What a gorgeous late summer day. You have to be an insensitive lout not to notice the change in season — the sky, the sun, the color of the vegetation, the breeze — on display here in South Florida since Labor Day weekend. But of course, you need to have done something radical, like fucking open your windows and/or taken a walk. Very un-Floridian, I know.
So forget that. Let’s talk about BEER! No, first, let’s listen to Yogi Reyes:
“The triple has become a big part of my game,” said Reyes, who now has 110 career triples. “It does a lot of things. If you triple with less than two outs, it puts a man at third with less than two outs.” — Miami Hurled
Yes, Jose, that’s what a triple does alright. It puts a runner on third. Triple– three bases. Third. At over 100 Million bucks for 5 years, you seem to have grasped the concept. We’re SO impressed.
And people are surprised that the Marlins will end up the season in last place.
But let’s get back to beer. Long story short: when our friend Tom turned 50, Guido told him we would take him out for dinner or she would cook him whatever he wanted. (Guido’s cooking is better than anything you can find anywhere, especially in Florida. Sorry. It just is.) Tom is a hunter/angler/boater and he brought home some lobsters for Guido to curry Jamaica style. No problem! Guido gets to work and I head out for the beer. Jamaican beer. Red Stripe. Right?
Wrong. And here’s what I learn.
The bottle is 11.2 ounces, not 12. Fuck you. Fuck a buncha baby fucking bottles.
Reading the label, I learn the beer available here is not made in Jamaica any more. It’s brewed in Latrobe, PA, where Rolling Rock was made for 75 years until Anheuser Bitch shut it down, moved it to Newark Fucking NJ and eventually to St Louis where they ruined it entirely. Now Latrobe brews execrable Iron City sludge.
zOMG. I fucking hate this world.
OK — while the beer isn’t wretchedly bad, it sure isn’t the Red Stripe I remember. And although Latrobe’s Rolling Rock was my absolute #1 favorite Go-To beer for the first 35+ years of my beer-drinking pleasure, this Red Stripe isn’t even close to my memory of what emerged from that Latrobe brewery’s best efforts. I only wish.
The only time I drink Rock any more is in Key West, when I’m standing at the splintered old wooden bar at the Bull Tavern, and the hideous tattooed dyke bartender pours me a not cold enough draft in a plastic cup which I’ll either finish or take for a walk up Duval Street. (The beer, not the tattoeed dyke.) It’s a whole thing I do which only makes sense in the real world context it happens.
Rolling Rock needs to return to Latrobe, and Red Stripe needs to go back to Jamaica. Iron City, currently brewed in Latrobe, needs to disappear. It gives swill a bad name. Me, I need to return to Key West and fucking stay there.
Guido’s Jamaica-style curried lobster was fabulous. Nobody complained about the beer. All this is afterthought. It’s my bloggy and I’ll whine if I want to. Happy birthday, Tom.