Thank, Thanked, Thanking, Thankful

I wanted to write Thanksgiving beer post, but everyone already beat me to the “10 Beers to Pair with Turkey” idea and Stan had the satire down pat, so I figured I’d skip adding to the pile of festively uninspired listicles.

Besides, Thanksgiving never quite felt like my holiday. It felt like a day we cooked a huge bird as a meal because we were supposed to, because we didn’t have school or work, because everyone else was doing it, and it was weird to say, “oh no, we don’t do Thanksgiving” like some kind of horrible emotionless alien. As an expat you learn to adapt and blend in where you can, which means adopting the traditions and customs of your new land, even if they include bizarre things like pumpkin flavored beers and coffees. As we’d inevitably celebrate – sometimes with American friends, sometimes with our English-playing-American family unit – I came to realize that the food was just a catalyst, cranberry- and gravy-based lubrication for a mental moment of acknowledging and appreciating who you are, who you love, and who loves you, too. To give thanks is universal, a human default. Thanksgiving is just an end of November conduit for channeling the human spirit.

I leap-frogged off of Bryan (with a pass through Spin Sucks) and decided to mash my calloused writing nubs against the keyboard to express my own thanks. Much like I don’t need Valentine’s day to show my love, I don’t need Thanksgiving to give my thanks, because I actively try to do it everyday, in little ways. That said, a special spiritual power resides deep in the booming caverns of directly and purposefully saying “thank you.”

The original assignment was to write down all the things you were thankful for in 10-minutes, but since I have a mortal fear of counting down clocks from years of playing Nintendo, I’m just going to keep writing until my brain says, “OK, that looks pretty good.” I was never very good with rules, anyway.

So, in no particular order of favoritism, nor intentional slight from accidentally leaving someone out, I am thankful for:

1. My wife and best friend, Tiffany, who despite not even liking beer, tolerates and then encourages my hobby-turned-second-job because she knows how happy it makes me.
2. My dad, who somehow, in ways I still don’t understand, inspires even more now that he’s gone.
3. My mom, Denise, for having the generous foresight to give birth to me, and being an unwavering, enthusiastic cheerleader no matter what I do.
4. My sister, Becca (who completes the trifecta of “super important women in my life”) for always putting me in my place, and understanding me the way only a sibling can.
5. My cats, Pandora and Prometheus, for their dog-like loyalty, dogged commitment to laziness, and amazing ability to always make me smile.
6. Stan Hieronymous, who, through a single retweet about 2 years ago, gave me the courage to write about beer the way I want to write about beer.
7. Kristi Switzer, for taking me seriously and giving me a chance to work on projects I only would have dreamed of as a post-grad writing whelp.
8. Cathy Alter, for hard but important reviews of my work, and giving me enough emotional strength to finish a masters thesis I was tempted to give up on.
9. Candace Johnson, who always gives me advice no matter how clumsily I ask for it, and makes me a better editor, even if she doesn’t know it.
10. Justin, for being friendship immortal, the unrelenting encourager, the one I always look up to and look forward to seeing again.
11. Randy, for the memes and sanity checks.
12. Bryan, for being equal parts muse and comedian, wise and wise-cracking (plus I guess all that data is pretty good).
13. Melody, for being my writing opposite, my Hopkins-bestie, and for generally using her powers for good.
14. My boss, Becky, who will probably never read this, for her flexibility, understanding, and uncanny propensity to never stress me out.
15. Alan, for the Twitter chats, and reminding me that my voice actually matters sometimes.
16. Phil, for being my first, and longest-lasting, never-met-in-real life blogging friend.
17. Beth and Betsy, for being some of my most loyal readers, and for commenting on this blog more than anyone else.
18. Jeff Alworth, for being the kind of blogger I aspire to be, for his excellent writing, and peerless industry insight.
19. Mike, for showing me that my near future is going to be way more rewarding than I could have imagined.
20. Chuck Wendig, for countless literary kicks in the pants, hours of entertainment, and proof that dedication to your own way is a worthy and glorious pursuit.
21. The Mid-Atlantic Beer Bloggers – Scott, Ed, G-LO, Liz, Doug, Josh, Andrew, Jake,  Carlin, Sean, and Matt – who have created and fostered a community that becomes more and more important to me every day.
22. My keyboard, for its daily masochism and thankless devotion to our cause.
23. My camera for fluttery shuttering and elegant aperturing.
24. My left arm, for not giving up, even thought it totally could have (maybe should have) by now.
25. Heavy Seas Beer (namely Hugh, Caroline, and Tristan), for always having an open door, full kegs, and enough pirate in their beer to please my inner child and outer adult.
26. Jailbreak Brewing, for opening dangerously close to my home, and being delightfully helpful anytime I have a silly question.
27. Hopkins Scribes, for their artistry, talent, and writerly reciprocation.
28. The dirt in my yard, for growing things when I really needed some life in my life.
29. My neighbors, for being the family we chose.
30. My hands, for being my single most important tool.
31. My brain, for thinking my hands get too much credit.
32. My eyes, for being my doorman to the beauty of this world.
33. This blog, for giving me an outlet where all other outlets would have said no.
34. Tolkien, for giving me a light for when all other lights go out.
35. My running shoes (in whatever incarnation they’re in now) for pounding pavement to uphold the veneer of vanity.
36. My shower, for being the brainstorming supercenter of my entire existence.
37. Notes A through G, majors and minors, melodies and harmonies, and the decadent vibrations of life.
38. England, for my cultural grounding, for my family, for all that real cask ale.
39. America, for opportunity even at the worst of times, for order even in chaos, for dry-hopped and barrel-aged freedom.
40. Beer, for being a near inexhaustible font of ideas, topics, and creativity, whether in kettle or on page.

Some other friends have played along too! If you decide to join in, shoot me a link, and I’ll add you below:

• Bryan – This is Why I’m Drunk
• Doug – Baltimore Bistros and Beer
• Jake – Hipster Brewfus

I am thankful she’ll pose for me in the waft of yeast, in front of stainless, and still have that beautiful smile.

Forgotten Friday: The Ghost in the Machine

Clutch in, shift up. Clutch out, accelerator down. Knuckles white on black leather, beats keeping pace with revs. A tiger growls under metal cover, and gravity asserts its dominance.

Despite our advances in robotics and AI, I’ll always argue that a car is the closet we have come to creating life.  Loyal, dependable, but reliant on our attention and love, a car is a mechanized pet, an ever present comforting companion. I know not all people are “car people” but everyone who has ever really driven, felt their synapses fire along with every zing of the spark plugs, knows the power and freedom that comes from piloting what is in essence, a controlled explosion bolted to four pieces of rubber.

My Friday nights in high school weren’t typical; when others were roaring rallies at football games or bases-deep mid-movie make-out, I drove. Down narrow back roads lining the Potomac, too fast, too hard, eking every inch out of every corner, leaving my mark in streaks of black and rubbery squeals through quiet Maryland nights. Never did I feel as alive, as invincible, as physically vulnerable and on the edge of everything, than when I dropped into second and swung hard around a hairpin somewhere off of River Road.

I grew up with tales of street races, of my dad tearing through Knutsford and Sale in his Triumph Dolomite Sprint, of him jumping a bridge near his house and throwing a con-rod through the side of the engine he tuned and babied for months and months. The stories, sweet and sour, seemed like memories of loves lost; partly excitement at pushing the car and himself to their literal limits, partly melancholy remembrance of those who came and went before their time. It was hard to say where the line cut through my dad’s adoration. To him they were maintained machines; tools, steel, and oil. But they were also lubricated lust; romantic, beautiful, mobile art. A car was not conveyance. It was confidence and conviviality, courage and companionship.

He taught me everything I know about vehicles, showed me that nuts and bolts were bones and joints, pistons were heart valves, that exhaust was a voice and headlights eyes. He taught me the mechanical specifics – the how and why of car repair – but indirectly instilled in me a sense of awe in understanding (and as a result control over) a force much bigger and stronger than myself. I love cars because my dad loved them. I drive because my dad drove. Our genes are a gearbox.

I drove my previous car for ten years and one hundred and twenty three thousand miles. My dad helped me put the down payment on the ’04 Mini Cooper S, smiling proudly while also giving me the obligatory parental, “your payments better be on time” look. He’d been pleased that I’d taken to Minis; he’d rebuilt and driven two in 1970s England, a Mini Clubman, and a Mini van. It was officially my car, but my dad spoke to it too, and whenever he took that driver’s seat from me, I could feel it bowing to his authority, like a wild horse to a worthy rider.

I eventually had to sell it, though. Cars, much like people, don’t always age gracefully, and by the time my friend was pushing eleven, arthritis had claimed him suspension, and his skin, despite years of anti-aging treatments, betrayed the cracks and wrinkles of old age. I didn’t cry, but my chest definitely tightened as I signed his body away to the Carmax funeral home. I knew I couldn’t afford to keep him forever, but as I stood in that little office, reviewing my title, I had a momentary notion to run, slide into the seat, drive until neither of us had anything left. I wrapped my arms around the black and glass as best I could before the staff drove him back behind the building, frozen, for a second, by the idea that I had just given up this piece of my life that had been a constant for a decade.

It wasn’t the car itself. Sure, I loved the black and chrome, and the comfort of knowing every inch of the car perfectly, intimately. But that’s not what swirled the acid in my stomach, not what forced that tell-tale surge of regret.

It was the memories.

Taking my future wife to lunch the first day we met. My dad riding shotgun as we cruised to the beach. Nights of DC rush hour, weekends on open endless roads. Pushing 90 MPH in tears, the day I got the call. The hours and hours and miles and miles that separated 18 year old me from 28 year old me. The life in the clutch, in the shifter, in the leather seats, and rear view mirrors. The ghost of my passing life living in that machine.

I worried that I’d lose all that, the what that made my who.

But the ghost lives on, moved from one machine to the next. In the decadence of the new car smell I can feel the old car’s spirit; in the few hundred miles feel a hundred thousand memories. When I connect to the new car, I can feel my dad’s arm through mine on the wheel, see my wife in the seat next to me, revel in everything he taught me manifesting anew, for a whole new set of adventures fueled by those I left behind.

Clutch in, shift up. Clutch out, accelerator down. Knuckles white on black leather, beats keeping pace with revs. A ghost haunts the steel frame, and memory asserts its dominance.

Craft and Draft: Three Words You Should Snip From Your Vocabulary

(Warning: This post contains grammar, a substance known by the state of California to cause headaches and crossed eyes)

In the literary long game, few experiences rival that of learning a new word, feeling the thrill of pristine morphology rolling around on your tongue, turning your brain into a squishy grey beanbag chair, getting comfortable in a new heuristic home. Expanding vocabulary is the writer’s prerogative after all, as each new word tempers the steel of the already mighty pen, and makes each new piece of imagery that much more formidable.

Bolts of pure hypocrisy would strike me dead if I claimed not to enjoy the tantalizing tug on my line as a multi-syllabic monster sinks its teeth into my baited hook, but many of us get caught up in the default mode of “acquire,” and forget that not all words are created equal. Every word deserves a chance at a happy linguistic life, but we’d be duping ourselves to suggest that “rock” and “ruby” are contextual equivalents. Some words, despite their best efforts, just aren’t very good. Some words exist on a tier that need not be used, not because said words are incorrect, but because so many better words exist just a short climb away.

When I edit, the following three suspects are my number one targets. I will hunt them down, aim my find/replace at their built-in bulls-eyes, removing and rezoning them before doing any other serious rewriting. If you want to improve your writing, train your eye to notice these words, learn to hate their complacency and laziness, get angry when they clutter up your sexy soliloquy of Shakespearean sentences with their sorry, sad, simplicity. They’re not always the bad guys (as exceptions to my rules exist in this very post), but they don’t exactly have a great track record, either.

“Thing” (as a stand-in for a real noun)

“Thing” by definition, means “an object that one need not, cannot, or does not wish to give a specific name to.” Why would you ever want something with so little syntactic power in your writing? If you use the word “thing,” you’re basically admitting defeat, claiming that some object in your sentence is beyond the descriptive powers of your infinitely creative brain. You should not be OK with that. The word “thing” is an insult to imagination, a slap in the face of poetic license.

Most writers use “thing” when they’re unsure how to describe a noun, but never come around to fix it in edit. In 99% of cases, “thing” can be replaced by a noun that shines, brings delectable context to the sentence, and ultimately makes the whole piece more enjoyable for writer and reader. Consider:

I have a thing to go to later.

-versus-

I have a pirate-themed bluegrass and beer festival to go to later. 

Don’t let “thing” bully you with its laziness. Your creativity deserves better. Watch out for his other slimy buddies, “stuff” and “something,” too.

Note: There are legitimate ways to use “thing,” especially when speaking in the abstract (see my hypocrisy in the next section), but it should never, ever, ever, stand in for a concrete noun.

“Boring” (as an adjective or subject compliment)

There’s nothing wrong with the verb “to bore,” especially the lesser used meaning that plays well with insects and power tools. If only we’d left this penetrating wonder alone, and not gotten so vernacular-happy with its adjectival form, “boring.” For shame, legions of internet commenters.

This may be part pet peeve, part personal preference, but no one should ever use the word “boring.” If you confidently state that you think an activity or event is “boring” I assume that your curiosity has lapsed into a coma, and the prognosis isn’t good. “Boring” suggests you’ve given up trying to learn, abandoned all hope in trying to figure out the nuance of why other people may find a particular thing enjoyable, and decided to subjectively relegate it into some bottom drawer, never to be bothered with again.

I think people use “boring” in two situations: 1) they don’t understand whatever it is they’re claiming is boring, or 2) they just don’t like it.

The latter is completely acceptable. But if you don’t like something, say you don’t like it. Don’t say it’s “boring,” because that’s a fundamental fallacy (as someone, somewhere, probably doesn’t think it’s boring).

The prior is completely unacceptable. New internet rule: you’re not allowed to call something boring until you fully understand it. If, after discovering all the fascinating minutiae, you still want to label something “boring,” go for it. But I’m willing to bet after experience and research, you’ll find that it isn’t boring at all, just maybe not your style.

Instead of writing “boring,” think about the emotion or feeling you’re trying to convey instead. What makes it “boring” to you? Is it confusing? Annoying? Vexing? If you replace “boring” with the underlying context of why you arrived at that descriptor, you’ll almost certainly have a better sentence as a result.

“Interesting” (as an adjective or subject compliment)

A complete one-eighty from the previous word, “interesting” is the flavorless lump of Subway bread of the linguistic world. “Interesting” means you found interest in something, which is about as generic as a word can get. Think about it; what does “interesting” ever really add to a sentence?

That’s an interesting sweater you’re wearing. This article on krill migration habits is interesting. What an interesting song choice!

The word means almost nothing. It adds no context, describes very little, and just sits there with a goofy look on its face.

You can do so much better than “interesting.” Get out there and date some fancier words, words with better jobs and better families, who really care about your writing and want you to succeed. Don’t get stuck in a rut of comfort with “interesting.” He’ll break your heart and lack the self awareness to even realize it.

As with “boring” consider what makes the topic interesting to you. Is it fascinating? Engaging? Joyous? Intricate? If you can dig deeper, past the perfunctory, you’ll find that you almost never need to use the word “interesting” because almost any other adjective would work better.

Maybe little snip?

Coverage of the 2014 Body vs. Brain Match

Only twenty eight minutes in, the game remains a 2-2 tie. My body came out strong from the starting whistle, showing natural talent and jeux de balle, dominating the first 15 minutes with little resistance from my brain’s defensive backs. My brain, despite glowing scouting reports and promising qualifying matches, failed to live up to expectations, and arrived to the game seemingly unmotivated. Taking advantage, my legs slipped one past the keeper (I warned my brain not to put the Parietal lobe in the net) around the 10th minute.

Relentless on the attack, my body scored another goal in the 16th minute; an outward curling rocket backed by energy and youth, launched perfectly from just outside the eighteen yard box. It looked, for a moment, given the weak play and lack of enthusiasm (and a .5 GPA one year in high school), that my brain would concede even more. At 2-0, my brain looked outclassed; defeated before the game had even really begun.

But life, like the beautiful game, remains ever unpredictable. My body’s lead striker and goal scorer (my right leg) went down with a career ending injury in only the 17th minute of play. His future had been all but determined – national tournaments and college scholarships – but a broken tibia saw him carried off on an orange gurney by worried medical staff, and gave my brain a fighting chance to turn the game around.

By the 20th minute my brain had regained composure, and stopped the constant pressure on their net. Without my right leg to support it, my left leg stood in the middle of the field awkwardly, unable to do much for the team. My arms and torso were nearly as ineffective, but did manage to defend without giving away too many reckless free kicks. It didn’t take long for my brain to ruin my body’s clean sheet; a sweeping cross from my Cerebellum to the awaiting head of some college applications set the crowd roaring. A silly mistake from my left elbow in the 24th minute left the net wide open for photography and beer, who with a quick give-and-go around a clearly fatigued left ankle, tied the game.

Now it’s a stalemate, neither side taking chances to commit and push players forward to score, concerned about the break-away counter attack, and being vulnerable on defense. My body hasn’t given up, but the loss of their best player clearly demoralized them, and their attacks have been less frequent and less intense over the past 5 minutes. My brain, conversely, has grown bolder and has done well to control the midfield, as the young attacking center mid, writing, has rallied his team with some inspiring dedication and hard work.

It’s unclear how this half will end, but all the momentum has shifted, with my brain boasting more than 65% possession of the ball. I can’t count my body out yet as he’s proven himself strong and resilient in the past, but if the brain keeps up this kind of clever, efficient gameplay, I worry that we’ll soon see the scoreboard much heavier on their side.

Stay tuned for more coverage of this riveting match up.

For match highlights, see:

Beer Review: Flying Dog Dead Rise Old Bay Summer Ale

Wooden mallets strike claws, sending fissures through crabby chitin, exposing the sweet, seasoned flesh beneath. Soft hands meet sharp shells, poking, probing, splitting, snapping; a modest labor for a morsel of meat. Twelve spices form a homogeneous cocktail with light lager and briny boil, resulting in a liquid unique to the summers of the Chesapeake watershed. The crustacean covered newspapers lining the tables tell a new story now, a story that to the outsider sounds like barbaric ritual, but to the native sounds like hallowed tradition.

Despite my international birth, I’m a Marylander. All of my education – from Jones Lane to Johns Hopkins – unfolded in the Old Line state, and I’ve called the marshy lands north of the Potomac home for nearly 25 years. There are those in other parts of the country who don’t understand Maryland’s insistence on maintaining a unique identity; those who find such cultural fervor from a small state cute, or quaint, or some combination there of. But the people of Ocean City, Baltimore, Annapolis, and Salisbury don’t just mindlessly crab and boil or Raven and Oriole, they hold high their state standard, proud that 9th smallest state boasts one of the biggest personalities.

A veteran of the picking art shows a tourist where and how to lift the plate to get at the blue gold in the body, like the master teaching the neophyte who reached the peak all the simple secrets of life. A little girl takes her time, building a mini-mountain of crab to eat all at once, while her older brother yanks white chunks out of cartilage lined crevices with the only tool he needs: his teeth. Corn on the cob sits cooked but idle, waiting for the pile of dusted red delight to give up the spotlight.

Maryland suffers from poorly built sandwich syndrome; its thin landmass pressed between the top bun of Pittsburgh, Gettysburg, Lancaster, and Philadelphia, and the bottom bun of DC, Shenandoah, Richmond, and Norfolk. New York City is only a 4 hour drive from our naval-steeped capital, and a brief jaunt south would have you in North Carolina before the sun fully lowered itself into a western bed. There’s a lot of artisanal bread for Maryland’s meat to contend with, and it knows it needs to taste damn good to get any attention when someone takes a bite of the East Coast.

The notes that haunt the humid air are distant but familiar – bluegrass, country, possibly Jimmy Buffet. The giant stock pot – already full of potatoes and garlic and onions – sits on open flame, slowly rising to boil as a bushel awaits fate. On the shore, seagulls have taken note of the feast, and caw their dinner bells to nearby friends, hoping to snag some scraps after the lungs, mustard, and empty shells have been tossed. As the sun begins to set, the hiss of bottle cap sighs fade into the backdrop of ten thousand cicadas.

You might expect a beer brewed with Maryland’s favorite crab seasoning to be nothing more than a well-marketed gimmick. But Flying Dog, after moving to Frederick after a few years in Denver, is one of the oldest functional breweries in the state. Like Heavy Seas and their nautical flair, Flying Dog understands what it means to be in this state, but also what it means to live in Maryland. What it means to wear purple during football season. What it’s like to contend with a parade of transient traffic as I-95 shuttles people to states external. What it’s like to pay a tax on rain.

Deposits of seasoning get stuck under your fingernails. Little cuts from shards and spikes sting when hands meet soap. The entire process means a lot of work and a lot of clean up, but the rewards, tangible and tantalizing, make the effort seem minor. Those who partake in the rituals of the bay go to bed satisfied, dreaming of food and friends and family and future.

The beer isn’t perfect; the smell hits you like a fishy breeze off of a populated wharf, and the Old Bay spikes a flag into your tongue, marking its savory territory despite the summer ale’s crisp attempt to quickly wash it down. But Maryland isn’t perfect either. It’s a hodgepodge of DC politicians and career fisherman, a swampy land swarmed with mosquitoes and mariners. Its weather can be extreme and unpredictable and relatively slow speed limits lead to some of the worst traffic in the country. But it’s a state that knows who it is, where it stands, and what it likes, by virtue of geographic necessity.

Flying dog tried to brew and bottle Maryland itself. Did it work? That ship’s still at sea. Either way, it’s a flattering homage, and I’m willing to bet a lot of Old Bay junkies just found the perfect partner for a summer romance.

“Have you ever watched a crab on the shore crawling backward in search of the Atlantic Ocean, and missing? That’s the way the mind of man operates.” – H. L. Mencken

Session #86 – Obituary: Beer Journalism

Heather Vandenengel of Beer Hobo is hosting the 86th iteration of The Session. This month’s very a propos topic: Beer Journalism. Special thanks to Bryan D. Roth for playing harp to my fiddle on this one. A more thoughtful follow-up on the topic will be posted tomorrow.

ANYTOWN, U.S.A — It is with heavy heart that we must report the passing of Modern Beer Journalism. In a classic example of the wrong place at the wrong time, he was tragically caught in a hail of bad grammar and poor research outside of a beer blog at 9:42 PM, June 23, 2012. He was 18 hours old.

Modern Beer Journalism (or BJ, as he was known to his friends) was born, brimming and spilling, into a world of digital possibility. While many were concerned that being reared and raised by poorly educated rampant optimists might hinder his development, others noted that BJ bore the intellectual hallmarks of beer evangelist Michael Jackson. Some in the industry thought he may, with time, prove a prodigy, a keg of  insight just waiting to be tapped so that all his bubbly wisdom could fill glasses that had been dry and empty for too long. But this world is a cruel place, filled with memes and Buzzfeed quizzes and countless other machinations of time-wasting evil. Because of his low-birth, he was never able to live up to his role model; a bud snipped before we ever got a chance to see what flower might bloom.

BJ started writing at a young age. Much of his work was derivative and trite, focusing on meaningless cultural ephemera and faddish trends du jour. For a period, he wrote nothing but “Top 10 Beers to Drink in Summer” articles, thinking that truly, deeply, passionately, people actually gave a shit about his hastily scrawled dreck. He never seemed able to shake the misogyny that hid deep in his psyche, nor his crippling and honestly depressing lack of self-awareness, probably because he was so drunk all the time. But the fact that he was writing anything at all provoked people into thinking there was potential. His writing was important to the beer and to the people behind the beer. Without the words and stories, the voice of the brewer was like a beautiful ’65 Fender Stratocaster unplugged, unamplified. A few stellar examples of his prose beamed starlight splendor across the internet, and even those outside of the brewed world took note. For a fleeting second, like that moment of beauty before the diaphanous fragility of a soap bubble collides with the hard ground, Modern Beer Journalism burned with vivacious fire.

But like many young people, BJ fell to the intoxicating rush of instant internet gratification. He began hanging out with the curt and oft misunderstood Twitter gang, spending all day retweeting junk, even though he knew it was bad for him. He became obsessed with pointless minutiae; how many hops a brewer could cram into a pint, how much theoretical “imperial” was possible before the beer was akin to paint thinner. His inborn lust for truth was replaced by a lust for attention, attention gained through sloppy, gimmicky novelties and a personality that never flirted with anything beyond the most shallow pools of obvious empiricism. He grew, eventually, to be a shadow of the man he should have been; a cheap facsimile that bore BJs name, but none of the power of his pedigree.

While the police have not released an official statement, many of those close to the family suspect foul play in relation to BJ’s death, and sources tell this reporter that Vani, aka “The Food Babe,” has been detained for questioning. Authorities are also on the lookout for several hundred others masquerading as “writers,”  all of who are suspected of having ties the Facebook Mafia, the blurry Instagram Mob, and other seedy organizations.

BJ is survived by a small group of close colleagues, who, with a lot of work and a little bit of luck, might be able to bring honor to his lost legacy, and make the future of Modern Beer Journalism bright. In place of flowers, please read BJ’s birth announcement (originally reported by Bryan D. Roth) so that we may remember him in a time where we just assumed he’d suck, and hadn’t yet been proved right.

I come to bury Caesar, not to praise him.

 

 

Session #84 – Alternative Reviews – Breckenridge Bridge

This is my entry for the 84th Session, hosted by me, on this here blog. The topic: Alternative Reviews. Warning: this contains lots of words (even more than usual).

David raised his glass quickly but carefully, in one, thoroughly practiced motion. The amber sloshed perilously near spilling, the gyroscope of his wrist and hand the only thing from keeping the bar from a beery bath. “Here’s to life!”

The cry pierced the air above the bar, setting into motion an avalanche of reaction: displeased glares, questioning glances, humorous smirks. Even the drunk karaoke girls stopped to look at David, who by now, was standing on the foot rests of his bar stool like some inebriated half-giant.

Geoff looked at him down the glassy length of his shaker, smiling through his sip.

“It’s good to see you back to your old self.” Geoff said, as he set the glass on the bar. He picked it up again, looking down at the watery ring of condensation kept afloat by the bar’s waxy finish. He set the beer back down halfway on top of the first ring making a tidy two-ring Venn diagram. He turned to David, “Maybe you should slow down. You’ve had a hell of a few weeks.”

David looked back at him, eyes half glazed by the beer that was worming its way through the folds of his brain. “No man, I feel great! Why you gotta be such a cop all the time?” He waved at the bartender, trying to get his attention through the commotion of a Friday night.

“Because I am a cop, idiot.” Geoff had already slipped the car keys from David’s coat pocket into his own. He knew David too well, knew his tiny bladder and even tinier tolerance, and didn’t trust him not to fumble to his truck in three beer’s time, when he was well beyond a reasonable state to be awake, never mind drive. He checked the time on his phone. “Hey, Dave, man, I gotta run. Cathy’s expecting me soon and I’ve got a long shift tomorrow.”

“Aw man! Just one more, come on. COME ON!” David taunted him, holding one fist-defiant index finger near his face, scrunching up his nose and mouth, part demanding, part begging, part unsure he should even have one more himself. Geoff laughed, threw down two twenties, and shook his head. “Not tonight man. Next time. I got your tab though. And your keys. There should be enough there for a cab, too.”

It took another half hour to process that Geoff had meant his car keys; thirty full minutes of crawling around in the stale beer-fog of under bar, looking for any glint of metallic silver of Chevy logo. The beer had done its job, and was still billing hours to the client of insobriety, so David didn’t even entertain being mad at the long-gone Geoff. He smiled at fate, and let the beer decide with infallible drunk wisdom, that the best bet was to walk the eight some miles home, not call a cab.

♦♦♦

The late summer air soothed his sing-along-sore throat, Vicks VapoRub on Colorado wind made of purple poppies, peeling pine, and that undeniable smell of coming thunderstorm. David loved August nights in Breckenridge, and for a while, lost in a alcohol-fueled flood of senses and emotion, he didn’t mind his hour long saunter.

He came upon the bridge, an old parker-style in need of paint with rust pocking its metal like acne on a teenagers oily forehead, and could smell the fishy waft from the river below. The crossing marked the halfway point of his trip home, that moment where he was equidistant between bar stool and bed, between drunkenness and sobriety. He took a moment at the center of the bridge to lean out over the rushing, storm-swollen water. Odd detritus lined the bank near one of the concrete supports: several mismatched tires, probably dumped there by Tom from the auto-shop on Lincoln; a soggy, algae stained futon that looked like a reject from an IKEA as-is section; a shopping cart upturned and abandoned at least a mile from its normal home at City Market.

The river passed by without noticing David noticing it, upstream looking exactly like downstream as if it didn’t matter where water began or ended, only that it flowed. If it hadn’t been so late, if he hadn’t been just one beer past buzzed, David might have dangled his legs down over the edge of the bridge and sat there a while, let summer sink into his soul, let the river wash away the night, let the peace of nature remind him how lucky he was to be alive.

As he turned to finish his journey home, some movement near the water caught his eye. A shape, tall and thin, a man down by the bank, near the access road, swaggering in shadow. Then he saw another man, a bigger man, approach from behind, thinking for a moment he heard shouting and crying on the back of the wind. He watched, too far to help, too close to cry out without jeopardizing himself, as the larger shadow slung something out of his pocket and snapped serenity in two with the crack of a cocked hammer colliding with primer.

Had his mind been clear, he would have immediately called Geoff, had the entire Breckenridge Sheriff’s department on the scene in minutes. But panic closed its powerful grip on his mind, and he could do nothing but run. Across the bridge, down a side street, through bushes and under trees. Muscle memory guided his feet, the world passed by, half buzzed by sprint, half buzzed by the the booze still sloshing in his stomach, and he soon found himself on his own front lawn, lungs grabbing desperately into the night for more air.

♦♦♦

A viper, two green slits on dark grey, stared at him from across the room. His eyes adjusted slowly like auto-focus on a dying camera lens, regret manifesting behind them like two jack hammers of you-should-know-better. 11:03. Not so bad, given how late (or early) he had slipped into the silky caress of his down comforter after his mad dash home.

He knew he should call Geoff, but was worried he hadn’t really seen what he thought he saw, that Geoff would just laugh him off and tell him he needed to go to AA. Even if David had wanted to talk to him, he couldn’t find his phone, and weight of his eyelids and slouching slurch of his stomach suggested it might not be time to get up anyway. He let his head fall back onto the pillow and watched the snake disappear behind a horizontal curtain of black.

When he woke again, the viper was gone, replaced by two turtles rolling on into infinity. His headache had mellowed into a gentle sluggish fog, like his brain was covered with an entire bottle of Elmers. The hangover had cleared enough, enough at least, for him to sit up without worrying that a fault line might open up on the back of his skull. He dug around in his jean pockets for his phone, not surprised to see more than a few missed calls, mainly from his mother and Geoff, both of whom, he was sure, were checking to make sure he’d made it home in as few pieces as possible. He brushed away the notifications and nudged the phone with his thumb to call Geoff.

It rang four times before being deposited, like some lowly letter, in a voice mail box. “Hey man, it’s Dave. I’m fine, just really, really hungover. This is going to sound weird, but I think I saw someone get shot last night. Like seriously. I was pretty plastered, but I’m going to go check it out. Meet me at the old bridge at ten and I’ll tell you the whole story.”

The sun had long since exited stage West by the time he pulled into a spot by the old deserted fish packing warehouse. From here he could see the silhouette of the bridge like a lattice against the night sky, lights from down in the city giving just enough glow to make the sky look eggplant, not ebony. The night was calm except for the wind that swept down from the north in sporadic, energetic bursts.

David was late, but so was Geoff. Another fifteen minutes disappeared into unrecoverable history with eyes glued to the street that ran into pines on the far side of the bridge, waiting to see a squad car come rolling past the treeline. Another twenty passed and still no squad car, still no Geoff. Sick of waiting, David decided to see if he could find any evidence of what he witnessed almost exactly 24 hours before.

The water chilled the air near the bank, enough for David’s arm hairs to unfurl, stand up straight, like a frightened porcupine. He moved to where he thought he’d seen the shadow scuffle, searching the ground for signs of blood or foot prints or shell casings, using all of his best TV crime drama knowledge.

If anything criminal had gone down in the midnight deep, the river had washed away all evidence. David was sort of happy Geoff hadn’t shown up, and hoped he hadn’t even heard his voice mail. He’d obviously embarrassed himself enough the night before; no need to add this little costly piece of police involvement. He turned back, laughing at himself and his drunken hallucinations when he smelled the unique smoke of a clove cigarette. Before he could trail it to a source, he heard a loud pop, and pinch a stab of pain in his left side. Slick, stinking mud stained the knees of his jeans. His hands felt numb, like he’d slept on them for too long. The river and his vision danced red, then white, then dark.

♦♦♦

He heard the beeping first. A whole cacophony of machine generated pings and dings, some high pitched and rhythmic, others low, growly, but random. Despite sending many signals from his brain, his eyelids refused to part, his mouth refused to open, his throat refused to produce sound. He floated, robbed of three of five, only smelling, listening.

David bobbed in the cosmic darkness for what felt like two eternities. He thought he was thinking about things, about philosophy and theology, chatting up Alpha and Omega over a pint of porter, learning all about life before, and after, and now. Voices from across the bar occasionally chimed in with comment, but one stuck in his mind like an echo: “You’re going to be OK.”

Voices outside the bar, muffled voices, some he thought he recognized, others as foreign as a Japanese tourist in Texas, started to become more common. He regained some audibility, mainly in grunts, but enough to signal to the distant disembodied speech that he was there, and should not be ignored.

Eventually Light snuck in, a piercing, awful light, as if he’d just emerged from some dank cave into the brilliance of a Gobi afternoon. Pupils constricted and dappled ceiling tiles formed a landscape, telling David he was lying down, in a building of some kind. A plus. Geoff loomed over him, a huge face hanging like a moon over his bed. “Dave!”

Two weeks later, the grape sized wound near his left kidney had healed sufficiently for David to be discharged. As soon as he was conscious enough to talk, Geoff filled in the hospital-induced blanks. He’d been late to the bridge because the battery on his phone had died, and he hadn’t heard the voice mail. By the time he had arrived, David was already face down near some old tires, blood seeping down into the river like a sanguine tributary. They’d gotten him to the hospital in just enough time to prevent him from bleeding out.

Despite many, many objections from the nurses, doctors, and Geoff himself, despite his near brush with death, David demanded they go out for a celebratory beer. Convincing him like only a best, old friend can, Geoff obliged him. “OK, OK. Just one beer. I guess you deserve it.” At home, David ditched the mint scrubs the doctors had given him since his clothes had been taken as part of the investigation to find the shooter. He threw on a fresh t shirt quickly, already imagining the lager sloshing sultry across his tongue.

He parked his truck and met Geoff by the door. The bar was lively, even for a Friday night, and a group of tipsy college girls were bullying the touch screen on the Karaoke machine. Geoff pulled up a stool, and helped David onto his, worried about disrupting the stitches. David nodded to the bar tender, ordering two ambers, two ruddy wonders poured perfectly into branded shakers. “I think this moment deserves a toast.”

David raised his glass quickly but carefully, in one, thoroughly practiced motion. The amber sloshed perilously near spilling, the gyroscope of his wrist and hand the only thing from keeping the bar from a beery bath. “Here’s to life!”

Hey, Chief – An Essay for, about, and to my Father

I wrote this essay as a way to try to stay afloat in the bitter maelstrom of emotions I’ve been drowning in since losing my father. I’m honored that Tin House would consider it high enough quality for their site.

Without further pomp:

Hey, Chief | Tin House 

Session #82: Beery Yarns

Steve at Beers I’ve Known is playing host for the 82nd Session, with the topic: Beery Yarns

If you took some sharp scissors to the 28-year-old quilt of my experience, you’d expose hundreds of thousands of potential stories, all dangling from the patchwork cloth as loose threads. Pulling any of them would start me rambling about some ephemeral flash, filling in the fuzziest details as I see fit.

There are many beer-soaked threads woven into the story of my life. Pretty much any random yank of a story string from my college years will include beer (of questionable quality). A lot from high school will, too. Even some of my youngest memories, when I wasn’t even near appropriate drinking age, could be tangentially tied  to beer, either by fatherly proxy or stolen sips in a household that revered instead of reviled the drink.

But in most of those stories, beer was merely a catalyst. A fermented means to an intoxicated end. There are few, until very recently, where beer was the focus, the bar the locus, the enjoyment the onus. But there is one that I still remember vividly. That hasn’t been partially lost to the throbbing regrets of a hangover, or faded too much from the cumulative effects of time.

The story of the first public pint I ever shared with my dad.

While I never got confirmation, I’m pretty sure my father drank a beer in every single Hooters in the contiguous United States. What had started as a hilarious American novelty to a British expat evolved into a habitual attachment. Everywhere we went, we sought out a Hooters. We eschewed decent restaurants for trans fats and orange and white. We drove out of our way just to tick off another town, another state, on the “yep, we’ve been to that Hooters” list.

But despite its specific buxom charm, Hooters constantly annoyed my dad because they wouldn’t serve beer to minors. As he was product of the English pub scene in the 70’s and 80’s, America’s odd puritanical approach to alcohol – and specifically the twenty-one-year-old drinking age law – would set my dad off, sending him into a tangent about how demonizing alcohol eventually leads to abuse of the same, ala the “preacher’s daughter” rule.

He didn’t get it. If a father was there with his son, to guide him (and drive him) what was the harm in a single pint with lunch? Apparently everything, said every American bartender, ever. Still he tried, ordering two beers for himself, trying to slide one to me in a not-so-subtle way, only to get busted by the waitress a few minutes later. We never got kicked out of a bar – he always managed to weasel out of it with his smile and accent – but in our quest to share a pint before I was 21, we certainly ruffled a lot of owl feathers.

It took breaking our Hooters tradition to finally clink father and son glasses. He and I traveled sans mom and sister a lot in pursuit of my young soccer career, so we often found ourselves puttering around unfamiliar locales, pre-Google Maps and other wanderlust supporting applications. Sometimes, we didn’t have hours to track down the nearest avian sanctuary, and instead had to opt for accommodations closer to the hotel.

At the Disney Cup International in Orlando, Florida, trying to weigh the risk of food poisoning from hole-in-the-wall Mexican food and the nearby AppleBees, my dad bought us tickets to the early show at Medieval Times. It wasn’t wholly unexpected for him to do even more unexpected things like this on impulse, and my love of swords and sorcery meant no objection from me. We lined up with the flip flops and cargo shorts of the all-inclusive-package-holders, talking about the goal I’d scored earlier that afternoon as the shadows of the perfectly pruned palms got longer and longer.

Pre-show, in the middle of the main hall and the crowd of vacationer conviviality, hundreds of people swarmed like an agitated hive of drunken wasps. Kids begged parents for plastic crowns, husbands begged wives for impractical swords, wives begged bartenders for large glasses of white wine. Staff, dressed in cheesy facsimile of period attire, guided people to their seats with about as much order and organization as a teenage boy’s bedroom.

My father disappeared into the crowd as I basked in the reflections of gas lamps bouncing off highly polished suits of armor. He returned soon, holding two “golden” goblets, both nearly overflowing with a creamy white head. Boddingtons. He held one out to me while he sipped the head on his to prevent a tragic spill.

So it was there, in the gaudy panache of the anachronistic recreation of a castle, that we finally shared a pint. No cozy tavernesque atmosphere, no friendly neighborhood barkeep, just screaming children overdosing on Disney, their exasperated, sun-burned parents, and enough novelty to put ACME to shame.

And I’ll always remember it. It wasn’t about the where, but the why. It marked a moment where we were equals, able to experience things as two men, not just a father and his boy. It was the culmination to our quest, and we drank deeply from those knock off holy grails.  It was in its own way my personal British Bar Mitzvah, the moment I became a man in my father’s eyes, which were, really, the only eyes that ever mattered.

Yep, still have it.

So you want to be a Beer Writer? – Part 1 – Pallet vs. Palette vs. Palate

You’ve finally arrived at the intersection of inebriation, grammar, and Microsoft Word. You want to pour your love of beer out of the glass and smear it all over the page. You don’t want to be stuck a mere drinker; you want to transcend, elevate, lift yourself up in a rush of carbonated glory. Good for you! Admitting you have a problem is the first step to becoming a beer writer.

But the first step, in this case, is nowhere near the last step. Being a beer writer isn’t all strolling down easy street, wearing your casual Ugg boots, whistling “Peaceful Easy Feeling.” Beer isn’t a matter of life and death; it’s much more serious than that. You’re going to have to commit to not only drinking lots of beers, but also drinking lots of beers. You may have to take time to appreciate flavors and smell decadent aromas, possibly with your nose. You may even, at times, when things get really intense, have to go out with your friends to drink beers.

It’s a cruel, unforgiving pursuit.

But if you’re committed, I’m here to help. The information below is part one of a primer to transform your regular old prose into luscious lager literature. I’m happy to answer any questions in the comments, too.

Bubbling Verbs

Any good writer knows her verbs are the real pack mules of the syntax, lugging all that context on their backs without so much as an angry bray. The beer world affords a writer a bevy of excellent verb choices, namely those associated with liquids, drinking, staggering, and hanging (over). If you’re trying to up the ABV of your blog posts and articles, strong beer verbs can make all the difference. See “she opened the beer” verses “she wrenched the cap free.”

Here are a few of my favorites (in infinitive form):

Brewing-related: to ferment, to flocculate, to mash, to stir, to boil, to roll, to pitch, to rinse, to sanitize, to cool, to rise, to sink, to measure, to gauge, to float, to attenuate, to prime, to bottle, to carbonate, to cellar

Beer-sound related: to hiss, to pop, to sizzle, to fizz, to glug, to chug, to gulp, to cheer, to clink, to clunk, to plink, to crack, to toast, to sing, to yell

Beer-action related: to pour, to glass, to barstool, to order, to bitter-beer-face, to pry, to wrench, to twist, to nose, to sip, to savor, to tongue, to raise, to grasp, to slam, to session

Beer-effect related: to smile, to laugh, to hug, to proclaim, to embelish, to haze, to blur, to lurch, to occilate, to waiver, to stagger, to wretch, to drunk-dial, to wrestle, to put-your-leg-over-the-edge-of-the-bed-to-stop-the-spins, to vomit, to pass out, to pound, to thirst, to hunger, to regret, to swear

There are of course hundreds more. Don’t be afraid to verb a noun if it seems fitting. Shakespeare did it, and he seems to have done pretty well for himself.

Off-Flavors

At times, when home brewing your own word-beer, slight miscalculations in syntax temperature or literary recipe can lead to unwanted off-flavors. These are easily avoided by carefully paying attention during mash-draft. Some common off-flavors to watch out for:

Pallet vs. Palette vs. Palate

Unless you’re talking about moving a bunch of cases in a warehouse or are literally planning to paint with your beer, the correct spelling of the tasty portion of our mouth is “palate.”

Drink, Drunk, Drank

To drink is probably the most important verb in a beer writer’s keg-o-verbs, but it vexes many people because its past participle, “drunk,” can be a verb, a noun, or an adjective, depending on its role in the sentence. To add to the confusion, as a verb “drunk” requires an auxillary verb (to have, to be) to be used correctly. You wouldn’t say “I drunk the beer” unless you were already ten deep. An easy rule to avoid mistakes in obscure sentence constructions: check for a “be” or “have” before the word. If there is one, use “drunk” (The beers will be drunk tonight). If there isn’t, use “drank” (I drank the beer).

Drunk is very versatile:

As a noun – Oliver is a drunk.
As an adjective – Oliver is drunk.
As a verb – Oliver has drunk all the beer.

As an added grammatical bonus, here’s a full list of tenses for “to drink”:

Simple present – I drink (beer.)
Simple past – I drank (three beers.)
Simple future – I will drink (that beer. That one, right there.)
Present perfect – I have drunk (all the beer in the fridge. My bad.)
Past perfect – I had drunk (all those beers before they even got here.)
Future perfect – I will have drunk (that whole case before I leave.)
Present progressive – I am drinking (this beer.)
Past progressive – I was drinking (that beer before I started drinking this one.)
Future progressive – I will be drinking (during #beerchat.)

There, now you are never allowed to mess up “to drink” ever again.