GUINNESS BLACK LAGER—I’ll have another, and so will my dad

My Fellow Inebriates,

Thank goodness my dad had the sense to ignore Mum’s would-be dry weekdays edict. Seriously, we boys need to stick together against this sort of mini-temperance move. If my dad hadn’t felt the pull of the liquor store and gone in for some GUINNESS BLACK LAGER I would have worried about him.

Mum says I deserve hate mail for implying she can simply be ignored on financial matters. She said it was anti-feminist of me to suggest that Dad and I need to paint her anti-alcohol (at least on weekdays) campaign as irrational and militant, and that if I wasn’t careful she’d encourage the kids to put me in a dress ASAP and engage me in playtime well past Guinness-drinking hour, thank you very much, you nasty little bear.

DSCN2040I’m not making up the fact that my dad and I are overwhelmed here at LBHQ. The bathroom is full of ponies. Everything has glitter on it. We stockpile Purex’s pink breast cancer awareness toilet paper, which is so pink that it prevents you from seeing whether your ass is bleeding, if in fact it is. Yes, Dad and I are outnumbered. All we have is beer.

Moreover, I won’t get any hate mail because I don’t get any mail. Either my readers are completely nonplussed by the blog and left speechless or they simply aren’t reading it (my money’s on the latter). Ergo, I told Mum, I can say whatever I want.

She conceded the point but argued that Dad and I share more than beer. The stereo, the car, and probably the porn, she itemized.

“We watch gobs of porn,” I said—a small joust at her insecurities.

“That’s fine,” she said. “Lucky you’re nearby—you’re nice and absorbent.”

Black-Lager-HiRes

OMG!! Maybe my allegiance is all wrong, my fellow inebriates. In the spirit of reconciliation, I suggested we try some of that GUINNESS BLACK LAGER my dad bought so disobediently. She’s probably the smart one after all—for surely it’s better to save up one’s drinking for the weekend and then get ripped to kingdom come.

This wasn’t what she had in mind when she first proposed dry weekdays; it was financially motivated—i.e., doubling up on booze to make up for Monday to Friday would defeat the purpose.

I made one last appeal: “But haven’t you read The Secret? If we act like we’re poor by cutting back on alcohol, we’ll create an impoverished vibe and perpetuate our poverty. We have to throw money around and behave like it doesn’t matter.”

After that she just stopped talking to me. We drank our GUINNESS BLACK LAGER in silence.

DSCN2185

Black and tan like a Guinness

As you’d expect, it’s the color of my friend Blackie Bear with tan foam (Blackie isn’t frothing at the mouth currently but he has some tan bits). An abiding affection for GUINNESS DRAUGHT must have programmed me to expect a deep, malty flavor—dark, boomy notes rather than the high notes you get off the top with the BLACK LAGER. While it does give off a malty smell, this proves deceptive upon the first sharp sip. True enough, I should be expecting lager-like characteristics, but it’s still a shock to taste watery barley and sourdough. It does settle down as it warms, but it continues to rail against all the sensory suggestions that attend the GUINNESS name, not to mention its warm, dark color.

The mouthfeel is inadequate but the carbonation is compensatory: forceful and emphatic. Coffee and malt hit the nose and the palate like a sloppy drunk trying to throw a punch. This beer is all over the map and yet it comes together in a fighting Irish sort of way. It’s pretty good if not memorable for anything other than some minor weird incongruities, and I would have another. And another. And another.

ASTROLIQUOR for April 19–25—What the stars say you should drink!

My Fellow Inebriates,

Here’s your booze horoscope:

Aries, someone close to you is having a birthday soon—don’t forget! Seriously, you’ve been having some badass memory blackouts, so put the date in your phone or something. Buy a nice present and show up sober. You guessed it—you’re the zodiac’s Designated Driver this week. Yay, you! The stars know you totally hate having this honor, but somebody’s got to do it. Pour yourself some chocolate milk.

Taurus, you can’t escape the weight of responsibility this week. You’ve been procrastinating for days, and there’s a big pile of work waiting for you. Think of ways to cut corners and get it done fast. But hold off on the Kahlua until you finish; it’s genuinely difficult to do a project when you’re shitfaced. Reward yourself afterwards with a drink. The stars wonder if you are sore from masturbating so much.

Gemini, you seem sure of yourself but it is all an act. Feel free to keep it up this week; people like you better when you’re pretending to be someone else. You’ll attract a Capricorn on Tuesday or Wednesday. This person is very fond of thongs, and also enjoys brandy with lime juice, bitters, and club soda. Stock up your bar and your underwear drawer.

Cancer, you may anticipate an easy week, but you’re dreaming. You’ll run out of money and spend the weekend consoling yourself by draining your liquor cabinet—say goodbye to your stockpile of Maker’s Mark and Grand Marnier. When the hell did you buy artichoke liqueur? Oh well, it’s gone now. Pick yourself up on Saturday and go somewhere. Don’t worry; you’ll meet someone nice.

Leo, you’re conflicted about relationships. Fact is, you don’t know what you want: a fling? or something serious? And the dilemma won’t get resolved this week. In fact, it will bother you until at least July, when you’ll discover how excellent gin is for quelling this sort of ambivalence. Mix it up (a lot of it) with some Forbidden Fruit liqueur and you won’t care about relationships at all.

You need a martini, Virgo, or you won’t be able to stop worrying about a certain purchase you made recently. That thing you bought doesn’t really work properly, but you’re too embarrassed to return it to the store. Hell, it was embarrassing enough buying it in the first place. Nor do you know anyone who’d want such an item, or admit to wanting it, or admit to wanting it and still want it after you’ve used it. Nah, you’ll have to attempt a return to the store. Get drunk first and stagger over there (on foot of course).

Libra, be careful about contracts this week; someone wants to take advantage of you financially. If you must sign something, read the small print carefully (while not pie-eyed on Sambuca and Bailey’s, okay?) and sign only when you’re sure you understand everything. Get lots of sleep before any meetings. Yeah, I know, it doesn’t sound like you’ll be pounding too many of those shooters this week. (Sigh.)

You have no interesting in maintaining relationships of no benefit to you, Scorpio. This is a position of strength—take no crap from anyone! You are a nice person who deserves the best. Right now you can’t decide whether you hate people or love them. Do you want to hole up by yourself or dance naked on a table? This is the sort of decision best left up to tequila.

Sagittarius, you’ll experience some hallucinations this week, both auditory and visual. Try to get some friends to corroborate what you’re experiencing. If you’re seeing weird shit, it might be because the weird shit is really there. Nevertheless, try to keep your head somewhat clear—nothing stronger than Guinness for you. Oh yeah, and don’t let anybody drive you anywhere. When you’re hallucinating, the bus is much more fun.

Somebody has a crush on you, Capricorn, a crush that will be revealed most awkwardly and inopportunely. You’ll be surprised this person feels so strongly about you; you’ve never really liked him/her and now the raw truth is before you (and probably all your colleagues and your spouse too). The best bromide for an awkward moment is gin—six ounces or so.

Aquarius, you’re on a roll socially, so you can get away with being drunk for the whole week. You feel lucky to be you and to have so many good friends and such relative wealth. Every single day someone will hit on you. You are indeed the envy of the zodiac. Take your joy to the next level with lashings of Everclear and Captain Morgan.

Pisces, while cleaning out your closets you’ll find an old photograph of someone you once cared deeply for. You’ll end up sitting among the cobwebs sobbing for your lost relationship, not to mention your lost youth. OMG, Pisces, does every week have to be pathetic? Come on, you need a happy drink:

  • 3 oz white rum
  • 1/2 oz creme de bananes
  • A whole bunch of difference juices (totally optional, especially given your state of mind)

PABLO OLD VINE GARNACHA (2011)—And some musings about the kids’ future therapy sessions

My Fellow Inebriates,

If you’ve noticed the reviews are getting a little sparse lately, you’re not imagining it. A recent parental resolution has curtailed our tastings.

It’s not totally drastic, although it feels drastic. There’s been no decision to quit drinking. But there’s been a decision to quit drinking every day.

Some of you may be applauding this idea. After all, small children reside at LBHQ and would prefer their parents’ alert attention and consideration (as opposed to useful fodder in the form of psychological baggage for later creative writing or filmmaking careers, you be the judge). Misses P and V will not perceive the value of such baggage until well into adulthood, and, to be honest, my parents aren’t sold on it either. I lobby pretty hard to keep the alcohol flowing here, and to ramp it up to dysfunctional levels, but it never quite gets there. My paranoid mother is convinced that the world is winding up to sock it to the kids psychologically; that even without alcohol we have enough to do to get them through childhood without being shot at school, blown up at a parade, co-opted into Scientology, or enlisted as Justin Bieber’s concubines; and that they will still end up reciting their fucked-up childhood stories to some overpaid psychologist.

And they had this bear, right? This bear was there all the time. It was mangy, and they talked to it like it was one of us. They bought it alcohol and then drank most of it themselves…

But mainly the new LBHQ policy of not drinking every day is financial. My mum thinks an excessive chunk of our budget gets spent at the liquor store. Even though nobody’s getting drunk, those here-and-there beers add up, and she’d rather have that money for wholesome family-type pursuits.

If they ever had a highball, that bear would be on the table with it. They’d let it stick its face in the glass. It was starting to reek like alcohol…

Sigh. It does make sense. If two beers get drunk every day—one for each parent because, contrary to what the children will one day tell their therapists, they don’t pour one for me as well—that’s 60 beers a month. That’s $129, on top of which you can add four bottles of wine, and next thing you know—conservatively—$190 has evaporated in a delicious, hedonistic vapor.

All right, so $190 sounded perfectly reasonable to me, and my dad probably wouldn’t arrive at that number; he’d say we drink much less per month, but then he wouldn’t go through the exercise of adding it in the first place, so we kind of have to trust my mum, who unfortunately is a counter.

Dad and I have a visceral distaste for counters. Why he married one I’m not sure; perhaps she pretended not to be a counter while they were dating. But now she’s that person who, when one of the kids gets a birthday invitation, thinks: “How much did they spend last time they give us a present?”—then matches it or tops it slightly. Classmates come collecting for charity—“What did they donate to our last pledge drive?” Girl Guides show up with cookies—“I’m sorry, I cannot justify paying $5 dollars when Golden Oreos cost $2.99.” You get the drift.

She wouldn’t buy my friend S’s cookies because they were five dollars. Then she spent twice that on an Argentine Torrontes. She said that bear told her to.

Basically, my mum is totally hateful and cheap, and she’s decided to punish Dad and me by declaring dry weekdays.

Admittedly this has made weekends something to look forward to. Last Saturday, for instance, we decanted a bottle of PABLO OLD VINE GARNACHA (2011). The source vineyard was planted over 100 years ago in Atea, Spain and boasts “dusty, dry slate soils at an altitude of 1,000 metres,” producing lush fruit that has achieved some fame, especially at the price point. PABLO sells for $13.99 at our local booze shop and delivers 14.7% alcohol—a win-win equation to satisfy even the most stingy wine-buying parent to whom a bear might be shackled financially. But is it a nice wine?

pablo old vine garnacha

Out of the gate you get a slight yeasty aroma. PABLO is pretty young still, but it’s got a lot going on. That breadiness is a minor chord rafting along with blueberries, blackberries, spice, and floral notes. It’s hard to let it sit in the decanter, but that’s exactly what we did, and for almost half an hour, people. Under my mum’s new directive, we’d been jonesing all week for a glass of wine; a half-hour couldn’t damage us. Could it?

Well, maybe, but all the same it was rewarding to wait. PABLO hits the palate with intensity, cherries and black fruit coming to the fore and a well-modulated backnote of pepper. Not overly complex, perhaps, but hitting some winning notes and overdelivering on a moderate investment.

All those years, we’d be in bed, and out in the living room they’d be offering wine to that bear while making sure it had a good view of the TV screen.

I’m still not on board with dry weekdays, but being thumbless I have no choice. Happily, my dad’s not really on board either; he showed up with some GUINNESS BLACK LAGER after work. Mum went tsk tsk but still grabbed a swig from his glass, because apparently that doesn’t count. Review to come. 😉

I thought if I dressed the bear up in doll dresses my parents would realize it was an object—just a thing that I could manipulate, and not a drinking buddy. I wonder if they ever really got that.