It’s back, muthafugga, it’s back.

If you followed OL in the formative days, you know all about the glory that is the Friday Brew Review. If you’re new to this scene, let me clue you in: I like the taste of beer. I like the way it makes me feel. I like its ability to make my jokes funnier and women seem more attractive. So for your benefit, I will drink cold ones and describe the experience.

It’s pretty straight-forward.

So after a sabbatical that saw me averting death, deciding on a career, and becoming a more positive member of society, I’ve decided to bring back the Brew Review. Truthfully, I can’t guarantee that I’ll toss one up every week. But what I can promise is that when I do unholster the gun, I’m going to smoke every motherfucker in the saloon.

That’s right, I’m like a retired gunfighter, being called out of retirement for one more fucking showdown.

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I’ve often wondered if I could survive with no other liquid than beer. Usually, these deep thoughts come after I’ve had about six or seven. I just think about beer’s amazing flavor, and its ability to make me feel like a hero, and how funny it makes everything seem. Even shit I shouldn’t be laughing at. Ah, if I could drink beer all the time then I might experience actual heaven on earth!

But lo and behold, there is no heaven at all! And, there might not even be an earth! What the fuck does that mean? I DON’T KNOW!

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Sometimes the Friday Brew Review can get a little out of control. During the process of tasting new beers, I often find myself inspired creatively. Sometimes the inspiration gets into the review’s bloodstream, transforming it into a short story. Other times, the alcohol seeps into my brain-bone and I have to comment on cinema to get it out. Yes, this place can turn into a real monkeyhouse.

If you come to the Friday Brew Review looking for beer advice, this week’s for you.

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Hey, you there! Ssshh… Not so loud — you’ll get us caught. Want to know a secret? It’s quite devilish. And isn’t it always fun to know something that others don’t? Ok, here goes…

At the time of this writing, it’s only Thursday!

Yes, I have finally succumbed to the pressures of having a full-time job and a bunch of trifling part-time responsibilities. So while I normally enjoy ending my workweek by coming home and cracking open a couple of cold ones, my hand has been forced elsewhere. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not opposed to sipping on a delicious brew during the week, but there are certain reservations that I’ll have to work hard to shake off.

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This one goes out to Tommy Rock. He’s a close friend of mine — over the years, I’ve had the pleasure of playing music, ranting about existence, and just chilling out with him. On Tuesday I was too sick to stay up and watch LOST with Caffeine Powered and the usual pack of goons. But when I woke up the next morning, I saw that the fridge contained a brown bag declaring “For Pepsibones. <3 Tommy Rock.”

In the bag — a couple of fat beers. I now know that there might be no better way to wake up than by realizing that a friend has dropped off a care-package of cold ones. So once again — thanks Tommy.

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Summer is on the way and I couldn’t be happier.

There was once a time in which I didn’t care for the summer. I grew up as a fat kid and the heat of the summer drove me insane. And rightfully so. If you’re within reasonable shape and want to know what it’s like to be husky in the summer, just imagine wearing a sweat shirt and jacket during a ninety degree day. Also, you are unable to get cool because you refuse to drink anything besides OK Soda.

Yeah, the summer of `94 turned even the most urbane of fat kids into sweaty messes.

But luckily, I’m now a scrawny weakling that teaches high school. What fucking reason would I have to dislike summer? Is it the fact that I don’t have to work? Could it be that I finally don’t have to worry about my joke-of-a-disease? Or is it the prospect of grilling burgers and drinking beers on a regular basis?

Clearly, I’m a fan of summer-summer-summertime.

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I’m back to drinking beer. And it is fucking glorious. For weeks I was plagued by a mysterious illness that forced me into spitting out beer and drinking whack substitutions. It was one of the toughest times of I’ve ever faced, as I was essentially forfeiting one of my favorite life-activities so that I wouldn’t die.

Worth the sacrifice? Yes. Am I glad it’s over? Double fuck-yes.

So this is the Friday Brew Review, once again at maximum operation status and ready to party. For this return to form, I threw out my usual self-imposed rules and regulations and instead decided to purchase whatever beer seemed most genuinely appealing. As I walked into the liquor store, I made no consideration about the brewery, style, brand, price or volume. The bottom line, the only important question I asked myself was, “Which damn brew most deserves a spot in Studio Apartment Krueger-Gut?”

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I love beer.

There is something about the experience of drinking a beer that is quite unlike anything else I’ve experienced on this planet. A beer is cool, carbonated, slightly bitter and yet still palatable. It raises spirits in a way that other beverages just can’t. I’m no stranger to caffeine-binges, but there’s no way that those drinks outclass beer. They just don’t. Non-negotiable.

And, of course, beer should be praised for its alcoholic properties. There’s nothing wrong with catching a bit of a buzz after drinking a few beers; as long as you’re not an asshole about it, that is. No one likes a belligerent drunk and no one wants to be around someone who’s a threat to their safety, but there’s nothing wrong with sitting on a couch and riding out a buzz.

With that being said, drunkenness is the last thing on my mind when I crack open a beer. If I happen to become a bit inebriated, great! If not, that’s fine too! The bottom line is that my love for beer is deeper than its ability to alter my perceptions. Again, at the risk of redundancy, it is the beer experience that I enjoy. The taste itself, the camaraderie generated from sharing a beer with a friend, the process of picking out a brew — these are things that make this class of beverage so damn worthwhile.

So it is with this sense of multi-pronged appreciation that I approach this edition of the Friday Brew Review. Truthfully, I’m finally getting over what was undoubtedly the worst illness I’ve had in years, perhaps ever. And although I’ve made no qualms about drinking while sick in the past, I don’t want to curb my recovery. Ain’t no way they’re sending me back to the clink!

This week, I’m sipping on O’Doul’s Amber.

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I’m sick. For the last few days, I’ve woken up to find my entire body screaming in agony. Sure, I’m no stranger to the run-of-the-mill aches and pains that come with daily living, but I’ve been sore beyond belief. Even putting on a t-shirt has been a chore. Additionally, I’ve got a swollen lymph node a fever you can’t sweat out. It’s mad bobo.

So tonight, I’m taking it easy with the Brew Review. Sure, I’m sipping on a little beer. But honestly, I think that if I drink a full beer I might spontaneously combust. So I begin this edition of the regular Friday post by acknowledging that I haven’t actually consumed a full beer. Instead, I’ve swigged it and spit most of it out. Hey, it seemed like a good idea in that made-for-TV movie Sideways. You know, the one from Japan.

The beverage I’m (not) drinking tonight is Ryde beer from the folks at the Wachusett Brewery. I grabbed a six-pack simply because I had never seen the product before and there was no real description was to be found on the package or the bottles’ labels. Maybe it’s a stupid reason to buy something, but I was motivated purely by curiosity. “What the fuck is a Ryde beer?”

As per usual, I made a pit stop at product’s website. And this was the moment in which I first said Oh no. A slideshow cycled through pictures of snowmobiles, dirt bikes, motorcycles, bicycles, surfboards, and other various means of transportation. Or, I suppose, RIDES — now I get it! It’s a fucking pun!

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I like going on a limb. I don’t do it often enough, but I really enjoy those moments when I dive in headfirst, not really thinking about what I’m about to get into. Sometimes, this goes terribly wrong and I fall on my face. But other times, it’s simply magic.

Tonight, it’s pure magic.

When I went to the beer store, I was instantly attracted to a certain naughty four-pack. He gave me a cat call and I couldn’t resist. Bourbon County seemed too good to be true — a commemorative stout aged in bourbon barrels. Oh, and not for nothing, but it’s produced by Goose Island, a brewery that has its shit together. Seriously.

I brought the four beers up to the counter. Handed them to the friendly booze dealer. And he, in turn, told me that I would be paying $21.37 for the small collection. Over twenty dollars for four beers?! Where the fuck are we, back in the USSR?!?! I muttered under my breath. This is an astronomical sum of money to pay for less than fifty ounces of beverage. But I wasn’t going to back down. Call it a sixth sense or just plain stupidity, but the newly revealed expense was appealing in a way. As though the maxim you get what you pay for might be true.

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