Sunday, February 14, 2010

Random Greasy Beer Mishaps.

It goes without saying that beer and Rockabilly go hand in hand. A symbiotic relationship that has kept breweries in business for decades.

Greasy posturing has caused us all to extol the virtues of Jack Daniels, but who among us can drink an entire bottle and not end up in a bar fight, trouble with the law or somewhere well out of sight on some barroom floor.

Beer remains the drink of choice. You can go to a car show and some obliging hot-rodder will always have a cooler in the trunk and hand you a nice cold one. Very civilized. If he were to hand you a bottle of jack in a paper bag, you wouldn't be too many steps away from being a hobo drinking bourbon in a parking lot.

Beer travels well, and you can take it anywhere. There's a notorious bunch of cruiser bike enthusiasts who enjoy going on long organized cruises. Nature be damned, it's a thinly veiled excuse to drink on the beach. They don't call them booze cruises for nothing.

Satisfying to the taste as beer is, we sometimes tend to forget that it contains alcohol. That's part of the allure I suppose. Speaking for myself, hilarity usually ensues when beer is involved. It has that nice glow that doesn't turn you into a deranged redneck like some cheap rot gut can do.

Here's a few beer related mishaps that I have had over the years.

Beer and Canada Customs.

Those guys are known for their absolute lack of a sense of humour and their very obvious profiling. I never have problems at US Customs. They ask a few questions, welcome me to the US and I'm on my way.

I'm always apprehensive about the return trip however. On a recent trip to Seattle, I had rented a Ford Focus. After 3 days of partying , it was time to go home.

There I was, a twitchy greaser with a monster hangover driving a Ford Focus station wagon. They asked me what I had been doing in Seattle, and I guess that " I went to see some bands" is not a good answer. The dreaded "park over there, sir" was their answer. And when they say sir, they mean asshole.

As I sat on a bench for two hours, I watched as two burly border guards rifled through the rental car and peered into every nook and cranny with flexible lights. I watched with bemusement as an even bigger guard showed up with a drug sniffing dog. "Sniff you dumb dog" I thought to myself. All he would smell is stale beer, nachos, hair grease and the lingering odor of beer farts.

They completely ignored the 3 cases of 24 Pabst Blue Ribbon that sat on the back seat. That slightly retarded dog just sniffed around them.

Getting increasingly annoyed that they couldn't find anything, they finally let me go. " Next time, just buy 24 beers" were their parting words.

After 2 hours on that bench, I really had to go, but I wasn't about to use a bathroom right there at the border. I got the fuck outta dodge as fast as that 4 cylinder Ford would take me and grabbed the first exit.

Those PBR's tasted mighty good when I finally got home.

The Laws of Physics.

Having participated in many of the aforementioned booze cruises, I am always prepared with a proper supply of beers, lights and a booze helmet. I take a back pack and insert a six pack. I put a helmet on top of that and a six pack on top of the helmet. When I finish the first six pack, I put on the helmet and keep riding and get to the next six pack.

One of our stops is at the 9 0'clock gun. It is an old tradition in Vancouver. At 9 o'clock sharp every night a military cannon shoots off a blank.

There is a red warning light that flashes, and when a green one comes on, the cannon is just about to go off.

I have mentioned previously that I like loud noises. One particular night, I decided to get closer to the cannon. Really close. In my beery rationale I thought to myself, " No problem, there's a warning light, this is gonna be so cool".

Apparently, high explosives are way faster than warning lights, because that thing went of really fast.

Three things happened simultaneously. I instinctively said " Faa-aak!, I was knocked on my ass, and the percussive wave caused my beer to wildly froth.

Amidst the howls of laughter, I got up and triumphantly displayed the still frothing beer. I had managed to hold on to it.

Now, I don't get so close to exploding things.

Cheap Beer.

Beer in Canada is expensive compared to the US. It seems almost un-patriotic. A country known for their love of the hops, yet it is heavily taxed. Therefore, a true Canadian, will always search for cheap beer.

Unfortunately, cheap beer comes in cheap cans. Made from aluminum that is only molecules thick, these cans will puncture if you even look at them funny.

I usually make a beer run to the local beer store on my bike. ( that's right, in Canada you have to go to an actual beer store, sounds vaguely commie).

On several occasions, a beer can would get punctured. Nothing says "bum" more than a guy riding a bike with a back pack dripping liquid and reeking of stale beer. I would get even stranger looks as I stopped to empty the small pool of beer that had formed in the bottom of the back pack. 11 beers on a park bench, violently shaking a back pack a muttering under my breath. Might as well set up camp in a refrigerator box at that point.

Strange and Sober.

I once worked an all night warehouse party run by Raelians ( a very weird cult). They gave me all the beer tickets I could handle. After 8 beers I felt like I had eaten an entire turkey. Turns out they never got their liquor permit and they were serving near-beer.

That shit is like the tofu of beers. I had wisely smuggled my own six pack. I wasn't gonna be sober with all those freaks around me.

Beer in the Interest of Diplomacy.

At yet another one of my forays to Seattle, I was invited to a greaser party. Being very civilized, you can go to any corner store and get cold beer in Seattle. We attended a Rockabilly show later that evening and drank more beers. After the show the party continued, more greasers showed up and the party went on late into the night.

The next day, as my buddy made breakfast, he remarked ( in a tone usually reserved when encountering crazy people), " Dude, you drank 27 beers yesterday". I thought about it for a second, and the only answer I could come up with was, " Hey, I'm Canadian! ".

I drink , therefore I am : Canadian

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