Has The World Gone Nuts?
So an American company decided to pitch its beer to what is called the “trans” community. (One of the subsets of humanity included in the “LGBTQ” etc. rubric.) Reportedly this angered a lot of people and even affected the company’s market standing at least temporarily. The blowing up of full Bud Lite beer cans with a rifle was one of the more extreme acts of objection. Other assert they will stop selling Bud Light, and still others want to launch a “right-wing” anti-Bud brew.
These people act as aggrieved as I was when some upstart foreign exec working for Coca Cola changed the original Coke formula I was weaned on in Georgia. Now I had a real grievance, and so did a lot of others. Some of whom drove a stake through the promotion of “New Coke” and restored World Order.
But attacking a person in transition from his natal sex to one more aligned with his/her/its internal mindset is just mean-spirited.
Meanwhile Putin’s goons are beheading Ukrainian prisoners of war, jailing parents because their children drew antiwar cartoons, and stealing Ukraine’s children so blatantly he and his child-thief minion stand accused of war crimes. Not to mention the wholesale destruction of cities and murder of thousands of civilians. And the Russian Federation is not alone in evil deeds. The Taliban and Al Quaida still are out there. We walked away from the people of Afghanistan and left them to the “tender mercies” of Muslim fundamentalist monsters. Also think for a minute about the Red Chinese dictator and his ilk, how they oppress minorities and dissidents while planning to rule the world, by brute force if necessary.And never forget the North Korean madman with nukes, end result of Truman’s gutlessness when he allowed Korean partition rather than finishing the Commies off. The Iranian Ayatollahs meantime are supplying lethal aid to Russia. The list goes on.
But oh my, here in the Land of the Round Door Knob we must jump all over a “trans” person and a beer company that wanted to virtue-signal inclusivity.
The only thing I smiled about in this mish-mash was news some Bud Light drinkers were swapping to Guinness. A real beer. Maybe it will put hair on their chest and help them man up enough to leave the poor trans person alone?
I hold no brief for Bud Lite. Having served my Army time in Germany, and been an expatriate in Nassau where imitation British pubs were thick on the ground, my reaction to Budweiser products is not flattering. Carlsberg, Beck’s, and a dozen heavy dark unnamed draft brews drawn at bahnhof canteens and gasthauses. In a land where beer-truck drivers made daily home deliveries like milkmen used to do, right down to the boxy container on the stoop where they exchanged empties for full bottles. Remember milkmen? Probably not; most people reading Medium were likely unborn when the milk runs stopped.
In Nassau it was a pint of John Courage. Dark, strong, thick enough almost to “float a bullet” as cowboys used to say about campfire coffee. “Taking Courage” at the Nassau Yacht Harbour or one of the pubs, along with British ex-patriates and Abaco conch fishermen, was one of the real pleasures of living there.
Return to the U.S. and newspaper work required a lot of beer-drinking. Newspaper culture required pitchers at the table after a deadline, and stop-offs in bars often run by the mob to chase leads — and not turn down the proprietor’s beer. He’d get suspicious you were after him. Bud was ubiquitous and imports too expensive for daily consumption. My review of the Bud of those days — before Lite— was something between dishwater and weak piss.
Occasionally I would plump for a Heineken to cleanse my palate. Once in a great while I could find Guinness at some upscale bar. Out would come my American Express card, knowing my marital administrator would squawk at the extravagance. The Netherlands and Ireland saw me through when I couldn’t find John Courage or Beck’s or Carlsberg.
But so many times the only social lubricant on offer was Budweiser. I don’t think it put me off beer entirely, but at some point in the last century I just stopped drinking alcohol. Been there, done that.
Right around the start of the last decade of the 20th Century, non-alcoholic beer became a thing. First Miller, of all brands, with “Sharp’s”. A duck-hunting friend introduced me to it at a PRSA luncheon. Never thought much of Miller’s but an NA brew could go in the duck blind, better hydration than soft drinks.
When I worked in Arizona in the seventies we drank beer like water out on the desert and sweated it right out and never approached intoxication. But I was a lot younger then, and I am a prude about drinking alcohol around firearms. So Sharp’s joined my decoys and shot shells and lunch. Anheuser-Busch got in on the act with “O’Doul’s” in 1990. If I couldn’t find Sharp’s I took O’Doul’s. It wasn’t Beck’s, or John Courage, or Guinness, or even Heineken, but it was NA and served its purpose.
Approaching eighty now, and disabled, I don’t hunt anymore. And I bypass Busch’s NA beer the occasional times I hanker for a beer taste. Because Beck’s and Guiness have joined the alcohol-free party. Expensive still, but the taste takes me deep in nostalgia for my wandering youth.
All way off the topic? I suppose. The one thing I liked about the American beer empire was its Clydesdales and their great TV commercials. Icons of a major company deeply involved in its community. (I once watched the Cardinals play in Busch Stadium.)
Today a Clydesdale public appearance was canceled, out of fear they said, for employee safety after the crazies crawled out of the woodwork. Well those great horses are employees too, aren’t they? Is there anyone depraved enough to hurt a Clydesdale because the company wanted to sell beer to the marginalized? That should not even be a question. But I sure hope armed guards protect them — and shoot fast and accurately if crazies appear.
As far as I know I’ve known only one “trans” person and she was truly memorable. This was in the seventies for God’s sake, twenty years after it became news Denmark had perfected gender-altering surgery. The trans pioneer was Christine Jorgensen, an ex-GI who got a lot of ink in the fifties. My front-page story in the seventies caused no furor in the Pennsylvania heartland. (All that long ago, her home state permitted her to change her sex in official records!)
This country was more civil then, despite the Vietnam conflict abroad and government conflict with peaceniks like the Berrigan priests at home. I just don’t get people these days.
Wish I knew how to link this piece to the fictionalized chapter I wrote about the ‘transitioned” woman I met. Compare and contrast her seventies“coming out” to the Bud Lite idiocy. Tech savvy I am not. So here is her story once more:
Venus Mons Iliad, Chapter 3: All woman, by design
She was lithe in a form fitting sheath that molded her curves, with a shoulder-length cascade of bright blonde hair. She swung across the motel parking lot with a dancer’s leggy grace. Her path took her directly beneath the gaze of a heavy-shouldered long-haul trucker perched high in his tractor on the adjacent street. His expression did not change, but the smokestack on his big diesel rig snorted spasmodically and belched a dark puff of pollution skyward.
This was long ago, my second year on a Central Pennsylvania daily. But I still recall the pleasurable jolt when she swung into my Barracuda with a flash of toned quadriceps and wash of expensive perfume. She was 26. I was two years older and my editors liked me. My bylines were frequently on page one, a lot of complicated stories involving bad acts that required heavy investigation. My reward was a feature like this once in a while: interview with a stripper, part of a troupe bringing nostalgic burlesque to the heartland. In this case Hershey, the town chocolate built. I drove her the short distance to Hershey Theater. She had walked it earlier to check out the venue, wondering how Hershey would “adapt to burlesque.”
“But I must have had twenty cars honking and waving before I got there,” she said demurely. “I knew the men would adapt just fine.” Bright, happy smile.
Inquiring minds would want to know. As we walked into the theater she answered: 38–25–36. And tall with it, though I forgot to ask how tall. Because she sighed prettily and allowed as to how she lived in a world of zippers. I may have gulped, wondering if my enthusiasm for this interview was showing.
But she had other zippers in mind: “I have to get dressed to come to the theater, undress, dress in my costume, then undress on stage, then dress to go home. I wish I had a dollar for every zipper I’ve pulled.”
That’s a direct quote from a long-ago news story. In the best tradition of objective journalism there was no reference to my personal reaction to this vision. I did write she was “All woman. No one with eyesight could question it.”
Backstage the lighting techs played with stage lights, bright, soft; colors, tints. She said she was tired from the long trip but looked good in all of them. And she had the knack for making me feel like she enjoyed my company instead of just putting up with another boring interview. There was even a small but unmistakable crackle of electricity as we sat near the stage. Which gave me an ambiguous secret reaction, because until four years prior, she had been all man, and miserable. Then a visit to a University of Minnesota “gender identity clinic” led to a life-altering decision. Ten thousand dollars’ worth of surgery later, she was ideally equipped for her present profession.
Before that, she worked out of Chicago as a female impersonator, even toured Vietnam with the USO to perform for troops. Neither GIs or the USO knew she was a ringer. Later a Hawaiian booking agent threatened blackmail for a bigger fee. Bad timing. She already had gone under the surgeon’s knife. “I told him I was all the way there and back again,” she said with another of those smiles.
Deciding to go public with her change was new; she wanted to reassure other transsexuals torn with indecision about whether to attempt a gender change. Here for the benefit of my inquiring mind she delved into surgical specifics of her transformation, with lubricious details I could not possibly use in a newspaper story, but never forgot.
I moved the interview to quotable items. She was vehement about differences between a transsexual and a homosexual. “True homosexuals like the way they are,” she declaimed. “They have no confusion about their gender. But the transsexual is miserable with a woman’s mind in a man’s body or vice versa.” Pretty strong stuff for a daily newspaper in the heartland. To his everlasting credit, my salty old managing editor left her quotes intact. Including this: “Always before, work with transsexuals was done to ‘cure’ you. They tried to mold your mind to fit your body. Now they’re changing bodies to fit the minds.”
She asserted flesh more malleable than the mind. “I think there are definite male and female tendencies you are born with.” She wasn’t talking hormones though she began to develop breasts at 13; she was talking pre-programmed mindset. “I’ve always felt like a female. I’ve argued with the doctors about this. They say you learn how to think like a woman, but I say they’re wrong.”
We talked about her childhood in a middle-class Chicago family — name withheld — that was understanding about her painful identity problem. She never dated girls — “I wasn’t interested in girls” — and declined comment about any other dating. Mostly she spent her youth showing horses.
“But yes, I was very much attracted to men. Still am!” She flashed that complex, wholly feminine smile, and added she was getting tired of lonely motels on the road. The electricity crackled. If she intended seduction she was doing a hell of a job. And the electricity hinted intent.
The inquiring mind plowed onward. She said she maintained strict privacy over her personal life since she showed “my whole self in my act.” A detail: a little-known provision in Illinois law permitted her to change her sex to female on her birth certificate. Married, yes she was — again, the lucky guy’s name withheld. They were considering adopting children once she stopped touring. Meanwhile — she was really tired of lonely rooms on the road. Maybe after the show I could go back to her motel, hang out for a while? I said I’d have to ask my wife. “Why?” Saucy wink. “Good reporters need to get the facts — in depth — don’t they?” I said I didn’t think I could get that line in my story.
She laughed and produced a studio shot of her strip routine, very little left to the imagination, and signed it to me, with fond regards. (I framed it. my wife said You are not hanging that in our bedroom! Good thing I never mentioned the invitation.)
With the photo I got a quick hug, air kiss and“See you after the show.” But she didn’t. I chickened out. Didn’t expect my crusty editor to believe I got the invitation. But I was wrong. Newspapermen always seemed aware of my fear of women, whether born female or — in this case — custom-designed.
“Now we’ll never know for sure.” He lit his cigar stub. “Born a schmuck, and you’ll die a schmuck.”
