5% ABV from a bottle

Looking for fun in a seemingly boring town? Stuff your pockets with a few beers and hit the local Wal-Mart. Smalltown Wal-Marts are like wild game resorts. But instead of shooting bullets and arrows at deer, you can go to these white trash locations to hurl laughter, insults, and invectives at the fucked up local people and their even more fucked up products.

Such was the case when I was in North Country this weekend with my friends Gary and Dan, two brothers who grew up in the area and somehow survived to prosper. After having already seen the Dunkin Donuts inside the gas station and the old man that whittles on the edge of his porch, we needed to locate some more fun. Gary told me if we went to the Malone, NY Wal-Mart Supercenter that I would see things that would scar me for life. Or, at least, make me laugh until I was keeled over on the tobacco chaw-stained linoleum*.

So, after pounding a few Molson Exes–a surprisingly adequate beer, not great, but some decent ale body and flavor, and very drinkable compared to most shit macros–we headed over to the big box store, a taupe-colored monolith on the horizon. Gary warned me that inbreeding was prevalent and I would see some of the ugliest people on planet earth, but I still wasn’t completely prepared for what I was to witness.

Firstly, every person in town is constantly drinking Mountain Dew. It’s the only thing these people swallow beside beer and the slobber running down their gape-jawed faces. I would speculate that these giant beasts need the intense caffeine in order to locomote themselves around town, but I cannot be certain as not much walking seems to be done. Whereas in a normal city like New York where I live, the most prominent sodas are going to be your Cokes, your Pepsis, maybe Sprite or Dr. Pepper, in Malone those are the sodas of hoity toity fancypants folks. In Malone they say, “Give me Dew, or give me death.” I was absolutely stunned how the Wal-Mart soda selection was about a fifteen feet cooler across of all various flavors of the typically green nectar. I bet you think that all that exists is Mountain Dew and Diet Dew. Heck, maybe you’ve even heard of Code Red. Well you would be stunned at how many other variants there are. I don’t recall their wacky names, but I saw blue Dew, purple Dew, orange Dew, teal Dew, and countless other flavors and colors I can’t even remember. It was stunning.

For solid sustenance, the local indulgences of choice are hot dogs and ice cream. More, specifically, Glazier hot dogs, a bizarre fire engine-red-cased wiener unique to the area and made at a nearby meat plant. More specifically than that, the folk like their dogs “Michigan” style, which is a Glazier dog covered in some cheap spaghetti sauce. I’ve never seen people who give such a damn about meager hot dogs. In most of the world, people specifically avoid hot dogs unless they are broke, at a ball game, or in an eating contest. But not in North Country. Everywhere we went people were stuffing their faces with Glaziers like they were manna from above. And anywhere we went people would offer us these dogs. This must have happened two dozen times in a long weekend. When we turned them down, they thought we were the crazy ones. Who in their right mind would turn down a hot dog?! It was fucking bizarre.

Likewise with ice cream. I’ve never seen so many stands, huts, and shacks selling ice cream in a single location. Ice cream is not simply a dessert, not simply an occasional summer treat to cool down in North Country. No, there it is the stomach lubrication that guarantees one will continue to function while producing asses so big they aren’t allowed to ride roller coasters and need houses with custom wide-mouthed toilet seats. Ironically, just like the Dew cans which are also wide-mouthed.

So, these behemoths are riding their rascals and pushing their shopping carts through the Wal-Mart while they eat Glaziers, lap up ice cream, and guzzle Mountain Dew. Appearance-wise, most have completely shaved heads though those with hair have ratty ponytails or John Kruk-quality mullets. And facial hair is a must. Most opt for a goatees though fu machus are popular too. These are absolutely ridiculous looks as the locals have such fat fucking faces that goatees which are typically located on the most southern point of one’s face–i.e. their chin–are instead floating somewhere in the middle of their mugs, several extra chins of ooze residing underneath. This causes an oddball look similar to Al Jolson’s white ring around his mouth when he dressed in blackface to sing “Mammy.”

And Gary was right. Their faces, oh their faces. They just look mentally impaired. Doofy motherfuckers with always-opened mouths and eyeballs with nothing going on behind them. Everyone is so pale too. And of course they literally have rednecks.

For clothes, cheap and dirty construction crew t-shirts lacking sleeves. Sleeves are anathema to North Country. For lowerwear, I don’t think you will be surprised that jorts are the haute couture. Possibly topped off with a NASCAR hat or some fishing bucket cap. Any outfit fancier than that will betray you as being an outsider. One local man wondered Gary was so “spiffed” up. My pal was wearing a Joba Chamberlain t-shirt jersey, dirty cargo shorts, and flip-flops!

And we actually met a man named Bub. A man named Bub!

I’ve never heard such overt racism. Which is funny because after ordering food from a black Burger King employee at a rest stop on Thursday night somewhere about an hour north of the city on I-87, I didn’t see another person of African decent for the next four days. Everywhere we went it was n-word this and n-word that. I saw a motorcyclist at the Wal-Mart with a bumper sticker affixed to his helmet which simply read: “If you don’t speak English, get the fuck out of my country.” Suffice to say, I pretended I wasn’t a Jew, spending the weekend introducing myself as “Christian Christiansen” while eliminating all the Yiddish words and expressions that often spice my communications. Thus, “tchotchkes” became “shit on da’ walls at da’ diner,” “nosh” became “grub on some Glaziers,” and bagel because “crazy hole bread.” Likewise, when the drunk rednecks pulled out the firearms and munitions I had to catch myself from saying, “Oy vey, this is mishigas!”

Other favorite local argot would include “pussy” and “faggot.” As in, “‘eh pussy, quit bein’ a feh-gat and lets go get sum Glay-sher hawt dahgs.” In North Country, if you don’t do something some one wants you to do, thinks you should do, then you are immediately a pussy or a faggot.  Sometimes both.

Not that you can understand what these folks are saying. A drunk Bela Karolyi would be far easier for me to understand. Their speaking style is a cross between someone with Bell’s palsy and someone that accidentally staple-gunned their lips to each other. Their cadence is loud and jutting. Words explode from the back of their throats, with incorrect syllables given some extra oomph. Not that many polysyllabic words are spoken. Their accents are an oddball amalgam of Buffalo lower class, Canadian lower class, and person pretending to be a retard. Makes the accents of Western NYers sound sophisticated. Or at least good enough for voiceover work. I just nodded when these folks spoke to me, unsure what exactly was being conveyed. Eventually I figured some things out.

Thus the common North Country phrase:

“Waaaaaaaaaah, luck ada tiiiihts ahn ‘er. Yer’ a pah-oooooooooo-see if ya’ done ga’ ‘it on ‘er, ayh gahya.”

Would translate to:

“Wow, look at the tits on her. You’re a pussy if you don’t go hit on her, eh guy.”

Not that there are any tits worth looking at for hundreds of miles around. Ever heard the crass expression “fun bags”? Well I would say that the women in the area have un-fun bags, gigantic sacks of fat dangling from their obese torsos, pulling their back down and make them hunched over as they drag their sickly little retard children around on leashes.

Oh, the products these people buy! They stuff their carts with all sorts of shit. Upon entering I immediately saw a section of beer signs. You could literally buy the kinds of cheap signs promoting cheap shit beers that many eighteen year olds hang in their dorm rooms. And they seemed to be doing a brisk business as that area was one of the more messed-with sections of the store.

You can also purchase food at Wal-Mart. All of it frozen and fat-laden. Tons of microwave pizzas and sacks of knock-off Ore-Ida products. The most fucked up thing I saw though were hot dogs wrapped in pancakes (both chocolate chip and blueberry flavor!)

The beer section is a tribute to quantity not quality.  24 cases of beers you’ve never heard of for the low, low price of $4.99.

Finally, in the back of the store, we stumbled upon an entire aisle devoted to furry steering wheel covers. An entire aisle! I didn’t even know this product existed, but in Malone their must be a huge demand for it. Firstly, why do you need to cover your steering wheel with anything and second, why would you want it to be furry like a cheap bath mat?! I do not know these answers. I don’t not know the answers to most of the questions I was confronted with during my hour in Wal-Mart. I was as flummoxed as the first time I heard about String Theory. It became too much. I felt weak, I felt like throwing up. I needed to get back to the car and just be alone for a while. And be thankful I would never enter the North Country Wal-Mart again.

C-

*Gary encouraged me to blast his hometown as much as I could. He noted that no one there knows how to use the internet so no one from there will ever read this. I don’t completely believe him so I look forward to hearing from North Country folks in the comments.

4.9% ABV from a pitcher

Our trip to Kansas (beginning of course in Missouri) started off well. A brief flight on the impressive regional Midwest Airlines (first class seats and fresh-baked cookies for everyone!) before landing at the comically miniscule Kansas City International airport where the pilot hit the trunk pop button and we retrieved our belongings. Quite frankly, we were surprised KCI had interstate flights, much less international, as I’ve seen airports invaded by zombie attacks that were more bumping. The city was likewise dead, the streets so empty during “rush” hour that we were easily able to pull off several mid-highway u-turns after getting lost trying to follow their poorly labeled signs. Luckily, though the city epically sucked, we had enough preplanned activities that we figured we could easily make it through our single night in town.  On hopefully the only night of our lives in Kansas City, we began at Arthur Bryant’s, often cited as the best BBQ joint in the world.

At the corner of 17th and Brooklyn we found an absolute dump, but a cafeteria-style line out the door meant the place’s reputation must surely be accurate. Waiting to order, we salivated looking at the piles of food people were retrieving on upturned shield-sized plates, while also goofing on the folks considered big enough celebrities in Kansas City to earn a framed autographed picture on their wall. Believe me, the Vice Blogger is more than famous enough for such an honor and I was sure to leave behind a dirty napkin with my signature on it. No word if it has been matted and mounted just yet.

We ordered a full slap of ribs, a pound of their noted burnt ends, a huge side of potato salad, and a pitcher of Boulevard Pale Ale, a local brew. Total cost, $32. Unbelievable. The ribs were sublime, literally falling off the bone as we scarfed them down. I would have to call them maybe the best I’ve ever had. The burnt ends were hearty and tasty and the potato salad was rich, cool, and delicious. The beer was better than expected too. A terrific smell and a decent taste. Pretty good but ultimately unremarkable. I think it could have been a truly great one if it had more hops and a higher ABV. Having said that, it was eminently drinkable.

Overall, It was a meal fit for a king. Unfortunately, there wasn’t exactly royalty in the place, every other guest in the restaurant being an obese hillbilly trying to handle their BBQ without getting any on their finest Larry Johnson t-shirt jersey while completely ignoring their rugrats. The restaurant was full of red-sauce covered brats sprinting around, making noise, and nearly touching me with their grubby paws–a prevailing theme for the weekend–but even they couldn’t ruin one of the best meals of my life.

I’m a shameless homer who will never call a BBQ joint better than Dinosaur, but Arthur’s Bryants is right up there. I encourage you to order some of their sauce, it is without question the best I’ve ever had, a flawless blend of sweet, tangy, and spicy with a most unique gritty texture due to the crushed-up dried peppers in the mix. Seriously, order it. You’ll soon enough be pouring that stuff on top of everything you eat–meat, salads, banana splits, everything–it is just that good.  I can’t stop thinking about it.

With inexplicably no moist towlettes in the joint, my hands and especially cuticles would be covered in BBQ fragments for the rest of the evening, but that was fine, it left a beautiful reminder of my splendid meal as we headed off to catch the Triple-A Kansas City Royals in action.

C+

5.4% ABV from a sixer

The scientific journal Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences has just discovered a most interesting thing about the Malaysian pen-tailed treeshrew. This 25 centimeters long, 190 grams heavy creature drinks alcohol twenty four hours a day, every single day, guzzling the 3.8% ABV fermented and frothy nectar from the flower buds of the bertam palm. It is the only wild mammal known to be into the “good stuff” and pound-for-pound it is the hardest drinking animal in the universe. Even better, these 55 million years-evolved motherfuckers never get drunk, shitfaced, intoxicated, inebriated, crapulent, blotto, hammered, sloshed, plastered, or even tipsy.

How awesome are they?

Having said that, true I may not be as svelte as the treeshrew or as able to consistently marathon drink as much as them, but I beat those rascally critters in other ways. First, I drink way more potent brews (3.8% is almost as pathetic as Amstel Light. Step it up shrews!), and I would brashly wager I have far better besotted raconteurial skills, beer pong prowess, and adroitness at picking up bar floozies than they do. Plus, when I’m drunk I don’t shit in the woods like them. (Too often at least.)

But let’s not compare dick sizes, treeshrews. Though I’m guessing I would win at that contest too.

I love the treeshrew and I find great inspiration in them and their lifestyles. My dear readers are often concerned about my tippling escapades, but they need not be. I am actually in tip top shape. In fact, I’m not sure how you could read my blog and not realize that alcohol, for the most part, only improves my life. And the treeshrews’.

Dr. Frank Wiens from the University of Bayreuth in Germany (and now The Vice Blog’s #1 recommended healthcare professional) most certainly agrees with me. He believes that there are actually positive effects of the treeshrews’ (and thus humankind’s) insatiable urge to get loaded: “The trait of alcohol consumption is actively maintained during evolution, so the overall effect must be beneficial.”

Score!

So when you’re getting wasted at 10 AM on this upcoming Sunday morning as your wife hauls the kids off to church, don’t be concerned, don’t feel bad about yourself, but relish your drunkeness like you’re WC Fields. And tell your creationist wife that you’re evolved to get drunk and she’s the one not behaving inherently human.

Two nights ago I was visiting my favorite brewery Stone’s website–I look at beers online as if they are pornographic photos–when I noticed they had a Pale Ale. In fact it’s the first beer they ever made. How had I been drinking beers from Stone’s entire line for years and never realized this?! I have literally had every single other major Stone bottling plus numerous special releases, but had never even heard of their Pale Ale. And, I’d certainly never seen it around in stores and bars. Oddly enough, the next day I was visiting my friend in Hoboken when what should I see on his local beer store’s shelf but the Pale Ale. What kismet! Bacchus continues to watch over me!

Stone is known for big, bold, ass-kicking beers, so this seemed to be a very un-Stone-like brew right off the bat. At first sip I didn’t really love it. Seemed kinda bland, like their IPA only with far less hops, far less flavors and complexity, and a semi-sour finish. But by the end of the first bottle I’d grown to really appreciate it. Goes down smooth, a nice combination of creamy and silky hops and malts. In fact, the bottle proudly claims that literally the only ingredients in the beer are hops, malts, yeast, and water. What perfection can be attained from so few ingredients. I can’t recall ever polishing off more than two Stone beers in a night but my friend and I tore through bottle after bottle of the Pale Ale, never getting sick of it. I didn’t think Stone had a sessionable beer in them, but this is about as good as one gets.

A-