Staring Down the Road Not Taken

Of all the old haunts I expected to hit around Cleveland, the college that broke my heart.

During my Cleveland jaunt, business brought us to Oberlin, the little town just west of Cleveland's west suburbs.

The afternoon in Oberlin brought back my brief yet intense history with the town.

In a flash my mind rumbled back 15 years to the college visits, strolling around the city square and wanting badly to gain admittance. They wait-listed me, and in late June told me there was no more room at the inn. I ended up in Erie, Pa, at Mercyhurst College, an afterthought I had no intent of attending when I applied.

Dru had to photograph construction progress of a building he designed there, so once he ended his five minutes of shooting, we strolled over to Lorenzo's for some awesome pizza (chicken and veggie alfredo is a once-a-year event), then took in a bit of campus. I needed to peace of the koi pond next to the conservatory as much as I needed the infusion of art the stellar campus museum offered. Some vibrant colors were necessary, when so often I feel the subject of a Rembrandt, with my surroundings quickly descending into pitch darkness while exposing all my ragged flaws to tighter scrutiny.

College towns are great places and Oberlin was no exception. The striking campus buildings mesh with the two modest commercial blocks (I didn't known Ben Franklin 5 and 10s were still in business anywhere).

When I craved a nap on the college green, I contemplated all the naps I could have taken in that shade if I only studied a little harder or had at least a few extracurriculars (my high school bio was skimpier than Homer Simpson's).

Now, don't think I've sat around pining for Oberlin - until I met my friend Isaac in Nashville, who graduated from there, the name hadn't crossed my mind in a decade. The small pond

Furthermore, if I'd been accepted, I doubt we could have afforded it. My parents excel at spending $1.50 when they only have $1, and financial aid alone would not have covered the $25,000 tuition (I don't even want to know how high it has soared in 15 years).

I didn't go to Oberlin, end of story. Life diverged to Mercyhurst, Columbus and now Nashville. I couldn't even imagine the different world facing me had I jumped from waiting list to acceptance.

But on the green, with the rustling breeze and perfect temperature of Saturday, it was a tantalizing prospect.

51st Race: 2009 Memorial Day Dash 5K

Hitting the start line dressed in a T-shirt soaked through never bodes well. Despite a comfortable temperature, the humidity was unavoidable, falling into that range where rain is just a few tantalizing clicks away.

The milestone 50th race passed last weekend in Columbus during the Komen Race for the Cure. I hadn't bothered to count, and if my memory failed to recall a race or three, the milestone could have come months ago. But I'll stick Columbus RFTC as the 50th.

Now back to the 51st. A quartet of Nashville landmarks just outside Downtown filled out the compact course. A full lap around Greer Stadium, the AAA dump where the Nashville Sounds play, up the Fort Negley hill, past the Adventure Science Center and a mile of loops through the Nashville City Cemetery.

It was a humid, cramp-filled excursion and by the fifth or sixth turn in the cemetery, those cold graves looked awfully comfortable. The local running group, the Nashville Striders, hosted this race, which showed in its difficulty level. Such a small footprint, with a large hill around the old Confederate fort and steady inclines through the cemetery did not help the casual runner. But as always, I finished and since the finish line was a good mile from the starting point, I tacked on another mile of running back to the Corolla.

How I went from 13.1 miles a month ago to barely grunting across a finish line at 3.1 ... I don't know. But the 10 miles waiting four weeks down the road will not be any kinder.

Sensational Saisons: Great Lakes Grassroots Ale and Great Divide Saison Farmhouse Ale

Someone brews a beer for every season and any reason, but not suits me better than saison, the traditional harvest-time beers matured for the winter in France and Belgium.

While Ommegang’s Hennepin ranks as my favorite beer (period), I always yearn the sample other brewers’ takes, since the style comes with plenty of wiggle room for the brewer.In some ways, the style represents a coming-of-age ale for many microbreweries, because saison is largely what the brewer makes of it.

For this impromptu sample conducted in Columbus, I picked Great Lakes Brewery’s Grassroots Ale (when in Ohio, no other beer will suffice) and Great Divide Brewing Company’s Saison Farmhouse Ale, representing Cleveland and Denver, respectively. In fact, I read about Grassroots prior to my last Columbus trip. Knowing that one of my favorite breweries had ventured into saison territory had my mouth watering.

With Grassroots, everything starts and finishes with lemon – but what a bouquet it presents, because this ale was brewed in tribute to local growers. Lemon balm and lemon basil lead the herbal lineup that finds space for subtle chamomile and the essential saison spice, coriander.

Great Divide’s Saison finishes with a drier, grain tone emerging directly from a smoother shot of lemon. Many saisons veer toward softer citrus like orange but this one goes the lemon route as well. It’s so perplexing that people pick those god-awful lemon wine coolers, hard lemonades and water-down vodka beverages

While not typically a fan of beer brewed with rice – plenty of macrobrewers cut their malted barley with corn and rice – but with this ale, it has a soothing effect. Add in the four yeast strains present here, and this ale never becomes a mere sum of its parts.

Like its name’s origins, most saisons are fleeting and mercurial. Wait too long to drink it, and the yeasts begin to churn out a B-vitamin funk that gives the ale an unflattering asparagus-esque bouquet.

The great element of this style is alcoholic disparity. Saison can go as low as 4.5 percent of Jolly Pumpkin’s Bam Biere, or up into double digits, where some of Saison DuPont’s stronger strains reside. This pair lands on the lighter side, with Grassroots at 6.2 percent and Great Divide at 7.3 percent.

No matter the alcoholic level, the great trait of Saison is their sheer drinkability. On a hot summer evening, few beers this complex drink down so smoothly. Imagine something heavy and dark

Either of those two regional saisons would go perfectly with that setting. The beauty is that they fall into the same category, but share little outside of brewing style. They each take those lemon and herb characters but run in different directions with them.

I give the nod to Grassroots Ale, since its local ingredient jump out from the beer, while it isn’t strong enough to lead to intoxication after one or two.

Joe At 30

I can’t call him on the phone to wish him a happy birthday, nor will he recognize the Ohio State logo on the shirts bought for his birthday.

Fate gave me a different path with my brother, but sometimes I long for those simple moments that most siblings take for granted.

His school-age pictures have danced in my thoughts this week. Joe always displays a wry, intelligent smile, even in those school pictures. He looked like any kid in those shots, no more different than someone struck shy by the camera.

He turned 30 on Monday. At times, he seems ageless, his grin and laughter unchanged since we last shared a bedroom in Dublin, Georgia.

But the last time I saw him, the Melville grays had begun their assault on his rough thicket of Italian hair, cut in the fashion created by impatient, old-style barbers.

Over the past decade he thickened due to poor diet and the daily lineup of drugs. His love for the records from our childhood (The Muppets, Sesame Street, Disney, Burl Ives, and the Fraggles – all classics) has not wavered.

An army of bears holds vigil in his arm, led by an aged, dirty koala that plays Waltzing Matilda. This is the third generation of musical marsupial Joe has worn down.

Don’t take this as regret; I have accepted I cannot change Joe, and cherish him for offering what most brothers cannot.

But the sad part about being burdened with a crisp memory is the misfortune to remember simpler times.

For most of my youth, I held onto hope that Joe would develop. I saw progress at certain tasks like feeding himself and heard noises that threatened to turn into words.

He gave us myriad actions which prevented people from writing him off as handicapped, retarded or the most condescending of all, “special” (none of those words appeared in the Melville house).

But eventually, all hope dwindled away. While schools for the disabled are filled with selfless, talented teachers, each of these children is too unique and it’s difficult to advance the functions of one as severely handicapped as Joe (Now I use this word freely).

Joe also became further cloistered in my parents’ house. The grim realization that I’d have to care for him once my parents died dawned heavily upon me.

But for now, Joe is 30, laughing and still ageless.

Worries about his future can sit for a few more tomorrows.

A Few Short Words About Me

I almost walked away from my job last week. for most of 2009, the Nashville job has been steadily deteriorating operation for most the year, with financial goals so low it's obvious our crack sales team will have time to catch up on its leisure reading. but in the past few weeks, surly sources, a terrible beat with no news, and a computer meltdown nearly did me in.

I was officially the only person hurt by the Ch. 11 bankruptcy of American Communities Newspapers, thanks to the freelance check I deposited the same day in which the declaration close their bank accounts. The second check is now deposited, minus the $20 it cost me. Between the $700 tax bill and this, I sometimes wonder whether that extra money is worth it.

My three days in Columbus turns into a weekend of eaten tickets. I bailed on the the Nelsonville Music Festival and a Melville-induced miscommunication caused me to miss my ride to the Columbus Clippers game at their new park. It's a miracle I made it to the Race for the Cure. As with the last couple of visits, I managed to screw up even more elements of my old life with grave missteps. At times like these, I'm glad I excel at being cryptic.

Next weekend I land in Cleveland for a few days; luckily, I don't have enough life left there to screw up much. Due to work uncertainties, I decided that will be the last vacation of the summer - when the unemployed ranks are swollen with people who possess the same skills as myself, saving cash felt like the prudent path.

Aside from two concerts north of here - Wilco in Cincinnati and Jenny Lewis in Louisville - I'm staying put. By going nowhere, I inadvertently give Nashville one last chance to prove itself as a place to stay. My fling with the New South has no luster left to lose. I'm 96 percent sure it won't be long-term, but a poor economy means it earned a mulligan.

Porch Gardening 2009

A month-to-month renter can uproot at any time, whether the layoffs finally come or neighborhood crime forces the renter’s hand.

Uprooting a garden prove more treacherous, and most likely fatal to its occupants.

But this year, I can’t escape the green thumb.

Blame goes to the basil. A free basil plant from work flourished all summer; basil chicken and salmon made the menu weekly. I brought the basil indoors eight months ago to test its ability to thrive away from the elements. The plant produced enough fragrant leaves to keep me from overpaying for herbs at the grocery.

But it didn’t thrive – two weeks ago it looked all but dead. Then a spring of green punched through the woody husk, giving it hope for a new season of basil-topped dishes and pesto sauce.

Yesterday the basil went back outside, to join the cilantro, Greek oregano and Italian parsley, with pair of tomato plants to tower above all.

I plan to add rosemary, sage and possibly the cinnamon basil I forgot the grab Sunday. Those will need pots I don't have right now.

I know what the basil will do, and cross my fingers with everything else.

By all accounts, Nashville is as king to cilantro as it is to allergy sufferers. So I don’t expect a bumper crop. Percy didn’t help, immediately trying to chew off a sprout from the pot. Overall, I don’t expect much trouble for him – the pots provide him with camouflage to pounce at birds in the yard.

The tomato plant is the most intriguing. Everyone I know who plants a row of tomato plants ends up with bushels they cannot use, but two plants in a pot should give me enough for salads, sandwiches and new recipes.

While small, this impromptu garden has a high chance of failure. Without Nashville's maddeningly inconsistent weather, these sprouts face a season of unknowns - aside from weeks of 90-degree temperatures.

But if I have to go, I expect to rest to have the strength to travel along.

Unwigged, Unplugged Unbound in Nashville

When the Ryman Auditorium's lights dimmed and a voice remarkably similar to The Simpson's Principal Seymour Skinner boomed in the darkness, there was no doubts about its owner or his companions.

The three 60-something gentlemen who stepped onstage in Nashville more resembled The Folksmen from A Mighty Wind than their beloved turn as Spinal Tap.

By choosing to appear as themselves, Christopher Guest, Michael McKean and Harry Shearer gave their "Unwigged and Unplugged" performance broad latitude to explore the characters they've created in the past three decades.

Billed as a tour to commemorate the 25th anniversary of This is Spinal Tap and to promote the upcoming Tap record, Unwigged & Unplugged mixed in videos, audience participation and guest stars to turn the concert into a variety show of sorts.

One hilarious digression involved the trio running through censor Bill Clotworthy's notes on what to cut from a network TV airing of This is Spinal Tap (alas, the lyrics to Big Bottom and the line "twisted old fruit" meet the same fate). Following the outpouring of blue language, Shearer later apologized to the ghost of Ernest Tubb.

But the whole affair wouldn't have worked without the jabbing, self-aware songwriting. As Shearer professed, the Folksmen material took the common themes of folk music like wandering and train wrecks, then inverted (Never Did No Wanderin') and combined the themes into tracks like Blood on the Coal (Only a fool would stifle a laugh as they deadpanned "Old 97 went down the wrong hole").

A few nuggets from other origins broke up the folk and the Tap. Excised from Guest's film Waiting for Guffman, This Bulging River fit perfectly with the bluegrass tone struck by many of the Folksmen selections. Shearer's ode to the method of Elvis Presley's death, All Backed Up, worked for an uncomfortable chuckle or two.

This being Nashville, the Folksmen's tunes came with a few special cameos - Delbert McClinton joined them on harmonica for one tune, while banjo virtuoso Bela Fleck and fiddler Casey Driesen made multiple cameos. For their spin through Kiss at the End of the Rainbow, the emotional climax of A Might Wind, McKean's wife Annette O'Toole showed off her pipes.

The Spinal Tap moments did not suffer for their presentation on a smaller scale. Stonehenge, Hell Hole and Heavy Duty lost none of their heft. While Big Bottom lacked the 19 bassists who tackled it at Live Earth, Shearer's upright was enough to thunder beneath Guest and McKean crooning through the Tap classic. All of Tap's eras were represented, with Gimme Some Money from The Thamesmen era and the cornball psychedelia of Listen (to the Flower People).

Audience requests hit all the highlights, although the band member's facial expressions when someone called for Jazz Odyssey were priceless. When one man repeatedly demanded Lick My Love Pump, Shearer shot back, "I don't think he's talking about the song."

Alas, the 18-inch Stonehenge did not descend on its namesake song, but played a video of the miniature monolith with Troll dolls substituted for the midgets.

The band took five minutes off for an audience Q&A, with the trio offering plenty of wry non-answers (My unasked question: What take would Mr. Burns and Smithers have on this show if they were in the audience - Shearer voices both).

They even spliced in a few choice videos - their debut, Rock and Roll Nightmare, from a forgotten Seventies late-night show and several fan tributes (Tonight I'm Gonna Rock You Tonight is forever changed thanks to a Lego tribute). The laughs endured through a shot of Shearer's film debut as a boy in The Robe, with Shearer interrupting every time Guest attempted to rattle off the year of its release (1953).

The trio spared the audience the usual waiting for encores, departing for barely a minute each time. The only missing Folksmen tune from the set, Old Joe's Place, joyously rounded out the mash-up of Spinal Tap and Folksmen tunes.

Guest, McKean and Shearer proved their material was strong enough to thrive in a new setting.

Equally important, no drummers were harmed during this performance - mainly because the trio didn't bring one. Although one audience member volunteered during the Q&A, sticks in hand.