In my dreams, I’m in my living room on a quiet afternoon, coming apart at the seams. I’m not really doing much. It starts to rain. The rain falls in a sheet, hitting the windows, crashing against the side of the house. It’s a downpour, this rain, and it’s accompanied by thunder and lightning.
I walk outside and find that the rain is actually beer falling down from the sky. Imagine the surprise of a man who needs a beer but can’t afford one. Now I have buckets of beer and not enough room to store it all.
I think back to the book of Malachi from my youth: “Test me in this,” says the LORD Almighty, “and see if I will not throw open the floodgates of heaven and pour out so much blessing that there will not be room enough to store it.”
I guess in the dream I had brought the whole of my tithe into the storehouse, though I question.
I think back to my grandfather, who was outspoken against the use of alcohol (as far as I knew) his entire life. After he died, a few of us were out cleaning his garage, just going through his stuff, when we found a gallon of what smelled like raw ass whisky. My brother tasted it; the tests have come back favoring the positive. It was homemade to say the least.
I can’t prove that it was his, but come on… Everyone needs a sip of the juice now and then, don’t they?
For Christ’s sake, even Jesus turned water into wine. Some observant motherfucker [at the wedding party] said, “Everyone brings out the choice wine first and then the cheaper wine after the guests have had too much to drink; but you have saved the best till now.”
Go fucking figure: The Christ-head strikes against the running out of booze.
The wine rests its case.
I actually heard a guy say once that his kid asked him, “Dad, why do you drink beer?” The guy said, “Actually…I can’t tell you. You will just have to wait [and find out for yourself]” (seemed to be the unspoken sentiment).
I’m not sure there is a moral to any of this.
The moral might be: Beer makes us feel good. It’s the juice of the gods, after all. Drink it if you would be comfortable in your own skin. If you are already comfortable in your own skin, hell, maybe you will one day rule the world…maybe beer can help you in that. As a buddy of mine would say, “Either way, it don’t make a fuck.” He was probably drunk when he said it.
Have a beer, I guess. Maybe you will understand at least some of what I’m talking about.
When they “bury” me one day, they’ll toss my ashes off the Budweiser deck into the left field meadow of some obscure ball park in the mid-west, and if I’m lucky, I will be stuck in the minors for eternity. At least I’ll never have to say, “Here’s to one more season in the sun.” Or maybe I will say it every year. Who the hell cares anyway, and what is the difference?
If you have a few beers every day, I can tell you this about your life: You will always have something to look forward to, no matter how bad is any day, and in the end, you will have been right smart and jolly for having drank them.
Perspective is God in a koala suit, after all. You might die quite young, yes. You may fly too close to the sun, yes. But goddam it, hot is hot.
If you can see through all the blather and the bullshit, you might be the next on the list for a meeting with Mr. Goldblatt, and I’d envy the hell out of you for it.
Give him my best, but I can’t help you from there.
He’ll give you a brew, or maybe he’ll offer you the righteous pull from the little bottle he keeps in the inner pocket of his smoking jacket (I’m assuming he still wears one). But even if he doesn’t, you’ll be more prepared for what comes next.
And should sobriety one day come knocking at your door, you’ll always have the memories of the times when the bottle made you everything you’d ever dreamed of becoming.
And if they ever tell you you love too much or too dearly, tell them the following: The wine has spoken.