But I also drink a shit-ton of Pabst Blue Ribbon.
Wrench’d and sweaty—calm and cool then my body becomes;
I sleep—I sleep long.
I do not know it—it is without name—it is a word unsaid;
It is not in any dictionary, utterance, symbol.
Something it swings on more than the earth I swing on;
To it the creation is the friend whose embracing awakes me.
Perhaps I might tell more. Outlines! I plead for my brothers and sisters.
Do you see, O my brothers and sisters?
It is not chaos or death—it is form, union, plan—it is eternal life—it is HAPPINESS.
Throughout the discourse of the year you’d be hard pressed not to find the recently flattened cardboard of a recently drunk twelve pack of Sam Adams seasonal sampler in my kitchen trash.
Still for years, there were certain PODUNK beers I ignored. Old Style because it had Cubs connotations (something all devout White Sox fans are extremely Cubs-choking cognizant of ) and Pabst Blue Ribbon, because people who drank it were full of so much white trash one would run out of twist-ties if they tried to collectively bag them all up. When being poured the light watery pilsner looked like it just perspired off the coppery brow of C3PO after doing sit-ups.
I vowed I would never touch it in a million years. There were other cheap beers with proaic labels. beers like Ice House and Old Milwaukee.
Gradually it began to seep its way into the last call minute-hand of my happy hour narrative. There were stories of the old PBR plant in Peoria Heights. Stories about how every week the checks would arrive with a six pack gratis. Stories about the yeasty interior, about how the foreman didn’t mind if you helped yourself to a bottle now and then while loading the docks. Stories about how, after the fire that decimated the brewery and management decided not to re-open Peoria as a whole boycotted PBR. It was a cardinal sin to slink inside a Tavern and order one knowing thousands of your blue-collar brothers were out of paycheck.
In 18 more days.