RAINIER, correct spelling of
whatever happened to good ol’
God loves a whore like
You know how when you walk by Section 8 housing, you just get a sense that something’s not quite right? It’s not a smell, really, or even a structural ugliness. And it’s not like the people aren’t nice—they are, often more so—often much, much more so!1 It’s just a gestalt; maybe the place is a little less kempt,2 or maybe you unconsciously register an excess of aluminum foil or other exotic materials protruding from ill-shut windows. Or it could be the police car always idling out front. Who can say? But whatever: You just intuit (and you’re smart) that something is wrong on a fundamental, cellular level. That—put in the most circuitous possible manner—is the problem with Rainier.
In fairness, Rainier had it coming. It’s always been a pantaloon of a beer, an unshaven old half-wit, a stray pack-member who you knew—even before the commercial break—would be jackal food before the next river crossing. And as anyone will tell you, when you drink Rainier, you drink alone (barring about six glorious months in the ’80s).3 And you know what? Fuck all y’all. That’s the way it should be. Like a lot of us, Rainier went through no less than three changes in ownership in the last decade.4 Banged-up, dusty, but never down, Rainier is a goddamn cowboy of a beer; yes, a ragged, tired old brand, but still the best one brewed in Tumwater these days. (Oly—as if.) And nothing tastes better, whether you’re sprawled out on Linda’s back deck or perched on the steps of Summit Avenue’s best Section 8s, on a sunny, lazy, no-account summer afternoon. (Although, yes, it does smell a little funny.)
1. You know, them, those Section 8 people. They, like us, are largely nice. And often in more interesting ways. See for yourself.
2. “Kempt” is what linguists call a back formation, like “fluous” (def., a little bit unnecessary) or “hume” (def., to bury). Can you think of other back formations? Send 10 to the Encyclop椩a of Evil at thepetlady@seattleweekly.com for a free six-pack of Rainier. Quantities are limited. Underage linguists are encouraged to be discreet. (Disguises, esp. fake moustaches, a plus.)
3. Yes, Rainier had a Golden Age of cultural acceptability, thanks to the revving Raiiiiiii-neeeeer-beeeer motorcycle and the frankly fucking ingenious prancing RainBeers. (Credit goes to two-man ad agency Heckler and Bowker. Gordon Bowker, of course, went on to kick in $1,350 to found the first Starbucks coffee shop ever, down in the Market. See you in Hell, Bowker. Mine’s a grande drip.)
4. OK, here’s the deal: A couple of years ago, Stroh sold Rainier—along with such other fine brands as Schmidt’s (huzzah!), Old Milwaukee, and (can you even do this?) Stroh’s—to Pabst. Pabst, in turn, sold Hamm’s and OE 800 to Miller Brewing Co. Then Miller acquired the brewery in Tumwater, Wash., that cranks out Rainier to this day, while Stroh sold our beloved giant-red-R brewery to motherfucking Tully’s. And the whole top-of-the-can “Mountain Fresh Taste Since 1878,” while not utter crap, is suspect at best. Suffice it to say, Rainier is a grade-A whore.
Paul Hughes, Contrib.
