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Nighty-Night, White Sox

So the Chicago White Sox finally managed to mathematically eliminate themselves last night by losing to the Oakland A’s. Way to back into it, guys. Holding the door to the post-season open to the Twins. I didn’t think such politeness was such a feature of the South Side, and of the Good Guys Wearing Black.

What a frustrating year. When the Sox were firing on all cylinders in midsummer, they were playing the kind of baseball I love: dominant pitching and defense, a little small-ball mixed in with a dramatic game-winning home run once in a while. But such consistency is beyond these guys apparently.

We can be grateful, though, that that former Macy’s balloon Manny Ramirez completely embarrassed himself with his lack of hitting in the final weeks. No temptation to sign him again, I trust. Brush up on your Japanese, Manny.

So this team might get broken apart when the season ends, which would be a shame. I like the make-up of the team. But I doubt they’ll let Paulie Konerko go. He’s such the complete face of the franchise that he should be carried off on a shield after giving up his final iota of strength. I hope they keep AJ, who always makes it interesting. Bobby Jenks? Yeah, probably time for him to move on; he’s had five seasons to show himself as not-a-headcase since the World Series, and with his other injuries, I’d say it’s time to look for another closer.

As a cap to the season, I’d like to offer a prayer for Sox fans to repeat to themselves when they kneel down by their beds tonight. Posted on Bardball last week, but that was premature. Or at least completely realistic.

Now we lay us down to sleep.
Who really thought that we could sweep?

We thought we had a chance at Central,
If Ozzie kept from going mental.

God, forgive us of our sins
And tell us why you made the Twins.

Tell us why we let go Thome,
Then brought in that dreadlocked phony.

Thank you for our newfound heroes,
For Edwin Jackson, Alex Rios,

Thank you for our older guard,
Thanks for Paulie going yard.

Please keep the squad from getting creaky.
Make sure A.J. keeps playing sneaky.

Now we’ll watch the Hawks and Bears,
Trying to ignore our fears

Of Kenny really signing Manny
And Ozzie going to Miami.

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Tea Partiers Come Closer to Catching the Car They’re Barking After

From what I gather on some of the political websites, there’s been some kind of tectonic shift in American politics, now that some “Tea Party” candidates have ousted Republican favorites in some Senate and House Primaries. Katie, bar the door, and all that….

I haven’t paid any attention to the Tea Party movement for more than a year. At one time, they seemed like a genuine force to be reckoned with. But as certain “leaders” have emerged, they strike me as little more than telegenic nihilists. Not informed about how government operates, not interested that there can be more than one side to an argument, not particularly honest with the people whose emotions they have stoked and manipulated. They argue that having no government would almost be better than having the government we have now. (If you really think that having no government would create some kind of Rousseau-ian paradise, go visit places with failed governments like Yemen or Sudan, then come back and report.)

Hey, they wanna “throw da bums out”, that’s fine. That’s why we have the system.

But what kind of makes me sick is the way this is treated in the media, like these people are like Ethan Allen’s Green Mountain Boys, swooping down at this particular time in history to reclaim this country. That’s the rhetoric of the movement, but now the trope is worming its way into news coverage about it.

This morning on NPR’s “Morning Edition” (which I was only half listening to), the reporter described the Tea Party movement as a robust threat to the Republican establishment. It was done in such an awestruck and admiring manner, that I had to think to myself:

“Would a serious movement from the left, challenging Democratic incumbents, have received such a glowing report? Or would a “Coffee Party” (or whatever) be treated as a ragtag bunch of crazies that want power and won’t know what to do with it when they get it?”

I think you know the answer. Which all goes back to the way the supposedly liberal elements of the media establishment are still an establishment, and treat conservative power with way more deference and analysis than it deserves. Conservative power is about one thing only: Power. Not good governance, not justice, not equality, not the future of the country. Just power, and holding onto it.

I’m not saying the Democrats can be trusted to act in ways that advance those ideals, or that they don’t crave power like a junkie. It’s just that I get tired of the media giving these Tea Party dress-up whores so much credit, and their government suitors any credibility. IT often looks like the Tea Partiers have stolen the keys to the family van, and are sitting up in a tree taunting the Republican officeholders, and the officeholders are making lots of cooing noises and waving candy hoping to get the keys back. Billionaires are funding the Tea Party movement and pulling the strings behind the candidates, and any doofuses in tri-corner hats who think that these backers have the fate of the average citizen in mind deserves the paddling he’s going to get.

It’s only going to get interesting again when some of these “reformers” get elected to office. But then, that’s me. I’m a cynic, but not a nihilist.

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Bud Selig, on Bardball

I wrote this a couple weeks ago, but never posted it here. Thought some of you might like it.

THE LEGACY OF BUD SELIG

Tons of money for the owners.
Ignorance of player-dopers.

More exploitative contract bids
For dirt-poor Caribbean kids.

A baseball classic for the world
Where U.S. players rarely hurled.

With anti-trust still holding fast,
Small-market teams still finish last.

Now, Milwaukee celebrates this schwanz
With a Selig statute cast in bronze.

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Ron Santo, Font of Baseball Wisdom

From Bardball this week:

The Cubs and Cards are tied at two.
Your heart is beating like a drum.
The Cubbies could still win this thing.
Professor Santo opines, “Umm.”

A walk and then a stolen base–
Is Sorey slowing down a bit?
Should Castro bunt or swing away?
Our sage says, “Cubs could use a hit.”

Two outs with men on first and third.
The pitch scoots past Molina–HOW?
Alphonso races home! Cubs Win!
Mr. Insightful stammers, “Wow!”

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Fun in the Minor Leagues

Posted today on Bardball, a true account of a game I attended last year at Fifth Third Park, home of Grand Rapids’ minor league Tigers affiliate, the West Michigan Whitecaps.

Too much fun. If you haven’t gone to a minor league baseball game recently, you’re missing out on a lot, including pork chop sandwiches and lots of local color.

Remember, Bardball exists only because of reader submissions, so if the baseball muse strikes you, submit it to the site and we’ll put it up.

Superhero Night with the West Michigan Whitecaps

To augment the human-sized, foam-rubber eyeball footraces
(Sponsored by a local optometrist)
And the hot wieners bazooka’d into the crowd
(Brought to you by an insurance agency)
And the horrible-hued disco dance contest
(Courtesy of Q-107–”You Can’t Stop The Rock”),
The special events crew rented costumes
Of Captain America and The Hulk,
Complete with stitched-in muscles,
And waved and flexed and danced and clowned.

In between,
Pitchers strained,
Batters swung,
Fielders pounced,
Dreaming of the show.

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Printers Row Lit Fest Highlights

This year’s Lit Fest down in Chicago’s Printers Row was a little smaller than last year, as far as the number of exhibitors goes. The booths going up Dearborn Street did not stretch past Harrison Street, as they have in years past. And some of the booth space that did exist was taken up by an Acura dealer, a furniture maker, and a huge traveling exhibit that the Tribune trots out from the McCormick Freedom Foundation. I think the recession made it hard for bookstores to come a long way to exhibit there.

The Lit Fest is at a crossroads, I think, as many of these kinds of events are. I’m very grateful the Tribune sponsors so much of the festival, without a doubt, but is it mainly a used book fair, with a few panels and readings sprinkled in? Is it a place for writers to connect with readers, or to explore where publishing is headed? Is it always going to compete with the Chicago Blues Festival, and always take place in the rain? How does it complement or compete with Columbia College’s Story Week and the Chicago Humanities Festival? Time will tell. The name of the event was changed from “Book Fair” last year, to broaden everyone’s perception of what’s going on, and I hope it doesn’t pass away with the shrinking of the traditional publishing paradigm.

I was a participant in two events (pretty soon people are going to wonder when I’m actually going to publish something new, or whether I’m now a washed up eminence grise at 49). The first was the panel “Cubbie Blues,” with my friends from that compilation of 2008 (left to right in the photo) Rick Kaempfer, Donald Evans and Robert Goldsborough. Our main topic, within the context of why the Chicago Cubs still and always suck, was why baseball is the most literate of professional sports. We talked about baseball as a conduit for memoir (Cardboard Gods, which I just finished, is a great example of that), literature (ditto The Man with Two Arms by Billy Lombardo), and poetry. My conclusion, which no one bothered to refute, was that baseball had a monopoly on the public imagination for 60 years, until the advent of television, and baseball has so much down time, even during a game, that it allows reflection, and that allows for better writing. And the Cubs are an evergreen topic because, well, they are just so multifaceted in their losing. The stories seemingly never end.

I also sat in for part of a discussion of Get Capone with the author, Jonathan Eig, and Trib writer and WGN radio host Rick Kogan. As usual, it was riveting stuff, and Rick is probably the best interviewer in town. A mysterious transformation came over Jon, however, when during the interview he felt himself transformed into a figure from a Red Chinese propaganda poster, looking across the bountiful harvest toward a glorious future. Rick, of course, was nonplussed by this. Who wouldn’t be?

I spent the remainder of Saturday shopping, although I did take in the panel discussing mysteries and graphic novels. Some of the results of my shopping are below.

On Sunday, I had the privilege of being one of the judges at the first National Story Slam Competition, held at the Harold Washington Library. It was a terrific time. My friend Bill Hillmann has been running the Windy City Story Slam for almost three years, while at the same time other slam-type storytelling events have cropped up nationwide. So Bill managed to bring 9 champions from Oregon, Baltimore, South Carolina, Boston, and other places to compete. The winner, Nancy Donoval from Minneapolis, wove a captivating narrative about bone spurs, unicorns and regaining her virginity by proclamation by a friend (after it had been taken by force years before) that had heart, great narrative structure, humor and pain in wonderful amounts. She scored a 49.5 out of 50, so it was darn near perfect. You can read bios of all the competitors at the Story Slam website here. Nancy won the first belt from the judges, a huge gold girdle like a boxing champ can win. A second belt, given to the performer with the highest applause from the audience, was taken in a very very close competition by Chicago’s champ, Alex Bonner. The crowd of more than 200 were loud and appreciative. I’m really excited to check out more slams in the future.

So, shopping at the Lit Fest wasn’t too exciting this year. I think I was in a cheapskate frame of mind. I did buy a hardback copy of U of C Press’ The Chicagoan, but luckily it was marked down to half-price. The only other things I dived for were a few dusty paperbacks, to add to a ragtag collection I’ve somehow gotten of these titles over the years. First, I found a couple paperbacks from the “Get Smart” series, as shown below. This brings my collection of these up to five out of nine (I think). I passed on paperbacks of Chips, Man from U.N.C.L.E. and the Bobby Sherman Show.

Then, at my last stop on Sunday, I found a couple of old Dell Mysteries from the 1940s, the cool ones with the “Crime Map” on the back cover. These are pretty collectible, I guess, but I don’t want to get into all that stuff. I buy them if they amuse me, but how could anything printed with a “Crime Map” fail to amuse? I also liked the name of one of the authors, Zelda Popkin. It’s almost the same as Hellzapoppin’. Maybe she’s got a sister.

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Riding the Long Tail of the eBook

Here’s an example of how quickly my brain pan cooks an egg. The Kindle has been out, what, three years now? And the iPad about a year?

Hmmm, nice little platforms, I’ve been musing. Electronic books might become a market for me sometime in the future, when I get a little footing again among the NY publishers. Then maybe, when I convince someone in NY to come out with a 20h anniversary edition of Politically Correct Bedtime Stories, we can talk about how to use this platform to deliver more of my writing.

Only, publishers aren’t going to go for a 20th anniversary edition of PCBS, not unless I’ve got another book or three in the pipeline. And when you consider that the NY pipeline has been pretty uninterested in what I’ve been writing for the past decade (with one exception), it would look like the publishing establishment is not going to be much help in me getting my books to people more directly and instantaneously.

In other words, the middleman was not going to be much help in cutting out the middleman.

Oh.

(Time passes, as I attach a drill to the mechanism of a large wall clock and make the hands spin in rapid comic fashion.)

Maybe I should do it myself.

Ding.

Actually, I can’t even really take credit for this notion of releasing my out-of-print books as ebooks. After seeing his name in a story in TimeOut Chicago, I started browsing the website of Chicago writer JA Konrath, author of the “Jack Daniels” series of mystery novels. Konrath is a complete convert to the idea of selling ebooks at the same time as real tree carcasses. Hell, he’s a convert to giving the stories away free on his website. Go ahead, read his site and his blog, and see if you don’t become convinced that the new publishing paradigm is already here.

Konrath is a very prolific writer. I’m not, to my shame and chagrin. Because my output isn’t monumental, it’s always eaten away at me that my most popular books have been out of print since 1998. What a waste, and not just monetarily. I’m a Midwestern boy, Detroit-bred, and I like the idea of being productive and being thrifty. So why should I let my old books go to waste, just because a decade ago they needed more shelf space in the warehouse?

This ebook idea has charged me up like nothing in the past year. I don’t expect much in revenue from them, I just want the people who want to read them to be able to do so, and for me to get my vig. Getting credit for the stories that spawned a hundred imitators is also a big motivator. “Little Red Riding Hood” and the rest of them often pop up on people’s websites, usually intact and credited. (“Red” is also by far the story most reprinted in Literature textbooks, FWIW.) Why people do that, I don’t know. It used to bug me a little, but now I’m grateful, for the following reason.

The original electronic files for Politically Correct Bedtime Stories, Once Upon a More Enlightened Time, and Politically Correct Holiday Stories are nowhere to be found. For all I know, they’re still on some 5″ floppy disk somewhere, but I can’t find them. I can find reams and reams of paper and floppies for book ideas that never panned out, let alone got published, but the ur-files for PCBS are missing.

I was faced with a long boring session of retyping the stories so they could be transferred to the proper types of files, until I realized that other people had already done much of this for me. Fans out there through the years have been posting the stories around the web — all I have to do is collect them and compare them to the printed versions. Howzy! No scanning, OCR, or voice software to wrestle with!

So this is a thank-you to those folks who took the time to type up my stories for me, with the intent of sharing them with the world. I intend to share them too, with a little fee added on. I’m not QUITE there yet with the idea of giving them all away. But we’ll see what the future brings.

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The Armando Galarraga Saga

Last night’s blown call by umpire Jim Joyce, which took away Armando Galarraga’s perfect game, will be talked about for years, by bitter Tiger fans crying about how their team can’t get a break, and paranoids and conspiracy fans everywhere.

But I’ve argued before that baseball is filled with human error (hell, if there’s a statistic for “Errors”. then it must be a big part of the game). I’m not too much in favor of the instant replay, though it seems to have been integrated well into the action. My heart wants Galarraga to get credit for his efforts, but my head says that it is what it is. I can’t start changing my attitude just because a Tiger was involved, and just because the umpire got the yips and got confused about THE ONLY THING HE’S GOT TO PAY ATTENTION TO WHEN HE’S WORKING ON FIRST BASE!!!!!!

Ahem. Sorry.

I was frankly impressed with both the player and the umpire this morning. How many people in public life, caught in a big mistake, just come out and say it was their fault, and that their decision will haunt them the rest of their lives? (When was the last time you heard a politician or a CEO, our national “leaders”, say such a thing, at least when it still mattered?)

And how many players showed Galarraga’s grace and character in the face of a crushing disappointment? My hat’s off to him.

Here’s a little piece of doggerel I whipped up for the brouhaha on Bardball this morning, hoping to earn points for timeliness if not :

Nobody’s Perfect

After the call that the umpire blew,
What could Armando Galarraga do?

Drag him to court in front of a judge,
Since now his market value was smudged?

Argue some kind of liberal plot?
Threaten to meet Joyce in the parking lot?

Hire a hit man to mangle his mug?
Break down on “Oprah” to get some O-hugs?

Threaten his wife, kids, brothers and sisters?
Publish his home phone number on Twitter?

Beg ol’ Bud Selig for some Commissioner’s magic?
Hire some flacks for his story so tragic?

Buy off some pols to rewrite the rules?
Sic Milton Bradley on his family jewels?

But Armando showed character larger than fame.
He smiled, shook hands and went on with the game.

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More Unwritten Rules of Baseball

Put this up yesterday on Bardball.com. The reference to the Alex Rodriguez/Dallas Braden dustup is more than a month old, but it’s not always easy to be as timely and topical over there as we’d like. Lots of voices to corral, and egos to massage, and styles to balance. But really, Bardball gets better with every season, if I do say so myself.

Don’t congratulate a teammate by faking a high five and delivering a hard nad shot.

Don’t talk about racism except in the context of how Jackie Robinson eliminated it.

Rhapsodize about the integrity of the game, but don’t make any big deal about desperately poor Dominican 15-year-olds being drafted by shady agents and advised by “scouts.”

Don’t try and bunt against a pitcher pitching a perfect game unless, you know, you’re trying to help your team score. Like you’re paid to do.

On-field displays of excitement add too much energy and character to the game, and so must be avoided.

Don’t ever criticize a veteran teammate in the media, even when he lets down the squad. Only rookies can be criticized.

Don’t comment on the herd mentality and obsequious jocksniffery of sportswriters.

And however long you play or watch the game….

Don’t expect to like Alex Rodriguez.

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Tranformational Deaths?

A few weeks ago, we were shocked by the news that a good friend at church had woken in bed with difficulty breathing and died early on a Saturday morning. Steve was only 49, actually seven weeks younger than me. He was very active and athletic, and had a lovely wife and a teenage daughter. He was so active in in our large church that you could’ve sworn he was the guy running things.

My jaw doesn’t drop for much. But I was gobsmacked by this news.

There were many reasons why the lines at the funeral home were so long, and why 700 people (my guess) were at his funeral. I won’t list them, except to say he had great good humor, a deep sincere concern for others, the ability to motivate you to do better than you already were, and a knack for never making disagreements personal or last longer than the issue. (He worked at the Chicago Board of Trade, and we were all glad that his business partner spoke at the service, to give us SOME idea of how a humble, caring guy like Steve could do well in a selfish, cutthroat place like that.) He was just one of the best guys I knew.

After the funeral, a rather dramatic friend of ours intoned repeatedly that this was a “transformative event” for her. This gave her so much perspective on our life and mortality that she was going to make immediate changes and savor every last drop of every day’s blessing. Steve’s death was a shock to everyone, as I said, and his example was a good one to follow. But I suspect as we head into our fifties, unhappily more friends will be dying, and our habits and attitudes will remain largely unchanged.

Habits. Outlook. Generosity. Time-management. Enthusiasm. None of these transform as quickly and with such irreversibility as a sudden death. It’s flippant to think that one will easily lead to any of the others.

A few years ago, the artist Ed Paschke died of a heart attack on Thanksgiving Day at the age of 65. I knew Ed a little, after spending a couple hours interviewing him for a magazine article. He was an energetic, enthusiastic, down-to-earth guy, in love with pop culture and high art and the chance to make the art he wanted to. I remember him vividly saying how excited he was to enter to his studio every morning and “open his paint box and mess around.” This was in spite of a complicated private life that included a terminally ill wife.

After Ed’s funeral on the campus of Northwestern University, I vowed to remember Ed’s joy at getting to “open his paint box” every morning. I wanted to apply it to my own creative work. For me, unfortunately, getting started on a project is terrifying. I’d rather do most anything than settle down and “open my word box”. The only thing I’d like to do LESS than that is give up on my writing and get a regular job. (Why do most writers agonize so much over creating their work? Why can’t we take a lesson from the other arts and try to enjoy our craft?) I still have postcards of Ed’s marvelous paintings thumbtacked up around my office, reminders that I knew one of the greatest American postwar painters and that I have something to learn from him.

I have something to learn from my friend Steve’s death, too. But will these events –CAN they — be transformational? My steamship’s been chugging along for many years, and making turns takes a long time. I’d LIKE to make changes for the better. I’m very grateful to have known Steve and Ed, and appreciate the lessons that their lives might contain. But am I really going to change from this? Is there much hope that a generally crabby, reluctant, unprolific egotist like me can improve from knowing better men? I keep wanting to experience an earthquake, a lightning bolt, a Scrooge-like epiphany that will crack my carapace and power me through the next three decades of my life.

But Scrooge was fiction, and transformations like that reek of madness. Real change takes time, and great effort, and an informed sympathy about what people are really able to do, all the while dodging the easy cop-outs of “I’m only human” and fatalistic shrugs of “Eh, whaddya gonna do?”

Maybe I should be thankful at least that the lessons have wormed their way into my consciousness somehow. I’ve been around a lot of good examples in my life. Steve, Ed, my father and brothers, my father-in-law, my English Lit teacher in high school, my counselor in college. Lessons can be gleaned from all of them. The trick, as it is throughout all our lives as adults, is to gain an honest idea of where it is you want to go. Short of an epiphany on THAT, real internal change is hard work.

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RIP Ernie Harwell

Now the Tigers’ voice has been quieted.
He saw teams that won, and fans that rioted.
He saw a man play in the bigs after jail.
He saw a boy pitching tell his baseball a tale.
He saw a flawed man win 31 games,
The careers of good men go up in flames.
He watched a beloved ballpark decay
And the City of Wheels fall by the way.
Yet he knew in the end it was only a game.
God’s plan ignores things like money and fame.
A bat’s just a branch, a mitt is just leather.
Baseball’s true worth is bringing people together.

Some night, when a hit curves decidedly foul,
We’ll hear a faint voice with a sweet Georgia drawl,
Say, chuckling with fathomless love for it all,
“A man from Paradise just caught that ball.”

For a transcript of the Dodgers’ Vin Scully last night, as he reminisced about Ernie, visit the Sons of Steve Garvey blog.

Ernie, we’ll miss you.

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Go Out and Get “Get Capone”

Jonathan Eig has just released his new book, Get Capone: The Secret Plot that Captured America’s Most Wanted Gangster. By all accounts (check the advance reviews at the website), it is a terrific read, bringing alive a slice of Chicago history as vivid as a razor across the throat.

Jon allowed me to read a couple of passages early on, but I can’t wait to read the entire book. I also can’t wait to see him on The Daily Show at the end of the week.

Go out and get this book. IPhone users might also like to buy his app, Chicago Gangland Tours, which will allow you to find places in town connected with more than 600 historical facts. Makes me want to go buy an iPhone right now, just to cruise the city.

Jon allowed me to submit some questions for my column **cough cough** at True/Slant, exploring the role Chicago itself played in Capone’s rise and meteoric fall. You can find it by clicking here.

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Sexy New Poem on Bardball

Well, I don’t know if the poem is sexy, but it’s about sex.

And I don’t know if having sex in the men’s bathroom at Comiskey Park on Opening Day is sexy — in fact, it sounds like a nightmare, and a great an STD and a visit to 26th and California — but it did inspire a poem. It’s up today on Bardball.

South Side Fireworks, Inside

On Opening Day at the Cell,
Amidst the ravening horde,
The men’s room witnessed a tryst ‘twixt
A South Side lady and lord.

All the prudes and official blue-noses
Who by this action were floored
Should think of the White Sox’s condition
And be grateful that somebody scored.

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The Year of Beer

It was only about a year ago that my ever-lovin’ wife put the bug in my ear to take up my former hobby of homebrewing. it was something I picked up in college, and kept pursuing off and on until we moved into a house with a small kitchen and a filthy basement, which left me with no reliable place to brew. Another reason I stopped was that I was doing a lot of wet, intensive work to produce six packs which would then be mostly used as hostess gifts. Gifts that were never opened in front of us.

Hours of time and effort tossed down the hospitality hole.

But last summer I invested in a 2.5 gallon aluminum keg and a CO2 priming system, which we keep filled and chilled in the fridge out at the cottage. Now golden malt nectar is available 24/7 during the summer, and the only people who get to drink it are those I like well enough to invite there. A perfect situation.

Now that I’m back with the wort-and-sparge crowd, it feels like the whole world is becoming top-fermented. A terrific microbrewery opened only two blocks away, in a converted auto body shop. Half Acre Brewing is only available in Chicago, but they make some stunning brews, especially their lager and Daisy Cutter Pale Ale.

Last night I got to experience a little bit of beer-nerd Valhalla in a brewery tour of the Goose Island Brewery. Head brewer John J Hall went into some very fine detail in explaining basic brewing, plus the tireless research and experimentation of its brewmaster (and friend of mine) Greg Hall (no relation). Goose Island has trotted out some marvelous Belgian-style beers in the past four years, which seems to be the latest trend, but John Hall told us that Greg has been working with them for more than 15 years. My tour group paid great attention to the minutiae of the brewing process, even as we drank large quantities of Green Line, Matilda and Pepe Nero, a saisson style beer made with black peppercorns. And just this afternoon, said wife and I made a special trip to grab a bottle of Bourbon County Stout, which is aged in bourbon casks from the Van Winkle Distillery. The big problem now is finding a special time to open these up. (I think the Blackhawks defeating the Predators might qualify.)

And in a few weeks, my buddy Jim Powers will be launching the special event, BEERHOPTACULAR, a weekend fest of microbrews, home brewing, tasting and all in all heavenly jolliness. It’ll be at the Aragon Ballroom in Chicago June 4 and 5. Brewers from all over the nation will be there, so come on down.

I first learned homebrewing while working at Henry Ford’s Greenfield Village, where a lot of us in the Crafts Department were indeed crafty, hands-on people. It struck me then, and still strikes me now, that making your own beer is empowering, economical, entrepreneurial, and ecologically sound. (After examining the carbon footprint of their beers, Goose Island decided to launch its Green Line Pale Ale. It’s served only in kegs to cut down on energy, and they hope to keep buying materials that are closer and closer to Chicago. To this end, they’re talking with farmers in Wisconsin into growing barley and hops, to eliminate shipping from Oregon, Montana and Europe.)

Can we help save the planet by drinking local beer and making our own home brew? I’ve heard stupider ideas, and I was going to be drinking anyway, so it’s worth a try.

I hearby coin and copyright the term LOCABIBING. You’re welcome.