Now here’s something refreshing: an intelligent insult.

In support of this act of brilliance, I’m having a Damaso T-shirt printed

By an unlikely tale of inebriation. Naturally.

Saturday – a bout of poverty forces me to stay put. What does one do with an entire weekend all to oneself? Plow through that mound of chores I’ve been denying the existence of. Naturally.

As such, I crammed my mental Rolodex with things I wanted to get done.  Clean the bathroom, rearrange furniture, do the laundry, repot the ficus, that sort of thing.

In true Stepford fashion, I started with the kitchen. Donning my trusty Hazmat suit, I confronted the refrigerator first. It was inevitable. I didn’t want to wait for the thing to sprout limbs and try to stage a William Wallace insurrection for freedom. A kitchen appliance with a Scottish brogue anyone? No, thanks.

It was only about two in the afternoon. I figured if I could get this done quickly, I can move down my laundry list and end up having a highly productive weekend. Which will be a sneeze short of a miracle. Also I wouldn’t feel as cheated for not being able to afford to go anywhere.

Excellent plan, Toto! Am I or am I not a regular household Einstein?

I started by clearing the shelves of all unrecognizables. How long they’ve been sitting in the fridge is anyone’s guess. After about 30 minutes of labor, I organized all the things that were reasonably edible and had them sitting on the dining table.

I noticed I still had three bottles of wine left over from last Christmas. And how aristocratic of us to keep them refrigerated alongside the mustard. High-class! Anyhow, I wanted to dispose of them so I did a little taste test.

Two of them were a tad suspicious. They went down the drain. But the 2003 red from Melbourne? Not bad, not bad at all. I had a quarter of a bottle left and I didn’t want to put it back…

I only have this to say about what transpired next: Never chug anything down before reading the label that says 14% proof.

After I was done laughing at god-knows-what, I suddenly remembered my ironclad game plan that was to catapult me to lofty ranks of domesticity.

Abort!!! I went to bed.

After last Sunday’s excursion, I sniffed around online for information on the beers we encountered. I decided to put together a guide for what was on the shelf. Let’s start with the quirky ones.

From the brewery of Flying Dog (yes, there is such a thing). This I’m having on the next drive-by. Their odd sense of humor won me over.

This reminds me of that ridiculous song that goes, “In heaven there is no beer, that’s why we drink it here.” The folks at the Rogue Brewery clearly do not follow that line of reasoning. They think it’s possible to get hammered posthumously.  In honor of that belief, they came up with this:

Unbeknownst to the Trappist monks, the name of their acclaimed brew holds an entirely different meaning around these parts. Despite our collective reverence for the clergy, it will be hard to hold back our amusement. They need to be informed.

To be continued…

In keeping with tradition, the Post-It Queen and I went on a hunt last Sunday. As a preface for the uninitiated, the Day of Rest in our house is set aside for killing the urban doldrums. Of course, the activity involves the use of a wretched thing called money. If we have none, we live with our boredom.

However, on this (somewhat) financially robust weekend,  we set our sights on what is arguably the greatest social lubricant humanity has ever invented: Beer! And I’m not talking about that piss of a beverage called San Mig Light. I am shamelessly of the opinion that the stuff is made by rusting nails in water and was designed specifically to send you on one too many trips to the john without the benefit of getting shitfaced. I know a lot of you felt the quiver of an insult. Tough!

It’s time we take the road less traveled.

Which is what we did. Literally. Mind you, without getting lost. The feat demands an ovation.

On the corner of Polaris and Durban Street in Makati sits an unknown little watering hole called Beers Paradise. The credit for the discovery goes to the Post-It Queen for her incessant alcohol-driven Googling. As attested by their menu, their claim to fame is that they serve 100 kinds of beers from all over. We didn’t really count but even if there were only just 98, they have enough to keep us intrigued.

Granted it’s a little pricey. But where else can you find a joint that serves curiously named brewskis such as Dead Guy Ale and Flying Dog In Heat Hefeweizen? Or a Trappist monk beer called Chimay? And if it is to your liking, you can soak up the old Teutonic way by ordering something called König Ludwig or Jever Pilsener.

I can feel my 600-year-old Prussian lineage coming full circle just by standing within 5 feet of this freezer. It’s glorious.

The first thing I uttered to the bartender was a request for a certain Irish stout. I’ve been on the look out for it since I was legally allowed to imbibe alcohol. Finally, ladies and gentlemen, I was served my first bottle of Guinness.

Some of you might recall my idealistic tirade that I was to only have a pint in a real Pub tap-dispensed by a red-headed barman named Seamus. Then I grew up and became a broke sell-out. Also I realized I didn’t really need the “perfect pint”. I’m just dying to know how the damn thing tastes like.

The verdict is this: it’s heavy. I’m inclined to think of it as the bastard child of  beer and red wine. And if you have more than three bottles…Well. Let’s just say you’ll deny everything in the morning. It’s very good though. My drinking buddy was partial to the lighter brew. But I think I like this Celtic poison. At least in moderation, I do.

As a follow-up, I went for a Boston lager called Samuel Adams which was mildly sweet. Perfect for washing down the nachos we ordered. The Post-It Queen got herself a Belgian ale that I forgot the name of. I would’ve ordered a third bottle but I was fresh out of cash. At that, our taste-testing endeavor came to a close. Partly because I was getting hungry and was craving for something more substantial. The shawarma and humus beckoned us away.

But much as the white folk who, after having discovered Moluccas, kept it as a stubborn afterthought, so shall we be back better armed and will keep coming back until we’ve sampled everything on their goddamn shelf.

I think we can all let go of the bated breath we’ve been keeping in since Monday. If Erap can still wriggle his way out of a five million-vote deficit, I shall take it upon myself to find and strangle that man. The crap I subjected myself to just so I can cast my vote against him. I now know that suffrage means an eternity of standing in suspended animation while waiting your turn in the searing heat. I shall not take an Estrada victory lying down. Neither should anyone of us.

What I find disturbing is that there are over eight million people in this country who honestly believe that this convicted plunderer is the most viable choice we have. That in itself is reason enough to throw in the towel and move to Kazakhstan. But I don’t think the Kazakhs have isaw. If only for that I am staying put.

But even more disturbing is this…

There are no words. Just a painful throbbing in my parietal lobe.

For farsighted mice who can’t read the fine print, this is a diagram of the 1983 Bonnie Tyler hit, Total Eclipse of the Heart.

From this I have surmised two things:

A. Someone, somewhere had way too much time in her hands.

and

B. It was borne out of an apparent need to have more detailed, scientific explanations for mawkish tearjerkers. Not that we’re still wondering. This one’s been belted out of videoke bars for almost 3 decades. But the idea is brilliant nonetheless.

A colleague brought this to my attention. According to the chart, I am just a boring, run-of-the-mill (jaded, heckled, and peeved) Catholic who doesn’t think it possible for underwear to be magical. The kind that believes in a God who sits up there all day rubbing his temples going, “That’s not what I meant!!!”

**Illustration courtesy of http://www.holytaco.com. Italicized credits to ensure I don’t pull a M.V. Pangilinan on anyone.

Follow

Get every new post delivered to your Inbox.