beer

ASTROLIQUOR for November 30 to December 6—What the stars say you should drink!

My Fellow Inebriates,

Here’s your booze horoscope:

Aries, you’ll run into your doppelganger this week, and you know how that usually turns out. Two belligerent freaks one-upping each other at the bar? Other astrological signs would do well to stay out of your collective way. And for the last time, yes, you can mix vodka and cognac, so don’t start a fight about it. You’ll be far more attractive to that horny coworker if you don’t have a black eye.

Taurus, you feel happy and generous this week—ready to chat with anyone, anywhere. That person at the Starbucks counter; your bankruptcy counselor; hobos… You can’t take all the credit for this social energy—you pretty much spend the week ripped out of your head on UV Blue, waking yourself up with Red Bull when your head starts nodding. What an awesome life!

Is someone ignoring your affectionate overtures, Gemini? Dissing you behind your back at work? You may be cluing in that your charisma is on hiatus this week. In fact, your charms will remain at a low ebb until January. Ordinarily hard to get, you find yourself hard to want. Hang in there with some vodka and Blue Curacao.

Cancer, your spider sense leads you to all the best parties, and you can expect to stay hammered all week. Careful, though: Malibu +vanilla vodka = a lot of mouthing off, and you might say the wrong thing to someone you care about. Try to hook up early in your drunken evening; instead of offending fellow party-goers with filthy comments, you could be soiling one of the guest bedrooms.

Leo, the stars are calling for sado-masochistic, anonymous sex with a Scorpio. You mustn’t be the sub, though! Be the captain of your genitals; your self-esteem will thank you for it. Be discreet and agree never to speak of this week’s events again. The rest of your week is less thrilling—you pull Designated Driver duty.

A happy week beckons, Virgo, featuring frivolity and triviality—and that means Malibu. Malibu and Midori, drunk out of a hollowed-out pineapple. Ahhhh! Despite your attraction to silly drinks and your disavowal of politics, economics, and books authored by people using their real names, you seek out flirtations with forceful, aggressively intellectual types. Make sure you don’t end up on YouTube.

Libra, emotions get the better of rational thought this week. Whatever you do, don’t sign any contracts or undertake anything of a legal nature. If someone says, “Hey, I’ve got this great business idea, are you interested?” say, “Hey, I’ve been wearing the same thong for most of Movember and it’s grown its own moustache.” Non sequiturs are your best conversational ally. You should make a chocolate martini.

Someone phones you this week, Scorpio. On the actual telephone. Not a text or an email but a real telephone call. What the hell? You’re so nonplussed by the weirdness of a person interrupting your day to talk that you ignore it. Nah, not really. You ignore it because you can’t move. That’s what three ounces each of Jagermeister, Goldschlager, Cuervo, and Bacardi 151 do to a person—even a Scorpio.

Sagittarius, nobody at home knows what you do at work, which is just how you like it. This week you solve all kinds of ridiculous problems, you ingratiate yourself with higher-ups, and you strike a perfect balance between strength and vulnerability, garnering both love and respect. And you pack away a 26er of Jameson Irish whiskey.

New opportunities flash like lightning this week, Capricorn. The key is socializing—go out and hang with friends and acquaintances. Be open to new experiences. Say hi to everyone. Give money to hobos and bears loitering outside the liquor store. (While inside, buy Jack Daniel’s, Jim Beam, and Crown Royal—the stars say you’ve run out of these products.)

Aquarius, you’ll have another run-in with the law this week, so make some hasty travel plans. With the right attitude, you can spin this into a holiday somewhere hot. While abroad, you may receive worrying communiques—ignore them.  Quell your apprehension with liquor. You probably didn’t have time to take any anti-malarials, so you’ll need lots of crappy low-alcohol beer for hydration purposes.

Pisces, you have a hectic week ahead. You have a porn-compromised computer to cleanse of viruses and worms, plus some actual work associated with your job, plus some drinks to mix to make it all tolerable. I’m thinking vodka for you with some bitters and gingerale. Then maybe a nice romantic comedy.

INNIS & GUNN WINTER TREACLE PORTER—Charge it to the corporate card

“You wouldn’t even know the difference if you had to wear a hairshirt,” said my mother when she saw the liberties I’d taken in describing her childhood Catholicism. “Your moustache isn’t even scratchy. In fact, I can’t even see it.”

It’s true, the moustache hasn’t gained much traction on this already furry face. I thought, if I just put my mind to it, I’d have this epic Fu Manchu growth going on by late November, but nothing doing. So I’ll have to donate money to the cause instead. Or give my dad a prostate exam.

None of my fellow inebriates will be surprised to learn, however, that my parents keep the LBHQ enterprise on a very lean budget. When I told them I wanted to make charitable donations, purchase seasonal greeting cards, and buy a crate of gin, they told me I’d have to use the “corporate card.”

Turns out the corporate card is a beat-up, unusable piece of plastic, maxed out and ripe for denial. Who knew my parents could be so mean?

It reminds me of the time they almost finished the INNIS & GUNN WINTER TREACLE PORTER. They were almost at the dregs, people, when it dawned on them that the resident reviewer was not there. (I was looking for Glen, polar bear and vodka expert, who’s been missing, along with the camera charger, since we moved to the new LBHQ.) There was only one bottle of this clear, mahogany elixir; they’d split it between them, the gluttons, and their portions were down to fumes—vanilla-caramel-malt fumes with gentle oak and molasses. A Scottish ale I would have given my moustache for, damn it.

When I appeared, they actually looked guilty and let me have the remainders. Forgetting about Glen and the camera charger (and Movember, a worthy charitable cause for those of you with deeper pockets, or any pockets for that matter), I slurped it up.

At 7.9% alcohol, INNIS & GUNN WINTER TREACLE PORTER is perfect for getting ripped on a cold day. A stunning marriage of lightly toasted malt, sticky toffee, well-behaved hops whose fruitiness is a mere hint, crisp carbonation, medium body, and a lingering, peaty finish, this porter is less porter than ale, but what sort of bear would quibble? This shit is divine. For the sake of the tremendous layering of flavors alone, it’s worth grabbing while it’s available—which it won’t be after winter.

Fortunately, the bottle came in a specialty pack that included two other varieties and an INNIS & GUNN beer glass. How could my dad possibly buy just one? A week later he returned to the store and bought another so he and my mum could drink from identical glasses. I can only assume he’ll take a third trip next week on behalf of yours truly…

Or perhaps he’ll tell me to go and buy my beer glass with the corporate card. This isn’t over, Dad.

UGLY SWEATER MILK STOUT—Locked deep within the LBHQ fridge

My Fellow Inebriates,

I made another attempt on the fridge today, this time to get an UGLY SWEATER MILK STOUT.

How long did my parents remain unaware of my predicament? Who knows… Finally one of them yanked me out.

“Wait!” I pleaded. “I need that that UGLY SWEATER!”

Dad: “Buddy, you’re already wearing an ugly sweater.”

Mum: “You kind of are an ugly sweater.”