Yesterday, we went to the Rock ‘n’ Roll Hall of Fame, which has so much stuff in it that it was kind of overwhelming. Robyn and I both focused mainly on the clothing on display, and unless something else really caught our eye (Joan Jett’s BAD ASS first car, an unbelievably hairy drum kit from ZZ Top), we blew past a lot of other stuff in order to avoid spending the night. (Unless you think they’d let me sleep in the back of Elvis’ purple Caddy, in which case I might be willing to look at every collections note (apparently Elvis sometimes had trouble affording his purple Caddy) and hotel key amassed inside.)
Most of the clothes are performance outfits, and they really cover everything from the ridiculous to the sublime. I was somehow captivated by something called Mick Jagger’s football outfit that looked like this:
Robyn disapproved, although there’s something about the version we saw (the jacket was more pastel, too, and it was these baby’s nursery colors that plays up the boy/girl look) that I found captivating. We both agreed about his white jumpsuit with the lace up crotch and little holes (with metal trim like you could run shoelaces through them) all over it. The museum was really cool, and I’d love to make it my Halloween costume closet, but alas, I couldn’t even take my camera in to give you a picture of that terrible Mick Jagger getup.
Robyn did, however, point out that if she ever wants to be famous, she’ll need to start saving more of her random crap because there was quite a bit of that at the Rock Hall, too. Jimi Hendrix’s childhood couch? A collection of hotel keys from one of Bruce Springsteen’s tours gathered on a string? Random posters from when famous people were playing with bands you’ve never heard of in the early days of their career? The Rock Hall has all of that and more! We had fun, and there was plenty of stuff I was glad to have seen, but there’s plenty of other stuff that seemed remarkably like, well, stuff.
After briefly stalking some middle aged ladies by Lake Erie, we went home to do the one thing that I specifically requested we do on my trip: watch Predator. Eric worked on the latest one, Predators, and I told him I’d take him to see the fruits of his labor when he has some time. It felt fitting, therefore, to do a little homework and see the original. The “while drinking beer” part was heavily implied, so when we picked up the movie, we also bought booze. I am and will probably always be a promiscuous drinker by which I mean that I’ll buy whatever and I’ll drink whatever. PBR, Lone Star, Murphy’s Irish Stout, Stella if I’m feeling fancy, Miller Lite if I have to make a decision fast. In fact, I recently ordered wine at a wine bar by randomly selecting from the menu and telling the waiter, “It doesn’t matter. It all tastes the same.” And, no, it doesn’t. What I meant was I don’t have terribly discriminating taste.
I noticed a couple of local brews with geographically relevant names like “Burning River,” “Eliot Ness,” and “Lake Erie Monster.” Robyn’s not much of a beer drinker, so when I asked for a recommendation of one of these local beers made by the Great Lakes Brewing company, she said, “My dad had one and said it tasted like feet. I can’t remember which one, though.”
I was torn between the Eliot Ness and Burning River just because I recognized the significance of those titles. Ultimately, Robyn said she thought Burning River was on tap in a lot of places. The logic here goes: it’s widely available, so it’s probably more popular, ergo it’s probably one of the better (or at least less feet-y) ones.
We settled in for a fairly enjoyable evening of carnage, although I think Steve might have been willing to watch the 2010 Miss Hooters pageant on Spike TV instead. He made the fairly compelling argument that “At least the boobs would be in high def” as the grainy 20th Century Fox logo appeared on the screen. But I would not be swayed, and Robyn could probably skip both options in favor of…anything else, but making fun of movies beat out cleavage, so we got to hear Jesse Ventura brag about being a “sexual Tyrannosaurus” and argue that he “ain’t got time to bleed!” I also got to cheer when the guy I hated most got killed first, and at the risk of sounding disrespectful, we made several jokes.
The beer, however…To be fair, it didn’t taste like feet. It tasted like smoke? A mouthful of dry wheat? The essence of a burning river? It’s hard to pinpoint, but there was something overwhelming and fairly bitter. Steve and I finished ours, although it took the entire movie to do so. Robyn didn’t get past the label and when she asked if Steve wanted the rest of hers, he responded with an emphatic no. I don’t blame him, and as we’ve established, I’ll drink anything.
I wanted to like it, and when we went out for pizza the next night, I sampled their Dortmunder Gold, which is named after a football player from Cleveland (I know because I googled). It was milder. Definitely less bitter, but I still opted for a Diet Coke since a pint of that beer still seemed like a lot. I had another Burning River tonight simply because I wanted to give it a fair chance. Okay, that’s a lie. I drank it because there were three left, and they’re not going to drink themselves. I picked them up, so they’re my responsibility. With two days left, though, I am faced with the daunting task of drinking them or coming up with alternative uses for them.
My #1 idea so far is to use it as a hair rinse to make my ponytail all shiny.