Recovering Baptist

For a while during my very Baptist college days I subscribed to the Wall Street Journal. I wasn’t so much interested in the financial part of the paper, but it was the best “conservative” paper at the time and it gave discounts to students. My favorite parts were the editorials (I’ve always been a political geek) and the human interest story in the center column of the front page. It was there that I first learned about Michael Jackson. No, not the black-white musician-pervert. The other one. The guy who introduced the masses to good beer.
The article described his passion for good beer and the tours he would make, almost daily, of breweries. Brewers knew that they wanted him to visit late in the day after he’d already enjoyed a few rounds, as he generally more favorable then. I don’t know why I was so interested in him then - I’d never had an interest in holding a beer, much less tasting one. It must have been the same sort of force that made that witch that I sat next to in class so attractive (in my defense, she was very cute and not bitchy, and very few girls at GT fit that description).
It’s fitting that tonight I was headed to the beer fridge when I decided to check the news one last time and saw that Michael Jackson has had his last beer. I’ve been wondering why I haven’t heard much from him now that I’m a certified beer snob, and the article shed some light. He’s been suffering from Parkinson’s Disease for 10 years. So, in his honor, I’m cracking a bottle of New Belgium 1554 Enlightened Black Ale.

Just over eleven years ago I was in Florida running away from the Olympics. By the time the opening ceremonies arrived I’d already had enough - living in the Olympic village in the years leading up to the arrival of the athletes meant that one day you’d wake up and find your normal path blocked by a fence that appeared to be either electrified or linked to a security center; either way, it was frustrating and spoiled my excitement for what should have been a shining moment for my city.

I woke up in my cousin’s house to the news that a bomb had gone off in the park. I was driving home that morning and had the entire drive from Tallahassee to Atlanta to contemplate the previous evening’s events. Little did I know that a girl who would later become my wife was at the Budweiser stage at the time and got hit by a rock thrown from that blast. I don’t think Richard Jewel saved her life, but he certainly saved a few lives that night. It’s easy to see why the media treated him the way they did; he wasn’t very photogenic, and he didn’t seem to be a lovable person. After the dust settled and the real culprit was caught, the Governor made things right, but the damage was done. The shame of it all is that anyone who’s ever professionally run a camera knows how to take an image of a hero and how to take an image of a suspect. Despite knowing that he was a hero, my mental image of the man will always be of him as a suspect.