Journey to the Center of Western Civilization Part I

This past Sunday, three of the hardiest travellers departed West Bend under the obsidian cloak of night at 2:30 am in order to arrive in Madison by 4:30 am. Why would anyone in their right minds choose to make such a journey? We were hellbent on obtaining tickets for the nation's 2nd largest beer festival: The Great Taste of the Midwest 2008. To do this successfully, we would have to stake a place in line in front of Capital Brewery in time to get tickets once sales began at noon. Our goal was to camp out in line by 5 am at the latest.



As I drove along Madison's infamous Beltline highway at the ungodly time of 3:45 am, I noted with a cynical chuckle the near absence of other vehicles on one of the capital city's most traveled urban routes. The first step of the plan was to expand our caravan of weary beer-lovers by two by rendezvousing with my cousin (a Madison resident) and his friend. We arrived at my cousin's condo at around 4 am, where we were met with two bleary-eyed and possibly hungover compatriots scrambling to gather chairs, blankets, and rations to sustain us during the morning wait. Our next objective was breakfast. We mapped a route past a McDonalds in hopes they opened early enough for the elderly crowd. A darkened golden arches in front of an equally dark restaurant sent our spirits crashing early, our hopes having been intensified by a discussion of the new Steak McSkillet burrito. The next best option was a BP gas station on University Dr. I purchased the usual suspects: Badger Party Mix, KC Masterpiece beef jerky, and the biggest Ice Mountain water bottle they carried. We explained our purpose to an amused gas station clerk, who summarized it perfectly: "The things people will do for beer". Indeed.

With the troops gathered with enough foodstuffs for an extended campaign, we made the 5 minute drive to the battlefield of Capital Brewery's biergarten and set up camp at the front of the line. It was now 4:45 am and the sun was yet to show any intention of rising. Likewise, the air temperature possessed a similar disinclination to rise. We were freezing but determined, wrapping ourselves with blankets while sitting on lawnchairs and nervously chatting in the way a group of men is prone to do under such circumstances. I opened my bag of rations to find a tennis ball that I stupidly packed in my sleep-deprived haze. Attempts to get a game of long toss with the tired crew was met with general apathy and a few select profanities. Dejected, I opened my beef jerky and chewed it while considering the stupidity of the entire mission.

The first beer enthusiasts to arrive after us joined the line at about 6 am. It turns out they were two guys from northern Wisconsin who got up early at the hotel and booked it over to Capital. They weren't going to be denied tickets either. Capital only had 400 tickets to sell, meaning a large portion of the line would be turned away. With a limit of 4 tickets per person, it was plausible that only 100 people would leave satisfied. As the sun rose and slowly warmed the parking lot and our tired masses, more and more streams of people began arriving. At 8:30 am one of the event organizers came and began counting the line. By this time, most of the arrivals took time to stop by our camp to inquire about our arrival time. Many handshakes and congratulations later, we were feeling a little better about our foolhardy decision to be first in line at all costs.

The line of ticket-buyers stretched down the block from the bier garten gates. One man slept in a sleeping bag on the ground to while away the time in line. I found myself exchanging smartass glances with my friends at the yuppies in polos and chinos arriving with McDonalds coffee at 9am, as if they seriously expecting to just hop in line and buy tickets. We were full-fledged elitists by this point, secretly hating those who were late enough to stop and get delicious breakfast food before arriving. Our resentment of these late arrivals was short-lived, however, as the event organizer informed us that we would be able to enter the bier garten at 10 am and drink beer for the last two hours of waiting.

Once 10 am finally rolled around, we were corralled into a tighter line and shuffled in a serpentine manner through the network of picnic tables in the bier garten and seated accordingly. Our positions in the ticket-buying line now assured by the bigwigs, the only thing left to do was drink. My cousin graciously bought each of us a 32 oz mug full of the beer of our choice. With it being 10 am on a Sunday morning, I thought it most fitting to consume the heartiest of Capital's offering: their 8.5% Baltic Porter. What is a Baltic porter, you ask? According to Ratebeer.com,

The historical remnants of the 19th c. Baltic trade in imperial stouts, Baltic Porters are typically strong, sweet and bottom-fermented. They lack the powerful roast of an imperial stout, but have an intense malt character. Alcohol ranges from 7-9.5% abv. Though they are typically lagers, there are a handful of top-fermented examples.

My review:

Dark but clear, small toast colored head around rim of mug. Very malty with the usual dark fruits aroma. Flavor was strong and hearty yet smooth; easy to quaff. Sweet nose reminded me of caramel or heath bars. Definitely one of my favorite Capital offerings.

The final two hours passed amicably enough (likely because of the drunken haze in which I was happily wallowing). I finished my beer just in time to line up and step to the table of sales. "4 please!" I slurred/shouted. The organizer took my $140 cash and handed me four glorious tickets. As I looked back at the line of 100+, I felt them staring back at me with a non-too-friendly glare of envy. Fortified by 32 oz of Baltic porter and my excitement of the recent purchase, I shrugged their hate off and kissed the tickets theatrically. For that one moment, all was right in the world and I was at the top of it.

When people ask me why I drink beer or, more commonly, why I have to drink all of them fancy dark tasting beers, my thoughts travel back to memories like this. If you drink to get drunk, slam a couple Steel Reserves. You'll feel good but probably create bad memories from that point on during the experience. If you drink for the taste and the experience, throw yourself without caution into the world of beer. Try anything you can and do anything you can to explore. Including getting up at 2:30 am on a Sunday to get tickets for a festival. Sure, I enjoyed the Baltic porter. I also enjoyed the Victory Storm King Imperial Stout at Old Chicago and the Tilted Kilt Red Ale at the Tilted Kilt later in the day. However, it's not the beer that makes the experience. It's the beer that unites the experiences. I've made new friends because of a shared love of beer. I've deepened friendships because of a shared love of beer. What a wonderful brew.

Dear Devoted Fanbase,

I owe all three of you a sincere apology. I started a blog with the purest of intentions to entertain, enrage, and influence my reading public with witty and insightful snippets of opinion from yours truly. To date, I've averaged maybe one per month. We all know that just doesn't cut it when you use the internet for hip and up-to-the-minute takes on all facets of society. I hereby pledge to be more thrilling than ever before. I'm ashamed of this blog as I type this...something's gotta give. I've been mired in a bit of a quagmire over the past few weeks/months. I will attempt to provide more content at a faster clip than ever before. Soul Searching With Stout version 2.0 launches NOW.

Welcome to the Major League Baseball version of my Mascot Mistake Tournament. The goal of this competition is to sift through the decades of terrible team logos and/or mascots to select the best of the worst. The world of marketing and advertising in sports has changed greatly since the great decade of the 1970s that brought us such gems as the Brewers' beer barrel man (It's a man who's also a barrel of beer!) and the Padres' tastefully tacky brown/gold ensemble.

The rules are simple:

The worst logo/mascot is chosen from each currently active Major League Baseball club. The tournament tree structure is chosen by league rather than division. *Note: since the leagues consist of 14 and 16 teams respectively, creative liberty was taken to determine who advances to a second round and beyond. May the worst ideas win!


AMERICAN LEAGUE

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Baltimore Orioles (1965)

• Clearly, Mr. Bat-Wielding Oriole is in a fit of rage over some perceived slight. I'm just not intimidated by a bird best known for eating oranges in my grandmother's garden. The plaid doesn't help either.

-VS-


Toronto Blue Jays (2003)

• Anytime a modern logo is dropped as fast as it appeared, you know you've got a gem on your hands. What's not to like about a human-like Jay with a badass Canada tattoo on his HGH-inflated bicep? Oh yeah, everything.

Who advances: In the battle of the birds, the Orioles gain slightly more respect than the Jays because of the retro aspect of Baltimore's logo. In the 21st century, there is no excuse for a teenage angst filled bird showing off a red maple leaf tat. Toronto is forced to advance. Toronto

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Boston Red Sox (1950-1959)

• Seriously, I can't decide what's funnier: the fact that this logo is essentially a giant piece of footwear with a severe case of priapism or that it was used for nearly a decade. Either way, this is a true contender. These things write themselves.

-VS-

Texas Rangers (1972-1982)

• I'm a sucker for baseballs wearing hats. Also, please consider that this baseball likely has more intelligence than your average cowboy hat wearing 'poke. Love the retro Rangers font as well.

Who advances: Boston's excited sock in a landslide. When the Texas ball hat asked, "Who wants to mess with Texas?" the erect sock answered the bell and more. Beantown

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Chicago White Sox (1976-1990)

• I'm not a professional baseball player, but I'm fairly certain that even I could play better ball than a player with that batting stance and balls for hands. The guy looks like an image lifted from the very first baseball game for the Nintendo Entertainment System. Not what you're looking for in a sports logo.

-VS-

Tampa Bay Rays (2008-present)

• Yeah, I could have chosen the first Devil Rays logo instead because of its pastel splash of colors behind the ray, but you know what, this one deserves the embarrassment. I can't believe we're so PC that we have to remove the "Devil" part of the team name. Don't let the actual name of the aquatic creature get in the way of bible-thumpin', y'all! This ray of light logo won't help the team in the AL East. Ironically, the team's suffering fanbase are near the point of selling their souls to the devil for a shot at the postseason.

Who advances: Minor upset here...the newly Christianed (oops, I mean christened) Rays win for their blindingly bright idiocy in changing from something uniquely cool to something uniquely lame. As an alum of a high school with a mascot of a Sun, I saw firsthand the ineptitude of solar-themed team names. Tampa

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Cleveland Indians (1928)

• There were a handful of pretty laughable logos for this much-maligned franchise's stereotypes. I had to go back near the beginning of their Indians era to find this gem, which appears to be the result of a team employee's lack of creativity.

Team President: Bill, you come up with a logo for that injun guy yet?
Bill: Uh, yeah, Mr. President...I got it...just give me a minute....
(Bill nervously fishes through pockets, finds Indian-head nickel, quickly traces outline on paper)
Bill: Here ya go! The Cleveland Indian man. Ta da!

-VS-


Seattle Mariners (1987-1992)

• Please disregard everything I said about lazy team employee design, THIS is the pinnacle! Here's what I imagine the conversation to be:

Team President: Dang it Jim, did you design the new Mariners' logo yet?
Jim: Uh, the what?
Team President: The Mariners logo! Is it done?
Jim: (thinking that he can't remember how to spell the team name)
Jim: Yeah, for the baseball team, right?
Team President: What are you, stupid, son?
(Jim scribbles a capital M on a quick sketch of a baseball)
Jim: No sir. Ta da!

Who Advances: The sheer laziness of the Mariner's "M Baseball" sluggishly advances. Seattle

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Detroit Tigers (1927-1928)

• "Did...did we win?" The confused brown tiger asked with a jumbled jaw structure.

-VS-


Oakland Athletics (alt. 1988-present)

• The A's are so sure of their skills that they can balance a very tiny elephant on a baseball. Also, the elephant is holding a baseball bat for comedic effect. What this has to do with fielding a competitive MLB team, I haven't the foggiest.

Who Advances: "I....I won? Hooray!" exclaimed the confused tiger as he wore banana shoes with the dancing boatmen. Detroit

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Kansas City Royals (alt. 2002-2005)
Kansas City has by far the least variation in their logos than any franchise I've seen so far. This one was chosen on the basis that it's completely unoriginal and boring. If you have to copy another franchise with a stock logo, do it to one that has a cool design. This looks like it was created using a template in MS Paint.

-VS-

New York Yankees (1936-present)
I hate hate hate the Yankees. Words cannot express my dislike of this club. If I have to say something else, I'll say that this logo seems appropriate for a super patriotic strip club located in backwater Illinois.

Who Advances: This was a terrible round, I'll admit. I was handcuffed to two unimaginative clubs. For the simple reason that I love to see the Yankees lose, I'd choose New Yawk to get bounced. However, that would rewarded the Royals for changing their boring KC logo to a baseball surrounded by "Kansas City Royals Baseball Club". No creativity whatsoever. You know what? Both lose. Nobody

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California Angels (1971-1972)

California Angels (1973-1985)
"You dadgum idiot! You fergot to capituleyes the team name!"

-VS-

Minnesota Twins (1972-1986)
We're shaking hands as twin men because we are planning to win! Which man is St Paul? Stupid, stupid, stupid.

Who Advances: The spelling blunder that went unnoticed for two seasons is tempting, but the stupid cartoon men shaking hands over a river with a propaganda phrase above their heads wins as most ridiculous. Minnesota

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Second Round:

Toronto Blue Jays -VS- Boston Red Sox: The Red Sock doesn't seem to have softened, but the new steroid scandal in baseball has led to increased scrutiny over drugs, leaving the Hulk Jay with skinny girl arms. Who advances? Boston Red Sox

Tampa Bay Rays -VS- Seattle Mariners: The sun sets on everything save for the old British Empire. Since a floundering expansion club doesn't fall in that safety net of old world colonialism, the Rays' light goes out early, allowing the lazy M's to coast through another round. Who advances? Seattle Mariners

Detroit Tigers -VS- Minnesota Twins: In an embarrassing turn of events for Minnesotans, the twin men decide they are much bigger fans of each other than this stupid competition. As they shuffle off together to practice new stretching exercises in the locker room, the befuddled Tiger wanders in and is shuffled off to the winner's circle. Who advances? Detroit Tigers

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Finals

(The semi-finals became the finals when the Seattle M's forgot to show up for the semis. That's what you get when you're represented by a lazy logo!)

Boston Red Sox -VS- Detroit Tigers: It's tough to choose between a fantastically excited giant sock and a fantastically confused brown tiger head. I know mental handicaps aren't funny, but the fact of the matter is that the sock's embarrassing physical excitement will soon wear off while the tiger's low mental capacity will never be remedied. Unfortunately, the attempt to notify the tiger of his victory was met with the question of "But what about the pancake book?". We had no choice but to award the win to the giant sock. The sock celebrated by hugging us, which was as uncomfortable as imagined.

AL Winner:

Choice Hops and Bottled Self-Esteem

Last night, I completed the reading of a novel recommended by a good friend. The Tender Bar is a memoir of a journalist/author who grew up fatherless in Manhasset, New York. To provide a bit of information, the author JR Moehringer grows up in a dysfunctional household of extended family but no father. After making both internal and external promises to make something of his life for his mother's sake, he spins a beautiful wordcraft of prose both celebrating and demonizing the rites of passage during his life's journey. A local bar, Dickens turned Publicans, serves as the emotional and physical anchor JR uses to cope with the setbacks thrown at him.

This blog entry is not concerned with the novel as a whole but rather to illuminate Mr. Moehringer's penchant for touching on integral parts of the human condition. The author grapples with themes such as love, success, and death in the memoir. Themes that are as common as any in most great American novels. His style is far more concise and eloquent than I could ever hope for, which makes the reader sympathize with him while feeling twangs of jealousy.

After Sidney, and several failed attempts at replacing Sidney, I wasn't sure I believed in romantic love anymore. My only objective with women was to avoid being fooled again, which meant remaining aloof, noncommital, like Sidney herself.

This passage from page 307 of The Tender Bar is completely unassuming and uncomplicated yet when I read it, it resonated in my head like a bolt of lightning. This isn't the time for sob stories about my past, but suffice it to say I think we all have nostalgic symptoms from Cupid's goddamn arrows stored away somewhere. With two sentences, JR Moehringer was able to tap directly into my psyche and make me immediately relate to him.

There's nothing I love more in a novel than finding a line that strikes home for me upon first reading. The Tender Bar was packed with such revelations. I found myself relating to the main character with every turn of a page and I have little doubt most other readers would feel the same. It takes a special literary talent to zing that emotional link through mere black letters on white pieces of paper. Just don't ask me to describe the plot any further. As JR says in his memoir:

I hate when people ask what a book is about. People who read for plot, people who suck out the story like the cream filling in an Oreo, should stick to comic strips and soap operas. What's it about? Every book worth a damn is about emotions and love and death and pain. It's about words. It's about a man dealing with life. Okay?

Read The Tender Bar for any reason you wish. Read it because you like drinking. Read it because you like Yale. Read it because you like the Mets. Any of those reasons would suffice and I'm sure even casual fans of those reasons will find themselves completely immersed in the novel. If someone were to ask me why they should read it, I would answer that they should read it to learn more about themselves. That's the greatest gift a novel can give to its reader, and what a rare gift it is.

Another Slap on the Wrist

I don't know why I bother listening to the news at all. I really don't. For every one "feel good" humanitarian interest blurb in the news there are 25 hate crimes, sex crimes, and other militaristic injustices committed around the world. The one type of crime that always manages to draw my ire immediately are animal welfare "violations" like this dandy out of Wisconsin's own Fox Valley.

To summarize this pathetic display of humans behaving inhumanely, a 34-year old Appleton man hung his dog from his garage's rafters after the dog refused to drink antifreeze-infused water from a bowl. The man also kicked his dog inside the house before taking it to the garage to kill it. Why would he commit such a crime? The damn dog nipped at him! Clearly, pets are for OUR amusement and whims of fancy. If the creature nips (not snaps, bites, lacerates, or otherwise causes harm) at what is no doubt an abusive owner, the owner has the god-given right to kill it.

The man admitted that he had to leave the garage because he didn't want to see the animal suffer, according to the news story. The deceased dog was found in the garage in a garbage bag with its choke collar nearby. Eric Shattuck is being charged with one felony count of animal mistreatment causing death and faces up to a $10,000 fine and a combined 3 and a half years of prison and extended supervision.

This may be the hippie in me surging to the keyboard here, but how ridiculous would it be if this prick hung his wife or child from the garage rafters and then tried disposing of the body in a garbage bag? The story would be all over the national news and he'd be facing a hell of a lot stiffer penalties than a bit of cash and a light prison/probation sentence (no doubt shortened for "good behavior" too).

Until we as a society begin to value an animal's life on the same level as a human life in cases of murder, these pathetic excuses for humans will continue taking out any and all stress or other problems on "man's best friend". Ask anyone who has ever spent five minutes with a family pet; they live to please you and nothing makes them happier. It's wonderful that people like Eric Shattuck are incapable of sharing such a bond and will be out in a year or two to do the same to another of his dogs that dares look at him sideways. He'll learn it good, dadgum!

Some people have the nerve to ask us why we have such little faith in the essential decency of humanity. I guess they don't follow the news.

Ale Asylum: A Review of One's Sanity

Last Friday, I headed west to join my cousin for a trip to Madison's newest brewpub, the Ale Asylum. Sadly, we had heard mixed reviews towards their food menu. Not wanting to chance pairing great beer with a subpar lunch, we first ate at Madison's Midtown Pub. It was a nondescript bar; one that you could easily picture as a cookie-cutter model used in Every Town, USA for the locals who don't like "dark" beers. However, their Inferno Chicken Sandwich was a deal and a half at about $5 for a large sammich and fries (plus a large pickle spear). The "Inferno" aspect of this culinary wonder was very spicy pepperjack cheese and potent cajun seasonings on the grilled chicken breast. I could probably eat one a day for the next 34 or 35 years at least.

After downing a pre-tasting lunch and a bottle each of Great Lakes Nosferatu and Bell's Sparkling Ale, we made the trek across Madison to 3698 Kinsman Blvd. At this location sat an unassuming brown stripmall-looking structure with a small sign in front of one door to let us know we had reached our destination. The Ale Asylum itself was a small place with dark earth tones and various reds to set the mood. We were perplexed at our inability to spot the token television set at the bar. We quickly scanned the room a second and third time before determining that this place was either genius or insane to go sans TV. It is a bold move that forces humans to converse and discuss fine beer and gentlemanly pursuits instead of staring slack-jawed at the talking picture box.

As I approached the bar to place my order, I gazed reverently at the impressive tap list hanging proudly on the wall behind the bar. AA had 9 of their own beers on tap, with names such as Diablo, Ambergeddon, and Disporterly Conduct setting the ominous tone. I quickly ordered a sampler of all 9 beers ($9 for 9 four-ounce glasses on a nice tasting tray). Suddenly, a bearded ruffian sporting a stylish riding cap turned to me with his Belgian snifter and mumbled something.
"Excuse me?" I asked cautiously, unsure whether he would hand me his beer or leap at my vulnerable face.
"The Diablo is good. They're all out of their tripel. That's why I'm drinking this. Goes good with pizza," he slurred.

I chose to ignore his monologue and carried the tray back to the table. Before me lay a veritable spectrum of beer toned colours...from lemon yellow to deep rust to nearly pitch black. I scanned the names of each sample like a child eagerly checking tags on the gifts under the Christmas tree. Disporterly Conduct, Big Slick Stout, Happy Ending, Diablo, Gold Digger, Hatha Weizen, Madtown Nut Brown, Hopalicious, Ambergeddon. This was going to be a fun blur.

We dove in, eagerly sipping and nodding in approval. The favorites quickly became apparent, but I was down on a couple on the beers that just didn't do it for me. The porter and the oatmeal stout rose to the top of my list, winning me over with their roasted decadence and cocoa-smooth luxury. The Belgians (Happy Ending and Diablo) were good Belgian ales that did little to distinguish themselves but were eminently drinkable. Gold Digger was an awesome name for a blonde ale. Unfortunately, it was a blonde ale and thus lost major points in my ratings for its strong corn presence and cloying sweetness.

The Hatha Weizen was a standard German hefe which is now a positive as far as my tastes go. For most of my beersnobship, I've disliked hefes as much as I would dislike a jar of formaldehyde. After enjoying New Glarus's hefe offering (Dancing Man Wheat), I have a new appreciation for the style and consider it to be a well-balanced and refreshing ale. Ale Asylum's Hatha was not in the class of Dancing Man, but still tested well. Anyone who knows me knows I love love love nut brown ales, so Madtown Nut Brown was basically the stronger bigger brother of Newcastle. The APA Hopalicious had the most fragrant Cascade hop nose I've ever experienced. This beer smelled like the sweetest citrus fruit you can imagine. It tasted like Florida. The final of the 9 samplers was Ambergeddon, a hopped-up West Coast amber. Ambergeddon looked like a boring old amber but tasted more bitter than some pale ales that come to mind. If you like strong session beers that don't leave you with a sugary stomach ache, Ambergeddon is the perfect medicine.

All in all, Ale Asylum has some kinks to work out in its metamorphosis from brainchild of a beer lover to a strong brewpub, but it's off to a fantastic start. This place has personality, which greatly aids it on the quest to unseat Madison classics like Great Dane and JT Whitney for craft beer dominance. I saw AA fill up like crazy during the hour I was there. It's obvious that they have already amassed a set of regulars, who will be quite disappointed if its time on the Madison craft scene runs out too soon. I'll drink to that sentiment. No straitjacket needed; here's one inmate more than happy to willingly return to the Asylum.

Welcome

Good evening to all,

My name is Russell. You can thank whichever higher power you believe in that a shared destiny led you, dear reader, down the path to enlightenment. Your seemingly innocent and casual navigation to "Soul Searching With Stout" is the first step on your journey towards nirvana. Here you will find musings on the topics of Wisconsin and national sports, the craft beer industry, video games, and other eclectic thoughts that pop into my head.

My true reason for creating this blog is to explore and hopefully unleash my thus-untapped vast creativity. I drive 45 minutes to work and 45 minutes from work every day of the week. During that time, I have much time to contemplate some of the more esoteric questions of the universe. Other days, I consider why I even spend any time watching professional wrestling. My time spent viewing rasslin' is nearly nonexistent since high school, but still. The question remains as to why I voluntarily choose to subject myself to such a hot dog sale.

Stay tuned for more ramblings from yours truly. Buy the ticket, take the ride.