I didn’t always like Blue Moon.
My memory may be off, but I’m almost positive
this bar was located inside a smoker’s mouth—wet, disturbingly warm, reeking of
nicotine. Not my scene at all. Well, I was only 18, so my ideal college scene
was cute hunks pouring Blueberry Smirnoff on me while I perform immaculate
choreography to Akon. Still, my new sophomore friend invited me here, so I tried
to play it cool—meaning I ordered a Dirty Shirley and faintly mouthed
“watermelon watermelon” along with the unfamiliar indie rock songs.
“Ha! You think I got fuckin’ grenadine back
here? This ain’t preschool.”
“Great! Or else I wouldn’t be allowed
inside!”
The bartender was not as amused with my pedophile joke as I was. The sophomore handed me a glass of some unidentified elixir. Alright, play it cool. Chug. Stop obsessing over how to get the smoky smell out of your new Hollister tee. You’re not a regular freshman. You’re a cool freshman. Please stop talking. Chug.
Oh my god. This is Orange Pine-Sol. For a
split-second, I thought she was trying to poison me, then remembered we’re not
in Ye Olde Medieval England, so I took another sip. Is this... beer? And another. I
thought all beer tasted the same. And another. Beer. Beeyur. Reeb. Ha, reeb. I like to drink reeb. What’s Reba
McIntyre been up to these days? Does Taco Bell deliver?
I learned two life-changing lessons that
night:
1.
Taco Bell does not deliver. Unless
you just so happen to live inside a Taco Bell, then your life is perfect and
simple and beautiful and wait you have rabies. Oh, um. Ah, sorry, yeah, I
actually don’t have any change. Yeah... I’m just gonna take this to-go...
2.
Blue Moon is the greatest beer in
the history of the galaxy.
The complexity. The mystery. It took me half
the glass to wrap my mortal brain around what I was actually consuming. The
layers. The depth. It reached a part of a soul I didn’t even know I had.
Every sip was different than the one before. I was captivated. I was
mesmerized. I was blacked the fuck out.
Cut to five years later, and Blue Moon still
warms me to my core like no other beer I’ve had. The intensity, the seasonal
flavors, the reasonable alcohol content—no one has ever shamefully stood up in
a church basement support group, “Hi. I’m Bob, and Blue Moon ruined my life.”
You don’t crash into a pole because of Blue Moon. You don’t abandon your kids
because of Blue Moon. You abandon your kids because they’re selfish brats—then
you drink Blue Moon, because you’re just trying to get a nice buzz, man.
I didn’t always like Blue Moon. But now, that
bottle is my trophy, symbolizing my come-up from a dark land wrought with Laguna
Surf v-necks and maraschino cherries. I am a better, more civilized human now—and
I owe it all to beer.