The Siege of Kalamazoo

What's up, players.

It had been over a year since The Sausage Pad had last rattled its sabers, so we deemed that it was far past time to do so once again.  Our ranks had discussed spending the day hitting up multiple breweries around Kalamazoo, revisiting old stomping grounds from our Glory Days, and otherwise not hanging around our wives and kids for a couple days.

Zack jumps on the Instapot bandwagon. . .

I drove down to Zack's place on Friday, straight from work, in order to establish headquarters, catch up with him over a few beers, and save myself the trouble of leaving Midland at the butt-crack of dawn Saturday morning in order to get there for our pre-established, morning kick-off.  Zack's family had left to visit relatives or something, so we had the joint to ourselves for the entirety of the weekend.  After a relatively low-key Friday night, the next morning saw an early-morning run to Meijer for obligatory Bloody Mary supplies, a standard waiting-around-for-Damon hour or two, and a formal kick-off at Kalamazoo's most prolific brewery, Bell's.

From that moment on, the rest of Saturday was just what you would come to expect from the Sausage Pad.

All said and done, one of the best weekends I've spent in a long, long time.

Behold. . .

Friday night was chill - we just had a few beers, caught up, and crashed.

This was a pretty interesting beer.  Sour ales are always hit or miss with me.

The next morning, after we had showered and gotten around for the day, we decided we needed to start the morning off with some Bloody Marys (ies?)  Following a quick supply run to Meijer (conveniently located about 2 minutes from his house), Zack whipped up which is most likely the BEST Bloody Mary I've ever had.

Smithers brings the Hogwarts to his drinkcraft. . .

Frying up some bacon for breakfast (bacon, Bloody Marys, and toast - that's breakfast on a dude's weekend, kids.)  At this point, we were waiting around for Damon to show up so we could kick off our Kalamazoo Brewery Tour, but he was still at his place, some twenty minutes away, waiting for his wife to return from grocery shopping.

Breakfast of champions.

Around 11am or so, Damon finally showed up to Zack's.  By that point in time, Zack and I had each had a couple Bloody Marys and a beer apiece, so we were itching to start our epic adventure through our old stomping ground. 

Our first stop on the day's brewery tour was Kalamazoo's most prolific institution:  Bell's Brewery.

This way to wackiness. . .

Old guy selfies at Bell's.  We only ordered one round at this joint, because we had a long, long road ahead of us.  I wanted to go to their merch store afterwards, where I scored a badass trucker hat, a few stickers and some pins (the stickers and pins were each one free per customer,  but I pocketed one of everything they had.)

After storing my Bell's plunder in Damon's car (definitely didn't want to walk around Kalamazoo with all that crap), we crossed the street to hit up a taproom/restaurant called Hopcat.)

These fries were voted Top Ten IN THE UNITED STATES.  And I will tell you this, folks:  they were easily the BEST french fries I've ever eaten - I can see why they made the Top Ten list.

After fries and a couple beers at Hopcat, we set off once again for our next stop. . .

. . . Arcadia Ales, located on the banks of the Kalamazoo River.   Probably Kalamazoo's second-most famous brewery.

We stuck around for a beer or two at this place, which was good as always (though lately the Lochdown has tasted all weird - not sure if it was a bad batch or what.)

Nothing good can come of this.   This is surely the Crossroads of Hell.

To reach our next stop on our brewery tour, we had to hike by foot about six or seven blocks through the ghetto side of Kalamazoo.  This isn't the best spot for three white guys pushing 40 to stroll through, but we were on a quest.

A jet ski behind a building.  Just 'cause.

Boatyard Brewing.  The nautical theme of the place pretty out of place, smack in the middle of the landlocked, ghetto north side of K-Zoo. . .

Checking scores.  These guys and their sports. . .

The arrival of Smitty.  We had to give him a 'sec, but he showed up.

Hotdogs, popcorn and beer - a late afternoon luncheon, Sausage Pad style.

From this point on in our adventures, Smitty would be driving us around.  Damon and I occupied ourselves playing around with all the cool construction stuff Smitty keeps in his backseat.

We opted to take a brief respite from our brewery tour to revisit some of our old haunts from our college days, and since we were in the North Side anyway, started off by swinging over to Jefferson Street. . .

Zack, Damon and I lived in this complete and total shithole with Jon Kimmel for my senior year of college (2001 - 2002), in the middle of the ghetto.  We were the only white people on the block, right across the street from a graveyard and a playground, and saw our fair share of crime during our stay in this once-condemned craphole.  My windshield was hit with a bat, our dog scared away a guy trying to break in through a side window, we had our front picture window shot out with gun, etc.  Good times. 

Following this stop-off, we swung south towards the affectionately-named 'student ghetto,' where we came upon the infamous house at 1214 Oak Street.

I shared this much-nicer joint with Adam Voigt and Zack Learman - my guitarist and bassist (respectively) and co-bandmates of Virgil Q's Dixieland Kazoo Revue - along with Dave 'Maven' Chessman.

This was the house I lived in during my super-senior year at Western Michigan University, ca. 2002 - 2003.

The last stop in our old stomping ground detour of the day was Knollwood Apartments (now they're called something else, though.)  The place was remodeled, but it was easy enough to find our old courtyard. . .

The M Building. . .

Apartment M-11:  my first off-campus place, which I shared with Damon, Zack, and Supergay Matt DeMay during my Junior Year (2000 - 2001.)  This was a townhouse with two bedrooms upstairs, which we doubled up on (though that summer when DeMay moved back to Royal Oak, I had the place to myself, which was awesome.)

When we were here, the '11' was bolted to the door, but when we moved out of here during the summer of 2001, we made sure to take the numbers with us.  Damon and I were tempted to take this '11,' too, but being a couple old dudes loitering outside someone's apartment - trying to remove part of a building, without tools, etc. - we decided against it.

So we settled for a selfie on the boarded ledge next to the porch.  Pretty sure there were people home in either apartment facing where we were, so hopefully we didn't scare anyone while hanging out on their property.

One last shot of our old porch.

View from the porch (the stairs up ahead were the ones I used to take to class everyday.)

The M/L Building Courtyard.

After a brief trip down Memory Lane, we decided to get back to bar business.  Smitty wanted to hit up a certain bar where there was Polish and German bar food - I forget the name of the place - so we had a couple rounds here while they chowed down (my gut was acting up, so I didn't eat much.)

We swung back to Zack's place afterwards in order to charge up our phones, use the restrooms, and chug a couple energy drinks.  Once we had gotten ourselves revitalized, we were once again ready to set out.

Before heading to our final destination for the night - the Main Street Pub - Zack wanted to head over to his Meijer again to pick up a game of Risk (his was destroyed when the basement of his old house flooded, and he wanted to play later on in the night once we were done with bars.)  I decided to wear Smitty's work helmet into the store.  Just 'cause.

Risky business.

OSHA inspection, courtesy of Broam K.

We ended the night with a few beers at Main Street, a sports bar that we hung out at until about 2am.

By the time we got back to Zack's, everyone was too exhausted to play Risk, so we all watched TV, enjoyed a nightcap or two, and fell asleep.  Hands down, one of the best weekends I've had in a long, long time.

- Brian

The Lost Art of Haberdashery

folks, i've found myself in somewhat of a 'quandary.'

(if i even spelled that right.)

you see, about a month ago, i inherited a bunch of my grandfather's old hats. some fedoras, several old derby and slouch hats, etc. - most of them from the '60s - '90s. now, the derby hats are fine the way they are - they just need to be handwashed and air-dried and they'll be good as new. the fedoras, on the other hand, have brims that are bent out of shape from years and years of being stuffed in a closet. i suppose an experienced hand in the art of hat-bending would be able to bend these old hats back into their original shape and form; alas, i have no such experience.

so my dilemma, as it were, is this: in 2008, where the hell does one find a hatsmith?!

i can't find one. anywhere. ever since hats (real hats, that is) went the way of the dinosaur (thanks a lot, JFK), hatsmiths the nation over have been driven into obscurity - forced to scrape a living off of rocks on the edge of civilization. sounds crazy, you say? well then, friends, answer me this: when's the last time you drove past a hattery on your way to target? or, perhaps, a habberdasher? or a whatever-the-hell-they're-called? you haven't, because they probably don't exist anymore.

but, if they do, this is one guy who's determined to find 'em. this is one guy who has some hats that deserve to be worn.

...help me out here, folks.

- brian