Beer-floof (floofinition) – housepet who enjoys drinking beer.
In use: “He had to watch his dog because the little beer-floof always lapped out of his mug of beer whenever the opportunity came.”
Monday’s Theme Music
You know, in the U.S. of A., it’s winter. Because of that, many towns are having beer festivals. At least, this is true out here in Oregon and California.
Some places call the beer festival a collaboration, a beer walk, or, if the organizers are feeling more stylish, a brewery tour. SF’s Beer Collaboration isn’t starting until Feb. 1. They have a theme, you know, like they do at a prom, Game of Thrones. I’m sure that some high school has had a Game of Thrones themed prom. That seems like it would be something like the red wedding or the prom from Carrie.
Anyway, in honor of beer strolls everywhere, I’m streaming Tom T. Hall’s 1975 classic, “I Like Beer”. Pretty self-explanatory what the song is about.
The Speed of Time
I’m returning to a favorite topic, the speed of time, because I’ve discovered more about about it.
The speed of time is not universal. As everyone knows, according to the School/Work Principle, time’s speed isn’t constant. When you’re waiting for the school or work day to end, time not only slows, but sometimes goes backward, forcing you to repeat several minutes. Some movies, are like that, too.
Learning of this, the NFL manages to employ this in their football games. The last two minutes of an NFL game often takes as long as most of the rest of the game. My wife can attest to that. She’s endured it. “When are we leaving?” she asks.
“As soon as this game is over.”
“How much is left?”
“Not much.”
That waffling, of course, warns her. “How much time is left?” she asks.
“It’s the last two minutes of the fourth quarter.”
“Okay, I’m going to go bake some cookies.”
Using that as a basis for my research, I confirmed that traffic-jam time drags almost as slow as the final two minutes of an NFL game, or the last ten minutes of work or the school day. Shopping time remains the slowest of all, though. Even the NFL has not been able to slow time like shopping will do. Figuratively speaking, shopping time can literally last an eternity. I’ve endured several election cycles while I’ve been shopping. I found that having a Fitbit helps deal with shopping time. It doesn’t change the rate of speed, but I can get a couple of million steps in while I’m walking around, waiting.
Waiting in line time is almost as bad as shopping time. I’ve had clothes wear out while I’ve been standing in line to pay for my purchases, especially at Costco. Costco cashier lines exist in a weird time zone of their own where time gets very sluggish. I’ve spent hour-minutes in line, gazing at what others have bought and comparing them to our purchases.
On the other end of it, I’ve discovered some periods of time that pass quickly. Sleep time is very fast. I don’t know how many times I thought, I’ll just sleep for a few more minutes, and then close my eyes, and, snap, forty minutes have elapsed.
Writing time is frequently often as fast. I have three hours to write, I think, and a cuppa coffee. Then I begin, and the next thing I know, writing time is ended, and I still have coffee.
Which is sort of weird. Coffee time by itself seems to flow at an ideal pace. That’s not true for all beverages. I can tell you, beer time goes fast. Sit down to have a beer, and next thing you know, it’s hours later.
Changing Tastes
Perhaps, if you’re old enough, you remember having thirty-three and forty-five RPM records that you played on your phonograph.
Maybe you had eight-track or cassette tapes. Perhaps you had a VCR later, playing VHS tapes. Maybe you went with Beta.
Then you switched to Laser Discs, Blue Ray, CDs and DVDs before you started streaming.
You may have used a Walkman a couple decades ago, before changing to an iPod Shuffle. Maybe you use your phone now, downloading your songs from the Cloud.
It’s fun living through these changes. Now we’re embracing more changes. Ford and GM have both announced moves to curtail selling cars in the United States this year. The profit margins on manufacturing cars is small, and sales are down. People are buying more SUVs and pick-ups, if they’re buying a motor vehicle at all, because motor vehicles overall have declined. Young people aren’t buying cars as often.
Just curious, but do you remember talking about SUVs in your youth? I didn’t; we had utility vehicles then. The sports came later.
Do you remember the mini-van craze, or are you too young to remember that?
Young people are marrying less these days. The median age for a man in America to marry was twenty-nine point five years old, up from twenty-three in the early 1970s.
Young people are also dating less. They struggle with interpersonal relationships of romantic and sexual natures if they’re engaged face to face. It’s easier for them if there’s a cell phone involved.
Did you know what a Tinderella is?
Fun fact. My friend the professor struggles initiating class discussions in her class of twenty-somethings. Then she started posting texts, and the discourse began.
Ah, cell phones. Remember princess phones and wall phones, cordless phones? Remember pagers? Remember car phones?
Do you remember Instamatic cameras?
Meanwhile, NASCAR paid attendance is declining. Less people are watching the races on television, as well. That’s parallel to a trend of declining NFL paid attendance and television ratings.
Remember playing video games? Are you old enough to recall Pong? Did you ever think about playing a game on your phone? Did you ever believe that you would enjoy playing games on phones so much that you needed data plans to enable your habit?
Beer sales in America are declining. More people are drinking wine.
Over in the Olympics, snowboarding was a big draw in 2018 while the slalom was dropped. Word came out last week that the IOC is not planning to have boxing in the 2020 Olympics.
Went to the movies the other day. When I was young, over fifty years ago, we had a cartoon or short film before the feature. That’s been replaced with ads, trailers, and previews.
The movies cost thirteen dollars for two of us the other day, cheaper than many places, but do you remember paying less than a dollar for the movies? Mom remembers paying a nickel, but she’s over twenty years older than me.
A nickel to get into the movies was a long time ago, wasn’t it?
Shall we talk about the price of gasoline? How ’bout a quart of milk, a loaf of bread, or a cup of coffee?
Say, do you remember when you first thought about buying organic?
These times, they are a’changin’.
Beer Etiquette
He found himself forced to explain beer etiquette to others.
“Beer etiquette,” others said. “Like, the proper way to drink beer?”
Which led, inevitably to statements, “I know how to drink beer. I have a PhD in beer drinking. I’m a natural.” These comments were regarded as hilarious.
No, that is not what he is talking about. He is talking about when you take beer to someone else’s home, or to a social gathering. When you take beer, a six-pack, for example, to someone’s house for a party, for example, you should always remove one beer.
“That would make it a five pack,” someone quickly and acutely noted.
Yes, he agreed, smiling, preparing to continue his explanation.
“Why would you do that?”
If you’ll give me a moment, I’ll explain.
“Okay, explain.”
Yes. Removing one bottle or can shows that you like this beer so much that you had to take one for yourself before you brought it. If you don’t take one, people will think that you don’t like that beer, and wonder why you’re bringing beer that you don’t like.
Cries of, “Bullshit,” and “Come on,” answered, but he was adamant that this was good beer etiquette. Always take one bottle out, whether it’s a six or twelve pack, or a case. If it’s a growler, you should remove twelve to sixteen ounces.
“Do you drink it?” someone said.
You can.
“What about wine?” a wag asked.
Another laughed. “Do you take six packs of wine to people’s houses?”
Another said, “Do they make six packs of wine?”
No, he said, gently, this etiquette is about beer.
Silent drinking pervaded the gathering. “Well,” the wag said, “Next time I go, I’ll just take an empty case and told them that it was too good to give away.” Then he laughed like it was the funniest thing he’d ever heard.
Finding Himself
He’d been in darkness for so long, he’d last track of who he was. Questions plagued him about the value he put on himself, his purpose and goals, maddening lack of motivation, and most of all, who he was . He was so lonely, never seeing others. Sometimes he heard them and yearned to be part of the conversations and celebrations, but he never seemed to have the courage or strength needed to make that change.
Then, one day, the Earth moved in a starling way. He felt a hand on him. It drew him into a light.
“What’s that?” someone said as he blinked against the unaccustomed brightness.
“A wrinkled old ten dollar bill,” someone else said. “Woo hoo, I’m rich. Beer’s on me.”
Figment
Michael came in later than usual, arriving a few minutes after several others. Despite his tardiness, ‘his’ place was still unoccupied so he took his usual chair. Saying hellos, wiping sweat from his face — because he always walked — he poured a glass of porter and took a long drink.
Behind him stood another man.
Ron thought the other was with Michael. He’d followed him in and was now standing directly behind Michael’s chair. Ron looked at the fellow — unsmiling, a little swarthy looking and burly, about Michael’s age (in Ron’s guess), which would make the man in his early sixties, Ron thought, unsure about Michael’s age. Michael was the youngest. Ron thought Michael was his early sixties.
But Michael was ignoring the man, even though the man’s look was fixed on Michael.
The man looked at Ron as Ron looked at him. Ron shied away from greater contact, which wasn’t his style, and addressed his look to the other beer drinkers. He’d first thought the man was with Michael but now he thought maybe the guy had followed Michael in because he was pissed off. Ron, not imaginative, thought, maybe they’d had a fight, or were about to have one.
It wasn’t his style to back off or ignore things so he said to Michael, “Ahem. Michael.”
He waited for Michael to look his way. When Michael did, Ron said with a nod toward the man behind Michael’s seat, “Is he with you?”
Michael didn’t look. “Yes.” He drank more beer.
Confusion swept Ron. The rest of the guys at the table looked confused. Frank, grinning, said, “Should we offer him a chair and a beer?”
Michael glowered. “Why not?”
Rising fast, Ron said, “Let me do the honors, then.” Putting his hand out toward Rolf, he said, “I’m Ron, by the way.”
The man glared at Ron’s hand and then transferred the look to Ron’s face. “Rolf.”
“Rolf?” Ron said, lowering his hand.
“Yes.”
Joe had brought up a chair. Space was made for Rolf. “Do you drink beer?” Ron asked, sitting. His lips felt like Elmer’s glue had been smeared over them. “We have a Boneyard IPA or Pilot Rock porter. Or we can order you something else, like Ashland Amber Ale.”
“Porter,” Rolf said, sitting.
“Porter it is,” Ron said, filling the glass from the pitcher of porter. As he did that, Michael stood.
“I’m going to take a leak,” Michael said. He pointed at Rolf. “Stay. There.” He stared at Rolf for several seconds before turning and striding away.
Ron raised his eyebrows at Frank and the others. They all seemed as perplexed as he felt. That didn’t make him feel any better.
Andy said, “I’m Andy, Rolf.”
Nodding, Rolf picked up his beer.
Andy said, “How do you know Michael?”
“I’m his angel.” Rolf took a gulp of beer.
Everyone’s eyebrows except Rolf’s rose. “His angel?” Frank said with a grin.
Rolf lowered his glass. “Yes.”
“What kind of angel are you?” Bob said.
“I’m a healing angel,” Rolf said.
“Did you say that you’re an angel?” Andy said.
“Yes,” Rolf said with a sour look at Andy.
Ron said, “Maybe we should clarify what you mean by an angel.”
Rolf turned to him. “I’m a fucking angel from fucking heaven. Clear?”
“Yes,” Ron said, pulling back. “Very clear. I don’t mean to offend you.”
“I’m not offended.” Rolf turned back to his beer.
“How did you meet Michael?” Andy said.
“I didn’t,” Rolf said.
“Then how do you know him?” Ron said as several others asked the question.
Rolf picked up his beer and smirked. “He made me.”
Ron said, “He — ”
“Jesus wept,” Rolf said. “What the fuck is this, twenty questions? Michael imagined me. By imagining me, he made me. That’s how the fuck I met him. I’m his healing angel. Any other damn questions?”
Ron put his hands up. “Sorry. I don’t mean to offend you but I don’t think any of us have ever met an angel before. This is certainly a first for me.”
“Congratulations to you,” Rolf said.
“It’s just that we’ve never met someone who someone else made by imagining them,” Andy said. “So we’re taken aback.”
Raising his beer glass again, Rolf smirked at Andy. “Oh, yeah? What the fuck do you think you are?”
In the Bar
I await my turn. I am polite. Patient looking. Outside. Inside my fortress of solitude, where everything is secret, I rant at the slowness. Prozac people in a Prozac ballet, taking orders, accepting money and plastic, making drinks and change, handing out libation. It’s a thick crowd, hungering for libation, awaiting our turns under a televised baseball game.
The man beside me on the stool looks at me and frowns. I smile at him but decide not to speak. He’s drinking a beer. Looks like beer in the glass, anyway.
He says, “It must be hard to a woman. Learn to walk in heels. Find bras that fit you. Have guys stare at you.”
I’m dumbfounded into silence.
He says, “Fitting a bra is difficult. Men don’t need to learn how clothes fit them, not like bras. Men don’t wear bras.”
I’m about to counter him but I don’t want to speak. Speaking will encourage him.
He says, “I guess some men do, men who are going through a transgender thing, becoming a woman, I guess they need to learn how to walk in heels and fit a bra, if they get boobs. I suppose they get boobs. That’s part of being a woman, right? They also need to wear pantyhose, I guess, which I think is revolting, encasing yourself, like you’re a sausage. Remember that Seinfeld episode when George’s father and Kramer create the mansiere? Man, that was funny.”
He takes a drink of his beer. The bartender looks at me and raises his chin and his eyebrows, expressing to me without words, you’re next, what do you want?
I order a beer. IPA.
The man beside me says, “What was I saying?”
Sunday’s Theme Music
This morning found me awakening with a song streaming in my mind. How unusual! I don’t believe that’s ever happened before (*snark*).
The theme du jour was being delivered by Sammy Hagar on vocals as part of the amplified group called Van Halen. The song, “Why Can’t This Be Love”, was released during my formative years. 1986 found me moving from South Carolina to Germany. I was a wee lad of thirty years old, and full of wide-eyed wonder and innocence. My new friends introduced me to this interesting musical genre called rock. That changed my thinking forever.
I really associate this with Randy, though. After Germany, my next assignment took me to California, where I met Randy. Now dead of cancer at fifty-nine, he was a huge Van Halen, Boston, and Atlanta Braves fan. Go to his home, and it wouldn’t be unusual to find him on the patio smoking, windows open and drinking coffee or beer, with Van Halen, Boston, or the Atlanta Braves on.
Crank it up. You know Randy would.
Michael Seidel, writer 