THE presidential election is still 15 months away, the nation’s attention is on Ben and Jen, and the biggest name in politics is Schwarzenegger.
But we may have just witnessed the unraveling of the Democratic front-runner’s campaign for the White House right here in South Philadelphia, at 9th and Wharton.

Let it be recorded: At lunchtime on Aug. 11, 2003, under the familiar awning of Pat’s King of Steaks, Sen. John Kerry attempted to eat a cheesesteak.

For presidential candidates, eating a cheesesteak in South Philly is a political rite of passage. Clinton did it, and so did Gore. John McCain gobbled one, with hot peppers.

But this is more than just shaking hands and kissing babies. For a pol, eating a cheesesteak is like running the gauntlet – past the surly counterman, through the variety of toppings, finishing it off without looking lame.

We want to see if you can survive. And if you can’t manage a dripping steak, why should we have any confidence that you can handle a slippery character like Osama bin Laden?

Kerry, you may have heard, failed miserably.

He ordered a cheesesteak with Swiss cheese.

Now I suppose in some corners of the world, Swiss is a perfectly acceptable sandwich ingredient. Switzerland, maybe.

But in Philadelphia, ordering Swiss on a cheesesteak is like rooting for Dallas at an Eagles game. It isn’t just politically incorrect; it could get you a poke in the nose.

I once witnessed a sandwich-maker reach halfway out a store window, grab a dude by the neck and threaten to kneecap him and his girlfriend just because the guy asked, “With what?”

Onions, you idiot!

Pat’s Steak owner Frank Olivieri had the good grace not to throttle Kerry. He should’ve told him we don’t much like Swiss-eating campaign monkeys. Instead, he pointed him to the Cheez Whiz.

The damage, though, was already done.

At first, reporters snickered. Then word filtered into the national press that Kerry looked like a doof. Yesterday, the Washington Post compared the debacle to the first President Bush’s out-of-touch questions upon encountering a common supermarket scanner.

Dukakis in a tank.

Quayle’s “potatoe” misspelling.

Nixon’s five o’clock shadow.

And now this: Kerry’s cheesesteak mistake.

I blame it on his handlers.

I mean, who was the dope on his advance team who told Kerry to order a cheesesteak hoagie? For cryin’ out loud, the guy’s a rookie; eating a cheesesteak hoagie, with its layers of lettuce and tomato, is like trying to hit a major league fastball.

Kerry asked the photographers to stop shooting pictures. Right. You see a train wreck coming, the last thing you do is put down your camera.

So the man who would be president of the people was photographed delicately gripping the sandwich with his fingertips like he’s some kind of Boston blue blood playing the piccolo. You half expected him to ask for a silk napkin, Jeeves.

If Kerry had any sense, he’d have gone to our Gov. Rendell for some culinary advice. Here’s a guy, the former chairman of the Democratic National Committee, who got himself elected mayor of Philadelphia a decade ago almost solely on his ability to stuff a cheesesteak down his trap without ruining a necktie.

We in Philadelphia expect nothing less of our Commander in Chief.

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YOU’RE sitting quietly at the bar, peeling the label and stacking your change, when a stranger puts a buck in the juke.

The digits flash and the laser lines up on the disc, and suddenly the whole place is transformed.

It could be Sinatra or the Clash or Sheryl Crow or U-2, it doesn’t matter. Music makes a bar.

And it makes you wonder, what makes a great bar song?

Loud? Well, yeah, the Ramones go with a taproom like a shot goes with a beer. But a few easy chords of Frank on “Summer Wind” make me order another whiskey.

Well-known lyrics usually click, whether it’s a happy sing-along like “American Pie,” or the sad refrain of “If You Don’t Know Me By Now.” But, I swear, one more chorus of “YMCA,” and I’m going postal.

Rock anthems just don’t cut it. “Stairway to Heaven,” supposedly the most-requested song on radio, is almost never heard on a jukebox. Meanwhile, narrow-minded twaddle like “Sweet Home Alabama” by Lynyrd Skynyrd never sounds better than when you’ve got a beer in one hand and a cue stick in the other.

What about jazz? Miles, Coltrane, Coleman – forget it. I could listen to Thelonious Monk’s “Brilliant Corners” in my car, at home, in a nightclub – but not in a bar. Louis, Ella and Duke are the only ones who fit comfortably on the juke.

Eminem, the Beach Boys, Smokey Robinson, Procol Harum – great music, but keep ’em out of the saloon. I mean, “A Whiter Shade of Pale” is not about the latest brew from Sierra Nevada.

And just because an artist has one or two great bar hits, it doesn’t mean everything is jukebox worthy. The Beatles’ “Paperback Writer” and “Revolution,” yes. But save “Day in the Life” for your headphones.

I asked a bunch of friends to name me their favorite bar song, and I got a typically muddled mix.

Local film editor Michael Demirjian, who actually mixes his own eclectic tunes, can’t resist Ian Drury and the Blockheads’ goofy “Hit Me With Your Rhythm Stick.”

I told George Hummel at Home Sweet Homebrew, whose musical tastes tend to be tie-dyed, that the Grateful Dead was off-limits. But he came back with “Does God Look Down on the Boys in the Bar Room” by Dead lyricist Robert Hunter.

Beer Philadelphia expatriate Jim Anderson votes for one of my favorites, “Green Onions” by Booker T and the MGs. “It’s the one song that makes you feel cool, no matter where you are, what you’re wearing or which flavorless lager you ‘re being forced to drink.”

Flying Fish Brewing’s Gene Muller believes, “It’s not what the best bar song is, it’s what the best bar song instrument is.”

And that instrument is?

The cowbell!

“Nothing cuts through the smoky, boozey haze of your brain in a barroom better than a cowbell,” Muller says. “Think about it – the beginning of “Honky Tonk Woman,” Grand Funk’s “We’re an American Band,” anything by Guns n’ Roses, Mountain’s “Mississipi Queen” and on and on. Most of them songs you might not normally rock to in the cold light of day but after a few beverages in a bar – it’s headbanger heaven.”

So, what makes a great bar song?

The answer, my friend, is . . . you know it when you hear it.

Tonight, Rolling Rock sponsors the Top 33 Bar Songs of all time on VH-1. The video channel’s nominees, let me warn you, are lame. I think you’ll like Joe  Sixpack’s better.

 The Six Worst Bar Songs of All Time

Warning: Play these songs at the risk of personal injury. Guaranteed to clear the bar in 20 seconds or less.

1. “Livin’ la Vida Loca” – Ricky Martin
2. “Achy Breaky Heart” – Billy Ray Cyrus.
3. “Karma Chameleon – Boy George and Culture Club.
4. “Copacabana” – Barry Manilow.
5. “Silly Love Songs” – Paul McCartney.
6. “Afternoon Delight” – Starland Vocal Band.

 The Six Best Songs  About Beer

Maybe they’re not the greatest jukebox songs, but these tunes make me thirsty.

1. Schaefer beer jingle.
2. “Gettin’ Busy with an A-B Sales Girl” – the Pain Relievaz.
3. “In Heaven, There is No Beer.”
4. “Dona Nobis Beer” – Full Frontal Folk.
5. “House of the Gods” – The Pogues (Singha Beer, don’t ask no questions . . . “)
6. “Beer Run” – Todd Snider. (All we need is a ten and a fiver; A car and a key and a sober driver.)

 Six Great City Jukeboxes (with great beer)

1. The Khyber, 56 S. 2nd St., Old City.

•  Most played: “High Voltage,” AC/DC.
•  Best beer: Yards IPA.

2. Doobies, 22nd and Lombard streets, Center City.

•  Most played: “The Mercy Seat,” Johnny Cash.
•  Best beer: Flying Fish Summer Farmhouse Ale.

3. Anthony’s Olde City Pub, 226 Market St., Old City.

•  Most played: “Is This Love,” Bob Marley
•  Best beer: Yuengling Lager.

4. Standard Tap, 2nd and Poplar streets, Northern Liberties.

•  Most played: “Wakeup Bomb,” REM.
•  Best beer: Cask-conditioned Stoudt’s Pils

5. Royal Tavern, 937 E. Passyunk Ave., South Philadelphia.

•  Most played: “Bittersweet Symphony,” the Verve.
•  Best beer: Yards ESA.

6. Grey Lodge, 6235 Frankford Ave., Mayfair.

•  Most played: “Fade to Black,” Metallica or “Summer Wind,” Frank Sinatra.
•  Best beer: Victory Sunrise Weisse.

 Joe Sixpack, by Staff Writer Don Russell, was written this week with a bottle of Anderson Valley Hop Ottin’ IPA.

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Arlington, Va., has a cinema pub. So does Tampa, Fla. Even Salt Lake City has one.

And now, tiny West Hazelton in upstate Pennsylvania has one.

Opened in March, the Cinema & Drafthouse serves cold brews, a full dinner menu and second-run movies. Showing this weekend: “Phone Booth,” with an afternoon matinee of “Holes.”

Admission: $3.

“It’s been fantastic so far,” said Sybil Hillman, the 24-year-old owner who quit her job as a high school English teacher to open the theater.

Located in a former vaudeville theater (circa 1914), the movie house has been completely renovated and outfitted with a kitchen and bar. There’s seating for 230 and full waitress service.

There’s even a smoking section.

The project had its skeptics at first, especially among those who wondered about the wisdom of serving booze in a darkened theater.

“That was one of my major concerns, too,” Hillman said. “What would I do to control things?”

Everyone gets carded at the door before they buy their ticket. Those under 21 must be accompanied by a parent.

The bar doesn’t serve shots of hard liquor, and Hillman noted, “You’re only in there for two hours – it’s not as if you’re sitting down there pounding down beers. You’re not here to drink. You’re here to be entertained.”

Instead of a raucous crowd, she said, “It’s a very laid-back atmosphere. We get families, people on dates, and we’re surprisingly popular among the elderly population. We get 75-year-olders coming back every week.

“I think it’s because we don’t get a lot of high school kids being loud and making a ruckus. It’s a place for adults or families.

“People were really happy to see something like this in, of all places, Hazelton. We’re definitely a coal-mining town, but we’re also a town where people are trying to do things differently.

“I figured that if I can make a go of it here, anywhere else will be easy.”

Maybe, someday, even in Philadelphia.

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THE MEN FROM Bud came knocking on my door the other day. It was only a matter of time till they tracked me down.

They wanted me to drink their beer.

Suddenly, I was back in 1978. Not sure of the exact day, but it was a hot night at McGlinchey’s. “Gimme Shelter” was on the jukebox and the Phillies had just beaten the Dodgers. The good times ended, though, when the bartender told us the bad news: the last keg of Prior Double Dark (45 cents a mug) was kicked.

It seems lame now, but back then you didn’t have many beer choices. Schaefer, Schmidt’s, PBR…

How ’bout a Bud?

That was the last time I drank the Saint Looie stuff. Twenty-five years.

What drives a man who refuses to drink Budweiser – is it taste or principle? For a beer-lover who desires the full flavor of malt and the bitterness of hops, Budweiser comes off like pallid, rice-infused fizz. For the ethical citizen who cringes at the money-grubbing domination of corporate conglomerates, Anheuser-Busch is an evil Borg.

Thankfully, you don’t need a reason when you’re knee-deep in all-malt brews, sipping tall glasses of exotic imports and hand-crafted micros. Belgian lambics, German weissbier, the latest high-octane batch from Dogfish Head – there’s so much more than Budweiser.

But then, it strikes. Maybe you’re at a company picnic or a tailgater outside the Vet. Somebody’ll casually hand you a plastic cup. It’s hot, you’re thirsty, you’re not thinking . . .

And before you know it, you’ve crossed over to the dark side.

As you’d expect, the world’s largest brewer does not do things in a small way. So, when they came knocking, the men from Bud arrived aboard a 45-foot-long tour bus called the “B” Lounge.

Now I know the dread poor Winston in “1984” must have felt just before he was dragged inside the infamous Room 101. I could only imagine the deceptions and torment that awaited me on the other side of the “B” Lounge’s black-tinted windows.

They were dressed in creased khaki pants and polo shirts with discreet Budweiser logos. And they were smiling.

It was sinister, I tell you.

“Have a seat,” one of them said, ominously motioning toward a black leather couch, implying, “Resistance Is Futile. ”

It was quite comfortable, thank you. I glanced around quickly for the restraining straps; instead, they offered me a pillow.

For the sake of common decency, I’ll spare you further details of the indignities thrust upon me. Let’s just say the glare from the wide-screen plasma TV screens was more than any human being could be expected to handle.

They started grilling me about their beer, using words like “elegant” and “delicately flavored. ” I could see where this was headed. I tried to drown them out, loudly repeating, “Reinheitsgebot! Reinheitsgebot! ”

But before you knew it, the Budweiser message was firmly implanted in my brain: Beer is best when it’s fresh . . . Beer goes bad when exposed to high temperatures, sunlight and oxygen . . . Budweiser is the freshest beer on earth, just look at its “born-on” date . . . Bud good, Coors bad . . .

I weakened.

One of the men from Bud drifted toward the “B” Lounge bar.

How’d you like to taste a Budweiser with a “born-on” date of . . . TODAY?

It was 11 a.m. The closest Budweiser plant is in Newark, N.J., 90 miles away. How’d they do that?

He poured. I lifted it toward my mouth. Like I said, I’ll spare you the details.

I could excuse my behavior by pointing out that, despite my preference for craft brews, most Americans apparently enjoy the flavor of Budweiser – so who am I to defy their taste? I could explain that, yeah, A-B is big, but here in Philadelphia it employs hundreds of handlers, truck drivers, salesmen and distributors – my Bud boycott hurts local business. I could tell you the conditions inside that “B” Lounge, with its plush cushions, soft lighting and that polished mahogany bar, were unforgiving.

The truth is, forgive me, friends, I was thirsty.

It tasted clean and crisp and fresh. Maybe I’ll try another in 25 years.

Beer radar

Here’s a case where freshness doesn’t count: holiday ales. If you spot discounted winter beer at your neighborhood distributor, go ahead and splurge. The beer’s old, but – thanks to high alcohol and extra malt and hops – it’s still good. I’ve seen cases that were originally marked at more than $30 going for $19 . . .

Beer has plenty of benefits, from washing down pizza to enhancing beauty. In Singapore, they think it prevents SARS. Sorry. Alcohol kills germs, but as the government was recently prompted to inform its citizens, drinking beer will not stop a deadly disease . . .

Anchor Summer, a big-time wheat beer from the San Francisco brewery, is making a re-appearance this season after years of absence here. Berliner Weisse, the tart, low-alcohol refresher served with raspberry syrup, is back at Nodding Head (1516 Sansom St., Center City). Also new on area shelves: Reissdorf Koelsch from Germany and Appalachian Peregrine Pilsner from Harrisburg . . .

The mates at Victory Brewing in Downingtown are chipper: their world-class HopDevil IPA is now being exported to London, the birthplace of India Pale Ales . . . More than 1,000 spectators watched Nelly, a 7-year-old pygmy angora, win the annual Sly Fox Brewhouse & Eatery goat race Sunday. In her honor, Brewer Brian O’Reilly will pour Nelly’s Maibock till the kegs run dry.

Calendar

May 17 – First annual Pottstown Incredible Brews, Blues & Barbecue Festival, Ortlieb’s Brewery and Grille (Sunnybrook Ballroom, 99 Sunnybrook Road, Pottstown). Music, pulled pork and craft beers at Henry Ortlieb’s latest joint. Tix: $30 ($27.50 advance). Times: Noon to 4 p.m. and 5 to 9 p.m. Info: 610-326-6400.

May 17 – Third annual Brandywine Valley Craft Brewers Festival, Iron Hill Brewery & Restaurant (30 E. State St., Media). Craft beers from 25 local breweries, proceeds benefit the Media Youth Center. Tix: $25 ($20 advance). Time: 1-5 p.m. Info: 610-627-9000. *

Joe Sixpack, by Staff Writer Don Russell, was written this week with a glass of Flying Fish Hop Phish IPA.

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BETWEEN THE Saab convertibles attempting to make illegal U-turns into 25-cent parking spots and the overpriced gift shops selling third-world trinkets, Manayunk has always rubbed me the wrong way.

Not the real Manayunk – the old neighborhood of rowhouses cramped beneath the SEPTA trestle, of Pretzel Park and towering St. John’s church, of the Wall and the canal.

But the fake Manayunk, along Main Street, with its trendy coffee shops and overbooked restaurants and pretentious boutiques. I mean, really, a storefront Vespa scooter outlet?

Main Street Manayunk is Philadelphia Lite. It’s a shallow, tasteless place that reminds you of the city but exists primarily to painlessly empty the pockets of boring suburbanites who are otherwise too timid to drink the real thing.

So, you wonder: What kind of beer could they possibly be pouring at Manayunk Brewery & Restaurant?

That’s the question that has mystified many of the city’s beer freaks since the place opened seven years ago. It’s a great-looking bar in an 18th-century yarn mill, a perfect location on the banks of the Schuylkill. Yet, even suds fans with a more charitable view of Manayunk than mine were turned off by the Friday night scene. Big crowds mean lowest-common-denominator beer – y’know, Coronas for everyone!

I stopped in for the lowdown in preparation for tomorrow’s Manayunk Beer Festival, an annual spring event that will include brews from 26 regional breweries.

It turns out, the brew is much like Manayunk itself.

There’s the stuff I can do without – notably, Schuylkill Punch, a catchy name for an unfortunate brew. It’s a fizzy raspberry wheat beer intended, I think, for 18-year-old girls with Jersey IDs.

And there’s real beer, lately including a decent Belgian-style ale and a smoked lager called Shamokin Rauch.

“People get the misperception that we’re not selling good beer here,” said brewmaster Larry Horwitz, a Midwesterner who took over the brewery last July.

“I just did a barleywine with 50 IBUs,” he said, referring to a measure of international bittering units that would please any hop head. “And they’re drinking it like crazy.”

Out of the brewery’s 2,000-barrel-plus capacity, he said, “We brew 1,000 barrels a year of big, hoppy beers.”

Sure, he shrugged, about one-third of the brewery’s production is a light blond Helles-style lager – a beer that, in polite circles, is referred to as “drinkable.”

But there’s no need to apologize. As Horwitz sees it, “It’s an all-malt beer with Hallertau hops and no adjuncts. It’s not a dumb beer. Anyway, blondes pay the bills.”

Especially in a place with seven bars (and a mammoth chicken rotisserie) serving 30,000 square feet of floor space. Manayunk Brewing might be the biggest bar in the city this side of Dave & Buster’s. On weekends, it’s wall-to-wall, especially on the outside deck overlooking the Skook.

Even if you can find a spot at its handsome, wooden main bar, this is not a place to quietly contemplate one of the traditional mainstays of America’s best brewpubs: the pint of handcrafted cask-conditioned ale. A fickle beer that undergoes a secondary fermentation or conditioning inside the keg, it is often viewed as the ultimate test of a brewer’s talents. But it goes untried at Manayunk, and not just because some 20-something in designer jeans would complain about “stuff floating in my beer.” With so many miles of clogable tap lines, all of the brewery’s beer must be filtered – a process that removes some of the brew’s natural body, including the unspent yeast needed for fermentation.

The large crowds are also the reason the brewery serves a handful of bottles (Corona, Amstel Light) and Guinness on tap. A brewpub that sells factory-made beer – that’s like serving Maxwell House at Starbucks.

Horwitz explained, “Our demographics are so big, we don’t have any choice.” He doesn’t complain, but he’s quick to add, “My porter outsells Guinness every day.”

No surprise. It’s rich and tastes great.

More importantly for beer lovers looking to support the local brewing scene, it wasn’t shipped in from Ireland or Canada.

Fresh beer in Manayunk . . . The truth is, there is much to like here, even on Main Street. Get past the image of snooty shop owners and the annoying suburbanites, and you discover there’s a real town here.

And real beer.

Skip the mainstream stuff, and on any night, you’ll find at least three kegs that will make you glad you stopped in for a pint. Manayunk, after all, is named after the Lenni Lenape word for “place where we come to drink.”

   Joe Sixpack, by Staff Writer Don Russell, was written this week with a bottle of Piraat Ale.

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The weather is finally warming up, time to hunker down with some springtime brews.

The season’s biggest event is tomorrow’s Manayunk Beer Festival at Manayunk Brewery & Restaurant (4120 Main St.).

The brewpub will host 26 East Coast breweries, including some that rarely show their face inside the city. In addition to the usual suspects, look for brews from Fordham, Weeping Radish, Black Rock, Bethlehem and Golden Avalanche.

Tix: $25. Info: 215-482-8220. Hours: Noon-4 p.m.

 Calendar

Tonight – Brewers Reserve Night, Iron Hill Brewery & Restaurant (3 W. Gay St., West Chester). This month’s event features beers from Fancy Pants Brewing of Reading. Starts: 8 p.m. Info: 610-738-9600.

Tomorrow – The Breweries of Kensington, a lecture on one of the city’s formerly thriving brewing neighborhoods. Presented by brewery historian Rich Wagner, the frothy talk is at Yards Brewing in the 19th century Weisbrod & Hess brewhouse, 2439 Amber St., Kensington. The lecture, sponsored by the Kensington Historical Society, is free. Info: pabreweryhistorians.tripod.com. Starts: 2 p.m.

Tomorrow – 78th Stiftungsfest Anniversary Ball, at the Cannstatter Volksfest Verein (9130 Academy Road, Northeast Philadelphia). It’s Oktoberfest in April, with Bavarian dancing (think guys in leather shorts), an oom-pah band and plenty of German beer. Starts: 7 p.m. Tix: $7-8. Info: 215-672-9866.

Tuesday – Stoudt’s beer dinner at Harlan’s (130 Ford St. West Conshohocken), featuring bottled-conditioned beers from the Adamstown brewery. Tix: $45 (reservations required). Info: 610-828-2222.

May 4 – 4th Annual Bock Fest Goat Race at Sly Fox Brewhouse & Eatery (Pikeland Village Square, Rt. 113, Phoenixville). Strong beer and fast goats, does it get any better than this? Starts: Noon (goat race at 2 p.m.). Info: 610-935-4540.

May 5 – Cinco de Mayo. Stick a lemon up your Corona.