Jar Jar Drinks

My roommates (one of whom is fellow L.G.A.T. blogger, Christian Hayden) have been jarring shit lately. I don’t understand why, and that’s okay. They’re a couple, and I guess it’s a fun activity for two people to do together. Kind of like the clay pot in “Ghost”, or that fruit in “9 ½ Weeks” (the produce, not Mickey Rourke. HELLO!).

The point is, they’ve been making things like salsa and marmalade and jarring them to create a long-lasting stash, and as a result, they’ve bought all these mason jars. There are a few jars that haven’t been used yet, and I’ve taken to drinking my beers out of them. The inspiration first struck me last Friday night -- and when I say “inspiration,” I mean that all of our beer glasses were dirty and I didn’t feel like washing one. I started with a Great Divide Rumble Oak Aged IPA, and it was love at first taste. Not the beer -- it was good, but I didn’t love it (I prefer the Hercules, 17th Anniversary and Fresh Hop). No, it was the jar.


It’s hard to explain why I love it so much. The shape… The bumpy texture… The way the glow of a hoppy brew shines through and makes it look like a Dickensian street lantern… Or maybe it's the old timey feeling you get when you drink from it, like you’re a shyster in the 1920s gathering with your buddies to iron out the details of a big, life-ruining sting. “You ever play the big con, kid?! Refill my mason jar and I’ll tell you about it! Do you like my tiny mustache?”

These jars have their hooks in me. The last few beers I've had out of them have been Sixpoint tall boys*. All that’s left to do is relax, have a taste, and enjoy the ride. Or, as The Beach Boys once said, “It’s fun, fun, fun -- ‘til my roommates decide to jar some chutney.”

*Yes please!

- B

The Real Grateful Type

About a month ago, a good thing happened to me. I got a new job, a new job making beer. Being paid to make beer is a goal I've worked towards for several months, so accomplishing it called for celebration. I celebrated with friends (as Christian documented a couple of posts ago), and I had my own celebration. A darker celebration. A celebration that I thought would fill a hole, but instead left me empty inside. I celebrated by cracking open a fat chick.

Now, before I go any further, allow me to clarify. The fat chick I cracked open wasn't a big human female (oh god, can you imagine how dark THAT would

have been?) The fat chick I cracked open was a Three Floyds' Big Behemoth Barleywine. I had heard about the Behemoth. She has a reputation for being bigger, fatter, and wetter than most you'll meet. I picked her up while on a short trip to Chicago with LGAT's good friend Mike "Gracious" Leikin (in case you're wondering, he's the real gracious type). Now if there is one thing I've learned about fat chicks, it's that the more you disregard them and pretend they aren't there, the more they try to impress you. So wanting her as wet as possible, I figured I'd throw this nasty girl in the closet for a couple of years, and see how she liked it.

So put yourself in my shoes. I had just landed my dream job, my balls were hangin' like a king's, and I was thirsty as all heck, so this fatty was just the feast that a young alpha wolf like me needed.

But bad news, guys. I had let this fat ass sit for too long. I knew there was trouble when the wax seal around her neck was cracked. Looks like mother nature got to her first. Oxidized her - tore her the heck open. She tasted like a dusty cardboard box. Moral of the story? Don't let your fat chicks sit around. There is nothing worse in the world than a dusty old fat chick.

-Erich

Campaign for 'real Ale

Marta and I went to Montreal recently. It’s a killer city. Good food (surprisingly good bagels), cool architecture, and nice people – which is weird, since they speak French. You sort of have to re-train your brain to not think of all francophones as assholes. We were loving it, and we had this we-could-really-live-here epiphany.* We started to look at McGill for grad school.

But then…


We went to this place Brutopia at a friend’s recommendation. We weren’t really having many beers for whatever reason, but I like to sample some local color when I’m in a new city. Brutopia, we could see from their walls, was voted Montreal’s best beer for several years running. So this was it.


It was fine. Perfectly mediocre. We had their Vanilla Cream Ale and their Chocolate Stout. The latter was pretty good, but even Brooklyn Brewery makes a better CS. The former was two shades away from vomit-worthy. We had a couple others, too – all perfectly, pleasantly, boringly, why am I here since this is nothing special fine.

And this was the best it got, apparently.** My ardor for the city serious cooled. Could I really live in a city without an awesome beer scene? Is it kind of sad that I don’t think I can?

*To be fair, we do that with practically every city we go to.

**We heard some good things about this three gods place though, so maybe not all hope is lost.