This is an American Irish Pub. How can I tell? Real Irish pubs have Carling's Black Label on tap. Yep, Black Label. The same $14 a case beer your buddies bought in college (or I bought if I was your buddy).
I once went fishing with a buddy, got stuck in the mud during a squall, and had to walk out. We had a cooler in the truck with most of a twelve pack of Black Label left on ice.
When we got back to the truck someone had shot a hole in the front window, rummaged through the glove box, and taken the cooler out of the back. We drove the truck out of the now dried mud.
The cooler thieves dumped the cans of Black Label beside the truck. Nope. Dead serious. That's the true story of this one. There was something wrong with those guys.
Something wrong with us, too.
It is Friday night and I'm writing here with a feagle (that's a short foxhound who looks a lot like a beagle) at my feet. I should be out having fun. I should be out with friends at a bar.
I'm here at the keyboard composing.
What is wrong with me? What is wrong with you? Why must we lock ourselves in the basement utility room and scribble passages about adventure in Peru instead of talking to someone in a social setting about going to Peru?
Well, Peru ... maybe not. It can be cold and Americans tend to pant like dogs down there.
I love Estes Park in Colorado. It's the gateway to the eastern part of Rocky Mountain National Park. Great place at 7500 feet above sea level.
At attitude, I don't enjoy drinking. I go straight from having a couple drinks to hangover. No drunken revelry in-between. Drinking and now .... hangover.
Right. So back to this writing thing. Why are we drawn to this solitary devotion?
What is wrong with us?
It's got to be some sort of curse. I must have stepped on the wrong shadow. Must have.
Off to the prose. The story doesn't write itself.
Have a drink. Skip the hangover.
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