I wasn't trying to save my can of beer. I was simply trying to understand the dark world around me. And yet as the flagpole geometry of my body went from perpendicular to parallel, nothing made sense.
The first thing I lost was my baseball cap – its brim hitting the metal tracks of the sliding patio doors moments before my forehead. The second thing I lost were my glasses – most likely ejected from my face from the impact of my forehead on the metal tracks of the aforementioned patio doors.
As I gathered my lost things and headed inside, a small part of me considered that the hand of God had reached down and removed my glasses moments before the bridge of my nose hit the edge of the door frame, sparing me the mortal man's common tandem of broken face and broken glasses. This brief delusion of the Almighty was quickly replaced by the reflection of my bloody face in the bathroom mirror.
It was dark, I was at a friend's house, and I misjudged the location of the patio step. If I were a few inches taller, I would have probably lost some teeth. A few inches shorter and I would have been completely unscathed. But I am, if nothing else, a constant, measurable height – a number that in this set of circumstances equates to a bloody face, disappointment, and a near full can of beer.
Having just recovered from a week of Hand, Foot, and Mouth Disease, I questioned what mistakes I had made to deserve my recent history. While WebMD says that frequent hand washing is key to prevention, it also makes a point to say that Hand, Foot, and Mouth Disease and Mad Cow disease are not the same thing. I find the inclusion of this information more unsettling than reassuring.
It all might be easier to handle if I could say this violence happened because I was hammered drunk. Or that earlier in the day we had dug up Grandmother's time capsule and I was high on found quaaludes. But neither fantasy is true. I simply missed a step.
And so I'll head to Chicago this week to meet new people. I'll have a band-aid on the bridge of my nose and a filed-down-unicorn-horn-sized lump on my forehead. We'll talk baseball and beer and maybe they'll ask about my face and I'll say, “I fell.”
Or maybe “Quaaludes.”
Psychedelic Pilgrim, Half Acre Beer Company/Wiseacre Brewing Collaboration
Copper, orange, brown. Lots of haze, bordering on opaque. An off-white, fine-bubbled memory foam looking head. About a finger of it.
Tropical fruit flavored bubblegum, floral pine. It smells sweet but the aroma has me excited.
I am no longer as excited. The flavors are similar to the nose, but in reverse. There is a sweetness and pine flavor that takes up most of the space. Turns out this is 11% ABV, which I didn't realize until double checking the label. The bubblegum juiciness and tropical flavors are there but with a candy sweetness to it.
Nice medium to thick, silky oat feel. Nothing to complain about but at this point I'm dejected by the fact that I'm not in love with the flavors. I would probably enjoy the feel more if I were digging the taste.
This is the first thing from Half Acre I've had that I've been “meh” on. Still, I'm very excited to get to their tap room while in Chicago. Other than the Fangraphs/BeerGraphs meetup, the Half Acre Tap Room is number one on my list of things to do.
JR Shirt hosts the Drinking With Shirt podcast with his brother T-Bone. Follow on Twitter and Untappd @beeronmyshirt.