Beer Radar

“Drink it or I taz you, bro”

You’ve gotta love the beer scene in Oregon. I’m betting this dude is a  member of S.N.O.B.

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Help wanted - advisory

I’ve posted a couple notices recently of places looking to hire beer help. Mainly I did it because I often field questions from readers looking to get into the business.

I almost always tell them: First, volunteer a couple days. See if it’s something you really want to do.

Now, courtesy of Pete Slosberg who sent me the link, here’s a fine report on what it’s like to work in a brewery for a day. In this case, it was on a bottling line at Russian River, where they were putting out their latest batch of Consecration.

Peter Estaniel of a Better Beer Blog writes:

Oh. My. God. By the end of the day, my entire body hurt. My back was stiff, the arches on my feet sore, my core sore from the constant twisting motion. My shoulders were in pain from the nearly endless repetition of lifting bottles one after another after another after another. My hands hurt from constantly gripping bottles and the teats of what I learned to be a cruel and uncaring metal mother. This was a painful day. At one point, I think my left shoulder went numb. It was the lucky one. I haven’t hurt this bad physically since… I don’t remember when I’ve hurt this bad from a job… ever. Running the bottling line is more physically demanding than anything else.

…The enthusiasm I displayed at the beginning of my shift quickly gave way to loathing. What started of as, “Fuck yeah! I’m working at Russian River!” transitioned to “Fuck me! I’m working at Russian River.”

…Experiencing a day in the life as a Russian River employee has pretty much wiped any romantic notions I may have had with the brewing industry. Those big, shiny, steel fermentors still shine brightly but I now notice their scratches and dents. The aroma of hops in the air? Still intoxicating but their constant presence in the air renders them almost mundane. The fantasy has become a reality; the dream job is now just a job.

Enjoy the whole report - it’s a fun read with great photos.

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Maxim’s favorite beer burg

Nice beer spread in the February ish of Maxim, with the top 25 new beers on the editors’ expense account. Among the locals, Victory Helios, which is actually a re-branding of Victory Saison, and Dogfish Head Indian Brown, which is new only if this is 1999.

Even nicer is the kudos to Philly as the editors’ favorite beer town - a title the mag says we swiped from Portland, Oregon, because of:

• Great local breweries.
• Philly Beer Week
• Local history
• And that Ben Franklin quote. (And I don’t care if he didn’t say it.)

Click on the link below for a PDF of the spread.

Maxim 2010 best beers

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Santa redux

A number of local beer events got snowed out just before the holidays, including Jingle Beers at Union Jack’s (Manayunk). With weekend temps finally expected to reach the 30s(!), they’ll roll out the kegs this Saturday (1/16).

Check out this draft lineup (starting 1 p.m.):

• Scaldis Noel
•  Weyerbacher Winter Ale
• Anchor Christmas
• De Konink Winter Konink
• Sierra Nevada Celebration Ale
• Harpoon Winter Warmer
• Delirium Noel
• Bell’s Christmas Ale
• St. Bernardus Christmas Ale
• Wild Goose Snow Goose
• Troegs Mad Elf
• Port Santa’s Little Helper
• Firkin of Yard’s Tavern Spruce

Live music in the evening will be performed by Jeremy and Pete of Fathead and Blivit fame.

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Another twisted Mad Elf

OK, there’s something that’s just not right with this illustration. If I’m reading it correctly, Scoats from the Grey Lodge (see below) will be performing unnatural acts with a 5-legged shaven mutant on New Year’s Eve at the Standard Tap. Either that, or Troegs Mad Elf and Victory Golden Monkey will be pouring (no reservations needed).

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Losers

The Inquirer let me rant a bit this morning. You can read it here.

Or just use this as your wallpaper

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The wit of Larry Holmes

I enjoyed the bottle below last night while watching possibly the greatest TV show in the entire history of TV: “What the Heck Were They Thinking?” with Larry Holmes.

Seriously, you have to  catch this show - 7:30 p.m. on Wednesdays on Channel 51 out of Allentown. The barely literate Easton Assassin, showing nominal affects of repeated blows to the head, is teamed with a guy named Mike Mittman, whose sole talent is the ability to read from note cards on his desk.

Everything about this show is entertaining, from the set (filled with Larry Holmes memorabilia, including a weird trophy that, thanks to camera positioning, looks like a crown atop the champ’s head) to the musical interludes (snippets of MOR jazz by Larry Holmes and Marmalade) to the commercials.

The content is completely random - basically the first 5 stories on Google News. On any given night, the two could be discussing Chinese investment in America, Susan Boyle, LeBron James, Obama, AIG… well, as Mittman says, “if it’s wild and whacky, happening around the world, and we catch ya doin’ something stupid, we’re going to ask the question, ‘What the heck were they thinking?’” Last night, while discussing the Air France crash, Holmes said that if he was aboard the jet in bad weather, he’d have told the pilot to turn around. Pause… then the two of them look directly into the camera and chorus, “What the heck were they thinking?”

Inevitably the talk gets around to how Hall of Famer Larry Holmes is the greatest world champion ever, which gives them a chance to replay some old video from an Ernie Shavers fight.

Here’s a clip from the intro - go check it out.  But to do this show justice, you have to put your feet up, crack open a cold one and tune in for 30 minutes of pure TV gold.

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Yankees suck

And not just because they continue to employ A-Rod.

New York Times wine writer Eric Asimov blasts the pinstripes for failing to pour anything remotely potable at their new stadium (9 bucks for a can of PBR).  It’s a nice lede to a review of the wonders of American craft-brewed pilsners, which ranked these top 10.

1. Victory Prima Pils
2. Penn Kaiser Pils
3. Troegs Sunshine Pils
4. Brooklyn Pilsner
5. Lakefront Klisch
6. Lagunitas Pils
7. Sly Fox Pikeland Pils
8. Stoudt’s Pils
9. Butte Creek Organic Pilsner
10. Oskar Blues Mama’s Little Yella Pils

A couple weeks ago, I noted that Nos. 1, 3 & 7 are all on tap at CitzBank Ballpark.

Thanks to Richard Ruch or the heads-up on the NYT piece.

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B is for Beer

I should be pissed - I’ve been talking about writing a kids book about beer for years. But Tom Robbins is practically my favorite author, so I’ll just have to suck it up and get my copy on Amazon.

You can read the first chapter over here.

“Mommie,” Gracie asked one afternoon. “What’s that stuff Daddy drinks?

“You mean coffee, sweetie?”

“Not coffee. Ick! That other stuff that’s yellow and looks like pee-pee.”

Hmmm… must be a story about Coors Light.

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Farewell, friend

Just about the saddest day of my life was the day that I had to take my dog to the vet for the last time. I think yesterday came kind of close when I learned Harry Kalas died just before a Phillies game.

I’d lost a friend.

Companionship - just as with my dog, it’s what Harry brought to my life. Countless hours of listening to him describe the only game that really matters. Not just the home runs, though that’s what we’ll always remember. But the plain, joyous monotony of balls and strikes, of extra innings that stretch into the night, of ground-outs and pitching changes, of a lazy fly ball falling into leather.

It was the comfort of familiarity.

I’m one of those people who would rather listen to a game on the radio than actually watch it on the tube. The long pauses between pitches that allow the mind’s eye to imagine the dirt on the cleats, the red pinstripes, the flash of a fastball. Hi-def shots of replays from multiple angles can never replace the visceral bond you feel with a game described by a fellow human being.

It’s somewhat fitting that - in his last full season - he finally got to tell the story of a World Championship. Years from now, it’ll be Harry’s voice that echoes through our mind as Brad Lidge throws that final strike. It’s not victory, however, that I cherish the most when I think of him. Maybe it’s the Philadelphian in me, but what I think about is all those years of utter failure, of listening when the Phils were 25 games out of first place in late September and the lineup featured the likes of Ricky Jordan and Chris James and Shane Rawley - guys you hardly remember. Winning, losing - it meant absolutely nothing on that Sunday afternoon. The Eagles were on TV, but I’d rather listen to the bittersweet sounds of boys playing a game in the lengthening shadows of autumn.

Richie: Say, Harry, did you hear that archeologists recently dug up the grave of Beethoven?

Harry (ever the straight man): Really? No, I didn’t hear.

Richie: Yes, and you wouldn’t believe it, when they opened the coffin, there he was - Beethoven - furiously erasing the notes from a  sheet of music!

Harry (supressing a laugh): Slider, just misses the outside corner, 2 and 1… So, Whitey, Beethoven was erasing the notes?

Richie: That’s right -  he was decomposing!

It is no understatement to say, “You had to be there.”

Last year on opening day, Andy Musser - the third of the Phillies’ best-known trio of announcers - took me to ballpark and introduced me to Harry. I shook his hand and mumbled how nice it was to meet him. Fact is, after 38 years of hearing his voice, I felt we were already friends.

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