I see you.

I see you all the time.

I see all the things you do.

I see you taking a watery shit between two dumpster, all the while grinning like a happy dog.

I see you shuffling about and talking to yourself; sitting around talking toĀ  yourself; pushing carts and dragging bags and talking to yourself. I see you talking to yourself while you read a book you’ve found called “Payback is a Mutha” by someone called Wahida Clark.

I can still see you dead under a viaduct, surrounded by red and blue lights. I can never forget seeing you masturbating next to the river, lazily abusing yourself like you’re having a picnic. Sometimes I smell you before I see you.Ā 

You’re talking to me while I’m trying to read, and so I can’t help but see you, to actually stare at you while you tell me about the album you’re writing. To stare at your mouth while you tell me about the song you’ve written called “You’re a Sweet Taste of Candy in My Heart.” To stare fixedly and sick at the one tooth still left clinging to your gums, looking like a piece of rotted corn, wet and black, while you sing to me in a weird castrato voice.

Through the window of a passing bus, I see you standing by the side of the road eating an entire roasted chicken. You’re throwing the bones under passing cars, and I see you wiping the grease off your hands on a bunch of pansies and marigolds in a stone planter on the sidewalk. I see you wiping your hands on flowers.

I see you looking at me with need, hunger, anger, weariness, suspicion, terror. I see you looking at me with dead eyes. With black eyes. With one eye, or none. Always, with asking eyes. I see you looking back at me, and looking away. And I never look away: Because I see you, but I don’t care.

And later, when I’m home (and because I have one) I think about you, and the things I’ve seen you do, and I laugh. And then I pull the shades down tight, and do the secret, nameless, shameful things I do when I’m alone, and nobody can see me, ever.

According to some vague notion I had and then confirmed by Wikipedia, beer is the oldest alcoholic drink in human history, dating back to 9500 BC.Ā  Wikipedia then told me that according to archaeologists, beer was instrumental in creating civilizations (another vague notion I have is that beer is now instrumental in destroying civilization.Ā  “Thank you beer can for your cold activation scale!Ā  Now I know when you’re cold or super cold! (Actually, that is kind of cool (PEMDAS)))!

This is kind of an intriguing point though.

Beer.Ā  The drink of civilizations.

“Beer!Ā  The Drink of Civilizations!” Ā pitches the ad man in a well-tailored Tom Ford suit (yeah, I know who he is) to a fat, fifty something, southern CEO in a white Mark Twain suit and a cowboy hat.

“I just don’t get it,” he replies.Ā  “We’ve found that most of our clients like titties.Ā  You got something with titties, son?”

The ad man thinks quickly.Ā  “Um, how about…”Beer!Ā  You’ll get titties in your face!”

“You’ve done it again, Stan!”

“Great,” replies the ad man as his soul flies out the window.

Cut back to Wikipedia, laying more knowledge eggs in my brain nest;Ā  ā€œSome of the earliest Sumerian writings found in the region contain references to a type of beer; one such example, a prayer to the goddess Ninkasi [the Mesopotamian goddess of beer], known as ā€˜The Hymn to Ninkasiā€™, served as both a prayer as well as a method of remembering the recipe for beer.ā€

A goddess for beer? A prayer for beer?Ā  Are we talking about the same stuff that is sucked through straws connected to two cans mounted on a guyā€™s helmet as he watches cars go around in circles?

Itā€™s too long to paste in this blog post, but if you have some time, walk down history lane and read ā€œThe Hymn of Ninkasi.ā€ Hereā€™s a selection:

When you pour out the filtered beer
of the collector vat,
It is [like] the onrush of
Tigris and Euphrates.
Ninkasi, you are the one who pours out the
filtered beer of the collector vat,
It is [like] the onrush of
Tigris and Euphrates.

Now for a real study, read the hymn again, but this time, while youā€™re reading, have this playing:

Miller Lite Cat Fight

Admittedly, reading through that selected verse, I was reminded of Coorsā€™ slogan ā€œBrewed with Rocky Mountain waters.ā€Ā  However, this hymn doesnā€™t have half naked girls and crazy beach parties manipulating my base desires (and believe me my desires are pretty base).Ā  What it does have is respect and gratefulness for the brewing process and for this nurturing drink.Ā  Itā€™s sacred.Ā  Itā€™s a mystery.Ā  This awesome stuff is from the heavens.Ā  Not only was Ninkasi kind enough to give us this great beverage, but she continues to guide us through the process.Ā  And, geez, this stuff has to be good; itā€™s made by a fucking goddess. So although, this hymn doesnā€™t give me a penis boner, what it does give me is a heart and brain boner (I think I just negated my point by my diction choice (Hey guys, did you hear that? Dick-tion (PEMDAS))).

I should qualify something though, I donā€™t think beer is instrumental in the destruction of our civilization.Ā  For the longest time, all my palate was allowed to taste was Natty Light (Natural Light, which is a pretty powerful descriptor for something so shitty) as I chugged it through a beer bong.Ā  Now that Iā€™ve grown a little older and slightly wiser, Iā€™ve discovered that beer is awesome and I am pleasantly surprised by its complexity and goodness every time I try a new artfully made beer.Ā  There are plenty of awesome breweries out there being guided by Ninkasi.

No, my gripe takes us back to that conference room with the Tom Ford-wearing ad man and the money-hungry CEO.Ā  Of course thatā€™s an over-generalized scenario littered with stereotypes, but suffice it to say, thatā€™s where civilization is being ruined.Ā  And I know this is a well-worn argument; the hippy argument that ad execs are soulless minions of the corporate empire, serving the one true god, Money.Ā  Yeah, I wonā€™t deny it.Ā  Thatā€™s exactly what Iā€™m griping about.Ā  Iā€™m not saying anything new.

However, when researching for this blog and coming upon ā€œThe Hymn of Ninkasi,ā€ itā€™s right there in your face; we could be better.Ā  Yes, maybe beer helped start civilization, but what kind of a civilization are we running here?Ā  Iā€™m not saying that advertising should be done away with; Iā€™m asking canā€™t we hold ourselves to a higher standard?Ā  Sure itā€™s easy to sell a product with cleavage surrounding it, but what does that do to a guy?Ā  Heā€™s then operating on a superficial level.Ā  Heā€™s operating on instinct.Ā  Heā€™s operating on something he canā€™t control and thatā€™s right where the ad guys want him.

Letā€™s be better than that.Ā  There are plenty of places to get what the body wants without having to see it in an ad.Ā  Advertisers are the movers and the shakers. Ā They influence behavior.Ā  They have some power here.Ā  What if they used it for good.Ā  What if advertisers wrote a hymn for modern day?Ā  Of course hindsight is 20/20 and we know Ninkasi isnā€™t real, but that doesnā€™t mean we canā€™t respect and be awed by the miracle of beer:

When you pour out the filtered beer
of the collector vat,
It is [like] the onrush of
The Rocky Mountain waters
Humankind, you are the one who pours out the
filtered beer of the collector vat,
It is [like] the onrush of
The Rocky Mountain waters

ā€œCollector vatā€ isnā€™t the most epic term, but overall thatā€™s pretty powerful stuff.Ā  Itā€™s like a mud wrestling pit in my soul. Ā But it’s that kind of language and respect for quality work that can raise the bar. Ā I think if we talk the talk, we can walk the walk.

But hell, sometimes you just wanna get drizzunk, son!Ā  Shotgun that shit, Ninkasi!

Hey Beer,
You might not remember this, but my uncle introduced us.
It was a steamy sticky heat and the smell of fresh cut grass surrounded us.
I was leaning on the hood of a dirty white car, had my first sip.
I spit and likened you to dishwater.
We parted ways that day and didnā€™t come across each other again for a long time.

In high school I slighted you for quicker, more flashy libations.

Ah, youth.

More concerned with the destination than the journey.
Like a friend of a friend, you and I would end up at a party together and be forced into a sort of sterile social interaction.
Oh, we would pretend.
For the first few years in College, we would both take advantage of each other.
Me, beguiled by you in your most base form.
You, reducing me to mine.
For the obscene amount of time we spent together, we scarcely saw one another.
Hiding in plain sight.
Until, and I will never know why, a paradigm shift.

I desired you.

It surprised me most of all.
That day. The heat. It would echo of our first encounter.
Only this time I would come to you.

As I developed, I would consume you mentally and find my respect for you.
I would get snobbish with you.
A pendulum of thought.

Living with you now, I see you as an expression of joy.
Sometimes imperfect but always triple hops brewed Miller Light,
With that great pilsner taste!

*This blog is brought to you by 2011 Miller Brewing Co,Milwaukee,WI

Irish Oatmeal Stout (adapted from beerrecipes.org)

Ingredients:

• 0.5 lb. Flaked Oats
• 0.5 lb. Special B
• 0.25 lb. Crystal Malt (1200)
• 0.25 lb. Chocolate Malt
• 6.6 lbs. Dark LME
• 4 fl. oz. Dry Flaked Oats
• 5 oz. Malto Dextrin
• 1 oz 5.5% AA Fuggle (Bittering)
• 1/2 tsp. Irish Moss
• .5 oz 4.5% AA Willamette (Aroma)
• Danstar Nottingham Ale Yeast
• 5 oz. Corn Sugar (Priming)

Ā 

Primary Ferment: 6 DaysĀ 

Secondary Ferment: 4 Days

This is a great stout, folks, for those of you who prefer a drier, Irish-style oatmeal stout. We’re going to start by adding the grains slowly and evenly, while we raise the heat to 150 degrees. Now, ideally this should take about an hour, but it’s hard to be patient, right? And, if your hands are shaking like mine were because you just quit smoking, it’s going to be difficult to control that pour. I suggest lighting up just one last cigarette to steady the old hands.

Now, after you let that simmer for about 20 minutes (or, as I like to call it “two scotches”) you’re going to remove and rinse the grains over the brew pot with a half gallon of hot water. The water should be about 170 to 180 degrees, but you’ll know it’s hot enough when you accidentally spill it on yourself and scald the shit out of your torso. Next time you’ll have another cigarette, and steady those hands up, now won’t you?

Go ahead and discard the grains, and add the malt extract, oats and malto dextrin. Bring this to a boil, and add the Bittering Hops. Let that boil for a while. At this point, you might want to take a nice cold bath to take care of those burns. Also, a cigarette and a scotch helps to take the edge off. By the time you’re done with that, you’ll probably be ready to add the Irish Moss and Aroma Hops, boil for twenty minutes, and add cold water.

You’ll want to let the wort cooled down to at least 70 degrees, so now is probably a good time to run out for a pack of cigarettes and a…let’s see…yeah, you’ll need another bottle of scotch. Probably the cheaper stuff this time, since you spent a lot of money on that Irish Moss, and that malto dextrin isn’t too cheap, either. Old Smuggler is a decent blended scotch, right? Anyway, you can get a lot of it, cheap. So get that. Get Old Smuggler.

When you get back, and the wort is sufficiently cooled, transfer it to your fermenter, and dry pitch the yeast. You’ll want your starting gravity to be about 1.05, or whatever. At this point, it’s always very difficult to time the primary and secondary fermentations, but you’ll know it’s done when you wake up in a handicapped stall Koala Kare changing station, in the women’s restroom of a local public pool. About twelve days or so, judging by the number of cigarette cartons around you.

Now, recipes vary on this next step, but my personal advice is to not try to figure out the horrible things you’ve done over the last fortnight, and just go ahead and add the priming sugar and five ounces of corn sugar to the ferment. For a smooth, even finish, you should bottle condition the stout for about two weeks, but I’m willing to bet you won’t be able to resist drinking it straight from your five-gallon fermenter with a turkey baster, and weeping into the living room rug. A great all-seasons stout!