In two days, I'm getting on a plane to China so I can see my wife whom I haven't seen since August. Apparently, I won't be able to access Xanga during that time, so I thought I'd get in a little extra blogging before I go (a goal made plausible by my "completion" of my final paper).

On my most recent pulse, I started with the phrase, "I have respect for beer!" (I'll come rec the most recent post of the first person who can name a) the movie wherein that is said, b) the character's name who said it, and c) the name of his major accomplishment. And yes, those are three different possible recs). Thing is, I really do have respect for beer. But let's clarify what I mean by beer. Tasteless, crystal-clear horse-piss made by mega-corps like Bud, Coors, and Michelob are not on my beer-range (beers I consider suitable for human, particularly this human's, consumption). If I drink a paler beer, it will be from a brewry that knows that a pilsner is supposed to be so wheaty you can almost "feel" it and that a lager is absolutely nothing like a pilsner except perhaps in color and transparency. I like a beer you have to taste, a beer that you're supposed to inhale before you drink to get it all, a beer that makes you want to think about the drinks you're consuming. As I said from the start, I have respect for beer, be it an ale, porter, stout, lager, or hefeweizen.

This is a problem for some of my Christian brethren. Some Christians believe that the Bible teaches that imbibing alcohol is a sin. Recognizing that many of my readers aren't Christians, I won't fill my blog with the biblical evidence against this view, but suffice it to say, the New Testament tells us to maintain self-control and not get drunk (see wifeofagayhusband's recent blog about alcoholism... which I've somehow managed to misplace or I'd give you a link). The Bible teaches moderation in all things, not asceticism (bit of irony, some of the best beer traditions are handed down from monastaries). This isn't an issue I push a lot in my church because it's a tertiary doctrine, but I feel like I could say it here.

I don't think this blog really has a point except to say that beer is good. If any of you Xangans are ever in West Texas and you want to buy me a beer, I'd be happy to meet up with you and join you in blessing God for the wonderful process of fermentation he gifted to us. Ah, what the heck, here's a little Bible reference for ya: John 2:9-10 Pretty famous passage, the one where Jesus makes "good wine"

One day I was driving west down the interstate, on my daily trek toward home. I noticed a man walking down the side of the road with a small backpack strapped around his shoulders. As I drew near, the man grew larger and larger until I was quite certain that I would never be able to fit him in the small cab of my pickup, but I decided to pull over and offer him a ride, just to be cordial. When I came to a stop and rolled down my window, the grinning face looking in at me was covered in hair. This man had the sort of hair and beard combination you only ever read about, but he looked friendly enough.

 

“You look like you’re going my way,” the hitchhiker said.

 

“Sure am. Hop on in,” I answered.

 

Slowly, the hitchhiker eased his way into my truck and was just able to get the door closed. He set the small pack in his lap, tried to get the seat belt around him with no success, then turned to me with his massive paw extended.

 

“Thanks for picking me up,” he said as we shook hands. “Can’t tell ya how many people just drive on past.”

 

“My pleasure. How long have you been out there?” I always ask that of hitchhikers I pick up.

 

“Oh, quite a while, quite a while,” he replied wistfully. We drove on in a not-so-awkward silence for a few minutes before he turned to me and asked, “So, how’s life treatin’ ya?”

 

“Alright, I suppose,” I answered, but before I could return the small talk, he laid a giant hand on my right shoulder.

 

“No, really,” he insisted. “How’s it treatin ya?”

 

“What do you mean?” I asked, wondering about his mental health.

 

“Ya know. Life. The universe. Everything!”

 

I glanced at him sideways for a moment before chuckling. “Douglas Adams fan, are you?”

 

He chuckled back, “Yeah, though he wasn’t much a fan of me, I guess.” Again preempting my response, he turned back to me and asked, “Well? How is it all?”

 

“Good, I guess. Why?”

 

He leaned back in his seat, by which I mean he shifted slightly, and said, “Oh, I just like to make sure people are enjoying it all. Me, personally, I think it’s all pretty good. You sure you’re enjoying it?” concern filling his voice. “Now, don’t you try and make me feel ok about it if you’re not. I wanna know you’re really enjoying it.”

“Well,” I squirmed a bit. Most people I pick up don’t get this serious about their small talk. “I mean, sure, I’ve got problems, just like everyone else. But over all, I’m liking the way things are going.”

 

A pensive look crossed his face, by which I mean his eyes squinted, his lower lip jutted out and a bit to the left, and his head bobbed slightly. “So,” he started slowly, “if you could change something about it all, what would it be? Say you could take something away or add something for a whole year, what would you change?”

 

I thought about his question for a moment, thought about the likelihood of his sanity for two moments, came back to his question for another two, realized I would need a pit stop soon for a brief moment, then came back to his question for another three moments. “I suppose I could do without all the dishonesty in this country,” I finally replied.

 

“Dishonesty, huh?” he thought it over for a bit, then asked, “So if you could get rid of all the dishonesty in the nation for a whole year, that’s what you’d want, right?”

 

“Sure, that’d be great. Then the bank would stop shorting my account all the time, the mechanic would stop ripping me off,” I stopped short of my sentence when I suddenly didn’t notice anything out of the corner of my eye. I turned to the passenger’s seat and, sure enough, he was gone. What? I didn’t say it was a normal day, did I? In fact, now that I think about it, it was about as abnormal a day as I’d ever had. My alarm clock didn’t go off on time, traffic was lighter than normal, my boss gave me a raise of $3 and added some bogus fee of $4, and I got to leave work an hour early and still get paid for it. Somehow, a giant hitchhiker disappearing out of my truck didn’t matter that much.

 

And I drove off into the sunset, alone with my thoughts.

 

The next night

 

I got home right around 7, threw a TV dinner in the microwave, cursed a little when the steam shot over my hand, and sat down for the rest of the 7 o’clock news. Something about a bunch of senators being indicted for something or other, some horrible news about the economy, so basically your everyday not-so-newsy white noise.

 

The night after that

 

Everyone at work had been talking about the news the night before, but I was rather zoned out and freely told that to anyone who asked how I was “handling all of it,” whatever that meant. I decided that I should probably actually watch the news that night. What I saw was, to say the least, shocking.

 

I woke up the next morning and the food I had made was cold and untouched. I had pudding on my face and the outline of my TV tray on my forehead. The news was still on.

 

Four nights later

 

I was glued to the 24-hour news networks. In that preceding week, 98 US senators had been arrested for at least as many crimes, the stock market had plummeted almost 1,000 points, and the national divorce rate had risen 25%. Strangely, my life was going great. There was a “bank error” that found an extra $2,500 in my account that I had lost to “fees,” the mechanic called and asked me to bring my truck back in so he could replace about a dozen pre-used parts he had installed with new ones for free, and my boss promoted me, citing a direct order from his superior to do so that had been given to him three years ago. Two days after that, I got my boss’s job.

 

I kept watching the news. I guess I was looking for the news that it was all about to go belly up for me. The nation was blowing up all around me, but I was soaring. I kept watching the news.

 

Three hundred, sixty-four days, twenty-three hours, and fifty-five minutes after the night before that first “next night”

 

I was riding my motorcycle through the post-apocalyptic ruins of what was once New England. In the preceding year, the government had fallen. A number of despots tried to rise to power, but none of them could maintain control. Despotism requires fear. Fear requires force. Nobody fears someone who only threatens what he can do by himself.

 

The world economy had shifted drastically during that time. A sudden vacuum appeared with the fall of one of the richest nations in the world. Only a handful of people were able to make anything like a living in this country; I was one of them. Somehow, after all the rest of the country had collapsed in on itself, we were able to thrive.

 

I’d traveled the country to talk to these people and I think I’d managed to reach all of them. The only thing that was consistent was that none of us changed anything about the way we lived our lives. Nothing changed for us; everything changed for the rest of the country, but nothing changed for us.

 

As I rode on, I noticed a man walking down the side of the road with a small backpack strapped around his shoulders. As I drew near, the man grew larger and larger until I was quite certain that I would never be able to fit him on the backseat of my chopper, but I decided to pull over and offer him a ride, just to be cordial. When I came to a stop and rolled down my window, the grinning face looking in at me was covered in hair. This man had the sort of hair and beard combination you only ever read about, but he looked friendly enough.

 

“Hey you! It’s been a long time,” he greeted me. “So, how’s life treatin ya?”

 

With sudden recognition, I gaped and pointed at him. “I haven’t seen you in… in…”

 

Looking down at his watch, he said, “In about three minutes, a full year. So, how’s life treatin ya?”

 

“Um,” I stumbled over my words, “well, the country’s completely trashed, there’s no more economy, and most social structures have completely fallen to pieces.”

 

“Yeah,” he paused. “So, how’s life treatin you?”

 

“Well, uh,” I thought things over. I was one of a handful of people whose lives apparently fit perfectly with the way the world worked. My life was wonderful. I wondered if that was ok. “Um, well, my life is going strangely well.”

 

“Yeah, yeah. I kinda thought so. Good job.”

 

And I rode off into the sunset, alone with my thoughts.

That's what I'm going to call this practice. I'd like to once again give some of the beautiful comedy and/or wisdom of Chuck Lorre (see two posts back for the first instance of my Xanga whoring). While I don't agree with all of the things on this list of Lorre-wisdom, it's still pretty funny. I've decided to highlight the ones I really like/agree with. As always, this and other vanity cards can be found at www.chucklorre.com

CHUCK LORRE PRODUCTIONS, #184

Don't fall for a woman who has had sex with one of your rock n'roll heroes. No matter how emotionally evolved you think you are, you will never enjoy listening to Eric Clapton again.

Don't lurk around web sites where people comment about your work unless you're drunk.

Don't use emoticons. You're too old to communicate like a twelve-year old girl.

Don't forget that you are the product of a culture that went stark raving mad about ten thousand years ago. Adjust your thinking accordingly.

Don't answer TV critics questions about the state of TV comedy. It's a trap.

Don't eat anything bigger than your head. True in the sixties, true today.

Don't believe that crap that you're as young as you feel. Your feelings lie.

Don't hug men while shaking their hand. Enough already with that. The shake/hug (shug?) is probably something Roman guys did when their empire was in decline.