The Barryfest Chronicles

I never really liked my job when I was living in Minneapolis.  And, considering I was putting in consecutive 65+ hour weeks at some points, my memory of life in the Twin Cities is unduly influenced by the days I spent doing little more than programming spreadsheets and running HOST reports.  Or the time I was answering to the VP of Merchandising because there had been a run on wiper fluid after a huge fucking snowstorm ripped across the Midwest.  Or the time the guy in the cube next to me wouldn’t stop listening to “Throw Some Ds On It” over and over again for the better part of a month.  Or the time I got gang-raped by a group of supply-chain experts in the cafeteria.

That last part might be a bit inaccurate, but I’ve been out of there for almost a year now, and the mental images and vignettes warehoused during my term are getting hazy and disjointed.  Add to that all the work I have done to actively misremember the unfortunately large part my former employer played in my former life, and my ability to recall many of the great times had while not slaving over a hot keyboard in seizure-inducing florescent lights has been severely compromised.

Luckily, a few things from the Mpls Era have stayed with me, such as:

1. How, when driving over the Hennepin Ave bridge to St. Anthony Main in the early evening, the orangish glow from the setting sun and the Steely Dan blasting from the car stereo made me look 15% more attractive than I actually am
2. That time I caught a Police concert and a Prince concert in the same week
3. Memorial Day of 2007, which was spent cruising around Like Minnetonka at the the helm of a pontoon boat, blasting “Play Deep” by The Outfield.

But the main thing about Minneapolis that I will surely never forget is the heavenly taste of Hamm’s, most likely the greatest beer I have, or will ever, drink in my entire life.

I came across Hamm’s during my first visit to a Minnesotan liquor store.  Now, I am pretty openminded and easygoing when it comes to the beer that I drink, which some may find surprising considering how much of a fucking dick I tend to be when the conversation drifts to something like musical tastes or the superiority of a city’s sports teams.

But I’m actually a simple man, really.  I like my beer how I like my women: domestic and regular bodied.  I don’t mind drinking out of cans, and for a variety of reasons, I don’t really see the point of buying anything but swill for use in the privacy of your own home; as many cans of cheap, utilitarian, multitasking swill as you can fit in the designated beer section of your fridge.

When I have guests over, I don’t have to worry about hiding the good beer or making them wonder what they are “allowed to take” when they serve themselves.  And although the brands have varied over time and been adapted to what is readily available as I’ve traveled around the country, the sentiment has remained the same.  You’ll have what I’m having, friend:  A 12 ounce can of refreshing, easy finishing American Bronson.  It is what I drink after work.  It is what I drink with dinner.  It is what I drink during a game of caps.  And, here in New Orleans, it is what I drink on my way to the bar.

But back to that fateful day up north.  I cruised down Lyndale Ave and wandered into the first liquor store I saw, looking for nothing in particular.  I figured Old Style (my former beer of choice) would not likely be available outside the greater Chicagoland area, so I was content on walking out with a case of High Life or something similar.

Then, the lovely baby blue hue of the row of Hamm’s 30 packs caught my eye.  I gladly forked over the $14.17 asking price and headed back home.  I am not sure what it was that got me hooked.  Maybe it was the beauty of the can or the slightly-higher-than-average alcohol content.  Maybe I felt honored to be drinking a legacy brand that had somehow not yet, to my knowledge, been ironically featured as the special at some club’s “80’s Night.”

It was probably the fact that, along with Charles Shaw Shiraz, it sired all my booze-soaked adventures in the Twin Cities, adventures that made the time I spent working at a shitty job in a sterile, soulless town unforgettable.

Thanks for the memories, Hamm’s.