The 2011 World Beer Festival

The Setup

Three years ago we decided to shoot our 'On The Street' show at the inaugural World Beer Festival in Columbia, SC. After all, what better venue could provide the comic relief that was the hallmark of that show, a question and answer format. We also decided (and we still question our good judgment on this one) to tape both the afternoon and the evening sessions – each lasting 4 hours.
While all this footage provided us with an interesting and funny show, we noticed that the attendees for the evening session were less the beer aficionados as their afternoon brethren, and more like the college-age frat boy beer lovers. This was brought home to me as I decided to volunteer for this year's festival.
At the volunteer meeting, held a few days prior to the event, it was brought up that the afternoon and evening sessions were as different as night and day, and our observation of the past audiences were spot on. It was with this knowledge that I walked into the Convention Center in Columbia on that cold, January morning.
My original plan was to be a captain of a group of volunteers, which would put me in charge of a row of booths, a support position at which I thought I might excel. Alas, all the captain positions were filled when I submitted the volunteer application, so I decided to leave my fate in the hands of the fine folks at the Columbia Opportunity Resource (COR) who were helping to provide volunteers for the event. When I stepped up to the table to get my assignment for the day I asked for anything in the VIP area. I thought that the area curtained off for the VIP attendees would be a quieter, more civil atmosphere for this young grandfather. Informed that all the VIP assignments had been handed out, I threw my fate to the wind and said to Kathryn (COR representative) “then just assign me anywhere”. Kathryn looked me up and down, scanned her assignment sheets and said “then I'm putting you in booth 143 as a pourer”. Assignment and T-shirt in hand, I made my way to the convention hall to find booth 143.
When I arrived at the booth, the first thing that I noticed was the sign which hung above the booth - “B. Necktar Meadery”.

I also saw below that a list of flavors – Orange blossom, Vanilla Cinnamon, Wildberry Pyment, Margarita-Style Melomel, Pineapple Coconut Melomel, Backwoods Cyser and Barrel Aged Dry Cyser. I was soon met at the booth by Ian, the young rep of the meadery.

We set up our booth by lining up bottles of the precious nectar along each side of the table, arranging the literature across the front and placing our large pan of ice at the back. We then hung the “B Nektar” t-shirts (yes, they also sold shirts) and women's tank tops across the back of the booth. Ian now gave me a brief history lesson on mead, his company's take on the product, and the wild success that this beverage is attaining in this new century.





What is Mead?

The wikipedia definition of mead follows:
Mead (pronounced /ˈmiːd/ meed) (also called honey wine) is an alcoholic beverage that is produced by fermenting a solution of honey and water. It may also be produced by fermenting a solution of water and honey with grain mash; the mash is strained off immediately after fermentation.
Depending on local traditions and specific recipes, it may be flavored with spices, fruit, or hops (which produce a bitter, beer-like flavor).
The alcoholic content of mead may range from about 8% ABV[4] to 18%. It may be still, carbonated, or sparkling, and it may be dry, semi-sweet or sweet.
Mead is known from many sources of ancient history throughout Europe, Africa, and Asia, although archaeological evidence of it is ambiguous. Its origins are lost in prehistory. "It can be regarded as the ancestor of all fermented drinks," Maguelonne Toussaint-Samat has observed, "antedating the cultivation of the soil."

Armed with this knowledge, and cases upon cases of corked bottles, we faced the morning crowd.
And so it begins.
The announcement of the opening of the doors was called out immediately after the ceremonial tapping of the keg, the official opening of the festival. It was only a couple of minutes later that we were swamped with people wanting to taste their 2 ounces of mead. Four lines soon formed and Ian and I were pouring and pouring and pouring into cup after cup after cup. After 3 hours of solid un-corking and pouring, we ran out of the morning session's allotment. The obvious disappointment of the remainder of the tasters was evident as we were chided for not bringing enough to satisfy all the attendees. Truth is-most of the tasters were rounding to the back of the line for another sip of a different variety. Some were even bold enough to hold up the line while they tried all the flavors.
The reviews were outstanding. A friend of mine dropped by for a sip and reported to me that the mead booth was the hit of the session. Our lines were longer and steadier than any on the convention floor. I could believe that as my arm was sore from pouring. I might also mention that, at about the halfway point of the session, Ian told me to start pouring one-ounce samples instead of the customary two-ounce shot. He thought that this move would help us to survive the entire session with our stock intact, but too little too late.

The Evening Madness


Let me first post the mission of the beer festival, taken directly from their website:
Our mission is to educate the public in beer appreciation and beer quality, and to build the local beer community. Every aspect of the World Beer Festival focuses on promoting the positive attributes of the growing beer culture.

Mission stated, the doors of the evening session opened and in they came- a motley crowd of 20 and 30-somethings, cute beer sayings on faded t-shirts, the obligatory torn jeans, cell phones glued to ears, smirking and pushing their way to the front of the lines. This is what I had observed three years ago when we were taping On the Street and I certainly wasn't looking forward to this crowd.
The line forms at the table and we begin again.
Ian and I had grabbed a separate break after the first session, Ian struggling with a far-away issue by phone. His wife had called from Michigan where she and their 2-year old had just been involved in an accident. Seems a guy had run
a light and rammed into their car, slightly injuring her but had thankfully left the child unharmed. I went to my car to sit and rest, listen to NPR and recover from the madness of the morning, When the second session began, I was a bit more confident of my pouring and presenting abilities and Ian, although obviously still rattled, had gotten the home situation in hand. We had opened several bottles to get ahead of the crowd and were now staring at our first customers. Let the fray begin!
Guess what?
These 20 and 30-somethings were polite, patient, cheerful and downright fun!
They were interested in anything Ian had to say about Mead, asking relevant questions and listening intently at his every answer, even amidst all the noise and madness. Color me pleasantly surprised and I dove into my duties with a renewed vigor. I had also been listening to Ian and was able to field a few of the simple questions myself, such as “what is mead?” or “which is your favorite?” (I choose the Orange Blossom (check out the description; Our orange blossom mead is made from the honey of orange and other citrus trees, and is aged on American oak. The flavor and bouquet will transport you to warm climates, where citrus groves stretch on for miles and miles. This mead will continue to mature wonderfully in your cellar.))
I had learned from Ian that they buy honey from Florida citrus-area beekeepers
for use as their honey base for Orange Blossom, which struck me as cool.
The second session was a carbon copy of the first – long, constant lines, inquisitive patrons, those who loved it and those who hated it. And, like the first session, we ran out; except this time a full hour and a half before the closing bell.
We only ran into a few assholes, one in particular who kept coming by to remind us that he had “to drive three states to be here, and by-God we shoulda brought more cause now he's not getting his money's worth!” After about the third time coming by, Ian pulled out a special bottle of B. Nektar that he had stuck back for a later purpose. After giving the obnoxious slob a full shot, the guy actually had the nerve to talk about how bad it sucked. I thought this funny. After taking care of so many people for so many hours, we finally had to endure this fucker-the one that we had waited for all day. Thankfully he waited till the very end to show!
After hanging around for another hour, I shook Ian's hand and wished him well-especially thankful for his home situation outcome, and headed for the door.
I must say that although I initially thought that volunteering for both sessions might be a bit of a stretch for this old man, I was feeling sort of elated from the day's events. I had met many new people, received an education about one of the oldest alcoholic drinks known to man, had my faith in 'today's youth' restored, been reminded that there will always be at least one asshole at any large event, and, best of all, I had survived it with a cheesy-assed grin plastered on my face as I drove back to Fort Reid!

Old Friends and New Traditions

Old Friends and New Traditions

Recently, an old friend re-entered my life, via Facebook, of course.
I've known David Baker since grade school. We attended the same schools growing up, often in the same class or homeroom.
David is also a homeboy, growing up just up the street and over a block from me, and he figured into my life in a musical way.
As the 60's and 70's were a time of AM radio and hits on 45 rpm records, the lot of us would purchase the latest shiny record from the downtown Greenville drug stores, or at the record store inside Woolco, the new 'shopping mall' . The latest songs came our way via WQOK AM, and the DJ's reminded us that all that they played were the hits!
David had all the hits! He even had a bunch of records that were, to me, obscure. But he methodically cataloged every one of them and kept them safe from the dreaded "scratch syndrome".
I last saw David at our high school graduation. Shortly thereafter, I was off to Greenville Tech, marriage and children, and he set his sights on USC. The years passed and lo and behold, I had been married for 34 years and David had moved to Atlanta. Enter Facebook.
I immediately 'friended' David as soon as I saw his profile. What had he been up to? Did he still have that fantastic record collection?
We met for lunch in Five Points-Columbia one afternoon while he was in town.
He not only still has that collection, he’s added to it tremendously! And, to no one’s surprise, he holds a rather high position with the Atlanta public library system.
We’ve had lunch again since that first reunion at 5 points. He, like me, is a huge fan of the band Heart, and he handed to me several CDs of Heart ‘rare cuts’.
So, thanks to my very old and very dear friend David, I am in Heart heaven!

On to new traditions.
My son Michael married a couple of years ago. He fell in love with a girl whom he had known for a few years, and they tied the knot in a beautiful ceremony at the bride’s family home. This home, located in Newberry, SC, is known as the ‘Summer Home’. It’s a grand old home situated on Main Street.

Our new in-laws are Roger and Peggy, are the owners of this splendid abode.
If we had placed a special order for in-laws, we couldn’t have done any better than Peggy and Roger! Friendly, down to earth and charitable, Roger and Peggy epitomize the definition of fun!
We have been to several gatherings at their fine old home, and have not had a better time in recent memory. The newest tradition involves Roger, Peggy, the family and Halloween.
Newberry, SC is a small town, and it’s holiday traditions illustrate this. When we moved to Newberry in 1984, we first noticed this ‘small town feel’ at Christmas when all the residents along Main Street (and Johnstone Street, which runs parallel to Main) lined the sidewalks with lumineres (paper bags with lighted candles). It was a community effort!
Halloween was no different as thousands of people prowled the homes in search of candy. This is unprecedented!
For the past couple of years, Roger and Peggy have invitied us to the ‘big house’ to celebrate Halloween in a big way. There are costumes, drinks, good food, and more candy than you could imagine. We sit out front with the Jack-o-lanterns, creepy cobwebs, and the bowls and bowls of candy. As the spooky spooks and the super-heroes make their way to the front of the house by the dozens, Peggy, Roger, or the invited family members pass out the treats one by one, until all the spooks are satisfied with their evening take. In all, about 1500 goblins come by the house, holding out their bags or plastic Jack-o-lanterns for a treat.
This has become our new Halloween tradition, and hopefully one that will continue for many years to come!

Penis the Dog and the Ghost Cat

Who would name they’re dog ‘Penis”?
I’ll tell ya who- my neighbor. They live just above me, through the trees, so normally I hear more than I see. I know this…they have two dogs. One is named Jake-a dogley sorta name. You know the other one.
Later mid-life has changed my habits a lot, especially my sleeping schedule. I used to sleep like a normal person, going to bed at 10 or 11pm and awake at 6 or 7am. Not anymore. Now it’s asleep at 10pm and up at 2am…then sleep again until 4am.
I like going out on my front porch in the early, quiet morning, listening to nothing in particular while having my first cup of morning Joe. It was this very scenario that I found myself in when I first heard that name.
The couple next door always let the dogs out at night to run and ramble, not an unusual thing in this very rural setting. Since there isn’t much traffic on the roads around here the animals are relatively safe from human harm. And they don’t cause any damage in the hood as everyone locks down the trash cans to keep the raccoons at bay.
The male half of the neighbors would usually be out around 5:30, calling the dogs back in for the morning meal before the couple left for work. I had gotten familiar with the sudden sound of the front door of their small trailer opening, followed by the man yelling at the top of his lungs “Jake…P…come on boys”. Although it always shattered my early morning serenity, I dealt with the short intrusion with no ill effects. Then came the morning that rocked my world.
I’m sitting in my porch chair, a cushioned Adirondack chair that my butt really sits well in, wearing only my wooly robe. There’s a chill in the air as autumn is finally upon us and football is in full swing. I take my first sip of delicious, hot coffee and I hear the neighbor’s door swing open. Expecting the usual, I brace myself for the air-splitting sound of a male voice. Instead I hear a shrill, almost siren-like yell – “Jake!” “Penis!”
The dogs didn’t respond fast enough for her so again - “Jake!” “Penis!”
I didn’t really know what to think. Checking my robe to make sure I wasn’t accidentally ‘open’, I sat dumbfounded. I listened carefully to make sure I didn’t imagine what I had just heard. She screams again, this time calling for dog number two – “PENIS!!!”
I had to yell back – “Jeez lady…keep it in the bedroom!”
Well, what would you do?
While we’re on the subject of animals in a rural setting, we have been cursed with a ghost cat. Back in the heat of the summer I discovered a white Siamese cat about 40 feet up a tree in my yard. For five days this poor feline braved 105 degree weather with no food or water while perched on this lofty branch. I tried everything I could think of to get the poor thing to come down from the tree. I sat out food near the tree…the neighbor’s dogs loved it. I moved the pickup truck to the tree, placed a 16 ft. ladder in the bed and tried, to no avail, to reach the cat. This setup left me about 15 ft. under the cat. I then rounded up a couple of 8 ft. poles, taped them together to form a 15 ft. pole and tried to prod the cat from her perch. She hung on for dear life to the limb, leaving me out of ideas. I called the fire department – (didn’t I read a story somewhere called “Fireman-Save My Cat”?) only to be transferred to the animal control office. “She’ll come down when she gets hungry” was the reply from this office. By then, my brother had stopped by, so I enlisted his help with my quest. I attached a bucket to the long pole that I had fashioned and moved it up the tree while Brother Gary secured the ladder. Gary’s observation was “what the hell do you think the cat is going to do with the bucket?” “Hopefully, she’ll crawl into the bucket and I can then lower her down”, I replied. “Well, maybe you should put a note in the bucket so the cat will know what to do”, says the brother.
Of course, this brought me to the realization that this was a futile attempt which depended on the cat’s knowledge of engineering and escape opportunities. Our final attempt was to hopefully scare the cat down. I setup my pressure washer, turned it to low and directed the spray at the poor thing. She lapped away at the water that was pelting her, but stayed in the tree. It was decided to take the advice of the animal control guy and just let her make her way down on her own.
Two days later, I heard no more ‘meowing’ coming from the tree, but instead the sound emanated from beneath the deck. The poor cat was emaciated from not eating for days, so I fed her a hearty helping of cat food courtesy of Gomez. Bad move – now she thinks that she lives here. Not having room for another cat, I took her to the animal shelter – knowing these guys could find a good home for this lovely cat. Problem solved, right?
A week later, late one night Laura looks out the glass door and sees a ghostly figure shaped like a cat. “She’s back”, Laura says…”the white cat is back”. “Impossible”, I mutter, since I had personally escorted her to the shelter. She is back. I’m not really sure how this happened…did she stage and execute the great escape? Did another cat slip her a file in a cat cake? Did she morph into a mouse, slide between the bars and re-animate as a cat again? All I really know is that she is now on the deck again, purring and meowing that she now resides here, has formally announced her change of address to her feline friends and stares at us through the window, her eyes somehow saying to us “you’re mine now…you’re both mine”!

September 18, 1976

September 18, 1976.
I am nervous as a whore in church. Matter of fact, I'm in a church. I'm standing at the front of said church with my dad. He is known affectionately as a 'best man' and the years have proven this true. Just minutes before, I was standing in a small room adjacent to the front of the church with my 'best man' and a minister. I was hearing the best man make an offer: "Son, if you don't get married now, I'll buy you a car...any car you want". Thoughts of a flashy new Corvette crossed my mind. I saw myself sitting in the sleek, leather seat. The wheel in my leather-gloved hands, I was driving very fast - driving away from the church. Next to me in the other leather seat was my beloved almost - bride. She was wearing her bridal gown, her veil blowing in the wind. She was crying.
"That's our cue...we need to go out now". The minister's words snapped me out of my daydream and I said to my father "I love her dad...I want to marry her". He wrapped those steel arms around me and said "okay son, I had to be sure. I love you boy".
Standing at the front of the church, I'm looking out over a sea of faces, some I had known for a few months, some I had known all my life. There were uncles and aunts, friends and co-workers, band mates - stoned off their asses on acid, old school mates - stoned off their asses on marijuana. I looked to the familiar faces of some of my closest cronies for a hint of support, the return look was one of stoned acceptance, as if they were thinking "I can't wait for the reception...I'm munching!".
I see my grandmothers sitting in the second row. Just a few years ago I was in awe of these women, their faces wrinkled, their eyes smiling. I wonder what they're thinking. Are they proud of me?
To my left I see my mom. She is sitting on the front row, dressed to kill - a suspicious look in her eye. She was never in favor of this - I was too young and it would never last, she had told me over and over again. I wondered if she might be right.
To my right I see my new in-laws to be. Laura's mom is wearing a big, floppy hat, as was the custom in the seventies. Two of three of Laura's younger siblings sit next to her, clearly wishing that they were anywhere else.
The music changes and down the aisle comes the bridesmaids. Laura's friends are lovely in their long dresses made especially for the occasion. Followed quickly by the groomsmen, my brothers, brother in law and an old friend (and co-author of this blog). They look as bleary-eyed as me, after a long night of bachelor-partying.
Everyone takes their place as the door to the vestibule closes - then reopens. And there she stands on the arm of her father. As the music changes once again, she starts down the aisle, hesitates, starts again...'what the fuck?" I think as she finally moves toward me. I later learned that she was so nervous that her dad had to drag her down the aisle. Thoughts of a new 'vette faded as she took her place beside me and the preacher asked everyone to be seated.
That was 34 years ago today.
Through the years we have survived parenthood, indiscretions, arguments, fights, separation, loss of friends and parents, and the heart-wrenching loss of our beloved daughter.
Through the years we have also shared the joys of friends and family, the great times at reunions and partys, the pride of seeing our children grow and become wonderful adults, and along the way we've shared a laugh or two.
Now, we are grandparents, watching little Fiona grow, take her first steps and share her first words.
Was my mom right? Will this marriage last?
We'll check in again in another 34 years and see, shall we?