The Little Words Mean the Most

Simone in a nutshell, said John Lepp

 

 

 

Before the Internet

How-To books, hundreds of them

 

 

nothing makes me prouder than a single nutmeg in my chowder

 

another 2 things I love: typography and closings

 

characters missing

missing in action: A and S ... wiped out by years of pounding. Coupla hairs on Q

Your keyboard?

 

 

BBQ is different. It's a religion of sorts.

 

[the review submitted to Yelp, after a 1st visit to Wicked Sinister]

BBQ is different. It's a religion of sorts. The faithful flock to where it's extraordinary. And the extraordinary tends to end up in the weirdest places ... like in a back lane behind a clothing store in the half-empty downtown of once-prosperous Killingly, CT. It took me two tries to find it. Finally I followed my nose.

This was my first visit. Order the brisket on first visits I'd been told, by BBQ guru/mentors. If the brisket is good, the rest of the menu probably will be, too.

Today I ordered a sandwich called The Dirty Bastard (loved the film).

It was the first item listed on today's menu and featured "our perfectly smoked brisket doused in our peppered sausage gravy." Say no more.

Super juicy. Nicely pink. Full of flavor. Not fatty, but enough.

On a forgettable bun. That's not a complaint, by the way. Some of the best, beloved BBQ I've eaten across America and Canada came served with white bread from a discount supermarket. In the land of BBQ, the bread is just a kind of edible napkin. Its purpose is to soak up the juices before they stain your lap.

Wicked Sinister's "hand-cut French fries" will likely always be included in my future orders (oh, yes: I'll be back, with friends). "Sides" like fries are an important part of the BBQ experience. Wicked also offered today "dirty rice" and "smoked maple bacon mac and cheese."

Their hand-cut fries are thin like McDonald's, "deep fried in tallow made from our brisket trimmings." Irresistible. I went whole hog, burying my fries beneath cheese and bacon bits. It was tasty for a few mouthfuls, but there was too much topping glop (my fault; not theirs).

Pacing is important in BBQ. You can fill up in a minute with this kind of food. Take your time. Savor.

What a mega-webby on donor newsletters looks like after 4+ hours of Q&A. Things get a little giddy. Three time zones represented on screen. Off screen: a planet's worth of time zones asking questions. We love you!!!!

Join us next time.

Please.

 

Reminiscing about "road warrior" days with Carol Wiseman

 

Ah, those days as a road warrior, not so long ago. Sleeping on a cot with hundreds of cotted others in the dim hallways of a completely shut-down O'Hare. It echoed the London Tube during the Blitz.

Not sure I miss 'em, those days. Don't regret 'em, though ... going cardio, sprinting in late middle-age through airports when your connection arrived late; that counts as a day's exercise. Who doesn't secretly swell with pride when, with 8.5 billion other people on the planet, your name's called on Atlanta's airport PA? "Passenger Thomas Ahern, the door's about to close." Snarling gate agents as the last thing heard on earth.

Or sleeping in a closet next to the vending-machine room (only space available in a motel) in boom (but small) town Odessa, TX; which smells strongly and lucratively of the town's chief export, oil. And what grounded us road warriors that day? Some bolt the pilots deemed essential fell off the plane as it was taxiing for takeoff. Disappointments don't get more sigh-y than that. If we could have voted? "We'll get a fresh bolt when we land." But, no....

Or flying home from a masterclass on the shores of Loch Ness just as the pandemic was about to swallow the world. You could hear the national borders snapping shut on our US-bound contrails.

 

Talking to my therapist, cancelling today's session

 

Last session, you asked about the title of the book in progress.

 

Right now its working title is Sim One: A love and then-what-happens story

 

A good title comes either like a lightning bolt ... or like you're passing an elephant-sized turd ... with tusks.

 

Another possible subtitle for Sim One: Things we no longer do together ... That theme comes up in a few chapters. But it seems kind of sad for a book that, while gruesome from her diagnosis' standpoint, is really a celebration of a loud lovely life fiercely lived. > With style and great hair.

 

[still talking to my therapist] Titles are hard, especially for straightforward how-to books. My publisher and I came up with 75 or so options for my latest (last?) how-to book ... and never found one we liked. We surrendered and grumpily went with our barely-acceptable second best, shown here.

 

Thank you for all you're doing to guide me. Last week was good. Turned out I'm not the drunk I thought I was.

 

You've likely heard this: Extroverts talk to think. Introverts think to talk.

 

On that spectrum, I'm much more comfortable writing than talking. I can think on the page. It's mostly, for me, a matter of cadence ... and trash removal. The cadence? So, you've just said this ... what are you going to say next? Trash removal: Spot the redundancies, spot the larks, spot the flagrant self-indulgences, remember the audience: what do they need, what do they need, what do they need....

 

You've gotten me to talk, in 50-minute spurts. Thank you.

 

Ahern enters a local hall of fame

 

This news from Mary Jo....

 

"You & the rest of 1963 championship track team are going to the Holbrook Hall of Fame. I remember you running cross country but don’t remember your track event(s). Mile? Two mile? 🏆"

 

NEVER did a "champion" athlete NOT deserve plaudits ... than me in 1963.

 

Did the mile. Did the two mile. They were effortless; it was like flying. You wore the lightest clothing you could. Running distance events with no-weight shoes on your feet was psychedelics before psychedelics. You left scorn behind. You met sunset and sunrise on equal terms.

 

Because of this one thing I couldn't avoid in the first place:

 

I'd been forced to climb mountains in New Hampshire over the past summer, as a camper. The camp was staffed in part by college cross-country runners. We'd go on hikes of several days' duration. I'd complain the entire way, hefting a pack of snacks.

 

Still, unbeknownst, it was a miracle for me.

 

I went in one grueling summer from being the last person across the finish line in high-school cross-country ... to being first ... by a country mile.

 

I was clueless.

 

September-October-November that year were gifts. Winning at track was easy after that; triumphant and arrogant. It was just stupid; my legs were stronger, my asthma-damaged lungs were participants. By accident, I learned a tiny bit more than Holbrook's coaches about interval training (from this Harvard guy I happened into at the town's high-school track).

 

There's some kind of parable here. I don't know where to start....

 

Love forever,

 

tom