Happy Anniversary

I wrote the following post three years ago, and I'm re-posting it because it is now the 10th anniversary of the Really Big Flood. So from the archives, March 2004:

It's the 25th anniversary of the Pretty Big Flood up in the Red River Valley of the North. Bet you didn't even know there was such a place, huh?

The river's elevation only drops, on average, one foot every twelve miles. So while it flows North, it's in no hurry to get there, and who can blame it? If I knew I was destined for termination in Canada, I'd move pretty slowly, too.

It floods every spring. The people who live up there and endure this refer to themselves as "hearty, Scandinavian stock." Pretty much everyone else refers to them as either insane or stupid. I prefer insane, myself.

Before you start wondering why anyone--insane, stupid, or Scandinavian--would ever live somewhere that always floods, I'll point to your refrigerator. There's beer in there, right? Possibly Shiner? Well, these are the people that grow the barley that goes into your beer. Because of the river and its annual flooding, the soil is of the quality that makes high-malt-content barley. So these people endure annual floods so you can have quality malt beverages.

In 1997, there was an even larger flood. Volunteers were sandbagging along the river at the Louie Murray Memorial Bridge. This conversation was overheard:

BRIAN the Norwegian: This is okay, but it was more fun in '79.

TODD the Swede: What do ya mean, fun?

B: Well it's this alcohol ban. Our mayor, she's doing good and all, but back then the volunteers got all the free beer they could drink after their shift.

T: Weren't you only 15 then, Brian?

B: Ya got a point there, Todd?

T: Well, no. [Pause] So that was Louie's doing then?

B: Yeah, good old Louie. He knew how to motivate a guy. Knew how to motivate the liquor stores into giving their stock away, too. One o' them deals.

T: Louie had a lot o' them deals. Didn't he do some time in prison for one o' them deals?

B: Yeah, but they named the bridge after him anyway. Good old Louie. Wish he was here. He'd like this.

T: Maybe we should go dig him up and bring him over so he can enjoy it too.

B: Yeah, let's prop him up on his bridge over there. We need to leave town to get us some beer, though. [Pause] Yep, it was a lot more fun in '79.

So this spring, please raise a toast to Louie Murray: mayor, criminal, beer lover. A heckuva guy.

Lost luggage

American Airlines lost the BeerHound's luggage. Again. This is aproximately the 6th time, but only the fifth in a row.

It's gotten bad enough that we nearly went strait to the baggage minion to file a complaint, rather than even looking on the carousel.

We filed the trace. The minion was helpful and efficient.

Then at 4:00 AM this morning my phone was ringing. Assuming it was about death, since we've already got a war and taxes aren't due until Monday, I groggily answered.

"Hello?"

"Ma'am, I'm sorry about the lateness of this call, but I'm standing at your front door with your luggage." I was impressed. She got to the point. She kept me from getting pissed off. This woman was a pro.

I walked the few feet to the front door and signed my illegible scrawl where my sister was supposed to sign, and quickly checked that the suitcase had balls.

My sister likes her suitcase to have balls. It makes it easier to find on the carousel. You know, if it ever makes it that far.

It had balls. There was much rejoicing.

Then I hefted it inside--it was quite heavy since it was mostly beer--and put it where the BeerHound would see it.

It takes a special kind of person to wake people up in the middle of the night and give them luggage, and do it graciously.

Blue Laws

Prompted by a comment by SFChick, here's a quick breakdown of liquor laws in Minnesota:

Liquor, spirits, wine, and "strong" beer must be sold by a licensed off-sale retailer. "Strong" beer is what everyone else in the country just refers to as beer. It is, however, marked "strong" on the top of cans.

These stores are never open on Sundays. Monday thru Saturday hours are set by local municipal laws.

Beer of 3.2% alcohol content may be sold at grocery and convenience stores. I have no idea what hours the sale of this beer, commonly referred to as "three-two," is confined to, because I always planned ahead. Okay, sometimes only 15 minutes ahead, because it was 11:45 on a Saturday, but still.

What's so scary about alcohol that you've got to have such silly laws? I couldn't tell you specifically, but generally, I blame God. Or rather, those who claim they know that God Would Want It That Way.

What a bunch of tools. Here's how it kind of breaks down:

1) There are still Women's Temperance chapters that meet monthly in small towns in Minnesota.

2) Everyone knows everyone else's business, including how often people visit the "off-sale."

3) But everyone "knows" that Minnesotans are God-fearin' folk, every last one of 'em.

4) So there's no need to make that Devil's water too available, right?

5) Even so, they may as well make money off the heathens, so...

6) Most liquor stores in small towns are owned by the city, and the profits go to offset the taxes. Which is why half of the bars in Minnesota are called "The Munie." That is, the municipal liquor store, which sells liquor for consumption both on the premises and to take home.

Really, I have no fucking clue why the constraints and restrictions exist, except to placate a lot of small-town personalities and politics. And to offset the tax base.

Because this is How Their God Feels.

My God feels that those people are asshats. I know this for a fact. He and I commune on this issue daily, and we've concluded. Ass. Hats.

Politically speaking, Minnesota is very liberal. Except with the liquor. (And the anal sex, but that's off topic.) Minnesotans plan ahead, and they expect everyone to follow suit. You want beer to drink while watching the Nextel race? You better remember that on Saturday night. If ya don't, it's your own fault.

(Next on the agenda: Blue Laws II: Not Friendly, The Texas Way!)

Sweet Irish George

I met my friend George as a Freshman in college, at a fraternity party. The party itself was known as the "Post New Year's" party, which was traditionally held on a Saturday a week or two after the actual New Year's, the point being, most college students weren't actually in town during the New Year's, and if you were going to hold it later, why not hold it on a convenient evening?

On the occasion that I met George, I was with this guy who had just bought his own tuxedo, on clearance from a rental shop in town. He wore the tux on a dare. I think it was our second date, or something.

Anyway, I met George while dancing on a bar. Or perhaps a dresser. I don't quite remember.

I learned much from George. The secret recipe for "greenies," the official drink of his fraternity, for instance. How to steal your roommate's pizza by pretending you're sneaking off to the dining room to have sex. How to host lovely Post New-Year's parties that people will still attend annually, after almost 20 years.

How to not kill your friend BeerPup, even when she changes the outgoing message on your answering machine to say, "We're having a party! Call back later!" or if she wraps everything in your refrigerator with masking tape, then tapes the refrigerator itself shut. Or if she brings three drunk guys to your house who insist on building a chair out of scrap lumber from the deck you just made.

How not to give three drunk guys power tools, diplomatically.

George taught me a lot. He never taught me how to drive a school bus, though. In retrospect, though, that was probably wise.