BridgePort Brewing Company

To close out our first full day in Oregon, KJ and I visited my first Portland brewpub, the Pearl District’s BridgePort Brewing Company. We caught the end of the Yankees-Red Sox game in the process, unintentionally breaking my personal rule not to watch any of the action from this weekend’s series. It was already the bottom of the 8th, and we watched as Derek Jeter’s two-run homer to the right field corner—a Yankee Stadium cheap shot, indeed—extended the Yanks’ lead to 5-0.

Up to that point in the game, the Yankees pitching staff had held Boston scoreless for 23 consecutive innings, none of which I’d watched live, so even a single run by the Sox in the 9th would have reinforced my personal jinx theory. That didn’t happen, but the outcome of the weekend series so far has me believing that I made the right decision to stay away from the games. But, this post isn’t supposed to be about baseball, of course.

We stopped by the BridgePort brew pub just in time for their last tour of the day. Well, in fact, we had about 40 minutes to spare, just enough time to check out a sampler of the eight beers they were currently serving. For $7.50, we got to taste about three ounces of each, with the mini-glasses served on a tray that had the names and descriptions of the brews beneath them. This seemed like a clever idea to me, as our server didn’t have to identify them, and we didn’t have to worry about remembering which one was the porter and which was the stout, for instance.

Of course, we tasted them in such an order so as to prevent the more assertive styles from destroying our palettes for the ones that came after. That is, as much as was possible, we moved from lighter to darker, weaker to stronger, and less hoppy to more bitter. The first offering we sampled, Haymaker Extra Pale Ale, turned out to be one of our favorites. It reminds me a little of Ipswich Summer Ale, light and refreshing and easy to drink on a summer day, but still with a nice little bite to it.

The next two, Blue Heron Pale Ale and Ropewalk Amber, were disappointing. Blue Heron simply doesn’t have enough hop bitterness for the style, and Ropewalk is not nearly as full-flavored as some of the better ambers I’ve tasted.

BridgePort E.S.B. (Extra Special Bitter) and IPA were easily two of their best. As we learned later from our tour guide, the IPA is the company’s flagship offering, as it represents 85% of their brewing output. KJ seemed a little disappointed that I simply called it a good IPA, as it’s probably the beer that she gives the most credit for her introduction to the craft brewing craze. Honestly, I feel as though I need more than a couple of ounces to get a real feel for an IPA, since it’s my favorite style and the one I have the most history drinking. I’m sure we can remedy that over the course of the next week.

The E.S.B. was outstanding, and probably the one that we most enjoyed on this particular day. It’s nice and malty up front, with a slightly bitter finish. Just as I said about the IPA, I’m not certain that such a small quantity was quite enough for me to make a really accurate assessment, but this was about as close to perfection in an E.S.B. as I can recall tasting.

The Hop Czar, an 8% ABV imperial IPA, was their seasonal offering. This seemed like an odd choice, considering that it’s summer, which may just be evidence that Portlanders are serious about their high octane brews. It was enjoyable, but maybe a little high on the hoppy side of the ever important hops/malt balance equation for me, and I’m not one to shy away from bitterness.

While we agreed on just about everything else, KJ and I differed a little in our opinions of BridgePort’s darker beers. I preferred the Porter, with its smoky flavor and subtle coffee-like undertones, while KJ was partial to the Black Strap Stout, a pleasantly creamy offering that just didn’t do it for me.


Overall, the beers rated fairly highly, but our tour guide didn’t. He seemed rushed and not as willing to speak in layperson’s terms as our excellent host at the Ommegang Brewery was. He also was at least ten years younger than both of us, yet greeted us by asking “Are you kids ready?” The pace and disappointing nature of the tour turned out to be alright, though, as our meter was running out and the beers themselves made the trip to BridgePort more than worthwhile.

It Feels So Good When I Stop

The title of singer-songwriter, and leader of the indie rock band that bears his name, Joe Pernice's new novel invokes a sentiment commonly expressed by runners. Having not read the book yet, I'm not certain what exactly the author means by it, but I'm sure it won't be long until I find out. I had the opportunity to hear Pernice read a couple passages from It Feels So Good When I Stop last night when his recent book/music tour brought him to the Brattle Theater in Harvard Square.

It was an evening filled with vulgarity as Boston natives the Walsh Brothers opened with their tasteless but humorous comedy act. Then, Joe read a couple of f-bomb laden passages from his Hornsby-esque novel about an aimless 25-year old who abandons his wife after only a few days of marriage and retreats to his native Massachusetts.

The story, of course, includes numerous musical references, prompting Pernice's decision to record cover versions of ten of the songs mentioned in the book and release them as a soundtrack. Last night's show also included two brief sets of music, the first consisting of a handful of songs from said soundtrack, with Joe's own material comprising the second.

Pernice was noticeably much more comfortable playing music than he was reading his written material, but he still delivered on both accounts. Somewhat surprisingly, I was mildly disappointed that he didn't play more of the newer material, as normally—and I know I'm not alone here—I tend to prefer to hear more of the stuff I'm familiar with. Highlights for me were Dream Syndicate's "Tell Me When It's Over" and the Dan Penn and Spooner Oldham penned "I'm Your Puppet." I did really want to hear his version of Tom T. Hall's "That's How I Got to Memphis," though.

Following the show, as he signed my copy of his book, I had the opportunity to briefly reminisce with Joe about the Wilco show in suburban Albany, 13 years ago, when I first discovered his old band, the Scud Mountain Boys. He made my evening when he asked if we'd ever met—which we hadn't until last night—but I suppose that maybe I looked familiar from the dozens of small club shows of his I've been to.

The brief taste of the novel that last night's show gave me has me excited to dive into it, something that I'll be doing on my upcoming trip to Portland, Oregon. I'm sure I'll also find the time to review a couple of brew pubs while I'm at it.

Belvedere, Cooley's and Humble Rickey

This past weekend's trek to Cooperstown was my 22nd Hall of Fame Induction Weekend in the past 23 years. Continuing a longstanding tradition that began with the ceremony celebrating the careers of Billy Williams and Catfish Hunter in 1987, the latest trip was a weekend of firsts and of honoring established routines.

The most important first was that it was a rite of passage of sorts for KJ, her introduction to this unique aspect of my world. While not her first trip to Cooperstown, of course, it was her first experience with this particular custom.

The drive to New York State's Central Leatherstocking Region was fairly uneventful, except for KJ's observation that many towns in upstate New York end in the suffix -kill. First and foremost, there's my native Peekskill, as well as Poughkeepsie's neighbor, Fishkill. Add to that Catskill, Cobleskill, Plattekill, Wallkill and Wyantskill—just to name a few—and you've got yourself quite a trend. We pondered what exactly kill, in this context, means. We assumed, of course, that it has some geographic meaning, and it turned out to be much more obvious than either of us imagined. A kill is a creek, and according to Webster, it's most commonly used as a place name in the states of Delaware, Pennsylvania and New York.

Our accommodations for the weekend were another first. After returning to the same campground for more than 10 consecutive years, last year we finally decided we needed to stay somewhere new. I won't go into detail, but let's just say that the conditions at said campground had gradually been deteriorating in recent years. If you've been a regular reader of this blog for more than a year, you already know that last year's effort to find a new place to stay was mostly unsuccessful. So, we tried a new location once again, this one about 12 miles from 25 Main Street in Cooperstown, the location of the Hall of Fame.


KJ and I rented a cottage at the Belvedere Lake Campground in nearby Cherry Valley...or Roseboom, I'm not exactly sure which town it's in. The place was over-priced, but so is everything in and around Cooperstown this particular weekend. So, relatively speaking, it was worth every penny. It was charming, scenic and fairly quiet. It was also an easy drive into town on bucolic country roads. The only odd thing about it was that they gave us tokens to get through the gate each time we entered the campground. We gave one of these to the Williamses when we invited them out to barbecue with us on Saturday night. Then, we read the rules regarding guests, and we were supposed to pay an extra $20—five dollars for each person over 12—for the four of them to visit. We didn't.

Saturday was a day for revisiting the mini-traditions that go hand-in-hand with the larger one. Our first stop upon arriving in town was Cooley's, the local tavern that's become our afternoon hangout. A couple rounds of beers and a few dozen wings later, and we were off to the annual minor league contest played at cozy Doubleday Field. We toyed with the idea of doing our first shotski—four shots lined up on a wooden ski that need to be consumed by four people simultaneously—but never pulled the trigger. Maybe next year we will.

The minor league game was between the Oneonta Tigers and the Tri-City Valley Cats, both of the Class A New York-Penn League. For some reason, this game never seems to be particularly interesting. Maybe it's because there is so much else going on in town and we have other things on our minds. As usual, we stuck around for a few innings and then moved on, choosing to brave the crowds and attempt to do some shopping in town.


The most important tradition, of course, is setting up on the lawn of the Clark Sports Center while watching and listening to the weekend's main event, the Hall of Fame induction ceremony. This year's inductees included two candidates who didn't look like they would ever make it to Cooperstown and one player elected in his first year on the ballot.

Joe Gordon was elected posthumously by the Hall of Fame Veterans Committee, 31 years after he died of a heart attack in 1978. Gordon's daughter delivered his acceptance speech and did a nice job of honoring her father. She brought a tear to many an eye when she declared that—since her father's wish was not to be given a funeral—the family considered Cooperstown to be his final resting place.

In his speech, Jim Rice made it clear that—whether elected on the first ballot or the 15th—a Hall of Famer is a Hall of Famer. His was the least interesting of the three speeches—not surprising consider his lackluster performance as a NESN analyst—although he did earn a few laughs when he admitted that he was watching "The Young and the Restless" when he received the call from Hall of Fame President Jeff Idelson.

First ballot inductee Rickey Henderson delivered an uncharacteristically humble speech. He recalled an autograph seeking trip to Oakland Coliseum from his youth, when all he came away with was a pen with Reggie Jackson's name on it. Rickey also shared how much he truly misses Billy Martin, one of his first managers, and how he wished Billy could have been there on this special occasion. He ended his speech, referencing his own "I am the greatest" declaration following his breaking of Lou Brock's career stolen base mark, by saying "...at this moment, I am...very humbled."

Frequent Spins (2009.5)

The year seems to be starting to take a turn for the better, as this is a pretty quick turnaround since my last Frequent Spins. My original intention was that this would be a monthly feature, but it hasn't quite turned out that way, although 14 out of 19 ain't bad.

Dinosaur Jr. - Farm
The latest from Western Massachusetts' Dinosaur Jr. is even better than 2007's solid comeback effort, with the exception of the two Lou Barlow songs, of course. Actually, the Barlow songs aren't bad, but they're really nothing to get excited about. In fact, nothing that Barlow has ever written—Sebadoh material included—has satisfied that criterion, in my opinion. Several J Mascis songs do, though, even rivaling some of their best material from my two favorite Dinosaur Jr. albums, Where You Been and Green Mind.

Passion Pit - Manners
The funny thing about the evolution of my listening habits is that, ever since I started really consuming music, I grow a little tired of stuff rather quickly. This album really drives that point home for me. For what now seems to me like one fleeting moment, I thought this was a contender for album of the year, but I was so wrong. Don't take that to mean this record has completely fallen from grace, but it's hard to rate it that highly when the singer's falsetto voice borders on just plain annoying on a few of these songs, and it did wear out its welcome quicker than most. But, for the most part, this is still fun indie pop that you can (almost) dance to.

Phoenix - Wolfgang Amadeus Phoenix
Phoenix's last release, 2006's It's Never Been Like That, was the band's breakthrough, or at least it was the album that exposed them to me. I thought there were a few catchy, upbeat tunes on that one, but their latest—despite the ridiculousness of its title—ups the ante a little. This one actually reminds me a bit of Of Montreal, though not nearly as adventurous, with danceable indie pop highlights including "1901," "Lasso" and "Girlfriend."

Sunset Rubdown - Dragonslayer
The third release from Spencer Krug's Wolf Parade side project is a little poppier than the first two, as it effectively straddles the line between indie noise and melodic pop, with the latter characteristic replacing the classic rock influence of prior albums. Considering how I like Krug much more than Dan Boeckner, with whom he shares songwriting duties in Wolf Parade, you would think that I'd like Sunset Rubdown better than their main band. But, it just doesn't work that way, although this album is another contender to finish pretty high on my year-end list.

Wilco - Wilco (The Album)
The title of this record appears to be an attempt at proving this band doesn't take themselves too seriously, but I'm not convinced. Still, I have to admit that I think this is their best post-Jay Bennett work, and is one that gets better with each listen. Sometimes when someone says that an album keeps growing on them it's an indication that it wasn't that good to begin with, but that's not the case here. Particularly impressive is the beautiful duet between Jeff Tweedy and Feist, "You and I."

Down in Mazzola Town

[Note: this is a much less graphic description of the events following Saturday's Yankees-Tigers game. For a more detailed account, I encourage you to check out Lee's Steez.]

My first visit to the new Yankee Stadium with Lee Mazzola was an eventful one. We've been going to a game or two a year at the stadium since 2001. The original plan to go to a Yanks-Sox game annually in each city was hatched when I stayed at his place to run in the 2000 New York City Marathon, I believe.

The Boston part of that tradition only lasted two years, but probably saw more truly memorable moments—Mike Mussina's near-perfect game, our subsequent and unwarranted banishment from a Fenway area tavern, the unexpected premature birth of El-squared's daughter—than the games in New York. Lee has also visited Fenway two more times since, once with Mz. Mazz as my wedding gift to them, and another time when an unfortunate coincidence resulted in him wearing a green Yankees hat on the same night that the Red Sox donned their uniforms of the same color as a tribute to Red Auerbach.

Yesterday was also the first time I’ve sat in Lee’s new seats. I always liked his seats at the old stadium—in the upper deck but almost directly behind home plate, and only a few seats from the aisle—and his new seats aren't bad either. They are the second-to-last row in the stadium, a little further down the third base line, and right in the middle of a long row of seats, but considering the travesty that is the pricing structure at the new park, they’re a relative bargain. As Lee and I were talking about at the game, if he can move down to the lower part of the section for the same price next year, this would make them on par with the old ones.

A bet regarding who sings the line "Subdivisions" on the Rush song of the same name carried over from prior to the game at the Mazzola household to the sports bar afterwards. Both Mz. Mazz and I said it was Alex Lifeson, while Lee contended it was Neil Peart. We tried several different sources, but received conflicting reports. Although Lifeson sings the line in the video and in live shows, several sources say it was Toronto newscaster Mark Dailey on the original recording that appears on 1982's Signals, although Dailey claims that's an urban myth. In the end, we still don't know the answer, and I'm not sure if we ever will.

All beer snobbery is out the window when I go to a Yankees game with Mazz, but my decision to switch to Guinness for my third and fourth beers—one for which I have to credit Lee's influence—turned out to be a wise move. I have to admit that I didn't think I was in the mood to drink Guinness on such a hot day, but it hit the spot so much better than Bud Light did.

The game itself was a good one. In fact, it was the second pitchers' duel I've witnessed in just as many games at a park that already is developing a reputation for being a hitters' haven. C.C. Sabathia labored somewhat, throwing 116 pitches in seven innings, but managed to escape every threat without giving up a run. Justin Verlander matched him zero-for-zero until giving up two runs in the bottom of the 7th, on an Alex Rodriguez home run and a Melky Cabrera infield single that scored Robinson Cano. With Phil Hughes unavailable after his two-inning, six-strikeout performance on Friday night, Alfredo Aceves gave up a solo homer to Marcus Thames in the 8th. But, that was all the offense the Tigers could muster as Mariano Rivera closed out the 9th of a 2-1 Yankees victory.

Of course, it was the post-game that was the most memorable part of the day, as Lee had a minor medical emergency. I say minor because it wasn't a life-or-death situation, but judging by his description of the pain and discomfort he experienced, I hardly think he considered it minor. But, as I already said, I'll let you read what Lee has to say about that.

While Mz. Mazz left with Lee for a late-night rendezvous with his dedicated physician—who I must say deserves no less than to be considered a credit to his profession—I stayed behind with Lee Jr. I was, of course, a little nervous about taking care of the little guy, but far from as concerned as I was for his dad. Amazingly enough, Lee seemed like a new man when he and Mz. Mazz returned in less than two hours, and LJ was fast asleep in his crib.