Back when I was young, shortly after the glaciers retreated, I would drink whatever I could get my hands on.

For a long time, whatever I could get my hands on was Jack. My friend Eddie's dad owned a liquor store in Louisville, and we could get all the Jack we wanted. It was weird. Eddie's dad knew that we were going to steal something from the store, and he told us to just stick to Jack and to never, never take any beer. I never did figure out what that was all about.

So anyway, we drank Jack and we drove around in Eddie's van with all of our friends and generally amazed ourselves that we never got arrested or worse. We didn't drink Jack because we particularly liked the stuff, but because like I said - we could get all we wanted.

Which was a lot.

After Eddie joined the Army and disappeared from the face of the Earth, I switched to beer. Swill, actually. Whatever I could get my hands on. Whatever was available. Budweiser at a friends apartment. Little King's down by the river. It didn't matter what it was, I didn't like any of it. But at that age I already knew that beggars could not be choosers.

And so it began.

Eventually, my taste buds having been completely pussified by swill, I actually convinced myself that there was nothing wrong with what I was drinking. That there was something wrong with me. That for some reason I didn't like beer, but that I could at least tolerate it when necessary. To keep up appearances. Or whatever.

Well beyond my 21st birthday, I still drank Bud Light. Or Coors Light. I actually thought that there was a difference between the two, but I can't for the life of me imagine what that difference might have been.

Beer was just something that I didn't like. And forget about anything stronger than beer. I've always been a lightweight, and once I finally realized it, after rolling Eddie's van into the Ohio River, I never drank the strong stuff again.

Except for shots. With Holly. But that's only for special occasions. Like when I'm with Holly.

I miss Holly.

Anyway, when I lived in Omaha, I'd often go for months at a time without a drop of alcohol. Not because I'd become a Jesus freak or anything, just because I never liked the stuff and I didn't see the point of drinking something that I didn't like. Plus I had this crazy idea that it might affect my pool game.

When I moved to Seattle, I ran a pool league for a while. It was called The Bud Light Pool League. So, guess what beer I drank? Bud Fucking Light of course. Gallons of it over the course of a year or two. I still didn't like it, but I drank it out of loyalty or some bullshit like that.

And then, in 1994 or so, everything changed.

I was shooting pool at my regular bar in Kent Washington and this chick came in. A hot chick. I say that now but I really couldn't even begin to describe what she actually looked like. I just know that she must have been hot. She must have been hot because she offered me a weird beer, and I tried it.

I tried it, and I liked it.

Me. The guy that had never had a sip of beer that he liked in his entire life. The guy that only drank because everyone else was doing it. The genetic freak who lacked the ability to enjoy beer at all. That guy had a glass of beer, and actually enjoyed every bit of it.

Then that guy had another.

That beer was Pete's Wicked Ale.

My first non-lager.

Wow.

I'd like to say that it was like being blindfolded for my entire life and then suddenly being given the gift of sight. I'd like to say that, but it wasn't nearly as dramatic.

I'd simply found a beer that I liked. So I drank it. And nothing else.

There was no need for anything else. The way I saw it, I'd disliked 99% of all of the beers I'd ever tried, and I'd finally found something that I enjoyed. So why tempt fate by trying anything else?

There was no reason that I could think of, but eventually fate came up with a reason that I couldn't ignore.

I was in Juneau Alaska, and none of the bars had Pete's.

I asked one of the bartenders at one of those bars for a recommendation, and he poured me a pint of some stuff I'd never heard of.

Alaskan Amber. "Brewed right here in Juneau," the bartender told me. Like I was going to be impressed or something.

I don't think that I really cared too much for Alaskan Amber when I first tried it. I certainly didn't start seeking it out once I moved back to Washington. What I did was I went back to Pete's Wicked Ale until that fateful day when the owner of my favorite bar told me that they'd stopped carrying it forever. Apparently I was the only one drinking it, plus the entire Pete's operation had been sold to some outfit back East.

When you're in Western Washington, just about everywhere is back East.

So, desperate to find something, anything to drink besides Bud Fucking Light, I looked at the taps along the bar. I mean, for the first time I really looked at them.

Red Hook? I'd tried it once and it was swill.

Sierra Nevada? Give me a break. Everything I'd hated about beer for years, condensed and magnified.

Henry Weinhard's Hefeweizen? At least it wasn't a lager, but my friend John already drank that, and I didn't want to simply copy him. Plus the citrus wedge it was always served with seemed a little gay.

And, of course, there were all the obligatory taps for, as Roger calls them, mass-produced industrial swill. I didn't even consider those.

Then I saw a tap that caught my eye.

Alaskan Amber.

(to be continued)

It's not so much that we lie to ourselves - it's that sometimes it works.

How is that even possible?

Mind vs. spirit. Instinct vs. intellect. Brain vs. heart.

No matter what words you use to describe it, we all find ourselves at war with ourselves at some point. Not a physical war, usually. Though sometimes it can escalate and bring disastrous consequences.

More of a war of words.

Our heart wants something it cannot have, and our brain just keeps buying time. Making excuses. Putting it off. Anything but simply telling the truth. Because to just blurt out the truth, to just come right out and say no, you cannot have that so stop asking - that's just too much for the heart to bear.

So we lie.

Kids in the back seat of a car will keep asking, "Are we there yet?" And the parents will lie. "Almost," they'll say. "Just a few more minutes." They'll say it even though they're not even close to where they're going. They'll say it because it will shut the kids up for a little while.

It's the same thing.

It's amazing to me that we can lie to ourselves and get away with it.

It's more amazing to me that we ever feel the need to do it in the first place.

I mean, who the fuck do we think we're fooling anyway?

Our feelings are hurt, so we tell ourselves that it'll be okay? That we'll get over it. Even when we know damn well that it won't be okay, not for a very long time. That we might get over it, but we'll never be the same again.

We lie to ourselves, and sometimes it makes us feel better. This is beyond ludicrous to me. If I told myself that I had a zillion dollars in the bank, I wouldn't be fooled at all. I'd go on no extravagant shopping spree. I'd quit no job. I'd hire no hit-men.

But when I tell myself that - scratch that - when I told myself that there was hope for the two of us, that I just needed to be a little more patient, that bullshit I believed.

What a load of crap it was. But I fell for it each and every time. I believed it each and every time. And the only reason that I don't believe it any more is because of this stupid wall that some asshole put in front of me. This stupid wall that even my heart can't ignore.

So, we can successfully lie to ourselves, but only about the most important things? That's pretty fucked-up.

And there are people who claim we're designed this way?

Intelligent design, my asshole.

Why is it easier to be honest with another person than to tell the truth to ourselves? Why are our emotions and our logic so often at odds with each other?

Why can't we all just get along with ourselves?

A while ago, I mentioned that the board outside the New Albanian brewery listed their ConeSmoker beer, but no date.

I figured that this was done to annoy me.

Back on April 27th Roger, the owner of the place, wrote this in his blog entry about an ale festival to be held that weekend:

As NABC's contribution to the fest, and as befits our commitment to "go high, or go home," Brewmeister Jesse Williams is taking a few gallons each of our Hoptimus (Double IPA), Thunderfoot (Cherried Imperial Stout) and a special preview of the this year's edition of ConeSmoker.

If you've never been to Rich O's you may not know this. Besides the main beer board out front, there's another board in the back. This second board is for the bartenders. It lists which beers are on which taps, and how many kegs of that beer are left in stock. It also lists which beer is scheduled to be up next on a given tap.

I've gotten into the habit of checking this secondary beer board for my information, mainly because I can read it from Rich O's proper without having to go out front where all the idiots are.

Last night, this is what I saw when I looked at that board.

Okay, I guess that's a pretty shitty picture.

What it says, down at the bottom, in a box labeled S7 I think, is ConeSmoker.

I immediately ran out front to make sure that I hadn't missed ConeSmoker being listed out there. Nope, it wasn't there.

So I asked the bartender, "Hey, what's the deal with having ConeSmoker on your board back there? Does that mean it's on and I'm wasting my brain cells on Smithwick's?"

The bartender assured me that it was not on tap.

So my questions for Roger are:

Why is it listed on your employees' board?

Why is it not available if this tap S7 is otherwise open?

Why must you tease me like this?

Relaxing and reminiscing. Thirst quenching. Flinging steel arches at cold metal spikes. Drawing promises of fortune out of a box, and feigning excitement as brutes flee whips that they can never outrun.

Such was my day.

Familiar faces in unfamiliar surroundings, they just don't seem to fit. Or maybe I am the one out of place. Sound crossing still waters, driving its rhythm into my bones. Man's best friends, excited to see me, though they've never done so before. If they only knew.

Such was my evening.

A comfortable chair. A comfortable friend. Silent camaraderie. Life exhales and allows itself to relax.

Such was my night.

Ha ha. Just kidding.

Today was a long day, even though it didn't really start until 3:00.

First, I went to my friend Eric's Derby party. This party, like last year's version, consisted of Eric and his wife, and about 800 people that I don't know - mostly friends of Eric's from high school.

To drink, I had the same thing I had at last year's party. So maybe I'm starting my own tradition here. At any rate, I had five bottles of Blue Moon (270) and it was quite good. I'd like to have had something better, but not in the middle of the day when I know I'll be drinking for several hours.

After some preliminary crap like eating and being introduced to people whose names I immediately forgot, we pitched some horseshoes.

The first game, Eric and I were down 19-10 and I caught fire. We won that game 21-19.

The second game Eric and I just ran away with. I think we won with a score of 21-4 or something equally embarrassing for our opponents.

The third game we had our asses handed to us. We both just sucked.

The fourth game we lost 21-19. Close, but close only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades, and this time it didn't even count in horseshoes.

Once the fourth game was over it was time to watch the race. I'd drawn the name of some horse I never heard of in the $5 pool. I think it's still running.

Then, it was time for me to move on to my next appointment. This one chick was having some people from Rich O's over for a post-Derby party.

While there, I had the last of my Blue Moons (282) and talked with the PBDs. It was definitely strange to see those people outside of Rich O's.

The people across the pond were having The Party To End All Parties. There must have been 50 cars parked all along the street outside that house, and their music must have been audible for miles. I expect arrests to be made at that party before the night is over.

I couldn't stay at that party for long though, because I had yet another appointment.

I'd promised SassyGirl that I'd meet her at Rich O's before she had to go into work.

The place was dead. I sat on the throne and ordered a Smithwick's (746). After a while SassyGirl came in and we bullshitted for a while. We also spent some time making fun of this one pretentious asshole that was sitting at the bar. It was a nice way to wind down a busy day.

Once SassyGirl left for work, I went to White Castle then I came home.

I figure I better go ahead and write this now, or I won't get to it until Sunday morning.

I was going to go to Burger King before I went to the bar, but some asshole had my parking space so I went to Wendy's instead.

After that, I went to Rich O's.

It was one of those calm and quiet nights that I love but the bartenders hate. All of the cool people must have been at some party as LaptopGirl and I used to say.

UplandWheatDude was sitting on the throne talking with some strangers who were sitting at the bar and the kiddie table. There were some PBDs, including GlassesGirl and MusicalHippyDude, sitting at the island. A few more strangers were scattered around, and that was it.

I loved it.

I had myself a Founder's Red Rye (120) and just kind of vegged out for an hour or so. I did try to call SassyGirl but I got her voicemail so I figured she was working.

Once the strangers at the bar and kiddie table left, I talked with UplandWheatDude for a couple of hours, mainly about women and how weird they all are, but we also discussed a couple of the PBDs that have, apparently been hounding him about LaptopGirl just as they used to hound me. So, while I used to think that their obsession was with the concept of LaptopGirl and me as a couple, now I think that it's just LaptopGirl that they're obsessed with.

I know the feeling.

My second beer was a yummy Delirium Tremens (481).

I made sure to tell UplandWheatDude about DaveFest. He's been quite erratic with his Rich O's visitations lately and I might not see him again before June.

Near the end of the night I found myself sitting alone on the throne, but I wasn't ready to leave yet, so I had myself a Guinness (1217). I talked with FutureDude for a while since he was waiting for DooRagGirl to come and pick him up.

I was going to go to White Castle, but I completely forgot to do that, so I just came straight home.

I was just looking at my server logs and noticed the following referrer:

http://www.brewersofindianaguild.com/events.html

DaveFest is listed!

Yay!

That loud popping sound you hear may be my head exploding.

With last night being virtual Friday and all, I of course went out.

When I got to Rich O's I was feeling slightly sociable, so I took my Founder's Red Rye (120) and went and sat in the throne.

This was a mistake, as evidenced by the fact that two chicks I never saw before immediately decided to talk to me.

Luckily, this one dude came and sat on the sofa and talked to the chicks so I wouldn't have to.

Unluckily, the dude wouldn't shut up, and I decided that I couldn't stand it the sound of his voice any longer. So, as soon as some PBDs left the bar I picked up my shit and went and sat there.

After that, not very much happened for a long time. That's the way I like it.

At about the time I ordered my second beer, a yummy Upland Winter Warmer (200), a bunch of foreign people came in. If I had to guess I'd say Ireland, but that's mainly because one of them was wearing a Guinness shirt and another one was a leprechaun.

Oh yeah, at one point some dude came out from the kitchen and started calling me sir and stammering out a greeting. By the time he managed to ask me my name, I'd figured that he might be the elusive ArtistGuy that's supposed to talk to me about DaveFest t-shirts.

But, when I told him my name was Dave, he said, "Sorry, I thought you were someone else."

So apparently the guy a had a blind date lined up for after work. Not my problem.

I ended the evening by drinking a half-pint of Smithwick's (736) while I talked with some dude that looked like Grizzly Adams but clean-shaven.

It's not my fault that you're beautiful.

So beautiful that, when I catch myself looking, I have to tear my gaze away from you no matter how difficult a chore that seems to be.

Someday, I fear, I will delay for too long. And my eyes will become so spoiled by your face that they will from that moment on refuse to see anything else. They will betray me just as my heart once betrayed me. They will go on strike, and they will demand concessions that are not mine to give.

This is why I turn away.

Because I must.

Because, for now anyway, I can.

Great minds think alike, or so they say.

And, every now and then, a mediocre mind manages to think like a great mind.

That last part is just something I added myself. I don't think that they say it.

Whoever they are.

Anyway, I had this brilliant idea for an entry. I had it somewhat outlined in my head, and I had some fairly decent ideas for how I'd flesh out that outline. How I'd run with that idea. How I'd expand that idea, and expound that idea.

It would have been great, if I do say do myself. And I do.

But noooooooooooooooo!

Somebody has already had the same idea, and she's done more in thirteen words than I could have done with a thousand.

So now, once again. I have nothing.

I'm off work tomorrow, so my work week just finished.

I'm so happy that, once again, I could shit.

An added bonus to having the day off is that I won't have to deal with the riots scheduled for Louisville.