Matt Sarad
Tele-Afflicted
Yesterday, my son gave me a call. He never does that unless there has been a crisis.
"Dad, I'm outside in my car. Let's go for a drive."
I walk out worried with my dog, Bindi, who is recovering from surgery, and climb in the back of his black, 1982, Mercedes sedan. It can operate on either diesel or vegetable oil.
I hand Bindi to his girlfriend, Molly, a 6 foot Amazon if ever there was one.
He hands me a cold can of Hamms beer, something I haven't seen in decades.
First sip was perfection. A classic American lager without any harsh overtones.
My first reaction?
It was better than PBR. Not as sweet as Budweiser. No earthy aftertaste of Coors.
For the 93 degree weather here on Bakersfield, sitting in the backseat with real C and W music in the cassette player, I couldn't have had a better
Cruise through the neighborhood with my son.
"Dad, I'm outside in my car. Let's go for a drive."
I walk out worried with my dog, Bindi, who is recovering from surgery, and climb in the back of his black, 1982, Mercedes sedan. It can operate on either diesel or vegetable oil.
I hand Bindi to his girlfriend, Molly, a 6 foot Amazon if ever there was one.
He hands me a cold can of Hamms beer, something I haven't seen in decades.
First sip was perfection. A classic American lager without any harsh overtones.
My first reaction?
It was better than PBR. Not as sweet as Budweiser. No earthy aftertaste of Coors.
For the 93 degree weather here on Bakersfield, sitting in the backseat with real C and W music in the cassette player, I couldn't have had a better
Cruise through the neighborhood with my son.