The Mile High Club
A mostly true story of an award winning brewer
Fun & Humour
December 18, 2003
Written by Brewboy1
On my way home from Denver this year, I met a few old friends (women) along the way. In the airport bar, I bumped into a Hollywood Blonde. This California Honey of an ale told me that she like to ride Switchstance when it was Overhead Abbey Ale at Pilbox Pale Ale. She went to describe how she really appreciated a good Dubbel Overhead Abbey day at Swamis IPA although she didn't care for the crowds. Unfortunately for me, she was boarding a Transatlantique Kriek flight for India to see the Raj IPA or the Imperor IPA. To this day, I'm not sure what her business there was. I hugged her goodbye inhaling the NBB Frambozen essence she was sporting longing for one night alone with her perfectly sculpted Mandarin Nectar Body and her million dollar Triple White Sage smile.
Full of Jubilation, I Longboard Brown Aled my plane pleasantly surprised to find a Belgian stewardess on board who told me her name was "Amber Bock." I thought this queer since everyone knows "Bock" is German for goat and she most certainly was not one of those. She proceeded to tell me that her mother was Belgian and her father was from Texas. "Ah," I replied. "That must make you a member of the Shiner Bock family?"
"Indeed, I am a second generation Bock family member," was her clever response. "What's your name," she quipped.
"I am Tomme Arthur of the San Diego Arthur family."
"You mean you are THE Tomme Arthur from Pizza Port?" I was amazed she had even half a clue who I was. "I've heard all about you and read all your articles too. Man, you are some kind of writer (this is a mostly true story). I didn't know that you were on my flight. If there's anything you need just push my button and I'll come running," she offered.
That's silly I thought to myself she barely knows me and everyone knows it's not safe to run on an airplane. Still, I found my seat and relaxed as the plane taxied and before long we were airborne.
Now that the plane had reached a comfortable cruising altitude, I was in need of some serious Belgian TLC. Not wanting to get aced out, by another famous brewer, I reached up to ring Ms. Amber on my call button. Before I even pushed her button, she whispered in my ear. "Meet me in the Lou Pepe Kriek at the back of the airplane. I have a surprise for you." As calmly as possible, I made my way to the rear of the aircraft to meet my new friend in the bathroom.
I was so excited. I had never consumed an Amber Bock and at this point of my trip, she was looking hot and damn sexy in that brown curvy package she was sporting. I had been most definitely seduced by the way she marketed herself. Nervous to join that exclusive club, I opened the door to reveal Amber's surprise. She smiled knowing she had done well confirmed by the no doubt about it New Glarus look in my eyes. Behind the door, I beheld Amber sporting a stunning Belgian Cherry Red. Not wanting to waste anytime, she slammed the door shut and slid the sign outside the door to read "Out of Service." Suddenly, she pounced on me as I whipped out the Leviathan Magnum sized Cuvee de Tomme I was hiding. She responded to my move by fetching her favorite toy (stewardesses on long flights need something to keep them busy).
"Oh no my Honey Brown Lager," I replied. "That toy just won't do." And that's when I pulled a Rabbit opener out from underneath my hat (don't even ask how I got it through security- this is a mostly true story). And so it was that we joined the mile high Cuvee de Tomme and Belgian Cherry Red club with membership firmly established at 2.
She started me out with some serious Nodding Head. I'd never had such good Nodding Head before. It must have been the altitude. Losing all sense of time, her Gaston's Swollen Delta was in need of some attention. We'd been at it for at least 60 Minute IPA when she started to Degroen Bock. "Oh my God, this is so good," she Moan and Doved in an immense pleasure that only a Magnum sized Cuvee de Tomme can provide. At 90 Minute IPA, a voice came over the air. "Um folks, this is Captain Morgan. We seem to be experiencing some turbulence from the Flossmoor Station area of the aircraft. This is quite common on long flights like this and we are working on Changing Our Latitude right now. We apologize for the inconvenience."
At 120 Minute IPA, we both reached a state of Climax having exhausted our Private Reserves. She returned to the aisles where she went about handling more nuts. I needed a Rogue Smoke at that point but was not interested in tampering with safety devices so I returned to my seat with a Hoppy Face Pale Ale grin from ear to ear.
We met for more drinks that night and spent some time trying to get to get better acquainted (you can only learn so much about someone in the privacy of a Lou Pepe Framboise). She told me about her family and how she was not only a Shiner Bock but also a long lost relative of Pliny the Elder. "Holy Mary Mother of Goodness," I replied noting an incredible stroke of luck. Not only was she hot in a Belgian Style sort of way- highlighted by her incredible packaging. She was related to the famous naturalist. I of course probed her for more information about Hoptime and Harvest. She told me she was spent and that she would be able to remember more where we ever to go camping in the Russian River Valley looking for Bigfoot. I'd seen Sasquatch once in the Peconic County Reserve and from then on, I was Hook N' Laddered for life.
I also suggested that while we were in Northern California we could spend some time in Anderson Valley dodging some sheep while seeking Poleeko Gold in the hills. She told me politely, "we'd have better luck seeking the Pranqster and the Temptation that comes from being around all those sheep."
Of course we'd need to pray for Redemption all the while seeking Salvation. In the end we might just need a Reverend sent from Hog Heaven to cleanse us of our sins, the product of consuming one another's forbidden fruits.
Our honeymoon would be filled with nights of Tantric Levitation and utter Ruination. The next morning would offer no relief from the Skullsplitter headache accompanied by the bellowing of the Old Foghorn booming all the way from the Coast Range signaling the arrival of the Pete's Wicked Ale Sausage truck- which is certainly the most excellent roach coach known to man.
At breakfast, we talked of the nothingness of life including the fleeting fame and fortune of Amber's most recent Pyramid scheme. It was her dream she confided in me to Full Sail away on a Southampton Pacific adventure. Neither of us agreed it would be too much fun were the boat to Capsize from the Big Wave and White Cap Ales. We'd be forced to swim to shore landing on a Konaesque beach with an exclamatory "Wahoo! Wit Ale we made it."
I countered with a more placid dream that included us on an idyllic summer day filled with a Porch Swing Oggis Sunset Amber Ale and kites a Loft. This day would take place after a morning spent guiding an old canoe with a Blue Paddle Pilsner. "Amber," I said. "From the moment I first saw you, I knew we were destined to make a go of this Two Hearted relationship filled with Liquid Sunshine, Red Nectar and Purple Haze."
"I know," she replied. "I felt the same way." And so it was that we spent more time talking about people that we had been involved with and the silly things they did wrong. Amber told me about the last guy she had Blind Dated whose name was Frank. He took her for a disastrous Fat Tire ride on a Singletrack that went nowhere. He was particularly fond of his Drop Top Amber convertible with its Copper Tank and 1701 Tricentennial Overhead Pale cam engine under the hood.
She went on about how she always thought the Ball Aluminum can engine sounded a little tinny and its' short stroke and small bore was in need of some more compression to get her motor running. Still she hung around almost till the end of the date. At which point Frank felt compelled to reveal everything to her including his story that one night in Bangcock where he got Innebriator Double Bocked leaving himself with a severe case of the Oompa Loompas. He promised (guy speak for he lied) that he didn't San Quintin Breakout Stout that often from the Loompas and that she'd have better luck contracting World Wide Stout. Amber didn't think so as everyone knows there's no way in hell you could Contract Brew something like World Wide Stout in just one night. Most definitely, she had her suspicions that he was a certified freak and that the Loompas were a result of his poor sanitation and bad habits.
He confirmed this at the end of the night when he lifted his Old Kiltlifter and set about to give her an Old Leghumper. Yuck she thought. "I don't do Old Leghumper," she replied. "I much prefer it Doggie Style." And with that she left Frank to his own devices.
We continued on this Strange Brew path revisiting all the men in her life from the Big Daddy to the Arrogant Bastard who as she put it so eloquently wanted her to and I quote- "drink his Sweetwater while he played her Old Thunderpussy like a sailor on leave in the Rincon Red district." She thought very little of this Mexicali Rogue like Spud Boy of a man with a confirmed case of Heat Seeking Wheat.
He kept telling her how much he loved her Heineken even though she knew he found her a Prescott Wee Heavy for his tastes. Amber soon understood that he preferred his women to be a tad more Bohemian like a Jagged Little Pilsner or perhaps even a tad less caustic and a hair more organic like that Wolaver family girl he dated before Amber.
"Whatever," Amber let loose. Still every woman wants to be orgasmic and he confirmed he was too Old Style for her needs like Falstaff who tried to buy her love with an Odell's 90 Shilling even though her father Fred the Old Knucklehead thought the wiser and countered he wouldn't sell her off for less than a Weyebacher Quad.
Sensing she had said enough and in need of a Duff Beer, Amber began to inquire more about me. Specifically she asked, "Have you ever had a one night stand." I told her that "of Coors," I have 6 packed a few ladies in my time but that far and away the best one night liquor store score I ever Brown Bag Malt Liquored started on a Cellar Temp night near Redstone where I was lazily eating more than my fair share of Blue Corn tortilla chips.
A couple of Nutty Brunettes appeared like angels from heaven and told me they loved BJ's- especially when they got to watch Alex P. at work. They lived on 8th Street Ale and soon we were on our way back to their abode. We got busy and I climbed 4 Peaks that night before heading straight for the mountains of Busch Beer.
One of the Brunettes who used to be a Strawberry Blonde asked if she could open Maibock. I replied "you may not, but Chimay," pointing to the Horny Devil sitting next to me. I asked my new found Lil Devils to marry me but they responded. "We don't practice Polygamy Porter. It can be a Slick Rock sometimes."
Unfortunately, I awoke alone the next day like a Big Black Bear after Hibernation, to the sound of Oskar Blues on the radio feeling somewhat disappointed there wasn't any SKA to be found. Sadly all I really wanted was a DAM beer but couldn't find one. I peaked under the covers and found no problems with my Morningwood wheat Tommyknocker. A note left behind read- "We had to run to our photo shoot for the gum commercial. Thanks for a night of really great Dubbel Trouble- Us." I confided in Amber that I'll never have another night of Bull and Bush like that where I was the rooster roaming through the Wynkoop strutting my stuff. "Sometimes," I said. "It's good to be the mayor."
I could tell by the way Amber was looking at me that she was hungry and for some action so we split to get some Tasty Grub and Grog. I ordered some Rare Vos to start with an entrée of Flying Fish and Weeping Radish. Amber thought Flying Fish was out of SPF 45 Saison so she started with a Rio Salado and ordered a Wild Duck crusted with Old Herb for dinner. She had some reservations about the Duck and the waiter ensured us they used only the finest Carlsbad Chronic herb at this restaurant and that her dinner would be the Miller High Life Point Brewing of her day. For dessert, we opted to split a dish of Flaming Boscos.
After dinner, we escaped the Boulevard Brewing by heading down State Street Stout. Somehow, we got lost on the Mile of Amnesia near Plank Road. Thankfully we found the Icehouse being guarded by the Red Dog and we were back on a way. We pitched our tent by the Rocky River that night and fell asleep gazing at the Falling Rock meteor shower in the sky.
The next morning we were in Lucky Lager as at 4:20 AM the hunting Saison opened. We set out to bag some Ram International, a Butthead Bock or even a Sly Fox. Amber being the sportswoman she is opted to hunt with her trusty AK47 honestly hoping for a chance at the Terriblè elusive Blind Pig IPA which frequented areas with Old Blue Granite and can be harder to take down than a Wild Boar.
Still, all Amber managed to hit (like how could she miss?) that morning was a Pelican Pub which she bagged in the Elysian Fields just this side of Old Man Pike's Place. We think it flew in from Boundary Bay although the locals said they've been known to come from as far away as Elliot Bay. We sent out the Jack Russell and the Lucky Labrador to retrieve the mark while we took the opportunity to SLO down and Amber seized the chance to hold my Double Barrel Ale. Looking right at me she commented, "This trip makes my trip to Windsor Pale Ale in comparison. I think this is far and away the best hunting Expedition Stout I have ever been on."
While the dogs were making there way back from the Pacific Northwest, Amber asked where I had learned to shoot so straight. I told her about all the camps each Summerfest I attended as a child. I used to go to a different camp each year but this one time at band camp (this is definitely not true as I never went to band camp) I thought I had caught a case of Original Coors but it turned out to be Coors Light which was better than little Tommy Nickel who got caught with a case of Yuengling and was sent home. "That's horrible" she replied. "I hope he's ok?" "Sure, we think he's ok. But the verdict is still out.
Still I managed to get kicked out of Camp Barley Creek which was haunted by the Phantom Canyon Ghost. Old Willy's ghost was an On Tap Hop Maniac who only came out when there was a Lone Star in the Skyy. I decided that one Lone Star Light night to go swimming. So, I jumped in the Oak Creek and was busted like a minor in possession. They sent me to the nurse who told them I had a touch of Live Oak Pilz to go with the nasty case of Pigs Eye she was already treating me for and with that, I was sent Case Packing from Camp Barley Creek without ever having seen that old Fantome Willy.
"That's a shame," Amber said as she'd been listening to my story wanting to share one of her own. She recalled the one from her college days involving the Three Philosophers who were from Biere de Mars a small town north and a few Yards east of Troegs full of Heavyweight thinkers known for their Lunacy including the Two Brothers Old Rasputin and Yeltsin who told the story of the Imperial Eclipse on the move towards Titletown. "What's an Imperial Eclipse," I asked? She replied "It's when the Midnight Sun takes its place over Goose Island. If you stare at it too long, you can get Sockeye Red Ale."
"That sounds painful," I offered. "Oh no," She countered! "It's very smooth with a long finish. Just not the kind of thing recommended for the masses."
I was intrigued by this stuff so I listened intently (as all males do when a woman speaks) as she talked about coming across this information while in college. She was studying Old English 800 and in grad school she authored her thesis on King Cobra and his court of Little Kings. There wasn't much Natural Light in the library so the Doctor thought she might have had a bit of this Sockeye stuff.
Luckily, she had a boyfriend at the time that was way into Keystone Light and he showed the Doctor she was merely suffering from working conditions absent of enough Miller Lite. At that time, she was studying Old Milwaukee Indians and had to present a paper entitled Crazy Horse and his Steel Reserve. It appeared to her that he didn't die in battle like Custer's Last Ale but rather from a diet intake with too much MGD.
More than ever, I was convinced that we had something Modelo Especial going here. So I purchased a Black Diamond and asked for her Hamms in marriage. She of Coors said Sí and we set out to get married. On the day of our wedding, there was a Tornado in raging in the east. Her relatives made a case discount for not coming as they weren't all that Dave Keene on flying through all that weather.
Somehow we ended up with a Blithering Idiot for a limo driver who got lost on his way to the church so we had to stop at the Map Room to buy a clue like Sherlock Holmes. We ended up alongside a Parson Green on a White Horse who told us we were more than a Hoptown, Skip Virgilio and Madsen jump from the church. I think the driver was a little DUIPA when he picked us up.
To save time, we drove through the Bill Sherwood forest stopping only to pick up some power tools at Koch and Wagner (I told you she was great!) before finally reaching the Stone Castlerock where we were to be married. Both of us wanted to get married at the monastery but the Abt 12 told us the Prior 8 visitors to the New Belgium Abbey had ruined it for the rest of us. They were nice enough to offer use of their Old Guardian, which was in full bloom, for our photos. This was only after we made something of a Grand Cru donation to their order.
Amber wore an Allagash White dress although it could have been Gennesee Cream Ale for all I cared. I on the other hand sported a vintage Brooklyn Black Chocolate Tuxedo with a Monster Ale colored bow tie. The ceremony was short and sweet like a Raspberry Tart. Our guests took time to sign the Paper City and Penn Brewing guest book leaving us messages like "good luck with this La Folie." "We're so hoppy for the two of you." My personal favorite "we've never seen a bitter couple for one another and you guys are Perfect Porter for one another we hope you make it."
And make it we did. That night, my Red Rocket needed some serious old fashioned American Liberty and her Scarlet Fire was Aiken. We dropped Anchor, Steamed away at each other and fell into a deep slumber.
My deep slumber was suddenly interrupted by a familiar voice on the intercom. "Greetings Folks, this is Captain Morgan speaking. We are beginning our descent into San Diego and we'd like to thank you for flying with us. We hope your trip was enjoyable and you'll fly again with us real soon. Enjoy your time here in San Diego."
And so it was that my story had ended right back in San Diego where it had started. The moral of this somewhat true story is this. Yes, I am always thinking about beer just not in the way you might think of beer and I've come to realize in life like many others that the only two things that are certain in life are Death and Taxes. I still have yet to consume an Amber Bock (at any altitude). Oh yeah, I most certainly have hit Rock Bottom with this story and should probably get back to work.
Small Disclaimer- This work remains the property of Tomme Arthur. I wrote it. Please enjoy it responsibly. Oh yeah, it's probably a hell of a lot funnier under the influence of several beers. At least that's what my wife tells me. Feel free to pass it along to anyone who might enjoy a good beer read.
©2003 Tomme Arthur
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She thought very little of this Mexicali Rogue like Spud Boy of a man with a confirmed case of Heat Seeking Wheat.
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