new beer in the old town

Think global, act local, isn't that the saying?  Buying local is part of that, I guess.  Fortunately, when it comes to beer, the choices are numerous.  One of those choices is Cibeles, not only quality, but also quantity beers, having produced a number of varieties over the past few years.  Viejo Madrid is one I had not seen before, so I couldn't resist.  I notice the label is also in English, and not really a translation.  They have been exporting to the US for a couple of years, so they're either prepared or have gotten used to a bilingual theme.  And the English part is much more...commercial.

"Madrid excellent water", as opposed to, say, London excellent water?

For some reason I expected a darker beer than I got in my glass, maybe because of the brownish label, or because of the slightly sweet smell.  It reminds me a little of a bock in aroma.  The color is golden and standard beer, though.  The taste is apple-y and just a little tart, although I feel like it could become syrupy if left to warm up too much.  This "traditionally" crafted beer is a fine drink, flavorful, bright and happy, and a pick-me-up on a rainy evening.  Much better than certain other beers that claim seniority around here.

Supplier: La Buena Cerveza
Price: €2.66

beer

The bar was filled with damp, beery air, but not a lot of noise.  This wasn't really strange.  It was Wednesday night, after all.  The bartender leaned back against the mirror, the college kids racked up on the pool table, the rest of the customers gazed stonily into their half full glasses.  Young William Alberts drummed the bar restlessly with his left-hand fingers.  Finally the bartender glanced at him and said, "Dude, just drink your beer or order another one, or something.  You're freakin' me out with that face you're making."  Young Alberts looked up.  "What face is that, Danny?  I'm not making any goddam face."  The bartender rolled his eyes and looked back to the room, making sure everybody was behaving.  "What face, Danny?  I'm serious."  Young Alberts had straightened up and was looking earnestly over at the bartender now, with just a hint of worry in his voice.

At that moment, the door to the bar opened and a small crowd of young women hustled in.  They were about the same age as the pool players, likely from the same school given the size of the town.  Neither group acknowledged the other, though.  The girls tumbled over to a booth, amid giggles and hair flings, and piled in, four or five to a side.  The bartender stared at them incredulously.  The customers hadn't even raised their eyes to the disturbance.  Young Alberts leaned over the bar and almost whispered, "What's up, Dan, they give ya problems before?"  The bartender rubbed his forehead and eyes with vigorous irritation.  "Christ, Alberts, just mind your own business."

They both waited for a while, letting the new crowd settle down, and finally a couple of pony-tailed representatives trotted over to the bar.  "So we gotta order at the bar, or what?"

"You see any waiters?" the bartender motioned with his hand.

The two looked around the room like birds at a puddle.  "Well, can we get a pitcher at our table then?"

"Pitcher a' what?"

"Whatever's cheap today."  And the ponytails swayed on the way back to their herd.

The bartender audibly growled as he filled a pitcher with PBR - from cans.  Young Alberts studied the group at the table.  "Hey, Danny..."

"Don't even ask, Alberts, it's not worth it."

But Young William Alberts had been captivated by one of the young women in the booth.  She wasn't as bubbly as her friends, in fact she was almost solemn in her demeanor.  She had the same long light-colored hairstyle, looking like it was probably helped out chemically in its coloring.  Her clothes  were the same style and color scheme.  But there was just something...different.  Maybe it was her expression.  Not serious exactly, she was smiling.  But it wasn't the shiny, toothy smile the others had.    Young Alberts could swear that she was thinking about being somewhere else.

The bartender left the pitcher at the tables and hustled back to the bar to cries of, "But we need cups, come onnnnnnn!"  He gathered up half-pint glasses from behind the bar and shot Young Alberts another warning glance before going over to deliver them.

He came back to the bar and stared for a moment at Young Alberts before saying, "I know you're checking out Soledad.  Just forget about it, dude."

"Soledad?  Not Soledad Quiroga?"

"The very same."

"Holy shit, I thought she was a maneater."

"She is, don't let the sorority girl outfit fool you."

Young Alberts stared with even more interest at the booth and at the calmest woman in it.  He drained his glass, in the vain hope that it would give him courage, and stayed put right on his bar stool.  He was both surprised and exhilerated to see the girl of his dreams walking over to the bar all of a sudden.  She did not, however, give him the slightest glance.  She leaned over the bar and said in a low and syrupy voice, "Can I get a pint of good lager over here?"

The bartender coughed and rolled his eyes again.  "Good lager, you say?  What's wrong with what you and your buddies got?"

She looked at him with an expression of patience and pity.  "You know how beers are, you know what I mean."

They locked eyes for a good minute and the bartender poured a pint from the tap.

"Just leave it on the bar," she said, pulling out the money for the pint, "The right one will ask for it."

The bartender smirked and said, "How the fuck will I know the right one?"

"You'll know," replied Soledad Quiroga, prancing her way back to her friends, glancing over her shoulder.

"Hey, Danny," said Young Alberts, "I feel like a pint about now."

"Fuck off, Alberts," said the bartender.

And the evening went on, with pool, giggling, and a beer on the bar.

Young Alberts couldn't help glancing at the pint every minute or so, with eyes of longing, although who could tell if it was longing for the beer or for the girl who had it set there.

The night dragged on, as nights like these tend to do, and little by little the bar emptied.  The collegiate pool players went home, their money having made rounds in all their pockets.  The few regulars eased out into the dark like puffs of smoke.  The table of pitcher beer drinkers was among the last to be cleared.  Young Alberts was also still at his post at the bar.  The pint was still there on the end.  When the herd was passing him, Alberts felt in his gut that it was his last chance and he hopped off his stool and grabbed up the pint, spilling a good third of it.  The bartender groaned from behind the bar, disgustedly.  Alberts raised the glass and rasped, "Here's t'you, Soll-a-dad!"  He poured what he thought was a respectable swallow into his mouth and waited for her calm, sexy approach.

It was a long wait.

Not really.  Just a couple of seconds until the gaggle of girls burst into shrill, alcohol enhanced laughter, and Young Alberts gaped at them like a startled dog at the garage.  Soledad Quiroga was in the middle of the pack, flanked by her guards as it were, shaking her head angrily.

"Wull, ya didn't akshully say who th' right one was gunna be," slurred Alberts, trying to save face.

"It sure as hell wasn't you," she snapped, and turned to lead her flock safely home.

"Mussa bin onna them pool pricks," concluded Alberts.

"Yeah, sure.  It's a different right one every night and he never gets his fucking beer, then some asshole like you grabs it, spills all over, and pisses her off," snapped the bartender.  "At least she didn't start a fight this time.  I guess you have some sense after all, waiting until closing, you drunk bucket of pre-shit."

"Waddaya mean, she alliz gets a beer for the bar?" wheezed Young Alberts.

"Yep.  Every damn time she's in here.  Her bait for Mr. Right, I guess.  I don't know what headfucking chick flick she saw that dumbshittery in."

The bar now completely empty and only Alberts was swaying on the floor while the bartender wiped down moist, dark surfaces.  Suddenly he looked up like he had forgotten he wasn't alone and shouted, "What the fuck christ, Alberts, go the fuck home!"  And Young Alberts, startled once again by a loud noise, waddled out the door to the street.

Although they say cool air clears a drunken head, it isn't really true, especially not for Young William Alberts.  He was as wasted as he was in the warmth of the bar when he started stumbling down the street, on the way to his bed, to tell himself about how he almost got with Soledad Quiroga.

Emotional Labor

Although it seems like it ought to be a fundamental part of human relationships, emotional labor does not get a lot of popular press.  I have seen it mentioned by name only in "SJW" spaces.  I suppose that other thinkers in other spaces might consider the idea too basic to be examined, and yet there does appear to be a need for it when so many have so much dissatisfaction with their relationships.

Emotional Labor is defined as the effort a person puts into maintaining and deepening connections to another person, usually in the context of a romantic relationship, but friendships are also scenes for this kind of effort to be put forth.  This effort is time and energy spent listening to the other person, both soothing when there is trouble and supportive when they are joyful.  While we might assume that this kind of effort comes naturally to humans as a social species, we should also remember that we must be trained to have empathy with one another as children.  While the capacity might be natural, its performance might need to be cultivated.  The romantic notion of a relationship often consists of two people performing this labor for each other, at much the same level and intensity, but romance is basically a fantasy and a poor version of reality to pay attention to.  The truth is that we do not have very good role models for emotional labor; the media presents only the happy ever after stories and the feel-good marriages and partnerships; our parents were raised on much the same stories and could very well be living under the same misunderstanding of human relationships as we might be.  We assume that relationships - "romantic", friendships, work and neighborly acquaintanceships - ought to come naturally, and we should not have to put forth much effort at all, if any.  In fact, we see a person who requires attention to thrive as an adult as "high-maintanence", particularly if that person is a woman.

Now we come to an interesting gender divide in this subject.  While all of us assume that relationships should be easy to be of any worth, the simple truth is that if nobody does any work, the relationship will wither and die.  There are different expectations of this work from different partners in our society.  It falls to women to do the majority of the emotional labor, because we have the cultural idea that women are naturally more "caring" and "nurturing" while men are stoic and practically emotionless when it comes to other people.  Hence, a woman who demands emotional labor from her partner is labelled "high-maintenance", while she is expected to care and coo over everything that occurs in her partner's life.  This is not even limited to established relationships; men in our society often assume a woman, any woman, will and should be willing to listen to him.  He might just want a friendly chat, or he might want to get some problem off his chest, but he sees any woman in his environment as a potential sounding board.  This might account for the dumbfounded fury some men display when strangers refuse to engage with them.  Without being consciously aware, they are going along with the subliminal cultural context that men talk and women listen appreciatively.  Even in established relationships, the male part normally has the expectation that he will be taken seriously, while the female part has the expectation that she will be depended on for emotional support.

Why does it matter if different members of a relationship perform different tasks?  Could it not be taken as similar to household chores, for example, where each person does their part, but chores are distributed between them?  There is nothing wrong with this in theory, but the result is the previously described gender divide.  There is no dialog and agreement about how best to maintain the relationship over the long term, but an assumption that provokes anger when challenged.

Taking into account the presumption from strangers, it is easy to see how this is a problem for women. However, it can also be less than ideal for men as well.  Human beings are a social species.  We have a need to interact with each other and feel a sense of belonging to a group.  While men are excused from effort, they are thus disconnected from one of the prime ways of forging bonds with other human beings - interpersonal communication.  When men are not "allowed" to have deep feelings, much less share them, they are caught in a not fully developed role in the human play.  The accepted interactions between men in our society have a tendency to be superficial or outright competitive rather than truly friendly.

So, if we accept that there is a problem that needs to be addressed, what should be done to find a solution?  First of all, I would propose that we reexamine what it means to have a good relationship with another person.  Our society has developed a view of individualism and independence that borders on obsessive.  I repeat, we assume that our relationships with others must be easy, or they are not worth the trouble.  The most important thing is our individual comfort level at all times.  In order to promote healthier relationships, which are based on interpersonal connection, we need to place more importance on doing emotional labor, and not being in the most comfortable position at all times.  We need to value empathy and sympathy, those qualities we need to understand each other and want the best for each other.  Most of all, we need to stop seeing emotional labor as "women's work" and reinterpret it as a human requirement for a functional society based on the feeling of belonging to that society.  As a job for the ladies, emotional labor is unimportant and to be ignored (a topic for another essay, if not more).  As a human duty, emotional labor is the backbone of a culture of caring and humanity.

Once we accept that Emotional Labor is as necessary to happy existence as physical or intellectual labor, we might find it necessary to include training for it in our educational system.  We already value the teaching of facts and physical fitness, and to some extent even critical thinking.  We do not, however, see the need to train our children from the start of their academic life in the skills for taking care of relationships, perhaps because of the aforemenioned assumption that these skills are natural and there is no need to improve them in normal people.  It is true that there is some instruction of small children when it comes to sharing or not hurting others, physically or emotionally.  Still, this teaching ends once the real academic rigors begin, perhaps before children's ages are in double digits.   Where does further training come from?  From the family, from the media, from friends who have little experience themselves.  None of these sources may recognize the problems of not distributing the burden of emotional labor species-wide, leading to uncomfortable situations at best.

Emotional Labor is a human duty as it improves the human condition.  All of us are responsible for providing it to those we care about, or hope to have care about us.  We need, for our own betterment and survival, to learn to respect it and those who do it for us.

spirit animal

My first exposure to Smuttynose was actually in a bar around Halloween; they had a pumpkin ale I just had to try.  It was more of a pumpkin pie ale, to be honest, a little sweet 'n' spicy for my normal beer consumption, but an interesting seasonal thing.  The faded quality of the label on Really Old Brown Dog Ale probably made me think it would be a little more laid back than that pumpkin ale.  Also, for some reason changing seasons really wears you out, and you want to just curl up in a chair like that dog.

Just five more minutes, ok?

Just a little sweetness, something sort of Thanksgiving-y.  Maybe the power of suggestion?  There's a fruity/honey taste, with an interesting bitter sting leading the way and disappearing almost instantly.  There's a hint of cinnamon riding on top too.  It's a nice, light example of brown ale, in terms of taste and also the color.  While definitely brown, it's not earth colored, and rather translucent.  I'm used to brown ales being a little heavier, either in fruitiness or bitterness, but this one is practically summery. 

Supplier: La Buena Cerveza
Price: €4.37

the calming quaff

It's kind of weird fall weather right now.  First it got cold, then not so cold, then it rained a little.  At least it isn't very windy right now.  It's not bad enough weather to keep people from clogging up the little sidewalks downtown, unfortunately.  I had to shuffle up to the bus stop after leaving the beer store.  I went down to La Buena Cerveza this time, one that's just far enough away that it's kind of a pain to go very often.  There is a good selection, though, especially from national breweries.  However, I grabbed up a Danish porter before I made my way to the Spanish craft section, the coffee infused Still Lifestyle, with one of my favorite motifs on the label.

Not so subliminal advertising, anyone?

It has kind of a funky smell, more earthy than I expected from a coffeed porter.  It's a nice, rich black color and the dark beige head is bubbly, but not especially long-lasting.  The taste is very smooth, not at all earthy actually, and with a sweetness kind of like a coffee with condensed milk in it.  It's not very sweet, mind you, but there's really no sourness to be found in the flavor.  You might think it's too light to be a pleasing black beer, but it lives up to its name, in my opinion.  Unlike some light stouts and porters, it has a solid foundation of flavor, just a less deep and smoky or tangy one.  It is not watery or weak in any way.  The lack of heaviness makes it a good choice for a moment of contemplation and quiet.  The smooth taste lets you meditate and the sweetness gives you a little pick-me-up at the end of the day.  Another good black beer choice!

Supplier: La Buena Cerveza
Price: €4.09

prime time beer

So I've had my Oktoberfest and my Halloween, now I have my prize.  Every once in a while, some Czech beers wander through, and tend to fly off the shelves, 'cause reputation.  Primátor has been around in various forms over the past few years, always a treat.  I got the last one this time!  I don't even think there was any Bernard left, and that's been a lot more present in the beer stores recently.  I saved it for last from my last beer run, since it doesn't really have any holiday connections, and "best for last" and all that.

Ta-da!

If anything exemplifies a beer, here it is.  The color is right, the smell is right, I managed to get a not over-abundance of head.  And there's that nice bittersweet flavor, not as grassy as other Central European lagers, but not overly bitter either.  Although I must admit my tastes have been developing towards stronger flavored beers, this is quite a nice little lager.  It's smooth and balanced, but leaning on the sweeter side.  I kind of wish I was in the middle of a serious discussion, because this is the kind of beer that keeps your tongue light and agile, not weighed down or tied up.  Too bad I don't have a Twitter account, I could start some shit.  @FuckfaceVonClownstick.  (Yeah, I know it's an old joke, but the video was just featured on Slate.)

And some things just call out for alcohol.

Supplier: La Birratorium
Price: €2.25-2.45

The Dead

There is no way to remember all my Dead.  They are many, and their names are lost to the universe.  Those that even had names.  My Dead were proud in their way, toiling in their journey to create better worlds for the future.  They pushed plows and wielded hammers.  A few even carried guns.  They brought children into an uncertain life, sometimes with intent, sometimes with surprise.  They stuck to their roots, they tore them up and replanted in better lands.  They saw the world from wagon and from ship, from calm village and burnt city.  Their ships sailed through waves and wind, and airplanes through clouds and radiation.  They borrowed and they saved, they worked and they dreamed.  They kept their eyes on the earth, careful to bring out its fruits.  They raised their eyes to the heavens, hopeful for blessings.  They set their gaze on better futures - a new spouse, a new house, a new country, a new life.  New knowledge was everywhere.  Languages that were not their own surrounded them, and all became theirs.  People that were strangers became family.  Family far away were as strangers.

My Dead are stories on a page and a screen, their lives are notes and images on paper.  My Dead are brief flashes in a wooden box, a pastry, a story warped from its first living.  But all the Dead are there, they are there, they are resting, and they are gone.  And they are mine and all of ours.  They are as we will be, to the future.