funky outsider

So, real shit guys: I don’t like beer. I do, however, like ciders and sweet craft ales. This is one of the latter. This shit actually tastes like a blueberry cobbler: ice cream and cinnamon and all. It’s not overwhelmingly sweet, either, somehow. Idk how easy it will be to find Funky Buddha outside of Florida (their brewery is in Oakland Park) but I can always find them at Total Wines in Orlando.

Plus, I’m in love with the girl on the label. I will admit that is 99% the reason I bought it (and because Total Wine lets you buy singles).

*continue*

We didn’t suspect anything was wrong until we reached Santa Monica.
As soon as we turned off the freeway, we were shrouded in thick, cold fog,
like one big gray cotton swab. Everywhere.

“Damn!” said Jim. I said worse. A beach isn’t much good
in the fog.

We drove around trying to find John and Bill, but there was no trace.

“Are you hungry?” asked Jim.

“I’m always hungry,” I answered.

“Pull in over there…”

Over there was Olivia’s Place, a rundown diner politely described as funky.
The outside was old, faded pink, inside was old, faded green.
There was a tapestry of JFK over the cash register, a faded landscape on the wall,
a shiny jukebox. plastic booths, and a menu written in pencil.

Jim ordered liver and onions. I ordered coffee.

“I thought you were always hungry,” he teased.


*continue*