Wednesday, June 17, 2009

No. 42


Beer: Spaten Maibock
Date: June 11th, 2009

Place: Jacob Wirth's, Boston, MA


The journeys of life all begin with a nudge.

Maybe a small step (as most say), but as a wagering man I’d say most begin with a little shove, a poke in the side, an all out abandonment of reason and a jump for your life.

Then, clinging on to the side of the opposing cliff, before pulling yourself up and realizing that you are in a new place and all you can do is walk forward, into the unknown, without the benefit of a bridge or a vine to go back, to retreat to that place you knew so well, you just have to man up and go for it.

Such is, I think, the case with Families-In-Law. Those people who at one point were just window dressing in the merchandised window of your love, who have become, for better or worse, sickness or health, a whole ‘nother family. A walking, talking, breathing group of others who you now will see at least once a year from now ‘til eternity forever and ever amen; a nuclear group who will collide with your nuclear group and fission and fusion have made you all one. One, big, one. The synapses fuse more as you holiday together, have babies whom they will coo, ask for confidence as you make big decisions – buying a house, trading a field – as you disagree, as you decide to go here for this event or not for that one, as they have expectations and you rise to some and fail some, as they want you to have a better life than they did (parents) or a worse life than they do (siblings), as you deal with cancers and sitcoms and life.

And while my journey didn’t just begin – although, more recently than most - it was nice to stop in at a pub, have a pint with the Father-in-Law and Brother-in-Law and the Step-Mother-In-Law and let the fission and fusion of yeast and hops and spring water supply the soundtrack to our families’ new life.

Wednesday, June 10, 2009

No. 41


Beer: Negra Modelo
Date: June 8th, 2009

Place: Toth Brand Imaging, Cambridge, MA


It's been ages since I've been at work at a quarter of ten.

Four years ago, I was at work until that late or later five times a week, cranking out work and trying to make a name of myself and make my bosses look good and listening to pirated tracks and playing Foosball and drinking many beers and working out zero percent and expensing meals on the agency and trying to woo a young lady who at this point is all wooed out and sleeps in my bed every night.

Score one for the junior art director.

Mainly underpaid and mostly overworked, I liked being there in the midst of a lot of others who were trying to prove something and who were expensing meals too, which at that point was probably about 10% of our salaries, and forming the backbone of something that we believed in. Sadly enough, too, I saw a number of marriages fail because of too many hours on the clock and too few where it ultimately mattered.

Now I come in, mostly undistracted thanks to no instant chat, and work for the full nine hours I'm here. Having a beer at the office is the last thing I want to do. Especially one of one hundred.


The work life balance of 1 in 41 struck me as about right and the cerveza hit the spot and the lights were turned off and I was in my own world doing my own thing - sipping on a beer, the first solo beer I've had all year - was just what I needed on Monday night.

And sleep was what I needed on Tuesday morning.

Negra from Trimming Society on Vimeo.