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.

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:

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.