IN PRAISE OF CHEAP BEER

Some years ago I played in an old-time band. The musicians in the group were the most talented and fun group of people I’ve ever known. Our jams were loud, raucous and fun and our concerts and contra dances were equally so. What made our jams so much fun was the ever-present inclusion of beer. In fact, looking at these fine musicians, one would think that they were more of a vegan-granola crowd. Not so! Rather, they were a group of the hardest-core beer drinkers with whom I’ve ever had the pleasure of associating. 

To give you a feel for what our jams were like, picture 20-30 musicians complete with guitars, mandolins, banjos, fiddles and other assorted stringed instruments. Along with their instruments were various sizes of coolers strewn about each containing various brands of beer. 

There was one guitarist in the group who never brought any beer. Unfortunately, “Jim” would always select a spot next to me during our jams. Predictably he would ask me what brand of beer I happened to bring. At that time I was into the emerging IPA variety and would reveal the label of the bottle to him. He was quick to ask “Is it any good?” to which I would casually reply that I liked it. He would be put off by this response and would proceed to ask various detailed questions about the product such as where it was brewed, types of barley and hops used, water source, brewery employee relations, etc. One satisfied that the beer was up to his high standards he would reach into my cooler and help himself to a free beer. On an average night, of my six-pack he would consume four and I would get two.

After about four weeks of Jim’s grand larceny of my beer, I switched to the cheapest crap that I could buy. You know the kind - it’s usually at the end of the beer aisle in rusted cans that proudly proclaim that the beer was “aged in the truck”. Needless to say, Jim took umbrage to the fact that my beer selection was offensive to his refined palate. After several weeks of rejecting my cheap, disgusting and offensive beer, he selected another place to sit, far away from the perils of the nasty swill whose quality matched that of my guitar playing.

So, to both of my readers, I would like to leave you one small nugget of wisdom. If you happen to be sitting someplace with a cooler of beer next to you and should someone sit next to you and ask you if your brand of beer is any good, quickly respond:

 “Oh hi, Jim. No, it’s pretty lousy stuff.”

Readers, enjoy your day.

STORAGE

The following article came from the May, 2021 edition of the monthly AARP Magazine. To call it fascinating would be a vast understatement. I would describe it as astonishing. In brief, the article illustrates the remarkable pile of useless crap that we Americans have accumulated. So much so that we have to rent additional spaces outside of our dwellings to accommodate the volumes of various items which we refuse to sell, give away or otherwise get rid of. In our little town there are storage units galore - seemingly one per mile. Given the large number of local storage rental units, it would seem that availability would not be an issue. In fact, there's a long wait to acquire one of these rentals - at present, six months or longer.

So, take a look at the article below. It tells the story way better than I can.

Readers, enjoy your day.

 

LOST

Over the years of my producing this blog I’ve written about my love of guitars. I’m not real sure if it’s a love of guitars or a love of buying and selling guitars. After some consideration I’m guessing that it’s the latter. This proves beyond a reasonable doubt that the act of losing money is addictive. 

The past two weeks have involved my selling three Fender Strats, all of which I have sworn that I would never sell. The wife has learned to interpret that phrase as “I will never sell this guitar in the next 3 days.” 

As is common in my marathon selling sessions, the minute I sell off unwanted instruments, my fingers magically drift to Craigslist to look for castaway guitars that have lost favor with their owners. Craigslist is a guitar freak’s godsend - eager sellers, reasonable prices and cash only.

Now, to the subject at hand.

Let’s rewind the clock to the mid-1960’s. One of my first guitars was a model called a “Texan” made by the Epiphone Company of Kalamazoo, Michigan. I was very taken by the sound of this guitar when I tried it out in a music store. In fact, I passed over more notable brands such as Gibson and Martin in favor of buying the Epi Texan.

I kept that guitar through my years in the military and during college. This is where things get a bit weird. For the life of me I cannot remember what happened to my Epi Texan. Did I sell it, give it away, pawn it, lose it in a bet? 

No matter - it’s gone.

To make things worse, I have learned that 1964 Epiphone Texans are very valuable collectors items. This is due to the fact that a Beatles song was produced using the very same model of guitar that I used to own, thus sending its value through the roof.

The final miserable chapter to this story is the fact that I can’t recall the name of the Beatles song in question.

All I know is that this experience has left me with some terrible emotional scars. Ultimately my feelings are that:

I’m not half the man I used to be and that there’s a shadow hanging over me.

Readers, enjoy your day.

PERSPECTIVE

Some years ago on Veterans Day I was filling up my car at a gas station in Albuquerque, New Mexico. I went inside the store to pay for the fill up and the young man behind the counter asked me if I was a veteran. I told him that I was and he applied a Veterans Day discount to my purchase, for which I was very grateful. He asked me when I had served and I told him “during the Vietnam War”. Incredulously, he had a befuddled look on his face which told me that he was not aware of the war. I then took the liberty of giving him a twenty second synopsis of what the war was about, finishing with “and there were about 58,000 Americans killed over there”. To which he replied:

“Yeah, whatever.”

This apparent dismissiveness bothered me terribly and still haunts me to this very day. To think that the loss of that many human lives over the years 1961-1975 should be disrespected is, in my opinion, unconscionable. 

In a related matter I read a headline in the newspaper a few days ago that, during the month of December, 2020, there have been over 63,000 COVID19 deaths in our country, thus exceeding the total U. S. Vietnam War deaths. 

The unspoken response from many of our elected politicians:

“Yeah, whatever.”

Readers, take care and stay healthy. 

MISSOULA PADDLEHEADS

What? 

You mean you’ve never heard of the Paddleheads?

Truthfully, until I read this morning’s Seattle Times, I was similarly ignorant. The Paddleheads are a Montana baseball team that is part of the Pioneer League which consists of eight teams in Montana, Utah and Idaho. The Pioneer League, unlike some other leagues scattered about the U.S., is not affiliated with any specific major league ball club. 

In short, this is raw baseball. Don’t expect to see a Paddleheads game being announced by Joe Buck or other well-known announcers. Nor will you be able to turn to the New York Times sports section to catch up on the standings of the Pioneer League. 

Despite the lack of awareness of the Paddleheads, they do have a corner on the enjoyment of the game of baseball. Just take a look at one of their merchandising items:

I mean, what says fun more than a moose paddling an inflatable raft? Furthermore, I’ll bet that you can buy a 16 ounce beer at a Paddleheads game for less than one at Wrigley Field. Do they have a nickel beer night? Probably not but we can all be hopeful.

So, let’s all get to the Missoula Paddleheads Ballpark (Ogren Park at Allegiance Field) next summer and support these guys. Keep in mind that the play probably won’t be on the caliber of the New York Yankees. But it will be very enjoyable.

Readers enjoy your day.

MISUNDERSTANDING

 I was doing not much of anything today when the wife approached me and said very clearly:

“I want a Cowboy!”

This statement caused many images to rush through my head. I could picture her wanting to run away with her cowboy heartthrob Sheriff Walt Longmire, headed for a life in a 200 square foot cabin in Wyoming, eating venison, moose and black bear and drinking 16 ounce Rainier beer for the rest of their lives. 

I quickly dismissed this crazy idea because Walt doesn't have cable TV and a life without “Days of Our Lives” just won’t cut it. 

Sensing my complete confusion about the matter, the wife cleared up the confusion:

“It’s Tuesday and Cowboy pizzas at Papa Murphy’s are only $12”.

So, readers, it looks like the wife is going to stick around for a while, hopefully until our 36th wedding anniversary on the 22nd. That is, unless she decides to run off with Walt Longmire before then.

Readers, enjoy your (Cowboy pizza) (Tues)day.

COVID-19

I’ve promised myself that I would avoid this topic, normally focusing on lighter fare in this blog. 

But occasionally some things hit you between the eyes, begging a serious response. 

The poem “A Clattering Train” was one of Winston Churchill’s favorite poems. It was written in the late 1800’s following a train wreck blamed on a sleeping crewman. 

It poses the metaphorical question throughout its text: Where is the leadership in the face of this ever-emerging crisis?

______________________________________

Who is in charge of the clattering train?
The axles creak, and the couplings strain.
Ten minutes behind at the Junction. Yes!
And we’re twenty now to the bad—no less!
At every mile we a minute must gain!
Who is in charge of the clattering train?

Why, flesh and blood, as a matter of course!
You may talk of iron, and prate of force;
But, after all, and do what you can….
Man is in charge of the thundering train!

Man, in the shape of a modest chap
In fustian trousers and greasy cap;
A trifle stolid, and something gruff,
Yet, though unpolished, of sturdy stuff….

Only a Man, but away at his back,
In a dozen cars, on the steely track,
A hundred passengers place their trust
In this fellow of fustian, grease, and dust….

The hiss of steam-spurts athwart the dark.
Lull them to confident drowsiness. Hark!
What is that sound? ‘Tis the stertorous breath
Of a slumbering man—and it smacks of death!
Full sixteen hours of continuous toil
Midst the fume of sulphur, the reek of oil,
Have told their tale on the man’s tired brain,
And Death is in charge of the clattering train!

Those poppy-fingers his head incline
Lower, lower, in slumber’s trance;
The shadows fleet, and the gas-gleams dance
Faster, faster in mazy flight,
As the engine flashes across the night.
Mortal muscle and human nerve
Cheap to purchase, and stout to serve.
Strained too fiercely will faint and swerve.
Over-weighted, and underpaid,
This human tool of exploiting Trade,
Though tougher than leather, tenser than steel.
Fails at last, for his senses reel,
His nerves collapse, and, with sleep-sealed eyes,
Prone and helpless a log he lies!
A hundred hearts beat placidly on,
Unwitting they that their warder’s gone;
A hundred lips are babbling blithe,
Some seconds hence they in pain may writhe.
For the pace is hot, and the points are near,
And Sleep hath deadened the driver’s ear;
And signals flash through the night in vain.
Death is in charge of the clattering train!

Readers, please stay safe and enjoy your day.