life

Beer Ramblings

IPA’s

What delectably bitter libations! liquid grass for some, but the freshness…ahhh! Some like the hops on top, nosey, and some like the peppery undertones with citrusy implications. One of the best moves of microbreweries these days is to make a delectable session IPA. Keep the bigness, but have two (or three). I love the anticipation of beer-thirty when I know I have a home-brewed IPA in the fridge. It is a type of peace that is rarely found anywhere else. Big grain bottom with the heaven of nature: all in one glass. Try some of Great Divide’s offerings, but if you can find it, Hall’s Farmhouse IPA is the way to go!

Pale Ales

These often looked to ales are the base for so many others. The lowly Pale often plays second partner to the more speciality brews, but if one takes time, better yet: brew your own, the Pale is a patient partner. Be picky here as these brews range from “meh…” to “Why! WHY!?” When that sweet taste of liquid gold is needed the Pale will come through. Malty with numerous levels of moderate hops are the basis’ of many a fine glass. Again, Hall’s makes a great Red Ale (a Pale of a different color). Experiment with these, they are patient and often very satisfying basic beers.

ESB’s

While the Pale Ale is a basic beer, its grandfather is probably the ESB. Ah, what malty goodness awaits anyone with an Extra Special Bitter in mind. Beside the IPA, I would probably cozy up to one of our home-brewed ESB’s. Not too cold! Let the malty goodness speak volumes and it will, especially when shared with friends!

Porters and Stouts

Oh these black beauties… often mistaken for being heavy handed and alcoholic. Not so! Smoky characters they are, and perhaps they take time to get to know. But once a true friend is made, you will have a friend for life. I don’t cotton to the coffee varieties, pure malty black magic for me. Also, keep the vanilla in the ice-cream. Although these beautiful and mystical beers can hold up to the adjuncts that we often add, it is a shame to miss out on their simple goodness. Equally good on a hot summer’s day or cold winter’s night.

Lagers

Cold-hearted as they may be, lagers are the fresh morning dew on the grass; early in the morning just as the birds are beginning to wake. You might not want to drink one at that time, but the freshness of a good lager is bound to quench the thirst of anyone after a hard day of simple living. Clear, with nothing to hide, sometimes wheat-natured and often abused by the industrial-aged beer magnates. Don’t bother, there are much, much better beers to be found if you look around. Oskar Blues’ Mama’s Little Yella Pilsner is a good one. Better yet, brew your own, but make sure to have a cool place to let it get going. It’ll put a smile on your face and ideas in your head if you’re not careful!

Drinking beer?

In my humble opinion, beer is a nectar that is too often diluted by adjuncts: water, grain, yeast and hops are all that is needed. Savor the taste of the beer you drink; like life, the bottom of the glass comes sooner than you think. Don’t complicate things, keep your thoughts pure and your wants simple. Take pleasure in picking the beer you will drink and drink the beer you pick with a conscious and deliberate state of mind. Smile and nod, but don’t always listen. This is your time, and your beer will draw those precious seconds out just a little longer!

Aunt Ruth

I was remembering my Aunt Ruth the other day. Aunt Ruth lived outside of Delhi Louisiana on a farm and her son and my cousin, Bill, farmed the thousand or so acres that surrounded the old house. I remember that he was always busy repairing the irrigation systems that stood like giant centipedes along the dirt roads that crisscrossed the fields. I helped every now and then, and remember it was quiet except for the clanking of wrenches and the odd tractor in the distance. I remember the smell of diesel, of horses and hay, and of water and dirt. I also remember the chicken.

Aunt Ruth was a seminal cook; a chef, a magician of food that is rarely made anymore. When I would help Bill on my visits to the farm Aunt Ruth would always have a table full of magic when we arrived home for lunch. There would be fried chicken (from the yard outside the house), green beans (from the garden), macaroni and cheese (homemade of course), okra (fried and sautéed), homemade tomato jelly, buttered rolls, ice tea, several pies, and sometimes homemade bread. On top of all of that Aunt Ruth would serve us all with a smile and throw in a few laughs for good measure.

These memories cropped up in me some years later after I had “grown up” and I made a trip back to Delhi to reminisce. I stayed at a hotel off the highway and drove to the cemetery to visit some family. I drove to the old house where my family had taken me to visit their families, my grandparents and to the old farm where I used to play with the kids who looked after the place. I drove past the house where my uncle who used to hide whiskey in the toilet tank and yell at the help through the screen door on the back porch. I drove through the memories that have since haunted me and still haunt me today and I drove by Aunt Ruth’s house. I loved those people and what they stood for; something that I did not realize at the time because I was young, because I was from the city, and because I did not put a price on the priceless.

Those days are gone, but I believe it is up to me to remember them, to keep them alive; something I am working towards as best I can because like so many others today I have tended to hide behind the walls of houses too often, buy ease at the store and comfort with a credit card. Those people in our pasts, that we remember, were not perfect and they were certainly not saints, but I believe that my Aunt Ruth was a rare commodity, a rare species of person that has made the idea of what I think of when I think of the freedom that America offers.

Freedom and self-sufficiency are words now that are becoming more and more popular, perhaps a bit overused. But I believe in them and am striving to live up to their ideals. However, these ideals require work, character, time and talent as well as a smile and a laugh. My Aunt Ruth gave me the memory of an old house, creaking floors and a musty smell, smiles and care, but most of all she gave me a piece of herself in the form of food not bought from a store, or made from a box. In a few hours Aunt Ruth gave me memories that would last for a lifetime. I believe I need a lifetime to keep those memories alive for a few more hours.

For the Love of Fear

We talk of loving nature, its harshness and its beauty. But, at the same time we find ourselves fearful of nature. We fear its harshness and it unforgiving ways. But it is important to remember that fear is not in the heart of love. We cannot love something that we fear, and we often fear what we do not understand. And so, we are left with the conclusion that we do not understand nature because we do not understand ourselves. The issue is not nature.

Fear seems to be the great motivator of many people in our societies. I want to farm, to move to a farm, to begin a journey of learning about the thing that I love; of having it teach me, but I am afraid: not of nature, but of failing nature; of failing. Perhaps I talk of farming, its unforgiving nature and simplicity. But at the same time I understand that like nature, farming is as harsh as it is beautiful: it will not help me not to fail. Perhaps it is only a fool that goes to war without fear (as the ancient saying goes in Art of War). That is probably correct, but more often than not the fearful never go to war at all.

Fear is like money, and like money it has a tendency to override all else. This is a shame because we miss so much because we fear failure, or others, or nature. Fear is not all bad though. Fear protects us, and if we are smart it leads us to “think things through” before acting. However, if fear is keeping us safely comfortable, warmly numb, we should be afraid

Perhaps we ought to befriend fear, to make it our partner in crime, our travel companion. After all, it is not going anywhere soon. But like any partner or companion we soon tire of each other and look for blame, we shuck responsibility or even our dreams. Because at the core of us all is the capacity to understand it is not fair to fear; for although it is not in the heart of love fear is a part of being human.

More Beer Please

Haven’t brewed beer in awhile. This is a problem! The garage fridge, although not completely empty, does have shelf space and in the world of home brewing this is not good. I bottle my beers (simplicity and all that), and on top of fridge space I have an ample supply of empty beer bottles awaiting the next nectar to fill their empty spaces. It seems I cannot go into the garage without hearing their pleas to be filled.

It’s not just the logistics of beer that is problematic. The act itself is important. I’ve put wheels (with locks) on my brewing tables and stands that haven’t been tested yet. I have not heard the hiss of the propane burner under aluminum pots in while. I have not smelled the delicious aroma of mash and wort. I’ve not taken in the beauty of my home brew system in all its homemade, rough-hewn glory. I’ve not wondered at the tubs of hot water and cleaner, the chemist’s tools, and the tubes…oh the tubes.

Brewing beer is, well, more than just brewing magic. It is also drinking home brew early in the morning. It is finding local barley, and using homegrown hops. It is note-taking and smelling. It is breakfast and talk of the beer to come. It is realizing that sometimes what we think is most important is not. In beer brewing, that realization comes with the act of cleaning constantly. It is an all-day brew and feeling tired after you’ve done something that you know is good. It is also watching the carboy for baby bubbles and waking up the next morning to a foam-filled breather and the smell of bananas with a smile on your face.

Brewing beer is not just the day of the brew. Its pleasure continues. I think that brewing beer is one of those things that never end. It is much like music: a musician never gets good enough. I like the process and the realization that the process is ongoing. Bottling the beer, the waiting game begins. And finally…finally the first taste, the anticipation and worry; pouring over your notes and writing tasting notes, I like to share the first taste: more taste-buds the better, and anyway what is beer without friends.

I plan to rectify the problem soon. What better way to bring in a new year than to brew some beer!

Happy Now Year

For whatever reason, most of us feel the need to divide our lives into even smaller increments. There are birthdays, Christmas is an annual holiday that marks another year, and, of course, New Year’s Eve. The first of January comes along, like each of our birthdays and the holidays that we celebrate, and we “celebrate” it as well: another year gone by and another year to come. Time goes by, and we are reminded that time marches on. For reasons unknown to me, in the west we celebrate New Year’s Eve by drinking. Some drink with the hope of a better future, and some drink to ease the transition, and some drink simply because they do not know of anything else to do.

New Year’s Eve is an irony: a celebration of both past and future, but oddly enough not of the present. In the “now” of New Year’s Eve, we get drunk. What if New Year’s Eve was celebrated differently? To put some meat on the bones of hapless debauchery, we often make “New Year’s Resolutions”: empty promises and vague propositions about the future that become as forgotten as the past year, but even quicker. I wonder what our New Year tradition of celebration would be like if each of us truly took into account our actions and decisions in the past year, and made a promise to ourselves to change the reasons we do those things and change them right now?

Rather than changing the way we look, what if we changed the reasons for the way we look? Rather than being better in one way or another, what if we changed the reasons that we were not as good as we could be right now? If we insist on chopping up our lives in annual increments, let’s do it for good reason and not waste yet another minute that soon turns to a year and eventually a lifetime on empty promises and blind faith about the future.

So raise a glass right now, for the moment, and celebrate the present because there will never be another one like it.

Stories From the Road: Beer, Blues and the Backseat of a VW Beatle

The beer had to come which meant that the passenger seat must come out; which meant that George was to sit in the backseat with his feet propped up on the white cooler that took the place of the passenger seat. Everything had its place.

I never knew that the seats of my 71’ VW Beatle (that I had christened ‘Hitler’s Revenge’) were stuffed with straw. Springs hold the straw in place under the black vinyl. George didn’t know this either, but was soon to find out. For the time being, however, he sat comfortably with his feet propped up on the cooler.

It was hot! It was Texas, and it was in the middle of July. Hitler had no air-conditioning as it could barely pull itself without having to run a compressor. Stevie Ray Vaughn was playing in Dallas, and we were hell-bent on being awash in his amazing prowess with a guitar. We were also hell-bent on drinking the two cases of Lone Star beer we had brought.

We bounced in the downtown traffic, stopping at traffic lights and sweating like whores in the Texas heat.

“Goddamn, it’s getting hot!” yelled George over the blaring blues we had going.

“No shit, Sherlock!” I yelled back.

“No! I mean I think I’m on fire.”

We sat at the light and George began bouncing around, getting more and more anxious, yelling all the time about the heat.

“What the fuck are doing?!” I yelled.

“Dude! I think there’s a snake back here and I think I’m bit!”

“You’re crazy…”

George wasn’t crazy, but there was no snake.

We were parked on a four-lane piece of cement under a bridge some ten minutes away from beer and blues and George began trying to crawl out the side window, yelling and screaming. I saw smoke wafting from ass of his jeans as he fell out of the car and began running around under the bridge, smoke making a curly tail as he ran. Then I noticed the billowing smoke coming from the back of the car.

The car was on fire, and so I screamed and threw the keys (Yes, threw them. I don’t know why) at George who was still running around cussing and screaming at the side of the road. Smoke billowed out of the car door windows and traffic began backing up from us. I reached in the car and pulled the backseat out. By the time I had the seat out the straw had made a nice inviting flame. The cars around us continued to back up at a more and more alarming rate.

It was really easy. I just threw handfuls of dirt in the backseat and the flame went out. George finished with his sideshow dance and showed me the newly burnt hole in the ass of his jeans. I put the backseat back in, but George sat on the cooler for the duration of the ride. After some searching I found the keys and we started the car up, having the road to ourselves for the time being. Stevie Ray never sounded so good with an ice-cold Lone Star beer in hand.

From the Collection: Stories From the Road

chaos

Join me on my travels on that Monday, that day in the van in October, driving like freaks on speed. This can’t fucking be right! No human driving mad crazy. What am I doing with all of this? The proof is in the pudding, the pride, and the persistence to show. The price is driving with this crazy motherfucker; barreling down the Pennsylvania hills, pissing in my pants, puppy-dog shit. This son of a bitch is the devil himself and we shall all die in Satan’s arms. It is inevitable.

The van is already dying, etching out the last of its pitiful life, the picture of American pride. Fuck it! Some fuel additive and gas and we’re on our way to the pace of porn, pot and poetry. We shall succeed at any price. Hell shall have its way! Quite a popery of prophetic prose to be put upon the priceless piece of pummeled paper. The proposal was put forth that in Pennsylvania and properties around those words like “prick” and “pussy” must have precedence in the propensity of profound poetry put forth.

Of course, this is only a prelude to the pretense that we shall actually play; watching the palpitatious patterns of people plunder the peace of palatable portions of epiphany.

In the last moments, those final bleak hours, in the dark, in this fucking car. So goddamned tired and greasy. So close and the road just won’t end. My eyes are on fire and this constant moving doesn’t give a hairy apes ass! All I want is my home, that dream world I use to know before I took off on this fucked up ride. It’s like that park in Massachusetts where the operator fell asleep. The ride never ended and we were screaming at the end, sick as dogs, wanting to die. He must have been on dope or perhaps, just didn’t give a damn.

My mind knows there’s a place where I belong but shit, where is it? This is insane. All these cars, all this night. This whole, unending night, the numbers on the clock move, we move…so what’s the fucking problem? Give a man some peace; I’ve got a wife, I’ve got pets for god’s sake. They’re probably dead and I wouldn’t know it. I can’t do this. This is nuts; the same name on every sign, on every exit. It’s all the same.

We don’t turn, we never turn. No wonder this car is dying, it’s tired too! The same stretch of snot to roll down. I feel like a fly. Fly? Fuck that! Who’s got time with all this road? I don’t ask for miracles, just to sit in a chair that happens to be mine for a while. This moving has got to stop. Enough is enough. It will drive anyone insane. I know, I am fucking mad!

It’s all a spinning nightmare at this point. Who cares? We’re all going to die. No end in sight and we’re all acting like its normal, an enigma, a traveling savant, a fucking idiot. This is life in the fast lane, burning the oil, all of it. Fuck it! Let’s go…

The Armchair Philosopher

Writings and Music