Why the Wagon Won't Let Me Back On

At one point in my career, I told myself I'd never drink again. Admit it, you've done it too. There's no shame in it, really. I'm glad I stopped at once.

I was young, naive, all of 16 years old and my first experiment with vodka had failed with flying colors (by the way, that color was red, the same color as the cranberry juice I ingested just hours before, and yes, it was definitely flying). My best friend laughed at me, and rightfully so. I returned the favor the following summer.

I know now that it was dumb of me to say, because it wasn't more than a few weeks before I was partying again. I learned my lesson. As I sat there sipping my Molson (it would be years before I had the courage or the stomach to hit hard liquor again), I realized that no matter how many intestinal mistakes I made (not many after that first one), I would always come back to the sauce. Not to rely on it with any sort of chemical dependency-- that's a disease-- but, well, hell I just like my beer.

I'll attempt to steer this rambling bit back to a topic with this little analogy:
Imagine you like ice cream. For some, this won't take too much right-brain power. And this ice cream is slowly making you look like the first season of Roseanne, causing you to walk through doors sideways and setting you on the fast track to type 2 diabetes. Now imagine there's a Haagen-Dazs factory across the street. You think you're going to quit? You think you've got that much willpower? You think you can lay off that last pint of Rocky Road? Really? You think so? You think you're that tough?

Well, you're wrong. And I know this because I have the #1 beer bar in the country within safe walking distance of my apartment. At any given time, over 500 types of beer. They even keep track of how many beers you've drank through a low-tech computer system. There's free stuff rewards for milestone beers (50, 125, 500, etc.). And I'm supposed to stay away from this? Sure, right, no problem.

It's like putting cookies in front of Cookie Monster, Scooby-Snacks in front of Scooby-Doo, cocaine in front of the 1986 Mets.

I'm not saying I'm some sort of dysfunction on society. I have a job I drive to every morning. I'm not violent or destructive. Not by any means. I'm just saying hey, I like the sauce.

I'm ending today with a trivia question. Guess how many different beers I've had at this holy Mecca of hops?
A) 100
B) 250
C) 400
D) 550

You've reached the bottom of the glass.
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