5% ABV from many, many, many ice-cold tall boy cans

The Flushing Meadows public course is like a bar that you just so happen to be able to golf at. On Saturday I accompanied my friends Plerchee and Ian to this par 3 “pitch ‘n’ putt” nestled under the shadow of Shea and amidst the ruins of The World’s Fair from back in an era when we still had world’s fairs. Little did I know it would be one of the strangest–and most pleasurable–golfing experiences of my life.

Arriving at the 7 train stop in Queens, you get off and take a short boardwalk headed toward Corona Park. It is at this point in which you feel you have entered another country. As I hoofed it the 10 minutes or so to the course, I’m not sure if I saw another white American. Most of the crowd were Latinos kicking around futbols, but there was also a large contingent of Asians headed to play tennis at the USTA Tennis Center. I did not hear English even spoken once. Where the fuck was I?

Plerchee told me ONLY to bring a wedge and a putter and, though I doubted him at first, I’d rather be short a club or two than have to lug my entire bag to another borough, so I listened to his advice. He was totally right. In fact, a sign on the “pro shop”–really just a tiny concession stand that you might see at a Little League ballpark–advised, if not ordered one, to only carry two clubs (humorously noting that “One club must be a putter.”) I looked out over the course. It was puny, one of the worst looking courses I’ve ever seen. But I still kept my hopes up. Golfing on a shit course is still better than spending the day at home watching a “Tila Tequila” marathon. Mark Twain was wrong.

While I waited for my friends to arrive I decided to have a little hair of the dog to stave off my dipsomania. And, as luck would have it, the “clubhouse”–really just a second “drive-thru” window next to the “pro shop”–had a special on Shock Top drafts. Only 2 bucks. My day was already starting off nicely. I typically don’t drink when I play golf. Correction: I typically don’t drink early in the round when I golf. Though I am a crummy golfer, my incredible confidence, if not delusional nature, makes me think that every time I tee it up I’m gonna card a 69 and thus I better keep my wits about me. However, by the time the turn comes and I’m already shooting a 52, it’s time for the cigars to be lit up and the beers to be shotgunned. I decided to begin my round drinking at this course because I was still quite hungover from Friday night’s activities.

My friends arrived and the golfing began. Some highlights of the course and our Saturday round:

*No tee boxes. Just mats like at the driving range. Cool by me, I hate lugging tees around. Having a pocketful of wood spears is not what I call comfort.

*You can play rounds as late as 1 AM. The last tee time go off at 11 PM. Seriously. The course actually has stadium lights. Though if I was playing this course at night I’d probably carry a sidearm with me in addition to my two clubs.

*The scorecard notes the course’s ground rules. A most amusing list culminating with the policy “High heel shoes and coolers are not allowed on course.”

We assume that rule was put in place to eliminate prostitutes from walking the grounds.

*Most holes are so short you could spit from the rubber-matted tee box all the way to the greens. Surprisingly, the greens weren’t half bad, and fairly challenging. The “fairways” were another story though. One fairway had a man hole cover in the middle of it, while another had what looked like a bottomless trench that if one fell in it would cause the person to drop all the way to the center of the earth. Luckily, this most hazardous of course hazards was surrounded by six bright orange traffic cones. The few bunkers on the course were not white sand traps, but more like quicksand marshes. Thankfully, I didn’t once find myself in them.

*The twosome in front of us was a guy dressed like a overly serious golfer playing with a girl lugging a purse around and wearing a flowing sun dress that scraped the ground. Yeah, she wasn’t exactly Babe Didrikson Zaharias.

*The group in front of them was an unwieldy fivesome featuring five fat fuck friends that though in their mid-thirties probably all still live with their mothers. These folks would come into play later during the absolute highlight of the afternoon.

*I saw another group on the course, a large Mexican family. The only person playing was the father though. However, the mother, two small children, and a baby in a fucking stroller joined the man on his round, following him like a 1800s circus caravan. Yes, though you aren’t allowed to sport stilettos you are apparently allowed to push a stroller around the course with an infant in it.

*We also spied what seemed to be some sort of Asian mystic. She looked like a 90-year-old Yoko Ono and just absentmindedly wandered the course in her bizarre dress, interacting with no one. I’m not sure if she was a bum, crazy, or simply a mirage on the horizon. Perhaps she was all three. Maybe when people talk about the “golfing gods” they’re referring to this chick. And, I gotta admit, I was snaking in long putts all day long. This loon was clearly on my side.

*The highlight of the day occurred as we were about to tee off on 6. A bum lugging around an enormous Glad bag full of aluminum “empties” walked past us and headed toward the adjacent 8th green. There, he cavalierly picked up a ball that was resting some five feet from the hole for a makeable birdie putt. The hitter of the ball was the fattest of the fivesome mentioned previously and when he saw the bum grab his ball he began sprinting down the fairway wielding his club like a mad man. Me and my buddies watched with baited breath. This had the potential to be the most exciting thing to happen on a golf course since my friend lost his virginity in a sand trap at the local country club at 3 in the morning after the prom. Can you imagine some fat Long Island guido hitting a bum over the head with his wedge? All of the sudden our day was about to become “Grand Theft Auto: Municipal Golf Course.”

Unfortunately, the fat fuck was too much of a fat fuck to run the 80 or so yards that were the length of the hole and halfway there he was winded. He had to stop to put his hands on his knees and, panting like an asthmatic, he shouted out at the bum to leave his ball lest he get a beat down. The bum feigned ignorance of the situation but ultimately left the guy’s ball. I’m not sure that there’s a deposit refund for golf balls so he probably figured he best just go retrieve more cans.

Oh, and there were plenty of empty cans to retrieve! There was an elderly black gentleman driving the course who was seemingly on a mission to keep all the golfers well lubricated. I’ve never had such prompt service, even at five star restaurants! And, at $3 a tallboy Bud, we were going to get quite schnockered as we were averaging a fresh can every 2 holes or so.

Budweiser, The “King” of Beers. How fucking arrogant to call yourself that, especially when you produce such an inferior product. I tell you though, sometimes an ice cold Bud can really hit the spot. It’s not like I’d be drinking La Fin Du Monde on the course were it available.

So, what to say about Bud? It’s actually one of the more flavorful macros which is indeed faint praise. Compared to it’s Light counterpart there’s no contest. A really superior beer in comparison. Actually has a little taste and bite and doesn’t just taste like dirty water. Hints of corn and rice if any flavors can be distinguished. Goes down easy and that’s why college kids and people that don’t truly like beer drink it. A little too carbonated for my liking too, but I guess that’s what AB has to do to mask the mediocrity. And it’s very bloating, I feel like an over-inflated whoopee cushion after polishing off a few of these. Nothing special, it is what it is and we were all shit-canned by the 18th hole.

C-

As for pitch ‘n’ putt: It eliminates all I hate about golf–prohibitively expensive greens fees, six hour rounds, carrying a heavy bag, losing balls, using woods and long irons, spending most of the day lost in the trees and weeds, wearing spikes, lugging around tees, and exhibiting decorum–while maintaining everything I love about the game. Plus, it’s a great confidence booster. Even wasted, I was able to shoot an even par round on the back 9 (7 pars, 1 bird, 1 boge) and an overall round of 62. Nice! I may have to become a “member” at Flushing Meadows CC. Pitch ‘n’ putt gets an A+.

(Beer not pictured since I’m rarely sober enough to operate my camera when drinking this one)

5% ABV in six-pack bottled form

I don’t know much about the Muslim culture. Not cause I’m a bigot, but simply because you don’t usually stumble upon the Islam entry on wikipedia when you’re starting on things like “Brian Bosworth” and working your way around hyperlink by hyperlink (Bosworth > Bo Jackson > Baseball > Asia > Islam, voila!). Having said that, I don’t think the Muslims that run the bodega next door to my Hell’s Kitchen hovel much like me. Not because I’m a jerk or anything, but rather because my lifestyle is most certainly antithetical to their Muslim beliefs. At 10:00 AM I’m paying for a roll of Mentos, “Oh, and I’ll take the twenty pack of Durex behind you.” On Sundays I’m strolling out of bed hungover and unshowered at two in the afternoon and asking them if breakfast sandwiches are still available. And, on many Friday and Saturday nights at 4 AM I’m returning from the bars to pick up some brews for a nightcap. You see, let’s just say that not a lot of high-brow beer purveyors are open at these late hours and thus I’m forced to patronize the Muslim bodega if I want to keep my buzz goin’. And pick up some Cheetos. It is at these times that I get leered at by the Muslim owners as if I’m a black in the Jim Crow south. (Note to self: Look up wikipedia entry, “Muslims and their beliefs on American alcoholic, promiscuous youths.)

And, it just so happens that Labatt is the best beer my bodega sells. Luckily, I love Labatt like any upstate boy should. It’s probably my favorite macro in fact. I wouldn’t insult it by calling it a “session” beer but goddamn I love to throw ‘em back. So I guess it’s my favorite late-late-night session beer. Canadians make good macros like Labatt and Molson because at least they put some punch in their beer. 5% is a good number when you’re drinking piss water. Most American macros hover in the 4th percentile. Shameful. I won’t claim that Labatt tastes great, and on those rare times when I drink it sober I’m like, “God lord, did this beer go bad?!” However, Labatt is not nearly as watery as the America macros, has a bit of taste, and actually doesn’t hurt sliding down your throat like it’s peroxide. Bonus points for feeling like I should root for the Maple Leafs while drinking Labatt.

Labatt is like the kinda chubby girl you booty call only when you’re shitcanned. The girl who you finish your business with and then whose house you have left before your BAC is back into single digits. Both serve their purpose and so long as you don’t indulge in them while stone-cold sober than you won’t have any problems.

C-

4.5% ABV from a can

My earlier lambasting of Corona resulted in me getting a flurry of angry e-mails, texts, and carrier pigeon missives. I always knew there was no way that Corona was the official beer of Mexico, but who know that swill was the official beer of American douchebags and pre-pubescents? (“d00d how can u hate on korona??!”)

Most people simply wanted to know if not Corona, what was my favorite Mexican beer? What would I order while grubbing on some fajitas or quesadillas? To that I answer…can I opt for a frozen margarita instead?

Well, Negra Modelo is the only good to great Mexican beer that I know of, but there are a several I enjoy. Pacifico is pretty good and at least doesn’t come in a clear bottle. Dos Esquis has several bottlings that ain’t bad and seem to at least be brewed with more ambitions than to simply make you piss a lot. And, of course, Corona is a terrific bottled water as you at least you know it’s been purified.

All things considered, though, my favorite would have to be Tecate. A beer that is prohibitively cheap, even in NYC where a sixer of cans will set you back like $3 (age 29 and I still enjoy ripping beer cans from the plastic ring) and a tallboy checks in at like a buck. It doesn’t taste that great I will admit, but there’s just something that makes me like drinking and getting drunk on Tecates. And, if it’s a beer that’s good enough for the hard-nosed bordertown rancher played by Tommy Lee Jones in “The Three Burials of Melquiades Estrada” then it’s one that is good enough for me. Sometimes you just need to pound a few cans of Tecate to make you feel less like a cosmopolitan northeast urbanite and more like a gritty badass.

C+

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.

D+

*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.

4.6% ABV

“Extra” what? Extra shitty is what I’ll assume. Corona has to be the only beer you can literally watch TV through. It’s so goddamn thin. A pungent smell, yet borderline tasteless. Figure out that paradox. So gross. “What if you put a lime in it?” the ladyfriend asked. Christ. Like a little citrus fruit could improve this filth. The only thing I could put into this beer to make it taste even decent is maybe like 100 ounces of Orval. I can’t even believe this beer has an ABV of 4.6%. I’ve accidentally tasted near beers that were more potent. Avoid at all costs. Even if you’re an alcoholic and it is the only thing in your house. Please search the bathroom for Listerine or fingernail polish. The area under the sink for Chlorox. Heck, sniff some glue. I would say the only reason to drink this beer is if you are dating a Mexican lady and you go to her house for dinner and you don’t want to insult her father by turning down this swill. But I refuse to believe even bonafide Mexicans like this crap. Corona is the Foster’s of Mexico.

F-

4.2% ABV

People often call me a beer snob but I find that label completely inappropriate. I often (and without complaint) polish off pitcher after pitcher of Coors Light with my buddies while watching my favorite college basketball team lose games. Throw back can after can of Pabst while participating in bar trivia. I don’t love those beers or anything, but sometimes you got to drink them when the price is right. Not every bar is going to have Orval on tap. And one doesn’t want to look like a pretentious fuck when in mixed company. So I prefer to call myself a beer connoisseur. I mean, I’m sure George Clooney is a pussy connoisseur, but I bet he’s fucked an ugly girl or two in his life. Likewise, I’ve drank many bad beers in my life. Surprisingly, Bud Light Lime wasn’t one of them. Go figure.

The ladyfriend had been curious to try some and picked up a sixer at the local Duane Reade (always a great emporium of fine brews…right.) It’s supposed to be Bud Light’s answer to Miller Chill which is Miller’s answer to how poor Mexicans like to drink their cheap beer. The BL Lime comes in a clear bottle, an aesthetic I absolutely detest when it comes to beer. Beer bottles are brown or dark green because they are meant to keep outside light from ruining the beer. With rare exception (Newcastle), every beer in a clear bottle fucking sucks, culminating in Corona and Corona Light, arguably the two worst beers on the planet.

BL Lime has no smell. It tastes like an alcoholic Sprite. Which actually isn’t an insult. It’s kind of refreshing to be honest with you. I might actually drink this beer again were I at a macrobrew-laden BBQ sometime this summer. At the least, it’s better than Budweiser or regular Bud Light.

C-