Lines, Lines...

"Lines, lines, Everywhere a line, blockin' out the scenery, breakin' my mind..." Oh, is that "Signs?"

Monday morning, we set out for the Statue of Liberty and Ellis Island. Wendy had again obtained tickets online ahead of time, so we had a time (11:15) to be at the security check-in at Battery Park. We found the right subway route to get within about two blocks, and we were some minutes early. Here was a victory: the line for those who had purchased tickets that day appeared to be an hour long, while ours was only 15-20 minutes. Again, we went through airport-like security (except my shoes stayed on), then boarded the ferry and waited fifteen minutes while everyone else got on. The trip to Bedloe's Island took about ten minutes, and getting off the boat took ten more. Our tickets allowed us to enter the Memorial (the base of the statue and its museum), another victory, but that line took twenty minutes to get into the security line - this was where folks, including an entire summer program group of thirty kids, found out their tickets weren't for the Memorial - and another half-hour or more to go through that line (yes, probably the most rigorous security line of all, with GE puffers in the scanner and the whole nine yards).

The museum is excellent, with actual-size replicas of a foot and a nose and the original torch, and very good history and structural information about the construction. You may know that the face is modeled after the sculptor Bartholdi's mother, and that the skin is hung on a framework designed by Eiffel, who also designed the eponymous tower in Paris. Elevators, or stairs (88 degrees? Arthritis? Hell, no!) take you to an observation deck at the top of the 84-foot pedestal, itself the result of a heated design contest in the 1880's, and through glass plates you can "look up the skirt of a national monument" (Fodor's) to see the framework and the ladder that once took folks to the top of the statue. Views from the deck show the Financial District of Manhattan, Liberty State Park in New Jersey, port activities on all sides, Governor's Island off Brooklyn, and Ellis Island nearby.

We came out, did a lap of the outer walk, and made our way to the ferry dock for the next leg, to Ellis Island. This line took about half an hour, as most folks got off for the Statue and the ferry could take lots of people. The trip took just a few minutes, but boarding and debarking took longer.

Ellis Island is a remarkable place, and a remarkable exhibit. Blessings on those who decided to save it and develop this wonderful look into our heritage and national psyche. Exhibits range from films and live shows to photo exhibits and displays of things carried by immigrants (donated by their families) and things left behind, as well as some of the old equipment and the buildings themselves. One line of my family has been here since the mid 1600's, and others were in the Midwest by the mid 19th century, so this is not as close for me as for many, but Ellis made the urgency, the difficulty, and the hope seem palpable. How much more so for folks who know their ancestors actually came through there!

It was the heat that was palpable as we waited to board the ferry back to Battery Park. That, and the line abuse by about a third of those waiting, and the fact that not so many got off the ferries as it was late in the afternoon, so not so many got on - wow! part of the immigrant experience! We got on the second boat, just barely, after about an hour waiting. Again, the voyage itself was less than fifteen minutes, and the debarking took only ten or so. We were back in Battery Park, at the lower tip of Manhattan, at about 5:00.

TIP: Here's the "critics' opinion." Everyone should go to the Statue of Liberty, and get into the Memorial (Statue base, etc.). Once. You probably don't need to go back ever again. It's cool, but the excessive security line snuffs much of the pleasure out of it.

TIP: Everyone should go to Ellis Island. The earlier, the better. If you go more than once, skip the Statue of Liberty on subsequent trips and go straight to Ellis. Go as often and stay as long as it takes to see and absorb this moving story of human striving. I'm a jaded old whitebread coot and I need to go again.

From 11:00, when we arrived at Battery Park, to a little after 5:00, when we got off the ferry, we spent almost exactly half of the time, three hours, standing in one line or another. One hour at the Statue, one and a half at Ellis, half an hour on the water...

TIP: Be prepared. Take water. Drink it, as you can't take it some places. Buy more, especially if it's hot. Pee whenever the opportunity presents itself. Wear a hat that protects you from sun - or rain, as the lines aren't all going to be covered. Use sunscreen on most days. If for some reason you're staying in New Jersey, book your ferry passage from there as those boats were half-full.

In Battery Park, Laura bumped into a classmate from the U. of Minnesota; this enabled the other young lady to collect a $100 bet from her family as the first to meet someone she knew. We tried to get a bus but ended up on the subway back to the hotel. Dinner was up for discussion but we ate at the hotel's restaurant.

The Cafe Edison, in what was once the ballroom, is known as the "Polish Tea Room," receives regular mention in guides as a good deal for the money, and offers typical deli fare: corned beef, pastrami, brisket, and similar dishes. We were hot, tired, and thinking of making our show, and the convenience of dining at the hotel probably made things taste better, but the matzoh ball soup and the pastrami were excellent, and this was the site of the cheapest served beer. Oddly, the restaurant required pre-approval of charges to the room, and didn't take credit cards, but we had packed enough cash and all was well.

After a chance to spritz in our room, and change out of sodden apparel into something less sweaty, we left for the Theatre. Yeah, Broadway. We (Wendy again, bless her little Internet-based heart) had found a show that wasn't dark on Mondays, and it was two blocks from the hotel.

The John Golden Theatre is small, a few hundred seats, but it's lovely. The musical, "Avenue Q," won the Tony for Best Musical a few years back. It's a hoot: people and Muppet-like puppets interact, often rudely or other R-ratedly. The very first line is "What do you do with a BA in English?" (Ross's degree, a step up from mine which is Liberal Arts no major). One of the characters is "Gary Coleman," who is just that: a washed-up former child star who is now the super of a lousy set of apartment buildings in an un-named borough. I especially enjoyed "Trekkie Monster," who led the song, "The internet is for Porn," and who saves the day in the end. We all enjoyed "the Bad Idea Bears," who tried to deliver fun but feeble thinking to the main characters. And you do need to see puppet sex. This may not be the moment to recall the night that Gail Stefl's mother threw me out of their house because Gail and I made too much noise (loud drunken laughter) while trying to mate a Barbie and a troll doll. Puppets in the play are carried by the actors who voice them, and the choreography involves intricacies of handing these puppets off for actors who handle multiple roles. It all comes together into a fun time, even for me who finds little pleasure in live performance and less in musicals. I almost bought the souvenir T-shirt, "It sucks to be me," which is the big opening musical number. Any Broadway ticket is by definition too expensive but, once you can get past that, it's fun to see stuff done right by professionals.

We enjoyed seeing other plays advertised: Taylor Hicks in "Grease" (Laura posed bythe poster with her finger down her throat), "Legally Blonde," Tom Wopat ("who's that?" "He was in the Dukes of Hazzard on TV, I think he was Luke Duke but I'm not sure") in "A Catered Affair," across from our hotel. Stephen Collins, an actor with a bit of a stick up his ass, taking the King Arthur role in "Spamalot," in which he ought to be perfect (we saw this on tour in Minneapolis so I can speak with at least a minimum of insight). Morgan Freeman. Rene Auberjonois. Sean Hayes. New plays Old plays in revival. Lawrence Fishburne as "Thurgood," which should be important and fun in a way but which none of us voted for, except a bit of interest from Ross. Daniel Radcliffe ("Harry Potter") in Equus, naked!

After-theatre, we went to the Shubert Alley location of Junior's, purveyor of one of the legendary cheesecakes. As it was Monday, with most theatres dark, there was NO LINE. I now know how the legend grew: just like my waistband. I took on the Devil's Food cheesecake, a normal-sized slice of Original surrounded by at least as much chocolate. I gave a valiant battle, but I couldn't get much help as Laura fell before the strawberry shortcake slice, and Wendy and Ross killed their shared Original but weren't able to help much beyond that. I violated all known Porter rules on chocolate by leaving a bit behind. Three slices, and a couple of beverages, cost as much as most of our dinners. It was time to waddle back to the hotel. Golly, this is enough for three or four of these blog things!

Road Trip...er, plane trip.

We got home last night after five nights in New York City. Laura and Ross, Wendy and I ate much, saw plenty, did a lot of things, missed even more, and had a great time.

We arrived Saturday, too early to check into our hotel (about which more later). So we left our luggage there and hopped on a Gray Line downtown loop tour. The day was incredibly hot, so the upper deck of the bus was almost too much, but the lower deck isn't so good for seeing what the guide is telling you about. We hopped off at South Street Seaport, which has to be a Rouse development, like Pier 39 in San Francisco and a bit like Inner Harbor in Baltimore and Quincy Market in Boston. Shops, restaurants, etc. Over the East River, looking out at Brooklyn and the Brooklyn Bridge, it was a nice break from the bus tour. The first half of the first glass of beer evaporated somewhere in the esophagus, never reaching the stomach. Then we split a platter of hors d'oeuvres at a pier restaurant. We hopped on another bus to finish the route.

TIP: every time we stood in a line for Gray Line buses, we saw City Sights buses go by with seats open while we might have to wait for a second or third Gray Line bus. They appeared to run the same routes. If I needed another set of bus tours, I might try City Sights for faster access. Also, depending on your other plans, consider a multi-day hop-on, hop-off pass so you can go see more things.

After checking into our hotel, and a brief rest period, we set out for dinner. We walked to John's Pizzeria, one outlet of one of the better-known pizza joints. Smack in the middle of the theater district, it was busy: we waited about a half-hour for a table. The restaurant is in a former church, which means a high ceiling, some stained glass, and multi-level seating. We could see four brick pizza ovens from our table, and our pie came quickly enough. It was delicious! The thin crust was brown at the edges, the sauce and cheese were in balance, and everything was just what you'd want. There's something that comes from the brick ovens, a taste in the crust, that takes pizza baked this way a step higher than otherwise.The Caesar salad was also tasty, with enough but not too much dressing evenly distributed. After dinner we walked back to the hotel, stopping at a deli grocery for beer and other room essentials.

The Hotel Edison is located on 47th Street, halfway between Broadway and 8th Avenue. It's old, from the 20's or 30's, and it's fairly big. While the lobby has a wonderful art deco feel, with several excellent murals (and with people actually sitting in it!), the rooms are not much more than functional. We had a two-bedroom "suite," with the bathroom in one of the rooms and no sitting room. This worked well enough. Ice was purchased at the bell stand in the lobby, and vending machines were not available, but there were two or three delis and the hotel gift shop within a block. The air conditioners were window units, and Wendy's and mine worked better than Laura's and Ross's. The water temperature in the shower was unpredictable, causing people to exclaim or jump out from both hot and cold surges. Our room was on the 21st floor, and the hotel elevators did a good job. We thought we might get a view from up there, but not so much: there are a number of taller buildings within a block or two. The hotel's location can't be beat: several subway stops within a few blocks, Times Square half a block away, restaurants and bars beckoning from all sides, bus service, theatres, etc., etc. The price wasn't dirt cheap but for the four of us it was well under $90 per person per night, even with the 15%+ taxes added. I think that Wendy and I would stay there again, depending on the price. Within a block or two are the Marriott Marquis, the Renaissance, the W, the Crowne Plaza, and other hotels which would likely have cost double or more.

TRIVIA QUIZ: what is the Javits tax?

Breakfast seemed never to be important. I ended up going to the deli next to the hotel every morning for a coffee and a little something (often the chocolate chip pound cake), and bringing it back up to the room for showering and dressing. There was a Starbucks half a block each way, but I could do up my own at the deli, and it was closer and cheaper. We didn't ever hit the street much before ten, which cut a little into the amount of exploring but felt luxurious.

Sunday morning, we walked about ten blocks to have a look at Grand Central Station (er, Terminal). The vaulted ceiling of the lobby, the huge sculpture above the main entry, the multiple levels, the food court, all were interesting to see. It would have been fun to go at a rush hour and watch the swarms, but it was much more leisurely our way. We found a deli and ate a late breakfast or early lunch, then began the subway adventure. We bought 7-day unlimited MetroCards, a huge convenience as they work on subways and buses. The vending machines only allow you to buy two MetroCards per credit card, probably to limit exposure to stolen or bogus cards.

TIP: if you have more than one credit card, bring them both, in separate wallets or pockets. If you meet up with a limit as above, or if you lose one (about which more later), you will have a fallback position.

Our first subway ride was up to the American Museum of Natural History. The place is huge, about three blocks long and two deep, three floors, with over a dozen main halls and many more rooms. Ross and Laura went one way, Wendy and I another. One interesting aspect of this museum is that it shows a history of museum exhibit styles, from mid-20th century and earlier to very modern, from stuffed animals and fake people in dusty dioramas to dramatically lit walk-through environments. Some signs attribute the sources of samples to countries no longer on the map. Also, some of the items on exhibit have been so since the 1880's or earlier, including the 50-foot Northwest Indian canoe hanging in one hall. The entrance hall is an architectural spectacle all by itself, and a memorial to Teddy Roosevelt. We stayed only a couple hours, saw only a portion of the museum, and would happily go back.

The AMNH is across from the west edge of Central Park, between 77th and 81st Streets. We crossed the street and hopped on the Gray Line Uptown Loop tour; we had waited for this at its supposed origin point but no buses showed up in twenty minutes so we did the subway. This took us along Central Park West, then past Columbia University, Union Theological Seminary and Riverside Church, and the Cathedral of St. John the Divine. The nave of the Cathedral had been under renovation for two years, and was due to reopen the NEXT DAY. So we stayed on the bus along Riverside Drive, saw Grant's Tomb and the George Washington Bridge, then hopped off in Harlem. We walked along 125th Avenue for a couple blocks, and took note of the entirely different tone of street life, found nowhere to eat on that busy shopping street (Burger King was a non-starter, except for a life-saving cold Coke), and caught the next Gray Line bus. We hopped off along Central Park, near the Metropolitan Museum of Art, and walked along 5th Avenue past the museum and the art vendors outside. The east side of 5th Avenue being mostly luxury apartments, we didn't see any likely restaurants, so we turned east and asked a police officer what street might be likely to help us.

"Where ya from?" he asked in a friendly manner.

"Wisconsin and Minnesota."

"Oh, you're not from here. That's why you're so nice."

He directed us to Lexington Avenue, the block east of Park Avenue (no, Park Avenue isn't along the park), and we found a neighborhood restaurant. Very good, not great, you don't need to look for it but it did the trick. We all chowed down pretty good. It was also near a subway stop that, with one transfer, got us back within two blocks of the hotel.

TIP: In Manhattan, north-south blocks, between the Streets, are short, "20 to the mile." East-west blocks, between the Avenues, are over twice that long. The three block width of Central Park, from 5th to 8th Avenues, is surprising. Also, in lower Manhattan, numbers tend to disappear and street directions - and names - vary. It is wise to travel with a good map reader, for subway and bus maps and for surface maps. It's OK to ask for directions, as most folks are willing to help, if briefly, but the results are spotty. Also keep in mind: "uptown" is roughly north, away from the Battery, "downtown" is roughly south, toward the Battery, and crosstown is just that, east to west and vice versa. Most Manhattan addresses are given including the cross street, as the numbering of buildings and blocks is apparently intelligible with a chart but is not obvious.

We stopped back at the hotel for a breather, then in the early evening set off for the Empire State Building observation deck. Wendy had obtained tickets online in advance, as she did for several places, and this saved us a portion of the standing in line. There was still plenty of that, from outside the building, through the line for the security check (similar to airports), and to the line for the elevators to the 80th floor, to the line for the elevators to the 86th floor (stairs available for these six flights). We were probably in line for a total of maybe 45 minutes, maybe a little more. Then came the deck, crowded both inside and outside but giving stunning views in all directions. We were there at the last of the light, so we could see things with the natural light but enjoy the lighting show as well. It was windy on the outside deck, but my hat stayed put. The hot, muggy weather left a haze, so the Verrazano Narrows Bridge was barely suggested to the south, as if painted by an Impressionist running out of paint. The Statue of Liberty was there in outline, with a hint of gold from the top of the torch. Not far away from the Empire State was the metal-clad spire of the Chrysler Building, and we could see the glow beginning to rise from Times Square. Then the descent: the line for the elevator to the 80th floor, and the line for the elevators to the 2nd level; these took about ten minutes.

This was thirsty work; luckily, we found a brewpub on the street level of the Empire State. We enjoyed a few beverages and, when the spicy fries came out cold, were comped a couple of them.

TIP: this did not make things cheap. You need to do some looking if you want a cheap beer. The only beer I bought that cost under $3 was part of a six-pack from a deli grocery; the only other one under $4 was one with dinner at the restaurant in our hotel. You can do better in neighborhoods away from Times Square and midtown Manhattan; Laura and Ross suggest that, based on happy hour signboard pricing, the Lower East Side near Chinatown is probably a cheaper place to party.

We took a short ride on the subway to the other end of Times Square from our hotel and took in the amazing lights and signs on our way to the hotel. That was enough for that day, and it's enough for this entry.

More Roommates

It seems that I forgot a few folks who are worthy of a mention in a discussion of roommates. Some weren't exactly in the room or apartment, but count; some were in the same place but...ah, that's not fair. Everybody counts.

In my freshman year, Larry Nowlin was my roommate but Pete Aschoff and Paul Rock were my buddies. Rock lived in the room next door, with his roommate Ted Chapin. Ted was from New York City, and his dad was, in later years, director of the Metropolitan Opera after Sir Rudolf Bing retired. He had a postcard from his family, with a corner note scribbled by Peter Ustinov. Rock, Aschoff and I engaged in a contest to see who could grow a zit on the end of his nose. Nobody won, but we all had a few extra zits in non-scoring places. Aschoff and I tried to brew Applejack in his closet, with apple cider, yeast, sugar, and his closet light staying on 24/7.
Aschoff also got his parrot stoned, twice. The first time, it stood on the floor of its cage and didn't move except to the music of the Rolling Stones. The second time, it died.

In the apartment with Don Lee, we had a couple of roommates after Mike and John moved out. We had Dean Merwin, a nice enough guy whom Don still runs into once in awhile. And we had Howard Kaufman. Howard was from Appleton, and he was blind. Two hours after beginning to move in, he had his stereo set up and knew his way to the kitchen, the bathroom and the beer. One evening he had a party, hosting his blind and partially-sighted friends.

Do you know how, in a group, you watch for non-verbal signals to see who is eager to speak, who is bored, who is interested in whom, and other sorts of dynamics? These don't work so well in a gathering of blind people: although they all give off the signals, nobody sees them. In order to get the next turn to speak, they interject, interrupt and jack up the volume to talk over each other.
Alcohol only pushes up the volume even more, although I got caught at my little joke. I had stuck around to bartend, and I started pouring things together in a non-directed version of "wap" ("wapituli," or however it's spelled, which generally refers to each guest bringing a bottle of booze and all of them being dumped together to make a hideous punch). Howard called my bluff: he said it was great, and could I make more of the same? I had no idea of the recipe.

Howard walked all over the East Side of Milwaukee, to UWM and to stores and wherever. He found his way to Wendy's and my wedding party at the Y-Not Bar; we have a picture of him offering us the wedding gift of a pack of Trojans. Not that he's ever seen it... Do you know how blind people check to see if food on the stove is hot? Howard would just stick in a finger. I hoped it wasn't his reading hand. I never asked him if he learned to read with both hands.

Wendy had a roommate, Cindy, while I was moving into the relationship. Cindy painted her bedroom purple, with white trim. Do you know how hard it is to paint over purple? Cindy worked with Wendy at a popular Milwaukee steak restaurant frequented by various celebrities including a few Milwaukee Bucks; I met one while wrapped in the sheets and saw the backside of another on a bathroom run.

I hope this takes care of the topic. If someone feels neglected, let me know.

Roommates

I think I'm on safe ground here, since I am in touch with only two (if you count my spouse) of my roommates through the years, and I don't believe any others have found this blog. One, I believe, is deceased. Donny, I apologize right now.

I grew up an only child. Still am, and since my parents are gone, I think I'm safe there. I had two cousins that lived within hailing distance for awhile, and two more that I saw some summers, and six more that I met when I was ten (give or take Peggy's birth year), but I was quite used to having my own room and not so much used to having others around who were on my level. I used to, when I was six or seven, have an occasional overnight with Joellen Peters, or with Ron Quimby. You could hit a golf ball through their windows from my house, and our parents were friends.

I went to Boy Scout Camp, Gardner Dam in north central Wisconsin, and our troop went on campouts to that site and others, and our DeMolay chapter took a couple road trips. But I seldom had to deal with anyone else's needs or stuff in my room - or tent - for more than a week until I went off to college (two miles from home). A sleepover, camping trip or the like was a treat, a special event, with late night conversations, fart contests in the dark, and other markers of something beyond the normal.

My first roommate in the true sense was Larry Nowlin, in our freshman year at Lawrence University. Larry was from Minneapolis. We went through an alcohol adjustment; Wisconsin served beer to 18 year olds in beer bars, and I had turned 18 during my senior year of high school. Minnesota didn't serve legally until 21, so Larry's experience was from house parties.
The first weekend, he blew chow in our wastebasket, and I cleaned it up. The second weekend, he blew chow in our wastebasket, and I left it for him. It didn't happen again.

We never really bonded, but we got along. Each of us tried to back off of our worst traits, and we each tried to enjoy something about the other. Larry liked my wall of Playboy foldouts, and we made up a scoring system for the darts we threw at that wall. We did have some plaster repair to do at the end of the year.

I've not seen or heard from, or of, Larry since then, but he left me with a particularly rude but high compliment which may be said of an especially lovely lady. I will answer individual inquiries, or I may just do a list of rude sayings to get them out of the moustache. Not tonight.

For the sophomore year, I moved into the Phi Kappa Tau house with Pete Aschoff, a friend from down the hall in the freshman year. Our room was about 9'x9', with two desks and two dressers. We began the year by trying to sleep in bunks on the "cold porch," which was just that, a room of six or seven bunk beds with no heat. By late October, we were on quilts on the floor of our tiny room. This wasn't bad, except for the night Pete brought back his girlfriend: I woke up folded neatly between the legs of my desk. For reasons related more to money and grades than to room issues, I moved home at Christmas.

While between colleges, I took an apartment with my childhood friend Bob Verhage. We got along all right, except for money and boundaries. I piled up his car at a drive-in; we subtracted the repair from what he owed me and it still took his girlfriend two years to goad him into paying off the debt of six months. After asking him to keep out of my stuff, I came home one day to find him wearing my best shirt and my only cufflinks (interesting fashion era), I went over the coffee table after him, perhaps my worst act of violence ever. Money and stuff... I moved home again.

My first lodging at UW-Milwaukee was in a rooming house. I had my own bedroom, and the several tenants shared a bath on the second floor and a kitchen in the basement. I almost never saw the other tenants, and only occasionally saw the resident landlord family, the Chuppas.

I stumbled across the ad seeking a roommate. Don Lee was looking for a fourth to move into a two-bedroom apartment in a large building on Milwaukee's East Side, not too far from campus. This turned out well. Mike Rockel and John Kiedrowski had one room; Don and I had the other. Mike and John kind of went their own ways, although we had some good group drunks. Don and I found our way into a friendship that is now at 36 years and counting. He stood up at our wedding, I stood up at his a few years later, and he and Helen, with their son Mark, joined us for dinner last Friday. I don't see him as often as I might like, but when we get together, there's not much need to fill in the gaps.

It was while I was in the apartment with Don that I met Wendy. After awhile, I had what amounted to two roommates at two addresses, and after a bit longer, things took their course and I found my long-term roommate.

So, to sum up, I've had two decent roommate experiences, one that went south for the usual; reasons, and two that have stuck. I guess that's a pretty good track record.

Rated R for Language Issues

I know most of the words. The F word. The S word. The C word. Multiple terms for multiple body parts, elimination functions, sexual connections, and, in the words of J.P. Donleavy, "vilenesses various." I quoted, in an earlier blog, George Carlin's take on one of the stronger rude terms. I drop more than my share of F-bombs in conversation. And I enjoy a rude jest, if it involves clever wordplay or exceptional meanness of spirit, whether or not it uses "bad language."

None of these words or phrases are necessary to basic communication. I can go all day, as indeed I must in the workplace, without using them. Of the twenty-odd preceding blogs in this collection (Holy Crap! Thirty-couple!), less than half use such terms at all, and only a few feature them in any way.

But there is a subtle difference between basic communication and effective communication. I remember a rubber stamp that Gordy Baird, a dorm-mate my freshman year, carried and used to great effect, and many are the times I have longed to have that stamp. It said only one word: "Bullshit ." Come on, now, you want it, too. And you wouldn't overuse such a precious tool, you'd be judicious. Only one memo...well maybe two. And a copy of an ordinance, or a so-called news story that is nothing but a press release in the paper's stock type. Or most anything put out by the Bush Administration, those poor lost bastards.

Oops! That's one of those terms that may or may not be offensive. Did you know that one type of file used in metal shops is called a mill bastard? Learned that in junior high. In class. It wasn't explained: what did the poor file do to earn such a term of disrespect? The word used to refer simply to someone whose parents weren't married to each other, and was often used to explain why some young British fellow wasn't coming into the family money. Now it's in wide use, generally to express disapproval or to explain that someone has done someone else, who is probably closer to you, dirt.

It's also one of the words that is part of the creeping decline of TV standards. You'll hear it, along with "ass," "penis," and others like you never heard them even ten years ago. So maybe what's filthy now isn't the same as what was filthy back then. But the standard is so loose, and individuals' standards are spread over such a spectrum, that it's impossible to know exactly where the bounds of good taste lie. Bodily functions, sexual connections, and "vilenesses various" appear nightly in ways I don't recall from years past.

Even at work, the standard moves all over the place. I work with a range of people from 17 to 60, from cussing dockworked to professing Christian. We generally use the terms "HR-friendly" and "HR-free;" you might guess that I try to maintain a ten-foot perimeter of HR-free. This refers to language, joke and other issues that may or may not offend someone to the point that they bring action under the arcane and remarkably biased rules of harassment and discrimination; HR-free means that I hope I can speak freely and not get myself hauled in for some ill-chosen word or joke. "HR-friendly" means that everyone treads awfully lightly, and fun suffers as well as effective transmission of ideas or training. You can say otherwise, but it's like saying that tortilla chips taste just as good without salt.

Mostly I have no desire to offend or hurt anyone. Except, of course, when they have it coming. There's a lovely, if HR-free, description of stress that defines it as "the mind's struggle to overcome the body's natural desire to choke the living shit out of some asshole who richly deserves it." While that's a little over the top for most situations, once in awhile you'll resonate with the sentiment and appreciate the directness of the expression. And what, pray tell, do you say when you catch your thigh on the corner of a table, or stub your toe, or nail your thumb with a hammer, or spill the red wine on the white carpet, or step in the middle of the night on the cold pile of dog barf? "Oh, golly gee?"

I think not. I bet that a good old Anglo-Saxon plosive of one form or other slips past your lips before you can gather yourself, or you consign the event or its perpetrator to Hades, or suggest that one parent may be canine.

I make a reasonable effort to describe events, tell stories, give opinions, or generally blog away without slipping into language that may put readers off. But sometimes I can make a point, or more effectively emphasize it, or tell a story with more truth, if I throw in a word or a phrase that may run a little rough. Effective communication is more important than "appropriate" language.

A Reason To Drink

I seem to do a pretty good job of finding reasons to drink. It was a long/tough/great day at work. It's a holiday/weekend/day off. It's my birthday/your birthday/some guy's birthday. It's Tuesday/5 o'clock/noon/not just for breakfast anymore. I just bought some/have some/you have some. It's fresh/getting old/right here in the fridge. It goes great with pizza/burgers/any food/who needs food? Or, perhaps, they're working on your house and donig a really bad frustrating job.

Now I may have another one: it can help us to energy independence. A report on ABC News tells that sorghum makes for a better crop than corn if your goal is raw material for biofuel production (sorghum is multiples energy- positive, corn slightly energy-negative). It grows in sketchier terrain, and the extraction of the raw material requires less energy, and the stalks are the source of the squeezings to be refined, leaving the grain available for food - and brewing.

It seems that sorghum beer has been common in Africa for centuries, although the product has been, even in modern times, cloudy and inconsistent. The general term has been "chibuku." Sounds like Chewbacca, and if you drank some, you might make sounds like Chewie's bleating barks. In fact, it's known as "opaque" beer as opposed to clear German-style and American lagers. SAB Miller has recently introduced a sorghum-based beer called "Eagle" for African markets, brewed to be clear and lighter, perhaps intended to be a "bridge" beer to clear barley-based lagers. Sorghum is a grain grown widely in Africa, and elsewhere through the Middle East and in warm climates.

Sorghum beer began showing up on shelves around here a few years ago. Lakefront Brewery, from Milwaukee, brews something called "New Grist." Anheuser-Busch brought out "Redbridge," and there's one called "Dragon's Gold," from Bard in Kansas City. There may be more, but we'll talk about that after a bit.

The market thrust for Redbridge, and one used by the others, is that sorghum produces a gluten-free beer. Apparently barley, and wheat, leave gluten in the wort after malting and cooking. Spelt, triticale, and some of the other "heritage" grains and wonder grasses from which the cereals are made that cost you five bucks in the organic section of your local grocery, also have glutens, so if you have celiac disease or other gluten troubles, cast off your Kashi and Barbara's. Weizenbier lovers, Bud fans (barley with rice adjunct), and everyone else, if you have difficulties after drinking beer in moderation, you might want to check with your doctor or allergist. Miller drinkers, I still believe that Miller products rely too much on clarifiers, head adjusters and other lab additives to be entirely good for you, although I owe it to fairness to try a couple of the new Miller Lite craft flavors (none made from sorghum).

I can't locate Dragon's Gold in western Wisconsin, but I got hold of some New Grist and some Redbridge. A taste test suggests that Redbridge, the Anheuser-Busch product, is more palatable. It's slightly red in color, and clear. There's a little something unusual as it goes into your mouth, but it's nicely hopped and it finishes fairly clean. The New Grist, from Lakefront, uses rice as an adjunct grain. It is golden, although a richer color than most American lagers, and also clear. But it's a bit disappointing in the mouth, as it's vaguely sour - and a little gummy (the hops in the Redbridge cut that effect). I had tried New Grist once before, and the recent tasting confirms what I had remembered. Although I had skipped Redbridge because it was from a megabrewer, A-B, if I'm going to drink my way to energy independence, it would be the Redbridge. Neither one is as flavorful or as rewarding as a good Maibock.

In the meantime, as the corn-for-ethanol push drives prices up for all corn and for food, all I can do is hope that somebody will keep growing barley instead of plowing it under and planting more corn. What about beef barley soup? What about Grape-Nuts? Is nothing sacred? I've had some rye beers - SunRye from Redhook is very nice - but where are the beers from oats? Or, say, spelt? Triticale? Quinoa?

It's a damn shame when they come and piss all over your simple beer drinking.