WUMF: June Edition

Is it summer, already? Is it the end of June, already? Is it time for another WUMF, already? Yes x 3.

The Beach
At the beginning of the month I went to the OBX and I promise a longer post about being in the 4 x 4 section. Needless to say, if you have plans to go on vacation and you have a four wheel drive vehicle, check out Carova Beach. You won’t be disappointed.

Jagrwatch
What the hell is happening in Pittsburgh? The Pirates are a game over .500 and there is a possibility that Jaromir Jagr could play for the Penguins. There’s also still a lockout. If blood starts flowing out of the point, and pigeons fall from the sky, I wouldn’t be surprised. Actually, I don’t even know when the point fountain is going to be back on. I drive within sight of it every day and the last time I saw water in the fountain was when we were underwater back in the end of winter. Anyways, the whole thing with Jagr is nuts. He’s got an offer from Detroit. Does he? He’s got an offer from Pittsburgh. Has he accepted?

His plane got diverted from landing at JFK by fornicating turtles. Apparently, there was around 100 turtles on the runway, getting it on. Airport staff moved them and then the TSA detained four of them for brandishing ninja like weapons. [sing songy] Teenage Humping Runway Turtles, effing at the airport, for an hour [/sing songy]


2011 Angry Mongo Summer Giveaway
A couple of weeks ago, I ran a giveaway through my store blog. It was a summer themed contest sparked by the notion that summer is now here and it’s time to enjoy the BBQ and vacation and the warm weather. Well, those of us in the Northern Hemisphere, anyway. So, I dug into the movie vault and found three classics; One Crazy Summer, The Great Outdoors, and Meatballs. I threw in a shirt, inspired by one of the movies. I lightly placed a Doodle Speaker with the M.A.M.S logo in the box along with some other goodies and announced to the world that the #AngryMongoSummer giveaway was on like Donkey Kong.

After a week of tweeting, posting, and commenting about their favorite vacation spots, the list of entries was narrowed down to one random winner. Joby Franczek, also known as The Bald Fat Guy on the interwebs was my big winner and should soon be getting his care package. Thanks for entering and congratulations.

S#!t My Kid Says
I’m fat. I get it. I’ve been trying to knock off the pounds and I still haven’t forgot my little counter up there. Still working on it. However, once in awhile, my kid reminds me of how much I dwarf her in size. After work, one day, I was in my bedroom getting changed into my comfortable attire and was just finishing on putting on a pair of shorts. I didn’t so much as struggle to button them as I gently fastened them as to not rip the button right off of the shorts. My kid seeing me do this, looks at me while I’m holding my breath and says, “Daddy, is that hard to do?”
“Yes, dear, it is. That is why you don’t get a third glass of bunny milk.” (Nestle Quik)





That’s all I got for this month. Rock on!

The Sad Fate of Cooker and Jumba

I was preparing to either A: Share my adventures in the OBX's 4 x 4 section or B: Rant on my local KFC consistently screwing up my dinner order, but will save those for later. Instead, it’s a spontaneous post on childhood.


I was never a fan of Calvin and Hobbes. I probably would have been but I never paid much attention to comic strips outside of Bloom County or Outland, growing up. I followed Opus to the end which was sad and poignant all at once. My only real devotion to Sunday or daily comics is Get Fuzzy, which details my life as a pet owner. My alpha female cat Emmy is so Bucky in more ways than one.

However, C&H holds a place in my heart because of its theme of childhood and imaginary friends, stuffed or otherwise. Childhood is one of those sacred things that I miss terribly. The older and more cantankerous I get the more I wish I could be a child, trusting and optimistic.

I can’t even live vicariously through my own child because I’ve let the ‘angry’ out more often than not as she destroys another household item or fails to pay attention to anything she’s doing. She’s four and I have no patience. That’s my bad. Though, realize, the child is only four in a physical sense. There is far more going on behind those eyes and it scares me. She is either going to be a genius and save the world or the biggest criminal mind this side of the Legion of Doom.

But looking on as she plays with her animals as if they were her best friends gets me a little choked up. Indeed, Calvin and Hobbes is one of the saddest strips written. In my opinion it just foreshadows that inevitable passing of Calvin from childhood into adolescence, marking the end of Hobbes anthropomorphic life as we know it. Like watching Toy Story 3, the writing is on the panel.  Each day brings Hobbes’ eventual demise closer and closer.

So, now I have three identifiers of the saddest commentary on childhood; the first being Peter, Paul and Mary’s "Puff the Magic Dragon". That has got to be the saddest song ever. I’m a big ole ball of goo when it comes to the change in tone as Jackie grows up and forgets Puff, leaving him to go off alone and exist as a sad dragon with his best friend gone, forever. Toy Story 3 was the second as Andy leaves for college. Even as I type this, I choke back that lump, thinking of those visceral scenes of childhood stealing as Andy’s toys accept death and await incineration. Then, even though they survive, there is the passing of ownership from Andy to Bonnie.  Part of me thinks that there should have been some moment of recognition between Andy and Woody, something that says, “I know you can talk and I’m OK with that. Thank you for being my best friend all these years.” Finally, Calvin and Hobbes ends before the sad coda can be heard; showing promise of new adventures and exploration of the world. Yet, I know what lies ahead for these best friends and I lament the fate of every childhood toy, stuffed animal and imaginary friend in the world.

For my own childhood, I had two imaginary friends; Cooker and Jumba. I have no recollection of their introduction into my life, nor any about their departure. I do not even recall them being a very big influence on my playtime. I simply remember that they were there and then they weren’t. I can describe them only as this. Cooker was a thin, Hispanic kid, somewhere in his teens but sporting a pencil thin mustache. He kept his haircut very neat and would usually be envisioned sporting a plain white t-shirt. Jumba, however, was a bit more slovenly, chubby Caucasian kid with broad lips, messy hair, and a striped shirt. Pejoratively speaking, he was a mouth breather. Cooker and Jumba represented the two sides of my behavioral psyche. Whenever I did something good or selfless it was through Cooker. If I was bad or broke something, Jumba was the ultimate catalyst of my indiscretion.

Once, my parents asked me what they did for a living. I could only surmise that Cooker was just that, a cook and that Jumba was unemployed. I’m sure I made those up on the spot and had no thought into conceiving those vocations for my imaginary friends. I don’t remember anyone ever asking why I was friends with Jumba, given that he was a bad influence. I’m sure my response would have been, “Because he has no other friends.”

I don’t remember when they disappeared from my periphery but I take it Jumba had a harder time accepting the loss than Cooker did. If I had to imagine what happened at that moment I think Cooker would have been a little sad, but ultimately accepted the decision, moving on to some other child’s life. Meanwhile Jumba just sat there, befuddled with what to do. Constant pleadings from Cooker to accompany him were probably met with denial on the part of Jumba. Cooker, not wanting to be stuck in limbo, eventually had to leave Jumba behind. I’m sure he didn’t want to, but Jumba just could not accept that he needed to move on and risked dragging Cooker down into the mire of wallowing and dissipation into nothingness.

Well, ain’t we all just uplifted and happy for the rest of the day!

Jackasses Dead And Alive

Ryan Dunn was a Jackass. There, I said it. Is it hurtful and despicable to say that in light of his death? No. He was a member of Jackass. In truth, I couldn’t remember which one he was until it was mentioned that he’s the one that stuck the toy car up his arse in the first Jackass movie. Then, it triggered a faint recollection. Other than that, his fame was lost on me.

Just after his death being reported, Roger Ebert tweeted something about the incident and it set off a firestorm of tweet rage among other celebrities, or those who claim to be. “Too soon” and “hurtful to families” was thrown about. Was it too soon? Does it matter? This is the age of the Internet, where everything is presented, digested, regurgitated, debated, and beaten like a dead horse in the matter of minutes. If Roger Ebert were to come back with that quip about Ryan being a jackass, say next year, it would be lost in the sea of trending topics.

Should Ebert have said it? Why not? He’s an observer of entertainment and media. He’s allowed to say whatever he wants and people are allowed to disagree with it.

Was he wrong? In my opinion, no, he was not. Look, the truth about what actually took place will not come out for days, maybe weeks or maybe ever. At the speed of a 140 characters per minute we take whatever news we get, vetted or not and run with it. Details evolve, change, get refuted and transmuted in the now and it’s ridiculous to think that it will ever go back to the way it was before social media eliminated credibility among informative sources.

The word on the tubes was that Ryan posted a picture of him drinking with two other people about two hours before he decided to drive. He was said to have had three beers and three shots over an indeterminate amount of time. It was also probable that he was driving his Porsche at a high rate of speed of around 130-140 mph. Of course, why wouldn’t you, if you were driving a Porsche; drinking or not?  It was also determined that his BAC was 0.19, twice the legal limit.  Drunk and driving a Porsche at that speed is asking for trouble, though I cannot conceive the idea that six alcoholic beverages made a huge difference in the constitution of someone like him. He simply had the odds stacked against him.

And Dunn didn’t just do this to himself. There was a passenger involved, too. Dunn’s car flew about 40 yards, through the trees before bursting into flame as it hit the last one. Regardless of all else, his tragedy affects not only his family, but also the family of his passenger. This could have ended in other ways, too. There could have been another vehicle and another fatality involved.

Why lionize what could have been avoidable? He did something stupid. He paid the price and took someone with him. He was a jackass. And guess who else is a jackass, Perez Hilton. He has the nerve to blast Roger Ebert for making an offhanded comment. This is the same guy that claimed Michael Jackson, going into cardiac arrest, was a publicity stunt.

Not to mention posting a picture of Miley Cyrus’s nether regions, supposedly without garments in what could have been considered child pornography. Not that I care all that much about Hanna Montana being critically damaged by Hilton but it was still wrong and Hilton hastily covered his tracks removing the picture. Do you think he wants to go to jail? Oh, and Hilton invades all kinds of privacy by publicly shaming closeted celebrities into coming out or revealing them like he’s judge, jury and executioner in the court of public appeal. Guess what, d-bag. It is neither your right nor your job to say whether or not someone needs to come out. Talk about bullying. In fact, what the hell is your job? Oh that’s right… third grade level graphic designer and blogger. Too effing bad, I already have that job. Go away.

If anyone should be apologizing, it should be the Internet for giving an account to Perez Hilton, not Ebert. And it seems as if the Internet agrees more with Ebert than Hilton. Score one for journalism and credibility.

AngryMongo 2011 Summer Giveaway

Click to for details!

The King is a Thing of Nothing: The Shaming of James

So, the big question is…

“Are you glad LeBron lost?”

Or

“Are you glad the Mavs won?”

Me, personally? I don’t really care about NBA Basketball. I don’t really care about basketball, in general. I used to play, back in my grade school days at the YMCA and I sucked, just like I did in every sport except for six person gym class volleyball or Scooter Soccer.

However, I love the karma boomerang. I remember thinking LeBron was a d-bag when he entered into the NBA. He signed a contract before he even went onto the court before the public as a player. He always appeared to be entitled and that kind of smug is best left on the bottom of my shoe.

Maybe it was because he was born in raised in Ohio (Pittsburgh humor there). He rooted for the Yankees while at Indians’ games. He’s a Dallas Cowboys’ fan (More d-baggery there from a Pittsburgh person’s point of view).

Then there was the confiscating of the tape of him getting dunked on by an Xavier Guard in 2009.

Here's a circulated copy

Lastly, he made even more of a d-bag of himself by being the center of attention in The Decision. Although, shame on ESPN for hyping and being a part of this. What person, especially a professional athlete, needs to have a press conference, let alone an entire hour of television to say he’s wiping his ass of Cleveland and heading to Miami? This was what tipped the scales in his favor as a finalist in my 2010 D-Bag Awards.

However, that’s all in the past. King James has been shamed by the Mavs and Pittsburgh by way of Mark Cuban. This wasn’t the first time the Heat came up against the Mavs in the finals, although, in 2006 the Heat beat the Mavs. Now, with LeBron James, the victory was that much sweeter as Cuban was once fined for making comments about James before he signed with Miami.


I’m not going to sugarcoat Cuban’s character. He is brash and outspoken. He gets fined a lot by the NBA for being too opinionated and mouthy on the court. While most owners watch the games from a luxury skybox, Cuban prefers watching from the court, among the fans. He’s come out onto the court to yell at officials. Doesn’t he know that only Jack Nicholson can do that?

Yet, he’s not the typical businessman and that’s why I like him. He made his own way and for every fine he’s received he’s made a matching donation to a charity. He once told the NBA’s director of officiating that he couldn’t manage a Dairy Queen which upset a manager at a Dairy Queen. Cuban responded by serving treats to customers, some waiting for over two hours. He also tipped $20,000 for a bottle of champagne after the Mavs defeated Miami. Granted, the champagne was worth $90,000 and while it may seem magnanimous for him to tip so much, it was barely more than 20%. I tip 20% for competent service in a restaurant. Though, I don’t spend $90,000 for food. He is also picking up the tab for the parade in Dallas. This may be the only time I have ever actually rooted for Dallas in anything. Actually, I was kind of rooting for them in the World Series, but that’s because Barry Bonds was a Giant… though, three years prior to the series. I still have night terrors of Sid Bream. >:(

He’s definitely not what professional sports’ administration would want in an owner. He wants to buy a baseball club which would probably cause Bud Selig to stroke out. After all, if he is this outspoken as an NBA team owner, could you imagine him owning a baseball team and calling out league management? That would be awesome. Personally, I’d like to see him buy the Pirates.


However, the real story of the NBA Championship hasn’t been Mark Cuban and Dirk Nowitzki beating Miami. It’s been about LeBron choking and Miami losing. Ten years from now, if you ask who beat Miami in the 2011 Championship Series, you may be searching for the name of the team but you’ll definitely remember that King James was dethroned and shamed on the national stage.

GPS Doesn't Know You Always Head Towards Tyson's Corner

In the last ten years I have travelled I-95 around 20 times. From 2001 to present I have travelled to Myrtle Beach, The Outer Banks and Virginia Beach, all using the beltway around DC as part of my route.

Some people go to great lengths to avoid it. Others, like me, have no trouble maneuvering through six lanes of traffic while being boxed in on all sides by idiot drivers. My wife’s butt puckers at the thought of even getting near it. We coordinate driving so that I am always the one who gets behind the wheel before the beltway. Although, there was that one time I screwed up and she ended up driving; white knuckling it the whole way. That nearly ended our relationship.

Regardless of my experience, I deferred navigational expertise to a computer and let the NAV system in my father-in-law’s JEEP Commander guide us. Matilda, as my wife called it, had been pretty accurate the entire trip. She did become a little fussy when we would make stops that caused us to go off the calculated route and then took her sweet time remapping while I would tie up traffic waiting for her. However, on the return trip, Matilda made an error and tried to kill us, HAL style.

When entering the beltway, from I-95 S and heading towards I-95 N, it has always been my practice to head towards Tyson’s Corner. I know this because the one time I argued with my wife, on which way to go, and did not go towards Tyson’s Corner we ended up going the long way around the beltway.

From that point on, we always head towards Tyson’s Corner. When Matilda advised against that I became a little argumentative with her over her navigational skills. My wife sided with Matilda and I braced for “I told you so” impact.

As we headed on the route provided to us by Matilda, my wife counted down the feet until our next turn. I watched the screen and waited in fear as I knew this would all end in chaos. There was no turn and Matilda jumped off of the highlighted route to a spot further ahead.

This is pretty much what I had in my head as Matilda went rogue on us.

Apparently, all of the construction that has been taken place around the beltway has changed the landscape of the roads which may not have been updated in the NAV system at the time my father-in-law bought the JEEP. In any case, Matilda led us astray and as I tried to correct my course and get on the right road, going towards Tyson’s Corner I found myself embedded in all kinds of construction and traffic I don’t remember seeing last year. Matilda kept calling out, “Follow signs for I-495”, which we were already on at the time.

Eventually, I saw buildings that I recognized and made it back to the right route. Still, I was leery in trusting Matilda after that incident. During our attempts to get back on track we nearly stomped a Honda Fit that tried to occupy the same space as us. Meanwhile, my sister-in-law and her husband were behind us about to slam into us as they were nearly slammed into by another vehicle. A cry of, “I don’t want to be the meat in this sandwich” came over the hand held walkie talkies we used to communicate back and forth.

You always head towards Tyson’s Corner. Hear that Matilda?
Oh and you don’t back up on the beltway shoulder. They don’t like it when you do that. Just go to the next exit. But that is another story.

Smoke On the Water

Dare County, North Carolina has been suffering through a wild fire that has affected the coastal areas of the Outer Banks as well.  Officials say they have the blaze around 75% contained but heavy smoke and the smell of burning wood is evident in places like Kitty Hawk and Kill Devil Hills.

Stumpy Point, NC is about 30 miles from Nags Head, NC, across the Croatan Sound, but the winds can shift causing the smoke to envelope the Wright Brothers' Memorial in a thick and ashy cloud of haze.  

A server at Captain George's Restaurant said that the winds shift often leaving the skies clear and then they can cloud back up again at the drop of a hat.

Being in the 4x4 section has saved us from the smoke and respiratory issues facing some of the vacationers in the Southern Shores and Nags Head area.  That would pretty much suck to come all this way and have it be smokey. 

I'll be back with more tales of the beach including what it takes to go into the 4x4 section.  It's really been fun.

Text Me About My Weiner

A friend of mine posed a great statement.   "I'm glad I left the dating scene before people started emailing pictures of their genitals to each other."  Of course, my reply to that was that we both left the dating scene before you could really do that with cell phones.

In the wake of Weinergate and the fact that Anthony Weiner admitted to sending a picture of his package to a female just illustrates further that people, no matter how smart and how aware of the stupidity of doing such things, will continue to make asses out of themselves.

Recently, a PA Turnpike employee was accused of coercing underage girls into texting nude images of themselves to him.  The one girl received a message from an unknown phone number, claiming to be her boyfriend, asking her to send him a naked picture.  AND SHE DID IT!   Then, using fear and blackmail, he got more girls to send him pictures.

As a parent of a child that has yet to enter her teen years, I can only imagine what the technology will be capable of by then.  For the record she's only four but she acts like a teen.   Disappointment is the end of the world and she throws tantrums with the best of them.  Still, I plan on giving her a phone that calls four numbers;  Our house, our cell phones, and 911.   It will not be text capable and no phone will be included. 

The Internet:  Enabling People to Do Stupid Things Since 1991.

Oh, and how classic is it that a guy named Weiner gets busted for sending pictures of his...

The One That Got Away

Way back before the Internet gave us the ability to make complete asses of ourselves, like I do on a regular basis, we had outdoor activities. We went camping. We did not have any televisions or game consoles or air conditioning to keep us indoors.

We roasted marshmallows and took walks in the woods. We swam in the lakes and played volleyball on the beach. We competed in camp races and other activities all summer long.

Now, most of those activities can be done on a Wii. That includes fishing.

Fishing is one of those activities that can be done while drinking which tells me it is not a sport. Professional fishermen should not be called athletes in the same manner that NASCAR drivers shouldn’t. Still, it takes a certain amount of skill and talent to be a Bass Master.

I am not one of these people; far from it, in fact. First of all, I don’t like killing things unless I have to. I’ll save a moth from being stuck in my garage as well as moving a caterpillar off the road for fear it will be squashed. But, as a child, I did go fishing with my father on our many camping trips to parks around Southwestern PA and I did bait my own hooks and clean my own fish.

But it took a while to get the hang of things like casting.  I had to have been about seven or eight when my father tried to teach me to cast my own line. Usually, he would cast for me and then hand me the pole. I would take it from there. There’s a ‘teach a man to fish’ joke in there somewhere, I’m sure of it. However, on this particular trip to Keystone State Park he decided I needed to learn how to cast myself. He explained it very clearly.

“Push in the button here. Hold the pole tightly. Raise your arm back and snap your wrist. Let go of the button and then wait.”

I got it. I was ready. I was about to cast my very first fishing line, all by myself. I went over the instructions again and again as I pantomimed the actions.

“Push button. Hold pole, tight. Laugh a little at that. Raise arm. Snap wrist. Let button go. Wait.”

OK, I’m ready. I baited my hook and made preparations to cast.

“Everyone, look out. I am about to cast my line!” My words echoed across the empty lake.

I held in the button. I gripped the pole, tightly, still giggling at that instruction. I raised my arm back. I snapped my wrist. SPLASH!

That splash I heard was my pole hitting the water after it jerked out of my hand. “Oh, no!” I cried. I just threw my fishing pole into the lake. It was gone.

There was a silver lining to all this, though. At some point, during the raising of my arm, the hook dug into the pocket on my dad’s shirt. I had forgotten that he was directly behind me as I casted. The tip of the pole grazed his chin and caused it to jerk out of my hand. So, even though the pole was gone, the worm and hook were still in the boat. That was the good news.

The bad news was that I had already pushed in the button, so the line was free to unspool and it did, as the pole sailed out into the water, away from our boat. My dad cursed every way he knew how as he pulled 300 yards of fishing line out of the lake, looking for the pole at the end.

I spent the rest of that afternoon winding the line, which was now piled up in a mess on the floor of the boat. I didn’t cast by myself the rest of that summer. I was merely given the pole which was already set.

I quit fishing a few years later as it was no longer any fun to gut and clean blue gills. That was the only thing I ever caught. I was the blue gill master with only a few perch in my list of accomplished catches. I never let go of a pole again, though.

Today I am surer of myself as I cast. Why?

Because, I am sure to tightly grip the Wiimote. Then, I giggle a bit and cast my virtual fishing line. No TVs have been harmed, as of yet.

American Craft Beer Week

A couple of weeks ago, Pittsburgh celebrated American Craft Beer Week.   One of the highlights was a local tavern getting in a big ole tussle with the Pittsburgh Pirates by way of a Yuengling promotion.

Beyond that, beer aficionados celebrated the best of American Beers and I was able to partake in the festivities through a beer swap with some coworkers. 

Now, I am not a huge beer drinker.  I drank beer in college because it was cheap.   As a bartender, in a former life, I appreciated the finer whisky’s and could indulge a little more than during the poor days of quarter draft nights at the local college bar.  Into my mid 30s I have pretty much forsaken alcohol except for the occasional beer during a party or glass of Rock & Rye to lube up the vocal chords during a set with my father-in-law’s band, “We Don’t Look Good Naked Anymore”.

Still, I wanted to expand my horizons and try something different.  So, I joined the swap which had two caveats.   One, I had to choose a beer I had never tried.  That should be easy.  My palate has known few brews.  I can probably count them without taking off my shows.  There are the standards; Budweiser, Rolling Rock, Coors products, Iron City, Busch, Natural Light, Pabst Blue Ribbon and Michelob Ultra.  Then we have beers like Killian’s, Black and Tan, Yuengling, Bass Ale, Heineken, LeBatt’s Blue, Guinness, Sam Adams, Straub, and others.  I’ve even tried Lone Star beer because I did the play of the same name and we ordered a case for effect.   As far as micro brews and other craft beers, I am hesitant because I really don’t like beer.  If I’m going to drink something, it better taste good to me.   But I was willing to play ball with the group.

The other stipulation on the swap was that it had to be a American company.   Besides reading every label, I was at the mercy of the distributor to point me in the right direction.  So, I went into the first one I could find, locally and inquired about a selection.

Beer Store Guy offered me one distinct selection.  It was called Dogfish Head 60 minute IPA.  I didn’t know IPA from CPA at this point so, I took it.   When I emailed my selection to the group I received a lot of congrats.  Apparently, I made a good choice.

The day came and we all gathered around a van to do the swap.   Between all of us, we would each walk away with a full case, containing three beers of each kind.  Here is the list of what I took away. 

• Dogfish Head 60 Minute IPA
• Atwater Dirty Blonde Ale
• Duck-Rabbit Milk Stout
• Flying Dog Raging Bitch IPA
• Blue Point Blueberry Ale
• Leinenkugel Summer Shandy
• Forgot #1
• Forgot #2

The first ones I tried were the Dogfish Head and Raging Bitch IPA.  I am not a big fan of IPAs as it was hard to finish the Dogfish Head.  It tasted a little like Yuengling and a bit bitter.  The Raging Bitch IPA was a bit better with a little sweeter and had a somewhat piney taste to it.

The next night I tried the Atwater Dirty Blonde Ale and Blueberry Ale.  Both very nice.  The Atwater was a little like Straub, very clean and simple.  The Blueberry was clearly my favorite, although at $40 a case, I am inclined to indulge only once in a great while.

After that, I tried the Duck-Rabbit Milk Stout.  It was a very dark and heavy beer, much like Guinness.  I can see where the milk classification comes from with that one.  Then I tried the Leinenkulger Summer Shandy, which was sort of like drinking a Long Island Iced Tea as if it were a beer.    I think I’ll stick to Guinness when it comes to Stouts, although, the Summer Shandy would be a nice beer to have at the beach.

Unfortunately, I do not remember the other two flavors I had.  Suffice to say, after drinking that case inside of four days I was probably not doing myself any good.  Call me a lightweight but I needed a break from beer.  My father-in-law went back to drinking his Miller Lite and I went back to drinking water at night.  I am still trying to lose weight, you know. 

Like I said, though, I did indulge and buy another full case of the Blueberry Ale to have at home.  Broadening the horizons has given me a new respect for American Beers and I applaud those who can craft a good brew.  I even tried a Honey Wheat Ale, my uncle home brewed over Memorial Day.

Beer, welcome back into my life.  I have a new found desire to drink you a little more than I used to.

Lush.