Beers Eye Drunk

Many readers of this blog may recall I have been growing fond of porters. Many readers of my student loan bills may also recall I spent way too much money on beer this month. This means if I don't come up with some good writing about this St. Peter's, then I will not be able to justify any further beer-driven fiscal decline.

Oddly, though, there is very little to say about this porter. It was creamy, rich, but disappointingly flat. Porters can be a little heavy and lazy on the tongue, but usually a nice kick of alcohol is enough to perk up the senses. Not in this cases. The flavor is very subtle, refined, and somewhat elegant... in absolutely lame way, like when your highbrow friend takes you to a dance recital and your sensory appraisal leaves you too bored to even enjoy the pretty girls in tights. Sure, it's undeniably good, in that arty sort of way, but it does not really reach out and grab you... I want a beer like a 3-D cyborg action zombie movie staring Jackie Chan, a trained attack monkey, and a wise-crackin' two-headed transvestite attorney named Larry. This beer was more like a movie staring Colin Firth, Glenn Close, and a loquacious bail of hay with narcolepsy.

I'm really not in the mood to rubberstamp a beer just because they're nothing particularly wrong or bad about it. Frankly, I have always had high standards on just about everything, with notable exception of food, films, and female companionship (They all smell so nice (The Alamo Drafthouse serves food at the movies, which often smells nice, thus films themselves, though not producing an olfactory experience per se (except that one time when I was at the movies and Suburban Commando (the most watchable, and maybe only potentially watchable Hulk Hogan film ever made)got tangled in the projector and caught on fire), the experience of going to the movies can smell quite nice.)!)

Take that, high school English teacher!

Oh well. I've still got a lot of beer left to review. I purchased some Hobgoblin from Wychwood, and then I bested the faerie king whilst blowing upon my magic lute. I'll regale you with that tale of mirth and whimsy after I pour myself a glass and get in my prime sitting spot for the rest of the evening.

Take that, high school gym teacher!

Belhaven is a fairly common beer, but I've somehow managed not to have tried it all this time. I liked it. I haven't been able to think too clearly. So please excuse these random thoughts about this beer:

I found it smoky and in the beverage aisle of my local convenience store.

It kind of tastes like exhaust fumes from a 1988 Dodge Caravan, but in a good way.

It reminded me quite a bit of the McSorely's dark I had in NYC sans the yelling.

You can taste the roasted flavor of things that have been heated to x degree Fahrenheit and x plus 273.15 divided by 9/5 minus 32 Kelvin… Maybe?... Shut up! Like you assholes are going to check on that!

Not too dark, not too thick, not too malty... Not two, but six beers were in the pack, on a purely homonymical note. I invent words all the time.

For $6.99 this beer was filling, drinkable and interesting. I really wasn't expecting much, and while I wasn't bowled over by the flavor, it was pleasing and somewhat memorable. It's like when you go to the dentist and the hygienist turns out to be a hottie. You probably won't go back for it, but if you should happen upon it, it would be a nice plus side to getting your teeth drilled... And just think, you can drink this beer without having to get your teeth drilled, but only if you haven't been opening the bottles with your teeth like an idiot.


Smooth, yet lively, Belhaven is a joy to drink and a pleasure to have drunk.

Last week I received my signing bonus from the studio that's producing the movie based on this blog. I have also optioned the rights to the unauthorized biography, which remains unauthorized only because I'm allowed to go visit the writer any time I want and sit behind his chair and shake it while he's trying to compose. I expect chapter four to have a big loogey in the middle of paragraph three, or at least a big black splotch after it gets back from the copiers.

I particularly enjoy irritating this poor schmuck, especially when my belly is hurting from drinking too much. Mississippi Mud is 1 quart of Black & Tan, which is slow-brewed. It's not as thick as you'd think. It's not as alcoholic as you'd guess since it come is a giant jug, which sort of says "hey, it's time to get smashed and play the banjo." It should have been like a wild log ride into drunkeness, but it was more like a gut-swelling waste of my time. The first sip was sadly like any typical canned light beer. After a while, I could almost taste the creaminess of a quality Black & Tan, and granted it was a hell of a lot cheaper than buying a Guiness and Harp. But if I'm going to ingest something so demanding, then I'm going to want it to fuck me up hardcore. Is it too much to ask of a beer that comes in a jug with a wide-mouth top to please help me forget large portions of my address? What the hell? I have a day job I’m trying to forget for God’s sake!

From a purely financial perspective, Mississippi Mud is a steal. It's a quart of beer for just as much as you'd typically pay for a really classy pint. And it is a grade above most beers you can find in sufficient quantities. By the numbers, Mississippi Mud is a worthy beer, but by my sore belly, uninspired taste-buds, and sadly sober mind, I'd have to classify it as boring. I spent all damned night watching March of the Penguins and drinking this beer, and all I got out of it was a deep appreciation for the trials of parenthood and the need to piss out my ears. Both were related chiefly to my temporary pregnancy with liquid hops and barley.