Beervana, Wisconsin: Local brewers at the cutting edge of the American craft-beer revolution

When the majority of American beer connoisseurs speak of a “craft” beer paradise, a Shangri-La of locally brewed malted barley & hops concoctions, they usually mean Portland, Oregon (USA).  Also known as Portlandia & the people’s republic of portland, the Rose City - a West Coast community of 600,000 - has embraced the portmanteau moniker Beervana.  And the hype is actually justified:  Portland deserves the craft-beer title of the continental United States, given its approximately 59 quirky brew-pubs & craft breweries.   

The term “Beervana” is simultaneously (1) a nod to the mellow Pacific Northwest / West Coast seeker vibe - available in even the rainiest parts of climatically diverse Oregon, Washington & California; and (2) high praise for the heavenly array of high-quality local beers on tap at Portland’s licensed premises.  The craft-beer revolution, of course, is not limited to the coasts.  It has spread far & wide throughout contemporary America.  

The craze for hops-enhanced pale ales & other trendy beers - whether on tap or in recyclable bottles & growlers (re-usable 64-oz. glass jugs) - shows no sign of abating soon.  Hip cities, such as Seattle & San Francisco, may enjoy a moderate climate & a sophisticated culture.  But their craft beers are no better than those brewed in, say, Kenosha (Wisconsin).  In that city of 100,000 souls, Public Craft Brewing Co. & Rustic Road Brewing Co., both established in 2012 in the city’s revived downtown, lend hipster cred & cutting-edge chic to that former AMC/Chrysler factory town.

Indeed, Wisconsin’s many craft brewers - from metro Milwaukee & Madison to Green Bay, Black River Falls & beyond - are giving Portland a run for their money.  When it comes to offering tasty options for locally brewed, small-batch craft beers, the proud brewing tradition of the Badger State has been rescued from the slow death of corporate mediocrity.  Moreover, these niche gourmet beers fit the emerging foodie economy, unlike the insipid mass-market beers sold by global giants such as SABMiller or Anheuser-Busch InBev.  

In fact, Wisconsin craft brewers have made important contributions to the small-is-better industry legacy.  In his list of the “Ten Great American Beers” (see the June/July 2002 issue of American Heritage), for example, renowned beer expert Michael Jackson includes Wisconsin Belgian Red by New Glarus Brewing Co. (est. 1993).  He says that this take on a Belgian cherry beer has “an almost purple color, a textured body, a malty background, and a beautiful balance of almondy fruitiness and tartness.”  In a nod to the international success of American craft brewers, Jackson adds that this tasty beer from tiny New Glarus, Wisconsin, “has won several awards in Europe.”

In Milwaukee (population:  599,000), home of the Milwaukee Brewers baseball club as well as the iconic Harley-Davidson motorcycle & gear brand, the renaissance of craft brewing was launched by the Sprecher Brewing Co., which sold its first beer in 1985.  What could go better together than baseball, Harley bikes & beer?  Meanwhile in the state capital, Madison (population:  250,000), successful breweries such as Ale Asylum (eastside) & Capital Brewery (in suburban Middleton) have become established leaders in craft brewing.  You might say that Milwaukee & Madison are vying to become the Mecca of Midwest craft brewing.

Today the leading innovator among Brew City’s numerous craft brewers is Lakefront Brewery, founded in Milwaukee in 1987, when it brewed a mere 60 barrels.  In addition to an annual production of thousands of barrels of its own varieties, Lakefront also custom brews proprietary recipes on contract for area brewpubs - such as the refreshing Grampa Jack’s Pilsner, exclusively available at Reefpoint Brewhouse (est. 2012) in nearby Racine, Wisconsin.  

Located in a restored warehouse on North Commerce Street, adjacent to downtown & beside the Milwaukee River, Lakefront Brewing was cited by the editors of Draft magazine (in 2008) as offering the best “family friendly” brewery tour in the world. They put it ahead of the staid yet generous tour at the gargantuan Guinness brewery at St. James Gate, Dublin (Ireland).  And deservedly so:  having taken both tours, I assure you that indie-sized Lakefront Brewery’s hour-long tour beats the Guinness version hands down for entertainment value.  

Having a sharp sense of humor is a vital tool for survival, a way of remaining sane in a sometimes crazy world.  And here’s the genius of the Lakefront tour:  it’s pretty funny (if you understand American English well).  Our middle-aged guide, Katie, presented herself as a refugee from the corporate sector:  she used to be an accountant, but switched to teaching.  Lakefront Brewery manager Chris Ranson explains that their tour “revolves around the brewing process” so that “participants get a real good sense of brewing.”   

Yet it’s not at all a dry learning experience for thirsty adults.  One happy customer called Lakefront’s tour “the Animal House of brewery tours,” reportedly because the $7 admission charge includes four 6-ounce tap beers, served in a spacious Old World-style beer hall, a coupon for another pint at a local bar & a souvenir Lakefront pint glass.  The brewery’s owner, Russ Klisch, kicked the fun up a notch by purchasing two iconic items of local memorabilia:  (1) the chalet that mascot Bernie Brewer used as an outfield perch to watch every Brewers’ home game at Milwaukee County Stadium; and (2) the bottling line used in the title sequence of Laverne & Shirley, a lame ’70s sitcom where two goofy girlfriends work at the fictional Shotz Brewery in Milwaukee.  

Lakefront also offers a “technical tour” (conducted especially for home-brewers) for $30, as well as private tours upon request.  In addition to their many year-round beers (such as Extended Play IPA) & seasonal offerings (e.g. Cherry Lager), Lakefront makes a gluten-free beer (New Grist) for celiac-disease sufferers as well as an Organic ESB for health freaks.  Lakefront Brewing has been certified “green” for its environmental practices by Travel Green Wisconsin.

Craft brewing is an industry ripe for parody, with its eccentric brewers, offbeat beer-names & garish labels.  Flying Dog Brewery in Colorado, for example, uses the punky splatter illustrations of Ralph Steadman on its labels as well as a tagline by “Gonzo” journalist and longtime Woody Creek (CO) resident Hunter S. Thompson:  “Good people drink good beer.”  Some craft brewers resort to desperate measures in order to cut through the clutter of this suddenly crowded market.  Only three percent of US beer sales (some six million barrels) last year were domestic crafts.  However, that’s up 17% from 2012, according to Brewers Association figures.  No wonder craft-beer brands keep proliferating.  

Is it a delusional business model, spreading like a beer-borne contagion?  Or a viable consumer trend?  Only time will tell.  As evidence of craft-beer marketing run amok, I offer Exhibit A (as in apropos or absurdity):  an otherwise appealing bottle of dark brown Scotch ale, by Sacramento Brewing Co. of California, is cursed with the yeti-inspired name Sac-Squatch.  Doesn’t exactly trip off the tongue, does it?  

So it’s high time that Christopher Guest make a mockumentary on the subject.  He could call it Bottles of Glory, a bizarre journey into the creative heart of the American craft brewer.  (“More fun than a lost weekend,” drones Roger Ebert’s immortal Internet avatar.)  Guest & a pair of longtime improv collaborators, Harry Shearer & Michael McKean, famously spoofed aging British rock stars & heavy-metal headbangers in This is Spinal Tap (1984).  They deftly skewered the Sixties folk-music generation in A Mighty Wind (2003).  They even lambasted purebred-dog competitions (Best in Show, 2000) & community theatre (Waiting for Guffman, 1997).  Satirizing small-batch craft brewers who aspire to make a legendary beer, while conspiring to undermine their beer-addled competitors, might make for a good film scenario.  

Lakefront guide Katie deployed bad puns & bald-faced lies in telling her condensed Story of Beer.  But she kept her balance, deftly sidestepping comic bombs.  More important, her passion for the subject was palpable.  Lakefront’s Chris Ranson hires all the tour guides, requiring each applicant to have home-brewing experience.  He made a solid hire in Katie’s case.

Conventional wisdom would have you believe that the post-’80s “craft beer revolution” only happened because, in October 1978, U.S. President Jimmy Carter signed the homebrewers & winemakers bill.  That federal law led to thousands of beer enthusiasts experimenting with recipes, making up to the legal limit of 200 gallons of beer per household.  Some of them were encouraged to go commercial, opening brewpubs & micro-breweries across the vast parched landscape of North America.  

What’s usually left out of the Hollywood myth outlined above is the countervailing ’70s trend toward taste-free “light beers” (Miller Lite, Coors Light, etc.).  The aspirational American beer-lover’s palette demanded something better.  It devised an American response to such substantial European imports as Grolsch (with its porcelain cap), Guinness & St. Pauli Girl.  In the end, demanding consumers will create & sustain diverse markets - in so-called “free societies,” anyway.  Beer is no exception.

In William Hogarth’s 1751 print Beer Street, the British artist depicts drinking ales & porters as a life-affirming habit.  In sharp contrast to the dying wretches of Gin Lane (a companion illustration), people on allegorical Beer Street look healthy & happy.  Hogarth festoons the scene with a sign celebrating beer’s main ingredient:  Health to the barley mow!  Or as the old Czech folk song puts it:  Kde se pivo pije / tam se dobře žije!  [Wherever beer is brewed / life is lived well!]

In a cover story for American Heritage (June/July 2002), “Beer and America,” Library of America publisher Max Rudin calls beer the “drink of democracy.”  He embraces both the modest working-class origins & the literary legacy of a sometimes denigrated aspect of American culture.  Rudin quotes beer-praising passages from Jack London & John Steinbeck & he cites a nose-thumbing beer gag in the Marx Brothers film A Night at the Opera as proof of beer’s deeply ingrained popularity in the USA.  

Fortunately, contemporary craft brewers, including several from Wisconsin, have not only improved the taste & variety of American beer.  They’ve also educated discriminating beer drinkers’ palettes along the way.  Cheers!

NOTE - Related recommended reading: (1) for details about the history of beer in the Badger State, get Breweries of Wisconsin by Jerry Apps (Madison, WI:  University of Wisconsin Press, 2nd ed. 2005); and (2) for a generously illustrated overview of the industry, see Brewed Awakening:  Behind the Beers & Brewers Leading the World’s Craft Brewing Revolution by Joshua M. Bernstein (NY:  Sterling Epicure, 2011).

[© 2014 by J.C. Mrázek]

A Guided Tour at the Museum of Human Folly (in the Year 2114)

Ladies and gentlemen, kindly come this way.  This is an adults-only institution, so no offspring under age sexteen are permitted.  Alright, we're all adults here?  Awesome.  Step carefully, folks - we haven't finished our renovations yet.  There may be a few slippery spots.  

Thank you all for visiting us here at the Museum of Human Folly.  I will serve as your guide today, my name is CharlesKultman.  Please feel free to call me Chuck!  I also happen to be the chief curator of the museum.  

We've had some staff cutbacks recently, so I'm pulling double duty.  Don't hesitate to ask any questions - I'm a font of trivia and a former professor.  You can tell by my Harris Tweed jacket that I'm a knowledge expert.  As you've undoubtedly noticed, last year's Pacific-Inland Sea tsunami did some serious damage to our hundred-year-old facility.  

You might've heard that the ultra-tech subterranean BobDylan Memorial Auditorium was ruined.  Sadly, I must confirm it for you.  So the MHF will be hosting no music-concerts, no art-performances, no pre-GoogleGoggle videoshows at the BDMA for the time being.  

We pray for your patience and understanding as we rebuild.  Berkeley as a whole will rebuild itself.  The UC alumni endowment has wisely ensured that the new Cal-Nike-Achilles Stadium will be located far from the Hayward fault.  As Saint WoodyGuthrie once sang:  "We been travelin' down a hard, dusty road / everyman is a refugee, Tom Joad."  

This odd museum of ours is too useful a treasure to waste, so we simply cannot close it down.  Fortunately, we're in the process of securing a grant from a generous benefactor - (in a stage whisper:) it's the GlobalOilFoundation.  So we'll probably be able to keep our doors open throughout the reconstruction.  

If any of you would care to make a tax-deductible gift to our non-profit organization - to remember the Museum of Human Folly in your estate plan, for example - then I urge you to talk to me after the tour.  As they say in OldMexico, pardon our dust!  

As you can tell, this ornate marble lobby has sustained some algae growth.  I try to think of it as an unplanned non-faux organic enhancement.  This, after all, is the anteroom to NorthAmerica's temple of cautionary tales.  Isn't she beautiful?  

It breaks my heart to admit it but, the fact is, this fine design-space has been sullied.  Violated by MotherNature, if you will.  And the building as a whole has incurred some minor structural damage.  But please don't fret - we're monitoring the entire building for ground-stability and air-quality.  And no localized earthquakes are expected in the next several weeks, the GeoForecasterGeneral says.  

Let's proceed to the display-galleries, shall we?  Be curious and be brave, that's my motto.  Or as it says on the 50-dross coin, "Always forward, NorthAmericans!"  

We're now entering the fragrant, subtropical Buffett Wing.  Watch out for falling coconuts - those palm trees are real!  The music audible on your AppleApps earbuds was created in the late 1970s by our multi-talented benefactor, JimmyBuffett.  Sounds pretty fresh, doesn't it?  If you're hungry later, we recommend a trip to BuffetsMargaritaville restaurant and brew-pub, just 5 miles from our door on Route 420.  

It's across the motorway from the HunterSThompson firing-range and chemical-pleasuredome, where there's never a shortage of bullets or an outage of fun.  The CarlosSantana Bay area is so blessed in the variety of its tourist attractions, isn't it?

Now, on your left, behind the bulletproof glass, you'll notice the SolarWave&WindEnergy Cabinet of Evolutionary Curiosities.  The labels explain where we obtained these odd items of genetic mutation impelled by industrial pollution.  I'm particularly proud to display our rare collection of Diablo Canyon mutant fish, bivalves and reptiles.  Getting that mothballed nuclear plant up and running didn't do the local fauna any favors!  

Scientists are still calculating the number of people who might have gotten either cancer or superpowers thanks to the explosion and radiation leak at DC in 2063.  That was a joke, folks.  Don't be afraid to laugh - it's the best medicine, and the cheapest! 

Perhaps the most intriguing exhibit - at least to me - is medical in nature.  Over here on the bottom shelf of the CanadaHealthAssurance Cabinet of Surgical Miracles you'll see an amputated, preserved soldier's leg with a bionic knee-joint.  This crude artificial device was apparently implanted after the man's natural-knee was destroyed by mine-shrapnel in the third Afghan Campaign, around the year 2037.  Looks like that poor warrior had bad luck on the battlefield twice, eh?  

Without artifacts like this long-dead hero's leg, we'd have difficulty bearing  witness to the mystifying follies of our ancestors.  It makes you wonder, for example, what other desperate things people used to do just in order to walk?  Thank the Ford for SegWayWheels!  Ambulation is so much easier nowadays.  Who needs knees?

I'll say farewell to you here, my dear patrons.  But I'm leaving you in the capable hands - well, virtual hands, anyway - of my trusty cyber-doppelgänger, BotChuck2.  Thank you again for coming, ladies, gentlemen and nongenders!  And try to behave, BC2 - no more "Danger, Will Robinson" pranks, okay?  (stage whisper:) Please don't be put off by BC2's dark-lensed spectacles.

The future's looking so bright that BC2 has to wear RayBanShades.  We certainly don't want his EpicMicroCircuits to melt.  Have a good day, everyone - and better tomorrows!

The Weird, the Bad & the Unbearable

Surviving a World of Crazies
(a satirical essay)

“When the going gets weird, the weird turn pro.”
- Dr. Hunter S. Thompson

People like to categorize things. Being a person, I’m no different. For example, I divide other people into 3 types. I do this for my amusement as well as for my safety. Although they might seem like vague catchall categories, the utility of such a classification of our fellow humans is indisputable. Mine may not be a scientifically precise schema, but it works. Keep in mind that there are borderline cases, people who are difficult to classify precisely. People can be ambiguous and deceptive buggers.

1. The WEIRD.
The first anthropological type that I’ve identified is the weird. These are your garden-variety, everyday, more or less regular folks. It includes neurotics, eccentrics and harmless weirdos as well as more conventional men and women who hide their weirdness - which is an innate characteristic of humanity. Generally, they make good friends and sometimes even decent lovers. You might even be one yourself. In fact, odds are you are weird: government-funded studies indicate that approximately three out of four people are merely weird and, therefore, not normally dangerous. Basket cases and tattoo addicts may be weird; then again, they may be unbearable (see category 3 below).

2. The BAD.
These are the truly awful people, mean-spirited geniuses or morons without a conscience. Do not be conned by them. Such humanoids are not bad in the the ironic slang sense of “bad” (meaning good). They are evil and must be exterminated. Or at least shunned. They operate with a constant death wish, either their own or perhaps yours, should you cross a bad guy’s path at the wrong time. The term encompasses everyone from perverted psychopaths like Milwaukee’s own Jeffrey Dahmer, sadistic dictators like Idi Amin and most armed compound dwellers. Throw in some neo-Nazis, a few Islamic jihadis and the pedophile next door and suddenly you’ve got a dangerous cocktail party of bad actors. Fortunately, such unregenerate assholes are relatively rare. But they make up for their low numbers by posing a threat to society’s very existence. They are the nuclear bombs in our midst. Defuse them if you dare!

3. The UNBEARABLE.
This is the sort of person who grates on the chalkboard of your nerves simply by being proximate. To illustrate this sizable sector of the population, imagine the boy or girl, man or woman who most frequently gets your goat. Who needles you with predictable frequency. Who pesters you persistently. Who provokes you, who mocks your defects mercilessly. They may be a busybody blood relative, a schoolyard bully or that obnoxious co-worker who plays loud gangster video games in the next cubicle. You are probably forced to spend considerable time in the company of these jerks, due to family or work obligations. Worse still, you have to pretend to their face not to detest their every annoying habit, quirk and tick. If you didn’t have a family or employment relationship, their unbearability could be easily curtailed or avoided. For me, it’s my father, who inflicted his name on me when I was a defenseless baby. Dad and I despise one another as only immediate family members can. Dysfunctional families are often fun on TV, but they rarely are in reality.

So, you may wonder, how does it benefit me to know which subspecies of homo sapiens I am dealing with in any given situation? Well, for your convenience I’ve reduced the answer to this acronym: WE BASh UnDEAD, which stands for
* Weirdo? Embrace ‘em.
* Bad? Annihilate or Shun ‘em.
* Unbearable? Don’t Even Answer the Door.
That little mnemonic device could save you hundreds of hours of grief or even prevent your imminent murder. The next time you sense discomfort in the presence of another, ask yourself (silently, of course): Is he weird, bad or merely unbearable? It could be a matter of life and death. Especially in the USA, which leads the world in the rate of bad and unbearable citizens. No wonder America’s prisons and jails are so full!

DISCLAIMER: The weird are sometimes suicidal, the truly bad are frequently homicidal and the unbearable will gradually smother your spirit with their tedium. Choose your companions and associates wisely, friend. Life’s too short to spend much of it among the non-weird. My advice? Find your own kind and enjoy peace of mind.

Buying Old Crow bourbon in Louisville & achieving satori

I stopped in Louisville on my way from Nashville to Racine & I was blessed with the discovery of some genuine weirdness downtown. First I tried the Thomas Edison House on a decrepit block of Shelby Avenue, but it was closed. Then I visited the Louisville Slugger Museum & Factory, where I got an official rules of baseball book for $5 & some postcards at the gift shop. I even popped into the Frazer Historical Arms museum, where they sell deadly-looking but non battle-ready swords (to adults only, the gift-store clerk assured me). That stretch of Main Street, lined by restored brick, granite & marble facades circa 1900, is architecturally impressive.

But the sidewalks near the banks of the mighty Ohio River were windy, cold & nearly deserted. After eating a pint of ice cream, I bought a cheap green French-made khaki shoulder bag & some Army-issue wool-cotton-nylon socks at a shabby military surplus store run by a funny old veteran kept company by a yappy Yorkshire terrier. I skipped the Muhammed Ali museum because they charge $9 admission. No place celebrating the life & legacy of the Louisville Lip is worth that much to me.

Anyway, I wanted to buy a bottle of Old Crow Kentucky bourbon whiskey in honor of Louisville native & Old Crow addict Hunter S. Thompson. I popped into a liquor store but they didn't carry that brand, so I found a CVS drugstore above the Hard Rock cafe that did - at just $8 + tax for a fifth. On the way back to my car, parked on the corner of Fourth & Muhammed Ali Blvd. [now named Thomas Merton Square] downtown, I noticed a big metal historical marker that read as follows:

"Thomas Merton, Trappist monk, poet, social critic & spiritual writer (1915-1968), author of the autobiography 'The Seven-Storey Mountain' (1948). Merton had a sudden insight at this corner on March 18, 1958 [i.e. , that led him to refine his monastic identity with greater involvement in social justice issues. He was 'suddenly overwhelmed witht the realization that I loved all these people . . . walking and shining like the sun.'"

Ah, but it's easier to love humanity on a sunny afternoon in March, like the one I enjoyed yesterday in Louisville. And people get on your nerves a little less when you're a monk cut off from most human contact, I reckon. That's about as close to a satori moment as I've had in a while. Maybe the Old Crow will help enlighten me further when I open the bottle.

The Muse's Manifesto: An Open Letter from Music City

Ladies & Gentlemen:

While I enjoy a rare moment of peace & privacy in this all-too-hostile hostel, mercifully located within easy walking distance of Baptist Hospital (in case I should resort to drastic coping measures), I thought I would amuse you with a few inspirational words. They come to your attention via the weird miracle that is the World Wide Web, a technology apparently spun by some greedy spiders in a corner office near Silicon Valley, California.

I promise to make this brief because life's too short to be tedious or, what's worse, to inflict one's tedium on others. Fortified by Tazo Zen green tea & a banana, I attack the task despite the midnight hour & my failing eyesight. Tonight in my bunk -- by the way, I share a small room outfitted with steel bunkbeds alongside a closeted gay slob, a human paradox indeed, but a silly young cartoon fan who serves a good purpose: he makes me, a hypersensitive aesthete, feel macho by comparison.

Anyway, I was reading a letter dated June 26, 1959, written by Hunter S. Thompson. At the time, he was an unemployed 22-year-old ex-journalist & Air Force vet living hand to mouth in a remote cabin near Cuddebackville, New York. His addressee was a paramour in Florida with the unfortunate name of Miss Frick. In that charming letter (HST kept carbon copies of his vast typewritten correspondence even then) he assures her that, despite setbacks in his attempts at publishing fiction, "They ain't throwin' dirt on my coffin yet."

This was 7 years before his first literary success, the insightful & delightful "nonfiction" book "Hell's Angels: The Strange & Terrible Saga of the Outlaw Motorcycle Gangs" (1966). The Doctor had plenty of struggle ahead of him before the glory years at Rolling Stone magazine. And, of course, his life-story ended sadly: like his early hero Hemingway, Hunter eventually put a gun in his mouth & pulled the trigger.

But he quotes a poet in that Frickian letter, composed by an ambitious & talented youthful misfit from Louisville - a quote which bears repeating & glossing:
"To be nobody-but-yourself -- in a world which is doing its best, night and day, to make you somebody else -- means to fight the hardest battle which any human being can fight; and never stop fighting." - e.e. cummings.

If you prefer a musical paraphrase of that idea, try this one:
"Well, I try my best / To be just like I am
But everybody wants you / To be just like them."
- Bob Dylan, "Maggie's Farm" (1965).

Perhaps you are engaged in that endless campaign of self-realization. If so, I salute you. If not -- if, in fact, you have already surrendered to what Dylan once called "society's pliers," i.e. its constant conformist onslaught, well, I suppose I can only pity you. All I can say for sure is that I am doing my damnedest to be & remain nobody but Myself. And I have the scars (as well as the bunkbed) to prove it. But they ain't throwin' dirt on my coffin yet, are they? Now go think for yourself. I'm tired.