In which the truth behind the fantasy behind the delusion is revealed. Everything you thought you knew is wrong.

The owners of the region’s newest beer destination apparently saw America’s Most Beloved Beer Writer (© Jack Curtin’s Liquid Diet 2009) lurking outside earlier today and decided to lock the doors, stay below window level and pray.

It’s all my fault.

I know I don’t talk about it much,  but now and again it’s good to cleanse the soul and admit that Lew Bryson is entirely a figment of my imagination.

Indeed, I was speaking to a beer industry insider earlier this week and I admitted that to him there actually is no such person. After the first shock, he seemed downright relieved.

I get that a lot.

The thing is, this big, effusive character, larger than life and twice as loud,  is my Sherlock Holmes. He’s become popular/notorious enough that I just can’t kill him off, the same problem Arthur Conan Doyle had.

Believe me, I long ago wrote my Reichenbach Falls post in which Lew goes over the ledge in the grips of the PLCB chairman, but I don’t have the courage to put it up. If public sentiment then forced me to bring him back, I’d be devastated.

Don’t need no more of that. Better I just wait and see if the tide turns in other directions. Which is why I recently created….

Ah, that would be telling.

Meanwhile, it’s a buyers’ market on outdated, so-20th -century characters around here. The Big One and The Other One can be yours for a lot less than you’d think. Let’s talk.

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