The Last Time We'll Ever See NYC

One of the perks of Boston life is the option of hopping a ridiculously cheap bus down to NYC for all the glitz, glamor and high prices of NYC without having to live in that rat-infested cesspool. It's even better when your friends Missy and Rob live there and let you crash on their Dolce and Gabana air mattress. That's right, nobody in "The City" would ever be caught dead with an Aerobed. So when we heard they were moving to the quaint Canadian hamlet known affectionately to the townsfolk as "Toronto," we figured we'd head down one last time to help them pack up their U-Haul and see them off, eh.

The bus ride down was uneventful except for the girl sitting two rows in front of us who was easily among the world's elite in the all-important irritation statistic "likes-per-sentence" (LPS). I estimate she was about a 4.5. I've seriously never wanted to punch a stranger in the face so badly in my life, and I've seen a few episodes of My Super Sweet Sixteen and Bridezillas. Luckily, headphones prevented any actual violence. We dropped our stuff off in their dee-lux 2nd floor sky apartment, and headed down to the East Village pub where they'd first met for their going away cocktail hour(s). Their friends were nice enough, but after a few hours of trying unsuccessfully to follow their conversations on wine, art, and poetry, Liz and I headed out back by the dumpsters to scratch each others butts and talk about how wicked awesome the Green Monster is, leaving them to enjoy their (what I can only assume were) Manhattans, having never seen a drink that wasn't a Narragansett tallboy.

Saturday we Tetrised their U-haul and then, having suddenly become completely the opposite of people described in the previous sentence, we headed out to the Guggenheim for an exhibit called "The Great Upheaval," which focused on the pre-WWI years. It was Kandinsky-heavy, and we both realized we kind of like his stuff. I had him confused with some other painter whose stuff looks like the scribblings of a child. Anyways, here were a few of our (non-Kandinsky) favs:

Les Joueurs Du Football by Henri Rousseau

Because those dudes look like total fruits.

And Eiffel Tower by Robert Delaunay

Because of the three categories into which I place art (Meh, Cool, and Badass), it is cool.

The museum itself was kind of the star, and I now have "rollerblade from the top of the Guggenheim" on my bucket list.

That night, we rejoined Missy and Rob and two of their friends at Keen's Streakhouse, a very cool old place with top quality meat. Missy, despite being very sick and and a pescatarian, troopered it out with us. Liz and I had the porterhouse for two but it would have fed three. The next morning we loaded the last of their stuff, wished them good luck in their new Canadian home, and headed back to Boston.

While we waited for the bus to bring us from the train station to our house, we overheard a conversation between two black people that would have made Rush's head explode. Basically, the middle aged guy in an Africa hat carrying a bag of frozen pizzas was the walking, loud-talking posterchild for the culture of victimhood railed against by my bootstrappy conservative friends. He went on and on about how whitey was keeping the black community down, gave an impassioned argument in favor of "reverse racism" (using the enemy's tactics against him, according to his definition), and went so far as to say that although he was sorry for the loss of life on 9/11, at least now people were "paying attention to the Muslims," and maybe black people should be setting off bombs to get people's attention. I very seriously considered telling the transit police that some guy was making terrorist threats (hey, if you see something, say something, right?). Not that I thought he was in any way serious about terrorism--the guy could barely form complete sentences--much less handle explosives, but I sure wouldn't have minded seeing him experience some real harassment from whitey. I was thinking the whole time that if one of the aforementioned conservatives I know would have been there I would have had to say, "OK fine, you win this round." But it made me think about a misconception I think many conservatives have: at least for me, I don't think all the people on welfare deserve it, (not that the idiot we saw was on welfare, he did have Red Baron Brick Oven pizzas, which aren't all that cheap...hey wait a second, maybe he was one of those fancy-pizza-eating welfare kings I always hear about...but I digress) but I am willing to pay for welfare in order to live in a relatively clean, safe urban area.

So in summary:
Overuse of the word like: bad
NYC: good
Steak: good
Art: cool
Reverse racism: no different than regular racism
Welfare: tolerable
Red Baron Brick Oven Pizza: good

Nee Walthers

Liz and I recently joined several of my brother Mark and new sister-in-law Danita's friends and family in Playa Del Carmen, Mexico, thus checking the last North American country off our list. Which, since we were born in the U.S., means we'd previously been to Canada. No small feat for people born in Minnesota. We're pretty worldly.

The wedding was at the Barcelo Maya Palace, a beautiful all inclusive resort complex on the Mayan Riviera. Everything was landscaped perfectly, the ocean and pools were aesthetically pleasing, and the staff were well trained at hiding their disdain for decadent, boorish Gringos. A typical day involved a civilized wake up time followed by a light breakfast of literally anything you could imagine and some kiddie pool time with Nathan and Josie, who as you can see, were dangerously close to surpassing the maximum level of adorableness allowable under Mexican law.




Then we'd do lunch, followed by activities ranging from poolside lounging to beachside lounging to fruity drink drinking, to trying to keep this mustachioed, fannypack packing, aqua sock wearing probable child molester away from the kids...


One day we even played two holes of pitch and putt and one hole of mini golf. Exhausting. We'd have dinner in small groups or all together; we had a great time hanging out with/meeting Danita's friends and relatives.

The ceremony and reception were very well done--maintaining the perfect balance between beachy casualness and lifelong commitment making gravitas. Not wanting to screw up my first and likely last best man speech, I was a little nervous. I'd concocted a story about wanting to honor our host country by giving my toast in Spanish, but not having been a Spanish speaker I'd written down some simple heartfelt wishes and had a coworker translate them for me. I then read a recipe for chicken mole I'd pulled off the Foodnetwork website and stuck into Google translate. The reception waiters said they could understand "a little" of what I said. I then went on to say that having my speech translated by a guy who hates me was probably a bad idea, but that I meant to say "May no one build a fence upon the border between your hearts. May your family operate with the ruthless loyalty to one another of a vicious drug cartel. And may the love and laughter in your lives be all inclusive." Touching in its borderline offensiveness, I thought. After some dancing and roboting at the reception, we moved the party to the much anticipated Jaguar (pronounced YAHG-you-are) Discotheque for some scantily clad go-go dancers, smoke machines, roboting, and general buffoonery.

On the day we left and had to leave, however, I woke up with something. To call this thing a hangover would be like calling a case of Ebola "a little bug I picked up." I swear it was sentient--teasing me with brief periods of hinting that it was letting up only to come back with renewed malevolence. It felt like Satan spawning demons in my brain. I sweated and shivered in rapid oscillations; every step felt as if my legs were in serious danger of giving out; my jaw ached for some reason (see previous sentence for a possible explanation); my heart beat irregularly; every breath had to be a conscious decision; I felt like I could barf at any minute yet I had the full knowledge that I wouldn't. Sleep was impossible since every time I closed my eyes for more than 20 seconds I felt like my heart might stop. Eating or even drinking more than an ounce of water? When our plane hit turbulence over the gulf of Mexico I thought "Well, if the plane goes down at least this whatever-you-call-it would be over." It was the culmination of five straight all-inclusive nights followed by poolside dog hair. Next time, partially inclusive might be a better option. With God as my witness, never again. Liz felt too bad for me to even say I told you so. Finally, 12 hours later in the Boston airport, I felt like I might just survive. We got home and I debated whether or not to check my email, foolishly did, and found out I had to be at a nine A.M. meeting with Alzheimer's disease collaborators an hour's drive away (through ~5 inches of fresh snow) at Harvard. Oh well, might as well rip the band-aid off quickly I figured. In hindsight, several of my symptoms might have been caused by the minor case of travelers diarrhea I had brewing, but Montezuma ain't got nothin' on Don Julio when it comes to vengeance.

Over the river and thru the woods and along the interstate and thru the tollbooths...

New Englanders would never try to attempt a 24 hour cross country drive to attend a family Christmas. Heck, most of the people from Massachusetts have never been to Maine!! We Shervas have not become soft, and to prove so, we decided to drive home to Minnesota for the holidays. The drive took us about 24 hours. We drove straight through from Boston to Anoka only stopping for gas, bathroom breaks and coffee. Our drive to MN was pretty uneventful, there was very heavy fog in Indiana but we were able to just take our time and maneuver through without incident. I have to say, Ohio, you've got lovely turnpike reststops. I love having the option of Panera and Starbucks instead of having to go to a McDonalds. Indiana, seriously, Gary already sucks and people hate it. Could you finish up your road construction and fill your potholes. Are you trying to strand people there? You have the worst stretch of road in the 1400 miles we drove.

Phoebe loves to snooze in the driver's lap.

While in town we helped my sister Kris celebrate her 30th birthday. You really start to feel old when your younger siblings pass the 30 mark.

Following tradition, Christmas Eve was spent at my Aunt Colleen and Uncle Dick's house. We look forward to her homemade french onion soup every year....mmmm....

Cousins!

Helping Colleen in the kitchen.

Opening presents with Grandma Donna.

Christmas Day we had brunch with the Sherva/Hamann side of the family at Nancy's house. Rick received a new hunting hat. Very Elmer Fudd...


We also were able to spend time with my Grandma Jan and Papa Benny at my mom's house. That is where we had our ham course for the day. MMmmmmm, ham.

Aren't these two cute!!

We tried to see as many people as possible, but of course there is never enough time. I'm glad to say that we got some great quality time in with our nieces and nephews. They are seriously the cutest kids. I'm not saying that because I'm biased. They are seriously better than all of your kids. Here's a little photo montage to prove it:

Emma and Josie in the aprons I sewed for them.

Emma is already developing a keen fashion sense. I caught her trying to steal my boots!



She also enjoys working on complex science problems with Uncle Rick while drinking chocolate milk.

Emma loves hanging out with Reilly, she copies everything he does...

Reilly is 8 and loves playing hockey. I was able to see his goalie skills in action.

Nathan on Christmas morning, not entirely feeling the best but looking very festive in his jammy jams.

Nathan and Josie get along pretty well and are great at sharing.

We seemed to slack a bit on Christmas Day with the camera. No worries, you'll see more of these two cutie pahtooties soon. We'll be headed to Mexico for Mark and Danita's wedding in a couple weeks where Josie and Nathan will be living it up at our all inclusive resort ordering a non-stop flow of Cheerios and chocolate milk while floating in the pool. They've got their passports and are ready to party.

Phoebe's favorite Christmas present was not the ZhuZhu pet that I thought she would chase around the house but this box from Costco.

My favorite surprise of the season was our upside-down Christmas Tree that Rick created for me.

Happy New Year!

L'esprit d'escalier

It's been an interesting week in the world of bicycle commuting. A week ago today I left work early to go meet some people who were doing work on our house. I was enjoying the lack of traffic on the 1.8 miles of non-bike path road I have to travel in order to get home, zipping briskly down a small hill near our house, when the door to a Suburban flew open about six feet in front of me. The door hit the right side of my handlebars jackknifing and sending me over them. I flew a good 8 feet, executed a perfect shoulder roll, and got up without a scratch, despite being a bit stunned. I'd like to credit my catlike reflexes but in reality I just got pretty lucky. The fact that it's cold and I was wearing a jacket and cords helped as well. I had a pretty decent bruise on my calf the next day but all in all it was a best case scenario. The guy in the Suburban was pretty cool about it, although it occurred to me later that he never explicitly apologized and I suspect he may have been more concerned about me suing him over any bodily harm than the actual bodily harm I might have sustained. My bike was even unharmed, which didn't really matter since I have been riding my old one since my good one was stolen from outside work month or so ago. I hope I at least damaged his door. I have since been leaving a bit more space between me and parked cars, although being farther out in traffic is not really much better.

Anyways, l'esprit d'escalier is a French phrase for which we desperately need an English equivalent. Literally "staircase wit," it describes the situation where you think of an awesome comeback after the conversation is over, e.g. "The jerk store called and they're all out of you."

Example 2: A woman, to me, yesterday, after I slammed on the brakes to avoid running over her dog which had run out in front of me on the bike path at the last minute:
"Slow down, Jesus, you almost hit me!"
Me: "You're on the bike path, lady."
Her: "I don't give a shit!"
Me: "Ummm, yeah, I can see that!"
Ride off, shaking head.

A much better exchange, however, would have been:
"Slow down, Jesus, you almost hit me!"
"You're on the bike path, lady."
"I don't give a shit!"
"Well, then I guess I don't give a shit whether or not I run your dumb ass over. Sound fair?"
"Ummm, no!, sputter, sputter...you're a stupid head!"
"Yeah, go home and have sex with your dog you ugly old bag."
Ride off, triumphant.

But that wouldn't have been very Christian of me, now would it have? Some people.

Deercamp Blog Post #3

Elvis has left the building. And by Elvis I mean most of a large deer, and by left I mean entered, and by the building I mean my freezer. It was the culmination of nine very interesting and nearly oppositely spent days.

Part two started when I literally jogged out of a poster session at the American Society of Human Genetics meeting in D.C., sent off a grant application from the hotel, and caught a train and a plane to Atlanta, from where I flew to MSP, where I caught the light rail to my dad's car that he'd left at Fort Snelling. From there, I made good time to Goodland and arrived at five of eleven. Mark, Tom Stoltz and Dad were waiting and deer camp was on.

I got a decent night sleep thanks to daylight savings time and got out to my stand before sunrise. I crawled up in it to find it partially broken but was able to sit on one side. Here's Liz helping me carry the wood to build it circa 2000.



I didn't wait long before I heard footsteps and then thrashing to my right in some small alders across a small slough. I stood up and turned so I could see through the scope and saw a huge rack scraping on the alders. I though about shooting it straight down through the neck, but held off. It might have sensed or heard I was there, because it turned around and quartered away from me. It was through a little brush but I got a shot off at about 50 yahds and it felt good. The deer disappeared, however. I sat for a bit, packed up and went to have a look. To my great relief, it had dropped where I shot.

As all deer hunters know to varying degrees, that's when the "fun" stop: walk back to cabin for a knife since I couldn't carry one on, walk back to deer, gut deer, walk back to cabin to wait for dragging help since it was a lost cause with me alone as I found out when I nearly herniated gutting it, wait for Mark and Tom, bring my dad a knife with which to gut the deer he'd since shot since he'd forgotten one too, drag deer across the slough through which I'd shot, meet dad with 4-wheeler, drag deer #1 to the sight of deer #2 which had expired mercifully close to the trail, drag both deer back to cabin for hanging and tenderloin removal. Whew.

And then we rested while I experimented with making the deer I'd shot's heart. I simmered it for a few hours in several changes of lake Cropless' finest, then gave it a final simmer in a glaze I'd improvised out of whatever was at the cabin (soy and ketchup based if I recall). I then sliced it thin, salted, peppered and seared it quickly in a scorching hot cast iron frying pan. It was delicious in my opinion, and everybody else at least pretended to like it. Waste not want not I always say. I'd brought the liver back too but decided one organ was offal enough.

Tom shot a nice eight pointer in the late afternoon, so we repeated the process with it. Then we had fun, card games, visits from Eddie and his young entourage, cousin Jason, and uncles Dale and Denny. I made small drives to Mark the next day, who'd only seen one deer and several timberwolves exiting a den. Separately. That was it for my hunting. We then again rested, enjoyed the unbelievable weather, received a visit from one Dave Strand, and steeled ourselves for the animal to meat conversion travails to come.



On Monday morning we got up and loaded the deer onto cars and tied them down, drove them back to Mark's house and hung, skinned, and butchered Tom's deer. I returned to the world of the presentable at my mom's, got fed, and slept soundly. The next day my dad and I got to work on my deer shortly before noon with the help of a sweet, newly purchased deer hanging pulley system from Fleet Farm. We made relatively quick work of it since I do my fine cutting at home. We took a quick break to head over to Vinafera Wines and Ales, where through an exceedingly unlikely series of events we found Westrum talking to our friendly neighborhood wine shop owner Nesh on his first visit to the store. We had a chat, bought some lovely wines, ales, and spirits, and headed back to Mark's to wait for his and Tom's help on the third and final deer. We made quick work of it, and it was again off to mom's to wash off the gristle.

Wednesday was deer-free, and I helped my mom prepare for a nice dinner at Alli and Niko's for Mark's day before birthday. We had a lovely meal and I got in some face time with Josie, who is babbling regularly and hilariously, and Nathan, whose arm has only gotten better.

I stayed on the couch at my dad's that night and got up around four to head to MSP. I was soon tentatively hoisting my weighed-to-slightly-over-fifty-lb-by-a-luggage-scale-of-unknown-accuracy cooler (to account for the ice pack within) onto the much more accurate airport luggage scale where it weighed in at an eerily accurate 50.0 lbs. I was given no further troubles, which has not been the case in one of my three attempts at flying with raw meat. Still, I can't really overstate the feeling of relief I felt when the cooler of hard earned venison came off the belt and made it into the trunk of our car. The relief of seeing Liz was pretty great also.

Later that day, I got my first ever massage at the salon where Liz used to work. I was a bit nervous and I froze and said yes when the girl asked me if I'd ever had a massage before. Although this was technically true, my previous massage (foot) was from an old Chinese man in a Chinese bath house/brothel. She said, great, then just get under the covers and I'll be back. Realizing I might have missed out on critical massage-getting information and that the etiquette for this massage might be profoundly different from my last one, I just used common sense. When in doubt, keep undies on, I figured, so I just laid down and thought about what I was going to tell her about the cuts, bruises, and serious burn I'd obtained while stumbling through the woods procuring meat. It turned out she was from Maine and familiar with deer hunting, and at least had the decency not to treat me like a leper. It was very relaxing. I made tenderloins that night and slept well.

Today, I re-trimmed and vacuum sealed the haul. It was substantial. Which is good since it was in some way lifted by, dragged by, or splattered across me on the majority of the previous five days. Backstrap carpaccio tonight!

Panhandling 101

The other day while waiting for a light to change as I biked home, a guy in a suit came running across the street waving at me. Full of good will towards all humanity having just provided two young Chinese tourists with friendly and accurate directions to the nearest T stop, I decided to wait and hear what he had to say. He asked me if I could do him a huge favor to which I responded that it would of course depend on the nature of the favor. He then launched into a big story about his car having a flat tire which required a $12.95 patch kit that could be purchased from the auto parts store down the street which would allow him, a "professional with Verizon", to pick up his kid from school, and, he hates long stories but if he showed me the car and left some sort of collateral, could I please give him 13$. I just said no, I have to get home, but as I continued biking it occurred to me that his technique was exactly what I expect they would teach at a night school class on advanced panhandling...

Lesson 1: Get a suit. The importance of this can not be overstated.
Lesson 2: State a very specific need and know the exact dollar amount that would fill said need.
Lesson 3: Invoke the suffering of children.
Lesson 4: Assure "the mark" that you are "a professional" and not some sort of panhandler. Having a suit will greatly increase the credibility of this claim.
Lesson 5: Have some sort of corroborating evidence to back up your story, such as a car with an actual flat tire.
Lesson 6: Have a good reason why you, a professional in a suit, do not have access to $12.95.

Ooh, apparently he was so excited to put his new knowledge to work that he couldn't wait around for the all-important sixth lesson. Kind of like Luke leaving Dagobah before completing his Jedi training and getting his hand cut off.

Man, won't I will feel like a jerk if the guy's wallet was in his other suit and his children got taken away due to his tardiness in picking them up. Somehow, despite that possibility, I still slept OK.

Ireland

Leprechauns. Irish Spring. Potato famines. Lucky Charms. Fungi the gay dolphin of Dingle. Now that I've gotten the obvious, cliched Ireland joke topics out of the way, allow me to beat each one to death individually and in much greater detail. We got to Dublin around the same time as our traveling companions Erin and Jon Sadler, picked up our sweet Land Rover, and headed north after visiting the famous Guinness mines that our guidebook, Rock Steven's Ireland, said not to miss. The driving, handled by Jon and Liz, was interesting. The turns and round-abouts didn't seem to pose a big challenge but figuring out the correct distance between the oncoming traffic on the right and the curbs/shrubs on the left proved a little difficult on the narrow, 100 km/h roads. No accidents occurred despite our snooty GPS lady's best efforts to direct us down every 2-meter-wide horse path on the island.

It also took a while to stop thinking "Watch the road for fook's sake!" every time the front seat passenger turned around to say something to the back seaters and "Who would let a six-year old drive a car!" every time we passed a car with a kid in the front. Other than that, adjusting to the Irish lifestyle was all too easy once we figured out a few basic questions such as whether or not ordering coffee in Ireland got you one with whiskey by default unless you ordered it America. It didn't, sadly. We also wondered what they call Irish car bombs. We described them to a few different bartenders and none of them knew what we were talking about. We (I) also pondered whether every good-bye in Ireland was an Irish good-bye and whether that made actually saying good-bye to an Irishman impossible. Yeah...think about it.
Our first stop was the Giant's Causeway which was pretty awesome. Volcanoes: is there anything they can't awesomeize?

Liz at Giant's Causeway

Erin and Jon crossing the Carrick-a-Rede Rope Bridge

Dunluce Castle

The next day we went to the Cliffs of Moher, which were really, really high. They have a section with retaining walls but those walls end and there's a sign telling you not to go any farther. There's nobody guarding it however so people go to where you can look straight down at a drop that would most certainly ruin your day.
The second night we stayed at Ashford castle, a 19th century home built for the Guinness family. Activities available to guests include golf, equestrian, trap shooting, and falconry. Instead, we stayed up all night with some fresh-out-of-rehab trust fund kid named Don and let him buy us drinks and show us off limits sections of the castle due to his having been coming there for 20 years and being on a first name basis with all the staff. It was a fun night and I even found an unopened Cuban Cohiba somebody had left behind (I know, castle people, right?) and gave it a good home. As Erin succinctly put it the next day, we kind of made that castle our bitch. I think old man Guinness would have been proud. Or appalled. Or both. Anyways, here's to you, Don.

Enjoying our evening at Ashford Castle - Cong

The next day we made a short drive to Galway, a traditional pub and music city on the west coast. It wasn't much for scenery but the music was good, we had conversations with nearly everyone we were within five feet of, and some 20-year-old Ron Weasley look alike took us to Club 903 after the respectable pubs closed.

The next day we were off to Dingle via the Burren. The Burren is one of the most desolate areas in all of Ireland. During one of noted British asshole Cromwell's campaigns in Ireland, one of his generals said of the Burren, "There isn't tree to hang a man, water to drown a man nor soil to bury a man." And thus the residents were spared from Cromwell's protestant murdering. So they had that going for them. We though it was pretty. After a GPS lady-directed goose chase over some of Ireland's narrowest roads, we popped out at a ferry station which took us across the River Shannon onto the Dingle Peninsula, one of the most picturesque shorelines in Ireland and the westernmost point in Europe.

Crossing the River Shannon

Jon and Erin

"The next parish over is Boston," Rick Steve claims the residents are fond of saying. We had to drive across Connor Pass, a one lane road with steep and deadly drops on one side, to get into the town itself. It was exciting, especially since I didn't have to drive it.

The driving loop around the peninsula was fairly breathtaking and we stopped at this 12th century church to renew our wedding vows by touching our thumbs together through a hole in a pre-Christian ogham stone that was already there for hundreds of years when they built the church and saying "I swear to God." Wedding vows, pagan style.

A little less formal the second time around.

We even got a little golf in at a pitch and putt with a very nice backdrop. Jon won.


In Dingle, there lives a (according to Erin and John's Irish friend Mark) gay dolphin named Fungi (FOON-ghee). People go out on boats to see him. What makes him gay, you ask? Risque posters of Flipper on his bedroom walls? A lifelong dream of performing on Sea World, the Dolphin Broadway? A Google search for Fungi+Dingle+Gay+Dolphin yielded a link stating that people think he's gay because he prefers the company of humans to that of his own pod and that he often has bite marks on him that people hypothesize might be the result of unwanted sexual advances made towards other male dolphins. So basically humans are his interspecies fag hags. And also, our IT guy now thinks I have a thing for hot, same-sex scatological mammal-on-mushroom action.

From Dingle, we made our way to Kilkenny, a medieval brewery town in the countries interior. On the way, we stopped in Killarney National Park and the Rock of Cashel, a spooky church ruins built on a defensive high spot that'd been fought over for centuries. Kilkenny itself was decent and had a castle.

Rock of Cashel

From Kilkenny, we completed our loop back to Dublin where we toured Trinity College's library, home to the Book of Kells, a 9th century illustrated version of the gospels written by Celtic monks that obviously took a very long time to complete.

Coffees on the Quad at Trinity College

That night, we met Mark and Finola, the aforementioned, Italy-met friends of Erin and Jon for Italian food and Irish merriment. They were pure Irish gold and we were hip deep in lively conversation practically before names were exchanged. Mark has apparently done some serious face sucking with the Blarney Stone.




We left early the next morning sad to leave but happy to be headed home. We never saw any leprechauns, although we did see a leperchaun colony. Wee fingers and pointy little noses strewn everywhere. Very sad. I already miss Irish breakfast, which consists of meat, including blood sausage. Mmmmmm.