My beer-brewing friend Cameron came by yesterday with his hops.  He had proposed planting it in my garden, and I had agreed in exchange for a keg and naming rights (unfortunately "smuttynose" is taken).   

Aside from that we didn't really discuss the game plan, though.  So when he mentioned off-handedly while planting it that the hops can climb to sixteen feet, I was like, whoa, Nelly! We have a five-foot height restriction.  You can fudge it up to seven or eight feet, sure, but sixteen is stretching it.

A little cursory research shows that suburban DIY brewistas tend to train the plants along twine against the side of the house or garage or on a clothesline.  The idea, apparently, is to have all of the plant getting equal exposure to full sunlight.  There are free-standing "trellises" — basically polls supported by cables (like so) but I don't really have room for a big-ass production.  I mean, it ain't Busch Gardens, you know.

I told him we'd have to put our heads together and figure it out.  Because I will have my keg of beer. 

After lovingly planting and watering the baby hops plant, we'd worked up a thirst ourselves, and headed over to Woody's to get out of the heat. 

There's a waiter there that kind of intrigues me.  He's got this boyish, fresh-faced look — which is not really my thing (I like 'em a little worn down, so they can't outrun ya) — but he's got this tattoo peeking out from just under his collar, and it's intriguing. 

And I'm not a big tattoo guy.  I mean, some pansy little tribal tattoo — you might as well have "tool" stamped on your skinny little biceps.  Or a kanji tattoo — it doesn't matter what symbol you get, it always says the same thing: "idiot."

But then you've got this:


Which is hot as hell. 

Guys who go all the way with it, and can carry it off like LeBron, there's just about nothing sexier.  (I know it'll sound a little fetishy to say it, but on a purely aesthetic note, I love tattoos like this on black guys.  Unless, of course, they're Dennis Rodman.)

Anyway, all it took was this hint of tattoo on this fresh-faced waiter's chest to pique my interest in him.  I honestly don't know if I would have paid him much mind at all otherwise, but it was all I could do not to leap up and peel that shirt off of him to get the rest of the story.  One more beer and I might have.  He may have sensed it, because at one point I looked over and he'd buttoned the top button of his shirt.  Show's over, bitches.

Whatevs.

Once these hops grow into beer I won't need your old bar anyway.