Showing posts with label nostalgia. Show all posts
Showing posts with label nostalgia. Show all posts

Wednesday, September 30, 2020

The hits kept coming, until they didn't: "But what about Howard Sprague?"

Remember caption contests?

This one originally was a BEER MONEY column for the pre-merger Tribune, to be greeted by dozens of yokels picketing the newspaper in protest of multi-syllable words. It was titled "After Andy, the deluge," and was published on July 23, 2009. Following is the retitled version from the blog, updated on Jul9 19, 2012. Note that 3rd district councilman Price lost to Greg Phipps in the 2011 "Democratic" primary, with Phipps going on to win the seat in the general election. Also note that mangled syntax aside, and in retrospect, Price's point about jail overcrowding was spot on.

Regime change ... when, exactly?

---

ON THE AVENUES: But what about Howard Sprague?


(2012 Preface: After publishing the original version of this column a couple weeks back, I decided to go back through and update it for the year 2012. Part of the reason for doing so is that it is almost impossible for me to remain satisfied with something previously written. Another is that there always are new readers. And, finally, I like to make ON THE AVENUES the court of record).

When confused and uncertain, we generally recoil from the challenges of the future, reverting instead to comforting visions of one or the other redemptive halcyons from a past viewed with rose-tinted hindsight, and accordingly, cultural mythology tends to supplant rational thought, not buttress it.

This being a presidential election year, we can expect reams of historical revisionism masquerading as irrefutable argumentation. America’s Christian theocracy is particularly adept at such pipe-dream panaceas, its televangelistic hawkers mounting gleaming Chinese-made soapboxes to beseech us: Turn back the hands of time, all the way to a state of being that never existed in the first place … and don’t forget your checkbook, sinner.

Nostalgia is a vehicle powered by the warm fuzzies of selective memory. There’s nothing necessarily wrong about that, at least until comfortable reveries are mistaken for public policy, which brings us to an otherwise forgotten New Albany city council meeting that took place three years ago.

During a brief and typically ephemeral discussion of community policing “wants and needs,” the since deposed 3rd district councilman Steve Price launched into a meandering tangent addressing his views of modern methods of law enforcement. Of course, untangling Price’s stream-of consciousness syntax was a constant challenge throughout his eight years of chronic council underachievement, but at the time, his point was relatively clear.

He was lamenting the disappearance of old-fashioned, user-friendly civic drunk tanks, those helpful domiciles formerly providing wayward inebriates a warm place to sleep and voluminous black coffee before releasing them into waiting streets (and revolving barstools) the following morning.

Price concluded that nowadays, such pitiably harmless transgressors actually are compelled to pay their way out of jail; lacking cash, their incarceration contributes to the overcrowding problem therein. His former council colleague Jack Messer, a full-time police officer, asked Price to explain how the city might better handle such time and space continuums, and Price responded with this bit of sage advice:

"We need to do things like Andy used to do 'em."

---

So, to which person named Andy was the ex-councilman referring?

Was it Andy Warhol? That’s unlikely, because the Ruthenian-American pop artist certainly was too avant-garde for a down-home devotee of Dave Ramsey.

Maybe Andy Kaufman, the late and lamented inter-gender wrestling champion and performance artist? Obviously, too ironic.

Andy Roddick? He’s too athletic for New Albany, and in the wrong sport.

Andy Dick? Too clever by half.

Andy Capp? Too impenetrably English.

Andy Garcia? Too confusingly ethnic.

No, it’s none of the above, because given Price’s preferred homilies, paranoiac utterances and ceaseless non sequiturs, there could be only one answer.

He meant the fictional Sheriff Andy Taylor of Mayberry, as played on television by the late comedian Andy Griffith in his eponymous show, which was produced back in the Golden Age of Post-War Faux-Paneled Imperial America, a time period coinciding with Price’s blissful youth and visions of Otis Campbell’s nightly resting place dancing soothingly in his head.

I recalled Price’s words in the wake of the iconic Griffith’s recent passing, as otherwise sensible people immediately focused their attention on hazy objects depicted in the nation’s rear view mirror and advocated a “return” to the Mayberry ethos, which would provide workable solutions to the pressing problems of our troubled times, while recapturing lost innocence, albeit it for the small price of forgetting everything we’ve learned since kindergarten.

---

Unfortunately, Price never has been alone in suggesting that a city like New Albany in the milieu of the Internet, crystal meth, iPhones, EPA sewage treatment decrees and state-imposed starvation budgets can be governed according to lessons learned from a television series originally broadcast in black and white, featuring a folksy sheriff in a rural town, with a switchboard operator listening on party lines, and a habitual vandal whose repertoire does not extend beyond rocks thrown at picture windows.

Like so many others, I watched The Andy Griffith Show as a child, but then something happened to me. 

I grew up. 

Four decades have passed since the series went off the air, and in light of experience, I see Mayberry a bit differently. 

Sheriff Taylor’s town didn’t boast much in the way of ethnic and religious diversity, did it? In fact, it was the era of enforced segregation in the South, and there wasn’t an African-American or Hispanic to be seen. 

Most of the women depicted on the series were in the kitchen frying chicken or baking peach cobbler, and Helen Crump’s job as schoolteacher was about the highest point on the professional ladder for a female. Suffrage might have been bragged about, but was it truly universal?

Do you really think any of those toilets led to a sewage treatment system? Rather, think of leaky pipes emptying into yonder creek, and maybe a septic tank or three. Television news was a monopoly of three major networks, newspapers toed a Democratic or Republican line, and American foreign policy strove to support “our” murderous tinhorn dictators so as to forestall Communist-installed versions of the same.

And then, there’s the demographic reality we always neglect in places like Mayberry in the 1960’s: Young and talented people left town in droves, as soon as they possibly could, leaving older citizens and second-raters to navigate a decline into irrelevance, something that should be all too obvious to New Albanians surveying the local scene in 2012.

Mayberry was, and is, an entertaining place, but like Andy Taylor himself, it was, and it remains, entirely imaginary. If pressed, we might find other useful role models from the era: Rooster Cogburn, Captain Kirk and maybe even Puff the Magic Dragon.

But seriously, in the year 2012 – how does any of it help us?

Sunday, August 04, 2019

Yet again gripped with nostalgia, we remember Gahan's hilarious Great Street Piano Meltdown of 2015.


You'll recall the Board of Public Works and Safety as an entity twisted these past eight years to primarily administer Jeff Gahan's political patronage network. Today is the fourth anniversary of the bored's idiotically delayed decision to allow the existence of a street piano downtown.



The belated dedication ceremony for the street piano that produced so much labored consternation in the Down Low Bunker took place on September 5, 2015.


Shouldn't Street Piano Day be a civic holiday? Just swipe your card to help the veneer king serve as mayor for life and YOU can play, too.


The following was originally published in 2016. Spoiler alert: In the three years since, Gahan's megalomania has only gotten worse.

---

An omen is an event regarded as a portent of good or evil, and sometimes both.

This morning it dawned on me that I have failed to receive the weekly e-mail agenda of the Board of Public Works and Safety's Tuesday meeting.

No doubt this is a providential omen, freeing me from the crushing burden of observing the bureaucracy of local infrastructure, and suggesting that I make better different use of my time this morning.

Keep the questions coming. Meanwhile, let's take a fond look back to last year, and the Bored's bumbling performance in the legendary case of the New Albany Street Piano.


The following three posts include most of the other links to this most enduring and hilarious of stories.

As a refresher, here is Bluegill's summary.

First, there was a request to place a piano on a public sidewalk in New Albany; a fun, harmless, and completely normal happening around the world. Then there were months of city officials sidestepping and ignoring that request. Then there were additional weeks and multiple meetings of artificially constructed and wholly irrelevant hurdles put in place. Then there was media attention and, by New Albany standards, an expression of public support for the piano and exasperation with the City sizable enough to embarrass the officials involved. And then there was finally approval, with an almost equally embarrassing rearguard attempt to claim officials had supported it all along. I wish any of that was out of the ordinary but it's a near perfect example of what ordinary is here, even and especially when the stakes are much higher. Playing a new tune couldn't be any more welcome.

And the links ...

Bored of Works no more: Today at 4:00 p.m., the New Albany Street Piano becomes a reality.


Fundamentally delayed: The New Albany Street Piano "Grand Opening" is Saturday, September 5.


Celebrate the New Albany Street Piano, while remembering Team Gahan's dismal reaction to it.


Sunday, July 14, 2019

LIVE TO EAT: Remembering Bastille Day dinners at Bistro New Albany and Bank Street Brewhouse, 2006-2010.


It's Bastille Day.

The number of New Albany eateries has proliferated in recent years, but few if any of them have been marking the occasion, at least since the Frenchman retired just before Christmas in 2015.

Happy retirement, chef: Louis le Francais has left the building.


There was a time when I was determined to help jump-start a Bastille Day tradition. Bistro New Albany was first, then Bank Street Brewhouse, then finally Louis le Francais, who of course was most authentic of all because he was French.

The most fondly remembered Bastille Day celebration probably was the first, a couple of days late on July 16, 2006.

Recap: Bastille Day Bieres de Garde dinner at Bistro New Albany.


In 2006, Bastille Day came two days late … to New Albany, but a hardy group of 26 revelers beat the heat at the Bistro New Albany yesterday and celebrated French cuisine and fermentation science.

These are legendary photos, and bittersweet.







Bistro New Albany survived to stage a second Bastille Day dinner in 2007, although this time Chef Clancy moved it indoors. The format was much the same, and the evening was well attended.

Photos: Bastille Day Biere de Garde Dinner at Bistro New Albany.





Bank Street Brewhouse picked up the ball on July 14, 2009 with chef Josh Lehman in the kitchen.

Bastille Day recap.



Thanks to those attending last evening's Bastille Day event at the Brewhouse, and to the cast and crew for making it possible. We served more than 30 of the fixed-price, five-course meals, and exhausted the supply of French Bieres de Garde.

BSB did it again in 2010.

On Bastille Day, July 14, a 5-course French Biere de Garde dinner at Bank Street Brewhouse.



On Wednesday, July 14, the Bank Street Brewhouse will honor France’s national holiday, Bastille Day, with an exclusive five-course, fixed-price French menu prepared by Chef Josh Lehman and his intrepid kitchen staff.

As before, this year’s Bastille Day meal comes complete with flavors of French-brewed Bieres de Garde, as well as American craft versions of Northern France’s famous specialty style of malty, food-friendly ale.

I don't mind saying that going back and reliving these events that took place during the years 2006-2010 produces a considerable kick of nostalgia. I'm not sure anyone involved ever really made money from these meals, but it was downtown's "Wild West" period, and anything seemed possible.

We've gained so much in the years since. We've also lost something, and as the French say, "C'est la vie."

Thursday, June 13, 2019

Culture, demographics and territorial pissings: "Gen X Is Having a (Very Gen X) Moment."


Let us be the first generation to opt out of building monuments to our rightness. Let’s build no monuments at all.

Thanks to Bluegill (or as they refer to him in France, Bleugill) for drawing my attention to this essay.

Gen X Is Having a (Very Gen X) Moment, by Pappademas

Why the opt-out generation should reject its nostalgia bath

... Recently a card-carrying member of Generation X entered the race for President of the United States. His name was Beto O’Rourke. He is 46 and a father and a former senator from El Paso, Texas. He was identifiably One Of Us. He’d been part of the hacker collective Cult of the Dead Cow. He’d been in a punk band with guys who went on to play in unassailably credible outfits like At the Drive-In and the Mars Volta. He posed for said punk band’s album cover wearing his girlfriend’s dress, seemingly less as a statement about gender and more as a big Novoselician goof. He was filmed tooling around on a skateboard and quoted about his admiration of Fugazi. He seems bright and eager to make a difference, and also completely doomed — and not just because attempting to ride the wave that swept history’s most racially and ethnically diverse Congress into office is an inherently room-illiterate thing for a handsome young white guy to do. He seemed doomed because every data point that emerged about his X-ness made him seem more like a traitor to that history. If listening to Fugazi inspires you to run for president — let alone to run against Bernie Sanders and Elizabeth Warren as a centrist Democrat — you have perhaps not been listening to Fugazi correctly.

Monday, September 03, 2018

My friend Barry reminds me there used to be a Labor Day horse show and chicken dinner at the Optimist Club in Georgetown.

Somewhere in the dozens of photo albums archived downstairs, which inherited me as their keeper when my mother sold the house, there is photographic evidence of the Labor Day horse show and chicken dinner at the Optimist Club in Georgetown.

Earlier today my old pal Barry Sears devoted a social media post to the topic, and it inspired memories.

Growing up in Georgetown, next to Christmas, Labor Day was the biggest day of the year. The Georgetown Optimist Club held its annual Horse Show and Chicken Dinner that always drew large crowds. It always meant days of preparation to set up booths and the large tents used for dining. Watching those men raise the huge tents was always amazing to me.

It also meant that my best friend, Roger A. Baylor and I got to run a Coca Cola booth and pour soft drinks all day. That was major stuff! Great fried chicken and homemade desserts we're a treat. Our mothers worked serving food, my dad was a cashier in the food tent and Roger's dad ran the bingo tables.

There was a lot of stuff to buy, but the best was snow cones and the cotton candy from Fuzzy.

I sure do miss those days and it's sad that event is now history.

And with this recollection, a massive and disorderly jumble of sights, sounds and smells washed over me, like a glimpse into a lost world. Like most worlds, it probably already had passed when I first experienced it. Beginning in the mid-1970s, Georgetown commenced the process of becoming something completely different.

Accordingly, I spent time over coffee this morning trying to imagine what the (then) 58-year-olds at the Labor Day celebration during the Bicentennial year of 1976 were reminiscing about over their fried chicken, pie and iced tea. Back then, I probably was wondering if there was any way to score a beer or two.

Memory is bizarre and selective in the best of times -- then you get old and have no choice in the matter. Barry's is better than mine. He reminded me of the time when the aforementioned Fuzzy told us about the ballyhooed appearance of country music great Hank Snow at the Washington County Fair.

Apparently the musician Snow was a bad gig for snow cones.

"He couldn't draw flies," snorted Fuzzy, and we though this was both hilarious and original.*

I've no clear idea how long the horse show and chicken dinner persisted into the modern age. The last time I can recall attending was 1979 or 1980. By this time the founding generation was in its 50s, and both the Labor Day event and the Optimist Club itself gradually transitioned in the decades to follow.

Those big tents were made redundant by a steel-beamed shelter house, which later was transformed into the all-weather building there today. The grand old house was torn down. The horse show grounds at the top of the hill became a baseball diamond.

Meanwhile, college had freed my inner urbanite, and I became whatever I am today -- primarily, a serial self-exile and a European trapped in New Albania, one who'll probably never come to grips with my past. They were the best of times ... and you know the rest.

But Barry's words made me smile, and this morning, that's something I needed.

---

* No sooner than I finished writing this, Barry revised it; seems he was at the Washington County Fair with another friend, saw Fuzzy there, and heard the story. Nonetheless, it still seems that I heard it from Fuzzy at Labor Day. At this point, I'm not sure it matters. 

Thursday, August 02, 2018

ON THE AVENUES: Daze of future passed.

ON THE AVENUES: Daze of future passed.

A weekly column by Roger A. Baylor.

A few of us were chatting last evening at the pub, and before I go any further, allow me to observe how wonderful it is to have such a pub for relaxation over tasty beers and meaningful words.

For me, the experience these past few nights has been like one of those caper flicks when the gang comes back together for a final heist, and of course my personal preference is that this long-awaited reunion of the like-minded, once launched, lasts a very long time.

Profuse thanks to those of you who’ve dropped into Pints&union for a beer, a cocktail, a bite, or just to look around. Joe Phillips and his staff still have sawdust in their nostrils, and there are dozens of details in need of attention; however, the results thus far have been overwhelmingly positive.

Now comes the long march forward in the general direction of a legacy, and as much as one might like to speed this process of timelessness, it simply can’t be done.

It’s like watching a tree grow or a barrel of bourbon age. Human nature must be allowed to take its course, and at some indeterminate point down the road, the fledgling notion is declared a valued tradition, and deserves it. If you have to ask when this will occur, it’s possible you’ll never understand it.

The same can be said about building a community. These things take sweat, patience and time – hence last evening’s conversation.

There’ll always be gossip, intrigue and strangeness; we’re humans, after all, but it seems to me that at present the downtown New Albany food, drink and dining community hasn’t ever been closer. This also might be said of the independent business community as a whole.

This is critical, because as I’ve noted on numerous occasions in the past, and as Benjamin Franklin may or may not have said, independent businesses in a setting like downtown New Albany must hang together – or most assuredly, we all will hang separately.

New Albany is a city of 37,000, and a Louisville metropolitan neighborhood; it is not a tourist destination in itself, although thoughtful strategy and tactics can leverage the advantages and minimize the shortcomings.

Food, drinking and dining options make up one economic and cultural segment of many pertaining to the city as a whole, and yet their concentration downtown is a marketable asset in a way Summit Springs cannot ever be.

In this context, food and drink establishments are obliged to be the guardians of their own reputations, and since the collective entity wields vastly more influence than its components, we need to work together.

Despite the potholes, I remain bullish about the prospects for unity.

Pints … and union. Joe picked that name for a reason.

---

I’m the first to admit that my transition from center of attention to cog in a machine is a bit weird.

But it’s also gratifying to occupy a place in the shadows to play rhythm guitar and take an occasional lead vocal on one of my previous hit songs, like the ever-popular “Our Beers with the Retirees at the Roman Brewery in Oudenaarde, 1998.”

Boy, was that a memorable afternoon.

There were something like 18 of us riding a motorcoach in Belgium, traveling between breweries as a dress rehearsal for later “beer travel” group trips I organized between 1999 and 2004.

I’d arranged for a stop in Oudenaarde, East Flanders. Just outside of the town center in a locale called Mater, there’s a brewery called Roman, established in 1545 and operated by the same family since 1600; currently, the 14th or 15th generation is at the helm.

Roman gave us a fine tour, then we adjourned to the tasting hall for samples -- except the samples, normally a few ounces, proved to be full pours of various house ales, many of them of higher octane. I was told my group could get a beer each on the house, after which they were asked to pay (in the end, all efforts at payment were rebuffed).

The seating area was large and ornate in an early 20th-century manner, and numerous senior citizens were chatting, drinking and playing cards. The atmosphere was sedate and restrained, then suddenly a type of Belgian polka music started playing loudly from the sound system. The pensioners rose and formed a line, and raucous dancing spontaneously began.

There were more women than men among the seniors, and more guys than gals in our group, and as they circled the room we were pulled into the scrum and paired on the basis of opposite sex. Soon a large pair of female panties appeared -- ritualistically, it would seem -- and eventually it landed on the head of one of my friends.

This went on for 10-15 minutes, then just as abruptly as it began, the music stopped. So did the dancing. Smiling, the older folks returned to their tables to gather their belongings, and it was obvious that our time at Roman had concluded as well. The two groups made for their respective buses.

I’ll never forget what happened next. Quite a few of the senior citizens loitered near the doorway, and as we went past, they thanked us in variable English for visiting Belgium and enjoying “their” beer. What’s more, almost all of them appended heartfelt thanks for America’s help in getting their country back from the Nazis in World War II.

It was tremendously moving, and I’m unashamed to admit there were tears in my eyes as we climbed aboard the motor coach. I certainly wasn’t alone.

As I noted already, pints … and union.

---

Obviously, it’s difficult imagining a scene like this today, in the here and now. Two decades on, and it is 73 years since war’s end. The war is no longer an active memory, which is a contributing factor for the deterioration of the post-war world order, which has been unfolding since Reaganism and the fall of the Berlin Wall.

There’s always a precarious balance between tradition for the sake of tradition, and tradition from an imperative of merit. Societal change surely must come, but can the Roman brewery please stay intact, brewing a delicious variant of the East Flanders brown, and welcoming busloads of elderly natives and visiting Louisvillians alike?

An hour ago I sat down and started writing, and the preceding spilled out. I’ll be 58 tomorrow, and the contents of my noggin seem to be caught between two perspectives: whether the genuinely important parts of my life have already occurred, or are yet to emerge.

I’m aware that nostalgia is in many ways a feeling of longing for the never-was, and the seeming simplicity of the past is a trick by the brain to relieve us from the burden of reliving the less appealing bits.

My hope is for this dichotomy between past and future to serve as dynamic tension, keeping my head in the game as the pub evolves. It’s never altogether clear, and this is why we simply have to keep moving. A few pints and some union sound appealing to me right about now.

Pints&union. The name wasn't an accident.

To me, it's a design for life.

---

Recent columns:

July 26: ON THE AVENUES: Maybe, just maybe, you really can go home again.

July 19: ON THE AVENUES: Confusion, exile, ignobility and resistance amid various other Chronicles of New Gahania.

July 12: ON THE AVENUES: Thanks to Joe Phillips, there'll be pints, union and good times downtown.

July 5: ON THE AVENUES: For Deaf Gahan and the Reisz Five, their luxury city hall will prove to be a Pyrrhic victory.

Thursday, May 24, 2018

A 2015 flashback to the former Boomtown, when the mayor's money machine went big-time.


According to the data miners at Facebook, this photograph was taken three years ago today, featuring my campaign's top volunteer.

Little did we know at the time, when Mayor Jeff Gahan swiped the term "Boomtown" from Houndouth (or was it Mike Moore?) for its inaugural 2014 event -- since ingloriously discontinued -- that it would become synonymous with Exalted Leader's campaign finance treasure chest.

Verily, New Albany as "Boomtown" has been a Boon-town for the mayor, his family and closest sycophants. Surely their combined salaries, in addition to benefits and donations to the ruling clique, have topped a cool million since 2012, or more likely since the moment this photo was committed to posterity in 2015.

Gahan's personality cult works quite well for Gahan, his kinfolk and their bootlickers. It's how our local DemoDisneyDixiecrats always gamed the small pond local patronage system, and it's what they'll be clinging to with kamikaze-like fury in the coming months.

If not, it's back to the private sector, and actual work.

For the rest of us, there's #FireGahan2019.

Thursday, March 22, 2018

ON THE AVENUES: Remembering Max Allen, bartender extraordinaire.

ON THE AVENUES: Remembering Max Allen, bartender  extraordinaire. 


A weekly column by Roger A. Baylor.


We're drinking my friend to the end of a brief episode
So make it one for my baby
And one more for the road
-- "One for My Baby” (Johnny Mercer/Harold Arlen)

Maxwell E. Allen Jr. was a certified legend.

His name used to come up often during beer-side conversations at the Public House, but now he's been gone for 18 years, spirited away by heart disease in March of 2000 at the ridiculously young age of 60.

These days only the older bar regulars might recall meeting him. The problem is that too many of these patrons are no longer with us, either. 

I found myself thinking about Max on Sunday after mentioning his name amid a consideration of folkways, foodways and beerways. If a high resolution image can be found, I'd love to honor his memory with a framed photo somewhere in Pints & Union.

Knowing that on widely scattered occasions, I can be a stubborn cuss when compelled to plant my heels in the primordial muck of our Falls of the Ohio flood plain and defend the proposition that we can't know where we're going without some idea of where we've been, it strikes me as vital that Max’s life and work be remembered.

Consequently, it is my ongoing pleasure to continue writing and talking about Max -- just so everyone else doesn’t forget, because trust me, I never will.

Max was a full-time, professional bartender, best known for his quarter-century stint at the legendary Hasenour’s Restaurant at Barret & Oak in Louisville, which was followed by a coda of sorts at the Seelbach Hotel downtown, where his father had tended bar many years before.

I seem to recall an interlude between gigs at Hasenour's, during which Max started a small engine repair business or something similar. He seemed to be good at it, but unfulfilled. Max was a “people person,” and as jovial and friendly a man as you’d ever hope to meet. He seldom was seen in public without a broad smile on his face, and maintained a vast repertoire ice-breaking jokes and tales.

Max introduced himself to me one evening in the early 1980s. He came into Scoreboard Liquors, proceeded to the bourbon section and stood intently for the longest time, studying the labels -- not that we had a large selection in the first place.

When Max finally asked me a question about one of them, I readily conceded my ignorance as the nominal beer guy who still was learning the ropes about liquor and wine. This delighted him, and henceforth he was the teacher and I was the pupil, which probably was his intention from the very start.

With the advent of Sportstime Pizza in 1987, Max would bring his son for afternoon food 'n' video game visits, and when the Fermenters of Special Southern Indiana Libations Society (FOSSILS -- our local homebrewing and beer appreciation club) started in 1990, he joined in spite of drinking very little beer.

He didn’t make it to very many FOSSILS meetings owing to his work schedule, but one that he did manage to attend is fondly remembered. It was in 1993 or 1994, when the late Virgil Hosier, bottling line foreman at Ackerman’s, New Albany’s last operational brewery prior to NABC (it closed in 1935), came to talk about his job. Virgil was 83 at the time, and passed away shortly thereafter.

Max had the foresight to bring a cassette tape recorder, and the recording of Virgil’s talk was transcribed for inclusion in Conrad Selle’s and Peter Guetig’s Louisville Breweries book, where it survives for posterity, thanks entirely to Max.

It's appropriate that this memorable contribution to FOSSILS lore pertained to history, for Max was a diligent member of Louisville’s Filson Club. He was a collector of books about beverage alcohol in general and Kentucky bourbon in particular, and served as a walking repository of local legend and lore. All you had to do was ask, and off he'd go.

He loved teaching and telling stories. I'd like to think I was paying attention, and taking notes.

After a long and gradual decline, Hasenour’s went out of business in 1996, and Max moved to the Seelbach for the final, all too brief chapter in his professional life.

Interestingly, in the twilight of Max's career, there seems to have been a dawning awareness on the part of observers, including many in the Louisville media, that he represented something fast disappearing: Skill and excellence in the venerable art of bartending, practiced by a true craftsman for whom tending bar was not a temporary stop on the way to something better, but a respectable lifetime pursuit of its own.

Of course, today’s professional mixologists are an amazing breed, and positively molecular in their approach. I mean no disrespect to them with my comparisons, and obviously, any references to “classicism” suggest an inescapable chronology, which is to say that Max certifiably was an old-school practitioner. 

In his later years, Max was delighted to be featured in more than one Louisville Courier-Journal article on drinks, and for the very good reason that he knew the liquors and time-tested recipes, and he did them up right.*

In the most positive of ways, Max was a human time warp. He did not indulge in the briefly embarrassing historical epoch of Tom Cruise-inspired “extreme” routines of bottle spinning and citrus juggling. Rather, the fundamental things applied, and significantly, not only with the theory and practice of cocktails.

A bar tended by Max was kept clean and stocked -- not just with alcohols and mixers, but with any item that he felt his customers might need: A needle and thread, toiletries, shoe polish, spare neckties and road maps. He viewed himself adamantly as a concierge, whether within the confines of his workplace or pertaining to the city at large.

After all, we're speaking of the final period in history before the coming of smart phones and personal electronic devices, and accordingly, Max did not rely upon cheap, abundant electricity; his index card file was literal and analog, upon which were written the names of customers, their references, spouses, children, birthdays and anniversaries.

If you came to Hasenour’s once a year for Derby, Max knew who you were and what you liked, and if for some reason the data eluded him, it was under the bar, at his fingertips.

In every sense of the phrase, Max was a pro’s pro, and he remained one as the bar business inevitably began to reflect the assembly-line prerequisites of our modern consumer economy, eschewing its slower-paced, traditional role as restful sanctuary for an increasingly frenetic place in the cookie-cutter service sector.

So it was that Max Allen was the serene, friendly, efficient, helpful face behind the bar, but not just any bar. His vocational milieu was the imperial “high street” American restaurant bar of the post-war zenith, an era originally framed in limitless possibility, now draped in increasingly funereal sepia.

In truth, the salad days were over before I ever encountered Max at the package store. He completed his tour with style and distinction. Perhaps the rest of us are just playing out the string.

Rest in peace, my friend.

Max would be having too much fun in this shiny new hyper-bourbonism age, without an iPhone in sight, and not a single trace of misplaced bullshit in those cocktails.

---

* In 2008, Max and other Louisville bartenders of his generation were the subject of an oral history project conducted by Southern Foodways, to which I contributed remembrances.

Photo credit: Courier-Journal

---

Recent columns:

March 15: ON THE AVENUES: The books I've been reading during the winter months.

March 8: ON THE AVENUES: Necessity was the mother of NARBA, a food and drink invention in need of re-animation.

March 1: ON THE AVENUES: Scoreboard daze of old.

February 22: ON THE AVENUES REWOUND: Money is the ultimate bully (2015).

Thursday, March 01, 2018

ON THE AVENUES: Scoreboard daze of old.

ON THE AVENUES: Scoreboard daze of old.

A weekly column by Roger A. Baylor.

On the occasion of Indiana's impending (and long overdue) Sunday Sales Apocalypse, I'm finding myself waxing nostalgic about Scoreboard Liquors.

These reflections were published most recently in 2015 at The Potable Curmudgeon blog; the article actually originated here at NA Confidential back in 2004, and eventually morphed into one of my pre-merger New Albany Tribune columns.

Joe K. mans the counter during the Reagan Years.
He introduced "retail-itis" to the lexicon.

The essay has been updated several times, and lately my memories seem prompted by mental archaeology ... or, the constant excavations of my cluttered cranium as I struggle to recall the details of my 1980s-era travels in Europe, which occurred during the same period of liquor store employment described here.

Another reason is belatedly remembering Ralph, and others who are no longer with us.

---

There used to be a package liquor store called Scoreboard Liquors on West Spring Street in downtown New Albany. I worked there part-time from 1982 through 1988, when the store moved to a different location, a couple of miles uptown. In fact, I continued to work at Scoreboard after the move, but to tell the truth, it was never the same as it had been at the downtown location.

Scoreboard’s downtown building directly faced the federal courthouse, and it was within spitting distance of numerous bankers, lawyers, title abstractors and others performing their hoary time-honored roles amid the daily antics of a county seat in seemingly terminal decline. For a lad from Georgetown, working the package liquor trade in the core of the historic business district was both a kick and an education.

Surely the 1940’s-era structure housing the business was the ugliest in all of downtown. Tacked onto its frumpy backside was the infamous (trust me) Cadillac Lanes bowling alley, run by a fractious family of immigrants from Pittsburgh eligible for reality television long before the genre was invented. In olden times, the cobbled-together retail space out front had hosted an upscale automobile dealership.

Needless to say, those days were long gone, even in 1982.

The barren north side of Cadillac Lanes faced a gravel parking lot separating it from Elm Street, and it became known among liquor store employees, in purely figurative terms, that to be taken “out behind the bowling alley” meant to be stood against the otherwise useless concrete block wall and shot for crimes against humanity.

In retrospect, this reference seems tactless, but it was used quite often, especially in conjunction with obnoxious, drunken customers – particularly those employed by the Coyle auto dealership down the street.

I worked two or three nights a week, Saturday afternoons and the occasional day shift. The job was good, my pay was hard cash, and included as part of the deal were discounts on merchandise (where most of my paycheck naturally landed). My early travels were plotted from behind the store’s worn Formica counter, using paper, pens and actual books.

Nowadays, whenever I spot a package store clerk with eyes glued to an iPhone or laptop, I think back to my entertainment options on slow business nights: A minuscule black and white television set with rabbit ears, from which many a McNeil-Lehrer News Hour was observed. I probably should have been sweeping or stocking, anyway.

Package stores of Scoreboard’s socioeconomic ilk still are a trip, and an ongoing psychological experiment. During my long-ago tenure, insights into the human condition were plentiful, and sometimes fairly hard to stomach.

At least the owners indulged my interest in imported beers (craft beer had not yet come into existence), and they allowed me to purchase and stock options beyond the norm. I was given one walk-in door and a shelf outside it for warm bottles. We did a fairly good trade in imports, given their obscurity and the fact that whenever I wasn’t on site to explain what they were, consumer requests generally were greeted with a sneer by Duck, the manager.

“Huh? I don’t drink that shit.”

My favorite Duck story (his real name was Lloyd) was the time when he was standing behind the counter, peacefully smoking a cigarette, when a complete stranger walked in. The man gestured toward the door to the rear office, and asked, “Do you mind if I go back there and change my pants?”

YouTube obviously didn’t exist back then, but Candid Camera did, and Duck's immediate, unprintable reply to the unknown man’s request would have played well in syndication, with Allen Funt joyfully suffering the brunt of bleeped-out epithets as the would-be wardrobe shifter was physically chased from the premises.

After a few years, business downtown began declining, and the owners had few good options when the lease expired in 1988. Scoreboard’s relocation took place the same summer. I took a week off from my “real” job in Louisville to help move the store to affordable digs at the traffic-challenged corner of East Spring & Beharrell.

Few tears were shed by New Albany’s historic preservationists when the downtown building was hastily demolished to make way for a vacant lot, and a few years later, the construction of Chase Bank, which still stands there today. The store itself changed ownership, and eventually was shuttered.

Three decades later, I think back to the downtown liquor store stalwarts, and sadly, quite a few of them have died, including Jim, the principal owner. More recently, Mamie and the School Marm both passed away. There was Norman and James Not Jim, the Canadian Club lady with all the books, the Upholsterer, and certainly numerous others. Their faces pass through my dreams on occasion, as though it had come time for a final round before closing.

Among the departed was Gin Lady, originally known to us as Mother Gargle, who usually walked to the liquor store from the East Bloc-designed senior citizen housing tower one hundred yards away. As the day progressed and she stopped for the second or often third time, her red-dyed hair would become more and more unmanageable and frizzy. By late afternoon, her mop would be standing straight up, antenna-like, as though she’d jammed a finger into the power grid.

You see, the Seagram’s was never for her. It was for her gentleman friend, who perpetually called on her, but was never seen then or any other time. Neither was Gin Lady after the store moved across town.

Chemical Man was so dubbed for the spectacular lack of nutrients in his bloodstream, and my rigid certainty that the only thing keeping him alive was infusions of formaldehyde, Kessler whiskey and Sterling beer.

Early on, when I hadn’t come to understand the nuances of alcoholism, I asked Chemical Man why he bought three half-pints of Kessler at points throughout the day rather than a liter of whiskey first thing in the morning, which would be cheaper.

He sputtered indignantly that my college education had taught me absolutely nothing, because any fool knows that if you start the day with a big bottle, you’ll just go and drink it before lunch – and then what?

Later, Chemical Man grew too weak to carry the daily case of Sterling to his house, which fronted the side street fifty yards from the store’s front door. I’d carry it over and put it on the porch for him. A year or so later, his obituary was in the newspaper. I’d have bet money that he was in his 70s, but he was only 59 at the time of his death.

Of all the people I met at Scoreboard, Snake was tops. For decades he kept a series of decrepit pick-up trucks alive just long enough to run a regular route through New Albany, collecting cardboard and taking it to Riverside Recycling for a few bucks, which went into the jar and paid for season tickets to Louisville Redbirds games.

Snake’s life wasn’t easy, but it could have been worse, and he generally kept a cheerful demeanor in the face of the curve balls thrown at him by fate. For example, the nickname came from a tattoo on his right arm, the one that ended just below the elbow, the rest having been removed after an accident decades earlier.

He had a recurring, acrimonious relationship with the New Albany Tribune, our local newspaper of record, and often vowed that if his wife died before him, he’d call to cancel the newspaper first -- and only then ring the funeral home.

Snake worked hard as a bartender, and drank just as hard as a customer until swearing off the bottle in the early 1960’s. He never drank a drop again, ever. When the bartending jobs at New Albany’s neighborhood taverns dried up, Snake turned to cardboard full time, and occasionally filled a shift at the liquor store.

In 2001, Snake’s truck died for the final time, and since cardboard wasn’t paying squat, anyway, it was time for him to get out of it. He’d already decided that ballgames were too expensive and the club’s management too arrogant. A couple years later he stopped by my pub to chat, and it was the last time I ever saw him, for he died shortly thereafter on the day before my birthday.

There were others dear to me, like Gene, Tom and Lewie, and I miss them all – the people, the store, and the time – but I miss Snake the most. Rest in peace, my friend. If you could see what’s become of the local newspaper these days, you just might reconsider that vow of sobriety.

We often had too much time on our hands.

---

Recent columns:

February 22: ON THE AVENUES REWOUND: Money is the ultimate bully (2015).

February 15: ON THE AVENUES REWOUND: No more fear, Jeff (2015).

February 8: ON THE AVENUES: Golden oldie classic comfort beers at an old school pub? Sounds like Pints & Union to me.

February 1: ON THE AVENUES: Did you hear the one about Duggins' deep TASER regrets? I laughed until I cried -- and so did the folks in Keokuk.

Tuesday, September 05, 2017

ASK THE BORED: Gripped with nostalgia, we remember the Great Street Piano Meltdown of 2015.


Came the reminder: two years ago today was the belated (to put it mildly) dedication ceremony for the street piano that produced so much labored consternation in the Down Low Bunker.


This post from July 26, 2016 explains what happened.

Shouldn't Street Piano Day be a civic holiday?

---

An omen is an event regarded as a portent of good or evil, and sometimes both.

This morning it dawned on me that I have failed to receive the weekly e-mail agenda of the Board of Public Works and Safety's Tuesday meeting.

No doubt this is a providential omen, freeing me from the crushing burden of observing the bureaucracy of local infrastructure, and suggesting that I make better different use of my time this morning.

Keep the questions coming. Meanwhile, let's take a fond look back to last year, and the Bored's bumbling performance in the legendary case of the New Albany Street Piano.


The following three posts include most of the other links to this most enduring and hilarious of stories.

As a refresher, here is Bluegill's summary.

First, there was a request to place a piano on a public sidewalk in New Albany; a fun, harmless, and completely normal happening around the world. Then there were months of city officials sidestepping and ignoring that request. Then there were additional weeks and multiple meetings of artificially constructed and wholly irrelevant hurdles put in place. Then there was media attention and, by New Albany standards, an expression of public support for the piano and exasperation with the City sizable enough to embarrass the officials involved. And then there was finally approval, with an almost equally embarrassing rearguard attempt to claim officials had supported it all along. I wish any of that was out of the ordinary but it's a near perfect example of what ordinary is here, even and especially when the stakes are much higher. Playing a new tune couldn't be any more welcome.

And the links ...

Bored of Works no more: Today at 4:00 p.m., the New Albany Street Piano becomes a reality.


Fundamentally delayed: The New Albany Street Piano "Grand Opening" is Saturday, September 5.


Celebrate the New Albany Street Piano, while remembering Team Gahan's dismal reaction to it.


Wednesday, August 02, 2017

Now, if he'd ever think to use that anchor on speeding cars ... then we might be slowing somewhere.


But here are a few words that rhyme with anchor:

banker, canker, chancre, danker, flanker, hanker, manker, planker, rancor, rancour, ranker, sanker, shanker, spanker, tanker, wanker

Thursday, July 20, 2017

ON THE AVENUES DOUBLEHEADER (1): Listening to "Dixieland" jazz, and thinking about drinking a beer.

ON THE AVENUES DOUBLEHEADER (1): Listening to "Dixieland" jazz, and thinking about drinking a beer.

A weekly column by Roger A. Baylor.

(This column originally appeared at my Potable Curmudgeon blog on August 15, 2016, and has been lightly edited)

The book is Lost Chords: White Musicians and Their Contribution to Jazz, 1915-1945, by the late Richard M. Sudhalter. It is a massive and scholarly tome, and allowing time for numerous visits to YouTube in search of cited songs, my progress reading it was painstakingly slow, though eventually I finished it.

Insofar as there was anyone left alive to care all that much upon the publication of Lost Chords in 1999, the book apparently provoked mild controversy, in that Sudhalter was seen as challenging the orthodoxy that jazz must be viewed almost exclusively as an African-American domain.

However, I don’t believe this criticism of Sudhalter is justified in the main, because he doesn’t seriously question the African-American bona fides. Rather, he offers testimony on behalf of white jazz players of the pre-WWII period, some of whom were neglected even before seven or more decades elapsed.

Naturally, this assumes a coherent definition of jazz itself. Louis Armstrong may or may not have said, “If you have to ask what jazz is, you’ll never know,” but this sentiment bears a large measure of truth. It’s a very big, nebulous tent.

Speaking personally, I’m not overly concerned that Sudhalter’s book will send me spiraling into bigotry. Growing up in the 1960s, my parents exposed me to both types of their favorite music, swing and jazz, and if there were prejudices about music in the Baylor household, it wasn’t racial in the least.

Instead, it was directed against filthy long-haired hippies of any skin color playing that horrendous rock and roll. In due time, I managed to overcome this homefront institutional bias and revel in the electric guitar. In the interim, I was fortunate to be imbued with jazz from both black and white sources: Duke Ellington and Jelly Roll Morton; Bix Beiderbecke and Benny Goodman; and Miles Davis and Dave Brubeck.

Yes, the roots of jazz overwhelmingly lie in the African-American experience, and yes, white musicians are known to have played it, too – and still do. The music long since has become a universal language, capable of being embraced by almost anyone, and may it survive another hundred years in ever widening spirals of diversity.

As this purports to be a column about beer, not books or music, please know that I’m currently in route to the general point, although it must be revealed that books and music are as important to me as beer and baseball. They’re items of long-term personal interest, and as cultural markers in my internal world, they’re seemingly woven together, completely inseparable and mutually reinforcing.

It’s hard to imagine life without them.

---

In the chapter entitled “Dixieland,” Sudhalter examines a musical genre seemingly defined as much by audience perception as actual notes and sounds. At this late date, the differences may seem academic, but I was deeply affected by the discussion.

It goes something like this: Youthful (read: rebellious) white musicians in 1920s-era Chicago brashly copied what they heard being played by others, both black and white, many of whom came from New Orleans. In the process of creating a “new” amalgam of older forms, they soon experienced a predictable arc: First rejection, then acceptance and a measure of success, before yielding all too soon to typecasting.

Sudhalter holds that black musicians playing music of a similar style were better able to escape a “Dixieland” genre stereotype at least in part because the word originated as dog-whistling marketing code delineating white players from black – and once locked safely into place, predominantly white audiences refused to allow their heroes to evolve.

Why? Sudhalter believes the answer has more to do with rosy audience nostalgia than overt racism.

By the time these jazz players were in their late thirties, white listeners already regarded the music of their youth as akin to “classic jazz,” not unlike today’s “classic rock.” They weren’t interested in hearing new songs or the progressive aural shadings of bebop.

The musicians quickly learned that they could adapt to these expectations and continue to pull gigs, or reject them and be greeted by shrinking pay packets.

They chose to eat.

Specifically, Sudhalter’s description of this phenomenon is as eloquent as any I’ve ever read. He speaks of the 1940s, only 15 years after the Dixieland repertoire (as it were) came into existence.


The listening audience, moreover, was aging; in that generational way peculiar to American fans, it embraced the music more tenaciously, and less for strictly musical reasons than personal and psychological. It symbolized their youth, the well (if selectively remembered) time in their lives when the future seemed limitless, immortality theirs for the asking. Reminded them of a Zeitgeist, vivid and enjoyable, before time and change edged it into memory.


Many years later, Bob Seger stated it more succinctly (and wistfully) in the rock and roll vernacular:


I awoke last night to the sound of thunder
How far off I sat and wondered
Started humming a song from 1962
Ain't it funny how the night moves
When you just don't seem to have as much to lose
Strange how the night moves
With autumn closing in


Play it again, author: “When the future seemed limitless.”

That Richard Sudhalter sure knew how to hurt an old fart.

---

Annoyingly, there is nothing at all inaccurate about the way this ancient Dixieland musical history lesson mirrors existential sub-currents in my own soul, as they pertain to the past and future of better beer and my own place in it … or out of it.

It grates even more because whatever the nature of the topic at hand, I’ve always struggled mightily to avoid nostalgia and live in the present tense, and to remain psychologically (as well as physically) a functional component of the contemporary world as it is.

Unfortunately, those ghosts of mine just won’t let me be.

Thus, comes the time of day when I’m thinking about drinking a beer, and with so many local, regional, national and international choices close at hand – with the abundant fruit of the revolution’s success ripe for plucking right down the street at breweries, restaurants and package stores, even within walking distance in otherwise forgettable places like New Albany – all I can think about are enriching vignettes and tasty beers from my past.

As with this remembrance of 10-degree golden Czech lager from the brewery at Benesov, poured straight from an earthenware pitcher, and consumed in the yard of a Bohemian weekend house in the company of a personable Communist party member and his family.

Like the time in Brighton, listening to the Manic Street Preachers in a pub with the cask-conditioned Brown Porter, then hitting the late night curry house for a bite before stumbling back to the hotel.

Or during most of those glorious times bicycling in Belgium, working up a powerful thirst and slaking it with ales of all strengths and hues in cafés like The Dazzling, ‘t Brugs Beertje or any number of local dives with a Jupiler sign painted on the facade.

Naturally, what these experiences have in common isn’t so much the beers consumed at the time, although they were wonderful, but the timeliness of the situations, yielding to timeless snapshots of suspended moments, when the future seemed limitless and immortality mine for the asking.

Of course, they’re gone; completed, finished and cashed. I might leave tomorrow on a journey to revisit each of these specific locales, and while I’m sure it would be fun, devoting the money and effort to reliving memories would be this fool’s ultimate wasted errand. It cannot be done.

Although agitated in the best of time, I’m no idiot, and I understand that all these previous lives were extinguished milliseconds after they occurred, but in spite of this rational clarity – perhaps because of it – the ghosts flit teasingly about, tempting me, and often I yearn to recapture the feeling of exhilaration and discovery, of being utterly lost in the moment, of refusing to be the omniscient guide, of eschewing the ephemeral cutting edge, and in placing no more significance in the act of drinking a beer than the chain of muscle processes necessary to swallow it.

But it’s so very hard to forget what you’ve learned. A consistent theme of Sudhalter’s is to ignore much (though not all) of the so-called expert musical testimony and judge by the results, because listening to records should be absolutely colorblind.

However, complete objectivity is a myth and an over-simplification ... and maybe those olden times weren't quite as carefree as they seemed.

When it comes to beer, I’m happy to have come so far, and wouldn’t trade this accumulated knowledge for anything, even an hour of previously squandered innocence during Reagan’s first term – when there wasn’t as much to lose.

At least I don’t think I’d turn down the trade. Instead, as usual, I'll try to treat the symptoms by throwing the ghosts a few scraps – listening to Keith Moon play drums, reading a chapter of Ball Four, and writing about a beer I drank somewhere in Hungary back in '87.

The ghosts will disappear for a while, but they’re persistent, and after all, we’ve known each other for a very long time. After every such dispersal, I ponder the same basic question: How does one hold onto his own traditions and values in a changing world, without lapsing into nostalgic self-parody?

Beats me. Whatever it is, I'm doing a poor job of it right about now.

ON THE AVENUES DOUBLEHEADER (2): A book about Bunny Berigan, his life and times.

---

Recent columns:

July 13: ON THE AVENUES: Using Deaf Gahan’s dullest razor, we race straight to the bottom of his hurried NAHA putsch launch.

July 6: ON THE AVENUES: Beercycling with or without Le Tour.

June 29: ON THE AVENUES: Back in the USSR, with my old friend Barr.

June 22: ON THE AVENUES: Train Whistle Reds, or my journey from Budapest to Moscow by rail in June, 1987.

Saturday, April 08, 2017

A tentative toe in the water for Euro '87.


One week from today in 1987, my second summer in Europe kicked off with a flight to Brussels.

Earlier in the year, I'd registered for a class at IU Southeast in order to get the credentials necessary for the international student ID card ... then dropped the class and put the refund toward a plane ticket.

The card was good for discounts; at any rate, I may have been just shy of 27, but still looked younger. Fortunately, no one carded me in Europe that summer.

Fast forwarding 30 years, my tentative plan is to begin the long-awaited digitalization project with those long hidden 1987 slides, and I hope to get this underway in late April (2017).

It might inspire a narrative. I've written about bits and pieces of the 1987 epic, but never tied them together. Tonight I dug out the two small notebooks with the vitals.


In retrospect, it may have been mistaken to trust my memory. Who were these people -- John, Josh, Derrick and Noah? The first two I remember fairly well. Perhaps their addresses at the time are scrawled somewhere on scraps or receipts in the box.

The 1987 trip lasted 123 days, with month-long Western European segments sandwiched around two months in Eastern Europe and the USSR. It was my first (relatively) in depth experience with the Bloc, and an outstanding time later in the summer with my friend, Barrie Ottersbach.

I met the three Danes of the Apocalpyse, and saw both Genesis (Budapest) and U2 (Cork) perform. It was the summer when Michael "Beer Hunter" Jackson's beer teachings genuinely resonated with reality on the ground.

There are stories to tell. I can only hope the slides will help me remember them.

Next: the trip begins in Brussels.

Sunday, January 22, 2017

THE BEER BEAT: Football, how it used to be for me, why I seldom watch it at all -- and don't even mention those horrid beers.

(Part two of two ... part one is here)

In the first part of this Sunday morning mental exercise, as we await the games later today that will decide this year's Super Bowl contestants (I'll watch little if any of them), there is little in the way of righteous indignation to disrupt the medicinal effects of the coffee. It's more about weariness at the time elapsed, and wariness of those moments when I allow nostalgia to warp my discernment.

Unlike Kevin Turner's parent, it isn't easy for me to persist as a spectator, knowing what I know, and knowing it far less directly than them. On the other hand, slaughterhouse videos seem not to deter me from eating animal flesh. Perhaps football has come to symbolize those aspects of America that I fail to grasp and wish not to indulge, while baseball's analogies still resonate.

I wrote the following essay in 2014 and published it at the beer blog. How much do I miss those Sundays? A better question: Do I miss the person I was then? Now that's the real head-scratcher.

---

Football, swill, brain death and the American Dream.

RING RING RING RING RING

“What the … ?”

(Old school, rotary dial – it was 1989, for chrissakes)

“Yeah.”

“We’re cooking and drinking.”

CLICK.

Translation at the speed of hangover …

This undoubtedly meant it was Sunday morning (who’d have known?) and the football games would be starting soon. Barr lived just a few miles away. It would have been senseless to call back.

So, I threw on some clothes, brushed my teeth and drove right over. The house smelled like chili, pre-game shows were blaring, and of course there wasn’t any beer.

That’s not quite true. There was beer, although far short of the amount needed to carry us through the entire day. Because Indiana prohibited carry-out beer on Sunday, the inevitable trip across the Sherman Minton to the Louisville's West End needed to come sooner rather than later, when highway driving would be inadvisable.

The really dumb thing about our Sunday beer shortages was their frequency. Most of the time, I’d have worked a Saturday shift at the liquor store, and it would have been easy for me to pick up a case of something/anything, receiving my employee discount on top of it.

But no; advance planning would have made far too much sense. Perhaps there was a secret, nostalgic enjoyment about these runs to Louisville, and actually we were reliving junior high school.

There we’d be, cruising down the Interstate, allowing the chili to simmer for another 35 minutes or so as we tried to time our arrival at the front door of the package store to the precise moment of its 1:00 p.m. opening time. Once inside, pushing past the crowds of fellow Hoosiers, the hunt for acceptable swill began in earnest.

---

Kindly note that by this point in our drinking lives, we knew what good beer was; it’s just that we weren’t always interested in paying the price for it, especially when purchased in bulk during times when the hot pepper content of the chili threatened to render one’s taste buds null and void.

As celebrity chef David Chang recently observed in GQ, mass-market swill pairs with any food owing to its vigorously carbonated flavorlessness. But these were the days of $5.99-per-case Wiedemann and Top Hat, beers to which the words “benign” and “tasteless” seldom were attached. They had plenty of flavor, just the wrong kind, and consequently a process of thoughtful triage was required.

I’d witnessed it countless times while working at the liquor store. Standing in front of the glass door, we’d begin by eliminating the brands we couldn’t or wouldn’t stomach – essentially, all of them – before beginning Round Two by working backwards and nominating two or three of the least objectionable choices. Price points briefly were parsed, cash collected, and within minutes we were back in the car, pointed toward Indiana and safety.

Subsequently, those cryptic words from the telephone came vibrantly to life, usually achieving saturation around halftime of the afternoon game. The feast would continue into early evening, but because Sunday night football had yet to be invented, there was a two minute warning in the form of the weekly and obligatory viewing of 60 Minutes.

Maybe a final cigar … and the last dregs of a dirt cheap Schaefer.

By then, I’d have beered myself totally sober (or so came the slurred insistence), and would take the back road home. By Monday, almost all of it had been forgotten, making an encore performance the following Sunday all the more likely.

---

Thinking back 25 or more years to those hours of chili, swill and football, it was all about the camaraderie with wonderful people, not specifically the cooking, drinking and watching. I miss it for that reason alone. Granted, the chili was good. The beer usually wasn’t, but what strikes me today is the football component of the equation, and the way times have changed for me.

We always used to blithely joke about the damage being done to our brains while watching football, never realizing that the carnage on the field was no laughing matter. Today, ignorance no longer constitutes an excuse.

I played football only briefly as a lad, and never was a diehard football fan. Twice I attended college football games, and both were utterly forgettable, not because of the quality of the games themselves, but reflecting my own level of inebriation.

Professional football always appealed to me more; even so, my attention span over the period since those halcyon Sunday couch residencies has waned steadily, to the point where in recent years, I've seldom seen more than a quarter or two of action prior to the playoffs. This year, I haven’t seen a single down, and probably won’t.

I’ve turned away from football because of the increasingly well-documented, regrettable, lifelong physical toll suffered by the players. It isn't just the professional game. The more I read about youth football injuries, the greater my disconnection. We begin to see difficult subsequent lives, erratic adulthoods, and eventual dementia in a different light, and it’s easier to look away – not from the sadly afflicted, but from the violence of the game itself.

The gladiator as metaphor stops being entertaining when the suffering and death are real, not just implied in a voice over.

And if it ever required so much good, bad or indifferent beer to fuel those entire days seated in front of the television, soused and insensate, screaming slogans and pumping fists … well, perhaps the memory of it also compels me to look away from the collisions in the modern coliseum.

Into yonder mirror.