The next-to-bottom selection, which means "almost drinkable," is Rolling Rock, which is sort of a cult favorite in places. I can boast (?) of having drunk it in one or more bars in the town where it's brewed, and there, where it hasn't traveled far, it's quite nice indeed. The town is Latrobe, PA, the heart of Arnold Palmer country, where half the businesses are (or were in the 1980s when I was there) owned by Arnold. One that isn't is Westmoreland County Airport, where I would fly into and out of on my way to and from Pittsburgh, and then back and forth from Buffalo. The airport always felt to me like a leather helmet and silk scarf operation as I disembarked from an Allegheny Airlines' DeHavilland Twin Otter, about the biggest thing the airport would handle, a plane I came to love. Upstairs in the main building was the Blue Angel bar, where my boss and I downed probably more than our share of alcoholic beverages while waiting to fly back home after a few days visiting one of our company's plants in Latrobe, usually in the company of two or three of the local employees