PIPER’S PALE ALE—better without bagpipes

So apparently my mum is an expert on what evil spirits do when they are haunting a house or inhabiting a teddy bear for their own mysterious purposes. She said my latest accusation against Fluffy was the “most stupid thing” she’d ever heard and that I was obviously desperate for blogging ideas. This was a low blow coming from someone who’s been stagnating over the same dead novel for six years and doesn’t even have her own blog.

I said she wasn’t even properly caught up—Fluffy has been up to much more mischief since he plugged the toilet yesterday. His latest exploit? Making a mess on the kids’ bathroom mirror. You should see it, my fellow inebriates, it looks like he used Anti-Windex on it. I don’t know why he would do that! He deliberately put soapy streaks all over the mirror, which isn’t exactly a progression in evil from stuffing the toilet with TP.

My mum asked if I had considered that the kids had decided to “wash” the mirror for fun?

I had to admit that this hadn’t occurred to me, but it does beg the question: why isn’t my mother curtailing this behavior? She claims she can’t be everywhere at once (read: isn’t Facebook compelling?) and that it must have happened during Saturday’s dinner party when the kids took their little cousins upstairs to wash their hands.

I said: “What about Fluffy? No one knows what Fluffy was doing then.”

My mother: “He was probably staring at the wall.”

!!!

As if to suggest Fluffy is inanimate. Yes, he’s semi-comatose, but inanimate? Oh no. If Fluffy were simply fluff, we wouldn’t have a Fluffy Problem.

But is Fluffy evil, or is he just trying to get out attention? “You should know,” my mother told me, “since both apply to you.”

The truth is, I don’t have much experience with demonic possession or golems or even spoon bending. But if something like a Care Bear can exist, surely evil knows no limit.

My two brain cells were having difficulty, so I made a chart:

Evil Not Evil
Causes cold spots

Moves objects; causes noise

Turns on lights

Plugs toilet with TP

Took my girlfriend

Makes kids frightened

Is very fluffy

Is catatonic

Eyes don’t glow

But doesn’t leave No. 2 in it

Doesn’t realize she exists

Does not take our beer

I agree, it’s inconclusive. I don’t want to think he’s evil, because he was Granny’s bear, after all, and she was nice.

So is it safe to get drunk with an entity like Fluffy in the house? Although my mother says the point is moot, my inclination is to say yes. So why didn’t we, last night, once the kids were tucked in? The Vancouver Island Brewery Pod Pack beckoned, including two beers we’d never even tried yet. But my mum, who can be quite domineering, cracked just one beer: PIPER’S PALE ALE.

PIPER’S gets its name from Bagpiper James C. Richardson, who lost his life in the Battle of the Somme in the First World War. This dude used to play his pipes in the trenches, inspiring—or inducing psychosis in, for those who aren’t bagpipe fans—his fellow soldiers to give ‘er in battle. He actually died going back for his bagpipes after assisting a wounded comrade to safety, earning himself a posthumous Victoria Cross. It must have seemed fitting to name a beer after this hero who so bravely served his country yet seemingly lacked a little in the judgment department.

My mum used to live in Victoria, where she had plenty of PIPER’S PALE ALE back in the day, so last night’s single bottle was a partial blast from the past—partial because we didn’t drink to the point of blacking out.

PIPER’S is a clear golden copper with a quickly dissipating white head. The flavor is friendly: malty and caramel-touched with a satisfying hoppiness. Richer than the SPYHOPPER we tried a couple of nights ago, PIPER’S has a bigger mouthfeel—nice weight with slight breadiness. With its malty beginning and hoppy finish, it makes a lovely arc from sweet to bitter, proving its reputation as one of the better pale ales local to Vancouver Island.

One of the best things about tasting PIPER’S was that no one was playing the bagpipes while we drank it. My mum got nostalgic and remembered there was this guy who always played the pipes at the Victoria Legislature—one tune, relentlessly—and she had a coworker who was actively campaigning to remove him. Much the way, she pointed out, I seem to be campaigning to remove Fluffy.

See, if Fluffy took up the bagpipes, it would make it so easy. Then I’d know he’s evil.

Get thee behind me, Fluffy!

My Fellow Inebriates,

This morning my mum drove my dad to the airport for his first-ever business trip with the corporate dark side.

Like many unbalanced people, she did a thorough scan of the house, and then another identical one, looking for unlocked doors, appliances left on, liquor cabinet secured, etc. Through the window I watched them drive away. Then I went back to sleep. All the bears were asleep—Glen, Red Bear, Fluffy…

Mum dropped Dad off at the airport and Miss P off at Grade One. She and Miss V shared a ginger cookie at Starbucks and did the grocery shopping. Finally they came home.

And one of the stove burners was on.

It wasn’t a burner anyone had used that morning. They’d used other ones, but not that one. And there it was, on “Lo.”

Obsessive compulsives like my mother check for these things before they leave the house. They make sure they are last to leave, just in case anyone else has an idea about turning on all the lights or taps for no good reason. When you have OCD you look out for stove burners—even ones you haven’t been using.

My dad was incommunicado on a five-hour flight to Toronto. The kids…they would never touch the stove; my mum has frightened the living daylights out of them regarding fire. As for my mum…she didn’t use the burner, but she doesn’t specifically recall checking it, although she recalls checking three times that the front door was locked.

It has a little red light! She would have seen that! My mother is a freak about stuff like this. She couldn’t have left the house without seeing that!

Now, I was sleeping off some Malibu dregs, and although I did briefly get up to say good-bye to my dad and remind him to check in with Ravenskye for me on Facebook, I conked out straightaway after. So I don’t know about that burner…

But I have an idea.

I think it was Fluffy.

If you’ve been following, you know Fluffy is the Fleecy-marinated semi-comatose bear who arrived shortly after my Granny died. He was her bear, and some strange shit’s been happening since his arrival. Cold spots. Noises. Fearful kids.

I’d like to say this all seemed benign, but it was creeping me out. And now! Finding stove burners on is a seriously sinister development. Somebody is trying to get our attention—as though being offensively redolent of fabric softener wasn’t sufficient. Fluffy, I don’t know what you want, dude, but you are seriously giving me the willies.

So here’s what I proposed to my mum: buy some chardonnay. Granny and I had a history of occasionally drinking chardonnay together, particularly some nice unoaked ones and a Semillon blend once. We had some good chats over her chardonnay, and she didn’t mind me dipping into her glass.

My mum has company coming this week anyway, so she did visit the booze shop. But she didn’t buy chardonnay; she bought sauvignon blanc.

I told her she is messing with things we cannot even comprehend. She is thumbing her nose at powerful spirits by buying the wrong booze.

She said she prefers sauvignon blanc and that the wine consultant recommended it.

Good enough for me, but will it keep Fluffy out of mischief?

If I don’t post for a few days, it’s because he’s set fire to the house.

It’s all you now, Dad

Nothing cures sadness like alcohol, and that’s why my dad needs to stop for some on the way home. If only he would pay attention to my plaintive texts.

It’s not just for me, my fellow inebriates, it’s for my mum. Davy Jones of The Monkees died today of a heart attack at his home in Florida. This is depressing enough, reminding my mum as it does of both his age and hers, but it’s worse because my mum spent her pre-teen years fawning over Davy Jones and fantasizing about a romance with him in her oh-so-distant adult life. Even when she occasionally took a rest from Davy to fantasize about Peter Tork, Davy was mostly it for my mum.

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Being a young bear, I missed The Monkees and didn’t get to experience Davy’s moves on a crappy rabbit-eared TV. I wasn’t there when my mum made such a compelling case to her brother about how dreamy Davy was that her brother conjured up an imaginary friend named Davy Jones and professed his love for him at the dinner table, weirding the whole family out. I’d never even heard him sing Daydream Believer until today, people.

And that’s why I’m guessing my mother is devastated by Davy Jones’s death today. She must be reeling, bereft, inconsolable, abject. Which calls for wine.

So Dad, if you’re reading this, please go and buy some wine. Your woman is suffering and you need to remind her that you’re the main man in her life now.