Hey you!

What’re you doin’ here? You’re lookin’ for beer reviews? Well, why don’t you hit up one of those aggregators that treat brewing as a time-honored art and present user comments with averaged scores? Oh, you’re not really interested in muddling up beer-drinking by quantifying it? I can appreciate that. Huh? You say that you’d put more stock in the opinions of a stark-raving lunatic? More than a well-informed opinion, you’re seeking a heartfelt knee-jerk response?

If that’s the case, I’d say you’re in the right place.

My name is Rendar Frankenstein. I am quasi-fictional, enthusiastic, and ready to drink beer. Fasten your seatbelt, return your tray table to the upright position, and prepare for the hyperspatial-jump.

Today, I’m going to detail my experience with Walker’s Reserve.

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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.

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