IPA Tales

The Moving Day Days Week

Moving is a bitch. Usually, anyway.

My most recent move wasn't so bad because more than half my stuff was already in boxes in the garage, on account of me downsizing at the beginning of the year and moving in with my son.

So when I got the keys to my new downtown digs on a Wednesday, I started moving my boxes in - one car load at a time. And when it was time for the big stuff three days later, I borrowed a truck from work, borrowed the muscle of my pal Brandon, and two trips later I was all moved in.

Easy peasy. Sort of.

Not that the day was without its little adventures. What move is without those, huh?

For starters, the couch wouldn't fit, so back to the old place and its garage it went. The box spring and frame wouldn't fit down the stairs either, so the box went into the garbage and the frame went into my new garage for later disassemble.

I now sleep on a mattress only, which makes me feel very tall until I have to get out of it. Then I just feel very old.

And then there was the hooker Brandon and I met on our travels.

We were just south of downtown - a block away from the one-way street that would take us north, almost all the way to my new place - when she hailed me down.

At first I thought I knew her, with her waving and all (and it being the middle of the day) and when I realized she was a working girl I thought she was a step up from the usual 90-pound sleep-walking street walkers of our fair city. But as she got closer I could see in her face the signs of drug abuse.

"Can I service you," she asked, and that is something I can say I never heard before. Then she noticed Brandon in the passenger seat. "Oh sorry, I didn't realize you were with somebody."

I'm not exactly sure how to take that last comment. Brandon wasn't sure either.

There was another, even sweeter, highlight on Moving Day: beer.

We were nearly finished loading the truck back at the house I shared with Most Awesome and Number Two Son Cameron, when I decided a beer break was in order. (I was smart for a change and had beer stashed at BOTH houses.) And not just any beer, but a homebrew from Linda and John, courtesy of my pal Josh. It was an American Pale Ale called Stress Buster and it was ... incredible.

I've had a few of their creations before but this was just bursting with flavour. Two thumbs up from Brandon as well.

Anyway, we finished the move and I was left with an apartment full of boxes. For anybody who has moved (except for the supper efficient types and you know who you are), that's when the real work begins.

As I write this a week later, my apartment is still full of boxes. But at least I can sit down on my futon and stare at the space on the wall where my television would go if I had one. And at least I can sit down at my computer and write this story if I had internet.

Scratch that last line. I finally have internet. I wouldn't be writing this if I didn't. But I went four days - nearly a week if you count from the day I received the keys - without the life-saving internet.

(My son Matt said I was turning into a Millennial because I was complaining about it so much.)

My phone also died during the transition period and I went three days with no phone, no TV and no internet. The J Man refused to visit me - "there's nothing to do Dad!" - he would tell me, forcing me to go up and visit him in his air-conditioned mansion if I wanted to help him with his homework.

Ungrateful teenagers, right?

But it's all good now. The apartment is now functional, though cluttered, with only the problem of finding homes for my many boxes of books I cart from one move to the next, finding an outlet for my microwave that won't trip a fuse (thank God for breakers), hanging up pictures - my comic book, beer and sports posters are already push-pinned to the wall - and doing all those little things that turn a basement apartment into a home.

Now if only someone would visit me. Anyone? Bueller? Bueller's sister maybe?

Manantler. We've been apart too long

I popped into Bowmanville the other day, partly because my fridge had more food than beer in it (a situation that had to be remedied), but mostly because it had been a while since I saw my peeps at Manantler, my favourite local brewery.

And any brewery that puts my face on a beer will ALWAYS have my love, though just making great beer is usually enough for that.

There was nothing new on the shelves, but there were three old stand-bys that never cease to gladden my heart.

Dark Prince, one of the finest Black IPAs in Ontario and a silver medal winner at the 2015 Ontario Brewing Awards, was there, and so was Liquid Swords, the Wu Tang inspired IPA that is the flagship beer of the nearly three year-old brewery.

But the highlight of my visit - besides chatting with the lovely Mariska - was definitely Hot Tropics Belgian Table IPA.

The last recipe created by former brewmaster Jim before he left for the Left Coast, this is a beautiful 3.6 per cent beer (that is not a typo) that seems even better than the last time I enjoyed it. Perhaps Chris has tweaked the recipe, I dunno. But it is fantastic.

There's a big blast of citrus on the nose with loads of flavour. Citrus, a hint of melon and a lashing of spice follow. The best under-four per cent beer I've ever had.

Cheers!