I'm Dumb: Part the Third

Another delightful little quirk of Guinevere's that I may or may not have already mentioned is that she does not have a functioning parking brake. Also having a manual transmission, she occasionally gives me cute little Parking Dilemmas, especially if I need to leave the car running. These Parking Dilemmas are mostly endearing, and they were more infrequent back when I lived in Northern Indiana, but since I've moved to Colorado I have begun to become a bit more annoyed with these Dilemmas. There are times that I park - even when her engine is stopped, she is in gear and her wheels are pointing her straight into the curb - when I leave Gwen, half expecting to find her cloven in two by some telephone pole a block or two down hill. But thus far this aspect of our relationship has not strained us to a breaking point.

Aside from noticeable inclines, rural Colorado has brought another joy into my life: fences. Now I am no stranger to fences. In my early days I lived on a horse farm, and hopping horse fences was something done frequently, even for fun sometimes. And my Dad, still living in Kentucky, has gone with my on many walks in the woods, opening a cow fence here, squeezing through a barbed wire fence there. The North Fork Valley of Colorado, however, has shown me a different kind of fence. Here we have many orchards and even more mule deer. We like orchards. Deer like orchards. We don't like deer. We really don't like deer in orchards. We need deer fences everywhere! Q.E.D. And really, in order for fruit trees (or vines) to survive, deer fences are a necessity. Our vineyard makes no exception, and so a nine foot tall fence surrounds the entirety of our 70 odd acre property. Which lead me to my next paragraph.

Deer fences must annoy the hell out of deer. They can see the tender, juicy bark, they can smell it... they just can't get close to it. Theoretically deer fences should be much less of a nuisance to humans, for we designed them after all. And we can easily open and close them at our leisure. True but to an extent. Put said convenienced person in a car trying to drive out of their fenced-in driveway and suddenly replace "leisure" with "slight inconvenience, due to having to stop and wait for your passenger to open the gate and then stop again while they close it." That's assuming you have a passenger. Say you don't. Now you drive up to the gate, park, get out, open the gate, get back in, drive through, park, get back out, close the gate, get back in and you're off. [Do we see where I'm going with this yet?]

Now say that your driveway is slight incline, you drive a manual, you don't have a parking brake that works, AND you don't have a passenger... and this happens on a regular basis. Now replace "leisure" with "...I'll just drive through that [dang-tootin', confounded, sonuvagun] gate!" I never do actually work up the frustration to drive through the gate. Instead, I've - over time - channeled it into a very scientific process that has eventually led me to discover two very special car-shaped spots ,one on either side of the fence. These very special spots are flat enough that I can leave my car idling, in neutral while I open and close the gate, saving the time and frustration of turning my car on and off three times within 2 minutes of leaving my home. [Funny, the trivial crap I grouse about, eh?] Yay trial and error.

Okay. Lots of build-up... ending in Matthew being clever? But he's Dumb, right? Yes. Dumb to trust in his own cleverness. As it so happened, this evening I found myself leaving home for Paonia with the intent of visiting friends. Approaching the gate in the dark, I veered slightly to the left, heading straight for my sweet spot. It's hard to remember exactly where it is, and you do have to be right on it. Sometimes I stop too early and have to roll and tap the brakes a few times to get right on it. [Also, I'm dumb because I haven't realized that this actually takes longer than turning my car off and on again.] Tonight I had to try a few times to get it right. I got out to open the gate. The car looked like it moved a little. I quick hopped in and laid on the brake a bit to be sure it had stopped. I opened the gate. I looked up the road to notice a car zooming down it toward me. The thought struck me: Wouldn't it suck if my car... The thought interrupted my other thought: At this point in movies, by the time it takes a character to think such a thought, it's already too la... shit shit shit! I zipped up to my accelerating vehicle and barely [frantically] managed to slam on the brake, just in time. (In my rush, I also managed to slam on the accelerator at the same time, so the passing car must have thought me quite aggressive - rushing the road then revving my engine...) Phew!

I guess I learned my lesson, though. When pulling out of my driveway the sweet spot is just a wee little bit further back. I'll get it next time!

The Moral Ambiguity of the Musical Pirate

I don't steal music. Well, I might, but I won't admit to anyone over a public blog that I do. In any event I have plenty of thoughts on the subject of musical piracy. Here I will only touch on a few and those only to lead up to an interesting dilemma, primarily directed toward the Imperial Guard of the musical seas. (But I'm happy to discuss any time.)

In the world of today, digital files seem to have completely dominated the musical world. Personally I can remember back to having a Walkman (not to be confused with Discman, one of which I also had), but now this just serves to make me feel old. Anyone under the age of 16 now gives the same blank stare to "cassette tape" they would to "8-track." (I still don't really know what those are, by the way. I've just seen weird little Atari game-shaped plastic boxes that have crappy artist names on them, usually found in thrift stores. Anyone remember Atari?...) Now it's all mp3, digital music players, and i-friggin'-Tunes! If I ever get around to watching TV (doesn't happen often) I'm bombarded by companies wanting me to buy their latest mp3 player. CDs are out! The ease of digital music is in! (What I'm saying is it's Technology and Marketing's fault that music is so easy to steal.) I'm of the first generation that grew up computer mouse in hand, learning to copy and paste. It's second nature to me, and not surprising to me that so many people my age don't give a second thought to deftly copying a friend's music files just as they would a friend's photos.

Now there is that tricky little bit where it's illegal to copy copyrighted material. Artists work hard to make albums, and arguably, stealing an album is like stealing a little tiny bit of their paycheck. One could counterargue and say things like, "the record labels get all the money anyway," or "the Rolling Stones are already too rich," but the fact remains (even I'm freely willing to admit) stealing music is illegal. Okay. Let's get to that dilemma. (Only a few paragraphs away!)

So how do I feel about all of this? I love music. I love hearing new music, and I love having a large music collection and knowing it intimately enough that I can just about mirror any mood I'm in with an album I choose to put on. I also love to share music with others - to learn what music gets them excited and then make mixes or suggestions of music I think they will like. I am also poor (relatively speaking). This, plus my aforementioned tendency to think of music files as any other files (that can be copied and pasted), make it fairly easy for me to rationalize acquiring music in a less-than-legitimate way. (And a lot of older rock band are either really rich or dead...) Even so, I do try to support smaller bands that I really enjoy, or even bigger bands that I really enjoy. And though that is the secondary goal (the first being me getting more music), it's still sometimes hard to get past the fact that bands still only get a tiny cut of an album sale. And that's not to mention the fact that when I do get around to buying new CDs, I buy them used when I can. And when I do that, the band doesn't get any money from that particular transaction anyway! What to do?!

(One potentially good answer was provided by Radiohead a few years ago - offer download by donation on your website and create a direct money-for-music transaction between listener and artist, the listener paying as much as he/she is able or willing. It does help to be ridiculously successful enough to have a huge fan base in place and to be able to produce an album independently... But, perhaps this is the album-purchasing format of the future.)

Now please allow me to tell a poorly-disguised third person story about my friend Dylan. Dylan was swapping some music with a good friend. One of the bands his friend was very excited about was the RYAN MONTBLEAU BAND. She put it on his hard-drive. (Had she not, he would not have remembered the band's name, and they are small enough he may never have heard of them again.) A few months later, Dylan found the album on his iPod and put it on. The RYAN MONTBLEAU BAND was awesome! He began listening to them on a regular basis, being especially enchanted by the thoughtful lyrics and amazing voice of the lead singer, the band's namesake. By chance, he happened to look on the band's website and see that they were playing in Carbondale, a town near to which *ironically* both Dylan and I live. So on the night of the concert, Dylan braved the blowing snow, up and over mountain passes, and made the trek to Carbondale to see the RYAN MONTBLEAU BAND. [Incidentally, I happened to be at the same show, and Dylan and I had a great time catching up.] Dylan helped supported the band with his $15 cover charge, sat up front, was blown away by their awesomeness and then blew about $20 in merchandise (two albums not acquired from his friend). What's more Dylan gave the RYAN MONTBLEAU BAND support and appreciation while on the road (and they are small enough still that their setup is five dudes and all their stuff in a van... and they spent the night in the guitar shop where they played.).

So here is the moral dilemma. What Dylan did was wrong. He took music that wasn't his, from a small band that he now likes, what's more. But if he hadn't, that band would count one less among their fans and would be down two album sales. So having music stolen from them was... ultimately in their best interest?? It's unclear. And, as my mom sometimes points out, the train of logic described above really is just glorified rationalization. It's still stealing. True. But it's still an interesting situation.

After I started writing this I asked Dylan if he planned on giving the RYAN MONTBLEAU BAND money to compensate for the earlier acquired album, or just actually buying it. He was on the fence, but he said he would feel a little better about it if he convinced me to write the name of the band in ALL CAPS throughout my post so as to draw attention to it. Maybe it will eventually lure just one more potential fan into checking them out on YouTube and then buying all of their albums...



The RYAN MONTBLEAU BAND is pretty cool!

On a somewhat related note, I'll be driving to Aspen in another few weeks to see another newly discovered band called OZOMATLI. They are also awesome - very high energy shows from what I hear... Check them out too. after you buy all of Ryan Montbleau's albums...

A Juxtaposition of Two Contrasting Scenes that Presented Themselves to Me This Morning

Colin sews by the fire.

A winter wonderland.

[Note: This post was supposed to happen about a week ago. The internets were dumb back then and wouldn't let me post pictures. By now the snow has melted and I've been working in a T-shirt.]

On the Mend

Well, it's been quite a while since I last wrote. Harvest - and the duties that went with it - has been completed now for about a week and a half. My psyche is slowly recovering (long hours on a tractor can be therapeutic for the mental stress induced by overworking), and my body is even slower in recovering, though for non-harvest related reasons.

Don't get me wrong. Harvest destroyed my body. Between picking up full bins of grapes (weighing in between 35 and 40 pounds) from the field and then later repetitively dumping them into the destemmer, I estimate that during each of the 7 days of harvest I lifted the weight of a bin at least 300 times. Ouch. Sometimes I thought I could feel the muscles in my arms and back ripping and breaking down, all without getting the chance to rest and restrengthen. (There's a reason weightlifters do reps of the same kind every other day...) We crushed the last of the grapes on a Thursday. My mom and stepdad had arrived the day before, and it was a relief to be granted a three day weekend. I slept in and took it easy, going on a few short hikes with my mom on Saturday and Sunday. My body was beginning to recover. A leisurely bike ride Saturday morning and a recreational game of Ultimate on Sunday helped me further in recharging my bodily energy. So by Monday afternoon - a full day of work under my belt after my weekend of recovery - I was feeling up to a bit more bodily exertion. I hopped on my bike (instead of accompanying Colin to yoga) and set of for a tour of our mesa.


At first I considered just doing a loop or figure-8 on top of the mesa. Then I remembered how a friend and I had been talking of biking over a pass in the near future... I should really train for that, I thought. And though the sun was quickly sinking, it was a beautiful autumn day and I decided to prolong my ride by biking down the mesa and then back up. And down I went, taking the same route I had several times before. My speedometer recently fixed, I watched my speed gradually increase: 18 mph... 20...23... brake check... The section of road I was on wasn't exactly beautiful pavement, and so while tapping my brakes to maintain a reasonable speed (around 20 mph for the curves in this road by my judgement) I also tried to avoid the nastiest bumpy places. (An extra incentive toward this goal is the fact that my tires are tiiiiiiny... and pumped up to ~ 150 psi. Combine this with an aluminum frame and you have a recipe for a bumpy ride!)

It's hard to say just what exactly happened. As best I can recall I was trying to avoid some patchy asphalt, and I moved closer to the shoulder (the 2 inches on the other side of where the white line would be if there was a white line... the back roads of Colorado are not accomodating in their width) in doing so. About this time, though I was actively in the process of slowing down, a left turn in front of me told my brain that I was going a bit too fast. And I was too close to the shoulder. And a chunk of the shoulder was missing in front of me. Oh shit.

I think I was trying to brake, but I think I also knew the crash was inevitable. Though my brain was aware it was about to going flying along with it's home - my body - it did not provide me with a way out of the situation. Nor did it even decide the best way to try to fall. Just: you're not gonna make that turn. So what can we do about thi... well, at least we were wearing a helmet. And the next thing I new I was lying half on the road and half in the dirt, my bike on top of me: the classic "endo" (cool biker slang for "end over").

Remarkably, I wasn't very phased. It probably helped that I had had an almost identical crash a little over a year ago (sans mesa). I didn't feel pain, but this time I wasn't fooled. I knew that whatever chemicals my body had pumped through my veins as I was hurtling through the air would dull the pain only temporarily - I would be one sore dude in less than 30 minutes. Damage assessment: knee pretty banged up, shorts torn a bit... *ouch* elbow's pretty sad looking. (For those who have seen my nasty elbow scar from my past bike accident, be sad (or glad) to know that it is no more. This crash managed to obliterate most of it and cleave what remained in two. I can't wait to see what new scar-within-a-scar will form next...) Well, body's okay - or... good enough - what about the bike? I picked up the scattered water bottles and speedometer and turned my attention to my precious bicycle. Hope it won't cost too much, I thought. But as I tested all the levers and spun the tires I realized that not so much as a wheel was out of true. Amazing. Okay, good to go. T minus 20 minutes until I succomb to unbearable pain.


I reached into my fanny pack [Stop laughing. I can't afford the fancy bike jerseys with the nifty little pockets in the back.] and took out my cell phone to call Lance. "Yeah, so uh, I kinda wrecked my bike. Could you come pick me up? Great. Oh, and you might wanna bring some paper towels..." And the rest is just boring details. Lance graciously picked me up and drove me home, I picked the grit out of my elbow, I took some flattering pictures, I cooked some supper, I popped a few ibuprofen, I told Colin to pick up some gauze on his way home... And now I'm on the mend, I suppose.


But for me, "on the mend" is the classic two steps forward, one step back deal. I took the smallest band-aids off a few days after the wreck. Then I smashed my left middle finger between a rock and a hard place (a steel tractor implement in this case) - literally. By yesterday afternoon I was already feeling up to playing ultimate frisbee. I played - in bare feet even, thanks to the beautiful day - and between the dry climate and the stress of running in bare feet both of my feet developed nasty slits (resembling paper cuts) that now hurt like crazy when I don't walk just so. But the bandage is off my knee and that elbow is looking better and better... (So I should wear a helmet to work tomorrow?)

I'd like to end on a positive note, though. I'm a firm believer in experiencing life, and I try to as much as possible. Though sometimes "experiencing life" means taking some risks sometimes, I often feel they are worth it; the rush of the wind in my face as I zoom down a mesa on my bike is well worth the occasional road rash. Some people see my bandages or notice my limp and feel bad for me, but I'm truly in good spirits. I'll mend. And I'm enjoying life. And I do realize that sometimes you don't get to be so lucky, but that's just life too, isn't it? My friends and I joke, but I really do prefer the phrase "tell Mom it was worth it" to "sorry, I can't."

In case that's not a positive enough note, here's an even better one: I finished my first-ever batch of chocolate truffles a few hours ago. They're delicious.

Harvest: A Haiku

Four days and not done.
Averaging eleven hours
a day. Help me, God.

No really. Life's crazy right now. We had an early frost the night of Sept. 30 that wiped out most of the vines and the frost the following night took care of the rest. So now it's a race to harvest all of the grapes before they rot on the vine - or otherwise degrade. Personally, I've done little harvesting. I've done plenty of distributing empty picking bins to workers and picking up said bins when full... as well as even more destemming, crushing, pressing and pressure washing the bejesus out of all of the equipment in between each of those steps. It's been a long, taxing process, but I've been on auto pilot for the last 2 days or so. We'll be done soon... (right?) Plus I get to eat tons and tons of delicious grapes. (Wine grapes are like the kind you get at the store... only way sweeter and way better!) You haven't lived 'til you've taken a full cluster, lowered it in its entirety into your mouth and pulled of every single berry, slowly crushing them all with your entire mouth, juice dribbling down your chin... (Counterpoint: pressure washing tanks in the dark with a cold, dry wind blowing all the water onto your bare face and hands, extracting all of the warmth from your body totally sucks.)

My Job: A Whining Session Turned Humorous Account

I apologize for the long hiatus. Life can get busy here apparently. Actually, I think life is always busy, at least for me. I remember back in college, juggling a part time job, papers due, ridiculous physics problems (and concepts to understand), trying to maintain about 50 friendships... and thinking, "well, I may be busy now, but at least when I graduate I'll just work a regular job, and after each work day I'll have so much free time!!!" I currently work one of those jobs (not even the kind with take-home work) and I even live out in the boonies where friends are far away, and I am even more busy than before (or it sometimes feels like it).

Often I feel that my job takes up more of my time than I would like. [Whininess alert! (Wow, "whininess" looks so weird to write, but I can't think of how else one would spell it...)] Theoretically, Colin and I put in around 40 hours a week and can take vacation flexibly, within reason. This was the case for my first 2 or 3 months here, but lately things have been getting seemingly crazier. Granted, we are nearing harvest, but this does not account for all the business. In the past month I've been averaging around 9 hours a day, been forced to work 2 Saturdays and had to work one crazy 12 and a half hour day. Now I understand that plenty of farm interns in the area work this and much more for a mere stipend (= much less money), but this is not what I signed up for. And I guess what frustrates me most is that a good majority of the work that I deem "excessive" comes as a result of poor planning on the part of my employers (or it seems more excessive than it should because they only tell us of extra hours we have to work a day or two (or sometimes a few hours) before we have to work them) - we have to bottle gin this Saturday because we've been backordered for weeks (because we ran out of bottles), yesterday Colin was informed at the beginning of the day that he was to accompany Lance to an event in Grand Junction all afternoon/evening - so much for canning tomatoes... And so it goes. Sometimes Colin and I can find humor in all of it, and sometimes we're just pissed. Last Monday we found humor and good fun - barely - in a day packed with frenzied and panicked preparations for a farm dinner; it was a cold day so dining under the cottonwood tree was out, and so we had to figure out where to put 50 guests indoors. [I don't mean to nitpicky, but aren't Plan B's more effective if you come up with them before you need them??] What follows is the tale of that eventful day.

The day began as usual, only colder. And I was tired. The past weekend some friends and I had gone backpacking in the Maroon Bells - Snowmass Wilderness Area (gorgeous, and with the Aspens beginning to turn yellow, what's more). It was a spledid trip, though on our last day we hiked out in a considerable amount of cold rain. It seemed that autumn had arrived. We all celebrated our feat of energy expension by eating cookies and watching a movie, only Colin and I didn't arrive back at our home until well after bedtime. Bummer.


I was tired, and it was cold. Whereas the week before I donned Chacos and shorts I took one step outside and realized that jeans and shoes would be necessary. The second step told me that a flannel shirt might also be advisable. The morning briefing told me that I would spend the morning moving wine from the winery to the newly-built storage area in the barn and that Colin would distill gin all day. True, guests would be arriving for our second and last (for this season) farm dinner by 4 or 5 pm, but all we would need to do in preparation was set up tables and chairs, maybe do a bit of cleaning - nothing that couldn't be accomplished in an afternoon. All right! Forklift time! (As an aside, driving the forklift is probably my new favorite thing. There are so many neat levers to operate and it is a very spacial and careful task. It's kind of like a routine joyride for me [for which I get paid] ... until I do some math and - yipe! - that vat I'm moving contains around $50,000 in wine. Con cuidado, Mateo, con cuidado...)

I set about my chore (not easy, as all the wine I was to move was blocked in by approximately five gazillion other pallates) and soon realized that the rising sun was not doing much to bring relief from the cold. The flannel shirt would stay on! (Unless I was being totally buff and lifting really heavy things. Then I would take it off, misplace it, then get cold again and curse my forgetfulness as soon as I was done being buff.) Shortly before lunch, the reality of the weather began to sink in. If it's cold now... Yes, guests dining out of doors would indeed become popsicles, especially once the sun went down. Lance started to consider moving the party indoors. Anna was not at first convinced but was gradually won over. Underpaid workers: enact... 'Plan B'!!!! But as the discerning reader has already noted, there was no Plan B. The wine thankfully moved, Anna and I set about the full-time task of discovering Plan B.

We can fit fifty people into the distilling shed right? (She meant sitting comfortably at tables. I wondered if fifty people could stand in there.) We cleared tanks and pallates of bottles out and then proceeded to play rearrange the folding tables with Colin's help. Unfortunately the folding tables won and only allowed us to fit around 35 people inside (assuming that all the servers had a profile slimmer than the 6 or 7 inches left between the rows made once folding chairs were set up). Where could we put fifteen more people? The kitchen/dining room? That was soon ruled out. Mark Fischer, chef extraordinaire and owner of two amazing Carbondale restaurants, arrived midafternoon with his whole posse, and it became clear that they would take up most or all of the kitchen. Where else?... Colin's suggestion won the day. If we could move most of the barrels out of the aging room, maybe (just maybe) we could squeeze 15 people in. It's mid-afternoon already. We are all starting to panic.

Anna and I drive to the barn to get the pallet jack (inconveniently left over there) to help us move barrels. Even though the pallet jack aids us in dealing with the weight of the barrels, it doesn't make the aging room any larger. It's like gridlock (the puzzle game) meets tug of war... with the Countdown Clock of Impending Doom thrown in the mix just for fun (T minus 2 hours until guests begin to arrive). After much rearranging, we manage to squeeze two tables in the small room. Anna and I high five each other. Hopefully the wine the guests will be served will prove an adequate adornment for the bare cement slab walls and dim lighting that the aging room features...

"Now what do I do?" I ask Lance. There is an immense sense of unpreparedness all around and yet I can't think of any one thing that needs to be done that I can do. Lance thinks a moment and tells me to go down by the cottonwood and right the overturned tables (that have been sitting down there for 2 weeks, since the last farm dinner) and relocate (i.e. shovel into an inconspicuous pile) the numerous cow patties that have accumulated under the tree. [Apparently even though it is cold, guests will be served cocktails under the tree. Apparently during the last farm dinner guests did not appreciate the rustic and "authentic farm touch" that stepping in cow shit had to offer. Apparently when the cows escaped (twice) during the past week, they only traveled several feet to the shade of the cottonwood... and managed to triple the Cow Shit Density factor of the surrounding area.] Glad I could be of help. A few shovelfuls of crap later, and I spy a bemusing scene. I pause, bite my lip and call Lance: "Yeah, so uh, one of the tables blew over in the wind... and a cow took a huge dump on it. Do you want me to take it up and pressure wash it or just leave it?" I loaded the table into the RTV, and hauled it up to the winery, chuckling to myself. Apparently by this point Lance was laughing at the whole situation too, as were Colin and Anna. We're not ready. This is crazy. What more can you do but laugh? And as the "doom" continued to impend, laugh we did. And as it turned out, once the doom arrived, it turned out to be just a fun party.

After I cleaned up the table (I may or may not have pressure washed cow doo doo onto Mark Fischer's car...) Lance gave me the go ahead to zip home and change into nicer clothes. Apparently tattered jeans and a sunbleached ball cap are not befitting to a server of a 5 or 6 (lost count) course gourmet meal. Also, while home I was to inform Howard (resident grandpa) that he should print out 50 menus, the PDF emailed to him - the printer at the winery had just run out of toner. Perfect. I relayed the message to Howard and selected a nicer outfit. As I prepared to leave for the winery again, I knocked on Howard's door. No answer. Oh well. Colin still had to change, so he could pick the menus up. I returned to the growing festivities. Anna accosted me. "Where are the menus? Howard said he left them on the table for you." Uh... What? I was pretty sure someone was crazy. I mentally ruled myself out while Anna decided that Howard was probably just confused. Later Colin arrived with the menus and provided me with a more satisfactory explaination: After I took over his post at the still he had gone home to change. Upon arriving home, however, first priority was taking a dump. And - of course - as soon as he sat down to do his thing Howard knocked on the door. Howard is a bit hard of hearing and does not take no for an answer. These qualities may have contributed to the fact that he hollered and hollered at the door (Colin mentally willing him away) until finally Colin broke down and hollered back. Only Howard thought Colin was me, not yet changed and dropping a load. So at approximately 4:30 pm last Monday I broke some law of physics (I've been out of school for over a year, so I'm allowed to forget exactly which one) and existed at two places at once - checking the proof on gin coming out of the still (surrounded by inquisitive guests) and negotiating a drop location for fifty menus with a semi-deaf man while yelling at the top of my lungs and taking a crap. What an epic way to make scientific history...


The rest of the evening was much less stressful, mostly fun and enjoyable, and therefore much less humorous-account-worthy (guests never did meander down to the cottonwood that I had so diligently deshitified...). We hung out with an amazing chef (He assured us that he was just the figurehead - Bryce, the cook who came along was the real hero. Whatever the case the food rocked.), ate his amazing food (four-way tie for best course: arepes with BBQ lamb, warm Olathe corn soup, roast Berkshire pork with grits, mozarella and peaches and apple bread pudding with caramel, spiced pecans, and sweet creme friache), and schmoozed with the guests.


Later, after most people left, we hung out with Ron - one of the guests as well as our winery's soils specialist and a good friend of Lance and Anna's - who had brought his telescope. He showed us Jupiter's moons and the Andromeda Galaxy with his telescope and a good many constellations besides. What fun. And after that Colin and I came inside to listen to some musician friends of Lance and Anna's jamming in the kitchen. They had come to serenade the dining guests, but after most of them left they retired to the kitchen to rehearse for an upcoming gig. And it was awesome.


And here in the course of one long writing I've gone from being extremely negative about my work situation to loving it (or rather, the opportunities it brings me) immensely. So, ask me if I like working here. Depending on the day the answer will vary. But I can say consistently that work here is varied, exciting [written with a tinge of irony] and full of surprises. Also, I find it humorous to note that the title of this post, while accurately describing the post, essentially sums up my work here. I complain a lot, but in retrospect it makes for a fun and interesting story...

My Life is Amazing; My Life Sucks: A Paradox

I am tired. I am worn out. I began the day trying to wake up after my alarm went off at 7 am. Usually I pop right up, shut the darned thing off and start making breakfast. Today I rolled around, tried not to slip back into unconsciousness (that's a very real danger as my snooze button fell off several years back - there is no second wake-up call...), and eventually got myself out of bed. I called Anna: so, uh, did you want us to come in today? (Please God, no, no, no.) Yes, we're going to bottle. [pause] Okay, see you soon. And so we spent Labor Day laboring away - that's what you're supposed to do, right? And we labored and labored, bottling a ton of vodka followed by three different kinds of grappa. Evening plans were made with friends in Paonia over lunch. They were called into question at around 7 pm, and by 8:30 - when we finally finished - they were no more. I put in a 12.5-hour day, I'm beat and I feel that it all could have been avoided by some forethought on the part of my bosses (or at least they could have warned us of the longevity of today's labors...). AND today's events are in some ways simply par for the course. My life sucks.


Two days ago, our winery co-hosted a huge dinner party with renowned chef Kelly Liken of Kelly Liken's in Vail. Though we had to clean and organize all morning, in the evening Colin, visiting friend Kate and I got to help serve the guests as well as socialize with them. In down time, we got to hang out with Kelly in the kitchen while we chowed down on her amazing cucumber and tomato salads, succotash, and rack of lamb with chimichurri sauce - sooooo good. And Kelly is just one many very interesting people that I've had the privilege to meet here at the winery. (And the party was fun.) My life is amazing.

The art of winemaking is fascinating, and I have already learned a great deal since I began working here at the winery. I very much enjoy the variation in work from day to day, and it's great being a part of the winemaking process from planting to bottling. My life is amazing.

There are plenty of days when I do the same redundant thing over and over for 8+ hours, using my brain only to decide what album to listen to next on my iPod. Sometimes these chores are accompanied by Lance's abundant yet less-than-constructive criticisms. My life sucks.













Since moving out west, a great many close friends (all from college) have come out to visit me. Their time spent here has been a true joy, and I love catching up with them, exploring the outdoors in their company, cooking them breakfast and being reminded of the good ol' days of my time spent at Goshen College. I'm flattered by their visits to Colin and me out here in the boonies (though maybe I shouldn't be; Colin and the scenery would be enough to get me out here without me being here...), and I'm always a bit sad to see them go. My life is amazing.

Google just ate a toad. And now he's farting. My life sucks (kinda).

I live in Western Colorado. It's gorgeous here. So many vistas, so many outdoor sports to enjoy... I could (and might) stay out here forever. My life is amazing.

I am making plenty of new friends. Many are the type where a few hours after meeting we are swapping back-rubs. People are nice out here. My life is amazing.

(Most of those above-mentioned friends live a good 30-minutes' drive from my house. Also, even if I were to stay out here forever, the majority of said friends would be moving away in a less than a year anyway because they are just interns - like me... here for a while - just one adventure out of many in the youthful days of their lives. My life sucks.)


Whatever comes my way - good or evil, uplifting or depressing - I live with one cool dude named Colin, and he helps me weather it. (Jonathan used to help fill this roll, but now he's off to Purdue getting smarter and all. Poor guy... [and then there are those days when I would love nothing more than to solve a really difficult differential equation...]) We find new music together, cook together, explore nature together, discuss life, politics and women together, (work together), sit in the living room staring at our computers together... And when work sucks, we comiserate together. Colin is a good friend. My life is amazing.

Despite all the shit that comes my way, I manage to keep a positive outlook on life. Life is an adventure, right? and mine is amazing.