Right now I want to write something, but that thing which I want to write, or at least that thing which I think I want to write - it continues to evade me.

I do catch glimpses of it every now and then, though. Fleeting flashes of something that, if I could just get a good look, I know would be worthy of a great entry.

Great being relative, of course. You have to consider the source.

I've learned, or been reminded of, some very important lessons over this past week or so. I've done a lot of soul-searching. I've done more than my fair share of feeling sorry for myself. I've drank a lot of beer.

Whatever it is that I'm doing, it's not working. Whatever it is that I'm trying to accomplish here in this life, on this planet, it eludes me. Whatever it is that I'm looking to get out of all of this, it's just not happening.

I need to learn to deal with these failures, and I'm really trying to do just that. But it's hard to truly allow myself to cope with this disappointment when I'm not even sure what I'm disappointed with. It's like I walk through life wearing shoes that just don't quite fit.

I think that I'm pretty good at putting myself into another person's position. Understanding their motives and their desires. I don't always like what this empathy shows me, but each bit of understanding brings with it a speck of compassion. It cannot be helped. The two go hand-in-hand.

The problem is, the problem is that I've become so focused on trying to decipher and understand the motives and feelings of certain others, I've lost touch with my own inner workings.

I don't know what it is that I want. I just know that what I have is not it.

So I reach out blindly and I reflexively close my fingers around anything and everything I can touch. I pull my hand close to my face and I open my fingers and I look at my prize and I wonder Is this what I've been missing?

Random chance may eventually give me what I want, but it hasn't happened yet.

Maybe I should try something else.

Maybe I should give up.

This is drivel, I know.

There's no point to this entry, and if you've read this far hoping for one, then I apologize.

I guess I'm just in shock.

I understand that much at least.

Well that last entry was clearly crap.

Oh well. Can't be helped now. Google has it in its grasp.

So, in an effort to show some semblance of normality, I present this entry.

I've used that line, or one very similar to it, at least three times now. I like the way it reads. Makes it seem like something important may be coming. Kind of like when a woman says, "Oh, this old thing? I just threw something on." And then she looks totally hot and stuff.

Not. This. Time.

Anyway, yesterday started out okay.

I watched the first twelve hours or so of the 24 first season DVDs. I'd forgotten what an asshole Tony was in the beginning, and what a useless brat Kim was. It's a good show.

Kiefer Sutherland is cool as fuck.

At 4:00 or so I drove to the other side of the Moon, otherwise known as Salem Indiana, to feed my sister's cats. I forget where she went. Some Renaissance Faire I think.

My sister Neisha has a shitload of cats. I can use that word in its slang sense as well as its literal one, the latter because when you get that many cats sharing a single litterbox it's - well, it's a shitload.

She's got one new kitten that might be a bit of an asshole, but it's a kitten so it's cute. It was also one of the only cats that didn't seem to be scared of me. Even E-Coli or whatever his name is seemed skittish about me being there. That cat used to just love me, and would happily shred the skin on my forearms at the slightest provocation.

Oh yeah, and Gleelore was also glad to see me.

After I'd cleaned the litter box, I spent a few fruitless minutes trying to decipher Neisha's feeding instructions. In the end I just kept dumping food into plates and making sure that all of the cats got something to eat. This turned out to be no small feat, because the kitten was, as I said, a bit of an asshole.

After I left Neisha's I drove to my other sister's house. Dina was, for some reason that I cannot quite fathom, hosting a graduation party for the son of a friend. This would be Hell for me, as the only thing I can think of that would be more annoying than a bunch of screaming teenagers would be a bunch of screaming teenagers that I never saw before in my life.

But, Dina has always been the hostess of our little group. Plus, she's got a pool.

But I didn't go to Dina's for the party.

I went to see her new kitten.

It's a tiny thing, only a few weeks old. Its mother abandoned it, and all of its siblings died. I hope this one grows to be big and strong because Dina is obviously quite attached to it already.

Also at the party were a bunch of people, some that I knew, and some that I didn't. I left fairly quickly as I had a date.

---

After my date disintegrated, I was left alone at The Pub in Louisville's Fourth Street Live district. I guess I could have gone home, but a part of me was thinking that the whole episode might have been some kind of sick joke. I half-expected Allen Funt and MixedSignalGirl to walk in and point out the hidden cameras and then everybody would have a good laugh.

Is Allen Funt even alive anymore?

So I stayed. I stayed and I had myself a couple of yummy Newcastles (1980). I would have had another one except the bartender told me that I was better off and that, "That girl isn't that pretty anyway." So I left her a $.01 tip and went next door to The Hard Rock.

At The Hard Rock, I had myself a Guinness (1239) in a souvenir glass, and I watched videos for a while, then I came home.

---

I did try to call her. I got voicemail.

I tried again this morning. I got voicemail.

I won't try again.

Something has happened.

Something most decidedly not good.

I sit here today trying not to think about this choice that I've been given. Not that it's much of a choice. I already know what my decision is. I only had to think about it for maybe two seconds after it was presented to me.

I know what I'll do. I'll do what's right. Not right for me, and not right for her, and not right for us. But what's right nonetheless.

So, I said the words.

I said the words and it wasn't enough. She wanted proof.

I cannot prove that I love her. Not the way she wants.

But I can, I can prove something else.

I can prove that, at my core, I am a good person.

She should have already known that.

She shouldn't need proof.

Got to Rich O's early last night. 7:30 or so. It's one of my quirks that I like to watch hot girls come in, and HatGirl had said that they'd be in on Saturday so I went early to give myself the best chance of getting a seat with a good view. HatGirl and LuckyFucker typically keep early hours at Rich O's.

Ideally, I'd have grabbed the throne, but there was some stranger sitting there, and his date was on the loveseat. I don't know why but they looked like they'd be the annoying type, so I sat at the island instead of joining them.

I ordered a Smithwick's (786) and just kind of vegged out for a while. The place was pretty dead, and I don't think it was because I was early. Some people have these things called lives and so they sometimes go to places besides Rich O's on long holiday weekends.

ElPresidente came in and told me about some PBD campout or some such thing that's in a couple of weeks. I reminded him that DaveFest would probably still be going on so I doubted that I'd be doing any camping.

At 8:30 or so, SpoonsGirl came in with her brother VegasDude. He's in town for the graduation of SpoonsGirl's son. So we sat and talked and I tried a couple of times to make beer recommendations.

My second beer was a yummy Avery The Reverend (120). I went ahead and ordered a 20oz pint of it instead of the usual 10oz glass.

So we sat and talked for a couple of hours about nothing much. Stories of their childhoods, Las Vegas, and crazy women drivers. TallLady came and joined us, and I became concerned that there'd be no place for HatGirl and LuckyFucker to sit if they came in.

This fear was realized when TallLady invited a couple of Daytonians to join us, but by then it was 9:30 and I'd started to suspect that my friends wouldn't be coming after all.

At 9:38 I got a text message from HatGirl that they'd be in "shortly."

At 10:38 I sent HatGirl a text message asking if she'd changed her mind.

At 10:45 HatGirl and LuckyFucker came in.

HatGirl!

Yay!

I'd already told SpoonsGirl and her brother and the Daytonians that I'd be leaving them once HatGirl arrived, and that's what I did. I moved down to the red room table where we talked about TV and similar exciting topics.

My last beer was a Guinness (1217).

A little after 11:00, DooRagGirl came in and sat with us.

DooRagGirl!

Yay!

It turns out that DooRagGirl has never seen the show Lost! and so HatGirl, LuckyFucker, and I spent some time urging her to correct that injustice.

Once the bartenders started giving everyone their bills (their subtle way of saying get the fuck out so I can go home) the place cleared out fairly quickly. I sat for a few extra minutes with DooRagGirl while I finished my Diet Coke, then I went to White Castle then came home.

It was a nice night.

I guess I could be imagining things that aren't really there, but I don't think so.

I speak to you, when I'm able, and I hear the strain in your voice. I look at you, when I dare, and I see it in your eyes.

I see the same thing in myself. That constant struggle to censor yourself, to say and do the right thing, it wears at you, drags you down.

And you feel like you can't discuss it with anyone because it makes you seem weak. Because then you would be exposed as the human being that you are. Flawed, just like everyone else.

I'd like to say that, in the end, this war you wage within yourself will be won. That it will be, in the end, worth the stress that you feel right now.

I'd like to say that but it would be a lie. I don't know how it's going to turn out for you. When searching for ourselves we don't always find what we expected. When battling our inner demons the good guys don't always win.

I don't like the way things seem to be turning, but all I can do is wish you well. I can't really help you with this. I could never be objective enough to give you untainted advice.

So I'll just wait, and I'll cross my fingers, and I'll see what happens.

For some reason I woke up right at the crack of ridiculous this morning. It wasn't because of my fancy alarm clock though. Probably one of my cats doing something loud.

Anyway, I'm up. So I guess I'll write about last night.

On the way to Rich O's I stopped at the haunted Burger King for a quick bite. They have these new flavor packet thingies that you're supposed to shake onto your fries. Maybe I'll try those one of these days. I like spicy things.

Rich O's was fairly crowded, but SassyGirl and TacoBell had arrived early and they'd managed to secure the island. I sat with them and ordered a Cone Smoker (1846).

SassyGirl and I talked about DaveFest and t-shirts and just generally got caught up because we hadn't seen each other in a million years or so.

CoffeeDude joined us for a bit. He also expressed an interest in a DaveFest shirt.

Everybody seemed to be in a shitty mood. Except me. I was fine.

So we were sitting there talking about nothing much and LuckyFucker came in an sat in the living room area. I gave him a quick wave and wondered where HatGirl was.

About a thousand years later, HatGirl came in.

Yay!

She also sat in the living room area.

Boo!

So I gave her a wave as well and tried to remember if I done anything to piss those two off.

My second beer was a Smithwick's (766).

After what seemed like another thousand years, HatGirl came up and talked to us.

Yay!

Then SassyGirl and TacoBell left and I had a few blessed moments alone with HatGirl. We talked about DaveFest. Then LuckyFucker came over and joined us.

Everybody seemed to be in a shitty mood, like I already said.

My mood was fine, though it was getting worse because of all the grumps.

So HatGirl and LuckyFucker left after just a few minutes with me. I checked my deodorant. It was working fine.

I was alone at the island for a minute or so, until WomanRepellant moved over to join me. He, at least, seemed to be in a good mood.

My third beer was a Gulden Draak (160).

I suppose that's about it, except that this one chick came in that looked like a porn librarian. I drooled at her from afar for a while. WomanRepellant moved over to the throne to get a better look, and I came home.

I just remembered.

I'm supposed to be freaking out.

I guess I should get started.

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!

Went and got my haircut today, and HaircutLady told me about how she'd taken six puppies into the vet this morning to get wormed and to have their first vaccinations.

She loaded them back into the carrier and brought them home.

By the time she got home all six puppies were dead.

This is hopefully the saddest thing I hear about today.

She had her son stick one of the puppies in her freezer so the cause of death can be determined. I suggested that she might want to consider a different vet to perform the autopsy.

Poor puppies!

I see that, as of this writing, I'm number 6 (out of 2,220,000) in the google results for the search term drunken rambling.

On the left, my lovely self, trying to make SassyGirl regret taking my picture.

On the right, the DaveFest t-shirt design.

Uncanny, isn't it?

I could have done without the jowls, but I've got my likeness on a t-shirt, and that's more than I ever thought would happen to little old me.

If you don't know what all this is about, you can go here and read Roger's explanation.

I'm going to be all famous and shit.

T-shirts will be available over the Internet to any of my readers that have nothing else to wear. When I find out pricing I'll post it. I'll pay for shipping on Internet orders.

If you have GIF animations disabled, then this won't make much sense.

I had too much invested.

I could afford to lose one, and I could afford to lose the other.

Both to lose both was just too much.

Fuck, I miss her.

Roll your eyes all you want.

It won't change a thing.

They keep saying on the radio how they're hopeful that Barbaro can have a career as a stallion.

Having held that job for a while, I can say that it's not all it's advertised to be. And I can't imagine that mares are much less demanding than human women.

Also, wouldn't the offspring of a horse that shatters its leg in three places, simply because it was running, be worth about the same as, I dunno, something else that's obviously useless?

I'm just saying.

There are maybe three people on Earth that can hurt my feelings.

I'm one, and neither of the others are you.

So you can keep playing your little game if you want, but only if you really enjoy making an ass out of yourself.

Just trying to keep this old engine running for a little while longer, that's all.

If it sputters and stalls, I'm afraid that I'll never get it started again.

I hate that commercial.

You know, the one where that chick asks about windows that her uncle bought five years ago for $189. She wants to know how much they are now, and she's told that they're still $189.

She splashes her panties she's so excited.

What a fucking stupid bitch.

What she doesn't seem to realize is that (a) her uncle got ripped off, and (b) she's about to get ripped off.

If the fucking things were so overpriced five years ago that they're still the same price, then why does she find it reasonable to assume that said price is now all of a sudden a good one?

It's like they told her, "Sure we robbed people for years, but you're just in time for this new honest-price thing we're trying. It's your lucky day!"

I hate her. I hope she buys a zillion of the damn windows and then has no money left for crack and has to suck the assholes of homeless people just to get something to eat and she has to blow old men on holiday from the old folk's home for spare change so she can buy more crack every six months or so.

I need times like this.

Because the cold hard fact is that, no matter how much I protest, I am getting better.

These days, these days I have to force myself to be sad. I have to invent elaborate lies. Lies which I then allow myself to believe because I know that when those lies evaporate my mood will plummet.

I do this because I need proof. Proof that it was all real. Proof that it's still real because I know that as soon as I stop believing in it - it will cease to exist.

Fuck that, I say.

Because as soon as this stops being real, that's when I'll know that I've truly wasted so much of my time, so much of myself, for nothing.

It was not nothing.

It is not nothing.

Read my words. Look into my eyes.

All the proof you need is there.

This entry brought to you by Rogue Chocolate Stout:

So I'm clearly losing my grip on reality here.

Not that it was ever that tight to begin with, but I can feel it slipping away from me a lot more lately.

Eventually it will slip away completely, fall to the ground and shatter at my feet. Probably cut me and give me tetanus in the process.

I have such a convenient memory. Such a nice fancy pair of rose-colored glasses. Such a fucking idiotic way of seeing only what I want to see and completely ignoring anything that doesn't fit into these delusions that I use instead of hope.

I should be dead, you know. For a while I thought that the fact that I'm still alive might be a sign that I'm actually getting better. That maybe this long dark Winter was coming to an end.

Hell, I've even managed to convince myself, for short periods of time, that it was all nothing more than overblown hysteria.

But then I look at this picture that I've found. To be fair, the resemblance is fucking uncanny. Her own mother would look at this picture and smile because her daughter looks so pretty in it.

Problem is, it's not her daughter.

It's nobody at all. Just a pretty girl. Just a pretty brunette with glasses who would completely freak out if she knew that, right now, I'm looking at her picture and my eyes are filled with tears.

It's not her I'm looking at. It's not her I see. I'm looking at a fake. An imposter who from that angle, under that lighting, with her expression just that way, coincidentally happens to look like someone else.

But do I care that she's a fraud? Fuck no. My mind won't accept the truth enough for me to care.

That picture is the best link I have to a past that never really existed. To a future that will never happen. I guess it's fitting that it's a fake.

Besides, Beggars can't be choosers, right?

So I'm a little late with this entry. Been doing laundry all day long.

And, I'm sorry to say, this entry is not really worth the wait.

It was a pretty dull night.

I arrived late, a little after 9:00. The first thing I noticed was that the loser area was packed. The second thing I noticed was that it was EwokGirl and her entire posse. So I said a quick "Hey" to her and then moved on.

In Rich O's proper, the entire living room area was full of strangers, and WomanRepellant was sitting at the bar.

That was it.

So I ordered myself a Cone Smoker (1806) and sat at the bar myself. WomanRepellant was eating, so not very good company, so I moved over to the island. The bonus to this move was that I was able to see if the girl I'd seen sitting on the loveseat was as hot as that first glance had hinted.

Ehhhh.

After WomanRepellant finished eating he moved over to the island with me. Then, after a while, CoffeeDude came in and joined us.

And that was it.

I don't think anyone came or left Rich O's proper for the rest of the night except EwokGirl, who came in to say goodbye to me, and this one flaming guy with two hot girls in tow. They came in and laughed at something in the red room then walked back out.

Let's see, my second beer was an Avery The Reverend (90) which I've promoted to yummy status.

At about 10:30 or so I started text-messaging people I was so bored. Nobody replied. That's kind of sad.

My third, and final beer was a Rogue Hazelnut Brown Nectar (75), but I only drank half the glass.

And that was it.

It's been a pretty fantastic weekend here, weather-wise.

I realized this fact yesterday, after RockGirl's incoming email woke me up at the crack of noon, and I made the momentous (for me anyway) decision to (a) get off my ass, (b) leave my house, and (c) maybe even go someplace.

But where?

Why, Madison, Indiana of course.

But why?

Because they were having some festival or such and the NABC had a booth and they had Cone Smoker with them. And, you know, if there's anything better than drinking a Cone Smoker, it would have to be drinking a Cone Smoker in Madison.

Right?

So, basically, it gave me something to do. It also gave me a reason to take my new digital camera.

I've never been to Madison. It's about an hour up river from New Albany. I took the "scenic route" which so-named, as far as I can figure, because it's curvier than the other route.

After I'd driven for 45 minutes or so, my phone started vibrating. It was Awesome Larry, an old pool-playing friend from Omaha. So I pulled off into this ice cream place and talked with Larry for 15 minutes or so.

I know, this is boring.

When I was almost to Madison, I passed the entrance to Clifty Falls State Park. Hey! I didn't know that was by Madison! I'd gone there once as a kid with Boy Scouts or something and I remembered that it had been pretty cool, so I postponed going to the festival thingy, turned around, and went into the park.

I paid $5 to get in. I think I want my $5 back.

When I was a kid we'd been able to climb these stairs all the way down into the canyon. Then we'd been able to actually walk behind the falls. It was awesome.

Remember that scene from "The Last of the Mohicans" where they're all behind that waterfall while the bad guys are chasing them? It used to be kinda like that, except without as much water, and without people in funny wigs shooting at you.

But that was then. It was very cool.

Now, it's pretty much the exact opposite of cool.

Now, you can't do shit.

The stairs leading down to the base of the falls are gone. As near as I can tell the only ways to actually see the falls are to either jump and get a good look before you splatter onto the rocks, or hike approximately 8,764 miles up though the creek.

No thanks.

* drumroll *

And now, without further delay, ladies and gentlemen, I present to you, Clifty Falls!

What's that? You can't see shit?

Okay, I'll move over to the left and zoom in a little.

And that's all you can see. The falls are like 60 feet tall but you can only see the first few feet, and even that I don't think is the real falls.

It's not even impressive enough to make you want to pee.

So I didn't pee. I just left.

On the way back out of the park I stopped at this one overlook place and took a couple of pictures to test out the 12x optical zoom on my camera. Here's the normal shot:

And here's the zoomed shot:

Pretty cool. If there was a naked chick over there by that thingy, I'd totally be able to see her boobies!

But there were no boobies to be seen, so I left the park and continued my original journey into Madison.

This was the street down by the river where this festival was supposed to be going on. There were about 50 people there. I stopped by the beer tent and had a Cone Smoker (1796) in a plastic cup and talked to Roger.

Then I drove back home.

All in all, I'd say that the day was more interesting than doing laundry would have been, but not by much.

I have the weirdest alarm clock ever.

Normal alarm clocks don't always work with me. I still manage to sleep through them far too often.

For a while I was able to use the alarm function in my cellphone. So great was my fear that I'd miss a call from you know who, any noise whatsoever coming from that phone would find me springing out of bed. So I set the alarm noise to the same ring as the incoming call noise.

But after a zillion years of disappointment, I started sleeping through that noise as well.

Lately, and when I say lately I mean for the last several weeks and maybe even months, I've come to rely on a novel new way to know when it's time to get up. At least on the weekends. On weekdays I seem to be on my own.

What happens on the weekends is that, 700 miles away from me, a girl writes me an email. She writes me an email, and I wake up.

Doesn't seem like it would be possible, does it? I mean, even if she was really pounding the shit out of those keys I shouldn't be able to detect it from more than maybe 30 yards or so. Certainly not 700 miles.

I don't know how it works. I just know that it does. When my friend RockGirl sends me an email, I'm up within 5 minutes of when she hits the send button. Sometimes it's 5 minutes before, so that gives me time to get myself a drink and take a piss and shake some of the cobwebs out of my head. Sometimes it's 5 minutes after and so I postpone those usual morning activities until after I've read the message.

It's a nice way to wake up, that's for sure.

...and I have proof.

After I got home from Madison this afternoon, after I finished my dinner, I went downstairs to shoot some pool.

And I tripped over this:

Luckily, I seem to have killed it by tripping over it. Otherwise I'd have had to move out of my house.

I dropped the pool ball on it just in case.

Yep, it's dead.

Now I have to find my shovel so I can dispose of the thing.

After the hangover I had last Sunday morning I knew that I'd have to do things differently. Unfortunately, this meant that I wouldn't be able to do what I really wanted to do, which was drink at least two Cone Smokers. This is something I've suspected before - there's something about the smoked ales that can give me a hangover even when I don't drink enough to feel anything the night before.

I got to Rich O's early, a little bit before 8:00. I was feeling sociable and I wanted to try and grab a seat in the living room area. I guess the place was fairly busy, but it was mostly people I knew. I sat on the sofa and talked to PhotoDude and MusicalHippyDude and GlassesGirl. There was one of the PBDs that I don't really know there as well.

My first beer was, of course, a Cone Smoker, but I only had a half-glass (1780).

We mostly talked about DaveFest and how surreal it's going to be for me to see people wearing t-shirts with my picture on them. Surreal, but cool. I emailed the picture to the artist yesterday. He says he's finishing up the design. I can't wait to see!

GlassesGirl told me that she'd seen Dina's friend SpoonsGirl out front, but I hadn't seen her when I'd came in, and I'd failed to spot her during a piss break, so I figured she'd left.

But she hadn't. She came wandering back into Rich O's proper and spotted me. We ended up talking for the rest of the night about various fluff.

My second beer was a Rogue Hazelnut Brown Nectar (70) which I hadn't had in a long time. It was much better than I remembered, so that was nice.

People came and people left. Specifically, CoffeeDude came and PhotoDude and the PBD I don't know left. I told CoffeeDude about how I'd gotten a hate-comment from one of those chicks that had been there the last time I saw him.

My third beer was an Avery The Reverend (80), which just keeps getting better and better each time I drink it. I may have to promote this beer from good to yummy.

SpoonsGirl gave me shit for her nickname. I explained that I'd had to pick something, and that night had pretty much been the defining moment of the ten or so years that we've known each other. We explained the nickname to the people sitting around us, so now everybody can call her SpoonsGirl. That's funny to me.

My fourth, and final, beer was a Smithwick's (746).

Once SpoonsGirl left I hung around for a while talking to my friends. GlassesGirl told me that she'd had some Rogue Chocolate Stout the night before! At Rich O's!

I wondered if that meant that the DaveFest kegs had arrived. If so, I wanted to see if I could spend a few moments alone with the Rogue Chocolate Stout keg. The bad news was that it had not arrived yet. The good news, the good news was that they had it in bottles.

Yay!

So I bought myself six bottles of incredibly yummy Rogue Chocolate Stout, and now I can't wait until the next time I feel like drinking at home.

Yay!

Once in possession of my six new best friends I went to White Castle and came home.

Woke up very dehydrated at 4:00 and I've been up ever since drinking water.

I went to Rich O's after work today for a Cone Smoker (1770), and PhotoDude told me about this:

That's the blackboard over at the Sportstime side of things. Nothing written on the Rich O's side yet, but maybe they've decided to go with neon, or maybe a blimp.

Dancing girls would be cool too.

---

I found a picture today that makes me sad. This is good timing because the picture that I used to use for that purpose only makes me happy now.

I'm weird, I know.

On nights like this when the sea is calm and the breeze is cool and the sand is still warm under my feet, I can understand why I came back here.

I walk along the shore and I see what gifts the tide has brought for me. I keep my head down though, or straight ahead. I dare not look to my left, where the jungle's illusions of safety and refuge beckon. I must not look to my right, where the sea still shines with the last vestiges of sunset, and where the reflections of the night's first stars blink at me from each ripple in the water. Speaking to me in code that only I can understand. Calling to me.

Pieces of driftwood deposited at my feet in swirling foam. Some I ignore, and some I hurl back into the water, and some into the trees. Others, others I carry with me to make sure that the next receding tide doesn't reclaim them.

These are my most cherished possessions.

For I know that, on those days when the sea rages against me and sweeps my feet out from under me and pulls me away from my beach, I know that these treasures I've collected will keep me afloat until I can make my way back to shore.

For I know that, on those days when the beasts of the jungle emerge slobbering to attack and devour me, I know that these treasures I've collected can be wielded against them and can fend them off until they tire and move off to seek easier prey.

It's not such a bad life that I find myself living. I walk this beautiful beach and, though I am alone, I am safe.

I can understand why I came back here.

It's paradise, after all.

I see you, you know.

Skulking around. Hiding in the shadows, in the dark places that you helped to create, you crouch and you imagine yourself to be invisible. But, the problem is, you generate your own light. You are a beacon of color in this gray place, and so I cannot help but see you shine.

What do you want? Why are you here?

Are you waiting for something? Are you staying so close because you hope to watch me descend into madness once again, or because you dread it? Do you wish happiness for me, or do you only seek validation for your own ego's sake?

What happens is up to you. It's always been up to you. I'm sure that you don't want that kind of responsibility. I'm fucking positive that I wish you didn't have it, that I was in charge here.

But I'm not, and I never have been, and it's entirely possible that I never will be again.

See, you have something of mine. Something important. I wish you'd either give it back, or at least admit that you have it.

Is that why you're here? Do you have something for me?

I see you, you know.

I wonder. The next time I say the words, I wonder if I'll do so as a whisper or as a shout. Or as a scream.

So many times, I've bitten my tongue and walked the other way. So often, I've rambled on and on about anything and everything to distract myself until that moment, that moment when the words needed to be said, had passed. So many countless fucking times, I've picked up the telephone only to slam it back down to its resting place.

And I write. I beat around the bush. Time after time I bring myself right up to the edge beyond which the words must be written, but I stop myself. Each and every time, I hover my toe over that line in the sand only to pull it back and then pat myself on the back for my great show of resolve.

The words don't give up though. They fester inside me and they wait. For that inevitable moment of weakness. For that sought-after period of clarity. For that first opportunity, that first instant when I've forgotten that they're even there at all.

That's when they'll make their move. That's when they'll escape.

And then I fear that they'll be gone from me forever.

Don't get me wrong. I want to say the words, but I don't want to waste them.

I want to say the words.

I just want someone to be listening when I do.

Go here! Read this!

Okay, so a few more choices have fallen off the list, but Roger has made up for those losses, and also inspired me nearly to giggles, by adding Newcastle to the list.

Yay!

Today, after work, the Sun was shining.

But that's not all!

When I got into my truck, it was very warm inside.

Almost hot actually!

That was the first time I've been warm in a couple of weeks.

It felt so good that, for a moment or two, I thought about peeling down and molesting myself right there in the truck.

But then I remembered where I was.

There's probably a corporate policy against that sort of thing.

I guess I'm just writing for the fuck of it now.

I overdid my after-work nap, and now it's almost 2:00 AM and I'm probably up for the rest of the night.

Gotta do something, may as well write.

For those of you reading this at barenada.com, you may or may not know that I duplicate my 'blog over at barenada.journalspace.com. Well, that site has been down since Friday morning. Some kind of hard drive crash is what they claim, but I don't buy it. What I think happened is that this chick's new profile picture melted the hard drive.

It's that hot.

Anyway, today after work I stopped by Rich O's and had a small Cone Smoker (1670) and a small Smithwick's (736) while I talked with Roger about DaveFest. It's looking like all of the beers I selected will be available except for the Avery Old Jubilation, so that's cool. I was expecting six taps but it's looking like there'll be eleven.

The t-shirts are still a go I guess. I met the artist the other day and I'm expecting him to contact me again about designs and colors. Or maybe not. Maybe he'll just wing it. He's the artist after all. We're going to order a couple of dozen shirts, and I suppose we can order more if we need to. I really have no idea what kind of interest there'll be.

I'll be at Rich O's both nights of DaveFest's opening weekend, June 2nd and 3rd. This will get me into trouble with my family. Maybe when their favorite hangout decides to honor them with their own festival they'll understand.

Last night seemed a lot longer than it actually was, I suppose. I only arrived at Rich O's an hour early - at 7:00 instead of 8:00.

I went early because HatGirl was going to make an appearance and I wanted to grab some seats in the living room before any strangers could do it. Ideally I wanted to grab the throne, but some old man was already sitting in it. Another stranger was sitting on the loveseat, and WomanRepellant was sitting on the sofa.

I staked out my claim for a sofa seat, ordered a Cone Smoker (1640) and then went out to the special section and talked with Roger and some of the PBDs for a bit. They'd had this brewerania thingy, which I'd missed because of the wedding. By the time I got there a homebrewing contest was going on as the first part of a PBD meeting. Everybody kept asking me to try the beers in the contest but I stood firm. I'd promised myself that I'd be having two 7.5% Cone Smokers, and I wasn't going to let some sneaky homebrew with a zillion percent ABV derail that train.

Roger and I discussed t-shirts for DaveFest. I guess we're going to go ahead and order a couple of dozen. I told him that if he had any left over I'd buy them off of him. I'm hopeful that at least a few of my readers will want one, and perhaps The Smithsonian would like one as well.

Roger also introduced me to the artist who'll be doing the t-shirt design. I'm looking forward to seeing how they come out.

So WomanRepellant and I spent some talking with the old man and the guy who turned out to be his son for a while. The old man looked really familiar to me, and I had a suspicion about who he might be, but it wasn't until WomanRepellant called him by his first name that I knew for sure.

The guy had been my vice-principal when I was in high school.

Small fucking world.

He claimed to remember me, but as I was a pretty good kid I seriously doubt that he remembered me. Plus, he probably met like a gazillion kids in his life, so I bet everyone on Earth under the age of fifty looks familiar to him.

When VicePrincipal and his son left I moved over to the throne. My second beer was a Weihenstephaner Hefeweissbier Dunkel (80). Had to drink something lighter before that second Cone Smoker.

At one point I went to piss and when I came back, both HatGirl and DooRagGirl were sitting in the loveseat.

HatGirl! Yay!

So the next couple of hours were quite nice. HatGirl and I and DooRagGirl and WomanRepellant bullshitted about nothing much in particular. HatGirl and I traded some text messages back and forth. I had my second Cone Smoker (1660).

Oh yeah, when HatGirl had first come in I'd asked the bartender to bring her a small sample of Cone Smoker. She didn't like it, but she at least tried.

I'd planned to try to squeeze in another Weihenstephaner, but by the time I'd finished the Cone Smoker I could tell that I needed to cut myself off. So that's what I did, except for the Guinness (1207) that HatGirl didn't finish.

Once HatGirl left MusicalHippyDude and GlassesGirl and some other chick (ha ha) moved from the bar and joined us.

It was a fun night. No idiots pissed me off, and no strangers got in my way. I got to see HatGirl and DooRagGirl on the same night.

It was fun.

This morning I had an incredible hangover, but it was worth it.

Yesterday my sister Dina finally married Kenny.

It was originally going to be a nice quiet affair in Dina's back yard, but because of the rain, it ended up being more like a Keystone Kops skit, with 8,000,000 or so people all crammed into Dina's living room.

I filmed the thing, as best as I could, with Dina's camcorder, then I took a few pictures with my cellphone. One of the latter is this one:

I left the rest of the picture taking to the other 7,999,999 people.

Also, because of the weather, the happy couple decided to postpone the reception and leave for their honeymoon early.

Guess when they're doing the reception now?

June 3rd.

Right at the beginning of DaveFest.

It'll probably come down to a coin flip for me. DaveFest is a huge honor, and not one I intent to take lightly.

I don't know what was going on at Rich O's last night. But I didn't like it very much. And I'm glad I didn't have to stay.

I arrived at about 9:00. I parked in Northern Alberta and hiked in. The new front area For Special People Only was crammed with Special People. The loser area was crammed with losers, the regular front area was crammed with strangers. Rich O's proper was crammed with strangers and, I immediately suspected, woohoos.

I spent about 10 minutes wondering if (a) a bartender would ever notice me, and (b) if I'd have time for a beer before it was time to leave, and (c) where the fuck all these people had come from.

I ended up leaving and going over to this Main Menu place early.

The Main Menu is an oddity to me. I don't know why. I guess partly because it's so close to Rich O's and Jack's but nobody from Rich O's ever goes there, unless we know people in a band that's playing there. Like last night, MusicalHippyDude's band OTTO was playing at 10:00.

The band was getting set up, and I talked with MusicalHippyDude briefly. GlassesGirl was there too, but the other people at the groupie table I didn't know.

So I sat at the bar next to an improbably hot girl and I ordered a Newcastle (1900). There was something wrong with it - like it had been in the keg for 10 years or something. I did manage to finish it though.

I also had the very cute bartender take a glass out of the freezer for me so that my next beer wouldn't have to suffer being poured into a chilled glass.

Speaking of next beers, my next three were all Blue Moons (258). I like Blue Moon. I especially like it when I remember to ask the bartender to leave the fruit out of it, as I did for the second and third glasses. For the first glass I forgot, but I fished the offending citrus wedge out before it completely ruined the taste.

I spent some time talking to ImprobablyHotGirl and her friend while the band continued to get ready. A few more Rich O's people came straggling in, and they kept bugging me to go join them at the groupie table.

See previous entry.

Once the band started I moved over to a table with PhotoDude and bobbed my head to the beat and stuff.

The band is good. They play all original stuff though, and this means that there weren't any people dancing.

I have the same problem with all live bands, and OTTO is no exception. The music is too damned loud, and it completely drowns out the singing. I'm sure that the lyrics were great and all that, but you just can't hear them. I'd like to see every band in the world cut the instrument volume in half and leave the vocal volume as is. But, last time I checked, I was not in charge of every band in the world, so I'm not exactly holding my breath waiting for this to happen.

When the band got down to just a couple of songs left, I drove the short distance back to Rich O's.

The vast majority of the strangers and the losers and the Special People had all left.

Yay!

I sat on the sofa (the throne was occupado) and ordered a half-glass of Weihenstephaner Hefeweissbier Dunkel (75), on tap for the first time in over a year I think.

I'd just gotten settled in, and DooRagGirl came in.

Yay!

I gave her some shit for being such a stranger lately and then we just talked about various crap with the three strangers sitting in the living room area with us. Once the strangers left I moved to the throne.

At one point, DooRagGirl asked me how I was doing and I said that I was "about the same." So she said something like, "Oh, pretty bad then."

This was a bit of a shock to me because I realized that I'm not "pretty bad" anymore. Since this wall went up I'm actually doing pretty well. Better than I should be doing certainly.

Once DooRagGirl left I drove back down to The Main Menu, but ImprobablyHotGirl wasn't there anymore, so I came home.

For a while, after she got her hair cut, her hand would still move to her shoulder, and her fingers would twirl hair that wasn't there anymore. She did it all the time, and then she'd laugh at herself because she forgot.

I remember how she looked in my bathrobe. How it would never stay closed. I remember hiding the belt so it would never close again, and how she laughed when I told her what I'd done.

She'd take her finger and trace soft circles on my arm, or on my hand, or on my chest. It wasn't enough for her to touch me - she always had to give it that little bit extra.

In my peripheral vision, I'd see her looking at me, and when I'd turn my head and catch her doing it, she'd always blush.

I remember how she'd fall asleep in the car, no matter how short the drive was.

She would grab my hand, and hold it tightly when we had to walk by strangers on the way back to our cars.

I remember the little dance she did once when a song she liked came on the radio.

One morning I woke up to her whispering my name. My cat had finally allowed her to pick him up, and she was standing by the bed holding him. She was so excited.

When she was struggling, trying to think of the perfect words to say, her face would get all contorted, and I'd mimic her expression until she caught me.

She was so very nervous, that first time, and when we were done the sweat glistened on her skin like a million tiny stars.

I remember all of these little things, and so many more. I think that I will remember them forever.

It's such a cruel world that let's me love every single thing about a person, but that won't let my heart take that extra step.

Such a cruel fucking world.

(continued)

The problem was, I still knew nothing about beer. I'd managed, over the course of more than three decades, to find a whopping three beers that I liked. Hmmmm, they were all brown. Perhaps that was the secret.

I looked at the people around me, at what they were drinking.

Black, oily-looking beer. Fizzy pale beer in foofoo glasses. Piss-colored yellow lagers.

And one guy, one guy was drinking a brownish beer. Copper-colored actually. A lot like my beloved Alaskan Amber.

"Excuse me," I said to the guy. "But what is that beer you're drinking?"

"It's called Cone Smoker," the guy replied. "They make it here. It's pretty good."

I thought it was a stupid name for a beer, but I asked the bartender - I think it was FutureDude - for a glass of this Cone Smoker stuff. He gave me a dubious look. I was, after all, That Guy That Only Likes Newcastle. I don't blame him for doubting me.

"Have you ever had a smoked beer before?" he asked.

"What's a smoked beer?" I answered with a question of my own.

"You should just try a small sample first." He handed me an overgrown shot glass with about an inch of beer in it.

I picked up the glass, and held it up to my nose, and I smelled the beer. That's the way I'd seen the PBDs do it. Then I tasted it.

It was yummy. Yummy and completely different than anything I'd ever had before.

Back in part one of this entry I wrote that my discovery of Pete's Wicked Ale hadn't been very dramatic. I wrote that I'd liked to have compared it to having a blindfold finally removed.

Well, I couldn't say it when I discovered Pete's, but sure as fuck could say it when I discovered Cone Smoker.

And it wasn't because the Cone Smoker was that great. It was great, but that wasn't the point. That wasn't the light that I'd finally seen. Nope, what made my discovery of Cone Smoker so important to me was that I'd never known that a beer could taste so different and still taste good.

That got me to theorizing that maybe, just maybe there were other beers out there, each different in its own way, but each also good in its own way.

I went, quite suddenly, from being a guy stuck in a world of piss and swill, a guy who had occasionally lucked into finding something drinkable, to a guy in a world of different beers with different tastes and smells. A world of good, maybe even great beers.

The piss and the swill hadn't been the world. It had only been a very small part of it.

A part that I was quite happy to leave forever.

It wasn't beer that I didn't like. It was lagers.

Now when I made that realization, that was a dramatic moment. From that moment on, I didn't see Rich O's beer menu as a haystack of swill in which I'd be lucky to find a tasty needle. From that moment on I saw that menu as a list of possibilities. A constant reminder of just how many beers were available to try. I knew that there'd still be some that I wouldn't care for. But that was okay, because there'd always be something else to try. And there'd be some that I would like, and there'd even be some that I'd love.

Since then I've probably tried 300 different beers. I've sought out brewpubs and beer bars in Las Vegas. I've flown to Portland Maine because there was a bar I wanted to check out. I've found that, besides lagers, I don't care for IPAs either. Or anything too hoppy. I've discovered the wonderful beers of Belgium, and the dark and mysterious imperial stouts. Hefeweizens and Winter brews. My God, the Winter brews.

I've turned into a beer connoisseur. A beer snob. A beer nut.

And it all started, really started I mean, with that small sample of New Albanian Cone Smoker, way back when.

Anyway, the reason I started writing this entry is because Cone Smoker (1580) is finally back on tap at Rich O's. It came back on Monday. I had a glass after work, and I bought myself a growler, and I'm having a glass right now.

It's yummy.

When I was in sixth grade we went on a school trip to Chicago. All of the six graders in Floyd County went.

I don't remember much about Chicago except the museums and the Sears Tower, but I remember the bus trip back to New Albany.

There was a girl sitting in the seat across the aisle from me. She went to a different school, and she was a fox.

That's a word we used to say when we meant pretty back in the olden days.

Anyway, I had this pair of el-cheapo binoculars that I'd gotten at the Sears Tower souvenir shop, and I kept using them to look at the foxy girl sitting all of five feet away from me.

She didn't talk to me, and I didn't talk to her. We were like twelve, and we were shy. But her friend liaised between us and we learned that we each thought that the other was cute.

After a bit, FoxyGirl told her friend to tell me that she wanted to go steady with me.

I was still twelve, so I just played it cool and said some lame crap like, "Whatever."

After about an hour, during which absolutely nothing happened, FoxyGirl's friend told me that FoxyGirl had changed her mind, and that she wanted to break up with me.

Still twelve, still playing it cool, I said something brilliant like, "Whatever" once again.

But inside, inside I was devastated.

I just couldn't believe that I'd been so brutally dumped. And I hadn't even got to hold her hand. That being the most erotic scenario that my twelve-year-old mind could conjure up at the time.

This was, I was certain, the low point of my entire life. Nothing would ever affect me this much again.

I remember looking at all of my classmates on the bus with me, and thinking how I was so much more grown-up than they were because I'd had my heart broken so badly. I felt so sorry for all those children. They'd never known love the way I had, and they probably never would.

The following year, FoxyGirl and I ended up at the same Junior High. She was as foxy as I remembered, maybe even more so because of the tiny yet shapely breasts that had sprouted on her chest.

We didn't have any of the same classes, and our lockers were nowhere near each other's. So I hardly ever talked to her. I winced every time I saw her, but I didn't let that stop me from trying to see her at every opportunity.

I was the jilted lover, and I pretty much behaved as such.

Problem was, I was pretty sure that she barely remembered me at all. Other problem was, I was almost certain that she didn't know how I felt about her.

That second problem I could do something about. That second problem I did do something about.

I wrote her a love note. I wrote her a love note and I shoved it through the slot in the door of her locker.

And then I waited. For a conversation. For a love note of my own. For any reaction whatsoever.

I got nothing.

After about a week, I simply gave up. This girl had torn my heart out and shredded it to bits and dumped the bits on the ground and set fire to the bits, and she didn't care at all.

So, like I said, I gave up.

I stopped watching her. I stopped talking to her. I stopped hanging around where her locker was. I stopped telling my friends about how we'd hooked up on the bus ride from Chicago.

I stopped everything.

I remember being so proud of myself. For having gotten over her so completely. For picking up the pieces of my life. For moving on.

We shared a study hall in 10th grade. She was a cheerleader. One of the rah-rahs at my school. She was just incredibly beautiful. I still never talked to her.

As Seniors, we had the same English class. Damn she was good-looking. As pretty as any movie star. I still never talked to her.

In fact, I never talked to her again until my 20th High School reunion. I'd been talking with some dude that I didn't recognize, and he turned out to be FoxyGirl's husband. She joined us and we chatted briefly. I told her and her husband how FoxyGirl had been my first love, before I had any idea what love was. They both smiled at that. She said it was a sweet thing to say.

She said she remembered me, and I walked away smiling.

I forgot about this until just now.

My friend MusicalHippieDude's band is going to be featured on our local Fox in the Morning TV show later this Summer.

That's pretty damn cool.

They'll also be playing at a bar close to Rich O's this weekend, so I'm sure I'll be there nodding my head to the beat like the lameass that I am.

I often wonder what people are looking for when they read what I've written.

Sometimes it's because I genuinely care about my readers, and want to make them happy, but usually it's just basic curiosity that I feel.

I seriously doubt that people come here because they want to know what beer I just drank, or what I watched on TV, or how hot that one chick at Cumberland was a couple of weekends ago.

The only things that I've ever written that were worth the electricity used to bang them out have been those entries about you know who and the surrounding drama.

Maybe that's what people are looking for. Tales of loss and longing and lust and love and liability, as those bottles still stored inside me are labeled.

Maybe that's why people are leaving. Because those bottles, no matter how tightly sealed, those bottles still allowed pressure to escape.

And now there's no pressure left to write anything at all.

So I write crap like this entry right here, just to pass the time while I wait to see if anything interesting is ever going to happen again..

I was thinking the other day. I was thinking that it would be funny if I never wrote another word about her or the turmoil that I've gone through. What would make it extra-funny would be if I saw her, or heard from her, or whatever, and still I never mentioned it here at all.

Well, it would be funny to me, and at the rate I'm going I'll be the only one reading this crap before too long anyway.

I wanted this pain to end. I keep telling myself that.

Is losing readers worth the knowledge that I probably won't die the next time I see her face? That I can close my eyes and picture another woman in those fantasy places where for so long only she appeared? That I can have hope, not for her and me, but simply hope for me?

You bet your ass it's worth it.

(continued)

So I figured What the heck? At least I knew it wouldn't kill me. I ordered one.

Either it was different, or I was different, because this time, this time it was delicious. After 15 minutes I was thinking Fuck Pete! After an hour I was wondering Pete who?

So just like that, I switched beers. I never drank anything but Alaskan Amber until I moved away from Seattle three years later.

I hated Memphis. Part of the reason that I hated it was because it wasn't where I wanted to be. Part of the reason was that everyone seemed racist to me. Part of the reason was that there was no beer worth drinking. Not that I found anyway. My own stubbornness kept me from ever really getting out to explore that city.

Nope, I spent most of my weekends during my Memphis tenure back home in Southern Indiana. Sleeping on my Dad's couch, and hanging out with my sister Dina and my cousin Jeff. With the latter, and a couple of times with the former I guess, we'd go out to some bar and I'd drink whatever there was. It didn't seem to matter anymore. There was no Alaskan Amber. A couple of places had Pete's, but the recipe had changed since their sale, and it just didn't seem the same. Plus you couldn't get it on tap anywhere that I ever went.

And to me, no Pete's and no Alaskan Amber meant that there was nothing at all. I resigned myself to drinking swill and that's pretty much what I drank when we went out.

Until this one time.

This one time we all went to this weird little bar with the weird little name of "Rich O's" and played euchre in a weird little area that was set up with living room furniture.

Sofa and loveseat and a padded chair. In a bar. Pretty damn strange.

This place had dozens of beers. It seemed like thousands to me. I was overwhelmed by all of the choices. I asked the bartender for a beer recommendation and he brought out some foreign beer that I'd never heard of.

Newcastle Brown Ale, it was called.

It was yummy.

So just like that, I found a new favorite beer.

Newcastle and I were inseparable for years and years. I moved back to Southern Indiana, hung out even more with my sister and my cousin, but I didn't drink swill anymore. I drank Newcastle Brown Ale, by God.

Usually, right after I moved back home, I hung out at this place called Bailey's in Clarksville. At first, Bailey's had been more of a pool hall than anything else. A pool hall with Newcastle. A pool hall with Newcastle and hot waitresses.

In other words: Heaven On Earth.

But all good things must be ripped away from me eventually. Bailey's went through several management changes and, after several failed attempts to become a date bar, it closed for good. But by that time I didn't really care that much. I'd stopped going soon after they stopped taking care of the pool tables. I'd stopped going out altogether, and I'd stopped drinking completelly. It was a happy time in my life though. I was perfectly content just being by myself, playing pool in my basement and watching TV with my cats.

But I did start to get bored with it. So, every now and then I'd go down to that weird Rich O's place and have myself a Newcastle.

One of the times I went down there fairly early in the evening, and I saw a pretty girl sitting off to the side, typing into a laptop computer.

I wish I could remember the date, but it happened before I started doing this 'blog stuff.

But I digress.

Because of the Newcastle, and maybe partly because of the pretty girl and the hopes of catching another glimpse of her, I became a bit more of a regular at Rich O's. The PBDs in there would all look down at me and my beer choice, but I was perfectly content.

Like I said though, all good things must be ripped away from me eventually.

Rich O's started brewing its own beer. It was decided that one of those beers was too close to Newcastle in style and flavor, so Newcastle was pulled from the draft list.

I thought that decision fucking sucked back then, and I still think it fucking sucks now. The reason that I was given was the Newcastle sales suffered when the NABC Community Dark was introduced. Well, duh. Of course people are going to try a new beer brewed in-house. Of course sales of an allegedly similar beer will suffer initially.

But it seemed to like they only gave it a week. It seemed to me like Newcastle never had a chance. It seemed to me like the decision had been made months earlier.

Like I said, it sucked.

But I had become accustomed to Rich O's, and I had gotten to meet some interesting and nice people. MisunderstoodGirl and DooRagGirl were among the first. As were ElPresidente and FirstLady.

I kinda liked the place, and so I didn't venture back out into the world in search of another bar with Newcastle. I stayed, and I looked for something else to drink.

(to be continued)

Anybody ever have one of these Asian salads from McDonald's?

It looks yummy!

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.

introduction seduction...insertion exertion...desertion

If you watch Lost and if you've watched this week's episode, then I wonder if you're as freaked out as I am right now.

You ever want to write something?

You ever want to write something important?

You ever want to write something so important that you find yourself resisting the impulse to write because you know deep down in your heart that you're just not ready to write?

I have three topics rattling around in my head. Three topics that are as entry-worthy as anything I've ever written. But each and every time I sit here to write an entry about any one of them, I stop myself. I write a few words, or a few hundred words, and I realize that it's all drivel.

And I delete it all.

This is who I am right now.

I'm the guy with important things on my mind - but I'm also the guy who lacks the ability to put those things into words.

Yay for me.

Or not.

Let me be clear. This is not a problem of desire, it's a problem of ability, and of focus, and of perspective.

It will get better.

I will write these thoughts.

Or not.

For the past nine days, I've been on-call for work.

What that means is that I get to try to do my normal job during the day, except that I get to drop everything to handle all of the emergencies that keep popping up. It also means that I get to have my phone ring at all hours of the night because of the emergencies that pop up then.

I went off-call at 5:00 this evening.

I'm so happy I could shit.

Well I'm pretty close to getting this update completed.

The most obvious thing left to do is the graphics section - I haven't even touched it yet. Instead, I've been working on about a million little nagging nuisances with the blog pages.

Some are still there, but most have been taken care of. I'm hoping to have the rest of this shit done by this weekend, but I make no promises.

Well now I can't sleep anymore.

Okay, maybe I'll be able to sleep again at some point in my life, but it certainly won't be before I write this dream down. I'm a little bit freaked-out.

It was the usual crowd at Grandma's house. Not really a party, just a get-together to recognize that it was Grandma's birthday.

I was there, as were my sisters and their kids, my uncles and aunts, and a couple of cousins. I remember being surprised to see my sister Neisha there because the event wasn't being held in Salem.

We were all just sort of milling about trying our best not to say anything that would make Grandma cry. A tall order, that's what that is.

I was sitting in a recliner, and my uncle Stan plopped right down into my lap. Like he didn't even see me. But then he realized that I was there and moved over to the chair next to Grandma. He was trying to reach around her to get to the phone but his leg or hip was bothering him, and I could tell that it was causing him pain to reach like that. So I got up to get the phone for him. He saw me doing this, and just before I reached the phone he summoned some extra strength and grabbed it himself.

I thought that was weird.

I hadn't seen anything yet.

I went into Grandma's bathroom to splash some water on my face and get away from the crowd for a minute or two. When I turned away from the sink Grandma was shuffling toward me from the toilet. Yikes! I hadn't even seen her there! And the door hadn't been locked!

I started to stammer out an apology as I reached for the doorknob and pulled the door open to see...

Grandma shuffling down the hall, coming toward the bathroom.

Well her presence there startled the shit out of me, and my flinging the door open had startled the shit out of her, so I helped her get back onto the couch in the living room and we talked for a bit about how startled we'd been. About how I'd been especially started to see her in the hallway when I'd just turned away from her in the bathroom.

So that was another weird episode.

I still hadn't seen anything yet.

After a few more minutes, I moved over and sat on the hearth.

The front door opened, and my parents walked in.

Well of course they did, you might say. It was a family gathering after all.

The problem with having them walk in that door is that they've both been dead for years. Dad for almost eight years, Mom for eighteen.

And this dream was unusual because this time I knew they were dead, and everybody in the room knew they were dead. Usually when I dream about my parents they're alive like nothing ever happened.

Anyway, they walked past all of the shocked relatives and they sat on the couch, one on each side of Grandma. They each put an arm around her. Neither of them said a word, and nobody said much of anything to them. As for me, well I just sat frozen in shock.

One by one, people would come up and give Mom and Dad a hug. I sat and I waited for everyone else to finish. I hate lines, always have. Even for something like this, I prefer to wait until the line's gone.

After my sister Dina had hugged them, and introduced them to her son - their grandson - Gehrid, I stood up and walked the few feet to the couch.

I went to Mom first. I really really really looked at her face. Her eyes were intense, her jaw was locked. She was really struggling with something. I wondered if it was just the strain of joining the living that was doing this to her, or if it was something else. Like she knew a secret that she wished she didn't know.

I hugged Mom, and in a strange show of formality I kissed her hand, then I stepped over to Dad.

His face was the same way Mom's had been, even worse. He clearly had something pressing on his mind, and he looked like he was about to burst into tears.

I gave him a hug then I continued the strange formalness by shaking his hand. I looked him in the eyes and I said, "I'm not even going to ask where you've been, or how long you can stay. I just want to thank you for coming."

Dad looked back at me, and he said something to me.

Neither of them ever moved their arms from around Grandma's shoulders.

I suddenly realized that Neisha had been outside with the kids this entire time. I ran out back to get her, to tell her, Come quick! Mom and Dad are here!

I couldn't find Neisha, and I went back inside the house to see if maybe she was in the bathroom or one of the bedrooms or something.

But when I got back to the living room, Mom and Dad were gone.

And they'd taken Grandma with them.

I realized, at that point, that it hadn't been a birthday party at all that I was attending.

It was a wake. Grandma had passed away earlier that day.

And Mom and Dad had come to help her move on.

But I've had weird dreams before and I haven't jumped out of bed to write them down.

This one I had to write down though. This one was special.

What made it special?

Well, Dad had said something to me. Something that didn't really hit me until after I woke up.

In my dream, Dad had looked me in the eyes, his entire body shaking from whatever stress he was under, and he told me, "I'll see you again soon."

A quick show of hands, please. How many of you read this entry all the way through?

Okay, good. Now, those of you with your hands up. How many of you just felt a chill run down your spine?