Do liquorstore bears have mothers?

I don’t have any pre–liquor store memories. Self-awareness came on the liquor store shelf, next to countless bears just like me, all for sale (two for $10, one goes home with you and the other goes to charity). So I don’t remember any mama bear in my life.

I wonder what happened to my mother. What was she like?

Wayne R Bilenduke/Stone/Getty Images

Polar bear mothers are so focused on the cubs that they don’t even eat during the winter—all their resources go to their offspring. I don’t think my mother was polar bear. But if she had been, she would have protected me for two years—I never would have got to live in the liquor store.

Photograph by Norbert Rosing

Black bear mothers will fight to the death for their cubs. I doubt my mother was a black bear. If she had been, we would have roamed around eating garbage, grass, and (OMG!) insects. I would never have got to live at the liquor store.

Grizzly mama bears spend over three years training their cubs how to map out territory and find food. When grizzly cubs sense danger, they run to their mothers (black bear cubs run to the trees). I don’t have any survival instincts whatsoever, so I’m thinking my mother wasn’t a grizzly.

Photo: Alaska Stock Images

Brown bears like posing for photographs. Maybe my mother was a brown bear.

We’ll just never know. But it looks like I missed out on living in the wild, hibernating, eating bugs, getting shot by Sarah Palin, never getting to watch Breaking Bad

And my adoptive mum shared a beer with me last night, which makes her okay in my book.



My Fellow Inebriates,

The most discombobulating aspect of my drinking is the way the world continues to churn while I’m passed out. I wake up and all kinds of shit has happened, some of it not very good. Take, for instance, the radio report this morning about some grizzlies on Grouse Mountain killing a little black bear cub. Here’s the Province article.

Well, what was I doing while that was going on? There’s no question I was innocently getting sauced, with no thought to the plight of the little cub. My buddy Blackie Bear is such a cub, so of course I feel twinges on his behalf. It could have been any of his relatives getting mauled to death up there, and how would he have any idea? And what was he doing when that shit went down? Probably pigging out on cookies.

The sad event happened in October but for some reason the radio jumped on it today. Radio news is kind of like that—yesterday I heard a lengthy report about how to keep your Remembrance Day poppy attached, and by the end of “Movember” I’ll have heard my fair share of audio play-by-plays of radio talent getting themselves shaved. Dead air is the sacrilege of radio, as one of my mum’s crazy classmates once said a long time ago, and so it’s totally cool to report on all kinds of randomness.

Not that the grizzly killing wasn’t noteworthy, but it happened over a month ago, and I guess I would have liked the option to hide from my friend Scarybear, who happens to be a violent grizzly.

So, I’m sorry, little black bear cub, that I wasn’t paying attention when Grinder and Cola tore you apart after you wiggled under the fence of your enclosure. I was really inebriated at the time, and this is what I was drinking:

TROIS PISTOLES Extra Strong Ale (9%)

First off, with its almost wine-like alcohol content and fruity nose, I expected this beer to taste much stronger. As the bottle indicates with handy glyphs, it’s a sipper rather than a pounder, and definitely a beer for those Reidel stemless glasses, or even a brandy snifter.

Made in Quebec, TROIS PISTOLES is definitely channeling some Belgian sensibilities. Reminiscent of Kriek but with a peachy rather than a cherry flavour, TROIS PISTOLES pours a dark caramel colour with crisp carbonation and moderate lacing. From the first whiff it exudes stone-fruit smells: peach up front with plum behind.

If you’re a fan of Belgian-style beers with a fruity nose, I RECOMMEND this as a perfect example of that kind of brew done right. The scent is of fresh orchard, not artificiality, and the fruit is just sufficient that you’re aware of it with every sip, stopping well short of being cloying.

If you’re not a fan of fruitier beers, I still don’t believe you’ll be grossed out by TROIS PISTOLES, although you’ll probably want just one. I wanted many, but my dad bought only one, and since I am very small, it knocked me out cold.