PickledCherub

When I was a wee thing, maybe eleven through thirteen, I red countless Grisham novels, all about crafty lawyers. I read and re-read them, as I did with almost every book I had. I was a big re-reader. I even re-read the encyclopedias. Anyway, I read a lot of Grisham novels, and his protagonists always ended up drinking in some Caribbean bar, pounding Red Stripes while making tax shelters or eluding the mafia. I didn't know what Red Stripe was, but I had this great and vivid association with it: it was the drink of the rich, wealthy, and relaxed.

Now I don't so much read Grisham any more, but I sure do love Red Stripe. I know I serve the fanciest beers at work, and I enjoy them, but these Red Stripes are something else. Like PBR, but breadier. Little stout compact round bottles. Easy drinking. Do I feel the in tune with "the spirit, rhythm and pulse of Jamaica and its people"? Not so much. But I do feel a little more like I'm twelve. Drunk, but twelve nonetheless.