I should have worn a wire (and Matt is my alter-ego)

Sometimes he wondered about his drinking, whether it was funny or embarrassing. While his roommate told him "...and then you tried to put Claire and Molly in a chokehold at the same time" his soul cringed, but with a stupid, satisfied grin on his face.

"Yeah, they yelled at you for awhile, so you left."

"I don't even remember Claire"

"You were probably on your third barleywine by the time she showed up." That would have been after a scotch ale and an oatmeal stout, two twenty-ounce glasses lacking foam or good decisions.

"So how many people did I put into chokeholds?"

"Everyone? I don't know. A lot."

He had woken up this morning to the acidic smell of tomato sauce and hops, regurgitated in his sleep in a fanned-out pattern from his mouth to the bedspread, his phone slid out to text-mode on the floor beside the bed.

Of course he had texted people too late at night; texts with no grammar or spelling or, in some cases, with any semblance of language at all. He looked at his alarm clock, and for a full fifteen seconds panicked over being an hour late for work at the airport, before realizing this was a Tuesday, and he didn't need to be sober for another six.

He stripped the bedspread, which was clean relative to his post-birthday morning, and downright spotless compared to the morning after Barack Obama became President-Elect, and balled it up (tomato in the center) into his clothes hamper. The pillow would need replacing, but this too he tossed in with the spread.

He couldn't be bothered with making a new bed, and he couldn't stomach sleeping on something that smelled so sharp. His attention turned to his phone, upside down and foreboding.

Why did he always text his second cousin Ben whenever he'd had too much to drink? It was as if he wanted the engineering grad student (with a scholarship, provided he work for the navy at something like 60k a year after graduation) to know exactly how much better he was than Matt. One of the texts simply said "footboallz"

Scanning through messages he found that he had sent one to his parent's land line, a couple to girls he hadn't seen in months (one message utterly unintelligible, the other expressing to the girl how much he didn't need her anymore) and dozens to Molly. He shouldn't have done that.

He knew better than to think that as the day wore on he would get a clear picture of what had transpired. He had glimpses. Chokeholds. Talking to (but what about?) a gay couple. Wiping a little tomato sauce on Molly's jeans. Several instances of stealing her hat and mashing it onto his head. Apologizing to a guy that had directed what was to be Matt's final play for being such a whiny, unprepared bitch.

As he lay on the couch, unable to nurse his hangover with any efficacy, he realized that he would be in a self-imposed seclusion for at least a week before he went out again.

No amount of inspiration is going to to get me through this post.

I've resigned myself to the idea that, without persistence, this will be a short-lived blog. And how can the nine of you properly express interest in my life if I can't properly express my life's interests? It's called a quandary.

So which beer would be most fitting to signify this uphill battle I'm currently engaged in?

(Pregnant pause.)

It could be Dubbel. Certainly I had to make a concerted effort to enjoy it, with its dried fruits, funky yeast, and low hop profile. I had been on an IPA/DIPA/IIPA/DEA bender, although less in the sense of puking-blood-loss-of-eight-days-consiousness, and more in the sense of I-can't-get-enough-lupulin-on-my-tongue. Oh alpha acids.

But that isn't good enough, because after I quit my predisposition towards the beer, and probably just as much after the IBUs I'd inhaled had a chance to lose their grip on my palate, I enjoyed it. Hell, I'm planning on drinking this when I get off work in ten minutes.

It can't be anything with wheat as a majority of the grist, because... fuck wheat.

Faster.

Dogfish 120 Minute isn't a bad idea; it's impossible to drink one in less than an hour. But god, isn't that kind of passe? I don't know how many people (of the dread-locked, Birkenstock variety) have told me the beer was "complex" (one.)

I'm sure you feel that way, Grateful Dead. Does it open up with some Hindu Kush, leading to AK-47, finishing with a deep edge of Cinderella 99? Or do you just know that complex is a positive term to use when describing a beer?

This shit is dank - I mean, complex. bra.

Maybe it's the beer I haven't had, the beer that can't inspire because it hasn't been tasted. I like that idea; there's always something I haven't had yet, and there's is always a source of inspiration.

How's that for a tidy ending?

I Can't Stop Talking About Wheat Beer

I'm ready to eat words now. No, my own please.

Thanks.

I spent an afternoon recently expounding on the sins of drinking wheat beer all year, smugly sipping on an ESB or other comparative low-alcohol, all-barley beer (coincidentally, the replacement of wheat for barley, a different yeast, and about a million other miniscule variables; you've got a hefe.) I stand by that. I don't believe that any (beer drinker's) life would be complete simply drinking a cloudy, citrus-laden beer (which may or may not be integral to the taste of said beer.)

However, upon both not re-reading the post and having a rather astounding (wheat based!) beer, I've decided that there was snobbish tone to it. I don't hate all wheat beer. I don't hate any wheat beer, unless it isn't any good (in which case I hate it.)

I'm currently enjoying a Leipziger Gose (and man, I don't know if that's right; there are about twenty names on this thing) and damn. Just. Damn. There's a tartness that doesn't quite make your jaw hurt (like this one) but smacks of intense sourdough bread. It's bone dry, highly carbonated, and scrubbed the shit out of my tongue as I ate some of my roommate's chili. Which you said I could have, Sean. I'll buy some more tortilla chips. And some trash disposal strips.

THIS IS WHY I HATE WHEAT BEER. Sorority chicks come in to the shop (more on that LATER!) and won't freaking shut up about how good Starr Hill The Love is. I don't care that you like phallus shaped fruit and clove cigarettes. I don't want your review on how easy it is to have five of them and then give head to the nearest guy (intriguing as the story was, Corrinne.)

I don't give one damn how cute the label is, no matter how cute you are. And you really are cute.

(This was a wee-bit ramble-y.)

No Wonder We Won the Revolution: A Narrative on Strong Ale (or: [anguish])

Maybe this is evolution, progression. Maybe this all a situation of relativity. Maybe this is just a country boy speaking plain.

But maybe this is an irrefutable, even "self evident" American truth: English Strong Ales are weak.

Let's imagine the last few sentences didn't happen, that instead you show up at a bar, and the barkeep (the kind with just enough jiggle to his belly to convey a slight joviality, and complete trust for the evening) asks you if you want to taste the new cask. "It's a strong ale" he says,
and you think "oh, gird my loins and beat my chest, I become a man tonight" as you steel yourself for the impending torrent of fusels, hot alcohol dissipating directly into your blood stream.

Then you have your first sip, eyes squinted against the pain that you imagine will leap to your jaws and cheeks at any moment, and instead of shivering off the wave descending your esophagus, you slump, muttering to yourself "Strong Ale?" You motion to your glass with a brow furrowed not in pain but in consternation. "Strong Ale?" you say again, this time to the barkeep, that Sentry of the Tap in which you find your trust wavering. Maybe he has the wrong handle.

"Strong Ale" he nods in agreement.

You leap from your stool as if Providence itself gave you flight, talon-fingers clutching to the Keep's throat. He screams "why?!" as you grip harder into his voice, which becomes raspy and breathless with your pressure. That this Arbiter of Ale should lie, proclaiming strength where you only find rich weakness, has sent you into fury, a fierce patriotism that will not abide musty yeast or fruity esters. You need and expect hops so bitter they flirt with pain, alcohol that loses all pretensions of warming and builds a fire in your chest, and just enough malt to cover the torment forming on your palate. Anything less is found wanting of passion.

Men fling their arms around your shoulders, but no one can keep you from justice, to speak nothing of the pursuit of happiness. You feel the life leaving him as you begin to cry, muttering to yourself "strong ale."

It's all any witnesses ever hear you say. It's all anyone ever hears you say ever again.