Fernando Perez: Proto-Artist-Athlete of the Future?

Hoping to quench my thirst for baseball during MLB's winter break, I've been listening to various podcasts (FanGraphs Audio; Up And In; The Baseball Show with Joe and Rany), which has been great fun all around, and very educational.

I just finished Carson Cistulli's conversation with Fernando Perez, former Tampa Bay Rays outfielder, published poet, and one of only 13 players in major league history to who attended Columbia University.

In a conversation that should fascinate even casual fans of the sport, Perez discusses his recent experiences in and out of baseball, touching on his roller-coaster journey as a would-be professional athlete, as well as what has sometimes been an equally confounding struggle for fulfillment (not to mention publication) as a creative writer.

Perez hasn't played in the bigs since 2009, and has bounced around from the Cubs' farm system to the Mets' in the interim. Displaying the self-awareness you'd expect from, well, from a poet, Perez describes his employment strategy for the 2012 season: trying to sign a minor-league contract with whatever team has the worst starting outfielders. Failing that, he might call up Rays executive Andrew Friedman to shoot the breeze, try to get his former boss laughing and in good spirits, and, when the mood feels right, make a play for a spring training invitation.

This vulnerability and openness is a welcome departure from the stereotypical image of the pro athlete whose unshakable confidence is a key to success within the bounds of competition, but who also seems allergic to (if not incapable of) authentic expression outside the lines. To some extent, I hold mainstream broadcasters and other sports media personalities responsible for this trend by filling so much airtime with cliches and useless chatter. In half-time and post-game interviews, players and coaches are either recycling the garbage spewed out by those speak for a living. Crap imitates crap.

Here's a crazy thought: what would happen if each league hired a Director of Creativity who would be responsible for organizing off-season poetry jams or dance lessons? By challenging personnel to stretch artistically, and integrating creative exercises into typical player development programs, pro sports leagues could help make millionaire athletes easier to relate to, or in the very least as entertaining as Fernando Perez. Some well-known examples of pro athletes who have crossed over to participate other pop culture forms include Miguel Batista (pitcher-novelist), Bernie Williams (outfielder-guitarist), Rick Fox (NBA swingman, actor), and, if you believe this amusing photo gallery, Andre Agassi (tennisser-pianist).

Look, I'm not saying we need to find more opportunities to heap attention and validation on star athletes. Truth be told, there are some who I'd just as soon not hear from at all unless they're breaking down game film. I just wish there was an easier way for fans to get more of a picture of what our favorite players are all about, and I want those representations to be more lyrical, colorful, and introspective than the status quo. Maybe I'm just not paying close enough attention, but it seems that even as more and more players find their way onto Twitter -- which has unquestionably made direct access easier-- most of the Tweets are shout-outs and inside jokes to former teammates.

I don't really know where I'm going with this. I think my earlobes hurt from frustration. Maybe I'll take a minute to turn on Bernie Williams' "La Salsa En Mi" to calm me down. Or watch an episode of "Oz." On second thought, maybe just the salsa music. I'll figure it out. In the meantime, here's hoping Fernando Perez re-signs with the Mets this season. I don't know if he can help them escape the National League East cellar, but if nothing else, he should be good for a few laughs.

Beer review: Tanilla Porter (Knee Deep Beer Company)

I was driving up to Lake Tahoe over Labor Day weekend last summer, and stopped off at a Raley's in Auburn to pick up lunch. I usually like to peruse the beer aisle when I'm in "foreign" grocery stores, hoping to snag a hard-to-find favorite, or otherwise something unfamiliar but enticing.

Browsing the unusually deep selection, I came upon a label I didn't recognize, and whose tribal designs recalled those printed on Peet's coffee cups. On closer inspection I discovered a style and manufacturer I'd never experienced. Examining the bottle further, I discovered it was "Brewed and Bottled for Knee Deep Beer Company by Beer4U, Belmont, California." This amused me, because I'd just moved from Belmont after living there the previous two years, but had no recollection of either company.

It was an snap decision to purchase the Tanilla Porter, but finding the right occasion to crack it open took significantly more discretion and patience. I had more or less decided to hang on to the Tanilla until I could share it as an after-dinner beer with friends. Typically, when I select a bottle with the intention of enjoying it solo, I opt for something a bit more conventional, a known quantity, eschewing my one-of-a-kind bottles in favor of something I can more easily replenish.

Unfortunately, I haven't had too many dinners with beer-drinking friends in the last few months. First, I was occupied with moving-related tasks, and then I was busy with rehearsals for a play that ran in November, and then before you knew it, The Holidays were upon us...

For various reasons, I decided that part of my New Year's Resolution would be to stop buying beer for my home collection. Even though I decided this in December, I more or less forgot to stockpile "everyday" beers when I had the chance, and so I entered 2012 with only a few session beers on hand (mostly leftover bottles of Stella from a recent party), but several of these one-of-a-kind bottles. So it happened that the other night, when I was in the mood for a post-dinner tipple, I decided what the hell, and poured myself a luscious mug of sweetly aromatic Tanilla.

I must confess that the tasting experience peaked just as (no, not before) the first sip of rich porter coated the inside of my mouth. It's not that I didn't like the Tanilla, don't misunderstand me. It's just that the inviting smell which drew my lips closer to the glass was in itself the ultimate reward after months of anticipation. As it turned out, taste and feel were sensations I wasn't really in the mood for after delaying gratification for so long.

Now, perhaps I had built it up so much for myself that anything less than an instantaneous bufotenin surge would have been anticlimactic. Perhaps. All I know is that as soon as the Tanilla splashed onto my tongue map, the wait was over. Reality was upon me. It was, after all, just a beer.

As for getting into the specifics of mouthfeel, color, viscosity, and all that, I leave those details to other Beer Advocate reviewers, and will close by saying that this beer did not disappoint me. Far from it, actually. And if I learned anything from the experience, it's that I need to recruit a few friendly volunteers to help bring me back down to earth a little bit, and drink my beer with me in a more timely fashion, so I don't obsess too much about finding the perfect time to open this bottle or that one, like Sideways' Miles with his Château Cheval Blanc.

Heck, I wouldn't even mind reloading with a fresh bottle of Tanilla to share with friends -- in 2013, of course.

Stuffed

I have too much stuff. I know this. I have known this for awhile. Almost every year since I moved into my freshman college dorm in 2001, I've packed my stuff into boxes and unpacked it into my new living space. Actually, there were some years when I moved my stuff more than once.

In 2002, after that first year away from home, I moved my stuff out of A-349 in UCSC's Merrill College and packed it all up in my friend Colin's car. I was headed back to spend the summer at my parents' house in Palo Alto. Colin's parents lived there, too, and he was headed back there anyway. After safely shepherding the car, me, and my stuff over Highway 17, Colin helped me unload everything onto the sidewalk in front of my parents' house, and said goodbye. It was well after midnight, and as I brought my stuff into my parents' garage, box by box, I was careful not to make too much noise.

Just a few months later, I was loading up a rental truck with my dad. We were moving all my stuff back across Highway 17. Colin and some other friends from Merrill had found a large house on Western Drive where the seven of us could live. I wasn't too sure what the place looked like but I took it on good faith there would be room for all my stuff there (home is where the stuff is). My dad and I spent the day driving around Santa Cruz looking for furniture to keep my stuff in. In addition to a bed and a desk, we picked out a bookshelf and dresser that I still have and use for keeping stuff.

Except for that first summer as a college student, almost all my moves have been from old home to new home. Almost all my leases have lasted for twelve months, so there hasn't been a need to move stuff into my parents' house for the summer. There have been times I moved my stuff in one shot, using a rented van or truck, and there have been times I moved my stuff gradually, a few boxes at a time. Every time I pack up my stuff, there are invariably a few boxes of stuff I haven't looked at since the last time I moved them. When I have time, I'll look through them, I've told myself. Most of these boxes have labels, so there's no real mystery as to what they contain: Old Electronics; Misha's Schoolwork; Memories.

I've packed each of these boxes with stuff I've accumulated or created personally. Every time I move them, I tell myself this stuff is or will be valuable enough to me that it's worth crating it around and making space in my home for it. When I think about how I've saved these boxes of stuff, I feel somewhat embarrassed by the contradiction of preserving the immaterial past by collecting and preserving these physical reminders, all the while entombing them in boxes that remain perennially closed.

Now, I don't exactly feel this behavior is materialistic because these boxes of stuff are packed away, unused, almost immaterial, actually, because they are invisible and their value is (at present) purely symbolic. Materialism means you buy stuff to impress people by decorating your home with it (right?). All my books, movies, music, and bottles of booze, carefully chosen and arranged to convey a wealth of taste and experience -- now there's materialism, for you.

I didn't set out to be a materialist, or a hoarder. A lot of this stuff I received as gifts, and a lot of it I purchased with the best of intentions, but have not touched since (except, of course, to put into and take out of moving boxes). I've been reading and collecting books since I was a child, but until the last two months, had ready exactly one work of fiction in the previous nine years. Some of the books I've had but not read for going on twenty years. My movie collection grew out of being a film major (or was it the other way around)? In addition to my CD collection (which has itself become a box of stuff, long ago backed up as mp3s), I have a shelving unit full of vinyl. Some of the records are vital rock standards, but mostly, I fell in love with the idea of owning records a few years ago, and haven't really listened to most of them, even once. The booze collection started before my dad traveled to India in spring of 2010. It feels like ages ago. I helped him clean and pack his house, and in return he sent me home with a crate full of odd bottles: most of a bottle of creme de menthe from Cuba, a few splashes of Remy Martin XO, two old bottles of Belgian beer... it was enough to get me curious and get me started on my own home bar. Now I'm the one keeping stuff in his cellar.

My resolution this year is to get a grip on my stuff. The bookcase from college is full, over-full, actually: there are books on top of the case. Some of those books are from college, books I didn't read then, but always meant to get around to reading. The dresser is full or knick-knacks (and has some books inside), and is pulling double duty as a bar, with dozens of bottles of liquor on top. Most of the bottles are open, but a few are not (I've been saving them for a special occasion). The entertainment center is (nearly) full with moves (and a few games). I have seen most of the movies, and at least read the instruction manual to most of the games, a few remain strangers. Many of the books and music are unexplored.

And I'm always getting more of all of this stuff, because there's always something new, something exciting, something to add to the collection (or worse, a new collection to start). Something that reminds me of something else I have, or something that reminds me of a person or experience I enjoy. Sometimes I ask for stuff as a present, and it usually ends up on one shelf or another. So you see, I'm worried that if I don't put the brakes on accumulating sooner rather than later, I am going to get caught in the cycle of chasing more and more stuff. And after moving (on average) once per year since 2001, I know by now that I have more than enough stuff to keep me going for some time (at least a year, I'm sure). So I'm putting an end to it. At least for a little while.

I won't bring anything new into my home in 2012. There is already so much there that is new to me. I'm going to dedicate some effort to taking inventory of what I already have, and I'm going to start enjoying it and sharing it more. With friends, with family, with anybody who is interested. And in addition to the books, movies, music, and booze on my shelves, I'm going to make my way into the boxes of stuff I've held off on exploring for so long. As I type this, I am palpably excited as I think about what I might discover. What I might remember. What I might have wanted to forget.

My current lease doesn't run out for another eight months, and I don't intend to move when it's over. I like where I live, and I want to keep moving in, rather than moving on. But to do that, I need to deal with all this stuff I have. I haven't fully decided how to start, but I'm going to write about it as I go. And as the year goes on, I just might feel like I have more than when I started.