If a Tree Falls in the Forest, it Might Be Drunk

Ha ha! Just kidding, you guys! A tree, drunk? What are you, crazy? Even sugar maples glued to the brim with sap are pillars of rectitude and sobriety. If they acted like people, we’d have to worry about them making houses out of us, chopping us down at the feet and rendering us slab by slab into more of their planet-befouling society. Instead they remain reliably trees: beautiful, generous, shademaking, numinous with symbolic meaning, unable to escape.

I mention all this 1) because I feel there’s real meme potential with the tree falls in the forest thing and 2) because it occurred to me that it’s been about a year since I last spilled into this etheric domain news of Great Zepptemberfest’s Return, and in that entry, along with a slew of faux historical drivel, was something to do with the climbing of trees. In unrelated news, I have lately been preoccupied with fantasies of tree houses.

Well, Great Zepptemberfest Rides Again, Mein Volk! Upon its head a pointy Prussian pith helmet; between its knees a withered chestnut mare; reins in one hand, and in the other a long and slender sword, its tip pointed at you, Asheville, in whose direction it charges apace. By tomorrow afternoon, you’ll have either submitted to Great Zepptemberfest, been absolutely vanquished by it, or perhaps you’ll not have heard the news yet, and will wander the streets of the abandoned town sort of like that fellow in the old Arby’s commercial who doesn’t know where everyone’s gone. “WHERE IS EVERYBODY?” you’ll ask. And a lone, distant voice will respond: “…French Broad Brewery Tasting Room!”

Let me tell you something, the first batch of this stuff came and went whiplash-fast. I think we had it in the Tasting Room for about seventeen minutes. Then, like how Kevin Spacey represents Kaizer Soze’s capacity for vanishing (pairing it with the devil’s feat of convincing the world he didn’t exist) by blowing his fist apart with an atomizing puff: poof, Great Zepptemberfest was gone. So when I suggest you wend your way to the French Broad Brewery this weekend to quaff a pint of fine oktobery ale, I’m not being casual. I’m not just, like, throwing it out there to, uh, kinda like see, or whatever, if you’re interested, and stuff. No.

I’m leveling you with a bullcrapless expression. I’m quieting my voice to an attention-demanding size nine font. I’m shaking my head slowly, almost imperceptibly, left and right, as if to convey a measured perplexity, as if an event of soulshaping magnitude has near flattened me. I hold the trembling cup of the future in my voice, and I tell you:

Great Zepptemberfest Rides Again.