I often pine to those who are to listen that I may have stopped drinking beer at the wrong time. A very great and true friend of mine, who spent a great portion of his life describing beer as "moose piss," has taken to savoring and pontificating on the occasional craft brew. I can remember a fifteen minute period somewhere back in the late seventies when my father threatened to make beer in our garage, but that was mostly swirling air. The commitment and patience needed for bottling your own beer was far beyond my father's resources. It was much easier to head down to Liquor Mart and pick up your favorite beer in multiples of six.
My favorite beer was not my father's favorite. It was not, as some people have imagined due to my Colorado heritage, Coors. It was Miller Lite. I came by this "taste" having started with Miller High Life. This was not because of their curious assertion that they were "the champagne of beers," but rather because I had a cousin whose last name was Miller, and he insisted to a twelve year old me that it was the best. I bought it. And for a few years, I drank it. Until they introduced Lite beer. One third the calories meant that during my binge haze I could drink three times as many without gaining any weight. Even as I was losing friends.
But that's a different story. Miller was a team. Coors was a team. Budweiser was a team. Each one of these guys had their "lite" version. That made sense. But when I came to understand that Michelob was not its own island in the stream of suds, I was confounded. Did this mean that all beer came from some great big generic tap? Were they just putting them in different bottles and labeling them "extra" this and "gold" that? Was I being marketed to?
In a word: "Youbetcha."
That's probably why I shuddered when I read that not only had Coors and Miller become one big vat of hops and yeast, but that beast has begun to devour small craft breweries. like Saint Archer. Soon, it will all be one big yellow river of - well - you know.
Monday, September 14, 2015
Sunday, September 13, 2015
The Formation Of Thought
This one time at band camp - stop me if you've heard this before. Actually, most of you have heard plenty of stories about my inglorious rise to fame and ridiculous fortune as a member of everyone's favorite paramilitary organization: my high school marching band. It was a dedicated group, and to hear my wife tell it, we spent many more hours practicing and perfecting our music and maneuvering than the football team. I was grateful that our band director was unfamiliar with the concept of "two-a-days" As it was, we still stood out on that field being hollered at through a bullhorn with the ever-present potential of a clipboard being launched at one of our heads for marching out of step or missing our mark. We took it seriously.
Seriously enough that we were, in my junior year, invited to play the Star Spangled Banner before a Denver Broncos game, and then perform the halftime show. All that hard work was paying off. We had hit the big time. A few years before, when my older brother was in that same group, the band parents got together and sewed one of those ginormous American flags, the kind that fill an entire football field. This was the one we took with us when my band returned to Mile High Stadium. We had rehearsed and rehearsed for weeks in advance, getting used to the time it took to unfurl the massive stars and stripes. We all knew what our band director had taught us: "No one ever paid to hear the Star Spangled Banner. Play it and get off." Ours was a no-frills arrangement. Something that we had not foreseen in our rehearsals was that if we were standing at attention, playing our Francis Scott Key song about fire, we would only be playing to about one third of the stadium. We needed to angle our formation so that we could be heard over the thundering ovation we would no doubt receive. We didn't want a full left-face, because that would leave us playing to a distant end zone. We needed a command our drum major could give to all of us that would mean to turn slightly to the left but not all the way. I would like to suggest that it was me that said, "How about 'half-ass left'?" Our drum major approved, as did the rest of us who were on the bus together on the way down to the game. Word spread quickly, and by the time we marched out onto the field in front of more than sixty thousand orange and blue clad semi-drunken football crazed fans, everyone knew what to do.
Somewhere, I expect there is a recording of that performance, and above the din of the crowd, I want to believe that you can hear our leader shouting out the command that we had made up on the trip down the turnpike. Or not. No matter, since that particular offense is still nothing compared to whatever it was the Kansas State band was doing last weekend. And a lot less expensive.
Seriously enough that we were, in my junior year, invited to play the Star Spangled Banner before a Denver Broncos game, and then perform the halftime show. All that hard work was paying off. We had hit the big time. A few years before, when my older brother was in that same group, the band parents got together and sewed one of those ginormous American flags, the kind that fill an entire football field. This was the one we took with us when my band returned to Mile High Stadium. We had rehearsed and rehearsed for weeks in advance, getting used to the time it took to unfurl the massive stars and stripes. We all knew what our band director had taught us: "No one ever paid to hear the Star Spangled Banner. Play it and get off." Ours was a no-frills arrangement. Something that we had not foreseen in our rehearsals was that if we were standing at attention, playing our Francis Scott Key song about fire, we would only be playing to about one third of the stadium. We needed to angle our formation so that we could be heard over the thundering ovation we would no doubt receive. We didn't want a full left-face, because that would leave us playing to a distant end zone. We needed a command our drum major could give to all of us that would mean to turn slightly to the left but not all the way. I would like to suggest that it was me that said, "How about 'half-ass left'?" Our drum major approved, as did the rest of us who were on the bus together on the way down to the game. Word spread quickly, and by the time we marched out onto the field in front of more than sixty thousand orange and blue clad semi-drunken football crazed fans, everyone knew what to do.
Somewhere, I expect there is a recording of that performance, and above the din of the crowd, I want to believe that you can hear our leader shouting out the command that we had made up on the trip down the turnpike. Or not. No matter, since that particular offense is still nothing compared to whatever it was the Kansas State band was doing last weekend. And a lot less expensive.
Saturday, September 12, 2015
Wannabuffoon
Paul Stanley, of the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame enshrined band KISS, recently referred to Dee Snider as a "wannabe." Pretty tough talk for a guy who has spent most of his professional life made up and dressed as Starchild. Okay, it was in defense of one of his bandmates, Tommy Thayer who replaced original member Ace Frehley. Mister Stanley said, “Let me put it in the simplest terms. In this case, this guy is a wannabe, has always been a wannabe and desperately wants attention and to be taken seriously and that will never happen because he’s obviously clueless that he and his whole band are a bunch of buffoons.”
I have never been to Paul Stanley's house. I'm sure that it is vast and palatial. He probably has hot and cold running cash pouring out of spigots that he isn't even aware of. There are likely acre upon acre of gaming fields used by those who stumble upon them in their haste to reach the expansive manse that is Paul Stanley's house. But I'm almost certain that it is made of glass. Wannabe buffoons? I'm not sure if Starchild has taken a good look at himself in the mirror lately. On any given evening, that is precisely what all of these gentlemen are doing to promote their art. Howling "Lick it up" wearing orthopedic platform boots as the drum riser behind you billows smoke and fire or yowling "We're not gonna take it" as flame shoots from the neck of your lead guitarist's axe is all pretty buffoonish behavior. Especially when one takes into account these gentlemen's approximate age. Dee Snider is sixty years old. Paul Stanley is sixty-three. Both of them are probably more familiar in the pages of AARP magazine than Rolling Stone these days. These are, for better or worse, the elder statesmen of Rock and Roll. They should be spending their time and energy refining their act, helping shape a new generation of bands, the ones the influenced on their way up.
Like Keith Richards. The guy who is taking wild roundhouse swings at every piece of china in the shop: Beatles, Rap, Metallica, Black Sabbath. Sergeant Pepper was "rubbish." Describing rap's appeal, Keith says, "There’s an enormous market for people who can’t tell one note from another." Just like there's an enormous market for wannabe buffoons. Go figure.
I have never been to Paul Stanley's house. I'm sure that it is vast and palatial. He probably has hot and cold running cash pouring out of spigots that he isn't even aware of. There are likely acre upon acre of gaming fields used by those who stumble upon them in their haste to reach the expansive manse that is Paul Stanley's house. But I'm almost certain that it is made of glass. Wannabe buffoons? I'm not sure if Starchild has taken a good look at himself in the mirror lately. On any given evening, that is precisely what all of these gentlemen are doing to promote their art. Howling "Lick it up" wearing orthopedic platform boots as the drum riser behind you billows smoke and fire or yowling "We're not gonna take it" as flame shoots from the neck of your lead guitarist's axe is all pretty buffoonish behavior. Especially when one takes into account these gentlemen's approximate age. Dee Snider is sixty years old. Paul Stanley is sixty-three. Both of them are probably more familiar in the pages of AARP magazine than Rolling Stone these days. These are, for better or worse, the elder statesmen of Rock and Roll. They should be spending their time and energy refining their act, helping shape a new generation of bands, the ones the influenced on their way up.
Like Keith Richards. The guy who is taking wild roundhouse swings at every piece of china in the shop: Beatles, Rap, Metallica, Black Sabbath. Sergeant Pepper was "rubbish." Describing rap's appeal, Keith says, "There’s an enormous market for people who can’t tell one note from another." Just like there's an enormous market for wannabe buffoons. Go figure.
Friday, September 11, 2015
The Truth About Me
Dave Caven: Core Value - Humor. This was what a colleague, with whom I have worked for several years, took away from our day of culture-building as a staff. Interesting, since I would have imagined that was as obvious as wearing a badge on my chest with that word emblazoned on it as a reminder. Which is essentially what I did.
This was an exercise in which participants were asked to take a list of one hundred values and select the twenty that you felt applied most to you and your world view. Simple enough. Then we were asked to split that in half, picking the ten that even more closely defined our character. That wasn't much of a chore either, since many of them were merely shadings of something similar: dedicated and tenacious. Could I let one go? Sure I could. Once we pared that ten down to five, things got a little more clear. Did I want to cling to tenacious or hang on to honest? I was able to make the cut, but I was left with some questions. Will these remaining adjectives adequately describe me? If I were stuck on a desert island with these words, would I live to resent and eventually discard them? If I were going to introduce myself at a cocktail party, would I be able to say, "Hello, I'm Dave and I'm efficient?"
Finally, we cut it down to three. I kept fair, primarily because my niece had once made a point of telling me that she thought that I was. I am happy to think that I show up in someone's world that way. I stuck with dedicated because it seemed to describe a person who has stuck around most of the jobs he's had until the businesses themselves have closed, or nearly. I come early. I stay late. I get the job done: dedicated. The last one was the one that I didn't think about much. It got circled early on and didn't ever really reach the brink of being crossed out. Humor. Ha ha or tee hee, I tend to look for the laugh in just about everything. Sometimes to a fault. There are those who would tell you stories about that, but if you've kept up with this blog at all, you can probably pick your favorites. That's the one that I put on my post-it. My badge. My identifier. I am the Good Humor man. Sometimes the tasteless, rude and offensive humor man, but most often the trying to put a smile on someone's face please humor man.
Funny that my colleague hadn't noticed before. Not funny: ha ha, but funny: really?
This was an exercise in which participants were asked to take a list of one hundred values and select the twenty that you felt applied most to you and your world view. Simple enough. Then we were asked to split that in half, picking the ten that even more closely defined our character. That wasn't much of a chore either, since many of them were merely shadings of something similar: dedicated and tenacious. Could I let one go? Sure I could. Once we pared that ten down to five, things got a little more clear. Did I want to cling to tenacious or hang on to honest? I was able to make the cut, but I was left with some questions. Will these remaining adjectives adequately describe me? If I were stuck on a desert island with these words, would I live to resent and eventually discard them? If I were going to introduce myself at a cocktail party, would I be able to say, "Hello, I'm Dave and I'm efficient?"
Finally, we cut it down to three. I kept fair, primarily because my niece had once made a point of telling me that she thought that I was. I am happy to think that I show up in someone's world that way. I stuck with dedicated because it seemed to describe a person who has stuck around most of the jobs he's had until the businesses themselves have closed, or nearly. I come early. I stay late. I get the job done: dedicated. The last one was the one that I didn't think about much. It got circled early on and didn't ever really reach the brink of being crossed out. Humor. Ha ha or tee hee, I tend to look for the laugh in just about everything. Sometimes to a fault. There are those who would tell you stories about that, but if you've kept up with this blog at all, you can probably pick your favorites. That's the one that I put on my post-it. My badge. My identifier. I am the Good Humor man. Sometimes the tasteless, rude and offensive humor man, but most often the trying to put a smile on someone's face please humor man.
Funny that my colleague hadn't noticed before. Not funny: ha ha, but funny: really?
Thursday, September 10, 2015
Name Your Price
Do you know Kabam? Not Kaboom, the breakfast cereal with the clown on the box and the "vitamins" inside. Nor is it the service organization made popular on Parks and Recreation, the one that made building playgrounds tons of fun. Nope. We're talking about Kabam. Not a breakfast cereal or service organization. Not even a cartoon sound effect. Kabam is a software company. They make online games for people like you and me to while away our hours when we might or should be doing something productive. Like Candy Crush, it's a saga where you crush candy.
Now, if you told me that Candy Crush would be interested in sponsoring the field on which the California Golden Bears play football, it would seem like a necessary evil. Nope. That distinction belongs to Kabam. Up in Strawberry Canyon, the Bears now roam on Kabam Field at Memorial Stadium. We know this because it is painted on the grass between the twenty and thirty yard lines. It's advertising. It's football. It's America. What's wrong with that?
Well, it's college football, and since the stadium already had a name, Memorial Stadium, it does make you wonder what is not for sale. The stadium in Berkeley was built in the 1920's with public funds as, the name suggests, a memorial to those who died in World War I. Back when it was not one in a series. It was, back then, "The War to end all wars." That assertion turned out to be sadly unfounded. There were plenty more wars, but the Memorial stood. It was rededicated to those Californians who died in all those conflicts that came after number one.
And then, the following year, a group of very bright Cal graduates offered the school eighteen million dollars to put their software company's name in front of that memorial. They get to do that for fifteen years. In the software world, that's forever. I know. I lived past the ignominy of Invesco and then Sports Authority putting their companies' names in front of Mile High Stadium. Where the Broncos play professional football. Corporations paying top dollar to put their names and logos on things is incredibly American. The NFL recently started allowing sponsors to stick patches on players' practice uniforms during the preseason. Why should it matter that the college field up the road has a new name? There are plenty of institutions ready to line up for the kind of payday that the University of California has. Putting on a sporting event five or six times a year isn't cheap, after all. Sacrifices have to be made.
Now, if you told me that Candy Crush would be interested in sponsoring the field on which the California Golden Bears play football, it would seem like a necessary evil. Nope. That distinction belongs to Kabam. Up in Strawberry Canyon, the Bears now roam on Kabam Field at Memorial Stadium. We know this because it is painted on the grass between the twenty and thirty yard lines. It's advertising. It's football. It's America. What's wrong with that?
Well, it's college football, and since the stadium already had a name, Memorial Stadium, it does make you wonder what is not for sale. The stadium in Berkeley was built in the 1920's with public funds as, the name suggests, a memorial to those who died in World War I. Back when it was not one in a series. It was, back then, "The War to end all wars." That assertion turned out to be sadly unfounded. There were plenty more wars, but the Memorial stood. It was rededicated to those Californians who died in all those conflicts that came after number one.
And then, the following year, a group of very bright Cal graduates offered the school eighteen million dollars to put their software company's name in front of that memorial. They get to do that for fifteen years. In the software world, that's forever. I know. I lived past the ignominy of Invesco and then Sports Authority putting their companies' names in front of Mile High Stadium. Where the Broncos play professional football. Corporations paying top dollar to put their names and logos on things is incredibly American. The NFL recently started allowing sponsors to stick patches on players' practice uniforms during the preseason. Why should it matter that the college field up the road has a new name? There are plenty of institutions ready to line up for the kind of payday that the University of California has. Putting on a sporting event five or six times a year isn't cheap, after all. Sacrifices have to be made.
Wednesday, September 09, 2015
I Can See Clearly Now
I know. If I stop talking about it, maybe it will go away. But really: Sarah Palin and Donald Trump? Shouldn't somebody be pointing out that the emperor and his lady reporter friend are not wearing any respectable clothes? Sarah found another network, "One America News Network," where she could have a job. She's a job creator, after all. The two of them got together and gushed over one another a week ago for anyone who would bother to listen. I tried. I really, really tried. I couldn't do it. Not in one straight shot. I had to keep turning back to Stephen Colbert hosting Only In Monroe. It helped me remember that there are other people and things going on in our country that don't necessarily rely on the frantic haranguing of the Donald And Sarah Show.
Of course, such an alliance was inevitable. The Maverick and the Donald. The Twin Towers of Tumult. "Let's talk about that middle class that you're really resonating with," she nudged. "That's one of the reasons why I've always loved you, you and your family, you've got that great connection," he oozed back. Wait. What connection with the middle class? Me? Am I middle class? Am I missing something? Are these kerjillionaires hooking up with the middle class in ways I don't understand? Maybe I'm one of the elite. That's probably it. That's why I don't understand how this flurry of rhetoric about how "America is getting socked in the nose for the past seven years" pertains to me. I hadn't noticed that I was getting socked in the nose.
Maybe I'm not responding to enough polls. That seems to be where Mister Trump is doing his best work. People all across America are responding to him. I am too. Just not the way I think he wants me to. Maybe I need to be "schooled" like that "radical activist" Jorge Ramos. The one that Donald sent packing from his news conference the other day. He is a reporter, an immigrant, and happily he had the good taste to ask his questions in English, American English, as Ms. Palin would prefer. But he wouldn't stop asking about the Trump solution for immigration. Bad form. And the press "generally agreed" with what he did: had the guy removed. A quick Google search of the item, "Trump removes Univision reporter" that includes words like "forcibly" and "snubbed" in reference to how Donald and his crew dealt with the matter suggests otherwise, but maybe I have been missing the point for a long time now.
There is another world. A world that is very similar to our own, but maintains its own logic and traditions. I believe that may be the world in which Sarah and Donald ultimately belong and where they will rule happily in perpetuity. Bizarro World. Middle class in Bizzaro World. It all starts to make sense to me now.
Of course, such an alliance was inevitable. The Maverick and the Donald. The Twin Towers of Tumult. "Let's talk about that middle class that you're really resonating with," she nudged. "That's one of the reasons why I've always loved you, you and your family, you've got that great connection," he oozed back. Wait. What connection with the middle class? Me? Am I middle class? Am I missing something? Are these kerjillionaires hooking up with the middle class in ways I don't understand? Maybe I'm one of the elite. That's probably it. That's why I don't understand how this flurry of rhetoric about how "America is getting socked in the nose for the past seven years" pertains to me. I hadn't noticed that I was getting socked in the nose.
Maybe I'm not responding to enough polls. That seems to be where Mister Trump is doing his best work. People all across America are responding to him. I am too. Just not the way I think he wants me to. Maybe I need to be "schooled" like that "radical activist" Jorge Ramos. The one that Donald sent packing from his news conference the other day. He is a reporter, an immigrant, and happily he had the good taste to ask his questions in English, American English, as Ms. Palin would prefer. But he wouldn't stop asking about the Trump solution for immigration. Bad form. And the press "generally agreed" with what he did: had the guy removed. A quick Google search of the item, "Trump removes Univision reporter" that includes words like "forcibly" and "snubbed" in reference to how Donald and his crew dealt with the matter suggests otherwise, but maybe I have been missing the point for a long time now.
There is another world. A world that is very similar to our own, but maintains its own logic and traditions. I believe that may be the world in which Sarah and Donald ultimately belong and where they will rule happily in perpetuity. Bizarro World. Middle class in Bizzaro World. It all starts to make sense to me now.
Tuesday, September 08, 2015
MT
For all the years that I have lived in this house, more than eighteen, I have gone to my right after cleaning my ears with a Q-Tip to throw it away in the trash can next to the bathroom sink. Eighteen years. To the right. Over the summer, we did a little remodeling and now the trash can is on the left. I have to think about it. To the left. When I finish flossing, same thing: to the left. I suppose I could decline to accept my new reality and simply make a pile of used Q-Tips and slobbery floss on the floor next to the sink. On the right. Change, for lack of a better word, is hard.
Which makes me wonder about how things will tumble down when my son moves out of the house to go to college. For the last dozen years or so, I have made a trip to his bedside, five days a week, to nudge him awake to be ready for school. His mother would come in a short time later, after I had gone on my way to start my own day at my school. It was a tag team affair that had the eventual effect of getting him up and on his way on a regular enough basis to get a high school diploma. That diploma, in turn, was his ticket to the college of his choice. The college of his parent's choice, as it turns out too. Not that we knew that during the protracted and agonizing selection process, but it turns out that after years of alternating dreams and ambivalence our son is moving out. And on.
We've been preparing for this even for months. Not like moving a trash can, which turned out to be a logistical inevitability. Moving a son turns out to be less than whimsical. After all those years of going back to wake that kid up, this past Saturday morning I got up and started my weekend the way I have for all those years before: watering the plants. Going past my son's room, the pile of blankets that I generally associate with the lump of sleeping boy turned out to be just a pile of blankets. The boy had awoken for the first time in years before his parents to sneak out the back door on his way to meet up some friends for cars and coffee. By the time his mother and I were aware, he was gone. Change is hard.
That empty bed, upon further reflection, was a lot harder reality to deal with than the trash can. It touched a deeper nerve, which shouldn't come as a huge surprise. I have always had a great deal of fondness for that trash can, but not quite on a par with my own flesh and blood. The good news is that I will have a chance to continue to grow my relationship with the trash can. And even though it will be over Skype and a little more distance, I will continue to strengthen my bond with my son. Change is hard, but I do enjoy a challenge.
Which makes me wonder about how things will tumble down when my son moves out of the house to go to college. For the last dozen years or so, I have made a trip to his bedside, five days a week, to nudge him awake to be ready for school. His mother would come in a short time later, after I had gone on my way to start my own day at my school. It was a tag team affair that had the eventual effect of getting him up and on his way on a regular enough basis to get a high school diploma. That diploma, in turn, was his ticket to the college of his choice. The college of his parent's choice, as it turns out too. Not that we knew that during the protracted and agonizing selection process, but it turns out that after years of alternating dreams and ambivalence our son is moving out. And on.
We've been preparing for this even for months. Not like moving a trash can, which turned out to be a logistical inevitability. Moving a son turns out to be less than whimsical. After all those years of going back to wake that kid up, this past Saturday morning I got up and started my weekend the way I have for all those years before: watering the plants. Going past my son's room, the pile of blankets that I generally associate with the lump of sleeping boy turned out to be just a pile of blankets. The boy had awoken for the first time in years before his parents to sneak out the back door on his way to meet up some friends for cars and coffee. By the time his mother and I were aware, he was gone. Change is hard.
That empty bed, upon further reflection, was a lot harder reality to deal with than the trash can. It touched a deeper nerve, which shouldn't come as a huge surprise. I have always had a great deal of fondness for that trash can, but not quite on a par with my own flesh and blood. The good news is that I will have a chance to continue to grow my relationship with the trash can. And even though it will be over Skype and a little more distance, I will continue to strengthen my bond with my son. Change is hard, but I do enjoy a challenge.
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