Barley Poet - Polk on Polk

It was always supposed to be about the beer.


It was never really about the beer.


  Life took many turns in the last 3 years as I took on the mantle of the Drunk Polkaroo and began sharing what I was putting in my glass with the world. It started as a lark and now I find myself on the precipice of a life I'm not sure I understand with the direction unknown.
  Almost from the beginning I started to share what I was doing or thinking as I drank my latest find. Little stories, props and asides made for a better time for me as I began to slow down and explore my past and my own demons that remained with me all these years. The beer was a way to communicate my emotions and thoughts, whether anyone read them or not. To put down and shine a light on some of my darkest moments as well as celebrating some of my triumphs was exhilarating, still is to be honest, and on I went.   Videos came next and finally Twitter, which despite many peoples warnings, has been where I have truly found my voice. The blog has slowed down a little in the last couple of months, but I probably still write somewhere around a couple of thousand words a day between all the other places I express myself. Not to take away from what I do here, it has a place and a time and that will be a little more frequent as I move on with the next steps of this walk about the world.
  I recently started to ponder why I bothered to do any of this at all. So many of my social media friends move in and out of regular posting, time constraints, kids and jobs get in the way and I think to a large extent, the sheer number of people doing the same thing has taken the shine of being one of a few away from the whole enterprise. It's not easy to cut through the noise and feel like you are actually connecting with people when the voices start to blend together and you feel like you've lost your way. Perhaps I read too much, but I have noticed things and paused to wonder why I have continued to do exactly what I do, without respite for almost 1000 days in a row.
  I like to think I make a difference for some people but I am not naive enough to think I move the meter on beer sales one iota with a pretty picture on Instagram or a funny (to me) video on YouTube. (Follow along here if that's your kind of thing : Pints with Polk )
   What I hope is that I have been able to affect is opening up the conversation on depression, anxiety, alcohol abuse and a host of other subjects I am constantly talking about in any post when the fire strikes me.
 It was never really about the beer at the end of it all, the beer was merely the vehicle I drive to find out where I'm headed next. I don't have a plan or even a clear agenda when I buy beer and talk about it. Coming home, I just grab something out of the fridge and have at it while I let the day ruminate in my mind. I talk of flavours and give my rating but in between all that, I leave a little of my soul online and with it, my only legacy. No children means when I'm gone and those few who knew me in this time, I am no more. But with my digital footprint, I will at least exist a little longer, maybe even helping someone long after I am gone.
  The videos give me a little glimpse into where I was when I made each one, some quick and simple, others drawn out with a message I wasn't sure I had when I started. I see myself and know that I exist, right here and now.  Putting myself in my photos recently just because I was feeling the need to be there, to see that I had that moment and outside of the inevitable slog of trying to keep the 50 hour workweek from dragging me down that I was still and truly Polk.
  I don't think I will ever stop writing now, it has become too integral to my everyday routine. Not everything sees the light of day and I will lean a little hard on the poetry because it has given me new light in my work. I enjoy thinking about every beer and where it fits on the style guide I have created from well over 3000 beers in a little under 3 years. My rating system is mine alone and I love it for what it gives me, despite the many misgivings I have about it. I will continue to make videos almost every day when I can, I rather enjoy the camera and watching them back, it means I'm never drinking alone.
 Instagram (link) will always hold a special place in my heart and as the streak nears 1000 days, I look forward to continuing to appreciate the wonderful art being created by beer lovers everywhere on this app. There is a more communal feel to the beers and I like to see the friendships online blossom as people seek out new beers and travel around having meetups and trades. It's a beautiful thing.
  Twitter (link) is where I spend most of my online creativity now, it is a rocket ship that I love to ride and see where it takes me. It has become a stream of conscious for me as I engage myself with mental health, workplace and life problems and of course, the ever present beer in hand. Poetry has become a huge part of my everyday life and rarely do I go more than a few hours without some kind of randomly worded rhyme coming from my fingers. Not all of them are what I would call winners, but I'll stand by them as genuine and truly from my heart.
  The whole enterprise is driven by my love of great beer, the people who drink it and those who work in the industry. You have all played some part in making me who I am now and I thank you for sticking around this long, as I do tend to go on a bit when inspired. I am not going anywhere, changing anything except that I will always follow my muse wherever it takes me and that will be perhaps the best thing to come.


Stay tuned, as long as I'm here, I'll be out there!


Cheers!


Polk

Serious Polk
Barley Poet

 

Thursday on the Patio (Part 5)

"One more round"
  Nothing made him feel better than when he had time for just one more. He knew it would leave him feeling a little fuzzy and probably lead to more than one nightcap when he got home, but he couldn't help himself.
  These post work retreats to the patio at the local chain restaurant were always a little disappointing and the selection of beer was at best a disaster of light and overpriced macro beers with one or two 'blah' craft beers tossed in to appeal to no one in particular. His craft beer pals avoided places like this with a passion and his workmates didn't get all the fuss about something as pedestrian as beer. But for appearances sake and to keep up his position at work, he would join in this near the end of the week ritual and its cheap buckets of Corona that made everyone else so happy.
  The menus at these places were a jumble of slogans, symbols and terrible jokes that made him long for a well made burger and a strong IPA. The nachos were heaped but the quality matched the price and always made him consider whether he hated himself enough to wash it down with more quasi beer in an attempt to look like a normal, well adjusted person. Fried appetizers appeared and someone made a comment about corporate that drew gales of laughter from the group. He had missed the joke but knew how to play along and guffawed like a jackass before he pounded yet another watered down version of a beer he would never love.
  He longed for a return to the taproom, it was but minutes down the road. He tried once to take everyone there, but they struggled with trying the different styles and complained about the lack of fishbowl sized mixed drinks and overflowing $10 buckets of beer. He lacked the nuance or conviction to educate people and went along with them as they returned to their routine and the banality of mass produced food and beer.
  He knew them to be good people, solid parents and in most cases, contributing members of society. He was none of these but he played a part as best he could, only occasionally slipping up and having a few too many. He was a happy drunk, but a sloppy one and these little forays into suburban culture taught him how to cover his latent asshole tendencies and drink with some kind of moderation. But to be honest, a half dozen Corona's didn't do that much, so the shot of whisky he grabbed while saying he had to hit the washroom left a glow on his face belied by the tepid beer in front of him. No glass, just pump a lime into the bottle, turn it round and drink.
  For most people, the hour or so spent on this patio represented a break from the duties of home, a stolen moment laughed about as ditching responsibility but never over done and always home before the sun got too low. They had all long ago made the transition to proper adulthood and gone on merrily to that life with open arms. No regrets and a future of 40 hours a week and a couple of vacations at the beach with the kids until it was time to retire. Milestones met along the way marking progress and finally validation of a life well lived. On this point, he envied them, feeling the weight of his increasing age pulling him down and the only milestone he was looking forward to was the pie in the sky dream of travelling to Europe to explore beer in a way he dreamed of.
  He came round from his ruminations to see the party was breaking up, dinner time was calling and so too were the multitude of sports everyone's children seemed to play. Coach Mom or Dad jackets were stored in the SUV and as he said his good byes until tomorrow, he waited until the last person climbed into their symbols of success and headed back into the bar, having decided not to ruin great beer by trying to drink it after this day. One more round and he could Uber home and fall into an intermittent slumber with a feeling that maybe tomorrow he'd find a way to make it better, to make it work again.
 

Mondays in Reflection (Part 4)

"I'm good."

  His hand rested pensively on the stem of the tulip glass, swirling it slightly as the cherry red liquid inside slowly ebbed and flowed. Sour beers were okay by him, but that 'up all night heartburn' had slowed his appreciation of them considerably in the last few months. He thought maybe it was that late night binge eating tacos and pizza was to blame at first but now found himself contemplating a stop at the pharmacy for some antacids on the way home when he left the taproom.
  He knew the food was probably a bit of an issue but add together a few too many pounds, age and that sharp but deliciously funky acidic sourness he associated with her laughter and you had a recipe for a long night questioning more than his choice in beer.
  He took a sip and closed his eyes, this yearly release taking him back to the first time he had it, which seemed like a lifetime ago but was just a little over 3 years.
She had been new to his life then and they were both using craft beer to explore their relationship with each other as well as with the burgeoning local scene. She wasn't into sour or farmhouse ales but preferred the hoppiest of IPAs, dank and bitter, while he was a pan-drinker of anything, the boozier, the better. They met as people used to, through friends and at various festivals over a half a year before he had the courage to ask her on a solo beer tour to the big city and some of the finest offerings out there. It was in those taprooms, taking transit and sitting a little closer each time that he started to fall in love. She wasn't like anyone else he knew, she laughed with pure joy and longed for adventure, with an astonishingly good tolerance for alcohol. Not that he would have noticed much, his nervousness always gave way to overindulgence and he would start the pattern that would ultimately end their relationship 2 years later. Perhaps she thought it was cute when he would act a buffoon, he was a happy drunk and never wavered in that respect. She played along and the two of them spent most weekends either hungover or working on another one as bottle releases and tap takeovers vied with festivals and other beer fuelled events for room on their social calender.
  He ordered another bottle, the pomegranate this time, and looked around at the other tables. Laughter echoed into the night and he could see the heads bowed in closer conversation, an indication of the love that existed out there, just not right now for him. While the server poured his much anticipated purchase into his Teku, he marvelled at the colour and once again drifted to the memory of what used to be the happiest time of his life. Every sip a beautiful tragedy of love found and lost in the beer that they had both held so dear.