was ready to go.

Extracting the corned beef from the pot and slicing it into manageable chunks was nothing less than equivalent to Christmas morning and the promise of untold wonders to be revealed. As the first slices fell away from my knife’s bold statement, this brilliant red, flaky meat burst into view, sending my spirits soaring. As all good chefs do, a personal sample was quick to follow.

When it’s so damned good, it makes me giggle in happiness. And I was a ball of laughter.

I made quick work of the rest, laid it on a suitable platter, piled another high with the cabbage, and with some included buttered fresh bread, the meal was complete. All ate and were satisfied.

To know that I was able to take something that’s been done for years and to make it work in my own kitchen was simply amazing and horribly fulfilling at the same time. If you have the means and the drive, I sincerely hope you will give this a shot — you will be forever grateful that you connected with your food in such an intimate way.

After six days of soaking in brine; note the paler, waxy appearance.

Corned Beef, in pot and ready to cook, pre-water/spices.

The prepared pot with corned beef (hidden), water, spices, and mirepoix.

Cabbage with Bacon, plated and ready to serve.

Corned Beef, plated and ready to serve

© Nathan Pralle for PhilosYphia, 2010. | Permalink | 5 little comments jumping on the bed. | Subscribe RSS

And that is — how do we handle the plethora of languages spoken by the various inhabitants of the United States?

Tim James, candidate for governor of Alabama, recently made an advertisement about language usage.    It seems that Alabama currently gives driver’s license tests in 12 different languages.   He states that if elected, he would reduce this down to one — English — because that’s what they speak in Alabama and it will save a lot of money in not printing and administering forms and tests.

I watched this video with a great deal of mixed feelings.   On one hand, I completely see his point — English is the dominating language of this country.   Many other countries around the world now teach English as a matter of course in school simply so they can do business with us and others.  The fact is, road signs are in English, which makes you wonder exactly how well the drivers in Alabama that tested on another language can drive.

Of course, I can also see the point of multiculturalism.   Language is fundamental to how we think, act, and live.   Being a bit accomodating may cost a bit or be an inconvenience, but it preserves something for the foreign speaker.    Being exposed to more than one language broadens our own horizons, making us better, more well-rounded people and keeping our minds open.  How terrible if we had suppressed all music written in Latin!

Also, it could be argued that many that live here may not follow laws, use services, or participate as much should we cut off the language options.    There is also a very significant amount of Latino immigrants now living here, especially in the southwestern states and some parts of the Midwest.    If the town is 50% Spanish-speaking, should the languages used be 50/50 as well?

And then I come back to the fact that many businesses and government now employ translators as a matter of course to handle the load.   Signs are being printed in English and Spanish at least, if not more.   There is a lot of money, time, and effort spent on handling those who don’t have a mastery of English.  We are inundated by the, “press here for English” or “press 1 for English”, and any number of accommodations.   It is possible that we are more multi-linguistic now than ever in the history of this country.

The United States does not have an official, legal language, meaning that what is supported is up to a decision by individual, local governments and so forth.    There are plenty of movements out there to pass a law to make English official or maybe, like Quebec, make it a dual system.

To be honest, I’m simply on the fence over this.    My great-great-great grandparents had to learn English when they came over from Germany and didn’t get any leeway from the locals.    If I moved to France, I would be all but forced to learn the language to be successful at all.   But times change and perhaps the USA has outgrown its monolinguistic setting — should we be changing our attitudes towards language as well, or are we justified in holding to our English majority?

© Nathan Pralle for PhilosYphia, 2010. | Permalink | 4 little comments jumping on the bed. | Subscribe RSS

I’d like to start something for myself and my online friends called, “The Real Mail Project”.   This isn’t some idealistic attempt to say that email has taken something away from us, or there’s some inherent goodness or inner peace in writing actual letters — no, plenty of people have done that and frankly, writing too much makes my hand cramp.   I wasn’t built for it, clearly, and my handwriting attests to that.

No, this is simply because I like the idea of putting something physical into your hands and maybe getting something physical back.   I still read a newspaper because I like holding the print in my hands while I recline in a chair, the trees be damned.   My books are some of my most precious possessions because they bring something to reading that electronics just can’t.

I’d like to send you — gentle reader — a piece of mail.   Handwritten by me.   A postcard, probably, although it depends on the day and my mood.   I also can’t promise when you’ll get it, because I might be swamped with work and so forth, but I will keep at it until I hit up everyone who is interested.    I don’t care if you’re near or far from me, down the street or across the globe.   The relatives of mine who read this, go ahead and sign up if you want, that’ s fine.

I would love and adore to get something back from you in return if you’re so inclined.   I’d also like to do some posts on who I am writing to and if I get something back from you, what I got.    I might scan it in, who knows!   There’s no requirement to reply to me, but it’d be fun, wouldn’t it?    There’s also no necessity for carrying on past these two pieces of post unless we want to; it just sounded like a fun idea.

Many of you I may not meet for a long time, so let’s write, shall we?

If this sounds interesting to you, here’s how to participate:    Click here to fill out the contact form:  Contact Me

Make sure to give me your full mailing address if you want to get something, otherwise it’s kinda pointless, eh?

I don’t know how well this will work, and it all depends on who signs up, but — I’m in the mood to write.   Do you want to get some GOOD mail for once?

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Time: Like Sand from a Plastic Pail

Picking Him Up with Love

© Nathan Pralle for PhilosYphia, 2010. | Permalink | 2 little comments jumping on the bed. | Subscribe RSS

Having thought about this FAR, FAR TOO MUCH — and having had to get this off of my mind so I could go back to more productive pursuits — I finally came up with this diagram that I think is pretty accurate.    So Lauri, this is for you.  See what you think and discuss amongst yourselven.

© Nathan Pralle for PhilosYphia, 2010. | Permalink | 3 little comments jumping on the bed. | Subscribe RSS

But I feel her hands every time my fingers press into a ball of dough, and I try to inject deep love into food like she did.

I am not my maternal grandfather; my tools will never be infinitely repaired instead of purchasing new ones.

But I think fondly of him every time I wash my hands, remembering the care he took with every precise, meaningful movement.

I am not my paternal grandmother; I will never do my hair perfectly (in case someone should drive by) simply to mow the lawn.

But when my family and friends are gathered in my house and I am in the kitchen cooking and setting up, I feel the pride she must have felt for successfully bringing everyone together for a good, happy time.

I am not my paternal grandfather; I will never have a love for Branson, MO, within me.

But love of wide open fields, fertile land, and the bounties of harvest will always run deep in my blood because of him.

I am not my sister; I will never jump out of bed and land on the floor fully dressed and perky.

But I hope to pass onto my children the connection she and I have shared as siblings, as it is both flexible yet unbreakable, the perfect combination to last the ravages of time and change.

I am not my mother; I will never think that dealing with the sick, infirm, or dying is, “interesting”.

But I channel her every single time I have to do something considered disgusting or unpleasant for my child, as she would have drank raw sewage if it meant we would be happy and healthy.

I am not my father;  I will never be able to part with sentimental objects as easily as he can in the name of neatness.

But I can only hope to be half as fiercely loyal towards my children as he is to me and my sister.

I am not my family — but I have the best of them within me.

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