I’m sick. For the last few days, I’ve woken up to find my entire body screaming in agony. Sure, I’m no stranger to the run-of-the-mill aches and pains that come with daily living, but I’ve been sore beyond belief. Even putting on a t-shirt has been a chore. Additionally, I’ve got a swollen lymph node a fever you can’t sweat out. It’s mad bobo.

So tonight, I’m taking it easy with the Brew Review. Sure, I’m sipping on a little beer. But honestly, I think that if I drink a full beer I might spontaneously combust. So I begin this edition of the regular Friday post by acknowledging that I haven’t actually consumed a full beer. Instead, I’ve swigged it and spit most of it out. Hey, it seemed like a good idea in that made-for-TV movie Sideways. You know, the one from Japan.

The beverage I’m (not) drinking tonight is Ryde beer from the folks at the Wachusett Brewery. I grabbed a six-pack simply because I had never seen the product before and there was no real description was to be found on the package or the bottles’ labels. Maybe it’s a stupid reason to buy something, but I was motivated purely by curiosity. “What the fuck is a Ryde beer?”

As per usual, I made a pit stop at product’s website. And this was the moment in which I first said Oh no. A slideshow cycled through pictures of snowmobiles, dirt bikes, motorcycles, bicycles, surfboards, and other various means of transportation. Or, I suppose, RIDES — now I get it! It’s a fucking pun!

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I like going on a limb. I don’t do it often enough, but I really enjoy those moments when I dive in headfirst, not really thinking about what I’m about to get into. Sometimes, this goes terribly wrong and I fall on my face. But other times, it’s simply magic.

Tonight, it’s pure magic.

When I went to the beer store, I was instantly attracted to a certain naughty four-pack. He gave me a cat call and I couldn’t resist. Bourbon County seemed too good to be true — a commemorative stout aged in bourbon barrels. Oh, and not for nothing, but it’s produced by Goose Island, a brewery that has its shit together. Seriously.

I brought the four beers up to the counter. Handed them to the friendly booze dealer. And he, in turn, told me that I would be paying $21.37 for the small collection. Over twenty dollars for four beers?! Where the fuck are we, back in the USSR?!?! I muttered under my breath. This is an astronomical sum of money to pay for less than fifty ounces of beverage. But I wasn’t going to back down. Call it a sixth sense or just plain stupidity, but the newly revealed expense was appealing in a way. As though the maxim you get what you pay for might be true.

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In the last few weeks, I’ve turned the Friday Brew Review into a child’s birthday party. The normal group of friends, at the behest of the hosting mother, have been accompanied by those random kids from the third grade class that no one usually talks to. There was the poor kid who makes goofy faces when he thinks nobody’s looking. There was that kid who always brags about how his uncle works for Nintendo and hooked him up with an Ultra 64. And then there was that sweet little girl who always kisses every boy in class. Whore.

Party’s over, motherfuckers. Time to get back to the mainstays of the posse, the crewmembers who’ve proven their worth time and again. This week, I’m sippin’ on a stout.

Island Creek Oyster Stout, to be exact.

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If you’ve ever stumbled onto OL on a Friday night, you probably know that I am in love with beer. It’s a wonderful substance, with its bubbles and slight bitterness and ability to make even Gallagher seem funny. If the human race was even half as well-rounded as beer, the world wouldn’t be full of so many assholes.

In other words, beer is my Friday drink of choice, the chief resident of Partyville Krueger.

But alas, it’s also important to remember that variety is the spice of life. And the fact of the matter is that I want to spice up my life. So tonight, I’m not drinking beer!

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I just jammed two bowls of Raisin Bran Crunch down my throat and into my gut. And not because I’m hungry. The sad fact is that despite my best efforts, I’m still a bit of a lightweight. If I try to drink on an empty stomach, I’m destined to say something I’ll later regret.

So I’ve just scarfed down seven hundred calories of breakfast food and am now working on a suds-soda. Perhaps this isn’t the best diet to follow on a regular basis, but I think my nutritionist will loan me one mulligan. After all, it’s important to remember the old proverb — America was built on breakfast and beer.

Anyways, I’m sipping on Doggie Style Classic Pale Ale from the peeps at Flying Dog Ales. Truthfully, I was initially attracted to the beer because of label adorned with Ralph Steadman art. But these motherfuckers can craft a good brew, so I was willing to shell out ten bucks for a six pack.

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I was going to do my taxes tonight. I was, I swear. For the last few weeks I’ve been looking the small stack of W-2 forms on my desk and just shaking my head. “Later,” I’d tell myself, smiling like a child who has no clue where the last cookie went. And Friday, March 5^th, was supposed to be the day that the taxes get did. You know, so that the government can keep on doing all sorts of great stuff.

But it’s 10PM and it doesn’t look like the Taxman’s come to town. And I’m not laying my money down. In fact, I’m doing what most Americans do when they’re avoiding paying taxes — drinking fine malt liquor.

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I’m drunk.

It’s not even 7PM and my brain is buzzing as I drown it in poison. Is this healthy? No. Should most people do this? No. But then again, most people don’t spend eight hours hopelessly trying to make a positive impression on the future generation of America. Goddamn, being a high school teacher is depressing. It wouldn’t be half as bad if I didn’t truly believe that the vast majority students I’m trying to reach are too beyond repair, already suckered into the myopic structure of feed/fuck/entertain/distract me now, I don’t give a shit about later. Ah well.

Tonight, I’m drinking Brooklyn Local 1. I picked up this beer for a few reasons. Firstly, I have a profound respect for the brewery’s other products. Secondly, this motherfucker came in a big bottle, providing one pint & 9.4 fluid ounces of goodness to my gullet. And lastly, I was (of course) taken in by the label’s advertising of 9% ABV. Through and through, Brooklyn Local 1 seemed like a good choice.

And as far as my Friday night is concerned, it has been. Truthfully, I’m at a loss for words. I don’t know how to really describe the beverage’s flavor. It’s a bit hoppy. It’s a bit dry. It’s drinkable and refreshing. Overall, it just tastes like a good beer. Nothing exceptional to take note of, but nothing terrible to decry either.

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Today is the last day of February vacation. I know, I know — I shouldn’t complain, seeing as most jobs don’t include an occasional week-long break. Hell, these days, people are willing to take all sorts of jobs without benefits. With that being said, I’ve certainly enjoyed the time off and have wanted to make the most of these final vacation hours.

So what have I done to maximize my Friday-no-work time? Well, a major portion of this afternoon has been spent watching Raging Bull on YouTube and drinking beer.

But before we get to the beer, I feel the need to interject a bit of movie-rambling. After all, I’ve got a buzz on and OL is my zone to do so. To anyone out there that thinks The Departed is an amazing movie — you’re wrong. It’s pretty good. For a remake. But it’s not that spectacular. Yeah, I know, the use of the Boston accent is just wonderful (oh wait, no it isn’t…it’s fucking infuriating). But the bottom line is that it’s nothing more than a solid flick.

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FRIDAY! FRIDAY! FRIDAY!

BEER! BEER! BEER!

TONIGHT WE DRINK AWAY THE HOLLOW NIGHTMARE, THE LINGERING WORK-WEEK GHOSTS! THE CONJURED DEMONS OF SOCIETY CRUMBLE AND DECAY UNDER DURESS OF THE FERMENTED NECTAR! THIS. IS. BREW REVIEW!!!

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Welcome to a special mid-week edition of the Friday Brew Review! As a high school teacher, my life seems to include a number of regularly-scheduled compromises — meager wages, hours spent on projects for students who couldn’t care less, the frustration of not being allowed to swear for eight hours a day, etc. But every now and then, an occupational perk seems to hop out of the shadows and give me a hug.

Today’s embrace comes in the form of a snow day.

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