On Saturday we attended the Great Lakes Brewfest with some good friends. And if I take anything away from the day, it is this: when the temperature is below sixty degrees, it may not be a good idea to wrap a satin table runner into a tube and wear it as a jazzy skirt with tap shoes. If you do, I’ve-Seen-Dental-Tape-Wider-Than-That-Skirt Girl, it’s a good idea to continue shaving up past your knees. Remember, this is Wisconsin in September. We will clearly see how far that razor jogged north before getting winded and turning back in defeat. And put some socks on, while you’re at it. Those shoes look terribly painful. No, really. They have both heels and laces, so I really think socks would be appropriate. Why stop now?
Here’s something else! Say there, fellow standing in line to urinate. Why the red contacts? You are scaring me and our fellow festival-goers! This is not Halloween. It is not a gathering for Druids with severe hay fever. It is a celebration of artisinal beers and fried cheese! Of merriment and mirth! Look there, young people wielding humorous back scratchers featuring tiny hands! Amusing giant hats! But not you, Mister Red Eye. Are you that much a fan of raspberry hued daily living? Do you like your humanity in shades of scarlet? Are you really a minion of Satan who is simply not above humble human activities like standing in line with the rest of the herd to break the seal in a public urinal? Those are things to work on, Red Eyed Underling to Beelzebub. Maybe you should send your boss some candy for Boss’s Day and he’ll give you amazing Bottomless Bladder and Instant Line-Jumping abilities. I hear he likes red hots.
And you there—girl in the “Beer Chick” shirt. It’s pink, and I appreciate a nice pink t-shirt. Pink is girly, pink is fun, pink is the Best Of Red and White, the Atlantic Years. But really, your presence at an event dubbed “Brewfest” is more an indicator that you are indeed a fan of the malted barley and hops than your “Beer Chick” t-shirt. What’s next? A black shirt reading “Funeral Chick” when a beloved great aunt dies? “Grocery Store Chick” stretched over your bosom when you run out of toilet paper, kitty litter, bologna, and capers? Maybe you could layer shirts, depending on your day’s itinerary. You could start with “Breakfast Chick,” peel it off at ten a.m. for “Playing Solitaire at Work Chick,” pull that one over your head to reveal “Drives like an Idiot Chick” for the commute home, and end the day with “Lean Cuisine and Scrubs Chick.”
So those were the things I took away from Brewfest, plus some delicious cheese curds that have already made a new home on my thighs. (I try to be accommodating to my snack foods. Help them move, provide transportation, sit very still so as not to jostle the metamorphosis from delicious foodstuff to bouncy little mustard-colored fat cell.)
Whew. I feel better now. Next week I’ll have some recipes and maybe even a special taste-testing photo essay. You’ve been warned.