me to the horse races, I said.
Let me cavort with the bourgeois, I said.
You bet your life’s savings on a thoroughbred named “Saskatchewan Bull Dingus Mk XXII: Dream Sequence.”
What's in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.
I, beside myself, found my pockets out-turned and telling.
These are unfortunate circumstances.
I wound up in the streets.
It was cold.
I was bared to the world.
The frigid air left my joints and appendages lay ramshackle, cracked and suppressed by the elements.
Everything was fine. I had my health, otherwise.
I took the role of vagabond and forsook knowledge of the left hand from the right.
The darkness was my friend.
I crept into the numbness of solace.
The solace of numbness.
The solness of numblace.
The numace of solmbness.
The offstace of numsolasticness.
Oblastician dastician numalsol.
Ommss sosd tosa numosola oosa colacolastion.
I narrowed myself towards oblivion and entered my shoebox.
I am a graceful donut.
Mikkel Borg Bjergsø and Kristian Klarup Keller can shut the fuck up for two hot seconds.
You want to make an offbeat experimental IPA.
Do it on your dime, not mine.
Let me clear my throat.
Beer gypsies Mikkeller have donned their extravagant Santa hats and have flounced about with a number of strange, wonky beers for the holiday season.
Hoppy Lovin’ Christmas is one of them.
It’s an IPA (a borderline double at 7.8 percent ABV) brewed with ginger and pine needles. Naturally, my loins tensed with the thought of such a brew. Surely, this is a beer that would embrace the rich intensity and spice that comes part and parcel with the ginger root and sport proudly the bold elegance of pine far beyond the casual recesses of its otherwise marked hop prowess.
Wait, no? It’s really just a standard IPA? I’m just getting hops here. I’m getting hops and sour. You’ve got to be kidding me.
My palms got sweaty.
No, that can’t be right. I spent $14 whole dollars on a bottle of this.
I’m ruined. I simply cannot believe I fell for this crap. Then again, this isn’t the first time I’ve been screwed by two Great Danes (…too far?).
But wait; there are subtle nuances to this beer.
No, no, I see it. There, at the end of the tunnel, there is a light.
The pitter-patter of horse hooves gallivant forward.
The succor of fortune floods my being and I am rejuvenated.
I realized the warmth that tickled my throat was in fact the ginger. As the brew warmed to the air, I breathed deep in the glass. I got the pine. I got everything. There was lemon, there was apricot.
Oh, I was pissed.
Maybe I’m just bitter. Maybe I am just so jealous of Mikkeller that I pretended I couldn’t taste the ginger and pine that I so expected when picking up this beer. Maybe I wished I was as cool as these new gods.
The mouthfeel was smooth, yet brisk. The aroma was brilliant. There was tropical fruit and a lingering tartness akin to sourdough. A brilliant effervescence gave the ale character.
Maybe I was jealous. Maybe I went headlong into drinking this beer that I expected terrific faults only to find quiet successes.
Maybe they delivered what they promised. Nevertheless, don’t expect a robustness that I did. You’ll just get all pissy and end up bitching about the government. Your moodiness will overcome you and thoughts of romance, ambition, civil obligation and certain bodily functions will seem blasé.
Or, maybe I just drank the whole bottle.
…Did I mention it’s almost a double IPA?
*8.1 out of 10*