It is perhaps a fitting conclusion to this most surreal of weeks that I've submitted to my doctor's orders and agreed not to leave the house before Monday at the earliest.
At 1:30 p.m. Friday, having finished with Gravity Head preparations and given the monolith a downhill push (with the beer-side help of Chris, Tim and Tim - thanks, guys), I conceded the inevitable and visited the sawbones, who listened intently to the packing bubbles popping in my lungs and pronounced a verdict of "bacterial pneumonia."
I've now been juiced with antibiotics, heavy-duty prescription cough syrup and ibuprophin, which enabled me to sleep 17 straight hours last night and this morning. A vague feeling of humanity is beginning to return.
Here's what I'll remember from all this: Yesterday morning, tapping Gravity Head beers one after the other, checking the fittings, trying to make sure everything was right, affixing labels and tap handles ... and pouring a half glass of each, which was left to sit beneath the tap. My usual routine would be to smell each and take a nip, but with my physical system screaming "TILT," I was left with exactly the same aroma for 14 different beers: Welch's Grape Juice.
Not exactly useful tasting notes, although I may have seen worse.
When we returned home from the doctor's office, Diana set off for the grocery and pharmacy, asking me what I needed for the weekend. The first thing that came into my mind?
Welch's Grape Juice. Not much hop character, but it's sufficing ...
You are a trooper of my generation. We go 'til we drop come hell or high water. Reading your prior post from the description of the Mantle episode in Ball Four, I wondered just how many times I have done that same type of thing. You just added a notch to your own list. Not many people tell you thanks but from all of us patrons whom are addicted to those high gravity carrots you dangle in front of us, thanks. Get some rest.
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