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Meanwhile, it’s a buyers’ market on outdated, so-20th -century characters around here.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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