Brewed Musings

Brewed Beverage of Choice: A Cup of Stumptown Sumatra Lake Tamur Coffee

The other day as I was riding my bike in the blasted cold so I could get to work and warm up, I started going over all the books I have read since I got back from Seattle around August 20th. This is the date you may remember that got me on my current kick of reading. When I got to work I wrote down all the books I could remember reading which in and of itself was a challenge.

Now I do not usually go around counting books I have read in a certain period. I do not read as a competition or to say I have read this or that book. I am a geek not a wanker. But a friend of mine the other weekend claimed he knew my reading habits saying that I only read books on Native American History and Confucianism. Now I did not go into this to prove him wrong. That is not how my mind works. My mind in its infinite worry state began to wonder if this statement was true. Were the only books I have read on Native American History and Confucianism? (For the sake of argument I will lump Confucianism in with all East Asian Religion/Philosophy to satisfy the masses that do not know the difference say between Taoism and Confucianism.)

The most important conclusion: I have read 3204 pages of material since coming back from a good friend’s wedding. This does not include any magazine articles, newspaper accounts, poetry, web pages, etc. Actually I think there is some poetry in there. The other conclusion was that in those 3204 pages, which amounts to 12 books, only 2 of those books were on Native American History and only 1.5 books were on East Asian Philosophy. The philosophy books were on Buddhism and one dealt with Buddhists take on St. Benedicts Rule, therefore I only counted that as a half a topic. So my mind can rest assured with the knowledge that NO I do not only read books in two genres. Whew!!! That was a close one.

Now I must go and finish reading…Yes, damn it…It is a book on Native American History! Can we let that go, please? I swear. Some of you hold on to things like a mother clutching a baby, for feckssake. (Inaudible mumbling…)

Prost!

the confucian reading brewer

Brewed Beverage of Choice:  A Pint of Fullers ESB

Yesterday I was listening to the Dan Patrick Show on ESPN Radio as I always do around noon each day because it is my 3 hour zen meditation.  He allows my brain to shut off and listen to someone else talking for a while.  Plus he does a full hour with Keith Olbermann, his former partner on Sportscenter.  It was during this show that Keith and Dan waxed poetically on the impact of Muhammad Ali on both the world of boxing and the world of American culture.  The talk was inspiring and interesting as they talked of the time they actually met the “Champ.”  I was in full Ali enlightenment, that is until yet another American sports fan opened his ill-informed mouth and destroyed the moment with ignorance.

This listener emailed the show deriding Dan and Keith for praising Ali because, in his words, Ali was a racist (huh?), a draft dodger for Ali’s conscientious objection of the Viet Nam war, - and this is where he should have just shut his mouth - and then the listener condemned Ali for converting to Islam, a religion that supports violence and killing in the name of Islam.  The last was an obvious jab - no pun intended - at Bin Laden and what is going on in Iraq right now.

I can understand the second criticism because it was a tenuous situation back then and is still a tenuous situation now.  The two sides will never come to terms.  I do not agree with that stance, but I understand it.  But, racist???  I have never heard Ali say he would not fight someone because of the colour of their skin as some heavyweights have done in the past.  And if you listen to any stories about Ali, racist is the LAST word one would think of to describe him.  Practical joker?  Definitely.  It is widely known that Ali liked a good joke.  Great fighter?  Most certainly.  In my opinion he was the best…and I am not a boxing fan.  Loudmouth?  Sure.  He used his mouth as his second best asset.  He was not a racist.

What got my gourd was this listener, who obviously knows nothing about Islam, makes this wide-sweeping generalization about the religion and then condemned a man for his conversion.  I will be the first to admit that I know NOTHING about Islam and feel quite bad about that.  But I am not going to take down a whole religion because of some sects that promote violence.  Apparently this particular listener has completely and conveniently forgotten about the Spanish Inquisition.  Or how about the hundreds of thousands of Native Americans that were killed in the name of Manifest Destiny.  If this person thinks that Christians have not killed in the name of religion, I have a bridge I would like to sell him.

It was hard to put this ignorant listener’s comments behind me and celebrate the man that is Muhammad Ali.  Perhaps this listener can take a page out of Ali’s book.  That would be not opening your mouth unless you have some idea of what you are talking about, an ideal Ali is not given enough credit for.  And now I will shut my mouth, for I have no idea what I am talking about.

Happy Birthday Su!

Prost!

the unknowing confucian brewer

Brewed Beverage of Choice: Just give me a pint o beer!

Everywhere we go, people come and ask us,
where the hell are you from?
we’re from Birmingham,
sunny, sunny, Birmingham!
we’re from Birmingham,
sunny, sunny, Birmingham!
everywhere we go, people want to know,
who we are, shall we tell them?
who we are, we’re Birmingham, we’re Birmingham,
we’re Birmingham City! we’re Birmingham, we’re Birmingham,
we’re Birmingham City!

Brewed Beverage of Choice:  A Glass of Sierra Nevada Celebration Ale because I found one way back in the fridge

Soundtrack of the Evening: The Great Destroyer - Low

Yesterday morning as I woke from one of the strangest dreams I have had in a long time, I was greeted at the window by a dusting of snow on the ground prompting me to turn on the tele to see what the news was covering.  And as I sat there screaming at the tele because they kept saying that this storm took us all by surprise which of course is a big, fat lie considering the whole newscast the night before was entirely on the pending snow storm.  For future reference for the non-Portlanders, an inch or more of snow is a storm.

It did not seem to me to be so bad and according to the mass transit website all my bus and train routes were still running.  So I ventured out to go do a brew so I could enjoy my three days off.  Of course what I think is bad and what everyone else thinks is bad are two vastly different views.  Cars, buses, trucks were sliding everywhere, including the one I got on to get to work.  By the time I made it to my second to last destination the roads were unbearable.  So I went back home.

It was on my way back home…Well actually it was after I sat at a stop downtown and saw nothing coming for miles which got me to decide to walk home…Well that and hearing everyone complain about how the buses were late.  It was then I thought, ‘I sure am glad I was raised in the Midwest.’  It was there that I learned the patience of having to live through long, snowy winters.

It is one thing to complain about something like the president muffing something up, or crappy service at a dining establishment.  But it is entirely different when you are complaining about something you cannot control like the weather and how that affects something that relies on somewhat decent weather, like public transportation.  People were complaining that it took them 3 hours to get somewhere.  My heart bled for them.  How rough it is to actually make it to your destination.  Life can be so tough sometimes.

So as I am crossing the Hawthorne bridge noticing how beautiful the river and the shore look covered in snow, I begin to laugh.  Laughing because I am walking over 2 miles in a ’snow storm’ to get home to see my dog, thankful that I get a day off of work.  Laughing because the scene is far too wonderful for my eyes.  Laughing because I will sleep well from the walk.  Laughing because I am some schlep who was raised in Wisconsin where snow is an afterthought.  Laughing because at the end of this bridge is a brewpub and I will be needing a break before I continue on…

Prost!

the snowed-in confucian brewer

Brewed Beverage of Choice: A Pint of Bridgeport ESB…Hey…What can I say? I was craving an ESB...

Do not think I have forgotten about you. On the contrary. I have been wanting to write, but my mind went into a short hibernation after all the reading I have been doing. In fact…I am surprised this did not happen sooner. But, I just thought I would drop you a line and say I have not forgotten. We all need vacations.

Prost!

the vacationing confucian brewer

Brewed Beverage of Choice: A cup of java (it is cold and snowy outside…)

Happy Birthday to the sweet Eagle, the most cherished friend a man like me could ever have! That is all that needs to be said.

A Solemn Prost! (Raise a pint in her name, please.)
the confucian brewer

Brewed Beverage of Choice: Lakefront Brewing Bock Beer

Prior to this post, I was going to wax poetically about how lately I have been unable to wax poetically. But as I was transporting myself bi-pedal-ly to Stumptown for a nice warm cup o’ joe, I came up with these two poems continuing my Milwaukee Blues started in late in the year 2000. Enjoy!

the confucian brewer

Milwaukee Blues No. 2

Above your hallowed ground
rise a sea of steeples
ever their watchful eyes
over your calm, working neighbourhoods.

St. Stanislaus
St. Mary of Czestochowa
St. Hedwig
The Bascilica of St. Josaphat
Our Lady of Guadeloupe
St. John’s Cathedral

The haloed saints
keeping your masses safe.

Milwaukee Blues No. 3

Riverwest! O! Riverwest!
How many times have we
sat at the bar at Linnemann’s
crying in our beers, the tears
flowing - a tributary
to our beloved Milwaukee river.

Brewed Beverage of Choice: A Glass of Miller High Life (it will be apparent soon enough)

Always retain the old, unchanging truth that happiness is not created by wealth and luxury, but by simplicity, moderation, a pure heart, and a peaceful disposition.

- Frederick J Miller, 1879

Brewed Beverage of Choice:  A Cup of Green Tea…It is cold outside

Soundtrack of the Day:  The Great Destroyer - Low

Last night I walked the dog through Laurelhurst Park, one of the finest city parks in the country.  One could lie down in the middle of it and forget civilization existed despite the fact that there are two major thoroughfares running past its borders.  As the dog made eyes for the ducks and geese that dotted the pond, and as I sat staring at the moon minus a sliver, it came to me - the clarity of confusion that had blanketed me for the past two days.

Answers were not what I was looking for, not last night at least.  The tranquility was going along perfectly without questions.  But for some reason at that particular moment while the dog was deciding if she wanted to jump in the water or not - (thankfully she does not particularly like jumping in that pond) - clarity hit me.  My mind was Laurelhurst Park.

The conclusion, one would ask, is simple.  At least for my simplistic mind it is simple.  My spirit, over the course of a week, ran the gamut when it comes to emotions.  It felt the highs, the lows, and all those blasted tweener emotions we all take for granted.  By the time the 7 or 8 days was up, my spirit knew it could handle anything at that moment and slipped into, for lack of a better phrase, a moment of zen.

It is one thing for the mind or the spirit to know things are slightly out of reach.  It is an even bigger thing for said mind and spirit to calmly realize that it must be a voyeur instead of participant, that patience is required to bring that thing within reach.  I, like most humans, have a knack for trying to control the uncontrollable.  It explains the weather machine gathering dust in the back yard.  So holding back all intuitions of control is difficult, but like riding a bike it all comes back in a flash. That flash happened in a place, coincidentally, I returned to within the past 2 weeks.  (Some nut job was poisoning dogs in that particular park, so I never felt the wonder was quite safe.)

Back to surfing the ocean of tranquil confusion.  Actually I am headed to get my hair cut…no pun intended.

Prost!

the confucian brewer

Brewed Beverage of Choice:  A glass of Duvel

Song of the Day:  On Fire by Sebadoh

It is rare to hear the words tranquility and confusion in the same sentence, let alone someone finding one in the other.  What is also rare is the fact that my mind, for the first time in several months, has been quieted.  I wish I could explain how I have gotten to the point of complete tranquility in my state of confusion, but I too do not know how I have made it to this point.  Truly, I do not even know what I am confused about.

The past few days have been both exhilerating and yet stressful with the dog having to be taken to the hospital and spending some time with a dear friend who I have not seen in over 15 months.  Perhaps my mind has become overloaded with information, with exhuberance, with anger, with melancholy, with whatever-the-hell-can-fit-up-there, that it just flatlined and shut down.  Or perhaps with all that it has been taking in over the past month or so, it finally found that zen-like state, that common ground I now call tranquility.  Be sure, the mind is still working, fixating, grinding its gears for the greater good.  But it seems all too calm.

Years ago I learned that one should not question why or how.  Sometimes the why and how should be just left alone and one should just accept.  And it has taken me years to re-learn all that.  But today I have just accepted the tranquility my confusion has brought.  I do not care about how to “cure” it, nor do I care its origins.  It simply is.

Prost!

the tranquilly confused confucian brewer