Beer Tears

I am at the grocery store to stock up on my favourite seasonal brews, and there they are - gone ! Yes it is around this time of year that the wonderfully thick and meaty 'Christmas' ales start to disappear from the shelves. All of a sudden they're gone, never giving me a chance to hoard up a private stash, prolonging the inevitable another month or two. I remember in my youth in Quebec, eagerly anticipating the first drop of Labatt's (?) Carnival at the depanneur, a rich hearty brew with 6.2% (or more?) alcohol. Then as winter waned, I would detect the subtlest dwindling of supply that signaled discontinuation, and I would run from store to grabbing every case I could find. Of course now I would probably puke at the first taste of Carnival, seeing as how I've evolved into a microbrew beer snob.

Winter in Oregon is great for the seasonal ale-drinking elite. Deschutes Brewery produces the mainstay Jubilale, Pyramid's Snow Cap is a must have, and Full Sail's Wassail (my current favorite) must always be on hand. Other honourable mentions go to Cascade Brewery's Santa's Little Helper, Celebration Ale is pretty good. And I only recently discovered Mirror Mirror, Deschutes barley wine that approaches 10% in alcohol.

So now it's back to the ales and IPA's of spring and summer. I will survive somehow.

Haircut Day

Before

After

nicht horen ?

I am feeling a bit bad today about the way I have been treating snowshoers. Just a little bit though, not very much - they are still boorish ignorant dolts - but they have a handicap I was not aware of until today. I was skating out to the Cinder Pit and back, and making good time I might add - on the way to breaking the 60 minute barrier. On one of the last downhill sections, I saw a couple of people near the bottom of the incline, in the middle of the trail. As I grew closer, I could tell by the primitive posture and the ungainly manner in which they trudged forward, that they were snowshoers. They were blocking most of the trail, and I was approaching them with a good deal of speed. I felt the bile rise in my throat at the annoyance of their perpetration. When they still did not react in any way to my approach, I gave forth with a shout, to provide them with warning about my imminent arrival. Still no reaction. I gritted my teeth and yelled "On your left!", the traditional hailing in such circumstances, understood by all brothers and sisters who share the trail. Still nothing. At the last second, I was able to veer around them through a small opening, narrowly avoiding a collision. I veered right again in a 'cutting off' manoeuvre, to signal my frustration and annoyance, much as we do to other vehicles who have impeded our progress on the road. I looked back to guage their reaction, and saw none ! They were apparently completely unaware of the catastrophe that had been avoided. It was then that it dawned on me - they are deaf ! Snowshoers, whether from birth, or due to some condition related to their web-footed pursuit, are unable to hear. I began to regret my actions just a little bit, although of course there is no excuse for their behaviour. Another possibility did cross my mind : perhaps the act of placing one foot in front of the other on the snow, repetitively, taxes their minuscule brains to such an extent that all their other senses become effectively disabled. But the possiblity of such utter stupidity does seem very remote. So I have learned from this encounter today. From now on, I will carry with me some small objects, perhaps pinecones, and pelt any snowshoers with them as I approach them in order to provide warning. I can only hope that they will appreciate my observance of their condition.

Early Morning

View from the skate oval at Mt. Bachelor.

Exceptions to the Rule

Don't you just love those people who are so damn special, that they are somehow exempt from rules that everyone else follows ? They make convenient exceptions to commonly posted rules, so they can pursue their important lives unencumbered by laws that were made for the masses. Here's some examples of rules, and exceptions made by these weasel-like members of the human race :


Rule : Handicapped Parking Only
Exception : Doesn't apply if you're loading / unloading stuff from your car, or for errands that only take a few minutes.

Yeah, Mr. Weasel, you just take that convenient parking space, so you only have to walk 20 feet to the mailbox. Us regular folk will just have to park a bit further and do that major 150 foot hike. And while you're at it, why don't pick up a latte, and maybe a size 10 hat for your inflated ego ? "Hey, what are you looking at ? I sent in my handicapped card application ! Can't you see I'm so fucking fat I can barely get out of my car, let alone walk a few feet away from it ? I forgot my walker, OK" Whatever ass-munch, next time I'll let the air out of your tires while you waddle away, then try explaining that to the cops.


Rule : No Dogs Allowed
Exception : Not my dog, he's part of the family !

Hello, Weasel family, did you not see the sign about no dogs ? Do we have to make it bigger for you ? Oh so Fluffy is special, and that only applies to all other dogs ? Hey we had to put that sign up, because people were complaining about all the dog shit on the beach - not to mention the excessive barking noise, bothering young children, etc. I see, your dog doesn't do any of those things. That might be true, if it was dead ! Here, let me kill it for you - sorry, don't have my gun with me because I actually read the sign that said no guns !


Rule : No Littering
Exception : Does not apply to cigarette butts

Most smokers have some cognitive dissonance about their butts not being litter. They'll give someone else a dirty look for dropping a candy bar wrapper, but will fling butts left and right everywhere they go. The world is their fucking ashtray. "What, that's not litter - isn't there something in the Constitution about that ? Everyone smokes, c'mon !" Sorry ash-hole, this isn't 1950, where it was normal to encounter cancerous fogs just about everywhere. Why don't you give me your address, so I can dump my garbage on your lawn every week ? You look like the type of idiot who likes to manicure your lawn, riding your 50 hp John Queere and showing off your prize-winning beer belly while chomping down on a cigar. Hopefully that butt you fling away will ignite that pile of sagebrush someone left beside your property (not me:) and burn something down, like the shack you like to jerk off in while you're waxing your belching machines.

White Island

It's jailbreak time at work ! I flee out the door at noon, and soon reach escape velocity on Century Drive. It must have snowed a foot last night, and the road is coated with a carpet of thick slush near town, turning into frozen clumps as I head towards the snow-park. Within 20 minutes I'm pulling the skis out of the car. Not much parking space, they haven't de-snowed it all yet.

Head Northeast down Wednesdays, breaking trail all the way. Deep some places, but compacted nicely in the open areas. Can barely see the trail-markers : 10 to 15 feet off the ground, some are now just above the snowline. The sun is out and it's a good bit above freezing. I start to lose the trail in a few places, at first subconsciously, then fully aware that I want to be free of its confines. Soon break out into the open field, studded with the tops of 20 foot trees. The wind must have been howling through here, creating a firm packed surface that you can really fly on. I'm powering, floating through, with long moon-gravity strides. All around me is sunshine-dazzled whiteness, and rolling terrain. Free from civilization and responsibility, I exist in an unconnected state, an island of calm. But the dynamic of motion gives it purpose and direction. I'm suspended in this universe in dilated time.

The line of tall trees grows nearer. Must regain the trail on the other side and take it back to the starting point. Hopefully someone else will have broken it through by now, expediting my return. But no such luck, so back to the thick trudging. Slight uphill all the way, get a rhythm going. Looks like I'll be outside the 2 hour lunch window. Back on the main trail highway I now see other skiers. I want to share the wonder of the floating and the island, but no time. Have to pass skiers in the track by going around them through a foot of snow. Heart rate getting maxed out. Is it my imagination or do they push harder when I pass ? No problem, I've still got a bit left in the red zone. And I'm Canadian too dammit, a freaking snow wizard !

A quick stretch and back in the motorized device, pulsing the cylinders back to reality. Small clouds of responsibility start to move in, but no problem, the White Island is there too, anytime I want it.