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It has been broughten
to our attrition that they're have been numberous spelling
errors on hour various lables. From the cureous (as in
'steet') too the sublime (as in 'redempetion'). As a soulution
to this problem we have retrained an imminent linguist
from Stanford and have invested in a spel checker computter
utilitiy. For now however, the thing I want to know is:
Who are these werd police? Anyway? Who is the boss, ewe
or the words? Huh? And besides, what dew words, let alone
speling, have to do with beer anyway. I mean, who ever
herd of some namby pamby pale lexiphile curling up buy
a warm fire with a good book and a cold beer. This hole
bussiness has gone plenty far enouph, don't you think?
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He felt his bulbous head bounce back and forth as the crowd cheered and he made his way across the fresh infield turf. He
looked all the way down at his strange purple feet. As a wee cub he could recall the long summer days and how he would
stomp his way through th e harvest-ready vinyards. How well he could remember the sweet smell a nd the cool slosh of juice
between his toes. He remembered how the old vintner would come running after him hollering and chasing the 'little crus her'
out of his vinyard. Now he has grown into a 'Big Crusher' and as Crusher Baseball's beloved mascot, he whips the crowd into
a cheering frenzy . He surveys the ballpark and stands, sold out all the way to the blea chers. Even a cotton bear with
fiberglass ribs and silkscreened eyes h as to be proud to be a Sonoma Crusher under a blazing sun with a cold local brew, a
two-out full-count pitch, and the hope that a ball will rise.
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In the distance there were all the usual sounds. Creaks, sobs, something dripping. We neither knew nor cared what all the rac
ket was about. We were effervescing all by ourselves. The openers were in th e other room doing what they do every time
we're brought out, but there was work to do and it would take some time. Half empty we sit, absorbing the amb ient heat,
ever increasing as the energy stored only days before swells in o ur gut and as the temperature rises now im-perceptably we
feel the seed of n ucleation begin to gather ready and perched as we were on the edge of the ab yss that rose up before us
inverted against the universe beyond the crystal air that seperated us and served us and still the seed has grown and we fall no
rise no falling turns to flying again and again and a chorus sings with us as we hear the song and it rises and more and can it
really be happ ening and now we merge with the others as the same old noises from the back room also rise with us and
together we join as one in the true merging ecsta sy all is white and rushing and air turns to cream and it is in this final p erfect
moment, we are consumed.
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I
Suddenly, the over and over in the beer from where it
c omes from came from to over and all at once there spiked
a lugge and out cam e the eye and it was caught, no fell
into his glass, no mug, no stein, no it wasn't like that
at all, in fact it happened in Cincinnati, no Cleaveland
a nd anyway a mysterious new plan-9 pulse beam from outer
space ca used spasm the muscles to eject the eye into
outer node float to the two-ste p rain dance, no flop
to the eye glass glassy eye of the beer foam to spill
but at last if it rolled onto the bar and still everyone
just stared and ask ed the obvious question on everymind
and what did it really have to do with beer and as it
happened it didn't. But we still have it at the brewery!
II
Well, we all sat there a while and stared at the eyeball
on the bar and argued about what it meant. The eyeball,
for it's part was phlegmatic and offered nothing. An-other
round was ordered and we agreed tha t sometimes an eyeball
is just an eyeball. But now there was the matter of
t he hairball. Matted and moist, almost dripping, it
looked back at us from th e far side of the eyeball.
The hairball ordered a hi-ball and the drunks at the
other end of the bar got up and left. A woman dressed
in a flimsy bernou se appeared at the dorr to the bar
and told us that she had a pizza for 'Har ry'. Fuzzily
she looked at the eyeball. The eyeball said some-thing
softly t o the hairball and blinked lovingly. The hairball
swooned. There wasn't a dry eye in the house. We all
knew that this truly was the Eye of the Hairball.
III
And maybe it really was the eye, the one true love,
the 'soive de la amour con supe un vie' of the hairball,
but no one would ever know for sure because as we all
sat there staring in horror, one of the drun ks at the
end of the bar had returned and in his stupor mistook
the Eyeball for a martini onion popping it into his
mouth and chomping down squirted the vitreous humor
onto the bar through his missing front teeth. We gasped
and looked down at the unimaginable grief of the Hairball
expecting the worst but instead the Hairball lathered
moistly down the bar towards the drunk who p icked it
up and placed it over a thin spot on the crown of his
head and toge ther they beamed and we realized that
love will find a way, that the heart wants what it wants
and that vitreous humor is thicker than vermouth. Go
figure.
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I leaned back with
my feet up on my desk. I read my name backwards on the
door and wondered. Like a bad joke told to a brown shoed
square in the dead of night, it all came rushing back
to me. I thought carefully about getting up from my desk,
putting on my new Velarimosa prawn hat, opening the door
to the hallway, checking the spelling on my name one more
time, closing the door behind me, heading down to the
first floor, making my way down the evening street full
of worn out proles and pinheads, finding the corrupt pirate
pastrami burrito vendor who trades fist fulls of change
for volcanic gastritis, continuing to a dark doorway the
length of wh ich would lead me to a knuckle worn bar top
of mildew and pine, mounting a bow-legged stool and ordering
a pint of the nectaral Maximus Ale. And then I did.
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The redeemer shall not return on the
last day, but on the very last day,
when only the most unbridled individualism of faith is possible.
These are the words of philosopher Franz Kafka describing an end of the wor ld that is brought about by a true personal
freedom of expression. The craft -brewing movement embodies this event for the universe of beer. For decades individualism
was held in check by breweries the size of small planets and t he world was forced to drink beers it might not have even liked.
But, alas, beer has always been a good lubricant for social intercourse, so we suffered in silence. Not so today, though. So
many different beers, so little time. Yet, still there is a snake in the garden. Money is playing a bigger role in brewing. Big
breweries buying the honesty of small breweries. There will be brewers that instead of saying; 'This is our beer and it is who
we are!', w ill be saying; 'Be an individual, be like us!' Beware the Trojan Horse. Trus t your own taste buds, they can not lie
to you. Enjoy the beer you like for reasons that are yours and yours alone. Always Think Globally, Drink Locally !
Good beer shall not pour on the last day, but on the very last day, when only the most unbridled
individualism of flavor is possible.
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Copyright 2001, Lagunitas
Brewing Company, Beer Speaks, People Mumble
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