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.

...and Make it a Stiff One.

NOTE: This piece was originally posted on THE NEW YORK HANGOVER.COM just after September 11, 2001.

So, I wasn’t going to write about you-know-what. Actually, I already have, quite a bit, in mass-e-mailed missives (frustrated writers such as myself tend to... abuse... the power of the internet), some of which have actually frayed the edges of some long time friendships. So I was just going to finish one of two different pieces I have started for this column and pretend that we’re done talking about September 11th, 2001.

But of course, we’re not. And I can’t.... not yet. So here’s one more column about What Happened. From a bartender’s perspective.
I was lucky. Nobody I know directly was killed when the terrorists drove into the World Trade Center and the Pentagon. But, as with most New Yorkers, there’s a mere one degree of separation, about a dozen times over.

Bartending is one of the most social of vocations; it’s part of the job requirement. You’re not just serving drinks, you’re being the customer’s pal (but NOT their “chief, ace, sport” or “yo”), even if it’s a brief and tenuous relationship. Each bartender knows dozens of familiar faces, even if names rarely go with them.

Then suddenly, after September 11th, the bartender found him or herself starting to wonder about where some of those faces were. Regulars who didn’t stop by became question marks. A sense of relief came with the reappearance of some customers that I never particularly liked, to be honest, but was nonetheless glad to see were not, in fact, dead.

Then there were the customers whose names are known, people who hover in that gray area somewhere between friend and acquaintance. The ones who walked into the bar to the question everyone was asking and being asked: “Is everyone you know okay?” The number of times the answer was “no” was staggering.

There’s a woman I know who comes into the bar where I tend. Her name’s Meg. My relationship with Meg was always friendly and flirtatious, she’s one of those customers that I thought I might like to see outside of the club sometime, but we really don’t know each other well. The Saturday night after the attack, Meg came into the bar with a friend. I asked her The Question, and she answered, with a startling numbness, “No... three relatives and one friend.”

I’m sure she’d said it a hundred times by then. And a hundred times since. And while I’d done my share of consoling, I just didn’t know what to say. I can’t even remember what I did say. I do remember wishing I would’ve known Meg a little better, if only so my condolences didn’t sound rote or hollow.

I had to work the night of September 11th. The regular bartender couldn’t get there and, living two blocks from the club, I often pull emergency duty. I didn’t want to work, but at the same time, I thought it might help. I needed to be around other people, and figured that others would feel the same. I wondered how busy we would be, though, lacking a television at the bar.

We were slammed. The need for camaraderie and escape was strong at every watering hole. Everyone needed to talk, and it was all anyone was talking about. Background music was less raucous (Miles Davis replaced the Supersuckers). Buybacks were more frequent. When people asked, “How are you?” they actually wanted you to answer. For a week or so, bartending became social work, moreso than usual.
Which brought about an odd side effect of the aftermath: A kind of Survivor’s Guilt, I guess. In stark contrast to most businesses, bars found themselves busier than usual. When things are good, people like to drink. When things are bad, people like to drink more. Sad, maybe, but a truism.

So. It’s a month later. Some pundits talk about things settling into some new sense of what’s “normal.” I don’t know. I see a difference, and it’s not entirely the heart-warming solidarity that the press is so fond of reporting. I see an underlying sadness in just about everybody that makes me feel very alone. But still, I’m glad that I work around people, trying to move on, trying to have a good time, trying to be alive.

“How are you doing? What can I do for you?”