Alberty's Blah Blah Blog

I love carrots. And not just because of this photo? Although, honestly, the photo doesn’t hurt.

There is a mystery to the carrot for me. And part of the mystery is that for most people there is no mystery. Carrots are that bright orange, conical vegetable. Or carrots are those little orange sausage-looking things that come in a bag.

Here’s the mystery. Both of those incarnations are relatively new. Originally carrots were purple, red, yellow, and white.

There are a ton of varieties. In fact, there is literally a carrot variety for every letter of the alphabet. And they all don’t look the same.

Bertans, Amsterdam Forcings, and Nantes Frubund are almost cylindrical, like cigars. Parmex and Thumbelinas look like grenades. But we live with such a fervor for homogeneity that we imagine there is only one type of carrot.

We belong to the Grinnell Farms CSA who has been giving us five pounds of carrots every two weeks for the last couple of months. We are awash in carrots. And none of them would find their way into a grocery store.

They are all gnarly with multiple shoots, not one the same size as the other. And they are more delicious than anything you find in the grocery store.

And, imagine finding this manly root in the aisles of Hy-Vee. Walmart maybe, but then it would have been wearing a leopard thong an a purple bowler.

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I hate being late with anything. So not getting a blog post out really drives me crazy.

But, apparently there is a lot of stuff going on these days, and I’m not a very good personal time scheduler. I could kind of use an assistant, but that is simply not going to happen.

I am knee deep in trying to get my first chapter’s audio book version produced. As usual there is stuff I want to do, but simply don’t have the know-how to do it. And, as the last post stated, I find that lack of skill and knowledge really frustrating.

I’m wanting to get it done before Christmas, so I can send it off as a teaser, so I’ve a tad of pressure.

I guess it’s a question of getting done when I want it done or getting it done with the quality that I want it. I certainly don’t want it to sound like a hack job, because I just assume that will do more damage to the project that help it.

I want people to hear it and go, “Holy shit! That was great! I want to hear the next one.”

But I guess it’s a question of degrees.

The second project pressing on me now is the beginning of the next production I’m directing for Theatre Cedar Rapids. We are doing the stage version of The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe.

It’s a children’s show.

My previous TCR directions have been A Streetcar Named Desire, Noises Off, Laramie Project, and Six Characters. That means that LW&W is totally out of my comfort zone. I guess that’s a good thing. It will help to stretch me.

I guess we’ll just have to see what happens.

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More often than not I have these grand ideas — though sometimes they are not so grand — that seem on the surface to me a simple matter of sitting down and doing it; however, when the doing begins, I realize that I do not have the technical knowledge or skills to bring about my vision.

And it drives me mad — in both senses of the word.

I remember in my youth, I had this great idea of creating a piece of art that was, for me, a visual representation of a piece of music. I was, for a time, hooked on the Canon in D. I had over twenty different recordings spanning multiple genres.

I wanted to paint the Canon. I wanted to create a piece of art that people would look at and, at first sight, think it was an interesting painting. Then when they looked at it while the Canon was playing, it would absolutely blow their mind. That rhythm of the painting would meld with the rhythm of the music. The music would lilt as the painting lilted.

Great idea. No skills. Apparently art school exists for a reason. Go figure.

I thought it would be a great idea to put by book on an interactive web site. I know exactly what I want. Unfortunately there is no program out there that is so user friendly as to allow me to do that without the help of someone who actually knows what they are doing.

Which brings me to today.

I am presently producing an audio recording of the first chapter of my book Darnan, the first book in my Galadahn trilogy web site. Well, there are a few things I want to do, like make it sound as good as I hear it in my head.

I am using Logic Pro, which is an amazing and humongous program. I thought it would be pretty easy to just hit online and look at some specific tutorials for what I wanted to do.

Well, not everyone is a good teacher for the novice wannabe. These guys are explaining what, to me, should be a relatively easy thing to do. But they are throwing in so much jargon that it just ends up angering me about my own lack of knowledge.

It’s like watching my brother try to teach my mother — for the seventh time — how to use her photo printer. He is a great IT guy and runs the department for a billion dollar medical plaza construction company. But he can’t teach.

I see my mother getting frustrated. I see him getting frustrated because she doesn’t know even the simplest things, like it takes 430 megs to extrapolate the fultrum so the gigamonz can synch right with wysywig’s central core processor. (I made that up, though I’m pretty sure I’ve heard him say wysywig before.)

Anyway, it comes down to the fact that I most always need someone else’s hands-on help to understand how the hell to the “simple” things I want done.

It drives me crazy!

I think part of my frustration comes from the fact that I am interested in far too many things. I just don’t take (I like to believe I have) the time to focus on one thing at a time. I also put these arbitrary deadlines on projects that heap on the pressure. Auuuugh!

Well, I’m still going to work to figure out the Logic Pro.

First I have to go change the headlight in my car. It shouldn’t be too difficult, right?

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Okay, pretty proud of a little idea today. Made me feel like was living in the self-sufficient 1930s, just like my old man.

He likes to tell stories of self-reliance amid his dirt-poor upbringing. One of his favorite stories is about some game named mumblety-peg. Apparently they would find a stick and shove it into the ground. Then the “players” would find stones, and the game was essentially tossing the stones toward the stick and the closest would win.

A classic no cost, home made game.

Well, Dad, be proud. I rednecked up the Albercainty household today.

I made a pull-car for the boy.

Okay, it all starts out with the fact that I am not only old, but have a fair bit of mileage on this chassis.

Stay with me here.

The kid likes to play choochoo. This consists of him sitting in a large Rubbermaid tote and me (or my wife) pulling him across the carpet saying, “Choo! Choo!”

Now, I am old and fat. My wife is pregnant and has a prosthetic leg. And this move involves us bending over in a hunch and pulling this tote — which has ridges on the bottom — across carpet. Embarrassing to imagine, pathetic to behold.

And it is made all the worse by the fact that the kid absolutely loves it. There was one night that we ended up tag teaming to keep his fun up without crippling ourselves.

So, I’ve been thinking about this one for a while. And I’m happy about it, but I do feel a little dirty. I guess that’s because I have been inculcated to believe it is better to buy buy buy than fix something together. But  have overcome it

I took a diaper box, a big one, a 150 count box. I took a cylindrical dog toy, a stinky one, a yucky dog toy. I took a dog leash, a chain one, a hated dog leash. And I took duct tape.

I feel like I discovered fire. This pull-car became his favorite toy today. He woke up after his nap and knocked around for a bit. Then he saw the box. He is always drawn to boxes. I set him into it and we took off.

The chain was the genius part. I could pull the kid all day — nearly did. We must have choochooed for about 45 minutes. We opened all the doors and did full circuits of the house. We have a sunken family room, too, so there was a little excitement in the drop in and rise out.

Add two excited dogs it was a crazy rocking afternoon.

So I now eschew the toy aisle — not really, as I desperately want a Star Wars Lego set (for my son, of course), if you’re listening Santa.

Maybe Friday I’ll airbrush some flames on the new pull-car. I’ve already got my La Cucaracha car horn in transit from Amazon.com. Too much?

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My wife is so good with our son. She thinks of doing things that I never would have imagined doing. And one of my favorites is what I call the Spice Sniff.

They stand at the spice rack and move whimsically through the bottles sniffing as they go.

“Cumin. Mommy doesn’t like that one, do you like that one? You do? Mmmm, you like that one. “

“This is cloves. Mommy likes cloves. You like cloves. You like cloves!”

I could watch them do this for hours.

Some he just sticks his nose right into, like cloves. Others, he’s a bit tentative with, like the garam masala.

There is only one herb that he can’t sniff anymore: marjoram. Apparently he gets too excited with it. I came home one evening after rehearsal and there was little green dried herb all over the kitchen.

My wife said, “He got excited and snorted into the bottle. It went everywhere. And it smells like pot.”

So no more marjoram for the boy.

But he now says things that sound a lot like spices. He now points to specific spices that he wants to smell. He says, “kadama” for cardamom. No kidding. It’s pretty crazy to me. He says, “ko” for cloves. And he says it quite enthusiastically.

I know we all make guesses or express hopes about the future careers of our children. I would be happy with cooking as merely a hobby. I can certainly imagine coming home from work into the savory scented heaven of my home, poking my head into the kitchen and seeing my kid opening the oven to pull out a citrus roasted game hen.

That wouldn’t be too bad.

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So, I was extremely happy with Pie-Day Friday. It was something that I looked forward to for those few weeks that I made them.

But alas …

If you remember, the week before Thanksgiving I was quite unwell. Part of my pre-unwell dinner was a small version of the last pie I made: Banana Cream. It was so good. The first time.

Unfortunately, I can now barely think about pie without my gorge rising and catching just below my larynx. I did not eat pie over Thanksgiving, my favorite pies: pumpkin and pecan.

Now, perhaps some day I will again venture into the pie world. But as it is now, the only kind of pie I can imagine making is a meat pie, which, perhaps next Friday.

This week is also a show week, so my cooking has essentially involved pressing buttons on the microwave.

Sorry.

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The Writers’ Room goes up again this weekend, the 3^rd and 4^th of December at the Cedar Rapids Museum of Art. The show starts at 7:30, and it should be a pretty good one.

The writing is pretty strong across the whole table, and mostly it is focused on the general themes of the show.

Our special guest is David Combs. I’ve never worked with him before, but he has a really good handle on character, and he has jumped in totally to the show, which is always nice to see.

Our music guest is an old hand, Ron Dewitte, who is a pretty well known Iowa blues guitarist.

We’ve got a really nice mix of nostalgic and dramatic monologues — more so than usual, actually — with some pretty irreverent sketches, just to keep the audience on their toes. I’m guessing that a couple might make some people squirm, which, of course, we love.

The music is particularly fun this show. Much of it is not part of the SPT stable of songs, so it might be the only time you hear these guys sing these songs. We also have a couple of original tunes, which is always fun.

So, we are, as they say, still grinding the corn for this season. We have two down, one in the breech — how’s that for mixing the metaphors? — and three to load up after the new year.

The next show isn’t until February, so we’ve got a well needed break. It should give me time to focus on the Galadahnia for a month or so.

Click here to check out the SPT web site and find out how to order your tickets. It will be a fun show.

Hope to see you there.

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Alright, so this morning — early this morning — my comedy compatriot, Adam, and I were the “entertainment” for this year’s Chamber of Commerce “Good Morning, Cedar Rapids,” a yearly award show that highlights some of the best, most progressive companies in the city.

It’s a pretty cool event. And it’s the second time Adam and I have been “the talent,” a grave misnomer, but there it is. The real talent is SPT who play a couple of songs, including their own original “Good Morning Cedar Rapids” tune, which, against my darker desires, I actually like to hear and sing to. It’s got a hell of a hook to it. In fact Gerard, the songwriter, is one of the hookers I know.

This year we’re at the Ice Arena … on the ice … pretending to promote the Zamboni Gauntlet Challenge, a new extreme ice sport where a Zamboni pulls some shlubs (Adam and me) like it’s a ski-boat, while the schlubs try to weave through a slalom course, while some “defenders,” played by three brave and gracious Roughrider Girls, shoot t-shirt projectiles at them with the Roughrider Fun Gun. Seriously.

You could pull me behind a Zamboni any time, any day! It was so fun it must be illegal. Both Adam and I were on our assess in about three seconds, but it was the most fun I’ve had in some time.

Okay, now the scary part. My character’s name was Roger Inmann. Adam was Phil McKraken. I was the great Canadian ZamGaun Champion.

Following the great Tiger Woods advertising campaign “I am Tiger Woods,” we were promoting the sport of ZamGaun with a photo of me and the tagline: Roger Me!

When Adam said “Roger Me!” it was so quiet in that arena I could hear the warming ice cracking. It was spooky, as it was the funniest line in the whole four-part sketch.

Roger Me! I can’t even say it without laughing. But nothing! Not a peep. Just ice cracking.

Fewer things are funnier to writers and comedians than comedy bombing and laying a turd. Unless you are the turd layer. Boy was that a long five seconds.

But the whole morning gave me the gift of being one of the handful of people in the world to foot ski behind a Zamboni. And not even five seconds of awful, brutal silence can take that away from me.

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