Sooner or later, anyone who brews beer is struck with a spark of devious inspiration, a slightly slurred voice from within that cajoles:

Yo, let’s try to brew the World’s Strongest Beer.

It’s the same voice that urges you to throw a snowball from the 700 level, or pick up that supermodel at the end of the bar. You know, striving for the unreachable.

Sam Calagione, founder and owner of Delaware’s Dogfish Head Craft Brewery, heard that voice last winter and started a 10-barrel (150 cases) batch of something he’s calling World Wide Stout. For the last eight months, he has singlemindedly pursued his dream by coaxing the brew into a double-digit alcohol zone, about four times the strength of domestic swill.

He’s hoping it’ll eclipse the current record holder – Boston Beer’s cobalt-bottled 17.5 percent monster, Samuel Adams Triple Bock – in time for New Year’s Eve.

At which point, presumably, Calagione will down a pint or two and float into the next millennium.

That’s a worthy dream – but not one, I presume, Levi Strauss and Co. had in mind when it tapped Sam this summer for its latest advertising campaign. Calagione is one of six small businessmen featured in a series of slick national magazine ads for its so-called “sophisticated casual” Slates line of slacks and shirts.

Now, I like Sam. And I really enjoy his excellent beers. But, if asked to describe him, “sophisticated” is not the first adjective that would disengage itself from Joe Sixpack’s keyboard.

Not unless a pair of overalls and hip boots – standard attire for a guy who spends an inordinate amount of time cleaning the dreck from a mash tun – has quietly replaced Calvin Klein as the fashion statement of the ’90s.

This is a guy who, when he first began distributing his beer to New Jersey, climbed into a dinghy and rowed the first case across the bay from Lewes, Del., to Cape May.

So, when I saw Sam’s portrait – snapped by none other than celebrity photographer Richard Avedon – it took me about two minutes to call him up and yank his chain.

“Oh, God, the calls are already starting to come in,” Sam laughed. “I was hesitant when they asked me to do it, but I figured it might be good for Dogfish Head.”

His five minutes of fame started when someone from Levi’s ad agency spotted his photo in Ale Street News, a regional beer newspaper. The agency thought he’d make a good subject for an ad campaign that would celebrate the “entrepreneurial spirit and sophisticated style” of men.

They offered to fly him to New York for the photo shoot, but he drove up from Delaware instead. “It was a good opportunity to deliver a few cases of beer to some accounts in Manhattan,” he said.

And he brought a bucketful of his Shelter Pale Ale to Avedon. “He’s like 70 years old, but he’s a pretty cool guy,” Calagione said. “He told me his secret is he drinks a Moosehead every night. I’m going to try to wean him off that stuff.”

Avedon had Calagione mimic the photographer’s famous portrait of Marilyn Monroe holding an exploding bottle of champagne. “We went through a few bottles before we got it right,” Sam said.

They shot more photos in San Francisco; now the ads are starting to show up in glossy mags like Esquire and Vanity Fair.

I suspect they chose Sam because he’s a photogenic guy. But if Levi’s was looking for someone who exemplifies that so-called “entrepreneurial spirit,” they couldn’t have found a better candidate than a microbrewer. Most of the ones I know work 16-hour days, trying to make an honest buck by brewing glorious ales and battling for a piece of a market that’s dominated by millionaire brewing scions like Augie Busch and Peter Coors.

Still, I had to laugh when I read the ad agency’s blather that, “At the core of the Slates brand is the essence of charting your true course.”

Right. Chart my course to a sixpack of that World Wide Ale.

Speaking of the world’s strongest beer, Sam Adams says it will not go down without a fight. Boston Beer is brewing a batch of a very potent ale it’s calling Millennium.

No word on the alcohol content, but a brewery spokeswoman promised it’ll be even stronger than its Triple Bock.

Joe Sixpack, written this week with a bottle of Dogfish Head Chicory Stout, appears every other Friday.

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You hear a lot of complaints these days about the lack of decent textbooks in our city’s public schools. Ancient science books and graffiti-filled history books apparently have parents, teachers and kiddies whining for more tax dollars.

Schools, schmools – speaking as the voice of the drinking public, I think it’s high time the city paid a little more attention to the severe lack of decent books in our taprooms.

That’s right, from corner bars to trendy bistros, the state of reading material has never been worse. Once, you could count on every tavern to own at least two irreplaceable texts:

1. “The Baseball Encyclopedia,” to settle 90 percent of all barroom arguments.
2. Today’s Racing Form, for entertainment purposes only.

These days, you’re lucky if you can find a beat-up copy of one of those city weeklies.

To me, reading is as fundamental to the taproom experience as a decent jukebox and a TV tuned to the nightly lottery drawing. Yeah, I like to kibitz and throw darts, but I can’t tell you how many times I’ve gotten lost in a good pint of beer and a tasty paperback, read to the buzz of barroom chatter.

Sadly, this is one of those issues that gets ignored by many otherwise intelligent people. They believe society’s obligation to educate its citizens somehow ends once they start boozing. The truth, of course, is that most of us learn far more while perched on a barstool than during 12 years at a desk.

Laugh, but this is an issue of fairness. In Philadelphia this year, tavern-goers will cough up more than $21 million for the schools through the 10 percent liquor-by-the-drink levy. And what will we get in return?

Corny jokes on soggy cocktail napkins. Maybe a grimy sports section from yesterday’s paper, left behind on the men’s room floor.

What are the Republicans going to think when they come to town next summer?

We could shrug and just chalk it up as another case of City Hall dropping the ball on one of its ballyhooed quality-of-life guarantees. We could gripe, though I doubt the Broad Street bureaucrats are paying much attention to the reading enjoyment of its taxpaying tipplers.

Complaining is going to get us nowhere in this battle.

Thus, I offer a modest proposal:

Instead of waiting for government handouts, we must stock the bookshelves of the city’s taprooms ourselves. Go now and rummage through your belongings, dig out a few dusty volumes and haul them down to your favorite hangout.

Consider it a good deed, for by sharing books, you will not only provide your fellow drinkers with hours of reflective entertainment, you will subtly but inevitably raise the level of watering hole discourse.

Plus, you’ll probably make a buck or two, settling those barroom bets.

As self-appointed chairman of the Taproom Curriculum Committee, Joe Sixpack suggests – in addition to the aforementioned baseball and horse racing tomes – any of the following essential titles:

• * “The Guinness Book of World Records.” How else will you know whether your consumption of three dozen raw eggs is a record?
• * The Daily News (today’s, thank you).
• * “The New Limerick,” an out-of-print book that contains more than 2,700 bawdy examples of the purest form of English literature.
• * A Bible or Koran, for additional inspiration.
• * A pre-1960 copy of “The Bulletin Almanac,” for the old-timers.
• * A current edition of Michael Jackson’s “Pocket Guide to Beer” and “Mr. Boston’s Official Bartender’s Guide.”
• * A box of Trivial Pursuit cards and rule books for billiards and darts.
• * Leonard Maltin’s “Movie & Video Guide.”
• * A dictionary.
• * Random paperbacks by James Joyce, Ernest Hemingway, Kurt Vonnegut Jr., Hunter S. Thompson, David Sedaris and any other writer who would be at home at your favorite bar.

Beer run

Joe Sixpack’s summertime beer expedition continued this week into the dreary corporate parks and cookie-cutter subdivisions of eastern Montgomery County. Though largely a land of tasteless lagers served up in boring so-called “drinkeries,” beer missionaries from Chester County lately have infiltrated the region with some fresh spigots.

The lost and thirsty should find their way to either of these:

* The Drafting Room, 900 N. Bethlehem Pike, Springhouse. A fixture in Exton, its Montco site is a tidy bar/restaurant with a nearly faultless taste in suds. On my visit, the worst thing on tap was Amstel (no sight of draft Budcoorsmiller); the best was Sierra Nevada Brown Ale, while the menu listed a handful of bottled Belgian lambics.

* Valley Forge Brewing Co., 799 DeKalb Pike (north of Route 73), Blue Bell. Still brewing at Devon’s Gateway Shopping Center, Valley Forge has taken its huge Imperial Stout and worthy ESB north on Route 202. Head brewer is Jeff Carter, formerly an apprentice at Cherry Hill’s Flying Fish.

Joe Sixpack (written this week with a pint of Yards Saison) appears every other Friday.

Last call for drinks, I’ll have another stout. -Tom Waits, from his album, “Closing Time.”

In the city, last call is a social anachronism, as out of place as a choir boy in a go-go bar.

Here we are, in the last days of the millennium, and we are evolving into a fully hot-wired, 24-hour-a-day, no-doze town, instantly interconnected with the rest of the world at every moment. Yes, the lights go out, but we’re always linked by cable TV, the Web, orbiting satellites, ATMs and voice mail. We sleep, yes, but our e-mail is waiting when we rise.

And yet, while the buzz never stops in the digital world, the Bud does.

At 2 a.m., closing time, the taps turn off. You down the last glass of whiskey, suck on the ice cubes and head into the dark emptiness of a town that is suddenly, awfully bone dry.

Quaint, isn’t it, that in a non-stop civilization, a man can’t find a drink for a few hours every night.

Normally, you’d be tempted to chalk up such a cruel quirk on our uptight founders, the Quakers. Never completely comfortable with the notion that an adult might actually enjoy an occasional sensory numbing, our forefathers devoted themselves to the proposition that thou shall not be permitted to purchase more than two sixpacks in a tavern.

Last call, then, is a bit of government-mandated Quaker-style self-denial, a pause to reflect (or pass out).

Pennsylvania liquor rules, of course, are insane. But it’s not all the Quakers’ fault. I’m not sure we can blame them, for instance, for our bloated State Store bureaucracy. I can only imagine the agency is disproportionately staffed by yahoos from Tioga County who believe it’s not wine unless the label says “Gallo.”

OK, that was a cheap shot.

Many Americans, even some who drink, hold a pretty dim view of booze. Instead of regarding it as simple adult refreshment, our laws are soaked with restrictions – roadblocks – that treat alcohol as an insidious vice that must be curbed. Prohibitionists carp so much about drunken driving, alcoholism and bingeing, you’d think a midafternoon gin and tonic was the last stop before heroin addiction.

Given Madison Avenue’s crass glorification of alcohol, though, I can’t say I blame ’em. It’s a little hard to defend man’s inalienable right to intoxicate himself when the message is being carried by cartoon frogs and big-breasted blondes. It’ll be even harder when the family of some diseased former drinker – encouraged by judgments against cigarette companies and gunmakers – brings one of those tear-jerking wrongful-death lawsuits against a money-grubbing brewery.

It is a world of recrimination.

And in such a place, a proposal to extend closing time merely feeds the battle.

Here’s Joe Sixpack’s proposal: Open the taprooms 24 hours a day!

For, as long as the state tells us when to stop drinking, there will remain, between abstainers and imbibers, eternal enmity.

Your hear it every night at 2 a.m.

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“Drink, pilgrim, here. And if thy heart be innocent, here too shalt thou refresh thy spirit.” – Stone marker, Bethlehem, Pa.

“Dallas sucks” – Cotton T-shirt worn by fans at Eagles training camp, Bethlehem, Pa.

Drinking beer and watching football may be two of the best ways to waste an autumn afternoon, but as any seasoned pro can tell you, it takes weeks of devoted, single-minded preparation to hit your stride.

Most of us are amateurs – we lose our edge over the summer, working up an easy sweat and guzzling those fizzy lawn-mower beers. Then, on the first Sunday of the new season, we pull up lame before halftime of the 4 o’clock game, unable even to finish off a measly sixpack.

Friends, now is the time to get into shape. And the best place to do it is 50 miles north of the city, in the Allentown-Bethlehem-Easton vicinity.

That’s where you’ll find the Eagles limbering up this weekend, as they open training camp at Lehigh University in Bethlehem. Though the trip is a pretty good haul from Philly, it’s worth the ride if only for the chance to bend your elbow at a handful of very fine pubs.

Consider this your pre-season playbook, a guide to beer at the Eagles training camp.

Main Street, Bethlehem, where that stone marker above is planted, is a quaint – almost too quaint – row of rehabbed commercial buildings across the Lehigh River from the Eagles’ camp. Park for 50 cents an hour at the municipal lot and do a quick stroll before heading into Bethlehem Brew Works (Main & Broad streets, 610-882-1300).

A fairly standard modern brewpub, the brewery has a faux industrial look with a long bar, roomy booths and a restaurant. Pints are $3.50 and fresh.

Across town, you’ll find J.P. McGillicuddy’s (25 E. Elizabeth Ave., 610-868-0200).

Normally, Joe Sixpack avoids Irish pubs with initials like the plague. But this joint boasts the largest number of tap handles within 100 miles of Philly – 72 faucets.

A disproportionate number, unfortunately, are yawners, either mainstream industrial lagers or micros that are widely available (and probably fresher) in Philly. But with six dozen taps, it’s impossible not to find something drinkable, and for me that was a robust glass of Reading’s Neversink Oatmeal Stout. Give the place a chance, and you’ll undoubtedly find something that suits your taste.

For my buck, though, the Old Brewery Tavern (Monocacy & Spruce streets) is classic Bethlehem.

In an aging steel mill town, it’s a real bar with real bartenders, not out-of-work pretty-boy art-school grads. A buck will get you a glass of Yuengling, served up by a hairy-armed mate. If you’re hungry, the cheese curls are on the house. Hang out for dinner, and grab a New York strip steak and mashed potatoes for under $10.

From Bethlehem, it’s just a 15-minute windsprint east on permanently-under-construction Route 22, into downtown Easton. Gritty in an appealing way, Easton is home to the Crayola factory, Larry Holmes and three very good taprooms.

A stop at the Weyerbacher Brew Pub (20 S. 6th St., 610-559-0340) is worth the trip alone. Unlike most of the trendy brewpubs that have cropped up in recent years, this one is a simple adjunct to the larger Weyerbacher brewery and bottling plant. No frills, just great beer and a very good bar menu.

The spigots feature Weyerbacher’s excellent selection of ales, including its newly released Hop Infusion Ale. If you’ve sipped this nuclear-powered ale by the bottle, you know you’re in for a hop blast when it’s pulled fresh from the brewery’s own kegs. Loaded with seven varieties of hops, the brew is not for the timid. It assaults your senses with the subtlety of a William Thomas sack.

If you can pull yourself from your barstool, find your way to Porter’s Pub (700 Northampton St., 610-250-6561). The beer list is a healthy mix of 60 labels (smoky Schlenkerla Rauchbier caught my eye) and a handful of drafts, including an ESB that’s brewed specially for Porter’s by Weyerbacher. I was particularly impressed by the bar’s library, which included an edition of the thoroughly bawdy “The New Limerick” and a copy of the thoroughly banal “Pennsylvania State Liquor Code.”

In the center of town, the highlight of Pearly Baker’s Ale House (11 Centre Square, 610-253-9949)is a long granite bar and a huge backroom chandelier. I plowed through a couple of the bar’s 30 taps, keeping up my strength with an ample bowl of onion soup, deliciously made with Brooklyn Brown Ale.

That’s a lot of brew, so bring along a D.D. to help you crawl home. And if you’re looking for souvenirs, stop in for cases at Tanczos (rhymes with Kansas, at 2330 Jacksonville Road, Bethlehem, 610-866-8039) or the massive Shangy’s (1,500+ different labels, 601 E. State Ave., Emmaus).

Joe Sixpack (written this week with a bottle of Old Lehigh Virgin Crystal Wheat Beer) appears every other Friday.

You know what they say about summer in Philadelphia: It’s not the heat, it’s the lousy lagers.

These tongue-wagging temps bring out the worst in beer. We should be swimming in a pool of tasty, thirst-quenching suds. Instead, nearly every back-yard barbecue, every Delaware Avenue deck bar is a reservoir of weak-butted light American lager.

It’s as if the afternoon sun had dried up all our full-bodied ales – perfect refreshment in a less harsh environment – and left behind only the stuff that could withstand a thermonuclear blast: Bud Blight, Coors Extra Cold, Miller Yuck. You know, factory-made beers distinctive only for their complete absence of anything resembling taste.

And God help us if there’s ever a lime shortage. They’ll have to set up emergency counseling for the millions of suddenly helpless fruit-top Corona sippers.

What’s a beer lover to do?

Joe Sixpack, dizzily suffering symptoms of Stage 3 heat stroke, sought help this week from a pair of beer pros: Ben Myers (Lower Merion High ’88, now living in L.A.), whose “Best American Beers” has just hit the bookstores, and Lew Bryson, author of “Pennsylvania Breweries” and a contributor to Myers’ book.

Sixpack: You’re at a picnic. You’re dying of thirst. But there’s nothing in the cooler but light beer. What do you do?

Myers: I’d drink it, but I don’t think I’ve ever been to a party like that.

Bryson: I’ll have iced tea. Actually, I’ve taken to carrying a flask with me. Usually they’ll have ginger ale, so I bring bourbon or rye. Wild Turkey rye and a big, old piece of lemon make a great summertime drink.

Sixpack: Do you ever drink light American lagers?

Myers: The honest answer is no. It’s not like they’re bad, it’s just that they don’t do anything for me.

Bryson: I almost always drink American light lagers when I’m grilling out back. Everybody else is inside in the air conditioning and I’m sweating up a storm outside. But I’ll lean toward Pennsylvania regional beers, like Straub or Yuengling.

Sixpack: How about beer in cans?

Myers: I’m a believer in the idea that beer always tastes better in glass. I honestly can’t remember the last time I had a beer out of can.

Bryson: Wow, I hardly drink anything out of cans. Maybe some of that nitro stuff (from Boddington’s, among others). If I could get that Yards Premium in cans, I’d drink it.

Sixpack: OK, no lousy lagers, no beer in cans. What do you recommend in this heat?

Myers: I go back to basics, like Sierra Nevada Pale Ale, and their Summerfest. And Paulaner Hefe-weizen, which is a classic Bavarian weiss [wheat] beer, with generous but not crazy proportions of banana aroma.

Bryson: Try Stoudt’s Hefe-weizen. It’s absolutely perfect.

Joe Sixpack can’t quibble with any of those recommendations. Here’s another trio to try:

* Dock Street Amber in a can. Contract-brewed for Henry Ortlieb at New York’s superb F.X. Matt brewery, it’s the only East Coast craft brew in a can. It’s

ideal for the beach or the pool or anywhere else bottles are banned. If you want to save a coupla bucks, try Ortlieb’s Select Lager.

It’ll remind you of Yuengling.

* Victory Pils. For those who find Victory Hop Devil too heavy for the summer, the pilsner is a hop-filled treat from this Downingtown craft brewer.

* Celis White. Beer geeks swear the flavor’s fallen off since Miller bought a share of the Austin brewery, but I still enjoy sucking down this Belgian-style white beer right out of the bottle.

Beer radar

Two of the three beer labels on the cover of the pocket-sized “Best American Beers” are locals: Yards of Manayunk and Flying Fish of Cherry Hill. . .Congrats to Bob Grossman, the librarian at the Philadelphia Orchestra, who won top honors for his barley wine at the American Homebrewers Association 1999 national competition. Grossman, who brews from his Haddonfield, N.J., kitchen, is a member of HOPS – the Homebrewers of Philadelphia & Suburbs. . .

If there’s any better way to spend a hot afternoon than downing oil-can sized brewskis and hurling lethal weapons at each other, Joe Sixpack sure hasn’t heard about it. You can join in on the fun today at Independence Mall from noon till 1:30 p.m., when the Foster’s Boomerang 2000 Team will be showing off its stuff. It’s part of some hair-brained scheme to make boomerang-throwing an Olympic sport.

Joe Sixpack (written this week with a bottle of DeGroen’s Dunkles) appears every other Friday.

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And now, the post-Father’s Day melancholy settles in.

The li’l buggers, bless their hearts, gave you – what, another necktie? A dozen golf balls? A cordless weed-whacker?

Sure, the kiddies will inevitably grow up and either get arrested or cost you a hundred grand for college. But at least you can be fairly confident that the whiners love you. After all, they gave you something you already know how to use.

There are among us, however, a confused collection of fathers who enjoy no such assurances. Last Sunday, when these unsuspecting souls peeled the Scotch tape from the wrapping paper, they were presented with the perplexing sight of large Tupperware containers, coiled hoses, bags of cereal and an assemblage of gadgets that appears to have been collected from the bottom of a drawer down at the neighborhood plumbing supply shop. These dads attempted, for the benefit of their well-meaning but obviously defective offspring, to look pleased.

But Pop could only ponder, “What the. . .?”

“It’s a beer-making kit!” the surly brood cheered.

Some dads – former felons, ex-servicemen and most males in West Virginia – already know how to make their own alcohol and thus might appreciate such thoughtfulness.

The rest might question why, exactly, they would want to spend a goodly amount of time to make something that is readily available down at the corner taproom.

That thought occurred to me the other night as I watched a potful of wort boil over the rim and flood the kitchen floor. Wort, for the uninitiated, is the malty mix of hot, bubbly liquid that, upon fermentation, becomes beer. One of the most unstable substances known to man, upon spillage it chemically bonds with any heretofore clean surface.

Beer-drinkers, of course, are notorious slobs. And as much as we’re proud of that quality, our slovenly ways do tend to make the necessary ordeal of sanitizing one’s bottles and equipment an unspeakable challenge.

Then there’s the wait – two to three weeks, at least, before you can crack open a cold one.

It’s no wonder the suds-swilling daddy – gifted last weekend with a brand-new homebrew kit – might doubt his family’s affection for him. Why would they plague him with a device that’s seemingly designed to inject hassle into the previously uncomplicated joy of downing a brew?

Well, Joe Sixpack isn’t a father, so I really can’t answer that question.

But I do – despite the hassle – continue to brew. And in my more contemplative moments, like when I catch a waft of Cascade hops rising from one of my own handmade ales, I sigh the same refrain I’ve heard whenever I’ve asked a buddy why – despite the hassles – he became a daddy:

Because it’s worth it.

Happy Father’s Day, guys.

Wondering how to use that new homebrewing kit? Some tips:

• * Talk. Call your local homebrew shop. These guys know more about homebrewing than anybody, and they’ll usually give you quick advice, even over the phone.
• * Read. Charlie Papazian’s “Complete Joy of Homebrewing” is an excellent starter. Zymurgy magazine is a great source for recipes, advice and equipment.
• * Surf. The Association of Brewers (www.aob.org) is a suds-packed resource. Cats Meow (www.brewery.org/brewery/cm3/catsmeow3.html) provides hundreds of recipes.
• * Drink. Remember the homebrews you enjoy, repeat the recipe.

Beer radar

It’s a long way to go for a beer, but if you have a hankering for Joisey beer, Waterloo Village in Stanhope, N.J., is the scene of the Garden State Craft Brewers Guild’s third annual Garden State Beer Festival tomorrow. A dozen N.J. brewers will be on hand on the banks of the Morris Canal in the state’s scenic north-central region. Info: 973-347-0900. . .This just in: That Belgian dioxin scare – the one that poisoned the food supply and threatened to turn everyone in Brussels into cancer-ridden zombies – has not infected, according to research sponsored by the impeccably impartial Confederation of Belgian Brewers, the nation’s beer.

Joe Sixpack (written this week with a bottle of Tupper’s Hop Pocket) appears every other Friday.

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“Everything’s fine when you’re looking through a foaming stein.” – The Three Stooges, “Beer & Pretzels,” circa 1933.

Speaking as one of the millions of kids who spent a disproportionate number of his formative years glued to Sally Starr’s “Popeye Theater,” I’d say it’s about time we all lifted a mug to Moe, Larry and Curly.

Soitenly, they’ve already received their just share of accolades for their sophisticated contributions to the fine arts of comedy and drama.

In this space, though, Joe Sixpack directs the reader’s attention to the Stooges’ efforts on behalf of the brewing arts. If anyone deserves a Nobel Prize for Beer, it’s Profs. Howard, Fine and Howard

Consider that, before the threesome hit the screen, America was lost in the muck of the 13-year-long Prohibition.

Then the Stooges break onto the scene and America repeals the 18th Amendment.

This is not just a coincidence of timing, friends. Take another gander at your Stooge video collection (you know, the one your girlfriend tried to burn), and you’ll find a virtual veneration of beer. It’s all there – from daffy exploding bottles to whacky rolling kegs – tickling our funnybones and lifting us from the morass of temperance.

The Stooges’ beer oeuvre was perhaps most thoroughly explored in their seminal “Beer & Pretzels,” an MGM short that takes place in a beer garden.

Earlier critics (Thompson, “Post-Hegelian Exegesis of a Knucklehead,” 1952) dismissed the film as standard slap-shtick. But looking deeper, we find the film’s subtext explores – nay, celebrates! – the uncorking of the Prohibition.

Its feature dance number, called “Tap, Tap, Tap on the Little Keg,” is a musical homage to the rebirth of beer. Where just months earlier, booze was the untouchable scourge of Eliot Ness, in this film it’s the honored guest.

The joy is manifested by the inimitable Curly, triumphant over those who would demonize his malt beverage, playing the spoons and smoking a cigar while downing a draft.

Brilliant. Just brilliant!

It’s no wonder, then, that somebody has toasted the trio with their very own Three Stooges Beer.

Contract-brewed by the Lion brewery in Wilkes-Barre, Pa., this lager is the invention of a couple of Boston-area kids who never grew up.

“It’s a good, everyday, old-fashioned, drinkin’ beer,” said Dewey Parsons, co-owner of Panther Brewing. The company gets its name from the beer distributor that employed the Stooges in the film “Three Little Beers.”

The beer started out as a novelty, but Parsons says it’s attracting return customers. About 600,000 cases have been brewed since it went into production last August. That’s about 50 percent more beer than the standard microbrewery would brew in the same period.

How’s it taste?

The one I sampled from Javies Beverages in Manayunk reminded me of a drinkable Miller. A case runs about 20 bucks.

You can sample Three Stooges Beer, and support the painting of a mural to honor Philadelphia-born Stooge Larry Fine, on Thursday at a cocktail party at the Inn Philadelphia Restaurant and Piano Bar (251 S. Camac St., Center City). Admission: 10 smackers. Bring your own cream pies.

Beer junket

New Jersey, the alleged Garden State, is our beer destination of the week, and I say that with all due irony. Those venturing beyond picturesque Admiral Wilson Boulevard are usually advised to give up all reasonable hope for a decent bar.

True, some tasty brews (Flying Fish in Cherry Hill, most notably) lurk in this corner, but there are few joints in which to actually guzzle the goods. This may explain South Jersey’s affection for backyard keggers.

Serving the barbecue crowd adequately are a half-dozen or so superb package stores dotting Camden County’s highways. The best of them is Voorhees Liquors (10 Berlin Road, Voorhees).

Joe Sixpack visited a couple of weeks ago and came out with an armful of UK imports, including Mordue Workie Ticket, the 1997 Champion Beer of Britain, and Coniston Bluebird Bitter, the ’98 champ. A wall of low-priced Belgians really caught my eye, though. I’ve paid up to 15 bucks for a crusty liter of Hanssens Old Gueuze; I found it at Voorhees for seven. A small bottle of Cantillon Kriek – a refreshing cocktail hour split – was $3.

Legal disclaimer: Smuggling cheap Jersey beer back into Philly is illegal. Hide the booty in the trunk and avoid gunfights with the tollbooth border patrol.

Joe Sixpack (written this week with a bottle of Victory Prima Pils) appears every other Friday.

-30-

We’re in some crowded neighborhood in Reading, Pa., that looks like Manayunk, only with slightly wider streets. It’s taken me 15 minutes to find a parking spot, and a few of the locals are giving me menacing looks for the South Philly tap I applied to one of their cars. You know, when you’re backing in, and you nail the other guy’s fender hard enough to rock it back a foot or so and set off the alarm, but not quite hard enough to leave any permanent damage.

It’s a statement that says, “This space would have big enough for my T-Bird, dammit, if you hadn’t parked like a jackass.” That’s aggressive talk coming from an out-of-towner.

We hurry off down the street, past shadowy rowhouse porches.

It’s over this way, I tell her. I think I see a neon Boddington’s ale sign in the window.

She nods and follows, but the look on her face tells me she views this adventure about as entertaining as an afternoon in a Kosovar refugee camp.

“Is this going to be another one of those things we do?” she groans.

Huh?

She looks at me.

I shrug.

We’re on a beer safari.

-0-

They say the difference between men and women is that guys are hunters and girls are gatherers. It goes back to some mysterious prehistoric genetic coding that also leads rich people to register as Republicans.

According to this hunter/gatherer theory, cavewomen planted things and watched them grow. And then they made salads.

Neanderthal guys ran out for pizza.

We’ve evolved considerably in the last 50 million years or so. Now, we’ve got cable, and the pizza shop’s on speed dial.

Some critics (wives) regard this not as evolution but pure laziness.

Much as I hate to admit it, they may have a point when it comes to beer.

Consider that, for most, beer hunting today amounts to rolling down to the distributor and loading up on six or seven cases of cans for the weekend. Maybe 12 if it’s a holiday. Though the racks are overflowing with delicious micros and exotic imports, we put little thought into our selection and simply plunk down our credit card for whatever’s on sale.

Fellow hunters, this is the equivalent of stalking a woolly mammoth and spearing a Budweiser.

Aim higher.

Drinking bad beer is just plain laziness.

We must return to our roots.

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That, I explain to her for, like, the thousandth time, is why we’re walking down a dark street in Reading, Pa., heading for some obscure bar. I am trying to get in touch with my inner self. I am expressing my manliness. I am evolving as a species. I am. . .

“You just want a beer.”

Yeah, well, that too.

Our destination is the Northeast Taproom, a hole-in-the-wall joint that I’ve been hearing about in recent months. It’s a corner pub that serves great beer, and only beer. On my visit, there is not bottle of even whiskey in sight.

I’m told there is a dart board and maybe even a pool table in the back room, but on this night I cannot drag myself from the tiny front-room bar. The floor, covered with peanut shells, is packed with the same locals who had grunted at my earlier park job. Zappa is on the juke and eight or 10 excellent craftbrews are on tap. Guinness Stout is the worst thing you can drink, and I say that as a compliment. I satisfy myself with a cask-conditioned Fuller’s Porter and a pint of Three Floyds Alpha King.

She sips on a Sierra Nevada Bigfoot Ale and gives me a look that says, “I’m glad you dragged me along for the ride.”

The Northeast Taproom is a neighborhood place. Zagat’s probably never heard of it. And traipsing 60 miles into the wilds of distant Berks County may seem like a preposterously worthless adventure when Philadelphia has dozens of its own perfectly suitable corner pubs.

But this is a beer safari, and we are, after all, talking about the evolution of mankind.

It’s worth the trip.

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This summer, Joe Sixpack embarks on an epic junket for great beer in out-of-the-way places. Though I’ll always return to my favorite hangouts, I want to expand my horizons while writing off huge amounts on my expense account.

And, when I can wipe off the salt from the beer nuts, I’ll write a few words about my travels.

Here’s what I found on this week’s Beer Safari:

Northeast Taproom (610-372-5284) at 12th and Robinson streets in Reading, open 3 p.m. to midnight, Tuesday to Saturday. It is not easy to find, so call for directions.

Joe Sixpack (written this week with a bottle of Mordue Workie Ticket) appears every other Friday.

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Maybe it’s the water, or maybe it’s the beer. Whatever. We’ve got two local finalists in the Guinness Win Your Own Pub in Ireland contest. The two stout fans are among 10 U.S. suds-sippers who will make the trip to Newcastle West for a chance to win J. O’Sullivan’s Pub.

Imagine: Competing for a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to bounce sodden drunks from your very own bar!

I suppose there are worse jobs – that’s why so many beer-drinkers pour their hearts into this wildly popular essay contest.

Here’s a taste of this year’s winning writings, in which contestants were asked to complete the phrase, “The perfect pint of Guinness is. . .”

(Warning: These essays usually reflect all the textured subtlety of a soggy cocktail napkin.)

Tim Riley, a 30-year-old engineer from Bellmawr, N.J., made it to the last round by comparing a perfect pint of Guinness to “Einstein watching a cartoon. . .classic and completely unconventional.”

Mark Gallagher, a 41-year-old lawyer from Havertown, Delaware County, said a perfect pint is “the blonde with the black skirt. The one that will capture your heart.”

The winner will be chosen this weekend in Ireland, where the finalists are competing in darts, pint-pouring and story-telling.

Beer radar

Now, here’s the kind of high-fallutin’ culture that Joe Sixpack can really appreciate: Theater You Can Drink To. It’s tonight and tomorrow at Mezzo Fico (723 Walnut St., Center City), where Gravy Theater presents a pair of live plays. The lively arts are even livelier with the theater’s one-of-a-kind BYO policy. That’s right – bring your own beer. Just don’t roll the bottles down the aisle. Tickets are 7 bucks. Info: 215-849-4456. . .O’Neal’s (611 S. 3rd St., South Street area) is getting into the tasting thing with a handful of powerful spring and summer ales. On Thursday, the pub – which boasts one of the best tap selections on that side of town – will be pouring two newcomers from Belgium’s La Chouffe: Biere de Mars and Biere de Soliel.

News item: Miller Brewing donates 12,000 “40s” to tornado victims in Moore, Okla. True, they were filled with drinking water. But thirsty recipients reportedly could not tell the difference from Miller Lite.

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I’m a beer-drinker, but after 47 different American light lagers crossed my palate a couple of Saturdays ago, I can assure you that Joe Sixpack is not a beer-taster.

My tongue just can’t take that kind of abuse.

The occasion was the regional judging of the American Homebrewers Association annual national competition, a prestigious event that brings to mind the precise, objective taste-testing of a Betty Crocker Cook-Off. . .only, in this contest, Betty is a boozer.

The folks at Home Sweet Homebrew, the Center City mecca for do-it-yourself brewmeisters, collected something like 460 different beers for this year’s judging. In the shadowy, cold warehouse of Red Bell’s brewery at 31st and Jefferson streets, we tasted everything from powerfully dark imperial stouts to the notoriously aforementioned light lagers.

This was Joe Sixpack’s first stab at judging spirits, if you don’t count that martini-sipping competition I was hustled into a few years back at some topless bar down the shore. I had successfully erased the twisted memory of those exotic cocktails (a peanut butter martini?) until recently, when an anonymous note and several indiscriminate photographs appeared in my mail slot.

Unlike making your own beer, which is a remarkably easy and fun hobby, judging the stuff is a somewhat exacting science.

It begins with a careful examination of the bottle. Judges eyeball the glass, holding it to the light to see God knows what. One guy I’ll call Judge Wapner offered me the first bottle and I replied admiringly, “Yup, looks like a beer to me.”

Fffffft. . .I popped the cap and started the pour.

“Not so much!” Wapner admonished. “We’re tasting, not drinking.”

Again, he held the glass to the light. You do a lot of this when judging homebrews, checking for color and clarity and little yeast thingies that creep around the cup. Light lagers are supposed to be crystal. That’s an incredibly tough goal for homebrewers, who tend to dump most anything into the kettle, as long as it’s fermentable.

Wapner seemed troubled by this sample. “I’m not sure – would you call that pale amber or golden?” he wondered.

“Um, looks yellow to me.”

He placed the glass beneath his perfectly honed nostrils and inhaled.

“Perfect. I detect just a delicate hops aroma. Czechoslovakian Saaz, I’m guessing,” Wapner intoned. “What do you think?”

“Um, I drank mine already.”

Wapner poured me another glass and showed how to swirl the brew to release its aroma.

For me, the smell of hops – like freshly mowed grass – is one of the most important qualities of a well-made beer. The absence of that aroma is one of the reasons I stopped drinking Budcoorsmiller’s factory-made lagers.

I caught the whiff of few hops this day. But Wapner assured me that was proper for this type of beer. A well-made American light lager (think Michelob) should have little distinctive hops aroma. Nor should it be cuttingly bitter, nor should it offer much of an aftertaste. This is lawnmower beer, designed to quickly satisfy a thirst with crisp refreshment.

So here were several dozen light lagers – produced by earnest, hopeful souls who sweated for hours at their kitchen stovetops – being judged by some lug who doesn’t even appreciate the style.

Wapner furiously scribbled on his score sheet, describing the mouthfeel and the nose, whether his sample was alkaline or metallic. He detected a phenolic aroma in one sample, a butterscotch in another. I marveled at his taste buds, I was in awe of his schnozzle.

Me – I wrote down descriptions like “tastes good.” Or “tastes really good.”

Amazingly, my scores were almost identical to those of the experienced judges.

I’d like to say all the entries were great and that they all deserve to be winners. I’d also like to say that Demi Moore is taking a dip in my back yard jacuzzi.

The truth is that, like the pros, homebrewers make a lot of good beer, and a lot of bad beer.

Alas, Joe Sixpack just isn’t the right person to judge them. I’d prefer to just drink ’em.

Joe Sixpack (written this week with a bottle of Victory Golden Monkey) appears every other Friday.

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