bierkergaard

Back in the day, when I started doing my own laundry, I would wash anything that I wore once. It was college. And yes, I had to learn the lesson of not mixing my whites with colors after turning my underwear pink.  I still recall one of the dudes on my floor using a broomstick/pole (minus the broom itself) to stuff all his laundry into one washing machine to save on spending quarters. From what recall, he may have even been standing atop the machine.      As I got older, I came to understand that this wear once/wash once was an enormous waste of time, water, money, energy, etc. I am not sure when I wised up. I think it was when I started to notice that my dress pants were fading and falling apart.  Dirt is destructive to the fibers of fabric. It acts as sandpaper grinding down the threads to threadbare. So, there is a spectrum in laundering clothes but my guess is that most of us wash our clothes too often and too much. All that lint? That used to be your ...

After a winter of nearly and nary zero snowfall, old Mother Nature decided to send us a Northeaster' mid-March semi-blizzard Stella on Monday night into Tuesday. It turned out to be a substantial amount. About 12 inches or so, with bands of more and less depending on your domicile location. My general shoveling of snow philosophy, honed by years of living in the 'burbs, is to shovel early and shovel often. One can decide to watch the snow fall platonically inside the cozy cave as it were (for all of you who took Philosophy 101 in college) but at some point, sooner or later, you have to pick up the shovel and throw some snow. Or bear the consequences. Back-pain payment with the interest ache. Present small amounts per shovel vs. future big debt payment at the end. I watched a neighbor a couple of days ago attempt to remove snow from their driveway after a couple of days of melting then re-freezing. A mess, that is what is was. As I was out early on the shovel Tuesday, ...

One of the big events for me work-wise yearly is being Test Supervisor for the SAT. I run the administration. I know that the test is important to kids and their parents for the attainment of goals, so I take it seriously. It weighs on me until it happens and I plan for it months ahead of time and then go full-throttle that last two weeks before testing. It takes some wisdom and expertise to do it well but that is not the stressor for me. The big worry is the reality that something can go wrong that is not under my control and that keeps me up at nights in a cold sweat. So, yesterday before heading up to school, praying that I wouldn't get hit by another car, crash into a telephone pole by hitting some ice, or getting  a flat tire, I read a devotional, hoping that it would offer some solace. And it did. The gist of the devotional was when one is in a stress-inducing situation, go slow. Anxiety often makes me breathe shorter breaths, walk faster, talk faster, lose myself in ...

My mouth above. Spared you a look up my nostrils...  Back in December, I went for my routine 6 month dental appointment to get my teeth checked and cleaned. Typically, I get a good report that the choppers are doing well. However, for the last few years, my lone cavity has been aching off and on (and more on than off). Like that light bulb in a prisoner's cell that shines night and day. I had mentioned it previously to the dental hygienist (usually a different person every time) and the dentist on duty (same Indian dude). I would tell them that there was an ache but I would typically downplay it. I have a fairly high tolerance for pain being that my left knee has been aching consistently for the last almost 40 years. I get fatalistic and philosophical about pain, figuring that rather than fight it, accept it, and focus on other issues.  When life kicks you around enough, no sense crying about it. The world as it is doesn't care.   I find myself being much more...

Well, I think my Jamaica essays, if they were a cup of coffee and each blog a sip, have come to an end. No promises though.  I did write an epic 27 pager of the trip (photos included) for Coffee Lovers magazine. The owner of the magazine is interested in publishing the tome from the way it sounds. If not, I will pitch it elsewhere. I make a decision to write for my own reasons and if others wind up wanting to read it, all the better. Feel the same way about this blog. I have no expectations. I give freely. But, actually, I would like to get paid for the piece.  People piss on what they don't pay for. It is human nature, Mon.   I have found my writing mojo in that I pick topics that I have a high degree of interest in (beer, culture, writing, travel, coffee, theology) and then place myself in the middle of a story somewhere. My task is just to report what I observe in my own particular and peculiar style. Sad to say that I don't think fiction is a talent of mi...

As I was getting ready to board my plane to Jamaica, the sleeve and cuff of my windbreaker ripped. The windbreaker was a traveler's special because it is light, waterproof, surprisingly warm in pinch (traps body heat), and has three zippered pockets, plenty of room to stuff personal belongings like keys and phones while going through TSA. My back-pack already had a rip in at the top and my big travel bag was ripping at the bottom. All three have been discarded and replaced by new gear, upgraded to boot. I now have a sleek black windbreaker.   I wasn't real sad to see the old windbreaker have its swan song. It looked like a seriously old man piece of clothing. Something an old duffer would wear out on the golf course on a cool day. When I was in California last Spring for the L.A. Festival of Books, I spotted another dude wearing the same jacket. He looked really uncool. My L.A. screenwriter buddy was wearing his fashionable leather coat. I was sporting AARP-wear.   Tea...

Men go abroad to wonder at the heights of mountains, at the huge waves of the sea, at the long courses of the rivers, at the vast compass of the ocean, at the circular motions of the stars, and they pass by themselves without wondering. Saint Augustine I am still on a Jamaican Jag. Like Jerk Chicken spices that remain on the palate long  after the meat is gone, I think I still have a couple of weeks left here with processing the Jamaican journey over Christmas. So, I ask for your forbearance. Be like those in the Jamaican Blue Mountains, who are in the words of my ride up into the Blue Mountains and down back 6 days later to Kingston, " Peaceful ."  Kingston on Christmas Eve was a chaotic carnival and as we drove away and up to Mt. Edge Guesthouse in Desmond's Orange Honda Fit, I could feel the sweltering pressure of the social sea level dissipate.    Travel often puts new cards in our deck and we change in ways that would have not had we not left the confine...