As seen on Beernews.org and the Mutineer Magazine Blog, Monster Beverage Co., the makers of Monster Energy Drink, are going after Rock Art Brewery, a small Vermont brewer for naming one of their beers "Vermonster." Is this really what a giant corporation should be doing? Watch the video and feel disgusted, folks.

Let's go back in time to 1183 AD, to the setting of that Peter O'Toole classic, The Lion in Winter.  Europe was rather chilly, and neither coffee nor tea had yet to be introduced to England, nor had hops yet been introduced to beer.  One imagines that mornings would have been pretty dreary, because poor old Henry II couldn't even get a mimosa (no oranges, no Champagne!), and his hot braggot would have been flavored with heather or nettles or something unpleasant like that.  It's really no wonder he had so much trouble with his sons.

Luckily, in these modern times, we have a variety of morning delights to distract us from our filial tribulations, and in winter months hot coffee or tea can be used to warm our troubled spirits as well as our chilled bodies.  It is this cherished attribute we wish to draw your attention to today.

When the colder months approach, waxing one's moustache in the morning can become rather taxing.  During the day, the wax stays nice and firm, as the Winter sun doesn't seem that good at melting it, but chilly fingers do a poor job of softening and spreading the wax to begin with.  This is why you should have a hot, fresh cup of tea or coffee with you while working on your moustache.  With it, you can warm your fingers, perhaps warm the wax a bit, and if the going gets really rough, you can take a few sips and let the hot steam from your beverage increase the suppleness of your 'tache, for easier working.

This afternoon as I sat back to enjoy a few pints of beer, I cracked open a bottle of Three Skulls Ales' Pillagers Pale, which poured a rich, slightly cloudy gold and produced a wonderful off-white head that proved to have good retention and a lovely, solid lacing.  As I leaned forward to sniff the beer, I contemplated the recently discovered "G-variant", or Churchill gene, which apparently causes alcohol to have more of a creativity-inspiring opiate effect instead of instilling that common sottish idiocy we've all seen so often before.  But I didn't have time to contemplate much before encountering the odd, yeast-heavy aroma of this particular pale ale, which seems out of place with this particular style.  I sniffed again, and indeed it has a curious bready odor almost entirely masking the mild hops beneath.

In any case, according to a recent article in Prospect Magazine, about 15% of Caucasians possess this miraculous variant, which was named after Winston Churchill because of his life-long love for alcohol and his legendary consumption.  But how legendary was his consumption, really?  It has been argued that his omnipresent scotch-and-water was but a smidgeon of the strong stuff liberally laced with the weak, and that the man used his reputation to his advantage, but certainly knew his limits.  Nevertheless, it's truly inspiring to see that science has finally acknowledged that some good can come to the creative mind from a modest tipple or two.

As I pondered these heavy thoughts, my tastebuds were hard at work on the Pillagers Pale.  It has a very nutty, roasted malt flavor that does a good job masking the hops.  I would suggest that it's perhaps too good a job, and that there are certain aspects of this beer that depart from what one would usually expect from a good pale ale.  However, it is not a bad beer, and if one is ready for the unexpected, it can certainly be readily enjoyed.

It's been nearly a year since Mr Maujean and I have reported on our drinking-and-airgun experiments, and when we last spoke about it we discussed the unsuitability of cigars as an accompaniment to shooting.  Well, it was a hot summer day, and I had an imperial stout to review, so I thought it would be nice if I could just sip the stout while I was doing something else.  I've always thought that a really nice stout has a range of flavors that develop as the beer warms up, and though I'm not necessarily a proponent of drinking room-temperature (or outside in the summer in Oregon temperature) beer, it can really help one get a handle on a dark one.

So I dug out my BB gun, which hadn't seen any action in probably eight months, and set up some targets at an embarrassingly close range.  I then popped open the beer, an Eel River Raven's Eye Imperial Stout, and began drinking and plinking.  My first step was to take a look at this beer, because I suspected that analyzing the brew up close might help tune and refine my eyesight, thus honing my aim.  This is a rich-looking, dark, espresso-colored brew with a brownish-tan head that has poor retention, which doesn't throw me off too much, as I figured it would have a rather high ABV and thus not a lot of yeast life left for bottle conditioning.  I then fired five shots at my first target and did horribly.  My lack of practice was really showing.

"Maybe it's the wind," I thought to myself, and so I sniffed the beer hoping that a bit of olfactory exercise would sharpen my wind-detecting senses, whatever they are.  Pleasant coffee and roasted grain aromas wafted into my nostrils.  This beer certainly smells like a stout, and certainly looks like a stout, and what the hell, I may as well admit it.  I was going to shoot at my second target before tasting the beer, but I couldn't help myself.  I was in for a little bit of a surprise.

The Raven's Eye has a fairly light, drinkable body for an imperial stout.  It's still a big beer, with a surprising fruit character and a rich, medium body that highlights all of the flavors you'd expect from an imperial stout.  The heat of its 9.5% ABV is well-concealed, however, and since I didn't look at the bottle while I was drinking it, I assumed it to be perhaps a 7% ABV beer, which would be quite low for an imperial stout.

As I continued to shoot, the beer warmed up a little, and the rich sweetness became accented by a nice roasted bitterness in the finish.  I enjoyed the beer quite a bit, I must say, and whether it was the quality of the brew or the practice, my shooting improved noticeably by my sixth target, and I was getting much better grouping and even a good number of bull's eyes.  While I could never sanely endorse drinking and shooting at the same time, I can sanely endorse this beer, and would urge you to go out and buy some, and maybe save it for the chilly Fall months ahead.

On June 22nd, President Obama signed into law the Family Smoking Prevention and Control Act, a very nanny-state sort of assault on smokers.  One of the strangest elements of the act is the banning of flavored cigarettes, including cloves and fruity things, but excluding menthol.  This can't come as much of a surprise, as apparently Philip-Morris was one of the big corporate backers of the new law.  It's a big law, and there's a lot to sort through, but the odd paragraph in question is Section 907.a.1.A, which reads:

Beginning 3 months after the date of enactment of the Family Smoking Prevention and Tobacco Control Act, a cigarette or any of its component parts (including the tobacco, filter, or paper) shall not contain, as a constituent (including a smoke constituent) or additive, an artificial or natural flavor (other than tobacco or menthol) or an herb or spice, including strawberry, grape, orange, clove, cinnamon, pineapple, vanilla, coconut, licorice, cocoa, chocolate, cherry, or coffee, that is a characterizing flavor of the tobacco product or tobacco smoke.

Oddly, the law says nothing about cigars, pipe tobacco, snuff, that funny new Camel dissolving tobacco stuff, or chew.  Just cigarettes.  Why wouldn't menthol be included?  That's surely a more popular flavor among underage smokers than any other fruit flavors.  Well, if you're a clove smoker, now's the time to rush out and stock up, because September 22nd is approaching, and after that date it'll be illegal for shops to sell the things.

I was reclining in my favorite chair this morning, and enjoying a cup of black Assam with just the right amount of honey and sugar and a pipe of my favorite morning blend from Margate, dreaming of drinking really fine bourbon on a trans-continental train trip, when I recalled a website I read from time to time called The Art of Nonconformity: Unconventional Strategies for Life, Work, and Travel.  All three of those are useful things to approach unconventionally when one is interested in an affordable life of leisure, but his articles on "travel hacking" are interesting and outstanding.

His latest article on this subject includes some funny anecdotes, odd tricks for accruing frequent flier miles, and information on various travel hacking projects he's had in the past.  This got me to thinking about any travel anecdotes I might be able to share, and I couldn't come up with any.  I remember times when I've had issues bringing flasks through security and all of the times the TSA guys have had a problem with my pipe tool, but terribly interesting.

When it comes to pairing beer and food, one can take two approaches.  The first approach is the complimentary one, where certain flavor notes in the beer match certain flavors in the dish.  This works pretty well until you get into heavy, rich foods, where you tend to want something refreshing on the palate between mouthfuls.  The second approach is the opposite, where you aim for contrasting flavor profiles between the two, which fulfills the palate-cleansing desires when the dish is on the heavy side, and gets downright bizarre when you begin pairing imperial stouts with your crisp summer salads.  Obviously the rules are not set in stone.

With cigars I've always thought the rules would be fairly complimentary.  Light cigars with lighter beers, heavier cigars with heavier beers.  I contemplated, however, pairing a cigar with Goose Island Bourbon County Stout, which is one hell of a beer and might need a lighter cigar with it.  Could I be correct?  Well, I didn't have any Bourbon County Stout, so I tried something else.

I have a perverse fascination with Carlsberg Elephant, a slightly sweet, golden beverage with malty notes, lackluster hops, and a 7.2% ABV that rumbles warmly yet ominously below the surface with just enough heat to remind you that it's there.  "Imported," states the can, importantly.  "Malt Liquor."  No shit?  The idea of an elephant lost and trampling through the streets of Copenhagen becomes more and more entertaining after a few of these dull cans of beer.

Do not misunderstand me:  this is not a horrible beer.  It's no Coors Light or Heineken, but at best it's still just average.  There is too much sweetness and the alcohol is too poorly balanced with the rest of its flavor, leaving the impression that this beer has but one purpose, and that is to get Danes drunk.  I bet it would be a great chaser for aquavit, so remind me to try that this Christmas.

"Some day," I told myself, "I'll have a house to keep all my stuff in."

I was right. What's particularly strange to me is that when I actually start looking through my precious hoard, it doesn't generate the comfort and security I had dreamt of. I won't bore you with an inventory, let's just say that I have a tremendous amount of things that I don't need. Over time, I also have excelled at burdening myself with another category, many of which those things I don't need have become: things I don't want.

The things I don't want generate worry and a tremendous psychological burden: the things I thought would root me to my home have done just that, and it has turned my house not into a personal museum dedicated to displaying my awesome array of interests and fine taste, but instead into a burdensome place that offers me only problems and limitation. Do I really need laser discs? VHS tapes? Manuals for computer operating systems I will never use again? Will I really scrapbook those old party invitations? How is it that I allowed myself to accumulate so much pure crap?

Persons with far greater understanding of economics than my own have surely meditated at length on this issue. What troubles me is the specter of artificial need, and what scares me is the thought that I am the one who always has given myself permission to have such junk to begin with. I can understand how my changing tastes might contribute sometimes, but what on Earth has been so wrong with me that I let it get so bad?

To participate in society, we must exchange. One fundamental reason so many goods are available is because they are so ubiquitously needed, and of course we most often purchase certain goods because the labor or expertise required to produce them exceeds our own means, or because the expense of producing them at small scale is greater than the number on the sticker-- especially when marked down. How simple it would be if when surveying my piles of junk I only saw evidence of that kind of buying: Instead, somewhere I allowed the signal to noise ratio to become very poor.

I'm not really questioning whether it's okay or not to buy things, and I can't possibly comment on anyone else's perception of their possessions and their personal value. I am saying that if I had considered the burden of physically possessing my junk before I let it get so far out of my hands, I would be able to look around and say "I use that" or "I like having that", instead of being worried with where I was going to put things or how hard the junk would be to get rid of. I want my sense of freedom back.

One of the Chap's hallmarks is a kind of disdain for the mass-produced. It's not that a Gentleman of Leisure avoids ever purchasing anything meant for a broad market, but that he knows that such owning such goods requires giving up some individuality-- almost by definition. It's one more handy ideological tool that can be used to evaluate whether or not something's worth having, because by the time I paid for that one gizmo and all those extra boxes to keep floppies in, I could have afforded two tickets to Shanghai after all.

Good memories don't take up any extra space.

Some other ruminations:

http://www.wikihow.com/Buy-Nothing

http://www.paulgraham.com/stuff.html

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MvgN5gCuLac

A gentleman of leisure may certainly enjoy cooking, but as the lifestyle tends to lead one in many different and lackadaisical directions, with the cultivation of many different hobbies and interests, I suspect that there are relatively few who truly learn to master the art and science of the kitchen.  This is why, my friends, it is so important to cultivate friendships with experts in various fields of leisure and gastronomy: what we lack the willpower to do, we can have others do for us, and then we simply make up the difference by giving them the canvas of our palettes upon which they may paint their culinary masterpieces.

Such was the case recently, when I had the distinct pleasure of visiting the rustic home of one of the fine cooks from the kitchen of Elements Tapas Bar & Lounge out in the scenic Applegate Valley, where guests were pried open and then filled to the brim with delicious cuisine.  I had the foresight to bring with me a couple bottles of Bison Farmhouse Ale, which I am happy to report tastes far better than that original bottle of mine seemed to suggest.  After finishing breakfast and the first bottle, we all sat around stuffed and groaning, while the cook told us, "Nobody leave!  I'm going to start working on the next meal."

So how does one make friends with chefs?  And should one, really?  Are the stories really true?  Yes, chefs and cooks tend to be crazy, maniacal people, but they are also artists.  It's just that they're forced to be artists at extremely fast paces, repeating the same processes over and over again.  They're usually delightfully quirky and many of them are eager to cook in their off hours, as well.  One head cook once told me that every morning before heading in to the restaurant, she cooks a gourmet meal for her boyfriend, and that in the several years they'd been together, she'd striven hard to avoid repeating her dishes.  Can you imagine that?  A different gourmet meal every day!  Maybe I should change the title of this entry to "Marry a Chef and Get All The Food You Want."

Well, one of the culinary delights that I had on this most recent trip was goetta, a savory, meaty oatmeal dish somewhat similar to a cross between meatloaf and breakfast sausage.  I've looked around on the web and found a number of recipes for this delicious treat, but here's the one that I was given.

Goetta
1 lb. ground pork
1 lb. ground beef
2 1/2 cups steel-cut oats
8 cups water
2 bay leaves
3 tsp salt
1 onion

First, chop the onion, then brown it with the meat in a large pot.  Once it's all browned, add the water and all the other ingredients.  Boil for two and a half hours, then pour into loaf pans and let cool.  I suppose after cooling, it's set into a sort of loaf, which you can then slice and fry until browned.  Serve with ketchup or maple syrup, poached eggs, and toast.  Plus, it keeps well when frozen.  Enjoy!