"Brain Cell Destruction Derby"

Date: 07 May 96

HOO WAH!

Took a couple of days to get the fingers reconnected to brain. Some serious circuit damage, had to use the manual to rewire, backup failure, dialysis necessary after the patient failed to respond to IV infusion. Upper memory critical failure, but what the hell, I remember most of it. Most sincere and humble apologies for any digression, other than as necessary to recreate thought processes.

Four drunks in a VW Bus, loaded with 60 gallons of Homebrew, 4 gallons of apple mead and 300 pounds of ice. You know you're a homebrewer when you measure beer in gallons. You know you're a homebrewer when you have 60 gallons of beer in your car. You know you're a homebrewer when you don't think 60 gallons is much beer. And, when you have a commercial ice machine at your house so you can save money on ice when you go on road trips, you know you're a homebrewer.

My esteemed colleagues were Alan (brewer, drinker, owner of the Bus and its primary operator), Dennis (brewer, drinker, heavy equipment operator) and Mark (he was supposed to be drinking and taking notes, but his paper failed about 2 hours into the trip).

Departure: Napa (California, USA) 1300 PDT. Interim Destination: Noriega's Hotel, Bakersfield, CA, the best Basque Restaurant in America, no later than 1900 PDT (dinner time). Yep, we left on schedule. Three 55 gal. drums each with four 5 gallon kegs and 100 pounds of ice. 20 pounds of CO2 and a regulator. First order of business was to select a sacrificial lamb, which turned out to be a fairly authentic ESB, maybe a little bigger than a Fullers, and certainly as complex. Hop character somewhat subdued, with the fullness and sweetness one might find in a Yorkshire Bitter (say, like a Taylor's Landlord). OK, enough digression into sensory evaluation. This is more about the excursion than the beer flavor, and we soon had no idea about that. We had to pick up Mark in Rio Vista, and by the time we arrived, there was only a distant glimmer of 0.08 Blood Alcohol Content. In other words, we were all within normal limits.

We got down to some serious drinking once we hit the Interstate, since it's pretty much a straight road. We limited Alan to one every other round, because of the basic rule "Never drive while intoxicated." Drinking and driving is OK (hell, anybody who says you can't have a can of soda while behind the wheel has a screw loose), just don't do it while intoxicated. You can be damn sure I spent zero time behind the wheel. Alan tried to talk me into driving on Sunday, but I reminded him of the "Handle Incident," and he relented.

We had stopped for a rest break. Yeah, yeah, we were "tired" so we stopped. It was one of those "Turn here, TURN HERE!" shuddering, nose down, come to a stop in a cloud of dust brakes that were to become fairly commonplace. In the middle of nowhere ("Shit, Alan, that was fucking amazing. Where's my beer? Where the hell are we?), piling out from around the barrels into a Central Valley vineyard, application of irrigation (well, the grapes needed the water). So for some reason, I brilliantly decided that the sliding side door needed to be closed. Not that anyone was in the bus. The door just needed closing. So I placed hand on handle and applied what I considered to be an appropriate amount of force. Upon which the exceedingly weak alloy of the handle yielded and left the door in place, whith the handle in my non-beer hand. Outstanding excuse for the remainder of the trip, which left me free to be completely irresponsible. ("No, I don't think I should do that. It has a handle on it.") Way cool, since I had people pouring beers for me, opening doors, the whole works. ("Uh, Dennis, would you mind doing the honors; the tapper has a handle.") I only broke two other things on the whole trip.

Whew. Serious digression, for which I apologize. At some point we passed through a cloud of some strange smelling smoke, which affected my ability to visualize scenery or recall much other than a band called the Rugburns, singing something about buying a pit bull and naming it after Harry. No problem, I wasn't driving. By the time we made Noriega's, the ESB was pretty much gone.

Noriega's was, as usual, the finest. Only real problem is that we had to try to walk past the bar to get into the dining room, and we needed a couple of beers to "clear the palate." Dinner is served Family Style, which means all you can eat. Since dinner is served with wine, (and since they "know" me there, it's also all you can drink. Dinner is usually mostly meat, and the wine is chilled red (bottled last Wednesday). I know I paid for dinner, and I got directions to our host's house, since I have the receipt with directions. At least I wrote the directions on the receipt; I'm assuming I paid for dinner, but since they let me out without a barfight, I'm pretty sure I must have given whoever was in charge a big enough bribe. In fact, I know we either were fairly well sedated at that point, or we were too drunk for anyone to start anything, becaused we managed to get out without receiving a drinking injury. In fact, nobody received a drinking injury the whole weekend.

At the Festival (Southern California Homebrewer's Festival) we saw more screwed up knees and ankles than one would expect in a normal population. I personally observed 6 or 7 knee braces (not the little floppy things, I mean the really big bastards with straps and metal and shit, where the guy walks like he's missing some of the knee stuffing), plus 4 guys with ankle braces that could hold up a car while changing a tire. The 2 guys in wheelchairs I've seen before, but I forget whether it's alcohol related. Hell, they were drinking at the Festival.

One guy had serious bodily mutilation, consisting of huge multicolored tattoos and body piercings (earrings, nipple rings, who knows what the hell else rings). Hypothesis was the nipple rings were actually "Orthodermic" nipple rings, for the purpose of correcting inverted nipples. Of course, we were pretty trashed when that flash of brilliance surfaced, so it's probably correct.

But I digress. By the time we got to Brazier's, it was pitch black out, we were all seriously impaired, and driving pretty much on brute instinct. Directions should have been written in neon/day-glo/florescent ink, instead of black. Two shuddering Bat Turns spilled a couple of beers, but not a big deal, since we still had plenty. We found our host's home and bailed the bus.

I must admit, now, that having friends without spouses has certain advantages. At least I'm absolutely certain we didn't piss off Dan's wife. She moved out months ago. All I can say for sure is that Dan Brazier is a true DB. We drank heavily.

Tried to post to the NG from Brazier's. Get a 'puter, nimrod. First we had to find his software for "A-Hole-Smell" (well, at least it's free) and load it up. What crap. Our computer experts (Alan and Mark) wasted 2 hours of perfectly good drinking time trying to figure out the damn thing, although it wouldn't have been a waste of time if they'd figured out how to post. I hope Dan remembers that his AOL account is now "activated," otherwise the $9.99 a month will be a surprise.

A few other maDBrewers showed up and helped us evaluate beers. I don't remember much after that, except I have a note on directions to Gibbs' house (see attachment). Hell, anybody could find Gibbs' house using these direction, so long as he made it to Brazier's first. I think that could have been the point where my fingers and brain became disconnected. (Shit, I actually documented something. A complete first.)

At least I'm pretty sure it's directions to Gibbs' house, since it's on the back of his address card, and he lives on Gaelic Court. He said I sounded pretty hammered, and was mumbling something like: "Dogs fucked the Pope; no fault of mine," but I could have been singing Led Zeppelin at that point. Hell, HE could have been drunk. Early memory failure.

Came to on Friday to find Alan and Mark passed out on the front lawn. Found a Bartels and James "Sangria" (which claims to be an all malt beverage) in the fridge for hydration purposes. Alan mumbling something about having to get up in the middle of the night over a "sprinkler alarm" coming from a neighbor's garage. No signs of Police, blood or broken bones. Went through the motions of civilization.

Brazier had to go to the Doctor that morning. Just a regular checkup. Classic, because we pretty much knew how the chat with the Doc would go:

[Doctor]: Well, Mr. Brazier, we ran a few tests and it looks like there is blood in your alcohol stream.
[Brazier]: Geez, Doc. I didn't know I gave a urine sample. Is it serious?
[Doctor]: No, Mr. Brazier, nothing to worry about. In fact, I'd say you were in perfect health. Nothing evil could live in that kind of environment. At least that we know of. Cut back on the coffee.

"Say, Darlin'. When was the last time your ice machine was cleaned out? Who's job is it to get the big iceberg out of the bottom of the bin? We'll be glad to do it for free, in exchange for the ice, and make you look good with the boss."

Going up and down the Central Valley, all these little towns have signs outside saying things like "Turlock, Gateway to Prosperity," or "Wasco, A Nice Place to Live." I named Bakersfield "The Friendly City" because it's true. Everybody there was nice to us, they all smiled, and gave us whatever we asked for. Later, I heard that the motto was "Come On Vacation, Leave On Probation" but maybe we were there on a slow day.

Departure Bakersfield, 1130 hours, Destination: Temecula, California, home of the Southern California Homebrewers Festival. Great idea, heading through the Mojave Desert. We could have shaved an hour and a half off the drive time, but no, the boys wanted to look for desert tortoises, and rattlesnakes and tumbleweeds and that kind of crap, instead of top down, long blond hair, well tanned, FRIDAY, ELL-AY. I was outvoted. Since I was disqualified from driving, I figured it would be time to examine the other beers.

The great thing about deserts, if you look away for a minute, you don't miss a thing. Stopped in some little desert town named "Liquor and Gas," according to the sign. A 5th of Tequila was in the spirit of things, and we had a flat of Strawberries (for the Vitamin C content) on board, so we mashed up a few berries into a glass with some Sauza and made Margaritas.

Arrived at Temecula. Lake Skinner. Alan had a nasty encounter with the State Employee in charge of doling out campsites. We had two sites reserved, a fact which I'm sure were the first words out of Alan's mouth. I heard them clearly. For some reason, the Employee (I'm sure the name badge read "A. Huffer") just didn't like Al:

[Employee]: Well, now, 2 sites. Just how many will be staying here?
[Alan]: How many can we have?
[Employee]: A maximum of 6 per site, sir.
[Alan]: Well, then we'll be having 12.
[Employee]: You only have 4 in the car, sir.
(At this point, realizing the word "sir" was synonymous with "you fucking bastard," Alan got out of the car, nearly doing the "Below the Belt Smash" on the Employee with the door of the Bus.)
[Alan]: What the hell difference does it make? We each want our own site. Make it 4 sites. Either that or put me in my own site and they can share the other one. (At which point, the State Employee called for an assistant, and asked Alan to step away from the bus. I asked Alan if he needed his attorney, but I don't think he heard. When he came back, all was well. We got our campsites. Mr. Huffer's assistant was Alan's contact when the reservations were made.)
[Employee]: Have a nice day, Mr. Atkinson, sorry about the misunderstanding.
[Alan]: Thanks alot, you rat bastard. I hope you choke.

Started out the dinner doing quite well. An outstanding IPA from "Blind Pig" Brewery. A few Cysers shared with afficianados. Then into wine with Vincenzo Cilurzo (Owner and Winemaker). Only embarassing moment recalled was when an episode of "Snapper Hand" struck. I had forgotten about the brain/hand disconnect short, and lost a glass. Which was empty, fortunately. And I could have sworn (in fact I did, rather loudly) that Mark knocked it out of my hand, which he denied. No problem, glass cleaned up, no spill. Vincenzo handed me a full one, great host.

We were late back to the campground. They locked the gates at 2200. Fortunately, President Dave was waiting at the gate with his truck. We made it to the campground. Ran into a bunch of intoxicated brewers, since we had the whole campground reserved for the Festival. Memory failure after that point.

Date: 09 May 1996
Subject: Brain Cell Destruction Derby, Part 2

(The story so far: 4 drunks, VW Bus, serious dent in the beer, cyser, tequila, at a Homebrewers Festival, 10th day (for me) of a fairly decent bender (can't testify for the others), escapade mostly benign to this point, although not without some humorous moments. For those who care, it was daylight when I came to.

Came to fairly early, about 7:30. System check revealed: still drunk, check. No signs of external bleeding, check. All internal organs still internal, check. Liver swollen, check. Beer, empty --whoa, danger, alert (Klaxon horn going off in head). Check trouble shooting guide: Beer empty, head to keg, refill, lips to glass, drink; alarm sensors shut down, all systems operating. No problems. Went through the motions of Civilization.

Headed off to do a beer drop at the Festival site so we could have some room in the Bus. Ran into a few fellow drunks, who requested samples, offering same in return. Things starting out fine. No chance of hangover now. Reversed declining blood alcohol level. Completed beer drop, headed back to camp.

Always eat at least one meal every 48 hours, and try to eat in anticipation of going the next 2 days without food. Hey, the German Monks used to consume nothing but Doppelbock during the Lenten Fasts. How long is Lent? But see, Doppelbock is a HUGE beer, one which will sustain life much longer than IPA or Stout, or pretty much anything else except maybe Barley Wine or Russian Imperial Stout. And I figured there wasn't going to be much food eaten later, since food tends to get in the way of drinking. Maybe that's why monks fasted during Lent.

9:30. Head to the festival. We're miles from Civilization, other than our own. Gestapo Security all around to keep out anybody not wearing one of those stupid little plastic wristbands they put on you in the hospital. Jesus, it's barely daylight, we're hammered, and these Nazi bastards are looking at us like they need an excuse to unload:

[Sully]: Here, Officer, have a beer. You might as well get in the spirit.
[Guard]: Back in line, sir.
[Sully]: Fuck you, officer. Lighten up. Everybody here is fucking drunk except you. What's the matter, you think some kind of riot is about to break out? Where's your mirror shades? Doesn't all this light hurt your eyes? Here borrow some of this sunscreen. It's SPF 45. You'll need it. Don't forget the back of your neck.
[Guard]: Back in line, sir.

Inside, and headed for beer. I would later learn there was close to 3000 gallons of various fermented beverages present, all free for the tasting. Made the rounds, was working on power tasting. When's the next CC? 2 to 3 ounce samplers, covering a beer every minute or so (hey, gotta keep it moving, there's others behind you trying to get in close enough to the table to get a sample) up until you hit something good, then get a fill and move to the next table and push up to the front for a sample. Repeat.

Break time at 1330. Had covered most of the tables, even had a few good beers. Was tending toward the bigger beers, mainly because dehydration wasn't a factor yet. Several meads, although most were thin, with a lot of fusels, which will lead down the tunnel to partial focal blindness. Not blind, but getting there.

Since there were speakers, I went over to the other tent. I'm sure what they said was important. Back at our table, it was time to rotate beers. Gotta keep fresh beer on tap. Hey, I didn't say the whole day was exciting, mostly we drank.

I broke the handle off of one of the Beer Faucets. Purely accidental. I'm sure it was defective. President Dave was serving one of his fine British Ales and I went to do a pour and *tink* the bastard came right off. Dave just shook his head. He should have known better, having heard about the handle incident. Good things come in threes. It was just a little pin that broke. Nothing serious.

The bands didn't start until 1600. There were a few guys that were looking intoxicated (OK, plastered -equilibrium system shorting badly, speech centers losing contact with tongue, day-glo red being sent directly to eyes), but no problem, have another beer.

Started serving Cyser out of the keg. Great stuff. 6 gallons (5 Imp.) of fresh pressed Gravenstein juice (any high acid apple will do, like Granny Smith or Pippin (Pie Apples are best, and avoid Delicious like the plague) plus (if you've got it) a gallon of aromatic apple (like MacIntosh) plus 20 pounds (or 9 kg) honey (try to use a clean honey, like Orange, rather than a dirty one, like Sage), plus yeast nutrient (not Burton Salts, use something with enough Free Amino Nitrogen to get the yeast to work) and a good quantity of wine yeast (double what you would think is reasonable). Ferment at 55F (13C) for 8 months. Fine with Isinglass. Like drinking 16% cider with body. (Now you all know the recipe.)

We had a few women elbowing their way down to the end of the table where the Cyser was. Why is it that the women never appear"to be intoxicated? They get a little more chatty, maybe stand closer, get touchy-feely, suggest that it's time to leave for a "walk" (WooHoo!), but never lose the balance, stagger, crashing into a crowd of 6 or 7 people, beer spilling dangerously (Sorry, scuze me, Look Out, Shit wha' happen') can't get 3 coherent words out in a row intoxicated? I've seen guys walk into a tree and say "Pardon me" (always polite), yet women just don't lose it that way. What gives?

The bands started. Carnivorous Lunar Activity. More wandering around, a little more aimlessly, except for people kept coming up saying "Hey, Sully, didja try the (fill in type of beer, etc.) over at (fill in name of Club)? Not wanting to seem impolite, naturally I felt compelled to attempt to reel across a tent full of drunks to the next fill. Recollection of events faded during this period, and I have not much clue as to what went on, other than music playing somewhere, glass that kept being refilled, constant beehive noises, a short game of human pinball, no angry drunken faces, right up until the Maltose Falcons Blues Band started.

Ah, the MFBB. Classic homebrew club band. Drinking music. Pull up a chair, fire open a cyser. Hey, Sully has Cyser! I remember growling out the Doors' "Let It Roll" at the top of my lungs. Couldn't talk for two days. (Maybe that *was* a drinking injury. Hmmmm.) Although I did win $100 from Gibbs, who swore that Dire Straits' "Nearly Any Fuel" was a ZZ Top song:

[Gibbs]: Grea' ZZ Top. Grea' fuckin ban.
[Sully]: No fuckin way. Thas not Top.
[Gibbs]: Fuck you. Yeah it is.
[Sully]: Gibbs, get your head outta you fuckin ass. Thas not Top. I know who that is. It's some band. I can't member, buts not Top. Is like Dixie Dregs or somthin.
[Gibbs]: I'll bet that's Top. 5 bucks says is ZZ Top. 10 Bucks.
[Sully]: Why don't we make it interesting? A hunnerd bucks says its not Top. I dunno who it is but a hunner bucks says is not ZZ Top.
[Gibbs]: OK. Hunnerd bucks says is Top. How we gonna fine out?
[Sully]: Go ass the guitar guy. (Dave, the lead guitarist.)
[Gibbs]: Hey, 'scuze me. I gotta quession. Who plays that song in real life? I say is ZZ Top.
[Guitar Guy]: Dire Straits. ZZ Top??
[Gibbs]: Fuck. I just loss a hunner bucks.
[Sully]: I TOLE you it wassan ZZ Top. Pay up, you bastard.

Gibbs lost his cell phone. He made a call to Brazier's at around 1830. I've heard the tape, because Brazier wasn't home, so the machine got it:

[Gibbs]: Hey, you bassard. Thissis Steve. I'm in San Diego. Where're you, you sonofabich? You're not here. Well, I'll talk to you later. [Click]

I recall making it back to the table, about the time the band shut down. We have a standing challenge to all clubs, to see who will be the last club to serve beer. We started the competition last year (which we won) so naturally we had to keep the competition alive. We were still drinking after all the other tables closed. They came over to our table and drank our beer. Caught another wind, since competition was in the air. Drank until we were unanimously acclaimed Champions of the Festival.

Somebody passed some Copenhagen around. I've been off tobacco for a few months. Tolerance down. Extremely dangerous substance after a full day of drinking. Made it through without doing The Big Spit.

In time honored tradition, after the band shuts down and all the people who don't plan to stick around for DPS have left, the Dead Palate Society is called to order. I very clearly recall this, because by this time of the morning, its a pretty organized affair. DPS is a collection of serious drinkers and beer lovers. After drinking nonstop for 14 hours (to say nothing of anything that preceded the start of the Festival) usually 20 to 40 people bring out their special drinks, which include every type of beer, both homebrewed, domestic and imported, barley wines, meads, home distillation products, pretty much everything you can think of. The bottles get lined up from one end of the table to the other, three or four deep. If the table isn't long enough, another is pulled up. We sit. Those unlucky enough to not sit, stand. Offerings are made, in no particular order, other than to describe what the offering is. (E.g., this is Lindemans Kriek, which I brought back from my trip to Belgium two weeks ago.) The pour is made, and anyone with a palate is expected to describe what they perceive. This goes on into the night. Chili Beer, a homemade Scotch (single malt), lambic, bock, all without rhyme or reason, other than taste. I distinctly recall two people sitting up in a tree, in rapture. Pretty surreal.

We went to the Maltose Falcons' camp. They had some incredible Gumbo. Peter the Chef (and lead singer for the band) said he "just threw it together." Right. Gibbs came staggering up, burdened under the load of his sleeping bag and pillow. He was directed to a nearby tent. An extra he was told:

[Falcon]: Right over there, man. That one.
[Gibbs]: This un? Ri' here?
[Falcon]: Yeah, Yeah, that's a good one.

[Voice from the tent]: What the fuck?! Get the fuck outta here! Jesus, you bastard, get the fuck out!
[Gibbs]: Huh? Wha' th' shit. HEY, there's someone in here. Oh, shit, sorry, sorry.

[Sully]: Jesus, Gibbs, what the hell are you doing? This isn't even our camp. Go put that shit down, and get over here. This is a killer Festbier.
[Gibbs]: I'll be back.

5 campsites away. Nearly horizontal in a chair, in front of a fire. Couple of guys sitting there. No problem. Gibbs seeking out a heat source. Pretty much passed out, but still quasi-coherent, synapses still firing. Passed Cyser around, hauled Gibbs vertical and pointed him to bed. Crawled into the rack, all in all, a pretty good day.

Came to, still drunk. System check meaningless, all gauges nonfunctional. Routines of Civilization lost. Travel day. Pretty brutal. Broke camp, said drunken goodbyes. Delivered a bottle of Cyser to a guy from the Society of Barley Engineers who thought he had a pretty good BlackberryMead (thin, some fusels, although nice touch with berries). Suggested he try the Cyser, then next year we could talk about fermenting honey.

Gibbs looking like a fat, hungover bastard. Eyes Candy Apple red, blending in nicely with his car.

[Gibbs]: My eyes, Officer? Mus' be a 'flection off the hood. Drinking? Not today, sir.

Picked up our beer kegs and barrels from the Fest site, added ice. On the road. Where's the tunes? Alan needs a beer, since he's driving. Don't let him start to hang, or we're screwed. Well, of course we aren't going through the desert. It's Sunday, so let's drive through Los Angeles. Not too bad, actually, and we made it to Bakersfield by 1215. Noriega's was packed, we had no reservations, and I wasn't sure whether we would be welcomed with open arms, after Thursday night. Pyrenees Restaurant closed. We ended up lunch at a cute little Mexican bakery where a very pleasant (and friendly) gal made us up a bunch of soft burritos and beans and rice and tortillas. Back on the road. What an interminable journey.

Flashback to Friday night. Alan doing some barrel swimming, looking for a delivery line, which was thought to have been dropped into the ice water. Absolutely funnier than shit. Alan, stripped to the shorts, in a 55 gallon barrel half full of ice and water, reaching around on the bottom for a hose and fitting. Oh, it wasn't in any of the 3 barrels:

[Alan]: Fuck, it's cold in here. Where in the hell is it?
[Sully]: Keep looking. It's got to be in one of these barrels. You're doing a great job. Damn, that's gotta be cold. We got plenty of ice?

Alan finally reached Terminous. Offered to let me drive. My alcohol level was slightly less than toxic, so I reminded him of the handle incident. Votes ran 3-0 against me driving. I abstained. (Another first.) Dennis took over. Hell, he owns a VW Bus himself, so he's "experienced". Mark was pretty inactive, but we kept checking his pulse and respirations. I think he was alive when we left him in Rio Vista.

We made it home. Just in time, because we were down to our last gallon or so of beer. That was then. This is now. Time to Brew.

-Sully