Beers Eye Drunk

The other day I was at a promotional event for the beer blog, and I needed a date. St. Peter's is always a good choice, never embarrassing, and makes me feel like the life of the party... Unfortunately, my first choice St. Peter's Organic English Ale was unavailable, and having already extended the invitation I found myself unable to refute when offered instead, St. Peter's Cream Stout.

"This ain’t my regula’ ho!" I exclaimed to myself. St. Peter and I have a imaginary trick-to-pimp relationship. I have the same thing going with Cap’n Crunch, who must slap them bitches hard, because they’re nothing but sweet when I get my hands on ‘em.

Now as you may recall from Chapter 57 of the yet unpublished (but often illegally downloaded) novel based on the movie based on the beer blog, I do not fancy Cream Ales. They taste like melted shoe and tapioca pudding.

But it's St. Peter's!?! Your friend! Your buddy!?!

And of course, since my inner dialogue occurred to me already in convincing italics, I was forced into a night with the Cream Stout. And really, I kid you not; I felt lonely and confused the whole time, as if my better half was missing. I kept looking around at all the happy people who got to bring the beer they love most. Meanwhile, I put distance between myself and the Cream Stout, so perhaps if another more tempting beer made itself available I would not appear otherwise engaged. Sure there were some nice intriguing microbrews out and about, but most of the time with those, intriguing just means bitter, hopped up, and lacking in unique flavor. Alas, I had to try the Cream Stout.

How bad good it be, right? Cream Stout is a genre I'm totally not into, but how bad could St. Peter's do? My girlfriend of three years sometimes sings Pat Benatar songs, and I still think she's great. Besides everyone was admiring the Cream Stout's bottle, saying how classy and cool it seemed. And I felt terrible for trying to distance myself without giving her a fair shake. Wouldn't you know it; she turned out to be much more stouty and earthy than creamy and icky. For those who like St. Peter's Porter, this Stout is very similar, though smoother with a great chocolaty aroma and no sluggishness or grittiness found in crummier dark beers.

Cream Stout really didn't float my boat overall, even though I was pleasantly surprised at the quality, texture, and drinkability. For a beer that's smooth and tastes a tad watery, it is extremely filling. It also lacks vigor and liveliness. Cream Stout was cool and intriguing, but spending an entire evening with her could really leave you tired, bloated, and bored. I'm glad she went with me, because I think we both had an okay time, but I really think she's more of the "stay at home, watch a movie, talk about what color to paint the living room" kind of beer.

If you like Guinness draft (for real, not just because it's the only thing you can think of to order when you go out because you're 17, have a fake id, and stuck a box of crayons up your nose when you were 8), then I'd venture to guess that this beer could possible be your new favorite. The two of you can stay home together, never go out to parties and have a happy life together, and guys like me who are still shopping around don't have to feel guilty leaving her behind.

I give this beer high marks and continue to think of St. Peter's as one of the best brewery retailing on the large scale in America from overseas. I have a feeling that St. Peter's is going to start gaining some serious national buzz after the movie based on this blog starts production. We're already throwing around names of people who could play St. Peter. The other day someone said Eric Roberts, and I pretty much had to walk out of the meeting. Some people say I'm being stubborn and that the film will never get made at the rate we're going, but I refuse to see my intellectual capital turned into some defunct USA network made-for-tv reel of poop.

My editors said that now would be a great time to apologize for the misspellings and factual errors in this blog. They often make suggestions and corrections and I delete them, because without me, they are nothing, and in order to keep their egos in check, I must not relent to their ideas of what "grammar" is or is not. However, I will acknowledge that there are 17 basic errors in punctuation or logic in this post alone. And yes, I do know that poop does not typically come in reels, but I'm still not counting that one, because I saw Jim Jarmusch's Coffee & Cigarettes so I know it can definitely happen.

As discussed in previous posts, this blog is being made into a feature film and a full-length novel. A lot of other options have been put on the table, such as the musical, the Chap Stick, and the videogame. Yet, as the iron only seems to get hotter, I really see no real reason to rush things. However, I still feel the urge to be innovative. I mean after you pretty much pioneer the concept of reviewing beer on the internet, you're reputation is as much about being a trendsetter as it is about being a mildly eloquent drunk.

A few weeks ago, it came to me. Why not build an Ark? And then I realized, that like e-mail, you really should check you inbox for inspirations more than once every few decades, otherwise you have to sift through a crapload of outdated, unread messages. Apparently, I had the idea for Ipod a few years ago, too, but was just too damn busy to follow through with it. Mine was color first, by the way.

Finally, I got to the idea of having an elimination style tournament featuring beers in tasting competitions, highlighted by special beer challenges, in which this year's greatest reviewed beers will clash for a prestigious title.

The contests will very, the judgments will be harsh and final. There will be only one winner and someone will probably belch. I really can't think of anything better than that.

More details will follow. I will soon release the brackets and match types. There may be a few qualifying matches as this tournament will be very prestigious and only beers of high quality and relatively low expense shall be invited to participate. As for people, I'm only inviting industry insiders and renowned drunks. I'm sorry if that excludes any large percentage of my fan base, but this is serious work and I can't be weighed down by people who will either be smashed in the first round or start complaining that they're full.

Exciting times coming soon for the beer blog. Stay tuned!

Leffe is a very proud and sparkling blonde and it takes pains to remind me of this fact over and over again on the label. I must say that I'm not too interested in blondes because there are a damn lot of them out there. For some who love blondes, the glut in the market is not noticeable, but I find myself discriminating against them as being too plain and average. This means for me to saddle up with a blonde, they have to go to great lengths to prove their quality to me. Touting the sheer "blondeness" of being a blonde comes off as juvenile, while simultaneously pretentious. Leffe even asked to be served in its own glass. Hello! High-Maintenance. To summarize, for Leffe and I, it was not love at first sight.

And it's very hard to build a new relationship especially if you have an old standard lingering around. This is where Mexico's Bohemia came in. And like most folks who would classify themselves as Bohemian, this beer is relatively cheap and easy. I've been partaking off and on for several years, and the combination of smoothness and fruity sweetness make for a very safe choice at the grocery store. Bohemia is a great fall-back beer, and perfect to have around in case your confidence is shaken by a very questionable pursuit of some new flashy blonde. The catch-12oz here is that you never really, fully, put yourself out there to love something new if you're hanging onto your old safety net.

So for the past week, Bohemia and Leffe have been warring for my affections. Leffe had a lightly sweet character and a tad bit more girth to it than the somewhat watery Bohemia. But the memorable flavor and abundantly sweet character of Bohemia made it hard for me to accept Leffe as an example of quality translating into greater satisfaction. Let's face it, who do you want to spend time with? Someone you're struggling to understand or someone you can get fucking smashed with easily for only a couple of bucks?

As the week went on and my supply of both dwindled, I held off making final decisions. I could always have Bohemia; probably would again throughout my life. And Leffe? Well, this might be my only shot to assess it's quality and appreciate its gracefulness. After Bohemia left, probably for some other guy’s house (we have a don't ask, don't tell relationship), Leffe and I had a nice quiet sit down in front of the TV. Neither one of us were really interested in watching it. But silence can be awkward.

As time passed I realized that Leffe wasn't juat an average blonde. No, she was classy, vibrant, and subtle. And while we didn't really hit it off, I managed to retain a measure of respect and admiration for her truly unique charms. Some may ask why I don't just find one good beer and stick with it. Surely, I'd be happy, right? Well, perhaps it's the will for adventure or the stubbornness at their being still so much more to learn. All I can say is that thanks to Leffe, I'll continue to stock my fridge with experimental brews for the sake of a deeper knowledge and thorough appreciation of all that is beer in this world.

Lately, I've been drinking a lot of beers. Not just a lot in variety, but in quantity. This has stifled my ability to present quality drafts about drafts, leading to several disputes with my editorial staff. To offer the fans an overdue supplement, I would like to provide this assurance that the work I am doing now has some value, at least to me, in preserving a better future for myself and the beer blog.

You see, Nietzsche implied that in order to become the Ubermensch, we must first go under, go inward, become consumed with our chosen work, risking everything to become great, knowing that once we are on top, we will inevitability fall. And this is good. For me, it's a much less dramatic turn. I am headed under slightly, only to emerge later sufficiently atop a level of mediocrity upon which I will comfortably and greedily rest doing as little to no work as possible only to kick and scream little a baby when I begin to lose the triumph and semi-glory I no longer deserve.

In my dark days of all-consuming study, I have tasted the foul and the mighty of this world of beers. This week, I had Rasputin's Imperial Stout, which was heavy and dark like you'd expect, but lacking any chocolaty, burnt character, instead baring a powerful alcohol and spice combination which tangled my tongue in its complexity. Absent of the grittiness of an unrefined stout, it reminded me of a David Lynch film. You don't want to jump up in a room of your peers and say, "What the fuck!?! This isn't good! It's just messed up." Because you know they'll just roll their eyes and say, "You don't GET IT, man!" So you shut up, try to decipher the mystery and at some point you get a wicked headache and certain aspects of the experience haunt you for days and yet you still can't officially give it a grade as either good or bad. It's just there. I will say that you have to be in the mood for it, and since I can't identify when the hell that mood would ever strike me, I'm supposing that means this beer's a bit of dud. At least for me, because I don't get it.

In contrast, McEwan's Scottish Ale, haling from Scotland, is a beer that's simple to place. Yes, it kind of has that oddly wooden, medicinal taste like tongue-depressors, but I'd expect no less from any Scottish Ale. It's pretty filling, not entirely smooth, yet has a charmingly simple character. The two stand-out flavors defining this frothy dark brew are a punch of alcohol along side a burnt-fruity tone like baked bananas. McEwan's is no doubt a fair beer, which won't last very long as the weight and obvious flavor make it the perfect sit-down beer at just below room temperature. McEwan's has an aggressive force that you almost don't even notice. Like a weak old bartender with a crooked look in his eye that almost whispers "You will drink your paycheck here tonight or I'll jump over this bar and throttle you 'till you spit blood and shit your pants". Luckily, none of those things had to happen. In fact, if I had one suggestion for advertising for this beer it'd be the slogan: Quit Your Bitchin 'and Have a McEwan’s.

Now that my McEwan's is gone, somehow I'm in a daze so thick that Michelob Ultra managed to sneak into my refrigerator. There are a few Franziskaners left, but they can't hold off what's coming. At some point, someone has to deal with the situation. I think of it this way, though. I'm more of a Kung Fu master, bred to fight only when necessary and usually only in the big one-on-one final confrontations where people have been waiting the whole movie for me to step from beside the evil emperor and spin kick someone's head clean off. This is how I deal with beers. There's a special beer, a dark and dangerous foreboding beer, then you'd better call me, because I can deal with it using tack and diplomacy. I am not a barroom brawler. You can't drop me in the middle of a ratty 24-pack and expect me to go Jackie Chan on their asses. Maybe I was that guy in college, but I'm not that guy now. Still, perhaps my current lifestyle has afforded me too much luxury. Maybe I've forsaken my roots, forgotten that I am yet a young man, and that in this world, there is much work to be done. It may not always challenge my heart or my mind, but it still needs to be done. And the mark of a hero is not to squander his power and success, but to be ready, ever vigilant, to do what needs to be done for the greater good.

Perhaps the only thing harder to swallow than Michalob Ultra will be my pride.