What do the Mega Powers, the G.I. Joe episode The Greatest Evil, and today’s brew have in common?

Well, dummy-pants, they are all the product of unlikely – but wonderful – collaborations!

At the beer-market today, a delivery-dude saw me scouring the shelves for the perfect inebriator. “Hey kid,” he said, “give this a try. It’s a team-up between Sierra and Dogfish.” He then handed me a bottle of Life and Limb and dispersed into an ethereal gray, drifting into a nether-realm, awaiting the next opportunity to help a beer-drinker in need.

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Historically, I probably would’ve said that my all-time favorite Crispin would have to be Glover.

Ya know, the dude that played George McFly and then went fucking apeshit.

But after today, I’m afraid that Willard no longer owns quite as much real estate in my heart as he once did. Sorry dude – I didn’t actually expect this to happen. But the fact of the matter is that I’ve now tried Lansdowne by the folks at Crispin Cider and I’m impressed.

Fuck that, I’m blown away.

I snagged Lansdowne from the shelves of my local beer-dealer because I was lured in by its appearance. I ain’t no liar, and I can admit when visual aesthetics win me over. There’s something elegant, mayhaps even classy, about the 22-ounce container. Maybe it’s the black label or the little tree logo or the use of simple typography – whites and golds, print and script. But if I had to toss money on it, I’d say that it’s the interrelationships, the gropings and moanings in a darkened room bathed in auditory-lubrication, between all of the above that sold me. Looking at the bottle, it looks urbane as hell.

I’ll be damned if I can’t imagine Don Draper taking a rip from a bottle of Lansdowne.

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It’s my pleasure to inform the faithful OL readership that the FRIDAY BREW REVIEW has been generating a lot more traffic lately. Some of these new visitors may be arriving via word-of-mouth, the pleasant words you share about a weekly-drunkard’s semi-coherent review acting as safe passage. Others are being transported here by means of Internetdimensional-portals, such as that provided by the (fabulous) Reddit beer community. And still others, well, I suspect they’re here because it was the closest place they could find after escaping that hitchhiker who promised a blowjob but offered only a knife-wound. How rude.

No matter how you’ve arrived – welcome.

Before we go any further, baby, allow me to offer a warning to the uninitiated: what follows is certainly a beer review. But the Friday Brew Review is also part diatribe, short story, philosophical meandering, science fiction journey, and drunken affirmation.

Please proceed without caution.

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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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