In Defense of 3.2

or, What I Did For My 30th Birthday: Friday
(Backdated for your archival pleasure)

Friday nights are Dr. Who night. (If you didn’t know this, there’s your clue. Turn the TV on. If you don’t get the SciFi channel, bloody well find someone who does, yeah? It’s fun.) This Friday night, the Dr. Who viewing was to take place at my place, what with our usual hostess being off at a convention in town doing Shatner Karaoke. (You don’t want to know more than that. Trust me.)

This Friday day, I had someone to meet at 30th and Walnut in Boulder as a follow-up to an interview. Writerly stuff. Y’know. I got there early, and what with the Albertson’s 30th Street Market right there, I figured, what the heck. Groceries. Feed the Dr. Who-watching troops. I got deli salads and soda and beer. I’ve grown rather fond of the Tommyknocker’s Maple Brown Ale.

So here I come out the grocery store a few minutes later, my left hand full of plastic bag handles and my right hand full of Tommyknocker’s and an envelope I’m trying not to get wet on the celery, when This Guy does a double-take at me and goes, “Man, what’re you buying the 3.2 beer for?”

Er. “It was there,” I said.

“Yeah, but you could have bought the real stuff.”

“Meh. I’m not in it for the alcohol.”

This apparently caused another double-take. “…Oh. OK.”

Later that evening, before Dr. Who came on, I related the odd conversation to a friend. “Oh, I bet that was the guy who owns the liquor store on the corner there. He’s always razzing people like that.”

“Really? So he was just trying to drum up business?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh. That’s OK, then. I guess. I thought he just wanted to see me get smashed.”

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