Rummaging through the Fourth of July liquid leftovers, I came across a couple bottles of Harpoon Cider. Even though my aversion to IPAs has led me to generally steer clear of Harpoon, my well-documented affinity for cider is mighty powerful. And so I’ve found myself yet again reliving a subverted childhood memory, pounding apple-drank and catching a buzz.

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Is it possible for something to be excellent and overrated?

I certainly think so. Even those entities worthy of high honors, fully deserving of the piling-on of accolades, can deified beyond reason. In the pop cultural realm, the perfect example is Michael Jackson – the dude could certainly sing and dance, but what type of person was he? Does having the sickest of moves overshadow the consequences of being the a legitimately sick person?   I’m inclined to say “No.”

But let’s steer away from the potentially-pedophilic pop icons of yesteryear. Instead, we can head to a more palatable subject. To be precise, we’ll gravitate towards the most palatable of all subjects.

Beer.

Living in Greater Boston, I’ve fully embraced my role as an acolyte of Sam Adams. These muthafuggahs are Skywalker-honorable, leading the way as the largest American-owned brewery while still putting out craft-quality products. As such, I’m often confused as to whether my allegiance stems from an insular perspective or an objective assessment. I hope it’s more of the latter, but fear it may bit a bit of the former.

What assuages this fear, however, is the fact that I don’t lose my mind over the Samuel Adams Summer Ale. While I certainly think it’s a wonderful drink,   many of my comrades sing it praises otherwise reserved for the Elysian Fields. Hell, I’ve even known some beer-drankers who stock up on Sam Summer while it’s available so that they can continue drinking it until the November expiration date. Again, I like it, but I don’t even think it’s Sam Adams’ best seasonal (if you’re wondering – that’d be Octoberfest).

Consequently, today’s Friday Brew Review is dedicated to stepping outside of comfort zones. Rather than imbibing a beer that I believe is excellent and overrated, I’ve opted to give another potable a chance. Today is all about Brooklyn Summer Ale.

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I enjoy drinking beer on Fridays – at this point in my life, it’s a well established ritual, a means of slinking into a couple days’ rest.

I’ll be the first to admit that sometimes I done-drank one too many. It happens. Not often, but I know that the possibility exists. I just get too excited by the warm fuzzy feelings that arise when slurping on deliciousness. And then I’m cooked.

But sometimes after a particularly arduous week, when I find myself drained by work or just the world at large, all I want is a good beer. One. A single beverage that will quench not only my thirst but my existential misgivings, my doubts about the blessing that is life. Fortunately, as the ancestral blood of maritime carpenters runs through my veins, a tasty brew is often enough to assuage even my most ostensibly unshakable qualms about reality.

Vanilla Porter is one such brew.

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American as apple pie.
Well, that’s pretty good. Apple pie is warm and delicious and the basis for one of my generation’s greatest dick jokes. But I think we can do better.

American as apple cider.
This is certainly a step in the right direction. Drinking apple cider conjures up heartwarming memories of New England autumns – going to the county fair, roaming the `ole pumpkin patch, bundling up against the brisk breeze. Maybe just one improvement can be made…

American as hard cider.
There we have it! Perfect! Take all those awesome apple connotations, swirl `em around with the autumnal remembrances, and then cast a fuzzy jubilation over the whole damn thang. Is there really anything more American than apple-cum-booze? Perhaps apple-cum booze, but that’s a whole different story, filled with tears and therapy sessions.

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I’ve been consuming alcoholic lemonade for longer than I’d like to admit. Well before I could appreciate a good brew, I was sippin’   on bottles of Baby’s First Buzz, laughing as my face got warm and everything just seemed better. Sure, it was a great gateway into the realm of inebriation, but once I was able to comprehend the majesty of stouts and porters, I didn’t look back.

Until now.

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Monsters are awesome.
Tigers are nature’s monsters.
Tigers are awesome.

It’s a syllogism celebrated by some of Planet Earth’s most respected intellectuals, from poet Edward Blake to renaissance man Charlie Sheen. There is both an inherent beauty and ruthlessness of the tiger which makes people like it. After all, tigers are powerhouses of muscle and controlled violence, demanding respect and rewarding only those most worthy.

So when I sauntered into the package store and saw a four-pack of Bengali Tiger, there was only one option: buy that muthafuggah and drink `em until everything’s funny. Even Gallagher.

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Say what you will about his latest exploits, but I believe that the good Arnold Schwarzenegger has done for the world far outweighs the bad. First, he pushed the limits of the human physique (albeit with steroids), proving that science can even be used to improve the doughy mounds of flesh that we call our bodies. Then Arnie took it upon himself to redefine action movies. Hell, just think of all the great Schwarzenegger flicks – The Terminator, Predator, Total Recall, Conan the Barbarian, Kindergarten Cop, True Lies, and so many more.

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I have no shame in admitting how I choose the beers I drink. Although I know that my tum-tum favors dark brews, porters and stouts, I often drink the beer with the most appealing name, packaging, or slogan. It’s shallow, I know. But hell, marketing campaigns are almost as irresistible as the executives that create them. Throw in a silly cartoon mascot or the right buzz-word and I’ll give your beer a shot.

Today, I’m drinking Revolutionary Rye Ale. The reason? Other than the fact that it’s brewed by the indomitable Sam Adams, I like the word revolutionary. From a language standpoint, I think the word is attractive both visually and auditorily. Six syllables. Every vowel represented, even the bastard-son Y. An adjective. Or a noun! What’s not to love about the word itself?

Moreover, I can’t help but fall victim to the connotations. And I’m not even talking about those of American history, the butt-whomping of King George III‘s dominion over the colonies. Although that was pretty sweet and inspired one of cinema’s greatest accomplishments.

No, I love the most stripped-down conception of revolution: a drastic upheaval of accepted traditions and dogmatic practices in favor of originality and progress. Why live according to yesteryear’s tired structures when new ones can be constructed? Why don’t we demolish the mausoleum and put a fucking museum over it? Why sail the seas when we can explore the stars?

Maybe I’m just dreaming of a world in which the collective consciousness continues to evolve. But I’m not alone. The Beatles knew what I’m rambling about. Hell, so did Pantera.

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Progress is a tricky concept to grasp and an even trickier one to execute. On the one hand, there is something to be said of tradition. Of the fact that there are those who have stood the test of time, proving their worth while the novelty of what’s considered in vogue crumbles into ephemeral ash.

It’s foolish to disregard the ones who help to set the sun.

However, we must also avoid becoming dogmatic adherents to yesteryear’s traditions. In dodging such an existential bullet, we remain receptive to new ideas. To the notion that the terrain explored by pioneers and voyagers may be worth investigating. There is an acknowledgment that all is not known and an exhilaration in trying to unearth what this may be.

In an ideal world, the Titans would help usher in the Olympians.

This dream is realized with Infinium. And that is why it is damn near perfect.

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Brunch is the most elusive member of la Famiglia Meal, leaving the house at the age of seventeen to follow Tesla on the road. A couple times a year, Brunch returns to do his laundry and borrow some cash. Without question, he’s the epitome of the prodigal son.

Today I was blessed by a visit from Brunch. Not only did he give me a big hug and recount his misadventures as a roadie, but he showed me his new tattoo. I never would have thought that Brunch would be blazoned with such a work of skin-art, but now I can’t picture him without it. Brunch has changed, irrevocably and for the better.

Brunch, as I learned today, is so much better when accompanied by a cold brew. Specifically, while eating my food I sipped on Clementine from the kind souls at the Clown Shoes Brewery.

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