ASTROLIQUOR for July 20-26—What the stars say you should drink!

My Fellow Inebriates,

Here’s your booze horoscope:

Start making vacation plans, Aries. Your calendar isn’t as thick with commitments as you’ve been telling people, and quitting your surroundings for a while will help various people cool off about those sordid incidents that inexplicably achieved lift-off via Hennessey cognac. If you can’t afford to get away for a week, try panhandling, but pick an unfamiliar part of town and keep a low profile!

Taurus, the stars say you’ll be surrounded by water very soon. Whether this is ominous (tsunami, hurricane, wet T-shirt exploits) or not (pleasant seaside vacation) depends on your level of paranoia, which in turn depends on how much gin you consume. Ease off if you need to, or mix it up with some peach schnapps. Whatever new cocktail you come up with, Sunday’s the best day for sharing.

It’s around somewhere, Gemini—at least that’s what you keep telling yourself. Take a deep breath. Calm yourself with some yummy Godet white chocolate liqueur. Whatever the item is, you can find it if you take a systematic approach. After all, it couldn’t have walked away, right? It must be somewhere. But then again, you might have wrecked it or hucked it out the window during a drunken bender.

At first the week will seem ho-hum, Cancer, but a small purchase will get your world vibrating. You might need to fix it or buy some parts, but once you get past your irritation and realize what this product can do, you’ll never look back. It might keep you inside all day. You might never get dressed. You might dismiss friends and lovers so you can play with your new toy. But perhaps you should reconsider…after all, they might bring some rum to put in your new blender.

Leo, you don’t always listen to what others say, but this week you should pay attention. Let their words sink in—a constant headful of gin, vermouth, and crème de menthe makes it hard to absorb information. Of course, your friends might be dead boring. But if they’re not, you might want to do some memory exercises. Do them drunk to establish an unintimidating baseline for yourself.

Rampant emotion is your Achilles heel this week, Virgo, so stop listening to Journey and any other hair-band ballads in your awesome mix. Get some rest; all-nighters make you vulnerable to sentimentality. If you go on pushing yourself, as soon as you get a day off work, you’ll crash. If you don’t think you can go to bed at a decent hour, fill up with vodka and blue curacao. That’ll get you there.

Libra, get ready for a compelling monetary offer. You’re due for a minor windfall, even if it’s just the bank granting you more credit. Sounds like cause for celebration! Get out the Golden Grain 95-proof, toss in a few drops of lemonade, and run around in a thong. Everything’s awesome, and it’s only getting better. Who knows—you might also receive that pardon you applied for.

Someone gives you an unexpected and lavish compliment, Scorpio, thereby getting into your good graces. But can you trust this person? There’s only one way to find out: ply your friend with that peachy truth serum we call Southern Comfort. If your friend is an Aries, everything’s probably cool. Go outside and reel around together; it’ll do you good.

Sagittarius, paranoia and tension are making you your own worst enemy. Identify the things you can’t change versus the things you can. For instance, your local booze shop might not have a gin brand you like, and if it’s a government store, the process of approving and stocking that item is so laboriously bureaucratic that you could make yourself miserable fixating on it. Accept what you can’t control, and go with the flow.

You want more money, Capricorn, and the stars are telling you to go get it. The lottery hasn’t been working out, nor have any of your recent dates left money on the dresser. You might have to exert yourself. Then again, maybe it would be more Zen not to exert yourself, and let the largesse come to you. Hmmm. The stars say not. I see you lurching around with Bacardi 151 in one hand and Wild Turkey in the other, wondering if you can sell your couch.

Aquarius, you’re talented at keeping your true self to yourself, but when you get close to someone, your secrets slip out. This week it could be a Capricorn, a Libra, or a fellow Aquarius who liquors you up with vodka, rum, and amaretto—and learns something weird about you. No malice, though—this friend’s a keeper. Along with secrets you’ll be sharing a blaring hangover.

Pisces, your brain hurts. Between memory dropouts and everyday hangovers, your nerves are shot. If this keeps up, you won’t be able to concentrate on any one thing for more than a few seconds. Perhaps you should ease off on the rye. But if that’s unappealing, try mixing it with antioxidant-laden blueberry schnapps plus Red Bull. Your liver won’t like it but your brain will thank you.

Another breakfast of champions

Just a friendly reminder that drinking can get ugly.

Yes, those are knives behind me. The vulnerability of it!

 

FISGARD 150 BAVARIAN LAGER—No secret, this is a weird beer

My Fellow Inebriates,

Yesterday our next-door neighbor (the nice one, on the right) said, “So, I heard you’re moving.” Her four-year-old, informed by our four-year-old, had told her, and she was clearly wondering why we hadn’t.

Meanwhile, the nasty neighbors on the left had started shuffling round their yard, overregulating their children’s water-play, effectively wringing any possible fun out of it and raising the general neighborhood stress level.

We wanted to say, “We haven’t told anybody, because of people like that.” But instead my mum shrugged and said something idiotic like, “Yeah, we’ve never really fit into this whole townhouse thing.”

For numerous reasons this may be true:

  • the excessive clutter in the yard, including a dirt-encrusted water table, discarded bubble-soap containers, and irreparably punctured “spraying beach ball” beneath which a wood-beetle colony is thriving, plus a Frisbee for anyone interested in hurling such a thing five meters
  • enough bikes, strollers, and scooters for seven children, slung all over the yard
  • the buckled-beyond-repair garage door with the gaping hole, plus spare parts (described as “scrap metal” in a recent Strata Council warning letter)
  • my mother’s proven inability to limit her blue language in a community where even a whisper travels the distance of several units

Our mean neighbors to the left, whose children must tiptoe around their little show home (“don’t touch the walls!”), will undoubtedly do a happy dance when we move. But we’ll miss the nice neighbors on the right with their friendly clutter-rivalry (they have a double stroller sunning itself in the rhododendron bed). We’ll also miss their fearless little four-year-old and the way she tears into our home sopping wet, whipping a spray of hose-water over the laminate and wondering about a snack.

But the new LBHQ is a better fit. It’s an older house in a quiet neighborhood near the kids’ school, with a large, cedar-enclosed back yard plus a capacious deck—the perfect place to pound a case of beer or prance around in a thong audience-free. My dad is really excited about the deck.

Still, the (nice) neighbors very pointedly asked yesterday what we were doing. Why hadn’t my parents mentioned our upcoming change of digs?

We do like these neighbors. We plan to keep in touch with them. But sheer childish perversity prevented my mother from enlightening them. Presumably they were wondering when and if we could have possibly sold the current LBHQ with its astonishing mess and lack of realtor staging—its lack of a realtor, in fact. If anything, this just demonstrates the fishbowl aspect of townhouse living. Everyone, no matter how nice, is in your business.

Scary liked having a BBQ, but he likes having secret satellite more.

But my parents have a secretive side. (For years they’ve concealed inside a gutted barbecue a forbidden satellite dish, through the cover of which our favorite shows happily penetrate. If anyone wonders why we don’t barbecue anything, that’s why, people. We’ve derived inordinate delight from pulling the BBQ cover over the Strata Council’s eyes all these years, although occasionally my dad wishes he could have a steak.) My parents grew up in a time when people didn’t talk about money and pay scales and what your house sold for in the shitty market du jour.

Fact is, my parents haven’t done anything with the townhouse yet. But they’re moving, and once they’ve moved, they’ll sort it out. That’s what they told me, at least. Far easier to tidy up a house when the kids aren’t living in it. Easier than impossible, that is.

So the packing starts this week. Books first, then second-string kitchen crap. Who knows, maybe we’ll actually junk some of it this time.

Watching my parents mobilize for the move is exciting. Not just because we’ll be in novel surroundings, but because when people move, they buy beer. They buy cases of it. And then they buy pizza, which makes them thirsty for more beer. And that makes moving awesome.

As long as nobody buys another Premium Pack from Lighthouse Brewing. OMG, I can’t tell you what a slog it’s been getting through it. When my mum declared it undrinkable, my dad and I had to step up and finish it, otherwise we couldn’t create the fridge vacuum that nature would abhor. Seriously, if my dad and I didn’t finish those Lighthouse beers, we’d never be able to buy more beer!

The most tolerable of the lot was FISGARD 150 BAVARIAN LAGER. Straw-colored and fizzy, it offers a basic aroma profile—grass, corn, and leafy hops—with an exception: that persistent, cloying overripe fruit note that predominates in its three Premium Pack casemates. Only the note is much subtler in FISGARD 150.

On the palate the lager is mild with some background orchardiness and a slightly sour endnote. Even when ice-cold, FISGARD 150 somehow doesn’t achieve refreshment; it tastes uncharacteristically musty for a lager, while noncommittally fruity. It’s a weird-tasting beer, but the weird taste doesn’t redeem it in any way. There’s nothing entertaining about an odd compost odor lurking in, of all things, a Bavarian lager.

So this one’s off our list for the move.