Friday, November 27, 2015

Bourbon County Yawn: There is nothing so desirable that you willingly pay your mortal enemy to have it.

Meme courtesy of Dustin Dilbeck.

BREAKING: Worldwide shareholders of AB-InBev sincerely thank Americans for their devotion to Goose Island products.

According to a resident of an Asian tax haven, "With the Bourbon County Stout profits alone, we can keep craft beer off store shelves in a dozen states."

Added a Brazilian gazillionaire, "Let's hope they never learn."

Thursday, November 26, 2015

An evening with The Dunwich.

Assorted olives, cheese, salami, pickled peppers and those elusive caperberries.

Def Leppard's new self-titled album, which is as close as the lads from Sheffield have come to the glory days since ... the glory days.

The locally-brewed beer accompanying this feast is The Dunwich Smoked Porter (circa 7% abv) from NABC, which I'm assuming is still produced by Ben Minton at the original Grant Line R & D brewery. The vagaries of my association with this company notwithstanding, it is a really great beer.

I'd advise you to get some while it's still available.

Wednesday, November 25, 2015

Scoreboard daze of old.

Joe mans the counter during the Reagan Administration.

These reflections originally were published six years ago as one of my newspaper columns. The essay has been updated a couple of times, and this reprint is prompted primarily by archaeology ... or, the constant excavations of my muddled cranium as I struggle to recall the details of my 1985 travels in Europe, which occurred during the same period of liquor store employment described here.

There is another reason: Belatedly remembering Ralph.


The Potable Curmudgeon: Scoreboard daze of old.

There used to be a package liquor store called Scoreboard Liquors on West Spring Street in downtown New Albany. I worked there part-time from 1982 through 1988, when the store moved to a different location, a couple of miles uptown. In fact, I continued to work at Scoreboard after the move, but to tell the truth, it was never the same as at the downtown location.

Scoreboard’s downtown building directly faced the federal courthouse, and it was within spitting distance of numerous bankers, lawyers, title abstractors and others performing their hoary time-honored roles amid the daily antics of a county seat in seemingly terminal decline. For a lad from Georgetown, working the package liquor trade in the core of the historic business district was both a kick and an education.

Surely the 1940’s-era structure was the ugliest in all of downtown. Frumpily tacked onto its backside was the infamous (trust me) Cadillac Lanes bowling alley, run by a fractious family of immigrants from Pittsburgh eligible for reality television long before the genre was invented. In olden times, the cobbled together retail space out front had hosted an upscale automobile dealership.

Needless to say, those days were long gone, even then.

The barren north side of Cadillac Lanes faced a gravel parking lot separating it from Elm Street, and it became known among liquor store employees, in purely figurative terms, that to be taken “out behind the bowling alley” meant to be stood against the otherwise useless concrete block wall and shot for crimes against humanity. In retrospect, this reference seems tactless, but it was used quite often, especially in conjunction with obnoxious, drunken customers – particularly those employed by the Coyle auto dealership down the street.

I worked two or three nights a week, Saturday afternoons and the occasional day shift. The job was good, my pay was hard cash, and included as part of the deal were discounts on merchandise (where most of my paycheck naturally landed). My early travels were plotted from behind the store’s worn Formica counter, using paper, pens and actual books.

Nowadays, whenever I spot a package store clerk with eyes glued to an iPhone or laptop, I think back to my entertainment options on slow business nights: A miniscule black and white television set with rabbit ears, from which many a McNeil-Lehrer News Hour was observed. I probably should have been sweeping or stocking, anyway.

Package stores of Scoreboard’s socioeconomic ilk still are a trip, and an ongoing psychological experiment. During my long-ago tenure, insights into the human condition were plentiful, and sometimes fairly hard to stomach.

At least the owners indulged my interest in imported beers (craft beer had not yet come into existence), and they allowed me to purchase and stock options beyond the norm. I was given one walk-in door and a shelf outside it for warm bottles. We did a fairly good trade in imports, given their obscurity and the fact that whenever I wasn’t on site to explain what they were, consumer requests generally were greeted with a sneer by Duck, the manager.

“Huh? I don’t drink that shit.”

My favorite Duck story (his real name was Lloyd) was the time when he was standing behind the counter, peacefully smoking a cigarette, when a complete stranger walked in. The man gestured toward the door to the rear office, and asked, “Do you mind if I go back there and change my pants?”

YouTube obviously didn’t exist back then, but Candid Camera did, and Duck's immediate, unprintable reply to the unknown man’s request would have played well in syndication, with Allen Funt joyfully suffering the brunt of bleeped-out epithets as the would-be wardrobe shifter was physically chased from the premises.

After a few years, business downtown began declining, and the owners had few good options when the lease expired in 1988. Scoreboard’s relocation took place the same summer. I took a week off from my “real” job in Louisville to help move the store to affordable digs at the traffic-challenged corner of East Spring & Beharell.

Few tears were shed by New Albany’s historic preservationists when the downtown building was hastily demolished to make way for a vacant lot, and a few years later, the construction of Chase Bank, which still stands there today. The store itself changed ownership, and eventually was shuttered.

Three decades later, I think back to the downtown liquor store stalwarts, and sadly, quite a few of them have died, including Jim, the principal owner. More recently, Mamie and the School Marm both passed away. There was Norman and James Not Jim, the Canadian Club lady with all the books, the Upholsterer, and certainly numerous others. Their faces pass through my dreams on occasion, as though it had come time for a final round before closing.

Among the departed was Gin Lady, originally known to us as Mother Gargle, who usually walked to the liquor store from the East Bloc-designed senior citizen housing tower one hundred yards away. As the day progressed and she stopped for the second or often third time, her red-dyed hair would become more and more unmanageable and frizzy. By late afternoon, her mop would be standing straight up, antenna-like, as though she’d jammed a finger into the power grid.

You see, the Seagram’s was never for her. It was for her gentleman friend, who perpetually called on her, but was never seen then or any other time. Neither was Gin Lady after the store moved across town.

Chemical Man was so dubbed for the spectacular lack of nutrients in his bloodstream, and my rigid certainty that the only thing keeping him alive was infusions of formaldehyde, Kessler whiskey and Sterling beer.

Early on, when I hadn’t come to understand the nuances of alcoholism, I asked Chemical Man why he bought three half-pints of Kessler at points throughout the day rather than a liter of whiskey first thing in the morning, which would be cheaper.

He sputtered indignantly that my college education had taught me absolutely nothing, because any fool knows that if you start the day with a big bottle, you’ll just go and drink it before lunch – and then what?

Later, Chemical Man grew too weak to carry the daily case of Sterling to his house, which fronted the side street fifty yards from the store’s front door. I’d carry it over and put it on the porch for him. A year or so later, his obituary was in the newspaper. I’d have bet money that he was in his 70s, but he was only 59 at the time of his death.

Of all the people I met at Scoreboard, Snake was tops. For decades he kept a series of decrepit pick-up trucks alive just long enough to run a regular route through New Albany, collecting cardboard and taking it to Riverside Recycling for a few bucks, which went into the jar and paid for season tickets to Louisville Redbirds games.

Snake’s life wasn’t easy, but it could have been worse, and he generally kept a cheerful demeanor in the face of the curve balls thrown at him by fate. For example, the nickname came from a tattoo on his right arm, the one that ended just below the elbow, the rest having been removed after an accident decades earlier.

He had a recurring, acrimonious relationship with the New Albany Tribune, our local newspaper of record, and often vowed that if his wife died before him, he’d call to cancel the newspaper first -- and only then ring the funeral home.

Snake worked hard as a bartender, and drank just as hard as a customer until swearing off the bottle in the early 1960’s. He never drank a drop again, ever. When the bartending jobs at New Albany’s neighborhood taverns dried up, Snake turned to cardboard full time, and occasionally filled a shift at the liquor store.

In 2001, Snake’s truck died for the final time, and since cardboard wasn’t paying squat, anyway, it was time for him to get out of it. He’d already decided that ballgames were too expensive and the club’s management too arrogant. A couple years later he stopped by my pub to chat, and it was the last time I ever saw him, for he died shortly thereafter on the day before my birthday.

There were others dear to me, like Gene, Tom and Louie, and I miss them all – the people, the store, and the time – but I miss Snake the most. Rest in peace, my friend. If you could see what’s become of the local newspaper these days, you just might reconsider that vow of sobriety.

We often had too much time on our hands.

Tuesday, November 24, 2015

On civility and whether it exists any longer, whether or not I have the patience for it.

I remember it like it was yesterday, that time at the Public House back in the early 1990s. We had not been open for long. A couple of fellows came in, and one of them started dispensing racist "humor."

Now, I'm a free speecher by disposition, but there are times when enough's enough, and the dispenser of alleged humor found himself leaving the building before he finished his second beer.

I relate this story only because there are times in this uncivil age when I'm glad I'm not behind the bar any longer.

I'd risk throwing out my back.

Monday, November 23, 2015

The PC: Euro ’85, Part 23 … A fleeting first glimpse of Copenhagen.

The PC: Euro ’85, Part 23 … A fleeting first glimpse of Copenhagen.

A weekly column by Roger A. Baylor.

(Twenty-third in a series chronicling my travel year 1985)

In reliving the past, I’m increasingly aware of how much of it has been lost. This chronicle has obvious gaps, and it’s nobody’s fault but mine. I began the 1985 trip with the best of intentions and kept track of daily events for a while, but these notes began dwindling after the first few weeks, and then disappeared entirely.

Was I lazy, or overly confident about my powers of recollection? Either way, waiting decades to tap them wasn’t the best idea. In retrospect, it would have required a far better writer – not to mention a more rounded and experienced human being – to do justice to what were daily sensations of wonderment and awe.

In the end, what is truly worth remembering about Europe Chapter One is that in the most scrupulously literal of senses, everything about it was an incessant sensory overload. Days were a daze of emotions, amid throngs of people, with a constant accompaniment of languages, cultures and currencies, and an ever-changing kaleidoscope of sights.

No one could absorb all of it.

Each stop on my travel itinerary looked, sounded and smelled different from the last, perhaps never more so than when pole-vaulting by overnight train from the haphazard French-Flemish urban tableau of Brussels to Copenhagen’s orderly northern waterside serenity.

This journey poses another subtle challenge in the retelling. What were my impressions of Copenhagen the first time I went there, before all the other times?

I never thought there’d even be subsequent travels, but they happened, and during these trips Copenhagen became a place I went often. By the early 1990s, it probably would have been easier for me to find my way around Copenhagen than Louisville. This said, here are my first impressions of Denmark’s capital city during two fast-paced days in July of 1985.

Carlsberg beer
Girls on bicycles
Tuborg beer
Hot dogs
More bricks, more beer, more bikes

Detailed observations were to follow, but make no mistake: Copenhagen was love at first sight.


When boarding the train in Brussels, it never once occurred to me that Copenhagen is located on an island, Zealand. To this very day, Zealand is the only part of Denmark I’ve ever visited.

When the train halted around 6:00 a.m. in Puttgarden, Germany, and the conductors began rousing passengers, I groggily started to grab my bag.

“Not necessary,” I was informed in English. In fact, the entire train was about to roll onto a ferry boat with its own tracks built into the hold. Passengers were required to exit the rail cars and walk upstairs, where they could have coffee, beer and breakfast while viewing the 12-mile crossing to Rødby in Denmark.

Following border pleasantries there, we reached Copenhagen in about an hour. As usual, my first order of budget travel business was housekeeping, which began at the train station’s change counter, where a few traveler’s checks from the rapidly depleting stack were swapped for Danish Kroner.

Moments later, some of the Kroner were dropped at a kiosk to purchase coffee and a pastry. It was not a “Danish” as such, although this familiar baked goodie genuinely originated in Denmark before being brought to America.

Next, it was off to a newsstand to buy a strip ticket good on public transportation, followed by a bus ride to an ice skating rink.

Huh? Anyone who ever watched me trying to skate in any fashion should be doing a ferocious double take right about now.

The skating rink beckoned because a man’s got to sleep somewhere, preferably cheaply.

I’ve never been a camping enthusiast, much preferring the view of the campground from the pub’s rear patio, and so with this bargain-basement option eliminated in 1985, bricks and mortar accommodations for quasi-youthful budget travelers were a bottom-line priority.

These came in a variety of forms, ranging from permanent year-round hostels affiliated with the International Youth Hostel Federation (the card was always on standby in my pouch) to others operated independently to varying standards of cleanliness and efficiency (most were quite good and had fewer rules).

In summer, there were seasonal lodgings, generally located in university dorms, and logically coinciding with academic breaks.

Still other creative ways could be found to house peak season tourists existing on the cheap, hence the ice skating rink in Copenhagen, which bore the name Sleep In. Of course, the ice was removed, and the expanse of the floor divided into multi-person pods with bunk beds.

There was a luggage check prior to the official late afternoon opening time. I registered, dropped off my bag and started wandering. It was a sunny summer Sunday, ideal for aimlessness.

The bus took me back into the center of town, and my orientation stroll began at the Rådhuspladsen (City Hall Square), all crimson-bricked and bedecked with advertising signs. From here, the Strøget pedestrian shopping street extended for almost a mile to Kongens Nytorv (King’s New Square), the gateway to Nyhavn (New Harbor).

Just understand that by Danish standards, “new” indicates a construction date in the late 1600s.

A narrow man-made inlet designed for small wooden ships, Nyhavn had long since ceased being a commercial harbor. Rather, quaintly lined on both sides by brightly colored old commercial buildings and residences, it had been improved, though perhaps not yet fully gentrified. Most of the buildings had been scrubbed, restored and painted, including one where Hans Christian Andersen once lived.

There were many taverns, some reputed to be off-color, and quite a few people lined the former docks. Many of them were drinking Carlsberg and Tuborg from bottles, while taking great care not to break them – as would have been the societal fear back home.

As I was soon to learn, there were no open container laws in Copenhagen, and drinking in the street was permissible. Canned beer was rare, and the bottles were returnable, with deposits sufficiently hefty at about 20% of the purchase price to encourage care in handling.


It was time for a snack, and perched on a sidewalk by a corner of Kongens Nytorv was a pølsevogn, or hot dog stand. This was no mere weenie wagon, but a mobile kitchen – almost a food truck.

As a devotee of the novel “A Confederacy of Dunces,” I imagined the Danish words translating as Paradise Vending, or at the very least, “mogul of meat.” Then again, Nyhavn wasn’t New Orleans, and no pirates were visible.

I subsequently became quite fond of the long and thin red-skinned wieners called rødpølser, and a pølsevogn always seemed to be somewhere near. You might even carry a beer around, and walk to one of them. Such remarkable, civilized institutions in a beer-drinking town. Would a sane person willingly return to Bud Lights and White Castle?

I eventually would, though not just yet.

Temporarily fortified like the fictional Ignatius, I walked back down the Strøget in the opposite direction and kept going toward the train station, ultimately landing at Tivoli Gardens.

Opened in 1843, and one of the oldest “theme” amusements parks in the world, Tivoli was among the inspirations for Disneyland. A vaguely Oriental motif formed the setting for rides (including a huge wooden rollercoaster), games, concerts and various party tricks. Admission was inexpensive, but food and drinks quite pricey. Consequently, people-watching (read: “How could there be this many beautiful women in one place?”) sufficed for me.

By now it was early evening, and time for the day’s solid meal. Heeding the advice of Arthur “$25 A Day” Frommer, I found the Vista Self Service Restaurant at Vesterbrogade 40 opposite the train station, mounted the stairs to the second floor, and experienced throwback dining. The author’s description is classic.

The Vista serves the largest food portions I have ever seen in preparing this book. On a recent summer evening there … a trio of British rock-and-roll types ordered one plate of fried potatoes with fried eggs on top (22 kroner), picked up the unlimited servings of fresh Danish bread that the Vista offers free, split the mound (it looked a foot high) among them, and still weren’t able to finish their meal … be prepared, of course, to encounter large, lively crowds – including every itinerant hippie and aspiring Rolling Stone from across the continent, who seem drawn to the Vista by some ultrasonic homing device, and whose presence adds to the fun.

Aspiring Rolling Stone?

In 1985?

Frommer’s reference may have been dated, but his assessment of the Vista was accurate. It pleases me to report that because trenchermen are born, not made, I finished my $3 plate of potatoes and eggs easily – and did it again the following evening.

Vesterbrogade was a key street. It linked the Rådhuspladsen to Tivoli and the central station’s transit hub, but it was important for another reason, because it led the way west through the Vesterbro neighborhood to a must-see shrine: Carlsberg.

Brewery tours resumed on Monday, and I intended to be there for one of them.

(to be continued)



The PC: Euro ’85, Part 22 … It's how the tulips were relegated.

The PC: Euro ’85, Part 21 … A long day in Normandy, though not "The Longest Day."

The PC: Euro ’85, Part 20 … War stories, from neutral Ireland to Omaha Beach.

The PC: Euro ’85, Part 19 … Sligo, Knocknarea, Guinness and Freddie.

The PC: Euro ’85, Part 18 … Irish history with a musical chaser.

The PC: Euro '85, Part 17 ... A first glimpse of Ireland.

The PC: Euro ’85, Part 16 … Lizard King in the City of Light.

The PC: Euro ’85, Part 15 … The traveler at 55, and a strange interlude.

The PC: We pause Euro '85 to remember the Mathäser Bierstadt in Munich.

The PC: Euro ’85, Part 14 … Beers and breakfast in Munich.

The PC: Euro ’85, Part 13 … Tears of overdue joy at Salzburg's Augustiner.

The PC: Euro ’85, Part 12 … Stefan Zweig and his world of yesterday.

The PC: Euro ’85, Part 11: My Franz Ferdinand obsession takes root.

The PC: Euro ’85, Part 10: Habsburgs, history and sausages in Vienna.

The PC: Euro ’85, Part 9 … Milan, Venice and a farewell to Northern Italy.

The PC: Euro ’85, Part 8 … Pecetto idyll, with a Parisian chaser.

The PC: Euro ’85, Part 7 … An eventful detour to Pecetto.

The PC: Euro ’85, Part 6 … When in Rome, critical mass.

The PC: Euro ’85, Part 5 … From Istanbul to Rome, with Greece in between.

The PC: Euro ’85, Part 4 … With Hassan in Pithion.

The PC: Euro ’85, Part 3 … Growing up in Greece.

The PC: Euro '85, Part 2 ... Hitting the ground crawling in Luxembourg.

The PC: Euro ’85, Part 1 … Where it all began.

Sunday, November 22, 2015

Beer, farthings and that little-known third category.

During the recently concluded mayoral campaign, the reigning Democrats treated me as a non-person. They wouldn't even concede that I was a candidate.

This struck me as Orwellian, and it might be a trend ...

ON THE AVENUES: Beer, farthings and that little-known third category.

... Throughout the year, I’ve said that I’ll be selling my share of ownership in NABC to my business partners. This statement of general intent remains accurate.

However, it should surprise no one that the process for doing so always stood to be prolonged, and it is quite likely to take a while. There are nuts, bolts and legalities to be sifted through. Disentangling may well become a full-time job, and unfortunately, this position is pro bono – at least until it isn’t ...

Saturday, November 21, 2015

We make our beers and then they make us.

There's something about this article that pertains to Rate Advocate, but I can't put my finger on it.

Wait -- that's not accurate. It's that I don't care. Then again, I've been drinking beer.

Twitter is teetering because it has turned into one big pyramid scheme, by Andrew Smith (The Guardian)

Social media’s struggles sum up a modern malaise: the inability to recognise value beyond market-driven metrics

 ... Twitter’s problem is the same as everyone else’s, in that worth, value, status in its realm are measured in numbers, specifically numbers of followers. In order to get followers, users can a) be celebrities or b) be super-entertaining. Or, given the inconvenience of those paths to popularity, two more common routes are c) seeking out and following people who will automatically follow you back and unfailingly following all who follow you and d) buying software that accomplishes the same thing in seconds.

So you’re being followed by 2,000 or 20,000 people – now what? Experience teaches me that genuinely tending to the tweets of more than 200 people becomes impractical (and unenjoyable) unless you treat it as part of your profession. What this implies is a law of diminishing returns, with everyone sending out tweets few people have the time or energy to read or act upon. Essentially, Twitter, like the economy it is part of, is eating itself: it has become a social pyramid scheme whose enormous strengths are undermined by its own – our own – market-derived metrics, which tell us nothing about the quality of the experience. Indeed, in what terms do we value Twitter as an entity? Number of users. Stock price. The spiralling presence of marketers on Twitter is a symptom, not a cause, of its problems: an expression of the flawed global logic at its heart ...