(Note: Again, due to general life business, I present a selection from my old blog, The Between. It has nothing to do with alcohol. This is actually a true story—recounted to the best of my memory's ability—written as if it were a fictional story, and in a bit of a strange style. Hopefully that makes sense. Also, it's not a particularly happy story, so if you're in a good mood and don't want it killed, this isn't the best option for you.)

The two children—one boy, perhaps eight years old, and one girl, maybe ten—wait at the edge of the busy highway, in the summer, in Arizona. Four lanes, with cars frantically passing at fifty miles an hour, sometimes faster. They push and push to maximize their vacation, to run their errands, to spend their money. Four door sedans and pick up trucks and SUVs, American and Japanese, Kia and Mercedes and Subaru, Ford and Honda and Toyota. Their tires buzz. Hot day and pressing sun, the rubber warm and pliable and the two children wait, side by side.

Lakeside, Arizona, a small town in the mountains of the state. A ski resort lays within forty-five minutes, a casino within fifteen minutes, and trees and lakes and all the activities that those who live in the valley travel Northeast to enjoy. Every summer, the four lane highway through town—the only road that goes all the way through Lakeside and its sister town Pinetop—becomes clogged with heavy and unending traffic, the danger rising and rising. Accidents occur and people wait by the side of the road for minutes and minutes, peering both ways for a break in the traffic that rarely comes. The lights are few and far between. Pedestrians make breaks for it.

Across the street from the two children a small coffee house stands near empty. Inside, one worker and one customer, a regular, talk. The heavy hum of traffic from outside has long ago faded into the background of both their minds. The day is hot and oppressive and the inside of the coffee house—not air conditioned, not well ventilated—reflects that pressing discomfort. The worker, Joel, is sixteen years old, nearly a child himself. The customer, Hal, is in his sixties, tall and white haired, grizzled and wrinkled and experienced in life, sarcastic and short-tempered and kind and angry. A camera hangs around his neck and he speaks with his hands, emphatically, and occasionally winks and smiles. He is cynical with an underlying but cautious hope. He likes the worker. The worker likes him, as well, as hornery as the customer can be. They talk randomly, passing the time while outside the world continues and two children wait at the side of the road directly across from them, wanting to leave behind the trinket shops for what lies on the other side. Perhaps the coffee house or perhaps the bakery next door or maybe even the nearby Mexican restaurant.

They are alone, for whatever reason, unaccompanied by parents.

A car halts in the lane closest to them, recognizing their desire to cross the road. There is another lane of Westbound traffic next to this halted car, then a middle lane for turning both ways, then two lanes of Eastbound traffic before the other side of the road and its gravel parking lot that serves the coffee house and the bakery and the Mexican restaurant and a gift shop. The car in the lane closest to the children brakes and stops and the children, together, begin to run across the road toward the middle lane, where they can stop and wait for the Eastbound lanes to clear and give them free reign to explore the other side of the highway.

A gardening truck—short and white and squat, so heavy and thick, carrying equipment in a hurried manner, perhaps, but not necessarily speeding or being reckless, but not paying attention to the side of the road, either, or the car that has stopped—barrels down the road and the two children—for some reason, they do not see the danger (perhaps because they are reckless as well, mere children, unequipped for all the life and death decisions they might face)—run out from in front of the stopped car and directly into the path of the gardening truck, which slams into both of them, hits them, hits them (did it even have time to brake, to swerve, or was it perfect timing?) plows into them, strikes them down in a nightmarish manner, in perpetual horror (it surely must have had time to brake somewhat; it couldn't have hit them unslowed, at fifty miles per hour, without simply destroying them) and the two children are mutilated in a flurry of incomprehensibility.

There are brakes then, screeching, and this sound registers in the minds of the worker, Joel, and the customer, Hal, within the coffee house no more than the other sounds of traffic have been registering. The sound that is made when the truck hits the children is surely small and slight, a crunch of bones and the tearing of flesh, certainly, but not so much to carry through the coffee house's open window and register in the minds of the two people inside, and to make them understand what has happened. There are brakes, yes, but no screeching metal, no echoing crunch of vehicle on vehicle that brings people running to view the proceedings, to gawk and stare and point and determine who is at fault, to make instant judgments and express their consternation.

But then there is screaming.

The screaming does not come from the children, for they are far beyond screaming at this point. They are not conscious (are they even alive?). It is the parents that scream, or one of the parents, but who can say which one? There is no way to comprehend the gender of the person who screams—it is thick and guttural and there is terror and fear and horror and anger and the pain, the hurt, the agony that eats at a person just to hear, to hear the misery that tears at the soul, the emotions, at whatever it is (spirit or chemical reactions) that make us something beyond flesh and organs and pumping blood.

Hal rises from his chair and peers out one of the coffee house's windows, into the street beyond. Only for a moment, and then he gestures at Joel and says, "Look at this." As he opens the door to the outside world, his hands are already reaching for the camera strapped around his neck and he steps out onto the coffee house's porch, Joel just behind him. Together they stare out into the road, at the terrible scene.

The gardening truck has stopped in the middle of the road. Traffic all around has halted. The father is in the middle of the road, screaming—he has literally fallen to his knees—and there are people peering under the truck, talking excitedly, making serious gestures. There is a crumpled figure to the side of the truck—a boy—and the mother is coming out into the road, screaming as well.

Joel and Hal watch, and Hal begins to point out details of the scene. "Look at that," he says, "knocked the kid right out of her shoe." He points and sure enough, there is a shoe lying in the middle of the road, behind the truck. It sits alone, upright, innocent in the midst of asphalt. The truck hit the girl and took her right out of her shoe. It sits there. Joel stares at it. And he wonders, for a moment, how such a thing is possible. The physics do not seem right and surely they are not—a dragged body, a lost shoe, a happenstance upright positioning—yet the internal vision of the thick and heavy and deadly truck striking a child and pulling her, magically, directly out of her shoe—a blink of an eye and the horror is missed—and this stays so very stark and strong and visceral within him.

Hal leaves the porch, hefting the camera that hangs around his neck, and begins to snap pictures of the carnage. He clicks and clicks the aftermath, fascinated and focused but with a detachment that the boy tries to understand. But Hal, this man, he has seen war and atrocities and this must be one more small event in a lifetime of terrible occurrences, and he has taken pictures of pain before. How liberating that must be, to be able to frame and focus the scene, to encase it in boundaries and block out all the endless vistas of the world around, to not have to look too far skyward or to peer off into an endless horizon or try to imagine the vastness of space and realize that there are no confines to pain like this—that, in fact, it simply drifts off into the ether and goes on and on forever, like radio waves, information that will never be truly captured and reined in and understood—that, as a very disturbing matter of fact, there is no good explanation for a gardening truck hitting (killing?) two small children and that these broadcasts of pain weave through the fabric of existence; these broadcasts bind together our reality. They are not accidents or mistakes, but make up the very world we live in as crucial and critical moments. Indeed, could we even exist without such happenings?

The boy, Joel, though, has no camera and instead he watches Hal, and he watches the parents scream, and he leans against one of the porch railings. The driver of the gardening truck has stepped outside of the cab, takes tentative steps on the road's hot asphalt, and surveys the scene around him, of which he is the principle focus. Does he think to himself, I have murdered children? Or is he more forgiving of his own unintentional actions? Or perhaps his mind is blank, because he appears uncomprehending, his face taut with the inability to handle the stimulus around him. He stares at the father, who looks at him as well. The father rises and someone holds him back as he screams, "You killed them! You killed them!" And then the driver, whose face simply does not change but, Joel can see now, is in incalculable pain—it can be seen in the eyes—puts an arm against the back of his truck, against the metal (is it hot or cool on this summer day?) and leans his head against his arm while the father is restrained, while the driver tries to comprehend, while the world spins and spins and Hal takes pictures and the boy sits on the porch steps of the coffee house and slips into time-devouring shock and tries to understand how the world continues on with such abundant pain.

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(Note: Due to time constraints, this week's Imbibe and Lo-Fi are being replaced by a two-part entry from my old blog, The Between. Part Two will run Thursday.)

I love nature. I love everything about nature, from trees to water to the weather—rain and snow and sunshine, a slight breeze on spring days—to leaves that blow across roads in the fall to ice storms and stormy seas, waves that crash on the shore and cliffs, black rocks, mossy rocks, streams in the middle of a forest, the impenetrable quiet in the middle of a forest, the deafening hush that falls over the world during a snow storm, waterfalls—large and small—and lakes and ponds and huge mountains that tower above you in the sky, river rapids and thick forests of evergreens and hot deserts in the middle of summer. I love nature.

Similarly, hiking is an absolute joy. There is little I love more than going out onto a trail and hiking for hours, losing myself in the nature around me. Hiking alone, really, is the best. It allows me to slip deep into my own thoughts, to dwell upon my life and then—all at the same time—to completely lose myself in the majesties of this planet, to be enthralled and enraptured and entirely enveloped in the wonders of trees or the desert or mountains looming around me or a wide open field with wild flowers. There may be squirrels chattering at me from the trees or an eagle soaring in circles high above me—a bald eagle, I think, but I'm not quite positive—or I might even see some elk off in the distance, crashing through the forest, or a herd of mountain goats vertically climbing the hillside while I hike it horizontally. I've experienced all these things and every time, it's been a highlight, a wonderful time in my life. I love hiking.

I also love snow. It is so pure and quieting, a wonderful refreshment. Snow is like renewal. A cold snowy day spent inside, watching it from the window, maybe drinking hot chocolate or tea and reading a book—that's a good day. But it's also great to be out in snow, both when it is falling and once it has covered the ground. Now, those are two very different sorts of feelings. When the snow has fallen and it covers the ground, the feeling is peace and serenity, a great calmness. This feeling is enhanced when the snow is fresh and clean, free from footprints and other marrings. When you're outside and the snow is falling, however, there's a slight difference to the feeling. There's still that encompassing silence and the peace and calm, but there's a sense of energy as well. There's a charge in the air when the snow is falling—that sense of power that always seems to come with weather events. Something is happening. The world is changing, even if it isn't dramatic and even if it's something you've seen a hundred times before. There's still a charge, a boost of energy. When the snow is falling and you're in the middle of it—particularly when it's falling fast and furious—that's exciting.

We don't get much snow here in Portland. We had a great snowstorm last year literally on New Year's Day and that was followed a few days later with a nasty but incredible ice storm that covered the snow, and everything else, in about two to three inches of ice. I went outside into the ice storm at night while it was happening with my roommate and we just walked around, trying not to fall and kill ourselves, marveling at it all. It truly was an experience.

But no, we don't get much snow here, which is a shame. Every winter, I miss snow storms. When I lived in Arizona for a year, we had great snow storms. I lived in the White Mountains, within forty five minutes of a ski resort, so we actually received a good amount of snow, despite it being Arizona. I remember standing in about two feet of snow one winter waiting for the bus to come to take me to school. It sucked that I was going to school, but the snow all over the place made up for it. That was just cool to me, especially coming from an area of the country that typically received significant snowfall only once every couple years.

When I look at the paintings accompanying this post—both by Andrew Wyeth—I think about everything I just wrote. I see that secluded cabin in the middle of nowhere, boxed in by a snow storm with bare trees and a small pond nearby, and it is inspiring to me. The thought of being there is inspiring to me. I think about how much I love snow, how much I love nature, and how much all of it leaves me feeling invigorated. One of the best parts about being out in nature is that it inspires me creatively. When I go hiking or I stand in a snow storm, I feel stirrings in the back of my mind, this desire to create characters and stories. I want to imagine worlds and populate them, to explore what it means to be human with my own creations. Winter does this, as well. A really cold, gray day often leaves me feeling melancholic and creative. But it's particularly strong when it snows or when I'm out in nature. If I'm out in the wild during winter? That's some potent creative juices right there.

You can imagine, then, how amazing it was for me to go hiking in the snow. I did it one time in Glacier National Park, during my roadtrip a few summers ago. I'll write about that Thursday, in part two of "Winter Thoughts."

Don't tell anyone, but I think Joel may be a hippie.

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I'm going to admit something that probably no one who has read my Imbibe columns will be surprised to learn: I'm a bit of a snob when it comes to alcohol. This is true with all forms of alcohol, though probably most true with beer, simply because that's what I have the most experience with drinking. It's not that I think I'm a dick about it, but I definitely prefer to hold a certain standard and, for the most part, to not compromise on that standard. You're not going to find me drinking Pabst or Coors Light or Milwaukee's Best, and so on. Similarly, you aren't going to find me knocking back some shitty, cheap tequila or sucking off a bottle of Smirnoff. I'm not going to be drinking Jager, either, though that has less to do with the quality and more to do with the fact that it tastes like motherfucking black licorice. Give me a goddamn break.

Wine I'm a little more flexible on, if only because I'm poor and because I haven't gained as sophisticated a taste when it comes to wine. However, you're not really going to see me picking up a bottle of two buck Chuck, either. I'll pass.

So I'm kind of a snob. However, what I want to talk about today is that moment when you find a cheap bit of liquor or beer that—somehow, someway—is actually pretty damn good. Sure, it's not top quality by any means, but it's far better than its price would suggest.

For me, this happened a few weeks back when I went to a house warming party for a friend. I was hanging out in the kitchen, talking with some friends and knocking back some Snow Plow, which is a fantastic winter seasonal made by Widmer. It's a milk stout and I know I've mentioned it before, but it really is a beer that cannot be mentioned too often, especially considering the relatively timid price. If you have a chance to indulge in some Snow Plow, I heartily recommend it.

Anyway, I was in the kitchen and a couple bottles of stout into the evening when suddenly I was being offered a bottle of Old Crow, a Kentucky bourbon. I eyed the bottle with a certain disdain. For starters, the bottle was plastic, which really isn't a good sign. Furthermore, I was informed that the bottle had cost about eight dollars, which set off about as many warnings as my head can hold.

Yet, I had a couple stouts in me. In addition, it was just a good party, and I'm not such a snob that I won't at least try something, even if I'm relatively certain it's not going to be great. (Okay, that's not entirely true. There are certain beers that I just won't even bother with. However, whiskey is whiskey, and I think any whiskey is at least worth a try, just to see how it goes down.)

I grabbed the bottle and knocked back a bit, just waiting for the disaster that would surely be Old Crow. Yet, amazingly, the drink was actually pretty good. It took me a few minutes to realize it, but it was pretty damn smooth for an eight dollar whiskey housed in a plastic bottle. It made no sense to me and for a few minutes, I was honestly confused. Then I was a bit amazed and eager to exclaim my sheer wonderment at the fact that Old Crow didn't completely suck ass. By all rights, considering the circumstances surrounding its existence, it should have been terrible. Yet it wasn't at all. It was completely decent. Sure, I would never choose it over Jameson, but it wasn't a whiskey to completely dismiss out of hand, either.

Such experiences make me realize that it's good to at least experiment, because you never know when something is going to take you by surprise. Maybe that shitty-sounding beer is actually sort of okay. Maybe that cheap rum or tequila is serviceable. Maybe the price is not always a final indicator of the quality. It's worth at least giving it a try to find out. You may just find a nice surprise in the next plastic bottle that comes your way.

What's your favorite, surprisingly good, cheap alcohol?

Joel may drink Old Crow, but he still won't touch Old Grandad. Take that as you will.

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When you're a beer drinker, there's perhaps nothing more important than finding a good pub to frequent. Of course, you may be the kind of beer drinker who purchases the cheapest shit on the market and drinks can after can in the comfort of his or her own home, but I commonly refer to those people as alcoholics. That's a whole other category that really has nothing to do with the simple appreciation of a fine beer. If you simply enjoy the occasional excellent brew—or perhaps not so occasional, for I'm not saying that alcoholics are strictly confined to drinking cheap beer at home—then it's likely you have or are on the lookout for a fine pub within which to indulge your hobby. This week, therefore, I'm looking at what makes for a good pub.

Now, personally, when I'm looking for a good pub, I'm looking for a place in which I can hang out with a friend or two. As such, there are some crucial elements as to what makes the perfect pub. If I'm going to be hanging out with friends there, then one of the things I'm looking for is a place that offers the opportunity for some decent and entertaining conversation. This means that I don't want a place that is too loud. Generally speaking, I don't want live music in my pub. If there is live music, I want it quiet and unobtrusive, and I don't want to be a pariah for carrying on a conversation during the music. In other words, my pub should not have live music, and if it does, it should be as subtle, not-too-loud background music rather than a performance that's expected to be focused on.

On the same note, my conversation shouldn't be drowned out by the conversations of people around me. For instance, there's a pretty cool English pub near me with a good beer selection, but damn if you can have a decent conversation in there on a Friday or Saturday night. It's so damn packed and noisy, that you can hardly hear a person sitting two feet away from you. Now, granted, I want my pub to be popular enough to stay in business, but I don't want it so popular that to enter the place is to give up any sense of personal space or typical hearing ability. Full is fine, packed to the brim is bullshit.

Further, an important factor in any pub is the atmosphere. As far as I'm concerned, the darker the better. I only need enough light to be able to read the menu and find my way to the bathroom—otherwise keep it dim and murky. A pub should be lighted much as my bedroom would be on the day of a nasty hangover. Nothing bright, nothing piercing. I'm not seeing a doctor, I'm not grocery shopping, I'm not getting a goddamn tan. I'm getting a buzz, and I prefer to do that in the murkiest lighting feasible. Granted, decent lighting isn't a deal-breaker as are some of these other requirements, but a darker place is much preferred.

Of course, the most important factor of any good pub is the beer selection. If I can only get Bud, Coors and PBR, or if your idea of a top notch beer is a Fat Tire, then I don't have much use for you, even if you do have perfect atmosphere. Sure, Fat Tire is a decent beer, but I need some darkness. A good pub needs to at least have a couple options in the stout, porter and dark ale categories. I like my pub dark and I like my beer dark, as well, so if you can't offer me something thick, black and delicious, then I'm going to have to move on to the next place. I realize this isn't the majority of the population's cup of tea (or pint of beer, as it were) but it's mine, and I expect a decent pub to at least pay me some lip service with one or two good options on tap. I need something heavy on the malts and not overpowering on the hops. The more options that fit this criteria, the better.

While a good beer selection is absolutely critical, it's also nice to have a decent food selection. Even better is a decent selection of cheap food. Here's the thing though—keep it pub fare. I'm not looking for anything involving pine nuts or foie gras or spinach with lemon juice—I'm looking for something salty and greasy. I want fries and onion rings and mozzarella sticks, bread sticks, pizza, burgers—and I want it damn unhealthy and damn delicious. It better be good and it better not be fancy. If I'm going to be a snob, it's going to be about the beer, not the food. I go to a pub to drink—the food is more a necessity than a desire. Keep it simple, greasy, and delicious, and all will be right in the world.

Meanwhile, I want to get that food in a timely manner. I want my beer in a timely manner, as well, and I sure as hell don't want to be sitting at my table for fifteen or twenty minutes with an empty glass in front of me. What I'm getting at is that I want some decent service. It doesn't have to be perfect, because I realize being a server in a restaurant or bar can suck ass. But here's the deal—I'm considerate, I'm nice, and I'm happy to give you a decent tip. What I fucking hate is going to a pub and not being able to get beer. It's why I'm there, and if I'm left not able to maintain my buzz because no one wants to bring me another drink, I get annoyed. And while I won't yell at you or be an asshole about it, I probably won't be coming back, either. Keep my glass filled and I'll be happy. Leave me staring longingly at the taps at the bar and . . . well, that certainly doesn't fit into my definition of the perfect pub.

Finally, I want a certain authenticity to the pub. This cuts both ways. First of all, I don't want something sleek and soulless. I don't want something too terribly trendy. I don't want a place that has no heart, has no attitude, and has no soul. Here's the thing though—I'm not looking for a shithole, either. I don't want a dive. I don't want a place that's filthy. If the bathroom's dirty, so be it. That's often the reality of a decent pub and I can deal with that, so long as there isn't shit strewn all over the place. But the main room better be in at least halfway decent shape. I don't want cockroaches running around my feet while I'm sitting at my table, I don't want any funky smells other than good old cigarette smoke, and I don't want to be left thinking I'm going to leave the place with a disease.

So that's about what I'm looking for in the perfect pub. I want a place that's dark, has good atmosphere, isn't too loud, is relatively clean, offers decent service, greasy and delicious pub fare, and a good beer selection that includes some dark, malty, not-so-hoppy selections.

What do you look for in an ideal pub or bar?

Joel likes his pubs like he likes his women......

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Once again, this Imbibe column would normally be about some form of alcohol, but I'm instead talking books, as it is one of my other great loves.  Before, I gave you part one of my favorite books read in 2006 and so now I offer up the much-anticipated, much-heralded, and sure-to-be-largely-ignored part two.  Just to again clarify, these books weren't necessarily released in 2006—they're just the books I most enjoyed that I actually read in 2006.

One quick note before I begin.  In penance for this not being about alcohol, I'm actually drinking an 18.7 ounce bottle of Samuel Smith Oatmeal Stout.  Thus, if you have nothing to say about my book writing, feel free to just let me know what your favorite stout is.

Now, on with the books.


A People's History of the United States - Howard Zinn
And so begins the nonfiction.  I read this right at the beginning of the year and it ended up being a fascinated book.  Zinn is upfront with his agenda right at the start of the book, making it clear that this history would be told from the point of view of average people and would shy away from people in powerful positions.  As such, it's a great reflection on the struggles the general American populace has endured over the course of U.S. history.

Zinn's an excellent writer.  History is one subject that I'm not nearly as familiar with as I should be, so it's been nice to find books that actually make the events of our past interesting, as opposed to pretty much every history text book I used throughout junior high and high school.  It's also very interesting reading about certain events I already had some basic knowledge of, but from the standpoint of the common worker, or the oppressed, and so on—rather than the more official version typically learned in school.

One of the most interesting aspects of the book is Zinn's recurring assertion that the political process is often used to channel rebellious and revolutionary energy, sinking it into a system that is rigged to satisfy the masses with small, incremental changes, thus avoiding larger and more drastic ones.  It's a somewhat bleak viewpoint—which makes it all the more interesting that Zinn ultimately ends the book on an optimistic note.

The Fabric of the Cosmos - Brian Greene
Greene's first book was The Elegant Universe, which was a popular exploration of Super String Theory that served as the basis for a PBS special.  I haven't read that book yet, though I do own it.  The Fabric of the Cosmos does deal with String Theory, but it also serves as a more general explanation of the entire field of physics.  Obviously, that's a lot of information to cover, so a 600 page book simply isn't going to give a comprehensive explanation of the field of physics.  It does, however, do a damn good job of giving a general overview that is fairly understandable, even if you aren't familiar with physics.

Physics is probably one of the areas of study I'm most fascinated with.  When you start getting into the activities of very small scale objects—protons, neutrons, quarks and the such—the physical world becomes fascinating and bizarre.  Similarly, when you start to look at things on a huge scale—as in, the scale of the entire universe, or the speed of light—the physical world again becomes strange and fascinating.  Simply put, we live in an intoxicating, mysterious world and the day-to-day physics we experience are only a small part of the full story.  Greene tries to tell the rest of that story and scores a direct hit, writing a book that makes the more strange and bizarre aspects of physics surprisingly accessible.  Some of the experiments that he details in the book are shocking and exciting, and will make you look at the world in a different way.  If you have any interest in physics, I strongly recommend this book.


Lolita - Vladimir Nabokov
Last week, I wrote that, as a writer, Haruki Murakami sometimes depresses me due to his sheer talent.  Well, let's go ahead and add Nabokov to that list.  Lolita is an amazing novel, with some of the most beautiful language I've ever encountered.  The book is just lyrical, compelling, completely gorgeous even as it deals with a disturbing subject.  In fact, Nabokov does an amazing job of skating a fine line between making the reader almost understand Humbert Humbert's attraction to Lolita due to his own delusions while also keeping it clear that he is delusional, sees the girl only how he wants to see her, and is supremely fucked up.  It's a hell of a trick.

Once Lolita runs away from Humbert, I would say the novel starts to go downhill.  It veers in some directions that just aren't nearly as strong as the first part of the book—though it in no way ruins the novel.  Ultimately, though, this novel's strength does not lie in the plot as much as it does in the simple beauty and lyricism of Nabokov's use of words.  He's a genius, without question.

Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close - Jonathan Safran Foer
Jesus.  Like pretty much everyone, I was greatly affected by the World Trade Center attack.  Pretty much, it was like a kick in the balls.  But, ultimately, it was across the country.  I didn't know anyone directly affected by the attacks.  I didn't lose anyone.  For me, the pain of that day faded.

For those in New York, though—well, I really can't imagine.  Those who saw it, who experienced it, who lost friends or family in it.  Or even those living in New York who simply had to endure the barrage of funerals, the missing person posters, the countless stories—it seems like it must still be a dark shadow over the city, always there at least in some small, if not large, sense.

This novel takes place with 9/11 as a constant, dominant theme.  The story involves a nine year old named Oscar whose father died in the terrorist attacks.  Determined to find out more about his father's life and death, he starts traveling the city attempting to find out more about a key he finds in a vase that belonged to his father.

The story's not about Oscar's search, of course, but more about the terrorist attacks and how they affected people.  It's about loss and love and family, about death, about the extreme horror of that day.  Ultimately, while the book is often entertaining and funny, it's also heartbreaking.  It's a brutal, emotional, exhausting book.  Oscar is so well-drawn and fleshed out, that you really do feel that you know him by the end of the book.  That's tough, too, because he goes through a hell of a lot.  This is easily the most emotional, affecting book I read in 2006 and as a work of fiction reflecting back on the effects of September 11, it's an incredible accomplishment.


The Weather Makers - Tim Flannery
We end on another nonfiction book.  However, appropriately, this is also a book that actually did come out in 2006.  It's about global warming by an Australian scientist and it's a fascinating, frightening, and ultimately optimistic (if only vaguely) read.  Flannery does a fantastic job of laying out the science behind global warming in a straight forward and easy-to-understand manner.  In fact, I never realized how basic, in many ways, the science in.  He goes over the level of carbon dioxide in our atmosphere, our own production of carbon dioxide, and the likely effects of increased amount of carbon dioxide.  It's actually much more simplistic and straight forward than I ever realized.

It's also pretty damn scary.

The accounts of briefly-glimpsed and now extinct frogs are depressing.  The statistics on likely extinction of further species is also depressing.  The likelihood of polar bears dying out except in captivity is goddamn devastating.  (I freaking love polar bears.)  Ultimately, though, Flannery writes that we can still avoid the worst case scenarios.  While we're dedicated to a certain level of devastation due to the carbon dioxide that's already in the air, there's still time to begin reigning in our own outputs, thus saving multitudes of animals while also saving ourselves.

If you're looking for a primer on global warming, along with plenty of great information about the history and study of the climate, get this book.  It's a great, relatively easy read that provides lots of good information and a list of ways you can reduce your own energy use and carbon dioxide output.


With that, this list of books comes to an end.  Hopefully, you found this at least slightly enjoyable.  Better yet, hopefully you found something to read.  Now it's your turn.  What books did you read in 2006 that you loved?  I may already own too many books, but that's never stopped me from buying more.  So give me some suggestions.  What greatness did you read last year?

Joel was really drinking a 40oz of King Cobra out of a brown paper bag.

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Posted by Joel Caris at 12:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (7) | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It

Normally, this would be my biweekly Imbibe column, but this week I'm going to talk books instead of alcohol.  While doing my Brilliance of 2006 Lo-Fi column, I started to think that I'd like to do the same for books.  Considering I didn't have an idea at that point for my Imbibe column, I figured I would just replace it with a write-up on my favorite books of 2006.

As of this writing, I've read 44 books this year.  I'm currently on my 45th one, but that's taken a back seat to packing in anticipation of my move and other responsibilities that have been monopolizing my time.  My goal for the year was 60 books, which was my goal last year, as well, and I haven't managed it either year.  I think next year, I'll make a goal of 50 books and see if I can actually make it.  We'll see.

One of the bonuses of owning something like 500 books is that I always have something to read that I think is going to be pretty damn good.  Considering that, it was hard to narrow down my favorite books of the year.  I read a lot of great novels in 2006.  Yet, there were some that stood out, and those follow.  Real quick, though, the rules are the same as for my music column.  Basically, these are books that I read this year, but that doesn't mean they came out this year.  In fact, Black Swan Green and The Weather Makers (which will be in part two) are the only books on this list actually released this year.

This is part one of the list.  Part two will run on an as-yet-undetermined date and will include the rest of my favorite fiction books I read this year, as well as my favorite nonfiction books I read.

Now for the list.

The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle — Haruki Murakami
Murakami is a well-known Japanese writer.  My first experience with him was Norwegian Wood, which is a very quiet and intimate novel that really affected me.  It's one of his most popular novels, along with The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle.  Now, the thing with Murakami is he typically writes wonderful, character-focused literature that also deals in strange and weird occurrences, kind of fluttering about the edges of supernaturalism, but often staying just out of reach of that realm.  The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle is more along these lines than Norwegian Wood, which was a much more grounded, realistic novel than his others tend to be.  (Grounded in the sense of the physical realities of the world, that is.  All his books are very much grounded in the emotional realities of the world, no matter what strangeness may happen otherwise.)

Wind-Up follows Toru Okada as he loses his job, his cat, and his wife when she simply doesn't come home from work one day.  From there, the novel becomes a long story of him trying to find his wife and cat, as well as deal with his losses.  The book is incredibly ambitious and complex, bringing all kinds of interesting characters into the story and delving into Japanese history, as well, all while staying utterly fascinating and compelling—and weird and confusing and intriguing and so on.  It's a long book, over 600 pages, and I became engulfed in Murakami's world as I read it.  Themes within the story continually circle back onto themselves, creating connections with earlier parts and referencing previous events.  There's so much happening in this novel I ended up feeling like I missed half of it, yet by the time I was finished, I felt completely sated.  It was perhaps the most complex and satisfying reading experience I had this year, which is saying a lot.  I really can't recommend this book enough—and, similarly, I can't recommend Murakami enough.  His writing is simply beautiful and not to be missed.  As a writer, he's one of those authors who leave me inspired, yet vaguely depressed, as well, at the realization that I will never be able to write as beauitfully as him.

It gives me something to aim for, though.

Black Swan Green — David Mitchell
Along with Murakami, David Mitchell is one of my favorite authors working today.  Before Black Swan Green, he released three more-complex-than-the-last novels that are all fantastic, and two of his first three novels were shortlisted for the Man Booker Prize.  Black Swan Green was longlisted for the prize in 2006 but didn't make it to the shortlist.  Irregardless of all that, though, I can say that all of his novels have been fantastic and Black Swan Green, as his newest, has been no disappointment.  This is a very different novel from his previous ones, though, as it is a much smaller, shorter, more intimate and personal book than his other three.  Whereas his other novels have been intricate, complex and interconnected works—with Cloud Atlas spanning centuries, no less—this is a fairly simple and straightforward account of one year in the life of a 13 year old living in a small town in England, in 1982.

The novel is fantastic.  While Mitchell has proven himself quite capable of handling large-scale, sprawling narratives, he shows he can handle a much smaller and more intimate one with this novel.  The story is told in chapters that act very much as standalone short stories, working to create a much more complete picture over the course of the novel.  Mitchell does a fantastic job of creating a unique and believable voice with the main character, Jason Taylor.  (It's been said that the novel is semi-autobiographical.)

Without question, the best chapter is "Rocks," which unfolds against the backdrop of the Falklands War and involves both death and the collapsing of a relationship.  The chapter is brutal as Mitchell ties together war and death and relationships into one cohesive, multifaceted theme that plays all of these events off each other to better cement and accentuate the moral failings and emotional pain inherent in all three.  The chapter's final paragraph is devastating.  The entire novel is fantastic, but "Rocks" alone makes the book worth a read.

The Confessions of Max Tivoli — Andrew Sean Greer
This novel has a unique premise, in that the main character, Max Tivoli, is born in 1871 as a small, 70-year-old man.  His body then ages backward while, emotionally, he ages forward as any of us would.

It's a brilliant premise that makes for a fascinating and emotional story.  The story revolves around three main stages of his life, and all of them incorporate his attempts to be with Alice, who is about his age but aging normally.  Thus, when he first meets and falls in love with her, he is seventeen years old but appears to be fifty three, while she is sixteen.  He is determined to be with her, but his ability to win her over is hampered for obvious reasons.

This is easily the most affecting book I read this year, just emotionally devastating at times.  While this is very much a complicated love story, it deals also in friendship and unrequited love, the betrayal of those you love, selfishness and selflessness and the realities of living as an outsider.  This novel haunts me in a lot of ways, due in large part to my own issues, but I can't imagine anyone reading this book and not having very strong emotional reactions to some of the events that take place.  If you like a story that gets under your skin, give this book a try.

The Things They Carried — Tim O'Brien
O'Brien was drafted and served in the Vietnam War.  Many of the books he writes are about the war, about soldiers, about what war does to a person.  They are stories about soldiers, really, rather than just stories about combat.  The Things They Carried is one of his best known novels and it follows a platoon of American soldiers, including the main character, Tim O'Brien.  However, the main character is not the author and this is not a work of nonfiction.  It is a novel, fictional, and told as a series of vignettes that all interconnect to create a much bigger picture of the lives of these soldiers.

Now, while the book is fiction, it is clear that it is greatly influenced by real events.  In fact, the two-page vignette "Good Form," which appears toward the end of the book, seems to be O'Brien essentially writing about how the book is fiction and making distinctions between "happening-truth" and "story-truth."  Here's a quote from "Good Form":

Here is the happening-truth.  I was once a soldier.  There were many bodies, real bodies with real faces, but I was young then and I was afraid to look.  And now, twenty years later, I'm left with faceless responsibility and faceless grief.

Here is the story-truth.  He was a slim, dead, almost dainty young man of about twenty.  He lay in the center of a red clay trail near the village of My Khe.  His jaw was in his throat.  His one eye was shut, the other eye was a star-shaped hole.  I killed him.

However, even "Good Form" is not O'Brien himself, but the character O'Brien in the book, writing about himself (as the character) writing about the war.  Confused yet?  So this isn't nonfiction, it's fiction, but the entire book has an undeniable ring of truth to it.  And while I and most readers may never know exactly what small details are true, and which details are almost-true, and which details have an emotional truth, and so on and so on, there seems to be no question that the book is infused with the truth of war, whether or not the details actually happened.  I don't know what it is to be a soldier and I don't know what it is to fight a war.  I have no experience with that.  But I do have some idea of what it is to be human and I believe, without hesitation, that what happens to the characters in this book is what might happen to a person drenched in war, left to battle with horrific events.  And that is the brilliance of this novel.  That's why it's easily one of the best books I read in 2006, one of the best books I have ever read.

The Girl in the Flammable Skirt — Aimee Bender
Aimee Bender writes incredible short stories.  This is actually the second book I read by her in 2006—the first being an excellent and absorbing novel about a 20-year-old woman having some trouble getting along in the world—and it took me by complete surprise.  While the novel I read is a unique, yet fairly straight forward story, the short stories contained in The Girl in the Flammable Skirt are fantastical.  They're surreal and magical, dealing in a world that is not ours, yet is at the same time.  These are stories in which a man evolves in reverse, from man to ape to sea turtle and onward.  These are stories in which one girl has a hand made of fire while another girl has a hand made of ice.  There is an imp.  There is a hunchback.  There is an orphan who can find things simply by concentrating on them.

These are stories that use strange and bizarre circumstances and characters to illustrate the realities of our much-more-normal, much-less-interesting world.  They are compelling and fascinating and, at times, heartbreaking.  You never quite know where the story is going to go, and often times you feel like you've been kicked in the stomach once you get there.

Here's what I want you to do, if you're so inclined.  Go find this book at a bookstore, stand at the shelf and read "The Healer."  It's a 13 page story.  Once you read it, you'll know if you want this collection or not.  If you're like me, there's no way you'll leave without it.


And with that, I come to the conclusion of part one.  Keep an eye out for the second half of this column, coming at some point in the near future to a Faster Than The World near you.

Joel assures us that even though he wrote about books this week, he still did plenty of imbibing.

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I like alcohol. I like it in the form of beer, considerably, and probably more so than in any form. I also enjoy it in the form of wine—red wine, particularly. But I also very much enjoy alcohol in the form of booze. Whiskey, rum, and vodka are all favorites. When it comes to drinking liquor straight, however, I find whiskey to be the best option, by far.

My relationship with whiskey started with the Canadian kind—Crown Royal, to be exact. It had a certain cinnamony flair that worked well for me, and was the first booze that I could really stand to drink straight. (It also went quite well with Coke.) I was introduced to Crown Royal at my brother's house, and I still owe him for that. My love of Crown served me well, helping to create many enjoyable times with friends and acquaintances—whether it be with drunken parties with coworkers involving angry and creative rants against my boss, or a night with two friends, indulging in Crown Royal and other various forms of alcohol, all while laughing our asses off at the shenanigans of Jay and Silent Bob Strike Back, which really is best viewed drunk.

Eventually, however, I drifted away from Crown Royal. It happened when a friend of mine from Seattle—who has at times served as an alcohol liaison, so to speak—introduced me to the genius of Jameson 12 Year. The Irish whiskey seemed much smoother than Crown Royal and didn't have that hint of spice and cinnamon I associated with Crown. Instead, it had a certain oak finish, which struck me as much more palatable—fantastic, even. I was hooked.

It's been Irish whiskey since.

In celebration of this fine event from my past, as well as in an attempt to write my Imbibe column for this week, I'm having a whiskey face off. In one corner, we have the Irish whiskeys: Jameson, Bushmills, and Tullamore Dew. In the other corner, we have two representatives from the land of Scotch whisky (no "e" for the Scotts): Johnnie Walker Black Label and Chivas Regal, 12 year aged. I'm familiar with the Irish whiskeys, but have never had either of the Scottish counterparts.

Now, this face off is vaguely about finding what I like best, but not completely. Realistically, the Johnnie Walker and Chivas Regal have an unfair advantage, seeing as their 12 years and the Bushmills, Jameson and Tullamore Dew aren't. In my past experiences, I've found that the longer my whiskey has been aged, the more I tend to enjoy it. I definitely go for the smooth. On the plus side, I'm quite familiar with Jameson 12 Year (though I unfortunately don't have any at the moment) and so I should be able to at least compare to my many fond memories of downing that delicious elixir.

So now the tasting begins. I'll let you know what I'm drinking and then I'll offer thoughts. However, the thoughts are probably going to be musings more than anything, and my opinions about the actual taste of the whiskey will be kept to a minimum, both because I simply am not sophisticated enough to understand the undertones, origins, and complexities of the taste of these whiskeys and also because I don't want to bore you.

Tullamore Dew
This is a decent Irish whiskey, but certainly not my favorite. I was introduced to it at an Irish bar in Seattle when the bartender recommended it, telling me he preferred it over Jameson. I hadn't heard of it before, but I did take a liking to the name. I ordered up a shot and gave it a whirl. Of course, at that point I was already pretty smashed, which is never the right time to form an opinion on a new booze. I could have downed a glass of Jager and probably would have nodded slightly, mumbling, "Not too bad." Meanwhile, the reality is that it's utter shit, as I probably would have realized the next day when I could still taste fucking black licorice in my mouth.

But anyway, I knocked back the shot and thought it to be good, which is an opinion I hold to this day. The bartender's notion that it was better, or even as good, as Jameson, however, is not a sentiment I share. In fact, it may be my least favorite of the three Irish whiskeys I'll be drinking tonight.

Bushmills
This has a bit more of a bite to it than Tullamore Dew. It burns more going down. I'm not nearly as familiar with Bushmills, as I have really only had it a few times. I can't quite get a handle on what I think of it. I think I like Tullamore better, but it's a tough call. Bushmills is just a very different whiskey, meatier and more substantial, it seems.

I'm reminded of an episode of The Wire—the utterly fantastic show on HBO—and one episode in which Jimmy McNulty wanders up to a bar and orders a Jameson. The bartender asks if Bushmills is okay and McNulty stares at him. "That's Protestant whiskey" he says, but then takes it anyway. Protestant or not, it's still whiskey, which really is the important part.

Honestly, I don't really know what the deal is with that. There's talk, apparently, that Bushmills is Protestant whiskey and Jameson is Catholic whiskey. I've read on the internets that this is only something that's talked about in America and that in Ireland, it's basically a bunch of shit. You drink what you drink. All I know is that when it comes to the Irish whiskey, I'm a Jameson man. If that means I skew Catholic, than so be it. I'm not actually religious, but if you're going to present to me a religion that offers up a heavy emphasis on internal shame and guilt, then that's the one I can get behind.

And now for the Scotch whiskies.

Chivas Regal
Well. This is relatively smooth, but it definitely has a strange taste that's not quite hitting me right. Again checking the interwebs, it would seem that this is the smoky, earthy taste you find in Scotch whiskies that aren't so present in their Irish counterparts. Chivas Regal is aged in oak casks, but this smoky bite of a taste seems to be masking much of that oak finish, which I tend to love so very much. It's kind of a shame. No doubt this is a solid whisky, but it's not quite working for me.

Now this is interesting, because I've never had a Scotch whisky before. Johnnie Walker Black Label is staring at me, and I'll be curious to see how that is. Will it have a similar strange (to me) taste as the Chivas Regal, or not? Is that the calling card of Scottish whisky, or is it something specific to the Chivas? It's good to be in the discovery phase for an alcohol, rather than just enjoying something that I already well know. It's been awhile since I've expanded my horizons, so even though I'm not finding the Chivas Regal to be a slam dunk, it's still good to be trying something new.

Johnnie Walker Black Label

I'm seeing a definite pattern with the Scottish whisky. The distinct taste of the Chivas Regal, in comparison to the Irish whiskeys, is present here, too, which suggests it is indeed the smoking process, as well as the peat used in the smoking process. This is a good whisky, without question, and it's very smooth, but the earthy, smokey taste isn't working for me. Yet, while I'm not loving the flavor right now, I have a feeling that continued drinking would eventually bring me around to it. That may not be the case, but usually smokey, earthy flavors are exactly what I can get behind, such as with wine and black tea. Given a little more time, I think I could learn to love this.

Jameson
I had to leave this for last. It pains me that I don't have 12 Year, but I still love the standard stuff. It's just not as smooth and doesn't have that same oak finish that the 12 Year does. Yet, this is the whiskey that leaves me happy, smiling, loving the Irish. Sure, the Scotch whiskies are interesting and yes, Tullamore Dew and Bushmills are decent drinks, but there's just nothing like sitting down with a bit of Jameson. It's my favorite. It could be the smoothness of it, it could be the familiarity, it could be the internal guilt and shame—whatever it is, I just don't see Jameson being displaced any time soon as my favorite whiskey.

So now that I've done my whiskey tasting, it's your turn. Which is your favorite? If you don't like whiskey, what kind of liquor do you like to drink? And which fantastic Irish or Scotch whiskies did I miss?

Joel had a long ago misunderstanding with Jager and they haven't talked since

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Posted by Michele Christopher at 12:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (9) | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It

It happens the last full weekend of July, in downtown Portland on the waterfront, next to the Willamette River. Thousands gather for the Oregon Brewers Festival, partaking in fine beers from brewers across the Northwest and North America. Being the last weekend of July, it's usually hot and stuffy and oppressive, even though the event takes place outside. It's the perfect atmosphere to cram thousands of people together and get them all pissed on great beer.

I've attended the last two years and neither time has the event failed to impress. The most memorable moment from the first year, 2005, was when my roommate and I found ourselves seated at one of the tables beneath one of the many large open-air tents, grateful for the shade and the slight decrease in temperature it brought. Both of us cradled our four-ounce samples of whatever darkish beer we had just procured from a nearby brewer and we both were at least a bit buzzed. The heat was particularly bad that year, the air still and muggy, so many people crowded beneath the tents in an effort to find their own patch of blessed shade. Surprisingly, the section of table we sat at was mostly clear of people.

A couple wandered over and sat across from us. The woman was drunk, talking before she even sat down, and the man accompanying her shot us apologetic glances. She wanted to know about us—where we were from, were we a couple, wasn't the festival great? I allowed her the answers, the woman nice enough and the atmosphere friendly and convivial, the beer providing a sense of easygoing camaraderie. We were from Vancouver, Washington (not Vancouver BC, about 300 miles away in Canada); we were only roommates, not a couple; the festival and beer was indeed great. I was quickly informed that they, too, lived in Vancouver. When we narrowed down our specific addresses, it further turned out that we lived about a tenth of a mile from each other. Small world.

The conversation escalated from there. The woman tried our beers, offered her own to us. She chatted excitedly and told us more and more about herself. The man with her sat quietly, chiming in rarely, a look of embarrassment growing ever more apparent. I didn't mind her, though. The woman was nice and easygoing. She was silly and drunk, sure, but that was half of those in attendance. I was a couple more beers away from being the same.

Beer festivals are communities that offer up an appreciation of beer—something that you don't find as consistently in a bar, or even a nice brewpub. There's a certain excitement and shared purpose at a festival. You get to be around people who think like you while also being promised the opportunity to sample multiple beers, all of which should be of at least decent quality (though that certainly doesn't mean you're going to like every one). It's two great worlds brought together to form a beer-lover's paradise.

The communal spirit is made stronger by the expectation of alcohol-fueled fun. Most people are there with the explicit intent to get drunk, all while savoring something they love. Barring being the designated driver—a sad state of affairs you should always avoid when attending a beer festival—drunken fun will most definitely be had. Not only will it be you and your friends, beer after beer after beer, slipping farther and farther down the alcohol slope, but it will be almost everyone around you, losing themselves in the decadence, the line of beer taps stretching for hundreds of yards, offering brew upon brew, each one unique and special and very possibly brand new to you. It's heaven. It's a beer museum, a beer hall of fame, proffered up to you for a slightly exorbitant but oh-so-worth-it price. It's a Friday night or a Saturday afternoon begging for your attention and your wallet, and you gladly giving it both.

The second festival, this summer's, offered up something less exciting but more mystifying than drunken neighbors. As I wandered amongst the different beer stands, beneath the tents, fighting my way through the crowds, an occasional cry would go up amongst the people. It started out small but then grew louder until it swamped me, the crowd of people letting loose with cries and hollers—cheers, really—with no apparent external cause. The first time it happened, I dismissed it. The second time, I grew curious. The third time, fuck it—I jumped in and cheered with the rest of them. It may have been the beer or it may have been the community spirit. But it was probably the beer. Either way, it felt good to let loose with a loud cheer for no other reason than a love of beer, a love of the festival, a love of the existence of it all—and a blind following of my fellow drinkers.

The cheers happened again and again throughout the afternoon and I never did figure out what caused them. Was it some kind of event, a free beer being offered somewhere, the wacky doings of a drunken festival-goer garnering the approval of the crowd, or was it just some drunk guy who started whooping with excitement, and his buddy who joined him, and the drunk guy five feet away who couldn't help but continue it, and on and on through a crowd loosened by alcohol and susceptible to group pressure and rowdy camaraderie? It could have been one of the former but I still suspect it was the latter. Someone started it and others continued it. Funny enough, it happened in two different sections of the festival, again and again, independent of each other. Perhaps there was an explanation beyond simple drunkenness and group dynamics, but I very much doubt it. After all, I joined in without knowing the source, for no other reason than it was happening and I had been enjoying beer all afternoon.

That's the beauty of a good beer festival, though. It's the community of it all. It's the purposeful drunkenness. It's all the fine beers, just begging you to taste them, revel in them. It's the silliness of thousands of drunken people crammed together on a hot afternoon, wandering about with plastic mugs and beer guides, wooden tokens and wrist bands. It's a hot weekend afternoon at the end of July and the beer is pouring, the taps are open, the drunken happiness is thick and palpable, urging you on, drink-drink-drink-drink-drink.

And you do.

Joel's favorite Christmas song is The Twelve Days of Beer

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Welcome to the first issue of a new column here at FTTW: Imbibe. For lovers of fine alcohol products everywhere.

There are reasons I love fall.  There's the atmosphere of fall, first and foremost, with darkness falling earlier and with the rain and wind and that distinct autumn chill.  There are all the leaves blanketing the ground with their reds and golds and yellows, not to mention the way those same leaves swirl in the wind, crazed and chaotic.  There are the holidays--Halloween and the approach of Thanksgiving and Christmas.  Back in my school days, there was the new school year, which I always found exciting for at least the first few weeks, before I realized I had to keep going to the classes even once the newness had worn off.  Perhaps what I most love about fall is the state of mind I find myself in:  contemplative, creatively inspired, and both hopeful and melancholic (if that makes any kind of sense).

There's another reason I love fall, though, which I came face to face with a few weeks ago in a grocery store.

I was doing some basic grocery shopping, wandering past the beer aisle, when a certain purple packaging caught my eye.  I did a quick double take and diverted my path, stopping in front of a purple cardboard beer holder I had not seen for months.  It read "Snow Plow."  My heart soared.

I don't mean that to be hokey, nor do I mean it to be a joke or a throw away absurdity.  No, I literally had a physical reaction to seeing this beer.  My pulse increased, my breath shallowed, I suspect my pupils became dilated.  My spirits were honestly lifted, as if I had just been told I won the lottery, or perhaps found God.  My night, boring and mundane, was suddenly new and exciting, glittering, holding the promise of deeply satisfying libation.

Snow Plow is a winter seasonal milk stout made by Widmer and it is, as you may have guessed, one of my favorite brews.  It's delicious.  Rich and full, a mix of chocolate and coffee flavors, smooth but heavy with just the right amount of sweetness.  It is everything I love about stouts and an embodiment of what I love about beer.  It is satisfying on a level that few things are satisfying to me.  It's the sort of beer that better helps me understand alcoholism.

Snow Plow's availability is also the embodiment of what I love about the beer scene during the fall and winter months.  Once the temperature starts dropping and the rain returns, the IPAs and golden and amber ales and Belgian brews that dominate the market during the summer months (and throughout the entire year, if we're going to be honest here) suddenly shrink and fade, if ever so slightly, toward the background as darker beers begin to show up in heavier numbers.  Not that the dark beers come to dominate, mind you, but they do become a bit more common.  The stouts emerge, blinking and rubbing their eyes, offering you their heft and substance.  The porters step forward, deep and dark, providing a more aggressive taste than those lighter ales can offer.

Whereas in the summer, I might find one or two porters and perhaps a couple stouts on the shelf at the local grocery store (one of those stouts being the ever-present Guinness) the choice broadens significantly in the winter.  Everyone stops looking for the perfect light beer to accompany their barbecue and more people begin to see the benefit of something thick and heavy, weighing on the taste buds and making its presence known as an entity in and of itself, rather than as a means to wash down a burger.

Even in the fantastic dedicated beer shop that recently opened in my town, the stouts, porters, black ales and other dark beers were a significant minority during the summer months.  Now that winter has rolled around, they're becoming more prevalant, offering me much better choice in my preferred beer categories.  So along with the old standby of Snow Plow, I can knock back a St. Peter's Old-Style Porter or Cream Stout, or a Rogue Mocha Porter or Chocolate Stout, perhaps an Old Rasputin Imperial Stout.  I can revel in a Shakespeare Stout and Samuel Smith Imperial Stout and sit back, fat and full and warm, my craving for a beer that's more like a meal completely and utterly satisfied.

Of course, it's not just the stores where the dark beers emerge.  It's at the bars and brewpubs, of which there are so many here in the Portland area.  This time of year, the taps are newly filled with special stouts and porters often not seen in the summer months.  Whereas before there may have only been one or two dark beers--or, in the pubs with more limited taps, none at all--in the winter there are often multiples ones.  In the summer, perhaps there's one standard stout.  In the winter, suddenly there's the standard stout, a new seasonal stout, a new porter and perhaps still another porter or stout, this one on a nitro tap.  It's a whole new world.  A better world.

Thus, for the next few months, I'll be enjoying my beer even more than usual.  No longer will I find myself at a restaurant, forced to settle for some mediocre amber ale like Fat Tire or Mirror Pond to accompany my food.  No, now I'm at Red Robin washing down my burger with a Snow Plow, or grabbing a newly available nitro porter at McMenamins to go with my pizza.  It's dark outside, it's cold, it's raining, but I'm warm, I'm full, I'm holding a pint of stout and I'm satisfied, so very satisfied.
It's fall, friends.  It's the season of dark beer.  Enjoy.

Joel, who likes to sing the Mr. Plow song when drunk, is also the author of FTTW's Lo-Fi column.

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