Holy
crap in a Bundt pan...
Due to the
recent well-publicized shortage of
amateur websites produced by assholes who consider themselves to be
clever, I
have been called into action. My name is Jeff Kay, and I’m an
Ugly American living
on the cusp of a mid-life crisis, near Scranton, PA. And I’m here to
serve, baby.
The
State of My Fat Ass A journal of
sorts, updated every once in a while.
--
Did I mention that Nancy will be here today? I don't think I did....
Amazing. It'll be a quickie though, less than twenty-four hours. She and
the whole gang, including Nostrildamus,
are supposed to arrive at Jeff and Toney's Bed & Breakfast Inn and
Old Country Saloon late this afternoon, and leave in the morning for
Canada. We're all supposed to go out to dinner tonight, which should be
fun. ...Unless, of course, the oldest translucent has one of his
"episodes" and starts making sounds like a computer dialing up
to the internet, and the waitress ends up with gravy in her eyebrows. Or
whatever.
Needless to say, you'll get a full report.
-- Last night Toney called as I was driving home from work and asked me
to stop by the beer store for "something fancy." Eninen are
fairly big beer snobs and she wants us to have something a little more interesting
than Yuengling lager when they arrive. No problem, I said, ignoring the
blatant slap-down of the golden elixir. ...Not forgetting it, of course,
just ignoring it.
I walked around the no-frills Soviet-style "store" trying to
seize the opportunity and latch onto something that I might enjoy. I
used to be all about the microbrews, but have drifted a bit since moving
to Pennsylvania. It's not because of lack of interest, mind you, it's
because of the crack-ass liquor laws they have here. There's little to
no competition, since everything's controlled by the state, so it's very
expensive. Plus, you've gotta buy it by the case, which makes the
concept of trying something new a mighty risky affair.
But Toney gave me a blank check last night, and this was my chance to
get myself nipples-deep in good ol' Pacific Northwest hops. I walked up
and down the aisles, past the massive mountains of Keystone Light and
various other "bedshit" beers, until I found the section where
they keep the microbrews.
And I had no idea what any of it meant. It was depressing, but most of
the brands were completely foreign to me. I think one was called Magic
Hat, which meant nothing. And there was something called Hop Devil. I
liked the sound of that one, but what if it sucked? I think they offered
financing on a case of the stuff.... The rest seemed to have novelty
names like Bucktoothed Dog, and My Wife's Big Riffled Ass Yeast Beer. I
was starting to feel a bit woozy.
I ended up just closing my eyes and
plunking down a credit card, then carrying off twenty-four chilled
bottles of Sierra Nevada. Because it's both excellent and known to me.
But I felt like a bit of a puss for not taking the plunge with something
new.
There's history though. Please allow me to explain....
When Toney and I first started dating, back in the early '90s, Nancy
lived in Oregon. We went out to visit her once, and, except for a quick
business trip to San Francisco where I saw the inside of a Hilton for
three days, I don't think I'd been further west than Tennessee. It was
very exciting, and felt like we were in a different country. Every tiny
thing was fascinating to me.
We stayed with Nancy in her house of cat piss, and there were dozens of
interesting restaurants nearby, and great little bakeries that sold
incredible coffee.... I loved it, and wondered if we could somehow
manage to live there too. Not even the fact that Nancy served me a salad
one night that was seemingly seasoned with playground sand, or that her
great pack of cats was playing havoc with my allergies, could take away
from my enjoyment of the trip. It seemed like some sort of
sophisticate's paradise.
Then we went to an establishment called a "brew pub," where I
seriously felt like I had a religious experience. In 1991, or whatever,
I'd never heard the term brew pub, and couldn't fathom the idea of them
actually making their own beers right there inside the restaurant. I saw
the big brass tanks and everything, but was suspicious nonetheless. How
could it be possible??
Toney, an old pro, asked the waitress to bring us a sampler tray, and
that's when I felt the hand of the Beer God touch my shoulder. I wasn't showboating, I
sincerely and deeply loved every single selection. It was, as I
later learned, highly-hopped, which provided an appealing aftertaste
that I'd never experienced before. I couldn't believe my taste buds....
Surely they were misfiring or something?
It was the greatest thing ever. And when I saw a hippie woman come in
with an empty orange juice jar, and they filled it for her with India
Pale Ale -- a to-go order! -- I was ready to quit my job and move out to
Oregon that very afternoon. Holy shitballs! Wonder if they fill buckets
too??
While there we also bought various microbrews in bottles. Stuff like
Full Sail, Red Hook, and Bridgeport Blue Heron
Ale. All were incredible,
and I didn't want to go home. We had nothing like this back in Georgia,
and I was pretty certain that Rolling Rock wasn't going to cut it
anymore.
Indeed, shortly after returning to Atlanta, I visited a fancy-pants beer
emporium in Buckhead. Their radio ads claimed that they either stocked
or could special order virtually any beer in the world. I went in with a
list, smiling like a retard, expecting great things.
Alas, there were no great things. They stocked a lot of different beers, that
was a fact, but most were bizarre imports from places like
Czechoslovakia. I was interested, exclusively, in microbrews from the
Pacific Northwest. They had none, and after typing every name on my list
into a computer, told me they couldn't order them either. Some brands,
they said, can only be sold west of the Mississippi.
Dejected, I started to leave. But the guy called me back and told me
he'd keep looking. He took my number, and I figured that was the end of
the line.
But, surprisingly enough, he called a couple of days later. He'd found a
microbrew that he could order -- from Seattle, Washington(!!). I can't
remember what it was called, but "Pike's" was in the title. He
told me the price for a case, and it was crazy money. But I told him to
order me one anyway. I needed to get right.
And that beer tasted exactly like a whisk broom. Or, to be more precise,
what I imagine a whisk broom tastes like. There was no hoppy aftertaste,
it was like liquefied straw and filth. Toney drank one, and refused to have
another. It was horrible stuff, and had cost me more than forty bucks.
They sat in the back of the fridge for months, until I finally choked
down the last bottle. Blecch. I can still taste it.....
So you can probably understand my hesitancy in buying entire cases of
obscure beers. I live in constant fear of the tell-tale whisk, whisk,
whisk sound. It sometimes haunts me in my sleep.
--
Did I mention that Nancy will be here today? I don't think I did....
Amazing. It'll be a quickie though, less than twenty-four hours. She and
the whole gang, including 