Shooting lumens into the inky blackness of near-winter night, you and yr trusty furpal (—>dog) lunge forward in hasty destruction of evil calories. Yr lust for exercise is dampened, though, by the melodious sound of Snipes Vaquero dripping into a sipping glass.

You burst forth through fronds of backyard ferns and over neighbor’s urban chicken farms  into your abode to catch a few savory ounces. The night’s ruminations have begun. A stillness grips the house. It’s as though the walls themselves wait in anticipation for your first taste. 

Fact: Beer always tastes better after vigorous physical activity. Come to think of it, all festivals and mind-blowingly good beer bars should be directly located at the end of marathon courses. They’d push their weekend sales in 2 hrs. Especially if they piped in Vaquero exclusively. Apparently even small-ish Washington brewers can make beer with the same vertical index of a Pliny: Wispy Hop Lenticulars, Cold Crushing Bitter Glaciers and a Wide Lingering Set of Aftertaste Subpeaks.

So grab your nearest pooch, hike up those running shorts and beat your feet til your bones are ready to crumble. Then you’ll be ready to revitalize your engine and do it all again.

Port Brewing’s Mongo IPA floods an ocean of desert dry hop suds dancing on yr tongue to the Calabasas calypso rarely heard and rarely enjoyed.  Between the sunny SoCal fogs, you find yrself among the Venice bums and the Abbot Kinney trust fund hipsters.  Bewildered, no doubt, yet you focus on the insane lacing and Huron green aroma of the hopvine and dive for another gulp, suddenly tiptoeing around white shark launch attacks like the underwater mambo dancer California sea lion you really are.  Finding tranquilmarine peace amid the crazy sunburnt steel drums and rhododendron treble guitar beeps and bops, yr a gold medalist in the Kerouac buddhism of SoCal IPA indulgence.

Phenomena are blitzes to the senses, creating disorder in an otherwise regimented existence. The bleak and the sublime are interrupted in a casually chaotic manner as yr face receptacle tackles the flavor corruption of the Boneyard.

The next moment, after yr first taste, is opaque as the beer is cloudy. The mind bends backwards like a flailing olympic gymnast, wrenching tendons against their will. Squirrel-faced with bitter noted residue yr eyebrows perk in Spock fashion as a fuzzy bass hum invades yr senses.

Dog odors from underneath yr table compliment yr situation. The haze lessens as yr glass becomes less.tippable. All means of sensory acquisition pull and tug at yr attention: visages of female forms, more tastes of hop curiosity and sounds of clashing glasses.

The evening already feels middle aged. Yr life hangs on the lip of a rounded cup. Pints coming. Be ready. A careful balance will be required henceforth.

And it’s summer again. The humid bolts of lazy lightning drift across open grassland, sweeping a crisp hoppy scent into yer flaring nostrils. Flaring, that is, with animal lust. The Urge. Everything is incredibly fuckable. This oaked IPA and its orgy of palate-pleasing tastes are no exception.

In a world made mad by the comings and going of pheremone surges, this IPA soothes fast—a tranquilizer dart to the groin of yer beery libido. Placid clam drips o’er yer demeanor as 3…4…13 sips assembly-line their way to yer maw. Strange mental clarities arise like slowly escaping flood waters.

The tall, sweet hop grasses shudder, hiding the burbling undercurrent of rising intoxication beneath. There isn’t a spot of mud. Sparkling muddy ripples tickle yer toes and you suckle more and more dewey juice. 

You can see for dozens of acres in any direction into the rolling green hills of oaky goodness. Absorbing sublime hop acids into yer pores. Confine the marshy beerwater to the friendly recesses of yer belly.

Pike IPA

In the nomadic sequence of foraging that is beer selection, Pike’s glowing neon rainbow of packaging stuns yer rods ‘n’ cones. An eery aura envelopes you until a successful purchase is completed.

I.P.A.

Interesting, Palatable, Average

3 nonchalant adjectives raising a notorious question: to beer or not to beer? Handing yr hard-earned greenbacks over for 6 slushy hop bargains may not ring clear and true here. But letting yr friends pour one out for ya like a fallen homey? So be it.

Essentially, it boils down to this-a colonial beverage of the variety found in Tom Paines study. A common sensical (wink!) hop ale for those rutting around like bull elk during the raunchy pangs of mating season. Don’t stray too far afield—wolves and “accidental” hunters lay near, salivating. No, step hoovily toward the gravitational center of this year ritual, an elky dominatrix with a bugle so sensual it’ll melt yer antlers.

But stop stiffly plodding and (en)gorge yerself on the procreative powers of Pike’s IPA 

RYE APOCOLYPSE

Laughing Dog Rocket Dog Rye IPA

Cascade RyePA

Torrents of bleeding mascara blacken the inner thighs of the city’s roadways as Halloween denizens and skanks roam the cloudbursted avenues in search of darker, drier air. Whether you’ve been a sexy pumpkin or a pervy French mime, there’s a “place” you can go to dry off. The Land of Rye. 

All things hoppy in yer brain can be shed momentarily. We’ll return there momentarily.  The tannic grindstone of flavor you’ll soon be sampling (true) is the grain of rye. Straight outta Iowa or Nebraska like a beery field of dreams. We are so often negligent with the ugly cousin of malt and barley. This cousin is much older and always brings a dusty, earthen cough to the party. Just give it another cool glass of V8 to cover that hack. That’s Cascade’s approach.

Or perhaps a funky aromatic nose-bath of hops? Codify the rods of rye into mere stirring sticks and whisk the leftover IPA you’ve gathered in yer cooler. Or wash yer lonely spritzer bottle into the dry hopping bag and wait for the magic. Chuckles the Pooch and his brew crew choose this.

There’s nothing robust about Rye’s but the arid feeling in yer maw after the Cascade might leave the unaccustomed bewildered. In the interests of time and quantity guzzle every last drop of LD’s liquid perfection