I know I already did a short post on beer, so this really isn't #1, but now I have a clever title, and it's my blog, so it's #1 now.
I decided on The Wenceslaus Report for a couple of reasons. First of all he is a Patron Saint of Brewers, one of many, actually. I've always enjoyed the tales of Good King Wenceslaus, who doubles as Santa Claus in parts of Europe, so it dovetailed nicely with my frame of mind. I also think it lends something of a mystic quality to the proceedings, and being fairly religious about my beer, I liked the connection.
It's my intention to use The Wenceslaus Report as my own little beer column. Nothing professional or snooty about it; just what I like and don't like about the hundreds of beers I've tasted.
A few things before we start:
Don't look for reviews of mass-produced, mass-market American beers. I don't have anything against American brews per se; there are many of them I quite like. But Miller or Budweiser products are out, because they suck. They taste like crap, when they manage to have any taste at all, which is rare.
Belgian lambic styles: ain't happening. Too sweet, too syrupy, I don't like 'em, so I don't drink 'em (and yes, I've tried a bunch. Like 20 or so.)
Hopped-up microbrews: not here. I can pretty much tell how a beer is generally going to taste by where it's brewed and what's on the bottle, and I hate beers that taste green. Brews from the Pacific Northwest are particularly guilty of this.
Lite beers? I drink exactly one lite beer, and even that only occasionally: Amstel Light. Drinking a beer because it's lite, or low-calorie, or low-carb is just silly to me. If you're that worried about your carbs, drink water. If you drink lite beer because you drink too much beer, drink less. For me, beer is always about quality, never about quantity. I'd rather drink one good beer than six lousy ones any day.
I don't care much for Asian beers either, because I don't like beers that are brewed from or with rice. Kirin, a Japanese beer, is a notable exception.
By and large, I'm a stout/dark ale kind of guy, with a fair mix of porters and lagers thrown in. Dark, heavy, filling beers. I do like to have good pilsners around in the summer, though, because sometimes after a hot day in the sun a pint of Guinness just doesn't cut it.
I'll fill in more posts with brews I've had or enjoy with any regularity, but this time around I've got two that were new to me.
The first was Bombshell Blonde Ale, from the Southern Star Brewing Company in Conroe, Texas. There were a couple brews from Southern Star on the shelf, but I decided on Bombshell because of the buxom, cowgirl pin-up blonde riding a bomb on the blue can. (I'm a guy...I do things like that.) I have to say I was pleasantly surprised by this brew. It has a very thick, creamy head, and according to the can, it's brewed with a combination of American Pale and German Vienna hops (I know Vienna is in Austria...but it's referring to a kind of hop, not a locality) to give it a bready finish. And it does exactly that. I couldn't quite place the nose as I poured it, but "bready" is spot on. The hops are very subtle, not at all overpowering, and the cloudy look is misleading: Bombshell has a very smooth finish that grew on me as I drank. A good beer to have around in the spring and summer, but it ain't cheap: $9.99 for a six-pack. (That might seem like a lot, but consider this: head out to a bar where Miller Lite is on sale for $1.50 a bottle. 5 beers and 5 tips later, you're already past $10.) 7 steins (out of 10)
After a mouthful of oyster crackers to cleanse the palate, the second beer was a Lithuanian brew, Svyturys Ekstra (Svyturys-Utenos Alus Brewery, Klaipeda, Lithuania). $1.99 for a pint can, so I figured I'd give it a try. The beer has a thick head on a clear, golden lager. It smelled a bit earthy to me, which was surprising but not unpleasant. It had a mild, easy finish, not weak but certainly nothing that stood out as remarkable. I probably could have chilled it a bit longer, but I don't think that it would have made much of a difference. Not a bad beer, but not one I'd go out of my way to get, either. It reminded me of a Lithuanian Special Export (Spec X being the high-end Old Style), but with less bite, which actually helped the finish. 5 steins
Next up in W.R. #2: Hobgoblin Dark Ale and Wells Bombardier, a brace of Brit brews.
Probst!
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
Monday, January 25, 2010
Alas, What A Prickly Thing is Love
"Remembering you, falling into my arms, crying for the death of your heart..."
No one does the tragic goth love ballad better than The Cure, and it never sounds better than on a cold, gloomy Monday.
The song is Pictures of You, in case you were wondering.
No one does the tragic goth love ballad better than The Cure, and it never sounds better than on a cold, gloomy Monday.
The song is Pictures of You, in case you were wondering.
Buck Tales, Chapter 3
Saturday morning Ethan and I took a 90-minute walk through the woods. I needed to just get outside and walk around, and I figured it would be a good bonding experience. We were hoping to find some sheds, antlers that the bucks drop, but we didn't run across any. I wasn't really expecting to, honestly, but as we won't find any in our living room, we gave it a shot.
Even though we didn't find any sheds, we found plenty of other deer signs, which wasn't at all surprising, as we were in a forest preserve. There are more deer out there than you can shake a stick at, all safe inside the no-hunting zone. Which is really irritating, considering the amount of time I spent out in the cold and wet this season, with only one buck to show for it. The Illinois DNR really needs a better management program for the wildlife, but we'll have to clear out some of the PETA-types and eco-guerrillas before we can change that.
Nevertheless, it was a good learning experience. We saw trails and droppings in the snow, along with rubs and bedding areas, all signs a good hunter must learn to recognize (which I am still learning myself). We also got to play with our new radios and head-sets, which allowed me to let Ethan wander on his own a bit (but never out of sight) and still maintain contact. On our trek back to the car, we ran into 5 deer: 3 does, a yearling, and a fairly large buck that had dropped his rack. We watched them for a while, getting fairly close; the deer in the preserve are so inured to human contact they barely take notice, but it was good practice for the boy to sit and watch and be quiet. After 10 minutes or so they wandered deeper into a thicket, and we left.
The strangest thing we came across was a scattering of human paraphernalia: coats, shirts, shoes, a cooler, a stick of deodorant. Signs of either some knucklehead that left or forgot about his gear or a homeless person...we weren't sure which, and either way we were angry that someone had left all of this junk out in the woods. Certainly a poor effort in keeping America clean.
An hour and a half netted us no sheds, people-junk, deer we could almost reach out and touch but couldn't hunt, and some basics in spoor-spotting. All in all, a pretty good way to spend some time.
Even though we didn't find any sheds, we found plenty of other deer signs, which wasn't at all surprising, as we were in a forest preserve. There are more deer out there than you can shake a stick at, all safe inside the no-hunting zone. Which is really irritating, considering the amount of time I spent out in the cold and wet this season, with only one buck to show for it. The Illinois DNR really needs a better management program for the wildlife, but we'll have to clear out some of the PETA-types and eco-guerrillas before we can change that.
Nevertheless, it was a good learning experience. We saw trails and droppings in the snow, along with rubs and bedding areas, all signs a good hunter must learn to recognize (which I am still learning myself). We also got to play with our new radios and head-sets, which allowed me to let Ethan wander on his own a bit (but never out of sight) and still maintain contact. On our trek back to the car, we ran into 5 deer: 3 does, a yearling, and a fairly large buck that had dropped his rack. We watched them for a while, getting fairly close; the deer in the preserve are so inured to human contact they barely take notice, but it was good practice for the boy to sit and watch and be quiet. After 10 minutes or so they wandered deeper into a thicket, and we left.
The strangest thing we came across was a scattering of human paraphernalia: coats, shirts, shoes, a cooler, a stick of deodorant. Signs of either some knucklehead that left or forgot about his gear or a homeless person...we weren't sure which, and either way we were angry that someone had left all of this junk out in the woods. Certainly a poor effort in keeping America clean.
An hour and a half netted us no sheds, people-junk, deer we could almost reach out and touch but couldn't hunt, and some basics in spoor-spotting. All in all, a pretty good way to spend some time.
Friday, January 22, 2010
Ah, Friday...
Wow, it's Friday already. How time does fly, bringing the weekend and the time to get to all the crap you didn't get to during the week. Or the time to keep putting it off because you have other fun things to do. However you want to look at it.
Personally, I plan to finish the 4 books I am currently reading. Now, I know you're thinking to yourself, "What kind of weirdo reads 4 books at a time?"
The answer to that is weirdos with Literature degrees that minored in history. Most semesters, reading 4 books at a time was the only way you could finish the course material on time, literature and history being heavily dependent on the written word. Plus, I read fast.
So what are the four books I'm currently reading? Well, actually I've already finished one, The Princess of Mars, by Edgar Rice Burroughs. It's the first story about John Carter of Mars, and an excellent work of very early science fiction.
The Horror Stories of Robert E. Howard is another great collection of short stories. Next to Poe, REH is my favorite writer. He's best known for creating Conan the Barbarian, which pretty much created the swords-and-sorcery genre of fiction. But Howard created several other characters, all of them larger-than-life, and his knack for writing action-driven dialogue is unparalleled. He even garnered high praise from none other than H.P. Lovecraft for his ability to capture a moment in writing. Creepy, supernatural stories that make you want to look out your window before you shut off your light. But like Lovecraft, REH can provide for some pretty strange dreams.
When Christ and His Saints Slept, by Sharon Kay Penman, was a spur-of-the-moment buy that has proved to be quite entertaining. It's a fictionalized (but for the most part historically accurate) account of Empress Maude, the daughter of England's Henry I, her civil war with King Stephen over the English Crown, and her son Henry, who would later become King of England. Very much a period piece, very well written. A good way to learn some history without the often boring and dry accounts of non-fiction history.
The 4th book is called A History of the World in Six Glasses, a short but informative account on one man's idea of how 6 different drinks, beer, wine, spirits, tea, coffee, and Coca-Cola, have shaped man's civilizations. An interesting read.
This weekend, I'll likely start The Twin-Shadowed Knight, the 15th(?) volume of the Vampire Hunter D series. I've read them all so far; very exotic, very different combination of sci-fi and fantasy. The second book in the series, Raiser of Gales, is one of the most entertaining reads I've ever had, and every one has been well worth the time.
I'll also delve into War on the Run, an account of frontier skirmishing during the Revolutionary Way, and how it led to the development of today's American Special Forces.
The second volume of John Carter, Gods of Mars, is also on the slate, as well as one of the H.G. Wells novels that just arrived a nifty leather-bound edition.
I've got a few more in a holding pattern after that, and by the time I get to those I'll have more books stacked up.
Safe to say I like to read.
Personally, I plan to finish the 4 books I am currently reading. Now, I know you're thinking to yourself, "What kind of weirdo reads 4 books at a time?"
The answer to that is weirdos with Literature degrees that minored in history. Most semesters, reading 4 books at a time was the only way you could finish the course material on time, literature and history being heavily dependent on the written word. Plus, I read fast.
So what are the four books I'm currently reading? Well, actually I've already finished one, The Princess of Mars, by Edgar Rice Burroughs. It's the first story about John Carter of Mars, and an excellent work of very early science fiction.
The Horror Stories of Robert E. Howard is another great collection of short stories. Next to Poe, REH is my favorite writer. He's best known for creating Conan the Barbarian, which pretty much created the swords-and-sorcery genre of fiction. But Howard created several other characters, all of them larger-than-life, and his knack for writing action-driven dialogue is unparalleled. He even garnered high praise from none other than H.P. Lovecraft for his ability to capture a moment in writing. Creepy, supernatural stories that make you want to look out your window before you shut off your light. But like Lovecraft, REH can provide for some pretty strange dreams.
When Christ and His Saints Slept, by Sharon Kay Penman, was a spur-of-the-moment buy that has proved to be quite entertaining. It's a fictionalized (but for the most part historically accurate) account of Empress Maude, the daughter of England's Henry I, her civil war with King Stephen over the English Crown, and her son Henry, who would later become King of England. Very much a period piece, very well written. A good way to learn some history without the often boring and dry accounts of non-fiction history.
The 4th book is called A History of the World in Six Glasses, a short but informative account on one man's idea of how 6 different drinks, beer, wine, spirits, tea, coffee, and Coca-Cola, have shaped man's civilizations. An interesting read.
This weekend, I'll likely start The Twin-Shadowed Knight, the 15th(?) volume of the Vampire Hunter D series. I've read them all so far; very exotic, very different combination of sci-fi and fantasy. The second book in the series, Raiser of Gales, is one of the most entertaining reads I've ever had, and every one has been well worth the time.
I'll also delve into War on the Run, an account of frontier skirmishing during the Revolutionary Way, and how it led to the development of today's American Special Forces.
The second volume of John Carter, Gods of Mars, is also on the slate, as well as one of the H.G. Wells novels that just arrived a nifty leather-bound edition.
I've got a few more in a holding pattern after that, and by the time I get to those I'll have more books stacked up.
Safe to say I like to read.
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
A Salute to the Master
Happy 201st Birthday to the Undisputed Master of the Macabre: Edgar Allan Poe.
I'm Curious
Has anyone ever found out just how much wood a woodchuck would chuck when a woodchuck does chuck wood?
Buck Tales, Chapter 2
An excerpt from my hunting journal, Sunday 13 Dec 09, 8:05am:
"It is the 7th morning of my hunting career. I've been sitting in my new chair blind since before dawn, waiting. As yet, nothing. I took a 10-point buck on opening Sunday of Indiana muzzle-loader season (15 Nov); since then there has been nothing at all. Not just for us, but for everyone. Numbers are way down for the season. It has been very frustrating, especially for Steve, who hasn't shot anything as of yet.
I count myself fortunate indeed to have Steve as a friend and hunting partner. I have eagerly learned a great deal in a few weeks; a process I hope continues not only for myself, but also for our sons as they grow and begin to learn to hunt.
As exciting as it has been, it has also been trying. What few deer we have seen have either been too far away for a shot, or it has been too dark to shoot effectively. I am currently sitting at the base of a dike, which walls a large ditch running north/south, with my back to a tree, one of the large patch of pin-oaks I am in. Some 75 yards to the south is a small creek, running east/west, which I jumped to get where I am. I am facing roughly northeast, with one eye along the dike, where Steve sits 100 yards to the north, and one eye east, deeper into the tall, wheat-colored grass lying between the oaks. A light fog holds among the denser thickets, and a light but steady rain continues to fall; the temperature seems to be dropping (thank goodness for the canopy of the chair blind).
The only shots I have heard have been the muted barks of the duck-hunters shotguns along the river, whose report echoes like a low, rumbling thunder. I need to get up and stretch for a minute."
After that stretch, I didn't add anything. I just sat, listening to the sounds of the woods, hoping to catch sight of venison on the hoof, but with no luck. We waited at that spot for another 90 minutes of so, then packed it in and went for breakfast. The afternoon hunt fared no better.
"It is the 7th morning of my hunting career. I've been sitting in my new chair blind since before dawn, waiting. As yet, nothing. I took a 10-point buck on opening Sunday of Indiana muzzle-loader season (15 Nov); since then there has been nothing at all. Not just for us, but for everyone. Numbers are way down for the season. It has been very frustrating, especially for Steve, who hasn't shot anything as of yet.
I count myself fortunate indeed to have Steve as a friend and hunting partner. I have eagerly learned a great deal in a few weeks; a process I hope continues not only for myself, but also for our sons as they grow and begin to learn to hunt.
As exciting as it has been, it has also been trying. What few deer we have seen have either been too far away for a shot, or it has been too dark to shoot effectively. I am currently sitting at the base of a dike, which walls a large ditch running north/south, with my back to a tree, one of the large patch of pin-oaks I am in. Some 75 yards to the south is a small creek, running east/west, which I jumped to get where I am. I am facing roughly northeast, with one eye along the dike, where Steve sits 100 yards to the north, and one eye east, deeper into the tall, wheat-colored grass lying between the oaks. A light fog holds among the denser thickets, and a light but steady rain continues to fall; the temperature seems to be dropping (thank goodness for the canopy of the chair blind).
The only shots I have heard have been the muted barks of the duck-hunters shotguns along the river, whose report echoes like a low, rumbling thunder. I need to get up and stretch for a minute."
After that stretch, I didn't add anything. I just sat, listening to the sounds of the woods, hoping to catch sight of venison on the hoof, but with no luck. We waited at that spot for another 90 minutes of so, then packed it in and went for breakfast. The afternoon hunt fared no better.
Sledding, Part 3
I must have missed the fine print when I turned 40, the part that says "Aches and pains that used to heal over night will now stretch into a week of discomfort." I got a little banged up sledding Friday night, a few tumbles at the bottom of the hill, but it was fun.
Saturday, woke up a little creaky, but felt okay, and ran through the day doing normal stuff.
Sunday, a bit more creaky, decided to take it easy, but didn't.
Monday, downright stiff, sat in a chair reading and goofing around on the computer most of the day. Monday night, slept funny.
Tuesday morning, roll out of bed, put a foot on the floor, and my hip says "Whoa, cowboy, where d'ya think yer goin?" This is a big load of cow chips.
Now the only thing left to do is hit the treadmill at the gym and show my hip who's boss. I'm sure my brain can convince my body that it's still 23 and in shape. Total denial of reality always works, doesn't it?
Afterward, I'll rocket to Mars to carry on my torrid stellar affair with Dejah Thoris, Princess of Helium, and my wife will be waiting in the hot tub when I get back with a nicely chilled vodka martini and very little else.
See how that works?
Saturday, woke up a little creaky, but felt okay, and ran through the day doing normal stuff.
Sunday, a bit more creaky, decided to take it easy, but didn't.
Monday, downright stiff, sat in a chair reading and goofing around on the computer most of the day. Monday night, slept funny.
Tuesday morning, roll out of bed, put a foot on the floor, and my hip says "Whoa, cowboy, where d'ya think yer goin?" This is a big load of cow chips.
Now the only thing left to do is hit the treadmill at the gym and show my hip who's boss. I'm sure my brain can convince my body that it's still 23 and in shape. Total denial of reality always works, doesn't it?
Afterward, I'll rocket to Mars to carry on my torrid stellar affair with Dejah Thoris, Princess of Helium, and my wife will be waiting in the hot tub when I get back with a nicely chilled vodka martini and very little else.
See how that works?
A Bit of the Bard
One of my favorite passages from Shakespeare:
Once more into the breach, dear friends, once more,
Or close up the wall with our English dead.
In peace there's nothing so becomes a man
As modest stillness and humility.
But when the blast of war blows in our ears,
Then imitate the actions of the tiger.
Stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood,
Disguise fair nature with hard favor'd rage.
Then lend the eye a terrible aspect;
Let it pry through the portage of the head
Like a brass cannon. Let the brow o'erwhelm it
As fearfully as doth a galled rock
O'erhang and jutty his confounded base,
Swill'd with the wild and wasteful ocean.
Now set the teeth and stretch the nostril wide,
Hold hard the breath and bend up every spirit
To his full height. On, on, you noblest English,
Whose blood is fet from fathers of war proof!
Fathers that like so many Alexanders
Have in these parts from morn til even fought
And sheath'd their swords for lack of argument.
Dishonor not your mothers. Now attest
That those whom you'd call fathers did beget you.
Be copy now to men of grosser blood
And teach them how to war. And you, good yeomen,
Whose limbs were made in England, show us here
The mettle of your pasture. Let us swear
That you are worth your breeding, which I doubt not,
For there is none of you so mean and base
That hath not noble luster in your eyes.
I see you stand like greyhounds in the slips,
Straining upon the start. The game's afoot!
Follow your spirit, and upon this charge
Cry "God for Harry, England, and St. George!"
-Henry the Fifth, Act III, Scene I
Once more into the breach, dear friends, once more,
Or close up the wall with our English dead.
In peace there's nothing so becomes a man
As modest stillness and humility.
But when the blast of war blows in our ears,
Then imitate the actions of the tiger.
Stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood,
Disguise fair nature with hard favor'd rage.
Then lend the eye a terrible aspect;
Let it pry through the portage of the head
Like a brass cannon. Let the brow o'erwhelm it
As fearfully as doth a galled rock
O'erhang and jutty his confounded base,
Swill'd with the wild and wasteful ocean.
Now set the teeth and stretch the nostril wide,
Hold hard the breath and bend up every spirit
To his full height. On, on, you noblest English,
Whose blood is fet from fathers of war proof!
Fathers that like so many Alexanders
Have in these parts from morn til even fought
And sheath'd their swords for lack of argument.
Dishonor not your mothers. Now attest
That those whom you'd call fathers did beget you.
Be copy now to men of grosser blood
And teach them how to war. And you, good yeomen,
Whose limbs were made in England, show us here
The mettle of your pasture. Let us swear
That you are worth your breeding, which I doubt not,
For there is none of you so mean and base
That hath not noble luster in your eyes.
I see you stand like greyhounds in the slips,
Straining upon the start. The game's afoot!
Follow your spirit, and upon this charge
Cry "God for Harry, England, and St. George!"
-Henry the Fifth, Act III, Scene I
Saturday, January 16, 2010
Sledding, Part 2
Sledding with the kids last night was a great time. It was dark and we had the whole of Belly Button Hill to ourselves. The snow was tamped down pretty well, and most of it was covered with a layer of ice, which made the sledding much quicker than usual. It also made getting up the hill rather difficult, until everyone started walking up the one path that had been worn down to the grass.
Aside from the usual bickering you get when there are 5 kids and 3 sleds, a good time was had by all. I even took a few trips down the hill myself. One trip was headfirst and fast, and I thank the Good Lord I didn't hit a rut on the way down, otherwise the combination of speed and ice would have served to tear most of my face off in the ensuing tumble. I did take a fairly good tumble when my son and I went down together. He was lying on top of me and let his foot drag near the bottom of the hill, causing us to skid sideways and hit a rut, at which point we rolled like a couple of logs for 20 or 30 feet. I now have a sore knee, hip, and shoulder as a reminder that I am not quite young any longer.
But you're only as old as you feel, I suppose, so maybe we'll go back tomorrow.
Aside from the usual bickering you get when there are 5 kids and 3 sleds, a good time was had by all. I even took a few trips down the hill myself. One trip was headfirst and fast, and I thank the Good Lord I didn't hit a rut on the way down, otherwise the combination of speed and ice would have served to tear most of my face off in the ensuing tumble. I did take a fairly good tumble when my son and I went down together. He was lying on top of me and let his foot drag near the bottom of the hill, causing us to skid sideways and hit a rut, at which point we rolled like a couple of logs for 20 or 30 feet. I now have a sore knee, hip, and shoulder as a reminder that I am not quite young any longer.
But you're only as old as you feel, I suppose, so maybe we'll go back tomorrow.
Friday, January 15, 2010
Sledding
My friend Steve and I are thinking about taking our kids sledding tonight. We haven't been yet since the snow has fallen, and we'd like to get out before this snow melts and everything is drab and muddy and gooey until the next snowfall.
So, two 40-year-old dads are taking their kids sledding. Hopefully none of us will wind up in the emergency room. And by "us", I mean "me and Steve".
I'll let you know how it turns out.
So, two 40-year-old dads are taking their kids sledding. Hopefully none of us will wind up in the emergency room. And by "us", I mean "me and Steve".
I'll let you know how it turns out.
Thursday, January 14, 2010
Ghost Knight's Top 10 Beers
Here's my personal list of top beers, ranked by the utterly unscientific method of how I think they taste. Number 1 is my absolute favorite; the others are in no particular order, as I drink them depending on my mood.
1. Hobgoblin Ale, England
2. Guinness Stout, Ireland
3. Kostritzer Dark, Germany
4. Warsteiner Dark, Germany
5. Harnas, Poland
6. Hofbrau Oktoberfest, Germany
7. Pilsner Urquel, Czech Republic
8. Bass Ale, England
9. Becks, Germany
10. Amstel Light, Holland
I do not drink Miller or Budweiser products, ever. If I'm going to drink a bottle of water, I prefer it without alcohol.
1. Hobgoblin Ale, England
2. Guinness Stout, Ireland
3. Kostritzer Dark, Germany
4. Warsteiner Dark, Germany
5. Harnas, Poland
6. Hofbrau Oktoberfest, Germany
7. Pilsner Urquel, Czech Republic
8. Bass Ale, England
9. Becks, Germany
10. Amstel Light, Holland
I do not drink Miller or Budweiser products, ever. If I'm going to drink a bottle of water, I prefer it without alcohol.
For My Fellow Beer Afficianados
Here's a nifty little link on strange beer names. I've had 6 of them, and heard of 2 more; the other 2 were news to me. #9 is an excellent beer; the brewery from which #10 hails also makes my very favorite beer, Hobgoblin Ale.
Also check out this list of the top 10 beer producing nations. Good for a laugh, because in my opinion the list is way out of whack.
Also check out this list of the top 10 beer producing nations. Good for a laugh, because in my opinion the list is way out of whack.
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
Stunning
God Bless the Haitian people, comfort them and give them strength in their time of need.
And God Bless all the Americans already scrambling to their aid. We really are the finest country in the world.
And God Bless all the Americans already scrambling to their aid. We really are the finest country in the world.
Bets?
How many times can I talk about deer hunting in one day?
Quite a few, it seems. But it won't always be like this. At least, not until next fall.
Quite a few, it seems. But it won't always be like this. At least, not until next fall.
Buck Tales
I shot my first deer this fall. It's not that I was suddenly overwhelmed with a desire to go deer hunting; quite the opposite in fact. I've wanted to for enough years that I can count them in decades: two and a half of them. It's just that up until a year and a half ago, I didn't have any friends that hunted. I knew people that did, but either I didn't know them well enough to tag along, or they seemed like the kind of people I wouldn't want to be around firearms with. Until 6 or 7 years ago I didn't hunt at all, then finally started going after upland game when I got my German Short-haired Pointer, Kaiser. Pheasants and squirrels were the only critters that made it to my game bag. But I still longed after deer; to my mind, I couldn't really call myself a hunter until I went.
In the late summer of 2008 I started coaching basketball with a guy who is now a very good friend of mine. Steve is a lifelong hunter, and after hearing some of his tales of last season, I asked him if he wouldn't mind if I tagged along. I confessed my rudimentary bird hunting skills, told him I'd never really gone after deer (other than tagging along with my father and brother once, and once with my brother and uncles, both when I was rather young). Fortunately for me, Steve wasn't put off, and told me he would take me. The rigors and trials of life in general pushed the thought from my mind over the ensuing months, until the day Steve called me late this summer and told me it would soon be time to apply for our tags. We did, and were drawn for tags in Illinois, and bought tags for Indiana (which are way too expensive, for which Illinois is to blame). The purchasing of gear followed, along with the dusting off of the .50 caliber muzzle-loader which I had bought the previous year, mainly because I thought it would be cool to have one, and had yet to fire. Outfitted and ready to roll, the day approached: November 15th, 2009, the Sunday of the opening weekend of Indiana muzzle-loader season.
The first thing I noticed about deer hunting: it takes place too damned early in the morning. I was up at 4am, to be at Steve's house by 4:30am. Tired as I was, I was excited for sure. The drive (in the dark, the sun wouldn't start to rise until almost 6:00) took roughly an hour, heading for some private farmland. We were dressed and in the ground blind at 5:45, all ready to...wait. Which, I've come to learn, is mostly what deer hunting is: waiting for something brown and furry to wander within range.
I can recall that morning with almost perfect clarity. It was chilly but not cold, very quiet and still, and the amount of stars you can see when you're outside of the light pollution from a city as large as Chicago is always amazing, like a crystal has exploded across the sky. Orion stood out vividly in the eastern sky in the pre-dawn. The mesh screening over the windows of the blind added a slight blur to the slowly greying sky. At 6:00 I noticed a dark shadow about 125 yards away to our left, moving slowly across the field. It was still much too dark to shoot, but the sign was encouraging: at least there were deer in the area. The shape moved in a very shallow arc across to our front, then disappeared into the tree line and the shadows on the opposite side of the field, becoming obscured by the tall patch of prairie grass we had forgotten to bend down. But as the grass only obscured a small section of our field of vision, we thought it best to stay put and leave it. That almost worked against us.
I checked my watch at 7:15. The sun was up but still low, giving us plenty of light to shoot by. I adjusted myself in my seat, and was looking down when I heard Steve whisper "Look!" My head snapped up, and there in front of us, 100 yards away, was a tall buck, being followed by a slightly smaller one 30 yards behind. My heart started to pound, and I heard "Get your gun up!" Slowly and carefully I pushed the muzzle through the slit in the screen, resting it on the bottom half of the mesh, sighting along the iron sights. By that time the bigger buck had moved behind some brush directly to my left and obscured my shot. But the smaller one had stopped in the field to feed on some corn left behind by the harvest, and was still there. He moseyed to about a hundred yards, and I drew a bead on him. But never having fired the gun before, and through iron sights, I was hesitant. "He's too far away," I hissed, barely wanting to breath. Steve told me to wait and let him close up, as he seemed to be moving toward us to follow the path the first buck had taken into the trees behind us. Close he did, getting another 10 yards closer, but I was still hesitant. Steve handed me his gun, same caliber, heavier, and more importantly, scoped: "Try that".
I looked through, and the buck jumped into my field of vision. My heart-rate shot up again. "I can take him with this."
"Okay. Next time he stops, shoot."
The buck was in my sights the entire time, sights that were bouncing all over because of the attack of "buck fever" I was having: adrenaline was flowing freely. I forced a couple of deep breaths as the buck closed to 80 yards. Every single part of me was focused through that scope; nothing else existed. The buck stopped and bent down to forage again. "Okay. I'm going to take the shot." Through the cloud of focus and adrenaline I heard "Send it." What happened next likely only took a second or two, although it seemed like at least a minute to me: the scope was still dancing, but I remembered what Steve had told me: wait for the natural pause in your breath as you're aiming, then squeeze. I waited, the scope settled, and I squeezed.
The next thing I saw was nothing but the cloud of white smoke from the muzzle, because that's what black powder does, makes puffy white clouds. I had no idea if I hit the buck or not. He was gone. I looked over at Steve, who was standing and craning his neck around the cloud. "Did I get him?" I was still whispering, partly because we had been whispering all morning, and partly because my mouth was so dry my tongue was sticking to the roof of it.
Steve cracked a grin. "You got him. His flag (his tail) was down and he was on a dead run. Unless they're hurt, deer hop. You got him." I could feel myself grinning so hard my face was starting to hurt.
"Wow. Cool. Yeah." That was the extent of my vocabulary at that point. I sat back and blew out a big breath, and started to shiver as the adrenaline started to work it's way out of my system. What an awesome feeling. We waited a bit to see if any more deer would follow, and when none did after 15 minutes, we left the blind to find the buck. We went to the point of impact first, and found a splash of blood in the dirt. As we turned toward the tree line, Steve was scanning through his scope, and found the buck 40 yards away on top of a small hill. We hustled over, and there he was, a beautiful, small-racked 10-pointer, stone dead. We found later as we were dressing him that the shot had hit low (thanks to Steve's messed up scope; we knew it was off, but not by how much), ricocheted off a rib and up, went through both lungs and out. Quick and clean; the buck was running dead.
It was a truly life-changing experience for me. There was no remorse, not one bit. I knew I was going to eat what I killed, and never kill what I couldn't eat. It's in my blood now, here to stay, and soon enough, hopefully will be in my son's blood as well. I relish that day, will always remember it, and thank God for the opportunity.
The rest of the season...well, that's another story. Stay tuned for Chapter Two of Buck Tales.
In the late summer of 2008 I started coaching basketball with a guy who is now a very good friend of mine. Steve is a lifelong hunter, and after hearing some of his tales of last season, I asked him if he wouldn't mind if I tagged along. I confessed my rudimentary bird hunting skills, told him I'd never really gone after deer (other than tagging along with my father and brother once, and once with my brother and uncles, both when I was rather young). Fortunately for me, Steve wasn't put off, and told me he would take me. The rigors and trials of life in general pushed the thought from my mind over the ensuing months, until the day Steve called me late this summer and told me it would soon be time to apply for our tags. We did, and were drawn for tags in Illinois, and bought tags for Indiana (which are way too expensive, for which Illinois is to blame). The purchasing of gear followed, along with the dusting off of the .50 caliber muzzle-loader which I had bought the previous year, mainly because I thought it would be cool to have one, and had yet to fire. Outfitted and ready to roll, the day approached: November 15th, 2009, the Sunday of the opening weekend of Indiana muzzle-loader season.
The first thing I noticed about deer hunting: it takes place too damned early in the morning. I was up at 4am, to be at Steve's house by 4:30am. Tired as I was, I was excited for sure. The drive (in the dark, the sun wouldn't start to rise until almost 6:00) took roughly an hour, heading for some private farmland. We were dressed and in the ground blind at 5:45, all ready to...wait. Which, I've come to learn, is mostly what deer hunting is: waiting for something brown and furry to wander within range.
I can recall that morning with almost perfect clarity. It was chilly but not cold, very quiet and still, and the amount of stars you can see when you're outside of the light pollution from a city as large as Chicago is always amazing, like a crystal has exploded across the sky. Orion stood out vividly in the eastern sky in the pre-dawn. The mesh screening over the windows of the blind added a slight blur to the slowly greying sky. At 6:00 I noticed a dark shadow about 125 yards away to our left, moving slowly across the field. It was still much too dark to shoot, but the sign was encouraging: at least there were deer in the area. The shape moved in a very shallow arc across to our front, then disappeared into the tree line and the shadows on the opposite side of the field, becoming obscured by the tall patch of prairie grass we had forgotten to bend down. But as the grass only obscured a small section of our field of vision, we thought it best to stay put and leave it. That almost worked against us.
I checked my watch at 7:15. The sun was up but still low, giving us plenty of light to shoot by. I adjusted myself in my seat, and was looking down when I heard Steve whisper "Look!" My head snapped up, and there in front of us, 100 yards away, was a tall buck, being followed by a slightly smaller one 30 yards behind. My heart started to pound, and I heard "Get your gun up!" Slowly and carefully I pushed the muzzle through the slit in the screen, resting it on the bottom half of the mesh, sighting along the iron sights. By that time the bigger buck had moved behind some brush directly to my left and obscured my shot. But the smaller one had stopped in the field to feed on some corn left behind by the harvest, and was still there. He moseyed to about a hundred yards, and I drew a bead on him. But never having fired the gun before, and through iron sights, I was hesitant. "He's too far away," I hissed, barely wanting to breath. Steve told me to wait and let him close up, as he seemed to be moving toward us to follow the path the first buck had taken into the trees behind us. Close he did, getting another 10 yards closer, but I was still hesitant. Steve handed me his gun, same caliber, heavier, and more importantly, scoped: "Try that".
I looked through, and the buck jumped into my field of vision. My heart-rate shot up again. "I can take him with this."
"Okay. Next time he stops, shoot."
The buck was in my sights the entire time, sights that were bouncing all over because of the attack of "buck fever" I was having: adrenaline was flowing freely. I forced a couple of deep breaths as the buck closed to 80 yards. Every single part of me was focused through that scope; nothing else existed. The buck stopped and bent down to forage again. "Okay. I'm going to take the shot." Through the cloud of focus and adrenaline I heard "Send it." What happened next likely only took a second or two, although it seemed like at least a minute to me: the scope was still dancing, but I remembered what Steve had told me: wait for the natural pause in your breath as you're aiming, then squeeze. I waited, the scope settled, and I squeezed.
The next thing I saw was nothing but the cloud of white smoke from the muzzle, because that's what black powder does, makes puffy white clouds. I had no idea if I hit the buck or not. He was gone. I looked over at Steve, who was standing and craning his neck around the cloud. "Did I get him?" I was still whispering, partly because we had been whispering all morning, and partly because my mouth was so dry my tongue was sticking to the roof of it.
Steve cracked a grin. "You got him. His flag (his tail) was down and he was on a dead run. Unless they're hurt, deer hop. You got him." I could feel myself grinning so hard my face was starting to hurt.
"Wow. Cool. Yeah." That was the extent of my vocabulary at that point. I sat back and blew out a big breath, and started to shiver as the adrenaline started to work it's way out of my system. What an awesome feeling. We waited a bit to see if any more deer would follow, and when none did after 15 minutes, we left the blind to find the buck. We went to the point of impact first, and found a splash of blood in the dirt. As we turned toward the tree line, Steve was scanning through his scope, and found the buck 40 yards away on top of a small hill. We hustled over, and there he was, a beautiful, small-racked 10-pointer, stone dead. We found later as we were dressing him that the shot had hit low (thanks to Steve's messed up scope; we knew it was off, but not by how much), ricocheted off a rib and up, went through both lungs and out. Quick and clean; the buck was running dead.
It was a truly life-changing experience for me. There was no remorse, not one bit. I knew I was going to eat what I killed, and never kill what I couldn't eat. It's in my blood now, here to stay, and soon enough, hopefully will be in my son's blood as well. I relish that day, will always remember it, and thank God for the opportunity.
The rest of the season...well, that's another story. Stay tuned for Chapter Two of Buck Tales.
10 Random Songs
This was a random series of 10 songs off my radio this afternoon. And yes, it is actually an MP3 player, but to me and a lot of my non-techno-geek generation (which, come to think of it, is likely a fairly small contingent), portable things that play music will always be radios.
Low Budget by The Kinks
Rock N Roll Heart by Eric Clapton
Street Fighting Man by The Rolling Stones
Burnin' For You by Blue Oyster Cult
Redneck Woman by Gretchen Wilson
Long Black Veil by The Chieftains with Mick Jagger
Lips Like Sugar by Echo and the Bunnymen
Judy Is A Punk by the Ramones
The Low Spark of High-Heeled Boys by Traffic
Chip Away the Stone by Aerosmith
You'd never know how old I was by the music I listen to, would ya?
Low Budget by The Kinks
Rock N Roll Heart by Eric Clapton
Street Fighting Man by The Rolling Stones
Burnin' For You by Blue Oyster Cult
Redneck Woman by Gretchen Wilson
Long Black Veil by The Chieftains with Mick Jagger
Lips Like Sugar by Echo and the Bunnymen
Judy Is A Punk by the Ramones
The Low Spark of High-Heeled Boys by Traffic
Chip Away the Stone by Aerosmith
You'd never know how old I was by the music I listen to, would ya?
Anyone?
I have approximately 200 pens in my house. So why is that I can never find one when I need it? Stupid Murphy and his lousy laws.
Inspiration Comes at the Oddest Times
Here's a little ditty I wrote when my son was hassling me in an irritating but also entertaining manner:
Ethan, my lad, is a dreadful cad,
a right unruly bounder.
He'll throw you a rope,
then call you a dope,
and leave you there to flounder.
Ethan, you see, is a horribly
obnoxious little rotter.
And what is more,
he's a terrible boor,
and yaks more than he ought 'ter.
And so you see,
take a lesson from me
and like him at your peril.
He's a silly twit,
a right bloody git,
that'll leave you in the barrel.
Ethan, my lad, is a dreadful cad,
a right unruly bounder.
He'll throw you a rope,
then call you a dope,
and leave you there to flounder.
Ethan, you see, is a horribly
obnoxious little rotter.
And what is more,
he's a terrible boor,
and yaks more than he ought 'ter.
And so you see,
take a lesson from me
and like him at your peril.
He's a silly twit,
a right bloody git,
that'll leave you in the barrel.
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
How To Make Bagpipes From An Entire Deer
Less than a week left of bow season, and my friend gets lucky and nails a buck. Which means that between the three guys of our little hunting clan, we've bagged exactly 2 deer this year. A terrible season. Lots of cold mornings wasted in tree lines, swamps, and river bottoms, all for nothing. But anyway...
My friend takes his buck, right through both lungs but missing the heart completely, which is exactly where I hit mine, although with a muzzle-loader slug. The deer is hanging on the rack, ready to be gutted, but we're giving it a better look in the lights. My other friend pulls the forelegs apart, and a whistling sound escapes from the exit wound. He does it a few more times, with the same result, and for some reason it's wildly funny to us (it was late, we were tired, give us a break). So I start to wonder: can you make bagpipes out of an entire deer? Maybe hollow out the antlers for the pipes, pump the chest like a bellows...would that work? Was this how primitive man discovered bone was a good material for flutes, and animal skins stretched over logs made cool bongos? Was coffee-house jazz really invented thousands of years ago in some riverside cave? Were beatniks the same pretentious knobs in Lascaux that they were in Greenwich Village? How much was a pack of smokes in 10,000 B.C.?
I can't really answer any of those questions, but I will tell you this: Kinetic energy transferred from an arrow to a deer's breathing apparati makes a big pile of lung jelly.
And Lung Jelly would be an awesome name for a band.
My friend takes his buck, right through both lungs but missing the heart completely, which is exactly where I hit mine, although with a muzzle-loader slug. The deer is hanging on the rack, ready to be gutted, but we're giving it a better look in the lights. My other friend pulls the forelegs apart, and a whistling sound escapes from the exit wound. He does it a few more times, with the same result, and for some reason it's wildly funny to us (it was late, we were tired, give us a break). So I start to wonder: can you make bagpipes out of an entire deer? Maybe hollow out the antlers for the pipes, pump the chest like a bellows...would that work? Was this how primitive man discovered bone was a good material for flutes, and animal skins stretched over logs made cool bongos? Was coffee-house jazz really invented thousands of years ago in some riverside cave? Were beatniks the same pretentious knobs in Lascaux that they were in Greenwich Village? How much was a pack of smokes in 10,000 B.C.?
I can't really answer any of those questions, but I will tell you this: Kinetic energy transferred from an arrow to a deer's breathing apparati makes a big pile of lung jelly.
And Lung Jelly would be an awesome name for a band.
So...
Well, now I have to head out to my son's last swimming meet of the year. I love supporting my kids, but my 40-year-old butt is not looking forward to sitting on wooden bleachers for the next 2+ hours. We'll see what kind of mood I'm in later.
Humphrey Bogart was known to say that the rest of the world was two drinks behind. If you're one of those, catch up while I'm gone.
Humphrey Bogart was known to say that the rest of the world was two drinks behind. If you're one of those, catch up while I'm gone.
Welcome To The Show
Hello Everyone,
As you might have guessed, I've started another blog. I wanted a place to chill out, and do more writing and less ranting. I've never been very good at keeping book journals, and as I'm at the computer for a good part of the day (probably too long), I thought maybe an e-journal might help.
I'm going to stay away from serious political, religious and social issues as much as I can here. Like I said, I want this blog to be looser, more fun. If it's ranting you want, check out Constantine's Sidearm or my website, SPQA.org. Plenty of that at those sites.
Here you will find, in addition to largely boring and mundane updates on my life, some short stories, poems, scribbles, wit & wisdom, musings, crap that I've been working on for years, links to stuff I find nifty or otherwise entertaining, anecdotes of various kinds, thoughts on religion and spirituality, keys to strange and terrible vistas of esoteric thought, unpaid (for now) and unsolicited product endorsements, flights of fancy...well, you get the idea. Basically, just me being strange.
Perfectly Logical Nonsense. Which was going to be the title of this blog, but I liked The Ripper McQueen Show better.
Why The Ripper McQueen Show? First of all, it's a Python-esque title; if you don't know what "Python-esque" means, climb out from the dull box of your existence and find out. It will be worth it, trust me. Go to your favorite search engine and type in "Python" with a capital "P". (But not now: stay with me here.)
Secondly, I've always secretly wanted to be called "Ripper", but a) I've never really had any nickname; b) I've never been able to come up with a good enough reason to ask people to start calling me "Ripper"; c) when most people think of the name "Ripper" they think of crazy people running around cutting people into tiny bits for various reasons, instead of the rugged, sort-of-handsome American/British Hero of the Frontier/Punjab like I do.
McQueen? "The Ripper Show" sounded weird even to me, so I needed another cool, rugged name. And Steve McQueen is about the coolest, rugged-est cat ever, so there you go. And "The Ripper McQueen Show" was born. Can you dig it?
So if you want, come along for the ride, bumpy, erratic and careening though it may be. What the hell else are you going to do? Waste two pointless hours on Facebook? Waste 20 or 30 pointless minutes here.
As you might have guessed, I've started another blog. I wanted a place to chill out, and do more writing and less ranting. I've never been very good at keeping book journals, and as I'm at the computer for a good part of the day (probably too long), I thought maybe an e-journal might help.
I'm going to stay away from serious political, religious and social issues as much as I can here. Like I said, I want this blog to be looser, more fun. If it's ranting you want, check out Constantine's Sidearm or my website, SPQA.org. Plenty of that at those sites.
Here you will find, in addition to largely boring and mundane updates on my life, some short stories, poems, scribbles, wit & wisdom, musings, crap that I've been working on for years, links to stuff I find nifty or otherwise entertaining, anecdotes of various kinds, thoughts on religion and spirituality, keys to strange and terrible vistas of esoteric thought, unpaid (for now) and unsolicited product endorsements, flights of fancy...well, you get the idea. Basically, just me being strange.
Perfectly Logical Nonsense. Which was going to be the title of this blog, but I liked The Ripper McQueen Show better.
Why The Ripper McQueen Show? First of all, it's a Python-esque title; if you don't know what "Python-esque" means, climb out from the dull box of your existence and find out. It will be worth it, trust me. Go to your favorite search engine and type in "Python" with a capital "P". (But not now: stay with me here.)
Secondly, I've always secretly wanted to be called "Ripper", but a) I've never really had any nickname; b) I've never been able to come up with a good enough reason to ask people to start calling me "Ripper"; c) when most people think of the name "Ripper" they think of crazy people running around cutting people into tiny bits for various reasons, instead of the rugged, sort-of-handsome American/British Hero of the Frontier/Punjab like I do.
McQueen? "The Ripper Show" sounded weird even to me, so I needed another cool, rugged name. And Steve McQueen is about the coolest, rugged-est cat ever, so there you go. And "The Ripper McQueen Show" was born. Can you dig it?
So if you want, come along for the ride, bumpy, erratic and careening though it may be. What the hell else are you going to do? Waste two pointless hours on Facebook? Waste 20 or 30 pointless minutes here.
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