4 March 2007

Beer and Freedom

I ran out of beer again. I live an imperfect life. If my life were perfect it would be alright to run out of everything but beer and Freedom. In that order. You cannot be Free without beer. And by beer I mean whatever it is you prefer to alter your consciousness with. To be human is to get buzzed.

Since I was in town getting some beer with the Hammer I thought I might as well get lunch and a few draught beers. A sad ommission: I have no draught beer at home. My buddy Legs does. Legs loves his motherfucking beer like most people around here love the Sedin twins.

Lunch was great. Just soup and a sandwich and the few draughts turned into two pitchers of Strongbow cider. Ever since New Year's Day when a few cold ciders killed my hangover with the speed that noose ended Saddam Hussein's life, I have been getting in a few ciders whenever I can. This summer I plan on seeing just how much draught cider I can still drink before I puke a little art on the downtown Steepleton sidewalk. There is no booze on Earth that can be poured back with more ease than cider on a hot summer night.

The Hammer visited with her sidewalk buddies as I ate and drank. Sidewalks are the most diverse place left on the planet. She had everybody from the homeless to a downtown preacher to a nearby factory owner running their hands over her head. Too bad they did not see her rolling in something I did not want to investigate just minutes before.

As I was walking to the liquor store I remembered I had made an appointment to get my hair cut this afternoon. So I poked my head in the barbershop door and told my barber I would be back in a few minutes. Then I went and loaded up my knapsack with beer, a bottle of scotch, a bottle of wine for Sonja and walked back to get my hair cut.

I have only had a few barbers in life. They have all been drunks. Sawmill workers think they can booze it up but just about any barber can drink them under the table without even trying. A couple of my barbers have had the shakes so bad on Saturday morning getting a shave was more suspenseful than a Hitchcock movie. Maybe I am a drunk magnet. There was no one else waiting so I drew my flask of scotch out of my jacket's inside pocket and offered my barber a shot of the only good thing to ever come out of Scotland besides curling and the Bay City Rollers. She finished it off so I had to go into my pack to get myself a shot.

"You don't mind me cutting your hair after I have a drink, eh?"

"I've had my hair cut by drunker barbers than you. And I have had straight razor shaves by the same drunks. Everybody is wasted. Some people just keep it a secret better than others. You want another shot before you get going?"

"I'm ok."

Yeah right, I thought. I passed her my bottle. She tipped it back. I could hear the whisky passing her epiglottis on its way to her wee belly. Her eyes glazed ever so slightly and a smile curved her lips menacingly as she came at me with the scissors.

"You like it cut real short this time of year don't you?"

Just then the phone rang. It was Sonja. She had remembered my barber appointment. "Your wife says not to cut your hair like a little boy's this time. And she reminded me to cut back your nose and ear hair." Sonja is a details person.

"At least she did not remind you to trim back the hair on my ass."

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