Following is a filler column I did for the defunct but lamented alternative biweekly, Knoxville Voice, in case I didn't come up with a more compelling one or if they needed a piece to insert an emergency. I'd forgotten about it, but it jsut popped into my head yesterday. I know I had one or two others. If I can find them, I'll post them here.
Note: This was written a couple of years ago, before the Anheuser-Busch buyout.
You Brew, Me Spilt
If people were beer, I’d suck
by Scott McNutt
It’s a time-honored tradition among talk-show hosts to ask celebrities, if they were something else, then what would they be? Ostensibly, the response to such questions may reveal more about the guest than a more direct line of questioning, thus delighting the audience with more insight into the guest’s character, hopes and dreams.
Also, it’s a grabby but glib substitute for substantive questions on serious issues.
In the spirit more of the latter than the former, I recently asked a few beer connoisseurs (not to say elitists), “If you were a beer, what would you be?”
Businessman and hunter Mike: “Tudor. It’s kind of a Nottingham Forest kind of thing. Kind of sylvan, of the woods. Woodsy beer. Or a Bavarian beer. Bavarians, they’re kind of the Texans of Europe.”
Architect and man-about-town Bob: “Stout. Hardy, full of flavor, full of life.”
Web site designer and raconteur Michael: “Fresh. Seriously, fresh. When we were in Seoul, we went out to three brewpubs in one night…now, most of the beer in Korea really sucks. Well, you’d like it, ha, ha, ha. It’s really lame…But the best beer I had in Korea was at the first brewpub, because it was the freshest. The hoppy bitterness of fresh beer is the allure.”
Physician assistant and wisdom-speaker Amy: “I would be the stout at the Third Street Firehouse in Tacoma, Washington, because it’s one of the nicest stouts I’ve ever had. Either that or a real honest-to-God Christmas German Bock. They are rich and creamy with a really good head, and they last forever.”
Much sexual entendre-ing ensues between Michael and Amy.
My wife Dana: “I’d just be a-”
Michael: “You’d be a blond. A full-bodied blond.”
More sexual entendre-ing ensues.
I wish at this point some well-dressed, successful young stranger sitting nearby had offered his opinion, something like: “I’d be a Budweiser. Universally recognized, profitable brand name, with well-financed corporate backing and diversified holdings, plus quality standards that ensure a consistent taste and safety standards that let consumers have confidence when consuming me.”
But that didn’t happen. In fact, the conversation faded into a melange of sexual entendres, about frothy heads and hoppy, bitter freshness, until I lamented, “It’s supposed to be a humor column, not a sex manual.”
“It can be both,” laughed Amy, to which Michael made some lecherous remark, and off went the group into another round of sexually charged tittering. It was a lost cause. So to salvage what remains of the column, let me humbly present a fable for our time, “Decrying Spilt Beer.”
“Decrying Spilt Beer”
If I were a beer, I’d be of the crappy mass-produced, mass-consumed light beer ilk that most of my friends disdain so much. Only instead of Miller Light or Bud Light, I'd be a product with a little more cachet for beer novices, maybe a Chinese beer called something like Huang Dong Extremely Pale Ale, at which true beer connoisseurs would snicker. Not because of my name, but because of my staleness, lack of flavor and limp body.
I'd be served at ubiquitous brewpubs, including locally, where I’d be purchased by some young up-and-comer with a zippy haircut wearing an $800 Joseph Abboud suit and tie smoking an Ashton Corona Gorda, who didn’t know anything about fashion or cigars or beer, but affected such anyway.
The bartender would give me to the young turk, who'd start to set me down next to the corner pillar of the bar. It would so happen that the young turk would be standing next to one of the regulars, who, sipping his fresh, woodsy Bavarian stout, would be feverishly describing the hoppy fresh bitter taste of his sylvan brew to his drinking companion.
And because he was talking excitedly, perhaps to a full-bodied blond sipping a frothy-headed, full-bodied blonde, the regular would be gesticulating wildly at the same moment the turk was putting me down, and naturally hand would smack hand, and down would fall Scott, the pedestrian-tasting Huang Dong Extremely Pale Ale.
Then Scott, the bland Huang Dong Extremely Pale Ale, with his tiny, tiny, little lips on his tiny, tiny, little bubble head popping briefly up out of his dreary puddle of Huang Dong Extreme Paleness, would plead "Help…me-eee! Pleeeeee-ase…help…meeeee-eeeeeeee!!!!"
And although some kindly soul with bar napkins, perhaps the full-bodied blond, would attempt to sop up Scott, the Huang Dong Extremely Blah Ale, some of my banal Huang Dongness would drip into the impossible-to-reach, -impossible-to-perfectly-clean crevice between the bar lip and the corner pillar.
All the while, some zippy-haircutted, $800-suited turk with a beer-stained tie and a damp cigar would be crying loudly about his spilt beer and decrying the safety standards of a bar that would allow his beer to be spilt in it.
The regular would offer to buy him another beer, but would persuade him to try something on draft, perhaps the rare rich ‘n’ creamy, long-lasting-with-a-really-good-head Christmas German Bock, or even a Tudor with extra Nottingham, to broaden the young turk’s palette. Also, draft is cheaper.
Despite their denominational differences, the regular, the full-bodied blond and the turk would strike up a conversation about how Bavarians are the Texans of Europe, so they know the advantages of fresh draft over stale bottle beer. Although there would be continuing disagreement over whether their brand name recognition, corporate backing and quality standards were shaky or solid.
And there, forgotten, a stain of me, Scott, the crappy Huang Dong Extremely Pale Ale, would linger on, dwelling always at the bar, never having been tasted, utterly unfulfilled. Even if I would have been flat, bereft of body, devoid of life and ultimately unfilling, anyway.
Moral: Crying over spilled beer may get you attention, but it does nothing for the beer.
Joining the Bad Popes
1 day ago