Last Friday, around the time the afternoon crowd was clicking on last week's column, I was overflowing with the desire to get out of town. A neighbor of mine, a semi-recent immigrant from eastern Europe, was heading home. In the years of our acquaintance I'd only known him to go two places: his day job as a carpenter, and his back yard. His whole idea of Connecticut, his entire concept of the U.S., for all I know, would be worksites, the highway, and a quarter acre of manicured grass. He was utterly unconcerned, but I was tragedy stricken - and determined to get out and do... something.Just like in a movie script, that's when the phone rang.
"Sorry this is last minute, man," the caps lock Wisconsin accent told me who it was immediately. "But I need a trip to the casino. I got the room paid for, you just bring your liver."
I didn't really have the money to play with, it was Friday rush hour on I-95, and I try to avoid casinos in general.
"Sure. Let me pack." Let's see what happens, I thought. I am a leaf on the wind.
Although the end results were largely indistinguishable, the casino was marginally more entertaining than feeding those same $20 bills to sea gulls. I was neither keen to go back the next day, nor on the prospect of a two hour, day-wasting drive home. It was my turn to provide the inspiration:
"Let's hit a brewery I know."