The Chronicles of Marnia Continues

Take a gander at this picture of Paris Hilton and her new pink Bentley. Notice anything special about this tabloid photo? Well, check out the little hungry girl in the background wearing her lime green REI windbreaker headed home for lunch from her job at the children's bookstore. Yep, that's me. As I waited to cross the street, I saw her pull up (who didn't) and as I crossed she began to get out, and I thought, "oh shit, there are about 30 people taking pictures of me". So today I checked out my favorite gossip blog (socialite life) and lo and behold, there I was. Honestly, I was more excited than I should have been. I love that blog, almost as much as I love this blog. Unfortunately it was kind of hard to get home and there was some inconvenient and awkward shuffling past Paris, her new BFF (seriously, and have you seen that show?), and all the photogs. It's just so hard being famous, what can I say.
Continuing my glamorous life of seasonal gift wrapping, errand running (today my boss at the bookstore actually sent me to another bookstore to buy a book), and cat vaccinating, I'm going to japan in two days to pay chado sensei a little visit, so I'm sure that we'll write soon. He's saving a nice beer for us to share so I'm sure we'll tell you all about it. I was actually going to write earlier about this beer that my dad has been drinking lately. It was going to be a silly little piece on an exTKE enjoying a miraculously %14 beer in his golden years, but it turns out that two months ago he went to USC homecoming and got completely wasted at the TKE tent beforehand on bacardi 151. He forgot to eat breakfast and lunch and only remembers getting to his seat before the game, realizing he was going to puke and running to the bathroom. The next 5 hours I guess are a blur. He was carried home by his old roomate (a doctor) and brought home to my stepmother (also a doctor) where they monitored him for a few hours before deciding he didn't need to go to the hospital. Needless to say, he hasn't been drinking for a while. By the way, my dad only threw up from drinking once before (on his 21st birthday). Moral of the story is, nothing ever changes... except your alcohol tolerance. TKE forever or whatever. Can't wait to be there to take all of you to the hospital when you make bad decisions at the age of 54. Awwwwwwww. Love Marnie

Whitman GBN Invitation

I know it's a long stretch, but I want to formally invite everyone to the Condemned House Monday night at 10pm for GBN, which will include the beer Eli and I brewed this semester. Despite a disappointing sip during the bottling process and a mediocre taste before leaving for Thanksgiving, the IPA has turned into a decent beer by all accounts since Thanksgiving.
I have only reentered the world of drinking on Friday after finishing my thesis, so I have no other beer updates, but perhaps after Monday's GBN I will provide a more inlightening report.
Cheers to all. And cheers to good beers in Walla Walla!

Part 3 of a 12 Part Series, "The Couch"

Two Recently Miniaturized Scientists Watch Fantastic Voyage

Rupert the Scientist: My God, Watson! It appears our experiment has gone terribly, terribly awry!

Chet the Scientist: omg this fucking sucks

Rupert the Scientist: This is incredible - we've somehow re-oriented our spatial coordinates!

Chet the Scientist: yea we're really small

Rupert the Scientist: What in God's name are we going to do, Watson?

Chet the Scientist: dude my name isn't watson

Rupert: (grabbing Chet's shoulders and furiously shaking them) What are we going to do, Watson?!

Chet: y do you keep calling me that

Rupert: Calm down, Watson! OK, OK...we're going to be calm about this. Calm, and rational. We'll just deal with this problem like we deal with every problem...

Chet: fuck no we're not watching that stupid movie again

Rupert: ...by watching the greatest movie in the history of mankind, Fantastic Voyage!

Chet: no that movie is teh suck, you can lick my nuts

Rupert: Insert the tape, Watson!

Chet: fist yourself

Rupert: Thank you, Watson!

(The movie begins playing)

Chet: dude how did you do that

Dr. Duval: Yet all the suns that light the corridors of the universe shine dim before the blazing of a single thought...
Grant: - proclaiming in incandescent glory the myriad mind of Man...
Dr. Michaels: Very poetic, gentlemen. Let me know when we pass the soul.
Dr. Duval: The soul? The finite mind cannot comprehend infinity - and the soul, which comes from God, is infinite.
Dr. Michaels: Yes, well, our time isn't.

Chet: o snap

Rupert: This movie is drowning in majesty!

Chet: raquel welch was really hot. i would tap that like a mafia phone line

Rupert: Do not defile the sacred vessel of the Blessed Cora Peterson, Assistant to the Handsome and Godly Dr. Peter Duval!

Chet: shut ur face, crazy man

[Near the end of them movie, the intrepid crew escapes their ruined submarine through a teardrop, escaping in the nick of time and reverting to normal size]

Rupert: Now, Watson, if you once again INSIST on pointing out that tiny logical inconsistency in an otherwise brilliant film, I shall become very cross.

Chet: y didn't the sub get bigger and crack that dude's skull like a ping pong ball under a freight locomotive

Rupert: That's IT, Watson, that's absolutely the last straw!

Chet: if you call me Watson 1 more time i am going to flip out

Rupert: Prepare yourself, insolent cur!

Chet: for what, u hack, u cant do anything, do u think u r a wizard or something -

[Chet explodes]

Rupert: Yes. I am a wizard! I put on my robe and my wizard hat!

Good beer?

It snowed today! I'm using a pretty liberal definition of snow, but from what I've gathered, the flurries that I saw out the window today are pretty rare down here in Nashville. I thought I'd celebrate the magic of the season with some tasty winter beer, but I found Georgia Moon Corn Whiskey (Less than 30 days old!) at the store instead. I've never seen alcohol sold in mason jars before. I feel like it's very Whitman hippie recycler meets Southern hick moonshiner. I haven't tried it yet...I'll wait for the snow to start sticking to the ground. Miss you all!

Turkey Day!

Just something that will hopefully bring a smile to your faces.

And in true sappy-Luke form, let me say that I am particularly thankful and honored to call you all my friends. Happy Thanksgiving!

In Thanksgiving Tradition, Bush Pardons Scooter Libby In Giant Turkey Costume

054

How often do you get genuinely offended? I almost never do, especially if I'm not directly involved. Today, I got genuinely offended by something that had nothing to do with me. I'm sure this has happened to me before, but I honestly can't remember a specific time.

I have a part-time job transcribing interviews and focus groups. The audio files are on a variety of subjects, anything from interviewing obviously annoyed (I can hear it in their voices) shoppers about their feelings on microwavable rice dinners to a focus group with a bunch of urologists discussing the latest treatment pathways for prostate cancer. (that one was actually pretty interesting)

Today, I had about 20-30 short files which were excerpts from an interview with a woman with lung cancer which was focused on how she managed her life around a rigorous treatment schedule. I'm guessing the interviewer was a pharmaceutical representative of some sort because they spent a long time talking about her different pills and how she stores them, refills them, schedules them, etc.

Anyway, during the last few files, the interviewer, completely out of left field, asked a question which literally stunned me with how inappropriate and in bad taste it was. The interviewer had a pretty neutral tone throughout the whole thing, responding to "I have trouble opening this box" and "I have terminal lung cancer and live alone" with the exact same tone of polite sympathy. That I can understand - the interviewer is probably doing like 30 of these. But then she asked this question, and SHIT. This woman, the interviewer, could teach this guy a thing or two about dealing with sensitive topics with a delicacy usually reserved for prison rape:

(this image taken from Cracked.com's recent article, "25 Awesome Ways to Break Bad News - check it out)

Let me give you a little background on the woman being interviewed: Parents both dead, husband of 37 years dead. Ran a day care center out of her house for 15 years while taking care of her mother, who had Alzheimer’s. Worked nights as Wal-Mart for 10 years. Lives alone, and has been diagnosed with Stage IIIB Non-small cell lung cancer, which puts her pretty squarely in the "When, not If" box.

I know I'm taking a little while to get to the point, but the background is essential. It's important to know how pleasant and nice this woman is despite being in an objectively shitty situation. I mean, she's a baller - check out these quotes:

(On working nights at Wal-Mart for 10 years) "That’s one of the things about my job – not only were there a lot of people, but we had the strangest people that would come in the middle of the night. I can’t begin to describe it."

(After being asked yet another boring question about her pills) "I forget. I just – there is a thing called chemo brain – you forget things."

(On eschewing pain medication) "I would take the morphine and I would just go to sleep – I’m not going to spend the rest of my life going to sleep."

She even makes a joke at the moderator's expense that I'm pretty went right over her head:

Woman: When I went to Doctor Goldberg, he put me in because he wanted to run different tests, and I was in there – unfortunately I came down with MRSA. I was a little while in there.
Moderator: What does MRSA look like?
Woman: It doesn’t “look”; it’s an infection. I had it on my leg. It looks like bubbles. (She's right)

Then their conversation moves towards her general emotional state. She starts dropping knowledge bombs aplenty, and the interviewer doesn't even appreciate it:

Moderator: Do you go to any support groups?
Woman: I did. But to be very honest with you, walking into a room full of people that are much worse than I am physically – I mean, even when I was bald and really sick – you know, you don’t look at yourself that way. They were talking about death and dying, and I want to talk about living. I don’t want to talk about planning my funeral.

She even lays down some heavy shit, and the interviewer just plows on through without missing a beat:

Moderator: Before you got this diagnosis, you were just taking two pills. When you do your Wednesday routine, when you get everything out, how do you feel when you look at all this?
Woman: I don’t think about it anymore. I used to. I used to think, “If I take this whole bottle, I won’t have to worry about anything anymore.” But I don’t think about it anymore.
Moderator: What helped you to get past that?
Woman: I don’t know. I wouldn’t want my children to find me, knowing I didn’t fight.

Damn straight - I mean some of that definitely sounds cheesy when I type it up, sure, but I'm just recording what happened. So they're going through all this stuff, and then, it happened. The moderator drops this bomb, which I quote verbatim:

"If I were to ask – and this is kind of a hard question – what character you would use to describe lung cancer? What kind of a character, a cartoon character, something like that – anything come to mind?"

WHAT. THE. FUCK. That's not a hard question, that's a FUCKING HORRIBLE question. Worse, it's almost funny. There could easily be an SNL skit about this. I already came up with two in my head. But given the context, it was not funny AT ALL. Even beyond the fact that the question is insensitive and borderline retarded, what exactly is it supposed to accomplish? What does an answer, any answer, get you? When I heard this on my headphones, I took my hands off the keyboard and scooted away from the computer in a reflexive move I would characterize as "extreme distaste".

The worst thing was that the woman didn't do what I would have done, which is kick the interviewer directly out of my house. Instead, there was a long, long pause, and then she said, in a very small voice:

"Pac-Man."

The moderator, oblivious to the inherent sadness and cruelty of the situation, blithely asks a follow-up: "What about Pac-Mac?"

Another long pause. Finally, she answers: "It just keeps eating away."

Well done, moderator. You know, it's really strange to find myself on the other side of this, but there is a place in this world for decency and tact. And this woman fucking deserved some. I wanted to grab that interviewer and shake her, hopefully rattling back into alignment whatever fucked-up part of her brain thought that was an appropriate question. Hey girl, you see anything wrong with the following picture? No? Didn't think so.

Happy birthday Margi (and Knappe)!!!! (I'd think of something cooler and funnier to say, but I have the stomache flu). love Marnie

the south is a bit different, ya'll

Hello friends. I miss you all dearly. I'm feeling quite displaced in Memphis, with Tamara being the only friend from college within any proximal distance. Yet, I survive. Here's a quick update, with little relevance to good beers, I'm afraid.

Currently, I'm sitting in a coffee shop in Nashville, killing time before my flight home to Portland (Tamara, I can see why you sent me here - there's quite the abundance of attractive people). I'll be there for Thanksgiving. I'm super excited to be reunited with friends, family, and my bus.

Since being swept up by a terrible and violent tornado (read: Teach for America), I've landed in a thoroughly confusing and foreign land. For example, my school district doesn't recycle. Not even paper! Also, people call each other "Sir" and "Ma'am" all the time, especially in those instances where you need someone to repeat themselves: "Sir?" This annoying southern tendency has gotten me into a little bit of trouble on more than one occasion. I tend to say politely, "sorry?" in those instances, and a couple women have balked and angrily responded, "SIR??" On the flip side, it's quite the ego boost to have students refer to me as "sir."

So, I currently live with 3 other TFA dudes-one from Massachusetts, one from Arkansas, the other from Mississippi. The four of us create a pretty diverse spectrum with regard to our backgrounds, values, and political leanings. Sometimes we have fun with it, like when we played drinking games during the presidential debates (teams of two, taking drinks for predicted phrases or keywords uttered by their favored candidate), but other times our debates can get a bit heated. My Bush-loving buddy from Arkansas and I get into it pretty often with issues like gay marriage, abortion, and immigration. I think I offend him with my bluntness, but it's hilarious! I showed him an email I recently received about a transgender TKE alum, and he stormed out of the room, shaking his head. I'm more aware now that while at Whitman, my values and beliefs were rarely, if ever, challenged to a degree where I would actually consider them critically. Now, immersed in an environment of political plurality, I actually find myself more passionate than ever about my convictions. I've been pegged as this ethnic food-loving, environmental cry-baby, bleeding liberal hippie by my uber-American roommates. At first it bothered me; now I embrace and affirm their condescending jibes. Our differences are best summarized by our contrasting suggestions for eating out. I suggest India Palace or Shanghai; they suggest Applebee's, Chili's, or Arby's (no joke).

TFA is without a doubt, the most challenging and draining thing I've ever done. Without depressing ya'll too much, I'll just say that I'm feeling pretty depressed and defeated on the regular. But I'll stick to the positive. There are those special moments, which come few and far between, that are quite touching. Recently I had a student write an apology that he read aloud to the class in which he said I was like a father to him and urged me to hold on through the end of the year. Despite my best efforts, I was unable to hold back a few tears in front of my all-male fifth graders. Tydario is my favorite student. He is a very troubled boy who has severe anger management issues. His mother and grandmother (wtf?) are in jail, he lives with a grandfather who beats him often, and he writes incredibly disturbing notes, referring to physical violence, and in some cases, killing. One note said that when he got older he was "going to murder." I calmly sent him and that note down to the counselor. He also makes racist comments about me every once in a while, when he's really feeling upset. Yet, it's these ones that are always the favorites it seems, especially when they show those moments of affection and gratitude for my work. Anyway, I already write a lot about my classroom experiences on my blog, so I'll just refer you to that if you are interested in more.

Luke & Indy Z, I'm looking forward to the official announcement of the first annual GBN: On the Road. Indy, I enjoyed The Couch: Part I. I can actually hear your voice in my ear when I read your writing, especially when you utilize capital letters, such as the line: "this is so BORING!!!!" I dug it. Margi, it's fun to hear about someone else's teaching experiences. Say hi to Jay for me. No, give him a giant hug for me. Be well friends,

J-Stew

Hello friends (Aanyang and all that),

There have been so many times I've wanted to write  and so many of those times I would build up an anecdotal/informative email in my head, then think, "Ok, after one more episode of LOST"... Somehow, I've overcome the undertow of nonsensical television that is so readily available through the new tube that is the internet (I just learned about "torrent") and here I am -  finally writing.

First of all, you guys are awesome. Reading the updates, stories, whateverINDY'sspouting has been really nice. Eli - I haven't LOLed at an email in a long time. Thanks. This is some serious sap (although Chad's got us beat in that category, for the most part), but reading those things just remind me of how hella special, freakin' fantastic each of your personalities are and I miss all of you.

So some of the times and some of the things I can remember that I've wanted to write you guys:

Times of hilarity  - All those things you hear about  bad English on Korean t-shirts are true - they're everywhere and they're awesome. I just saw one earlier today at the local Dunkin' Donuts that I thought was particularly poetic: "I dream WILD rice." And last night, over a meal of "Pig spine soup" and "Coagulated Ox blood soup," our Korean friend told us about her experience in Canada with her favorite pink t-shirt that boldly explains, "Santa wants to fuck ME." At least it's a clear message with sound English - that's the best you can hope for. Korea is a really funny place. I mean, where else in the world could you find a grocery store that dedicates an entire aisle to an assortment of canned tuna and spam? Seriously, an entire aisle. 

The Job - I work at a private English school. There are about 2930698 "hogwans," as they're called, in a 2 feet radius - Korea is desperate to learn English. The business side of things is really fucked up - since the owners of the schools have been hiring native English speakers for a long time, they've mastered the art of contractually fucking over the foreigner. For example, my contract stated that I would be teaching for 30 hours a week. Turns out, this only includes "classroom hours" and excludes the pain-staking 15 extra hours a week that go into "lesson planning." Bastards. So I work a lot. And I'm tired all the time. Teaching is not easy - it's basically putting on a performance, entertaining for 9 hours a day. Also, in Korea, as the head teacher at my school puts it, "Break time is not break time. It's work time." But we get paid pretty nicely and our housing is taken care of, so can't bitch too much. There are 4 native English teachers and 8 Korean teachers, who teach English but speak it at about the same level as my best students. 

The upside - The kids are incredible. In the morning, I teach 5,6,7 year olds English, math, science, social studies, and PE. It's such a surprise, but I've fallen in love with 18 little rugrats. It's hard to control them sometimes and every teacher has their way. I've found that mine is through guilt. I've somehow managed to get them to like me and instilled in them a desire for my approval. So when they become overly stimulated and don't want to just sit the fuck down and learn about vowel sounds, I just give them the hella disappointed face/lecture and they settle back into place. Another thing that I've learned is to let them cry - there isn't a single day goes by that a kid doesn't cry. I used to feel like shit about it, but then I realized that they need to learn to not cry about stupid shit - like getting tagged during PE or getting the shortest pencil in class. They love their pencils and they'll go "to the dome" (TKE, TKE) for them. I also teach 8-12 year olds in the afternoon, who come to Wonderland (my school) after elementary school to get extra help with English. Those kids are alright and I'm not that close to them because they only come so often. Mostly, I just feel bad for them because they go to school from 8am to 8pm, or even later sometimes. They get bussed around from one school to another to get extra help with English, science, math, music, etc. They're always so tired and sad. They spend so much time in the classroom that they are incredibly socially stunted. Right now, my goal is to teach them social skills.

 

The Cynical Times (sounds like a newspaper that Matt Aliabadi would write for) - I'm pretty disappointed with the shittyness of the Korean teachers' English skills. I think if there's one thing necessary to teach English, it is to be able to speak and understand English. That's pretty bare minimum - but the people we work with just can't hang. The language barrier makes for some frustrating times. I'm also pissed about the focus of these hogwans. The truth is that the parents pay a shit ton of money to send their kids to these schools and so they have a lot of control over the way the school runs. The owners are the bitches of the parents and it's less about doing what's best for the child. 

After school activities - Jay and I try to recuperate from the long working hours during the weekend and every now and then, we get our fun in. We've made some interesting friends from Canada, England, and mostly South Africa. There are a couple really cool, interesting, smart people and the others...well, they would be completely lost during a GBN session. It's in the company of the latter that I find myself appreciating and missing the shit out of you guys. We brought Settlers of Catan to Korea and have gotten some people pretty into it. We've gone to clubs a few times, but found that it's not really our scene. I miss dance parties, Rathwell. 

The bars are pretty cheap...oh and the BEER!! The beer is...drumroll...SHIT! Yay! There's HITE and CASS, both brewed with coughed up hairballs of the ugliest, oldest cats found in Korea. Really, it says so on the label (but that's my Korean translation of it)! There is something called SOJU, which is similar to monarch vodka, but cheaper and more lethal. It gets you fucked right quick, but the next day, you get the feeling of being the oldest motherfucker who's been living with liver and throat caner for an eternity. The aftertaste of moth balls and toxic waste lasts for at least 24 hours. Refreshing! So with my limited beer life, I don't know how much I'll be able to contribute to the blog on that topic, maybe I'll continue to update on the hilarious bad English t-shirts instead. 

We've gone hiking and backpacking a few times since being here.  We went on a 3 day backpacking adventure, during which we climbed the highest mountain on mainland Korea. It isn't that tall, but it was insanely difficult because Korean hiking consists of going straight up and then straight down. At the top of the mountain, we were greeted with about 50 other people - it's hard to get away from the masses, even in the wilderness. 

For Christmas break, we're going to Thailand. Have you seen the movie The Island? Well, we're going there. It looks like one of those posters with the white sand beaches and palm trees. It'll be a well-deserved break. Plus, I am really excited about the food, since I've had a hard time with the vegetarianism here.

I'm learning Korean. Slowly, but still. I know a lot of greetings and I can say stupid shit like, "I have an apple. Do you have an apple? You are my friend. You are very cute. Do you have an eraser?" etc. I know all the phonetics of the vowels and consonants, so I can walk down the street and read everything but not know what it means. It's pretty surreal. But sometimes things are phonetically translated from English and I can figure it out. Like, a sign will say "Sa Ooo Nah" in Korean and I can smooth it out to understand, "Sauna."

I've taken up drawing as a hobby and have been using Jay as my model/muse. There are some pretty terrible sketches of him all over the apartment - his nose is impossible! As far as living with a boy goes, I'm learning to watch more Schwartznegger films with an open mind. But seriously, we're learning a lot from each other about the opposite sex; mostly about feelings and how we rationalize shit in different ways. I find myself having to explain the most obvious emotions and ways of conduct! And he's coping with non-TKEhood.

I think I've written more than enough for now. Sorry if there are unnecessarily verbose details that you don't give a shit about. As Marnie knows, this is very characteristic of me. I hope everyone is doing well and I look forward to reading more from you guys.

Love, Margi 

What "Good Beer Night" Means in Texas:

I think I'd place Lone Star Beer somewhere between PBR and Miller High Life on the "Quality of Beer" scale. But what it lacks in tastiness, it makes up for in absurd ad-campaign slogans.

Like High Life, Lone Star attempts to connect with the common-man in its advertising. Unlike High Life, Lone Star attempts to connect with the Texan common-man. It also assumes that the Texan common-man is a fucking dunce. (Judgment on whether this is true or not will be withheld from this review.)

LS prides itself on appealing to the sense of Texas nationalism, which, I have to say, it quite strong in these here parts. Basically the premise behind the current LS ad campaign is: "Only true Texans drink Lone Star beer."

This leads to little quips such as "88% of Lone Star drinkers believe we need to protect our borders from the rest of the U.S." and "84% of Lone Star drinkers are wearing something with the word 'Texas' on it right now."

However, these simple statements that exude Texan patriotism start to run off the deep end when they reach the next level of stubborn redneck pride-of-my-own-ignorance: "90% of Lone Star drinkers believe Oklahoma is a small town in Northern Texas" and "82% of Lone Star drinkers think Austin is the Capital of the United States" comes quickly to mind.

I'm sure that when this savvy group of advertisers saw the Taco Bell ad campaign, they thought: "Wow, this is great stuff! But it's a little too high-brow for our demographic... let's just take the same internal logic and dumb it down a little. There. Solid gold!"

---

Suffice it to say Texas is not a land that is super conducive to micro-brews. You've already heard from Indy what a failure Zeigen Bock is... the only other one they make down here is Shiner. I'd rank that one as only a little worse than Henry Weinheart's. I think it has to do with the consistently hot weather--since tastier beers tend to have more weight to them, they aren't as conducive to the climate. (Would any of you want to drink Snow Plow on a 80 degree day? I mean, maybe. It is delicious... but it's a lot better when your sitting next to a fire after a long day out in the cold. "Cold" here means: dipping below 55 degrees.)

So if ever a GBN is held down here that involves more than just Indy and me, you can be sure that we will partake in this inoffensive, watery, ignoramus-friendly brew. And I'm sure we'll buy some out-of-state beer with flavor, too.

Part 2 of a 12 Part Series, "The Couch"

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Part 1 of a 12 Part Series, "The Couch"

An Emotionally Distant Couple Watches Shakespeare in Love

TED, a claims adjuster and bicycle enthusiast, walks into his living room carrying a bowl of popcorn. He makes brief, neutral eye contact with his wife of twelve years, SUSAN.

Ted: I got the popcorn, honey.

Susan: Oh, I'd better get some paper towels.

(She does. Ted pops in the movie)


(Ted and Susan settle in on opposite ends of the couch. The movie begins)

PHILIP HENSLOWE: I can pay you! Two weeks, three at the most!

Ted: Oh look, honey, it's Captain Barbossa.

Susan: Yeah, it is...

(Silence. The movie continues)

WILL SHAKESPEARE: Henslowe, you have no soul, so how could you understand the emptiness that seeks a soul mate?

Ted: (involuntary shudder)

(The movie continues; Ted and Susan stare directly at the screen)

LADY VIOLA: No...not the artful postures of love, but love that overthrows life. Unbiddable, ungovernable, like a riot in the heart, and nothing to be done, come ruin or rapture. Love like there has never been in a play.

(Ted and Susan squirm in their seats uncomfortably. Ted feels the need to say something)

Ted: (reaching across the couch to punch Susan playfully in the arm) How come you never talk like that, babe?

(Susan smiles fractionally and then turns back to the screen, which she stares at desperately. The movie continues in silence. We reach the scene crosscut between the rehearsal and Viola's bedroom)

WILL SHAKESPEARE: My bounty is as boundless as the sea, my love is deep...

LADY VIOLA: (speaking with him) ...the more I give to thee, the more I have, for both are infinite...

(Ted and Susan watch the passionate love scene with obvious discomfort. Ted looks down and fiddles with his watch. Susan suddenly turns to Ted, angrily punching him in the arm)

Susan: Why don't YOU ever fuck me like that, Ted?

Ted: (stares at Susan, mouth gaping and eyes bulging)

Susan: WELL?

Ted: .....

Susan: (slowly, meticulously turns back to the screen, grimly settling herself into the couch)

Ted: .....

(the rest of the movie passes in silence)

First Annual GBN Convention: A Proposal

Alas, the days when we were all living in one happy commune are utterly spent. As such, Good Beer Nights as they were once known will never be the same. The purity and innocence of these original GBNs will live on in old photographs snapped by Burgoyne, in our hearts, and in the smiles that inevitably materialize on our faces during those occasions when we pop the tops off of tasty brews on Tuesday nights.

But while GBN can never again be what it was, we must never lose the spirit that founded it. Lo! Every end is a beginning; there is always another dawn risen on mid-noon, and under every deep a lower deep opens.

Good Beer Night will reborn! Surpassing what it once was, it presents us with an unprecedented opportunity. Rather than serving to gather us from the corners of Whitman College, GBN can now achieve a feat far greater: to reunite the faithful after we have been scattered across the country and the world.

And so, I propose the First Annual GBN Convention. We will gather in a place where one (or more) of us reside on dates to be determined (but, naturally, including a Tuesday). We will commune with one another as the brothers and sisters we are, while imbibing whatever good brew has been recently released by Brothers Rathwell and Knappe, Brothers Widmer and Deschutes, and any others among us that care to brew and share. Eulogies for those who are no longer with us will be spoken: naturally, Snow Plow, our Brother, Captain and King will be among the first.

I would envision this First Annual Convention taking place in May or June of 2009--leaving us with plenty of time to secure reasonable travel accommodations. And, pending Indy Z's approval, I offer our humble abode as the first gathering place.

Let the discussion regarding feasibility and timing begin--Cheers! Prost! Salud! Kampai! Saúde! and Chukbae! to you all.

UPDATE:

The Dead Collector: Bring out yer dead. 

[a man puts a body on the cart] 
Large Man with Dead Body: Here's one. 
The Dead Collector: That'll be ninepence.

SNOW PLOW: I'm not dead. 
The Dead Collector: What? 
Large Man with Dead Body: Nothing. There's your ninepence.

SNOW PLOW: I'm not dead. 
The Dead Collector: 'Ere, he says he's not dead. 
Large Man with Dead Body: Yes he is.

SNOW PLOW: I'm not. 
The Dead Collector: He isn't. 
Large Man with Dead Body: Well, he will be soon, he's very ill.

SNOW PLOW: I'm getting better. 
Large Man with Dead Body: No you're not, you'll be stone dead in a moment. 
The Dead Collector: Well, I can't take him like that. It's against regulations.

SNOW PLOW: I don't want to go on the cart. 
Large Man with Dead Body: Oh, don't be such a baby. 
The Dead Collector: I can't take him.

SNOW PLOW: I feel fine. 
Large Man with Dead Body: Oh, do me a favor. 
The Dead Collector: I can't. 
Large Man with Dead Body: Well, can you hang around for a couple of minutes? He won't be long. 
The Dead Collector: I promised I'd be at the Robinsons'. They've lost nine today. 
Large Man with Dead Body: Well, when's your next round? 
The Dead Collector: Thursday.

SNOW PLOW: I think I'll go for a walk. 
Large Man with Dead Body: You're not fooling anyone, you know. Isn't there anything you could do?

SNOW PLOW: I feel happy. I feel happy. 
[the Dead Collector glances up and down the street furtively, then silences SNOW PLOW with his a whack of his club] 
Large Man with Dead Body: Ah, thank you very much. 
The Dead Collector: Not at all. See you on Thursday. 
Large Man with Dead Body: Right.

So, yeah... apparently Snow Plow is still alive... just only in twenty-two ounce bottles.

To Brewers

I should extend a congratulations to those who have taken brewing into their owns hands. After watching Old Man Schmidt cook up a tasty English Ale I have come to understand what an art brewing can be. Sure, you can throw some barely and yeast in a ziploc and hide it from you RA in your closet for a couple of weeks and see if the first person to try it paralyzes themselves with botchulism. For those of you who have taken this amateur approach: Kudos for courage!
But when you see a master brewer at his trade it's like watching a mad scientist cooking up a new cure-all. There are pots of bubbling liquids and various vials of undisclosed powders; copper coils and bunson burners; and a mess of plastic tubing that resembles an Escher painting. This scene, oddly enough, is eerily similar to ones that take place in trailer homes shortly before they explode in a barrage of empty little foil sudafed packets.
With the equipment being nearly the same, most of the unemployed, underpaid, and underloved would choose to brew meth over beer. So again, Kudos to those who chose a less lucrative, albeit safer, project.
Brewing also requires an enormous amount of patience. Like the kind of patience you need to sit through four seasons Lost only to realize you're being strung along by advertisers with no end in sight. Fortunately, brewing supplies a much more satisfying reward. Well, at least that's the idea. I for one, don't have the patience to wait for alcohol to appear in the bottles hidden in my magical closet. For I know that alcohol never fails to appear in the bottles at my local liqour store. Being no gambler, I like to bet on a sure thing.

So here's a prost to those who have more courage, patience, and free time than I. Hopefully I'll get the chance to indulge in the fruits of your labor.

Keep brewing and more importantly, keep drinking.

~T-VO

...why? That reads like it's boasting, but trust me, it's not. It's like "A Terrifying New STD: Only TEXANS get it! Do NOT move here!"

So. Ziegen Bock. What it has going for it is it's not the worst beer ever. It's not blatantly offensive like Skullsplitter. It's a bock, which is a type of beer, and I'm totally comfortable not knowing that until now. Seeing as this beer was as shitty as it was, honestly maybe I never needed to know that in the first place. Anyway, bocks are supposed to be dark and German. This beer certainly appeared dark, but the taste was watery as hell. And it had a REALLY unpleasant aftertaste. It was like drinking a glass of Keystone Light mixed with maybe an ounce of Black Butte, and then right as you swallow it, you ask yourself, "did someone stir this glass with a lit cigarette?"

I bought a sixer of this stuff the first week Luke and I were in Austin, and drank them with dinner. They were so unpleasant that I only drank a few sips with dinner, just to wet the old mouth, and then when I was finished I'd slam the remaining 90%. It was just inoffensive enough to not throw out. And I didn't throw them out, I drank all six, but damn did those bottles live in our fridge for a while. If the liquid in those bottles could have been used for anything else besides drinking - fuel, laundry detergent, dish soap, car wax, lubricant - I would have done that.

In conclusion, I know we're mostly going to be talking about good beer, but in actuality I think a negative review is more useful. If you see a beer that someone told you is good, you might get it, but if you see a beer that someone told you is horse piss, you almost definitely won't. So, you're welcome, I just saved you from ever drinking this cigarette water.

I've finally figured out why we all went to a college which makes/d us write such a lot on any number of complex (or no-so-complex) prompts. I'm glad to know there was purpose in these exercises. Thanks to Whitman College, we will now all be able to successfully address the entirety of what Eli has set out as our blogging task. Given our years of experience, we are now all prepared to not only to illuminate the complexities of the good beers which we find in our lives, but our maybe-not-as-interesting-as-promised lives afterwards. For those of you who became particularly adept during your Whitman careers, perhaps you will even be able to draw connections between the two or integrate them together to compose a cohesive piece. It all makes sense now and makes what I do have so much more meaning. I'm truly sorry the rest of you were not privy to this insight before leaving the hallowed halls of Whitman College.
I finally understand.