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Author: James Brush

James Brush is a teacher and writer who lives in Austin, TX. He tries to get outside as much as possible.

Hound Update

Okay so Phoebe seems to have adjusted to the idea that the humans will be gone for the better part of each day. I am happy to report a lack of destruction for the past two days, and she seems genuinely excited to see us when we get home. She even barked at me when I walked in (a very high-pitched bark that sounds odd coming from a dog of her size), which was startling since greyhounds aren’t known for barking. She apparently learned the skill from a doberman in her foster home.

She’s still shy when we approach; obviously she’s not used to being treated well by people, but then mistreatment is the life to which most racing greyhounds are accustomed. I love the dogs and watching them run together in the backyard is great fun, because they truly love to run, but the greyhound racing business just turns my stomach. I can’t imagine mistreating these beautiful animals. Dogs are great. People suck.

LibraryThing

Recently, I stumbled upon LibraryThing, a very cool site/web-based book cataloging application, which is still in its beta phase but developing new features on what seems to be a daily basis. It’s become a near obsession. Who knew how much fun pulling books off the shelves and entering ISBN numbers could be? I don’t generally go out seeking massive data-entry projects, but this is a pleasure. Perhaps because it gives me the opportunity to pick up my books and look at them and think to myself things like:

“I really need to read this one.”

“Wow, I forgot how cool this book is.”

“Why the hell do I have this book?!?”

Over the years, I’ve gotten rid of probably as many books as I own since I frequently vacillate between wanting to own every book I read (and keep them even when I know I’ll never read them again) and wanting to own fewer possessions. Sometimes I think I’d like to have a giant room filled with books on all subjects, and at other times I think it would be cool to have all my books digitized and only have a small stack of DVD-ROMs.

I suppose it comes down to the question of a book’s worth. Is it the content? Is it the object? Or is it both? I would like to think it’s mainly the content, but then a house without books would seem such a lonely place.

That’s really the coolest thing about Library Thing: As I enter books, I feel like I’m visting old friends.

Phoebe, Still a Puppy

Phoebe seems to be adjusting well to her new life. She has discovered the couch and even wags her tail when we come near her, but she is still afraid to look at us. She comes to the door to greet us, but runs away when we notice her. She watches us constantly and with great interest. It seems she wants to like us, but is still afraid of people.

Yesterday was her first day at home without the humans, and she had great fun tearing up some paper, eating some blinds, and stuffing her leash under the couch cushions. It looked like the work of two dogs, so I suspect Daphne also participated since she has a record of paper shredding. For now, we’ll call Daphne an unindicted co-conspirator.

Phoebe does posess the greyhound quality of being a packrat, collecting bones and fluffy toys and taking them back to decorate her place. Yesterday, in addition to pieces of paper and the blinds, she managed to collect every dog toy in the house and bring them back to her place.

When I let Phoebe out, she likes to run around the backyard and once even rooed and then barked at the neighbor’s lab. She’s almost two and now that she’s off the track, she is probably beginning her real puppyhood, which means lots of exploring, testing the chewability of various objects around the house, and continuing to follow Daphne around like…well, like a puppy. A very large puppy.

Maybe I’ll Get that PhD…

I’ve recently learned that I am a sucker as are all of us who have spent hours, thousands of dollars, and even the Best Years of Our Lives toiling towards degrees at institutions of higher learning. We were conned by the marketing cabal known as Big Education into believing that their product, “higher learning”, is the only form of education.

Who knew that life experience could be converted into the degree of your choice at such fine institutions as Belford University and Rochville University? For a modest fee, the enterprising student can even give his GPA a boost. Why did I spend all those evenings worrying about studying? (Oh, misspent youth!)

Of course these institutions are accredited, Rochville by both the prestigious UCOEA and the lesser-known BOUA, both of whom seem to share the same web designer.

If academic qualification isn’t your thing (not everyone was cut out for school after all), a career in the ministry could be very rewarding. Just visit the Universal Life Church to become an ordained minister.

I think few people will ever again say that the Rev. Dr. James Brush, MA, MFA, MBA, MLIS, MEd, JD, PhD is not both a gentleman and a scholar and fully qualified for any position in the Bush Administration.

We Be the Master Now

When we got our first dog, Zephyr, she was a self-feeder who ate only when she felt like it, usually every other day. When we got Daphne, Zephyr began eating every time there was food around, and Daphne knew that she was not to eat until Zephyr had eaten all of her food and whatever of Daphne’s she could steal while we (the food police) weren’t watching. Daphne, until yesterday, was never terribly interested in food one way or the other, which made it easy for Zephyr to help herself to Daphne’s dinner.

When Phoebe came on the scene, however, Daphne suddenly started eating her own food and then investigating Phoebe’s. We never thought Daphne would ever exhibit any alpha behavior, but recently she was heard mumbling something along the lines of, “We has the precious, and we be the master now.” Zephyr would be proud.

New Hound in Town

Phoebe This is Greyhound Phoebe. She came to us yesterday from Greyhound Pets of America – Central Texas, and has spent the past 24 hours relaxing on her place by the back door and observing our habits. She is a spook, which means that she is afraid of many things, particularly people. She does not seem to be afraid of Daphne (see the picture beneath my profile) or Morrison.

Phoebe will be two on November 8. We haven’t weighed her yet, but she appears to be about 65 pounds. She is a racer who was forced into early retirement after twice being defeated at a racetrack in Corpus Christi. Her racing name was “Rayna Ann Walker” but for the past six weeks in foster care, has been called “Geena.” She is a sweet girl who loves to eat. She likes chewing on fluffy toys and seeMorrisonms to enjoy exploring the backyard.

She was fostered with several cats and appears to be as ambivalent towards them as Morrison is to her as can be seen in this photo (although he does try to get on her place).
Daphne is marginally interested but mainly when they’re outside. In the next few days, she will probably begin exploring and interacting a bit more, and I’ll keep you posted.

Dream Ships

(an old poem…)

The broken ships lay torn under black cliffs
Nailed to shore by Sea’s relentless hammer
Dead Gull silhouette floats in glowing phosphor
Blown about by Gale’s unending power

Water shudders under Sky’s turbulent embrace
Gray battles Grey at Horizon’s obscured line
No life on the Shore of Ghosts, no life here
Except me, the phantom-dreaming me

I stand alone and watch this scene buried in dark night
My breath the only life among the wrecks
Trembling under waves, my feet give way
The deck shakes, rocks—I try to look around

Feet carry me across upended planks
A funeral shroud of sailcloth clings to Mast’s broken arm
No recent death appears in this ancient scene
Everything here has always existed before me

I ask, “Why bring me here? Does this pertain to me?”
From Childhood’s nighttime terrors to Adulthood’s fever dreams
I’ve walked these planks all my life, a thousand times,
Asking only, “Where am I? What does this mean?”

Big Ugly Billboards

Driving around Austin, it’s easy to notice that Mopac is relatively pleasant even when it’s choked with traffic, while driving I-35 is nearly unbearable even when traffic is light. Mopac is pretty in part because it is mostly free of billboards, and I think this lack of aggressive signage makes for a more relaxing overall drive. You don’t feel like anyone is shouting at you on Mopac.

The disruption of this visual silence is for me why billboards are inherently tacky and always mar what would be an otherwise more pleasant landscape, even in the heart of a city. Cute little messages from “God” or “Billboard” don’t help either. In a way, though, billboards become a kind of totem of the divine as it appears in a highly materialistic society such as ours: we look to them on high for guidance as they shine brightly in the heavens, but when compared with a highway devoid of billboards (that increasingly can only exist in the imagination) they are revealed (and reveal commercialism) to be empty substitutes for the divine or trees or anything else of real worth as Fitzgerald so aptly implied in The Great Gatsby.

This comes to mind as over the past few weeks, I’ve noticed a billboard spring to life in a neighborhood near my own. It towers over the landscape calling attention to itself, and though it is currently blank since the owners are in a dispute with a local home owners association over it, it is an eyesore and a sad reminder of how little aesthetics are valued when there is coin to be made.

I am pleased to learn that a group of local homeowners is trying to fight The Man on this one and even have the help of at least one county official.

Beer, Mass Culture and God

“Beer is proof that God loves us.”
-Benjamin Franklin

Beer. It’s really very simple. Hops, barley malt, water, yeast. You can add some grains or any number of other things to create unique flavors, but the essence of beer is simple. Yeast eat sugar, producing two basic by-products: alcohol and carbon dioxide. Beer, or more broadly put fermented sugar water, is one of the oldest creations of the human race. Nearly every civilization from the Egyptians to the Aztecs to the English have brewed beer. One can travel the world over (or visit a good well-stocked pub) and sample beers from different cultures and climates, each with its own unique taste and character. Australia’s hearty lagers can be just the thing after a hard day in the sun, while Mexico’s lagers go with a nice easy day at the beach. The British stouts warm a winter evening and the Caribbean’s milk stouts offer a touch of sweetness after a spicy meal. Germany’s famous bocks and hefe-wiezzens should be savored for their rich complexity, as might a fine wine.

There are two basic styles of beer: lager and ale. Lagers tend to be lighter in body and have a cleaner flavor. They are cold fermented at lower temperatures and are usually light in color. Ales, fermented at room temperature and occasionally served at room temperature, have a much more complex flavor and range in color from light amber to black. Both are excellent styles and a matter of personal preference analogous to the differences between red and white wine. I personally prefer English ales to any other style. There is a third beer style, unfortunately. This is the swill produced by the major American breweries. You know who they are. Their beer is a perverse replica of the pilsner style of lager originating in eastern Europe in much the same way that Frankenstein’s monster was a twisted version of a human being.

Too often, when offered a beer, I am treated to a flavorless concoction consisting of slightly metallic tasting carbonated water mixed with alcohol. The sad truth is that this is not beer. This is an alcohol delivery device, not a fine drink to be savored and appreciated for its flavor or character. Perhaps, a handful of hops was held near the wort while it boiled and dissolved sugars, but certainly no hops were lovingly thrown into the mix. Prior to 1920 and prohibition, American beer was just as interesting and unique as the beer of any other country. We had variety and regional flavor. During prohibition, only the larger breweries survived by shifting production to non-alcoholic products. In 1933, prohibition ended and the major breweries proceeded to market a lighter style of beer that would appeal to both women and men. Over the years, beer came to mean a watery beverage, often brewed with rice or corn, that carried alcohol into the body without carrying flavor across the tongue. This is franken-beer made by corporations that love profit more than beer. I have spoken with many people who say they don’t like beer, but have only ever sampled the twisted products of these breweries. I was one of them until I tasted a true beer, a certain Irish stout that looks like coffee. I then realized that I had never previously tried beer; I had only tried franken-beer.

The mass market ad campaigns have taught many people too well that beer with flavor is bad or as one brewery put it, “skunky.” To combat skunkiness, this brewery put born on dates on all of its bottles. But when is a beer born? Is it born when the hops are thrown into the boiling wort as my religious friends might say, or do we take the more secular view that a beer is born when the bottle leaves the brewery? I say that too often American beer is in fact stillborn, or perhaps is not even born at all, no more deserving of the language of birth than a machine. Beer is born when there is love. Love for originality and uniqueness. Not love of money.

Referring back to Ben Franklin’s quote and thinking of the popularity of American macro-brews, one cannot help but wonder if perhaps God no longer loves us. Perhaps we are being punished for following the trendy ads rather than our taste buds. I believe that this phenomenon, which occurs in other industries (think hamburger chains), is the end result of mass culture. Are we doomed to a steady diet of blandness and nothing?

Killing Pablo

Note: This is a review I posted one night in 2003 while playing with amazon.

After reading Mark Bowden’s Blackhawk Down, I wanted more of Mark Bowden’s gritty, exciting style. My only qualm with that book was the lack of sociopolitical background. Killing Pablo delivers that in spades. This book goes beyond the excitement of the chase and delves into the cultural forces that allow men like Pablo Escobar to exist in the first place. It is not a pretty picture, and it raises many questions for those of us living comfortable lives in the United States. What is our responsibility for keeping the world ‘safe’ and how much of the world’s ills are of our own creation?

This book causes one to really ponder the moral implications of our government’s actions, and at its heart is the timeless question of when does one act and when does one hold still. By the end of the book, I agreed that Escobar had to be killed, but I was left asking that ancient and uneasy question: Do the ends justify the means?

Powerful, well-written, significant. I couldn’t put this one down. By the end of reading it, my house was a wreck, and I had a stack of work that I was behind on simply because I couldn’t stop reading, even though the book’s cover gives away the ending. I had to know how it came to that.