I joke about being a slacker…err, make that: I “joke” about being a slacker…
Like all humor, even stupid jokes have to have an element of truth to them. In this case, it ain’t an “element” so much as, well, the totality of the damned thing.
I thought I had a blog post scheduled for yesterday. I mean, c’mon…I remember writing one, so what the hell happened to it?
No, really, what the hell happened to it?!
How do you lose a freaking electronic blog post? That’s taking my slackerdom to All Star status…
Anyway, I promised to be regular on this blog again, so I have to get something up.
Ain’t nothin’ for it, I’ll have to post a random rant piece I have sitting in my Drafts section, one I tossed off just to kill some time while I was waiting for friends.
Crap, 2019 ain’t exactly starting off gangbusters, is it? Anyway, here’s the rant:
Are you kidding me?
No, really — are freaking kidding me?!
Look, folks, we’ve talked before about my, err, penchant for taprooms and breweries. We’ve also talked about my impatience and intolerance for shitty taprooms. Crap, you spent a (bare) minimum of $300,000 to open a brewery — and very, very likely a great deal more than that — so how the hell do you screw up the face of that business?!
C’mon…a bad taproom is the brewery-equivalent of McDonalds hanging a dead rat on their front door, for fuck’s sake…
So why — why? Why? WHY? — do so many places screw up even the most basic stuff?
Okay, so I’m a perfectionist. Sue me. Part of the price of living & working chest deep in the craft brewing world is the burden of expectations and standards.
Crap, I admit it, this rant is one of those half-drunk posts I’ve warned y’all about before. I’m sitting in the taproom of a brewery, waiting for some friends, and…well… My headache is steadily growing, my patience slowly shrinking, and my beer-nerd-gland slowly putting a gun to its head as the only escape.
Music was meant to be heard and enjoyed, it was not meant to drive straight through my skull, leaving a trail of burned and gutted brain cells in its wake. I can kill my own brain cells quite well, thank you very much.
And the chairs…
Shit, breweries are my crack, it doesn’t take a hell of a lot to make me all warm and happy. I’ve spent time drinking in places from Tijuana to Tallinn, and every place in between, so I’m not the most demanding guy in the world. But, and this is — pun intended — a big but, my ass shouldn’t feel like the entire freaking cast and crew of Deliverance had their way with it after just fifteen minutes of sitting on these cheap, metal stools…
Now get off my lawn, I have beer to drink!