Keep The Keg Moving

Drivin down the block like what else should a brother do
It's Saturday, it's Saturday, the heat might smother you...

This past weekend I took part in one of American Suburbia's great traditions: the garage sale. Me and the Mrs wheeled out all of the assorted junk, hand-me-downs, and relics of years past onto the driveway and proceeded to wheel and deal to passerbys.
The biggest sale of the weekend? My keg. The one item of my adolescence that was ripped from me this weekend? My keg.

By my calculations, I've been lugging that keg around for damn near 18 years. (Note: not the same keg, but the constantly exchanged keg.) It came into my possession in the early 90s - ahem- by circumstance (note: I stole it from a party. Sorry to the the dudes who were probably rocking Pearl Jam and some rowdy, yet stealth, backpacker threw the damn thing over a fence/ through a gate/down an alley to an awaiting getaway car.)

The keg saw its heydey in the years that followed. It supported people doing handstands on it; it filled everything from crappy plastic pitchers, nice glass pitchers stole from bars, ice cube trays, and assorted Solo, LiquorMart, and Big Gulp cups. It was rolled down stairwells, it was lugged from liquor stores into the front seat of my rig- safely seatbelted in of course.

The last decade or so the keg has mostly been relegated to the rafters of the garage or the back of the shed. The SG Crew has expanded to include those that work at the local brewery, where canned beer comes cheap and fresh (thereby avoiding the "day after" keg beer that somehow morphs into stale gingerale.) The family structure has grown where a keg full of beer isn't the greatest centerpiece of a 1 year old's birthday celebration.

Thus, the keg and Commish CH have parted ways. A man in his 60s bought it, loaded it into the front seat of his Monte Carlo and sped into the Rocky Mountain morning. A bitter breakup but overdue. Good bye, my sweet aluminum friend, you will be missed.

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