August is now nothing more than a fleeting memory, a remembrance hoping to save itself by clinging to one of the few synapses that I haven’t killed with television and caffeine.   Some may see this unrelenting march as the temporal equivalent of total warfare, but I welcome the change of seasons. So while September is always a drag for schoolchildren and the Kansas City Royals, I welcome the ninth month of the year with open arms.

C’mon, September, let’s do this! Bring me the end of humidity and sunburns! Bring me pre-season hockey! Bring me the glory that is autumn!

And since you’re offering anyways, feel free to bring me your wonderful slew of Oktoberfest-inspired brews!

So to celebrate the changing of the guard, the graceful acceptance of time’s one-way flow, I’m sipping on Otter Creek’s Oktoberfest.

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Having never been there, I can still say without hesitation that I’m a fan of San Francisco.

How does that work? Well, the Golden Gate City is responsible for producing some straight-up characters, individuals whose accomplishments and antics have tacked layers and layers of quality onto my otherwise free-floating existence. And probably yours, as well! If Frisco’d never been established, we’d be without a legendary metal bassist, our modern conception of the perfect family, the man with no name, and America’s most infamous serial killer.

Amongst others.

In essence, San Francisco has carved a notch into my brain-bone as a city of repute, a community that regularly produces pure wonder. So when I ran into a sixer of the city’s Anchor Porter at my local beer-dealer, I knew that I had to bring it home with me. Hell, leaving it on the shelf would’ve been tantamount to sending it across the bridge to Oakland!

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I am a veritable man-slave to Lady Beer.

I live to wait on her hand and foot, making sure that her every desire is met. But how could I ever be expected to resist her? Is there a more breathtaking image than the gentle pulsating of Lady Beer’s bosom as she inhales and exhales alcoholic vapors? Could anyone ever assuage my workweek anxieties better than Madam Methanol? Hardly. She’s a goddamn beaut.

Sure, she can be bitter as all hell. And I’d be a liar to deny that entertaining her is a   fatiguing endeavor. After a few hours with Lady Beer, I’m ready to sleep indefinitely, awoken only by oppressive sunbeams and inebriation-induced teeth-grindin’. But it’s worth it, because her handsome hops and courageous carbonation are wonders that elevate existence from better than non-existence to the rare opportunity to join the universe as an active participant.

Wowzers.

But as I’m realizing tonight, I’ve been slightly negligent to my mistress. Lady Beer, love of my life though she is, has largely been ignored this summer. It wasn’t a conscious decision. Truly. However, the fact of the matter is that I’ve been spending an exorbitant amount of my drankin’-time with Ms. Apple Cider Bottom. She’s fruity and bubbly and making herself more available than she’s ever been.

Hell, I’m only man, damnit!

Tonight, I’m sipping on Honey Crisp.

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Behold the glory that is the FRIDAY BREW REVIEW! There ain’t no damn laws against drinkin’ and writin’, so today’s edition of of FBR is coming to you just as the alcohol hits my bloodstream. Hell, if it worked for a titan like Hemingway, there’s no way it could befoul the prose of a dilettante such as myself.

Right?

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What do the Mega Powers, the G.I. Joe episode The Greatest Evil, and today’s brew have in common?

Well, dummy-pants, they are all the product of unlikely – but wonderful – collaborations!

At the beer-market today, a delivery-dude saw me scouring the shelves for the perfect inebriator. “Hey kid,” he said, “give this a try. It’s a team-up between Sierra and Dogfish.” He then handed me a bottle of Life and Limb and dispersed into an ethereal gray, drifting into a nether-realm, awaiting the next opportunity to help a beer-drinker in need.

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Historically, I probably would’ve said that my all-time favorite Crispin would have to be Glover.

Ya know, the dude that played George McFly and then went fucking apeshit.

But after today, I’m afraid that Willard no longer owns quite as much real estate in my heart as he once did. Sorry dude – I didn’t actually expect this to happen. But the fact of the matter is that I’ve now tried Lansdowne by the folks at Crispin Cider and I’m impressed.

Fuck that, I’m blown away.

I snagged Lansdowne from the shelves of my local beer-dealer because I was lured in by its appearance. I ain’t no liar, and I can admit when visual aesthetics win me over. There’s something elegant, mayhaps even classy, about the 22-ounce container. Maybe it’s the black label or the little tree logo or the use of simple typography – whites and golds, print and script. But if I had to toss money on it, I’d say that it’s the interrelationships, the gropings and moanings in a darkened room bathed in auditory-lubrication, between all of the above that sold me. Looking at the bottle, it looks urbane as hell.

I’ll be damned if I can’t imagine Don Draper taking a rip from a bottle of Lansdowne.

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It’s my pleasure to inform the faithful OL readership that the FRIDAY BREW REVIEW has been generating a lot more traffic lately. Some of these new visitors may be arriving via word-of-mouth, the pleasant words you share about a weekly-drunkard’s semi-coherent review acting as safe passage. Others are being transported here by means of Internetdimensional-portals, such as that provided by the (fabulous) Reddit beer community. And still others, well, I suspect they’re here because it was the closest place they could find after escaping that hitchhiker who promised a blowjob but offered only a knife-wound. How rude.

No matter how you’ve arrived – welcome.

Before we go any further, baby, allow me to offer a warning to the uninitiated: what follows is certainly a beer review. But the Friday Brew Review is also part diatribe, short story, philosophical meandering, science fiction journey, and drunken affirmation.

Please proceed without caution.

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Rummaging through the Fourth of July liquid leftovers, I came across a couple bottles of Harpoon Cider. Even though my aversion to IPAs has led me to generally steer clear of Harpoon, my well-documented affinity for cider is mighty powerful. And so I’ve found myself yet again reliving a subverted childhood memory, pounding apple-drank and catching a buzz.

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Is it possible for something to be excellent and overrated?

I certainly think so. Even those entities worthy of high honors, fully deserving of the piling-on of accolades, can deified beyond reason. In the pop cultural realm, the perfect example is Michael Jackson – the dude could certainly sing and dance, but what type of person was he? Does having the sickest of moves overshadow the consequences of being the a legitimately sick person?   I’m inclined to say “No.”

But let’s steer away from the potentially-pedophilic pop icons of yesteryear. Instead, we can head to a more palatable subject. To be precise, we’ll gravitate towards the most palatable of all subjects.

Beer.

Living in Greater Boston, I’ve fully embraced my role as an acolyte of Sam Adams. These muthafuggahs are Skywalker-honorable, leading the way as the largest American-owned brewery while still putting out craft-quality products. As such, I’m often confused as to whether my allegiance stems from an insular perspective or an objective assessment. I hope it’s more of the latter, but fear it may bit a bit of the former.

What assuages this fear, however, is the fact that I don’t lose my mind over the Samuel Adams Summer Ale. While I certainly think it’s a wonderful drink,   many of my comrades sing it praises otherwise reserved for the Elysian Fields. Hell, I’ve even known some beer-drankers who stock up on Sam Summer while it’s available so that they can continue drinking it until the November expiration date. Again, I like it, but I don’t even think it’s Sam Adams’ best seasonal (if you’re wondering – that’d be Octoberfest).

Consequently, today’s Friday Brew Review is dedicated to stepping outside of comfort zones. Rather than imbibing a beer that I believe is excellent and overrated, I’ve opted to give another potable a chance. Today is all about Brooklyn Summer Ale.

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I enjoy drinking beer on Fridays – at this point in my life, it’s a well established ritual, a means of slinking into a couple days’ rest.

I’ll be the first to admit that sometimes I done-drank one too many. It happens. Not often, but I know that the possibility exists. I just get too excited by the warm fuzzy feelings that arise when slurping on deliciousness. And then I’m cooked.

But sometimes after a particularly arduous week, when I find myself drained by work or just the world at large, all I want is a good beer. One. A single beverage that will quench not only my thirst but my existential misgivings, my doubts about the blessing that is life. Fortunately, as the ancestral blood of maritime carpenters runs through my veins, a tasty brew is often enough to assuage even my most ostensibly unshakable qualms about reality.

Vanilla Porter is one such brew.

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