– This is my second year at the Beer & Cheese Fest, so I feel more prepared. I know my limit. I know to eat more food. To pace myself. Not like, black out at any point. I mean, I think I know all this. It seems like I would have learned something from last year’s madness, right?
– We choose to walk to the convention center because the weather isn’t that terrible for January and the convention center is relatively close. Similar to how the moon is relatively closer to Earth than Mars.
– That’s a joke, it was a long walk.
– Throwing snowballs at each other makes 30 degrees feel positively scorching. This is how grade-schoolers can stay outside so long on snow days.
– I wear my leather jacket because it’s important to look like a sexy, well-off hipster while getting blasted on 3 ounce beer samples.
– I leave my leather jacket at coat check because I don’t fucking know what I was thinking why would I abandon my sex cloak like that I’m not even drunk yet
– We were promised line beers. There are no line beers. There’s a swag bag that’s actually a drawstring backpack. Yes, that’s useful, but it’s not beer. I know I said something about wanting to pace myself, but I also don’t want to stand in line sober like some asshole who isn’t here to get wassstttedddd.
– The second thing I sample is pepper mead. Like, peppercorns pepper. The shit you put in a grinder and crumble over a caesar salad. In mead. Honey wine. The second thing I sample. What the hell am I thinking. Everything is out the window now. FUCK THE RULES HERE COMES DAKOTA GIRD YOUR GODDAMN LOINS IT’S PARTY TIME
– Two drinks later and I’m telling some brewer that his 11% double imperial russian stouthammer tastes pretty good for motor oil.
– I have two quick cheese samples, then make the mistake of trying a blue cheese. I don’t like blue cheese. It takes like the grundle of a dishwasher. I pretty much forget about the cheese aspect of the festival after this.
– We’re marking drink counts on our arms because this seems like a good way of pacing ourselves. After perhaps drink three it becomes stunningly clear that marking drink counts on your arms is actually a good way to start a race.
– I begin to think, frequently, “I should get a beer for the walk to the next beer.”
– I eat some Jamaican sausage or something. A lady with a thick patois gives it to me. I think I was supposed to dip it in a sauce. I don’t know. This is my last meal of the day. It is perhaps 3 PM.
– There’s a silent disco. Imagine watching that dancing scene in Charlie Brown Christmas on mute. People flail like they’re being silently electrocuted. We desperately want to join in, but there’s a line and there’s no beer in the line.
– I climb into the trunk of the Mini Cooper on display. Last year I sat in the driver’s seat like a fool. The trunk is so much better.
– In a two minute span, one friend has a beer spilled on his shoes, then some mystery sauce, then drops his glass. It doesn’t break, but the crowd roars regardless. Excitable bunch, these drunk coworkers.
– I lose my friends about a dozen times. I think I would have lost them even if I was stapled to them. By hour three I’m in an exploring mood. Specifically, exploring the bathroom and exploring the concept of ralph and rally.
– Afterwards, my friends go to get food (good idea) while I climb a big snowpile (better idea) and follow the train tracks across a frozen lake having an important heart-to-heart with a friend (best idea). Later, we break into another friend’s apartment to do his dishes and eat toast (also the best idea). Oh, and go to karaoke. And another bar. And another bar! And then walk home hungover the next morning.
– Walk home 5 miles hungover the next morning. Seems like that deserves it’s own bullet point. Maybe even its own post. I saw some shit, man. God.
– RIP legs