Craft Beer, September 2013

Every once in a while, it storms.

And when it storms, it may pour.

And when it pours, you may get wet.

It stormed tonight.

Tonight, a front stretched all the way from the Gulf of Mexico to Montreal. The same rain fell on Charlotte, on Baltimore, on DC, on Philly, on Rehoboth Beach, and on Atlanta. We all drank, sang, and lived that same rain tonight.

Tonight, it rained on Brickstore, and Cypress Street, and Square Pub, and Eulogy, and Barcade, and Lil’ Miss Whiskies, and Blind Tiger, and Monk’s Café, and Jose Pistolas, and Varga Bar, and so many more. Blind Squirrel. Busy Bee. Raleigh Times. Tasty Bev. Bottle Revolution. The list barely even starts.

Tonight, it poured.

Tonight, we reminded you of what community is. It’s widespread, and wild. It’s crazy and it’s untamed. It’s unexpected. It’s what, as Chickspeare did in the rain today at NoDa; completely and utterly wild.

And yet… there were people.

People who traversed the puddles, and the sprinkles, and the downpour. People who drove through the steady downpour and joined the others whom they may have known or not for a beer. For entertainment and silliness.

People who, no matter what the weather would be at the brewery on Saturday night would show. And that is what makes the community the way it is. You can’t stop the passion and the craziness, and the best thing about it all—the people.

As the rain continues reminding me that it’s Saturday night, and I should be downstairs watching TV shows like Breaking Bad and Futurama, instead I’m sitting here in this chair and I remind you of this awesome anthem.

You, are like my father.

You, you are the future.

You can drink craft beer like the 10% of us that do.

And you, if not now, if not in six months, if not in a year, one day you will look back on this moment and you will think of this.

Because you will remember what our beer tastes like.

And you won’t remember theirs.

And that, my friends, is the most important part of our story.

And that is what will bring you from a Mich Ultra drinker to a Hop Drop & Roll drinker a year and three months later.

When you put your first sour to your lips and you tell the ones you love, “this doesn’t taste like beer.”

Remember this:

Beer comes in many flavors.

Just like you do.

And that’s how it should be.

Spring fires bring May flowers...

The fire raged in her.

She sat, somewhat tired and somewhat pensive, against the soft pillows and linens.

Her shoulders burned a quiet, and yet comforting warmth. The sun had reminded her of what summer felt like. It resurrected her.

She reveled in the past smoke that now tinted her pale skin, and the light burn of mint against the strong tobacco she felt when she brushed her teeth.

Her stomach, still filled with warmth from the dark red wine settled her and comforted her.

Her mind spoke to her, telling her of stories she read and those still developing in her own worlds.

Her heart yearned longingly for a story of its own, and quiet patience reminded it of the true epic yet to come.

She heard the calm wind outside coming off of the briny coast and she smiled. "It is always the beach," she thought, "always the ocean that reminds me to breathe and to calm."

The warmth caused her to smile and blissfully comforted her, wrapping her amongst its lapping flames.

She blazed the spring's, yet almost summer's, fire.

She felt born to this season.

It was, ultimately, hers.

Born of this warmth, to it, it truly was the thing that sprung her to life each year.

She was, and remained, the phoenix.

What was she, if not this bird of fire and immutable rebirth?

She rises, yearly, to remind the people of the warmth of heart and purpose. She rises, yearly, to remind her of all of her strength and of the dance of fire.

She teases, she smokes, she may sometimes extinguish... but never has she completely gone out.

Fire always returns.

That is the way it is, and the way it remains.

All she needs is a spark to remember where or what she is.

All she needs is a bit of paper, a scrap of wood, or a dry grass to return.

You cannot quiet fire.

You may think you tame it, and you may think you create it, but the truth is that it is always there, waiting for its revival.

She believes in fire.

She believes in the licking flames and the returning embers.

Fire burns, and as often as it singes others, it singes herself. For not believing in the power of fire, she loses control over it. It is a headstrong thing, and always will be.

"You must always believe."

The flames licked up her sides and back, over her shoulders and into her heart. The rippling tide of each feather bore her into a new realm of confidence. Slowly, she built her wings.

Slowly, she constructed what would be hers.

She pruned and plucked out the dark spots.

No doubt.

No fear.

No insecurity.

No pride.

No frustration.

She built the wings from her heart and she unfurled them, feeling the warmth surround her and comfort her.

She knew who she was and she reveled in that.

She sat amongst the linens and pillows and her confidence did not leave her.

The truth was that she felt the way it settled into her bones.

She is a phoenix, a bird of fire, and no one can stop her from returning.

Hello again, spring.

Hello again, summer.

You've met your match.