Ok, so I've been getting pretty heavily into brewsnobbery, slopping down one or two large bottles of high-powered northwestern sloogie each night under the auspices of hobby but knowing it's pretext for highage. Anyway, in my quest for the perfect beer (read: tastiest brew with the highest ABV), I picked up an old guide that lists 1500 brouhahas on a 0-5 scale and lands just one with 4.8 or higher: the Rogue Imperial Stout. Cut to today, Tuesday, May 2, the year of the Apocalypse 2006, and Hedonist Beer Jive informs me that Rogue has a local affiliate, situated here, here in the heart of the enemy-

Rogue Ales Public House - Newport
673 Union Street, SF, CA

and I'm thinking that in my current way too many littl'uns NO ROAD TRIP STATUS, perhaps bridge roadage is all I'm good for. I'm thinking that afternoons are the perfect time for new flavors, and that nothing says I love me like a few tasty hours on a new barstool with the world's greatest stout. I call on one and I call on all to join me in sampling and then slugging this so-called world's greatest beer in the middle of some May afternoon when all the good people are biking or rollerblading or having their Escalades detailed. I'm calling on a death to habit, to routine, to mummifying couch trips filled with nothing more than munching newfangled Mexican spice chips and staring at Tiger's frustrated face in the native fescue. This is a call to urban adventure, to middle-age romance, to cheap, meaningless excuses to get loaded under the highbrow umbrella of all the other bullshit reasons I'm spouting. Somebone get toasty with me on Imperial Stout before the Lamb comes for the Chosen, leaving my skeleton burning on a flaming stool.