Science fiction, fantasy, mystery and what-not
We heard this on the blues station last night on our way home. We love Koko Taylor, and I like beer, so this works. I don’t know what year it’s from, or anything like that. It’s the blues, and it makes me feel good.
Here’s the fabulous Koko Taylor with “Beer Bottle Boogie.”
I was with a friend at a concert last night. He drank a Bud Light while I enjoyed a 10 Barrel Apocalypse. He always drinks Bud Light.
Cool for him. My beer buds don’t align well with Bud Light. I find it too thin, and lacking in depth and flavor for me to claim as a regular, or even to have in my rotation.
I contrast this with my Wednesday night experience. One of the BoBs regularly brews his own, and brought a couple bottles for us to sample. He called it an Imperial IPA. From his description, it sounded like a double IPA. However you reference it, this beer was fantastically smooth and flavorful. He’d bottled it in May, so it was just under two full months old. I’d expected high I.B.U.s and hoppiness, but neither were present. With an A.b.V. of eleven point two, it had a kick.
What impressed me that night was first, his explanation of the ingredients, and how he brewed it. Next, another friend’s insightful questions about where the hops were sourced and other factors surprised me. In retrospect, it seemed like he’s contemplating brewing his own.
As I do when drinking beer – or wine – I became contemplative. I ended up contemplating beer over my coffee this morning. My coffee choice is much narrower than my beer choices, but it’s evolved to that point. For my morning coffee, I like a French or Italian roast, without milk, cream, or sugar. For my writing session, I prefer a four shot mocha.
For beer, I have a choice tree. I prefer dark beers, so they dominate my beer tree, but my beer choice depends upon the food, event, and offerings. At the top of my list are Imperial Stouts. They usually deliver a significant kick, so they’re not often chosen. Dropping down the list, I’ll look for stouts and porters, followed by ales and I.P.A.s, Pilsners and lagers. Besides enjoying dark beers, when sampling one of the others beer variations, I’ve discovered I like citrus overtones, especially grapefruits. I don’t usually like fruity beers, but this year, I enjoyed several delightful beers with watermelon. I’m not surprised, as I enjoy buying and drinking watermelon juice.
And yes, I like my beer cold. I’ve tried it warm, several times (you know, to get a data set), and I prefer cold beer with a moderately small head. As an aside, I’m not fond of coffee in beer, unless it’s in an ice cream float. A coffee flavored stout with vanilla ice cream on a hot day is a damn fine dessert.
The thing with all of this, as with so many things, is that our individual choices are unique, and our reasons for reaching them are often more complex than the thought we give to them. While I give my beers a lot of thought and like to taste from a large swath of samples, because you never know what might impress you, my buddy preferred his Bud Light because of its light flavor, low alcohol content, and the lack of need to think about which beer he’ll drink, and whether he’ll enjoy it.
Which is why I’ve made the coffee choices I’ve made.
The strings are there, tying you up, tangling you up with effort, pain, memories, loss, frustration, and weariness. Others hold onto them, pulling you down, dragging you back, trying to steer you with their tugs.
Snip, snip, snip, cut them away. Free yourself and soar.
The Major had a hole in his head.
It wasn’t a hole, like a hole in a sheet of paper, but a hole, like a hole in the yard that the dog had dug.
The hole took up the left half of the Major’s face. His eye protruded out without any bones to support it. But it was a clean hole, shored up inside, and smooth.
I noticed the Major, Holder by name, Army by service, when I was sent over to him.
I’d been queuing with thousands of others in a writhing river of uniformed personnel. We were preparing to go. I don’t know where. Dressed for battle, I was geared up. I, oddly, was the only one with a helmet. I’d brought my own. Others awaited someone to issue them a helmet, and many were complimentary of me that I’d had the foresight to bring my own helmet.
We finally started moving. I was impatient, as I always am. Irritation grew as I awaited movement and direction. Someone from the middle of people called, “You, with the helmet. Where you going?”
Figuring he meant me, the question and tone pushed my buttons. I was instantly pissed. Shoving through the stream, which rapidly made way for me, I went to the man who called, and stated in a hard voice – the one my teams knew so well from me – “I’m Master Sergeant Seidel.”
The man beamed at me. “Good. Here.” He thrust a piece of paper in my hand. “Take this and go over there.”
Mollified, but puzzled, I did as bid after a moment, and discovered myself in a waiting area. That’s where I met the tall and slender, good-humored Major Holder. Gray-haired and lightly tanned, he wore green fatigues and had no gear, but he was in charge of something. He addressed me, telling me to wait. I wanted to know what I was waiting for, but he turned away.
Others arrived. They began complaining about the impositions they were facing, like me, bothered by the long wait, lack of activity, and general chaos. They started complaining about how bad they had it, noting small injuries, injustices, and frustration.
“What’s wrong with you?” I asked them. “There’s a man over here who’s missing half of his face from this war. He’s not complaining.”
They were, of course, words that chastised me, too. But Major Holder, always patient and good-humored, turned and said, “Don’t worry. It’s nothing at all.”
For an angle
a bargain
a chance
a death
an ending
a friend
a good reason
a hopeful outcome
an idea
a jolt
a king
a love
a meaningful encounter
a new beginning
an opportunity
a purpose
a result
a sign
a time
an understanding
a vacancy
a win
an x-ray
the young
and a zephyr of change
Modern technology hasn’t solved all our of ancient ills, but it’s facilitated widespread, easy entertainment. For me, in the sixties – that’s the last century, for those of you keeping score at home – that meant a transistor radio. Made in Japan, it was deplored as a cheap import, but it worked quite well in the hands of a nine or ten year old boy, until he took it apart to see what a transistor was.
Before I encountered the British invasion, before I discovered rock, I heard the Motown sound. A huge part were groups like the Four Tops, Temptations, and Supremes. I hadn’t appreciated what a large part they played until I looked up music for those groups last night. I was looking them up to refresh myself with their music, because we’re going to go watch the Four Tops and Temptations perform tonight. Should be fun.
As a reminder, here are the Four Tops with “Reach Out (I’ll Be There),” from nineteen sixty-six. It’s a sweet sound.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=c56Sj7kMbLk
Monocat (Catfinition) A home or family with just one cat.
In Use: “Jan’s house was an averred monocat, as the fluffball who resided there had little tolerance for other four-legged creatures.”
Summer brings to mind the parties orchestrated during my military years. We had good parties every where, legendary parties. Part of that was being with good people.
Doug was one of those good people. I was stationed with him at Kadena AB on Okinawa. Our parties at his house began modestly and then mushroomed into block parties. Parties could be declared for anything from the end of an exercise or operational readiness inspection, to holidays and promotions, to “just because.”
Ad hoc teams were established for music, libation, food, set-up, and games. At the height of the parties, we had four or five sets of Bose 901s set up. The music was cranked up. One of the songs that had to be played was “I Want You to Want Me,” from “Cheap Trick Live at Budokan.”
Doug loved that song. It was one played later in the evening, after the most sensible and sober people had departed. Then, up went the volume, and out came the air guitars.
I think of Doug often, especially when hearing this song. I’ve only seen him once since leaving Okinawa, when we encountered one another during exercises in the Middle East, but the memory of him burns bright.
Michael Seidel, writer 