Brewed Musings

A Night at Musicfest NW

2006-09-14T18:32:00.000-07:00

(For RLS, my closest and dearest friend. My partner in concert-going crime, who I promised some written letters, the old fashioned kind: on paper, written in pen, & with all the editing in sight. Here is the letter I promised.)

Brewed Beverage of Choice: Sierra Nevada Pale Ale in numerous pints!

So this is how it will go tonight...Well, hopefully this is how it will work out if all goes in my favour. It is now 8:45 pm on the second night of Musicfest NW. Due to the final Timbers game of the season, I missed the first night. The night will kick off at 9 pm with Dolorean at the Doug Fir - a musician I have wanted to check out since the last MusicfestNW I attended two years ago.

So here I am at the Fir with a pint of Sierra Nevada Pale Ale in my hand trying to fit in with all the other hipsters, music literati, and big-wigs. After a few songs I realize I could not have picked a better show to start off with than the mellow, well written lyrics of Dolorean. Sometimes people will choose the most raucous show they can so they make it through the night. After all it is going to be a long night. I could have started it an hour earlier but there was not really a decent show to pick. If you like Dylan-esque music with a bit of country twang, Dolorean will not let you down. He ends his set with a song he wrote after a recent motorcycle accident he had. It was a great ending and it hit me cuz of my recent bicycle accident that thankfully I walked away from without major injury. As usual, as Dolorean glided effortlessly through their set, a poem came to me. I would soon find out that the singer was not saying violets, but violence.

Forget the day? How could I?
Along the well troden, work-day path
To the bus stop. Buried in snow,
A violet peaks out its face.
The sunshine is an added bonus.

(The flower, if my memory serves me correctly, was actually a violet. But I am not really good at picking out flower types.)

There are a variety of shows I can hit for the 10 o'clock hour, but my desire to stay in one place keeps me at the Doug Fir for Richmond Fontaine instead of heading off to the Ash Street Saloon for the workman like musings of Loch Lomond. Besides I have seen them before and can see them again. Tonight is really about checking out bands or musicians I have not seen before or have not seen in a long time. Plus if I want to go to see Loch Lomond, I would have to duck out of the Dolorean show early to catch the bus across the river. This is the bad part about starting out on the East side of the river.

Another pint of Sierra Nevada is procured keeping me in line with the one pint per show limit I put on myself. This is done not only to keep me sober, but also to keep my hard earned money in my pocket. Again, it only takes a few songs to realize I have stayed in the right place. Richmond Fontaine, to me, sounded much like the Replacements with a bit of twang - harder twang than with Dolorean. They actually sound more like Wilco or Uncle Tupelo. Regardless, the show is very entertaining and I could not be happier with my choices for the beginning of the night. But it is now 10:30 and I have to leave to catch the bus. As I leave the Fir behind me, my bus pulls up and I have to run to catch it. Thankfully, Burnside is not that busy, making it easy to J-walk.

From the Doug Fir I have to make it over the Willamette River to the West side of town - a part of town I rarely go into because my Eastside abode is centrally located for me. I will get off the bus directly in front of the Bitter End Pub where Hello Demascus is playing. Incidentally, it is also across from PGE Park where I cheered and chanted for my Timbers the night before. That night ended on a low note of loss. Many beers were consumed to drown the sorrows of our pitiful Timbers. This night however shall be good with less drinking...Like the 10 o'clock hour, the 11 o'clock shows are plentiful. Bands or musicians I could have seen at this hour included Stephen Malkmus, The High Violets, and Alela Dianne. But according to my guide Hello Demascus should complement the first two shows I went to this evening.

As we drive by the Crystal Ballroom I look out the window to see if I will be able to make it in for the next show, but the line is down the block making my decision for me. As I get off the bus in front of the Bitter End, signs of a bad choice abound. My first clue as to why I should have continued on to the Towne Lounge for Alela Dianne was the Pub itself. Last MusicfestNW, a friend and I went to a show at an establishment that should not have music shows in them. It was a disastor. And while the Bitter End does do music shows, the clientele that frequent the pub are not of the music geek ilk. So when I walk in and see what is laid out before me, it hits me that this might have been a mistake. The preceding band is still on stage, but the crowd seemingly ignores them save for a few of their loyal fans. But I grab a pint of Lagunitas Pils and hope for the best. When Hello Demascus comes on and plays its first tune, my ears are cursing out my mind for making such an ill fated decision. I have a conversation with a loyal fan of the last band, who turns out to deliver my local organic veggies every other week. But my ears cannot take it anymore and after finsihing the only satisfying thing about this stop - the Lagunitas Pils - I duck out the door headed to Jimmy Maks.

At midnight, the feckers who organized this god-forsaken event have given me the royal screw job, and yet I have to decide which show to attend. Will I go see the Silver Jews on his first tour since I don't know when? Or will it be the demented musings of my favourite pixie, Kristin Hersh who I would gladly drop everything for given the opportunity? Currently I am leaning towards the Silver Jews, but will have to wait until showtime to know.

I have to walk all the way to Jimmy Maks for the next show to drown out the crappiness of Hello Demascus. The sounds of Richmond Fontaine and Dolorean fill my head and my fingers are crossed hoping Jimmy Maks will not be like the Crystal with a long line. I am certain of this choice. Hello Demascus is completely forgotten as I turn the corner to Jimmy Maks and there is no sign of a line. I walk right in and grab another pint of Sierra Nevada and find a great place to stand. On stage right now is a woman behind a cello and a large, bearded man behind a small set of drums. As I tell the woman later in the evening, if I would have known there was a cello being played at Jimmy Maks, I would have come here instead of going to Bitter End. I wait patiently for the next musician to go on stage. As I do so I realize I am standing next to a very attractive woman. When she turns completely into the light I can see that I am standing next to Kristin Hersh. Before I can say something stupid, as I have been known to do, she heads on stage. Despite the line for the Silver Jews, I am quite satisfied with this choice as Kristin plays her intimate set. She interacts with the people in the audience and the sound guy, makes some humourous jokes, and teases me with her particular head movement as she plays. Thankfully this wee woman now lives in Portland.

The one o'clock hour gives me the rollicking good, blue grassy times of Hillstomp. Unlike the rest of the night, there are few shows I want to see at this time. Hillstomp has the energy needed to continue the evening without so much as a yawn. Plus they are playing at Jimmy Maks which is where Ms. Hersh is playing. I may run into her yet! Let the show begin damn it!!!

Well I did sort of run into Ms. Hersh, but her set was so good I decide to head home without seeing Hillstomp. One of the reasons for this is that one of the loyal Hillstomper fans kept yelling for Hillstomp during Kristin's set which I found inconsiderate and annoying. Another reason is that I would rather catch the bus home than taking a cab. So I walk out of Jimmy Maks satisfied with my evening. I heard some new music which my spirit has been beggin' me for for many months. Plus I got to see one of my most favourite musicians at her finest. And that ends my night traveling around the city of Portland listening to music and letting my mind stray. Cheers.

And with that we end the era of Brewed Musings at this site. We are moving to http://www.confucianbrewer.com

Prost!
the zen (confucian) brewer

PS: Thanks RLS!!!

In 1971 A Biere Geek Was Born in Wisconsin

2006-08-02T16:53:00.000-07:00

Brewed Beverage of Choice: A Stange of Uerige Altbier

Soundtrack of the Day: The Blue Note Box Set including the songs: Dat Dere - Art Blakey, Canteloupe Island - Herbie Hancock, Stompin' at the Savoy - The 3 Sounds, Everything I do Gonh Be Funky - Lou Donaldson, and Song for My Father - Horace Silver

First, some news to report. This may be my last post at this site. I am in the process of moving my blog to my own website. When that happens I will let you know. The new site will have more biere related information such as reviews and a BrewU, pictures, and more musings from my farmhouse brewery. So in honour of my move, I will spare you any Socialist rhetoric, soccer/football rantings, mindless stories of stupid things I hear on the train, etc., etc. What I will treat you with is a story.

To give you an idea of how much of a biere geek I am, I will share with you some occurrences from the past month or so. Last weekend was the Oregon Brewer's Festival and I was frothing at the mouth to taste some truly inspiring brews. There were some good...and some bad. My overall favourite, and the favourite of many of my friends, was named (properly) the Ned Flanders Style Ale, a Flemish Red Ale. (Ned Flanders got his name from Flanders Street here in Portland where Matt Groening is from AND Flanders is a region in Belgium.) For those who do not know what that entails, welcome to BrewU. A Flemish Red or Brown ale is an ale brewed with the addition of wild yeasts. It is aged typically in oak and then blended (most times) to simplify the sourness. The best ones, Rodenbach and the Duchesse de Bourgogne, taste like sour cherries - without their presence. You can probably guess what the bad ones taste like.

As a brewmonk, I am rarely recognized outside my brewery. (I like to keep a low profile...thank you.) But on Saturday I was picked out by several patrons because of my shirt. Many other local biere aficionados were wearing the same shirt. They stopped and asked what my favourite biere was and I told them. "Yuck! That one tastes sour!" Just for the sour reason alone, Flemish ales are often ignored and misunderstood. Only geeks like myself tend to enjoy them. But we preach and convert many uninformed students.

Of course this alone does not give you, the dear reader, the whole picture of my geekiness. O! Not one bit. Last week, a dear friend of mine asked me to start sending her beer reviews, recommendations, etc. She was not the first one to ask. The same request was made several weeks earlier by a different friend who suggested I take up biere consulting: informing interested parties on the great, underappreciated brews of the world. I must say the thought has passed my through the river of my mind before. So much so, that as part of my future brewpub/brewery, a BrewU class will be taught once a month. When I am passionate about something, beit biere or Native American History or the Beat culture, I like being able to sit and talk with people who either already know about it or would like to learn.

Anyway, back to my first friend. She had asked for recommendations, etc., as I stated earlier. I got so excited about the thought that I instantly logged onto the 'interweb' and did some research about biere stores in her area. Also, because she is a stout fan, (and I am not as educated in stout-erature) I had to do some research on fine stouts she might like. I took a book from the brewery and studied it over, so much so, that I am brewing a stout next week. With all my findings, I emailed her with some homework. You can say it...Wow! What a geek!

I am sure all of you who actually have met me and know me already knew of my degree of geekness. Hell, some of you actually are as bad in other areas. Geeks travel in packs you know. Whew! That was exhausting! I do not know about you but I am parched. Care to join me in a pint?

Prost!
the zen brewer

Zizou, Trash Talk, and Where Does It End?

2006-07-15T00:31:00.000-07:00

Brewed Beverage of Choice: None! This is far too volatile of a subject.

For the past week I have been asked, as an avid football fan and as an historian, what I thought of the Zinadine Zindane meltdown in the World Cup finals. To be completely honest, my first reaction was, "What did the Italian player say or do to provoke Zizou's outburst?" There had to be more to the story than what we say over and over and OVER again on the tele.

Let me just say this first. What Zizou did was WRONG and embarrassing. He lost his cool and got tossed out of one of the most important matches in his illustrious career. Would France have won if he were still in the game? In my opinion, no. The goalkeeper would have to make a stop in the penalty kicks. And judging from what I saw, he was not up to that task.

Many of the people I know say it does not matter what was said to him on the pitch. They pass it off as trash talking. Get over it! Has it really come to this? Have we in society become so de-sensitized that we pass off something as vile and disgusting as a racial slur as trash talk if it is said on the pitch, or on the basketball court, or on the baseball diamond? A phrase so disturbing and biased, it would get you beaten on the street if uttered in the wrong company. That it is o.k. to say to someone in a game because, hell, it is just "trash talk."

For those of you who do not watch football avidly, who do not know Zizou's background, I say "Shut up!" And that includes Keith Obermann whom I admire and respect. For the past 7 days I have heard in conversation and on sports radio, people condemn Zizou for what they believe they saw. There is no condemning the Italian player for what could have been said. All they saw was Zizou headbutting the player in the chest for "no apparent reason." He is the monster. He was at fault.

So I ask you, where is the line drawn? When does it cease to be trash talking and just become insulting? How far does it have to go before we say enough is enough? People must know that Zizou is Algerian born, raised in a very tough neighbourhood. He has been put down a great deal in his lifetime and had to deal with a lot of hardships. And, while not a slave, had to live his life as an outsider, or to use a phrase all too popular in Native American history, a "half-breed."

To be perfectly honest, and I am saying this as a pacifist, if someone had crossed the line and insulted my mother or family, I would do the same damn thing. If anyone says otherwise they are LIARS! Imagine, if you will, that during the course of the game you are constantly badgered and belittled. Finally, someone calls you a Spic, or a Nigger, or they call your mother a dirty whore mulatto. You cannot tell me that you would not fight back. You cannot tell me that you would be able to ignore that after all you and your family had been through before that. I certainly would not be able to take that.

What we all must realize is that the people so outraged by Zizou's actions have never walked ten metres in his shoes. Most have never dealt with racism and bigotry. Yes, what he did was wrong. Let me say it again...He was WRONG! He deserved the red card and the expulsion. There is no doubt there. But what is more disturbing is that people just pass over the provocation as trash talking. There are lines that can be crossed. There are consequences for actions. Unfortunately, all the Italian player got was a headbutt to the sternum. We will never know what he said. Yes! He should be punished for what he said. And Zizou now must live with the fact that in the heat of the moment, he lost his cool and will forever be remembered, not as the great player he was, but as the man who headbutted another player in the World Cup final.

solemnly,
the zen brewer

The Labourer's World

2006-07-14T12:37:00.000-07:00

Brewed Beverage of Choice: Two cups of joe from Redwing Cafe - an Employee Owned Company (Support your local employee owned business!)

Recommended Music of the Day (Also the soundtrack of the day...): Sky Like a Broken Clock - Kelly Joe Phelps

--Warning! If you do not like spontaneous prose or run-on sentences, for godssake do not read on!--
There is no reason why the dog and I walked for twenty-five minutes to this small coffee house passing two other coffee houses on the way except that this one has a slight view of the happy, summer Portland skyline with the subtle, hilly greenness behind her and it is in the midst and middle of factories with its factory workers runnin' 'round making their hard earned money like what I am spending right now for a cup of joe and a bowl of granola with yogurt - a buck times four plus a shiny quarter - give that to the woman behind the counter at this coffee house owned by the hard working folk behind said counter where they bake their fresh-baked goodies everyday 'cept Sunday when they are closed and I am working anyhow so I cannot walk the dog here anyway to sit at the table outside with the angels of Portland looking down on me and her and the rest of the labourers around me making a feeling of guilt surge through my bones because it is Friday and I have off but feel I should be helping in some small way instead of sitting here at my table listening to music and reading and writing with sad blue pen been in my pocket for months O! the loyalty it has shown me and I will be sad when the ink runs dry and I have to throw it away but it served me dutifully filling the pages showing its honour reminding me of thoughts and days gone by as I sip my coffee almost down to the bottom which is fine 'cuz the dog wants to go home and my dogs are fully rested from the original walk down so I clean up the table where I sat amidst the labourers' world and head home to rest and wonder and work.

Prosit!
the zen brewer

The Oregon Brewers Festival, Typecasting, and the Downfall of an Empire

2006-07-13T16:39:00.000-07:00

Brewed Beverage of Choice: a Pint of Goose Island IPA (India Pale Ale for those not in the know)

Bumper Sticker of the Day: The Labour Movement: From The People Who Brought You The Weekend

For those of you who do not know, today begins my weekend. As such I have been trolling around on the internet as the grey clouds from a coastal jet stream move north overhead. And before I begin, there needs to be one clarification. In the last post there was a grammatical error on my part. Many things were WON by the labour movement, not one. It is just that I am far too lazy to change it now. And without further ado, the results of my trolling.

At the end of the month, the fair city of Portland hosts the largest outdoor beer festival this side of the pond with 72 beers from around the country. (And sometimes Canada when customs does not play its authoritative games.) As I am perusing the beers coming this year, one thing struck me. Damn! There are a lot of IPAs on the list. Of course this also refreshes my belief that the Northwest, specifically Oregon and Washington, are falling behind in the craft brewing movement. Not only are they falling behind, but they are becoming as typecast in the industry as Harrison Ford is in the movie industry.

I say this as I am sucking down and IPA. But one must remember that the IPA I am enjoying is from the midwest. What does that mean to you, the loyal reader. For one it means that it has a darker hue. NW IPAs are typically, but not always, lighter in colour. I made an IPA at my brewery once that was of a beautiful orange, and was promptly told never to make that IPA again. Not because it did not have the hop characteristics of an IPA. But because it did not fit into the NW IPA parameters in colour. Secondly, IPAs made in the NW accent the hops over the malt. It has to be "hoppy as hell" one patron told me. Outside our wonderful region, the IPAs are hoppy no doubt, but they finish with a slight malty sweetness.

It is true that in the brewing industry the Pacific Northwest is known as Hop Country. But it does not mean however that the hop is the be all and end all of brewing. The same holds true for ales. There are very few breweries on the west coast that make lagers. (For those of you who do not know the difference, ales are made with ale yeast and are fermented at higher temperatures, while lagers are fermented at lower temps and aged longer. Ales will have a "fruitier" taste from the fermentation process while lagers will be more crisp.) There are only so many ales one can do before they hit the wall. AND, in the United States many of the good ales (i.e. Milds, Alts, and Bitters) are often ignored...Primarily for their unfortunate names.

The Pacific Northwest are still, by far, the leaders in the craft brewing industry. But if they continue on the path they are on, the empire will fall. A couple of years ago, the NE breweries were invited to the Oregon Brewers Festival (OBF). And, to make a long story short, the best beer at the fest was a Pilsner lager from Pennsylvania. Do not get me wrong. I like hoppy beers as much as the next man, provided the next man was not born in the NW. But when you ignore a whole category of beers, you begin to fall behind.

Fortunately for us brewers in the NW, there are some new faces on the scene that will not let that happen. I, for one, am doing my best to bring back to popularity Milds and Alts. Friends of mine at Roots are not only brewing with organic malts, but are doing some very unique and interesting brews including lagers. Ukiah brews an all organic pilsner in a can. Elysian in Seattle brews some great lagers as well. My fear a couple of years ago was that the NE would surpass us in the craft brewing industry. AND I will be damned if I am going to let that happen!

For those of you interested, July is American Beer Month. Celebrate it with a brewing geek in your circle of friends. And, every year on the last weekend in July, the OBF is opened to raucus crowds and damn fine beer. Come on out and celebrate it with 10,000 beer geeks and geekettes...and frat boys!

Prosit!
the zen brewer - finally recovering from his bout of World Cup Fever

Eugene V. Debs Is Rolling In His Grave

2006-07-06T15:18:00.000-07:00

Brewed Beverage of Choice: A Pint of Hoegaarden Belgian Wit Bier

Recommended Reading: Eight Hours for What We Will: Workers and Leisure in an Industrial City, 1870-1920

You might be thinking to yourself, "What has been on your mind, oh, these last few weeks besides the World Cup?" One of my answers would be, "Eugene Debs must be rolling in his grave." Why, dear zen brewer, would you say something like that? The thought popped into my head as I rode the light rail to work on the Fourth of July.

Two things have happened in the past few months that gives me reason to believe we in the states are moving backward in the Labour Movement. The first being a certain company, in order to keep workers, raised the starting pay rate for certain craftspeople. Of course, the pay rate of the seniors were not raised at all. Instead their cap was raised. Therefore, in two years, the way raises are given in this certain company, the senior with 5 to 7 years experience will only be $1 to $2 ahead of someone with only 2 to 3 years experience. Now I am no business owner - yet - but would it not make sense to NOT alienate your senior employees? This is really only a small reason on why I believe we are going backwards when it comes to Labour issues.

As I stated I had to work on the Fourth, a national holiday for everyone except those in retail (of which, despite the insistence of one of my former managers, I am not a part.) To make matters worse, I do not receive time-and-a-half on holidays. But the people in administration are given the day off with pay. Is the state of things in this society so bad that we cannot live one day without the grocery, the department store, or the local restaurant being open.

People like Debs fought hard to get certain rights for workers. The eight hour day, decent pay, child labour laws, and holidays off were all one during the strife of the late 1800s, early 1900s. As a child I remember having to go to the store the day before the holiday because the store would be closed the next day. We had to plan one day in advance because after all the store owner deserves the day off to spend with his family. But today that does not seem to be the case.

Stores of all kinds and restaurants are open 24/7, 364 days a year. (Most get Christmas off...Most, not all.) Workers in some places are not even given the option to take the day off. If I wanted the Fourth of July off I would have had to take either a vacation day or a sick day. Not only does this take away from the labourers daily life, but it also demeans holidays. Holidays no longer are a time when families can spend some time together. Hence the reason for the book recommendation.

There are so many more reasons I believe the Labour Movement is taking a step backward, but it would take up a whole book. That kind of time I do not have. What I will say is this...Support your local craftspeople, tradespeople, artisans, and farmers. Instead of buying bread at the supermarket, go to a baker. Instead of drinking beer from a bottle, go to a local brewpub. Instead of going to the large department store, look for a seamstress in your neighbourhood. And for goodness sake, go to a farmers market this summer. If anything, it will get you out into the fresh air.

I must go now and get off my high horse. Have a wonderful weekend.

Prosit!
the zen brewer

Excuse My Absence...I Have Been Diagnosed With World Cup Fever

2006-06-30T17:45:00.000-07:00

Brewed Beverage of Choice: An Imperial Pint of Dirty Dick's Ale

Soundtrack of the Day:
Side A: Let's Go Walking - Ida, Stripe - Loch Lomond, Nashville Parent - Lambchop, The Mariner's Revenge Song - The Decemberists

Side B: Dawn - Friends of Dean Martinez, The Spoils of the Spoiled - New Amsterdams, New Slang - The Shins, Trouble - Kristin Hersh

It has been far too long since I have visited with you folk. Terribly sorry, my friends, but I have been engulfed by the fury that is the World Cup 2006 in Germany. After 2+ weeks of incredible, exhilarating action between 32 of the top teams in the world, it has now been whittled down to 6 with 2 more teams being eliminated tomorrow. What I do not understand though is how this sport has not taken hold more in the U.S.

This afternoon I had a discussion with my brother, who is not an avid soccer fan. He has watched the World Cup on and off over the past 19 days. What he likes about football is that the clock does not stop. You know exactly how long one minute of play is. Duh! One minute! There is no time outs; no getting out of the batter's box after every pitch to fiddle with your batting gloves and adjusting your cup (Nomar!!!); no foul after 2 seconds of play in hopes that someone will miss a free throw and you can somehow cut the 10 point deficit to 7 points; no stopping the clock for going out of play. One minute does not take 20 minutes with 30 second commercials every time out.

I know one reason why football has not taken off: it is not television friendly...At least not to the advertisers who pay enormous sums to make a commercial in which the only remembrance we come away with is how the competitor gets squashed (good job Pepsi. All I remember from your stupid Diet Pepsi commercial with Jackie Chan is the Diet Coke can in FULL VIEW getting squashed.) Football does not allow time for commercial breaks. Even their half time is regulated to 15 minutes and then they start right on time.

By all accounts the main reasons football has not taken off in this country is 1. our elite football players cannot compete with the rest of the world, and 2. Most people misunderstand it and think it is boring. Boring??? This coming from a society that has produced a man in the South who has invented a remote control vacuum cleaner shaped like a NASCAR racer because, get this, he was tired of vacuuming and missing some of the race. Huh??? Let's see, the cars drive in a circle over and over and over and over again and the race lasts 2 hours, maybe 3, one day out of the weekend. So that leaves at least 14 hours of weekend time spent awake when the 20 minutes of vacuuming can be done.

Football may never take off as a major sport in this country. It does not have the cache of pro basketball, pro American rules football, or baseball. It was not invented here. Sponsors will prevent it from taking hold of the television markets. And Booster clubs such as the one in my hometown will never let soccer/football take away from the other major high school sports. But fortunately every 4 years the World Cup will be played and for one month, we here in the U.S. will become "soccer hooligans." I can live with that.

Go Germany!!!

Prosit!
the zen brewer-soccer hooligan-world cup fan

Who Can Capture The Sound of One Hand Clapping?

2006-05-24T20:58:00.000-07:00

Brewed Beverage of Choice: A glass of Dao Portuguese Red Wine (went to a different fermented beverage...) Soundtrack of the Day: Sights and Sounds

Side A: Silica - Kristin Hersch, One Great City! - The Weakerthans, New Hampshire - Matt Pond PA, The Hazards of Sitting Beneath Palm Trees - Hayden

Side B: Tell Balgeary, Bulgury is Dead - Ted Leo & the Pharmacists (Get this CD...You will not regret it), She Sends Kisses - the Wrens, From California - The New Amsterdams, Two Twenty - Pacific Ocean

It is my humble opinion that no one person has captured the sound of the English vocabulary like Carl Sandburg. Sandburg did not need to rhyme his poetry. He simply could take the sound of, say, a hard C and repeat it many times within a stanza. No one has ever made the sound of letters and words sound as elegant. And, no one has, for me, put me directly into the world of the work quite as well as Carl. That is until I was at work one day listening to the Weakerthans CD and the song One Great City! began playing.

It is hard to see how elegant sounds can be until you say them aloud, or in my case sing them, awfully, at the top of my lungs while cleaning 26 kegs. I fell more deeply in love with Sandburg when I gave a reading of his work in a class I took. The sounds were unimaginable. The same thing happened as I crooned the Weakerthans' song and a particular line came up where they used the hard C with brilliance.

The English language can be quite vile sometimes - remember gird. But it also has an underappreciated beauty to it. It just takes some looking. Imagine yourself walking along a dingy street in some city. All you see is dirt and boarded up buildings. There is nothing to appreciate, nothing to remember as whole and beautiful. And then you pass a dilapidated house between two abandoned buildings. In the small yard in front of the house, between the broken bike with one wheel and the McDonalds bag of garbage, you see a rose growing. The thought of how odd that a rose would be growing around all this mess pops through your mind. But there it is, unseen and ignored by everyone, but admired by you. That is how the English language seems at times: unheard and ignored.

So I will leave you with the beauty of our first (or second) language. The first is one of my favourite poems by Sandburg. The second is the song that caught my attention by the Weakerthans. Remember, to get the full affect of their elegance, you must read them aloud focusing not necessarily what is said, but the sound of what is being said. I know it is a bit deep. But, hey, I have my moments.

Prosit!
the zen brewer

Laughing Corn by Carl Sandburg (The Harvest Poems: 1910 - 1960)
There was a high majestic fooling
Day before yesterday in the yellow corn.

And day after to-morrow in the yellow corn
There will be high majestic fooling.

The ears ripen in late summer
And come on with a conquering laughter,
Come on with a high and conquering laughter.

The long-tailed blackbirds are hoarse.
One of the smaller blackbirds chitters on a stalk
And a spot of red is on its shoulder
And I never heard its name in my life.

Some of the ears are bursting.
A white juice works inside.
Cornsilk creeps in the end and dangles in the wind.
Always--I never knew it any other way--
The wind and the corn talk things over together.
And the rain and the corn and the sun and the corn
Talk things over together.

Over the road is the farmhouse.
The siding is white and a green blind is slung loose.
It will not be fixed till the corn is husked.
The farmer and his wife talk things over together.

One Great City! by the Weakerthans

late afternoon another day is nearly done
a darker grey is breaking through a lighter one
a thousand sharpened elbows in the underground
that hollow hurried sound of feet on polished floor
and in the dollar store the clerk is closing up
and counting loonies trying not to say
i hate winnipeg

the driver checks the mirror seven minutes late
crowded riders' restlessness enunciates
the guess who suck, the jets were lousy anyway
the same mood every day
and in the turning lane
someone's stalled again
he's talking to himself
and hears the price of gas repeat his phrase
i hate winnipeg

up above us all,
leaning into sky
our golden business boy
will watch the north end die
and sing 'i love this town'
then let his arching wrecking ball proclaim:
"i...hate...winnipeg"

Netflix, Baseball, and the English Premier League

2006-05-12T15:33:00.000-07:00

Brewed Beverage of Choice: Lakefront Snake Chaser Irish Stout

Soundtrack of the Day: Groovin' Jazz for a Sunny, Friday Afternoon

Label 1: Ellis in Wonderland - Herb Ellis, The Touch of Your Lips - Oscar Peterson & Ben Webster, I Could Write a Book - The 3 Sounds, Groovin' at Small's - Jimmy Smith

Label 2: Dat Dere - Bobby Timmons, Keepin' in the Groove - Bud Powell, One for Daddy-O - Cannonball Adderly, Cantaloupe Island - Herbie Hancock

In the past few days I have tried to recover from the disaster that was Sunday, May 7, 2006. The odor of the skunk still permeates although ODOT has picked up the little devil. I am certain during the past few days and weeks, I have made some egregious errors, although when and what still need to be determined. But one of the most disheartening things (aside from any stupid things I have done) is that my beloved Blues from Birmingham in the EPL were relegated to the lower leagues.

For those of you who are unfamiliar with the English Premier League and the lower leagues, at the end of the 38 game season the bottom 3 teams in the table are relegated from the top flight league down one league to the Coca-Cola Champions League. In turn 3 teams from the CCC League are elevated to the top flight. Obviously this is harder for the players to stomach than it is the fans, but the fans take it pretty seriously. This year, after 4 good seasons in the Premier League, the Birmingham FC were relegated...And I am saddened.

So as I sit and watch the first disc of Ken Burns' Baseball - thank you Netflix!!!! - it dawns on me, what if Major League Baseball had the same format. Bear with me because this can get confusing to some, especially those who could care less about sports. What if the bottom 3 teams from both the National and the American leagues were sent down to the AAA league and 6 teams came up from AAA to play in the Majors? Just think of the possibilities!

First off it would make the season, especially the end of the season, more exciting not only for those at the top fighting to get to the playoffs, but also for those fighting to stay up in the big leagues. Teams like Kansas City would not be able to pack it in the middle of the season. Players on the lesser teams would fight harder to stay in the Major League. They would play with more heart if their team were fighting for their proverbial lives.

Second, it would give teams like Des Moines, a chance to show off what they have to the nation. Now most people never get the chance to see teams from Des Moines, Beloit, and Portland play. Imagine Pawtucket playing in the same league as the Boston Red Sox. Not only would these teams be rewarded for playing well in their season, but it would also give baseball fans young and old a chance to witness some of the more underrated baseball cities in the nation.

Of course, the baseball owners, who have run the league since its inception in the late 1800s, would never go for it. They are really only about generating revenue and could care less about the game's integrity. If they cared about integrity and saving the game, we would not be bogged down in a major steroid scandal. Being relegated to the lower leagues means they would lose revenue. Imagine a baseball year where the Tribune Corporation would have to spend money on the Cubs because otherwise they would be sent down to the minors. No longer would they be able to rely on the fact that Wrigley Field is sold out time and time again.

This is obviously a dream though. I personally would take a bigger interest in baseball as a whole if I knew that the beloved Beavers of Portland would have a chance to brought up. In fact I would wager that the whole city of Portland would take a bigger interest. But most people do not like change and would resist it. No way would Boston go for it. The Yankees...The Mets...The White Sox...None of them would like it. Most players would not like it either because they spent a great deal of time in the minors. Why would they want to go back? But would it not make for an interesting season if this dream were a reality?

With that I go back and deal with this lingering stench, all the while waiting for Netflix to deliver me disc 2 of the series. Perhaps I will go watch the Beavers through the gated fence in right field dreaming of the day these players get the respect they so rightly deserve for they play their hearts out in front of a stadium of 2000 fans. The summer is around the corner...Perhaps we should go to a game.

Cheers,
the zen brewer

The Answer is 10

2006-05-10T16:19:00.000-07:00

Brewed Beverage of Choice: A cup of Stumptown's finest roasted coffees

Soundtrack of the day (07-May-2006)

Side A: Morning 1. Angel Tune He Hums - Rex, 2. Backward Blues - The Fire Theft, 3. Repeater - Fugazi, 4. Maggie's Farm - Rage Against The Machine, 5. Shakespeare - Saul Williams

Side B: Afternoon 1. Linus - Versus, 2. Oh, Death! - Camper Van Beethoven, 3. The Band Played Waltzing Matilda - The Pogues, 4. Oliver's Army - Elvis Costello, 5. I Will Follow - U2

In case you are wondering how many good days one can string along before a bad one finally creeps around the corner while you are standing at an ATM and takes all your karmic money, it is 10. Even though it has been 3 days since my string of good days came to an end, I can still feel some of its lingering affects. Not that I am focused on the bad day. It just hovers like the odor of a skunk lying dead along the side of the road.

It did not take me long to figure out it was going to be one of those days, which worked to my advantage because I was ready for most everything that was thrown at me. It did not make my day any better, but I kept it from going south altogether. Even now, I can get a chuckle out of that day. It may have been horrendous luckwise, but it sure was amusing.

The soundtrack above contains songs that I heard throughout the day whilst at work. The songs are literally in order of play on that day. I started the day out with a bit of Rex and left the pub right after U2 went off the airwaves. One can almost tell where my anger crept in right around the time Fugazi got into the CD player. It is quite obvious with Rage following it up. By the afternoon, I was trying to calm my sensitive nerves with some Elvis Costello, Pogues and Camper Van Beethoven.

Well, after 10 days it is time to start a new string of good days. But that will have to wait until ODOT comes and removes the skunk. Enjoy the soundtrack.

Cheers,
the zen brewer

20 Random Thoughts That Crossed My Mind Today...

2006-05-05T13:47:00.000-07:00

Brewed Beverage of Choice: A Spot of Afternoon Darjeeling Tea

Soundtrack of the Day: Songs for a Slow, Sunny Friday Afternoon

Side 1: Christmas Song - Mogwai, High School Dance Hit - Rex, Good Morning Captain - Slint, Summertime - The Fire Theft
Side 2: The Plan - Low, Sundown - Ida, Deeper Into Movies - Yo La Tengo, Vacancy - Codeine, All in the Golden Afternoon - Friends of Dean Martinez

1. Someone I have known for over 5 years thought that my favourite poet was Kerouac.

2. Its actually Sandburg, followed closely by Snyder and Rilke.

3. Someone who I have known for less than a year knew that because she asked.

4. If you think you know me, you need to dig deeper.

5. The one thing I have learned after living in my studio for over three months is that my insecurities make very interesting roommates.

6. I am still digging.

7. Mogwai's EP + 2 is a great soundtrack for a slow sunny day.

8. I miss my family which includes members in Milwaukee, Saukville, College Station, Hudson, Washington, DC, and Kildare, Ireland.

9. Is a collection of 20 random thoughts really considered writing?

10. Yes.

11. Why is Union considered a four-letter word to most people?

12. Is nine days too long for a string of good days?

13. I wonder what a friend of mine from college, R. Owen, is doing. I miss talking to her.

14. For over a year I have been infatuated with Portugese wines. I do not know why and am not interested in knowing.

15. You do not really know how all the muscles and organs in your body are interconnected until you pull or strain one of them.

16. My back aches because my left quad has been strained playing soccer.

17. San Francisco is the most beautiful city skyline at 4 a.m., followed closely by Milwaukee, Portland, and Montreal.

18. Today I received a most beautiful drawing of a snowman.

19. I put it on the fridge along with the postcard from England, the pictures of my dog, and the picture of Ian MacKaye.

20. Days go so slowly when you are not looking at a clock or watch.

Strangers Talking On A Star Lit Wednesday Night

2006-05-04T12:00:00.000-07:00

Brewed Beverage of Choice: Sprecher Black Bavarian Style Lager (Prost!)

Soundtrack of the Day:
Side A - Good Morning - Lullabye for the Working Class, Dirty Old Town - The Pogues, Thrice All American - Neko Case, The Man Who Loved Beer - Lambchop, St. Augustine (A Belly Full Of Swans) - Califone
Side B - Where I' m From - Digable Planets, Monk's Dream - Thelonious Monk, C+F - Sam Prekop, Don't Try - Built To Spill, St. Elmo's Fire - Portastatic

I am currently trying to continue this string of good days, but my blown quad muscle and my chaotic mind are doing their best to hamper my plans. But it is my day off, so let the wankers try!

We all know someone, or perhaps we are that person, who without fail will be approached by a complete stranger and have a unusual conversation with them. If you know me, I am that person. For whatever the reason, strangers find me approachable, likeable, or a calm ear. I have had some of the best conversations with complete strangers on the streets of Washington, D.C., in a coffee shop in Portland, on the bus in many towns, and on street corners in those same towns. Last night was another one of those occurrences.

While sitting with the White Wonder outside of one of my favourite local establishments, drinking a nice German Hefe - it was one of those great Hefe days - a man with long dreads came out and asked politely if he could stand by my table and have a cigarette. Of course it did not bother me in the least - share the weather with anyone around. He soon struck up a conversation about how beautiful the night was and how we never seem to enjoy nights like it as we should. He was right. Nights like that seem to be as under-appreciated as a morning skyline.

The conversation continued for well over 20 minutes covering music, beer, work, and travel. Why he chose me out of everyone else sitting outside, I will never know or even care to. It could have been the hat. It could have been the White Wonder. It could have been because I was writing in my journal at the time. Or it could have been for no reason at all. The timing was just right. After I had thanked him for the conversation and continued my walk home, I pondered how it was instances like that which seemed to be under-appreciated. I have witnessed some pretty tense conversations in my life time. It is the curse of being an onlooker, a people watcher. But it is the conversations that are unexpected, that come and go, that seem to be forgotten and left by the wayside. This is unfortunate.

And with that I must leave this conversation and enjoy the weather. Who knows if the rain will return and if it does I want to make sure that I have bottled enough of the sunshine until the rain ceases. Hope all your days are going well today. Tip a pint tonight for a continued string of better days.

Salud!
the zen brewer

1 Great Day + 6

2006-05-03T21:45:00.000-07:00

Brewed Beverage of Choice: A Tall Glass of Franziskaner Hefe-weizen
Soundtrack of the Day: Life is Grand - Camper Van Beethoven

Damn! There are so many things circling around in the world of chaos I like to call my mind. The past seven days have been the best seven successive days I have encountered in many years. AND, it is topped with the proverbial cherry of today. As I sit here writing, I still cannot believe how grand it really was.

It started this morning as I rose at 4 am to go to work. I know what you are saying. "4 am? Are you crazy?" And normally I would have to agree with you. But until you get up at that time and witness it for yourself, you cannot imagine what you are missing. By 4:45 I was crossing the Hawthorne Bridge on my bike heading into downtown. The canvas in front of me was amazing. What I saw was the skyline of Portland with a backdrop of the shadowy West hills and the midnight blue of the sky. It was probably one of the most serene images.

If you have not seen a city at that time of morning, I likened the image and feel to waking up early in the morning and watching your lover sleep: watching her chest rise and fall in rhythmic bliss, watching every little twitch, watching her as she dreams the simple dreams that make her happy. It is the most peaceful and most romantic scene.

Seeing a city while she sleeps is quite similar. As I peddled across the bridge, amazed at what lay in front of me, it occurred to me that I am 1 in maybe 50 that are seeing exactly what I am seeing right now. 1 in 50 seeing Portland in her deepest slumber. 1 in 50 who can say they saw the dozing Portland at 4:45 am on May 3rd, 2006. And by the time my train reached my destination, the sun was out and the serenity was completely disturbed by the commotion of rush hour.

To add to the absolute beauty of the day, as I was riding home, crossing the same bridge, the beloved Mt. Hood stood directly in front of me draped in her finest white, fur coat. It is somewhat rare to see her at this time of year. Even more rare to see her in her finest coat. I said hello. She said hello. And we went on our merry ways each enjoying the day.

There is so much more I could say. You might say, "What about the other 6 days?" To that I say, "If you can imagine this day, multiply them by 6, and you will get the feeling of all 7 days without having to know any details." With that I will go and finish the day. One of these days I will get up at 4 am and walk around the peaceful streets and by the riverside of Portland. I whole-heartedly recommend it to anyone in any city. You will see a whole new side of your home.

Cheers!
the zen brewer

Happy 1 Year Anniversary, May Day, and Girding

2006-05-01T21:12:00.000-07:00

Brewed Beverage of Choice: 2 Pints of May Day Mild while listening to Bushido Karaoke by May Day - sense a theme???

First off let me just say that Brewed Musings is officially 1 year old. What did we do on our birthday? Well let's just say the pint was never empty and we woke up with a splitting headache, lying next to some strange blog. We will regret that evening for many a year. Here is to many more years of senseless, chaotic musings!

Next, Happy May Day to you all. I could ramble on about some Socialist propaganda, workers' rights, and other stuff. But I am feeling pretty nice right now and will spare you. So let's just raise a glass and toast for another safe work year.

So let's get to the real nitty-gritty here. This morning I decided to buy a newspaper for the train ride to work. It must be said that both the Oregonian (PDX's daily newspaper) and the Willamette Week (PDX's Indie rag) are pretty pathetic. The only reason I bought the paper today was because of the Sudoku puzzle in the living section. They are so very addictive. Anyway, the headline on today's edition not only baffled me, but it also made me laugh out loud. I am still apologizing to my fellow passengers for disturbing them. The headline (with its byline) is as follows: Employers Gird for Immigration Protests - Boycott: Backers say a nationwide work stoppage would show strength, but others say it could backfire.

WHAT???

Alright, I do admit that my vocabulary is not the greatest in the world. In fact I just call it ugly. But what the hell does 'gird' mean? I had to look it up when I got home and I still do not think they used it correctly. Gird - 1. Encircle or secure with a belt or band. 2. Enclose or encircle. (Confusingly scratching my head...)

Here is my theory with this headline. Either a) the headline was written by some recently graduated grad student trying to show off, or b) someone just decided to let the Thesaurus do the work for them. The word, gird, just looks like some word you would find in the vocabulary section of the GRE test. (Side story...When I was studying for the GRE, I showed some of the words in the practice test to my professor and she politely replied, "I don't think half the professors on the floor even know what that word means." Sorry...I forgot what word to which she was referring.)

My next gripe, if you have not guessed has to do with the byline. Boycott: Backers say a nationwide work stoppage would show strength, but others say it could backfire. Well there is someone letting the world know their opinion. Let's see...Half the people think the boycott could work, while the other half think it could blow up in our faces. As Lewis Black would say, "Why the fuck even open your mouth." I could go on with complaining about this grand headline, but why bother.

It just reminds me of how terrible the news has gotten. Not in the too much violence, drugs, etc type of bad, but the poorly reported news type of bad. The other night I was watching the news before bed and a late breaking story interrupted the otherwise mundane sensationalism. The late breaking story - A person got stabbed at some street corner. Sure...A very newsworthy item. But wait.

The anchor person tells us what the story is and then cuts to the reporter covering the story. "Dianne, what can you tell us about the incident?"
"Well, Kevin, there is very little detail right now. All I can say is a person on the street corner up the street from where I am standing was stabbed three times by an unknown assailant. Police are still trying to gather evidence and are speaking to witnesses. We should know more later in the hour. Back to you."

And if that was not enough...20 minutes later Kevin returned to Dianne to shed some more light on the stabbing. "And now we go back to Dianne reporting from NE Portland where someone was stabbed earlier tonight. Dianne."
"Well, Kevin. There is very little more we know about the stabbing. Police are unsure if it is gang related or just a robbery. We will probably know more during the 11 o'clock newscast. Back to you, Kevin."

Are we truly that addicted to the news that we have to hear about a story that really is not a complete story at all? I sat in bed trying to figure out the whole point of what I had just witnessed. The news was actually no news at all. It was just a confusing jumble of little information. So as I got more frustrated, I turned off the so called news and switched to South Park.

And with that I will go and ignore the news, listen to some soothing music, and let my hands gird another pint of ale. Once again, Happy Anniversary and Happy May Day!

Prost!
the zen brewer

Does Being Too Intellectual Mean I Should Not Be Talking To You?

2006-04-15T22:11:00.000-07:00

Brewed Beverage of Choice: A Pint Of El Mysterioso IPA (My latest attempt at an IPA)

When I was a kid I was called many things such as a goody-goody. As I grew up it up graded to smart ass. To some, I was just an ass. I have been called a geek, a snob, a grump, a hippie (my personal favourite), and a nerd. Many of these I will admit to readily, especially a geek. But several weeks ago I was called something I have never heard before: too intellectual.

What exactly is too intellectual? And because I am too stupid to figure out what it means, does that mean whoever called me this was wrong? Should I be insulted? Or honoured? And if I am too intellectual, why is that seen as a bad thing? I write this directly after seeing Inside Man, Spike Lee's new movie with Clive Owen and Denzel Washington. (If you like to think a lot and then find out you were completely wrong, go see this movie...it is for intellectuals.)

I will readily agree that I do think a lot and that I do remember stupid, minute details. My brain would not have it any other way. But, again, why is this a bad thing? Or better a question would be, why is this such a turn off? I thought bad body odor, arrogance, or being mean were bad personality qualities, not intelligence. But according to this person, my intellectual qualities are my bad B.O.

It is quite possible that there is too much thought going into this statement. Let me rephrase that. I KNOW that there is entirely too much thought going into it. The whole thing is going around and around up there and I am just waiting for my mind to implode. But I do not think that my continuous thought is the flaw this person did. What I do think is that I am far too smart to be talking to you. I am going to leave and go talk to someone a wee bit smarter...me.

Prost...I mean Cheers!
the zen brewer

Newer things are afoot!

2006-04-14T11:22:00.000-07:00

Brewed Beverage of Choice: A mug o' Anodyne WMSE blend coffee...mmmmm...tasty!

As you can tell, there are some changes being made here at Brewed Musings. To celebrate our one year anniversary, I decided to change the background of the blog AND I finally changed my profile. Pictures will also be added as well as beer and wine reviews, recommendations, or love letters. Our anniversary for anyone who cares is April 23rd. What will I do for it? Not sure, but I am sure it will involve a brewed beverage or five.

Oh yeah, another couple of changes are the availability to email postings to friends AND anyone, and I mean anyone, can post a comment now. No need to be a member. All I ask is that you keep them poorly written and demeaning. I cannot take complements. Plus, sometime in the near future, you will be able to purchase a compilation of 50 Tanka type poems that have been seen here or ones I have written in the past 2 to 3 years.

So enjoy the newer, more colourful version of Brewed Musings. Thank you so much for reading.

Prost! Cheers! Salud! Prosit! Skol!
the zen brewer

Carl Sandberg, Brewers, and Remembering a Strange Dream

2006-04-13T12:42:00.000-07:00

Brewed Beverage of Choice: Lakefront White Beer

After 6 days of vacation back home in Milwaukee with a short stint in Chicago, I could talk to you about many different things like the impatience of air travel, how my hometown of Milwaukee is one of the more underappreciated cities in the country, or how it is inevitable that I will be found by any stranger in any venue and spoken to about the most obscure topics. Two brothers from Boston, MA, picked me out of 50 or so at Wolski's and bought me drinks all night while we played video games and talked about college hockey, life in Boston, and going to Fenway Park. But my mind cannot focus on any of those things right now. What it IS focused on is my profession, a dream, and Carl Sandberg.

While on vacation I had a strange dream about walking through a vast corn field with stalks growing up and over my head. The sun was a brilliant shade of orange and the sky a bright blue. Why was this so odd? Well, with every step I took, both me and the stalks of corn grew. By the end of the dream we all were over ten feet tall with straight strong backs and the sun was setting on the horizon in front of us.

Fast forward to two days ago, I was on the train heading to work. My mind was buzzing about future brews and a future brewpub, as well as the poetry of Carl Sandburg which I was enjoying on the ride. As you may remember, my mind refuses to focus on one thing at any given moment during the night and day. So it is not unusual for me to have topics like Carl Sandberg and beer to be swimming in the pool of my conscious. As I was reading the dream did a swan dive into the pool joining Carl and beer and created a whirlpool which in turn formed into a poem.

What has surprised me is that over the past two years, poetry of any length could not find its way out of the maze. The only poetry that solved the maze's puzzle was tanka type in form: 5 lines in length with simple topics forming complex ideas. So when the following poem crawled out of the maze and jumped into the pool with the others I was shocked and elated. Do you follow with all the strange and silly metaphors? If not it is ok. I think I got lost several sentences ago. I guess without further ado, here is what has formed thanks to Milwaukee, Carl Sandberg, brewing, and a large pool of conscious. Enjoy!

Prost!
the zen brewer

Waking to Cornstalks Waving

The brewer wakes.
Rises in the early morn
for another day of work.

Wakes to the spirited crows
jabbering their morning serman
to all who shall listen;

Rises with the sun
and the cornstalks growing
taller and taller to the sky;

Stumbles from bed.
Stumbling and waking:
windblown cornstalks

attempting to rise.
Straightening backs
in the direction of the sun.

As the sun rises, he wakes,
dresses, has some eggs and coffee,
hops on the train departing
the city. Still groggy, out the window
he peers, staring at the cornstalks waving.

A Lesson Means Getting Soaking Wet

2006-03-30T17:21:00.000-08:00

Brewed Beverage of Choice: A Pot of Darjeeling Muscatel Tea

One may never know when the urge to write may hit. It comes all of a sudden and leaves no prisoner in its wake. A word, scene, smell, or sound may trigger it and one goes with it until it is completely worn out and exhausted. That is what happened to me as I was riding the light rail out to work on Tuesday. While reading a Zen text, The Blue Cliff Records, a thought hit and instantly my pen was extracted from its most temporary home, my bookbag. I did not know what was happening, nor did I try and fight it. It was a reaction, an instinct. Much like my dog, Tess, setting a robin in our backyard, my pen is drawn when a thought hits. And after it was all done, I felt like I needed a cigarette. I was spent. My mind completely withdrawn from its fling with imagery ecstasy. The result is what follows. There will be no more because it is all that needs to be spoken. Enjoy...and let the mind devour it in its utmost erotic and esoteric pleasure.

Lesson #1
Riding his mule to town
The monk sits backward.
A passer-by questions,
'Kind sir. How will you know
when you have reached town?'

Smiling cunningly.
From the mule, the monk climbs,
removes his flask, pours
water over the passer-by,
then retreats to his sullen companion.

Prosit! (smiling cunningly!)
the zen brewer

Charity, A Toast, and Memories I have treaded

2006-03-14T23:09:00.000-08:00

Brewed Beverage of Choice: A Pint of Abbot Ale (Charity's favourite)

On March 17, 1996, on a cold, foggy morn, my closest and dearest friend, Charity, passed away after a long bout with cancer. Of course, not before she gave cancer a flying middle finger in her finest Irish spirit. Some say that the hardest thing in life is burying a child. For me I cannot think of anything harder than burying a sister, wife, lover, and best friend all in one person.

It took me over two years to forgive myself for not being by her side those last few days instead of in Austin, Texas. She had been by my side, as least emotionally, throughout some very tough times, and I felt I did not requate the support to the best of my ability. (That was then...I do NOT feel that way now.) Unfortunately the hardship of losing Charity also led to a great deal of unbearable stress on relationships. Hopefully I have made up for those as well. But that was then...

I wish I had the room to go into great detail on the amazing person Charity was, but my fingers would not last past the 20th or so paragraph. What can easily and honestly be said is how this little 5'0" waif of a woman could bring a smile to a face or light up an entire ballroom with just her presence. One of the reasons I write this blog and my poetry is to honour the friendship and encouragement Charity gave me every day we have known each other. Her spirit lives in every person she knew and in the Eagle tattoo that adorns my right arm. When people ask what she looked like or who she was I just point to that tattoo and smile. That is all that is needed.

This was meant to be written on St. Patrick's day, but for obvious reasons, my mind was off in other areas. All I ask is that the next time you are out with your friends or family enjoying a pint of the finest ales, that you toast Charity for me. And with that I must go and toast her myself. I leave you with a poem I wrote several years ago in honour of her. It has never been seen by anyone else's eyes until today. Enjoy!

Prost!
the zen brewer

Treading Water

Loneliness is a time for memories,
and I am the richest man in the world.

Ida's Maybelle sifts softly
through a sieve of speakers;
taking me to a time
not long ago, a time
of you and I;
of me and you;
of eye and the sea.

A time when I was in love
with her; in love but not in
love; in love with the idea
of being in love; in love
with a woman who's not you.

And I was here. You were
there. She was somewhere,
nowhere, I dunno, neither
here nor there. Oceans away.

You, there,
wishing to be here.

I, here,
wanting the same.

We would sit at a table
sipping coffee and talking.
Talking about you;
Talking about me;
Talking about you and me;
Talking about me and her;
well...maybe not about her;
Talking about a sea of memories
we have shared through our eyes.

Now there has taken you;
She has returned to nowhere;
And, I am here,
treading memories...

Loneliness is a time for memories,
and I am their king.

Spring Drives An Eighteen Wheeler Down the 101

2006-03-03T14:53:00.000-08:00

Brewed Beverage of Choice: Full Sail IPA in a cool Pint Glass

Happiness is Spring coming down the ole 101 rumblin' in a big eighteen wheeler carrying a cargo of sunlight, blossoming trees, and a plethora of singin' birds and playful squirrels. I am happy because my dog, trapped since winter stole the sunlight, can sit in the warmth of said sun and chase the infinite squirrel-birds that dare to come near her. Happy because I can place a chair underneath the blossoming pear tree in comfy backyard and soak in the spirit cleansing aroma while sipping tea with Confucius. Happy because the long slumber of Winter is at its inevitable end with me only having Poe-like dreams, dark and all too familiar. And so begins Spring.

My spirit could use some cleansing after the week it has been put through - sometimes feeling betrayed, sometimes feeling wounded. But today's weather can only be that wonderful soothing aloe spread over a fresh burn. What has happened over the past week, and I will not go into any detail because it is now next-day unimportant, can only begin to heal. To pick at it...to let it fester...seems useless and stupid.

I realized all this last night while out with some friends. I could be myself - my sad, horribly wounded self - without fear of it getting worse. And my friends would understand. They would buy me drinks to numb the pain knowing full well by night's end Buddha, Confucius, St. Arnold, and a cold Porter will have begun the healing. And the woman with us, the one I would gladly make it with if given the chance, flirted with me - as I with her - unrelentlessly knowing that the Saints could only do so much. I went home spiritually held in her arms because we both are too shy for the physical.

I wonder if I go through this every Winter's end. Or is this happening because this would be my first Winter alone in my second home, Portland? My first Winter alone since leaving the loving arms of my first home. Whatever the reason matters not. The sun is barrellin' down the 101 with the windows down, and the bop blarin', and the Saints are coming out tonight.

Prosit!
the zen brewer

Oops! Looks Like Major League Baseball Fell On Its Face Again!

2006-02-28T22:40:00.000-08:00

Brewed Beverage of Choice: A Soothing Pot of Green Tea to calm my nerves...

I was going to write a completely different story today about coming in second, Sasha Cohen and the silver, and the Olympics. But there is a story that has gotten my ire up and have to vent. This is a second place no person should have to endure.

Yesterday, a special commitee acting on behalf of the Major League Baseball Hall of Fame inducted 17 members of the Negro Leagues into the Hall. The most notable name left off the list of inductees was Buck O'Neil . Incedently he is one of two of the 39 on the list that are still alive today. How the members of this panel missed Buck O'Neil is astonishing.

For those of you who do not know Buck, here is some background. Buck O'Neil became the first black coach ever hired by a major league team when he was signed by the Cubs in 1962. From 1948 through 1955, he managed some of the finest Kansas City Monarch clubs, leading them to five pennants and two Black World Series. He managed East-West all-star teams in 1951-54. Among his players were more than 20 future major leaguers, including Ernie Banks. O'Neil had been an excellent clutch hitter and a top first baseman. He led the Negro National League with a .353 batting average in 1946, then hit .333 with two home runs in the BWS. O'Neil was the first officially recognized black coach ever hired by a major league team. (Taken from www.baseballlibrary.com)

Not only was Buck the first black coach in major league history, but he has been an unwavering ambassador for the league for over 50 years. He can be seen in Ken Burns' Baseball and Jazz documentaries. His stats, while not overly impressive, include batting titles, pennants, and Black World Series championships. If there was one person who personifies the spirit of the game, it is Buck O'Neil. To have this wonderful man, the "Ambassador" as I prefer to call him, left out of the hall is an atrocity. The panel that made this egregious error should be held accountable. Or at least they should come out of their annonimity and explain their votes for or against Buck's induction. And when I get the email addresses for this elite group I shall pass them on to you. I urge you all to write to the voters and to the Commissioner of Baseball and make sure that Buck, who is 94, gets into the Hall of Fame. He asks of nothing in return for everything he has done for the sport, and this is not how he should be thanked. The irony of this whole thing is Buck has been asked to speak for the inductees that have passed. Please help the "Ambassador" we owe it to him.

Cheers!
an outraged baseball historian zen brewer

Can A Quiet Person Say Something Stupid?

2006-02-16T15:06:00.000-08:00

Brewed Beverage of Choice: A great big mug o' java (I am feckin' tired!!!)

It is a rarity to get a quiet person such as myself to say anything. Those who really know me don't really get to see that side of me all that much. They usually just want me to shut up. But when we do open our mouths it is that much more humourous to hear us say something really stupid. Especially when it is to someone famous.

I know...everyone, and I mean EVERYONE, says something to a celebrity they wished they wouldn't have. For example, the time I said, "There is a shit-load of records down here," to a member of Sonic Youth. You might as well have just handed me a lollipop and sent me out to play in the sandbox. To be fair though, I did not recognize the person, AND there were a shit-load of records where we were. But guess what...I can top it!

I was sitting at the counter of my favourite restaurant in Milwaukee. At the time I was still volunteering at WMSE (the best radio station in the states!) Blaine, one of the station directors, strolled in with another person. Of course it was one of those moments where you are sure you know the person but for the life of you cannot figure from where. For me, those moments really suck because it will stay in my head until I figure it out. Once, it came to me 5 days after the sighting.

Blaine walks up to say hi and tells me he wants me to meet someone. So we go sauntering over to the person he came in with. The focus in my brain was intense now. I had to figure out why I recognize this person before I make an ass of myself. Blaine says, "Corey I would like you to meet..." And before I could let Blaine finish it hit me. Unfortunately it hit me before my brain could stop my mouth from uttering, quite possibly the dumbest and most obvious thing I have ever spoken. "Oh my god! You're Robyn Hitchcock!"

(D'Oh!)

(For those of you who are not familiar, Robyn Hitchcock is a British folk, punk, etc. musician. One I enjoy very much.)

Of course, he was very nice about my blunder. "Why, yes. Yes I am," and shook my hand. There were several things running through my head at that moment and one of them was not "You are standing next to Robyn Hitchcock." My brain and my vocal chords were having a huge argument over the comment. Apparently my brain believes it has a reputation to uphold. Either that, or it thinks it is the ruler of my body. The other thing going on is, "Oh my god! I cannot believe I just told Robyn who he was."

We as humans can rightly recognize some of the more witty and intelligent things we have spoken throughout our lives. But we are humans, and tend to focus on the stupid, borish things we have uttered. For me though, my utterance is worn like a badge of honour. I proudly show it off whenever possible. Not because I met Robyn Hitchcock. Quite frankly everyone I have told that to, says "Who is Robyn Hitchcock?" But because it shows that quiet people can say some pretty stupid things. Why do you think we are quiet?

Now if you will excuse me, my brain and mouth are having another tiff.

Prost!
the zen brewer

My Mountain Shack Has Six Fermenters

2006-02-13T22:13:00.001-08:00

Brewed Beverage of Choice: 2 Pints of Goose Island I.P.A. (grab some for yourself...this is a long 'un)

Brewer or Monk
No difference between
A good brewer preaches his craft
A dutiful monk brews deep thought
Each inebriate the congregation

When I was young, I longed to be a priest or a Franciscan monk. Hey! What can I say? I was a 10 year old Catholic schoolboy. Fortunately, public high school happened. My whole belief system and moral ethic took a drastic turn. For a while these ideals perculated in my mind. And then, after I graduated college, a cloudy mountain dream of going to Japan to study Buddhism nearly took shape. Again, fortunes were on my side. Well...fortunes and a bank account drained by someone's (not mine) unpaid rent. And that is when I found beer.

Believe it or not, being a brewer and being a monk have many similarities. For one, a brewer and a monk both have an undying devotion to their respected crafts. One day a man and his wife visited my brewery asking many questions. The last being, "Is it hard to become a brewer?" I gave him my most honest answer. His response, "Oh, I don't drink beer. I just thought it would be an interesting job."

How?! How can one be a brewer without having a love of his finished product? That is tantamount to a blacksmith hating steel. Take it from me. You can taste it in the beer whether a brewer loves his craft or not. I know a couple of brewers that are merely brewing as a job, and their finished product, while good, is missing something special.

Brewers and monks are also involved in constant study and introspection. I guess being a Confucian and a Buddhist is one reason I love my job so much. But, I will never know as much as I would like. But beer is not all that is studied. Tea, coffee, and wine are also interests which I incorporate into my craft. Brewers who do not have a wee interest in brewing sciences or distilling are really not utilizing their full capacity.

Much like a monk, brewers must be good preachers. We must preach the positives of full flavour, craft beers, hops, and small batches. Unlike monks, we as brewers do not need to do any conversion of the masses. "Huh?" As a craft brewer, I do not need to convert a drinker of Budweiser. (I will try to convert a Bud drinker to drink Miller. C'mon! I am from Milwaukee!) After all, it is the big breweries that put a great deal of money into hop studies. Hell, I even drink Miller at the Timbers game. Without, Bud and Miller drinkers, craft brewing would merely have been a fad in hops.

Another thing brewers and monks share is the ability to find peace and comfort in solitude. Much of my time in a brewing day is spent away from the public. I must clean, brew, clean, and clean some more. All done without contact with any customers. But it works because of the strictness of the schedule. While there is a lot of time in solitude, the mind remains focused. In fact my days become more chaotic after I leave the brewery and start my ride home.

The one difference between life as a monk and life as a brewer is that monks must rely on faith while a brewer must rely on confidence. It may be splitting hairs, but faith goes hand-in-hand with something that is unproven. Confidence is wed with the senses and ability. For those of you who know me, know that confidence and I have not always been on the best terms. But since becoming a brewer, we have shared a table.

I say all of this with the knowledge that many of the best brews in the world are made by monks. Are these beers that good because of a faith in a higher power? Or is it because of their confidence in the discerning tastebuds of the Belgians, Germans, Brits, and French? Perhaps, it is a bit of both.

I am sure I could find more differences between the two. Or, I could start a deeper conversation on benefits of confidence over faith. But, God, Buddha and I are going out for a pint. This time I will kick both of their arses in Pinball.

Prost!
the zen brewer

Darth Vader, Mencius, and I sit down to tea

2006-02-03T11:37:00.000-08:00

Brewed Beverage of Choice: A pot of Chinese White Tea

There are two schools of thought within Confucianism. There is those who follow the philosophy of Hsun Tzu who believed that humans are inherently evil. This belief is much like the idea of original sin in Christianity. Hsun Tzu believed that a child must be taught to be good. That he/she must be strictly watched and taught, else that child will naturally do bad things. Then there are those of us who follow the philosophy of Mencius.

It was Mencius' belief that humans are inherently good. That it is the culture the child raised in and around that leads that child to do bad things. If a child is raised with neglectful parents, poorly educated, lives in a world of theivery and corruption, that child turns out bad. If the parents have decent jobs, gives the child a good education, and raises that child in a good "moral" household, the child does not feel the urge to do evil. For those dog owners out there, it is like the old saying: There are no bad dogs, just bad owners. I say that as my dog lies on her bed out on the front porch with little supervision.

So months ago as I was watching Star Wars Episode Three, it came to me that Darth Vader is the perfect example of what Mencius believed. Darth Vader (or Anakin Skywalker) started out in a good loving home. A single mom raised him, gave him a loving home. And in turn Anakin worked in a mechanics shop and did things little boys do like race land speeders. He was not a bad child. But then something drastic happened.

Believed to be the chosen one, Anakin was taken by Obi Wan Kanobi to train to be a Jedi Knight. Are you following me so far? Soon, because of Obi's inexperience, the corrupt society around Anakin, and the unwatched anger inside of him, he slowly becomes an evil presence. He becomes Darth Vader not because he was a bad boy. Do you think if he stayed with his mom, he would become one of the most feared men in the galaxy? He becomes Darth Vader because of the culture around him leads him there. (Yes, I know...I am a geek.)

By the time we get to episode 6, we see just how evil he has become. But lucky for us there is one who believes that there is still good in the dark masked one: his son, Luke. Luke most certainly is a follower of Mencius. He believes that the man that once was Anakin, his father, is still inside all the mechanics of Darth Vader. That Vader is just a product of an evil emperor and a dark, corrupt society. And, lo and behold, we find that Luke is correct. Vader saves his son by throwing the emperor to his death, and in turn sending himself to death. If we are to believe Hsun Tzu's philosophy, this never would have happened.

I understand there are many flaws in my theory. And yes I have too much time on my hands. Actually my mind can churn stuff out like this a mile a minute no matter how much free time I have. But the tea was good. AND, just to add more proof of my theory, Vader picked up the check.

Cheers,
the zen (confucian) brewer

Brucey Has Given Me The Blues

2006-02-01T21:07:00.000-08:00

Brewed Beverage of Choice: Bridgeport ESB (nothing like talkin' 'bout the pitch with a pint o' English Ale!)

Well, folks, it has taken a few months, but the time has come to talk about football...the real football we in the states call soccer. So you may ask yourself, how did I become so interested in football growing up in the U.S.? Well, for one, I live in Portland, Oregon, one of the greatest football cities in the states. Go Timbers! The other reason is the grandfather of my dearest friend, Charity, always raved about the Birmingham team.

When he was in his twenties, Edward, needed to find work to support his wife and soon to be child. He searched all over and found a job in Birmingham, England: a middle sized, working class town in the Midlands. While there he became a proud (and I mean proud) supporter of his the town's football club, the Blues. Charity and I met Edward, or as his family called him, Tiny (he was 6'3",) one day. He told us the story of his move to the Midlands and how much the team meant to him during those first years. Tiny believes it was his time in Birmingham, working and following his team, that taught him how to be a good father. After hearing his stories, we both became avid supporters of the finest footballing team in England. We became proud "Blue Noses": Brummies.

Which brings me to my musing today, Steve Bruce, the coach of the Blues, has this talent of finding gritty and determined players. Think back to any of your favourite players in any sport. I am certain you can find one who is tough as nails, but had to claw his or her way to their respected spots. They are far from the glorious Jordan status, but they are in your heart and memory because they displayed heart and talent for the team. Jon Barry, a son of a famous basketball player, comes to mind. He too played in the NBA but in a supporting role. Despite this, he could bring the crowd to their feet at any given moment. He did not have spectacular talent like his father, but he had heart.

Anyway, Brucey, has done it again. In European football there is a timeframe where teams can go out and "swap" players for a fee. It is similar to a trade in American terms but money is paid for a player and not a player for player agreement. This timeframe is called the Transfer Window, which happens twice in a given year: before the season begins and midway through in January. The current window closed today. And Brucey at the last minute signed a player that surprised a lot of people, DJ Campbell.

What is so great about this player? Well just a few years ago, DJ was working full time in a warehouse to be able to play on a non-league team. He was then picked up by a lower league team. He was so very happy for this chance that he worked his arse off. Low and behold two years later, DJ goes from relative obscurity to the Premier League in Birmingham. He said in an interview, "It is all about smiling and making people happy. I am blessed to do that. This means so much to me because I came from nothing and had to work my up. I have made something of myself. That's great." If only most athletes nowadays could be this way, then we would not need the players like A-Rod and Barry Bonds.

So, thank you Brucey, for finding yet another great player for our mighty Blues. And thank you, Edward. Without your hard work and determination, I would not have met my dearest friend, Charity, and I would not have been introduced to the spirit that is the Birmingham Blues. I lift my glass to those of us who have worked so hard to be where we are today. We can all be proud footballers! Cheers...and keep on pushin' up the pitch!

the zen brewer

Top 5 Songs...How can one decide?

2006-01-26T11:47:00.000-08:00

Brewed Beverage of Choice: Penn Brewing Company Marzen

Several days ago a friend and I were having a discussion on music. During this discussion the question was posed to me, "What is your all time top 5 songs?" The first thing that came to my mind was how would I discern something as big as this. After all, there are so many songs from which to choose. In addition, music has played such an intimate part of my life. It has defined relationships with women, friends, and family. It can be dictated by moods. It is not a topic I take lightly. (Perhaps, maybe I should take it a bit lighter.) I told her that I would have to think about it a bit. And then I thought...

Because music for me most of the time is dictated by the mood I am in, it was difficult to even start on the lengthy thought process. There are bands and songs that I listen to only when I am sad, or angry, or excited, or very deep in thought - much like right now. Bands like the Cure, Rage Against the Machine, Joel RL Phelps, and Spain are usually in the mix when I am in a certain mood.

And, unfortunately songs and bands would be eliminate despite my favouritism towards them. Songs like Maybelle by Ida and Damage by Yo La Tengo did not make the list because of the emotions they evoke. That is even though Ida and Yo La Tengo are perhaps two of my most beloved bands.

Other songs and bands got left off simply because I could not choose just one song from their immense library. Tell me, could you pick just one Beatles song to make the list? Crap! I could make a list just of my top 5 favourite Beatles songs and have a tougher time coming up with just 5. The same holds true for the Rolling Stones and Bob Dylan.

Finally, I had to keep it in the scope of Rock and Roll genre. There are so many Jazz and Blues songs that can hold their own against many of the Rock songs in my top 50. I would say that on a list of 100 of my most favourite songs of all time, I guarantee that 40% could be Jazz or Blues songs. Some may even be Country. Yes, you heard me! Country! So what happened was made a top 5 list of songs I could listen to in any mood and would not turn it off if it were on the radio. And keep in mind this is not in any particular order. Here it is, friends, my Top 5 Songs of All Time...

1. Driver 8 - R.E.M.
2. New Year's Day - U2
3. What's So Funny 'Bout Peace, Love, & Understanding - Elvis Costello
4. Lucky - Radiohead
5. Waiting Room - Fugazi

Sorry to all those songs I really love. It was too difficult not to pick you. You mean a lot to me, but, well, you know. See ya around...

Lovingly,
the zen brewer

The Enlightenment of Shaving

2006-01-07T12:02:00.000-08:00

Brewed Beverage of Choice: An urn of Anodyne Sumatran coffee

Several years ago, after a fourteen mouth stint on unemployment and a not so clean break-up with the unnamable, I decided to grow a beard. For years I had been told that I could not. The grocery store where I worked in Milwaukee would not allow facial hair. And society sometimes looks down upon facial hair in general. It would rather see its members "clean" shaven. But damn them all! I was feeling the calmest I had in many years since leaving my confines of the Cream City, so I gave up shaving.

A friend of mine never equated growing a beard to calmness. But to me, that was how it felt. I was listening to myself and not to anything or to anyone around me for a change. Think of it for a minute. Think on how much patience it takes to let the hair grow out in places that have been shaved week in and week out. Think of the days and weeks of itchyness that takes place, each morning looking in the mirror with the desire to grab the razor and free yourself from the pain. But once that phase has passed, all that is left is a soft beard and a feeling of accomplishment. It may sound strange, but that is how it feels to some.

I kept that beard for a great deal of time and then one day I shaved it off. Many of my friends asked why I would shave it off. My response, "When I was in college studying the religions of East Asia, my professor told me a story about a man who went to Japan to study Zen. When he got there, he asked permission to study at the temple. The head monk told him he would have to cut his hair. The man thought 'I don't know. I have been growing this hair for a while.' So he went out and meditated. He came back and cut his hair asking once again permission to study at the temple. The monk once again told him he would have to shave his beard. The man thought for a while. He could not come to shave off his beard. He returned to the monk after days of meditation and said if he had to shave his beard to study at the temple, then he would. The monk looked at him and said, 'Good. Now you may keep your beard.' " To my friends I said, "I wanted to keep the beard, so I shaved it off."

I have grown the beard a couple of times since then with the same results. When it was time to cut the beard off, I did without hesitation despite the desire to keep it. But this time was different. I grew the beard several months ago because winter was coming and felt I needed to. Plus some of my friends were telling me to let my hair and beard grow out. However, it did not feel right. I let it sit on my face hoping that it would "grow" on me. But to no avail. So a couple of days ago I took out the scissors, clippers and razor and cut off both my beard and my hair. The result was a unexpected feeling of liberation and excitement - a feeling of ultimate freedom. In quite the same way growing the beard several years ago was borne out of a calmness, so was shaving it off this time. It seems my lotus tree begins and ends with the scissors and razor. With that bit of knowledge, I pour myself another cup of coffee, pet the dog and look out across the river.

Cheers,
the beardless zen brewer

There's No Smoking In My Ford Expedition!

2005-12-15T11:01:00.000-08:00

Brewed Beverage of Choice: A Cup of Organic Green Tea

Seated at one of my favourite local establishments - perfect for the winter beer selections - I happened to overhear a conversation between two women seated at the table next to me. Of course, being the nosy and curious person I am, I listened for a bit to hear if anything interesting would come of it. Too bad I did not have a tape recorder with me because the topic was priceless.

One of the women was telling her friend about the new Washington state law banning smoking in any indoor facility and outdoors anywhere within 25' of a window. (I think it is 25' of an open window, but a source told me any window. Since I am too lazy to do the research I will give the state the benefit of the doubt and say open window.) This essentially sends the smokers underground, making them the mutants of the above ground dwellers.

We have similar laws here. The local public transportation department has banned smoking on all their bus stops and light rail ramps despite being outdoors. Now I enjoy clean air as much as the next person, but the laws are getting a wee bit out of hand. I can see in a restaraunt or an office. I certainly would not want to be enclosed with smoke for eight hours of work or while I am trying to enjoy a meal that cost me a good deal of money. But in a pub or outside while waiting for the train, I would say suck it up. That is provided the smoker isn't a jerk and blowing the smoke directly at me or other patrons.

But I digress. This woman was praising the law. "I hate going downtown to shop and having to walk past a smoker to get into the store. It is just so dirty. I like to breath clean air."

Some of the things she was saying just got me curious so I looked up at the table next to me to catch a glimpse of the person saying it. She and her friend were very well dressed, had the expensive bags and clothes, and the fashionable haircuts. Not to generalize because these words could have come from a hipster at the coffee house or bar across the street. But the tone of the conversation seemed more snobbish, more 'I am better than you.' I stuck around for a bit drinking my $5 glass of Belgian beer and picking at my bread and cheese plate just so I could sit in more on this conversation. When they were finished, I watched them leave. Sure enough, the woman who praised the law took out her keys and stepped into her Ford Expedition parked right out front. And to add insult to injury, she had Washington plates.

People can be disgusted by cigarette smoke, almost be insulted by a person smoking outside near them. I have at times while waiting for a bus. People can complain that they don't like coming home smelling like a chimney after a night out. But I am sorry, you have no right complaining about someone else's pollution when you drive one of the biggest and most gas guzzling beasts on the market.

Anyway, I am going to get back now to my $5 glass of beer, my Thelonious Monk CD, and finish reading Walden. I must remember to watch my first step. This horse is rather high.

Cheers,
the zen brewer

Welcome Home...

2005-11-29T20:23:00.000-08:00

Brewed Beverage of Choice: A pint of Full Sail Wassail (for Winter Warmth)

Tired, quit climbing at a small pond
made camp, slept on a slab
til the moon rose
- Gary Snyder, danger on the peaks

Reading Snyder's Haikus.
Out the train window,
peek out to see
cars stalled in rush hour traffic.
Ha! Ha! I have books and stealth!

If only I could go into great detail about where I have been since mid-September, or at least where my mind has been. The cliff notes version would go something like this. A very close and dear friend's family was displaced by Hurricane Katrina. I spent many weeks being the comforting ears from nearly 2000 miles away. In the middle of September I had the pleasure of going to Austin and visiting with her and her family, and in turn I got to see my brother and his family. During my trip I became close to her family who had their worlds turned inside out. On my last day there I had to say good bye to not only my brother and his wonderful family, but also my mother, my dear friend and her mother: 7 people total all within the course of 3-4 hours.

Normally when I got home it would have taken me a couple of days to get over the shock and settle back into my life as I knew it before I left. But the very night I returned I learned that my roommate (now former roommate) had told a friend he could stay at our apartment for a while. So now I had what seemed like an intruder in my life. He lazed around the apartment, did no cleaning, paid no money, and did things I do not care to discuss now. Just when we thought we had it all planned out, he bailed and my future plans were shelved for what turned out to be 3 more weeks. My life was in a constant state of chaos.

But finally, here I am in my own apartment without any future roommates. I have not been in my own place like this since Chicago, and to go back further, my own place and happy would have to go all the way back to life in Milwaukee. The transition has been a weird one and the dog has not taken to it either. But thanks to a visit from my father, a couple things have happened to bring me back to my zen shack. The first was a trip to the Chinese Gardens here in Portland. I had not yet been to this wonderful oasis at the edge of downtown. As I sat up stairs in the tea house sipping on white tea, looking out into the trees and pond perfectly placed in the metropolis, I felt my world slow down. It seemed as if the chaos had been appeased with the garden. If this was not enough then a trip to Powell's would surely cure what ailed me. It is here where without any encouragement or knowledge I was drawn to the poetry section and directly to Gary Snyder's new book.

I first became acquainted with Gary in my studies of the Beat Generation, but did not buy any of his work until after She Who Shall Not Be Named exited my world. Kerouac was my muse for much of my writing, but it was Snyder that I most identified with out of the group. His appetite for learning, his love of nature, his "mountain man" mystique all spoke to me. He is the true Dharma Bum. He now lives at the foothills of the Sierras in California and spoke here last March.

So now with the help of Mr. Snyder, some tea (and beer), and with my many friends and family, I must learn, as we all must, how to love being alone. With my turntable, my books, the grey Portland winters, and Tess, that road shall be easy. And so I say Good night to you all. The pint is almost empty and my mind is tired from a long day.

Prost!
the zen brewer

PS: It is good to be home...Welcome

Actually its My Grandfather...

2005-08-07T19:18:00.000-07:00

Brewed Beverage of Choice: A Rather Large Cup of Java (I'm fairly tired...)

Okay, it is time for me to get on my snobbish soapbox. I have not done this in a while, but after this morning's episode on the train I have to vent some frustration. Let me give you a wee taste of what it is like for me in the summer when I wear shorts.

"Hey, Who is that tattooed on your leg?"
"It's Jack Kerouac."
"Who?"
"Jack Kerouac."
"Who the hell is Jack Kerouac?"
"He is a writer from the 40s and 50s. One of the fathers of the Beat Generation. He wrote On The Road and The Dharma Bums."
"Never heard of him," or one of the best responses, "Oh you mean that commie. Are you one of those commies?" That was the comment this morning...

At first I enjoyed getting the question about my tattoo. And I do keep in my mind that most people are curious about the artist as much as the art. But they are few and far between. Most people first do their guessing as to who it is. Let's see...I have heard JFK, a young Elvis, Cary Grant, and my personal favourite, Lon Chaney. Then after they have had their guessing party with their friends I get the previous stated conversation. Initially the frustration was pointed at the masses who have no clue who Jack Kerouac was and what he and his friends started. But this morning the question that circled in my head is what the hell are they teaching people in schools today?

Now keep in mind I was not a literati geek in high school, but I do remember hearing about Kerouac and On The Road. The Beat Generation and the Beats were not foreign to me even in the small town of Waterford, Wisconsin. So I find it surprising that many people have no idea who he is. No clue that he and the Beats paved the way for flower power and a revolution to the status quo. They opened a lot of people's minds in a time when it seemed like much of the country wanted to sleep. But nowadays it is almost like we want to forget again, to fall asleep into the status quo.

I wish more encounters were similar to the one I had in Washington, DC with a nomadic African American. He asked me who the tattoo was and I told him. He did not know who Kerouac was, but wanted to learn. After the initial conversation, we got on a very detailed conversation on William Faulkner. And this was a mere 10 minute conversation with a man who happened to be walking by me in a city I was unfamiliar with. I don't really want everyone to know who Jack Kerouac is. That would make life boring as well. It is more important that we are willing to open up, to learn, and to teach. But from now on, when I am asked about my tattoo, I am simply going to respond, "Oh, that...it is my grandfather."

Cheers!
the zen brewer

A Tornado of Creativity Has Swept Through Town

2005-07-20T10:34:00.000-07:00

Brewed Beverage of Choice: A Pot of Green Tea

It is amazing how one can sit on their porch in a plains town with not even a hint of inspiring thought, just the worn-out dust catching a ride on an easterly wind. And then without any warning a powerful tornado of creativity rushes in leaving the buildings in tact and the townspeople breathless with excitement. That is how I woke up this morning. No mind wandering jabber today. Only four tanka-type poems of dreams and idleness.

#1
Hot summer night.
Window wide open,
But no breeze enters.
Awake, I pray
The cicadas can sing me to sleep.

#2
Full yellow moon
Peeking through pear trees
Subtle reminder
I sit on my deck
and you in your southern town

#3
On the opposite bank
You sit awaiting my arrival
But the spring thaw
Has washed out the bridges
Leaving us only with sign language

#4
Partner in crime overslept.
Unexpected idleness.
What to do today?
The dog needs a bath,
But the books are lonely, too.

Prosit!
the zen brewer

Lake Michigan Does Not Charge Admission and There Are No Lines

2005-06-25T21:52:00.000-07:00

Brewed Beverage of Choice: A Pint of Mirror Pond Pale Ale

Sometimes things are going good, sometimes they are bad. Sometimes you are rolling along happy as a clam, other times it seems like you are at the bottom of a large ravine. A lot of people I know like to tell me that life is like a rollercoaster whenever some dramatic shift in my life takes place. I disagree. Rollercoasters are man made. They are made for entertainment purposes. Plus, you have to pay out of your arse to get to ride on any decent one.

Life, I think, is more tidal, more natural. It is unpredictable, unlike a rollercoaster where you know at some point you are going to either go up or down. Like the tides, you are unsure if at the bottom of a swell, you are going back up or if the undertow will take you further down. Be sure, I would rather surf in the icy waters of the Northwest Pacific Ocean than ride the American Eagle. I would rather tread the waters of Lake Michigan for hours than ride on Space Mountain. (There are no lines for Lake Michigan.)

Where is this going? I wish I could tell you. This is one of those thoughts that just popped into my head as I was riding home today on the #20. Over the past few weeks, life's waters have been very choppy. But unlike years before where I would resist going in too deep or try to fight the waves, this time I have let the water do what it will. If the undertow takes me, so be it. If a large wave comes, I try to use its force to whisk me further in its direction.

Believe me, it is easier to give in, to resist. That really only takes physical might. But the physical only goes so far. Sooner or later the mental will over power and the spirit will be broken. To brave the unknown takes patience and a willingness to be lost. But the end result is much more fulfilling.

I apologize for the maniacal ranting. Very strange things have been happening in the cosmos, and I have grabbed my surfboard.

Cheerio
the zen brewer

Spontaneous Explosions Do Not Always Occur at a Heavy Metal Show

2005-06-11T10:47:00.000-07:00

Brewed Beverage of Choice: A Stange of Kolsch. Prost!

A few years back, my brother and I thought it would be a good idea to write a small piece on particular songs and what they mean to us, a la Songbook by Nick Hornby. At the end of the year we would compile these essays, if you will, into a book and that would be our Christmas present to each other. I vaguely remember the first one I received from him was about Femme Fetale by the Velvet Underground.

Unfortunately for me, I could not write about a particular song and how that song has meant something to me. I could pick a number of songs that had particular meaning to them. Oh who am I kidding, I had a list two pages long of songs I wanted to write about. But the process did not feel right. For me, it was not about the songs per se. A song could be important to me one day, and the next have little to no meaning to me at all. The curious thing about these songs and the musicians who play them is how they inspire me to write a poem at the spur of the moment.

Let's take Ida for example. I have been to probably four or five of their shows. I have written at least three poems at their shows, after their shows, or inspired by one of their songs. Yo La Tengo, Kristen Hersh, Kelly Joe Phelps have all inspired me to write poetry. Even the long gone artists such as Count Basie and Dizzy Gillespie have brought this out. But it is not a particular song that is as important as the music - the all encompassing, all-enveloping music.

So for my Christmas present to Eric - as well as my closest friends and family - I was going to compile a book with twelve poems inspired by music or musicians. It even included a CD with the songs or musicians that aided in the inspiration. I had it all constructed, written out, the CDs were burned, but I never published it. In fact it still sits on my lap top waiting for me to get off my lazy arse and print it out.

Thank the spirits I never did finish it because last night the process continued at the Built to Spill show. If you have not listened to Built to Spill, give 'em a try. Their music has an energy that few musicians in Rock can copy. So as I sat their sipping on a IPA, a phrase came into my head. I immediately tried to work around this phrase as Doug was on stage working around notes and chords. The following is the end result. Oh yeah, in keeping with the spontaneous nature of the beast I am working with, very few of these poems go through any editing. Enjoy!

Cheerio!
the zen brewer

A Thought Explosion That Erupted During a Built to Spill Show

Drunk with sarcasm
The last few hours were spent
Drinking March rain in June
Wondering if a speck is dust
or where we reside in the cosmos

Taking a Road Trip with Time

2005-06-02T11:51:00.000-07:00

"Maybe not having time to think is not having the wish to think."

John Steinbeck, The Winter of Our Discontent.

Brewed Beverage of Choice: A spot of English Breakfast tea

One can only imagine how many times the phrase "I don't have time to read," or "I can never find the time to go see a movie," has been uttered while I am sitting at Stumptown, or riding the train, or even walking down the street. Mind you, I am not eavesdropping because of the difficulty of not hearing someone's conversation when they are so near to my proximity. But I digress.

I remember in one of my final senior seminars at UWM a woman did a paper on the historiography of time and its use. Time has gone from the seasons, to the rise and fall of the sun and moon, to calendar years, to days, to hours, to minutes, to seconds. And, with the rise of the industrialization, time became money. It is fascinating, though, that the smaller time has gotten, the less of it we have.

One of the lessons I learned after learning of Charity's cancer and her subsequent passing, is that time is not a commodity that can be bought or sold. One cannot make time. Time is not an excuse. Time is the fruit of a tree that is there for us to pick and savour. One must become companions with time, befriend time. Only then can we fulfill our passions without the onset of an ulcer.

It is sad to think that these people who enslave time as an excuse or use time to line their pocketbooks with money will never get to truly know the beauty of the pear blossoms in spring, or the subtle rhythm of words on a page, or the simple complexities of Count Basie's piano work. They will run through life not giving themselves a chance to learn. It will be like driving through an endless tunnel, only seeing the light at the end but not being able to see that the corn is up to a child's head, or the orange coloured sunset, or the white-crested waves of the ocean crash on the shore.

Even now, as the magistrates rush through life, I have found thirty minutes to sit and write; the dog has rested from her long walk; and the rise and fall of the rhythms has begun its ascent again. I could go on but I am late meeting time at the coffeeshop. And you know how she gets when she is kept waiting.

Cheerio!

the zen brewer

How Sam Prekop Brought Me Back Home

2005-05-25T14:47:00.000-07:00

Brewed Beverage of Choice: A Pint of Full Sail Amber

The other night, as I stood gently swaying to the music of Sam Prekop, a longing to be back home in the Midwest came over me. Was this longing borne out of the fact that Sam and the band resides in Chicago? Perhaps. But my theory goes much deeper and resides in the music itself - particularly in the Windy City. (This is because Milwaukee has really only given us the BoDeans and the Violent Femmes.)

Unfortunately, I cannot accurately describe the feel of the music because it is too subtle and abstract. I simply must fall on, "When you hear it, you just know." But many of the bands, such as the Sea and Cake, have this lazy, rhythmic groove mixed with an jazzy/poppy beat. It is a sound only someone from the Midwest could understand and produce. Sure, we can all appreciate the sounds, the patterns, the gumbo of music. But we would be unable to produce it ourselves unless we have been raised in the Midwest.

Imagine if you will the music of Prince if he were born and raised in, say, Waco, TX...Or in Charleston, SC. Do you think it would have the same flavour and soul as it does now? Or what if the Beatles were formed in LA, in Paris, or even in Manchester? Would they have made the brilliant pop music that got them so many #1 hits?

Where we are from is in our genes. It is in our spirit. It is in our blood. Everything we touch, everything we make is infused with the soil of our upbringing. You can ask anyone who has had a pint of my ales. There is a subtle, but noticeable, difference that few people can nail down. Or talk to a Navajo about how they create their woven rugs. Or ask any Native American and they will inevitably give you the same answer. "We are part of the land as the land is a part of us." It is this infusion that makes a Midwesterener, a Midwesterner...Or a Puerto Rican, a Puerto Rican...Or a Municher, a Municher. (Is that what you call someone from Munich?) It is this infusion, along with numerous other things, that is getting lost with the onset of globalization.

So as I tap my feet and sway with the populous, I can close my eyes and find myself nestled up against the motherly shores of Lake Michigan on a sunny, autumn day; because, although my shoes, my CD player, and my computer may be made in far off places, my home will always be with me where ever I reside.

Ryokan, The Approaching Spring, and An Old Friend

2005-05-12T11:16:00.000-07:00

Brewed Beverage of Choice: A Cup of Zhejiang Mao Feng Tea

As I was riding the Max to partake in a game of soccer, my mind sank its teeth into my latest dilemma, that being many of my thoughts have been getting caught in a storm of chaos. It happens every so often where I will have one thought and then that one gets caught up with another one that pops into existence and so on until the whole thing looks like a swirling tornado of varying colours. It was at this point when I pulled out a book an old friend gave to me almost ten years ago for my birthday, Dewdrops on a Lotus Leaf: Zen Poems of Ryokan. I read a few of his shorter works, and that is when my mind told me to read the introduction. It is here where I found the words that inspired the thought that follows:

My thoughts flee,
retreat to the shelter
of the trees guarding
the city to the west.

At the table I sit,
abandoned with my tea.

An old friend appears.
'Cheer up!' She exclaims.
'The pot is full,
and springtime approaches.'

Here are the words of Ryokan that inspired one thought to escape the whirlwind storm:

Good friends and excellent teachers -
Stick close to them!
Wealth and power are fleeting dreams
But wise words perfume the world for ages.

Thank you, my dear friend.

Cheerio!
the zen brewer

Wordsmith

2005-05-05T17:37:00.000-07:00

Brewed Beverage of Choice: A cup o' Joe

Kerouac longed to be a be-bop poet - to put the ideals of the beat revolution to the be bop artform of music. I...I only longed to be a musician - to put my words in a form of a song. So while walking home to give the dog the loving and attention she needs, the music and word play of Califone prompted me to write this...

Wordsmith

A musician, I am not.
I cannot play an instrument.
Mastering sound is an artform
Eluding my outstretched arm.
Engineering sound waves
Is surfing I cannot participate.
My lines rarely rhyme.
My thoughts: rhythmically challenged.

But I have words.

I can put them in the fire -
Pound them, forge them,
Shape them into an item,
An idea the simplest mind comprehends.

Is that enough?

Late Spring

2005-04-30T00:43:00.000-07:00

Brewed Beverage of Choice: A Pot of Oolong Tea

Late Spring

Lonely is the pear tree.
Its blossoms blanket green grass.
I put the kettle on,
and settle my chair beneath-
a pot of tea we share.

Walmart Failed Applied Mathematics and Logic...

2005-04-27T13:50:00.000-07:00

Brewed Beverage of Choice: A pint of Hoppy Buddha IPA, my own creation

The luscious green pastures of the way-out Portland suburbs pass by my train window, and I am on my way homeward bound with nothing on my schedule but a pint of ale and to walk the dog. As I mold myself into the seats of the MAX, "Driver 8" by R.E.M. seep through my headphones, calming my every nerve - an appropriate song on this sunny afternoon on the rails. My joints ache...My mind, a massive blob of jelly. Three brew days in a row, I have found, can be quite debilitating, and I can use the time off.

Very little of substance wanders the pathways of my brain these days. I have spent the past few months in a deep retrospective, a thorough ponderance. As the train speeds me towards my home, my couch, and my dog, my mind wishes to ponder the gloriousness of the nothingness. The pen, however, is the master in this life of servitude. So, here I write.

Surprisingly, I have traveled past three stops on the train, yet it seems like I have passed through the heartland on my way across the country. In two stops though the landscape will change significantly. All the vastness and green that stretches before me in all directions will be a pasture of asphalt, of shopping malls, of coffee shops, or, gasp!, of parking lots. The earth in five miles will become something you see dead on the side of the road, which brings me to the thought that has filled my mind.

A few days ago as I lay sprawled across my couch watching the tele - a sport I have found myself participating in far too much lately - when a commercial for Walmart flashes on the screen. A man dressed as casual as an executive can stands amidst all of nature. He speaks to the viewer in his most sincere voice, telling us of Walmart's commitment to the environment and of their latest policy: for every acre of land that Walmart builds upon, they in turn will "save" an acre of land.

On the surface, (and with the laziness of a mind numbed by numerous dots of light) this seemed like a good plan. "Wow!" I thought "Walmart is trying to be environmentally savvy!" That is until five seconds have passed and the simple applied mathematics and logic we all learned in school come rushing to the front.

In order for this plan to have any bearing on the environment, Walmart would have to build many, many, many stores. Let's see 500 acres of Walmarts save us 500 acres of land. Hmmmm...Nope! No good! Imagine driving down the interstate. One side of the road is completely covered in the only store you can shop in now, Walmart. The other side is completely devoid of anything. It almost smells of the old policy the government had with the tribal people of this continent. Here we will take this fruitful, productive, rich land, and you...you get that land over there. Yes, that's right...The one with the dust blowing across it. It seems as though Walmart does not qualify to get its GED.

By now the pastures of Western Portland have disappeared from sight, and we are cutting through the hills on our way downtown. Other commuters are sitting calmly reading old news, talking on their cell phones, or taking a small nap. Me? My stop is quickly approaching and I am parched. Oh, look! A Walmart...I could use a soda.

Cheerio
the zen brewer

Sit Down and Enjoy a Pint

2005-04-23T14:54:00.000-07:00

Welcome to all who are reading this. Many of my friends may be asking, 'Why a blog?', 'Why now?', or 'What is a pint?' To be honest, I do not know what inspired me to start a blog. Perhaps it was a desire to start writing again, to get my mind in a certain frame. Perhaps it is because I have more time after certain life changing occurrences. Perhaps it is a need to stay in contact with old friends and family, many of whom I rarely get a chance to talk to as much as I would like. Whatever the reason, it is done.

Now, what can you expect from my 'Brewed Musings?' Well, I guess, you will get what flows through my mind as I sip a cup of tea at home - an event which is taking place as I currently write, or what is brewed in my conscious as I craft a batch of ale for work, or simply what I am thinking about as I enjoy a cup o' joe at Stumptown here in Portland. It gives me a reason to remember and write down all the nonsense that runs through my constantly running, 4-cycle brain. You may get a long winded account of the inner workings of craft brewing, a tanka written as I wait for my train, or an idea for a story I should be writing but chances are I am putting off for some lame reason. Hopefully some spirit will find my musings inspiring, comforting, amusing, or just plain silly. This is mostly a way for me to keep in touch with the cosmos.

So, welcome all you weary travelers. Sit down...Have a pint of ale...A litre of lager...A pot of tea...Or a cup of java, and enjoy the nonsensical musings of brewer in transit.

Cheerio!
Corey - the Zen Brewer