Tin Hat's HAM radio Conspiracy Theory Hour

Great Divide - Hibernation Ale

2010-12-18T21:26:00.003-05:00

Great Divide (Denver, CO) - Hibernation Ale
English-Style Old Ale
Dry-hopped
October-January Seasonal

Brown bottle six-pack for about $12.75. 8.7% AbV.

Thin, large-bubble head evaporates quickly, leaving a clean Cola-colored liquor. Lack of a distinct head is made up for by slight effervescence in the glass. Temperature about 50 F. Aroma is boozy and sweet, but slightly sour: caramel and molasses. A persistent layer of foam laces the glass and sticks well. First sip is tangy and a lot livelier than expected. A strong alcohol flavor is masked by an almost spicy mouthfeel, with a lot more carbonation than I anticipated. Sadly, the flavors are lacking. Body is medium-thick, malty like Cola but not as syrupy. The finish is full of hops and bitters, with tangerine and grapefruit.

Second sip is smokier, with an almost mesquite, peaty, Scotch-like flavor that stays on the tongue through the finish.

Overall a good beer for the end of a slushy winter day, although its sweetness and high-alcohol content make it less drinkable than a comparable ale which does the same trick.

2010-12-18T00:35:00.000-05:00

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2010/12/17/cia-waterboarding-legal-defense_n_798568.html

"It costs about $300 a year for $1 million in coverage. Today, the CIA pays the premiums for most officers, but at the height of the war on terrorism, officers had to pay half."

2010-11-21T19:16:00.010-05:00

A Thanksgiving Miracle

By Nathaniel Hoyt

Submitted on the 21st day of the 11th month of the 2010th year of Our Lord

Deep under the big city, connected to the labyrinth of sewers and infrastructure that maintain the lives of countless creatures above, there is a special room. Stout metal ribs gird this chamber and arc to a point at the top of its dome. At that spot where they come together is a square grate, through which a pale white light seeps in, falling in curly motes to the ground far below. It is impossible to tell how far up the shaft reaches, how long it takes for such a quiet light to sink into the deep earth. The light is faint, ghostly, and reveals little, but it is precious.

For scale, assume that a city is mirrored above and below, the way a tree and its roots reflect each other. Then, consider the boundless sprawl of the particular city above. The vast tangle and knot coiled beneath the lowest streets is enough to make a reasonable person swoon. A reasonable person would also agree that it was a bit of pretty good fucking luck, then, that the young man and his robot should have found this one place, unique of all places, at all.

In this quiet spot, removed from the noisiest arteries of the sewers, the young man and his robot had camped for almost a year. At least it was dry, and it did feature the only natural light one could find for miles. Still, the décor was a bit uninspired. In fact, if it weren't so depressing one would almost describe it as vagrant-kitsch: over there a tattered tent made of rags, over here a fire pit, over there a couple of buckets, probably with holes in them just for effect. And more debris scattered around: a few paperback books molting their faded pages away, a stained shirt draped disintegrating over a rock. However, amongst all of this irrelevant miscellany, one thing, as they say, brought it all together: beneath the diffuse light from the vent above had grown a tree to about a foot in diameter before it was felled. And on this tree stump, in a sepulchral gloom, far below the earth, in the middle of a damp stain, alone and glistening, lay a beating heart.

The young man kneels, his robot beside him. Their eyes fixate on the heart. Lying there, sadly defenseless and futile, it makes desperate wheezing and gasping noises as it inhales and exhales through its empty ventricles.

The young man, wearing a dusty green uniform of sorts, suddenly reaches one finger out and touches the heart. He presses in slightly, forming a small dimple. He slides his finger down over the ventricle, leaving an oily wake. The heart continues pumping, dumb and persistent. He pulls his hand back and holds it, shaking slightly, before his eyes. Swift as a snake, the young man darts his tongue out and licks the tip of his finger, then vigorously wipes his hands on his pants legs.

“I guess it's ready,” he says. The robot nods. Its long, many-jointed limbs are always angled inwards. It appears to be always huddling against a cold wind. Its red eyes provide no illumination, but brood privately from deep within a metallic cowl.

The young man is quiet for a moment, staring ahead contemplatively, until a smirk nearly eclipses his whole face. “Do you remember what I had to do to get it,” he asks, nearly sputtering over his own laughter. The robot nods stoically, for robots do not forget. In an almost obscene guffaw, the young man doubles over in laughter, little diamond tears appearing at each outer corner of his large pale eyes. “And how he said- how he said,--” he trailed off in laughter, leaving the rest implicit. The robot nods. The young man aborts his laughter with a sharp intake of breath, and holds it. He sighs. “Then they'll probably be here soon.”

The young man looks to the round portal that leads to the sewers. From his vest pocket he pulls out a pair of binoculars, places them to his eyes and adjusts the light settings. Black ghosts dart past the entrance, like spectral arrowheads volleyed from either side. Back and forth they fly, and then suddenly, creeping around a corner appears the first of many rats, company the boy had been expecting, dreading. It stops at the entrance, half in and half out, stabbing its long pointed nose at the air with one paw raised. It takes a few steps in and stands up. The young man stands too. They are about the same height, both mangy but lithe, scrawny and strong too. More rats appear behind their leader, slinking in, taking a few darting steps at a time. More and more, until the entire entrance is crowded with them, each crawling over the back of the other, overflowing into the room.

The robot slowly unfolds two long arms, and holds them steadily parallel to the ground.

The rat's voice irks the young man terribly. The edges of his words are sharp and cut short. He slides together pauses, but then halts unexpectedly. He notices the binoculars in the young man's hands. "Ah! You have a, a, a--. For the--- fire. And, and, and the heart--. So very---- well done."

"Thank you Labrot," the young man says, trying to sound steady, easy.

The rat turns his attention to the robot. "The--- metal-man is--- a good friend isn't he?"

"Yeah. A very good friend."

"And the heart. The, the------ the heart." The boy thinks Labrot seems unusually distracted as he pauses to sniff at the beating heart. Labrot whips around to the boy, who instinctively recoils from the foul acrid breath seeping between the rat's stained lips. "Do-we-shall-begin?"

Ceremoniously, the young man reaches his binoculars up and holds them in a line with the light trickling down from above. He fiddles with the dials on the lenses, then keeps his arms as still as he can.

(A terribly long silence.)

A gray noodle of smoke rises as the heart begins to smolder. It turns darker, becomes a ribbon, becomes a cloud, turns black, becomes a haze, then flames burst from its side and whip upwards as flesh peels retreating from the conflagration. The burning heart beats faster and faster as the smoke unfolds deeper and darker. Its wheezing gasping becomes panting rasping as flames bite away at purple flesh. The young man lowers his arms. All watch expectantly, silently, as the heart burns brighter, until the flames become an opaque white veil that is blinding to behold. Presently, the flame dies. The heart is gone. Just a modest pile of ashes scatter around the tree stump. The young man lets out a long breath. Labrot twitches his nose and scratches at the ground. The rest of the rats begin to shift in agitation.

“Does--- it work?”

“We won't know until summer.”

“When is that?”

“We won't know for a long time.”

Labrot seems displeased by this answer. “No, not good--- quickly, now we--- don't wait. Can't.” The rats writhe and squirm behind him, growing increasingly agitated.

The young man takes a step back, startled by the urgency in Labrot's tone and well aware of his combustive temper. “It takes time, Labrot. I told you. This is just the first part. It should work, but we won't know for a while.”

“No! Not waiting. Do you remember? How you got? What you did? Very upset, took--- many rats!”

The young man looks down, ashamed for laughing about that incident just minutes ago. It was true, many rats had died that day, and to help him too. He knows he has his part of the bargain to uphold, but what he is saying is true: these things take time. Everybody knows that.

“No longer friend. You've made tricks on us. Many--- rats call you demon, call---- you bad spirit! Many rats dead!” Unable to hold back his nervous rage, Labrot springs at the young man, his face turning hellishly malicious. The young man has just a fraction of a moment to see Labrot's bright sharp teeth flying towards him, just a moment to open his mouth but not enough to scream. And then a red flash and a sharp whip-crack sound startles the entire room into silence. Labrot now lies a broken, bloody pile, thrown against the ribbed walls of the chamber with unfathomable force. The robot retracts it's metal fist, uncurls its many joints and stands tall, towering over the young man and nearly filling the room. The rats stare up at the red-eyed terror and then scatter, disappearing as swift as a snuffed flame.

The robot huddles back over, like a very tired person. The young man kneels back down at the tree stump. He stirs the pile of ashes with one finger, resting his head on his arm on the edge. He looks up to the sky as if he's heard a sound. “This had better work,” he says.

summer vocation

2010-09-12T00:17:00.009-04:00

I shuddered and died and stuttered and fell. I lay on the bricks and spilled out on the gravel highway. Names came and went, but whatever it was it was we, and us. We climbed the trunk of a city of roots, while the advertisement beacons bid us to buy another beer, buy another beer. So we did and we did and we did. I kicked open a dumpster like a treasure chest and stood on my tiptoes to peer in. We ate dough and sand, and we ate raw bleeding hearts and minds. We were met with applause. I was outside, inside this city of blisters and infants, and I met up with the wind on two wheels, and I shrugged at twenty-two tons of rolling death. I laughed at tasteless jokes. I moved too fast, and fell, and hurt myself. I was what I wanted to be: I was a child and a nuisance.

I will hone the edge of summer to its sharpest point, to stab into the heart of November and out through March's back. I hate March. I hate November. I need December and I need January. I always forget about February. That all doesn't matter anyways. I'm remembering, in a place where everyday is pretty much the same, the trash heap on the docks - massive, easily the size of a hill, made of scrap metal skeletons and the unidentifiable remains of physical infrastructure. Tools, pylons, rebar, gaskets, drums, bolts, bearings, casings, bits, mounts, chassis, cables, and rust, exhumed from the foundations of the little port city and displayed, for a time, auburn and cold, on the dock to wait for the Stygian ferry, the godhand to clutch and drag away. Waiting to be out of sight, and out of mind. I used to approach the scrap heap as if it were a sleeping beast, shapeless and terrible. You couldn't even touch it, every point was blood. But I so wanted to dive in, to burrow my way beneath the dome and live like some trashlord fox. One day the whole damn thing was gone, lifted away like my hat in a headwind.

We always keep in mind the silly game we are taught to play with authority, and obediently tuck our cheap beer cans into our sleeves while the cruisers slide past. They make me uncomfortable, they are reminders. They don't let me forget that this isn't a lawless wasteland (although I'm not really too sure). I know I am being watched; my bravado is a frog's croak on the highway. My rebellion is met with ambivalence, tolerance, condescension too. But when they're gone I'm back in the wasteland; back in the grit and desert of my fantasy. I just want to build a fort and forget.

I allow the question to linger. Sometimes I think I need the tension that comes from unanswered questions. Sometimes I even like it. I can be satisfied enough just waiting for satisfaction. We rarely make eye contact; our conversations are always in motion, always moving, never going anywhere. Strange, but it doesn't drive me crazy anymore. I let it be. Stet.

We see from strange angles. We have no secrets, but we know all the city's. I think I climbed every tree in this park, and I've probably pissed on every tree in that one. It's inevitable at some point at least one of us will be naked. How old are we, twelve? Don't think we ever grew up. Our timelines are made from movable pieces. We are dogs, or rodents. We are a pack without the politics. When it's over I'll remember how foolish it all was, how futile. But I'll remember it with a grin - a big, gormless, shit-eating grin.

2010-08-23T01:28:00.000-04:00

be alone! be awake. punch your numb flaps and bulges into action. eat an apple. put your x-acto knife to some use. cover something up. fill in a blank. replace a silence with noise. save your soul!

2010-07-05T00:39:00.001-04:00

and then at night, when the dogs have stopped barking outside, the trains are silenced, cataracts are ripples, birds chirp at the fake glowing streetlight sun, he enters the dark room, from whence a soft blue glow casts the palest, most docile shadow on the wall. the fog is here as well - it's everywhere these days - odorless obfuscation, dimensionless, textureless, entirely without detail and entirely dynamic. the naked man on the bed is waiting, legs up, arms out, staring ahead with an expectant and eager smile. our hero enters the room, stepping gingerly between the folds of the massive velvet drapes that hang from indiscernably high in the dark untouched ceiling. the curtains hardly move as he slinks in, takes one step in and presses his back to the wall. the mens' eyes are locked. our hero takes off his shoes, socks, pants, shirt, underwear. he keeps his back to the wall and his eyes on the man on the bed. he takes sideways steps, never turning, his back always to the wall, sliding along it, until he reaches the corner. he carefully turns himself onto the new wall, as if he were standing on a very thin ledge. he is standing on a very thin ledge. the soft blue glow comes from the depths. he slides along the wall, faster now, his lust giving him courage. he reaches the next corner and carefully turns himself. he stops next to the bed. the man on it has shifted onto his side, casually propped up on one elbow, saying nothing. our hero steps onto the bed and stands above the naked man there. he lies down next to the man, careful that not a single part of their bodies should touch.

2010-06-19T19:16:00.000-04:00

i hate to break it to ya
all your words are lies
put a stake into ya
gouging out your eyes

your lipstick problem
your money's gone to waste
your future interest
your net fucking worth

i hate to break it to ya
all your words are lies
i hate to break it to ya
liars, maggots, frauds, and FLIES

keep living in filth
keep living unclean
keep living war-stricken
keep keep keep keep

you flatten
you steal
you hate
you fear

i hate to break it to ya
all your words are lies
i hate to break it to ya
liars, maggots, frauds, and FLIES

smug in the war room
holy in the church
cozy in the classroom
bigotted, ignorant, hatred

in coffins and cars,
cubed in, tuned out, senseless
androids, ants, your life
is given to nothing

i hate to break it to ya
all your words are lies
i hate to break it to ya
liars, maggots, frauds, and FLIES

fathers

2010-04-30T23:19:00.000-04:00

"My father. MY father? My father didn't dedicate his life to Good Posture. His swan neck bent forward like a hook, glum dead eyes looking meekly up at an unstoppable sight! How embarrassing! That's my father. Took him thirty years to build a goddamn table."

"How well he'd known the times in sadder years with hammer in hand he'd chase my sister. She started a club, and I felt a little reluctant to join. Takes time to get to know you."

2010-04-28T01:41:00.000-04:00

tomorrow i'm going to read, goddamnit!
i felt tonight was a long slow process of waking up (life is one long process of getting tired is what sam butler said). i'm awake now, and ready, but i still want what i wanted earlier. when i stood up from bent over with fear in my heart because i realized i had a furnace full of fire with no vent, i had no place to put it, no way to let it out. i came home and played guitar for, like, four hours straight, then i contemplated picking a fight over facebook, then i decided what i needed was something real. i put my long wool socks on and extra shirts and went out to the porch where i discovered my old computer was now inserting the number four whenever it pleased (it used to refuse to allow any and all fours, so this is quite a remarkable change in attitude for it). nothing happened out there, let's skip to back here, where i am sitting now. tomorrow i'm going to read, goddamnit!

i have so much to do and i'm going to die soon. that's what i'm thinking.

interrogation

2010-04-18T22:58:00.000-04:00

those old folks are all right. their new dog's name is a cliche, of course, but when you're retired and the nest is empty, you can be forgiven for your lack of creativity. we ate at a convenient place and they left me at a convenient hour.

an old face sat in front of the door that sticks to the building with the blue two-twenty-six. a place like this would have to be on the top floor. who can afford floors one through penultimate? half of the crowd seemed to be playing guitars and a black and white dog had the cheerful audacity to plant itself in the middle of the room. hummus and old bread and a plastic bag full of dumpster flowers. a beautiful man named parker gave me a flier and i apologized for being difficult when he was trying to explain what the event was to me. i've gained a precognitive warning system for boys who can break my heart and it was going full alert when i looked at him.

i went home, and was furious within minutes when i read this article : http://www.nclrights.org/site/PageServer?pagename=issue_caseDocket_Greene_v_County_of_Sonoma_et_al. i took it out on myself by raking wet leaves.

the door opened and i heard sobs or laughs or, no, they were sobs. K has finally come down to the hard part which i figured would come eventually. i tried to listen, but my listening skills are pretty poor lately. i tried to say some nice things but nothing i thought of sounded sympathetic even though i was actually - i'm almost surprised by this, so used to feeling nothing - feeling bad for her. i did the only thing i could think of and brought her up a glass of jack daniels with two ice cubes. then i made pasta and sauce and ate.

something is different lately. i want to fight. i feel ready for war, eager for it. i'm not being literal, or maybe i am. i've made myself into a soldier, or maybe i was born this way, or maybe it's just this bloody world that's made me what i feel like i am today: thirsty for blood. my intolerance and disgust for apathy and nihilism is at an all time high. i still don't see clearly, but i can see the forms of my enemies emerging from the smoke and dim. i feel calm and peaceful and strong and invincible and mortal and all things. my life is simple. i am on a soft hill and i can see down into the streets and gutters, into the windows of the houses, into pockets and wallets; i can look up, remember stars. i am just a pawn for now, but i haven't even moved my queen yet and my king is napping. i have been honest with you. i no longer feel the need to make excuses.