On Kelp and Exercising

So I'm sitting here in a beach bar looking over clear azul seas on the USVI (that's U.S. Virgin Islands, for those of you who are Carib-ignorant). Lulu and I, as well as my wine writer Megan and her husband Kyle, are here so Megan and I can give speeches tomorrow to a beer and wine group. And I am just plain worn out.

Usually, on working vacations like this, I'm worn out from drinkin' beer with beer people, hot tubbin', and ticklin' wars with Lulu. But in this case I've actually been exercising for the past few weeks. I hate to exercise, of course. People who like to exercise are sado-masochists and, while there's nothing wrong per se with sado-masochism (to each his own) I think you'll agree with me that it's abnormal and deviant behavior...like exercising. I've long held the belief that if you're going to run on a treadmill or a stairmaster or push up weights, you ought to instead accomplish something lasting, like building a fence or digging a moat for your house (I've always coveted a moat, complete with a drawbridge), or furiously pedalling an exercycle to generate electricity for poor people. I'm sure some insufferable do-gooder is working on an electricity-generating gym as we speak.

But I find that if I do outdoorsy and physically challenging sports that I actually somewhat enjoy, or at least don't despise, it makes the medicine go down. A woman with an outlandish bathing suit coverup made to resemble petticoats and clutching a parasol just walked by, so Mary Poppins naturally sprang to mind.

I've exercised every single day but one for the past three weeks. Tennis, a sport at which I enjoyed some degree of success as a youngster, has been my spoonful of sugar of choice. I like tennis because you play alone, like the lone wolf, and you don't have to make small talk with idiots like you do with golf, and it's the sport where the women all have great tan legs and they show them off under impossibly short skirts. My facebook friends are no doubt growing tired of reading on my wall how my rib Lulu has been pummelling me day after day, on clay courts. I then read an article where women have an advantage on clay, and especially on grass, because of something about the speed of the ball off the surface and the sliding of shoes and the curvature of the earth, etc. So when I called her out claiming that the clay gives her an advantage, to my surprise she proceeded to pummel me on hard courts even worse. Here at this USVI resort (French's Reef), they have grass courts, the latest surface on which I received a pummelling at Lulu's hands. Turns out the surface of the courts doesn't matter at our level of play. Double faults are double faults, no matter the surface. It's no wonder, the woman cheats like a Hungarian horse trader, has the wingspan of a turkey-buzzard, the strength of one of those 18th century draught oxen that are extinct today, and the stamina of a Turkish man-hooker.

Today I took a break from being humiliated by my rib on the courts and took my exercise a'swimming in the clear blue Caribbean. I like to swim in the surf. It puts you into a position of being completely alone, untouchable by email and texts and phone calls and carping ribs, and it has the tinge of danger, it's salty (and I love salt), and from playing tennis with one's rib. Plus, you feel manly, like David Hasselhof, off like an otter to save some busty blonde, between shots of Wild Turkey in his case.

Anyway, I put on some goggles ($3.99 at the San Antonio Wal-Mart two blocks from my house, $18.99 at French's Reef Surf Shoppe where I bought mine) and swam about 100 yards in the surf, which sounds a lot easier than it was. I'm not used to swimming in such clear waters -- it's terrifying. Every piece of errant seaweed is the spitting image of a small bull shark, every shadow a stingray, every coral a poisonous sea snake. I burned more calories in fear-inducing adrenaline production than actual swimming. I much prefer the Texas gulf coast, where visibility ranges from zero to an eighth of an inch, under the comforting belief that what you can't see can't hurt you. There are probably sharks and eels galore under me in the gulf, but I blissfully swim on, thinking that the slimy brush against my leg was a piece of kelp, or more likely some piece of trash discarded from a nearby oil platform.

No Respect

I'd like to stay on this topic of colchisine, the “wonder drug” that cures gout but also, unfortunately, has the toxicity of arsenic and possesses side effects that render even the strongest ox of a man prostrate and weeping for days on end. I will say this: it does cure the symptoms of gout (there is no actual “cure” for gout, which is just a form of rheumy arthritis, only the relief from its painful symptoms).

Colchisine comes from the poisonous colchicum plant, which was discovered by the wine-swilling Greek Pedanius Dioscoride in the first century AD when casting about for a cure for his gout. He wandered up a hill and came across the curious colchicum plant, pleasantly called “meadow saffron” at the time, and naturally he ate it, as the ancients were prone to do as there wasn't exactly fast food around. After lying prostrate in his own vomit and excrement for two days, to his delight he found that it also completely cured the pain of his gout, right before he keeled over and died of organ failure.

I think it is indicative of the priority gout gets in the medical community that nobody has seen fit to find a better remedy since the first century – maybe one that isn't poisonous. It's the Rodney Dangerfield of diseases. Gout commands so little respect that although cholchisine has been known to relieve its symptoms since 1 A.D., the FDA still hasn't gotten around to approving it in the U.S. How my doctor prescribes it is beyond me – perhaps it is because we are so close to Mexico? You don't see the high society set rushing to throw elaborate “Race for the Cure” fund raising galas for the gout. Nobody is racing for the cure – nobody is even crawling for the cure. Hell, I doubt anybody is even casually looking for the cure. It's not for lack of sufferers. Gout afflicts millions each year, the silent crippler – three out of ten men get it at some point in their lives.

I think the main reason gout doesn't get respect is because of its unfortunate name: “The gout” doesn't inspire much sympathy for its sufferers. It sounds too close to “goat”, which never conjures images of good feeling or even good smells. If it were called “razor-joint arthritis” (RJA) or perhaps named after a celebrity with the gout, “Jared Leto Syndrome” (JLS), then maybe things would start snapping. (I once met Jared Leto several years ago in Australia, and I think, from our brief contact, that he would be a fine spokesperson for our affliction, and perhaps he'll even throw out the first handful of colchisine pills at our first gala. He got gout from losing a lot of weight for a movie, probably the same reason I got it).

I believe another reason gout commands so little respect is because it is widely derided as the “rich man's disease”, because one of the causes of gout is rich foods, expensive wine, and diamonds. Okay, not diamonds. But the fact remains that, right or wrong, nobody gives a damn about rich men. The only thing that would make it worse if it were rich white men, but luckily for all of us sufferers of gout, many rich men of color also get it – it's an equal opportunity disease. I myself am decidedly not rich, but it's my luck to get the maladies of the rich without actually having the money.

So I am looking into creating some gout awareness out there. Perhaps I will have one of our high society matrons design a ribbon to wear on tuxedo lapels, bring in Jared Leto, and have a good old fashioned gout gala. We could give out canes as door prizes and raffle off a gout pig.

What's Your Poison?

Well, the wheels have finally come off the train. Since I turned forty in January, it's gone downhill very fast. First it was the broken ribs, then a horrible bout of pneumonia which laid me under for a full month, a persistent rash, accelerated hair loss, and now a painful arthiritis in my left hand which has been like having red hot razors in my wrist joint which only hurts when I type and breath, for going on 12 weeks now. Oh, and I can't thread a fishing line through a hook eye anymore without squinting my eyes. So you will excuse me if my posts have been sparse and the one I did get out was cranky.

Dr. Tonga has taken it all in stride, administering cortisone shots like a punch drunk NFL team doctor, god bless his Haitian soul. But under pressure from my rib, I reluctantly agreed that my many ailments had finally, predictably, outpaced his abilities – his Caribbean remedies (rum and cigars to treat pneumonia, for example) simply can't keep up with my northern Atlantic afflictions. When the last steroid shot failed to diminish the swelling in my wrist even nominally, I knew that, sadly, my days of watching Ricky Lake reruns on the black and white TV in his waiting room were limited. And my hands are kind of important, given that I type 2,000 words a day for my job, not including emails and blog posts.

So I had my rib (wife) call around to find a new general practitioner who preferably has a medical degree from this country. Lordy, we must have a serious shortage of GPs, because nobody would accept me as a new patient. And think of how much worse it will get under the government's universal health coverage when even hobos are allowed to see doctors.

I finally got in to see a GP but only because a mutual friend (thanks Lynnette) of the doc begged her to see me. Yes, my new doctor is a female, and I'm happy to report that she is an attractive female (not that that matters, of course). I anticipated my first date, er, appointment with Dr. Beatrice Rodriguez with equal parts anxiety and exhilaration – anxiety because she might ask me to disrobe, and exhilaration because she might ask me to disrobe. So many questions: should I spray tan, trim up, get a tattoo?

Turns out it didn't matter because the first date/appointment was with her physician's assistant, who drew blood and x-rayed my wrist and tapped around on my chest listening to the remnants of my bronchitic lungs – but did not ask me to disrobe. The doctor is so busy that I must make another appointment to get the benefit of her diagnosis and treatment. This is a far cry from Dr Tonga, who would have palmed me 20 hydrocodones and a steroid shot and had me out the door in the time it took this physician's assistant to take my temperature (treat 'em and street 'em is Tonga's motto).

I start to backtrack: maybe Dr. Tonga is the best fit for me. I don't have a lot of time to dicker around with doctors, even pretty ones, who have tight schedules and slowly practice careful responsible medicine. My rib looks at me over her sunglasses when I mention this and admonishes me to stay the course. “Harry,” she says as I sneak a look at her legs (I too am wearing sunglasses), “he told you to smoke cigars when you had pneumonia. I mean, what kind of doctor would tell you that?” I look back at her face coldly. “Do not disrespect Dr. Tonga in my presence. Hate the game, not the doctor. He may not be my physician anymore, but by god Dr. Tonga and I understand each other -- which is the definition of love and respect."

Dr. Beatrice ultimately says that I have the gout in my wrist, which is when you get razor sharp crystals in your joint from drinking too much beer, a job hazard. The only cure at this point, since I have let it go so long (she says with a hint of disgust – Dr Tonga had his faults, but he wasn't a judger), is to take large amounts of a drug called colchisine, which is a poison in the same line as arsenic. It's also called "Meadow Saffron" or "Satan's Revenge" in some circles. This toxic agent, when taken at the doses I had to, is so venomous that thirty minutes after ingesting the first pill it induces projectile vomiting and explosive diarrhea like a two-headed fire hydrant that would make a caveman blush. It also produces cold sweats, dizziness, rashes, clammy palms, blurry vision, confusion, a swelling and fever of the inner organs, achy teeth, etc etc. But luckily for me this wonder drug also cures gout somehow. The trick is to take enough of the vile stuff to cure the gout, but not enough to kill you. It's a fine line we cochizine takers walk. I spent two days rolling around in a cold sweat on the bathroom floor clutching my gut and crying. But anybody who has had serious gout before will agree that I couldn't care less if it caused blood to flow from my eyes and my toes to fall off, I would take it to get rid of the gout's horrible, horrible pain. So I endeavor to persevere... excuse me …... gotta go.

Legless in Chicago

It's 9:14pm on a Friday night, and I am sitting in my cold dowdy room at a Holiday Inn on Brynn Mawr (that street name sounds so familiar but I can't place it), near the O'Hare airport. This is not my first choice for a Friday night. I should be snug as a bug in my bed at home, preferably engaged in a tickle war with my leggy rib, but her long legs are out of reach due to the struggling economy – or something. You see, my flight was canceled, and I am staying here on the nickel of the American Airlines Corporation. But am I angry or bitter or even slightly irritated? Alarmingly, no. I somehow take some little joy in getting a voucher for a free cocktail at the lobby bar and a breakfast coupon.

Although I do pine a little for those legs – long tan soft legs. But if legs can't be had, I suppose I'll have a cocktail, courtesy of the government, because I'm sure it's just a matter of time until they have to bail out the airlines too. You can see this post is not going to be the standard bearer for organization, and I have a feeling it's not going to get better. I'm just exhausted and sick. It's been, to say the least, a tough week.

Earlier this week I was scheduled to fly off to Las Vegas to cover the very first national distributor conference of MillerCoors now that it is MillerCoors and not Miller and Coors. That's a good thing, because instead of two conferences, now I can just cover one. Not that I minded covering these sorts of conferences. Actually, they're kind of fun. You would be amazed at how viscerally appealing ad agencies can made make beer look. After a day of watching the upcoming beer ads on gigantic screens in an auditorium, all 3,000 people are racing for the doors to get their hands on a cold one. After the conference there's usually a big party poolside, with bands and food and ice sculptures and more food and beer. And beer people are great, and I like it that I know enough people these days that I don't ever suffer for interesting people to talk to. No holding up the wall for this guy.

Anyway, I was scheduled to fly but really I wasn't. I discovered the day before departure that I had forgotten to book a flight. So I buy a ticket on American for $1,500 US dollars, which was the lowest fare I could find. On the bright side, on the same day the FED printed a trillion dollars of new currency out of thin air and released it into the economy. So the $1,500 dollars I spent isn't worth nearly what it was last week. Thanks a trillion, Federal Reserve.

Then I get sick with some sort of bronchitis or laryngitis or some kind of -itis that reduces my voice to a croaking whisper and leaves me with a dull fever. I decide to go anyway, and I get to the airport and suddenly feel so lousy that I decide not to go, and skip my flight. Later I decide I really should be there as the first MillerCoors national distributor meeting really can't go on without me, so I buy a last minute one-way ticket on Southwest, for $500. I think that's the most Southwest has ever charged a customer and then put him in the middle seat.....So I'm three grand into this adventure so far.

I could go on for another 10 paragraphs about the myriad other mishaps I had on this trip, but I won't bore you. Because it would be boring to hear that when I arrived at The Rio at 11pm, I was told by the hotel my room wouldn't be ready until 2am (4am my time). Who checks out so late that the room isn't cleaned until 2am? Ironically, the ticket they gave me to use until my room was ready had emblazoned on it: “CHECK OUT TIME IS 11:00AM !!”. Yes, two exclamation points. And I won't bore you with the fact that when I finally did get to the meeting, my voice was gone.

It would seem to be frustrating to be in Las Vegas among my friends in the beer business and not have the ability to speak.  It would be frustrating except that I am apparently now immune to feelings. I decide it's best to avoid conversation, with the help of my disguise. Consequently, I try to avoid eye contact and stare at the floor as I walk, and my beard helps, but the white tennies give it away and people recognize me.  And most just won't accept, rightly, the fact that I can't talk and so I'm forced to croak a few lines, which just makes it worse. I never realized how much I talked until I lost my voice. If nothing else, I've learned that I talk way way too much.

But what's odd about all this is that I am not flustered, really at all. Not much irritated, not much angered, not put out. I feel nothing. Am I dead inside? Has my cold shriveled German heart finally taken over the rest of my soul? It's like I've gotten to an age where whatever inconveniences life throws at me, it's still just life. If I wasn't waiting for a room at 1am at the Rio, I'd be sleeping. At least this way I'm conscious. This is marked difference from the old Harry. I don't know what has happened in my life. Maybe it was turning 40 this year, but it just takes a lot to get me riled these days. Life here, life there, it's not that different, whatever. I think of those poor sods who work in the stinking hot seaside muck in Indonesia or somewhere tearing apart old oil tankers by hand, tankers they run ashore for scrap metal. It's regarded, by no less an authority as the Economist, a magazine written by white elitist economic professors in London and New York who naturally are the most qualified to know about scrapping oil tankers by hand in the muck, as the worst job on earth (they've evidently never delivered beer in Houston in the summer). But it occurs to me that even those folks occasionally must have a laugh with each other (I'm talking about the ship scrappers, not the economists). They probably ferment some sort of horrid brew that they adore. They have their dirty-legged women to enjoy. They don't have to deal with breakfast vouchers. It's all relative.

So now here I am, chillin' at da Holiday Inn, with none of my friends. Feel like I work at AB InBev. The coherence of this blog isn't getting any better, is it? I have now removed to the bar. Actually, the bar is quite nice and I am enjoying myself. Things are looking up. Faux dark cherry wood paneling, a loud mouth Chicago barmaid, and a few languid business travelers, adrift, enjoying free beers on the airline. I get carded. Naturally I left my wallet in my room because I thought, hey, I don't need my wallet because I can charge it to the room and besides, the first one is on Am Air. This is how low my country has fallen since 9/11. Hotel bars now require cackling barmaids to card everyone, from the unshaven college kid to grandpa over there with his eyes six inches from the TV so he can make out what's happening in the basketball game. I'm 40 but I look like I'm just shy of 58 with a graying beard and balding head. Seriously. Are they saving the errant Benjamin Button from having a beer? Can we really not trust a nice Irish big-bottomed foul-mouthed barmaid to use her common sense to discern that I'm over 21?

Well, maybe not. She just hollered at some poor hapless businessman something fierce for wandering into the bar and watching the TV for a moment without buying a drink, and another for “eatin' too slow.” She shoots me a squinty eye and shows a tooth (barmaids, particularly those on the trashy side, always view me as a natural ally for some reason. It must be something in my face) and barks, “No freeloaders 'round here, hon!” as if she just bowshot a hog for my birthday. The Holiday Inn Corporation doesn't know what a jewel they have here working on Brynn Mawr: She knows how to turn velocity and drive profits per square foot, neglecting to notice that the bar is mostly empty. She's drunk as cooter brown.

It was against this setting that it occurs to me, most bitterly, that Lulu's clean brown wonderous legs are an eternity away, and that is, by far, the biggest disappointment of the week. Something snaps inside me. For the first time this week, I find myself irritated. The blood pressure rises, my cheeks finally turn hot, my adrenaline flows, my voice comes back for a minute (epinephrine, like Dr. Tonga's cortisone shot, is a miracle drug). Finally, an emotion. I'm almost relieved. I am indeed, apparently, alive after all. I'm heading back up to my room to watch something that will cheer me up. I hear “Marly and Me” is a good comedy.

UPDATE: I watched “Marley and Me” and wept like a school girl. Yes, I'm alive.

A conversation with my dog

Last night I set aside my usual loyalty to beer and decided to have a margarita. There's a Mexican joint here in San Antonio called Paloma Blanca that has become a Friday night tradition for us and our friends. Now, Paloma has this lethal margarita called the Heights. It's more like a martini with tequila substituted for the gin and lime juice substituted for the vermouth. There's a saying around here about the Heights margarita. They're like boobs: one is not enough, two is good, three ain't right, and four is perfect. So naturally I had four.

After Lulu took me home, I got in the hot tub, as is my want. I long ago discovered that four Heights margaritas have the surprising benefit of endowing one with the temporary ability to speak and understand dog.

My dog, Chica Schuhmacher, a big yellow lab, walked straight up to the hot tub and said in her English Wapping waterfront accent: “Excuse me, guv'nor, may I join you?” As a puppy Chica was taught to have the best manners, for although she's hackney and a dog, she could easily sit at the Queen's table without dishonour. She stepped into the tub and took her usual seat in the corner with the strongest jet.

Chica, being a dog, is naturally stupid in comparison to humans. She can't count, has no self-awareness, and can't drive a golf cart, despite repeated attempts to teach her. But unlike most humans, she is not unwise. She knows instinctively that meat is always preferable to fruit and vegetables, and that if you see an unattended cake on the counter, go ahead and hop up there and eat the entire thing immediately, because you never know when you'll run accross another unattended cake.

Chica is also a practiced aficionado of pork and venison sausage, and she knows that the best ratio of port to venison is 60-40. She also loves, and I mean loves, to run in front of the golf cart at the ranch. She can run for hours. In fact, if you don't stop her, she'll run herself to death. So although she eats lots of sausage and cake, she stays trim by running in front of the buggy. That and chasing the two neighborhood cats, Gary and Tiger, that make a daily game of taunting her.

I lit a cigar and settled in. “Chica,” I asked, blowing smoke in her face. She likes it. Secondhand smoke is the only way she gets to enjoy a good cigar, lacking opposable thumbs like a raccoon or even fingers. At least raccoons have fingers and can conceivably smoke cigars, although they'd have a hell of a time lighting one.

“Chica, what is the meaning of life?”

“Sausage of course, guv'nor,” says she.

“Have you ever seen how sausage is made?”

“Does it really matter, guv'nor?”

I contemplate this as I take another puff. “Good point.” Like I said, Chica is so wise. “Chica, I get so many emails these days, I am having trouble getting to them all in a timely manner; and worse, I am overlooking important emails that sometimes never get returned. What should I do?”

Chica ponders this for a minute. “Sometimes," she says, "late in the Autumn when we have exhausted our sausage supply, our rib Lulu will give me a rawhide bone instead. It's a poor substitute, but dogs cannot be choosers..."

"Is this going anywhere, Chica?"

"Stay with me here, guv'nor. Every now and then she forgets that she has given me a rawhide bone, and she will give me another...”

“She never forgets when she throws me a bone, Chica, eh?” I interject.

“Please let me finish,” Chica said with some irritation. Some dogs have no sense of humor. Her blood-sugar must be low. “So I then have two bones. I can't chew on both bones at the same time, unfortunately. And I can't leave a bone lying around, lest one of those slutty mouse-eating mange-ridden tabbies get ahold of it. So I bury one bone -- the bone that is the lesser bone of the two bones -- and I chew on the better bone until such time that it is properly consumed (always eat the good bone first, as you never know when you'll get run over by the mailman), and then I go and dig up the other one. That is the solution to your email problem.”

I chew on this for awhile. Yes, I can prioritize my emails, return the ones needing immediately attention, and then carving out time in the evening or weekend to return the other emails which have been saved off. Brilliant!

“You are very wise, Chica. Another question: Why are we bailing out the losing industries in our economy and taxing the successful ones?”

“Everybody loves the underdog,” says she with a sigh, or was that gas? Then after a pause: “Look, guv'nor, I have to ask before the Heights margaritas wear off. Will you tell Lulu that I prefer the cheap generic dog food from HEB, not that expensive Science Diet -- it gives me gas." Ah, now we know. "Also, tomorrow after the lad's baseball practice, can we go to the ranch so I can run in front of the buggy?”

“Yes,” I say. “We shall spend many hours in the buggy tomorrow, after I return my emails.” And then, just as quick as that, her hackney waterfront accent returns to a regular Labrador bark. I pat her on the head and we silently enjoy the rest of our cigar together.

On Germany, Purple Cabbage, Dukes, and Gas

My German Brewery Tour

This is a time of heavy travel. Denver, Des Moines, New York, and Belgium, and that's just this month. Never a spare minute or a warm clime for this hot blooded Texan. And Europe is the worst. One thing about Western Europe is that we Yanks tend to equate it with the U.S. in terms of climate, we all being representative democracies and all. What we forget is that Europe is generally on the same latitudinal parallel as Nova Scotia, so yeah, it's kind of cold.

When I toured Bavaria last November with a troupe of beer trade journalists, all I managed to bring were old worn leather-soled bathroom slippers, flimsy khaki slacks from Target, and a discarded barn coat from the ranch fashioned from burlap. I thought since Bavaria was in southern Germany it would be mild. A simple Google weather check would have gone miles toward disavowing me of this delusion and would have prevented a tremendous amount of discomfort and injury. To say I was not outfitted appropriately was a gross understatement as we slogged from one cold dank brewery to another in the snow. I blame my rib Lulu of course, who sent her absent-minded charge packing to Germany in November for a week without so much as glancing inside my bag to see what I packed, or more importantly what I failed to pack. In my view that as gross negligence as a wife and demonstrating an obvious disregard for my wellbeing, and possible intentional harm, but I'll leave that up to my lawyer.

In case you don't know, breweries are necessarily vertical in their construction, particularly old Bavarian breweries, because they utilize the reliable force of gravity to transfer the golden nectar from brew kettle to lauder tun to fermenter to finally, barrels in an underground cave (I may have the sequence wrong but I'm pretty sure the barrels in the cave are last). So touring a brewery necessitates navigating flights upon flights of beer-soaked stairs carved in stone. With my leather slippers barely gaining purchase on even a rough surface, I was constantly falling down. Already uncoordinated in the best of circumstances, there was not a wet stair, a patch of black ice, a snow bank, or a dank fermenter floor in Bavaria that failed to trip me up. At one brewery I slid down about 50 stairs on my bottom, ripping the back side of my barn coat. The brewery owner was wailing bloody murder in German, not for my safety mind you, but I suspect he smelled a lawsuit coming from such a scantily clad vagabond who obviously doesn't have two nickels to rub together. About half way through the tour, our German guide was convinced that I was mentally disabled, and took to assisting me into and out of the bus like an invalid child and addressing me in a loud, slow tone normally reserved for simpletons. I overheard him whisper to a hop grower as he glared down on me after I fell for the fifth time that morning, "Er ist retardiert." My German's a little rusty but I got the drift of his meaning. The farmer nodded with sympathy as he helped me up. The other journos thought it hilarious and the epitaph stuck for the rest of the trip.

The other main difficulty I had in Germany was the gas. At one point at a formal dinner with the Faust family, prominent brewers in Bamberg, after I shrilly broke wind for the third time and couldn't in good conscience continue to pretend nobody heard (it shook the window panes), I felt obliged to offer an apology and explanation: I blamed it on the altitude. I know, kind of lame. Even more so when later I was informed that we were at sea level. Again, where is Google when you need it? I briefly considered playing up my newfound reputation of mental incapacitation, but I did have some semblance of pride. Anyway, the Faust brothers are gentlemen and accepted my excuse at face value, (perhaps our guide pre-briefed them of my “retardiert”? Anyway, you may think your merry correspondent is exaggerating. I assure you, if I am, not by much. Just ask any of my colleagues on the trip and they will corroborate. It's embarrassing, I know, this confession is therapeutic).

But of course it's all that purple cabbage and schnitzel and beer they're forever stuffing in your gob for breakfast, lunch, afternoon cake, and supper. Yes, Germans drink beer at breakfast like we drink coffee. And you can't politely refuse a German lest they take offense if you don't relish and gorge on every entrée and beer like some half-starved Philistine after a forced march. Who the hell else but a German would think that purple cabbage is an edible dish? It's like eating greasy lemon grass, and blows you out just as grass does a heifer. At one restaurant, they served a fried glob of fat inside an onion covered in gravy, an egg, butter, and bacon, accompanied by, what else? A big steaming mound of purple cabbage, along with endless pints of some kind of vile lager of their own invention that they smoked like pork. My bowels screamed for days. The bus rides were a cacophony of German flutes, and I'm ashamed to admit I was by far the worst offender even with my Teutonic constitution.

At one point we were to dine with some sort of German royalty, a bloated viscount or duke or something, in his drafty heatless stone castle on a desolate windswept hill, and our guide saw fit to pull me aside to politely implore me to try to gain control of myself "for his majesty's sake." It was day five of being plied with nothing but weiner schnitzel, the ever-present purple cabbage, and about a half barrel of beer per person per day, so I did the best I could under these trying circumstances. But ultimately you can't clap a stopper on Mother Nature, as the saying goes. But I doubt I scandalized the good duke, for I'm convinced even royalty aren't immune to flatulent episodes every now and then, and besides, he was stone deaf.

By day seven I was again myself (you eventually either die of dysentery or you buck up get used to it), and my colleague Pete Reid lent me some wool socks and my guardian angel Julie Bradford at All About Beer lent me her daughter's gloves, which if I recall were purple with pink stitching. I endeavored to persevere as we trudged from one identical brewery to another over snow banks and through long patches of black ice, pretending to marvel at yet another identical fermentation tank. A few more falls and a few more farts, and the trip was over. It was a great time, and by the time my plane touched down in San Antonio, I felt oddly refreshed and spry, like a spent balloon.

Wheels Up

I've never put too much time, effort, or money into the various cars I've owned. Presently I have a Jeep Rubicon, split pea soup green with removable top and metal flooring, which is host to all kinds of dirt on the outside which helps to insulate the mouse that lives somewhere inside. It's not that I am untidy. The Jeep often doubles as a hunting vehicle at the ranch, with top off, so the inside is covered in our region's famed white caliche dust. So it doesn't really look dirty or gritty, it mostly looks like I let loose with a few eight balls of coke, or more likely in my case, a big bottle of Gold Bond Medicated Powder (TM).

To me, cars are for getting around in, and a warm home for a rodent, and that's about it. Washing a car is such a colossal waste of time and money. It's like washing a dog: what's the point? It's just going to go do what dogs do best, which is go out and poop in the yard without wiping, roll around in the mud, lick itself, and immediately get dirty again. Washing a car or a dog is such a futile exercise that it throws me into a depression just thinking about it.

My rib Lulu, who is from the manor born, always drives nice cars and always keeps her car irritatingly immaculate. Not a speck of Gold Bond inside or out. Every week she goes to this place called the Scrubby Tub, or something, which is the only place in town where criminals newly released from prison can find a job. The jailbirds clean the car, she gets it dirty, repeat.

Her immaculate car wouldn't be so irritating to me if she didn't constantly berate me on how “disgusting” my car is, inside and out. I do clean it occasionally. The one time I took it to the Scrubby Tub the mouse jumped out, and the so-called tough work-release criminals were too afraid to finish the job. But most of the time I let the car, like my dog, do what it does best: get dirty. As long as the radio works, I'm all good. (I don't change the oil very often either – that's for suckers who believe the propaganda of the oil companies who are, of course, in cahoots with Detroit. Cars only need oil every two or three years. But that's for another post).

Anyway, so it was with a little bit of sweet redemption when we woke up this morning to find that the tires were missing off Lulu's car. And when I say tires, I actually mean the entire wheel, including the tire. And when I say missing, I mean completely gone, with the car sitting on blocks right there in our driveway. Yes, at some point during the night while we were sleeping, a group of thugs jacked up her car, took all four wheels off, and thoughtfully placed the car, ever so gently, on four bricks (we live in a nice neighborhood so our thugs are gentlemanly).

A few observations: the economy must really be bad if there is enough of a market for used Suburban wheels. I mean, who steals the wheels off somebody's car? They weren't even the shiny expensive wheels with spinning rims and lights favored by ignoramuses who can't afford school supplies for their kids but somehow find the money to buy stolen wheels for their leveraged hot rods. Ours were just standard issue wheels, straight off the dealer's lot. The ignoramuses who got our wheels weren't even smart enough to get the shiny kind.

The sight of seeing your car on blocks is a curious one first thing in the morning. At first glance your brain says, hmmm, what is this, a practical joke? Pretty elaborate joke, you say? Listen, my friends bought a 600 pound Longhorn calf and had it delivered to my ranch on my 40 birthday last weekend, so yes, stranger things have happened. But then your brain discards the notion that it's a practical joke for the simple reason that it isn't funny, and my friends are funny.

Finally, after several seconds, it becomes apparent that your car is missing its wheels because somebody has stolen them. It's a sick feeling, knowing that thieves, stranger thieves, were so close to your bedroom and taking something dear to you. I never knew how dear Lulu's car wheels were until they're missing. .

But that sick feeling soon turns to anger. Having dirty thugs so close to your family does that to you. I live in a sleepy little town, and this town's investigative cop, we'll call him Barney Fife, offered little to think we'll ever get the wheels back or catch the criminals. Captain Fife does tell us that this has happened dozens of times in our neighborhood over the last month. They only take wheels from '08/09 Suburbans and Tahoe's and whatever the Cadillac version of those cars are called. Escaladas I think. Ours was a simple Suburban. Apparently the wheels from these particular kinds of cars are highly prized by those who have nothing better to do than drive up and down Congress Avenue revving their engines on their low-riders.

So why do I feel redeemed that Lulu got the wheels stolen off her car? Captain Fife also revealed that they suspect the local car wash, yes, her beloved Scrubby Tub, is the nexus point of these crimes, because the criminals they employ can check your address on the insurance card while they're wiping that disgusting Armor All grease all over your dashboard so that after driving it you feel like you have been handling a stick of butter – and spraying noxious chemicals (aka “new car smell”) on your seats, and plan their evil heist accordingly.

Here are the indisputable facts:

Fact: I have rarely had my car washed which is why my car is dirty, but.....
Fact: The Scrubby Tub criminals have therefore never had occasion to gawk at my address since the one time I was there a mouse thoughtfully attacked them, so therefore....
Fact: My car does have the benefit of having wheels, which help it get around town while.....
Fact: Lulu went to the Scrubby Tub a few days ago, so therefore ....

Conclusion: Lulu's car remains stationery, all day, on blocks until the special tow truck comes to take it to the dealer, who is elated because he finally made his first sale today in two months, while I buzz around town shopping and lunching with friends and flying a kite while she remains trapped at home watching the 111th Congress get sworn in on C-Span.

Sadly, Captain Fife and his merry band of Keystone Cops can't be bothered to question the malcontents who work at Scrubby Tubs because they're too busy giving us tax-paying residents tickets for rolling stop signs. Such is life. I went down to do a little thuggery of my own, CSI: San Antonio-style. Call me Horatio. I wore sunglasses, blared "We Won't Be Fooled Again", and questioned the manager for a few minutes. He was sublimely unhelpful and my sunglasses failed to intimidate. He did look my Jeep over with raised eyebrows and offered to wash it for free. I declined on principle.

But you can't really blame the criminals at the Scrubby Tub for carrying out these elaborate crimes. They are criminals, and criminals do what they do best: crime. Just like a car, which drives on dirty streets, is always destined to get dirty, and why a dog licks himself, and why ignorant people will always put money into shiny rims for their leveraged cars. It's the natural order of things.

Desperate Housewives

I love being loved. And even more so, I despise being despised. I suspect this is because of being slightly neglected by my parents and having older wild sisters, the combination of which makes a boy, apparently, love being loved and despise being despised.

Mostly I am loved. Oh, occasionally a reader of mine (or an entire brewery) will get sideways with me about something I've written, but in the end we always end up friends. So overall, I'm pretty well-loved. And I'm loved by a wide swath of diverse people: of all races, socio-economic strata, sexual orientations, and age.

So it is with a degree of anguish that I have recently discovered that there is one demographic that universally despises me: young mothers with very young children – say, children under six years old. I say I recently discovered this, but the signs have been there all along – I was just loathe to accept it, because I love women so much, particularly young pretty ones. But this realization explains a lot – like why I didn't get along with my rib for those ten years that she, or rather we, had young children.

Now I know why I always get hostile looks, cold shoulders, exasperated sighs, and occasionally a sippy cup thrown at my head (but mostly missed because they throw like girls) from young mothers with young children around the world. Old mothers with young children are okay with me, as are old mothers with old children, and especially young women with no children. But put me in a room with a young mother with young children, and within five minutes she starts reaching for the pepper spray.

Young mothers with young children (YMYCs) find me to be vulgar, loathsome, and insensitive to the needs of young mothers with young children – who apparently feel as if they should be catered to with every degree of inconvenience to everybody else because they saw fit to get knocked up several times within as many years – and who apparently are under the belief that nobody else in the history of the world has ever been through the hell of having several young children at one time. But most of all, they despise me because I don't pretend to patronize their little children, and I treat them like I always treated my own children: like adults.

I have never understood why our generation of mothers, and the dads that enable them, coddle and indulge their little brats when what they really want, I suspect, is just to not to be condescended to. For me, there are two quick ways to break the ice with new people you meet, whether they are five or fifty: drink a bunch of beers with them, and/or through humor. Since you can't buy a baby a beer in this country, more's the pity, that only leaves humor.

Why is it always assumed that children don't have a sense of humor? In reality, the only redeeming quality of children is their senses of humor. They will laugh at anything. The first thing I do when I meet a child is to shake his or her hand and ask, “Do you have a poo-poo in your pants?” I have found that even the youngest and dumbest of children get this joke because it is hilarious. It's a great ice-breaker to start our relationship, which is bound to be short-lived since young children and I have nothing else in common other than a love of bathroom jokes. The next question I ask is, “Have you had your spanking yet today?” Since the child has already ascertained that I am a jokester, he/she will almost inevitably laugh at this pleasantry. Only the dimmest will start to cry, in which case I walk away.

But this unique and, I must say, innovative way of making fast friends with toddlers for some reason infuriates the young mother, and inevitably turns an otherwise pretty and sweet woman into an insolent, shrill, self-righteous shrew. What, is the word “poo-poo” really going to tarnish the psyche of little Billy?

All little children are extremely selfish, self-centered, and greedy. It's not their fault. That's just human nature – primal leftovers from the caveman days when it paid to be selfish, self-centered, and greedy so that you would steal food from your neighbor and greedily guard it to last the Winter. With the rise of modern civilization, we don't need these traits anymore, because we can hire lawyers to possess them for us. The art of parenting is to try to break children of these natural traits so that they can fit into our modern society, unless, of course, you want your child to be a lawyer. That's why it's called “growing up,” and why when an adult is acting selfish and self-centered, it's called being “childish”.

When children don't get their way, they cry. This is also a natural response, but one that is not desired. So when I hear a child crying or whining, I start crying and whining even louder, to try to drown them out. This inevitably confuses the child so much that they will stop crying, because another childish trait that's the most powerful of all kicks in: curiosity. They want to find out why this grown man is crying and whining, because they've never seen that before. It's a great technique, and it's hilarious to watch. But this also infuriates the young mother.

But aside from the way I interact with their children, YMYCs also don't like everything I represent, which may rub off on their husbands: mainly independence, but also a little roguery mixed in. My rib is a very good woman, and she lets me be very independent now that our children are older. I go hunting when I want to go hunting, I travel on business when I need to without harping from her, I sit in the hot tub with nothing but a sombrero and a cigar, etc. Independence in a man, and the possibility of it rubbing off on their husbands, is something that the YMYC cannot abide. I don't blame them. Raising multiple little brats is by far the hardest job on the earth, and their greatest fear is that their husbands will leave – either for a weekend or for life.

Subsequently, YMYCs create all sorts of activities – constant motion – so that the young husband is so busy he won't have time to ponder the notion of going hunting or leaving for a week long poker tournament in Vegas. Soccer games, church retreats, bible studies, bike rodeos (whatever that is), piano lessons, gymnastics classes, and the list goes on. Forget the fact that the children are so busy that they never learn how to create their own imaginations (which is only accomplished by making them deliberately bored), but it also has the practical effect of tying up the husbands. I happen to be lucky in that all three of my sons are uncoordinated and don't play too many sports, but rather are interested in what I happen to enjoy, hunting, fishing, and hot tubbing.

There is not a more hang-dog, suppressed, emasculated, sunken chested, broken spirited person walking the face of this earth than the young husband of the YMYC. I've been there, brother. Forever juggling sippy cups, pushing prams, dicking around with car seats, wiping up vomit, and being ordered around by a fat bottomed belligerent shrew who he's not even sleeping with much, the young man with young children looks to me, his older brother who is finally free of the ties that bind, as a sort of demi-god, a hero, one to look up to, to emulate. He thinks: Harry gets to drink whiskey and wear a sombrero and shoot at a chili petine bush with his .22 pistol from his hot tub, why can't I? This “why can't I” business, alas, is the final straw that turns the YMYC against me with all the force of Medusa.

But I am convinced they will love me once again, when their youngest is out of diapers.

I Fell into a Toilet: My Amazing Story of Survival, Perseverance, and Guts

So I fell in a toilet yesterday. Well, not so much in the toilet as on it....and a little bit in it. There's a distinction I think, though I'm not quite prepared to explain it to you just now. It all happened so fast. See, I was stepping out of the bathtub..... okay, let's just stop right there. Yes, I occasionally take baths, particularly in hotel rooms. Some of my friends have suggested that taking baths is not what men do, but I think au contraire. A fine hot bubble bath with a scented candle and my favorite magazine....okay, whatever, it's gay. Accept me like I am or don't, but I've loved taking baths since I was five years old. I recently had a jacuzzi installed at home, which is just a bath outdoors.

Anyway, so I drain the water and am stepping out, rather carelessly as I thought of today's gripping events in the beer industry, and my right foot slips out from under me, and gravity, in all its Newtonian glory, kicked in. Now , there were four possible directions to fall: I could have fallen back into the bathtub, in which case I would have braced myself against the walls, or I could have fallen toward the nice pile of soft pillowing towels ahead of me, or I could have fallen into the doorway where there was a fluffy carpet, or I could have fallen left into a hard, cold, germ-laden, piss-stained, toilet. Naturally, the toilet is where I fell. All 200-and-a-few-more pounds of me. And I didn't just hit the toilet, but I also struck the side of the tub somehow with a tremendous force, gravity having been extra strong that day, chest-first. There I was, with one hand in the bathtub, one hand in the toilet, my face in the space betwenxt. I pushed myself like a fat oil-slathered seal onto the floor and started to sob hysterically like a little girl, holding my ribs and hip like some old woman. This, I declare, was not my finest hour. Those “I've fallen and I can't get up” beepers wouldn't have been any good to me, because I was stark naked, and I would rather lie there and die of internal injuries and hunger than let anybody see me like that, alive. Eventually, of course, they would find me, after rigor mortus had set in and presumably I would be decayed and drained of fluids a a bit, (there was a “do not disturb” sign on my door), likely making me look a little better than I do now.

I can imagine Lulu receiving condolence calls from our friends. “Yes, it's such a tragedy, thank you for calling.” Then in a flatter tone, “Yes, he really did fall into the toilet.” I can see our pastor at my funeral, grasping for nice things to say about me. “He was clumsy in life, but, uh, I'm sure God probably loves him.” I imagine all my so-called guy friends coming a'calling around Lulu, trying to “give her comfort.” Lulu, if you ever hear anybody say, “Harry would have wanted us to,” don't believe them. I never want you to, again, ever. Never. Remember this, I'm either watching from above or below, but either way, I'm watching.

This last thought gives me strength. Must. Not. Die. Like. This. For good measure, I reach up and flush the toilet. Can't see what's in it, but just in case. Like a true survivalist, I take stock of my situation, and try to channel my inner Bear Grylls. “Keep your head on, Schuhmacher. Don't panic. You can get through this.” I felt around my body for broken bones. Tough to tell, a few places really, really hurt. Not “Charlie bit me” hurt. More like “Charlie stole my friggin kidney” hurt.

I will admit to you, and you may not believe me, but the first thought that ran through my mind was, not my wife or children, not my own safety, but how will I get tomorrow's newsletter out if I'm incapacitated? Can I crawl to my laptop? Are my hands okay? Yes they are, all is well. As it turns out, my ample barrel chest and hip broke the fall before my hands came into play.

Can I stand up? I'm ashamed to tell you that I was truly afraid to try. What if it hurts? It's kind of like when you wash your privates with soap, and then when you go to pee, it burns. So you hold your pee because you know it will hurt. Just like that. I can take pain, I just can't take the anticipation of pain. If I were captured by our enemies, I fear I'd sing like a yellow-bellied canary at the mere sight of a sharpened golf tee.

I also have the thought, maybe seen on Bear Grylls' stupid show where he pretends to kill crocs with a blow gun that he claims to have carved from a bamboo stick, but actually sleeps in a Ritz-Carlton while lackeys buy the blow gun on Amazon.com. But anyway, Bear says that if you think you're back is broken, don't get up because then you may sever your spinal column, which is crucial for getting around. But it's my hip and maybe a few ribs that hurt. Then again, I think Bear says don't get up if you're ribs are broken too, because they can slice through your innards and blood vessels like razors and you bleed to death internally. Stupid show. I stare at the underside of the toilet and think of how much it looks like a pregnant woman's tummy, which is another piece of knowledge to file away, though not necessarily helpful in my current predicament. My eyes roll around the place, taking it all in like Bear would do. I wonder what's on the history of my laptop's Internet browser. I should probably format my hard-drive if I ever make it that far. Are there bank accounts anywhere that I should let Lulu know about? Sadly, no. Hey, the mini-bar is almost in reach, I wonder how much the pistachios are? These are the thoughts that race through your brain when you're prostrate, naked as a walrus, on the cold floor of your hotel room with unknown broken bones. In case you were wondering.

Finally I haul myself up on all fours and crawl to my bed. I figure if I'm going to die from internal bleeding, I might as well go out of this world like I entered it, swathed in thousand count Turkish cotton sheets. I lay there staring at the ceiling for maybe thirty minutes. To call the wife or not? That's the first thing to enter my mind....when in trouble with my ribs, call the rib. I weigh the pros and cons. There's nothing she can do, and if I call her, it will just worry her or worse, she may insist on getting the hotel staff to come help me or something, and that is out of the question for reasons I've already discussed. I call her anyway, because I can't help myself. Thankfully, she doesn't answer. Should I call Megan, my top lieutenant at the company? No, this isn't work-related, and it would creep her out if she knew I was calling her in the buff, which necessarily would have to come to her knowledge. Maybe my friend Joe Staffel who lives here? No, I didn't tell him I was in town because I had a lot of work things to do – he might get his feelings hurt if he knew – of course I guess now he knows. Sorry Joe, I was there for a few days for work, and didn't call you in advance to get together, but certainly considered calling you when I needed a friend in an emergency. Yes, I'm a shitty friend. But I'm still a friend, no?

So I lie there and stare at the ceiling. Think, Harry, think. The one thing that stupid fat-face limey Bear Grylls does say is that you should visualize a goal – staying alive, or in my case getting home without too much humiliation – into little baby steps, and take it one little baby step at a time. The first step, I decide, is to get some clothes on. If I'm appropriately clothed in jeans and a nice pressed white oxford shirt, it takes away all my issues about Lulu getting help from the hotel staff, or calling Megan, and it may help my self-esteem in general (there's a giant mirror on the wall next to my bed that no matter how hard I try, I can't stop glancing at). So I make an attempt at standing up. I slide to the edge of the bed, put my feet on the floor, and attempt to raise my torso, which is like raising the Titanic in more ways than one.

Holy shitola, jesu christo chinga tu madre! Yes, it hurts by god, but surprisingly, not as much as I thought. The anticipation, as I said, is always much worse than the actual pain. And without the pain, there is no sweet, or so I've heard. I stand up. Hey this isn't so bad. I put my clothes on – ever, so, delicately, and, slowly. Leaning over hurts, but once I get my pants on, gravy. Starting to feel better. I go ahead and work on my computer and get tomorrow's issue mostly done, just in case. Now what? I'm feeling better, so I go ahead and call Lulu and tell her my story, with obvious omissions, to make me more of a hero, which is to say I lied about almost everything.

I have a beer reception tonight. To attend or not? I respectfully decline, and instead listen to a blues trio in my hotel lobby and contemplate, Bear Grylls-style, my next challenge. I must fly across the country, with a layover, early tomorrow morning. Have I said jesu christo yet? Because I think this situation calls for a jesu christo and maybe even another chinga tu madre, although I hate to overuse those important epitaphs.

My plan is to get lots of cash out of the ATM, and just pay everybody to get my suitcase into the cab, into the airport, into ticketing, and on the damn plane. Luckily I'm in first class so I can lay there like a board, stretched out. When I land, I will pay a bell cap to put my bag in my car (the first healthy male under 40 to ever ask for that service in 30 years, and my suitcase is a small rollerbag). I will then fly like a daffodil on a hurricane to Dr. Tonga to get his expert prognosis. I don't wish to taint Dr. Tonga's medical opinion with any preconceived ideas in the unlikely event he checks this blog, or even has a computer with an Internet connection, but I have a sneaking suspicion that there's a cortisone shot in my near future. Dr. Tonga won't bother my insurance company or the government with expensive x-rays (he doesn't take insurance or Medicare anyway). Besides, there's nothing you can do about broken or bruised ribs, besides an $80 cortisone shot of course. It's no wonder I'm bloated and aggressive lately. Dr. Tonga has pumped me so full of steroids that I am actually considering growing a mustache this year. It is my finest hour. Gotta go, they're play Mack the Knife.

On Drug Ads and Doctors

You know what I hate? While you didn't ask, I'll tell you anyway. I hate doctors, except mine. I'll get to that in a minute, because I just thought of something else I hate even more than doctors. I hate pharmaceutical ads. All pharmaceutical ads. But what I REALLY despise, so much that I sometimes gag, are pharma ads for men. Drug ads targeting middle-aged men to treat things like going potty too much, gummy arteries, and flabby weeners may be effective in selling the drugs, but the ads invariably feature dough-faced imbeciles doing stupid things.

Yes, before you ask, I've had a bad day and my blood sugar is low. But I just saw an ad featuring a smug asshole whining that he has to pee three times a night. Oh, boo-hoo. People are eating babies in Sub-Sahara Africa, but let's drop everything and spend precious Medicare dollars so you don't have to haul your ass to the toilet so much. Ever heard of a chamber pot, or an empty 2 liter Coke bottle? Use some ingenuity, man.

But now, with LookMaNoPee (TM), he lives a great life with reduced bathroom breaks -- cue the shots of him riding a bike with his ugly wife. He's the one wearing a helmet. Safety first. So he takes a pill so he can hold his peepee until the morning, and he wears a helmet to protect his precious head in case he makes a boo boo while riding a bike – a bicycle, not a motorcycle, mind you. What a stud. John Wayne is sitting on a mantle of clouds somewhere throwing up into his Stetson in disgust, relieved that he's dead and doesn't have to live amongst such chicken livers. This guy won't need Viagra because I doubt it would ever occur to his wife, even as ugly as she is, to bed such a nancy-boy. Drug ads always have these shots of smiling middle-aged people in hideous sweatpants doing the most inane things: flying a kite, jogging in a marathon, riding bikes, and my favorite: setting balloons free. What are you, seven?

And have you seen the ad where the doctor is explaining to his patient the side effects of whatever drug they're selling, as required by law? The patient looks suitably fascinated in the knowledge that the drug could cause his eyes to bleed hydrochloric acid, his rectum to leak Hawaiian Punch, and in “extremely rare cases”, his belly button to spontaneously shoot flaming arrows. The patient nods like a Mandarin doll – excited about the possibility of bleeding acid just so he won't wet the bed anymore – with a rapt look on his face, as if he's so appreciative that his doctor shares this crucial information with him. If my doctor even started to bore me with the side effects of the rainbow of drugs I currently take, I would walk out after hurling a urine-filled 2 liter Coke bottle at him.

But Dr. Tonga would never do that. In the Abidjan, on the Côte d'Ivoire in Africa, where he received his education according to the "degree" on the wall, they apparently teach a better bedside manner than our medical institutions. And they eat babies in Abidjan, lacking other protein that's handy, so consequently Dr. T treats me and all his patients with the appropriate level of hostility earned by those of us who are privileged and coddled. When I complain of debilitating pain in my left hand, Dr. T. screams at me that it's my fault for typing so much. When I yell back at him that I am a writer, and so if he wants to keep getting paid, he'd better make sure I can keep typing, he finally writes a scrip -- reluctantly -- for an anti-inflammatory, and his nurse-secretary-housekeeper pulls down my pants and gives me a cortisone shot in my bottom, though I can tell he believes me to be a pansy.

I like Dr. Tonga. He doesn't take any crap, and he doesn't take insurance. Just pay your hundred bucks and he'll treat any ailments you have -- in my case high blood pressure, carpal tunnel, chronically reoccurring pneumonia, broken feet, asthma, allergies, hypochondria, bloating, gas, and the gout -- and my life insurance company is none the wiser. All of these ailments, including and especially hypochondria, Dr. Tonga treats with cortisone shots. He is of the belief, taught to him by the wise elders of the Haitian medical community, that cortisone is the cure-all for everything, from gas to gout. And you know what, damned if he's right. It doesn't take a Harvard medical school grad to goose up your patients with steroids. I'm convinced Dr. Tonga is the future of medicine in this country: inexpensive, effective, no-nonsense health care, without all the needless accoutrements like clean needles and licensed nurses. And he doesn't keep me waiting since I've never seen another patient there. He respects my time. And you can smoke cigars in his waiting room. While Dr. T doesn't speak much English, we understand each other. I hate doctors, and he hates patients. It's a great relationship. Now if you'll excuse me I'm going to put on my helmet and ride a bike and set off a bunch of balloons with my wife. Von 99 Luftballons Auf ihrem Weg zum Horizont, Roscoe (inside joke with my rib).

Slumming in Beverly Hills

So I found myself in Los Angeles for a meeting. More specifically, I found myself in Beverly Hills (the wifii password for my hotel was "90210"). I had a free day so I wandered the streets for a few hours.... down Rodeo Drive, around the corner to Wilshire, past the Creative Artists Agency, where I paused momentarily on the off chance I spot Catherine Zeta dash Jones to see if I can woo her away from that wrinkled grandpa Michael Douglas, onto Santa Monica Blvd., back around to Beverly Hills Blvd -- just to look at all the fancy shiny things I can't afford now that I have children who are so selfish as to want to go to college.

Two observations about Beverly Hills. The first is that, isn't Beverly Hills supposed to be full of beautiful women? Most of the women I saw looked burned up and burned out, plastic orange skin, frizzed up hair, needlessly high heels, painted up like left bank French hookers, frozen pissed-off scowls on their vapid faces -- probably have sand in their virginias. Several times I had to remind myself that I wasn't in the trashier parts of the red light district in Amsterdam (not that I've ever frequented the trashier parts of the red light district in Amsterdam....much). And many, like more than half (and all if over 50) had those puffed up lips, where I guess a doctor shoots Jello into them. What the hell is up with that? Does anybody suppose that this is desirable? They look like Audrey, the Venus Fly Trap in Rocky Horror Picture Show. Feed me, Seemore! This is the one time where Jello isn't fun. They look like they were stung by hornets. My dear Catherine Zeta dash Jones would NEVER engage in this practice, though her vain octogenarian husband might. Moral of the story: if you want to look at pretty women who don't look like Yoda on botox, don't waste your time in Beverly Hills. Austin has it beat twenty to one. And they smile at you. Hell, the girls trolling the Jersey Shore boardwalk are better than this.

The second observation is that the problem with Beverly Hills, or really any posh place, is that you can't purchase any essential toiletries. I needed a razor (the one I brought with me had about six weeks' use on it, so I think when I scraped it across my face hair actually sprouted), some chapstick (because I kept reflexively licking my lips when I saw all those puffy taco lips), and a legal pad, because I wanted to find a nice pub and work out my 2009 financial and marketing plan, (because that's the kind of guy I am, productive even on a Saturday afternoon. Work work work). These seemingly mundane and ubiquitous items, which in most of America you can find on any given street corner, are simply not to be had in Beverly Hills. The reason, I suspect, is that rents are so high that a Rite Aid would have to charge $5,000 for a small bottle of Pepto Bismol to make it on Rodeo Drive. Curious that in an area where you can buy a Cart-yee-air watch, a Louie Weetone suitcase, and an Alfalfa Romeo convertible, all within a 300 foot stretch of sidewalk, toothpaste is out of the question -- at any price. So I went without. Such is sacrifice. Lulu, I hope you're enjoying your Aquafresh and Gold Bond Medicated Powder at home. My kingdom for a thimbull of Gold Bond.

And forget about finding a nice neighborhood pub. The closest I could find was a fancy Italian restaurant that had a bar that seated two, because nobody drinks in Beverly Hills except green tea and cappuccino -- it's the only liquid that can pass those gigantic balloon lips apparently. Peroni Nasty As Euro was $12 for a 12 ounce "pint" (only in Beverly Hills would they recalibrate a standard unit of measure that's been in existence for well over 200 years). I felt like I was back home at Rosario's. I've been on quite a roll lately in paying a dollar an ounce for my beer. I like Peroni, but this is testing the limits of my love for the Italian nectar. Maybe I'll have an Ichiban, which is 20 ounces and only $15....what a bargain...it must be so cheap because it's brewed here. But beggars can't be choosers, particularly when one is a beggar on Rodeo Drive. So I did my financial and marketing plan on a cocktail napkin with a borrowed bic pen from the waitress, using my Blackberry's calculator function to get the most out of the assets I already own. The waitress, incidentally, had poofy lips -- 20% tips on $12 Peroni lets her live the High Life, no doubt. Where's Wendell when you need him? (These are insider beer industry jokes, my apologies to my few friends who aren't in the industry. See, SABMiller owns Peroni and High Life, and there's this guy named Wendell that peddles High Life, and......well just rest assured, it's funny). As luck would have it, with this financial crisis, a napkin is all I needed, and I only needed one side. After I was done, I walked out into the sunlight, shading my eyes, stuffing my business plan (napkin) into the pocket of my fraying shirt, and there was a Bentley with the vanity license plates proclaiming "PRDUCER". I hate this place. I'm going to Amsterdam

Lazy Sunday

It's Sunday afternoon and I'm sitting in my usual Sunday afternoon bar having a beer. The barmaid, Mercedes, knows me by sight but doesn't know my name – calls me sugar, which I like more than I should. She brings me a tall draught of a light beer without asking. I sit at the same table I always do. Mercedes treats me better than the other patrons, because I am the only regular in this bar. In this bar, the people are always different every day. In this bar, I never have time for more than one beer. And in this bar, I always overpay with a big tip, in cash, because I never have time for change or to wait for a credit card charge. Of course I'm talking about Rosario's in Terminal 2 of the San Antonio International Airport (international because of our daily flights to Mexico City and Monterrey, natch).

As I write this it occurs to me that the real reason Mercedes always rewards me with her winning smile, and what I swear are deliberate peaks at her heaving brown bosom, and the sexy swing of her skirt as she turns to offer rebuke to a complaining customer wanting their check, as the other patrons get nothing from Mercedes but a stern frown and saucy attitude, is because I never seem to have anything smaller than a 20 spot for my one beer – and Mercedes can't be bothered to make change with anything resembling haste. The fact that 100% of her customers are on a strict time schedule dictated by the airlines is lost on her. I tell her she would be better suited working the bars downtown in La Villita, where there is no such thing as a schedule and time stands still, but she just smiles and pats my cheek in a way that makes my knees weak.

So, yeah, it's an expensive beer, and it's not even a craft or import, but it is 22 ounces. A dollar an ounce is definitely worth it (the dollar isn't worth what it use to be) and it relaxes me for my flight. And it's worth keeping me in good graces with Mercedes, who I've seen instantly sober-up tipsy tourists with her cold stare, which can rake your face like grapeshot. It would effectively ruin my week to get a cold stare from Mercedes. Dropping Hamiltons like a rapper is my insurance against it.

In the Fall I'm forever flying on Sunday to catch Monday morning meetings, usually state beer distributor meetings. But today I'm heading to Charlotte, North Carolina to again stick my head into the lion's mouth. Yes, I'm speaking at the National Alcohol Beverage Control Association annual meeting – the control states wine and spirits regulators. Longtime sufferers of this blog will remember how I publicly humiliated myself with this group a few years ago in Aspen. Apparently they liked my presentation back then, or else my humiliation was entertainment on a grand scale, because they've asked me back. During the speaker conference call a few weeks ago, the organizer of the meeting said, “Harry, I remember that you caused quite a controversy last time you spoke at our meeting. I hope you won't shy away from controversy this time.” I am to be the unpaid entertainment.

But they also warned me to keep my comments centered on beer. I don't think anybody is served when I riff freely and recklessly on foreign spirits companies' dedication to the control state system. I've learned my lesson since then. Now I'll riff freely and recklessly on the foreign brewers' dedication level to the control state system. But enough inside baseball.

I have the Sunday blues. Just coming off one of those grand weekends that you never want to end. My friends Alex and Melissa Epley had us to their splendid South Texas ranch, Rancho Tres Hijos. Oh yes, the house is nice: indoor pool, ten bedrooms, a 1985 big screen TV that probably weighs 800 pounds and takes up more space than a refrigerator and probably burns 300,000 kilowatts a minute.

But what draws me to this place is the rugged arid South Texas brush country that is truly magic to me for some reason. I can't explain it. Most people would look at the land – where you literally can't touch a tree or plant without getting a hand-full of poisonous thorns, where nothing grows over six fee tall except the occasional oak tree and the common rattle snake, one of which was killed by the ranch foreman on the patio this morning, where the land can't support anything but lizards, snakes, armadillos, wild pigs, and rabbits, oh and huge whitetail deer and Beefmaster cattle – most people would look at this land and think, wow, what an ugly, hot, inhospitable hellhole. But to me, and to those who grew up down there, it's a freaking garden of eden. A paradise.

Just being down there at sundown, driving around in a dusty old truck with a cigar hanging out my mouth and a cold beer between my legs and binoculars hanging from my neck and my long-legged wife sitting next to me with tight jeans and boots on, and my good friends Alex and Mel on hand, and country music on the radio (old classic country of the whiskey-gambling-whoring-honkey-tonk variety, not that new sappy-Jesus-sippy-cup-soccer-mom country music), well, it makes me grow a big rubbery one, to quote Tyler Durden in Fight Club. It just doesn't get any better than that.

On Saturday night we're cooking dove on the barbey when Alex's foreman, Julio, and his son Jose join us at the fire. The foreman doesn't speak English, but I delude myself into believing that I speak Spanish so it doesn't matter. Turns out, when all I do is bark “despacio!” at the poor fellow, (which means 'speak more slowly'), I don't actually speak Spanish. But I swell with pride when my son, Hunt, translates for us as he is fluent (he later told my rib Lulu, “Dad just knows common words like 'hola' and 'cerveza' and all the Mexican beer names like Corona-Tecate-Dos Equis, which he thought meant 'two horses', and words like tequila and tortilla.” Not true, just for the record. Hunt is a known liar, but if that's his story, so be it. Hey Hunt, we ran out of money before buying your Christmas presents this year. Lo siento, mi hijo.) Anyway, The foreman's son, Jose, is 16 and speaks perfect English so we got along grandly. He's a solid kid: smart as a whip and comfortable in his skin – not a liar like Hunt. He offers to take Hunt and I hog hunting the following morning.

We wake up an hour before dawn and head for the feeder. I had forgotten how much I hated hunting until I was trapped in the blind. Two things I really despise: boredom and mosquitoes, and hunting invariably has both in spades. After about five minutes, my hand is twitching for a book, magazine, blackberry, etch-a-sketch, anything to occupy my mind. And then we hear the inevitable inhuman hum, a high-pitched whine – a cloud of mosquitoes descend upon us, easy thin-skinned prey, drawn no doubt by the carbon dioxide we're exhaling. I insanely try to hold my breath to keep them at bay, but that doesn't work for long, for obvious reasons, oxygen being somewhat important to life. I turn up my collar and cram my cowboy hat down low, but the damn things still got me. I probably have malaria.

The other thing I don't like about hunting is that you have to remain perfectly still and quiet, because while the animals you're hunting are generally stupid and easy to trick, because they're animals, they unfortunately do possess an acute sense of hearing. So every time I blew my nose, farted, kicked the side of the blind, or adjusted my underpants, all of which were absolutely necessary at the time, Jose and Hunt would give me hostile looks. Finally I said, screw it, and took out my blackberry and caught up on my emails. I figured if the hogs could hear the clicking of the blackberry keys, they deserve to live. If not, then die they will at the hands of my 13 year old son. Nature is cruel but nature is just.

Nature cruelly but justly continued to irritate us in the form of mosquitoes as big as small mocking birds for the next hour. But then, hogs finally came to the feeder because, of course, they're hogs. Pigs get fat, hogs get slaughtered, as the saying goes. Hunt and Jose each bagged one. What a glorious morning. Let's get back to the warm bed of that long-legged wife and have a tickle war.