Dive Bars at the end of the street

  When was the last time you ordered a pitcher of beer? Put salt in your glass? Dropped a shot of whisky into your pint and downed the whole thing in one go? Funnelled or shot-gunned a beer?
  The not so distant past of my life is filled with such things and while I appreciate the wonderful experiences craft beer has brought into my life, I sometimes miss the carefree way I used to enjoy a pint or seven at my local, not so shiny, pub.
  In my youth until my early 40's, I was an unabashed drunkard. I sought and found refuge in the bottom of many different intoxicants and while I am no longer on that particular track, I have a weird affinity for the smoky, dank dive bars of that era. There was an undercurrent of anger in some, jovial drunken happiness in others and a fine variety of either Canadian or Blue in both. The cheapness of the pitcher should have probably tipped me off to the quality of the beer, but who cared about that when you could get destroyed for $20 and stagger home, off track and blacked out. This was many of my nights in the late 90's and while I wrote about it last year in my post Frankie and Cat Stevens - When I was a Drunk in a Dive Bar, it still rolls around in my head to find a comfortable booth in a questionable local and just have at 'er.
  The days of old are usually romanticized to some degree by the nostalgia industry and we all yearn for "simpler" times while slow sipping a $15 Imperial Stout and bemoaning the complications of this modern life. Would I trade my new found love of great beer for those days still being my life? Not a chance, but I do miss them nonetheless. Karaoke, darts and the raucous laughter of my bar fly pals remain a memory that grows only fonder with the passing years as the characters of those long ago days begin to disappear from this planet and I feel like a little bit of me goes with them. There are old drunks and young punks, but for one glorious period of my life I was one in the same and it was wonderful.
  While I would love to go out and visit all the dive bars and beer soaked, out of the way, neighbourhood places that dot The Hammer, I know none of them will live up to the memory of what was. The feeling of closeness with a bunch of other down and out working folks who wanted nothing more than a respite from the drudgery of every day life. I'm sure it still exists but I have left behind those days and will let the hazy visions of my nights spent in that warm embrace of nihilism be just that, a piece of who I am and now long gone.
  Perhaps a brewery will open within walking distance of The Manor one day or even a half decent bar with a nice tap and bottle selection. That would allow me to return to the days when I sat down and felt like I belonged without having to go so far from home. My undying loyalty will go to the place that does just that and perhaps it will happen before I shuck this mortal coil for that old bar stool in the sky.
  A guy can dream, can't he?

Cheers!

Polk

Beer Festivals and Polk - A complicated relationship

  

I don't think there is any other way to do this. I mean I've known for a while my true feelings and kept them to myself. I tried and tried to get in line with popular thinking and experience the things like everyone else does. I want to be part of the good time gang but it is time to admit the sad truth about life as Polk.
  I don't like going to beer festivals.

  There I said it and I'm sure I will feel better at some point. I am not sure when this transformation happened, what kind of beer loving person wouldn't love seeing tens of great craft brewers in one place, hanging out with like minded people and experiencing all the frivolity a festival can bring? Apparently it's this guy and as I usually do, I have a theory.
  At the beginning, beer festivals were novel and fun, Kat would drive or we'd take a cab and get bombed on great and not so great beer, one 4 to 6 ounce sample at a time. I always went to every event with the intention of only sampling a few beers and maintaining my wits but ten minutes in and  I'm downing beer like Nic Cage in Leaving Las Vegas and trying to test every beer offered. It's loud and the lines may be long but all I can think of is pounding the next one, regardless of style or flavour profile.

  What makes me like this? I practice self control all the time at home and this should be no different except for one thing...I have to be social and that's when the anxious nervousness kicks in and I turn to the one thing I know can calm me down. Every sample alleviates my fears, bringing a false peace that exists only if my blood alcohol reaches a state of pure drunkenness. I have never gotten comfortable in relating to other people without alcohol and that is something I guess I should work on but I'm not sure if a hall full of $3 beers is a place to explore and confront the demons of anxiety.
  I don't like waking up the next morning feeling the effects of the previous evening. When I drink at home, I never go hard, preferring to enjoy every beer for what it is and not get hammered. I have no desire to see the return of the blackness and despite my best efforts, it always happens when I get together with a group of people and the beer flows. I chase inebriation in a crowd like a dog on a bone, my one skill as a former heavy drinker is the ability to put away a lot of beer faster than almost everyone else. The slurring words, half open eyes and poor motor skills are but a happy by product of a night filled indulging the worst of who I was and could be, I don't blame the festivals or the people I know, I just can't help who I am. That nagging voice comes creeping in whenever we hit the entrance and my self doubt about being able to handle a crowd without liquid courage roars into the front of my mind.

  It is funny that I spend 50+ hours a week working with the public in my job and at no point do I crave a beer. I mean, who wouldn't love a pint at lunch but I don't need alcohol to be able to do what I do. I talk to and deal with so many people and their problems every day and don't let it affect me but put me in a convention centre with 20 breweries and 5 friends and I'm looking for a funnel and a keg. It's not normal but it is what I deal with. Maybe it's the bro factor, no matter where we go, it's creeping its way into this craft beer space as the scene becomes more popular and mainstream. Or maybe it's that I can't really enjoy and experience each beer the way I've trained myself to that makes me lose control. Not staying focused and present in the moment and scrambling to get to the next one is not how I drink anymore nor do I have any desire to return to that life.
  It would be silly to say these festivals aren't about drinking a lot of beer. If you have 20 brewers show up with even 3 beers each that's 60 possible samples over perhaps 4 or 5 hours at best. After the 10th one, you're not really getting much out to them anymore except the ABV if you're being honest and that is fine for most people. They attend these events to have fun and let loose and I can support that whole heartedly. I will continue to promote and encourage people to go to these events but for me, right now, the cost in both money and my self worth is far too high a price to pay.
  The answers I seek about myself aren't always the ones I like to find but my pursuit of an honest and open life mean that is what I get sometimes. I don't want to give the impression that I don't like festivals, the people who attend them or the breweries who participate, I just am struggling with the person I become when I go. Not everyone has that kind of problem and I do love to see the pictures and stories my friends share when they go to various events around the world. I hope someday I will be able to come back in a better state of mind and without the anxiety driving me to forget everything I've worked so hard on and lean in hard on getting my drunken stupor on. Life is funny but not when your knee deep in a sea of trying to bullshit yourself about being in control.
  I'll be cheering you all on from the sidelines this year and hoping everyone has a safe and fun time at every event. The people who volunteer or work them are pretty awesome too and along with my extended beer family, those are the things  I will miss the most. But after a lot of time spent reflecting on my own mental health, I do need a break from that part of my craft beer life so that I can keep my sanity intact.
Have fun and remember to try something new when you get the chance, that's a pretty awesome part of any festival for me.


Cheers!
Polk
 
 


 

The Party

So many questions for this guy...

I'll be brutally honest, as always, and say that for an event that I've allowed to shape my life, I remember precious little about The Party. Lost in the mists of time and booze, many of my memories are clouded by what I've been told or think I recollect. The exact details of this life changing moment are never clear, but always there in my mind with one single word...Why?


Why did I stop caring about academics? Why did I turn my back on those who tried to help me? Why did I choose a life of struggle when I could have done so much more? Why did I reject everything I thought I wanted to be?


These are just some of the questions I ask myself when I look back and I have no answers. 43 year old me would love to help the confused 17 year old Rob to not make these errors in judgement, but I know in my heart I wouldn't listen to any reason. There are a myriad of examples of people trying to step in and help me back then and I rejected them all.


It all began on a March break in the early 90's. The family had left for a week and I was left home on my own because I was working and hadn't given my parents any reason not to trust me. I'm sure they suspected I would have a few friends over and maybe bend the rules a little, but nothing to the scope of what I did. As soon as they left, my friends descended by the dozens for a party that now seems to have stretched forever that week. Fuelled by teenage angst, I plowed through bottle after bottle of whisky, oblivious to the fact that we lived in a pretty tight neighbourhood and word of my misdeeds would no doubt get back to my parents. My nihilistic view on life at this time had plenty to do with it. I was losing interest at school, neglecting my studies with an a vengeance and not thinking of any future. I wanted nothing more than to party with my friends and be a "grown up". I put that in quotes because I had no idea what that meant, my arrogance making up for my lack of knowledge.
 I cannot tell you what happened, I see little snippets in my mind, but they are like ghosts in the works. Jack Daniels, pizza boxes and beer bottles litter the floor; a hazy smoke filled basement with hair metal blaring from the boom box and the feeling of this is how life should be linger in my memory as the week went on. I had no concept of what life really required of you, I couldn't do laundry properly or budget my money and yet I knew I was ready to take on the world. Such hubris is a common theme in much of my life since then and I struggle with those consequences to this day.
The Party itself was like a thousand other teenage parties before and after. Dumb kids get access to a place to let loose and someone has a friend who can buy them booze, mission accomplished on both points. While the exact events are not as important as what I did when my family returned, I really hope I had a good time because it was a long time before I felt happy again.
Knowing that I was deep into a whole world of hurt when Mom and Dad found out what I had done, I left before they got home. Long before cell phones, I cannot imagine their struggle to deal with what had occurred and my running away. Again, my memory is not clear on the details, but I know that I made a choice that week to throw away the plans I had been making since I was a young boy to go to university, become something bigger than myself and make a difference in the world. It wasn't a conscious decision, but it was one I made in anger, defiance and depression.
 I now know that I was struggling with anxiety and a darkness that had come down like a veil on my life. This was long before we encouraged young men that it was okay to be sad or express their feelings. You weren't supposed to show any weakness because that was a sign that you weren't man enough. I work hard today to change that not only for myself but for the young men I know.
 Part of my problem was that I was not getting the results I had in school when I was younger. Being labelled as "gifted" was a blessing at first, but as I levelled off and became part of the regular core of kids, I still yearned to be special. I imagine that if I had applied myself a little harder and worked on it, I could have achieved my lofty goals, but when the learning that came easily when I was young turned difficult, I was lost. Once again, I should have talked to someone, many people tried to talk to me, but I was building a wall that still hasn't come all the way down.
 The aftermath of that week long self indulgent, arrogant train wreck of life choice was years of wandering. I moved out and lived on friends couches for days or weeks at a time. Returning home many times, I attempted to go back to my life before, but couldn't stay straight for long. I dabbled in drugs but they never really did it for me. Alcohol was my fuel and it took many of my memories with it in its' wake. Things would be okay for a little while and then I would again begin raging against an imaginary slight and run away. This was my life for many years after and I think it is because my parents never closed the door on my return that I never truly was lost. I could cling to that happy memory and slowly I grew up...very slowly.
I eventually did finish high school, with a big assist to my Mom who made it her mission to see me graduate. I immersed myself in the local hockey association, coaching kids and walking away from the people I had partied with during those fateful years. Occasionally I would have a few beers, but it seemed I was moving away from those terrible days and had something bigger coming. But my self confidence had been shaken by my mistakes and despite an amazing offer to pay for my first years tuition from my Uncle Lyle and Aunt Cathy, I couldn't return to academia. Life was rounding into a form though and my time behind the bench seemed to be the path I needed to find to fix everything. I really thought I was bound for the NHL one day...
 This shows you how little I had learned, nothing is ever that easy and life was going to throw me a curveball once again. The next chapter of my life was both terrifying and amazing; Filled with memories that make me smile and cry, often at the same time...but that is something for another day.