Category: beer

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.”

 

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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?”

 

 

2

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?”

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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.

 

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The List

“I love hot showers,” he said. “They’re my second most favorite thing, right behind pizza, cold beer, hot coffee, lemon meringue pie, watermelon, grilled steak, the beach, and the fourth of July.”

His wife said, “Where am I on that list?”

He said, “I’ll get back to you.”

1

The Beer Warning

Beer and I get along well. We go together like pizza and beer, ice cream and pie, or coffee and pastries.

The other day, we had a warning about climate change and chocolate. Each week brings another story about global warming and the increasing seriousness.

Earlier this year – 2018 – came a story about rare poisonous sea snakes being discovered in California, coming north with warming waters.

Before that, of course, were stories and warnings of wild weather swings with rapid temperature extremes, blizzard hurricanes and increasing wildfires. Before then, climate change warnings were about melting ice caps, rising sea levels, and coastal flooding that threaten cities like New York and Miami.

But a segment of population says, “Nope, climate change, and all that’s attributed to it is fake science, or a hoax, or a conspiracy, or blah, blah, blah.”

Today, a warning from Montana, where malt hops are grown. They’re not faring well there, and climate change is blamed.

Without malt hops, we’re going to have some problems with beer production. Hopefully, more will now start paying attention. The Guardian puts it in perspective in this article, from 2015.

3

Our Last Beer

My social group met last night for the last time in 2017. It was a good time, as always, and we raised our glasses in a commemorative salute.

Six beerites were absent, including one recovering from injury and illness. We sent him a special salute that is guaranteed to improve recovery times.

Get Well 2017

If you make it to Ashland and want to join us for a beer, we meet at Northwest Pizza every Wednesday at 4:30 PM for our winter hours. We’ll resume meeting at 5 PM in a few months.

Happy 2018. Cheers

 

 

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Smockville Brewhouse

I’m pleased for my friend, Ron.

Ron’s son and daughter-in-law have started a business. Located in Sherwood, Oregon, it’s called Smockville Brewhouse. Click on the link, and check it out. Go ahead, I’ll wait here.

Smockville

I’m please for Ron, not because his son is opening a business, but because of the relationship the two of them, and the entire family, demonstrated while the idea germinated, the business plan was created, and the brewhouse established. It was beautiful to see Ron’s happiness, pride, and enthusiasm.

I hope the business flourishes. If it’s dependent on enthusiasm and pride, there’s a damn good chance that it will.

 

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