Appalachian Brewing Co.'s Grinning Grizzly

This past weekend, Mike, Lotus and I went to the PA Home Show in Harrisburg.  It was an enjoyable couple of hours together, doing some research on companies that provide services for both home building and home renovation.  We walked through a log home that was built inside the equine building.  Wow.  Amazing house, pretty much suits to a 'T' what we want.  As easily as I could continue a rambling verbal escapade of the home show, what I'd like to talk about, really, is beer.

Ah, beer.  How I enjoy thy colored liquid, full of hoppy happiness and malty warmth.  We worked up quite a thirst during our time at the home show so we stopped at Appalachian Brewing Company on the way home for a beer or three and a bite to eat.  The space they are in is fantastic: a large warehouse with glass walls dividing the main dining and bar area from where they get down and dirty (a completely sanitized dirty) with brewing.  We both ordered wings that were large and meaty, fried to crispy perfection, and flavored without swimming in sauce.  Delightful.  I recommend the Thai wings; the sauce is sweet but not thick and spicy but wont' remove a top layer of tastebuds. 

On the way out we purchased a half case of Grinnin' Grizzly bottled beer.  According to their website:

November Specialty
Grinnin' Grizzly Spiced Ale
OG: 14.0, FG: 3.0, ABW: 4.5, ABV: 5.7
This amber ale is dosed with cinnamon, nutmeg, ginger, and fresh orange zest.
It is well balanced with low hop flavor and nice hint of the spices in the finish.
This spiced ale is not overbearing; rather it is smooth and very drinkable.
 

It is typical of a holiday ale, full of spices and heavy on flavor.  There is a crisp citrus note when I first take a sip and I really taste the nutmeg on the finish.  It is drinkable, but much like a Belgian white, I can only have one or two at a time or it gets a bit overwhelming.  I think this beer would pair well with a thick beef stew, served on a cold day while sitting by a fireplace.  You can drink it anytime, though - I won't tell anyone.

Get yourself over to Appalachian Brewing Co before they're out and get some!

When I Say Lindsay, You Say Lohan!

I believe that nature is stronger than nurture and that if someone is predisposed to self-importance they will find a way to be seen whether they are a celebrity or a high school cheerleader.  Please don't hate me for using cheerleaders in my comparison. 

Lindsay Lohan is currently suing E*Trade for using her name in conjunction with being a milkaholic in their Super Bowl commercial. 

According to her lawyer, Lindsay Lohan has star status like Oprah and the first name is sufficient for those in the lower rungs of society to be awefully aware of her identity.  Apparently, whenever someone hears LINDSAY, the waters part and the mountains shake and the Almighty Himself recognizes the brilliance that is Lindsay Lohan and admits that He really outdid Himself.  Funny thing is, I don't think Lohan when I hear Lindsay.  I think of Lindsay that I went to school with and always dressed so well.  I think of Lindsay in Key West that worked at the Hard Rock Cafe and had an amazing pool.  I don't think Lohan.  When I watch this E*Trade commercial, I think of a couple cute babies video chatting and one of them happens to be named Lindsay (not Lohan). 

Let's address a few other errors.  Most recently, Lindsay Lohan has been sampling the womanfolk, so if E*Trade were using her person to base adorable baby Lindsay off of, she would not have spent the night with an equally adorable baby boy.  Second, Lindsay Lohan was notably an alcoholic, not a milkaholic.  As a mother of two offspring under two, I can attest to the fact that ALL babies are milkaholics.  I believe the crux of the issue is that Lindsay Lohan's career is in the crapper and she is bitter that this baby Lindsay is cuter, dressed better, and gets more Google hits than she does.  The only logical course of action for Lindsay Lohan is to sue E*Trade for damages to her poor, pathetic person.

$100 million dollars.  That is what Lindsay Lohan feels she is owed by E*Trade for using her name without her permission so that is what she is suing for.  This is the amount of money that is bringing 4G technology to the entire nation of Zimbabwe.  This is the amount of money that the US has pledged to give to Haiti in efforts to rebuild a ravished country.  This is a large chunk of change, folks.  Really, Lindsay Lohan?  Really?

Lindsay Lohan is a washed up has-been, missing the fame and missing the fortune.  It is disgusting that she believes her name is worth this kind of money.  It is a sad reflection on the state of our society if she actually wins this case in court. 

For clarification: I have used the phrase 'Lindsay Lohan' at all points during this piece to describe Lindsay Lohan so everyone knows who I am talking about.

Asher hears the Voice of Saturn

I think it's entirely possible that we have the most awesome kid ever made. At the moment I'm sitting on our comfy new sofa and listening to the new Zoroaster album, Voice of Saturn. If you have heard it you know how good it is. Deep grooves, fuzzy canyons and a river of sometimes smooth, sometimes whitewater vocals running through it all. In my opinion, this will easily be one of the top 10 albums of the year. I turned on the first track through Apple TV (which I can't imagine not having, by the way) and immediately Asher started bouncing up and down in time to the rhythm to what he hears. He turns around and looks at me with an enormous grin on his little cherub face. He then gets down on his belly and does a one handed push up while still bouncing to the music. I particular like when he does this last dance, it is unbelievably funny.

If you haven't listened to Voice of Saturn, or any Zoroaster for that matter, check them out. Go here.

Millions of children... where does it end??

I just saw a preview for the TV show 'Table for 12'. C'mon. Seriously? For what reason does a set of parents need to have that many children?? I seriously do not understand what drives a modern man and woman to procreate that many times. If you are horny, cool. Have sex. Have lots of sex, you can even have it dirty if you want it that way. But use a pill, or a condom, or something that will prevent that eager little tadpole from going the distance, and meeting up in a dark alley with a poor and unsuspecting egg and having its way with it.

This whole Octomom stuff just has me disgusted too. It almost is becoming fashionable or something to have a ridiculous amount of children. Now Brad and Angelina (or Brangelina, if you run in certain circles) are able to have twenty-five kids. They are multi-millionaires. They can afford the best of the best and those kids probably don't lack for anything (including love). But really? Octomom? If you already have more than a handful of babies in the house and you haven't paid your mortgage for months, what would possess you to have MORE. And where does the money come from?? It better not be coming from my tax money.

Which brings me to the economy. But I'm not touching that bag of shit with a 10-foot pole. I'll save that for another day.

Mike will be traveling to China for two weeks coming up in April. If you know anything about me, you know that I'm not fond of when he travels, and two weeks is a long time. But I can't complain because he has a great job in an economy where they are becoming far and few between, and he supports me and Asher financially and emotionally as well. I've got a good life, what can I say?

I AM envious that he has the opportunity to go to China. I've always wanted to go there, even more so since I've reconnected with an old high school friend, Sarah, that lives in Beijing. So this semi-Irish lass is feeling green with envy on this most sacred of Irish days, St. Paddy's Day.

I am sitting on our nice soft sofa while Mike is at a show - Electric Horsemen - Lancaster county's own dirty sludge. They are a great band, I wish I were there. The show is at The Stomping Ground, which isn't a club at all, but at someone's house on King Street in Lancaster. I saw them the first time at the old Rex's in West Chester, I think they played with Backwoods Payback and I'm not sure who else. Beer and time tend to cloud my memory...

So. I'm sitting here, the doodlebug is in bed and actually went down easily tonight (after a tiring day where he screamed for about three hours). I am working on a big bottle of cheap red wine, Yellowtail Shiraz, and catching up some shows. I tried watching Rock of Love on demand but the show was labeled wrong and isn't this past Sunday's show that I missed. Bummer. I was looking forward to watching trashy girls making fools of themselves. God, I love that show. I'm kind of watching CSI: Miami from last night but it isn't holding my attention.

On a completely different train of thought, I am actively pursuing information to prove that my great-great-grandmother was full Cherokee. If I can prove this through documents and genealogy then both Asher and I will be able to get our name on the rolls; technically, we will be part of the Cherokee tribe. What a beautiful legacy ... my son is the last generation that can become part of the tribe.

Now. I must drink wine and watch trash tv.

The Fine Art of Self-Tickling

My husband and I got to talking in the car the other day about tickling. He reached over and squeezed my knee and I squirmed uncomfortably due to the inevitable tickle. I laughed and whined and he pretended to tickle his own knee. He didn't laugh. It got us to wondering why one cannot tickle oneself. What is it in our brains or nervous system that only registers light touches in sensitive spots as being ticklish if touched by someone other than ourselves? Seriously, I tried it - I can't tickle myself. So we got to thinking how funny it would be if we really could tickle ourselves ::

I bet there would be people that really got addicted to it, like a recreational drug. There would be closet-ticklers, social-ticklers and ticklers-in-denial. You would likely notice the individual having their own tickle-fest out in public domain; this is definitely something that should remain in the privacy of one's own home or among close friends. These things should not be shared with the general public. There would be support groups called Ticklers Anonymous. There might be small, dark theaters playing an old nature show like Wild America and all around you there would be stifled sounds of nervous giggling from the ticklers. They'd glance side by side furtively, making sure they didn't see any familiar faces : oh, the embarrassment that would cause, to see cousin Stan the next row over! Tickling is NOT something we do to ourselves in this family. Children would be taught at a young age that not only is tickling inappropriate, it especially should never happen at the dinner table. Bartenders would keep a close eye on patrons that begin laughing to themselves while sitting by themselves at the far end of the bar - this person obviously has had too much to drink has begun to tickle and now will be forever banned from the establishment. Police are given special training on how to handle ticklers. A common story that would be talked about by the men and women wearing those shiny silver shields is of the man that was arrested for disorderly tickling and even while handcuffed was still able to tickle himself to tears. Sad. Most police departments actually would have their own special Anti-Tickle Squad. There would be protest groups that would form, declaring "It's my body, I can tickle myself if I want"; parents would not let their kids leave the house on the days when they'd be marching downtown for fear of the corrupt practice finding its way into their impressionable child's head. It would be well known that tickling is a 'gateway' to doing many more dark and despicable things to oneself and it is just so upsetting that no more should really be said about it.

I suppose there are reasons why we can't tickle ourselves. But in my dream world where self-tickling does exist, it has its own well developed and comical storyboard. Frankly, it tickles my fancy.

'The Doctor' and African stoner rock - who knew?

I woke up this morning feeling like I'm coming down with a cold, lots of congestion, sort throat, achy body, the works. Mike feeds Asher his early morning meal and gets up with him so I can sleep longer. I fall asleep for a couple minutes only, but here is what I dreamt:

I am standing outside, off the end of a long porch, and there in the dappled sunlight under large leafy trees, I feel like I'm waiting for something. I hear the old porch door creak open on rusted hinges and look up. My entire view is taken up by a huge joint. I can smell the earthy aroma filling the warm summer air and I know this is what I came for. There is a large hypodermic needle sticking out from one end of the joint and the rest is just fat green goodness. I don't see who is holding it out to me, offering me such a generous gift, but I do hear their voice. "Here you are, this is The Doctor." End of dream. The Doctor seemed quite able to assist in my time of sickness, but alas, I woke before I was able to enjoy, I mean suffer, through the treatment.

Now I'm listening to some groovy African stoner rock, compliments of Sludge Swamp. African fuzz. Who would have thunk it? Check it out.

I think my mental Green preoccupation must have something to do with the nearness of St. Paddy's Day.

So go get yourself a green beer, I think I will.