Sunday, September 7, 2014

An Appreciation

Tasting stouts might be a little passé, but this one rocks. There's a full roasted finish with a nice orange middle that makes for a heady beast, without sinking into the IPA hell that's so prevalent these days. The smell greets you with a cocoa sweet stillness of archaic notes, cradling a literate flair.

To be sure, this stout brings me back to my first taste of stouts, in my 80's high school days. So full, it closes my throat while I remember 4-hour tilts of RISK. Good times. 

Understand, I don't get out much, and this foray into an open night hails my memory with a tweak of sadness.  My son turns 15 soon, my friends have high school kids bordering on college age, so accessible funds and available minutes are a rare commodity. Anyway, it's nice to just sit and enjoy my life. 

Relax, loyal reader, I'm not going down memory lane. I won't regail/repulse you with reflections on Ron.  I won't try to make you sad, nor will I solicit a sentimental response. I'm here to tell you at the foot of the mountains there sits a mildly chubby cherub who is grateful for the adventure, however mundane it may seem. 

As I look into the stemmed glassware cradling this gorgeous potion, I want to tell you this is what it means to win. When I read the headlines of this backward world, listen to the non-melodic music of the age, and turn away from the shallow nature of today's vernacular, I'm refreshed at the simplicity of pleasurable things. People are laughing around me (maybe they're drunk), the day's repose is the right temperature, the sun's sitting just right over the peaks, and I have time to myself. 

You know, if I must truly confess, my back hurts. The couple next to me are getting on eachother's nerves with consistent reminders that they both look "shitty". The college couple on the other side of me are eating stinky food, raped by the reek of wing sauce. My palette's getting corroded with the stank--glassware is now being dropped on a consistent basis. I'm swirling the stout in a desperate attempt to summon better odors. One of the bartenders has an open shirt down her back, revealing a typical tribal design--a shame, really, she'd be more attractive without the Mark of the Fad. She must make good tips. It's irritating, really--I get upset just thinking about it. 

Do you really have to put your iPhone (trademark) in your back pocket? Don't you ever sit?! Or, in your clunky attempt to look cool, do you need to have it precariously hanging out of your dirty jeans? What do I care, you could probably afford another one--

And, what's up with the long beards? Are you studying sorcery? Are you wise? Are you compensating for the bald head? Why don't you conjure a spell to make your feet stink less, when you wear those disastrous thongs. Look in your tome of magic under the letter "S", for "stink foot".

Swirling the caramel concoction a little more, now.... The drink temperature is getting to where I like it, and the aromas are blitzing like an '77 Orange Crush front five. Grapefruit, that's what it is! I mistakenly took the orange citrus train to Prediction Town on this heavenly mixture. Make this blitz an '85 Bears front five! Oranges, begone, there is a dark grapefruit hither--No, cherub, this stout has the bitter numb of grapefruit. Brewers, well done: your palettes have foresight and ingenuity. I am contrite.

The dude next to me chugged his... Troglodyte. 

And, do you really need to drag your dogs to the brewery? Their filthy nature doesn't drum up a tinge of appreciation from my like, I have two charming furries of my own. Here's the difference: your pups aren't endearing, they're spoiled from you parading them around the local inebriates, like an emperor without clothes, who happens to eat his own scat.

Golly, this stout is good.  Best to leave it at just one. A good memory. 

They're playing rap, now. Time to head out. The mountain scenery has turned black, and the interior just looks like any other bar, with dreadful music filling the room. Thank you, God, for the magical drink. I suppose I really won't experience its like for a while. 

Guys are starting to stare at the tattoo, and I feel ashamed for the sex I'm a member of--until this girl opens her mouth and flashes gang signs, swearing like an amateur.

Going in for the descent, time to join life again. Not the hustle and bill-paying of earthly gears, but the warmth of a family and a newfound appreciation for momentary gaps. 

Appreciation, indeed. This was a worthy culinary experiment. I could go for a good movie, about now.




Friday, September 5, 2014

Jump





"Jump! Don't look down!"

"You've really got nothing to lose," they encourage me.

"You've done it before, you know..."

Ron looked into the glass and pondered the deep bourbon's legs as they shrouded the sides.  "I almost went bankrupt, as well."

"You have endless contacts and resources!"

"Yes, I do," Ron glared into the garish computer screen, and clicked the Unfriend icon, "--every one of them attached to a human."

__________________________


I see myself at the foot of a sickly bed. The poor dog stretched before me--starved, face lined with desperate worry, pummeled by uneven tempos of breath. I put so much hope into it--I thought I was providing such favor, keeping it locked away, being safe. The bloodshot eyes turn my way, and the whimpers turn into a low mumble. I'm going to lose my furry friend, I know.

With a rush of quivering strength, I kick the bed posts, "Look, I know what I'm doing: I'm convincing myself to not step out in faith. There's no real way to lose, so go ahead and die, for all I care!"

Why am I afraid?

___________________________

Ron adjusted himself under the table, moving his arm as such to give the illusion he's itching his leg.

"I just don't want to go through the...leg work, again," he explained to the interviewer with big diamonds and global implants, "the empty calls, the awkward meetings: the dry days of waiting for an answer--"

He knew he was talking to himself, at this point.  How would a corporate trophy wife ever understand the struggle? Inside her head, she rolls her eyes--gotta get the pool cleaned!

"So much excessive spinning; so many un-answers. So much time was wasted, trying to apprehend a hopeful nugget--" Ron abruptly stops, and glares at her. He sets down his pen, crumbles his resume, places it on her iPad (trademark).

Ron, looking around, whispers in her ear, "Look, I'm going to be responsible for a staff of people who need the work. Times could get thin, and it could be my fault. I'm going to be accountable for the quantity and quality of the work.  It stops at me--"

The interviewer reaches around his head, and squeezes his cheek.

She whispers back, smelling of lipstick and Starbucks (copyright): "It also starts at you! Isn't that what you want? No one to tell you how to edit yourself, someone to set your limitations; an overseer who doesn't really know your passion?" 

Ron adjusted himself again. This time, everyone noticed. He didn't care.


______________________________



I'm back at my dog's death bed, but I know it's really me, lying there... I'm mad at the situation. I can't believe I'm explaining myself to my dying dog.

"I didn't know what I was doing. I'm so sorry."

"The right colleagues were impressed," Man's-Best-Friend seems to say, "and you have some true jewels of work. You slept at night."

I start to weep a bit, "The superiors I work for might be upset."

"Your only superior is the one who loves you more than you'll ever know," the doggie rests its head, nuzzling its pillow, "and I always knew you loved me."

...that new damned bag of organic dog food....


____________________________________



"Looking in the mirror is scarier with each year," he thought to himself, walking the narrowing path.


He covered his mouth, collecting the data as to what could happen.
Am I reaching too much?

          "You haven't reached in a while."


He relaxed, paused, fixed his gaze to the path beneath him. The green moss dwindled as it drew closer to the edge of the end, close to where his feet felt the most discomfort, as his body lurched forward and back. The comfort of green disappeared amid this balding rash of regret. 


I don't want to lose--

          "You already won."


Breath was unbearable now, and this was it: he clenched inside, shaking his younger self.


But it might be to high--

          "Then," he gasped at the inhalation of new birth, "...jump..."