Crawled out of the crib at around 7:00 am, after the what, 2:30 end to Thursday? Still feeling a little drunk, but totally managable, since no hangover. Oso still in deep slumber. Got the coffee going, nice little 50/50 blend of Columbian/French Roast. Figured a little Irish Cream would go well with that. Stumbled around surveying the wreckage from last night. Oso finally came to. Kate headed off to work just before 8:00.

Time for some Cragganmore. Pretty decent 12 y/o single, "The Best of Speyside," don't you know. It was so good in fact, that some found its way into the coffee/Irish cream mix. Well, hell, it was too early to be carrying two drinking vessels at the same time. We hit the puter for some work on the HOB page, which turned into a 3 hour episode of coffee, Irish Cream and Scotch. Oh, and Cider. There was still a 12 of Hornsby's in the fridge, which began to diminsh. The pile empties started to mount as the sun rose in the sky. I started counting "Oh, my God" from Oso at somewhere around 20. Nothing like getting a good drunk going before Noon.

At some point around 11:30, we're two-thirds of the way through the Cragganmore, and it was decided that some photo opportunities were presenting themselves. Oso decided he wanted to test the effect of the fluctuating gravity component on beer flowing from the tap. It took a few tries. Beer is good for the complexion, true, Oso? Much hilarity, along with a quart or more of IPA, some of which actually made it IN to Oso.

Oso off to the showers at half-time. During the course of the clean up, I perceived what felt like a small earthquake, maybe around 3.1 Richter, which appeared to have an epicenter somewhere in the vicinity of the bathroom. Grabbing a couple of Ciders, I headed across the house to determine if Oso had felt it.

Oso found on the floor, half in/half out of the shower. It was at this point that we decided the house gravity was seriously fluctuating, pretty much in Oso's vicinity. Although he was convinced that the house had taken a dislike to him, and was attacking at random. Jesus, what a mess. Water, pictures, Kate's little hanging baskets full of dead leaves, bark and flowers, all comingled on the floor. Damn, no Minolta! By the time I got there with camera to record the event, gravity had reversed itself, leaving Oso semi-upright in the shower, but with Cider in hand.

Enough farting around, we're both drunk, Oso's up to 35 or 40 "Oh, my Gods" and I've got cleanup to do, both in the bathroom (If Kate sees this, she's gonna Shit!) and outside. Hey, OKTOBERFEST is Tomorrow! Bathroom put back into some semblance of order. I headed outside to load the truck for a run to the composting facility, pint of fresh IPA in hand.

About 45 minutes later, I note with extreme clarity of perception that Oso has yet to show himself outside. Back in the house. Oso lying at a drunken angle on the couch, comatose. Multiple attempts to entice him with cider-scented smelling salts failed miserably. A couple of "Oh, my Gods" mumbled incoherently.

Delightful. I'm hammered, Oso's passed out, and there's a couple hours left before the composter closes. I figure I got two full loads before I'm done. More IPA is in order, for energy. I pretty much get the truck loaded when Oso crawled out of the house.

"Grab some wood and load it up, Oso, ya drunk fuck." I headed around the other side of the truck to continue working on the pile. "Fuck! Jesus! Oh, my God!" The earth moved. I walk around the back of the truck to see Oso flat on his back. Driveway attack! Knocked him clean on his ass! Blood everywhere! Serious drinking injury! Ok, Ok, non-arterial bleeding. "Just pick the big chunks outta your hand, and help me, ya bastard." "Oh, my God." (We're closing in on somewhere around 80 at this point. They're coming in 4s and 5s now.) "We'll dump some peroxide on it later. We're running out of time!"

We finally got the truck loaded. I distinctly recall going into the house for my wallet and keys. Into the truck and onto the open highway. I noticed a little piece of wood bent over in the wind, touching the side of the truck. Can't have the paint getting screwed up by that. We come to a stoplight at a highway intersection, so I get out for like 3 seconds, break off the wood, and get back in. We get to the Compost Facility 10 minutes before closing. No wallet. Truck search negative. Excellent.

Back to the house. Wallet definitely not there. Replay events. Only one place it could be, and that's on the highway where I fixed the wood. High speed return to the scene. Park on the shoulder, cars going by at like 65. What's that little piece of shit that just got blown over? Hey, it's a credit card! And there's another, and another, all getting blown with each passing car. Is that a wallet? I recovered everything, including the $70. Every card had been run over at least once, all totally unusable, but at least in my possession again. Disaster narrowly averted!

Well, screw it, it was too late to make it to the dump, so we headed back to the house. Kate due at any minute, still drunk, nothing else accomplished, and some serious hypoglycemia setting in. Kate made it home, listened to the tale with a jaundiced ear, but No Harm, No Foul. I tried to get Oso to climb the big bastard hill behind the house, but he was in such a weakened state that it was pretty obvious the only cure was going to be food. A run to China Garden for takeout for 4.

We finally ate, and got Oso doctored. Nasty looking laceration. I generously offered to suture it up, but Oso declined. "Peroxide'll take the blood outta your shirt, bud." Some light drinking, nothing serious. Day's review: Morning drunk, beer shower, 2 earthquakes, moderate injury, disaster averted. Into the crib for some well needed sack time, anticipating Saturday's party.

After a night of fitful sleep, Saturday morning came blasting in through the window. Beautiful morning, Mad Brewer's Oktoberfest Day. Bunch of homebrewer's coming over for a day of drinking, eating, and general mopery. Check the Ice Machine, full. An early run to the Compost Facility to deal with the truck full o crap. Set Oso to work mowing the lawn. (Nice job, Oso. Everybody said so.)

The PortaPotty guy showed up around 9. Nice guy. Pulled right up, set the port-o-let down, loaded up the paper goods and was gone.

Brewers start showing up with beer and food. Totals: 70 gallons of beer, including donations from 3 local brewpubs and 1 local microbrewery. Go figure. We make beer, and the breweries GIVE us beer. America! What a great country! Plus we got brats, bocks, chicken/apple sausages, chickens, german potato salad, spiced red cabbage, a few german brods, pretzels, brown mustards, all of authentic origin, more or less.

Naturally, some sampling of the beers was in order. This took some serious consideration, especially to make sure that the ice was cold enough for the beer (check), and that the kegs were strategically placed on the deck and the driveway. We had 12 or 13 (memory failure) different beers, all kegged. The beers were all found to be sound, and of drinkable quality and quantity. Chef Dennis in the kitchen, appetizers on the table, and people started showing up.

Most of Saturday (i.e., pretty much after 11 am) was spent drinking. We had people coming and going all day. Some interesting samples of Mead and Cyser were passed around at one point. Beers included Maerzen, IPA, Czech Pils, a couple of Wheats (one Ale and one Weizen), a couple of British Bitters, an American Pale Ale, a Red Ale, hell I can't remember them all. A couple of guys showed up on bicycles (crazy bastards). Getting up the hill to the house sober is one thing. Heading DOWN the hill drunk is another. (Watch out for the big gravel patch at the bottom!) We made sure they had plenty to drink. Port-o-let was a huge success. (Two years ago, the toilet was, er, shall we say "Overused".)

There WAS some serious eating taking place as well. Chef Dennis had the wursts simmering in the sauerkraut before being tossed on the grill with the chicken. Eating took a couple of hours for most of us (Oso on the 6 hour sampling binge).

Along about, what, 7? 7:30? (Or was it later? It was pitch black at that point. A bunch of people had left, leaving 8 or 10 of us to finish the food and beer.) "Hey, what's that car coming up the hill? Hey, look, it's Sondra, and Rob and Al! Hey, ya Bastards! Park it!" Three intrepid DBs from San Francisco made the journey. Fresh Blood! Much sampling and eating renewed.

Dead Palates Society was called to order. If you've never been to one, a table is chosen, and numerous strange and rare beers are placed in the center. One by one, each is opened, and poured among as many glasses as are raised. The merits, good and bad, are blurted out by those who can still recognize them. (I still say Cave Creek is a better Chili Beer than Chihuahua.) It was beers of the world. Worst beer: Cavedale Reserve Barley Wine (IMHO). Whoever heard of a Lambic Barley Wine? It was brewed with care, then allowed to be fermented by whatever wild yeast and bacteria happened to be floating by. No, they don't use a yeast culture. Grossly contaminated, foul smelling and vile tasting. Best beer: Who's to say? Depends on your taste buds, but there were a few birdies chirping for what I recall to have been an OUTSTANDING West Coast Belgian-style Trippel (can't recall the Brewer, but I'd know it if I saw it.)

I recall a few people leaving after DPS (kind of like the grand finale at a fireworks show on 4th of July), but there were 6 drunken bastards left at the end of the night, since Sondra, Al, Rob, Oso, Chef Dennis and myself who weren't driving nowhere. Dennis was too drunk to drive, but not too drunk to drink (an enviable state), so his keys were confiscated much to his delight. ("What? You mean I gotta stay here an' drink?? All right.)

Somewhere around 2am the gravity meter started inching up the scale. We retired to the living room, where some enterprising bastard found a video copy of Holy Grail. At just before 3am, I noted the signs of drunken slumber all around me. Well, what he hell, it had been a great day.

"Ooooohhhh, Shit. Ooooohhh, my God. Where the hell am I?"

These were a few of the notable quotes heard Sunday morning.

Hey, another great morning. Coffee/Irish Cream (sans Cragganmore this time). Huge breakfast. A few MadBrewers showed up to assist in cleanup. We gotta get more ice on the beer. Ice machine full. (It had been emptied of 700+ pounds the day before, and was already half full the last time I had checked on Saturday.) It was a slow morning. Stock suggestion: Buy Bayer.

But wait! The Vintage Festival is going on over in Sonoma! C'mon you bastards! Get showered and whatever, and let's get some wine tasting in on the way over! Nothing like a new beverage to fire the motivation.

A hill climb was in order. One of the best known hangover cures is mindless physical exertion, and the hill has a reward at the top, that is a pretty decent view of the Napa Valley. OK, everybody got a good look? Let's go drink wine.

We stopped at a couple of wineries on the way. Gundlach-Bundschu (gezundheit) was closed for the parade festivities. Buena Vista was open, so we had our 4 samples apiece. Then: To the Festival.

Parking was a biatch. But we found spaces a couple of blocks apart. At the Festival: Annual event in Sonoma. All of the wineries serve. You buy tickets, and get a commemorative wine glass. A $1 ticket gets you a generous half glass of wine. $20 bucks gets you winedrunk. A pretty good percentage of the town turns out for a public drunk.

The Grape Stomping Competion was hilarious. One guy running in place on 40 pounds of wine grapes for 3 minutes. It's a sprint, not a marathon. The partner trying to channel juice into a little outlet at the bottom of the half-barrel and into a gallon jug, while keeping skins and seeds away from the screen. The partner comes away covered on one side of his body by purple juice, seeds, skins, stems. Good, clean fun.

Oso and I got solicited by a politician. At least until he found out that we weren't from his district. Nice guy, but stupid. He didn't even know who we were:

[Politician]: "Hi, there, young voters. I'm Keith Anderson, and I'm running for State Assembly."
[Oso]: "What party?"
[Politician]: "Democratic."
[Oso]: "We're Drunken Bastards. I'm from Arizona. Sully here is from Napa."
[Politician]: "Uh, well, Ok. Well, then, uh, thank you."
[Sully]: "You oughtta think about becoming a Drunken Bastard. Oh, he's gone. How bout another glass of wine, Glenn?"

Finally, as with all good things, it was time. Oso was due on a plane the next morning, and everyone else had to work. Semi-drunken goodbyes, promises for future rendezvous, many hugs and handshakes. A fine Weekend of Bastardry!