The Homosexual Side Of beer
Over the years, I have given a lot of thought to and gotten a lot of advice on where to go to pick up dates.
It was suggested (from maybe the lesser experienced people at being single) that I try the library to find a mate.
“You need to find someone that likes what you like,” they say with confidence and imperative, “And you like to read.”
Of course these advisors have probably never tried to interrupt an intimidating, pretty little thing, pointedly yet professionally ‘curled up’ with Structural Control for Civil and Infrastructure Engineering in her lap, in a quiet, cavernous room of the local library, where so much as a stuttering, throat-clearing, “Hi, what’s your name?” would resound through the heavens and certainly end with riots of “Shhhh”.
Other counsel recommends church as the best if not the only place to pick up a date [spouse]. Certainly, the capacity for church to make one’s life (spiritual and social) wholesome is immeasurable, but sometimes that serious of a commitment is a little beyond some people’s interests. (If, you have read more than two of the included blog entries, you might also see why mates of the extremely restraining faiths might also be a little coy when it comes to courting someone like me.)
It appears that most advice is well-intended, though, perhaps poorly researched.
So what do I do?
Well, the only thing a young, single, American male can do: Take this guidance and ponder over it (and a beer) at the local bar.
The only problem is that recently I have felt that my sexuality, wait, let me be specific, my hetero-sexuality, has been challenged rather championed at my local drinking/dating establishment.
Allow me to explain with a scenario.
Last weekend, after a long (pay)day at work I took an eager seat at one of my favorite local taverns and ordered a beer.
Now maybe it was just my mood – and certainly many times when I come to speak from my blog it has something to do with my mood – but when the bartender brought me my beer (which came in quick fashion, no complaints here) I was surprised that the feeling that normally comes over me (relief) was replaced with agitation.
Now that is a problem.
I looked a little less longingly at the glass this time than in times past.
I looked hard at it – and then at the bar tender who nervously looked back.
I looked back at the beer, this time with resolve, and then back at the bar tender with intent.
He watched closely as a methodically if dramatically removed the lime wedge from the spout of the bottle and placed it purposefully on the napkin to the bottle side and then sat back with bottle near my chest to relish in a job complete.
Then, almost a half-hour later I ordered another beverage to chase the first one I had so deliciously consumed – having totally forgotten about the before mentioned affront.
A new beer arrived; a new ray of light on a Friday night.
A new focus from the despairingly sparse crop of potential dates had arrived.
I slowly tilted my head down to behold the golden, sudsy reward beneath me and was once again dismayed at what I saw.
I felt like Hera looking down at Hephaestus. The ugly thing looking back at me was once so full of potential and promise now was hideous to me.
http://www.pantheon.org/articles/h/hephaestus.html
The orange-slice hung there, on the rim of my beer glass, dangling it healthy tropical entrails in my once perfect pallet-wetting beverage.
This time, I was almost in complete disgust and if I had not thought it to be such a waste of yet still only decent beer I would have pushed the thing away – making it an orphan forever.
I hesitated as I took the beer form the bar tender. I waited for that moment when both parties are uncomfortable. He looked at me. I looked at him. Our eyes never wavered; mine never even shuddered as I – without looking down – removed the poisonous orange carcass from my beer glass and lobbed it onto the counter.
He had to have gotten the message that time.
Twenty minutes later when another drink arrived, I realized that I was wrong.
Again, fruit.
This was it. I had had enough. I had to talk to someone about this. But after the eye contact, the delicate dance that the bar tender and I had done pertaining to this fruity contamination in my cock-tail concoction I was in real fear that he was trying to turn me into a fruit of another kind – if you know what I mean.
I spoke quietly, yet discerningly to the couple sitting next to me.
“Do you see this?” I said, pointing to my beer.
They looked back at me inquisitively.
“Do you see this fruit in my beer?”
This went on for a few minutes – these people were oblivious.
Finally, when I ranted an entire diatribe (probably similar to the one you are reading here) about how the bartender had continually put fruit in my beer they came to me with an explanation.
Now, this is where I need to stop and offer up a disclaimer to you, my loyal reader.
Half of what I write here is about politics and principle the other half is about science – and you can, most of the time, tell the difference easily.
If a column I write has many sources, cited evidence and a historical, explanative tone – it is probably about science – anything else is about principle.
This is about principle.
I explained to my humble and thirsty neighbors that night that I well understood the science behind the fruit being placed in your beer.
The largest scientific component of the amendment of fruit to beer is that it highly elevates the important aroma of most wheat beer and some ale.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Blue_Moon_(beer)
Trust me. I know my beer.
But I spent quite some time observing my progressive, drink-pouring friend – and he served a whole lot of fruit that night. A whole lot.
And that fact gives me reason to believe that, in fact, our whole society is becoming a little fruity.
There is great country song on the charts right now by Brad Paisley.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FXqqynfqE_0
And while he does not specifically mention how, as a guy, he would – albeit should rebel against this fruity tradition – I think it would fit right it.
Again, it is important to remember, I went to the bar to meet women – not men.
And I do not know the sexual orientation of the bartender and frankly, I don’t want to know.
But even if he was not homosexual and hitting on me – he was hitting my chances of getting noticed from any worth-while woman out of the park by constantly and continually decorating my beverage with his harvest!
This is just another sign of the terrible times we live in.
Beer is no longer just a drink – it’s custom, it’s colorful, it’s art!
Beer is no longer simple.
Beer is no longer simply a man’s drink.
What happen to the day when a cold-one was not candy-coated and colorful?
And why does it have to be forced on us?
Oh, yeah, it is forced.
My neighbors that night offered me up some very novel advice (remember most of the time it is well-intended but not well researched).
I should just ask the bartender to not put fruit in my beer.
Oh, great.
I have an IQ of near a hundred-and-fifty and I did not think of that.
The point is that the ‘fruit’ of the world is taking over once established, and perfectly acceptable norms – and it leaves a bad taste in my mouth.
Certainly, I could ask the bar keep to keep his produce away form my potion but in that same restaurant do I have to ask the waitress to keep the mushrooms off of my steak, the chives off of my potato, season off of my fries?
No, probably not.
Most of the time she would ask if I wanted those things.
But just to pacify that thought, I will say it here.
I don’t drink Beer for the taste.
I don’t drink it for my health.
And most of the time I don’t have enough vacation time to drink it on the beach.
So please keep your fruit away from my beer.
There, it’s been said.
I guess it had to be said.
But the fact is that it is intolerable that I should have to ask to keep those frilly extras away from my beer.
It is ridiculous that there should be a need to impose a “Don’t ask, don’t add” policy for our local taverns.
http://users.california.com/~rathbone/links003.htm
It is pure evil that such healthy impurity as a piece of citrus is added to my beer without my direct request.
And it is a blatant sign of this country’s and our culture’s current socialist inclinations that the place that I used to be able to go to pick-up dates and feel like a man I now, literally, feel like a fruit.
Maybe I will start taking my own beer to the library.
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