Let me get back to business. I'm going to pretend I had kept this up the entire time and avoid the awkward "Hey, man I'm sorry dude- here's a beer; so much has happened."
blah, blah, blah
Every writer requires a muse from time to time and although both are abundant- beer and my foreskin aren't always enough to keep your eyes occupied in this venue because frankly I run out of ideas from time to time. (And I get lazy)
I've been spending time and drinking beer with someone that has made me feel talented, so here I am again.
It's been quite a while since a had someone special to share beers with. Lately my beer drinking has been restricted to practically sitting in my closet with the light off as I go through either a 12 pack of Redhook ESB or Sierra Nevada Pale. Beer became more business and less pleasure. And trust me, there was a lot of overtime with little productivity.
So, let me tell you about the root of this new energy....
It was a weekend in late September 2010. I was house sitting for my good friend and high school English teacher in Monrovia. I had plans on meeting a friend for a beer in downtown at a Gastropub- London Gastropub to be exact. Decent place with Port Brewing and Allagash and others on tap.
Now mind you- I was heartbroken and socially regressed. This weekend was a means to put my head back on and push through all the new changes that had me in a choke hold at that time.
My company that night knew exactly what I was going through and was pretty much in a similar situation- although at the time I had no idea of it until we walked down toward town. We talked about out current problems-lightly.
When we reached the bar, it was an easy choice for my first beer- Firestone Union Jack.
My female company, well confident in my taste, asked me to order something good for her. So I did.
Craftsman Poppy Fields- (remember that)
We chatted and chatted and I hadn't felt such catharsis with a person that was more than a acquaintance but not quite a full blown friend yet. I sipped my beer and noted that the server had switched the beers. (I didn't get my Union Jack)
I looked at her- she said I looked good (obviously, I noted at this point, she was a liar).
Aside from that- she looked good. But she felt better- we were two people confused, hurt, and afraid- but I never felt so comfortable being such. (I'd compare it to the feeling women that choose to not wear bras have- they're all out there and vulnerable but it's a source of freedom- or some other empowered propaganda)
I didn't feel crazy. I wasn't even buzzed. Moreover- I wasn't alone.
She opened her mouth and said,"This beer is really good."
Fuck. Of course it was good- that was MY beer. That's why I ordered it. But she had it and I had stupid Craftsman Poppy Fields....
(It's only stupid because the dude that owns the brewery is a dick)
I felt stupid and told her that she had been given my beer and it wasn't Craftsman- (I didn't want her to get the wrong impression of the wrong beer)
She merely smiled and said, "Oh, well let"s fix that." She lined the beers up, side by side, equal distance from both of us, sitting opposite one another. "We can share them," she said.
Beautiful, smart, beer-loving, slightly neurotic (like me), and sharing.
Jesus Christ.
To make a long story short- it was the only time I have ever spent three hours in a bar while only drinking three beers the entire time. We were communicating and bonding. And I needed it.
She's a supporter of my writing and has proved to be very human just like me. Every once in a while, you try a beer that you've never had before and it makes you fall in love with beer all over again.
This person is the female equivalent of just that idea.
She makes me thirsty for all the things in life I have been afraid of before. And it all started with a beer.
Thanks gurl.
you know who you are.
