The column I'm posting here first appeared in the North Shore News as a fill-in for vacationing humourist and all-around tall person James Weldon. If you haven't read James' work, please don't so I can fool you into thinking I'm the funniest writer at the paper. Ah crap, I forgot about Brendan McAleer too. Also, our arts and crafts lady is a riot.
Seriously though, if you have an afternoon to kill read through James' stuff here — especially if you enjoy movies with explosions, zombies, or exploding zombies in them — and Brendan's stuff here — especially if you enjoy talking about cars and teasing the Germans.
My column is about beer. I wrote another one which I'll post in a few days. It was about the budget ceiling crisis in the States. Just kidding, it was about TV. I'm tackling all the major issues of our time.
One of these days I'll post something original here too. What day, you ask? I don't know, get off my back. Some of us work for a living instead of sitting around all day drinking beer and watching baseball while occasionally throwing bits of pork butt at babies. God I miss parental leave.
It's over
it's not you, it's me
Dear Beer:
I don't know where to start -- this is one of the most difficult things I've ever had to do. I'm just going to come out and say it: I think we need to spend some time apart.
You know I've loved you ever since I was 16 -- erm, I mean 19.
I never thought the day would come when I would have to write this letter to you. The truth is, there's someone else. A man, in fact. Well, a very small man. A baby, actually.
When I went on parental leave five months ago I thought you and I would become closer than ever. I envisioned us hanging out all day watching afternoon baseball. Maybe you'd be my booze-muse while I banged out my novel as the baby did what I thought babies do best -- not move.
I was wrong -- babies are hard work. It turns out babies are best at being adorable, getting other people to take them places and getting everything dirty. I know the health nurses at the drop-in centre would frown upon me showing up with a six-pack of you to share with all the mamas. And remember when I always used to drop stuff on the ground, including you, after a few hours of us hanging out together? Well, that's not cool anymore for various legal, ethical and familial reasons. Being a dad demands my un-woozy attention, which is why I think we need to slow things down for a while.
Please don't take this the wrong way and do something crazy like de-alcoholizing yourself or trying to make yourself more attractive by drinking a bunch of lime. It's not you, it's me.
In fact, you're better than ever. Here in British Columbia, caring, alcoholic nerds are craft-brewing you with rich, delicious flavours. You're so hoppy these days you should be selling Trix cereal.
Sorry, I shouldn't be joking at a time like this. I hope you're not too upset.
Remember all those great times we had together? I don't either. But I have seen the pictures and it looks like there were some great parties. And usually a lot of barbecued meats. And why am I always wearing some sort of household item on my head as a makeshift hat? And where are my sunglasses?
Last weekend you introduced me to tastes I've never experienced before when we met up at Howe Sound Brewing in Squamish. An extra special bitter, a black IPA with a touch of grapefruit, even a mystery weiss beer that managed to pull off a subtle hint of gummy bear. It was all so beautiful.
But where were you at 6:30 the next morning when my boy was up and kicking at the foot of my bed and I couldn't get up to play with him? I'll tell you where you were. You were inside my brain playing racquetball with my hypothalamus.
I don't want to sound harsh, but the fact is my baby is just more fun than you are. And that's saying something because I think you're better than a go-kart that shoots fireworks.
Did you know that my baby is barely nine months old and he has already learned to give high fives and to flirt with pretty girls? Not the kind of flirting you always got me to do, which I've come to accept was mostly just shouting. No, my baby loves the blondes and I'm not talking pale ale.
He also loves Cheerios, banging his head into things and giving his mama and daddy hilarious, slow-motion open-mouth kisses. I'm sorry beer, but there's nothing in the world that will stop me from enjoying every minute I can with my little guy. And I want to remember every moment, not hear about it the next morning after my wife finds me passed out in the bathtub.
I know, without you there would be no baby because I wouldn't have had the courage to plop down on his future mama's lap in the middle of that crowded Quebec City pub -- love the work you're doing in la belle province, by the way. But we've all changed since then.
I'm going to miss you. The switch to dreadfully boring beverages has been hard for me. There's a reason water is free.
It's not like we'll never see each other again. I'll probably bump into you at my sister-in-law's wedding next week, but I'll be in charge of the little guy again so I'll have to keep my hands off of you. I'm sure it would be fine for me to bring you as a +1. The problem is you always turn into a +7.
Please know that my baby will eventually turn eight and be able to fend for himself. When he does you'll be the first one I'll call, opener in hand. Don't think of this as goodbye -- it's more like . . . taste ya later.
Sincerely,
Andy
PS. Seriously, I think you grabbed my sunglasses, by mistake of course. I'll be by to pick them up tomorrow. I don't want it to be weird so it would be great if you could just leave them outside your flat.
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