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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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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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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As we finish another orbit around the sun, it’s natural to peek over our shoulders and assess the voyage thus far. What’ve we done that we’re proud of? What improvements do we need to make? How closely do our realities resemble our dreams?

All questions worth asking, no doubt.

But if you’re daring, and I mean truly willing to look down the barrel of embarrassment, you’ll take this end-of-the-year opportunity to ask some better questions. Y’know, inquiries into love and hate and sex and death and everything else that makes life both horrifying and beautiful. Ask yourself just one of these types of questions, answer it honestly, and then revel in the ensuing revelations.

So what’s my question? Well, here it is: When did I fall in love with beer?

When I first started drinking, my libations of choice pretty much included anything other than beer. Hard liquor. Zima. Complicated cocktails. All of `em went down the hatch, tasted great, and made me feel good. But for some reason, I just couldn’t understand the appeal of beer. I’d drink it if it were around (show me a picky college student and I’ll show you a coddled miscreant), but it was never my go-to. I was a fool.

But I wouldn’t be foolish forever.

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Living in the Boston area, I know what a she-bitch Winter can be. Sure, she shows up to the party with brisk breezes and picturesque snow-dustings. But before you even have a chance to buy a new ice scraper, the frozen hoe is dropping blizzards on your ass and stampin’ all over your Raynaud’s-addled digits.

Remember, Winter is not your friend. She’s not even your friend’s friend. All she wants is to see you suffer the ice-prickled sting of seasonal blue balls.

Fortunately, there are ways of curbing the blow delivered by the Time of the Taiga. Take hockey, for instance. This sport is not unlike an astrophysicist who was raised ferally by   a pack of abusive lycanthropes, succeeding in spite of a terrible formative environment.

Is hockey the only worthwhile wintertime activity? Hell no. There’s also beer drinkin’.

The folks at Vermont’s Magic Hat Brewing Company understand the protective qualities of intoxicating libations. How do I of   know this? Well, I’ve sipped on Howl.

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I love sequels.

After all, what’s better than getting to revisit   the worlds that’ve inspired us? The first voyage to these lands sees us falling in love, realizing we’re being changed irrevocably, and then making lifetime commitments.   But the subsequent trek? Well, that’s the honeymoon, with garters torn asunder and bed frames busted in half.

That’s not to say that all successors are worthy additions to a franchise. Many aren’t. And some are goddamn abominations. But those sequels that fire on all cylinders? Magic.

The Empire Strikes Back. The Godfather Part II. Die Hard with a Vengeance. Ghostbusters II. Aliens. Terminator II. Bill and Ted’s Bogus Journey. Predator II. Temple of Doom. The Two Towers. Army of Darkness. The Dark Knight.

You get the point.

Today, I’m applying my love for sequels to my penchant for Friday beer-drankin’. Instead of guzzling any run-of-the-mill, first go-around brew, I’m sippin’ on the third member of a veritable beer franchise.

Today, I’m drinking Fade to Black Volume 3: Pepper Porter.

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In my most cherished fantasies, I’m a member of Rogue Squadron. That’s right, if you see me crashing into the mailbox during a mid-drive daydream, I’m probably imagining myself nosediving into the Death Star’s exterior. As the suburban townsfolk yell and scream and cry in the hopes of getting my car off of their lawns, I can only hear Biggs and Wedge and Porkins egging me on. The cops throw down spike strips, and my tires blow out, and all I do is turn up the radio and mutter, “Stay on target.”

It’s this wonderful hallucination of being a bad-ass space-rebel that helps me cope with the fact that I’m nothing more than a sci-fi lovin’ scamp of a man.

Also helping me get through the ennui of my regularly-scheduled quarter-life crises is beer. Sweet, bitter, dark and fizzy beer. On Fridays I make a point to try a new beer, thereby expanding my palate and giving me a deeper basis-for-comparison well.

Tonight, I’m combining my yearning for intergalactic adventure and beer-lust by sipping on the Rogue Brewery’s Double Mocha Porter.

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Sometimes we need to drink.

When we’re dissatisfied with our jobs. When it seems as though we’re stuck in limbo, neither ascending into the honey-sweet halls of Valhalla nor descending into the darkest depths of the liberating Lake of Fire. When our wheels are spinning without taking us damn near anywhere worth goin’ to.

Sometimes we need to drink.

When we want to warm our faces with synthesized satisfaction. When it’ll help us enjoy a movie by chopping chop down those imaginative barriers that go up when we become adults. When we want to forget about our broken spirits. When we want to fill our gullets with something tasty.

Sometimes we need to drink.

When we’re writing irresponsible blogs posts – not because we have to, but because it makes us happy.

Sometimes we need to drink.

Tonight, I need a drink. And so, I’m sipping on the Wachusett Brewing Company’s Milk Stout.

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