This weekend a longtime friend comes down our stairs wearing a black T-shirt. White lettering. It was easily recognizable by anybody who’s known us in the last 10 years. We had a social drinking club in Tucson, Arizona known as Truesdays. Our mission was that we knew there would be friends waiting every Tuesday evening to share a drink and visit. Our network grew to 70 people, mostly RPCV’s and transplant Northwesterners.
Our frequent haunt was a brewery by the tracks where one of our friends was head bartender. The running story was the stainless steel vats the beer was brewed in were recycled from Titan missile silos from a nearby installment. On the first beer Tyson called B.S. Those vats are not large enough to be from a missile silo. Nate defended. I’m telling you, that’s where they came from. Second beer. Nope. Not buying it. They are, I’m telling you. Third beer. Maybe I heard that wrong.
Then came the slogan: “There’s mere ounces between truth and B. S.”
And then came the T-shirts.