10448673_1586831088252778_5053664245718699599_oWhile unfortunately this blog has gone by way of the history books for the sake of my attention span being devoted to an upcoming line of Gonzo hot sauces (stay tuned), every once in a while something waltzes into my line of sight, lingers in my crosshairs and all but dares me to satisfy the itch on my trigger finger. It is at that point that I check the wind, hold my breath and let loose like a firing squad without the guilt-sparing mercy of blanks. I generally reserve my guilt for the things I haven’t written, not for what I have.

Despite having high levels of testosterone, a penchant for blue language and a deep-seeded love of football, I am, last time I checked, a woman. A beer-dork-in-the-nicest-way-possible sort of woman, but a woman nonetheless. And if you do your job right as a PR newbie, that demographic should perhaps—and I’m just putting this out there—be a red flag when you are shilling an upcoming product called a ManCan. “Just pick it up. Hold it in your hand. It’s rugged. It’s steel. It’s manly. It’s a can. It’s a ManCan!” Oh. Oh. The fun that can be had with that bit of marketing horseshit. “Just pick it up. Hold it in your hand. It’s rugged. It’s steel. It’s for chicks. It’s shaped like a stick. It’s a ChickStick!” (Otherwise known as a dildo. Please do not handle near water. May cause unexpected verbal outbursts and seizure-like motions. If dependency develops, seek medical help immediately…not.) Newsflash: I have cans…and they’re nicer than yours.

Had you asked me yesterday what ManCans were, I would have figured it was the latest slang for man boobs. But hey, I’m a little slow on modern lingo at this age. Apparently the up-and-coming ManCan is a stainless steel “keg-style vessel, built to be indestructible, hold CO2 pressure and protect beer from the damaging effects of light.” A glorified mini-me of a keg. The new generation of beer balls for all intents and purposes. But smaller, and more portable…like a dildo. The smaller one holds about a 6-pack and the larger one holds nearly double. It’s a decent idea with an idiotic name that chooses to alienate approximately 52% of its US market (yes, we outnumber the men as of right now). And at a time when craft beer is trending in a way that is busting ceilings, and women are becoming ever more a part of that trend, an idiotic name will cost you.

large_modal_image_uploads_2Fe66811a964eff674ef0fa1281247e99b_2FWOCanIf you’re hunting for the attention of the media and crowd sourcing for funding on kickstarter.com, your first thought should be money, not gender. If that becomes an afterthought, you know what that starts to look like? A fucking afterthought. Scene 2, enter the WoManCan. That would be when you partner with Pink Boots Society (a well-meaning organization created with the intention of helping women in the beer industry, which I can’t help but roll my eyes at as well—if you are good at what you do, you’ll succeed. Your vagina is not holding you back.). What you have to love most about the afterbirth called the WoManCan is the bastardized logo on it, that lets every woman know that she is, in fact, an afterbirth in this company’s eyes. Somewhere, in a damp, funk-riddled basement, there was a “marketing team” that had that oh-shit, slap-on-the-forehead moment, and being fully aware that they lacked both the funds and creativity to rethink their branding, decided to just add some pink script to their logo, call it a day, and go toss back a frothy one.

I’d love nothing more than to be test riding this puppy right now. I’d love nothing more than to be convincing all my friends to buy one. And I’d love nothing more than to whip it out with the pride of a braggart at my next party. In fact, that’s pretty much the bar I set for dildos as well. But there is no way in hell you will ever see this beer-loving WoMan within shooting range of one of these cans because…because…well, because they just don’t know how to hit the spot.


11159462_10207100321052809_4283819005168288653_nI remember sliding onto the operating table and the anesthesiologist bitching about something to a nurse, but then the world faded out to black softly, just like it does on the big screen. Probably one of the few things Hollywood manages to portray with any kind of reality. After it was over, I was in and out for an hour or so before finally coming around and realizing that I was so hungry, I was anxious to eat hospital food, fucking masochist that I am. Tasteless strawberry Jell-o and cranberry juice? Bring it on sister, just top it with a shot of bourbon so I know I’m alive. The plan was to be home by nightfall to celebrate the kid’s 17th birthday (and his brand-spanking-new driver’s license) and nobody was going to piddle on my plans—there was a Carvel ice-cream cake to be cut for the love of Pete.

1st on the checklist was keeping food down…a term loosely defined inside these walls. I laughed off the Jell-o and asked for substance. So I got chicken noodle soup from the café because the kitchen had finished lunch service already. Thank the fucking institution of health for small favors. Keep food down—check. Now pass the percocet please, because I think Ridley Scott has just unwittingly cast me in Aliens in Jersey and something’s about to come busting out of my chest. Pain begins to pass, humanity begins to find its way back into my body, and I’m ready for #2.

2nd on the checklist was walking with assistance. Seriously? Watch me salsa up and down the hallway, bitch. Even a hospital gown designed by a blind monkey and an IV unit being wheeled in front of me can’t hold me back. ONE, TWO, THREE, four. ONE, TWO, THREE, four. Tito Puente was looking down with pride. By the time I made it back to my bed I had a few singles tucked into the hospital gown and the hunger had returned. The nurse had been so happy with my rate of recovery that she ordered a “regular” meal for my dinner. Something solid? Really? Something on a bone perhaps? Something I can gnaw on and suck the marrow out of? In came food service. With a tray of…wait, what the fuck? Beef broth? They had screwed up my meal ticket. Two sips in I pushed it away, just to make sure I didn’t throw it against the faded white walls. Come on sweetcheeks, bring on #3.

Last on the checklist was peeing 100 mL all on my own. 100 mL keeping me from freedom, fresh air and my kid’s face. The nurse didn’t share my enthusiasm, though, and was reluctant to pull the catheter. “No way bubba, my doctor said I could go home if I met all your criteria, so clear it and pull it.” 5 minutes later she returned, phone in hand. “The doctor’s on the phone for you.” Yes, I’m fine. Yes, I ate food…if you can call it that. Yes I wanna go the hell home. “Here, he wants you back.” She hangs up. “OK let’s pull that catheter out. Doctor said if I didn’t, I’d probably come back in an hour to find an open window with bed sheets hanging out it.” Damn skippy. Bring the pitchers of water and keep them coming until I raise my hand or my eyeballs float back into my head.

It’s not water, I kept telling myself. It’s a deftly crafted, perfectly tempered pint of whiskey-barrel-aged stout. And I drank. And I drank. And I drank. You’ve probably had enough, Katie. No, screw that. I was not going to get up and go through the effort of walking to the bathroom only to be disappointed by the inability to meet that mark. If there’s a line in the sand, damned if I won’t cross it. So I drank. And I drank. And then I raised my hand. I, Katie, was ready to pee.

By the time I hit that call button and the nurse arrived to measure my throw, I had (of course) exceeded all expectation. 200 mL bee-atch! Give me my walking papers please, because there is a slice of chocolate ice cream cake and a devilishly handsome kid waiting at home for me. “Are you sure you want to go through the trouble of signing out now? Why not just stay the night,” she asked as my neighbor proceeded to shit herself and the stench of Hell’s fifth circle began to overtake the room like a thick fog. I stared her down. “I’ll get that paperwork, ma’am.” And ten minutes later the “transportation department” was wheeling me down a maze of corridors, to the revolving doors. A spring night’s air never smelled so fresh. A slice of mass-produced ice cream never tasted so delicious. Freedom never tasted so sweet.


“I’m not dead yet…”

by Katie Pizzuto April 6, 2015
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Things that are often described as difficult, high risk, and overly sensitive are nearly always worth both the wait and the trouble–yeah, damn right that includes me. So, I tend to have a weak spot for a really well-made pinot noir because I know that both the grower and the winemaker didn’t take the easy […]

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“But glittering prizes and endless compromises shatter the illusion of integrity…”

by Katie Pizzuto November 5, 2014
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Those that have been watching the growth of the craft beer/microbrewery movement this last decade with a diligent eye know that Big Brewing has done its best to steal back at least a portion of what it’s lost to the little guys—mostly by screwing with the less-than-diligent consumer. The A-B family of brands now includes […]

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“No! Don’t sign it! Give me time to think. I mean hold on a second boy, ’cause that’s magic ink…”

by Katie Pizzuto July 23, 2014
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I’ve just had the pleasure of spending the last couple of weeks with Randall Grahm. Nobody knew. In fact, Randall didn’t even know. Hell, if I’m being honest, I didn’t know until I had drained the last bottle. Though this could quite possibly be the post that finally lands me a one-way cab ride to […]

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WORDLESS WEDNESDAY: “Every picture tells a story, don’t it…”

by Katie Pizzuto May 7, 2014
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“I don’t give a damn ’bout my reputation, I’ve never been afraid of any deviation…”

by Katie Pizzuto April 24, 2014
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Making a wine with native yeast (instead of commercial yeast) fermentation takes a brass set of balls. Well, either that or a little madness. But I’ve always felt that a little madness keeps the big madness away…and it also keeps you on your toes. It’s one part speculation, one part faith, and two parts beer […]

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“Owww we want the funk, give up the funk…”

by Katie Pizzuto February 27, 2014
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Brooklyn Brewery makes me wish I lived in Brooklyn, and other than my friend Joe Carroll’s trio of gastro-bliss joints (Spuyten Duyvil, Fette Sau and St. Anselm) I didn’t really think anything could make me want to live in Brooklyn—I heard a tree grows there, but it continues to elude me. Every beer they’ve ever […]

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“That lady’s stacked, and that’s a fact, ain’t holding nothing back…”

by Katie Pizzuto February 1, 2014
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You have to admire a man in his 30s who shows up to his winemaker’s dinner in suspenders and wool slacks. Don’t ask my why— I don’t make the rules—but it’s really damned cool. Add to that a mop of untamable wavy hair and an attitude towards the American cork-dork blogosphere that clearly has yet […]

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WORDLESS WEDNESDAY: “Cause I’m just a girl, little ol’ me, don’t let me out of your sight…”

by Katie Pizzuto January 22, 2014
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