One of the most rewarding aspects of blogging is feedback. I published the article linked below in 2007, and so far in 2009, I've received two wonderful, lengthy comments from readers detailing their own experiences at the Matheser. Take a few minutes to go back, reread my words, and absorb the testimony of two other visitors. It's a combined testament that spans a quarter-century, made possible by the Internet. Thanks for writing, guys.
Mathaser, Munich and the summer of '87 with the lads.
Showing posts with label letters to the editor. Show all posts
Showing posts with label letters to the editor. Show all posts
Sunday, October 18, 2009
Friday, January 04, 2008
Miller High Life: "Sweat-sock juice, burnt popcorn-flavored beer."
Disclaimer: I don't know Anthony Ash, but his letter in this week's Louisville Eccentric Observer (LEO) is both funny and perceptive. As he points out, the intrinsic cluelessness of hip has never been so painfully -- and tastelessly -- obvious.
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Champagne of Beers?
I couldn’t help but notice in Sara Havens’ Bar Belle Christmas List (LEO, Dec. 19) an expressed desire for PBR not to be hip. I won’t spend any time defending Pabst — after all, they are still milking that one blue ribbon they won in 1893 at the World’s Columbian Exposition in Chicago.
However, Sara, I think your comment about PBR is what I would call misdirected animosity.
So let me bring to light the real perpetrator of undeserved hipness and the bane of logic … Miller High Life. I recently returned to the glorious world of fine drinking after a year of liquor hiatus (guys do the dumbest things for a woman), and as I walked into a local watering hole for the first time, what did I see but a sea of bar patrons drinking Miller High Life. I see this phenomenon everywhere I go now.
Did I miss something during my year off? Did Buckaroo Banzai send me beyond the 8th dimension?
After all, the last time I saw someone drinking this sweat-sock juice, burnt popcorn-flavored beer in the past 20 years was my basement-dwelling neighbor who spent his days sniffing glue and watching reruns of “Petticoat Junction.” So I came to the depressing conclusion that somehow, somewhere, someone seriously in need of therapy decided that it is “hip” to drink the Champagne of Beers (giggle), and much like the African Anteater Ritual dance, it is undeserving of its popularity.
Now, somebody get me a Kostritzer before I die.
Anthony Ash, Louisville
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Champagne of Beers?
I couldn’t help but notice in Sara Havens’ Bar Belle Christmas List (LEO, Dec. 19) an expressed desire for PBR not to be hip. I won’t spend any time defending Pabst — after all, they are still milking that one blue ribbon they won in 1893 at the World’s Columbian Exposition in Chicago.
However, Sara, I think your comment about PBR is what I would call misdirected animosity.
So let me bring to light the real perpetrator of undeserved hipness and the bane of logic … Miller High Life. I recently returned to the glorious world of fine drinking after a year of liquor hiatus (guys do the dumbest things for a woman), and as I walked into a local watering hole for the first time, what did I see but a sea of bar patrons drinking Miller High Life. I see this phenomenon everywhere I go now.
Did I miss something during my year off? Did Buckaroo Banzai send me beyond the 8th dimension?
After all, the last time I saw someone drinking this sweat-sock juice, burnt popcorn-flavored beer in the past 20 years was my basement-dwelling neighbor who spent his days sniffing glue and watching reruns of “Petticoat Junction.” So I came to the depressing conclusion that somehow, somewhere, someone seriously in need of therapy decided that it is “hip” to drink the Champagne of Beers (giggle), and much like the African Anteater Ritual dance, it is undeserving of its popularity.
Now, somebody get me a Kostritzer before I die.
Anthony Ash, Louisville
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