Teutonic Taste Test

Etiquette & Protocol, Whatnot Comments (8)

I recently found myself intimately involved with a beer whose label advertised it as a ‘German Pilsner’ and, my luck being what it is, also surrounded by people who burned with curiosity about other people’s choice of beverage. This is usually a recipe for either disaster or entertainment or both (Me + beer, that is; the inquisitive crowd just spices the recipe up a bit, all paprika-like). Contrary to what some may believe, my normal default setting isn’t usually ‘Smart Ass’. It’s just that sometimes opportunities present themselves and the people and surroundings invite smart assery. This was certainly such an occasion, as the same query was posed by numerous individuals, almost as if people were standing in line waiting their turn to try and solve this liquid puzzle and the first person to figure something out conclusively won a car or a puppy or a puppy who knows how to drive a car.

Their question: What does a German Pilsner taste like?

My answers (in no particular order, thrown out at random):

The Wehrmacht
Like my tongue is being carpet-bombed by the Luftwaffe
Like I just invaded Poland
It has early citrus notes, culminating in France’s unconditional surrender
David Hasselhoff’s nipple sweat
A slightly hoppy glockenspiel
Like Martin Luther just nailed my tongue to the door of a catholic church
Like I just convinced Neville Chamberlain to tell Britain that I have no intention of starting a war even though that’s my intention precisely, because I have a stupid-looking mustache and sucked as an artist.
Like something that doesn’t suck
Oktoberfestilicious (pronounced with a k, of course)
Like a blitzkreig in my mouth

I saved #8 for someone who I knew was in roughly the same ballpark of historical geekitude as me, because it’s generally poor form to name drop former British prime ministers and allude to Hitlerian trivia when describing how a beer tastes UNLESS the other person has a fair chance of not being lost by your description (I decided not to use, ‘Like I just annexed the living shit out of the Rhineland’ for pretty much exactly this reason). I never got around to using #7, because you have to be careful about saying such things in the presence of Lutherans and/or Catholics, some of whom from either tribe still take the Protestant Reformation personally and the last thing I wanted to do was ignite a religious crusade in my friend’s back yard. That’s a tough thing to forgive.

As for what the beer actually tasted like: Good. It tasted good. Very pilsner-y, for all you beer buffs in the audience.

Sir @ June 29, 2009

Query or What Would Roy Scheider Do?

Confessions, Whatnot Comments (10)

I don’t spend a lot of time in arts & crafts stores, really. I generally only go there to get stuff framed or to buy cheap little frames for stuff that doesn’t need the larger more complicated versions. And so this is what brought me to such a place on Saturday. Now, on Saturdays in my little hamlet one finds people who have traveled from the countless little byways that dot the North Carolina countryside in order to do whatever it is that they want or need to do in the ‘big city’. Largely for this reason, I steer clear of all stores on the weekend, but I was in the neighborhood and happened to be thinking about needing a couple 8×10 frames that were on sale, dirt cheap, at the aforementioned arts & crafts store, so I sucked it up and went.

The lines in this place on the weekend are long. Waiting in them is like some sort of penance, as if you’re earning the right to buy whatever it is you’re trying to buy. I found myself immediately behind a couple and what was either their offspring or their grand-offspring, the ages of the grown-ups being hard to place. The female portion of this couple was large and surly. The male looked defeated, but wore a baseball cap festooned with an American flag and the words, ‘My way or the highway!’, which made me sort of delight in his defeat. The child could’ve been the poster boy for some lethal combination of early-onset diabetes and/or childhood obesity and augmented this visual onslaught with his hammering away at an enormous candy bar while staring at me. The woman frequently sent her husband on reconnaissance missions to remote parts of the store to replace the veritable mountain of glitter glue that she had in her cart. The goal of these missions was sometimes altered by her yelling (they had no walkie-talkies, you see) at him across the entire store.

The child ate and stared. The line didn’t move.

Outside, two men were engaged in complex trigonometry in an effort to figure out how to fit what appeared to be a 7ft wide, 5ft tall picture into the bed of a smallish Nissan truck. Although I couldn’t see what the picture contained, I assumed that it was probably some velveteen rendition of Jesus hugging a lamb or something equally uplifting. It was clear that there was no way they were going to be able to fit this thing into the back of the truck, but it was genuinely entertaining watching them lay it over the entire bed of said truck, turn it 90 degrees, look at the outcome, turn it back the other way, look at it again, briefly consider life’s futility, turn it back the way they’d just turned it, etc, etc. The woman yells at her husband. The man silently prays for death.

And still the boy chews on.

A lot of things ran through my head during this encounter, things about which I’m not proud. Stereotypes were involved. Possible solutions for the country’s health care and social security crises drifted through my noggin, but all contained somewhat unsavory characteristics involving the burning of certain hats, the outlawing of glitter glue, and the criminalization of allowing kids to shove whatever tastes good into their gaping maws. Philosophically speaking, if we’re all part of the same ethereal whatnot, at one with the universe, involved in the same huge unity of souls that contributes to the ‘collective unconscious’ that Jung liked to talk about when not obsessing about dream archetypes, this means that I’m related to them and that really pissed me off. And so my question: Does thinking these things make me an asshole, or was it just that I was really hungry and tired?

* Turns out it was a massive painting of a fish. Or a painting of a massive fish, which made the painting big out of necessity. Either way, the only justification for an enormous painting of an equally enormous fish is if 1) The fish killed a member of the family or B) Engaged you in such a life-and-death struggle at sea that you had no choice but detonate the fish through a complicated maneuver involving a rifle and a tank of compressed air (see: Roy Scheider in Jaws), thereby relegating you to memorialize the aforementioned beast through the visual arts since there wasn’t enough left over to stuff and mount.

Sir @ June 15, 2009

Defecation Declaration

Whatnot Comments (11)

I’d like to take a moment and say a couple brief words in support of solid poop. Admittedly, this has never been a subject that’s taken center stage in my life for any extended period of time. Having never been a parent or in any way (voluntarily or involuntarily) involved in diaper manipulation of any kind, my life has been relatively devoid of opportunities to handle soft poop. In a very real way, I’ve been spoiled in this arena. With the acquisition of dogs, however, this has changed. The spoiling has come to an end and has done so in a rather squishy and annoying sort of way.

For reasons beyond all who have come into contact with one of my dogs, his poop perpetually lacks a certain, shall we say, happiness (I believe it was Socrates who once stated that ‘Solid poop is happy poop’ and who am I to argue with such wisdom? Who are any of us?). What this means for me is that in order to keep my lawn and the lovely sidewalks of my little burgh from being overtaken by ‘land mines’, I need to shove my hand into a plastic bag and retrieve my dogs’ ‘leftovers’. When said ‘leftovers’ are on the solid side of the poop spectrum, this is no problem. However, when they lean toward the not-so-solid side of this spectrum, well….picture a broken and tormented man, his hand wrapped in a plastic bag, trying to manipulate molten chocolate from grass/asphalt, sometimes with an audience of children or possibly the elderly.

**TANGENT ALERT**

Bags from Harris Teeter work the best. Never once have I experienced unfortunate mid-scoop breakage, which can be both disheartening and emotionally scarring. Not only are the bags trustworthy, but the name of the store allows you to make statements like, ‘I need to head down to the ‘Teet for some milk’. You can’t buy that kind of convenience in a double entendre. In my opinion, the only grocery-related name finer than Harris Teeter is Piggly Wiggly. If there was a Piggly Wiggly in my town, you’d bet your sweet ass that I’d be frequenting its aisles for all of my grocery needs, just out of principle. Especially for pork products. And who the hell names a grocery store Piggly Wiggly? I’m a little desperate for this background now. What possesses some entrepreneur to start up a food market named after squirmy swine? It’s a southern thing, so I’m willing to bet moonshine was involved. And probably a dare.

Only one of the dogs has this issue. I mix yogurt in their food for its health benefits and the taste that I assume it adds to the otherwise bland fare. I’ve tried just giving him the dry stuff, sans yogurt, to no avail. I’ve tried different combinations of one thing or another, so much so that about the only things left as options are a head of lettuce or a brick of tofu, and I’ll be DAMNED if any dog living under MY roof will eat tofu.

The other option is to just suck it up and continue with the soft poop extravaganza. He’s happy. He eats well. He’s active, gets plenty of exercise, has a friend to chase around and chew on as the opportunity presents itself. If soft poop is the extent of his issues, I think we can both count ourselves lucky. Or at least he can. Selfish soft-pooping bastard.

Sir @ June 10, 2009

Context Dependence

Whatnot Comments (16)

I find it a bit disconcerting how often the always-enlightening message ‘Jesus is the answer’ adorns church signs and highway billboards across the midwest. Whenever I drive through the fruited plain, these things occasionally grab my attention and interrupt whatever book I’m listening to during said drive (The Hobbit again….it never gets old). This bugs me. It shouldn’t, but it does. Does it bother me that they lack the oomph of church signs in the south (’Hell’s a’ comin’!’ or ‘Satan doesn’t take holidays’)? Yeah, maybe that’s it. If you’re going to proselytize, don’t be wishy washy about it. Get in my face. Poke me with the pitchfork.

Now, while I certainly believe in God, my thoughts on organized religion tend to be short and to-the-point: Ick. Having said this, I still find it slightly depressing and maybe even a little infuriating to think that there are church flocks being shepherded by someone or some group of individuals so lacking in originality that the best that they can come up with in their efforts to cast wide their soul-shaped nets is ‘Jesus is the answer’. Painting with a pretty broad brush here, aren’t we?

Examples of questions where He could certainly be the answer:
Who would never lose at paper-scissors-rock?’
‘Who could probably help decrease the suck factor of Notre Dame football?’
‘Who could start watching Lost at any time and immediately understand it without having ever seen any of the show?’

One question where He’s probably not the answer:
‘What’s the most important ingredient in chocolate chip cookies?’

The answer is chocolate chips, kids. Not Jesus. As a matter of fact, I’d be willing to go out on a limb and say that even Jesus doesn’t think that He’s the answer to that question. ‘Me?!?! Do I look like a chocolate chip?!’ No, Jesus. No, you don’t. According to Hollywood and hundreds of years worth of paintings, you look like Jim Caviezel, or perhaps Yanni, but not a chocolate chip. And frankly, I think this is an important distinction to make prior to diving into murky theological waters.

Message to lazy midwestern church sign/billboard editors: Try harder.

Sir @ June 1, 2009

Retrospection

The Deep Comments (6)

Whenever I’m in D.C. visiting friends or foes or anyone else worth visiting, I make the excuse during at least one early morning that I have to go and visit some friends in Arlington. I don’t elaborate and people tend to either understand or just not dig any deeper. It’s a bit too maudlin to say that I need to go and walk around a cemetery, pausing occasionally to sit down next to certain graves and ‘catch up’. So, I don’t.

The maternal grandfather and the man who became my other surrogate grandfather both served in the Navy during WWII, one in the Pacific and the other in the European theater. I only heard stories second hand from the one in the Pacific, but the other used to open up from time to time. He participated in the landings in North Africa, as well as those at Palermo and Sicily. My fascination with the military began at an early age, born largely from their memories and those of their friends. He allowed me to wear his ribbons around the house, which was, I felt at the time, the greatest of honors anyone could bestow upon a little kid. Among the artifacts handed down by the other grandfather was his parting gift given on behalf of the Navy: The first history ever written of the war, sanctioned by the War Department, and published in 1945. I read it cover to cover and, as one might expect, there are glaring errors, some that only a young history geek might catch, but the book itself is now priceless, at least in my eyes.

Looking back, there was never really any question as to my future. That I would join the military and serve a long and distinguished career seemed a foregone conclusion. I was talked out of walking down a very specific military path by a Vietnam veteran and to my credit, the 18-year old version of myself had enough sense to listen to him. As the years passed, I wondered whether I had cheated myself by not going the route that I had originally planned. It would be roughly a decade before I’d have a definitive answer to that question, but I think by most standards, the subsequent career was distinguished in both its successes and overall unlikelihood, even though it wasn’t as long as I and some others thought it would be. Well, life is what it is; I don’t think I can hope to ever present the situation in any clearer context, vague though it may be. My relationship with the military now is a strange one. I think of it all in a very abstract way. I choose to see it as a very big picture concept of sacrifice and honor that makes for outstanding and effective recruiting commercials. I know that those commercials are hokey beyond repair and largely unencumbered by the burdens of reality, but they play to both a young person’s sensibilities and a veteran’s selective memory. I recall it in idealistic terms because it’s easier that way.

I’ve spent a lot of time at the cemetery at Arlington. Even back before any of the tombstones carried names of former acquaintances, I felt a certain comfort being around people with whom I felt I could relate, if not in death, than certainly in their previous lives. I think this was born from growing up with my nose buried in history books and my ears wide open to friends of the grandparents. The feeling acquired a different scope once I had been in the service for awhile. What does it mean, I’ve often wondered while walking around those hills, that I’m more concerned about somehow garnering the respect of the dead than the living? There may be something unhealthy in it, I guess. Or it could be that the people buried there are those with whom I have always most wanted to be associated. It’s a complicated thing, regardless of how one looks at it.

I’ll never wear the uniform again. Sometimes the thought is a little difficult to process. They’re wrapped up in the closet where they keep the skeletons company. Separation from the military mindset wasn’t as daunting for me as was the separation from that certain flavor of people that occupy it. On the surface, they’re no different from anyone else. They have their issues and their talents, their families and their ups and downs. The contrast between them and everyone else is extremely subtle and involves their agreeing to serve and possibly die for a cause greater than themselves. The motivations for military service may run the gamut from economic to altruistic, but regardless of motivation, everyone raises their right hand and agrees to fight and die, if need be, and there’s no sugar-coating that. Grand overtures of patriotic sentimentality that are eaten up by the public tend to be lost on most military types for this reason. Among my fondest memories are those in which someone for whom I was ultimately responsible would request that I be the presiding officer at their re-enlistment. It’s a high honor because you become the vehicle through which someone reaffirms their selflessness. Our society has its genuinely craptastic issues, but any population consisting of even a small percentage of such people is still worth the effort. If I were afforded the opportunity to take away nothing more than that experience from 14 years of wearing various uniforms, I would still be able to sit and contentedly watch the years pass.

Sir @ May 25, 2009

Narcissus

Whatnot Comments (12)

1.ONE OF YOUR SCARS, HOW DID YOU GET IT?

When I was in seventh grade, my appendix started hurting during science class, so I grabbed a pencil, extracted the organ, then threw it out the window right before it exploded. I looked at the teacher, on whose face was glued a look of both terror and envy, and said, ‘Please. Continue.’

2. WHAT DO YOU WANT MORE THAN ANYTHING RIGHT NOW?

A milkshake. And my appendix. We had some good times, my appendix and me.

3. DO YOU KNOW WHAT TIME YOU WERE BORN?

4:18 A.M.

4.WHAT WAS YOUR FAVORITE TOY AS A CHILD?

Space Legos. I had a veritable moon base that took up a significant portion of a room. I would regularly gather my little yellow-faced minions with their perpetually smiling faces and travel to dark corners of other rooms in the house, boldly going where no Lego-based life forms had gone before.

5. THE BEST TV SHOW EVER CREATED:

Moonlighting.

6. THE LAST PERSON YOU TALKED TO?

I had a conversation with the dude who runs the lab (Lead scientist? Big cheese? El padre de los researcho?) about computer operating systems. The conversation may or may not have involved the words ‘Windows’ and ‘Fuck’ in varying degrees of volume.

7. DO YOU GET SCARED IN THE DARK?

No. The only thing in the room to be afraid of is your own imagination.

8. THE LAST PERSON TO MAKE YOU CRY?

No one. I’m a rock. An island. A rock feels no pain and an island never cries.

9. HOW MANY WISDOM TEETH DO YOU HAVE?

None.

10. WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE COLOGNE / PERFUME?

I don’t really have a favorite, because I no longer wear any. Smelling foofy in a lab environment can either lead to other members of the lab commenting on your foofiness or your being accidentally set aflame, depending on the amount of flammable liquid in which you’re coated.

11. WHAT KIND OF HAIR/EYE COLOR DO YOU LIKE ON THE OPPOSITE SEX?

Blue eyes are nice, as are green ones, but the eyes and the hair matter less than what’s behind and underneath them, respectively.

12. WOULD YOU RATHER BE SMART OR FUNNY?

I find that a lethal combination of the two is debilitating in its effectiveness.

13. COFFEE OR ENERGY DRINKS?

Coffee. Energy drinks are 99% sugar and 1% ass.

14. IF YOU COULD EAT ANYTHING RIGHT NOW, WHAT WOULD IT BE?

Tiramisu.

15. WHO IS THE LAST PERSON YOU MADE MAD?

Me.

16. DO YOU SPEAK ANOTHER LANGUAGE?

I can read some German and a little French and speak very small amounts of both. If I was stopped at the border of France and Germany by the Gestapo, I might be able to talk them out of killing me, but I’m not sure I’d be able to save the both of us. Sorry.

17. DO YOU LIKE SOMEONE?

Sort of, which I think translates to, ‘No’ when you boil it down.

18. WOULD YOU FALL IN LOVE KNOWING THAT THE PERSON IS LEAVING?

Yes. Love is worth the fall.

19. WHAT IS THE BEST WAY TO TELL SOMEONE HOW MUCH THEY MEAN TO YOU?

Help them.

20. WHAT ANNOYS YOU MOST?

People who believe whatever they’re told without question, then attempt to yield this ‘intelligence’ as if it were a weapon.

21. HAVE YOU BEEN OUT OF THE U.S.?

Yes.

22. YOUR WEAKNESSES?

Kryptonite. And sharp wit.

23. IF YOU COULD GET PLASTIC SURGERY WHAT WOULD IT BE?

I wouldn’t.

24. WHY DID YOU FILL OUT THIS SURVEY?

It takes me forever to write some posts because I’m still too much of a perfectionist for this blog thing, so the occasional meme is both appreciated and sort of necessary. Also, those wacky chicks over at The Collective started singing their siren song, which led to my boat being dashed upon meme-shaped rocks. Harpies, they are. Yoda, I am.

25. ARE YOU TOO SHY TO ASK SOMEONE OUT?

Not really. I used to be, many moons ago, but have since gotten over that.

26. WHAT DO YOU GET COMPLIMENTED ABOUT MOST?

My cooking ability and the dogs.

27. WHAT WOULD YOU DO IF ALCOHOL BECAME ILLEGAL?

Make my own and stick it to The Man.

28. HOW MANY KIDS DO YOU WANT?

None.

29. WERE YOU NAMED AFTER ANYONE?

Mythological leader of the argonauts in their quest for the golden fleece.

30. WHEN DID YOU LAST CRY?

Rock. Island. Etcetera.

Actually, at the 10-year reunion last October, there was a memorial service for a friend and classmate who died in a training accident. Naval aviation is fraught with peril.

31. ANY BAD HABITS?

Procrastination.

32. IF YOU WERE ANOTHER PERSON, WOULD YOU BE FRIENDS WITH YOU?

Probably. ‘This guy’s quiet. I like this guy.’ That’s probably what we’d both think.

33. DO YOU KNOW ANYONE FAMOUS?

I know a lot of people who should be famous.

34. DO LOOKS MATTER?

Yes, but personality is the deal maker or breaker.

35. HOW DO YOU RELEASE YOUR ANGER?

I heave beakers full of acid at the wall and scream KHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAN. This is more effective than beating the dogs. I think the dogs would agree.

36. DO YOU TRUST OTHERS EASILY?

Absolutely not. I am jaded beyond repair.

37. FAVORITE THOUGHT PROVOKING SONG:

Schism - Tool

Also, She Goes Down by Motley Crue.

38. FAVORITE DAY OF THE YEAR?

November 11th. There’s something cosmically incredible about this date. A ridiculous number of historically significant things have happened on this date, not least of which was the founding of VMI. On this day annually, I call up one of my roommates from those days and say, ‘Happy Founder’s Day, fucker’, then hang up. It’s special to us. We cherish it.

39. FAVORITE EXPRESSION?

Happy Founder’s Day, fucker.

Sir @ May 22, 2009