Cuppow!

A few weeks ago I stumbled across a life(style) changing product: CUPPOW! The idea is incredibly simple and totally genius. It’s slender plastic insert that turns any wide mouth canning jar into a travel mug. BAM.

Who doesn’t love drinking out of a jar? Who hasn’t spilled all over themselves doing so? I had to get a few for Miss McKay for her birthday. It seemed created for her: Cold brew coffee anywhere, pina coladas to go, hot coffee refills, champagne cocktails on a bike, mojitos in the back of a pickup truck. No frills, no spills, all thrills. Even better, the tiny company is run by American humans who just seem to really love coffee and want to bring manufacturing back to New England. Simple, elegant, affordable, sustainable, and local? Be still my Brooklyn heart. 
Buy one here
, you know you need it.

images not featuring Miss McKay from cuppow.

Home to Roost, for a bit

With a sigh, with a laugh, with a parking spot right in front of our apartment we returned home last night as the very late tendril of daylight savings light left our block. Rail weary, road hard, laden with burdens and gifts, sunburnt, bugbit, a bit heartsore, but happy: we are home.

This trip south was to celebrate living: one friend’s wedding, another’s birth, my small family taking each other’s hands to honor the what and why of everything that has come before and to keep on keeping on together into the thankful brilliant wonder of everything that lies ahead of us. Being home there and coming home here, I’m reminded of this little verse from Emily Dickinson that my Mama holds dear:

“Hope” is the thing with feathers—
That perches in the soul—
And sings the tune without the words—
And never stops—at all—

The 5:15’s

I’ve been in Virginia for a few days now, halfway down the great rolling coast en route to the spanish moss and still country of south Georgia. If I get within a hundred mile radius of my hometown on a Monday, I’ve gotta go sit in with “The 5:15’s”.

Each and every Monday, The 5:15’s meet at the “rock’n’roll office”. It used to be a dentists office my dad built and, left vacant two years ago in the recession, now it’s where people come to rock. The set up just lives there, the amazing accumulated wealth of years of gear: full drums, a wall of huge ancient speakers that still sound awesome, keyboards, multiple amps, mics, Fender tweeds, Rickenbacker 12 strings, pedal steels, SG’s and Les Pauls, electric fiddles and mandolins, my old acoustic guitar from high school, Stratocasters tuned to Keith Richards and and PRS’s hardly tuned at all, Precision and Jazz basses, and, of course, my mom on Cowbell.

It’s pretty amazing, I grew up knowing these guys, the doctor, the lawyer, the chef… and every Monday they shed skins and drink whiskey and play the songs they’ve always loved. There are the obvious classics: BADGE, Down By the River, Dead Flowers, Springsteen, The Byrds, Joe Cocker. Then there’s some more obscure stuff, Steve Earle, Delbert McClinton, Government Mule. If you want to learn to play a song, you bring a sheet: a printout of the lyrics and the chords, just make sure you bring enough copies for everyone.

These guys aren’t professionals, they just love playing together. Sometimes people hit clams or miss parts, and sometimes everyone kills it. We hit the harmonies, nail the drum break, slay the solo and the room gets that full and lifting feeling, that elevated heart-rise that happens when music is good and music is love.

They don’t play for anyone but themselves. Every Monday, starting at 5:15.

Wanderlust, Realized.

Wanderlust. When it gets just warm enough and you have to jump off of high things into wet things with your best ones. Get it? Got it. Good. Let’s roll.

Today, the Thon heads south.

So, a gift from Deke: the best starting-out-on-a-roadtrip-song I’ve heard since “Stranger in a Strange Land”.

image: from McKay’s holga, Smills in the water, me in the air, last summer, Oregon.

Feeling: Wanderlust

The Exercise: I feel wanderlust when you start to think about the temperature rising and the slant of the sun as the world opens itself wide because even though this has been the most wild winter in memory it’s still left an early-dark melancholy down deep in the bones.

Sunglasses on, let’s go.

Thanks to Meags for The Feeling Wheel.

 

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