9% ABV from a bomber
You live in New York City cause you don’t wanna grow up. And that’s not cause you’re a Toys “R” Us kid, it’s cause you don’t want to spend all Saturday afternoon mowing the fucking lawn. You’d rather actually enjoy your weekend, spending it relaxing on the lawn, as in the Great Lawn, which is mowed by a grounds crew out on work release from Queensboro Correctional, allowing you to do more important, fun things, such as nap in the sun, smoke cigars, day-drink, and block out the prattle of untalented amateur street musicians.
And you don’t want to own a five bedroom house. I’m sure that’s nice, but what do you need all that space for? It’s more fun to still be 30 and renting a shoebox filled with rats and roaches, living next door to a bunch of weirdos. Leads to better stories and always keeps you on your toes. Comfort begets the atrophy of mind, body, and soul.
And you don’t want to drive places. God driving sucks. You can’t do anything while you drive but…drive. And listen to miserable local radio DJs that couldn’t hack it in a real market discussing all the miserable things occurring locally. Mass transit is the way to go. You can read and do crosswords, ogle women, touch germ-laden poles and straps to contract oddball strains of disease, and ignore bums’ poorly-crafted sob stories.
And you don’t want to eat a square meal with your old lady after work. You want to hit happy hour! And get shit-faced. Grab some jalapeno poppers and chicken wings for dinner. And then some pizza afterwards for dinner number two. Aren’t you a little old to still be doing that?! Fuck no, this is New York City, we all still do that! We’ll never grow up!!
And you don’t want to be fat. Yeah, you really don’t want to be fat. I’m no scientist, but I am an anecdotal observationist and I have a little theory that suburban living directly leads to fatness and baldness. And you don’t want that. You want to live in a city with thin people who have lustrous heads of well-coiffed hair. It makes for a nicer general aesthetic than having to reside in a place with 300 pound orcas holding Cold Stone in their right hand, Chipotle in their left, and Quizno’s in their fanny pack.
And you don’t want to deal with fucking babies. Ever been to a party or get-together outside of Manhattan? There’s fucking babies everywhere you look! Like goddamn Gremlins. You’re trying to relax, tell a bawdy story or two, maybe get loaded and attempt to fornicate with a stranger, and then a fucking toddler comes over yanking your jeans leg. Good lord! Children are neither to be seen nor heard in New York. We are children ourselves, we don’t want any more of them.
And you really don’t want to have lights off, stone-cold sober, Jay Leno on in the background, missionary position, rhythm method, vaginal intercourse with your wife-you-no-longer-love 2.5 times per month. Yeah, you pretty much want the polar opposite of that.
But mostly, you just want excitement. Every single day to be different. A surprise around every corner. And bars that are open to dawn.
You don’t wanna grow up, because if you did, you’d see how boring the world can truly be.
But beer is always exciting!
Simcoe has a very piney smell, like a Christmas tree. Or at least how I recall a Christmas tree smelling on the few occasions that your humble Jewish narrator was allowed into a Christian home during Noel. That’s cool, I’m not bitter, that’s not the reason I moved to the Tel Aviv of America once I got my walkin’ papers. We never let the un-Chosen People into our home to light the menorah either.
The brew’s taste is equally piney. A nice simcoe hoppy bitterness as well. Not that I knew what simcoe was until I acquired this beer.
Not that potent for a 9% DIPA. Which is quite shocking actually as that’s a pretty prodigious ABV for even a double. It’s very drinkable and I really dig the mouthfeel of this one. It tingle the insides of my cheeks and tickles my tongue. Nice! Like the first time I got French kissed under the bleachers during the ice cream social sock hop. I’ll never forget you Gladys!
Simcoe IPA is very good, but it feels a tad “one-note.” Nevertheless, I look forward to trying more Weyerbachers.