Happy Beermas

Oktoberfest is a High Holiday month for beer-drinkers around the world.

Your attendance is obligatory.

Drink Beer and drink it often.

It's good for you.

If you have any difficulties, please refer to the above chart.

It's a life-saver.

PLease click on it to enlarge, if you don't have good eye sight.

Beer As the Cure

BEER TROUBLESHOOTING GUIDE

SYMPTOM Feet cold and wet
CAUSE Glass Being held at incorrect angle.
CORRECTIVE ACTION Rotate glass so that open end points toward ceiling

SYMPTOM Feet warm and wet
CAUSE Improper Bladder Contro
CORRECTIVE ACTION Stand next to nearest dog, complain about lack of house training

SYMPTOM Beer unusually pale and tasteless
CAUSE a. Glass empty b. You're holding a Coors Lite
CORRECTIVE ACTION Get someone to buy you another beer

SYMPTOM Opposite wall covered with fluorescent lights
CAUSE You have fallen over backward
CORRECTIVE ACTION Have yourself lashed to bar

SYMPTOM Mouth contains cigarette butts, back of head covered with ashes
CAUSE You have fallen forward
CORRECTIVE ACTION See above

SYMPTOM Beer tasteless, front of your shirt is wet
CAUSE a. Mouth not open b. Glass applied to wrong part of face
CORRECTIVE ACTION Retire to restroom, practice in mirror

SYMPTOM Floor Blurred
CAUSE You are looking through bottom of empty glass
CORRECTIVE ACTION Get someone to buy you another beer

SYMPTOM Floor moving
CAUSE You are being carried out
CORRECTIVE ACTION Find out if you are being taken to another bar

SYMPTOM Room seems unusually dark
CAUSE Bar has closed
CORRECTIVE ACTION Confirm home address with bartender. If staff is gone, grab a six-pack to go and hit the nearest fire escape door. Run

SYMPTOM Taxi suddenly takes on colorful aspect and textures
CAUSE Beer consumption has exceeded personal limitations
CORRECTIVE ACTION Cover mouth, open window, stick head outside

SYMPTOM Everyone looks up to you and smiles
CAUSE You are dancing on the table
CORRECTIVE ACTION Fall on someone cushy-looking

SYMPTOM Beer is crystal-clear
CAUSE It's water! Somebody is trying to sober you up
CORRECTIVE ACTION Punch him

SYMPTOM People are standing around urinals, talking or putting on makeup
CAUSE You're in the ladies room
CORRECTIVE ACTION Do not use urinal! Excuse yourself, exit and try the next door down the hall. Try to get phone numbers (optional)

SYMPTOM Hands hurt, nose hurts, mind unusually clear
CAUSE You have been in a fight
CORRECTIVE ACTION Apologize to everyone you see, just in case it was them

SYMPTOM Don't recognize anyone, don't recognize the room you're in
CAUSE You've wandered into the wrong party
CORRECTIVE ACTION See if they have free beer

SYMPTOM Your bedroom is painted gray, has a concrete floor and an interesting steel door. Toilet may be conveniently located next to your bunk
CAUSE a. You're in jail b. You're in the navy
CORRECTIVE ACTION Sleep it off, you can always get out tomorrow. Don't talk to your new roommate, and under no circumstances sleep on your stomach

SYMPTOM Your singing sounds distorted
CAUSE The beer is too weak
CORRECTIVE ACTION Have more beer until your voice improves

SYMPTOM Don't remember the words to the song
CAUSE Beer is just right
CORRECTIVE ACTION Play air guitar

PC Is Back In NYC

Last month the Edward Tyler Nahem Gallery on 57th Street brought back Richard Serrano's controversial photo PISS CHRIST. The image of the cross bathed in the artist's urine outraged Christians throughout the world. Twenty five years later the 1987 photo continues to act as a lighting rod for protest against the increasing secularization of the society and a New York congressman called for President Obama to condemn the work. Personally I'm not offended nor would I want PISS CHRIST hanging on my wall or any religious icon, but I understand the lasting outrage. The artist has never shot any other religious icons in piss. One scandal in a life time is enough.

No I Wouldn't MILA KUNIS

This afternoon my co-workers and I delivered ten bronze planters to the penthouse apartment of a .0001% billionaire. The live-in super explained that the owner of the ultra-luxe duplex come to New York for football games played by his NFL team. Over forty workers were busy readying this palace for his weekend arrival. After Oskar and I humped the weighty planters across the terrace to their designated plots, we admired the vista of a misty Central Park with the sun struggling to burn off the clouds. "It's lunch time." Oskar tapped his watch. "Let's go." The elevator shut from 12-1 and neither of us wanted to be trapped in someone else's paradise for an hour without food. The super rode us down the freight elevator and we beat the meter maid to our pick-up. Oskar got behind the wheel and headed over to the Queensboro bridge. The foundry was in Greenpoint. "I like the girls in Manhattan." Oskar had been in NYC for fourteen years. His home town was Mexico City DF. His wife came from Colonia Maza, which neighbored his native Colonia Felipe Pescador. "You think they are beautiful?" I scanned the streets and sidewalks for a mujera bella. "There are thousands everywhere you turn." "Veridad?" I saw none and thought about how an actress Mila Kunis had been chosen sexiest woman in the world. She did nothing for me. Oskar pointed out a score of women on the way to the bridge. None of them met my approval. "Maybe you like boys?" "Vete ala verga." It was a harsh reaction, but the Mexicans are super macho. "I'm no maricon. I just don't like these women. They look like they haven't had sex in twenty years. Back in the 70s I stayed in Matzalan. On the first floor was a cantina, the second was a pool room, and the third was a bordello or a beso negro." "You know these words?" Oskar was making nice. He knew my reputation. "In the whorehouse was the most beautiful girl, but she only had one hand. She lost the other in a car accident. The pimps called her One-hand. Her real name was Maria. She came up to my room every night for two weeks. She eyes shone in the moonlight like pearls and her skin was smooth as a shaved peach." I hadn't thoguht about her for a long time. "She was better-looking than any of these dried-up putas of the Upper East Side." She had held my body like I was the son of Nanahuatl, who had escaped sacrifice to become the Aztec sun. "How long ago was that?" Oskar turned onto the bridge. There was very little traffic. "1975." She had smelled of other men until we showered together. "I was ten." "It was a good year." For Matzalan girls who lived up the stair with all that perfumed hair and it came undone, when I was 23. I opened the window and we cross the East River high in the sky. Oh, Maria, I miss you so.

You Bet I Would ANN HATHAWAY

While I condemn waterboarding, I fully condone waterbedding.

Sam 7

There's a helicopter flittering over Fort Greene this evening. Obviously the NYPD pigs are hunting a perp that outran their donut-eating comrades. Probably a shooter, but their ruination of the usual quietude has me wishing for a Surface to Air missile. I would miss my a few hundred meters and my arrow would drop in the river. I suck in video games.

HALFWAY AROUND THE WORLD by Peter Nolan Smith

Distances around the world have dramatically shrunk with the spread of jet transportation. Columbus' First voyage to the New World lasted almost two months. That trip from the port of Palos in Spain to Plana Cays in the Bahamas would now take about twenty-hours with a train to Madrid, flights to Miami and Nassau followed by a small hop to Plana Cayes. A long day, but a fraction of the time Columbus' flotilla spent on the Atlantic Ocean.

My great-grandaunt Bert traveled to Asia on her father's clipper ship during the 1880s.

They traveled seven months across the Atlantic around the Cape of Good Hope to traverse the Indian Ocean to Singapore and beyond.

In 1960 my father drove us down to visit Aunt Bert. Her house in Falmouth Heights, Mass. was a memorial to her journeys. The stately nonagenarian greeted us at the door with her Polish nurse. I had never seen a man or woman that old, but her eyes dashed with life. She invited us inside and waved for my older brother and me to explore the house. It was a young boy's delight.

Hookahs, whale teeth, harpoons, swords, and fetish masks adorned the hallways. One of favorite books was Jack London's TALES OF THE SOUTH PACIFIC. While my mother and father paid their respects, my older brother and I put on wicked masks to duel with narwhal tusks. Her home was more a museum than a house and we were bulls on a rage.

"What do you think you're doing?" My mother was aghast at our liberties.

"Don't mind them." Aunt Bert waved a weathered hand in the air. "All boys go a little mad seeing these 'things'."

My mother's frown displayed her disappointment, but my great-grandaunt's face beamed with a life lived over nine decades. She had been my age long long ago. I did the math. We would have been the same age in 1870. Aunt Bert had never had children. Her side of the family was old blood.

"But they might break something." My mother came from a good Irish family. Children were carved into adults with the smack of a belt. She eyed out a warning. I cringed in the decipher of its meaning.

"Those masks come from headhunters in Papua New Guinea. Their tribe ate people. I don't think that cannibals care about your boys breaking them. Maybe they would have like to eat their heart more."

No one spoke like this in 1960.

"Make your mother happy. Put down those things and come drink some tea with me and put those things down. They scared your mother." Aunt Bert led us into the sitting room. Her nurse brought us tea and ginger snaps. She looked at us as if she was calculating the measure of our worth.

"When I was your age, I sailed with my father on a whaling ship. For my 8th birthday his crew hunted a whale off of Madagascar. You know where that is?"

"East of Africa." Geography was my favorite subject.

"The boats chased the whale. The whale fought for his life. After he was killed, the boats towed the carcass to the ship. The crew cut off the blubber into Bible leaves and turned it into oil in pots. The entire ship smelled of whale fat, but the fire from the oil was beautiful. My brother and I could see our shadows on the deck. It was almost magic."

I had fallen under her spell and sipped at the tea. The ornately carved table transported from Siam. The cups were Wedgewood. The silverware came from Mexico. My older brother was 9 and I was 8. She was nearing 100.

"Would you like one sugar or two?" She didn't wait for an answer. "Of course you want two spoonfuls. Young boys like things sweet."

"Thank you." My mother had raised us to be polite.

Aunt Bert noticed our staring at the table carvings of naked women snaking up the legs to honor a dignified king. She smiled and caressed the wood. It was more alive than dead.

"My father bought this table in Thailand. It used to be called Siam. The women there were beautiful but had black teeth from chewing betel nut. The wether was hot, but they loved sweets too. Lovely cakes."

Her clawed hand pushed forward a plate of pastries. My brother grabbed a cream puff and I chose an eclair. My father came into the room with my mother and their conversation with Aunt Bert was lost thanks to the heavenly taste of the chocolate eclair.

The next time I saw Bert was at her 100th birthday. President Johnson sent a telegram. Her family surrounded her. She was sitting in a wheelchair. Her smile blessed the younger generations. She called over my older brother and me. We were almost hippies.

"The men in Borneo wore their hair long. They had tattoos too. Same as the whalers." Her head drifted on her neck, as if she might be dying and I asked, "Are you okay?"

"I'm a hundred years old. When I was six, my father caught a whale. He promised to give me a watch for a birthday present. I have it somewhere." She obviously couldn't remember where and I gazed at the sun to the west and said, "It's almost four."

"That how the whalers told the time. By looking at the sun." She closed her eyes and mumbled out a song in a low voice, "I want to be an angel and with the angels stand, a crown upon my forehead and a harp in my hand."

I kissed her on the forehead. She was asleep in her chair. We spent the rest of the afternoon with our cousins.

The last time we met was at a nursing home. She was close to death. Bert spoke our names with a gasp.

"I had a good life. I have seen many things. Things no one will ever see again." Her smile said what those were without her telling what. "You boys have a good life."

She died several days later. Her will left everything to the nurse. This woman had worked with her all those years. It seemed wrong, but my grandmother didn't contest the decision. It was considered good manners in Maine not to fight the dead.

I think about the curios from her house often, especially when I travel to the Orient.

My last trip from Fort Greene in Brooklyn to Sriracha on the Gulf of Siam was on the new Airbus 380.

JFK to Dubai on Emirates in 14 hours.

Dubai to Bangkok another 6 hours and after clearing customs an hour drive to the small house overlooking the harbor.

The total travel time from door to door 27 hours beat Aunt Bert's record along with the short voyage of Christopher Columbus, however the return trip was a marathon, thanks to an eight-hour lay-over in Dubai and a long queue at JFK. The TSA was checking everyone as a terrorist candidate. The government flunkies searched my bag for contraband, while an Arab patriach with 14 kids waltzed out of the customs terminal. Their bags towered over mine. None of them looked like Al-Qaeda, but the TSA weren't taking any chance with an American with a passport thick with immigration stamps.

"What were you doing out of the country?"

"Visiting my family in Thailand and drinking beer."

"Sir, this isn't a joke." The TSA agent was too serious for my taste.

"I know that." I kept my answers to the point and soon exited into the terminal.

Taxi drivers were waiting by the doors.

The Skytrain was my connection to the A train. A straight shot to the Lafayette stop on the C.

36 hours from door to hour.

I entered my apartment exhausted by the trip and fell asleep within minutes, but woke up at 3am.

I bet Christopher Columbus never suffered from jetlag and neither did my Aunt Bert, but then they traveled at a different rate of speed.