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Anne of Cleves (1539)

There’s something deeply satisfying about watching a painting be restored. The slow, methodical removal of centuries of grime, the careful lifting of discolored varnish, the revelation of once-hidden details—it’s like waking up a face that has long been asleep. Colors return, textures emerge, the subject reclaims their presence.

Recently, I came across the newly restored portrait of Anne of Cleves by Hans Holbein the Younger. The before-and-after images stunned me. Where once the painting seemed muted and faded, now it shone with life. The deep reds and golds of Anne’s gown glowed, the intricate embroidery and jewelry leapt into clarity, and her face, once obscured in darkness, now met the viewer with quiet confidence.

And as I stared at her—at this renewed Anne—I couldn’t help but think of Henry VIII’s infamous words:

"She is nothing so fair as she hath been reported."

For centuries, Anne’s legacy has been trapped by that single line. We know her as the wife Henry never wanted, the woman who failed to please a man known for his fickle heart. But looking at her restored portrait, seeing her as Holbein painted her, I had to wonder: was Henry blinded by his own expectations?

Art restoration is a process of patience, science, and faith. A painting doesn’t just age—it accumulates history upon its surface. Layers of old varnish, dust, smoke, even misguided past restorations—all of these things dim the original artist’s vision. A conservator must carefully strip away these layers, one by one, without damaging the delicate paint beneath. It’s slow work, sometimes requiring months of microscopic precision to reveal what was always there.

Looking at the restored Portrait of Anne of Cleves, I saw this process as a metaphor for how we perceive history. Over time, Anne’s true story has been buried beneath Henry’s rejection, beneath the mockery of her supposed plainness, beneath the idea that she was nothing more than an unfortunate mistake. But, like a painting lost in shadow, her real brilliance has always been there—waiting to be uncovered.

Anne of Cleves was dismissed by Henry VIII before their marriage had even begun. When he met her in person, expecting the beauty he had seen in Holbein’s portrait, he found her lacking. His disappointment became legend, reducing Anne to a punchline in the story of Henry’s marital misadventures.

But here’s what’s fascinating: Anne outplayed him.

She accepted the annulment without resistance, recognizing that survival mattered more than a crown. In exchange, she secured a generous settlement, multiple estates, and the honorary title of “The King’s Sister.” This gave her rank, wealth, and security—far more than most of Henry’s actual wives ever received.

Rather than fading into obscurity, Anne thrived. She attended court, maintained good relations with Henry and his children, and lived out her days in comfort. She was, in the end, one of the few people to ever truly escape Henry’s grasp unscathed.

I wonder—if Henry had seen Anne the way Holbein did, would things have been different? The portrait presents a woman of intelligence and refinement, someone who carries herself with poise. The details of her gown, the richness of her jewelry, the steadiness of her gaze—none of it suggests an unremarkable woman.

Perhaps, like the painting itself, Anne was never the problem. Perhaps Henry’s disappointment was more about his own expectations than about any flaw in Anne.

And now, centuries later, we get to see her again, with fresh eyes.

There’s a lesson in both Anne’s story and her portrait’s renewal. The past is often obscured, not just by time but by the narratives we choose to tell. Restoration—whether of a painting or of a reputation—requires effort, patience, and the willingness to look beyond what we think we know.

As I look at the restored Portrait of Anne of Cleves, I feel a sense of justice. She is no longer just the wife Henry discarded—she is a woman of strength, resilience, and quiet triumph. She endured, she adapted, and in the end, she won.

And now, at last, we see her as she was always meant to be—as fair as she has been reported, and more.

Curious Cat Face

 

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Date Night

Capri Girl on a Rooftop (1878)

John Singer Sargent’s Capri Girl on a Rooftop (1878) is a striking embodiment of youthful spontaneity and romantic idealism, capturing a dynamic interplay between movement and stillness, presence and observation. The composition centers on a young girl enraptured in dance, her dress billowing as she surrenders to the rhythm, while a seated boy attentively plays a drum. His gaze is not directed outward but remains fixed on her, suggesting an intense, almost reverent admiration. Sargent’s masterful use of light emphasizes the fluidity of her movement, the warmth of her skin, and the ethereal quality of the Mediterranean atmosphere. The setting, with its warm hues and open rooftop, suggests a space of possibility, an environment where youth and freedom are not merely depicted but lived in the moment. The contrast between her motion and his stillness underscores the delicate balance between self-expression and observation, an equilibrium that defines not just art but human relationships as well.

This work encapsulates an aestheticized vision of love—one expressed through the immediacy of music and dance rather than verbal communication. The intimacy of the scene is not predicated on proximity but on attentiveness, on the act of watching and being watched, of existing within the same rhythm. The painting evokes a sense of unburdened youth, a moment untainted by the complexities and responsibilities that accompany maturity. It speaks to a purity of experience, one that modern life often complicates with expectations, obligations, and the inevitable weight of time’s passage. The rhythm of her dance and the boy’s unwavering attention create an unspoken dialogue, one in which art, music, and movement converge to form something deeply human and universally resonant.

My first encounter with this painting occurred alongside my then-wife, an experience that instantly solidified our mutual appreciation for its evocative power. Over the years, as my personal circumstances have evolved, I have returned to this painting repeatedly, lingering before it at Crystal Bridges, drawn once more into its narrative. With each viewing, the painting accrues new layers of meaning, resonating with my shifting perspectives on love, longing, and the passage of time. Where once I saw only youthful exuberance and devotion, I now recognize elements of distance, solitude, and the bittersweet nature of memory. The figures are frozen in a moment, yet they are also untethered from permanence, existing within a fleeting exchange that will inevitably dissolve beyond the frame. This impermanence reminds me that love, too, is often a dance—sometimes synchronized, sometimes out of step, but always subject to the unpredictable rhythms of life.

As I move further from romantic relationships in my own life, I find that works like Capri Girl on a Rooftop do not diminish in impact; rather, their significance deepens. The concept of love, rather than receding, becomes more potent in its absence. Where once I feared that solitude might dull my capacity for affection, I have discovered that art itself can serve as an enduring conduit for emotional warmth and connection. The presence of love does not require the presence of another—it can exist in the reverence one feels for beauty, for expression, for the intangible yet undeniable echoes of shared human experience. Through art, I find a way to engage with love that is not dependent on reciprocity, a love that does not fade with time or distance but remains as vivid and powerful as the moment it first took root in my heart.

Painting, in particular, occupies a singular space in my emotional and intellectual life. It operates beyond the constraints of language, capturing and preserving feeling in a way that literature or music sometimes cannot. It provides not just an aesthetic experience but a portal into memory, introspection, and even transformation. Capri Girl on a Rooftop remains more than an image; it is a symbol of an internalized longing for connection and devotion, an artistic manifestation of love’s rhythm. Whether that love is found in another person or in the artworks that continue to move me, its essence endures, persistent and luminous. Each brushstroke, each interplay of shadow and light, serves as a testament to the way art keeps love alive—not merely as a remembrance, but as an ever-evolving presence within the soul.

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Wings N More

Copy of "George Washington (The Athenaeum Portrait)"

Ezra Ames’ reproduction of George Washington (The Athenaeum Portrait) by Gilbert Stuart serves as an exemplar of artistic replication as a vehicle for historical continuity and ideological reinforcement. Stuart’s original 1796 portrait is one of the most ubiquitous images in American visual culture, immortalized on the one-dollar bill and widely disseminated through prints and engravings. Ames’ work exemplifies the extent to which Washington’s visage became a cornerstone of national identity, shaping the aesthetic and symbolic framework of American leadership.

Stuart’s painting, though famously unfinished, is paradoxically complete in its function; its legacy lies not in its physical completion but in its infinite reproduction and adaptation. This lack of finality suggests a fluidity in Washington’s image, allowing each iteration, including Ames’ copy, to serve as a reaffirmation of his enduring authority. Ames’ rendering is not simply an exercise in artistic fidelity—it is an active engagement in the mythologization of Washington, reinforcing the aesthetic and ideological paradigm he represents. Through this visual perpetuation, Washington’s image is codified as the template for presidential decorum, a precedent against which his successors would inevitably be judged.

The act of replication in this case is an assertion of continuity. Ames, in re-creating Stuart’s portrait, was not merely duplicating a likeness but participating in a broader cultural project: the construction of an idealized national icon. Each subsequent reproduction fortifies Washington’s position as the archetypal leader—an image that communicates republican virtue, measured authority, and the rejection of monarchical excess. Unlike European rulers depicted with opulent regalia and divine symbolism, Washington’s portrayal is marked by restraint and civic duty. His ubiquitous presence on currency underscores the notion that his leadership is foundational, not only to the office of the presidency but to the nation itself.

For over two centuries, American presidents have, in various capacities, functioned as extensions of Washington’s legacy. Whether by embodying his virtues or by diverging from them, each president has been evaluated within the visual and ideological framework he established. His decision to relinquish power voluntarily cemented the presidency as a republican institution rather than a hereditary one. Even figures who pushed against established norms were still tethered to Washington’s precedent.

The election of Donald Trump, however, signaled an intentional break from this lineage—not only in governance but in presidential iconography. His refusal to sit for an official portrait is emblematic of his rejection of the historical narrative that positions presidents as heirs to Washington’s restrained, civic-minded leadership. Instead of engaging in the tradition of formal portraiture, Trump has curated his own visual mythology: gilded statues at political conferences, digital imagery casting him as a superhero, and media optics reminiscent of strongman propaganda. In place of the measured dignity of Stuart’s portrait, Trump has embraced a visual lexicon associated with personal cult and authoritarian aesthetics.

This departure from the Washingtonian mold is not incidental but strategic. In an era where branding supersedes tradition, Trump has positioned himself as an icon independent of the historical frameworks that have defined American leadership. His imagery is not that of a public servant but of an individual sovereign, exalting personal power over institutional continuity. His absence from the tradition of presidential portraiture is not merely a deferral; it is a repudiation of the Washingtonian ideal as the gold standard of American governance.

By rejecting Washington’s visual and ideological precedent, Trump’s presidency raises fundamental questions about the evolving nature of American democracy. If Washington’s portrait, as perpetuated by Ames and countless others, has functioned as an enduring symbol of American leadership, what does it mean when a president actively distances himself from that legacy? Does this signify an erosion of the republican model, or does it suggest the emergence of an entirely new conception of the presidency—one less constrained by tradition and more aligned with autocratic visual rhetoric? In breaking from the past, Trump has forced the American electorate to confront a crucial dilemma: does the presidency remain an institution anchored in Washington’s republican virtues, or has it irrevocably shifted toward an era of individual spectacle and power consolidation?

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The Long Bill (1840)

Today, I find myself reflecting on my visit to the Cincinnati Art Museum last year and the enduring impact of James Henry Beard’s 1840 painting, The Long Bill. The painting captures a moment of startling irony—a customer, rendered with an expression of shock and dismay, is confronted with an unexpectedly steep invoice. That image, so vivid and timeless, now serves as a metaphor for the financial policies being proposed in Missouri today.

As I contemplate the state’s plan to replace its income tax with a flat 4% sales tax, I am struck by the parallels between the painting’s narrative and the contemporary economic reality. Consider the simple act of shopping for essentials—a basket filled with milk, bread, and eggs totaling $50. Under the proposed tax regime, an extra $2 is tacked onto the bill. While that may appear trivial at first glance, the cumulative effect of a 4% sales tax on every purchase becomes burdensome, particularly for individuals and families whose incomes barely stretch to cover basic necessities. This isn’t merely a nominal fee; it is a persistent, hidden cost that chips away at the financial stability of those who can least afford it.

In Beard’s work, the unforeseen invoice is not just a quirky anomaly; it is a pointed commentary on the hidden charges that can destabilize one’s economic well-being. The painting resonates with me now more than ever as I consider how a flat tax, presented as a symbol of simplicity and fairness, effectively imposes a regressive burden on lower-income households. Unlike a progressive income tax system, where the tax rate increases with higher earnings, a flat sales tax extracts the same percentage from every transaction regardless of an individual’s financial circumstances. This approach may benefit the wealthy, who can absorb such costs with minimal impact, but it punishes those who spend nearly all their income on everyday goods and services.

Reflecting deeper, the proposed tax reform in Missouri seems emblematic of a broader ideological shift among new conservative thinkers. They champion fiscal simplicity and equate uniformity with fairness, arguing that every citizen should contribute equally. Yet, this rhetoric neglects the disparate realities of income distribution. For those living paycheck to paycheck, the 4% tax is not a marginal inconvenience but a steady drain on their limited resources—a “long bill” that recurs with every mundane purchase.

This intersection of art and policy is both compelling and disquieting. The Long Bill encapsulates the inherent irony of unexpected financial burdens, and its imagery now mirrors the lived experiences of many lower-income Missourians. It forces us to confront the reality that policies touted as equitable can, in practice, exacerbate economic inequality. In this light, the flat sales tax emerges not as a benign simplification but as a subtle instrument of fiscal injustice—an imposition that quietly penalizes the poor while leaving the affluent largely unscathed.

Sitting with these thoughts, I am reminded that art often holds a mirror to society, revealing truths that transcend time. Beard’s painting is a silent yet potent reminder that beneath the veneer of simplicity lies a complex interplay of power, policy, and human vulnerability. The unexpected charge depicted in the artwork is not merely a historical curiosity; it is a timeless symbol of the hidden costs that continue to shape our economic landscape, a cost that, in the case of Missouri’s tax proposal, risks being borne disproportionately by those who are already struggling to make ends meet.

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At Bat

In honor of baseball coming back, I want to revisit an entry I wrote last year. 

July 30, 2024

Dear journal, 

Today, while mowing the lawn, I had an epiphany that transformed how I view a stone on the path from the street to my front door. For years, I’ve walked over this stone without much thought, but today it struck me as a symbol of home plate in baseball. This realization sparked a reflection on how stepping up to this stone mirrors stepping up to the plate in life, where each day begins with taking action and embracing new challenges.

In baseball, stepping up to the plate is the beginning of an opportunity. It’s the moment when all your preparation, practice, and determination come into play. Similarly, each day we face new challenges and opportunities that require us to step up, take action, and do our best. But just like in baseball, our journey doesn’t end when we make that initial swing.

"Baseball is like driving, it's the one who gets home safely that counts," Tommy Lasorda once said. This quote resonated with me deeply as I thought about my own life. Just as in baseball, getting home safely is what truly matters. It’s not always about hitting a home run, but about making steady progress and relying on others to help us along the way.

Life, like baseball, is full of unexpected twists and turns. We face obstacles, setbacks, and challenges that we must navigate. Some days, it feels like we’re just fouling off pitch after pitch, struggling to find our rhythm. But persistence and resilience are key. Rick Maksian’s words, "Life will always throw you curves, just keep fouling them off. The right pitch will come, but when it does, be prepared to run the bases," remind me to stay hopeful and ready for the right opportunities. When they come, I must be prepared to seize them and run the bases.

Jackie Robinson once said, "A life is not important except in the impact it has on other lives." This quote echoes the importance of teamwork in baseball and life. Just as in baseball, we don’t achieve our goals alone. We rely on the support, encouragement, and assistance of others. Our family and friends cheer us on, offer advice, and pick us up when we stumble. Coworkers collaborate with us, share insights, and help us achieve professional success. Sometimes, even strangers play a role, offering a helping hand or a kind word when we least expect it. Together, they help us advance around the bases and ultimately bring us home.

Reflecting on the simple stone in my path has made me appreciate the journey of life even more. It reminds me that every day is a new game, a new opportunity to step up to the plate. While the challenges are mine to face, I am never alone. I have a team that supports me, believes in me, and helps me achieve my goals.

"You may glory in a team triumphant, but you fall in love with a team in defeat," Roger Kahn said. It’s not just the victories that define us but how we handle the defeats. The bonds we form, the resilience we build, and the lessons we learn from our losses make us stronger and more appreciative of the wins. Life, like baseball, is a series of games, some we win, some we lose, but each one shapes us and adds to our journey.

So, every day as I step on that stone, I’ll remind myself that I’m stepping up to the plate. I’ll face the challenges head-on, knowing that I have a team behind me, helping me advance, and bringing me back home. And in the end, it’s not just about the runs scored, but the connections made, the lessons learned, and the journey taken. 

Go Royals, 

Dave

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Reflecting on Football

Dear journal,

I started playing football in third grade. Before then, I had played other sports—soccer, baseball—but football was what I had been waiting for. It was the sport. The one that mattered. It wasn’t just a game in my world; it was an identity. Football players weren’t just kids in pads. They were warriors, heroes, the embodiment of discipline and toughness. I wanted that. I wanted to be part of it.

From third grade to eleventh grade, football defined me. Every fall was marked by practices in the heat, the smell of sweat and grass, the sting of helmet-to-helmet contact, and the rhythm of drills that became second nature. I lifted weights religiously, putting aside every other sport to be the best I could be. I ran sprints until my legs shook, pushed myself harder, and convinced myself that pain was just weakness leaving the body. That’s what we were told. Pain was temporary, and toughness was forever.

Then I reached high school, and everything changed. Like most things in the transition from junior high to high school, the way adults treated us shifted. I had always known football was serious, but now it was something else entirely. The game wasn’t just about skill or effort; it was about endurance, about sacrifice, about how much you were willing to give of yourself before you broke. And when you did break, you were expected to patch yourself up and keep going. I learned that lesson quickly.

In tenth grade, I injured my knee and required surgery. I rehabbed, recovered, and didn’t think much of it. Injuries were part of the game. They happened, and you moved on. That was what we were supposed to do.

Then, in my junior year, just a week before the season started, I injured my other knee. This time, I was different. I knew the pain wasn’t normal, knew something was wrong. I told the adults—the ones who were supposed to know better, who were supposed to protect me. My parents. My coaches. Their advice was simple: Toughen up. The season was starting. There wasn’t time for injuries, for second-guessing. I swallowed the pain and played through it, limping my way through practices, pushing through every hit and every drill. Wrapping my knee tighter and tighter in the weight room to mask the pain.

By the end of that season, I had nothing left to give. Football, the game I had loved for most of my life, had taken more than it had given. I made my decision: I was done. I walked away.

But quitting wasn’t as simple as just walking away. My senior year was hell. I had expected some backlash, but I wasn’t prepared for the depth of it. Any reason I gave for not playing was met with ridicule. Former teammates, coaches, even friends—people who had once been in my corner—turned on me. I was weak. I had let people down. I had thrown away something important. That’s when I learned a brutal truth: most people value you for what you do, not for who you are.

For years, I had been a football player. That was my identity. When I stepped away, I wasn’t sure who I was anymore, and neither was anyone else. My anger grew, feeding on itself, poisoning my relationships, twisting the way I saw the world. I had spent years being conditioned to push everything down, to "man up," to fight through. But now, with nothing to push against, that anger had nowhere to go. I was lost in it. It didn't take long for that anger to transition to depression. 

After the season ended, my knee was finally examined. Surgery was scheduled. The pain I had carried for months, the injury I had been told to "toughen up" through—it had been real all along. That realization should have given me some kind of validation, but all it did was make me angrier. It confirmed what I had suspected for a long time: my pain had never mattered to them. Only my performance had.

As the years passed, I slowly began to take control of my anger. But it wasn’t until I first heard about Chronic Traumatic Encephalopathy (CTE) that everything started to make sense.

I was always a lineman. Repeated blows to the head weren’t accidents; they were a part of the game, part of my daily life. Every snap, every drill, every block—collision after collision, impact after impact. It was normal. We never questioned it. We were trained to shake it off, to get back in the huddle, to line up and do it again. Concussions weren’t real injuries; they were just part of the job.

Now, I believe those concussions contributed to my anger. Not just the frustration of leaving football, not just the resentment of how I was treated, but the physical, neurological changes that came from years of blows to the head. The science behind CTE is clear—repeated head trauma alters brain chemistry, affecting mood, impulse control, and cognition. When I first read about it, it felt just like when I told my coaches I was hurt and they told me to toughen up. Once again, the reality of my experience was being confirmed too late.

Now, I have a love-hate relationship with football. I am a lifelong Chiefs fan. I still love the game, the strategy, the camaraderie, the spectacle. But I can’t watch a game without thinking about the long-term consequences for the men on the field. I see them take those hits and wonder what’s happening to their brains, what damage they’ll discover years from now when the cheering stops and the lights go out.

As a high school teacher, I see young men walking the same path I once did. I see them dedicate themselves fully, believing in the dream, not thinking about what comes next. Their lives are being altered in ways they don’t yet understand. I don’t know which ones will walk away before it’s too late, and which ones will carry unseen wounds long after their playing days are over. I want to tell them to be careful. I want to warn them. But I also know that, at their age, they wouldn’t listen. I wouldn’t have listened either.

Time heals. The most meaningful relationships stood the test of that time. My relationship with my father, who had been my first coach and biggest supporter, was strained for a while, but we healed. We grew closer. Football shaped my life, but stepping away from it allowed me to reclaim who I was.

Would I tell a young man not to play? I don’t know. It’s a choice they have to make for themselves. But if I could talk to my younger self, I’d tell him this:

Football is just a game. You are more than what you do. And if you walk away, the world will keep on going, and so will you. 

Always, 

Dave 

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Ramon Casas' Self-Portrait (1908)

There is something about self-portraits that has always drawn me in. They are more than just depictions of an artist's face; they are a reflection of how they see themselves, how they wish to be seen, or perhaps how they feel in a given moment. In many ways, self-portraits are a visual journal entry, capturing not just appearance but mood, personality, and introspection. As Vincent van Gogh once wrote, "What would life be if we had no courage to attempt anything?"—self-portraits, in many ways, are an artist’s courageous attempt to understand themselves.

Ramon Casas' Self-Portrait (1908) resonates with me in a way that few other self-portraits do. The lines, the beard, the pipe, the hat—these are all elements I find in my own self-portraits. Not because I am consciously emulating Casas, but because these are the features that define me when I look in the mirror. There is an undeniable familiarity in this piece, as if I am looking at an artistic ancestor, someone who, like me, saw himself best through the quiet act of sketching. The poet Rainer Maria Rilke wrote, "The only journey is the one within," and that is exactly what I experience through self-portraiture—a journey inward.

Casas' style is loose but intentional, capturing not only his likeness but a sense of character. The sketch-like quality of the piece makes it feel immediate, as though it were drawn in a moment of reflection rather than crafted for display. This resonates deeply with me, as I, too, prefer sketching as my primary form of visual expression. While I do not consider myself much of an artist, sketching allows me to capture something that words sometimes cannot. It is a different kind of self-reflection, one that emerges through lines and shading rather than sentences and paragraphs. As Leonardo da Vinci once said, "Painting is poetry that is seen rather than felt, and poetry is painting that is felt rather than seen." My sketches are my poetry, each line a verse that captures something deeply personal.

I find self-portraits enlightening because they reveal something beyond what a mirror or a photograph can show. They are not just about the subject but about the act of seeing, interpreting, and presenting oneself. When I sketch a self-portrait, I am not merely recording my features—I am studying myself, trying to understand what my own hand finds important, what it chooses to emphasize or downplay. It is an exercise in self-examination, just like my journaling, but with a different set of tools. As Frida Kahlo once said, "I paint myself because I am so often alone and because I am the subject I know best." Her words capture the intimate act of self-portraiture—an exploration of identity and solitude.

Perhaps that is why Casas' self-portrait speaks to me so strongly. It is not just a picture of a man with a pipe and a hat. It is a moment of reflection, captured and made permanent. And in it, I see not just him, but something of myself as well. His portrait reminds me that self-portraits are not simply about appearance; they are about searching for meaning in the face we present to the world, about understanding ourselves through the act of creation. They are, as John Berger wrote, "A way of seeing." 

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7UP Tropical

I stumbled across a can of 7UP Tropical the other day, and as a dedicated seeker of limited-edition sodas, I knew I had to give it a try. From the first sip, one thing was immediately clear: this isn’t just a soda—it’s a mocktail in disguise.

The flavor profile leans heavily into tropical notes, with a smooth blend of pineapple and coconut that immediately reminded me of Malibu coconut rum—minus the alcohol. It’s light, refreshing, and carries a sweetness that feels tailor-made for a summer drink by the pool. In fact, it brought back memories of an LA Sunrise, a fruity cocktail I once had, which shared a very similar taste.

What I appreciate about 7UP Tropical is that it doesn’t just throw in fruit flavors at random. Instead, it feels intentional, almost like a bartender designed it to be a ready-made base for a nonalcoholic cocktail. I can easily see this being mixed with grenadine for a DIY Tropical Shirley Temple or paired with a splash of club soda to dial back the sweetness.

As far as limited sodas go, this one is a winner. If you're a fan of tropical flavors or looking for a soda that feels like a vacation in a can, 7UP Tropical delivers.

Would I buy it again? Absolutely.

Tippler

Dear journal,

Words have weight, history, and personality. When I set out to name a category for my journal entries about the drinks I enjoy, I wanted something that carried a bit of charm, a touch of history, and a playful sense of indulgence. After some thought, I landed on Tippler—a word that, while often associated with alcohol, is more about the act of drinking itself, the pleasure of sipping and savoring.

Historically, a tippler is someone who enjoys their drink—not in excess, but with consistency. It originates from tipple, a word that has been around for centuries, referring to the act of drinking in small, frequent amounts. Unlike a drunkard, a tippler is more of a steady appreciator, a connoisseur in their own right. And while its origins are tied to taverns and alehouses, my interpretation expands beyond just wine, cider, or beer.

For me, Tippler isn't just about alcohol; it's about the joy of variety. I’ve always had a soft spot for trying new and unusual drinks, whether it’s a seasonal craft cider, an obscure tea blend, or a limited-edition soda like Coke Zero Orange Cream or 7UP Tropical. When something new hits the shelves, I can’t help but hunt it down, eager to experience a fleeting flavor before it disappears.

There’s something special about these small indulgences—the way a well-paired drink can elevate a meal, the nostalgia of a childhood soda resurrected in a modern twist, the curiosity that comes with discovering something unexpected. Tippler, then, is a celebration of all of that: the moment of discovery, the act of tasting, and the small pleasure of enjoying something new.

So whether it's a glass of wine, a cold can of something weird and wonderful, or a perfectly brewed cup of tea, I'll be sharing my thoughts here under the Tippler tag. Because sometimes, life is best enjoyed one sip at a time.

Always, 

Dave