When I first migrated to Wordpress 2008, my intention was to have a more professional outlet for my writing than LiveJournal. I would post personal items here and more polished pieces there. Even as I migrated my archives and comments--in preparation for the imminent demise of LJ, of course--I removed posts I considered subpar or too personal.
What I found, however, was that I wasnt posting more personal entries here. In fact, I wasn't posting more personal entries at all. The glossier, finer finish that I aimed for at Worldwide Ace became the standard to which I held myself. Luckily, the LJcrossposter plugin allowed every post I made there to show up here as well.
The crossposter plugin hasn't been updated since 2011. With every new iteration of Wordpress, it gets worse. I've explored a remake plugin and other alternatives, but nothing has been functional, and I have not the inclintion to build the ideal plugin myself.
While I will continue to lurk and participate, reading what my friends post, I have a sneaking suspicion that this will be the last post I make to my LJ proper. And while in some ways that saddens me, it makes far more sense than the hoops I was jumping through for the last three years to crosspost properly.
If you're still interested in reading my work, you can find it on Worldwide Ace.
Last Spring, I quit football. To be honest, I quit caring about professional sports altogether. I decided I had better and more productive ways to use my time than researching, watching, and discussing institutions that provide me no benefit besides easy conversation fodder.
It wasn't until the third week of the NFL season that someone actually tried to converse about football with me. "Hey, check out how my fantasy players are doing," was the gist of it. It wasn't until midway through the ALCS that I even knew baseball had reached the playoffs. For the most part, my exodus from sports was thorough and perfect. Of course, given the domestic violence scandals in the NFL and the rape scandals in college, it's not as if professional sports has fallen completely off my radar.
Enter last night. A friend of mine, with whom I used to play fantasy football, passed along this article in the New York Post tying the cover up of domestic violence to Spygate, the 2007 cheating scandal by the New England Patriots.
The story strikes me as unfortunate. Not only does it draw attention away from the domestic violence issue rather than toward it, it tries to pin the origins on Spygate.
I think I've finally figured out why I can't recycle: my roommate doesn't like to see how much she drinks.
When I get home after work, she tends to vanish at the sight of me, jerking upright from the couch with wide, deer-in-headlight eyes, something clutched to her chest as she scurries in the opposite direction. Before I can take off my shoes and set my things down, her bedroom door is closing or she's outside in the darkness on the porch where cigarette butts and old cans get hidden away. Some nights, she reappears a minute or two later, talking rapid fire as if I'm the audience for her verbal diarrhea. Some nights, she acts like a prairie dog, her head popping in and out of her room, seemingly waiting for me to settle in my own.
"Yeah," Josh laughs. "That's some serious bite, huh?"
I take another sip of his hard cider. To be honest, it isn't so much cider anymore as it is an apple wine. The potency is through the roof, the flavor divine, and I can only think about how awesome it would be to try and make my own.
"So how'd you make this?"
"A community cider pressing. Want me to let you know next time we do it?"
My eyes dart back and forth, looking for the yellow barn.
"It should be around here somewhere," Brad says as we tool down the little highway through the north of Longmont.
"You mean that one?" I ask, spotting the small army toiling away. "With all the people, loads of apples, and strange-looking machines?"
"Oh, it's right there," he replies, stepping on his brakes to make the turn.
We pull in with an SUV loaded with empty barrels, gaskets and airlocks for the fermentation process, knowing that Brad, Erin, Josh, Laura and friends had picked a mass of apples the previous weekend with cider in mind. None of the 900 pounds of apples laid out in row upon row of bushels are theirs, meaning this is a larger operation than I had anticipated.
I snap a photo or two with my phone, a less than stellar, but ample alternative to bringing a mass of equipment, and weave my way through the heart of the operation to find Josh.
"Hey!" Josh calls as I approach. "Want to tag in and take over at the press so I can find my lovely wife?"
"Umm, sure," I say, unsure of what I'm getting myself into. "Just show me what to do."
And just like that, I join the fray.
My Six Degrees of Cider Separation starts with my good friend Josh. Josh, who grew up split between Colorado and Vermont, is a virtual homesteading renaissance man. His family owns a quarry in Lyons, and he's slowly rebuilding his flood damaged log cabin home by hand with the help of friends and family.
A little over a month ago, I got a smart phone. Suddenly, the world opened up to me in new and interesting ways, and despite having adopted Smart Phone Luddism for years fearing the repercussions on my life, it's enabled so many positives that I'm easily eating crow for my anti-smart phone campaigning.
One downside to waiting so long to adopt a smart phone is that my techie, power-user status has fallen behind the times. In the last week, I've had the following conversation with my phone and the Internet:
Me: “Wow! This is cool, but I want to do more with my phone and remove some of this bloatware. How do I do that?”
Internet: “Root your phone! It's easy! Here's seven ways you can do that.
Me: “Cool! Wait, is there any risk to this?”
Internet: “Oh sure. You could brick your phone, void your warranty or prevent yourself from getting important security updates.”
Phone: “Please don't kill me!”