“In Heaven there is no beer, that’s why we drink it here,” the lyrics to an Irish song go.

Unfortunately, there is one thing this song fails to mention: beer makes people terribly dehydrated, hence the fact that many get severe headaches after gulping down one too many pints.

Australian researchers at the Griffith University’s Health Institute claim to have figured out a way to solve this problem.

Long story short, they’ve created a new type of beer that contains loads of electrolytes, i.e. an ingredient common in sports drinks.

The scientists named this beverage “hydrating beer” and explain that, unlike other varieties presently available on the market, it allows people to drink as much of it as they want while staying refreshed.

According to HuffingtonPost, this new beer is about one-third more effective at keeping drinkers hydrated than run-off-the-mill varieties are.

“Our augmented light beer was by far the most well retained by the body, meaning it was the most effective at rehydrating the subjects,” specialist Ben Desbrow claims.

The researchers suspect that this feature could also help make hangovers more bearable.

The only bad news is that the hydrating beer created by the Australian researchers contains a tad less alcohol than the average brew.

However, the scientists say there are no detectable differences in taste. Especially after one gets to their fifth pint.

John Milkovisch, a retired upholsterer for the Southern Pacific Railroad,     started his project now known as the Beer Can House in 1968 when he began     inlaying thousands of marbles, rocks, and metal pieces into concrete and redwood     to form unique landscaping features. When the entire front and back yard were     completely covered because he “got sick of mowing the grass”, he     turned to the house itself and began adding aluminum siding – aluminum     beer can siding, that is. Over the next 18 years the house disappeared under     a cover of flattened beer cans for both practical and decorative reasons.     Garlands made of cut beer cans hanging from the roof edges not only made the     house sing in the wind, but also lowered the family’s energy bills. Ripley’s     Believe It or Not estimated that over 50,000 cans adorn this monument to recycling.

John considered his work an enjoyable pastime rather than a work of art,    but he did enjoy people’s reaction to his creations. He once said, “It    tickles me to watch people screech to a halt. They get embarrassed. Sometimes    they drive around the block a couple of times. Later they come back with    a car-load of friends…”

The house and landscape are adorned with many different types of beer that    John, himself, drank (though his neighbors and his wife, Mary, were always    glad to lend a hand!). Did he prefer one brand to the next? His favorite    beer was always “Whatever’s on special”.

Troegs Mad Elf finished a close second, and Southern Tier 2XMAS was third.

In addition to Thirsty Dog, Troegs and Southern Tier, the event featured Great Lakes Christmas Ale, Avery Old Jubilation, Goose Island Christmas Ale, Anchor Steam Merry Christmas Ale, Rogue Santa’s Private Reserve, Sierra Nevada Celebration Ale, Breckenridge Christmas Ale, Bell’s Christmas Ale and Great Divide Hibernation Ale.

• #1
  Beerfest

  Beerfest trailer(02:28) 66 views

   

• #2
  Beer Wars

  Beer Wars Movie Trailer(02:01) 117 views

   

• #3
  Strange Brew

  
  

  Strange Brew – Original Trailer(01:41) 47 views

   

• #4
  Beer

  
  

  Beer 1985 scene Not black enough.mov(02:02) 33 views

  The movie is pretty terrible but David Alan Grier makes up for it!

• #5
  Animal House

  
  

  Animal House 1978 TV trailer(00:31) 8 views

   

When Japanese artist Macaon downs several cans of beer, he is doing it for his art. When he is done with the content, the creative beer lover recycles the cans in a unique way, turning the cylindrical aluminum into famous cartoon characters and game personalities.

In the photograph above, several cans have been transformed by the artist into Decepticon from Transformers. Friends for life, Toy Story’s Buzz Lightyear and Woody, were made from colourful beer cans that are true to the original characters

Other artworks from the unique include a mask of Star Wars villain Darth Vader, using silver cans of Japanese beer. He also twists some red, blue and black cans into the famous gaming icon, Super Mario.

Another character he brings to life from aluminum cans is Disney’s robot Wall-E, the trash-compacting robot.

The cans are carefully selected for colour and skillfully manipulated to look like these characters we know and love. Comic characters are not all Macaon forms from his cans. The artist also has a collection of animals, especially dogs, and other more whimsical creation. Photos can be seen on his website.

A Proper Pint  

There are plenty of fine beers brewed in Ireland: Beamish, Harp, Kilkenny, Murphy’s, and Smithwick’s, to name a few. But when an Irishman (or woman) refers to “a proper pint,” they’re probably talking about Guinness. And the only way to appreciate a Guinness is to drink one pulled from the tap.

Unless you happen to live in Dublin, however, you’re not going to find a proper pint. You may think you’re drinking the real Guinness, but in the eyes of many Irish beer snobs, their sacred stout loses quality the farther away you get from the old brewery at St. James’s Gate.

My first visit to Ireland was a short one — an overnight trip to Belfast for an appearance on a local chat show. I made only one request of the show’s producers: I had to have a proper pint of Guinness. “No problem,” they assured me. ” We’ll take you out after the show.”

We wrapped around eleven P.M., which also happens to be closing time for most Irish pubs, but the producers promised me that they knew a place that was open. We entered a bar that didn’t look anything like the Irish pub in my mind’s eye — instead, a Liberace-clone played piano to screaming old ladies — but I wasn’t about to let the aesthetics interfere with my single-minded goal. “A pint of Guinness, please.”

The bartender raised his hands apologetically. “We don’t carry Guinness here.”

“All right,” I conceded. “How about a Murphy’s?” No. “Harp?” No. I worked my way through every Irish beer I knew. The bartender just shook his head each time. “So what do you have?” I finally asked.

“Bud, Bud Light, Coors, Coors Light…”

Now don’t get me wrong, I’ll happily drink any of those beers at an All-American picnic or a barbecue, preferably from a tub filled with ice. But not on my first trip to Ireland. Fortunately, a helpful waiter noticed my frustration. “I might be able to get you a Guinness,” he volunteered, sprinting across the street to a closing pub and returning with a couple of freshly poured glasses of the good stuff.

It was delicious, so much so that I later bragged about the experience to some of my Irish friends. They weren’t exactly impressed. “In Belfast, you say? That’s not a proper pint.”

It wouldn’t have mattered if I was in Kilkenny, Limerick, or Cork — I had to be in Dublin to drink a real Guinness. I wouldn’t find a reason to visit Dublin for several years, but when I did, I went straight for the teat, pulling a draft off a keg inside the brewery’s company store. I also bought a postcard for my Irish friends, inscribing it with the words “This proper enough for you?”

I got drunk for the first time when I was sixteen, at the 1965 World’s Fair in New York City, where I was visiting my sister, a hostess at the Illinois pavilion. During the day, the Fair was a testament to “Man’s Achievement on a Shrinking Globe in an Expanding Universe” and included the premiere of an animatronic Disney show called “It’s a Small World.” After midnight, once the mostly teenage staff was rid of the guests, the Fair became an international kegger. Party at the French pavilion! Party at the Japanese pavilion! I remember making a fool out of myself trying (unsuccessfully) to vault a hitching post at the Texas pavilion. Fortunately, my idiotic behavior escaped the notice of one of the other hostesses at the Illinois pavilion — my future wife, Bernadette. Small world, indeed.

I brought my taste for beer back home with me. But for Catholic teenagers in 1960s Chicago like me, with zero interest in politics or activism, there weren’t exactly a lot of opportunities to get wild and crazy. I spent the rest of the summer hanging out at Janson’s, a drive-in at 99th and Western. It was a lot like American Graffiti, except instead of souped-up hot rods, the kids drove their parents’ Plymouths.

One day my friend Terry Thulis and I got restless and wandered up the block to 100th Street, where we stumbled across a bar called Littleton’s. It was your standard neighborhood “old man” bar, dark and musty. Neither of us looked like old men: I was your typical sixteen-year-old kid, while Terry, a late bloomer, couldn’t have looked older than nine. But that didn’t stop us from dreaming. “Maybe they’ll serve us,” I said.

We poked our heads inside. It was dark. Very dark. Bizarrely dark. As our eyes adjusted, we saw that the place was nearly empty except for a couple of grizzled drunks at the bar. I nudged Terry. “Should we?”

We tried to look casual as we strode to the bar. The bartender was an older guy, maybe seventy, with white hair and eyes set so deep that you could hardly see them. He hummed a happy tune as he stacked some glasses, and he greeted us warmly when he noticed we were there. “Oh, hello!”

“We’d like a couple of drafts,” I said, hoping my voice wouldn’t crack.

“Coming right up!”

A few seconds later, he deposited a pair of beers in front of us. I looked at Terry in stunned disbelief. We emptied our glasses as fast as we could…and asked for two more.

“Sure thing!” the bartender replied. Chipper fellow. But there was something weird about his eyes….

“George,” Terry said, nudging me under the bar. “I think he’s blind.” He waved his hand toward the bartender. No reaction. I did the same. Still no reaction.

“I think you’re right!” I said. I looked over at the two drunks at the bar, who clearly weren’t blind. They were shaking their heads in disgust, universal sign language for “you little motherfuckers.”

“So wait a minute,” Terry whispered. “We have just found a bar, one block away from Janson’s, with a blind bartender who will serve us beer?”

“We can’t tell anyone,” I whispered back. “Not a word!” We quickly made a pact to keep our newfound oasis a secret.

Our “secret” lasted about fifteen minutes. By the following week, Littleton’s was overflowing with what used to be the Janson’s crowd: dozens of bicycles parked in front, a hundred rowdy teenagers inside. My guess is that the two old drunks tipped off the cops, who showed up that weekend to bust up the party.

Buy The Book Here

Loudmouth Soup  

Everyone knows that beer is a social lubricant, but even scientists have trouble explaining why. The most popular theory is that alcohol affects the amygdala — the brain’s pleasure center — producing extra gamma-aminobutyric acid, or GABA, which makes us feel happy and reduces stress. So now you know: It’s GABA that creates the gift of gab.

While the loss of Littleton’s was definitely a bummer, Terry and I weren’t going to let it get in the way of our quest for beer. We heard a story about a neighborhood bar in South Shore that might be amenable to serving the age-impaired, so we hopped on a bus and headed on over. Jackpot! Not only did the old men inside ignore our peach fuzz, but the drafts were just fifteen cents a pop. At that price we could drink like kings. Which we did.

Unlike kings, we had no royal coach to take us home. By the time the bar closed the buses had stopped running for the night, and we’d drank away our cab fare hours before. And since we were engaging in illegal behavior, we couldn’t exactly call our parents to come pick us up.

Fortunately, we had a time-honored tradition at our disposal: fare ditching. We called a cab, and while we waited for it to arrive, we concocted a plan. There was a stop sign at 91st and Leavitt. When the cab came to a halt, we’d jump out of the back and escape down some nearby alleyways. As long as we remained inconspicuous until the last possible minute, the driver wouldn’t suspect a thing.

We got into the cab and gave the driver a fake address, one that would take us through 91st and Leavitt. When we stopped at the intersection, Terry leapt out and sprinted for the alleyways. He was well on his way to freedom when he realized that he didn’t hear my footsteps behind him.

I’d passed out drunk in the back of the cab.

By the time Terry came back to look for me, the driver was shaking me against the side of the car. I was too terrified to do anything except blurt out my real address. I’ll never forget the way my mother shook her head at me as she settled our fare. Thank God she never told my father.

Click Here to Buy it Now

Advertising makes the world go ’round.  There are good  commercials, bad commercials and then there are ones like this one.  It takes awhile to get to the punch line but it is well worth the wait.

Big Rock Brewery Home Page