From the edge of the blast zone...

 The past several weeks have put me in strong mind of the images recently coming out of the coast of the Levant.

Because here I sit, quiet in the gray light of earliest morning, with my coffee and my hands lit by the phosphor-brightness before me untroubled by more than the usual reminders that my body has been here for sixty-two years and I have not treated it kindly.

My family are all still asleep...no, wait; I do have another early waker, the Big Cat, Drachma. He's our sniper-scout, authorized to roam the AO without specific direction, and he takes advantage of that with characteristic feline ruthlessness. His junior partner, little Nine, has too many physical issues for me to feel comfortable with that; she has to be "walked" during her much-demanded expeditions outdoors. 

Here they are together on the east deck:

You'll notice the craftily-synchronized tail-wagging. I'm informed that is likely to be proposed as a demonstration sport for the 2021 Olympics, assuming that my country is even capable by next summer of sending representatives.

Sorry. Got sidetracked by cats again. Damn critters, they're like that.

Anyway...my point is that the Fire Direction Center is a quiet place. 

My kids are poised to return to Virtual School in less than a month - Portland Public has decreed online-only until the new year - which as a former teacher and parent I find appalling but as a sixty-two-year-old highly unexcited about the possibility of one of my progeny returning from school with a massive viral load of the novel coronavirus am kinda fine with.

My Bride, likewise, is preparing to return to her job as Miss Debra, School Secretary (which, by the way, isn't nearly as fun as it might have been fifteen years ago. I'm not saying we've reached the post-roleplay stage of our sexual lives, but we have gotten to the point where "too much like work" is a genuine factor. Sorry if that's TMI, but, there you have it...) and seems to be willing to be cautious about it.

My job, while incorporating entirely too much boring grunt-level dirt-nanny bullshit work, is still here. My outfit seems to be managing to hang on to clients, and we haven't been seeing - at least, not yet - the shutdown or suspension of backlog work.

And I'm...okay. Getting out to do some of the things I enjoy, diverted by the return of Portland soccer, reading a crap-ton, exercising, trying to stay as healthy and mentally and emotionally sound as I can; this is from a recent nautical adventure on Columbia Slough, with the Bride as Pirate Queen.

The only personal drawback is my physician has ordered me to cut back to less than a single beer or dram a day and no more than four or five a week! - and that's cruel hard for someone who likes the drink taken as much as I do. 

I find I've resorted to finding bizarre beverages to sample in hopes that a single draft will be enough.

And, yeah, this one surely was. Ugh.

So from the promontory where I stand? Yeah, things are well enough.

And, yet, when I look beyond that, it's more like this:

The Senate Republicans and the White House - that is, the "governing" pieces of the GOP, if you can call governing what they do - have given up trying to keep to the inside of the fog lines and simply let the nation, the public, and the economy drive off a goddamn cliff.

There's no urgency. There's no plan. Except "it is what it is". At least the House Democratic caucus proposed something, a legitimately-WW2-level response to what is an extinction-level epidemiological event. The fucking GOP?

Nothing. Let them die, God will recognize his own. Apparently that's all we're gonna get from the Pary of Personal Responsibility.

The states and cities budgets are going to crater. The death toll is going to keep rocketing up. People - most people, I can't speak for MAGAts - aren't stupid enough to dice with Death if they don't have to; they're not going to flock into IKEA and Cracker Barrel and Spencer Gifts (are there any "Spencer Gifts" left anymore, outside zombie enclosed shopping malls..?) so restaurants and bars and little shops and businesses are going to collapse.

One of my favorite little soccer bars, the Toffee Club down on Hawthorne, tried to reopen under the "Phase 1" rules back in late June. Much as I enjoy sharing a pint and a match I had no interest in going maskless to share recycled air with random strangers in the Plague Year. I didn't go, lots of people didn't go...and so now they're closing again.

That's...very saddening.

And pointless. Utterly uneeded. For a tiny fraction of the money that went to Amazon and Yeezy and Untuckit this little bar could have kept playing until we have a vaccine or effective treatments, another year or two.

But, no.

And I won't even bother to discuss the baboon-assed jackanapes in the Oval Office. We all know that he's useless in this pandemic as a tampon in a typhoon, except to spread lies and bullshit and disinformation and propaganda for his BFF Vladimir. Oh, and golf. That may be his most egregious personal wrong; he's taken a game my father the Master Chief loved and was damn good at, a game I sort-of appreciated, and made me utterly loathe because of his ties to it.

So here I sit, watching, appalled, as roughly four of ten of my supposed-countrymen roar and bay and lust for this bloated fool, for this ridiculous abdication of responsibility and sanity, and while they do the supposed free press refuse to put their thumbs on these people - both the MAGAts and their tin gods, the Cottons and Mnuchins and McConnells and, of course, Il Douche - for that insanity and irresponsibility and stupidity.

And...so than, what? 

Vote? 

Sure as hell, yes I'm going to campaign and vote against every one of these sonsofbitches. Starting right here in Portland, where the combination of a worthless Police Bureau and the worthless Mayor who's humping them, need to go

But I live in safely Blue Portland. There's nothing I can to to stop the chucklefucks in Cornhole, Texas and SisterWife, Tennessee (with the help of Trump's people and the GRU...) from inflicting this lunatic graft and corruption and plutocracy and stupidity on me and my family and my Blue Portland for another interminable four years.

It's maddening. It helps me understand rebellions and the construction of guillotines; when the rulers and their partisans show they don't care if you live or die, well...then it becomes you or me, jack, and I'm gonna make sure it's you if I can.

But...all I have is a vote, and a voice, and a keyboard. 

(And, if it comes to that, an old bolt-action rifle, one magazine, and 120 rounds of ammunition, so let's hope it doesn't come to that.)

And that's arrayed against millions of moronic MAGAts. Fox "News". Page after page of bothsider Quisling press. The fucking GRU! The weight of the Executive Branch, the Senate, and the Supreme Court.

Even if Trump loses in November - and even if he concedes without him and his MAGAts picking an actual physical fight, which I am thoroughly unsure they won't - all those other noxious weeds will remain, determined to choke with religion and racism and oligarchy what I had thought were the growing trunks of the Trees of Liberty; secular science, equity, comity, equal justice under law.

Much of the time I feel like Smokey the Bear, clinging to my smouldering and shuddering Cascadia douglas-fir, alone at the top of the ridge, whilst all around me all the forests in the nation are burning to the ground.

Gem among the dross

I didn't want to make it sound like I was slagging off on everything in Aberdeen, even though I couldn't help noticing that probably something between six and eight out of ten people I saw walking the streets today was obese.

And not just cute-n-cuddly, round-n-roly-poly big but freaking huge; big-ass butts and ginormous legs and big honkin' peniculae lapping down over their hips (what in the service we used to call "Dunlaps' Disease" because your gut done lapped over onto your legs...). I mean...the fuck? Is the county seat of Grays Harbor County some sort of secret repository in the National Strategic Morbidly Obese Caucasian Reserve or something?

So not only were these people walking around looking all poor and beat down, but they were...well, huge.

I know the connection between poverty and bad diet and obesity, but...damn. Like heart attacks walking around in bad clothes.

That was pretty depressing.

Anyway, I wanted to say that I did find something of value here; the 8th Street Alehouse.

The pub fries were crisp and savory and hot and with the spicy remoulade were a perfect match to the malty house ale, and the steamed clams were resonant with brine and sweet with butter and were a boon companion to the grapefruit IPA (and I don't say that lightly - I am typically not a fruit-beer fan!)

What turned out to be amusing was the couple at the next table turned out to be in the consulting business as well; she a hydrologist and fisheries specialist, he an air and water contaminant analyst. He couldn't remember the name of the old Chicago Cub's broadcaster (Jack Brickhouse was the man's name, by the way, a memory from my mother's summers listening to the Cub on the radio...)and that led us to talking about this and that and eventually found out what we did for livings. So we spent a bunch of time talking about funny consulting things.

(BTW - In case you don't know GFT conventions, if I show pictures of people who either haven't explicitly given me permission to show their faces or I haven't been in a position to ask, I only show their legs and/or feet. It seems like a compromise that lets me preserve their privacy but show something of them on a medium that is as visual as literary...)

Anyway, the 8th Street Alehouse was a good place to be after a long day in the hot sun wrangling samplers full of goo.

(Aberdeen, as you can imagine, is built on tens of feet of sloppy Chehalis River alluvium. For a day's drilling that's fine. For a week? Christ, it's like punching the clock. How many samplers full of gray duck shit can you stare at, pocket-pen, torvane, and worm-roll before shoving the goop in a baggie and moving on to the next sampler full of gray duck shit? Before getting bored out of your fucking skull, I mean..?)

And it's probably worth a look back in after tomorrow's day-full-of-duck-shit; I haven't tried the fish and chips yet.

There's only one teesny little problem...

The 8th Street Ale House is in Hoquiam.

So I guess Aberdeen still pretty much just sucks pipe.

Li Rwè, li Lwè et l’ Liberté !

I found this a curious and interesting combination of news and history; apparently the Belgians are getting a new King.

"Filip/Philippe will be King of a country that is divided between a part of the population that is deeply attached to the Belgian unity, and part of the population (mainly Flemish nationalists) who prefer regional independence. The Belgian king has always played a crucial role in keeping the different parts of the country together, and the question is whether King Filip/Philippe, who is said to have less emotional and social intelligence as his father, will be able to fulfill this role in the same way as his father did. Journalists keep asking, up until today: “Is he ready for this role?”

The connection here is that Mojo and I dropped in on the Bazi Bierbrasserie on Hawthorne last weekend to enjoy a lovely evening out and celebrate Belgian independence day;

The Belgian brews were appropriately robust and floral, and the stoemp was damn fine; I've got to try making that around here, tho finding the mergeuez sausage here in Portland might be a bit tricky. We enjoyed a truly peaceful and intimate evening ending up at the Heron Haus B&B where we spent our honeymoon night eleven years ago this October.

One of the subjects of conversation that evening was "what is a Belgian", and the whole business of Flemings vs. Walloons came up. Several of the patrons and staff at Bazi had their own opinions, but the general consensus seemed to be that there would always be a Belgium.

But it got me thinking about what makes a "nation", how its citizens (or in Belgium's case, "subjects", although the idea of a tyrannical House of Brabant oppressing its subjects in 2013 seems rather ridiculous no matter how loathsome the colonial record of the second Leopold might have been.) And what a curious beast an "American" is, being defined (at least in theory) not by language, or race, or heritage, or "culture", or really even geographical location but intellectual and emotional attachment to a slew of political ideals about self-government and the relationship between government, its citizens, and society.

And I'm not quite sure what I think about that, especially given the great changes in the U.S. between the society I grew up in - which was founded largely on a social compact defined by the New Deal - and the U.S. of today (and in case you think I'm romanticizing the New Deal a large part of that compact specified excluding the darker-colored citizens of the U.S. and the changes wrought by the Civil Rights Era had a hell of a lot to do with the subsequent changes and the breakdown of that social compact...).

I can't honestly say that I see Belgium's political and civil issues as vastly greater than those I see around me right here. But I do know that I might be a teensy bit concerned if my country depended on the political and social skills of one guy said (in the comments section of the article I found) to possess "the intellectual and political skills...of a cabbage".

The stoemp was damn fine, though.

It is, mate. It is.

It's 7:18pm on a Saturday and I just got through working.So I'm off for a bit of the lager, eh? It's lovely!

(h/t to Erik Loomis over at LG&M for the lovely old advert)

The Twelve Beers of Christmas: Days 1 through 4

I'm not humble. We can fucking solid brew up here in the Pacific Northwest.

I don't know about the rest of the country. I've heard some idle talk about the quality of the beers in California, but I put that down to the natural arrogance of the Golden State; they think they do EVERYthing better in California. But they're wrong, oh, so, tragically, criminally wrong.

"California Pizza Kitchen".

I rest my case.

So this year I've tried to get myself into a little more Christmassy mood. And, to me, nothing says "Christmas" like "drinking".

Well, that and sex under the Christmas Tree, but if you think I'm blogging about that you're effing nuts. Beyond the tasteless factor Mojo would toast my organs of generation over the Yule log. I like the magic in my marriage the way it is, thanks.

So this year I've decided to test-drink twelve of our local "seasonal" brews.

Seasonal brew?

Yeah, I forget that a hell of a lot of you live in places where Budweiser is consider a boutique beer.

(Oh, and for the record, I'm not sure what Bud Light (or is it officially "Bud Lite"? Gawd.) being the "favorite beer of NFL fans" says, but I suspect that it slanders either beer, football, or the people who consume both)Every year's end our local breweries produce some version of a "winter seasonal" beer. The tradition usually extends to spring (when the brewers come up with a märzen-style), summer (which usually means a light, crisp brew - a pilsner or very hoppy ale such as an India Pale Ale) and autumn (which is usually greeted with an "oktoberfest"-style product). But seeing as how I like my beer like I like my women; strong, dark, and a bit of fun effort to wrestle down, the "winter warmers" are my hands-down favorites.

This year I've worked my way through four:

Deschutes Brewing's "Jubelale"
Full Sail's "Wreck The Halls"
Old Lompoc's "C-Sons Greetings", and
Ninkasi's "Sleigh'r"

So let me quickly catch you up to where I am in the Solstice Suds Sampling:

Day 1: Jubelale (Deschutes Brewing Co., Bend, Oregon)

Jubel is an Oregon classic; perhaps the single most thought-of brew when a webfoot thinks of the word "winter seasonal" or "winter warmer".It's an English "strong ale"; dark in color, malty rather than hoppy, with a powerful ale flavor over a very rounded, crisp finish. It does, in fact, "warm" you. I accompanied mine with a Kansas City-style T-bone, garlic-mashed, and winter vegetables, and it was nearly perfect. Jubel hits the tongue with a rabbit-punch of malt, teases the uvula with a tingle of hops, and swirls through the mouth with little hints of pepper and fruity goodness. It's a hell of a damn fine brew, and though this year's model is a little less...well, "perfect" than I expect - the brewmaster at Deschutes talks about how the formulation was changed back to the early versions this year and I noted a little more "sting"; less smoothness, more pepper than in years past.

But, still, the Jubelale is the King of Winter Beers, and the first day set a tough standard for the rest to follow.

Day 2: "Wreck The Halls" (Full Sail Brewing, Hood River, Oregon)

Last Tuesday I was working all day in the field and didn't really have much time to make a decent meal to accompany this brew. It didn't really need it; even with Stouffer's Lasasgna with Meat Sauce this tidy little IPA was tasty, hoppy, clean, and delicious.I liked that WTH was truly hoppy in the Northwest fashion but avoided the lip-puckering bitterness of some of the "brewmaster's reserve" creations that NW brewers seem to like to challenge their drinkers with. Darkish and full enough to make a mouthful satisfying the Full Sail boys did a nice job keeping their "winter warmer" free of the more commonly encountered sorts of holiday-busyness; no spices, no fruitiness, no citrus, just a lovely, rounded malt with a crispy hops tang and a lingering hit of alcohol - a tallboy had me pleasantly fuzzed. Damn fine.

Day 3: "C-Sons Greetings" (Lompoc Brewing, Portland, Oregon)This Imperial/Double India Pale Ale went with takeaway; haddock-and-chips from "The Fish And Chip Shop" on N. Killingsworth (one of the hidden treasures of North Portland - no-bullshit Brit workingman's food for a decent price) and was the polar opposite of the simple heartiness of the flaky fish and rich 'taties.This is one complex brew; spicy, hopped-up, malty, fruity...and at 8% alcohol it hits like Donder's spinning backkick.

I liked C-Sons in a very odd sort of way. One tallboy was outstanding, a truly interesting, challenging beer. But I can imagine that another might have been less welcome. And more then that? Just too much; too busy, too spicy, too...too.

So. I've polished off the fourth of our local winter brews sitting here with Mojo sewing and the two kiddos playing an exciting game with their "hex bugs"; everyone is having a heck of a good evening.

Day 4: "Sleigh'r" (Ninkasi Brewing, Eugene, Oregon)

Let me start by saying that I normally enjoy the product of the Ninkasi stable; they tend to make very classic Northwest beers.

But I found their seasonal to be...well, less than something to celebrate.It was drinkable, but just that. Supposedly a "dark double alt" it had very little altbier character being, instead, a fairly conventional Northwest dark ale. Surprisingly underhopped for a Ninkasi release, it was rather "flat" and malty, with a "muddled" impression that did little to enhance the ginger-garlic chicken stir-fry I made tonight. Indeed, the combination of our CSA kale with baby bok choy and Chinese sausage from Anzen was more interesting than anything in the bottle.

Not terrible, not even bad, but not particularly memorable or tasty. Not a keeper, in my opinion.

So there we are - another day tomorrow, another treasure from the Pacific Northwest. As good a way to pass the Yuletide season as I can imagine.

I'm almost surprised; at a time of year when I'm usually overwhelmed with curdled loathing for the masturbatory commercial splurgegasm that is the commercial Christmas season I have actually managed to get some pleasure out of this December.

It helps that the kiddos are not overcome with insane greed. They're excited about the upcoming loot but not utterly deranged about it. And we don't have any relatives visiting and infecting us with craziness, and without any real need to tote any out-of-towners around to Portland Christmasness we have managed to miss the most horrific of our local Wenceslausy glurge as well.

Now if my legs would just stop fucking with me. And we could catch and savagely beat the sonsofbitches that jacked Mojo's credit card and bought the airline tickets to Manila.

But those are stories for another day...