First, World War I happens, now this! I don’t know if my children even have enough small pox medication to last the week and now there’s another small-timey brewery public house opening up in my neighborhood of turn-of-the-century northeast Minneapolis? I don’t make enough at the smog factory to afford this always happening to me. Some new brewery opens up (especially a facial hair-centric one) and it becomes justifiably compulsory to forfeit ALL of my money for a growler of elixir, the potency and craftsmanship of which is still suspect. Only the Lord knows why he cursed me to damnation by a providing both a family and a fancy-drinking problem. Woe.

And so I took leave on my penny-farthing to the location of Dangerous Man Brewing (or as futuristic space bloggers will surely lampoon, “Sir George Clooney’s Syriana beard brewery” according to the establishment’s emblem). As soon as I stepped foot inside I noticed myself feeling out of place:


The character of the clientele was uniformly, um, uniform. The attire was all somehow fashionably more worn than mine; beards, chops, and fanny dusters all meandered unchecked by a daily shave. They spoke of “fixing” their penny-farthings to exclude brakes as if this motion would render the traveler’s demeanor “righteous”. Blessed is the father that racism is still rampantly available to me, otherwise the resulting withdrawal would demand that I supplant it with fussy shrieks denouncing these people’s slight, mundane differences from myself. The air’s stench was oddly of cheese and the décor the cause of another sudden horrific premonition where the future involves a vast settlement of identical fast-casual Mexican burrito eateries. My apologies to the interior designer – my appraisal was probably lacking due the severe urge to obtain my guilt tonic and make a dash for it. By Providence’s timely compassion, a young barmaid hastily took my order and soon delivered to me sixty-four Imperial ounces of Dangerous Man’s humbly named House IPA. There is no photographic apparatus so decrepit that could have captured the horrific smile I wore at that moment.

dm2My first action after digging my boneshaker out from underneath the pile of unicycles and tall bikes was to ride past my burdensome family straight to the outhouse to drink. Unfortunately, the gravel journey home did not bode well for the 7.9%abv IPA’s effervescence – ever more the reason to drink faster, before the beer’s vitality escaped. Initially, the new-fangled marvel of refrigeration had triggered chill haze and ensnared the aroma and taste inside a liquid cage until, eventually, the beer warmed up and I could see through the glass. (Editor’s note: Outhouses did not have electricity nor were lit candles common. Some light source would have been necessary for evaluation of appearance. This psycho is clearly lying.) The bitterness was, when cold, saline and sharp but then became kinder, less harsh. I discerned that the hop flowers were imported from a southern hemisphere colony on the other side of the globe as they supplied an abiding sense of both grapefruit and grape; perchance Nelson Sauvin? The perfume was dank, and provided a guiding beacon for the lingering bitterness slowly making port in the back of my tongue. Once on land, to humour this metaphor, the crew of the S.S. Dank experienced a sudden anguish over the island’s arid climate: the body was dry as sand (not wet sand, dry sand!), and a faint corniness emerged as the only sign of malt obtainable. Soon cognizant of my own hallucinations, I noticed I was drunk – this growler quickly enough becoming as empty as my bowels.

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