The Dog Ate My Post

img_0011I joke about being a slacker…err, make that: I “joke” about being a slacker…


Like all humor, even stupid jokes have to have an element of truth to them.  In this case, it ain’t an “element” so much as, well, the totality of the damned thing.

I thought I had a blog post scheduled for yesterday.  I mean, c’mon…I remember writing one, so what the hell happened to it?

No, really, what the hell happened to it?!

How do you lose a freaking electronic blog post?  That’s taking my slackerdom to All Star status…

Anyway, I promised to be regular on this blog again, so I have to get something up.


Ain’t nothin’ for it, I’ll have to post a random rant piece I have sitting in my Drafts section, one I tossed off just to kill some time while I was waiting for friends.

Crap, 2019 ain’t exactly starting off gangbusters, is it?  Anyway, here’s the rant:

Are you kidding me?

No, really — are freaking kidding me?!

Look, folks, we’ve talked before about my, err, penchant for taprooms and breweries.  We’ve also talked about my impatience and intolerance for shitty taprooms.  Crap, you spent a (bare) minimum of $300,000 to open a brewery — and very,  very likely a great deal more than that — so how the hell do you screw up the face of that business?!

C’mon…a bad taproom is the brewery-equivalent of McDonalds hanging a dead rat on their front door, for fuck’s sake…

So why — why?  Why?  WHY? — do so many places screw up even the most basic stuff?


Okay, so I’m a perfectionist.  Sue me.  Part of the price of living & working chest deep in the craft brewing world is the burden of expectations and standards.

Crap, I admit it, this rant is one of those half-drunk posts I’ve warned y’all about before.  I’m sitting in the taproom of a brewery, waiting for some friends, and…well…  My headache is steadily growing, my patience slowly shrinking, and my beer-nerd-gland slowly putting a gun to its head as the only escape.

Music was meant to be heard and enjoyed, it was not meant to drive straight through my skull, leaving a trail of burned and gutted brain cells in its wake.  I can kill my own brain cells quite well, thank you very much.

bb53af64-d9f4-44e0-9c23-89519108165fAnd the chairs…

Shit, breweries are my crack, it doesn’t take a hell of a lot to make me all warm and happy.  I’ve spent time drinking in places from Tijuana to Tallinn, and every place in between, so I’m not the most demanding guy in the world.  But, and this is — pun intended — a big but, my ass shouldn’t feel like the entire freaking cast and crew of Deliverance had their way with it after just fifteen minutes of sitting on these cheap, metal stools…

Now get off my lawn, I have beer to drink!

Beware the Plague

Bring out yer dead…HolyGrail003-1

Bring out yer dead…


You might have guessed by now, but I’m not very good at being sick.  I am, in fact, a big freaking baby when it comes to being sick.  And right now, at this very instant, I am as full of big-baby-ness as it’s possible to be.

220px-Biohazard_symbol_(black_and_yellow)Watch out — I bear the plague!

Okay, so, unlike the Black Death, this particular plague probably won’t kill over a third of the world’s population — hell, it probably won’t even kill me (in spite of my over-dramatizing) — but, well…  Whining can be fun when you feel like crap.  Just ask any four-year-old.

I did try to write this morning, however.  I figured I could get at least one decent hour of production, in spite of my patheticness.

You know what one line I managed to produce?  I don’t wanna go to school today, Mom!


Okay…I have to be tougher than this!  I think my brain and I need to have a talk about putting on our big-boy-pants and making stuff up for a few hours…  I mean, how the hell am I supposed to finish my story if all I want to do is watch RiffTrax movies and feel sorry for myself?

Update: Random music note — I’m listening to a new song from a favorite artist of mine (a cover of a Brandi Carlile tune), and it’s really good:

Don’t Drive Angry!

Okay, so vent-post time…

71B1A6B0-460F-48C7-9F03-659397E7EF33Wait! Don’t drive angry!

Err, that’s not quite it…

Don’t post angry!

That’s it, that’s the rule…but screw it, I’ll post however I want, thank you very much.

I’ve hinted before that I’m …err… “involved” in the craft-beer industry. “Involved” is glossing over quite a bit, but…well…let’s just say that I am an actual expert in taprooms and small batch breweries and leave it there.

Now, from time to time, I like to check out new breweries in my personal neck of the woods. I should probably add that where I live is often(ish) referred to as the “Napa Valley of beer”. Northern Colorado has a lot going for it in our hiking and camping and rafting and fishing, but it has even more in our local craft breweries. Places like Avery and O’Dells and Horse & Dragon and WeldWerks would be worth visiting even if we didn’t have the damned Rockies right outside the door…

Checking out new breweries is, for me, a whole lot like opening a book from an author I’ve never read: it’s all about potential and excitement. Unfortunately — again, like new authors — it can be pretty damned hard to live up to my (increasingly) high expectations. In the brewing world, it’s most often the beer that fails. It is just too easy to screw up beer, to be honest; off-flavors from poor recipes, or poor technique, or poor hygiene/sanitation… There is a lot that can go wrong in the brewing process, and most new breweries manage to find each and every one of those potential problems.

But that’s okay. That’s understandable, even.

It takes a while to transition from smaller batch brewing — especially from home brewing — to larger commercial systems. I can honestly forgive brewing problems if they are corrected by the time I make a second visit. What I can’t forgive, however, is stupidity. What I can’t forgive are poor taprooms. And what I can forgive even less than those two unforgivable sins is a poor customer experience.

Sadly, I hit the freaking trifecta today: bad beer at one place, a bad taproom at another, and a shitty customer experience at a third.

Goddammit, all I wanted was some time and space — and a couple of beers — to sit and write for a few hours! Instead, all I got was disappointment…and anger. Two of these three problems happened at places that should know better, at places that have been in business for years. That they are still suffering these business/craft-brew sins drives me absolutely insane.

Err, kinda like writing, actually…

Certain sins and faults can be forgiven in someone’s early works…but those problems better damned well be fixed by the next story. On the other hand, those same faults from writers who should know better really ARE unforgivable…and they damned well should result in failure.

Just like a brewery with a bad taproom, just like a brewery that cannot give a good customer experience, a writer that cannot manage to handle the depth of character and plot needed to write a truly compelling story is going to run out of grace and success pretty stinking quickly.

Just like I can forgive tastes of corn and butterscotch from a new brewer — as long as (s)he doesn’t repeat them — I can forgive shallowness and corner-cutting from a new writer…

But, if that brewer has been around for a few years…

But, if that writer has been around for a few stories…

Yeah, you better have your shit together, ‘cause all that tolerance and forgiveness goes away pretty damned fast.

(By the way, if you ever want a list of breweries to avoid, I’m your guy!)

Overcompensation, or The Art of the Hunt

There’s this urge, when you write about something where you can (kinda) see both sides, to prevaricate. To cover your proverbial bases in order to establish your credentials with both sides.

Now, amidst the US’s current bitter divisions — divisions of society as much as politics — that might be simple common sense…or it might just be an attempt to weasel out of criticism or condemnation.

I am not, when you get right down to it, immune from such prevarication. I cover my bases, too, and today’s post is no different. My first go-‘round at writing this started with an intro paragraph about the fact that I own several guns, and that I have no problem at all with hunting. Hell, I went on to add, I have any number of recipes for deer and elk and duck and quail and anything else my friends might happen to bring home from their forays.*

*I personally suck at hunting, by the way. I grew up in Southern California, where walking around with a gun wasn’t “hunting,” it was self-defense…

But why should I need, or want, to add such prevarications? All those little caveats did nothing to change or add to or develop the point I wanted to make.  They were nothing other than a pointless effort to establish my bona fides with those who probably wouldn’t like what I have to say in the subsequent paragraphs.

Fuck it, I finally yelled at myself, just make the goddamned point!

Alright, so just what the hell am I talking about?

Hunting grizzlies.

Well, not just hunting grizzlies…trophy hunting in general. Hunting not for meat, nor for need, nor for survival, but solely to “prove” just how big is someone’s imaginary hunting-dick.

I am not, as you might have guessed, a fan.

Quite simply, I am a firm believer in the concept of showing respect to that which you kill. Anything you kill. You use everything — and I mean everything — to show that respect. Skin, meat, organs…you use the lot. Whatever you killed, be it deer or elk or fish or what-have-you, deserves at least that much.

But to hunt and kill something solely for a pelt? Or some horns? Or, worst of all, for a fucking picture with its corpse?

Yeah, there ain’t enough bragging in the universe to make your genitals seem any bigger than the sad, tiny little things you actually possess…


So, Wyoming — my neighbor state, I’m ashamed to admit, and my home when I lived in Yellowstone — chose to schedule a hunt for grizzlies just as soon as the current administration decided to “unlist” them from the endangered species registry. They were unlisted because Yellowstone currently has about 700 hundred of the things…700.

Where once thousands roamed, there are now SEVEN HUNDRED…and the rednecks just couldn’t wait to start shooting the damned things.

Not even freaking Montana or Idaho jumped into the slaughter so quickly, or so thoroughly. But Wyoming is…errr…well…it’s a shithole, to be honest. It routinely competes with Alabama to see just who can limbo ever lower under our already low bar of decency, civilization and intelligence.

650B1C08-042C-47C7-BB68-111D28CFA0A5No one, by the way, kills a grizzly for the meat — bear meat is greasy as hell, and not worth the effort. Just as no one goes out to hunt random grizzlies to survive. No, if a grizzly is threatening you, or is preying on humans, you shoot that specific bear…you have to, when you get right down to it, because killing in those instances is a necessary part of survival. I carry a gun on every single one of my backcountry hikes, and I’m fully prepared to shoot if and when I hit one of those “him or me” moments. But what you don’t do is go out and start randomly blasting away at any and every grizzly you see and have the gall to call that “survival.”

No, the sad truth is that the “great” state of Wyoming just wanted to give a handful of trophy-hunting yokels a chance to get new rugs for their floors…

All my criticism and condemnation aside, there have been some good guys in all this. There is a wildlife photographer out of Jackson Hole* who managed to cage one of the permits. He got the permit to shoot grizzlies, yes…but to shoot them with a camera, not a scoped rifle. Others have been working similarly, to deny at least some of the limited number of permits to trophy hunters. I have supported those folks, and will continue to do so…

*Far and away Wyoming’s best town, by the way, even before all this crap.

I don’t care if it’s grizzlies, lions, giraffes, or freaking penguins, for heaven’s sake — if you are hunting solely for the thrill of the hunt, and to prove how “manly” you are, you have failed. You have failed as a man. You have failed as a human. You have failed as anything other than a pathetic weasel with, err, “substandard equipment”…