Bone deep commitment to beer is sometimes merely skin deep. In some cases it’s downright beauty.
A few weeks back I crossed paths with a dude sporting a Bud Light tattoo, as if he were pretty cool. I cringed and tried to swallow the vomit that burst from my throat.
But then there’s Metropolitan Brewing Company‘s Tracy Hurst, who has the ass-kickingest hops upon her arm. Now that’s beauty well beyond skin deep.
I have all these references to beer strewn about my life. And other references, too. I like the mountains. I like Stan Getz. I like Lord Byron. Blah, blah in a million directions also including The Ramones and The Dirty Dozen. And one of the tattoos in my life deals out a beer reference for the geek brethren and a note of memorial for my dad to everyone else.
Some of the beery folk will speak this Latin: Ardet Nec Consumitur. It refers to Grimbergen‘s burnt and rebuilt, burnt and rebuilt-ness: “burned but not consumed.” It’s my underhanded beer-reference tattoo that I got the day I was the exact age that my dad was the day he died in a fire.
Burned, but not consumed means that you can burn down our brewery in a war, but we will rebuild it. You can pass crappy beer laws, but we’ll evenutally get ’em changed (yippee, Alabama!). And a guy can lose his life in a fire, but his memory and influence lives on in his children and friends.
So I tell the story of my tat when people ask about it, and they see it’s probably not such a bad thing that I soak most of my stories with beer. There’s much more to me than beer. Or a guy with tattoos. Or a guy who likes Black Sabbath. I also enjoy cello, chocolate and my family. Well beyond skin deep.