This is the exact opposite of Heady. Do not drink this directly from the container. Good god, if you never listen to another word I say please pay attention now: do not drink this direct from the bottle. You will deprive yourself of the most heavenly IPA aroma any American brewer has ever before created.

Good. We got that out of the way. Now on to the regular, Beer Hole-y stuff, in which we talk about stuff that has nothing to do with beer, stuff that in normal circumstances would be taken for severe signs of psychical distress.

Dustine and I went up to Vermont last week, on a trip that was about 80% dedicated to the purchase and consumption of beer. You’d think this would result in a bevy of beer posts, but no—not at all. We were far too drunk and cancer-ridden to produce any incoherent nihilist treaties or beard-based Pynchon parodies. All we did was wonder around the most glorious countryside I have ever seen and imbibe beer after beer after beer.

Vermonters are good goddamn people. The best, I think. At least the best I’ve ever spent time around. And this goes far beyond lax dress codes and gay marriage; it was, aside from maybe the north of Iowa and the south of Minnesota, the least pretentious place I’d ever been. No one seemed even a little bit image-conscious. Everyone just existed, all tolerant and placid and peaceable. It was like how I used to think the Beats existed, back when I was in high school and I wasn’t yet aware of how rampant misogyny was back then, or how opiate abuse turns users into horrible shitty monsters.

So basically it was like the good parts of Iowa, only with gorgeous scenery, better beer, and Bernie Sanders in place of Steve King. Call me a hayseed if you will, but that’s the closet description of heaven I can muster:


Even there, Lawson’s was hard to come by. Even in Warren, they only got in ten cases of bombers that week (according to the only man who has ever complimented my Iowa ID). Then at the Montpellier co-op, where the only woman to ever compliment my Iowa ID worked, they only got in one case of Lawson’s per week. It was opened at 10 on Friday morning and we grabbed the last of it at 10:25.

Heady abounds. Heady abounds to the extent that all other hoppy beers begin tasting like grass and plastic and you begin aching for a good, piercing sour so as to slash and burn your pallet. We found none, however. Just hops after hops after hops, and by Boston the assault was so glorious and profound that I decided to switch to mixed, rather than insult my decaying stomach with a beer hop profile that was anything short of perfect.

Anyhow, yeah, this beer is very near perfect, one of the 20 or so best I’ve ever had an the undisputed king of its style.

We’ll describe more places in the next few days. Look out for it.

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