AleSmith IPA

April 23, 2009 by Aaron Goldfarb | Filed under Brewer: AleSmith, Country: America, Grade: A regular, Style: IPA.

7.25% ABV from a bomber

My Quasi-Celebrity Girlfriend, Part III

(previously…)

“Just go hail a cab for us!”

We stood in the lobby of the Land O’Lakes Girl’s building, me in normal date attire, her dressed like the Land O’Lakes Girl.

“You know, you didn’t have to trick me into coming to this trade show with you.  I would have gone.  I got nothing better to do.”

A few feet away, the doorman and a building custodian snickered at the costumed Land O’Lakes Girl while, nevertheless, ogling her fantastic tanned legs.

“Yeah, well I’m sorry about that, I thought you might be freaked out.”

“I can’t believe a ‘celebrity’ like you doesn’t get limo service to the Javits Center.”

She rolled her eyes at me.  “I get reimbursed on my cab fare.  Now will you go hail us one?  I don’t want to be stared at by everyone.”

“I won’t go out there unless you come with me.”

On the sidewalk, as the Land O’Lakes Girl glared at me and shivered, trying to cover up her exposed skin as best she could, I tried to flag down a taxi, while neighborhood passersby paid my quasi-celebrity girlfriend…no attention.  This is New York City, mind you, nine out of ten people dress like assholes.

En route, the Land O’Lakes Girl admitted that she was always humiliated at working conventions so she was glad she would have some support from me.

“If you’re so humiliated by this, then why do you do it?”

“Hey, it’s for $500.  And I don’t get much work nowadays.”

She looked in the cabbie’s mirror and adjusted her feather headband.

“Any how, it’s a good networking opportunity.”

Good networking opportunity?

“Oh yeah, wait til you see.  There will be so many amazing, important, and powerful people here.”

Then we arrived at the packaged and canned foods convention.  And I saw all the amazing, important, and powerful people at the Javits Center.  There was Tony the Tiger and Cap’n Crunch and the Sun-Maid Raisin Lady and Chester Cheetah and one of the Keebler elves and hey, isn’t that Snap, Crackle, and Pop?  I can never tell those guys apart, but luckily they have their names on their hats lest you commit a major social faux pas and call Snap Crackle and Pop Snap.*

All these huuuuuuuge “celebrities” manning information booths while fat slobs wandered the convention floor amassing any free shit they could.

The Land O’Lakes Girl was shown to her booth and I helped her set up.  We laid out brochures and informational pamphlets and tiny free samples of Land O’Lakes butter for, I guess, those humans who have never sampled butter before and finally wish to just pop an unadulterated pat into their mouth sans toast or waffles or flapjacks.

Morons would come by, schmooze up the Land O’Lakes Girl, stuff a few pats of butter into their fanny packs, throw some pamphlets into their convention bags, schmooze up the Land O’Lakes Girl some more, and then ask for a picture.  There was a Polaroid camera at our booth and convention-goers were encouraged to get their photo taken with my quasi-celebrity girlfriend like she was some Playboy Playmate or a Hooter’s waitress.  It was shocking how many men wanted their picture taken with the Land O’Lakes Girl like she was someone important.  Each new photo-requester making her feel less and less important to me like indigenous Papa New Guineans believe cameras steal your soul.  Of course, I was the one forced to snap the Polaroids.  I intentionally framed them poorly.

After awhile, our booth hit a lull and for the first time since we had begun dating I actually looked at a Land O’Lakes box at the convention table.  Weird that I had never done it previously seeing as nowadays I over-Google every new girl I meet before any sort of relationship proceeds.  Then again, this relationship had been a torrent whirlwind.  I put the box up beside the Land O’Lakes Girl’s head.   You know, she didn’t really look like the chick on the box at all.

“What are you doing?” she sternly asked.

Would the 3-D Land O’Lakes Girl look like the 2-D Land O’Lakes Girl if she was shrunk down to one hundredth size?  Hard to say.

“Nothin’.  Will you autograph a box for me sometime?”

I smiled slyly.

She kissed me on the lips and grabbed the box from my hand.  She examined it, smirked to herself.

“They sure made my face look a lot fatter on the box.”

She tossed it aside.

Just then, on the other side of the convention floor, an enormous man in dark forest tights covered up by a leaf-garbed one-sleeved onesie ala Andre the Giant, strolled by in a gawky gait.

The Land O’Lakes Girl could barely contain her excitement.

“I used to have such a crush on him.”

I retracted.

“The fucking Jolly Green Giant?!”

She nodded.

“We used to be at a lot of the same events together.  I’d always flirt with him but he was never interested.  I think he had a girlfriend.”

“But he looks like a buffoon.  His tights aren’t taut.  They’re saggy and you can see he has a poor body.  Droopy man boobs and little chicken legs.  Plus, how can you tell what he looks like under that green grease paint on his face?”

“Oh I saw him without make-up once.  Very good-looking.”

She said the final line quite emphatically.

I’d had enough of this wacky pathetic convention and the Land O’Lakes Girl for the moment.  I was bored and hungry and a little perturbed and I decided to take a lap of the convention floor, hopefully to find some food.  I quickly realized I could piece together somewhat of a lunch with all the free samples from the booths:  granola bars and energy drinks and trail mixes and children’s fruit snacks.

I found myself at an Oscar Meyer booth absentmindedly looking through some pamphlets promoting the newest line of Lunchables pizzas when a rep at the booth–clad in a hot dog wiener costume natch–began schmoozing me up.

“So, you a rep?”

I looked up, confused.

“Huh?  Uh no.”

“In distribution?”

“Uhn uh.”

“School administrator then?!”

The wiener did an index finger gun point at me to emphasize what he thought was a correct guess.

“Naw.  Just looking for free samples.  I’m actually here because a friend of mine has to work.”

The wiener went into an Igloo cooler behind him and pulled out a box of Lunchables Maxxxed Out Peperoni Pizza.

“Friend, huh?  Any one I’d know?  I go to a lot of these dumb things.”

He ripped the cellophane off the top of the Lunchables tray and began preparing a piece for me, squirting some ketchup red sauce on a Matzo-cracker of a “crust” before adorning it was areola pink discs of low-grade meat.

Pure deadpan:  “Oh yeah, she’s pretty ‘famous,’ it’s the Land O’Lakes Girl.”

His eyes got huge as he handed me the pizza he had finished preparing.

“Yeah, she certainly is ‘famous.'”  He had accented the “famous” in a more mocking way than even I had.  I believe he was making fun of the Land O’Lakes Girl.  Hey, no one makes fun of my quasi-celebrity girlfriend but me!

“Great picture of her on the box, huh?”

I couldn’t tell if he was joking.

“Are you joking?”

He shrugged.

“So that isn’t her on the box is it?  Is that what you’re saying?  It sure doesn’t look like her.”

“I wouldn’t know.”

I eyed him, trying to get a read on what he was implicitly trying to tell me.  If he was trying to tell me anything.

“Well good to talk to you, pal.”

He smiled.  “It was good to meet Mr. Land O’Lakes too,” he said with a huge smile, trying to get my goat.

“These are terrible by the way,” I said as I frisbee tossed the remaining half of my slimy Lunchables pizza into his booth’s garbage.

“I know,” I heard him mumble as I headed back to the other side of the Javits Center.

Upon returning to the Land O’Lakes Girl’s booth, I found her no longer alone.  Nope, now The Jolly Green Giant was in the booth and they appeared to be canoodling, giggling with each other.  She looked surprised to see me, like she had forgotten I was there with her.

“Aaron, uh, hey…”

The Jolly Green Giant extended his hand.

“Aaron, this is Eric.”

I’d had about enough of this scene and wanted to leave, but if you know Manhattan then you know the Jacob K. Javits Center is way on the west side, nestled in that beautiful region boxed by the Westside Highway, the Lincoln Tunnel, and sexy Eleventh Avenue, also known as…the middle of fucking nowhere.  I’d have to walk forever or spend a shitload on a cab to get back to civilization.  I’d just grin and bear it and wait for the Land O’Lakes Girl and her reimbursable cab ride to take us home.

Luckily, the convention was dying down by now and the Land O’Lakes Girl decided it was time to clean up a bit and soon leave.  The Jolly Green Giant headed back to his booth to do likewise.

“Eric was thinking we should all go get a drink after this.”

“Who the fuck is Eric?”

The Land O’Lakes Girl gave me a look like I was a moron.  “Uh, The Jolly Green Giant.”

I could definitely use a drink but I wasn’t sure I felt like hanging out with him.  Then again, even though I was getting sick of the Land O’Lakes Girl, no little fruit…er, vegetable…was going to steal her from me.

“Come on, he’s a nice guy, I swear.”

The Land O’Lakes Girl smiled at me and gave me a kiss and I remembered why I liked her in the first place.

And soon we were standing on Eleventh Avenue trying to get a cab, none, of course, to be found.

“I know a great bar within walking distance,” Eric, the Jolly Green Giant, chirped.

Jesus.

If you know anything about the bars way on the westside of Manhattan…well, if you know anything about those bars then you’re probably a low rent hooker, a stevedore, a junkie, or one real badass.  These are serious dive bars, son.  You may think you go to dive bars.  You may laugh at the surly bartender who gives you a slightly foggy pitcher of cheap macro swill.  You may be tickled at how grossed out you are by the unisex bathroom with a standing water floor and graffitied walls.  You may be real amused at the jukebox full of David Allen Coe and George Thorogood ditties.  But you don’t go to dive bars.  You go to faux-dive bars.  Saying you go to dive bars is like an eleven-year-old claiming he went to an authentic haunted house last October 30th when his parents drove him to that warehouse right off the highway and paid $35 apiece for some unsuccessful drama club failures to spook the youngster.  The dive bars you go to are essentially just Hollywood sets erected to cater to you and your need to “slum” it for a night.  Real dive bars aren’t nestled between a Zagat-rated French restaurant and a free trade coffee shop et fromagerie.**

Real dive bars are on Eleventh and Twelfth Avenue, nestled between storage facilities and motorcycle repair shops and secret brothels and hot dog cart supply companies.  They have names like Ollie’s and McCullough’s and Joe’s.  If they have names at all.  Most are anonymous, just a blacked out sign, a neon High Life light in the front tinted window, and a door with a few nine millimeter holes in it.  You can’t see into these bars from the street so it’s a gamble–a major gamble–every time you push the swinging door open and enter one.  Who knows what you’ll find, what seediness, sordidness, clientele. If you have ZERO chance of getting killed for accidentally looking at someone funny or for saying the wrong thing, then you are not in a dive bar.

We headed to one of these scary dive bars on Twelfth Avenue and the low Forties, the Jolly Green Giant proudly fucking strutting down the street as the few transients that far west stared at the freak.  The Land O’Lakes Girl walked beside him and I hung back a few steps, like I might not actually be with these two.  The Land O’Lakes Girl turned around angrily.

“Are you embarrassed to be seen with me, Aaron?”

“Nope.  Not you.”

Soon we were at the dive bar and, of course, as we entered–“So an Indian girl, a Jolly Green Giant, and a pissed off Jew enter a bar…”–all the beefy, flannel-clad roughnecks rubbernecked toward us.  The bartender with a Rollie Fingers handlebar mustache snickered.

“I’d ax for youse guys’ IDs, but then again it pro’ly wouldn’t mattah, eh?”

The completely male population of the bar gruffly chuckled, each tippling denizen seeming to base their own personal style off of that of a Major League relief pitcher of the last few decades.  There was the guy at the back pool table with a “The Mad Hungarian” Al Hrabosky mop of hair, the guy stuffing his Mitch Williams curly mulleted face with some pretzels, the guy chugging Wild Turkey shots and then slurping the excess whiskey out of his Goose Gossage fu manchu.

It was an uncomfortable scene.  At least for me as I wondered how my life got to the point where I was sitting on a barstool seat essentially made out of duct tape, alternating between swigs of Budweiser and Wild Turkey as two costumed freaks surprisingly seemed to be making friends with the entire dive bar who were somewhat tickled by the two.  The two huge celebrities also seemed to be coming together in a union the likes of which the world hasn’t seen since the great DiMaggio and Norma Jeane Mortenson.

There’s probably a “Ho, ho, ho” joke in here somewhere regarding the Land O’Lakes Girl so cavalierly eschewing me.  Then again, I’m just an average Joe.

Eventually, the Land O’Lakes Girl headed off to the bathroom and The Jolly Green Giant sidled up beside me.

“So Aaron, you and Sara dating or just friends?  I can’t really tell.”

I thought about my torrid one-week relationship with a maybe-faux-quasi-celebrity and decided…

“Go for it dude.”

…it was over.

This story was not a fable because it was true and I am not Aesop and thus, unlike a fable, it has no moral, no significant principal culled, no lesson learned, no “one to grow on.”  I guess, the one thing to take away is to just not date crazy girls.  Or, just don’t date them for too long.  You’ll know when you’ve reached the precipice.

I winked at the Jolly Green Giant as I left the bar.  I finally understood why that bartender had winked at me just one week previous.  The Jolly Green Giant was in for quite a week I reckoned.

When I got home, free again, I popped a much coveted bomber of AleSmith’s highly rated IPA.  A smell so fresh, piny, citrusy.  Nicely carbonated and quite fizzy.  Strong grapefruit tastes with a very dry finish that lingers on the tongue with an awesome bitterness.  Very sticky, it makes your mouth and throat phlegmy like you’ve just had some freshly squeezed OJ, an oddly telling sign of a great hoppy IPA.  DIPA or IPA, who cares, this is freaking wonderful.  I have no quibbles but it’s not exactly transcendent either so I’ll give it “just” an…

A

*CLASSIC line on Wikipedia regarding the three pitchman elves jobs:  “opinion varies concerning Crackle’s occupation, but Snap is always portrayed as a baker and Pop as a marching band leader.”  I think Crackle is probably unemployed.  He looks like he spends most of the day sleeping and smoking weed while his more productive brothers make rent money.

**Real dive bars also aren’t featured in a handy dandy “guide” book written by some bitch named Wendy Mitchell.


10 Responses to “AleSmith IPA”

  1. BDH says:

    After reading all 3 installments, I’m definitely curious as to who the chick is. But mostly I’m thankful to you for linking that Dive Bar guidebook, without which I would never have known to limit my order to drinks with one mixer when I’m out “diving”.

  2. I bet Wendy Mitchell is BLAST to go drinking with.

    (Hmmm…maybe I’ll look her up and indeed go drinking with her. I know just a dive bar to take her to as well, http://nymag.com/listings/bar/distinguished-wakamba-lounge/ The last time I was there I nearly and inadvertantly started a gang war between Dominicans and Puerto Ricans)

  3. I now need a new computer as I just googled Wendy Mitchell, saw a pic of her, and spat my coffee all over my keyboard and screen.

    http://gothamist.com/2004/04/20/wendy_mitchell_indiewire.php

  4. Anton says:

    She has to frequent the dive bars so her rating goes up from the usual 0.5 to a respectable 3. And that’s just for butch lesbians.

  5. Now now Anton, we don’t make fun of sexualities on the VB. Stick to making fun of her girth and how she looks like a Hungry, Hungry Hippo when she laughs. I bet she can swallow a lot of marbles.

    You make good points of course.

  6. BDH says:

    I actually spent a few minutes flipping through the Dive Guide – ease off, it’s Friday – and I’m really curious as to how a titty bar is listed as a dive bar. I feel like a strip club can be as dirty/crappy/smelly/gross as possible, and that would only make it a scummy strip club. But never a dive bar.

  7. You are correct. There is absolutely no such thing as a dive strip club. If there were, every single strip club in Syracuse would be one.

    Can there be a dive go-go bar though? I say no, but it’s debatable. I’m thinking like the bar in “From Dusk to Dawn.”

  8. Mookie says:

    At least now my life can resume. This cliffhanger serial blog had me on the edge of my seat. I’ve been waking up in the middle of the night blurting out guesses as to who the mystery girl actually was. By the way…come visit sometime, Vice Blogger. The Rusty Nail, a quick stumble from my house, is a TRUE dive bar.

  9. Yay or nay on future serial stories? I have a lot of other long form tales but I’ve withheld them.

    Oh, I’ll be by soon, next six weeks or so, you can’t count on that. I haven’t been to the Rusty Nail? I believe A Rusty Nail was the first cocktail I ever had in my life. I ordered one at Faegans and got roundly mocked.

  10. anton says:

    The From Dusk Till Dawn bar was a high class establishment.

    And while it’s on topic, what an underrated movie. Too many people couldn’t get past the fact they were watching Grindhouse 11 years too early. First half all Tarantino, second half all Rodriguez.

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