Things About Beer, and Words

Today, it happened. Today, as I sat cozied up to the bar at my favorite brewery, some guy came up next to me and started talking beer. It wasn't ten minutes into the conversation that he asked me if I was the "one who writes the stories in the paper." I answered in the affirmative and he said he recognized me from the headshot with my beer column. This means I am famous. This makes me a celebrity. I have arrived. I will be selling autographs later.

It's not really that I am famous. It's really just that beer is the great equalizer. It brings people together and levels the playing field across generations, fashion sensibilities, mood swings... Beer is love. Beer makes every conversation bearable, every task (almost) enjoyable, and any company endurable. Beer is the best.

Lately I've been having a hard time writing. I mean, I can do the stuff I have to for work, but I have certainly been feeling less than inspired to spew original ideas that have any real merit. Running into somebody who reads, and actually digests, and maybe even enjoys, the words that I write, helps me feel like I am not always screaming my words into an echoless void, which might be a writer's worst nightmare - it's definitely mine.

When I left my post as the writer at the Silverado, it was more of a release of the THING that offered me a pathway into the community than it was quitting a job.  Much like beer lubricates a conversation, or a relationship, or a bad decision, writing for a local paper gave me an in. I let it go because I knew my heart was headed in a different direction, which it always it, the direction with less commitment and more insecurity, because I like adventures. And suffering. And I like having an "in," but I've found that I also like to sit back and observe in anonymous ambiguity, watching and waiting for inspiration.

I love writing about things I love. Like beer. Or history. Or psychoanalytical bullshit that I make up randomly. I don't love writing about things that I don't care about and then having to have conversations about those things with people who read my stories and expect me to be interested and/or have expertise, when in reality, I did what I was told. And doing what I am told has never been my favorite.

So back to the beer I go. For drinking and writing and making friends. And back to the writing, for thinking and understanding and being famous. Or not. Either way, as long as there's beer.

Things About Butte

I am sitting in the second story of a building in downtown Butte, Montana, that used to house a newspaper, more than 100 years ago. The narrow plank wood floors show the carefully restored wear and use of what was probably the photo and lithograph developing area, based on the chemicals they encountered during restoration, according to the current inhabitant. A “reasonably good-looking” in his own words, and “epically talented” brewer, he’s the man behind Muddy Creek Brewery, which, according to Google ratings, is the best brewery in Butte. Whether Google raters know anything remains in question, but Muddy Creek seems to know their beers. A sample flight brings me three blondes, a thick vanilla stout and an obligatory IPA (this is, afterall, a microbrewery). Any other flight with multiple blondes would normally sound better as a sexual encounter than a beer tasting, but Muddy Creek mixes it up just right.

Being a 'professional' beer connoisseur, my methodology for sampler consumption is quite scientific, if not flawed. I always try them all and then drink the balance from least favorite to most, so I can savor and enjoy the best beer, leaving the establishment with the taste of it still on my breath. I say flawed because as we all know, after the first four or so samples, it doesn’t really matter two shits what they taste like. It’s all delicious.

In the case of Muddy Creek, it was a mid-afternoon time-killing stop wherein I didn’t plan to hang out for unending hours redefining the meaning of inebriation. But in spite of the steady stream of right-on-the-brink of too-loud classic rock (my least favorite genre), I feel right at home here. The beer is good and the tables, crafted out of old cable spools, coupled with late 1800s woodwork give me the industrial warm fuzzies. It helps that they let me bring my road weary dog in from the car so she could lie in stiff tension on the wood floor, staring at the resident stuffed black bear named Stout, just across from our table.

My plan was to stick with a modest four sample flight before moving on responsibly and checking into my budget-priced Econolodge room for the night. But the reasonably handsome master brewer insisted on throwing in a sample of his Storm the Door Vanilla Porter, and I didn’t want to be rude. That fifth sample, after all, spells the end of productivity for the day, unless you count a blatherous post about beer and the merits thereof.

But back to the beer: The Dirty Blonde was a basic, easy drinking, 5% ABV classic golden hued blonde. None of that over-hopped hipster microbrewing overkill. It was comfortable and good. The Blue Sky Blonde, which the epically talented brewer says is their most proliferously distributed beer, is a blueberry blonde. I am not one for fruity beers, and I have been out-blueberried a time or two, but this one is a winner with a 5% ABV. The berry factor is subtle enough for the manliest of rednecks to abide with. The Mandarin Tango is another 5% ABV blonde with some subtle citrusy and other almost unidentifiable flavors that were good, but bordered on a visit to Bath and Body Works. Still a smooth drinker, lots of my Budlight girlfriends would dig it. The Skinny Cow IPA was a good IPA at 6% ABV. Not one of the cleanest ones I’ve tasted, and nothing that I wanted to send a postcard to my ex-boyfriends about, but if you’re an IPA drinker, which I am when the mood takes me, it’s doable. Storm the Door was a good vanilla stout, the talented and handsome brewer wasn’t wrong, but not being a dark beer aficionado I would have to defer to one of my more surly friends for a professional verdict. It clocks in at 6.2% ABV. The fact that I didn’t hate it was good enough for me.

After my accidental flight of five, I found myself with a full pint of the Dirty Blonde. Like the talented and handsome brewer says, it’s the only place in town that you can have a dirty blonde and not leave with an STD - an especially poignant statement considering the longest operating brothel in United States history is very literally just down the street a few blocks.


While the whole town of Butte with it’s rollicking hills and crumbling brick buildings won my heart, Muddy Creek certainly clinched the deal. I want to come here and buy the whole town and make it the next Dollywood. Except cooler. Never have I seen so many extremely badass buildings lying vacant and hopelessly abandoned. I am glad Muddy Creek made a home here in the old newspaper office, and it feels just about right to sit here with AC DC and type my little heart out next to a dirty blonde and a mini dachshund.

 

Things About (not) Drinking

I decided to give up drinking (alcohol) for three months, just to see what life was like without it. I learned a lot in those three months. All 42 days of it.

OK, so I didn’t make it three months (does this indicate a problem?). But 42 days has to earn me some street cred with the teetotalers out there, right? In case you’re curious to know the Deep and Meaningful things that I learned while I was beerless, wineless whiskyless and ginless for a few weeks, well, I will tell you, but first let me tell you WHY.

I didn’t really learn about drinking until I was in my mid-to-late twenties and dealing with something of a crisis of the soul and pocketbook and home and life in general. Drinking was one of the only things, for a few years, that provided snapshots of “happiness” in an otherwise pretty upsetting world. Without going into sordid details, the other things that made me happy were my kids being silly, trips to the zoo, the advent of text messaging and the original iPhone.

It took me several years, as it does most people when learning to drink, to figure out my limits and at which point alcohol took over all of the decision making capacities in my life. Of course at the time, if alcohol wasn’t deciding then it was usually some cruel version of fate calling the shots, so in many cases I was happy to let booze take over. As I learned to bridle my drink, I also learned to manipulate the cruel hand of fate and start calling the shots for myself, and quit being a sorry excuse for a pile of victimized mush.

Since then, I have learned to enjoy wine on most nights, beer on some, whisky and gin on the certain days that just call for whiskey and gin. For the most part, drinking and decision making have long since parted ways, except for the occasional karaoke song choice or making new best friends at the bar whose names I can’t remember the next day.

I am not against drinking and I appreciate that it takes the suck out of life sometimes, just by sanding off the pointy edges of days and people and things. But I decided to take a break for a few reasons, including a body that keeps getting older and breaking without my permission, a lot of Big Things happening in my life and Decisions To Be Made and Plans To Be Developed, and also I was curious to know how much life sucked without a drink here and there.

Here’s what I learned: it sucks a lot.

But it’s also beautiful. All those sharp edges that get sanded off can be good every once in awhile for pointing out little things that need to be fixed.

I was also curious if I would make No Bad Choices while I wasn’t drinking, but lying in the hot sun for 5 hours one day with no sunblock, wearing an ill-advised bikini, proved that bad choices can be made even without the help of a drink. Sometimes people (i.e. me) are still dumb, and in this case, still peeling. I also found myself reciting Uncle Remus stories, sans alchohol, so there’s really no excuse for my behavior.

What I missed the most in 42 days was a glass of wine at the end of the day in sweatpants on the couch, shower beers and that lazy, happy smile about life after a couple of drinks. What I didn’t miss the most in 42 days was the draggy fuzz of mornings after I didn’t stop at one glass, or two glasses but felt compelled to finish the whole bottle so as not to let it go bad.

Ultimately, I learned that I don’t need to drink (alcohol) to get through, or even enjoy life. But even Jesus knew what a drag a party is without a little something in your glass (water-into-wine, y'all?), and I am grateful for the privilege of being able to enjoy the miracle of science that is fermentation, in all it’s variety.

purpose is everything.

Things That Are Worth The Risk

Being in love is a lot like being drunk. And it's a good enough feeling that we go back over and over and over again (some of us do) for more, even though we know that heartbreak, like a hangover, is gonna sting like a mother-frakker and we're gonna swear that we'll never do it again. I've vowed off of love (and beer) repeatedly, but somehow, I always end up tottering on the brink of Going There one more time.

Some hangovers are just worth it, that's all. Even the worst ones that you think you'll never recover from. Because you're never gonna forget that one time that you NAILED What's Going On at karaoke, or sinking your ATV seat-deep in the sand out by the river at night, or the new dance you invented with your BFFs in a moment of Absolute Clarity after a shotski of fireball, if you remember those things in the first place. But seriously, can you hang a price tag on those good times with friends, any more than you can name the value of the butterflies you get when he leans in for the first kiss?.. Just brace yourself for the morning after, cause it's probably gonna hurt.

I've made all of the mistakes in my life - enough for me and all of my friends who 'courted' and missed out on the tragedy and triumph that is dating. I guess for better or worse, I traded 'for better or worse' for 'trial and error' and a lot of good intention and poor execution. It's not that I didn't want to stay married, really. I would happily be somebody's wife right now, if somebody could have just got his shit together. Clearly I am perfect, in case you hadn't noticed.

And being perfect, I have had a long line of perfect relationships, wherein I was never too clingy, too selfish, too moody or too demanding. Ever. Through no fault of my own, they ended, and the poor bastards that lost out in the end really had no idea what they were missing out on. But that's ok, because I just haven't met anybody as perfect as me yet, that's all. But I must still believe he is out there, deep down, because something makes me run back into the bloody fray that is hope and stand, battered heart in hand, wondering where he's hanging out. I've been checking the brew pubs and dive bars, since I didn't find him in the church groups and intentional communities. But I don't think that perfect guys hang out at perfect places. I think they're more like me and they're all over the place. It's just that my timing that has been terribly, horribly wrong for 38 years.

If I could list every time that I went a little out of my way, or took a little time I shouldn't have to stop into a random brewery, just to make sure I didn't miss out on the Best Beer In The World, well - I'd have to write a book, because I can't think of a time that I wished I hadn't. And I have had some of the Best Beers In The World, and met some of the coolest people, because I just did it, never a regret. Dating should be the same way. You never know when you'll run across the Best Beer/Man Ever, because you went a little out of your way or took a little time you shouldn't have. It's worth the gamble. I hope.

Maybe it's just that the ache of a broken heart has a familiar comfort to it. A reminder that I am actually alive. For a couple years now I have alternated between nursing old wounds and deciding that I would never, ever risk that damage again. But then I watch my young, pretty girls and I think that I would hug them, give 'em a kick in the ass and then send them back out to find love. And whether it's the springtime or beer, or the country music, or road trip season sneaking up on me with nobody to ride shotgun beside, I dunno - either way, it seems like it's time to take a gamble on some butterflies and risk the next morning, shaking my fist at god and Bad Decisions.

definitely worth the risk.

Things That Are Alright

It never ceases to amaze me how the springtime sunshine can push it's way through a plethora of suck and make even the worst days better. I spent the first half of this week on the verge of tears for so many reasons that I can't even keep track, and here I am on Thursday, St. Patrick's Day, no less, feeling like maybe it will all be ok after all. Not that things aren't still a little upside down, or there aren't plenty of excuses to cry, but I am working real hard to find the silver lining in All Of The Bad Things right now, and it's coming out alright. I have a beer sitting next to me on a Very Dirty Porch in the Very Warm Sunshine, and even though the beer isn't green and my butt is getting muddy, it feels good.

Frank the Bloodhound figured out how easy it was to step over the less-than-four-foot fence in the back yard and has taken to wandering around town. It was almost cute and endearing when he tracked us to Rivertown Grill the other night in the rain and had to sit in the car until we were done with dinner. It was even semi-adorable the first time he showed up at the school to find out what I could possibly be doing there that was more important than throwing his Breno horse for him. The second field trip to school was a little much, in addition to charging all 140lbs of hair-flinging dogflesh through a very unhappy English teacher's classroom, he made me late for class when I had to take him home, which is apparently a bad thing when you are the teacher.

he's definitely grounded

Because as it happens, I AM the teacher. At least for now. For the next three months, every single day. I am the teacher. Already I am getting a taste of the sacrifice that teaching is as I forgo St. Patty's Day shenanigans to ride with a bus full of drama students tonight to watch a play at Woodland Theater. I mean did it have to be tonight? I will miss the tinge of green food coloring in my beer as I watch The Addams Family Musical with a herd of reprobate high schoolers. And so my full-time teaching career begins, turning the usual financial nightmare of spring into something survivable, if I can make it to work every day, which we all know is a major challenge for me.

I get to sub for Mrs. Wilson as she ends her 37 year teaching career with a full knee replacement so that she  remain ambulatory during her retirement. This lady has earned it. Apparently the school advertised for a substitute that was highly qualified in the subjects of health, fitness and drama, and all of the certified people ran screaming the other way. I guess drama isn't everybody's cup of tea. Who knew? And I guess that I am passably qualified to teach it. I am not sure if this is based on the fact that I have raised four girls or my limited background in theater... But mostly it's probably my ability to pretend to know what I am talking about that really won me the work. #fakeittilyoumakeit

This is such a great opportunity because one of the classes I am teaching is "alternative fitness", which is geared towards students who really couldn't hack it in PE due to stressors like dressing down and exercise. Interestingly enough, my class is full of jocks and athletes who just needed an elective and figured it would be easy. And if you're into yoga and training for a pack test, it is, because that's what I am doing. It is sobering to realize that there are 18 year old guys who can't keep up with my old lady pace when we do our walks. And I am wearing a weight pack! I am looking forward to finding a way to compel these kids to leave me in the dust, which would take very little effort on their part, if effort can be found.

Anyway, suddenly I went from being bored out of my mind in early February, to so busy I can't see straight at the end of March. I just stare on my calendar and will some of the obligations to go away, but they don't. They just stare back at me and laugh in that sinister way that obligations do. So I drink a beer and decide to figure out how to Do It All tomorrow sometime.

I love that it's baseball season, and the fields are full of heckling kids and the clinking of balls on bats. I come home to find the random teenage boy rooting around for gatorade on my back porch and begin to wonder when the baseball-sized dents in my car appeared. The dogs can hardly get their unauthorized neighborhood patrols in as they are so busy supervising baseball practice and digging in the soft mud that was once a front yard. Dagny should be arriving in Australia any time now I think.

beer, booger, baseball season #gobendelks

Life is busy and inconvenient. It's filthy dirty and out of control, but it's good. It's going. It's life. Noone remembered to put corned beef and cabbage in the crock pot this morning so maybe I will help out the Grill with theirs. It just seems wrong to not observe the holiday somehow, and besides, I don't have any Jameson here.

Things That Are Good

Some days it can be hard to remember why we do the things we do. Why we didn't give up our children for adoption or file for disability 12 years ago. Some days it seems like all of the trying and the working and the struggling to Do The Right Thing only ends in one more disaster and another bad day. Some days there is no amount of positive thinking or gratitude to compensate for the mascara that you finally decided to wear and then promptly bawled all over your face. Some days just suck. 

The beauty of sucky days is that we would have no idea how Truly Awful they were if we didn't have the good days in between. The days when those kids we aren't sure we want anymore reached out and reminded us of the loveliness that is buried 10 issues deep inside of them. The good days when you can feel the gorgeousness that is You pouring out from deep within, even when you haven't showered and you realized the sweatpants you're wearing doubled as the dog bed last night. Our crappiest moments stand out because they are in stark contrast to that time when the kid you weren't sure would ever read got the high honor roll. Or the dog that can't be potty trained went for two whole days without pooping anywhere visible to surprise guests. We have days and days of bills paid on time and dinners cooked (however poorly received by ingrate teenagers) and not running out of gas on the way to work. We have those days and it makes the ones when Everything In the World Goes Wrong seem like utter hell. 

It isn't so much about having a half-empty or half-full glass. It's about having a glass. Something to put stuff into that can hold it all, whatever you've got for the time being, whether it's wine or Pepto-Bismol. You've got a container for all of the good, and the bad. And the "impurtities" that you'll skim off the top.  You've got a place to keep it all - a way to know whether it is good or bad for short term or long term or how the hell it fits in at all. You've got a glass called life. And sometimes it's all scuzzed over with dishwasher grime and unidentifiable substances and you can't stand to look at it, but sometimes it's crystal-sparkling clear and you can't remember ever wanting to slam that beautiful thing on the ground and shatter it into a million pieces, even though it was just yesterday. Or an hour ago. Lucky for us the glass changes. The shit filling it changes and the level fluctuates. But as long as there's a glass, we've got something, and if we didn't, where in the world would we put the beer?

I think tomorrow my glass will hold a Bacon Bloody Mary. It's only right.

Things About Wenatchee

Once upon a time a girl who really couldn't afford it but had all this faith in The Good Things To Come, traveled to a far away land for a class about things she thought she might be good at. So much speculation in that sentence. Story of my life. It's really all about speculation. Wondering if THIS STEP is the Best Good Decision she has ever made or the Worst Mistake of Her Life. Ever unpredictable, the coin lands as it will, with the dashing prince that turns out to be a dud and the lost cause that becomes a best friend. But as the snowboard full of beer sits before me, and with the full knowledge that I will be able to pay at least for this One Last Supper, all is well.

This week I am in Wenatchee. I am learning how to be a Public Information Officer for all-hazard incidents for the federal government, which is to say they are teaching me how to avoid saying anything of traceable importance or litigatable fact to the surging media that appears on any major fire, flood, earthquake, terrorist attack or Black Friday sale. So far the only definite thing that I have learned is that when I am shot on video for an interview, I look exactly like my dad in a really bad wig (no offense dad, but it's a good thing you aren't a woman) #notphotogenic. It's a good thing I am really good at Twitter, and Facebook, and Writing All The Things.

Being in the town of Wenatchee, which is not only geographically, but culturally dead center between Bend, Oregon and Kettle Falls, Washington, I am forced to do what any self respecting single-woman/beer-loving/unpaid-employee would: seek out the breweries and conduct an experiment in awkward drink-alone situations and creative bar-tab justification. It's working, y'all. I am winning. Not only have I succesfully ruled out the chance that I will EVER appear before a video camera again, I have determined that for the dedicated beer drinker, the only true micro-brewery in Wenatchee is Badger Mountain Brewing. While Badger Mountain doesn't offer a full menu, in the Happy-Hour I spent there with 6 of their noteably good beers, the brewer/cook came out and chatted with me, because he's cool. Well worth the visit. Don't even waste your time at Columbia Valley Brewing since apparently their brewing apparatus broke down months ago and they forgot to tell anybody. Their food also leaves something to be desired, namely flavor, and the place smelled like Pine Sol, which is totally cool if you're in a nursing home. Saddle Rock Brewing, on the other hand, while making the most mouth watering calzone I have ever experienced (it is a full-on experience), offers only one SRB beer on tap, calling into question their viability as a "brewery". Let's go with "Awesome taphouse with a brewing hobby" instead. That's better. To be fair, the one beer is decidely good, even for an IPA, which most of you know is not my favorite. But the WVC (Wenatchee Valley College) 4.0 IPA is an easy, not-too-hoppy drinker, so most IPA die-hards will be dismayed. Upon further "research" involving a 12 beer sample flight and a burly, tattooed, red-headed waiter, it appears that SRB releases one brew a month in addition to their 11 guest beers. Turns out their 45 gallon brewing system is truly a platform for brewing experimentation. Potential for better days (and brews) ahead. I don't hate it, especially when the guest taps are from Ninkasi, Deschutes (including Not The Stoic?!?!?) and 21st Amendment, a brewery I had been itching to try.

So even if I don't make a very good camera-ready PIO, I know that I can Tweet the rest of them to shame, and if all else fails: BEER.

Things About Girls. And Beer.

It was a long time coming. Last year sometime, so long ago that I don't remember when, me and a bestie met up with my Aunt and cousin for a girls beer night in Spokane at No-Li brewing. Turns out that there is this group of gals in the Spokane area that set up micro-brew-centric events for GIRLS that like beer. We had a blast then, and I mentioned to the ring-leader that they should travel north for a visit to Northern Ales in the lovely town of Kettle Falls. Northern Ales started in Northport, and I won't lie - I pretty much lived there for a little while... but even after they relocated I retain a hometown loyalty toward them. Not to mention they make some pretty stellar beer.

Anyway, long story short, we finally set a date and sold a few tickets, and the Inland Northwest chapter of Girls Pint Out hosted a road trip to Northern Ales. So as it turns out, mid November, with sub-freezing temperatures, can be somewhat of a deterrent for a 2+ hour drive in the dark with the intention of drinking. I get it. So when only two girls from Spokane showed up, we did the only reasonable thing: overcompensate with our local presence. They kept trickling in, until we had almost a dozen gals, from many different places and walks of life. It was a fun group. And the beer...

Most Girl's Pint Out events involve beer sampling. Sometimes with food pairings, and a brewery tour, etc. Steve and Andrea at Northern Ales stepped this one up a little bit. We were each provided with a taster glass and the beer list, complete with wordy descriptions of the brews that used terms like "creamy mouthfeel", strategically placed toward the bottom of the list so that you've had enough beer that this provides ample middle-schoolish giggling. The beer was delivered to the table by the pitcherful. I don't know if you have ever calculated how many taster/shot glasses you can fill from a pitcher of beer, but with 10 beers on tap (or was it 11? I lost count after 4) that equated about a pitcher of beer apiece. And this is no lite beer.

Steve took us on a whirlwind tour of the brewery (which we were technically sitting smack dab in the middle of) between sets of the concert that his band, the Northern Aliens was playing. Talk about a man of many talents! He can play drums, brew beer AND tolerate a bunch of rosy-cheeked, beer-officianato, middle-schoolesque girls on a tour. He's a winner in my book. 

In addition to A LOT of beer, we got some of the best chips and salsa on the market, the brewpub's "Soggy Snacky" (a creative moniker for crostini with oil and vinegar), and a couple of pizzas that were seriously to die for. I have never eaten anything at Northern Ales that I didn't want to dedicate an entire blog to, much less my whole diet plan.

The giggling set in when we were about 3.75 pitchers deep - part of the way through the tour when we witnessed a couple emerging from one of the coed bathrooms together. I mean, the sign says...

It was a great night. With great food, great company and AMAZING BEER. I could easily do that once a month. Or week. Or every night. If I could somehow relinquish the necessity of daily functionality.

Check out Girl's Pint Out on Facebook - there are some awesome upcoming events, like a hockey game in January, that I CANNOT wait for. If you aren't from the Great North Best, no harm, no foul - there are regional GPO chapters all over the place. Look it up in your area. It's a great way to meet other crazy girls and get in on some sweet beer-oriented deals.

Things About Running Away

I'd had enough. Enough of the caterwauling. Enough yelling. Squealing. Snapping. Judging. Girls. Enough. I got up at 6:03 AM to go to Spokane so the doctor could tell me that my shoulder wouldn't get better unless I have a surgery that I don't have insurance for. And the girls. So many girls. Extra girls. I only had two with me, including a spare I borrowed. But I came home to two more. And shrieking. And giggling. And it just. Wouldn't. Quit. 

So I ran away.

Not to girls night and wine  

Not to taco Tuesday.

Not to a drug induced stupor in my bed. 

I ran away to HOCKEY. 

I even took a boy. He wasn't mine. I had to borrow him. But he was willing enough. 

And on the way there was a car upside down in the ditch, lights still on. No body. No blood. No one to save. So onward we pushed. Into the icy, far northern reaches of southernmost Canada. 

We missed the entire first period. But it was worth it. Braving the icy roads, and Canadian Drivers. And American drivers who use being American as an excuse to drive badly in Canada. It was worth the $13 Canadian which used to only be like $10 in American but might be $20 now, I am not even sure. 

The boy and I talked. My borrowed boy. Pseudo-son. Aiden, whom I call Spock, for reasons quite obvious to anyone who knows him. And it isn't his pointed ears. We settled the issue once and finally that girls are dumb. That dating in high school is dumb. That movies are cool. And so is hockey, and hunting camp. And there is really no reason to squeal. Ever. 

And there was cold Canadian Beer. It was good. And a zamboni. And no Shinny Allowed. I don't even know what Shinny is but I am pretty sure I am glad there wasn't any, although at some point I will investigate it's origin. And $2 (Canadian) bags of gummy candies. And the Pseudo-son Spock wandered around and left me in peace with my beer. And the mascot, who is oddly a Panda bear, felt my need for silent camaraderie, and he stood by me. And when does a Panda Bear standing next to you not fix everything? 

The Smokeys lost, but it was a good game. And the first of many this winter. To make up for all of the ones I said I would go to last year and didn't. It was a good night. And a good running away. And when I came back, there were all the girls. With the squealing. And the noise. But I felt better.