"Spring is sprung. The grass is riz. I wonder where the flowers is." Not that spring is dawdling, but our daffodils have just finished, our tulips may have opened for the first time while I'm writing this, and there ain't much else happening. I've mowed the lawn, as much to see if the lawn mower would start as because there was much to mow.
A good deal of our lawn from last fall, especially in the front, has come back well. You may recall that we started from scratch in front and in a good deal of the back last September, after our new basement work was more or less done. We spent this past weekend reseeding some of those places that didn't do so well, as well as a few pet spots.
The flowers that are blooming are some grape hyacinths, notably in some neighbors' yards, the dandelions, not so many in our yard (thanks, Weed-B-Gon) but most everywhere else, and Creeping Charlie, regrettably in our yard and garden areas as well as everywhere else. There are only two approaches to Creeping Charlie: total war, or learning to like the smell of it as you mow. So far, I've opted for total war: Weed-B-Gon can help if applied repeatedly, pulling can fill up a happy morning, etc. I've heard of solutions of 20-Mule Team Borax, etc., but constant vigilance is a component of all of these. The smell, by the way, is kind of minty.
The leaves are just now coming on many of the trees; the big silver maple by our driveway has thrown down many of its leaf sheaths, the first of its series of messy detritus items for the year. Next come whirlybirds (the seeds), then sap dripping, then leaves in fall. This was a free tree from our friends about 25 years ago, that Wendy brought home in a bike trailer; it's now about 18" in diameter and interferes with every possible angle for jump shots at our backboard.
Our flowering crab is showing buds. Last year at this time it was already done with its spectacular pink blossoms; this year, just warming up. The little crabapples hang on the tree all winter and are eaten by robins and squirrels in March when there's not much else. Sometimes there's a day we call "Robin Day," when a dozen or more hungry birds feed out there.
After the disruption of our garden last year, and the replanting in August and September, it's a treat to see how many things are popping out of the ground this spring. Poppies, peonies, lilies, the lilac bush that sat out of the ground in the neighbor's yard all summer, hen-and-chicks, mint (can't kill it), daisies, Tibetan irises, and some things we don't remember what the hell they are, all showing up. Hey, maybe some are weeds.
About six or seven years ago, the city and Xcel Energy teamed up to chop down all the boulevard trees on our side of the street, because of overhead wires, and to replant with dwarf trees that were supposed to top out below the wires. Carelessly, we watered ours the first two years. They're now the tallest and thickest on the block, and one must be a mutant because this year it's reached the wires. This does mean that some shade is available for the poor lawn on the boulevard.
Now that I mention it, what do you call that piece of land between the sidewalk and the street? We're told that it's part of the right-of-way for the street, and thus under city control, and in theory it doesn't count as our property as far as taxes or title go. But I'd better mow it and maintain it, or I'll get the ticket for too-tall grass, weeds, etc. I've learned to call it the "boulevard." But what if you live on a street called "Something Boulevard?" What about the streets, divided by a raised central strip of lawn, concrete, or, happily, city-managed gardens, which are often named or referred to as "boulevards?" This appears to require research. Or a glass or two of cheap but tasty wine (16 bottles of wine and two six-packs of approved beer at Trader Joe's, plus tax, under $100!)
The news: Wendy has successfully defended her dissertation, and will receive an Ed.D (doctorate) from the University of Minnesota. Laura and Ross roll on towards their September wedding, and they have bought a house in Minneapolis. Wendy and I, and our friend Ed, are off to Istanbul in June for the wedding of our good friends' daughter.
Dear U of Mn Registrar: My daughter graduated from the U in 2007. My wife will earn her Ed.D in 2009. My mother graduated in 1936. My grandmother graduated in 1912. And I believe my great-grandmother attended - may have graduated - in the late 1880's. Is there a prize?
Life is pretty good. See ya next time.
Monday, May 4, 2009
Tuesday, April 7, 2009
The Return of Driving Me Crazy
It's a simple concept: Stop.
Don't be doing any more what you were doing. Cease moving. Wheels no longer in motion. Whatever.
And it's unambiguous. Even a yellow light, which means "safely clear the intersection," is but a prelude to the definitive red light, STOP. The red eight-sided sign has the word clearly printed, and it doesn't say, "slow down pretty good."
Except perhaps in Boston, where the stop sign and other such law delineators are more or less helpful hints for drivers. In Boston, drivers run up on the sidewalk to get around cars which are triple-parked. It's like Istanbul, where two two painted lanes might hold three cars, a bus, a pickup truck, two motorcycles and a bicycle in the first row at the red light, and they only stopped out of normal healthy fearof what's flying by on the cross street.
The complete stop is just another among the lost arts in the decline of civilization that we are dealing with, but it's the one that most irritates me lately. More and more drivers approach the stop sign, or the red light, and slow down to take a look at the situation, but keep rolling at 5 mph or better rather than reach a full halt.
This has to be intentional, and a purposeful disregard of law. We know when we are moving and when we are not. If we are stopped, and let off the brake, we even feel when we begin to roll forward or backward, and reapply the brakes to avoid rolling into another vehicle - well, most of the time. So when we approach a stopping point, we must know that we have or have not come to a full stop.
Lord knows I am among the guilty here: my wife says she'll be glad to throw an elbow into my ribs when I roll through a stop. But I don't do it on purpose. The decision to knowingly keep moving has to be a conscious choice, a disregard for the law, a nod to relativism.
What gives us the notion that, although we love to see the laws enforced when others violate them, we get to choose when to obey and when to kind of wave them off? As Captain Lewis once said, "close only counts in horseshoes, hand grenades, and tactical nuclear weapons." When a law is clear, you are either obeying it or not. When the intent of the law is the general safety, you had best be clear on why you disagree with the law, and have supporting evidence, before you present your violation as a protest. And if you injure someone, or their property, when you violate, you had better put up and shut up.
Better yet, just stop. Come to a complete stop. Then proceed - but watch out for that other SOB who hasn't read this yet.
Don't be doing any more what you were doing. Cease moving. Wheels no longer in motion. Whatever.
And it's unambiguous. Even a yellow light, which means "safely clear the intersection," is but a prelude to the definitive red light, STOP. The red eight-sided sign has the word clearly printed, and it doesn't say, "slow down pretty good."
Except perhaps in Boston, where the stop sign and other such law delineators are more or less helpful hints for drivers. In Boston, drivers run up on the sidewalk to get around cars which are triple-parked. It's like Istanbul, where two two painted lanes might hold three cars, a bus, a pickup truck, two motorcycles and a bicycle in the first row at the red light, and they only stopped out of normal healthy fearof what's flying by on the cross street.
The complete stop is just another among the lost arts in the decline of civilization that we are dealing with, but it's the one that most irritates me lately. More and more drivers approach the stop sign, or the red light, and slow down to take a look at the situation, but keep rolling at 5 mph or better rather than reach a full halt.
This has to be intentional, and a purposeful disregard of law. We know when we are moving and when we are not. If we are stopped, and let off the brake, we even feel when we begin to roll forward or backward, and reapply the brakes to avoid rolling into another vehicle - well, most of the time. So when we approach a stopping point, we must know that we have or have not come to a full stop.
Lord knows I am among the guilty here: my wife says she'll be glad to throw an elbow into my ribs when I roll through a stop. But I don't do it on purpose. The decision to knowingly keep moving has to be a conscious choice, a disregard for the law, a nod to relativism.
What gives us the notion that, although we love to see the laws enforced when others violate them, we get to choose when to obey and when to kind of wave them off? As Captain Lewis once said, "close only counts in horseshoes, hand grenades, and tactical nuclear weapons." When a law is clear, you are either obeying it or not. When the intent of the law is the general safety, you had best be clear on why you disagree with the law, and have supporting evidence, before you present your violation as a protest. And if you injure someone, or their property, when you violate, you had better put up and shut up.
Better yet, just stop. Come to a complete stop. Then proceed - but watch out for that other SOB who hasn't read this yet.
Monday, March 23, 2009
The Past Few Days
I was going to subtitle this "Or, What Happens When Old Geezers Try to Party Like College Students" but that's not fair to some of my companions, who have more sense than I do, or to a couple of college students at our event, who partied like old geezers.
I guess it's fair to say that I like to drink. Beer. Wine. Booze, once in awhile. Not often more than one of those per evening. Wine has come more into the mix the past few years, and to a certain extent booze, because there's less sheer volume, and somewhat less waking in the middle of the night to pee. Those of you who waded through some of the blogs about my health concerns will understand how any reduction in peeing without giving up any buzz might be appreciated.
But I do like beer. For one, I have it timed out better for the arrival of the buzz. For two, I can handle a few. For three, I generally hit way full or other measures of having had enough - queasy, sleepy, etc. - before I hit full puking or, worse, full asshole ( disagreement has to be based on the level of asshole you think I'm at when I'm sober). And, perhaps both the good thing and the weak spot, some of it just plain tastes great. For instance, I'm having a new Rush River (River Falls, WI) product, Lost Arrow Porter Ale. One of the empty bottles joins my collection of Porter bottles - hey, it's the family name, and I'm up to about 40 - and all those beers made their way past my taste buds. This is a bit richer and creamier than many porters, and while there's a hint of smokiness, it's smoothed out very well.
Last Saturday, I met my old college roommate Don at the Tyranena Brewery in Lake Mills, WI. We each had a Sheep Shagger Scotch Ale. That beer had a little sharper edge than the Rush River, but it was good enough that I had a second, and bought a growler to take to Jefferson. Don followed me to the home of Bob and Lynn, where it occurred to me that Don married his bride Helen and Bob wed Lynn on the same day in September 1979 (I stood up at Don's ceremony in Beloit but bailed out early and made it to Appleton for some of Bob and Lynn's reception). Bob and Don had met several times through the years but not in many a year, and it was kind of fun to have them meet again. We all went to dinner at The Edgewater, along the Rock River just south of Jefferson, which must have the lowest ceiling of any dining establishment (not quite six feet in some places) and which offers a nice supper club menu with excellent steaks and a few upscale touches. By this hour I wasn't driving, a damn fine idea as a couple of beers accompanied dinner. After dinner Don headed for home, in the Milwaukee suburb Shorewood.
I went with Bob and Lynn to the Jefferson Optimists' annual Trivia Contest. This was my fifth visit, out of maybe fifteen or so contests, and we had won on my first two but hadn't placed since.
This is done in an interesting format, and seems to be part of a little circuit in southern Wisconsin; some of the participating teams travel to a number of contests. The most challenging part is that no sources are permitted: if someone on your team doesn't know, you must guess, and our team has over the years talked ourselves out of right answers more than once. There's an entry fee, multiple raffles are offered, a couple of side games are available for individual play - at a price - and food and beverage (Leinenkugel's, and a couple of light beers) are offered. This is, at its heart, a big fun fundraiser for the Optimists, who picked it up when the Jaycees disbanded, and a willing participant can cough up $40 to $50 by buying into the concept. The whole thing was over in three and a half hours, including the awards which saw us earn third place medals (yes, actual bronze-colored 3rd place medallions on ribbons).
Bob and Lynn's home is a historic 19th-century place, and they have filled it with various collectibles including a lot of Christmas stuff. They moved some of it aside to get me into a bedroom, but I stayed up very late talking to Lynn and putting an end to the growler. I have finished growlers before, but I haven't been up until 2:30 for a great long time. Although the net result was a necessary caution on Sunday morning, I was still the first one moving and had coffee made when Bob came down.
Their old garage was a later addition to the property and was not satisfactory; they had been looking at ways to make the upgrade for a few years. This year the old unit was gone and a new beauty, three car bays with a second story, is up and beginning to be finished off. Bob and I took coffee to the upper level, which Bob intends to develop into a mancave, and sat in the unheated room to talk, and to size up its light (windows in place) and its potential: where, for instance, to place the 42" TV? While it was a bit chilly up there, I probably burned off a bit more of the previous night trying to stay warm.
As I left, I realized that I needed more than coffee to get all systems working, so a visit to the Kwik Trip fed me as well as the car. It was a delightful March weekend, and only the normal number of idiots was loose on the highways, and our little car did as well on mileage as it ever has. Safe, uneventful road trip. Big nap upon arrival home.
If you know me, you know Don Lee: we both stopped at outlet malls on the way to the brewery on Saturday, Don at Johnson Creek, WI, and me in Wisconsin Dells. We both arrived responsibly early in Lake Mills, and rather than sit in the parking lot at the brewery we each set off to cruise the town. We passed each other at least once...and were both still early for the opening of the tap room at Tyranena. Ah, well... brewery touring with the anal-retentive roommates:-)
I guess it's fair to say that I like to drink. Beer. Wine. Booze, once in awhile. Not often more than one of those per evening. Wine has come more into the mix the past few years, and to a certain extent booze, because there's less sheer volume, and somewhat less waking in the middle of the night to pee. Those of you who waded through some of the blogs about my health concerns will understand how any reduction in peeing without giving up any buzz might be appreciated.
But I do like beer. For one, I have it timed out better for the arrival of the buzz. For two, I can handle a few. For three, I generally hit way full or other measures of having had enough - queasy, sleepy, etc. - before I hit full puking or, worse, full asshole ( disagreement has to be based on the level of asshole you think I'm at when I'm sober). And, perhaps both the good thing and the weak spot, some of it just plain tastes great. For instance, I'm having a new Rush River (River Falls, WI) product, Lost Arrow Porter Ale. One of the empty bottles joins my collection of Porter bottles - hey, it's the family name, and I'm up to about 40 - and all those beers made their way past my taste buds. This is a bit richer and creamier than many porters, and while there's a hint of smokiness, it's smoothed out very well.
Last Saturday, I met my old college roommate Don at the Tyranena Brewery in Lake Mills, WI. We each had a Sheep Shagger Scotch Ale. That beer had a little sharper edge than the Rush River, but it was good enough that I had a second, and bought a growler to take to Jefferson. Don followed me to the home of Bob and Lynn, where it occurred to me that Don married his bride Helen and Bob wed Lynn on the same day in September 1979 (I stood up at Don's ceremony in Beloit but bailed out early and made it to Appleton for some of Bob and Lynn's reception). Bob and Don had met several times through the years but not in many a year, and it was kind of fun to have them meet again. We all went to dinner at The Edgewater, along the Rock River just south of Jefferson, which must have the lowest ceiling of any dining establishment (not quite six feet in some places) and which offers a nice supper club menu with excellent steaks and a few upscale touches. By this hour I wasn't driving, a damn fine idea as a couple of beers accompanied dinner. After dinner Don headed for home, in the Milwaukee suburb Shorewood.
I went with Bob and Lynn to the Jefferson Optimists' annual Trivia Contest. This was my fifth visit, out of maybe fifteen or so contests, and we had won on my first two but hadn't placed since.
This is done in an interesting format, and seems to be part of a little circuit in southern Wisconsin; some of the participating teams travel to a number of contests. The most challenging part is that no sources are permitted: if someone on your team doesn't know, you must guess, and our team has over the years talked ourselves out of right answers more than once. There's an entry fee, multiple raffles are offered, a couple of side games are available for individual play - at a price - and food and beverage (Leinenkugel's, and a couple of light beers) are offered. This is, at its heart, a big fun fundraiser for the Optimists, who picked it up when the Jaycees disbanded, and a willing participant can cough up $40 to $50 by buying into the concept. The whole thing was over in three and a half hours, including the awards which saw us earn third place medals (yes, actual bronze-colored 3rd place medallions on ribbons).
Bob and Lynn's home is a historic 19th-century place, and they have filled it with various collectibles including a lot of Christmas stuff. They moved some of it aside to get me into a bedroom, but I stayed up very late talking to Lynn and putting an end to the growler. I have finished growlers before, but I haven't been up until 2:30 for a great long time. Although the net result was a necessary caution on Sunday morning, I was still the first one moving and had coffee made when Bob came down.
Their old garage was a later addition to the property and was not satisfactory; they had been looking at ways to make the upgrade for a few years. This year the old unit was gone and a new beauty, three car bays with a second story, is up and beginning to be finished off. Bob and I took coffee to the upper level, which Bob intends to develop into a mancave, and sat in the unheated room to talk, and to size up its light (windows in place) and its potential: where, for instance, to place the 42" TV? While it was a bit chilly up there, I probably burned off a bit more of the previous night trying to stay warm.
As I left, I realized that I needed more than coffee to get all systems working, so a visit to the Kwik Trip fed me as well as the car. It was a delightful March weekend, and only the normal number of idiots was loose on the highways, and our little car did as well on mileage as it ever has. Safe, uneventful road trip. Big nap upon arrival home.
If you know me, you know Don Lee: we both stopped at outlet malls on the way to the brewery on Saturday, Don at Johnson Creek, WI, and me in Wisconsin Dells. We both arrived responsibly early in Lake Mills, and rather than sit in the parking lot at the brewery we each set off to cruise the town. We passed each other at least once...and were both still early for the opening of the tap room at Tyranena. Ah, well... brewery touring with the anal-retentive roommates:-)
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
The Seasons
And then there was yesterday.
Yesterday I walked the dog in my shirtsleeves (yes, and pants and shoes). The sun shone, the light breeze blew. It was the first time since, oh, say, October, that this was possible.
Things smelled fresh and damp. It was a day for car windows to be down and moon roofs to be open. It was a day to sit on the steps of the front porch and drink a delicious Sprecher Piper's Scotch-style Ale. 60-some degrees. Sunny.
This past winter - dear Lord, let it be past - wasn't our snowiest; in fact, we're short on moisture. It wasn't our coldest, although January as a month may be close. It's just that it arrived the day before Thanksgiving, with significant snow and nasty cold, and save for a couple days in early February, it just sat down and stayed. We had several below-zero nights (read: mornings for walking the dog) in December, and about half of the month in January, and a bunch in February, and a couple in March. We had only a couple big snows, but a lot of little ones. My view is that snow is to be shoveled, and driven through, so it's generally not a positive. We had a roof leak due to ice from accumulated snow (ice damn!) and although I've avoided a bad fall this winter, Wendy wiped out once.
Here's the side note. Wendy slipped on ice when Laura was a baby, and broke her ankle. She fell again, and busted a shoulder. I hit the sidewalk hard last winter, and narrowly missed a concussion. You start walking funny on icy walks and roads, with stiff leg muscles and little stiff steps, and I swear that old people walk the way they do because they just don't loosen up one spring after a tough winter. Someone once said that you can tell the Wisconsin people on the Florida beaches in January: no shirts, swimsuits, but hunched shoulders and funny walks.
Febrauary and March are sometimes harder: the walks clear, but snow melts during the day, freezes at night, and sets up an obstacle course on the early morning dog walk. Can I see the ice? How deep is it? It it frozen all the way, or is there water under it? From a normal walk, I need to switch into funny ice steps and back out several times per block. Is it worth the rubber-trimmed boots? Do I need the ice cleats? This morning I needed to take three runs at climbing the icy slope, less than two feet, to pick up the poop. Good neighbor, my ass.
I can't imagine that folks who live in year-round temperate climates have any sense of deprivation about good weather, so they can't appreciate as we northerners do the blessing of an early shirtsleeve day. Of the warmth of the sun. Of the smell of fresh air. Of the opportunity to open the windows of the car, of the house. Of the chance to let the cat onto the porch. But we who can't count on such days appreciate them all the more.
Oddly, it's one of the joys of living in cold climates. Today wasn't bad, but it was cooler and a bit windy, and you could feel the damp in the air from all the melting. The rest of the week, and beyond, appear to be seasonal and without blizzard. Only one golf course has announced its opening, and they may be hasty. Several rivers are in flood, including those where I'm headed this weekend.
But ah, there was yesterday.
Yesterday I walked the dog in my shirtsleeves (yes, and pants and shoes). The sun shone, the light breeze blew. It was the first time since, oh, say, October, that this was possible.
Things smelled fresh and damp. It was a day for car windows to be down and moon roofs to be open. It was a day to sit on the steps of the front porch and drink a delicious Sprecher Piper's Scotch-style Ale. 60-some degrees. Sunny.
This past winter - dear Lord, let it be past - wasn't our snowiest; in fact, we're short on moisture. It wasn't our coldest, although January as a month may be close. It's just that it arrived the day before Thanksgiving, with significant snow and nasty cold, and save for a couple days in early February, it just sat down and stayed. We had several below-zero nights (read: mornings for walking the dog) in December, and about half of the month in January, and a bunch in February, and a couple in March. We had only a couple big snows, but a lot of little ones. My view is that snow is to be shoveled, and driven through, so it's generally not a positive. We had a roof leak due to ice from accumulated snow (ice damn!) and although I've avoided a bad fall this winter, Wendy wiped out once.
Here's the side note. Wendy slipped on ice when Laura was a baby, and broke her ankle. She fell again, and busted a shoulder. I hit the sidewalk hard last winter, and narrowly missed a concussion. You start walking funny on icy walks and roads, with stiff leg muscles and little stiff steps, and I swear that old people walk the way they do because they just don't loosen up one spring after a tough winter. Someone once said that you can tell the Wisconsin people on the Florida beaches in January: no shirts, swimsuits, but hunched shoulders and funny walks.
Febrauary and March are sometimes harder: the walks clear, but snow melts during the day, freezes at night, and sets up an obstacle course on the early morning dog walk. Can I see the ice? How deep is it? It it frozen all the way, or is there water under it? From a normal walk, I need to switch into funny ice steps and back out several times per block. Is it worth the rubber-trimmed boots? Do I need the ice cleats? This morning I needed to take three runs at climbing the icy slope, less than two feet, to pick up the poop. Good neighbor, my ass.
I can't imagine that folks who live in year-round temperate climates have any sense of deprivation about good weather, so they can't appreciate as we northerners do the blessing of an early shirtsleeve day. Of the warmth of the sun. Of the smell of fresh air. Of the opportunity to open the windows of the car, of the house. Of the chance to let the cat onto the porch. But we who can't count on such days appreciate them all the more.
Oddly, it's one of the joys of living in cold climates. Today wasn't bad, but it was cooler and a bit windy, and you could feel the damp in the air from all the melting. The rest of the week, and beyond, appear to be seasonal and without blizzard. Only one golf course has announced its opening, and they may be hasty. Several rivers are in flood, including those where I'm headed this weekend.
But ah, there was yesterday.
Saturday, March 14, 2009
Another Pot of Pourri
Ross, my good friend and my daughter's intended, writes a blog in which he takes on sports, food and movies. Laura contributes occasionally. Me, I like food well enough but tend to be more interested in beer.
I spent a little quiet time at work recently exercising our access to Google by looking up some song lyrics, so I can sing to myself and get the words right. I also looked up some notable quotes about drinking. There are several good sites, "The Opinionated Beer Page" being one. My search began with "Work is the curse of the drinking class," which, as I had hoped, came from Oscar Wilde. Moving through several other classics, I came to Hemingway's "always do sober what you said you'd do drunk. That will teach you to keep your mouth shut." And I returned to that gentle, positive thought from Benjamin Franklin: "Beer is proof that God loves us and wants us to be happy."
It is that happy spring season when bocks, Marzens and Maibocks come forth like daffodils. Bock, of course, is the German term for a ram, a mountain goat or sheep with the big curly horns. Leinie's made a beer called Big Butt for a few years, under the spurious premise that the two rams depicted on the label were preparing to butt each other; this was a so-called doppelbock. Marzen ("mare-zen") is also German, for "March" beer, and Maibock ("My bock") is, follow along, bock for May (Mai). Capitol Brewery in Middleton, WI has their Maibock available, and the Blonde Doppelbock. Summit Brewery in St. Paul has also released this year's Maibock.Leinenkugel's has rolled out its 1880s Bock; this is both welcome, since it's a pretty good brew, and sad, since Leinie's Bock used to be a lovingly-anticipated sign of Lent and priced like Leinie's Original, and now it's priced like all the craft-brewery-style product: $12 can get you a case of Leinie's Original, or a 12-pack of the craft line.
A couple of beers are of similar style but appear to be year-round offerings: Rush River Brewery, of River Falls, WI, makes The Unforgiven Amber, as well as at least two other nice beers, and your friendly Trader Joe's, if it sells beer and wine, offers its private label Vienna Lager. Both of these are indeed coppery Vienna-style lagers, which is also the style of Oktoberfests and some Marzens and Maibocks, although Maibocks tend to be lighter in color. The grain symbol on the bottlecap of the Trader Joe's beers looks exactly like the grain symbol on the cap of one of my old favorites, Gordon Biersch Marzen, which makes me want to find out who brews the Vienna Lager for Trader Joe's. Sand Creek Brewing, in the historic plant in Black River Falls, WI, makes an excellent English-style Ale, which looks and tastes similar to some of these.
As a general rule, these beers are full of flavor but not overly heavy. They can be slightly sweet, as they will present their malty character first, but the good ones will have just enough bitterness from well-balanced hops to clean up the mouth and prevent "aftertaste," which must be somehow different from what beer lovers call "finish." Good beers of this style have plenty of finish but not a cloying aftertaste, unless you knock back a healthy number of them. And since they're not the beers with the highest alcohol content, you just might choose to do that.
I haven't seen it yet in stores, but I am looking forward to "Fighting Finches" Maibock from Tyranena Brewery in Lake Mills, WI. As I'll be going through there next Saturday on my way to Jefferson, WI, to see Bob and Lynn and play in their local Trivia contest, I plan to stop in at the tasting room and see if it's out yet, and maybe grab a growler. And I might do the same at our local brewpub, Das Bierhaus, where Robert, the German-trained brewmaster, should have either a Marzen or a Maibock, or on the happiest day both, on tap. As for tonight, there's a cellar-cooled Capital Maibock calling my name.
I spent a little quiet time at work recently exercising our access to Google by looking up some song lyrics, so I can sing to myself and get the words right. I also looked up some notable quotes about drinking. There are several good sites, "The Opinionated Beer Page" being one. My search began with "Work is the curse of the drinking class," which, as I had hoped, came from Oscar Wilde. Moving through several other classics, I came to Hemingway's "always do sober what you said you'd do drunk. That will teach you to keep your mouth shut." And I returned to that gentle, positive thought from Benjamin Franklin: "Beer is proof that God loves us and wants us to be happy."
It is that happy spring season when bocks, Marzens and Maibocks come forth like daffodils. Bock, of course, is the German term for a ram, a mountain goat or sheep with the big curly horns. Leinie's made a beer called Big Butt for a few years, under the spurious premise that the two rams depicted on the label were preparing to butt each other; this was a so-called doppelbock. Marzen ("mare-zen") is also German, for "March" beer, and Maibock ("My bock") is, follow along, bock for May (Mai). Capitol Brewery in Middleton, WI has their Maibock available, and the Blonde Doppelbock. Summit Brewery in St. Paul has also released this year's Maibock.Leinenkugel's has rolled out its 1880s Bock; this is both welcome, since it's a pretty good brew, and sad, since Leinie's Bock used to be a lovingly-anticipated sign of Lent and priced like Leinie's Original, and now it's priced like all the craft-brewery-style product: $12 can get you a case of Leinie's Original, or a 12-pack of the craft line.
A couple of beers are of similar style but appear to be year-round offerings: Rush River Brewery, of River Falls, WI, makes The Unforgiven Amber, as well as at least two other nice beers, and your friendly Trader Joe's, if it sells beer and wine, offers its private label Vienna Lager. Both of these are indeed coppery Vienna-style lagers, which is also the style of Oktoberfests and some Marzens and Maibocks, although Maibocks tend to be lighter in color. The grain symbol on the bottlecap of the Trader Joe's beers looks exactly like the grain symbol on the cap of one of my old favorites, Gordon Biersch Marzen, which makes me want to find out who brews the Vienna Lager for Trader Joe's. Sand Creek Brewing, in the historic plant in Black River Falls, WI, makes an excellent English-style Ale, which looks and tastes similar to some of these.
As a general rule, these beers are full of flavor but not overly heavy. They can be slightly sweet, as they will present their malty character first, but the good ones will have just enough bitterness from well-balanced hops to clean up the mouth and prevent "aftertaste," which must be somehow different from what beer lovers call "finish." Good beers of this style have plenty of finish but not a cloying aftertaste, unless you knock back a healthy number of them. And since they're not the beers with the highest alcohol content, you just might choose to do that.
I haven't seen it yet in stores, but I am looking forward to "Fighting Finches" Maibock from Tyranena Brewery in Lake Mills, WI. As I'll be going through there next Saturday on my way to Jefferson, WI, to see Bob and Lynn and play in their local Trivia contest, I plan to stop in at the tasting room and see if it's out yet, and maybe grab a growler. And I might do the same at our local brewpub, Das Bierhaus, where Robert, the German-trained brewmaster, should have either a Marzen or a Maibock, or on the happiest day both, on tap. As for tonight, there's a cellar-cooled Capital Maibock calling my name.
Wednesday, March 4, 2009
Patience
"Patience is a virtue" is one of the oldest of old adages. I remember my grandmother, the queen of old adages, saying this. I remember my parents saying it. I remember teachers saying it. Of course, I also remember my grandmother saying, "For the Land's sake!" And "Is that a diamond on the end of your nose? No, it's snot." And, in her dotage, mistaking me for her younger brother.
Must be a virtue I don't have.
Now there are many things that masquerade as patience. Fear is the chief among them: I don't want to fight the fellow who horned into line ahead of me, so I'll let it ride. I don't look forward to this discussion with my spouse about money, or spending, or about how the laundry is sorted, so it can wait or I'll adjust. My job sucks, but there's not much out there.
Things set aside from fear, while they may look like patience, tend to fester. They either show up at the wrong time, as when the laundry issue explodes out of context during family Christmas ("White Christmas? You wouldn't know from whites!"), or they turn into something else, such as a sudden fondness for the local German brewpub (yes, by God, Menomonie has a brewpub with a German-trained brewmaster who brews some kick-ass beers), or they lead to general shutdowns, such as a pronounced fondness for naps. While I love naps and sleeping, and sometimes list them as hobbies, there are times that they carry a whiff of depression, and caring observers may wish to intervene in some gentle fashion. Please consult with my dog and my cat for gentle but effective ways to wake me up, usually 20 minutes before the alarm goes off.
They can lead to acceptance of conditions in the workplace that might in less parlous times lead one to the exit.
Lack of concern or interest may also look like patience. "I really think this color of drapes would look better in here than these old ones." Yeah, sure. As long as they keep the sun from screwing up the game on the plasma, what the hell. Er, I mean, "of course, I think you're onto something there. We've been talking about drapes for years." Or, "I'd like to join this club that meets Thursday evenings at 7." OK, that's when my favorite show is on and you hate it. You could go to the brothel for all I care. Er, "that sounds nice. You've been saying you need an activity."
Total ignorance is one of the sadder substitutes that can pass for patience. Mine lasted for only an hour, but I remember 9/11/2001, when for an hour or so after the tragedies began unfolding, I wouldn't have advocated any reaction. Because I had no clue what was happening. I was listening to a rock station, and the last thing I heard was the closing verse of the Doors' "Roadhouse Blues": "woke up this mornin', and I got myself a beer. Well,I woke up this mornin' and I got myself a beer. The future's uncertain and the end is always near." Then I walked into work and heard that hell had come up to the surface.
Another sad mimic is a sense of helplessness, of powerlessness. "So what can I do?" "Who can stop this from happening?" They'll do it anyway. It's the way things are. Shit happens. Life's a bitch and then you die. Patience and resignation can look quite a bit alike. I can absorb this blow because I have to.
Real patience is an expression of confidence, of power. "I can let this happen because of what can be learned, because they need to go through it..." I can absorb this because when it's over, my position and everyone else's will be better. I can wait through this because the end result will be that. I can wait for you because if and when you figure it out, you'll be here with me.
Or, as in the current turmoil, the fix will not be quick, and it won't happen without everyone helping, but we can fix it. We just need diligence, time, and, uh, patience.
Must be a virtue I don't have.
Now there are many things that masquerade as patience. Fear is the chief among them: I don't want to fight the fellow who horned into line ahead of me, so I'll let it ride. I don't look forward to this discussion with my spouse about money, or spending, or about how the laundry is sorted, so it can wait or I'll adjust. My job sucks, but there's not much out there.
Things set aside from fear, while they may look like patience, tend to fester. They either show up at the wrong time, as when the laundry issue explodes out of context during family Christmas ("White Christmas? You wouldn't know from whites!"), or they turn into something else, such as a sudden fondness for the local German brewpub (yes, by God, Menomonie has a brewpub with a German-trained brewmaster who brews some kick-ass beers), or they lead to general shutdowns, such as a pronounced fondness for naps. While I love naps and sleeping, and sometimes list them as hobbies, there are times that they carry a whiff of depression, and caring observers may wish to intervene in some gentle fashion. Please consult with my dog and my cat for gentle but effective ways to wake me up, usually 20 minutes before the alarm goes off.
They can lead to acceptance of conditions in the workplace that might in less parlous times lead one to the exit.
Lack of concern or interest may also look like patience. "I really think this color of drapes would look better in here than these old ones." Yeah, sure. As long as they keep the sun from screwing up the game on the plasma, what the hell. Er, I mean, "of course, I think you're onto something there. We've been talking about drapes for years." Or, "I'd like to join this club that meets Thursday evenings at 7." OK, that's when my favorite show is on and you hate it. You could go to the brothel for all I care. Er, "that sounds nice. You've been saying you need an activity."
Total ignorance is one of the sadder substitutes that can pass for patience. Mine lasted for only an hour, but I remember 9/11/2001, when for an hour or so after the tragedies began unfolding, I wouldn't have advocated any reaction. Because I had no clue what was happening. I was listening to a rock station, and the last thing I heard was the closing verse of the Doors' "Roadhouse Blues": "woke up this mornin', and I got myself a beer. Well,I woke up this mornin' and I got myself a beer. The future's uncertain and the end is always near." Then I walked into work and heard that hell had come up to the surface.
Another sad mimic is a sense of helplessness, of powerlessness. "So what can I do?" "Who can stop this from happening?" They'll do it anyway. It's the way things are. Shit happens. Life's a bitch and then you die. Patience and resignation can look quite a bit alike. I can absorb this blow because I have to.
Real patience is an expression of confidence, of power. "I can let this happen because of what can be learned, because they need to go through it..." I can absorb this because when it's over, my position and everyone else's will be better. I can wait through this because the end result will be that. I can wait for you because if and when you figure it out, you'll be here with me.
Or, as in the current turmoil, the fix will not be quick, and it won't happen without everyone helping, but we can fix it. We just need diligence, time, and, uh, patience.
Sunday, March 1, 2009
Let Me Explain
What is it that makes the Oak Tree Theory useful? Ideally, it has some predictive value: as things contract, you may assume that at some point they will again expand.
Probably more relevant is the implied availability of competitive genetic material. Once the world boils down to Miller vs. Bud, the two main antagonists are competing with each other for resources, measuring themselves against each other, and starting to look more and more like each other. But when those new acorns at the edges start to sprout, when some new mutations have a fighting chance, then more diversity enters the biosphere/marketplace. We see Bud using Michelob as a craft-brewing label, buying a stake in Redhook, bringing out Bud Select (they can't all be gems) and American Ale (but some of them can be gems). Miller wisely uses its subsidiary Leinenkugel's as its craft brewery.
It's kind of fun to make up rules about life.
Today's news: Paul Harvey died. Paul Harvey Aurandt. 90 years young. I met him: he came to autograph books at Conkey's in Appleton. A line had developed; people wanted to see the famous man. He came in the back door of the store, eyed up the crowd. He walked forward until he could just be seen, said in his trademark voice, "Oh, my," very carefully polished the toes of his shoes on the back of his pantlegs (a lost art; I can show you someday if you need to know), and strode toward the signing table with a hearty "Hello, Americans." It was hokey as hell, and perfect.
Probably more relevant is the implied availability of competitive genetic material. Once the world boils down to Miller vs. Bud, the two main antagonists are competing with each other for resources, measuring themselves against each other, and starting to look more and more like each other. But when those new acorns at the edges start to sprout, when some new mutations have a fighting chance, then more diversity enters the biosphere/marketplace. We see Bud using Michelob as a craft-brewing label, buying a stake in Redhook, bringing out Bud Select (they can't all be gems) and American Ale (but some of them can be gems). Miller wisely uses its subsidiary Leinenkugel's as its craft brewery.
It's kind of fun to make up rules about life.
Today's news: Paul Harvey died. Paul Harvey Aurandt. 90 years young. I met him: he came to autograph books at Conkey's in Appleton. A line had developed; people wanted to see the famous man. He came in the back door of the store, eyed up the crowd. He walked forward until he could just be seen, said in his trademark voice, "Oh, my," very carefully polished the toes of his shoes on the back of his pantlegs (a lost art; I can show you someday if you need to know), and strode toward the signing table with a hearty "Hello, Americans." It was hokey as hell, and perfect.
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