Song of the Week: "Say So"

can't believe I'm writing about this dude in 2020

There's a lot about current pop music that I just do not understand. For example, sometimes I read to Martha from Stereogum's This Week in Pop column, and it sincerely sounds like I'm speaking gibberish half of the time. But I still read that column because I want to at least make an attempt to understand the music world around me. I may not understand the appeal of most of it, but at least I can say that I've heard of some of the popular music out today.

I was looking through the list of #1 songs from the Billboard Hot 100 this year, and two things are true: 1) I am familiar with every single one of the song titles and artist names on this list; 2) I am familiar with about 10% of these songs. In other words, I've read more about artists like Doja Cat than have ever actually listened to the fucking songs.

So today I'm going to listen to the seventeen new #1s from 2020 and rank them. Some notes: I am already familiar with at least three of these songs, and I'm not going to worry about whether this will make the rankings unfair; I am not including "Circles" by Post Malone because that first hit #1 in 2019; I am not including the Mariah Carey Christmas song because c'mon; I am, however, deigning to include any child molesters and/or domestic abusers on this list, if only so I can rank the song last on principle alone; in all likelihood, there will be a new #1 song by the time this post is published, but there's nothing I can do about it—I'm writing in advance since I'll be off blogging for a week while moving to Fox Chase.

 

I will first talk about the songs chronologically, and then rank them at the end

 

Every 2020 #1 Song

 

"The Box" by Roddy Ricch—I don't understand how trap music can get away with using the same exact drum track for every single fucking song. You know the one, with claps on two and four, and hi-hat straight eighths until right before every other clap, when there is a roll on the hi-hat. You would know it if you heard it. The fact that I know about it should show you how ubiquitous and boring this shit is.

"Blinding Lights" by the Weeknd—This song hit #1 the first week in April and is still in the Top 5, so what the fuck do I know, right? I enjoy car-chase '80s pastiches as much as the next guy, but this is the coldest, most empty swipe at the sub-subgenre that I've ever heard. Not bad, not great, not bad.

"Tootsie Slide" by Drake—Even though this has the same fucking beat as "The Box," and even though 98% of Drake's songs are the musical equivalent of a room temperature glass of milk, I can't ever say that I hate the man formerly known as Jimmy Brooks (I guess I should write another Degrassi review eventually). I know very little about TikTok, but this strikes me as a song that is only popular because young white bikini'd teens are dancing to it on TikTok.

"The Scotts" by Travis Scott and Kid Cudi—I have heard rumblings that Travis Scott has a very small but very loyal following, and that the only reason his songs hit #1 is because those hardcore fans make actual purchases of his music when it is released. Like, buying his music, with actual money. Purchases speak louder than streaming counts as far as Billboard is concerned. This also explains why the song dropped from #1 to #15 the following week—no one is buying this shit twice. ANYWAY, it's an okay song, and really only gets anywhere close to interesting with that Pink Floyd-esque synth outro.

"Say So" by Doja Cat feat. Nicki Minaj—I may or may not ironically(?) enjoy Doja Cat's 2018 novelty hit "Mooo!" for reasons that have very little to do with music... ahem... but hey, this is actually a fun song! I really wouldn't mind if pop music started shifting in this disco-centric direction. Even the presence of Nick Minaj does nothing to damper that locked-in rhythm!

"Stuck with U" by Ariana Grande feat. Justin Bieber—Sometimes pop music surprises me (see the Doja Cat song above), but there is absolutely one unchanging opinion I have when it comes to modern pop music—when a ballad hits #1, it is almost always ass. "Stuck with U" is boring bullshit from artists who I thought were better than this.

"Savage" by Megan Thee Stallion feat. Beyoncé—Before I even knew of the existence of "Savage," my coworker decided to take a fifteen second clip of this song—the chorus, basically, ya know, "Classy, bougie, ratchet" and etc.—and loop it for close to an hour. I thought I was going to go fucking insane. Even now, listening to this song, it feels like I'm stuck in a hall of mirrors or something. Adding the Beyoncé star power to fuel this song to a #1 spot seems cheap to me, but that's the name of the game (see below with "Watermelon Sugar" and all the shady shit that Styles and co. got into to boost their numbers). Anyways, this is a good song, but fuck this song.

"Rain on Me" by Lady Gaga feat. Ariana Grande—I am glad that Lady Gaga is still relevant in 2020, and she's still pumping out that classic Lady Gaga club music that will surely soundtrack a Lip Sync for Your Life challenge on a Drag Race episode soon, but man... this is truly a paint-by-numbers Lady Gaga song. There's no other way to describe it.

"Rockstar" by DaBaby feat. Roddy Ricch—DaBaby is taking the lessons of Trolls: World Tour to heart, it seems. Why can't the DaBaby troll, clearly a hip hop troll, call himself a "Rockstar"? You can be whatever type of troll you want, DaBaby.

"Trollz" by 6ix9ine and Nicki Minaj—I purposefully used up my allotted one Trolls reference for "Rockstar" instead of the song called "Trollz," because I don't want 6ix9ine anywhere near any pop culture that my daughters enjoy. This is an awful song, and it stands as proof that the general public has no taste—do people just not know that 6ix9ine is a convicted felon for distributing child pornography? Or do they not care? What the fuck, America? [UPDATE: I wrote this post a week in advance, and not even an hour after I hit "schedule publish," Stereogum posted a news article about a new lawsuit regarding the allegations mentioned here. Let's hope that justice is served in both actual court and the court of public opinion.]

"Cardigan" by Taylor Swift—By the time she retires or dies, this will probably still be standing as the strangest song to ever hit #1 for Taylor Swift. She has tried on a lot of different pop outfits over the years, but Aaron Dessner-produced adult contemporary is her most daring (and possibly most successful).

"Watermelon Sugar" by Harry Styles—This is some dumb fucking bullshit. Catchy and vacuous.

"WAP" by Cardi B feat. Megan Thee Stallion—Sometimes I get onto the freeway and I'm going 60 MPH and I got the windows down and I feel pretty free. It feels good. Then I realize, ya know what would feel even better? Going 120 MPH. It's a whole different type of visceral thrill. That's how I feel when Cardi B's first verse ends, and Megan Thee Stallion revs the engine. I'm not saying that Cardi B is a bad rapper, I'm saying that Megan Thee Stallion sounds like a revelation next to her.

"Dynamite" by BTS—I don't care what genre you come from, even if it's something as unknown to me as K-pop—if you try your damndest to sound like Bruno Mars, you will find great riches here in America, and you will most likely even earn a reluctant nod of approval from this bitter wayward blogger. All hail the algorithm.

"Franchise" by Travis Scott feat. Young Thug and M.I.A.—Oh good, Travis Scott is here again with his generic trap bullshit, this time with a McDonald's meal and a fucking anti-vaxxer. Wonderful.

"Savage Love (Laxed—Siren Beat)" by Jawsh 685, Jason Derulo, and BTS—I mostly hate this because it's so fucking lame and tired and corny and lazy, but I can't lie to you, folks... whatever that horn-sounding instrument is grew on me. What the fuck is that? It's sounds like a Casio keyboard that has a "saxophone" button. Very interesting. I hate it, but it's interesting.

"Mood" by 24kGoldn feat. Iann Dior—This is the most recent song to hit #1, and so I guess it's not surprising that these are the only two artists I've never even heard of before today. My thoughts: this song is the musical equivalent of a face-averaging tool.

Every 2020 #1 Song, Ranked

 

17. "Trollz" by 6ix9ine and Nicki Minaj
16. "Franchise" by Travis Scott feat. Young Thug and M.I.A.
15. "The Box" by Roddy Ricch
14. "Mood" by 24kGoldn feat. Iann Dior
13. "Stuck with U" by Ariana Grande feat. Justin Bieber
12. "The Scotts" by Travis Scott and Kid Cudi
11. "Rockstar" by DaBaby feat. Roddy Ricch
10. "Watermelon Sugar" by Harry Styles
9. "Tootsie Slide" by Drake
8. "Rain on Me" by Lady Gaga feat. Ariana Grande
7. "Savage Love (Laxed—Siren Beat)" by Jawsh 685, Jason Derulo, and BTS
6. "Savage" by Megan Thee Stallion feat. Beyoncé
5. "Dynamite" by BTS
4. "Blinding Lights" by the Weeknd
3. "Cardigan" by Taylor Swift
2. "Say So" by Doja Cat feat. Nicki Minaj
1. "WAP" by Cardi B feat. Megan Thee Stallion

This Is My Blood: Cloud Walker

Sometimes, when shit gets frustrating, it's best to focus on a single task, pour all your energy into doing it right, and then when you are done you'll feel a lot better. There was a lot going on today—obviously—and I was starting to feel a little overwhelmed. So I picked one task and went outside and just did it. Took my time a little but, I'm not gonna lie, but I didn't dilly dally. I just got done what I needed to.

During this early afternoon hour on this beautiful day, I set about turning an outdoor Fisher Price toddler's slide into an indoor Fisher Price toddler's slide. First, I took it apart using a special Fisher Price-provided plastic tool. Then, I cut tiny holes in the bottom of the plastic sides to let the rainwater (gallons of it!) to escape (and honestly, the holes might have been too tiny—they kept clogging up with the mold and algae that had grown in the still water). Then, I wiped every little nook and cranny down with soap and water. Then, I put it all back together. Then, I brought it inside for Willow and Martha to slide down.

I spent the too-short hour it took me to do this with a Victory Cloud Walker, a pretty standard hazy IPA. Nothing special to it, just the same ol' citrusy unfiltered bullshit you get from every other hazy IPA. But man, context matters here, and to sit in the sunshine, on my new patio, working on cleaning a child's toy, while an actual horse(!) watched my progress, all of it made my beer taste pretty darn great.

NOTES

BEER: Cloud Walker

STYLE: New England IPA

ABV: 6.8%

BREWED BY: Victory Brewing Company

LOCATION: Downingtown, PA

PURCHASED AT: Oxford Beer

PAIRED WITH: fresh air and farm air

GRADE: 2 pukes out of 5

 

BEER COUNT: 463 (It's another day of playing a game of "drink a bunch of other shit that you already had this year." I drank the other two No Brainers that were in the fridge. I had three Miller Lites today because I'll never stop drinking Miller Lites. I also had one Guinness because... I don't have a good reason for this, I just needed something non-hoppy. I am over par at this point as far as drinking pace for the year, so I'm going to have to work hard the next couple weeks to get this number down.)

Former Child Actor, Rachel S.

Will I listen to this album? No. lol no. Please no. 2020, you have done enough! However, I WILL draw parallels between these song titles and TYOOL 2020.

1. Former Child Actor: Macauley Culkin! Who famously starred in Home Alone and Home Alone 2: Lost in New York with the now-famous DELETED tr*mp scene!
2. Diseased: COVID-19, baby!
3. Systematic Gateway: That's racism.
4. You Can't Win: Thanks, Mitch McConnell!
5. Megalo Man: Literally, the president.
6. Phony People: Literally, the GOP.
7. I'm Flying Away: To the moon, babyyy! It has water, let's go.
8. Jingle Bell Rock: Celebrate Christmas in July, who cares! Everything is a dumpster fire and we'll be locked down for Christmas anyway! ALSO, Melania HATES Christmas. Never forget.
9. What Is a Dog?: Apparently is a question the tr*mp family has because this White House is pet-less and therefore joyless.
10. Imagine: November 3rd, I'm trying.
11. I Believe Again: Me when Harry Styles released his new music video. 
12. What's Up with Youth?: TikTok teens will in fact save us all.

Former Child Actor, Sunny

Beloved Child Stars: Where Are They Now?

Danica McKellar ... would find it difficult to transition to adult acting, eventually landing small TV and VA roles. She would author several math books targeted to help adolescent female students.

Danielle Fishel ... would become a spokesperson for Nutrisystem before fully boomeranging and acting as Topanga again in Girl Meets World with character-husband Ben Savage.

Haley Joel Osment ... would grow up to be surprisingly well adjusted, apparently having avoided the gaze of Kevin Spacey as a child. Now bearded, he would find a small renaissance on TV and twitter.

Corey Feldman ... would release several albums, most notably Former Child Actor—a rock(ish) pop(ish) expression of the soul(ish). A man living his life. A man who feels like, fuck it, I can make another album, and the "Jessie's Girl" guy said he'd help, and everyone likes that song. It's basically what you'd expect. Oddball choices like having both "Imagine" and "Jingle Bell Rock" covers suggest maybe it's self-aware? Maybe? But we should consider giving a pass to those who probably (unfortunately) have tiger blood in them.

Mary Kate and Ashley Olsen ... would perform the DBZ fusion dance to join the MCU

Former Child Actor, Nate

The question becomes how one is to respond, how seriously one is to take things.

The idea of "how seriously is one to take things" has plagued me for some time now. I struggle with the distance between words and action, with the noise between text, reaction to text, reaction to reaction to text; reaction to specifics of text vs reaction to culture of text; reaction to perceived positioning within culture of text vs text in isolation. Ultimately, I think it boils down to how much one believes anything that another person says is meaningful. There are schools of thought that suggest the mere act of speaking is a ritual of meaning, that through speaking to each other, we not only proclaim our own place in existence, but give life and light to the one we are communicating to; the ritual of my fingers on this keyboard, giving tangible life to intangible signals in my head, is a means of declaring and creating not only my own existence, but yours as well. Similarly, you engaging in the ritual of using your eyes to see these words, then using the instrument of the mind to create the symbols in your head that these words represent, gives life—CREATES REALITY—to not only you and to me, but to an existence in which these symbols can achieve coherence.

So, on that level, everything that anyone says to anyone else at any time should be treated with a baseline seriousness, at least as a means to convey existence, a shared experience of living to one another. However, moving beyond the metaphysical, downright spiritual perspective on the question, what is one tangibly to do with anyone saying anything? Are we not all crying wolf, constantly reporting and manufacturing canis both real and spectral? Here's an example: I say to you "I am going to vote for a gorilla for mayor." Do you believe that I will actually do this? Why do you believe that? Assuming you do believe that, what is the correct response to that? Should you try to convince me that my vote is more meaningful than to be thrown away on voting for a gorilla to manage our township? Should you chastise me? Is even considering the possibility of me voting for a gorilla for mayor, let alone a gorilla as an executive, a tremendous waste of brain power and limited time on earth? Do you see the problem yet?

Words, as it turns out, are the cheapest product the human machine can produce. They cost nothing, and are ultimately only worth, if one accepts a pragmatist’s viewpoint of existence, only what meaning they have in the real world, in real time. Why would anyone believe anyone when they say anything, when the costs for saying anything at any time to anyone are so limited? What will you call me, a liar? What will that do it me? What, will you stop believing me? Why did you believe me in the first place? Ultimately, the place to watch is within action, for actions are the effect of the words we speak. Until we act on what we say, we have done nothing but commit the barest possible of resources to an idea. Having an idea is nothing. We cannot control the thoughts that run through our heads. It is only when these thoughts are produced into action that they become worth paying attention to. This, of course, gets far stickier the more involved in governments and systems we become, because suddenly a body of humanity, a community of voices, is acting as a monolith. Never mind that the chorus is a fiction, we have constructed a reality that calls for ignoring the off-tones and off-book marks in favor of the general direction of the collective song. But still, actions are the only product of communication that are worth serious consideration. Some might say that listening to words might predict or prevent actions. I believe that until one puts up, it is not even worth the energy to ask them to shut up. You're better off buying better headphones.

Here’s another theory I’ve been kicking around, specifically in the field of online discourse. I have to be careful about this theory, because as you’ll see in a minute, it’s the kind of rhetorical argument that cries out for use of the word “We,” and there is no faster torpedo than the word “we,” a small thing that has separated as many people as it has combined them. There is, after all, no such thing as “we,” not as far as theories of society and communications are concerned. Modern online journalism would do well to remember this.

Preamble aside, the theory goes like this: The rise of fact-signaling language has reduced the ability of partisan discussions online to achieve not only coherence, but empathy. Take, if you will, this extreme example from Curt Shilling’s Twitter feed. The image contrasts Colin Kaepernick with a bloodied reenactment of Jesus Christ’s beating at the hands of Roman soldiers before his crucifixion (it’s madness to have to say “reenactment” here, as if anyone would believe that a former Phillies pitcher would have photographic evidence of the Passion, but specificity is important, here and always). There’s a lot of text on this image, but the most relevant bits are as follows: “NFL All-Star Colin Kaepernick says he won’t stand for the national anthem because the authorities give preferential treatment to ‘white people’... oh really? Tell that this ‘white person.’” The image itself is worth a look, if only for the punctuation at play—this is written in the Capitalize The First Letter Of Every Word In The Sentence School Of Punctuation, Popular With Aunts And High School Classmates On Facebook Posts Circa 2010. But, ultimately, what is more important about the image than its stylistic choices is the context in which it presents itself. Contrasting these two images against each other and offering a sort of false strawman to highlight how one image “disproves” the other gives the document a fact-based positioning. That is not to say that the image is communicating a fact, only that the argument being made is presented in “fact-based” language, it is meant to couch an emotional response in the garments of argument and research. It is an emotional response, couched in the protective positioning as a fact. By positioning a “feeling” as a “fact,” the augment becomes less about ideology and more about concrete reality. The arena for the discussion is moved, regardless of the context of the contest. It is playing basketball on an ice rink.

So, accepting for a moment that this might be true—that the image-based discourse of online argument making through memes, images, gifs or other multimedia, relies on positioning emotional, subjective arguments in fact-based language to give emotional arguments the protection of the tangible, the provable—what does that say about how we talk to each other online? I am not a researcher and I have not done the required work in the field to make any definitive statements. I have only my own observations as a child of the last generation to remember life before the internet. That said, I believe the cost of this new wave of arguing online is the flattening of nuance, the elimination of the intelligence of the other, the creation of those who believe differently than oneself as being part of an “other” and ultimate a fundamental misunderstanding of motivations that leads to mass dehumanization. Because emotional arguments are suddenly given the weight of knowledge, they become impossible to separate from the stakes of fact. Because, after all, “facts” are provable, and are either right or wrong. Emotion is something much sticker and fluid between individuals. Trying to disprove a feeling with fact is like trying to play tennis with snowball. The way to engage an emotional argument is within the context and language of emotion, with the knowledge that what one feels cannot be proven or disproven, only understood and analyzed. However, once those discussions of emotional arguments are moved to the arena of fact, the discourse breaks down and entrenched partisans end up, either implicitly or explicitly in argument, believing that what they feel is somehow concrete in fact, as opposed to a product of emotion.

Here’s the other effect of this theory: If your emotions have become facts—or at least shielded in the language of fact—and I know your fact to be false, how can one find empathy with the other? Creating false facts negates emotion, and negating emotion removes empathy. Removing empathy is the beginning of social death, of otherism, of dehumanization.

I have no idea how to walk this all back, or what can be done. The solution that seems the most fruitful to me is also the most unlikely; the complete dismantling of the internet as we’ve come to understand it. The solution that is most tangible is to disengage with online discourse, but even that is a retreat and isolation from fellow man, leaving only those further entrenched in their perspectives to battle with the other true believers. Eroding the middle and fringes will do nothing to dissolve boarders of division. So the question becomes, once again, how serious is one to take what anyone says? Perhaps, in this specific context, the way to understand such online arguments is to see them as extreme reflections of what a person feels, to try and find the kernel of the truth of the emotional argument being made, and focus less on the text. But how much grace would that require of a person, and how much grace would have to be extended in return to make it a viable means of dissolving division? Perhaps the place to start is to recognize the ritual of communication as a beacon to each other. Each foul post a declaration of existence, a remanifestation of reality, and invitation to be recognized and to recognize another. Maybe that baseline is enough.

Didn’t listen to the album, by the way.

Former Child Actor, Joe

Right off the bat—this is bad. Real fucking bad. Anyone who says otherwise is just succeeding in being a contrarian in a Record Club where contrarianism is encouraged.

But to determine whether this is truly bad on merit or if it is just a bold and brave failure of an attempt at art would require us to step into the mind of Corey Feldman, which I am not equipped to do. I am not TMZ (or rather, what TMZ believes that TMZ is). Even if I was, I don't think I'd want to. This is a man who seems sincerely invested in stopping the allegedly rampant child abuse in Hollywood, but who also has a large portrait of Michael Jackson on his living room wall. I read about plenty of people who are all fucked up in the head with contradictions—throw a dart and hit one of the thousands of Inquirer articles about the so-called "trump country"—but I draw the line at Corey Feldman.

(Okay, here's one more: his current backing band is called "Corey's Angels," consisting of young women whom he has purportedly "saved" from "desperate circumstances—so, the same vulnerable type of young person that he once was in the entertainment industry. Except, he went ahead and married one of them, and also the icky factor is so high that Wikipedia has to note that "members of Corey's Angels are not required to sleep with him.")

We're here for the music, not to be judge and jury for some fucking Hollywood goonie. So I return to my original point—this music is a fucking ballsack.

If you need to know one thing before listening, then know this: Corey Feldman takes John Lennon's "Imagine" and attempts to turn it into a sex jam. It's almost impressive, when you think about it. Feldman takes what is already possibly the worst song of all time, and makes it even more terrible. Look, if he is doing this on purpose, i.e. consciously trying to make a terrible album as some kind of statement, then consider the statement made and the battle won.

It'd be real easy to pile on at this point in the review (another round of "Jingle Bell Rock," anyone?), and I really hope someone else does in their review, because Former Child Actor deserves every fucking insult y'all can throw at it. But at a certain point, it becomes like a car crash. I've never been one to rubberneck, and I have no problem turning away.

GRADE: 1 puke out of 5

This Is My Blood: No Brainer

I know I have spent a decent amount of time on this blog already slogging my new neighborhood, but I was just lashing out because I will forever miss my old neighborhood. But we have moved to the new house, in the new neighborhood, as of today, and I'm finding that it's been easy so far to find that sense of community here in Fox Chase.

There was a moment today when I felt it, that higher plane of human community, the one I wasn't sure if I'd feel for a long time after we signed the papers for the new house. It came during those initial hours, when the movers were still in full-steam-ahead mode and our parents were cleaning and putting together furniture and the Verizon dude was drilling holes to set up the internet and a plumber showed up to tighten some pipe fixtures and me and Pam are directing traffic. So many moving parts, all masked up, swirling around the home. It felt like the equivalent to one of those scenes with the Amish men all pulling at the giant wooden side of a new house with many ropes. We're all accomplishing something today, ya know?

Of course, if you know me, you know this led to getting a little drunk. That's a no brainer.

NOTES

BEER: No Brainer

STYLE: American IPA

ABV: 6.8%

BREWED BY: Victory Brewing Company

LOCATION: Downingtown, PA

PURCHASED AT: Oxford Beer—blast from the past, amirite?! I'm gonna have to talk about this establishment in a later post.

PAIRED WITH: Rising Sun Pizza around a just rebuilt table

GRADE: 2.5 pukes out of 5

 

BEER COUNT: 456 (Okay, so this beer was part of a variety pack, two varieties of which I had already drank this year. So I drank three of something I already had one of this year—Golden Monkey—to supplement. I also had two Miller Lites because I live in the Northeast, and when in Rome and all that.)

Port Richmond Memories, Part IV

I always liked our backyard, even though it was kinda small and the deck wood has started to warp over the years. We've had plenty of pleasant nights chilling out there with whatever guests wanted to stop by after the kiddos go to sleep. The only problem with it, in my opinion, is that it comes with it the slight feeling of being boxed in. You're cut off from the world in that backyard. If that world involves the rest of Port Richmond, then someone (*cough*) might see that as a feature, not a bug. But that's not really how I like living my life. I gotta be around people. I want to feel togetherness with the rest of the hoi polloi of this great big anonymous city. (Yo, the pandemic has been tough.)

I think that's why I choose this memory as the final Port Richmond memory I share with you on the blog, even those it is probably the most trivial as well. Here it is: Kev and I spent one night late early in the spring of 2018 on folding chairs in front of my house, drinking beers and shooting the shit as all manners of neighborly folk passed by.

That's really all there was to it. It was a nice night. I got a little drunk. Pam was working nights and was very pregnant (and I was back off the wagon). We ordered Domino's. It was a little chilly but it was nothing that liquor and hot pan pizza and a hoodie couldn't fix. We made small talk with the dozens and dozens of people out for nightly strolls (mostly to buy cigarettes and lotto tickets at the corner store down the street). That was our night.

I want to say that I felt connected to my neighborhood that night, and consequentially to my world as I knew it as well. This has more to do with my very real need to be a part of something, to pretend like I am connected to my fellow humans in ways that can't possibly be true. It might also have to do with my fear that I am not an integral of the community surrounding me, that when I am gone, the world as I know it will continue on as if nothing has changed. This could all be true and it could all be overwrought bullshit created in the mind of a deranged blog content creator, I dunno.

 

What I do know is how I felt in that moment, beer in hand, ass on thatched lawn chair, bullshitting with one of my oldest and dearest friends. I really did feel like I was one with Port Richmond. That something that I know I felt; even if it was ultimately an illusion, I still felt it as if it was real. And my greatest fear is that, as we retreat to a quieter and thus less vibrant street corner in the deepest depths of the Northeast, I will lose that feeling. I will be boxed in.

Like I speculated a few months ago, the gap between Port Richmond and Fox Chase is only as large as I make it out to be. I will eventually grow to love my new home, and hopefully, there will be a few nights here and there when I get to touch that higher plane of human connectivity. Even if there isn't, then I'll still be living my life, and it'll be a life that's different but ultimately satisfying and pleasant (for it's who you're with, not where you are, at the end of each day). And even if that becomes the new reality—getting lost in the quasi-suburbs—then at least I will have known the Port Richmond life for a little while.

Chin up, let's do this shit. See you guys back in Fox Chase.

This Is My Blood: My Watch Has Ended

Well, here it is, the final beer that I will ever drink in our home in Port Richmond. It was definitely one of those beers that I chose due to the thematic resonance of its name than because of anything to do with its taste. It's not like Pam and I spent all that much time splitting brown ales during our sojourn in this wonderful abode, or that either one of us has a palate that can truly, 100% appreciate a dark ale brewed with dark fruits (or maple syrup, apparently? but I didn't get that). It's more that our watch is literally ending here. We're moving on to the great unknown in the Great Northeast. Lots of great drinking memories here on Clearfield Street... but honestly, I don't have time to get nostalgic today. Too much packing to do.

NOTES

BEER: My Watch Has Ended

STYLE: American Imperial Brown Ale

ABV: 8.0%

BREWED BY: Brewery Ommegang

LOCATION: Cooperstown, New York

PURCHASED AT: IGA

PAIRED WITH: duct tape and cardboard

GRADE: 3 pukes out of 5

 

BEER COUNT: 450 (had two Old Man Winters as well, mostly because that's two fewer beers that we have to pack for the move, but also because it's easier to pack up everything you own when you're a little tipsy)

Port Richmond Memories, Part III

quiet please

I'd hate to think that every single notable memory I have of Port Richmond has to do with my pre-parenthood life. I mean, yeah, those four and half years were important and memorable and truth be told a lot more fun. But I love my kids and I love being a dad, and my time in Port Richmond was first and foremost a journey in becoming a parent, becoming that thing that is most important to me (well, second behind being a good husband I guess, but there's a lot more room for error in that regard).

 

So pan the camera of the mind's memory to May 11th, the day that we bring Willow home from the hospital. The home that she knew from that moment and will know until this Friday is Port Richmond, with all its lovable quirks and frustrating shortcomings. She, the little puke monster, she who had just spent the past three nights with low blood sugar in the NICU, fraying our wits with her minuscule fits of milk vomit, she, Willow, comes home.

 

No parties today. Instead, a quiet home on a quiet Friday afternoon, cloudy and breezy, a beautiful fucking day. We were parents, and we brought a child into the world, our world, our Port Richmond world. She comes home. She's mostly been a good sleeper her whole life, and that first day in Port Richmond was no exception. After sleeping on the car ride from Pennsylvania Hospital to Clearfield Street, she decides to then take a nap in the bassinet.

 

It was the first nap in our new home, and I wanted it to go well. I didn't want this particular nap to wake up with sharp cries (knowing full well that there would be many of those in the near and far futures). Of course, this being Port Richmond, it was at this moment, at this hour on this day of all days, that a group of teenagers decide to congregate right outside our front door.

Parenthood is by an large a frustrating and occasionally even impossible-seeming endeavor, but in that moment, parenthood came easily. I stepped outside the front door, and said "I really don't mind you guys hanging out here, but we literally just got home from the hospital with a newborn who just fell asleep."

Thankfully, this isn't a story about rebellious teens whose malarkey awoke a sleeping babe. They said they were sorry and quickly dispersed. This isn't even a story about me finding my way as a parent, standing up for the needs of my child, or whatever the fuck—it's been two and a half years and I still don't find myself to be a worthy parent, and might not ever.

This is, though, a story about Port Richmond, and how it is a neighborhood that consistently challenges and has challenged us in a myriad of small ways during our years here. I can't imagine another neighborhood where a group of teens would just happen to post up and have a powwow in front of our front door at the exact moment that our three-day-old decides to take her first at-home nap. But this is Port Richmond. Of course that's gonna fucking happen.

And this is a story about how Port Richmond challenged us and made us better humans in the process. It is immensely frustrating without ever being dangerous, and because I know it's not dangerous, I can use the frustration to improve my own character. The loud car music at two in the morning has made me more patient. The trash covering the sidewalks has made me take more pride in my city. The toothless haggard vagrants yelling vulgarities up the block has given me an infinite well of empathy for my fellow man. 

 

And a group of teens unintentionally doing their best to wake up a baby has allowed me to see that no challenge is too big or too small when you live in here in Port Richmond. I won't miss the challenges, but I will always appreciate what those challenges meant to my personal development.

This Is My Blood: Cherry & Berry Ale

I feel like I've said this before, but you know that list of "all the beer styles" I made based on what I read in Tasting Beer? I've come to find that it's probably incomplete and a little wrong too. This has a little to do with the fact that classifying different types of beer is sticky work, but it also has to do with the fact that on May 1st I didn't know anything about beer styles, and yet tasked myself with composing a list of beer styles anyway.

If I could do it again, I'd steal the list from Beer Advocate, which seems to be a bit more comprehensive, and doesn't bother with some of the murky distinctions that Tasting Beer makes. But could've, should've, would've... I'm still drinking all kinds of beers I wouldn't normally, so it's not that big of a deal.

Still, I thought today might be a good day to talk about some of the forgotten beer styles over at Beer Advocate, since I drank a beer whose style is not on the list I made. This will not be a comprehensive discussion, just a few examples of the weirder-sounding beers that I would've put on my list in the first place.

Happoshu

This is today's beer, the Cherry & Berry Ale. Happoshu is a light beer, low in malt ratio (less malt means less for the yeast to turn into alcohol, and thus a lower ABV%). Also, per Japanese law, to be called a "Happoshu," you must include an ingredient other than the standard malts, hops, or adjuncts. I guess this usually means fruit. The reason for all this isn't just a purposeful turning of the back on the Reinheitsgebot (though I do appreciate any and all gleeful pissing on "tradition" in this context). Rather, the malt is purposefully kept low because Japan taxes based on malt, so Happoshus are cheaper (indeed, it was one of the cheapest beers in the international fridge).

Braggot

This beer style is a blend of beer and mead, the goal of which is to achieve a nice balance of malt flavors, hop flavors, and honey flavors. This beer style is an old one, dating back to the 1100s, but there looks to be some modern renditions sold (most of them have "honey" in the name of the beer).

Chile Beer

Pretty much what it sounds like—this is a beer that has an added ingredient of peppers. Spiciness varies, but personally, I can't ever imagine enjoying one of these. It's the same complaint I have about sour beers—you want a beer because you want refreshment, and things like spicy and sour and overly sweet do not achieve that goal.

Kvass

These are apparently popular in Eastern Europe. They are made typically with a dark rye grain, but also include berry ingredients. Contrary to what you'd think, they are low in alcohol. Looking at Beer Advocate's list, there don't appear to be too many brewed in the U.S.

Smoked Beer

I've been wondering about this one, because by chance I had a smoked beer very, very early on during this project—January 6th's Norwegian Wood. Because I had it so early, I assumed that these beers were a bit more ubiquitous than they actually are; I haven't had one since. Not that I liked it enough to seek them out, but so be it. The smokiness is achieved by allowing the smoke from roasting the kiln to infiltrate the beer itself. 

Sahti Farmhouse Ale

Some beer styles sound really tasting because of the specific ingredients it calls for, but a consequence of the specificities is that they are not very widely sold. I would love to drink an unfiltered beer that's brewed with wild yeast (which makes it tart) and juniper (which, I assume, would make it taste like a tree), but I can't imagine ever coming across one of these beers by chance.

Kristallweizen

And many of these beer styles are just variation of already known beer styles, as we've seen with the weizen family. We've already compared dunkelweizens with hefeweizens, but what of kristallweizens? The latter are basically hefeweizens that have been filtered, so it's gonna be cleaner on the palate, and the banana and clove flavors are more subtle. Hey, whatever floats your alcoholic boat.

Eventually, I'll do the opposite of this post, and go through all the beers that are already on my list, but that I'll probably not get to this year.

NOTES

BEER: Cherry & Berry Ale

STYLE: Happoshu

ABV: 5.0%

BREWED BY: Hokkaido Brewing

LOCATION: Hokkaido Otaru-shi, Japan

PURCHASED AT: IGA

PAIRED WITH: breakfast for dinner

GRADE: 2.5 pukes out of 5

 

BEER COUNT: 447.5

Port Richmond Memories, Part II

Grist Mill funks you up

If the Tickets Party could've happened anywhere, then the annual Halloween parties could've happened nowhere besides Casbah Caterers in Port Richmond. It's still weird to think that all those blackout formals in college that we Lasallians may or may not remember all happened a few blocks away from where me and Pam currently live, but it's true. Casbah Caterers, the old Polish hall with the questionable drinking age enforcement, is right there on Thompson St., and there was no reason why we couldn't book the hall for a party long after graduation, so that's what we did.

May the memories of the three Halloween parties we hosted there always be remembered, but today's "Port Richmond Memory" actually takes place the morning after our second annual party. It was the apotheosis of the classic idea of "the party continues."

Three people got drunk enough at the party to be shipwrecked in our living room overnight—Dwyer, Brittany, and Casey (whom I had just met like two weeks prior). The five of us didn't really have any plans, so we made them with brunch at the now defunct Bait and Switch, with plenty of brunch cocktails to wash down the bait buckets (New England clam chowder on top of french fries) and keep the buzz going. 

A note about that last part. I know this is the alcoholism in me speaking, but I speak it as my truth anyway—drinking the morning after getting drunk in order to stave off the hangover and continue the party with those close friends who have stuck by you is my favorite way to drink. It combines immediate self-mythologizing ("last night was crazy") with real-time creations of new myths ("pass me the gin"). 

Here's the myth created that morning: Port Richmond is the best goddamn city for a brunch crawl. Myths can be true, by the way. We moved from Bait and Switch to the Malt House, and drank there all day. Brittany invited a Tinder date. Casey found a last resort. Dwyer got drunk enough that he had to have his parents come pick him up, completely defeating the purpose of sleeping over in the first place (classic). It was one of those days, you guys, one of those magical, can't-miss, day-long drinkathons.

Apparently none of us had any plans on Sunday, which, man, what a fucking time to be alive. We could just wake up after an open-bar event and then drink another fifteen beers starting at breakfast, and the world kept spinning. I can't imagine that something like this could ever happen again.

I don't want every memory I discuss this week to be of the "this will never happen again" variety, but it's possible that it might end up being that way anyway. The fact of the matter is that, in our seven years in Port Richmond, a lot has changed. It's important to track that progress, and appreciate both the now and the then. We could never now, but then, the five of us got drunk at the Port Richmond townie bars, and had ourselves a day to remember. I will indeed always remember.

This Is My Blood: Carton of Milk

I finally asked the guy who works in the IGA bottle shop the question that I posed the other day: How are beers chosen for the yellow dot discount rack? His pithy response was: "It's the price point." He did not elaborate. I kind of understand what "price point" means, but even the wikipedia article looks like half-gibberish to me (there's a reason I did not attend La Salle's School of Business").

But I guess that solves the one lingering mystery at the Richmond Bottle Shop at IGA. Otherwise, we've explored every nook and cranny of this place. It's time to pack up shop and say goodbye. IGA will no longer be convenient, now that I will no longer live a mile away. It was never considered convenient as a supermarket (I'm talking about the fact that it was expensive as fuck), but as a place to get craft beer one beer at a time, it was my favorite. It has served its purpose well. See you in another life, brotha.

I realize that I probably write way too much about the stores in which I buy the beer—99.9% of the beer-swilling population could not care less where they get the beer, as long as they get it. I see you, I hear you. But—if I may pretend that this all hasn't been just an excuse to pull blog content out of thing air—I'll argue that the context behind the drinking is almost as important as the drinking itself. 

I want to be comfortable drinking a beer, but I also want to be comfortable purchasing the beer. Some stores make the whole experience comfortable, and I want to make sure that those stores are written about and commended. IGA has its flaws, but I've never enjoyed endlessly walking up and down aisles as much as I did here.

NOTES

BEER: Carton of Milk

STYLE: Milk Stout

ABV: 4.0%

BREWED BY: Carton Brewing Company

LOCATION: Atlantic Highlands, NJ

PURCHASED AT: IGA!

PAIRED WITH: the new episode of This Is Us

GRADE: 3.5 pukes out of 5

 

BEER COUNT: 447

Port Richmond Memories, Part I

January 2014

We're moving at the end of the week—more details here—so I figured I would use this week to look back at some of the important memories from living in Port Richmond, both because it is worth looking back, and also because I'm off work this week and won't have time to blog about anything more complicated than some quick short stories.

We start, as one would expect, with the housewarming party. This was at the end of January 2014, so a little over a month after we moved in. I know some people wait like a year after they move in to have that first party, till it is allegedly "ready to be seen" or whatever. I don't adhere to that idea. Parties can happen anywhere, including house that still have a few unpacked cardboard boxes lying around, ya feel me?

I don't even know if Pam necessarily agrees with me on this point. I'm not talking specifically about the context of our housewarming party—I don't recall her having an issue with this one—but she definitely does not agree with my idea of the flexibility of parties, and how they can happen anytime, anywhere. I've had to fight with her to push some party ideas through, and 99% of the time, she becomes incredibly short-tempered the closer we get to the party, as if to say that having a party at all was a bad idea. I don't know why I keep straining our marriage, forcing through, say, a beer pong tournament, when I'm the only one in this house who actually wants to do it.

I don't recall her having an issue with hosting a housewarming party (or even two housewarming parties, rather—we had family over Friday night, and friends over Saturday night). I do recall her having a problem with the main activity of Saturday night. That night, we played a homemade game I call "Tickets."

You may have heard me explain the details to you sometime in the past six years, but if not, here is the gist of it. This is a party-long drinking game. You pay $5, and you get a certain amount of tickets (call it 20, but it doesn't really matter what you start with). Like, raffle tickets, you know the kind. The idea is that the game of Tickets is woven into the fabric of the party, i.e. we're not stopping the party and gathering everyone around and playing tickets, the game is played throughout the night. 

The rules are simple: whoever has the most tickets at the end of the night wins the majority of the pot, and you have to earn tickets from other people by completing arbitrary tasks in the form of bets. E.g. "I'll give you a ticket if you chug this mixed drink made from tequila and whiskey," or "Will you give me three tickets if I shave off my beard?" and so on. It could literally be anything; the only thing holding you back from earning tickets is the limits of your imagination.

And we were still young enough and free enough at the time that the game truly did manufacture some sincere craziness. I saw a naked face-down snow angel. I saw some gross open-mouth kisses. I saw someone wear a random coat and heard another friend freak out because he was pretty sure that this person he doesn't know was wearing his coat. I saw an Instagram account. 

I know that the party was more than Tickets—we had a lot of great food and a lot of intoxicating alcohol and a lot of great normal conversations with great fucking friends whom I no longer see as often as I want to—but because of Tickets, our housewarming party was closer to the archetype of the "crazy party" than any party that I have thrown since. Those legendary nights that people still talk about year later, they are rare. This was one of those nights.

I could see an argument that this memory does not have anything to do with the idea of Port Richmond (especially compared to the memories that I will cover in the next few days), and maybe that's true. Could we have had a successful Tickets Party if we lived in fucking Doylestown or something? Maybe! But it's kind of a moot point, because the fact of the matter is that the Tickets Party occurred in Port Richmond, and nowhere else. The idea of "Port Richmond" in the figurative sense is whatever we wanted to make of it, and for our first act, we made it into a bacchanalia.

That wouldn't always be the case, especially as kids started to appear in our lives at an exponential rate. But moving into my first house that I actually owned, there were a certain set of ideals that I wanted to live by, and our housewarming party proved that it was possible to live that way. We had plenty of great parties after that night—the Huggies and Chuggies, the block party, not to mention all those booze-soaked nights at the Casbah—but none felt as important as that first one.

This Is My Blood: Newbold

Guys, we did it. It's the 300th episode of This Is My Blood! I can't believe we've been here for 300 days in a row. To celebrate, let's take a look at some highlights from the past 300 blog posts and the past 300+ beers.

• Remember the time I discovered all those new beers, like a blue lager, a fleizenhop, and Belgian Rare?
• Remember the time I got banned from Yards for asking what kind of hops they use in their Pennsylvania Pale Ale?
• Remember the time I went to an actual bar and sat at the bar among other bar customers and we all sat side by side drinking beer at the goddamn bar?
• Remember the time I asked for suggestions for new beers on Twitter and all I got for a response was an @ from Evil Genius with just a picture of a goat ballsack?
• Remember the time I had a really strong IPA with dinner?
• Remember the time I drank a glass of orange juice and accidentally counted it as my daily beer because I thought it was a hazy IPA?
• Remember the time I got COVID and they traced it back to a Coors Banquet that I had?
• Remember the time I got drunk on beer?!
• Remember the time Willow got drunk on beer?!?!
• Remember the time I read a whole book about beer and bored you guys with it for like two months?
• Remember the time I went to work drunk for like eighteen days straight?
• Remember the time I had a lager?
• Remember the time I visited every bar in Philadelphia?
• Remember the time I was basically Patient Zero because of how many bars I was going to?
• Remember the time I drank a Newbold IPA, a standard pale ale whose strongest attribute was a flavor of pine needles (which I don't necessarily mind)?
• Remember the time I made a fake list?
• Remember the time I always make fake lists because I think they are hilarious but they really aren't? 
• Remember the time I didn't know what to write about Newbold IPA and so I did something so insipid that no one could possibly want to read it?
• Remember the time I pretended like drinking a different beer every day could give my life meaning?
• Remember the time I pretended I didn't want to get drunk every single day of my life?
• Remember the time I started dreaming of a year in which I didn't count every beer that I consumed?
• Remember the time I started to go off the rails with a supposedly humorous fake list?
• Remember the time I didn't know how to end blog posts?
• Remember the time I drank a Hurricane?

Cheers to 66 more of these motherfuckers!!!

NOTES

BEER: Newbold

STYLE: American IPA

ABV: 7.0%

BREWED BY: Philadelphia Brewing Company (haven't had as many beers from this brewery as I thought I would this year)

LOCATION: Fishtown (I miss you)

PURCHASED AT: IGA

PAIRED WITH: Pam's famous mushroom risotto

GRADE: 3 pukes out of 5

 

BEER COUNT: 446.5

Album of the Week: Former Child Actor

There are plenty of people on the Record Club email chain. Not everyone participates. This is my attempt to get everyone involved, even those whose Record Club emails go directly into the spam box.

 

For week #4, we are featuring Dave K***. We are neighbors with Dave K*** for another six days, until we move away from Port Richmond (and move to Fox Chase, where we will pretty much be neighbors with Dave K***'s parents). Let's all listen to this album for Fireman Dave!!!

Archives HERE, playlist HERE, this week's pick below.

 

WEEK 91 — October 25-31, 2020

 

What we're listening to this week (Dave K.'s pick):

 

ALBUM: Former Child Actor

ARTIST: Corey Feldman

RELEASED: 2002 (there is no specific date on the internet as far as I could find)

WHAT GENRE IS THIS: Wikipedia says rock, I've also seen it described as prog rock... man, we'll find out, won't we?

WHY DAVE MIGHT WRITE A REVIEW FOR THIS ALBUM: Last year (jeez, it's been a while since I've seen Dave), he asked me to grab a package from his porch so it wouldn't be stolen before he was done his 60-hour shift. When he finally came to pick it up from my house, me and Pam insisted on making him tell us what was in it. It was a button-down collared shirt with tiny pictures of Chunk from The Goonies doing the truffle shuffle. So I fucking KNOW that this man likes The Goonies. It's not a far stretch to assume that he might like an album from one of its stars, and furthermore might want to WRITE about it.

WHY DAVE PROBABLY WON'T WRITE A REVIEW FOR THIS: As noted above, Dave works a lot, and I can't imagine his coworkers at the fire station are going to be cool with him listening to a 2002 album by Corey Feldman. But you never know!!!

TRACKLIST:

1. Former Child Actor
2. Diseased
3. Systematic Gateway
4. You Can't Win
5. Megalo Man
6. Phony People
7. I'm Flying Away
8. Jingle Bell Rock
9. What Is a Dog?
10. Imagine
11. I Believe Again
12. What's Up with Youth?

IS THERE REALLY A COVER OF "JINGLE BELL ROCK" ON THIS ALBUM: Yes

DOES THIS COUNT AS RECORD CLUB'S ANNUAL CHRISTMAS ALBUM: No

LENGTH: 49:44

WHERE TO LISTEN FOR FREE: YouTube

READING SOME SHIT: How about an interview with Feldman in 2016? How about the performance that inspired that interview? How about PoYB's 2017 non-review of The Goonies? So many directions to take this section, but not many that have to do with Corey Feldman in 2002.

Happy listening, Dave! Have a great week!

This Is My Blood: Go Birds!

As is the case whenever a host graciously provides a previously undiscovered beer at a family function for my enjoyment, I find it difficult to saying anything untoward regarding the beer itself. I like my in-laws, I like the Eagles, I like Flying Fish, I'm tolerant of hazy IPAs, I like drinking beers while a whirlwind of sugared-up children run and crawl and bounce around the room in which I am drinking. No complaints from me here.

As one of the few people I spend time with who seems to take craft beer seriously, I enjoy asking my brother-in-law about what he's drinking. The man always has a fancy brew in hand, and I appreciate the dedication to the art of the beer. That dedication extends to the manner in which he purchases his craft beers.

I wish I would've written down the service he uses, but he says that he orders beers online. From what I recall, it's a program that offers certain craft beers from all over the country, and you can pick and choose which ones you want. I think it might be a subscription service? We didn't really get into specifics (man, it's tough to have a conversation with someone when you both have two kids each running around).

I've tossed around the idea of doing something similar with this project, especially as it becomes clear just how many different beers are out there. I could do the This Is My Blood project for decades with no repeats if I had access to beers from all over the country. But in all my travels around the internet, I can never find any service that justifies the price (unless it's something hyper-local, like Attic Brewing, but that's not really what I'm talking about here).

Here are three popular services, to serve as examples of what I mean.

First, there's The Beer of the Month Club. This is a subscription service, where you pay X amount per month, and the beers are chosen for you. There's a newsletter too that explains where the beers are from, what kind of beers they are, what's special about them, and so on. It seems really neat! But if I have no control over what I'm getting, then there will be without a doubt some doubling and tripling of certain beers, and if I'm only drinking one beer per day, then there's no point of spending money on it. 

 

Furthermore, obviously, there's the matter of price. The most reasonably priced monthly subscription price is "The U.S. Microbrewed Beer Club," which promises twelve 12 oz. beers from two different U.S. breweries (four different types of beer total, three each). It's advertised as $29.95 per month, but tacks on $15 shipping for every order, so $45. I've paid $22.50 for a six pack before, so this isn't extraordinary, but remember, I'm only getting four-days-worth of drinking out of this club. I just cannot justify spending that much money—every month!—for beers that will last me half a week.

Second, there's CraftShack, which is more of a pay-by-the-beer model. There are beers from all over the country, and you can pick out which ones you want and have them shipped to you. If money were of no concern, then this would be the service for me, because you can choose one of each beer if you want. But price-wise... I still can't do it. 

 

I wanted to find out how much it would actually cost, so I threw some beers in the digital cart. I picked out four beers at random from the "discount" page (i.e. a dollar off, so around $4 or $5 per beer), and put two each in the cart (so eight beers total). I applied a 10%-off discount, and my subtotal came to $32.33. Not bad! Except, don't forget shipping, which was a whopping $25 dollars! Holy shit. No, I cannot buy eight beers for $58. I'm sorry.

Third, there's Tavour, which appears to be somewhat of a hybrid of the two model types. With Tavour, you pay a flat fee, and spend each month building your own 12-pack from the beers available at any given time. You can find the available beers on the app, which is pretty cool, actually. Once you build the case that you want, they ship it out. Simple and easy. So is it pricey?

Unlike CraftShack, I couldn't build a test pack, because I'm not going to download the app for no reason. So we can only guess what the price is. The Tavour website does have a "gift" page, where you can just send family and friends a pack of beers that they choose, instead of going through the process of picking the beers yourself through the app. And the example pack, which consists of a dubious "eight to sixteen beers," costs... ONE HUNDRED DOLLARS. Get the fuck out of here, man!

Look, this is not a judgment thing. If craft beer is that important to you, then like anything else that is important to anyone, I encourage you to spend your money on it. But if I can speak for me personally, this is not that important to me. I can list 100 things that I'd rather spend 100 dollars on other than eight beers. According to my calculations, $100 would get me 213.8 Hamm's Special Lights... also I could feed my family for a week with $100, but, ya know, we all have different priorities and such.

Anyways, I want you to know that, if this really is your thing, there are options for you on the interwebs. But if you don't give a shit about craft beer, then 1) I don't blame you, and 2) what the fuck are you doing reading 299 blog posts about craft beer?!

NOTES

BEER: Go Birds! (I sincerely enjoy the pains that Flying Fish goes through to avoid copyright infringement, even claiming that this is a beer for "the professional ornithologist or casual birder alike." It's charming! At the end of this year I think I'm going to find that Flying Fish ends up being one of my favorite breweries for shit like this.)

STYLE: New England IPA

ABV: 6.0%

BREWED BY: Flying Fish Brewing Company

LOCATION: Somerdale, NJ

PURCHASED AT: somewhere in the 'burbs

PAIRED WITH: Jules Thin Crust pizza (their buffalo chicken pizza was pretty interesting)

GRADE: 3 pukes out of 5

 

BEER COUNT: 445.5 (shit, I forgot to mention that I also had a Corona Extra and a Harvest Patch Shandy, both of which I've had before... what can I say, I was thirsty, these kids fucking wear me out)

Song of the Week: "Distant Axis"

HERE we go with all those previous songs of the week

"Distant Axis"

Matt Berninger

from Serpentine Prison

2020

"Distant Axis" may or may not be the best song on the overall impressive (and, depending on whether this album ages like fine National wine, mostly excellent) Matt Berninger solo effort, Serpentine Prison. It is, however, the only song that has made me do a double take every single time it comes on the speakers. This is because the guitar part sounds EXACTLY like the guitar part from the Decemberists' "The Crane Wife 3."

This isn't a unique observation—I've seen comments on various message boards about it before and after I was able to confirm it for myself—and so the point of this post isn't to "expose" any hidden Easter egg or anything like that. I'm mainly just hear to ponder what it all means.

I don't even want to say that Matt Berninger, or any artist for that matter, has a responsibility to make sure that their songs don't sound anything like any other song that has ever existed. There's a great possibility that he had heard "The Crane Wife 3" at one point, internalized it, and subconsciously let it swim to the surface as he was putting together music of his own, years later. I wonder if there was—or will be—a moment when Berninger hears "The Crane Wife 3" again and has an "oh fuck!" moment.

Conversely, I wonder if Colin Meloy has sat down to listen to Serpentine Prison yet, and what his reaction was. I guess it could go either way, flattery or annoyance. It's not like dollar signs are gonna flash across his eyes or anything—two indie rock dudes fighting over residuals seems to me like two rats fighting over a piece of cheese on the Titanic, and neither artist seems like the type of person to do that anyway.

But there's definitely the potential for an awkward interaction at some future Coachella festival (wait, do bands like the Decemberists and the National play at festivals like that? I've never been). Like, I imagine Meloy seeing Berninger walking across the festival grounds from afar, putting down his book of Russian poetry, and slowly walking over to where Berninger is now standing: "Hey man, heard your album..."

That opens up a whole box of questions, though, doesn't it? Can you own intellectual property like that? Does Colin Meloy have any right to say that that is his acoustic guitar riff? Like I said, I can't imagine either one of these guys attempting to figure it out officially, but plenty of musical artists and bloodsuckers are constantly moving through our court system attempting to argue just that—people can own a lyric, or a riff, or a fucking chord, and that allegedly means that no one else is allowed to use that.

The thought process is logical, but only within reason. I could see maybe if Matt Berninger was singing a song based on a Japanese folk tale about how a woman turns into a crane. But "Distant Axis" is not that. It just has a guitar part that is strongly reminiscent of that 2006 Decemberists song. I have no idea if there's an argument to be made in court.

Nothing to get alarmed or upset about, especially because, like, "The Crane Wife 3" is just so fucking good. Why wouldn't any artist want to create their own song that sounds like it? The existence of "Distant Axis" does nothing to diminish the impact of the opening strumming of The Crane Wife. They can sound alike and both exist comfortably in the indie rock sphere.

Isn't that what the bedrock of rap is? Taking music that exists, and impressing your own ideas on top of that? Why can't we do this in indie rock as well? If one of my favorite musical artists wants to cherry-pick certain sounds from some of my other favorite musical artists, then I have no fucking reason to complain.

Anyways, you've listened to "Distant Axis" above, and now I'll embed "The Crane Wife 3" below. Tell me what you think. Both are good songs, right? So who the fuck cares?

This Is My Blood: Supa' Sumo

I know I've had my words with hazy IPAs in the past, but even I cannot turn down a $2 pounder of an imperial IPA, no matter how fucking hazy it is. My question when buying this beer: Why is it so cheap? Really, I was asking: What is wrong with this beer?

Honestly, besides my usual bitching about the inferiority of hazy/juicy IPAs, I couldn't find anything wrong with it. (I am also discounting my fury over the errant apostrophe in the name of the beer.) Sure, it was more citrusy than any beer should be (same ol' story with hazy beers though), but the powerful bitter hoppiness evened it out enough that I was satisfied. (Note: maybe hazy IPAs are excusable when they are double hazy IPAs? Like, maybe the "double" part only applies to the bitterness and never to the fruitiness?)

Should we discount too the possibility that Supa' Sumo ended up on the IGA discount rack by mistake? I don't know how beers are chosen for that fridge. I always assumed it was the beers that weren't flying off the regularly-priced racks, but are we really going to assume that an imperial hazy IPA, i.e. the bee's fucking knees of every craft beer hipster in the northeast U.S., wasn't selling at a satisfactory clip? That's a stretch.

Maybe they over-ordered? Not by mistake, but, I dunno, making the same assumptions I am, thinking that maybe any imperial IPA would be a proverbial hot cake, but something about Supa' Sumo's labeling made it the least appealing of all the imperial IPAs in stock? I'm just spitballing here, but maybe the cartoonishness of the label makes it seem less serious? Maybe schmucks equate dignified labeling with superior taste? No fucking clue if that's true, and I don't think I'm going to be able to find anything like an answer to that on the internet.

I had it in my head that maybe the location of the brewery had something to do with it too. See, I guess I've been weirded out lately by how many beers from NY I've been drinking, and I've started to think that maybe people don't like NY beers in Philly and that's why they end up on the discount shelf. But now that I type it, I'm going through the recent beers, and am not seeing too many NY beers after all. If we're talking only beers with the yellow sticker on top, then only four out of the last ten beers are from NY.

Plus, Supa' Sumo is from Toppling Goliath Brewing, which is in Iowa, so I don't even know why I'm typing about fucking New York right now. I guess if I had seen a pattern, I could connect it, but there's no pattern regarding all the $2 beers at IGA, so no string is to be connected on the corkboard between Iowa breweries and NY breweries.

We have reached the end of the road. I admit at this time that I do not have answers to you, except for this one: if there comes a time and a place when you have the opportunity to buy a strong, decent imperial IPA for under three bucks, you take that opportunity without even thinking twice, okay? Tell 'em your old drinking buddy Joe K*** sent you.

NOTES

BEER: Supa' Sumo (a note on the apostrophe: this punctuation mark is to denote the omission of a letter or letters in a word, not the replacement of letters, so when you change the "er" in "super" to an "a," then an apostrophe is not needed)

STYLE: Imperial IPA

ABV: 7.8%

BREWED BY: Toppling Goliath Brewing Company

LOCATION: Decorah, Iowa

PURCHASED AT: IGA

PAIRED WITH: Burger King (foiled yet again by these fucking Port Richmond ne'er-do-wells at the fast food counters when they forgot to include two purchased sandwiches and made me choose between eating what we were given or wasting another fucking 25 minutes in the car getting chicken sandwiches while the rest of the food is cold... how many fucking times am I going to fall for this fucking scam of a system?!?!?!?!?!?!)

GRADE: 3 pukes out of 5

 

BEER COUNT: 442.5