It’s a great day for a guy like me. At 5 pm, I showed up for the city council meeting. I wore my sweet Irish hat to look all sophisticated and whatnot. That was canceled out by the part about me having holes in my paint-speckled pants–I’d forgotten my change of clothes in my rush to get to work on my building.
I put my hat on my holey knee and sat with good posture and a gentle smile as the mayor worked his way through the agenda. Finally, it was my turn. And the good news is…
They approved my liquor license!
There is no bad news.
A bloody good day for a beer loving guy like me. I’m not sure if my mom will be proud, but I’m sure she’ll not be surprised that this is where my life has landed. Of course, all the way home, I contemplate the appropriate celebration beer. Something big. Something bad.
No. Something everyday awesome. I love porter. That would be perfect.
To the fridge I went. Since the only homebrew I have in 22-ounce bombers these days is my porter, I didn’t take the time to label them with the all-important “P,” which denotes to me the bottle’s contents. I just grabbed a bomber.
I forgot that Jimmy left a beer behind last time he was here. It was a bomber. It wasn’t a porter. I noticed when it poured an odd, but lovely orangey-amber. I noticed when it didn’t smell so roasty. I noticed when it didn’t taste all choco-roast-a-coffee-licious.
Obviously, I’m a talented beer drinker. Certified judge, even.
It didn’t matter that it wasn’t a porter. A gift from a friend made it a brewvana moment. Thanks for the beer, Jimmy. It was perfect today.