Anyone who is familiar with Rolling Rock beer is familiar with the "33" mystery. It is on the back of every bottle, and yet, no one knows what it is for. Rolling Rock even had a publicity campaign a few years ago, asking people to guess what the "33" stood for, in order to win some sort of prize.
Rolling Rock was originally brewed in the glass lined tanks of the old Latrobe brewery, in Latrobe, PA. Recently, it was sold to some other company, who decided to move the operation to New Jersey. Since about 94% of beer is water, the local water gives a lot of its flavor to the beer. If you've ever been to New Joizee, you'll know that the water tastes and smells like it had been filtered through a teenage boys' dirty gym sock.
As such, I won't be buying Rollong Rock henceforth.
Suprisingly enough, this post isn't about beer, or industrialization ruining the regional and even microbrewing industry.
"33" is a weird coincidence. I was in Latrobe yesterday, home of the former "33" Rolling Rock. I was having surgery. Just removing some shrapnel--(Yay! No more lumps in the face!) Now I have stitches in my mouth, butterfly closures on my cheek, and I feel like I've been in a fistfight, or, as I mentioned to friends last night, I feel (and look) like I took a nap and Carren woke me up with the ass end of a claw hammer.
The coincidence? It was my 33rd surgery since 21 June 2005. (The day I got blowed up.)