Brew Company Update

I spent about fifty hours pro bono making beer labels for Ray to look at. I expensed a bunch of those $3-$9 boutique beers, some domestics like Bud and Coors, and a few antique labels off eBay. I like to do a bit of research, let the ideas settle into my subconscious, and then stay up all night a few times when it's silent in the house, just letting the mouse go wherever it wants. I had some really nice vintage woodcut techniques going on, and even created a new typeface that evokes Copperplate but isn't obviously based on it. You could have seen any of my comps on any shelf in any liquor store.

I dropped them off in Ray's mail slot, since he wasn't around, and figured I'd hear from him later that night or, at the latest, the next day. I even skipped a few trips down to The Smoke with Beef (The Tenmen were the house band for a week) just because I figured he'd call and want me to come over so he could talk about getting the artwork into production. A week passed, no dice. I didn't contact him because I don't like to force people to say things about the work if they're still thinking about it. The ball was in his court.

After another week I started to worry that he hadn't gotten the package of comps, so I stopped by and knocked on his door. It swung open, so I wandered in. I heard him talking with Petey in the kitchen, so I headed that way, but then something in the living room caught my eye: huge stacks of cases of beer. Excited that he might have used my labels and just forgotten to tell me, or wanted to surprise me, I went and popped one of the boxes open.

I couldn't have been more shocked if I'd found my own disembodied head staring back at me. There they were, twenty-four gleaming brown bottles of beer, with...with the ugliest, most amateurish labels imaginable. The thing was, he and Petey had spared no expense: there was intricate die-cutting, foil embossing, even a hologram. I'll try to describe it.

In the center was a 3D hologram of a log cabin, about the size of an egg, and when you turned the bottle a little Abraham Lincoln came out and waved. On either side of the hologram were these low-res GIFs of eagles and barley that Ray had obviously gotten off the Internet and enlarged, and around these were gratuitous gold foil circles. There were typos in the copy about "authentic micro-brewwed flavor" and "rich, sophisitcated aromas." The thing that really killed me, though, was the typography of the title. Or rather, the lack of it. You know how sometimes a computer will replace a missing font with a version of Courier? That had happened to them here, so instead of whatever it was supposed to say, the text had overflowed the printable area and just said "HONEST AB."

I was so pissed off that I walked into the kitchen and glared at Ray. He acted like nothing was up and went, "Hey, Téodor! Long time no see! How you like our new bottles?"

I bit my lip, took the high road, and asked him if he'd gotten my label samples. He looked at me quizzically for a second and then said "Oh! Those other beer labels you scanned for me? Thanks, yeah! They gave us all kinds of ideas! How you like our new bottles?"

I didn't know whether to be flattered or to hit him on the head with a pan. Apparently my labels were so authentic looking that he'd assumed I had just given them to him for reference. I eyed a hefty skillet that was hanging from the ceiling rack, but felt the temper ebb. After a bit of explanation, he realized that they had all been for him, and he laughed and slapped his forehead while cutting me a check for two grand. I figure my stuff will get used after they sell out of this first batch, but the way things go with Ray, he'll probably win some sort of conceptual design award with those horrendous hackjobs and keep them in production.

Brew Company

Just got back from Ray's. He's really got something on his hands with these incredible new concept beers he and that Oregon Petey guy have been brewing. That Belgian fig/nutmeg lambic, Meyer lemon weissbier, crisp fennel/mint ale, roasted plum/brown sugar stout, chokecherry caramel barleymead, even this incredibly subtle toasted sesame single-wort that goes amazingly well with sushi....

He showed me this horrible logo he and Petey had sketched up. First off, the name they chose for their brewery is awful: "Rayle." Like "Ray" and "Ale." That was misstep number one. Secondly, it's set in the Copperplate font. Weinhard's wore that one out about fifty World's Fairs ago. Thirdly, well...who cares. It has no legs and it's not gonna fly. I'm going to set up some billables and creatively consult for them until they have a first-class ticket to slap on their packaging. This is good stuff and it shouldn't look like first-generation hackery. Given their druthers, these guys'd probably suggest a tie-dyed label concept and approve some second cousin's shaky line drawings of a jester riding a penny-farthing.

Jesus Philippe

Philippe managed to brush his teeth with someone's tube of K+Y jelly and needed me to get a new one before they found out. The other day he was about to wipe a rubber all over his sandwich. I need to find out where he's getting this stuff before he shows up with his head stuck in a Christy Canyon Vibrating Life Size Butt.

Clams

Last night Chris was making a homemade pizza with chopped clams and tons of garlic. When canned, chopped clams are cooked, they have a nice mild flavor that mixes well with a lot of things. I'm surprised we don't see things like clam salad sandwiches (like tuna salad) or clam rolls (a la lobster rolls) etc. I guess it's because so many people have horrible seafood experiences when they're kids, they get turned off to most forms of seafood for life. It's kind of a shame that we feed kids fish sticks and rancid cafeteria salmon when they're young and forming their first impressions of the stuff. I didn't like seafood until I was an adult and I could drop a few extra dollars at a nice restaurant that actually had fresh fish and knew how to cook it.

For dinner tonight I think I'm going to make a clam hash, with steamed new potatoes, scallions, garlic, chopped clams, fontina, and parsley. That'll be good with buttered toast and a poached egg.

Thanks for the warning

It was maybe five AM last Friday and I saw Chris madly packing his bags. "Going on vacation," he yelled, running all around the house for camera batteries and suntan lotion. "You're off for a week."

It would have been nice to know this ahead of time. You'd think he could tell us this stuff, since presumably he hadn't just discovered at five AM that he was about to hop on a plane to Hawaii. I could have taken some of my golf winnings and gone to Manhattan. I could have gone to see a GBV show in whatever cloakroom they got booked in Des Moines this week. As it was, I just dorked around with my music equipment and did some cooking.

Oh, I did spend an afternoon record shopping over in the Berkeley underground. I picked up some old 45s that are probably one of a kind by this point: Rubber Rodeo, Miracle Legion, Wire's "Outdoor Miner," Multicoloured Shades, that old Ministry "Every Day is Halloween" single, even a Lime Spiders EP. I like that about Berkeley: you can find virtually any album that ever existed in the musty, creaky aisles of Amoeba, Rasputin's, etc.

What I don't like about Berkeley:

1. People who have made the decision to get tattoos on their faces

2. People who have had body art practitioners put small beads in a row under the skin of their forehead

3. People who have had their teeth sharpened to look like vampire teeth

4. People who ask you for spare change and say "fuck you, yuppie scum!" when you don't have any

5. Like San Francisco and Santa Cruz, it is OK to poop anywhere you want. I saw one guy pooping through the bench grates at the bus stop. He had really crazy eyes and a red corduroy sport coat. I didn't complain for fear of public censure by hairy-pitted vegan midwives interrupted from doing amniotic shooters and placenta poppers in People's Park.

Okay, so: no thanks to Chris, screw "liberal" communities, and I am going to listen to some old albums in my room. I'll probably walk down to Jack in the Box later.

Back on the links, finally.

I finally lured Ray away from his new brewery obsession for a couple hours, on the condition that we bring all his new beers and talk about them while we golfed. I have to admit, he's managed to come up with some really quality brews. Not just simple ales, but a full range of ports and lambics and pilsners. He's got this Belgian fig lambic with nutmeg that absolutely drives me crazy it's so well balanced. You see the Raspberry and Strawberry ale now and then, but fig and nutmeg? It reminds me of that Pete's Wicked Christmas ale, but it's got about ten floors more depth of character. I think it's mostly this brewmaster Petey he flew down from Oregon, but Ray probably had a hand somewhere in the brainstorming process. I could see this new line of gourmet beers getting really popular, like how food faddists are all hopped up on infused oils and other exotic permutations of the basics.

I won $2700 in nine holes (he was anxious to get back to his worts and yeasts). It wasn't too much fun since his mind wasn't really on the game and he kicked about half his putts in, but I guess $2700 is $2700.

Peanut Sauce

We had these frozen Trader Joe's potstickers in the fridge, so I got those going at lunchtime today. While they were frying I thought "what the hell" and made a peanut sauce. The first one I made was way too salty, but in the second one I balanced the soy sauce with more honey. Here's what I used:

(all measurements are really loose)

1 tbsp peanut butter
1 tbsp honey
1/2 tsp sriracha hot chili sauce
1 tbsp soy sauce
1/2 tsp sesame oil

I microwaved that for a few seconds to get the honey and peanut butter soft, then mixed it all together. It makes a tasty, thick little sauce. Maybe this weekend I'll explore some Asian cooking, pick up some ginger and shrimp and herbs and stuff. I'm going to see if Ming Tsai has a website.

No word on Ray's new brewery yet. This means one of two things: either he forgot about it, or he's about to unveil a state-of-the-art two-story glass-walled brewing facility where his tennis court used to be.

Mr. Beer

So my dad popped into the picture again, this time sending me a plastic beer-making kit called Mr. Beer. No card or anything, as usual, just his return address on the packing list. Looks like he's living in Omaha now. Anyhow, I read the instructions and set the thing up and made some beer. You make ale when you're a beginner, nothing too complicated. It was alright, but it tasted kind of like the plastic tub it fermented in. Maybe I should have washed it first.

Naturally Ray took one look at the kit and decided that we needed to open a full-scale microbrewery. I am 100% certain that he will want to use Copperplate Gothic for our logo. He's over at his place right now "drawing up plans," by which I mean trying to draw eagles holding hops and barley in their claws. At any rate, it will result in more beer around the place, which is generally a good thing. Maybe we'll make some money.

Oh great

Last time I blogged I bragged about how stoned I was and how much I enjoyed eating food. Fantastic. I'm not going to delete that post, I'm going to leave it there to serve as a simmering and stinging reminder not to do it again.

Let's see...have I done anything redeeming since then...I left the front lawn sprinklers on for five hours and about fifty thousand frogs showed up. It's been a good week so far, yeah. The best I have to say for myself is that I didn't shoot any families.

oh damn so good

Alright I take back everything I ever said about Chris being a mild- to bad jerk. He just made us the fattest late night snack. Hash browns, sausages, beans, eggs, toast, it was fucking gluttony. Awesome. It completely helped that me and Beef got ripped in my room earlier. I ended up calling Beef's passed-out ass on my cell phone from the dinner table (he was laying in the middle of my carpet). He stumbled in and just put his face in the feeding pail. I don't even think he opened his eyes, he just sucked his way around the plate and took in sausages and beans and all the rest.

WHOOOOOOOOOO so good

Email downer

You ever have one of those mornings where you wake up, find twenty emails in your inbox, and then one by one you start deleting the spams, and when you're done deleting the spams you realize that no one wrote to you? By the time I had deleted the last spam this morning, I was sort of depressed, so I went on eBay and bought a Titleist visor. I think I need to get out more, I can't wait for the Olympics to be over so that Ray will hit the links again. Bitch and moan, bitch and moan...at least it's Friday and I can go for drinks and dancing at Ray's. I wonder what theme he'll have cooked up this time. Earlier in the week he wanted to do this Donald Trump theme, which I guess meant that he would fly away in a helicopter while the party went bankrupt, but hopefully he'll have changed his mind.

Quiet

Things are kind of quiet during the Olympics. Everybody just holes up at Ray's and watches the simulcasts. Lunch each day is determined by who took the most memorable gold the night before, so today it was Greek food in honor of Greek sprinter Fani Halkia, who took gold in the Women's 400m hurdles. When Paul Hamm won the gold in the gymnastics all-around, he ordered a big baked ham with Paul's face carved into the side of it like Mt. Rushmore. It looked like a horrible burn victim, so I went home and had a bowl of chili. Who did he hire to do that? He has the strangest resources.

Paul the club "Pro"

Ray isn't playing any golf while the Olympics are on, so I've been hitting the course by myself. Particularly the practice trap, since as I said I'm bad out of sand. This should give me a leg up on Ray since he has like this secret sand wedge designed by the government to use against golfing terrorists or something. That course pro he's always talking about came by and made a little assessment of my form—boy, what a schmuck. It's like he's so used to giving pointless lessons to rich people who aren't listening that he just mumbles things about "opening your stance" and "right elbow like a perfect L" and all that other golf magazine crap. After a few more lame pointers he could see that I knew his trick and offered me a smoke. We shot the breeze for a bit, he handed me some pro shop gear coupon and left. He called me Ted. That always annoys me.

Am I Blind?

How do I not see these things?

I met Shannon at Grass last night, that new nightclub with the sod floor and eleven-dollar drinks. She looked good, and she already had a cocktail, so I got an Amstel from the bar and we sat in a quietish corner to talk. She's training for a marathon, she likes that convertible Jaguar, she's looking for a bigger place, she's not much for cooking, etc. She looked great, in some new jeans and a black turtleneck sweater with fresh running shoes. I had on a Livestrong jersey and olive cargo shorts with flipflops, playing it upscale casual. Not that it mattered. All she could talk about was her law career plans and different countries she had visited that I had not visited, like France.

About two and a half Amstels in (I remember looking at the meniscus on #3 and thinking HELP) a few of her friends showed up, probably on cue. It wasn't any of her friends from Ray's, it was a bunch of Jennifer Aniston clones and even a couple guys in blue work shirts and loosened ties. It slowly dawned on me that I had no business there, particularly when the guys shook my hand with those no-contact eyes that say "I already forgot you." I went to the can, drained my beer, tipped the attendant a buck, and ducked through a thick bar crowd on my way out. My last glance was of her completely immersed in her Banana Republic set, giggling and looking healthy.

I shuffled pretty despondently over to Ray's, pitying myself for being the object of a rich girl's slumming. I was pretty sour, so I just hung out in the kitchen and had some Cookie Crisp. Later I went into the living room and tried to read a coffee table book about limousines, but just got depressed and went home.

We're at base camp.

The call went well. Huge relief. I called around 8:13, and she picked up after just a couple rings but the music (My Bloody Valentine!) was really loud and she had to go shut it off before saying anything. That done, it went kind of like this:

TÉODOR: My Bloody Valentine!
SHANNON: Hello?
T: Hey, this is Téodor, from Ray's party?
S: Ray?
T: The flaming robot?
S: Oh! Téodor! Hi! I was just...how are you?
T: Good! I've been meaning to call you, but things have been—
S: Oh, I know. This week has been ridiculous.
T: I've got this client from hell right now—
S: I know. I'm prepping all these cases for—
T: Prepping cases?
S: Oh, sorry. Yeah, I'm at my uncle's law firm this summer.
T: Wow!
S: Yeah, I finish law school this year.
T: Wow! Where at?
S: Hunter. I—
T: What branch of law are you into?
S: Oh, you know, media law...film industry, music, that sort of stuff.
T: Nice. So, I—
S: Do you—do you want to meet for drinks on Friday? I've got a bachelorette party at 7, but maybe we could hook up at Grass at...hold on...6?
T: Sure! I'll...I'll see you there.
S: Great! Bye!
T: ...bye!
[she hangs up first]

So Grass is this trendy new nightclub in the Underground. They have an entirely new sod floor installed every night, and you sit on big picnic blankets in largeish groups. Good thing I skinned Ray this week, I read that the drinks are like eleven bucks each.

Sore and sunburned

Went for too long of a run this morning and I think I hurt my knee, but not bad enough to keep me from meeting Ray for lunch ("Burger Buddies" served in the original packaging, with shoestring curly fries, fried shrimp, and skirt steaks with mashed potatoes) and a round of golf. Due to the heat we got a cart today (I was already feeling heatstroke from earlier) ...I don't know if I could have lasted 18 in the full afternoon sun. I'm pretty woozy even now and have a wet bandana wrapped around my head.

What with the sore legs my downswing weight transfer was a little behind, and I was skulling it something awful, hitting the thinnest tee shots you ever saw. It didn't help that Ray had decided to play the entire round in traditional attire, including tasseled spikes, argyle knee socks, baggy knickers, sweater vest, and tam-o'-shanter. He was even calling his clubs his "mashies," "niblicks" and "spoons," sort of at random. He did at least manage to call his putter his "putting cleek," though, which was historically accurate for his getup. I guess he'd been trying to learn more of the history of the game as a way of lowering his score, which definitely doesn't work.

Ray insisted on driving the cart, which was fine with me, except that he kept dipping into this cooler full of icy Amstel Lights and by about the ninth hole he was pretty saucered. On the way between the 9th green and 10th tee the scorecard blew out of the cart and he said the second half of the round would just be "drinkin' golf." That was fine with me, as I was pretty parched and hadn't thought to bring any water. Plus, I was already up $580, not bad for a couple hours' work. He handed me a cracked Amstel and we clinked.

Alcohol definitely doesn't do anything for my swing. You'd think it would smooth things out but it just throws my timing off. It did wonders for Ray, though. By about the 12th hole he was swinging like Bobby Jones, and making some beautiful shots. That lasted for about one hole, at which point he started having to close one eye and stick his tongue out every time he tried to focus on the ball.

Then things got ugly. After the 13th tee there's a big downhill slope that leads into a lake, and at the top of it he looked at me and said, "Think I can jump this?" I said no, because there was no ramp, just a slope leading down into a lake.

"I think I can jump this!" he said, laughing.

Before I knew what was happening, he had floored it and we were shooting down the hill directly at the lake. There was no physical way for us to achieve loft and fly over it. We were going too fast to jump out, and pretty soon we were going too fast to turn or hit the brakes.

Needless to say, we did not manage to jump the lake. We slammed into the water and flew over the hood at about fifty miles an hour. While we were under I looked over at him—through the murky water he was looking at me with a big smile and yelling, "Let's look for some shrimps!"

After we pushed the cart out of the water and let it dry for a while, we got it started and I drove us back to the clubhouse. Next time we rent carts, I'm getting my own.

Now for something completely stupid.

Agh, I forgot about this "waiting" part, where you don't call for a while after you get her number even though that is what you want to do. Don't want to look like there's nothing in your life but her, now do you. You want to look like you already had plans to go inner-tubing Sunday, go visit a friend's movie set Sunday night, go hiking in the desert Mon/Tues...aw bullshit. I knew not to call her the day after but now it's Sunday and I'm just bumming around playing online poker and reading The Onion.

I guess it's not too much of an a-hole move to call her Tuesday evening. I think that's the logic. You want to call early enough in the week where she hasn't solidified her weekend plans, but not like 8am Monday morning, like you're standing in a glass tower with a headset mic, looking out over the Seattle skyline while putting her in your Palm. Tuesday at, say, 8pm. Okay, it's a date then! To make a contrived phone call.

What else...this morning Philippe had the hiccups so I made him a glass of sugar water, but that just made him a hyper hiccuper, so we practiced running around the yard while holding our breath (I find that can work, too). Three times while we did sprints across the lawn my shorts fell down. I'm not really a belt guy but I think it might be time. Maybe I've been eating too well lately...after winning all that money from Ray (with more on the way tomorrow) I started experimenting with all kinds of different meats. Squab, quail, Niman Ranch beef and pork, lobsters, whole baked fish, oysters, stone crab, even Kobe...yeah, looking over that grocery list I've been eating too well lately. Only, I don't feel like it. I'd better start running again, I don't want Shannon to see a big Newman coming at her next time we meet.

Wow

I don't know that tonight could have gone any better. I showed up at nine, an hour after Ray's thing officially "starts," and Shannon was already there, sitting with some of her friends over in the gazebo. I made like I hadn't seen her yet, and set myself talking with Beef and Molly over beers. A little while later she came walking by and I caught her eye and we started chatting. She said she was sorry she hadn't made it last week (out of town at her grandma's birthday) and I said she hadn't missed much. I didn't really have it in me to play the big smoother I was last week and she wouldn't have been into that anyway, it was too early.

We made nice chitchat for a while but then her friend's boyfriend broke up with her over her cell phone and she had to go console, but we promised we'd talk more in a little bit.

I chilled with Cornelius and shot some pool. He's a wizard, and I didn't stand half a chance against him, but it was fun to watch the ways he chose to win. Some games he'd play only double-bank shots, some games he'd use heavy English on every shot. He was pretty glum though and didn't seem to be having much fun.

Maybe an hour later the festivities were going full-on and Ray got up onto this little stage he had set up, with a huge Phil Collins poster behind it, like two stories tall. He had one of those headset mics and yelled, "and now then for the main attraction! Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome...Phil Collins!" Shannon and I found each other in the crowd and stood side by side. “Can’t Hurry Love” fired up on the PA.

Then he pulled a curtain aside and this terrifying creature stumbled out. It had a suit on, Elephant Man type head and hands, and it acted like it had just been maced. It was slapping its own face like crazy, and pretty soon it fell on its side and tried to tear its head off. Then it started smoking and shooting sparks and erupted into flames. First I shielded Shannon from the sparks, and when they subsided I ran up onto the stage, tore down the curtain, and rolled the creature in it until the flames died.

It turned out to be one of those Honda robots, thankfully, but the party kind of died down after that. As Shannon’s friends were loading up to go, she kissed me on the cheek and wrote her number on my hand. I’m flying pretty high right now, and not entirely sure what my follow-up act should be.

Here we go again...

Alright, I have no idea if Shannon's going to be there tonight. I hope so, maybe she'll have some excuse about how she didn't show up last...nah, I don't need an excuse. Guys who want excuses at this stage are way too wrapped up in their own heads. She'll be there, I'll be there, it'll be cool, it'll work out. What to wear...last week's outfit was pretty perfect but if I wear that again one of her moat-dwelling friends will probably point it out and laugh until cheese comes out of her nose. Think I'll go with this old Nixon-style golf shirt and white plaid pants with white patent loafers and a Hercules-band watch. Red Sox ballcap. Should I wear the Livestrong bracelet? Is that too trendy now? I can't tell. I shouldn't wear it. Yeah, I'll skip it. I should bring a knapsack with some conversation pieces in it...iPod, books, sketchpad...I'll put some of my rough demos on the iPod in case she wants to hear any of them. Okay, I'll hide a jimmy in the secret pocket...maybe two...some Altoids...I need to go do this, not type about it.

Round 2

Ray called me up around noon and said we had a tee time in an hour, and that I should come over for lunch first. Not wanting to miss another round at Seven Pines, I wrapped up some tablature I'd been writing down and hoofed it over there.

Waterbury had made broiled salmon with puréed peas, which normally I wouldn't be so hot about but the fish was incredibly fresh. Apparently Ray's doing a lot of research about salmon right now: he had all these maps pinned to the wall, with different e-mail printouts connected by yarn to the maps. He also had a bunch of ichthyology books he'd just gotten from Amazon sitting around. Anyhow, lunch was great and then we headed to the course. He even gave me a nice set of head covers for my woods, which matched my bag.

We started on the back nine this time, hole #10 being a crazy 4-par that dog legs around a lake. Ten bucks was the wager, since he was feeling bold after some lessons he'd taken. There was a stiff breeze going, so I hit a nice 1-iron under it, up to the lay-up area. Ray has low irons in his bag, but he didn't even look at them. He went right for that oversized driver of his, took his stomach-turning swing, and managed to loft the thing pretty high. The wind caught it and carried it right to the middle of the lake. He instinctively went into his pocket for a mulligan, but then remembered there was money on the table, so we heaved off.

He took relief where his ball went in, and slapped a gross fairway wood about ten feet from the green. My second shot landed in a pot bunker behind the green, and I’m bad out of sand, so it looked like he might actually take the ten.

He set up with his pitching wedge and went into his pre-shot wiggle/coma routine. Then, to my surprise, he pulled the club back in slow motion, taking a full backswing. He did the downswing in slow motion too, and chipped the ball about two feet. He even followed through in slow motion, including a slow-motion “aaaaawwww craaaaaap!” He repeated the routine until he was on the green. I don’t know what he thinks his instructor is telling him to do, but it can’t be that.

We’ll go over his putting at some future date, but suffice it to say he’s doing that thing now where he puts both index fingers down the shaft. Anyhow, I was three over for the round, owing to the harsh wind, and up $1190. Waterbury made us salmon pasties with chips for dinner, and we watched Braveheart. He started to watch it again, but I wanted to get back to my tablature.