Dear Sir Bowler,

Believe me yours faithfully,
Winifred ‘Fred’ Wynyn

Piet and Humfrids read over their letter carefully. It has been written on laid paper, its parallel lines were perfect, seemingly ribbed from wires in the mold. It felt of the rich. This was the only direct correspondence they had had with Mr. Wynyn. The cousins had obviously accepted the job and word of their decision reached Mr. Wynyn within eight days – another man in his employ was waiting for them at the Bell and Bull on the ninth. He was very quiet and had his appendages tucked so tightly into himself he had the appearance of poorly made wooden poppet. If it had been just a couple years earlier, Humfrids would have been unable to conceal his snickers. The wooden man-boy tells the cousins to call him Skip; this is something Piet tries very hard not to snicker at himself. Skip was dressed well – better than either Humfrids or Piet had ever dressed in the entirety of their lives – and he spoke with nearly no accent at all. Humfrids claimed to detect some hint of an Eastern dialect, Piet swore Humfrids was making that up to sound smart, “East of what, Hum?” he asks. “East of your pudder off,” Humfrids mumbles.

Wynyn’s employee stayed for less than five minutes and gave the diggers a peculiar looking bag right before leaving. The bag appeared to have been sewn together with some mammalian interior tissue of sorts, but it felt silky to the touch. They did not know exactly what it was. Inside they found £10 and a small scrap of paper folded in fourths on which it read, Fræt Hægtesse.

Mr. Klent was proving to be more than slightly helpful. Piet had his doubts upon seeing the condition of the butcher, but his knowledge seemed to only be matched by his courtesy and love of spirits. Humfrids explained to Mr. Klent that he and his cousin had removed many unique and disturbing individuals out of the grounds of London – nearly twenty different locations – and with everything they had seen, neither one of them believed in witches. Mr. Klent listened intently. After twenty minutes he had to retrieve his ear trumpet from upstairs. Piet had seen a few different hearing devices in the year past, but none as small as Mr. Klent’s trumpet. It was made of silver and curled once outwards, not extending beyond itself. It was just only ten centimetres long with a wooden tip that the butcher inserted inside his ear cavity to better make out the cousins’ words. Piet assumed the old man did not usually require the trumpet, but they were speaking more softly than was normal as not to wake the butcher’s wife.

Mr. Klent sat quietly and attentively listened to the boys in his kitchen, waiting for them to finish. “…and that’s when we knocked on your door.” Humfrids says.

Mr. Klent removes the trumpet from his ear as he leans back in his chair, it’s creaking is quickly drowned out by the butcher’s sigh.

“Well, if ya’ boys are been truthful about the s’capades you have taking part in over the course of past years, then I’m surprised you han’t come across a witch. I mean, bullocks, boys – its bloody witches, figure that’d be the first goddamn thing you’d see,” Mr. Klent stops, presses his face into his hands as if they were made out of refreshing, cool water and talks to the cousins through muffled palms, “- an m’ even more b’wildered b’yurr lack of bulif n’ th’m.”

Piet turns around and looks up the steps as if he sees someone who is not there and speaks lowly, “So you’re saying witches are real?”

Mr. Klent leans into meet Piet, “Christ. Yes.”

Humfrids smiles and Mr. Klent turns his attention towards him, “What are you snickering at boy, you are equally daft.”

The smile fades from Humfrids face. “So are we agreed on this fact?” Mr. Klent asks. The cousins nod in accordance, “Good. Now I wish that was the worst thing out there. In fact, many witches are quite lovely; there are light witches and there are dark witches and the lights outweigh the darks by countless numbers – tis a shame how they are treated – I know you’ve heard what they were doing to them in the America?”

“The trials?” Piet asked

Mr. Klent nods. “They burned many; handfuls were not even witches, just poor lasses the church thought were loose.”

Humfrids becomes rigid, “Well, I don’t think we should blame the church, Mr. Klent.”

Mr. Klent struggles to stand up and hobbles towards the younger cousin and hovers over him, “I will accept your ignorance due to your age, but the “church” (he says the word so tartly that he spits all over) is responsible for more atrocities in this world than any of these altered beings combined. Never forget that!” Mr. Klent shouts. And immediately noticing the increased volume of his voice he ducks beneath an invisible beam, waiting for the stirring noise of his wife which he does not hear.

Humfrids cowers in his chair, “I’m sorry, sir.”

Mr. Klent pats Humfrids on the shoulder before struggling back into his chair. There are a few minutes of silence as the butcher catches his breath. Piet breaks the silence, “Mr. Klent, you said witches were not the worst?”

Mr. Klent takes a few more moments to regain his breath, “I did, son.” A bereaved look glamours across Mr. Klent’s face; it was as if he had forgotten someone he loved very dearly had died and he was just remembering it then – “One of the most disconcerting things I know is what is written here on your piece of paper.”

Mr. Klent gets up and makes a kettle of tea. When it whistles, he pours three cups and adds whiskey to each of them. Both Humfrids and Piet are taken back by the strength of the leaves. Mr. Klent grabs his cane and slowly paces back and forth in front of his butchers table, “First thing you need to know of the Fræt Hægtesse is that they are the elders of this world. As far as I am conscious, there are only a two or three left, and from what you told me of what your mysterious employer is paying you to retrieve it, it makes sense. They are remarkably rare… And They are immortal.”

“Then why are we retrieving one from the ground?” Humfrids asks.

“Well, they can be contained; is quite a perilous process t’ capture one,” Mr. Klent stops to think a moment, “I have only read of one ever being successfully wrapped before.”

“Wrapped?” Piet asks.

“Mhmmm,” the butcher wheezes through his pursed lips in order to keep the whiskey in his mouth. He swallows and continues, “the process is called wrapping. Once the Fræt Hægtesse is held, it is wrapped in papyrus that has been soaked in Henna – ”

“Like a mummy?” Humfrids interrupts.

“Yes my boy, like a mummy.” Mr. Klent takes another sip of the spiked tea, “The skin of a Fræt Hægtesse is well, not like skin at all, but rather more like a very thin papery sheath that covers their sinew and bones out of necessity. You see, if they ‘ad any sort of immune system they wun’t live long, but they dun’t, they are ‘mpervious to diseases, to sickness. You see, besized been used as a dye, Henna was employed both internally and locally by the Egyptians when dealing with jaundice, leprosy, smallpox, and most important in is case, affections of the skin.”

Humfrids and Piet hang on to Mr. Klent’s words as if they were the last words they would ever hear. The butcher goes on, “It was used t’ create an instant scab to close open wounds and burns on large ‘reas of the body due to its intense an’iseptic prop’tees.”

The cousins are confused.

Mr. Klent smiles, “The Henna reacts with the papery sheath of a Fræt Hægtesse, you see, freezing its appendages and torso, making it unable to move. Like it is encased in stone.” The butcher pauses to sip, “And You must know this, besides being utterly frightening in ‘pearance and alt’gether deadly, Fræt Hægtesse is clever and is riddled with intelligence, and it will most certainly try to talk with you, confuse you.”

“How can it talk if it’s wrapped up?” Piet asks.

“The only part the Henna does not effect is its head; its head is made of sumfing different, sumfing more ‘kin to fingernails and teeth. Henna does nothing to this part of it.” The cousins are back on their branch.

“At one time these… these eaters were men, like y’ boys and m’self, but it was’nt til the travelers played with a book they wern’t familiar with, a false turn that… that transfermed this elders ‘t what it is ther now. As a much young man I was told the Fræt Hægtesse were the five eldest humans living, and f’r some chance or ‘nuther, they were all in B’lgaria t’gether when they right p’ssed on the travelers and the travelers did their magic on them.”

Piet sits up from his chair and approaches the butcher gently; not to startle or intimidate him. He places his hand on Mr. Klent’s shoulder, “So this one we’re after may be a man or a woman?”

“I suppose,” says the butcher.

Piet appears frustrated and takes a breath. “Mr. Klent, I am more than grateful for your hospitality and your knowledge, but is there something more helpful we should know if we do decide to chase these Schillings?”

The old man stands tall, as if he had never needed his cane, as if it was a prop he used to fool those around him. He returns his hand to his new acquaintance’s shoulder, “There most certainly is my boy… (his impediment seemed to disappear altogether) there most certainly is.”

The two cousins felt confident and ready for circumstance, that is until their soles resonated on the cobblestone path that lead in the direction of The Church of the Fauxefeld Fathers. It was then that Piet hinted that the job was once again making him uneasy, and although Humfrids teased and made fun at him, he too was not entirely comfortable with the possibility of resurrecting a devourer – after all – by the logical means of being an eater of witches, it most likely met a less than favorable encounter, and had thusly been left wrapped in a sour mood.

What set both Humfrids and Piet off into the realm of the peevish was the simple fact that neither of them had ever received any actual proof of a living, powerful witch, let alone someone or something that eats them, and what was even worse was that as they began to dig, it did not take long at all for them to realize that the Fræt Hægtesse had not been buried deep or in any sort of container. Whoever had the resources and power to confiscate such a thing did not have the wherewithal to even place it in any vessel whatsoever. And it was because of this that they knew they had come across what they were sent to retrieve when the tips of their shovels penetrated the Henna wraps and the oldest one let out such a shriek; a piercing scream that forced the cousins to drop their shovels and cup their ears and droop their heads, and when they raised their eyes they saw a long-limbed figure that owled above the loose dirt where the cousins were digging. Humfrids and Piet could see it was grey, even within the glow of their orange lanterns it was grey, and when the ringing subsided inside of their ears, they heard the thing in front of them breathing heavily and seemingly unable to approach them, it sucked in a great sniff and well within the shadow cast by their gaslights, it flickered long, drawn-out words, “Whhhhhy, yooourrrrrr noooooooooo witchessssssss.”

Assuming most of you reading this were not born 199,970 years ago, you’re familiar with turning thirty. I am about to be familiar with it. I’m a Taurus and I am a member of the class of 2000; something that seemed to be a much bigger deal in the year 2000 – what happened to all the documentaries and special yearbooks? I think they gave up on us after Mark Zuckerberg invented Facebook. Makes sense.

As my birthday approaches I begin to feel the pressures of mortality associated with the first one-third of my life (I’m living to ninety according to the University of Pennsylvania’s online Life Expectancy Calendar). There were others like me facing existential angsts as they approached thirty: Frederich Nietzsche, St. Thomas Aquinas, and of course Mark Zuckerberg… but I wanted to know, I wanted to really deconstruct the process of reaching this age in order to deduce the experiential understanding of all of “this,” so I decided to use the two best tools at my disposal: the admiring confluence of my many friends and sarcasm.

First, I had to make a list of all of my friends. It took forever. I had to then cross off anyone that I did not really consider a “close friend.” After that, I had to cross off anyone that did not necessarily consider me a close friend (so long, Zuckerberg). After this, I had to make sure I was only going to speak to friends that have successfully turned thirty. And finally, of those that made the cut, figure who would actually want to talk to me about this: there were three people left on the list.

After speaking to my three smartest, thirty-year-old friends, the answers I received were quite surprising. The first call yielded a hard, very matter-of-fact philosophical truth: I didn’t care about turning thirty, I gotta go get my pregnant wife some Chinese food. The second call resulted in a very deep, metaphysical reaction: Yeah, no shit turning thirty is hard. Now, I’m late for my appointment with a counselor who counsels me before I meet with my job counselor who directs me towards an interview guru so I can get an appointment with the job service specialist who can get me an interview as a receptionist at a dental office. Very poignant. The third and final call did not yield as much information as I hoped: Who is this? (upon explaining who I was) Sorry guy, I’m not interested in your magazine. Hmmm.

So what did I conclude from my series of interviews with thirty-year-olds? Well, apparently I am giving this too much thought, that, and my friends are kind of dicks. But was I thinking about this too much? I don’t think so. To be honest, I really thought I’d be further along by April 30th, 2012. Don’t get me wrong, I have an amazing wife and a healthy family, all of which is supremely important. It’s just I thought I would have contributed more to the world by now. I thought I was going to be a professor at twenty eight (that didn’t happen, apparently you need a PhD for that); I thought my second book would be getting published this summer (apparently you have to have a “demographic” that will read your book before you get published); and I definitely thought I would be a thirty-year-old home owner (I’m blaming housing bubbles and 9/11).

But does this have to do with age at all or just my own lack of being able to do it? I don’t know, both?

The more I think about it – the more I break it down – this conundrum reveals itself to be a fairly layered one. There is definitely a generational facet to it. My generation is stuck between two eras: the era that developed internet and advanced computer systems, and the era that has mastered it to a degree that their contributions will eventually enslave all of us in the Future Robot Republic. And much of our generation got booted out of their jobs around 2008 and have had trouble getting them back. But I am definitely not counting us out. I am transposing the Class of 2000 against my own life cycle.

I was a perfectly behaved and successful child, some would say perfect (my mother). Junior High School was rough, High School was not that much better, but college was incredible. I hit my stride around twenty and definitely came back down around twenty-two. So I certainly cannot believe that I peaked at twenty-one because I am not Jimmy Hendrix. So, what if my generation’s cycle as a whole resembles this? I’m sure I have some compatriots that are very successful and would crushingly disagree with my hypothesis, but I will just call them outliers.

So I have a proclamation! The thirties will be eight to ten years of our twenty-first year. The thirties will be when we peak and continue to peak forever! After all, we must have done something right; we are an envied generation – if we weren’t then why does Hollywood keep remaking all of our movies (please, please leave Kindergarten Cop alone). So we may not all be Jimmy Hendrix, but at least we’ll be around to hear One Direction’s cover of Hey Joe.

Happy Birthday Class of 2000

Anyone who has spent a semester in college most likely knows who Tucker Max is. This Joe Francis of “literature” (and I use the term literature in the loosest way imaginable) is a misogynistic clown whose inherited affluence has mistakenly entitled him to think he is the coolest kid in school. Here’s the deal, on his website, www.tuckermax.com he first and foremost calls himself out saying, “My name is Tucker Max, and I am an asshole.” Branding yourself as an asshole for profit is nothing new, Max is not the first one to do it, nor will he be the last, but one should note that pretending to be “ironic” in order to soften the blow of being a 100% glorified, pure American piece of shit, is not ironic at all, it simply reiterates the former.

I am not here to describe all the ways Mr. Max is awful, you can read about that here: http://tuckermaxdoucebag.blogspot.com/ and here: http://www.lemondrop.com/2009/09/23/i-slept-with-tucker-max-the-internets-biggest/ and here: http://tuckermaxlies.blogspot.com/, but I wanted to point out that last week, Planned Parenthood, an organization always in need of extra funding, turned down a $500,000 donation from Mr. Max in an awesomely fitting, yet dignified, “Fuck you, bro” gesture.

A few months back, I wrote an article on how we treat one another during these difficult times is more important to our growth as a society and culture than anything else. Here is an amazing example of this. Planned Parenthood simply turned down money that they could have readily used today to send a message to an ego-maniacal, false “artist” who is so remarkably self-involved that he thought he could dupe a woman’s organization from accepting a large cash donation from a man who thinks very little, if nothing at all, of women. This foolish boy (who is a proven liar, many times over) learned a valuable lesson (or probably did not) that you’re never too cool for school; even if you are the Big Douche on Campus.

(photo of Max and his mentor, “Dr.” Drew Pinsky)

You can read more about Max’s Planned Parenthood stunt here: http://filmdrunk.uproxx.com/2012/04/planned-parenthood-declined-a-500000-donation-from-tucker-max

It is the month of July in King George’s 1766. Piet Dogfael and his cousin Humfrids Bowler have now been working together for more than a bit of years. Over the course of a sluggish six, Piet and Humfrids pressed out the majority of their wrinkles; on their heels of the cliff of time they slowly inched along the necessary learning curve two men such as these must ultimately figure. Their relative relationship had gone from utter tolerance to something resembling respect and they worked in tandem, successfully.

By the time of this exact instant, the cousins have had many adventures; many peculiar and necessary atonements that put them on their current path, which, if you recall their first resurrection together, may not seem all that ironic. That is to say, nearly all of their work now fully delves into the realm of the macabre and peculiar. As previously noted, this is ironic more than anything; nothing significantly turned up for one’s nose to be directed towards, nor something to be thought of as supremely out of the ordinary. No, this is simply work for the cousins, and work they do quite well. This was work that many who knew of their reputation went above and beyond ordinary means in order to contract and have turned an almost lofty profit. And it was this particular afternoon Piet Dogfael and Humfrids Bowler found themselves once again at the Bell and Bull sitting at their regular table. Over the course of these past years, the patrons of the tavern have learned to keep their distance, barely noticing them enough to know that they have to notice them at the very most, for if they did not, they may be caught up in one thing or another, one thing that may lead to their strict or eventual demise… or another.

At their table, on this particular drafty day, they wait to meet with a known incumbent gentleman who offered hefty payment through means of correspondence. This meeting scratched Piet irregularly due to the sole fact that this fella addressed his note specifically to Humfrids only. To make matters less favorable for the older cousin, Humfrids had already constructed an opinion of the stranger; claiming to have heard misgivings of him from fellow crookeds. But the word of mouth is not what bothered cousin Bowler the most; it was the man’s name that tossed him. You see, the note was signed, Mr. Winifred Wynyn. Humfrids had heard men called Winifred before (albeit a rare occurrence, but in some cultures thought to be the true derision of the more masculine “Fred”), it was the last name Wynyn that tickled his logic the most. Wynyn was not a last name. Wynn most certainly was, but the additional “y” seemed to be a purposefully superfluous misgiving, as if the stranger implored Humfrids to recognize the irregularity. But what still bothered Piet was the idea that his younger, thoughtfully nickey cousin had recognized such a subtle flaw; Piet thought that his expertise and the role reversal poked his eye.

The two relatives walked within the shadow of the overhanging bricks; once familiar surroundings that were now nearly completely foreign. Now they were crisp, silent catacombs they had no choice to travel through.

“I still do not like this, cousin. I am not comfortable with this flam. I feel Mr. Wynyn thinks us flat.”

Piet responds in a quieter voice than his cousin’s, “You must shut up cousin. This was your doing, this was your idea. You responded to his letter.”

Humfrids says nothing as they walk with little purposeful caution. They used to be overly cautious, and once a couple three years earlier they were not nearly cautious enough and it nearly cost them every little thing, but now they had balanced it precisely, bringing no attention to themselves and if they had, they certainly knew how to misdirect it. Everything was as it should be; being the professionals they were, after six years, it most certainly better be; after all, this was going to be a very big year for vengeance.

Humfrids keeps his eyes forward, carrying an empty bottle in his right hand. He was closest to the street. “He paid us in advance, Piet, what more could you possibly want? Not only did he pay us in advance, he paid us that much in advance.”

“He did pay us absurdly, did he not?”

“Exactly, cousin, an absurd amount to uncover a cadaver from a church-yard we have dug from literally one hundred times before. Does that not seem off?”

Piet nods, conveying still more disdain for the decision with no words. Humfrids cannot differentiate between what may be his cousin’s guile or lazy artfulness. He stops in his tracks and holds his cousin back by the cuff of his coat. Piet is annoyed by this, “What is it?”

Piet averts his gaze. He looks about, not feverishly, but not with subtlety, Humfrids changes his mind, “It’s nothing, let’s just get on with it.” Piet gently tugs away from Humfrids’s grasp, not that he was hanging on particularly hard. Piet continues onwards. Humfrids remains where he is but turns around in his place and then back again. He begins to dance in place, lifting one leg than the other in a one-legged hop-style jig. Humfrids brings both of his hands to his mouth and whisper shouts through the creases in his fingers, “Well my stars, the great Piet Dogfael is afraid!”

Piet spins around and swiftly quickens his stride back to where his cousin is standing. “I most certainly am not afraid, you glock!”

Humfrids is still half-controllably giddy, his hands are still over his mouth, “No you are. You are. After all of this time you are the frightened one!” The last words grow higher in pitch from Humfrids’s lips.

Piet’s anger evolves into disdain, “I am clearly not terrified… it’s just…” Piet stutters, “It’s just, we’ve never resurrected a witch before. I’m surprised you are not more on edge yourself. I cannot imagine returning a witch is a positive experience, that’s all.”

Humfrids’s excitement recedes and Piet notices his cousin’s pale face almost immediately. If he was not uneasy before, he most certainly is now. “What is it Humfrids?”

Humfrids begins to feverishly check his kecks and top coat pockets. He pats himself down, goes over himself a third time before coming upon what it is he was seeking. Humfrids pulls out a small piece of paper and hands it to his cousin. Piet looks it over and shakes his head, “What?”

“What does that say?” Humfrids asks as he hands it over the river of pressed sands and stones.

Piet sighs and looks at it again, “fræt hægtesse. It says fræt hægtesse.”

Humfrids takes the slip of paper back from him. “Yes. We focused on the word we know, hægtesse.”

“So?” Piet resounds.

Humfrids shakes his head up and down, “We need to make a stop.”

Humfrids walks with quickened steps. Piet calls out to him, asking him where he is going. Humfrids repeats himself louder, “C’mon cousin, we need to make a stop.”

Piet runs after him until he catches up. The two of them walk very swiftly for what feels like thirty minutes to Piet; neither one of them speak. Piet does not recognize where they are headed and just as he is about to break their silence, the two turn a corner and Humfrids stops abruptly at the first door on the left. The word “Meats” is etched into the glass, illuminated by a gas spitting flame.

“What is this?” Piet asks.

Humfrids knocks five times, “It’s the old butcher I used to cut for. Keep your voice down.”

“Why in the bloody hell are we stopping to talk to an old butcher, we need to get started on the job, we’re already lagging as is.”

Humfrids ignores his cousin and knocks five more times at the same volume and pace. They eventually hear movement inside. The drape that hides the contents of the shop to the right of the door is pulled away slightly. A gruff voice whisper yells through the pulled back drape, “What’ya want. I’m closed. Come back in the morning.”

Humfrids steps into the glint of the flame so the old butcher could more readily make his face; squinting his left eye as the hot oil flecks its corner, “Mr. Klent, it is me, your old cutter, Humfrids Bowler. I need your help, I’ll pay you, and it won’t take but a few moments.” Piet pokes Humfrids in the back of his ribs and whispers, “We’re paying him now?”

The door opens and Mr. Klent ushers the two men inside, looking down the drag in both directions before closing the door behind him. Mr. Klent is old; older than is normal for the time. Humfrids remembers him one day calling his long life a curse, then the next, a miracle from God – he could never make up his mind about his aged fate. He had a small hunch on his back above his right shoulder and he walked with a short cane, sliding his feet along the floor. He invites the two cousins to sit down at the butchers table that was surprisingly clean, only a few blood stains could be seen; they looked more like rust than anything. The old butcher remains standing.

“Humfrids, you old boy, is everything alright?”

“Yes, Mr. Klent, we thank you for inviting us in,” Piet nods along and also thanks the aging man, “I was wondering if you could take a look at something for us.”

“Depends what it is, I suppose.”

Piet pulls the piece of paper he and his cousin were examining earlier from his milltag and hands it to Mr. Klent who takes it with two shaky fingers and asks Humfrids to fetch his spectacles from a table near a bottle of whiskey near the door, “Might as well grab the bottle while you are at it, my boy, I could use a lush ‘spose.”

Humfrids returns quickly with the drink and the glasses and hands them both to Mr. Klent. The butcher squints through his nearly teensy specs and looks up at Humfrids, “Old English?”

“Yes, sir.” Humfrids says. Mr. Klent bows his head again and Humfrids speaks again quietly, assuming Mr. Klent’s younger wife was still with him, not wanting to disturb her, “My cousin and I know hægtesse as Witch or Wiccan, but we overlooked the first word. I know it’s a bit ashen, but we think it reads fræt which we are kanurd to decipher and I thought with your penchant for the old language – “

Mr. Klent interrupts his old cutter, “Devour. It means to devour or eat, but devour would make more sense to me in this spot.”

Humfrids and Piet look at one another in creepy confusion.

Mr. Klent takes his spectacles off and takes a pull of the lush, “Humfrids, my business it is not boy, but why would you hand me a slip that says Devourer of Witches?”

“If you build it, they will come,” Jeff Willis told me after I asked him what the goad was for Fort Collins’ newest craft beer house, Tap and Handle. We sat across from one another on one of his handmade picnic tables in the back beer garden that opened just a few days before. Willis is quiet at first, more modest than anything, but once he begins to open up about his bar and the complexity of the beers that fill it, he becomes excitedly confident – almost giddy. The surrounding aroma of hops and piney earth is as intoxicating as any one of the seventy-four beers Willis has on tap behind the finished wooden bar, a bar that was a 150 year-old Colorado barn before it became the sturdy top for some of the best beers in the world to condescend.

Willis is no stranger to the restaurant and bar industry; he’s been entrenched in it for the past twenty-two years, and not just in Colorado either – although he was born here. He spent much of his younger life in Texas, starting out in pizza. At eighteen Willis began traveling around the US in either a capacity of starting up or managing various franchises like Outback Steakhouse and Carrabba’s in places like Sugarland, Texas and Skokie, Illinois. But it was a seven year stint at The Ginger Man in Austin, under the tutelage of a guy named “Steve”, surrounded by seventy-five tap beers, where Willis was schooled on small and craft beer, the ins-and-outs of craft brewing and pairing, and what Willis refers to as the vital necessity of community. It was his particular experience in this meta-paradigmatic foray within true beer culture that culminated in the inception of Willis’s own beer Valhalla.

Willis has been working on getting the Tap and Handle up and running since 2003. When I asked him why so long he responded immediately and with candor; first and foremost, he had to learn everything he could about small craft beers, breweries, and the distribution – and then, of course, there was that small task of getting the money together.

Willis told me that there are bars and there are beer bars. Tap and Handle is most definitely the latter. Having just recently moved to Fort Collins myself, I had heard the term “craft house beer” and in an attempt to fit in with this envy-inducing culture I asked Jeff if that’s what Tap and Handle was. He did not say it was or wasn’t but he sat for a second before nodding yes and saying, “I would call this a neighborhood American beer bar.” Jeff gets his beer through both various distributors (somewhere between ten and fifteen) as well as from the numerous local breweries themselves. The seventy-four beers on tap come from an array of locations, some traveling from just around the corner like Equinox Brewery’s Total Eclipse and as far as Belgium’s Delirium Tremens. The taps are rotating for the most part; some stay on longer, but others are virally showcased, staying on no longer than five months. But the verdict of selection ultimately comes down to the jury of patrons. If a drinker (or drinkers) feels strongly about a particular brew, Jeff has no issue with keeping it on, or bringing it back.

Once we got past the nuts and bolts of the start up, Jeff opened up about his philosophy; both of beer and business. I was a little dazed by his seemingly complete disinterest in sales or overall profit; he never once talked about making money. One has to assume that making money is relatively important – without it Willis could not keep his beer baby going – but he genuinely seemed to mean it. Willis spoke more of comradery and the importance of the Fort Collins beer community than anything else. “I don’t want this place to be the only place people want to drink,” he told me in the garden during an unseasonably warm first week of March. “You don’t?” I asked. He took no time to reiterate. “These craft beer houses are like museums.” He went on, “These local breweries are like museums, and this beer is artwork that the brewers have painted or sculpted. I think comparing Avery’s Mephistopheles to New Belgium’s Lips of Faith is like comparing Rembrandt’s Nightwatch with Monet’s Haystacks: you can prefer one over the other, but you cannot fairly compare them.”

I’ve interviewed enough artists and writers to pick up on arrogance veiled in confidence and blatant false modesty of which I detected none; again, he genuinely seems to mean it. Tap and Handle has not even been open two months, and Willis gets visibly delighted when he says he can’t wait to see what beers the neighborhood collectively likes the most. “It’s about the neighborhood; it’s about the people who live around here,” Willis pauses and looks around the back of the building, “I built it for them.”

Tap and Handle calls the old Fort Collins bus depot of the 1950’s its home. When you walk in take notice of the old hat hanging on the wall, a hat that belonged to one of the original bus drivers of the depot. The beer bar appears much smaller than it is when you walk through the door, but if you explore just a bit you will find a huge bay window towards the end of the bar with a large table; downstairs there is a pinball stand with bistro tables and foosball; upstairs, a lounge with ironically silly lamps, a space that reminded me of the backroom at my grandfather’s old VFW in Winfield, Illinois. And there is something else that fills the space: the staff. Willis is usually working behind the bar (or walking around it) with one or two other bartenders – often including his lovely fiancé, Shara, and the most excellent Chris – and there are always one or two servers working the tables. I asked him how important it was for the staff to know as much about the beer as he did. The answer is very.

Willis says he hires based on personality. He wants the environment to be friendly and welcoming – which it is. Most of the folks he hires know virtually nothing about the ranges of beer when they start, although that does not remain the case for long. The bartenders participate in classes and seminars, and each one of them has toured and tasted every local brewery: the aforementioned Equinox, the New Belgium brewery of Fat Tire success, Odell’s, Funkwerks, and Fort Collins Brewery; an extensive crash course in beer that culminates in brew quizzes and blind tastings. Willis calls it a staff to customer base and encourages the learn-as-you-go mentality; he and the rest of the staff will instruct you which direction to go depending on your tastes, encouraging patrons to try something new each time, discouraging the same order back to back. They have yet to steer me wrong.

Although not broadcasted as much as the beer, Tap and Handle does serve food. Willis describes the menu as evolving. What started out as just fries and a couple other fried items has already grown up. They serve items like thin and crispy pork wontons, sweet potato fries, lager infused queso, daily soups, and ale glazed kabobs. The majority of the food is cooked with the beer they serve (a few days before I sampled a perfectly cooked bratwurst cooked in stout with a biting mustard lager aioli), and Jeff promises we will see even more innovative beer inspired sustenance.

Before we wrapped up I asked Jeff out of all the beers on tap, what was his favorite. He told me that he didn’t have one, “If I had a favorite beer I wouldn’t have opened this place.” I think the beer community of Fort Collins will be glad he built it.

Tap and Handle
307 S. College Avenue
Community Live Music Tuesday Nights @ 7
http://www.facebook.com/TapandHandle

Happiness grows like weeds on the side of the road in this place.

Hey Jason,

Kudos to posting one of the most viewed Youtube videos in the history of the tube encouraging the public to “you” themselves; we just think you might be at risk of beating this whole Kony thing to death… might be.

We get it! You love Joseph Kony – and who can blame you – according to your video tribute he’s incredibly charismatic; I mean you’d have to be to wrangle in all of those kids. I did my research, and statistically he’s the most successful foster parent in the world (in sheer volume).

We get it! You felt compelled to introduce Kony to the general public; you clearly feel it’s your duty. I mean we had never heard of him before you. News outlets like CNN and Democracy Now! had certainly never spoke of him before.

We get it! You want to promote Kony’s Type-A personality. With all the cyber bullying and astronomical teen suicide rates in the United States, what better a role model!

We get it! You have longed to be a celebrity, after all, you certainly look like one (notice the photo above which shows Russell modeling a lady’s wig). And now with the support of such self-esteem promoting role models like Rihanna and Chris Brown, you’ve finally made it!

We get it! You’ve changed the world by showing home footage of you explaining Kony to your four year old who clearly understands such concepts. Again, Kudos!

And I think we can all appreciate your focus on how this is of course the United State’s fault. After all, it’s apparent that no other country besides the United States is capable enough to handle their own cultural, socioeconomic, and political conundrums. Those idiots.

Keep up the good work!

As of late, since occupying my new home city of Fort Collins, interested parties have asked me what the Lowbrow Sophisticate is all about: what is a Lowbrow Sophisticate? Are you born one? Can you become one? And how does lowbrow sophistication translate to a website such as this one? To be completely truthful, the chosen title took no time at all to arise, and as much as I would like to take credit for its profundity, it was a label adorned upon me beneath the prosthetic snooty guffaws of a graduate school professor of mine, escaping from behind a yellow ivory fence of crooked British teeth as he leaned forward, polishing our Bruce Wayne-sized seminar table with the sewn on tweed elbow patches of his corduroy blazer. I forget his name.

For the sake of storytelling, I had just given my quiet opinion on a now forgettable Shakespeare sonnet while surrounded by a dozen trustafarians who tried far too hard to present themselves as poor and wrongfully broken and not nearly hard enough to come across as relatable, let alone likable in any way whatsoever. My answer (also forgettable), whiffed around the room like an off-putting cologne – perhaps a bit due to my mealy-mouthed southern Wisconsin drawl – and was received with quiet condescension. The aforementioned professor made sure I was looking right at him before making the proclamation in the form of a question, “Mr. Monroe, has anyone ever told you that you are quite the lowbrow sophisticate?”

My initial reaction of course was, “Fuck you, professor,” but by the time class had ended and I was sitting in my Jeep shot-gunning my usual post class snack of Miller High Life before my next seminar (an hour and a half slot the rest of the graduate class used to sit in the cafeteria waxing the complexities of Aristotelian Metaphysics and its correlation to the Evil Dead series or who would win in a fight: Noam Chomsky or pre-homosexual Bertrand Russell), my feisty anger had been replaced with a peculiar sense of pride. I was a lowbrow sophisticate and the rest of those pinheads would never even come close.

So that’s where it came from, but what does it mean? Now assuming Professor Assface meant his label to be an inferiority complex-causing kick in the intellectual nuts, his biggest misstep was forgetting the sophisticate attribute of the insult. The “Lowbrow” aspect explains itself: we lowbrows like our drink, we like our tobacco, we like to love, and we most certainly like our diverse range of expletive language, but the “Sophisticate” aspect strengthens its predecessor by the very nature of its meaning. The sophistication in us gives our tastes value; we’ll drink our High Life and Pabst in the same sitting as we sip our favorite crafts such as Ommegang’s Three Philosophers, Delirium’s Tremens, Hofbrau’s Dunkel, and Trippel’s Trippel Karmaliet. We value our lovers and our truest friends because to know you are better when you are with the ones you love is to understand the vitality of community. We are skillful and can handle wit; enough to quote Socrates and Nabokov, but real enough to match it with the words of Bill Hicks and Woody Allen. We value knowledge and understand that as gruff and blue collar as we may appear, we transcend that due to our incorporation of thoughtfulness and compassion; the things that give the lowbrow his or her sophistication.

To answer the most intriguing of the questions: “Are you born a lowbrow sophisticate or can you become one?” Let me say this: Buddha has a notion that we are all born Buddhas and the means to reveal our Buddha nature is around us always, waiting for – perhaps even expecting us – to use them to help us realize this innate nature. I am not so naïve to infer that all sentient beings are lowbrow sophisticates chomping at the bit to lift the veils of obscurity to excuse their smoking, drinking, cursing, and loving wild, but what I will say is being cool, likable, and excellent is not mutually exclusive from being intelligent, thoughtful, and articulate. I proclaim to you all, much like my Shakespeare professor did to me, whether you label yourself as a lowbrow or a sophisticate, you can be both! My words are proclaimed with no air of condescension, silliness, or dare. Think of it rather as an evolution into excellence and satisfaction. A fellow lowbrow sophisticate, Charlie Darwin was on the right track when he said:

“In the long history of humankind, those who learned to collaborate and improvise most effectively have prevailed.”

Living in Fort Collins I have quickly learned that we are in the beer capital of the United States; surrounded by countless, glorious craft houses that serve the most amazing beer I have ever tasted. My particular favorite is a quaint craft house down the street from Colorado State University, just on the cuff of Old Town, called The Tap and Handle. As far as beer goes, it is quite literally the best bar I have ever been in.

The Lowbrow Sophisticate is starting a new series this week called The Wet Writers which celebrates the most genuine of the literary lowbrows whose over indulgence, and dare I say passion, for inebriating libations may have contributed to their deaths, but most have most certainly contributed to their art. I wanted to kick off The Wet Writers with The Tap and Handle and what better writer to pair it with than Dylan Thomas, whose, as some of you may or may not know, favorite vice was the golden, frothy post-mead Hoppy Diety called Beer.

So check in next week – it’s going to be a hell of a good time.

The sweat on his brow began to pool horizontally in the deep schisms of his man wrinkles. Jack Grabber catches his reflection in a mirror that leaned up against the wall between the kitchen and the living room, Men really do get better looking with age, he thought to himself.

“Did you say something, Jacky?” a voice from an unseen source shouts from not too far away.

“Nope.” Jack replied, “Do you need any help over there, Godot?”

Samir Godot, Jack Grabbers long time, and only-ever business partner chuckles loudly, “I’m fine, Jacky, you got enough problems over there.”

Jack Grabber had been in these situations before and he had emerged victorious and unscathed, but he never had been this much in over his head. Jack Grabber was not one to sulk, and certainly not one to fixate on his own thoughts, but he could not help to wonder how he had gotten himself and Godot into this mess.
Grabber’s knees quivered and ached beneath the weight of all the silver and muhogany. It was no secret that he was getting older; Grabber was creeping up on somewhere between forty and fifty-five, no one knew his age for sure, not even his closest ally, Godot. Grabber never told a soul his age, hell, there were times when Grabber himself forgot how old he was; but one thing was for sure, he was definitely probably somewhere between the ages of forty and fifty-five. What made it even more difficult to pin his number was his looks; Grabber had the looks of a early thirty year old which were perfectly matched by the ruggedness of a present-day Ralph Lauren sipping cowboy highballs in his favorite teepee in the mountains of Telluride. Then there was the wisdom… all the wisdom present in his eyes, resting like napping dragons waiting to breath fire onto anyone that may disturb them.

Grabber finally snapped out of it, by the movement of the shadows inside the house he discerned that he had been staring at his reflection in the mirror for roughly twelve minutes.
Godot breaks up the common day retelling of Narcissus by shouting to his partner, “How much longer you think this is going to take us, Jack?”

Jack takes a deep breath, repositioning his legs in the hopes of getting better footing beneath the crushing weight on his shoulders. How did he get themselves into this? Jack could not remember how or when he agreed to any of this, but there they were; sweating nearly to death inside an old mansion, torquing their bones and muscles, twisting their bodies to the brink of snapping.

Grabber remembers that his friend had asked him a question, “I dunno, Samir, probably at least another three hours, hopefully not much more than that.”

Samir sighs and nods, “You’re lifting with your back right?”

Grabber nods in agreement, “Of course I am. You?”

Samir gives one of his trademark chuckles, “You know it, Jacky, what am I, some elderly pregnant Sharmootaa?”

They both start laughing uncontrollably. “Oh no!” Jack shouts, “I’m losing it, Samir, I’m losing it!”

Samir releases the piles of things he is holding against his chest, letting them crash to the ground. He leaps across the hallway, clearing a sixty-five pound hand cart and two boxes stacked on top of one another; one has FRAGILE written on it crudely in black permanent marker. The other has nothing written on it all. Just as Jack is about to drop his load, Samir slides across the marble floor on his knees, jumps up and supports the back end of the six hundred and forty pound piano.

“I told you we should have carried this out together, Jack.”

“And I told you that I got it.” Grabber snaps.

“Clearly you don’t, so let me help.”

Grabber gives in, not because he could not carry the piano by himself, but he figured it could go faster with Samir’s help, which it did. With the two of them working together, they got the piano out the double front doors, onto the driveway, and up into the long, white Van Lines truck.

Samir sits down on the backend of the semi and lights a cigar, “Hey Jack, I noticed one of the boxes in the hall wasn’t labeled – I know I labeled all my boxes, so that only leaves you.”

“I labeled all of my boxes, Samir. It was my idea, remember? So that only leaves you.”

“Perhaps if you quit bickering over who labeled which box, you two knuckleheads would be done by now,” a strangers voice scolds the two of them out of their line of sight.

Grabber reaches into his back waistband and pulls out his Glock. Samir does the same, except Samir keeps his in the front part of his waistband, practically tucked into his underpants. “Stupid underpants,” Samir whispers to himself. Grabber taps his friend in the back of his head with the Glock, when Samir turns around Grabber makes a “shoosh” gesture with the Glock up against his lips in place of his index finger. Samir nods.

Grabber extends his weapon with his left hand and pulls a buck knife out of his right sock. Samir and Jack meet eyes, nod, and quietly count to one another, One… Two… they shout Three in unison and jump off the back of the truck ready to murder whoever it was that called them knuckleheads. When their feet hit the ground, the man from behind the truck was waiting for them with six-shooters drawn.

Grabber immediately puts weapons back in his pants, “General Ozpatt!”
“Grabber, m’ boy!” the man says with a smile. The two men embrace mangily.
Samir follows Grabber’s lead and puts his weapon away too, “So this is the great General Ozpatt who convinced Jack Grabber into helping him move.”

General Ozpatt shakes Samir’s hand, “Convinve, Shmavince. Your friend Jack owed me a favor, and I cashed it in.”

Samir looks to Jack, “I thought you lived your life making sure you never owe anyone a favor.” Jack smirks wishing to ignore his friend’s keen observations.
Samir continues, “As a matter of fact, I believe it was you who said, ‘Favors are like eskimos: if you don’t owe one, they don’t exist.’”

General Ozpatt takes a step towards the both of them, “Well, Samir was it?” Samir shakes his head yes, “Well, Samir, there is only one thing in the world that trumps Jack Grabber’s hatred of favors.”

“Oh yeah,” Samir asks. “What’s that?”

Jack was back inside grabbing more boxes, “Ol’ Jack don’t like it all that much when people know his business, so he can tell you if he wants.”

General Ozpatt shouts up to the three story mansion; he sees Grabber walking past an open window on the second story, “Jack, m’ boy! I’ll see you at the ranch, thanks again for your help, son!”

General Ozpatt salutes Samir before heading back down the long, double driveway. Samir salutes back and jogs down the asphalt to catch up with the General. He reaches him and taps his shoulder, “‘Scuse me, General.”

The General turns around, “Yes, what is it son?”

Samir fidgets nervously, “I gotta know. What was the favor?”

The General smiles, looks around a bit and leans in close to give Samir the thought nugget he so desired to put into his brain pocket, “I found him a Snacktime CPK.” The General tips his hat and leaves.

Samir scratches his head with his cigar hand, immediately burning his scalp, “Dammit!” he shouts. His yelp calls Grabber’s attention who runs out to the driveway, “You alright, champ?”

“Yeah, I’m fine.” Samir says, “Hey, Jack…” Samir’s voice quivers with nerves.
Jack gives him a quizzical look, “Yes, Samir?”

Samir pulls the trigger, “What’s a Snacktime CPK?”

Grabber says nothing, turns around and walks back up to the house.
“What is it!?” Samir shouts, “C’mon, tell me! C’mon, Grabs… Grabs, c’mon… c’mon Grabs… GRABS! GRABBIES!”

Jack ignores Samir’s pleas and tosses back, “If you don’t know, then I ain’t gonna tell you.”

Samir drops to his knees, his hands reaching to the heavens above his head. He calls out to God, “WHAT’S A SNACKTIME CPKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKK!!!???”

Hello All,

I understand that I have been less than consistent this 2012, but that is all about to change. Lowbrow’s founder and his lovely wife are moving to the beer and bicycling capital of the United States: Fort Collins, CO.

Upon arrival, LBS will be back in action with a new layout as well as some new business. We’re heading back to the beginning; celebrating all things literary, and with the help of our new hometown’s brewers, I’ll be bringing you all the what’s the what on the outstanding beer in Fort Collins – I hear it flows like wine there.

So sit tight and prepare yourselves for a sophisticated, albeit lowbrow 2012, full of brilliant writing and drunken snifters.

Many of you may not know who Christopher Hitchens was, and its not all that surprising. Unless you’re an avid, perhaps even maniacal viewer of political news affiliates like FOX News or CNN (they both suck), or happen to follow the heated and complicated religion debate that is taking place every day in the United States, you may never heard of Christopher Hitchens.

But he was not just a British geek who debated the existence of God – he was a contributor to magazines like Vanity Fair, The Atlantic, and Slate. He wrote a bunch of books and handed individuals like Sean Hannity and Jerry Falwell their asses on national television. Another thing: he was a party fuggin’ animal – Hitchens drank and smoked in excess. In 2006 an NPR profile said of him, “Hitchens is known for his love of cigarettes and alcohol — and his prodigious literary output.” In 2003 Hitchens said of himself, “my daily intake of alcohol is enough to kill or stun the average mule.” He often noted that many great writers did some of their finest work when “blotto, smashed, polluted, shitfaced, squiffy, whiffled, and three sheets to the wind.”

Many of Hitchens’ targets for critique were completely understandable: George W. Bush; our war policy in Iraq; Jerry Falwell; Hugo Chavez; Bill Clinton; and Jesse Helms. But it was his acerbic words for some others that made him incredibly unpopular at times, like: Gandhi; the city of New York; Bob Hope; and even Mother Theresa. But even if you did not drink from the same rocks glass as Hitchens’ when it came to his opinions (and many did not), it could not be denied that he was a brilliant man, a supremely intellectual rhetorician, and a fearless critic of things he saw as unjust.

In 2007, Hitchens was diagnosed with esophageal cancer shortly after his long anticipated memoir, Hitch-22 was released. He had given up drinking a year before that during a visit to Madison, Wisconsin because of what he described only as an “epiphany,” and upon being diagnosed with his disease, he quit smoking altogether.

Christopher Hitchens died December 15, at the age of 62. And although there are many human beings in the world that are happy he is out of their hair – I for one am not. Hitchens tirelessly preached the one thing that I do above all else: being critical. And he understood completely that this does not merely mean to pick at and complain about everything – but rather to use our mind and all the limitless education that surrounds us to decide for ourselves what is Truth. Of course he said it best:

“Beware the irrational, however seductive. Shun the ‘transcendent’ and all who invite you to subordinate or annihilate yourself … Picture all experts as if they were mammals.”