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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Another Friday, another work-week in the bag, and now it’s time to get halfway into it myself. After doing my normal gig and then giving a drum lesson, I headed for my local beer-dealer.

Wanting to avenge the injustice that was last week’s beer, I made sure to be much more considerate about my choice. Rather than just grabbing the first six-pack to catch my attention, I actually took a minute to look around. “No goon-fuck Pump-o-Jacktern is gonna fool me this time,” I told myself.

And I was right. Kind of.

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