In my previous post, I mentioned that I’d used the Goat labeled 1000ml bottles for fundraising to help make neat projects happen. Well, Laurie Penny decided to write me some rather kind words as an endorsement which I’d like to share here:
“I do not generally endorse products. This time, I’m more than happy to do so. Black Blood of the earth is made by my good friend Phillip Broughton, who got me addicted by giving it to me for free until books happened. It is ultra-distilled yummy supercaffeine. It tastes like espresso. It is not espresso. It is smoother and stronger and deadlier. Coffee beans all over the world are sad because they will never get to be part of it.
Black Blood of the Earth funds have been raised to support various good causes. They were used to get me to Egypt to report on the women’s revolution there, and to get me and Molly Crabapple to Greece to write our book, Discordia. (The substance itself was used to enable me to actually write the damn thing.)
This time, though, the cause is much closer to home. Two weeks ago, Phil’s lovely dad passed away suddenly, and his mother needs help to clear the debts that have suddenly accrued to her as a result of her husband’s passing. I cannot think of a better excuse to encourage the internet to purchase unwise amounts of supercoffee.
Black Blood of the Earth is a) delicious and b) dangerous in the wrong hands. It is what happens when a nuclear physicist decides to run a sideline in supercoffee distribution. It is powerful writerjuice. It can be enjoyed hot, cold and in pintglasses. When you add it to vodka it magically becomes sweet without the need for extra Baileys, but, you know, you can put that in too, thus making a cocktail I like to call the Deadline.
So, go on, buy a bottle or five. I’d say be careful with the stuff, but fuck it, you’re an adult, and it’s legal, although it probably shouldn’t be.”
I never cease to be amused by the interesting names that people give cocktails made with BBotE. I should compile them someday. Thank you, Laurie.
Not long after, Brian Clevinger chimed in with his own remarks. He receives two points for managing to make a RIFTS® reference while doing it:
“Help us help a friend help his mom!
Long time friend of Robo, Dr. Phillip “Phil Me Up” Broughton, has a long and storied career in action science. He is the Officially Unofficial Science Advisor to Team Robo and he stars as “Phil” the guy who is in charge of keeping Robo alive in Vol 6 and Vol 8.
In real life he is an actual radiation safety guy. Which, yes, that’s technically what Homer Simpson did. Or should have been doing but never did. Whichever.
Phil also makes a Super Coffee that he calls Black Blood of the Earth because he is a nerd. He foists it on us at every opportunity. Christmas, birthdays, anniversaries, It’s Tuesday, whatever. And this stuff has gotten us through some dark nights and looming deadlines. It’s like coffee in the sense that nitrous is like gasoline. Like it is bad for you to drink more than one shot glass of it in 24 hours.
In the wake of my father’s death, we did a lot of paperwork and sleuthing to find where everything was hiding, If you ever needed someone’s advice about the importance of making a master list of logins, passwords, associated sites, and security, I’m your man because guess what my family just spent the last week or so creating after the fact. *INSERT GRUMBLING NOISES HERE*
Then comes the accounting, perhaps reckoning if you are feeling more poetic. The unfortunate discovery was that this has all left my mother in the hole, debt-wise. A net negative cash flow on a fixed income is no way to start widowhood. Luckily, she has a son with a supplementary source of income and he has friends that have happily contributed to help make something wonderful happen.
The 1000ml Ineffable Mustachio’d Goat of SCIENCE! bottle
We start with inveterate caffeine fiend and artist Molly Crabapple. In January 2012, in a moment of BBotE inspiration she asked if it would be okay to draw a new label for me. The amount of arm twisting required to get me to agree to wouldn’t have even registered on this. The result was the Ineffable Mustachio’d Goat of Science which has previously appeared on other special fundraiser BBotE bottle runs. I just went back to the printer and got a fresh set of vinyl labels to put on the bottles that will make Molly’s art more durable and you can happily put the bottle up on the mantle when you finish it. You can grab one of the 1000ml Goat bottles here.
some special labels had been created for the Atomic Robo Kickstarter that we’d changed our mind on using as a stretch goal for the project. I still had the labels kicking around and after brief chat with the Atomic Robo creative duo Brian Clevinger and Scott Wegener that I can sum up as, “Why are you even asking us, dummy? Help your mom.” the listings were created. What you didn’t know from the previous post is that there are TWO different Atomic Robo labels because I couldn’t pick which one I like more from what Scott created. So, why choose? Have both. You can have the Tesladyne Industries “REMAIN CALM AND TRUST IN SCIENCE”
This special run of bottles is slated to be completed and shipped by November 16th, but they’re likely to ship much sooner than that.
Lastly, I have been asked many times over the last couple of years if I’d be willing to make other kinds of merch with the BBotE logos on them, because people like the art and would like to represent for their method of caffeine delivery. I can understand that but I jealously guard the art I’ve been given because, frankly, it’s something I flat out don’t have the skills to do. However, with the consent of original BBotE coffee eruption volcano artist, Erin Hall, and Molly Crabapple, both of whom told me I’m silly for even asking, I have made up a whole bunch of 4×4.5″ stickers of the BBotE art you’ve come to know and love, both the Volcano and the Ineffable Mustachio’s Goat of SCIENCE! If you want Atomic Robo stickers, however, you’ll have to get those from them.
Lastly, thank you everybody for once again giving me the opportunity to be a good son. Last year, I was able to make sure my parents were able to complete their last big vacation. Now I have a chance to give my mom a clean start.
So, in the wake of Tuesday’s rather sad announcement, I’m taking a piece of my bereavement leave to try to write down all the nifty things I haven’t actually gotten a chance to sit down and share. The store is back up and running again as the only thing more expensive that dying is living, and I needed to fire the coffee engines up sooner than I might’ve liked to help my mom out. Such is life and death.
First off, I inaugurated a new BBotE Ambassador for Perth, Australia. Karl made a convincing case for why the fine but odd folk of Australia’s far western shore deserved to have BBotE regularly arrive, and lo it has been done. He is furnished with 1000ml bottles and you can reach him by email, karl [at] fishoutoforder [dot] net. Sometime in the near future Indianapolis will be added as the next city with Ambassadorial representation, but I still have to hammer out exactly who will assume this mantle.
My compiled thoughts regarding alcohol and Antarctica back in June seems to have struck a chord with a few folks out there. I’ve been interviewed by the BBC World Serivce, The Atlantic, The Guardian, a decent substance abuse site The Fix, and Smith Quarterly (hasn’t come out yet) despite the fact that my Antarctic experience was a decade ago. Apparently, I’m still sufficiently entertaining and the tales odd enough to be worth talking to. Go figure.
Then there’s this comic book called Atomic Robo I might’ve mentioned it once or twice over the years. They had a kickstarter project to put together a store and get some merchandise together. Not only did they succeed, they broke their goal by almost 2000%. I had offered to do some special Atomic Robo themed label bottles but it was determined, logistically speaking, that this was a pain in the butt considering the need for refrigeration, limited shelf life, and bundling all the rewards together. These labels do exist and may appear on special bottles by and by, probably after all the Kickstarter rewards go out. However, they weren’t going to let me off that easy. One of the reasons I’ve been somewhat radio silent, other than being ridiculously busy, is that I got tapped to make a contribution to the Tesladyne Field Manual. From their stretch goal statement:
“$70,000 Actual Scientists – Here’s where things get a little crazy. Our buddy PHIL BROUGHTON, of Funranium Labs (also of Vol 6 and Vol 8 fame) will write a whole bunch of SAFETY TIPS covering a wide range of catastrophic sci-fi problems as well as a special chapter/entry/whatever pertaining, we think, to the problems and pitfalls of time travel and why you shouldn’t ever do it if the chance arises. I mean, obviously everything in the Field Guide is real, right? Like, you follow our advice and I promise you’ll never be killed by a dinosaur. But Phil’s stuff is extra true because he’s been there, man. Possibly including time travel, I dunno, the side effects of his super coffee are not fully documented.”
I handed them several thousand words of Grand Unified Conspiracy Theory culled from my physics degrees, Fortean Times, countless night driving dark roads listening to Art Bell with my dad, and helldiving expeditions on abovetopsecret.com (NOTE: do not go to that website without a healthy sense of humor and at least one adult beverage at the ready). I’ve lost count of the number of times Brian has said “Oh lord why” in the course of writing my contribution for them. It was also just a *titch* longer than they expected, perhaps by an order of magnitude, but I believe in giving value for money.
A good friend and talented spookypants musician Meredith Yayanos, AKA Theremina, has returned to the Bay Area after a long stint in Wellington, NZ. Kiwiland’s loss is our gain. Her latest musical endeavor, The Parlour Trick, is pretty much exactly what you need for Halloween. And Purim. And Christmas. Also Flag Day. I do strongly recommend getting rid of any creepy dolls you have in the house that might be staring at you before hitting play though; there’s a couple songs that might get to you if they’re on the shelf. If you happen to have creepy dolls and need them dealt with by Full Ecclesiastical Decon & Disposal before listening to your musics, well…
I have acquired a Dominican friar! It’s not okay to call him my Pokémonk. Br. Gabriel Mosher is here in Berkeley as a student at the Graduate Theological Union and is an exemplar of the Dominican precept of “Faith Through Reason” (which is why the Dominicans founded so many universities). I think I’ve made him happy by being an atheist who thinks religion is intensely interesting on the grounds that none of human history EVER makes sense without studying religion. Well, that and I’m fond of good beer, happy to discuss pretty much anything that doesn’t violate clearance, and not in the least bit embarrassed by his white robes. I mean, c’mon, I used to hang with Vampire LARPers long ago; the full Dominican regalia is quite mild by comparison. You may find his ecclesiastical musing here.
In August, I visited Portland as part of effort to take a long weekend out of town at least once a month to get myself out of the Lovely Assistant’s hair so she can write thesis. There is nothing in this house, not me, not kitties, not the internet, not even herself, that is more distracting than me. I simply have no off switch, therefor I gotta to go. In addition to attending the fifth a final season of Trek In The Park, I got to visit the magnificent citadel of nerdery for Guardian Games right after they moved to their new location, and I got to consume a bit of the Mackinlay & Co. “Antarctic” single malt whisky recreation from Shackleton’s Endurance Expedition. I also got to participate in this short music video about depression for my friend Jessica, who is also the Caffeinatrix of PDX. It was a pleasure.
The coming weekend of October 25th is going to be crazy-go-nuts.
First, I will be working the door and being generally interesting for BarBot with the Lovely Assistant. I love booze, I love robots…of course I’m going to be there. I don’t have a bot to present but I definitely support and appreicate the work and talent on display. I would love to see you there. I will be the strange man with long red hair and a funny looking stein.
After I finish my BarBot-ly duties on Saturday, I will then wander down the the street a little way to join the tested.com Octoberkast in the wee hours to be entertaining and generally try to keep people awake and pledging. The Octoberkast is always a treat and are now raising money for a variety of charities beyond Child’s Play. As I did for the last three years, BBotE will be on hand I will be putting a 665ml FMJ stein up for auction. More news for this as it develops.
I’m going to leave it there for the moment as I should go get back to more serious business, but it’s important to remember the good things.
Effective immediately, I have zeroed the inventory on all BBotE products on the store and will not be accepting new orders for the time being until I return and life is under control. My father passed away this morning and I need to go be with my family and help sort things out.
The current orders in the queue will go out as soon as can possibly get them out the door, though it may be a little later than my anticipated release date of this Sunday. You have my apologies and I hope I have your condolences.
I hope had hoped to return to you with a much happier large stack of words as good things have been adding up. We’ll see about that after this is winds down.
This is a post over two months in the making as it’s pulled together some hard times from Pole. I hope it helps someone. While I stand by what I’ve done and my justifications, I can’t say they give me great comfort.
Today is Midwinter in Antarctica. It is one of the most important dates on the calendar because it means you’ve hit the halfway mark of the Long Night and every day from here is one closer to the sun coming back above the horizon. You might think this is cause for jubilation. While it was certainly the reason for a feast and party, the more common reaction was “Fuck. It’s only halfway through winter. At least four months until the station opens again. Fuck. Pour me some more whiskey, dammit.”
I once gave a presentation to an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting where I opened, “Hi, I’m Phil Broughton. I’m not an alcoholic but I am a compulsive bartender.” From there, I told a tale of alcoholism and enabling from the perspective of a safety professional serving people booze to oblivion. In my previous tales of the Ice, I’ve discussed the fun associated with being at the end of the Earth, rivers of ions swimming in the sky over head, and a cocktail in your hand. This has generated a lot of fine detailed questions about the drinking culture of the continent which I’m going to try to tackle with one post. But it’s also time to discuss when that goes wrong, because when you’re 14000mi from home there’s a lot that can go truly horribly wrong. There are times I still wish we’d had a chaplain down there like they did in the Navy days but, alas, there was me. I like to think I did right, at least well enough, by people that were hurting.
Whichever US station you were at dictated how and what alcohol was available to you. Each of the three had a ship store from which you could by whatever sinful products of comfort you wished: liquor, beer, wine, smokes, soda, Keebler E.L. Fudge cookies, etc. One of the stereotypical flags that you might have a problem with alcohol is that you’re in your room drinking alone. The Navy knew this, which is why the bars were built; if you’re going to be consuming alcohol, you need to do it in public where everyone else is watching. McMurdo, being the largest station, was also unique among the stations for having three bars that all charged for drinks. Barbaric, I say. South Pole and Palmer Stations operated on the “bring some, take some” honor system. You want to drink in Club 90 South, you better put a bottle up on the shelf or beer in the case now and then. No one really said anything, but yes a silent tally of your consumption versus contribution was being made in the heads of your comrades. I formalized the honor bar a bit by making broadcast announcements of what the bar was lacking so that when the ship store opened on Saturday afternoon people could make sure we were well stocked for the evening and through the next week (this didn’t necessarily go over well with management as it was seen as encouragement).
I’ve been asked when the bars opened. Again, depended on the station. McMurdo’s bars had specific hours that they were opened to serve the various shifts and you as customer were supposed to attend the correct bar accordingly. I don’t know about Palmer, but Club 90 South at Pole was open 24/7/365. Not that I was there 24/7/365, mind you; my bartending duties were purely a volunteer matter which guaranteed me a chair when I showed up in the bar. At first during the summer it was just Saturday nights, but by the time winter rolled around I was up there most every night doing my thing for folks. This is the joy of an honor bar; come on in any time, no one’s gonna charge you, so help yourself. You are, of course, supposed to be working during the day but if it’s just you in the bar, and no one’s keeping a tab, who’s to say you were even drinking? (this is a very Zen alcoholic justification) The answer: me, when I find you passed out on the floor with a toppled barstool beside you when I come to “open” the bar at 8pm.
Antarctica’s problem is that you’ve run as far as a person possibly can to “escape”. I heard about every relationship shattered by the distance to the Ice…and all the ones that ended before you even thought about coming to Antarctica. The strings of jobs and towns abandoned as you tried to make a new start, a new life, in the next town, or state, or country over. But once you get to Antarctica, there’s simply nowhere further to go. Then the station closes for the winter with no more flights for nine months. When things start going wrong for you again, because the common denominator in all the situations you’ve fled from is you, you’re trapped. So you’d better get acquainted with yourself OR you can just drink yourself to oblivion and kill the days so that you aren’t even there. I’m not going to put a number on how many people took the latter route, but I’m having a hard time thinking of any that really made the former work.
I recall pouring glass after glass of Crown Royal for a person that, against all odds, was still managing to sit on a stool and semi-coherently ask for another drink. There were three people that individually pulled me aside and said, “Dude. STOP SERVING HIM. He is so far gone it’s not even funny.” Assuming they remember, as it was a decade ago, they were drinking too, and the ravages of hypothyroidism in Antarctica on memory, they probably still blame me for serving irresponsibly. I had a different perspective. I try to keep in mind and control the most serious danger and deal with the other ones as they come up. The most dire danger in Antarctica is always failure to respect the absolutely lethal environment of Antarctica itself. I was far happier to serve until I could guide him over to a couch to pass out than to see him stagger out into the -85F night. I was doubly happy to be serving him in the bar rather than have him get to this state, or worse, alone where something dumb/wrong might happen and no one would be able to help him until it was far too late.
So, yes, I ended up cleaning up more than my fair share of puke from my fellow Polies that were in a bad way. I apologize for any bruises I may have given manhandling them into chairs or onto couches because I wasn’t going to let them lie on the floor. But I am happy to say very few people had to shamefully look at their vomit permanently frozen into the ice, until painstakingly chiseled out so that the crew wasn’t embarrassed when the new people arrived. And no one, no one, had to be treated for hypothermia and frostbite due to getting drunkenly disoriented or passing out in the cold.
Phil Does Stupid Human Tricks, AKA “The Dragon”, with Liquid Nitrogen in Club 90 South
Oh, the Crown Royal. One of those odd things that just happens, any bartender will tell you this, is that bars have peculiar booze consumption characters. That there will be a type of alcohol that sells remarkably well in one bar but doesn’t even move in the bar the next block down. Or, for similarly unknown reasons, a college town bar will see that each different year progressing through college has it’s signature booze, i.e. the class of 2014 all order dry martinis, but the class of 2015 is all Jaegerbombs, all the time. For the South Pole 2002-2003 winterovers, the booze of choice was Crown Royal, I think because of the lovely felt bags the bottles came in. Every time a new bottle was opened, the bag got suspended from the Christmas lights over the bar, slowly making a curtain. In the picture to the above, taken January 2002, it was still pretty sparse up there; by July, one of the communications techs took down about 50 of the bags to make a quilt. There were so many by then that we didn’t even notice.
A fair question I’ve been asked is “How did you get all that booze down there? What did you have? Was there non-alcoholic anything?” At Pole & McMurdo, you could buy hard liquor, wine, beer, and soda from the ship store, though as memory serves we had a better variety at Pole though not the same vast inventory. It is telling that the very first cargo pallet that came off the plane when I arrived at Pole on the opening flight was nothing but beer (my luggage didn’t arrive for another two weeks). While bulk cargo can be brought to McMurdo & Palmer by boat, everything that comes to Pole has to do it by plane. I would describe the variety of booze in the ship store as comparable to a middling supermarket. I can’t tell you how happy I was to see both sweet vermouth and Makers Mark on the shelf, because it meant that I didn’t bring the Angostura bitters in my luggage for nothing and that there’d would be manhattans to drink all the way through winter.
Actually, the fact that I was in no danger of running out of Makers Mark or sweet vermouth is an interesting point, given that the United States Antarctic Program and the contractor running the station had made a commitment to reduce alcohol dependence. Turning the stations dry was, frankly, out of the question, though it was threatened. During the offload of the cargo vessel in McMurdo by the NAVCHAPS (US Navy Cargo Handling And Port Services), all the bars and booze sales in the ship store shut down lest there be trouble, again, for the who knows how manyeth time. Of course, the research vessels constantly circumnavigating the continent are always dry vessels, not that this stops homebrewing in the finest of prison wine traditions on the boats. So, there was proof of concept that it was possible to go dry…but booze sales were a decent moneymaker for the contractor because, really, how many t-shirts are you gonna sell to each person? Alcohol, tobacco, and candy are consumables and have the possibility of repeat business that selling souvenirs lacks. People generally got some percentage of their paycheck paid to them on continent in cash and then promptly went to the ship store to buy booze with it.
As bartender that year, I was paying attention to our consumption rates and what things ran out when (something not done before, it seems) and, frankly, it wasn’t complimentary. Remember for this timeline, South Pole Station opened on October 30th with first flight and the station closed on February 14th, with several resupply flights coming in per day while the station was open:
Ran out of Dr. Pepper & Mountain Dew in late March
Ran out of Diet Coke & Pepsi, 7-Up, and root beer in early to mid May
Ran out of tonic and Bailey’s Irish cream in July
Ran out of Crown Royal, Bacardi 151 and club soda in August
Ran out of all beer except the worst one (New Zealand’s Export Gold) by early September.
Ran out of Export Gold the night before first flight arrived and the station opened.
At the end of the year, we still had more hard liquor than you could shake a stick at on the shelves and in storage. Of the three we ran out of, this was due to irrational popularity (Crown Royal), a special item shipped down by a cargo manager one time, three years prior (151), and for only one of them, a bartender that made mixed drinks (Bailey’s). As a responsible bartender, I made a point of trying to alternate people’s booze with non-alcoholic options but I ran out of those damn early, other than water. We had quite a few varieties of New Zealand’s beers available but they dwindled away one by one through the winter, leaving only Export Gold by the end. Therefore, as the months wore on, the alcohol consumption not only increased in quantity, but it increased in alcohol content per drink. By the end, I was regularly tossing out 4-7 empty liquor bottles a night for a 6-12 people. This doesn’t jibe with a desire to reduce alcohol dependence and the letter I wrote to the USAP and Raytheon stating this got no response.
The other thing all this booze did was cause an extra rift in the station population. Antarctica has always suffered a cultural split between the “beakers” (researchers on NSF grants) and “support” (all the workers from the Contractor that operate/build the stations, i.e. everyone else). As support staff that very directly helped keep experiments up and running, I was in an odd bridging role that let me play in both camps. The new rift that revealed itself was the Teetotalers vs. the Drunks and it was a roughly 40/60 division in a winter station population of 58. I’m to understand that the bar became much more central in the life of the station my year than it normally was, and that might partially be my fault. It was a standing complaint from the Teetotalers that any event that happened always drifted to Club 90 South, or that the event just didn’t work because everyone was at the bar instead. Stitching these two groups together, which were almost but not quite broken along the traditional beaker/support lines, is a task our station manager had that I didn’t envy.
I’m to understand the solution that was implemented the following year was an HR representative from Contractor HQ that stayed for the whole winter to help with problems, by doing such things as sitting in the bar and monitoring drinking habits. When I was told of this plan I predicted the HR representative would be the Most Hated Person At Pole. The result was a lot of solitary drinking and little cohesion in the crew, which made for a very hard winter for everyone. Being at the bottom of the globe for a year, surrounded by two mile thick ice sheets, and no escape is hard enough without trying to do it alone.
While I have misgivings about my bartending and the things I saw in Antarctica, I still think it’s preferable to the alternatives.
EDIT: The original 2nd to last paragraph said “no cohesion in the crew”. As someone that was there the year after me was quick to point out this may also have been a function of a largest station winterover population ever, spread across the old Dome and the new berthing in the elevated station, separated by a decent hike and 96 stairs at ~10000′ of altitude. More people is an opportunity for more cliques so, by comparison, two major blocs looks cohesive next to a dozen or so smaller fractious groups. However, even one friend that isn’t a bottle is a better than none.
Today’s guest post comes from Jessica who keeps Portland, OR singing in many ways. Over the next several pieces, she’ll be sharing some of the recipes the posse up north have made with BBotE as an ingredient. I, meanwhile, will be over there in the corner extracting more ultracoffee, cocktail in hand. Enjoy their kitchen shenanigans and eat responsibly. – Herr Direktor Funranium
Hi. I’m Jessica, the slinger of BBotE to the fabulous caffeine-addicted city of Portland, OR. I’m known to the locals as the Caffeinatrix of PDX, and when I’m not slinging shots of BBotE out of test tubes and shot bandoliers, I’m a laboratory researcher, piratical performer with PDXYAR.org, singer/songwriter with the awesome geek band The PDX Broadsides, and, as of September, I’ll be a PhD student in biology. Sometimes I even sleep, but then I have more BBotE and everything is okay again.
Jessica, AKA the Caffeinatrix of PDX. Photo by Meredith Gerber of Silhoutte Studios (Chicago, IL)
Portland’s a city of many things, including bridges, roses, and the highest number of strip clubs per capita, but the most relevant thing to this story that make Portland famous is our love for crazy random food creations. This often takes place in food carts (ever want to eat an enormous sandwich with fries on it, turkey and bacon wrapped in a waffle, or peanut butter and jelly poutine? We’ve got you covered!), but it’s even better when you’re playing with your friends in a big kitchen for a barbecue potluck, like we did for Memorial Day.
Of course, when you have a bottle of BBotE…things get crazy.
One of the four delicious BBotE experiments to come out of the kitchen this weekend was the brainchild of fellow piratical friend Houston “Biscuit” Oldland. Houston spent a considerable time in New Orleans and has seriously legit cooking chops, particularly when it comes to Bloody Marys and meat products. As he started whipping up a batch of candied bacon, he whispered, “Hey. HEY. Uh. Do you have any BBotE? Because we should totally do that.” “FOR SCIENCE!” I said, as we began laughing manically and scared everyone else out of the kitchen. GLORY COMMENCED.
BBotE Candied Bacon – Houston “Biscuit” Oldland
1 lb thick cut bacon (about 12 slices, we used Black Forest)
Baste sauce:
1 oz. BBotE (used Death Wish)
1/2 cup red wine (used shiraz, any cheap wine will do)
1/2 cup brown sugar (keep this at 1:1 with wine)
1/2 cup dijon mustard, (keep at 1:1 with wine)
Heat oven to 300F. Baste bacon.
Lay out on cookie sheets with sides or cake pans.
Cook 10 minutes, then baste again.
Baste every 5-10 minutes for about an hour.
Won’t crisp up, but they’ll be a little rigid at the end from the carmelization.
EAT UNTIL FOREVER. Repeat process until arteries completely harden.
Next time on Cooking with BBotE: what happened when BBotE met brownies. Spoiler alert: mind-blowingly delicious.
April 25th means little to Americans other than, probably, waiting anxiously for whatever you ordered with your tax refund to arrive. But to the fine folk of Australia and New Zealand it is ANZAC Day which, generally, means a fall holiday. At the very least it is an excuse to have gunfire breakfast, AKA coffee spiked with a very respectable amount of rum, which is something I learned as retaliation for my observance of St. Patrick’s Day with my exceptionally Irish coffees.
For St. Patrick’s, I got up early, relatively speaking, checked my dewars and telescopes, and then went up to Club 90 South. I then spent the next five hours cleaning up months of accumulate detritus and generally ignored maintenance in the bar. FACT: one of the reasons bars are dimly lit is so you don’t have to clean them as thoroughly. Once cleaning was completed, I compiled the finest 14 hours of drinking music that the X Drive had to offer, and then decorated the bar with shotglasses and bottles of Jamesons. At 5pm, I pressed play on the tunes and poured myself some whiskey so that I would be ready to salute whoever came through the door as I poured them their shot.
It was good time. Eventually, people started biting beer cans and spitting torn aluminum at each other. That’s how good a time it was.
A little over a month later, our telescope mechanic and former New South Wales rugby prop walked into the bar a plunked down a bottle of something special he’d brought down in his luggage: a bottle of Bundaberg rum. I was familiar with and fond of Bundaberg’s ginger beer but had no idea they made a rum. Flavor-wise, it’s a grassy salty rum agricole similar to St. George Spirit’s Aqua Libre. I can’t possibly do justice to Allan’s accent which was so thick you could drown sheep in it, but when I asked what that was for he said, “Have a Bundy with me. It’s ANZAC Day.”
Turkish Artillery in the Morning – rum by Bundaberg, mug by R. Stevens of dieselsweeties.com
While I knew the history well, it was thus I was made privy to many of the modern cultural secrets of ANZAC Day, primarily the concept of the Gunfire Breakfast, which is coffee with sufficient rum added to it that you didn’t care about the guns anymore. In honor of that, and the fact that they’re running almost 20 hours ahead of the west coast of the US, I made myself a mug of gunfire breakfast with the Ipsento Panama BBotE and my bottle of Bundy I picked up three years ago in Sydney. This was, perhaps, not the best idea at 9pm but it was goddamn delicious and I hereby dub it “Turkish Artillery in Morning”. The recipe:
1 part BBotE (I found the blueberry fruitiness of the Ipsento Panama went well)
3 parts boiling water
1 part agricole rum (grass, salty flavored rum that uses the whole cane)
So, to all those who fell at Gallipoli, all those that mourned them back home, and all those that returned short a few limbs or marbles, here’s to you. And to the people of Christchurch who had to endure me giving a damn long semi-inebriated lecture on the history of the Great War and why the Arch of Remembrance at the end of Cashel Street was there to my ignorant fellow American Polies in 2003, I apologize again.
March 17th is upon us which closes the old BBotE pre-order window and opens the new one for March 31st. However, this time I am making a coupon code available to those of you that actually bother to read my blitherings. You see, My Lovely Assistant’s birthday is coming up and I wish to properly express how much we appreciate her allowing all our shenanigans to continue. Therefore, for this order window, I decree the 10% off coupon code “INFINITEPATIENCE”. Use it to your heart’s content.
In the interest of making her even happier, I need to institute a new policy regarding refills as I’m running out of storage rack space (not of the server variety). I will hold a bottle for refill for you up to a year, but after that it returns to the stack for a fresh label and a new home.
Right, time to go fire up the coffee engines in My Lovely Assistant’s honor. I suspect I’ll be needing to.
Ten years and eighteen days ago, Amundsen-Scott South Pole Station closed for the winter, with the last LC-130 ski cargo plane departing the skiway on Valentine’s Day 2003. I watched it disappear from a mostly abandoned experiment in the Dark Sector (AKA the pie wedge extending from pole with all the telescopes in it). With the rapidly vanishing dot in the sky, I don’t know if anyone else felt it but the weight of 8-9 cold dark months finally settled down on me.
If this all was a terrible mistake, it had officially been made. There would be no escape. The last planes leave Antarctica when the temperatures start dipping below -50F and won’t return until the temperatures are reliably above that. Below -50F, we’re no longer entirely confident that we can keep the engines running (possibly freezing solid, ne’er to move again, should they stop), keep the skis from welding themselves to the ice, or that the JP-8 fuel won’t start to gel in the lines thus leading to tragic explosions. I list these things as they’re all incidents that have occurred in Antarctica or near Thule AFB in Greenland. It is also worth noting that the very first LC-130 is buried roughly 30′ under the snow where it crashed at the end of the skiway. Shit happens when things that would normally be a minor error can easily turn fatal at the hairy edge of safe operation. One of my favorite sayings when trying to teach radiation safety to recalcitrant undergrads, grad student, and postdocs is “Every safety regulation is written in someone’s blood. Try not make any new rules, okay?” My other favorite is “Stupidity is a harsh teacher and pain is Her lesson plan; not everyone is lucky enough or survives to get a second lesson.” but that one’s somewhat more insulting.
Antarctica, however, is the most unforgiving classroom. Every year, at least one person dies on the continent for failure to appreciate that Antarctica Does Not Care About You. Humans are only the apex predator at South Pole Station because absolutely nothing else except, maybe, bacteria can live there. On the coasts, you can get your ass handed to you by the goddamn penguins; the little bastards fly through water so don’t think for a moment that they aren’t a hell of a lot stronger than they look. The bruises I got on my shins from a 18″ tall adelie lasted for weeks; I’ve been told of the 4′ tall emperors breaking bones. The lack of fear of humans in all the animals of the Antarctic isn’t necessarily just because they have no experience of us, but rather that the average human isn’t much of a threat down there. We are a frail and feeble ape that is a few hours away from death in the environment that they happily live.
Amundsen-Scott South Pole Station – Last Flight Out, Valentine’s Day 2003
All that and more went running through my head as I watched this through the viewfinder of my camera before the battery froze up.
I invite you to look long and hard at this picture. The VAST white expanse with a bunch of footprints I made. You can see something that looks like buildings in the background beyond the skiway that my last escape to civilization is leaving on. They aren’t buildings, they’re pallets of supplies on raised berms that can survive the average -85F temperatures that are coming in the winter. Almost enough equipment to rebuild the entire station. There’s enough food on those berms to survive three to five winters without rescue, depending on the size of the winter population (fifty eight questionably damned souls when I was there). Mind you, there isn’t enough fuel to keep the lights on, buildings warm, and water liquid for more than about 18 months…maybe.
So, it is vitally necessary to keep in your mind that YES, a plane is coming back for you to maintain sanity. Actually, that’s not true. Most of my compatriots weren’t thinking more than a day or two into the future, focused on the task at hand and whatever hobby they’d chosen. If there was ever a moment of existential crisis where someone started losing it because they were afraid they were going to be stuck at Pole forever, I never saw it. Maybe I did and that was one of the nights as Station Bartender that I served alcohol until someone reached sweet oblivion and killed one more day of winter which they didn’t have to remember on the way to Station Opening. It’s hard to say.
But what helps most people through hard times are customs. The Antarctic traditions run back to the early explorers with a strong naval slant, which means many of them are dumb, most of them involve alcohol, and some corporal punishment. After the last flight leaves, everyone goes back to their rooms to get ready for the Station Closing Dinner, something that’s happened every year since South Pole Station was established in 1957. I want you to all understand that the desire for adventure that brings people to the bottom of the Earth also brings some truly fantastic cooks. The man in charge of the food for the continent as whole while I was there was a Michelin starred chef from New Orleans, Cookie John. Despite the limitations of being at Pole, Closing Dinner may have been one of the finest meals I’ve eaten in my life. People bring tuxedos for this dinner despite the limited weight allowance. It is, in a word, a soiree.
After that, a more modern custom that dates to the early-1980s happened: the full station viewing of John Carpenter’s The Thing. This movie is grossly inaccurate about how an Antarctic station looks like and is run, but let me tell you the mindsets are spot on. You want to know how are things are a few months deeper into winter, you need only watch this MacReady’s thousand yard stare as he fumbles with the bottle of whiskey. At the end of the movie, I turned to the station manager and pointed out that we were woefully under armed, particularly with respect to flamethrowers, for an American station. I’ll treasure the look he gave me for life as he realized he was trapped with me for nine more months.
You might have thought we’d watch The Shining. Goodness no. We saved that for Midwinter, along with Dark Star (not surprisingly, also by John Carpenter).
NEXT TIME: Winterizing the station, because you’re still not quite ready for it to get really cold.
As the Feb 3rd pre-order slot window draws to a close, almost all the shipments are already out, so I’ve opened slots for the Feb 17th window which you are welcome to jump on. And there’s a new Ambassador for local pick up in Sydney!
On January 28th, the US Postal Service rolled out yet another postage increase. Playing with the postage calculator a bit, it appears that priority mail inside the US has gone up roughly $1-3 per item, depending on how far you are from the Golden Gate. For international mail, however, it’s another story entirely. For the lightest item I send, the BBotE vial sampler pack, international express postage went up by between $5-8. On a positive note, USPS priority mail now includes delivery confirmation as part of the service. So, you win some you lose some.
All that said, despite the some nasty droughts AND floods hitting the major coffee growing regions, the actual price of BBotE will stay the same. However, the availability of certain varieties may become iffy because of the weather. Both the Guatemalan Mundo Nuvo and Nueva Vinas, along with the Rwanda Abakundakawa, all went out of circulation last year because of the small crops and, to be honest, we drank most of it. I have high hopes they’ll be back with this year’s harvest. So far, the Panama and Peru Salkanty are holding strong but every time I go to get more I worry. The Panama was the first of the coffees to run out on me back in 2011 and it took eight months for it to return, and having to tell people “No, you can’t have any” is something that still haunts my soul.
I strongly suspect the fine folks at Death Wish Coffee are sampling their own wares heavily in order to meet demand. In addition to silly bastards like me that order coffee from them 20lbs at a time, the rest of the world has noticed them too. Good job guys!
For Christmas, the wife of the BBotE Ambassador of Chicago asked if I could make something special for Bill. You see, much as he adores BBotE, he felt bad about it detracting from the coffee he consumed from his favorite local roaster, Ipsento (they dwell on Facebook much more though if you want to know more). She wanted to know if I could make a special run of Bill’s favorite, Ipsento’s Panamanian, thus combining both his favorite things. Feeling festive and all, I said sure.
Ipsento’s Panamanian is light roast that upon open opening the bag filled my nose with the smell of blueberries. (FACT: If you want me to eat something, the surest way to to make that happen is to put blueberry sludge on it). While grinding and putting it the coffee into process, the room was filled with blueberries. And, I’m happy to report, as a BBotE it was still blueberries and spice. I have high hopes to make this available to all of you by and by. Announcements will be made when that happens.
EDIT: Test Subject Not A Whale Biologist reminds me that the Ipsento Panamanian coffee, as both BBotE and a hot brew, pairs well with cherry pie, Twin Peaks music, and zombies.
Lastly, but not least, I am pleased to announce that Australia has an BBotE Ambassador again, but this time for Greater Sydney. Robert is a several time victim of BBotE that tends to skip about the harbour fairly often on caffeinated wings, but dwells most of the time in Hornsby. Because Oz Post seems to be staffed with people with noodle arms incapable of lifting weights in excess of 20kg, he is stocked with 750ml bottles which go for US$60 each. You may drop Robert a line by email at BBoTE [at] fumbari [dot].com. Canberra service, hopefully, will be reestablished by and by.
Resupply for Austin went out last week. Resupply for London & Santa Barbara are slated be in their hands by next week. Seattle & Chicago still have decent supplies so I’m told.
I have received a variety of requests asking for new local Ambassadors to be established, or re-established, particularly in the New York/Philadelphia area. At some level, this is a function of my able to produce for them versus everyone who comes to me directly. I don’t want to leave them high and dry in a time of need and more that I want to introduce delay to those direct orders. When new ones go online, rest assured I will tell you here.
Wherever you went to school as a kid, there were field trips in elementary school. Now that I’m an adult, I suspect this was so there was time to fumigate the classrooms and disinfect every surface covered in the toxic biofilm of Cooties. Of course, the quality of your field trips was directly proportional to the level of funding your school had. Growing up in the immediate aftermath of post-Prop 13 California, this meant these trips got a lot more local with parents driving since we couldn’t afford to run the buses.
Before the Monterey Bay Aquarium opened, the most popular science field trip destinations for the kids of Santa Cruz County were Shark Tooth Hill (now known as the Randal Morgan Sandhills Preserve) and the Santa Cruz Museum of Natural History, AKA THE PLACE WITH THE WHALE SCULPTURE YOU CAN PLAY ON!!!!! It was, of course, forbidden to climb all over the concrete gray whale model outside the museum but somehow it seemed to attract dozens of second graders just the same. We got yelled at to get off of it, but were back on again within seconds of the Museum Lady turning her back. (NOTE: my sister now holds the role of Museum Lady for today’s kids)
The Museum is small but somehow manages to be a focal point for scientific inquiry for the whole county. Strange rock? People call the museum. Found a skull you think is a dinosaur’s despite the fact that the geology of Santa Cruz didn’t exist in the Mesozoic Era, a fact I totally learned in first grade there? People call the museum. Weird fungus on that tree over there, recording of a bird call you don’t recognize, etc.? I think you get the idea. The answer to your question may be “Umm, please don’t bring roadkill into the museum, unless it’s Bigfoot, TOTALLY BRING THAT IN” but it’s at least somewhere to start asking.
Now, having mentioned the geology of Santa Cruz, most all of what you see is uplifted marine sediments. The drier parts of the county tend to have a lot of exposed sandstone which is why there’s several quarries around. And as any student of paleontology, or sufficiently dinosaur obsessed six year old (e.g. Li’l Phil), can tell you quarries tend to find fossils as they’re doing the most digging. Being marine sediments, the fossils you get reflect that.
Near Scotts Valley, there was an exposed hill face of sandstone that science field trips and cub scouts went to regularly to go play in the sand, particularly after good storms. What were we looking for? Shark teeth. They washed out of the hill with astounding regularity which captivated my imagination as a kid. Even six year old Phil had some grasp of statistics, populations, and the geologic time scale. My first grader math quickly put together a picture of submerged Santa Cruz as a place that was a thronging sea of almost nothing but great white sharks, HUGE sharks, to have caused that many teeth to be in that hill.
Really, it only takes one Megaladon tooth side by side with one from a modern great white to make you stare at the calm ocean surface and never want to get near a boat again.
But other fossils and than shark teeth get found in those hills. There’s plenty of whale skeletons and massive loads of sand dollars, but one of the more interesting ones is the long extinct Dusisiren jordani sea cow (same family as the Steller’s Sea Cow, which fur hunters in the North Pacific hunted to extinction to keep sailors fed). They would like to make a replica of this skeleton for students to practice exhuming this from a sandbox. If you’ve gotten the opportunity to play in an archaeology/paleontology grid, this is precisely what they’d like start teaching kids about in elementary school, except with a sea cow to discover and assemble.
As much fun as I had sliding down those sand hills to the point I abraded holes in the seat of my pants as I kid, I’m not sure I can express what kind of dark pacts I would have made to have a skeleton to assemble. So, go on over to Kickstarter and toss a few bucks at them. Do it for Li’l Phil. Do it for some unnamed mischevious child that’s out there now with a healthy sense of the morbid that has future in forensics.
What do people do when they are trapped with no possibility of escape or parole? An Antarctica station is not all that different from an old gulag in this respect; you’re welcome to try to flee, but the surrounding environment will kill you more surely than any guard will. To keep this properly nerdy, let’s have a quick word from the Warden of BEAUTIFUL Rura Penthe!
So, now that you have the proper vision of Antarctica as a frozen prison in your head, the leisure activities of choice are just what you’d expect in modern prison, e.g. weightlifting, art, reading, gambling, and music. As I recall from my tour of Alcatraz, one of the greatest privileges a prisoner could be granted was a musical instrument. Per the Institution Rules & Regulations of Alcatraz (1955):
46. MUSIC RULES: Musical instruments may be purchased if approved by the Associate Warden. Guitars and other stringed instruments may be played in the cellhouse in a QUIET manner only between the hours of 5:30 P.M. and 7:00 P.M. No singing or whistling accompaniments will be tolerated. Any instrument which is played in an unauthorized place, manner, or time will be confiscated and the inmate placed on a disciplinary report. Wind instruments, drums and pianos will be played in the band or Orchestra Rooms on Saturdays, Sundays and Holidays. At no time will you play any wind instrument in the cellhouse. Permission to play instruments in the Band, Orchestra or bathrooms may be granted by the Associate Warden to inmates in good standing. The Band room is a privilege and permission to play there must be requested from the Associate Warden. A limited number of inmates may be allowed to take musical instruments to and from the recreation yard. Permission must first be obtained from the Associate Warden. No inmate on “idle” status or on “report” or restricted will be allowed to use the Band Room, Orchestra Room or to take instruments to the yard. An inmate whose musical privileges have been restricted or revoked shall be removed from all musical lists, and his instrument stored in “A” Block until otherwise authorized by the Associate Warden. No inmate is allowed to give, sell, trade, exchange, gamble, loan or otherwise dispose of his personal or institutional instrument or to receive such from another inmate. Institutional instruments may be loaned to inmates in good standing upon the approval of the Associate Warden. All instruments will be listed on personal property cards. Institutional instruments shall be listed as “On Loan” from the institution, together with the date of the loan and the identification number of the instrument. Surplus parts for musical instruments together with and including extra sets of guitar strings shall be kept in “A” Block. Guitar strings shall be purchased in the regular manner and stored in “A” Block until needed. An old set of strings must be turned in to the cellhouse Officer to draw a new set.
South Pole Station’s rule was a little simpler: “Play it in the Music Room, or play it outside.” Given the choice, most people chose to stick to the small room in the Skylab tower of the Dome. I do know for a fact that at least one person decided that the Ceremonial Pole needed some mindblowing riffs with the Stratocaster and portable amp. Because if you can ROCK at the bottom of the Earth, you can ROCK anywhere.
But every year, people come to Antarctica with disparate musical abilities, some with their instruments. The IT guy from the previous post, arrived at Pole with his banjo and mixing turntable, presciently predicting the musical future eight years later. When you put more than two people and musical instruments together someone decides it’s a good idea to form a band. And, as we all know, the very first thing you do when you form a band is name it. Generally, the bands have US Antarctic Program topical names. A few samplings: NPX (the airport designator for Amundsen-Scott South Pole Station), Clear and Copious (what the urine of a well-hydrated Polie should be), NPQ (“Not Physically Qualified”, justification from the screening period to not go south and/or stay the winter).
These bands were were ephemeral creatures of the Ice, disintegrating as people left the continent. While they were there though, they were an invaluable part of station festivities. Heck, this is been the case since the dawn of exploration when the harmonica quartet was an important part of sanity for Shackleton’s crew. The Scots cannae help but bring the pipes.
But what of the people with no instruments or particular musical talent, which included yours truly?
Such begins our tale on fateful day in early December 2002. Having finished my work in the Cryo Barn, I walked next door to bother my neighbors in the Balloon Shack (Meteorology launched at least two weather balloons a day using the reclaimed helium vent gas from my giant LHe dewars). Nobody was there. Still craving people to bother, I went to the next closest building, the Cargo Shed.
In the Cargo Shed, I found Tony, my favorite meteorologist, shooting the shit with the cargo handlers and eating their stash of cookies. One of the cargo guys, Forrest, had already been messing with his guitar in the Cargo Shed, somewhat to the annoyance of the ladies that were wrangling the manifests. The woman who set the chain of events to come in progress had been listening to her guilty musical pleasure on headphones from her computer as she did data entry. Forrest was lamenting that he didn’t have anyone to play with. We all stated, pretty emphatically, that there were dead penguins in McMurdo with more musical skill than us. It was about then that she got up, Patient Zero forgot she had headphones on and pulled it out of the jack, letting us hear the N Sync she’d been listening to the whole time.
In that moment it was revealed to us what we could do with our complete lack of musical talent: we could form Antarctica’s first lip synching boy band. There was some resistance, at first, to the idea:
Dan: I can’t sing.
Tony: You don’t need to! That the joy of lip synching.
Dan: I don’t think we have enough people.
Me: What are talking about? Five is the scientifically proven ideal boy band size. We even have all the requisite members?
Forrest: What do you mean?
Me: Look, you’re the All American Aryan. He’s the cute one. Dan, you’re the rugged one. Tony…
Tony: Go ahead, say it. I’m gonna hit you anyway.
Me: Tony’s the token minority.
Forrest: Well what are you?
Me: Isn’t it obvious? I’m the bad one. I have the goatee and everything.
And thus it began. First things first, we chose our name, the Antarcticly relevant -98 Degrees (my sister still groans at this name). N Sync’s “Bye, Bye, Bye” was chosen as it was the song that had brought us together. We had a couple weeks of dance practice as even more important than lip synching is your choreography. I’m not gonna say we’d have impressed Paula Abdul, but we managed to not injure each other. But then we had to work one the important bits, like fan base. As proven by the Beatles, New Kids on the Block, One Direction and the immortal Fingerbang, the crowd of screaming ladies for the Garmlich Effect is vital. Luckily, we had plenty of willing accomplices for this, not the least of which being Patient Zero who thought this was the funniest thing ever.
For the grand New Year’s Eve party, the heavy shop garage was cleaned within an inch ofit’s life and turned into a stage, dance floor, and buffet. If I recall correctly, there were two different band and the mixmaster skills of DJ Banjo-IT between. Ending the evening, before the countdown, was -98 Degrees.
As we all gathered in the gym for our final preparations, along with our half dozen screaming fan accomplices, the Rugged and the Cute Ones were getting cold feet. I, wisely, had brought a bottle of Captain Morgan to provide the necessary liquid courage. Between us all, that bottle went away along with and everyone was ready to kick ass. Our accomplices left, our parkas went on, and the light in the garage we brought down.
Emerging from the light of the corridor came five completely parkabound men.
-98 Degrees: Their First & Only Performance of “Bye Bye Bye”
The crowd erupted into shrieks of delight and anticipation. As we walked forward, we hugged the throng on either side of the path to the stage, gave high fives, and signed autographs on body parts. We walked on stage, stood in a line, with hands crossed and heads down. It was dark and quiet, the music began. With the “Hey Heyyyyyy”, we stripped our parkas, threw them to the floor and it was ON.
And that, ladies and gentleman, is one of best displays of how little shame I have. Good luck trying to embarrass me, because I did this and rocked the shit out of it. Thank you and good night!
This is my holiday gift to you as I put together some other thoughts about Antarctica. A lot of things happened around New Years 2003, so they will take some collating. In the meantime, I have a YouTube playlist for you. While I was bartender at Club 90 South at Amundsen-Scott South Pole Station, I was not it’s DJ. Two weeks into summer I walked into the bar, looked around, and saw the only available seat was behind the bar. So, I sat down and put my feet up on the beer case.
Random Polie: “Hey, get me a beer.”
Me: “Do I look like a fucking bartender?”
Random Polie: “You’re behind the bar…”
Me: *tosses him a beer from the case* “Whatever.”
Random Polie: “Hey, can you mix anything?”
Me: “As a matter of fact, I can.”
And there I stayed for the next 11 months after mixing that first manhattan.
Me, Club 90 South, Amundsen-Scott Station, 2003: Performing “The Dragon” by exhaling a mouthful of liquid nitrogen
I got to see and hear a lot behind that bar. I also became the unofficial barometer of mood for the station manager. As an honor bar, Club 90 South didn’t have a bartender like the bars in McMurdo, so mixed drinks didn’t usually happen before my tenure there; typically just whiskey and beer. Unfortunately, this also really cemented the barfly vs. teetotaler factions for that winter. Mixing between the groups was somewhat limited in the first place and got no better as the year wore on. Over the coming few Antarctica posts, we’ll discuss that a bit more.
The link to the playlist above is five CDs worth of music that I culled from our Winamp player for our most listened to songs over that year. I would like to reiterate that I was not in control of the music. I suggested many songs and as the person most likely to be in the bar at any given moment that winter, I have some honorable mention in presence of songs like Oingo Boingo’s “Insanity”, Royal Crown Revue’s take on “Beyond The Sea” and Pink Floyd’s “Comfortably Numb”. Ultimately, control of the music was in the hands of the person sitting next to the keyboard for the computer installed in the wall of the bar connected to the, in 2003, 2TB jukebox of the X Drive on the server. This was typically the IT guy or the belligerent heavy equipment operator that liked tequila.
NOTE: Dear MPAA auditors searching for the X Drive, you will never find it. It is normally buried in the snow. Antarctica is big and mostly made of snow. Please accept that people at the ends of the Earth would like some music and that we collectively share what we’ve all brought down.
Some of these songs may be tied to specific people. Fore example, Tenacious D’s “Fuck Her Gently” became the 2002-2003 Winterover Anthem thanks to one amazon Alaskan equipment operator/boat captain/pilot that demanded it be played for her during the summer. By the time winter hit, we had an entire drink in hand dance routine worked out for that song we loved it so. The song “Tribute” kind of came along for the ride.
David Allen Coe’s “You Never Even Call Me By Name” is the Australian telescope mechanic and former New South Wales rugby prop that could drop a sheep dead with his flatulence at 20 yards. He was also fond of the Lee Kernaghan’s “Goondiwini Moon” but that’s not included on the albums.
The Geto Boy’s “Damn It Feels Good To Be A Gangster” may be squarely laid at the feet of the very meek meteorologist who went a bit off the rails early. She loved that song.
The Dropkick Murphy’s “Spicy McHaggis” is my favorite electrician, Mark. He comes up prominently in many of my stories. In many respects, Mark and I were the same person that lived completely different lives. We got along like a house on fire, without actually committing any arson.
Gordon Lightfoot’s “Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald” is Drew, the other IT guy. When not in Antarctica, Drew wrangled his family’s marina in Logan Harbor, ME. He brought this nautical disaster gem to us near midwinter and we adored it. Along with the construction manager’s love for Led Zepplin’s “No Quarter”, these two songs combined were for relaxed, leaned back in the chair, contemplation of the glass of whiskey.
As you look at the song list, you might notice some trends. I can’t help but see the repetition of the topics of madness, alcohol, and murder. Of course, I’ve been listening to these songs for the last decade and the music of Antarctica never leaves me. I can only hope you enjoy them, despite the ads that YouTube inserts.
Before our slice of Antarctic life for the day, I should let you know that most of the “Complete by December 16th” pre-order slots are already gone. The next pre-order slots to go up will be set to complete by January 6th. I am going to do my damn best to crank out some of these before Christmas, but anything that ships after December 20th has no guarantee to make it by Christmas Eve. If there is something you desperately need to get under the tree and have been procrastinating, drop me a line and I’ll see what I can do.
And now we set the Wayback Machine to December 2002 at Amundsen-Scott South Pole Station to discuss physical fitness and the Noble Sport of Volleybag…
Leak From The South Pole Station Sewer Line – The architect wouldn’t lick this either.
Prior to the construction of the elevated station, South Pole had three gyms: a weight room under the Dome, a laminate wood floor gym that was the back half of the old building in the Garage Arch, and an exercise room full of stationary cycles, rowing machines, etc. out in the Summer Camp which shut down every winter. I believe the weight room was the oldest continually used gym there. It wasn’t the best weatherproofed of buildings but decades of sweaty grunting had caused all the cracks to seal up with ice on the inside nicely. One time, I offered to pay a guy $20 to lick the ice on the weight room wall. I did so over dinner, ruining yet another meal for our architect. For a man with such a delicate constitution, I don’t know why he kept insisting on sitting with me and Mark.
The gym was a mutant. The limited space at the station combined with the varied athletic pursuits people need to keep sane and the fact that this space used to be part of the garage meant it didn’t quite do anything right.
First, ventilation. The gym was created when the old garage was partitioned into a smaller garage, a parts room/paint shop, and gym. Obviously, the first two need good ventilation or people asphyxiate, so the systems that used kept the air clear for the entire building were dedicated to just these two. This meant that after enough time in the gym, you had to prop open the door as it overheated so badly just due to your physical exertion (remember, Antarctic buildings are generally very well insulated). Air that was over 80F went rushing out the top of the doorway as -80F swept across the transom. A cloud instantly formed that began roiling in the middle of the doorway, caught between the convection currents.
Second, you have to take into account thirty years of shifting athletic pursuits. The gym’s original purpose was to provide a half court basketball game that could double for volleyball for the Navy personnel of Operation Deep Freeze. Of course, that was just silly because the ceiling was so low that you couldn’t make a shot from any farther back than the foul line and any volleyball set or bump was likely to come right back down on your head from the ricochet. Later, the adventure tourist faction of Antarctic workers (which make up a high percentage these days) got climbing wall holds installed on two of the four walls. Finally, the gym was also an emergency refuge, so it had all kinds of speakers and alarm systems in the corners of the ceiling. Basically, the two of the four walls and the ceiling were covered in junk, including a basketball hoop.
It was room meant for all sports and thus it was good for none. The solution, of course, was to make a game that required these things.Volleybag was the product of these physical constraints. The game didn’t just work around these obstacles, it depended on them. At heart, it was volleyball, but instead of a volleyball it used a basketball-sized hacky sack made of Carhartt’s heavy duty #5 duck cloth, stitched together like a baseball, and filled with the stuffing from a dearly departed sofa. The only out of bounds was the back wall and your serve had to be a perfectly clean shot, but other than that the game was like racketball with knobby walls. You actively aimed for the obstruction to change the direction of your shot or to drop it dead to the floor. Players had to be willing to make abrupt changes in direction and sudden stops when playing for this reason.
It was chaotic bliss, a sport I could truly get behind almost as much as Calvinball. One of the IT guys played with us, so he wired up the stereo to run through the emergency announcement speakers. We played at least twice a week for a couple hours each time. The memory of lying prone on the floor exhausted and overheating, door open, ice crust of sweat forming on me, and listening to the Lords of Acid blasting on the PA is vivid. I regularly went home bruised and battered from running into the climbing wall at speed. One time I ended up kicking the wall so hard that I broke my toenail off and discovered that many orthopedic implements haven’t changed much in appearance since the Inquisition’s “presentation of the tools”.
And, oh yes, the cold and lack of maintenance had taken their toll on the floor. The slats of the hardwood were gapping ever so slightly, exposing blade-like edges to lay your knees or whatever open if you dove for a save. I bled for that sport often and it shows in the scars.The obstacles that made the game so fun took their toll on the volleybag. Despite being made of the same heavy canvas as our insulated Carhartts, it still tore. The guardian of the volleybag, Johan, one of the South Pole’s denizens of longest duration, kept it in his room with him and had a sewing kit dedicated to mending it. By the end of our winter, it looked as stitched together as Frankenstein’s face. Since I had never worn them, preferring my shorts and Hawaiian print, I volunteered my Carhartts to provide replacement material for the volleybag for the next season (not a new one, much like Grandfather’s Axe). I have no idea how old the volleybag actually was but rumor has it that the game dated back to the seventies.
The Dome and old buildings are gone now. To the best of my knowledge, the sport of Antarctic Kings went with it. Last I heard, the metal skin of the Dome was going to be reconstructed in a quad somewhere at the University of Wisconsin, Madison since they bought it originally back in 1975. I will have to make pilgrimage when that day comes, but there will be no volleybag under that Dome.
The end is upon us. ‘Tis the season for staring concerningly at calendar and realizing all the things you need to do before it is 1/1/2013. It’s enough to make one hope the Mayans are right and that you should just sit down and enjoy a leftover turkey sandwich in the meantime. Perhaps a beer. In fact, that’s not a bad idea. I’ll be right back…
MUCH BETTER.
The December 16th production slots have gone up, as a few of you have already noticed, but there’s a few things you should probably think about when placing an order for a gift from Funranium Labs:
BBotE Is Perishable: When refrigerated, it has a shelf-life of about three months (possibly longer, but I’m only going to quote three). If you’re going to wrap it up and put it under the tree, this a present to put out on Christmas Eve and the promptly put back in the fridge after unwrapping.
The December 16th date is “Ship By”, not “Ships On”. I get your orders out as soon as I can, but even in the furthest flung corner of the US with the slowest mail carrier, this means you should have your order in hand by the 21st.
Yes, I will probably add a few more slots as I get a handle on how much I can make at the last minute but shipping gets dicey in those last days before Christmas.
International Shipments Of BBotE Go Out Express Mail: Because I don’t want BBotE to get stuck in postal facilities or customs, express is the only way to ship to minimize their time in bureaucratic hell. Expect it to take 3-5 business days to get to you, so time your orders accordingly to make sure things get to you in time.
APO/FPO: If you wish to send something out to someone with an Armed Forces address, there’s good news and bad news. Good news – it’s no more expensive than priority mail. Bad news – I can’t guarantee any date as to when things will arrive. Outside of active war zones, things move somewhat normally; inside war zones and ships at sea, things get iffy. Also, depending on routing, some nations (I’m looking at you, Turkey) have bounced BBotE on the basis that it is, and I quote, “Morally Questionable Material” because, obviously, any liquid from the West must be alcoholic in nature. In short, I’ll do my best but you’ve been warned.
Local Pick Up: Resupply shipments are going out to all the BBotE Ambassadors as fast as I can crank them out, so be sure to drop them a line if grabbing a bottle that way is convenient for you. I’m sure they’d like clean and empty refrigerators as their Christmas present.
Italy: It breaks my heart to say this, but I absolutely do not trust your postal system. The level of theft shipping things anywhere south of Rome is, frankly, appalling. If you ask me to ship to Naples, I make absolutely zero guarantee of it arriving.
Steins of Science Have Lead Time Too: The steins are built to order and it sometimes takes a while to get parts in. Generally, things move much faster and ship within a week but you have now been warned of the possibility of delays. For some insight into which stein is the best fit for you, I rambled on that a while back. Dewars that are on hand for me to build steins with RIGHT NOW can be found here.
BBotE Production Is First Come, First Served: My maximum daily production output is 12L per day. Thus, people who request 12pk cases will lock up production for an entire day.
There’s No Kosher Or Halal Certification: While Robert Anton Wilson did confer the papacy upon me, and all the other people in the Porter College Dining Hall, this does not permit me to sanctify food. Sorry.
The 4300mL Stein of Science Is Ridiculously Large: Seriously, BIG. It will should take an entire pre-game, Super Bowl, and wrap up to go through this much beer. Or one cricket match. You may think you are a super drankin’ badass, but consider that you may want to drink more often than once a year, so think about a smaller size. I’m just sayin’…
Christmas Lights 2002 in my room in Upper Berthing of the old dome (the madness in the eyes and smile is actually always there)
I have high hopes to actually share a tale of Antarctica or two between now and New Years. There’s some fun 10th anniversaries I’m hitting here in the summer, some of which I’ve already rambled on about. Yesterday, in fact, marked 10 years since the unintentional Twin Peaks marathon described here. But, for festiveness, here is the picture I sent home to my folks showing that, yes, I did indeed but up the Christmas lights in my room in the Dome. You may also see the first signs of Shining-esque madness creeping in.
