It's Run by a Big Eastern Syndicate, You Know (an Appreciation of A CHARLIE BROWN CHRISTMAS)

It’s not easy being a cynic. People tend to think that cynics reject the mainstream out of some callow desire to be rebellious and hip. Negative opinions on some popular piece of culture are inevitably greeted with “Oh, you hate everything!” While it’s undeniable that many people cop attitudes with little or no reasoning behind them simply because “everything sucks,” TRUE cynics spend years developing a set of uncompromising standards with which to judge everything from politics to the arts, and we’ve come to the following conclusion: Everything sucks.

Well, okay, not everything, but probably ninety percent of any given category: Rock bands, movies, plays, books, local newscasters, et al. But when the exception to the rule, that rare slice of creative perfection comes along, we’ll happily admit it and praise it like the second coming.

One such exception came along on December 9th, 1965: Charles Schulz’ A CHARLIE BROWN CHRISTMAS. Now, in order to embrace A CHARLIE BROWN CHRISTMAS, you must have at least some affinity for three things: 1) Cartoons. 2)The plight of the underdog. And, 3) Christmas. That is, the concept of Christmas as a special time of the year, when (ideally) people at least temporarily put their narcissism on hold and take time to consider and care for others as well as appreciate the truly important things in life. Radical, I know.

The term “classic” has been rendered mostly impotent, thanks in no small part to the Walt -ugh- Disney Company (which slaps the oxymoronic tag “brand new classic” on every piece of product they shove down the pike). But something really only becomes a classic with time, time combined with the seeming lack of it. True classics are those creative works that (aside from technological or societal anachronisms) feel as true at heart as they did when they premiered. The characters are fully developed, the situations believable (within context), the conflict something we can at least understand, if not empathize with. Movies like IT’S A WONDERFUL LIFE, CITIZEN KANE and REAR WINDOW. TV shows like THE DICK VAN DYKE SHOW and MARY TYLER MOORE. And A CHARLIE BROWN CHRISTMAS.

To see it today, 37 years after its premiere, it’s hard to believe the show’s contemporaries were such dated time capsules as BATMAN, BEWITCHED and THE BEVERLY HILLBILLIES. Lines like, “Gee, do they still make wooden Christmas trees?” and “Find the true meaning of Christmas: Win Money, Money, Money!” could have been written today (if writers of contemporary children’s shows didn’t patronize their audience so much).

The spectre of commercialism has hung over Christmas since the first Myrrh-R-Us franchise opened, but Charles Schulz tackled it with heart and wit rather than righteous indignation. So it’s ironic that A CHARLIE BROWN CHRISTMAS was not spawned by a desire to create a great holiday story. Rather, it was somewhat cynically concocted by producer Lee Mendelson when the Coca Cola company refused to sponsor a documentary on Schulz, but asked if there was a Peanuts Christmas show they could take a look at. There wasn’t, but Mendelson assured Coke that there was. Over the weekend, Schulz wrote what would become A CHARLIE BROWN CHRISTMAS. Coke bought the show off of a telegram synopsis. But the rest of the genesis wasn’t that simple. Schulz had to fight to maintain what he felt were the key elements of the story, and he stood firm on how he felt the show should be done.

Today, it’s easy to take for granted many of the innovative aspects of A CHARLIE BROWN CHRISTMAS. But in 1965, Schulz was considered a troublemaker for not allowing a laugh track on the cartoon and for demanding that actual children be used to voice the Peanuts gang. On top of that, only two of the children were professional actors; The rest were just neighborhood kids. And since most of them were too young to read (especially words like ailurophasia and hypengyophobia), co-producer Bill Melendez had to feed the actors the lines, sometimes one syllable at a time (which accounts for the sometimes broken sound of some of the dialogue). Schulz also contracted jazz pianist Vince Guaraldi to write completely atypical cartoon music for the score.

Charles Schulz won all his battles, but when CBS executives first saw the show, they hated it. They thought it was boring. Still, the show aired.... and was the second highest rated program that week (BONANZA was #1). The next year, it won the Emmy for best animated special. As time has shown, the suits were wrong (as usual). It’s nearly impossible to imagine canned laughter behind an adult voice saying, “Dear Santa Claus.... make it easy on yourself. Just send money. How about tens and twenties?”

And as for the music.... ahhh, the MUSIC. In the sometimes stuffy annals of jazz, the Vince Guaraldi Trio is usually a footnote, casually dismissed as pop fluff. But to sell Guaraldi’s Peanuts music short is blind elitism of the worst sort. He managed to successfully translate the subtle sarcasm and unchildlike intuitiveness of the Peanuts characters into music that, like the comic strip, was transcendent. While the music on its own is wonderful, as a part of the whole, it becomes magical. Guaraldi’s piano and drummer Colin Bailey’s brushed snare perfectly evoke the falling snow against a dark blue background as Charlie Brown and Linus desperately search for the right Christmas tree.

For many of us under-40 types, this was the first jazz we liked, long before we were open minded enough to check out Miles Davis or Thelonious Monk. And while nostalgia is a powerful force, not too many of us still actively listen to “Bert’s Blockbusters.” But Guaraldi’s Peanuts music continues to sell, and contemporary musicians are still releasing their own (usually awful, overproduced) versions.

But ignoring all the technical innovations and artistic merit for a moment, the key factor for A CHARLIE BROWN CHRISTMAS’ success is its heart (and please refer to the list of prerequisites before continuing to read this column).

Now, I’m not the Christian that Charles Schulz was, but I’m also not going to scoff at the centerpiece of the show: Linus’ reading of Luke 2:1-20 (aka “The Christmas Story”). Some years back, when it was my turn to read said passage at the Heitmueller family Xmas eve gathering, I read it with the exact phrasing of Linus, much to the amusement of my brother (who was the only person in the room who got the joke). I’m one of those people who has extrapolated the whole “birth of Christ” celebration into the larger (in my eyes) idea of “Peace on Earth, good will towards men.” And THAT, ultimately, is the message of A CHARLIE BROWN CHRISTMAS.

The show educes strong emotions, profound feelings that don’t normally get stirred up by a tee vee show. Much has been written about Charlie Brown as Outsider, and I think a lot of kids who were outsiders felt a kinship with the character even before they (okay, WE) realized we were in for a lifetime of ostracism. Charlie Brown is a “loser” primarily because he refuses to abandon his aspirations or compromise his principles. He’ll never give up trying to kick that football, fly that kite or win that baseball game. And he’ll never, ever buy an aluminum Christmas tree. Defeat and humiliation often come in large doses, but every once in a blue moon, the outsider who goes against the mainstream and holds to his belief wins in the end, and it is a sweet victory indeed. When the gang admits that Charlie Brown (while still being a blockhead) DID get a nice tree, it’s a glint of hope for the underdog.

So, while the rest of the year I steadfastly avoid anything that smells of “feelgood”, once December rolls around, I gear up to watch something I’ve seen dozens of times, that I know by heart, but that still chokes me up almost every time. To many people, that’s an admission that brings derision, which I guess puts me in the company of Charlie Brown. And that’s fine with me.

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ORIGINALLY POSTED on CHEEKYMONKEY, Winter 2002. An earlier version of this column was published in 13 MAGAZINE, December 1994.

Consumer vs. Producer

So, just for the record: I am not a success. I am not any of the things that I’ve spent most of my life wanting to be. Despite the occasional published work (sometimes even in venues other than this website), I can’t honestly call myself a cartoonist, illustrator or writer (if one chooses to define those as “jobs”). Rather than being a freelancer who bartends on the side for extra cash, I’m a bartender who does a tiny bit of freelance work (usually for little or no pay). And it’s mostly my fault.

It’s not that I don’t have a good work ethic; This German boy had that instilled in him at a young age by a father who taught that any job isn’t done unless it’s done well. And I’m not untalented: I’m a pretty good writer, a fair cartoonist and a decent artist. I have an excellent sense of design. These are my honest, immodest beliefs in myself.

So what the heck is my problem? How come I’m not making a living at one of my so-called passions? Is it just that I’ve never been able to focus on one thing and make that my goal? Should I pin it on the rampant nepotism in the media world that keeps giving the work to the same people? Maybe I really don’t have enough talent. But I think it’s more likely my problem lies in something I’ve been doing for as long as I can remember...

Most great artists (in any genre) are not collectors. Naturally, they don’t live in a vacuum (well, usually) and most artists can list their influences, both in and out of their chosen media. But they can’t be bothered to be obsessive about other people’s work. They’re consumed by the drive to create (Some may point to Quentin Tarantino as an exception to the rule, but I think he bears me out: If Quentin weren’t the obsessive pop culture maniac he is, he’d probably be far more prolific).

I’m consumed by the drive to consume. As much as I hate to admit it, most of my time is spent gathering and absorbing the creative output of others: cartoonists, musicians, filmmakers, artists, writers whose work inspires me... or so I used to think.

Maybe their work doesn’t inspire me. Maybe it just... distracts me. Keeps me occupied. Keeps me from creating my own work.

I come from a family of collectors. With Mom, it’s blue glass, cats and hearts. For Dad, it’s Coke memorabilia, tin toys and lawn mowers. My aunt collects dragons and kaleidoscopes. My brother has tens of thousands of records. For me, it’s been a number of things, but mostly comic books.

At its zenith, my comic book collection probably numbered around ten thousand. About ten years ago, however, I went through a massive cleaning-out stage (the first of many) and slashed my collection in half. In the years since then, I continued whittling it down little by little.

When I discovered eBay some years back, it initially helped with the crap-reduction. In my first six months of selling my own junk (comics, books, stuff acquired in my ten years in the music biz), I netted over $3500.00 and got rid of a lot. But then I’d switch gears, and start BUYING crap-junk-stuff, including items I’d spent the last ten years eliminating. I’d think of a short-lived comic from the 70’s that I used to own and start searching eBay for a run of that book. It’s a cycle that’s been repeating ever since.

I greatly identified with Steve Buscemi’s character of Seymour in the film adaptation of Dan Clowes’ GHOST WORLD (for which I own the original comics, the soundtrack and the DVD). The character’s love/hate relationship with his collection resonated. “What, you think this is healthy? You can’t connect with other people, so you fill your life with STUFF.” “What makes you think I wanna meet someone who shares my interests? I hate my interests!” For better or worse, I feel more connected to Charlie Brown, Superman, Frank Sinatra and Alfred Hitchcock than to most people I know.

I’ve always admired the Zen lifestyle, people who have only a dozen books, not because they’re illiterate, but because they don’t need to own a lot of stuff. They can read a book and then pass it on instead of creating a huge library of books read only once.

But at the same time, and with at least as much fervor, I... love.... my..... stuff. I get genuine joy from my collections, and I just like the way a wall of packed shelves looks.

Also, my sense of nostalgia is certainly stronger than most people’s. Pulling out an old comic book can make me think of when I originally bought it, which drug store, with whom I rode my bike there, what flavor Slushie I got.... I think much of this has to do with the fact that my family never moved, my parents still live in the house that my Dad built in the fifties. As such, every trip home conjures up memories of the past, many of them forever tied to such stimulus as, yep, television.

I’ve got a lot of distractions all around me. Of my thousands of CDs, how many do I actually listen to? Of my hundreds of books and thousands of comics, how many will I read more than once? How many of my 197 DVDs (as of this writing) will be watched once and then sit on the shelf forever? How much can I rationalize my enormous library as reference material (especially since the internet has made that obsolete)?

And this isn’t even dealing with the amount of money I’ve spent on this stuff. That’s a whole OTHER column. But just averaging the cost of each DVD at $18, that’s over $3500.00 in just the past two years. So, is it okay because I’ve sold so much on eBay? Or is it just more time wasting?

Of all these things, music is certainly the least “distracting.” You’d be hard-pressed to find an artist who DOESN’T work while listening to music. Music can actually keep you from being distracted, can keep your spirit up, keep you energized. Right now, the brand new Foo Fighters record is blaring in the background, and I swear it’s helping rather than hindering the process.

The question I’m asking myself is, am I forever doomed to be a consumer, and only a consumer? Do I continue with my projects-list, keep my sketchbook, continue to buy art supplies? Will the graphic novel I’ve recently made my biggest priority continue to be so, or will I get distracted yet again and let it languish YET AGAIN? Is writing this column itself a distraction, or is this producing something?

I still have time. At my 20 year high school reunion some weeks back, one of my old chums admonished that I “get a real job.” I was a bit taken aback, but it wasn’t until a couple of days later that I got mad. Who’s he to tell me to give up my dreams and suck it up and get a Job-Job? The best advice my father ever gave me was “don’t work at a job you hate,” something he did for forty years. I still have the luxury of being able to pretty much do whatever I want (something rare for most men approaching 40).

Maybe I’m being delusional, maybe I just don’t wanna give up. Ask me a year from now. Right now, I gotta get back to work.... right after I read that article in the new TIME OUT NEW YORK, check what’s on TV, look at the new COMIC BOOK HEAVEN, see if my MARY TYLER MOORE DVD showed up yet, check my e-mail......

... and so it goes ?

POSTSCRIPT, September 2010:
Well, to a certain degree, this malady remains. I've certainly been published a lot more places since this piece than before it, but the distractions have not gone away.

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ORIGINALLY POSTED on CHEEKYMONKEY, Autumn 2002

Is That a Commericial on Your Tee-Vee or Are You Just Happy to See Me?

Sex sells, yup. Well, at least it tries to. Only I’m not thoroughly convinced sex earns its paycheck. Every now and then I actually have me some o’ that sex and I find that whilst in the act, I’m not thinking of beverages (that comes after) or cars or after shave or mints (if they’re necessary, it’s too late at that point) or even what’s on TV (honest!). But Madison Avenue will never stop believing that nothing sells a product or service like a pretty gal, a hunky fella, or some combination thereof.

I’m old enough to remember when television first allowed lingerie to be modeled on TV commercials by actual women rather than beheaded, limbless mannequins. This was a good day in my young life. And okay, I’m guilty of paying attention when Molly Sims’ exposed midriff is trying to get me to go to Old Navy. But lately, the way that sex has been presented in commercials has been more overt than the Maidenform woman could ever have predicted.

The most obvious (although the most subliminal) is an ad for Trojan Extended Pleasure Latex Condoms. In the ad, two women are sitting in a coffee shop, one of them telling how "amaaaaazing" her boyfriend was in bed the previous night. "Reeeallllllly!" says the other, then suddenly Trojan Man, the Condomed Crusader bursts in to reveal that the long lasting lover must be using new Trojan Brand Extended Pleasure Latex Condoms (just typing the name of the product takes longer than I sometimes last!). Galpal #2 asks if Trojan Man can stop by HER boyfriend’s place, to which he replies, "Been there!," at which point she grabs her purse and rushes off for a good long fuck.

Now, it’s not the tale or the rather odd concept of a Prophylactic superhero that makes this ad an eye-opener (presumably licenses were not granted to use Plastic Man or Mr. Fantastic for the ads).... it’s the imagery used throughout the commercial. The ad never shows any of the people above the chin, the shots are almost all close-ups of different things, most of them visual metaphors for genitalia: First, a cappuccino machine’s milk steamer is put into a cup of cream; Next, a woman’s muffin is split apart; Then the other woman runs her fingers up and down the very phallic sugar dispenser (which just so happens to have two smaller round creamers right in front of it). Finally, the condom is set against the sugar and creamers, just in case you missed it the first time. I confess to not catching these the first handful of times I saw the ad, but once I saw one, I saw them all, and my jaw was agape.

In another phallucentric commercial, this one for 7-11, two dudes (trust me, they’re dudes) sit in a car. One guy takes a sip of his Big Gulp and puts it between his legs. He looks down. Man, that’s a Big Gulp. Then he glances over to the passenger side and is dismayed to see that his buddy has a DOUBLE GULP between his legs, which is much larger, and hence, more virile than his soda. The tag line comes in, "No matter how big your thirst".... they should just go ahead and add "or COCK!" Hell, why didn’t they try to throw some hot dogs in for good measure?

Health Club ads have been skirting around blatantly touting looking good naked as the primary reason to work out for years... then finally I saw a billboard for a gym that just said, "Look Good Naked." Now that the gloves are off (or on, if they’re extended pleasure gloves), all pretense is gone. One club (I don’t remember which, sorry, adfolk) commercial shows a couple actually having sex. No nudity is shown, of course (we’re still behind Europe in that regard), but the couple is most definitely engaged in a coital act. When it’s over, the guy leans back, exhausted, the woman’s feet by his head, and the announcer says something about working out enabling you to have better sex. But I thought that sex WAS working out! You mean I have to do MORE?

A recent ad on The New National Network for a showing of THE GODFATHER and THE GODFATHER PART II pictured, get this, a bunch of kids gyrating in a dance club while the movie played on big screens above them. It’s perhaps the most dissonant marketing I’ve ever seen, but I guess the lack of much exposed flesh other than Richard Castellano’s man-boobs left TNN with no other choice. Dammit, if THE GODFATHER ain’t sexy enough, then show sexy people dancing in front of it!! This from the network that proudly touts itself as "Bigger, Younger, Richer," and ran a spot that referred to its new logo as "phallic." Another promo asks the question, "Would you fuck a female Klingon?" Okay, not in so many words, but that’s the thrust (pardon me) of the gag.

It’s a natural evolution that as you age, advertising should become increasingly alien to you; The idea is, the older you get, the less disposable income you have, the less crap advertisers can cajole you into buying. Ma and Pa Kettle can write all the angry letters they want about Bob Dole and Britney Spears sharing a Pepsi shill. If they’re out of the demographic, they don’t mean a thing. While I’m not Grampasimpsonesque enough to be offended by these commercials, I am most certainly bemused. I just hope we never see the day where the Jolly Green Giant shows us his enormous niblets.

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ORIGINALLY POSTED on CHEEKYMONKEY, Summer 2002

Fields of Corn

So, I think I’ve mentioned I’m a geek, right? Pop culture on the brain: TV, film, music, and yeah, comic books. So comics translations to other media have always held a special interest for me.

While I realize this is a TV column, I felt that, as cheekymonkey’s resident lowbrow, it fell upon my shoulders to comment on SPIDER-MAN. But let me tie it in with some small screen crimefighters using one common thread that’s been missing from superhero adaptations for some time.

I had a feeling SPIDER-MAN would be big, but even I, a fella with a handful of Spidey comics and action figures, was surprised at the fervor. The extent of Spider-mania in Manhattan was evidenced by the presence of Lou Reed and Laurie Anderson sitting in front of me when I saw it on opening weekend!

I liked SPIDER-MAN, bad f/x, rampant product placement, reeeeally bad soundtrack and all. I liked the casting (with the large exception of the remarkably bland Kirsten Dunst as Mary Jane Watson) and thought the movie had a nice pop to it. I was relieved it only had one villain (even if I wasn’t crazy about the high-tech costuming of the Goblin). But the most amazing thing about SPIDER-MAN was (aside from necessary updates) how faithful it was to its source material.

As a rule, comic book movies do everything in their superpowers to distance themselves from their spawning grounds. Interviews with a comics-to-film crew and cast would inevitably contain at least one comment about it not being a “comic book movie.”

Until Sam Raimi, a self-professed fanboy himself made a huge point of making sure his Spider-Man felt like the Spidey of Stan Lee and Steve Ditko (and John Romita and Gil Kane and Gerry Conway...). I haven’t read Spider-Man comics in about fifteen years, but I sat in that theater with a big, stupid grin on my face the whole time.

On the small screen, SMALLVILLE, the latest incarnation of Superman is a surprise success. The WB network TV show succeeds where the truly embarrassing LOIS & CLARK failed: to flesh out Clark Kent and show us the “Man” behind the “Super,” even if the man is a pretty BOY who won’t don the red, blue & yellow costume for many years. SMALLVILLE tinkers with the legend more than any previous Superman incarnation (okay, except for maybe the “Great-Wall-of-China-rebuilding-vision” from SUPERMAN IV), but at its heart is a true understanding of the character.

I never bought the old chestnut about Superman being boring because he’s so virtuous (the “overgrown boy scout” line). In this cynical, narcissistic world, true altruism is a rarity, and the concept of someone who possesses absolute power, but is totally uncorrupted by it is supremely fascinating. It’s a character trait that ‘s been examined much in the comics, but usually doesn’t come across in Superman’s live translations. SMALLVILLE shows us young Clark Kent learning to use his developing powers, feeling conflicted about what they will mean and unsure of his place in the world.

SMALLVILLE enjoys the unique luxury of its audience having the knowledge of what’s to come. Clark may not know what his future is, but we do. Little moments of allusion have been presented as both comic relief and drama. In one poignant scene (for me, anyway), a blind psychic at the Smallville Retirement Home tells Clark that she’s seen him in many visions of the future. “I’ve seen such pain and despair, but then you were there and the pain was gone. I think that’s your destiny, Clark... to help people... to save them from fear and darkness.”

SMALLVILLE certainly isn’t perfect. Some of the episodes read like a B-grade episode of THE X-FILES and Kristin Kreuk as Lana Lang is as hard to take as too much Sweet-n-Low. But it should be interesting to watch the series develop, culminating perhaps in a final episode some seasons from now where the last shot is of Tom Welling putting on the Superman costume for the first time?

Curiously, the weakest current superhero adaptation comes from a crew who, up till now had a perfect track record. The Cartoon Network’s JUSTICE LEAGUE cartoon is a huge disappointment from the animation team that previously produced the excellent BATMAN, SUPERMAN and BATMAN BEYOND series in the 90’s. And what makes JUSTICE LEAGUE suffer is the lack of the very thing that makes both SMALLVILLE and SPIDER-MAN work: costumeless character development. Aside from Green Lantern, whose alter ego of John Stewart (not to be confused with Jon Stewart, but that would be great) is not a secret, and Wonder Woman, who has no secret identity (she’s just Princess Diana of Themiscyra), we never see the Justice League in their normal lives, which makes the characters very, well, two dimensional.

In November of 1994 (in the previous incarnation of this column), I incorrectly predicted that a big screen adaptation of the X-MEN “will never happen.” Part of my reasoning was that too many colorful costumes make suspension of disbelief impossible, and the movie dealt with that by putting the X-Men in matching leather jumpsuits (“what would you prefer, yellow spandex?”). While X-MEN was not a bad movie, it certainly had that air of dismissal towards its source, a cynical wink to the audience that this was no wussy cartoon.

Costume alterations aside, we seem to be entering a new era of acceptance of comic book adaptations as more than kiddie diversions. Besides both HULK (directed by Ang Lee, and what was CROUCHING TIGER, HIDDEN DRAGON but a very lyrical superhero movie?) and DAREDEVIL (starring Ben...oof...Affleck) next year, the WB will premiere BIRDS OF PREY this fall (about the Black Canary, the Huntress and Oracle, the ex-Batgirl), X-MEN 2 is filming, BATMAN: YEAR ONE is still in the works, and countless more comics are in various stages of development. This is nothing new, but I think we may be seeing a slightly different tone in many of these.

What SPIDER-MAN and SMALLVILLE have in common (aside from annoying redhead love interests) is how utterly sincere and cornball they are. They are the polar opposites of the nihilism of Tim Burton’s BATMAN films, much more akin to Richard Donner’s SUPERMAN: THE MOVIE. But for the first time in a long time, it’s acceptable to be corny. Heartfelt sentiment is not immediately cause for derision. These days, it’s possible to say that you stand for “truth, justice and the American way” without sounding jingoistic. While both SMALLVILLE and SPIDER-MAN were well under way before September 11th, I think it’s safe to say that the events of that day whetted the public’s appetite for this specific type of escapism. This is the struggle of Good Vs. Evil, but where Evil is defeated by a Good that’s not only pure of intent, but something that we are, sadly, not: Invulnerable.

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ORIGINALLY POSTED on CHEEKYMONKEY, Summer 2002

You Are What You Drink (an Anti-Coors Rant)

Everyone has prejudices. Yes, you, too. There are different levels of prejudice and degrees of insidiousness, but all humans have some bias that cause them to instantly (although hopefully not permanently) dismiss someone based on something superficial. A guy I work with states that he hates everyone until he meets them.

If working in a bar has taught me anything, it’s that, sad as this may be, 90% of the time, you most certainly CAN judge a book by its cover. The way a person presents him or herself to the bartender speaks volumes. Aside from clothing and overall visual style, manners, attitude, and taste all come into play. And this is where my greatest prejudice can rear its ugly head.

It’s a long standing one, and one that has only deepened in my years as a bartender: With precious few exceptions, I cannot stand people who drink Coors beer. Any Coors product, but most egregiously of all, Coors Light.

I’ve hated everything about Coors since I’ve been old enough to drink beer. How strong is this hatred? When I was in my early 20’s, I attended a party where Coors Light was the only beer available. I drank water that night. On a date about four years ago, the young lady ordered a Coors Light. That choice immediately confirmed my suspicions that we had no future together. This past July 4th, some friends brought a six-pack of Coors Lite to the party at my girlfriend’s place (as a joke). We later took it and left it on a bench at Pier A Park on the Hudson in Hoboken (although I’d like to think that even homeless people have better taste). Why am I so full of vitriol for this concoction, you ask? Let’s tackle the reasons one by one, shall we?

First and most obviously, the taste: Succinctly, Coors Light tastes like urine. Okay, so I’ve never actually TASTED urine, but since I can’t think of another beverage that’s as offensive to the taste buds for the sake of comparison, we’ll stick to pee. As I’ve mentioned before, I’m lucky enough to work in a bar that doesn’t carry any Coors products, but that doesn’t mean that I don’t get the requests. And when I do, I’m always baffled by people whose reaction to my telling them (with a slight sneer) that “we don’t carry Coors” is shock and disappointment akin to a kid finding out there’s no Santa. “Do you have anything similar to that?,” they may query. The temptation is to retort “I can piss into a cup of ice!”

Coors’ second crime is its politics. While in recent years, the corporation has made great strides to try to curry favor with the gay and lesbian community (by offering same-sex benefits and contributing to GLAAD), those actions came only because of a very successful boycott. The Coors family’s history of financial donations to right wing organizations (mostly through the Castle Rock Foundation) includes such ominously-titled groups as the Heritage Foundation, the Center for Popular Culture (who publish an anti-gay monthly called “Hereodoxy”), the Promise Keepers, a right wing think tank called The Institute on Religion and Public Life and such individuals as Jesse Helms, Jerry Falwell, Pat Buchanan, Ralph Reed, Pat Robertson and Donald Wildmon. These donations continue today, although officially the corporation is “neutral” on controversial social and political stances. Coors has also come under fire for being anti-union, racist and sexist (do a Google search on “Coors Boycott” and spend a week or two reading up... there’s some good stuff buried amongst the rhetoric).

And finally, my third major gripe with Coors is its image, unabashedly catering to the misogynist frat boy lurking within weekend warriors. Billboards picture a woman holding a six pack of “the silver bullet,” showing her only from the neck down to the waist, clad in a bikini top. Another infamous billboard shouts “Here’s to twins!” as two silicone-stuffed blondes press boobies to sell the pee-beer. Commercials give us groups of drooling sports fans who seem to barely be able to afford the coveted sixer. Party animals light up the night, every one of them yelling “whoooooooo!!!” Bear in mind, this is a company that intentionally misspells words (remember Coors Artic Ice?) rightly assessing its demographic as a bunch of morons.

Coors is endemic of something I despise at my core: the apathetic, unquestioning, unthinking consumer. They’re the people who go see the big blockbuster movie because they think they should, they stay home to watch Rachel have a baby on FRIENDS, they wear Nikes and buy whatever fluke million-selling CD fits into their demographic. And I’m not trying to be a snob here, if you genuinely love FRIENDS, knock yourself out! But most Americans just accept whatever’s laid in front of them without making the effort to see what else is on the menu.

And, although I’m acutely aware that all taste is subjective (hell, that’s my mantra!), I honestly cannot see how, in a world of delicious beer, anyone would choose to drink this sour, annoying little brew. Light beer drinkers in general give me pause. There’s a time and a place for counting calories, and a night out at a bar ain’t one of them. Skip that fast food lunch and have a salad. Then enjoy a good, hearty beer that night. Light beer is like meatless hamburgers and Quentin Tarantino movies edited for television: Without the guts, what’s the point?

But even if you’re someone who’s used to the watered-down “taste” of light beer, why harbor such staunch brand loyalty? Most light beers taste alike. At my bar, I always feel a little beat of pride when some Coors drinker steps a rung up the ladder and has a Rolling Rock or even an Amstel Light, fer Chrissakes.... maybe they’re starting on their way out of the sludgepit of the worst beer on Earth and embarking on a delightful journey into the wide world of hops! If only more people would make the trek, the world would be a better place! * sniff! *

POSTSCRIPT, 2008: Sadly, a few years after this piece, my bar began carrying Coors Light.
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ORIGINALLY POSTED on THE NEW YORK HANGOVER.COM, September 2002.