Brooklyn Black Chocolate Stout

You could probably not think of a more unlikely place and time to find a Pink Floyd cover band than South Florida in the spring of 1987. Lightweight metal hair bands like Def Leppard ruled the day, even in muggy Broward County. Countless Bon Jovi wannabees had flocked down I-95 from Jersey to mooch a room in grandparents’ condo while they attempted to make their bones in the beach bar scene. The leather clad heavy metal crowd found the climate far too tropical for their tastes and returned to foggy London or San Francisco; while the girl-friendly, ripped T-shirt and jeans scene felt right at home and stayed. Guns ‘n’ Roses would blow the roof off in just a few short months. The flannel clad fuzz and shriek from rainy Seattle had not yet made its way southeast. The post-Grateful Dead jamband scene was far off on the horizon – Phish was still a quirky cover band playing frat parties at University of Vermont.

The mellowed out prog rock crowd couldn’t keep up with slick, smooth and fast Miami Vice stylishness.

Yet, that’s what I found myself doing, one slow Friday night … quietly enjoying the drone of “Pigs on the Wing” in a nearly empty upstairs room of a bar just off A1A. My new bartending friend, Barbara, and I let forth a continuous stream of ridicule for these poor guys, who wanted nothing more to do than to continue the legacy of Britain’s premier space rock band. Keeping the faith, while Roger Waters and David Gilmour mended fences. That, and make just enough cash to buy new trinkets at the next Dungeons and Dragons festival, or Star Trek convention.

Maybe, Doctor Who would have been more appropriate.

I had been there since happy hour. When the band opened their second set with “One of These Days,” I hadn’t noticed that the seat next to mine had been taken by an attractive young woman, with curly black hair and oversized glasses that gave her that girlish, nerdish Clark Kent look; the one that says, “I may look like I’m all business, but you just wait till we’re alone.”

“That sounds like the Doctor Who song,” she said leaning to my shoulder.

“Don’t tell me you watch Doctor Who?” I replied with a sour grin, “My last girlfriend always watched Doctor Who. That kind of ruined it for me.”

“You never forget your first Doctor. That’s what I’ve always said,” she responded, with a sly grin. I knew it. Clark Kent. “My name’s Cindy. I’m a Tom Baker.”

She held out a cigarette for me to light. I pulled out my trusty Delray Beach Yacht Club Zippo. Nine months earlier, I had used that lighter to light Keith Richards’s smoke at Live Aid. It was at that moment I realized that she reminded me of "Tegan Jovanka" an Australian airline stewardess and a native of Brisbane who was a companion of the Fourth and Fifth Doctors, but you’d have to be a total geek to notice that.

“Randy. Tom Baker, too. Lori liked the white haired guy. Jon Pertwee. I can’t imagine why.”

“Delray Beach Yacht Club? You live down here?”

“Nah, I’m staying just over the bridge there. My grandparents used to live in Pompano. My grandpop was a member. My uncle lives in Boca. I’m from Philly.”

”Get out!!! I’m from Philly. Actually Levittown. Up I-95, near Trenton.”

“Oh, so you would probably watch Dr. Who, Saturday afternoons on Channel 12, then again Saturday night on Channel 23, the Jersey public station.”

“You got it. So what are you doing in the Sunshine State?”

“I gave up SEPTA for Lent, and I didn’t want to be tempted, so I got as far away as I could. How about you?”

“I took the R5 South and missed my stop.” Great sense of humor. This was working out well.

The next hour was filled with reflections upon the Flyers (we both were fans of hockey and the Flyers, more than the Eagles or Phillies), the Vet, shows we’d both seen at the Spectrum and Tower Theater. Each story came with an “I was there, too” revelation. Through the past five years I had lived in Philadelphia, our paths had crossed more than a dozen times, yet we had never met.

Midway through the next set, I went for it.

“Hey, um, like I said, I’m staying just over the bridge there, about halfway back to the beach. We could continue this research, over a couple beers, in a more intimate setting. Or we could walk on the beach. Or both.”

“Beach, then beer, then more beach.”

We stepped outside into a light rain.

“Let’s skip the beach,” she advised. Even though we were on foot, we still had to wait for the drawbridge. With the breeze coming off the beach and the festive lights on the party boat going by, I couldn’t help myself. I kissed her softly. She smiled.

“Thank you,” she whispered, “That was nice. The nicest since I’ve been down here.”

As we walked up the steps to my room, a shocking thought occurred to me.

“Of course, this being a hotel, the only furniture is a table & chairs, a loveseat and the bed.”

“That’s okay,” she assured me.

“I just didn’t want to get the wrong idea.”

“I didn’t. And just so you don’t – I’m not a hooker.” Her service industry black and whites had made that pretty clear, but it was good to have her tell me otherwise.

The door opened with a vault like heaviness that hotels doors have, then slammed shut with a resounding thud. I opened the sliding door to the balcony, to compensate.

“You keep a pretty tidy room, Randy, for someone living out of a suitcase.”

“Sorry, to say, I’m going back home Wednesday. I have to be back at work the following Monday. Again, I hope you’re not getting the wrong idea.”

“As a matter of fact, I’m returning soon as well; at the end of the month. So, it won’t be good bye. We should still make the best of our time.”

We sat on the balcony, watching the boats go by; listening to the rain, the geckoes and the crickets. The warm nighttime Florida spring shower created that musty, musky summer rain scent you can only find there, and once you smell it, you want every other thunderstorm to produce that aroma. Wherever you are.

Gradually the wind, which had been coming off the ocean, turned. The rain started to come into the balcony. We returned to the room. I opened another pair of beers. We snuggled together on the bed. I kissed her again. And again. We were falling for each other very quickly. I lowered my right hand from her breast. I slid it down the buttons of her white blouse to unsnap her black pants. I made an interesting discovery.

As unusual as a Pink Floyd cover band was in 1987, so was a belly ring.

I lowered my head to her stomach, surreptitiously to inspect the curious object more closely. At the last moment I nuzzled my nose and chin just south of her bikini line.

Oh, in case you’re wondering what kind of a beer review this is; consider this:

Brooklyn’s 2005-2006 Black Chocolate Stout tastes just like pussy, in all the best ways: Sweet, sour, creamy, nutty, smoky. It has a beautiful tan head, the kind of a tan Italian girls get when they move to Florida. Poured into a proper pint glass, it has a soft, rich, black body that conjures memories of a well maintained “playground” It has an aroma of pancakes, coffee, and ocean air.

We were together for eight months after she came back. We parted as good friends; we were just geographically incompatible.

Quite possibly the worst Thanksgiving breakup story ever ...

Usually bad breakup stories are reserved for Christmas, New Year's and Valentine's Day. This one just happened to occur over Thanksgiving week.

I met her while I worked in the Print Shop in South Philly. If Kim Deal [The Pixies; The Breeders - "Cannonball"] needed yet another twin sister, she was more than qualified. She may have been the Proto-MILF. She was a proof reader, I was a layout guy. She wrote poetry and liked my artwork. She was 28, I was 22. She was separated (her husband was really flaked; Goth before Goth was Goth, you know; never went out during the day, didn't work, smoked a LOT). We got real flirty at work, went out after work a couple times, just for a drink or two. One afternoon (we got out at 3:00 on Fridays) she took me down to Roosevelt Park, across the street from the Vet - now Citizens Bank Park. We started making out, in her VW Beetle. We really going at it. She couldn't exactly take me home, and I was living in Jersey, so she gave me, well, you know ... something to remember the day by.

I still do.

By the following spring, we were super serious, but she wasn't divorced yet. I had moved back to Philly to be closer to her. We'd go to her poetry readings and openings. Everyone in her nouveau-beatnik clique knew who I was. During breaks, we'd slip off to have sex in bathrooms, and stuff like that. All my friends at my neighborhood bar knew her, too. Then her kids started asking me to stay over. Her husband got even nuttier. She wanted to reconcile with him - for his mental health, such as it was. I said fine, "Let's take the Summer off."

In the meantime, I got a new job, so it wasn't a workplace situation anymore. I met new girls, my "horizons" expanded. However, her whacko husband - who all the time begged her to come back - didn't want to now. She moved in with her parents in Upper Darby and tried to make another go of it with me. I was seeing a couple of much less, shall we say "dramatic", women at the new place and didn't really share her enthusiasm to try again. But, being the sweetheart I am, and attempting to make a nice ending to the story, I went out with her a couple more times. She must have thought I was just running a game on her; that my heart wasn't really in it anymore; that I was just looking for sex. Feeling used and betrayed, she tried to snuff me in my sleep with a pillow. She wasn't really trying that hard, but the point was made. She went home that night.

The following Wednesday - the day before Thanksgiving - I received a letter from her stating that we would both be better off without each other, and that I shouldn't try to call her because she wouldn't talk to me. Even though I had other things going on, the attempted murder and subsequent "Dear Randy" letter shook me up quite a bit. I went to the Thanksgiving parade in Philadelphia and watched it alone in the cold rain.

By December 1st, I was adjusting to life in Florida.

I made it till March.

I thought that I'd shaken her of my scent [so to speak], until one April afternoon after I moved back. I'd managed to sub-out my apartment while I was gone and returned to my old neighborhood like nothing had happened. As I was doing my daily run up at Penn, behind me I heard a screech, crash, yelling and screaming. She had driven her VW up unto the curb and tried to drive me through a store window.

Missed me!!!

She told the cops that her kids were fighting in the back seat and she was trying to calm them down when she lost the wheel. Oh, yeah, I'm beyond "Stab-worthy" ... I'm "Smother-him-with-a-pillow-and-if-that-doesn't-work-run-the-Bug-up-on-the-sidewalk-by-Franklin-Field-the-Friday-of-Penn-Relays-worthy"

About a year after that, she called me to borrow some money to move to Arizona.

That was all twenty years ago this week.

Another winner - literally ...

This was entered in Jim Anderson's Beer Philadelphia: Beer Lit 101 Contest, sometime back. The task was to craft a story around a dozen or so beer/brewing terms. Can you find them???

It was early to mid-April. I’m not exactly sure now. But it was definitely after Easter.

Anyway … I had just settled down in front of the TV for the evening. I put on the Comcast Sports channel to see what was on tap. Hockey or baseball? The Phillies were winning; the Flyers losing. I should have known there was trouble brewing.

Mother’s Day was just a few weeks away. Who was I going to bring to enchant dear Mother? Would it be Nikki Mars, the tall blonde candy heiress? Or perhaps Muffy Busch, the petite auburn brewery babe? I had been dating them both without the other’s knowledge for nearly sixteen months now and both were getting anxious. Both thinking I was after their fortunes as well as … well … ass.

My decision would be made for me and sooner than I had imagined.

Just as the penguin was singing “Doo-bee-doo-bee-doo”, my door flew open. It was “Batchelorette Number One.” And she was upset. I should have never given her one of my spare keys.

“So! You didn’t think I’d find out,” she ranted, “You thought you’d covered your tracks. A clever little bunny who hops from one garden to another and eats all the flowers he wants. Well, I followed your pellets right to your hole, Bugs!”

Even in her agitated and much pissed off state, she put a rise in my trousers like yeast in fresh bread.

“I want a commitment and I want it now!” she shrieked.

“Honey, relax. Let’s go to the soda shop and get a chocolate malt,” I pleaded with her. I figured that if I said the most stupid and clichéd thing I could think of, I could buy some time while she tried to get whatever it was that I just babbled. It didn’t work.

“When I think of the times I waited for you to call, and you didn’t. Of course you didn’t. You couldn’t. Because you were with her.” If it was possible she was getting even madder as she thought about it. “It makes my blood boil!”

“Hey, baby,” I was really back-pedaling now, “There were times I didn’t call her ‘cause I was with you, too, ya know. I played it fair, right down the middle. I wanted our relationship to ferment a little before I made up my mind.”

“Well, it didn’t ferment; it aged. And now it stinks like bad cheese.”

Those were the last words she’d speak to me. Someone else would do her talking now.
She reached into her purse and pulled out the most elegant hand-cannon her trust fund could buy. And I was sure she’d gotten the matching lawyer and self-defense plea bargain to go with it. The light was dim, but I could see five little Indians smiling at me from the cylinder of the revolver, and the Big Chief was already in the bottom of the barrel.

When my body hit the floor, the spilled lager from my glass mixed with the blood on the Pergo in a gruesome raspberry vinaigrette of loss and guilt.

I knew I wasn't going to die, not today anyway. I found the strength to look up her skirt, perhaps for the last time. My heart lifted when I saw that she wore the ring I gave her for Valentine's Day. She was mad now but she had already forgiven me.

I could barely hear the dialtone from the ringing in my ears as I called 911. (Quick lesson, never discharge a firearm in a small closed room.) As rapidly as the Police and EMT’s arrived “on scene,” as they like to say, I was down at least a pint or two as I was loaded unceremoniously into the vehicle. The multi-colored lights on the truck looked like candy. And the red and white truck looked like a big can of Bud. I lost the grip on my consciousness like it was a canoe paddle and I had just realized I was too drunk to swim to shore if I had to, which too far away to make it anyway.

Although we weren’t married, or even living together for that matter (and never would be now), it still went down as “Domestic Disturbance”.

Sometimes life isn’t all Skittles® and beer.

Life Inside A Ping Pong Ball

A lost gem - and, may I say, I'm kind of astonished that I wrote it.

Since the room was spherical, stark white and totally featureless, I had no landmark to say what was up or down. I had come to call the space immediately below my feet “the floor”, immediately above “the ceiling” and everything else “the wall” Its translucent shell bathed me in a diffuse twilight, with no definable shadows or highlights, much like I’d seen during a partial eclipse of the sun.

I was just sitting there minding my own business when the whole room suddenly and completely lost any regard it had with the laws of physics in general and gravity in particular. In the matter of a brief second, I was squashed to the floor, thrown to the ceiling, and spun around the walls with such abandon I could only imagine that it must have been what Dorothy felt while in the Twister, on her way to the fatal encounter with the Wicked Witch of the East, and subsequent adventures in OZ. Except there was no way for me to open the door and have my black and white world transformed to delicious Technicolor.

Nope, I was going to be here a while.

“Come on, doesn’t anyone want to play?” I heard a muffled voice ask. It had been a long time but I could still recognize a human sound when it presented itself. And this voice had the characteristics of a girl in her late teens, obviously drunk, definitely bored, and probably very attractive.

I had some physical evidence to support the first three assumptions.

Her voice had given up the helium filled timbre of childhood, shed the squeaky uncertainty of adolescence, and matured with the husky confidence to challenge the world, or at least her corner of it. It also was soaked in the summery vapor of once cold beer, now warm in a cooler of melted ice upstairs on a sun bleached deck, next to the cobwebbed gas grill, between two mildewed vinyl chaise lounges, purchased from Kmart in the beginning of the last decade. That voice held the breathy impatience of seeing too many sunsets across the same open expanse of Midwestern prairie, evening after evening, summer after summer, and knowing that the sun that was setting right now behind her house was at the same moment rising in front of an equally desolate house in Australia. But it was a rising sun, and rising suns bring warmth and hope. Setting suns only bring cold and darkness.

A young woman with that much inner awareness couldn’t be plain. Not in my world, bleak and monochromatic as it was.The room rushed over itself again, then leaped up and crashed down.

“You guys are all afraid of me, aren’t you?!!! Well, I can wait. You’ll get bored and want to play.”

Slushy voices called down the stairwell, and echoed off the bare ceramic tile. The music in the background gradually grew louder and more distinct as the speakers from upstairs were positioned strategically in the doorway to provide the most perfect balance of thundering bass and shrieking guitar.

“The music of pickup truck rebellion will never change,” I thought to myself. As long as there are girls, beer, and cars there will always be songs to sing. And as long as there are boys, beer, and guitars, there will always be someone to sing them.

1977

- from XPN / World Cafe 885 Greatest Albums of All Time -

134 MEAT LOAF - BAT OUT OF HELL (1977)
135 SEX PISTOLS - NEVER MIND THE BOLLOCKS HERE'S THE SEX PISTOLS (1977)

1977 was a pivotal year for me. I was short, fat and had a Mom-inflicted bowl job haircut. I looked like Oliver in the Brady Bunch. That summer I got contacts, learned to surf, discovered the Clash and Talking Heads and started school in the Fall a changed person, inside and out. I felt more confident, and (this is the important part) girls liked me. And not just the usual, geeky girls I always knew, but the attractive, sporty, "Cool" crowd. I was the "Bad Boy" ... but not really. Girls that wouldn't talk to me the previous year were now asking me what I was doing over the weekend, etc. I hadn't changed my personality, I just looked more like the Real Me, and was more approachable and more confortable being approached. Girls wouldn't talk to the little nerdy guy / the little nerdy guy was uncomfortable with the girls. Chicks digged Surfer Randy and Surfer Randy let them show him how much.

It was a hot summer night and the beach was burning
There was a fog crawling over the sand
When I listen to your heart I hear the whole world turning
I see the shooting stars
Falling through your trembling hands

You were licking your lips and your lipstick shining
I was dying just to ask for a taste
We were lying together in a silver lining
By the light of the moon
You know there's not another moment
Not another moment
Not another moment to waste

Her name was Carol. She was my second. It was pretty much what you would expect. A little bit "Beach Blanket Bingo," a little bit "Born to Run" ... after all it WAS Jersey.