Pabst Blue Ribbon

It seems that every great trade has its iconic worker. Restaurants have chefs, airlines have pilots, and academia and religion have old, bearded men. But in the end the world is like prison: if you're not great yourself, you're probably someone's bitch.

For example, in the case of the white-hatted food maker, they are supported by a team of prep-cooks, dishwashers, and servers; an entire team devoted to ensuring that the cook has everything needed, where it's needed, and when it's needed. Which isn't to say cooks don't work hard, but they are much higher on the totem pole than the poor sap in the dishpit. When the cook needs something, you go, and when you need something, prepare to be mocked or lectured.

Yet when it comes to unpleasant employment, soggy food floating in dubiously colored water is an easy gig compared to the bitch-dom available in masonry.

A mason's bitch (or hod-carrier, traditionally) is a creature of the elements. They mix together earth and water to create glue; they gulp down dusty air while endlessly carrying rocks from one pile to another, and they feel the atmosphere's ethereal embrace while perched upon rickety scaffolding over pits of re-bar spikes that look straight out of Mortal Kombat; they feel the fire of celestial fury on bared skin, long since fried an unhealthy pink by days outside in the hot sun.

Imagine, if you would, a giant, circular-saw blade, about the size of the plate your family uses to serve either turkey or ham, and serrated with menace. In the morning, its diamond-tipped edges gleam in apparent friendly greeting. You might brush off a bit of the red brick dust that cakes the engine like blood, and then you flip the switch. The powerful electric motor click on silently, overpowered by the almost instantaneous whir of the blade as it begins to cut through the air. At full speed, the machine gives off a dull whine, and the cooling water that is pumped onto the blade is flung off in a fine spray that endlessly hisses the day away (often soaking you down to the boxers).

It's a blurred circle of death, spitting water in ominous clouds of vapor.

For the most bitchy of the hod-carriers, eight hours of the day is spent feeding the malevolent beast an endless stream of brick, block, and stone. The blade gives out a hungry, teeth-rattling shriek upon contact with stone, and it is a sound that you feel as much as you hear. If there were an auditory cue for the end of the world, the sound of saw on rock would herald dark Leviathan's triumphant birth from Hell's vaulted inferno.

Ear plugs are a must.

In similar biblical badness, the clear water flung about joyously by the spinning blade turns brick red, like the muted sinew of a resting corpse. The foul mud covers your clothing, threatening to kill your washing machine upon ingestion, like cyanide.

Necessity of precision forces the hod-carrier to deftly maneuver fingers and arms around the blade; basic cuts will keep your fingers away by perhaps five inches, but more advanced and artistic shapes will narrow that distance to a half-inch. To add to the fun, the blade will sometimes catch on an impurity, and the power of the machine will wrench the offending brick from your hands and out the back of the sawing table like a cubist bowling ball.

Don't hold on too tight!, my foreman told me, Ha! Ha!

So after the hot day of menial exhaustion and ever-present subtle danger, a bitch finds a desire for a beer. In honor of the unpublicized labor of bitches everywhere, I decided to review the beer which proudly states that it is union made: Pabst Blue Ribbon. And who knows more about being someone's bitch than the Unions?

The only praise I heard of the beer is that it is incredibly refreshing after a hot day's work, and said refreshment comes at a great, affordable price. The cynical translation: The beer is kinda like water, and that is probably why it's so cheap.

The problem with cynicism? It's depressing when you're right.

Pabst Blue Ribbon slides into your mouth with a smooth, bubbly feel that is a lot like what you would get if you combined the carbonated feel of mineral water with the liquid texture of milk. There isn't a whole lot of flavor at this point, and unfortunately, the body of the brew does little to add to the drinking experience.

The body is light, almost distressingly subtle. A sort of light hoppy-ness combines with a muted skunk to form a rather unsatisfactory experience for anyone who drinks beer for the flavor. The brew leaves a lingering sweetness after the swallow, like the rice water you used to drink back in college or high school.

But it gets you drunk, and since that is probably the point of most beer drinking, you can't go wrong with the budget price that Pabst offers. So if you're in a bar or casino, and they say something along the lines of "2 bucks for a tub", you really can't go wrong with the cheap intoxication.  Looking for flavor and quality? Look elsewhere.

P.S.: Apparently, Pabst has the same strategy as big tobacco: start 'em young.