The Downside of a Democracy

Wife Week continues here at The Common Man.com today. The starters for the annual All Star Game have been voted on by fans since 1970. While this has, presumably, increased the fan interest in the game, and become an annual tradition, it has also led to terrible selections, such as Jimmy Rollins, who currently leads NL shortstops despite only playing in 11 games this year. Such is the problem, and the wonderful thing, about democracy. Everybody has a vote, no matter how ill informed. And many choose to exercise it, and we get Alvin Greene running for Senate in South Carlina. On Monday, TCM mentioned that his disinterested wife’s All Star ballot was a sight to behold. So last night, TCM asked his wife to recall why she punched holes next to the names she did at the Twins game this past weekend. What follows are her choice, followed by her reasoning, followed by TCM’s choice and analysis of her pick.

National League


First Base: Albert Pujols (.309/.425/.559, 15 HR, 49 RBI, 2.6 WAR)
I chose him because his name sounds like “Poo holes.” Like “Anus.” And I’ve always loved his name.

(TCM’s take: A good pick right off the bat. While the reasoning is (ahem) interesting to say the least, The Uncommon Wife’s choice could not have been better. Pujols is the best player in the National League and is almost certainly going to be considered one of the greatest players who ever lived when his career is done.)

Second Base: Martin Prado (.333/.375/.464, 92 hits, 18 doubles, 6 HR, 47 runs, 1.6 WAR)
Because that’s just one letter away from Prada, which is a hell of a pair of shoes.

(TCM’s take: Not a bad choice, given the excellent season that Prado has had thusfar. That said, Chase Utley has been the best in the league for the last five years, and is having another strong (though down, so far) season for the Phillies. Utley’s defense is much better than Prado’s).

Shortstop: Hanley Ramirez (.290/.374/.492, 10 HR, 12 SB, 1.7 WAR)
He was the only dude there not named “Escobar” or “Cabrera.”

(TCM’s take: Hanley’s been the best non-Pujols player in the NL for the past two years, and is having another good season. Troy Tulowitzki is having a better year (2.3 WAR), but TCM has no problem rewarding Hanley for his past success.)

Third Base: David Freese (.309/.374/.435, 1.6 WAR)
I like Seattle. He’s a good player. I like him, he’s got some chops. He’s got a good arm on him. Can hit a little bit. And I hope the All Star Game is somewhere nice so he can get out of Seattle, where it rains all the time.

(TCM’s take: TCM loves the clichés here, as well as The Uncommon Wife’s belief that STL is baseball’s abbreviation for Seattle. This is a very good year for 3B in the National League. Freese is having a good Spring, and looks to be a productive player for the near future. That said, the trio of Scott Rolen, Ryan Zimmerman, and David Wright are far and away better than Freese. In particular, despite the earlier concerns about Wright from the always level-headed New York media, Wright’s 2010 is right in line with the rest of his career. He already has more homers than he had in all of last year, and he leads the NL in RBI (50). His 2.9 WAR has also already eclipsed last year’s mark. Plus, he’s swiped 11 bags so far.

Catcher: Miguel Olivo (.311/.379/.534, 8 HR, 2.0 WAR)
I think he’s a good catcher. If there’s any man I’d like to see squat behind the plate, it’s Olivo. Besides, look at his batting thingy this year, it’s .318 (now .311). That’s pretty good for a catcher, right? Right?

(TCM’s take: Amazingly, Olivo has been the best catcher in the NL this year. He hasn’t played as much as Yadier Molina, Brian McCann, or Geovany Soto (all of whom would be justifiable picks in the abstract), but Olivo’s great start makes him the right guy here.)

Outfield

Jason Heyward (.268/.389/.486, 10 HR, 36 runs, 43 RBI, 1.7 WAR, 34 kitties saved from trees, 13 evil geniuses bent on world domination defeated, 1 resurrection from the dead (Troy Glaus))
Justin Upton (.242/.317/.425, 10 HR, 3 RBI, 1.0 WAR)
Raul Ibanez (.250/.342/.395, 4 HR, 28 RBI, -0.1 WAR)
Because nobody really gives a shit what happens in the outfield. All they have to do is go way up in the air.

(TCM’s take: Huh. That’s some reasoning. At least Heyward is a good choice, what with his Jesus-esque qualities. That said, Colby Rasmus (2.2 WAR) and Ryan Ludwick (2.0 WAR) are both having excellent seasons for the Cardinals (better than Holliday), and walking contradiction Angel Pagan (2.3 WAR) is also excelling for the Mets. The most valuable outfielder in the NL so far, however, according to WAR, has been Andrew McCutchen (2.8) of the Pirates. TCM would probably go with McCutchen, Heyward, and Rasmus.)


American League

First Base: Miguel Cabrera (.330/.410/.652, 19 homers, 56 RBI, 45 runs, 18 doubles, 2.7 WAR)
C’mon, the dude deserves to be thrown a bone. And since I discriminated against the Cabrera’s on the NL side, I thought I’d throw one in here.

(TCM’s take: Actually, if it weren’t for Justin Morneau and his .455 OBP and 4.2 WAR, Cabrera would be a very defensible choice. Miggy leads the AL in homers, RBI, and slugging percentage. That said, Morneau’s been out of this world.)

Second Base: Scott Sizemore (.336/.403/.473 (for AAA Toledo), .206/.297/.289, -0.3 in the majors)
That’s the baddest ass name in baseball.

(TCM’s take: Scott Sizemore will be happy to know that someone outside of his immediate family voted for him. Frankly, that’s the problem with making out these All Star ballots so far in advance. Sizemore has played his way back into the minors, and he still gets votes from Tigers fans and The Uncommon Wife. Robinson Cano, with his .368/.414/.609, and 4.2 WAR is the right choice here in what’s shaping up to be a career year.)

Shortstop: Alexei Ramirez (.261/.297/.399, 0.8 WAR)
I didn’t pick Jeter, I’m not that much of a douche. I think he runs really fast, and throws really fast, and gets to the ball really fast. He seems scrappy to me.

(TCM’s take: It’s a bad year for shortstops in the AL. Jeter’s performance is, indeed, way down. The best, so far, has been Alex Gonzalez, whose 13 homers screams fluke. Gonzalez has never had a season with a WAR above 1.9. He’s a 2.2 right now.)

Third Base: Alex Rodriguez (.290/.361/.482, 8 HR, 43 RBI, 2.0 WAR)
He’s freaking ARod. The dude boned Madonna. He gets on the ballot, like, forever. If you say no to ARod, that’s like saying no to Madonna. And no one says no to Madonna

(TCM’s take: Madonna or no, ARod continues to slide. His slugging percentage has fallen in each of the last three seasons, and you have to wonder whether the hip injury sapped some of his power. He’s still a very very good player, but nowhere near the class of Evan Longoria, who is still just 24 years old and has a 3.3 WAR.)

Catcher: Joe Mauer (.316/.393/.445, 35 runs, 19 doubles, 2.0 WAR)
He’s Joe Freaking Mauer. He hits the ball a lot, he runs a lot, to can always count on him to bring the ball home. I would have his babies. Besides, he’s The Boy’s favorite player.

(TCM’s take: Joe’s well off of last year’s pace, probably thanks to being overworked and to having to play in a new, power-sapping ballpark. That said, he’s still the best catcher in the American League. And TCM would totally have his babies too.)

Designated Hitter: Hideki Matsui (.265/.340/.435, 9 HR, 39 RBI, 0.4 WAR
He’s a good hitter. I think I thought that I like the Angels, and I’m not giving them enough love.

TCM’s take: Matsui has been largely a disappointment for the Angels this year, though he’s made a habit of alternating good years with injury-prone ones in recent years. Perhaps just staying on the field is helpful. However, despite contributing anything with the glove, Vladamir Guerrero has more than quadrupled Matsui’s production, with a 1.7 WAR. Vlad’s having a terrific year at the plate, reminding us that at 35, he may still have some lightning in that bat.)

Outfield

Ichiro (.341/.395/.434, 29 runs, 19 SBs, 1.6 WAR)
Who doesn’t want to be able to yell “ICHIROOOOOOOOOOO!”

Torii Hunter (.285/.356/.502, 10 homers, 38 runs, 45 RBI, 0.9 WAR)
I like how he shakes his little butt.

Michael Cuddyer (.281/.344/.455, 36 runs, 0.1 WAR)
He hit the ball really well when he were watching him.

(TCM’s take: Kid you not, the three leaders in the AL in WAR are Ben Zobrist, Brett Gardner, and David DeJesus. Shin-Soo Choo and Alexis Rios are also having really strong years. Gun to his head, TCM takes Ichiro, Choo, and Gardner.)

In all, considering her general disinterest and haphazardness, The Uncommon Wife didn't do too bad. Six of her seventeen picks are dead on, and another four are at least defensible. Maybe hanging around The Common Man is good for her. Or maybe she's picked up a lot from other sources.

A Fan's Guide to Attending a Ballgame with Your Disinterested Partner

If you follow The Common Man on teh Twitterz, you may have noticed that he and The Uncommon Wife joined good friends Bill of The Daily Something and his lovely and delightful (and highly pregnant) better half at Target Field for the Saturday tilt between the Twins and Braves. It was a stressful game, won when Brooks Conrad executed a perfect squeeze bunt down the third base line that Jose Mijares (and his Rich Garces-esque frame) had no chance to field.


The Twins squandered extra chances to score in their belief that, because they were playing a National League team, they needed to play NL style ball. With Denard “The Nard-Dog” Span on first with no outs in both the 6th and 8th innings, Trevor Plouffe (a less manly name has yet to be applied to any member of the male species), was asked to sacrifice him over. In the 6th, Joe Mauer followed with a double that would have allowed Span to score anyway; then, following an intentional walk to Morneau, the Twins ran themselves out of the inning with a strike-out/throw-out double play, in which the catcher was caught as the lead runner trying to steal 3B. Ugh. Two innings later, Gardy was outmaneuvered again when, after Plouffe’s bunt, Joe Mauer was intentionally walked, Morneau flew out to RF, Cuddyer walked, and Kubel struck out. That’s three outs the Twins gave away with runners on base in a game that ended up being decided by a run. Ugh.

Anyway, this post is not about the game itself, but about the experience of being at the game with a woman (The Uncommon Wife) who doesn’t really care about baseball that much. Call it: your guide to the ballpark with an unenthusiastic partner. Here are some easy dos and don’ts:

Do: make sure your partner has their own hat. This is particularly important on a drizzly day like this past Saturday, or if you’re sitting out in the sun. When your partner’s hair gets too messy or they are getting too much sun, they will usurp your own cap. This will invariably occur in the late innings, when you’re trying to coax a rally out of your hometown nine with a rally cap. Two problems here: 1) this leaves you exposed with hat hair. 2) the rally will fizzle (probably because your manager calls for a sacrifice bunt, and you couldn’t stop him with the amplified brain waves created by your now stolen and refurbished rally cap.

Don’t: let your partner get ahold of your scorecard. Even if they know how to keep score, if your partner is bored, you might come back to this (Click to embiggen. TCM makes no apologies for his non-standard manner of scoring; it's how he was taught by his grandfather and it makes sense to him.):


You’ll note that the umpire for that night’s game was Scotch and there is a “rally whale” (which apparently eats the rally shark) that stretches from the first inning to the fifth. There’s a sad face because the Twins lost. One player is label a “speedy motherfucker” with a circle representing “how his legs looked as he ran around the bases.” Finally, there is a landmine below the list of Twins coaches (more on that below).

Do: encourage your partner to bring a friend, which will allow you to concentrate on the game and your next snarky comments about how, because of injury, the Twins now have the four most redundant players in the majors to mix and match in the infield: Nick Punto, Trevor Plouffe, Brendan Harris, and Matt Tolbert. Gardenhire must be absolutely basking in the good-field/no-hit middle infield goodness.



Don’t: give your partner your wallet when they get up to go to the restroom. They may come back with the monstrous combination of a glass of scotch and a package of cotton candy. Worse, they could make you try the combination. “The sugar melts into the scotch and makes it sweet! It’s the perfect combination!”



Do: find out as much as you can about your partner’s ideas for “improving” the game. For example, The Uncommon Wife wants there to be an alligator pit between the catcher and the umpire. She feels like this will lead to fewer arguments, and more peril. In fact, she is consistently in favor of more peril in baseball. She would like one of the aforementioned landmines to be placed in one stadium every season, just to up the danger of the game. These are generally hilarious, especially those ideas that your partner will believe in most fervently.

Don’t: come back from the concession stand with ice cream when you’ve been asked to get another scotch. Just don’t. (Sorry, dear, but it was after the 7th inning! Stop hitting TCM with your purse, ok?)

Do: make sure your partner fills out an All Star ballot. The Uncommon Wife volunteered to fill one out, and will be here on Wednesday to defend explain her vote.

Don’t: sit directly underneath the organist. Baseball is better with a real organ, don’t get The Common Man wrong, and it’s awesome that TCM and company were sitting directly below her. But that woman doesn’t need any additional questions like, “Do you know how to play ‘Alejandro?’” or “I need some ‘Baby Elephant Walk,’ stat!” It’s bad enough she has to sit in the “pub” (aka a glass box with cement floors and a bar).

Do: have fun

and

Don’t: get too bent out of shape. Baseball is supposed to be a good time, and we all enjoy it in different ways. Some people like inventing convoluted scenarios in which Delmon Young stumbles over a landmine while trying catch a fly ball (really, it wouldn’t hurt too much, given his defense).
Some begrudgingly appreciate seeing a perfectly executed squeeze play. But at $30-50 for a decent seat, just relax and take it all in. And try not to mix cotton candy in your scotch.

The Twins Spending $184 Million Completes a Surreal Weekend

Yesterday, the Joe Mauer contract put a fitting cap on what was a surreal weekend for The Common Man. Were those TCM’s Twins shelling out $184 million after all those year’s in baseball’s small market wasteland? Indeed it was. In general, The Common Man is pleased this morning by the contract the Twins gave to Mauer, and looking forward to having him with the club for the foreseeable future. Twins bloggers and national media types are weighing in on this deal, but here are the salient points as TCM sees them:

1) $184 Million over eight years represents a huge risk by the generally risk-averse Twins, and could seriously hamper the club’s ability to compete on the back end of this deal.

2) However, in order to enjoy the benefits (drastically improved odds of making the playoffs every year, and happy fans) of having an otherworldly talent like Joe Mauer in the short term, you have to live with the long term risks.

3) The Twins smartly tacked this contract onto the end of Mauer’s existing contract, giving the club more financial flexibility in this down economy, it only becomes more expensive, presumably, when the economy recovers and revenues are at their normal levels.

4) The No Trade Clause is somewhat troubling, but seems to be the price of doing business. TCM doesn’t want to trade The Golden Boy anytime soon anyway, so that’s fine. If the clause becomes an issue, it will likely be because either the Twins are not competing and need to rebuild, or Mauer’s production has declined to the point that he’s no longer starting. In both cases, there are mitigating factors that might motivate Joe to actually enthusiastically accept a trade that would net him a better chance to win or more playing time.
There is no doubt that this deal represents a fair market value for Joe Mauer’s talents. It is just a shade higher than the 8-year, $180 million deal Mark Texeira signed, and a catcher of Mauer’s ability figures to be more valuable than a 1B of Tex’s.

5) While Joe probably wanted to stay all along, he and his agent really had the Twins over a barrel in these negotiations. The Twins, from a PR perspective, simply did not have the option of letting Joe walk away a year after opening a new tax-payer funded stadium, and a year removed from a well-deserved AL MVP award. He is one of the most popular players in franchise history, and nothing would have killed attendance in Year 2 of Target Field like a Mauer-less Opening Day lineup.

In retrospect, The Common Man thinks it’s clear that the Denard Span and Nick Blackburn deals were done to send a message to Mauer that the Twins intended to be competitive in the long-term, and were not going to let Joe wallow in mediocrity like the Twins did with Kirby Puckett in ’93-95.

Other surrealness that happened this weekend to The Common Man:

When The Boy gets a new interest, it’s not just an interest. It quickly becomes an obsession. This weekend, The Boy decided that he was no longer a small human child, but a whale. He would only eat food with krill in them (krill sandwiches, krill chili, krill breakfast burritos, etc.). On Sunday, this obsession culminated in a trip to the book store, where The Uncommon Wife fueled this fire with some extra gasoline, buying two books on whales, a book on sharks, and one on the ocean. The Boy returned from the store, and announced that he was a sperm whale, “because sperm whales have teeth.” The problem with three-year old, land-locked sperm whales, however, is that they want you to pretend to be an octopus or orca, and then use those teeth. Ow.
Throwing dry brush, jet fuel, and treasured keepsakes from the attic on the fire, The Uncommon Wife suggested, and TCM accepted her proposal for, a family vacation to Los Angeles in April to do some whale watching, among other things. This will also allow The Common Man to take in games in Arizona, Anaheim, and possibly San Diego. So everybody wins!

The Boy was also decidedly high-energy all weekend. By 9:00 last night, as he called his mother up to sing him a song before bed, The Uncommon Wife decided she had had enough. “Ice cream,” she told The Common Man as she met him at the stairs. “That’s not a question or request.” Intimidated by the wild look in her eye, TCM asked meekly, “Do you know what kind you want?” “Something chocolate,” she glowered. “Don’t get what you usually get.”
So, The Common Man ran to the grocery store. TCM pulled into his parking spot directly opposite another beleaguered-looking guy who was just getting out of his truck. TCM then followed him into the store, and both headed directly for the ice cream. As they stood, intently examining frozen case after frozen case of ice cream, TCM looked over and said, “So you got sent out for ice cream too?”
“Yep. And they’re never specific about what they want, are they?”
“Mine just said something about chocolate,” said TCM. “So at least I have a genre to work in.”
“I heard her say chocolate and caramel,” said TCM’s new friend. A bond was forged.
After both heading through the self-checkout, the brothers-in-arms stared at each other briefly before exchanging “Good luck”s, and drove away.

Much of this weekend was spent finally finishing the sink and vanity in TCM’s new bathroom. Alas, The Common Man was called into the sink and vanity project relatively late in the game. The Uncommon Wife had started it three weeks ago, but events conspired to keep it from completion. By the time TCM got to the sink, there were parts missing and no way to tell what had been done from the instructions, and what still needed doing. So The Common Man began taking things apart and starting from scratch. Alas, TCM kept needing more and more things, and ultimately made seven trips to hardware stores (because there are only so many times you can go to one hardware store before you are too ashamed) over the course of Saturday, buying new, flexible pipes for the water, more plumber’s tape, a rubber washer, an extension for the drain pipe, a second extension for the drain pipe when it turned out the first extension was the wrong diameter, and a new drain to replace the one The Common Man broke. TCM is ashamed and feels like much less of a man. On the other hand, he does now know how to not screw up when taking apart and putting together a new sink, because he’s already made all the errors a person can make.

Or did he?

Halloweening

The Common Man wishes you, one and all, a happy and safe Halloween. The Common Man has certainly had one. Trick or treaters have come and gone, wiping The Common Man's stash out and leaving him with a serious sugar craving and hard up for that sweet, sweet candy.

But there is a tempting option. The Common Man and The Uncommon Wife took The Boy out for his first trick-or-treating experience this year, going to the various houses around the neighborhood where he has friends. Even at 2 years old, The Boy was very carefull to say "tick-a-teet," "tank yoooo," and "Happaween" at each door as he collected his goodies. When they were finished, The Common Man and his brood returned home with a half-filled bag of chocolate-covered, sugary goodness. If The Common Man were so inclined, he could sneak up to the bag, lift out a Snickers or Twix (oh, God, the Twix!) and no one (especially not The Boy, who is sweetly tucked into bed with his froggy, baby, bear in a baseball uniform, and robotic talking bear and who will remember nothing from this night as he grows older) will be the wiser.

But, as a matter of principle, The Common Man cannot bring himself to stoop that low. After all, Halloween is a kids' holiday, and those houses gave up the goods in the expectation that it would go to an adorable two-year old in an Elmo costume, not his 30-year old, sugar-jonesing dad. The only candy in there acceptable for The Common Man to get at at this point is his package of Hot Tamales (which he won't like), but The Uncommon Wife has already claimed them. So, here he is. The Common Man. Curled on the couch in the Mancave (Mantuary), in the dark, typing away the shakes. Oh, God, if only he had a Twix!

Anyway, this craving will pass, either because The Common Man generates some freaking will power out of thin air or he passes out entirely from low blood-sugar. He's hoping for the former but will settle for the latter. And in the meantime, he'll think about his adorable son knocking on the doors of neighbors, trying hard to keep the head of the Elmo suit out of his eyes, and being ever so polite. Sure, holidays are fun for the kids. But when they're young enough, it's even more fun for the parents. Even a shallow kid-centric one like Halloween.

Anyway, Happaween everybody!

Kicked Out of Bed By 31 Lbs of Chuck Norris

The Common Man has been totally out of it today, to the point that he fell asleep in his chair more than once this afternoon. Last night, after he and The Uncommon Wife decided, for reasons that defy logic, to stay up late, their minutes-old sleep was interupted by the concerned and forlorn cries of "daddy?" and "mommy?" eminating from the next room. The Boy, it would seem, would no longer brook being left in his crib while everyone else got to snuggle.

And so, The Common Man rose from his slumber, and like any responsible parent, brought the product of his loins back to his bed, to nestle between his mother and father. However, rebel that he is, The Boy refused to stay nestled. He twisted. He pushed. He flipped. He climbed. And, ultimately, he kicked (like a baby Chuck Norris, except that Chuck Norris emerged from the womb fully-formed: 200-odd lbs of ass-whuppin'). It was a grueling 45 minutes of the boy refusing to sleep or to let his parents sleep. And so, when at the end of his rope, and wanting to make sure The Uncommon Wife (who is suffering from some day-care-born mega-virus) was able to get some sleep, The Common Man returned The Boy to his crib, where he (The Boy, not The Common Man) began to wail incessently, at least until he realized that his father was getting himself a blanket and was planning to camp out on the floor.

Satisfied that he would no longer have to sleep alone, and that his best (non-verbal) efforts could no longer prevent the slumber of his parents, The Boy settled down at about 2:30. However, before finally shutting his eyes for the night, The Boy did kindly throw an extra blanket and a couple stuffed animals down to his father, so that he wouldn't get lonely or cold. And as The Common Man rested his weary crown on the head of The Boy's bear rug, listened to The Boy talk to his stuffed animals and then begin to snore, and folded himself for warmth under a fleece blanket meant for a two year-old, The Common Man thought, "well, this isn't so bad."

Obviously, he was delirious.

Good Times

The best 4 minutes and 11 seconds of all time: Dancing in the living room with your 22 month old to Living on a Prayer. Even though dancing only consists of him running around in circles, shaking his sippie cup of milk (is that how you make a milk shake? And does it bring all the boys to the yard?), and, very rarely, doing a big jump.

The best 20 minutes of all time: Watching your 22 month old son "color" his monkey mask at the local children's museum. The Uncommon Man, during this time, made himself a cow mask, and The Uncommon Wife was a kick-ass lioness.

The best 6 minutes and 30 seconds of all time: The brief period that your 22 month old takes a break from playing with his blocks to cuddle up with you to watch football. Before you can fully explain the Cover-2 to him, he's gone again.

The best 20 seconds of all time: The moment in church, during the Gospel, when your 22 month old wants to give both parents a simultaneous hug, followed by kisses. Less wonderful was 20 seconds later, when he decided to start hitting his mommy.

The best 13 minutes and 45 seconds of all time: Decorating sugar cookies with your 22 month old, and trying to keep as many of the sprinkles as possible off of the floor, while the dog hovers nearby.

Even with a heartbreaking (and entirely predictable) Vikings loss, this has been a wonderful weekend for The Common Man.

Saturday Beer Review: Two-Hearted Ale

(Note: For reasons that will soon become apparent, The Common Man eschews all responsibility for any typos, grammatical mistakes, or blatantly untrue statements contained in this post. Purple monkey, dishwasher.)

The Common Man was invited (with his wife and son, of course) to the neighbors' house for a pre-Labor Day blowout today. The Uncommon Wife and The Boy checked out early, but because The Common Man was ensconced in discussion with other writerly types, she told him to feel free to continue hanging out. That was at about 3:30. It's currently 6:30, and The Common Man is just getting home. Ahem. There was beer. And adult conversation (often in short supply when you have short people). And the combination may have caused The Common Man to inadvertently leave The Uncommon Wife at home, alone, with The Boy for 3 hours on a Saturday.

And so, even though The Common Man was set to just review the one beer today, an intriguing ale sure to appeal to friend of the blog, Rainster, The Common Man figured he would supplement it with another review tomorrow. After all, he was conspicuously absent last Saturday, and feels like he owes you. And owes his wife. There will be dishes done tonight and garages cleaned out tomorrow, let The Common Man tell you.

Anyway, first and foremost, The Common Man was ecstatic this week to find, in his local grocer's aisle, Two Hearted Ale. If you don't get the reference, and thus why The Common Man was so excited, don't worry. It's a little obscure. The Common Man will explain.



The manliest writer in all of mandom, for better and for worse, was and is Ernest Hemingway. Hemingway epitomized manhood in a time when manliness was highly valued. His stories and novels of fishing, boxing, bullfighting, loving, and fighting enthralled generations of Americans and have ultimately been added to the canon of great literature.



His style of short, choppy sentences epitomized manly restraint as he vowed not to waste a single sentence in any of his works. And, unlike so many men today, Hemingway lived what he preached. He was an avid boxer, fisher, hunter, story-teller (ok, so some of them probably weren't true), and lover. He drank a pint of whiskey as he wrote and beer when he was done. He was a man's man, and the officially endorsed author of The Common Man.

Anyway, during his senior year of high school and his freshman year of college, The Common Man became increasingly aware of and interested in Hemingway and his work (particularly when taught by The Professor, The Common Man's college advisor/drinking buddy/role model). Intrigued by the manly world he talked about, The Common Man would lose himself in In Our Time, For Whom the Bell Tolls, and The Old Man and the Sea. He internalized the message that, even though the world may beat you down again and again, leaving you no chance to escape, a real man presses on. In the face of overwhelming and discouraging odds, he fights on. Even when the world takes all that you love, the real man endures until he is destroyed.

In his debut collection of short stories, In Our Time (1925), Hemingway concluded his work with "Big Two-Hearted River," parts 1 and 2. In it, Nick Adams, Hemingway's semi-autobiographical everyman, makes his way through a burnt-out forest on the way to a local fishing hole. There, he makes camp and, the next day, fishes for trout. It is a story of psychological trauma and healing, of a man confronting the challenges he knows he must face in order to continue existing, and choosing to endure the pains that will not get better. It is a moving, sad, and mesmerizing story that, frankly, every man should read.

And so, when The Common Man saw the sixer of Two-Hearted Ale on sale at the local supermarket, he knew he had to have it. Made by Bell's Brewery, in Kalamazoo, MI, TH Ale seems to be the flagship of the brewery. The brewer bills it as "India Pale Ale style well suited for Hemingway-esque trips to the Upper Peninsula. American malts and enormous hop additions give this beer a crisp finish and incredible floral hop aroma."

It presents with a deep gold color and extremely high carbonation, and has a generous alcohol content (7.0%). The carbonation makes it feel as though you're drinking a beery soda, and distracts from the overall beer. The hops, as the brewer indicates, dominate the flavor of the beer, making it extremely bitter and difficult to drink. Coupled with the carbonation, it's not a brew that The Common Man would recommend drinking in quantity. Instead, it's the kind of beer that should be savored with a group of manly friends. Even better, have one at a time (since men are, ultimately, alone), and spread them out over six nights. Have it with fish or at the end of a long day. Or watching the sunset on your deck. Whatever you do, don't talk while you drink it.



Instead, imbibe it when you have time to contemplate. Contemplate yourself, and what you've accomplished. Who you've been and who you want to be. Think about the examples Hemingway provides us (rather than the rather troubling example he was) and try to live up to them.

But, above all, endure it. Endure its bubbles. Endure its hops. Endure its bitterness. Just endure. In the end, you'll feel better. And when you're done, shut the door and turn off the light. Don't say good-bye, because it will be like saying good-bye to a brown, empty glass statue. Go out and leave and walk back to your house. Preferably in the rain.