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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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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