Seven Months and Four Days Later

On New Years Day, I made the pledge to write more this year than last. Twelve days later, I met a girl and all of that fell apart. Six months after that, so did everything else. And now, on the fourth day of August, 2009, I feel as though I have finally picked myself up enough to put thoughts to words once again, and to try and make some sense of it all. Christ, what a year it's been.

Without getting into too much detail, I met this girl (who I will henceforth refer to as AP) at Nectar's on Monday, January 12, and I was crazy about her immediately, and within a week I was calling her my girlfriend. She met my family on St. Patrick's Day, and they instantly accepted her as one of their own. We spent most nights and available days together, and spoke on the phone constantly while apart. We watched movies and tried new beers together. We celebrated our birthdays together, with my gift to her being her first ever taste of lobster. We played catch. We played Scattergories and Scrabble and Gin Rummy. We skied together at Stowe and Sugarbush, and then partied late night with the locals. We went to Thunder Road and let out our inner rednecks together. I got her tickets to a sold-out Wailers show at Higher Ground, because I knew of her love for Bob Marley, and we went to see P-Funk because of my love for George Clinton (who we got to meet backstage, and who gave AP a big, wet kiss on the cheek in exchange for a small amount of my pot--she was sick afterwords for ten days). We went to Albany to see the remaining members of the Grateful Dead, and then to Boston to see Phish at Fenway Park, where I gave her her first ever dose of LSD. We even saw Touchpants together. It was perfect.

Or so it seemed. Looking back, I now see all the obvious cracks and fractures that I tried so hard to deny, and it's clear to me (in hindsight) it was never meant to be. She was seven years younger than me, and stuck in the mentality of the high school cheerleading captain that she was three years prior. She worked in a deli two days a week, getting paid under the table so she could still collect unemployment, and slept most days until two. She hated to be called lazy. She drank vodka by herself and snorted Vicodin out of boredom, but hated that I smoke pot. She wanted to get back on Prozac, and was offended when I suggested something more natural, like sunlight or exercise. She hated my car, but loved her Volkswagen more than anything. She hated my apartment, but hated it even more when I would comment on hers (she lived in a room without windows in the same house as her mother, along with four other people). She never wanted to do anything where drinking wasn't involved, and was openly offended when I suggested she might have a problem. She hated when I pointed out the obvious, and she loved to call me a hypocrite. But oh! I ignored it all, and I loved her just the same.

And then six months later, the bottom fell out. We were downtown for Burlington's Independence Day celebration and fireworks, and had a heated argument on Church Street over whose fault it was that we arrived too late to have dinner at Three Tomatoes; mine for taking too long to get beer, or hers for showing up at my house an hour later than she was supposed to. We ended up watching the fireworks separately and alone, in the rain, and then met up at Club Metronome later that night to drink beer and make good as though nothing had happened. As it turned out, though, she was giving her number out to random guys that night, and got so drunk that she got us both kicked out of the club. Once we were outside, she was picked up by the BPD for being so belligerent, and they thankfully gave her and I a ride to my house rather than tossing her into detox for the night. In the end: My fault for buying her that last shot of whiskey, because I should have known better.

A week later, we were supposed to go see Ween at Burlington's Waterfront Park for the Lake Champlain Quadracentennial Celebration, but we had another nasty argument the day before when she tried to blame something on me that was clearly her fault (I don't remember what, but it was clearly something stupid, and not worth arguing over). She told me that I should go to Ween by myself, which I did, and I found out two days later that she had a new boyfriend named Chad. This is when it all fell apart.

This all happened shortly after my car died (the water pump went 400 miles after hitting 200,000), which happened the same day that Michael Jackson and Farrah Fawcett died, and the day after Ed McMahon died. As if that wasn't depressing enough, I left my backpack in my cousin Rick's car, with my wallet in it, and when I went to call him to tell him, I dropped my phone in the toilet, killing it, too. Not only was I now without a phone, wallet, girlfriend or a car, but I had also lost everyone's phone number, because in this age of cell phones I don't actually know anyone's phone number except my mother and one of my two brothers. See also: Rock Bottom.

This all occurred in late June and early July, and it has taken me until now, August 4, to finally pick myself up enough to write about it. Where January through June was filled with so much bliss and denial that I never had time to write, July was filled with so much gloom and depression that I didn't want to do anything except sleep, which really has turned me into the hypocrite that AP so desperately loved to call me. On the flip side, though, I haven't drank or smoked in almost two weeks, and riding my bike back and forth to work for the past 6 weeks has been a blessing in disguise, I'm sure, but what that blessing is I still haven't quite found out. I hate it, and I hope to Jah that I find a car soon. Wish me luck....

By the way...Happy 48th Birthday to President Obama, who continues to run circles like a caged hamster on a wheel, trying so desperately to get us out of this mess that seems more and more likely to be inescapable. These are tough times we're in right now, for sure, and my poor little broken heart suddenly seems like spilled milk in comparison. Woe is me.

Two Thousand and Nine

Here we are, on the first day of the year, and one of my many resolutions has been to write more. Like most others, though, one can only expect so much. A lot has changed since the last time I sat down to write, foremost being that I have moved. I no longer live in those prison-like conditions of a rented room in a total strangers apartment, along with her ballistic four year old son, and right before I left her brand new boyfriend ''B'' moved in, because he was under house arrest for selling cocaine and needed a house. So it goes. I now live in Burlington Proper, on the cusp of the New North End and the its older counterpart, and share a three bedroom apartment on Convent Square with my friend Christina; the spare room is for Haley when she comes over. Its the first time in over three years that Ive had a place to comfortably sit on the couch and feel at home, and its only fitting that its on a one-way street lined almost entirely with DayGlo houses from purple to yellow and blue and green, and with a roommate I've known for years. For what it's worth, ours is the bright blue house on the left....

More later.

Hey Mister Can You Spare Some Change?

My my, how things have changed over the past couple months. I've been putting off the writing of this....post? column? essay? entry? what are these things called?...but I've been stalling myself on this installment for sheer fact that I have had no idea where to start, and as soon as I would get an idea in my head another gigantic asteroid would crash into the planet, changing the whole story all over again. As my personal life continues to chug at it's typically abnormal pace, the entire world around me is changing at such astronomical rates that I can't even keep up with all the crazy stories and updates. But ho ho! These sure are fun times we're seeing right now...

The DOW dropped 733 points again today, ending at just over 8500. Three days ago, Monday, it rocketed 936 points to close at just under 9400, after dipping as far as 7882 in the early morning hours of last Friday. One year ago to the day, it sat somewhere around 14,000. The word 'crash' comes to mind. This, of course, comes just days after George Bush decided that we taxpayers needed to pay almost a trillion dollars out of our pockets to bail out the likes of Lehman Brothers and AIG--two of the world's largest investment firms that have since collapsed--because they were "too big to fail. " The mindset, of course, was to keep the already-sinking economy afloat, but this bailout has clearly become a $700 Billion dollar gamble gone horrible wrong.

That's just a piece of the story, though. I suppose it could be traced back indefinitely, but just to get caught up, I'll go back to June 3, when Barack Obama officially beat Hillary Clinton in their bids for the Democratic Nomination. Two days later, Hillary conceded and withdrew from the race via email at 2am EST, setting the stage for what has since turned into a no holds barred round of Obama v McCain, with the old man getting dirtier and nastier and far more tired by the minute, and getting his privileged and pampered (ha!) ass kicked from every single direction. It's almost sad, really, to watch a 72 year old war hero this excited and this badly beat at the same time, but I still watch.

Skipping ahead to August 23, when Obama sent out a much-anticipated text message declaring Senator Joe Biden of Delaware as his running mate. Biden, who was born in 1942 [see also: Not Quite Perfect], was elected as the youngest US Senator in history in 1972, and now ranks sixth in longest running terms. An early contender for the Presidency this year, Biden dropped out in January, the same day that Obama won in Iowa, and has maintained a very low profile since. Two days later, the DEM-CON opened in Denver, with Obama becoming the first African American to be nominated by a major party in US History. On the 28th, he accepted that nomination in a HUGE speech at the Mile High Stadium, which drew over 84,000 people and was watched at home by nearly 40 million, plus the millions of viewings on YouTube. It truely was epic, and I try not to toss that word around often.

The next day, John McCain retaliated as only a delusional old man would: He introduced the world to Sarah Palin.....

more later....

Beer Month 2008

Since June crashed through like a Gulf Coast hurricane, I vowed long before Independence Day that July was going to be a “work month,” if for nothing else than to let me catch my breath and maybe even save up a few dollars. And so it was, except for the parts about catching my breath and saving money, because both are merely a farce at this point, so why even bother? But oh! July sure was a “work month” indeed, with four solid weeks of living and working and learning more about beer than I ever thought my fractured brain was capable of learning, and I even managed to retain some it as well. Imagine that.

With a bare minimum of 40 hours a week (but usually closer to 50) being spent inside The Brewery, and at least that many being spent at the other end of the line drinking different beers at different pubs with different people throughout Burlington and beyond, and then moonlighting once a week to mix drinks and pull pints at The Pub in Waitsfield, one doesn’t have think far nor wide to see that the overwhelming theme of my existence right now is beer—sweet, delicious beer—and perfectly so. Do what you love, right? The month of July, though, was in fact a Beer Month like none other, ever. I spent most of its 31 days tired, stressed, overworked, and bloated, but always with a beer in my hand and the payoff at the end was greater than anything you or I could have ever imagined to come out of four short weeks, and holy shit I learned a lot.

When it was all said and done, I somehow felt like I was part of a really big thing, at a really important time, and sitting very comfortably in a very coveted chair. I'm still not sure how it happened, but I really did fall into a good thing when this job fell out of nowhere and into my front pocket eight months ago, and now that I know what I’m doing with some solid level of confidence, I now feel and appreciate the pride that this job had quietly promised and certainly delivered. And, most of my bills are paid, too.

The first day of July was indeed a day of celebration in the world of Vermont Beer, and a great way to kick off what will forever be known as “Beer Month 2008.” With the governor’s long-awaited signature finally getting inked onto a piece of legislation known simply as H.94, the state’s longstanding ABV limit of 8 per-cent for retail beer sale had officially been doubled, by law, to 16 per-cent, stirring up a whole new wave of “strong beers” that could now be bought at gas stations and grocery stores throughout the state--as opposed to being strictly regulated and limited to state liquor outlets only--as well as on tap at all pubs and bars, too. For long-spoiled beer snobs like myself, this was only part of the newfound excitement, as H.94 also meant that Vermont brewers could finally begin the collective pilgrimage into making strong beers of our own, with this new frontier opening up just as my own beer journey was beginning; the timing couldn’t have been any more perfect, in fact.

Of course, this timing also came perfectly aligned with the sixteenth annual Vermont Brewers Festival, which was still three weeks away but just time enough for the likes of The Boss to whip up something strong and new and different, because we could, and to have it come out of the tanks and into the kegs just in time for the Brew Fest. We decided for fore go this newfound Freedom of Excess, though, and instead made one 15 BBL batch of our long-awaited porter, which was brewed on Father’s Day and carried an ABV of “only” 5.6. We only brewed 15 Barrels because it was supposed to be a test run only, with all but a few small samples being dumped down the drain upon completion, but the end product was so smooth and impressive that we put most of it in kegs and stashed them in the cooler to bring with us to the Festival, where we would also be pouring the final remnants of The Red along with the flagship Ale. Many other Vermont breweries, though, decided to go for the top prize of absurdly strong beers, because they could, with Harpoon taking home the gold with a fourteen-point-something per-cent wheat wine, which was think and black and strong and harder to sip than bourbon. As novel as all these new strong beers were, I personally feel that anything over 9 is too much, and no longer pleasant. Hell, even 9 is a lot.

Following the opening night of festivities, Friday, all brewers were openly invited to a private gig in the parking lot behind the VPB, with the mutual and quiet understanding that each bring with them a little something special from their respective brewery, for all to taste and discuss. With a one-liter flip-top of The Porter in hand, I joined two of my coworkers and my cousin Mike—who packages once a week for another highly regarded Vermont brewery—to the parking lot, and found a small roped off area in the middle of the lot, with a picnic table covered with more than a hundred brown bottles and glass growlers, each presumable filled with something I’d never before heard of, let alone tried. I was already quite buzzed from my free reign at the Festival, so I can only hardly remember what I tried from that immense picnic table of choices, but I do remember the ourstanding highlights being a Maple Bock from friend’s friend in The Valley, and a “Bière à l’abinthe” from Quebec, the latter of which I stuffed into my coat to bring home for later.

In the weeks and days leading up to the Brew Fest, though, when most other brewers in the state were getting ready to transfer their new, strong beers from fermenters to bright beer tanks and then into kegs, we at The Brewery were still trying to get our new tanks all hooked up, online and full of beer. and then somehow worked into the brew- and pitch-schedules. Actually, it’s incredibly unfair for me to say “we,” as I had absolutely nothing to do with any part of this, but instead spent more and more time in the BrewHouse, getting more and more comfortable with the Lauter Tun and Kettle, and all the knobs, dials, valves and lines in between. By month’s end, I was in the BrewHouse five days a week, cruising through my shift with fair levels of comfort, ease, and confidence, always with either a beer or an energy drink in my hand and always, ALWAYS, with good music playing loud—which in July happened to be a lot of Ween, Beatles, and Gov't Mule. But I digress.

Just before Brewfest weekend, as it was, we had double batches brewed into tanks 16, 17 and 18, our three new fermenters respectively, each holding 30 BBL of new beer and each representing a new $6000 invoice at the end of every three-week cycle. The Boss, of course, was as happy as the other five of us were proud, and why shouldn’t we be? In a time of overall financial catastrophe in this country, any degree of success and expansion is certainly worth pride and celebration indeed. On the Monday after Brew Fest, though, just as things were beginning to feel normal again, the door gasket slipped on Tank 3—one of the old, original four--shooting 900 gallons of pressurized beer in every direction, with every one of us stopping what we were doing to watch as $6000 worth of beer quite literally washed down the drain. The Boss, still noticeably fatigued from a long weekend at the Brew Fest, sat on the crossbars at the feet of Tank 5, his face sunk into his hands, and quietly muttered “I’ve dreamed about this day.” We were all very quiet, and just stood and watched in bewilderment and awe.

Of course, the blood was on my hands, so to speak, as I was the one who brewed into Tank 3, and therefore the one who put the gasket on the door. The Boss, though, always the one to reassure, stated point plank that gaskets are either on or off, and that there is no way for me to “put it on wrong.” He assured us all that the gasket (a silicone one as opposed to rubber, as were all of the rest) had simply slipped, that no one was directly to blame, and that the only thing to do from here was to clean up and carry on. I still couldn’t help but feel awful about the situation, though, so after work I decided to take my mind off things by driving to Essex and trying to sneak into the highly coveted Elton John show at the fairgrounds.

Having just had a Ben & Jerry’s flavor named in his favor—“Goodbye Yellow Brickle Road—this seemingly random outdoors show at an empty fairground in Vermont was also special to the British pop star in another way as well. Much like President Bush [sic!], Sir Elton had visited and performed in each of the other 49 states, but not yet Vermont. With the completion of this show, on a warm, starry night in Essex Junction, a very major milestone would have been reached, so I imagine that the Rocket Man himself was just as excited as everyone in the crowd who paid $135 to see him that night, including my mother, uncle, sister-in-law and brother, as well as those of us who got in for free.

Always being one to create my own absurd challenges, I decided to drive to Essex and see if I could somehow finagle a way to get through the gate without paying, if for nothing else than to say that I did so. I figured that security would be tight and my chances dark, though, but knew full well that I would at least walk away with a good story about getting caught trying to sneak into an Elton John concert. When I got the first gate, I asked if there were still tickets available, because if there were then I would be far more likely to get a cheap or free one from a scalper. If it was indeed sold out, though, any extra tickets people might have would surely go fast, and at full face value.

There were tickets available at the window, the woman said, and she gave me a voucher to get through the first gate, where tickets were being checked but not yet torn. Before going in, though, I ran back to my car (parked a half-mile away outside the Backstage Pub) to grab my camera and a hoodie, and then walked back through the first gate as though I had actually intended on dropping $135 for a ticket. Once inside, though, I found myself amongst the food vendors and inside the beer tent, where I was fully content on staying for night and simply listening to the show for free as opposed to paying a lot of money for a far off view. And, it was far less crowded out here, too.

When I ordered my first beer—an IPA from New Hampshire—the bartender told me that the tent would be closing as soon as the music starts, which was scheduled to happen any minute now. I immediately ordered a second beer, and then double-fisted through the crowd while looking for any level of familiar faces. I drank my two beers as fast as I could, and then quickly ran back for another round while I still could. This time, though, I saw my visibly drunk brother in the line ahead of me, so I kicked the back of his knee to get his attention. He bought me a beer and we tapped our plastic cups together and offered each other a timely slainté before pulling ourselves away from the bar. The crowd inside the second gate erupted with applause, and the music began shortly thereafter. My brother pounded his beer and asked if I wanted a Vicodin for the show, which I gladly accepted and which he clumsily dropped on the ground for all to see. He laughed and said loudly “You dropped your Tylenol” or something to that effect, and then we exchanged laughs and high fives as he disappeared to go find his wife and our mother and uncle, who were somewhere inside the screaming mass of ticket holders within.

When I finished my second round of beers, I went back for another two only to get shot down by an out-of-breath bartender, who confirmed that they were indeed done. Instead, I wandered by the ticket window to see if there were any desperate scalpers trying to hock their extras in a last ditch effort before saying screw it and heading in, and found only one young-ish looking blond trying to get $50 for her one extra ticket. I told her that I didn’t have any money and planned to simply wander around out here and listen, and she gave me a skewed look as though she completely didn’t understand. I continued on, and went around the side of the bleachers to try and sneak a quick glimpse of the stage, and instead found myself in another beer tent, which was still open and virtually empty.

To my immediate surprise, I found the same bartender pouring drinks, still drenched in sweat and still out of breath, and I asked him how late this tent was staying open.

“I thought it’d be closed by now, but no one’s given us the word yet. You want two?”

I smiled and nodded without a word, and then pushed up to the fence with my two beers to get a sideways view of the stage and a clear wave of the music, and shortly others began to follow my lead. To the surprise of everyone, this second beer tent stayed open for the duration of the show, yet I continued to order and drink two at a time just in case. At some point late in the night, I saw the blond from earlier who tried to sell me her extra ticket, and I asked her if she sold it or ate it. When she said that she ate it, I asked if I could have the stub for my collection, to which she again shot me that confused look and exclaimed that it’s worthless to her, so why not. ZAM! Just like that, I had a free ticket.

I pounded my remaining beer and went to the gate into the grandstands, and asked the ticket ripper if they could let me in without ripping my stub so I could preserve it in semi-perfect condition.

“Nope, sorry sir. We have to rip every ticket. You can try one of the other gates, but I’m sure they’ll tell you the same thing.”

I tried the middle gate, where I got a straight up No, and then went to the third on the far end of the grandstand and pushed through aggressively with ticket held high, never stopping or slowing or asking anyone anything. So there I was, inside for free and with an unripped ticket, and so fall down drunk at this point that I didn’t know what else to do but continue pushing my luck and trying to get as far up front as I could. Again with aggression and with the mindset that I owned this entire fairground, I pushed onward and forward, and soon found myself in the forth row, just to the left of center, with some arrogant McCain-voting woman yelling at me that I didn’t belong here.

“We paid for these seats,” she kept yelling to me, but I simply ignored her and began snapping pictures as fast as I could. Her yelling got louder and louder, and when she shot her final, screeching “We PAID to be here and you didn't,” I shot back an equally arrogant “We ALL paid to be here,” which seemed to shut her up. The entire crowd then seemed to push forward at that very moment, and I suddenly found myself even closer to the stage, and now directly alongside Kevin Statesir, the owner of Higher Ground. Quite certain that he had seen or at least heard my confrontation with the bitch behind him, I said something to the effect of “I’m glad up here with you now,” to which he said something I could not decipher, but that I like to think was not negative. For the sake of my own peace of mind, let’s pretend that he was welcoming me to share his $135 seat, and encouraging me to continue taking as many pictures as I could. I assume, though, that this was not the case, but so it goes, and I even got a few decenet shots.

I don’t remember leaving the show, but I do remember being back at the Backstage Pub afterwards, with the bartender waking me up and telling me that I’m not allowed to sleep on the bar. I tried and failed to finish my beer, and instead asked the bartender if he could call me a cab back to Burlington. Much like the walk from the fairgrounds to the pub, the cab ride home was another forgotten blur, and when I got up at 630 the next morning to go to work, my car was still in Essex and I was still very much drunk. Within an hour, though, I would again be drinking beer, only this time for the true purpose of quality control, but also to subdue my impending hangover, which I knew full well was going to be a bad one. Beer, in more ways than one, had indeed kicked my ass, just as it had done all month long.

The rest of the month included a lot more overtime and a lot more beer, both on the clock and off, and a lot more building excitement for all the changes soon to come. The Brewery’s continual growth and expansion has thus far been perfectly aligned with that of the “small beer” industry, either by coincidence or otherwise, and this trend continues to be the case. Just as the papers were signed and ink still wet from our purchase of 1966 all-copper 60 BBL BrewHouse from somewhere in Germany, which is set to be upright and online by the start of the new year, the shattering announcement was made that Anheuiser Busch had been sold to some overseas company for roughly $70 per share, or somewhere around 60 BILLION dollars. This was just one more boost to our little beer seed and to the overall beer garden, with the shortage of hops in that garden not being nearly as severe as some have made it out to sound; if nothing else, it just means we'll all have to pay a little bit more for good beer. So it goes, right?

Independent

For the past 58 years, July 4 has marked not only the anniversary of American Independence, but also the anniversary of my mother's birth. And for as long as I can remember, July 4 has been spent every year at my Uncle Rick's house in Milton, where my entire paternal family would converge for beer, barbecue and swimming, and to catch up on all that has happened since this same event one year prior. Keeping in mind that my father had thirteen siblings, and many of them had three or more kids, and then our kids from previous marriages and second-cousins' brand-new wives and good friends and neighbors with no known relation whatsoever, one can easily imagine that this simple Forth of July pool party can and will quickly boil over into something quite different indeed, with a lot of names and faces to try and remember. In case you missed it, my family is large and Irish, and we sadly live up to the harsh but true stereotype of being lush drinkers, but oh! We have such good times because of it.

I had to work both jobs on Thursday, the third, and didn't get out of The Pub until long after midnight. When I was done and closed up, I had a few bottled beers and expensive glasses of Scotch for my "shift drink," and then headed up to the Hyde Away to meet my friend Becki, who was up from New York for the weekend with her friend Liz. They arrived very conspicuously in a red Mustang convertible around 11, and both were drunk and very loud by the time I got there around 12:30. I stayed and drank on the porch with them and others until long after the bar had closed at 2, and then drove one mile up Seventeen to my old apartment on Old Mansfield, where I had given prior notice that I would be staying for the night. I crashed on the couch until about 9 the next morning, when my old roommate Jenn woke me up with a packed bowl of weed and a half can of Red Bull, and then I followed her into town. I ditched my car at The Pub and hopped in with her, and then rode into Warren and up to the school via back roads to catch the "World Famous" Warren Parade.

Jenn had to help pour beers in the beer tent--which was being run exclusively by The Pub--so I showed up with her around 10 and kicked my morning into gear with a freezing cold Otter Creek Copper Ale to wash down that piss warm Red Bull. Good Morning, and Happy Forth, indeed! I went down the hill and into town to watch the parade, which was quite good and had deep, blatant political undertones, and then quickly made my way back to Rt. 100 to hitchhike back to my car in Waitsfield. My friend Jodan, whom I worked with in the kitchen at The Pub and who was home on vacation from Johnson and Wales Miami, was among the first to drive by, and within 10 minutes flat I was in my car and on my way to the pool party in Milton.

I showed up at Uncle Rick's just before two, and immediately grabbed a couple burgers, a bunch of salads and a Long Trail IPA, and by 4:20 I had already smoked with at least a half dozen friends and relatives. After giving myself a full half hour to let my food settle (lamest excuse ever!), I joined the kids in the pool for a couple hours to escape the heavy, heavy heat. After I was out and my shorts were mostly dry, I followed a caravan of about a dozen to my brother's house three miles away to continue the caravan of moderate-to-heavy drinking. Mom mom, brothers, in-laws, daughter, nieces and nephew and a couple cousins played horseshoes and built a hot and modest campfire, and took many trips to my brother's small shed to smoke herb. By dark, everyone had a solid buzz, and we were all asleep by 11.

During one of our many trips to the shed that night before passing out, though, my brother, ever the one to try and impress, took charge from my "Bike Week Sucked" rants and gave us a quick glimpse of what Laconia used to be like. Without even backing it from the shed, he fired up his new-to-him 2002 Harley Davidson 1450 "Deuce," and put on a five minute smoke show that drew many hoots and cheers from the kids and cousins, and looks of sheer disapproval from both his mother and his wife; he clearly pretended not to notice. It was the first time he had smoked the new bike, and he was beaming about it for the whole rest of the night.



I spent the next day nursing a could-be-worse hangover and laying low with my friend Victoria, and then had to work bright and early Sunday morning because we had to get our test run of Porter out of the tank and into kegs so we could clear up space for our heavily-demanded Flagship, which we still can't make enough of. When I got home around 3, I took a quick nap until about 6 and then headed downtown for the much-anticipated return of 90's punk-metal comedy troupe Green Jello, my favorite band by far when I was a prepubescent lad of about 13, after growing out of KISS and having not yet discovered Phish. Green Jello was the short-lived limbo between the two aforementioned obsessions, so you can imagine how taken aback I was when I saw the poster downtown advertising their gig at 242 Main, a room that holds about 70 people uncomfortably, and doesn't sell booze. My first thought was "tribute band," but figured I'd still go check it out regardless. After all, it was only $7.

But no! It was the real Moronic Dictator and the real Green Jelly, still having to commercialize themselves with a 'Y' due to a long-past lawsuit with Jello Brand Gelatin, but still calling referring to themselves both onstage and off with an 'O' because, simply, they are Green Jello. I showed up around 6 for the advertised 7pm show, and found heavy irony in the large, sleek tourbus parked out behind 242, and knew immediately that it had to belong to Jello. The last 'big name' show at 242 was probably a hardcore Vanilla Ice in 1999, also a show that I was at, but the crowd for that outpassed 242's capacity, so they set him up in the basement of Memorial Aud next door, in the area that is usually the beer tent for bigger shows. Strange, indeed, and I hoped the same wouldn't happen tonight.

I did a quick walk-by at the bus to see if anyone was hanging out that I could ask about a photo pass, and as I walked by some dude with a shaved head--save for three blue braids right at the peak of his cone--bounced off the bus to greet another dude, who was riding up past me on a bike and wearing a pinkn one-piece, zip-up pajama suit with giant gorilla feet slippers, mirrored aviators and a can of Steel Reserve clutched in one hand as he unsteadily peddled up to the bus. Wow, I though. These guys really are fucked up. I should go say hi.

It didn't take long for me to figure out that Pink Pajamas was selling a bag of weed to the band, and that he was in no other way affiliated. I walked up just as the exchange was taking place, and neither showed much concern. Pajamas shot me a welcoming glare and said something about me looking like an undercover cop, and I quickly snapped back that that's only my part time gig. I was off duty, I said. Blue Braids looked at my black t-shirt with a long-faded head shot of George Carlin on it, and demanded that I tell him one of his jokes. Not missing a beat, I rattled off the line Why is it that most women who are against abortion are women you wouldn't want to fuck in the first place, and was immediately welcomed into their small circle, which now included a normal looking longhair who I would later learn is the guitarist.

After Pajamas chucked his half-full Steel pounder into a bush and fell backwards out of the circle, catching himself of the bus' mirror and spinning himself into the grill and bumper, I asked Braids if I was allowed to bring my camera into the gig. He said that it shouldn't be a problem, but that he'd get me a sticker as soon as "the man in charge" showed up. That, as I would also later learn, was "Moronic Dictator," Chris Green. A few more people slid out from inside the enormous bus and joined the circle, and within a few minutes a joint was rolled, lit, and being passed amongst us. Chris showed up in a cab and kept asking me where the nearest liquor store was, and I repeatedly gave directions to Pearl Street Beverage three blocks up Union Street. As far as I know, he never went, but Christ it was obvious that the man needed a drink.

Apparently, the show had only been booked a few days prior, and today was supposed to be one of their ultra-rare "nights off." But at $1000 a tank for gas in the bus, they openly admitted that they were literally playing for fuel money only, and this was indeed a super-budgeted tour in a super-massive tourbus. It was sadly ironic to think that this band had returned from the dead for the sole purpose of burning up diesel fuel, but sadly, that was my favorite activity when this band was big in the early 90s. Irony prevails.

As the band got things ready to head inside (there were 2 opening bands that night as well), I reminded Braids to ask Chris for a sticker, and he happily handed over a green, injet nametag with JELLO, MY NAME IS: written on it, and a large black Sharpie. I thanked them both and headed down to my car for my gear, but quickly detoured into Mr. Mike's Pizza for a beer and a shot instead. I ran into my friend Johnny Murphy and a couple of his friends from the coffee shop, and the four of us each drank a fast round of beers and an even faster round of Jamie shots, and then headed up the hill to 242 together. The walk took us directly past my car, so I grabbed my camera bag and stayed with them until we were inside, when I immediately pushed my way up front to get a good spot in the "photo pit" [see also: "mosh pit"]

Much like the lovable pop band GWAR, Green Jello also dresses up in absurd costumes to enhance their stage shows, but to a much different degree. Instead of 8-foot tall foam-rubber demon suits that squirt goo all over the crowd, the boys in Jello come out dressed as paper machet Jews, Cows, Chickens, and Elmo. And a carrot. And a Goat-Man thing. And then they choose someone from the crowd to don the infamous "shit suit" for the 1992 smash hit "Adventures of Shitman." Clearly a spectacle to behold, to say the least, and for a brief moment while I was sweating my balls off and being tossed around by moshers young and old, I almost felt bad for using that JELLO, MY NAME IS: sticker to get in for free, when it clearly wasn't meant for anything of the sort. Give me an opportunity to get into a show for free, though, and don't for a second expect me to pay.
They played for about an hour and half, with a 50-50 mix of songs I knew and ones I'd never heard before. I kept snapping pictures as fast as I could, but having only my 1.8 lens I couldn't nearly capture all that was happening on the stage at once, including the beating of "Pinata Head" with a wooden cane until potato chips flew everywhere and then when Chris...I mean, Moronic Dictator...ran offstage and into the crowd, disappeared for a bit, and then came back riding someone's 10-speed, got yelled at by security(?), ditched the bike, grabbed a folding ladder, climbed to the rafters, got yelled at again, and then ran back onstage to grab a handful of crushed chips, shove them in his pants, and say something about plain chips becoming salt and vinegar. Fucking hilarious. At the end of the night, they finally played their one true "hit single," a punk rock version of the Three Little Pigs that included members of the audience raping and molesting the three pink pig puppets, and everyone in the room over the age of 26 feeling like they were 13 again. The entire night was well worth the $7 I was supposed to pay, and I can only hope that if and when they come back to Burlington, they find a place bigger and better than 242 to play....and one that sells booze.

Happy Independence Week, indeed. Cheers.

June: The Six Month Revue

Half way through 2008, for better or for worse, with June weighing in as the best of the year thus far, and one of the most speedtrain months to date. Like a thirty-day free-fall down some spastic rabbit hole to oblivion, last month seemed an endless journey through some of the most spectacular and bizarre that I've ever seen, and Oh! It was beautiful. It was laced very heavily throughout with fantastic music and some of the greatest people I know, and laced heavily in other ways as well. It started at Mountain Jam in New York and ended with NASCAR in New Hampshire, but there was so much wonderful music and scattered confetti in between that I have no choice but to break it all down by category, piece by piece, in order to try and stir it all up inside my head; there's a lot to remember. Christ, what a summer!


BEER NEWS:

As of July 1, Vermont's non-liquor stores (ie: gas stations and supermarkets) can carry and sell beer with an alcohol content over 8%, which has been the state's limit for well over umpteen years. Very cool. As for news from The Brewery, we have our first 15 BBL batch of Porter in the tank right now, with each and all of us tasting plenty of samples since it was brewed on Father's Day, June 15. Latest sample: smooth and creamy, dark black with a nice cascade and a very subtle taste of very different malts. With this and The Red both on tap for the Brewfest, people very may shit themselves, and I can't wait to see it happen. I also discovered that one of my may first cousins is the main electrician at The Brewery, and one of The Five--the first brewer that The Boss hired, way back when, and the one who just had a baby named Finnegan on oh-six oh-seven oh-eight--announced that he's going back to school and cutting back to full time; another announced that he's getting done completely at the end of August, after getting married under a full moon on August 16. Yesterday, the high-stressed groom-to-be told The Boss (and me, but apparently no one else) that he made a dumb decision, and wanted to rescind his decision, which makes me very happy. Good kid, no doubt about it, and the other half of many fantastic conversations I've had this year. The Boss spent the third week of June in German helping disassemble our "new" 1960s 60 Barrel Copper BrewHouse, and labeling all the parts in English for someone to put back together when it arrives in Burlington sometime this fall. While he was gone, we received shipment of three new 30 BBL fermenter tanks and a second Bright Beer tank for double-time packaging, and it was quite fun to watch them all get dragged in by the riggers and fork lifts and slowly inched into place. I helped greatly by staying the fuck out of the way. And, as if The Boss doesn't have enough on his tray already, the price of hops have apparently risen over 500% with the bitterer that we use being among the most difficult-slash-expensive to find, with the concept of us having to blend bittering hops becoming quite real for us. Gigantic bummer, indeed. And then there's the Forth of July beer demand without any shipment on Friday, and one doesn't have to look very hard to see The Boss sweat.

MUSIC EVENTS:

Mountain Jam, Hunter, NY. 5/30/08 through 6/2/08

June came in like a shotgun blast to the face, and Sweet Aphrodite was it beautiful. May 30 was a Thursday, and I worked both jobs just like every other Thursday. Different, though, was that I had Friday the 31st off at The Brewery, by request, because Friday was Day One of Mountain Jam. When I got done at The Pub around 11, I followed a very drunk Homeless Thom to his cargo crate in the woods for an eighth of really stinky weed, with my very dear houseless friend refusing to accept any money. A former DeadHead from Colorado via New Hampshire, he knew very well how important it was for me to have cash on me for this little shindig in New York, and even tried to give me his last twelve pack taboot. I refused, but did accept his offer to borrow his MP3 player, which was new and confusing to him but came chock full of really good Dead and bluegrass. Yes Thom, I will gladly take that on a 4 hour road trip with me, but you can keep your cans of Bud. No really, please, keep your cans of Bud. From Thom's, I went to the Hyde Away for a couple quick Oatmeal Stouts and a heated Phil vs Bobby discussion with a couple of classic old DeadHeads--as I was on my way to see RatDog headline Mt. Jam--and then went outside to smoke a few quick bowls in the parking lot with them before heading four-plus hours southwest towards a little ski town in the Catskills called Hunter.

Less than a mile out of the Hyde Away parking lot, heading West on 17 toward MRG and, eventually, Lake Champlain, something let go in my exhaust, with the trusty old Corolla belting out a solid roar that would stick with me all the way to Hunter. With Red Bull and good stinky weed keeping me focused, I made it Lake George, NY, where I had intended on stopping for sleep before hopping south on 87 for the next couple of hours. When I reached my vague destination, though, I was so wired on sugar and caffeine that I decided to push on until Albany, and then at that point there was no sense in stopping but rather continuing the push another hour straight on into Hunter. At just past four o'clock, I was parked in the first row outside the lodge at Hunter Mountain ski resort, and certainly ready to pass the fuck out.

By seven I was wide eyed and wide awake, and immediately started strolling the more-filled-than-it-was-last-night parking lot for anyone I might know. At nine, I was pushing my way through a building crowd to be among the first into the camping area, and by ten I had my tent set up on the tree line alongside a narrow ski trail, and Home Base fully declared. By eleven, I was back in the parking lot, beer in hand, smoking a bowl in the back of some hippy's van on the offer that he would give me a small chunk of white-on-white blotter if i got his girlfriend stoned; fair trade, my friend, fair trade indeed. By noon, my eyes were Oreos. I quickly ran into a few good friends from the days of SYB tour, and ended up spending most of the weekend with them, together or separately, and sometimes--since they had hotel bracelets and I did not--not at all. Luckily for me, though, I had a cozy tent site just up yonder, and my car was very conveniently parked just a few steps outside the main campground gate. I spent much quality alone time at both that weekend, and every single second was perfect.

With the northeast music scene finally getting our first chance at letting out some pent-up and deep-set winter aggression, there were a lot of faces on The Mountain that weekend that I knew either by name or certainly by face. I even saw a girl named Danielle who I graduated high school with, which is particularly noteworthy because that was the weekend of our tenth reunion, which we both obviously skipped in the name of good, live music. "Wasn't a tough decision," she said with a grin, which I quickly returned in full.

On Friday, I wandered around the mountain with a growler of The Red hanging from my fingertips and an LSD smile in my eyes, and managed to catch sets by RatBoy, Phonegraph and the Giant Panda Guerrilla Dub Squad before retreating to the parking lot for more beer. I came back into the concert grounds around six to catch Grace Potter's set--which included an appearance by Mr. Ivan Neville--and then got up real close and danced real hard for Neville's Dumpstaphunk. Umphrey's McGee was up next, but I opted out of their set and instead chose sleep in my car, and subsequently missed the first set of Gov't Mule, which included Little Gracie Potter on board for Zeppelin's Whole Lotta Love and a whole slew of those kids from Umphrey's sludging things up as well. Bummer I missed a full set of Mule, but apparently I picked a good set to miss. The next set was a good solid set of Mule, and the late-night set of Lotus was fair but the later-night set of Galactic was way funkier than I thought it would be, which got me grooving for sure because this kid certainly likes his funk funky.

At some point that night I slept in my tent, and the first thing I did the following morning was walk to the nearest gas station for strong coffee and large, cheap sunglasses to replace the Bolles I left at The Pub. I came back and popped another growler of Ale, and popped myself in and out of the concert grounds to catch sets by Ingrid Michaelson, Sharon Jones & The Dap Kings, JJ Grey, and Jackie Greene, with Ray LaMontagne's set being quite literally washed out by the rain. The quick but heavy downpour gave way in time for Michael Franti and Spearhead to start their set, on time, with everybody's dear friend Mr. Warren Haynes joining them for at least a couple songs.

At some point following the rain, I matched a single dose of Skull and Bones paper with my dear teacher friend from Upstate New York, and we waited patiently together for The Mule and for The Ride. We pushed forward to about forth row center, and were somehow soon joined by our very good friend Glad, who handed over another couple doses of far better liquid. Needless to say and ridiculous to type, the second set was epic, and I had indeed reached Wonderland. Dark Star Orchestra's late night set bored me almost as much as the going on in the lodge by Pnuma Trio, so I skipped out on going back up to my inevitably wet tent and slept in my car instead.

Sunday, being the Day of The Lord, I decided not to eat any L, but brewed up instead a single size serving of good, blue psilocybin tea. I dragged myself and my bulky camp chair up the side of the mountain until I found a spot suitable for a long, exhausted mushroom ride, and watched the subsequent sets of Larry McCray, the Felice Brothers, Dr. Dog and the Drive-By Truckers, and then moved up close to catch the small-stage set by Medeski Martin Scofield and Wood, again with our good friend Warren Haynes. Sick SICK SICK!!! After their set, Levon Helm's Ramble on the Road played for a solid hour and a half, with Mr. Haynes again popping out for an absolutely beautiful version of I Shall Be Released that I'm eternally happy that I was able to witness.


"Three" with Billy Kreutzmann, Oteil Burbridge, Scott Murawski and Phriends. Higher Ground 06/07/08

One of the brewers I work with watched his wife give birth to their second child and first son that day, and on the suggestion of the yet-unnamed baby's two year old sister, they named him Finnegan; slainte, indeed. Not that this has anything to do with the show that I saw on that night, but it's still a fun little side note to start out with.

Seth's brand new band was playing the first-of-two gigs that night down in Willmington, but I opted instead to stay local and catch Billy Kreutzmann's new band with Scott Murawski and Oteil Burbridge, unofficially dubbed "Three." Distinct memories from the night are few and far between, but I do remember seeing a bunch of people I knew, and catching wind early of Page and Mike rumors. The Mike part was obvious, as he has played with Billy a lot lately and is about to start up a band with Scott, but the stories about Page sitting in caught me completely off guard. When he came out in the first set for Bertha and the Other One, I was right up front snapping shots with the XTi and grooving like it was my job. His keys weren't turned up enough and Scott was trying too hard to be the rockstar that he isn't, Languadoc and all, but the blend still worked and the entire night rocked indefinitely.

When Mike came out in the second set and played Oteil's six string for a few songs before moving on to a white-on-black Telecaster and then to Page's keyboard, the crowd was gung-ho into it and Mike's newfound ego was oozing off from every corner of the stage and sticking to my feet. It was really weird.

Phil Lesh & Levon Helm

I could still taste the nitrous balloons on my lips and feel the speed trembling in my muscles from that crazy free liquid I ate, and I knew full well that it was going to be a long day at work, spending eight sweating hours leaning over a boiling kettle of sugar water, and holding on as best I could. But Christ, eight hours of Hell is a small price to pay for a full weekend in Eden, and this particular weekend was worth all of that and then some; I had fun at Phil.

Solstice Weekend had kicked off like any other, with Haley and I waking up at eight and being a week early for Bernie Sanders' open door forum at City Hall, focusing on the Food Industry and with special guest speaker Eric Schlosser. I was really psyched to go and could have sworn that the postcard I was mailed said the 21^st instead of the 28^th, but either way we were still a week early, when we both thought we were 45 minutes late. So it goes.

Instead, we watched some unknown funk band play in The Park, which was part of some CFL bulb giveaway that also included free Flatbread and free Ben & Jerry’s, which was a deal too good for us to pass up. We got lemonade and iced coffee respectively, and then walked through the Farmers' Market and saw my friends Jess and Chief from college, the first time I'd seen either in far too long. Also at the Market, I saw State Rep Dave Zuckermann, Progressive, and discussed how strong fellow Prog Anthony Pollina's run for guv is going in comparison to Lady Dem Gaye Symmington, who Zuck correctly proclaimed is "not tough enough" to be governor. Also, she's not campaigning enough, and has yet to do a goddamn thing to get her name out there. But I digress...

After more aimless wandering around downtown Burlington, Haley and I went to my brother's house in Milton, where she was to spend the weekend and where I was to leave my car in exchange for my mom's 05 Subaru. Everyone had left and was already at my aunt/uncle/cousins' house three miles away, where my cousin Kari was celebrating her High School graduation and where everyone else was celebrating the start of summer with a swim in the in-ground pool. I stayed long enough for a burger and a beer, and then left Haley in the care of my mother and took her car south on 89, onward towards New Hampshire.

When I made it to New London, NH, I stopped for a beer at the Flying Goose BrewPub, just off Exit 11 and directly alongside Route 11. I had a dozen messy wings and drank three different beers,--the Ragged Mountain Red by far beats out the Stout and IPA--and then got a quick and dirty tour of the basement BrewHouse from Rocky, the restaurant's manager. I paid twelve bucks for a growler of the Red and left Rocky with a sticker from our Brewery, and then continued East on 11.

There were a lot of bikes heading towards me and away from Laconia, which made me fully expect a fizzling dud for Bike Week at Weirs Beach. I arrived at the beach just before 9, in time to see plenty of bikes both parked and cruising, and with one Five-Oh for every 25 bikes. Lame, to say the least. I watched one guy get cuffed and stuffed into a Paddy Wagon already manned by another bloody-kneed and handcuffed "criminal," and I stayed long enough to walk the strip twice and gawk mildly at all the black and orange leather, scratched and polished chrome, and cheap and cheaper memorabilia. Out of a possible 10, I give Bike Week 2008 a generous 4, and I was on my way back to the car long before midnight; six pack of Sierras in one hand and an open Sparks in the other, and a look of disappointment spread widely across my face. No biker skanks showing their tits, no Haley Davidson smoke shows, no stockpiles of white drugs being given out to the highest bidder and not a single blatantly drunk drunk to point and laugh at; Hell's Angels or not, this party was a bust.

On my way back up to my [mom's] car, I asked an onlooking firefighter where Meadowbrook Farm was, and he pointed me up the hill "almost exactly two miles." Sweet. Ten minutes later, I was pulling into the quiet and vacant parking lot, with no idea where I was supposed to go, but knowing full well that I was allowed to be there. Not only allowed, but welcomed, and fully expected. My good friend Bishop is going with a girl who knows the owner of the venue, and they were part of a small group camping out on the owner's lawn the night before the big show, and Bishop had informed me long in advance that I was fully expected to be part of the festivities. My ticket was bought and paid for, he said, and all I had to do was show up and bring a tent. Ever the surrenderer to any adventurous flow, I promised that I would be there, but made a point never to say when. I pulled up alongside their small tent village at a little past midnight, with a few cold ounces left in that first can of Sparks, and joined them at the lantern to drink Sierras to their Bud. We took turns riding around the yard on someone's off-road Segway, and then stayed up until 3 smoking and talking around the dim-lit lantern about absolutely nothing at all. As with above, good friends I hadn't seen in far too long, with a lot of aimless catching up to do.

The next morning, we were all up by nine, welcoming in yet another heavy, muggy day. Someone made egg sandwiches for us all and Bishop and I both laced ours with healthy, blue mushrooms, and then we all went to a nearby beach to try and cool off. Some of us swam while others of us drank, and our crew of about seven stayed until the thunder clapped and the lifeguard told us to leave. We made it back to Meadowbrook just in time for the downpour, and foolishly passed up our chance to huff it through the rain in exchange for a chance to watch both Phil and Levon take their Thunderstorm Soundchecks, up close and very personal. Instead, we stayed at Camp Shelter and smoked and drank and waited for more friends to arrive, as they all slowly did until Showtime at 8.

Since I had to work the next morning, my plan was to drink and smoke moderately before the show, behave during, and then drive the three-plus hours home after, hopefully making it in time for a solid 3 hours of sleep before work at seven. As it turned out, though, I drank more than expected and the mushrooms hit harder than I had planned, and by the time Levon Helm took the stage with his Ramble on the Road, I had somehow accepted a foolish offer of free liquid from someone in the seats behind me. I remember asking for just a tiny drop but instead getting a pool that flowed down my arm, and franticly asking Bishop if he wanted to share. "I'm not going to lick your palm, dude." So I lapped my self clean and waited for whatever ride this free liquid was about to take me on, for better or for worse, so I focused on The Better. I'll worry about the drive later, I remember thinking. Until then, it's all about Phil.

Levon's set was a beautiful blur that stands out only because I was forth row with my friend Glad Mike, and John Molo played drums while Levon played mandolin. Sadly, Phil's sets are both blurs that hardly stand out at all. I remember drinking Coors Original in the beer tent and seeing a few friends from Waitsfield, and then regretting not buying a bunch of of the Czech Paper that some random hippie had offered Bishop and I at setbreak. Foolish, indeed. I remember the second set Shakedown opener and Jackie getting all into a really groovy Sugaree, and Levon sitting in on drums and vocals for a first-set W.S. Walcott Medicine Show, but the rest of the show is a total loss. Nothing. The acid was so speedy and wild that I probably spent the whole show talking at Bishop and looking at the floor, and my next solid memory is hanging out back at Camp Shelter with a handful of nitrous balloons that I had bought on my way out. My thirteenth time seeing Phil, and the first that didn't fully absorb. Maybe it's because the line up wasn't as strong as Friends Of Past or maybe it's because Phil is getting old, but I think it was just a shitty batch of acid. I really should have bought that Czech Paper.

We spent the next few hours sucking down balloons, first at three for twenty, then five, then six, and finally seven for twenty sometime around three, and I think it was around four when I finally tore down my tent and headed back towards home. The LSD buzz had fully deflated, but the lingering burn from the nitrous and marijuana was still in full swing, and the supplemental speed from the acid was was still shaking me around like an epileptic at a KISS concert. I bid farewell to all my spun-out friend and they all bid me the best of luck with my drive and the job that followed, and I spent the next three hours wide-eyed and white-knuckled, driving north toward Burlington and stopping at every rest area I passed just to rest my tired and ragged eyes; I was still unable to sleep, but Christ my eyes HURT! I finally making it to work five solid minutes before I was supposed to be there at seven, and to put it as simply as I possibly can, the next eight and a half hours were indeed hell. But, with my eyes melting beautifully out of my head as I drove home and again later as I brewed the morning batch of that day's beer, I knew that I was a lucky man for having been where I just was, and seeing and hearing what I had just seen and heard, and despite the weak music and dirty drugs, I had indeed again toed the line of Eden, with Phil holding the gate open for me to peek inside, if only for a brief moment or two. And oh it was beautiful, even more than I would dare put to words, so I will leave off here without even attempting to try. Thank you again, Phil, just like always, for showing me that light. Thank you.

Happy Belated Birthday, Robert J

Christ, wasn't it just Paddy's Day, and now we're already at the end of May? How the hell did that happen? And where the fuck did April go?? This whole fifty-hour workweek bullshit on top of my long-steady drinking schedule is really making the calendar pages fly by like an out-of-the-garage stock car. Plus, since getting my IRS refunds, I've also received my first quarterly bonus from work, with which I paid off a large chunk of the balance on my new Camera and bought a used Univega mountain bike for a hundred bucks, which in theory will also help me spend less money. But, with more money in hand there is always likely to be more booze in the liver, and of that I am surely guilty. I've been drinking a lot lately, both at work and at whichever local hole has the best live music each night, but in turn I've seen a dump trunk load of good music over the past few weeks. I've also been rocking the new 55mm 1.8 lens at a lot of these shows, getting another dump truck full of good shots, and I also had it on me when I was in Littleton, NH and at the Oasis Brewpub and later at "The World's Longest Candy Counter" at a place called Chutter's. I also took a few decent shots at Thunder Road with the old G3, which was theirs and my first race of the season and Haley's first stock car race ever; she was quite impressed. So, even though the past month has flown by quicker than a hyena in a lion chase, at least I have a few good shots to remember what an awesome time I've had. Oh, I also learned on May 8th--the day before Mother's Day--
that it was Robert Johnson's Birthday, which is very cool, because up until this year the only other things that made my birthday noteworthy were the births of Harry Truman and Candice Bergen, and the the end of WWII in Europe--Victory Day, indeed. Happy Belated Birthday, Robert J!