On a day I felt sort of under-the-weather, I was glad for the soda bottles of home-made beer lingering in my bathroom closet. No, those lukewarm beers wouldn’t calm my churning tummy. But it did make for a very easy New Thing, the penultimate step in the beer-making process. Now that the carbonation process was over, I was free to move my beers to the fridge, where they would age more and become darker with the cold. In a week’s time I will have either a delicious triumph or a lot of skunky beer to pour down the drain. Only time will tell.

Tomorrow, hopefully, my tummy will be back to normal in time for an all-new Taco Tuesday. See you then.

–opus

Let’s say there was this guy, named Otis. He’s 32 years old and never smoked pot. Never even wanted to, really. Otis is pretty repulsed by the idea of smoke - he had some relatives who smoked cigarettes growing up and it always struck him as disgusting and unnatural. There’s a natural biological urge to avoid fire and smoke. Cavemen learned it, and because Otis believed strongly in evolution, he figured he’d follow that pre-historic fear.

But let’s just say this guy, Otis - who I would like to stress to any law enforcement officials out there is a completely hypothetical character - let’s say he’s doing a web site. Let’s say it’s called something like Totally Unique Year in which he tries new things. And so Otis decides to try pot.

This causes a bit of excitement among his friends, because Otis has always been a little more square in this regard. One friend, Jamar, actually called “dibs” on this when the Totally Unique Year began. Although Jamar stressed that his name and face not be used on the site for fear that cops, INS agents, or his parents might see. So Otis, Jamar, Brian, and Ulysses (who I would again like to remind you are all fictional characters) all gathered to give it a try.

Jamar was very kind and patient in explaining to Otis exactly what to do, how to inhale, what to expect. So Otis took a tenative inhale. Immediately his throat caught on fire. The only analogy Otis can use to explain it is: It’s like you’re inhaling smoke. Which, of course, is exactly what he was doing. Why wouldn’t that hurt?

So Otis took repeated drags, each time exploding with the sort of prolonged, painful coughing fits that you hear while gathered around Grampa in the hospice. In any good pot comedy (although one could argue that “good” and “pot comedy” do not belong in the same sentence together) Otis would be the square newcomer that the old pros laugh at as he coughs uncontrollably.

A short time later, Otis asks what he should be on the lookout for as to effects. Jamar says that he should feel lazy. Brian tells him that he would get introspective and start thinking a lot. Ulysses adds he might get paranoid or overly sensitive. Otis explains that they have just described how Otis is feeling at any given moment.

A few minutes later, it becomes clear - this shit isn’t doing shit. It is suggested that Otis try some more, but he doesn’t want his throat to rupture and smoke to begin pouring out like that lady in Beetlejuice. The other guys are having a blast, playing Nintendo and watching TV in the grand tradition of Dudes On Pot everywhere. But much like the other symptoms, these are things that Otis does naturally, without chemical enhancement.

So Otis thinks, perhaps, there is a reason why in 32 years I haven’t been interested in this. And although glad he gave it a try, is fine with continuing to listen to his inner-caveman, who tells him to stay away from fire and woolly mastodons.

You know. Hypothetically.

–opus

Originally, I was a bit stumped for today. After yesterday’s name change, I didn’t plan for today’s activity, and after a day’s worth of meetings, I found evening had snuck up upon me without me having done a New Thing. After poking around on the internet, I found that a place called Machine Project was holding an original musical called Erasmus, and I decided that would be a fine thing to do. It was a staged version of a tribute to Charles Darwin’s great-grandfather. Sounded interesting enough.

It was a little under two miles to Machine Project, and I would have preferred to drive. But on weekends, the gay bar near my house does a hopping business, making parking in my neighborhood problematic. There have been numerous weekends when I trail happy, drunken men wearing assless chaps to their cars, hoping I can nab their parking space as they go off to do the sort of things that make republicans very angry. Tonight, I decided, I’d walk.

And on my way I saw this:

Yes, the ‘gran’ opening of a new flower shop. I was struck with an idea. The three non-native speakers who occupied this tiny shop were overjoyed to see me come in and purchase their cheapest bouquet. I had decided to change my All New Thing - now I would throw a bouquet of flowers at the end of the performance to some complete strangers.

So I set off, bouquet in hand.

Here is a little known fact. A man walking with a bouquet of flowers is the least threatening thing in the world. It says to the world: I am loved, and I love in return. I am not interested in you in any creepy romantic way, for I have somebody I care about enough to get flowers. People waved from cars at me, strangers smiled on the street, tiny babies in strollers pointed and giggled. I am considering always carrying around a bouquet of flowers, if only because it makes the world a nicer place.

I arrived at Machine Project a little late (after only briefly accidentally sitting in the poetry reading next door). The place was a converted storefront full of earnest and hip young folks, sitting in folding chairs in a loose semi-circle. After more than a bit of waiting around, the performance began.

As soon as it did, I was struck with a fear - what if the performance was not worthy of flowers? What if it was a complete bomb? I couldn’t throw flowers to a show I didn’t care for. It would be lying. Lying through flora. The worst kind of lying.

Luckily, I needn’t have worried. The two performers, a couple of hirsute fellas who had come down from Seattle for this showing, were very entertaining.

Bearded Man #1 gave brief spoken word blurbs while Bearded Man #2 played guitar and sang. It was like a whirlwind combination of Lawrence Ferlinghetti and Woody Guthrie. Occasionally a homeless woman in the back of the room gave her loud opinions or attempted to sing along, but she wandered out after a few minutes. The topic was Erasmus Darwin, who I quite frankly knew nothing about.

And here is where even a certified hollywood cynic like myself begins to see some sort of order in the universe. Erasmus studied, pondered, and even wrote poetry about nature - specifically the reproductive cycles of plants. Plants such as the very flowers I held on my lap, awaiting the end of the concert so I could toss them at the feet of the performers.

When the two hairy guys took their bows I gave the bouquet my best underhand and it sailed over the heads of those in front of me and landed right at their feet. Bearded Man #2 picked it up with a pleased look on his face and asked who threw it. When he saw it was me, I registered a tiny bit of puzzlement - some strange guy in his audience, no friend or family, had throw flowers to him. But he seemed genuinely happy.

I stuck around a little bit afterwards to chat with the flowing-skirt ladies and fuzzy-bearded men that frequent experimental shows about late 18th century philosopher-poets, but soon set out to head back home again. I shook the hands of the guys who had so succintly and toe-tappingly summed up Erasmus Darwin’s life for me and headed on my way.

Walking back to my home, I had the overwhelming sense that anything was possible. Doing this project was forcing me to expand my boundries - would I have ever even gone alone to an experimental musical performance? Would I have thought to stop and buy a bouquet of flowers, and toss them at a stranger’s feet? I never would have, and yet the secret I felt like nobody knew was: It’s easy. It’s incredibly easy to do anything, you just to, you know, do it. And for a few brief moments before the cynicism set back in, in the cold night air of Silverlake, California, I felt like anything was possible.

I have to start with a confession. My name isn’t Opus Moreschi. Yet.

The blame would probably have to fall on my parents, who, when I was born, didn’t yet recognize the inherent opus-ness of the baby which lay squealing before them. Filled with love and probably a bit of epidural, my mother accidentally misspelled “Opus” as “James” on the birth certificate.

Truth of it is, I got the name in camp when I was around ten. As a child, I was the sort of gangly nerd who was allergic to random things. For me, it was Scotch-Guard™, the chemical they put in fabric to make it more stain-resistant. If I were to wear something with Scotch-Guard™, I would immediately puff up in a rash™, which would make me look like a raspberry™.

So on the first day of summer camp, my father sent me with a note saying I could not put on my new camp t-shirt like the other children, because my camp t-shirt had to be washed several times so that I didn’t look like a raspberry™. So as other kids gathered in groups based on the color of their camp t-shirt, I stood alone wearing the shirt I happened to have on that day - one featuring the cartoon penguin Opus. As the lone standout in a technicolor sea of sameness, the nickname soon stuck.

It’s been the name I’ve gone by, personally, and professionally, since then. My checks are made out to Opus, teachers and friends and co-workers call me Opus. But every once and a while people ask me suspiciously, “Is that your real name?” And my sense of honesty forces me to say, “Well, no, actually…” and they say “A-ha!” like they have solved some sort of major crime instead of just discovering something that is a matter of public record. For a good ten years now I’ve been threatening to make it legit, but never got around to it. Until today.

The process won’t be complete until June, when I stand in front of a judge and tell him why I want the name change (I think one look at me will confirm I have grown nicely into my Opus-ness). But today I went to the courthouse, was sent from window to room to window, filled out forms, more forms, confirmed that I was not changing my name in order to dodge being a registered sex offender, went to another window in another room, forked over some money and now… it seems I’ll really be Opus in a couple of months.

I like to think of June 8th as a second birthday. You’re all welcome to send me gifts.

Yours sincerely, and soon legally,

–opus

Perhaps you have seen the commercials for Dr. Scholl’s Gel-Flavored Delicious Shoo-Lining Things. In it, a group of white folks stand around, asking each other what is possibly the worst slogan of all time: “Are you gellin’?”

Then, to compound the problem, the white people (and their token black friend) respond in rhyme, something like this.

Chad Whitington: Are you gellin’?
Muffy Paley: And eating melon!
Bryce Caucasio: I’m easter bellin’!
Jerome Onyx: I just returned from the body of water south of Chile and north of Isla Grande de Tierra del Fuego that’s known as the Strait of Magellan’!
Lisa Left-Eye Lopez: Ever since I was convicted of arson, I can be considered a felon’!
(they all laugh)

What any of this has to do with shoe-inserts is anybody’s guess. But I have a pair of sneakers I really love, despite the fact that shoddy third-world child labor apparently didn’t make them very durable:

The shoes in question - note the considerable holes.

They’ve fallen apart to the point where they’re no longer very comfortable. But because they used to be comfortable, I continue to wear them, in memory of the way they used to be. (This very same principle is what keeps more marriages together)

Enter Dr. Scholl and his gel inserts:

Please note: Promises of “Outrageous” Comfort

Today I decided not only to wear Dr. Scholl’s Magic Gelly-Filled Shoe Funslabs, but also to answer all questions as to my well being with the cool yet ridiculous reply: “I’m Gellin’”

So far five people have asked how I’m doing, and five times I’ve answered with, “I’m Gellin’.” Nobody once responded with a clever rhyme, which is disappointing in itself. I have a list of rhymes ready for people if they needed help, but it was worse than that. It was almost like nobody even cared what I said in response to their “How are you today?” I could have said “Tire iron” and they would have just nodded and said “Good, good” and went on their way.

Luckily, I didn’t need the interest of co-workers, thanks to the “Outrageous Comfort” of Dr. Scholl’s Big Fun Shoe-filling Gel-Things. Thanks to them, i went from this:

Before

…to this:

After

Thank you, Dr. Scholl’s. You’ve made a tiny difference in my life. And sometimes that’s all that matters.

–opus

This one has been a while in the works - with many thanks to Jason from Revver who helped me out. Now you can subscribe to a Video Podcast of my Taco Tuesday videos.

What does this mean? Well, grandpa, let me tell you. You subscribe via iTunes (or other podcast thingy) and once a week it delivers the Taco Tuesday goodness right to you. You can watch it on your computer, or your ipod, or your phone or via your neural brainjack. Whatever’s easiest. On your own time.

So why not join in the greatest time-suck of our generation? Click on the link below to launch up your iTunes and subscribe.

–opus

Thanks to John P. Moreschi and Noreen for this one:

Today was step two in the multi-step process of brewing my own beer. It involved taking the beer from the big cheesy plastic keg that it was fermenting in, and putting it into soda bottles. The instructions were very strict on this matter - it had to be soda bottles. No matter how unappealing it may seem. So I headed off to the supermarket, and bought a bottle of “Orange Soda”, a bottle of “The Dr.” and a few bottles of Tonic Water, which I could at least use for a Gin N’ Tonic before the rest of it went down the drain.

The process once again involved quite a lot of sanitizing and cleaning - it’s odd that a product so down-and-dirty as beer requires such pristine conditions to be made. The bottles now have to spend a week (at least) gaining carbonation in my bathroom closet before I can age them further. It will be a while before I can get my beer on, but if you’re ready to brave the All New Beer, let me know - I’ll let you sip the innagural batch.

Your beer buddy,

–opus

At midnight tonight, I will stop using all electricity for 24 hours. This is somehow vaguely tied into earth day. I will not have access to my phone, email, blog, ipod, xbox, tivo, wii, digital clocks, fridge, car, answering machine, electric toothbrush, clippers, television, DVD player, stereo, boom box, radio, coffee maker, or toaster.

I frankly am not sure I will survive.

See you at 12:01 Monday.

–opus