I drink beer. Being from Milwaukee. That's what we do. I don't just mean, beer is consumed. That's like saying; sand is available in the Mojave. That Bill Gates might not be turning grey over his worry about social security coverage. That dogs have a tendency to get distracted playing chess. We're born professional beer drinkers. It's a way of life. Beer is our tradition, our heritage, our trusted marriage counselor. A beer gut equals a symbol of prestige. Liver spots mark a life well lived. Cirrhosis is written off as the result of a weak system. Faulty filters. "Didn't drink enough BEER!" Import. Home brew. Domestic. Microbrewery. Doesn't matter. The beer flavored water known as Light. We drink it. It's always been an embarrassment that the adult amber beverage named after this fair city "Old Milwaukee" made Coors taste like a stout. But whether it was Pilsner Urquell or Old Peculiar or Mickey's Big Mouth Dry Ice Wet Light Double Bock: even the worst beer I ever had was still pretty good. Mind you, this love poem pointedly disincludes Zima, a so called "malt beverage" with the aromatics of sun dried cat pee, and the aftertaste of scorched metal. Of course, if no beer is available ... Will Durst is just waxing poetic because Anchor's Christmas Ale has just been released. Light, cinamonny, and wonderful.