My Not Too Shabby List for 2017 Instead of The Usual Crummy New Year’s Resolutions

Yup, it’s that time of year again. Time to make the list. Time to make the donuts. Throw down the gauntlet and take on your biggest challenge. Wait, not that big.

There’s a bunch of ways to slice it, but I’m going to take another path. The painless path. You say easy. I say different.

Humor me. For fun, I’ve made a list of 7 New Paths to take for 2017. Lucky 7. The pursuit of excellence. The pursuit of ergonomically untested waters. Maybe just the pursuit of take the edginess off things. Comprende? Only 3 of the ones listed below are ones I’d genuinely consider. I’ll let you figure that out for yourself.

I think this is a healthy exercise and I’d urge you to do the same.

List on.

1— Become a Unicyclist

Why not? You get plenty of exercise. It’s an eco-friendly way to travel and now with all the bike lanes around it’s an efficient way to get from point A to point B. And with all the Citi Bikes hogging up all the limelight, this would be a great way to steal some of their thunder. Get it. A way to stand out. From what I gather, it’s also a natural segue to make it into the Big Apple Circus and a helluva lot less dangerous than sticking your head into a lion’s mouth or teetering on the trapeze artist’s wire line.

2— Backgammon Champ

It’s the frustrated Chess Player’s best shot at making it into the big time. No Giuoco pianoing required. You can throw your textbook theory out the window (out of a moving vehicle). Combining Fancy Checkers luck and skill you can either be hustler of obscure playing parlors or take your gaming on the pro tour. Truth be told, I’ve always like been really smitten with their carry cases.

3— Goatherd

I’m going to get metaphorical on you. These guys constantly get lumped in with shepherds. They’re not the same at all. First off, I prefer goats and their milk and their cheese. Who doesn’t like goat cheese? I think some of their stubbornness could rub off on me (in a good way). think of all that fresh air and the dewy smell of grass.

4— Fantasy Ball Player (Batter Up)

This is totally doable. I could really sink my teeth (or cyber cleats) into this. I’ve always said immersing yourself in all the infinite possibilities is the best way to enjoy the ol’ American pastime. There’s something very Borgesian or is it Borgeseque about it too. The infinite possibilities that is.

5— Tat Artist

Yeah kid. This is the ticket. No doubt. They make some pretty good coin too. No reason to fiddle with finger paints and Crayolas forever. New Year means New Horizons. New Outlook. Newness. Ink it!

6 – Lightsaber Inspector

You wanted me to wield the laser sword? Admit it, didn’t you? Puh. I’m not taking those kind of chances. I’ll still play a great part, a bit part to be sure, but a safe part. Thank you very much. I want to keep all my limbs and eyeballs in 2017. The Balance of the Force will be in my Nivea-enriched hands. Come on, don’t try to play it off. You know that you’d kill to be that special somebody who ironed out all the chinks of the most awesome weapon in 17 and half galaxies and made it possible for the newfangled Jedi Knight Master to the N-teenth power to take care of business until infinity and day. Yeah.

7—Wizard

This shouldn’t come as a total shock to my closest peeps. You know who you are. Let me make it absolutely clear just what I mean by being a wizard. Of course I’d love to have a trusty wand and make potions spew from the unsuspecting mouths of baby sparrows and spill out of Tupperware containers stuffed with tofu. It would like be super often to have that capability, but nay, I’ve got a different hankering for 2017. I’m going Bard up. Bard in the true wizardly sense— you know, engage in the musicality of the cosmos and whatnot. Find the right muse and pull the stuffing out and spread the love.

Thanks for playing! Happy New Year!
JG

Announcing the Release of My Short Story Collection: Something Like Bliss

Fire up your Kindles Fiction Lovers!

I’d like to take a moment to announce the upcoming release of my story collection “Something Like Bliss.” The Kindle release is pretty much slated for January 29th 2017, roughly a fortnight from the Tropic of Capricorn. I’m practicing a Capricorn, as you might already know. While I had originally planned on putting out my book this past June, a number of obstacles prevented this from happening. I find I keep tripping over life or it keeps tripping over me. Anyway I’m excited to see this project finally coming into fruition. All of the stories, save one, have been published in literary journals. Below you will find a roster of the lucky lit mags. Three of my stories first appeared in my MFA Thesis at Pacific University. They’re tickled pink to be freed from their buckram binding.

Many of the stories in this collection cross genre boundaries as well as myriad emotional landscapes. “El Mariachi” is set in Mexico and centers on the unrequited love a young man has for his aunt. “A Private Language” is an updated, reconfigured Stand By Me, following the lives of 4 latchkey boys, culminating in a gruesome moment that will forever change them. Some of the stories have a fabulist element. “Rejects from the Pretzel Factory” is a comical take on the exploitation of a sweet old lady, a former Rockette, who has been roped into a greedy corporation’s ad campaign. Also, included is “The Itch of Runaway Souls,” which was published this past April in the new insert of the Chicago Tribune’s Printers Row.

I’m not going to pretend I don’t have a favorite, but I’m also not going to share that with you either. Gonna play possum. Seriously though, I waited a long while to share this collection with the public because I wanted it to be just so. I’m most passionate about shorter works. I’ve always been a devoted reader of pithier prose: Flannery O’Connor, Kafka, Borges, Chekhov, Bernie Malamud. And of those writers who go long, I favor their short stories: Haruki Murakami, Thomas Coraghessan Boyle, Bonnie Jo Campbell, Hannah Tinti, Pete Fromm, Phillip K. Dick.

Maybe the time we live in is indicative of my predilection for concise works. I believe it’s Francine Prose who says something
to the effect that in short stories “each word must go on the trial of its life” in order to make it into the final cut. Something like that, and when it works, it’s something like bliss.
Thanks for all of your support and I look forward seeing you at the upcoming readings and such.

Publication List

APT
Breakwater Review
Chicago Tribune’s Printer’s Row
Digging Through The Fat
Euphony
Gravel
Merida
New Pop Lit
Newtown Literary
Snapping Twig
Storychord
The Main Street Rag
The Summerset Review
The Vehicle
Tulane Reivew
Twisted Vine
Vector Magazine
Writer’s Digest
Yellow Chair Review

Charmed By Berlioz

(This article first appeared in Appellation Wine And Spirits newsletter on 5/17/12)

Jacquère isn’t a garage band, a perfume, or cool way of pronouncing the maestro of boutique chocolates. It’s a variety that rarely finds its way onto a brunch menu, but that’s not the grape’s fault. For one, it’s hard to find, flourishing in the heart of Savoie. Hugh Johnson refers to it as alpine Muscadet.

This noteworthy stuff is found in the village of Chignin which nestles between the communes of Les Marches and Montmélian southeast of The Bauges Mountains. Chignin also refers to the cru in the Vin de Savoie appellation which is often shortened to Savoie. Production is tiny. They make less than a fiftieth of the production in Bordeaux. Hello matchbox. The Bauges Mountains are part of the culprit and the diffused vineyards also add to the slim pickings.

Domaine Gilles Berlioz makes a polished Chignin. This Berlioz is no relation to the composer, but don’t hold that against the biodynamic maverick. The estate’s been practicing biodynamics since 2005. I find this wine to have a delicate aromatic structure of white flowers and just an insouciance of Mackinaw peach. Pale-toned, it is bantamweight, and earmarked for those who value reticence over car chases. I get citrus peel more than I get pulpy juice. There’s also a zestiness girded by a stony minerality. The Bourget Lake, the largest natural lake of glacial origin in France, is probably to thank for this. Lighter-bodied and well-balanced, Berlioz Chignin will go just as well with steamed mussels as with Gouda and wheat crackers. Daredevils might want to try it with medium-spicy Mexican fare— Huarache and Chilaquiles.

Sidekicks: The Short List

Samwise Gamgee
Barney Rubble
Norton
The O in H2O
Luigi (Mario’s Bro)
Iago
Fully-licensed Sous Chefs
Chewie (y’know your favorite 8-foot wookie)
Schlemazl (Relative to the Schlemiel)
Sancho Panza
Kato
Harley Quinn
Jimmy Olsen
George Can’t Stands Ya
Jovian Moons
Any moons
Tae kwon do maneuvers
Art Garfunkel
Cole Slaw
Doppelgängers

Monkey See, Monkey Do

In honor of The Year of The Monkey, I am sharing this chapter from my 2009 novel Shades of Luz. Considering how the world economy is moving into another recession, I think this passage about dart-slinging monkeys picking stocks is particularly poignant, but what do I know. On the other hand, neither does your so-called financial advisor.


Ahem, Dartboard Theory, Is It?

We were greeted by a fellow in a grubby lab coat. His name was Gus and he chaperoned the dart-slinging monkey room. Two humans, but only one monkey, were allowed in the room at any given time. This was strictly followed so as to prevent too much mammalian mimicry. The object was to keep things as random as possible. The monkeys were kept in holding cells, but they had a beautifully painted mural of St. Tropez or Lagos.

Gus coached through the Plexiglas. On the outside of the door two numbered ladders hung by copper thumbtacks, one ranked the monkeys and the other ranked the trainers. The term trainer was really a misnomer, but who was I, at that point, to make a stink.

Newspaper clippings lined the walls. Rudy, last year’s crackerjack, watched over his monkey, Nietzsche. Rudy’s name topped the ladder outside. He had good rapport with Nietzsche, the lone Rhesus of the lot. Nietzsche made three quick dart tosses each a foot apart from each ticker symbol. Rudy waited behind the masking tape on the floor, the line of demarcation where a monkey needed to stand in order to make his toss. Nietzsche gave his trainer a high-five.

Nobody knew what boomers would boom at least for a week although short-swing breakouts happened by market close. Boomer, referred to a stock that was going to bust through its resistance level and soar into a new stratosphere. No guarantees, but this was the accepted premise. There was no tickertape of any kind in the room. According to Gus, the monkeys might grow smitten with the flashing glow of certain ticker symbols and thus skew the random element driving dart board theory. It occurred to me that even if the monkeys were drawn to a glowing symbol that didn’t mean they weren’t going to tag that respective stock. Stereoscopic vision or not, the monkeys didn’t see such blurry newsprint from their vantage point.

A note on random. It was widely accepted that any stock could bolt into its own orbit, plunge into disrepute, or mosey ad nauseam sideways without a care in the world. The point being, that no cocksure dweeb could cook enough data to prove that his theories rocked the pure and accidental.

“Charlie, you and the new guy are up,” Gus said.

We waited by the door until Rudy came out with Nietzsche. Gus pulled Nietzsche by his fury digits and led him to his holding cell.

“Should we wait,” I said.

“Nah, let’s warm up,” Charlie said.

“What do you mean?”

“We’re getting fresh monkeys,” Charlie said, “Maybe even a couple
that have never tossed a dart before. We’ll need to break them in.”

No sooner did Charlie finish cracking his knuckles did Gus return with two new monkeys. One was a snow monkey the other was a
macaque. Charlie tossed a couple of darts, neither of which stuck to the wall. His monkey almost seemed to be laughing. Actually, it was pretty funny. Charlie’s tosses sucked. The first one didn’t even reach the wall. The second was a creampuff, an underhanded toss tail-first against the wall.

“Okay, enough,” Gus said.

He knocked on the Plexiglas then made a slicing motion across his
throat with his right hand.

“Give it a whirl, Benny Boy,” Gus said.

With that, I clutched my darts. I was afraid I’d prick myself and didn’t look at my hand. Darts was never my bag. I tossed all three with quick snaps. Each one hit the wall with a ping, the second one dead center of a ticker symbol. It didn’t matter which part touched. It counted. A bull’s eye, on the first try, must have been dumb luck, but it still felt
good.

I couldn’t quite make out what Gus was saying behind the soundproof glass, but I saw his mouth curl into an O. When I pulled the second dart from the wall I noticed I’d hit the letter O, right in the hole. For some reason this made me flinch.

My monkey followed me to the wall and tugged my pant leg. I didn’t hand over the darts till Gus tapped the glass. My monkey almost jerked them out of my hand. At least, it seemed that way. He made three quick chucks. Each landed within a close range, as if he were trying to hit the same mark. Two of them actually did.

When I escorted my furry friend out, Gus put his hand up blocking me from crossing the hall’s threshold.

“You know, you’d be disqualified because you didn’t set him behind the line.”

“What?”

“They always need to stay behind the line,” Gus said, “No exceptions.”

I then looked down at the masking tape on the floor and shrugged my shoulders.

That night I dreamt of great apes, monkeys, and prosimians. I was a hominid trapped in a mud bath and the apes tossed stones, nuts, anything and everything at me; couple of them busy sharpening spear points. A whole pile lay there waiting for my nose as its bull’s-eye. They picked them up and flung them at my head and when they cracked, egg dripped all over my face.

Woke up in a cold sweat. Took a hot shower with a brand new loofah sponge and scraped off dead and itchy skin.

What You Thinking About When You Thinking About Buff?

Quick: What pops into your head when you hear the word “buff”? I’ll bet you’re thinking of a brawny guy who’s got hulkish traps, twenty-four inch pythons, and has difficulty fastening the top button of his Perry Ellis. Well, I’m not thinking about that “buff”, and frankly I could care less about those clunkheads. I’m more interested in sharing the roots of the term “buff” that we associate with a wonkish person, somebody who is really passionate and knowledgeable about some said subject matter like a Civil War buff or an Opera buff.

The word “buff”, as in a person who is enthusiastic and knowledgeable about a particular subject has an interesting etymology, and came about in the early 19th century. It was originally more of a putdown than a compliment. Back then, in the burgeoning New York City, between the 1820s— 1840s, an ad-hoc clutch of volunteer firemen were needed to put out fires. In periods of cold weather, men of this era wore buffalo hide coats, and there were often large crowds, eagerly watching the volunteers hosing down the fires. Buff came from splicing the Middle French word buffe meaning buffalo which had already gone out of fashion somewhere in the 18th century, but had been used even as far back as the 16th and 17th century to refer directly to the skin or hide. Back then, to “be in the buff” meant to be in the army as soldiers wore coats made of hide. The term “buff” naked also owes its heritage to this association of animal skin.

While the pejorative sense of the word “buff” has all but dissipated, the term itself has become dated. You’re more likely to hear somebody say that so-and-so is a stamp geek or a wine wonk. You’re probably even more likely to hear somebody calling that aforementioned stamp geek, a philatelist, and the wine geek, an enophile. That’s because we love to name names if I might snag that Seinfeld line. Not that there’s anything wrong with calling somebody a geek now. In fact, many wine wonks I spend time with sort of relish the moniker. I’m not even sure if I deserve it myself with all the MWs loping around these days.

Now back to the “buff” you were thinking about. That hunky “buff” became a fixture in the 1980s when everybody was “getting physical”. It’s a spinoff of the verb “buff” meaning to polish metals. Even that “buff” seems dated, but less so than the smartypants type.

There you have it. Just indulge me in one last thought. Consider it a homework assignment or a little harmless fun to have at the gym. Watch the musclehead flexing as he curls in front the mirror at Blink. Could he be a buff geek or a buff wonk? If your trainer poses that question as you’re heaving a medicine ball then you just tell him or her that it’s too superfluous to think about anyway.

Sleeping Beauty of the Marche

One of the things I really love about Italian wine is that you always seem to stumble upon a new varietal, a new appellation. You can go a lifetime and still never truly be a master of its boundless bounty. In terms of attaining its regional prowess, Italian wine is a juggernaut. Recently, I had a chance to taste Marotti Campi’s Lacrima di Morro d’Alba Superiore ‘Orgiolo’ from the 2012 vintage, a truly elegant and delicious wine. It hails from the region of Marche, off the Adriatic.

The Marche is known for its crisp Verdicchio and its brodetto, fish soup, which makes for a sumptuous pairing. Marcheans love raw fish or crudo and take advantage of their propinquity to the Adriatic. Their predilection for seafood, especially crudo make them the Peruvians of Italy. Their wine is excellent though not ubiquitous, and their wonderful reds fall even further under the radar. Rosso Cònero and Rosso Piceno are two standouts, but both focus on neighboring blends: Sangiovese from Tuscany and Umbria, and Montepulciano which is mostly associated with Abruzzo. Geographically speaking, this does make sense.

The sleeping beauty of the Marche is the expressive red, Lacrima di Morro d’Alba. Native to area Lacrima di Morro almost went extinct in the mid 80’s. Fortunately, a small but zealous following of growers rescued it from its evolutionary cul-de-sac, and thus helped secure its DOC designation in 1985. With a mere 261 hectares under vine, Lacrima di Morro d’Alba remains one of Italy’s smallest appellations, bottling a little more than 9100 hectoliters a year.

Lacrima means tear in Italian. Its skin is very sensitive, and when it gets close to harvest, the grapes seem ready to burst, their ruby rivulets, seeping from the pierced skin are said to suggest tears. The Lacrima grape is a local varietal of unknown origin, although legend has it the grape was relished by Morro d’Alba’s most famous interloper, Frederick Barbarossa. After the red-bearded Holy Emperor had marched into Ancona in 1167, he passed through the Castello di Morro d’Alba and is said to have grown smitten with the Lacrima-based wine. And why should that be so hard to believe? It’s beguiling floral aromatic reminds me of Ruché and Cesanese, it’s sensual mouthfeel offering a more Rhone-like or even cru-level Beaujolais, maybe Fleurie. The medley of flavors is a wine wonk’s dream come true. I get both redder and bluer berries, some juniper, curiously enough, and allspice. The tannins are well-integrated, pillowy, and the unmistakable rose petal finish lingers.

I’ve only had the varietal on a few occasions, and while I’ve enjoyed Lucchetti’s Lacrima di Morro and Velenosi’s Querci’Antica Lacrima, I’ve grown to enjoy Marotti Campi’s interpretation the most. I find it most compelling. What can it be that makes it so? All come from the Medieval village of Morro d’Alba. Could it be the hand of the enologist, Roberto Potentini and his choice to soft crush the grapes, macerating on the skins for almost 11 days? Or that he ferments in stainless steel and ages the wine for 12 months in second and third passage barriques, and an additional 6 months in bottle before release? Maybe it’s Ivano Belardini’s decision to pick in the last days of September rather than in the first week of October or maybe it’s just the mix of medium-consistency clay and the cordon spur trained vines ranging between 10 and 35 threes old that appeals to me? Do I really taste all that?

What I do know is that when I to peer out at this marvelous 19th century estate, perched 180 meters above sea level between the villages of Senigallia and Jesi, north of the Esino river, the Apennines looming in the distance, I get this incredible sensation, munching on fresh-plucked berries, it might just be what Redbeard had swimming in his noggin before he decided to spare this village and move on to bigger fish.

Soft Peanuts, Soft Peanuts

A few days ago, while I was taking care of Emily, I handled a major league mess like a real pro. My wife, Martha, would’ve flipped out. Lucky for Emily I was on duty. I was in the bedroom, tending to some work. Emily was in the living room playing. It should be noted, and I think parents everywhere can concur, that if your child is up to something you’ll find it unbearably quiet.

Boy did I want a big scoop of quiet. I’m so used to being the butler, Walking Wikipedia, and playing companion to my princess that I’ll do almost anything for a contiguous, twenty-minute reprieve. When Emily rushed into the bedroom, asking for scissors, this should’ve raised the red flag, but I needed to look up something before sending out an email or else consign my urgent message to draft status (to infinity and beyond). About three minutes later, I’m guessing since I haven’t worn a watch since Kerry ran for president, I went into the living room to see what was going on out there. Emily, who knows my footsteps, and has a better sense of diplomacy than 90% of Washington and the UN combined, met me in the hallway and said, “Daddy, promise you’re not gonna tell Mommy. You know how mad she gets.”

I promised her because that’s the best way to build leverage against a five-year-old when whatever she’s done is a complete catastrophe.

Emily escorted me from the hall to the living room, and I saw that she had freed a dozen ceramic piggies, part of an art project my wife had been planning to do for Emily’s birthday party. That, of course, wasn’t a major catastrophe, but she shredded the inside of the box, and kernels of Styrofoam were strewn all over the floor. It looked like a Jiffy Pop explosion. Phoebe, our dilute calico, rolled around in the white crumble, festooning herself in enough Styrofoam that I could imagine my wife saying,

“Get this package weighed and stamped.” It’s a longstanding joke. Martha’s a dog person.

As I’d begun grabbing the Styrofoam bits, I thought of them as the soft peanuts that come in some boxes. Maybe I would be able to refit the piggies after all, but first I had a floor to clean. Soft peanuts, soft peanuts. Catchy. Where did I hear that before? Then a trumpet blew. Soft peanuts, soft peanuts. Of course, Dizzy Gillespie. I hadn’t heard “Salt Peanuts” (the real title) in a quite a while, but the phrase insinuated itself in my head, helped me get through the tedious chore. Emily found the song funny. I told her it was a riff on a song that Dizzy Gillespie recorded. She’s familiar with his “Nights in Tunisia”

As I was air-trumpeting to the beat in my head, Piper was pushing one of the piggies off the dining room table. I rushed to save it in my stocking feet, dropped to my knees and snatched the piggy before it became shards of shame. I wondered if Tim Howard or Henrik Lundquist felt as good when they stopped a goal.

Emily really felt badly, the rueful look on her face was legit, but she was relieved to be under my jurisdiction because I wasn’t going to scream my head off or threaten to give away her toys. She was determined to help, had procured the dustbin and short broom. As a team, it would take forever to get the job done, but at least we had “Soft Peanuts” to motivate us. At some point, I needed to get things moving along so I did what only the best daddies on this mudball do under similar snafus, I handed Emily the iPad, and let her watch “Paw Patrol”. This clearly put me in charge, letting me pick up the pace although Phoebe and Piper kept pestering me up until I grabbed the dustbuster. They bolted off when I flipped it on, and it was smooth vacuuming from there.

Lessons learned: a silly riff goes a long way when faced with a domestic challenge, and always keep your dustbuster fully charged.