To take an oath is a serious thing. Taking a solemn oath is the most seriousest of serious. So serious, it makes you invent new words.
When we hit year one, we decided to inaugurate our own holiday of sorts: Oath Day. Only this holiday doesn’t mean you have to shoot the shit with your sister’s new ego-maniac boy toy in your parents’ backyard, or pretend to be ecstatic when you open up a pair of lacy underpants from Grams. Hell, you don’t even have to exchange gifts. This holiday is about drinking beer with friends and strangers in our brewery, sharing stories, maybe playing some dodgeball or hopping on a mechanical bull. It’s a celebration of all things Oath. And that includes all of you SOBs.
Despite having flown a million times before (I’m exaggerating a bit), I still get quite nervous and my life tends to flash before my eyes during that initial take off. Sure, I had a Budweiser on the plane, but that simply wasn’t good enough.
I had really needed approximately twenty Budweisers, a Xanax, and a hand to hold… and I wasn’t about to hold John Barley’s hand. Even the thought of it makes me shudder. Luckily the flight was pretty short otherwise I might have been forced to give in. But, I finally did arrive in New York super enthused and sweaty-palmed.
Sure, we’ve all outgrown our “young and innocent” phase by now, but sometimes it’s just fun to pretend that we haven’t.
MOff and his wonderful wife Lise just had another baby. And as part of their adding another little SOB to the mix I asked our all of our taproom SOBs to bring in a few childhood photos. I chose the most embarrassing photo and had them recreate it in the brewery using only things that were “lying around.” This is what we ended up with.
Monday, January 13th is a very special day for us for two reasons.
One: It is the first Monday our taproom will be open (Noon-9pm). We’ve decided to keep our doors open seven days a week. We know Mondays kind of stink for most of you SOBs out there and we are thrilled that we can now welcome you in the taproom with open arms and a fresh brew. Feel free to vent about your a-hole of a boss, how your significant other has never done the dishes, or whatever, to our cool-as-a-cucumber bartenders.
Stop. Do not order those fruit cakes.
We have new gear available in the taproom. Double-embroidered maroon beanies are $15. Barley strand on one side, Solemn Oath Brewery on the other. For the first time, our stemless bulb beer glasses come in sets of two ($12) or four ($20). Don’t say we never did anything nice.
Black Wednesday is upon us and this bird is thrilled about it.
I know it’ll be hard, but please try and refrain from drinking until 12pm. That’s when we’ll open up our taproom doors. We want you fresh, wide-eyed, and craving a brew.
I enjoy informing (teasing) fresh college graduates, such as taproom worker Lou, about how each day in the real world makes you more dumb. You retain less, read less, drink more… or at least that’s how it worked out for me. I used to be pretty goddamn intelligent. I mean, I still am an intellectual when it comes to pop culture (Kanye and Kim named their baby North), energy drinks (they’re enlightening), and cats (meow).
A few weeks ago, John introduced me to the works of a man named A.J. Jacobs. The first article I read by this sarcastic gem of a man was titled “I Think You’re Fat” and it rocked my world. Not only has Jacobs written articles for Esquire and The New York Times, he’s also written quite a few books, one being “The Know-It-All: One Man’s Humble Quest to Become the Smartest Person in the World,” where he read the entire Encyclopedia Britannica and wrote about his experience. Upon discovery of the existence of this book, I decided to emulate Jacobs’ experience by reading The Oxford Companion To Beer by Garrett Oliver, which is the ultimate beer encyclopedia. I thought it was about damn time for me to learn something; fill my ginormous brain with something other than the Pulp Fiction script and decoding of a cat’s meow (a few short meows upon entry to my apartment means Marsellus is happy I’m home).
I know that a lot of you gaze in interest as you peek over the half wall and see us SOBs hard at work. You stare at MOfferman dripping with sweat and crushing up malt in his bad boy cargo shorts and muscle tee. It’s foxy.
You stare down Tim, riding around on his sexy beast of a forklift in his vibrant, blue, rubber boots. And John, in his unnecessarily stylish Diesel jeans that are worn in all the right places, scrubbing those filthy kegs ‘til they sparkle. You think Paul manages to look even more brilliant as he rinses the floor, hose in hand, with a soft head-bob to Ke$ha.