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.

It's bedtime somewhere.

Okay, so I am watching the last glow of this Friday the 13th and bringing to an end our celebration of the first sunny day in recent memory. Yes. We did have margaritas on the deck this evening and pretended that it was spring . . . in a hoodie.

The drinks not only got us through the 13th and this intemperature, but also past the word that Charlie Effin Sheen is about to replaced by Ashton Kutcher. Is that his name? Is there a bigger pantload? Is he a national treasure along the lines of Gary Coleman and Patrick Swayze? Isn't he Demi Moore's son? Wuzzat you say? He's her husband? Well, then, we know who wears the jockstrap in THAT so-called fambly. (Sorry. Too much tequila . . . or not enough.)

As big a horse's ass as Charlie Sheen might be, do you really expect that this will be a revitalized 2.5 Men with Ashton Effin Kutcher?

I still recall when Demmy (not D'MEE) Moore and Bruce Willis had their condo at the Yachtsman in Hyannisport. Ah, yessssss, those were THE days. She was still the nobody that she is (which make Kutcher less than zero) and Bruno was riding high with Moonlighting.

But here I am talking about a funny show that's probably going to be devalued down to "One Point Two-five Men and Ashton Kutcher."

Branded!

Jeez, Louise, the cops wanna take my mugshot, but I don't have a thing to wear. My WAAF t-shirt's in the wash.

Maybe you saw on this morning's news that some sports fan on a Delta flight from ORL to BOS tried to open the door en route. He did not use the Flip Wilson/Geraldine excuse: "The devil made me do it!" No, his defense attorney claims his client discovered the door was broken, so he was just trying to fix it. But I digress.

Here we are at the Suffolk County jail, and all he had clean to wear for this roadtrip was his Bruins t-shirt. Not only does it hide the beer stains well, but probably came with the official NHL merchandise hologram on the tag. It's not clear from the mugshot just what that shield is beneath his crewneck, but I'm thinking it's genuine stuff from Marshall's.

This should NOT be confused with the official Red Sox gear that some Weymouth guy is trying to fence in Yankeeland. (Talk about "stealing home plate"?) Nope, this self-taught airline mechanic is sporting (pun intended) the real McCoy (or, if you don't want that in English, "the real enchilada.") Yet again, I digress.

His photo from the arrangement is much more colorful and clear. Black and gold! Go Bruins!

I suppose it could be worse; maybe a Spongebob shirt? Or a Rod Stewart souvenir tee?

And yet, if you watch the fan explain his side of the story on WCVB's website, you'll discover him to be not only a bit more joyful in explaining how the devil might have been "a burger and a couple of beers," but also a Pats fan! How do I know? The t-shirt tells me so. http://www.thebostonchannel.com/news/27852471/detail.html

Okay, I'm coming down a bit harsh on the guy for his wardrobe, when all I've been doing this week is pissing and moaning about the fact that this weather has been sooooooo raw that I can't yet put away my entire collection of hoodies. Would you want me to wear the same one each day of the week? No, of course not. In fact, for a couple of years my hoodie of choice was a heavyweight gray baby with the word EAGLES stitched in maroon and gold across the front. Strangers would point to me with pride and say, "BC!" And I'd gloat with even greater pride and tell them, "No. Marshall's. $19.99!" Even though I went to Wesleyan, I do like a good deal. One last time, I have digressed.

The point of this, I think, has something to do with the branding. Did the NHL and the NFL realize that they were outfitting such disturbers of the peace. Is the league TBR ("to be rowdy") license valid outside the confines of the home field? Would I be typing this if the guy were wearing a shirt and tie? Or would a guy in a shirt and tie even be tinkering with that door? All this thinking makes my hair (singular) hurt.

Of all this nonsense, though, the absolutely most hysterical part can be seen in the video of the guy leaving court and his trying to avoid the media. In using his one telephone call, he must have called for a ride. So, he sprints from the East Boston courthouse steps to a vehicle which awaits. And across the ENTIRE two-doors of the passenger's side of the ride are the blaring words: ARLINGTON REALTY GROUP along with their website. It's that sort of advertising and branding that money cannot buy.

Moral to the story? Always make your team proud; always wear clean underwear; and don't you ever call me for a ride.

Follow Bruschi up the mountain!

http://sports.espn.go.com/boston/nfl/columns/story?columnist=bruschi_tedy&id=6517664

How Irving Berlin Kept Us Out of the Brig

Happy birthday, Irving Berlin!

How much more enjoyable it would be if we could sing your "God Bless America" at the start of each game rather than sit through someone trying to hit those painful notes in "The Stars-Spangled Banner."

Whenever I hear "GBA," though, I am reminded of three specific images.

First is simply a full-figured Kate Smith belting out the tune for war bonds (not Ward Bond) and for those hockey games.

Second is the so-called "music" at the old 28 Club in Dennisport. The piano was played by someone known affectionately as "Arthritic Alice," and she was accompanied by an old drummer named Jack Bolinder. After last call, lights would go up, she'd pound out "God Bless America," and the entire place would romp around singing Irving's song. No need to call the authorities, for Miriam (the cop at West Dennis Beach) would be there amongst them. Move along, nothing to see here.

And then, there's the Red Dog Saloon in DaNang, over near the Marine side of the airbase. Sometimes, you could sit there quietly and sip an ice cold beer. Other times, you ran for cover if you saw the barmaid had left the building. That was usually a good sign that the VC were about to blow something up. In between, there was the shoulder-to-shoulder mingling of members from all branches of the U.S. Armed Services. 

After a beer or three, there could be some bragging or some blaming about recent events, and it wasn't unusual for tempers to flare and fists to fly. On one occasion, it began to look like a saloon scene out of a John Wayne western. Fists, chairs, and sirens. 

Sirens? Did someone say "sirens"?

Fear not, bar mates, the MPs and the SPs were on their way, so you might want to knock off this horseplay.

No one, of course, was paying any attention to those warnings, and it was obvious that heads were going to get busted by the arriving peacekeepers.

But wait.

Is that someone trying to stand atop a table? And is that someone trying to sing?

Huh?

Why, indeed. There's some JG in khaki slacks and Hawaiian shirt busting out "God Bless America."

At first, it looked so stupid that some people stopped hitting one another simply because they could not believe their eyes. Then, seemingly one-by-one, everyone began to chime in on the song.

By the time the Jeeps and wagons had pulled up outside, everyone in the Red Dog was singing Irving Berlin's anthem, and a good time once again was being had by all.

Thanks to Kate and Alice and Jack and, of course, Irving for a totally brilliant idea.

BRILLIANT!

Here's Kate Smith's introduction of this song to the world, even though it had been written by Berlin a generation before. If you do watch it, please keep in mind that we have members of our own community serving in active duty overseas at this very moment. Say a prayer for their safe return.

Only game where defense possesses the ball?

Apparently, that would be baseball (and its incarnations, such as softball, Whiffle ball, kickball.)

All indications are that the offense neither touches, nor possesses the ball. And it can only give it direction with a bat.

Not many words there, but enough to get tongues wagging today at the bar.

Great Day for Barfly Significa! Let's play two!!!

Here's a double-header worth celebrating this day. 

Not only is this THE day that inventor Joseph Bramah received his patent for the beer pump back in 1797, but it's also the day that the first Sox pitcher ever to start a game in Fenway was born in Brockton in 1882; his name, Thomas Joseph ("Buck") O'Brien. Add to that the fact that it's a sucky day outside, and this would be an amazin' day to head to someplace cozy, like the Canal Cafe. 

Just in case you feel a need to know more, understand that Bramah's patented beer pump was more of a hydraulic pump than is today's beer tap. In his day, they needed something to pump the ale out of a cask. Today's kegs, though, are pressurized with carbonization; hence, da tap. When Amrhein's in South Boston boasts of having Boston's first beer pump, this is the thing that Joseph Bramah had patented. So, no need to stick a slice of citrus in it. 

As for Buck O'Brien, it is true that the Shoe City Spitballer (my name for him) did begin his major league career in 1911, but his historic appearance in Fenway was not possible until they opened the goddam park in 1912. No mixed drinks. No sushi. No Berkowitz chowder. Play ball!

And if none of that incites you to drink on this day, just think of the Lakers. Ahahahhhahahahhhhaaaa! Kobe who? And Phil Elbows Jackson is someone I have despised since his days playing for the Knicks. Boo effin hoo, dirtbag.

Lord, won't you buy me a Blue Ribbon Beer. No. Better make that two.

There are no bars in Dennis!

That's right.

A while back, I was watching one of several town hearings regarding The Sailing Cow in Dennis Port, and Chief Whalen explained to everyone that there are no bars in Dennis; there are only restaurants which have a "pouring license." In other words, food must be the primary stream of revenue. No food, no liquor license.

That hearing, as well as the explanation, came about because the folks at The Sailing Cow have really been pushing hard to be a bar or a nightclub or an after-hours eatery, in addition to their over-priced, ordinary fare served across from Glendon Beach down on Snatch Alley.

It's too bad, because they would do a lot better being a place that makes fast nickels, rather than slow dollars. As with all waterfront spots, these people figure they have a captured audience. In their case, though, it just doesn't work.

Is the food good? Yes, but not as great as the price would have it. And same goes for the drinks. Case in point, three 16oz PBR drafts came to a tab total of $11.22. Okay, YOU do that math. If there's taxes involved, why not put that at the end rather than force us to do the math. A bottle of Bud Light is $3,27. Huh?

Of all the gin joint in all the towns in all the world, who else calculates a tab like this? 

But, I digress.

Harvey and I dropped by on Saturday afternoon, because we were cruisin' the Alley, and the sign said "entertainment." (Not to be confused with the illegal signs they stick out a mile away on Lower County Road.)

If they want my bar business, though, they need to get real about who they are. Why would any barfly drop by for a beer, when the deal is much better at Planck's or Hot Stove. Sure, 6A and 28 are not on the Sound, but you could take a six-pack to the beach if you really want the best deal.

Bottom line: ignore the signs, and keep on drivin'.

And then there's this whole cow-in-a-boat concept. The entertainment was a very talented singer, who is in a very tough spot to entertain. No stage. Too many families. A handful of regulars, to whom she addresses the annoying interruptions in her songs. Needs to sing Lyle Lovett:

If I had a boat
I'd go out on the ocean
And if I had a pony
I'd ride him on my boat
And we could all together
Go out on the ocean
Me upon my pony on my boat

And if I were Lyle Lovett, I think I'd get a haircut. Or a hat. Or a big, brown paper bag and put it over my head.