A Year in the Life...

So what happens next? I'll tell you what happens next, I turned 31. That's what's next.

This is me at 31.

Outwardly, not much has changed in the past year. Well at least my hair colour is still the same. But underneath the costume, life moved on. A lot can happen in a year I suppose.

For example, in the past two months (since my last post),much has transpired. Most recently we welcomed a new member into the Corbeil family. Everyone meet my brand new niece Isla.

Born just two days ago, to my brother Jed and my sister in-law Shannon, this is Isla at 12 hours old. Measuring life in hours. How strange is that? If we looked at it that way I would be approximately 271,775. And old man by any standards.

But Isla, she is just so new. Her life is at it's very ultimate beginning. Her odometer is so close to zero it amazes me. I've never seen someone so brand new. It truly is astounding.

So as Isla slowly learns about life, like what her fingers are for and who those two people are that are always hanging around and fussing over her. Jed and Shannon will be slowly, or quickly rather, learning to be parents. Life moves on.

But before beautiful little Isla entered our lives, my wife Liz and I were off visiting beautiful British Columbia. It had been some time since I last visited the left coast and Liz had never been there, so we tried to pack in as much as possible into the few days we had out there. We hit Vancouver first, then off to Victoria and finally out to Kelowna in the Okanagan Valley to visit my friend Sebastian.

And there was certainly enough beauty to go around in the Okanagan. That drive along the coast of the lake was enough I tells ya. What a view. I can't believe anything gets done out there. Every time I'd look over at the lake as I drove along, I almost drove off road. Here, don't take my word for it, take a look at the lake yourself.

Amazing isn't it.

The landscapes were great and all, but it was also great to see Sebastian again. It had been a year since we last hung out in Toronto and it's been almost two since we started our Brew masters course in Berlin. Time just seems to be going so fast now. A month, used to take seemingly forever, each day was an uphill battle towards the next. Now they pass in the blink of an eye. It's like I'm going down hill now, speeding up towards the end. Life moves on.

In the last two months I also started hosting my very own Beer and Cheese classes at the Leslieville Cheese Market. For a newcomer to the hosting game, the first two classes went really well if I do say so myself. I get to talk about beer, which I love to do and learn about the wonderful world of cheese at the same time. Does it get any better than that?

For the most part those attending seemed to enjoy themselves (but how can't you with all that delicious beer and cheese?), even the guy who passed out in the middle of class only had kind words as the paramedics escorted him out of the shop.

So yeah, all in all the classes were a success. I'll be doing a few more classes in the coming months and hopefully this will turn into something I can do on a regular basis. Or maybe it won't. Who knows. Life moves on.

So that's that. Now your all caught up. And that just about does it for this blog. A year has passed and I'm still alive and brewing.

We've said goodbye to some good people in the past year, my favourite author, Kurt Vonnegut passed away. His books taught me to love reading. So it goes.

And we've welcomed some new faces into the world. Isla Corbeil, Teagan Brown, Isabella Robinson...just to name a few. Good luck. Take some advice from a man of 271,775 hours: life is great, enjoy it.

I've drifted apart from some and moved closer to others. I've traveled to a few places and missed out on some opportunities. But that's kinda how it goes. Life moves on.

So what's next?

Who knows?

P.S.

I actually have one more post on this blog. For the past year I've been drinking a different beer every day. And on January 5th of 2008 I will post each and everyone of those 365 beers right here on this blog. Yes, I know the year starts on January 1st, but it took me a few days to shake off the hangover last year and I didn't start until 4 days in. Life moves on.

The Summer is starting to Fall

So what's next? I'll tell you what's next, stoking the fires of a long dead season, that's what's next.
As we stood around the dying embers of the soon dead season, we looked on mournfully. This once proud fire, which burned with such fury, who's flames once jumped up high and licked the tops of trees, which blanketed us in warmth and kept the days long, was now reduced to a few glowing coals and lifeless grey ash.
But then something happened. On the eleventh hour, when all hope was seemingly lost, we all got together, joined forces and restarted the flame.
Together at the wedding table we got down on our knees, leaned forward and breathed air into those embers. We pushed and stoked the ash with our feet and hands until those few remaining persistent glowing coals began to burn yellow. We quickly through paper, wood, leaves anything we could find onto the pit and watched in utter glee as it began to grow.
It wasn't long before the flames were jumping high again, spitting off sparks into the night. It burned high and hot as we looked on in awe. And then like joyful children we began to dance around the fire. We grabbed hands and made like idiots, drinking in the waning happiness. Knowing that this last gasp of the flame, which shot up from the earth like dragon's fire, was just that, a last gasp. So armed with this knowledge we danced and partied long into the night, leaving everything on the dance floor.
Then as we all dispersed for the evening, drunken tumbling in different directions we were happy.
The next day broke and the flame was again gone. The air was grey and cold. The fire itself was left smoldering, simmering and stinking like we had all gathered 'round and pissed it out the night before.
But still we were happy. We were happy because together as friends, we had witnessed such an exceptional evening. An evening we won't soon forget.
Shout outs to Jenn and Brian on their nuptials. It was an outstanding night and I was more than happy to be a part of your day.
So what's next?

The Labours of Summer

What's next? I'll tell you what's next, Labour Day that's what's next.
Again many moons have passed since I last posted on this blog. I don't even know why it takes me so long to get up the energy to write down inane thoughts onto a blackboard that never gets erased. I actually have time now. There is no excuse. I'm off at 2pm everyday and yet I seemingly find any number of things to do other than something constructive. I hardly read. I never write. I sometimes go to the gym or run, but that's about it. And when I say "seemingly find any number of things to do"...it's only one thing. It's fucking Voyager man. A week or so ago, I watched four straight episodes. In a row. That's four hours on the couch doing nothing but watching the stranded Starfleet vessel slowly makes it's way across the Delta quadrant attempting to makes it's way home to earth. One leg on the ground the other stradeling the top of my couch, I sat there, transfixed on the screen wathching the melodrama unfold infront of me. After the third episode I was so jonesing for another fix that with one shaky, sweaty hand on the remote I desperatley scrolled through 134 channels and actually time shifted and watched CityTV Calgary. I'm an addict. That's the first step...admiting you have a problem.
But all hope is not lost. I've switched shifts and now I'll be working the 11a-7p shift. I may have found a cure to my problem. Over the last week I've been ever so gently weening myself off the Voyager. I've slowly been saying goodbye to Janeway, Tuvok, Paris, Seven of Nine, Nelix and the rest of the crew. Soon I'll even be able to make it through a day with out wondering if they ever did make it home.
Well enough of that...the joke is dead.
Since we last spoke I've bought a new car. My first ever brand new car as a matter of fact. It's a sweet little thing. A Nissan Versa. Not unlike our last car, the sturdy and dependable Volkswagon Golf, (which probably would've lasted many more years if not for me) it's a small little hatch back. I'm quite fond of the little fellow and hopefully I won't fuck this one up too badly. I just thought that it was worth mentioning and important enough to chisle into the side of the great slab of virtual granite lining the internet.
And what could the summer be with out weddings. Yes, since we last spoke we attended another wedding. This one was for our good friends, Mike and Melissa. Great venue in The Gladstone and great atmosphere too. It was so laid back and casual. None of that pomp and circumstance you get at some weddings. I think we've been very lucky this summer, in that every wedding to the last has been amazing. Each one has been so fun and unique. Wonderful. Wonderful.
The best part of this last wedding was seeing so many faces I haven't seen in quite sometime. It was like Bracebridge came to Toronto for a day. Well that and Ross's video. Brilliant. Brilliant.
And next weekend we have one more. One last wedding to end the summer.
Yes, Labour Day has passed. You can say that September 20th is the last day of summer but we all know that once Labour Day has come and gone, Summer has left the building.
That little feeling inside your stomach starts to rumble. Nostalgia grips tightly you as you start to remember all the good times past. Fall is at the door step and it's time to wipe our muddy feet off at the door and leave all those good times behind as we step inside and bunker down for another long winter. But not before we have one last great wedding! So here is to all those good times already past and to all the new memories soon to be forgotten.
So what's next?

Decisions, decisions, decisions....and Voyager!

So what's next? I'll tell you what's next, a new job and three back to back episodes of Star Trek: Voyager...every day! That's what's next.
Well the decision has been made and a new job has been found. Yesterday, I turned down an offer at The Amsterdam Brewery and elected to take a position as one of the brewers at The Mill Street Brewery.
It wasn't an easy decision, I flip flopped back and forth between the two offers for two solid days. Writing down the pros and cons of both places, looking at commute times, reading up on the different beers each brewery made. I'm sure by the end of it, Liz was pretty tired of me asking her what I should do. Both brewery's are great and are big brands in the Toronto area. But more than that both companies are populated with wonderful people. And it made it tough to make that final choice.
Making a decisions is like dropping a pebble in a lake. You make a choice and little ripples form across the top of the water. Some decisions aren't that big and the ripples slowly fade away and the lake returns to it's natural state. But some decisions are huge and those little ripples quickly become a fuckin' force of nature. Sure they may start off as small ripples, but as each subsequent decision follows after that initial one, those ripples quietly become waves. Then those waves eventually become white caps and the next thing you know you have a GD tsunami on your hands that threatens to wipe out your entire life!
This giant 25 foot wave looms over the shoreline of your life. It casts a dark and ominous shadow over you. And all those little imaginary people that populate the coastal city that is your life and dreams are threatened with complete inialation.
Imagine if you will a quiet and serene day on that remote lake side village. Flowers adorn the windows of it's beautiful and peaceful main street. And as the warm and soothing sun shines down on all of them, the towns folk are going about their day in the usual way. Friendly neighbours waving to hello to each other as they pass on the street. An elderly postman makes his rounds delivering the mail with a sparkle in his eye and a smile on his face. John the baker puts his pie in the window of his tiny little bakeshop that he retired to just last year after leaving the city behind.
The Rat Race had become to much for him and after his wife passed away last year, he packed it all in, sold all his stocks and moved to this quiet little lake side village to run out his days in the bake shop he and his wife had been dreaming about for years. He had always said, "Maybe next year honey, maybe next year". But next year came too late for his beloved wife and now she was gone. Now she may not have been there to share this with him, but with each pie he made, it brought him a little closer to her. They had designed all the recipies together in their old kitchen back in the city. And to him, her heart was in each of those creations and he could almost see her smiling up at him from the pie pan.
And now today as he leans out his shop window and places his pie on the sill a shadow creeps across the street in front of him. He looks up and sees this menace. The giant wave coming at him. He knows then and there, in an instant, that everything he'd done in his life is about to be destroyed. He doesn't mind though, in fact a small smile gently drifts across his face. Cause he knows that soon he will be back with his beloved wife baking pies in the sweet here after.
Where the hell was I going with this? Oh yeah, decisions shouldn't be made lightly! Take your time, do it right. Think it over, sleep on it, ask for help from your friends. Life is long and the future is a big place so no need to rush. But for godssakes make the decision already! If there is something that you want to do and you've been thinking about it for years make the decision. Maybe the townsfolk in your little village need a shake up, cuase you never know when it will be too late.
Anyhoo, I start next Tuesday so my days of sitting on the couch and waiting for Voyager to come on are over. Seriously, I'm hooked on that show. Three episodes, back to back to back every day from 4 until 7. Could you ask for anything more? I don't think so.
So what's next?

White Water Rafting on Water Street

What's next. I'll tell you what's next. 2 bachelor parties and 1 job hunt. That's what's next.

So a lot has conspired since I last dropped in on the ol' blogosphere.

And to kick it off, yes it's official, I've left my post as Assistant Brew master at The Robert Simpson Brewing Co. The drive finally got the better of me. Last Wednesday was my last day. I'm still going to be making the trip up there two or three times a week or until the new brewers are fully trained on the brew house, but my capacity there is only as a consultant and not as an employee of the Robert Simpson Brewing Co.

I learned a lot in my almost nine months there, not just about brewing but also about what is important to me personally. Working 12 hour days, plus driving for 2 hours each day doesn't leave one with much time to live and living is pretty much on the top of my "to do list".

I can spout cliches like, "working to live, not living to work" and they'd all be true. But I'm just going to move right on past this and leave it all where it should be, behind me.

On more pleasant news, I've been jamming up those few meager hours I get each week with road trippin' good times.

First it was off to Ottawa for Mike Brown's bachelor weekend. After a morning of jetting around Toronto in a Porche Twin-Turbo (you'll have to excuse me, what I know about cars can fill a thimble) it was off to Ottawa for some binge drinking and BBQ, before we awoke with the sun and headed up the Ottawa River towards the Belle Province for some White Water Rafting.

This was my first White Water Rafting experience and to be honest I didn't really know what to expect. There was a twinge of nervousness but deep down I knew I was going to like it. And like it I did. If for nothing else than to see my buddy James' face every time we came up from a big rapid. Panting deeply and with complete disorientation in his eyes, each tortured look on his water soaked face was pure agony mixed with absolute elation. You have to understand that James is also the single most uncoordinated person on the planet. He poses only the most minuscule amounts of athletic ability and when forced into a situation such as holding a paddle and trying to sit at the same time, his motor skills suddenly abandon him. His flailing arms begin to wave violently in the air and his knees buckle, sending him straight down onto his ass in the middle of the raft. Seeing this first hand made almost every minute of the 7 hour drive worth it. Well that and the complete awesomeness of White Water rafting. Definitely something I'll be doing again in my life.

After we dragged our wet and weakened bodies out of the Ottawa River, we loaded back into the car and drove as far as the next gaz (yes, I spelled it like that on purpose) station and loaded up on beers for the long trip back into Ottawa.

Which of course we got lost on.

That night we tore a strip off the Market and made the rounds from bar to bar. Ottawa never disappoints.

As fun as all of this was, it's always the drives that define these trips. For me, whenever I look back at all the road trips I've ever been on, the first thing I remember is the journey there and the journey back.

The journey there is filled with excitement and anticipation of the weekend to come. With new adventures on the horizon and a tank full of liquor to fuel the trip, everyone is giddy with the thoughts of new adventures.

The ride home is usually a little less rowdy but it's the bonding over the recounting of the seemingly endless stream stupid and many times embarrassing events of the weekend just past that make it so memorable. That and the fact that almost everyone in the car is giddy from the complete lack of sleep over the past three days and everything that comes out of any ones mouth is pretty much the funniest thing they've heard in there entire life.

I think the ride home is always my favourite part.

The ride home from Ottawa did not disappoint either. It was 5 hours of rehashing, that probably would only have been better if we infact had hash. But I digress. It was another successful stag weekend.

Not two weeks later it was time for another stag. This time it was my good friend Brian's and we were off to Boston, to see the sights and catch a ball game.

Again we did our best to keep the location and time of the trip a secret from Brian, and this is no easy task mind you, but we managed to do it. Well the time was a secret and Brian was thoroughly suprised but the location was only held a secret for the amount of time it took us to drive from Brian's house to the Lakeshore. Approximately 10 mintues. We aren't pointing any fingers here....giant, hulk like stubby fingers.

The trip took a little longer than we expected, so we got a little drunker in the car than we expected but that's okay. We rolled into Boston about 3-330am only to be awakened by Fuss at about 630am beer and hand ready to hit the town. He entertained us for about 30 minutes with a rambling monologue about "gussets" and intermitent vomiting and by the end of it we were ready to roll. By 1030am we were at the bar and sampling some of the fine beers and food stuffs the city had to offer.

But you have to imagine that a day that starts at 1030am after only 3 hours sleep probably doesn't last that long. We managed to get in a few sights, get drunk and take our pants off at a restaurant but by 1130pm the city and the booze had got the better of us and we were back home. Which was probably for the best cause the next day we were heading to Fenway to catch a Sox game.

After a full nights sleep and a morning of pinting at The Boston Beer Works and Bukowski, a few wonderful beer bars just a short jaunt from the stadium we were ready for the game. And with the sun shining down on us and our shirts off, we enjoyed the game from the friendly seats in the right field bleachers at Fenway.

The atmosphere was great, everyone was totally into the game. The Sox in Boston are like the Leafs in Toronto, more a religion than a sport. Truly a great place to catch a game. I think the Sox won, but I'm not sure what the score was.

After the game we headed out to the Fenway neighbourhood and made our rounds of the bars. Again, the atmosphere was electric and the whole place was jammed with drunken fans and party seekers. Luckily we got enough sleep the night before and we were able to make it a little longer into the night.

We managed to get home alright but some how between a trip to IHOP at 330 am and a walk along the river we managed to lock our selves out of our room with the deadbolt from the outside. Don't ask, cause I don't know how. We did get back in at around 6am but it left us a little tired for the long ride home.

But like I said before, with a little less sleep sometimes the ride home can be that much more fun. And fun it was. I don't think I will be forgetting this weekend for a long time to come.

So what's next.

Sometimes Life Feeds You a Giant Shit Sandwhich and Sometimes Life Feeds You a Giant Chocolate Cake. And Sometimes There Isn't Much Difference

What's next? I'll tell you what's next, a rotten 24 hour stretch, that's what's next.
So since I last posted on the ol' blogosphere about a month has passed in real time. I have no idea how that converts to Internet time, but I'm sure it's a lot.
Anyhoo, last Tuesday I had a bad day. Actually it was more like Monday afternoon until Tuesday afternoon. A 24 hour stretch spanning two separate weekdays....whatever, you get the picture.
Well, Monday was rolling along pretty nicely at fist. I did a quick Brewhouse C.I.P and then filtered 65hl of beer in record time. I was out the door and on my way home hours before I expected to be. Not too bad. And seeing as I was out early I figured I'd be a nice guy so I called Liz and asked if she wanted a ride home. She did, so just as I passed my usual exit and came around the corner on Lakeshore drive I got nabbed by a speed trap for going 17km over the speed limit. A whopping $42.50 fine (plus a $15 victim tax....if you ask me I was the victim here). I wasn't so upset about the ticket as it was so small but as the officer hands it to me, he leans in the car and says, "unfortunately, this ticket will cost you three demerit points". I says, "3 points for 17 over?" To which he replies, "Just fight it, they'll probably just knock the points off anyways.". I drove away thinking what a gigantic waste of time that whole ordeal was. He basically pulled me over for a minuscule ticket that if I fight (which I did and now have to wait 8 months before I even get a court date) I will get reduced anyways. So in affect he just put a further burden on an already over taxed court system. All for a measly $42.50 (plus the $15 victim tax). Kinda silly if you ask me. But no one did, so I guess that's that.
So as I carry on down the road, I pick up Liz and head home. We decide that we don't want to make any food so we head to Dominion to pick up a pizza. On the way there I miss my first turn, so I decide to take King a little further and just get the next street. Unfortunately there was no "left turns" from 4-6pm. I look at the clock and it's 20 minutes to 6, "what are the chances?" I think to myself as I make the turn. Only to find 4 cop cars sitting there waiting for suckers like me. I guess the chances were pretty good. So yeah, I got another ticket, this time a whopping $85 (plus a $35 victim tax). Again, what a waste of time. 4 cops were sitting there. 4! Seriously, how much money does it cost the people to have 4 cops sitting at an intersection just on the outskirts of down town. Ahhhh....whatever, I'll stop there before ranting.
So now in just over 20 minutes I managed to accumulate two tickets totaling $127.50 in fines, plus $50 in victim taxes and three demerit points. All and all not a bad 20 minutes.
That was it for Monday. Tuesday is way better.
I wake up Tuesday morning refreshed and determined to not let the two traffic violations bother me the whole day. But no sooner had I stepped out of the car and tried to unlock my car then the bad luck strikes again. Somehow, my key gets locked in the car door. It sounds stupid, but it's true. My key turned too far and locked itself into the door. I tried pulling, twisting, pushing and kicking, but nothing was working. So after about five minutes I head back inside and get my spare key. I go to the back of the car, unlock the hatch back and crawl inside (now before anyone asks, the key less entry on my Golf has not worked in over a year). I rummage over the seats and manage to unlock the door from the inside. But such is the locking mechanism in the Golf that if the key is in the door with the door unlocked and you start the car the alarm still goes off. So I had to lock the door and start the car, but such was the problem with my latching mechanism on the door that when I locked the door I couldn't close the door. Weird...trust me.
So I get Liz to call VW and they were open at 730 am. Not to bad. I drive to the dealership with one hand on the wheel and one hand holding the locked, but not closed door, shut.
I get to the dealership and try to explain the situation. They don't believe me. They come outside and try to play with the lock. 5 minutes of pulling, twisting, pushing and kicking and they believed me.
They get the car in the garage and an hour and a half later come out and tell me that it's going to cost me $758 to fix.
Awesome!
Now my total is up to two tickets worth $127.50, plus $50 in victim taxes and two demerit points and a car fixing up fee of $758.
A great 18 hours so far.
So I call Jim at the Brewery and tell him the situation and explain that I'm going to be late. At which point he tells me that there is a problem with the beer that I filtered yesterday and that I have to get there straight away and filter another 65hl if they are going to have any beer to bottle that day.
Awesome!
So I head out on the highway, screaming North towards Barrie. I get to the Brewery and everyone is in hysterics. They need to bottle, but in order to bottle they need beer. So I get to work right away. I start putting everything together for the filtration as fast as I can. I start cleaning the Bright Beer Tank and DE filter at the same time. I got two things going and I'm working way to fast. And as I'm filling the bell in the DE filter with 90+ Celsius water, with the only hose available to me, I lean over to close a valve and the hose jumps up and sprays me with the scolding water. I drop the hose and try to rip off my shirt. But to no avail...the damage was already done.
I run into the lab and tell Nikki to grab me some ice. I immediately throw the ice on my side and Jim comes up, looks at it and says you better get to the Emergency Room or the walk in clinic. So I get one of the girls working on the line downstairs to drive me to the clinic. The clinic say me right away and promptly told me that I had 2nd degree burns but there was absolutely nothing they could do for me.
Awesome!
So I return to the Brewery. At this point the pain starts to kick in. Up until then I thought I may be able to finish my day and get the beer filtered. Not any more.
When I get to the brewery I tell them that I'm going home. They give me some advil and some T3's. I take the Advils cause I had to drive and the T3's may have been too much. The pain starts to subside and I figure the drive won't be too bad. Not so much. I get about 20 minutes down the 400 south and I start to scream. I seriously had never felt pain like that before. I reach into my pocket and start swallowing T3's. Nothing doing, it still hurts like a bastard and I still have 40 minutes of driving left. I'm punching my steering wheel, clenching my teeth and screaming at the radio for the entire drive. I finally get to the 401 turn off and instead of taking Black Creek Drive, like I usually do, I decide to take the 401 West to the 427. I figured that it was still early enough in the day that the traffic wouldn't have started yet. Wrong. As soon as I make the turn I see the sign. "Exit to 427 southbound Blocked".
Fuck, shit, cock, bastard, asshole and a whole bunch of other words came flying out of my mouth. I'm pretty sure I even invented so new words, which had profanity levels far beyond anything found in a Tarintino movie.
I quickly take the first exit and I'm forced to take Weston Road all the way south now.
Red light after Red light. Stop and go, stop and go. 20 minutes later I finally get home. I take two more T3's and force myself to pass out, hoping the rest of the day will just fade away.
When I finally woke up and Liz came home, she looked at my side and it was now fully starting to blister. She called Telehealth and they said I should probably go to the clinic the next day and get the blisters lanced and dressed properly. At this point I was still planning on working the next day. We needed beer and someone had to brew it. But after a night of about 20 minutes of sleep and 7 hours of trying not to turn onto my side, I decided it best to take the next day off.
Anyhoo, it was a bad day. And usually after bad days you think to yourself that it can't get any worse, it can only get better. The scales of injustice were tilted against you and now they needed to be balanced again. Somehow some good will come to you and all will be right in the world again. This is of course nonsense. The universe doesn't owe you shit. The universe doesn't care about you. And why should it? Sometimes bad things just happen. You deal with it and you move on. It sucks but it's true.
I had a bad day but I'm happy now. The week started off on a downer but at the end of the week I got to attend a wonderful wedding. Steve and Raynu (my brother in law and his fiance) had two wonderful ceremonies in one day. The first a traditional Sikh ceremony held at a Gurdwara (A Sikh temple), which was like nothing I had experienced before and I'm glad I was able to attend. And the second was a more traditional wedding held at The Palais Royale directly on the shores of Lake Ontario. Both ceremonies were beautiful and it was so nice to see the two cultures (Indian and Portuguese) come together for one great day. Lots of dancing, lots of eating and lots of Deer Penis. Also there was lots of genuine affection. The families and friends of both parties seemed so genuinely happy for both Steve and Raynu, it was just so very refreshing to see. It's just awesome to see that much happiness in one place.
So bad things do happen and the universe doesn't care. Big deal. It's not always about you. The universe is a pretty damn big place with a lot of people in it. And if you just look around maybe you'll find that other people happiness can also make you happy.
So what's next?

Father Time is a Cranky Old Man Who Runs Faster Than Me and it Really Pisses Me Off

What's next? I'll tell you what's next, every other day. That's what's next.
It's been almost a month since I last updated this page and I couldn't tell you what happened to that month. Months used to seem like years now they seem like days. Remember how long it used to take for Christmas when you were a kid? Those flaps on the advent calendar couldn't be opened fast enough. Sure you may have cheated and opened a few early, just for the chocolate, but still that month of December might as well have been an eon. Speaking of which, remember that bird Eon in the Rudolph Christmas movie? Where Rudolph went to the Island of Forgotten toys and Father Time was there and The Baby New Year? Maybe I don't remember that, maybe I'm making it up, maybe my hungover mind is running on the fumes of last nights drinking binge and has gone off on some crazy tangent that I can't now get a hold of....stop.
Anyhoo, time is moving faster now. I'm older and my grip is slipping. Life is great and I get to do a lot of great things in it, but it all goes by so fast it's hard to slow down and realize just how good it is. Baby New Year just get's old so goddamn fast.
In the last month I've done a lot of working, made a lot of beer, had my first patio day of the year, travelled to Niagra Falls and played in a hockey tournament, played this years first round of golf....I've done a lot of shit, but not until this very moment have I stopped, breathed and taken it all in. It's already May for crying out loud. It was Cinco de Mayo yesterday. We celebrated but not too much cause we aren't Mexican. But I'm sure Mexican's celebrate Canada Day so it's okay. But seriously, check this out. We went to the Mill Street Brew Pub for some patio, some beers and some food. We ordered the beer and then realized, from the Mexican decal and food offerings on the menu, that it was Cinco De Mayo. Great. Awesome. I love Mexican food and reasons to celebrate. So I ordered one of the Mexican dishes. The waitress politely told me that they were out of that particular item. So I ordered another one of the five Mexican dishes that they were offering. She takes my order and then five minutes later comes back and says that they are out of that too. WTF? Seriously, Cinco De Mayo is one day. And it's 3 in the afternoon. How could they possibly be out of two of the five special Cinco De Mayo offering before dinner! What a joke. I should have gotten up and left right there, but I didn't. I stayed for two more hours and drank on the patio. But I didn't like it dammit!
Speaking of time moving fast. Last year on Cinco De Mayo I was with my cousin in Berlin stumbling around the streets looking for a Mexican Bar to celebrate at, when we ran in to this guy who offered us to go on a bar crawl for 10 Euro. We did and it was fun. That was a year ago. A year dammit. So much has happened in the year since that if I tried to think about it all at once my head would explode and then I'd get blood and brain goo all over the computer so I won't do that.
What's next?

A Truck Full of Fat Men

What's next? I'll tell you what's next, a GD cold. That's what's next.
Not cold as in, "I can't believe how goddamn cold it is and it's fucking April". April showers my dried chapped ass. It snowed my entire way home yesterday. Sorry about that....where was I? Oh yeah, but a cold as in, the sniffles, the runny nose, the dry hacking cough...listen to me, I sound like a bloody Contact C commercial.
Anyhoo, when I was younger a cold lasted two days tops. It usually started something like this. You'd wake up in the morning and feel a little sick, nothing to bad, you just knew that you weren't quite right. So you would call your Mom into your room, conjure up a few coughs, sniffle a few times and then in your most pathetic, sick voice you'd tell your Mom that you didn't "feel well" and that you should probably stay home from school. This would typically work, unless you over acted or you tried it way too many times. Also, you had to pick your sick days. Not on days when you had a test, cause that's just plain obvious. And not on days when you had hockey practice, cause then you'd get the, "Well if you're not well enough to go to school, then you're not well enough to go to hockey". Like I said, you had to pick your days.
Now, you may be legitimately sick, but when you're a kid a cold is nothing. A mere blip in the road. You cough and sneeze a few times and your nose runs a little. Big woop. For the most part you could still do pretty much anything you would normally do. In a twisted way, it even seemed like a blessing. You got to stay home from school and get pampered by your mother all day, and all you had to do was cough and sneeze every thirty to forty minutes. Ah yes, getting pampered by your mother. She'd make you soup. She'd give you ginger ale. She may even move the TV into your room if you're just to sick to get out of bed and move downstairs to the living room. Oh, those were the days.
But now that I'm older, at least for me, when I get a cold, it's like getting kicked in the goddamn head with a stiletto, while a fat man jumps on my chest. It amazes me just how much fucking snot my nose can produce. I've gone through two boxes of Kleenexes in the last 36 hours. I've drank over 4L of orange juice, tried four different types of daytime/night time cold remedies and watched 6 different episodes of Star Trek, Star Trek: The Next Generation and Star Trek: Voyager...each.
Actually that's one thing that's better now. The daytime TV. When I was a kid I got two channels, the CBC and CTV. I could choose between The Littlest Hobo or the Dini Petty Show. Not exactly the best selection in daytime programming. At least now I can choose which repeated episode of Star Trek: The Next Generation I want to watch a 3 in the afternoon. I can watch it on Space or I can watch it on Spike. It basically comes down to which episode I've seen fewer times. Oh, what wonders the future has shown us. Just look how far we've come!
This is now the third day of work I've missed. I left early on Monday cause I could feel the cold coming. I heard it's early warning cry, that irritating scratch in the back of your throat, and I heeded it's warning. I was supposed to brew back to back days, Tuesday and Wednesday, and I knew it was going to take all the energy I had to pull that off. A normal brew day lasts between 10-12 hours in which I might get to sit down for maybe ten minutes. Also the brewhouse it self is a green house. With the kettles steaming all day on the inside and the sun bursting through the windows from the outside, it can reach some pretty ridiculous temperatures in there. I once weighed my self before and after a brew day...I sweat off 7lbs. So like I said, I heeded the warning and decided it was best if I rested the rest of the day and tried to stop this thing before it became a full blown nightmare.
Well, I woke up at 5am on Tuesday and that fat man who sits on my chest I mentioned earlier, was now not only jumping on my chest but he was leaping up in the air and doing "Power Knee Drops" onto my throat. And that stiletto kick to the head, had pierced my skull and was deeply implanted into my temple. So I picked up the phone, called work, conjured up a few coughs, sniffled a little and in my most pathetic, sick voice, told them that I wasn't feeling well and should probably stay home. I spent the next twelve hours on the couch trying to get the endless stream of snot and mucous out of my nose. But it wouldn't stop. Kleenex after Kleenex, it ate through the box in no time at all. I couldn't believe it.
Even after almost two full days on the couch I still felt awful. But I went in yesterday, cause dammit, that beers not going to make itself. So I took two different types of daytime medicine, brought an entire box of Kleenex, filled my Nalgene full of OJ and headed out. That beer was getting made. Oh yes, it was getting made.
14 hours later I was home. And that fat man on my chest was now a truck full of fat men on it's way to a camp designed to help fat men just like these lose weight. Cause even for fat men, these men were fat. Fat guys on the street would tease these guys for being fat. And even after two weeks at this camp, they'd still be fat but at least they'd be able to reenter the general population.
Long story short, I'm home again and attempting to rest up for tomorrow's brew day. It's going to be another long one, but seriously, how long can this cold last? It'll be five days tomorrow.
I've done everything possible to get rid of this thing but it just won't go away. I wish my Mom were here to make me soup.
So what's next?

I'm The King of Past, But Still I Walk Forwad

"This one's for the Rheostatics. We're all a little richer for having seen them here tonight."

What's next? I'll tell you what's next, Vermont and the Rheostatics. That's what's next.
This past week I had two more experiences that got me thinking about my ever dwindiling youth.
First it was my good buddy Phil's stag weekend. As a tradition we've always "kidnapped" our friends, crammed a beer into their hands, stuffed them into a rented min-van and taken them away on a weekend filled with fun and fueled with booze. As groomsmen or just as friends we decide on a location, work with the wife-to-be to set the dates and make sure all the work arrangements are taken care of, then we show up unexpectedly and steal our friend away for the weekend. I've been the recipient of said bachelor weekend (and there is a naked picture of me floating around in the general population there because of it) and I've been the kidnapper many times aswell. We've been all over Canada and the US and we have the stories and scars to prove it. I think this was our seventh bachelor weekend.
This particular time we showed up at Phil's door grabbed him, shot down the 401, took a quick right at Le Belle Province and moved into the Green Mountain State....

Vermont for the uninitiated...to do some skiing and drink some beers.

Absolutely nothing went wrong. Everything went off with out a hitch and it was a great weekend for all parties involved. Even Carlos Delgado made an apperance. The sun shined,

the beer flowed

and no one got hurt. Not every bachelor weekend has gone so well. But those are other stories for other times.
What I wanted to discuss was although this weekend was a resounding success and I had a great time, I still feel a little sadness at the passing of this weekend. For after Phil, there isn't many more of us to continue this tradition. He was one of the last to get married. There may be one or two more of these weekends down the road, but after that, this chapter of our lives is over. We'll all be married. All of us.
Over the past decade I've seen all my friends gradually get older, move out of their childhood homes, into bachelor pads, into marriage and now many of them are starting families of their own. It's been great and I'm exceedingly happy for all of them. But I still can't help but feel saddend when I think that this portion of our lives is now over and all we have left are the pictures and the memories.

I guess that's just life. But what a good life it's been.
The second experience I had this week was watching the Rheostatics last live performance at Massey Hall in Toronto. That's right, the most Canadian of all bands has hung up their guitars for good. On the lonely darkened stage of Massey Hall, along with a cardboard cutout of Wendel Clark and a pair of worn out old brown goalie pads, the Rheostatics said goodbye to their legion of loyal fans.
I wasn't always a fan of the Rheo's. I can still remember seeing and hearing them for the first time at a concert in North Bay when they opened for the Tragically Hip. I was much younger at the time, 16 maybe 17 and I didn't understand their music. I mean it's not really the most accessable music out there. Their songs make sudden and drastic shifts and the structures are not exactly a good fit for main stream radio. At the time I just didn't "get it". But as I got older and I listened to them more and more, they grew on me and I started to understand the music.
Now many of my memories of the past ten years have been painted with a light coat of Rheostatics music. Certain songs instantly bring back memories from my past. And now that's it. They are gone. No more Fall Nationals at the Horseshoe.
Anyhoo, I loved the show and I was glad I was their to help say goodbye to one of my favourite bands. Just getting to hear Northern Wish live one more time was woth it. It was great. But the best part of the night was after each song the crowd heartily applauded. But it wasn't so much applause as it was a gushing wave of gratitude. You could just feel it. Each hand clap was a last attempt at a thank you for the twenty years of music and showmanship the Rheo's given us.
What's next?

Drunk and Waiting for Spring

What's next? I'll tell you what's next, St.Paddy's day and Spring. That's what's next.
This past Saturday, oh and what a treat it was to have the holiest day in the Drinkers Calendar fall on a Saturday, we did what we usually do on the 17th of March. We got fall down drunk and loved every minute of it.
Starting at 1030 in the am, one of my regular Paddy's Day cohorts, Adam or as he's more commonly know, Girlpants...or Girlhair....or Girlballs....or...well you get the picture, came over and we started the day off with some Irish Pub songs which were washed down with some wonderfully hoppy County Durham Signature Ales. At about 11a we grabbed a few walking beers and then headed out around the corner to the Old Yorke Tavern for a light brunch and some pre-bar beers. Being masters of the Drunken Arts, we figured that if we were going to start this early in the morning we best lay down a good pre-coat of food lest we get too drunk and miss the later part of the day. For it's not called Paddy's Night, it's called Paddy's Day, so you best be ready to drink all day.
So after some most delicious Eggs Benny washed down with an even more delicious Wellington County Ale, we headed off to the Wheat Sheaf for some pre-bar bar drinks. You see the Wheat Sheaf wasn't the final destination so we can't really call them bar drinks yet can we.
So it was off the mighty Sheaf where we met Leor and Mike So for a few early bevies. I think we had a pitcher of Moosehead but really I can't remember.
After the pre-bar bar drinks we headed to what was supposed to be our final destination, The Foggy Dew. By this time it was almost 1pm and the line up had just started to form after we arrived. That usually happens. Russ showed up just in time to join us for some pints of Mill Street Tankhouse Ale but a few others weren't as lucky and got stuck in line up purgatory.
After some frantic text messaging we figured it was best to blow off the Foggy Dew and head back to the Wheat Sheaf were we would be able to get a seat and enjoy the festivities of the day together with our friends.
Basically we stayed at the Sheaf the rest of the day, but we did manage to sneak over to the Bank Note for some Leffe and some more Wellingtons.
This is where things start to get a little blurry. I apparently spilled some beer onto Adam, er Girlpants' pants and he left. Then the Leafs lost. Then I got cut off. Then we left but were told to come back in cause we stiffed them on a $175 bill. Then we went for Mexican food and finished off Paddy's day with some Sangriha.
All and all it was another successful Paddy's day with more memories forgotten than remembered.
Oh and just so we are all aware, this Wednesday is the first day of Spring and we can all give the collective finger to Old Man Winter for another year.
And none too soon either. After four months of driving up and down that wretched stretch of asphalt known as the 400, I've developed an entirely new disdain for that crotchety ol' bastard. If it snows one more time this year it'll be too soon. Cram it with walnuts ol'man and bring on the sun and the warm I say! Melt away, melt away, melt away!
One more thing. Go to www.united-nations-of-beer.com and check out the massive Guinness review. Yours truly has posted his first review on this site there. Enjoy. As the newest of the Ontario Beer Delegates, I'll be contributing more often, so check out the Ontario link, read the bio and come back often for more drunken hi jinks.
So what's next?

Sometimes the Truth isn't as Great as a Huge Grapefruit

What's next? I'll tell you what's next, false expectations. That's what's next.
Last week while I was out doing my weekly grocery shopping at the Big Carrot (yes, we're so "new age" that we only shop organic now) I was rummaging through the grapefruit bin hunting for five luscious grapefruits that would soon become my most delicious breakfasts (seriously are grapefruits not the best breakfast food ever. Wholly self contained, delicious, juicy and perfect for that pre-work gorge....anyhoo) when I came across another grapefruit bin off to the side. Now I had pulled out five ordinary grapefruits from the first bin and had them all bagged and ready to go. They were good grapefruits too, which is not always the case when you're shopping organic. They all had nice shapes, good colour and were reasonably firm. But when I saw this other bin, my bagged grapefruits started to pale in comparison. For the grapefruits in this other bin were absolutely enormous. They were gigantic. They were mutant huge. They were friggin' Chernobyl grapefruits. Not only that, they were a perfect, bright glowing yellow and on a per kilo basis, they were the same price as my "ordinary" grapefruits. I picked up one and I swear it was as big as my head. I had to have it. There was no doubt about it, this monstrosity was coming home with me. I raced over to Liz to show her the treasure I had found, like an excited dog rushing back to his owner to show off the dirty dead bird he had brought back from the forest. She was impressed and patted my head like that same dog owner faining appreciation for his dogs dirty dead bird. I don't think she totally understood the awesomeness of this grapefruit.
The fruit itself ended up costing almost five dollars, which was pretty much the cost of the entire bag of my other regular grapefruits. I didn't care though, this bad boy was going to feed me like three maybe four times. Seriously, I was quite excited about this grapefruit.
I got home and through it in the fridge, getting it ready for my breakfast the next day. I went to sleep that night with visions of cutting into that beautiful fruit. The juices exploding and spraying out and into my eye as I broke it's rough, yellow shell. The acid from the juice burning my eye, but in a good way. And then finally biting into it's soft, pink flesh and all that sweet, bitter grapefruit goodness washing across my taste buds. The was truly going to be a glorious grapefruit eating experience.
Well when I got up the next morning and raced down to the fridge to get my prized fruit. I put it in a bowl and started to cut. And as I broke through it's skin and started to separated it into two equal pieces all my dreams and visions of this awesome fruit were quickly dashed. For as the two halves slowly fell apart I could clearly see that about 95% of this fruit was rind. All white stuff no pink stuff. There as hardly any fruit inside it at all. No exploding juiciness here folks. I was heart broken. I didn't know what to do. I stood there staring at the split fruit in my bowl for a good five minutes trying to convince my self that the world was still a good place and not everything was a lie. But that didn't help. It was like putting a bandaid over a gaping axe wound. My innocence was taken from me that morning. That grapefruit stole my innocence.
But isn't that pretty much the way it goes? So many things in life look so good on the outside, so tempting that you convince your self that nothing could be better. You sell your self on the idea that this is definitely what you need. Just look at it, what could possibly go wrong with this brilliant new idea/product/persons/life choice you've made. It looks so beautiful that it has to be the thing for you. But then when you finally get down to it and cut into the flesh you find that it was all empty lies and promises.
Very few things in this world ever live up to the promise of it's outer shell.
So when you do find something that is as beautiful on the outside as it is on the inside you should probably count your self pretty lucky and do everything in your power to hold on to it.
Also if you're buying organinc fruit, chances are it's not going to be as big and juicy as the genetically modified super fruit you get at Dominion. It's just a fact.
So what's next?

Instant Gratification

What's next? I'll tell you what's next, waiting for what's next. That's what's next.
I assumed that as I got older and more and more time has passed through me and onto the other side of my personal ledger that I would become wiser, more calm and refined and that I'd develop some kind of patience.
Well thing is, I keep getting older and I keep waiting for this patience to develop and nothing seems to happen. And the worst part is, I don't wait well. I'm very impatient. It's a horrible and vicious circle.
Even that nasaly, toothpick Axel Rose had some patience. See his lyrics below -
"Said, woman, take it slow
It'll work itself out fine
All we need is just a little patience
Said, sugar, make it slow
And we come together fine
All we need is just a little patience
(patience)
Mm, yeah"
Mm, yeah indeed. Seems like he was blessed (and his fans for that matter. How long have they been waiting for the next G'N'R record "Chinese Democracy", 8 years. Besides being an asinine name, who really cares about them any more but I digress, back to the point) with the patience gene. Along with the gene that lets him look good in jeans. As a Corbeil I have neither. I do not possess the patience gene and I don't look good in jeans. It's a horrible truth about my life but it's one I'm apparently going to have to live with. The jeans I can live with out, baggy pants and hoodys for me any day, but man I'd love some patience.
Everyday goes by and I have this overwhelming feeling that I'm missing out on something and if I don't go out and do something, anything RIGHT NOW, that I'm going to be left on the outside looking in. Even as I write this I'm thinking about what I have to do for the rest of the day and how I could be doing some of it right now.
I'm friggin' constantly looking for new things to do, I'm never happy with what I have and what I have is plenty. Hell I've already changed careers twice and I wouldn't bet against a third sometime down the road. I can't just sit back, reflect on what I have take a deep breath and just relax. I feel that relaxing would be a good thing, but I don't know cause I can't do it.
In this world of drive through restaurants, fifteen second flash commercials and instant gratification, we are trained to want everything right now and we not to wait for it. The media put out these teaser campaigns to get the public salivating and clawing to get the next big thing. Then they act suprised that everyone is downloading pirated movies and music cause they can't sit on their hands and wait the extra three weeks until it's official release.
Then there are those fuckers who have to be the first on the plane. Even though they clearly say, "We will be boarding from the back of the plane first". There is inevitably some jerk ass who has a front row seat and he rushes on to the plane and starts loading his clearly oversized bags into the overhead compartment as all the other passengers try to squeeze by him and get to their seats at the back of the plane. Where does he think he's going? Does he think that if he gets on the plane first that he's going to get to his destination before everyone else? WE ARE ALL GOING TO GET THERE AT THE SAME TIME ASSHOLE! God I hate those people.
Anyhoo, I guess all I'm saying is that I, nay we all, could do ourselves a favour and just take ol' Axel's advice and take it slow. Cause it'll work it self out fine.
So what's next?

Sunday, Bloody Sunday

What's next? I'll tell you what's next, Sunday. That's what's next.
The recuperative powers of a good Sunday have been well documented through the annals of history. From the beginning of time as we know it (or as it has been told to us through the kaleidoscope of a religious lens) Sunday has been the day of rest. From Genesis 2:2 "By the seventh day God completed His work which He had done, and He rested on the seventh day from all His work which He had done". (What a wonderfully redundant and inefficient sentence).
Hell, even those crazy Romans who decided it best to off kill that same God's son, knew a thing or two about the restorative powers of a good Sunday. Knowing that all things come to life and live off the rays of that giant gas ball in the sky, they decided out of a show of respect, to name the first day of the week after the big yellow floating aspirin.
Now for an even more difficult and awkward segue, the Germans (who also happened to have invented the Aspirin) also had a hand in naming the day we so love to be lazy on. "The actual word "Sunday" is derived from the German word "Sonntag" (and they likely got it from the Scandinavians). These folk too placed a great deal of importance on the sun. Some tribes of these Germanic peoples invaded England in the 500's or so. They were known as the Angles and the Saxons. The old English word was "sunnandaeg" and it changed over time to become our current, "Sunday"".
But enough of the history lesson. History is for suckers and old people. And personally I don't want to be thinking on a Sunday.
Sunday's may have always been the day of rest, but I think the greatest invention and leap forward in the field of resting and relaxation, was the invention of the sofa...or couch...or chesterfield...whatever.
Sunday's on their own are great. Sofa's on their own are great. But together they create one of Universes' most powerful and destructive phenomena. The black hole. To quote the absolutely fabulous Wikopedia. "A black hole is an object predicted by general relativity,[1] with a gravitational field so powerful that even electromagnetic radiation (such as light) cannot escape its pull.[2]".
Once your ass hits the couch on a quite, sunny Sunday I defy anyone to "escape it's pull". Even if through some quirk in the inner workings of you television set, both your remote and your manual controls become unusable and the set some how freezes on TBS and they are showing back to back presentations of Martin Lawrence's Blue Streak, I bet, nay I know, you can't get up to avoid watching that absolute waste celluloid. Your best bet at that point is to just turn your head, pull the pillow over your ears, the blanket over your eyes and gently sob until you fall asleep. Trust me, it works.
Another great advancement made in the overall enjoyment of a good Sunday was the invention of the sandwich. Hell, even today I had a delectable ham, turkey, cheese, tomato, cheese, onion, cheese, red pepper, cheese, turkey, mayo, cheese sandwich on a lightly toasted bagel. It was beautiful. And on the side a wonderfully complex and flavourful Fuller's London Porter. In all it's silky smooth, coffee and chocolaty glory. Pouring out with a exquisite and brilliant creamy yet sturdy rocky head. It was the perfect accompaniment for the perfect sandwich on a perfect Sunday.
And as I get older these Sunday's become more and more important to my general well being. Knowing full well that the next sunrise will bring the headaches and stresses of another work week, it's becoming increasingly necessary for me to shut off my mind, relax my body and let the Sunday massage me back to health.
So if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go down stairs, turn on the boob tube, breach the event horizon and create myself a black hole.
So what's next?

Tournament Beers

What's next? I'll tell you what's next, the Hamilton Barton Double Rinks Hockey Tournament. That's what's next.
As far back as I can remember hockey tournaments have always been a special occasions. There is the initial "looking-forward-to-the-weekend" phase, which usually entails discussing the impending festivities with your teammates. Then there is the actual game day phase, which usually means driving to some backwater, dog patch town, showing up to the arena, scoping out the usually terrible and barley usable facilities, finding out what division you are in and what other backwater dog patch town teams you will be playing.
When I was younger we travelled to dozens of small towns all over Ontario to play in tournaments. In fact most of my geographical knowledge of this province was gained through traveling to these towns for either hockey or baseball tournaments. I mean really, why else would I ever have to travel to Minden, Coldwater, Burks Falls, Tilsonbourg or Beaverton. If it wasn't for tournaments I probably wouldn't have ever seen these places and there amazingly inadequate arenas.
Tournaments also meant that my parents usually stringent eating out rules became a little more lax. Under normal circumstance there was only a snowballs chance in hell that we would get to eat at MacDonald's or any other of the many grease laden fast food eateries pocked across this province. But for whatever reason when ever we were away at a tournament my parents eased up, opened their wallets and treated us to these gastronomic gifts. Truly this was something to look forward too.
The hockey was pretty important too, back then we actually took pride in playing well and maybe walking away with another gold painted, plastic hockey player caught in mid stride and positioned on top of a faux-wood trophy. These trophies were a serious source of pride for young would be NHLers. They would be strategically positioned in the most visible area of your bedroom so that when friends or relatives were over they could clearly see them and you could brag about your victories. And if you were very lucky and played really well you may even end up walking away with an MVP medallion for your efforts. These were truly special and hard to come by. They were usually bronze coin-like-medallions hung off a red-white and blue ribbon. And they were considered the show pieces of your trophy shelf.
But alas this playing for pride and bragging rights seems to have faded into distant memory.
Now instead of playing to win you usually play just to not look bad. You're playing for respectability instead of pride. And the main focus of the tournament has shifted from the hockey and to the festivities (and by festivities I mean drinking) after, before and during the game.
For whatever reason all the rules go out the window when you're at a hockey tournament. Normally you wouldn't start drinking at 10am and continue sporadically throughout the day depending on your schedule. But at tournament none of this matters. The first beers are cracked as soon as you wake and depending on how you do and how far you get in the tournament don't stop flowing until the wee hours of the morning or quite possibly deep into the next day.
For the most part we have a good tournament team. We've won our share of tournaments and walked away with a number of tacky gifts like tee-shirts, hats and hockey bags. Thus proving to all that we can play well both drunk and hungover. But the tournament this weekend was exceptionally bad. We didn't score a goal until the second period of our second game and ended up losing all three games to teams that under normal circumstances we would have beat hands down. It may have had something to do with the amount of beer we consumed between games but I hate to bad mouth beer so I won't. I'll just say we played badly and we're getting older.
As bad as we played and at times looked like we didn't even want to be playing at all, I still looked forward to this tournament and I still kept up my tournament eating habits and ate horribly (a strict diet of Nachos, wings and chili for three days) but it has become blatently apparent that the hockey has definitely taken a back seat to the beer and bonding with team mates.
Luckily we can redeem ourselves at our next tournament in April. I've already marked it on my calendar and I'm starting to feel the anticipation for the weekend building.
So what's next?

A Return to Arms

What's next? I'll tell you what's next. Hemingway, that's what's next.
I gave up Hemingway long ago. Those quick, punchy sentences and harsh, "reality-of-life" endings put me off his novels after only a few readings (I think it was A Farewell to Arms that delivered the death blow). His books made me deal with issues and emotions I didn't want to face and was certainly ill-equipped to deal with at the time. So I made a quick, cutting decision the kind only a youthful man can make and I cut him out of my literary pursuits with the tact and precision of a axe-murderer.
I managed to keep away from his work until late last year, when after constant pestering from a friend I read through a number of his short stories. They we wonderful of course and didn't carry the emotional weight of his novels so I decided maybe I'll pick up another of his books.
So last week I picked up "A Movable Feast" and for lack of a better term, I couldn't put it down. Each chapter was brilliant in it's economical use of words. Using them sparingly, he saved them up, like he saved the Francs of his poor Paris youth. So few were the words that each one was wrought with thought and emotion. I loved it but it depressed me. Every time I read writers reflecting on their youth and how they became writers, it always makes me wish I was a better writer. And how does that saying go, "You're no longer young when your dreams turn into regrets?". Something like that.
I don't necessarily regret anything, but reading Hemingway retell his poor, living-by-the-skin-of your-teeth-youth in Paris, it makes me wish I had a romantic time where I can look back and say this is how I became me. I lived through this hardship and became the man I am now.
So far my life, as good and as fortunate as it's been, just sort of flows along nicely. Sure there have been bumps and missteps, but I always seem to come out on top. Well, I guess that's nothing to complain about.
But as I sat there last weekend at my first Master Brewers of America Association meeting, reading my novel in the hotel bar as all the other members, shook hands, slap backs and say things like, "Well here comes trouble", every time an old friend walked into the bar, I'm was torn between regret and optimism.
I regret that I haven't really changed. Certainly my life and the course it's take over the last few years has changed (and mostly for the better), but my personality hasn't. I'm still overly shy in situations where I have to meet new people. I'm not one to approach a new group of people, introduce myself and then be the life of the party. I need to be introduced, I need the other person to make the first steps before I integrate myself into their group. I still don't have the confidence to make "first contact".
But the optimism on the other hand stemmed from the fact that I could still make that change in my personality. I had a new opportunity here to make and impression on this group of people. I could walk up to them and introduce myself. I could make the first move.
Of course I don't I sat at my table, drank my beer and read my novel. Electing again to wait and be introduced at dinner before I become comfortable enough to talk to them. Then eventually when I've got to know them enough and feel more comfortable I'll change into myself and inevitably months down the road they'll say something along the lines of, "Wow, when I first met you, you were so quiet and shy. I didn't think I'd really get along with you. It's like you're a totally different person now."
That's pretty much how it goes.
But I guess it's worked so far.
It's funny though, I can't introduce my self to people on a one on one basis, but I have no trouble talking and presenting in front of large groups. I taught my first "Beer School" lesson yesterday at the brewery and it went swimmingly (up until the end when the heat exchange pooped out on my and I had to toss my batch of beer).
I don't really get nervous in front of a large group of people, maybe I'm a glory hound and crave attention, I don't know. But public speaking has never been a problem for me. It's the speaking in public thing I have to work on.
So maybe these are my hardships? Maybe they aren't as romantic as Paris and the mountains or Europe. Maybe they aren't riddled with the names of literary heavy weights from the past century. But they are still my hardships. And when I'm sixty and these hardships have had time to age and gather dust in the hallways of my memory. And I decide to brush them off and look back on my youth and retell my story, maybe I'll see how they crafted and shaped me into the man I've become. But I guess I'll just have to wait for that.
So what's next?

In Like a Lion. Well, a very late, possibly cause he left the house and then thought that maybe he left the oven on, so he went back to check Lion.

What's next? I'll tell you what's next, Winter. That's what's next.
So after many delays and countless false starts, it appears that Old Man Winter is finally here. Stupid old man. Who needs him any ways.
I can still remember when I actually anticipated Winter. Starting sometime in late October, I'd wake up each morning, run to my window and look outside hoping to see the first frosting of that pure white wintery bliss, snow. Back then snow meant many things, GT snow-racing (for those of you not in the know, this is by far the greatest toboggan ever created by man kind), skiing...downhill and cross-country (yes, back then even cross-country skiing was considered fun, now it's just regarded as a truly sadistic form of torture reserved for tourists and boring people), road hockey in our driveway without the possibility of getting a friggin' stone in the eye every time you shot the ball, making snow forts, snow men, snow balls....well you get the picture. Snow was actually useful at one time. It meant fun and excitement. Now it just means cold, scrapping the windows on the car and longer waits in traffic as everyone somehow forgets how to drive just because there is a light frosting of snow on the road. Toronto is the worst for this of course. See, coming from Northern Ontario, I've actually seen what a real snow storm looks like. Down here in the South all we ever get is a few sprinkles of snow and the whole fucking city implodes. In fact, back in the Winter of '99 I think it was, the Mayor actually called in the National Guard to come dig out the city. It was horribly embarrassing. The rest of Canada, who already hold a deep resentment towards the "Big Smoke" and look for any reason to scoff at us, just laughed and pointed fingers. We were the sissies, the wimps, the big city pampered princesses. And I don't blame them, it was over reacting to the nth degree. But I digress.
My point is, snow, which was once a bringer of joy and happiness to my young heart, has now become nothing but a nuisance that I'd rather not deal with.
The only thing that I still look forward to when the snow flies, just like I did when I was a young lad, is listening to the radio or watching CP24 to see what roads have been closed, what buses have been canceled and what other cancellations are happening around the city. Yes, much like Hockey Day in Canada, I'm referring to another great Canadian "holiday", the Snow Day!
The Snow Day may not be uniquely Canadian, but it's something that every Canadian holds dear to their heart. That anticipation you'd have going to bed knowing that there was an impending storm due to hit that night, touted to be the biggest storm to hit town in recent memory you'd hit the pillow with visions of missing school and racing down the hill on your GT snow racer.
Those visions might have changed now that I'm older, instead of tobogganing I think about sleeping in and watching daytime television all day, but the anticipation I have is still there.
Sure I'm a grown man and I can decide whether or not I want to go to work on any given day, but when there is a snow day it's a guilt free, no hassle way of sticking it to the man.
And that's exactly what I did on Monday. It was a friggin' Snow Day man and I took full advantage of that day off. This meant ass on couch, feet up, socks off and lots of mindless TV. It may not have been like the Snow Days of yore and I may not have even gone out and romped around in the white stuff, but it sure was exactly what I went to bed dreaming of the night before.
So what's next?

What's next? I'll tell you what's next, Hockey Day in Canada that's what's next.
In a country as large as Canada, it's sometimes hard to find common ground with countrymen who live so far away. Our country spans the North American continent, some 7000 km across. And someone in Victoria, may not have so much in common with someone who lives in Halifax. But one thing that almost all Canadians agree on and embrace is the love of the greatest game on earth, hockey. And on Saturday the CBC put together their annual homage to our great game with their wonderful event, Hockey Day in Canada. Three games, six teams and 12 hours of hockey, hockey, hockey. Only in Canada could this exist.
And what better way to celebrate this "holiday" than with friends.
So what exactly makes a great Hockey Day in Canada? Here are a few of the basic ingredients.
1 -Enough bodies to play a brisk game on Road Hockey
2 -Enough beer to keep those bodies well lubricated
3 -Enough food to keep those same bodies fueled
4 -Enough seating so those tired, drunk, full bellied bodies can plunk themselves down and watch hockey for the rest of the night.
5- Enough poker chips that these same bodies will be able to pretend that they still have the cognisant abilities to bluff and cheat their way to winning a game of poker.
And this is exactly what we did.
Starting at about 2pm we primed our bodies with a few beers and watched the Ottawa Senators take it to the Montreal Canadiens for the first 20 minutes, building a near insurmountable 4-0 lead before we decided to stop watching the carnage and head outside to play our own game.
Road Hockey is not a slow game and it seems to get faster and harder every time I play. In theory it always sounds like fun, but in reality it gets harder and harder as you get older. There is a lot of running and pavement isn't as soft as I remember it. Also, those hockey balls get pretty solid as the mercury drops and one shot in the pills is enough to bring any game to a quick halt. Which is exactly what happened.
So after about two hours of Road Hockey and a few crushed testicles we dragged our tired, bruised bodies back into the house to drink beer, eat meat and watch hockey. And eat, drink and watch we did.
We had a keg for the main course (Robert Simpson of course), plus a few appetizer six packs and dessert twelves, so the beer was pretty much taken care of. And the food? Oh my, the food. Steve "BD" Svicki put together quite the spread. He started everyone off with a super sloppy pulled pork sandwich (so sloppy that when I got home this morning Liz pointed out that I actually had sauce on the top of my head), topped with coleslaw and smokey baked beans on the side. These sandwiches almost convinced me that there was a God and he loves us. Dripping in his own secret BBQ sauce, the pork just exploded in your mouth and mixed with the coleslaw it was near perfection. This probably should have been enough food for anyone. But no, we needed more. And about two hours and half a terrible Leaf / Canuck game later the beef ribs were brought out. And again these ribs were brilliant, a better accompaniment to hockey I cannot dream of.
We tried to watch the whole Leaf game but it became too embarrassing so we switched over to football for awhile. This is when my memory starts to fade a little and the details get a little foggy.
I know we watched a bit of the Calgary / Edmonton game and I know we played poker for a while, but who won the game and the poker match I don't know. All I can remember is falling asleep watching Moonraker and waking up on a couch covered by a large white bear skin rug.
So a successful Hockey Day in Canada it was.
So what's next.

A Year in Beer

What's next? I'll tell you what's next, putting my hand to my chin, looking longingly into space and thinking deeply about what devilishly whimsical pranks the winds of fate have played on me this year and swept me to the place I am now. That's what's next.
And although it was a year ago January 5th when I boarded that big white bird that took me to Berlin and I began my journey into the world of beer, thinking back it was actually the previous summer that changed my life forever.
After returning from a trip through Northern France and Belgium with my wife and some friends, taking in the culture (and by culture I mean wine, food and of course beer), and beautiful scenic vistas over a short three week stint. I came back to my three walled, jail-cell grey cubicle only to find that the walls had become some sort of sadistic torture camber right out of an Indiana Jones adventure. The walls had grown large stone spikes and had some how slowly started to close in on me, threatening to turn me into a 5', 10", 190 pound sieve. My only chance of escape was through a tiny porthole on the information super highway. So I jumped on to my computer and started googling the first words that came into my head, which of course were Beer and Europe. And lo and behold I discovered a bevy of information of beer schools in the old country. To make a long story short, this is how I ended up where I am now.
And now with my first year in beer under my belt I can look back and reflect on how it has effected my life. For good or for ill.
Although most of my memories of Germany and the VLB (the beer school) are fond ones, new friends, new adventures, new careers and many nights of drunken buffoonery (If I ever get tired of drunken buffoonery, shoot me. I'll probably be to old to go on anyways). When I look back now they all have a certain bittersweet taste. I have a deep feeling of melancholy, like listening to a Weakerthan's song, I love the tune but for what ever reason it really makes me contemplative and some what sad. My memories are painted in a pale shade of Hamlet.
I love beer, but in pursuing that love I had to leave behind an even bigger one, my wife. This was going to be the longest we had ever been apart in almost an entire decade. At the time it seemed like an easy task, our relationship was strong it could handle it. But as time progressed it proved much harder than I thought. Now that I've been home for as long as I was away, it's just now getting back to the way it was before I left. Sometimes leaving seems like the hard part, but it's returning that's the real bitch.
Luckily our relationship was strong and she is a wonderful woman so we made it through, but it was truly much harder than I thought.
As for the beer and the brewing, it's been quite a roller coaster ride as well. I went into this blind, no experience, no real brewing knowledge, nothing. And sitting in that class room at the VLB on the first day of school and the first lesson was on Polymer Chain Reactions, DNA, RNA and nucleotides and what not, I thought to myself, "Shit dude, what have you done. You've clearly bitten off a helluva lot more than you can chew, you stupid bastard." I hadn't taken a single science class since grade 13, some ten years previous and now here I was, on the hook for almost 10 grand of my own GD money and staring at a black board full of letters and numbers I could barely recognise. This was going to be a long year.
But after five months of intensive learning, some much needed practical work, and a whole lot of sampling (all done in the name of research I swear it) it all worked it self out in the end. And upon my return to Canada I was able to quickly land my first brewing job.
Magnotta was a great learning experience for me and it afforded me the opportunity to brew many different styles of beer and hone my skills as a brewer. I can say nothing ill about my time there. Mike, Simon, Erica, Mustaq and David were all a pleasure to work with and I appreciate my time working with all of them.
But time marches on. Time waits for no man. Opportunity knocked and I had to answer. And any other inane shit ass saying you want to insert here. Anyhoo, I was offered another opportunity that I couldn't refuse, training to be the brewmaster at the Robert Simpson Brewing Co., in Barrie, ON. And although I still have a long way to go before I become a brewmaster (I'm reminded of this on almost a daily basis as I make mistake after mistake....wait, no let's not call them mistakes, let's call them learning experiences) this was clearly a job I needed to take.
After a year in beer I think I can safely say that brewing beer is not for everyman. The romantic notions of the wise old brewmaster gently turning the sample cock valve on an old oak fermentation vessel and sampling the fresh, golden young beer, then strolling calmly through the brewhouse with his hands in his pockets and air of quite confidence about him are quickly erased when you mistakenly open up a lauter tun door too soon and a metric tonne of hot, wet mash comes rushing out and spews it self all over you and the brew house floor. (Wow that was a wickedly long run on sentence). But saying that, it is a labour of love. Sure it's hard work, but at the end of the day you have accomplished something. You have created something that people are going to enjoy. It is an art. And truly it really makes you proud to think that at the end of the day, you've done something that will hopefully make people happy. There is a nobility in that. And in the end I think that was what I was searching for when I started this journey. Cause we all know, there is no nobility in trying to tell people to go watch The Pacifier.
So what's next?