Have No Fear, It’s Hangar 24 Beer

You probably noticed, assuming you are still here, that I’ve taken some extended blogging breaks this year. Where was I?

Well .. I was in rehab.

For bad beer consumption.

Thank heavens, my taste buds were saved by Hangar 24 Brewery, a very generous craft brewer based in Redlands, Calif.

Out of the blue this year, they sent me this ginmorous insulated case of some of their many fine, fine brews for me to sample. See:

And sample, I did. Not a bad one on in the bunch. In fact, one of the tastiest, most consistently good batch of diverse beers from one brewer I’ve every had. Here are some of my faves:

Honor a Founding Father with @Newcastle Founders’ Ale

Is there a better way to spend Presidents’ Day, which is primarily a day to celebrate the birthday of George Washington, one of our country’s Founding Fathers, than with a Newcastle Founders’ Ale?

Not if the beer is free, folks, and mine was thanks to my new best friends at Newcastle Brown Ale who sent me a couple to quaff.

(If you can maybe forgot it’s a British beer and that George Washington kicked those Red Coats’ tails in the Revolutionary War, that whole first sentence works. Just play along.)

Founders’ Ale has a nice light brown color, and pours with a sweet bubbly head. Like the Newcastle Winter IPA I tested the other week, it’s very light on the hops which is more acceptable in a pale ale like this than in an IPA. I think a lot of American IPAs and pale ales have gone overboard with the hopping anyway. A little extra is bracing but too much and it feels like someone just sandpapered your tongue.

Tastewise, Founders’ Ale starts a little sour then evolves into more of a sourdoughish flavor that weakens as the pint glass empties. Maybe a wee bit of caramel  or honey in the nose, but otherwise a fairly simple, smooth and refreshing beer without bite. Good for downing after you break a sweat shoveling snow or skiing like I did this weekend.

Soon, I hope to review a lovely looking batch of beers that the downright sexy people at Hanger 24 Brewery in California sent me recently. God bless their beery hearts.

P.S. I love this job.

Newcastle Brown Ale: My New Best Friend

It’s been a while since I’ve bemoaned the many lame PR pitches I receive here at Uncool Enterprises Unincorporated. Oh, I still get them by truckload; I just tend to hit ‘delete’ faster these days.

Once in a while, something catches my eye that begs me to open it. It happened twice last week.

The first email asked me to take a mouthwash “challenge” with a truly hot young actress.

Well, that’s what the subject line said, and that sounded like a good deal to me.

Upon further reading, I found that outside of mentioning said actress in an early sentence, she and her role in this promotion never appeared again. Instead, it was all “write about your experience with our product” and “get your readers to like our Facebook page” but darned if we’ll compensate you for your time and effort. We won’t even offer to send you the product, suckerrrrrrrrrrr!

OK, they also said that with each Facebook like they’d donate money to a charity. Yeah, throw some more guilt on me, why don’t you?

After I got over this and the company implying you and I have stink breath, I decided to send back a quick note:

“If (said hot young actress) 
is personally testing my mouth's progress, yes.
Otherwise, pass. Thanks.”

A flak wrote back:

“Ha. Very funny. Thanks.”

I’d say that door is still open.

Then, after nearly five years, my sponsorship prayers were finally answered. In came an email with the heading:

Throw a Winning Super Bowl Party with Newcastle Brown Ale

I’ll cut to the chase – this sentence at the end:

Would you be interested in receiving samples
of Newcastle Brown Ale or Newcastle Winter IPA
for any Super Bowl stories you may be working on?

Free beer? Who? Me?

Ha.

Ha ha.

Hahahahahahahahahahahahaha.

Yesterday, came this:

HALLE-FRICKIN’-LUJAH!!!

Since I’ll be in transit during the Super Bowl, I popped open two brews immediately – you know, in the name of science and good blogging.

Newcastle Brown Ale is a great go-to session beer. Pours with a nice creamy head, warm caramel color and light nutty taste, not to heavy on the alcohol. We’ve purchased The Dog (OK, I don’t know anyone who calls it that) in the cool mini-keg for parties at Uncool Estates in the past and it’s been a big hit.

The Winter IPA is … odd. Higher in alcohol content, copperish in color but, for an IPA, quite light on the hops in terms of smell and taste. Bit malty but no winter warmer spices like nutmeg or cinnamon – just, well, beer. I wouldn’t turn it down (it’s not light beer, for goodness sake) but I wouldn’t seek it out either. OK just not special as an IPA or a winter brew.

Oh, so why will I be in transit during the Super Bowl? Tune in soon to find out …

Beer is a Many Splendored Thing

Today’s is National Beer Drinking Day.

I swear.

I heard it on the news this morning. They would never report on something this important if it wasn’t true.

Weapons of mass destruction in the Middle East, definitely, but never this.

There are many a day I enjoy a Tanqueray and tonic, too.

Sometimes, an icy Bombay Sapphire martini (up with a twist, please) does the trick, but only one – thank you.

In the summer, I dig lazing about with a mojito. Or perhaps, three. What can I say. I like mint.

But beer. Nectar of the gods, in all your hoppy, malty, flavorful incarnations. Thank you for the days. And nights. Not so much the belly, but I forgive you. Love takes work, and if loving you requires working out -- so be it.

So to you, I raise a glass. And you, too, friends – whether we’ve ever clinked glasses and tipped one back together or not.

Cheers!

Bear with Me

Two weeks back, some friends and I took a golf weekend in the hills of northern New Jersey.

I played my three best rounds of the entire year and was the big winner, collecting $2.25 from my friends in our friendly waging.

I lost only 10 golf balls and never my temper.

The beverage cart managed to find me every four or five holes. Mmm, frosty Yuengling on the links.

And not only did I make this putt ...

... but also the 300-pound black bear crossing the fairway behind me didn't eat my sorry, saddle-shoed ass.

I Love the Smell of Horsehide in the Morning

My hometown is the "baseball capitol of the world" if you believe the misspelled sign that once graced the outfield of one of the local ball fields. To a degree, it is true. Regardless of season, someone here will debate you on Yankees vs. Mets, Yankees vs. Red Sox or George Steinbrenner vs. Bernie Madoff.

This is why we don't have a professional team in town. We're so busy arguing the obvious -- that the Yankees are evil incarnate -- we let franchises slip away to other cities. As a result, you'll find me on certain weekday mornings between the first wind sprint of spring training and the World Series' last out with a scorecard and a grin about 30 minutes northeast.

That's where the Bluefish, Connecticut's entry in the independent (read "has-beens and never-weres") Atlantic League play a few midweek games at 10:35 a.m. "Why?" I always wondered. "Who goes to these games? And, most importantly, at that hour, can one buy a beer?"

Pulling into the ball field's parking lot several weeks ago answered the first two questions. Behold! A sea of yellow school buses. This immediately gave me pause regarding my third question, for, even if they sold beer during these kiddie matinees, how creepy would one look imbibing it among the pubescent masses?

Yet, at 10:20 a.m., I approached a vendor, held out my driver's license and a Jackson, and summoned up my will like Oliver Twist seeking extra gruel. "Um, ah -- would it be too early to buy a beer?" I inquired.

"No, honey, not at all," she answered. I felt better … until she didn't bother to check the birth date on my ID and, instead, she held my twenty up to the light. "We get a lot of counterfeit bills from time to time," she said.

The games I have attended to date this year were on "Winning Inning Wednesdays," on which one lucky fan collects $10,000 if his or her ticket is chosen. But first the Bluefish must perform a specific miracle, such as turning a triple play (not sure it's happened in the team's 11-year history) or smacking back-to-back homers (the team had hit only 15 in all of its 37 games last time I attended). Odds of winning -- you're joking, right?

But baseball is statistics and probabilities. This is why some Madison Middle School eighth-graders had come to the June 3 game. The students had been taught to keep score so they could later collaborate on the numbers they compiled to make predictions and decisions. These would include whether one-time, three-sport, all-state star and now Bluefish outfielder Adam Greenberg -- famous for being hit in the back of the head with the one and only pitch he saw in the Major Leagues -- was an effective leadoff hitter. The answer, sadly, is "meh."

The beauty of minor (or sub-minor) league ball, though, is not usually the game, but its intimacy. Feeling connected to the three National Guardsman being applauded after being chosen to sit in the "best seat of the house" couch behind home plate just because they had stood in front of you in the ticket line. Noticing the catcher who, after blowing a tag play, reacts to one irate fan by not-so-subtly adjusting his jock in the man's direction. Listening to the night-shift worker at a local hospital give an enthusiastic play-by-play to his 2-year-old son to try to coax the boy's interest beyond the bag of raisins he's munching.

Morning baseball is now my favorite kind in Connecticut, although I might need to star mixing a little coffee in with that beer next time. By the seventh inning stretch, I'm ready for a nap.

* * *

Congratulations to The Cheek of God who won my JumpStart.com giveaway on this site and Janna Bee who won the giveaway I hosted on DadCentric.com.

Lessons for my son, age 6

The middle male of the Uncool household, a.k.a. Thing 2, turned 6 over the weekend. This is a pretty amazing feat for you, little dude, because, in all seriousness, Mom and I gave much thought on Day 4 of your existence to trading you in for a quieter model.

I walked three miles around the creaky second floor of our old house that first-night-into-morning you were home, son, bouncing you in my arms, swaying you back and forth, swaddling and re-swaddling, singing you my up-to-that-time-never-miss (at least for your big sister) bedtime medley of "Sunny Afternoon" and "(Sittin' on) The Dock of the Bay." All for naught, boy, all for naught.

Thanks goodness for Tanqueray. I mean, for me. Over the next three weeks, it eased the soreness you caused in my right knee that night.

As for your problem, well, seems Mom wasn't putting out enough and you just needed a big ol' helping of artificial help. Consider that your first life lesson.

On this most important occasion, son, let me say that I see a lot of me in you. And I am so, so very sorry for that.
The least I can do is try to tell you about some of the many left turns I made when I should have gone right in life. So, sit down, let me put on my cardigan and fill up my pipe … there, that's enough bubble solution … and here we go:

Southern Comfort and instant iced tea … not a good drinking experience from start to the inevitable finish.

Don't do illegal drugs.

If you are in Amsterdam, however, where certain pharmaceuticals are legal, find someone who actually knows how to roll that thing up for you. Nothing says "ugly American tourist" quite like walking the canals while shy an eyebrow.

Righty, tighty; lefty, loosey.

When the boss tells you NOT do something -- like, say, file a claim for full-time status and benefits since you have been working 40 hours a week as a freelancer for the past two years -- because doing so might "jeopardize you ever having any kind of career in this organization," find a new organization. Then, give the old one the finger as politely as possible on the way out the door.

Learn to tell people "no" and not feel guilty about it. Your mom is a master at this.

Sunscreen, sunscreen, sunscreen. Especially when you sneak a flight to Miami over spring break to hook up with your girlfriend.

Which reminds me. In picking a girlfriend, "family history of mental stability" almost always beats "looks hot in those jeans."

Don't fall for that "you need to match my dress" line. You will never look at old photos of yourself in the basic black tux and cummerbund, shake your head, and wonder what you were sniffing prior to rental.

Like me as a child, you love playing with Hot Wheels cars. Note that this does not translate into a working knowledge of real automobiles when you are older.

Avoid paying for "light" beer. Drinking it is acceptable as long as that's all that's still available from the concession stand or you need to clean out the refrigerator after a party to made room for better things.

Take a job for fun, not profit, at least once in your life.

In my day, it was funny to put dishwashing liquid in a cupcake and give it to that mean 8th grade reading teacher. It was funnier when she was out sick the next day. Today, that will just get you arrested.

You may like dinosaurs now, son, but you won't like working for one when you grow up.

You're going to lose more often than you win at most things. The faster you learn to accept that, the sooner you'll start enjoying the experience as well as the glory.

Forget the GPA, suck it up and take an actual typing class.

There will be times you will need to tell your significant other that she (or he, if need be, I can handle that, too) is right even though you have irrefutable, concrete evidence to the contrary. Trust me on this.

Always question authority, except mine. I may steer you wrong from time to time, but it won't ever be because I am deliberating trying to screw you over.

This is who we are … at 40

So here it is. The big 4-0.

Forty.

The beginning of the slippery slope downhill. Unless you go by my Blue Zone score, which says I will make it to the ripe age of 94 but spend the last 15 years paying for the indiscretions of my youth.

I feel cheated. Had I known way back when, I would have picked way better indiscretions.

So, let me start the 40th anniversary of my birth by thanking my Mom. After witnessing the birth of my own two children, I can only hope she got a real long, solid buzz from the painkillers that day.

Of course, the fact my birthday occasionally coincides with Mother's Day pretty much relegates me to second-class status every few years, but that's not your fault, Mom. We'll blame Dad, you dirty dog, you.

Next, I'm happy to report there have been no major injuries yet to mark my 40th year. My Love, who is three years wiser than I, warned me back when I turned 30 that little aches and pains that never bothered me before would now start to appear. The next day, I promptly strained my back attempting a few laps in the pool.

On the plus side, my hair didn't suddenly fall out overnight. But I knew that wasn't going to happen. I was thinking more along the lines that it would go completely shock-white like it did for Lance Henriksen's character after he watched his wife die of the apocalyptic plague in "Millennium." Now, how cool would that have been?

Instead, I'm fighting the creep of a David Letterman-esque floating isle of hair above my forehead. I'm still only at the peninsula stage but I fear the shores are literally receding. Put me down as another victim of global warming.

So what have I accomplished after four decades?

Anyone? I'm open for ideas here.

Haven't writing the Great American Novel, Short Story or Pop Song. But neither have you* … so there!

Never had true, physical carnal knowledge of Cindy Crawford.

Sorry. … Wiping drool off keyboard.

My only great regret is never having mastered a musical instrument. But, I'm still surprised that I faked musical competence well enough to sing in a band in high school, even if we never played anywhere but the drummer's basement, and play some Casio riffs for the short-lived garage band we had in my newspaper days.

Thankfully, I have erased all the tapes. I think. The memory and the reflexes are always first to go.

Some may question whether I truly lived up to being voted "most likely to succeed" in high school. I know that, in at least one area, I fared better than my female counterpart. Last I heard, through an e-mail she circulated before the 20th class reunion, she was on the prowl for husband No. 3. I'm sorry I missed that party.

I guess it depends on your definition of success. I've had jobs in which I was underpaid and overworked, overpaid and underutilized, and paid a fair wage but completely unfulfilled. I had one great job and it paid only in free admission to movies (intern in the press office of the American Film Institute in Washington, D.C.).

But the best job, honestly, has been being able to hack away on a laptop from home over the past four years. That's because it means I:

1) never have to wear a tie,
2) never have to attend meetings in which I must pretend to be enraptured by the "insights" of my CEO-ass-kissing boss," and
3) get to spend lots of time raising Thing 1, Thing 2 and the Murphinator.

I owe it all to Al Gore, for inventing the Internet, and having a wife with far more ambition, business acumen and earning potential than I.

Also, she loathes shopping and housework. I, by contrast, feel it is my duty to read the care labels on clothes and sort them appropriately before washing. This arrangement of ours is what someone in her profession would call "having complimentary skill sets."

That means, if she ever used the phrase "having complimentary skill sets" in my presence, it would send the beer I'm drinking straight out my nose. It's all about balance.

I only wished she traveled less so we could be a family more often.

OK, I also wish she was Cindy Crawford. But then, she wishes I looked like Denzel Washington and did home repair like Ty Pennington. Someday, we'll start a really successful fantasy spouse league.

Well, here's to me at 40. Always home and uncool, but pretty OK with life as it is.

***

NOTE: An entry on the surprise party My Love threw for me last weekend will be coming soon. My colon needs more time to process the 60 pounds of barbecue and birthday cake that I wedged into it.

* Unless you are Marshall Crenshaw. Then you have written many Great American Pop Songs. Why you would be reading my blog is also a topic for later.

A drinker's lament

Damn you, Grade A supermarket on Hope Street. Damn your automated loudspeaker messages.

I cannot check out your "great selection of cold beer."

This is Connecticut and it's Sunday. Frickin' blue laws!

When Irish pants are fallin'

St. Patrick's Day was never a big event in my family while growing up.

Mom would boil a slab of corned beef beyond recognition. My sister and I would find different ways to conceal the cabbage under mashed potatoes, used napkins or assorted condiments. Dad would put some green food coloring in his Carling Black Label. But that's about it.

It probably has something to do with that, despite our family name, we've never been real sure whether we had any Irish in our heritage. My mother's parents came over from Italy. My dad's family has lots of German and Polish in them. I remember having one Polish grand-uncle named Yosh and my dad always said his mother made great strudel. Not material that's going to get me into the Ancient Order of Hibernians any time soon.

Nonetheless, Ireland tops my list of places to one day visit if only to be able to pay respects to the brewers at Guinness for all the joy they've brought me over the years.

I took my first stab at a homemade St. Pat's feast this year. Cooked up my own batch of corned beef in the Crock-Pot this weekend … simmered in Guinness, naturally. Skipped the cabbage, but did the red potatoes, carrots and onions and bought a surprisingly tasty loaf of soda bread at the corner A&P.

I sipped down my annual shot of Jameson, a tradition I picked up from a real Irish TV cameraman I worked with during a college internship, and dug in. Shockingly, it was really good. The wife claimed it was the best corned beef she ever had.

Of course, My Love also believes it was the first corned beef she'd ever had in her life. Remember, my wife is a Midwest farm girl of an undetermined European stock that has most likely never even tried Lucky Charms. But I still accept the compliment.

True to form, my kids hated it. Thing 2 pronounced it "horrible" but he says that about everything that is neither a hot dog nor a McNugget. Thing 1, at least, liked the soda bread. It's a start.

But, this morning, I was greeted by a surprise.

Thing 2, who is that rare type of morning person who could make Attila the Hun soil himself, came downstairs all dressed for school for a change. But not in the clothes I laid out for him. Instead, he had put on a pair of green corduroy pants, a green school sweatshirt and the oversized, foam leprechaun hat his Mom brought home for him from a business trip to Dublin last year.

"And look!" he yelled.

With glee, he undid the button to his pants and let them fall to the floor. He revealed a pair of shiny, emerald green soccer shorts underneath.

Erin go brea, little buddy.