9% ABV on tap

Aaron is Celebrity Spotted.  (Almost.)

The cute blond walked into the bar and instantly I knew that I knew her.  But how?  From college?  Naw, she was too young.  Had I drunkenly hooked up with her in my past?  No, too good-looking to forget.  Then what?  She sat five barstools down from my friends and then it hit me.

Nearly a year ago a girl had discovered my blog and sent me a nice e-mail.  We wrote back and forth a bit, semi-flirtatiously in that way people who have no chance of having anything ever happen write–she lived several state away–but we mainly focused on beer talk.  And oh boy did she know a lot about beer.  Far more than me.  Eventually, we friended each other on Facebook and I saw that not only was she smart, she was damn cute too.  Cute for a normal girl in society, smoking hot for a beer geek.  Alas, we eventually ran out of things to talk about and, thus, quit talking.  And now she was sitting ten feet from me.

There are obviously bad things about being a celebrity but the good far outweigh them.  Getting to throw out the first pitch at a baseball game.  Instantly turning women 500% more promiscuous.  And having people walk up to you and go, “Say, aren’t you…HIM?!”  As a shameless narcissist, I have always dreamed about having someone come up to me and go, “Say, aren’t you Aaron Goldfarb?!”  Now was my chance for this to finally happen.  But she just wasn’t looking my way yet.

I didn’t tell my two buddies what was occurring, wanting to blow their minds while acting super-smug if and when she finally approached me.  Their eyes agog as I responded, “Why yes, yes I am Aaron Goldfarb, but hey, keep it down, don’t want to get mobbed.  Here, I’ll autograph this cocktail napkin for you.”

But she still wasn’t looking my way.  I began jutting my head out well over the bar so she could see my face in all its glory.  Didn’t work.  I started laughing uproariously loud at my friend’s jokes.  Didn’t phase her.  I began inserting my name into my own conversations.  (”So then the guy looks at my driver’s license and goes, ‘AARON GOLDFARB?  That’s funny, my best friend’s name is AARON GOLDFARB, who would think there’s another AARON GOLDFARB in this city?”)  She remained unflappable.  My friends must have thought I was losing my marbles with my atypical behavior.

I began to pull out the big guns.  I loudly inquired about incredibly obscure beers on the bottle menu, even asking what vintage they were.  I made pedantic explanations of style to my layman drinking friends (”…and that is what differentiates a saison from a biere de garde…”)  Started throwing out all sorts of arcane beer argot (”I expected this one to be more phenolic and less diacetyl…”)  Quizzed the bartenders on the taps (”And what’s the original gravity of that?  Say, is that on nitro or cask?”  I began drinking my beers like a beer geek loser par excellence, histrionically swirling my glass, sniffing it with a aggressiveness more akin to a coke fiend, and slurping my sips with my tongue in order that it tickle each and every one of my taste buds.

Didn’t matter.  I got nuttin’.  She totally ignored me.  I thought about going up to her, tapping her on the shoulder, “Hey, aren’t you a fan of mine?!”  But I figured that was uncouth.  Not to mention it kinda negates the coolness factor if you celebrity spot yourself.

Eventually she left and I was left with just my beer.  Bear Republic’s Racer X.  A draught-only offering I’d been wanting to try for quite awhile.  This is a bit of an oddball of an IPA.  Actually smells like a barleywine, while tasting like a DIPA.  Bitter and slick with an intense sweetness on the back end, I greatly enjoyed this beer.  And, following it up with Bear Republic’s 7% Rebellion IPA–I found it very bitter and not complex at all, a little too light and watered-down as well (B)–I got a good comparison for how very good it is.  The Racer X absolutely dwarfed Rebellion.  Still, I’m not sure if it’s a Top 100 beer in the world–and I’m pretty sure I prefer the smells-like-a-dimebag hoppy freshness of yet another Bear Republic IPA, Hop Rod Rye–but this is a very good brew nonetheless.

A-

9% ABV on tap via Randall

I was pulling out all the drunken tools in my seduction arsenal.  I asked kindly.  I begged.  I pleaded.  I whined.  I cried.  Offered money.  Solicited.  Played the “Don’t you know who I am?!” card.  I enlisted my lady friend to help out.  She fluttered her peepers.  Showed some cleavage.  Insinuated sexual favors.  Eh, it was no use.  The Blind Tiger’s bartender would not be swayed.  Could not be cajoled.  He simply refused to let me go into the basement keg room.  (Something about breaking New York City health codes.  Yeah, like I’ve never done THAT before.)

And why did I want to go into the keg room?  For no reason other than to be face-to-face with Randall the Enamel Animal.

And who is this Randall fella you ask me?  Why none other than “an organoleptic hop transducer module.”  Say what?!   “A three-foot-long, cylinder-filter packed with a half a pound of whole leafhops [affixed] to the beer line leaving a keg.”  In this case, the beer was Dogfish Head’s legendary 90 minute and the whole leafhops were of the amarillo variety*.

I didn’t get to see this process take place in the keg room, nor did I get to snap a picture–the one above is from DFH’s website–but I did get to try the motherfucker.  And whoa Nelly!  What a beer!  I’m an inveterate 90 Minute fan but the Randallizing of the beer makes it even more spectacular.

Whereas 90 Minute has a strong, almost barleywine-like malt backbone propping up its pungent citrusness, the oily soaking of the amarillo in the Randall module smooths out the whole beer making it far more balanced, surprisingly bitter for the ABV, and remarkably drinkable.  It was truly a treat to have, and truly a one-of-a-kind drinking experience.  The kind of experience that you can only luck into in a place like Manhattan.  I had meager Sunday night drinking plans, and never in a million years did I expect to run into a beer I had so long desired.

Sam Calagione is without question the mad scientist of the craft beer world and his invention of the Randall is yet another avant garde touch that I simply adore.  Now some of you may think this is nothing more than a gimmick, but I can most certainly assure you that it is not.  The Randallizing of 90 Minute turns an already great beer into something sui generis and spectacular.

I hope you all are lucky enough to try it one day.  Hell, I hope I’m lucky enough to get to try it again.

A

*Some other noteworthy Randalls in the past have been filled with stuff such as lemongrass, mint & bourbon balls, melon & assorted fruits, pine & spruce, roasted pine nuts & dried oregano, and warrior & Columbus hops.  Wow.

7.5% ABV on tap

Presented in ascending order, my most desirable American breweries to try a beer from, that I’ve never had a beer from.  Did that make sense?  So these are breweries–or tiny brew pubs in many cases, no surprise–in which I have never had a single beer from, yet are ones that I most would like to have a single beer, any beer, but preferably many beers, from.

HONORABLE MENTION:  Shorts, Midnight Sun, Alaskan, Sweetwater, Aaron’s Imaginary Microbrewery

10. Pisgah (Black Mountain, NC)

9.  Flossmoor Station (Flossmoor, IL)

8.  Central Waters (Amherst, WI)

7.  COAST (North Charleston, SC)

6.  Moonlight (Fulton, CA)

5.  Live Oak (Austin, TX)

4.  Barley John’s (Minneapolis, MN)

3.  Bullfrog (Williamsport, PA)

2.  Kuhnhenn (Warren, MI)

1.  Cigar City (Tampa, FL)

For whatever kooky reason, I’ve wanted so badly to try Cigar City beer from since even before they’ve been a brewery.  Seriously.  I started following their splendid blog over a year ago as they day-by-day cataloged their “trials and tribulations of opening a brewery in Florida.”  Then, when the brewery did finally open early this year and immediately started getting boffo reviews for its first releases, I was even more smitten.  The fact that they had a meager, meager distribution arm made them even more enticing.  Heck, my sister lives in Florida, Fort Lauderdale to be exact, and even she wasn’t able to get Cigar City for me.  These beers were playing hard to get and I was captivated.

So imagine my surprise when, just this week, Cigar City finally, ahem, penetrated the New York City market.  I rushed to the great Rattle ‘N’ Hour at the first hour I found happy on Thursday, the first day they tapped New York’s first Cigar City offering, the highly regarded Jai Alai IPA.

And I was bitterly disappointed.  The IPA I tasted had a mild, mild carbonation almost bordering on cask ale.  I assure you it was straight from the tap and I believe it was tapped correctly.  The most muted of piny–not Pliny unfortunately–and hops smell with just a hair more flavor than aroma.  A decent hops bitterness and a tad of malt sweetness to smooth it out on the back end.  Reminded me of a poor, poor man’s Smuttynose Finest Kind IPA.  I felt this IPA was made very cowardly, with the weakest of flavors in all capacities.  I can’t express how gravely disappointed I was.  One compliment, and only one compliment, is that I am stunned how high the ABV is.  Jai Alai rolls down your throat like a 5% beer, again though, perhaps due to the real lack of biting carbonation.

I hate to be arrogant, I hate to reveal my big city elitism in all its inglory, but the mediocrity of this beer yet again makes me question the veracity of highly rated brews coming out of the exact opposite of beer oasises.  Oases?  (OK, that isn’t underlined in red so I must have spelt it right.)

Beer geeks that live in New York or Philly or Chicago or San Diego or Seattle, etc, have access to countless great brews.  So if a new upstart comes on the market, it better be fucking good or it simply will not survive the Darwinian beer race.  But Florida and specifically Tampa has shitty beer.  A new brewery hits the scene and even if they’re just making B+ quality beer, the locals go nuts.  (Sure better than Corona!  Or well mai tais!)  They’ve never had anything this great before.  And don’t deny the rah rah local homerism either.

I get how this works.  I grew up in Oklahoma City.  Not exactly the Paris of the southern USA dining world.  Afloat in a sea of chain restaurants, any time some halfway decent “exotic” Chinese or Thai or Japanese or “New York style” pizza place would open, locals would flip their culinary shit like they were wielding their fork or chopsticks at Thomas Keller or Ferran Adria joints (not that they would know who those master chefs are (good lord, could I be more arrogant?!))  For the simply reason that they only had the deplorable Applebee’s and Panda Express at the mall food court to compare these places too. These places would be nothing more than also-rans in New York or San Francisco, but in a less competitive place they were superstars.  And I’m starting to believe the same goes for some of these purely local breweries out there.

So thus, I am now leery of the other highly rated Cigar City beers, and the incredibly highly rated Live Oak stuff coming out of Austin (not exactly Ghent), and all the other A-level beers coming out of places like Des Moines and Little Rock and Tulsa and Utica.  No offense.  Wait, yeah, OFFENSE.

Ho hum…I plan to give both Jai Alai and a few other Cigar Citys another shake this weekend.  I hope I have my tastebuds swayed.

So, what are your most desirable breweries to try a beer from which you have never tried a beer from?  Maybe we can get some local trades going, quid pro quo and shit for everybody.

B

Carl and I arrived by car late.  Around 7 or so on that particular Friday evening.  The huge cabin was already packed with every single other person we would be sharing it with that weekend.  Most had arrived early in the morning and immediately launched into the festivities, which were still underway.  And by “festivities,” I mean near-suicidal drinking of keg beer and cheap rum.

We were at a cabin in the middle of nowhere, the kind of place so removed from the rest of society that you don’t even quite know where you are on the map.  You find yourself continually asking those around you, “So where exactly are we?  What state are we in?”  New York?  Pennsylvania?  West Virginia perhaps?  Eh, it doesn’t matter, could be any one of them.  The nearest major city hours away.  The nearest town some twenty dirt road miles away and all that’s there is a gas station with pumps that still have analog numbering like a 1960s alarm clock and a single diner whose hours are 7 AM til noon, Monday through Thursday.

Upon entering, Carl and I were immediately handed a Solo cup of beer and urged to accept the two empty slots for an upcoming game of Flip Cup.  Which I thought was a little gay–not a word I use often–being that the game consisted of all men.  In fact, the cabin visitors were all men save one, who I will discuss just one paragraph from now.  Flip Cup is a coed drinking game for reasons twofold:  1.  men play drinking games of actual skill (beer pong, quarters, uh, I guess that’s it…) because they have actual skills.  2.  men play drinking games of no skill such as Flip Cup because it gets women drunk, and quickly, and thus turns them libidinous.  At least we think it does.  When we’re younger.

But the one woman at the cabin for the weekend was not playing Flip Cup.  Nor did she appear particularly drunk as she slowly sipped on a rum and generic diet cola in the corner, staring at the window.  Kathy was really attractive in a bit of a bohemian manner.  Long curly hair and a knit mosaic shirt but with Nikes on her feet.

Back then, in the first few years of this century, I really didn’t know how to attract a woman.  How to seduce her.  My gamplan was pretty much:  be around her, and near her, more than any other competing man was around her.  Or near her.  I think that’s the same strategy bonobos employ and those chimps gets laid a fuck ton.  Well I didn’t back then, but, surprisingly, that passive strategy worked on occasion.  Especially if alcohol was involved.

So we’d grill up some burgers and hot dogs on the patio.  And I’d stand beside her.

We’d hike through the woods.  I’d hike next to her.  Our arms or bare legs occasionally, accidentally, brushing each other.

We’d canoe and I’d be in the oar position behind her.

Beer pong in the cabin, I’d be her teammate.  Give her overenthusiastic, a little too long, high fives when she sank a shot.  “Yay, we won!” lift her off the ground hugs in victory.

And when we roasted s’mores around midnight, I sat on the very same log with her.  Chivalrously helped her thread her marshmallow onto a twig.

My strategy was not without opposition though as seemingly every other man on our trip was pursuing Kathy.  And I couldn’t guard her at all times!  I’d go to piss in the woods and come back to find Steve playing horseshoes with her.  I’d take a quick shower and return to find Tony teaching her how to shotgun a can of beer.  Help start the campfire and now Mikey was side-by-side her in a game of Flip Cup.

To be fair, only one of us men was not pursuing, more like not harassing surely from her eyes, the great Kathy.  Only one man seemingly had no interest in her.  Carl.  No, Carl was too busy getting wasted.  He was polishing off a beer seemingly every ten minutes and was well lit up as darkness rolled in.  Bumbling and stumbling in the cabin and around the cabin.  Talking nonsense.  Singing to himself.  Laughing and joking solo.  He was wasted but active.  Bursting with energy like he was hopped up on something.  By now we were pretty much ignoring him.  He wasn’t annoying us by any means, but he had just become a ubiquitous camp jester, always in sight.

Did I think I had a shot with Kathy?  Eh.  Who knows?  Back then I truly got “lucky.”  Nowadays, assuming I’m not too drunk and too out of sorts, I can quickly and easily assess a situation.  Whether a girl is disinterested in me, just toying with me for an ego boost, whether she wants to take me home, chastely make out with me in the corner, fuck me all night long, bear my child, etc.  Sure, there’s the occasional surprise, erratic behavior, sexual Black Swan Omega 3 event, but I pretty much always know.

But back then, I had no fucking clue.  Was Kathy grinning at me because I was staying stupid drunk shit?  Or because she was imagining me naked?  Was she patting my back because she thought I was choking?  Or because she wanted my dick in her mouth?

I had no idea.  Nor did I have any idea how to transition from me, her, and half a dozen other drunken dudes sitting around a campfire at 2 AM, to just me and her being in my small bedroom-for-the-weekend on the third floor of the cabin.

If it was just us two, surely I wouldn’t bungle it, I could do a mild gamble, make somewhat of a move, feel out the sexual situation, but in this situation, I had no idea how to separate her wheat from the chaff of my friends.

So I would just have to wait them out.  Stay up later than them and hope she did too.  Unfortunately, my friends were as inept as I, and had the same terrible plan as me.  Like those “Hands on a Hardbody” competitions at hick county fairs, our incompetent attempts to get laid by a most-likely unwilling and unwitting participant continued.  Whereas at the fair, a half-dozen men in cut-off jorts, sleeveless shirts, and Dale, Jr. hats tried to see how long they could keep their hand on a cheap pick-up truck in order to win it, we all tried to outlast each other to hopefully, before day break, get to have our hands finally on Kathy’s hardbody.

First Mikey broke.  Then Gerry.  The end was nigh.  I was getting a second wind.  My ability to not get too sleepy from alcohol has always been a great attribute and now it was a God send.  And Kathy was going strong too.  Sitting under an Afghan with me to stay warm.  “Stay warm.”

Steve dozed off where he sat.  Tony went to piss and never returned.  Gary, a defeated look in his eyes, called it a night.

And finally, sometime around 4 AM, it was just me, Kathy, and Carl.  Victory was mine!  Just as soon as Carl had the dignity to pass out.  But this motherfucker simply wouldn’t!  Like a rhino with five tranquilizers darts in its ass that inexplicably keeps charging, Carl with thirty beers in his system kept dancing around, acting all silly, chatting our ears off.

I simply could not outlast this motherfucker.  My friend was agitating me.  He would surely go all night.  I know his marathon drinking abilities.  Finally, I had to make a closing salvo to claim my prize.  A histrionic yawn.  An overdramatic stretch.

“Oh boy am I tired.”

“Me too,” she said.

I looked Kathy in the eye.  Trying to accentuate just the right words.  “I think I’m going to bed NOW.”

I stood.  Expecting, naw, hoping, Kathy would catch my drift, would be into my drift, and would follow.

“OK, goodnight.  I’m gonna go in a sec but you know, it’s already 5 AM.  Might as well watch the sun rise.”

From somewhere off in the darkness, I heard a drunk Carl calls out, “Yah!  Great idea, count me in!”

I walked slowly to my room, looking back at Kathy several times.  Angry at Carl for ruining a sure thing.  I lay in bed, having already gone all in and failed I couldn’t change my mind and watch the sun rise.  Now that would be humiliating.  But I could still hope Kathy would come into my room after she did.  However, I was out like a log before the sun ever popped up.

The next morning, that very morning I suppose, just a few hours later, I awoke, tired as hell.  Groggy and grumpy.  Entered the kitchen to find Kathy making some coffee.  We could barely grunt at each other in good morning.

I was too tired to make any effort toward Kathy and just went about our day of “fun,” coffee instead of beer now always in my hungover hands.  The rest of the group was tired too.  Kathy had turned us into sexual zombies in our attempts to land her.  At least we weren’t in Carl’s boat, vomiting and rolling around in agony all day, we barely saw him.

Hungover, unproductive days pass by amazingly quickly and all of the sudden, “Oh shit, it’s 7 PM?!  We’ve done nothing today!”  And by midnight, everyone was asleep and I was finally feeling well again.  I love how tiredness and hangovers always dissipate in time to drink and get hungover again.  That is the truly beautiful version of circadian timekeeping.

Again, I found myself with Kathy, in a hammock, passing a bottle of wine back and worth.  Finally alone.  This time, it was so easy.  Drinking, hugging, rubbing, kissing, “I never do things like this,” in bed, whoa!  It was great.

She must have snuck out of my bed sometime in the middle of the night.  Perhaps to again watch the sun rise.

In the morning, we all said our goodbyes, shook hands, each man gave Kathy a kiss of defeat on the cheek and we got into our separate vehicles.

On the car ride home I felt like a legend.  I had defied the odds.  In a demolitan derby of male-female pairing I had outlasted all of them.  But I kept it to myself.  For awhile.

But I was young, braggadocios.  If no one else knew something happened, then it didn’t!  In my mind.  And I couldn’t let Carl not know.  I was still mad at him for having stupidly wasted my Friday night and postponing it to Saturday.  I kinda wanted to rub it in.

But subtly.

“That was weird, huh?”

“What?” wondered Carl.

“All of us dudes and only one girl.”

“Yeah, I guess that was kinda strange.  She was cool though.”

“She was.  Lotta odds to defy, you might say.”

“Odds?”

“You know, to the one victor goes the spoils.”

Carl looked at me and smiled.  “Not bad, huh?”

“Yep.  It was not bad at all.”

“How did you find out?”

“How did I find out?  How wouldn’t I have?!”

“You know what happened?”

“No.  Wait, do you know what happened?”

“What are you talking about, man?”

“What the fuck are you talking about, Carl?”

“That I hooked up with Kathy.”

“No, I hooked up with Kathy.”

We stared at each other confused.

“You did?”  “You did?”

“I did.”

I groaned.  “I did too.  But when?”

“Friday night after everyone went to bed.  You?”

“Saturday night.”

That was the last words of our drive.  We stared straight ahead the rest of the ride home.

Wipeout IPA

7% ABV from a bomber

Picked this up at the great Monk’s in Philadelphia for a reasonable $9.  Its smell is a wonderful blend of citrus and fresh pine but the taste just doesn’t quite stack up.  Nevertheless, still pretty good.  Five different hop varietys create a nice little bitterness with a smooth malt backbone.  Easily drinkable and solid, but certainly not world class.

A-/B+

3rd Anniversary Double IPA

10% ABV from a bomber

Yet another DIPA from Port, this I received in trade from San Diego’s finest Jesse the Hutt.  Just like the Wipeout I found the smell wonderful.  Very fragrant and fruity but, again, somewhat dead and bland in taste. Very bitter and boozy. Could use some malt sweetness to round it out.  Nevertheless, another solid effort, though if only these two DIPAs from Port tasted as good as they smelt, we’d have some major, major winners on our hands.

B+

8.8% ABV from a bomber

Listening to High School Kids Discuss Their “Favorite” Beers When It’s Clear They’ve Never Tasted Them Before

The setting:  a bowling alley in Port Jefferson, Long Island, Thursday night, 11:00 PM*
Our principles:  three pimple-faced high school boys, approx. age 15

“So…uh…what’scha favorite beer?”

“Uh…I like…Sam Adams…(?)”

“Yeah.  Yeah, me too.”

“Which one?”

“Which one?”

“Yeah, like, which…flavor?”

“I like the…uh…normal one.”

“Me too.  Not the light one.”

“Light beer is for pussies, right?”

“What my old man says.”

“The Summer one’s good.”

“Smooth.”

“Oktoberfest?”

“Oktoberfest is nice to have at certain times.”

“In October?”

“Exactly.”

“The Winter one?”

“Too…”

“Much?”

“Yes.  What I was gonna say.”

“Heavy.”

“Guinness is heavy.”

“The heaviest.”

“Like a full meal.”

“But I like it.  I drink it with meat and potatoes.”

“I do too.”

“I like it…uh…cold.”

“Cool.”

“Some people like it…warm?”

“British dudes.”

“Irish…?”

“That’s right.”

“You gotta have it on tap.”

“Some beers are better on tap.”

“But some are better…bottled.”

“Yeah…bottled.”

“Do you like foreign beers?”

“Love ‘em.”

“Me too.  Which…ones?”

“Which.  Ones?  Hmmm…”

“…”

“Foster’s!”

“Yes!”

“Australia.”

“Exactly.”

“Delicious.”

“Delicious.”

“Blue Moon is some good foreign shit too.”

“Girly.”

“Girly yeah, but good shit.”

“Good shit.”

“…”

“What’s the best beer for beer pong?”

“Millers.” “Coors.”

“Coors.”  “Miller.”

“Natty!”

“Natty!”

“Yeah, Natty.  Just not Bud.”

“Just not Bud.”

“Like fuckin’ water.”

“Fuckin’ water.”

“…”

“So…?”

“So…?

“Oh hey?!  D’ya like Scotch?”

“I love Scotch.”

“Yeah, me too.”

“Me too.”

“Which Scotches…?”

As this teen machismo beer charade parade continued, I considered going to actually buy these kids their first ever beers.  (I’ve long been a proponent of corrupting our nation’s youth who are already trying their damnedest to be corrupted if it simply weren’t for those pesky age laws.)  Unfortunately, the bowling alley’s only “craft” offerings–and, yes, the beer menu did actually have a column labeled “craft beer”–were deplorable brews such as Shock Top, Leinenkugel, Killians Red, and Mike’s Hard Lemonade.**

I refused to corrupt these fine kids with such garbage.  I mean, imagine if your first career beer had been something as sublime as AleSmith’s divine YuleSmith.  Why you’d…probably detest it.  You’d think this top 100 beer in the world to be too piney, too floral, with far too much grapefruit, and too smooth of malt balance.  You’d think it too fresh smelling, too “West Coast,” too drinkable, too boozy and bitter.  And, yet, I think it one of the better DIPA’s I’ve ever had.***

A

*Do not ask why I was there.

**The “import” section was even worse.

***Much confusion here and maybe a reader can help me out in trying to figure out whether I drank the summer or winter YuleSmith.  Quoth AleSmith:

Our most popular seasonal ale, YuleSmith is brewed twice a year in two different, yet similar styles:  An Imperial/Double IPA and an Imperial/Double Red Ale.

For the winter season, YuleSmith is brewed as an Imperial Red Ale. This version is maltier, more balanced, and darker in color than the summer version. Although quite malty, big hop flavors and aromas are abundant making this an unforgettable winter warmer.   Winter YuleSmith is packaged in traditional holiday red and green.

Soooo…based on my red & green bottle above, it appears I got the winter release.  But why had the bar just got their bottles in?  And why was it so very IPA-y?  Alas…it was damn good.

Double Trouble

9.4% ABV bottled

I’ve finally gotten more access to Founders beers which is a great thing because they make some fabulous brews wrapped by some of the best labels in the business.  (Turn your computer upside down to watch the faces change on this bottle.  I’m not responsible for any injuries if you have a desktop though.)  Two weekends ago I gorged myself on Founders double and “triple” IPAs all weekend, and here are my findings.

Double Trouble is incredibly bitter in both smell and taste but remains very drinkable and very delicious for a double IPA.  Citric, zesty, and hoppy, with just a tad of tasteable maltiness, certainly less than most higher ABV DIPAs like Unearthly or 90 Minute.  Fairly carbonated with a nice mouthfeel, this is a really enjoyable beer that goes down quite easily.  Didn’t floor me but incredibly well-crafted and I’d love to add it to my rotation.

A-

Devil Dancer

12% ABV bottled

The triple IPA is a somewhat phony style designation, but, then again, most style designations border on arbitrary so if Founders whats to have a triple IPA, then they shall!  Nicely amped up and ramped up from Double Trouble, Devil Dancer is also incredibly bitter on the smell but very malty on the taste as well.  If that paradox makes sense.  Hoppy and piney, thick and gooey, this beer is not super drinkable, but at that ABV what is to be expected?   A definite beast of a beer, it tastes a tad like a more quaffable 120 Minute (HA!) and is definitely worth seeking out.

A

9% ABV from a bomber

Almost any time I saunter into a typical BYOB party, a six pack of craft under my arm, some wiseguy sipping a Stella always has to look me up and down, a sneer on his face.  “So, what are you?  One of them beer snobs?”

How is this something to mock?  And why does drinking good beer make one a “beer snob”?

If I’d walked into the party with an attractive women on my arm would the same chap have queried me:

“So, what are you?  One of them pussy snobs?  Can’t be content just fucking boring, average women?  Need to get your dick wet on something a little more sexy, huh?  Yeah, I see.  Snob.”

Luckily, last weekend’s July 4th party was hosted by a beer “snob” just like me and further luckily he’d just returned from Chicago with one more suitcase than he’d flown into town with.  That new suitcase packed to the gills with Three Floyds bombers.

I’m embarrassed to admit I’d never even heard of Blackheart, but an employee at the (what I understand) is amazing Binny’s, had all but shoved a bomber of this in my friend’s cart and said it was a must buy.  So glad that man did, because this beer was silly good.  Named after their parlor and with a sick label by San Fran tattoo artists Tim Lehi and Jeff Rassier, this is one aromatically robust IPA.  English IPA for that matter which I, honestly, can’t really differentiate from our Yankee IPAs.  This is probably the most flawlessly balanced IPA I’ve ever had.  The perfect amount of pine, grapefuit, hops, and malt.  It’s not a “bomb” of any sort, just dangerously easy drinking deliciousness.  I almost wept when the split bomber was finished.  We were slurping it back like Gatorade after five sets of tennis.

Why is this beer not more “famous”?  I honestly think its better than Three Floyds’ much more regarded Dreadnaught. Hell, I think this is one of the best IPAs I’ve ever had.  Exquisite and not to be missed.  Stock up.

A+

Three Floyds Broodoo

5.5% ABV from a bomber

Next we went with Three Floyds’ “harvest ale” Broodoo which is actually just a typically hoppy IPA.  Solid, no question, but it quite frankly pales in comparison to the Blackheart.  It almost felt unfair to drink anything after the glory of Blackheart but Broodoo had to be the sacrificial lamb.  Though I did like this beer, I could see myself enjoying it scads more if it were my first or only beer of the night.  A tasty biting and spicy hops bitterness that tickles your tongue, this beer still remains remarkably drinkable (seems to be a theme with 3F stuff and I’m not complaining!)  Then again, at a mere 5.5%, this one felt a ton more boozy than the Blackheart.  A little too over-carbonated as well.  But these are minor quibbles and this is a nice, expertly-crafted brew.

B+

Popskull

10% ABV from a bomber

My final brew from my impromptu Three Floyds Weekend troika was actually a collaboration beer with Dogfish Head.  Doesn’t your dick get hard just hearing those words?  Two of my favorite brewers, two of America’s finest brewers.  I’m such a sucker for collaboration beers even though these gimmicky brews are usually nothing special, and in fact, with rare exception–off the top of my head I’m thinking of Collaboration Not Litigation and Stone’s collabs with Mikeller, Nogne O, et al–most are just mediocre.  And, I hate to admit it, but such is the case (somewhat) here as this “Threeheaded Floyddog Production” is nothing special.  It’s a flavorful but not really mindblowing brown.  With less hype and fanfare, I’d call this a very solid example of an (imperial?) brown ale.  It’s very drinkable, has a nice little sweetness, tastes of roasted and sweet malts, a hint of vanilla.  It didn’t really taste that complex to me despite the wood aging.  Which, speaking of, makes me just realize that I would much prefer to simply have Dogfish Head’s own Palo Santa Marron, a truly exceptional brown ale.  Seems that in the beer collaboration world, too many cooks spoil the broth.  Eh, but I’ll keep on buying them nevertheless.  A sucker may not be born every minute, but I’m unable to control myself when it comes to over-priced, over-hyped collaborations.  (Now when are Miller and Coors going to team up for their special collaboration beer????  AMERICA IS WAITING!)

(And, yet another hat tip to The Captain for grabbing me one of these bottles on Dark Lord Day.)

B+

So what did I learn over the weekend?:

1.  “Snobbiness” is very sexy.

2.  Adults that still ooh and ahh fireworks are fucking morons.

3.  And Three Floyds is clearly one of the best brewers in America.

The Long Walk

Riding the elevator down alone, I stared at myself in the blurry reflection of the doors.  Tried to make my spiky bed head flatten with a lick of my fingers and a matting down stroke.  Brushed the lint off my shirt.  Wiped the crud out of my eye.

Exiting through the lobby I nodded at her doorman, gave him a giant smile that implied “I know you’re wondering and, yes, yes I did.”  Which meant that the next time he saw her he’d give her an equally giant smile that implied, “Oh I know, you dirty, dirty slut.”

I got outside and tried to find my bearings.  Where the fuck was I?  I should really get a compass.  An urban compass, now that’s not a bad idea.  Is this the…Gramercy?!  How in the hell did we get back to here?  Was it a cab?  Surely we didn’t walk.  Totally don’t remember that.  Luckily I do remember more of the night.  Bits and pieces, like a highlights package, “The Plays of the Day,” running through my head.

I headed north.  I headed what I thought was north, uptown.  I was in that euphoric state after a night of solid, but not super heavy drinking where it’s early enough that you’re still at the tail end of being drunk but you’re not one iota hungover yet.  You’re lucid but you’re still walking on air.  Other things had added to my euphoria as well.  You know it won’t last long before the hangover begins and drunkenness subsides, dehydration and starvation, and pain and misery, but for now:  this is as good as it gets.

How was I gonna get back to Hell’s Kitchen?  Cab it?  Naw, I probably blew $100 last night as is, no need to blow more.  And it’s nice out.  Look at all the folks dining at sidewalk cafes.  I’ve always admired those New Yorkers that have the gumption to get up early on a weekend, shower, get dressed, and then go and eat a meal.  At a restaurant.  Certainly never been my M.O.

“Aaron!  Aaron!”

My ears heard my name being called but my mind knew that I was not in a neighborhood, not in a time or place where there would be any one who could possibly know me.

“Aaron!!!”

I finally turned.  My god, it was my friend Justin, drinking Bloody Marys with a guy and a gal I didn’t recognize.  I walked over to their table.

“What are you doing over here, Justin?”  Justin lived in Park Slope.

“You know, the whole tourist thing.  These are my two friends from back home, Krissy and Moore.”

I politely nodded at them, wondering how exactly one could do the ‘whole tourist thing’ in Gramercy.  What exactly was there to look at?  Trust fund bitches in giant glasses?

“A better question…” Justin smiled at me knowingly, looking me up and down, “…is what are you doing in this neighborhood?  Why, you live in Hell’s Kitchen don’t you?”  Justin was one of those people that was able to mock you with every single thing he said no matter how seemingly innocuous.

I politely nodded and Justin started cracking up.

Krissy was confused.  “What?  What?  I don’t get it.”

“Well won’t you join us for some Bloodys?  They’re unlimited til noon.”

“You know, I can’t, look at me.  I’m disheveled.”

“What, you look fine.”

“But I’m not really a Bloody Mary kinda guy.  Don’t get me wrong, I want to be a Bloody Mary kind of guy, but I’m just not.”

Krissy laughed.  I wasn’t trying to be funny.  My mouth just saying words my mind produced.

“They have unlimited Mimosas and Bellinis too if those are more your speed, partner.”

Justin wasn’t going to let me get me off the hook that easily so I figured I might as well join them.

“Eh, what the heck.  I could use a little hair of the dog, turn the ol’ engine over, huh?”

Justin nodded, “That’s more like it.”

As I sat next to Krissy, my jeans bunched up like an accordion, ejecting the potent smell of my had-sex-last-night dick from my lap right up into my nostrils.

The waitress came over.  “Wouldja like a menu?”

“Naw, that’s fine.  Assure me your Hollaindaise sauce won’t kill me and I’ll have some Eggs Benedict.  And as long as the Mimosas are unlimited, bring me two.”

“Eggs Benedict and some Mimosas.  How frou-frou,” mocked Justin.

The daft Krissy was still perplexed.  “I still don’t get what’s going on…”

The waitress quickly fetched me two flutes of Mimosa and I tipped one back straight down my throat, I’m not sure if the liquid even hit my tongue.  And, still feeling euphoric from my past night in that way where you feel like you can do anything, say anything, your actions have no consequences, I turned to Krissy…

“Krissy, I don’t know where you’re from but I assume they have the same vernacular as we have here.  You guys have stopped me on what is known as a ‘walk of shame.’  That is why I’m in a neighborhood I don’t belong to.  Why my hair is a mess, my clothes disheveled, lint all of them, sleep crust still in my eye, why I smell…odd.  A mix of sweat, perfume, water-based lubricant, and bodily secretions.  It is why I should head home to shower and sleep, and not be seen for the next several hours.”

She looked at me, embarrassed.  Embarrassed for my condition, for what I’ve said, for what she had to hear me frankly say, I am not sure.  She finally spoke.

“Well I like how your hair looks right now.”

And I liked how my morning had already been kicked off.

The unlimited morning cocktails were drank all the way down to 0.01 seconds left on the shot clock.  Hey, if you’re gonna set a time limit on unlimited alcohol, you better be ready to fetch a ton of them as the deal winds down.  At least when you’re dealing with me and my dipsomaniacal friends.  Our now drunken odyssey led us to a Murray Hill dive with $6 pitchers of cheap beer and 10 cent wings which led to Sutton Place and $3 32-ounce frozen margaritas and soon it was midnight and the four of us were shitfaced and in an UES bar drinking overpriced gin and tonics and struggling to stand up.

Long had I forgot how disheveled I was.  Some 30plus hours without a shower, my facial scruff darkening in like a kid’s makeupped on beard line for his Halloween hobo costume, my body odor abhorrent as it tried to eject alcohol and junk food through its pores which mixed with sweat and other gross fluids already on the surface level.  Shit, I hadn’t even brushed my teeth since like 8:00 PM yesterday come to think of it.  Should I go grab some gum at a corner bodega?  Order a shot of Creme de Menthe and gargle?  Naw, I was long pass the point of caring about the avatar I presented to the world.  To the drunken youths surrounding me.

I just wanted to go home.  I could barely keep my eyes open, I was teetering on my bar stool.  Slurring words.  Had I even slept last night?  I felt like I was in a sleep deprivation experiment.  Yet, Justin refused to let me leave.  “You gonna be a baby and go home before closing time?”  Peer pressure always works on me.  I’m such a sucker when my drinking manhood is called into question.

Fine, then if that’s the case, I’ll pursue your friend.  And indeed the pursuit seemed reciprocal.  As the day had progressed Krissy was seemingly getting more and more into me for whatever reason.  It’s almost counterintuitive how women like a man they know has just been with another women.  The more recent the better, though, they usually like a shower in there somewhere.  Feeding frenzies exist for a reason and the stink of the alpha male in the jungle just makes the other primate chicks more in estrus.  By golly, I was going to do this.

I was going to do this!

________

The sun came through the Venetian blinds scalding every other inch of my body in long horizontal stripes like I was behind jail bars made only of heat.  I looked at the clock on the cable box.  6:05 as in ante-meridian.  I turned over to the girl beside me.  She was a brunette.  Unless we’d visited a middle-of-the-night hair salon for a quick dye job, she was not Krissy.  I didn’t recall meeting her.  I didn’t recall talking to her, commuting to this home with her, undressing with her.  I quietly slipped on my clothes which by now were nothing more than dirty, stinky laundry.  I slipped out of her bedroom.

I exited her apartment but she didn’t have an elevator.  I walked five stories down and she didn’t have a doorman.  I got outside.  There was not another single soul in the street.  Where the fuck was I?  Avenue C?!  Good lord, how did I get in Alphabet City?  I should really shower.  I should really sleep.  Man this is going to be a long walk.  I hope I don’t run into any more brunchers I know.

WildDevil

6.7% ABV from a 750 (bottled April 22, 2009)

Victory’s WildDevil was one of my most anticipated releases of the early part of 2009, and despite the fairly high price compared to most Victory products, I was pumped to try this one.  I let it sit for a few months, wanting it to get funky, but last week I could wait no longer.  Unfortunately, WildDevil is now one of my bigger disappointments of 2009.

To my understanding, WildDevil is simply Victory’s semi-glorious Hop Devil IPA with Brett added.  I love Hop Devil, I love Brett in beer, this should be a no-brainer masterpiece, right?  Not quite.  A medium smell of Brett, hops and more pine, much less funkier than I expected.  A sizzling carbonation, with a tartness on the mouth, taking away a lot of the fresh hops goodness.  I liked this beer less and less the more and more I drank it.  And I had a whole big corked-and-caged bottle to get through.  This beer just made me mad.  Every sip of it made me want either a fully committed IPA (Hop Devil) or a fully committed Brett explosion wild ale. Commit goddammit!  This beer teaches an important life lesson:  don’t hedge your bets.  Make up your mind, pick your path, and go for it.  Waffling in the middle accomplishes nothing.

B-

7% ABV from a bomber

Hungover

Note:  This review contains spoilers for “The Hangover,” though if you’ve seen the trailer even once I can’t imagine what there would be to spoil.

It probably went down something like this…the esteemed writing team behind such celluloid masterworks as “Ghosts of Girlfriends Past” and “Four Christmases,” two blokes that look like this, had a few beers one evening–the most they’ve ever had!  Like seven bro!–and something absolutely batshit crazy happened like they got a pepperoni slice at 2 AM, or ran from a $7 cab fare, or heard the next day that they had made out with some uuuuuuuuuugly chick in the corner of the bar and tthey thought, “Ow, my head hurts this morning.  I’m never gonna drink again.”  But then they had a genius brainstorm and thought, “Hey, we’re just some pasty nerds, but what if some really cool guys got more drunk than ever before–in Vegas no less (Vegas, baby, Vegas!)–and they couldn’t even remember what happened the night before!”

I’ve been unable to get “The Hangover” off my mind since I saw it hungover just Sunday morning.  And I know I’m going to step on some toes here and be in the minority when I say what I’m about to say, considering my theater was laughing their collective asses off (I’ve dated some gals with a collective ass, zing!), rolling in the aisles, and they even applauded when it was over; my friends have called it everything from a rave of “best movie EVER!” to a pan of “sooooo funny”; it currently ranks at #168 in imdb’s top 250 movies of all fucking time; and even critics are lauding it at a rate of 77%, remarkable for a R-rated comedy–but I really had issues with this picture.

I’ve spent the last twenty-four hours trying to figure out exactly why I didn’t like “The Hangover.”  I’m not saying it’s terrible or anything.  It’s not one of those movies like “Vantage Point” or “P.S. I Love You” or the “_____ Movie” spoof franchise where you spend every second you’re watching the screen just wanting to gouge your eyes out and plug them into your ears.  Nor is it one of those ineptly executed pictures like “Jumper” or “Battlefield Earth” that are so bad even someone with no comedy chops could find things to goof on and by the midway point of the movie the entire theater has become a peanut gallery shouting out insults.

No, “The Hangover” is simply not funny. I didn’t LOL even once. (Which, I guess if it’s a comedy and it’s not funny then maybe that means it IS “terrible,” but I digress). If you’ve seen the trailer, you literally know everything about the movie. Good comedy should be shocking and surprising and yet there’s not a single shock or surprise in this entire movie. Compare that to the great “Up” which surprised me every few minutes with its wonderful ideas and hilarious scenes.

I think the concept of three dudes trying to piece together a crazy hungover night is a pretty good one. We’ve ALL been there.  But their lost night–and the movie doesn’t even have the balls to allow them to attain that lost night via actual legitimate means, ya know, hardcore drinking; the characters are accidentally roofied–is nothing but a lame, paint-by-numbers pastiche of non sequitur bullshit that uber-hack director Todd Phillips must have thought would play well in trailers*.  Ohmigod, badass Mike Tyson singing a lame Phil Collins song! A tiger in the bathroom! And a baby in the closet.  Hey, how’d a chicken get in the room?! (Actually, come to think of it, I’m not sure we ever learned that. We never learned why the room was completely trashed either for that matter.)

Seriously, what is funny about any of those things?  To step on even more toes, it’s the same brand of over-the-top, out-of-left-field, nonsensical “humor” that made Seth McFarlane rich enough to own his own jet (A taser in the face!  A nude effete Asian gangster!  A stolen cop car!).  And I’m not exactly Mr. PC Morality but mining a lost and neglected baby for comedy? Perhaps I wouldn’t be offended if that was actually a funny gag.  But of course it isn’t.  It’s just as trite as having a hooker with a heart of gold played by Heather Graham who of course shows an aging tit.  Look, if you read my blog you know I’m about as far from having a stiff upper lip as they come.  I thrive on puerile, sophomoric, scatological comedy as much as the next guy and even at age 30 a well-crafted dick or fart joke can still have me in hysterics.  (For instance, the “Bruno” trailer would be the funniest thing I saw on Sunday as the great Sacha Baron Cohen continues to amaze us with the new and clever ways he can incorporate dildos, masturbation, and bare ass into a storyline.)

Zach Galifianakis and Ed Helms and even Bradley Cooper are winning and likable and I hope those three continue to headline movies, but there’s not much they can accomplish when they’re reading words written by such trite scripters and stuck in such a lame plot.  Casted with less-skilled and innately humorous actors and I think “The Hangover” would have been a straight bomb and the general population would have noticed all the flaws and the shear boringness of the movie.  Galifianakis’s character of Alan especially deserved to be in a better movie where his character–one of the most creepy/funny since Christopher Walken in “Annie Hall”–could have been iconic.  And Ed Helm’s skills are incredibly neutered, the only time he gets to shine when he out-of-nowhere sits down at the piano to sing a plot-discussing song, one of the few inspired parts in the flick, and a part I assume was either written or straight improvised by the musically gifted funnyman.

As I was watching the movie it wasn’t like it was cringe worthy or anything, nor was I begging for it to be over. And it’s not a deplorable “dumb” pratfalls comedy like Adam Sandler garbage or anything, it’s just flaccid and predictable and easily watchable.  Which, unfortunately, still will allow it to probably go down as the best mainstream Hollywood comedy of the year.  (Yeesh!  Think about that for a second.) I would have much rather just gone to You Tube and entered “Zach Galifianakis” and watched any of his criminally underrated stand-up bits for an hour and a half.  Hell, I would have rather watched Galifianakis, et al actually get wasted and then actually go do caaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa-razy things in Vegas.

And that brings me to why guess I most disliked “The Hangover”:  it’s insulting to drinkers.  Insulting to people like you and I that actually have had a lost night or two in our lives and had a crazy story to tell.  I could have called up any of my besotted friends on Sunday morning and I guarantee at least one of them would have told me a story about the decadence and depravity they got into on Saturday night that would have been ten times as funny as “The Hangover.”  I don’t see how any one that actually drinks, and actually parties, can think “The Hangover” anything more than an unfunny non-verisimilitudinous imagining of the circumstances.

But perhaps I’m wrong.  If you saw it, I’d love to hear why you loved it–cause I know you did–in specific scenes and moments and lines.  Truly curious.  Do share.

Sculpin

Another IPA sent to me from the left coast from Jesse the Hutt.  And it’s just like all those other “famous” California IPAs…fantastic.  It truly is India Pale Ale Elysian out there, perhaps I’ll have witness protection place me in San Diego next.  Smell is out of this world, an intense fragrance of grapefruitiness.  The taste is a mild letdown considering the smell, but it is still wonderful.  So fresh and piney.  Like drinking a goddamn Christmas tree.  Straight from the West Coast, no question, with additional tastes of grapefruit, apricots, mangoes, and sour citrus, minimal maltiness.  A nice stinging bitterness–just like the sculpin fish itself, says Ballast Point!–but incredibly drinkable.  Top-notch my friends, this deserve it’s top 20 BA ranking.

A

*If you’ve seen Todd Phillips in his wonderful documentary “Frat House” then you know he’s not exactly a cool guy either.

9.5% from a bomber

The Groupie Slums It

I don’t mean to offend when I explicitly state that attractive yet unmarried and never-married heterosexual women in their thirties who actually want to be married are either one of two things:

1.  Overly picky

2.  Fucking crazy

Becky was incredibly attractive and she didn’t seem crazy.  Sparkling eyes that were neither too dead nor fidgety, a nice amount of looking into my peepers and nervously looking down.  A kind smile that always spread just the correct amount between the ears and showed an exactly sufficient number of teeth depending on the circumstance*.  A confident voice full of charm and charisma.

And she was on a date with always-undressed me at a Village bar frequented by underage NYU undergrads and most famous for winning New York Magazine’s “Most Vomitiest Bar” the last three years running.  So how picky could Becky possibly be?

I spent the first half hour of our first date investigating her, scrutinizing her intensely like Sherlock Holmes.  That’s not exactly a fun way to behave and doesn’t exactly lead to a love connection, but I had to figure out what was up.  Soon, I realized it must be nothing, she was just one who had slipped through the cracks.  Had a little misfortune in love.  Perhaps I had very much lucked out in finding her.

Sure, she was a little obsessed with relationships, with finding “the one,” even with marriage, but most women are.  Nothing wrong with that.  She wasn’t one of those insufferable single gals, staying home at night with a stack of bridal magazines cutting out pictures of her favorite dresses, floral displays, bridesmaids’ gowns, and making a collage of her hypothetical wedding.  She didn’t say stuff like, “I’m going to make my future husband buy me an 18 karet yellow gold eternity band emerald cut. I’ve already picked it out.”  She didn’t have at all times on her person a list of one-hundred things her future mate had to meet, to which she’d say, “Do you have over $300,000 in the bank?” and then check off the corresponding box, hoping to fill them all out like she was participating in a concomitant scavenger hunt.

No, she was such a sweetheart.  She just wanted to find someone near perfect for her because you can never find someone completely perfect for you, right?  Some one she could grow old with.  Who could take care of her for the next fifty years.

Hell, she realized she was getting older, we all are.  And it ain’t easy, especially for a female.  Quoth Robert Herrick:

Gather ye rosebuds while ye may,
Old Time is still a-flying:
And this same flower that smiles to-day
To-morrow will be dying.

Could I be the man for her?  She’d ask me questions, bordering on interview queries but I accepted them because they were said with such earnestness.

The glorious lamp of heaven, the sun,
The higher he’s a-getting,
The sooner will his race be run,
And nearer he’s to setting.

“Do you date a lot?”  “Why haven’t you found someone?”  “It’s tough here in New York, isn’t it?”  “Have you ever thought about JDate?”

That age is best which is the first,
When youth and blood are warmer;
But being spent, the worse, and worst
Times still succeed the former.

She talked about her successes, moreso her failures.  The guy that did this wrong.  The guy that did that bad.  The guy that wasted that half-year of her life.

Then be not coy, but use your time,
And while ye may, go marry:
For having lost but once your prime,
You may for ever tarry.

After a few cocktails, I finally figured it out.  She actually did all the work for me.  I was getting bored with sitting and I asked her if she wanted to go revisit our youth and challenge some sophomores to a game of beer pong.

“Ha, that reminds me of the time Vince Carter** picked me up at the Soho Grand and all but forced me to go back to his apartment to play pool with him at 3 AM.”

“Vince Carter?!  The uber-talented, uber-lazy NBA 8-time all-star?!  Really?  That’s so cool.”

Casually.  “Yeah.  Nice guy but a little boring.  Unbeatable in pool though.  You wouldn’t believe how good he is off the bumpers.”

We lost our first game of beer pong to two kids that have never known life with rotary phones and returned to our seats.  A warbling John Mayer song I’ve never heard of because I know nothing about music since the tail-end of the grunge/gangster rap era came on the jukebox.

“Yuck.  I always hated this song.  I was actually there when John wrote this one.”

You know John Mayer too?

And there were more.  Seemingly every single thing that came on the flatscreen, or the jukebox, or on an imbibing hipster’s ironic t-shirt, or even in an anecdote I told reminded her of a celebrity encounter she’d had in the past decade.  And I say “encounter” because she was never saying that she dated these men, certainly never saying that she had intimate relations with them, she was just casually, and somewhat angrily, mentioning them in the same matter of fact way I could go:

“You know that dumb bitch Megan sure liked rum and cokes.”

“That terrible skank Tracy sure thought she was good at darts too.”

“Whoa boy, did that miserable Annette always act like she knew a lot about baseball.”

Then, the Yankees won and Michael Kay came on the YES post-game show on the bar TV.

“Ugh…I hate Michael Kay.”

“Yeah, me too.  I’m a Yankees fan but he’s insufferable.”

“No, not that.  He’s a major stalker.  I go on one date with him a few months ago and now he won’t leave me alone!”

Michael Kay?!  Now that’s disgusting.

And it all made sense.  She’d gone from dating (or fucking on the sly) an A-list hoopster in her knockout early-20s to a B-list rocker in her still-smoking mid-20s to a sleezy Z-list local television baseball announcer just earlier this year as her looks were starting to fade.  Perhaps not for a “nobody” like me, but certainly for a big shot, rich celebrity.

Then another thing hit me.  Her twenties’ goal of gathering ye rosebuds, gathering a rich celebrity mate, had all but passed her by and now she was onto a new stratagem:  prospecting.  The night I had picked her up it had been so easy for me.  I wasn’t actually even talking to her at first.  One of my friends was, casually in conversation mentioning that I was a writer.  To that, she sprinted over to me and proceeded to yak my ear off, shoving her number, e-mail, fax, address, Facebook page, Twitter account, and every other possible contact info she could into my palm before leaving.  Telling me I had to promise to contact her.  I’m not sure if I’d even said more than a dozen words that first encounter.

She was prospecting.  And she thought this might be her final shot at glory, Dan Jansen in the 1994 Winter Olympics.  She’d heard I was a writer, and daftly thought I might soon be a famous one.  Or at least a rich one.

HAHAHAHAHAHAHA.  If she only knew.

Well, I certainly wasn’t going to let on.  I went back to her apartment and hooked up with her anyways, unfortunate visions of Michael Kay dancing in my head (”Ssssssssssee ya!!!”)

I’ve always said that, were I a celebrity, I wouldn’t mind women throwing themselves at me for no other reason than my fame and I certainly don’t mind a slumming groupie faux-throwing herself at me hoping that her vagina is that magic key to getting me on the cover of “Entertainment Weekly.”

At least I won’t stalk her like Michael Kay.

Dreadnaught

Big ups to my friend Elizabeth who I made go to about fifteen different Chicagoland beer stores when she was there on business in order to find this coveted, highly regarded, DIPA for me.  Another winner from Three Floyds who, apropos of barely something, I think may make my favorite labels in the biz.  Taste-tested this openly against one of my favorites, Avery Maharaja, and I felt it took it down in a 10th round TKO.  So fresh and fragrant.  A fruit cocktail of tropical tastes in peach, mango, and citrus, with subdued hops bitterness balanced my a nice caramel malt backbone.  Incredibly drinkable, deserves the acclaim it gets.

A

*Beware the women that smiles either too much or too little.  The women that are ear-to-fucking-ear when you simply make a lame pun.  Who show every teeth like a horse with peanut butter in its mouth when you crack a mild joke.  And who spit take with hearty laughter when you so much as comment on the bartender’s bad hair cut.  Also beware the ones that wouldn’t even crack a half-grin watching Eddie Murphy “Raw.”  They’re either depressed or dumb.

**Celebrity names have been changed to protect…uh, I guess me from being sued for slander.  Or is it libel?