I threw down the hairy paw (read: gauntlet) this morning in a challenge toward the only human in the mostly estrogenic LBHQ capable of taking it on.

“Dude, you have less than two weeks to get your stache on.”

I was addressing my dad of course. Despite the ongoing flirtation peri-menopause is having with my mother, a decent moustache is well out of reach for her…this year. So it’s up to my dad and me to be Bloggers for Movember.

Poor Dad. Only rarely has he ever tried to grow a stache—each time a failure! Some guys look great with facial hair, and my dad can pull off five o’clock shadow, but an honest-to-goodness moustache? Ha! My dad looks like a tool with a moustache, which I suspect is why he said it’s “not gonna happen” this November.

He even cited his work regulations—apparently the very large company he works for regulates facial hair. OMG!

If you’re wondering why I’m so confident about winning this would-be throwdown against my dad, consider that I already have a moustache. I just have to shave 95% of myself and leave a bit of fur under my nose. Voilà!

This was pretty much my path today. The razors were in the bathroom. It’s much easier to get that little plastic tab off a Daisy razor head than it is to open a bottle of wine, let me tell you. There I was, poised to sculpt my latent moustache, when three little girls came screaming into the bathroom wearing Disney princess dresses. The youngest immediately dropped drawers to deposit solids in the toilet. The others went into a flurry of clothing exchange, obscuring Miss V’s plops with their 4-KHz exuberance. My ears exploded and the razor skittered off into the sink, from which my mother sternly retrieved it. There would be no bear shaving on her watch, she said, particularly in front of her two daughters and their playdate witness.

“P and V are used to shit like this,” I remonstrated. “They like it.”

“No they don’t,” she said. “They’d rather put makeup on you, which would be almost as difficult to undo, so make yourself scarce.”

“But I need a moustache. I’ve already committed to Bloggers for Movember. I’ve liked the Facebook page already. And I have only recently garnered the attention of Le Clown, whose charitable fundraising effort this is. If you thwart my moustache you’re basically endorsing prostate cancer. You’re telling prostate cancer to go forth and multiply.”

“That’s a bit strong, LB.”

“Speaking of strong, do you recall the alcohol percentage of LOST SOULS CHOCOLATE PUMPKIN PORTER?” (This is what is called a gratuitous segue.) “I think it was 6.5%. Do you remember?”


“Because at a respectable ABV it would address my DTs in short order, and one could settle for drinking it slowly; moreover, with its moderate level of fine carbonation it wouldn’t interfere too much with one’s moustache. Assuming one was allowed to groom oneself a moustache.”

I don’t recall my mother ever calling any of her other children a douchebag.

Fact is, and I’m not even going to save this for the final punch, LOST SOULS CHOCOLATE PUMPKIN PORTER is the best beer I’ve had all year. With its comic-book-style Grim Reaper label and scary moniker, it’s freaky not just for its Halloween theme but because—holy crap, people—it won’t be here for very long. In fact, when we returned a second time to the liquor store for more, it was all sold out.

Let’s break it down, my fellow inebriates:

LOST SOULS is an inky cola color with a tan head. Across the room you might take it for a Guinness, but then you’d be surprised by its snappy carbonation. Aromas of sweet malt, espresso-touched chocolate, subtle spices and just-perceptible pumpkin waft from the glass. On the palate LOST SOULS delivers a rich baker’s-chocolate wave of toasty malt and mild pumpkin, reaching into you like a succubus and stealing your very soul. Yes, guard your soul, people, if you’re lucky enough to sample this Parallel 49 product before it evaporates into post-Halloween nonexistence. With its bewitching flavor palate and satisfying viscosity, LOST SOULS will own you. (Maybe eternally.) I would sell my soul for another, people. And don’t tell Le Clown, but I would probably sell my nascent moustache for it too. Except I won’t; damn it, I’m growing that fucker.

Visit Le Clown for full details (click the picture).

OMG, what will happen next??

My Fellow Inebriates,

Today has been, like OMG, awesomeness on top of awesomeness with a side of awesomeness.

Number 1

Emily reblogged my Monday post about weird-ass playdates, which made my day, bounced my stats upward (not that I was looking, LOL), and thereby introduced me to a whole bunch of interesting bloggers. So that was awesome.

Number 2

My Facebook Wrestler Unstoppable avatar LB the Alcoholic Bear has reached the finals in THREE different tournaments and is poised to win thousands of fake coins and dollars. Seriously, this isn’t the norm for him. He is often too drunk to show up before the countdown runs out.

Number 3

And then…and THEN!! OMG, are you ready, my fellow inebriates? Okay…deep breath. Here’s what happened next.

It’s here.

Months of skulking around my local liquor store, peering through the windows…

OMG, so exciting.


For a while I wondered if Julia Gale really cared about my BROKER’S GIN SUPPLY. While she never avoided my pestering emails, she did seem busy with a lot of gin-unrelated issues…a sore throat that made her sound like a porn star (she didn’t call, so I had to take her at her word on this, which I did), and then, inconceivably, knee surgery at the critical juncture when Broker’s-BCLC negotiations were going on… Honestly, I worried that Julia was infecting and injuring herself as a psychosomatic bear-avoidance mechanism. Who could blame her?

This is almost too delightful to bear 😉

If Emily and Julia lived close enough and I could see straight, I would stalk them. Because they are so awesome (unlike my wrestler, who actually really sucks).

Whatever will happen next??

The randomness of Facebook friending

My Fellow Inebriates,

It may surprise you to know that there are a lot of bears on Facebook. Here’s the breakdown of my FB friend list:

The bears are usually the teddy variety, with a few wild bears here and there. Most don’t do much on FB; their humans have opened an account for them and seemingly been satisfied to leave it at that. Several are very active, and lots of them send me pics of themselves drinking, which I like. But for the most part FB friends come and go as in a slow-motion Twitter account. I don’t pay attention to the total number, but I do notice when a bear-friend’s account gets zucked, as happened to Boo Bear a couple of years ago. (He came back within a day, still wearing his coolest shades.)

I get tagged in photos like this.

I live in perpetual terror of being zucked. Facebook policy forbids bears from having accounts, and The Facebook Effect author David Kirkpatrick repeatedly ascribes much of Facebook’s success to its insistence on verifiably authentic member names. But with 500M+ members, FB can only police its ursine underbelly so well. And honestly, some bears contribute more to social networking than some humans. Like Boo.

My parents’ FB friend lists are comparatively boring. Here’s my mum’s breakdown, for example:

You won’t find Corporal James Shittington or Archie Candypants. Almost everyone is a human and an actual personal acquaintance. Her deviant complement is about half of mine, and would be lower if we didn’t count the ultra-religious right as part of that pie slice.

And this one from a monkey friend…

The actual numbers, too, are lower. Unlike yours truly, my parents don’t get random friend requests from entities such as “Bill’s Toaster Oven” and “Shite Sheep.” Nor would they click “Accept,” which I do. So they have about a tenth the friends I do, but arguably their friendships are somewhat more meaningful.

For instance, when a friend drops from my friend list, the reason is usually random:

  • Facebook did another animal purge.
  • The friend, who’d had an impulse to create a teddy bear page under the impression it was a totally original idea, immediately started getting legions of teddybear friend requests and realized that not only is the idea not original; this whole teddybear-Facebook thing is huge. They got weirded out renamed the page, then dropped any bear-friends.
  • The friend correctly decided I was an idiot and unfriended me.

My parents’ lists are therefore a bit more stable. Their friends don’t ordinarily get purged. They don’t rename themselves unless they get married or divorced. But occasionally they do decide my parents are idiots and hit the “unfriend” button.

This happened to my dad when one of his “friends” posted a gay-bashing status. When my dad challenged it, he was promptly unfriended for his intolerance.

As for my mum, she gets dumped here and there simply because she hardly ever checks in. Friends spring-clean their lists, ask themselves when they last talked, and she gets jettisoned. She could avoid this by posting a cat picture once a week, which sort of sums up the FB experience.

For some people, Facebook is a way of connecting with people they wouldn’t otherwise contact—a way of maintaining dormant relationships. For others, Facebook is a reflection of active relationships—if they’re friends with you on FB, chances are they also call you, email you, walk in the park with you. Which sounds exhausting.