Sunday Poetry: The Spell of the Yukon, by Robert W. Service

The Spell of the Yukon

I wanted the gold, and I sought it;
I scrabbled and mucked like a slave.
Was it famine or scurvy—I fought it;
I hurled my youth into a grave.
I wanted the gold, and I got it—
Came out with a fortune last fall,—
Yet somehow life’s not what I thought it,
And somehow the gold isn’t all.

No! There’s the land. (Have you seen it?)
It’s the cussedest land that I know,
From the big, dizzy mountains that screen it
To the deep, deathlike valleys below.
Some say God was tired when He made it;
Some say it’s a fine land to shun;
Maybe; but there’s some as would trade it
For no land on earth—and I’m one.

You come to get rich (damned good reason);
You feel like an exile at first;
You hate it like hell for a season,
And then you are worse than the worst.
It grips you like some kinds of sinning;
It twists you from foe to a friend;
It seems it’s been since the beginning;
It seems it will be to the end.

I’ve stood in some mighty-mouthed hollow
That’s plumb-full of hush to the brim;
I’ve watched the big, husky sun wallow
In crimson and gold, and grow dim,
Till the moon set the pearly peaks gleaming,
And the stars tumbled out, neck and crop;
And I’ve thought that I surely was dreaming,
With the peace o’ the world piled on top.

The summer—no sweeter was ever;
The sunshiny woods all athrill;
The grayling aleap in the river,
The bighorn asleep on the hill.
The strong life that never knows harness;
The wilds where the caribou call;
The freshness, the freedom, the farness—
O God! how I’m stuck on it all.

The winter! the brightness that blinds you,
The white land locked tight as a drum,
The cold fear that follows and finds you,
The silence that bludgeons you dumb.
The snows that are older than history,
The woods where the weird shadows slant;
The stillness, the moonlight, the mystery,
I’ve bade ’em good-by—but I can’t.

There’s a land where the mountains are nameless,
And the rivers all run God knows where;
There are lives that are erring and aimless,
And deaths that just hang by a hair;
There are hardships that nobody reckons;
There are valleys unpeopled and still;
There’s a land—oh, it beckons and beckons,
And I want to go back—and I will.

They’re making my money diminish;
I’m sick of the taste of champagne.
Thank God! when I’m skinned to a finish
I’ll pike to the Yukon again.
I’ll fight—and you bet it’s no sham-fight;
It’s hell!—but I’ve been there before;
And it’s better than this by a damsite—
So me for the Yukon once more.

There’s gold, and it’s haunting and haunting;
It’s luring me on as of old;
Yet it isn’t the gold that I’m wanting
So much as just finding the gold.
It’s the great, big, broad land ’way up yonder,
It’s the forests where silence has lease;
It’s the beauty that thrills me with wonder,
It’s the stillness that fills me with peace.

- by Robert W. Service
_________________________________________

College professors will tell you this is bad poetry, and I understand what they're saying. The verse lacks subtlety; the rhythm is heavy-handed. You see a line that ends with "sham-fight", and you can't help but wonder how he's going to pull this one off with a rhyme, only to be rewarded with "damsite". The words don't work with the meaning to create a transcendent crystal.

But this is poetry at its most elemental. This is the sort of poetry that thrilled our ancestors around campfires back before electricity; this is the poetry that bards traveled from town to town reciting for alms. And Service reaches in and finds the non-cynic within me - I read this poem and I want to go see Alaska. Who, other than a tweedy professor choked with dusty theories, could resist it?

Thoughts from Last Night's Ethics Forum

The Committee for County Progress hosted an Ethics Forum last night. Micheal Mahoney served as moderator, with panelists Rep. Paul Levota, Rep. Jason Kander, and David Levinthal, the Communications Director for the Center for Responsive Politics in DC. The panel was great, the discussion was informative, and the crowd was a who's who of up-and-coming politicos. I don't have time to do one of my typically verbose descriptions of the event, but here are a few observations:

Paul Levota is funny. At one point, Mahoney was pressing Levota on the unlikelihood that the Missouri Senate will accept contribution limits. Mahoney pointed out that little will be accomplished by sticking to the issue accept to use it as a campaign weapon. "That's the plan," Levota deadpanned.

Transparency is crucial. One of the big problems in Missouri is that donors hide behind committees. When checks get funneled from "Missourians for Good Things" to "Missourians for Awesome Things" and then to "Missourians for Nice Things" and then finally to the candidate, it's awfully hard to track the dollars back to the special interest pulling the strings.

Jason Kander is funny, too. Commenting on a fellow representative's $100,000 donor, Kander pointed out that the donor probably gets his calls returned faster than the representative's children. (Maybe that isn't funny.)

The Center for Responsive Politics is a tremendous resource. Levinthal was well-informed, completely balanced and thoughtful. The Center is non-partisan, and his straight-arrow style made clear that he is interested in good government, period.

The candidates are out to see and be seen. The crowd was peppered with candidates in up-coming races. I hate to mention names, because I don't want to neglect anyone, but Crispin Rea was a welcome presence, along with his campaign treasurer Theresa Garza Ruiz. I finally met Jeremy Ploeger for the 51st district, and Geoff Gerling, candidate for the 46th District.

Where were the County Legislators? The only County Legislator in attendance was the always-wonderful Theresa Garza Ruiz. This came as a bit of a shock, given that it was a forum on Ethics sponsored by the Committee for COUNTY Progress. After the legislature's embarrassing and anti-ethical attempt to avoid ethical home rule, it seems that more of them would have an interest in the topic. Fortunately, Henry Rizzo's opposing candidate and likely replacement, Crystal Williams, was present.

Speaking of Theresa Garza Ruiz . . . I had a brief opportunity to speak with her about her sudden removal as Chair of the Justice & Law Enforcement committee. Despite her degree and experience in law enforcement, she was unceremoniously dumped from the committee, and the "dumper", Henry Rizzo, didn't even talk with her about it first, before awarding the committee Chair to a convicted felon. Theresa didn't have much to offer by way of explanation of this baffling move, other than to point out that the claim that it's part of a normal rotation of chairs is demonstrably false.

Micheal Mahoney knows his stuff. Mahoney did a great job of moderating the event, and the high point came when he ran factual rings around a loud audience member who was claiming that money is the be-all and end-all of politics. Mahoney pointed to the Carnahan/Talent race, and when the blustery but ill-informed talker pushed on, he pointed out that the Mayor was also not the leading fundraiser in his election. It was an amusing and deft evisceration of an anti-Funkhouser activist who seemed to be substituting volume for accuracy.

It's wonderful that so many people care about ethics in Missouri. On a Thursday evening, a healthy crowd of people came out to a mid-town law office to participate in a high-level forum on the topic of dollars and politics. That's a pretty impressive level of interest, and the CCP deserves credit for putting on the forum.

Sunday Poetry: Evening Hawk, by Robert Penn Warren

Evening Hawk

From plane of light to plane, wings dipping through
Geometries and orchids that the sunset builds,
Out of the peak's black angularity of shadow, riding
The last tumultuous avalanche of
Light above pines and the guttural gorge,
The hawk comes.
His wing
Scythes down another day, his motion
Is that of the honed steel-edge, we hear
The crashless fall of stalks of Time.

The head of each stalk is heavy with the gold of our error.

Look! Look! he is climbing the last light
Who knows neither Time nor error, and under
Whose eye, unforgiving, the world, unforgiven, swings
Into shadow.

Long now,
The last thrush is still, the last bat
Now cruises in his sharp hieroglyphics. His wisdom
Is ancient, too, and immense. The star
Is steady, like Plato, over the mountain.

If there were no wind we might, we think, hear
The earth grind on its axis, or history
Drip in darkness like a leaking pipe in the cellar.

- by Robert Penn Warren
__________________________________________________

Robert Penn Warren would be better known as a brilliant poet if he were not such a brilliant novelist. I first encountered his overwhelming genius when I read "All the King's Men", an historical novel based on the life of Huey Long. It seemed like every word on every page was placed with steady purpose - that every word choice was important and deeper than I could fathom. Reading Robert Penn Warren was the first time that I really "got" how much genius goes into great writing - that writing isn't just a gushing of what you want to say, but a composition of reinforcing meanings and sounds that work like the lacy steel in a suspension bridge to carry bigger truths. It was the first time I had the awareness and sense to marvel at great writing.

In his poetry, Robert Penn Warren shows the same control and purpose. Unlike untrained poets, he is not content to gush forth with sentimental thoughts of death or love. Unlike academic poets, he is not content to use language to construct meaningless cathedrals of "experimental lyricism". Instead, he works at his craft until the poem thrills with its language and provokes thought with its meaning.

The first few lines introduce a sight we can relate to - a hawk flying through shadows near the end of a day. In RPW's hands, though, he transforms the shape of a hawk flying into a scythe, and I realize he's describing something I've seen dozens of times, but never had the imagination to make that very plausible connection.

And then he carries the image a step further - what is this scythe cutting down? Another day - which brings us to the stalks Time, and then to the harvest of this scythe - "The head of each stalk is heavy with the gold of our error."

BOOM! In a few words, RPW has taken me from a fresh description of a hawk flying to the gold of my error - my failings, flaws and mortality.

Then, to put me further in my place, he tells me I don't matter. The hawk is unforgiving of my error, but only because the hawk doesn't understand Time or error - indeed, the whole world is unforgiven. In the steady, immense, ancient turnings of the world, I amount to less than a bat, and all of history amounts to a leaking pipe in the cellar of the world.

Now, just think about that description of history! In utter silence, we think we might hear "history/Drip in darkness like a leaking pipe in the cellar." Wow! Have you ever lain awake at night because a tiny little drip in a remote part of the house is driving you nuts with its tiny but incessant rhythm? That drip takes over and dominates your mind. It's tiny but powerful enough to ruin your night.

In the sense of ancient mountains and steady wisdom, the tribulations of our history are nothing. The crying out of tens of thousands dying in Haiti does not disturb the steady grinding of the earth on its axis. In the context of time, the heavy gold of my own errors and faults is no more than one stalk in a vast, immeasurable harvest.

But human history is like a dripping pipe in the cellar. It is what we hear, it grabs our focus and, for the time we lie awake, it is all we can think about.

If You're in the Mood to Think Deeply About the Internet . . .

McKay over at State of the Line puts into words a lot of the thoughts that have been going through my own mind. Here are a few excerpts, to give you the flavor, but the whole essay is well-crafted, thoughtful, and thought-provoking.

"What we don’t often discuss is whether or not a culture of instant satisfaction is even a desirable state of living. I’ll admit I’m as guilty of this mindset as anyone else: I feel lost without my phone, become anxious when I cannot check my email for several hours, and become consumed by news and market alerts from the Times and Journal — and that’s before I even start to revel in the abundance of information in my Google Reader feeds. But why do we need this? It’s hard to imagine that just ten years ago, we often had to place a call from a land line to a land line, leave a message, and wait for a response."
. . .
"The mantra of Web 2.0 is always based around the supposed wisdom of crowds: if you let the aggregated genius of the assembled masses decide it, then you’re bound to get the best and most efficient result. Have we really taken the myth of the rational market this far?"
. . .

"But the releasing of the keys to the free-information demands of the online marketplace is not even the most troubling aspect of the internet’s total cultural penetration. That, I suggest, is the culture of hatred bred by anonymity. What’s most baffling about the trend toward online anonymity is exactly where it came from. When I watch the evening news, I’m not allowed — nor do I feel entitled — to appear in a picture-in-picture window offering sarcastic remarks, thinly veiled insults, and outright sadistic language about the anchors and the stories. So why do we feel this is a fundamental right online? Yes, the web is supposed to be a democratizing tool of great egalitarianism — I understand that. But just because one could say anything he wants doesn’t mean one should. There is something deeply troubling about citizens being able to hide behind online handles and lob verbal grenades toward anything they deem disagreeable, lame, or pointless. Aside from contributing nothing to our conversation, it weakens the intellectual capital of this allegedly revolutionary tool. Why should people bother posting information online when one commenter, emboldened by the freedom of anonymity and feeling empowered to voice his darkest thoughts because it will never be traced to him, can simply make a hateful or racist remark?"
. . .
"
On Human Connections & The Social Utility Of The Internet

January 22, 2010 by McKay

Since our denunciation of snark in late November, we’ve made an effort around here to post thoughtful, reflective pieces that take a step back from the hyperactive and hyperbolic mood of the blogosphere. I’ve been thinking quite a bit, though, about the very essence of that particular arena, and about the entire networked world that supports it. The internet (the noun seems to have reached a non-capitalization age, no?) is widely heralded by everyone from sociologists to Apple stockholders as the salvation of humanity — the thing that will bring everyone together, result in a technological Age of Aquarius, and connect open-minded people everywhere in a panoply of new ideas and information-sharing mechanisms. To see just how deeply this assumption has become ingrained in our society, just note the Luddite accusations that follow anyone who dares suggest the following: what if the internet’s deleterious effects outweigh its benefits?

The internet, I’d contend, is a technological success — nay, a marvel — but an undeniable failure as a tool of emotional connectivity. I take pains to say it’s not a failure as a tool of human connectivity; its power in allowing me to speak instantly to someone in Malaysia, or email a friend in Britain, is unsurpassed and unlike anything we’ve ever known. Its capability in the arena of communication is not here disputed. As a communication tool, it has revolutionized the way we operate — so much so that it becomes difficult for us to comprehend that letters and conversations once had to wait days while mail was delivered, or months while ships crossed the ocean. (Honestly, can we comprehend that? Or have we become so accustomed to instant responses that our brains can’t quite wrap themselves around it? Paleontologists often speak of the difficulty in communicating the sheer magnitude of time’s passage between dinosaurs and humans; our existences are so short that we truly cannot fathom a span like “millions of years” — is this sort of like that?) It has likewise reshaped the way we do business: the online market connects us to a marketplace of goods and services we never would’ve foreseen, all capable of being delivered in minimal time. All of this has created a culture of instant satisfaction, in which most of our communication and capitalist desires can be satisfied in ever-shorter durations.

What we don’t often discuss is whether or not a culture of instant satisfaction is even a desirable state of living. I’ll admit I’m as guilty of this mindset as anyone else: I feel lost without my phone, become anxious when I cannot check my email for several hours, and become consumed by news and market alerts from the Times and Journal — and that’s before I even start to revel in the abundance of information in my Google Reader feeds. But why do we need this? It’s hard to imagine that just ten years ago, we often had to place a call from a land line to a land line, leave a message, and wait for a response. Today it’s difficult to envision waiting for anything; most news and information is accessible by the click of a mouse or swipe of a touchscreen. However, this seems to have weakened our collective resolve. When everyone can access everything all of the time, the ill effects are two-pronged: first, it makes us spoiled and expectant, assuming that we can get anything as soon as we want it. Second, it weakens the inherent worth of pure waiting, which in turn depreciates the value of patience and appreciation of the final product or idea delivered. The reason patience is said to be a character-building virtue is because it helps us place more context and appreciation on the thing we finally receive; if I’ve not had to endure any kind of wait for something that’s important to me, how do I know to appreciate it? Especially when I can, presumably, receive another just like it in an equally short time span?

The problem spawned by a culture of instant satisfaction is that it somehow convinces us that we deserve things for free. Think about that for a second: the Times employs hundreds of reporters in its newsroom. Those people work to create what’s largely considered to be some of the best journalism in the country (not to mention agenda-setting; it’s often joked that if you want to know what NPR will talk about on Thursday, you should just read the Times on Wednesday). Where on earth did we get the notion that we deserve every ounce of that product completely free? The internet was supposed to connect us to the product, not deliver the product free of charge and render the cost of the effort worthless. Newspapers made a strategic blunder when they imagined they could provide free content and use advertising to support it, and now we’ve all become horribly accustomed to receiving things for free.

The mantra from the supposed gurus of the Web 2.0 revolution, of course, is that information wants to be free. This is patently absurd. The only people who want information to be free are those who can bank a profit from that information’s use: advertisers, online vendors, et al. If I’m the one paying a staff of hundreds to produce that information, what message am I sending to my employees by giving away the product of their work? It’s akin to Honda giving away cars and relying on rear-window advertising to make a profit — how would the legions of assembly line workers feel about placing a value of $0.00 on each car they produce? The mantra of Web 2.0 is always based around the supposed wisdom of crowds: if you let the aggregated genius of the assembled masses decide it, then you’re bound to get the best and most efficient result. Have we really taken the myth of the rational market this far? (There is, in the recession’s wake, a pretty serious backlash against that myth. Can we really assume that a stock’s price reflects all pieces of known information and is adjusted to meet that information? Are we really supposed to believe that human emotion, artificial inflation, and pure market chicanery never plays a role?) As web pioneer Jaron Lanier notes in his new book, crowdsourcing in pursuit of free information can be not just an ill-advised strategy, but a pernicious one; he notes that it leads content-producers “to treat the fruits of their intellects and imaginations as fragments to be given without pay to the hive mind.” While the tone is slightly alarmist, Lanier’s point is solid: when we assume we can get anything we want — news articles, images, digital music — for free online, we hurt, and perhaps destroy, the innate worth of what people are producing and sharing. Why should a musician who writes and produces a song, presumably at some expense, be expected to bestow it as a gift upon the world?

But the releasing of the keys to the free-information demands of the online marketplace is not even the most troubling aspect of the internet’s total cultural penetration. That, I suggest, is the culture of hatred bred by anonymity. What’s most baffling about the trend toward online anonymity is exactly where it came from. When I watch the evening news, I’m not allowed — nor do I feel entitled — to appear in a picture-in-picture window offering sarcastic remarks, thinly veiled insults, and outright sadistic language about the anchors and the stories. So why do we feel this is a fundamental right online? Yes, the web is supposed to be a democratizing tool of great egalitarianism — I understand that. But just because one could say anything he wants doesn’t mean one should. There is something deeply troubling about citizens being able to hide behind online handles and lob verbal grenades toward anything they deem disagreeable, lame, or pointless. Aside from contributing nothing to our conversation, it weakens the intellectual capital of this allegedly revolutionary tool. Why should people bother posting information online when one commenter, emboldened by the freedom of anonymity and feeling empowered to voice his darkest thoughts because it will never be traced to him, can simply make a hateful or racist remark?

The problem is that it doesn’t take any talent or creativity to make one of these remarks. All it takes is a detached aloofness, or a hatred of a certain political figure, and one can immediately take a reductio ad absurdum approach to online discussion. By insulting the author, or suggesting that the article or work is boring, or denigrating a particular race, one reduces the discussion to its most base and troubling elements. No talent is required to do this. And for what? So you can appear more world-weary than the next commenter? So you can hold yourself out as more sophisticated than the other readers, and thus more difficult to impress?

In case it’s not obvious by now, this post is a mea culpa of sorts. For the first nine months of this site’s existence, we committed some of the sins I’ve just listed. As anonymous writers, we felt a perverse freedom to say whatever we pleased without fear of repercussion. With no fear of exposure, we could mock, insult, and generally torment people like Mike Hendricks, Mayor Funkhouser, Jack Cashill, and various users of Ink’s web site. Why did we do this? Well, in some cases criticism was more than warranted. . . . But in most cases there was no point to this. . . . We poked fun at Star columnists — and indeed at the entire publication — because it was easy for us; we were not reporters caught up in the dwindling world of media, and so never had to worry about the actual work it took to produce a newspaper. Far easier it was for us to simply wait for them to do the work, and then sit back and comment anonymously. For a time, this worked marvelously. Our page views reached heights greater than anything we’d ever imagined, and we routinely received emails from people congratulating us on our snarky ascension. But it wasn’t right. It wasn’t the kind of thing that would make our parents beam with pride. Most importantly, it didn’t contribute anything of value to our citywide conversation. Being able to make someone laugh, or merely pointing out the absurdity of a column, doesn’t make you cultural critic. That takes analysis, reasoning, and reflection. For a distressingly long time, we lost sight of that."
. . .
"Removing ourselves from the self-absorption of Web 2.0 is paramount if we are to recapture a reality based on tangible connections to nature and to each other. This starts with several actions. First, the scourge of web anonymity must end. For whatever reason, the nature of anonymity prompts us to give voice and life to our darkest sides. Second, we must understand that just because we are enabled to say something doesn’t mean we are compelled to say something. There may very well be a rumor swirling about a City Hall politico, but to give life to that rumor is to act irresponsibly. When one writes a post insulting that person or implying untoward things about him, it’s important to remember that people will read it and be affected by it. These are not mere words leaking out into an online ether where people are unaffected by harsh statements — they are mean-spirited and unnecessarily cruel aspersions that will no doubt alter the mood and spirit of the subject."
. . .
"Jaded, world-weary affectation is a vacuous intellectual pursuit. It challenges nothing, contributes nothing, learns nothing. There is something larger, and that thing is a stroll on the lawn of the Nelson, or a sunset over a comically flat Kansas horizon, or a chat with a friend under the Plaza lights. These are not things to be blogged about or posted as status updates in 140 characters or fewer; they are things to be lived, to be experienced, and to be savored, all with an attitude of appreciation and civility toward your fellow citizen because it’s simply the right thing to do."

I apologize to McKay for copying so much of what he wrote, but, trust me, the real essay goes deeper and further.

My post about Henry Rizzo appointing James Tindall to be chair of the Jackson County Legislature's Justice and Law Committee needs to be rewritten.

Do You Like Guitars? You Ought to See this Guy Tonight.

Will Matthews is Kansas City's best jazz guitarist. As far as I know, he's the world's best jazz guitarist, but I can't be as dead certain of that claim. Either way, you can sit a few yards away from him this evening at the Blue Room for $15, and be blown away.

A few years ago, I was flipping through a cut-out bin and found an album entitled "Will Matthews Solo" and it was only a couple dollars. I saw he was a Kansas City native so I gave it a try, with no expectations or preconceptions. That album wound up at the top of my top 50 albums 2000-2009 because I've listened to it more than any other album in my collection.

I lack the vocabulary of a true jazz critic, so I'll quote one: "Those who know me have always heard me say that Will's tone and phrasing is a perfect blend of George Benson, Grant Green, and Wes Montgomery, supported by his strong chordal concept, which, unavoidably, is pure Kenny Burrell (and why would anyone want to go around that?)." I'll just add that the music sounds like rubbed brass looks.

It won't only be Will Matthews tonight, though. Your $15 dollars gets his whole quartet. He's just released a CD with Mel Rhyne on the Hammond B3 organ, Bobby Watson on the alto saxophone and Kenny Phelps on the drums. I'll happily pay full price for this one . . .

Boulevard Brewery - Is the Emperor Wearing Clothes?

John over at the Wort Hog posted a provocative piece raising questions about Boulevard Brewery's adhesion to craft beer ethos, prompted by a review of the Brewery's FAQ. While you may occasionally stumble across a negative review of a specific beer, rarely do you see a respected Kansas City beer writer like John pen something so critical of the state's largest craft brewery itself.

Specifically, he points out that earlier versions of the FAQ forswore the use of aluminum cans, citing "tradition" as the reason, only to delete that entry after adopting aluminum bottles. He also identifies two "shockingly" false claims that remain in the FAQ; one is that Boulevard will never make fruit beer, and the second is that Boulevard will only be distributed in the Midwest.

Most damningly and provocatively, the discrepancies cause John to raise 5 questions:

1. Did Boulevard ever truly hold the snooty values communicated on its FAQ?
2. If they did, why are these values so easy to abandon?
3. Does Boulevard truly value the craft beer ethos many see in its Smokestack series?
4. If so, how easily will Boulevard abandon that apparent value?
. . .
5. Is the Emperor wearing any clothes?

Those are some serious questions to raise based upon sloppy FAQ writing.

While I admire John's willingness to ask hard questions about a brewery many of us tend to treat as a regional treasure, I think he's going way overboard in seriously questioning the values of Boulevard Brewing.

First off, let's tackle the aluminum can question. The now-deleted section on aluminum cans was wrong-headed in the first place, but it was never a "value" of the brewery to be wedded to brown glass bottles. I'm not privy to their formal values statement, if they have one, but their "value" is tied to producing a high-quality beer experience, not favoring one container over another. A dismissive statement about aluminum cans on an early FAQ is not a value, and it's neither shocking nor unethical to abandon it when environmental and market reasons bring a reason to rethink the prejudice. (Aluminum cans are drawing more and more advocates within the craft brew industry, and I'm working on a post about the topic for the near future.)

As for the "fruit beer" issue, I think John is a bit mistaken when he acts like the statement is contradicted by his point that "Boulevard has been making a seasonal beer with fruit added for over a year now". I assume that John is referring to the orange peel used in making Zon beer, and there is a world of difference between a witbier like Zon and a "fruit beer", which is intended to be a "harmonious marriage of fruit and beer".

(I was surprised to see Boulevard eliminate an entire category of beers from its intended repertoire when I saw John's quotation. In context, though the statement comes in the form of a terse "nope" to the question "Will Boulevard ever make fruit beer, 'light' beer or non-alcoholic beer?". I think they should clarify that statement now, and reclaim the potential of entering into the wonderful craft-brew world of cherry stouts, raspberry ales, and Magic Hat #9.)

Finally, about the distribution issue. A few bottles of the Smokestack series found on the coasts does not demonstrate an abandonment of fundamental values. Indeed, the FAQ makes that point clear when it states that the limited distribution area helps them remain "dedicated to bringing back fresh, flavorful beers in a variety of styles". In the case of the Smokestack series, a narrowly focused niche beer like Two Jokers or Seeyoulator might well require a broader network of adventurous beer drinkers to allow for those styles to sell. There's no conflict with a value; there's an adaptation of strategy.

In sum, John at The Wort Hog is wrong when he attempts to spin some sloppy editing in a FAQ into a question of values. The loose language John excavates from old FAQs does not represent "snooty values", and the editing of that language does not reflect any abandonment of values. I see nothing to justify an accusation that Boulevard is prone to abandon the "craft beer ethos" represented in its Smokestack series.

On the other hand, it's refreshing to see someone step out and raise these questions. Boulevard Brewery is a dominant force in the regional beer scene, and beer bloggers ought to be stepping up and questioning on a regular basis whether our emperor is wearing clothes. Local beer bloggers have already been accused of "Homerism" and the claim is not entirely without justification.

I'm confident that, in this case, the emperor is wearing clothes. As beer-lovers, we owe it to ourselves and to Boulevard to make sure it remains fully clothed.

Sunday Poetry: A Refusal to Mourn the Death, by Fire, of a Child in London, by Dylan Thomas

A Refusal to Mourn the Death, by Fire, of a Child in London

Never until the mankind making
Bird beast and flower
Fathering and all humbling darkness
Tells with silence the last light breaking
And the still hour
Is come of the sea tumbling in harness

And I must enter again the round
Zion of the water bead
And the synagogue of the ear of corn
Shall I let pray the shadow of a sound
Or sow my salt seed
In the least valley of sackcloth to mourn

The majesty and burning of the child's death.
I shall not murder
The mankind of her going with a grave truth
Nor blaspheme down the stations of the breath
With any further
Elegy of innocence and youth.

Deep with the first dead lies London's daughter,
Robed in the long friends,
The grains beyond age, the dark veins of her mother,
Secret by the unmourning water
Of the riding Thames.
After the first death, there is no other.
- by Dylan Thomas
_______________________________________________

For me, the most shattering moment of this awful week of Haitian pain came when a CNN anchor lost composure over a report that a little bespectacled girl who had been rescued from rubble in front of cameras had died later, off camera, for lack of medical care. It's just one of tens of thousands of such stories - neither the saddest nor the most significant. Out of the vast pool of sad stories, this one grabbed at Campbell Brown's heart, and shook it.



For me, Dylan Thomas speaks to the heart more than the brain. I had the benefit of first encountering this poem on tape, where his majestic voice elevates his poetry from mere words to sounds that ring with a truth that exceeds their dictionary meanings. Here is that recording used as the soundtrack for a collection of photos of Thomas - my recommendation is to shut your eyes and listen to the poet without photographic distraction:



Pretty amazing.

By way of background, Dylan Thomas was a sincere believer in the cycle of nature. When he writes that he will rejoin the Zion of the water bead and the synagogue of corn, he is saying that our bodies are recycled through nature, and his atoms will rejoin the cycle upon his death. His mechanistic, unsentimental cycle clashes with his deep emotion, just as the unmourning water of the Thames does not register the elegy of innocence and youth.

And so the death of that little girl in Haiti is completely understandable in the confluence of tectonics, poverty, and the frailty of a little girl's body. But it is horrifying and cuts us all to the core, so that words fail us, and we dare not try to cover up our emotion with pat phrases or even journalistic restraint.

What to Brew? Two Batches, 20 Gallons, One Day

It looks like Monday will bring temperatures above freezing, and I have the day off in honor of MLK Day. I've promised beer to a few events, and I got a sweet new boiler for Christmas I'm eager to blow some propane through.

I have a great, malty Oktoberfest in kegs, and a deep, rich Traditional Bock. What should I brew next? I can make two batches, and I would prefer that I not brew more than one lager (cold storage space is not limitless).

Right now, I'm thinking of a hoppy Amber Ale, and perhaps a Schwarzbier, both of which I brewed last year and went over very well. On the other hand, I love trying now recipes, so it might be time to try a Scottish ale, or an alt. Now would also be a good time to brew a cream ale, since we have a big Mardi Gras party coming up, and it's good to have something everybody will like.

Out of the 81 styles in the Beer Judge Certification Program guidelines, what should I brew?

(If you want to swing by on Monday and see some all-grain homebrewing (while sampling the aforementioned Oktoberfest and Bock), consider yourself invited. Just drop me a note.

Boulevard Amber & Dubbel

I took a quick tour of Boulevard Brewery yesterday with the Kansas City Plaza Rotary Club, and the highlight, of course, was the tasting room. (Not that the tour was anything less than wonderful - they do a superb job of summarizing the brewing process and impressing people with all their cool equipment. They use video effectively in the tour; if you haven't done one recently, I highly recommend it.)

The two new tastes for me were Boulevard Amber and Boulevard Dubbel. Surprisingly, I'm more excited by the amber.

Amber ales are a tricky style. They are usually medium in color, medium in strength, medium in mouthfeel, medium in hoppiness and medium in malt. That many mediums usually make a boring beer. On the other hand, they tend to be a popular beer, because they're approachable and balanced. Some brewers unfairly consider them a "sell-out beer" - a beer designed to appeal to the masses.

Boulevard Amber will be wildly popular, and will appeal to a broad swath of industrial beer drinkers, but it's not a "sell-out beer". It has that certain spark that makes it a great beer instead of just an easy-drinking one. I predict that it will earn a place in the selection of year-round brews that Boulevard produces.

Boulevard's version of an amber ale is surprisingly malty and rich. The hops are light in this one; it tasted to me almost like a slightly sweeter Oktoberfest. Whatever variety of ale yeast they used was well-chosen; it allowed for a great malty taste without a cloyingly sweet finish, and it was perfectly clean, to the point I would have believed it was a lager yeast. The hops used are just enough to provide a mildly bittering contrast to the malt sweetness, but they play only a supporting role. If I had to recreate this beer using widely available commercial beers, I would start by blending 3 parts of a classic Oktoberfest with 1 part of O'Dell's 90 Shilling.

As for the Boulevard Dubbel, I'm not quite as enthusiastic. Where the Boulevard Amber added malty life to a style that is often bland, Boulevard Dubbel took my favorite beer style and smoothed off the interesting parts. It's not a bad beer by any means, but I don't think this version of dubbel has any real greatness in it.

A great dubbel is a decadent beer. It is rich in belgian malts and enhanced by belgian yeast. Hops are an after-thought, and the abbeys where these brews originated often aged their hops such that the hop flavor was virtually eliminated while the hop bitterness persisted to balance the malt. A great dubbel has tastes of raisins and dark dried cherries. Go buy a Corsendonk Abbey Brown Ale, a New Belgium Abbey Belgian Style Ale, or a Chimay red. That's what we're talking about.

Belgian Dubbel didn't hit those heights in my sampling glass yesterday. To be fair, I only had a couple ounces to taste, and the great ones only really achieve their full greatness as you enjoy an entire bottle. It's a complex beer, and sometimes it takes more than a few sips to get that complexity.

To be even more fair, the sample poured was way too cold to allow a dubbel to really show its full range of flavors. Some of the decadence I look for in a dubbel might have been hidden in the chill.

Even with those excuses, though, I think the Boulevard Dubbel may need some tweaking. I was picking up a bit of bitterness or harshness. I don't think it was hops, though it's possible I was catching a too-heavy hand with the bittering hops. I wonder if the problem could be in the water; Kansas City water is pretty hard, and some of those ions can enhance a beer's bitterness without additional hoppiness. (If you want to taste this impact for yourself, taste Bass Ale - where minerally water enhances the hops - compared to Anchor Steam - where the hop bitterness is not enhanced by minerals. They're different styles, of course, but focus on the bitterness.)

Boulevard Amber is a great beer that I hope the brewers will be releasing soon to an adoring public. Boulevard Dubbel is made in a great stule, and I hope the brewers will be refining the recipe to a point that it will belong with the great Dubbels of the world, and earn a place in the pantheon of Boulevard products.

(For more Boulevard news, go read about the collaboration between Boulevard and the brewer from Orval. Bull E. Vard of the KC Beer Blog managed to get a free bottle from the brewery, and does a great write-up of a beer I am excited to taste.)

Soup Dumplings

Imagine a fat, round, pale dumpling, glistening on a bamboo steamer amidst wilted greenery. You pick one up, bite it, and there is a meatball surrounded by lovely, salty broth. In one morsel, you have dough, meatballs, and soup. You've just had a soup dumpling.

My son introduced us to soup dumplings at a place called Joe's Shanghai on a narrow street in New York's Chinatown. They've become a key feature of any trip to New York now; I've never seen them anywhere else.

The trick to making them without having the broth melt out is gelatin. When chilled, the broth is gelatinized, only to become a rich, silky broth when gently steamed. That bit of ingenuity makes for a tricky-to-eat burst of oxymoronic exotic comfort food.

If you're ever in New York, visit Joe's Shanghai. Elsewhere, they may appear as "Xiao Long Bao", though their quality may vary.

3 Big Differences Between Reid and Lott

The Republicans have suddenly discovered their previously undetectable racial sensitivity, and are calling for Harry Reid to resign as Majority Leader of the Senate because of some awkward language Reid used to describe his enthusiasm for Barack Obama's candidacy. They are equating Reid's stated enthusiasm for Obama's candidacy to former Senator Trent Lott's stated enthusiasm for segregation. Sadly, some soft-minded liberals are joining them in claiming that Obama and those of us too smart to fall for this false equivalency are hypocrites.

There is a difference between Reid and Lott, and what Reid and Lott said, that distinguishes the cases for anyone who is neither intellectually dishonest nor intellectually stunted. In fact, there are three big differences, and I'll point them out for those who think that all unfortunate mentions of race are equivalent, and justification for a political death penalty.

1. What They Said: Let's look at what Harry Reid said, in his enthusiasm for Obama's candidacy. He made the accurate observation that Obama's skin is relatively light, and said that he speaks "with no Negro dialect, unless he wanted to have one." It uses a '50s era term for African-American, it (inaccurately?) implies that America might face more difficulty in supporting a darker-skinned candidate, and it implies that the pattern of speech employed by a segment of African-Americans is a broader "Negro dialect". One might just as fairly express joy that a Missouri politician speaks with no inbred hillbilly dialect.

Distasteful, I agree, and not the sort of thing I like to see from a Democrat.

Trent Lott, on the other hand, said that he was proud to have voted for Strom Thurmond when he ran as a segregationist and opposed anti-lynching legislation, and that "if the rest of the country had followed our lead, we wouldn't have had all these problems over all these years, either." Do I need to map out the differences? While Reid was speaking enthusiastically about electing a black president, Lott was speaking enthusiastically about segregation and wishing that we could go back to the pre-civil rights South and lynching. To find a distinction between the two does not demonstrate hypocrisy, it demonstrates an understanding of the difference between a little insensitivity and a deep resentment of uppity blacks causing problems.

2. Who They Are: As President Obama points out, Harry Reid has worked with him and other Senators on socially progressive causes to help the underprivileged for years. He's got some credibility on racial issues. He's built up a store of good will that he can draw upon in assuring his friends that he is sincere in his remorse and forward in his thinking.

Trent Lott was a product of the Republican racist "Southern Strategy" to win the votes of those who believed exactly what Lott said to Thurmond - we'd be better off with segregation and lynching. Lott was an enthusiastic supporter of the Klan-like CCC, and sought to regain citizenship for Jefferson Davis. He voted against extending the Voting Rights Act and the Civil Rights Act. He voted against the Martin Luther King holiday. Suffice it to say, Lott had not built up a store of good will on racial issues.

3. Reid Has Been Forgiven: It is amusing to see all the pundits (especially the white ones, and certainly including me) and right wing politicians trying to tell everyone else how to think about a verbal exchange between two men who have already put it behind them. The RIGHTeous indignation on behalf of someone who has announced himself satisfied with an apology is enough to make one think that they are more interested in political opportunism than concern about Obama's tender feelings.

Folks, this thing is not about hypocrisy, for the simple reason that it is not hypocritical to distinguish between a thoughtless remark supporting a black presidency and a career spent yearning for the good old days of segregation and lynching. The intellectually corrupt Republicans and the fuzzy-thinking liberals who are attempting to equate the two are acting as though Lott's only flaw was one awful remark, and that Reid's remark is equivalent to a career.

Hostility Toward Beer Snobs?

Over at Fat City, Jonathan Bender decides that he's a beer snob in a posting describing the attributes of beer snobs in less-than-flattering terms. It's a good-natured, well-written post, but it raises some interesting issues for those of us who take our beer seriously.

The meat of the post is the description of beer snobs:

Beer snobs will bring their own six-packs to parties not as gifts for the host but to ensure they'll have something they actually want to drink. A beer snob is likely to care as much about the glassware as the beverage, making sure the right glass is available in order to get the most out of a brew. A beer snob will not only have a well-developed palate for beer, but also insist on finding notes and flavors that nobody else can detect.

There's a grain of truth in what he writes, but I think I can explain.

About bringing beer to parties: I cannot count the number of parties that feature very good wines and crappy beers. On the other hand, I can't recall ever being at a party that served great beer and crappy boxed wine. That's just the truth. If I'm in the mood for a good beer at a party hosted by non-beer-appreciators, I cannot expect the host to have a good beer on hand. If the wine market place were 95% dominated by makers of sweet riesling and white zinfandel, wine drinkers might understand. So, yes, I have brought good beeer to parties with the hope that the host will toss them into the cooler, and I notice that they always disappear before I get a third beer.

Another reason to bring your own beer is that the world of beer is larger than the world of wine. If you go to a party, you can count on a red and a white, and if they're of reasonable quality, it's all the same to you. With beer, though, even if the host does have a nice amber ale available, you might be in the mood for a dark, rich, chocolaty porter. Or, if they have a porter, you might be yearning for a hoppy, crisp Imperial pilsner. Honestly, it's unfair to expect a party host to serve good examples of the broad range of craft beer styles. At my parties, I only have one or two good beers on tap, and I love it when people bring great examples of other styles to share.

About the Glassware thing: It's not so much that we insist on the "right" glassware, since the art of matching beer to proper glasses is wildly complex when you move into the world of Belgians. We just don't want the wrong glass. Pulling a dusty plastic tumbler off the shelf truly diminishes the beer experience.

All I ask is that the glass be clean, but super-clean - no soap residue or other head-destroying surprises. Ideally, the glass should be clear glass, too, so I can see the beer, but I've enjoyed plenty of good beers out of cheap plastic cups. At my parties, there are usually those ubiquitous cheap red plastic glasses by the kegs, but my friends know that they can wander into the kitchen and grab a real glass if they prefer. Those who care, do so, and those who don't, don't. Everyone is happy, and I don't have 80 glasses to handwash.

About the flavor nuances: If you serve me a great beer, chances are than I can wax eloquent about the flavor nuances because I know what to look for, and I can really concentrate on a great beer. BUT - I only talk about the flavor to those who ask, and, Jonathan, if you're seeing people interrupt a conversation to talk about the "biscuity" notes in a pale ale, or the "dark fruit" nuances in a baltic porter, the problem is not that you're hanging out with beer snobs. The problem is you're hanging out with losers.

Sunday Poetry: Birds on the Family Tree, by R. May Evans

Birds on the Family Tree

The women in my family are birds,
chirping crisply to communicate,
flitting here and there on a constant quest
for what catches only our shining eyes.

Ever alert, we may startle at any hint of danger
unless you mean to molest our nest - then we peck
with a fury that deters even the noblest birds of prey.

We grind down our problems to a palpable size,
worrying them in our stomach like stones.
(When we think no one’s watching,
you should hear the music we pour from our throats.)

- By R. May Evans
__________________________________________________

Imagery carries this poem, jumping from metaphor to simile and back, finally, to metaphor. The author, R. May Evans, is a local "artist, writer, activist, feminist, and all-round complex person with Asperger’s syndrome," so it should come as no surprise that her poetry manages to be challenging yet seemingly naive, deeply personal yet approachable, and accessible but somehow distant.

In "Birds on the Family Tree", Evans takes a fairly mundane image of ancestral women as birds and pushes it a little further. The first stanza presents introduces the central theme that the women in her family are bird-like, and communicate like birds on a tree. Nothing particularly novel about the presentation or the concept; women as birds is a common, almost universal image in literature and in common language (cute chicks, etc.).

In the second stanza, she introduces danger and strength. Easily startled suggests that they are nervous, while their willingness to take on birds of prey demonstrates that they have the courage to face the challenges of life, particularly when they threaten that which they hold dear. But why are the birds of prey, threatening nests, "noble"? Evans' work choice indicates a distance from societal norms - the women in her family are willing to fiercely attack what the rest of society deems "noble", as women throughout history have forced change.

The third stanza is particularly tricky. Her metaphor of women as birds encompasses a simile within it. They are birds, and their problems are "like" stones, grinding in a bird's gizzard. The metaphor has achieved sufficient reality in the voice of the speaker that it is capable of including its own artifice.

The final two lines return to metaphor - the "music" should not be read to mean only literal music. But why is it only when they think others are not listening that they produce their "music"? The irony is that the poet is producing her own form of music, and publishing it for others to listen to. To be enjoyed, music and poetry must be heard.

You may purchase Truth, Love, Blood and Bones, the volume which includes this poem, from Qoop in either a saddle stitched hard copy for $17.38 or as an ebook to be downloaded in .pdf format for $7.00. It's raw, emotional stuff - I probably chose the "safest" poem in the collection to write about. You should definitely venture into the world of R. May Evans if you care about helping young artists keep producing challenging work.

My Dinner at Per Se

In writing, as in many other aspects of life, it is unwise to leapfrog over your own abilities, even when offered the opportunity to do so. The hotshot high school quarterback dreams of a shot at the NFL, but would be crushed and demoralized if thrust into the situation. The funniest guy at the office bombs at an open-mike comedy show. The NASCAR fan winds up in a ditch when the speedometer hits triple digits.

Here I go, doing the same thing. An amateur foodwriter visits Per Se, and gets the VIP treatment, and tries to write about it.

Per Se is one of the world's best restaurants. Those who decide such things have declared it to be the best restaurant in the United States (or anywhere in the Americas, for that matter), and the 6th best in the world. Personally, I've not been to any other the other top 100, so I can neither confirm nor deny that it deserves #6. I'll let the experts defend their own rankings to those of who you swear by the French Laundry in Yountville, California (#12), Momofuku Ssäm Bar in New York (#31) or even the obviously crappy #97, Bo Innovation in Hong Kong.

Suffice it to say, the restaurant is well-regarded. I wore a suit to dinner on vacation.

First, even before the decor, you are struck by the people. Help is everywhere, from the team of people who greet you at the door and take your coat to the servers walking quickly but without seeming rushed. The staff is urgent in a manner that does not quicken your pulse; they are urgently working to help you feel relaxed and comfortable. It's a nifty trick, and they pull it off.

Then, the view. A table next to the fireplace, with a view of Columbus Circle and a snowy Central Park. The space is elegant, but graceful instead of "fancy".

But we were there for the dining. First, a flinty champagne with gruyere puffs and salmon cornets. The puffs (gougeres, actually) were at a perfect temperature, with the gruyere just warm enough to be sensous and flavorful. The cornets (Salmon tartare and Red onion Creme Fraiche in a Savory Cornet) were like tasty little cones of salty tart flavor to wake your palate from the cozy slumber brought on by the gougeres.

Hold it.

I could continue on like this, but I won't. The reason is I haven't even hit the menu yet. These were "amuse bouche" - little extras that just happen. Not that the term "menu" means what you think it means here, anyhow. You don't really order at Per Se - you decide. And all you decide is whether you're going to be a vegetarian for the evening or if you will have the chef's menu. Either way, the chef is in control, not you. Which is okay, since either way, you're down for $275 dollars, and I know my personal imagination cannot conjure a meal worth that much money, so it's just as well an expert is there to do it for me.

(The $275 does not include the fabulous wines and one ethereal beer, by the way. And there were 4 of us. And we got the VIP treatment, which means that we got much more than the normal $275 meal. Incredible. My son underwrote the entire experience.)

Instead of going through each course, I'll mention a few of my favorite moments out of the five and a half hour feast. There were 18 courses listed on the menu they gave us at the end of the evening, but it didn't list a few of the various extras delivered.

"Surf and Turf" was a lobster mitten (just the most tender portion of the lobster's claw), served with Boudin Noir, a luscious pork blood sausage, and heightened with a vigorous shaving of black truffle at the table.

The black truffles came out again with the "Salad of Young Beets". I had not ever been a beet fan, but this was out of this world. But the highlight of the dish for me was the "pastrami", which was shaved and dehydrated crispy foie gras, enhanced with pastrami spices. I never thought I would eat crispy foie gras and black truffles in one bite.

There were four items with foie gras. Three had black truffles. Can you believe that?

One of the most spectacular presentations was "Quail in a Jar". While I haven't seen the recipe, my son tells me that the first direction is "Debone a quail" - a ridiculous assignment for your average home cook! Anyhow, they brought a canning jar to the table, with a quail suspended in aspic. The brought it back to the kitchen for plating, and it returned as an amazingly rich quail stuffed with foie gras, and garnished with tiny lettuces and 100 year-old balsamic vinegar.

There were 6 salts at our table, ranging from a volcanic black salt to a pink salt from France.

Probably my favorite dish was the "Salvatore Brooklyn Ricotta 'Agnolotti'", which was like tiny ravioli filled with ricotta unlike any I have tasted before, and the whole dish was covered with white truffle shaved over it tableside. I've never seen white truffle before, much less tasted it, but it is pungent and earthy and mind-altering. The dish was heaven.

At one point during the meal, we were welcomed back into the kitchen. Everything sparkled, even a copper tube leading to a drain. There is no walk-in refrigerator; instead, refrigerators opened to reveal shelves of carefully organized ingredients in clearly-labeled tubs. The pace was urgent, but not frenetic. The person preparing desserts was a friendly young man from Barstow, here in Kansas City.

During the meal I learned that "Cervelle de Veau" is calf brain, and that I love calf brain. My daughter thought for a moment the server said it was "cat brain" . . .

I love food, but I never, ever, expected to have such a meal. I'm glad I did; it was the culinary equivalent of standing on Mount Everest. The fact that I have been there does not diminish my love of Pancho's or Blue Stem. But, man, it was amazing.

The meal happened two weeks ago tonight, and this is the first time I've wanted to write about it. I want to remember it, and I can't help but share the experience as best I can. I won't tell you to rush out and visit the place; the tab was more than several cars I've purchased in my lifetime.

Chef Thomas Keller, the founder of Per Se, wrote, "When you acknowledge, as you must, that there is no such thing as perfect food, only the idea of it, then the real purpose of striving toward perfection becomes clear: to make people happy, that is what cooking is all about." Lots of meals make me happy, but this one was special. Just like your happiest moment does not diminish the joy of other happy moments, my dinner at Per Se was a pinnacle of food appreciation, but it leaves room for plenty more.

Funkhouser Controls Weather

At first, I thought that the claim published on a local blog that Mayor Funkhouser's street received extra attention during the recent snowpocalypse was simply more of the same uninformed, thoughtless, baseless criticism that has been voiced by malcontents and power-deprived real estate attorneys throughout his administration.

Boy, was I mistaken. Using the powerful research tools available on the web, I conducted a thorough investigation of the topic. Sure enough, this is what I found:


This is a genuine Google earth photograph of the Mayor's street which I downloaded this very morning, after shoveling 6 inches of powder out of my own driveway. The work of the city crews in cleaning not only the street, but the sidewalks, lawns and trees is impressive.

Even more upsetting, here is a snapshot showing the impact of the snowfall on the limos of the lawyers running against him:

Missouri Mavericks Hockey - Pro Sports Success

Thanks to free tickets from a friend, we made our first journey yesterday evening to the Independence Events Center to watch a Missouri Mavericks hockey game. It was a great time at a fine facility, and the hometown Mavericks beat the Bossier-Shreveport Mudbugs (gotta love a team named after crawdads) 4-3 in an overtime, shoot-out thrillfest.

Simply put, Missouri Mavericks hockey is a good time. The evening featured a boisterous but not obnoxious group of fans cheering on a team that has some really talented players and a few that the really talented players have to cover for, plus a facility that is the perfect size to keep the action close but not feeling either crowded or abandoned. Parking was free.

The play itself was tremendously fun to watch. The hitting is not quite as hard and the action is not quite as fast as the NHL, but it had me on the edge of my seat. The team seemed very well-coached, with some well-run set plays and players attentive to passing and shooting lanes. The officiating was competent - neither intrusive nor oblivious.

The game also featured tons of hokey promotions and advertisements - I think every section was in on at least one opportunity to win something. I wound up with a free sub at Firehouse Subs - a franchise I had never heard of before venturing into the suburban wilds of Eastern Jackson County.

If you're thinking of going to check out a game - do it.

Great Beer in Cabool, Missouri?

Have you ever heard of Little Yeoman Brewery? Have you ever heard of Cabool, Missouri?

In doing a little brew research yesterday, I stumbled upon word of a micro micro brewery located on a family farm off a tiny road out around Mark Twain National Forest, producing great beer in tiny quantities. The beer doesn't show up on liquor store shelves - you have to make the 80 mile journey from Springfield, MO to drive down a gravel road to the brewery to buy it. And, despite all that, you might want to call ahead, because they sell out of everything they make.

People from German have made the trek to this outpost of rural brewing, and yet I had never heard of it.

Who's in for a trip to Cabool in October? The brewery hosts an Oktoberfest on the last weekend of October: "We usually cook a pig in the ground for that, or make brats, and we have a live bluegrass band,” Frederick said. “We encourage camping. Bring a tent, bring a lawn chair and come on over."

Sounds good to me.

Sunday Poetry: Homage to My Hips, by Lucille Clifton

Homage to My Hips

these hips are big hips.
they need space to
move around in.
they don't fit into little
petty places. these hips
are free hips.
they don't like to be held back.
these hips have never been enslaved,
they go where they want to go
they do what they want to do.
these hips are mighty hips.
these hips are magic hips.
i have known them
to put a spell on a man and
spin him like a top

- by Lucille Clifton
____________________________________________________

If women's poetry is supposed to be quiet and reflective, if large women are supposed to envy their slimmer sisters, if sexuality is supposed to be hushed and reverent - well, Lucille Clifton did not get the memo.

The most obvious element of this poem is its boastful humor. (Note: I initially used the word "cocky" in the place of "boastful", but the gender issues of my word choice were too distracting.) It clearly is a fun poem, and when you watch Lucille Clifton read the poem, you can see she means it to be fun. Likewise, when you listen to her read it to an appreciative audience, she obviously plays it like a skit.

I won't murder humor by dissecting it, but I will point out that there is some real artistry involved in this poem. The rhythm is a roughed-up iambic beat, and the line breaks help bring out the meaning. Consider the line "they don't fit into". What does your mind fill in when you reach the end of that line? Size 2 jeans? Lacy underwear? Airline seats? Instead, Clifton sweeps all your answers into the dismissive "petty places" and moves forward.

Clifton has been compared to a less verbose Walt Whitman for her free celebration of herself, and I think the comparison is a good one. Her lines are trim and short, while his go on and on, but the joyful spirit bounds through both. Both write in everyday, proudly non-academic language of people on the street. Clifton even brings in a whiff of the Mamas and the Papas' Go Where You Wanna Go with her "they go where they want to go/ they do what they want to do." If you want to have some fun at the expense of academia, spend some time with Google and find a few stuffy, pedantic essays by grad students trying to explain in thousands of polysyllabic words what Clifton does in under 80 one and two syllable words.

(Buy Lucille Clifton's poetry at your favorite independent bookseller. It is approachable and completely appropriate for someone who will appreciate some poetic joy in their life.)

Top 50 Albums, 2000 - 2009

A friend on Facebook challenged a bunch of us to come up with lists of the top 50 albums for the past decade. Here's my list.

1. Will Matthews: Solo
2. Radiohead: Kid A
3. Slaid Cleaves: Unsung
4. The Hold Steady: Separation Sunday
5. Bon Iver: For Emma, Forever Ago
6. Jay-Z: American Gangster
7. Arcade Fire: Neon Bible
8. Prince: Musicology
9. Al Green: I Can't Stop
10. The Decemberists: The Crane Wife
11. The White Stripes: Icky Thump
12. O+S: O+S
13. Trampled Underfoot: May I Be Excused
14. Cake: Comfort Eagle
15. American Steel: Jagged Thoughts
16. Neil Young: Silver And Gold
17. Bob Dylan: Love And Theft
18. Bruce Springsteen: Devils and Dust
19. Wilco: Yankee Hotel Foxtrot
20. White Stripes: Get Behind Me Satan
21. Nellie McKay: Get Away From Me
22. Randy Newman: Harps and Angels
23. The Raconteurs: Consolers of the Lonely
24. The Arcade Fire: Funeral
25. Kanye West: Graduation
26. My Morning Jacket: Z
27. Damian Marley: Welcome to Jamrock
28. B.B. King: One Kind Favor
29. The Swell Season: The Swell Season
30. Avett Brothers: I and Love and You
31. 50 Cent: Get Rich Or Die Tryin'
32. U2: All That You Can't Leave Behind
33. Bruce Springsteen: The Rising
34. Son Volt: American Central Dust
35. Thad Cockrell: Warmth and Beauty
36. Land of Talk: Some Are Lakes
37. The Neptunes: The Neptunes Present... Clones
38. Jason Isbell: Sirens of the Ditch
39. Roman Candle: Oh Tall Tree in the Ear
40. Dumpstaphunk: Listen Hear
41. The Strokes: Room On Fire
42. Elvis Costello: When I Was Cruel
43. Tenacious D: Tenacious D
44. Jay-Z: The Black Album
45. Nelly: Nellyville
46. Warren Zevon: The Wind
47. Linda Thompson: Fashionably Late
48. Weezer: Maladroit
49. Eminem: The Marshall Mathers LP
50. Mark Knopfler: Sailing To Philadelphia

I appreciate the challenge, because it got me to go over a lot of music I enjoyed, and it caused me to alter my listening habits so that I know make a real effort to listen to albums rather than individual songs.