Contrary to the smooth rock-star image you may have of this Little Business and our hobnobbing with the musicati, we often have pretty long, intense, stressful days. Today was one of them, although not a particular standout on that front.

So, realizing I needed gas on the way home, I stopped at our friendly neighborhood Racetrac for twelve gallons of regular unleaded and a twelvepack of brew.

Since we're not exactly rolling in dough these days, I went in looking for the cheapest non-Beast twelvepack I could find. Wedged in among the premium beers was something I hadn't seen before: Steel Reserve.

I was skeptical. But, this comforting logo reassured me.

Hmm. Fort Worth. I like Fort Worth. I trust things from Fort Worth. Fort Worth is my friend.

So I come home, start playing with the dogs and gently sip down three Steel Reserves over the next seven minutes. No biggie. Wasn't the tastiest beer ever, but any port in a long day, eh?

Suddenly, I realize that I am feeling far tipsier than one should after hosing down 36 oz. of Fort Worth beer in a tenth of an hour.

I examine the can closely. Very closely. Because the type isn't as, shall we say, sans serif as it originally was.

Then, I saw the two tricks to which I had succumbed.

#1: 8.1% alcohol by volume.

The Maredsous of malt liquor. That's what I had bought. And with an extra .1% as a kick in the pants.

#2:

Fort Worth my Heinie.

Fortunately, April had left me a heaping pot of brunswick stew and a loaf of bread to combat those Wisconsin wiles. Some three hours later, I've regained equilibrium.

But I shan't be fooled again.