Quickly...

In lieu of writing a critical introduction to my thesis, I think I'll just burn a CD of this:

Cap and Gown

We are interrupting this blog for an announcement:

Clubby and Darren are going to graduate.


They have put this off for a long time, but for the next few weeks they will be busy with filling out forms, writings checks, making calls, getting signatures, doing some editing and printing off gobs of thesisy goodness.

As such, showerbeer must go on a brief hiatus. Fear not, we will return soon.

The Patty Melt Chronicles: Perkins

Friends, I've been down with a sickness.

Ill and lethargic, I abstained from alcohol and patty melts for two days (TWO WHOLE DAYS!) and needed to rejuvenate my supply of piss and vinegar. While beer is generally not a good thing to imbibe during under-the-weather periods, the greasy goodness of a patty melt makes for comfort. Naturally, it would follow that a evening spent sitting at a Formica table at a cheap, greasy spoon-like restaurant would offer the best hope for a cure-all meal of beef and onions and cheese.

In a previous post, I ranted about the horror that was the patty melt at Mickey's Diner. In that post, I made the rather audacious claim that Culver's offers a superior product. This is true. However, today I present something different. I felt that I needed to establish an absolute mean in terms of quality, so I decided to head to the local Perkins, a chain that is the very definition of mediocre.


The interior of this Perkins was... well, just like every other fucking Perkins I've been to: tan wall paper, green carpeting, egg odor in the air, freeze-your-bits-off cold bathrooms, etc. I'm always curious as to why the bathrooms are so cold. Does the district manager decide these things? Is it a corporate matter? What? What could possibly be the benefit? Does seeing your breath aid in comforting you when you have explosive diarrhea from following up a night of Jag Bombs with a Denver Omelet and French Toast? Please, someone, give me an answer.

ANYWAY.

The patty melt came after a rather long wait. Another question I've always had is why all-night places like Perkins employ only one waiter between the hours of 11pm-4am. Sure, there is a manager (and obviously a cook) on duty, but all he does is bus tables and pick his nose at the register- a piece of technology he can't ever seem to master. But I digress.


Aww. It even came on a blue plate! Blue plate special! Wow, those Perkins people sure are clever. But I shouldn't talk. By the time the patty melt arrived, I was ready to eat the goddamn curtains.

Note the disheveled look I have. This is a result of no sleep and the Guatemalan hurky-jerky virus that I seem to have contracted. Don't let the beard scare you ladies, it's only there because of a bet I lost. Don't Ask.

Despite my noticeable trepidation, the patty melt was actually pretty damn decent. The beef patty was thick, though not terribly flavorful. The marble rye bread was surprisingly good- it soaked up the perfect amount of grease and was suitably crisp yet soft. American cheese was, well, american fucking cheese, but the onions made up for it. They were grilled perfectly and gave the sandwich the appropriate amount of falvor without being overbearing and turning the patty melt into the world's biggest and most expensive White Castle slider.

As for sides, I stuck with the usual Coca-cola and french fry accompaniment. Fortunatly for me, this cook at this particular Perkins was dilligent enough to have changed the fryer grease sometime within the last geological epoch, thus ensuring that I wouldn't have to brave the meat locker chill of said establishment's restroom in order to yak up by dinner.

Christ, did I just give a passing review to a fucking Perkins?
~~~

Clubby the Seal will answer questions this Sunday kiddies, so put your thinking caps on and come up with some good ones. In the meantime, guzzle a beer in a shower and contemplate the last days of summer.

I know I will.

Let the hops save me.

Much better.

The Local saved my ass last night, so much so that a shower beer was not needed (though fear not, I'm due for one soon) and I could go home feeling relaxed and sleep like a proverbial log. It never ceases to amaze me how fucking awesome a few pints of Smithwicks taste when fall is fast approaching.


Mmm... roasty malty goodness.

Let the good times roll.

The absolute anger and frustration I'm experiencing right now demands action. Since this frustration is personal and work related, you will have to forgive me for not going into the gory details; trust me, you wouldn't want to hear it anyway. That said, tonight I plan on waltzing down to The Local and lifting more than a few pints. I will be gone. I aim to set the record James Rockford Memorial Drunk Scale Score. After I get done at The Local, it shall be showerbeer time.

I've been slacking off as far as going to new bars and writing about them is concerned (save for the horrible Bullwinkle's experience). So here we go: Write in and tell me what bar(s) you would like to see the Showerbeer Blog travel to. I promise nothing, other than that if I do go, my report will follow Hunter S. Thompson's suggested ratio for reportage: 50% action, 50% lies. My only request is that these bars (at least until Showerbeer Blog is franchised and I am making gobs of money) be located in the greater Minneapolis/St. Paul area. I am not going to drive to Duluth just for this blog, and I sure as hell ain't going to fly to Miami for it, either...

Warren Zevon's "Bad Luck Streak in Dancing School" is playing right now and I've got a feeling that weirdness will abound tonight. There is a full moon and the air is cool and pregnant with bad ideas being put into action quickly. Keep your eyes peeled for fires on the horizon and keep the station tuned to BBC news, for when the shit hits the fan, you will need to flee.



Improbable and grotesque mischief, strength and muscle and jungle work.

More soon...

Interrupting our regularly scheduled programming.

This is terrible. More news as I come across it. Time to get on the phone.

EDIT:

Well, the fucker hung himself and that's it. Not much else to say. Well, okay, that's a lie. David Foster Wallace was some who's work I was never a fan of, but someone who nonetheless informed my view of the 90's. That is to say, "Infinite Jest" came out in 1996- the year of Bill Clinton's reelection (most likely the only two-term Democrat I'll see in my lifetime) , the introduction of the Java programming language and the year 200+ people died when TWA 800 exploded off the the Atlantic coast. It was two years into the post-Cobain world, I was turning 21 and the English department was abuzz with Wallace's novel.

I didn't care for it. It was entirely too long and felt like the worst parts of God Bless You, Mr. Rosewater and Breakfast of Champions extended to a ridiculous length and with OCD footnotes. I read it because it was an "it" book. I felt like my literary resume needed to include it, that it was an essential piece of the cultural zeitgeist, an auspicious work from a complex genius that I just didn't understand. Yeah, maybe I am too dumb for this, I thought. Maybe someday I'll appreciate what he was trying to do.

Well, not so. On either account. His novel is not merely post-modern, it is self-congratulatory. It suffers from the very compulsiveness of the language and cultural minutia. It gave birth to the obnoxious cleverness of David Eggers and the McSweeneysization of literature in general and American letters in particular. But here's the kicker: I can't stop thinking about how essential a book it is.

In hindsight, "Infinite Jest" is the "Nevermind" of American literature, and now David Foster Wallace will be its Kurt Cobain, albeit with a case of arrested suicide. Now his work will be elevated. Now Wallace will be the tragic genius that no one understood or properly appreciated. If you listen carefully, you can hear the stampede of post-docs scramble to their keyboards in order to re-review and compose critical inquiries about Foster's work. There will be films pitched, documentaries made. We will be enraptured. "Infinite Jest" is essential because like "Nevermind" we will won't be able to escape it- no matter how the book was received at the time, it has now transcended. It will be seen as a reflection of the schizophrenic end-of-days mode of thought in America- millennial tension, Generation X coming of age and making less than their parent's did, maybe some will even see it as a parable for an increasingly disconnected yet interdependent world, a novel that described the paranoid and disaffected climate that ultimately led to 9/11. Fuck, I don't know. Maybe this is all beyond me- a Minnesota kid who likes tennis and showerbeers and music and film and books.

In other news, 80's zombie night featured the best music Ground Zero has played in a long time. There were throngs of undead dancing to the inevitable "Thriller" cliche. As for me, I appreciated the frivolity and spectacle of a hundred people doing the zombie shimmy, but as the night wore on I realized that this place where I had spent many a late 1990s evening dancing had lost its appeal. There was something that felt, well, "off". I can't quite put my finger on it other than to say I left feeling a bit angry. Once I got home, I popped on "Fargo" and relaxed before going to bed.

When I checked the news the following morning, I discovered that someone whom I didn't think mattered to me had killed himself.

I'm too old for this shit.

Bullwinkle's, in a nutshell:


My MS Paint skills are not up to snuff, but you get the idea...

I went there because a younger friend of mine wanted to start a Thursday night tradition, which is all well and good, except when the bar in question is filled with the smell of Drakkar Noir, Garnier Fructis, popcorn, stale beer, and about 200 21-year olds with the collective IQ of a bag of grass clippings and all the conscientiousness of a herd of drunk whales (thanks, TC Boyle). It is a fright. Do not go. My prejudices were confirmed. My only highlight was taunting our sole female companion about her new boyfriend, someone I know well and someone who has a predilection for becoming the center of drama. Good times, dear reader, good times indeed.

~~~

Tonight I plan on hitting up a zombie-themed 80' dance night at Ground Zero. Yes, you read that correctly. Anyone want to take bets on how many fat people decide that throwing Bisquick and fake blood on their face and then walking around in beyond skin-tight pants is a good idea? I'll let you know the final numbers.

More to come on Sunday folks...

Braving the Depths of Seven Corners

Tonight, gentle reader, the Showerbeer Blog will voyage to a terrifying place, encounter strange, stupid people, and run the distinct possibility of getting beat up, all in the name of pseudo-journalism.

Yes, I will go to Bullwinkle's.

Bullwinkle's is quite possibly the worst of both worlds: a sports bar and a frat bar. What makes the douchebaggery quotient even higher is its location in the Seven Corners bar district, which is near the University of Minnesota campus and that it is within walking distance of the Metrodome, so on game nights I imagine this place would be filled with wall-to-wall assholes. That said, I will try my best not to judge based on reputation and surmises alone. The Showerbeer Blog will not be so prejudiced as to avoid bars just because their clientele repels yours truly. That said, I reserve the right to dole out harsh reviews and, quite possibly, encourage bums to urinate in said establishments' doorways.

Tune in tomorrow for a recap...

~~~

In my last post I waxed nostalgic (and drunkenly) about the end of summer and my looking forward to autumn, even though in our fair state the fall season lasts approximately two weeks. Anyway, as I was re-reading that post I realized that I forgot to include a list of my top ten favorite discoveries and obsessions of this last season, so here we go:

1. "The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao"
-This book knocked it out of the park. Touch 'em all, Junot.

2. "Stay Positive"
-The theme for the summer. The Hold Steady's fourth album was released on my 33rd birthday and kicks some serious ass.

3. Jason Anderson
-A recent discovery. This guy is so earnest it makes me want to ralph sometimes, but another great songwriter in the Springsteen revivalist movement can't be a bad thing.

4. Netflix
-Yeah, I know- welcome to 2003, Darren.

5. Karaoke at O'Donovan's
-Finally. A karaoke night that isn't a.) filled with retards or b.) filled with people who are really good and make you feel like shit when you stumble your way through Rush's "Limelight".

6. O'Gara's
-I avoided this bar for a long time due to its association with the worst St. Paddy's Day could possibly offer in terms of moronic behavior. Aside from that night, it is a great neighborhood-style bar that makes me think back to grad school and McGoff's.

7. "Hangover Square"
-Patrick Hamilton's lost masterpiece about pre-war Londoners and schizophrenia.

8. Patty melts with Muenster Cheese on Pumpernickel
-My own drunken creation. It fucking rocks!

9."Killing Yourself to Live"
-Chuck Klosterman finally shows some heart in this book. It is even more personal than Fargo Rock City, and for moments here Klosterman loses his shtick and writes with something approximating compassion.

10. Very close friends publishing books
-The best from this list. Ben, Christina, congrats. You of all people deserve it.

Fall

Yet another Transmission event tonight, and you can bet your ass I will be there. Summer is ending really goddamn fast and soon I will feel the claustrophobia of winter set in. Here's the funny thing: I like it cold, it's the snow I hate. For most people it is the exact other way around- the snow makes everything "pretty" and "seasonal". The hell with that. I hate looking at snow and I hate shoveling it, but give me a nice cold crisp day and all is well. Part of this is my arrogance in believing that I look damn good in coats, part is that all the panhandlers disappear to warmer climates, but most of all it is that some music -in fact much of what I like- sounds a whole goddamn lot better when it is less than 50 degrees outside.

Fall is the shit. We have so precious little of it here, and let me clarify the earlier statement: I don't look forward to the -20 chill of late January, but from now until early December (barring that nasty white stuff) is paradise. One of my traditions is to take a solo trip to the north shore of Lake Superior with a few jugs of mead. While there, I sit on the beach or at a suitably rocky outcropping and blast my winter playlist and stare out into the water. I know it sounds a little melodramatic and sappy in a Nick Drake, neo-romantic way, but fuck you, I love it. Before I leave, I always stash a bottle of mead under a rock for my next maudlin/pensive visit. It's a good time, especially in November when Lake Superior is at it's grayest and most violent. It's simultaneously austere and manic, alien and intimate. It reminds me of the poem "New Hampshire Again" by Carl Sandburg:

I remember black winter waters
I remember thin white birches
I remember sleepy twilight hills

While the bulk of this poem is clearly (just read the title, for chrissakes) a meditation on New England, specifically Robert Frost's nostalgic version of it, those opening lines will always place me just off the road north of Castle Danger, MN. And whereas Sandburg is where my mind immediately goes to when I'm there gazing across Superior's waves, my driving companion on the way north is a mix tape that invariably starts off with U2's "A Sort of Homecoming" and ends with the entirety of Springsteen's "Nebraska" album.

But tonight I will not travel to the north shore. Tonight I am going downtown to hit up the single dance/dj night that I give a shit about. Dangling prepositions and all.

On my way there I will most likely pump up the volume on Joy Division's "Disorder", my favorite song from that band, and one of the best lead-off tracks of any record of all-time. When you factor in that the band members were all 23 or under at the time of it's release and that it sounded like nothing before it AND served as the perfect sonic reflection of the geographic region (Manchester) at that time, the result is nothing short of staggering. If you were to look up "auspicious debut" in the dictionary, there would be a picture of Ian Curtis next to it.

Turn off the lights and turn this shit up.

Shower beer diary: 9/08-9/09 2008

Upon suggestion of my mother of all people, I tried the Boulder Brewing Company's "Hazed and Infused". Allegedly, this beer is first manufactured in the standard "Bavarian tradition" then "infused" with crystal hops. I have no fucking idea what crystal hops is much less what it looks like. What I do know is that Hazed and Infused is a stupid name meant to capitalize on some sort of residual Led Zeppelin, hippie fetish that I don't for the life of me understand. What I do understand, however, is that I drank at least seven of these after I got home from a having a few at The Local.

Can I tell you why I took it upon myself to get fucked-up on a Colorado hippie beer? Of course not. It's one of those weird situations that just happen- the stars align and there you are, naked and drunk and struggling to type out a silly blog post at 3:09am. Was this planned? Hell, no. Much like group sex after a cookie sheet full of jell-o shots, it just happened. And let me tell you, the shower beer was awesome.

For awhile there, I was so drunk that I thought about taking really explicit, barf-up-your-frosted-flakes pictures. Thankfully, I retained something approximating decorum. Despite that lingering thought of humility/sanity, I did pop in Kentucky Fried Movie for added shower beer enjoyment and took a long respite in the shower stall contemplating mortality and the fact that I could no longer stand straight.



The above is my "intellectual ponders the spackle on the ceiling as he grasps the camera in a death grip and avoids falling over" pose. Tired of merely regarding the ceiling tile, I decided to stand with one leg resting on the toilet, in a triumphant pose befitting Caesar or Larry Flynt.


Someday I will run for political office, and that day will be marred by these photos surfacing. Prior to my Hazed and Infused excursion, I was at The Local for my usual Monday night shenanigans. I drive home, so I try my best to avoid total intoxication while at the bar. Tonight, Todd was in rare form and I drank three pints of Stella for the price of $0.00. I tipped well, as I always do, and left the bar feeling as if I owed myself something special.

My fridge is currently stocked with the remnants of Kokanee, that crappy brew I wrote about in last week's edition of Shower Beer. At the time of my arrival home, this refrigerator was also home to the aforementioned hippie brew, which I quickly decided would serve as my accompaniment for the Kentucky Fried Movie and subsequent shower beer communion. It hit the spot, ladies and gents, it really did. Though I was skeptical of the beer's quality and also cognizant of the fact that I was drinking a shower beer out of a bottle (one of Clubby's sins, if you remember), this evening was a success. I am relaxed, tired, and will wake up tomorrow well-rested and ready to face the trials of yet another dreaded Tuesday.

Night's Consumption:

Stella Artois: 3 pints
Hazed and Infused: 7 bottles

James Rockford Memorial Drunk Scale Score: 6.9 -Yep, I'm drunk and pants are optional. (Revised: 7.6 -Hindsight has proven my condition was far worse)

EDIT: 2:06 pm 9/9/2008- I'm feeling not at all hung over, but judging from all the spelling errors in this post I must have been hammered.

The Patty Melt Chronicles: Mickey's Diner

I expected great things from Mickey's Diner. Maybe too much so. It's quite possible I psyched myself out. After all, Mickey's Dining car is an institution in St. Paul. I can't even remember how many movies it's been in (ok, maybe not that many, but it sure feels like it). While the atmosphere did not disappoint (and how could it), the patty melt at Mickey's sucks.


The patty itself is no bigger than the beef (?) patties at McDonald's and quite frankly has less taste. The cheese? American. Kraft. Fucking. Singles. The sparsely buttered, crumbly bread is nothing to write home about either, and although the onions are fried, they taste more like burnt plastic than anything else.


I really, really, really wanted to rave about this place. You have no idea how much I looked forward to writing this review. But for right now, I'm sitting at my desk tapping away on my IBM Thinkpad about how much the patty melts at a place I've come to belive is the promised land of late/all-night diners sucks ass. I've been at this for four hours and all I've got are these few paltry paragraphs, that's how much this is bothering me- I can't even bring myself to write it down. I'm having a full-blown crisis of faith here, people! I feel like I'm eight years old again and my dad is telling me not only that pro wrestling is fake but how it is faked. Mickey's Diner was my Hulk Hogan and now I know that Hulkamania is goddamn fraud. It does not, in fact, run wild all over you.

I don't want to talk anymore. I'm not going to bother to write about all the kooky people that were sitting next to me (mostly because I was alone in the restaurant) or how the lighting was good of how my cook seemed more interested in the newspaper than cooking my meal. Friends, I got burned. And what am I left with? Just the unescapable fact that the patty melts at Mickey's suck.

Though it pains me to say so, I'd rather (gulp!) eat a patty melt from Culver's.

Ask a Pinniped 9/7/2008

Hey kids! Welcome to the first edition of Ask a Pinniped! We have a very important series of questions regarding shower beer protocol, so let's hop right into it.

From Jean in Rochester, MN:

You mention that only one beer may be consumed per shower. If I happen to take two showers in a row, would that permit two beers, one beer per shower?

I suppose that would be acceptable, as these are two distinct showers. However, too much shower beer may cheapen the rite, much like speaking English during a Catholic mass.

Also, what would constitute the official "end" of a shower. Does it suggest that I merely step out of the shower? Could this stepping out of the shower thus terminate the initial shower even if I were simply stepping out of the shower to go and find another beer?

The shower ends when the water is shut off and the participant has dried themselves.

Must the water be turned off to confirm that the shower has ended? Must I wash my hair, and/or genitals each time to confirm that a shower has been taken? May I just sit in the dry tub with my clothes on and consume a beer, such as would be the typical behavior at a freshman college party?

See above. While there is no stipulation on how well one must clean themselves, it should be noted that the 2nd commandment states that cleaning products may taint the experience should said cleaning products invade the beer vessel. And no, you may not sit in a tub with your clothes on. Water and nudity are integral.

May one jump in the "Wop" to consume a shower beer?

Provided one is nude and not consuming the Wop but rather a beer, I suppose this would be acceptable, though the possibility of beer contamination would be quite high.

Are there a maximum number of people who can be in the shower at one time, and are there any "drinking games" with the multi-party shower that would be appropriate, such as "drop the soap," or "face wash wars"?

Jesus Christ, woman. If there is room and a beer for everyone, then you can cram in the entire Italian special Olympic team if you wanted to. As far as games go, it is the opinion of this pinniped that they would cheapen the experience of the holy shower beer and possibly lead to sexual intercourse, which is an abomination as stated in commandment #8.

For years I've been in the business of giving advice to pups and cows alike. Many will swim up to me in Valdez and say, Gosh Clubby, I know that I shouldn't have done X, but I just can't control myself. What can I do? After slapping them, I sit down with them on a rock outcropping and give them some honest, down home advice on subjects ranging from mating problems to shark encounters, advice about fisherman, priapism, and domestic abuse. I'm and ornithologist by trade -there's no M.D. after my name- but I understand a thing or two about life. Here's our first letter from a single man in Chicago:

Dear Clubby,
I'm not going to mince words- I am fucking fat. I'm so damn fat that I literally can't go to the movies unless I'm sure the theater I'm going to has those stadium seats with the arm rests that you can push up for snuggling with your girlfriend. The problem is that I have to push them up because I take up two full seats. I have no significant other. I've tried every fad diet, carb counting, even exercise. Nothing works. Also, the few friends I have say I shouldn't wear my horizontally striped shirts anymore. I really love the orange and white polo ones I have, but they tell me that I look like a pregnant dreamsicle. This hurts.

Please help,
Wide in the Windy City


Dear Wide,

The best diet I can advise is this: Stop cramming so much food into your pie hole. I know it sounds mean, and I recognize that obesity is a problem that can be tied to all sorts of causal factors, but really, how many calories to you take in over the course of a day? Shit, I'd like nothing more than to pound down a couple hundred pounds of krill, but if I did that I'd never be able to get off my rock, much less evade an orca. And I know that exercise is hard, but you have to try. Look at my friend Bernie:

He's lived a rough life- lost an eye to a squid, has to wear that yellow low jack after he got his 7th DUI- and here he is in fighting trim doing leg lifts on the beach. Try it out, buddy. You're life depends on it.

PS: Your friends are right about the shirts. Wear solid colors, especially black.

That's all for now, friends. Keep those letters coming and I'll see you in two weeks. Keep swimming into the sunset!

The Importance of Being Oscar - RNC Karaoke

Junot Diaz is some sort of god. Maybe only a demi-god, but he is certainly an extra-planar creature of extraordinary power. His first collection, "Drown", has become a landmark work of short fiction, and certainly deserves to be mentioned along side "The Pugilist at Rest" and "Jesus' Son" whenever one talks about 1990s short story collections. Also, "Oscar Wao" is remarkable because it is Diaz's second book, and his first novel. The eleven year gap between the publication of "Drown" and "Oscar Wao", coupled with the enormous amount of praise both works have received only serves to further Daiz's reputation as the great literary Tarrasque (878 hp!) of our time.

I'm not going to spoil any plots for you or enter into a lengthy analysis of the novel's structure or use of language. We'll let the TLS and Raritan perform those duties. I only come here to worship at this masterpiece's altar. So without any further adieu: I LOVED, LOVED, LOVED, LOVED THIS BOOK.

Novels like this and Michael Chabon's The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier & Clay make me shake my head and drop my pen. The craftsmanship is astonishing, the emotional weight of soul is present in every sentence and every footnote. At no time do I recall ever pausing to question an element of the narrative or demand more in terms of character or thematic element. Quite honestly, I just didn't give a shit. I was entranced. John Gardner would be proud- Diaz created a vivid and continuous dream. To be even more blunt, The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao contains 0% bullshit.

As a recovering gamer nerd, there were times where I alternately wanted to jump into this book and throttle characters' for their life decisions and lick the ink off the pages in hopes of transferring some of Diaz's wordsmithian mana to me. I'm also proud of the fact that Diaz doesn't stop to explain any of the D&D or Sci-Fi terms- you have to roll with it. He does, however, give ample footnotes on Dominican history and culture. Doing this allows the reader's intellectual focus to stay rooted in his characters' cultural background while the Spanglish and D&D neologisms propel the narrative forward with a voice that is unique, honest, and nerdily hip... Shit. I broke my promise of not turning this post into an analysis. Oh well, fuck it. We're done here. Go out and buy this goddamn book. If you hate it, don't tell me because I'll probably just call you an artless imbecile and throw my Dungeon Master's Guide at your head.
~~~

In perhaps the best story I'd heard regarding the RNC malarkey that invaded my fair cities, Todd, whiskey improvisario at The Local and the best bartender in Minneapolis/St. Paul sang several Allman Brother's tunes with Governor Bod R. Riley of Alabama. I curse my job and other writing projects (they don't write themselves, I've come to discover) for keeping me away from what truly must have been a spectacle.

Picture this: Todd keeps licking his wine-sodden mustache in a reflex to keep from throwing Jameson bottles at GOP skulls. An affable drunk southerner approaches, introduces himself, and the two experience a communion of souls:

Todd: What will you be having, sir?
Da Guv: Double Woodford with a Guinness back.
Todd: Ah, a man after my own heart. Unfortunalty we no longer carry Woodford Reserve.
Da Guv: That's a bunch of bullshit. Gimme Makers then.
Todd: *smiling* Beutiful.

The Allman Brothers song "Melissa" comes on.

Da Guv: Turn that up!
Todd: Yes, sir! *turns the volume to ridiculous levels, even with the crowded bar* Crossroads -- will you ever let him go...
Da Guv: ...or will you hide the dead man's ghost?

Todd and Da Guv lock eyes. In the space of a half a second, they see each others lives: the car rides and beer busts and getting to third base with Mary Jo down by the old fishin' creek.

Both, loudly, in unison: Lord, will he lie beneath the clay, or will his spirit float away?

The whole bar is staring, but nobody is going to interrupt this. Todd and Da Guv sing the rest of "Melissa" and follow it up with "Ramblin Man" and "Whipping Post". When they finish, Todd grabs his lowball of whiskey he's stashed under the bar and raises it up in a toast with Da Guv.

Todd: Do you like football, sir?
Da Guv: ROLL TIDE, MOTHERFUCKER!

They laugh and drink. It's all on security camera, and neither cares.
~~~
On Sunday, dear readers, the Showerbeer Blog will review the patty melt offerings at Mickey's Dining Car, a greasy Minneapolis institution. Also, the first of Clubby the Seal's q&a/advice column "Ask a Pinniped" will appear.

Saturdays are sacred to us at the Showerbeer Blog, and while we can't disclose what we'll be doing, you can rest assured that it will help to save the world. 'Til Sunday, we leave you with this, the sexiness that is Shane McGowan:

iPhone, live transmission.

In yet another display of my gremlin-like ability to fuck over technology, I arrived at Transmission to DJ Jake Rudh spinning a killer set of songs, ample room to move and dance, and found the coolest possible shot that would sum up the night within thirty seconds of my arrival: A lanky, six-foot plus boy dancing his ass off to New Order's "Temptation", spins and kicks his leg as high as his head, black buckled shoe right in front of his face, back-lit by an amber halo from the outside streetlight pouring in through the front windows of Club Jäger . I whipped out my camera and took the shot only too see the red "Your battery is dead, suckah!" light flash back at me. Fuck.

iPhone to the rescue.


And iPhone, you're a convenient whore. You're picture quality sucks, but in a pinch I'll take what you give me.

Anyway, as I was saying, Transmission was great last night. The music was impeccable, probably the best setlist I'd heard in a long time, or at least since the David Bowie birthday party. And the drinks? They did not disappoint. Being as it is Minnesota, an early September evening can get pretty damn cold, so the whiskey felt good while I made my brief foray out to the smoking patio. My friends and I didn't last too long out there as the cold and great music playing inside conspired to make sure we devoured our cigarettes quickly.

Official aside: Is there anything better than the smell of a freshly lit cigarette on a brisk evening?

My imbibeage for the evening was light; a rail whiskey soda and a few pints of Pilsner Urquell, served by Angie, one of the most attractive bartenders in Minneapolis:


I curse iPhone's camera again. Let's just say that I planted my ass on a barstool and let the Blur and Joy Division and Bowie and Pulp be the soundtrack for my unabashed admiration.

Back to the review: Kids, Transmission is a night you simply must attend. Every now and again Rudh decides to throw in a theme night (butt rawk, 90s top 40, etc.) These are very hit and miss depending on your taste. Love for Journey aside, the standard post-punk, brit-pop stylings of Transmission are not to be missed. Even though I'm a die hard rock fan of the Springsteen-Hold Steady lineage, growing up in a Reagan America I listened to more New Order and Cure than the aforementioned Boss. There is something about the cacophony formed by guitar, synthesizer, and British voice that just gets me. I dunno, maybe there was something strange in New Ulm's public water supply, but I likes it, likes it, yes I do.


Night's Consumption:

Rail Whiskey Soda: 1 low ball
Pilsner Urquell: 2 pints

James Rockford Memorial Drunk Scale: .7 -Just being social.

Clubby's Commandments

Meet Clubby, Showerbeer Blog spokesman and author of the official rules for partaking in shower beer activities. Clubby is an upstanding member of the Alaskan seal community and noted ornithologist, his political commentary has appeared on The Huffington Post. In 2006, Clubby achieved notoriety in some conservative communities for his public flame war with noted blogger Andrew Sullivan.

Clubby's Shower Beer Commandments is the industry standard of rules concerning the practice of shower beer. Take heed.

One partaking in a shower beer shall:

1. Consume only beer contained within an aluminum can. Bottled beer is permissible only in cases where logistical issues prevent use of canned beer. Under no circumstances should an open glass or other such container be used.
2. Avoid contamination of the shower beer by hair, skin and cleaning products.
   
3. Know that Canadian beer of the Labatt brand is the preferred choice. Others brands have been studied and shown to be inferior based on a triple blind study.
   
4. Consume only one beer per showering period. Shower beer predates the Dorian invasion and is steeped in ritual and tradition. It is a purifying act, not a route towards severe intoxication.
   
5. Provide enough shower beers for all participants.
6. If intoxicated due to previous beverages, the rite of shower beer may need to be performed quickly. It is advisable that a proper container for bodily fluids be at hand.
7. Follow the proper recycling procedures for your municipality upon completion of the shower beer.
8. Not engage in sexual intercourse during the rite. This is an abomination.
9. Not shotgun their shower beer. This is also an abomination.
   
10. Maintain proper grooming and hygiene prior to and after shower beer. Excessive grime can and will spoil the experience.
11. Provide one's own caddy or shelf for temporary storage of said shower beer. Also, can cozies and beer hats are acceptable accessories.
12. Assist those with physical or mental handicaps in the operation of their shower beer.
13. Not Bogart another's shower beer.
14. Listen to music during the rite. Suggested artists are: Warren Zevon, Bob Seger and Lily Allen.
15. Always partake in shower beers during the Sabbath.
16. Apply all of the above rules should a shower not be present. Use of bathtubs and carwashes is acceptable.

(NOTE: The 16th commandment was added per the second Peloponnesus Symposium, some local prefectures do not recognize the PS2 edict.)

It is strongly advised that all current and future shower beer participants memorize Clubby's Commandments. If you are confused or have questions regarding protocol, do not hesitate to ask. Clubby is always willing to take questions regarding these rules of order.

Friends of the Showerbeer Blog can look forward to Clubby the Seal's Q&A/advice column forthcoming on this blog.
~~~

Tonight I am headed to Transmission, a very popular local dance night held at the intimate and cozy Club Jäger in the Warehouse District of Minneapolis. This bar has Pilsner Urquell on tap, so any review I post will be skewed by my love of that particular brew and, of course, my BAC. Unlike my last foray out, I will have my trusty Canon along to document the adventure. Expect a full report later tonight/earlier tomorrow, BAC willing.

Also coming soon: The inaugural patty melt review, My gushing screed-cum-adoring fan letter about The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao, and Bartender Todd's impromptu Allman Brothers sing along with Gov. Bob R. Riley of Alabama.

We're going to start this off with a positive jam.

Welcome.


I will make no apologies for stealing lines from the Hold Steady, especially in this inaugural post, and especially considering that my favorite bar in the universe (or at least Minnesota), The Local, has been overrun with republican douche bags from all across our fine country. A friend and I strolled in at 10pm last night for a fine Sunday evening of gin and tonics and Guinness and were greeted by wall-to-wall asswipes bemoaning how the convention was being altered due to Hurricane Gustav and trading their favorite "Obama is a Muslim" conspiracy theories. Republicans, I'm told, also tip poorly, though perhaps it was just the stank of so many people that caused Ryan, our trusted barkeep, to serve drinks in a brisk, annoyed manner and with an eye for blood. I can sympathize. There's nothing better than having your favorite haunt all to yourself on a humid Sunday night, and these crowds put all the regulars into a foul mood. That said, on the plus side of the republican invasion there are many bars in the Twin Cities area that will extend their hours to 4am for the duration of the convention, thus giving us ample time to take in a show at the Turf Club or 7th St Entry and have a several hours of good drinking left over. Also, we saw two decorated Marines in full dress uniforms complete with Mameluke swords lock lips in the under the red light of The Local's kissing room. Perhaps the embrace led to other activities, but I respected their privacy and did not look back. That kiss made me smile for a moment, though I suspected they were in town so the RNC could trot them out in front of cameras and tout that the GOP is the party of patriots. Still, it was a good thing to see. Out and proud boys, be out and be proud.

Nice to know, but what is this blog then, eh?

This little corner of the web is a shrine to the single greatest relaxation technique known to man: Shower Beer.

There will also be posts concerning the quest to find the perfect patty melt and essays on other epicurean pursuits such as gas station pizza and hot dogs. We will post dispatches from the dark corners of bars, post incriminating photos, rant about literature and movies, exalt our favorite bands and do everything else our little mission statement at the top of this site promises and most likely a whole host of other bullshit we find interesting.

But yes, above all, we are very much interested in beer.

Tonight, for example, I met up with some dear old friends who were in town from LA. We started off the evening at Bar Abiliene, which is known for its margaritas and appetizers. Here, we were waited on by quite possibly the biggest indie-hipster fucktard of a waiter I've ever had the displeasure of being served by in this town, which is quite a statement. Of course, because I'm a moron, I left my precious Canon PowerShot at home, so there is (sadly) no visual documentation of this moron or of any of this night's activities, so you'll have to take my word for it. My companions seemed equally annoyed by our hipper-than-thou server, but fortunately for all involved there was no broken glass or blood.

For the record, I think margaritas are the devil and the only thing that comes out of a night spent on the wrong side of the Tequila & Grand Marnier ingested equation is passing out on the stairs to your apartment while babbling about your favorite Different Strokes episode. Short story: I stuck with drinking Stella Artois, the Budweiser of Belgium.

After a few drinks and some happy hour appetizers (the Cuban Sliders are divine), we wandered over to The Independent, a bar with an uninspired name and surprisingly decent liquor pours, given that the Uptown area of Minneapolis is so filled with trendfuckers that finding a non-roofied, non-watered down drink is very difficult. There, I decided against all better judgment to finish the night with a Jameson Manhattan, violating the sacred rule of liquor before beer, but given that I hadn't seen these particular drinking companions for over a year, I can excuse my lapse in judgment. Due to flight arrangements, we called it a night at the obnoxiously early hour of 11pm. Which is a good thing, because by this point my error in drinking protocol had resulted in a case of sour stomach, and had to get home to my precious Tagamet and bottled water stash before my body rebelled and forced me to admire those Cuban Sliders for a second time.

After some time laying down and in recovery, I felt good enough to take a long hot shower with my precious beer.


The brew in question is Kokanee, a Canadian beer of questionable merit.


It's a far cry from Labatt, the king of shower beers (more on shower beer hierarchy and protocols in a later post). It's also in a bottle, which violates OSHA safety standards for code AD2233.1-a6 pertaining to the operation of water-spraying devices while drinking alcoholic beverages. But when you need a shower beer, sometimes protocols need to be ignored for the sake of continued mental health. As the Big Lake boys would say: "Fuck it."


Night's Consumption:

Stella Artois: 3 pints
Jameson Manhattan: 1 lowball
Kokanee: 1 bottle
James Rockford Memorial Drunk Scale Score: 1.8 -Little discernible feeling.