I’m ashamed to admit I spent 5 fucking days looking for a beer in San Diego. What’s worse? When I quit trying, the Bear found it in 2 hours.
Now I get a lifetime of fucking front and center condescension.
Just another dimension where I disappoint: teaching, volleyball, laundry, organizing anything, making friends, parenting, being a decent fucking human being…
The goddamn list is endless.
I don’t give a fuck about any of those other things. But now we add “finding beer.” How fucking low can you go.
The only good news is that usually it’s all my fault — but this time, I have a grown-ass hairy scapegoat. Larry Ward, for fuck’s sake.
Larry is one of the pendejos who have been rotting away the core of my life with an odd mix of beer, booze and smoked meat wrapped in a fig leaf of “tennis.”
These pendejos have been making me fatter, slower and drunker every week since 2012. My tennis game sucks too.
Larry isn’t the worst pendejo (See pussy Joe or goat-fucking Geno… don’t get me started on “Shad”). But Larry is the most driven by alcohol. Larry brews his own beer and makes his own “juice”.
Juice is an unholy concoction of fruit and liquor that comes in a range of colors with names like Halle, Ralle, Salle or what ever the hell is in Larry’s little melon head.
Nobody plays tennis at the 3rd-world club without Larry’s pressure to drink at least one bottle. It might be red, or pink, or purple or green. He even makes some blue shit. It might be tart or sweet. It might be 10 or 90 percent alcohol.
But you will drink it, and it will make your body aches go away and your head spin like a ceiling fan.
Juice makes the normally sober and sardonic Gibson giggle like a 10-year-old girl.
The LJBTC community
So the Bear surprised me with a trip to San Diego. Our Alaska trip fell through. She searches the internet and discovers the La Jolla Beach and Tennis Club online. She texts me the link.
I instantly reply: “I’m in.”
“But you didn’t check the link,” she writes.
“Don’t have to.”
First, it’s San Deigo in July – it was 117 degrees in Phoenix when we left.
Second, the fucking pendejos have been telling long-form stories about LJBTC (yes that’s what they put on their website) for years. For the first few stories, I figured it was gay-friendly, because pussy Joe was telling the story, and you know…
For those of you who don’t know, LJBTC is one of the most famous tennis clubs in California. The rooms and tennis courts are steps from the sand, and it’s a private beach where “anything goes.” Meaning you can drink booze or BBQ on the beach.
Larry finds out I’m going to San Diego, and berates me about finding Pliny the Elder.
Apparently Pliny is an award-winning beer that’s hard to find. I like beer, but I don’t follow it’s awards: I like movies, but I don’t fucking watch the Oscars, either.
Larry is the fucking National Enquirer of beer, and he’s virtually stalking me like a drunk paparazzi: Talking to me twice a week; texting at random intervals…
I figure the stalking will stop when I’m in San Diego. Fuck NO. Every day he was checking on the Pliny.
So I brought the road bike and figure I can go for a ride, find the beer and haul it home.
Larry text’s me the Yelp link with the “Pliny” ratings. I look at the top 2 sites, plot a bike course and go for a ride. Get to the San Diego Tap room in Pacific Beach – no fucking Pliny. But the 3 beers I had there were pretty good.
Repeat those results the next 3 days in La Jolla, Del Mar and then Solana Beach. San Diego has crappy roads for bikes, but a lot of good beer.
I even got in the car and went to fucking Whole Foods. No Pliny. So I bought a 6-pack of some “star dust” or “space dust” shit. That’s when I gave up.
Find That Pliny
“What the fuck is wrong with you,” the Bear says. “It’s just beer. I could find beer. I could find that Pliny in two hours.”
“Then find that fucking Pliny,” I say, like we are playing Name That Tune. I had the false-confidence that comes from 6 draft beers mixed with failure.
There’s fucking websites like TapHunter, and BeerMenus with up-to-the-second reports on Pliny. Apparently Larry is not the only beer paparazzi. The Bear checks the sites and texts me an hour later: “Found it.”
Fuck. I get done with my tennis match and come back to the room, and the Bear is waiting with baited breath.
“Hurry up… It’s not going to be there forever.”
She already had a bottle from some liquor store in La Jolla. They told her she had to “drink it on site,” but she told them “her husband” loves Pliny but can’t be there… it may or may not have involved cancer.
I’m not sure which husband she is talking about. I don’t really like IPA and I’m cancer free. But they let her leave with the bottle wrapped in a brown paper bag.
Then we drive to some other taproom in a strip mall near the stadium. She asks the waiter for Pliny.
“We don’t have it,” he says.
“Yes you do.” the Bear says. She waves her hand dismissively toward the bar. “I was just here, I talked to that little short girl over there, and it’s on your beer list.” She holds up the beer list.
He leaves to check.
“We do have it on draft, but you can only have one 6-ounce glass.”
I taste it. It’s good for an IPA. The Bear tastes it and makes a face. “It tastes a lot like, what is that stuff you use to remove paint…”
It’s true there was a little hint of turpentine, but it wasn’t too hoppy. It was very smooth and had a really good finish (for a bitter-beer-face IPA). I text a picture of the draft glass to Larry. We say nothing about the bottle.
The stalking ends.
Now we have one precious Pliny. But the Bear bought all kinds of shit that needed to be cold in the car. The Pliny got first priority.
“It was just on the shelf in the store,” she says. ‘Can’t we just leave it out in the car.”
“Once it’s cold, I think we need to keep it cold,” I said. “That’s what my Dad always told me about beer.” I should have kept my fucking mouth shut.
“Eat all this meat and cheese before we go. There’s not enough room for all of it.” 4 days later and I still haven’t been able to take a shit. There’s a 4-pound meat and cheese dam in the middle of my large intestine.
We get back to Tucson, and I pack the Pliny and Space Dust in my tennis bag with shipping ice packs. I get to the 3rd-world club. I’m the 13th player, so no tennis for me, and Larry’s not there. Shit.
Fucking bag is heavy with bottles and ice bags. Fucking Larry carries a heavy bag every week. I text Larry, and he texts ” 20 minutes.”
It’s getting close to 8 p.m., and by some fucking miracle both Larry and Gibson arrive late and at the same time (collusion is happening everywhere my friends).
I reach into my bag, and Larry starts squirming.
He sees the brown wino bag. He whispers: “is that what I think it is”, and he takes a step toward me like the number 1 altar boy at midnight mass.
“Look” he says pointing to his arm. The hairs are standing on end. His feet start to simultaneously shuffle and hop like a peeing two-year-old.
He carefully removes the bottle from the brown-paper bag. He whips out his phone and takes a photo. ‘I gotta tell my wife, but I’m not telling any of these fuckers,” he says as he looks out on the courts. “They are gonna want some.”
The next night I’m back in the 3rd-world club. Some crazy woman who never wants to be mentioned in this bullshit blog and Kate are showing me the pictures Larry sent of the bottle. Apparently it was not just his wife he wanted to tell/brag/humiliate/soak in envy.
“You don’t bring me any…” the crazy woman says to me. “Where’s my goddamn Pliny.”
I think: You are not Larry Ward, for fuck’s sake.
I say: “If you want some, put the Bear on a plane to San Diego… she could have it for you that afternoon.”
And the Quest for Pliny begins… again.