52 Weeks 43: Firestone Double Jack

I think the nose of this IPA reminds me of childhood tree forts, with pine resin seeping around the nails, camping trips where hands or pants become sticky with yellow goop that refuses to wash or scrub or wear off no matter how much dirt or soap you pound into them. Sitting in a tree, breathless from the climbing exertion after finally discovering a place where my butt could rest in some kind of comfort while at least one foot remains lodged in the crotch of tree branches and hands firmly gripping a bark that though adhesive will not keep me from falling. 

And I do not like falling. I broke both my wrists that way in 4th grade-or the summer after that year. Swinging high on a swingset, my friend and I leapt from the apex sailing the three feet to the ground. Disaster struck when I mistimed a release, didn’t get off the swing and held feebly onto it until it swung in the other direction and plummeted to the ground, hands in front.

The malts in this beer are like that; tenuously holding on against the malt bitterness only to collapse at the end, even the effervescence a poor cushion. If the bitterness units were any higher this beer might be too much for me to drink but as it stands I enjoy it in the moment. 

Outside in front of Mary’s Club a ropy man paces, his long sorta blond hair under a black backwards baseball cap, black tanktop and shorts with knee high black boots on. What can I say? He stands out despite being amongst the homeless parade of Burnside. Maybe it’s the chain that hangs from his belt with a silver cross at the end of it, maybe it’s the bike gloves he’s wearing. 

Most likely it is that he is pacing in front of a strip club and the possibilities for this man’s actions start to narrow considerably after that.

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