1/11/10 - When I was five, my father offered me my first sip of beer.  He was sitting on his usual perch in the back forty (as he did every summer evening after work), twelve pack by his side, cig in hand, and me, the little ankle-biter running around on the grass doing my best impersonation of a jumbo jet airliner, sound affects and all.  On this particular occasion, he offered his arm and motioned for me to sit.  He asked if I ever wondered what beer tasted like, I said sure.  With that he offered me the can and I took a gulp as if expecting to taste grape Kool-Aid or maybe a soda.  What I got was a bitter mouthful of grossness.  I swallowed so as to not disappoint. My father laughed knowing full well that the taste wouldn’t be to my young palette’s liking.  

Rituals are important, like little prayers, wrought with intent and an acute awareness of the moment.  They signal that this fraction of time is not to be missed or sacrificed like so much of our waking life, forgotten or shelved in the attic of forgotten memories. 

My girlfriend recently brought over a bottle of whiskey to share.  About two drinks in I learned it had belonged to her deceased grandfather.  The bottle had been collecting dust in a cabinet for thirty years.  I don’t know if it was the magic of the booze starting to tingle or my predisposition to nostalgia, but a wave of shame came over me.  This bottle was important.  This bottle had meaning deeper than most and didn’t deserve to be drank then forgotten.  This bottle deserved a ritual.  Though I never met her grandfather, the toast to him seemed just as important as if he had been my own… call it respect for the dead or the love of ritual, what I do know is that I’ll never forget that exact moment and that it had meaning for the universe, whatever that might be.

My old friend Stephan had a similar appreciation for ritual, daily home brewed coffee with his Moka Express on the stovetop, festive parties at 121 Warwick, conversations on what’s possible. When he learned that I still had my father’s old corncob pipe, plans were made.  A small group of us sat in his damp basement listening to Beatles albums on an old school record player, smoking and drinking through conversations that were elaborate and frivolous at the same time.  The next day my throat felt like it had gone through a shredder.

Though I don’t know what the exact meaning was behind that first sip of beer, I would like to think that sharing one’s first drink with their dad is a ritual.  I could be mistaken, but as my father died soon after and I missed out on all of the other “normal” father/son rituals, I hold this one as ours.  Then again, maybe it just meant “let the good times roll.”  Whatever his intent, that sip of beer was significant, so I guess that’s the point.  If only we could make every moment of our lives part of a ritual (even the mundane and seemingly unimportant), every fraction of time would be special and worth remembering. Thus concludes my first blog entry, which is the beginning of a new ritual in my life (and hopefully yours) as we explore the chaos of the art world and life in general.

So here’s to my dad, grandparents everywhere, Stephan (wherever you are), and all of you… let the good times roll.