I turned 48 on Good Friday in the un-holy city of Manhattan. It was a beautiful place to age another year, surrounded by male friends and in-laws, a pilgrimage of sorts, a monastic retreat into the heart of manhood. We took communion with chicken wings and hefeweizen. We took confessions at the Manchester Pub. We recited our creed block after block after block: "Isn't this great? No man, really, ISN'T THIS GREAT!" There was communal singing to hits from the 70's, the sign of peace for every bar maid we met, our blessing upon every pub on 2nd Avenue, the mortifying of our flesh over 100 blocks of aimless ambling, with always the pungeant incense of beer farts wafting to remind us of what we could be. There was a late night vigil at The Waterfront Ale House, and fresh encouragement for the journey from master beerologist Randy Mosher, author of Tasting Beer. Brother Mosher, what shall we drink? "My children, there are many paths to intoxication, but you must choose wisely. Let your palette be your guide." So we took the common cup of unusual brews from around the world, and we found therein a bond of fellowship so strong that not even the persistant pull of distant wives could weaken it...
...for a day.
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