Drinking alcohol was never really illegal in Pitman–you just had to cross the town line to get it. While the state regulates alcohol in New Jersey, municipalities control the issuance of liquor licenses. Pitman has never issued licenses, resulting in an orbit of bars and package-good stores just outside the border. But in 2012, New Jersey amended its laws to allow microbreweries to sell their beer for consumption on the premises. Since these brewery licenses come from the state government, the microbreweries don’t require a local license to operate. In other words, they don’t actually need the town’s permission to make and serve beer.
Pitman is an odd place. Economically depressed, in my lifetime it’s never been able to capitalize on its main asset, which is its compact and navigable downtown. A big reason for this has been its pigheaded refusal to allow restaurants to serve alcohol. Pitman was commercially successful in the 1950s and 60s but when nearby malls began sucking shoppers away to Glassboro and Deptford, Pitman refused to adapt. It’s perfectly laid out to reinvent itself as a dining destination (something done by the Connecticut town I now live in) but it’s difficult, if not impossible, to entice quality restaurants when they can’t pair an IPA with a crab cake or a bottle of red with a steak, so instead Pitman’s downtown is a motley of pizza parlors and takeout joints which cater solely to locals, rounded out with thrift shops (I counted three) and other low-rent stores. If you’re from out of town, there’s no reason to visit Pitman — you’re better off going to Deptford mall-land and eating at a chain restaurant because at least you can have a drink on a Friday night. I mean, it’s not like a French restaurant is suddenly going to open in Pitman.
At least until Kelly Green arrived. The hesitancy that has hobbled Pitman for decades — one leg stuck in Glory Days, the other in economic reality — seems to be fading. One fourth-generation Pitmanite said to me, “I think Pitman owes its values to being dry.” Some values they are, too: few jobs (especially for teens), reduced assessments, diminishing property values. When Pitman began, temperance was rationalized for social reasons, as erroneous as those were; but now it has become a thing-in-itself, something justified because it’s always been. I’ve read enough newspapers and documents to recognize there was a problem with alcoholism and drunkenness in 19th-century America, although it was never the root of evil the Carrie Nation crowd believed it was — rather, it resulted from the grinding conditions of the time. Prohibition was a solution to an effect instead of a cause. Now we just keep it around for nostalgia’s sake.
Anyway, I love Atlas Obscura and I’m thrilled they pubbed this story. I had been a fan of AO’s encyclopedia for years before finally joining in 2013, pushed over the edge by inaccuracies and untruths in their entry for Pleasure Beach — somebody was wrong on the Internet and I had to fix it! Later I was surprised they had nothing on any of the ghost towns in the Pine Barrens (those could fill an encyclopedia all their own) so I added Batsto. Eventually I want to add a few more Nutmeg sites but in the meantime I check their encyclopedia before every trip. Since David Plotz came onboard, AO has been publishing news and features as well, and their wry editorial voice is an anodyne to most travel sites. You can find me over there as JDK.
“Herbert West — Reanimator” was Lovecraft’s first fiction sale, an episodic story in six parts for which he was paid $5 per installment. They appeared in the magazine Home Brew in 1922. The story follows the titular character and his nameless narrating assistant from their medical-student days at Miskatonic University to a small practice in Bolton, Massachusetts to the French lines of the Great War to an exclusive practice in Boston. All the while, West pursues his obsession with conquering death through science by injecting corpses with a special chemical cocktail. Intentional or not, a fine sense of gallows humor permeates as the pair by turns loot graves and smuggle corpses into West’s lab, only to either run screaming from or be beaten unconscious by the serum’s successes. A recurring joke sees West’s experiments often ending in gunfire, which is the only way he can return his cadavers to a second death.
The cans, illustrated by Rhode Island artist Aaron Bosworth, reference the story’s third chapter in which West injects a dead boxer with his serum, then prematurely buries the corpse when the juicing apparently fails. The chapter is also the most cringe worthy in the whole tale: the boxer is black, and Lovecraft pulls out the stops describing the character in subhuman terms. I believe Lovecraft’s life can be divided into two periods: the time before his 1926 separation from Sonia Greene (their divorce was never finalized); and the time afterwards, when he returned from New York to Providence, exhausted, starved, and humbled. “Reanimator” is definitely a product of the first period. Lovecraft never held anything that could be considered a regular job until 1920 — when he was 30 years old — and only began regularly traveling outside of Providence two years later. For all his autodidacticism, his views and political opinions were ignorant and provincial. Alas, we live in a season when to be ignorant and provincial in the 1920s is a social crime a hundred years later; when Princeton administrators capitulate and scrub every reference to Woodrow Wilson from the college he once presided over, it is only a matter of time before Brown students take sledgehammers to the Lovecraft plaque outside the John Hay Library or any of the other memorials scattered throughout the city.
Narragansett’s Reanimator is a resurrection of their retired helles bock, richer and denser than their standard lager, and at 6.5-percent ABV, slightly less drunkifying than their other Lovecrafts. It’s already my favorite in the series; I only wish they had offered it over the summer when lagers go better. There are those who may smash the award statues and claim that what someone wrote or said a century ago marginalizes and silences them today, but Cthulhu is indifferent to their complaints — as are brewers, drinkers, publishers, readers, and just about everybody else.
I love beer. I mean, I really love it. I brew it, I write about it, I design recipes of my own, and I’ve structured entire meals around what food will pair with the beer I want to drink. The thing about beer, though, is that it’s really easy to just keep on drinking it until it’s all gone …
Like Wheaton, I’m invested in beer culture: I like to collect the glassware and I’m always DTF local craft creations (especially pilsners, which are a terribly underrepresented minority in a world of IPA privilege). But also like him, I’ve lately discovered that drinking alcohol isn’t as easy as it used to be. A good buddy of mine — a friend I used to drink with as a teenager — recently told me he started cutting back on his evening adult-beverage intake because just a couple of beers puts him in a bad mood the next day. I’ve had the same experience, though the following morning I’m not so much grumpy as I am groggy and addlebrained. The reason, Wheaton points out, is due to our metabolizing alcohol as sugar, which means drinking two or three beers at dinnertime is like chugging two or three bottles of Mountain Dew right before bed and then expecting a full night’s sleep to ensue. Even after a pair of seemingly innocuous low-APV drinks I don’t sleep as deeply. As Wheaton says, “it turns out that drinking alcohol to help you go to sleep does not result in good sleep, but does result in feeling like shit when you wake up.” Hence I’ve joined the temperance movement, at least on school nights.
Wheaton’s whole post feels semi-autobiographical for me, from the endorphins produced by writing, to trying to make more time to read, to his preference for running over lifting weights. This is 40, I guess.
When I first read it, “The Shadow Over Innsmouth” was not among my favorite H.P. Lovecraft stories; I was drawn to more cosmic works like “The Whisperer in Darkness” and “The Shadow Out of Time.” But “Innsmouth” has grown on me over the years, in part because I can better appreciate its sophistication and in part because technology has evolved to the point where the story is as much prescience as fantasy horror. Ken Hite’s discussion of Robert M. Price’s essay prefacing The Innsmouth Cycle made me realize the story is more than just a guy being chased by a bunch of inbred townies:
Among other things, Price makes the point that Obed Marsh is the prophet of a Cargo Cult, one which implicitly casts Lovecraft’s New England as a primitive backwater. … Lovecraft’s story brilliantly inverts the colonialist understanding of the Cargo Cult by demonstrating that the Other (the non-white, the “Kanak,” the foreign) is the far more sophisticated myth, one with a better claim both on the past and the future than white Massachusetts Protestant Christianity.
If you haven’t read the story, then spoilers crawlin’ an’ bleatin’ an’ barkin’ an’ hoppin’ after the jump.