hey livejournal
I know I haven't written in you in a long time. I know you didn't feel neglected. I know you didn't even care. I went through a mircobrew phase recently. Sometimes they call them craft brews. Handcrafted artisan beer. It all starts to taste just about the same. It's the new thing. Like when the gourmet coffee phase was in full swing and they would sell different coffees with little cards written in winetalk. There's still a place here that has that approach. They'll grind you any kind you want from their selection, free of charge, they cheerfully tell you. It's the least trafficked of the coffee places on state street. They have banners proudly displaying their awards in coffee-tasting competitions. But it's from 2006. Their Breakfast Blend (TM) Voted Best in the Midwest. The place is dingy, smells damp, serves as a meeting place for the more literary homeless people. Coffee all tastes the same to me, with a few categories: the strong, the weak, and the kind that's been sitting.
Same thing with beer, pretty much. You've got the wheat beers (fruity, citrus-y), the IPAs
(sometimes named cute things like dangerously hoppy, or extreme hopz, Hoppalicious - that's a real one), and the beer beers. I think belgian beers, or trappist ales, or whatever, are the latest thing.
I mainly like beer from a can. Blatz is a pretty good one. Light, crisp, clean finish, attractive can. Beer that essentially tastes like nothing. It suits my mood.
Doesn't it seem so futile to write down all your thoughts and what you do? I guess if you have a life it's more worthwhile. An insignificant person, who thought insignificant things, who loved and was loved, whose vices harmed no one but himself, here I sit. I type. I haven't ever had an original idea. I'm not very good at doing things. I have nervous habits. I'm often a bundle of nerves set on edge. On the edge of what? I suppose on the edgy of spilling over into madness. Spill into madness? You think of a ravine, or cliffs, or ranges of pebbled jagged mountains in a dry landscape, dusted, harsh grasses in bristling tufts dotting the scene, thriving out of nothing, eking a life, from the insalubrious earth at its roughest and most inhospitable. There is that neglected, unconscious, unnoticed will to live there. It's beautiful if displayed by art and human contrivance for the human eye. But to be there would grow old, and its inhabitants are hungry, emaciated coyotes, lurking, howling, hunting poor unsuspecting creatures, the prey in life, its cute faces, it's
Same thing with beer, pretty much. You've got the wheat beers (fruity, citrus-y), the IPAs
(sometimes named cute things like dangerously hoppy, or extreme hopz, Hoppalicious - that's a real one), and the beer beers. I think belgian beers, or trappist ales, or whatever, are the latest thing.
I mainly like beer from a can. Blatz is a pretty good one. Light, crisp, clean finish, attractive can. Beer that essentially tastes like nothing. It suits my mood.
Doesn't it seem so futile to write down all your thoughts and what you do? I guess if you have a life it's more worthwhile. An insignificant person, who thought insignificant things, who loved and was loved, whose vices harmed no one but himself, here I sit. I type. I haven't ever had an original idea. I'm not very good at doing things. I have nervous habits. I'm often a bundle of nerves set on edge. On the edge of what? I suppose on the edgy of spilling over into madness. Spill into madness? You think of a ravine, or cliffs, or ranges of pebbled jagged mountains in a dry landscape, dusted, harsh grasses in bristling tufts dotting the scene, thriving out of nothing, eking a life, from the insalubrious earth at its roughest and most inhospitable. There is that neglected, unconscious, unnoticed will to live there. It's beautiful if displayed by art and human contrivance for the human eye. But to be there would grow old, and its inhabitants are hungry, emaciated coyotes, lurking, howling, hunting poor unsuspecting creatures, the prey in life, its cute faces, it's