Looks like my beergarden was a bust this year

And I had such hopes.  

Here's the last picture I took of the barley in my garden: 

Not the best framing, I know.  Nothing for scale.  Take my word for it.  The plants seem to have stopped growing.  The whole thing's turned into a spaghetti mess, all of them leaning on each other and trying to lie down and you can see some browning in there, too.  It's hemmed in by weeds on one side, where I can't effectively remove them without removing the chickenwire fence, and the tomato plants are encroaching, which I'm not going to change because at least we're getting lots of nice tomatoes.

Notes for next year:

• Do something about the sides of the garden; 
• Pile mulch;
• Erect the fence all the way on the outside of the brick retaining wall;
• Space rows further apart;
• Leave more room for weeding;
• Keep track of watering.

I have to remember that this is just an experiment.  I'm not trying to support myself with this.

My hops seem to have stopped growing, too, and I see no evidence of flowering.  I'm not too concerned about that: it's a first-year plant, so I didn't expect too much.

Nobody ever asks you if you're wearing pants: Job Hunt Frustrations, 2020

One of the big frustrations of job hunting in 2020: needing four different kinds of online meeting programs.  Yeah, four.  In the last few months, I've been offered interviews using:

• Zoom;
• Skype for Business;
• Microsoft Teams*; and
• Google Meets.

I don't find much difference between online interviews and in-person interviews.  Sure, eye contact is nice.  A better impression is a greater possibility.  But wow, it's so much easier online.  No travel, no parking, no uncomfortably waiting to be called in.  I'll bet the interviewers find it more comfortable, too.

Still, one must maintain one's professionalism.  I always wear a suit and tie, even though I'm sitting in my own kitchen or living room.  And yes, I said suit.  Jacket and matching pants, or at least khakis, if I'm wearing my blue jacket.  

You've seen the videos.  People who thought they could get away with boxers, but didn't.  I do enough stupid things, thank you very much.  I'm not risking that. 

And yet, I'm tempted.  It's so tempting.  Jeans, at least.  Just put on some jeans!  

But no, no, I want this job, and these people are professionals.  So I go what - in 2020 - feels like the extra mile, and I put on pants.  I even put on appropriate shoes and socks.  Just in case.

Is it so wrong of me to wish that, just once, somebody would ask me to prove it?

*My Microsoft Teams interview was changed to a phone interview a few days prior, so I've never actually used that one.  Almost, though.

The Adverbial Crutch

Does everybody know what an adverb is?  It's a word that describes a verb.  "He adverbly verbed the direct object," is the most common usage, although - as always, when it comes to English - it's more complicated than that.

Don't use adverbs, writers.  Don't ever use them.  Just don't ever use them.  That's the rule.

Wait, the what?  The rule?  

A lot of people will tell you: there are no "rules" to writing.  I suppose they're right.  Writing is art, sometimes; and craft, other times, so getting outside that comfort zone and trying things you've never seen anyone try before... that ought to be the rule.  Grammar be damned, and Oxford Comma forever!

And yet, writers love throwing around the rules, the most famous of which is: "show, don't tell."  Only slightly less well-known is: "don't use adverbs."

If you've written something, and you look and see you've used an adverb, cut that adverb immediately.  Brutally, coldly, viciously, heartlessly.  Cut.  That.  Adverb.

No adverbs!  An entire chapter of English grammar, banned from the English written word.  Adverbs are the boarded-up wing of the English mansion; the crusted-up ketchup bottle at the back of the English refrigerator.

And why would we banish adverbs from the written word?  Because Elmore Leonard and Stephen King both say so.  You may not have heard of Elmore Leonard, but you've seen some movies made out of his books.  Stephen King, you've heard of.

I believe the road to hell is paved with adverbs, and I will shout it from the rooftops.

That's what King says about adverbs. And Stephen King is such an enormously voluble writer - an excellent writer, and I really mean that - but so effortlessly (or so it seems) verbose.  He must pop off a thousand words just by walking past his typewriter.  He needs a briefcase to carry around his grocery list.  For King to swear off one entire category of word is like a compulsive eater cleaning out the whole bakery except for the cupcakes.  

Imagine how long his books would be if he hadn't sworn off adverbs.

There's no arguing that King's prose is excellent, though.  And Elmore Leonard (if you haven't read him, do so) is a master.  I, wanting to also be a great writer (even if you'll never hear of me), am inclined to follow their advice.

It's not as if there's no reason to it.  It's all part of that "show don't tell" rule I mentioned earlier.  They're not two separate rules: "no adverbs" is an offshoot of "show, don't tell."  Adverbs are by their very nature explanatory words.  

The coach chewed his gum furiously.

That seems pretty innocuous, doesn't it?  Is that "furiously" really hurting my prose?  

Maybe not.  But I think the point is: I shouldn't need the "furiously" (or, I think, that whole sentence) because my readers should already know the coach is angry, or stressed, or whatever's causing him to act that way, because I've painted that picture through action and dialog.  I shouldn't have to explain how he's doing things.  If I've done my job, the reader should already understand it.

And: that was me, explaining back to the professor what I know he wants to hear.

What's really behind the "no adverbs" rule?  I think it's this: writers tend to over-write.  Writing can almost always be improved with cuts.  Single out one section of the language for total banishment, and that gives you one whole section of the language to eliminate, easy peasy.  

And that leads to tighter prose, and might lead to even more cutting.  Hey, if I can cut this word that I thought I really needed, I suppose I can cut that word I think I really need, too.

See, it's not really the adverbs.  It's a crutch for writers who hate, hate, hate cutting their own prose.  Meaning: it's a crutch for writers.

Addendum: I was going to go back and count exactly how many adverbs I purposely slipped into this post, but honestly, I'm not completely clear on all the grammar rules.  I was also going to re-write this without the adverbs, just to compare, but that assumes somebody besides me will read it.  So.

Take the right-of-way!

Regular readers of this blog (he said, looking timidly into the mirror) will know that I seldom take on controversial or sensitive topics. Yet, there are times when even the most civilized, peaceful man feels the need to hoist the black flag, buckle up his pants, and hold forth.

Damn the consequences. I'm a little annoyed, and I can't hold it in anymore. Nobody seems to understand exactly how crosswalks work.

Yes, crosswalks. You heard me. I had a pet peeve triggered not long ago, and since I’m not eighty years old yet, I can’t just write another angry letter to the editor, wrinkled fist waving in the air.

A little background: I recently (and successfully) helped my fourth and youngest child learn how to drive. One incident from a trip to the store stuck with me: my son was behind the wheel, waiting to make a left turn. There was oncoming traffic, and also a pickup trying to make a left from the road we were turning onto. My son asked: should we let the truck go first? No, I said. You have the right of way. You go first.

See, there are two parts to the right-of-way, both equally important. There’s yielding the right-of-way, which we were doing for oncoming traffic, and which the pickup did for us; and there’s taking the right-of-way. When you have the right-of-way, it’s your responsibility to take that right-of-way. Otherwise, people don’t know what you’re doing. People don’t have certainty, and certainty becomes really important when we’re all driving thousand-plus pound five-figure-price-tag vehicles.

Then, much more recently: I was a pedestrian, waiting to cross what counts as a busy four-lane street in my home town. I’m waiting at a crosswalk, standing on the sidewalk.

Make note of that. Crosswalk. Sidewalk. They’re different, and that’s important.

So I’m waiting for the traffic to clear and, as sometimes happens, a vehicle stopped to let me cross. It was a dump truck – very large – driving in the third of four lanes. Lanes one and two were clear. Several other vehicles were now stopped behind the truck in lane three.

You can guess what happened next. Being a good Midwesterner, I couldn’t refuse the gesture. Waving him on would be both rude and confusing for everyone, and the first two lanes weren't going to stay clear forever. I began jogging across and… lo and behold, a car coming in the furthest lane – lane four – that I couldn’t see because of the vehicles stopped in lane three!

I’m not entirely sure that this last driver saw me. I think he did. Regardless, I made it across with only a slight increase in speed.

I wonder what the truck driver was thinking then.

Both drivers were in the wrong. First, the driver of the dump truck. You only stop for a pedestrian who’s in the crosswalk – not near the crosswalk, not waiting to enter the crosswalk. In the crosswalk. Here’s what Wisconsin law says:

…the operator of a vehicle shall yield the right-of-way to a pedestrian … that is crossing the highway within a marked or unmarked crosswalk.

I ellipsed through there a bit, but you get the point. “…that is crossing,” which I wasn’t (shakes old man fist).

Second, the driver of the last car, in lane four. Wisconsin law also says:

Whenever any vehicle is stopped at an intersection or crosswalk to permit a pedestrian… to cross the roadway, the operator of any other vehicle approaching from the rear may not overtake and pass the stopped vehicle.

This driver either didn’t know the law, or (more likely) didn’t put two and two together. I couldn’t see him – did he see me? Maybe he thought the truck was stopped to make a left turn.

So, really, this is about the truck driver. Hey, man, I appreciate the gesture. I acknowledge your politeness, and your wish to ease my passage from one side of Eighth Street to the other, and I thank you for it. But I wasn’t in the crosswalk. I wasn’t “crossing the highway.” I was on the sidewalk, waiting to cross the highway. You had the right-of-way, and the best thing you could have done was: take the right-of-way.

By stopping, you created uncertainty. Uncertainty for other drivers, who didn’t know what you were doing; uncertainty for me, who couldn’t know what all those other drivers were going to do.

Creating uncertainty is a great option if you’re trying to assert dominance, or win at poker, or win an Emmy for best new drama. On the road, certainty is better. Especially when I’m the only one on foot.

I'd really meant to do more beergarden blogging...

...which is to say, blogging about the barley and hops in my garden. Not blogging from a beergarden. Although, now that I've thought of it...

I shared a few pictures in previous posts, so some of these may be duplicating past effort. Here's my four rows of barley from May 15:


And here on May 21:


I obviously need to standardize my lighting somehow.

And here's the same garden over a month later, on July 12:

Yikes! Get a haircut, hippie!

So a couple things there: weed control has been a problem, especially directly to the left of the barley. I'll mulch that area better next time, and space my rows further apart. Maybe a good foot next time.

Also, that old phrase "knee-high by the Fourth of July" may not - hopefully does not - apply to home-grown barley, because it still isn't. Oh, it's growing. Maybe a foot tall. I could call it knee-high if my five-year-old nephew from Michigan comes to visit, but that doesn't seem likely. Maybe I could borrow a local kindergartener.

That won't make the barley any taller, but what the hell.

My plans remain solid. Whatever I get from these plants, I'll save a handful for future planting, and malt the rest for home brew. Which reminds me:

That was my sole remaining hops plant on June 27. It's quite a bit taller now.

Did the “Father of Wisconsin” almost kill the Father of our Country twenty years before the Revolutionary War?

The answer seems to be “no,” but just hang on a second.

I'm going to skip ahead a little, then come back. Read this:

...a group of Wisconsin men had almost killed the man who would one day become America's greatest hero and first president!

That's M. Richard Tully writing in his book "A Man Called Baraboo." I first mentioned it in this post:

in 1755, (Charles) Langlade led a force of Native Americans against a British force in Pennsylvania. I read about this in M. Richard Tully's book, "A Man Called Baraboo:"

In 1755, war would once again break out between the French and English colonists. Charles de Langlade, who supported the French cause, collected members of several Wisconsin tribes - the Ottawa, Ojibwa, and Potawatomi - and attacked British General Braddock at the Monogahela River in Pennsylvania on July 9, 1755. Braddock was mortally wounded, and a 23-year-old Major named George Washington barely escaped with four bullet holes in his coat and two horses killed under him - a group of Wisconsin men had almost killed the man who would one day become America's greatest hero and first president!

Charles Langlade was the son of a French fur trader and an Ottawa woman, who became a military leader and early settler in what is now Green Bay. He’s known now as the “Father of Wisconsin.”

Obviously, Tully didn’t suggest that Langlade himself fired any of the rounds that very nearly hit George Washington, so I’m more than happy to suggest it myself. It's just too juicy to ignore. At least one of those bullets must have come from Langlade’s rifle.

Except, wait a sec:

“Leutze depicts a single French Canadian figure standing on a rock – perhaps meant to be the French Ottawa officer Charles-Michel Mouet de Langlade, who later claimed to have orchestrated the entire battle, at which he was probably not even present. (Preston, pg. 2)

That’s an excerpt from David Preston’s book “Braddock’s Defeat,” which goes into minute detail about the Battle of the Monongahela. According to Preston, Langlade wasn’t even there!

None of the contemporary French records on the Ohio Valley... contain any reference to Langlade, who was a commissioned officer in 1755 (an ensign) and would have been quite well known to senior French officers because of his involvement in the action against Pickawillany in 1752. (Preston, pg. 158)

Well, dammit.

But wait! In his bibliography, Preston comments:

“One may posit that Langlade may have been present, based on the fact that Langlade was verifiably at Michilimackinac on May 25 and August 18, 1755, and records do not reveal his location between those dates.” (Preston, pg. 390)

Well, by God, let’s posit it, then!

To go into far too little detail, the battle was basically thus: a body of French regulars and Canadian militia standing in front of the British forces, while several groups of Indians worked their way along the flanks and beat the hell out of the British. It would have been one or more of these groups - about half of which were Ottawa, Ojibwa, and Potawatomi (Preston, pg. 149) - that killed Braddock and put holes in Washington’s clothes.

Those groups each had a French or Canadian officer embedded in them, according to Preston, which is problematic:

• Why would the French still embed another officer in Langlade's group if Langlade, a commissioned officer himself, was there?
• But if Langlade was the embedded officer, why wouldn’t their records show it?

We can question whether the records we have are accurate, and whether there are other records not available to us today, and of course, we will. Because “The Father of Wisconsin almost killed the Father of our Country” is just too good a story to pass up.

Now, to provide myself with some cover: Tully didn’t say Langlade himself may have shot at Washington. Tully said “a group of Wisconsin men” did. So.

According to Preston, the French force included 600-700 natives (Preston, pg. 234) including Ottawa, Potawatomi, and Ojibwa, Sac, and Fox, (Preston, pg. 149) which, I believe, means there were several hundred fighters with ties to what became Wisconsin.

Caveat: Preston says those Ottawa and Potawatomi were probably settled around Detroit at the time, (pg. 150) because he just doesn’t want me to take any pleasure in this. More research might help me understand better where all these tribes were located at that time, and maybe sometime I’ll do that.

Still, even if Langlade wasn't there, there's a better-than-50% chance that the bullets came from Wisconsin-related rifles.

But I'll still keep believing Langlade was one of them.

Addendum: none of this explains why Langlade is called "Father of Wisconsin." Further study will be performed.

Neanderthals, Monkeys, and Peak 2020

Alternate title: If 2021 never gets here, it’ll be because 2021 resigned in despair, knowing he could never outdo his predecessor.

I honestly can’t decide if this is a bad idea or not:

June 18 (UPI) -- In a proof of concept study, published Thursday in the journal Stem Cell Reports, scientists successfully used human cells featuring Neanderthal DNA to grow tissue in the lab.

Researchers say the work will help to understand the effects of Neanderthal DNA on later human development.

My first reaction was the obvious one: sure it will, Poindexter. You’re not looking to do some vague study on human development: you’re creating a Neanderthal army!

For the record, I’m in full support of our new Neanderthal overlords and always have been. Not like the rest of you people.

But that was only my first reaction. My second reaction was: we need a Neanderthal army to protect us from the monkeys:

Alcoholic killer monkey leaves one man dead and 250 injured after going on rampage when his booze supply dried up

And:

A troop of monkeys in India attacked a medical official and snatched away blood samples of patients who had tested positive for the novel coronavirus, authorities said on Friday.

Adorable but ultimately random actions by adorable and relatively clueless animals? Or an organized raid targeting potentially devastating anti-human WMDs?

For the record, I’m in full support of our new monkey overlords and always have been. Not like the rest of you people.

Back to the first article. The scientists involved can’t seem to explain exactly what they’re trying to accomplish:

"By testing whether organoids from this line show any developmental differences to organoids derived from lines that do not carry the Neandertal variants of interest can be informative about developmental processes that are impacted by Neandertal DNA," (senior author J. Gray) Camp said.

And why is that important?

Followup investigations could look at the influence of Neanderthal DNA on human digestion, cognition or the immune response to pathogens.

And why is that important?

Hey, I’m all in favor of knowledge for the sake of knowledge. Expanding our understanding of DNA will, someday, have positive effects on both medicine and the creation of bioengineered warriors who can protect us from the monkeys and, it seems likely, the reincarnated Neanderthals.

For what it’s worth, I’m all in favor of our future bioengineered overlords, too. And this guy Dr. Camp, until he finally, tragically, but predictably loses control of his creations. Then I’ll throw him under the bus like last month’s murder hornets and... well, I guess I’ll have to see which way the wind’s blowing then. Hopefully it’ll be blowing toward the monkeys, because you know how they can smell.

Um... maybe don’t tell them I said that.

Not to be that guy, but (suicide pact edition)...

This headline at Reason caught my eye today:

D.C.'s So-Called Reopen Plan Is a Suicide Pact for the Restaurant Industry

No, it isnt.

Okay, maybe it is. Could be. Could be, the restaurants are in on it. Could be they've decided to end it all and have invited the government entities who wrote the plan to join them for an evening in a giant carbon-dioxide hookah where people sit right up next to each other without wearing gloves or masks and there's plenty of Kool-Aid for everybody.

Could be. Has to be. Otherwise, it's not a "suicide pact."

Now, before I go any further: okay, okay, I know, they didn't actually mean "suicide pact." They meant death sentence, or nail in the coffin lid, or horrible inconvenience, and their metaphor just kind of got away from them.

And, also: okay, okay, I know, I'm being that annoying guy who won't shut up about how the new decade starts in 2021, not 2020. Which is true.

Still. Come on, man. Professional writer, which I assume you are since you're writing headlines for Reason. "Suicide pact" means two or more people agreeing to willingly commit suicide. So unless the restaurants helped write the plan intending that it put them out of business, you've got to pick a different bit of phraseology.

I'm available for consulting, by the way. Very reasonable rates.

Limericks about 2020

I used to write limericks. I wrote them as a kid, and then my grandfather and I started trading them when I was in college, just for a little while. He was a stickler on the meter: nine syllables in lines 1, 2, and 5. Not eight. Nine. And six in the others. Not five. 

 

So today, I’m a stickler about that, too. More on that in a bit. 

 

There’s a publication called On the Premises that runs regular fiction contests – usually extremely short fiction, like 50 words – on specific topics. Well, this time, they’re running a limerick contest: 

 

Premise: Write a limerick reflecting the author’s feelings about life in the year 2020, at least through mid-May. 

 

I’m not going to post the one I submitted, because usually publications want first-publication rights (and that seems to be the case with OTP). But here’s a few I didn’t submit: 

 

It was a vision so perfectly right,  

Until April got rolled up too tight.  

Hey, was all this a joke?  

Just a day sucking smoke?  

A hallucinogenic delight? 

 

And: 

 

They all laughed when I bought more shampoo,  

And I stocked up supplies for the loo,  

And I said I won't share,  

But damn me if I dare,  

When you smell like an untended zoo. 

 

And: 

 

We all ask what's to do, what's to be?  

In an alternate timeline we'd see:  

We're all fine, or we're done  

(By the way, the Bucks won).  

Why can't science invent that for me? -

 

Back to the limericks. OTP linked to this page in case someone needed some instruction on what a limerick is: 

 

A limerick is a humorous poem consisting of five lines. The first, second, and fifth lines must have seven to ten syllables while rhyming and having the same verbal rhythm. The third and fourth lines should only have five to seven syllables 

 

You see the problem? “Seven to ten syllables,” which flies directly in the face of my grandfather’s stickler-ness. 

 

My usual amount (five minutes) of internet research shows that this pathetically looser standard is, in fact, the accepted standard. So it turns out my grandfather was more picky than was strictly necessary, at least on this point. 

 

No matter. The die has been cast, and while you may be able to get away with “seven to nine syllables,” you’ll have to live with me looking down on you for it. 

UPDATE: 
x

 

I was not one of the ten winning entries.  You can read the winners here, if you like.  Congratulations all.  On the Premises received 377 entries, so, well, whaddayagonnado? 

 

Here’s the one I entered: 

 

Right away we got tired of the jokes 

About vision, and roaring, and smokes. 

Now we sit home perplexed, 

Hoping zombies aren’t next, 

But we won’t be surprised, will we folks? 

Nope, turns out I haven't screwed up my garden. At least, not yet.

Just three days ago, I was questioning whether I'd already killed my barley plants. Or whether they were ever going to live to begin with.

Welp:




Lookit them beauties. Couple inches tall, some of them. Four rows. Might be some don't come up still, and might be I end up culling a few, but there they are.

Gardening. It's like magic.

Here's the bird's-eye view:




I dunno if you can tell that there are distinct rows growing, but if you look closely, you can see the green. I'm going to keep doing this angle over time.

tl,dr;

Three days after I lamented my lack of barley plants, I've got barley plants. Ten days after planting.

Have I already screwed up my garden?

Call me crazy, but I have this idea about planting my own barley. My own barley, my own hops. Brewing some beer with only the things I grow or collect.

Just one gallon of beer. I'm not crazy.

The barley's going to be the really hard part. Growing hops, from what I understand, is easy. Collecting yeast, which you'd think would be the hard part, is easy. I've done that already. Water? There's a river nearby. I'll strain it and boil it.

But malting barley, that's going to be hard. The thing is, before I can malt the barley, I have to grow the barley. So one week ago today, I did this:

Four furrows, into which I placed barley seed, and covered it up. Prior to that, I tilled the area once, added some nice old mulch, tilled again, added some of this dried manure you can buy at Farm&Fleet, and tilled it a third time. I've watered it three times since planting, just a little each time. You're not supposed to give it a ton of water, and it's been my experience that a little can go a long way.

That was a week ago. Should I be seeing shoots already? Because I'm not.

Now, as I write this, it's nine o'clock on Saturday morning. I haven't been outside yet. It's entirely possible that, later today, I'll notice some little plants starting to poke their precious little heads out of the ground.

But so far, nothing. So. Am I being impatient? Did I cover them too deep? Are my seeds bad?

Am I just a rotten, rotten gardener with no hope of ever making his own beer with his own ingredients?

I might be less impatient if I wasn't already afraid for my hops plants. I know what I said before. Hops are supposed to be easy. But one of them looks really, really bad. I'll take some pictures later. I started them in pots - one Cascade rhizome, one Centennial rhizome, which, I know, I probably should have gotten two of the same kind - and they started to grow after a few days.

A week ago, I had one shoot of about 6-8 inches out of each. There were other shoots, too, but those were the biggest and strongest. So I transplanted them into the garden.

That's when the Centennial started to wilt, and it hasn't gotten better. Its leaves are gone now - did something eat them? - and I've about given up on that shoot. There might be others.

Anyway, that's where I'm at with the garden.

tl;dr:

Barley not growing yet after a week in the ground; one hops plant looking sick and weak a week after transplanting it into the garden. Updates to follow.