Today was a suck day.

Just one of those days where things start off bright, shiny and happy, and then the world spreads its cheeks and drops a steamer right in your lap. Then, you stand up to push it off, and it plops onto your brand new shoes. That kind of day.

So, finally back in the Fortress of Squirreltude, it was time for a beer. Perhaps a drink later, certainly a shot at least, but starting with a beer. It’s the easy solution. My fridge has been quite nicely stocked lately with the spoils of travel: various assorted remnants of sample packs from Middle Ages Brewery and Dundee, a couple homebrew bombers from the Irish Lad, and some scattered singles were all coexisting nicely, leaving little to no room for actual people food. As it should be. Anything resembling food in the fridge likely belongs to Lady Friend. (Wifey insists I’m going to die of scurvy, but I do get plenty of Vitamin C from the fresh squeezed citrus juices in various cocktails.) So, a beer was needed, POST HASTE.

But which? I tend to suck at making such decisions. Put me in a liquor store with $20 and I’ll be there for hours trying to figure out what magical combination of booze bottles I can acquire. Do I go for quality, or quantity? Bitters or bourbon? Splurge on champagne or scrimp on PBR? I must choose wisely, lest I find myself sucking on a Sidecar, when what I really wanted was a Smirnoff Ice. Not that that particular situation is terribly likely. What generally happens is I’ll put the $20 back in my pocket, and put $37.62 worth of inexpensive whiskey and several assorted craft beer bombers on my debit card. Then I’ll think I’m flush with cash and gallantly produce the Jackson with a flourish when the pizza delivery guy comes a-knockin’ later.


I make wise financial decisions. Clearly.


But this was an IMPORTANT decision. Choosing a beer can make or break the evening from the moment you catch that first waft of piney hop skittering up your nostril and you yearn for a malt bomb instead. Standing with the refrigerator door held wide is a tactic I generally employ in such situations. I’ve always enjoyed staring at nothing in particular, eyes unfocused, with the door as open as could be, the incandescent light spilling across the floor with much 50 degree air and squandered electricity. There’s a zen to it; staring but not looking. Naturally, my parents used to serenely shriek and screech at me for practicing this Buddhist-like mediation, squealing “What are you looking for?”

“I don’t know,” I’d reply.

“Then shut the door until you figure it out!”


Well, now I’ve left the nest. I have my own fridge, and my own electric bill. And as long as I live under THIS roof, I’ll abide by MY rules. So there. Sometimes I’ll prop the door open and go grocery shopping for an hour, just because I can.

Tonight I was ready to punch the world in its fat stupid face when I grabbed the door for some good ol’ Fridge Stare. Lots of Dundees waiting to be sampled (Dundee, a Rochester brewery, is best known for making Honey Brown Lager. Lady Friend scored a sample 12 pack for like $8 on one of our New Hampshire excursions: a total score. Even if it’s total junk, it’ll be worth $8.) and some homebrew bombers, as expected. Then, it caught my eye. I had forgotten about them. This, was the right beer for the night.

Molson XXX.
My college roommate had discovered this beer back in our SU days and quickly it became a favorite. It’s cheap, it tastes like crap, but at 7.3% abv, it was one of the higher alcohol beers we’d had so far. After two of them you didn’t CARE about the taste. It eventually became the official beer of our “Dudes’ Night Out” adventures, or even “Dudes’ Afternoon In” consisting mainly of XXX, Pizza Chef pizza, and Super Smash Bros. (Melee).

So how does XXX hold up? Well, I’ve had it on an infrequent basis since college, usually grabbing it when I happen to see it. There was a while where it became perplexingly hard to find, but now seems to be back, full force. I snagged two bottles for a mixed sixer I was constructing, mostly for the nostalgia factor involved. Though I certainly hope my palate has evolved, it’s really not that bad. It’s undeniably a macrobrew, with a lot of adjuncts, but a lot of maltiness as well. You really can’t taste the fact that it’s a 7.3% beer, but you’ll know it after pounding a couple.

Beeradvocate certainly rips it apart, but I don’t care. It’s got that “so bad, it’s awesome” douche factor to it, with it’s eXXXtreme name and metallic label, which I’m sure is part of the reason we loved it in college. It’s labeled as “super premium,” almost as if Molson said “Oh, hey, I wonder if we can actually get away with this, eh?” The reviews are right about one thing: it’s best super cold. As cold as possible. Ice Planet Hoth cold. We’ve choked down some warm XXX’ers before, but it’s never pleasant. Fortunately, the ones in my fridge were delightfully frosty.


And tonight, it’s just what I wanted.