Cleveland Cavaliers vs Golden State Warriors; a McBone Preview of the NBA Finals

Hoping to give the Cleveland Cavaliers a little cosmic assist as they tear their way through the NBA playoffs, I've sworn off all beer on game days except that which is brewed by the Great Lakes Brewing Company. The strategy has paid off to the tune of a 12-2 record, with just 4 wins separating the Cavs from their first ring and Cleveland from its first title in 51 years. Only once did my vigilance slip: game 3 vs the Bulls, when I cracked open a Michigan-made Hefeweizen that tasted so vile that I knew only evil and defeat could follow. Indeed, my transgression did not go unnoticed by whatever energies rule the universe and dictate the outcomes of basketball games. A banked-in three pointer by Derrick Rose was at once a punishment and a warning against future infractions. My bad, Cleveland. That was unnecessary and it won't happen again.

To get an idea of the level of superstition I'm operating at right now: I was at our local organic store yesterday looking to stock up on some Great Lakes for the forthcoming championship series vs the Warriors of Golden State. Innocently enough, I selected a six-pack of Rye of the Tiger, but was seized by a sense of dread so immediate and overwhelming that I had to put that sixer down, leave the store at once and procure a different brew at an alternate locale. At the next stop, I quieted my mind, calmly surveyed the offerings and, spying a pack of Commodore Perry IPA that felt 'hot,' made my selection.

I am confident that the right beer is cooling in my fridge, and thus I am ready to break McBone's long silence with this preview of the Cavs' second appearance in the NBA Finals!

PG - Kyrie Irving v Steph Curry: Let me just put it out there: I already hate this Curry fucker, and I don't care if he was born in Akron. Hell, the cemeteries of Akron are filled with the remains of my enemies, so why should I give a damn about some kid playing ball in Oakland? Screw Steph Curry! If the Warriors win this series, it will be because the Cavs couldn't contain him and his eight million rainbow threes, and it will also be because Kyrie's knee and foot don't let him dominate the way he did in the regular season. This is the year Irving arrived, and there was a two-month stretch when he was destroying just about every great PG in the league. That said, there's no way he can defend Curry in his current state, and he won't likely be asked to. On the other end, KI must have his shot working and find a way to make the bastard sweat on defense. Advantage: Warriors, with the caveat that this would be a very even match-up if KI was healthy

SG - Iman Shumpert v Klay Thompson: Klay is another gunning SOB who can score a billion points in about two minutes, but he's going to have to do some of that scoring against one of the nastiest defenders I've ever seen in a Cavs uniform. Shumpert is everything that midseason castoff Dion Waiters is not: a guy who cares only about winning. Not touches, not points, not minutes, just winning, and he can be a Cav for life, as far as I'm concerned. Thompson is a tough defender in his own right, but if Shump can continue knocking down the open threes that have been there all postseason, he will keep the defense honest and open things up for our playmakers. Advantage: Warriors, but just barely

SF - LeBron James v Harrison Barnes: The best player in the league operating at the height of his powers against some guy named Barnes. For the Warriors to have any chance at winning this series, they will have to do a better job on LeBron than they did in their last meeting, when he went for 42-11-5-1-2 and they threw everyone at him, Barnes being the least effective. As for LeBron, he is peaking in terms of focus, mental toughness and hitting clutch shots. Advantage: Cavs

PF - Tristan Thompson v Draymond Green: This should be among the more entertaining matchups. Two high energy guys who never seem to take a play off. TT has a couple inches on Draymond, who probably will be spending a decent amount of time on LeBron. There was a time I thought that Chris Grant had made a tragic mistake drafting TT. After watching him make play after play after play this postseason, after seeing him block shots, make clutch baskets, and rebound the hell out of the ball, it turns out he was saving his best work for the games that matter most. Advantage: even

C - Timofey Mozgov v Andrew Bogut: Young, tall, physical, scrappy, shot blocking Russian center vs old, tall physical, scrappy, shot blocking Australian center. Advantage: even, although Moz did drop a 23 and 29 on Bogut's head last year. 

Bench - JR Smith, Matthew Dellavedova, James Jones v Shaun Livingston, Andre Iguodala, Festus Ezeli: One could make the argument that JR has been the second best Cav this postseason, and he did take his game to a new level against Atlanta with his 18 points annd 7.5 rebounds per game, suffocating defense and three pointers that were so contested they seemed impossible. Delly, along with Shump and JR, is one of the reasons the Cavs have neutralized the three pointer and made all stars like Rose and Teague look downright silly at times. Meanwhile, this Aussie kid Delly is too dumb to know he doesn't really belong in the league, and he's quickly turning himself into a cult icon in NE Ohio. You can book James Jones for a couple of huge three pointers at some point in the series. The rest can stay on the bench, unless there is some garbage time to be played or a hatchet man is needed in the form of Kendrick Perkins.

As for GS, Livingston is a perfect PG off the bench, and Iggy is going to give them a little of everything at the 2 and 3. What sucks for him is that he will have to guard LeBron, which he did not do well last time out. I can't help but be annoyed by a guy named Festus. Fuck him. I don't care about Mo Speights and David Lee. They aren't in the rotation. Advantage: Fuck it! Cavs, because JR fucking Smith
 
Coach - David Blatt v Steve Kerr: Both have done a stellar job in their first year coaching an NBA team. Kerr inherited a playoff-ready squad, however, and he has had the luxury of good health and little turbulence or turnover. David Blatt has been the one who was really tested this year, with a resting LeBron, a roster shakeup, injuries and rumors of his imminent midseason demise. The Cavs started the season 19-20. Since January 15, they have the best record in the NBA, including a 12-2 playoff run. Blatt has proven adaptable and capable of getting pieces to fit in a hurry. Advantage: Blatt

Prediction: This isn't the 2007 Cavs making the franchise's first trip to the finals playing an experienced and ruthless Spurs team. Now we have a fully formed LeBron James and a perfect complement of players who keep rising to the occasion. The Warriors are a good team. A very good team, but they are an inexperienced, jump shooting team playing on the world's biggest basketball stage for the first time. If Kevin Love hadn't been knocked out of the playoffs, I'd say Cavs in 5. Without Love, it will take one more game to put this Warriors team away: Cavs split in Oakland to open the series and win in 6.

This post is dedicated to our Uncle Al. I'd give anything to hear his own analysis of this series, or of anything going on in the world right now. 

The End of Innocence

Until tonight, I had no beef with any of my sometimes-popular wife's parenting tactics:

Yes, it's shocking. Yes, it's scandalous. But let's be honest for a second: this really is my failing as a dad. My job was to protect him. Instead, I sanctioned this atrocity by agreeing not just to let it happen, but to record the event for posterity.

The boy has a good heart. I'm sure he'll forgive me one day.

Don't know if I can forgive myself.

nwb

Presenting Santiago José

My sometimes pregnant popular wife has done it again. Please join McBone in welcoming Santiago José to the greater McBoniverse.

Official Baby Statistics (McBone certified)
Weight: 7 lb. 1 oz.
Length: 20.25 in.
Time of birth: 8:12 AM, 07/5/14 (more on that date later)
Sex: ♂

Let's get this out of the way: this kid was born with the worst haircut I've ever seen. One month later and I'm still not sure what he's thinking, trying to mask a receding hairline with a stringy, inefficacious combover. Add in elements of a mullet, '80s punk-spike, Spock sideburns, and an over-the-ear job reminiscent of the dad from Silver Spoons and you've got some kind of postmodern mess on your hands.

Aside from that, my first impression of SJ was that we had created an adorable blend of my wife and wrestling great Gorilla Monsoon.

Behind the Name

We wanted to choose a Spanish name to reflect the kid's Venezuelan heritage. Santiago, or Saint James in English, has no significance to us other than we like the sound of it. Also, there is this Michigan beer that I unwittingly picked up a few months ago...

...that served the purpose of 1) tasting great (5.0 McBones) and 2) reinforcing that our choice of first name was indeed the right choice, which is what a good beer should do.

José is of course the name of the boy's maternal grandfather, my father-in-law, who, at any given moment may be blazing trails in stem cell research or making himself the life of the party.

Also, Joseph (technically Hovsep, or Յովսէփ, in Armenian) was the name of my great grandfather, whose adventures in life merit a blog post of their own someday.

Regarding the birth

My wife is my hero. She's a first-rate gal on any given day, of course, but as I watched her push our boy into the world for 17 hours, I kept thinking: we men who gleefully inseminate our spouses do not appreciate enough what they do in growing and birthing our offspring, and we can never really make up for the beautiful ordeal that is pregnancy. After having the McBonerito plucked from an incision in her belly, she wanted to avoid a C-section this time around. She got her wish, and I'll never forget the sight of that slimy seven-pound person popping head-first into the world.

The DOB

The kid seems to have a patriotic streak. Labor commenced on July 4th, our day of independence,

Old Glory

Bald Eagle

Washington - Hero of Independence

and concluded on July 5th, Venezuela's day of independence.

Bandera de Venezuela

Turpial

Bolívar - Héroe de Independencia

It occurred to me that his name could be slightly more befitting this coincidence of birth date and parental heritage, something star-spangled, something that would unite the uneasy bedfellows that are the USA and Venezuela, but then we concluded that raising him on this street would be a significant enough gesture:

With this little Michigander joining a Buckeye, an honorary Buckeye and a Hoosier, our family has a decidedly Midwestern flavor. We shall endeavor to live our lives in a manner that is worthy of this magnificent tri-state area.

Santiago*, little Patriota, if you ever get around to reading this brief history, allow me to reiterate here that your first hairstyle was the worst I've ever seen. Incidentally, I love you, kiddo. Always have. Always will.

nwb

*This instance marks the last time I will ever use his real name on this site. We're hard at work seeking an appropriate nickname. Suggestions are welcome.

Ian Malcolm Was Right. So Was Ron Swanson

McBone Outpost #5996 features a rather ordinary, run-of-the-mill, long-neglected basketball hoop.

But this hoop houses a secret.

A reedy, chirping chorus tipped me off. As did a scolding mother wren.

I had to climb a ladder and peek inside, of course.

Take a closer look.

Closer still. These five little house wrens look about ready to leave their nest of twigs and steel.

Life finds a way.  Nature is amazing.

nwb

I Haven't Forgotten You, Moms

These are the two most amazing women I know:

Without them, I don't know where I would have ended up. Certainly not in a beautiful Michigan house, sitting on a comfortable sofa, sipping bourbon from a crystalline glass.

My sometimes-pregnant wife, obviously, is not my mother. She is, however, the mother of my sons.

This one:

And this one:

Watching her mothering skills in action only reinforces what I've known for almost 15 years: marrying this woman was the best decision I've ever made. She is also probably the only person in the world (sorry ladies) who could ever talk me into fathering a third child, which is why I've gone ahead with measures to sterilize myself while she is out of town.

My actual mother had three children of her own. She did a fine job with all three, but by my reckoning, the middle child is the one she got just right. I would like to add that she has put as much work into this new house as its occupants. That's why we've set her up with a basement suite, where she can rest her weary bones.

Mother's Day has come and gone, but a love note to a mom is always timely, so let me just say: Hey Mothers, I love you!

nwb

House of Destiny

My sometimes-pregnant wife was born in 1977.

So was this house:

Today is my wife's birthday.

Today is the day we close on the house.

Coincidences? Nahhh.

Happy birthday, baby. I love you. Let's go own a house.

nwb

Ten Points on Chief Wahoo

10) Something is different this year. Never in 38 years of Cleveland fandom have I seen so much written and said about Chief Wahoo on such a broad scale, and it hasn't subsided the way it usually does after the Indians home opener. The reason? Wait for point #2.

9) Part of the reason is that, prior to the start of the season, the Cleveland Plain Dealer came out against Wahoo. Finally. Some have called it an empty gesture. Maybe, but I'll go with 'better late than never' for Cleveland's most prominent daily paper.

8) As usual, Wahoo has his legion of ardent defenders. Right now you can find them massing at a Facebook page called Keep Chief Wahoo. Check it out, if you care to sample some of their rhetoric.

7) Speaking of rhetoric, here are some highlights that have been directed at yours truly:

Classy: I love Chief Wahoo, you effing creep. When I walk to the stadium past the protesters I finger that love right in their faces.

Patriotic: Gouge your eyes out, plug your ears, sit on your hands, and stop whining. An American soldier died so that you could have the right to your opinion. But, if something else is bothering you... don't let the door hit you in the ass, leave the country, see what happens when you bitch elsewhere

Confusing: you think Chief Wahoo is racist, but you support Gay marriages? How sick are YOU? What an a-hole!

I've also been called the 'PC Police,' 'libtard' and the 'Liberal PC Taliban.' And yet I'm probably like a lot of fans who don't like Wahoo. That is to say: I like to watch baseball and drink beer. And that probably makes me like a lot of fans who do like Wahoo. So, before dropping your next ad hominem comment, whatever position on the issue you take, consider that the person on the receiving end is probably pretty OK, and likely just wants to get down to talking about baseball.

That said, when you see that sophomoric radio loudmouths like Bob Frantz and Chuck Booms are on the opposite side of the issue, that's how you know you're on the side of Right.

6) If the team was new, Major League Baseball would never sanction the name Cleveland Indians or the Wahoo mascot, just like it would never sanction Cleveland Negroes and Chief Sambo:

Cleveland Negroes - Not OK

Cleveland Indians - Somehow OK

5) One of the most common defenses of Wahoo you hear is 'It's just a CARTOON!' Well, that cartoon is a product of the 1940s, just like this cartoon. If you don't think they come from the same tradition of dehumanization, you are fooling yourself.

4) Hall of Fame outfielder Larry Doby, the first African American player in the American League, the man whom is often cited as an example of how progressive the Indians have been in their history, once likened Chief Wahoo to 'minstrel shows.'

3) The Cleveland Indians have long maintained that the name Indians and the Wahoo mascot are meant to honor Louis Sockalexis, a member of the Penobscot Nation who played for the Cleveland Spiders from 1897-1899. Even if that story were true (it is not), the Penobscot Nation formally requested that the team stop using the Wahoo mascot in 2000. Their resolution was adopted by the Maine state legislature in 2009. The team has upheld this tradition of honor by ignoring the resolution.

2) By now you've seen this picture, taken by Cleveland Frowns on opening day, of Indians fan Pedro Rodriguez and Native American Robert Roche, who has been protesting Wahoo since the 1970s.

This photo was presaged with startling accuracy in 2002:

The Roche/Rodriguez encounter is a game changer, and has exploded the issue on a truly national level. And you have to wonder if the redfacers, in their determination to celebrate the mascot, have unwittingly hastened its demise. Because, seriously, what is the difference?:

Not OK

Somehow OK

Not OK

Somehow OK

1) This issue has become an embarrassment to the Dolan family, the team and the city. It really doesn't matter how emphatically the pro-Wahoo crowd insists that 'it's about baseball' and 'tradition,' because no amount of baseball or tradition can excuse an almost 70-year-old visual slur.

1-A) When the team re-brands, and it will, I plan to put my money where my mouth is by buying tickets and a piece of merchandise that I can be proud to let my son wear. My son, who is half Venezuelan and certainly has Native American blood in his veins.

Change the logo.

And change the name while you're at it.

Get more on Wahoo from:

Cleveland Scene

Waiting for Next Year

The New York Times

Keith Olbermann

Uni Watch

Welcome to Falling Rock National Park

Idle Musings

Special thanks to Cleveland Frowns for the use of the photo and the relentless energy devoted to this cause.

#DeChief

nwb

I Got Them CCCC Blues

I always spend a day or two in a state of discombobulation when my sometimes-pregnant wife goes out of town. My bad, I suppose, for marrying someone so brilliant and beautiful. This time, she'll be gone for five days, thanks much to the blasted Conference on College Composition and Communications, which has the nerve to take place every goddam year.

When I need a cure for the CCCC blues, I turn to a picture, taken on her 30th birthday, which we celebrated in Bordeaux in the year of our Lord twenty and aught-seven.

Throbbing with energy, passion, scepters, orbs and frenzied horses, this is undoubtedly the best picture I've taken in my life. I cannot unlock for you the many mysteries secreted herein; just know that this shot represents the lone instance in which my sometimes-mystical wife's magical powers have been captured on film. I do not know what was communicated from wife to horse and horse to wife via rainbow connection, and anyways I doubt that my feeble, unmagical brain could ever fully understand.

All I know is that, as an artist, this was my finest hour. Is it too much to call it the greatest photograph of all time? I submit that it is not.

nwb

This Is the Kind of Shit That Doesn't Happen before Having Kids

A few days ago I purchased $90 worth of groceries, placed the bags and the McBonerito into the shopping cart and made for the parking lot. After securing the kid in the McBonemobile, I climbed in, fired the engine and headed home.

Not until pulling into the driveway of McBone Outpost #1353 did I realize that the groceries were not in the car, but in a cart in the middle of the Shop Rite parking lot. After cussing my way back to the store, I found the cart exactly where I had left it ten minutes earlier. There the bags were too, though a scan of the inventory revealed that they had been relieved of several items. What remained (dish detergent, steel wool, onion), would not get us through the week.

No one to blame but myself, but the level of distraction is alarming. After all, there were only two things to remember:

1) Kid

2) Groceries

But then parental fatigue is a curious narcotic. Curious, in that it comes with a stimulating component, and just when you think you can't keep up with it all, you do. You feel as though you could take a nap at any time of the day, and yet you are strangely more alert than you have ever been. You accept that it will sometimes cost you $90 in groceries, because the tradeoff is that you aren't going to forget the kid.

But I do find myself wondering what the fuck is going to happen when this guy* arrives in July:

I suppose we'll wait and see. Until then, I'll pop open a beer and toast myself on one small victory: I did not forget the kid.

As for you, thief...cheers! I hope you enjoy the 3-pound English-cut roast, bottle of Pinot Noir, six-pack of Atwater Pilsner, olive medley and assorted nuts, among other delicacies I can't remember.

nwb

*If you ever read this post, kiddo, know that, when I placed my hand on your mother's belly today, I felt you kick for the first time.

The State of Cleveland Sports, Dark Skies Edition

Let me preface this happy rainbow of a post by noting that this year marks the 50th anniversary of Cleveland's last championship.

Browns

They're about to hire someone named Pettine to be the face of the next couple of 4-12 campaigns.

Cavaliers

They have a coach who preaches defense and a point guard who tries to shoot his team to victory.

Indians

They have a racist name and a mascot to match, casting a pall upon the city and all its beloved teams.

In memoriam:

The Cleveland Browns - 1964 NFL Champions

 
nwb

Dreading 2014

I have but one resolution for the year 2014: be a kinder, more compassionate, less judgmental person.

Except when it comes to these shitheads:

White guys with dreadlocks are the worst people in the world.  Worse than the Koch brothers.  Worse than Stalin.  George Carlin asserted that white men should never, ever sing the blues.  I get where he's coming from, though I respectfully disagree.  To my mind, a far more egregious crime is the obnoxious white guy who has the colossal gall to wear dreadlocks.  You want proof that white people are the absolute worst, that nothing is sacred, that we have to appropriate every fucking last thing, no matter how lame we make it?  Here you go:

Piss on you, white guys with dreadlocks.

Everyone else, I love you and happy 2014!

nwb

Magic and Loss

In the winter of 1996, I came back from winter break to find a yellow Post It on my dormitory room door.  The note had been dashed off in the excited hand of my old concert-going comrade, our resident Musicologist.  It read: 'McGraw, do you want to see Lou Reed in concert this Wednesday?'

When you're in college and you have the choice between seeing Lou Reed in concert, which may never happen again, or attending your Survey of Western Civilization class, which will happen four days a week, every week, you very politely give class the middle finger.  On that holy January day, we made the 4.5 hour journey from Athens, OH to Cleveland's Playhouse Square.  Had it been necessary, we would have driven to Mars.

I had no idea what to expect.  Lou was legendarily unpredictable as a performer, but it soon became apparent that he had left his comatose stage days somewhere back in the 1970s.  Lou was loud, his guitar was growling and his band was tight.  He had ditched the clean-cut, short-hair-and-spectacles look of his late '80s New York period for a glorious full-blown mulleted Afro.  He was the only man alive who could have gotten away with this style in 1996.

I don't remember every last detail from the setlist, but he did several numbers from his Set the Twilight Reeling album: Hooky Wooky, New York City Man, Finish Line and the title track.  He tossed in some classics, of course: Dirty Boulevard, Satellite of Love, Sweet Jane.  When at one point he admonished the audience to 'clap in time,' I would have sworn he was glaring right at me.  Notwithstanding my affront to the proceedings, Lou seemed to be having a pretty good time.

And when, in his second encore, the low twang of the most famous bass line in history started, that's when the crowd lost its marbles.  At last the band made its exit.  The curtain fell with the hall echoing 'Louuuuu.'  Had our rating system existed then, the show would have easily garnered 5.0 McBones.

I never did get to see Lou in concert again, one of the many reasons I count that night among the great blessings of my life.  I'll wager our Musicologist agrees.

Five lessons that Lou Reed taught me:

1) There's more to life than sports.

2) Gender is nonsense.

3) Graduating from college is fun.

4) Drag queens are superheroes.

5) New York is the greatest city in the world.

So here's my sendoff, Lou.  I'm not sure I have anything too profound to say, so I'll just say this:

Good night.

I love you.

I'll miss you.  

Most of all, thanks.  Here's hoping that clipper ship you ordered is waiting.

I wish that I was born a thousand years ago
I wish that I'd sail the darkened seas
On a great big clipper ship
Going from this land here to that
In a sailor's suit and cap
Away from the big city 
Where a man cannot be free
Of all of the evils of this town
And of himself, and those around
Oh, and I guess that I just don't know
Oh, and I guess that I just don't know 

nwb

The Wahoo Chop

I love Cleveland and I love baseball, but watching a team with jerseys and caps adorned with this dumbass image:

play a team whose fans do this fucking thing on a nightly basis:



is pretty hard to take.

After cringing my way through nine innings last night, I had to wonder: why is this kind of stereotyping of Native Americans embraced, when we wouldn't tolerate it for any other race?  Or am I giving people too much credit?  Would most of us be fine if the ballclub in Cleveland changed its name to the Chinks and slapped a smiling, slant-eyed, yellow-skinned buffoon on the hat?  Would we buy the merchandise and wear it with pride?

I like to think not, but the rabidity with which fans defend Wahoo and the Chop makes me wonder.

nwb

Michigan, FTW

Typical Indiana roadside billboard:

Typical Michigan roadside billboard:

I'm in the right state.

nwb

Advantages of Working from Home

Here's a confession I will doubtless be made to regret: I miss my coworkers.  There, you bastards, I said it.  Five years is no small hunk of time to spend each day with more or less the same group of people, and I can say with a straight face that I grew fonder of them as the days went by.  A few times a year, things would get pretty hectic around that old bookstore, but my friends were always there to pick me up.  And of course nothing was better than when Marcelita showed up with some of the good cooking she should be serving at her own restaurant.

That said, you can't beat working from home!  Though I've only been at it for three weeks, the advantages have already begun to reveal themselves:

More time spent with my sometimes-popular wife.

More time with the McBonerito.

25-minute driving commute reduced to 3.5 second walk to office.

Gas-chugging McBonemobile stays parked.

No fucking fax machine.

Record player essential office equipment.

Windows.

Nerfoop brainstorming sessions.

Two hour YouTube breaks.

Three martini lunches.

More festive meetings:

Naps on office futon.

No pants required.

No hygiene required.

Yep, a guy could get used to this real fast.  So, while I lament the absence of the fine folks from Ivy Tech, I think I'll stick with this new gig for a while.

nwb

Got No Beef with Pork

I'm a picky eater.  That is not to say I don't like a lot of stuff.  Unless it's got mayonnaise in it, I'm willing to give most anything a try.  I'm not a health nut, either.  I'll defend the consumption of sugar, salt, milk, cheese and bacon until the day I have a massive coronary, and there is nothing that will convince me that an egg is anything but good for the heart and soul.  Alcohol is my beverage of choice.  Gluten?  I eat it by the bowlful.  I was a vegetarian for almost 5 years.  Been there.  Done with that.

No, when I say I'm picky, it's because I want an ingredient list to look something like this:

Compare that to the Johnsonville brand:

Pork, water, corn syrup and less than 2% of the following: salt, dextrose, spices, extract of paprika, monosodium glutamate, natural flavors, BHA, propyl gallate, citric acid.

I don't want a lot of crap in my food, and I'm not comforted by the 'less than 2%' qualifier.  Keep your propyl gallate the fuck out of my sausage.

Clearly Dr. BEEF'S got it going on, even when it comes to pork.  I can't wait to grill these up tonight with some peppers and onions.

nwb

The McBone Beer Journal; 'Merica Farmhouse Ale

After drinking 'Merica Farmhouse Ale, crafted by the lunatic pair of Oklahoma brother-brewers at Prairie Artisan Ales, I felt changed.  Not because a sizable quantity of alcohol had splashed down into my empty gut.  No, this change was foundational.  The beer didn't just make me drunk; I was a different person after drinking it.  I don't know why, and I'm still trying unravel how.  Probably I'm a little more introspective now, and perhaps I've gained a more cynical view of the world.  On the other hand, drinking 'Merica felt something like a rite of passage--traumatic, yes, but edifying in the end. Only this is certain: I'll never quite be the same again.

Usually I try to write a review while in the act of drinking the beer.  This one required some time, distance and a chance to reflect.  Though weeks have passed, I remember the experience with total clarity, the same way I remember exactly where I was and what I doing the day Don Knotts died.  Am I ready to write this?  Let's say I'm as ready as I'll ever be.

A dinner invite to Jenny and Thomas's house would introduce me to a number of beers. Thomas suggested we start with the 'Merica.  He claimed never to have sampled it before, but it occurs to me now there was a twinkle in his eye as he spoke.  Then again, that may be the 'Merica thinking for me; you see, I'm less trusting these days.

The beer almost plopped rather than splashed into the glass.  What was left following the "pour" was an opaque orange-yellowish concoction, like an Indiana sun corrupted by the haze of a nuclear dawn. I was excited, but wary.

After a moderate white foam subsided, I sniffed what appeared to be the inside of an ancient cheese box, but one inhabited by a family of rodents.  Thomas, somehow unafraid, was the first to sip.  'That's pretty funky,' he commented.

To say the least.

Finding descriptors seems a futile gesture, but I will try to approximate the chaos that was unleashed in my mouth. Yes, there were some surface citrus and floral notes, but I don't give a damn about that.  Here's the important stuff:

Barn floor
Limburger cheese
Boiled cabbage
Fear
Freshly baked sourdough bread
Madness
Disease

I can draw no conclusions other than this: 'Merica Farmhouse Ale is the greatest beer I have ever tasted.  Prairie Farmhouse Ale is the worst beer I have ever tasted.

My sometimes-popular wife has this to say: It was one of the most remarkable drinks I've ever had, in part because it started as one thing, but ended as something completely different.  Sort of like a movie that starts as a somewhat toothless romantic comedy and halfway through becomes a poetic zombie flick.

For my part, I'd say that 'Merica Farmhouse Ale is to beer what Finnegans Wake is to novels.  In fact, I should like to read Joyce's work paired with this befuddling ale.  Perhaps one would help unravel the secrets of the other.

Official McBone Rating: 5.0 McBones and 0.0 McBones.

This double rating is unprecedented, and perfectly reflects that night of agony and ecstasy.  Would I do it again?  In a second.  Would I recommend it?  Depends.  Are you ready to look your demons straight in the face? 

Drink 'Merica at your own risk.

nwb

Northern Climes, Better Times

McBone Outpost #1211 has been shuttered.

Outpost #1353 is open for business.

Things are churning.  Posts are forthcoming.  Tonight, though, I am sipping whiskey and listening to baseball.  The Indians are losing.  Again.  That is one of the many topics we will address in short order.

nwb

Issue 2 of Falling Rock Is Here!

Friends, today our genial postman had a treat in his daily delivery to McBone Outpost #1211.  Among the clutter of envelopes labeled 'Past Due' and 'Final Notice' was Issue 2 of Falling Rock National Park.  Yes, though our artist in residence and partner blogger Kid Shay has suspended his daily Falling Rock strip indefinitely, he has continued the adventures of Ernesto, Carver, Pam, Melissa and Ranger Dee in comic book form.  Let me tell you, the Kid has elevated his game to match the larger format, and as great as Issue 1 was, the second installment, filled with ghosts, confused shoe store managers and a jaw-dropping montage of a prairie dog habitat, will be an even tougher act to follow.

Official McBone Rating: 5.0 McBones

Now, don't think that just because I've read it once I'm going to hand over my copy.  The good news is that it's not too late to buy a subscription of your own!  And while you're shopping, you might want to pick up a collection or two of the Falling Rock daily.  No need to ask me which is the best; as something of a Falling Rock connoisseur, I recommend them all.

nwb

Homemade Pie Delivered!

On Thursday I posted a simple plea on Facebook: "Can someone please bake me a pie?"

On Saturday the call was answered:

Our resident baker, Spronk, whose leftover lunch is decaying right now in our fridge, delivered a homemade blueberry pie this very afternoon.  Before ever taking a bite, I can guarantee that this is one of the greatest pies ever made.  My plan is to have the pie for dessert with a hot cup of black coffee.  I plan to have another slice of pie tomorrow morning for breakfast, again with a strong cup of black coffee.  I defy you to find a flaw in any of these plans.

Any doubts as to whether I am the luckiest person in the world have now been erased.

I love you, Spronk.  You can store your lunch in our fridge as long as you like.

nwb