The Difference Between Craft Beer and Bumillecoors

It's all in how it's brewed...

This is actually a beer ad for Hahn Super Dry, an Australian beer.

h/t:  A tweet from beer47.

I Just Got Off the Phone...

... with Flo.  We had a short and VERY pleasing conversation, at least as far as I'm concerned.  Which went something like this:

Flo:  How can I help you today, Mr. Pennington?
Me:  I need to cancel my policy, please.
Flo:  Oh, I'm sorry to hear that... may I ask why you're cancelling?
Me:  Because you wouldn't give me your preferential rate due to bogus "bad credit" information.  I'm with USAA now.

And that was pretty much that, except for minor details.  USAA is charging me MUCH less than half the amount Progressive was bending me over for.  I smiled broadly throughout the entire conversation.

::Chirpy Flo voice:: 
"Discount!"
::/Chirpy Flo voice::

An Interesting and Provocative Essay

That would be "An Empty Regard," by William Deresiewicz, in yesterday's NYT.  The essay is about about the "cult of uniform" in America and has some interesting points.  A few excerpts...

NO symbol is more sacred in American life right now than the military uniform. The cross is divisive; the flag has been put to partisan struggle. But the uniform commands nearly automatic and universal reverence. In Congress as on television, generals are treated with awed respect, service members spoken of as if they were saints. Liberals are especially careful to make the right noises: obeisance to the uniform having become the shibboleth of patriotism, as anti-Communism used to be. Across the political spectrum, throughout the media, in private and public life, the pieties and ritual declarations are second nature now: “warriors,” “heroes,” “mission”; “our young men and women in uniform,” “our brave young men and women,” “our finest young people.” So common has this kind of language become, we scarcely notice it anymore. 

[...]

As the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan have dragged on, other purposes have come into play. The greater the sacrifice that has fallen on one small group of people, the members of the military and their families, the more we have gone from supporting our troops to putting them on a pedestal. In the Second World War, everybody fought. Soldiers were not remote figures to most of us; they were us. Now, instead of sharing the burden, we sentimentalize it. It’s a lot easier to idealize the people who are fighting than it is to send your kid to join them. This is also a form of service, I suppose: lip service. 

[...]

The irony is that our soldiers are the last people who are likely to call themselves heroes and are apparently very uncomfortable with this kind of talk. The military understands itself as a group endeavor. As the West Point professor Elizabeth D. Samet recently noted, service members feel uneasy when strangers approach them to — as the well-meaning but oddly impersonal ritual goes — thank them for their service, thereby turning them into paradoxically anonymous celebrities. It was wrong to demonize our service members in Vietnam; to canonize them now is wrong as well. Both distortions make us forget that what they are are human beings. 

About his last... I'm glad someone finally came out and said it.  Ms. Samet is right... I speak only for myself here but have no doubt my sentiment is not uncommon... that we who served, and currently serve, are more than slightly embarrassed by all this "thank you for your service" stuff.  I know those expressions of thanks and gratitude are well-meant and I really DO appreciate them.  Being a member of the Vietnam generation, I much prefer being embarrassed and at a loss for words in these circumstances than being totally ignored (or worse yet: spat upon), as was the case back in the '60s and '70s.  But forgive me if I shuffle my feet, look down at the ground, and simply murmur "thanks for that" when you offer YOUR thanks.  I, and thousands like me, simply did my duty as we saw fit to do.  Thanks are not required... it was an honor to serve.

But we digress.  I hope you go and read Mr. Deresiewicz' article because he makes some very valid, interesting, and provocative points.  His missive made me think.

Now let's pick a nit.  Here's the illustration that accompanied the article:

WTF is up with THAT?  I find this illustration insulting and offensive to the MAX.  Corporal stripes... brass... where "US" ought to go?  Seemingly random ribbons placed in a haphazard and decidedly NON-military fashion?  And Naval Aviator wings... improperly placed on an ARMY uniform?  At least I think this is supposed to be an Army uniform, but something about it isn't quite right. 

Was the NYT trying to piss off the military with this illustration?  They certainly succeeded, if so.  There are ample photos and graphics extant of real individuals wearing real military uniforms, which could have been cropped to preserve an individual's anonymity.  But, no... the NYT had to go and publish this fucking travesty of an illustration.  But, Hey!  It's the Times, ain't it?  I really shouldn't expect accuracy and respect out of those asshats.

Apropos o' Not Much

Doesn't that look delicious?  I might just be the best beer-pourer in these United States... always a perfect head with nary a drop spilled or otherwise wasted.

Yeah, It IS to Worry

I haven't looked at my 401(k) since June... simply because I'm afraid to do that.  Sometimes ignorance really IS bliss.

My 401(k) survived 1987 and all the subsequent recessions pretty nicely but it got the Hell beat out of it during 2000's dot-bomb implosion (bein' a techie I was heavy in tech).  I never really recovered from that debacle, what with losing about half of what I had put away.  Still and even, we made a little progress since the turn o' the century, at least until THIS thing came along.  It's likely I won't recover from this beating... late-life recessions suck, and mightily so.

Tonight's ADWH Soundtrack

Matt "Guitar" Murphy with... no kidding... "Buck's Boogie:"

Why... thank ya, Matt.  I think I'm gonna name my first-born in honor of this tune.  Speakin' of... this tune has everything I like about whiskey drinkin' music: a tinkling honky-tonk piano, economical but evocative guitar licks, and a honkin' sax.  It rarely gets better than this, Gentle Reader.  Needless to say, we were listenin' to a lot o' blues this evening... it was that kinda night.

I mentioned in the post below that we would be broadening our horizons this evening and we most certainly did.  I knocked back about six fingers worth of that Johnnie Walker Green... poured over two ice cubes in three installments... and I'm impressed.  The long and the short of it: Green is worthy; I like this blend even better than the Gold.  

While JW Green isn't silky smooth like the Gold it has a LOT more character.  That's not to say the dram isn't smooth, because it is.  No, the Green is a lot smokier and the peat overtones are very prominent, as is the peppery "bite" of the whiskey, which is just damned near perfect in my book.  That sensation isn't overpowering like the sort of bite you get with most bourbons, it's just enough to let you know that this is whiskey... and that's a good thing.  The taste begins with a pleasant sweet sensation in the mouth until such time as the smoky peat comes to the fore and then it finishes off with a very pleasing warmth that lasts and lasts.  I don't care WHAT Kermit sez... it's very easy bein' green when your green is made by Johnnie Walker.

Highly recommended!

Added, 2200 hrs:  I said I'd get back to ya, Gentle Reader, on the matter of what the empty glass smells like (see the post below).  Well, we gave it an hour and then we subjected the empty glass to an extensive nose test.  Alas, the glass smells NOTHING like herb... just whiskey, which is pretty nice, in and of itself.  We spent a lot o' time with our nose buried in the empty glass... like this:

Nothing even remotely like pot came to mind.  We did briefly entertain the notion of goin' back for fourths, but we resisted.

Broadening Our Horizons XXIX

We're just in from a re-supply and provisioning run out to Cannon Airplane Patch where we bought the essentials:  beer and single-malt.  No, wait... no single-malt this time; we opted for another one of Mr. Walker's high-end blends seein' as how we were suitably impressed with that Johnnie Walker Gold.  So we're gonna try what you see at right during tonight's After Dinner Whiskey Hour.  About which, this:

Four signature malts provide the key taste influences for this 15-year-old whisky. Talisker™ introduces power and depth of character, Caol Ila™ contributes mystery and intensity and, at its heart, Cragganmore™ provides a sweet maltiness, while Linkwood™ adds a final touch of finesse.

Blending exclusively with malts produces a rich, powerful whisky, with each one giving its own intense flavor and aromas to create a perfect combination.

With its rich gold amber appearance, this medium-full malt summons up a multiplicity of complex natural aromas. It starts on the seashore and drifts inland over moist moss and through evergreen forest. Then come the exotic notes of orange peel, stewed peaches, cooked black fruits and sour cherry.

I've had Talisker and Cragganmore before; I've never sampled the other two components of the blend.  The bottle is in the freezer as we speak, gettin' all nice and chilly for its debut here at El Casa Móvil de Pennington.

Oh, one more thang... we bought food, too.  Life ain't all beer and skittles single-malts now, izzit? 

Added, somewhat later:  So... there I was, surfin and lookin' for reviews of JW Green, when I came across this:

Empty glass:

Interestingly when smelling the empty glass after letting it dry on the table for a while there is a sweet smell similar to marijuana.

I know this because I once had marijuana flavoured lollipop which smelled exactly like this only a little stronger.

Heh.  And, like Clinton, I'm sure our reviewer did NOT inhale (and it was a pot-flavored lollipop, besides).  We shall not wash our glass when we're done with ADWH tonight... and I'll be sure and get back to you on the "smells like pot" thang.  I'll know from whence I speak, too... coz, unlike the Big Dog, I most certainly DID inhale once upon a time.  But we don't do that any longer, Gentle Reader.  Our abstinence doesn't come from a sudden attack of morals or respect for dumb-ass laws; no, it's a matter of health.  My lungs, wracked with emphysema as they are, do not need any more tars or other foreign substances fouling up the airways. 

―:☺:―

I don't know what to make of this... 

Is that a Pro-Perry or Anti-Perry cartoon?  On the one hand, one could interpret this as Miss America likes Good Ol' Boys... macho-men... in the Oval Office instead of nerds (think: present occupant, who is a pseudo- or wanna-bee nerd).  OTOH, one could view this as "Mitt The Serious One" while Perry is just a Good Time Charlie.  One thing is certain, though... Mr. Holbert is a DamnYankee (all one word).  Nobody wears their Levis tucked into their boots... NO-Frickin'-BODY... except for foreign rock stars who don't know any better.

Tonight's ADWH Soundtrack

J.J. Cale:

I never drink in the afternoon
I never drink alone
Sure do like a drink or two
When I get home
Every evening, what I do
Is sit here in this chair
Pour myself some whiskey
Watch my troubles vanish into the air

Rollin'
rollin'
Ain't gonna worry no more
Rollin'
rollin'
Ain't gonna worry no more
 
Used to worry about gambling
Throwin' my money away
Used to worry about wastin' time
Layin' around the house all day
But I'm all right now
Yes I'm all right now
Never thought I'd make it
But I always do somehow

Heh.  Me and J.J. ... except for the fact that I DO drink in the afternoon and I DO drink alone.  Conventional wisdom has it you have a problem if you drink alone.  Well... fuck conventional wisdom.  That same conventional wisdom sez you're crazy if you talk to yourself but I do that too, because sometimes that's the only intelligent conversation I can get.  Same thing with drinkin' alone, only more so.

So there was that.  There was also this:

Oooh.  Alison Krauss and Union Station... just a pickin' and a grinnin'... and doin' a damned fine job of it, too.

We were ALL over the musical map tonight, Gentle Reader.

Gettin' My Fix

It's a beautiful day in the Hub City and we are enjoying all the Starbucks we can slurp down, surreptitiously checking out the bookstore wimmen (my favorite kind... I love literati types) (said wimmens are also surreptitiously checking ME out), all while availing ourselves of B&N's free wi-fi... which enables us to make our blog-rounds even as we're over a hunnert miles from home.

Ain't America GREAT?

Heh

Can a cat be racist?

From the usual source.

―:☺:―

Off the grid...  I'll be spending the day over in Lubbock; The Green Hornet has a car doctor's appointment to get her windows fixed.  This is also why I'm posting at oh-dark-thirty.

Broadening Our Horizons XXVIII

Kinda-sorta, in that we do this Octoberfest thang every year around this time...

That's a Sammy Adams Octoberfest, about which one of the Bros has this to say:

T&M- Very malty, not overly sweet. Lots of bready notes, lightly toasted crust comes to mind. Kiss of hops to balance, slight herbal flavor. Finishes semi-sweet with a lingering maltiness.

D- A tasty choice this year, its good to have a fresh O-fest rather than getting burned by a stale imported O-fest that has been sitting around since last year.

Yup... fresh.  And good.  That's the remnants of a Rocky Patel Decade you see idling in the ash tray.  The reason you see a remnant is we're just in from runnin' our errands depleting our bank account; we got a head start on the cigar thang while runnin' our errands for the comfort that was in it.  This buyin' new furniture might be fun for some people but I hate what it's doin' to my bank balance. 

I Wouldn't Qualify

As a matter of fact, I don't think I could queue up in any such line.  I mean... don't you have to subscribe, or sumthin'?  The best I can look forward to is comin' back as a goat.

From the Shoebox Blog, where I seem to getting a lot of my stuff of late.

Heroes

From the AFA Daily Report:

Air Force Special Operations Command recently released the names and pictures of the three airmen who were killed along with 22 other special operators, seven Afghans, and a civilian interpreter Aug. 6, 2011, when a CH-47 Chinook was shot down in the Maiden Wardak province in eastern Afghanistan. They are: pararescueman TSgt. John W. Brown, pararescueman TSgt. Daniel L. Zerbe, and combat controller SSgt. Andrew W. Harvell. All three airmen were assigned to the 24th Special Tactics Squadron at Pope Field, N.C.

The SEALs who were KIA received the lion's share of media attention when that helo went down in Afghanistan nearly two weeks ago, and we mean no disrespect by noting that fact.   The initial media reports I read and saw mentioned the dead SEALs and noted "other special operations personnel" had perished, as well.  Those other Special Operators included TSgts Brown and Zerbe and SSgt Harvell, all members of Air Force Special Operations Command.

The Air Force deploys its Special Operators alongside combat teams in contact with the enemy, most notably its combat controllers.  But it's the pararescuemen (PJs) that are arguably the toughest of all USAF Special Operators, mainly because they're the ones who fly low and slow into hot zones to rescue downed pilots and evacuate wounded soldiers and Marines, often under heavy fire.  There are a lot of USAF pilots and naval aviators from the Vietnam era who owe their lives to PJs, and there are probably just as many soldiers and Marines who are thankful today for the combat controllers who call in the Warthogs (or other fast-movers) to take out jihadis in close contact.

RIP, Sergeants Brown, Zerbe, and Harvell.  Salute.

More here, including high-res photos of TSgt Zerbe, TSgt Brown, and SSgt Harvell.

I Know Some People Who Feel Like This

I might could be one of 'em... but there's that "executive experience" thang.

From the usual source.

Success

We put a deposit down on an apartment this afternoon... a place with two bedrooms (one of which will be my office), two baths, living room, kitchen, and service area... with stove, fridge, microwave, and washer/dryer furnished.  One of the better things about this apartment is it's new construction -- I'll be the first tenant, and how cool is that? 

Here are a few nasty phone pics:

 The kitchen, the sink goes in between the dark cabinets

 Two units of four apartments apiece.

 I'll be in the end unit on the left.

The view from the front yard... a big-ass empty lot which prolly won't be empty long.

There will be a carport in front of each unit, which explains the units' significant set-back from the street.  There's also a covered porch that runs along the length of the front of the buildings, with each unit's porch separated by a privacy wall.  That might be the location where Happy Hour takes place, but there's a downside to that.  I'll be right IN town once I move in here, so those brilliant night skies I experience in Darkness On The Edge o' Town (aka Beautiful La Hacienda Trailer Park) won't exist any longer.  Sigh... it's always sumthin', innit?

Oh... one more thing.  My move-in date is sometime around the middle of next month and no one is subsidizing my rent except me.  That's a good thing.

A Sight Seldom Seen

We're typically blessed with low humidity here on The High Plains O' New Mexico, most often in the single digit range.  But not today, Gentle Reader.  Witness:

That would be our cool, cool glass o' Samuel Adams Summer Ale (life size!), graced with a substantial amount o' condensation.  We have condensation because our humidity is hovering just below 50%... a direct result of the two hours of steady gentle rain we experienced late last night... which left Beautiful La Hacienda Trailer Park with oodles of puddles, the likes o' which we haven't seen in quite some time.  And we're lovin' it, of course.

That said, we took our first round this afternoon in the shade of El Casa Móvil de Pennington's awning but have since elected to return indoors to cool air-conditioned splendor, now that the heat o' the day is upon us.  Some of you may laugh but 85 degrees and 50% relative humidity has a wearing effect on my poor ol' body.  We are admittedly soft in our Old Age but it is what it is, no?

What a Dog...

Ms. Beagle ain't the worst o' the bunch.  And no, I was NOT window shopping.  So to speak.  Down, Girl... DOWN!

Heh

Wait.  What's that fool's cap doin' in there?  Palin ain't in yet.

From the Usual Source.

I've Been Webified

So... you upgrade to Firefox 6.0, take this stupid lil quiz (and it most certainly has the dumbest questions I've seen lately), and FF generates a collage that is supposed to represent Your Web.  Here's mine:

And here's a link to the image above.  You can mouse over the icons and get suck-up messages that tell you how great you are... or rather how great I am, if you chase the link.  Like this:

My Wall?  Aiiieee!  Please.  That would be my Stream, thankyaverymuch.

Another Danged Re-Run

Blog-Bud Jim opened up a post today with a Google Earth screen-shot of his old neighborhood and then launched into one of his nostalgic posts about growing up in Bawston.  I use "nostalgic" in the best possible sense, which is your cue to get on over there and read... if you haven't already.

No, wait.  Read this before you go... it's a three year old re-run and features Google Earth Screen-shots of one of my boyhood homes, along with thumbnail sketches of the adventures Young Bucky Pennington and his two sidekicks... Tommy Wallace and Skipper Amey, fellow military brats... had while growing up and cut loose amongst the Parisians.  Like this:

One of My Boyhood Homes

I got this idea from another blogger, who posted Google Earth pics of the street where she grew up… as background to one of the strangest dream stories I’ve read in quite a while. The idea, such as it is, that occurred to me was “could I even remember the addresses of my childhood homes, and if so, would the house(s) still be there?”

Well… I remembered two addresses right away, the first being “3 Rue Mozart, Sceaux, Seine, France.” This is the house my parents and I lived in for about three years, give or take a couple of months. My father was stationed in downtown Paris… in a small non-descript sort of building on Avenue Kléber, just a stone’s throw from the Etoile, aka L’Arc de Triomphe. His workplace was in keeping with his mission, as he was in the USAF’s Office of Special Investigations (OSI). His building was actually an apartment house, and there were no signs or other indicators that the building was an Air Force installation. “Air Force office” would probably be a more appropriate term than installation, come to think on it. But, I’m digressing. What my father did has no bearing on what we’re on about here, other than the fact his being stationed in Paris was why I was in Paris. But, then again, that’s everything, ain’t it?

So… what you see in these Google Earth screenshots (as always, click for larger) are…

Metropolitan Paris.

You can see a placemark over my neighborhood, which was on the south side of the city. The actual city of Paris is within the boundaries of the ring road, which is quite visible in the screen shot. I went to school at Orly Field, which you can see in the lower right quadrant of the screenshot. I lived in Sceaux, but one street over was the village of Bourg-La-Reine, which was where the metro stop was. More on that, in a moment.

Second: My neighborhood.

Sceaux and Bourg-La-Reine.

The salient feature of the neighborhood is the Parc de Sceaux, which I’ve talked about a little bit here. The park is quite large, as you can tell from the screen shot, and was only about a six minute bike ride from my front door. I spent many, many hours riding my bike through that park and playing “cowboys and Indians” sorts of games… which were mostly Americans vs. Germans, Big Bang Two style. Keep in mind, this is around 1955 or so, and World War II wasn’t something a kid read about in history books. World War II was recent history back then and my father, and all my friends’ fathers, fought in it. There was also physical evidence of the war that hadn’t been cleaned up completely in the intervening ten years. Not so much in Paris, which was relatively unscathed by the war, but certainly visible in London (where we’d moved from) and MOST certainly visible in Germany, where the family vacationed. Digressions ‘R’ Us…

And finally: the house I lived in:

3 Rue Mozart, Sceaux. Second house on the left, with the three cars parked in front.

The amazing thing…for me… is that I recognize the street quite well. Even MORE amazing is the fact the vacant lot across the street from my house is STILL vacant, even though 50+ years have passed. That “vacant lot” isn’t as vacant as it seems, or at least it wasn’t when I was a child. The lot is (or was) actually a very large garden, with vegetables and fruit trees, and it looks like the garden is still tended today. The garden was owned and tended by my boyhood friend Christian’s grandparents when I lived on Rue Mozart, and my family was the recipient of a lot of goodies that came out of that garden.

Christian, a young French boy my age, was one of my partners in crime. My two other closest friends, Tommy Wallace and Skipper Amey, were the sons of US military families that lived in the area… and there were only three such families, including my own.

I mentioned above that I would say more about Le Metro. The metro was my friends’ and my ticket out of the ‘burbs and into The City. Now, being as how we…all of us boys… were only ten years old, we had limits placed upon us by our parents. We were free to ride our bikes all over the neighborhood(s), and were allowed to venture as far as the Parc de Sceaux. Everything else was “off limits.” But… we were boys. Very imaginative and a lil bit daring boys, too. Tommy, Skipper, and I figured out how to read the metro maps, locate the places we wanted to go (this being our favorite destination), save money from our allowances for train tickets, and actually travel into the city for the day… and get home by mid-afternoon. Without ever being caught. Which we did about once a month throughout my final summer in Paris. Years later I told my parents about our adventures and they were suitably horrified. Well, Mom was, anyway. Dad just kinda smiled a little bit, and I can’t help but feel he thought “That’s my boy!” But he would never have said something like that in front of Mom. And he would of beat the livin’ daylights out of me, had I been caught back then. But, Hey!  I wasn’t.  Caught.

Those clandestine trips into Paris are the things I remember most about living there. There are other things, true, but one never forgets one’s very first taste of independence, no?

 I think Google Earth is one of the coolest things about these here inter-tubes.