O'Dell Brewing Co., Loose Leaf American Session Ale

Spring is fully sprung and summer will soon be upon us.  Our yards are a mess and we are men (and women, or however you self-identify).  We cut our grass, edge our sidewalks, pull our weeds, and we sweat.  When we are finished, we proudly look upon our works and defiantly raise our gloved fists to the old eldritch gods, exclaiming:

"I sure am glad that's done.  Now, I need a beer!"

~supplicant~

Let's talk about that perfect post-yard beer.  For obvious reasons, the whole educated world agrees that the correct beer for that moment is the classic ice-cold Coronita with a slice of lime.  There is healthy debate about the need for a touch of salt, but, it takes all kinds.  If you are wondering why the full size Corona is wrong, you need simply go and try them both for yourself.  You'll see.  The cold Coronita with lime is smooth and crisp, has a silky golden beauty, goes down like a water-slide, and (as any decent doctor will tell you) is the finest of all the energy drinks available.

But, today I am tasting something else.  This bottle was brought to my attention by the outstanding Amber, patron saint of the beer aisle at my local HEB.  I thought, "A session ale?  Do I look I look sickly and weak?  Does she think my car still has on training wheels?  Are we going to have a fight?"  I read the label, and to my further dismay, it proudly(?) claims to be "hop-forward."  I thought I might have to put on the foil, coach.  But, Amber has an easy way about her, and a could very likely kick my ass, so I figured, what the hell... Part of the reason I try a new beer every week is to broaden my horizons and make fun of stuff.  Also, I needed to mow my lawn and this fit the theme.

O'Dell Brewing Co., Loose Leaf American Session Ale. A candy-assed 4.5% ABV, 12oz bottle.  Diabetic horse piss yellow, with a mild but short lived head.  The label shows a leaf in agony as it downs in a rapidly flowing river.  The artist must be a cruel sonovabitch to design that.

The post-mow, first taste was (and I admit to heat-stroke and fatigue at this point) sooooooooooo good.  Ohmagawd... bliss.  Straight out of the back of the fridge, cold.  Light on the palette, but flavorful.  The light malt and yeast are lock-step with the hops.  The experience is floral, but manly.  The grass clipping in my hair blended perfectly with the crisp semi-citrus aroma.  It was heaven.  Not Coronita heaven, but mighty fine.

I really wanted to trash this beer.  Maybe if I had thought to wear a hat and put on sunscreen and a knee-brace before I mowed, my less addled brain would think appropriate thoughts about a session ale that intentionally refers to itself as f'n "hop-forward."  Which is really stuck in my craw if you hadn't noticed.  Sadly, I'm enjoying the shit out of this beer.  Yay, O'Dell!  You done me right.  Here I am gulping away, tired as hell, cross-eyed, and bleary, having a great drink.  Which, when I think about it, is exactly how I want to experience my post-lawn work beer.  I feel like I earned it.

I forgive the "session ale" part of this beer.  It is sitting lightly on my work-knotted gut, and making no challenges to my status-queas.  I forgive the hops, as they allow me to drink a fresher lawn than my own, while making my personal grass-funk seem almost pleasing.  I still feel traitorous to my malty, dark, and heavy beer-love, but maybe there is room in my expanding waistline for other styles.  Who knows, one day I might even drink an IPA without flipping it off first.  Or maybe it's just the heat-stroke.  For now, Prost, L'Chaim, Kampai, and whatever-the-hell else you toast, your lawn looks like shit, go mow it!

A Race Day Brooklyn Beer Bonanza!

The Tempting Names of New York Brews

or

The Beautiful Yet Tragic Lies of New England

This week I was drinking in Brooklyn to celebrate my brother's 3rd greatest (chronologically) academic achievement. On Saturday he took Ma, Priya, and me down to his local, The Adirondack bar near prospect park so we could watch the Kentucky derby and knock back a few. It was crowded for the race, but we managed a nook in the back of the bar. I was very excited for my first New York boozing.

Priya bought the first round. Ma and I ordered a stout, Avram had a flashy mixed drink, and Priya ordered something pale. Have you ever noticed that Yankee beers have great names. I suspect it is a New York thing, but there is no way to know for sure. Or maybe it has more to do with demand. These days, that demand is being made by hipsters. Those ironic scumbags are infesting Brooklyn just like they infest our hearts and imaginations, with their fancy hair and skinny jeans. But, could the people who re-popularized PBR (they once watched blue velvet in middle school) ever give rise to a decent beer?

Rockaway Black Gold Stout

5.6%%ABV, dark, frothy, and good lookin' from Rockaway Brewing Company in Queens.

The stout Ma and I had, Rockaway Black Gold Stout, turned out to be a nitrous infused dark glass of beauty. By that, I mean it looked really good. I watched that perfect cascade of bubbles doing their carmagnole until their tasty bubble bodies settled into a foamy mocha head. It was mesmerizing.

But looks aren't everything. Which is a shame. For me. No, these days you gotta have looks and taste, like a sucker. The Rockaway had tastes of coffee and bitter copper with nutty undertones. Which is all fine and good, but there was a problem: thin mouth feel. Yeah, I said it.

Like all the best hipsters, this shit was too damn thin. I was very disappointed. I mean... I mean... I'm sitting here on the bench... I'm sitting here on the alcove (do you use this word, "alcove"?) bench, watching the Kentucky derby through some dudes' heads, trying to get into the spirit of the thing, and my beautiful stout turns out to be a nitrous-infused, coffee-flavored PBR. Seriously, what the shit?

Maybe the problem is that I had such high expectations for a neighborhood bar in Brooklyn. So, I'm going to cave, fight my baser instincts, and say some nice things about this lame fuck-around of a beer. The thin mouth feel makes this lame beer super easy to drink. And when you consider the cowardly low ABV, this makes for a very pretty session beer. Sure, I wanted a good beer, but when life gives you lemons, just be glad you didn't have to pay for them. It really was pretty, thought. I gotta give it that. 

I couldn't let that be my only Brooklyn bar beer, plus, I needed something another beer to get me to the finish of the derby. Soooo...

Upstate Common Sense

5.3% ABV, a layered throw-back beer from Upstate Brewing Company.

I bought this entirely for the name. It has New Yorkiness, is mildly insulting to anyone not ordering it, and could easily have been the name of a horse running the derby. This was a sure thing. I really wondered what kind of beer it was.

The flavors were layered, so here is what I tasted: toffee, sour citrus, bitter florals, caramel, some late-to-the-party malt, a touch of tobacco, and a god awful smell.  

It wasn't bad, but it really wasn't all that great either. I didn't mind drinking it, and towards the end of the glass, I was mostly good with it. I don't think I'd ever buy a six-pack of the Common Sense. I doubt I would ever order it again. But, it really wasn't so bad. I particularly enjoyed the toffee and caramel flavors, but they were always followed by those damn floral and sour notes. Priya says it is, "amenable, then it turns on you." And Ma commented that it "isn't sweet, but it isn't not sweet." I thought it was like being slapped in the face with fish you really enjoy. This beer has something for everyone to like and to despise.

At first I was 80% sure that this is an exotic sour ale. That made me 20% correct, because, according to the website description, this is a Kentucky Common Ale, and is not supposed to be sour, even though it definitely is. I feel cheated.

Clearly, this beer is brewed with lies and Yankee deceit. Why do you hate me, New York?

The race finished. I choked down the last of my second glass of dissatisfaction. We left my first Brooklyn bar. I may not have particularly enjoyed either of my beers, but I feel like the whole of the experience was more than worth it. Drinking in Brooklyn is a great thing to do. It is a very special place to down a beer, filled with history and character, great for people-watching, and the beer selection looks terrific on a chalkboard. It's a shame your beer sucks New York, but that's OK, because I live in Texas.

A Birthday Beer Bonanza

It is important to start off your birthday with a bit of your favorite booze.  I started with a sip of the Bruichladdich favorite, the Classic Laddie.  My scotch was the perfect start to what would turn out to be a fantastic birthday.  I would try many new beers, enjoy a day out-doors, drink and eat with my friends, overindulge appropriately, and really roll around in the one day a year that I don't have any responsibilities or cares.

One very important element in a carefree day is to get someone else to drive.  As luck would have it, I have a very good friend who was willing to haul my ass around all day.  Diego is good like that, and we set out for Jester King Brewery just before noon.  I don't know if you've ever been, but I'll assume you have.  Do you remember how the traffic was oddly terrible driving out there?  No changes to that yet.  One minute you're in heavy traffic, then less so, rinse and repeat.  The brewery is still way the hell out there, and traffic is the only real point of interest on the drive.

The place opens at noon, and by the time we got there at 12:40 it was already packed.  They waved us to the overflow parking field where we got to look in to one of the greatest mysteries of all time.  Take a look at the picture below:

That is a big nearly empty field.  So nearly empty it could be passed off as a mere overflow parking area.  But, is it?  No, that thingy in the middle:

This thingy...

Vent for a nuclear silo/fat-cat bunker.  Sure, they dressed it down to keep the riff raff away, but we know.  We know.  When the bombs start falling, this field is destination #1 to watch our mighty retaliation fly and then duck and cover.  It is just that kind of advanced observation and comprehension skills that earned me the nickname "The Sherlock of the South."  It's true.  Ask anyone.

But onto the brewerying, and the satellite bars of many joys.  When you, for your birthday, go out to Jester King, don't get roped into the disturbingly long and slow line for the pizza/beer bar like we did.  Well, like Diego did.  I'm a cripple.  I got's privileges, yo. I camped, lump-like, at one of the many picnic table in the main beer hall, while Diego double-kneed it through the line to get us started.  You will not be so gullible.  You will head straight for the quietly pleasant...

Where the beer flows like beer.

Diego slogged through the line, Atreyu-like, suffering the loss of his own personal Artax (dignity), and my first wish was granted.  I named it

Jolly Pumpkin Artisan Ale: Oro de Calabaza

From Dexter, MI

8% ABV

Biere de Garde (French for "Fancy Pants")

This beer had every chance to suck completely.  I has a pompous name.  It is French-sounding.  It is available in half-pints.  All the red flags of snob-brew.  The first thing you taste is the distinctive sourness, then the hops do a little dance, you make a face, did someone see your sour face, but, the catch is, you kind of like it.  The next sip is better still.  I would call this a mildly challenging beer.  By the bottom of the glass I was pretty into it.  But I knew I wasn't going back for seconds.

We sat.  We talked.  We saw twin albino kids playing in the sun without hats on.  An Asian child (with a hat on) made a break for the parking lot when his mother wasn't looking.  Several usurpers were celebrating their birthdays there too.  Imitation is the least profitable form of flattery.  It was my turn to buy the beer.

Clever me, I hobbled attractively to the Pasture Bar, with its short line.  The dice were rolled on a stout.

Prairie Artisan Ales: Limo Tint

From Krebs, OK

5.65% ABV

Milk/Sweet Stout

"What is life without challenge?  What value is success without struggle?"

~said the gimp carrying two beers~

The Limo ain't half bad.  Dark, cold, and smooth with a milky and velvety follow through.  But, a bit thin for my tastes.  Diego found it to be like a porter, but a lot thinner and very carbonated.

Towards the bottom of the Limo Tint, Thomas, Katie, and the wee-baby Thor rolled in.  So did our pizza coincidentally.  It was a tasty combo of tomatoes, arugula, and bacon.  Very yum.  The crust was just the right kind of chewy.  The kind that makes you ask:

"Chewy, is that you?"

~J. Dodson (Superfly)

After a lifetime of sexual deviance, Thomas can no longer eat a pizza.  Katie joined us for a slice while Thomas braved the line, returning with garlic knots and another beer.

Revolver Brewing: Blood and Honey

From Granbury, TX

7% ABV

Pale Wheat Ale

It is very possible my experience with this beer was unduly influence by uninspired dish-washing, because my first thought on putting this one in my face was, "soap."  After the soap, there was a light malt, then light and sweet orange and coriander flavors.  This is a very drinkable beer.  Easy to find around town, and pretty enjoyable.  Also, it has a kick-ass name.  It doesn't have much of a "wow" factor.  Does that matter?  I'd drink this again any time.  Not sure that I'd buy a six pack for the house, though.

The scene was set for the cake that Diego had bought and inscribed with friendly sentiment.  We had painstakingly smuggled in this beast of a confection past the watchful "No outside food or beverages" sign.  Yep, we bad!

I went back for another stout.  With family, music and and beer, I play favorites.  And me and stout, we got history enough for favorites.  Stouts first opened my eyes to the world of beer beyond wimpy, down-stream lagers.  It was the search for an elusive stout that lead me to home brewing.  They are my go-to brew.  At the bar I had seen an impressive name:

 Bear Republic Brewing Co.: Big Bear Black Stout

From Healdsburg, CA

8.1% ABV

Imperial Stout

As you can see, this is an impressive looking brew, like a mason jar of espresso with a kiss of creme.  And that name, Big Bear Black Stout, it wears that name like it was a lumberjack's codpiece (plaid flannel, with the sleeves rolled up).  The flavors are fundamental, malt, chocolate, coffee, and *goddamit* soap again.  But it is all sound and fury.  This beer doesn't deliver on the in-your-face big flavor the name implies.  Diego summed it up as run of the mill, was certain he could take it in a fight, and renamed it "Sickly Cub."  

Around this beer, Team Reidy threw in the spit-up towel.  I eventually found the can with its unforgivable man-trough, and later we captured an escaped chihuahua. Diego and I eventually packed up the table and headed for one of the other satellite bars.  The one with the barrel aged beers.  

Jester King: Coquetier

From Austin, TX

7.5% ABV

Brandy Barrel Aged Farmhouse Ale with Cubeb, Anise, and Lemon

At this point, my jotted-down notes become a little unclear, so I will quote the full text of what I have for this beer.

"coquetier

-puppy dog drink = diego

-sour, zesty, cirtus [sic], sour, omar in belton, lemon (citrus)"

Make of that what you will, but I think I means I was really enjoying myself.  I didn't finish, and didn't want to finish this beer.  It would have been a very long trip from the top to the bottom and I didn't have the heart for it.  I enjoyed drinking what I did drink of this beer, but don't remember liking it.

It was time to leave.  I needed leeks and onions for a soup, so we thought we might go by Central Market and have a beer and a nosh while we grabbed my groceries.  We ate our snacks and drank our beer.  We watched the people as they went about their day, we sat, and we talked.  I had a bottle of Lone  Star, so, for those of you who are interested:

Afterwords we hung out at the house for a while.  We might have watched some TV.  Omar eventually joined us.  And then, I made soup.

 Happy Birthday, me.

Drinking Night with the Fella(s) 4-23-15 or The Ayenbite of Inwyt

I have regrets.

The "ayenbite of inwyt", or the "prick of one's conscious" to us normals,  let's just call it, "regret."  Or, maybe we should call it The Donk.  I learned of The Donk today and am filled with ayenbite, probably of inwyt and sausage.  But, I'm getting ahead of myself.  On Thursdays, I have drinks with the fellas, and I indulge.  I occasionally over-indulge.  Tonight, for this mid week interlude, I will tell you all about it.

After work on Thursdays, I sit through the happiest traffic in the world because I am going to meet the fellas for a beers.  Generally speaking, I get to look forward to 45 minutes to an hour of traffic, and it is worth it.  I actually look forward to it.  Not only am I out of work for the day, but I'm on my way to drinking night.  This week, I only met up with Diego, because Omar was sick, and Thomas has "responsibilities" (like a chump).  We met at Mr. Tramps.

Sometimes Mr. Tramps has trivia night, so we don't go there on those nights.  We also don't eat there anymore, having learned our lesson in our bathrooms late at night.  When I arrived tonight, Diego was already one beer ahead of me, the sneaky bastard.  So I sat down and ordered one of what he was having, a nitous infused double chocolate stout, and a side of onion rings.  I was hungry enough to risk the food, which was a mistake.  The beer was delightful, full bodied, frothy, rich, malty, and everything it should be.  A fine post-work starter beer.  The onion rings... well, I knew better, and I now I felt that specter, that ghoul, that ayenbite of inwyt (to stretch a definition way too far).  A plate of greasy, crunchy circles both delicious and revolting.  We ate them with gusto and remorse (and some kind of dipping sauce).  That was the first regret of the evening.  Then we left to get bar-b-que.

I had never been to Slab BBQ, but I saw they had an all-day special on "domestic" beer and sliders.  When we got there I learned two very important things: 1, don't let Diego pick our your dinner, and 2, I seem to have been very confused about what the word "domestic" means.

First, let us talk about The Donk.  This is what Diego decided I should eat for dinner, and I, like a lemming, decided to go with it.  Here is a link to the menu for Slab BBQ (http://realdopebbq.com/menu/).  Go, and see the description of The Donk.  Begin to understand my pain.  I ate that.  All of that.  I am not proud.  The cute bar tender egged me on maliciously.  Diego was remorseless.  Even now, I have gut-full of hate for him and another regret for the evening.  Later, I will begin to partially rid myself of this hate, most likely starting at 3 in the morning.  Did I mention the cute bar tender?  She was cute.

Secondly, the word "domestic" seems to mean "shitty".  That's just an FYI, at a bar domestic = shitty, and those rates definitely don't apply to any beer you would ever want to drink.

I skipped the "domestic" beer and had a cider.  According to my note, I had a TV Honkey Cider.  Perhaps I wrote that down poorly.  It was a tasty cider all the same.  I wonder what it was really called.  Unlike the cider brewing in my kitchen, this one was sweet and crisp.  Sadly, it had to fight for attention with The Donk.  The Goddam Donk.  Despite (or because of) the adorable chiding of the cute bartender, I finished The Donk (pictured below).

Who's hungry?  Not friggin' me.  I had regrets, so, I had a Robert Honey Pils.  That's a different kind of beer.  I drank it.  It wasn't half bad.  To be honest, I don't remember it.  I think I was still reeling from The Donk when I drank it, but I have no negative feelings about the beer so I couldn't have been too bad.  

We drank, we solved many of the world's problems, there were some pop culture references, I think I probably said something embarrassing or awkward.  I love drinking night with the guy(s).

And then I got home OK.

Stockyard Oatmeal Stout

Is Trader Joe's the best place to get trashed?  This is the question I suddenly asked Omar while he was watching TV.

"I don't think so." He replied.

"Although, they do have an extensive selection of craft beer."

There was something Canadian on TV, but that's not important right now.  What is important is Stockyard Oatmeal Stout.  I bought it at Trader Joe's.  It was super affordable, and I was looking for a new beer, soooooo...

Stockyard Oatmeal Stout, from JosephBrau Brewing Co., San Jose, California.  12 "fluid" ounces, 5.2% ABV.  This is a very dark brown, nearly opaque beer, not much fuzzy frothiness to speak of.

Yeah, Omar thinks that Trader Joe's has an extensive selection of craft beers.  I think they have cheap beer.  Have you been?  Not to suck their Joe, or anything, but I do buy some beer and wine from them on... occasion?... every now an again?... often?...  You know what?  Up yours!  I like my booze and I'm very cheap.  I have water efficient faucets and shower heads, a learning thermostat, a (quote) "micro-subcompact" hatchback that gets an advertised 37 combined mpg, and, yes, I buy the Chuck.  Let your jealousy run down your turned up noses.  My point is: I kind of dig this beer.  I wonder what Omar thinks.

"It kind of has a... like something is going to be grand.  And then, all of a sudden, it's gone."

~O. Cortina

He's wrong, of course.  Just because he can cook a mackerel, he suddenly has a opinion about his own enjoyment of beer.  Then again, he can cook the hell out of a mackerel.  Let me give this another taste.  The first impression is a full nose of bread, then a hit of acidity, followed by malty-malty-malt, some chocolate, then the chocolate and the malt swish around for a while, and finally... nothing.  A false cadence.  

"Very much like that scene in Monte Python and the Holy Grail."

~ Omar C.

You remember: the wimpish prince (who screams like a lady) is just about to break into song, when his father storms in and commands "no singing".  Like that.  The music builds, the camera pulls back, inhale deeply, aaaaannnnnnd... nothing.  

Everything up to that point is solid.  There are many tasty molecules doing happy dances, but, it was last call, the lights came up, and suddenly you're done.  I don't think that diminishes the enjoyment you experience up to that point.  Let's call it a question of value, low cost, extremely reasonable return, I still like it.  

If you're wondering, Trader Joe's is a lousy place to get trashed.  They would almost certainly call the cops if you were weird enough to get drunk there.  Also, they don't have a great selection of craft beer.  It's not bad though.

Final thought: Omar was right.

G. Schneider & Sohn, Schneider Weisse Aventinus Eisbock

"Aventinus has been known to be the most intense and

complex wheat-doppelbock in the world.  This was the 

 case in the past, but not anymore."

With a bold claim like that plastered on the label, I felt obliged to bring on the righteous judgment.  Join me on this journey, won't you?

Let's get right into it.  This beer whollups you with a big fist of flavor.  It is a syrupy, mildly vinegary, malty, sour, and just a little strange.  At first, anyway.  The "strange" part, I mean.  The rest stays just like I said it.  

I had a strawberry balsamic ice cream once, and it had a similar quality to this stuff.  The are both... I'm going to say, "challenging."  Sure, I'm drinking it.  I'm drinking it, and I'm liking it.  I really don't know why, though.  I don't want to like it.  I want to get angry at it, and beat it up with a stick behind a 7-11.  But, like a naughty puppy, I just can't stay mad.  I want another glass of this naughty puppy!

...

shit...

...

What I mean is that I, irrationally, and despite my best efforts, am enjoying this beer.  It is a really good beer.  People should know this naughty puppy beer.

Still, it bragged about being the rebirth and improvement of "the most intense and complex wheat-doppelbock in the world," and, for that, a bit of a slap-down is in order.  So, here goes: this is a one-bottle beer.  It may not even be that.  I'm working over time to get to the bottom of my second glass, and I still have a quarter of the bottle left.  You know that feeling you get when you are full at a buffet, but you haven't made your money back yet?  You bet you ass you are going back for more, godammit (grumble, bitch, gripe).  If I make it to the bottom of this bottle, I fully expect end up half-blind and filled with self-loathing.  Sweet, delicious, syrupy self-loathing.  

While I'm feeling punchy, I take issue with this beer's basic claim.  I really doubt that this is the pinnacle of intensity and complexity in the wheat-doppelbock world.  That just can't be true.  I've got my broom.  I call shenanigans, officially.  

Two sips left to go.  

It is an interesting and good beer, split one with somone you have mixed feelings about.  Give them more than you are having.

One sip left.  I really don't want it.

G. Schneider & Sohn, Schneider Weisse Aventinus Eisbock (I assume because they froze something to increase the natural sugars, like with ice wine, or I have no idea what "eisbock" means), from Bavaria, German.  11.2 fl. oz, and a whopping 12% ABV.  Dark brown, some head lingers for a minute or two, but don't wait that long to drink it.

still one sip left... godammit...

Moylan's Chelsea Moylan's Porter

I like porter! Porter, porter, porter!  Let's all raise a glass to porter, and then you all shut up while I drink.

I came across this big-ass bottle of porter with its fancy celtic-y knot, a fun little blurb about how those Dublin brewers gave up the "Porter Style" in the mid 1970's, and what the Californians decided to do about it, at my favorite beer store (45th and Duval, behind the flags).  So you don't have to trouble yourselves, the surprise ending is that they brewed porter in California.  It was a great idea.

Moylan's Chelsea Moylan's Porter from Moylan's Brewing Company, Novato, CA.  5% ABV, 1 pint 6 fl.oz. Porter-dark, porter-rich, porter-malty, no porter head. Porter, porter, porter!  If I keep saying it, eventually someone will help me with my bags.

This bottle makes some promises.  I choose to ignore the "Love~Loyalty~Friendship" promise, because all booze promises that, and I've learned to ignore things like the World Beer Championship Gold medal from 2009.  The promise that shows the most promise was the espresso coffee and bitter-sweet chocolate malt flavors.  Who wouldn't want to drink a bar of that?  Having tried the beer, I can say with certainty that the choco/coffee is a "yes", the beer championship is a "who cares", and the feel-good crap doesn't seem to be working, although I am more handsome and a better dancer.

What I like best about porters (and stouts) is that super-big malt and layers of rich flavors.  It's like bobbing for apples in a tub of chocolate followed by a nice cup of coffee.  We've all done it, we like it, and we can't wait to do it again.  At first sip, this Moylan's comes off a bit thin, but it soon fills out and then switches quickly to flavor-mode.  A cup of coffee and a bar of dark chocolate parade through.  Finally the metallic tinge that had been lingering in the background ramps up and reaches a crescendo, then the whole thing fades rapidly leaving a ghost malt on the tongue.  This is a good, solid porter.  It hits all the right notes in all the right ways.  It doesn't have a huge set of balls on it, but I don't think the were going for showy.  I think this is a love-song to porters.  I think this was someone's effort to do it right.

I also like that this comes in a big damn bottle, one I don't have to share with anyone.  It is fun to settle into a beer, kick off your shoes, switch on some tunes, and just enjoy.  Do it enough and you'll eventually blog all over your laptop, but life has its risks.  Porter, porter, porter!