Beers

Eric, Mitch and I went to the inaugural Spokane Oktoberfest in River Front Park. Sponsored by the Washington Beer Commission, 20 beers from our wonderful state (second only to Colorado) communed for times of stein holding, yodeling, beer drinking, and, in my case, a nap on the lawn. Here are some of the highlights (and busts):

Diamond Knot Brewing—Mukilteo, WA: Vienna (ABV: 5.8%): “Vienna Style Ale. Our answer to an Oktoberfest! Reddish amber in color, the ale has a bright, crisp flavor with a malty finish,” says the program. A red beer with a bit more kick than Mac & Jack’s African Amber, it’s a cross between an angry amber and a light Spaten Optimator.

Elliott Bay Brewing—Burien, WA: Organic Washington Pumpkin Ale (ABV: 7.6%): Tastes strongly of nutmeg.

Elysian Brewing—Seattle, WA: Night Owl Our Original Pumpkin Ale (ABV: 5.9%): Boasts that they brew seven pounds of pumpkin per barrel. Eric had this one and the Elliott Bay Pumpkin, and he prefers Elysian’s. “Pumpkin, pumpkin pie!” He says.

Fremont Brewing—Seattle, WA: Mystere du Rayon (ABV: ?): A harvest ale that tasted like a cross between an amber and a cider. Maybe they just mixed some together.

Laht Neppur Brewing—Waitsburg, WA: Oatmeal Porter (ABV: 6%): The program says it has “strong coffee and chocolate flavors,” but we’ll never know because Eric knocked his over.

Iron Horse Brewery—Ellensburg, WA: Malt Bomb: a dark beer that tastes like a toasty thick milkshake.

Northern Ales—Northport, WA: Smoked North Porter (ABV: 6%): Keep an eye out for this little brewery as it’s expanding to Kettle Falls. The man wearing the Viking hat told me that they’re looking to distribute to Spokane in the next year. It took me twenty minutes to get through six ounces of the Smoked North Porter. A charming motor oil color, I’d like to take that beer camping with me. It smells like my apartment and tastes like a fire pit.

Paradise Creek Brewery—Pullman, WA: Dirty Blonde (ABV: 5.2%): Mitch refused to try any beers from Pullman. This not-spicy blonde didn’t taste like much. The sign said that the ladies liked it too... not my kind of ladies.


And now for the Best o’ the Westovs:

3rd—Elliott Bay Brewing: Hop Von Boorian (ABV: 5.5%): Don’t let the low alcohol content and the light color fool you. This Belgian-inspired IPA is a kick in the face.

2nd—Georgetown Brewing—Seattle, WA: Lucille IPA (7.2%): “Anything that tastes that good has to be named Lucille.” It’s everything you want an IPA to be, a field of flowers in a glass. Aromatic, crisp, complex. Really well done.

1st—Laht Neppur Brewing: Autumn Warmer (ABV: 8%): The highest in alcohol content, I tried it first—the love child of a pumpkin ale and an IPA. Burnt umber in color. Sweet, smooth, spicy. It’ll hold your hand and keep you warm, the best counselor for October.

wine and lamps and schools in africa.

I'm in a book club with 30 to 40 year old women who bitch and drink wine and laugh and bitch some more.

We read A Super Sad True Love Story by Gary Shteyngart. The novel was in the 'fad' section of Barnes and Noble. After two or so weeks of the release date it was anointed with a 20% discount sticker on the upper right hand corner because they overstocked. It's a sloppy, not all that interesting satire of what is to come with technology and iphones and the impending doom of the United States government and economy. It had moments of witty and cleverness, but over all it's drenched in badly written social drama scenes. And it's super raunchy.

The majority of our discussion was not about the book, (to my relief, it doesn't merit much discussion except that you should think about the decisions you make and that China is eventually going to kick our red, white, and blue inflated ass)

no, we talked about a lamp purchase.

Michelle and I walked into Andrea's house together. She's back into the social scene. She had a baby six weeks ago and can once again enjoy drinking wine and having sex with her husband. Apparently you have to wait six weeks after giving birth to have sex. (I'm taking notes, folks.)

"Just out of curiosity ladies, how much would you spend on two accent lamps?" Michelle brings up as we all pull out our books from our purses.

I feel a bit out of place. I am wearing Toms shoes, I have no idea what an accent lamp is, and I'm drinking free wine. I'm going to sit out for this discussion.

Andrea speaks up. "Well, what kind of accent lamps are these? Is this the only lighting you have in the room?"

"Mmhmm." Michelle snickers confidently. She's already anticipating the conversation is going in her desired direction.

"I'd spend $250 each." Jade responds.

"If this is a purchase that could make or break the feel of the room, I say $500. each."

I choke on my wine. No one notices, thankfully.

Michelle, now clearly content, decides to tell us the point of her question. "Mike and I got in a fight. Mike's mom gave us $500.00 to spend on the house and we agreed to spend it on lamps for the entry room. I paid $300 for both lamps total. He said I hurt his feelings because I spent too much money."

"Oh my! You are shitting me!" says Linda.

"No, I'm not! He made me cry because he was being so mean, and you know Mike, he is never mean. I was like, what the fuck do you want me to do?" Michelle exclaims.

"Oh okay," Andrea shouts over all the other ladies exclamatory protests. "This is NOT about the lamps. This is about something else. What could it be?"

We spend the rest of the night discussing the alternative, ever so intricate and complicated psychological explanations for why Mike's feeling were hurt over $300.00 lamps.

The next morning I met a bus driver who is trying to raise $10 million dollars for children to go to school in Africa. I am taking pictures for Real Change, a weekly newspaper that the homeless of Seattle sell on the streets. He was on page six. The reporter and I met him in west Seattle. I got there a little early. We had a quick, witty banter about schools and kids and looking for jobs.

"So what exactly are you doing?" I ask.

"I'm about to go around the country and ask every school bus driver, there are 129,000 of them, to give a one time $25 donation to the self-sustaining organization I'm creating for a school principal in Uganda. I'm scared shitless. I have one request as you take your pictures. None of my face, please. It's not about me. It's about the kids."

The man looks like a bus driver. Beer belly, a long pony tail, broken glasses, and a missing tooth. I take a few shots of his hands. The reporter comes and I prepare to leave.

As I walk out of the room he calls out to me.

"Goodbye artist."

Vita

There’s a woman named Vita who hangs out at the Y. She’s a member, 80 years old, and she spends most of her time in the lobby crocheting or falling asleep. She’s in a motorized chair—“I can’t find my cane,” she once told Melissu. “I put it on the back of my chair, and it must have fallen off. I hate this chair. I hate that they put me in this dang chair.” She talks waveringly, quietly, and a lot. When she sits over by the windows, we send someone every once in a while to check that she’s breathing.

Vita has two braids of thin gray hair, and today she showed me some pictures. She makes things for the fair. She showed me pictures of pillowcases, cushion cases, and Afghans. They were all in bright colors with patterns she designed herself. Then she showed me a picture of her two cases of ribbons. They were mostly blue, and she hung them sideways in rows and columns like a formation of airplanes.

“Are the blue ones first place and the red ones second?” I asked.

“The blue ones are the first place ribbons and the red ones are for second place.

“The first time I entered something at the fair I got a first and a second. I entered a cake and an Afghan. Guess which got the second.” She said.

“The Afghan,” I said.

“The cake! They said that it needed more spice. If it had more spice it would have gotten first. I don’t like the spice so I didn’t put as much in.

“Guess what fruit was in the cake. It was a fruitcake with only one type of fruit. Guess which fruit was in the cake.” She said.

“Apples,” I said.

I was leaning over the counter so I could hear her. She bent forward in her chair. Her face turned bright and mischievous.

“Raisins,” she said. “They call raisins a fruit.”