Beer & Drink

Following Michael Jackson’s recent death, even NPR is starting to sound like an ’80s pop station as “Beat It” or “Man in the Mirror” seemingly haunts the background of every other interview. As a child of the ’80s, my first introduction to star hysteria was Thriller; I would practice moonwalking and other jerky crotch-grabbing dance moves with my childhood girlfriends while donning legwarmers and a side ponytail.
The man needs a cocktail in honor of all he’s done, but which Michael do you base the drink on? Is it the African-American Wonder Boy, the White King of Pop, the Soul-Searching Humanitarian, the Amusement Park Pedophile or the Looks-Like-an-Alien Philanthropist? Or do you just base it on one of his song titles, like just create some vile concoction that figuratively screams “I’m Bad” when you taste it?

No one is as discerning as the yellow beer drinker. I work with a guy who can jam his nose deep in a Bordeaux glass and tell you-because of the slight aroma of charcoal- that it is a 2006 pinot blend from Walla Walla. Another guy will tell you that he is a certified beer snob who spends all of his free time reading about lagers, stouts, and ales, brewing different hop and barley concoctions and traveling to breweries on any long weekend. But neither of these guys’ palates can rival the yellow beer drinker.
It is he who knows that Budweiser is absolutely delicious and Coors is unpalatable. It is he who knows that Miller Light is scrumptious and agreeing to the soul while Fosters is so unagreeable that the mere mention of such drink is enough to cause a gag reflex.

As my beloved bar assistant, Regan, is off on an internship in hopes of making the world a better place for developing nations, I am left with the task of replacing one of the most loyal, hard working, and intelligent people I’ve ever worked with.
Anyone who has ever hired and collected resumes will tell you that unfortunately most resumes are hard to read, bear little relevant information, and are unappealing to the eye.

No one can escape the excitement leading up to the Pole, Pedal, Paddle in Bend. And the bar was no exception. Our sites were set high on beating our bitter rival, Thump Coffee. One might think that after my last experience at the PPP, I would never return to compete, but alas I relented.
Three years ago, my husband and I tackled the challenge. We were sporty, in good shape and avid outdoorsmen; how could we not battle in Bend’s ultimate contest? Brad was off to a swift start and came quickly down the mountain to jump right into the skate ski. Neither of us skate skied, but figured “how hard can it be?” As we began screaming at one another because Brad couldn’t get his boot into the rental ski bindings, I recognized that we didn’t have a damn clue what we were doing. Brad kept the skis on for about 10 minutes when he figured he’d be faster in an ungainly snow jog as bright yellow spandex whisked by. For over an hour, I stood patiently at my bike with cold cramped feet and an attitude that greatly improved once it occurred to me to wait in the car. A loud knock and a wicked scowl scared me onto the bike where I pedaled swiftly down the mountain and got to the run where my legs were jello. For the first mile I could barely stand much less run and I had to piss like a racehorse so all I could focus on was finding some sort of privacy. I tagged Brad at the paddle, where he paddled the entire length in a six-foot creek boat with perfect strokes as school children with upside-down paddles passed him in 17-foot race boats. By the time I got to the sprint, the damage had been done. We knew that we hadn’t been competitive, but when we saw our names last in our class, we had to admit to the world that we were losers.

No one who’s ever seen the Mr. Boston’s bar guide could expect a bartender to know all of the drinks in it, particularly the more obscure.

There are some things that are never OK, for example spitting on the floor in a public place. I make reference to the gentleman on Saturday night who convincingly hucked a huge loogie high into the air so that it landed in a slimy spat in the middle of the bar area. Instantaneously, I told him that he had to leave and when I came round to show him the way out he replied, “I’m not drunk! I haven’t even been drinking.” Which is unfortunate because then he would have an excuse for his absolutely insolent behavior.
This isn’t the first time I’ve had to kick someone out of the bar for spitting on the floor. The other time was many years ago when I had a guy from Oklahoma who kept expectorating on the floor for no apparent reason other than he clearly thought that our wood floor would be more pleasant with a good spit-shine. When I told him that if he hucked on the floor one more time he would have to leave, he quickly proceeded to spit again, as obviously he was accustomed to dribbling as he pleased, much like a slobbering bulldog. On his way out he excused himself by stating he was from Oklahoma. Which don’t get me wrong, we all know that Oklahoma has more than its fair share of rednecks and hicks, however I have never met another Oklahoman who thinks that it is OK to spit inside.