bierkergaard

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...

I ordered a Russian Imperial Stout kit a couple of months ago. I was waiting on brewing it until Trump assumed the presidency. Building on the prior batch of Vlad the Imperialer three years ago, I have named this rendition Vlad II: The Putinator: I Will Break You , given DT's posh treatment of this former KGB Russian Autocrat Putin who assassinates and imprisons his opponents. A strange world we are living in. ISIS has made Russia and the U.S. allies. A Trump and Putin Bromance, each probably playing another as a sucker underneath it all.   As an aside, I read the Koran over Christmas Vacation. Actually, much less violent than the Bible but it does appear to enlist the  faithful in God's War against the infidel. The Koran uses what is termed the "Royal We"  when Allah speaks of Himself, which is awfully odd considering its strong Monotheism. My thesis is that the  "We" language does seem to permit the faithful to spread Islam by force. Historically, we...

The individual I connected to most in the Blue Mountains of Jamaica was a dude nicknamed Ox. When I first arrived at the guesthouse where he was employed, he told me his real name was Paul, so that is what I called him for most of the week. It turned out his real name wasn't Paul. So, he was just messing with me. Having some fun at the white boy's expense.  Ox was nicknamed such, I presume, because he worked hard like a strong beast in the fields, pulling a plow. Whenever anyone needed something done, they would call out "Ox" and he would magically appear. Here, in this picture, he was assisting the owner in launching one of those fiery floating paper lanterns.   Ox was the first one up and the last one to bed. He would greet me in the morning and make coffee. At the end of the week when I was settling my account, I had to throw him under the bus so to speak. He had only charged me for four coffees all week (six days) when in fact every morning I had usually ...

The morning after the aforementioned rowdy and loud party at the Blue Mountain Guesthouse and Cafe (see last week's blog post), I was sitting out on the cafe porch, drinking coffee, and a reggae song was playing on the sound system.  I took a video/audio recording of it because it seemed to restore the proper Jamaica vibe over the environs, replacing the specter of the sappy 80's pop music from the night before party. Be gone! Now that I have two iPhones, thanks to AT&T no longer offering a discounted new replacement, I downloaded the Shazam app on my older phone to use it to identify the song on my new iPhone. I brought my old iPhone to  Jamaica as a back-up in case my new iPhone was stolen, damaged, or etc. I also used the old phone to take pics when walking on steep paths and out in the wild and sweating a torrent.   I was chagrined to find out that the song playing was by a Jamaican musician Mavodo (who genre is a combo of Rap and Rasta, plus auto-tuned...

The second to last day I was in Jamaica, a bunch of 16 white people party animals crashed where I was lodging in Jamaica. I tried to discern who they were...not U.S. citizens (thankfully) but from what I could tell ex-Pats from various European countries (some obviously Germans/Dutch by their gutterality) and caucasian natives from the Jamaican lowlands. For about 5 hours, the mountain peace was disturbed by excessive drink, saccharin 80's Pop music blasting, and bawdy jokes. English was the lingua franca. BTW, I am going to be on a Jamaica jag for a while. Great experiences crack us open with ideas and reflections. I wondered why any group of people would travel over 3,000-4,000 feet up to party their brains out when any hovel would do, with dangerous ride to boot down the treacherous road to Kingston. It wasn't a case of sour grapes of me wanting to join the party. The older I get, the more I go for quality in relationships and conversation, not quantity. I am not loo...