’Summer’s here and the time is right for dancing in the street’ —Martha and the Vandellas, 1964
‘Summer’s here and the time is right for fighting in the streets’ —Rolling Stones, 1968
Summer’s here and the time is right for racing in the street’—Bruce Springsteen, 1975
‘Summer’s here and the time is right for another beer’ —TWK, 2024
Oh yes it is, and what’s better on a Ukiah afternoon than a can of Coors so cold you get an ice cream headache when it hits your throat, stops your heart from beating and makes your wife scream “Why are all those empty cans laying around, and when will you mow the lawn?!?”
And I think: Tomorrow. Maybe.
Maybe I could mow the lawn an hour after the crew finishes installing astroturf in the yard, around the time I get back from Park-n-Drinkit with another 12-pack. Follow me for more summer marriage survival tips.
Yes, beer is one of the many joys in life, and yet . . .
…and yet there was that wicked afternoon in 1984 when my old friend (young friend in 1984, but let’s not get started on the Mayan Calendar) Tim Buckner cajoled me into leaving work, going to the Sports Attic and sampling what Tim promised was the best beer in the world.
I was young, innocent and full of trust. And I until that day I loved beer. Tim took advantage of all these weaknesses, and this is not the first nor last time I’ll scold him in print for my near-sober experience.
We both worked at ye olde Mendocino Grapevine, a weekly “alternate” newspaper back when “alternate” carried the exotic fragrance of sandalwood and Constant Comment tea. Nice guy, Tim Buckner, and a fun guy. A guy who’d traveled a lot and who knew his way around a German beer garden, a Detroit keg and a Czech Republic pilsner. If Tim can lead me to the best beer in the world, I dreamed, I’ll punch out right now and race him to the Attic.
We sat on two stools at the south end of the bar, near the door and far from the men’s room. I’m not the paranoid sort, but I sometimes wonder about the extra 20 feet Tim put between me and the toilet.
What he ordered were bottles of (write this down) EKU 28 HELL BEER and in the small print “14 Percent Alcohol by Volume.” But who reads the small print when signing papers for a 30-year mortgage, a prenuptial agreement or “Terms and Conditions of Probation” when ordering a beer?
NOTE: 14 percent alcohol equates to 28 proof in the world of wines, spirits and people who drink beer out of paper bags in alleys. I was raised in a more upscale environment, and until my encounter with EKU 28 I had sipped only delicate beers: Lucky Lager, Brown Derby, Falstaff, Schlitz Malt Liquor, etc.
Dear Readers, through the years I have written the occasional harsh sentence or mean paragraph about city officials, hippies, kittens and a District Attorney or two. None more deserved public shaming than the manufacturers of EKU 28 HELL and its co-conspirators, Tim Buckner and Sports Attic bartender Rick Cleland.
It’s not beer. It’s barely a beverage. It’s cough-syrup-medicinal, harsh as steel wool, and every sip cries out for aspirin. It was designed in a lab as a combination paint thinner / radiator flush. Somewhat tamed as a beer product, EKU Hell is now brewed with patented Automatic Gag Reflex System (AGRS), the active ingredient in Ipecac, a stomach emptying product found in emergency rooms.
EKU 28 has no equal, not that any brewer is trying. It’s the worst thing I’ve ever consumed, and I’ve eaten fried liver, raw oysters and escargot. I’d put all three in a blender and suck down a pint of it before I’d do another EKU 28.
My first (only) EKU 28 was also my first beer served at room temperature, a European fad that should have died the morning ice was invented. Beer at 55 degrees? In America? The nerve. I did not finish my bottle of EKU 28, but I was Oh So Done with it. I left half a warm bottle on the bar.
Already dizzy, already ill, a hangover already gathering steam in my intestinal plumbing, I considered the warm comforts of the Standley Street sidewalk under a three o’clock sun. The probability of vomiting was high and moving my head just a few inches to unload sloshy juices onto the street seemed appealing. I was already beyond the pleasures of the men’s room toilet.
Tim, perhaps ignorant of my miserable state but probably not, kept up the bar chatter and laughter, had a few more EKUs and did backflips off the bar. .
This was all a long time ago, and since those days beer has taken many turns, mostly for the better, mostly in the direction of EKU 28. It’s gone to craft beers, pub beers, heavily hopped beers and undrinkable beers. I’ve sampled more than a few, but always return to Coors.
And why not? Especially when summer’s here and the time is right for a frosty can of liquid perfection.
Tom Hine was truly saddened to learn of the death of Chone Travis, a bright light, a good dad, a top tier musician and way too young to leave the stage. Best to his family and to his friends, of which there were countless. TWK suggests you give a (Youtube music) listen to Chone Travis perform 95482, complete with Ukiah visuals.
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