Not a poetry blog: Poets & Artists, with a variety of boobs

I didn't give out one piece of Halloween candy tonight, so consider this my treat to you...

The new issue of one of the sleekest, most professional-looking literary journals, Poets and Artists, is fresh off the press/ on the intertubes... with one of my poems in it!

If you want to read my piece, "Skepticism of everything," go here. As I've mentioned before, this is not a poetry blog and I don't want to post every single publication, but I think you'll especially like this issue. In addition to all the gorgeous work, there's these interviews and mini-interviews with each artist.

Each piece deals in some way with the body, so in between reading poems, you'll get to see lots of naked people. What's not to love?

I especially enjoy Franciene Krieg's naked old lady nudes, which I'm surprised to find so refreshing and comforting. Ken Scaglia's paintings of car engines will make you feel like you're peeking at something you really shouldn't be. Plus there's Deborah Poynton's "Nude Dude With Artsy Junk + A Whole Lotta Other Naked Folks Hanging Out." (Ok, ok, so the official title is "To Be Alone," but that doesn't really paint a picture for you the way I wanted.)  To see all those things and more, go here.

Transcript: actual conversation from the K & G house

OR: why you should never, ever try to tell me something important by opening with "Guess what."




Husband: Guess what?

Answer: Chicken butt. 

Husband: Guess why? 

Answer: Chicken pie. 

Husband: Guess how? 

Answer: CHICKEN COW. 

Old school grits

The older I get, the more interested I am in "boring" stuff like bird watching and ancient agricultural equipment. (Dear god please let me not turn into a stamp collector!)

This past weekend we were here, in the Great Smoky National Park, which, if you're breathing, you will agree is utterly not-boring:

True story. 

And in the GSNP there's this old restored grain mill called the Mingus* Mill. Not only is it gorgeous, but at 124 years old, it's grinding like a hot young 20 something.

I expect our souvenirs will yield such delicious cornbread and cookies
as to produce mouth watering in the style of this flume.  

Ok, I accept that y'all might not find the existence of this old mill as thrilling as I do, for whatever weird reason...

Nevertheless, when you think about the factory farms that produce your food and the abundance of dangers and health risks associated with them... well, don't you just wish everything you ate was made in such a non-corporate, simple, and honest way? 

Yes you do. 

*Of course the mill-visiting soundtrack was my sometimes on key rendition of "Haitian Fight Song" and "Mood Indigo."

Fun with the intertubes

Do you have 8,000 papers to grade and/or TPS reports to fill out? I thought so.

That's why you should go here and learn Japanese play around with vintage-ifying your pictures.

Thoroughly Modern Kittie

Handsome retro heartbreaker

Kid tested, Carolina approved

When the Broken Bells album first came out I thought, "Well, this passes, I guess" and then I didn't listen to it for a month or so. But then I gave it another chance and loved it. And now I listen to it a lot. And I'm still not so sure what it is about the first impression that didn't work for me, but do find it pretty fascinating how wrong my first impression was. (Perhaps, subconsciously I just expected that it wouldn't really work for me, like many of my favorite musicians' most recent albums?)

Anyway, there's these Broken Bells videos where they get kids to vote on their songs. I want you to watch one, and then think about the fact that: 1) "a bit dark" should totally be points in favor of passing with flying colors! (Sorry cute British kid, but you got it all wrong.), and 2) tunes aside, Brian (Mr. Mouse) and James get bonus points for being so well dressed and appreciating the importance of snacks! 

Check it out: 

Oh, and if you haven't seen this one yet, I thought I'd throw it in for good measure. If you have a crush on good music and Christina Hendricks, get ready to wet your pants:

Mad Men: the tourist sauce (spoiler free)

Have you ever heard the Two Sauce Theory about certain supposedly delicious Italian restaurants in NYC's Little Italy? You know, one sauce is the jar of store bought Ragu Chunky Style they serve to kids  and tourists, and the other sauce is what they serve to customers they respect. They get the real thing--that lovingly simmered family recipe marinara for which the restaurant is renowned.

I am not what you might call a Mad Men tourist. I pay attention and think about the show. I love discussing each episode and making predictions for the next, and every Monday I look forward to checking out what The Slate folks think. 

My point here, Matthew Weiner, is that I have this nagging feeling that you served me the Tourist Ragu version of a Mad Men season finale. Ok, that's fine, you've effed with me. Hah hah. Now, where's the real Mad Men sauce?! 

Getchur bourb on: Woodford

Do y'all know about the Peak End Hypothesis? It's this idea that when you reflect on how good or bad an experience has been, the last few moments of the experience are what primarily shape your attitude about the overall experience. It's why we eat salad first and pecan pie last--because pecan pie kicks salad's ass in deliciousness.

So here, friends, is the dessert of the distillery visits. Even though we visited Woodford first, it was by far our favorite experience. 

I should issue a warning about this post: It's almost like I'm 13 years old and Woodford Reserve is Christian Slater in Pump Up The Volume. Because that, my friends, is just how much OMGI'MINLOVE! gushing is going to happen here. 

Q: What the road to Woodford Reserve like?


A: The awesome pastoral heaven you've always dreamed of!  (I know--you can't believe it, right?)


Here's what I mean:

Spectacular dappled gray horses begging sweetly for apple? Check.

Additional beautiful thoroughbreds on lovely rolling hills? Check. 

Surprise antebellum cemetery? Check.

See what I mean? And this is before you even get there, people! 

Oh, hello, beautiful! 

Isn't Versailles super beautiful? The only thing weirder than how picturesque everything is is hearing Kentuckians say "Welcome to Versales." 

I think that most of bourbon trail tours are free, but Woodford's is $5. It's worth more than all the free ones combined, though. It wasn't crowded like Maker's (although I was perplexed by how many women wore sun dresses and heels to tour a bourbon distillery).

Our tour guide, Earl, was adorable in his earnestness and low-key-ness.  I already knew I liked his style, but when he said,"if you liked the tour, my name's Earl; if you didn't, my name's still Earl" he got bonus points. I also found his sketchers shape-ups sneakers endearing, and the way he pointed out that bourbon balls were unlimited. (Of everything he said, I remember this most clearly.)  

Earl teaching us about grains. Bourbon has to be at least 51% corn. 

The Woodford Reserve grounds, distillery and warehouse are Just! So! Pretty! I mean, even if you don't normally swear you'd be all "Holy $*@@!% That's SO *##$%!^!#@*ng beeeyuuuutiful!" Check out this old school stonework: 

Mostly original stone. Old school, baby. Like, old old school.
 (Does this remind anyone else of Thornfield, Rochester's Estate in Jane Eyre?)

Labrot & Graham est. 1838

This is called the barrel run. I adore it in all its simplicity. You fill up your barrels in the distillery, then roll 'em down the barrel run into the warehouse.

Can I get a "laundry run" system? 

Of course, the real party happens inside, and is quite frothy. 

Wait till you see where the bourbon-to-be goes next-- be still my beating heart! 

Get it?! Be still! STILL! Cause it's a bourbon still..

Pretty, pretty, medieval-looking barrels. 

After they take the little ride down the barrel run, and then hang out in the warehouse for a while, they get taste-tested for doneness. The mahogany-colored sap-looking stuff you see flowing out of some barrels is from barrels that have been tapped for preliminary taste-testing to see if they're bottle-ready.

After the Woodford tour, you go back to the main house where you can eat lunch, buy a drink at the bar, or buy pretty much any Kentucky/ Woodford Reserve/ Horse-themed object you want at the gift shop. You want a personally engraved Woodford bottle? You got it! You want horse shaped cookie cutters? You got it!  Woodford Reserve copper mint julep cups? You got it! (Actually, we did get these. They were $11. The other gift shops had them for $20-$100!) 

Most importantly, after the tour, even though we were still reeling from the the whole gorgeousness of the place and in awe of the bourbon-making craftsmanship, we got this: 

A chocolate bourbon ball and a sample of Woodford with a tasting card. I've had many a Woodford before, but it wasn't until this moment, sipping on the sample in the rocking chair on the Woodford porch, that I really tasted it. The tasting card asked if I could taste vanilla and nut. Why, yes I can! Then, after adding a single small chip of ice, here comes apricot and caramel! IT'S A FLAVOR PARADE! 

Woodford Reserve, you are earnest, good looking, well groomed, you know how to treat a lady, and you come with candy. And in my book that means true googly-eyed love. 

To learn more about my liquid boyfriend, like the fun fact that he received a "medicinal exception" during prohibition, click here. 

Getchur bourb on: Beam

Much like you ladies might have an "everyday bra" or you gentlemen might have "everyday khakis," in my house, Jim Beam has come to be the "everyday bourbon." (This was especially the case when we lived in MA where a large bottle costs $21.) It's easy to drink, it's affordable, and--like the perfect pair of heels--it goes over well with nothing else added, or with just about everything else. Like mint, ice and sugar.

The thing about visiting Jim Beam--and really, this is true for all the distilleries we saw--is that where the product comes from looks exactly the way you'd want it to look, which is probably also the way Jim Beam wants you to want it to look. And it absolutely does, and that strikes me as somewhat remarkable and rare. Like, I'm sorry, but if you went to where the hot dog you're about to grill was made, well, that place wouldn't look the way you'd want it to look. There would be no cute little barn and windmill just like on the package, and after visiting, you'd likely switch to tofupups.

Jim Beam looks how Jim Beam should look. It sits atop a small hill with lots of trees just up the road from the bathroom-sized Clermont post office. It's on HAPPY HOLLOW ROAD, for Chrissake!

Unfortunately, we were too late to take a tour, but Jim Beam was still open to host a concert-- a local country-ish band that the people of Clermont seemed to be happy about.

Even though Everwood's rendition of "Honky Tonk Women" made us look for little bottle-shaped, bourbon-themed earplugs in the gift shop, we were so happy to be strolling along the pastoral Jim Beam home with the early autumn breeze in our hair and the mottled leaves dropping all around us with our "I visited Jim Beam" stickers on and twinge of bourbon samples on our breaths. ...And, perhaps most enchantingly, there were hardly any other tourists around.

By the way, the samples at Jim Beam that day were the black-cherry flavored Red Stag, which I couldn't finish even though it was .5 oz and free, and the fabulous small batch Bookers, which is just like sipping on sunshine. And I mean warm amber October sunshine (not that August in Alabama fry-your-brains-out sunshine).

This here is the Master Distiller's home, where the Master Distiller lived from 1911-1985. Well, not the same Master Distiller, just whichever Beam happened to be the Master at the time. I wonder if he made people call him "Master."

I startled this nice lady who was coming out of the Master Distiller's house
right as I barked at my husband "Stay still!" All I had to do was explain that
I was talking to a man and she understood. And like everyone else in KY,  she was beyond nice. 

Even though we didn't do the tour, there was plenty to see. Here's a really cool old copper still:

I love the way the top looks like an upside-down tobacco pipe.

And here's a lesson on barrel-aging:

I still think "Barrel" is a great name for a kid.
Especially if you want to out-hipster all your hipster parent friends.
"Barrel, it's time for your accordion jazz lessons!"

I'm surprised to say this, but I think my favorite of the Jim Beam structures is the warehouse. The warehouse! It's gorgeous! I mean, when I say "corroded warehouse with iron bars on the window" you don't first think "oooh, aaaaah!" do you? But lookit: 

I like the way you think, Mr. Spider.  

There are millions of Jim Beams in there, and they're dreaming of becoming your everyday bourbon. 

Romantic interlude

There's a couple more exciting bourb-related posts on the way, but right now I want to share this with you...

AUTUMN RETREAT

Deep in the mountains

A single branch of maple

Near the eaves of my hut

Marks the beginning

Of the days of autumn. 

                                -Rengetsu

Kentucky River

View from our campsite

That's some hot leaf action. 

Getchur bourb on: Maker's

Please recall that my previous post was about the Louisville Slugger Museum, then prepare yourself for the most perfect photographic blog entry segue in the entire history of photographic blog entry segues:

Not blood! (Although it looks like blood. In fact, it looks exactly like the poster for the Sci-Fi horror movie "Blood Diamond" in which an out of control, cursed baseball becomes sentient and wages war against a loveable, but soon-to-be-dead small town baseball team.*) 

That right there is America's favorite past time dipped in the famous fire engine red wax that looks so pretty until you can't open it when you're trying to get into your bottle of Maker's Mark and then it just aggravates the hell outta you.

That's right! Maker's Mark! One of the bourbon distilleries we toured on the bourbon trail. When you're driving to Maker's Mark, you have no idea whether or not you're in the right place. There's no huge bottle of bourbon to guide the way, like there's a huge baseball bat in front of The Louisville Slugger Museum. The narrow rural roads look like they're going to shoot you right out at Bubba's Front Doorstep. And, despite the niceness of Kentuckians, Bubba probably doesn't take kindly to surprise front doorstep visitors in search of booze.

You don't think this road could get any prettier, do you?
But what if I told you it ends in free bourbon samples!?

Don't you wish this was your back yard? (The answer is "yes.") 

But instead of Bubba, we came upon this See Rock City barn (which always takes me fondly back to Chattanooga) and an adorable little Maker's Mark bench running along the Whisky Creek.

A lot about Maker's Mark looked like home to me--for instance, the way the buildings looked like my actual dream house. 

With bourbon bottle window shutters!

And, of course, the way there were barrels of bourbon everywhere.

Christmas comes early! And on a wagon!

When can I move in? Right now yesterday! 

Our tour guide, Susan, did a good job of pretending like she hadn't already recited all the exact same words to a bunch of people fifty times before. In fact, she was a little too into it in a way that made us kind of uncomfortable and suspicious that employees of Maker's get to enjoy unlimited free refills on site.

The distillery itself is pretty small compared to some others, and considering what a big brand Makers is. The tour group, which was so large it was difficult to avoid multiple pictures of strangers, like the guy in his huge floppy hat and fancy hot peppers shirt, all crowded into this surprisingly small distillery area. Fortunately there were bourbon-goings-on to help distract me from the claustrophobia of being in a two bedroom apartment-sized area with 50 tourists. 

Here's where the Maker's first starts happening: 

So shiny! 

We learned that the gas those copper stills generates is self-propelling. The energy it gives off gets fed right back into the process. So, if you're worried about the environmental effects of how much Makers you spike your eggnog with, I say pour away!

Here's what's going on in the copper stills:

There are are approximately 1,893 steps to making bourbon. One of those steps is distillation, which results in an alcoholic mixture called "high wine." It's a lot like wine, except it's clear and smells like rubbing alcohol has about the same proof number as required steps. And it turns into bourbon. Anyway, that's high wine flowing above. 

Of all the bourbon-making steps, I'd have to say the fermentation process is my personal favorite. Imagine being in a room filled with enormous vats of bubbling soon-to-be-bourbon that smells like a drunk making sourdough bread. 

Actually, fermentation smells really, really good. Earthy, yeasty, and rye-y.  And those bubbles sure are pretty. 

The "S IV" means 4th generation Samuels, the family that's the Maker's makers. 

Then, after all the mixing and distilling and fermenting, the whisky goes into the famously charred barrels for about a six year nap. 

Did you know barrels could be so gorgeous? 

We're totally going to name our firstborn "Barrel." 

Meanwhile, for the six or so years that the bourbon is maturing, you're periodically receiving little business cards in the mail with "[your name here] Makers Mark Ambassador" printed on them, and free red drink stirrers and Maker's Mark Christmas paper and Maker's Mark gift tags because your husband has signed up to be a Maker's Mark Ambassador. (Which means your name gets engraved on a barrel and you get the special offer of buying the entire barrel once your barrel's matured.) 

When Susan the tour guide exuberantly asked ambassadors in the crowd, "What do you like best about being an ambassador!?," we laid low. I know she would be disappointed in us... 

When the bourbon awakes from its sweet slumber, here's where the Maker's gets bottled: 

"Schlameel, Schlamazel Hassenpepper Incorporated!...
We're gonna make our bourb come true!" 

Actually, that's kind of a terrifying-looking image to end with.

Double-bourbed! 

NOW THAT'S MORE LIKE IT. 

*I don't know if this movie actually exists, but mark my words that at some point in time it will. 

In which I say "wood" a lot

Despite the fact of the Yankees, I'm a fan of pretty much everything about baseball. So, of course we went to the Louisville Slugger Factory & Museum, another of the cool things about KY.

This seemed like a good sign that we were at the right place:

Insert "That's what she said!" joke here.

Right before our tour we were treated to a 20 minute overly sentimental and heavy handed documentary in which we learned that "the crack of the bat is the heart of the game." (See, I had thought it was all the man-on-man butt spanks). Anyway, I kept learning that "the crack of the bat is the heart of the game." (Umm, is this going to be on the test?)

Let me tell you something about the heart of the game: there's a whole lotta wood involved. Wood wood wood. Big, thick, special wood. (<- In case you missed "TWSS" joke opportunity #1!) Ash and Maple. From, like, very well-endowed tree farms where the tree farmers go to bed every night dreaming of a world in which every single baseball player of all levels uses only Louisville Slugger bats.

Unfortunately, I couldn't take pictures of all the wood. Cameras aren't allowed inside the factory. I got no "wood in action" shots.

Of course I had a meltdown right then upon learning this, as my Number One Plan for Great Success in Life had been to carefully document each and every step of making baseball bats so I could start my own bat-building company in my den and recreate the Louisville Slugger success and become The Queen of Baseball Bats and make a gillion dollars and surround myself with treasures like lots of manos de uruguay yarn and fancy boots and all the books I ever wanted and ride ponies and eat truffles all day and buy the Law and Order people some new, non-crappy writers so it can go back to actually being a good show like it was eight years ago, and...

So, yeah, my whole plan and all those hopes and dreams got smashed right then and there. But there were consolation prizes:

Fake dude fake-making bats! 

"What a firm bat you have, Mr. Other Fake Dude!"

Speaking of fugazis, here's me with everybody's favorite cryogenically frozen dead Red Sox. I bet you didn't know that Ted Williams was this ethnic! 

Here's something else I learned on my trip to Louisville Slugger: bats are shitty kissers.

This is about as genuine as it gets, though--Babe Ruth's home run notches! 

This tool's seen a lot of action. It's been around the block. It's really banged out a lot of home runs... 

After learning that I couldn't steal their baseball-bat making secrets for my own use, I got to hold Mickey Mantle's actual baseball bat. It felt really heavy and commanding in my hand, and sort of awe-inspiring. I practiced holding it over the plate. I was told my stance wasn't bad. And then I started getting ideas... 

New "Number One Plan for Great Success in Life"?

Watch out, Mayan-Sicilian Ted Williams, cause women are super awesome. And we really know how to work the wood.