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Mar 20, 2014

Blue Moon

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.