Rolling Rock, Wherefore Art Thou, Rolling Rock?

© 2003 Dan Sherman

Whenever a man has an important task to do, something his wife or girlfriend
knows instinctively is CRUCIAL to the fate of the known universe, like
scouring the shower walls, it always seems that there is time for just one
more beer.

This reflex encoded in every man's DNA, known to scientists by its technical
term, "Chore Avoidance Response," can be seen in all men, regardless of
their TV size, blonde or brunette preference or NFL team they'd gladly give
a kidney for. Here's a classified NASA transcript as proof:

ED ALDRIN: Neil, how about another beer?
NEIL ARMSTRONG: Well, I AM scheduled to step on the moon now, but.what the
hey! Mmmmm. That's one small buzz for man!
ED ALDRIN: What minute! I'M Buzz!

Men love beer, maybe not as much as they love Heidi Klum, but their affair
with the suds makes Romeo and Juliet look as love struck as the 49ers and
the Cowboys.

To get some idea, watch Norm, the typical postman on "Cheers" who, just like
real life, never delivers any mail. You'll see a guy in love, giving his
frosty draft loving stares typically reserved for "Baywatch" actresses with
self-contained life preservers. You get the feeling that he relates better
to that beer than to anything animal, mineral, or vegetable because men do
NOT give that look to lima beans.and sometimes not even to their own wives.

Four out of five sociologists agree: The beer affair is the most significant
relationship a man has in his life, besides scratching his crotch. (The
fifth sociologist watches Oprah.)

Now ladies, holster those curling irons you have pointed at my classified
area, and take this quick test: How long have you known your man? OK, now,
how long has he been drinking beer? Makes you want to surprise him in a
Heineken costume tonight, doesn't it?

Simply put, beer has been in our lives forever, and has played a starring
role at key moments in our evolution from jabbering, drooling infants to
jabbering, drooling baboons. Take me, for instance, your typical, suave
"Planet of the Apes" extra.

Like many relationships, my beer affair started out like Tyson and
Hollyfield. As a 5-year-old, I wandered over to a group of men at a barbecue
who were gathered reverently around a garbage pail full of beer and ice like
Incas around a ceremonial altar. I asked for a beer, and discovered it
tasted very little like chocolate milk so I spit it out. I was tortured and
placed on the altar for sacrifice.

But like felons to Raiders games and pathological liars to Congress, I was
drawn to beer. The relationship took hold in high school when we'd go to the
supermarket on Friday nights with realistic IDs saying we were AARP-eligible
and get a six of Bud each to take to the park. Then, tastefully drenched in
eau d' brewery, we'd stagger to the high school dance and yahoo like cowboys
at a rodeo before barfing and bedding down in the bushes.

In college, our beer relationship gelled like dirty Fruit of the Looms to
the floor. On the first night of freshman year we sat in my dorm room, guys
new to each other and to Boston, nothing in common except for a magical
potion, beer, that would form the crux of our lives when we weren't studying
how to trick the pinball machine into giving free games.

That first night we tramped down to the "packy" (Boston-speak for "package
store") bought our beer, and now as sophisticated college men, danced in the
hallway to "Saturday Night's All Right for Fighting" like crazed hyenas
BEFORE we barfed and passed out.

Maybe if women had their OWN drink they'd understand, some concoction they
guzzled like men have guzzled beer since they lusted after their first
Corvette. But can you picture a commercial showing women laughing, slapping
each other on the back after a grueling sewing circle hitting the bar for a
well-deserved round of Banana Daiquiris? It's not the same.

Well, for me, life is different now. I no longer consume enough beer to
float an aircraft carrier. And instead of the liquor store I go to brew
pubs where they hand out menus with ridiculous aficionado terms, and where
they serve beers that have "citrus and tropical overtones" (YUK!)

Beer has changed and so have I. That means it's time for a new generation
of baboons to pick up the torch, lope with it proudly, trip, fall face
first, and lose it in the bushes. Me? I'll be home avoiding chores.

Read all of Dan's columns at www.danshermanonline.com

Norm was not the postman. He was an accountant and later a house painter.

You are right...what was I thinking! I wracked my brains and remembered that the postman was Cliff. He drank beer too, as I recall. Dan.

This column was about beer! I think it's entirely appropriate there was only one reader sober enough to catch that. In fact, I think Dan was testing us.