Hops. Yeast. BAC. All good things. This blog examines the subculture of fine ale and the discerning, whimsical palette. You don't have to be over 21 to enjoy these postings, but I do recommend you play along at home.


Return to Prominence

OK. So we're back. And I'm gonna do one of those inane tributes to mundanity and commonplaceness. That's right, I'm bloggin' about BULLSHIT!!!

What's the haps, you ask? Well, I saw "18 Blocks" last night and it was lousy as hell. Not a single punch was thrown, therefore, not a single punch was landed. May a remind you, this is Bruce Willis movie. I like Bruce Willis, seen most of his films and think he's an above-average action hero, but not necessarily an above-average actor. This is probably not breaking news and that's OK. But once again, the marketing team of a big-budget Hollywood vehicle has duped the hard-working, film-going citizenry. (On another note I wanted to see Dave Chappelle's "Block Party" for my Mos Def fix, which would have been a much better route, as Mos' role in "18 Blocks" was lame, one-dimensional and beneath him.) ---///--- What else is going? Apparently I eat Peruvian food, which is pretty awesome. Lotsa g-lac (garlic), a term based loosely on the hyphen of Gilroy, being "G-Roy," but which I affectionately refer to as "The Roy." Thinkin' 'bout goin' to The Roy's G-Lac Festival this summer, that's right. What else is mind-numbingly inane? Well, started a new game at the office, a game that has elicited the ire of a couple of my lady co-workers, Ananda Rong and Heloise Winterbottom. The game is simple but requires three key ingredients: 1 San Diego Chargers "Feel the Power" hacky sack, 1 fondue pot and 1 Gibson-based opponent; in this case, Gibson himself. Think H-O-R-S-E in a very small space, the floor littered with office supplies and thunderous shaking of cubicles as we crash down to Earth after another monstrous jam. ---///---What other bullshit can I blog about? I enjoyed some cannabanoids after "Crap" won the Best Picture Oscar via a bent-up Tecate can at Heloise Winterbottom's crib -- return to prominence, indeed. That's when you know you're out of practice. Y'see, in college, everybody was always blazin, so you better believe we had some sweet-ass water pipes (For Tobacco Use Only, of course) in circulation. (Small digression: the greatest water pipe of them all was Tony Gwynn, a metric foot of pure narcotic narcissism, known for his excellent hitting average. Old or young, tall or short, vet or noob, T Gwynn got you high. One day, the best DJ you never heard of (yet), Noose, decided to smash T Gwynn into a door handle. I haven't really gotten over it and we'll tackle that another day.) Anyway, these days, being an upstanding young(ish) man with a stable job, small dog and comitted relationship, what do I do? I smoke out of a Mexican beer can, that's what. I've come a long way, baby.