My Seventh Entry - Schmaltz Brewing Company Bittersweet Lenny's R.I.P.A.

I read a story this week about the great Dan Jenkins, whose golf and football writing I much admire.  In the story, there's a quote about Jenkins holding court at P.J. Clarke's in Manhattan, and his frequent departures for the bathroom:

“He would disappear once in a while,” said David Israel. “You knew nobody had to take a leak that often. He was off writing down all his overheards. That’s what he would call them. Just writing down great lines overheard in bars. He didn’t want to write them down in front of somebody.” Jenkins knew if he didn’t write down those lines — that material— they would float into the ether and he’d never remember them again.

This encapsulates why we write. It's because memories aren't perfect, because we don't remember everything, because we get older and forget. To be sure, there are things I want to forget, but there are other things that I don't.

I want to remember my first margarita.  It was in 1979 in the far reaches of a grocery store parking lot and it had been poured from a plastic bucket of margarita mix that one of my friends had dumped a bottle of tequila into.  (I think it was tequila. I'm pretty sure that was what kept coming up from my stomach as my dad laughed at me in the bathroom.)

I want to remember my first ball park beer. It was in 1980 at old Arlington Stadium, served in a cup with a top that looked like a milk carton. I don't think they sell them like that anymore, probably because of the cognitive dissonance of drinking beer from something that looks like a milk carton.  Like drinking milk out of a red Solo cup.

I want to remember my first jury trial. A no-test driving while intoxicated case in Sherman Ross's court against Cynthia Henley, which I lost when my arresting officer admitted on cross-examination that he didn't really know what he was supposed to be looking for when he conducted his field sobriety tests. (In those days, it seemed like some officers learned their field sobriety tests the way medical students learn a procedure: watch one, do one, teach one. It's much better now.)

After we rested, Cynthia did a solid and sincere final argument. I have this image of her in a sensible suit with the large bow tie women wore in court back then, taking no chances, arguing the case in a quiet and persuasive tone.  It must have worked because reasonable doubt was writ large on the faces of the jury as she ended her argument and sat down.

My turn.

I pondered my strategy.  I had argued cases in law school mock trials, but those proceedings were literally friendly venues ("literally" because the mock trial jury box was always filled with our friends and fellow students).

This was real life, an argument to six strangers (including a Houston Chronicle reporter who I left on the jury for some inexplicable reason). They were not cheering me on - they were ready to render a verdict and go home to their families. I am not kidding: as I sat there thinking, one of the jurors was putting his coat on, and another juror was making a "hurry up" gesture with his hand.

If I was going to win, I had to start strong and sell my case to them by force of personality and sheer charisma. I knew, however, that I was not a force of personality-type of guy. I was solid and sincere-guy, and Cynthia had already staked that territory out for herself. What to do?

I flashed on the guy who, back then, was the gold standard for final arguments - Michael Kuzak. Who is that, you ask? Michael Kuzak was the lead character in L.A. Law, played by Harry Hamlin, and he never lost.

Kuzak's trademark in final argument was to steeple his hands in front of his face while still seated at counsel table, rotate his chair slowly towards the jury box, and begin his argument with a cold opening. Something like, "You never really know someone until you have to stab him in the eye with a fountain pen."  He would then get up, still talking, and walk the length of the jury box, holding the jurors' attention as he sold them on his ridiculous theory of the case, which they always bought.

(Of course, I had forgotten the most important contributing factor to Michael Kuzak's success. He always won because the script said so. He could argue a case in a gorilla suit - and I think he actually did once - and win because the script said so.)

So, the Kuzak approach it would be.  I steepled my hands in front of my face, slowly turned my chair to the jury, and said, "You know, ladies and gentlemen, the streets of Harris County are -"

-WHACK!-

"Get up!" the chief prosecutor hissed from the seat next to me as she elbowed me in the ribs.

As I stared at my chief, I also saw Judge Ross lean forward in his chair and click on the microphone at the bench.  "MR. DURFEE," he said in high fidelity, "PLEASE STAND WHEN YOU ADDRESS THE JURY."

As I stared at Judge Ross, my chief kicked me in the shin.  "GET. UP. NOW."

I got up.

I don't remember my argument. I do remember losing that case. And I remember that moment every time I argue a case.

Memories are not just nostalgia - they are also the residue of experience, keeping us from making the same mistakes, most of the time.  I got better as a trial lawyer over time, mainly because I learned from my mistakes.

Nowadays, I stand when I address the jury.  And I don't drink margaritas out of plastic buckets.

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This week's beer is pretty dang unique.  It's Shmaltz Brewing Company's Bittersweet Lenny's R.I.P.A. (Rye Double IPA), brewed in Clifton Park, New York.

© JDurfee99

The bottle label is crammed with detail: a picture of Lenny Bruce, framed in lights; a wrap-around collar label that lists the eight malts, seven hops, and three dry hops that went into the beer, the awards the beer has won, and the birth and death dates of Leonard Alfred Schneider (Lenny's birth name); and a note from the brewer, Jeremy Cowan, in four-point type:

"Satire equals tragedy plus time."
Lenny Bruce  

Emmis, Shmuck! 40 years alive. Over 40 years dead. And shares of Lenny Bruce commodities are still long-term performers - solid! Sure there's been books, posters, films, plays, a box set of course. But the big Four-O inspires innovation, something hip, modern - unorthodox - a taste that really swings…  

Ladies and Gentlemen, Shmaltz Brewing Co. is proud to present Bittersweet Lenny's R.I.P.A. Brewed with an obscene amount of malts and hops. Shocking flavors - far beyond contemporary community standards. We cooked up the straight dope for the growing minyans of our nation's Radical Beer junkies. Judges may not be able to define "Radical Beer," but you'll damn well know it when you taste it. Bruce died, officially declared a pauper by the State of California, personally broken and financially bankrupt simply for challenging America's moral hypocrisies with words. The memorial playbill read: "Yes, we killed him. Because he picked on the wrong god." -Directed by, the Courts, the Cops, the Church... and his own self-destructive super ego. Like Noah lying naked and loaded in his tent after the apocalyptic deluge: a witness, a patron saint, a father of what was to come. Sick, Dirty, Prophetic Lenny: a scapegoat, a martyr, a supreme inspiration.  

From Burlesque to Broadway, Carnegie Hall to the Courtroom, Long Island to Lima, Ohio to L.A., savor the provocative spirit of Lenny's R.I.P.A., our HE'BREW monument to the richness, the bitterness and the sacred sweetness that is life... L'Chaim!

© JDurfee99

I love this beer.  As I drink it, the 10% alcohol by volume makes me warm and happy.  I get a dark syrupy aroma that evens out the hoppiness I'm getting on my tongue. The label promises rye, and I get a little of that as I finish the drink, but not like I am eating roast beef on rye - it's more subtle.  It finishes with a little orangey note, kind of like a dark chocolate orange bon bon you'd mooch from the box of chocolates you gave your mother on Valentine's Day.

We have a new champion.  It ain't less filling, but it tastes great, better than the Buried Hatchet Stout, which had a nice run.

Now if they only offered it in a milk carton. . .

See you next week!  (And to my friend at the office - you know who you are - we're here for you at the office and wishing your spouse a speedy recovery.)