Random Suds Review: Anderson Valley Blood Orange Gose Ale.

Happy Friday everyone! I'm back with a random, on-the-spot review of a new beer for you. Served up this go round is the Anderson Valley Blood Orange Gose Ale. My regular readers will know that I've reviewed multiple brews from Anderson Valley Brewing in the past, all with great success. Let's hope this latest ale will continue that trend!

The Anderson Valley Blood Orange Gose Ale is 4.2% Alc. by volume and brewed with an extra special ingredient. During the fermentation process, blood oranges are added to the mix. As such, the final result should have a fair amount of citrus flavor. With this being a gose ale, it's brewed slightly different than other beers. Sea salt and coriander are employed in the brewing process, producing a much different flavor than one would expect. I've never had a gose ale before, so here goes nothing!

As with all of my reviews, I'll break it into two different parts. First, I'll taste test it while cold. Then, I'll drink it at room temperature. Some beers are better warm. Others are better when frosty. Let's get started!

Cold:

• No head upon pouring it into a pint glass.
• I can't detect anything citrus-like by the beer's odor.
• Lots of carbonation and fizz.
• WOW! Extremely bitter upon immediately hitting my tongue.
• One of the most bitter beers I've ever tasted.
• The flavor has a dull, highly muted lemon quality.
• The bitterness overshadows the citrus notes, almost to the point of eroding them completely.
• If there are any blood oranges in this beer, I can't taste them.
• I am amazed at how the bitterness continually smacks me in the mouth, gulp after gulp.
• Thankfully, the bitterness is all front-loaded, and the ale goes down quite easily upon swallow.

At Room Temperature:

• The bitterness nature has become more sour and funky, much to my chagrin.
• The fizz has all but disappeared.
• Flavor profile is completely bland and lifeless.
• Honestly, it's not really enjoyable at all.

Bummer. I was looking forward to trying another beer from Anderson Valley. Sadly, the Blood Orange Gose Ale was a complete failure in my book. I don't think it had anything to do with me not having experienced a gose ale before, either. Ultimately, the beer was just lifeless and awkward. If I wanted to taste something bitter, I'd suck on a radish.

Writer's Block And Humility.

There's one universal trait shared by all writers, no matter how proficient, successful, mundane or awful. We experience a moment where we simply can't think of anything to put into words. Hence, the eponymous writer's block. This is one of those evenings for me. I've stared at my computer monitor for nearly forty-five minutes, lacking any real sense of inspiration for a subject. I've scanned US and international news reports. I have spent ten minutes researching duct tape. Hell, I even watched a video on juggling flaming knives. Sometimes, you have to admit defeat and walk away from the keyboard. There's no shame in failure.

Writing is essentially an exercise routine for the brain. Like any other muscle in your body, it can grow strong and healthy. Using your brain regularly has actually been shown to stave off Alzheimer's disease in your later years. Day in and day out, a writer drags their brain into the proverbial gym. Ugh, let's lift bro! Five hundred word reps! Bench press a thesis! Ride an elliptical around your opening paragraph. WORK OUT!

And yet, just like going to the gym, some days the gears in your head don't click into place. Something is off. You can sense it in your gut. That's writer's block, standing in the corner next to the frozen smoothie stand with his overly damp Strawberry Shortcake towel in hand. He's yelling at you in a high-pitched voice, doing his best imitation of Gilbert Gottfried on bath salts and too much Red Bull.

"Give it up clown! You suck!"

You know what? He's right. You suck... today. Not everything a writer pieces together is a masterpiece. In fact, most of the time, a writer creates something that's already been done. Or, they craft a work of complete crap. Worse yet, there are some moments when nothing is written at all. That's the way writing goes, though. For every Wuthering Heights and Brave New World, there are hundreds of terrible novels like Fifty Shades of Grey. Writing, like anything else, is an exercise in humility. Fruitful writers are honest with themselves and their readers, confessing personal shortcomings and working to improve them. They know when to throw in the towel and submit to writer's block.

So what's the take-away from all this? The persistent writer will rise to fight another day. He'll walk into that mental gym and kick writer's block squarely in the nards! Na-ah. Not today, buddy. On this day, I say "You suck, clown!"

Huh... I guess I didn't have writer's block after all.

The Origin Of The Foot Long Hot Dog.

Let's face it. Everybody loves a tasty wiener.

Even better... a juicy hot dog that's much larger than your normal size. Traditionally, a regular-length hot dog measures six inches, per industry standards. And yet, what about a frankfurter that measures upwards of twelve inches in length? That's a massive amount of sausage at twice the delight of well... EVERYONE!

Hot dogs are clearly a guilty pleasure food. They're synonymous with America; as patriotic as apple pie and baseball. Whereas the standard hot dog has been made for centuries (as early as the 13th Century in Germany), the foot long dog has roots right here in the USA. And yet, their origin is a sad one.

In the 1930's, America faced the Great Depression. Proven to be the worst economic downturn our fair nation has ever faced, millions of Americans struggled against poverty and starvation. A man named George Schmidt, whom operated an amusement park in Chicago, took notice of the hungry visitors that came to his park, but couldn't afford to eat in his restaurants. Realizing that these very same people typically ate the cost-effective hot dogs sold in the park (sometimes sharing one dog between three or four people), he created a longer hot dog that would serve as a cheap meal. Visitors enjoyed the larger hot dogs, which didn't cost much more than the standard length original version. It was an immediate success, with sausage packing plants the nation over beginning to produce foot longs to meet demand.

There's an old saying about necessity being the mother of invention. In this case, it gave birth to a perennial American classic, the foot long.

The Deconstruction Of Friendship.

There's nothing quite like seeing an old friend. Someone that you know is trustworthy, kind and actually wants to see you in return. That's the funny thing about friends these days. The invasive nature of social media has given the definition of friend such an ambiguous connotation. A friend can be a movie superstar or a brand of soap. It can be an Instagram diva that you've never met in your life (and never will). It can be old acquaintances from high school that live in different states and don't even have your phone number.

And yet, this pervasive deconstruction of friendship has even seeped into our very real lives. The bar for friendship has been set so low, that we often let people into our lives that don't deserve to be there at all.

So why all the talk on friends?

I saw an old friend earlier today completely out of the blue. Calling a few hours in advance of my unexpected arrival, they quickly took the time to see me for even a few minutes. Though having dinner together wasn't in the cards, she at least had the time to say hello and catch up. After four years of not seeing each other, it was just like yesterday. You see, that's what a friend does for someone.

Friends make time for each other.

Thanks for catching up Brooks. It was great to see you. Hope you weren't inconvenienced by stepping away from your office for a moment. And seriously, what fountain of youth are you drinking from?!

The lesson I learned today? When it comes to genuine friendship, I need to raise my expectations.

The Recklessness Of Calling The President A 'Nigga'.

At President Obama's final White House Correspondents’ Association Dinner this past Saturday night, jokes were told and punchlines were... well, punched. And yet, I can't help but feel a little disappointed after watching the event. Larry Wilmore, a rather talented comedian and news pundit, hosted the event. I typically enjoy Wilmore's comedy, but his closing remarks left me scratching my head. To quote:

“I’m going to keep it 100. Yo Barry, you did it my nigga.”

Now, I'm not going to lob accusations of racism at Wilmore. I fully realize that he did not intend anything atrocious by calling the President a 'nigga'. In fact, Wilmore most certainly intended the use of the word as a friendly gesture. And yet, the callous implementation of such a derogatory label represents the very problem I have with someone identifying the President a 'nigga'. Or, for that matter, anyone else. Our President, love him or hate him, holds a distinct honor of lofty esteem. The office of the President deserves respect, even in moments of anger or disagreement. It's not the person filling the shoes of Commander-in-Chief, but the position itself that should be venerated.

Wilmore's use of 'nigga' represents a continuing social dilemma that I've written about previously (read here, here and here). For hundreds of years in this country, minorities of African descent were chained, enslaved, beaten, attacked, raped and all-around denigrated, only to be called 'niggers' as a stamp of sub-human garbage. As recently as the Civil Rights Movement in the 1960's, our fellow citizens bled (and in many cases died) to live as equal men and women, free from the label of 'nigger'. Over the course of recent history, 'nigger' has morphed into 'nigga', essentially as a product of slang and street culture. Though they may be spelled slightly differently, they are one in the same. 'Nigga' is spelled phonetically to represent common vernacular.

And here we are, 2016... our President (a man of mixed heritage, nonetheless) being called a 'nigga'.

Such reckless abandon for our own shared history, no matter your ethnic heritage or place of origin, is grossly negligent. Despite the friendly motivations by calling another man a 'nigga', are we so blind as to not understand what the word means? Do we not understand the immense struggle behind such a connotation of disparagement? I don't believe in censorship of any kind, but I do believe that we must be responsible for the words that we speak.

No man is a 'nigga'. Not your friend. Not your family member. And most certainly, not the President.

Draw Something: Mole

Even though these little diggers can ruin a yard, I'm actually quite fond of moles. They successfully exist in low-oxygen environments, having adapted by an evolved haemoglobin protein to use inhaled oxygen highly efficiently. Their ability to capture worms and other insects makes them top-tier underground predators. And yet, moles are solitary creatures, only coming together to mate. Moles are survivors, through and through.

Rejected By Basement-Dwelling Nerds.

Last night, I joined a local Dungeons and Dragons game group on the community website Meetup. My social life is on life support, so I thought I'd roll the dice and give it a shot. I've always had a fleeting interest in trying the infamous adventure game. Yet, growing up in rural Virginia never allowed an opportunity for me to give it a try.

Mind you, I played Magic: The Gathering for years by myself because no one else knew about it. That's how far out in the boondocks I was.

Upon joining an open group in Greensboro which is looking for new and experienced players, I sent the administrator a short note. In it, I introduced myself, explained my lack of experience and asked when I could come to acquaint myself with the game and their group's players.

This morning, I received a response.

The group administrator thanked me for my interest, but stated that they were full of experienced players and would keep me in mind in the future. Following the message, the admin promptly removed me from their open and public group.

An OPEN and PUBLIC group. Let that sink in.

"Hah, this guy Jared thought he could be a part of our group? What a loser!"

I wouldn't be so annoyed if the group didn't state that it was looking for new players. And yet, denied access I was. I've now been rejected by basement-dwelling nerds. My social life is officially dead.

Of course, I realize that the problem exists with the admin/group and not myself, but I still can't help but feel a bit depressed. As if I already weren't a hermit, being rejected in such a manner doesn't help. Is it even possible for a Dungeons and Dragons game to be full? Isn't it an open-ended role-playing game where multiple people can participate? I feel like I was fed an excuse, though for what reason I can't say.

Back to the drawing board, I suppose. Maybe I can find another group on Meetup that will interest me. At some point, maybe I'll revive my social life.