Weekends Were Made for Michelob
Greetings to you once again, dear readers of The East Nashvillian. As is customary each January, I have a resolution. I resolve to use this column to rail against whatever I see fit!
That’s right. Unscrupulous, aesthetically atrocious real estate developers: check. Locust-like hipsters: check. Bogus banjo plinking: check. And now we face an insidious, perplexing, snuck-upon- us-when-we-weren’t-looking kind of problem.
I can feel your concern mounting as I type. What is it?
I must speak out! Craft beer. It’s a menace. Danger, Will Robinson!
That’s right, readers. It’s beer with snob appeal, beer with status, beer with . . . notes? A man is not supposed to sip a beer and ask, “Is that oak, raspberry, a hint of clove?” Hell no! Notes are to be played, not discerned in a glass of beer with one’s palate! Craft beer is a buzzkill. It is harshing my mellow, twisting my melon.
I want my beer brewed in a factory in St. Louis or Chicago or Milwaukee — in places so cold the only thing to do is drink beer while ice fishing.
Beer is a blue-collar beverage. It does not have status. It’s for ball games and lawn mowing. It goes good with hot dogs and pizza. It is not for banquets (unless they have Coors). When I finish mowing my lawn in the middle of August, I want to sit on my porch and drink an ice-cold Bud, just like folks have done for generations. I want the Clydesdales to saunter down Riverwood Drive pulling that proud carriage and give me an approving snort as I swallow that cold beer as if to say, “We approve, man who works for a living.” Saunter on, proud beer horse.
Weekends were made for Michelob. Schaefer is the one beer to have when you’re having more than one. And if you want to get fancy: Tonight, let it be Löwenbräu.
I’ve got a few slogans for you East Nashville craft brewers and bars. “Grab a growler; it’s flat in a moment!” “Crafted just for you, a hangover in every bottle!” “Drink our winter lager; you’ll swear you’re on acid!” “That’ll be $10! Have another? We just raised the price! You’re welcome!”
When I go to a bar in my neighborhood, I want to be able to get an ice-cold can of fizzy American alcohol water for $3.50. I know it’s not tasty or complex. It doesn’t have notes or ironic graphics. It is not organic. It’s beer, and if it was good enough for my grandfather, it’s good enough for me. In fact, it’s not just good enough — it’s great. It’s not high alcohol. It’s the right amount of alcohol. It’s a beer. I want to have a few and not forget my address or break the bank.
Now before I start a full-on Boston Tea Party-style beer revolution on the banks of The Cumberland, let me just say that I am a reasonable man, capable of good-willed compromise.
Brew and serve your craft beer. Pat yourself on the back. Sniff approvingly at the complexity of your beverage. Spend mightily! Just give us the domestic, working-for-a-living Milwaukee gold in a can. If you simply cannot abide having the likes of a Miller Lite or Budweiser mingling in the same ice with your raspberry wheatcake amber lager, charge a corking fee! We heathens can pick up a sixer at the convenience store, pay the penalty for our ignorance, and happily coexist with the more informed imbibers. Can I get an amen, East Nashville? Cheers!
Happy New Year!
Hags is a part-time bon vivant, man-about-town, and contributor to The East Nashvillian
— and a full-time bass player. He spends his spare time on a quest to find the ever-elusive
6-pack of Löwenbräu in the beer isle at Kroger.