Wednesday, November 3, 2010

Erection Day

ZOMG!1! I meant to write "Election Day" but for some reason I'm writing with a comically stereotypical Asian accent this morning.

Teh 'Bride and I had off yesterday day because it was election day so we went out and voted1.

Now that baseball season is over (Congrats to the SF Trannies and their #1 fan!1!), I've got a bit more time on my hands to do stuff that had been getting short shrift earlier, such as reading. So yesterday, even though, in addition to voting, I brewed a bock beer; went to the Home Despot (Motto: "Don't buy what you want; buy what I fucking tell you to buy, maggot!1!") to get salt for our water purification system; did various chores around the house; ran 9.42 miles2 — even though I did all that, I still managed to read like 50 pages of the book I'm currently reading.

That book, by the way, is The Disappearing Spoon, which is a book about the periodic table but that I'm pretty sure I've fatuously told more than one person is about the periodical table, because, what with me being a librarian and all, I have a difficult time saying periodic without unthinkingly adding -al. And if you don't know the difference between the two, please never send me a magazine subscription through the mail.

Anyroad, Teh Disappearing Spoon is one of those popular science titles that I occasionally pick up in my never-ending battle against my science-ignorance, a battle that never ends precisely because these stupid fucking popular science books never really enlighten me much because they're either not really about the science (TDS is not exactly a chemistry textbook; more like a collection of gossipy anecdotes about the periodic table and the men and women who loved it); or, if they are about the science, I'm too fucking3 thick-skulled to understand what they're saying, even when it's dumbed down. For example, I loved Brian Greene's The Elegant Universe and The Fabric of the Cosmos but if you asked me to say something meaningful — just one fumigant thing — about either, I'd be hard-pressed to do so; because just as one concept is kinda-sorta taking hold in my head, another comes along and pushes that first one out, which is essentially the Story of My and Science's Life-Long Love-Hate Relationship. O, Science! Will you ever let me get past second base with you? I'd still call you in the morning4!

So this 5-month gap between the end of the World Series and the beginning of the new baseball season is the perfect time for me to start my Rdng Shxpr5 project. I have a few books still on my night table that I have to get through, but once I do, it'll be Shakespeare time, baby! Possibly as early as the end of this month.

No promises.
I signed up for a 5K on 11/14 and my town's Turkey Trot (also 5k) on Thxgvg Dy.
1 If it had actually been Erection Day, we'd've stayed home and ... done something else (that's what she said ... but by "something else" she meant clean the bathrooms!)

2 In 1:27:40; pace: 9:18; average mph: 6.5. I neither like nor dislike these numbers. I went out expecting to run no more than six, six-and-a-half miles, but it was a nice, cool, sunny day, so I improvised and even though I knew I was getting close to running 10 miles, which I'd've liked to do, I wasn't sure how close, so I just brought it on home where I learned that if I'd just run for maybe 5 minutes more, I'd've made it to 10 miles. O, well. 9.42 miles is still a pretty good start for the month, and I should have no problem getting to 100 miles for the month and, if I do that, 1000 for the year. I'm currently at 912.53, and even if I have an off-month in November, I should have little problem getting to 1000 early in December.

Barring, that is, catastrophic circumstances beyond my control, such as a running-ending injury of some sort. For let us not forget what Thomas Hardy reminded us of in his poem, "The Convergence of the Twain": While vainglorious man is busily constructing his "unsinkable" Titanic, God's in His heaven assiduously constructing His iceberg, the existence of which vainglorious man wots not of. (Technically? I think God may have constructed the iceberg waaay before man did the Titanic. So Hardy got that part wrong.)

And so my obvious point here is that if I don't make it to 1000 miles for the year, it will be the Greatest Catastrophe Known to Man since the Sinking of the Titanic. But even if that happens, even if I don't get to 1000 for the year ... My Heart Will Go On ... unless the injury turns out to be something like spontaneous heart-combustion. In that case, My N*ts@ck Will Go On. Because what are the chances I'd get spontaneous heart-combustion and spontaneous n*ts@ck-combustion? Pffttt! Like, nil.

3 Okay, explain this to me:

What is Blogger, coy, or something? Because, incompetent typist that I am, I originally misspelt "fucking" above, thus: "fuckign". And Blogger (working, I suppose, in conjunction with my Mac's dictionary? I guess?) realized this was a misspelling, and made the following suggestions:

"Fumigant"? Really?

Okay, so Blogger (and my Mac) are both pretending they don't even know the word "fucking", because they don't even suggest that obvious alternative; getting all, Such language! O, my virgin microprocessor! But here's the thing:

If you change "fuckign" to "fucking", Blogger (and the Mac) do NOT underline the latter in red and thereby designate it a misspelling, and here's the proof:

So you do know the word "fucking", Blogger and Mac! But you still want me to call myself "fumigant thick-skulled"?

Fumigant PRUDES!1!

4 Full Disclosure: What I'll call you is: A Whoo-wer!1!

5 There are six authenticated William Shakespeare signatures in existence. In none of them does he sign his name "Shakespeare"; that spelling is merely the one everyone has agreed on5a. I was told once, long ago, that one of the spellings Teh Bard himself used was "Shxpr", which tickled me, for some reason, probably the fact that he didn't even stop to use a vowel, and so I took to using that one myself a lot, and I even have my TypeIt4Me utility on my Mac at home set up to expand "Shxpr" into "Shakespeare", if I so desire. Sadly, it turns out not to be true that Shxpr ever signed his name that way ... that we know of. You'll find his name spelled that way passim, in documents of the time, but not by Shakespeare himself. But I refuse to let go of this spelling because I'm perverse.

5a The various spellings: Willm Shakp, William Shaksper, Wm Shakspe, William Shakspere, Willm Shakspere, and William Shakspeare. "Shakp" is good, but it has that vowel and ... no "x"! Face it, it's no "Shxpr"! Not by a long shot.

Tuesday, June 22, 2010

Beer Update

It's been a while since I tried your collective patience with a beer post. Lately, my Irritant-Topic of Choice has been Teh Who, hasn't it? But I've bludgeoned you over the head with them enough lately, don't you think? So now it's time to post regarding something else most of you care equally little about, viz., beer.

As many of you know, I like beer. Um ... perhaps "like" is not a strong enough term. But I'll keep it at "like" because I prefer to play hard to get with beer.

O, who am I kidding! Beer knows I am a total whoo-wer for it and would do whatever it asked. What's that, beer? Lap you up like a dog while wearing a spiked collar, you say? O, beer! You had me at "lap"1!

Anyroad, for my birthday, Teh 'Bride got me a subscription to this magazine called Beer Traveler. I have been busy of late and have not had a chance to peruse it, and already I've received two issues, so this morning I grabbed Issue One and started reading a random article — which turned out to be "Travel By Style: Making your way around the world with the help of beer2".

The article starts off with the city of Munich (whose name, incidentally and relevantly — wait and you'll see why — is derived from an Old German word for "monk") and talks about Doppelbock beer. It seems this style was created by the Paulaner monks to sustain them during Advent and Lent when they were, by directive of their particular Order, restricted to a liquid diet3. And but so, the beer was very hardy and did its job keeping those pudgy baldy-heads alive, but the monks, being Catholic and therefore all I'm Not Worthy of Such A Good Thing Especially During Lent When I Should Be Wearing a Hair Shirt And Being Kicked Regularly in Teh N*ts@ck, were concerned that the beer was too good and therefore necessarily sinful.

So what's a monk to do?

Well they sent a cask to Teh Pope, who always gets his cut anyway, to get his take on the beer. Would he give his blessing? or was the beer too worldly and self-indulgent?

But it seems the cask took awhile to get Popewards and all the doppelbock-y goodness pretty much leached away on the trip. So the Pope gets the cask, takes a sip, and sez, "You guys were worried about this piss being too good? Pffftt! Tastes like fucking Budweiser! Go ahead — drink all you want. In heaven there is no beer — but in hell, I'll bet there's just tons of this shit!"4

And that is why Teh Pope is infallible only on questions of faith and morals, but not on questions of beer, because, historically, the Popes have been a bit fucktarded on the issue of beer, although this Ratzinger dude looks like he's hoisted a few in his day.

I also learned from this article that Vienna beers are called Wiener beers. O, beer! Why must you humiliate me by making me admit publicly that I would gladly drink a good, stiff Wiener?
But the Pope is not the only one who fucks up where beer is concerned. Because there's also — WAIT FOR IT!1! — ... me. Yes, me, Glaven Quetzalcoatl Heisenberg.

You see, the place I order my beer supplies from, Midwest Supplies, recently changed their web site. And so a few weeks ago, I realized I was running low on beer, so I went there to order a couple-three kits.

But because of the new site design, I couldn't find the malted-grain kits right off and I ended up accidentally ordering kits that are all-grain ... meaning the grain has not yet been malted. I didn't even realize this until the kits arrived. I open the first one and I'm thinking What the ...? And I see it's all grain, and I'm thinking they, the place, fucked the order up.

But then all three turned out to be entirely unmalted grain, and it dawns on me that there's definitely been a fuck-up, all right, but I'm starting to suspect the person responsible for it lives closer to home. In fact ... he's in the house right now!1! RUN!1! BUT SAVE TEH BEER!1!1!!!!1

Now, some home brewers are hardcore enough to malt their own grains, but I'm not. I wouldn't even know where to begin with that.

So I called the place and asked if I could return the grains. It was worth a shot. Grains are perishable, though, so there was, understandably, a No Returns policy on them. But the guy said he could send me the malt for those same kits, since all the other stuff - the yeast, the hops, etc. - was still good.

Of course, by this time, I'd already re-ordered three malt kits.

So I ended up with SIX kits ... but with brewing equipment sufficient to brew only THREE at a time. I've brewed up two already and hope to get a third done before we leave on vacation in two days.

Then, when those three are bottled, I'll have to set aside a day for an all-day brew-a-thon.

Luckily, I'll have enough beer ready to get me through the ordeal.
1 Teh Lap being also teh site of the n*ts@ck, is why.

2 O, Beer! Now you are my navigator? Is there anything you can't do?

3 Which, whilst harsh, is better than a Diet of Worms.

4 Direct quote. Less shocking when you realize this is, after all, Pope Pottymouth II we're talking about here. Originally, he was going to be named Pope Benedict, but every time they tried to call him that he ended up getting all Beavis-y and saying, "Heh-heh! You said, 'dicked'!"