(Updated on February 3, 2025)
40 Years in Beer is a memoir of my life and times in the beer business. The first of these serialized installments came into being in 2022, the 40th anniversary of my inaugural shift in 1982 at Scoreboard Liquors in New Albany, Indiana.
Having sadly duped myself into thinking there’d be little to say (from me, really?), three years of writing have passed since then, and as 2025 dawns, I’m just now arriving at 1998 in the narrative.
Verily, this might take just a little longer than I thought.
It bears noting that apart from writing about beer, and talking about beer now and then on The Pubcast, I’m currently not directly involved with the beer biz, having lost my most recent beer programming gig at Pints&union in November, 2023.*
But writing about beer counts, too. I’ve been doing it for a long time.
Below you’ll find the short-term schedule of what’s in the “40 Years” hopper, followed by a numerical listing of installments (from #1 to the most recent).
As ever, thanks for reading.
Thoughts? Corrections? Please write me at mayorbaylor(at)gmail(dot)com. Comments have been disabled for this series not because I don’t want them, but owing to my mom ‘n’ pop web server’s security needs; apparently we’re constantly under attack from bots in Kazakhstan. Fortress America? So it seems.
Current series word count as of 3 February 2025: 205,162.
COMING NEXT
Coming next: #74 … there’ll also be more trips to discuss in 1998 and 1999 (two journeys each year). I’ll take a look at our “great leap forward” in 1999 with the installation of a walk-in cooler and 12 additional taps — and the subsequent invention of Gravity Head. The FOSSILS club was at its peak during this period. Stay tuned and thanks for reading.
PREVIOUSLY PUBLISHED (PARTS 1 – 73)
My future ambition categorically dates to 1976, slumped shamefully in the back seat of my friend’s car, doing my level best to ingest horrid Sterling, and resolving that someday I’d be a better beer drinker than all of rest of them – even if I had absolutely no clue what this implied.
02: Brontosaurus Stomp, or the Time before Time Began.
Jeffersonville was well ahead of New Albany. Thanks to Nachand Beverage, Cut-Rate Liquors had an uncommonly large off-premise retail selection of imported beers. Many of the same brands also made it to Rocky’s Sub Pub, to be enjoyed on site with the eatery’s signature pizzas and sandwiches.
03: Did I Really Look Like A Guy with A Plan?
A whole first generation of “beer geeks” took its cues from Michael Jackson’s classic survey of world beer history. I was one of them, and set about stocking the shelves of a single walk-in door at Scoreboard Liquors in New Albany with imported beers, and talking about them with customers.
04: Scoreboard Daze of Old (First Movement).
Scoreboard’s downtown building directly faced the federal courthouse, and it was within spitting distance of numerous bankers, lawyers, title abstractors and other functionaries performing their hoary time-honored roles amid the daily antics of a county seat in seemingly terminal decline. 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.
05: Scoreboard Daze of Old (Second Movement).
The liquor store regulars: Their faces pass through my dreams on occasion, as though the time had arrived for a final round before closing. These were the people who taught me about the human element of the package liquor business – the good, the bad, and everything in between.
06: The K & H Forever (Lanesville Prelude).
My father, who seldom drank, nonetheless offered a plausible explanation: Lanesville, Indiana was populated by Catholic folks of German ancestry, and if they weren’t Catholic, they were most likely Lutheran, which was somehow different in theological terms, but meant almost the same thing when it came to relaxed attitudes toward alcohol consumption.
07: The K & H Forever (Heartland Adagio).
Operations at the K & H were fairly simple. There’d been a time when the brothers hired full-time staff persons, but by the 1980s they were alternating day and night shifts on a weekly basis, with an extra bartender to accommodate larger crowds on weekends, and maybe a kitchen helper, too. Most importantly, the K & H was about community. It’s the biggest insight of all, and the one that never goes out of fashion.
08: The origins of a European travel (and beer) obsession.
Europe in 1985 was a life-altering epiphany, although beer wasn’t the primary reason for the travel bug’s bite. I’d always been interested in history and geography, then in college came exposure to the contagion of the “Western canon” in literature, music and art. I had no religion, so Europe filled the slot. Later, beer took co-billing.
The older I get, the more entirely normal my European interlude in 1985 appears to have been. It’s the long trip since then back in America that has been so very strange. That first journey was a genuine rite of passage, and quite simply changed my life.
10: When friends actually did let friends drive drunk.
The older I’ve gotten, the more careful I’ve become. It’s been a very long time since I risked driving drunk, but it doesn’t mean another time won’t come somewhere down the line. It might, which is why I’ve made every effort to organize my life in a way that precludes the possibility.
11: The Fat Cats Deli & Pub was short-lived but inspirational.
In its mid-1980s heyday, The Fat Cats was renowned as the place to go in Louisville for better beer. It embodied so many of the evolving theoretical constructs about better beer; unfortunately the bar was a short-lived phenomenon (1985 – 1989).
12: Those first ever draft Pilsner Urquells in Prague, 1987.
After two weeks in the Polish and Soviet lands, where vodka reigned supreme, we were at long last in Bohemia, the Euphrates of European lager brewing tradition, and the home of the original golden hoppy lager beer. We resolved to walk a bit more before finding a good place to enjoy a draft, preferably a Pilsner Urquell.
13: In 1987, it was almost “impossible to find bad beer” in Czechoslovakia.
The ambiance at Prague’s Automat Koruna was urban, frenetic and often claustrophobic, but I loved it, and it was unmatched as a place to drink beer and people-watch during these latter communist years. The clientele reflected an indisputably egalitarian ideal, although for communism’s usual litany of all the wrong reasons.
14: Pilsner Urquell pilgrimage, locked gates, and a taxi driver’s day off.
Visiting Plzeň, we were repelled at the Pilsner Urquell brewery gate. But the dive bar with no name located across the street was am early afternoon delight. When Frantisek and the lads arrived, the party got started.
15: A clash of titans (with Elephant Beer) in Copenhagen, 1987.
Onlookers were advised to gird for the “Altercation in Copenhagen,” to be held at Musen og Elefanten (Mouse and Elephant), a pub near the main square where we were informed there would be copious quantities of draft Elephant Beer, Carlsberg’s fine, sturdy and pleasingly strong lager. Our Danish-American friendship society has stood the test of time.
16: In 1988, I had a slightly better year than Michael Dukakis.
It came time to plan my longest and most complex European excursion for 1989. I had a good job at Data-Courier, but corporate culture was just as alien to my core values as I’d always guessed it would be. What’s more, given the advent of Mikhail Gorbachev’s perestroika and glasnost in the USSR, and their trickledown to the Warsaw Pact, 1989 seemed the best opportunity ever to experience these countries in depth, affordably.
17: Uncle V’s beery introduction to Southern Bohemia (June 1989).
There were mugs of locally brewed beer (Budvar, Samson and Eggenberg) platters of roasted pork, sauerkraut and steamed dumplings, and a steadily encroaching exhaustion. We finally arrived at the weekend house after dark, and after a few minutes of housekeeping and light snacks, everyone fell fast asleep.
18: In Ostrava, the beer of the people at the factory gates.
The door was open, and from our sidewalk vantage point, golden-colored beers and several of the customers renting them could be seen inside. Simple square wooden tables were topped with faded but clean cloths. The room was small and sparsely decorated, and there was no bar as such, just a service counter in the Czech fashion, extending outward on both sides of the draft beer dispensing station that featured a solitary handle.
19: Moscow skyline in twilight, 1989.
Within seconds a Lada screeched to a halt, and twenty minutes later we came to another abrupt stop in front of the Shabalovskaya dorm building. Sweating pure alcohol, my clothes reeking of Cuban tobacco, with no chance to bathe, change or brush my teeth, it occurred to me that even if there’d be time to dash into the dorm and freshen up, I wasn’t entirely sure where my room was located – and it was the first day of my Russian language class.
20: Beer, zakuski, vodka and ice cream.
We soon learned why beer seldom made it to customers at the shops, because cases of bottles could be reliably found at the taxis-only parking area just around the corner from Oktober Square. If you asked the nearest chain-smoking drivers for “pivo,” they’d motion you to properly stocked brethren, who’d pop their trunks to reveal black market export-only Soviet lager.
21: Those legendary working beers with the FDJ in the GDR.
I’d been tourist-grade ambulatory in the East Bloc for almost two months. Now, prior to the commencement of my much anticipated volunteer work gig in East Germany, there’d be a week’s respite in the gloriously capitalist enclave of West Berlin.
(This chapter has been expanded into three more detailed essays, which will be incorporated into the narrative during future upgrades.)
- A working lunch in East Berlin, August 1989
- Sharing a few Pilsners with a future war criminal
- Yes, there was lots of beer in East Germany
22: A placid traditional Danish lunch in Copenhagen, 1989.
Stammering, I identified myself and was told to relax; I definitely was expected, but because Mr. W. had been unexpectedly called to work, plans were revised. I was given the number of a bus, and a street address, which followed in consecutive order brought me to the apartment of Allan G. Then things got really weird.
23: Beery Copenhagen days and Oktoberfest nights in Munich.
In the cool dampness, there it gleamed: Oktoberfest, crowded with carnival rides, arcades, food vendors of every stripe and prefabricated beer halls, some huge and others smaller, representing Munich’s six major breweries: Späten, Augustiner, Paulaner, Hacker-Pschorr, Hofbräu and Löwenbräu.
24: That infamous Madrid episode, and a necessary curtailment.
All I had left was my day pack, camera and the clothes on my back; it seems odd I still had the camera, but maybe he had to move fast. I found a policeman at the train station; providentially he had lived in Los Angeles for ten years and spoke perfect English. He was kind and helpful, taking my report, sadly noting a recent wave of similar crimes, and referring me to the American embassy.
25: The end of the beginning (1989-1990).
What I experienced by traveling during the 1980s was beer as a form of traditional performance art, theatrical and atmospheric, offering an “area buzz” sort of experience that only improved with greater knowledge. A Europhile like me, immersed in places like Bavaria, England and Belgium, could “feel” beer in a way that was hard to do back home. I wanted to replicate this feeling to whatever extent was achievable, but first there were a great many questions.
26: From a 1990 portal, Sportstime Pizza to Rich O’s BBQ to NABC.
In 1990 I turned 30. As the New Year dawned, I was poised to join the Sportstime Pizza family, both personally and professionally. At the time, it seemed a logical symbiosis; considered in retrospect, the phrase “be careful what you wish for” springs quickly to mind. The 1990s made me and broke me, all at once, but regrets? Okay, I have a few, but then again, too few to mention. The challenge is remembering enough of it to tell the story properly.
27: Ladislav’s language — or, teaching credentials from a tiki bar in Ostrava.
Still reeling from learning of my Czech acquaintance Ladislav’s death, I arrived home to find yet another letter waiting for me. This time it was a big manila envelope from an organization called Education for Democracy (EFD), and inside was the information I’d requested, which was fine, except I’d never heard of EFD and assuredly had not requested anything to be sent to me, but just the same, quite soon my heart was racing with excitement.
28: 40 Years in Beer, Part Twenty-Eight: The founding of F.O.S.S.I.L.S. in 1990.
I will lay claim to having only one big insight when it came to homebrewing. They made great customers, who had money to spend on the beers they were hoping to replicate, and they were eager to both learn and teach, factors dovetailing perfectly with the beer-related direction we’d soon be headed.
29: The radicalization of F.O.S.S.I.L.S. (1990-91)
Given that the semi-official mantra of homebrewing at the time was Charlie Papazian’s useful but limited “Relax, Don’t Worry, Have a Homebrew,” and much of what I espoused with respect to the revolution against mass-market beer had little to do with homebrewing (that’s why F.O.S.S.I.L.S. referred to itself as a “beer appreciation” club, too), my polemics in WTD proved highly controversial.
30: F.O.S.S.I.L.S. rambunctious youth, budding internationalism, and a Patoka Retreat (1991)
We had been paralyzed by laser-guided immobilization rays deployed by intergalactic keg-party crashers, who landed and repeatedly had their way with our innocent keg as we watched, helpless and mute. Eventually we collapsed into sweaty heaps, only to awake the next morning with a nearly-empty keg, many adjacent foul puddles and numerous abandoned cellophane-like wrappers with heaps of gray ash (obviously the remnants of alien rituals).
31: Euro beer travel 1991, as history ends and begins again.
By the spring of 1991, I had my formal orders from Education for Democracy, the grassroots organization placing English speakers into institutional settings (schools, hospitals and businesses) to serve, in essence, as handy on-site Westerners, to teach conversational English as best we could, but just as importantly, to serve as living, breathing cultural reference points amid the post-communist reshuffle.
32: Vienna’s “Old Whisky Malt Waltz,” a precursor of beer revolutions to come.
Don probably thought I was crazy, but neither of us minded a vigorous walk, which proved to last around 45 minutes headed straight downhill through a beautiful vineyard-strewn, semi-rural setting amid the terrain of Vienna’s famous Heurigen, or wine taverns (we stopped at only one) until the urban sidewalks began emerging, and soon enough we were at the door of the Brauhaus Nussdorf.
33: Herzlich Willkommen in der Weltbierkulturerbe-Stadt Bamberg.
What’s a man to do when it’s love at first sight? More than three decades later, I cling ferociously to my belief that Bamberg’s amazing beer culture came as the gift of a rope ladder, providentially lowered from somewhere on high, hoisting me to safety from a vat filled with insipid Miller Lite.
34: In 1991, a smoky Bamberg sojourn with Happy Helmut.
Don and I arrived in Bamberg well aware that Schlenkerla and Spezial were the two primary destinations for smoked beer enthusiasts. Before we had come anywhere near Bamberg, I imagined the experience would rank as a pivotal highlight of my whole beer-drinking life up to that point—and damned if those few days in 1991 didn’t exceed the pre-game hype in every significant respect.
35: Košice comes into view and the Zlatý Bažant flows.
Over the lip of the ridge, a narrow path pretending to serve as a back street tumbled straight downhill through a small Romani district of free-standing houses where something always seemed to be burning (stoves, grills or trash), and just beyond them stood Košice’s 19th century city brewery, which appeared to have been an architectural showcase at one time, but by 1991 was crumbling by the minute, although still capable of producing inexpensive, pedestrian lagers that tasted like extract beer, as opposed to all grain.
36: One fine evening in Košice with Pilsner Urquell at the Zlatý Dukát.
“My friend was player for the Czechoslovakia national team in hockey,” he said, “and then he played in Los Angeles with Wayne Gretzky. He tells to me in a letter that all is good in America except one thing. The beer is very bad. It is true, that the beer in America is bad? Why?”
37: Andy Warhol, the Tatras, Magic Johnson and wonderful Mamut.
As an American with dollars of his own, there were few financial constraints to traveling on the side, Trips from Košice included a museum opening in Medzilaborze, the Tatra mountains, Budapest, and Bratislava (and a classic beer hall).
38: Christmas in Košice, 1991.
In retrospect, my sole Christmas in Košice mirrored all the other ongoing, transitional aspects of life in Czechoslovakia at the time, in the sense that it, too, was an amalgam of responses and adaptations to the aftermath of the communist era. Don’t believe me? Then tell it to Grandfather Frost.
39: I’m off to Spijkenisse with a beer list in my hand (1992).
Specifically, the notion that one’s beer credentials depend on lengthy lists, whether reviewed or merely compiled, now strikes me as the very apex of irrelevance, and yet there I was during those first few trips to Europe, recording beer names longhand in a journal, then typing them once I had returned home.
40: Here’s why my tenure at Rich O’s BBQ began in 1992.
To be candid, just about everyone (including me) regarded the Slovak teaching interlude as being a “last in series.” Ten years after university and approaching the age of 32, wasn’t it time to transcend the gig economy (as my modular work history would be dubbed so many years later), settle down, get married, and do something positive with my life?
41: Just a singer in a rock and roll band (1992).
Gradually I got better at it, and as the months passed, I found that I’d unexpectedly assumed the role of front man (“I’m just a singer in a rock and roll band,” courtesy of the Moody Blues), not so much from choice as necessity, all the while conjuring a bespoke career in beer for myself, one that proved to be utterly non-transferable to any other juke joint in the world.
42: Barr built the bar, and the Guinness began pouring.
My lifelong friend Barrie came with power tools and built the bar, and I swept up his sawdust. We bought an ancient but functional three-tap keg box, cleaned and serviced and painted it, found a source for the needed nitro mix, and scored imperial pint glasses. A keg of Guinness was tapped, debuting on Tuesday, September 29. It surely was the first one in the history of Floyd County, and was followed a few weeks later by Carlsberg golden lager; the “third tap” came later.
43: Facing the music at Rich O’s in 1992.
Returning to those bits and pieces of my personal interests, as they came together to influence my daily working life and the stylistic interface of the pub, the simple fact is that not one, excepting my beer-related skill set, was more important than music. Legendary journalist and commentator David Brinkley once said, “You’re entitled to my opinion.” That’s the same way I went about arranging the music at Rich O’s.
44: Life becoming a landslide (1992-93).
Fundamentally, “beer program” was (and remains) a statement of organizational and philosophical intent, meaning that first and foremost we regarded beer to be of sufficient importance to serve as a core business focus, also implying that we were fully educated about the range of possibilities, capable of arranging our beer selections thematically (by style, country or origin or sheer serendipity), and aiming for excellence even if perfection always will remain an unattainable ideal.
45: The Silo and Oertels, as well as a pivotal newspaper article (1992).
The advent of the Silo came alongside a concurrent and ultimately abortive project to reimagine the defunct old-school Oertels as a restaurant/brewery project in Butchertown, prompting the Louisville Courier-Journal to explore the progress of area beer-making by means of a wonderfully lengthy October 3, 1992 piece by staffer James “Chip” Nold, Jr.: “Derby City Suds: Louisville’s going back into the beer business.” Nold’s survey of Louisville’s embryonic “beer scene” was epochal.
46: Expansion culminating in espresso and the Red Room in 1993.
From its inception, The Red Room pleased and confounded patrons in roughly equal measure. It became immensely popular, and most of our patrons took it for what it was – or wasn’t. However, accompanying it was an innovation that produced decidedly mixed results: The Great Espresso Experiment.
47: A “special vacation” with Kölsch, Altbier and Roggenbier (1993).
In Germany, non-Bavarian beer culture was the focus: Kölsch in Cologne, and Altbier in Düsseldorf, as detailed in the F.O.S.S.I.L.S. club newsletter’s annual Travel Dog edition. Upon returning to America, David Pierce told us that Bluegrass Brewing Company would be open for business soon – and he’d jumped over to BBC from the Silo to run the brewery.
48: F.O.S.S.I.L.S. newsletter antics, Typo’s Brewpub, and True Beer Freedom.
Walking the Dog, newsletter of the F.O.S.S.I.L.S. homebrewing and beer appreciation club, came of age in 1993. Aficionados of barbed polemics rejoiced, but WTD wasn’t always well-received in places like Ft. Mitchell KY and St. Louis MO. I’m not blowing my own euphonium to say that Walking the Dog’s tone was utterly unique among homebrewing club newsletters in our approximate region, and to an extent, beyond it.
49: Bluegrass Brewing Co. — an ideal brewpub? Also, the Lite-Free Zone.
Our contemporary era of beer and brewing in Louisville dates to the years 1992 – 1994. Bluegrass Brewing Company was born in late autumn of 1993, and the Lite-Free Zone at Rich O’s came along in January 1994.
50: Papazian goes AWOL as we contest AB’s aggression against Budvar.
By the early 1990s, the Budweiser-Budvar standoff had become a global cause célèbre among the beer cognoscenti. F.O.S.S.I.L.S. joined in with a “Budweiser Versus Budvar” direct mailing campaign, offering an opportunity for homebrewing celebrity Charlie Papazian to step forward and take the lead in drawing attention to Anheuser Busch’s aggression. Had “LOL” existed in the early 90s, the letters would be full appropriate to describe his reply.
51: Papazian sidesteps AB vs. Budvar by prohibiting FOSSILS from quoting him.
Budweiser-Budvar, 1994: Both the Campaign for Real Ale (CAMRA) and Charlie Papazian answered FOSSILS’ call. I’d harbored few expectations, which made CAMRA’s snarky but positive mention of us in What’s Brewing all the more delightful; meanwhile, Papazian stayed true to himself and lapsed into legalistic gibberish (sorry, Budvar; you deserved better from our “leader”).
52: “Anheuser-Busch, Gone Home,” our classic 1997 victory lap.
It is worth noting that Budvar is thriving in the post-Communist milieu, in spite of A-B’s protestations that Budvar would do better under the protective, big brotherly wing of the St. Louis-based brewing Medusa. Indeed, the spectacle of America’s arrogant brewing Goliath’s defeat at the hands of the small, yet resourceful, Czech David has proven to be the most enjoyable moral saga of our age.
53: The birth of Samichlaus at Zürich’s classic Brauerei Hürlimann (1994).
Learning about the Samichlaus brewing method in its original habitat was incredible, but the real story, beginning in the early 1990s when the fall of Communism opened European markets for global “modernity,” was the death of Hürlimann and so many other traditional breweries of its ilk. Whenever a brewery like Hürlimann goes away, so does an entire, interrelated system, both inside the brewhouse and also outside of it, in the surrounding community.
54: New Albanians on beer holiday in Old Albania (1994).
Yes, there was beer in Albania. As we enjoyed the contrasts in temperature between the frigid lagering cellar and the sunbaked streets outside, the brewmaster’s assistant at Birra Tirana tapped off some two-week old, unfiltered “Hoxha’s Best” and proudly offered glasses to each of us. It was crisp and nicely defined, and tastier than most of the Italian imports on sale in Albania.
55: Cerveza in the afternoon at Pamplona’s Fiesta de San Fermín.
San Fermin’s strain of craziness is a fascinating hybrid. Spectacular public displays of orgiastic, besotted and scatological indecency occur alongside demonstrations of a proud and dignified adherence to traditional values that extend too far back into time to be completely understood. San Fermin is a primitive, almost mythological celebration that is expressed through daily, seemingly disparate, elements: confrontations between man and bull, gatherings of grandparents and grandchildren to share hot chocolate, outpourings of religious conviction, incessant marching musical mayhem and extraordinary alcoholic lubrication.
56: Michael Jackson’s 1994 visit to Louisville — BBC, the Silo, Rich O’s.
In late autumn of 1994, it was revealed that Michael “The Beer Hunter” Jackson would be making a day-long stopover in Louisville during the course of an ongoing journey through the United States. He was examining beers and breweries from the burgeoning American “microbrewing” movement, then numbering just over 500 breweries nationwide, the bulk of them concentrated in New England, the upper Midwest, Colorado and the West Coast.
57: Beer writer Michael Jackson’s reaction to the Red Room at the Public House.
“You’re quite the polemicist,” said Jackson, pushing back the GABF program as I blushed. “Have I told you why your Red Room made such an impression on me?” Then I remembered Jackson’s visit to our pub in 1994, and the way his gaze had been fixed on the Red Room. Now it all made sense, and I learned that Jackson’s Red Room story began with his earliest childhood memory at the age of three.
58: Prague, Urquell & the Doppelbock Viscosity Tour (Euro Beer Travel 1995, Part I).
The Doppelbock Viscosity Tour in March was the first of three European excursions in 1995, two of which were small “training wheel” group trips as I began to explore ways of incorporating beer travel into the Rich O’s/F.O.S.S.I.L.S. mission. There were 14 such happenings in all, taking place with small groups and large, by train, minibus, motor coach and bicycle, concluding in 2008.
59: Czech and Slovak beer & Hungarian Bull’s Blood wine (Euro Beer Travel 1995, Part II).
An unexpected midsummer’s excursion in 1995 embraced the Czech Republic (the Moravian countryside near Ostrava) and Slovakia (Košice) for beer, with a wine bonus in Hungary (Eger). Seeing a show by Neil Young with Pearl Jam in lovely Prague merely was the icing.
60: Those glorious Belgian beer cafes (Euro Beer Travel 1995, Part III).
And then there occurred a third Euro getaway, hence my references to advantageous frequent flier miles. Four of us went to Belgium, rode the rails, drank the ales, and learned what all the fuss is about. I haven’t been the same beer lover ever since, and the Public House went full bore into Belgians, albeit without the requisite Spaghetti Bolognese.
61: The Silo Microbrewery’s fatal travails, 1994 – 1997.
Unfortunately, the propensity of the Silo’s ownership group to shoot its frail creation in the foot explains why the entity never seemed to find firm footing. A default level of ingrained incomprehension was evident from the start, and although an ownership change in 1995 inspired hope, Louisville’s first brewery of the new era closed in 1997.
62: Rich O’s expands, and we gain an affinity for Rogue Ales (1995).
In early 1995, the newly formed New Albanian Brewing Co. decided against brewing, at least yet, and from this decision came a reallocation of floor space in the building that included a larger back bar and new keg box at Rich O’s. Draft lines doubled, and a great many Rogue Ales from Oregon began pouring.
63. F.O.S.S.I.L.S. at 5 … pungent, robust, pink, funky, Porter-loving and state fair-going.
For the F.O.S.S.I.L.S. club, a 1990s routine settled into place, with funky appetizers, brew-ins, sweaty road trips (or not), and more. Included are stories about the Kentucky State Fair homebrewing booth, the all-women’s brew-in, road trips, and the robust men of F.O.S.S.I.L.S.
64: The 2,301 day McOldenberg Brewmall 1990s vigil.
A classic feud, recounted. The first Oldenberg Brewing/David Heidrich watch ended at 750 days on May 20, 1995, during a beer festival at Oldenberg, when the boot-scoopin’ titular head of the floundering brewery said to me, “It must be nice to be right all of the time.” I replied yes, it certainly is. Then a second watch commenced, lasting until 2000.
65: Smoky treats, a 9-hour, 9-brewery, 9-beer Bamberg stroll in 1996.
In Bamberg, Germany an uneventful morning stroll turned into a daylong odyssey on foot, encompassing at least one beer at the city nine breweries (at the time). Today there are at least 13 breweries in Bamberg, and at age 64, it is unlikely I can even drink that many beers in a week, much less a day. Once this hip is replaced …
66: The Updated Good Beer Guide to Louisville (1996).
The 1996 F.O.S.S.I.L.S. Membership Directory Issue (#66 & 67; March/April 1996) comprised 34 pages (8.5 x 11). The issue contained items I judged as being important to members of a homebrewing club, with a wee bit of advocacy thrown into the mix in case they passed it along to a newbie, including a CAMRA-influenced “Good Beer Guide to Louisville (and Southern Indiana).
67: Yuletide atrocities, courtesy of the Butt-Head Bass Quartet (1994 – 2003.)
One thing led to another, and as Christmas approached in 1994, an idea was hatched that led to the unprecedented cultural phenomenon of the Butt-Head Bass Quartet’s annual pre-Christmas shows. Where did the idea originate? Surely with Sid himself, although precisely which of the three co-owners was drinking with him when it happened is lost to his-or-herstory, and it matters not one jot.
68: The advent of the ACBHOF (2024) recalls a diminuendo in BREW (1996).
The American Craft Beer Hall of Fame launched in 2024, helmed by Marty Nachel and a crew of the like-minded. My first encounter with Marty, a beer biz hall of famer in his own right, came in 1996, and I acquitted myself quite badly.
69: Spring Break in 1997 with the classic Central European brewers.
The sequel to the 1995 Doppelbock Viscosity Tour took place from March 19 through March 31, 1997 in Prague, the Czech Republic and Bamberg. The plan was crazed and frenetic, but we stuck to it, visiting traditional Czech countryside breweries, emerging Prague brewpubs, Budvar (and a toast to Anheuser-Busch’s defeat), Weyermann malting as well as the Holy Grail, Brauerei Heller-Trum (Schlenkerla), where serendipity intervened.
70: Made-for-megabrewing stylelessness at the G.A.B.F. in 1997.
It will surprise no one to learn that my first ever Great American Beer Festival in 1997 heightened existing militancy. Why were there medals for beer styles like American Light Lager, defined entirely by negations? As always, following the money yielded insight. Also, a bit about the August 1997 trip to Romania, Hungary, Austria, Slovakia and Czech Republic.
71: A-B, Molotov cocktails, Mitch Steele and me (G.A.B.F., 1997 & 1998).
In 1997 and 1998, our attendance at the Great American Beer Festival in Denver offered encouraging reminders that beer in America might, in fact, become great again. But could we keep Anheuser-Busch’s poisonous tentacles from choking our collective buzz? Never had the Great A-B-rewing Satan seemed as malevolent as when the company started producing mockrobrews.
72: Mitch Steele attends a F.O.S.S.I.L.S. meeting (1998).
Mitch Steele’s appearance at the November 8, 1998 F.O.S.S.I.L.S. meeting drew the largest crowd ever for a regular monthly gathering at Rich O’s: 75 people. The conclusion: Mitch was a great guy, but pre-merger A-B still wasn’t a “great” multinational corporation (also, the “Craft Writing: Beer, The Digital, and Craft Culture” symposium held at the University of Kentucky in February, 2014).
73: All 42 pages of the 1999 Rich O’s beer list.
Here it is, the final edition of the Rich O’s Public House Beer List from from April 22, 1999. All 42 pages of it. If there remains any doubt that my primary motivation was education (some might say propagandization, and I wouldn’t quibble much), let the following pages dispel these doubts.
* As of December, 2024, Pints&union has abandoned New Albany entirely to relocate to Louisville. When at last I arrive at this chapter of my career, well, it’s going to be a doozy.
- Here’s the epitaph: “In the end, Pints&union didn’t deserve New Albany”
- Speaking of epitaphs, a wonderful song called “Get Out and Stay Out”
- The Songs for a (P&u) Departure (tag)
- Highlands crowds jubilant as “Brother Joe’s Travelling Salvation Show” heads south
About the cover photo: It’s a Facebook post from May 18, 2020. I consider it an honest recommendation from a previous employer, Joe Phillips. Sadly, our friendship hasn’t survived. Here’s the text.
Pandemic staff is a different thing…In times of complete uncertainty, sometimes clear panic, I’ve been lucky enough to have a rock to turn to. A literal library of philosophical and historical references and tons of travel and world experience but also a solid friend. Always looking out as the gate keeper of the pub, he silently observed the moving pieces and gears and oils the machine. Compassion and morals and a huge heart don’t even begin to cover all that’s been given by Roger. At least I finally met someone who also has TOO many ppl having opinions over everything we do LOL!