“That one.” How many events of wonder have started with that simple phrase? We are staying down near Houston when my son selects a ten-to=eleven foot Frasier Fir, regal, more so standing out of the forest on the sidewalks of New York. We are here on the advice of a friend of mine who knows this is the best place in town for picking out trees. Only problem: it’s four miles from home.
No problem, that’s why my friend Duncan, my nephew Dan, and the rest of the my family are here for the great new york tree lift. Only four miles, a 150-pound tree, twenty-seven thousand holiday tourists, and thirty-two hundred bars stand in the way. Counting the blocks, we fortify with a quick Guinness (an oxymoron phrase) at the White Horse, but the waitress refuses to let us bring the tree in for a drink.
Over lower midtown, we struggling with the carrying technique. “You’re stabbing people in the eye with that thing!” Ah, the ladies across the street recommend another fuel up at the Molly Wee Pub, both we tackle the crowds of midtown. Salmon against the tide. A homeless man lost on the words for O Tannenbaum, but continuing the song courageously. We are asked, “if a tree falls in Times Square…” No, no one will.
But now we’re flying, past Lincoln Center. “That’s one big f***ing tree,” says the treeguy at Lincoln Center. Hell, we awed even the experts. Five flights up and the rests comfortably, taking up the entire living room. Success, and how does one celebrate success but with a can of beer.
Yes, can. Dale’s re-pioneered the idea that beer can be packaged in a can. Interesting, those who make beer with flavor can overcome the tainting limitations of aluminum in order to serve up something tasty, easy to drink, and damned convenient after a marathon lift session. Pork Slap doesn’t rise to the glory of its two pig belly slam, but it does drink clean, crisp, a slight maltiness for body strength: all of which is good for an exhausted celebratory lift.