the normal Guinness

Longtime readers will surely recall my outrageous declaration just a couple of weeks into the COVID-19 pandemic where I announced, in no uncertain terms, that I was refusing recommendations of all pandemic-informed new releases. Specifically, my ban covered any new releases claiming some kind of basis in the "lessons learned" from the pandemic. I was thinking about this the other day but I couldn't remember if I posted it to TOA, so I went back and checked the archives. My investigation indeed discovered the evidence linked above, but upon rereading I also noted a long-forgotten clause - "This applies for the first year after I finish my next Guinness at a bar." Shit! There's a lot that hasn't returned to normal, but I should have known better about the Guinness. I guess if I need to say it, I'll say it - fire at will, folks. Books and articles, podcasts and videos, whatever you think I need to see, hear, or read about these alleged lessons can now be sent my way (but please reread the fine print if you want to send a TED Talk). Don't worry, I won't immediately mock your recommendation.

In fact, this battleship has been at the bottom of the sea for at least a month because I can point to the specific date of this poison-pill Guinness: April 10, 2021. This isn't because I have a supernatural recall, it's because I remember coming home from Fenway and watching a soccer game while lying down on my floor (on the advice of my liver, it having been over a year since I'd done any kind of notable day-drinking). The game ended a few minutes after I woke up from a Guinness-induced stupor, Trent Alexander-Arnold smacking in a stoppage time winner to offer some normality to the soccer universe. The goal snapped Liverpool's record six-match home losing streak, which of course coincided with the lockdown precautions that barred supporters from reinforcing Anfield. Anyway, with details like those at my fingertips it took about ten seconds to confirm the date when the bleak darkness of a long year broke, just briefly, to flash a hint of light.

The day also broke what was surely a personal record in terms of meeting a friend for a few beers, a nearly four hundred day spell which in 2019 would have seemed as improbable as Liverpool's losing streak. The strangest thing about walking down to Fenway for those beers then coming home to watch Liverpool win on tape delay was the unfamiliarity of it all. This kind of Saturday afternoon used to be normal, but the experience felt like eating solid food after a long bout of food poisoning. I could look back here and remark that the pandemic had me a stranger to my own life, or expand this essay into a wide-ranging meditation on the great disruption caused by these uncertain times. But I fear such directions would overlook a more important truth about life. The truth is that adjustment has always been the only normal. The Guinness itself was unplanned, something my friend wanted to try because chemo had changed his taste buds, each poison pill covertly taxing the tongue until the malty combination of chocolate and coffee started going down like molten rust, so I redirected my order because showing solidarity meant being there, and I wanted to be there when the flavor came back. So much else had changed, all of it before 2020 - plans were made days in advance rather than hours, meeting in the middle now meant the Green Monster, and brief meditations on death and illness interrupted the brilliant ignorance of our helmet football analysis. The buzz on that spring day was back to normal, but we should have known better about the Guinness.