Can Cult

For some 3,500 Americans, a discarded beer can may prove a thing of beauty and a toy forever. They are members of the Beer Can Collectors of America, who respond to the sight of a 1969 Olde Frothingslosh container as ecstatically as a philatelist who discovers an 1856 one-cent British Guiana stamp tucked in the family Bible.

Though beer cans were only introduced in 1935--the first was a green-and-white container made by the American Can Co. for the now defunct Gottfried Krueger Brewing Co. of Newark--experts estimate that as many as 12,000 domestic beer labels have been turned out since then. They include such obsolete brands as Cloud Nine, Simon Pure, Nu Deal, Wooden Shoe, Tube City and King Snedley's.

One prized artifact was made by Manhattan Premium Beer, Al Capone's old brewery, and depicts the New York skyline against a metallic orange sky. Other esoterica range from the cone-topped Kopper Kettle (vintage 1936-40) to a sexy, green-eyed Playmate can that was withdrawn after Hugh Hefner threatened legal action and the james Bond 007 Special Blend that was marketed for only six months by Baltimore's National Brewing Co.

One can fan, an Illinois truck driver named Jerry Menozzi, has 1,400 beer cans in his basement, including a Monarch that his great-grandmother kept for decades in a drawer with her lace underwear. Morrie McPherson, of Sycamore, Ill., lucked into one of the biggest beer-can bonanzas in B.C.C.A. history: 60 cases of 25-year-old Goetz Country Club cone-top cans--all unopened--that had been lying in the musty basement of an old bar. Robert Myers of Oakland, Calif, traveled all the way across the continent to Owl's Head, N.Y., after hearing of a lode in the attic of an abandoned railroad station; sure enough, he uncovered thousands of different pre-World War II makes and became overnight the J. Paul Getty of candom.

Beer Canvention. The B.C.C.A., founded only four years ago by seven beer buffs in St. Louis, numbers among members of its 14 chapters 40 accountants, 51 schoolteachers, 14 college professors, ten doctors, 57 engineers, 13 lawyers, six cartographers, 15 journalists--and only seven bartenders. Several ministers are also can cultists, including a Connecticut pastor who starts letters to fellow collectors "Dearly Beerloved." The association distributes a bimonthly newsletter, holds a sudsy annual "can-vention" that was attended this fall by more than 600 enthusiasts, and each year bestows on some beer-busty lass the dubious title of Miss Beer Can. Members range in rank from "brewery worker," with up to 249 cans, to "grand brewmaster" (1,000 or more).

While collectors acquire most of their beery booty by trading (one Bullfrog from the 1950s is worth a Schmidt City Club 1956 and a Canadian Ace 1958), they scour city dumps and out-of-the-way saloons for their relics. "There are things you learn how to do," says Rich La Susa, a Chicago Tribune makeup man, "like reading labels along the highway at 60 miles an hour--well, 55." And though the association frowns on buying and selling cans, the odd roadside treasure may be worth the hazard. A can of Soul, which was sold briefly in Watts after the Los Angeles ghetto erupted in 1965, has been priced by one antique shop at $250. Liquor Dealer McPherson recently had his 2,300-can collection appraised--at $10,000. Clearly, he who laughs while holding an old beer can, laughs last.

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