The Large Man Chronicles

‘I was about to lose it there’ I think to myself as I’m splashing water on the lap area of my pants. ‘I don’t deserve this; I’ve been good this week. I’ve exercised, I’ve eaten right, I have avoided the local ballet, and I have had very little to drink. I’m not turning over a new leaf or changing my life by any means, I’m just saying that I have been good this week. So why did Southwestius – the modern god of traveling sales dudes, curse me with Julius and Demetri? Where’s my reward for a virtuous life? (OK, virtuous week, but still?)

Julius and Demetri are the tag team 4-year old and 3-year old brothers who are wreaking havoc on the passengers waiting on a flight to Buffalo at gate B-18 in Chicago Midway Airport. While we are all distracted by these unholy terrors, the passenger I’m most concerned about is me. I’m just not in the mood to be nice; love and patience are not in my emotional inventory today. I’m tired and I want to go home.

Don’t get me wrong, I love little kids as much as Michael Jackson did; but there comes a point when someone has to step up and say something. The parents of these children do not want that someone to be me. And speaking of the parents, if I have to give them the annoyed head turn – one more time, security is going to have to get involved. How do the grown-ups in charge of these twerps let this behavior continue? Here’s an example of the discipline techniques of the parents of “Sweet Little Demetri” and “Handsome Little Julius”:

“…now come on Sweet Little Demetri, leave that man alone. Can’t you see he’s trying to work? Come back here sweet boy. Hey, Handsome Jules: do Mommy a favor and go get your brother before he makes that big man upset.”

“NOOOOO…I’m a MONSTER! (No shit) He has to come here by myself!” replies Handsome Julius. I think he meant himself, but he’s only 4 years old. I’m not looking for proper syntax, I just want the big brother “monster” to come get the little brother “pain in the ass” away from me and my laptop.

Since Handsome Julius won’t help, Mommy’s intervention continues…

“Ahhh…Demetri! Don’t touch that mans computer sweet boy. He’s working on something. Sweet little Demetri won’t get a lollipop if he doesn’t come here RIGHT NOW.”

So Sweet Little Demetri leaves me and runs across the gate area as his Mom unwraps the cellophane from a lollipop, he grabs the sucker from her hand and runs right back to me and waves it proudly in front of me like it’s the participation trophy he’s gonna get in a couple of years for being on his neighborhood swim team. He licks the red candy 2 or 3 times with a tongue that is covered with what appears to be chewed up peanuts or cereal…or mulch, and in that process the stuff that was on the inside of his mouth is now on the outside of his mouth, along with the red slobber from the lollipop. In like 30 seconds and 3 licks of a lollipop Sweet Little Demetri goes from just obnoxious and loud, to obnoxious, loud, and dirty. He must feel the same discomfort that a human might feel in the same situation, so he chooses to wipe his face off…on my pants… on MY EFFING PANTS!

I will be the first to admit that I’m a bit prissy when it comes to spots and stains on my clothes. If I spill salsa on my tie, the event just became business casual.  If I get a little mustard on my shirt or my pants, my day is over until I can change into a clean garment. It is what it is, and I am what I am, I’m sure there is a formal name for this particular brand of neurosis, but I don’t know what it is. What I do know is that I can’t function with “spooge” of any kind on my clothes, and Sweet Little Demetri just wiped kid spooge…MOUTH spooge…right on my crotch.

Mom and Dad don’t see it happen; they just see me stand up real quick like. They suspect something is afoul as I look at them one more time, so here is their next strategy:

Mommy says, “Handsome Julius, go see what your brother has gotten into, that man seems upset.”

This time, instead of arguing, Handsome Julius runs across the nice carpet at Gate B-18 and slams his body into his younger and smaller brother. So now, of course, the crying starts. Sweet Little Demetri is in pain, and Handsome Julius gives me a smile that says, ‘I did that for you dude, that little shithead won’t mess with you anymore, Mom or Dad will be here any second now.’ In a twisted and irresponsible way, I was grateful, and amused. I won’t apologize.

His smile predicted the next series of events correctly…sort of; Dad put down his book and came over to comfort his sweet little boy. I’m standing, Handsome Julius is standing next to me, and we’re both looking at the Sweet Little one screaming and writhing on the floor. I sat my laptop on the chair I had been sitting in and leaned down to help. As my nose got closer to where all the action was, I realized that one of the two had a really bad diaper situation going on. I mean really bad; it smelled like the home of a cat hoarder. The diaper smelled like what the world would smell like today if sewage treatment had never been invented. What could a kid that age eat that would make him smell so bad? Why am I involved in ANY of this…this shit? I just wanna go home.

So Dad looks at me and says, “Is everything OK? Are they bothering you?”

Because I have many good Christian friends who read this stuff, I can’t write what I wanted to say. Really, dipshit Dad? Do you really have to ask if they’re bothering me? They’re bothering everybody!

What I actually said was, “I’m trying to get some work done, but they haven’t hurt anything. Swe…um…Demetri, um – this guy,” As I pointed at Sweet Little Demetri, “just wiped his mouth on my pants. Do you have a wet wipe or something I could use to clean it up?”

“No” he says, as he looks at me with disgust, as if I were some kind of child hating, insensitive jerk. He continues, “…sorry, no, we don’t have anything.” He grabs Sweet Little Demetri, who is still screaming, and walks him over to Mom, and has her “handle it”.

At this point, I am coming out of my frickin skin with anger and frustration. Worst of all, Dad walks away and he leaves Handsome Julius…the bigger and stronger, and obviously meaner of the two, with me! You can’t make this shit up! For years I have assumed that the downfall of our society was rooted in the growing popularity of Rap music, insufficient funding for education, MTV, and violent video games… I’m so wrong. It is CLEARLY jerk-off clueless parents like these two.

I sit back down; I angrily start shutting down my work center because I have to go to the restroom and get some paper towels and some water and splash it all over my crotch so as to remove spooge that I did not generate. A wet groin area on one’s trousers sends a special message to your fellow travelers.

As I stuff power cords into my briefcase, Handsome Julius is just standing there, staring at me, smiling…as I lean over to finish packing I discover that the bad diaper belongs to Jules. I do the gag thing, I cover my mouth and nose, and I wretch just a little. I am so close to simultaneously puking and kicking someone’s ass, at this moment I’m actually afraid of myself. I really don’t care that he might be like 3 years old…I believe him to be a demon from another dimension that needs to be exorcised from the living world and sent back to wherever he hailed from.

But of course I don’t, I don’t because I’m not an “ass-kicking” kind of dude in any situation – but especially with kids. My true belief is that there are no bad kids; there are only kids who have dipshit parents who do not understand airport etiquette or common decency. Also, these two kids are apparently named Sweet Little Demetri and Handsome Julius, they are obviously going to be getting their asses kicked quite often as they go through life, so there’s no sense in me starting the trend – it will start soon enough.

I don’t kick anyone’s ass, I don’t even say a harsh word, I simply set my stuff aside and I grab Handsome Julius’ hand, I smile at him and I say, “C’mon buddy, let’s go see Mom & Dad. You need a new diaper.” We walk across B-18 and with a smile…I tell the mother, “I think your handsome boy here needs a new diaper.”

“Well! Excuse US! We’ll just have to get right on that. So sorry if we might have offended you with a dirty diaper!” is her sarcastic and ungrateful reply. I transfer custody of Handsome Julius with the release of his handsome little hand, and I walked away.

I walked away thinking, ‘I could kick HER ass, and nobody would care…they would probably cheer.’ But I’m not an ass-kicking kind of guy. Love and patience Large Man…love and patience.’

Thanks for reading.

The Large Man

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Different faces, different ideologies, different cultures, and different values are all present, but they don’t really matter at 101 Bottles Beers on the Wall in Kent, OH. It’s just a pub…a tap room and beer purveyor for people who are looking for something different, something off of the beaten path.  Despite the diversity of the crowd, it’s a laid back hang. 101 Bottles is simply a mellow place to gather and enjoy a beer.

Insert Robert Frost and valuable words to live by:

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I,
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

I like beers that you don’t see on the shelves of your standard convenience stores, or in places where everyone goes. I like beers that you have to work for. I like beers that are unique, less traveled by, and maybe created with a little “artistic license” by old hippies, trappist monks, artists and chemical engineers who couldn’t cut it in the corporate world (I’ve spent some time with a few brewmasters who fit this description).

Because I live in a small town in Pennsylvania, a unique beer pretty much describes everything beyond AB, Miller, and Yuengling products; all fine beverages, but not a first choice when I’m seeking a beer adventure. In Pennsylvania we have to buy our beer by the case at a distributor; this makes one somewhat reluctant to experiment or explore an adventurous palate at home. A Young’s Double Chocolate Stout would be really cool to try…but purchasing a case is a risky investment for something you’re not sure if you’re going to like or not. If you try one and it’s just okay, you’re left with 23 & ½ beers that you have to get through, rather than enjoy. Life is way too short to waste time on a bad beer choice. Bad beer and bad company are numbers 17 & 18 on the Large Man List of Life’s No-Nos.

Now, insert 101 Bottles of Beer on the Wall…3 hours from my hometown…where the laws are different:

Located in Kent, OH … 101 Bottles is a retail outlet for specialty import, micro, and craft brewed beers. They also have wine, but beers are their thing. The number 101 is probably a misnomer by about  4 times. I would bet that there are at least 400 different flavors of beer in this shop. They are in a humble little roadside strip mall in the Kent University area; I have to say that this store is a top 5 all time favorite find in my Large Man travels.

Travis, a red headed & bearded tap technician, store minder, and first class beer sommelier, offers up a friendly wave as you walk in the door. Beth, a feisty, bohemian looking beauty stands at the register and greets you with a smile and immediately offers to “…help you find anything”.  Justin, a tall, lanky, ball cap wearing dude is swarming around the store & tap room working on TV settings  and the store appearance, and although he has a busy vibe, there is still time for a wave and a smile and a “How ya doin’?”.

I’ve been in a lot of specialty retail places for beer, wine, stereo equipment, musical instruments or clothing; “high end” places where you go for expert opinion and guidance on a particular product you’re looking for.  Often times in these places I have felt intimidated or smaller than the experts whose help I was seeking. I like to call it “intellectual intimidation”, I don’t know what the real term for this behavior is, some people call it “snob” behavior, or “elitist”…I use “douche bag” a lot too. We all know what I’m talking about, and it’s probably fair to say that many of us have experienced it. You won’t get that kind of treatment here at 101 Bottles. These folks are as knowledgeable as anyone, but they like to share that knowledge. These folks are are not beer snobs, they are beer lovers…and they are happy to spread the love!

The limited release of Bell’s Hopslam Ale, a double IPA style brew, is what I was hunting during my most recent visit to 101 Bottles. Unfortunately there was no bottled inventory available, but they had a fresh keg of this nectar of the gods in their tap room; that was good enough. I once paid $15 for a 12 oz bottle of the stuff and I thought it was a good deal.

You can’t describe this beer appropriately in English because the words need to be spoken in a more poetic dialect – but I’ll try:

Bell’s Hopslam assaults your taste buds with layer upon layer of flavor and texture. A malty front with a grapefruit middle and then almost a pine finish are things I experience when I take a pull. I like to pour it very cold and let it warm up, to about 40 degrees.  I think this process allows the beer to open up all its layers and lets you experience its full spectrum of flavor. Its color is a beautiful shade of copper; its aroma is as fragrant as a country fence rail covered in honeysuckle. Every sip tastes like what you imagined a first kiss would have been like with that girl who got away…that girl of your dreams. If Hopslam were a girl, she would have a fiery, robust mane of curly red hair, she would have a big round athletic butt, large pouting breasts, and she would play the cello with the violent passion of breeding ostriches (trust me). This woman would be comfortable in a burger joint with that Guy dude from the Food Network, yet she could still hold court with the entire room at a sophisticated private bistro in Upper Manhattan. She would be the kind of pretty that all the dudes loved, but the girls wouldn’t find threatening. Class & cool in the perfect combination…and then some.

That about covers it. But imagine all those things spoken in Portuguese – then you get the true understanding of this magic potion.

So anyway…

… I walk into the tap room and I ask Travis for a chalice of this brew, and he cautiously asks me if I’m going to “try anything else?” He doesn’t know me, so he doesn’t realize that this was a silly question; there are 24 taps within his reach – all of them limited releases and specialty potions, and I have $117.37 in my pocket; of course I’m going to “try anything else.” I’m not being critical of the Trav man, actually quite the opposite – he was just being a pro.

“But of course” is my reply.

“Well then…ahh… I wouldn’t go with the Hopslam first. It’s just gonna CRUSH your taste buds for anything else you might want to try. I have a fresh tap going on another IPA that is great.”

I agree with his suggestion with an enthusiastic, “Giddy-up!”

And so it goes…for the next 90 minutes I sample a small handful of beers from all over this great nation of ours. A glass is poured, we discuss it, and I walk around the store and look at what is available for purchase in 6 packs and 22s. How cool is that? Pour me a beer, and then let me walk around the store and figure out what I’m going to buy. It’s a groundbreaking retail model in my opinion.

While I shop,  people are filtering in and out, there is a good looking couple who bring in dinner from the burrito place down the street, they have their dinner and they sample from the 24 taps and they join in on the discussion topics with the 12 or so other people who are perched on barstools in the room.

There is a fireman who asks my opinion on all the natural gas drilling that’s going on in PA and Ohio, there’s an attorney, Scott, who jokingly offers me his business card “just in case I enjoy too much Hopslam.” Travis has a buddy, Steve, parked at the end of the bar and they’re discussing Trav’s roommate situation. Beth has now brought her dinner in, and while taking a break she reads her book, eats her evening meal, and passionately discusses a subject with fireman dude in between bites. I don’t know Beth, and I’m willing to bet our ideologies are very different, but I like her. I hope we get a chance to talk, maybe debate points that we care about someday down the road. I enjoy the company of smart people…this is a smart place.

What I like most about this place is the comfort. I will, and often do, pay more for a product if I’m comfortable with the people I’m doing business with. I want the deal to be mutually beneficial, especially in the case of a beer purveyor, as I am most certainly going to be a repeat customer.

With Travis’ expert help – and patience with my questions, I harvested a generous and varied crop of new beer to try…and luckily, at a distributor in PA I was able to acquire a case of Hopslam too. I will return home to my family and my good friend and neighbor, Bob, as a conquering hero. The beer that is in my trunk could quite possibly be breaking several state and federal statutes (that’s lawyer talk, ask Scott)…but I don’t care, I like beers that you have to work for.

101 Bottles has a Facebook page, look them up and like them…tell them The Large Man sent you. Also, they are mentioned quite affectionately on Beer Advocate’s website, so trust me when I tell you that it’s not just me – the beer world loves these people too. If you like adventurous craft beers and friendly people, and if you respect people who love what they do, learn more about these folks. If you are ever in their neck of the woods, stop in. If you are a beer connoisseur, it doesn’t get any better.

Thanks for reading.

The Large Man

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I feel like I’m cheating. I’m at work, but work is taking place in a beautiful suite in Salem VA, I have three Schlafly Dry Hopped APAs (American Pale Ale) buried in ice for later this evening, Another Park, Another Sunday & Fields of Gray are the first two songs in queue on my iTunes…

There’ll be blue skies fallin’

There’ll be bad scenes and bad dreams

In a world so uncertain

Through the clouds it’s hard to see

I will grab you and lift you

As we hold on tight and sway

We’ll go walking

Across the fields of gray

…that’s good stuff! The only thing that would make this moment better is if Karen Stoutamyer was in her cheerleader outfit, sitting on my lap and whispering the words of the song in my ear. I guess that would really be cheating, ‘cause I like her husband, and she has had dinner with my wife, they have “broken bread together” so to speak…the associations are just too close. I think it’s perfectly acceptable for a hot woman to whisper sweet nothings into your ear while wearing cheerleader stuff if she’s never met your wife, and you don’t know her husband. Otherwise, well, the general rules of decorum have to apply. Damn, it’s a nice thought though.

Life isn’t fair. I should be allowed to have Karen whispering in my ear. I should have more money. I shouldn’t have to be away from home so much. I should have an American Standard Stratocaster. I should have a full head of curly blonde hair. I should’ve been able to kiss a girl named Angie, at least once. I should be able to know what’s around the corner or what’s next. I shouldn’t be only halfway through the funerals I have to go to this week.

Today I carried the casket of the man who gave me a Martin guitar when I was 12 years old. Do you have any idea what a big deal it is to have a Martin guitar? At any age, it’s a privilege – I was 12. My Uncle Roosevelt just gave it to me. “You can’t learn how to pick on them cheap ass guitars. Learn how to play Wildwood Flower on this one and you can have it.”

I did.

That guitar, and that man, taught me a lot of things. I will never be a good guitar player, but it doesn’t matter – I really enjoy playing my guitars, and that’s all that matters. One of the things the Martin guitar taught me was how to appreciate the finer things in life. One of the things the man taught me was that I’m entitled to those things as much as anybody else; “…if you’re willing to work for it, you can have it.”  That’s a good lesson, that’s why I always dated the pretty girls…my Martin guitar, and my Uncle Roosevelt said I could.

I was sad to see him go, but I find some comfort knowing that he’s hangin’ out in a music store in heaven, listening to pickers, their stories, and sharing a few of his own. He’s playing Tom Dooley on a pre-war Martin, and he’s telling a patron that “Wayne Henderson makes a better guitar”…that’s a nice picture for me.

The second funeral I will attend this week is for a boyhood friend, Skip. The first time I was allowed to cross the street without holding my Mom’s hand, Skip was the friend I was going to play with. Skip and I were the same age; he is the first childhood friend of my memory. We grew up together with a cast of characters in an unscripted, improvisational neighborhood play where nobody ever really took the lead, but nobody ever stayed in a supporting role either. We all had our talents and strengths, and we all had our flaws and weaknesses. We had happy homes and sad homes, broken homes, and fake homes. We had boyhood adventures, lots of “near misses”, and we had fun.  Picture a combination of the movies The Sandlot and Stand By Me, that was our life. It was a good life.

This is where most writers insert the phrase, “Life was simpler then…” I don’t really think it was, at least not for us. I think life was less protected then, also less handled and less planned; you just lived it and didn’t over think it all. Almost everyone in my age bracket has had this conversation, or posted something like this on Facebook:

“When I was a kid, my parents kicked me out of the house by 9:00 in the morning, and I was forced to play outside. We used our imaginations, we built forts, we built dams in the creek, we played football all day, we played Army…baseball bats were bazookas and tree branches were rifles…and our parents didn’t know where we were until the streetlights came on. If I needed to travel any distance I got on my bike and I got myself there”

Like “50 is the new 30”, that paragraph is the new “I walked to school in the snow – uphill both ways!”

Both of those conversations usually concluded with “…and I turned out fine.” Really? Did you? OK, if you say so. I didn’t.

Skip, Rock, Dole, Killer, Fenner, Pee Wee, Tone Tone, Jaybird, Red, & Kohrs spent summers fishing and playing hotbox (pickle), we spent our falls playing football – two hand touch in the street, or tackle in the fields of our Elementary & Jr. High School. We spent our winters playing basketball on the playground of our school, or in Skip’s backyard patio court; always worrying about the ball making its way down the concrete stairs and hitting the sliding glass door and waking Skip’s father. This was bad…his glare could defrost a January windshield in like 10 seconds.

Skip DeVoe…the name rolls off of my tongue and through my memory like waves on the Carolina coast – full, robust, and eternal. I could tell Skip DeVoe stories for 2 days, and I wouldn’t be halfway finished. The boy was my good friend, the man, sadly, was a stranger to me. Life isn’t fair.

Skip’s hand were always shaking, but he could tie a treble hook on  a 6 pound test fishing line as deftly and as steady as the most skilled surgeon. Skip was beautiful…a strong, handsome kid, who was good at everything he did. He knew how to talk to the girls too. The ladies liked him because he was never shy about saying something nice…he gave you his heart. I think he kinda worried what you were going to do with it afterward, but he gave it anyway. He was fearless, I don’t remember him ever starting a fight, but if you wanted one, he would fight. He was never afraid to stand up to a bully, or to someone who was wrong. I only know a few people like that, people who would rather take an ass-whipping than take anyone’s bullshit. I realize that it’s a bit primitive to admire such things…but I do.

Even though I didn’t know what I was seeing when I saw it, the complexity of Skip’s soul, the depth of his character mixed in with the simplicity of his spirit, were all things that set a compass for me. Skip was just a good dude. He was loyal to his friends, he was kind to strangers, and he was generally happy with the moment. When we were kids, he was happiest in some kind of competitive game, but he could be happy lying down in the soft tall grass at “the short cut” staring up at the clouds and wondering.

I’ve written about this recently, but I believe the point is worth repetition; it’s sad that we seldom stop and think about, and appreciate, the effect that people have on our lives until we lose them…until it’s too late. If I could talk to Skip today, I would tell him that even though I didn’t know it at the time; he helped to teach me about courage – a vital component to parenthood and internet banking. He helped develop my competitive nature, without which, in my day job, I would be a complete bottom feeder. That competitive spirit has helped me enjoy the sports that I have played through the years, and the sporting events that I have attended or watched on TV – I love that stuff.

I think the biggest lesson that Skip taught me was how to just “get along”, and that you can get along without compromising your values and beliefs. It took me a while to apply the lessons learned from my friend, and like other lessons, every now and then I forget…but I get along alright.

I’ll go to this service, I’ll walk down memory lane with some old friends, and I’ll remember my friend Skip with a smile. Sometime today I’ll close my eyes and I’ll see his head fake as he drives around me to the basket, or I’ll watch his trembling hands quickly tie a lure onto a line and then, just as quickly those hands will gracefully cast a perfect arc just short of some lily pads, and he’ll turn around and give me a wink. I’ll see these things, and I’ll miss a guy that I haven’t seen in twenty-five years, and I’ll try to make sense of it all. I will do my best to celebrate the life that left too soon. I will try and understand that this is all part of some grand plan that just doesn’t feel so grand right now, it feels unfair. Life isn’t fair, but it’s good. Rest in peace my friend.

Thanks for reading.

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