Fuckin' A, man. I have had zero inspiration to write lately. Apologies. I've found that I've been forcing myself to write about subjects that adhere to this loose brand I've tried creating for myself. I've been very careful about my subject matter...I've been watching my language. I'm not entirely sure why I've chosen to try and brand myself--it's actually really narcissistic and kind of sad. I think that there is some degree of hope that a company with my likes and culture will come scoop me up and hire me for my keen writing skills about fishing, barbecue, and music. That would be great and all, but it's restricting me from being myself and writing about stupid shit that is my life blood.
Let's be honest, fishing and barbecue and all that is fantastic, but does it make for entertaining script? Not really. Not consistently. Especially when you're not a "how to" guy, like me. You can't limit yourself to just a handful of interests to write about--not when there is so much more to discuss. Case in point: The other night I walked outside to get something out of my truck, and as I opened the front door, a black cat ran in front of me. Superstitions are ridiculous, yet I find myself being taunted by them. Normally I leave my superstitions at the door if baseball or fishing are not involved, but something as blatant as a random black cat run-in cannot go unnoticed. As I returned inside, my daughter--whom I was watching alone, and had been awesome--decided to freak the fuck out and continued freaking the fuck out until after I put her to bed and into the wee hours of the morning. This kid never does this--she's an angel. Goddamn cat's fault. In addition, my dog was being a dick--scratching at the door, whining, and jumping on the furniture. Weird, but okay, I'll chalk all this up to an anomaly of an evening. The next day, as I run a few errands, I walk out of the bank and notice a crack in my windshield. This is the family truckster--my wife's SUV. This is our nice car with the fancy windshield that boasts windshield wiper defrosters and an automatic mirror or someshit. Not bragging about my windshield, just pointing out that it is more expensive than the one in my 1980 Jeep Renegade I had when I was 25. I'm assuming. The crack on this windshield is growing an inch every five minutes. Before I know it, it's well beyond insurance fixing it for free. Okay then...crap happens. Back at home, after the kiddo goes down for a nap, I take a leak. While zipping up my drawers, I nick my beanbag with my zipper. No, I'm not wearing underpants this particular day due to backyard pool playing with my daughter. The nick must have hit a blood vessel, because it bled like a stuck pig. Neat. Luckily ( I guess) I was in the bathroom, so I had ample supply of toilet paper to dab. The dabbing just seemed to irritate and accelerate the bleeding, so I was toilet-bound for 30 minutes or so, just bleeding from my scrotum. I had to make the bleeding stop. My legs were falling asleep. I was hungry. So with a folded sheet of TP pressed onto my bag and my shorts around my ankles, I hobbled into the hallway, opened the pantry, and found the super glue. Yes, the super glue. I removed the TP and applied a hefty bead to the nick on my sack. Thanks to Jesus, it stopped bleeding instantly. No glue-scrotum infections yet. At that moment, I looked at myself. In full view of our sliding back door leading to the backyard, pants around my ankles, bloody toilet paper in hand, and super glue that I had just applied to my scrotum. This was indeed the crux of horrid luck that the black cat from the night before had instilled upon me. At least my bag didn't stick to my inner thigh for days. So yes, I am a bit superstitious. Whether it's wearing the right hat while fishing, drinking the right beer while enjoying a baseball game, or a black cat busting my windshield and ravaging my ball bag in a fit of evil magic. Don't even get me started on finding pennies... re//.
0 Comments
This post originally appeared last Father's Day on my previous blog site, www.earlsblogazine.blogspot.com. I live in a place where people make their own beer very regularly. A good number of these home brewers, seemingly, are able to turn it from a hobby to a profession...or at least a money-making pastime. I really like craft beer. I'm fortunate to have so many different, small local breweries so close to my house. There's one around every corner, they're all a little different, and they're all wonderful. But it's 93 degrees outside and I plan on barbecuing in the backyard. You know what I'll be drinking? Not local craft beer. I firmly believe that there is a time and a place for every beer. High school and college was Busch, Natural Light, Keystone. A Cardinals game is the time for a tall, frosty Budweiser. A couple after-work beers with the fellas at TGiF's, Applebee's, or Chachkie's is where 9-to-5ers enjoy their Bud, Miller, and Coors...all Light, of course. Mexican beer while in Mexico, German beer while in Germany, Belgian beer while in Belgium. After a day on the slopes, trail, or river, it's usually best to top the day off with a craft beer of your choice. A dark, bold stout, a crisp pale ale with a little bite, a hoppy IPA with texture. And on a 93 degree Saturday, filled with throwing the baseball around, barbecuing pork, and sitting in lawn chairs, there is clearly one style of beer suited best. Yard beer. Yard beer is what your father drank as he sat in a lawn chair, watching the sprinkler go back and forth, while you crawled around the backyard in your diaper and put sticks and rocks in your mouth. It's what your grandfather drank while your dad crawled around the backyard in his diaper. And it's what us, as fathers, should drink. I invited my friend, Colorado Kevin, over for some barbecue and yard beer. CK has a daughter a couple days older than mine, and is loving fatherhood, as am I. But from time to time, you just need to spend a few hours away from the girls and enjoy a Saturday in the backyard with some old friends. These old friends are named Hamm's, Rainier, Pabst, and Olympia. Colorado Kevin and I put several of each flavor in a cooler and poured a bag of ice over top of them. Yard beer is best enjoyed when freshly pulled from the the depths of an icy cooler. We sampled each one. Several times. We discussed the complexity, the nose and back end flavors, the finish. That last sentence was complete sarcasm. What we did discuss was the lack of change that these beer brands have displayed. The recipes, the logos, the labels. Call them throw-backs, retro beers, or whatever. These four beers have been around for damn near ever. Hamm's was established in 1865. Rainier in 1878. Olympia's the baby at 1896. Then there's old man Pabst, dating back to 1844...the blue ribbon winner. You can bitch about the taste, but you have to appreciate the history and tradition. After drinking beer while sitting, drinking beer while playing catch, and drinking beer while enjoying pulled pork, we constructed our individual lists of beer in order of preference. Colorado Kevin's list was: 1.) Rainier 2.) Pabst Blue Ribbon 3.) Olympia 4.) Hamm's Mine panned out to be: 1.) Olympia 2.) Rainier 3.) Pabst Blue Ribbon 4.) Hamm's What this concludes is that Hamm's is quite awful. Happy Father's Day, guys.
//re. |
AuthorI am Earl. Archives
May 2024
|