The name on that label was now just a nostalgic reminder of the real thing, and for years to come, increasingly old men and women would sit in little bars off the highway and order it either way. If hearing themselves say the word “Blotz” makes them feel young, or beautiful, or invincible again, maybe it’s OK that it survives. Maybe, for many years now, Blotz was already better as a story than as a beer.
