Brewed Musings

Brewed Beverage of Choice: Henry’s IPA in a polished pint glass

Thelonius where the hell have you been? It has been far too long since last we met and I was beginning to worry. Perhaps we just missed each other on the bus, you getting off at 6th and Main as I boarded one block away on 7th. Maybe you were on the 4:53 train dreaming of a new riff whilst I was late finishing my brew riff and had to catch the 5:08. Where have you been?

I have missed hanging out with all the gang. Charlie…Diz…Lester…Bud…Hell, even Mingus and his soulful unevenness. I have missed the beers at night in the bar down the street where Horace went mad on the keys and everyone in the room enjoying the madness even joining in and giving him their madness with him adding it to the mix making a big roomful of inviting madness. I miss the times watching Philly Joe beat the shit out of the drums skillfully and not once having to replace his sticks. You know I still prefer the swingin brushstrokes of Jo, but Philly has his moments. I miss sitting at the table with the gang with beers and wine and coffee listenin to Lady Day entrance the room with her version of the blues. We laughed at the squares at the corner table because they still do not get it and never will. I laugh even though I was one of those at one time and still am at other times.

So you can imagine my surprise this morning as I walk into the cafe, my favourite cafe, and see you solemnly sitting at the counter drinking a cup of joe and reading the newspaper. You looking all regal and at home with the coffee mug at your left hand - always at your left hand or at least that is how I remember it. The sight brought a tear to my eye as if I had just found my long lost brother. I wish I had a camera to capture your saintly serenity but no photo could do the image justice. Instead I stare for a bit like a child who is just about to meet his idol, Lou Gehrig, for the first time…Eyes blinking as if the sight of you, the length of the counter with empty seats while others are filled with the working men and women of the morning, the whole sight is a mirage and I am still lying in bed dreaming. After a moment of silence, I finally walk up, slap you on the back, and ask, “Thelonius, where in the hell have you been, my friend?”

Prost!

the confucian brewer

Brewed Beverage of Choice: A pot of Green Earl Grey Tea

Got up at 8:15 this morning and after a while of diddlin’ ‘round doing this and that – more of this than of that – I decided to take the dog for a walk while the sun was still shining because it will not last long in Oregon spring so I walk out my back door to see how my hops are doing and smile at one that is almost at 5 feet in height but really only out here to gauge the coolness of the air to see if I need a jacket with the response of, “Yes!” walking back in the apartment grabbing the jacket and the Timber’s Army ‘No Pity’ scarf not because of the chill in the air but because of the excitement in the air for Thursday’s opening night of standing and singing and cheering reminding me of my childlike stubbornness the other night at being reduced, well reduced is not the correct word, to a cheerleader with me pouting saying, “No I am not!” when in reality she speaks the truth and as usual gets me to see a different point of view even though I will outwardly maintain that I am a hoolie although deep down I know hoolie and cheerleader are one-in-the-same and as I am thinking this I grab the dog, the leash, and my mp3 player putting on Andrew Bird’s ‘Simple X’ and sing along because Andrew is the only one I can sing along with in somewhat the same key – O! Andrew! Only thou can make whistling sound so beautiful! – takes me back to Chicago when I saw him do a show and he had this remarkable 4-button suit that I wanted and O! Crap! I have two weddings to go to this August and need a suit because, despite my outward appearance, I do like to look good once in a while – a bit of vanity maybe – and by the time Andrew has finished his whistlin’ and the sun has gone behind the clouds, Tess and I have reached our destination of Stumptown for a spot of tea and me-time so I switch the music to American Analog Set, tie up Tess to a nice spot throwing her a treat because she likes catchin’ ‘em now and step inside the olio of the morning.

Brewed Beverage of Choice: A Pint of the Glen Falconer Memorial beer, an Imperial “Steam” beer

A few days ago, I paid my minuscule fare and boarded a Greyhound with the hobos, the impoverished, and some college students all headed south on the I5. Many were headed into the awaiting arms of Frisco and the Pacific Ocean. While I secretly wished I could follow their solemn path, my trip ended in Eugene, Oregon and a brewfest honouring the late Glen Falconer. Little did I know as we skirted through the green, although soon to be brown, valley with the Cascades keeping watch to the East, that I was about to meet a motley group of beatnik brewers ready to welcome me into their family.

The bus was surprisingly quiet. I expected the wailingest of babies, unwatched children, and the drunken ramblings of the masses. So it was almost a dishonour to this solitude for me to put on my headphones so I may have a soundtrack to the scenery passing my window. I felt a lot like Jack: on the road with a bunch of beaten travelers all going on their way to the furthest destinations imaginable. Coincidentally the man next to me had just gotten out of the service and was headed as far south one can reach in the states before crossing the border to Mexico where he was going to live the cheap life off his pension. Jealous, I was ready to toss my plans and join him, but the hold of Brewtopia, Oregon, was too strong. I put these feelings of a Mexico flight aside, returned to my soundtrack, and got lost in my studies of the Inca and a Peruvian flight.

Eugene is only 2+ hours from Portland, but by bus it is over 3 hours, and when we rolled in to the station, I was ready to get off before my back and legs revolted. All my ideas of an escape by bus faded with the cricks and cracks of getting up after 3 hours of cramped-space sitting. So I bade the soldier a hearty good-bye and good luck, and stepped off the bus ready for some coffee, but instead found a brewpub.

After 3 failed attempts at choosing a beer, I finally settled on one they had, ordered some chips, and grabbed the local indie rag. The Uber Pils was my first choice for this sunny 90 degree day, but instead got what I could only assume was Rogue’s version of a California Common - not a bad 4th choice actually. But considering I had a full weekend of drinking beer ahead of me at a brewer’s dinner and at the festival, I only had one and exited the pub.

There was still an hour to kill before the dinner and my friend was still at work, I hoisted my backpack and wandered - a Confucian monk in Eugene. I found a park 2 blocks from the site of the dinner which would serve as a good place to rest before the debauchery get-together of brewers. With my bag as a pillow, I stretched out in the grass under a young sapling, closed my hat over my eyes, and took a nap in the Garden of Eugene.

When I awoke my stomach gave such a horrific howl. In fact, this frightening wolf howl emanating from my empty stomach is what woke me up. After I packed up my humble belongings, I strolled the 2 short blocks to the banquet hall where the dinner was being hosted, my nerves finally getting the best of me. I was sure I would not know a soul aside from my friend who was accompanying me in exchange for a comfy place to sleep. Although that spot under the tree was not to bad, but probably would have either gotten me arrested or even worse. I will take the day bed over that.

In the brewing community it does not matter if you know someone or not, within a matter of minutes someone will take your arm and pull you into to mix.  They will make you feel welcome.  That time did eventually present itself which I will get to shortly.  But after meeting the very busy brewer and organizer, Jamie from local brewery, Ninkasi, I grabbed a pint and found an empty spot at a table and watched the interaction of a close-knit family.  It was from this spot, the site of my shy people gazing, where my Kansas home was swept up by the impending tornado.

The first to greet me after Jamie was Quentin Falconer, the director of the Foundation, followed shortly by my friend who arrived right as the twister of beer geek activity touched the ground.  It was too late…For both of us.  The next 30 minutes was a frenzy of introductions during which I went from nomadic brewer-stranger to literally a part of a good, close family.  And that is how these folk from the Mid-Valley made me feel - like one of the family.

In the Portland brewing circles it is quite easy to get lost amongst the plethora of brewers and breweries despite it displaying a similar family atmosphere.  There are just so many brewers walking around.  Throw a stone in Portland and chances are you will hit a brewer.  Even the home brewers are a community as vast as the Gobi desert.  But this weekend, the Falconers opened their arms and welcomed 2 new brewers into their family.  And Jacob and I humbly and quietly were happy to be a part of it.

During the course of the evening and subsequently the following afternoon at the brewfest, we toasted to the memory of Glen; we drank an incredible amount of beer (not a bad one in the bunch!); and we talked like long lost family members at a summer reunion.  I met great new brewing friends from Walking Man, 21st Amendment, and even John Maier from Rogue Brewing;  A man I can only hope to be like later in my brewing life.

As Saturday came to a close and I had to say good-bye to this grizzled bunch of brewers, I could not help but want to stay.  I had forgotten what it was like living in a small(er) community…I had forgotten what it was like to be surrounded by a “family.”  Of course, I did have to leave.  My job and my dog were waiting for me at the other end of another long Greyhound trip.  But I was certain as I boarded the bus - this time living up to its reputation - this would not be the last time I would see my new family, and it would not be my last trip to Eugene.

Prost!

the confucian brewer

Brewed Beverage of Choice: a cup of afternoon tea!

(Written last night at the Blue Monk whilst I sat warming the cockles with a couple of pints of ale)

She walked past me in a leisure gait. Her intoxicating aroma arousing something in me as it reached for my nose. You know the way. Like that of a young child reaching for your nose as it is held in the arms of mother. Though it is not hard to describe the scent, it is one only a man of loneliness recognizes. Not because he is in a desirable state, a state of great longing. Well not only because of that state. But because it is a scent only a man of open mind, a man of want, a man in touch with his senses can taste, can smell, can endure. All the things loneliness provides.

Men who are ‘in’ relationships become sedintary and often take aroma for granted. They become sensually lethargic when it comes to the scent of a woman. It is an easy trap to fall into for all who come within its grasp. And do not think that it is just the man caught. Women can get their legs caught as well. But I am a man and cannot speak for a woman.

And so she walks past and leaves her scent slowly following behind, putting my mind in an erotic yet sensual frame of reference. The dream of our passionate embrace. The visions of the two of us tangled amongst the tangle of sheets. These are what trails that scent. Follows it like cherry blossoms in an easterly of the mountains.

These are not the visions of just the lonely person. The married man down the street has these visions. Yet they are visions of escapism as he sits in front of the computer screen typing a proposal, or as he sits in stalled traffic on the way home. For a single man, which I have termed lonely earlier…let’s face it…single = lonely at some time…not all the time mind you…it just so happens I felt the pang of loneliness as she past my table in the cafe. But back to the point.

A single man has the afore mentioned visions not out of escapism, but out of heightened senses. The senses of a hunter, of a wolf. These are visions of rememberence, of delight, of hunger. These are the visions of someone who through no fault of his own cannot or has not participated in the hunt. One who knows of the fire it brings. One who knows.

To say a lonely person is a hungry person is cliche. That, however, does not take away from its truth. Remember after all that lonely = single = hungry. To be hungry does not however mean one is starving. Is that too much for you? The hunter in all of us is brought when we are at our hungriest. And the best hunters are the ones most keenly aware. The ones who will catch onto a scent.

She walks past my table on her way to the front of the cafe, her scent following behind her like the Yangtze flows. I ready my bow and aim only to disarm. I am hungry, yet not starving. Besides the scent is far too intoxicating.