the horned one

Like the Horned God and the Green Man together

 That threatening deer head was what really caught my attention, I guess.  Then, it's a super IPA - Madness IPA - which my taste is stuck on at the moment.  The bottle makes the beer appear deceptively dark; when poured, it's a light golden yellow, with abundant head.  The flowery-citrus smell comes off the beer even as it's being poured into the glass.  The taste matches up with the scent perfectly.  The IPA bitter overlays the citrus sweet, but there are hints of it at the first moment and in a slow-rising aftertaste.  Topping up the glass results in a fresh deposit of foam.  It reminds me a little of lemon jello covered with whipped cream.  I'd much rather have the beer.  Lemon jello, yech! 

Much tastier indeed

a tale of birds

A-woosh went the wind in the trees and all the covered heads looked up.  The birds held tight and weren't blown off, but some feathers made slinky trails to the dirt below.  One of them landed near the worn shoes of the weaver woman as she trudged through the trees with her bundle of reeds.  She didn't notice the feather, but soon she began to notice that she wasn't alone in the woods; voices were in the wind, getting louder and clearer.  She looked around, but spied no-one, no clothing catching the beams of sunlight, no footsteps crushing twigs on the forest floor.  She stood awhile, listening, wondering if it was the Time of Spirits already.  But could the year go so fast?  They hadn't even begun to harvest.  She cocked her head and listened as closely as her old ears would allow.  The voices were in the air alright, drifting down from above.  But there was nothing to be seen in the branches but...the birds.  Could it be?  The weaver woman tried to pay more attention to make sure.

"I tell you it's true," chirped a sparrow, "I saw the army preparing myself.  The horses are dressed and the banners are hung."

"But after so many quiet years?  Why stir themselves now?  I thought the blanketed ones would stay in the balance they have reached.  Everything is better for everyone on a balance."

"You forget," chirred a dove, "The blanketed do not seek balance as others do.  In fact, they may even seek to destroy it where it exists."

"You tell a tale," huffed the sparrow, "No-one in there right minds seeks to destroy a balance, only create and make steady."

"I tell no tale," retorted the dove, "And I think you know nothing of the blanketed.  All my kin tell me how they cause trouble every number of seasons."

A tiny wren piped up, "Yes, not all of them seem to believe in the balance.  I hear many complaints in the fields.  The field blanketed feel unfairly used.  They plot and mutter.  They fill the white blanketed with fear."

"What complaints should they have?" asked the sparrow, "If they are not for the task, they can leave it.  It is what we all do."

"Indeed, you know the blanketed little," nodded the dove sagely, "They are not like us.  They have many complicated rituals to fill their lives.  These rituals must be done continuously even when none of their number wants to do them.  Their flock would be otherwise extinguished."

"Perhaps better for us all that it were," muttered the sparrow, hopping on the branch in agitation.

"My opinion of the blanketed ones is somewhat warmer than yours, I think," spoke a crow, in a surprisingly smooth voice, "I and my kin benefit greatly from their labor and inattention.  Still, when they fight, it goes no worse for me when all is said and done, nor for our cousins, the bald ones."

"Blech!  Don't mention those stinkers to me!" warbled the dove haughtily.  The impending fight was interrupted by a bird of bright red feather, who was rarely seen in that forest.  It landed clumsily on the branch near the crow and the others stared at it with curiosity.

"How goes, cousins," the new bird piped out, "I trust you do not mind if I rest a short while.  I may give you just warning of things to come."

"What things do you speak of?" asked the crow, voice now scratchy with suspicion.

"I fly before flames, cousins, my home is burnt.  The blanketed armies have done it to discover their enemies among the trees.  The wolf told us it would be so, and we were ready to take wing for our lives."

"Ah, that trickster.  How did he know of it?"

"I cannot say, but I can guess he had a wing in creating the confrontation.  There were indeed blanketed enemies in our woods.  We heard them talk of justice and freedom.  We heard them name the wolf as they do, calling him 'Uncle'."

"Ha!" spat the crow, "They just would claim a kinship with him!"

"In the woods they shouted to each other," continued the red bird, "Calling words like crime and oppression.  They said the wolf opened their eyes to the unfairness of their lives.  Now they will make right and fair, in spite of any one of their own."

"What's this talk of fair?" grumbled the sparrow, "Only the balance matters.  If it seems unfair, your eyes must deceive you, for the balance does not allow that."

"Now, now," mused the crow, "I have observed them all my life, and I can tell you, sometimes they create a balance where there is none to fool their fellows.  It is an unbalance that eventually tips under its own weight."

"Do they not foresee this?" sniffed the sparrow, ruffling its earthy feathers, "Can they not simply live in balance?  It seems to me their whole existence is spent upsetting it, for themselves and for all others."

"Balance is not happiness, I think," continued the crow, "And you know we are rarely happy, as the blanketed are.  They must require stronger emotion, and in balance, the happiness is countered by unhappiness.  Then they fight."

"I have seen and heard the enemy of the white up close," said the red bird, off-hand, "And I begin to wonder if they do not have some clear sight.  The white ones take from them the largest part of the rewards of their toil, and what's more, they prevent the field blanketed from increasing their own reward.  I see them all unblanketed at the river, cleansing their hides.  They are the same.  They have no marks or signs to designate some fated chore.  There is no balance to their flock, where only a few have unceasing control over the many.  The tipping is inescapable."

"How you go on!" scoffed the sparrow, "The politics of their flock is none of our concern!  Only their destruction."

"Cousins, I believe the time has come for my parting," announced the red bird, stretching flame colored wings and taking off.

"How abrupt," mumbled the dove, staring off after the traveler.

"How absurd," muttered the weaver woman, retaking her walk home.  "What could those feather-brains ever tell us about our own affairs?" And she went on her way, forgetting all about the chatter of the birds, until the soldiers knocked on her door.

some seasonal color

It felt like time for red ale, being the season and all.  Something Belgian looks promising.  Ichtegem's Gran Cru has an interesting sweet and sour smell once opened.  The color is nice and ruddy and just a bit of head remains on top after a minute or two.  The first thing to hit me when tasting is the sweetness, surprisingly strong, but quickly replaced with a fuller, almost woody flavor.  In the past, woodiness has not helped a beer gain my esteem, but it's very subtle in Gran Cru and gives the beer some complexity while balancing out the sweet.  It reminds me of many fruit beers those Belgians like to mess around with, but less syrupy than many, with a sharper, more refreshing taste.

what, again?? (w/ pics)

Yeah, yeah, finally getting around to posting impressions of the second day of the Beer Fair.  I went in the afternoon, thinking that most people would still be at work on a Monday, and indeed it was quite quiet at first.  I took the opportunity to go all the way to the back, since the day before it had been exceedingly difficult to squeeze down there. 

I found Birra y Paz looking a little lonely, although there were people sitting on the benches with their glasses in calm conversation.  The star promotion is a beer made with sea water.  The idea might make some people hesitate to try it, but it's actually a very normal tasting brew, with just a little bit of bite that surrounds the tongue.  It is, of course, filtered water, so no algae, but the mineral content is intact according to the rep.  It's more mineral than salt, kind of like a lot of mineral waters.  It's very easy to drink, possibly "dangerous".  The other offering was Socorrada, a triple malt with rosemary and rosemary honey.  Definitely a little more kick in the taste, very herbal, something of menthol in it for me.  In spite of the honey, it's not a sweet beer, the spice is much more perceptible.  Drinking the two together really accentuated the differences for me without diminishing any of their characteristics.  The rep insisted they were the first company to brew with sea water and rosemary honey, and that they had been shopping the product in the US, Mexico and ... Guinea.  Ok, then.

Socorrada on the left, sea water on the right, doing some teamwork

Moving towards the front, we had Mammooth of Granada.  I remembered the name from the first fair, and had tried their dark at the time, although it wasn't terribly memorable.  This time I went for the stout, which was as characteristic of its kind as could be: rich, black color with a dirty beige head and smoky and earthy in taste.  It might also be one of those dangerous beers, since it gets smoother and smoother with every sip.  Might be the reason for the name: Hecate.  The rep insisted on speaking some English with me, guess he's gotta practice, and since I was hanging around anyway, I got a bit of the other tap.  It's called Fósil, if I'm not mistaken, a blond beer, lemonade yellow with a heavy floral scent, and very foamy.  It also contains rosemary, but not rosemary honey!  It called to mind FM's Valverde, something summery and spicy, light and energetic for a warm evening.  While I was there, the rep didn't charge the tasters for their beers, so I have to give an A+ for the friendly and welcoming attitude.  And those beers, definitely memorable this time around.

Almost forgot the picture...

Up at the front, I found Dawat, and was convinced to try their special fair pilsner.  It's a 10º beer that they don't plan to put into real production, it was more of a gimmick for the moment.  Normally they have a lighter 5º and are brewing up a 17º for the near future.  The reps explained that pilsner is one of the most difficult beers to make and isn't profitable by itself.  The alcohol content is their something special on the market.  The fair pilsner was a translucent tan, slightly bubbly and a bit sweet.  The sweetness became almost a bubblegum taste, although after a while there was also a certain smokiness underneath it.  On the whole, Spanish pilsners just aren't my glass of beer, so to speak.

While mildly disappointed by Ebora the day before, this time they were serving their Christmas (or Navidad) special, so I gave them another chance.  The beer is just a bit fruity with a very light, fizzy head, and a sort of caramely color.  It's not as heavy as I might expect a Christmas drink to be, but it has some sweet candiness.  Maybe a little too sugary after a while, but the lightness keeps it from getting syrupy.  Ebora redeemed by Christmas magic.

I was about to leave, but decided to take one last look before the place filled up.  The afterwork crowd was arriving by that time, and it was getting busier.  I found Tyris in the corner, with another pils.  The rep insisted on just giving me the tasting, since the keg was almost empty.  I suppose that accounts for much of the generosity of the reps: they didn't want to carry back a lot of not-quite-empty kegs after the fair was over.  This was really a nice ending to my fair experience: very citrusy smell, very snappy taste, again with a bright, lemonade color.  Very refreshing with herbs and citrus pith.  There's something a little dirty in the smell, but it's a respectable dirt, the dirt of hard work and fun, kind of like a locker room, and the taste is clean as can be.

The last hurrah of the fair

If I haven't misread the trend, I'll be back to this in May for the summer releases.

what, again? (w/o pics)

The Craft Beer Fair seems to have gone semi-annual.  The last one was in May, but the next in the series was this weekend.  Not that I mind much...

I forget my camera on Sunday, so the first installment will be words only.

It was crowded, which isn't too surprising, but I managed to get to one of the first stands on the way to the back of the bar: Ebora.  They had a brown and a blond at the time, and I thought it best to start with the blond.  Not so great, actually.  It had an interesting beige/blond color, but with an extremely subtle taste, only slightly bitter.  It made me think of "typical" Spanish beers, which don't have any intrusive flavor at all.  They slide by quietly and let you enjoy whatever else you're doing.  I can say that there was a vague reminder of a wheat beer in the first wave of taste.

A bit further was the Spigha stand.  They had a Winter Ale, which sounded promising.  It's actually a joint product of Spigha and Yakka, one of those somewhat fruity beers.  It has a nice, warm brown color, flavored by several apricot extracts, but not overly sweet at all.  It was a little like the Ebora in its smoothness, but more interesting.  It occurred to me that it was a beer to drink in front of the fireplace on an icy winter day, perhaps.  Although the sweetness builds up over time, kind of laying on the tongue, it stays pleasant without becoming oppressive.

I was taking my notes on my tastings when I couple of guys started asking me questions, as if I knew something special.  You're writing things down!  You must be professional!

I took a philosophical break and came back a couple of hours later, but found the place just as full as before.

The evening started with Kettal Doble Malta (Fanega).  There was also a honey brew, but I was wary of the beer getting too sweet for me, so I went with the doble.  Very nice toasty color, and a good not too sweet taste.

After that I had an urge to find a real dark beer, and the label on Torquemada Negra looked like it should fit the bill.  The beer is actually more of a dark brown, with just a touch of translucence, but it does have a smoky flavor that a good stout might possess.

It was a little hard getting into the back area, so I decided to pick easy hanging fruit: La Real del Duero.  They had a spot right near the door, where the visitors could see them right away.  The Special Bitter was a favorite of mine from the last fair, so I went for the Kölsch.  It was a lovely clear yellow, which the rep said they were very proud of since they didn't filter.  It was a sharp, refreshing taste, something welcome in a hot bar.

There was another day to go, so we decided to cut out for the night for Mexican food.

not quite red head

Looks perfectly OK

 The smell from the opened bottle is pungent, something like one might expect from a porter.  It fills the glass, looking thick and creamy, but with little head.  It is, in fact, bubbly, but not foamy.  I suppose it's the bock part, but the flavor is also leaning towards porter rather than lager.  There's a sharpness, just a hint of sour, and a round, mouth-filling malt.  As I drink, it occurs to me that it should be accompanied by something sweet, or perhaps with just a little salt.  Peanuts, I guess, or other nuts.  It might be the time, but I also feel a little craving for brownies.

Not much of a "ruby red"

Events in the Life of Janet O'Connolly - Eavesdropping

Oh, Dylis, I'm so glad you're home!  Yeah, I just need to talk.  Well, it's Janet.  Nothing major, at least not yet, but she's really starting to worry me.  She's getting to be obsessed with her appearance.  She's in her room right now, refusing to come out because of some stupid little zit.  No, you can hardly see it, I mean, yeah, it's there.  But it's not like she's growing another head or something.  She's just being difficult.  Yeah I guess.  I was kinda dreading her teenage years, in fact.  Yeah, even with her being such a tomboy as a child.  And that weird little friend of hers, Firefly Morales?  Wonder whatever happened to her?  Hippy parents pulled her out of school, I remember.  Well yeah, I did try to help Janet accept her femininity a little more, but being concerned with how you look just means being decent, not hiding yourself away whenever you get a little blemish.  Oh no, I don't think she should be using concealer, she has very sensitive skin.  Well, they have all those chemicals...ha, ha, very funny.  Yes, go right ahead, compare me to Mrs. Morales.  Except she didn't take her husbands name I think, at least not that husband.  Who knows?  How many people would want to marry that kook?  Then again, Mr. Morales wasn't any better, so I guess they deserve each other.

But look, what I'm saying is you can't cover everything up completely, you just have to learn to live with some things about yourself.  She probably wants to impress some boy, but if he's put off by some little zit like she has, he just doesn't deserve her.  She should develop her self-esteem a little, that's all.  If it's so important to her to get a boyfriend, she's not doing herself any favors by moping around like she is.  Nobody wants to be around such a sad sack.  Sometimes I just want to scream at her to stop thinking only about herself and cheer up for the rest of us.  Doesn't she see how hard this is for me?  I have to deal with somebody all depressed over nothing day after day.  What do you mean, how do I know it's nothing?  She'd tell me if there was actually something going on, wouldn't she?  She's my daughter, for crissake.  Who can she talk to if not her mother?  Now, if only she had something to say, not just whining and complaining all the time, maybe if she had some interests - what?  Oh Jesus, Dylis, do you think she's getting into that stuff already?  I guess time just flies, but... she could still talk to me about that stuff.  I'm a cool mom, right?  I've always been honest with her about everything.  There isn't any doubt about my opinions on these things.  How can she have valid opinions on any of that, she's just a girl, what does she know?  Shit, what was that?  Jan, are you on the other phone?

*click*

not actually a comical beer

"Pilsen Bohemia" it said.  How could I resist the label?

It's very beery in the bubbly head and the very golden color.  The smell is light and seems typical of pilsners, but the taste is surprising.  It hits on several levels: first, there's the expected bitterness; on its heels, there's a rolling out of smokiness reminiscent of toast; finally, a little bitter comes back with something that makes me think of herbs.  Several sips in quick succession give me a sort of plasticky aftertaste.  In moderation it makes me think more of a rauchbier.  It gives me a hankering for something salty - chips, pretzels or the like.

by name

Torquemada seemed like a good name for Halloween or Day of the Dead.  And Catalina is almost Catrina...

Extremely foamy, the head surges up while the straw colored beverage slowly rises from the bottom of the glass.  I nearly had a couple of foam floods while filling the glass, in fact.   It has a delicate smell, almost floral.  After the head dies down a little, the taste is definitely pilsner at first, but the bitterness soon gives way to something more fitting to the smell.  It's one of those unfiltered beers, so an "oops" moment at the end of the bottle will give you a little something extra, maybe a little design on the foam, like cappuccino art.  The taste and smell remain constant to the end, which is something that I always wonder about with unfiltered beers.  Actually, I don't think any of my experiences with big changes were with unfiltered beers, but seeing the particles in the liquid makes me think they should have an effect on the flavor.

A fine pick-me-up, after-work kind of beer, probably better as a counterpart to some chips or salty crackers.

to the north

It's been some time since I've had a Scandinavian beer, since I don't make a habit of drinking Carlsberg.  Even in Copenhagen, all those years ago, it was mostly "industrial" beers, although I can't really complain about them.  So here's a little change of taste: Nordic Rye.  The label is entertainingly almost entirely in Danish, except for the part where they say who imports it to Australia.

The first pour releases a light, vanilla-like scent, while the color is a bit ruddier than I expected.  The head is fairly thick and with some staying power.  Not much smell, but the taste is full and ... smoky.  The color and smell threw me off; I was expecting something sweeter, but no matter.  It's quite nice, actually.  It's like a good many IPAs around in that it has a little spice to it, a mellow little sweetness that comes out after a few minutes sitting and sipping.  I definitely see it as a meal beer, with some meat or very lightly seasoned vegetables.  I get the feeling stronger flavors could bring out the berzerker in this brew.

She's got her cat, her cow, and her client.  And if he gives her any shit about the beer, she'll turn him into a toad or something.

liquid candy

Yep, almost Halloween, so something chocolatey sounds good about now.  The interesting bottle is also a point in this beer's favor when you're looking at the wall of brews.

It pours out with a satisfying glick-glick and has a surprisingly light color for a chocolate porter; brown without a doubt, but the stream isn't quite opaque and has a reddish tint to it.  The smell might also throw you off, since it's just that typical sharp porter smell, but the taste...ah, wonder.  Not bitter or sour at all, definitely chocolatey.  Starting out so sweet made me suspect it might get overwhelming as it warmed up, but the taste remained light and just sweet enough for the whole glass.

Just a little rusty at the bottom

Although it might go well with a dessert, something not too sticky sweet or heavy, I find Meantime Chocolate Porter a delight unaccompanied.

a tale of confrontation

The sun in the east did rise that morning, as every morning, and did shine upon the little bird.  And the little bird did flutter and sing and lift his sweet voice to the sky.  His little brown wings were chilled with night winds, but daylight made them warm and supple once again.  He flew.  His little belly was empty of grains and crawling things and he did let his black eye seek with fervor such stuff to fill it.  One crawling worm was first to go, to make the saying true.  And then a singing cricket, up too late or out too early for its own security.  Lo, what did the little bird spy next?  A pile of yellowy seeds, just edged with green, looking tasty and generous on the ground.  And the little bird did flutter down and take of the bounty, but not more than two minutes had passed when the great orange cat, the scourge of small wanderers, leapt from the nearby weeds and crushed the little bird's neck.  The great orange cat did pick at his prey, pulling plumes aside, daintily taking for his own the choicest tiny morsels.  And he left the rest to the crawling things, some, one might think, happy to partake as if in vengeance.

"You are cruel, cat," came a voice from the shadows, "That bird did nothing to you."

The great orange cat had no warm feeling for the sly gray wolf.  "If my nature is cruel, so be it.  But I at least corrupt no-one.  I do as I please and insist on no other's participation," and he turned a haughty head and went away at a strut.

"And if it is my nature to corrupt, so be it too.  Is that not fair?"  The wolf grinned and winked.  The cat looked away in disgust.

"You use sticky words, like mud.  They cling like burrs to one's hair and bite when one wishes to remove them, but they serve less purpose than those burrs.  I see them scraped off at peasants' doorsteps and I see the burry plants spring up seasons after.  The burrs are fruitful, but your words cause no more than harm."

"Don't you see, dear cat," laughed the wolf, tongue a-lolling, "The burrs seek only to make more of their own.  Fruitful, indeed.  More burrs to prick and to scratch.  If I am like the burr plant, then I am harm, for that is the fruit of my words.  And I wish for others to do harm in my stead, for my burr-words would produce that fruit."

"And that is what you are!" snapped the cat, ears flat, tail lashing, "You twist your image into one of a joker, a trickster, a fool.  You hint at cosmic understanding in your burrs, if only did we let them take root, but instead we are placed at odds with all those around us.  We are lost, you darken our way and smudge our nature with yours.  If I did listen to you, I might wish to seize goods from the peasants, for the mere reason of possessing them, like the mad crow.  I might kill every little thing I came across, only to make my power clear.  I might cease all my activity and wither away, like-"

And the great orange cat shut his mouth with a snap and moved to leave the conversation.

"Like who, cat?" teased the wolf, "Like the great gray over the road?  You were friends, were you not?"

The flying claws of the great orange cat met the nose of the smug gray wolf and there was a snarl of surprise that did echo in the air.

"Would you attack the burr plant, cat?"

"I am sure in my own self.  I will rebuff you when I must."

The wolf's eyes were narrow now and red, like the sun would be in the west.  Little setting suns in the furry night.  "I will leave you now, cat.  I have many burrs to shed.  But you would be wise to keep your eyes well open from now on.  A burr can find you when you least expect it."

Off slunk the sleek gray wolf, low to the ground and shiny like oil.  The great orange did watch him go with defiance.  But, when all sight and sound of him was gone, the cat did move briskly from the place with fear in his feet and worry in his eyes, worry that clouded them from the little bird he passed, who had pounced upon a struggling worm.

setting

A sweet beery smell wafts up from the freshly opened bottle.  It's very bubbly, with a mellow earthiness in taste typical of stouts.  It's a good rounded flavor that expands in the mouth.  Going down the bottle, it sweetens, also something I've come to find typical from bottled stouts. 

Events in the Life of Janet O'Connolly - Destiny

Janet O'Connolly was having a good time.  It was her cousin Juniper's birthday and they were at a bar with a big group of friends and friends of friends, celebrating in style.  Drinks were in every hand and laughter filled the air with ear pounding merriment.  Janet had just made another toast with her buds and was wandering around, looking for her conversation group.  They weren't her best friends by any means, but she found the discussions with them stimulating.  It was kind of like what people nostalgize college to be, and it never is.  Only two years out of college, Janet knew well how boring it really was, for the most part.  As she was scanning the bar for their serious faces, with brows far too furrowed for their years, a hand reached out of the ether and grabbed her elbow.  She looked towards its probable source and saw Mike, a receptionist at the company she had done a summer internship for.  It had been a few years since she had last seen him, but he hadn't really changed at all - same puppy eyes, same crooked grin, same receding hairline.

"What a surprise!" he said when their eyes met, "I didn't know you knew Vince."

"Oh, I don't.  I've never even met a Vince in my life.  I'm here for Juniper's birthday party."

"Oh," he looked perturbed, "Well, Vince organized the party.  I didn't know it was for somebody, he just asked a bunch of us to come..."

"I guess he wanted the place to be packed, which it is.  How's things at the office?"  Janet was actually a little stung that they hadn't offered her a position after her internship, which she felt she had completed brilliantly.  That damn sluggish economy, one might suppose.

"Oh, you know.  Same old, same old," Mike looked a little peevish at having work brought up.  "Old man Williams is a little worked up lately, but you know how he is."  Mr. Williams had been Janet's supervisor, who she thought she got along with splendidly.  Not well enough to be referred for a job, obviously.  Some people thought he was just too full of himself, but Janet had only experienced a man knowledgeable of his field and happy to share his knowledge.  She, and Mike, had been nothing but deferential to him while she was there.

"Yeah, I remember," Janet said as non-commitally as possible.

Mike grinned and downed his beer.  "Hey, listen, I have to go now, but why don't we hang out tomorrow?  We can meet by Britten's on Albert Ave."  Hang out with Mike?  Well, Janet still had a nagging desire to be connected to the company, and maybe he could find an in for her.  She acquiesced.  Mike smiled broadly and disappeared into the crowd, so Janet went back to her search for her partners in serious debate.

The next day Janet went to the appointed meeting place at the appointed time - Mike had texted her later that night with more details - and she stood waiting.  Mike showed up, five minutes late, and said, "Did you have trouble finding the place?"

Janet wanted to reply with, "You're the one who's late!" but she just replied, "No, I used to have an apartment right around here actually."

"Well," Mike was scanning the street, "Why don't we go to the sandwich shop on St. Catherine's?"  That was a little strange for Janet.  The sandwich shop was OK, but she wasn't hungry and she had gotten the impression that they were going for drinks.

"I'm not going to eat anything," she warned.

"Oh, me neither," was the reply, which drove Janet to even more confusion.  Why go to the sandwich shop, if not to have a sandwich?  But Mike was already walking down the street, talking about the time he spent in France as a child.  His mother had worked for a French company and they spent almost four years in Paris when he was young.  So, that felt like it should have been interesting.

They each ordered a beer and sat down at a table away from other customers.  They were quiet for a moment of two, sipping their drinks, and then Mike asked, "What's your favorite thing in the city?"  Janet had to stop and think.  It was a strange question for her, like something you would ask a tourist or a celebrity.

"Well, I don't know," she mused, "I've always liked the news building on 7th street.  It's so classical and stately.  It makes me think I'm in New York City or someplace."

"Oh." Mike was perplexed.  "But what do you do?  Do you just sit in front of it and look at it?"

"What?  No, I just like the building.  Did you mean what's my favorite thing to do?"

Mike looked a little irritated now, but he just said, "What about parks?  Do you like to walk in the park?"

"Yeah, I guess.  I hate dodging dog poo and runaway kids, though."

"But isn't it romantic?  At night?  Under the stars?"

"I...don't know.  I was never much of a romantic.  If you're with somebody you love, I suppose it doesn't matter where you are, under the stars or in the park or what."

Suddenly Mike leaned over the table, close to Janet's face, and said in a quiet, tense voice, "Do you believe in destiny?"

Janet was now very uncomfortable.  "I don't know about that either.  I mean, maybe some things are meant to happen, but it seems kind of simplistic to say all our future is written in the stars or something."

Mike was watching her closely, trying to gauge her openness she supposed.  "Don't you think two people meeting is destiny?  That it's meaningful for how they relate to each other?"

"Actually, that's just confusing to me.  Why should only certain meetings be destined?  How do we know which ones they're supposed to be?  It makes more sense to me that either all meetings or none are part of our so-called destiny."

Janet guessed that Mike was trying to let her know that he thought they were destined to be together.  He was looking more and more frustrated as she spoke.  Finally he leaned back in his chair and said, "You're right, you really aren't very romantic."  For some reason it felt more like a reproach than a simple statement and Janet could only reply, "I guess not."

The beers were gone and there wasn't much reason to stay.  At the door, Mike said he was going shopping for his nephew's birthday and he'd give her a call.  Then he strode off.  Janet felt a little hurt all the way home, which surprised and frustrated her.  It wasn't her fault she wasn't interested in Mike.  There just wasn't any chemistry and nothing they both liked that they could talk about.  Still, she felt guilty and cried a little over the glass of wine she had with her supper that night.

wild

So many months later, I remember feeling a little wild on Independence Day.  I went browsing for a beer from home and found Flying Dog.  It seems to have quite a following in Madrid, or at least good contacts with exporter/importers; it's in every specialty beer shop.

Peekaboo!

It's an active, bubbly beer, with a honey gold color.  I find it a little flowery in smell, but spicy in taste, sort of a bitter kicky flavor.  I detect something of citrus, but more the pith than the fruit.  Although I don't have a grill to have a more traditional 4th, the beer suffices to remind me of some good things of home.  A grilled burger to go with it would have been nice, though...

dual

Here I am, standing in the pouring rain, waiting for a bus that's 20 minutes late.  I can't believe how stupid I was coming all the way out here.  I knew I wouldn't get any satisfaction from the confrontation, it would just be the same BS.  He blows off my anger with that smug little smirk of his and makes nonsensical statements and I practically have steam whistling out of my ears.  God, what a dick!  Well, that whiny little snot with the oh-so-trendy nose ring has him now.  He's all her problem.  Where's that goddam bus?  I haven't even seen that many cars come down the street, so I don't think there's a jam or anything.  I guess there could be flooding on the county road.  Piece of shit.  Badly planned, badly built.  Just like everything around here.  Oh, here it comes.  Finally.  What the fuck, "out of service"?  Jesus, it's coming pretty fast, don't you splash me, you - motherfucker.  Like birds?  Here's one for you!  Fuck.  Now I'm all wet, maybe I should just walk.  I'm not going to get any wetter.

I scour the roads and highways of men, looking for the lost ones.  They all belong to me, that is the agreement.  They are not aware of it, but when I find them, they soon come to know their purpose.  They might resist at first.  I always manage to convince them.  Well, I do not really do anything.  I merely show them what existence really is.  Even the most defiant crumble into meekness and docility, allowing me to carry out my plans.  These modern vehicles are convenient.  They are swift, they are powerful.  They attract little attention in these times.  Even as it roars, the machine is practically invisible to those around.  I particularly enjoy these days of wet and wind.  Mortals' minds are distracted and they cannot hear their fate approaching.  It is my time, my time to prowl.

Jesus fuck, what a shitty day!  How can the ground have this much water in it?  I swear I'm sinking deeper with every step.  At least there aren't any cars going by, although it doesn't make much difference.  I'm wetter than a fucking fish.  Oh Christ, I hear a car coming.  Spoke too fucking soon, huh fate?  Can't even give me a walk in the fucking rain in peace?  I think it's slowing down though.  Yeah, slow down and pull over, douche cookie.  Show a little respect for the pedestrian.  Oh no, don't pull over here, fuck nugget.  No, I see you, I don't know your ass.  Don't say a fucking thing to me.

This is one more wrathful than usual.  This might prove an interesting challenge.  These mortals are so proud and cling so tightly to what they deem their will, but in the end they cannot fight long.  I must put on my most harmless expression.  This one must think it has the upper hand in the beginning.  The realization they have, when all is revealed, is delicious.  Those who fight hardest provide the sweetest victories.  My face says I am dull.  I pose no threat.  Maybe I could even be the victim of this snivelling sack of humanity's opportunistic whim.  I stop the vehicle close to the edge of the road.  I lower the passenger side window.  I look out at my prey, my pasty mask unassuming and guileless.  My fleshy lips tense and reveal crooked teeth.  I look as dangerous as a rodent to a sleek and hungry barn cat.  The mortal peers at me, considering, when I make a friendly offer of transportation.  I cannot appear more clownish.  Danger is the last thing my corporeal form exudes.

God in heaven, what a dorky looking guy.  At least he looks kinda nerdy, so I don't think he'll dare try anything with me.  He doesn't have to drive me all the way home anyway.  I'll tell him to drop me off at the bus station.  Or near the theater.  He doesn't need to know exactly where I live.  OK, we're on our way.  Fucking rain letting up, figures.  Son of a bastard.  And this guy's kinda creeping me out, he's got some weird little grin.  Keep your eyes on the road, buddy.  Eyes front.  Oh Jesus Christ on a unicycle, what's he asking?  How old am I?  What the fuck is that to you, turd burger?  Lessee, I'm 59.  Yeah, I look real good for my age.  Shit, I think he's taking me totally seriously.  Whatta maroon.  Nyuk, nyuk, nyuk.  Fuck, man, I don't feel like telling you my life story.  I don't even feel like telling you what I did today.  Just let me dry out on your shitty pleather passenger seat, or whatever the fuck it's made of.  Oh good, I think he got the message.  Just drive, man, just keep driving.  Shit fuck, that little smile is creepy.  Weird little bastardy bastard son of a bastard.  Wait a minute, where the fuck are we going?

My prey is just now receiving an inkling of what lies ahead.  I smile serenely at the sheet of glass that rises towards our faces.  A nervous question tumbles into my whorled ears but I pay no mind.  There is no rain falling now, as if the heavens have dried their eyes in anticipation of what is to come.  The wind continues.  I am pleased.  It is a good setting.  I have the vehicle accelerate with the slightest pressure of an earthly foot and squawks of protest begin to echo around our metal enclosure.  The mortal is now noticing the trees pass ever more rapidly, the sky grow darker every second.  Even in my relaxation, knowing my satisfaction is nigh, my body can't help but keep a smile on its face.  My quarry is close to panicking, but trying to focus ire instead of fear on me.  It is no trouble.  The journey only ends with a realization and I have chosen a road that goes on forever into darkness.  On and on we go, the furious squeals next to me rising in pitch, turning to shrieks.  Blackness is complete outside.  I will shed my body soon; already i feel it loosening on me ready to melt off like the facade of a burning building.  Those shrieks are now but whimpering, soft begging and pleas for mercy.  Making offers as they often do.  Unfortunately for those mortals, I have already bargained and will now make good on the promise.  The vehicle fills with scents of bodily fluids, leaking from eyes, bladder and skin pores.  It is mouthwatering.  It is glorious.  It is all mine.  And we travel into the depths of the dark, where even the last of its whispers will be snuffed out.

Fucking god, I'm finally home.  I'm so glad that creepy little guy just let me off in front of the mall without asking any questions.  I don't know if I could have come up with a story fast enough with how skeeved out I was.  He did hang around outside for a good 20 minutes though.  Maybe he was hoping to "run into" me leaving and offer to take me all the way home.  Bleah!  I guess I'm pretty much dried off.  Still wanna take a hot shower.  What's this...voice mail?  I didn't hear my phone ring.  Rain must've fucked up the sound.  It's that snotty bitch of my ex's screaming at me, saying he went after me to apologize and hasn't come back.  Well, fuck her.  And him.  "Apologize", my fat white ass.  Probably just wanted to laugh at me for having to take the bus.  "Too stupid to give a car what it needs", I bet that's just what he wanted to tell me.  Prick.  Well, fuck if I know where that enema tube is.  I'm done with him.  He can go right to hell for all I care.  Shit fuck, where'd that chill come from?  Screw this, I'm taking that shower.

humanity

Just making sure you drink responsibly...

I popped the cap and the sour, sharp smell wafted out immediately.  It's already feeling like a pick-me-up after a hot Madrid day.  Sweeter than expected, but with a bitter undertone that lingers on the tongue.  It ends up being a little nutty in flavor, a fine medley.  It remains constant over time without getting heavy or sticky.  Very pleasant, although possibly more suited to cooler days.

the story from the plaza

A golden lion roars menacingly, his mane on end with his electrifying power.  Below him, a wolf howls, a weak rival in comparison.  Nearby are the zebra and the hippo, the deer and the cow.  "Lew!" came his mother's impatient voice, "It's time to put your things away and go to bed!"  Lew never wanted to put his things away, of course; he was creating entire universes.  Those things don't just get "put away".  He could see the jungle river winding its way through his bedroom carpet.  There was a certain wear in it that showed a long shadow, which, with a little imagination, could be mistaken for a river.

"Lew, this is the last time I'm warning you."

The animals were on boxes, as if on mountain ledges.  They should be at the river.  It was time for a drink.  The hippo went first, into the middle of the stream, then came the cow, the zebra, and the deer.  They went in order of stockiness.  The lion and the wolf went together, on the opposite side of the plush waterway from the herbivores.  That was a good word.  He'd read it in his book on forest animals and it made him feel grown up just to think it.  So, the herbivores were warily quenching their thirst while the meat-eaters (he didn't remember the grown-up word for that) were pacing the opposite shore, waiting for a chance to strike.  Trees were thick all around, Lew could even hear birds, although there were none to be seen.  What were the lion and the wolf planning?  Could they work together?  It could be a delicious experiment for Lew.  They weren't from the same habitats, they might not communicate very well.  Wolves usually hunt in packs, while lions don't like to hunt much at all.  Well, this lion didn't have a pride to rely on, so maybe he would be used to catching his own food.  He might make the wolf do more of the work, though, and then keep him from eating once the prey was down until he'd had the "lion's share".  That was another thing Lew had read recently, and he felt proud of knowing expressions concerning animals.  He felt like a good communicator.  The hippo was milling around in the water, snorting and blowing little streams from its nostrils, and the other herbivores were relaxing on the shore.  They were starting to doze off!  Now was the time!  The wolf leaped over the water at the narrowest point first, the lion on his heels.  The herbivores were startled, paralyzed for a split second, but then they turned to flee.  Who would prevail?  It was up to Lew!

Suddenly, his mother was standing over him, looking stern.  "I can't count how many times I've told you to put your toys away and go to bed!  This is it!" and she grabbed him by the arm and dragged him into the bathroom to brush his teeth, and managed to get him into his pajamas in spite of his squirming and whining.  Then, while he was recuperating in bed from all the excitement, she picked up his toys and threw them into the toy chest.  "There, that's done now.  When are you going to learn to do this yourself when you're asked?"

His forest universe was gone, swept away like it never existed.  And as he was falling asleep, the whole idea of it faded from his mind like a puff of dream smoke.

walkies?

I couldn't resist the paw on the label.

To the street!  I need to pee!

Although spelled with a V, it sounds just like a B in Spain.  Relatively local (Segovia) ecological beer this is.  I expected something noticeably more sour than recent tastes.  It has a very pale, lemonade-y color and plenty of bubble.  It is an unfiltered beer, however, so the color is always a little cloudy.  The smell reminds me of cotton candy for some reason.  The beer is also mildly sweet, not sour at all.  The bitterness is also tightly under control.  I don't find the flavor disappointing at all; it's a nice relaxing drink for the end of the day.  A word of warning about letting it sit too long: as the bubbles dissipate and the liquid temperature goes up, the flavor weakens.

Stays pretty, though

the story from the restaurant

The worn-out sun sighs wearily while slowly descending to the horizon, "Another day lighting the world and not so much as a thank you.  How long has it been since anybody has worshipped me?"  The moon is already out, just barely visible against the still bluish sky.

"You're so unpredictable lately, it's a wonder you're surprised.  Playing hide-and-seek with the clouds one day, raging down at them the next.  If you were more stable, like I am -"

"You?  You never show the same face twice!  Every night a little bigger, a little smaller, in a different part of the sky.  Call that stable, do you?"

"I may have variations," replies the moon with dignity, "But I am still predictable.  I have a pattern.  You could set a clock by me, so to speak.  They have made calenders by me.  And better ones than those you've inspired, by the way."

"Oh fine, throw that in my face," huffs the sun, throwing off a few solar flares in frustration, "But you see what I mean about their ungratefulness?  You gave them the possibility of a balanced rhythm and they pushed it aside, dazzled by my brilliance.  I gave them warmth and stimuli - I gave them life.  They don't even acknowledge my contribution, except to complain about it.  They've been starting to think more and more of themselves for a long time now, and you'd think they thought they created everything."

"Well, there you have it, I think," sighs the moon, "Now they just worship themselves and everything external is just a backdrop.  They feel all the power of the universe within their own being and they think they know how to tap into it.  Venus blames the stars, you know.  They've turned to influence that sort of thinking on our little world."

The sun glowers, growing ever darker shades of red, "Well, when will some other influence be felt?  Hell, why not my influence?  After all, I'm light years closer than any one of those other cosmic farts."

"You know it isn't so simple.  The most logical of ideas just don't get any traction sometimes."

"I guess I'll have some time to think about it without being disturbed.  i don't know why, but this side of the planet annoys me the most.  I hardly have any ill-feeling for the other side, and they ignore me just as much these days."

The sun is just touching the horizon now, infusing the thin clouds with smoky oranges and brilliant pinks.  The moon has grown stronger, now giving off a firmer, more confident white than before.  "Well, you go on and have a rest.  I'll be here, reflecting your glory, reminding them down there of your existence."

"You don't have to exaggerate," grumbles the sun, lower with each passing moment.

"No exaggeration, friend, just the truth.  But only our truth.  You know how those things don't translate well to outside parties," and the moon is glowing brighter and brighter in the blacker and blacker sky, and the sun is sliding down the path that leads to the other side of the world and it disappears, leaving a strange peace behind.

just beachy

The Beer Garden has decided to liven up their bags.  These are quite summery I think.

And the beer inside should also be summery!  From Hawaii maybe?  The argument for the use of cans is on the side: easier to control temperature and protect from light, cans are lighter to transport than bottles, aluminum is more recycled (recyclable?) than glass.  OK, then.

Despite the name, the coconut does not make itself known immediately.  The beer is dark, like a good porter, a little bit reddish in sunlight.  It's very frothy at first, but soon settles down.  It smells earthy and emits only the barest notes of sweetness.  The taste does not disappoint.  It's pure porter at first, but then the coconut rises to smooth over the bitterness, making a pleasant mouthful.  The taste remains very subtle, which I think is a mark in its favor.  A strong coconut flavor would make it seem artificial, but that hint in the background is enough to be noticed and support the image of naturalness projected by the can.

Aloha!

Punkinhead Salazar

Nobody knew how Punkinhead got his nickname.  His head wasn't particularly round or orange; he had not even a passing resemblance to a large, smooth squash.  He was, however, a somewhat naïve and innocent child.  He had the typical, slightly overprotective parents, who did all they could to keep his life comfortable and keep him from too much stress.  Although he had no close friends, he also had no enemies and everybody he knew had a vaguely friendly feeling towards him.

On one pleasant spring day, Punkinhead went down to the pond at the city park to toss bread crumbs to the fish.  Some people liked to feed the ducks, but he preferred the fish.  They were quiet, graceful, quite the opposite of those awful birds.  The ducks were loud, aggressive, not nice at all.  Punkinhead had never liked the ducks.

That day he didn't see any ducks hanging around the pond.  Good.  Sometimes they barged in and stole the crumbs from the fish.  He walked up to the edge of the pond and looked expectantly at the water.  Usually the fish would appear when somebody walked up to the pond, knowing crumbs were forthcoming.  Strangely, there was nothing moving in the water that day.  Punkinhead walked slowly around the pond, keeping his eyes on the water, searching for any sign of fishy life.  All the way around, and nothing.  It was very strange and disconcerting.  Then he noticed that the water was different.  It had a kind of oily shimmer on top that he didn't remember from before.  Curious, he picked up a sturdy stick and poked it.  The covering on the water fell apart immediately and offered him no clues, so in frustration he thrashed the pond with the end of the stick.  Foam boiled up like magic. Punkinhead ceased his punishment of the waters in astonishment.  It occured to him in a flicker of sharp-mindedness that it might be dish soap that had been poured into the pond.  But why?  Who would do such a thing?  He looked around, burning with suspicion and outrage.  The fish, his fish had been poisoned, or were staying away from the surface, disgusted by the soap.  Was it an attack on them?  Or on him?  His innocence throbbed with the sting of assumed insult.  He circled the pond again, slowly, looking for clues like they did on TV.  Nothing.  He sighed and hung his head, but at the same time promised himself that he would return every day until the crime was solved.

As he was walking home, brooding, lost in contemplation of the crime against his fish, he passed a pair of young boys.  At first he didn't pay any real attention to them, but something made him stop and look back.  There was something odd about their behavior; they were looking around in that way that children have when they're trying to be furtive and sneaky, but instead makes it obvious that they're trying to put one over on everybody.  Suddenly they noticed him noticing them and one of them yelled, "What're you looking at, jerk-face?" and they ran off, leaving Punkinhead perplexed.  At first he turned back to his way home, but then desire flared up in his heart to know what secret great or terrible they might be hiding, and he followed them.  He had a feeling in his gut that they were up to something.  He thought he would just follow close behind them until they got where they were going, but then one of those strategic ideas entered his mind, like a gnat through a hole in a screen door.  He slowed down enough that they didn't feel the pressure of a persuer on their heels, but remained close enough to be able to see them turn a corner or hear their fleeing footsteps.  Somehow, his plan worked.  Although he lost sight of the boys, he was able to track them, and heard their whiny, unpleasant voices from behind a thick, leafy rhododendron.

"What if somebody saw?"

"Nobody saw, and nobody cares about some stupid old fish anyway."

Punkinhead was filled with righteous rage.  It was them!

"I think my dad knows I took the dish soap though.  He kept asking where it was and then saying, 'Isaac?' like he knew I knew."

"Well, just don't admit to anything.  Those bubbles were cruddy, though.  Maybe we need to use bubble bath.  My sister has some and it even smells like bubble gum!"

Punkinhead stomped away, filled to the brim with indignation.  They weren't sorry for the poor fish, poisoned by their soapy prank, they just wanted to make the pond into a bubble bath.  A bubble bath!  You weren't supposed to go wading in it even, and they wanted to fill it with fluff!  Punkinhead arrived home and sought out his mother straight away.  She was always level-headed and knew the best way to handle his crises, whereas his father had a tendency to overreact.  She was examining some papers at the dining room table, chewing on her pen when he came in.  He explained the situation and she listened with a grave and serious expression.  "Alright, darling," she said when he had finished, "Just leave this to me," and she went off to the kitchen.  Punkinhead wanted to follow her, but he felt confident that she would make justice happen and he didn't want to spy on his own mother.

The next day he was walking by the park and saw the boys with several adults, their parents he assumed, being lectured to by a police officer.  The officer looked quite relaxed, actually leaning against the squad car as she talked, but she was waving her no-no finger, and the boys were red-faced and ground-facing.  Punkinhead felt jubilant.

Not so long after, he decided to go to the park and see if there were new fish in the pond.  He walked down the path, whistling and carefree, when he heard a familiar and grating voice: "There he is!" and a rock - a rock! - sailed through the air from behind him, just missing his right ear.  Punkinhead turned in disbelief, and the two snotty boys were just at the top of a small mound with a pile of child's fist-sized rocks in between them.  "This is for telling on us, you jerk!" and he threw a rock that went far over the top of its mark.  "Yeah!  Monkey-butt!" squealed the other, and he too launched a stone wildly.  Punkinhead stood in shock, paralyzed.  Then a rock, almost a perfect sphere of a rock, insultingly like the ones that lined his beloved fish pond, smacked him in the cheek and his daze was broken.  He ran home, tears of anger running down his face, but he allowed no sobs of frustration to express themselves, and went right to his room without letting his mother know what had happened.  This was the first time she had failed him, and Punkinhead couldn't let her have that disappointment so soon.  When he was older, maybe, they could afford to be honest with each other.  But for now, he hugged his pillow to his chest and wondered if he would ever be able to enjoy the darting fish again.

still feelin' nostalgic

Wandering through a regular supermarket, I saw another blast from my past: Mort Subite.  It's one of those Belgian fruit beers that taste more like soda than beer to me, but are fun to drink sometimes for that reason.  I used to have one on Sundays when we had a philosophy discussion in a pub that will remain nameless.  There are several varieties, but the only one on this supermarket shelf was the raspberry - Xtreme Framboise.  Just as I remembered, it looks like a strawberry soda once it's settled down in the glass (I've almost never had raspberry soda, so I connect the color with strawberry), but it is pretty foamy at first.  It has a sweet and tangy berry taste, no bitterness at all.  It's a nice little thing for after dinner, a dessert all by itself.

Yes, here's to summer...dammit

visionary

I finally know the secret of the man across the street.  It happened that the town librarian gave me the answer.  I went to ask about getting information on houses and properties and told her which one I was interested in.  It turns out, she grew up in my house!  My room used to be hers when she lived there.  She even saw things through her window.  She told me, in an even more hushed voice than she normally uses in the library, that she saw a family sitting at a kitchen table, eating meals, playing board games, having talks.  Nobody believed her when she told them what she saw since the house was empty at the time.  After a couple of years of having these visions, or whatever, her family moved to another neighborhood and she forgot all about the family in the window.  Years later, she met a man, fell in love, and started her own family.  It actually took her over a year of marriage before she realized - he was the husband from the family in the window!  And she was the wife, and their two children were the children in the window family.  It was a window to the future, but only the viewer's future since she never saw anyone else.  So I've been seeing my future.  I'll be alone and lonely, sitting by myself in ratty old clothes.  Now all my fantasies about the man in the window hang over my head like storm clouds ready to unleash a torrent at any second.  I don't know why I saw my future when it seems like nobody else is seeing anything, but I do know I'll do whatever I need to do to change it.

and now for something...

...well, a little different.

Ah, cider.  Clear and bubbly, cold and refreshing.  While IPAs certainly have a snap that's appreciated in warm weather, a sweet cider is a nice change from all the hoppiness.  I was actually looking for something dark when I spotted Aspall on the shelf, and was drawn to its distinguished bottle.  It's been a long time since I've had a cider.  I don't think I've ever bought a bottle; my imbibing has only been in the Irish pubs.

It's a light golden color, much lighter than the apple juice I'm used to, and pleasantly fizzy.  It certainly tastes apply, just a little sweet without being overwhelming.  It doesn't take long to get sticky on the back of the tongue, unfortunately, but it's still tasty and when cold, a fine drink on a warm summer night.

observant

Wait, wait, I think i'm going overboard again.  People don't need to be ill or in serious danger to be isolated.  Maybe he retired from his job, or got laid off, and all his friends were there.  Now they don't have time to get together with him, so he just sits up there alone.  He never cultivated any hobbies, or he's just too shy to meet anybody through them.  He's always been a solitary man, polite but not friendly, mostly just saying hello.  Never gets too close to anybody, afraid of rejection or afraid of losing them after getting close or something.  So who could the day visitor be?  Still could be a social worker, I guess.  If he's been laid off, maybe he applied for benefits and she checks up on him to make sure he needs them or they're being used appropriately.  Now I feel a little bad for staring at him through my binoculars like he's an animal in a zoo.  Well, I guess you don't need binoculars in a zoo, but I feel ashamed for thinking of him as entertainment.  I tell myself stories.  Nobody seems to have facts and I think that makes it OK to make a fantasy world for him.  Maybe I can never imagine his life, or what happened to make him the way he is today.  In fact, i think I'll do the easiest thing.  I'll go knock on his door and introduce myself, and try to find out about him.  Yes, I'll go right now.  Put down the binoculars, go downstairs.  Out the door.  Look both ways.  Street clear, crossing.  Around back, up the stairs to his door.  Hmm.  They look kind of run down.  I knock at the door.  No answer.  Knock again, harder.  I'm seized with curiosity.  I try the handle.  It turns, and the door opens.  It doesn't occur to me that I'm trespassing, although that's really what I'm doing.  It's not breaking and entering if the door's open, is it?  I push open the door and a hot, stale breath of air oozes around the creaky wood.  I call out hello and receive no response.  I look around and don't see anybody obviously observing me.  So, in I go.  It's empty.  Dusty.  I go towards the window facing mine and stop when I see there's no table or chair or anything.  I have the sudden need to be out in the fresh air and I leave, remembering to close the door firmly behind me.  I try to resist the desire to check that night, but my curiosity wins out in the end, and I turn off my light and draw back the curtain.  There he is!  The same as always.  Sitting and brooding.  The table and chair have reappeared and now it dawns on me that there wasn't even a lightbulb this afternoon, just the bare wire dangling.  I don't know why I'm not more afraid or more frustrated at my not understanding.

nothing sells like mutants

Anderson Valley Hop Ottin' IPA has their beer (bear-deer) standing placidly on the label and calling the attention of passersby with his clam and pointy antlers.  Although the company explains he's a fortuitous portmanteau, the mystic in me wants to believe he's some spirit animal, protecting those who imbibe.

Upstairs too

The IPA has a sour-sweet smell, typical of craft ales.  The bitter hops explode on the tongue; I appreciate it after those kind of wimpy beers.  It's still heady when I refill my glass, with a fluffy, smooth foam.  The beer is a real pick-me-up, good to begin an evening with, or to relax at the end.

preparation

So airport beer sucks, even if it's Czech, but this one came from a beer store!  Always a good sign, especially since the stores have been diligent in finding worthwhile brews.  This might be the first one I've picked up with a foil cap, though.

Once uncapped bubbles rise, although the head doesn't last very long.  It's slightly sour, a typical pilsner, which makes me think back to the Naparbier pilsner of the Craft Beer Fest.  The sourness leaves, or I get used to it, after a few sips, leaving behind a subtle beer, one that calls out for hot summer nights and lawn chairs.

perceptive

No, that's a pretty far-fetched story.  Maybe he's a victim of paranoia rather than actual threats.  He's a paranoid schizophrenic and he imagines people who don't exist are out to get him.  He feels himself surrounded by aliens, or agents of some secret organization, and keeps himself locked up tight, with the separate entrance, so they can't get into his head.  They're only active during the day, that's why he stays awake all night, so he can get his thinking done without any worries that they'll catch on to his thoughts, like tapping into a phone line or hacking into a transmission.  He used to work for some big prestigious business, like a bank, or maybe an advertising agency or law firm.  Maybe even a college.  Nah, that's just too typical, the crazy college professor.  The genius who's just over the line of sanity.  Better to make him a "regular" guy, not even in management.

So he's working like he should, processing loan applications let's say, and one day, all of a sudden, he looks up and sees three guys in suits in the middle of the lobby, three Men In Black, straight out of the script.  They're just twenty feet away from his desk and looking right at him, well probably, 'cause you can't tell what they're looking at behind those dark glasses.  Nobody is reacting to them, like nobody sees them, but the people in close proximity do look a little nervous.  Like they have the feeling something is off, but they can't quite identify what it is.  Well, he sits there for a couple of minutes, just staring at them, ignoring a customer on the other side of his desk.  And then he panics.  He doesn't just excuse himself and try to sneak out of the building while the customer thinks he's going to the bathroom, no, he jumps straight out of his chair, pointing at the MIBs and screaming, "You'll never take me alive!" and then he hurls a potted plant towards them.  Immediately, he runs out of the bank, hoping he's hit one of them or that at least the confusion and hysteria of the other bank customers would slow them down.  Then he races home, locks his doors, and starts pulling papers out of drawers.  He fills the bathtub with them and strikes a match.  When the papers are burning brightly, he throws some clothing into a gym bag and leaves his house, never to return.  He rents the attic and sits there all night, every night, telling himself they won't be able to track his thoughts if he only thinks when the sun is down.  The woman is his therapist, or case worker, or something.  Maybe he doesn't talk to her because she comes in the daytime.  Maybe he thinks she's an agent of THEIRS.  Or maybe they have really good conversations because she's convinced him she can block their radar.  His family has been searching for him, but he hid his trail so well, remarkably, that they haven't had any luck.  Or maybe they never looked.  Maybe they disowned him for causing such a scene at work and now he's all alone in the world, with his case worker.