The rules of IPA's.

My Thursday night journey began, as usual, with many conflicting plans and meeting places. By the time all was coordinated, I of course, was running my customary thirty-minutes late. The designated meeting place was the tourist center of town, affectionately known in local circles as nothing but "the Plaza". The Plaza is a picturesque location from which you have a 360 degree view of the many [and I do mean many] overpriced restaurants and bars just begging to lure in some much coveted tourist cash. Tourist-bar hopping is an adventure in and of itself, one that I wasn't up to tackling this particular evening; so after much deliberation among my colleagues and myself, we decided upon the best route to circumvent the summer out-of-towners, and as a bonus not pay an arm and a leg for sub-par cocktails.

The first stop on the list was one of my favorites, a little hole-in-the-wall Irish pub that boasts a mediocre but [key word here] cheap beer selection. The unassuming nature of the building's facade tends to defer the hotel crowd and so, glad to take a load off and plot our next move, we gratefully took refuge inside the sparsely crowded room. Taking a seat in my favorite spot [right in front of the taps, of course] I perused the selection while the bartender offered helpful but misguided tips. On tap tonight were the customary cheap Irish lagers - which I passed over without a second glance - Guinness, and a couple favorites from the local Walkabout Brewery . Never one to order a pint of something unknown without a taste, I requested a sample of the Jabberwocky Strong Ale; which the bartender described paradoxically as 'an IPA without the hops'. Now, if you know anything about the various types of ales, you know that hops are what give the IPA it's characteristic bitter bite. The idea of an IPA without hops is almost as disturbing as a birthday without cake, a Christmas without Santa, a... well, you get the point. Presented with my sample glass of Jabberwocky, I proceeded to take a small sip and to my horror, the bartender's description was spot-on.

An IPA without hops.

I shuddered and ordered an old favorite instead, making sure to inform the bartender that the Jabberwocky ale was only half a beer, and should be priced as such. The Worker's Pale Ale was a much more satisfying choice, and chuckling at my companion's cliche choice of Guinness, I settled in to enjoy the bite of hops followed by the smooth nut-brown aftertaste. Delicious.

Around this time the modestly sized room began to fill with a rather racous crowd. Considering I have never before seen this pub with more than seven customers at a time, this random influx of people was a bit unexpected. Looking around confusedly, I wondered what event could possibly draw such a crowd to such a notoriously low-key place of business. The answer made itself clear when an amplified voice sounded from a previously darkened corner of the room, announcing that tonight, for the first time ever, Paddy's Irish Pub would play host to one of America's favorite pasttimes; and no I don't mean baseball.

Karaoke had come to the Irish pub.

It was around this time that I began to pay attention to the newcomers, most of whom were of the 'middle-aged-ex-garage-band-singer-turned-insurance agent' variety, although there were a notable number of the 'wasted-blonde-recently-21-year-old-girl' variety as well. As much as my inner cynic was screaming that this was no more than a heinous form of prolonged torture, the beer connoisseur in me was loath to forego the sip-by-sip savoring of my remaining half a pint of Pale Ale. These two fundamental instincts battled in my head, the beer connoisseur finally winning out with a logical, "it's just Karaoke, how bad can it really be?" Settling in to be amused at the very least, I surveyed the first contestent with a critical eye.

Kevin was a shorter middle aged man who announced himself as - you guessed it - an insurance agent. He was ruddy faced and rather intoxicated as he announced he would be singing 'a great new song by Oasis'. There were two things wrong already, and Kevin hadn't even begun singing yet.

1) Oasis has never written, and will never write, a 'great' song.
2) The song in question debuted in roughly 1995 - 13 years ago by my count - and thus can certainly not be considered 'new', even to someone of Kevin's advanced years.

Before I could finish pondering my qualms with Kevin's logic, a shrill and terrifying sound rent the air. I looked frantically around for the wounded animal, disappointed when my search yielded nothing but Kevin; beginning his performance with the awkward removal of his blazer and tie, followed by a pitiable imitation of Liam Gallagher's opening note. Connoisseurship be damned, I was not about to wait around to see which article of clothing Kevin would decide to remove next, and after a horrified glance at my companions, I quickly drained the contents of my glass and beelined for the door.

Reconvening once we had all mercifully escaped the soulful sounds of Kevin's performance, we quickly decided to meander down the street to the local 'dance club' which was hosting a good friend's performance that very evening. Still struggling to banish the image of Kevin's Oasis themed strip-tease, I was relieved to reach a place with pounding jungle beats, provided by none other than my good friend Shawn. After a brief greeting to the man behind the turntables, it was off to the bar to enjoy the club's specialty. Homemade liquor infusions. Now in case you hadn't noticed, I'm much more a beer buff than a liquor drinker, but this place is the one exception to the rule. Boasting a Chili-infused tequila, a Ginger-Lemon and Mango vodka, and a Pineapple rum, this particular club is the only place where a shot takes priority over a good, dark beer. Ordering a round of tequila shots and the classic Lagunitas IPA [heavy on the hops, thankfully] we clinked glasses, knocked 'em back, and got down to the serious business of dancing, glad to have left Kevin's Karaoke Classics far behind.

Until next time, my advice to you is:
Keep your IPAs hoppy, your tequila shots chili-infused, and your music of a bass-heavy nature.

Cheers!

Pool Sharking 101.

My most recent adventure in night-life obscurity happened this past Tuesday when I left the sanctuary of my self-created paradise and ventured out into the "real world" for a night of billiards, drinking, and general debauchery.

My first drink purchase, as always, was a Ninkasi Total Domination IPA.
[If you haven't tried this delectable brew, well I am very disappointed, and I suggest - no, command - that you rush out and purchase yourself a pint of this sinfully delicious beverage post-haste.

Also on the menu for the week:
Ninkasi Oatis Oatmeal Stout (now infused with vanilla bean)
Southern Oregon Brewing Co. Porter (My new personal favorite - if you could bottle happiness, it would taste like this.)
Caldera Stone Rock Porter (I know, a little overboard on the Porters...)

Okay, enough shameless brewery plugs, I have a different blog for that though it is having maintenance issues at the moment... On with the tale!]

Upon arrival I encountered RJ, an old friend and erstwhile billiards competitor, who promptly challenged me to a game. It was at this point that I discovered I was in what we billiard buffs refer to as "The Zone". Every shot hit home with barely any effort at all, my usually scathing tongue delivered psyche-outs and taunts with ease, and my opponent fell within minutes. Upon his defeat, he good naturedly offered to buy me a refill for my rapidly depleting beverage. Draining the last sip, I meandered over to the bar at his side, sitting down to order a new favorite, The Caldera Stone Rock Porter.
At around this time, RJ and I acquired a new 'best friend'. I'm not sure if you've ever been treated to an episode of Popeye, but if you have I'm sure you are familiar with Popeye's arch nemesis: Bluto.

In case you somehow forgot this enigmatic villain, I will provide you with a visual refresher course:
Now, our new best friend bore such a striking resemblance to my cartoon hero's tormentor that for a moment I felt as though I had been transported into a 1960's cartoon scene. What would Olive Oyl do? I wondered, as Bluto placed a 100lb arm across my shoulders after a drunken assertion that I was 'thepreetistgurlinthewhooooleworld!' After more drunken gibberish on his part, and a few attempts at crude sign language, I managed to discern that Bluto was trying to engage me in a game of pool.
Carefully weighing my options, I decided to start a friendly wager with my new friend. Now, you may be thinking that it's vaguely immoral to place bets with someone who can barely understand the concept of a pause between words, let alone aim a cue at a series of balls and hope for victory...
And you may be correct.
However, I never claimed to be one of the good guys, and so I made the wager: Loser buys the winner's next drink. Fairly basic, right? Win one game, receive one beverage? That's what I thought too.
Well, after I defeated Bluto the first time [in a matter of minutes, I might add] I was ready to take my victory drink [another Caldera Porter] and be on my way. Fortunately, Bluto hadn't had enough. I proceeded to beat him another three times, earning myself another precious pint of Porter [allertation, what?] with each victory.
Accustomed as I am to earning my beverages in a much less traditional way [don't get any ideas, the occasional flirtatious remark is as low as I go] this night of actually employing a skill to earn my buzz was at best exhilarating, at worst a nice change.

Alas, time for a new adventure. Tonight on the agenda? Another round of billiards with my sister at the new 'metal' bar in town. Since a new bar in this town [especially so far removed from the tourist center] lasts approximately 3 months on its own before going bankrupt, I'd better take advantage of my chance.

'Till next time.

I meant it when I said it.

Well here it is, the inaugural entry of my very first asinine social blog. This blog is intended to be nothing so much as a social commentary on things that I find ironic, humorous, or just downright ridiculous in the small town where I have most of my adventures. No, I'm not going to tell you which small town it is. It's my town, it's your town, it's every American tourist town with a population of less than fifty-thousand. Enjoy.