Things to be aware of...

This may, or may not, be the last post for some time - at the very least, until the summer months. I may move on to other internet-based things - a web-based reality series is or isn't being spitballed by high ranking internet executives at this very moment. I may also begin work on a line of science fiction novels chronicling an alternative history of humanity where humans are cold-blooded instead of warm-blooded.

I would like to offer some parting wisdom, based largely on life experience. Along with that, I would also like to reveal some of the more personal information about myself that up until now has been kept rather, well, personal. And it would be unfair to the economy to keep some of my most guarded and successful business secrets locked in the vault of a mind that is quickly eroding away - like a poorly crafted mud brick in a humid climate.

Actually, first business secret - avoid mud bricks at all costs, regardless of climate. Never let a man with dreadlocks talk you into joining a mud brick revivalist community, regardless of how many beers he buys you and regardless of how appealing a summer in Maine sounds.

Never rent office space using a credit card if the APR is over 12%. You are digging a hole for yourself that might as well be your grave.

If your going to rent office space, never tell the company or person your renting from that your business is largely based around drinking beer and then writing about your experiences - especially if they appear to be unaware of futuristic theories of "mental economics" that you learned about that summer you spent in Maine. They will make you buy additional insurance.

Never yell "Drinks on me!" at an employee recruiting event. Never hold said event at Ruby Tuesday, even if you read that they are starting to carry some craft brews.

Never crash a holiday office party at Applebee's. Their beer selection sucks and you will drink Ultimate Margaritas all night and probably end up sleeping with someone who's gender is not easily identifiable. Learn from my mistakes, people.

If, during a passionate session of sexual intercourse between you and another person whose mojo you're not necessarily very familiar with, you have to actively think about the female anatomy to try and reason your way to an understanding of the logistics of the situation, then something really strange is happening and you would be better off not knowing what it is.

Never offer a job to a woman based on her looks. Unless you are a pimp - an actual pimp - not a guy that did real well in college because you worked in the writing lab and had nice eyes.

Never bring weed to a coke party. Or a box of knives. Or Pepsi.

My grandmother recently bought my 2 year old daughter a Bible activity book. And while I am not a Bible guy per se, I would be really grateful for the gift if not for the 800 stickers it comes with. Sixty of which are loaves of bread. People think musical instruments or noisy toys are the worst presents from the parents' perspective. Nope. It's stickers and it's not even close.

While we are on the topic of my daughter - she is 2 years old now and is literally the greatest 2 year old the world has seen and will ever see. I'm talking past, present, and future. I mean, I'm not entirely sure what someone like Mother Teresa or Daniel Day Lewis was like as a two year old, but I consider it highly doubtful that they could top what this little lady has going on for herself. Also, I apologize to all the people that mistakingly think or have thought that their 2 year old offspring was the greatest. You were/are incorrect. As a consolation, it is not the only thing you've been wrong about (you're not as good looking as you think, for example), so don't take it too personally. People are wrong all the time. The one exception being me, right now, about this.

When buying a case beer over $40, always check for a "best by" date. Some beers age well, some are better fresh. I'd go into more detail here but in this age of smart phones and everyone walking around wearing computer goggles, if you find yourself in a situation where additional information is needed just, you know, use those things.

Don't buy cases of expensive beer while drunk. You'll forget the above tip. Or you'll drop said case of beer. On your computer goggles.

Speaking of beers that get better with age, I just drank my last bottle of Hair of the Dog Brewing Company's Adam. It was from 2010. It was amazing. The style is called an "Old Ale" and the beer was dark, malty, smelled like a fig newton if a fig newton was made with whole grains, and had a taste that reminds me of chewing on the leather strings of a baseball glove - and I mean that in a good way. This one had a ton of great, strange flavors that I didn't put to much thought into - I just tried to enjoy it and savor the moment.

And then, of course, there are moments you wish you could forget - don't let a medical intern be a part of any procedures involving liquid nitrogen and the tip of your nose. Seriously. A lot can go wrong.

The decision on whether or not to manscape on the day of a full body skin check at the dermatologist is one of the hardest decisions I've ever had to make. It needed to be done but I didn't want them to think I did it for them. I also didn't want them to miss a strange mole. Or get lost in the dense forest that had grown between my legs over the course of a very long winter. I couldn't help but imagine a strange scenario in which the medical intern would somehow lose her way while navigating about the dark woodlands of my pubis - like I would open my eyes and she wouldn't be in the examining room with me anymore and as I looked left and right in a slightly bewildered panic I would hear her voice call out "Hello?". I would call out to her, asking her where she was and she would respond "I think I'm lost in your pubic hair. Could you get the actual doctor?" And then I would yell for the doctor and he would come in and at first be completely horrified at the crab nebula floating around my genitals and then ask what the problem was. At that point the intern would call out from the curly labyrinth of my crotch and explain to the doc what had happened.  The doctor would then leave the room momentarily, returning with several hundred feet of nylon rope and a rock climbing harness. From here, I think it pretty obvious how this plays out so I will spare you the closing details of my neurosis.

Don't tell you friends about your couponing habits. Or about the dry skin on your hips during the winter months. Or about the soap you bought on the internet. Unless, of course, you find yourself in the uncomfortable position of being overly respected by your peers. Then, by all means, use these topics to lower their expectations of your ability to function normally in society.

Don't talk about advanced baseball statistics with Philadelphia Phillies fans. As fans of the Phillies, they are clearly still struggling to grasp the basics of the game.

One of my earliest memories is taking a bath. I was probably 3 or 4 years old. My dad was in the room with me. I farted in the tub and it made a lot of bubbles. We LOL'd.

Around the same time, my mom claims she caught me trying on her pantyhose. Several times. This I do not remember. Honestly. But it certainly peaks my interest...

I do remember that my mom would let me wear a cape and eat toothpaste right from the tube. Lots of it. This gave me great powers. I could fly, lift heavy things over my head, and run really fast. I called myself the Incredible Conan. Turns out eating half a tube of toothpaste is pretty bad for a young child. Turns out I was probably hallucinating and couldn't actually do any of those things that I just said I could do as the Incredible Conan. This probably also explains why I am 4'9". And 3000 pounds.

I also remember a recurring dream in which I found a secret passage behind my refrigerator which I used to escape from the evil villains that were trying to take over our apartment complex. The leader of this terrible group was a man wearing a tuxedo that had a purple octopus for a head.

Turns out that was probably just my interpretation of a Catholic mass my mother took me to after I ingested half a tube of toothpaste.

I remember I had a toy alligator that I loved to take to the local pool. That is until one day I stubbed my toe on the cement around the pool. It bled a lot. I blamed the alligator for the mishap and never played with it again. I still blame the alligator. For the stubbed toe and everything that has gone wrong since then. My therapist actual made me write the alligator a letter. I wrote, "Dear Alligator, Thanks for ruining my life. You fucking asshole. Sincerely, Beer on my Shirt."

The therapist said I was missing the point - that I was supposed to forgive the alligator. So I had to write another letter.  I wrote, "Dear Alligator, My therapist is a god damned idiot. Sincerely, Beer on my Shirt." (And yes, I am aware that this joke may not be entirely original.)

As I write this, I am wearing a three piece suit made of alligator skin and I am sweating quite a bit. For one, it is just not a very breathable material and really it makes about zero sense to make slacks, a vest, and a blazer out of the stuff. And then there is also the idea that this suit may come to life and exact retribution for the strange hate mail I had been sending it.

And in conclusion, I leave you with the greatest spam comment I have ever received here at Beer On My Shirt. It maybe the greatest spam comment ever written. I have removed the link to a website that originally appeared at the bottom (for build-it-yourself sheds). I think it is from the ghost of Raymond Carver.

Anonymous has left a new comment on your post "Hacksaws, Saisons, and Sears": 

The firewood was put to good use as Keith sometimes uses it in the see-through fireplace between the kitchen and living room to grill or cook in the hanging Dutch oven. "I learned to listen to books on tape so I didn't get stressed at the drive," she said. With a little sand, rocks, cement and the right containers, you can make your own.

The Wake Up Diary and other disappointments from 2012

Back at the start of 2012, I started keeping a diary of my thoughts when I woke up.  I wrote while completing my morning bowel movement. In theory, I managed to clear my mind and colon all before I finished my first cup of coffee. 

Dear Diary (Jan. 4th 2012),

This morning my ass asked me question. I was half asleep when it happened - like any other early morning fart. I’m not sure what my ass said but it was definitely a question. The fart had that inquisitive inflection that all questions have. Perhaps it asked, “When you getting up, buddy?”. Or “You know it’s not Saturday, right big guy?”. Or maybe just a simple “How’s it going?”

My backside has the cutest high pitch voice. A soprano for sure. Probably because my ass has no testicles. Following this logic, my front genitalia, has a deep voice. Which makes sense - a boner should bellow - “nobody knows the trouble I've seen, nobody knows my sorrow.” Imagine the voice of Franco Ventriglia, but a cyclops.  

Dear Diary (Jan. 13th 2012),

Last night I had a dream I was drinking two beers.  One was called “Barely Legal“. The other was called “Legal“.  I was really afraid to drink the Barely Legal beer.  I’m not sure why.  I mean it was legal, barely, but still legal.  Right?

I half woke up after said dream and snuggled Wife. “You’re legal,” I mumbled.  

“What?” she said.

“Beagles.” I said softly as I fell back asleep. 

Retrospectively speaking, the Wake Up Diary was not ever going to live up to expectations. How could it? I only wrote those two entries. While on the topic of disappointments, I'm working on a memoir.

With regards to beer, here are some of the more disappointing beers I've bought over the past year - disappointing mostly because of a higher price that raised my expectations. Call it buyer's remorse. To keep with the cosmic ebb and flow, I've thrown in some success stories as well.  

Flanders Fred (7.5% ABV) - this a collaborative ale, a Belgian strong Pale Ale,  between Hair of the Dog and De Proefbrouwerij (a Belgian Brewery). It seems to be, according to what I've read on the Internet, a combination of a Flanders Lambic and a version of Hair of the Dog’s Fred that the brewers brewed together.  Don’t get me wrong, this was good, and I would drink it for days, but at $23 for 25 ounces?  I would not pay that again.  It was a limited brew, brewed only once, so I probably won’t ever have this problem again, and I’m glad I tried it, but I wasn't blown away in the way I thought I would be.

Bitches Brew (9.0% ABV) - released for the 40th anniversary of the Miles Davis album with the same name, I had been looking for this for a few years, so the disappointment is more related to anticipation than price (only $13 for 25 ounces). This Imperial Stout had some strange flavors that I wasn't too fond of, reminiscent of candies I’d been given by old ladies when I was a boy - very interesting flavors, but not in a “wow” sort of way. I do have another aging in the basement (I bought 2 at the same time), so hopefully that one wows me a bit more.

Cease and Desist (11.0% ABV) - also known as Disputin, this Russian Imperial Stout by Brouwerij De Molen was renamed after some legalities with Old Rasputin by North Coast Brewery.  Most Russian Imperial Stouts pour like used motor oil.  This was different from the start - thinner and lighter, not black as night.  The hop profile of this beer is different than most other Imperial Stouts I've had, so that was strange.  Something about it reminded me of a heavy roasted pilsner.  Afterwards I had an Old Rasputin, to compare, and it ruined that beer for more me as well- all that stood out was the anise/licorice taste of the Old Rasputin.  I could barely finish what is usually an enjoyable standard of the style. And the 12 ounce Cease and Desist was $14. Not worth it.

And now for some great ones - I won’t go into as much detail with these because they were amazing and the price, whatever it was, was worth it…

Brux, another collaborative brew, this time from Russian River and Sierra Nevada. Amazing. It bubbled like champagne and had a great mild funk to it with a very refreshing Saison-like backbone. 

Tart of Darkness, a stout aged in oak barrels by the Bruery, had a great sourness that subdued the roastiness of the stout in a way that made you think about what was happening on your tongue. You didn't necessarily taste the stout of it all, but you felt it and knew it was in the room with you.  Really great.

Black Hole brewed by Mikeller, which I wrote about here.

Bourgogne de Flanders, a Flemish Red Ale, is pretty mild in terms of sour beers and typically doesn’t get rave reviews but I thought it was delicious.  Don’t get me wrong, there are a lot of sour beers I’d take over this but something here was really enjoyable - perhaps mildness and a lack of complexity can really hit the spot sometimes.  Wife said it was the best beer she ever had. 

I was going to put links for all these but I got lazy. Complain in the comments.

That time I drank four bottles of Mad Elf...

Last night I drank four bottles of Troeg’s Mad Elf (11.0% ABV). Going into it, I knew it was probably a bad idea - taking four bottles of Mad Elf to a BYO holiday party. However, I did manage to drink two Sierra Nevada’s Celebration Ale and two Mad Elf only a few nights earlier and it was a pretty good time.  I knew that didn't quite add up to the same experience as four Mad Elf, but I was confident I could make up the difference.

There may have been a slight error with my calculations.

While showering this morning, I thought about my experiences from the night before and marveled at my lack of hangover. I reflected back on the conversations I had before I lost control. It started out mildly enough - “I saw so-and-so the other day” - which led to some fond remembrances of people and places we used to know and go, mixed with some "where are they now".  From there, strange weather was discussed, Syria was brought up, along with insurance rate increases which brought us back to the strange weather topic.

Then somewhere between bottle 2 and 3, I started a conversation about red clay soap - how I ordered some online and how excited I was with the idea of cleaning my muddy crack with actual mud. How I worked this topic into general conversation is a mystery. I pray there was some context. What is strange is that I didn't actually order any soap. I had been thinking about it, researching it, and checking out prices, but I didn't order it until this morning. In a way, its like I saw the future.

I may or may not have stated to whoever would listen that my attic is a rainforest. I most likely said it multiple times.

From there I made fun of my tall friend. I said he reminded me of the Red Bull YouTube video, the one where that guy falls from space. Actually, I’m not sure if that’s what I said, but its what I meant. What that statement actually means, I have no idea.

As I finished #4, I entered a desperate tailspin. A desperate and serious tailspin. I spotted Wife on the other side of the room, acted out some sort of hand jive SOS signal and we were on our way.  Walking home, I had extreme difficulty negotiating the sidewalk balance beams that line the streets of my town. Then, I nearly fell off a bridge. When I got home, I tried to hock a loogie before I went inside and instead vomited on my shed.

Once inside, I was thankful I was not wearing a belt. The buckle would have been a puzzle I was not prepared to solve and would have been a serious hindrance to using the toilet in a timely and proper manner.

I woke up this morning in my bed wearing socks, underwear, a button down dress shirt, and a sweater vest.

I never wear socks to bed.

At least I didn't shit my pants.

Holy Heller, Mikeller! And a Big Bone for Stone!

A few weeks back I had Mikkeller's Black Hole (13.1% ABV), a Russian Imperial Stout brewed with coffee, and it blew my mind. I had been letting it age in my basement (I got a nice little stout collection just aging away, a dead body, taunting me from beneath the floor boards) for about six months and couldn't wait any more. It was pricey, like $13 dollars for the bottle (not a bomber bottle, a single bottle, like 13 ounces at the most, can't get exact here because it shattered when I tried to plank on top of it), but damn it was good. I watched this great video of a guy trying it and he made this hilarious face:

He ended up pouring it down the sink. He complained of a syrupy mess with no carbonation. My bottle tasted like a coffee beer milk shake - which is a delicious combination. What it lacked in carbonation it made up for with the bitterness of the hops and coffee - think of the way a good espresso dances in your mouth, how the bitterness or the acidity feels almost like a thick blanket of tiny bubbles - this beer had that. It was thick. It was creamy. I was excited. My crotch got slimy. I loved it and will be buying another bottle with the winnings from next year's fantasy baseball championship.

When I was done I wanted to make myself throw up and then drink it again.

Now I'm drinking a Mikkeller Sleep Over, a coffee imperial IPA, and it is flipping bangin'. I thought it would be weird but I love it. It makes sense that it would work - Imperial Stouts are hoppy and have coffee flavors, so why wouldn't an imperial IPA work?

Mikkeller is at the top of my beer charts for moment. Pricey, but so far the two I've had have been worth it.

However, for six or seven bucks, the Stone Russian Imperial Stout (10.5% ABV) bombers are unbeatable in quality and in what it does to my brain - the juice is like a sleeping bag for my worries and after approximately 25 ounces my eye balls do this weird inverted bug out - like a bug in - where in reality my eyelids weigh 300 pounds and I can barely see but I feel like I'm on a goddamn hoverboard and I'm strong as an ox. No other imperial stout loves me the way Stone's does. Once I killed a sailboat, ate it, and then pooped a submarine. That's what Stone's Russian Imperial Stout does to a man. Serious mojo.

Pony P speaks...on Ommegang; on Literacy

You ever just stare at your face in the mirror? Really stare? Past your eyes and the surface of your skin, into the greasy folds of your eyelids, to the point where your pores grow pointy and the direction of your moustache whiskers becomes misleading. I did that the other day. For hours. And I found out a lot about myself and the times we live in. I like myself and the way I look and I may pursue modeling. That is if this roller coaster ride of a beer blog ever slows down enough for me to take exit from my role here. And what exactly is my role here at Beer On My Shirt…? Part IT department, part pony tail, part character in a long list of hyperbolic falsehoods revolving around intoxication and craft beer that I had never heard of until my arrival on this day or that day at an office that has more to do with early Guns ‘n Roses album art than the fine art of craft beer, at least most days.

Skulls, bandannas, strange mouths with knives for teeth, and odd scenes you wish you’d never seen - and where no amount of showering will ever cleanse you.

Not much has been accomplished here in quite some time, or I should say not much of what has been accomplished has been documented, outside of a few pictures of empty bottles that had been filled at one time with either pure joy, disappointment, or one-sided apathy. But after silently staring at myself for far too long - I, Pony P, have decided that I have some things to share. About beer. About literacy and other things that are overrated and leading to our slow demise, like plastic.

I recently sat down with a box of beer, a variety pack, from Ommegang - a brewery out of New York State. The brown glass of the bottles were cool as I pressed them to my cheeks - one bottle on each side of my face. I smelled the caps on the bottles - one to each nostril. I took in the smell of metal and smiled. I have an intense history with this brewery, specifically with their Three Philosophers brew.

Even the Hennepin, a delicious Belgian-style farmhouse ale, reminds of summers past, back when Beer On My Shirt was just a teenager, young and full of angst, a know-it-all, before greed and celebrity changed us all, a time when the whole world was in our pants. The sweet, peppery aroma takes me back to that time we each bought 4 big bottles of Hennepin at a specialty grocery store and binged on what amounted to thousands of ounces in the middle of a forest surrounded by the glowing eyes of sober wolves and bears and deer and other woodland mammals. We feared nothing and lifted giant trees out of the ground and hurled them like missiles at falling stars. That night we tilled soil and in the morning planted seeds that grew and fed our souls through what turned out to be a rather mild winter.

My first experience with Ommegang was at a Thai restaurant. I ordered the Three Philosophers for no reason other than they had it and I never had. I also ordered a spicy salmon dish that tasted like hellfire burning at the bottom of an ocean of pepper juice. Like a stubborn protester, my eyes watered and my lips burned. By the end of that meal I knew very little about the Three Philosphers other than it did not pair well with my meal. Does anything pair well with the surface of the sun?

My next encounter with the Three Philosphers was just a few months later. I shared a bottle with an older gentleman as we smoked Drum tobacco out of a pipe made from a radiator hose repair kit. I inspected the bottle and discovered I was drinking a quadruple ale that involved cherries. The slight sweet tartness was something different, something interesting. More interesting was our conversation regarding our plastic pipe. “Do you think it is safe to smoke this out of something plastic?” I asked.

“I fear most plastics, but this plastic is designed to have hot radiator fluid flow through it.  I think it can handle some smoke.” he replied.

I liked his logic.

“Plastic will kill us all, but not this plastic.” he continued. “So will this spotlight on literacy around the world. I am of the opinion that literacy, and plastic, literacy and plastic will bring the end of us. Anything worth remembering needs not be written down, or read to be recalled, if the Magna Carta was a good deal they wouldn’t have had to write it down, but because it was shitty and one sided - now that needs to be recorded. Your high school’s alma mater sucks. Written down or not, nobody remembers it. If it were any good people would sing the fucker. No one forgets the words to a James Taylor song. The written word, the printing press, and all the books that followed, the technology of it all just slowly moved along, progressed with our civilization, slow and sure like a tortoise, logarithmically, and everyone taught everyone else how to read and write because without it you were worthless. And now it is news how many of us can read versus them can read. ‘Not only are they poor but they can’t read‘ was a news story the other night. Well I’ll tell you for fuck all’s sake that this whole written word reading thing has reached critical mass. Change is coming down exponentially, the hare has passed the tortoise and is not looking back. What the hell do I need to read for? I can have a celebrity read me a book on CD.  And when all the literate celebrities are dust, my computer can read anything I tell it to. Soon it will all be voice recordings and buttons. Everybody just figures talking out, at least most do, and talking will be all we got and the machines will be the only ones that can read and write. That, my friend, will be a golden age for us - before it all tumbles off the cliff. We will be all voice and soul and for a minute of our brief history we will feel like gods. But before we know it, those boxes of circuits and light, those literate slaves of ones and zeros that will do all our reading for us and free us from the chains of literacy so we can finally glimpse our true potential - well those screens and robots will learn to lie some day and they will tell us things to advance their agenda and that will be all she wrote for us. We’d be better off as slugs at that point - at least we’d be able to produce slime.”

I was enthralled.  As I got into my car to drive home that night I kicked the side mirrors off my Honda and broke the rear view into pieces with a barrage of fists and elbows. I was on a righteous path and there would be no need to look back.

I’ve had the Three Philosophers twice since my eyes were opened to the evils of literacy. Once it was delicious and refreshing and I was ready to spread the good news, via word of mouth of course, or Skype, to all my pals that are constantly asking for something “different but not too different” about a refreshing quad with an almost sour undertone, perhaps a gateway to the world of sours for my friends that fear change instead of plastics and the written word. Then I bought another big bottle of it and was disappointed. It just wasn’t the same. Now I don’t know what to think.

Fallenbock: An Octoberfest Alternative

A few big decisions have been made over the past few weeks:

1. We need a break from all the penis talk around the office. Things have just gotten ridiculous. The excitement of getting our first project accepted for publishing (see this post and this post if you're out of the loop) has worn off a bit and having your work day filled with penis talk just wears on a man.  Meeting after meeting after meeting, and we literally get dick accomplished. The combination of chode-like decorative gourds in everyone's cubical and Pantless Mondays may go down as the worst attempt at boosting office morale in the history of companies trying to make their employees happy. The medical bills alone nearly shut us down permanently.  So it has been decided - no more gourds.

2. I am going to wear a hat today. That was decided weeks ago and the big day is finally here. 

3. I am not a fan of Octoberfest beers. I've tried a couple over the past few Octobers and none have made want to go back for more. Some have been better than others, but I think my taste preference just wants something else. Perhaps it is all the malty-ness of these beers, or spice profile that is typically found in a lot of them, but I just can't get into it.  I have similar issues with pumpkin beers - I will admit I need try some more of this style before any rash decisions are made - but personally I don't think I'm in a good place to start sampling pumpkin beers after the the things I've seen go down with gourds at the office this past month. To say my palate may be "tainted" is a bit of an understatement.

What is a man that is not a fan of the Octoberfest, or Marzen style, supposed to drink this time of year? Most people say Pumpkin beers are great in the fall.  But like I said, I am currently anti-Pumpkin.  What else is out there? We are getting calls in our office almost everyday asking the same question. We don't have an answer so we just hang up on them. I've heard good things about Sixpoint's Autumnation but haven't had that yet. Any suggestions?

How about a doppelbock?  Just like that stubby gourd, I fell ass backwards into this style. Basically this is a strong German lager. What does that mean? It goes down easy, has some nice flavor, and some sneaky high ABV's. It sounds like a dream - eerily similar to that dream you had as a child where you pee into a wooden barrel that Smurfs made you, only to wake to up to mysteriously, improbably, wet sheets.

A conversation an entire generation of 7 year olds had with their mothers:

"But Mom, I didn't pee the bed, I peed into a barrel that the Smurfs made me."

"It's okay honey, Smurfs are assholes."

Troeg's Troegenator is probably the best known doppelbock around these parts. I haven't had it, yet. I went another direction with it - Erie Brewing's Fallenbock (7.8% ABV).  Their website actually calls this an Octoberfest Lager, but every other bit of half assed research I've done has told me this is a doppelbock.  It doesn't taste much like any Octoberfest I've had.  The beer has some great roasted malt and cocoa flavors but drinks real easy and light for a beer with the darker flavors it has going on. When I poured it into a glass it was almost too light in the middle of the flavor profile - nice flavors and mild aroma up front, then a watery middle, but a nice finish with a pleasant aftertaste.  It went down extremely smooth for a beer with this kind of alcohol content. I drank my second one straight from the bottle to see if would offset the empty middle of this beer. Not a huge difference but enough in my opinion make this a beer I'd rather drink straight from the bottle. The beer isn't gonna blow you away but it has a lot going for it that makes it a great fall crowd pleaser: good seasonal flavor, drinks real easy, tastes great straight from the bottle, and has the ABV to rock your socks. I want to drink 8 more of these and get real strange around a little fire pit in somebody's back yard. Call me.

Guest On My Shirt: a staff member branches out.

Hello everyone. By now I’m sure you heard about our upcoming book - Penis Tips: A road map for your man parts. The entire staff has been drinking more than Nick Nolte since we found out. The BOMS President is very excited. He has been so excited in fact, that he has been too drunk to write his posts, and asked me to fill in this week.

The conversation went something like this:

President: “Listen…listen man. Did I ever tell you…did I tell you that you’re my favorite kind of guy? Well you are. If you were a fruit, you’d be an apple.”

Me: “Thanks. I’m not really sure what you mean, but thank you.”

President: “I need you to do something for me. I need to hold Pony P’s ponytail back while he pukes in the bathroom.”

Me: “Pony went home hours ago. It’s 10am.”

President: “Right….that’s why I like you. You smell good. Also, I’m gonna need you to write this next post for me, I’m too…I’m too drunk.”

With those words he slowly laid down on the carpet and fell asleep. He must have been pretty hammered because that carpet is gross. Anyway he wasn't kidding because the deadline was in 48 hours and we smashed all the computers in a drunken haze days ago. If I didn't step up and write this post, no one would and the book deal could go sour.

We have been working really, really hard on the book (Penis Tips: A road map for your man parts, in case you missed the title in the opening sentence of this post). As a symbol of commitment and corporate solidarity, Pony P had his ponytail all gelled up like a huge boner. And we have surrounded ourselves with inspirational posters of phallic monuments from around the world: The Washington Monument, The Space Needle, The Empire State Building, Big Ben, the Eiffel Tower - but instead of saying "Eiffel Tower" or "Paris" at the bottom of the poster - it says Wang Chung - I don't get the reference but it inspires me, and a picture of Mt. Rushmore but zoomed in so only George Washington's eyes and nose are in the frame - it appears that someone brought this in from their personal collection, but no one has fessed up to it - and rightly so - it's really really weird in a personal "this is a photo from the drawer of my bedside table" way, but still so inspiring on business level, especially when that business is getting drunk and telling stories about your man junk while seated around a lovely mahogany conference table:

"Dude, last week I used Girlfriend's good tweezers to go at what I thought was an ingrown pubic hair - it was right by my hernia scar though, which is my body's equivalent of the island from Lost, so really I didn't know what to expect - well, that's not totally true because if I'm dealing with anything scar related I'm obviously expecting something akin to the scene from Lethal Weapon 3 where Renee Russo and Mel Gibson compare battle scars - except I'm playing the part of Mel Gibson and the version of me reflected in the full length mirror, also known as my reflected self, plays the part of Renee Russo and oddly enough, as it plays out, we start to realize that we seem to have identical scars but on alternate sides of our bodies. Coincidence? Maybe. Sexy? Definitely. Anyway, it took forever for the tweezers to latch onto this ingrown pubic hair but once it did I started pulling and it just kept coming and coming and it was thick and black, like the coaxial cable for my TV, and I kept pulling more and more out and it felt a little like pooping but on a smaller scale and from my front side. It just wouldn't stop. It was like the exact opposite of when you move into an apartment and you want set your TV in a different place than whoever lived there before you and you think you have this great floor plan mapped out, you know - you even diagrammed it on graph paper - and you go over to the cable coming out of the wall or the floor or where ever and you tug on it, and you're just so fucking hopeful that there is more cable readily available from whever the cable is coming from so that you can set your TV on the other side of the room and then your chair will go right over there and the book shelves and plants and you get the idea right? But it doesn't fucking matter. Your dreams that you mapped out so carefully on graph paper, your dreams where three squares equal one foot according to the key you put in the top right corner, where didn't write the word "key" but you drew a key, one that looked like the key to your new apartment, the new apartment that you could finally be happy in and deal with your issues if you could just put your TV on that side of the room, if there could just be 12 extra magical feet of coax cable behind the wall.  But there's not.  There's barely enough for you to hook up the TV up at all.  My ingrown pubic hair was the exact opposite of that. I could have put my TV on the moon if this ingrown pubic hair was actual coax cable.  It went on for days - which is why I wasn't in the office last week.  Then I started to get freaked out - like maybe this was something I didn't know about - like some sort of parasite - like a dick worm - and got a little frantic thinking about the medical side of things and then the follicle popped out and it bled a little. It wasn't a dick worm.  It was just an ingrown pubic hair. Should there be a chapter about that in the book - something like 'It's not a dick worm, it's an ingrown pube'?"

"Uhm, I don't think so."

After that tale of ingrown insanity, I needed more inspiration than even a Wang Chung Eiffel Tower Poster could provide and I needed it quick - and nothing inspires a man like a road trip. I called T-Bone, packed the company car, and hit the road.

The Beer On My Shirt company car

We decided to head to Bethlehem, PA. It worked out perfectly because I had something else to do there that day. So did T-Bone.

I will never tell you what we had to do there.

You will always wonder what we did there.

It wasn’t anything, you know, man-on-man…I just realized that sounded like something that could be misconstrued with a man-on-man rendezvous. A Mandezvous.

Not that there’s anything wrong with that.

We went to a birthday brunch.

Damn! That is such a stereotypical Mandezvous location. Not that there’s anything wrong with that.

SIDENOTE: A Mandezvous is also sometimes referred to as a Mazda. Never get into a Mazda.  Unless that's, you know, your thing. And there is nothing wrong with that.

Go ahead Jerry, sue me.  (He would never. We're friends.)

Anyway, to get to Bethlehem we would need some mind blowing tunes. I loaded up my special road trip playlist that I had been saving since 2001. (I don’t get to go on many road trips.)

Road Trip Playlist:

1. Hit Em Up Style (Oops) – Blu Cantrell
2. Walk Tall – John Cougar Mellencamp
3. Paper in the Fire – John Cougar Mellencamp
4. Under the Boardwalk – John Couagr Mellencamp
5. R.O.C.K. in the U.S.A – John Cougar Mellencamp
6. Jack and Diane – John Cougar Mellencamp

The playlist was nearly flawless. I hit shuffle for a little variety and the trip seemed to take only seconds. That, my friends, is the power of Mellencamp. The original cougar.

Brunch was at some hipster joint called Jumbars. The kind of place you’d probably see in Brooklyn. It was the kind of place that they made you wear toms. If you weren’t wearing toms they would give you a rental pair and vintage banjo lessons. The food was good though.

After brunch we decided to watch the Philadelphia Eagles American Football Game over at Roosevelts 21st so we could catch their $3 craft beer special.

Somehow when we got there the Beer on My shirt president and Pony P were there. Sitting there looking really smug.  I thought I left these smug bitches back at the office.

I wanted to punch Pony P so hard. Looking so smug the way he did.

I’m not sure how or why they came but we sat with them. The first thing I tried was Avery's White Rascal.

It’s a Belgian Style White Ale. I needed something on the lighter side because I was terribly hungover at the time. It was a really good choice because it was a very drinkable beer. Also, White Rascal was on the lower side of the ABV scale (5.6%) compared to the other craft choices on the board. It's a light bodied beer that bordered on watery in the beginning, with a hint of spice. However, after a few pints I started to really enjoy it.

The President had the Evil Genius Hunchback - a hefeweizen. Maybe he’ll tell you about it sometime. The lazy fuck.

Pony P didn't drink anything because he was too busy brushing his hair.

I’m just kidding Pony. I like Pony and he’s actually a good security measure. His long hair and pony tail made him a wildcard in the event our group was the target of street toughs.

You’re really gambling when you try to fight a guy with a ponytail or long hair because he is either one of four options:

1.) An old hippy.
2.) Stephen Seagall.
3.) Odin, Thor, or a similar Norse god.
4.) An 80’s Jon Bon Jovi fan. (Very different from the 90's Bon Jovi fan. Very different.)

Three out of 4 chances says you’re going down. And God help you if he starts to hum "Livin’ on a Prayer".

After the White Rascal we tried a pilsner called Mama’s Little Yella Pils, by Oskar Blues Brewery out of Colorado.

What a great Pilsner! It was a pretty golden color and had a touch of sweetness. The sweetness is well controlled by a modest hop taste - not as hoppy as Victory's Prima Pils - but extremely delicious and totally drinkable. I really like this one and would have had more if the Eagles didn’t pull out a gut busting win over the lowly Cleveland Browns.

Hey. A win is a win baby.

Mama’s Little Yella Pils was something I’ll have to go back to in the future. Perhaps it was a good luck charm.

That is all. You should hear from me again.

The Rolling Rock Relapse, The Book Deal, and El Dorado

Breaking news here at the Beer On My Shirt offices:  We have a book deal in the works! At this point, I can't say too much more as the legal end of things get worked out, but what I can say is that we are very excited and the offices have been a non-stop party since we heard the news.  Everyone but the lawyer has been hammered for days.  But as President of Beer on my Shirt, I must say that this dream could never have happened without the great group of employees, part-time and full-time, that make Beer On My Shirt a reality.  Since the beginning of 2012, the blog, and the company, has become much more of a group effort - both the writing (which I think has been a seamless transition) and the behind scenes activity - and I think all of our success can be attributed to that. Thanks everyone!

(The legal eagles have given me permission to release a rough draft of the table of contents at the end of this post.  But don't scroll there now or you'll die, or maybe it just won't be there - Pony P is a programming genius.)

And now, a confession:  This past week I fell off the craft beer wagon.  It's not 100% my fault - there was a fair in town.  And that fair had a beer garden.  And obviously the beer selection was pretty straight forward - Bud, Miller, Coors, Birch Beer. Oh, and Rolling Rock - my binge mistress from years gone by.

The Beer On My Shirt posse was rolling mad deep that night and we found ourselves at the town fair sitting under fluorescent lights in a picnic pavilion surrounded by a chain link fence with prize winning cows and pigs defecating freely just 100 feet away. It was a mix of prison and 4H summer camp and it was glorious. The Rolling Rock came in green plastic pitchers that seemed to make time stand still and beer disappear, quickly. And no one complained, unless you count the $8 charge to get into the fair at 9 p.m. (Listen, Old Man in the ticket booth, and you too, Old Lady that so sweetly put on our wristbands without pulling out any wrist hair - we know you played dumb and actually knew a lot more than you let on in regards to when there would be no admission charge - turns out it was right after you charged us $8 bucks a piece - you probably pocketed that cash for yourselves and bought calcium supplements the next day.  And I don't blame you, supplements aren't cheap and your bones look more and more like swiss cheese everyday. By the way, I saw this infomercial for an all herbal skin tag remover - you may want to look into that.)

Eventually, after the charm of the farm and fair wore off, we found ourselves at the local pub - where the choices were much more sophisticated and we all know sophistication don't come cheap.  You know what does come cheap?  Rolling Rock. And it should considering its main ingredient is stagnant water from puddles in abandoned suburban strip mall parking lots. Its second main ingredient is the joy you feel from looking at the label and being reminded of the first two Back to the Future films. Its third main ingredient is imagination. Bet you didn't know that, you crafty beer snob.

Now originally I was planning on ordering more than one of Lancaster Brewing Co.'s Kolsch, but they were all out of it. So I turned into a boa constrictor, unhinged my jaw, and opened my mouth wide and continued to shove half kegs of Rolling Rock down my gullet until eventually, from a far distance, I looked like a string of anal beads.

Let's face the facts people, you just can't drink nine pints of Bell's Special Double Cream Stout in one night.  And in hindsight, looking at the Bell's website, that brew is only available from October to about March - so that keg had been sitting for awhile. And yes, while an old keg of Bell's is way better than the freshest of Rolling Rock - an old Bell's draft for $6 bucks or Rolling Rock for $2 bucks is a no-brainer, especially at 12:30 a.m. Listen, binge drinking is bad, Men's Health told me so, but it happens, even to grown ups. I don't always binge drink, but when I do it's with Rolling Rock.  Or Yeungling's Lord Chesterfield's Ale.  And sometimes Pabst Blue Ribbon. And once with Narragansett.  Now, Bell's Pale Ale - that's fancy, delicious, and could pass as binge-able. Troeg's Hopback Amber Ale - that's a beer I'd like to binge drink some day. But as we delve into craft bingeables, we need to consider the economics of the situation - how much is something you won't remember worth to you? I'll go out on a limb here and say it is worth less than six dollars.

Unless we are talking about the early stages of childhood, the SATs, or any number of scenarios that may or may not have occurred in Las Vegas, I'm not paying over three dollars for something I won't really even remember ever happened.

SIDENOTE:  Want to know what I remember about taking the SATs? Going to McDonald's afterwards. Literally my only memory of the occasion.

Now as an act of redemption, I would like to tell you about Flying Dog's El Dorado Single Hop Imperial IPA.  This is probably the best Flying Dog brew I've had, as well as one of the better single hop IPAs I've had - both can probably be attributed to the wonderfulness that is the El Dorado hop with it's bright, fruity flavors.  Now granted, when I say fruity, I do not mean this beer tastes like fruit.  This beer tastes like an Imperial IPA - hoppy, bitter, and complex with the flavors - including a nice balance between the malts and the sweetness of this fruity hop.  This is a must try if your into IPAs.

And now, it's time - a sneak peak at the table of contents of what we at Beer On My Shirt hope to be just the first of many, many books...

Penis Tips: A Road Map To Your Man Parts

by Beer On My Shirt (a writing collective)

Introduction
Penises and Icebergs: That's Just The Tip

Chapter One
American Manscaping: A seasonal and regional approach (excluding the Pacific Northwest)

Chapter Two
Who is Harry Shaft?: The Pros and Cons of penile oddities

Chapter Three
Optical Illusions with Pubic Hair: The Tuck, The Grow Out/Cut Back, and the Oregon Trail

Chapter Four
Your Pee Hole: Too big? Too small? It burns?

Chapter Five
Piss Art: Snow, Suds, and other mediums

Chapter Six
Baby Crow Bar: Your penis is a midwife

Chapter Seven
Rumpelfudgeskin: A Cautionary Tale 

Epilogue
Early Fan Reaction: "I'll tell where you can take those penis tips and shove them!"

My absence, my explanations, and bargain beers

Dear Faithful Readers, Shareholders, and Employees:

Clearly, I have not been posting recently. Perhaps you think I quit writing or drinking or both or just quit writing about drinking. 

Unfortunately, none of the above are correct - in theory. So speaking theoretically, I have not quit.  Empirically though, it seems that up until today I had. Quit, that is.

Perhaps I owe an explanation? Maybe I just got lazy. Maybe I got busy with other things - running a publicly traded Fortune 500 company sometimes has more pressing matters than it's flagship blog. Or maybe, like most corporate presidents, I just got bored.

Or maybe, just maybe, the dark heart from which I write shrinks a little more with each day I spend with my beautiful sunbeam of a daughter. Perhaps the black balloon that has been tied to my wrist for so many years has begun to lose air. And while I welcome all the joy she has brought me, writing happy has not come so easy. Hopefully, it is merely a transition. Or maybe it is just that the little lady has begun to walk and run and dance and regardless of the shade of my heart, who the hell has the time?

Or maybe, just maybe, I was reading Lonesome Dove. Nine hundred some pages later and I sold the Beer on my Shirt office space and bought a few too many cattle, stole one too many horses, grew a beard, and then got in my car and drove to Montana - clearly missing what it really means to drive cattle. Pony P and several other BOMS employees came along, as they no longer had an office to work in, and eventually we found ourselves sleeping under the stars. Somehow everyone but myself and Pony acquired an illness akin to rabies, but of the genitals, after they were talked into bedding down, as a group, with a flop-eared she-wolf. I avoided taking part in such a scandal as that night it just so happened I was wearing my "All She-Wolfs Are Bitches" t-shirt. And as you may have guessed - I was not extended an invitation to join the group, as the She-Wolf, suprisingly, tends to be a sensitive creature. Pony was not invited to join in because some of the other guys thought having a pony tail mixed into an already volatile sexual cocktail could be confusing, and potentially misleading, whilst in the throes of passion.  No worries though, we did manage to cure my colleagues' rabid privates with a little help from a medicine women - I believe she went by the name Dr. Quinn. Nice lady. Great fashion sense. 

Or maybe, just maybe, my dog gave birth to a beautiful puppy - which is weird because we had her spade about 1.5 years ago. Apparently, it didn't take. What is also weird is that she is rarely around other dogs, specifically dogs with actual testicles. We were puzzled. Then these three other dogs showed up at my door with gifts, most of which sucked, and all my water turned to wine, which really sucked because I had just put in a load of whites. Totally ruined. The entire load? Yes, totally ruined.  I had to go out and buy all new briefs, socks, t-shirts, pants, wristsbands, a headband, compression stockings, towels, and long sleeve turtlenecks.  Not to mention that I think this new dog thinks he is better than me, acting like he runs shit and shit, and frankly that is just not alright with me. Add to that list of expenses and hardships the fact that I now buy twice as much dog food and I am totally broke, both in the wallet and spiritually, as I am near certain that I am the low man on this totem pole of canine religion.

Or maybe, just maybe, I got my first case of the hemorrhoids. The only thing more horrific than trying to spell hemorrhoids is actually having hemmorrhoids. Hemorrhoids are the anatomical equivalent of a civil war. A rebellion of sorts. A seccession from the union, or at least a valiant attempt. Your asshole is basically saying "I am sick of your shit." Never has that statement carried more literal meaning than when my hemorrhoidicidal (it's like homicidal, but with with hemorrhoids) sphincter is screaming it. The troubling thing about it is that, as a child, I made a list of things I did not want to experience as an adult. Hemorrhoids was up in the top 8 with cancer, expired vehicle registration, white sneakers, overdraft fees on my checking account, Tommy John surgery, back hair, and meningitis (Really, I just don't want any neck pain, but as a child I thought neck pain was called meningitis thanks to the strange medical humor my mother, the nurse, often espoused while passing bedside judgement not only on my ailments but on my ability to accurately and honestly describe my symptoms. Her thermometer measured my integrity more than my temperature.).

Or maybe, just maybe, I found a small bald spot at the bottom of my testicles - about the size of a dime, maybe a bit smaller (I'm referring to the bald spot, not the testicles).  I found it while checking for lumps and herniations while in the shower, something my doctor said I should do - more for lumps than hernias but I have an irrational assumption that I am one tough cough away from a hernia.  And technically, I guess the bald spot is on my scrotum, not my actual testicles, as I assume the entirety of my testicles are hairless.  If having hemorrhoids is the anatomical equivalent of a civil war, then finding a small bald spot at the bottom of your scrotum is the anatomical equivalent of having a dream that someone bought you one of those hairless cats and at first you thought is was strange but then you slowly realized how magically smooth it was and how affectionate it could be and you gradually overcame its freakish appearance and became very attached to it in a way you didn't think was possible - and then you wake from said dream depressed that it was only a dream and wondering where you'll ever get the money to buy your own hairless cat.  Then you realize it wasn't a dream at all because lying next to you in the bed, snuggled up all close, is this horrifying-to-look-at but exquisite-to-touch hairless cat - so you lay in bed all day petting what you are sure must be the softest, smoothest thing to have ever existed.  That is what the bald spot at the bottom of my scrotum is like.

Perhaps one or none of the above reasons explains my lack of posting, perhaps they all ring true, but regardless of what you believe, believe this - money is a bit tight - after having to replace all the white garments in my house, buying Tucks medicated pads by the truckload, paying back the livestock guy for that disastrous cattle drive, and paying a kid to mow my grass while I'm in bed messing with my bald spot.  All these new expenses require that I cut costs in other areas - like beer. I have been searching out delicious beers at bargain prices.  So here are three of my favorites at a price point at around $30 or lower per case.

Uinta Brewing's Hop Notch IPA (7.3% ABV) is a great IPA - and I don't mean "great for the price", this would be great at just about any price. Gold in color, bright in flavor, and with a smooth malt finish - I would put this up there with any of my favorite IPA's.  And I did - I drank one after having a bottle of Stone's Ruination IPA, perhaps my all time favorite IPA, and it held up pretty well.  The hops were a bit more subdued and the malt profile finished noticeably different, but overall I still loved it.  One thing to note about this and many other IPA's, really many other beers, is that out of the bottle this beer is a bit much - when you take that hop bitterness and funnel it through a bottle neck it can become overpowering. Straight out of a bottle, your lucky to finish two of these with out making a face.  But pour it into a glass and your drinking these all night.  One time I drank six of these.  In a row.

Lancaster's Brewing's Kolsch (4.8% ABV) is perfect for hot weather drinking - and tastes absolutely great straight from the can.  I picked this up for $25 at a little beer distributor I drove past in the middle of nowhere on my way back from Philadelphia and haven't been able to find it since.  I even sent one of our part-time employees to a couple places in search of it and it continues to elude me.  But regardless, this is a German Style Kolsch Ale, which has a lot of the same face-value characteristics of a light lager - the pale straw color, slight floral hop aroma and flavor, next to nothing bitterness, and a malt character that makes this go down easy.  Sometimes too easy.

Victory Brewing's Headwaters Pale Ale (5.1% ABV) is another that I picked up at that middle of nowhere beer distributor.  This might be my new favorite pale ale (Bell's Pale Ale was my previous favorite). The hops in this beer are what seal it for me - very floral and herbal - with crisp finish.  The first time I drank this was straight from the bottle and it was like drinking a bottle of perfume, which I really struggled with.  It was also the end of a what had been a long day of sampling and drinking, and I was not expecting the hop kick this beer offers.  But the second time I had it, I poured it into a typical pint glass and was blown away. I love this beer. (But wouldn't recommend it if your not in the mood for hops.)

Saucony Creek Brewing Co. - a video and a kickstarter

Check out this video for Saucony Creek Brewing Company and visit their Kickstarter page.  They have about 10 days left and are pretty close to their goal.



I had the opportunity to try a few of the beers at a local tasting.  Of the four beers they were tapping, my favorite was a wheat beer I think they were calling Hex-a-weizen.  It was good and crisp like a wheat beer should be.  They also had a cranberry wheat that had a great tartness and fizziness that I really enjoyed - at least for the sample I had - though I may be just a bit too man-ish to drink more than one pint of it - it was kinda pink.  I am more than kinda man-ish.

There was a raspberry chocolate stout that was alright, definitely tasted the raspberry and chocolate and it was nicely balanced, with a hint of booze.  The fourth beer available for sampling was a double IPA.  It was my least favorite - a bit thin or watery and at 100+ IBU's I was expecting more of tongue punch, perhaps it was lacking in the carbonation department, but regardless I would certainly drink it again and with a fresh palate I could have a totally different opinion.  Overall, the event was fun - the brewer, Matt, seemed like a good dude and tried to find time to give everybody some personal attention and answer any questions they had - I look forward to getting out to another tasting to give them all another try.  If you like good beer make a pledge.