When traveling through the galaxy, it’s of supreme importance to be on the lookout for liminal spaces. If you’re not paying attention while cruisin’ through hyperspace — maybe you’re rockin’ too hard to some Load-era Metallica or you’re caught up in a high-stakes game of Sabacc or perhaps you’ve fallen asleep at the wheel — you may very well hit a pocket of liminality. If this happens, chances’re that you’re going to be lost for awhile.

More innocuous than thinnies but less defined than wormholes, these cloudbursts of purple dark matter will warp the perceptions of everyone in your starcruiser. Sophomore slumps will sound like masterpieces. Cash-grabs will look like art. Dog food will taste like delectable cuisine. Hell, I’ve even heard tales of reckless space-pirates tongue-kissin’ their dogs and grabbin’ fat fistfuls of their sisters’ doughy fannies.

It ain’t pretty.

However, every now and then an individual that coasts through a violet gamma-shadow will be better for it. In these rare instances, the pilgrim does not incur the Wrath of In-Between, but is actually fortunate enough to go beyond the beyond. In this transcendent moment, possibilities are not only more apparent, but well within reach. Despite being in a tiny little vessel, hermetically sealed and layered beyond reason so as to ward off solar radiation, the exo-planetary commuter is capable of turning off mental inhibitors so as to live beyond life.

Tonight, my vessel has skidded right through an extradimensional fold. And I’m not mad or concerned. `Cause the fact of the matter is that I’m rockin’ in the Thirteenth Hour.

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I once spent an entire afternoon hanging out with Boba Fett. He showed me around Slave I, taught me how to use a jetpack, and even let me tag along when he met some of his scummy friends for a drink. It was pretty much the best Saturday of my life.

Actually, that’s a lie. I didn’t get to do any of that shit. I was just trying to impress you.

But, what I did get to do this Saturday afternoon was spend some time with a six-pack of Black Jack Porter from the Left Hand Brewing Company. C’mon, let me apologize for telling tall tales by describing this beer to you! Seriously, check out my brew review! I promise it’ll be a halfway decent read!

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When I drink beer, I get sleepy.

After a pouring a few bottles of liquid-carbs into my tum-tum, I usually want to take a nap. At this point, the uproarious laughter and rock’n’roll shenanigans of a beer-drankin’ session take a backseat to my undying desire to hit the hay. I’m not complaining – this fatigue is a fair tradeoff for the great flavors and false sense of confidence that can only be delivered via brew. But if I’m being honest, I think I’d much prefer to drink beers that don’t make me want to sleep.

But as along as the brews don’t kill me, I’m goin’ to keep drinkin’ `em.

This philosophy has gotten me through years of dilettante beer reviewing. However, tonight’s beverage seems to be taunting me, offering me a potable challenge to the death. If I hadn’t spent years aspiring to the greatness of the roguish figures of my favorite comics and movies, I might just shirk away. But my moral compass is the byproduct of pop culture refuse and hyper-caffeination, so it’s time to Han Solo this Greedo-drank.

Tonight, I’m sipping on Wake Up Dead Imperial Stout

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Having never traveled there myself, my knowledge of Mexico consists primarily of piecemeal anecdotal references. In my mind, the streets of Mexico City will forever be lined with folks headbangin’ away to Live Shit: Binge & Purge. As far as I know, these same Mexicans are so blessed as to taste the wonders of El Pelon every time they eat. And, of course, the nation’s favorite athlete is La Flama Blanca.

As far as I can tell, Mexico is a beautiful country.

However, I’d be a liar to suggest that I’ve ever thought of Mexican beer with anything more than a fleeting interest. Sure, Corona might be a good choice for barbeques and picnics and other days spent in the sun, but its light body leaves serious beer-drinkers desiring more. Similarly, I like the Dos Equis Guy‘s style, but that doesn’t mean that I want to drink his beer.

In an effort to perfect the image of Mexico in my mind’s eye, I’m dedicated to finding an exported beer that meets my (admittedly elevated) standards. As such, tonite I’m sipping on a product of Cucapá, a genuine Mexican micro-brewery.

The south-of-the-border concoction at hand: La Migra Imperial Stout!

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Welcome to Friday.

After the shitstorm that is the workweek, there’re plenty of ways to unwind. If your favorite sports team is in town, you could head to the game and cheer on the athletes. After all, sports heroes love their fans! Or, if sports aren’t your thing, you could go to the theater so as to bask in the relaxation of a concert. And if worst comes to worst, you could do your chores and then waste time with your friends.

But when it comes to end of the week refreshment, there’s really only one perfect accompaniment. Whether you’re playing video games or shredding on an eight-string, there’s a surefire way to make your experience more enjoyable. This means of party-amplification is, of course, sippin’ on a fine-ass brew.

This Friday sees me sampling Bannatyne’s Scotch Ale.

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There is no greater trial of will than that of the reigning champion. Sure, on the one hand champions are bathed in the adulation of admirers, those lesser-thans who need this hero to represent them in all the ways they can’t represent themselves. On the other hand, great kings also inspire the dissident hordes who want nothing more than to see the crown filched from head, smelted down, and forged into shackles.

When you’re on top, some people love you. But others want to watch you fail. And as such, you have to constantly watch the throne.

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When people think of Boston’s beer, they probably think of Sam Adams. This isn’t necessarily a bad thing, considering that the Boston Beer Company not only helped usher in the wonderful epoch of craft brewing in which now find ourselves but also continue to produce quality products. What would be a shame is if one were to think that Sam Adams is the only worthwhile suds-soda brewed in Greater Boston.

`Cause the fact of the matter – it ain’t.

Sure, if you’ve ever visited Lord Bergeron‘s domicile, you’ve probably stumbled across Boston Beer Works or Harpoon. While these brewers are good folk, and deserving of your palate’s attention, they’re essentially part of the same crew that John Adams’ cousin rolls with. But if you’re willing to look beyond even these supporting players, you might just find another star-to-be in the cast of Boston’s Brewahs!

And that’s exactly what I’ve done.

Tonight, I’m sipping on Porter Square Porter from the up-and-coming Slumbrew.

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It’s only 15 degrees Fahrenheit outside.

While I don’t have to worry about stray probe droids or wampa attacks, I can’t help but feel like I’m trapped on Hoth. I keep starting my car, just to make sure that its hyperdrive hasn’t been deactivated. After all, I’m going to have to get the fuck out of the driveway once Vader and his crew roll up.

They don’t mess around.

Okay, so I don’t have to worry about the Dark Lord of the Sith tossing my dessicated corpse into a snowbank. But I also don’t have the benefit of taking a dip in a bacta tank. So how am I, a regular fanboy without any mastery of the Force, supposed to survive the frozen hell that is the Bostonian January?

Why, with the sweet warmth of alcohol! On this early Sunday afternoon, I’m tossing back a bottle of the oak-aged elixir that is Innis & Gunn Original.

C’mon Chewie, punch it!

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There’s an argument to be made that individuals shouldn’t try to improve themselves through any means other than those that’ve been pre-approved In this mindset, personal evolution is certainly acceptable, but circumventing the system is not. You want to   push yourself to the very edge of your potential? Sure! Go for it! Make the most of your experience on Spaceship Earth! Just make sure to never, ever, consider redefining the limits that’ve been ascribed to you.

After all, if you stumble across a way to improve yourself that others aren’t hip to, well, that wouldn’t be fair. Right? In fact, some might even call that cheating.

But others…well, we call it innovative.

Think of the bad motherfuckers that Earth would’ve never seen   do awesome shit if they’d felt compelled to play by the rules. Robert Rodriguez wouldn’t have decided for himself that an action movie could be made for less than $10,000. Mark McGwire and Sammy Sosa wouldn’t’ve found the right supplements to give baseball fans the 1998 home run race. And perhaps Bruce Banner wouldn’t’ve ‘t acknowledged what’d happen to him after jumping into the path of a gamma bomb.

Sometimes being good just isn’t enough, even if you’re a director or a baseball player or a scientist. The bottom line is that if you can figure out a way to exponentially increase your talents, whether they’re limited or formidable, you’d be a fucking fool not to. Take whatever it is your good at, and rock it as hard as you can.

This is the very idea behind Dark Intrigue.

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Ahoy!`Tis Saturday nite and as such the drinks are freely flowin’ at the Mos Eisley Cantina. Figrin D’an is tearing shit up with his Modal Nodes, inspiring muthafuckahs to hit the dance floor and gyrate their gential-areas together. Backdoor deals are being made so that terrorist-farmhands can blow up expensive government buildings.   And droids still aren’t being served.

If Omega-Level were a patron of the Mos Eisley Cantina, it’d be a smooth-talkin’ Corellian whose language of choice is credits.

But since we have the benefit of residing on the lovely blue planet known as Earth, there’s no chance of snagging space-brews from Wuher. Instead, I must head to the liquor-merchant and choose a potable on my own. Without an interstellar racist to guide me, I’m liable to choose all sorts of kooky concoctions.

As such, tonight I’m drinking Innis & Gunn Rum Cask.

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