Ponderings

• April 27, 2024
• 1 week

Anyway, You Can Make that Call

The piano notes were unmistakable as I entered the liquor store. I froze in my tracks.

“Ryan, I can’t believe this. They’re playing some incredibly niche Paul McCartney in here. Like, 2005 Paul McCartney. It’s an album my dad always played — Chaos and Creation in the Backyard. See, this is why Weber is the best.”

I am incredibly fond of Weber Street Liquor. It’s the liquor store for my alma mater, Colorado College. Students frequent this place so often, when school starts back up in August, Weber hangs a banner out front that says “Welcome home, Tigers!” My roommate, Marta, and I were regulars during our college years. Recognizing that we knew virtually nothing about craft beer, we embarked on a beer “connoisseurship.” We’d build a mix-and-match 6-pack (affectionately dubbed a “mixy sixy”) with some arbitrary rule (e.g. select only beers in purple cans). Then we’d proceed to split each beer over the course of the week, rate them out of 5, and write up a review. I would tape a torn piece of scrap paper to the can with our summary, and Marta would plant a succulent in the can. The good old days.

I am fond of Weber Street Liquor, but saying I am just “fond” of Chaos and Creation is a gross understatement. I have countless memories of listening to it top to bottom in our white Suburban, my dad driving and my younger sister in the seat beside me. Back then, the two of us loved the song “English Tea.” As I grew older, I came to appreciate “Too Much Rain,” particularly when our family pets passed on. These days, I could extoll the virtues of every track, but I especially like “Anyway” — the song that was playing overhead in that moment.

Bemused, Ryan proceeded to the task at hand: making a “mixy-sixy” for our friend, Eric. I was dedicated to the task too, but still distracted. I had been thinking of this particular album just recently for a variety of reasons, and it felt like a sign that it appeared in such an improbable context.

We proceeded to the counter and to my delight, Marie was working. Marie knows me from the college days and the years after. Sadly, I live on the other side of town now and so rarely get to visit Weber. This was a treat.

“Marie, how are you? It is so good to see you,” I began. “And also … is it you who put on Chaos and Creation? I love this album. It’s like, the album of my childhood.”

Marie smiled. “It is! You know, I’ve really been into Paul McCartney lately, especially his older stuff. And I think this album is just his very best.”

I couldn’t have agreed more. “Anyway” was coming to an end and I noted how much I loved it, since it also transitions to a completely different, hard rock tune. We exchanged some more words about Paul — me, recommending his albums Memory Almost Full and Egypt Station, Marie, explaining her suspicions about the track “Vanity Fair” — while Ryan listened and smiled patiently.

We left the store and I was in such disbelief that the interaction had even occurred. “I feel like I’ve got to call my dad! But it’s 10 p.m. on the East Coast.”

“Call him anyway.” That’s always Ryan’s response.

After confirming over text that Steve was indeed awake, I rang him. “First off, I am totally OK. I just needed to tell you about something that just happened, in the moment.” I proceeded to recount the whole C&C/Weber episode with Marie to him, and he laughed approvingly. He launched into giving me some Paul tidbits (impersonating the Beatle’s voice, of course — even Ryan had to admit, it was pretty good). I tell people that Steve and I have imaginary conversations with Paul McCartney all the time, so it was nice to have someone actually bear witness. I had been having a pretty awesome day, but this was really the cherry on top.

“I guess there’s only one proper way for me to end this call,” my dad said. “And that’s: ‘How kind of you to think of me.'”

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Prior to this random visit to Weber, I had been stewing about Chaos and Creation, and more broadly, the albums from my youth that I keep coming back to. What was it about them, exactly? I was perplexed by their timelessness, I think. The fact that they could resonate as strongly now as they did when I was a child — though for different reasons — kind of boggled my mind.

To this day, I will regularly play C&C on a long drive and find myself tearing up at a different song every time. I may have cried to “Too Much Rain” at age 12, but at age 27, I’ll find myself sobbing to “This Never Happened Before.” Paul’s lyrics and tunes hit me on such a deep emotional level, having been planted at such a young age. In 2005, I was just 9 years old. Like rock climbing, C&C has been a part of me for two-thirds of my life. I could have grown out of it, but quite the opposite has happened; I’ve grown increasingly into it.

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I am a big album person in general. If I have a long car ride ahead, I will queue multiple albums based on my mood. When I recommend an album to someone, it’s only if I believe it to be top-to-bottom good. Obviously, C&C is one of them. So too is Billy Joel’s The Stranger, Ben Folds’ Rockin the Suburbs. Alternative rock albums from my teenage years, like Wiped Out! by The Neighbourhood, You Haunt Me by Sir Sly. In more recent years, X by the Driver Era, LP3 by Hippo Campus. Whenever I really don’t know what I want to listen to, though, I know I will find solace in Language and Perspective, the first full-length album by my favorite band, Bad Suns.

My affinity for Bad Suns is not unlike my affinity for Paul. I have seen them maybe 9 times in concert. I have one of their lyrics tattooed on my arm (it should be noted I also have a yellow submarine tattoo on my foot). I obsess over their interviews and am in their top 0.5% of listeners every year. To put it simply, I love them. I love Paul. And it’s ironic that love should be the common denominator.

When I think of both Chaos and Creation and Language and Perspective and why they have continually affected me, I’ve realized it’s precisely because they’re not necessarily about love. Chaos and Creation speaks to companionship and friendship quite a bit; Language and Perspective is highly existential, trying to get to the meaning of all of this. Until just the past couple of years, I freely admitted that I didn’t think I knew what love was. Which meant that a lot of music was a little lost on me — but never those two albums.

I don’t care much for genres like rap or country are because they’re unrelatable to me. I can still totally appreciate their lyricism or sound, but I won’t connect with them the same way due to their content. In contrast, I have always been able to appreciate both Paul’s and Bad Suns’ lyricism and sound in the same and newfound ways through the years. And it’s because their content speaks to life more broadly. Though both albums touch on aspects of love, they’re not all about love. So too has been the story of my life.

Now that I have some semblance of what capital L “love” is, songs hit me harder than they ever have. But nothing will compare to the way these original albums cut to the very core of my being. There are few songs like “Anyway” that can stop me dead in my tracks just hearing the piano chords in the liquor store. There are few bands that I would willingly go see 9 times. In that sense, perhaps I knew what love was all along.

Ponderings

• March 23, 2024
• 1 month

An Adventure of Adventures

I recently caught up with my family friend, John Mann, over a beer in Colorado Springs. He was asking me what’s new, as he always does. I always seem a bit of a mess, too restless to ever stop flitting from one activity to another. I told him how some things had all come to a head this last month, and he responded, “Sounds like you were running so fast, you got caught.” I could not have said it better myself.

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Ryan likes to drive me crazy by saying ridiculous pithy statements. He’ll say something like, “What a time to have a time,” in a magnanimous dad voice, or, “Well, I guess it’s about that time we shut our eyes, don’t you think?” I think that despite my exasperation, I’m still slightly amused because these comments aren’t that rare for actual dads to say. As someone who has lots of “dad friends,” I hear these inane statements all the time. Even in my work, I review off-road trail submissions by dads across the country, writing the same practically meaningless comments. My favorite recently: “This trail is an adventure of adventures.”

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My friend Zach is one of the gnarliest hikers I know. On a weekly basis, he gets out and will go for a 10-mile+ hike in a foot of snow, frigid temperatures, and up serious elevation gain. Sometimes these hikes have some real technicality to them, too — they’re practically mountaineering routes. His level of dedication to and stoke for these hikes impress me tremendously. As a trail runner, I don’t think I have the mental willpower to be walking for as long as he does. If I were to run any of his routes, I would surely be done much sooner and not stuck in my own head for nearly as long.

Zach’s hiking also exemplifies how much more consequential hiking in the West is. Growing up on the East Coast, I was never “scared” of hiking. What’s there to be scared of? A black bear? Some bugs? But out here, some hikes are a completely different ball game. There are some traverses and Class 3-5 hikes out here that I am not even willing to attempt. Every time I wake up at 3 a.m. to try a 14er, I am filled with mild trepidation. Sure, I’m physically capable of most hikes, but the sheer exposure and risk involved scares the heck out of me. Find me a trail in the Northeast that can do the same.

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Back in January, Ryan went down a rabbit hole of IQ tests, concerned he was on the left side of the bell curve. “I’ve got to be at least average intelligence,” he asserted, opening a new link. I reassured him I was positive he was at least average, but likely above. It was cracking me up, his need to confirm. (He was in fact a slightly above-average IQ, for what that’s worth.)

A couple of weeks later, we were out snowshoeing with our friend Slade to his family’s remote cabin on Tomichi Pass. Slade, his friend India, and I were up ahead. I can’t remember how the topic came up, but Slade noted, “It’s insane how well Ryan remembers lyrics. Like, in the car, he was singing the words to that song from middle school — including all the rap lyrics — perfectly. And he said he hadn’t heard that song in a decade!” I laughed and agreed. His aptitude for picking up lyrics is kind of incredible. I proceeded to tell Slade and India that despite this capability, Ryan had gotten all concerned about having a low IQ just weeks earlier. It just goes to show you how many different forms of intelligence there are — there is no one-size-fits-all.

Once we were at the cabin and settled, drinking hot chocolate and warming by the wood burning stove, we got to chatting as a group. Slade posed a question: how many songs do you think you actually know? And by know, he meant, know 85% or more of the lyrics. Slade guessed 50 for himself.

“50?” I replied, incredulous. “It’s got to be way more than that, I think. I mean take a look at my Spotify. I have 4,000 Liked Songs. And those are just the songs I hit the heart button on — there are many, many other songs that I know that aren’t on that list. Even if I only know 10% of those songs, that’s 400 right there.”

Slade nodded, with a face that either said “good point” or “that’s ludicrous”; I couldn’t tell. I stand by my calculation, but I don’t think it works for Ryan. He probably knows many, many more.

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I heard a while back on a podcast that almost everyone has a way of visualizing time. I had posed the question to my parents, and sure enough, each of us saw the calendar year in our heads a bit differently. The fact is, we all have visualizations unique to us.

My climbing friend, Casey, told me one a few weeks ago that I found pretty amusing and specific. We were on the bouldering floor working on some new problems, trying a V4/5 that consisted mostly of slopers (round, bulbous holds — think of trying to grip a basketball on the wall).

“Ugh, I hate slopers,” she lamented. “Every time I’m on the wall trying to hold them and start slipping off, I feel like I’m in one of those old-school cartoons. You know, that scenario where the character is in a water tank that is filling up to their neck and about to drown them?” I chuckled. No, I have never felt that way while trying to hold a sloper, but maybe now I will.

Another great visual metaphor I’ve been considering came from my friend, Eric. It’s been useful to reconcile fading friendships. In this new year, I’ve come to realize that each one of my friends fulfills a part of my life, but not all of them have to be very deep to be worthwhile. Yes, some friends are the ones you call at 2 a.m. in an emergency, but other friends are perfect for the calmer sides of life: the friend who you watch basketball with, the friend you go for a run with, the friend who’s down to try that new donut shop with you. All are equally valid.

The way Eric sees it, your life is your house, and you have friends that belong in only certain rooms. Some friends only are invited into the kitchen and dining room. Closer friends likely occupy the living room too. If you’re like most people, ultimately only one person will come into your bedroom. And some friends may be limited to the back patio.

All of these friends are welcome in a part of your house. But it depends on the person and relationship how much of the house you are willing to share.

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You take for granted some things that people do for you when you’re a kid. I’ve talked about just how nice it is when someone prepares a meal for you, down to serving it on a plate and handing it over. It also is incredibly soothing when someone brushes your hair for you. The one I had forgotten until recently is the comfort of someone tying your shoes for you.

Ryan and I were doing a long hike through Bryce Canyon, slipping and sliding on 8 inches of snow that was rapidly melting. My shoelace came undone, and seeing me in gloves, Ryan ordered me to hold still while he tied my shoes. It reminded me of all the times my mom and dad would tie my shoes when I was a kid, and how it always felt like I’d never be able to secure them in place as tightly as them. They stayed tied the rest of the hike.

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Problem-solving together is something that’s fallen to the wayside since the pandemic. With our remote jobs and limited interaction, I find myself collaborating with people less than I used to — and also realizing how much I miss it.

Prior to a two-week road trip, Ryan had ordered a camp kitchen set-up to go in the back of his Subaru. It has two sliding drawers with a built-in sink and a utensil drawer, so you can store your two-burner stove, cooking materials, and clean-up supplies. When it arrived, we knew we’d need to set aside time to put it together. What a joy it was. As we watched the tutorial video, I’d identify pieces, hold them in place, and he’d drill in the screws. We had a genuinely fun time learning how to build this thing, and we felt pretty proud of the end product. The drawer worked like a charm on the trip.

I felt similarly fulfilled on the last full day of the trip, while bouldering outside of Grand Junction. Ryan had found a V6 called “Roulette Dares” that he wanted to try. Though he’d watched a video of someone on it, I had no idea what the problem entailed. Over the course of an hour, though, the two of us were able to unlock the beta for the full problem together. We took turns trying different handholds and feet until we’d determined the exact order and placement of each hand and foot. When I ultimately sent the problem, it was a direct result of our team work, identifying each bit of it, as well as Ryan encouraging and instructing me as I climbed.

Both of these experiences were so satisfying because we worked together. Sure, it would be satisfying to personally accomplish both feats by yourself; but then who do you share that satisfaction with?

Ponderings

• March 22, 2024
• 1 month

#Sponsored

Ever since working for Clif Bar & Company, I’ve had an obsession with the Consumer Packaged Goods (CPG) industry. At Clif, I’d read articles daily about flavor trends, new products, and consumer insights. I can’t say why I was so interested, but I got hooked. I’d look for specific releases at the store and tell people about the rise of probiotics and nostalgic flavors.

Concurrently, I was semi-jokingly trying to get “sponsored” by Clif. Really, I just wanted Clif (or any other admirable CPG brand) to send me free products that I would then post about on Instagram through silly videos and pictures. I didn’t want to be paid, necessarily; I just wanted to rep brands I liked and not pay for their products. I do a lot of fun outdoor activities — wouldn’t brands love to see me making posts about their products while I’m jogging down a mountain trail or hanging off a boulder?

Virtually any time I was doing an activity that involved snacking (trail running, climbing, biking, etc.), I would snap a selfie with some Clif products and caption it “@clifbar sponsor me”. The hilarious part about this is I knew the Clif social media manager at the time. It was driving me insane that he wouldn’t re-post me! Meanwhile, I was also often calling out Kodiak Cakes, my favorite pancake brand, to #sponsorme as well. Kodiak, for what it’s worth, would always respond to my callouts, but just in a direct message — not in a public fashion. Clif eventually did re-post me, but never extended the sponsorship deal.

Over the last two years, I’ve researched and/or applied to several other brands that may or may not be willing to sponsor me, but to no avail — until now. Yes, Slaico has finally attained sponsorship! Sort of.

In my research of CPGs, I am naturally drawn to bar brands after my time at Clif. There’s really no bar out there that I’m unwilling to try. Pretty much any time I’m at the grocery store or a co-op, I will gaze at the bar section, looking for deals and new brands. One brand that came across my radar was IQBar. These bars are marketed as having adaptogens that boost your brain power, in addition to a host of other benefits. With a little more perusing, I ended up following IQ’s CEO on LinkedIn, Will Nitze, and found his posts though-provoking and funny. I eventually bought their Almond Chocolate Chip bar and was super impressed. Not only is it really tasty and has great texture, it has a good source of fiber, 12 grams of protein, only 1 gram of sugar, and the added “brain nutrients” — magnesium, vitamin E, MCTs, flavonoids, and Lion’s Mane. Even if the brain benefits are gimmicky, the nutritional properties and taste alone are enough for me. It’s hard to find a bar that doesn’t contain added sugars and packs that much protein in.

I applied to be an ambassador for IQBar, but I thought I didn’t have the prerequisite 1,000 Instagram followers to be accepted (I’m sitting around 800-900 — #followme). Yet lo and behold, I got accepted as an affiliate marketer just a couple of weeks ago. Essentially, I can market IQBar for commissions; anyone buying the brand for the first time can use my code SLAICO at check-out to receive 15% off (www.eatiqbar.com/SLAICO). I bought myself a sampler pack, since I hadn’t found all the flavors in store (and didn’t know they sell instant coffee and electrolytes too!). What I especially loved about this was not only did I receive all of their products to try, but they also arrived in a super small box — for once, a CPG company cutting down on packaging!

I am by no means forcing anyone to buy IQBar now that I am quasi-#sponsored. However, I will say that I am a big fan of the product and highly recommend it. 🙂

Ponderings

• February 13, 2024
• 3 months

What do a t-shirt, car, and book have in common?

I was rummaging through the guest bathroom drawers when I found the white t-shirts. Wrapping up a short visit to my grandparents at their condo in Longboat Key, I was checking for any missing items to pack. It was a stack of undershirts. Nothing out of the ordinary – mostly Hanes brand – a few more rumpled than others. I knew immediately that they belonged to my grandfather. In an instant, I was sure I would take one. I inspected their sizes and fits (and honestly, their cleanliness – my grandfather is where I get my tendency to spill food on myself) and settled on a V-neck. Into the suitcase it went.

That same week, while getting ready to head to the climbing gym, I saw the shirt in my drawer and decided to put it on. Immediately, I was overwhelmed by the smell of it. It wasn’t a bad smell; it was nostalgic. It smelled exactly like my grandparents’ former house in New City, New York; it smelled like my grandparents. I felt simultaneously comforted and sad. I decided to throw it in the wash.

I had had a similar experience 4 years ago. On a visit to Longboat, I had lamented to my grandfather how I loved driving the family Honda Accord (affectionately named Wallace), but Wallace couldn’t handle driving to the slopes in the winter without 4-wheel drive. “You need the Subaru,” he declared. It was plain and simple. His 2009 Subaru Impreza would be mine. I would pay for it to be transported from New City to Colorado Springs, as well as all the registration fees and insurance. But that was it – his “mountain goat” car would save the day. I was beyond grateful.

About a month later, a semi-truck arrived at my house in downtown Colorado Springs and unloaded my new ride, Ogie (pronounced “Auggie”; don’t ask me why). My parents had filled Ogie with things from home, including nice dishware and my dad’s favorite New England Double IPA, Mega Boss. But after unpacking the car and finally starting the ignition, the excitement turned bittersweet. The car smelled so strongly of that scent – probably some mixture of my grandma’s perfume, soap, and my grandparents themselves – that I sat in silence for a while.

I wondered how long it would be before that scent would fade from Ogie. Friends would sometimes comment on it, those first few months. Four years now passed, I can safely say it’s gone. Which is precisely the fear I had had that day Ogie arrived: that I would lose the scent.

With the white t-shirt, I knew the same was inevitable. Maybe that’s why I threw it in the wash. But I was still hung up on The Murder Room.

While in Longboat this last visit, I finished my book. Needing some reading material for my flight home, I asked my grandfather, “Hey Doc, do you mind if I take this?”

It was a copy of P.D. James’ The Murder Room. I could tell Doc had read it already, as it was tucked on the bookshelf, unlike the numerous scattered books on the couch that he was presently reading. You could tell it had been a library book, with the sticker on the spine, and that he had used some of the blank pages in the front as chicken scratch. There were several names and phone numbers scrawled, as well as some other notes surely taken while on the phone.

“Of course,” Doc replied. “P.D. James is one of my favorite mystery writers.”

In the hubbub of travel, I never got the chance to read the book while in the air. Once nestled in bed in Colorado Springs, I thought I’d crack open the book to read a chapter to help me fall asleep. And it hit me again.

The smell was literally pressed into the book. As I began reading, I found myself distracted by it. I was enjoying James’ writing style and vocabulary in particular, but I kept thinking I should close the book. I should save the smell inside.

I tend to hoard things – another trait I earned from Doc. I am not quite equally sentimental, but sentimental enough to hold onto virtually every card I receive, whether it’s a birthday card or Christmas greeting or snail mail. As my dad noted, Doc’s letters are especially great to receive because his handwriting is so bad (he was an orthopedic surgeon for decades – technicians took his notes), that it takes you days to decipher everything he wrote. In a sense, each word or phrase you decode is like a little gift. Doc has taken to typing out his letters to me, which perhaps takes the fun away but allows him to write lengthier updates. I save them all the same.

Perhaps this clinginess is why I found myself tearfully explaining to Ryan my lack of inspiration at Crate & Barrel a week later, as I shakily prepared quesadillas for dinner.

Doc and Mim had given me a gift card as a housewarming present months earlier, and I had neglected to use it. Knowing I needed some direction, I recruited Ryan’s mom, Doris, to accompany me on a C&B expedition. With her love of interior design (and the store itself), Doris gave me all sorts of ideas and approaches I could take with the gift card. “You want to get something that every time you see it, it reminds you of your grandparents,” she advised.

She was right. And that’s why I felt paralyzed. As I stared forlornly at mirrors, lamps, plates, and wine glasses, I suddenly felt this enormous pressure to find the right thing. Like keeping P.D. James’ pages closed, I wanted something that would help me freeze time, with respect to my grandparents.

I walked out empty-handed. I increasingly tend to not force things, so I reassured myself that the right item would become clear to me, with time.

The last month was really challenging for me for a number of reasons. Some things are still left unresolved. For me, I think the best shift has been learning to let go of some things: expectations of others, negative self-talk, pressure to perform. But I think it’s also equally important to cling to those things that hold value to you. The birthday card from two years ago. The friends who fill you with energy, not deplete it. The smell of your grandfather’s mystery novel.