On Beverage Choices

A man's beverage choices ...a rambling tour of the unseen and invisible.

Mike Pearson 2024

Which beer brand is acceptable for the working class adventurer?...at the edge of possibilities, on the brink of self discovery.

Beer divisions...beer types... sipping craft prototype inventions, or throwing empty Bud cans at stop signs?

Which spirited booze with which beer...? working class choices.

Those with feet planted and tense jaw muscles making a fuss about what someone else drinks...But...its not your tongue, not your mouth, not your belly. Not your call. Good try though...trying to make the world smaller and more tightly bound.

Experiments with taste vs social safety

Social safety ( the opinion of the group)

Social status level vs freedom to choose a beverage.

Don't make beverage choices outside of your social circle...unsafe. ridicule and exile for drinking the wrong beer.

 It's so important to drink what the group approves of...to fit in...to be seen and invisible at the same time.

Would a craft beer drinking, chai soy latte drinking man/ boy be more likely to take maternity leave?...be a feminist, drive can electric car, ride a bicycle to work?...

What about a man that drinks herbal tea and bottled water at social outings...after 20 years of booze, recreational drugs, ( snorting crank off the bathroom sink in a Tijuana titty bar)...the 24 hr parties, jail time for assaulting a bike gang, battle scars ( all on his front side)...from defending a pregnant stripper in an el Salvador walk in clinic. A man with wrenches and jumper cables behind the seat of his pickup truck, with manual locking hubs on his 4x4?

Been there done that 3 times over, got the t-shirt, won the prize , paid the freight and skidded into home plate just under the swinging glove of the catcher?/ He's not drinking your brand of beer, or anybody's beer. He has spilled more booze down the front of his shirt than the average human could ever dream of drinking...and here he is...tea in hand. Liver breathing a sigh of...oh fuck I'm glad that's over. Note...kids. A liver can't really breathe... or have thoughts...that is to say more correctly..if..a liver did have thoughts...we...would really have no idea what they were.

We only really know when a liver is truly and completely fed up and declares with a clear signal...I quit.

A middle finger  salute, a "fuck you" and an  "up yours" to the mouth breathers that give good beer a bad name by claiming ownership. As in...

" They" will tell you....with great and dramatic disdain....If you don't drink my brand of beer, you are not a real man, you are a whoosy, a sissy, a momma's boy. My beer is the only beer worth drinking. You wanna drink pine cone flavoured piss water with your pinky finger extended like a gay, French interior designer in silk pajamas? Go right the fuck ahead, but let it be known that a definite beating is a coming your way, a shunning, a cold shouldered disregard.

To continue with the theme...a fantastic, hyper chilled, complex Martini...is beyond what the beer and sprinkle donuts crowd can accept or begin to calculate the benefits of.

To the dirt between the toes people, vodka was made for shots, sloshed from a plastic jug and mixed with Walmart cranberry cocktail, disinfecting gun shot wounds inflicted by family members at Christmas dinner, and cleaning the grease from wheel bearings.

The 4x4 mud bogger, plumbers crack as daring fashion statement, automatic transmission fluid as cologne boys... can't fathom why a person would gently sip a cocktail... savour the moment, let the juice of angels glide across the tongue...when Jesus H Christ...you could double fist watermelon flavoured ethanol and get fucked right up, right quick. Save time, get the ugly face faster with less effort. Fuck ya.

Nothing says world champion like barfing out the side window of your lifted and hopped up F350 pickup truck...but forgetting to roll the window down first.

The Technicolor yawn, smelling like a hookers ass, running down the inside of the door to the " long live Dixie"  floor mats.

Before poisoned drugs were killing and maiming huge swathes of workers and young adults...there was alcohol. Just a finger snap away was old school organic pot...maybe, just maybe a touch of a heroin habit to manage pain.

Pain in the body. Pain in the depths of the soul .

Pain in the body from injuries and overwork. The back, the knees. Pain from shoveling dirt, lifting boxes and carrying a chainsaw up a mountain side.

Pain from hunching over a broken machine with a set of wrenches and a trouble light at 11 pm on a rainy Wednesday night, trying to get going again for 7 am start up.

Deep psychic pain of the soul. Loss of a loved one, loss of one's self. Loss of love, loss of life. Loss of money, cash, job, house, separation from friends and family.

Soul pain, down at the bone marrow. Hope evaporated, lost humanity.

The drive to get pain relief... temporary and fleeting, but relief at whatever cost.

Beer and whiskey shots. Bourbon, tequila and vodka shots.

The old pros who thought they were getting away with it .. sipping vodka at work...to ease the pain and drudgery of hopelessness.

In truth they were dying on the inside, while believing that they were living.

The seduction of the easy way out or through.

Liquid pain relief. Maybe just as the buzz kicks in, old dreams and aspirations surface.

Dreams of glory and gain, of winning the game by owning the mythical golden goose. And what if the golden goose turns out to be a trap...the golden noose?

The prize pulls you down, enslaved you.

Now...who owns who?

A drink, a toke...

The reaction is quick.

A touch of euphoria, truth serum seeps into the crevices of the brain pan. Maybe a suppressed emotion rattles to the surface.

In all reality, the first taste, the first hit will do the job nicely.

But no, a person has to chase the high, the buzz... pursue the numbing sensation to its rightful place.

Heroic talk and mighty plans fall off of loosened tongues.

Glory days recalled, and plans for conquest mapped out in the puddles of beer froth.

" He was feeling no pain"....isn't that whole point?

Beverage choice is heavily based on tradition and deep ingrained habit.

To demonstrate...choice of beer.

The whole process is much bigger than just consumption of an alcoholic drink.

To start. Working class male. It begins with the desire and or habit of purchasing the beer product. You might have the favorite purchase point. Liquor store, corner store, beer and wine store. Perhaps a favorite sales person, cashier. Maybe a bit of flirting or casual bullshit session ( bravado, lies, embellishment, exaggeration, ranging from " the world is rigged against us... Born to lose....to " I am the king of my world and all that I survey". Every word is a prayer, a curse, a statement to the great unfolding Void.

Then of course, the selection of the chosen beverage in a the usual packaging.

Six pack, cans or bottles. 12, 18...24...or a heroic 48.

And....the packaging, including individual labels must be really really close to what you expect to see. The lid, pull tab , cap must work as expected. No innovation, no changes.

Then...it's fairly important in the social scene...to be observed by others in your social circle carrying your chosen brand.

Carrying the expected brand to your pick up truck across the parking lot...acceptable.

Carrying a completely different product...or brand... different coloured packaging... questionable and suspicious. Probably resulting in social rejection ( from the people around you that feel unsafe with change or choices outside their known world.

To recap.

To maintain stability of the habit, internal and external. Buy the product that looks the same, feels the same, operates the same. Definitely ok if it's on sale...but would probably also pay a touch more rather than switch brands.

Smoking cigarettes can go hand in hand with the required setup for the " kicking back/ shutting out the world" movements.

Choice of cigarette brand, packaging goes in lock step with personal identity that's wrapped in the habit.

" I only drink ( insert beer label here)..." I smoke ( insert cigarettes brand here)

This creates an identity of the person. They can be quickly measured and judged to be ok...or a dangerous misfit if the choice is way too unusual for the social setting.

Dangerous misfits are unacceptable. They must be ridiculed, shamed, shunned, attacked or exiled.

Status quo is safer. " It's the way we've always done it"...safe and cozy like a warm quilt on a chilly morning.

Habit, habit, habit. Locked in. Safety and security. Acceptance. Don't stir the pot, don't mess with what works, don't shake things up.

I know what I know, why change?

Anyways. Beer has been safely purchased. Cigarette package in shirt pocket. Lighter close by. Does anyone use matches anymore?

Cheap, disposable lighters changed the game radically. A flat pack of matches used to be super traditional. Maybe, just maybe a fancy metal lighter... maybe engraved. Lighter fluid and flints. Thumb flick of the grippy little wheel. Spark fly. Gas vapours ignited. Flame erupts. Familiar sound. Flame stabilizes. Cigarette lit in the flame glow. Lid flipped back down with a muscle memory flick and satisfying snap of the hinged cover.

The new age lighter is...well... disposable. It's not really part of the habit. It's a tool for assisting the habit. A necessary tool , but not integral to the scene, the satisfaction, the vibe.

The Bic lighter...cheap, reliable with no real identity attached. Immediately tossed away the moment it malfunctions.

Colour doesn't really matter. Decorative design or pretty pictures...don't matter.

Does it work? ...then it stays. Doesn't work...fling it.

Beer, cigarette, pickup truck. Acceptable neutral colour clothes, acceptable logo on the mandatory hoodie. nothing flashy... nothing that can be questioned or ridiculed. Social safety. Group safety. Community safety.

No outliers.

The mediation of consumption.

The muscle memory habit.

Cigarette box pulled from short pocket...that thin profile Bic lighter pulled out.

Hands cupped to protect the sacred act.

Flick.

Feeble spark...no flame.

Not a problem. Just a misfire...flick again with full confidence.

Nothing. Spark, no flame.

No flame....no lit cigarette.

No lit cigarette...no reward.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Forgot that the lighter was empty last time.

Stuffed it back in the shirt pocket hoping it would magically refill itself to prevent any future disappointment.

But no. Dead lighter, cold, non operating cigarette.

No joy, Houston, No joy.

Buddy, got a light??

No , man...don't smoke.

Fuck.

Expected prize of the needed pull on the cigarette... disappears. Edge of panic. Habit denied.

Edges of the world start folding in.

" Maybe there's one in the truck"

Yes! Fuck ya.

Truck dashboard... obvious, open to line of sight. Quick shuffle through sunglasses, receipts and a couple pens. ( Also dried out and empty)

The treasure chest of the center console. A collection of spare parts from forgotten broken mishaps . More forgotten slips of crumpled, coffee stained, dirty fingerprints, dried out paper. Originally meant to be filed, collated, remembered and generally...dealth with.

Nestled in the center console, paperwork death row.

Shuffle through. No lighter. Musta missed it. Reshuffle. Hopeful bits of plastic colors.

No luck. No luck.

Desperation seeping in. Hope fading out.

Glove box. The cubby.

Nobody keeps gloves in there. Did they ever? Did " they" ever need to light a smoke as bad as now??

Fuck....I bet not.

3 years of insurance papers mashed into the glove box.

Quick flip through the plastic folders ...old papers.

Next folder...3 year old insurance.

Flip open last one. Fuck.... insurance expires today.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

Little trickle of sweat slides down the armpit. One lonely riverlet of lost hope.

Under the seat! Everything in the world that was ever lost and forgotten is laying in wait under every pickup truck seat.

Crouch down. Quick scan.

Darkness.

Pull phone from back pocket.

Flashlight function.

Searchlight on.

Checking for survivors.

An entire shopping mall of debris and detritus.

Pens and dust bunnies.

Loose change. A buck eighty five.

More receipts, shopping lists, to-do lists, candy wrappers, a Tim Hortons coffee lid, three pens, a 9/16ths combination wrench with the price tag still on it.

Wait. Blue plastic. Slender, slightly flattened cylinder shape.

Just a the back there.

Just a the end of fingertips reach.

Can it be?

Am I this lucky?

Reaching.

Reaching in over the dead, discarded and forgotten.

There!

It feels right. It sits in the hand right.

Weight...feels right

Retrieval. Success.

A blue Bic. Plastic fake chrome top, slightly rusted.

Hope.

C'mon you fucker, work.

Flick.

Flame! Glorious, life affirming flame. Full, strong and blessed by all the Gods that ever existed.

Fire, the primal requirement for civilized life.

Monkeys and blue whales don't have control of fire.

We do.

We own this fucking place.

Step aside in awe as we do what we please.

Conquerors of worlds, tamers of the wild and unorganized.

Blue Bic flame to dry, waiting cigarette.

Hands cupped. Hands come up, head leans down. Slight tilt to one side to get a good angle of contact.

Engagement. Flame connects.

Flame gives birth to glowing, smoking end of long white death stick.

Yeah, it'll kill me. But what a way to go.