Monday, November 18, 2002

How the hell can he type?

Well, I think it's confirmed. I'm a severe hophead. Came home after the Impromptu CD launch party (music, y'know) and decided to have a beer while watching the Eagles kick the Cardinals' collective ass.

The first beer was a Paulaner Hefe-Weizen, again a sterling example of the style, but I've discovered that I've come to disappreciate the style (is 'disappreciate' a word? Depreciate? Deprecate? Detest.) Anyway, I've discovered that Hefe-Weizen wheat beers are fruity things, not suited for the beer palate. Phooey.

Then I tried a Stone Ruination India Pale Ale (from the same people as gave us the Arrogant Bastard mentioned before). Manly hops. 100+ International Bitterness Units, and a 7.7% alcohol content. Given that I've barely eaten anything today, Ruination IPA has kicked my posterior, one cheek at a time, back to both Prussia and Finland. I'm three sheets to the winds right now (in case it wasn't obvious), and the wind in those sails is beautiful hoppish bitterness. I'm about three swallows from the end of my Ruination, and in utter bitter bliss.

Booyah, baby. I can't think of a better followup to a fruity pansy excuse for a Hefe-Weizen beer than an invasion of Hunnishly-clad hops, smelling of horse-sweat and gall, riding in from the sunset at the command of such a doughty IPA.

Damn, yo. I may start a garden of hop trellises in memoriam.

Must sleep now. Prost!

-Rich, very inebriated.

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