Ray Pride

Pabst Blue Ribbon was my father's beer when I was small, condensation-filmed six-packs brought home in the dry county from the nearby American Legion Club. Mom never really approved, but I never wanted to drink beer anyway: my beverage palate then tended to Dr. Pepper and since hemp was grown during World War II in Western Kentucky, potent ditch weed was as common as dandelions in every backyard. Years later, in my pre-21 drinking days of rum and strong screwdrivers, a friend one night at Neo found himself with two pints and only one thirst and passed the second along. Free beer? I know I'll hate it. I don't remember what the vogue-ish, trend-o pint was those many years ago but I know the locals' beer of choice is the latter-day PBR, draft for $2. (Their provender brew had been Leinenkugel for over a decade, but when that company raised its barrel cost to boutique prices, Leinie got rubbed out to avoid any confusion about why it was now $4.50.) The tap's lines are kept clean, they go through kegs and kegs of the stuff, and it's always the right cold temperature, not too cold, but cold enough to prevent the rim of the glass getting sticky before you get to the bottom. A couple over the course of a night out hit the spot, and they lack the light skunkiness of the canned version. (Canned Old Style is another discussion.) The taste reminds me a little of Chicago tap water, which, at the right chill, is some of the best-tasting city water in the world. Too warm, and it's not so hot. And I never tire of hearing David Lynch's cracked tribute to working-class America, whether spoken aloud by someone bellied up to the rail, or in Dennis Hopper's Frank Booth voice in my head, "Heineken? Fuck that shit! Pabst Blue Ribbon!" Generations of Americans made that beer: German-Americans trump Germans any old night. (Even if it might have been brewed by Canadians.)

PBR's everywhere; this pint's the $2 draft at The Rainbo Club, 1156 North Damen. Pabstblueribbon.com

(2007-05-14)

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I am not one to resist the opportunity to rush headlong and heedless toward an apparent horizon of light and gush when I see a movie that cares for the mystery of love and longitude in shared human experience, but I have to say that alongside the Irish marvel of a musical, "Once," opening in a couple of weeks, the only release in 2007 to hover nearby would be 28-year-old Sarah Polley's debut as a writer-director, "Away From Her"
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