You ever get one of those moments—like when the wind shifts just right and brings in a smell you haven’t smelled in years? Cut grass and diesel fuel, maybe. Or cinnamon from your grandmother’s kitchen. Well, that happened to me this morning. Not with wind. With email. Yeah, I know. Not very poetic. But sometimes it’s not the form, it’s the freight.
I was just sifting through the usual suspects: spam, sale alerts, a note from Ruth-Anne asking if anyone’s seen her cat again, and there it was. A headline. Quiet and blunt:
“Norm from Cheers has passed away.”
And just like that, I was eleven years old again. Sitting cross-legged on the living room carpet, the warm hum of a single TV set glowing in the corner like a campfire for a nuclear family. We didn’t have streaming. We had Thursday nights. Together.
Cheers was part of the furniture, part of the rhythm. You didn’t just watch it; you lived in it for a while. Sam, Diane then Rebecca, Coach, Carla, Frasier, Cliff, Woody… and Norm. Especially Norm. He didn’t own the bar, but he owned the space. Like a lighthouse in the fog of a long week. He walks in, and suddenly, the room felt familiar. Safe. Funny.
That theme song, it brings out those good old memories, the second I hear the piano intro and then “Sometimes you wanna go, where everybody knows your name and they’re always glad you came…”
Every time I hear it, it’s like wearing your old Levi’s, smelling of grease with a dash of Downey and yesterday. The show was like that, like a familiar place you went to… Just because it felt like home.
What I always loved was how no one in that bar felt out of place. Not the extras, not the folks in the background leaning on stools or sipping from pint glasses. Everyone looked like they belonged. Like they’d been coming there for years, and maybe you had too, you just forgot for a little while.
But Norm… Norm was more than just another regular. He was a human barometer for the state of things. Dry humor. Bottomless glass. Heart as wide as the door he always walked through.
I wanna share some of his finest lines. Because sometimes a man leaves behind more than a legacy—he leaves a trail of laughter.
“What’s shaking, Norm?”
“All four cheeks and a couple of chins.”
“What’s new, Normie?”
“Terrorists, Sam. They’ve taken over my stomach and they’re demanding beer.”
“What’d you like, Normie?”
“A reason to live. Give me another beer.”
“What’ll you have, Normie?”
“Well, I’m in a gambling mood, Sammy. I’ll take a glass of whatever comes out of the tap.”
“Looks like beer, Norm.”
“Call me Mister Lucky.”
“Hey Norm, how’s the world been treating you?”
“Like a baby treats a diaper.”
“What’s the story, Mr. Peterson?”
“The Bobbsey Twins go to the brewery. Let’s cut to the happy ending.”
“What’s going on, Mr. Peterson?”
“A flashing sign in my gut that says, ‘Insert beer here.’”
“Whatcha up to, Norm?”
“My ideal weight if I were eleven feet tall.”
“How’s it going, Mr. Peterson?”
“Poor.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“No, I mean pour.”
“Women… Can’t live with ’em… pass the beer nuts.”
“What’s going down, Normie?”
“My butt cheeks on that bar stool.”
“Pour you a beer, Mr. Peterson?”
“Alright, but stop me at one… make that one-thirty.”
“How’s it going, Mr. Peterson?”
“It’s a dog-eat-dog world, Woody, and I’m wearing Milk-Bone underwear.”
“What’s the story, Norm?”
“Boy meets beer. Boy drinks beer. Boy meets another beer.”
“Can I pour you a beer, Mr. Peterson?”
“A little early, isn’t it, Woody?”
“For a beer?”
“No, for stupid questions.”
“Hey Norm, how’s life in the fast lane?”
“Don’t know, can’t find the on-ramp.”
That’s a whole theology right there. The Church of the Barstool. Norm presiding.
So wherever you are now, Norm—and I’d like to think it’s someplace with good lighting, a worn wooden counter, and the perfect pour—I hope someone’s asking what you’ll have.
And I hope you answered,
“Call me Mister Lucky.”
Rest easy, big guy. Cheers.
Thanks for dropping by my little corner of the world. If the story gave you a chuckle or made you pause and think, a like would be mighty kind. And if you’re feeling adventurous, well, hitting that subscribe button is like pulling up a chair and staying a while—always room for one more.
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A Kings 
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