AFFORDABILITY: I watched the NHL Winter Classic from Fenway Park because with no cable and only antennae TV there's not a lot of college football games anymore on New Year's Day, and the Bruins jerseys in that old school yellow (or maybe that's what they wear now) was some tight shit. I switched it off and didn't watch forever. We were making food as a family or something, and I plopped down in the living room couch that rides like a low rider, cut on the TV, and seriously, I saw it was overtime and then the one dude scored the winning goal. It was that perfectly timed. That little moment of karma, combined with no college football of note on my TV on a day sitting around drinking beer, combined with the Redskins being suck for a decade now, combined with Alex Ovechkin being the most awesome ever, is slowly shifting my molecular structure into hockey fan. The fact we got two feet of snow halfway through December and it hasn't been above freezing in like four days has helped as well, as my molecules be chilly and more apt to electron charge polarity shifting, which will change your personality. That's what's happening now. It's scientific. 4 out of 5.
DESTROYABILITY: Wicked destroyable if you drink enough of them. I'm still so thoroughly enjoyed by what little of the NHL Winter Classic game that I saw that I'm like, "Boston Lager's the best," even though I know Massachusetts people are a strange inbred mix of dirt trash and snooty that creates a whole race of white guys who like Boston sports teams. Maybe if the Patriots accidentally make it to the AFC Championship game I can listen to plenty of sports radio and re-evaluate my like of the Boston Lager then. But for now, 3 out of 5.
LABEL AESTHETIC: The Boston Lager label is an old ass President dude in a Red Sox hat, alternate style, old school charcoal grey with a slightly red-hued black B, like it was made of flannel. The guy has two buxom lasses with the ties to their upper corset exposed at the low cut line of their chemises, one on each arm. He is holding a beer and a musket, and there's an albino squirrel riding a horse on the hill behind him, carrying a lantern with some Freemasonic looking insignia on it. Plus some old-fashioned ugly kids rolling each other in empty in barrels. 5 out of 5.
CORPORATE MASTER: So I decided to look up Samuel Adams beer inside the Wikipedias to see what they were all about, hoping for a long history or whatever to give them some new life in my Sam Adams jaded eyes. No such luck. Basically, the story is this... Some dude who is a business consultant and graduated from Harvard with all sorts of bullshit had a great grandfather who made a beer called Koch Lager. He allegedly takes the family recipe and recreates it, quits his consulting job to pursue craft beer full-time, and gets rich. Except, he's a consultant, so how can you trust that back story, as it sounds like Public Relations 102 to me. Aside from this, the company is started by him and two investors, and the main dude hires the guy who invented light beer in the 1970s to help him tinker with the family recipe to get it to where it should be. On top of all this, almost immediately, the shit was contract brewed in Pennsylvania, and now is mostly brewed contractually in Cincinnati. It's not even a fucking Boston beer, although the Boston Lager is supposed to be the direct descendant of Koch Lager. Yeah whatever. And Adam and Eve are my great grandparents. Y'all can believe crazy bullshit if you want, but I'm not down. 0 out of 5.
OVERALL AMBIANCE: Just as a longingly dream of an America that goes from globalism towards localism, and probably in an economically dictated downfall, breaks up into regional states that are more attentive to the needs of the people and not the industries, I wish that things like Budweiser and it's 17 brands of the same thing or Miller's giant umbrella of different cans for the same formula, could disintegrate into popular regional breweries like Iron City. Hell, that's mostly what Miller bought up over the years, with all the Olympias and Lone Stars and Old Styles and Rainiers and Schaefers and Schlitzes and Pearls and Black Labels and on and on and on. Break it all back down to a more organic compound, where you're within driving distance of the four-story brick building in a nearby city where they make your beer, and you can walk in the front lobby and tell the information desk lady how much you love the beer and she'll give you a couple of beer coasters, can coozie, and maybe even a t-shirt on a good day. If that was America, I'd god bless it every day; as it stands, man fuck it, I just get drunk out of depression, not patriotic fervor. Wait, I accidentally was writing about Iron City beer again. Funny how I ended with "patriotic fervor" and I was supposed to be writing about stupid Samuel Adams the revolutionary era dude's fake lager from Boston. But everything I said still stands, just Samuel Adams is none of that and probably the opposite, so they just add to my depression, both emotionally and financially. Bastards. 1 out of 5.
TOTAL RATING: 2 & 3/5 STARS!
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