La Fin du Monde

Like many a passed brethren, this memory, too, has etched itself into the feeble bikalog of my matter.

One couldn’t always get the beer of one’s choice in a part like this one.  That being, big whoop – i like my Life High, golden and chilly, in groups of 12.  Once in a while a man should take a stand.  Or in the vein of my intent – a stande.  The cap was set.  6% it was in the Olde Northe State.  So sad was that, so inadequate the buzz per bottle, that a group of 5, 4 maybe even 3, if counted means shit, rode north to the Seat, the confederate home of rules still dissonant, for beercraft on levels high.

we rode up, weather scoffing.  it was a mere trip.  jaunt.  a whip of the crank.  It began for the discerning with a breakfast of buckwheat whaffles from a joint outstanding.  Panniers were set low — canned goods most welcome — for the shambles in which we’d sleep.  Rain made way for December.  It wasn’t much, but it hurt.  Cold’s more a threshold than a hypothesis, and for that we had data.

upon arrival at counted host’s dockpointe, we found warmth, windows, and no need for cans.  pantries aplenty, our fatback purchased astride the settlement crossed, meant shit.  it was time to play pool and eat metro.

the next morning, before the thunder, before I even heard spoken the realms of Unibroue in terms other than forehead hair, baags were paacked, faatbaak was burnt, and we left as heavy as the day before, chamois exempt.

packing up in Danville, VA, beers to the hilt, foreshadowed was the selection I fell most interested in -

La Fin Du Monde.

to the hilt i packed ‘eer.  fuoekkeng tons of it.  and so we began a return.  laden and sore – wet like no lizards – riding 50 miles loaded down with nothing but beer and campbellsfuckingsoup.  gay.  whooped.  sun, but December, and sun, but then rain.  and wind.  and La Fin Du Monde.

it came back in a saack, and now lives in my haart.  it is sweet like life, with the endurance of deth.

fin

whatevs.  bottom line is that i miss the tour.  i’m a sucker for the big race.  it’s WWII every damned summer.  nice one, Cadel.  Nice one, Dale.  your folks have a sweet-ass cabin.  we had a sweet-ass ride.

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About Snake Hawk

good, bad, funny, sad, stupid, rad, has, had. non-joining funhaver from coast to coast(er brake). buster of the chops, drawer of the logos. North Carolina, USA

20 thoughts on “La Fin du Monde

  1. Love it! I’d recommend Maudite and Trois Piste from the same brewer. Wonderful brews from Quebec…and lucky for me it’s just a bridge-crossing away!

  2. 3 things:

    1. um….what?
    2. it’s like Jack Kerouac and Rev. Jim (from Taxi) collaborated on advertising copy for beer.
    3. thanks…made my day.

  3. Had a couple of La Fin du Monde’s this past weekend with an old beer drinking buddy. Nice!

  4. La Fin du Monde.

    2 things Mr, Hawk

    Wassit taste like? Like a belgian? Hoppy? well balanced?

    Lose the cuisinfart coffee maker. Get a french press. Grind it a little finer than recommended. Makes a nice morning mud.

    Kilgore: Smell that? You smell that?
    Lance: What?
    Kilgore: coffee, son. Nothing in the world smells like that.
    [kneels]
    Kilgore: I love the smell of coffee in the morning. You know, one time we had a cuisinfart, it sucked. When it was finished brewing, I walked up. We didn’t find one of ‘em, not one stinkin’ person awake. The smell, you know that french press coffee mud smell, the whole hill. Smelled like… victory. Someday this war’s gonna end…

  5. Well crafted. I took the liberty of reading some of your past stuff and find you quite capable of sustaining the style and I also am impressed. It reminds me of something or another but I am on my thirteenth Busch Lite so it will have to wait. Whatever it was it was probably in black and white.

    I wonder if you ride like you write and what that might mean. I also wonder if I will ever upgrade my beer drinking before it is too late. Probably not. I do, after all, live in a fucked up Trailer Park that is remarkably like an Indian Village (either Continent).

    Whatever the case, Snake Hawk, [sound of gunfire)

  6. sometimes i just need to throw the fucking grinds in a paper cone and push go. i don’t care how Handarbeit my coffee is. fucking yuban works for me if that’s what’s being served. so do factory welded aluminum bike frames made by children, mexican levi 501′s, and Miller High Life. I appreciate your knowledge of how to do shit the long way, and that your morse-to-internet capacitor functioned long enough to get your point across, but when i roll out of my fancy digital bed in the morning the coffee is there – hot, made, and perfect.

    this message has been recorded on an analog translation device made from copper and hemp rope. cheers!

  7. Mr. Hawk

    Your ability to appreciate the simple and necessary things in life means you have developed the necessary skills to survive the coming apocalypse while I will be dodging bullets and running helter skelter through the urban food riots yelling

    “Can any of you insurrectionists please direct me to an establishment that serves a proper cappuccino?”

    It was nice chatting but I gotta go. The needle is skipping on that ol’ 78

  8. This is my percolator.
    There are many like it, but this one is mine.
    My percolator is my best friend.
    My percolator is my life.
    I must master it as I must master my life.
    Without me, my percolator is useless.
    Without my percolator, I am useless.

    Semper fi!

    Ooh-rah!

    Coffee, Gunnery Sergeant?

  9. Stop it Joe. You’ll just confuse all duh yutes.

    Only old farts as old as you and me even know what a percolator is.

    I’ll give my left nut for a percolator.

    Percolators…. they smell like victory

  10. Percolators. Oh man. That brings back serious memories of Mom.

    Hate coffee meself. Never understood why so many drink.

    This is my Pepsi.
    There are many like it, but this one is mine.
    My Pepsi is my best friend.
    My Pepsi is my life.
    I must master it as I must master my life.
    Without me, my Pepsi is useless.
    Without my Pepsi, I am useless.

    What can I say ? Ya get yer caffeine where ya can.

  11. FFF, you’d have to start out with some measure of honor to be considered.

    What do we have for the contestants, Johnny?