Keith Urban has been dazzling on stage for literally decades now. But before he was a Grammy-winning artist and talented guitar player, he was this 10-year-old adorable Aussie singing a Dolly Parton song on TV.
According to the YouTube page where this clip is uploaded, Urban is performing on an Australian TV show called Country Homestead. As you can see in his getup, he’s been country since he started singing! Those green pants and green and white shirt just scream country-western!
Taped in Brisbane, Urban chose to sing Parton’s song “Applejack,” and, after watching the video, it’s hard not to love the “Cop Car” singer even more. He’s playing guitar — a talent he wows audiences with today — and showing his sweet, memorable personality. He had stage presence long before selling out venues as a top country singer!
Beer basically consists of four things: hops, barley, water, and yeast. The hops add that flavor that we’ve come to know as beer, but without yeast, no one would experience its intoxicating effects. Of the more than 1600 strains of yeast, only a select few can ferment sugars into alcohol. While most yeast, which is a fungus, comes from rotting fruits, bugs, or animals, a new strain being used by Rogue Brewery in Newport, Oregon, came from a most unlikely place—the master brewer’s beard.
The Rogue brewers had been searching for an exclusive yeast to match with their homegrown barley and hops and sent three samples they found in their hop yard to culture. Sample after sample failed to produce yeast that would ferment.
Someone joked that brew master John Maier’s 34-year-old beard might be a perfect medium to grow yeast. He agreed to try it, and plucked nine hairs from his beard, which were sent to White Labs for testing and culturing (culturing makes it seem as if the hairs watched opera and read Shakespeare, but it means they were primed to grow yeast). It turns out, Maier's beard hairs can produce yeast—and pretty decent yeast at that.
Maier’s beard yeast is a blend of Rogue’s workhorse yeast, Pacman, and a wild brewer’s yeast. Wild brewer’s yeasts act unpredictably, only fermenting some of the alcohol, but in the case of the beard yeast, it worked so well that it created a crisp flavor not typically associated with the unruly varieties. It was such a shock that the scientists at White Labs double-checked the results because they feared they had accidentally profiled the Pacman yeast instead of the beard yeast.
This caused us to wonder why Maier’s beard has such an interesting yeast blend. It turns out that yeast isn’t very mobile. Someone or something has to transport the yeast. But, these fungi grow uncontrollably in places like a brewery. So unknown to Maier, he was a walking Petri dish for the Pacman yeast used at Rogue. And he might have picked up the wild yeast from eating something fruity, creating this unique blend for beer. The brewery notes that Maier's beard has attended more than 15,000 brews, making it the perfect habitat for this unusual yeast.
When Maier, who vows never to cut his beard, learned that his facial hair was home to a unique yeast blend, he said, “It was in front of me the whole time and it only took two centuries and five decades to grow.”
Last week, a New York rat became famous after it was videotaped carrying an entire slice of pizza into an alley. Now, yandy.com is selling a Pizza Rat costume for $89 95. The costume's description reads:
PIZZA RAT COSTUME
Grab a slice in this limited edition Yandy Pizza Rat costume featuring a soft, body-hugging grey mini dress with a white front panel, an attached mouse tail, an attached hood with adorable mouse ears, and two attached pepperoni pizza slice accents.
-Found on Craig's List.
I met you in the rain on the last day of 1972 - m4w (Old State House)
Massachusett : Massachusetts
I met you in the rain on the last day of 1972, the same day I resolved to kill myself.
One week prior, at the behest of Richard Nixon and Henry Kissinger, I'd flown four B-52 sorties over Hanoi. I dropped forty-eight bombs. How many homes I destroyed, how many lives I ended, I'll never know. But in the eyes of my superiors, I had served my country honorably, and I was thusly discharged with such distinction.
And so on the morning of that New Year's Eve, I found myself in a barren studio apartment on Beacon and Hereford with a fifth of Tennessee rye and the pang of shame permeating the recesses of my soul. When the bottle was empty, I made for the door and vowed, upon returning, that I would retrieve the Smith & Wesson Model 15 from the closet and give myself the discharge I deserved.
I walked for hours. I looped around the Fenway before snaking back past Symphony Hall and up to Trinity Church. Then I roamed through the Common, scaled the hill with its golden dome, and meandered into that charming labyrinth divided by Hanover Street. By the time I reached the waterfront, a charcoal sky had opened and a drizzle became a shower. That shower soon gave way to a deluge. While the other pedestrians darted for awnings and lobbies, I trudged into the rain. I suppose I thought, or rather hoped, that it might wash away the patina of guilt that had coagulated around my heart. It didn't, of course, so I started back to the apartment.
And then I saw you.
You'd taken shelter under the balcony of the Old State House. You were wearing a teal ball gown, which appeared to me both regal and ridiculous. Your brown hair was matted to the right side of your face, and a galaxy of freckles dusted your shoulders. I'd never seen anything so beautiful.
When I joined you under the balcony, you looked at me with your big green eyes, and I could tell that you'd been crying. I asked if you were okay. You said you'd been better. I asked if you'd like to have a cup of coffee. You said only if I would join you. Before I could smile, you snatched my hand and led me on a dash through Downtown Crossing and into Neisner's.
We sat at the counter of that five and dime and talked like old friends. We laughed as easily as we lamented, and you confessed over pecan pie that you were engaged to a man you didn't love, a banker from some line of Boston nobility. A Cabot, or maybe a Chaffee. Either way, his parents were hosting a soirée to ring in the New Year, hence the dress.
For my part, I shared more of myself than I could have imagined possible at that time. I didn't mention Vietnam, but I got the sense that you could see there was a war waging inside me. Still, your eyes offered no pity, and I loved you for it.
After an hour or so, I excused myself to use the restroom. I remember consulting my reflection in the mirror. Wondering if I should kiss you, if I should tell you what I'd done from the cockpit of that bomber a week before, if I should return to the Smith & Wesson that waited for me. I decided, ultimately, that I was unworthy of the resuscitation this stranger in the teal ball gown had given me, and to turn my back on such sweet serendipity would be the real disgrace.
On the way back to the counter, my heart thumped in my chest like an angry judge's gavel, and a future -- our future -- flickered in my mind. But when I reached the stools, you were gone. No phone number. No note. Nothing.
As strangely as our union had begun, so too had it ended. I was devastated. I went back to Neisner's every day for a year, but I never saw you again. Ironically, the torture of your abandonment seemed to swallow my self-loathing, and the prospect of suicide was suddenly less appealing than the prospect of discovering what had happened in that restaurant. The truth is I never really stopped wondering.
I'm an old man now, and only recently did I recount this story to someone for the first time, a friend from the VFW. He suggested I look for you on Facebook. I told him I didn't know anything about Facebook, and all I knew about you was your first name and that you had lived in Boston once. And even if by some miracle I happened upon your profile, I'm not sure I would recognize you. Time is cruel that way.
This same friend has a particularly sentimental daughter. She's the one who led me here to Craigslist and these Missed Connections. But as I cast this virtual coin into the wishing well of the cosmos, it occurs to me, after a million what-ifs and a lifetime of lost sleep, that our connection wasn't missed at all.
You see, in these intervening forty-two years I've lived a good life. I've loved a good woman. I've raised a good man. I've seen the world. And I've forgiven myself. And you were the source of all of it. You breathed your spirit into my lungs one rainy afternoon, and you can't possibly imagine my gratitude.
I have hard days, too. My wife passed four years ago. My son, the year after. I cry a lot. Sometimes from the loneliness, sometimes I don't know why. Sometimes I can still smell the smoke over Hanoi. And then, a few dozen times a year, I'll receive a gift. The sky will glower, and the clouds will hide the sun, and the rain will begin to fall. And I'll remember.
So wherever you've been, wherever you are, and wherever you're going, know this: you're with me still.
September 23, 2015 was the 11th anniversru of the announcement by William Hung that he was releasing a Christmas CD entitled Hung for the Holidays.
I remembered it didn't do very well and people made about as much fun of it as they did William Hung. But, I decided to look it up on Amazon.com and there is where I found the best album review of all time ...
A Louisiana man avoided a DWI this week by getting a ride from the bar with a four-legged friend.
Jake Williams was apprehended by law enforcement Tuesday while riding his horse, Sugar, down the side of a highway in the town of Watson, local news station WBRZ reported. Williams had earlier driven his truck, with Sugar riding in a horse trailer, to a daiquiri shop. But upon leaving the place, he apparently found himself too intoxicated to drive, according to the station.
"When you get a little too much to drink, why not ride a horse?" he told WBRZ. “It’s safer that way. The horse knows the way home."
Williams’ solution didn’t go as planned, however. Someone called the cops after noticing Williams leaving the bar on the horse. However, since Williams was not in a motorized vehicle, deputies could not charge him with a DWI and instead gave him a ticket for public intoxication.
Whether or not an intoxicated horseback rider can receive a DUI or DWI charge varies from state to state. In 2012, for instance, a Florida man did receive a DUI charge -- along with an animal cruelty charge -- for allegedly riding a horse drunk. However, the state ultimately dropped those charges, and he pleaded no contest to the lesser charges of obstructing an officer without violence and interfering with railroad tracks or equipment.
Even in places where riding a horse while intoxicated is technically legal, like Montana, it’s not a good idea, attorney Luke Berger noted in 2011.
"I wouldn't recommend that anyone does that,” he said.
Berger was speaking in response to a PSA produced by the Montana Department of Transportation, which featured a horse stopping in front of a bar to pick up a rider. The short video, titled “Sober Friend,” was meant as a metaphor to encourage people to find someone -- preferably a human -- to give them a ride home when intoxicated: