I’m the third musketeer in on this joint, hailing from the grand Colonial confines of Boston, Mass. It’s been a while since the silversmithing days of Paul Revere, but people get by. One if by land, two if by sea, and five makes the N.K.O.T.B.
Where was I… Oh, for the record, no. A lot of people don’t talk like Peter Griffin. They don’t all drink Pawtucket Pete, either. In fact, you might be surprised to learn that the only folks in tricornered hats and lobster bibs are the tourists. It’s mighty difficult to actually find a parking space for one’s cah ovah in Hahvihd Yahd. Ya can get theyah from heyah, but you’d best take the T.
For all its historic glory (with a nod to Bill & Ted on this, Keanu Reeves’ 47th birthday), though, Boston has an underbelly as well. Granted, Roxbury pales in comparison to, say, West Philadelphia, but it’s downtrodden all the same. And if you’re going for the abandoned furniture/trash in the street chic, look no further than my neighborhood of Allston.
Boston is a fascinating city, completely walkable in a reasonable amount of time given the right weather (i.e., no Nor’easters). What gets me is how in my neighborhood alone, rents range from “meh” to “WTF?!” from block to block, and even with a delectably large liquor store situated at the main intersection, right next to a bus stop, people still insist on throwing down multiple dollars for single beers in one of the many watering holes interspersed throughout.
This is not appropriate d-double-oh d-double-oh style. (And for the record, that “Beastie Boys Fight” short film or whatever the fuck that was that I saw on TV the other day was NOT FUNNY in the least.)
Many moons ago, in the woods and parking lots of West Chester, PA (TWO words, not like Westchester, NY), Jackass was born. With the revolution brought by this series came a resurgence in popularity of the Champagne of Beers, Miller High Life. Four or so dollars for a sixer back in the day became six or seven dollars, but that’s still about a dollar per beer.
Yet these trendy fools park their asses at the bar on any given night and throw down those four dollars for just one High Life.
This is not LIVING the High Life. That’s fakeassery of the trendiest kind. And you probably don’t even watch Jackass.
In an attempt to quell this disturbing trend, the marketing geniuses behind the High Life line created a series of commercials in which two deliverymen reclaim beer from inappropriate uses and/or settings. One such commercial features a beer salesman at a dog show; another, a velvet-rope-lined establishment asking more than the price of a six-pack for an individual bottle. Each time, the deliverymen shake their heads, load the cases of beer back onto their carts, and wheel them away.
The marketing team went further a couple of years ago by sending the same two deliverymen to individual residences, bearing endorsement contracts for “average” folks who happened to enjoy the High Life. This all went well until they rang a doorbell and were met by some guy shaving his chest. Fortunately, the deliverymen walked away from that one.
This begs the question of whether anyone realizes the irony of these commercials. Yes, by subtle self-deprecation, Miller has likely drummed up sales of the High Life. But, in doing so, even more stupid people will jump on the train–wait, no, that’s Coors Light–and will order up the High Life in its overpriced form in lieu of taking it home with them.
I know that I like the finer things in life, and I do appreciate a good, cheap beer that doesn’t necessarily taste cheap. I’ve found that in Miller High Life. I’m also known for having a taste for expensive things, however, as evidenced by a fine parade of handbags and footwear. Balance the equation and you’ll realize that there’s champagne on either side. Just because I’m not drinking it out of the Stanley Cup (yet) doesn’t mean that I never will.
The moral of the story is that if you actually worry about the image that’s projected by what you drink–whether you’re “slumming it” with Schlitz or raising your hand (and your nose) when you order your martini “up” with olives and only the best vermouth–well, son, the truth is that nobody cares.
It tastes good and brings back memories of fat fucks throwing themselves into bushes. Long live the High Life.