Why Charlottesville?

Whether or not I knew it then, the reason that I arrived in Charlottesville a few short weeks ago began about four years earlier.

In the beginning, there was Andrew Oliver. Well, at least in the beginning of DC.

Andrew is one of my closest friends, whom I affectionally refer to (and will do so from this moment on) as Bubba. Why? Ask him. 

Feeling stifled creatively and trapped personally, I decided that it was time for me to pull up my roots in DC and move on. Andrew was one of the first people to invite not only into his home, but into is life. We had been friends on H Street in DC and could not think of a better person to spend my time. Understand, Andrew is one of those salt-of-the-earth types who would jump in front of traffic for you even if you hadn't spoken in months. He is top notch as a friend, colleague and father; I cannot speak of this man highly enough, and surely will not in writing give his dedication to his work, friends, and family justice. It is a privilege to know such a man.

My friend Andrew and his beautiful daughter

I had visited him in Charlottesville a few years back and remember how much I loved it. There was something different in this place, which I am beginning to discover. Andrew opened up his home to me, and my vision of understanding these different places began to take shape. I realized that I wanted to travel the country, work as little as possible, write, and most importantly, heal.

Now, there are people in DC (Bear, Billy, Toby, Buddha, Tony, etc.) that I love and admire, don't get me wrong. There are restaurants that I think are fantastic and Chefs that I think are extremely talented. It occurred to me that I hadn't really written about DC as a food destination because in my opinion, it isn't one. DC lacks a soul, which is deliciously ironic considering it is the seat for our modern political structure. It is the middle step-child, tucked between Baltimore, which has a strong connection to the Chesapeake bay and crab, and Virginia with it's love for it's soil. DC doesn't have a designated food culture, per se. I find this troubling

"Well, it sort of does," Andrew says to me. I can tell he is a bit defensive because he grew up in DC and loves is. I can look around our living room right now and find two items of redskins clothing, not including the jacket that he is wearing.

I am not sure if it has been mentioned before, but Andrew is a cook, and a damned talented one at that. "I would say that the U Street corridor is the closes thing to DC food. There is some soul food and a pocket of Ethiopian. There used to be some asian food around there..." he trails off. "Bubba," I say, "there is barely any soul food or BBQ in DC and you know it." He kind of nods in agreement.

This is not entirely why I found DC stuffy, and it wasn't until I really started interacting with people in Charlottesville that I figured out my biggest complaint was something I was guilty of as well.

"It's really different from DC here, but most of the country isn't that kind of crazy," Andrew explained. "What is the first question anyone asks someone they meet in DC?"

I don't even have to think about it. "'What do you do?'" I recite with my best valley girl impression. I'm not wrong. The way that LA is obsessed with the idea of 'who do you know?' DC is not far off.

It takes me a moment to catalog and replay the conversations I've had in the past week or so. Then it hits me. "Mother of god," I say out loud. "I'm one of them. NOOOOOOO!" I put my head down on our kitchen table realizing that all I've talked about with people around here is about work.

"Yea, its funny. When I talk to people around C-ville (what all the cool kids call it...), the conversations go more about what I've grown in my garden, or how is my daughter, or if I've done anything fun outside recently. Sometimes if theres anything worth eating I've had recently"

We chat for a few more minutes and this question of identity really starts to become very interesting to me. See, in DC you identify as your work; Charlottesville does not feel the same. It feels more of a question of not what do you do for work but what do you do outside of work that defines you. To put it simply, a prime secret fishing spot in Charlottesville makes you a big shot around here, not a Mercedes. These are more my people, even though the last years in DC have poisoned my mind in that distinctive way.

Theres something about how people interact with each other and their community here. There are true Mom and Pop hardware stores, markets, grocers, and many businesses that the giant corporations have slowly strangled out in other parts of the country. I am routinely asked how my day is going by strangers. I am already on a first name basis with the woman who makes late night sandwiches. There are crosswalks and drivers obey them. There is something both magically charming but seriously strange to the point of unbelievability about this. People interact with their food and each other differently; this is something that I am excited to explore.

It occurs to me in the end that the same question is being asked two different ways: "Who are you?" In DC it's framed on your acquisition of power, (political connections, money, status, etc.) whereas here it's...something different. Less tangible but makes more sense, like a smell you remember from childhood; you can't quite figure out what it is, but you know what it means.

Strange, I ask myself now who I am, and I can't help but scoff in contempt for the kind of people that I've had to deal with in DC: Sex in the City wanna-be psuedo business women with prescription drug problems relying on their wealthy daddy's money. Plastic surgery. Gala's. Purses that cost more than my rent. Or the posture and politico obsessed men trying to edge their way closer to the next pro athlete or reality TV star at the newest club, looking for the next young trophy girl to carve a notch in their bedpost. I have nothing but contempt for these people.

So "who am I?" I ask myself.

Well this week I learned how to pickle watermelon rinds with Andrew, worked on a whole fish recipe, interviewed an incredible Chef (next entry!), practiced my banjo, went on a couple hikes and four different dog parks, visited a winery, read an entire book, made sun tea and failed, worked on a new cocktail using fresh Charlottesville produce, did some bartending, made some new friends, ate some delicious local food, drank some delicious local beer, and wrote more than I have in the last 9 months.

That's who.

Chapter 2: Charlottesville

It was somewhere after the first two hours of driving south, putting DC in my rear view mirror for good, that a smile crept across my face. This wasn't the kind of smile that I had to force through clentched teeth; it was genuine and pretty much unknown to me until I caught it. It felt like a muscle I hadn't used in a while. It's been a rough year.

After taking a week to decompress and sort through a myriad of conflicting emotions, I find myself eager to write. I've thought a lot about what I want to make of this blog and what I am excited to be writing about. The change was so sudden it put me in a state of shock waking up to something so different than the life I've known from the past 12 years. I realized I've grown older. I wonder if I had asked the person I was so many years ago if the man I am now is who they would expect. Change is strange, and the mirror seems to have changed. I'm not sure if I recognize the person looking back at me. I didn't realize how tired I looked.

Mountain air is very good medicine. On my first day I bought a banjo and went hiking, just happy to be somewhere that I hear crickets and cicadas. I had my usual jolts of realization that it is 1:30, time to go to work, then corrected myself with a contented shrug. Life doesn't feel slower here so much as more manageable.

While traveling I really want to focus on the regionality of the places that I visit, framing them not only with the food but the geography of the place. There is a lot going on in the vast country that I love.

The Charlottesville area is one big pleasant surprise. If you were to look at any place on a running scale of zero being "country" and ten being "city," Charlottesville would be about a 4 in my estimation. Tucked about 10 miles east of the Shenandoah valley, there seems to be a frame of mountains that runs north/south. Dotting the countryside are little estates (some named), farms and houses. Main street, which was bricked over sometime in the 1970's, has seating in the middle of the causeway surrounded on either side by a healthy selection of restaurants and bars. This is the first year that more restaurants have closed than opened, leaving you, the consumer, with a variety of choices.

The first thing that I really noticed about this area is the soil. The ability of things to grow is versatile and vast. The produce is really fresh. As in a few miles from where local kitchens are preparing it. I had a house cut bacon with blackberries at Rapture that really impressed me, which is not easy to do. 20 miles from the center of town is wine country, and enough credit is not given to the region. I was speaking with a local sommelier, one of the few in town, who explained to me that the soil here is so healthy and robust that it isn't the optimal growing conditions for wine.

I will be exploring and interviewing farms, chefs, bartenders, fishermen, and a lot of the people that make the Charlottesville food scene what it is.

Right now I'm sitting at Cardinal Point winery, sipping their Rockfish Red with some locally sourced cheese, listening to the things that are alive in the forest and hills. I understand why people arrive here, and more importantly, why they don't leave.

More coming soon.

Stay Thirsty,
The Bar Fight

The God Damn Pater Familia.

Every son has hero dad stories. I certainly do. Some are decidedly better than others, but now that I am (allegedly) an adult, I realize that the grand stories are not what makes a good father, or a good man for that matter. That was something that my Dad always talked about. I know a lot of really shitty, boring, terrible people who have moments of greatness in their own way. But its not enough to be Ghandi 5% of the time and Hitler the other 95%; that still makes a shitty person by way of averages. That's the sort of sensibility that my father always lived by.

And thats sort of the thing, isn't it? Being a good person and a good father boils down to unremarkable, every day, consistent behavior. Make no mistake, my father is a remarkable man. He is a terrifyingly brilliant statistician, and I am not exaggerating. Listen, I'm a relatively smart and well educated person, and when he talks about his work, I have literally no clue what he is talking about. I'm pretty sure he is still speaking English but the words make no fucking sense. He is hilarious and kind. In a world full of people that desperately want to be special and generally are not, my father actually is, and doesn't really care. I am quite sure that if he could be left to do math that he finds challenging (that sort of math where they use symbols that mean too much stuff; like staring at a chalk board, Good Will Hunting, fucking Rain Man math) in a room on his own for exactly 8 hours a day and get paid, he would. The only thing preferable would be some sort of puzzle.

However, that being said, I have a Dad-Hero story to top them all.

My parents had just moved to Ohio, and my father had a rock sticking out of the ground in his front yard. My father has an affinity for rocks, (which is seeming much stranger than previously thought now that I constructed the sentence...) in the way that some people really enjoy lawn gnomes or other such foolishness, and the only thing the god damn Pater Familia likes more than rocks is order. So the moment I laid eyes on the 12 inch protrudent in the lawn I knew my father would not be able to just mow around it. In that respect I am not my father's son, because I would never waste hours of my life to remove it. Oh no, I would bitterly gaze out at my nemesis over my coffee every morning, allowing that inanimate object to slowly but surely fester into a seething and visceral hatred for the rock, the lawn, and eventually rocks and lawns everywhere. But make no mistake, I would never do a god damn thing about it.

Weeks later I started getting a saga of emails, texts, and photos of the process of my father removing the rock. He discovered that much like an iceberg, the protrudent represented a much larger presence below the surface. It was thus christened "Rockzilla." Now, had I been given this task and could not avoid it, I would rent a back hoe, and pop that sucker out with he help of 2000 years of human technological advancement. If that didn't take, I would consider explosives ('merica!). But no, not the old man. I'm not sure if it was fear of him damaging his lawn or he simply considered it good sport, but at some point Dad decided that the removal process would be limited to physics and his own two hands and back.

I need to repeat this so you understand very clearly what was happening. My father was not only willingly and happily choosing to resort to the labor practices used famously in ancient Egypt (see: Pyramids), to move a fucking boulder that he didn't need to, he wasn't even gonna be the guy with a whip and a decidedly better standard of living. He was gonna be the other guy, ie, the slave. BY CHOICE.

[Authors note: I just texted my mom and told her I'm trying to write about my Dad, and explaining that only now that I have put this stuff in writing am I realizing what an absolute lunatic he is. The construction of the previous paragraph was the most hilarious thing I think I've ever written, and only myself and my mom really get the joke.]

The correspondences in the following weeks would be the highlight of my day. I would be reading these things to friends and coworkers, and pulled up my favorite paragraph from one of the old emails to give you a taste:

"That’s my present state.  I thought about filling the hole in again, but management (ie Kathy) opined that maybe I should leave the hole as is and think about it further.  Which I have been doing.  My present choices seem to be 1) keep trying to get at Rockzilla, 2) fill in the hole and go buy some big rocks for the wall, 3) fill in the hole and go to various parks and other places and find some big rocks to liberate, or 4) change my designs.  Choice 2 is simply not happening, my intrinsic cheapness and minimal respect of dubious laws which make it illegal to go find and then appropriate rocks on public land that no one besides myself value (other than perhaps some conservation nut or a park ranger with a limited imagination who doesn’t really consider the intent of rules before arbitrarily enforcing them)  make that a no-go.  Choice 4 is also terribly unattractive, and as for choice 3, well, I just don’t like giving up, as we all know.  So now I’m kind of anticipating some elaborate process involving further excavation, building ramps, and pulleys and sleds.  Kind of like constructing the Pyramid, except with less access to slaves.  And don’t mention go rent a bobcat.  You also know my lack of enthusiasm for utilizing powered equipment when other approaches work, which is less about money than it is my general disdain for mechanical solutions unless absolutely necessary."

Just reading that paragraph, listening to him troubleshoot a problem that he made for himself is astounding.

Anyways, Long story short, he got the rock out of the ground and used it to complete a hand built rock wall. Here's a photo of him in the process, measuring with a shovel, my best guess being that there was no tape measure in Pharaoh Khufu's toolbox so it would've been cheating.

I don't expect it to make perfect sense as to why this is a hero story, but it represents something very special to me. Life is full of grey areas, little half-truths and moments that are difficult to label as "bad" and impossible to label "good." The other night I ran out of toilet paper and remembered after the grocery store closed, so I took a roll from the restaurant. It's something I've never done and won't do again, but I can't really say that I'm particularly ashamed of it. Life is filled with these small moments where true altruism may not be the choice we always make. I did; however, replace it with a roll I bought the next day. My father would've as well.

Of course, the man isn't perfect. I know he made mistakes. After all, he gave me a bowl cut for about six years, allowed me to wear JNCO's out of the house (holy shit remember those!?!?!), and tricked me into thinking that Grandma's house would be MUCH more fun than a boring ol' trip to Egypt he and my mom took sans children. But I never heard the old man lie. I never saw him steal. I never saw him cheat.

I have never beaten him at chess.

I have neither my father's mind nor his temperament; I am far more like my Mom, who is more creative and socially minded, and a saint for living with such a weirdo, and am sure I am happier for it. Being brilliant must be fucking exhausting; after all it means that you have to dig rocks out of the earth on principle that you never really explain. My father has no manifesto, no set of rules, but the principles are clear. Just not to anyone but himself.

I've been staring at this screen trying to figure out the conclusion to this, one of the strangest things I've ever written. For all the thoughts that my father has which must be just much more complicated ideas than I could ever fathom, he always went for the very simple solution. My goal has always been to make decisions in that way, and thus far has served me well. Admittedly, I wouldn't trade my life, no matter how tumultuous it has been, for his. I do not know if I will ever be as successful as he is. But I do know that if I keep making the simple decisions, the ones that align with my own set of principles, that I'll be fine.

I know one thing for sure: there aren't enough men like him.

Happy Fathers Day,
The Bar Fight

Goodbye, D.C.

I haven’t slept in about 8 months. I know you’re thinking, that impossible, and it is. I don’t mean it in the literal sense. I simply mean that I haven’t rested in 8 months. I fall asleep out of necessity these days; I sleep because I must and only for a few hours and then I am awake again. I can’t help it.

When I was in college at Emerson (Boston), there was one day that I decided to leave class early. I’m not sure why, I just decided it was time to go, and I walked out. As I exited my building and took a left onto Boylston Street, I heard a sound I’ll never forget.

You see, my first job ever was cutting trees, and when a tree “cracks out,” or essentially breaks the wrong way, it makes a terrifying groaning sound. The wood bends and twists and cries to let you know that something unnatural is happening. I heard something like that, but worse.

About 30 feet away, a body slammed to the concrete in a spray of blood. Moments after, I watched as an entire crane flattened a car with somebody driving it wearing scrubs. I’ll never forget the look of utter terror and confusion they had as that body hit the ground in front of them moments before their death. They were probably on their way to work.

I ran to the construction worker who hit the concrete first. I wanted to help, but the contents of his head were spread on the asphalt; there was nothing I could do. The crane had flattened the car. There was another caught in the bent and mangled crane. At the time I was an aspiring conflict photographer so I ran and got my camera. I still have those photos but have shown them to no one. My parents saw me on the news as they reported about it. The Herald offered me money for the photos, but I decided to not sell them; if that happened to me, I wouldn’t want my mom to see me like that.

The months following were a blur. I wasn’t necessarily traumatized; it wasn’t the first time I had seen death. I continued on with my life, but I do remember that the world seemed muffled. Everything felt hazy. Colors weren’t as bright. Sounds weren’t as sharp. And I couldn’t focus and I couldn’t sleep. That went on for months, and it took getting very far out of Boston for a few months to make it better. That half awake, half asleep feeling where you’re perpetually tired and hazy is a terrible way to live. And that’s how I’ve been living the last 8 months.

Have you ever broken something very fragile and tried to glue it back together? I have. I got some silly tourist mini vase in Greece for my mom when I was 16 and broke it on the way home. I was crushed. I tried to glue the pieces back together, but in my panic, I would grip them too hard and they would break further. In the end all that was left was a pile of dust.

I couldn't put into words how I really felt until I was re-watching Parks & Recreation, and I saw it perfectly.

Yup. Nail on the head.

I have always felt the presence of a flame that I used to have burning in me that drove me forward. I could feel it, the engine, the forward movement, the determination, the push. And that flame is gone. I knew there was a problem when I just had nothing else to write. I would write and delete and walk away, try again, and fail. It got to the point of breaking, no matter how much I tried to work through it or get out and be happy, I knew there was something that needed to be done that I was not doing.

I've learned a lot of hard lessons over the past year. I've learned that sometimes your best laid plans will simply fall to shit. I've learned that people change in drastic and painful ways. I've learned that if you don't pay attention to how you change, it can result in disaster. I've learned that no matter how tough you think you are, everyone has a breaking point.

I've learned why they name hurricanes after people.

I came to the realization that I was broken. What was frightening is that I didn't (and maybe still don't...) know how to fix it. And then, I watched this:

It occurred to me that I needed time away. But vacation was not the answer, because a week or two away wasn't it. No, the answer was sabbatical. I've been working in restaurants, placing myself aggressively in high stress management positions and I remembered when my life was simpler. I would bartend and that was that. Make drinks, hear the stories, live the life. I was discovering DC and that's over. Many things are over. I wanted the creative shot in the arm I've been missing for the longest time.

Some of you have heard this, but many of you have not. This is my plan.

The Bar Fight is going on the road.

I have the privilege of living in a gigantic country and have a skill that I can use in most any city in the US. I am going to sell the things I don't need and put the rest of it into storage, pack my basic possessions and my dog into my car, and hit the road. My goal is to find a new place every few months to go. I want to get behind bars all over this country. If you're reading this than you know me - know of a place that would want to hire an accomplished bartender for a couple months? Reach out to me.

I am putting a period at the end of the sentence that has been the last few years of my life and doing something I havn't done before. I'm looking at Charleston, Charlottesville, St. Louis, Nashville, Pittsburgh, Minneapolis, Seattle, Portland, Austin, San Diego, Chicago, SOMEWHERE in Montana, New Orleans, maybe the Florida Keys. I don't want to travel like a tourist, which I did years ago on a road trip. I want to take the time to live in these places and understand the culture, live the food, and serve the drinks. I want to teach and I want to learn, one bar at a time.

I don't know what I'm looking for and I don't know what sort of answers I am trying to find. I spend a good bit of time worrying that perhaps I am making a mistake, walking away from everything that I have built here. Just as I know that everything one does can be destroyed, it also means that it can be rebuilt. To anyone I've disappointed, I am sorry. Those of you who feel that I've let you down, I apologize. I just know that I need to do something to try to put the pieces back together.

This will be the new story of The Bar Fight, or perhaps the story that it should've always been. This will be the story of a man and his dog, finding a way to bring that small fire back to life that I feel has gone out. I want to bring back the passion and love of this industry that I once had, and I feel this is the way.

To all of the friends that I have made in DC over the years, thank you for your inspiration and kindness. To everyone I've worked with or for, thank you for the opportunities. Goodbye DC. Hello....well I don't know yet. You'll know as soon as I do.

I've come to understand that in the end, I am trying to find my way home. I just don't know where it is.

Safe Travels,
The Bar Fight

Black Suits and Broken Eggs

I own only one black suit, and I hate it. It's not the suit's fault. It's a perfectly good black 3 button, fits me fine, and sits quietly in my closet while waiting for its use. I feel bad for this suit, but it only has one function. I only wear this suit to funerals. Unfortunately I had to wear this suit today.

But let's back up for a moment.

My new chef, Antonio, was working his first brunch with me last Sunday morning. Things were a bit shaky at first, much like all transitions. Our brunch menu is not terribly complicated but it is certainly labor intensive and people expect their food in a timely manner, so it was a bit difficult to get into a groove. Chef was plating a pork belly Benedict, which requires you to balance a poached egg on top of the meat and then put hollandaise on top. We had not yet gotten our immersion circulator, so he was poaching the eggs the old fashioned way.

He cracked an egg, and it was under cooked. He cracked another and it wouldn't balance. Leaning over the plate, the deafening silence that comes when you have hungry guests and no food leaving the kitchen dropped into the room like a sewage soaked blanket. I saw frustration begin to bubble into his face. Anger was right behind. Then he stopped.

He straightened up and looked up at me across the line, took a deep breath, smiled, and said "I'm not going to let an egg ruin my day."

I looked at him perplexed for a moment, and just started to laugh. As I did, he grabbed an egg, it cracked perfectly, and suddenly food was flying out the door. "That's a true Chef," I thought to myself. You see all of these silly Chef's on TV with hair trigger tempers, but when Antonio is in the kitchen he is smiles, laughs, and all business. His line is happy too cook with him. He really loves his food.

It's such a simple thought, really. There are so many things that deserve to ruin your day, so many bigger, uglier, dirtier fights that are to be had. There are so many bigger issues in my life and Chef's, and I beamed in admiration. And then there are eggs. There are little problems which will pass but can turn into something ugly if you allow it.

A week later I'm donning my black suit, tie, and vest, on the way to say goodbye to my friend's son. A hole the size of a continent had just been ripped through their family and there is nothing I can do but support them and crack a bad joke every now and again.

I sat in a hazy Ethiopian church today, a layer of incense hanging thick and sleepy, and listened as four priests melodically chanted as they prepared him for burial. I felt tears begin to well up in my eye, remembering the grinning young man who tried to duck out his bedroom window when I caught him at his parents house while they were on vacation. I remembered the way that his mother used to beam whenever she said his name and how proud his step-dad was of him going to college.

I suppose those are the moments that are important to let in. As I watched his mother collapse in grief, I let go of my personal wish to never have to hold another trembling body or watch a casket loaded into a hearse for a life extinguished far too soon. I would give anything to take their pain from them. There is nothing that I can do.

So today, I will do my best to remember that young man who was so loved by his friends and family. I will stand strong for my incredible friends who have helped me through some of the darkest times in my own life. I will bring them food and tell stories and crack jokes. I will, come hell or high water, go to work and do my best. I will sing, I will drink,  and I will cry.

But I will not let an egg ruin my day.

"Knowledge does not come in books, it comes in caskets." -Bane

Humbly yours,
The Bar Fight

An Interesting Dine-and-Dash

I've seen it a thousand times before, more than I care to count. It has happened to me more than once. It started with a puzzling look from one of my servers as I saw a woman using our telephone.

"She asked to use it," a server told me sheepishly. No doubt, they knew what I was thinking. When a guest asks to use your phone, very little good comes of it.

I raised my eyebrows with that unmistakable look on my face that says: "What the hell are you talking about; elaborate." The server looked back at me and explained that she had ordered a salad, was halfway through, and realized that she had no form of payment to be seen. She was currently calling her son, asking him to come to my restaurant to pay her tab. The phone was ringing and never picked up. My server didn't know what to do, so I instructed her to wait. Situations like this can disturb other diners, so it needed to be dealt with quietly and gently. Raised voices are never a good thing in restaurants.

Minutes crawled on, and dragged into a half hour and beyond. I watched this woman, eyes fixed to her plate, rotate the last remaining bites of lettuce and duck leg around the white porcelain like a ticking clock. Something needed to be done.

I went to the table and asked her if her meal was satisfactory; she assured me it was delicious. I told her that my staff had informed me that there had been some difficulty in processing payment and that evidently her son was on the way. She nodded and began to babble about traffic on a sleepy weekday evening.

I had two choices at this point. First, I could wait for her son or daughter to show up, pay her tab, and have her leave gracefully, though I knew this was an unlikely scenario. I knew she couldn't pay, and so did she.

"Miss," I said quietly, "I'm going to take care of your salad just this once. But it can't happen again."

Her smile revealed missing teeth and I watched as she grabbed her purse - stuffed to the point of breaking with clothes - as she began to thank me and admonish me with the blessings of Jesus and such.

We went down the stairs together and before she exited, I stopped her.

"This can't happen again; I can't feed you for free. Please do not make this into a habit." I told her. For effect, I repeated, "This can't happen again." She apologized again and assured me it wouldn't ever happen again. I could see tears welling in her eyes. That was the moment I knew she had no money. If she had money I would've been berated with anger and outrage of such an accusation. Shame always bubbles to the surface quietly.

She was about to turn and walk away and I asked her more quietly than before, "There is no son, is there?"

She looked at me for a moment, and said "There is, but we have not spoken in about 15 years."

I took a deep breath, reached into my back wallet. I had a $20 bill that was to be my beer money for later that evening folded in half. I handed it to her and asked her to make sure that she made her way into a shelter; it was going to get cold and windy.

Silently, she smiled, took the bill, and walked out the front door.

Humanity is funny thing, and sometimes it is hard to wake up and put on my tie in my nice apartment and realize that there are some out there with so little when some of us have so much. It's moments like those that are refreshing and important to scale our own personal problems to understand that there is so much out there that we do not understand, and far worse circumstances under which we could be living. Life, as a whole, is a humbling and short experience. If you don't take the time to look outside yourself once in a while, it's hard to rejoice in the happiness that you have. Maybe that is the key to this whole thing we call life.

Besides, I didn't really need to be drinking that night anyways.

Stay Thirsty,
The Bar Fight

28 things I've learned by my 28th birthday.

Today is my birthday. I thought about what to write for my entry this week. The following is a collection of 28 things I have learned in my 28 years that may be worth sharing.

1. Cold drinks are most delicious with plenty of ice cubes. Hot drinks are best in mugs you can wrap both hands around. This is known.

2. Whenever making a drink, keep flavors separate. Why make a lemon/blackberry syrup and chance screwing it up when you can make one that is lemon, the other is blackberry, and mix them at whatever ratio you want? There is a larger metaphor to life here somewhere. I'm sure you'll find it. Thanks, Bear.

3. You can graduate friends into family, but do it with caution. Often times we rush our evaluation of people; take your time to trust, but don't be afraid to do it. Thanks, Zach.

4. There are a few foods out there called super foods, but they aren't what you think. They simply make other food better. Some of these are bacon, cheese, red pepper flakes and Sriracha sauce. Apply liberally to your favorite dishes. This is important for morale.

5. You need to read more books. I don't care how many you read, you need to read more. Watching the movie adaptation counts as net negative books read.

6. Being an asshole knows no boundaries to race, gender, sexuality, nationality or economic class. Choose to dislike who you dislike based off the merit of how big of a douchebag they are and for no reason otherwise.

7. In every group of friends, a team, or a staff, there is an asshole that nobody likes but everyone tolerates. Much like the smelly kid in fourth grade, if you don't know who it is, it's probably you.

8. Stop complaining. It is a useless waste of time and you should be ashamed of yourself every time you do it. Don't like your job? Quit. Don't like where you live? Move. Don't like your life? Change. Complaints are simply excuses as to why you are too scared to make a real transformation of your life.

9. You can do anything for 30 seconds. This simple phrased was drilled into my head at Wai Kru MMA in Boston when I was learning Muay Thai. Kru Mark Nardone would yell this at us whenever it looked like we would quit in conditioning or sparring. 30 seconds would turn into 45, which would turn into a minute. Often time people quit before they try; you are capable of so much more than you know. Thanks Kru John, Nicky Boom-Boom, and Kru Mark.

10. Wisdom knows no age. Adults often forget the simple truths that children instinctively know. Examples of these: enjoy the little things, be kind for no reason, or if Mom says no, ask Dad.

11. It is highly likely that you were an annoying little shit when you were a teenager. It wasn't entirely your fault, but you will owe your parents apologies for those years for the entirety of your life. I suggest a nice vacation. Sorry, Mom.

12. Vengeance and retribution, while satisfying to the ego, are some of the most self destructive things you can do. Pain is an integral part of being human; feeling pain is part of existence. Hurting others robs you of your humanity. If I could change anything in my past, it would not be the ways that others hurt me, but rather the times that I decided to hurt others physically or emotionally.

13. Big ice cubes are always better than little ones. Why? Science.

14. Be content with spending time alone. It is good for the soul. Try to truly isolate yourself once in a while. That being said, too much time spent without meaningful human contact is not healthy. Alone and lonely are very different things.

15. Nature and sunlight heal the human mind. This is not an opinion, this is science. Go outside, preferably with a dog. (That is an opinion.) Things make more sense out there. Thanks, Joe and Rick.

16. The universe is not a malevolent entity. It is not out to get you any more than it is there to help you. It is ambiguous to your existence. It's not against you, it just doesn't care. Your time here is small and insignificant, so live humbly. Taking it personally makes you bitter. Bitterness leads to fear. Fear leads to the dark side. The dark side leads you to acting like an asshole. Seriously, I am a case study in this.

17. Listen to the advice of fictional characters. Yoda, Samwise, and The Dude have some serious knowledge to drop on you.

18. Stop idolizing the wrong people. America was at it's greatest when it's heroes were scientists, entrepreneurs, parents, and explorers, not entertainers, reality TV stars and those who became rich through dishonest means. Get your priorities straight; the next generation will follow your lead.

19. A good and honest life is filled with hard work, dedication, anonymous charity and love. Mr. Burke, thank you.

20. Have a buddy confiscate your phone when you are going out to do some serious drinking. It will save you the humiliation of apologizing to your boss, ex, or crush in the morning.

21. Never stop seeking the counsel of your parents. Ever. There is nothing a beer with Dad or a home cooked meal from Mom can't fix. If it doesn't work the first time, repeat until it is effective. Everyone else in your life may betray you, but they won't. Mom and Dad, I love you.

22. Learn forgiveness. For many it does not come naturally and must be practiced. Of course, this applies to the forgiveness of others but more importantly to that of yourself.

23. Don't apologize for how much you work, be it too much or too little. If you work too little, be prepared to be considered "lazy," but hey, at least you can enjoy your lifestyle. If you work too much, know that it will be stressful and sometimes damaging to your personal relationships. Even the idea of "too little" or "too much" is a relative term, usually defined by those that are not doing the labor, so take those terms with a grain of salt. Make your choice and live with the consequences.

24. Happiness is a choice and so is sadness. Don't forget that its sometimes ok to not be ok. Allow yourself room to grieve and mourn when it is appropriate, but know when to call it quits and work on moving forward. Don't let anyone put a limit on how long you "should" feel something. Thank, Julia.

25. Living in the past is shadowboxing with ghosts. Living in the future is a great way to set yourself up for disappointment. Learn from your choices of the past, cringe, laugh, and let go of your regrets. Make plans for the future, but don't do so at the detriment of the present. The only thing you can address in this moment is this moment.

26. Know when to ask for help and don't be too proud to take it. A smart person knows their limits of the knowledge, abilities and resilience; seek the help of those who know more or can see clearer than you.

27. When you were young, it seemed like the adults of the world knew what they were doing. You were mistaken. We are all just figuring it out the best we can as we go. The older you get, the more you should realize what you don't know.

28. Follow your own advice.

Thank you for the birthday wishes.

Regards,
The Bar Fight