There’s a lot of chatter these days about whether there will ever be a brown ale craze that matches the current IPA craze, and I can tell you with a very high degree of certainty that there will be.
You’re thinking: what, do I have a crystal ball or something? It turns out I do. I found a dirty old crystal ball in a garage sale this past weekend when we were vacationing in Jackson, NH, and as soon as I got home I set my mind to restoring it to near pristine condition. It’s not that hard to polish up a crystal ball. A little WD-40, some emery paper, some human spit and elbow grease, and, voila: a perfect crystal ball.
My investment paid off immediately: I’m already less resentful and hostile toward meteorologists, thanks to my crystal ball. I also can see the end of the hoppy ale craze, and the beginning of affection for the subtler, sweeter flavors that brown ales offer. When I look deep into the future, like three years from now, I see myself cutting deals with beer distributors for my brown ale, and imposing tariffs on those pubs that won’t play fair with brown ale.
I know what you’re thinking: any chance you can borrow my crystal ball? Sorry, I’m planning to use it this week.
However, I’ll note that you’re on the Crystal Ball waiting list.
Let’s say I’m going to die one day (though, let’s be honest, the jury is out on that), I bet that my family, through their grief, would see the silver lining of an opportunity in my demise. I’m not embarrassed to admit that I have held onto some things that other people would erroneously regard as useless junk, and I can see my loved ones leaping at the opportunity to lose my precious keepsakes. Some stuff would inevitably require a dumpster: the wood from my parents 1970’s-era deck that seemed just too good to be tossed in the landfill; the boards I retained from the attic of my house in Roslindale when I renovated the space (“old growth pine is valuable wood!”)
There I’ll be, watching from my relaxed perch on a big, puffy cloud up in heaven, as they root through my belongings and decide what to include in my casket with me, like that swatch of fabric I cut from an old hide-a-bed in my parents’ basement so I could frame it like an old photo (“why? why?”). They’ll have me dressed up in a double-breasted suit from the mid-1990s, with smelly old bike shoes that I keep for rainy days (literally), the Mass General Hospital tie that I was given upon my departure from that job in 1989, my threadbare Sanibel Island hat, and torn bike gloves. Maybe even the glasses that I purchased online, which promptly broke, will be taped and glued back together and jammed onto my face.
Despite packing the casket with old drum sticks, international postage stamps of little to no value sprinkled around me like confetti, and an old 1940s-era clam rake that the undertaker manages to get my stiff hand to grip, my family will be forced to hire a one of those “picker” guys to come and haul away mounds of other (highly valuable) stuff. “Take the drums too! He never played them after he injured his leg in that gruesome hurricane in 1991.”
Given that I’m in heaven, I won’t be angry, but, wait, that old computer has a hard drive on it with interesting tidbits of my writing! And which of you is going around telling people that my college notebooks only serve to reveal me to be more of a doodler than good note-taker. “To hell with all of you!”
I’m quickly jabbed in the ribs by an angel, who reminds me that there is a 90-day probationary period in heaven and I ought to be on my best behavior if I want to retain my spot for the rest of eternity.
Of course, the 90-day heavenly probationary period is irrelevant if I stay alive forever.
In the next book I write I’m going to air all kinds of dirty laundry from inside the Whitehouse. The easy access I have to the inner workings of the current administration reveal information far beyond what you get in official presidential tweets. Not that the president tweets very much or shoots off inane opinions about world issues while sitting on the toilet. He’s not that shallow.
But lately he’s been asserting that there is no dirty laundry to be aired, and that just blows me away. The presidential airspace is full of clotheslines designed specifically to air out the recently-cleaned dirty laundry. So, agreed, not actually dirty, but formerly dirty and now being aired out to dry.
If you’ve bought into Sarah Sanders party line that “this president has never generated a single piece of dirty laundry,” consider this: the reason you rarely see Melania is that the president has ordered her to wash dirty laundry and hang it out in the Whitehouse yard surreptitiously, behind cleverly-designed barriers that foil paparazzi cameras. Or else she can kiss that US citizenship goodbye, because he’s sick of her talking about bullying all the time. And no, he didn’t have sex with that trollop Stormy Daniels or any other hot babe porn stars.
Instead of this dirty laundry witch hunt, would someone please look into Hilary Clinton’s dirty laundry?
Thanks for your message. Sorry, I’m not available to answer your query. It turns out I’m away from the office.
What does that actually mean? Aren’t we all “away from the office” these days, emotionally speaking? What makes me feel compelled to wear my absence on my sleeve? And how about some details?
All I can tell you is that I’m not going to be able to respond to your email while I’m away. I’m not going to read your message on my phone whilst at the beach with my family. It’s just not my style. I mean, sure, if it was a big shot calling, like the president of the United States of America asking me to break a couple laws here and there (and the emails were marked “urgent”), I might notice and would quietly make a plan to undermine an election.
But otherwise I’ll get back to you next week.