In the last few weeks, I’ve turned the Friday Brew Review into a child’s birthday party. The normal group of friends, at the behest of the hosting mother, have been accompanied by those random kids from the third grade class that no one usually talks to. There was the poor kid who makes goofy faces when he thinks nobody’s looking. There was that kid who always brags about how his uncle works for Nintendo and hooked him up with an Ultra 64. And then there was that sweet little girl who always kisses every boy in class. Whore.

Party’s over, motherfuckers. Time to get back to the mainstays of the posse, the crewmembers who’ve proven their worth time and again. This week, I’m sippin’ on a stout.

Island Creek Oyster Stout, to be exact.

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If you’ve ever stumbled onto OL on a Friday night, you probably know that I am in love with beer. It’s a wonderful substance, with its bubbles and slight bitterness and ability to make even Gallagher seem funny. If the human race was even half as well-rounded as beer, the world wouldn’t be full of so many assholes.

In other words, beer is my Friday drink of choice, the chief resident of Partyville Krueger.

But alas, it’s also important to remember that variety is the spice of life. And the fact of the matter is that I want to spice up my life. So tonight, I’m not drinking beer!

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I just jammed two bowls of Raisin Bran Crunch down my throat and into my gut. And not because I’m hungry. The sad fact is that despite my best efforts, I’m still a bit of a lightweight. If I try to drink on an empty stomach, I’m destined to say something I’ll later regret.

So I’ve just scarfed down seven hundred calories of breakfast food and am now working on a suds-soda. Perhaps this isn’t the best diet to follow on a regular basis, but I think my nutritionist will loan me one mulligan. After all, it’s important to remember the old proverb — America was built on breakfast and beer.

Anyways, I’m sipping on Doggie Style Classic Pale Ale from the peeps at Flying Dog Ales. Truthfully, I was initially attracted to the beer because of label adorned with Ralph Steadman art. But these motherfuckers can craft a good brew, so I was willing to shell out ten bucks for a six pack.

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I was going to do my taxes tonight. I was, I swear. For the last few weeks I’ve been looking the small stack of W-2 forms on my desk and just shaking my head. “Later,” I’d tell myself, smiling like a child who has no clue where the last cookie went. And Friday, March 5^th, was supposed to be the day that the taxes get did. You know, so that the government can keep on doing all sorts of great stuff.

But it’s 10PM and it doesn’t look like the Taxman’s come to town. And I’m not laying my money down. In fact, I’m doing what most Americans do when they’re avoiding paying taxes — drinking fine malt liquor.

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I’m drunk.

It’s not even 7PM and my brain is buzzing as I drown it in poison. Is this healthy? No. Should most people do this? No. But then again, most people don’t spend eight hours hopelessly trying to make a positive impression on the future generation of America. Goddamn, being a high school teacher is depressing. It wouldn’t be half as bad if I didn’t truly believe that the vast majority students I’m trying to reach are too beyond repair, already suckered into the myopic structure of feed/fuck/entertain/distract me now, I don’t give a shit about later. Ah well.

Tonight, I’m drinking Brooklyn Local 1. I picked up this beer for a few reasons. Firstly, I have a profound respect for the brewery’s other products. Secondly, this motherfucker came in a big bottle, providing one pint & 9.4 fluid ounces of goodness to my gullet. And lastly, I was (of course) taken in by the label’s advertising of 9% ABV. Through and through, Brooklyn Local 1 seemed like a good choice.

And as far as my Friday night is concerned, it has been. Truthfully, I’m at a loss for words. I don’t know how to really describe the beverage’s flavor. It’s a bit hoppy. It’s a bit dry. It’s drinkable and refreshing. Overall, it just tastes like a good beer. Nothing exceptional to take note of, but nothing terrible to decry either.

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Today is the last day of February vacation. I know, I know — I shouldn’t complain, seeing as most jobs don’t include an occasional week-long break. Hell, these days, people are willing to take all sorts of jobs without benefits. With that being said, I’ve certainly enjoyed the time off and have wanted to make the most of these final vacation hours.

So what have I done to maximize my Friday-no-work time? Well, a major portion of this afternoon has been spent watching Raging Bull on YouTube and drinking beer.

But before we get to the beer, I feel the need to interject a bit of movie-rambling. After all, I’ve got a buzz on and OL is my zone to do so. To anyone out there that thinks The Departed is an amazing movie — you’re wrong. It’s pretty good. For a remake. But it’s not that spectacular. Yeah, I know, the use of the Boston accent is just wonderful (oh wait, no it isn’t…it’s fucking infuriating). But the bottom line is that it’s nothing more than a solid flick.

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FRIDAY! FRIDAY! FRIDAY!

BEER! BEER! BEER!

TONIGHT WE DRINK AWAY THE HOLLOW NIGHTMARE, THE LINGERING WORK-WEEK GHOSTS! THE CONJURED DEMONS OF SOCIETY CRUMBLE AND DECAY UNDER DURESS OF THE FERMENTED NECTAR! THIS. IS. BREW REVIEW!!!

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Welcome to a special mid-week edition of the Friday Brew Review! As a high school teacher, my life seems to include a number of regularly-scheduled compromises — meager wages, hours spent on projects for students who couldn’t care less, the frustration of not being allowed to swear for eight hours a day, etc. But every now and then, an occupational perk seems to hop out of the shadows and give me a hug.

Today’s embrace comes in the form of a snow day.

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It was a fine afternoon in the autumn of 1946. The war was over and if you were a sailor you were guaranteed a piece of ass. Every night. These weren’t the worst of times, they were the goddamn best of `em. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.

Anyways, it was in a Brooklyn coffee shop that Socrates and Plato had their now infamous conversation about brewing beer. No, I won’t deny the fact that Aristotle was there too. But it’s important to remember that he was just tagging along. Had he not been Plato’s boyfriend, he would’ve never slimed his way into annals of the Drunken Kingdom. But the dude could smooch with the best of them, so he was there too.

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Tonight, despite my blood oath, I went back to Beacon Hill Wine & Gourmet to pick up my weekly syrup. No, not sizzurp! You know, beer! The sweet ambrosia with which the gods wined socialized and made merry! The GOOD STUFF!!!

Anyways, I hung my head and marched into the very store that I had sworn off a mere two months ago. I wasn’t happy about this decision, but I was in a time crunch and thus forfeited my foolish pride. Which, quite frankly, was really hard for me. Some days, foolish pride is the only ace I have up my sleeve.

To my delight, this second trip to Beacon Hill Wine & Gourmet was actually enjoyable. Whereas the cashier during the first excursion was a pretentious dongle hell bent on insulting me and then taking my cash, this second adventure saw a helpful young lady rocking the register. Truthfully, she talked and smiled as though she had been pounding Jolt Cola all damn day. But maybe that made her all the more eager to help me. I don’t know. All I do know is that thanks to a caffeine-riddled bloodstream of one female clerk, Beacon Hill Wine & Gourmet have officially been taken off of my shit list. Kudos.

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