The Path not Taken - A tale of Coors Light, Temptation and the Christmas that wasn't

  

There is a very fine line between craft beer enthusiast and common drunkard and I am a man who lives quite easily on either side of said line. A long time ago I discovered the transformative, albeit potentially and actually destructive, properties of alcohol and have often ventured down the path of oblivion for the pure and simple embrace of darkness. I'll not lie and say I don't enjoy the good buzz 4 or 5 pints gives me or the warm and fuzzy feelings you get after a few shots of whisky, but in the last few years, it has been far more about the flavours and exploration of what this craft beer life had to offer. Occasional missteps aside, I certainly do not consume the sheer volume of beers I used to put back when I was really and truly a drunk. I've relived a lot of those times in different posts here on the blog, my penchant for cheap macro beer that could be consumed in large quantities and quickly deliver a short to my central nervous system was well known, troublesome and yet somehow just part of who and what I was. I would come home from work many nights at midnight after a 15 hour day and quickly pound a 6 or 12 pack in a matter of an hour or so before heading to bed and then repeating ad nauseam as I struggled to stay afloat in a world that was quickly falling apart around me. Enter craft beer, a whole lot of soul searching, drinking, anxiety, depression, adventure, excitement and growth as I tried to change the track of my life as my mid forties chugged along headed for the mid-century mark of life. I like to think I've changed a lot and for the most part my relationship with beer has changed, most days are one and done and off I go to do what I do with my precious free time.
  But there are days...
  This last Christmas season was not a good time for this guy. I was mired deep in a funk that brought out the worst in my moods, quietly brooding and honestly thinking about little but the darkest of thoughts about myself, my future and how long I was even going to be around for. I could not shake it and while to most folks, my outward social media and real life performance was one that seemed happy and carefree, excited for Christmas even as I pondered if it would be my last. Kat took the brunt of my silent struggle as I was monotone and morose at the best of times, leaving her no doubt feeling helpless and alone as I struggled with dark demons that are known only to me, in my head and soul I fought on. I'm here to say that she helped me overcome my own damn self and I am well on the road to recovery once again, a little battered and bruised, but wiser and armed with some new tools and outlooks on how I can avoid slipping again.
  Why is this important to the end of the tale I tell today? It leans heavy into my past and the loss of control I used to relish when one beer became ten became a two-four. On Christmas Eve, I was shaken with demons inside and struggling to compose myself around my extended family without resorting to self medicating as I was finding my footing without sliding into over consumption as the holiday approached it's zenith. I had brought several big ABV beers to share, but no one was really into the sauce, a good thing I'd say as we gather with my Mom's extended side of the family and there are still a lot of little ones around. While I was trying to avoid going off track, I couldn't decide what beer to drink and not really feeling anything at all, I stepped outside and grabbed a Coors Light out of the case Dad always has on hand for Christmas guests. Why? I don't know, for a lark, because I hated myself a little for how I was feeling at a time of year I usually shone with joy or maybe because I know exactly what that kind of beer is to me. I quickly downed 3 and took a couple of travellers next door to my Granny's, where the clan was gathering for an hour or so of Eve gift exchanging and yearly checkins with those cousins we wish we could see more of. The Coors lights were having zero effect on my mood or delivering that old fashioned, good time Polk buzz that I was so used to and yet, as I drank them, I knew it would be so easy to slip back into that comfortable robe of empty promises I used to wear so well. You don't drink macro beer because it tastes good, although a lot of us drink craft beer a little like it's macro sometimes too, you drink it because it delivers what it promises, refreshing a dry palate and sweet, sweet drunk love. I am not going for the beer snob angle at all with this, I am quite capable of madness on a dozen IPAs too, but it isn't something I chase quite so quickly or often...if at all. But these blue mountains flowed from the can and bottle like ambrosia to some part of my mind and while I didn't get hammered and have some sort of tale of redemption a la Scrooge, nor did my mood improve until later that week when Kat was finally able to get me to listen and see where and what I was feeling wasn't real that I pulled out of my spiral and headed back to a higher altitude with a broken wing that was holding on with a little duct tape and best wishes.
  I couldn't quite shake that feeling though, the one when the beer hits your lips and just goes down without any thought or interest in what was going on, save another one and the one after that. It is tempting to shut all this social media down, lean back with a 24 and just let go and be gone into a haze wholly familiar. It would be so much simpler, easy to work a 10 hour day, get bent on a 6 or 12 pack of MGD or Pabst and sleep it off, I was and am practically immune to hangovers and that is a whole other story that will need another day and time to cover. I know that guy I was, I am comfortable being that guy and it seems far too easy and maybe preferable to let all this go and become that guy once again...
But I don't want that to be how my story ends, I have changed so much that I cannot fathom letting everything I've learned about who I am and what I could become go because it is easier to do things the old way. I may drink too much occasionally, I may not always be the best role model for anyone, but I am leaving nothing hidden and that honesty has delivered me from darkness again and again.
  So that's a little peek inside the Mind of Polk this early January Friday, I want to do more of this stuff this year, I miss getting these thoughts out of my head and onto the screen. It isn't perfect, but neither am I, best I can do is try and tell you how I feel, how I got here and what is going on. Maybe it helps someone, I don't know, but I do know it helps me and that's gotta be worth something at the end of it all.


Cheers!
Polk

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