Beer O'Clock: Tarana-Saurus

It's funny how certain coincidences come about.

Last week, on one of my social-media platforms, someone asked about how various people pronounce the Canadian city, Toronto. Is the second T uttered? "Toron-toe?"

At first, I answered comically: "I think Torontonians pronounce it The Centre of the Universe." But then I admitted that unless I'm really concentrating on the name, I omit the second T.

I say "Toronno" or even omit the first O in an almost slur: "T'ronno."

So imagine my delight, just a day or two later, finding myself at my friendly neighbourhood LCBO and seeing an artful label on a beer can with a whimsical spelling of another pronunciation of Ontario's capital city.

The label seemed simple at first but is quite striking. Black and blue, it shows the Toronto skyline, with the CN Tower, seemingly in the mouth of a giant beast and some clouds. Only the head of the beast is shown and it almost appears as though it's an x-ray: you can see a translucent snout and the skull; toward the back of the head, the artwork becomes more abstract.

I really like the label.

Let's examine what's inside the can...

Tarana-Saurus Toronto IPA (6.7% ABV)
Indie Alehouse Brewing Company
Toronto ON

Appearance: pours a hazy, deep-gold, with a creamy, off-white head that lingers as a solid cap. Holding my pint glass up to light (a white computer screen), the colour is reminiscent of a classic IPA, though unfiltered.

Nose: ripe oranges come through strongly, followed up by a hint of pineapple.

Palate: tropical flavours of guava and pineapple, with bitter pine ending in the finish. Initially, the fruit gives it an essence of sweetness but the hoppy body quickly tempers that.

Overall impression: this is a nice, fruity ale that is balanced with the bitterness of an IPA-styled beer. It's both flavourful and palate-cleansing. All in all, a refreshing and satisfying ale.

Beer O'Clock rating: 🍺🍺

Seeing that I'll actually be in Tarana/T'ronno tomorrow, I might see about visiting the Indie Alehouse. Because one of my friends, who I'll be visiting over the weekend, wants to check out another brewery that's nearby, perhaps we can make some time to go to both.

In the meantime, you can find Tarana-Saurus at select LCBO locations. I suggest you dig some up.

Cheers!

Glebe in the Rain

Strangers in the Family

I should have learned by now but I walked right into it.

(This post might jump around a bit, so buckle up.)

My folks raised no fools. We're all pretty careful when we interact with strangers. We are cautious without being afraid. We think before we act.

And in the Internet age, particularly with social media, I feel I have to be particularly vigilant. Sure, I share a lot of information but I do so knowing that someone could store that information and try to use it against me, to use it for their own gain, and so I'm skeptical when someone out of the blue seems to know anything about me.

I've had interactions with catfish, fully suspecting, from the start, that they aren't who they claim to be. Let's face it: when a beautiful, young woman reaches out of the blue and wants to be friends with someone like me, wants to get to know me better, I'm immediately suspicious.

I've had two such people contact me in what I can only surmise was a pig-butchering exercise, and both times I was on to them from the start. I wrote about one of them on my blog and that evening, the person cut off all ties with me.

Thanks for reading, scammer!

The other person would also chat with me every day, ask me to come to Toronto, and told me about their lavish lifestyle, all because of smart crypto investments. I pretended I was interested and even told them that I had installed their recommended app on my phone and had created an account.

I had done neither.

I should share that story but I'll save it for another time.

The text came as I was driving. I got a ping on my phone, which was hooked up to the car. The first line of the message appeared at the top of my Android Auto display. Because I was driving, I didn't read the message, and because I was just turning onto my street and would be home within seconds, I didn't press the button that would read the text message to me.

But when the text notification appeared on screen, my eyes quickly read, "Hi, Ross, it's your cousin, T—..."

I didn't recognize the name so I instantly thought it could be a scam. I figured that when I got in the house, I'd read the message and then delete it, blocking the sender at the same time. I've had a lot of bogus text messages over the years.

Inside, I read the message:

Hello, Ross, this is your cousin, T—. <Her husband> and I will be coming to Ottawa for a convention this summer, in July (dates given). I have a plaque that belongs to your dad. I was hoping to see you and pass it along. Maybe we could go out for supper at a restaurant together on Friday or Saturday evening. If (my sister) could join us also that would be great.

I couldn't remember who T— is, except I was fairly certain that it wasn't a cousin from my mom's side of the family. I know most of them. I called my mother, who knows almost all of my relatives on my dad's side of the family, but not all.

My dad came from a family of 14 children: him, being lucky child number 13. Because most of his siblings were old enough to be his parents and they had moved on and started families of their own when dad was a kid, I never really knew this side of the family.

And dad was a bit of a dick when it came to his siblings, once telling my sisters and me, "I have no use for them." I barely knew aunts and uncles, let alone cousins.

Decades ago, years before DW and I moved to South Korea, one of my uncles, Don (sibling number 14, who lives in Ottawa and was one of the few people that my dad kept close with), and my Aunt Flora, held a Brown family reunion in their backyard as part of a mortgage-burning party. At this gathering, I met aunts, uncles, and cousins for the first time. Until then, Uncle Don and Aunt Flora were pretty much the only relatives that I had really known.

I later told my dad that all of my aunts, uncles, and cousins that attended the reunion were the salt of the Earth, were really good people, and that he was the black sheep of the family. But after the reunion, I didn't hear from most of these kin.

I did get somewhat closer to one of my aunts (Pat) and uncles (Jim) after the reunion. But these relatives, who lived near Port Hope, kept in touch with me, and DW and I would sometimes pay them a visit when we were traveling between home and Toronto. We also kept in touch when DW and I were living in South Korea.

When Aunt Pat passed away, I was unable to attend her funeral but I sent my condolences to Uncle Jim, and we continued to keep in touch. And when my uncle also passed away, a few years later, one of his daughters, Cathy, contacted my mom to give her the news.

Uncle Jim had two memorial services: one, at his local church, where he was a minister; another, in Montreal, where we had more family (we Browns are originally from Montreal). At the first service, I was reunited with more family, including a cousin, Philip, who I knew when I was younger, who visited my family for several days, many years ago.

Even though my parents had split when I was only about five, Philip remembered my mom's kindness toward him and had wanted to keep in touch.

Also at this service was Cathy and another cousin that I may have previously met at Don and Flora's reunion, but I had forgotten. And I'm sad to say that at this service, I remember meeting her but had since forgotten her name and how she fit in to our family.

Is this cousin T—?

My first thought, when I received T—'s text message, was how did she get my cell number? Because I didn't remember her, and my mom didn't recognize the name, I wrote back to her, apologizing for not remembering who she is. I said that the plaque wouldn't have any meaning for me, and suspected that my sister also wouldn't want it; like me, she is trying to reduce the amount of unnecessary things from her house.

I told T— that I would like to meet with her when she arrived in July and added that I'd reach out to my sister, too.

I felt kind of weird about this seemingly blind encounter. After wondering about it for a couple of hours, I shared my thoughts about this encounter on social media. And I should have realized that I was opening a can of worms. And boy, did I step into it:

"Hard pass," said a few.

"Nope," said many.

"It's a scam," said even more.

There were so many negative reactions that I was surprised.

"What if she pulls a gun on you," said one person (how do you say that you're an American without saying that you're an American?).

I was warned to meet with her in a public space and to have someone with me.

On the other hand, some people (a few) shared stories about how they learned about long-lost family members or family that they didn't know that they had, and they are better for the reunion.

After my response to T—, I received another message that said she was Pat and Jim's daughter. We had met at Uncle Jim's memorial near his home. I dug through piles of photos, remembering that DW had taken a picture of me with my sister, Philip, Cathy, and someone else.

There's no denying that we're all family.

And I vaguely remembered exchanging contact information.

We exchanged more text messages and while I barely remember T—, the information started making sense.

When my dad died, he left his car to his brother, Jim. And when Jim died, his estate went to his kids, including my dad's old car.

The plaque had been found in the car and T— has been hanging on to it all this time. She figured that her upcoming trip to Ottawa would give her the opportunity to not only reunite with my sister and me, but to also pass this plaque onto us.

I keep in touch with so few of my extended family, both on my dad's and on my mom's side of the family, that I feel if someone wants to reach out, I should embrace the opportunity. There are the adages that family is family and blood is thicker than water.

I'm not my dad, and meeting with kin will show just that.

Costs Me Nothing

A photo from my phone.

Yesterday, despite the rain, I grabbed my camera and headed to the Glebe to catch some urban shots. Some buildings, some graffiti, some candid shots. Because it was raining, I wanted to search for and take advantage of puddles.

I don't take advantage of people, but puddles are fair game.

While crossing the street at a controlled intersection (i.e., one with a crosswalk and traffic lights), I noticed a visually impaired man standing at the edge of the road, in front of the crosswalk, with a look on his face as though he was unsure about whether to step out onto the street.

Meanwhile, people shuffled by him without noticing anything but where they wanted to go.

As I approached him, I asked him if he was planning to cross the street. He said that he was but noted that there was no audible cues at this intersection.

"I suppose I've missed this light," he said.

"Well, there are four seconds left so I would say so," was my reply. "Would you like help getting across the next time the light changes?"

"If you don't mind."

I had nowhere to be. I had my camera and no specific destination. I was only going to walk between Fifth Avenue and the Queensway, on whatever side of the street got my attention.

We chatted about the weather, how it wasn't any fun standing in the rain. He noted that at least it was warm outside, seeing the silver lining in an otherwise gloomy day.

When the light was just about to change, I gave the fellow a heads up. With the walking sign lit up, I looked both ways and said, "Here we go."

Without touching him, I guided him around any problematic puddles and notified him when we were about to reach the curb on the opposite side of the street (the side from which I had started). And as soon as he was safely on the sidewalk, I bid him a good day and he thanked me for my assistance.

"Happy to help." And indeed, as I ran back across the street, with only two seconds to spare before the light changed once again, I did feel happy about making a small difference in a stranger's life.

After all, it cost me nothing.

I roamed northward, placing my camera along the length of store windows, capturing the reflection of the traffic on Bank Street. I dipped into alleys to capture some of the images that had been painted on brick walls. I would crouch low, out of the way of other pedestrians, and almost lay my D-SLR in puddles to get more reflections.

I'll share pictures throughout the week.

At one point, as I was low to the ground, I heard a woman's voice say, "Oh, photos!" As I stood up and saw the person who noticed me, I saw a young woman with her boyfriend. "Can you take a picture of us?" she asked.

I saw that she had her smartphone in hand and I extended my own hand, reaching for her phone.

"No, with your camera," she clarified.

I paused while considering her request. I've taken pictures of strangers before so the idea wasn't foreign to me. And when I first got out of my car, with camera in hand, I had considered starting up the new strangers project that I embarked upon last summer, but I had figured that most people wouldn't want to stop in the rain.

"Uh, sure," I said. There was a graffiti-covered building where we were standing so I asked if they wanted to move over and stand in front of it. Unprepared to photograph people, I simply asked them to stand together and I took only one shot.

I'll share it on Friday.

The woman asked if I was on Instagram and I gave her my user name. I also told her she could find me on Threads and gave her the name of my blog. I got her name and her boyfriend's name, wished them a great day, and we parted ways.

Two strangers, asking me to take their photograph. It cost me nothing. Sure, I'll do a nice job of the photo in post processing but I was going to do that with most of the photos I had captured, anyway.

(I've since edited the photo and it took no more time than helping the visually impaired man across the street.)

Once again, the interaction with these strangers put a smile on my face.

I could have crossed the street and continued on my way. After all, the man got to where he was, that day, without assistance. Surely, he would have found his own way across the intersection.

I could have said no to the couple when they asked me to take their picture. After all, even though I'm not a photographer by profession, I do make a bit of money, from time to time, for taking portraits and for selling some of my 'artsy' photos.

I could have insisted that I take the picture with the woman's camera: after all, we made no agreement that I'd ever send her a copy of the photo. At least by using her smartphone, she'd be walking away with an image.

And I could have simply been polite, agreed to take the photo with my camera, and then deleted it when I got home.

But you know what? That wouldn't have given me joy.

When I finished capturing all of the images of the day, I returned to my car in a very good mood. And not just because I felt I had taken some good pictures on that wet afternoon. I felt good because I had interacted with people.

I had helped someone. I had made a couple happy. And it had cost me nothing but a little bit of time, of which I had plenty and didn't miss the expenditure.

The return on investing in the lives of others pays incredible dividends.

Happy Monday!

Sunset Sign

Yes, it was a clear-blue sky overhead. A perfect, cloudless, clear-blue sky.

But when I started playing around with the white balance, in post-processing, the sky changed from azure to purple, to various shades of pink. And I liked it.

I was going to share this image with Monday's post about Dairy Queen but the image now stood out from all of the other, natural-lighting snapshots that I took of the vacant, old ice-cream shop.

I'm very sad about the loss of a Nepean landmark, a place that brought so many people together on a warm summer evening, but in all honesty, it's probably been at least a decade since I last placed an order at the take-out window. Perhaps I'm sad the same way that I am about other places from my youth are now gone from the Ottawa map.

Perhaps I'm sad that I'll no longer be able to see that DQ and remember the good times I've had there and decide to stop one more time.

I kept this final image, the last shot that I took at the old DQ, the one with which I played around with the white balance, as a single, solitary reminder of what is gone. The purple, pink, and blue pay homage to the colourful memories that I'll keep with me long after this site changes into something else.

Happy Friday!

Rubbed the Right and Wrong Ways

I've been seeing a registered massage therapist for more than 20 years. Not the same RMT but three separate people who I've seen more than once.

Image: lintmachine, via Openly.

I first went to an RMT after I complained to my doctor of constant soreness in my neck and shoulders. It seemed that these areas are where I tend to carry my stress, and working at an office job where I can spend hours on end sitting didn't help. And so, she wrote me a prescription to have a massage.

DW was already seeing an RMT for back pain that she was feeling while pregnant with our first child. She loved this masseuse, Dee^*, and recommended that I make an appointment with her. I did and I saw her for almost 20 years.

The pandemic kept me from visiting Dee and other factors that I deem as fallout from some of the sentiment around the lockdowns made me decide that when I was able to freely see an RMT again, I decided I wanted to go to someone else—someone closer to home.

And so, more than a year ago, I started seeing someone from a chain of massage-therapy clinics. Jay was great, but she was no Dee. And Jay^* likes to talk. A lot. Where Dee and I would exchange pleasant small talk as she was starting, we'd then grow quiet as she did her magic in working out all my pains: not just my neck and shoulders but also my back, my legs (cycling tended to produce knots), my glutes, and anything else that was bothering me at my visit.

I would often fall asleep during a massage, something that Dee accepted as a compliment. I couldn't fall asleep during one of Jay's massages because even if I stopped talking, she would go on about her family, or her favourite TV show, or travel, or anything.

When she worked out a particularly stubborn knot, she would say out loud, "Boy, I'm good."

When Jay left for maternity leave, I sought another RMT elsewhere. I found the clinic where Jay operated to be quite expensive, plus I was prompted to add a tip on top of the high fee. In January, I vowed to cut out tipping for anything other than at restaurants, at barber shops, in taxi services, and the like, as it bothered me so much that I wrote a post about the out-of-control practice.

I had my last massage with Jay just before DW and I left for Costa Rica. Come March, I was due for another massage and my neck was really giving me trouble. It was hard to find a comfortable position in which to lie in bed, and it was taking me a long time to get comfortable and fall asleep. So one night, as I struggled to get comfortable, I picked up my phone and, using Google Maps, searched for a massage therapist close to home.

In addition to the clinic where I had been seeing Jay, I saw a place that was only a seven-minute walk from home. The reviews looked good and the cost of an hour massage was less than what I was paying at the clinic.

In booking, I saw that this RMT was booked solid for weeks on end, except for a single opening at the start of the day, two days hence. I booked it, counting my lucky stars.

I found out, at the appointment, that the spot I got had been cancelled shortly before I started looking for a booking.

That massage was amazing. Cee^* knew how to find my tight spots and was able to loosen up my neck so that that evening, I didn't have to struggle to find a comfortable position in which to sleep. Cee also worked on my glutes, hips, and quads, which were also bothering me.

Throughout the massage, Cee was silent.

I just visited Cee again, yesterday, and she massaged me from head to toe. We did chat a little, at the beginning of the appointment, but she would never initiate the conversation, and when I fell silent, she stayed silent.

I've referred DW to Cee, and she's also had two appointments with her. After yesterday's appointment, I had what I thought might be an awkward conversation with DW.

"At your first appointment," I said, "did Cee tell you to undress as much as you felt comfortable?"

"Yeah," said DW, "but I've always stripped right down. Even with Dee."

"Really?" I said. "With Dee and with Jay, I was told to strip down to my underwear."

"I only wear my underwear when I need to be treated near my sensitive region. I didn't wear underwear with my first appointment with Cee but I wore panties for the second appointment. And I never keep my bra on."

"At my first appointment, Cee told me to undress as much as I felt comfortable, and so I've kept my underwear on. But for both appointments, when she worked on my glutes, she ended up pulling down my underwear so she could get where she needed to go. She also slid the leg part of my boxer-briefs up and over my cheek when she needed to get there. I'm wondering if I should just take them off for our next appointment, should I need my glutes worked on."

"Whatever makes you comfortable."

"But how does that make me look?" I asked. "I keep my underwear on for two appointments and then at my third, I'm buck-naked?"

"I'm sure she's used to that," said DW. "It might show her that you trust her."

How about you? If you've ever had a massage with an RMT, have you stripped down fully? Should it make a difference if your RMT is the opposite sex?

I mean, I'm almost 60 so I'm done worrying about being naked around someone, especially in a professional setting, such as a doctor's office or on a massage table. But getting naked for a massage is something I've never done before because the other RMTs have told me to keep my undies on.

I'll see how comfortable I feel at my next appointment.

Happy Thursday!

^* not her real name.

Boycott

In all honesty, I rarely go to Loblaws anymore.

When DW and I first moved to Barrhaven, this large Canadian grocery chain was one of the closest stores to us and the prices were reasonable, if not better than other grocery stores in the hood. And shortly after we moved to the neighbourhood, Loblaws built an even bigger store, across the street from the old one, allowing for an Independent grocer to move into the old location.

But then Sobey's got better and moved to a bigger location, and a Farm Boy opened close by. Barrhaven got a Food Basics and a Metro, and eventually, a Costco. And Walmart also started selling groceries.

Our community has a lot of choices when it comes to groceries.

And because we have a lot of choices, you'd think prices would come down to be as competitive as possible. Loblaws used to be one of the least expensive grocery stores: it's now one of the most expensive.

DW and I have a Saturday routine. We get to Costco as early as possible. It officially opens at 9 but sometimes opens as early as 8. We aim to be there at 8:30. We get our groceries and supplies, and head out as quickly as we can, before the bigger crowds arrive.

If we need fresh produce, including meat, we head to Farm Boy, which opened a second location, taking over the space that Sobey's left when they moved out of Barrhaven. If we want name-brand items but don't want to overspend, we go to Food Basics.

And that's pretty much it as far as getting groceries.

I haven't considered Loblaws for a long time, now. Ever since they renovated the giant store, I find it darker and not as inviting. And, of course, things are overpriced.

Many people are upset with Loblaws. During the pandemic, prices were hiked up, citing distribution issues. In 2024, distribution isn't a problem but prices are continuing to climb.

Loblaws even lowered the discounted percentage for perishables that were approaching their best-before date, going from a 50-percent discount to only 30 percent.

So, starting tomorrow, May 1, people have called for a boycott of Loblaws and other affiliated stores. And I support it.

If you have other choices for groceries, consider supporting those stores, instead. If Loblaws is your only option, consider buying only essentials and not comfort foods or treats. Send this giant corporation a strong message that enough is enough.

Shoppers Drug Mart, also owned by Loblaws, should also be avoided. Go to a Rexall or Pharma-Plus, or Jean Coutu.

The price of groceries is not a result of inflation: it's a result of greedy executives.

I saw a great meme on social media and I'd like to share it here: "Poverty exists not because we can't feed the poor, but because we can't satisfy the rich." You don't have to be poor to participate in this boycott but you can send a message to the rich.

The End of a Cool Era

I remember when Merivale Road used to be only two lanes. But it must have only been for a short period.

When I was four, I learned how to ride a bicycle. I was living in the garden homes between Chesterton Drive and Bowhill Avenue, behind what was then the K-Mart Plaza, which included a Dominion grocery store, a TD bank, a Living Lighting store, Giglio's barber shop, Gow's Chinese take out, and a Brewer's Retail.

I've written about this old neighbourhood before, with some aerial shots from 1976 for reference.

Across the street from this shopping plaza were single-unit homes, which were separated by the two-lane Merivale Road. I remember riding my bike along this street, which, in 1969, didn't see much traffic. It wasn't the bustling thoroughfare of consumerism that it is today.

When the road widened to four lanes, a few years later, but still before the field was cleared for where the Merivale Mall now stands, my friends and I would have to look both ways and run across the street—often holding hands—to get to a little convenience store, Darly's, where we would spend our allowance on candies, chips, and pop, or buy either hockey or baseball trading cards.

I never watched either sport but all my friends collected the cards, so I did too.

There were two other places, further north on Merivale Road, where my parents would take my sister and me for an occasional treat: one was the Red Barn, a fast-food chain that preceded McDonalds on this strip; and, further up, where Merivale would bend but you had to make a left turn to get onto Clyde Avenue (today, you just have to stay straight, where Merivale meets Lotta Avenue), there was our ice-cream favourite spot: Dairy Queen.

Image: Google Maps street view.

This was not a Brazier Dairy Queen, meaning you couldn't get burgers or fries, or most other hot eats, though you could get a chili-cheese hot dog. It was the cool treats that made it popular and upon which it focused.

Also, for the longest time, it was only one of two DQs in Ottawa that kept its old signage. In the 90s, it eventually updated its sign, leaving the shop at St. Laurent Blvd. and Hemlock Road the last of the nostalgic holdouts.

Image: sfgamchick, via Openly.

My family loved going to the Merivale Road Dairy Queen. My favourite treat would be a green Mr. Misty Float—or as my dad called it, "a Mr. Misty with a blob on top." It was a lime-flavoured drink with vanilla ice cream that floated above it. I would let the ice cream melt and stir it into the drink, and sip it through a straw.

Ah, to be a kid again.

In my teens, my friends and I would often ride our bikes or walk to the DQ. Often, we'd grab a burger at Harvey's, which was further up Merivale, at Baseline Road, and then go to DQ for dessert.

Ah, to be an easy-going teen again.

As I got older and had my own car, we'd make the DQ almost a weekly summer event. Because this DQ wasn't a Brazier, it was only open from about the end of March to the end of September. But every time we went, there was always a long lineup that almost turned into a party scene. My friends and I would almost always run into someone we knew, and chatting it up with people made the lineup seem short.

DW and her best friend still like to build up and joke about a time that we went to DQ, when DW and I were just starting to date. While I was driving us to the spot, DW and her friend talked about what they were going to get, and then asked me what I was going to get.

Casually, I said, "I'll probably get my usual." In my early 20s, my usual was simply a chocolate milkshake, but in my response, they both let out an "Ooh!" as though my usual had suddenly become a great mystery.

The both laughed when, at the counter, I ordered my shake.

"We thought you were getting something extravagant," DW said.

Her friend started to mock me, saying, "I'll have... my usual..." dropping her tone at "my usual," making it sound seductive.

Every time they recount this story, the "my usual" part gets more and more exaggerated.

Even to this day, I roll my eyes when they start to tell this story again.

It was only the other month, as I was heading to the Merivale Photography Studio, just a few doors down from the DQ, that I noticed that the sign was bare of the DQ logo, that the words Dairy Queen were cut out from the sides of the building that has stood there for about 60 years.

At first, I didn't think much about it. After all, it was before the ice-cream shop normally opens for the season, and I thought that perhaps they were updating the sign and the lettering on the building. But last week, at the end of April, when I drove by the DQ and no one was there, I was curious.

DW and I were meeting a friend for dinner at Alirang Korean Restaurant, a few doors away, where a Dunkin Donuts used to be, long ago. After dinner, the three of us walked to the DQ, and DW and I realized that we were face to face with the end of an era.

A sign informed us that it was closed. Inside, not only did it look deserted, it looked abandoned. The menu board was missing its panels that listed all of the treats. It looked like appliances had been pulled off of the walls.

There would be no Mr. Misty Floats, no chocolate milkshakes.

After about 60 years, the Merivale Road Dairy Queen is dead.

I wonder what will replace it. Will someone tear it down and build something new? Will somebody occupy the space and run a shop with take-out windows like this DQ did?

Because my photo club always has something going on at the photo studio, nearby, I'll keep an eye on the lot at the bend in Merivale Road, where it intersects with Clyde Avenue.

Beer O'Clock: Don't Look Up

I really meant to have some of this ale with me when I was watching the solar eclipse, a couple of weeks ago. I even meant to have it reviewed for the Thursday that followed the celestial event.

A friend, Marc, had picked up the beer on the Friday before the eclipse and I had intended on driving to his place to pick it up, but weekends are tricky for driving to the east end of Ottawa. And I was also totally preoccupied with making sure that I had everything ready for the big day.

No matter. I received my six-pack on the following weekend, at the same karaoke night where my other friend, Perry, unexpectedly brought me some of his homemade brew. Guess which beer suddenly became my priority?

Anyway, thanks to Marc for thinking of me when he went to purchase this limited beer release and for bringing it to me on karaoke night.

When I saw the label of this ale, from one of my favourite breweries, I immediately knew I would be both in for a treat and a disappointment. Stray Dog is very good at making hazy, juicy, fruity ales. Every time they release one, I'm eager to try it.

I've never seen this Orleans brewery release an IPA. Like, a traditional IPA. Yet, on every label of their juicy pale ales, they've called it an "India Pale Ale" or simply an "IPA."

My friends, you've done it again. You've made a beautiful ale but have misidentified it.

And it makes me sad.

Please, call it a NEIPA or even a "Hazy IPA," if you must insist on keeping IPA in the name. You must differentiate your creations from simply an IPA. And if you really want to be brave and break this trend, call it a "NEPA" and throw away the I.

Your brew has nothing to do with India.

Okay, enough ranting. Let's look at what they've created.

Don't Look Up! IPA (6.7% ABV)
Stray Dog Brewing Company
Orleans ON

Appearance: pours a dense orange, much like orange juice, with a white head that doesn't pour thick but forms a solid cap of less than a centimetre in thickness. No bubbles stick to the glass but they're there. Yet, when I cracked open the can, there wasn't much of a hiss as the air escaped. I almost thought the can was flat.

Nose: orange peel and tangerine, with a touch of lime and only the faintest hint of pine.

Palate: full-on orange rind and some more pine, and a bit of grapefruit. There's a bitterness that fills the mouth and stays all the way to the finish. I have to admit that there are fewer tropical flavours and more of a traditional IPA taste, but I still wouldn't call this an IPA without another descriptor.

Overall impression: I had more treat than disappointment in this ale. While Don't Look Up! looks nothing like an IPA and smells nothing like an IPA, in a blind tasting (and I mean completely blind or at least wearing solar glasses so that you couldn't see what you're drinking), I would say that this is an unusual IPA that retains some characteristics in the mouth but has something more to it.

It's a good ale that is definitely quaffable.

But it's always going to bother me when a brewery puts only IPA on their label and creates the impression that inside the can is a clear, deep gold to copper liquid that has lots of hops, some grapefruit and pine, and a higher alcohol level.

And I'm always going to rate it lower because of that.

Beer O'Clock rating: 🍺 + .5

Don't Look Up! is still available for order from the brewery. Like the eclipse, it could be gone for a long time.

Cheers!

Morbid Thoughts

Let me start off at the very beginning by saying in all earnestness that I don't believe that I'm dying. I think that I'll be around for enough years that those closest to me will be wishing for my demise.

So, a few more years, anyway.

But seeing that I have no crystal ball and nobody has yet determined what's going on with my lungs, and I could get hit by a 10-ton truck tomorrow, there's no telling how long I, or any of us, really, will be around.

Lying awake in the middle of the night, after a serious coughing fit woke both me and DW up, where the hacking was so severe and unrelenting that I thought my head would split open, and where I exiled myself to our spare room so that DW could get back to sleep, my mind turned to dark thoughts.

What if my condition is serious? What if there is no cure and that the now five different inhalers are doing nothing?

I started with a red and a blue inhaler that weren't particularly effective, and after receiving the results of my chest x-rays, my doctor moved me to a green inhaler and moved the red inhaler to the maximum dosage.

The results of the chest x-rays also prompted my physician to contact the respiratory specialist, with whom she had already referred me, and see if I could be put on a priority list.

I was seen a few days later.

The specialist listened to my lungs and essentially ruled out pneumonia but suspected that it could be bronchitis, though he didn't want to stake any claims on either hypotheses. He ordered a CT scan and a lung-capacity test, and drew me a new prescription for another, stronger inhaler to replace the red one.

I could continue to use the green one, he said.

I don't think I'm dying, but since my visit with the specialist, since I've started using the latest inhaler, my coughing has worsted. I find myself short of breath just walking around the house and I have very little energy.

Lying awake at night, trying not to cough, massaging my aching head, I turn to morbid thoughts, and this is what I've decided:

I don't want a casket. I don't want an urn. I don't want to be buried in the ground nor turned to ashes.

I don't want a headstone nor do I want a nameplate. There will be nowhere that a person can go to look upon my name.

I want no funeral. Instead, my survivors can organize a party at a nice pub—one with beer that I would want to drink, myself. One that had fine malts and great wine. And non-alcoholic beverages for those who don't drink.

I'd want some photos of me to be displayed in a slideshow but more than anything, I'd want my best photos—the ones I've shot—to monopolize the slideshow. After all, they are just as much a part of who I am as are the photos of who I was.

I'd want singing. Maybe some karaoke?

As for my remains, I want to be placed in a cardboard box or a burlap sack. Something biodegradable. I don't need clothes.

I want to be taken out to nature at an approved place where that nature could just do it's thing. No muss, no fuss, and totally green.

Yes, these are dark, morbid thoughts, but so many people die unexpectedly, without plans, and it is left to others to decide what arrangements are to be made.

If anything, writing this out, as I lay awake, at least my coughing has stopped.

For now.

An old tombstone at St. Andrew's Kirk, North Berwick, Scotland (taken in 2010).

Beer O'Clock: A Glass of PP

Many years ago—decades, actually—I would walk into a Glebe pub and if one of the owners, Rose, was behind the bar, I would greet her and then say, "A pint of PP, please."

Rose knew what I meant and she'd reach for a clean pint glass and go to a tap that had a picture of a black Labrador on it. Around the picture was the proper name of the porter that flowed into the glass: Scotch-Irish Brewing Company Black Irish Porter.

But I affectionately referred to the beer as PP—Perry's Porter. Perry, the owner of the brewery and brewmaster (and very good friend of mine), came up with the nickname at its release party, at the Arrow & Loon Pub (though, when he said it, he used a bit of a French accent and made it sound like he was saying "pee-pee"). Rose and Paul, the original owners of this now-gone establishment, became friends with Perry just before he started his brewery and just before they opened the pub, and they were the first pub in Ottawa to serve Perry's beer.

They automatically put any of his releases on rotation and they always sold out.

Perry's third release was his Irish-styled porter, following on the success of his session ale and IPA, and followed by a cask-conditioned ale that was hand-drawn and served at room temperature.

And I'll never forget Perry's 2005 Imperial Stout, which he said would hold up for 10 years, assuming that people kept it that long. I wrote about it a few times: when it was six years old,  at the beginning of 2015, when the brew was still pouring well, and in December of 2015, when the beer reached its tenth anniversary, proving that Perry hadn't lied about the stout's longevity.

(I had my final bottles of Tsarina Katarina 2005 Imperial Stout a couple of years later and while there was no fizz left, the flavours were still sound.)

Perry's brewery is long-gone, having sold the business to Ottawa's Heritage Brewery, which in turn was bought up by what is now Kichesippi Beer Company. None of Perry's recipes survived the transfer and that was purely Kichesippi's loss in retiring them.

And though Perry is out of the beer industry, he has never stopped making beer, though he only makes small batches for himself, nowadays. Until this past weekend, that is.

In addition to being a great beer maker, Perry also has a great singing voice, and he has joined my other friends, DW, and me for a few karaoke nights. Last Saturday, he was out with us again at Bistro-Bar l'Original, in the Hull sector of Gatineau.

"Don't let me forget that I have some beer for you in the trunk of my car," he said as we sat down. "It's a cask-conditioned version of my porter."

I was immediately excited. I loved PP and missed it over the decades since I last had a bottle, which I had picked up at my friendly neighbourhood LCBO. It was the Irish-styled porter by which I've measured every dry porter I've come across.

And I was excited to try a cask-conditioned version.

"Just remember that there'll be sediment at the bottom of the bottle, so you won't want to pour it all out into your glass," he said, as he handed me an 8-pack at the end of the night, "unless you like pooping a lot."

I poured my first glass a couple of days ago and here are my thoughts. I hope I don't sound like I'm rubbing in the fact that this beer is not for sale anywhere, and that if I share any of it, it'll be with a special friend or my father, who also loves dark ales.

Here goes:

Cask-Conditioned Porter (5.3% ABV; 40 IBUs)
Perry Mason (formerly, Scotch-Irish Brewing Company)
Ottawa ON

Appearance: pours a dark, walnut brown with a fizzy, taupe head that quickly settles to a fine lace. Bubbles cling to the inside of the glass but dissipate, and the beer turns less fizzy to flattish by the time you reach the bottom of the glass. And when I reached the bottom of my glass, I noticed only the slightest traces of a greyish, silty sediment (I had left about a teaspoon or so of beer in the bottle when I poured, and even at that, I didn't see much sediment when I looked into the bottom of the bottle).

Nose: cocoa and a touch of prunes.

Palate: rich espresso and cocoa, paired with tobacco and prunes. There's a bit of alcohol that swirls around in the mouth but doesn't steal the show; rather, it holds everything together in a lingering finish.

Overall impression: Perry has never made a beer that I didn't like, and I don't think I'm being biased because he's a good friend. There was one time, when he invited me to join him for Volo Cask Days in Toronto, and he had submitted a firkin of a pumpkin ale. After setting up and tapping the mini keg, he poured us each a sample.

It was awful and I told him so. He agreed but suggested that we let the firkin settle, as it had just come from the car after the four-and-a-half-hour drive. We had a few hours before the event started, so we went to grab a meal and wander this Toronto neighbourhood.

When the festival started, we tried the ale again and it had completely transformed into one of the best pumpkin ales I've ever had the good fortune to try. And many people at the festival agreed, as it was voted the best pumpkin ale of the show and outpoured all other pumpkin ales by three to one.

I love a good porter and Perry makes a great one. Even though it loses its effervescence before you finish your glass, the flavours make you not care about bubbles. Everything else comes together and goes down easily.

Beer O'Clock rating: 🍺🍺🍺

Cask-conditioned beer doesn't have a long shelf life so I'll likely finish the rest of Perry's porter over the next week or so. I'd like to save a couple of the bottles, to take to Toronto to share with a good friend, who I'm meeting in early May. I think the bottles should last and I'm hopeful that they handle the trip to Toronto well.

Cheers!

Style

When it comes to photography, I don't know if I have a style.

I tend to think that I have a wide range of styles. I shoot landscape. I shoot nature. I shoot portraits, including models (either dressed or not). I shoot abstract. I shoot long exposure and I freeze action.

I shoot wide-angle and I shoot closeups. Occasionally, I shoot macro. I shoot in the day and at night. Indoors and out.

Recently, I drove nearly 300 kilometres to capture once-in-a-lifetime images. It was totally worth it.

I think my photography centres on capturing life moments that I am experiencing but there's more to my photography than that. My studio work can't be said to be a moment in my life in the same way that travelling for a vacation and witnessing a sunset on a beach, for example, which in turn isn't the same as sitting near a window in my house, watching birds feeding at our feeder.

One of my favourite photos of 2022 was captured when I was sitting in my favourite chair, watching TV. During a commercial break, I happened to notice the planter of orchids that was sitting on the window ledge, next to me. The light that hit the flowers at that particular time caught my attention and I decided to photograph them. Without moving from my chair, I took my smartphone and snapped the photo. In post processing, I made some dramatic edits and the resulting photo was a keeper.

I still love the photo.

I have a super-wide lens that can really distort a subject, and I like to use it to take pictures looking up. But I also use that lens to take level shots, which tend to not be as distorted, or at least don't appear as distorted.

I suppose that when it comes to studio photography, I've developed a preference for low-key shooting: that is, a black background and minimal lighting to illuminate the subject. In the last four times that I've signed up for a meetup with my photography club, I've chosen themes where we're mostly or totally in the dark.

Have a look by clicking studio photography in the Keywords area, in the right-hand margin (just be aware that some of the posts are NSFW).

That's another thing. I like photographing nude images. DW thinks I'm being "pervy," in her words, but I disagree. It's fine art. I do with a camera what artists have done for centuries with a paintbrush or pencil.

I've never heard her refer to Michelangelo as a pervert for his work on David. (And Zeus, I'm not comparing myself to Michelangelo!)

Do I have a style? The digital age has allowed me to do more with my photography than I ever could in the days of 35mm film. And because I can do more, I shoot more and experiment. Maybe, someday, I'll develop a style where someone can look at one of my photos and know that I shot it, but I doubt it. I want my photography to be as fluid and ever-changing as life itself.

What do you think? Do I have a style? If you can describe it, leave me a note in the Comments section.

Happy Tuesday!