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Archive for the ‘Brewer: Coors’ Category

Rising Moon Spring Ale

January 28th, 2009 by Aaron Goldfarb | 10 Comments | Filed in Brewer: Coors, Country: America, Grade: F regular, Style: Amber Ale

5.4% ABV

To whom it may concern:

I’ve had a pretty good life.  Stellar health, insane handsomeness, an academic accolade or two, two wildly successful blogs, I’ve kissed a few girls (heck, kissed a few guys after Syracuse won the 2003 title), and once I was even kinda hit on by a drunken Kyra Sedgwick before Kevin Bacon arrived and whisked her into a cab.  I don’t have much to complain about.  But the weather outside is miserable, I’m turning 30 in thirteen day, and I just can’t take this cruel world any more.

To off myself I pour a glass of the shitty faux-microbrewery Blue Moon’s spring offering Rising Sun.  My friend, the late Taco Town Dave tipped me off to the poison-like qualities of this beer before it caused his ultimate demise just last weekend.  RIP TTD.

The smell is pungent, like one of those plastic squeeze bottle of fake lemon and lime juice.  No, even worst than that.  It’s downright zesty, like if one were to drink that powdered lemon dish detergent.  I recall in first grade when, to try and get her students excited (!) about learning to read, my teacher told us a s’posed-to-be apocryphal story about the adult illiterate who bought dish detergent thinking it was lemonade powder due to the lemon picture on the box.  That woman died.  Lesson:  if only she’d learned how fun reading is.  Teachers have such dumb teaching strategies.

I’m started to think if that illiterate really existed she had actually just bought Rising Sun.  I’m sure the autopsy couldn’t tell a difference.  The findings would probably be inconclusive.  Did she drink lemon dish detergent or Rising Sun?  My motor senses are slowing down, the poison quickly coarsing through my veins, affecting my CNS.  I’m typing with just my pinkie, the only appendage still with a range of motion.

I have about half the beer down.  My breath is gonna reek when they find my body.  Smells of cheap malts and foil.  I feel like I have ate a tin can.  If my leg muscles hadn’t paralysised I would walk to the bathroom and do a Scope gargle.

This is not a pleasant way to die.  I should have jumped off the GW Bridge, leapt in front of the A train, insulted Al Sharpton, anything else.  Getting this whole beer down is worse than waterboarding.  It’s like my uvula is being waterboarded by citric acid.  President Obama, please send this beer to Gitmo.  I hear there is some space now.

Four sips left.  My vision’s getting blurry.  Three sips.  I can feel my liver is failing.  Two more.  My heart is slowing as if I’m in a waking coma.  One.  My brain function is Teri Schiavo-ing…

Goodbye cruel world.  Hit “publish.”


AMG (1979-2009)


A Cornucopia of Christmas Beers

December 15th, 2008 by Aaron Goldfarb | No Comments | Filed in Brewer: Abita, Brewer: Blue Point, Brewer: Coors, Brewer: Sierra Nevada, Country: America, Grade: A-, Grade: B-, Grade: C plus, Grade: C-, Style: Belgian Pale Ale, Style: Brown Ale, Style: IPA, Style: Winter Warmer

Feeling a little bit frisky on Saturday afternoon, I decided to buy every single Christmas/winter seasonal beer I had yet to have from the local supermarket and prebar with a cornucopia of the typically-spiced brews.

Blue Moon Full Moon

5.6% ABV

It is well-known how much I really kinda detest Blue Moon–Coors’ hush-hush attempt at trying to make microbrews–thinking it everything wrong with beer. Meant to be “good,” but in reality just mass-produced stuff that chickens out and appeals to no one. Too lame for real beer geeks, too non-watered down for novice drinkers. Though a lot of girls seem to like it if plenty of orange slices are added. I don’t know why I thought Full Moon would be better. The label actually almost convinced me with its claim to be an “abbey ale brewed with a hint of dark Belgian sugar.” Boy, the gall! I realized almost immediately what a con artist this bottle was. Well, not immediately. The first thing I realized was–beer snob alert!–this has to be one of the first twist-top bottles I’ve had in months. Kinda nice actually, I can never find my bottle opener and always need the Nigerian kid next door to bite my caps off. The second thing I noticed was that Full Moon poured quite dark, like a legit dubbel or something, whatdayaknow? Surely one of the darker American macros I’ve ever seen. The taste is all wrong though. Blue Moon again acts cowardly by ostensibly starting off with good intentions but by then pulling punches to try and appeal to the masses. What this actually tastes like is a decent dubbel that has been mixed with 50% tap water. Imagine that.


Abita Christmas Ale 2008

Unknown ABV (seriously Abita, list your fucking ABV, it’s like the only stat we all care about!)

Abita is another brewery that really rubs me the wrong way. Oh, how many times I’ve bought one of their beers, one of their countless new releases, thinking, “Hmmmm…that sounds interesting, that sounds good.” It never is. Abita is surely one of the shittiest prominent craft breweries in America. Nice labels, but everything they make is mediocre at best to absolute dreck at worst. Don’t tell that to a Louisianan though! Yet again, Abita tricked me here with their slick hologram-esque, unphotographable label*. This beer was just garbage. Not bad-tasting or anything, just not-tasting. Called a brown ale, it did indeed look that way, but tastes of absolute water. If the World Beer Championships ever held a contest to see who could make the darkest colored beer with no flavor, I think we might have our winner here. You fooled me yet again, Abita. What’s the saying, “Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me for like the forty-fifth time, Abita, and…yeah, I’ll probably still take a whirl on your next shitty seasonal selection.”  Got anything in the works for Valentine’s Day?  Perhaps a beer steeped with those chalky little candy hearts?!


Blue Point Winter Ale

4.5% ABV

With all these shitty Christmas beers, I was starting to be happy to be a dirty Jew. Also because I don’t have to hang out with people I hate on December 25th, I can just go to the movies, eat steak, get wasted, and hang with sexy Jewesses (no, that’s not an oxymoron you antisemite). Blue Point, unlike Blue Moon and Abita, is a brewery that I have actually found to have made some respectable stuff in the past. No masterpieces or anything, but alotta solid efforts. Here is another one. Good hops and seasonal spices, this is probably the only legit “winter warmer” out of any of these four. I liked but didn’t love this one. Needs a higher ABV quite frankly to keep you toasty during the Yuletide season. At a minimum, though, Sam Adam’s and Brooklyn’s winters are better.


Sierra Nevada Celebration Ale

6.8% ABV

OK, nice red label with a wreath framing a pastoral picture of a snowcapped log cabin and the name “Celebration” would certainly make you think you’re getting a winter beer, full of nutmeg, allspice, cinnamon, and other egg-noggy type things. Nope. This is pretty much just a standard double IPA. And a good one at that. What in the world is Sierra Nevada thinking in making this their special winter seasonal? Who knows. But thanks, I guess.  Delicious and overhopped in a good way, sticky and full of citrus sensations, this one is worth searching out. As a “winter” beer this is an abject failure, but just as a beer, it is probably the best Sierra Nevada I’ve ever had and a damn fine IPA.  I can’t wait for Sierra Nevada’s summer beachtime seasonal release, tentatively slated to be a 13% ABV dark chocolate and coffee stout that actually give the inside of your stomach a sunburn.


Final thought:  when are they ever gonna make me some Hanukkah seasonal beers? Perhaps a nice strong ale with tastes of potato latke, chocolate gelt, and dreidels? YUM.

*Perhaps they make unphotographable labels so that one can never actually prove they drank a shitty Abita beer?

Coors Light

July 15th, 2008 by Aaron Goldfarb | 2 Comments | Filed in Brewer: Coors, Country: America, Grade: D regular, Style: Macro!

4.2% ABV from a keg

Went to a housewarming party thrown by my friend and his wife at their sweet new house in the Boston suburbs. I was the only one of the 3 or 4 dozen guests that did not own at least one of the following: a house, a car, a spouse, a child, a pet, or dignity. Thus I got belligerently drunk and overcompeted in all the day’s “friendly” drinking games.

The libations for the affair were Coors Light from a keg and my friend’s freshly-squeezed watermelon martinis. Don’t knock ‘em, they were potent and flavorful. Alas, I only drank one, spending the rest of the fifteen hours of marathon tippling throwing down foamy CL Smooths from a plastic cup. Certainly not a great beer, in fact, a pretty bad one. And if you even just barely overpumped the keg you were given a cup full of something that looked more akin to Cool Whip than an adult beverage. Nevertheless, it is damn easy to drink the Silver Bullet and it lubricated me nicely for a day of competition.

I have a love/hate relationship with drinking games. On one hand, I hate the idea of needing a reason to drink and get drunk. I especially detest games where you only get to drink when you “lose.” That’s silly. It’s why I abhor games like Asshole. A better drinking game would be one in which a person doesn’t get to touch alcohol until they actually accomplish something.

On the love side of the equation, I’m a fierce and maniacally insane competitor and thus I adore any drinking game that actually takes some skill, that actually determines who is better at something, that actually allows for bragging rights. Oh, and I will brag–remember, I don’t got things like a house, a car, a wife, a child, a pet, or dignity to live for. So obviously I love an awesome game like beer pong. Unfortunately, that was not going to be on the day’s agenda.

First up was Wiffleball. Of course, not traditionally a “drinking” game per se, but if you’re drinking and competing you can figure out how to make anything into a drinking game. We set up a two-on-two home run derby-esque event in which pitchers were allowed to throw the fastest, nastiest, craziest junk balls they possibly could. You ever seen those famous experiments where a spider is given booze and drugs and then spins these absolutely fucked-up webs? Well, the more Coors I drank the more “wiffly-er” my pitches got as I began throwing some absolute 12-to-6 hooks. Pitches that arched behind the batter’s head yet still inexplicably dropped into the strike zone (a lawn chair). Another good thing about playing Wiffle Ball while drinking is that the alcohol numbs your arm, turning it as rubbery as David Wells’s and making it easy to have a 1200 throw pitch count for the afternoon.

My partner Bryan and I won the first game 23-21 on a walk-off double and instantly the trashtalking began. I’m the Gary Payton of shittalking during drinking games. Other folks are just trying to enjoy a beer and have fun and I’m taunting them and brashly reveling in my own accomplishments. Maybe that’s why no one likes me. It would be considered hubris, but then again, as Caesar said, “It’s only hubris if I fail.”

And though I may have been failing at attracting members of the opposite sex or being known as the “nice” guy at the party, I didn’t do a lot of failing in the drinking game spectrum. By early afternoon I lacked the motor skills to swing a yellow bat at knuckling plastic balls and the agility to run around the yard avoiding babies and dog shit in order to shag pop-ups, so I needed a more sedentary event.

Thus, next up was a game called Baggo (also known as Cornhole in some places). I suppose I should be embarrassed that in my 29 years I had never seen, heard, or certainly played Baggo, but then again I’m from Manhattan where space is limited.  I’m also an urbane Jew, not some hick from French Lick. Having watched some people play the game before me I thought it looked pretty dumb. For those that haven’t played, you essentially try to throw beanbags into a hole in a slightly slanted wood board some 20 feet away, netting 3 points for ones that go in the hole and 1 point for beanbags that are still resting on the board surface once the round is complete. First team to 21 points wins. Kinda like a mix between beer pong, bocce, and curling. Sounds dumb and easy, right? Well, it is kinda easy for a superior marksman like myself, but it was certainly not dumb. I fell in love with it quickly. Heck, I’d like to be playing it now. I think it may have even surpassed beer pong as my favorite drinking game.

Now is as good a time as any to discuss that this was the first drinking party of my life in which people actually brought their fucking children. Being a vulgarian, I was concerned at first, especially since I’m the kinda guy that loudly yells things (ala John McEnroe) like “Fuck!” or “Jesus Christ!” or “Jesus fucking Christ!!!” when I fail at some sort of sporting attempt. And, the last thing I need is some parent lecturing me on appropriate behavior whilst young’uns are around. Amazingly though, all the parents in attendance were cool, throwing back beers, and letting their children goof around and even mingle with a scumbag like me. Ever the leader of men, I quickly taught these children important things. Stuff such as how to hold my beer when I am batting during Wiffleball, how to pull me a nice brew with only a half-inch of head when my drink needs freshening up, and how to exalt me in my victories. Pretty soon, I had a little army of four-foot-tall hype men cheering my every triumph and deriding, mocking, and aping my opponents and their miscues. Those children will never be the same.

Though I didn’t exactly understand the rules or strategies of Baggo until halfway through our first game, Bryan and I won that one and then proceeded to make mincemeat of the rest of the day’s opponents (most of whom had been playing the game for years) and finished up with a sterling 8-0 record.

From there, it was time for a quick bite which lead into Flip Cup. Flip Cup is definitely a game I have mixed feelings about. On one hand, I’m not sure if it’s truly a game of skill assuming you have an arm, a hand at the end of it, and don’t suffer from delirium tremens. On the other hand, it is definitely a game that can take a party to a whole new level as it forces typically serene drinkers to chug beer and frequently leads to buttoned-up women becoming more…friendly. Quickly. The party was divided into a team of Ivy League grads versus Team “Everyone Else.” Our “everyone else” team featured alums from places such as Clemson and NC State and of course my great university Syracuse. We soon developed a nice esprit de corps, happy that we spent our years of college getting loaded and honing our drinking skills as opposed to reading books, organizing rallies, and not rooting for major sports programs. There was no way we could lose to the Ivy nerds in a best-of-seven series.

After six games it was knotted at 3-3. The tiebreaker game 7 was determined on the spot to be a relay race. Each competitor had to sprint from one end of the backyard to the other, grab a full beer already waiting for them, chug it, show to a “line judge” their open and empty mouth, and then sprint back for the tag up. With superior athleticism and prodigious chugging abilities, I was tapped to anchor my team like an alcoholic Carl Lewis. Alas, it didn’t matter. Midway through the race, one of my teammates false-started on his return after the chug and thus we lost ground we were never able to regain. A defeat by the Ivy League, how demoralizing.

From there, it was time for Slip ‘n Slide races. Though the box made it seem as if the slide was dozens of yards long in length, upon unfurling the feeble thing we were amused to see it was about as long as a California King Size bed with the explicit warning “Not For Adults” boldly written at the start of the slide. Well, a lot of things a Vice Blogger does aren’t exactly for “adults.” And, by now, fresh on the heels of the Flip Cup series, most of the other partygoers were equally too plastered to care. We began headfirst throwing our bodies down the Slip ‘n Slide as if we were Pete Rose in his hey-day, bashing our aging and fat bodies into each other as we zipped down the cheap wet plastic, hurtling past the “collection” pool at the slide’s end and tumbling into the mulchy and bumpy grass.

Eventually we added a flag to capture to the bottom of the slide which turned the end of the race into a battle that looked more like a rugby scrum than anything Wham-O intended the toy to be used for. Suffice to say, very few women participated in this contest. We men emerged from our Slip ‘n Battles with nicks and cuts and grass slathering our backs and riding up deep into our asscracks like enemas. But we felt alive!

Next, with absolute darkness surrounding us, it was time for the final game of the day: an absolutely retarded event called Stump. Essentially, this involves a dozen or so wasted people standing around a tree stump that has a corresponding nail for each participant, then taking turns throwing a hammer in the air, catching the tool in one motion and trying to throw it down and drive one of their opponent’s nails through the stump. Don’t believe me that people would actually play something so dumb? Well it actually has a wikipedia page. Definitely a game for future Darwin Award winners. Suffice to say, I did not find this game entertaining at all. I’m not sure if more than a person or two did. And, I find it hard to believe that anyone is skilled at this “sport,” as it took like two hours for the game to finish despite all the “expert” veterans in attendance.

After that snoozefest, as the clock reached 2 AM, it was time for Aaron to play one final game. A game called “Trying to score with available women but actually ending up falling asleep on my guest room cot covered in grass and filth.” I miserably failed at the first part, wildly succeeded at the second.

The next day I awoke feeling as if I’d taken part in football two-a-days as opposed to just marathon drinking games. My right pitching arm hung from my side as worthless as Bob Dole’s. My left pec palpitated like I’d been shot with a bullet there, surely a result of the fifteen hours of repetitive arm movement as I took beer cup from waist level to mouth and down again, every thirty seconds or so. I must have done some 25,000 beer curls during the day as I drank some 40 or so cups of pisswater Coors Light. Meanwhile, my entire body from head to toe was covered with bruises, scrapes, and even minor gashes from all the Slip ‘n Slide diving, especially my knees, elbows, and hamstrings which throbbed, my ulnas feeling like they were about to poke out of my forearms. Oh, and I was sunburned, badly.

Tail tucked between my legs, ass authoritatively kicked, I nonetheless returned to Manhattan happy after an incredibly fun Saturday. Coors Light is a shitty beer no doubt, but I’m starting to think that the quality of beer you drink during marathon drinking events is inversely proportional to the fun you’ll have. If I drank Old Guardian all day…well, there wouldn’t be an all day, I’d be passed out by 1 PM. But Coors Light keeps the tank running as long as you can let it. And that’s about the only good thing I have to say about it.


Blue Moon Belgian White

June 4th, 2008 by Aaron Goldfarb | No Comments | Filed in Brewer: Coors, Country: America, Grade: C regular, Style: Belgian White

5.4% ABV on draught (with a feeble orange slice included. And not even a pure Florida orange. This orange was from like Trenton or somewhere.)

After some plans I had were canceled I wasn’t in such a great mood so I decided to inflict on myself the ultimate form of self-flagellation: going to the most wannabe “hot shot” financeguy pub possible and subjecting myself to the kind of beers those cretins drink. And coming to the plate in the lead off spot…Blue Moon.

I wanted to start with Blue Moon (I won’t shorten it to BM even though I might find that abbreviation apropos, especially in light of how I felt the day after drinking it) because I have blasted the beer for so long. In fact, it’s probably in my holy trinity of most mocked beers alongside the criminally awful Heineken and Corona. But unlike those two beers which I constantly find myself being forced to drink for some damn reason due to bars and parties often having nothing else, Blue Moon is a beer I rarely drink. One I probably haven’t even had a sip of in a year or so. It was time to give the brew one more try, a hopefully unbiased shot.

Odorless. All I can smell is the Trenton orange in the glass. Seriously, I cannot get a read on the taste due to the orange overpowering everything else. That’s pretty bad. There, I plucked the fruity wedge from my glass and slung it at a fruity guy in a suit at the other end of the bar. Aha, now I see why most people drink this beer with an orange in it. Clearly stated, Blue Moon is not a good beer. But at least it isn’t heinous. It probably does not deserve my scorn. Perhaps if only because Blue Moon’s biggest supporters think they are drinking some obscure Trappist bottling made with the most precious of ingredients by vow of silence Belgian monks as opposed to a Coors bottling mass-produced quite carelessly by machines that are even cheaper to operate than would be the cost of paying illegal Mexicans.

I really wanted to like this beer. I tried to figure out how I’d rate the beer if someone handed it to me and told me it was some Belgian that’s in Beer Advocate’s top 100. I closed my eyes and focused as I tasted it one final time. Didn’t matter. I still didn’t like it. It’s very bready. I feel like I have to chew it. It’s salty too. It’s like I’m drinking liquid Wonder Bread with hints of artificial orange flavoring. Shock Top is a far better beer in the macro-faux-Belgian-release-that-tastes-like-Sunkist-orange-soda category.


(At least this review made me realize that C is about the absolute worst rating I will give to a beer that I don’t like but which doesn’t repulse me in any way.)


June 4th, 2008 by Aaron Goldfarb | No Comments | Filed in Brewer: Coors, Country: America, Grade: D plus, Style: Macro!

5% ABV

I’m not sure I’ve ever had this one. Seriously. Sure, I’ve had literally thousands upon thousands of Coors Lights in every sort of drinking vessel possible—from a bottle, fo’ty, can, keg, pitcher, stripper’s crack—but I don’t think I’ve ever had just a plain ol’ Coors. Nowadays, people pretty much only drink light beers. It’s an odd phenomenon. You go to 99% of bars and all they have on tap are pretty much macros, but those macros they have are the light version from each line. You’ll rarely see Budweiser or Coors or Miller on tap, but their light counterparts flow freely. Why is that? Is this only an NYC phenomenon? As bad as macro beers are, their light versions are as if you took the already crappy beer and then cut it with 4 ounces of dirty tap water.

So how did I end up drinking this filth? The ladyfriend was forced to buy it to fill out an incomplete sixer at Duane Reade (again, her favorite beer emporium). She was too snobby to drink the Coors—wanting to drink her Bud Light Lime instead—so I decided to end my night with it. It ended up being more a nightcrap than a nightcap. Ba dum dum.

Best part of macros? Twist-top caps. The sensation of using nothing more than your bare hands to twist off a beer cap and then sling it across the room is vastly underrated. And it becomes quite a rarity as one gets more and more into craft beers. Slummin’ it I guess. Taste-wise, Coors actually ain’t that horrendous. Not that bad of flavor, actually no real discernible flavor, until you hit the aftertaste. Which kinda tastes like rotten sourdough bread.

Try not to burp after drinking this one. Or, if you have to burp, at least get some hilarity out of the situation by pulling off the vaunted “French Oven” move*.

Eh, what to say, it’s not a great beer but it’s better than Coors Light.


*Akin to a Dutch Oven, with this move you stuff your bedmate’s head under the sheets and then burp a stinky Coors burp down there.