Consumer Alert: Blue Moon Belgian White is a Coors product.
I took a tour of the Coors Brewery in Golden, Colorado a few years ago and sampled Blue Moon. It pales in comparison to the true Belgian beers (with its measly 5.4% apv), so don't get suckered into paying inflated prices for this swill.
The label says it's brewed by the Blue Moon Brewing Company, and unless you search for information on Blue Moon you're unlikely to know it's a Coors product, which says to me that Coors is trying to attract consumers who look unfavorably on their products. And frankly, if a beer has to be served ice cold to be palatable (as Coors Light is marketed), who wouldn't look unfavorably on it?
Friday, October 28, 2005
(Buzz) Killing Moon
Save the Seals
Phillybits has called on bloggers to use the Presidential Seal (pictured far right in honor of this administration) on their web sites, so I consider this entry my civic duty for civil disobedience.
Bush couldn’t give a damn about saving seals (or any other form of wildlife), but damned if his tighty whiteys aren’t in a bunch over the Presidential Seal (sorry for that unpleasant mental image).
The White House’s letter to The Onion for unlicensed use of the Presidential Seal has been widely reported. Personally I think it’s another way of drawing attention away from a leaking Cheney (common in older men according to WebMD).
The article in the New York Times about Bush taking issue with The Onion ends with a comment by White House spokesman Trent Duffy, “"Despite the seriousness of the Bush White House, more than one Bush staffer reads The Onion and enjoys it thoroughly," he said. "We do have a sense of humor, believe it or not." Obviously, Duffy’s sense of humor is not shared by Bush. Expect his termination within the month.
Wednesday, October 26, 2005
There's Always Room for Jello...Except Tonight
Check out the dance card for tonight.
Ween at the House of Blues in Atlantic City
Jello Biafra and the Melvins at the First Unitarian Church
Clap Your Hands, Say Yeah! at the TLA
I had a ticket to the Ween show before I found out about Jello and the Melvins. I love Ween (and I can't count the number of times I've seen them), but the Jello/Melvins show is going to be INSANE! Plus, getting to A.C. just isn't as convenient as walking to the F.U.C.
The J/M show is sold out, so if you don't have a ticket go see Clap Your Hands Say Yeah! at the TLA and support Katrina Relief (Philebrity has free CYHSY downloads). Do not be a self-important asshole and show up at the Church thinking you're going to get in. You're not. About a month ago when CYHSY played the Church there was a big "Sold Out" sign in large print hanging outside the venue. Wouldn't you know a bunch of illiterate assholes didn't think the sign applied to them and tried to get in anyway. They were turned away cold, but in the process they blocked the entrance for people with the foresight to buy tickets in advance. They were lucky it was a pacified hipster crowd for CYHSY. Try that shit tonight, and you're going to get your fuckin' clock cleaned.
Tuesday, October 25, 2005
Paid in "Full"
I read a long story today.*
Finished Tom Wolfe’s A Man in Full (excellent read—an immense, sprawling slice of Americana in league with DeLillo’s Underworld and Chabon’s The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay) that stretches from coast to coast and cuts across all stratums of society.
Although set primarily in Atlanta, Wolfe’s tale parallels Philadelphia (and probably every city in the U.S.—which may explain its vast appeal; people relate to it) with its shady land development deals, shifty politicians, tarnished sports superstars, and social maneuvering at every level (from intrapersonal to interpersonal). It’s a very cognitive novel. The wheelings and dealings that take place on a city-wide scale reflect the internal/personal decisions and motives of each individual. Man tackles issues of race, power, affluence, wealth, social standing, etc.…with everything tying together in the end as neatly (though not as pleasantly) as John Kennedy O’Toole’s A Confederacy of Dunces.
One of the best parts of the novel is Wolfe’s ability to capture and contrast the relative insecurities, anxieties, and troubles of the working poor and the fabulously wealthy. It put the Terrell Owens contract in a whole new light for me. I sneered the first time I heard T.O. say he couldn’t provide for his family/children under his current contract/pay scale. This football star makes more money in a season than most Americans (myself included) will ever see in our entire lives, and yet he is crying that he can’t make ends meet. Of course, if Sunday’s game against the Chargers is any indication, T.O. has started waiting tables for extra income (and general consensus is he shouldn't quit his day job).
I probably shouldn’t feel compassion for the financial woes of someone so incredibly fortunate and rich as Terrell Owens, but after reading Charlie Croker’s mental distress over financial problems in A Man in Full, I feel better able to understand the anxiety Owens is feeling (if he’s not faking). Wolfe makes his points without beating the reader over the head with them. He cuts through race, gender, and economic status to render human every one of his characters, which doesn’t necessarily make them more likeable.
*Actually, I read it in early September.
Sunday, October 23, 2005
Mass Transit
SEPTA, our sorry excuse for a public transportation system, has just unveiled a new marketing campaign. I'll leave it to others to question the timing of this expensive new ad campaign in the face of a potential strike on October 31. I'm going to question the campaign itself.
Philebrity had an entry on the ads about a week ago, but it wasn't until Friday that I came face to face with the slogans. The first two ads put the pun in "mass transit" as they both revolve around food and eating.
"This is an eatin' town, and I'm an eatin' man."
"There's no debate. It's called gravy, not pasta sauce."
For years I wondered where the "there" was in SEPTA's old slogan, "We're Getting There." Now I know "there" meant the fucking food trough. It explains everything. Why did that bus fail to stop to pick me up? Because the driver's an eatin' man and he was too damned hungry to stop.
SEPTA: Call us incompetent; don't call us late for dinner.
Dubbed the "Genuine Philly" campaign, SEPTA's website translates the intended message of the ads: "SEPTA is the driving* force and fabric that holds the Greater Philadelphia region together." If SEPTA's holding this town together, then Philly's in a shitload of trouble.
Trading cards based on the ads are available at SEPTA sales locations and feature coupons for Reading Terminal Market, which make them more valuable than David Bell's baseball card.
*Oh those punny bastards.
Thursday, October 13, 2005
I Do Run On
"It's been a long time, I shouldn't have left you/Without a strong rhyme to step to"
-Eric B and Rakim, "I Know You Got Soul"
It turns out I curse too much in my blog to access it from work. Well, fuck. Guess I'll just have to access it from home at 3 in the morning when I'm awake and sick as a dog.
This entry, my first in about a month, is a little gross. If you have a sensitive stomach (one of the few symptoms I don't currently have), but are still jonesin' for a little Bloody Knee Jerk, check out this piece I wrote on Sufjan Stevens a few weeks ago in the City Paper.
Getting back to the point, I am illin' to the point where I'm coming up with nasal metaphors. My nostrils share an appendage (the nose, for those of you who flunked anatomy), but right now they couldn't be more different. The left nostril I've dubbed Philadelphia. It has some problems, but in general it's functioning fine. Just a few centimeters away across a thin membrane (which would be the Delaware River in this metaphor), my right nostril is Camden: full of pain, pressure, and possibly a crack den or two.
My sinus cavities run deeper than the mines of Moria, and right now there's something evil and burning down in the abyss. It has me wishing Superman were real and that I could somehow convince him to shrink himself and fly into my nose (like he does with that city in glass he keeps around) and use his heat vision to burn off all the mucous from the inside of my nose. Chances are Superman would become engulfed in snot, get lost in the dark tunnels, and die.
For all the blowing, kneading, medication, and even punching, "I'm still running" to quote Sleater-Kinney's "What's Mine is Yours". My next step is to get a suction pump, attach some aquarium air hose to it, shove it in as far as it will go, and syphon out the goo. Is there an all-night pet shop around?
This entry is as disposable as a used tissue.
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