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.

Read the rest of this entry »

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.

Read the rest of this entry »

The economy has yet to recover from its monumental floundering in 2008. Most jobs are in short supply. Other Jobs are dead. Nations are entangled in conflicts its citizens don’t understand, don’t believe in, and don’t want to fight. Hordes of the disgruntled are flooding streets, occupying major metropolitan areas and declaring their dissatisfaction. Tumult is proliferating at unprecedented rates.

And yet, it’s Friday. Love is still free to give and receive. Guitars still vibrate-melodious. High-fivin’ a buddy still feels awesome. Even in these most turbulent of times, persistent are those little reminders of why we persevere. It’s one thing to acknowledge the human spirit, but entirely another to know its power.

I know that the general consensus is that everything’s awful and I’m supposed to check my optimism at the door. But I’m not going to.  Tonight, I’m taking a stand against the tyranny of our times. It’s Friday, goddamn it, and I’m going to enjoy my life for what it is and what it can be! Though my flesh-vehicle betrays me and society’s crumbling, art and beauty and truth still exist.

As does beer.

So, in the midst of existential collapse, I sip on BRRRBON.

Read the rest of this entry »

The Cambridge Brewing Company is once again bottling The Great Pumpkin Ale. Since this is the first time in twenty-two years that we’re getting a chance to taste a bottled version of the punkin’-brew, this is a huge deal for all microbrew enthusiast. Read the rest of this entry »

Let us rejoice, for Friday night is upon us! Those of us lucky enough to remain unfettered – without the shackles of offspring or weekend jobs or second drafts of suicide notes to edit – we get to spend this glorious evening any way we see fit.

So how am I spending the evening? Well, I’m attempting to both appease my insatiable appetite for dessert and honor my weekly intoxication-ritual in one fell swoop. How’s that, you ask? Well, I’m slurping on a drank that models itself on a delicious treat.

Tonight, I’m tossing back Creme Brûlée Stout from the fine folks at the Southern Tier Brewing Company.

Read the rest of this entry »

[cue the music]

There’re moments   in life in which appreciation simply cannot be thwarted, try as Life might.

Today has been the Greater Boston area’s first real taste of fall, a forty-degree recess that seems to cool not just the sweltering landscape, but burning souls as well. That stack of work piling ever higher? Crack open the office window and laugh as the breeze pushes papers across your desk. Stuck in bumper-to-bumper traffic, a nameless worker-bee in the mass exodus from the hive? Take a look beyond the overpass at the trees, all showing off their summer’s-end sunburns of red and yellow and orange. Finally home and having trouble sloughing off the day’s worth of stress?

Just crack open a Harvest Pumpkin Ale.

Autumnal awesomeness will follow.

Read the rest of this entry »

My lust for autumnal brews   is absolutely insatiable, transforming me into an ethanol Donkey Kong. Stay out of my way, other beers, or you’re liable to get a barrel thrown off your fucking neck! I’m serious, man! Watch out! The spell has been cast, and only orange-labeled harvest-intoxicants will lubricate my arid braincells properly!

Enjoying a recess from His reaping, the mighty Saturn gazes down into the terrestrial realm. Humans and their dominions, ants and their hills. It’s rustic but aspiring, unrealized but bursting with potential. The brisk breeze cools Saturn’s glistening brow and he smiles upon us in gratitude,   for we raise our glasses in his honor. He raises his chalice, teeming with the syrups and elixirs and sweet ambrosial dreams, and reciprocates.

Gods and Men, united in spirits.

Read the rest of this entry »

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.

Read the rest of this entry »

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?

Read the rest of this entry »

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.

Read the rest of this entry »