I was at Meadhall in Kendall Sq, Cambridge the other night hanging with Fantastic Mr. Sly. Their beer selection is unbelievable and I started with a Jack’s Abby India Pale Lager. It blew my feeble mind. I thought I was snorting hop-coke off a midget hooker’s ass cheek! Continue reading

I can’t sing.

I try.

Usually on my ride home when it’s raining and my 45 minute commute turns into an hour and a half.

Occasionally I actually surprise myself by holding a note for more than a split second but more often than not I appall my own senses with my utter lack of, nay opposition to, all that is sweet and wonderful in aural bliss. Doesn’t help that my wife sings with the soul of a diva and voice of an angel.

Despite my failings in this regard I’m going to sing some praises for Bear Republic’s Red Rocket. Here we go… ready? Continue reading