The Hammerhead Diaries
McMenamins John Barleycorns (
Yesterday was the first day of Spring. Today brings another annual milestone: my beloved McMenamins makes available their sublime Workingman’s Red, a beer that’s only available during the Spring. I think this is the first time I’ve actually had it on "release day." I wonder if next year I’ll be camped outside the night before. Honestly, it’s delicious. And Teresa, who is most certainly not a beer lover, is quite enamored of it too. She’s probably a bit pissed that I’m enjoying it without her. I’ll also mention that this is something of a departure in these Hammerhead Diaries: this is the first time (so far) that I’ve had two glasses of the same thing. That’s right, folks: I’m already on my second glass. But I see from their handy list of Featured Ales that there are a few other items I’ve never tried, so I’ll be trying them before I’m done here.
*Sigh* I only wish that they’d bottle the Workingman’s Red and sell it year-round, like they do with their Hammerhead Ale, Sunflower IPA, Terminator Stout, and Ruby Ale. Christ, they could certainly ditch the Ruby Ale (which is clearly designed for little girls). Is that so much to ask?
I took today off (in fact, as I recall, I did the same thing almost a year ago, when I wrote the first Hammerhead Diaries entry; it’s a sad reflection of my unending laziness that this is only the third installment in eleven months). It’s Easter weekend, which means my Sunday is basically shot (going to
I woke up, took the kids to school, and started the laundry. See, I’m the laundry guy. I always have been. It’s a deal between Teresa and I: she cooks, and I do the laundry. So my weekends are generally filled with switching loads of clothes and folding like there’s no tomorrow. So any time I take a Friday off, I try to get a jump on the weekend laundry, and today was no exception. I got most of it done already, which should make the rest of the weekend fairly breezy. And hey, the weather’s supposed to be decent tomorrow, so maybe I’ll actually get some pre-summer hammock time in (hey, it’s Oregon; I’ll just dress warm and sway comfortably in the breeze despite the chilly early-spring air).
Anyway---- after I started the laundry, I made breakfast for myself. Three eggs, two pieces of toast, and ten slices of bacon. Yeah, ten. It was the cheap pre-cooked shit, so you’ve gotta eat a lot just to sate the bacon monkey. You know what I mean. That was about
Next up: The Irish Stout. I know, St. Patrick’s Day is over. I still had to try it (actually, I think I DID try it, last St. Patrick’s Day, when Teresa and I spent the night at McMenamins’ Kennedy School Pub/Hotel. I dunno, it’s a pretty big blur. We drank a
Next up: Private IPA. What’s so private about it? I dunno… let’s find out together, shall we? Oh wait, you can’t taste it. Sucks to be you. Even at its worst (Ruby Ale, fer chrissakes), McMenamins trounces all challengers. In the vernacular of these modern times: McMenamins pawns noobs. God, I can’t believe I just typed that. Chalk it up to having three teenagers in the house, not to mention a brain that simply refuses to acknowledge that it’s approaching 40 years old. Parts of me still think they’re 17 (I’ll leave it to your imagination to decide which parts). Anyway--- the Private IPA. Oooh, not bad. Got some bite, which I like. My instinct is to compare it to their Sunflower IPA. It doesn’t win, sadly. It’s certainly not bad, but it’s nothing to get excited over.
Heh, an older lady just sat down near me, ordered a glass of water (!), then promptly moved to a different table. Apparently the sight of a mildly intoxicated fat guy typing furiously on a laptop made her uncomfortable. Oh well.
Tonight is family dinner night, and we’re going to Sushi Train. That’s right. What are YOU having? Something boring at home? You sad bastard. I’ll be cold-kickin’ it raw-fish style with my wife and shorties.
Oh look, the lady came back to the nearby table with a friend. I’m too disinterested to figure it out. I can see that they’re engaged in some inane conversation, which makes me doubly thankful that I’m wearing headphones and enjoying the new Radiohead album instead of listening to their post-menopausal nonsense. Christ, I am not a nice guy. Fuck, two more of ’em just showed up. They talk with their hands. I can’t hear them. I’m not a religious man, but THANK YOU JESUS for headphones. Oh, here comes #5. Holy hell, she’s got teeth like the Alien Queen in Aliens. And oh shit, I can hear her OVER my headphones. Why, Lord, why???
Hey, this new Radiohead album is really good. Hell, everything they do is really good.
What’s that, four beers? Can I still drive? I’ve gotta have one more. The Aces & Eights Porter sounds promising. I always like to end on a dark note. Wow, if that’s not a metaphor for my personality, I don’t know what is.
Here come the drinks at the Table of Ancient Women. Looks like two beers, a glass of wine, and a glass of water. Oh, and a toast. I wonder what they’re toasting. Botox?
Four beers in. I’m totally dissing these women. Why? Am I jealous of them? Maybe. I’m sitting here alone. Oh wait, my cell is vibrating. It’s my daughter Sierra. Oh, she wants to go see a movie with her new boyfriend tonight. Screeeeeeech! Left turn. Let’s talk about this.
I haven’t met this guy. Sierra knows that she can’t go out on dates unless I meet the guy. And she wants to go to a movie with him?
I told her yes. Hell, I even told her she could have an advance on her allowance, plus ten bucks. What the fuck is wrong with me? Is it the beer(s)? I’m fiercely protective of my girls. What did I just do? I just flashed the green light at her. Christ, I’m gonna be a grandparent before I know it.
Anyway, back to the Aces & Eights Porter. Um, not bad, but not great. It’s too mild. Not very interesting. Boo, McMenamins, boo.
The party of five next door is pigging out on appetizers. They smell good. I see hummus, and what appear to be deep fried chicken bites. And fuck, this place is loud now. I’m still headphonin’, but it can’t drown out the noise. I’m lucky I scored a roomy spot when I did. As I recall, my first Hammerhead Diaries visit found me stuck at a tiny table. Hard to believe it’s almost been a year since then. How does it happen? How does time pass so quickly, so stealthily?
I’ll be 40 next year. How the fuck did this happen? Aren’t I still 17? Aren’t I still a kid?
The mirror says no. The gray hairs say no.
This must be one of the darkest moments I’ve ever endured. I’m old, and getting older. My initial impulse is to drink more, but I can’t. I’ve gotta drive home. Any more and I won’t be able to.
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