Take Me To Your Litre

Wednesday, 5:15 p.m.

I sit down to a bucket of nuts and order a Natural draft, perusing the selection of beers in the refrigerator case behind the bar. Warsteiner. Downtown Brown. Grolsch.

I recall the crazy Belgian who used to run the restaurant downtown before the attorneys and insurance agents put an end to such frivolities. His name escapes us, but seems it was some kind of Americanized nickname, like Sparky or Buddy or Jimbo.

If I were in Belgium, would I choose a new handle that sounded local? Of course, I've no clue exactly what might constitute a Belgian name. Something else to look up on the net, perhaps.

Two Belgian Whites and a Dugout later, I decide it's high time to learn a foreign tongue. Heck, I seem to perform fairly well with Ebonics, how hard could it be?

I'll keep you posted, senor.