A clarification for the record.
My parents kept telling me that somewhere on my blog I’d referred to my Dad as a “Budweiser kind of guy.”
I don’t think I did. I can’t find it. What I did say was: “When I was growing up, my Dad liked Budweiser, so I thought that was what beer tasted like, hence I thought I didn’t like beer.”
For the record, Dad is by no means a Budweiser kind of guy, nor do I think he was particularly fond of it. It was just what they had back in the 1970s. And if you were hosting a handball tournament, that’s what you’d get a keg of — because after a couple of games of handball, a watery beer would be pretty swell. In any case, I owe Dad quite a few beers for the offense.
I should mention: the first day I drove the first car I ever drove, I carried an open container of Bud — a tapped keg, as a matter of fact — to a handball tournament. The “First Annual Helen Keller Invitational,” where the power went out.
Tonight with dinner I had a Belgian Trappistes Rochefort #10 that I paid way too much for at BevMo. I don’t know if Dad has heard of the Rochefort or the Ommegang or the Three Philosophers. I’ll make it a point to introduce him.
Funny thing is, I only drink a single beer every few days because I’m watching the carbs and they make me snore. Sometimes I go wild and have a big bottle.
Friends don’t let friends drink green Budweiser. That one I’m sticking to.