NOTE: This post is rated R for alcohol references.
Introduction
Okay, my last blog post was pretty hifalutin, with all that Latin and the obscure references to Sir
Thomas Wyatt’s illicit affair with Anne Boleyn. So, I think it’s time for a
fluff piece. And, after the warm critical reception to my H.B. Albert Memorial Beck’sts post, and the runaway box office success of the Beck’sting post before it, I’ve decided that this cheap-reboot endless-sequel thing is really the way
to go!
Now, if you’re feeling all left out because you’ve never
heard of Beck’sting (and really, what rock have
you been hiding under?) click here for my original Beck’sting post, which will tell you all you need to know about this global phenomenon.
As before, I’ve grouped these Beck’sts thematically. Since a
Beck’st isn’t just a photo, but a photo with a caption or other gloss, I’ve
included that too, and the initials of the Beck’ster. Where you see one letter
only (e.g., “T—”) that’s somebody’s spouse, kid, or another friend.
Photobomb Beck’st
DA: Best. Photo. Bomb. Ever. This is a Bear Bottle IPA, or
maybe a Bare Bottle, maybe even a Rebuttal. It’s really loud in here. I asked the
barmaid twice to repeat the name but just couldn’t make out what she said. Whatever
it is, it’s completely and totally off the chain. I love the hazy IPAs.
[Postscript: Having done some research, I found this beer
was actually from Barebottle Brew Co. in San Francisco, and was probably their
Colonel Kush Hazy IPA.]
Perfunctory Beck’st
DW: I had this DB Fresh Squeeze at the local pub while
watching the Sounders/Timbers game on Sunday night. I was pretty knackered from
a 91 mile ride in the smoky heat that day and dragged myself out to watch the
game. I actually didn’t even feel like having a beer (no man should utter those
words), but pub, game, you know, seemed like the thing to do. I also had many
glasses of ice water in those slightly blue tinted plastic cups that make water
taste so good. The IPA was “just fine” like the Pliny. It was no Barley Brown’s.
Cheap and free Beck’sts
PCS: Boys! A friend of mine had this IPA at a party last
week. $4.99 for a six pack! Pretty tasty!
DW: $4.99 for a IPA six pack! Unheard of. I’m surprised it
didn’t come in those white, generic cans and just said “IPA” on them. Like the
old “BEER” ones did. This is an oatmeal stout that my friend, the Angry German,
made. My daughter and his daughter did the graphics. I don’t know if they
sampled it or not, I didn’t ask.
DW (continued): It was his first go around of brewing and he
did a nice job. I decided to have a beer during the week because all of our
relatives and old friends’ houses burned down in Ventura today. Including our
old house that we used to live in (not the one on the beach, D—, where we had a
gun pulled on us, but the one up in the hills that I don’t think you ever saw).
Everyone is evacuated and sorting through it all. What a year of extreme
weather! I promise to have a more positive bext tomorrow night.
Amazing Tales Beck’st
DA: Ask me about this water bottle.
JL: I’d like to know about the water bottle.
DA: As I wrote in a blog post awhile back: look at the
bright orange water bottle in the background there. It’s an important part
of the bike. It has a story: I had it on my bike when I lived
in San Luis Obispo, and a local racer actually asked me to stop using it. He
was very proud of being Dutch, and told me that an orange water bottle was kind
of his trademark in the peloton. I thought his request was absurd and
reeked of narcissism. I was working at a bike shop at the time, and
happened to learn that Specialized was blowing out those orange bottles for
thirty cents apiece wholesale. I ordered like two dozen of them and gave
them out to all my friends. At the next race, they were all over the
place. If anything, the orange bottle had become the trademark of
the Cuesta Community College cycling team, not the Dutch
Douchebag.
JL: This is a good story and I’m sorry I missed it on your
blog but am happy to have it excerpted here! The Dutch can be so touchy!
DA: About that water bottle and my blog excerpt ... I only
pasted that from my blog because it would have taken about half an hour to type
all that with my thumbs. I wasn’t trying to insinuate that anybody should have
seen that blog post. I take it as an article of faith that most of my blog
posts go unread, which is oddly pleasing to me ... it makes my blog seem really elite, like it’s too logorrheic for just anyone. But just in case you want to see
the post from whence that tidbit sprang: here!
DA (continued): Here’s another story from that night, for no
particular reason. After Fieldwork, C— and I headed over to The Pub. We went to
this back patio where this really scary looking guy engaged me in discourse. (I have a long history of attracting crazy people.) He looked like one of these Star Wars villains, Darth Maul or whatever—very
thin, kind of ashen and ghastly, almost sepulchral in this hooded sweatshirt with the hood up creating a shadow over his face. His
opening salvo was, “I know you—you slept with Cheryl and I can prove it because
I watched it on the Internet!” It seemed that to deny this would be so
predictable, and frankly so boring, that I decided to take a page out of the
improv playbook: they always say “yes, and...” instead of “no.” I replied, “I
did sleep with Cheryl, many times, though I wasn’t aware she filmed it.” This
kicked off quite a dialogue, which included how I ended up getting with Cheryl
(I found her in bed with my wife and thought it only fair to be allowed in),
and how my ongoing fling with Cheryl damaged Darth’s relationship with her, and
so forth. Then the discussion rambled around a bit until Darth looked at C— and
said, “You’re his wingman, huh.” C—, perhaps also following the improv rule,
said something like, “Yes, and I’m glad you noticed.” At this point I found I
could no longer follow the improv rule, and said to C—, “Wait a second, I’m your wingman! I’m not the kind of guy
who gets a wingman! I’m not ready!” Etc. Anyway, it was at least a 15-minute
conversation and when we got up to leave, Darth suddenly turned on me, yelling,
“There isn’t a damn thing you’ve said tonight that’s true! You’re nothing but a
damn liar!” Uh, good point ... but why did he wait until the end to notice, or
say so? I’m glad, though ... I don’t want him coming after me because of
something I supposedly did with Cheryl. Anyway, there’s probably a lot more I
meant to tell you, but it’s not coming to mind. Thank you for tuning in to this
edition of “Behind The Beck’sts,” brought to you by Silver Moon Brewing, est.
2003.
Mall date Beck’st
PCS: S— and I had a date whilst the kiddos were at “Star
Wars” [Episode 8]. Our date was at a place in a mall which was somewhat
repulsive though it had a couple things going for it....1) it had over 100
beers on tap and 2) it was showing biathlon racing [skiing & shooting] on
the TVs. I generally hate watching TV in a bar/restaurant though I’ll take
biathlon. I had a Rogue beer (some nondescript IPA) and a Delirium Tremens. I’ve
attached a photo of the Delirium Tremens ... damn it was delicious! I don’t think
I’ve ever had it and I was duly impressed. Please don’t take offense to the
stemware.
DW: So glad you had the gumption to pull off a mall date.
Your inner strength is an inspiration. Did you choose to not see “Star Wars”?
Or did your kids ask you not to come? I went a few weeks ago and was duly
disappointed. That beer looks great. No offense taken, but noted. Sometimes we
have to make a sacrifice for something good.
DA: Stemware notwithstanding, that’s a pretty good-sized “pour”
of Delirium Tremens, P—. I’d say that’s a good place. Some places around here
would serve it in a thimble. A— wants me to take her to “Star Wars.” I’m not
sure I have it in me. I’m just so tired of these retreads. Last night E— and I
saw “Lady Bird” in the theater. It was very refreshing and original. And yes,
since you’re wondering, I am trying
to show off by acting far too highbrow for silly sci-fi movies.
Macro Beck’st
JL: Look, it’s a Beck’st!
BA: Haha, someone’s got a new macro lens!
JL: Yes, new lens. It was “refurbished”, so quite a good
deal — less than $200. It allows me to take photos of things that are less than
an inch from the lens. Usually that’s an insect, but this time it’s a Sierra
Nevada.
Compulsory Beck’st
DA: E— is so irked at how skinny I have gotten, she went out
and bought two six-packs of beer that she has ordered me to drink, purely for
the weight gain. (My foray with the South Beach Diet was all too successful.) So here I am drinking at home alone, violating my own policy! Well, I have the cat for company, but she is an asocial predatory beast with
little use for me ... kind of like my daughters, come to think of it. This
Ballast Point Sculpin IPA is brilliant. I recommend you buy this when you find
it available. It is great all by itself, or paired with a tabby cat.
BA: You’ve got a pretty tough life there, D—. Not only did
E— tell you get fat, and made you drink beers, but she even bought you the beers!
Next she’ll be bringing home the Zach’s pizza and Mac and Cheese and standing over you while you scarf it down.
DW: I am with E— on this one. Nobody your age should be
getting a PR in body fat index. Eat, man, eat! Don’t make me come down there
and have a pizza eating contest with you again!
BA: D—, he may be scrawny and weak, but one thing I would
not do is engage him in an eating fight. Over the decades I’ve seen him eat,
and when he gets on a roll, there’s no stopping him. Speed, volume, duration,
spag, pizza, Thanksgiving, he can do it all. I’m sure you’ve seen it. He shows
no sign of decline, either. It’s astounding. I don’t know what’s wrong with his
body, but he can just eat and eat and eat, whatever he wants, whenever he
wants, and he never gets fat. If he does lay off the American diet for a few
weeks, he gets into this situation where his wife has to buy him beer.
Speaking of pizza
DA: E— is out tonight and I got Zach’s
pizza with the kids. And you can’t have ‘za without beer, can you?
DA: J—, remember you invoked this rule at Zach’s the night
before the Death Ride? And P—, remember we did that epic ride and then ate too
much Zach’s and got all bloated and you hated me? And D—, remember I talked
endlessly about how great Zach’s is, and took you and T— there and you both
hated it because you don’t like tomatoes? Anyway, this Fat Tire is a bit flat
because it’s so old. I bought it for the big bike team party in October and we
forgot to put it out (along with the rest of the beer, duh!). Oh well.
JL: Indeed that is a rule—one I learned from my father in
fact. Pizza goes with beer. What else goes with beer? Well, nearly everything,
but certainly waiting for take-out food is one. Which is what I’m doing. So
there’s this:
This supposedly a “imperial India pale lager”, whatever that
is. But it’s definitely not pale, and doesn’t taste like any lager I’ve ever
had, though it’s not unlike some stouts. It doesn’t hurt that it’s 8.5%! Oh,
and it’s local, though you wouldn’t know that from the name. It’s made in
Azambuja, a place name that I assure I did not just make up.
Post-op Beck’st
Home from helping my mom post-surgery. She is doing great, which is a relief, because last time I helped out post-op, the patient frickin DIED. Mom sent me home with some of the goodies you see here (other than the bread, which is local). I call this the “Finer things” Beck’st.” Good
times!
BA: Meanwhile, back at Mom’s house, I’ve taken over for D— who tagged me in a week ago. D— must have really lazed out here because Mom’s
got me working like a slave. I guess she actually worked D— pretty hard, too,
but yeah, it’s like she’s punishing me for all the chores I didn’t do as a
child. Maybe it just feels like that... On the brighter side, D— left me some
beers in the fridge, which was downright good of him, and they’ve been a real
life saver, let me tell you. I haven’t enjoyed a beer quite so much in a long
time, I guess I feel like I’ve earned it. Unfortunately, they’ve run out, I’ve
drunk them all up. I may have to replenish for the weekend. This photo shows
what I’ve been enjoying, very much, in fact, a high octane Imperial IPA.
DA: Wow, nice! Too bad you’ve run out of beers. After my long commute today I settled down in the backyard with this bad boy. You can tell I was fried by how poor a photo it is, with the background in focus and the beer blurry. Then I ate food that was too hot and fried all the skin on the roof of my mouth. I’m not bitter, though!
Then E— asked me to open a bottle of Chianti. Why? Because
people love the word “Chianti.” So I couldn’t get past the protective layer of
foil over the top. Well, I eventually did. It was damn hard because I was so
fried from my two-hour drive. I practically couldn’t function and I almost gave
up. I told E— of the trouble I was having and she said, kindly, “Well, you’re
not Italian.” I said, “Damn straight. My ancestors didn’t drink wine. They
drank mead. And when they weren’t drinking that, they were drinking frickin’
blood, from the bodies of their enemies. They’d cut their heads off and drink
blood right out of their neck stumps!” Finally I went at the foil with a big
knife and it’s a miracle I didn’t stab myself. On purpose. Well so then I went
in there with a corkscrew and the cork broke in half. Somehow, switching to a
more nimble corkscrew, I managed to remove the bottom half of the cork instead
of plunging it into the wine. But you know what? I may as well have, because
the wine wasn’t any good anyway. Wine never is.
BA (one day later): D—, the beer you left for me ran out so
I had to head to the store. I figured as long as I was going to be drinking
beers, I ought to get some exercise, so I grabbed a backpack and walked there.
I felt a little like a hobo heading back to camp with my backpack full of
clinking bottles, but hey, a man’s gotta do what he’s gotta do. So in the photo you see our dinner, with a kind Total Domination IPA, which
I enjoyed, served in, well, a glass of some sort. I’m getting the sense here
that that’s not the right vessel. As you know, Mom doesn’t have a proper beer glass, so, sue me. You’ll notice
the sandwich, I blame you for breaking my South Beach diet with that bread. Mom says you made her buy it, so she made me eat it. Anyway,
chewing all those carbs gave me a mighty thirst, so I had two of those Total
Dominations. Pretty swell.
Conspicuous
Connoisseurship
DW: This is a Sun River Brewing Australian Lager at Brother
John’s Public House.
I wanted to try something different. When it first arrived,
I took a long whiff. Not because I think that makes any difference, but because
if people see me do that, they’ll think I am some beer expert who knows the
etiquette. I don’t know the etiquette of beer tasting or anything else. This
beer had an unusual taste. Imagine pulling out the insole of an old shoe,
soaking it into a large glass of water in the sun for a few days, pulling it
out, and drinking the remains. That’s what this beer tasted like...but it was
not too bad. It was, you know, acquired. Like kimchi.
DA: You crack my shít up! I think to look like a proper beer
snob you need to thoughtfully stroke your goatee while wearing the intelligent
and thoughtful expression of a true intellectual like John Paul Sartre or
Jonathan Vaughters.
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