Category: beer

Thursday’s Wandering Thoughts

Yesterday was Wednesday. Per tradition, our local beer group met at a local brewery, Caldera Brewing in Ashland. The group’s name is Brains on Beer. It always makes me cringe, but we inherited that name.

Two new members joined us last night: Darrell James, engineer and novelist, and Dr. Pepper Trail, forensic ornithologist and poet, author of the collection, Cascades-Siskiyou: Poems. Mr. James learned of our group because, besides being a semi-retired engineer, he’s an energetic person who does home repairs for several members. Dr. Trail worked with and for several of our members, and they thought he would enjoy our company.

Whenever new people join us, the telling of the group’s origins is done. And I realized as I sat this morning and thought about last night, the whole story of the group’s beginnings is rarely told.

What is told is that four men came together to talk science and have coffee each morning. They shifted to meeting once a week, at night, to have a beer and talk science and technology. The four men cited are Lt Col Michael Quirk (Ret, US Army), Professor Frank Lang, Dr. Ed Shelly, and Michael Hersh. All are deceased. But while they were the first four BoBs, a woman was responsible for the group being formed.

See, Michael Quirk’s wife was a social worker. Through her work, she noticed that many men age into lonely, solitary lives. She knew that a strong social life helps people remain mentally, physically, and emotionally healthy. So Diane encouraged Michael to start the social group and shift from coffee in the morning to beer in the evening once a week.

Since that start around 2008, we now have 23 members. All are liberals, BTW. It’s not a rule, but that’s how it’s worked out. Ten to fourteen people usually show up each week. We had thirteen last night. We have one person named Bob in our BoBs. From engineers, we now include medical doctors, forensics scientists, microbiologists, botanists, teachers, an ornithologist, journalists, photographers, database administrators, graphic designers, architects, and firefighters in our numbers. We also have three female members. Since we began the habit of rounding up the bill and donating to STEAM programs in our valley, we’ve donated over $43,000 to buy computers, tubidity meters, and microscopes, among other things, while supporting local robotics teams and Ashland ScienceWorks.

And it all started with one woman’s idea.

If you’re ever in Ashlandia, come on by and meet us. We start at 4 PM every Wednesday. We usually collect $20 per person. Your first visit is on us.

2

Twosda’s Theme Music

Mood: Merryholidaysism

December 24, 2024 has claimed Twosda in Ashlandia, where the beer is local and cold. Rain fell in clunk drops all night, yielding to an un-Christmasy morning fog. Rain and sunshine have since warred around 43 degrees. Low will be 36 F and the high will be 46 F, cutting a narrow band through the day.

While Tucker (pronounced Tuck-ah) has shrugged off the weather and remains inside, Butter Butt (previously known as Papi the ginger blade, but also once known as Meep) continues his rigorous testing to verify that better weather is not available through a different door. Several times when he was left in through the front door, he immediately galloped to the back door for egress, as if time was now some critical aspect of his testing.

Beer with friends was done last night as we slid our weekly greet and drink up from Wednesday to Monday due to some holiday happening on Wednesday. Small gathering of the faithful but family members augmented our numbers. A fun time was experienced, as it always is. We raised our glasses in salute of new possible states, Canada, Greenland, and Panama, the latest things PINO-elect Trump has floated. TBS, except for Canada, he hasn’t actually proposed these places be states. As always, he vaguely intones what might happen, suggesting anything is possible. Anything except sanity, sure. Someone suggested Trump has generated more weirdness-based statements because other world events drew the news media’s attention; he thus issued ideas to get the spotlight back on hisself.

I took it on myself to walk the .75 miles down to the watering hole and back. I’ve done the walk many times and know that it used to take me fourteen minutes. Going wasn’t too far of a challenge, as it’s a slight downhill slope all the way, and it was early-ish, and the weather was almost balmy. Returning up the hill, buffeting by wind, spit on by rain, a few pints sloshing around inside me, consumed twenty-two minutes. By the end, my foot was a flaming riot of irritation. Some tender care and soothing words made it right in a while.

In accordance with the rules and customs, I would now air my grievances, as it’s part of that holiday, Festivus. But I’ve pretty much aired my grievances all year, not holding back to wait for one day to spout off. With that out of the way, I turn attention to the music. Staying with the whole X-mas idea, The Noel Neurons brought Eric Clapton singing and playing “Cryin’ Christmas Tears” to the morning mental music stream (Trademark wrapped). Hope you enjoy it.

Hope your days are comfy and joyous no matter what holiday you celebrate, or if you celebrate none at all. Here’s the music. Back to my regularly scheduled coffee and writnig. Cheers

1

Thursday’s Theme Music

Mood: Nostalgic

Today is Thursday, December 19, 2024. A temptation to change Thursday to Throughsday almost conquered my fingers. ‘Throughsday’ because the week is almost finished. I didn’t change it, as I’m disinclined toward misinformation and confusing people.

In other morning news, a crowd of zombies went through our town. Ha, ha, just kidding. It wasn’t a crowd. Just a couple.

Our weather today looks as if someone delivered elements of fog, clouds, sunshine, and rain. All were tossed together in a big blue bowl. Now they’re up there, waiting to be mixed and blended.

Just after observing and writing all of that, Papi the ginger blade floof, returned with a scouting report. He didn’t need to say anything. Fog had shut down the sunshine, clouds, and blue skies. 46 F out there, it ‘feels like 38’, with a high of 57 dangling over us.

I met with my beer buddies last night. Two new members joined us. She is a retired teacher and physician’s assistant. He is a retired electrical engineer. They have a daughter who works for NASA, and he was a big science fiction fan when he was a kid. Others told him that I sometimes write science fiction. He shifted over to sit by me later in the night and discuss the genre. Lot of fun remembering the novels we had in common which influenced us.

Today’s theme music arrives on the shoulders of a conversation I had with several women last night. They expressed deep disappointment and frustration that more women didn’t turn out to vote in the 2024 election. I didn’t have any insights into that and they couldn’t cite any stats. Young me from several different groups were the dissappointing difference to me. I read interviews with and stories about young black men, for example, who thought Trump would be better for the economy. That still makes me shake my head.

Anyway, after returning home with that conversation in mind, “American Woman” by the Guess Who from 1970 rose into the morning mental music stream (Trademark peeling) today. I always thought the song was about the United States, represented by a woman, seducing countries to be like the United States. The singer was resisting because the United States was a war machine filled with ghettos. The ‘colored lights’ referred to in the song was Hollywood glamor. Remember, the Vietnam War was underway and protests were taking place in the U.S. In light of that backdrop, my interpretation made sense to me. But different interviews with the Guess Who band members painted a different story. The songwriter and vocalist, Burton Cummings, said it was just a comparison of women from the U.S. and Canada.

“What was on my mind was that girls in the States seemed to get older quicker than our girls and that made them, well, dangerous. When I said ‘American woman, stay away from me,’ I really meant ‘Canadian woman, I prefer you.’ It was all a happy accident.”

h/t to Wikipedia.

I became fourteen around the time of the song’s release. It’s uptempo beat, rich bass, unique riffs, lead guitar, lyrics, and vocals all worked for me. Cummings sang it with an angry, contemptuous sneer in my opinion. That spoke to my own burgeoning contempt for how our world and society works. Ah, to be young and idealistic.

Coffee and I have negotiated arrangements and I’m taking advantage of that to warm my throat. Time to light the candle on another day. Here’s the music. Cheers

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The Writing Moment

My sloppy and unscientific observations draw me to a bottom line that five minutes of writing in my head requires thirty to forty minutes of intense typing to put the scene into the ‘puter.

Your results may vary. Also, this only applies to this manuscript in progress. Also, beverages might play a role in the outcome. Like beer, wine, coffee.

Deeper study is needed for more insightful results. Donations are requested. Like beer, wine, coffee. Maybe a wedge of pie.

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Thursday’s Theme Music

Mood: chillax

Today is Thursday, July 25, 2024. Still a little time to get your early Christmas shopping done.

It’s been a noisy morning in my Ashlandia. A parade of sounds. Garbage trucks banging on and roaring down the street. Motorcycles. Barking dogs, overhead jets, loud talking people. There may have been a marching band as well. Couldn’t tell for the noise. A jackhammer capped the performance.

Then Tucker (pronounced Tuck-ah), my black and white thick-furred floofhead, settled on my pillow above my head and vigorously groomed himself, sometimes leaning on my skull to prop himself up in his washing process. Hello!

Of course, the noise can all be explained in rational ways, especially when you set them against the situation. Iit’s a chill morning. Up to sixty now as the sun breaks over the mountains and trees overseeing my home site. Things must be done before the heat arrives. Also, the air quality is very breathable, better than it’s been in days. Better want to get things done before the air goes bad and the day heats up. And the passing jet could well have been a fire-fighting tanker. Not sure why the marching band was out there.

But come on, if this is what I have to complain about, the noise of life and a cat’s activity, I don’t have it bad at all. Massive fires still rage in all compass directions. Pity the animals and people chased out of their homes and habitats who face the task of rebuilding and finding new homes. And thanks to all those individuals at every level, tracking fires, managing and fighting them, and keeping us updated on what’s happening. Imagine what it would be like without them.

While it’ll be cool here today, just 86 F is the expected high, other regions are blazing away. the Copernicus Climate Change Service reports that the record set on July 21, 2024, for the hottest recorded temperture, was broken on July 22, 2024. Something to think about and keep you awake at night, isn’t it?

So WordPress has some AI magic to help me write better. It highlighted ‘may’ above, citing it as an ‘unconfident word’. The magic suggests I replace it with ‘been’, so the sentence would read, ‘There been a marching band as well.’ Yeah, that sounds more confident, although, perhaps, a little asinine as well.

Had a good time with friends sipping a few beers out in the shade and wind of a local brewery. Moderate turn out of ten. Progressives all, we were jazzed by the energy and optimism the Kamala Harris campaign is generating. We also noted the GOP’s lame and increasingly desperate attempts to undermine the Harris campaign. The GOP is running scared. Other than that, we discussed dark oxygen being generated at deep sea levels, along with airships, you know, derigibles. I think it was unanimous that we’d all like to experience traveling like that, as long as you’re not in a rush.

I’m chillin’ with a cuppa coffee in hand, and cool fresh air wafting in through the window behind me. The Neurons turn Frankie Goes to Hollywood loose in the morning mental music stream (Trademark televised) with “Relax” from 1983. That’s the theme song for the moment.

Stay positive and remain fresh and strong. I’m trying to do the same. Let’s Vote Blue in 2024, and bring the United States its first female in the White House as POTUS. Here’s the music. Cheers

0

First Thing

The first thing he learned after his mother’s death was that he’d been born a cat.

Patrick had no one to complain about this to. It was just him and her cooling body. None of the others had come. Children, grands, exes like spouses, employees, girlfriends, boyfriends, other friends; all ignored her warning. Wasn’t even a cat. He knew the old boy, a big, luxuriously long-haired ginger with cougar eyes, had passed in December. Chester. Twenty-two years old. Not bad for a cat. Mom called Patrick and told him that Chester had been her best lover.

Patrick — he accepted Pat, but he preferred Patrick, but he wasn’t going to be an asshole about it — couldn’t tell you why he’d come. Just a feeling, he professed. A feeling like he needed to. That he should. So he told his beer group. He, like the no-shows at his mothers, knew how adeptly his mother could toss the bullshit, as her father often said to his grandson. “Watch your mother. Marcia loves drama and doesn’t mind expending lots of bull to get it. She loves being the center of the spotlight and pulls it to her by any means needed to gain it again.”

While the old boy spoke, spittle flicking off his lips and tongue, smoke crowding the sky from his pipe, Patrick was wondering, who is Marcia? Never asked the old man, though. Not before the old man died. Asked him often later, after he was dead, Patrick decrying to himself, why didn’t you ask him then and there? Was something that kept him awake at night whenever he pondered his victories and failures. But in his defense, young Patrick was enjoying the contact high being achieved from the staunch quantity of personally-grown marijuana the old man tamped into his pipe.*

And then there the flicks of spittle, flying past him like Patrick was in a spaceship navigating through an asteroid belt in a movie. A crunch seemed eminent. Patrick feared the crunch. He always waited for crunchtime.

But returning to Mom’s death. Vivid memory of that day. March. Blue skies after a mean winter, one with cloud-crushing sunlight and record snow levels.* Was going to be seventy degrees that day. Patrick had wondered, do I dare wear shorts? A study of his naked legs in the mirror didn’t lean him either way. On the one hand, his legs were so pale. Whiter than ghosts. Whiter than a snowman. Pale as a cloud-obscured moon.

The once muscular limbs were also now terribly skinny. Once upon a life, his shapely, muscular legs garnered compliments. But those powerful calves and thighs had shriveled. Reminded him of old sticks found in the yard after a windstorm. ‘Cept they were white.

Also. Were shorts appropriate to wear if his mother was dying? He had to remind himself, that’s what he was dressing for. Each day always had its own main event, even if the main event was as small and routine as going to the coffee shop for a frap to drink while completing word games.

On the other hand, why the fuck should he care what people thought about his legs? Screw them.

Then came the drive, forty minutes into the country south of Medford. Almost to California.

Then, the arrival. He’d put that off by stopping off in Jacksonville for coffee. Maybe a pastry. Doughnut. Or pie. Instead, he had a cheeseburger, fries, and a beer — IPA, actually, if you need specifics. Patrick felt addicted to specifics. The IPA was 451. Named for the area code. Locally brewed. Delicious. Went well with a burger and fries, illicit food which he should not be eating, if he listened to his doctor.

The 451 IPA tasted so good, he had two, watching people as they came and went, checking his phone, waiting for someone he knew to come in.

When he finally arrived at the immaculate old home set back from the road, he knew no one else was present. No cars were in the driveway under the huge pines. Patrick thought about turning around and leaving. That’s what a sane person would do. Well, no one had ever accused him of being sane. Besides, he had to pee. And he was already here. He didn’t need to stay long. Just go in, verify Mom wasn’t dying, and take his leave.

The porch creaked under Patrick’s steps. The broad oak door with its chiseled stain-glass windows was wide open.

He went in. Stopped in the tiled entry. Looked. Listened. He felt like an owl. A watching owl.

Everything gave signs of being freshly dusted, vacuumed, swept, polished. Nothing was out of place. That was Mom. No matter what house it was, this one or the — well, that didn’t matter. Mom’s houses were always immaculate. Cleaning was her hobby. Only thing ever out of place in Mom’s house were people. Especially her children and family. And reality.

Edging forward, Patrick muttered, “I have a bad feeling about this.” His voice felt out of place.

A shudder shook his shoulders. He stopped after two steps. “Mom?”

He said it soft and listened for responses, peering into the living room, down the halls toward the kitchen and sunroom. No sounds of life.

That struck him as fucking ominous. In hesitant explanation to his beer group later, he explained, “I felt like the house was resisting me. I really wanted to run, except that I was a grown adult, a seventy-year-old man. Psychologically, I shouldn’t be running out of a house like a frightened child.”

“Also, your knees probaby couldn’t take running,” a smart ass in the beer group put in with a grin.

Patrick nodded. “That, too.”

“Shit,” he muttered, softly, so Mom wouldn’t hear. God forbid he upset her by swearing. That might kill her. He chuckled but stopped. Chuckling didn’t feel right.

He looked up the dark carpeted stairs. If she was dying, she was probably in bed. That made sense. Then again, he was talking about his Mom. Marcia, Carrie, Joyce, Brenda, Priscilla, Judy, Catherine, Deborah. The woman loved changing her name. Changed it like others might by a new car.* Never explained why. She’d been Carrie was Patrick was born and Brenda when he graduated high school and started college. No telling what name she’d die with.

The wind soughed through the trees like they were impatient with his dithering. He’d need to go up the steps.

“Patrick?” he heard. “Come up. I’m in my bedroom.”

Permission given by her, the house relented and let him in. Still, the going up the steps felt like a walk to an electric chair.

She was in her huge four poster bed. The thing was big as a cruise ship. Her room was perfect. Spotless China blue carpet. Looked new.

Mom was propped up on fresh white pillow cases. Flower-covered duvet and white sheets were arranged around her.

“I knew you would come, Patrick.” Mom looked beautiful. Blond beehive, soft make-up, red lips. Not a wrinkle, crease, or sag anywhere. One hundred one years old, she didn’t seem like a day over fifty. She looked like a 1960s movie star. Didn’t appear to be courting death. She looked a lot better than him. He looked closer to death than her.

“You look good, Mom,” he said. She puckered up and raised her arms. He dutifully delivered a mosquito kiss and speculative hug.

“There, Patrick,” she said, pointing as he stepped away.

“What?”

She pointed more insistently. “The book. On the dresser.”

“The brown one?”

“Tan. Yes. That’s my document.”

“Okay. Want me to bring it to you?”

“I do not. It’s your’s.”

“Okay. And what is your document?” Patrick picked it up.

The fucker was thick. He’d brought it to the beer group. It sat in the table’s middle, surrouded by pitchers of IPA and amber beer. They all stared at it. Four inches thick. Tan. Didn’t even look touched. “Pick it up. Feel for yourself.”

Back at Mom’s, she answered, “This is my life. This is the truth.”

Patrick opened it. “The truth of what?”

She didn’t answer. He looked up. She was still. Open green eyes regarded the ceiling. “Mom?”

“No,” she answered, and sighed.

He knew the death sound. Had heard it from a brother and sister, grandmother, grandfather, ex-wife and son, and a couple dogs.

“She was dead,” he told the beer group. “I didn’t know what to do. Well, I knew, but I wasn’t ready to do it. I was surprised, shocked, really. She’d really done it, she’d really died. I really felt like she’d live forever. I needed some time to deal with that. So I went over and sat down in her recliner by the window. I looked at her a while, and then out the window, listening to the wind. After some time, it struck me that I heard nothing else. No birds, no other cars, nothing but the wind in the trees. It was a little eerie, a little disturbing.

“And then, the beer caught up with me. I had to pee. I went to her bathroom but I wasn’t going to use it. Mom never wanted us to use her bathroom.”

“Why?” someone asked.

“I don’t know.” Patrick shrugged. “Because she was a strange person, I guess. There was another on the same floor, so I went to it. I took her document with me. Getting into the bathroom, I realized that I needed to do more than pee. So I sat on the commode and opened Mom’s book.”

He paused, lips parted, looking in toward memory of the moment. “It was weird. Crazy. I didn’t open it to the first page. I opened it a few pages in. That’s where I read, ‘Mother gave birth to five today. I named one Patrick.’ And then, a few lines down, was a second entry. ‘Patrick turned today. Martha died.'”

Patrick swallowed. “It was dated the same date as my birthday.”

Everyone moved, releasing tension, picking up beers, drinking. Some hissed, “Wow,” and “Holy shit.” Patrick let the moment passed.

“That’s not the thing I really wanted to tell you.” Leaning his arms on the table, he looked around at his friends. “That was a week again. Last night, I had an itch. When I scratched it, it felt like a lump. Then it felt like something more. I checked it out in the mirror today and then used a camera to take a photo. It’s furry. About an inch long, right above my asshole.”

“A tail,” the group’s smart ass exclaimed.

Patrick solemnly nodded and set his phone down on the table. “I have photos.”

***

*An admirer of his mother’s father, Patrick tried emulating him by taking up the pipe like the old man smoked. He found that he disliked putting things in his mouth. Ended up not smoking anything. No pipe, cigarette, cigar, joint. Nothing. Also learned that not putting things in his mouth disappointed several lovers. Oh, well. That was their problem.

*Patrick later learned that the record snow that he remembered from the year his mother died actually happened two years before his death. Memory. What’re you gonna do?

*Although, funny, she still had the same car, a pink Cadillac Eldorado convertible that she had when he left for Vietnam.

3

Grim Task

It was a grim task set before me. I, not a fan of tasks and less enamored of those tasks of the grim variety, didn’t relish taking it up. But duty, right.

All were assembled around the table. Leaning forward so they could see me, looking around, I loudly said, “I have a question for you.” I waited for silence, which came fast and cast another check on their attention; all were regarding me. “Do you wear socks in the shower?” I asked.

Staring followed, then questions. What, what are you talking about, and say that again was heard among the ten facing me, along with some sputtering, uncertain laughing.

“Do you wear socks in the shower?” I repeated.

“No,” several responded, and then a few inquired, “Why are you asking that?”

“Well, my wife read an article about bizarre things people from different states do, and she read that people in Oregon like to shower with their socks on. Then she asked me, ‘Have you ever heard of this?’ No, I told her. She said, ‘I’ve never showered with my socks on, but I don’t shower.’ I told her, ‘I shower, but I don’t wear my socks.'” Then we talked more and realized, maybe people do this but don’t talk about it because it’s a normal routine for them, so they see no need to speak about it. So, I said that I’d ask you guys, my beer group.”

“No,” all chorused, fully laughing now. “None of us wear our socks in the shower.”

Satisfied that the grim task was done, I sat back and sampled my ale. It was very good.

6

A Fine List

Thankfulness A-Z

Jill made a great list of things which she is thankful for. I didn’t change it, but I’d add some personal names under the letters: Keri, Dee, Frank, Lisa, Gina, Pat, Amy, Sharon, Debby, Jonathan, Jessica, Cynthia, David, Andrea, Michael, Barb, Jon, Becky, Brenden, Landon, Colten, Lauren, Audrey, Rhea, Matt, Vince, and many other nieces and nephews. Beer was added under B, and wine is found under W. Knowledge is added to k, and L is amended with learning.

Oh, yeah, you’ll find pizza and pie under P. Can’t forget them, along with writing. You know where it goes.

Happy Thanksgiving.

1

On Becoming A Geezer

For a friend…

Becoming a geezer, if I may be so bold,

is more about a state of mind than growing old.

Geezers look back on time with misty eyes,

lamenting the lack of truth and the growth of lies.

They’ll disparage the young — “This generation” —

they say with a grunt and a sniff,

“Does so little no wonder the country’s adrift.

“The way it used to be is so much better,

“Like communicating with loved ones with a postage letter.

“And the things which they watch,

“The things which they say,

“The way that they dress —

“That’s not my way.”

Then they break off with a mumble and words which aren’t clear,

And say to the server, “Please bring me another beer.”

0

Wednesday’s Theme Music

Mood: fizzy

Blue sky above my house, and clear sunshine bathing the area. But east is a smoky white wall curtailing the distance to the horizon; a gray west wall does the same. Smoky tentacles tease my nose. The walls close in, graying the blue sky.

This is Wednesday, August 23, 2023 in Ashlandia, where the pickleball courts are empty and the theater performances are cancelled – smoke for the outside venues, COVID-19 for other places. 60 F out now, a high of 86 F might be reached. Sadly, I noticed that it was dark before 8:30 last night. Yes, sunset has rolled back to 8 PM here. The long days of light are closing down already. School ramps up next week. Coincidence? Or dark conspiracy?

News: fires. Trump. Debate. Bridge collapse in India. BRICS. Rodgers and State Farm. SoCal and Baja recovering from Hilary. Grand Canyon flooding. India lands a craft on the moon. COVID cases rising. Celebrity stuff. Hoobastank.

Screech. Back up. Hoobastank?

Yes, they’re in the news for their video and song, “The Reason”. It was released almost twenty years ago. I knew the song so I watched the video, because I’d never seen it. It was an intriguing laugher. The Neurons have thrust it into the morning mental music stream (Trademark ancient). Who am I to argue with Les Neurons? No, I won’t argue with them, but I will try to placate them with coffee in the morning. They sometimes also like beer in the afternoon. They’re also very fond of watermelon.

Okay, let’s hitch this day up and get underway. Yeeha. Stay pos, be strong, and brush your teeth. Coffee is available in the kitchen. Here’s the ancient Hoobastank video. Have a better one. Cheers

0

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