I built something.

Years ago, while in the midst of my first read-through of A Song of Ice and Fire, I decided I was going to build a castle out of wood and stone. That plan remains intact, but I’ve started with smaller projects so that I can figure out how to become, with some iota of proficiency, a stone-mason.

Stop laughing.

For those who don’t actually know me, allow me to tell you that a stone-mason I am certainly not. Nor am I a handyman. The crowning pinnacle of my handiwork expertise is perhaps successfully installing a ceiling fan several months ago without experiencing any electrical shock; it even functioned on the first flip of the switch. A proud moment it was, indeed, when my ceiling fan burst to life and swirled cool air around the room for the first time. When I go into a hardware store, I would be hard-pressed to recognize most tools and describe their functionality.

When I was a little boy, probably eight or nine, my parents bought me a drill. In an unauthorized experiment, I destroyed several planks of fence around the backyard. That was the end of my powertool era as a young man.

As the weather has warmed after a particularly brutal winter in Vermont, I have finally decided to start working on building stuff with stones. I was recently at a book store with my roommate and in my hand was a book about stone-masonry projects. I told her I was going to build stuff with stones, and she laughed, as was entirely expected. My first project would be to build a stone walkway from the entrance of the garden to the driveway. Based on what I gleaned from the book, I needed big, flat stones. This idea was simple enough that I felt confident undertaking the challenge. I did not need any extra tools, except for a trowel, perhaps, to make things a bit easier. Essentially, I would dig a big hole, and play Tetris with several dozen rocks for a few hours. From this, a stone pathway would be born. And, so long as no one uprooted the stones for some reason or another, the pathway would remain for many years.

I wasn’t going to buy rocks either, because that’s just silly. So we planned a hike up Putney Mountain where I would bring along my rucksack and fill it with rocks. Big, flat rocks. Simple enough.

And so the next morning we went to Putney Mountain where we trod upon the paths and I stopped every couple of yards to put some rocks in my bag. The bag became inordinately heavy after about 1/4th of a mile, and we had about a 1.5 mile hike. It’s a short distance, but it felt like an eternity with a bag full of rocks smashing against my kidneys. I expected this prior to my rock collecting expedition and, remembering my goal, trod on through the buzzing clouds of mosquitoes and gnats while wearing my “It’s time to get austere!” face.

We went back to Brattleboro after the trek, and I figured now would be a good time to buy a trowel. A trowel would be cheap, and could help out quite a bit with laying down the stones. I put my bag of stones in the garage, and walked to the hardware store in Brattleboro to purchase a trowel.

I entered the hardware store and immediately found a trowel on a shelf. It was ten dollars.

The following is a list of thoughts which passed through my head as I spent an inappropriate amount of time staring at this simple tool, deciding whether or not I needed it:

“That’s basically just a metal triangle with a handle…”

“Do I really need a trowel right now? Am I quite that committed yet?”

“Purist stone masons don’t use many tools. Maybe I’ll be a purist.”

“What’s wrong with using my hands? I’ll just use my hands and get dirty. That’ll be cool.”

“Why is it called a trowel?”

I left the hardware store empty handed.

I walked across the street to a fine bookstore called Mystery on Main Street. I’ll spare you the details, but I spent thirty dollars on books without hesitation. I walked back home wondering if doing handiwork is something I’m really capable of, or if I should just accept that reading books through my thick bifocals is what I’m meant to do.

I arrived back home and decided to dive straight into the work. I lifted up about two inches of dirt in a rectangular area. I realized I had nowhere near enough rocks to make a real footpath that would extend from the garden to the driveway. Instead, I would create a rectangle of rocks and dirt that would be about one foot long and two feet wide at the picket-fenced entrance to the building’s garden. It would be a start. I had a beer, played some RL Burnside, and started laying rocks down while occasionally skittering away like a maniacal fairy from my meager work site when hornets buzzed by my face.

After finishing my work, I stood triumphantly and said to myself, “My name is Ozymandias, King of kings…” However, before finishing the aphorism from a poem recently made popular by the Breaking Bad series, I reminded myself that pride was not what Shelley had in mind when writing this little piece. My meager stone pathway would be eventually lost to the sands of time, just like the “Two vast and trunkless legs of stone … in the desert.” Nonetheless, I was still pretty proud of my work, even if it was just a start, and even if a dead British poet felt like reminding me that nothing is eternal.

If you haven’t already, I would recommend reading this work  by Percy Bysshe Shelley; it’s a short sonnet.

I finished my beer, reveled in the sturdiness of the beginnings of a stone-footpath, and went inside to begin reading the books I had recently purchased.

I also thought to myself, “I’m going to need a shitload more stone to finish this footpath.”

Dartmoor, wherein Nader goes through excrutiating pain to see Middle-Earth (Devon, UK)

I made a somewhat arbitrary choice to visit the Dartmoor National Park in Devon, UK. It occurred after a night out with my fabulous cousin. This is how I managed to travel there on Thursday…

This is Dartmoor.

I woke up haggard and hung over to the sound of my cousin coughing. I had slept for about three hours until I heard my alarm going off; I was already awake when it sounded. I rose from the bed and made the astounding discovery that I was still drunk as I walked in a zig-zag toward my backpack. The journey which I would soon undertake was going to be quite interesting, and not only because I packed while drunk, but because I was travelling to the Dartmoor National Park in Devon, UK. I had done a bit of research prior to going and was quite excited. The park had miles and miles of moorland; vast tracts with a seldom tree or boulder. The home of ancient footpads, bandits, the Hound of the Baskervilles, and Wizards probably. I had no real plans on how to get there, or what I would do. I’m generally prone to making strict plans because I don’t like the unexpected; however, it was adventure time. I put on my posh striped t-shirt and loaded my unnecessarily heavy bag onto my back. My cousin gave me a hug and said, “You crazy motherfucker” and bade me farewell. I left his flat and walked several feet when I realized I had only one pair of socks. Such is life.

Before my long trip, I needed some breakfast. I had discovered a very cozy cafe about a half mile west of my cousin’s house. I showed up with a mildly drunken glimmer in my eye and saw the main chef sitting outside smoking a cigarette; he appeared as drunk as me at 9:30 in the morning.

“Sorry friend, closed,” he said, with a slight Russian accent. The door was wide open, but all the seats were empty. It was a Thursday morning, and the breakfast place was closed. I can’t trust a breakfast place that is closed in the morning, so I left. My confidence in getting a hearty breakfast before my three hour train ride had been shattered. I went to the Haggerston Overground station and bought some crackers and a bottle of water; something to tide me over. The train was silent except for the crackers crunching between my teeth; sorry, I was that guy.

In the London Underground there are certain junctions which can be very confusing unless you are an experienced Londoner. Myself, being a Vermonter/Rhode Islander/Vagabond, am not familiar with the London Underground. I exited my train at the correct junction, but got onto the wrong train to continue the journey. It was a line I had never been on before during my stay in London, and I knew something was wrong. Suddenly I got that anxious feeling one gets at the thought of becoming horrifically lost in a disgusting city (no disrespect to London, all cities are gross, my contempt is universal). I asked two people if the train was going to Paddington, which was my first destination before Dartmoor. One guy ignored me and the other said, “I don’t speak English,” in a fine English accent.

Fuck this line. It was a yellow line, and I don’t know it’s name, but it was yellow. Thus far into the journey, this line sucked, and its passengers were assholes. I got off at the next stop and got back on track toward Paddington, no pun intended. I arrived and bought a ticket for the St. David train station in Exeter, which is just a little east of the Dartmoor park. I figured that when I arrived, I could get a taxi to a bike rental place and make my way to a place called Moretonhampstead.

I waited with nervous anticipation for the train to St. David. I ate a bagel with salmon and cream cheese, and it was absolutely glorious. I had a coffee, a Neil Gaiman book, and a bench. I was rocked from my reverie when a pigeon walked in between my legs and nearly knocked over my coffee. My instinctive shout of “Fuck off!” caused a few chuckles from the folks sitting around me. After about 45 minutes of sitting in Paddington, my train to the west showed up.

I boarded the train and sat down, ready to relax and breathe.

You cannot breathe in the city, and you cannot hear your own mind in the city. Maybe that’s why its residents are so strange. The few moments of clarity and silence I had in London, which surprisingly were not given to me by entering a hyperbaric chamber, were heavenly. I sighed with relief as I sunk into my chair next to the window, ready to watch southern England roll by.

It was a pleasant experience, and the relaxation was needed.

I arrived at the station and easily caught a taxi. The driver was a calm and mellow chap who looked eerily similar to the older actor in 28 Days Later, the father who turned into one of the infected. I know that’s a specific analogy which is poor writing but I don’t care. He looked like that guy.

Anyways, he drove me to Haldon Park and we struck up a bit of conversation about where I came from, where I was going, and what I was doing. Basically, the same questions that a cop may ask you. We drove about seven miles and along the way he pointed out the road I needed to take to Moretonhampstead.

“‘Bout an hour long bike ride, probably. Ne’er been there meself,” he said to me as we passed the small junction.

We arrived at the park and I paid him. I gave him several pounds for a tip and he brightened up, his calm demeanor vanished and he became much more lively and animated, as if he was making up for the 30 minute car ride in which he was only vaguely cheerful and sedated. Perhaps Americans have a bad reputation for tipping, I’m unsure. I walked to the bike rental shop and in a twist turn of events, I did not fit in for a second time in England.

When I first showed up in the Metropolis, I was clearly out of my element, and not just because I’m an American. I don’t wear skinny jeans, I don’t smoke cigarettes, I gawk at skyscrapers, and I don’t really like being around lots of people all at once.

Now I had shown up in the British country side wearing posh pants, the aforementioned posh shirt, Nike sneakers, and a pretty nifty black jacket.

The bike guy was very nice. Everyone was very nice. People in the countryside are just plain nice. Living rural can be a lonely experience, and living in the city is an emotionally oppressive experience; therefore, country folk are much more jovial when speaking to other humans. More on this in another post.

I got the bike set up, donned my helmet, paid, and went out the door. To the west.

To the one hour bike ride that was ahead of me.

Just an hour. That’s it. Except it turned into six hours as I cycled over the most grueling hills I’ve ever seen in my life. These hills made Vermont seem tame. The distance had been underestimated; I thought I was going to cycle six miles, instead I cycled about 14.

It was the longest bike ride of my entire life, literally and figuratively.

After an hour and a half of biking and feeling more and more insecure and anxious about my journey, I stopped and asked a kind lady who was working in her garden for directions. She looked at me, pityingly, and said, “Deary, that’s awfully far and unsafe. The roads are… undulating.” There was something else she wanted to say too, so I didn’t respond after she said “undulating,” I waited. “The entire road to Moretonhampstead is basically entirely uphill.”

Ah.

I said thank you and bade her farewell as I was designated to the fate I created.

I didn’t quite have a choice at this point, then. I reconfirmed to myself that I intentionally created this situation, and I will get out of it, and I will be a better person afterwards. I would just have to go through a bit of hell first.

I cycled, and cycled, and cycled. My fancy clothes were now covered in mud and horse shit. Despite this, I felt more free. I could hear myself think once again. I could breathe. I sang loudly as I crested over hills because no one was anywhere within ear shot. I soared down hills and could hear only the wind and the distant murmur of bugs buzzing, and the infinite loop of birds chirping.

After another two hours, it got harder, and I could no longer appreciate the great outdoors because of the growing pain in my legs and the fear of getting helplessly lost with not a trace of cell phone reception.

I fell off my bike at one point because my quadriceps locked up and said, “Another insanely steep hill to bike up? Hah, nope, you can just lay on the side of the road writhing in agony for a few minutes. Bitch.” It was at this point in time where I thought to myself that I could legitimately die here. I was laying on the road, completely unable to stand, and for the past several hours I had only seen two cars. I massaged my quads a bit and continued pushing my bike up the hill. The backpack which had way too much shit in it had done me in. I’m generally a light packer, but this turned out to be an epic fail of a packing job.

Fun fact time: this place is Middle Earth, and this area is where Tolkien got his inspiration for The Shire. That is not an exaggeration either; Tolkien loved the country side and used Mordor as the center of evil. Did you notice all the industrialization and blackness and soot that covered Mordor either in the movies or the books? That was London during Tolkien’s time. I was about three miles away from my destination when I saw a short and Irish version of Gandalf sitting on the roadside, smoking a pipe, hanging out with his Sheep Dog. He had a friend with him, an older version of Frodo, sitting in a tractor trailer cab. I stopped and asked with extreme kindness for directions to ensure I was going the right way. My stomach was grumbling like a Rancor in heat and Moretonhampstead was what The Shire must have seemed like to Frodo after he destroyed the Ring. Thankfully, he pointed me in the right direction and said, “Get goin’ Laddy, you can make it!” It was awesome. Without his help I’d have been sleeping under the stars in a field somewhere. I continued on my bike a bit further to avoid embarrassing myself in front of the two key members of The Fellowship, but as the incline got steeper for the millionth time I had to dismount once again. Ten minutes later, old-Frodo drove past me with his tractor trailer; he rolled down the window and shouted, “Keep going that way!” and pointed vaguely toward the west. I had to hunch over and walk as if I was trying out for a patent at the Ministry of Silly Walks because my quadriceps were useless; I needed to utilize different muscles.

I finally arrived in Moretonhampstead and wanted to run and leap toward the pub, but I could barely move. Instead, I crept toward the center of town trying not to appear like a disheveled drunkard. I saw a young guy standing outside a gallery smoking a cigarette and approached him.

“Pardon me, I’m looking for a pub. Any advice?” I said, “I need to eat right fucking now and I may need you to carry me there,” I silently thought.

“Well, depends on what you’re looking for,” he responded nicely, realizing a tourist was in town. He wanted to strike up a conversation, seemingly to make me feel welcome so that I’d be more willing to spend money.

“Do I look like I give a fuck? A FUCKING PUB. NOW,” I wanted to scream, “the best food in town, actually,” I did say.

“Righty-o. Go to the Union Inn. Right over there,” and he pointed vaguely to the north, “next street over.” The British have a habit of doing that, the vague pointing.

I trudged painfully over to the Union Inn, a beacon of hope and steak. I locked up my bike and did my best to calmly walk through the doors. I ordered the Gammon Steak, which is a 10z, and comes with a fried egg, chips, beans, and pineapple. I also ordered a large sausage, extra beans, another fried egg, and more chips. And an ale.

The bartender, who was also the owner, was a squat Irish immigrant. He asked me if I wanted to place a drink order for the other person. I smiled at him and said, “It’s only me.”

“You know you just ordered two meals right?”

“Yes. I’ve been cycling since noon,” I said, the sun was setting and it cast a pall tint in the crimson and black interior of the pub. Despite the dismal ambience, it was a cheery place.

“Alright then,” he said with raised eyebrows.

“I greatly underestimated my biking journey.”

“I think you’ve greatly underestimated your supper is what!” he said, getting laughs out of the other older patrons who had clearly been glued to their barstools since King Henry the 8th was a child.

“I’ll bet you a pint that I can eat both the meals,” I wagered to him.

“Right-o then!”

I got a free pint that night and slept deeply.

With that being said, if you’re going to travel, don’t go with a concrete plan unless you’re traveling with small children or something. Just have a vague idea of where in the country you want to end up, and just GO. It is significantly more exciting and terrifying when you don’t know what’s going to happen next in your journey. I had a massive appreciation for arriving successfully in Moretonhampstead, the journey is what made this trip amazing.

When you journey, journey hard.

Mystery Band.

I recently sought a way to expand my musical/social horizons in the humdrum town of Brattleboro. I spoke with a townie friend of mine and she recommended I try the Mystery Band event that has been annually held in town, hosted by some artistic hippy collaborative known as The Future. I asked her to describe the event and what it would entail, though I already had a basic idea after nervously considering participating in such a thing.

She informed me that I would provide the host of the event my name and contact info, and this info is put into a figurative hat. The info is randomly assorted and then picked out of the hat; I get matched with three other people who are also participating. We have two months to collaborate and then put on a show in which we play several songs in front of what sounds like a pretty large audience.

So, townie friend, you’re saying that I get to meet up with three random strangers, try to figure out how to incorporate an accordion or violin into a group consisting of probably three guitars, and then induce massive amounts of stage fright upon myself? This sounds like a wonderful time!

I signed up, sent an email to the host of the event, and he matched me up with three other dudes. We exchanged some emails before our first practice, and I was almost right: two guys play guitar, and the third plays the keyboard. I would soon come to find out that the third guy doesn’t actually “play the keyboard,” but more on that later.

We exchanged several emails and decided that practice would be held at 5:30pm.

I have a propensity to think of safety and security before participating in any peculiar situations (thanks, job!).  And I determined that it would be best to invite the strangers to my own house, where I am familiar with where I keep the firearms (thanks, Sun Tzu!). My place has plenty of space in which to practice, which was also another important factor.

I spent a while considering whether or not I should tell these people that I’m a cop, and I decided against it. Their reactions would be entertaining, and I like entertainment as much as the next red blooded ‘Merican.

Anyways. The first car pulled into my driveway at around 5:40pm on the first practice day. The driver saw the cop car, and slowly backed away. I figured that would happen. A subtle wave of relief washed over me and I realized I may not have to do the Mystery Band thing. I can say I at least made the effort to go out and meet other musicians, but it just didn’t work out. Hurray, back to my peaceful solitude.

But alas, the car returned 15 minutes later and stopped in the driveway. Surely, the driver, whom I later learned was Jon, had gone somewhere and confirmed via GPS or some sort of mapping that the driveway which he previously visited was certainly the house in which he would practice. Yes, Jon, that was the house, there’s also a cop car in the driveway. Face your fears, hippy!

Face his fears he did, but not without stuttering and tripping over himself as he walked toward the front door.

He entered the house and avoided eye contact at all costs, and wouldn’t really talk. Can’t say I entirely blame the poor bastard. He had a nice guitar in one hand, and a shitty Carhart jacket over his back. Due to the fact that I am a purveyor of all things awkward, I’ve learned how to diffuse the situations; a skill which comes handy at work.

This was definitely one of those awkward situations. A guy I met from the internet showed up at my house with the intent of forming a band with a cop, and two other mystery people. Holy fuck, this is weird, and the other guys need to get here. Jon is about to shit his pants, and I’m running out of lines to avoid awkward silence.

A loud banging came on the door, just in time. I opened the door and encountered a mad scientist.  This fellow had a collection of oscillators and synthesizers and looping devices tucked under both arms, along with a guitar. He seemed completely unfazed by the cop car, which was nice, though he later said he was quite nervous.

The third guy, the keyboard wanker, did not show up because of a *cough* family emergency.

We played disorganized and chaotic music for an hour and parted ways, it wasn’t too bad after the initial mountain of awkwardness. We had another practice scheduled and the keyboard guy showed up this time, several days later.

This keyboard of his isn’t used as a piano. Instead, he uses the different sound effects to make my living room seem like a studio for the Nickelodeon of 10 years ago. It got to a point where Jon, the quietest of the group, said, “Just…please, no more of the clown noises or race car sounds.”

Good job, Jon. Use that voice.

This Mystery Band thing is quite alright, for now. We’ll see how it progresses, and I’ll update on the Mystery Band experience after the performance.

We still don’t have a name…. or any real songs put together, but hey, fuck it.

I made a Blog

I don’t know from where the word blog originates. I never particularly liked it, but that’s not important.

After reading the things I’ve written, a number of people have suggested I start a blog. So I did.

I tend to have some really weird experiences, and they are often either humorous or terrifying; sometimes a healthy combination of both. I will write about them here, and you will be entertained. If you are not entertained, then please write me a lengthy complaint so you can feel better about the situation.

My name is Nader (pronounced like Otter but with an N at the beginning. Like Notter. But Nader.)

My daily life is filled with peculiar juxtapositions and contradictions. They are entertaining, as previously mentioned. And now that I am being redundant I will go ahead and “PUBLISH” this “BLOG POST.”