All Hat, No Cattle

I have something I need to discuss

Washed is a great company. I truly enjoy working here but I need to address something about two of my esteemed colleagues specifically. 

I’m concerned they’re “all hat, no cattle”. In the Austin, TX business sphere, that’s about as close as you can get to a death sentence. We simply can’t have these guys tarnishing the brand that everyone has worked so hard to build. I develop business for a living and can pretty much sell a red popsicle to a lady wearing white in the middle of July, but should anyone catch wind of this specific concern, we’d be screwed. Let me explain. 

A few years back, “Double Down” Dave Ruff purchased a home in the Austin burbs. Close enough so that he’d not miss out on Matt’s El Rancho invites, but far enough away to escape the hustle & bustle. Really a fantastic location. 

More recently, one Will “Bone Chill” deFries upgraded as well. A slick little 4/4 in a great neighborhood with a patio that’d make Stanley Tucci think he’s back in Tuscany. The upstairs media nook houses an unmatched record collection paired with imported rugs and bespoke artwork. 

I’m happy for them and they seem to enjoy their respective abodes. There’s just one problem that has led to Will and Dave finding themselves squarely my crosshairs - the staggering lack of garage beers. 

I can’t tell you how many times I’ve heard the two of them pompously declare how “perfect this garage is for crushing exactly one Miller High Life” or “wait until we’re getting the plastic Adirondacks out on the concrete and getting after a few Michy Bang-Bangs”. Michelob Ultras for those unfamiliar. 

They wax poetic about how “maybe we can throw a golf sim in there for the right price” and how there’s plenty of room for a fridge and a little portable AC unit to keep things chilly in the Austin summer. Seemingly endless hypotheticals are exchanged about enjoying a few pops over the weekend with the crew in front of a TV they’ve kept since college, away from worries and wives and weather. 

Will & Dave have talked a big game long enough that our buddy who uses our office like a coffee shop, Sauce, thinks we get together on the cement and pop open the lawn chairs every weekend. Perhaps he envisions a little Yeti on the ground with Dillon in charge of distributing domestics like he’s throwing ropes across the diamond. A consistent testament to spitting in the face of statistics warning of the decline of male friendships.

But, folks, it pains me to say that not ONE garage beer has been poured. Not ONE cold one consumed in these locations tailor-made for conversations and traded barbs with the boys. Spaces relegated to storage bays for Amazon boxes and Peloton bikes that seemed like a good idea 4 years ago to prepare for battle against the silent enemy. I have no choice but to place the blame on Dave and Will. Sad.

Sure, they’ve hosted birthday parties for their small children. Maybe they’ve even popped open a cooler on the grass. Unfortunately there’s a “code” that says you should probably take it easy and limit the consumption to the backyard next to the bounce house that some dickhead kid keeps deflating. I will not hesitate to tell your parents, Asher and Iris. 

And yet, not a garage beer to be found. 

Maybe I’m nostalgic for a simpler time when garage beers were the preferred way of getting a Saturday afternoon going. Maybe it’s a regional thing? Or maybe my spineless coworkers like the idea of garage beers more than the hosting garage beers.

I’ll leave you with this. Should garage beers be discussed openly in The Bullpen and remain an unconsumed mirage, I may be forced to contact my old friend, Zillion, or a new kid on the block, Rusty, and find a reasonably-priced suburban VRBO to make it happen. Sans Will & Dave, of course. 

Ahhh look at that. If only.