PLAY BALL ! ! !

Can't type much. In a rush. Off to Orleans to see the Mariners play the Firebirds! Too much traffic in the other direction. I am certain that I will have something very cogent to report tomorrow. Or not. It's a beautiful night for a ballgame. Let's play two, but let's not eat sushi.

Maybe a good excuse to hit the Yardarm for an extra inning or two. I still miss Locicero's.

Rainmakers ! ! ! with a beer chaser

Hey, how come none of the weatherjerks knew that the rain was coming this morning . . . rather than later in the day? Don't know. Don't care. It was nice to get a little wet this morning, and it might have been nicer to have it hang around until beer-thirty. Then we could sit around the bar and discuss rainmakers, like Burt Lancaster and Matt Damon. Movies, that is. Or rain songs: Dylan's "Rainy Day Women" or the Beatles' "Rain." Or others.

Perhaps one of the most popular (and most dippy) rain songs of the Sixties was Burt Bachrach's "Raindrops Keep Falling on My Head," which was popularized by the legendary (cough!) B.J. Thomas. The only saving grace to that song, though, was Paul Newman's bicycle scene from "Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid."

Always love Newman; always will. Guy had class. And all that Newman's Own stuff was for a good cause. And often tasted pretty damn good. (Exception, that crappy frozen pizza! Sorry, Pablo.) But I digress.

So, below you will see that scene with Newman's lead actress in that film, Katharine Ross. You know, the same one that Dustin Hoffman wanted to marry in "The Graduate" (after he was seduced by her mother, Mrs. Robinson.) But I had to look up her name, because I always confuse her with Ali McGraw, who made more motion pictures (talkies!) than Ross. After falling for that Harvard hockey player (Mr. Farrah Fawcett) in (gag me) "Love Story," she redeemed herself by marrying a real man, Steve McQueen. But, again, I digress.

I need to find a rainy day barstool somewhere soon and sort this all out with Harvey. I sure hope he doesn't get going about "Bonnie & Clyde."

Mayor Alec Baldwin, NYC?

Okay, fellow barflys, let's bust out a round of Manhattans!

Alec Baldwin says he might run for Mayor of NYC.

Why not?

After all, who's nuttier than Baldwin? Yes, the entire effin' City of New York and all of its voters!

This could be even more fun than the year that Norman Mailer ran for the office with the promise to secede from the rest of the Empire State. Remember, Baldwin promised that he'd leave the country IF George W. Bush were re-elected. Well, he's here and he's still crazy.

Don't get me wrong. I luv the guy. I just think he's nuts (even moreso since he went to Harvard). He's even hosted SNL more times than Steve (Excuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuse me!) Martin.

So, here's the story:

Alec Baldwin is mulling a run for mayor of New York City now that kinky Congressman Anthony Weiner appears to have sexted himself out of the 2013 race.

The “30 Rock” star, who has long talked about running for political office, believes Weinergate has shaken up the field of candidates enough that he might have a chance to win, a friend of the actor told The Daily.

“Alec said, ‘Hey, maybe this changes the race. The dynamics have shifted,’ ” said Baldwin’s pal.

“The Democrats need a high-profile candidate, and Alec can fill that bill.”

Baldwin, a die-hard Democrat originally from Massapequa, a suburb on Long Island, N.Y., has said 2012 will be his last year on “30 Rock,” which would free him up for a 2013 mayoral run.

He’d be the biggest name by far to throw his hat in the ring to succeed Mayor Michael Bloomberg at “the second hardest job” in the nation, Weiner’s dream gig before his sordid fall from grace.

Bloomberg, who had New York City’s term-limit law rewritten to win his third term, isn’t expected to run again in 2013. The likely candidates include City Council Speaker Christine Quinn, Councilman Bill de Blasio, and former New York comptroller Bill Thompson, who narrowly lost to Bloomberg in 2009.

Meanwhile, Baldwin probably won’t be able to run for Weiner’s congressional seat representing parts of Brooklyn and Queens, even if he wanted to. As a result of the last census, New York State is expected to lose two seats.

“They’ll take one Republican district upstate, and one Democratic district in the city,” said one political operative. “Weiner can say goodbye to his seat.”

Baldwin, 53, famous for his liberal politics, has been talking about the possibility of running for office since the ’90s.

“Is this something that I want to do? Yes,” Baldwin said in a 1997 New York magazine cover story on his political ambitions. But he said it didn’t seem like the right time.

“The men and women that run the world are in their 50s. It takes time to build that kind of thing. I’m 39.”

Fast-forward 11 years. In a 2008 interview on “60 Minutes,” Baldwin mused about being in his 50s and said it was possible that politics would be his second act.

“There’s no age limit on running for office, to a degree,” he said. It’s “something I might do, one day.”

Last year, the New York Daily News reported that the Working Families Party had considered Baldwin as a replacement candidate for its gubernatorial ticket, after a federal probe cast doubt on whether Andrew Cuomo would accept their ballot line. Baldwin’s spokesman told the newspaper he wasn’t interested.

Baldwin said in an interview with CNN’s Eliot Spitzer in January that he was “very interested” in running for office. He said he had been approached in the past about political offices outside New York, but that he would prefer to live in the Big Apple.

“I do believe that people want to believe that someone who deeply cares about the middle class … would like to seek public office,” Baldwin said.

Bellying up to the sandbar: April the 41st

It's a shame that The Sandbar at the Lighthouse Inn in West Dennis is open so little during the course of the year. Today would be a great afternoon to have a cool beer in the warm sunlight.

It was April the forty-first
Being a quadruple leap year
I was driving in downtown Atlantis
My barracuda was in the shop
So I was in a rented stingray
And it was overheating

So I pulled into a Shell Station
They said I'd blown a seal
I said, "Fix the damn thing
And leave my private life out of it
Okay pal?"

While they were doing that
I walked over to a place called the Oyster Bar, a real dive
But I knew the owner
He used to play for the Dolphins
I said "Hi Gil"
You have to yell, he's hard of herring

Think I had a wet dream
Cruisin' thru the Gulf Stream
Ooh Ooh Ooh Ooh
Wet dream

Gil was also down on his luck
Fact is he was barely keeping his head below water
I bellied up to the sandbar
He poured me the usual

Rusty snail, hold the grunion
Shaken not stirred
With a peanut butter and jellyfish sandwich on the side
Heavy on the mako

I slipped him a fin
On porpoise
I was feeling good
I even dropped a sand dollar in the box for Jerry's squids
For the halibut

Well the place was crowded
We were packed in like sardines They were all there to listen to the big band sounds of Tommy Dorsal
What sole

Tommy was rockin' the place with a very popular tuna
Salmon Chanted Evening
And the stage was surrounded by screaming groupers
Probably there to see the bass player

One of them was this cute little yellowtail
And she's giving me the eye
So I figured this is my chance for a little fun
You know, piece of Pisces

But she said things I just couldn't fathom
She was too deep, seemed to be under a lot of pressure
Boy, could she drink
She drank like a . . .
She drank a lot

I said "What's your sign"
She said "Aquarium"
I said "Great, let's get tanked"

Think I had a wet dream
Cruisin' thru the Gulf Stream
Ooh Ooh Ooh Ooh
Wet dream

I invited her to my place for a midnight bait
I said "Come on baby, it'll only take a few minnows"
She threw me that same old line
"Not tonight, I gotta haddock"

And she wasn't kidding either
Cause in came the biggest, meanest looking haddock
I'd ever seen come down the pike
He was covered with mussels

He came over to me and said
"Listen, shrimp, don't you come trollin' around here"
What a crab
This guy was steamed
I could see the anchor in his eyes

I turned to him, I said
"A-balone, you're just being shellfish"
Well, I knew it was going to be trouble and so did Gil
'Cause he was already on the phone to the cods

The haddock hits me with a sucker punch
I catch him with a left hook
He eels over
It was a fluke but there he was
Lying on the deck, flat as a mackerel
Kelpless

I said "Forget the cods Gil
This guy's gonna need a sturgeon"
Well, the yellowtail was impressed with the way I landed her boyfriend
She came over to me, she said
"Hey, big boy, you're really a game fish
What's your name"
I said "Marlin"

Think I had a wet dream
Cruisin' thru the Gulf Stream
Ooh Ooh Ooh Ooh
Wet dream

Well, from then on we had a whale of a time
I took her to dinner, I took her to dance
I bought her a bouquet of flounders
And then I went home with her
And what did I get for my trouble
A case of the clams

Think I had a wet dream
Cruisin' thru the Gulf Stream
Ooh Ooh Ooh Ooh

Wet dream
Cruisin' thru the Gulf Stream
Ooh Ooh Ooh Ooh

Wet dream
Cruisin' thru the Gulf Stream
Ooh Ooh Ooh Ooh

Harvey's big day!

On this gorgeous June day, Harvey and I will probably stop on the way home from the bar to grab ourselves a Hoodsie. No, not a hoodie. A Hoodsie cup!

Yes, you ice cream snobs, we're talking about that 3 oz cardboard cup of Hood vanilla and chocolate ice cream that comes with its own wooden spoon.

After all, it was on this date in 1823 the Harvey Perley Hood was born, and went on to become a cream of the crop, so to speak. Too bad he was born a little ahead of his own time and never had a Hoodsie at his own 6th birthday party.

Sure, snobbo, you can go stand in line for three hours at the Sundae School or the Ice Cream Smuggler or the Cape Cod Creamery and pay top dollar for that premium ultra fat stuff that the hippies used to make in VT. Or, you can have a good time with a Hoodsie. And the money you save on the ice cream can go toward paying off your bartab with the overpriced beer your drinking.

Let's go, Harvey.

Coors fails to defy gravity!

Before there was any of that hosspiss known as "Coors Light" ("Hey coach! Wanna drink some hosspiss after you make an ass of yourself in this beer commercial?"), there was Coors so-called "Banquet Beer." Brewed in Golden, Colorado, it was a highly-prized beverage. "Colorado Kool-Aid" is was called through the 1970s, and then it went national. And that's when the world discovered that it was delivered in that odd-sized, tall 12-ounce can. Then came Coors Light and all the marketing nonsense. (Gee, can we get Eva Gabor -- Zsa Zsa's sister -- to sell some of our stuff with the backing of all her fame from "Green Effin' Acres"?)

Surely, had Adolf Coors, Sr., been alive at the time, he would have been rolling over in his grave.

Instead, the founding patriarch decided to check out of the Cavalier Hotel in Virginia Beach, VA, on this date in 1929. From the sixth floor, he did a one-and-a-half-gainer into the stratosphere, but fell to earth instead. Of course, he had already checked-out of the beer business thanks to Prohibition. He was dabbling in malted milk (wink, wink), pottery, and cement. Thunk.

In his place, though, he does leave the memory of a time when his beer was both local and good. R.I.P. A.C. Sr.

 

Some people say that Canada's to blame!

Not that anyone missed my musings, but Harvey and I spent Thursday and yesterday helping friends in Monson clean up some of their mess. I'm sure that all the watering holes throughout the Cape & Islands are thinking about those folks about as much as they are thinking about the hapless souls in Joplin and Tuscaloosa. (Sarcasm.) Two words: Hurricane Bob. Just remember the next time we get walloped by a storm, why should anyone else care about us, right? Karma.

Meanwhile, today's the date in 1957  that a guy named John Kinder Labatt  finally got around to registering the name "Labatt's" as a trademark, even though it had been used for their Canadian ales and beers since 1895. (Of course, beer snobs would rather celebrate this date from 1907 because Guinness finally got around to trademarking the "Guinness's Extra Stout James's Gate Dublin Bottled By Arth  Guinness Son & Co. Limited" that they had been using since 1862. Then, again, maybe it's not just those annoying beer snobs, but also those people who insist that they are Irish because they drink Guinness and know all the words to that goddam unicorn song. Ugh! But, I digress.)

Labatt's, as well all know, is a Canadian brew, but it was only 1837 when John Kinder Labatt first landed in London, Ontario from Ireland. (You know, the land of those annoying "humpty-backed camels and long-necked geese" songs, as well as those songs about men wandering the countryside and whistling. Or is that Australia? Again, I digress.)

Then, in 1847, Kinder admitted to his wife that he was having some sort of affair. "I have been considering this brewing affair for some time," he wrote in a letter, "and think it would suit me better than anything else . . ." So, he bought himself the Simcoe Street brewery in London, Ontario, in partnership with Samuel Eccles. When he became the brewery's sole proprietor in 1855, he cleverly renamed it: John Labatt's Brewery.

Along with a passion to brew beer, John Kinder also knew a thing or two about business. He realized the Great Western Railway, completed in the late 1850s, was the company's ticket to expansion outside London. No longer limiting beer sales to London and its surrounding areas, the railway opened new markets for Labatt in Toronto, Montréal and the Maritimes and formed the foundation for future aggressive expansion.

Not long after that, he invented ice hockey and the internet, which gave us both the Vancouver Canucks and Justin Bieber. Thus, concludes the trifecta of Canadian achievements (not counting their crappy healthcare plan, Canadian Mist the McKenzie brothers, and William Shatner.)

Aren't you glad that I'm back?

Go Bruins! Drink Labatt's!

Vuja de! AND mud in your eye!

On this date in 1495, the first written record of Scotch Whiskey appeared in Exchequer Rolls of Scotland, Friar John Cor is the distiller.

While you might recall that "Scotch and Soda" was recorded by The Kingston Trio in 1958 and included on their first album, here's a couple little known facts about that one. Dave Guard, a member of the Trio, first heard it while he was dating the older sister of baseball's Tom Seaver at their home. The song had been a favorite of Seaver's parents since they first heard it played in a piano bar on their honeymoon back in 1932, and they decided to make it "their song" and had the piano player write down the music and lyrics. Guard loved the song, the Trio recorded it, but they never discovered who wrote it although they searched for years to discover the composer.

June State Beer Challenge

As May quickly winds down, you might want to add this event to your list of activities for June: State Beer Mapping Challenge. http://beermapping.com/2011/05/30/take-the-june-state-beer-challenge/

Start planning now so that we don't have to catch up. Might as well pitch in for Cape Cod Beer, Cisco Brewery, and Mayflower Brewery. This suggestion has not been paid for by any of the aforementioned.

R.I.P. Spuds McKenzie . . . whatever you are.

On this date back in 1993, Spuds McKenzie died.

For those who are either too young, or too intelligent to recall the name and reputation, let me tell you that Spuds was one of the dumbest advertising ideas ever conceived by Mankind. Dumber than Herb for Burger King. Dumber than Max Headroom for (even dumber) New Coke. Spuds was the brainchild of someone who thought that Bud Light drinkers were so dumb that they would drink a beer that was the favorite of a dog! Fer cryin’ out loud, dog’s eat poop and greet one another by smell each other’s rear end! What does THAT say about their taste in anything, let alone beer?

So, Spuds became the mascot for Bud Light. Keep in mind that Anheuser Busch is also the company that thought lizards were a great well to sell their beer. And it’s all that money pissed away on their dumb advertising campaign that drives up the price of that crap way beyond what it’s worth in the first place.

But here’s the kicker. Despite the portrayal of Spuds McKenzie as “the ultimate party animal” (which should not be confused with Joe Camel, the ultimate cancer patient), all of Spuds’ attraction to/by supposedly hot babes was a diversion. In the end, the dog who portrayed Spuds turned out to be a FEMALE bull terrier named Honey Tree Evil Eye. And, it was on this date that Honey Tree Evil Eye (I don’t even wanna know how the poor thing got slapped with that name) died.

Next, I suppose, will be a party dog named Storm, which will be whatever sex you want it to be. Oh, wait, isn’t that the case with that Toronto child whose gender is being kept a secret by ITS parents so that society will not be able to stereotype the child? Good grief. Sometimes I feel like a genderless child . . .

Back to Spuds. The mascot has been exploited by everyone from Neil Young to Ton Loc to Family Guy. Autopsy really did reveal that the cause of death was kidney failure. Not surprising, since Bud Light tastes like piss anyway. Poor thing’s kidney was probably uncertain whether it was Bud Light in/ Piss out or vice versa.

Someone please call the SPCA.

What's the price of freedom?

3 lbs Kayem hot dogs, $9.99.

3 packages Pepperidge Farm hot dog rolls, $7.67.

1 bottle French's Yellow Mustard, $1.00.

1 jar Cain's Sweet Relish, $2.29

1 Watermelon, $4.99

30-pack Schaefer, $17.99 (+deposit)

1 Afternoon to enjoy all the above, Priceless.

Thanks to those who have given their lives as the cost of all our freedoms.

The Canning of Beer Halted ! ! !

More likely than not, anyone who's ever glanced at this blogaga is probably not even awake yet. (Unless, of course, you are reading this with your eyes closed.) After all, it's Memorial Day, and a lot of bar-related Twits and FBookers will be thinking of that crumpled wad of singles in your pocket (hmmmm . . . musta been at The Compass Lounge last night) and trying to scheme to get your remaining wealth into their cash registers. Such is life in a seasonal economy. To too many patrons and proprietors alike, it's just one big party weekend.

Now, I'm not one to piss on your parade. You've probably worked hard for whatever moolah you have. With that, you've earned the right to relax and to spend it as you wish. That IS, after all, what this great nation is all about.

Still, this is all I ask, yet again. Just once this weekend, do something to actively honor those who have ensured your continued freedom with their lives. This is not a political statement, because it's pretty clear that no one in elected office is doing much to reunite those who have been called into service with those who have been left at home to fend for themselves. That spirit faded with the end of World War II, when much was done "for the war effort." These days, the attitude about war is just "ho hum." Our nation is actively engaged in three battlefronts, and too many people are thinking more about their next cold drink and all the nonsense that proprietors are going through to get folks to drink at their well. Shame for not sharing a moment or two.

On this date back in 1942, the last beer cans were filled for civilian consumption. For the next five years, beer and ale was only sold in kegs and bottles. Aluminum cans had yet to be invented, and the steel used in making beer cans was needed for "the war effort." Ships, planes, tanks, trucks, jeeps all took priority over beer. And rightly so.

Tomorrow will be another day, and I can dismount from this high horse of mine and tend to my so-called saddle sores. Until then, please give Memorial Day at least a moment of the kind of thought that the occasion deserves.

The Sport the Moonshine Nurtured

You can forget about the BP on ACK today (that's the beautiful people on Nantucket) who think that we all get excited that they race their toys to the open bar and back. It was fun when it first started and when it meant something to the folks at Baxter's, but now it's just a joke. Forget Tom & Tom, the "juice guys" at Nantucket Nectars. They cashed out. In their stead, it's Dumb & Dumb, the "juiced guys." Yawn.

And I'll bet that all the sports bars will pack 'em in today for the race that was nurtured in running moonshine through the Appalachians. Yes, today IS the one hundredth gunning of the engines before a live turnout of nearly half a million people, who have all gathered to await the next explosion. Only guessing, but there might even be some local bars that will have a "special" today: $3 pint of cold milk! They'll pretend to be in the tradition of the milk-guzzling winners, but still out to shake down the BP with a jacked-up price. These folks would never drink a cheaper milk. Plus, they will demand a slice of citrus in it. Wake me when it's over.

Meanwhile, I'd like to see just one bar step up and promote a "Buy A Round for Joplin" Night. Or OK City. Or Tuscaloosa. Or Wounded Warriors. But that will never happen.

So, who you pickin' in today's race?

And, oh yeah, the Sox are in first place! And it isn't even yet June! Haven't we seen this movie before? Let's see how they do at the All Star Break. 

Vanity Plates as Bar Decor: What are YOU gonna do about it?

So, yesterday's plan to scratch for 'haugs in Stage Harbor, then have a $2 pint or two at The Nun did not so much go up in smoke as it did simply get lost in the fog.

The whole thing had begun when my lifelong friend had called on Monday to say that he was on the causeway to Morris Island checking out the tide and the activity. He was surprised that no one was there, but I explained to him that the tide had been at 9:30, and it was after 1p when he was calling. He really wanted to go for the hunt, and wanted to know if I would go with him on Tuesday. But our schedules did not mesh at all until yesterday.

Now, let me give you some backstory here. That MARCH 1 vanity tag to the left of the southern rafter over the bar at the Squire is mine. We hung it there on my fiftieth birthday many years ago, I can tell you what's written on the back. But not right now.

I mention that plate, because my lifelong friend was born a day before me, on a 28 February. Not only did we grow up together, but we also grew old together. But there have been a couple of differences. For example, when I went off to Wesleyan, my friend went off to Parris Island. He did not pass GO! and he did not collect $200. He went right to Vietnam with a machine gun. He was an 18 year old on a mission, and he has the scars and the Purple Hearts to prove it. Me? I went for my college degrees, and they threw in my single bar (which is not the same as a "singles bar"), and then I followed him four years later at 22. 

In the years that followed, my friend and his wife raised a family, and their older son graduated from the USAF. As a Lt Col, he just deployed to Afghanistan. There are kids and grandkids and all that stuff that belongs in a great country song. Me? I followed-up my training as a lone ranger and a skeptic until I became a curmudgeon at a very early age, earning the barfly merit badge with high honors.

Flash forward to six or seven weeks ago, when my lifelong friend phoned me on a Tuesday en route to South Shore Hospital. He had something to tell me: in his lungs and in his bones, they had discovered cancer. Radiation and chemo were now on his schedule. When he called me last week from the causeway, he had been for that day's treatment, and he was looking to do some living.

Anyway, when the fog had not lifted by noontime yesterday when I picked him up in Harwich, we decided we'd hit the Red Nun until it lifted, then hunt for 'haugs. But the Nun was not yet open [Note: Winter's over, and three other vehicles pulled into the lot and left while I looked for some posted business hours.] But, I digress.

We hit the Squire instead and sat at the bar right in front of the door and beneath where the "Plovers taste a lot like chicken" sticker used to be. As we quacked and made note that my MARCH 1 was still in place, I noticed that above my stool was a framed note, which I first ignored. But eventually, I gave it a second glance. And then a read. 

You should seek it out. It's from a young Squire patron from Chelmsford who had served in Iraq in 2006, and he was asking if the Squire would hang up his MA tag with the Purple Heart. I nudged my friend and pointed to the note. "Read this," I said, but I knew his eyesight's not that good. So, I summarized, then pointed to the kid's Purple Heart tag nailed right there. Where ALL the world should take note. This is not a vanity plate from some jackass such as me . . . or John Effin Kerry. This kid gave a part of himself  to carry this honor, and he now he wants everyone to know just how much he loves this bar. God bless him, and all the other kids serving overseas this weekend. They won't be here for the traffic, the cookouts, or the Squire's overpriced CAN of PBR. Still, keep them in your hearts. Their true day will come in November when all veterans (living and dead) are honored, but it's okay to honor the living on this commemoration of those who have given their lives.

As we left the Squire in search of shellfish, my lifelong friend was moving very, very slow. And I finally asked him how he is feeling. He reported that the pain sucks, but that he is determined to get through one more year so that he can see his older son once again when he returns from Afghanistan.

Finally, when you go to some bar this weekend, remember these guys, as well as those men and women you do not know. For ten seconds, utter a simple prayer for them. And maybe think about donating the price of just one of those pretty beers to the Wounder Warrior Project. The greatest casualty is being forgotten. 

The naked woman rides a unicorn jumping over fire!

Once the tide goes out today, we're scratchin' for some 'haugs in Stage Harbor, then quenching our thirsts @thenun! Hope to see the naked woman riding the unicorn!

A New Yawka worth mourning

Sheesh, it's hard to believe that almost a century has flown by since old Jake Ruppert passed away on this date.

In the 1800s, two Manhattan brewers stood out not only from among the rest in the city, but also from the rest in the young nation.  They were George Ehret and Jake Ruppert.

Most beer historians consider George Ehret the first great brewer in America.  Ehret came to New York in 1857 armed with an impressive knowledge about brewing thanks to intense training in his homeland of Germany.  He found work at a local brewery and rose to the position of head brewer.  A frugal man, he soon saved enough money to eventually buy the brewery.

Ehret’s goal was to make a beer in America that was a match for his beloved Munich lager. Using water from a self-drilled 700 foot artesian well he produced a brew called Franziskaner.  It proved to be an instant hit despite the fact that lager was a beer style not yet common in the US.   In his first  few months of production Ehert sold 34,000 barrels, a large amount for a new beer.  Customers  found that the crisp, flavorful lager went well with the extensive free lunch of sandwiches, sausages, cheese and pickles, that came with their beer purchase at most of the city’s taverns.  It was truly a good time for brewer and customer.

Ehret’s beer, as was true of most beers of the time, was dispensed only in bars, directly from the keg.  During the summer months the demand for Franziskaner was so great that city pubs were hard pressed to keep their supply chilled.  In an era before refrigeration their solution was to build large ice tanks directly on the bar.  The heavy kegs of beer were hoisted up by teams of bartenders and carefully placed in the tank.  Many establishments even went so far as to hire special “Franziskaner tenders,” teams of youths whose sole job was to replace the quickly emptied kegs.   Keeping beer ice cold was hard, hot work.

With sales nearly doubling every other year Ehret plowed his profits back into the business and built a huge new brewery that sprawled over 75 city lots.  He had become the acknowledged leader in the beer business.  His reign however only lasted until bottled beer became popular.  It was his rival, Adolphus Busch, who was the first to see bottling as the future of beer.   Bush’s foresight would lead to his ultimate domination of the beer business and a national consumer base.  For his part, Ehret steadfastly refused to ever install a bottling department in his brewery.  Good brewer, bad forecaster.

By the end of the 19th century Ehret’s annual production of 600,000 barrels made him the second largest brewer in America, behind only Busch’s one million.  However closing fast on Ehret was his fellow New Yorker, Jacob Ruppert. (Not yet called "senior.")

Jake Ruppert was born in New York in 1842, son of immigrants from Bavaria.  His father, Franz, owned the small Turtle Bay Brewery on the west side of Manhattan.  Jake began working there when he was only ten, and he began absorbing everything he could about business and brewing.  By the age of twenty, he was confident enough in his knowledge to ask his father’s permission to start his own brewery.   The answer of course was yes, and brewing history was to be made.

Jake bought a piece of wooded property on Manhattan's forest Upper East side, ironically within blocks of Ehret’s. There Ruppert built a tiny fifty square foot building and made his first batch of beer.  He aptly christened the structure The Jacob Ruppert Brewery.  In his first year he sold just over 5,000 barrels, making his fledgling business a success.  Always proud of that first year’s production, Jake later was to often brag to his own son, “Jacob, my ambition was to sell 5,000 barrels of beer in a year and I did it!”  

 

Jake’s sales rose steadily every year due not only to his beer’s high quality but also to his unparalleled salesmanship.  He saw the value of social contracts and joined every German organization he could find.  He was especially fond of joining singing societies.  He didn’t have much of a voice but he had great pitch, sales pitch that is.  Besides, he concluded, singing always brought on large thirst.

Making a sale was always the key for Jake.  He was one of the first in the beer business to thoroughly train his salesmen, including lining their pockets with expense money to lavish on potential customers. He also supplied them with an assortment of stories and jokes to enhance their sales spiel.  Jake was creating his own course in Beer Marketing 101.

In addition to his business acumen, Jake prided himself on being a responsible father.  He sent his son, young Jake, to grammar school, from which he proudly graduated.  Immediately after, however, young Jake was allowed to work full time at the brewery.  Young Jake climbed through the ranks and emerged in 1890 as the brewery’s general manager.  He was now in control of a vast plant that produced well over a half a million barrels a year.  He took particular interest in the refinement of the brewery’s flagship brands, Knickerbocker and Ruppert’s Extra Pale, tweaking their recipe to ever increasing popularity.

Jacob Ruppert, Jr., followed in his father’s footsteps by joining every ethnic and civic organization he could find.   His efforts were rewarded not only with record sales but with political clout.  His elite social status was assured when he was personally made a New York State Colonel (rarer by far than the Kentucky version) by then Governor David Hill.

By the turn of the century the Rupperts were reaping huge profits. In an era before income tax they had become truly wealthy. Young Jake, now often just called The Colonel, became the toast of New York. He dressed in the latest and most expensive fashions; he developed a
fondness for valuable antiques; he had a stable of fine (looking, not running) thoroughbred race horses.  

 

In 1913 the Rupperts made their final great expansion.  On the same site that three decades earlier old Jake had constructed his first brewery, Colonel Jake built an enormous, modern plant of 2 million barrels capacity.  Speakers at the dedication called it the finest brewery in world.  It was valued at over $30 million and employed more than 1,000 men.  The Colonel’s brewery was now an integral component of the entire New York economy.

The brewery’s workers were sometimes put on double shifts as 1914 saw America drink more beer than ever before.  As the profits rolled in Colonel Jake took a small part of the money and bought the New York American League baseball team, the Yankees.  Yes, those Yankees.  Years later, as the fans came in droves to watch the Colonel’s recently purchased player from Boston named George Herman Ruth, the ballpark became the single largest seller of Ruppert beer in the nation.  The Colonel understood the synergy of sports and beer long before modern advertising agencies.

Sadly, with Prohibition on the horizon things would soon forever change for both Ehret and Ruppert.  The passage of the 18th Amendment would definitively end these golden days of New York beer.   Days that, sadly, have never returned.  Need proof?  Just try to get a free lunch with your beer today. 

 

As for old Jake, he became the late Jacob Ruppert, Sr., on this date in 1915. He passed away from cirrhosis of the liver, a disease brought on by his many years of testing his own product.

 

So, today's a good day to drink a Knickerbocker beer, if you can find one. Otherwise, the sun is out, and that's good enough reason to drink the first beer that falls into your hands. And the second one, too.

I Can Drink Any Woman Pretty

Latest word about The Arnold is that he only fooled around with women that others might think are not so attractive. And people have a theory about this.

One theory is that The Arnold felt that the plainer women would be more excited about his own physique, but sometimes a picture is worth a thousand words. Right?

 Right.

Another theory is that by announcing this supposed preference for plain (or just damn ugly!) women, then The Arnold would not suffer the TWS (Tiger Woods Syndrome) wherein all sorts of bimbos then step forward to claim their moment of fame.

Yet another theory is that The Arnold simply did not drink enough. As Todd Snider once wrote, "I can drink any woman pretty." Maybe The Arnold did not drink enough tequila.

Then, again, doesn't his wife resemble all the other women in the Kennedy lineage? Not one of them could be called a raving beauty.

All of which reminds me of yet another classic.

There are 8 Million Stories in the Naked City

You're really, REALLY old if you remember "The Naked City," which ended each broadcast with the line: "There are 8 million stories in the Naked City. And this has been one of them."

Well, from the Naked City today came word of yet another tragic tale, this one about the suicide of one Joseph Brooks. He's the guy that wrote and directed the absolutely dreadful motion picture called "You Light Up My Life." And with it he wrote the even MORE dreadful title song, which has been covered by everyone apparently except for Lady Gaga.

And those of us who were alive in 1977 can recall just how dreadful that summer was when seemingly every other song blaring out of radios all along the beach was Debby (Pat's daughter) Boone singing that goddam song. (And every song in between that one seemed to be the Cantina song from "Star Wars.") Apparently, this was the frontier of pounding the bejeezus out of a song to get people to see a movie. Or, in this case, to avoid it.

For all that primitive radio terrorism, Mr. Brooks copped both an Academy Award AND a Grammy for the annoying tune. 

Sadly, however, it appears that Mr. Brooks yesterday committed suicide in Manhattan by pulling a plastic bag over his head and pumping it full of helium.

You know me. I could say a lot of things here, but the word "karma" does come to mind. At last, Brooks must have realized just how all of us sunworshippers along West Dennis Beach in 1977 felt every time his song came on 68 WRKO or 77 WABC. Unfortunately, we did not have access to any helium without driving to King's Department Store in Hyannis. Yes, suicide is a terrible thing. But so was that annoying tune. Despite the song, may he rest in peace.

In retrospect, I also understand now just why every bar on the Cape in those days had a mandatory 2 for 1 happy hour. Long live the Swampfox!

The Morning After the End of the World

Sheesh! For the first time since I started this blogaga, yesterday was the first day that I neglected my responsibilities. Sure, I could say that I was partying like it was 1999, but the truth is: I was not. In fact, I was too busy putting away all my hoodies and dungarees for the season. Hah! Who knew that the morning after the end of the world, the headline would read: HELL FREEZES OVER! Brrrrrrr.

So, here I am ready to pick up where I left off. And today is the birthday of Thomas Edward John, Jr. (who should not be confused with John Edward Thomas, the first known child of Tom Brady . . . whose initials are J.E.T. Nice going, Bridget.) But, I digress.

Yes, today IS Tommy John's birthday, and he will forever go down in history as one of the two things that Red Sox Blabcaster Joe Castiglione feels obligated to mention in every single broadcast. No, we're not talking the haiku of Sean McDonough, or Castiglione's fetish for the word "cutter." We are speaking, of course, about Tommy John surgery.

As everyone knows (cough!), Tommy John surgery is when someone (like Jake Delhomme) undergoes a surgical procedure that replaces a ligament in the medial elbow with a tendon from some other part of the body. It's called Tommy John surgery, because Castilione probably would have a tough time saying "Jake Delhomme," day in and day out.

This should not be confused with Dr Jake Quimby surgery used to treat Barfly's Elbow. You could look up that procedure on your own.

So, Happy Birthday, Tommy. We know you can blow out all the candles on your cake, because the latest pitcher to return from Tommy John surgery is the Twins' Joe Nathan . . . and he's blown his last two saves! Still, Nathan is not at all worried, because he knows it's not the end of the world.

World's Most-Beloved Barfly Born on This Date

Happy birthday to the late Jimmy Stewart! (Can ya hear me celebratin', wherever you are?)

For those who might be culturally impaired, you should understand this: Jimmy Stewart portrayed on stage and on screen the character of Elwood P. Dowd, who spent many an afternoon and evening drinking with Harvey . . . an invisible six-foot rabbit. ("What's that, Harvey? You want a drink?)

"The cause of and solution to all life's problems!"

"Beer!"- Homer J. Simpson.

Riverway's Tavern has come to its senses! Again.

Just wanted to celebrate the fact that the tavern at South Yarmouth's Riverway Lobster House finally not only has PBR on draft, BUT also prices it okay at $2.99. 

Let's just call it $3 and be grown-up about it. (That would come to almost $24/gal if you pumped it yourself at a service station, but it's still a better deal than the $3 can.) Best local price still remains the 20-oz schooner in Planck's Tavern at Oliver's in Yarmouthport.

Add to the Riverway's newfound taste in beer the fact that all the appetizers on their menu are now half-price from 3p to 5:30p, and you'll discover that a good time can be had by all.

Yes, this is an unsolicited endorsement. I always pay my own bartab, and I always tip my bartender.

Pabst Abandon's Caponeville for the City of Broken Dreams

Beer maker Pabst, based outside Chicago, declines to say why it's relocating to Southern California or how many local jobs it might create.

By Shan Li, Los Angeles Times

Irony-loving hipsters in Los Angeles, grab a Pabst and give a toast to the maker of one of your favorite beers.

In moving its headquarters to L.A. this summer from a Chicago suburb, Pabst Brewing Co. will bring one of the older brands in the business to a bruised California that has seen quite a few corporate head offices flee the state.

http://articles.latimes.com/2011/may/14/business/la-fi-pabst-brewery-20110514

Follow Bruschi up the mountain! Pt II

Hope you are following Tedy's adventure for the Wounded Warrior Project. He's climbing Mt Kilamonjaro. http://sports.espn.go.com/boston/columns/story?columnist=bruschi_tedy&id=6555023

What are you doing?

TWO for ONE ! ! ! ! Right Now!

Aaahahahahahhhha!

The wx is getting to me, so I thought I'd track down this 1973 video for ya and post a second bloggage for the day.

"It NEVER Rains in California" by Albert Hammond

I'm out of work, I'm out of my head
Out of self respect, I'm out of bread
I'm underloved, I'm underfed, 

I wanna go home
It never rains in California, but girl, don't they warn ya?
It pours, man, it pours.

Three Things A Great Bar Should NOT Have

It's really this simple. A true bar has none of these three things.

No webcam.

No karaoke.

No blender.

Yes, read that list and commit it to memory.

That's not to say that some good places might not have one (but not two!) of those things; however, it will never achieve greatness as a bar, only as a "nightspot" or "club." [Note: No Members Only attire allowed.]

Meanwhile, today's paper is full of all sorts of nonsense. Apparently, there's a pot bar in Portland, Oregon, where so-called "medical marijuana" treatments are prescribed AND they have karaoke. http://www.sacbee.com/2011/05/17/3632337/free-weed-free-tunes-ore-pot-bar.html  Not enough ganja in the world to get me to listen or to perform. [Note: Change the entertainment to "Smokeyokey." Cough!]

And then there's the story of the Panera Bread joint (yes, pun intended) in Missoura (yes, spelled like it's pronounced) where customers only pay what they want. http://www.usatoday.com/money/industries/food/2011-05-16-panera-pay-what-you-can_n.htm?csp=hf WOW! This is chew-and-screw taken to the extreme! But I would prefer to see a bar run in this same manner. C'mon, Squire, your $3 price is too high on a goddam PBR pounder! It's only $2.50 (and STILL too high) at the Hot Stove. And the same price will get you another 4oz on tap at Planck's. So, let us pay what we think it's worth. You'll still make a dandy profit . . . even if YOU were paying RETAIL for the same goddam can. (But you're paying wholesale.) Plus tip for popping that top. Let's face it, anyone who pays $3 for a can (an CAN) of PBR is someone trying to impress us with the fact that s/he's willing to piss away the dough on a simple beer. They would NEVER drink it if it cost them less. Go figure, but don't be impressed.

Finally, what's the attraction of Dancing with the Stars? Tom Bergeron? Good grief. Kirstie Alley (who ran that Boston bar into the ground)? If it's such an attraction, when is some desperate bar going to have Danceoke? You know, get drunk and try to dance for entertainment and for scoring. Oh, wait, they used to do that at the Compass Lounge, didn't they? Everything old is new again. We'll call it Dancing in the Bars.

http://content.usatoday.com/communities/entertainment/post/2011/05/dancing-recap-the-semifinals/1

"Why Me?" vs "What, Me Worry?"

Whenever I see Nancy Kerrigan on TV these days, I immediately flash back to a simpler time, 1994, when all we had to worry about was Whitewater and Kerrigan's tearful lament, "Why Me?"

 

Of course, the nation was riveted with the notion that some trailer trash would try to hobble the ice princess and deny the USofA its Olympic gold. More importantly, though, it put the Tony Kent Arena in South Dennis on the newsmap, along with the Gull Wing Suites in Yarmouth (is that West or South?)

 

Anyway, if you've forgotten Kerrigan's covers on Newsweek and TIME, then you can find the whole story in Sports Illustrated. Here's a snippet.

 

Stant flew out of Portland the next day, Dec. 29, on a 6:37 a.m. American Airlines flight to Dallas, then caught a connecting flight to Boston. Smith had given him some expense money, the photograph of Kerrigan, a computer printout with background information on Kerrigan and directions to the Tony Kent Arena in Dennis, Mass. Stant was scheduled to return on Jan. 3. They figured that would give him plenty of time to carry out the attack.

 

But almost immediately things began to go wrong. Stant registered at the airport Hilton in Boston using a credit card. When he tried to rent a car with the card, he was refused, since it was issued in Leslie Thomas's name. Stant had inadvertently grabbed his girlfriend's credit card when he left Phoenix.

Stant called Thomas and asked her to send his card to Boston as soon as possible. It didn't arrive until 6 p.m. the next day, Dec. 30. Stant spent another night at the Hilton, then, on New Year's Eve, drove his rented Chevrolet Cavalier to Yarmouth on Cape Cod, a distance of 80 miles. Kerrigan skated that day but left the Tony Kent Arena by 1:30 p.m. By the time Stant had checked into the Gull Wing Suites, which was 6½ miles from the arena, Kerrigan had already departed; she was on her way to spend the New Year's weekend with her parents in Stoneham, outside Boston. Kerrigan and Stant, traveling in opposite directions, may have passed each other on Route 6.

For the next two days Stant staked out the arena, moving his car to a different location in the lot every half hour.

http://sportsillustrated.cnn.com/vault/article/magazine/MAG1004829/1/index.htm

Yarmouth's Corridor of Whores!

Okay, that's a bit harsh, because this riveting commentary goes beyond the town of Yarmouth.

As I was driving east on 28 yesterday afternoon, there was some candidate for school committee standing out in front of Luke's and waving hysterically at every passing auto, locals and visitors alike. Of course, the candidate was holding the obligatory campaign sign.

Today, on Station Avenue outside of Stop & Shop, there stood a different candidate for the same office striking the same campaign tactic. Hold your sign and wave.

Well, where's MY "stupid" sign? Do these candidates really think that a wave from them might seal the deal?

As I said, this is not a Yarmouth exclusive. Last November, one of the candidates for state senate spent EVERY Sunday at the entrance to the Dennis Transfer Station. He was surrounded by a posse of supporters, and they all held their signs and waved . . . to locals and visitors alike.

Now, we all know that the dump was once THE place to campaign when the dump actually was called "the dump." That was before it was called "the landfill," which was before they called it  "the transfer station." Of course, in those days the candidate would stand in the stench, reach out his/her hand and say, "Hi, I'm [candidate's name] and I'm running for whatever." And then the candidate would ask for your vote. And then you could ask the candidate a direct question. This was before the driveby campaigns began.

And then there's the morons who turn out with their signs and stand around the perimeter of the rotary in Hyannis. That gives you a chance to get more than one look if you want to go around and around and around. They will wave their hands and their signs each time.

And then there's the supporters who stand in for the candidate and do the same things. Stand. Wave.

And, of course, if you really haven't decided by election day, they're ALL there outside your polling station, where they wave and hold their signs.

Sure, this takes a lot of time and patience on their part, but do they really believe that we are all so stupid that we'd vote for anyone based on a wave and a sign?

Apparently. This is so sad. These are the same people who want us to handle our town business. 

From now on, all they need is the same sign. And it reads: "Vote for Stupid! That's Me."

The night I pissed off Alec Baldwin

I'm still not certain why I love Alec Baldwin, but I do. Just don't tell him that.

One night a few years back, I was sitting in a bar. (Whoa! Was that a surprise or what?) Actually, it was a Friday night in Nashville, and I had a very early flight to catch. So, to help me get a good night's rest, I sought out some local bar not far from the Vandy campus, the Exit/In, and Rotier's on Elliston Street. Being mid-September, it was college football season, and I sat there watching some obscure game.

After a while, I noticed there was someone on the barstool next to me. Someone had coughed, so I turned around and there was Alec Baldwin, nursing a drink by himself. When I turned my attention back to the game, he began to make small talk. So, I created a little talk of my own, but I did not let on that I knew who he was.

Eventually, though, he began to drop hints.

I played dumb, and I paid more attention to the game.

Finally, he came right out and introduced himself. "My name's Alec Baldwin," he said and held out his hand for a shake.

"I'm Paul McCartney," I said as I shook his hand, then I turned back to the game.

"No, really," he insisted. "I'm Alec Baldwin." He flashed his big Alec Baldwin grin.

"Yes," I said, "but I'm still Paul McCartney."

"What brings you to Nashville?" he asked.

"A plane," I told him without turning away from the game. "A big plane, and a taxi cab."

"I'm here on business," he said.

"Really?" I replied without turning away from the game. "What do you do?"

He laughed. "I'm Alec Baldwin," he said again.

"You told me that already," I said.

So, he motioned the bartender to come over, then said to him. "This guy doesn't believe that I'm Alec Baldwin," he started to say until I interrupted.

"Alec Baldwin is a funny guy," I said, "but you're no Alec Baldwin."

The bartender apparently appreciated what little style I had, and he joined in the game.

"He's right," the bartender added. "You're no Alec Baldwin."

Baldwin then took out his wallet. For a moment, he considered showing us some identification, but he must have thought better. Instead, he just paid for his drink, left a tip, and quietly left the joint.

Ladies and gentlemen, Alec Baldwin has left the building.

And he's still a funny guy.