Mr. Jackson, will you sign my . . .

In a particularly poignant memorial to the Beer Hunter, Lew Bryson includes a story that begins in a bathroom.

Here is another.

Jackson had just finished speaking at a vertical tasting held away from the Great American Beer Festival hall. Before heading off for a beer writers' dinner, then to sign more autographs at the hall, he stopped at the restroom.

As he turned to leave the urinal a fan emerged from a stall, holding a piece of toilet paper. Jackson paused. The man passed by, shyly mumbling how much he enjoyed the tasting.

The chap who would drive Jackson to the beer writers' gathering, like Jackson sure that they had just missed a person asking for an autograph on toilet paper, had to ask: What was the strangest thing he had ever been asked to sign?

"Well last night two women asked me to sign their beavers," Jackson said.

He paused for effect.

"They both had those . . . I think you call them Beanie Babies."