This series of posts is dedicated to the many, many six packs, pony kegs and pints that have sauntered into my life at one point or another.
Years ago, a friend of ours who, believe me, knows winetold us that wineries had figured out that women disproportionately drove wine purchasing decisions and that they were highly likely to made their decisions on the basis of the aesthetic appeal of the label. The led to an influx of clever names and ornately designed images on the labels. I’ve long scoffed at that, undoubtedly and shamefully asserting a subconscious sexism in taking pride in my supposed intellectual superiority because I, as a shrewd consumer, don’t fall for that. Misguided as that stance of mine may have already been anyway, I must sadly report can no longer take it in good conscious. Because, much as I admire the products of San Francisco’s 21st Amendment Brewery, I totally bought myself a hearty stock of their extra pale ale dubbed Bitter American because there’s a monkey astronaut on the cans. As my lovely bride once noted in response to a silly blog post, “you boys are so dumb. and monkey-susceptible.” That may be true, but at least the beer in question was delicious.